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]

Bazaar

I lurched through the door of the Craftsmen’s Hall looking a terrible mess. My robe had been nearly cut to pieces by the beasts of the Mournhold sewers, my armor was terribly scarred, and I was covered in dried blood—my own and that of the beasts. I needed to restore my armor and my arsenal. I was in the right place—I staggered up upon a dunmer and an orc working at their respective forges. I decided to talk to the dunmer first—the orc was working furiously upon a sword—I didn’t care to interrupt him.

“Bols Indalen, at your service.” He looked up from the piece of glass he was working over.

“You the armorer?”

Indalen pulled out a hankerchief, and wiped the sweat from his brow before answering. It was hot in there—I started to pull off my now tattered robe. “Of course. What can I do for you—my, that chitin is battered, isn’t it? I reckon I can fix that up for you, if you like.”

“That was my plan, yes. I also need my weapons fixed.”

“Weapons?”

I set my crossbow, my ebony, and Kills-You-Dead on the near table, and Indalen let out a low whistle. “You arm yourself well, sera. I think only Her Hands can boast of superior arsenals.”

“Um, thanks. Don’t go talking about it too much.”

“Oh, of course not, sera. I’ll have these fixed up by sundown.”

“That soon?”

“Sera, I don’t I’m being immodest when I say that I am the finest armorer in Morrowind… in spite of that damn apprentice of mine, Ilnori—“

“Don’t talk about me, plebe!” I heard a shout from somewhere in the building, upstairs maybe.

“—Faustus. Damn idiot.”

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Bols Indalen was good as his word. I retrieved my gear that evening, after whiling away a few nervous hours in The Winged Guar. I never do enjoy being without my weapons or armor. Still, the time was uneventful. I chatted up Ra’Tesh for a short time, and learned that my quarry’s exploits as a bouncer might have cowed the usual violent drunkards into enjoying their drinks more quietly.

But as I was saying and meant to say, I gathered up my armor and weapons from Bols Indalen and made my way over to the Great Bazaar, at his recommendation. He carried steel and silver bolts, but none enchanted to poison my foes. Since I’m lazy by both temperament and practice, I don’t enjoy poisoning my projectiles personally. Therefore, I decided to seek viper-bolts elsewhere in Mournhold—and the Great Bazaar does have a reputation as the greatest market in Morrowind. It all made sense, for once.

It was raining, so activity in the Bazaar was rather muted. I don’t much care for rain, usually—reminds me too much of Tear—but this rain was cool and rather pleasant, a respite from the usual heat of the city. I made my to a booth occupied by young redguard man—I guessed his age to be about thirty. Still, he's strong, thick in the arms and chest. An armorer.

“Greetings, redguard. Do you sell viper-bolts, by chance?”

“I’m afraid not, friend. I’ve got iron and steel bolts, though. You could get them enchanted.”

“No, thank you.”

Idiot. I wonder if he’s ever tried to enchant a couple hundred bolts before—each would need its own soul. But I concealed my contempt, smiled, and moved on. Perhaps someone else carried them. As they say, ‘if you can’t find it at the Bazaar, you won’t find it anywhere’.

A pawnbroker had his booth opposite the armorer—he didn’t carry bolts at all. I again concealed my disappointment and bought some marhsmerrow and saltrice—I’d be needing some more restorative potions, and it was cheaper to make my own. I also found a cheap broadsheet lying around the dunmer’s booth—something called The Common Tongue:

"A poet can have no higher purpose than to tell the truth about the human condition." -- Lord Vivec

I have a little list. They never would be missed.

Appearing at the top -- three names... Anhar, Khajiit male -- Martyrius Arruntius, Imperial male -- Jusole Asciele, Breton male. What do these three names have in common?

All three at one time or another represented an inconvenience to a Western noble prince named Helseth.

Anhar was an agent for Eastern ebony merchants. There was an unfortunate scandal concerning improper contracts offered to Helseth as compensation for his assistance in obtaining ebony import remits from the Imperial Board of Census and Excise. Luckily for Prince Helseth, this scandal blew over when no one could be found to testify. Is it just a coincidence that Anhar's health went into a steep decline, just as he was to testify before the Imperial magistrates? He died a natural death, according to the Imperial coroners. Convenient and timely, perhaps, but natural

Martyrius Arruntius was a city alderman of Wayrest. Prince Helseth's liaison with the alderman's married daughter was potentially embarrassing to the Prince -- especially when Martyrius Arruntius forcefully pressed his suit for 'predatory adultery' in Wayrest's courts. Many thought it strange that Martyrius Arruntius should suddenly fall ill and die of 'exhaustion' on the eve of the trial. The suit was settled out of court, and charges dismissed. The Imperial coroners ruled that Martyrius Arruntius had died a natural death. Convenient and timely, admittedly, but natural.

Jusole Asciele was a diplomatic attache at the High Rock embassy in Wayrest. Widely rumored to be an intelligence officer, Jusole Asciele was often seen at court, taking a great interest in the affairs of Queen Barenziah and her family. It is said that Wayrest can be a beastly uncomfortable place in high summer. Perhaps the Breton's constitution was ill-suited to the relentless heat and pestilential swarms of the southern Iliac. Jusole Asciele took suddenly ill one evening, and within three days he was dead. Once again, Imperial coroners ruled that Jusole Asciele had died a natural death. Convenient and timely, yes, but natural.

And these, The Common Tongue notes significantly, are only the 'A's on the list.

Some have quietly suggested that Prince Helseth was the most accomplished and subtle poisoner in the West. But The Common Tongue has never seen a single scrap of evidence that would prove such an indictment. [Admittedly, the absence of such proof could count as qualifying towards the title of a 'most accomplished and subtle poisoner'.]

And, further, The Common Tongue does not wish to suggest that King Helseth is a poisoner, or that the recent death of King Athyn Llethan's was a poisoning, and not a natural death. The Common Tongue has never seen a single scrap of evidence that would prove such an indictment. And the Imperial coroners have ruled that Athyn Llethan died a natural death.

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“No, I don’t. Have you tried the Craftsmen’s Hall?” I was answered by the imperial woman at the armory. I could only shake my head.

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The trader, Sunel Hlas, carried an amazing variety of bolts; bonemold, corkbulb, iron, silver, steel… but no viper-bolts.

“Almost as hard to find as a good woman, eh?” he said.

“Yeah.”

Dispirited now, and showing it, I stumbled out into the cool evening. The rain had finally stopped, and activity in the Bazaar was slowly picking up again. I stopped to chat with another of the horde of young dunmer populating this city (Mournhold—its women especially—attracts young mer like moon sugar draws khajiits). This one was at least well-informed, if still not very bright.

“You hear about that fella who laid out the Velas wizards?”

“What?”

“Aye, some fellow named Sethyas, I hear. Killed one of the wizards right here in the Bazaar. It was exciting!”

I shook my head—exciting, for the sake of The Nine. Still, I needed to know more. “You haven’t seen this fellow—Sethyas you said his name was?—around again, have you?”

“No, I haven’t seen him in a couple days, I think."

“Oh… well, thanks.” I started to walk away, but decided to pose one more question. “You know where I can find some viper-bolts around here?”

He smiled, happy to be helpful, I think. “I’m not sure, but the pawnbroker always has some weird stuff. Maybe he could find what you need.” He pointed to another storefront. I thanked the mer—and went to see this pawnbroker.

The modest sign over the door beckoned, “Ten-Tongues Weerhat, Pawnbroker Extraordinaire”. That slime! I hadn’t seen him since…

I burst inside, blades drawn, and leapt across the counter—knocking my countryman over. He shielded his face with his hands.

“Ten-Tongues, you scum! I should have killed you back in Argonia!”

This post has been edited by canis216: Mar 5 2007, 07:41 AM