Killing in the Emperor's Name, A collection: An argonian assassin's world Options

[canis216]

Here you, the reader, will find works associated with Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun's life and work all together. His future stories will be found here, primarily. I think it's appropriate, as his tales have taken on a more serialized form--if not strictly so. I still intend to experiment with different perspectives and styles within his general narrative, so don't expect every installment to flow perfectly into the next--that isn't what I'm going for. I'd like to think that I'm using Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun's stories as a medium--evocation of the rough existence that is life on Vvardenfell.

[canis216]

Thug Life

Everyone knows Nolus Atrius, the Balmora magistrate, is on the take, right?

Yeah, that’s what I’m wondering about. Can’t the Legion just arrest him? Why bring me into this?

Atrius has powerful friends. His greatest patron is on the Elder Council. How do you think he got where is?

So how can we go after him at all? Who gave these orders?

Who else? The Emperor.

Atrius isn’t that important.

Orvas Dren is.

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I set the bottle back down upon the bar. “Dren? Is there anything he isn’t behind on this gods-forsaken island?”

“OK, Elone, just tell me what I need to do.”

“Like I said, Atrius has power behind him, so this can’t look like a Blades job. Getting involved in Council politics wouldn’t be good for us. There’s no way the Morag Tong could take the job—dark elves only. So, you need to make it look like he made someone angry. It needs to look like the work of Cammona Tong thugs—like one of his clientele murdered him.”

I took another sip of brandy. “So… brutal, sloppy, a complete amateur job. It won’t be easy—I’m too good.”

“Don’t get full of yourself, Al. You’re not exactly subtle yourself. “ Elone’s voice was rising now, “Have you forgotten about Suran…?”

“Don’t remind me dammit! And that wasn’t a job! That was just… oh hell…” I sighed, “Just let me do the damn job.”

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The silt strider arrived in Balmora just after 10; perfect timing so far as I was concerned. I hesitated just a moment before making my way down the steps. I couldn’t help it; whenever I take the silt strider into town I’m immediately confronted by the Council Club, the local Cammona Tong hangout. I’d never entered it—even I’m not that crazy—but I’d often contemplated what I would do if were to go inside. It made me shudder, the way the thought appealed to me. I didn’t want to go in there, yet it was all I could do to resist the impulse.

Instead, I walked toward Balmora’s manor district, headquarters to House Hlaalu, home to a few nobles and wealthy merchants, and branch office for the local Morag Tong. Nolus Atrius lived catty-corner to the assassins. I wonder if they made him nervous. In any case, the magistrate’s home was my destination. Still, I loitered around the alchemist’s shop for a few moments before making my approach—assuring myself that the Hlaalu guards were not gazing down upon me from their towers.

Fortunately, the guards were being lax in their duties, as is their wont. I walked right up to Atrius’ front door and kicked it in—like any thug worth his salt would. Of course it made a terrible noise, but I slipped inside as quickly as I could, shutting the door behind me, and drawing my ebony. I heard the sound of footsteps upstairs—he must have been in bed—and curses that could only fly from the mouth of a rich imperial snob.

“What the hell is going on down there? Which one of you fools is interrupting my sleep now?”

He’s coming down the stairs—is it steel that I hear? He must have grabbed a blade—he may not be as foolish as I thought. Quickly, I flatten myself against the wall, next to the doorway. But no, he is a fool; he comes charging down off the stairs caution to the wind. “Where—“

That was when the flat of my shortsword met the back of Nolus Atrius’ head.

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Nolus Atrius, a silver-haired imperial man of about 45 years, awoke in his bedroom, tied to his own chair. I stood before him, my ebony shortsword in hand.

“Nolus Atrius, magistrate of Balmora, it is my distinct pleasure to inform you that by order of His Majesty the Emperor Uriel VII, you are to be executed—“

“Executed by a lizard? Scum, you couldn’t execute a…” Before he could go further, I interrupted the magistrate with the flat of my blade.

“Silence! Now, normally I’d just cut your throat and be done, but circumstances demand that your death be rather slow and extremely painful.”

“Consider this a reward for your many years of faithful service.”