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

[canis216]

The Searchers

The guard captain sat easily in the Hall of Ministry as he waited for the Temple steward to finish some business out front—some talk about goblins beneath the city. But what went on beneath the city was hardly his concern—Varus Heleran was much more interested in Mournhold’s mundane problems. These were the sorts of things he was familiar with, the problems that plague all large cities. His father had worked the streets of Tear; Varus knew the cantons, plazas, shops, and manors of Vivec and Mournhold.

He sat easily. Fedris Hler made many ordinators uneasy—not an easy thing to do—but Heleran was secure in the knowledge of his own competence. It was what had brought him to Mournhold to begin with—Fedris Hler had personally seen to his promotion. Finally the Temple steward appeared—tall, bald, and scarred; Heleran could understand how Fedris Hler intimidated others.

“Captain Heleran, it is good to see you. Now, what thing has happened in our fair city that you deem worthy of my attention?”

“There has been a murder, Sera Fedris. I know that murders do occur in our city from time to time, but I think you will see that this is an unusual case.”

“Very well, Captain. Please continue.”

“The pawnbroker Ten-Tongues Weerhat was found dead in his shop in the Great Bazaar. Even as pawnbrokers go he was shady, so this isn’t too surprising, but the manner of his death is odd. It appears that he was killed by an assassin, only this wasn’t an assassination, it was a duel. He was killed by another argonian.”

The Temple steward sat for a moment, thinking. The look on his face, Heleran thought, was rather curious—like Hler had just thought of something brilliant and was trying to suppress a triumphant grin. His eyes shown an even brighter red and he struggled to keep his lips from parting—very odd, the guard captain thought. Finally Fedris Hler spoke—slowly, with care.

“I share your concern about this assassin in our city, Captain. Do you think he was very skilled?”

“I have reason to believe so, Sera Fedris. And I believe he was also well-armed.”

“Do you think you can track down this assassin?”

“He left a blood trail, but it stopped when he washed himself off in the canal. Still, there aren’t all that many argonians in Mournhold. If he doesn’t leave the city we ought to be able to find him. Of course, you never know with assassins.”

“Yes, yes. That’s very true. But I would like you to pursue this case, Captain Heleran. With great care.”

“Of course, Sera Fedris.”

“And when you find this assassin—and knowing you, he will be found—I want you to bring him immediately to me.”

[jack cloudy]

And so the hunt has begun. Will Al be able to escape the clutches of everyone who has an interest in him? Or will he be shackled and brought before the steward? Will the steward get a viperbolt up his nose? Only the next update can tell. Good work.

[The Metal Mallet]

I share Jack's same sentiments. Seems like there's a lot of pursuers looking for our oftentimes drunk assassin (though it seems that this city has been keeping him sober for the most part, probably a good thing too). I fear though that with some many curious people looking for him, the snare will be too large for Al to escape. Nice work as always, canis.

[canis216]

The Alleys of Almalexia

When I awoke from my blessedly dreamless sleep in the early evening I discovered a note from Ra’Tesh had been slipped under my room door.

Ra’Tesh tells you that an ordinator has been around asking about one fitting your description. Ra’Tesh tells him nothing, and thinks that most people are too distrustful to tell an ordinator much, but Ra’Tesh also thinks that the Sun-Lingerer would want to know.

This city just keeps getting better and better.

I knew that I needed to get some work done on my outfit, and that I didn’t want to do it in Mournhold proper. I’d already used the services in the Craftsmens’ Hall, and while Bols Indalen was a superb smith I also knew that the orc weaponsmith he worked next to had already talked once and probably wouldn’t hesitate to do so again. And, I admit, I also feared that I might not be able to resist killing him.

Instead, after going through the motions of my typical fitness routine—forty push-ups, two hundred sit-ups, a few stretches, a bottle of brandy—I made straight for the Plaza Brindisi Dorom and the Gates of Symmanchus.

Naturally the plaza was crawling with guards—both the elite ordinators of Almalexia and the royal guards of King Helseth. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but the high walls of Mournhold cast enough of a shadow for me to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. I’m sure Almalexia would have been most displeased that I didn’t stop to admire the statue of her fighting Mehrunes Dagon, but then, I had higher concerns—notably, self-preservation.

Lamentably, the Gates were manned by a pair of elite ordinators. I thought I might try to bluff my way through—I don’t need to use a blade to be persuasive—but I didn’t want to take any chances. I made for the nearest shadows and scaled the wall.

Climbing walls, I hear, is something of a lost art in the Empire. Rumor has it that guards in Cyrodiil will arrest any who care to try, and in Vvardenfell most folks cast a spell or down a potion—levitating wherever they wish to go.

Once atop the wall it was an easy matter to slip down into the shadows beyond, the alleys of Almalexia.

---------------------------------------------------------

“We’re closing, argonian.” The tall, lightly bearded redguard was about to shut the door—about to until I pulled out my bag of fifty-septim pieces. His eyes, already reflecting the nearest streetlamp, glowed brighter.

“Alright, you’ve got my ear. What do you need?”

“I need repairs—and a place to wait while they’re done.”

“Our smith left half an hour ago, so the repairs will have to wait until morning. But you can spread out a bedroll in the training room tonight, if you don’t mind the smell.”

“That’s fine by me.” I handed the redguard a few coins and stepped inside.

He murmured, “Welcome to the Almalexia Guild of Fighters.”

[The Metal Mallet]

Ooo, creative leeways! Me likely a lot!

I look forward to seeing how this angle goes...

[jack cloudy]

So Al is going for a disguise. Good thinking. Err, at least I think he's going for a disguise. He mentioned work on his outfit. I hope that that means more than simply repairs.

This post has been edited by jack cloudy: Jul 9 2007, 09:19 PM

[canis216]

Plans

A single man, dressed in black, sat at a table in the palace basement. He was an imperial; his hair was black with flecks of gray, his face weathered but not worn. He looked a little bored, but he was alert to his surroundings. He heard the footsteps down the stairs almost before they happened, and his expression did not change when a tall, stocky Cyrodiil in blood-red armor pushed open the door. He nodded a greeting, the armored man, before taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. The armored man spoke first.

"You are prompt. I had not expected you for another two days."

The man in black let a wry smile escape his lips. "We were en route already, Captain." The armored man frowned until he added, "An internal matter, Captain, that's all. It's nothing to do with the monarchy."

"Very well, Parnassus, very well." The guard captain placed a sack of gold on the table. "Two thousand. The rest after the job is done."

"That's a load of drakes. Who's the mark?"

"Argonian, name of Heik-Auri. Might also go by an alias. He's an assassin, but as far as we know he's unaffiliated. Wears a black or brown robe, black chitin armor underneath. Carries a fancy daedric dagger, an ebony shortsword, and a dwemer cross bow. He uses viper bolts." The guard captain passed a sheet of paper--a writ perhaps--to the man in black, who smiled.

"Lizard keeps himself well-armed. Where do we find him?"

"He's staying at The Winged Guar. Go now."

The man in black nodded. Taking the gold and the writ, he vanished down into the sewers.

-----------------------------------------------------
"What do you mean, 'No sign of him'? Have you found nothing at all, Liodres?"

"Nobody will tell us anything, Sera Heleran. You know how it is."

The ordinator captain sighed behind his mask, then pulled it off to reveal a still-youthful face, but with bags under his ruby-red eyes. "Yes Liodres, I know. Have you any suspicions, though?"

"Folks in Godsreach were nervous. The Winged Guar, the Craftsmen's Hall--they seemed really uneasy."

"Alright. We'll increase our patrols in that area. We can pull a guard or two out of Brindisi Dorom--nothing ever happens there anyway."

-----------------------------------------------------

"These are some fine blades, stranger."

"Everybody says that."

"It's true."

"Yeah, just don't go telling anybody about 'em"

[The Metal Mallet]

Hmmm, it appears there's going to be a clash between pursuers coming up. Looks like it might prove to be an interesting meeting. I look forward to seeing where things might go from here....

[jack cloudy]

Why oh why do I have the feeling he is going to tell despite the warning? Keep hiding, my friend.

[canis216]

The Ta'agra here can be figured out using The Imperial Library.

Training Day

The smith—a middle-aged redguard with a frosting of gray in his neatly trimmed beard and a long scar on his left bicep—spoke without looking up from his work.

“I can fix up your weapons good as new, stranger. Material of this quality will fix up no problem so long as you don’t screw around with it. The armor will be trickier; chitin is what I like to call a ‘temperamental’ material. It’ll take little scratches and slashes just fine, better than most even, but a full-on cut might never fix up right.”

I swore, quietly, as I looked over the rents in my cuirass and my left pauldron. “I understand. What can you do?”

The redguard smiled, “Lucky for you I’ve got some experience with this sort of thing. I can patch it up pretty good once I get that resin all cooked up—you probably won’t notice much difference when I’m finished. But I got to tell you, this armor probably won’t stand up to much more abuse. How long have you had this chitin, anyway?”

Twenty years, I thought. All I said was, “A while, smith. A while.”

As the smith continued his work I drifted back into the training room, where a lone khajiit worked over a practice dummy using Rain-of-Sand style. He could have been dancing, such is the elegance of the form. I’d practiced it some myself. I settled on the opposite side of the room and began pelting one of the dummies with throwing stars in the heart, throat, and arms. After fifteen minutes of this practice I put away the projectiles and began striking the dummy with my fingers and toes—the Way of the Exposed Palm. The khajiit had begun practicing with his silver staff—again, a whirling dervish spinning about his center.

After half an hour of the precise, methodical Exposed Palm I switched to the more brutal, more pleasing art of Ahzirr Trajijazaeri. With a smile.

The khajiit ceased his practice with the staff to watch, a considerable grin also crossing his face. “The argonian has been to Elsweyr, yes?”

Breathing hard now, I shouted out answers between kicks. “Once! Years ago!” I slammed the dummy’s head off with my clenched fist.

“Dro’Zizhirr is impressed. You fusozay var dar, yes?”

I stopped almost in the midst of yet another kick.

“How do you know that?”

The khajiit’s grin widened—khajiit love secrets, it seems—and he said, “No need to worry. Dro’Zizhirr hears all the time that curiosity killed the khajiit, and Dro’Zizhirr is no foolish little kitty, so Dro’Zizhirr will speak of this no more.”

------------------------------------------------------

More waiting. I did sit-ups until my abdominal muscles burned like Red Mountain, or like it used to until the Nerevarine—Velas—destroyed Dagoth Ur. I practiced every form of unarmed combat I knew upon the helpless dummies, and wondered at the khajiit and his secrets. He left the guild hall after our conversation, before I could determine if he was a lucky guesser, or if he was just extremely perceptive, or if he actually knew something.

The assassin’s greatest weapon is not his blade, or his bow, or even his stealth. The assassin thrives on knowledge, intelligence, information—and all I seemed to have were questions.

It was late in the day when the smith finished with my gear. True to his word, my weapons looked pristine—a twisted mockery of the very idea of purity, I suppose, that I could think of these arms, blood-stained so regularly, in such a fashion. They looked clean but deadly. My chitin looked good, but I felt more give than usual in the side of my cuirass, where Ten-Tongues had come so very close to wounding me, wounding my armor instead.

I would need to be on the lookout for better armor.

Still, I didn’t feel so vulnerable anymore. With my gear fixed, I felt like I could at least stick it out in Mournhold a little longer. All I needed to do was avoid the guards and Helseth’s spies a little longer, and find Sethyas Velas a little sooner. He couldn’t avoid me forever, after all. Or could he?

I expelled the doubt from my mind. We’ll speak soon, I murmured to myself. And then I’ll be able to get the hell out of this city.

I paid the smith—with a five hundred septim bonus to ensure his silence—and then stepped out into the muggy evening air. It felt good, and so did I. A day of rest, meditation, and training made me feel stronger, faster, wiser—the best I had felt since leaving Vvardenfell.

I cast a spell to return to my room at The Winged Guar. When the haze of magicka cleared I found myself looking two Dark Brotherhood assassins square in the eyes.

This post has been edited by canis216: Jul 22 2007, 07:01 AM

[The Metal Mallet]

That was cool to add that Khajiit lore. I do hope that when Sethyas and Al finally meet again they talk before delivering any blows. We'll see eventually. Excellent as always.

[canis216]

Fight Night

The dunmer was looking forward to bedding down for the evening, however restless his dreams might be within the high walls of Mournhold. The work with which he was presently occupied was not the sort to set anyone’s mind at ease. He would have to order himself a drink or two before hitting the sack, he thought, and there was no better place than The Winged Guar. It was just after sundown and already the action at the bar must have been in full swing; he could hear the dull roar of conversation and the clinking of glass bottles from outside those sturdy doors. It wasn’t home, but it wasn’t the palace either.

From inside his red robe he pulled out a three sheets of paper. The palace, indeed. He needed to figure out what to do with three Royal Writs of Execution. Such was Sethyas Velas' lot in life.

Inside, he slowly made his way downstairs to the bar, to the drink or maybe five he knew he needed. It really didn't matter how many--it would be a simple matter to stumble into his room mere paces back of the barstools.

Sethyas let loose a weary smile when he descended the last step. The bar was indeed busy; so loud that Ra'Tesh could scarcely hear when he ordered himself a bottle of mazte. He was just settling down to drink when the door to the far guest room burst open, and a Dark Brotherhood assassin went staggering to a brief repose upon nearest table--interrupting an arm wrestling match between a pair of giant nords.

The bar immediately rose into bedlam--a dark-haired imperial woman screamed, Ra'Tesh called for the bouncer (drunk in the corner, of course), patrons began running, the nords picked up the assassin and threw him against the nearest wall, and Sethyas Velas drew his katana. When Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun and another assassin emerged from the room, parrying each other's strikes, Galms Seles began taking bets from the two dozen revelers who backed away from the fight but couldn't bring themselves to leave.

Sethyas was trying to push through the crowd--to get to the Dark Brothers. Old habits die hard.

The second assassin was up by now--he had his adamantium jinkblade drawn but was staring up at two burly, angry nords.

Sethyas Velas couldn't quite get through the crowd--he leaped up on a table to try to see over the crowd, to see what was going on. The argonian had his foe backed against the bar--the Dark Brother blocked the thrusted ebony and ducked his head beneath a raking slash from Kills-You-Dead. The Dark Brother tried then to duck out of the corner but Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun spun out of his slash and--while butting his knee up into the Dark Brother's stomach--slammed the hilt of the Kills-You-Dead down upon his assailant's skull.

Then he opened up the man's throat.

The other assassin, meanwhile, was still being held at bay by the nords. They greeted his slashes with the steel of their claymores; he ducked beneath their wild hacks.

"I'll finish him." Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun's shout temporarily hushed the assembled masses--the viewing audience had grown to forty now (Still no guards, naturally, Sethyas thought)--and the nords parted, reluctantly giving way. The assassin charged the argonian, who spun out of the way to deliver a kick to the Dark Brother's back, sending him sprawling over another table. When the assassin finally struggled up, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun had his crossbow drawn.

"Tell me who sent you, assassin." The words were spoken quietly, but the accompanying glare was hard as stone.

"No."

A pair of viper-bolts found the Dark Brother's heart.

This post has been edited by canis216: Aug 1 2007, 11:57 PM

[darkynd]

I've only read the first two or three chapters, but it's a good story so far, technically. It's impossible to tell about the plot and so on at this juncture, but I think I'll end up enjoying this a good deal. I'll be sure to read through the rest, although it'll take me a while - you've written a good deal.

[The Metal Mallet]

Hoo boy! It looks like their paths are crossing in real time finally! I can't wait until the next update now. Excellent work.

[minque]

What Mallie just said! And the Khajiiji-thingy was awesome, there´s far to little Khajiijtis in this world....Now of course I want to hear more about the duo Seth-Al!

[canis216]

Interrupted

“Hmph. Cyrodiils.” I was searching the bodies of the pair of assassins who had beset me, muttering to myself. “Nice armor, though.” I began to remove the light, yet tough, black cloth—a worthy replacement for my own deteriorating chitin. How appropriate, I thought, that the assassins—sent by Helseth, likely—intended to kill me would instead augment my defenses. I just about had my cuirass of choice off the corpse of its bearer when I noticed Sethyas Velas—finally!—standing a few scant paces away.

I stood up from my work, then dipped into a mock bow. “Ah, how thoughtful of you to stop by—Grandmaster.”

Velas grinned—the type of smile that makes mer who don’t kill for a living uncomfortable—and responded, “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

“And you hear rightly. But first let us have a seat at the bar. I need a drink.” Now that I’d finally made contact with Velas, I figured that I needn’t hurry. It seemed that he was thinking along a similar line, for his smile broadened.

Seating was easy to find, as most folk had cleared out of The Winged Guar with the conclusion of the battle, save for the hardiest regulars. The two nords had already resumed their arm-wrestling.

We’d just taken our seats, but not quite settled in, when Galms Seles placed a hand upon my shoulder. I think I might have let out a sigh.

“You cost me a lot of gold tonight, lizard.” The archetypal raspy sneer of an irritated dark elf. I returned his kind attention by seizing the hustler by the throat.

“Then leave, lest I cost you your life as well,” I snarled. Then I threw Seles against the nearest convenient wall. I turned back to the bar, and the brandy so thoughtfully placed before me by Ra’Tesh. The Grandmaster of the Morag Tong was chuckling softly.

“What’s so funny, Velas?”

“No wonder the Brotherhood was after you. You do that enough and you’re sure to have some writs taken out on you.”

“You’re more right than you know, Velas. That’s exactly what I need to talk to you about.”

“Let me guess. You offended someone, and they hired my guild to assassinate you, so you want me to do something about the writ.”

It was now my turn to laugh, a little. “That’s about it. Eno told you about me?”

“Of course. But you must know that I hold the sanctity of a writ in high regard… what are you looking at, Al?”

I was looking up at the stairs. “Ordinators. compassion.” Two of them, making their way down those cold stone steps. I pulled my black hood overhead and looked down to my brandy.

“We can finish talking about the writ later, Velas. But listen, and listen well. It’s more than your Morag Tong that’s after me, and more than those Dark Brothers. For some reason the high ordinators have been asking around about me—I don’t know exactly why; I just settled some old business of little consequence. And I couldn’t find any evidence, but I’m sure it was the monarchy that hired those guys”—I nodded in the direction of the dead bodies—“to kill me. Everybody around here thinks I’m some kind of threat to somebody powerful.”

Sethyas Velas whispered back, “I know the feeling.” Then our conversation was interrupted, as rudely as guards are want to do, by harsh words from behind a harsh visage.

“You two see this here fight? Turn around and talk to me.” Rude, indeed. He sounded uneducated, uncultured. Probably didn’t know anything the Temple didn’t tell him. But we complied with the order nonetheless. One of the ordinators—the one who had not spoken, who was standing to the side and a few steps back of the other—drew his scimitar. “It’s him, Sandros! The lizard!”

After a moment of stunned silence, the other ordinator reached for his own scimitar, but didn’t draw it. His hand rested on the hilt, uneasily. Haltingly he growled, “You, argonian… are wanted for questioning… by order of the Lady Almalexia’s steward, Fedris Hler. Will you go with us to the Temple?”

“Wanted for questioning related to what, exactly?” I was not in the mood for this.

The ordinators exchanged fevered whispers. “Related to the murder of one ‘Ten-Tongues’ Weerhat, pawnbroker in Great Bazaar district.” He hastened to add, “And the deaths of those two,” referring to the dead assassins.

I sighed, heavily. “The pawnbroker died in an honorable, more or less, duel to which I freely confess. I can pay the fine right now. I killed those Dark Brothers in self-defense, of course, and I have several witnesses to that effect. But if you wish to charge me with that too I still have plenty of gold. There is no need to take me in for questioning.”

“We don’t want to charge you,” the ordinator growled, “We just want to question you.”

“And I wish to confess, pay my fine, and sob into my brandy while I meditate upon the horror and depravity of my crimes, sera.”

This only seemed to anger the ordinator—as I knew it would—as he began to pull his scimitar out of his sheath, if only a little. It was just enough to show a few inches of ebony, calculated to intimidate. I took a pull of brandy; once I finished it took another moment for the ordinator to speak, even more harshly.

“Are you resisting arrest, lizard?”

Sethyas Velas spoke up for me. “Don’t call him lizard. Trust me on this.”

“And why do you care, stranger?”

“S—Sandros, I think I recognize him from Velas Man—“the other guard tried to interject.

“Don’t interrupt my interrogation, Duls!” The first ordinator kept staring at Sethyas Velas. “What of it, stranger?”

“I am Sethyas Velas, Nerevarine, Protector of Morrowind. And you will not be so rude in my presence.”

The guard stood silent for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. “Nerevarine!? The Nerevarine is ten feet tall and has the strength of ten ogrims! By Almsivi, the Nerevarine…”

Sethyas Velas pulled off one of his black gloves to reveal a glowing ring. “Like I said—“

The guard continued to laugh, even more uproariously than before.

“He even got someone to make him a ring! Hah! The Nerevarine…”

“Sandros—“

“Shut up Duls! The Nerevarine…”

This was clearly going nowhere, but I waited for the ordinator to cease his laughter. Velas was clearly furious—his red eyes burning brighter than the Suran Tradehouse when I had set it aflame—and it must have taken great, and most unfortunate, restraint on his part not to slay the mer on the spot.

“Back to your question, sera—I’m not resisting arrest for, as you said, you are not arresting me. If you did arrest me, you would be required by Imperial law to present me with the choice to either go to prison or pay my fine. And if presented this choice, I would clearly choose to pay my fine and go about my business.”

“Fedris Hler demands to see you!”

“Tell him I’ll go see him tomorrow. Can’t you see I’m busy?” This, I think, was the proverbial wickwheat that broke the guar’s back, for the guard now pulled out and raised his blade.

“YOU WILL SUBMIT TO MY WILL!”

Before he could bring the hilt of his scimitar down upon my skull I managed to duck under his swing and spin away. I pulled out my blades; out of the corner of my eye I saw Sethyas Velas unsheathe a sinister-looking katana of daedric metal. The first ordinator—Sandros, evidently—was off-balance so I helped him find purchase atop the bar by applying the hilt of my ebony to the back of his ebony helmet. I suppose, then, that I could have killed him, but I had enough problems in Mournhold without becoming known as a killer of guards.

Velas, meanwhile, had Duls—I assume that it refers to the mer’s wit—backed against the wall. Duls did not look particularly prepared for a tangle with professional killers, so I eased his anxiety by flinging a bottle of sujamma at his head, a drink of which I can only hope would soothe his headache once he regained consciousness.

Velas turned to me, “We ought to find someplace more quiet to talk.”

“Right.”

We made for the stairs. Easy enough, since all the patrons were gone—in anticipation of the ordinators’ wrath?

We stopped. Half a dozen ordinators stood at the bottom of the steps.

This post has been edited by canis216: Aug 12 2007, 06:57 AM

[Black Hand]

Man this is getting juicy. I am excited!

[minque]

ohhhhohohooo, showdown at the WG? This is getting better and better, shame I´ll go on vacation tomorrow morning, have to wait until the 18th to learn more!

I clearly see similarities in yours and mine interpretations of Seth! OMG this is awesome!

[The Metal Mallet]

Excellent update. It's always a treat to see Al and Sethyas interact with each other. They seem to compliment each other nicely. Their current situation doesn't look good though. Looks like they might be forced to talk with Fedris afterall.

[canis216]

Questions

There has to be a way out of here. Almalexia’s high ordinators were scanning the bar scene in disbelief and anger, it looked, and I was calculating the odds of escape in my head. Would it be possible, I wondered, to cast a spell of divine intervention, scramble over to Effe-Tei, and get transport back to Vvardenfell before any royal guards can nab me? And, assuming success, how much good would that actually do me?. I glanced over at Velas; it seemed like he was having similar thoughts. But then one of the ordinators took his helmet off—revealing sagging, tired eyes—and spoke up.

“Well, at least you were good enough not to kill those fools. Liodres,” he called to the ordinator immediately to his right, “see to it that Sandros and Duls are reprimanded for their lack of caution. After they regain consciousness, of course.” He appeared to let loose the barest of smiles at that.

The one called Liodres nodded briskly and said, “Yes captain.”

“Now then, back to you two. Knowing a little something about Sandros and Duls, I don’t think we’ll be charging you with assault.”

“So, we’re free to go then, right? Come on Sethyas…“ No luck. The captain interrupted my efforts to extricate myself from the tavern, harshly clearing his throat.

“Not so fast there. Serjo Velas is certainly free to go, as I feel no compelling need to detain the Protector of Morrowind, our sainted Nerevarine. But you,” the mer said, pointing at me, “you are still very much wanted for questioning.”

Once again it was time for me to release a heavy sigh. “Listen, I already told those two jokers,” I gestured towards the fallen guards, “that I can pay the damn fine. Why is it so important to question me?”

“It is the will of The Lady, and Her will is law in this city.”

“But I was told that it was Fedris Hler who wanted to speak with me.”

“This is technically true, but you must remember that, as a lawful representative of Almalexia, Serjo Hler’s word…”

“I get it, I get it. His word is as good as hers. Right. But I still want to know why.”

“I’m not certain myself. But I think I can assure you that, if you’ve done nothing worse than killing Ten-Tongues Weerhat, you won’t be detained beyond Serjo Hler’s questioning. I’ll see to that personally.”

“I see. Could I consult with Sethyas here for a moment?”

The captain nodded.

“What do you think?” I whispered.

“Sounds bad. But that’s Mournhold.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Still, it beats fighting six ordinators.”

“Yeah.” Then I turned back to the assembled guards and spoke up, “Alright, I’ll go see Fedris Hler.”

The guard captain smiled. “Excellent. Shall we?”

“Just one moment. I need to finish my brandy.” I grabbed the bottle—miraculously undisturbed during the melee—and gulped it down. “Let’s go." Before exiting I called back to Sethyas, "We'll talk when I get back. And I will be back."

At the very least, I figured, I’d have the opportunity to talk to one of my problems face-to-face.

-----------------------------------------------------

“Thank you Captain Heleran. You may leave us.”

I could see where the rumors—that Fedris Hler had been an assassin—came from. The great gash across the mer’s face spoke volumes, as did his choice of glass armor. He seemed almost unnaturally pleased by my presence; like I was some kind of great gift he’s just been delivered. And maybe I was.

“Let’s get down to business. I am Fedris Hler, steward of this Temple, loyal servant of our Lady Almalexia. Who are you?”

“You can just call me assassin.”

“Reticent, are you? Very well, I can understand that. What is your business in Mournhold?”

I decided to be honest, more or less. “I’m in Mournhold to convince, cajole, coerce, bribe, blackmail, or otherwise threaten the grandmaster of the Morag Tong into withdrawing a writ of execution upon my head. Unfortunately, I haven’t found him yet.”

“What makes you think he’s here?”

“I took the ranking member at one of their guildhalls hostage, so to speak, and threatened to kill everyone there if she didn’t tell me where he was.”

Hler seemed to perk up. “Would that be a credible threat, coming from you?”

“Why does that matter?”

“I want to know who I’m dealing with.”

“I’ll put it to you this way—I’ve invaded their guildhall undetected twice, while they all slept.”

“I see… did you come to Mournhold for any other reason?”

“No. As soon as I get that writ taken care of I’m getting the hell out of here.” I desperately wanted to leap across the table, cut his throat, spill his blood…

“Interesting. You say that you are an assassin. For whom, if not the Morag Tong?”

“I don’t work for anyone but myself. But you could say that I’m retired, actually.” Technically true, at the moment. Of course, my present predicament didn’t allow me to particularly enjoy my practice of lying without really lying.

I don’t think that Hler liked my answer much—whether he thought I was being dishonest or was just disappointed, I don’t know—but he persisted with his creepily serene smiling. “Nobody likes an unaffiliated assassin, eh? One more question… assassin. Could you do The Lady a great favor and discretely assassinate a certain king going by the name of Helseth?”

“What?”