The Tale of Sudhendra Vahl: City of Light, City of Magic Options

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The tower was deeply subdued this morning, people moving around on tiptoe as Kallin spoke to me while I broke my fast. “The assassin came in from the southeast,” she briefed me, adding bitterly, “we found a dead guard. He’d been dragged over the hill out of sight. We also found this, outside.”

She handed me a small silver and glass phial. There were only a few dregs of the potion it had contained left in the bottom, but the thick smell rising from the flask was enough to tell us both what it had contained. “Having levitated to your balcony, he used a pick to unlock the door, greasing the hinges so they’d make no noise. How do you intend to respond, Arch-Magister?”

“By tearing a few strips off Master Neloth’s hide,” I replied. “I want to see how much of that ample paunch I can remove before he dies of blood loss or shock. Yes Raissu,” I said, turning my head to address the fidgeting estate manager, “you have something to add?”

“It may be prudent to stay your wrath until you’ve spoken with Neloth’s Mouth,” she suggested. I indicated that she should explain. “I have little knowledge of the Guild of Assassins,” she continued, “nobody does. And those that do have knowledge keep very, very quiet. However, if Neloth had targeted you for assassination, wouldn’t they have had to issue a Black Writ?”

“Which we would have known about,” an exasperated Kallin said, dropping her head so her forehead banged on the table. “Raissu is right, Arch-Magister. The Morag Tong may be a bunch of murderous cut-throats, but they do stick to their rules.”

Kallin then explained to me what she knew of the workings of the Dunmeri assassins. How a Black Writ has to be issued for the ‘execution’ of a target and how the target is made aware of the existence of the Writ. It seemed an odd system to me but it had been that way, apparently, for hundreds of years.

“Everyone out,” I commanded as I stalked into the Telvanni Council Hall in Sadrith Mora. “Not you Arara Uvulas,” I added as the Mouths started to leave. When she and I were the only ones left in the chamber, I spoke, “Last night there was an attempt on my life. Neloth has declared that he considers himself to be my enemy. Give me a good reason I shouldn’t end his life right now.”

Arara looked stricken, glancing about as though in search of aid. Finally, she swallowed and said, “My Master has not been in contact with me for days. In fact Sed, he hasn’t been out of Tel Naga since you became Arch-Magister. He… regrets certain comments he made to you and wishes he had not been so… hasty. I believe he fears that he may have made… an error of judgement.”

I snorted back laughter. Ignoring it, Arara continued, “As for arranging an assassination attempt? It is not something Neloth would do, for fear of precisely this situation.”

“In other words,” I said, “he’s a bully and a coward. Afraid that he’s made a mortal enemy of the Head of House.”

Arara hesitated, then gave a quick nod of the head ~ about as much confirmation that my words were true as I was likely to get from her. “Then if not Neloth,” I mused out loud, “who sent that assassin to my stronghold? Unlikely to be House Redoran, if they wanted me dead they’d do it themselves. House Hlaalu? They could certainly afford to equip an assassin in the armour…”

“Armour, Arch-Magister?” Arara interrupted my thoughts. “What sort of armour?”

“Black,” I replied. “Light-weight, high-quality black armour.”

“Then it was not the Morag Tong,” she said flatly. “Their assassins eschew armour, preferring simple robes. And if it was not the Morag Tong that tried to kill you, then it was not one of the Dunmeri factions that arranged it. Let me call one of the House Guards, they may be able to shed some light on the matter.”

The nervous looking guard listened to my tale and spoke quickly when I’d finished. “Sounds like the Dark Brotherhood, Sed Vahl. If you have been targeted for assassination by them…” he let his comment trail off. I wondered where I could find this Brotherhood. “I don’t know,” he replied in response to my question, “but there is a new arrival in Ebonheart who may be able to assist you. An Imperial by the name of Apelles Matius.”

Delas Mrania was only too happy to sell me a spell to get me to Ebonheart when I spoke to her and, after learning it; I took myself from Ald’ruhn to the Imperial blandness of Ebonheart’s Fort.

“You’ll forgive me if I am sceptical Dark Elf,” Apelles Matius said, giving me a condescending smile when I’d told him my tale. “If you were truly marked for death by the Dark Brotherhood, we would not be having this conversation.”

“I am not accustomed to being called a liar Matius,” I snapped. “You’d do well to remember your manners. Now, speak to me of the Dark Brotherhood.”

“Well,” he said, quite taken aback. “If you’re telling the truth… which I have no doubt you are,” he added hastily as I smiled blandly at him and dropped my hand to the hilt of my sword, “then you need to travel to Mournhold. That is the only bastion of the Dark Brotherhood in this Province that I am aware of.

“The problem is, Vvardenfell is under quarantine because of the Blight. However, if you speak to Asciene Rane in the Council Hall, I’m sure she would be able to transport you there.”

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By the time I returned to Velas manor, it was so late, it was early. There had been no assassination attempt on the Albreges overnight: and I was unsure whether that was a good thing or not. It might mean that there was no assassination attempt planned and that the whole situation was merely the result of deep-seated paranoia. On the other hand, the quiet night might simply mean that the information passed to me by Mero was extremely accurate. And that was an uncomfortable thought ~ if Helseth had access to information of that degree of sensitivity from Cyrodiil, then he had an enviable network of spies. It was with these, and other less coherent, thoughts whirling around in my head that I fell into bed.

Hunger drove me from my bed in the early afternoon, and I made my way over to the Wing'd Guar to grab a bite or two to eat. After that, I lounged about until it was time to make my way over to the Craftsman's Hall. As I had the previous night, I took a seat close to the entrance and waited. And waited. And then waited some more.

Just as I was about to write the whole thing off as a waste of time, I heard the furtive rattle of the door-handles. Larrius Varro’s ring would have a chance to prove its worth ~ slipping it onto my finger, I concentrated on the slowly coiling magical construct in my mind, feeding it the power it needed. When I opened my eyes, it was to a world gone grey and shadowy. I watched as the main doors to the Craftsman’s Hall swung open and three robed figures crept in.

As the third of them passed, I stepped behind him and, grapping his head, I pulled it back so I could run the razor-sharp edge of my dagger along his throat. Clamping my hand over his mouth as he threshed and struggled, I held him tightly until he struggled no more. The other two zealots were standing there aghast, watching their compatriot fighting against thin air as his life’s blood gushed out of the gaping wound I’d inflicted. By the time they’d realised what was going on, I’d dropped the first zealot and moved away from the body.

“There,” one of them hissed, pointing towards me. His associate rushed forward, the glint of a dagger in his right hand. I twisted to one side, taking several quick steps away from where I’d been as the would-be assassin slashed at the now vacant space.

“Where?” he called to his companion. The taller assassin, eyes narrowed, scanned the area around himself. Again, despite the cloaking-spell, he pointed directly at me. I was confused as I darted out of the way of the shorter zealot’s probing blade ~ how did he keep seeing me? Then I realised and, with a grin that would have terrified them if they’d been able to see it, I stepped into the shadow of one of the central pillars.

As the two zealots cast around, looking for me, I concentrated on the ring and allowed the construct to refresh itself. Then, using the silent method that Aryon had taught me, I built the towering structure of the summon Atronach spell and fed that enough power. Shadows shifted and rippled and the zealots found themselves facing an extremely irate Storm Atronach. As it turned and raised craggy fists, I slipped from the shadows and headed towards the entrance to Albrege’s store.

The fourth zealot, who had managed to slip in somewhere upstairs, never stood a chance. As he knelt, carefully picking the lock, I drove the dagger down into the nape of his neck. As he trashed and jerked in a most satisfying manner, something whizzed past my head and thumped against the wall. Yanking the dagger free, I span to meet this new threat. For a wonder, I didn’t throw up: the Atronach was merrily beating one of the zealots to death with the mangled and headless stump of his companion. I have noticed that the more scared or angry that I am, the more vicious the Summons that I summon are.

While muttering guards hauled the mangled and broken corpses out of the Craftsman's Hall, a very relieved Ederen Albrege was thanking me. “I didn’t believe that they’d go so far,” he said. “I thought that, if I went far enough away from them, they wouldn’t bother with me any more.

“I owe you a debt of gratitude Sudhendra,” he said, “one I shall not forget. As a token of my appreciation, please accept this small gift.” The small gift was a Lantern Clock, a small and beautifully engraved contrivance of scented wood, gold leaf, and translucent crystal. Thanking him, I carried this little treasure back to Velas manor and placed it where I could see it each morning as I awoke.