Gathering Clouds, Chapter 28

• Posted by The Sunflower Manual March 9, 2017 - Filed in TSC: Long Story - #Harrow  #R.T.H.L.  - 1,791 views

  Chapter 28

   

   

   

   

                         When Commander Larethor was in a bad mood, it was generally wise to either stay out of his way or – if you were particularly comely – to undress and hope he didn’t cause permanent damage.

   

                  As the Twinstinger’s personal aide, the former option was out of Eirandil’s reach. And since they were hiking in thigh-deep snow and surrounded by men, mer and humanoid cats, he wasn’t looking forward to the latter.

   

                  Not that Larethor’s voracious appetite extended to him. I hope, Eirandil cringed. He’d seen one of the Commander’s male ‘companions’ once, a particularly effeminate Altmer barely over thirty. The Dominion punished those that coupled with their own sex quite harshly. The young mer had been gelded, then hanged in public. The Twinstinger himself was untouchable with his high position in the Thalmor and the connections he’d made over the years, but those around him were not. And the Emissaries are watching him like hawks.

   

                  Eirandil didn’t blame them. All who fought in the Great War knew the name Larethor of Shimmerene. The elf who took just one week to break Leyawiin, and a whole month to rape through the city. To the common soldiery, the Twinstinger was equal parts revered and reviled; to the Emissaries, he was simply reviled. The bastard was impossible to rein in, but he was a symbol of the Dominion’s might all the same. He couldn’t be discreetly taken care of or shunted to the side, and the only choice left was to continue to deploy him and hope that he wouldn’t make it back.

   

                  Now that he thought about it, that could be why they were being assigned this mission. Impossible tasks. Best way to get rid of eyesores. Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll slip on the ice and bash his head in and we can all go home.
  

   

                  ‘They’re still leading us around in loops,’ Larethor growled, breaking Eirandil out of his reverie. ‘We’ve been marching for at least two more days since the cats appeared. The mountain can’t be this big. Are the mapping spells still jumbled?’

   

                  ‘Yes, sir,’ Eirandil answered nervously. ‘It’s impossible to trace our path or pinpoint our location relative to the rest of Tamriel. Our compasses are also in complete disarray. I have resorted to using quill and parchment to mark down any turns and twists we are taking, but the lack of landmarks and constant snowstorm means that the results cannot be relied on at all. In other words…’

   

                  ‘We might not be able to find the village again,’ Larethor finished, gritting his teeth. ‘All right. Start investigating whatever magic the shinobi are using to interfere with our own spells. I want to be able to at least map a route when we leave.’

   

                  ‘We could try planting markers-’

   

                  ‘Idiot,’ the Twinstinger snapped. ‘The shinobi would just pick them up.’

   

                  ‘Are diplomatic approaches completely out of the question, sir?’

   

                  ‘Three dynasties of Emperors have tried to coax, bribe and threaten the Shadeclaws into placing their village on the map. They have all failed. What makes you think we stand a chance?’

   

                  Eirandil opened his mouth to reply. Then his eyes sprang wide open in alarm and he clenched his fists.

   

                  ‘Commander,’ he groaned as he struggled to maintain the flow of his magic. ‘Someone is trying to break through my cone of silence.’

   

                  ‘Have they succeeded?’ Larethor said, his voice low. His grip tightened on Reilanco’s shaft.

   

                  ‘Not yet,’ Eirandil’s hands trembled with effort and his forehead began to bead with sweat. ‘Damn them to Oblivion. Akaviri… spellcraft…’

   

                  The mage gasped as the intruding spikes of Magicka suddenly vanished, along with the overwhelming pressure. From the corner of his eye, he saw a couple of the Po’ Tun escorts to their right sag ever so slightly.

   

                  Larethor noticed the change in his bearings. ‘Good work,’ he said grudgingly.

   

                  Eirandil tried to grin, but it came out as more of a grimace. ‘These cats are a hundred years too early to try to compete with elven magic.’ So I say, he thought to himself. But if another couple of shinobi had joined in, our conversation would’ve been exposed just like that.

   

                  Larethor seemed to realise that as well. The two of them remained quiet as the sun set and they trudged on.

   

                  As night fell, the ground beneath their feet began to level out. Before long, they were walking on even land.

   

                  ‘The flat peak of Mount Furiya,’ Eirandil murmured. ‘We’ve reached it, wherever it is.’

   

                  The blizzard that had been whirling around them for weeks was whisked away as if it were a passing breeze, revealing a completely clear sky above the retinue. There were no stars, and only a few wispy, translucent clouds. Between them nestled the twin moons of Masser and Secunda, bigger and brighter than Eirandil had ever seen. And beneath them lay the village of Tsukikage.

   

                  A massive wall at least two hundred feet in height towered over the landscape. The village itself was invisible behind the bulwark. It appeared to be cobbled out of simple stone, but Eirandil could feel the power emanating from the fortifications even from such a distance. There were millennia worth of enchantments woven into the structure.

   

                  As the Shadeclaws led the Emperor and his attaché towards the stronghold, a pair of faintly glowing silver gates slowly parted. Forty-odd feet of solid moonstone. As far as Eirandil could see, that was the only opening in the wall. Two Akaviri glyphs gleamed on each gate, and a lone figure stood between them as they swung to the sides fully. The figure bowed as the Emperor approached, stepping out of his carriage and shivering in his thick cloak and tasselled scarf, both embroidered with the Septim dragon.

   

                  ‘Grandmaster Takarro,’ Titus Mede the Second returned the bow. Eirandil’s eyebrows shot up. The Grandmaster commands this much respect? ‘It is good to see you again, my friend.’

   

                  ‘Your Majesty,’ the Grandmaster bowed deeper. He had white fur, white whiskers, and even white robes, as well as a pair of kindly hazel eyes. Though Eirandil was unfamiliar with how catfolk aged, he could see that this Takarro was quite advanced in his years. ‘This is a momentous occasion. Not since your namesake has any Emperor braved the heights of Mount Furiya to grace us with his presence. We humble shinobi are truly honoured…’

   

                  ‘Yes, that’s right, keep working it until his puckered brown hole is nice and clean,’ Larethor muttered, sneering. ‘Lickspittle.’

   

                  Eirandil looked around anxiously to see if any of the Po’ Tun heard. If they did, they let nothing show.

   

                  After another minute or so of greeting each other, the Grandmaster clasped his hands behind his back and walked back into the village with the Emperor in tow. The Legionnaires marched closely behind.

   

                  As Eirandil followed the rest of the Thalmor inside, he spared a glance at the yaw of the gates and swallowed hard. The height of Tsukikage’s wall and the darkness of the surroundings made the entryway look almost cave-like. Into the tiger’s den we go, he gulped as the cold moonstone glided shut without so much as a sound.

  
  

   

                  ‘…with this stroke of the pen and blade I end my shame. And thus, Tusok Shrouded-In-Rain, shinobi, servant of General Oshavi-tae, Child of Black Marsh, Grandmaster of the Shadowscale Order, passes into the void. I have not led well. I have not fought well. I have not lived well. But at the very least, I shall die well.’

   

                  Harrow finished the passage with his face sombre and his tone solemn. Diia clapped politely.

   

                  ‘Nicely done, Harrow-to! You should add storytelling to your list of talents.’

   

                  ‘You are very kind, Diia,’ Harrow said with a dry smile. ‘But I don’t quite have the heart for the task. You will find many bards and poets in Tsukikage far more invested than me. After all, I’m being ordered to perform, and in front of the Emperor himself, too. It’s only natural to put in effort.’

   

                  ‘Oh, you know what effort is?’ Ambarro grumbled, picking at a string. ‘I’ve been practicing every day for six hours on end and I still feel as if my fingers are going to slip on the notes.’

   

                  ‘Don’t fret, Ambarro-to,’ Diia reassured him. ‘Our rehearsals were perfect all throughout the last week. You’ll be fine. You should be more concerned with your appearance.’

   

                  ‘Not that again!’

   

                  ‘Yes, that again,’ Diia said sternly, reaching out and straightening Ambarro’s sash. ‘We represent the entirety of the village when we go on stage. The way we conduct ourselves will reflect on our upbringing. We must not shame the Grandmaster, Ambarro-to, even by shoddy dress.’

   

                  Harrow hooked his fingers into the collar of his sleeveless kimono and slid it down either end, smoothing out the fabric. His hair ran down the side of his neck – he had undone his simple topknot and tied it into a more elaborate ponytail instead.

   

                  The other kits were dressed in similar kimono, and their fur had been styled as well. Diia had rubbed a thick paste on Ambarro’s pelt to keep his normally unruly mane of black bristles from sticking out. Her own brown fur had always been kept regularly brushed, and she had spent an additional hour in the dressing room in preparation. She glowed with a healthy, honey sheen.

   

                  ‘I daresay we look fit enough for the occasion already,’ Harrow remarked, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. ‘After all, our own performances aren’t particularly long.’

   

                  ‘Oh, we had better be fit enough after all this,’ Ambarro snarled as he stuck and unstuck his palm to his mane. ‘What in Oblivion is this stuff? Hide glue? Certainly stinks like it. Feels like my skin is congealing.’

   

                  ‘Wax pomade from High Rock,’ Diia replied, eyes downcast. ‘I thought it’d help with keeping your fur down. I’m sorry you don’t like it, Ambarro-to.’

   

                  ‘You ungrateful idiot,’ Harrow hissed in his ear. ‘Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a hold of an ointment like that? Diia had to file a special request with the village monthly imports.’

   

                  ‘Hey now, I’m not saying it’s bad or anything,’ Ambarro stuttered and flailed his hands about in a panic. ‘I mean, it works… and everything. With keeping my fur down, that is. Yeah. It’s really very nice. My scalp feels snug and… ah… solid.’

   

                  ‘Such tact,’ Harrow rolled his eyes. ‘What the dunce is trying to say is, he appreciates the time you are devoting to maintaining his image, as well your concern and tender care, yes?’

   

                  ‘Yeah, uh, what he said!’

   

                  ‘I… see. Y-you’re very welcome, A-Ambarro-to.’

   

                  Diia’s mood swung straight into flustered embarrassment, and she hid her face behind her zither. The three kits stood about in the awkward silence that followed. Hmm, Harrow mused as he studied the shades of red blooming on the pair’s noses and ears. I should choose my words more delicately. ‘Devotion and tender care’ might have been a bit much. Perhaps I shouldn’t be poking fun at the dunce for his tact.

   

                  ‘All right, the Emperor will be here soon,’ he said, hurriedly changing the subject. ‘Let’s see if we have time for some last-minute rehearsals.’

  
  

   

                  The shinobi were too polite.

   

                  Far, far too polite, Lencius ground his molars into his gums as he eyed the smug grins on the Thalmor representatives. Oh, yes, I bet you’re enjoying this, aren’t you, you bloated sacks of ego.

   

                  Every single one of the Shadeclaws they had met so far had been nothing but disgustingly pleasant. No posturing. No raised voices. No sullen glares. No aggressive stances. Not even the sweetened threats so commonly bandied about in political machinations. Nothing. Just the same, seemingly genuine sincerity and courtesy that accompanied every mild word and humble gesture.

   

                  ‘It’s as if they were made for servitude,’ he heard a couple of elves snigger. ‘These are the feared shinobi? They’re tamer than Khajiit slaves!’

   

                  Lencius felt his jaw tighten. They weren’t even trying to lower their voices. He shot the pair of footmer a simmering glare, then felt a hand on his shoulder.

   

                  ‘Don’t let them bother you, Lencius-dar,’ Unaka said. She waved a hand, and their surroundings grew quiet. ‘We shinobi have survived far worse than petty insults.’

   

                  ‘There’s more to worry about than insults.’ Lencius turned his gaze back to the main street they were walking on. Under normal circumstances, he would have liked nothing more than to study the arrangement of the buildings and admire the Akaviri architecture, but there were far more pressing matters at hand. ‘I’m sure you lot have noticed by now. Commander Larethor is planning something. Knowing the Twinstinger, it can’t be anything good.’

   

                  ‘So we’ve gathered,’ Unaka replied lightly. ‘There is a constant cone of silence around him and his closest subordinates, much like the one I just cast, but far more powerful. We have been unable to tap into their conversation without causing a scene.’

   

                  ‘I wish we had some of the Spectres we planted in the Dominion troops here with them. Maybe they could listen in.’

   

                  ‘The Thalmor march in strict ranked formation. I doubt your agents can get close enough without arousing suspicion.’

   

                  ‘They could at least try. Being in the dark makes my job that much harder.’

   

                  ‘I understand. Good intelligence is always important. But since there’s nothing we can do about it now, here’s something to take your mind off things.’ Unaka handed him a small pamphlet.

   

                  ‘What’s this?’

   

                  ‘The evening’s entertainment!’ The Po’ Tun smiled at him broadly. Some of her colleagues were mingling with both the Thalmor and the Legionnaires, handing out similar sheets of paper. ‘You didn’t think we’d welcome the Emperor himself here without arranging some good shows, did you? Your seating arrangement is detailed on the back, Lencius-dar. You’ll be on table six, just one row behind the Emperor himself! I guess His Majesty wants to keep you close, eh?’

   

                  Lencius almost choked with frustration. Here they were in the stronghold of the shinobi, the invaders they had repelled from the Empire barely twenty years ago now right on their doorsteps, and these people were running around dispensing performance schedules.

   

                  Then he remembered that it was the Empire who had brought the Thalmor with them in the first place, and he forced himself to calm down. It’s as Unaka says. There’s nothing I can do about it right now. We’ll have to wait and see how things pan out.

   

                  Glowering, he flipped open the pamphlet and began to read.

  
  

   

                  ‘My apologies for the unsteady ride, Your Majesty,’ Grandmaster Takarro said as the carriage bobbed up and down and a persistent rattling filled the air. ‘Tsukikage was not built with horses or even spoked wheels in mind.’

   

                  ‘Not to worry, not to worry,’ Titus Mede chuckled. ‘My horses are from the finest stock of Nordic Drafts. They managed to bear me all the way across the frigid lengths of the Jeralls; I should think that they can handle a bumpy road.’

   

                  The Grandmaster tilted his head at the mention of the Jeralls. ‘These steeds are fine indeed.’

   

                  ‘Quite so. I would have brought the usual Nibenay Royals, but madam Unaka was kind enough to warn us of the terrain.’

   

                  ‘I see. Unaka was always thorough.’

   

                  A full minute of profound slience passed as the Emperor wondered why Takarro hadn’t brought up his visit yet.

   

                  ‘Old friend, while I would gladly blather on about the intricacies of equine knowledge, I have to ask – are you not curious at all as to why I am here?’

   

                  The Grandmaster blinked. ‘I confess that I am, Your Majesty, but it would be unforgivably rude to question a guest so, especially one as illustrious as you. And I have no doubt that I would be told in due course. After all, you must have been driven here by matters of the greatest import. The Shadeclaws of Tsukikage remain ever ready to assist the Empire.’

   

                  Growing up in court had ingrained in Titus the ability to read and listen between the lines, and the true meaning of Takarro’s words was clear as day to him. ‘We already know that you’re here because you have need of the shinobi’s services, so there’s no need to sugarcoat your words. So, tell me, what do you want?’

   

                  The Emperor chuckled again. ‘And I remain ever thankful, Grandmaster. If you wouldn’t mind, however, I’d like to discuss the matter further when we convene at your office – or wherever your meetings are conducted – tomorrow morning, as I will need to gather several of my generals and their men to give you a full report.’ I also don’t trust the ears outside this carriage.

   

                  ‘Of course,’ Takarro met his eyes, and Titus nodded grimly. Yes, old friend. The situation is that grave.

   

                  The carriage rolled to a stop then, and the Grandmaster smiled as he stood and offered a hand. ‘In the meantime, Your Majesty, we hope you enjoy our village’s hospitality.’

   

                  The Emperor returned the smile as he took the hand and Takarro helped him out of the carriage. ‘I look forward to seeing these bards of yours perform. Are your musicians Shadeclaws as well?’

   

                  The Grandmaster gave a small laugh. ‘Every man, woman and child in Tsukikage no Sato is taught the ways of the shinobi, Your Majesty. If need be, we can mobilise every person in the village above the age of ten. Oh, do watch your step.’

   

                  Titus shivered as he stepped onto the slick cobblestones. The village has a total population of one thousand eight hundred and thirty-five, according to the census from last year. All of them assassins and spies trained from birth. The Empire should count itself lucky that they are our allies.

   

                  His breath fanned out in front of him in clouds of white as he looked about in wonder. The procession had stopped at a large open square in what he guessed to be the centre of the village. Round tables were laid out on both sides of the square, each seating ten to twenty Po’ Tun. They rose table by table, bowing silently and gracefully as the entourage passed between them. Trees with pink cherry flowers grew around the square, and their petals mingled with the snow as the blossoms dropped from the swaying branches. Magic, it must be. How else would trees like this survive on a peak too barren even for grass?

   

                  The Grandmaster stopped at the foremost row of tables and invited the Legionnaires and Dominion representatives to take their seats. There was a large, curtained stage erected in front of the tables, and the Emperor walked up the sides to a speaker’s podium.

   

                  ‘All rise and hail His Imperial Majesty, Titus Mede the Second, Emperor of Tamriel!’

   

                  Takarro did not raise his voice, and had spoken with the same soft tones he always used. Somehow, every shinobi in the square heard him. They stood to face the Emperor as one and raised a hand in a strange salute – index finger and middle finger extended and pointing straight up, remaining fingers and thumb closed into a fist.

   

                  Titus felt a chill run down his spine as he watched from atop the stage. Perfect unison. No noise from grinding chairs or lazy feet as they swept themselves upright. No nervous tics, no errant twitches. Not even a single muscle out of line. Just the same, fluid movement, replicated like a crashing wave across a hundred tables. From such a simple gesture, the discipline and self-control of the shinobi became apparent to all. He could see some of the more seasoned veterans among both the Legion and the Thalmor pale slightly as they looked on in silence.

   

                  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ the Emperor cleared his throat and launched, more distracted than usual, into the speech he had prepared for the occasion. ‘Words cannot describe the honour of standing here in the flesh, in the mighty Village under the Shadow of the Moons, addressing you all personally. Truly, the friendship between the folk of the Empire and the Shadeclaws of Tsukikage is one that has endured the rough passage of time…’

   

                  The speech itself was nothing special. It was tame, ceremonious, and had been pored over by his speechwriters for weeks to ensure that absolutely nobody, from the Legion to the Dominion to the shinobi, could possibly be offended. As a result, it was singularly dull, and Titus knew it. All the same, the speech couldn’t be rushed. He took the opportunity to observe his own attaché. The Legionnaires looked, with the exception of some of the generals, quite impressed with the Shadeclaws. Some of the younger men were stealing glances at the shinobi seated behind them.

   

                  The Thalmor representatives, on the other hand, gave little away. They had completely straight faces just like the Po’ Tun, though they mostly failed to hide the Altmer cunning that still burned in their eyes. The Emperor lingered for a few seconds more than was proper on Commander Larethor. The Twinstinger wore the same face as his comrades as he leaned back in his seat, but he could discern the tension behind his jaw and the faint tapping of his thumb against his finger. This is not the face of one simply here to observe.

   

                  The speech ended after ten minutes, during which Titus resolved to put a tail on Larethor as soon as he was able. That one needs to be watched.

   

                  Several more speeches followed, by officials from all three sides. All boring and inconsequential events, but as the Emperor, he smiled and clapped through all of them, nodding and shaking hands when he needed to. After that, food was served, in which he had far greater interest.

   

                  Their tables had already been set, with a variety of savoury sauces arranged around their half-foot-wide bowls in neat saucers. There were two thin wooden sticks propped up on a small piece of jade next to his bowl. The fabled Akaviri chopsticks. The schedule had come with illustrated instructions on how to use them, but for the convenience of the Tamriellians, the Po’ Tun had included forks, knives, and spoons (multiple ones in the case of the Altmer). The Emperor was amused to see most of his men resigning themselves to the forks, while the Thalmor kept stubbornly trying the chopsticks. He picked up his own pair and gave it a quick tap. Not dissimilar to holding and writing with a quill.

   

                  The appetiser arrived then, an enormous platter of raw seafood accompanied by bowls of a light brown broth. The Po’ Tun did not separate their food into individual vessels. Instead, each person could take from the main dish themselves. A very communal system. Titus managed to carry three unshelled prawns and a selection of sliced fish to his bowl without embarrassing himself. Some of his Legionnaires weren’t so lucky. On the table to his left, General Cornelius of the Sixth Legion swore under his breath as a particularly slippery oyster slid from between his chopsticks and fell onto the table with an audible splatter.

   

                  The Emperor popped a slice of salmon into his mouth after dipping it in one of the dark sauces. Even though the fish hadn’t been cooked at all, the taste was excellent, and reminded him of Nord gravlax with a more suppressed flavour. From the looks on his advisors’ faces and the busied chewing of the generals, he assumed that the others on his table were enjoying the meal just as much.

   

                  As the second course – some kind of dark meat cut into cubes with a black gravy over them on a bed of vegetables – arrived along with a pot of rice, the curtains on the stage opened. A lone Po’ Tun clad in flowing blue robes was standing behind them, holding a curiously shaped, three-stringed lute. The Emperor clapped politely, and the retinue followed suit.

   

                  The Po’ Tun bowed, then began to pluck at the strings with her claws, her fingers exploding down the slim neck of the lute. Notes filled the air, rapid as rushing water, one following the other before its echo could even begin to fade. The tune was incredibly lively, and most of the audience found themselves drumming their fingers or tapping their feet uncontrollably. Several of the Thalmor flinched as they started to nod in tune with the music, then forced themselves to remain still and stoic.

   

                  When the tune finally ended, the applause was much louder. Whistles and cheers came from the Legionnaire’s tables, and even a couple of Altmer stood as they clapped. Titus nodded with approval. A strong opening act, and energetic enough to pique and hold the audience’s interest. These Po’ Tun know how to put on a show.

   

                  More performances followed as the Emperor turned back to the food while it was still hot. Plays, poem recitals, and more music. Most of the pieces they’re doing right now are fast and cheery, he noted as he picked up a dumpling with his chopsticks. Now, if I were whoever designed this sequence, I would start putting in slower movements around now, to let the audience catch their breath.

   

                  He spared a glance at the schedule. The next act was another music piece, a duo with two zithers. His eyes widened in surprise as he saw the pair that had made their way on stage.

   

                  One had slick black fur with a white stripe running from the back of his head to his neck, tracing his spine. The other was a velvety shade of brown, and her eyes were a light orange. Both were unexpectedly young. Titus couldn’t tell very well under all the fur, but they looked barely fourteen or fifteen. The large, exotic zithers laid in front of them would tower whole heads over them if they laid it on the side.

   

                  The two young Po’ Tun bowed, knelt, then began to play. And Titus found himself forgetting about their age.

   

   

   

                  The music was simple compared to the previous performances, but the melody was gentle and the two slightly different tones of the zithers made the entire piece refreshingly soothing. It was not loud, but conversations across the tables slowly paused as men and mer stopped to listen.

   

                  Like the opening performance, the two Po’ Tun used their claws as picks. The girl was obviously more proficient than her partner, and would occasionally highlight a specific sequence with a series of tremolos. The boy did not try to upstage her. Instead, he kept up his own underscore, reinforcing and accentuating the girl’s high notes with his own heavier ones. The two worked together with such harmony that it took Titus’ breath away just to watch.

   

                  With his eyes glued to the stage, he reached for the rice wine that the Shadeclaws had served him, not even noticing as a lone cherry blossom drifted down and landed in the thimble. The Emperor sipped the clear, slightly dry liquor and allowed himself a sigh of content. There was going to be business tomorrow morning. Grim, dark and bloody business. But for a few more hours, at least, he could enjoy the evening.

  
  

   

                  Larethor yawned. I swear, I’m about to fall asleep.

   

                  He was never much for music, and even the best told epics held no thrall for him. Why bother listening to stories, when my own exploits outshine all of them?

   

                  The food and wine was good enough to keep him awake, though. He hated to admit it, but the Po’ Tun knew their culinary arts. Not too much flavour, but not too little, and just the right combination of ingredients and side-dishes, all cut into little pieces to convince you you were eating more. Eirandil was occupying himself with a bowlful of diced chicken cartilage.

   

                  ‘Careful not to choke, you glutton of a mage,’ he snorted, slapping the mer on the back. ‘And wipe that speck of rice off your lip.’

   

                  Eirandil reddened and reached for a napkin.

   

                  The couple performing onstage ended their piece with a final trill of chords, and the music slowly faded to yet another volley of enthusiastic applause. Rolling his eyes, Larethor brought his hands together twice, then reached for his thimble and drained it.

   

                  A shinobi materialised at his side almost immediately. ‘Would you like another cup, Larethor-do?’

   

                  ‘Why not,’ he shrugged. ‘Make it a bigger cup this time.’

   

                  The Po’ Tun bowed and disappeared, leaving Larethor to wonder if all catfolk made such good slaves. He was about to make a jibe about it to Eirandil, then he stopped and turned to stare at the stage, his breath catching in his throat.

   

                  The most sensual creature he had ever feasted his eyes on glided onto the stage.

   

                  The first thing he noticed was the hair. A flowing, onyx wave of silk that cascaded down the side of a snowy white neck. In direct contrast to the hair, the skin was of a pale, creamy complexion that made Larethor’s mouth water. The ivory tones were the most obvious in the slight curve of the throat. The half-exposed collarbone winked at him lasciviously from beneath the low collar.

   

                  The doll was clad in the same style of sleeveless robes as the Po’ Tun who had come before. Larethor traced the entire length of each porcelain limb, from the naked swell of the shoulders to the long, smooth fingers, then he focused on the torso. Slim as a willow, but not bony. Narrow waist. The legs were hidden behind the folds of the robes, but the hips told him that they were as slender as the rest of the body. Little Sting stirred and began to rise as he envisioned the sight.

   

                  He moved on to the face. Altmer, he realised with surprise. But not fully. Too short, wrong skin tone. Delicate features, but not as angular as those on a true elf. Fine eyebrows, but not as slanted. Tapered ears, but not as long or pointed. And a boy! Larethor thought, thoroughly astonished as he slid his gaze down the wanton little thing’s flat chest.
  

   

                  The broad forehead, the subdued brow, the high cheekbones, the small, petite nose and the faint, soft jawline were all deliciously feminine. The practically imperceptible hints of masculinity around the temple could easily be eliminated with the right hairstyle, which Larethor would most happily arrange. And those lips! Thin, yes, but also firm and shapely, and just the right shade of rosy flesh. Little Sting throbbed and began to growl.

   

                  Then those lips parted and began to speak, and Little Sting woke fully with a roar. Larethor heard none of the words, only the voice. There was a singsong quality to it, a sort of subtle undercurrent to each syllable. A nimble tongue flitted between the two rows of perfect teeth. The things I could teach it to do…

   

                  The Po’ Tun from earlier came to him with a full tumbler of rice wine. He accepted it absentmindedly, still fixated on the undulating pet on the stage. The shinobi turned to leave and he grabbed him by the arm.

   

                  ‘Is something the matter, Larethor-do?’

   

                  ‘Who-’ Larethor’s voice cracked and he released the Po’ Tun’s arm, clearing his throat before trying again. ‘Who is that?’

   

                  ‘Ah,’ the shinobi nodded. ‘That is Harrow, a kit of fourteen winters. No other non-Po’ Tun shinobi has been trained in Tsukikage for over six hundred years. The reading he is performing is of the final words of Tusok-ri, first and last Grandmaster of the Argonian Shadowscale shinobi. There is a tragic beauty to them, no?’

   

                  ‘Yes,’ the Twinstinger replied as he locked his gaze onto the elven boy’s silver eyes. Bright, elegant, and full of cold allure. He licked his lips. ‘Yes. They are beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.’