Trey in Mournhold, Chapter 5 Options

[DarkHunter]

Even the best plans back-fire eh?

[minque]

So my dear Trey....going back into the sewers are we? Seems our Trey always end up in those, in every quest..naturally someone is hiding down there just waiting to make life dangerous for him.

Must say those Hlaalu-nobles are really chickens, it´s like I´ve always known....you just can´t trust a Hlaalu...they are cowards and when you turn your back on them , they just might stab you in the back

Watch it Trey.....we want you to come outta this alive!!! Now if you´re gonna meet with that dreadful Nord, be sure to bring some mead....get him dead-drunk......or better not...if he´s been eating death caps, he might go bezerk....and it will be even worse combined with alcohol..

I hereby quote Trey himself:

Generally, I find Nords to be likable; they have a simple outlook on life- smash it, spend it, eat it, or drink it.

Just don´t be too sure this bloody Hloggar won´t eat bretons......


So now I sit here eagerly waiting to find out how Trey will deal with things......

[mplantinga]

It is sad that Trey's plan isn't working out for him; it would have been a cool twist on the usual storyline. Regardless, I'm glad to see that Bedal and Forven got away. I can't believe he'll have different luck with the Nord, who most likely will see him as something to smash. Maybe Trey will work things out differently?

Thanks for another great update. Since you haven't had one of these in a while, it's definitely overdue: S.G.M.

[treydog]

It was hard to blame Berano and Alen for deciding that escape was their best option. After all, they had never seen me before I came to them with the news that Helseth was aware of their conspiracy and had issued execution writs. The last one left was Hloggar, and even his Hlaalu masters doubted his ability to do the job. Nevertheless, I decided that I owed him the same chance that I had inadvertently given the others; if he wanted to stand and fight the king, I would welcome him; if he wanted to run, I would not hinder him. Just the same, given the Nord’s reputation for violence, I did not really look forward to confronting him in the sewers. It felt rather like going into the den of a hungry bear to ask what he would like for dinner.

Somehow, I had missed Hloggar’s camp when I had been engaged in the goblin hunt- the bodies of the goblins and their durzog pets merely added another layer to the miasma of the sewers beneath the Palace. The fact that Hloggar had managed to stay alive down here despite the presence of the goblin army spoke volumes about his martial skills. Once I reached the West Sewers, I made my way to a side tunnel that I had not explored and soon saw a massive armored figure standing beside a small fire. Bones and empty drink bottles were scattered around a simple bedroll, and a small crate did service for a chair. Keeping my hands well away from my sword, I stepped into the light and called,

“Hello, the camp. May I approach?”

That was more than common courtesy- it was common sense. Only a fool walked up on a stranger unannounced in a place like the sewers. And if one were not a fool and was ill-intentioned… well, then he did not walk up at all, but instead let loose an arrow or five from the shadows. The man that turned to regard me would have been right at home in a bear’s den- and he might not bother to ask the bear to move out, first. If he had been clad in animal pelts instead of battered Imperial silver armor, I would have wondered if I had gone back a thousand years or more to the time that men lived in caves. His face could have done service as the stone wall of a cave, as well, complete with the ancient markings of his ancestors. After giving me a long, considering look, the massive Nord spoke:

“Come forward, then, and be welcome or be damned. It makes no difference to me. If ye’ve come for a drink or a fight or to hear a saga or even for all three, well then, speak yer pleasure and ye shall have it. I am Hloggar the Bloody, son of Einar the Rover, and I can out-drink and out-fight anything that walks on two legs or four. I be not a skaal, but I can tell a tale that’ll curl that fine blonde hair on yer head. Ye have the look of a Breton, but I’d vow that the rovers of Skyrim must have visited yer village in the past- yer eyes have the look of the sea in ‘em, damn me if they don’t.”

He stopped then and took a massive gulp from a jug of sujamma, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. With a rumbling belch, he offered the jug to me and added,

“Ach, that yarnin’ is thirsty work. Now, who be ye and what be yer business?”

Although I really did not like the taste of the fiery alcohol, I took the jug and forced down a swallow of sujamma. That was how it was done- we might fight later, but I had taken a drink with him, which meant that the rules would be observed. The rules that said even if we tried to kill each other, we would give fair warning before the ear-biting, eye-gouging, and other mayhem commenced. That was civilized conduct in Nord society.

There did not seem to be any reason to waste time, so I just got right to the point.

“Look, Hloggar, here’s how it is- Helseth wants you dead. He hired me to do it. But I have a different idea- how about we team up and finish off the little scrib? You should know that Forven Berano and Bedal Alen have already left town, so you’re on your own.”

Hloggar thought over my words for some time, tugging gently on his beard as he considered. At last, he heaved a great sigh and shook his head.

“Nay, lad, nay. ‘Twould be a grand fight and all, yerself and me against Helseth and all his bully-boys. But there’s no guarantee that we would win. The two of us against all of them would be a worthy saga, but I don’t really believe that I would be around to hear it sung. Besides that, who would pay me? Nay, I love a good scrap, but I love the clink of coin in my purse, too. Berano and Alen have slipped anchor, ye say, so there’s no chance of getting any money. I thank ye for the warning, and now I’ll be on my way.”

With that, he activated a Recall amulet and left me standing beside his abandoned camp.

I was sorely tempted to finish off whatever alcoholic beverages the Nord had left behind, but soon thought better of it. His hideout was not all that far from the place where I had confronted a large group of goblins- there might still be a few lurking in the tunnels. Besides, if I was going to come up with a way to defeat Helseth, I would need a clear head. As had always been true, I was on my own. It was no surprise that the Hlaalu had all run from the fight when I offered them the chance for vengeance- their concept of honor was all about profit and loss. There was nothing for it but to go back to the Palace and report to Tienius Delitian. Of course, I would have to come up with a reasonable story to explain my “failure.” Fortunately, Delitian had finally made a mistake when he admitted to having me shadowed during the Temple informant mission. I had managed to spot and slip away from all of his spies. No one should be able to report my actual conversations with the Hlaalu- I hoped. As I thought about Delitian’s possible angry reaction, I began to get an idea. The best way to win a fight was to do so before it even started. And the way to do that was to get in the first punch.

The guard captain actually looked a little startled when I stormed into the Throne Room and started shouting.

“Look, Captain, I’ve done everything you asked me to do. And I think that I have done it well. So I don’t appreciate being set up to take the blame for your failures! What were you playing at, sending me out after a bunch of Hlaalu who had already got the word and left town?”

With that, I drew out the writs of execution and threw them at his feet. I found that, rather than having to manufacture the semblance of anger, my main effort was in keeping my real rage in check. Of course, the cause of that anger was not that the Hlaalu had been tipped off, but rather the way I was being used. Not giving Delitian a chance to respond, I continued:

“Anyway, I’m starting to get a little suspicious of these ‘orders from the king.’ You keep telling me ‘the king wants this, the king wants that, the king is pleased.’ All I see is you giving the orders. Where is the king, anyway? Is he even here? Or is this all just your own independent operation?”

Sanity came back like a splash of cold water, as I realized that this man could cut me down where I stood, and no one would bat an eye. My tirade ran out of steam, and Delitian finally had a chance to get a word in. With his usual dogged focus on the task at hand, he ignored my pointed questions and instead asked,

“Forven Berano, Hloggar the Bloody, and Bedal Alen have escaped? All three? There must be a leak here at the Palace. Well, you've done the best you could. You have my thanks. But still, it was a failure, you must agree. Perhaps if you had been quicker, you might have caught up with them. But that is done. For now, I have a new assignment. I'd like your help finding the anonymous writer of 'The Common Tongue'.”

Suppressing a groan, I folded my arms and asked,

“You want me to find the writer…and then what?”

Blandly, the captain said,

“We'd like you to persuade him to stop printing such lies about King Helseth. When we make official inquiries, people just look stupid and assure us they have no idea what we are talking about. We think you may have better luck -- particularly if you approach less-reputable citizens -- persons who place profit above honor. Ask around and discover who is writing these lies. Then find him and persuade him to stop printing lies. The manner of the persuasion is left to your discretion. You WILL be discreet, of course. We don't want to appear to be threatening the time-honored Imperial traditions of encouraging free speech.”

I managed to throttle my immediate response, which was to point out that nothing in the broadsheet could precisely be called “a lie.” It probably would not aid my cause to blurt out that I thought the king was perhaps the most devious, murderous creature I had ever heard of this side of Oblivion. Perhaps that was where he was spending his time, trading stories with Mephala and Clavicus Vile. Wherever he might be hiding, it did not matter. For now I had another “little job” to do for him. Yet again, I would have to seek out someone who should have been my ally and deliver him into the hands of my enemy. Going back to cleaning out a stable was starting to look better and better. At least with that job, a bath would make me feel clean again.

[DarkHunter]

An Update!! Trey your stuff is the BEST!!!!

[mplantinga]

Another excellent installment, as always. It might do Trey some good to learn a little more self control; his temper is putting him dangerously close to trouble. Perhaps he would make a good Nord after all, since he likes to "dance close to the fire." I hope he doesn't allow his almost blinding rage against Helseth to get in the way of his better judgement.

[treydog]

So here is a birthday gift (in the hobbit tradition) for the one or two folks who are still reading. Enjoy

In order to find the writer of “The Common Tongue,” I would need to find someone likely to have contacts with the less savory elements in Mournhold. More important- that someone would have to be corrupt enough to tell what they knew for a little gold. I was aware that Delitian’s remark about people who “placed profit above honor” had been another of his gibes at me, but I had not been bothered by it. Regardless of what the captain thought, I was going along with him in order to exact revenge, not for any profit. And if I had wished to bother, I might have asked a few pointed questions about the so-called “honor” of a man who was complicit in the murder of the rightful king, his heir-apparent, and anyone who had the temerity to protest those murders. While it was true that I had blood on my hands, I had never been a murderer. None of which brought me any closer to tracking down the sort of informant I needed. Turning my thoughts back to the task at hand, I made a mental catalog of all whom I had met during my sojourn in this gloomy city. The denizens of the Temple and the Palace I dismissed out of hand- none of them were likely to move in the proper circles. Neither did I wish to impose further on Ra’Tesh, having strained our friendship as much as I dared over the business with Hloggar. As I tried to think of anyone I had met who seemed suitably shifty, I had a flash of insight- Ten-Tongues Weer-Hat, the shady pawn-broker. He might be just the lizard I needed to see- people gave all kinds of information to pawn-brokers, and I had already discovered that his business was not completely legitimate. Better still, I had already bought his cooperation- with any luck at all, he would have stayed bought.

When I first entered the shop, the Argonian was all smiles, almost as if he was really happy to see me. Somehow, that view of his pointy teeth did not fill me with a feeling of security. Of course, as soon as I stated my purpose, the smile disappeared altogether. He hissed and said,

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just buy a nice scroll? I can give you the loyal customer discount….”

I just shook my head and said,

“Maybe some other time. For now, I need to know who is printing the broadsheet.”

Lapsing into a street-dialect I had not heard since leaving Cyrodiil, Ten-Tongues related the following story:

“Here's what I've heard. I've heard that the guy who writes 'The Common Tongue' is someone named Trels Varis. Now, this is not a name known to me personally. I make it a habit to know the names of people in Mournhold personally. And this guy I do not know. And other people I talk to also do not know. Which is noteworthy in itself. I make the guess that this guy is well-hid, and wants to stay well-hid. But where do I first hear about this guy? In the Craftsmen's Hall. So maybe that is one place to look.”

Just to keep the pawn-broker happy, I bought one of his “special” scrolls. It seemed like a good idea- the way things were going, I needed all the good will I could salvage. And then it was time to take a walk over to the Craftsmen’s Hall for a talk with Master Smith Bols Indalen. And while I walked, I tried to recall where I had previously encountered the name “Varis.”

When I asked Bols about Trels Varis, his eyes darted to a door to one side of the main room, and then he shrugged and said,

“Let me make myself perfectly clear. There's no one named Trels Varis here. Ask me again, and I'll tell you the same thing.”

He may have been a master crafter, but he was a terrible liar. And I should know. That was often the way it went with people who were basically honest- they didn’t have enough practice at concealing the truth, so they weren’t very good at it. Cursing myself and the circumstances that had brought me to such a pass, I pressed him,

“So, what about that locked door, over there?”

Bols grew even more agitated and mumbled,

“I keep my more valuable supplies there under lock and key. If it's any of your business.”

He turned away and began banging furiously on a piece of heated metal, a clear hint that the conversation was over.

For the sake of thoroughness (and because I truly hated the idea of what I was about to do), I wandered through the rest of the Hall rather than going straight to the mysterious door. My explorations revealed some peculiar characters, but I saw no evidence of a printing operation. If the pawn-broker had told the truth, the press that printed “The Common Tongue” and the people who operated it were here. And they were behind that locked door. Waiting until Bols’ back was turned, I gave the lock a quick study. It was a serious piece of hardware, one that I was not sure I could defeat by physical means. And even if I could, it would mean a long time fiddling about with lock-picks, all while standing out where anyone could see me. What I needed was a scroll. To be precise, I needed a scroll with the spell called “Ekash’s Lock-Splitter.” And I had a feeling I knew who could sell me one- a certain Argonian who dealt in “special items.”

[minque]

O-o.....Now the dear Trey is stepping on thin ice....as we say here....Would he dare to split that sturdy lock? I mean judging from his past he usually ends up managing his tasks but as the tale continues he seems to get deeper into trouble in every part...

As always the description of Trey´s thoughts and contemplations are getting us closer to him, really getting us under his skin!

So let´s stay tuned here until the revelation occurs......

[canis216]

You've got more than one or two still reading, I can tell you that. Great chapter.

[Fuzzy Knight]

O-o.....Now the dear Trey is stepping on thin ice....as we say here....Would he dare to split that sturdy lock? I mean judging from his past he usually ends up managing his tasks but as the tale continues he seems to get deeper into trouble in every part...

As always the description of Trey´s thoughts and contemplations are getting us closer to him, really getting us under his skin!

So let´s stay tuned here until the revelation occurs......

Couldn't say it better myself Minque - Great birthday update Trey, more... more.. moooooooooooooooooooooooooooooore

[Wolfie]

Yay for more Trey
I like the moral debates that go on in his head throughout this story, brings the whole thing to life so much more

[mplantinga]

Trey has certainly been making good use of his many contacts in Mournhold. Somehow, I fear he is going to run out before he's completed his vendetta against Helseth. Perhaps he should consider spending some time re-cultivating his contacts, ensuring that the strains he has placed on his relationships with them do not somehow act against him. I am curious to see how he chooses to deal with the printers once he finds them.

[treydog]

As I had expected, Ten-Tongues was more than happy to sell me a couple of the scrolls I needed. While I was there, I decided to see if he could help me remember where I had heard the name “Varis” before. The Argonian rubbed his scaly forehead with a clawed hand and said,

“Well, let’s see. There’s a couple of older parties that work around the Temple- Gee-Pop Varis and Granny Varis. He’s a gardener and she’s a caretaker. Nice Dunmer couple, real loyal to the Temple.”

That explained it- I had encountered Granny Varis when she berated me for tracking mud into the Reception Area of the Temple. Although I did not really want to go back around the Temple, I also was hesitant to rush right back to the Craftsmen’s Hall. A little side-trip to discover if the elder Varis’ were related to Trels might provide some time for the folks in the smithy to calm down after my previous visit. And there was more to my decision than simple delaying tactics- I still did not know my way around the snake-pit that was politics as practiced in Mournhold. The more information I could get, the safer I would be. The delay might also give me time to come up with something to say if I actually found the writer of “The Common Tongue.” It was clear that someone who was bold enough to publicly call Helseth a murderer would not be overawed by the sight of a single spindly Breton.

A leisurely stroll around the Temple grounds soon revealed an aged Dunmer with a shock of white hair, dressed in sewn hides. He was leaning meditatively on a rake, staring out over the carefully-tended plantings. As I approached, he said,

“This park, these plants- are hymns of praise, sera. And I’m right proud of it.”

Coming from another person, it might have sounded ridiculous, but the sincerity with which he spoke resonated inside of me. Here was a simple, faithful elf, taking joy and pride in working with the soil. I spent some time discussing plants and their care with him, then asked,

“So, are you any relation to Trels Varis? He hasn’t been around lately….”

The old elf blurted out,

“My son, Trels Varis?”

Then stopped before slowly adding,

“He's in Kragenmoor, out west near Cyrodiil. He's a scholar in a private Temple school.”

Again I had occasion to note that essentially truthful folk are not good liars. But I kept that observation to myself as I thanked the gardener for his time and departed. My next stop was the Temple Reception Area, and I made sure that my boots were clean before I entered. Granny Varis was at her post, sweeping the floor and polishing the already gleaming fixtures. When I asked her about her son, she said,

“Which one? Trels? Well. Yes. That's the name of one of my sons. Trels Varis. But I have no idea where he is right now. Haven't seen him recently.”

Putting on a frown of incomprehension, I said,

“That’s odd. Gee-Pop said he had gone to Kragenmoor.”

The caretaker snorted and replied tartly,

“My husband says he's in Kragenmoor? Old fool. What does he know? He'd forget his head if it weren't jammed tight on his neck.”

With a smile, I made some excuse about how I had perhaps misunderstood. And then I got out of there before Fedris Hler or some other Temple official spotted me and asked for something that would probably involve me risking death and dismemberment.

On the way back to the Craftsmen’s Hall, I contemplated some seemingly unrelated facts. Fact: Someone was printing a broadsheet aimed at blackening Helseth’s reputation. Fact: The Temple of Almalexia was in a power-struggle with Helseth. Fact: The supposed writer of the broadsheet was a member of a family that was highly supportive of the Temple. These facts could fit any of a number of situations, but a picture was taking shape in my head. The picture featured a young, idealistic Dunmer, loyal to the Temple and trained in rhetoric at a Temple school. In the background was a shadowy figure, someone with a history of working behind the scenes. And that mysterious someone whispered a few suggestions to the young Dunmer and provided him with some gold- just for supplies and to hire some assistants, of course. And, most important of all, the shadowy figure provided the sort of detailed information that would give a campaign of rumors plausibility. So, if I assumed my picture was accurate, what would happen if the plot were exposed? The young Dunmer, being idealistic, would never reveal the source of his information or his funding. And the Temple? No doubt, the Temple would be,

“Shocked, shocked I tell you, to find this sort of thing going on in the Craftsmen’s Hall.”

All of that contemplation provided an explanation that fit the facts, but it did not seem to provide me with any clue about what I should do. Perhaps if Trels Varis was where I suspected he was, on the other side of that locked door in the Craftsmen’s Hall, my surmises could save both our lives. And that struck me as a worthy goal. After all, it is rather more difficult to kill someone right after you have chatted with his parents.

[Kiln]

I just got on and saw this...it seems that I missed the last update.

I caught up with you and your work is as good as ever, don't worry about losing your audiance Trey there are still plenty of people that can't wait to see your updates my friend.

So long as you keep writing you can bet that I'll be reading, just keep it up and finish your story. A few things that really set your story aside from so many others is that you allow us to know what Trey is thinking throughout the entire story, you can write well, and you keep the character's ways of solving problems realistic/believable, the rest is just gravy.

If you can understand any of that rambling I'm just saying good job and telling you that your work is appreciated so keep it up man.

[minque]

I just got on and saw this...it seems that I missed the last update.

I caught up with you and your work is as good as ever, don't worry about losing your audiance Trey there are still plenty of people that can't wait to see your updates my friend.

So long as you keep writing you can bet that I'll be reading, just keep it up and finish your story.  A few things that really set your story aside from so many others is that you allow us to know what Trey is thinking throughout the entire story, you can write well, and you keep the character's ways of solving problems realistic/believable, the rest is just gravy. 

If you can understand any of that rambling I'm just saying good job and telling you that your work is appreciated so keep it up man.

Mr Oven just about said all I´d want to say about this story. A day with a new installment is a good-day!, a wonderful day.....

Please give me more good-days!!

[Burnt Sierra]

Darn, I missed quite a few updates here. Just caught up, and it's as impressive as ever. One of my favourite all time stories, going from strength to strength.

Life is good

[treydog]

As I stood before the locked door in the Craftsmen’s Hall, I did not feel any closer to an answer than I had before. One thing I knew, I would do everything in my power to avoid killing Trels Varis, even if it meant abandoning my quest for vengeance. I believed that Trels was being used by the Temple, just as I had been used by a number of powerful factions. In my estimation, that made us natural allies. There was nothing for it but to hope he saw things the same way. Leaning against the wall beside the door, I practiced being inconspicuous. At last, when both the smith and his apprentice were hammering with great energy (and even greater noise), I spoke the words that released the power of the Lock-Splitter scroll. The parchment vanished from my hands and a lurid purple glow momentarily emanated from the door. There was a muffled crunch of metal stressed beyond its limits, and the door swung open. To my initial disappointment, there seemed to be nothing on the other side but a tiny closet, lined with shelves. The shelves contained raw glass, ebony, and adamantium- the materials required for expensive armor and weapons. Perhaps Bols Indalen’s apparent deceptiveness had just been a case of indigestion… but then I saw the trapdoor in the floor.

I despise trapdoors, whether they are in the floor or the ceiling. There is no way to navigate one carefully and maintain any sort of defense. It is practically impossible to climb a ladder and hold a weapon. The other method- jumping through without using the ladder- has the advantage of surprise, but you don’t know what you might land on. And it is not always a good thing to surprise some people or creatures. They might have unfortunately fast reflexes and a strong aversion to being startled. Meanwhile, none of my inner complaining about architecture was doing anything about seeing what the trapdoor concealed. Muttering a curse, I levered the door up and descended the ladder in the conventional manner. When I turned to survey my surroundings, I beheld a rectangular room that appeared to have once been a tailor’s workplace. In addition to the spools of thread and the treated animal hides, it contained four Dunmer, none of whom looked thrilled to see me. The first fellow I approached waved me off, saying,

“I just work here, if you want to talk, talk to the boss.”

There was little doubt as to which of the others he was referring - Trels Varis was a tall, powerful elf, with smoldering eyes. I had envisioned an idealistic Dunmer in my earlier musings- in that much, at least, I had been proved correct. Before I had a chance to present myself to him, the leader looked me over and asked,

“What are you doing here? And may I suggest you make your answer very clear, because this office and what we do here is a well-kept secret. And we wish to keep it a secret, even if it means that you do not leave here alive.”

That was plain enough. And now my resolve to avoid conflict would be tested. There are times to bluff and times to speak plainly. Wisdom lies in being able to reliably discern which is which. I could possibly pass myself off as a working thief who had simply stumbled on this operation by accident or perhaps make a jest that would disarm the Dunmer sufficiently that he would allow me to leave. But if I left, I would lose the grudging respect I had finally begun to win from Tienius Delitian. He would view it as my second failure in a row, and would probably dismiss me as a hopeless bungler. His respect held no value for me, but with it would come access to the king. And I would risk much for that opportunity. I must take the chance. And if I miscalculated and Trels Varis attacked, I could activate my Divine Intervention amulet and end the fight without having to strike a blow. As I debated with myself, I seemed to hear sand running through a glass and to see resolve shaping in Varis’ eyes. Therefore I said,

“I have no wish for a fight. No doubt, the four of you could seriously injure and possibly kill me. And I make no idle boast when I vow that I could take most if not all of you with me. And that would be a tragedy. For I believe that we want the same thing- an end to Helseth’s murderous reign in Mournhold. You may find my reason for being here peculiar, and I can give you no further assurance than my word that it will be to your benefit. What I have come here to ask is that you stop printing stories about Helseth.”

The tension was momentarily broken by Varis’ incredulous laugh. Recovering his composure, he said,

“I’ve only printed the truth. And I intend to keep on printing the truth in ‘The Common Tongue’—unless you think you can stop me.”

With his last words, the tension was back in full force, and the other Dunmer began to edge closer to me. Time seemed to slow as my mind moved in lightning calculations. But this time, I was not looking for angles of attack or considering which opponent might be the most dangerous. Instead, I sought a way to stop Trels Varis without bloodshed. Outright bribery would not work- this was a man who prided himself on his ideals. Gold held no power over him. But…what about the things that gold could allow one to accomplish- particularly if one were an idealist? Making no move toward my weapons, I smiled and told him,

“I believe a donation of 3000 gold to the Widows and Orphans Fund will stop you.”

The progression of emotions across Trels Varis’ face was a joy to watch. He had been preparing himself for a fight or for an attempt at bribery or bluster. And so he opened his mouth to reject what I was saying, but then my actual words finally registered. He simply stood, open-mouthed, for as long as it might take for a man to draw three breaths, and then he responded with a slow, answering smile of his own.

“You are a shrewd judge of character. I am a man of principle and I would not hold my common tongue for a payment of gold. But I know the benefits it can provide if it is used in a good cause. Very well. You have my word. I will not discuss King Helseth in ‘The Common Tongue.’ And I will contribute your gold to the Widows and Orphans Fund.”

Then, exchanging his smile for a frown, he added,

“Now, if you will excuse me, we will have to relocate our operation.”

I made no reply to the implication that I was not trustworthy, but simply passed over the promised gold. I had no fear that Trels Varis would do other than what he had promised- I knew that he prized his integrity as much as he did the ragged workman’s clothing he wore.

Of all the tasks I had performed for Captain Delitian, I was most satisfied with this one. Although I was sorry that “The Common Tongue” would no longer publish the truth about Helseth, I took comfort in the fact that the stories already published could not be recalled. People would remember and they would draw their own conclusions. The gold was well-spent, too- I could not conceive of a better use for it. When I reported my success to the captain, using suitably vague terms so as not to reveal the identity of the writer, he stood silent for a time and then queried me in a completely neutral voice:

“So. You found the anonymous writer of 'The Common Tongue'. And he gave you his word that he would not discuss King Helseth in 'The Common Tongue'. And you gave him 3000 gold to contribute to the Widows and Orphans Fund.”

Because I felt so good about the results I had achieved, I let slip a facetious reply, which I nevertheless managed to express in a sincere tone,

“Well, yes. I felt that it was a small sacrifice in the service of the king.”

How I was able to utter that load of manure with a straight face, I still do not know. Perhaps it had something to do with my recent musings on the inability of basically honest people to lie successfully. In any event, the result was beyond anything I could have imagined. For the first time in my memory, Delitian’s stony face broke into a genuine smile and he actually reached out to clap my shoulder in a comradely fashion. Motioning to one of the other guards, who stepped forward with a sheathed sword, the captain spoke in a booming voice, saying,

“We place great trust in your judgment, and we are very satisfied with your service and sentiments. You shall have 3000 gold to cover your expenses, and a rich reward and great honor besides. I give you a 'King's Oath' blade -- exactly like those used by the Royal Guard. Only those sworn to the king's service and tested by great trials may use them. They bear deadly curses that kill thieves and traitors.”

With a brief bow, he presented the sword to me and then said more quietly,

“And there's one last official matter. Go to Lady Barenziah. She's asked to speak with you.”

That bit of news froze the smile upon my face. While it was true that I had been anxious for a meeting with a certain royal person, it was the king and not his lady mother. From all I had heard of her, I feared that her eyes might well pierce all of my subterfuge and see straight through to my heart’s desire. And what might happen then I feared to contemplate.

Here Ends Chapter 5

[Tellie]

Wohoo...I'm the first one to answer.

You dont need to worry about getting few readers, we read it, but dont always have enough time to answer.

I myself credit your work faaaar too few times, but I do read it, and I simply love the intricatenes of Trey, his thoughts the way you describe things in great detail, and all those other small peaks of interests.

But all in all, a great update, and a good ending to chapter five

[canis216]

Great chapter!

[Wolfie]

Hehe, can't wait to see what Barenziah has to say to Trey