In the dark of a cellar, two voices were whispering among the cobwebs and dry, white straw. A door was opened, and a female figure stood silhouetted against the early evening light for a moment, then disappeared as the door closed. Aquillius Aeresius put his clothes back on one at a time. He'd been plumbing the depths of the Orc girl from a nearby stronghold for weeks. Every few days, she'd come into town and he'd promise her gold and land and titles. Promise ore and mines and workers. Once, and this was the last time she visited, he promised her his hand. And week after week, she came into his house and into his bed, then left by the basement door an indeterminate amount of time later.
Aquillius straightened his house robes, pressing the wrinkles out with his fingers. Though he didn't like to admit it, he loved it when she visited on days Arnau was due to report to him. He knew Arnau would never approve of his activities, whether he meant to actually fulfill those promises or not, and the thought of his knight arriving at the wrong time drove him over the edge. The look of dismay on the young Breton's face. Of surprise. Then loathing, and possibly horror. He savored the idea, though he knew actual discovery would ruin the usefulness of his new servant. Furthermore, the reality would be far too shameful to face.
There was a knock at the door. Ah, there he is now.
Shivering and stamping his feet, Arnau waited outside the elaborate town home. In spite of his wealth, his lord preferred this understated location in which to conduct the majority of his affairs. He even shared several rooms with his visiting second cousin and her mother. Seeing as she was here for her wedding, she was rarely at home. Nevertheless, Aquillius' generosity and humility sparked pride in the Breton knight.
As he waited, he watched the carts trundling down the street bearing all manner of evergreen sprigs and winter berries. Suddenly, it occurred to him that it was the twenty-fifth of Evening Star. His father and mother were likely attending the court ball while the servants got drunk on their master's wine stores. All around Wayrest, citizens would be celebrating Saturalia. The thought made Arnau briefly homesick. Still, the Old Life Festival was around the corner, if the sudden increase in snowberry mead and garland bedecked lanterns posts were any indication.
With a creak, the door opened.
"Just the man I was expecting to see. Please, come in."
The knight performed a perfunctory bow before moving past the stocky figure of Lord Aquillius. When the door closed behind him, the noble gestured to a hovering servant who made to take Arnau's cape. At the shake of the Breton's head, he retreated into the parlor where cups and trays were laid out on tables with astonishing speed and relative silence.
"I'm afraid I'm not staying terribly long today, my lord. I meant only to inform you of this afternoon's meeting."
"Why, Jurard, surely you cannot stay a little while. It is dreadfully cold outside, after all." The Imperial smiled broadly, lightly grasping the visitor's shoulder and steering him down a carpeted hallway adorned with silver sconces and well-aged oil paintings. To the right lay a small coat closet shrouded in darkness. To the left was a drawing room hung with dense curtains sporting eye-watering designs, a desk almost completely bare, and a low table piled high with an assortment of decorative statuettes. "Frea has been attempting to redecorate again, but I don't see why she bothers. That room is simply impervious to good taste. Now, why don't you tell me about your afternoon with Solitude's finest."
"They were bored and empty-minded as usual," Arnau replied bluntly.
"Were they?" chortled Arquillius in mock-surprise.
"I provided all of the evidence you've given me, supplied the correct testimonial, yet they still refused to make any kind of investigative move!"
"Patience, my boy. Patience. With these men, opening their ears is like picking a lock: it takes subtlety and a gentle touch. Not that I would know much at all about picking locks, mind you."
Arnau hesitated. Guilt sat in his gut like molten iron; it had been burning its way through his body the entire walk there.
"My lord, I must confess something," he said, kneeling right there in the hallway. "Today, I failed you. I let my emotions overwhelm me and spoke plainly of our social opinions and implicated our plans. It...did not go over well."
"You were ejected from the court."
"Yes."
Aquillius stared thoughtfully at the top of the knight's skull, his mind racing. If he could keep Jurard out of court for the next few weeks, and kept him suitably engaged in activities abroad, he could work his expulsion to his advantage. He could claim the knight was overworked and utterly drunk--too much snowberry mead, to which Arnau had taken a liking. The boy hadn't meant those things. He was merely upset at having been shown up by Melaran in a gentlemanly contest of magical abilities, and, well, you know how High Elves are. Then the festival going on with so many happy families, while the poor lad was stranded in a strange land alone. Surely, they understand. Then, Jurard would be rendered a harmless nuisance, sent from their presence for some time by his benefactor's will. Aquillius would appear to be the beneficent father to the brooding son, and the balm to the irritated courtiers. Yes, that would do.
The lord's lips pressed the crown of Arnau's head lightly, paternally. "At least have some wine and cheese, will you?"
"Very well."
Down the hallway they padded into an open, high parlor surrounded by blue-chipped stones matching those in the palace and bookshelves containing only a few tomes, their spines fresh, new, and never opened. A bench sat before a prepared table.
"Sit."
Arnau sat.
"Let today's events wash from your mind. I ask only that you are more careful with you temper in the future."
Arnau nodded. It wouldn't happen again.
"Sample the cheese. It's a fantastic goat's milk blend."
Arnau sampled the cheese, and waited for the other shoe to drop.
"I thought I might inform you that an Argonian was bothering me today in the market. Poor thing said he had a 'proposition' for me. Goodness knows what he really wanted, but I'd like you to find him and accept this proposition."
"What?" the Breton exclaimed, choking a little. He coughed raggedly before downing half the goblet of wine.
"You heard me, Jurard. Accept his offer for work."
"But why? Why do you want me to talk to that--that thing?"
"I do not believe you are in the position to ask questions." A murmured apology. Aquillius' hard gaze softened. Such a good lad. "When you have accepted his proposition, take care of him."
The knight nodded curtly. Speaking to an Argonian was not something he thought of as a pleasurable endeavor in the least, especially one with the gall to beg from a noble. Of course, Arnau would do as his lord asked, but the cold ache in his stomach suggested a trip to the Winking Skeever was in order first. Then, sleep. Followed by any number of things he could imagine doing to put off the inevitable confrontation. "Is there anything else, my lord?"
"Don't sound so enthusiastic!" Aquillius clapped his hand on his back with a laugh. It sounded forced. "No, not at this time. You may go."
Bowing, Arnau stood and turned toward the hallway by which he entered.
"Jurard."
The knight looked back in question.
"Do be quick about it. There is a project for which I will have need of you in the coming weeks."
"Of course, Lord Aquillius."
As the door clanged closed, the noble stared at it in contemplation. Then, having bored holes in the heavy iron plating on the wood, plodded down to the cellar to clean up the mess not even the servants would touch.
Outside in the cold afternoon, Arnau stalked up the street toward the inn, determined to have his meal and mead regardless of his assignment. Be quick about it he says. A cloud of steam huffed into the air, then withered and died. Normally, he carried out his tasks with relish. It was the ones featuring phrases like "take care of" and "see to it that" and "dispose of" that wore on his nerves.
Crossbows twanged to his right, dissolving into the ratchet and clank of the weapons' mechanisms. Captain Aldis nodded to him, then returned to observing the new recruits. Over the last few months, Aldis had been prying Arnau to join the Legion. Each time, Arnau shook his head and declined with ever-decreasing politeness. He had no intention of joining the military force that managed not only to gleefully shoot itself in the foot during the war, but utterly failed to protect his family's city from attack.
Idly, he descended the stairs near the blacksmith, who clamored away, and would continue to make a terrible racket deep into the evening. Against his father's wishes, he had spent several long summers with Wayrest's blacksmith learning the trade on some silly teenage notion. The practice proved useful enough here, for Beirand paid him well for his occasional assistance. Down toward the market he went, fingers brushing the ivy vines coating the walls and dislodging tiny avalanches of snow. The Winking Skeever lay just ahead, its lights already on in the dimming afternoon light, and Arnau relaxed a little thinking of warm food, tipsy women, and drink.
* * *
Jaree-Ra hadn't seen so much as a septim since last Turdas. He was hungry, but he didn't want to eat yet another blasted salmon. Nor did he want to freeze his tail off swimming in that horrible excuse of a bay. The bench he sat on was cold and hard. Mucous threatened to drip from his nostrils every second, leading to him sniffle incessantly, for he dare not wipe his snout on his arm. If anyone saw, they'd avoid him even more than they were now, and how could he possibly beg if people refused to approach him? No, if he sniffled, it made him more pitiable.
Footsteps were approaching. Not that this was unusual, since he sat under a dragon's head sculpture right by the stairs leading to the Imperial headquarters. But these boots sounded expensive. Jaree-Ra knew his shoes--he spent a lot of time staring at them. Someone with some kind money was coming.
Quickly, he shifted into a calculated slouch. Just enough head-hanging to appear down on his luck, but not so much that he looked asleep. The right degree of lean on his elbows to look tired, but not drunk or strung out on skooma. He let the mucous run down his nose and throat. If he opened his mouth just a little, his breathing sounded labored and distraught, as if he were upset. Unfortunately, his kind could not produce tears, but voices all sounded the same when struck by deep sorrow.
The boots walked by him, and the man wearing them neither stopped or slowed by any degree. Jaree-Ra watched his back and waited a beat. Staggering a little, he followed the man with as much noise as he could make without sounding too obvious.
Comments
Actually, outside of combat style, this story is almost magic-free. And, surprisingly, Aquillius is not the quite man you think he is. Ah, but I don't want to spoil it for you.