Twilight tinged the world a peaceful blue when I rounded the edge of a rocky hill slope and caught my first view of Markarth. Dibella must have had a hand in its crafting. The ancient dwemer manipulated the living bones of the mountains to carve their city here, with its graceful columns and towers, noble waterfalls and soaring architecture.
I must admit that I didn’t dwell on its architecture that long. As Ghorbash appeared at my shoulder, I closed my eyes reverently and said, “Friendly debate over good food and drink, followed by a soft bed in a hearth-warmed room. Are you there with me, Ghorbash?”
Ghorbash snorted. “A knife in the back over blood and silver, followed by a stone slab, cold as a tomb. Are you there with me, Forrest?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, turning to him.
“Only that I will not be accompanying you into that pit of corruption,” Ghorbash replied. “I was stationed there when I was with the Legion, and I don’t go back. Do what you need to do, and I’ll wait for you at Left Hand Mine.”
“But I need you,” I objected. “It’s not just the inn I need to visit. There’s a benchmark there—The Wizard's Balcony Benchmark, a primary. Understone Keep sits directly on the border.”
“Can’t help you,” Ghorbash insisted. “Got a history in that city. Don’t mention my name. And watch your step in there—in more ways than one.”
Well, what a lousy rod man you turned out to be, I thought. I wondered if I shouldn’t hire a more dependable replacement in Markarth—someone who wouldn’t have any “history.”
The guards eyeballed me suspiciously as I entered the gates. Inside, I found myself in an ad hoc market square, with vendor’s booths set up in a disorganized fashion around canals and stone bridges. Shoppers passed from booth to booth, avoiding a guardsman scrubbing at a large bloodstain in the cobblestones with a wide brush and a bucket of water. The water from his brush ran red down a short slope and into the canal.
I scooted sideways to the nearest vendor, a Breton like myself. “What happened there?” I asked.
“Imperial girl was killed by one of them forsworn,” he explained, leaning forward in eagerness to share the gossip. “Since then, there’s been a series of bloody murders, including some of the most powerful citizens in the city. Someone got thrown in the Mine over it, but everyone knows she’s a patsy. Bad timing for a Breton to show up in Markarth, stranger.”
“Forsworn?” I asked.
“You know—the rebels? You don’t know. See, this land wasn’t always held by the nords. Used to be held by our people,” he explained. “Some folks can’t adapt to change. They follow the old ways and they want the rule of the Reach back. Problem is, not all the old ways was exactly sunny, if you take my meaning.”
“I think I do,” I agreed. So, not all the Reachmen were homicidal necromancers. What a relief! Out in the wilderness, I had gotten the impression that I was seeing the last stand of a people who could not adapt to Progress. I stuck out my hand. “Forrest Pingham,” I introduced myself. “My great grandmother was from a little village just the other side of the mountains.”
He accepted my hand. “Arkay’s blessings upon your great grandmother, Mr. Pingham.”
“And upon you, good sir,” I replied. He abruptly pulled his hand away, as though shocked. “Can you tell me where I can find the scholar, Calcelmo?” I asked.
“Understone Keep,” he said tightly.
“Thank you,” I replied, trying to recover from whatever blunder I had just made. “I’ll remember you when I need to purchase something.”
“Shop anywhere you like,” he muttered.
I made my way upslope. Even for a first time visitor, it was obvious which way to go—Understone Keep dominated the city with its columns carved out of the shear cliff face. I approached the great double doors, and the guards shifted nervously and then pointed their weapons at me.
“Stop, right there, Forsworn scum!”
I raised my hands. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m not a Forsworn. I’m not even from the Reach. I’m from Chorrol—in Cyrodiil.”
“We’ll see about that,” said the right hand guard, yanking my pack off my back, and roughly ripping it open, while the left hand guard kept his weapon trained on me.
“I’m a surveyor,” I said. “I’m with the Imperial Geodetic and…”
“What’s this, then?” demanded the right hand guard, pulling a Forsworn headdress out of my pack.
“Not what it looks like,” I told him quickly. “I took that from a Forsworn in the mountains. It’s for my collection. I’m an amateur anthropologist.”
“We don’t hold much with magic here in Skyrim,” growled the left hand guard. “Anyway, why should we believe you?”
“It’s all in my journal,” I said, desperately. “It’s all right there. Go ahead, read it!”
Right Hand picked up the book and leafed through it, at first with an air of disdain, but then something caught his attention and he looked closer. He leaned over to his partner and showed him the journal. Left Hand impatiently glanced at the page. “What am I looking for?” he muttered.
Right Hand tapped the page and whispered, “Ghorbash!” Left Hand grabbed the book, and leafed through it quickly while Right Hand leveled his weapon at me.
I mentally slapped myself across the temples. I am truly a fool, I thought. Sorry Ghorbash!
Left Hand and Right Hand put their helmets together and consulted in rushed whispers.
Right Hand threw the journal back in my pack and threw the Forsworn garb into a corner. “Watch your step while you’re in Markarth, stranger. You get yourself and your journal out of the city as soon as your business is done and don't show that book to anyone else, not even guards, you got that?" I nodded, and he went on. "We’re confiscating your collectables for your own good. In the future, you might consider taking up a safer hobby.”
Left Hand muttered, “Like maybe the Arena.”
I was shaking as I quickly gathered up my pack. “C-Calcelmo?” I managed to stutter. With a couple of abrupt hand gestures, the guards indicated through the door and to the left and I hurried away, smacking my shoulder against the doorframe in my haste to leave.
Ghorbash the Iron Hand is more than he seems. Who the Oblivion is my local rod man?
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