Chapter 13
‘I didn’t kill him,’ Yvonne wept as she was dragged away. ‘I swear to the Divines, I didn’t kill him!’
The captain of the guard simply looked at her in disgust. Galathil made it to the stairwell just as the overweight Breton backhanded the former handmaiden across the cheek.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ She grabbed the captain’s wrist. ‘Take your hands off her this instant, swine – this is a lady of the Fleur court!’
‘This,’ the captain spat. ‘Is a murderer and a whore. Unhand me, elf.’
Lady Maxine de Fleur was gliding mournfully down the stairs. Galathil looked to her immediately. ‘My Lady,’ she began. ‘What-’
‘Yvonne has been accused of murdering Lord Gerard Rousseau in cold blood,’ Maxine said, covering her mouth with one hand as she looked away. ‘And right after… right after…’
‘The little slut was in bed with him the night of Duke Altamonte’s party,’ the captain leered. ‘Stabbed Lord Rousseau to death with a hairpin…’
Galathil stared. ‘That is absurd. Yvonne’s betrothed to-’
‘Lord Bossuet’s family has already cancelled the engagement.’
‘Then it’s their loss!’ Galathil yelled. ‘I’ve known Yvonne since she was a child of thirteen and I’m telling you now, she’s no murderer! For the love of Mara – she lets cockroaches go when she finds them in the pantry!’
‘It’s no secret that she loves cock at this point,’ the captain chortled, tugging Yvonne after him by her hair.
Galathil snapped. She marched straight up to the man and grabbed his face by the cheeks. He jerked back in surprise, losing his grip on his prisoner.
‘Listen, you Bosmeri harlot,’ the captain snarled, batting at her wrist. ‘I can just as easily arrest-’
He cried out as Galathil’s fingers glowed. Waves of magicka rippled down across his upper body from her point of contact. Skin loosened and stretched and sloughed off into a formless slop. Trained muscles slackened and began to melt off bone. The captain staggered, drowning in his own flesh.
‘Gala,’ Yvonne pleaded, taking her shoulder. ‘Gala, please don’t. Gala-’
‘He hurt you, Yvonne,’ Galathil said through clenched teeth, maintaining her grip on the captain’s face. ‘If he takes you away – you know full well the things that happen in prison.’
‘Whatever happens… happens.’ Yvonne tried for a brave smile. ‘Besides,’ she took Galathil’s fingers in her own, and the two could no longer tell whose hands were trembling. ‘You can’t very well fight off the entire Wayrest guard alone.’
‘I would, you know,’ Galathil murmured, squeezing.
‘Gala, please…’
The cords of her neck tightening, Galathil drew back and snapped her fingers. The captain gasped and let out a little shriek as thirty pounds’ worth of flesh readjusted themselves back onto his body with a slurp and a crack. He grabbed Galathil by the throat, furious.
‘Are you sure,’ Galathil croaked. ‘You want to do this again, sir?’
The captain recoiled as if he was touching a particularly warty toad. ‘I’m taking you both in,’ he mumbled, grasping at the hilt of his sword as he eyed her.
Galathil shot Yvonne and the Lady de Fleur a bitter glance as she stretched out her wrists for the manacles.
They were escorted out of the Fleur estate with an audience already forming. Some of them threw rotten fruit. Gerard Rousseau had not been especially beloved among the people of Wayrest, but Bretons were staunch adherents to the social classes. The very idea of a handmaiden from the gentry killing a nobleman of high birth was almost as repugnant as the produce flying at the pair. The captain made no attempts to stop them. A maggot-infested tomato splattered itself across Yvonne’s face and Galathil heard her begin to cry again.
They ended up charging her for assaulting a member of the guard.
‘Oh, and the good Lady de Fleur has apparently fired me,’ Galathil laughed mirthlessly, nudging a dead rat out of their cell. She had briefly considered keeping it for food, but the dungeons really weren’t so bad compared to her time in Nohotogrha – she had eaten live scorpions once. This was still Wayrest, and the gruel served at even the worst of prisons was only very slightly stale. ‘I guess it’s back to living out of inns for me.’
Yvonne nodded, listless. Galathil grew serious immediately.
‘Now you listen to me,’ she said, grasping her friend by the shoulders. ‘I’m getting out in another two weeks. You have to hang in there without me. Hang in there! Do you understand?’
‘I…’
‘Hang in there,’ Galathil cried, shaking her. ‘I’ll do everything I can to clear your name the instant I set foot outside this cursed place – so by all the gods, hang in there, as much for me as for yourself, understand? Yvonne!’
‘Gala,’ Yvonne sniffed. ‘Everyone else thinks I did it…’
‘Everyone else,’ Galathil said firmly. ‘They don’t know you like I do.’
‘L-Lord Janyce…’ Yvonne sobbed. ‘He gave back my dowry-’
‘Fuck him!’ Galathil shouted. ‘And fuck Bossuet too, you’re better off without him! Fuck Lady de Fleur, fuck Lord Rousseau, fuck the High King! Fuck everyone else! I believe in you, Yvonne, isn’t that enough?’
Quivering, Yvonne buried her face into Galathil’s chest and let out a muffled serious of incoherent mumbles.
‘Maybe for my next makeover I’ll shrink my breasts up a little bit,’ Galathil smirked. ‘I can’t hear you.’
Yvonne released a wet chuckle. Galathil grinned. Humour. Good!
‘Yes,’ Yvonne smiled. ‘Yes, Gala, that’s enough.’
Galathil kept that smile burned into the forefront of her mind as she left prison and began to work. She started not with the Wayrest guard – she wasn’t on the best terms with them, after all – but with some of the other guests of Duke Altamonte’s on the night of the ball. Most of them were nobles or at the very least landed gentry and would’ve normally been completely inaccessible to Galathil, but no matter how low her reputation could fall, face sculptors were rare enough across High Rock, and she was the only one in Wayrest. She was allowed an audience with Duchess Altamonte three days after her release. The Duchess had been to one feast too many and needed to keep up appearances. Galathil met her at the Altamontes’ private salon.
‘Lie still, my lady,’ she said, concentrating over the Breton noblewoman’s bared paunch as she began to sculp away chunks of fat.
‘Yah,’ the Duchess grimaced as little yellow blobs wriggled out of her stomach and plopped down into the basin Galathil had placed just to her left, collecting into a quivering mass of pale jelly. ‘That’s as disgusting as always…’
‘Well, my lady, the fat has to go somewhere,’ Galathil replied.
‘It was those glazed chocolate treats at the last one, I know it,’ Altamonte moaned. ‘Orren’s been insufferable the last few weeks…’
Woman, it’s the entirety of your eating habits, Galathil thought to herself. ‘The last one? The ball hosted at your mansion last month, my lady?’
‘Yes, and what an unfortunate affair it was,’ the Duchess sighed. ‘I’m sorry, by the way. I know you were close with Yvonne. If it’s any consolation, she fooled us all… I’d never have guessed she was a cold-blooded killer – ouch!’
‘Sorry, my lady, that glob of fat was a little too big to handle. Did anyone actually see Yvonne kill Lord Rousseau?’
‘Well, no, but her hairpin was found sticking out of his head! And there were people who saw her entering Gerard’s guest room holding hands with the poor man, then leaving all alone just minutes later. Meanwhile, what’s Yvonne’s only defence? That she was in the privy for an entire hour?’
Galathil had to admit that it was indeed very damning. Even Yvonne couldn’t explain her sudden stomachache, and no one had seen her anywhere other than in Rousseau’s company afterwards.
‘Is there any chance that it could have been someone else?’ she said, moving on to work on the fat under the Duchess’ chin.
‘Oh, I doubt it,’ Altamonte said, twisting on her cot as she tilted her head backwards. ‘Faustas saw her coming up the stairs, one of my chambermaids saw her leaving, and so did one of Aveline’s boys. If I remember it correctly… it was Boyce, the young one.’
‘Faustas is your new butler, yes, my lady?’ Galathil said, closing her fingers into a fist. The Duchess’ stomach contracted and the loose skin left by the vacating fat tautened and snapped back to fit her new figure. ‘There, all done.’
‘Ahh, thank you,’ Duchess Altamonte sighed. ‘And yes, though Faustas is hardly new anymore, I’ve had him for almost a full year now. No complaints…’ She rubbed her belly and beamed. ‘And as always, I can say the same for your service. Do keep in touch, my dear!’
‘One last thing, my lady,’ Galathil said quietly. ‘Your family’s relationship with Lord Rousseau’s had been rather… turbulent before his murder, no?’
The Duchess’s bearing shifted from that of the graceful wife she aspired to be to the unscrupulous politician that she was. ‘Have a care what you suggest, my little Wood Elf friend.’ Her voice was soft, almost gentle – but no less threatening for it.
‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ Galathil replied calmly. She was not about to be intimidated by a poncy Breton whose most pressing threat to her person had been going from a twenty-four-inch waist to a thirty-inch waist. ‘Good day, my lady.’
The entire exchange had roused a few vague suspicions, but Galathil wasn’t going down that road just yet. It wouldn’t do to make an enemy of a house as high as the Altamontes’ unless she was absolutely sure it would absolve Yvonne.
And knowing High Rock politics, she thought darkly. It wouldn’t. Not by a long shot.
Before she left the salon, she made a point to corner Faustas while the Duchess got dressed. The mustachioed butler was as haughty as ever.
‘I always knew, of course, given that Miss Yvonne was of lowborn stock…’
Galathil’s fingers twitched and she resisted the urge to make a few adjustments to the butler’s nether regions. Faustas continued gloating with relish, seemingly blind to her hostility. ‘Still, I never could’ve fathomed-’
‘So you’re absolutely positive it was Yvonne who went into the bedroom with Lord Rousseau,’ Galathil interrupted him before she could do anything she might come to regret.
‘Yes, absolutely,’ Faustas said, annoyed. ‘Katharine will tell you the same; and she saw your friend leaving the room as well. If there is nothing else, madam, my lady awaits.’
Katharine is the maid, I assume, Galathil thought as she strode out into the streets of Wayrest’s Palace District. No point in questioning her, she probably won’t have anything different to say.
She walked past a lane of carefully planted maple trees and turned up her nose. The Bretons thought themselves so refined and cultured, clipping and lining their plants next to their buildings of stone and dead wood. It was no different from Alinor, except the Bretons didn’t even take it as seriously as the Altmer – which almost made it worse. She thought very briefly of Valenwood before Yvonne’s smile managed to overpower her memories.
Right, next up – Boyce L’Ouverture.
Galathil had always had a soft spot for Lady Aveline L’Ouverture. The woman was approaching eighty and actually looked it, as she had consistently turned down Galathil’s services ever since the Bosmer’s first arrival in Wayrest. The woman refused even to let her replace her teeth. Galathil admired her for that. Even though she was an attention-hungry gossipmonger, L’Ouverture possessed a confidence in her own being, frail and unbecoming though it was, that no other noblewoman in Wayrest – perhaps even in High Rock – could match.
The same could not be said for Boyce. Birthed by Aveline at fifty-six, he was the runt of the litter and he knew it. He had quickly become acquainted with Galathil, requesting her services at least once a year. She arranged for an afternoon visit to the L’Ouverture manor two days later, which gave her some time to rest. This time he wanted her to take off some of his leg muscles.
‘What can I say?’ the nobleman was shrugging as he dropped his trousers. ‘Tree-trunk sized thighs apparently aren’t in fashion anymore. 200 is all about the shoulders and biceps, it seems. Just look at the new suits coming out of Camlorn. We can’t afford to lose, eh?’
Muscle was always more stubborn, far harder to work than skin and fat, and under normal circumstances Galathil might’ve complained. This time around she started off right away.
‘You’re very business-like today,’ Boyce frowned. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Yvonne-’ Galathil began.
‘Oh, yes, I heard. Very unfortunate. But the evidence is stacked entirely against her. I don’t think the outcome of the trial is in any doubt… I will be testifying, of course. All the more reason to look my best. I might need to pick up a new coat for the occasion.’
Galathil almost thought it pointless to ask. ‘And you’re sure, my lord, that it was Yvonne you saw coming out of Lord Rousseau’s room?’
‘Are you challenging my word, madam?’ Boyce said, affronted. ‘I would swear it! Tight purple silk dress, the same willowy figure, pale skin, blonde locks, and bright silver eyes.’
Galathil looked up, her gaze sharpening. ‘Yvonne’s eyes are grey, not silver.’
‘Oh.’ Boyce seemed to deflate a little, an effect enhanced by the red ribbons of muscle fibre Galathil was pulling out of his shins. ‘Well, a trick of the light, no doubt. Silver is but another shade of grey.’
‘So it is,’ Galathil said slowly. ‘Did you see anything else suspicious during the ball, my lord?’
‘Well,’ Boyce scratched his head. ‘I saw some of Altamonte’s guards milling towards his mansion’s courtyard a few minutes after old Gerard was found dead. I thought that was a little strange, since Miss Yvonne left with the other guests through the front gates.’
‘Yes,’ Galathil murmured as she finished her work. ‘Very strange.’
There didn’t seem to be anything out of ordinary with the courtyard, but three days later Galathil managed to catch one of the Altamontes’ night patrol guards off-duty with a combination of luck and the knowledge that a number of them liked to frequent a tavern called the Windygates. In another stroke of luck, it turned out to be Smythe, a boy of about eighteen who, despite only having met her thrice, had an exceedingly obvious crush on her.
Score, Galathil crowed to herself as she spotted him at the bar, glad that she had worn a tighter-fit set of robes tonight instead of her usual outfit. She went for a subtle fat tissue sculpt as she drew close, stiffening and putting just a smidge more elasticity into her chest and hips. She also gave her skin and hair a bit of extra sheen before reddening the pigmentation on her lips. No face sculptor worth their salt needed to use makeup.
‘Hello, Smythe,’ she said softly as she pulled up a seat next to him – perhaps just a little closer than would have been polite.
‘L-Lady Galathil!’ the young guard stuttered. ‘Why, good evening. I still remember your favourites, my lady. Bartender! One Amberwater for my companion here, with a dash of honey.’
‘Oh,’ Galathil smiled. ‘I’m a lady and your companion already, then?’
Smythe blushed. ‘I didn’t mean to presume-’
‘I don’t mind.’ She laid a hand on his shoulder just briefly enough to both reassure and entice.
‘Well, I – well, then!’ Smythe took a large gulp of his own drink, then coughed. ‘Ahem. Are – are you doing well, Lady Galathil? What with recent events…’
Galathil didn’t have to fake the sudden watering of her eyes. ‘I’ve been trying – trying against all of Wayrest, it seems – to do something, anything to prove Yvonne’s innocence, but even I can’t think of an argument to get her out of this. I know she didn’t do it, but just saying that at a trial is as good as condemning her to death, so who did? Some other girl wearing the exact same outfit with the exact same hair and…’ She slumped into the bar, resting her forehead on her arms. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know how…’
‘I’m sorry, my lady, I didn’t mean to upset you so,’ Smythe said, every bit the Breton gentleman. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
Galathil sniffed and lifted her head. ‘I just want to – no, I need to know as much as I can about what happened that night in the Altamonte mansion. Anything unusual at all.’ She sipped at the sweetened Amberwater, letting the honeyed wine soothe her nerves. ‘What happened in the mansion courtyard?’
Smythe looked at her directly, stricken. ‘How do you know about that?’ he whispered.
Galathil sat up straight. ‘Know about what?’ she asked, heart pounding.
‘Oh, you didn’t – I-I’m not supposed to-’
‘Smythe,’ Galathil laid her hand over his. ‘I’m begging you…’
The boy drew in a shuddering breath and beckoned for her to lean close. ‘An hour or so after Lord Rousseau was found dead, Jonas and Callixtus found four of our boys dead, with three other bodies close by. Two Bretons and a Wood Elf – I-I mean a Bosmer…’
Galathil waved impatiently. ‘Go on!’
‘Right, two Bretons and a Bosmer. All dressed in the light padded gambesons of rogues and assassins, all still clutching at their bloodied weapons. The Bosmer and one Breton had been stabbed… the other Breton had been bludgeoned to death.’
Galathil narrowed her eyes. ‘Why weren’t the deaths reported? I saw none of this in the Stormhaven Morning Post.’
Smythe leant in closer, the fear in his eyes infectious. ‘This was serious, so half a dozen Knights of the Rose turned up in full regalia to investigate. They ordered us to keep the bodies as we’d found them – but just one day later, the Knight Commander himself showed up with two Imperials in black and red armour.’
‘The Penitus Oculatus…’ Galathil murmured, wet cold prickling at her back. The Empire’s Spectres were involved? What am I getting myself into?
Swallowing, Smythe nodded. ‘They took custody of the bodies and we’ve heard nothing of it since. They’re still in Wayrest, over at the Legion outpost just outside the Palace.’
Draining her Amberwater, Galathil rose and planted a quick kiss on Smythe’s cheek. ‘Thank you. Thank you. If I bring this up at the trial, that’s sure to turn some heads.’
‘Just don’t tell anyone you heard it from me,’ Smythe gulped.
‘Yes, yes…’ She was already rushing off to tell Yvonne the good news.
‘What do you mean there’s not going to be a trial?’ Galathil said dully, doom pressing down on her shoulders.
‘Exactly what I said.’ Yvonne’s eyes were hollow, lifeless. ‘My execution has been scheduled… for Fredas. It’s going to be a public event.’
‘No… no, no, no!’ Galathil cried. ‘I can’t accept it, I won’t!’
‘Gala-’
‘Just listen to me,’ she forced herself to calm down. ‘Whoever killed Gerard Rousseau… was connected to the Penitus Oculatus.’
‘Oh, Gala,’ Yvonne had begun to smile.
‘I can find them… I can find out!’ Galathil was babbling. ‘If I bring completely irrefutable evidence to the Duke – no, the court…’
‘You’ve been such a good friend, Gala,’ Yvonne was still smiling. ‘Really… thank you for everything.’
‘I’ll take it straight to the High King, no, the Emperor if I have to!’
‘Gala.’ Yvonne reached through the bars of her cell. She had grown thin and haggard, and her hair had turned into a dusty, tangled mess. Her smile was tired and sad, but still thoroughly radiant. ‘Gala, it’s all right.’
‘It’s not all right!’ Galathil screamed. ‘Don’t tell me it’s all right!’
‘All right, that’s enough,’ the guard watching them growled. ‘Get out.’
‘I will turn your eyeballs into cysts and pop them, you insignificant little worm!’
‘Gala,’ Yvonne called gently. ‘That’s really enough; you’ve done enough. You can let me go now. I’ve had a good life… with you in it.’
Galathil screamed herself hoarse at the ceiling as two Wayrest guardsmen hoisted her up by each arm and she kept on screaming until they tossed her out of the prison. She sat there on the streets for a full hour, the curb cutting into her hindquarters until she became numb. And then she stood up and dusted her legs off.
It was time to break a few laws.
She had lived in Wayrest for eleven years and gotten to know most everyone important. She knew exactly which tailor supplied the guard with their new uniforms. The store was an hour and a half away on foot. She took a carriage and arrived just after sunset.
Galathil waited. She knew from experience that the storefront closed at half past seven but the tailor worked on his books for another three hours before going to sleep. So she waited, waited until the enchanted street lanterns flared up from the dimness and waited some more.
The light from inside the tailor’s winked out. Galathil walked towards the front door.
She checked up and down the street to make sure nobody else was around, then jabbed the tip of a fingernail into the keyhole and concentrated. Fingernails and toenails were made up of the same fibrous material as hair and the outermost layer of skin, and it was one of the first things a face sculptor learned to sculpt. Her fingernail grew, filling up the shape of the keyhole as it did. In fifteen seconds she had a duplicate key to the tailor’s attached to her index finger.
There were only a few new uniforms in stock but as luck would have it, one was for a mage, so she didn’t need to explain her lack of armour. She pulled the robes on and left the store the same way she came in, making sure to lock the door again before she returned her fingernail to normal.
Keeping her head down, Galathil marched towards the Palace – and the Imperial outpost next to it. The Oculatus are still there. Her desperation thudded at her ribcage. They have to be…! To avoid arousing suspicion, she did not run, and it took her a maddening hour before she reached the outpost. By then it was almost midnight.
She waited for a particularly large patrol to head in, mixed into the group from the back, and just like that she was inside. Thank the gods for lazy security.
The building was standard arched Imperial, five storeys high, and it stood out in the Palace District even on the inside, with none of the lavish paint and wallpaper the Bretons loved. Here there was hard marble, polished until gleaming and decorated with frescoes. Galathil made her way upstairs, assuming that, like most every culture in Tamriel, the location of an Imperial’s office rose with their station.
She had assumed correctly; on the fourth floor she caught a glimpse of red and black and saw a male Imperial – he looked youthful, about twenty-one to twenty-three – hurrying down a corridor towards the stairs clutching a stack of papers under his arm. Definitely some kind of report, or reports. The agent climbed and Galathil followed, hoping that normal watch patrols were allowed up to the fifth floor.
It seemed that they were. Galathil trailed behind the young man, then swore under her breath as he headed straight for the corner office at the very end of the fifth-floor hallway, where two other Imperials in the same red and black uniform were having an indistinct conversation as they leant over a desk. Even if she was allowed inside, she doubted that anything important would be discussed with her present. And it certainly wouldn’t do to be scrutinised too closely.
Well, there was nothing to it. She stopped three offices away from the agents, and then as the door to their office closed, channeled her magic once more. This time she reached into the cartilage of her ear, expanding her auricle and stretching out her auditory canal until her left ear was three times its original size, becoming a trumpet funneling sounds more effectively into her eardrums. She twisted her head to one side and began to listen. The conversation was still muffled, but it was audible.
‘Sir,’ – the voice was boyish, probably the agent who had just entered – ‘I’ve been looking over the Rousseau murder, and I couldn’t help but notice that some things don’t add up.’
Brief silence; then a deeper voice. ‘That wasn’t your job, lad. You were here to look into the good Duke Jonas’ financial affairs.’
‘I understand, sir, but some of these facts… well,’ the junior agent took a deep breath. ‘Why was there no investigation into the three bodies? They were identified as freelance assassins working locally, but they couldn’t have died of infighting and none of the Altamonte guards reported confronting them. Who killed them? Gerard Rousseau’s murder took place within roughly the same time frame, and it can’t have been a coincidence. Another glaring problem is the woman. We’ve had everyone convinced that she’s the murderer and King Dominic himself is having her executed, but I find it hard to believe she’s guilty! Rousseau was killed by a single thrust with a hairpin through a tiny opening in the skull behind his ear into his brain – in other words, an expertly placed blow that ended his life almost immediately. Nothing in our investigation has indicated that the Breton Yvonne has anywhere near that level of skill, or indeed any amount of martial training at all…’
The agent trailed off for some reason. ‘Sir?’ he asked, evidently confused.
Another period of silence; this one longer than the last.
‘Good grief, Francesco,’ a third voice joined the conversation. ‘You didn’t even tell him?’
‘I didn’t think it would be necessary,’ the deep voice was irritated. ‘Or that my underlings were apparently such busybodies.’
‘I apologise, sir-’
‘Ach, no need. Tell me, lad.’ Francesco’s voice lowered, gaining a conspiratorial quality. ‘Have you ever heard of shinobi?’
‘Sir?’
‘You know,’ the third voice spoke again. ‘I’m sure you’ve got new names for them down in the Legion rank-and-file… what’s the hotter ones now? “Invisible knives”? “Shadows behind the bloodstains”? That one’s a mouthful. Back in my day we just said “those disappearing fuckers” and everyone instantly knew what you were talking about.’
‘W-Well, yes, sir,’ the agent stammered. ‘But they’re a myth… an urban legend! Ghost stories the men tell each other over the campfire.’
Galathil’s breathing quickened as the thudding in her ribcage became almost unbearably loud.
Cackling. ‘Heh heh heh heh heh. Then you’d better start believing in ghost stories, Mister Tornarius, you’re-’
‘Oh, don’t you start,’ Francesco snapped. ‘Alessandro, I’ll tell you more on the trip back to the Cyrodiil tomorrow, but long story short – yes, they’re real, and one of them killed Gerard Rousseau for us. Man was plotting to assassinate Orren Altamonte. Empire needs all the funding it can get these days, and Altamonte’s been a steadfast ally on the financial front… so we had another ally do a bit of “controassassinio”. It’s all very simple when you think about it.’
The younger agent’s astonishment echoed in his voice. ‘Does that mean they’re condemning an innocent woman, sir?’
The third Imperial sighed. ‘It’s not pretty, Sandro, but it’s best not to tempt the High Rock nobility right now. Only the gods know the kind of mess that could cause… you know interprovincial politics. Rousseau’s got hardline backers from the antiimperialist faction, all of whom hold major clout in Stormhaven, which makes them the big fish in High Rock, where half of the fish are already gigantic. It’s a necessary sacrifice. I’m sure you remember your first target.’
‘Vividly, sir,’ Alessandro said quietly. ‘I understand completely.’
Galathil returned her ear to normal and leant back against the wall, breathing heavily. Sweat beaded on her forehead as her teeth chattered and her eyes began to bulge. What kind of unjust world…?
She made up her mind as she left the outpost.
I’m going to talk to every nobleman and noblewoman in Wayrest, starting with the Rousseaus – and then I’m taking it to King Dominic himself… even if they don’t believe me completely, if I can just delay the execution and get an official investigation by the Wayrest guard going – Yvonne stands a chance! The people of Wayrest didn’t trust the Empire fully, and no matter how much the Penitus Oculatus snakes could influence things behind the scenes, once the whole affair was out in the open and became public knowledge, even their hands were tied.
It was too late in the day now, of course. Galathil dumped the mage’s robes and booked a nearby hostel for the night. It was ludicrously expensive – all things were in the Palace District – but if she wanted to make a convincing case tomorrow, she needed to be refreshed and well-rested.
She woke to the sound of cheering and trumpets.
What the… she sat up groggily. Was there a parade today? She hadn’t heard. She pulled on a coat and peered out her room’s small stained-glass window. Snow was falling gently, coating the ground in fine powder. Wayrest citizens were all making their way to the centre of the city.
Galathil plopped herself into her boots and walked to the counter, shivering in the morning cold. The hostel’s manager was picking his teeth surreptitiously with his tongue. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Execution today.’
Galathil felt herself grow a thousand times colder. ‘Whose?’
‘The girl who murdered Lord Gerard… I think the date got moved up a few days-’
Galathil sprinted out of the hostel and into the streets, her breath hitching in her throat as disjointed plans and half-conceived notions swam through her head. Disguise herself as a guard again – no, King Dominic’s face – no, she’d never touched him before – no, ambush her escort before she could make it to the stand, no, no, no-
‘Yvonne,’ she panted, chest heaving. ‘Yvonne!’
The crowd was gathered right in front of the Palace District, where all major roads met. They were jeering, booing, compressed into a tight wedge right in front of the headsman’s platform, blocking it from view.
‘Lowly slut!’
‘Murderous bitch!’
‘Lord Rousseau knighted my father personally – rot in Oblivion for eternity, you filth!’
‘Enough!’ Galathil roared, but the crowd was roaring louder and she allowed the rage and the despair and the desperation and the pure unfairness of it all to build in her arms and hands and fingers as she reached for the single most massive surge of magicka she had ever produced-
And then, miraculously, the head in front of her shifted one foot to the left and their eyes met.
Her proud golden locks had been shorn off, trimmed short to keep them from covering her neck. She was on her knees. And while she was still weeping, it was a silent process, two steady streams of tears flowing slowly down a face already robbed of life.
‘Why, hello there, little miss. My name is Galathil. I’ll be working for your mistress today, so I suppose that makes us colleagues!’
She had told her that she was thirteen summers old, and no little miss.
‘Yvonne!’
‘I’m going to Baroness Angelique’s salon again today… gods, you’d think after last time’s mishap the woman would know better than to stuff hot candles up her-’
She had giggled and swatted at her for saying such things in public.
‘YVONNE!’
‘Heading to the Altamonte ball without me? You minx, you. you’re going to be catching the eyes of every hungry old man out there in that naughty dress already, but here… let me just bring out those curves a little bit.’
She had sighed and raised her arms, as long-suffering as ever, knowing that she wouldn’t have taken no for an answer. She had looked her best as she took Lady de Fleur’s hand and led her to the coach.
‘YVONNE!’
She didn’t hear – she couldn’t have – but a small smile cracked across her lips as she gazed down at her, her face still serene, beautiful-
The headsman swung.
Galathil howled even as the crowd howled, rushing forward to dip handkerchiefs in the blood spurting from the opened arteries of the headless stump.
Maxine de Fleur hadn’t attended the execution. She stared out the window of her study down at the streets of the Palace District and sighed as the procession dispersed.
There came three knocks on the door.
‘Who is it?’ she called, rising.
‘It’s me, my lady,’ the butler called. ‘I’ve come to pick up your teacup.’
Maxine shot her tea an absentminded glance. He was early today. She hadn’t even drunk half of it, but she unlocked her door all the same. It had grown cold anyway. The blasted weather.
The door opened and Maxine started back, eyes wide. It wasn’t her butler.
‘Good day, my lady,’ Galathil said quietly, shutting the door behind her.
‘What are you doing back here, elf?’ the Lady de Fleur demanded. ‘I’ve told you already, I’m done with you-’
‘But I’m not quite done with you, Maxine.’ Galathil lunged and wrapped her fingers around the noblewoman’s neck. ‘Yvonne was innocent. You know full well she was in that shriveled black husk you call a heart. And you let her die.’
De Fleur grasped at her throat, but there was no loosening Galathil’s grip. ‘I… took… you… in…’ she choked, rasping for air. ‘After they… banished you from Cloudrest…’
‘You took me in because you wanted someone to fix your lazy eye and sharpen your chin and bring out your cheekbones so you looked at the very least fuckable again at the age of forty, human,’ Galathil tightened her fingers. ‘Yvonne… was my only true friend in this viper’s nest you call a city. And you let her die. You could have spoken up, you could have said something as her mistress who knew her best – BUT YOU LET HER DIE.’
‘Ngn-na-a-a-ghk…’
‘I take it back, I take it all back,’ Galathil hissed. ‘I take back everything I’ve ever done for you and leave you as you are; an unsightly – unseemly – bitch – pig-’
And she began to sculpt. Forty-five minutes later she left the Fleur estate for the last time.
When the chambermaid entered the study for her nightly cleaning she fainted, then dragged herself sobbing to the guards, the first of whom immediately started regurgitating the remains of his dinner and the second of whom fainted as well. The lump of pulsating flesh plopped up in a corner of Maxine de Fleur’s study did not even resemble a Sload – Sloads, at least, had visible limbs and a somewhat definable face. This could only be described as a gigantic moist tumour, bristling along one side with thick, slimy hair, deformed beyond all recognition – had it not been squeezing out of the remains of the Lady de Fleur’s nightgown. Inflated blood vessels throbbed throughout the growth’s surface, and in its very centre was a ragged gash of nine malformed teeth and a lolling green tongue, producing a continuous gurgling, spitting sound.
The better part of an hour passed before the guards managed to figure out the monstrosity was begging for them to kill it.
The entire process had drained three-quarters of her magicka reserves, but Galathil felt slightly better after that.
She strode across the Palace District, back towards the Legion outpost. She waited outside and saw them marching in from the south – where the beheading had just taken place – and waited some more. As expected, the two senior agents were in front while the younger Alessandro was heading up the back, struggling to keep up.
There was a distance of twenty feet between the entrance to the outpost and where the trio was set to pass Galathil. She reached out with a hand just as the junior Spectre stepped in front of her, poking him in the back just lightly enough to attract attention and sending a small wisp of magic into his upper body.
The agent frowned, turning around. His two seniors went on ahead, Francesco calling – ‘You can wait there, then, while we pack up. We won’t be long.’
‘Um,’ Alessandro frowned at her. ‘Hello there.’
‘Hello.’ Galathil was still boiling hot, grief and fury churning her stomach into a slurry of boiling acid, compounded by the frustrating numbness of magicka exhaustion biting at her nerves, but she managed to smile as naturally and cheerfully as possible. ‘I saw you upstairs just last night.’
‘Oh, so you did,’ Alessandro said, nodding pleasantly. ‘I didn’t recognise you without your uniform, I’m sorry. Are you new?’
‘Yes, I was only recruited last week.’
‘I see-’ the agent coughed. ‘Apologies, I…’ He coughed again, pressing a hand to his chest as his right lung continued to contract.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m just-’ the agent winced, still clutching his chest. ‘I can’t breathe! I-’
‘Calm down… here,’ Galathil lent him her shoulder. ‘I’m a mage and a healer. Make way!’
She led him into a deserted alleyway just three buildings away from the outpost and, over the course of five minutes, forced the Imperial’s ribcage to grow inwards until it shredded his heart and lungs. Then she steadied herself, stripped naked, and gathered the last reserves of her magic for the last bit of flesh manipulation she was about to do in a while.
It had been what got her exiled from the Faculty of Chirurgeons in the first place and she had spent decades regretting her choices – now she got to work without even a glimmer of doubt.
I am done with doubt… I am done with regret. The only thing left was action, and by all the gods above and below – she was going to act.
Her bones shifted first, changing her body structure entirely as her pelvis narrowed and her shoulders broadened. She drew the additional muscle mass she needed from Alessandro’s corpse, feeding it into her arms and legs as well her abdomen. At the same time, she drained the fat out of her buttocks and breasts. Her skin tone changed from Bosmer tan to Imperial olive. The tips of her ears shrank and rounded down. And finally, she reached out with one hand to feel Alessandro’s face, probing the entire skull. Transferring the base shape to her other hand, she made the necessary changes to the bone, muscle, fat and skin of her own face.
It wasn’t an utterly flawless copy, but it was enough to fool anyone other than close family and even they shouldn’t be able to tell right away. Galathil strapped on the Oculatus agent’s uniform and armour – one of the many things she had learned from the Hollow-Faced Men was how to dress for battle – and took his weapons before spending one final minute liquefying the real Alessandro’s body, sending his remains trickling away down the gutter and into the Wayrest sewers.
She rejoined Francesco and the other agent at the outpost. The latter gave her shoulder a rough slap before all three of them set off for the Imperial City.
As Galathil took her place behind the two Spectres, she kept a single word blazing in front of her mind’s eye, alongside Yvonne’s final smile.
‘Shinobi’, Galathil whispered, clenching her newly thickened fists hard enough to draw blood. The word was a curse, and she flung it to the heavens.
Shinobi.
Comments
Funny, we all have different takes on the face sculptor. I don’t play ESO, so my version comes... more