(Thanks for the comments, all! Glad that Edward's insanity continues to amaze, Nieres. As for his parents, I have a back story, but I'm not sure that I'll have a chance to get it in this one...if all else fails, maybe it can be another story )

The pure of heart
Stands by his friend
Ignoring the faults,
Standing firm to the end.
-- On Friendship

Chapter Seventy-Six

Edward, now an initiate into the Mythic Dawn, strolled into the city with a glad heart. Sure, he still reeked of sewerage; and, yes, someone in whom he'd placed his faith -- Valen Dreth -- had betrayed him and tried to murder him; and, true, his valet sent him to prison; likewise, the burning White Gold Tower rose above the city like a giant flaming specter. But things were finally looking up for him, at least on a personal level. The gods -- "Curse all of them, except, of course, the One, True Being, Marooned Dragon" -- had spent years ignoring him and spitting upon him; now, at long last, they were recognizing him for what he was, and what he could offer them. And soon, so soon as he'd completed his task of assassinating the Emperor's heir...well, what rewards could he expect from a god, after all? There were no limits for gods...they could reward the faithful as they saw fit. And surely one of his character would be deserving of ample rewards, wouldn't he?

Frowning as he realized he'd broken into that habit of old of licking his lips greedily at the prospect of wealth or fortune, Edward straightened himself out, and strolled nonchalantly through the town. He didn't even take it personally when people pulled quickly away, wrinkling their noses and staring at him with disdain. He was too lost of scheming reverie to take much note. "Maybe," he was thinking, "my god will make me Emperor! After all, with all the unworthy heirs dead, and the last of the ingrates dead at my hands no less, the mighty Dragon might see that there are none better suited to rule than myself." He was smiling broadly at the prospect, and walking a bit aimlessly, as he wasn't really sure of where he was going or why. He had a vague idea of retrieving his horse from the stables, but was afraid that, if he should pay a personal visit to Snak gra-Bura's stables, she might recognize him. Yet, as much as he despised the beast, he couldn't warm to the idea of traveling on foot. And, with his wayward servant at last cast off like the vile ingrate that he was, he really had no choice but to fetch the horse himself, or to abandon it.

It was then that an annoying voice broke through his thoughts, and he felt his ears practically itching with aggravation. "Don't take it to heart, Champion," it was saying, "it's sad and all that for sure, but he really is unworthy of your concern!"

Edward froze. Was this...could it be? Were the annoying fan and the miscreant servant approaching? His first instinct was to run, as his servant would no doubt try to have him incarcerated again; but the prevailing sensation was to murder the fiend on sight. So, he remained fixed in place, listening as the voice continued to implore its "Champion" to move on and forget the deceased unworthy. There was now no doubt in his mind...in all of Tamriel, he was sure that only the Ice-Cream-Head could babble so incessantly, repeating the same, oftentimes meaningless, things over and over in ever new and different ways.

Soon enough, the voice drawing nearer and nearer, first the taller form of his valet, and then the childlike form of his valet's stalker, rounded a corner, and froze. Edward watched as his servant's eyes grew wide in shock. Just about to engage in a bitter tirade about betting his servant was surprised to see him after his murder attempt, he froze a second time as the other man rushed over and clasped his hands on his shoulders.

"Sir!" he exclaimed. "Oh, sir! You're alive! Oh, thank the Nine! I was so afraid..."

"That you'd murdered me?" Edward spit out, ignoring the look of relief and joy that spread across the other man's face.

"No sir," the valet answered. "That you'd died in that fire! I'm so sorry that I interfered. I thought I'd give you a shot at Valen, and I almost got you killed!"

Edward stared at his valet, who was positively shaking with both remorse and joy, his face a strange, contorted mask of the two. Something in the other man's relieved expression, and the fact that he didn't recoil in disgust though he was grasping reeking clothes, stayed the flow of bitter fury that was about to roll off of Edward's tongue. "What?" he asked.

"My plan -- to get you in with Dreth by having you hauled off to prison!" Dragonheart continued. "Some fool started the palace on fire, and you almost got killed!"

Edward glared at him furiously, but the words somehow penetrated his barrier or livid unreasonableness. "You mean...that was all a stupid ploy to get me access to Dreth?"

"Of course," the valet nodded. "I never imagined anything like that could happen, though!"

"You almost got me killed!" Edward roared, understanding simply giving way to a new facet of fury. "How dare you meddle with my work?!"

Dear Divines,

My name is Edward, and I’m an Imperial living in the Imperial City. I am writing to you this holiday season because I have a request -- two of them, in fact -- and the priest at the temple said that you might answer them if they were good requests. So, you’ll have to take my word on it that these are good requests, because they really are. First of all, please smite my brother. He annoys me. Secondly, could you make me Emperor when I grow up? I hope that’s not too much to ask, but I can’t think of anything else that would make a fitting present for myself.

Yours in subservience and all that,

Edward

-- Childhood letter written to the gods during the winter holiday season

Chapter Seventy-Seven

It seemed to the Imperial that it was a decent trade off...forgiving his servant of lesser crimes than he had originally thought in order to secure his continued service. And, anyway, it appeared that the valet had already subjected himself to sufficient torture by beating himself up mentally for having Edward arrested. The miscreant, apologetic servant once more welcomed into the master's fold, then, Edward wasted no time in giving orders. First, the valet had fetched him new clothes -- at his own expense, of course, seeing as how Edward's "money was all confiscated by those tin-suited baboons!"; this was nonsense, of course, as Edward had had no money, but his servant had not argued. Then, he'd gone to fetch their horses. Edward and the Adoring Fan were waiting outside the city gates when he returned.

"Well now, sir," the valet greeted, "Snak gra-Bura was most obliging. She was glad to see someone was treating this old nag so well."

Edward grimaced. "I need to pray for a better horse," he reminded himself. "It's a disgrace when the god's hand picked assassin is riding around on a horse that has no respect for him!"

"Are you sure," the fan broke in at the sight of his beloved Champion, "that I must wait here for you, Oh Great and Glorious Champion?"

"I'm afraid so," the valet nodded. "My friend and I have important, dangerous work, and we cannot endanger you with it."

"Oh, but, Mighty Champion, I would risk any harm to be near you!"

Edward grimaced, but his servant was quick to silence the fan. "No, no," he said. "You must stay here. That's the wish of your Champion, and you know you cannot violate it."

Assuming a crestfallen air, the little elf nodded. "Yes, my Champion, I will obey. But you will come back, won't you? You're not just lying to me like that other Champion?"

Here, the valet hesitated; but Edward had no compunction in piping up, "Of course he'll be back! Would your Grand Champion abandon you?" He didn't mean a word of it, and knew well enough that his servant didn't either...but, as far as he was concerned, he'd do whatever it took to lose the little blighter -- up to and including bloody murder, if necessary. For now, though, he was content to confine himself to non-violent means...particularly when the eyes of the Guard were so near at hand.

The little fellow's face brightened, and he pressed, "You promise, my Champion?"

The valet hesitated more visibly this time, but again Edward interjected, "Certainly he promises! The Grand Champion is as good as his word, after all!"

Though Dragonheart frowned, the elf was positively beaming now. "Oh, Great Champion," he eulogized, "you are the greatest, the absolute greatest! Words fail me when it comes to expressing your beneficence, your grandeur, your magnificence!" And, despite professing that words had failed him, the fan set about finding ample expressions to convey, in a hundred ways and a thousand glowing tones, just how great were the depths of his adoration.

Edward was positively seething by time they were out of sight of the little fellow, and utterly livid when, some time later, they were out of the range of his vocal praise.

"I really wish you hadn't said that, sir," his valet told him then. "Now I'm obligated to find him when we return."

Edward stared at the other man, his mouth agape. Finally, he stuttered -- so great was his rage that his usual steady of flow of words had dissipated, "You wouldn't dare, you...you...you accursed servant!"

Dragonheart turned surprised eyes to him at this tone, but replied, "Well, sir, you gave my word. And, as you know, I can't break my word."

My goodness Rachel you are prolific! A double-dose Edwardian goodness in one afternoon.


"Oh, Great Champion," he eulogized, "you are the greatest, the absolute greatest! Words fail me when it comes to expressing your beneficence, your grandeur, your magnificence!" And, despite professing that that words had failed him, the fan set about finding ample expressions to convey, in a hundred ways and a thousand glowing tones, just how great were the depths of his adoration.

= brilliance!

Wow. This story is good and intertaining. Edward's " Intelligence, " is quite amusing at the least.

"First of all, please smite my brother. He annoys me."

My God...it has a brother?

(Thanks for the comments all. Unfortunately the installments will probably be a bit slower in the coming for awhile now, but I'll try to post some fairly regularly! )


Conflagration at the Palace! Destruction of the White Gold Tower !

It is with dismay and consternation of the deepest sort that your correspondent puts pen to paper to write that, at the hands of scheming arsonist, the White Gold Tower is no more. Reportedly started by a prisoner underneath the palace, a blazing inferno swept upwards, igniting everything in its path. The charred ruins of the tower are all that remains, and will, it is rumored, need to be taken down, as they present a considerable safety hazard. This is indeed a dark day for the Empire, and for all who have come to depend on the might, glory and righteous guidance that it provides.
--Black Horse Courier, Special news Bulletin

Chapter Seventy-Eight

All the while vowing that he would unceremoniously disembowel his servant if he ever thought -- so much as thought -- about seeking out his annoying elvish stalker, Edward and his valet made their way to Cheydinhal. Edward's thoughts were that he needed cash, first and foremost to buy a respectable horse; and then for whatever necessity popped up in his hunt for the Emperor's long-lost heir. Somewhere in the back of his mind, though not acknowledged by him, of course, was the fact that our wayward hero had no idea whatever of how to go about seeking out and exterminating the Emperor's son. Neither Friar Jauffre nor the Mythic Dawn agent had given him much to go on. A former monk wasn't a terrific lead, after all.

So, he figured, he'd finish up his business with the Dark Brotherhood, and then...well, he'd see where his path took him from there. Things had a way of falling into his lap, so, at present, it seemed the best course of action to hope that some information would come his way, so that he could get on with the business of murdering his emperor. "Marooned Dragon will understand, I'm sure," he thought. "These things take time and all that."

Of course, he could relate none of the true nature of his task to his foolhardy servant. "The moron will probably go off the deep end," Edward mused, "ranting about honor and duty to the emperor and all that rot." More than rants, however, the Imperial dreaded interference; he doubted very much -- though he'd be the last to admit it aloud -- that he could best his servant in a contest of arms, and so it seemed the far wiser course to avoid such a contest if he was to see to his business.

The other man's voice roused him from his reverie. "I'm actually surprised that you wanted to head out so quickly, sir," it was saying. "I would have thought you would have wanted to stay around to find the fiendish arson who destroyed the Palace."

Edward scowled at the mere thought of the blaggard who would torch the Imperial Palace, the symbol of the might of Imperials. "I would," he admitted, "except that I have such urgent business to attend." To himself, he thought, "I suppose working for a god does trump even an insult of that magnitude." It was one thing, to Edward's mind, to kill the emperor; the emperor was just a man, and any man -- him, for instance -- would be as good a ruler as the next. But the White Gold Tower? That symbolized everything that was great and glorious about the Empire and Imperials, from their conquest of the Aleyids up until the present day. The destruction of that symbol had been not just a slap in the face to the emperor, but to the Empire and every Imperial -- Edward included. It was personal to him, and he could picture a slinking, unwashed barbarian -- sometimes an elf, sometimes a Khajiit, sometimes a Nord, sometimes an Argonian...it didn't really matter which -- skulking about the palace, lighting the fires that had turned into the all-consuming conflagration he'd witnessed.

"Urgent, sir?" the valet asked, his brow wrinkling. "I thought you were just reconvening with the Dark Brotherhood?"

"Umm, yes," Edward stammered, "That's true, but, I, ahh, also, umm..."

"Ohhhh..." the valet nodded, a knowing gleam in his eye. "Another secret mission?"

Edward flushed, but nodded. "That's right."

"Then Friar Jauffre didn't send you away without a task?"

Edward blinked. "Jauffre?" he repeated, suddenly feeling very guilty. He had, after all, practically sentenced the old man to his death, hadn't he?

"I knew it!" the valet continued obliviously. "He may be a grumpy old coot, but he's not foolish enough to let the man who retrieved the Amulet of Kings -- who was charged by the Emperor himself with returning it! -- slip through his fingers without roping him into service!" He was beaming proudly now. "You are an asset to the Empire, sir!" he told Edward. "A real asset. I mean, your Dark Brotherhood service was noteworthy enough, but this! Retrieving the Amulet of Kings, and now..." His eyes bulged. "Finding the heir!" he exclaimed, interrupting his own speech. "That's it, isn't it?"

Edward started. It was bad enough to have his fanciful servant imagining him on the side of the Emperor and working with Jauffre...but this?

Dragonheart beamed at Edward's reaction. "Ahh, I knew it!" he repeated. "I must say, sir, I am proud -- proud! -- to be working with you, and for our Empire!"

Edward nodded guiltily, the faintest twinge of remorse toying with his heart. It was too late to turn back from his chosen quest, however...and, right or wrong, it still held true that a god had more power of reward than a mere mortal Emperor. Thus, he was not too sorry for his alliance.

The palace has fallen,
Gutted by a little fire
The Imperials are bawlin'
At the work of a liar.

-- Lyrics penned by Mankar Cameron

Chapter Seventy-Nine

The ride to Cheydinhal had been uneventful, and -- so far at least -- nothing had dropped into Edward's lap as he'd been hoping. He was not yet bereft of hope, however, and so he swaggered with a new-found ease into the Dark Brotherhood headquarters. None of the paltry peasants with whom he was about to associate, he knew, were working at the direct mandate of a god; even if Sithis and the Night Mother existed, these people were the nobodies at the end of their long chain of command -- where as he was the servant and ambassador of the great Marooned Dragon. These thoughts so impressed upon his mind, he carried himself with an even greater air of arrogant superiority than before. All eyes turned as he passed, and doubtless a number of stomachs proportional to the ratio of eyes-to-stomachs present.

Vicente was standing in the main chamber as he entered, and turned to stare daggers at him. "Edward!" he barked.

His fierce tone jarred the Imperial's stony insolence, but not as much as the fact that, for the first time since their acquaintance, the Breton had used his actual name in addressing him. Edward suddenly felt very meek as he stared into the furious red eyes, managing, "Yes, Mr. Valtieri?"

"So you're back?"

"Ummm...yes?"

The Breton glared at him. "Is that an answer, or a question?"

"An...answer?" Edward stuttered, realizing too late that his answer regarding his answer to a perfectly obvious question was posed so timidly that it, too, sounded like a question.

Vicente's icy glare seemed to freeze the very marrow in his bones. "Do you have any idea what you've done, Imperial fool?"

"Umm...no?"

"Are you answering me, or asking me?" Vicente demanded, his tone powerful and fierce even as his eyes burned a furious red.

"Answering!" Edward shouted, taking care not to repeat his previous slip up.

"You've just committed an act of treason, of war in fact, against the Empire! And did so as an agent of the Dark Brotherhood!"

Edward felt the blood draining from his cheeks, and imagined that he must look paler than Vicente himself. "Ye gods!" he thought. "How could he possibly know?"

The Breton apparently took this guilty reaction as acknowledgment of his crime, so he continued. "After what you've done, if there was anything -- anything! -- that I could get you on, by the gods, I'd do it!" he snapped. "Unfortunately, as the only person you actually killed was Dreth -- your mark -- I can't find anything..."

His eyes were blazing with fury, and Edward felt himself quaking. "I understand you don't approve," he managed in a half-whispered tremor, "but I thought..."

"Thought?!" Vicente demanded, interrupted. "How could you possibly justify that?!"

Edward shrugged, realizing that it was likely better not to elucidate his rationalizing. "Well, at least I didn't actually kill him," he explained. It made no never-mind to him that he still planned to; just so long as the Breton's fury was redirected long enough for him to make his getaway...

Vicente blinked at this defense, demanding, "Kill him? Kill who?"

"The Emperor," Edward explained. "Well, the heir to the throne."

Vicente's eyes opened wide. "What in blazes are you talking about?" he demanded.

The blood drained from Edward's face a second time. Was it possible, he wondered, that Vicente was speaking of some other transgression, and not his plot to murder the Emperor? But what? Certainly he had committed his share of misdemeanors and crimes in his day, but few -- except for his plot to kill the Emperor -- amounted to treason. "Well," he thought, "maybe stealing the Amulet of Kings could be construed as such...but could he possibly know about that?"

"Well?" Vicente prompted.

Edward seemed to shrink with every word the Breton spoke, and he wanted this interview to be over with as soon as possible. He was, to put it bluntly, scared nigh unto death. "I...I have no idea," he lied. "I just...what are you talking about?"

"Your stunt in the Imperial City!" Vicente roared.

Edward blinked in surprise. "Is that all?" he wondered to himself. Aloud, he said, "Look, I'm really sorry about that, but the provocation was too great...and, anyway, its not like it's a big deal." Vicente's pallor seemed to redouble for instant, and then the Breton flushed red with fury. "I mean," Edward hurried to explain, "that's what I thought then...but now I see how, umm, wrong I was."

"Gods know," Vicente muttered under his breath, "if there was even the faintest technicality, I'd make short work of you..." His tone reaching a more audible tone, however, he said, "But you completed your contract, and broke none of the tenets. So I've no choice but to give you the pay you were promised."

Edward took the bag of gold he was offered, but frowned. "Don't I get...like a bonus or something?" he asked. If it was true that he hadn't broken any rules, then it only seemed fair that he be rewarded accordingly. Vicente Valtieri's eyes flamed a shade of red that might well have come from the deepest reaches of Oblivion, and Edward at once fell to trembling. "Just kidding!" he yelped hurriedly.




"Let me make something clear to you," the Breton growled, "if you ever, ever do something like that again -- rules or no rules -- I'll personally drain you of the last drop of your blood, you worthless maggot!"




Edward blinked at the sheer fury the other man displayed. This really was too extreme, he thought -- but wisely kept to himself -- for something as simple as slapping the Grand Champion about a bit. Aloud, however, he said, "Yes sir. Now, as far as a new contract?"




"You'll be dealing with Ocheeva from here on out," he returned through clenched teeth. "I'd just as soon make a meal of you as not, but she says I can't...still, I'll have nothing further to do with you."

Knowledge is crucial to man's success
Without it, he is ignorant.
But wisdom is more important yet
For without it, he is a fool.

? An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work "Writings of Old, Dead People"


Chapter Eighty

A very depressed Edward slunk out of the Dark Brotherhood shortly after his meeting with Vicente. His conference with Ocheeva had gone little better than that with the Breton, although, at least, the Argonian didn't threaten to eat him. She had brusquely told him that his "reprehensible behavior" had put him in a bad spot with the Brotherhood, and -- should it ever happen again -- something "unpleasant" was sure to befall him. That said, she had given him his next contract, noting that he had officially been one mission away from working with her full-time, but that his actions had disgusted Vicente so much that he refused to work further with him.

So, given the details of his latest assignment -- to fake a death -- he left quickly. He hadn't, he noted sadly, even seen Antionetta.

His valet was waiting patiently for him at their inn, and was surprised to see the glare with which he was greeted. To Edward, of course, that made perfect sense -- because, in his mind, he was being castigated for striking his servant, the Grand Champion, rather than burning down the White Gold Tower, which he was utterly unaware that he had done.

"Back already, sir?" the valet greeted, deciding it was best to ignore the ill-humors of his master. "I take it then you must have a new contract?" Edward merely growled at him. "Well then, are we going to be spending any time here, or are we setting out at once."

As much as he wanted to ignore his servant, this question gave Edward pause. The day was still young, and they had plenty of time to head out...but the thought of lazing about for a day or two was also an alluring one. "But the Dragon's business cannot be delayed," he told himself. By which, of course, he meant Mehrune Dagon's business. "Alright," he snapped, "we're heading out."

"Ahh, very good thing that I didn't rent us rooms yet," the valet observed. "I saw that the place was mostly deserted, so figured I'd wait..."

"And what in Oblivion makes you think I care?" Edward interrupted. "Do I tell you the details of my business? No! So what makes you think I want to hear the details of a servant's business? Just do your job, and shut up -- and we'll both be happier!"

The other man blinked at these venomous words, but, clearing his throat, returned quickly, "Yes sir. Of course sir. My apologies."

Edward glowered again. He hated that polite, up-tight attitude his servant took on when he was being...well, unreasonable. He said nothing, however, and the two trudged toward the city stables in silence.

At last, however, Dragonheart interrupted the gloomy quiet. "So, sir, where are we headed?"

"Chorrol," Edward snapped.

"Oh, very good!" the other man returned, his tone cheery. "So you decided to go there after all, sir?"

Edward snorted. "I didn't decide...that's where my next contract is. Plus, I have a few more questions for that stupid monk."

"Friar Jauffre, you mean, sir?"

"Yes, him."

"Ahh...you mean to aid you in your quest for..." Here, he glanced about and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, "the long lost heir?"

Edward glared at him. "Yes."

"How exciting!" the valet commented, apparently forgetting or ignoring the other man's glum mood. "I suppose, for starters, you'll want to know his name?"

Rachel! You need to paragraph your story!!

But apart from that, it is still as amusing as ever!!!

(D Foxy, hi, thanks for the alert about that! I copied it from a different word editor than I usually use, and didn't realize that it had stripped most of my formatting out. It should be fixed now! )

Of Cyrodiil and Tamriel we sing

Of merchants, seafarers and a king,

Of thieves, cutthroats and criminal sorts

Of legionnaires and Blades in their forts.

– Excerpt from Song of Tamriel

Chapter Eighty-One

It was a bright, sunny day when the pair arrived in Chorrol. Edward's mood had, through the course of their travels, brightened a tad. He had even deigned to share with his valet the details of his task -- that from the Brotherhood, of course, and not that from his god.

He was, he'd told the other man, supposed to pretend to kill a fellow named Motierre. He'd even been given a knife for the task, which he showed to his companion. "They said it's covered in something that will cause a sort of paralysis that resembles death," Edward explained. "So I stab him with this in front of the other assassin -- who is really planning to kill him -- and it looks like he dies. And he acts like he's really afraid of me. Then, once he's been put in the crypt and everyone thinks he's dead, I use this-" Here, he produced a vial of liquid. "Which is a counteractant that will revive him."

The valet frowned. "But why this charade, sir?"

"Because, it turns out this Motierre fellow was an underground criminal, but, for the right price, he turned, and has since been working with the Imperial Guard as an informant against some rather sinister characters. Now they want him dead. So I pretend to kill him in front of the assassin they've hired, and he thinks he's dead. Everyone thinks he's dead. They just assume I was an assassin hired by someone else he'd informed on -- and, because he's acted afraid of me, the other assassin reports this to his employers. And then Motierre picks up his life somewhere else. You see?"

"I say, that's very clever," the valet agreed. "And, I suppose a bit risky for you, eh? I mean, if that other assassin figures out that you're a fake...or if he wants vengeance since he thinks you took out his mark?"

Edward shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. He hadn't really thought about it like that before. "Well," he replied hesitantly, "I suppose that could happen."

The valet nodded. "Yes sir. Very brave of you to take on a fellow assassin!"

Edward's expression morphed into a glare. Somehow, his servant always had a way of annoying him. "He must do it on purpose," Edward thought. "That innocent nonchalance must be a pretext."

"So, when are you going to do this?" Dragonheart continued.

"As soon as I can get over there," Edward answered. "The Brotherhood had caught wind of a hit placed on him two days before they gave me the assignment. Which means our assassin will be here anytime."

"And if he's watching the house?" the valet mused. "Won't he see you enter?"

"So?"

"Well, won't that weaken your story? I mean, especially if he waits awhile, and you wait to 'kill' him until the assassin arrives?"

Edward frowned. He didn't like to admit it, but there was some sense in the valet's words. "Hmm..." he said meditatively. "I suppose it might."

The two men walked in silent contemplation for a few minutes, each thinking of solutions to this poser. For his own part, Edward was lost. As it was, if he waited to enter, he'd need to find a quick, sure way to get into the house. What was he supposed to do, he wondered with a scoff...leave getting into the house to chance, and just hang around waiting for the bad guy to show up?

"I've got an idea!" the valet piped up suddenly, interrupting him from his unproductive reverie.

Edward groaned. "Of course he's got an idea..." It was bad enough that his servant could generally come up with a solution to any puzzle thrown their way...and it was worse that it was always a good one.

"Why don't I go to Motierre's house, tell him who I am and how I work for you and how you're working for the Brotherhood and all of that."

Edward rolled his eyes, contenting himself with criticizing the rambling structure of his servant's excited sentences in face of the inevitably good plan that he was about to put forth.

"Then," the valet continued, "he pretends to hire me as his valet, and I start to work for him. This way, when the real assassin breaks in, I can defend him if necessary, and let you in to play your little charade."

Edward frowned. He was searching for some sort of loophole -- anything really -- with which to fault this plan. So far, however, his efforts were meeting with no success. "Well, what if...I mean, suppose..." He growled. "Alright, fine," he said through clenched teeth. "It sounds like a decent plan, I guess."

One must impress, but never overdo it;
Show interest, but never too much;
Make her laugh, show off your wit;
And if better than the truth, lie, but just enough.

– Rough draft of a dating guide, penned by Edward

Chapter Eighty-Two

Edward glanced out the window. It had been two days since his valet had gone into the 'employ' of Francois Motierre...two long, tedious days of getting himself up in the mornings, fetching and pressing his own clothes, ordering his own food, and, of course, paying for his own room. It was, in a way, amazing to him to realize how much he had come to rely on the services of his valet – the services, and, of course, the ready stream of cash, as the other man had long since ceased asking Edward for money of any sort, and had just made it a habit to pick up the tab or bill wherever they went. These, apparently, he had no difficulty paying, doubtless thanks to his secondary employment in the Thieves Guild.

For his own part, Edward had been staying at the Oak and Crosier inn, which was a nice enough establishment – and not terribly pricey, which suited the stingy Imperial very well indeed. Even the fact that it was run by a barbarian Khajiit hadn't bothered Edward too greatly, for Talasma – the publican – had greeted him with courtesy and remarked on his sophistication and breeding. “I suppose I am a bit overwhelming, compared to the barbarians she must be used to,” he'd thought to himself at the time.

Of course, the reason he was at this particular inn was that it was directly across from Francois Motierre's home, so provided him with a terrific view of the comings and goings of the skittish little Breton. Having two days passed already, Edward had grown less assiduous in his task, going so far as to take long mid-afternoon naps, or grow engrossed in heated discussions and drunken debates with the locals – a “lot of primitive commoners,” as he termed them. At the moment, however, he was engaged in shamelessly flirting with a Breton woman, Estelle Renoit.

“You know,” he was telling her, “you'd almost pass for an Imperial.”

“Oh, umm, thanks,” she nodded, inching a bit further away from him on her stool.

“You don't have all of the features,” he continued, “but you're still a lovely woman.”

“Umm, thanks,” she repeated, edging yet further away.

“And I just can't believe you're still single,” he told her, repeating himself for at least the third time. “I guess it's just because in this little place there's no strong Imperial knight to sweep you off your feet?”

She groaned as he simpered.

“Well, don't you worry about that anymore,” he continued.

Estelle continued her creeping escape, but, all at once, she yelped in surprise as her stool tilted precariously. Reaching out, she grabbed Edward. But it wasn't enough to stop her falling backwards; it just meant that he fell, too.

Too lost in planning his next comments, Edward was just as surprised as she, and went down like a ton of bricks. “Ye gods!” he yelped, falling painfully onto his companion's barstool. “Ouch. That stings.” But, clenching his teeth, he tried hard not to show the pain he was feeling. He rightly suspected that crying wouldn't help him woo his lady-fair.

Rising, she turned to him furiously, and commanded, “Oh, get out of here!”

Still picking himself up, he blinked. “What?” he managed to ask, though it sounded as if he was being strangled in the attempt.

“Go away! I don't care if you think I look like an Imperial! I don't care if you're a knight! I don't care if the Emperor knighted you himself! I don't care how much land you own and how much your estates make a year,” she answered, repeating the lies Edward had told her. “And I couldn't care less if you're single, either!”

“But...but...” the thunderstruck Imperial stammered. “Don't you...I mean, aren't you....?”

“Oh! Idiot!” she growled, brushing past him and storming out of the inn.

He watched her go, his face a picture of astonishment. He had used the best compliments he could think of, going so far as to say that she – Breton though she was – looked like an Imperial; he had told some of his best lies; he had, in essence, done everything right, and still the foolish woman scorned him.

“Excuse me,” the gravely voice of a Khajiit interrupted his astonished reverie, “but please don't do that.”

He glanced behind him to see Talasma. “What?” he asked.

“Drive the customers away by harassing them,” she replied matter-of-factly. “It's not very good for business, you know.”

He clenched his teeth, fighting back a furious remark. He was still staying here, after all, so he thought it better to hold off on insulting his hostess until he was leaving. “I wasn't harassing her!” he told her instead.

“Hmm...” the Khajiit muttered disbelievingly. “Well, whatever you call it, let's not have it happen again, shall we?”

It is said 'Never leave a child to his own devices'.
But we say 'Never leave a fool to his own devices'.
For see the harm he's inflicted when not left on his own?
What more if we'd left him to his own devices?

? Official clarification from the Nine, commenting on why they chose Edward to ward off the Oblivion Crisis

Chapter Eighty-Three

Edward sighed. He had stomped out of the Oak and Crosier Inn in a huff half an hour earlier, and was now seated on a bench by the tree known as "the great oak of Chorrol". His mood was dark, and his thoughts ran in the same vein. "I am so sick of barbarians," he was thinking to himself. "If I was Emperor, I'd banish them all." Then, glancing at the tree whose branches reached up overhead, he growled. "And what a stupid idea....to build your entire town around a stupid tree. If I was the Countess...well, a Count...I would cut it down, and have a bonfire." The idea of burning the symbol of Chorrol to ash cheered him a little, and he began to build up fanciful scenes in his mind of how this might be achieved. "I suppose," he was thinking, "an arsonist might even get away with it...perhaps come by at night with some oil and a torch."

He was positively grinning now ? a broad, toothy, malicious grin ? when a passing, patrolling Chorrol guard cleared his throat and asked, "Excuse me sir...everything alright?"

Edward flushed guiltily. "Of course!" he snapped. "I'm just sitting here...enjoying the sunlight."

"Ahh, yes...beautiful day, isn't it?" the guard answered.

"It could be," Edward returned, his mind still following the thoughts of a few seconds ago.

"Could be?"

"Uhh, is," he hastened to correct himself.

"Yes indeed," the guard nodded. "Well, you have a fine day then, sir."

Edward nodded and returned to his malicious reverie, when all at once he saw the door to Francois Motierre's home open. He bolted upright as his servant's head poked out, and then an arm gesturing for him to enter hastily.

Racing across the plaza, Edward nearly tripped over his own feet as he dashed into the building. His valet jumped back just in time to admit him, but another man ? who he did not at first see ? was not so fortunate. Edward careened into him, and both fell to the floor in a heap.

"Hey!" a lizard-like hiss exclaimed. "Who are you?"

Edward jumped to his feet to see a scaly Argonian ? the individual with whom he'd collided.

"I am..." Suddenly, he paused. What cover story was he going to give? He and his valet had never really discussed that...just that he would pretend to kill Motierre in the other man's presence. So, he settled for the truth. "I am Edward, and I am an agent of the Dark Brotherhood. Go away ? he's my victim."

The lizard sneered. "Ohh, Motierre, you have been a naughty boy, haven't you? Oh well...as much as I'd love to see someone slit this treacherous filcher's belly open, I'm afraid I'm the one who has to do it, Imperial."

Edward cringed at the description of the death the Argonian had prescribed, but, mustering all his pomposity, declared, "I'm afraid you're not. I was sent here to do a job, and I shall do it."

"Look here, Imperial," the Argonian retorted, clearly annoyed, "Hides-His-Heart does not take to being trifled with. He's no disagreement with the Brotherhood, so go in peace and live."

Edward frowned at him. "What do I care for Hides-His-Heart? I'm talking to you!"

The Argonian grimaced. "I am Hides-His-Heart, fool."

Edward's frown deepened. "Don't refer to me as a fool, insignificant lizard. Now, go away before I skin you and make a pair of boots out of you. I've business with this cockroach!" With that, he spun around to face his valet and another man, who he recognized from his surveillance efforts as Francois Motierre. Drawing the poisoned dagger from a sheath in his belt, Edward sprang forward. The little Breton gasped as the knife plunged deep into his heart; and then he fell forward, quite dead.

Edward smiled triumphantly, and at the same time heard his servant and Hides-His-Heart gasp. Turning to face the Argonian, he said, "Now, have you anything else to say, lizard?"

Hides-His-Heart cringed, and replied quickly, "No, no, nothing at all. It will be enough for my employers to know that he is dead after his betrayal. As I said, Hides-His-Heart has no quarrel with the Brotherhood." Saying this, he quickly absented himself from the premises.

Edward grinned triumphantly. "Well," he thought, "I taught that Argonian to mind his manners when addressing an Imperial, didn't I?" Then, turning to his valet, he said, "That turned out rather well, don't you think?"

He was surprised to see the other man had grown ashen white.

Murder is the intentional slaying of another human being, wherein intent is matched by the needlessness or maliciousness of the incident. Which is to say, it is murder for a man to kill another man without reason, or when the crime is not merited. Such an example might be killing a man during a quarrel. When one causes another's death, however, for other reasons – be they accidental, or merited – this is not considered murder. One might, for instance, be defending himself from attack, or warding off a tax collector, or something of that nature.

– Excerpt from Treatise on the legality of Defense and Murder

Chapter Eighty-Four

It had taken much convincing, but – after applying multiple doses of the antidote to Francois's now-chilled corpse, all without effect – Edward had come to terms with the fact that Francois Motierre was in fact dead. “But they said the blade wouldn't hurt him!” he protested to his valet, feeling somewhat sick and queasy.

“Yes sir,” the other man answered, his tone very dry. “But I do believe that they didn't intend for you to stick it through his heart.”

Edward glared at his servant. “They should have said that then!” he snapped.

The valet groaned. “It is a commonly held principle, sir, that men do not go around jabbing pieces of metal through other men's hearts unless they mean to kill them.”

Edward felt his hands twitching, and he was keenly aware of a sense of longing for another 'piece of metal' with which he might dispose of his servant in like manner as the now-deceased Motierre. Instead of attempting to murder the other man, however, he continued to argue his case. “Well, it isn't as though the Breton was a saint, anyway,” he declared. “He was an underworld type too, until the watch offered him enough money to turn evidence on the others.”

“Yes sir,” the valet answered.

“So I'm sure he's done things worthy of death.”

“Yes sir.”

“So it isn't as though I've done anything terribly bad in killing him.”

“No sir, I'm sure not.”

He stared in irritation at his servant, whose flat tone clearly conveyed his disagreement, whatever his words expressed to the contrary. “I mean it!” he snapped. “He deserved to die. In fact, I probably did a service to the world in killing him.”

“Oh yes sir. Quite.”

"And it wasn't as though I did it deliberately," Edward continued, "so I'm sure the Brotherhood will understand."

"I'm sure, sir."

"I mean, it was their stupid directions that caused this anyway...if they had been more clear..."

The valet cleared his throat tactfully. "Oh, indeed sir. However, perhaps it would be wiser to contemplate this manner elsewhere? It is going to be...well, rather difficult to explain your presence here if the city watch should happen to knock on the door."

Edward turned ashen white. "They'll put me in jail for murder!" he gasped.

"Yes sir. Which is why it would be best if you were to leave."

Edward nodded quickly. "Alright, let's get out of here!" he told his servant. But, to his astonishment, the other man shook his head.

"No sir," he said. "I'm going to have to stay here. Everyone knows that Motierre hired me as his servant. So I'm going to have to explain this to the watch. Now, why don't you tie me up and stuff me in a corner over there-" He pointed to a little cubby-hole opposite the door. "And, of course, gag me. That way it will all look perfectly believable. I'll just tell them that the assassin overpowered me, and then murdered Francois. Simple enough, really."

So frightened at the prospect of jail time, Edward shook his head -- which now matched the rest of his shaking body -- and headed straight for the door. This was his servant's problem, not his, and he wasn't going to hang around to see him through it. The other man would have to deal as best as he was able with explaining his part in this sordid business, because he was going to get out of town as fast as his quaking legs could take him.

Utterly bent on cowardly flight as he was, Edward hadn't even given thought to making certain that his departure would go unnoticed. Instead, bursting through the front door, he ran headlong into the street, and into an armored body.

Edward strikes again! I see he is as humble as ever too :




I loved this reference to how the Argonians always seem to refer to themselves in the third-person:




A small nit here:

In Chapter 81



I think you want the word "counter-agent" there?

:rofl:

what more is needed to say?

I purposely saved your story 'til last, because I knew it would cheer me. A nice, long read is just the thing for a Monday... All it needed was to be at home, in front of a fire and with a cup of tea.

As before, all I can do is tell you how much I love your style. Edward is as obnoxiously oblivious as ever.

Two bits that particularly struck my humor reflex-





Thank you, Rachel, from the bottom of my (now happier) doggie heart.

Edward, my favourite [censored]-up. :rofl:

(Thanks all, glad you've been enjoying this so far! And Treydog, glad Edward's bungling cheered your doggie heart...some Mondays there is much need of cheering, if for no other reason than it is Monday, LOL )

Cowards fly and flies cower,
Villains lie and liars vilify,
Whiners cry and criers whine,
Kvetchers crab and crabs kvetch.
-- On Villains and Animals, by the Inebriated Odist

Chapter Eighty-Five

Landing on the cobblestones with a painful crash, Edward glanced up in dismay to see the same guard he'd met earlier, while he'd been planning a bout of arson against the symbol of Chorrol.

"Hullo again!" the other man exclaimed in surprise. "Is everything alright?"

But Edward was too terrified to answer or attempt a reasonable explanation. Instead, he leaped to his feet, and took to his heels.

"Hold up there!" he heard the guard call out. "Not so fast!" And he heard heavy footfalls behind him. All of these facts added urgency to his flight; but not enough to escape the athletic Chorrol guardsman who followed him.

"I say, sir," the man told him, laying hold of his shoulder and so bringing him to an immediate halt. "Hold on a moment!"

Spinning around, Edward implored for mercy. "I didn't do it! It was an accident! I didn't mean to kill him! It wasn't me, it was the valet!" Too late did he realize that the guard was extending a hand that held his purse -- which he'd apparently dropped in his fall -- and not arresting him for murder; until that outburst, of course.

The hand that held the bag of gold receded quickly, dropping the sack of money in order to retrieve a blade. And the congenial expression on the other man's face morphed into one of suspicion. "What's that you say? Kill who?"

Edward blinked in renewed terror. "Nothing!" he answered. "I was...joking!"

The guard's eyes narrowed, and his grip on Edward's shoulder tightened. "Let's just make sure of that, shall we?" he asked, marching the Imperial toward the spot where he'd fallen.

"Stop!" Edward protested, struggling hard to break free. "My purse! You dropped my purse full of gold!" But the iron grasp of the guard was not to be broken, and so Edward was dragged back to the stoop of Motierre's house.

"Now then," the guard was saying, "you were coming out of that place-" Here, he pointed with the tip of his still drawn sword. "-Like the daedra of Oblivion were nipping on your heels. How come?" His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You ran off without taking your purse, so it wasn't theivery. What then?"

Edward swallowed hard. "I...it wasn't me! I didn't do it!" was all he could manage to stammer.

"Alright then," the guard shrugged. "Looks like we'll be doing some investigating." This said, he shoved Edward forward brusquely.

"No, please!" Edward protested. "I don't want to go in there again."

"How come?"

"Because I can't stand being next to..." He paused. "Bretons?" he asked, rather than stated. As of yet, he hadn't confirmed that there was a corpse in the building. This didn't seem a good time to do so -- particularly if he was going to persuade the guard to leave him outside whilst he investigated inside.

The guard growled. "Well, that's your misfortune. I'm a Breton, and you're coming along with me."

Edward whimpered. "Please, can't I just stay outside?" he pleaded. "I hate being near bodies!"

The guard did a double-take. "Bodies?!"

"Umm...yes," Edward answered, realizing too late that he'd given himself away again. His only hope now was that the guard at this news would go rushing in to investigate, leaving him free to escape.

This hope, too, was dashed as the other man shoved him forward a second time, more urgency in his rough handling than before. "Get moving!" he commanded.

Edward had no choice but to comply as the tip of the guard's blade had found its way to his back. Gulping, he threw open the doors to Francois Motierre's house, and awaited the worst. He had no doubt now that his valet would turn on him after his flight -- if he hadn't already escaped through the back of the house. Even less doubt was there in his mind that the Chorrol guards, ignoramuses that they were, would never understand the accidental nature of Motierre's death. He, Edward the Imperial, would be charged with murder, and spend the rest of his days rotting in a barbarian Breton jail, and all for accidentally killing a thug-turned-informant.

Stepping into the house, he was amazed by the scene he saw before him. Motierre was -- unfortunately, and despite his secretly hoping otherwise -- still dead, but his valet lay in a heap on the floor, blood oozing from a wound to his head. Standing still in utter amazement at this new turn of events, Edward yelped as the tip of the guard's blade dug into his flesh.

"Move!" the other man instructed, prodding him a bit harder with his blade.

Edward sprang forward, his only thought being escaping the painful sensation of metal digging deep into his back. He gave no mind to where his leap was taking him, and so screamed anew when his foot caught on the body of his servant and sent him reeling toward the corpse of Francois Motierre.

His last sensations were terror at being so near a corpse, and a strange, quick pain in his head. Then, everything went black.

When night has fallen,
When the sky is grim,
When death is calling,
Perhaps its time to sing.

– On Irreverence, by the Inebriated Odist

Chapter Eighty-Six

Edward lay in his cell, his eyes firmly closed. He was, at the moment, pretending to be unconscious still. It was easy enough to make out what happened to him since he actually did lose consciousness, and then awoke; the guards had taken him to the dungeon and thrown him into prison. He'd heard them pvssyring outside his cell a few minutes earlier, and noted one man's voice telling another to keep an eye on "the prisoner "because "as soon as he wakes up, we're gonna have to interrogate him".

Thus warned, Edward had no intention of "waking up". For all that he cared, he'd pretend to be unconscious for the rest of his life if necessary; or, at least until he thought of a plausible story to get him out of this mess.

This latter plan of action was not going so well, however. He knew without a doubt that the guards would never believe the truth of the matter -- that he had accidentally killed Motierre; and, anyway, that still left him to explain his membership in the Dark Brotherhood. Plus, he honestly could provide no answers as to how his servant had been killed, because that had happened after he'd left -- and that, he knew, they'd believe even less. So, he tossed various ideas about in his mind.

"Maybe I could say that I was thief, breaking in to rob Motierre, and I just found the corpses," he mused. Then, difficulties with that story coming to mind, he frowned. "But they wouldn't believe that...I'm too respectable looking to be mistaken for a common sneak-thief." His brow pursed in thought as he followed a new idea. "Or, I suppose, I could always say that I had an appointment with Motierre, and when I arrived they were both dead." He toyed with this story for a few moments, but again decided against it. "It's too flimsy and convenient...they'll never believe it."

Then, all at once, a flash of inspiration struck him, and he bolted to an upright position. "I can cut a deal with them!" he thought, wild exultation flooding his mind. "I can turn the Brotherhood in in return for my own freedom!"

Congratulating himself at his own brilliance, he peered into the prison hall. It was empty. "Damn it!" he cursed. But he was not too vexed; after all, he didn't doubt that a guard would check in on him soon. And then it was simply a matter of stating his terms, getting the proper approval, and the rest would be, as they say, history.

Edward was grinning broadly when the outer prison door grated open, and light filled the gloomy prison. He heard heavy boots tromping in, and then saw the wearers of these boots. "Hello there!" he greeted the three soldiers of Chorrol. "You come to hear my story?"

The first guard to reach his cell grunted as he fiddled with a key. Then, unlatching the door, said, "No use...we already heard the truth of it from your valet."

Edward's self-satisfied expression turned into one of utter astonishment. "He...did?"

"Yup."

"You mean, he's not dead?"

"Nope. Now get out." The guard motioned for Edward to exit his cell.

"Out? You mean...?"

"Get! You're free!"

"Unless, of course," a second guard put in, "you'd like to remain." The trio of soldiers laughed amongst themselves. Edward, deciding that questions could wait, left them no more time to contemplate such a course of action, and scampered out of the cell hastily.

"You mean," he asked, now free of the bars, "I can go?"

"Unless you'd prefer to stay here," the second guard repeated.

Rolling his eyes as the trio broke into renewed laughter, Edward wasted no time in exiting the premises. It -- none of it -- made sense to him, but he wasn't going to scoff at freedom.

Practically racing into the open air, he stopped short of colliding head-on with his valet. "You're alive!" he gasped.

"That's right."

"I'm going to kill you!"

The other man blinked. "You're going to kill me? After running off like an idiot like that?"

"Yes!" Edward snapped. "I thought you were dead!"

The valet's furious expression softened a touch, but, glancing about, he said, "Come on, let's go...we'll talk about this later."

There are happy days
So many happy days
Oh such happy days
In the company of Tamika's West Weald.

– Ode to Wine, by the Inebriated Odist

Chapter Eighty-Seven

Now that they were safely out of the hearing of the guards, the valet was proceeding to explain how he'd saved them both. "After you ran off like that," he said, and his tone expressed a marked degree of vexation, "I had to do something quick. So I knocked my head against a chair so that it looked all bruised and started bleeding. Then I brushed a few specks of Languor powder -- which is similar to the elixir that was on your dagger -- near the wound, so it would seep into my blood stream. It's very quick acting, and I lost consciousness immediately. When I woke -- and, since I had put so little into the wound, I woke fairly quickly -- I learnt that you were unconscious. I had imagined that you would protest your innocence, and that they would not believe you, and that would be that; but your being unconscious was even better. Then I told them the truth -- mostly. I said that I had been your valet, but that we'd quarreled and you'd dismissed me. I then found employ with Mr. Motierre -- which they knew was true. As far as today, I told them that a masked assassin broke in; we fought, but he was still able to kill my master; and that I was knocked unconscious by the fleeing villain. When they asked what you were doing there, I said mostly likely coming to ask me to return to service."

The valet cleared his throat, and looked somewhat abashed. "I'm afraid I had to paint you as, well, somewhat of a buffoon, sir," he added. "To make the story believable and all of that."

"A buffoon?" Edward demanded.

"Yes sir. And the guard who arrested you had no trouble believing it -- I think, in fact, that cinched the matter as far as he was concerned." Edward glared at him. "But, that was better than it could have been. I had been prepared to paint you as a lunatic, sir -- like I did up in Bruma -- if you had confessed or anything like that."

Edward's glare intensified. "Oh, well then, in that case..."

"Now, sir, back to my questions. Why in the name of Mehrunes Dagon did you go running into the plaza like that? Do you realize you could have saved us all a lot of frustration -- and pain!" Here, he rubbed the sore on his face.

Edward continued to glare at him, in part because he didn't have a real answer, aside from 'panic', and in part because he was furious with his servant. "Because..." he started, "well, clearly...I mean, obviously..."

"Yes sir?" the valet asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Well, who would believe that?" Edward finally answered, feigning exasperation. "I mean, I'm sure people saw me enter the house. I was sitting right outside of it! There would be witnesses. Someone would say, 'Wait a second, I saw that Imperial fellow, the handsome, smart one staying at the Oak & Crosier'." He ignored the way that the other man cleared his throat, and continued, inspired as it were with this current lie. "Then we both would have had some explaining to do! This way, when I ran away like -- like I was terrified, and panicking -- everyone believed it." The valet stared at him, his eyebrow still raised, but Edward rushed on. "Even you, I think, fell for my clever little ruse. So it looked perfectly natural that I had stumbled across the murder, and had fled at the sight of it."

"Well then," Dragonheart asked, his tone skeptical in the extreme, "why didn't you let me in on your 'clever little ruse'?"

This was a poser for Edward, but he shrugged and hemmed and hawed in an admirable fashion -- leastwise, for liars -- until he hit upon a plausible excuse. "Well, obviously," he told his servant, "your acting skills are not so refined as mine. You would have given the whole thing away, with your bungling. Look at you!" He pointed to the other man's bruised forehead. "You had to bludgeon yourself before you could come up with a plausible lie, and to knock yourself out with drugs." Edward scoffed. "Whereas I just...well, let the masterful, artistic side of me run rampant."

"Hmm..." the valet muttered, seemingly not very convinced.

Edward continued, though, intent on selling this lie to Dragonheart; he had, during his stay in Chorrol, grown tired of doing his own laundry and seeing to the more menial tasks in life, and so he wanted his servant back as soon as possible, and as fully and surely as ever. "Oh yes! You see, for me this is a matter of life and death. For me, I have to be able to fake my way out of situations like that. I don't act so much as become the character I play. So then -- when I was playing the coward -- I didn't act a coward, I let myself become a coward. I let the role take me over, until I was but a slave to its dictates." He shrugged in mock self-deprecation. "So much a slave that you, my good friend and loyal servant, who above all men knows the steadfastness and courage of my heart, doubted -- nay, doubt still! What is that, that doubt you feel, but a testament to my great powers of acting?"

The valet frowned at him. "An indication that you're lying?" he asked.

"Ah!" Edward said quickly. "Good! You see? You begin to understand! It is almost a lie to say that I was acting, because, in that instant, I had so wholly become the coward that I was as much a coward as the character that I portrayed -- the buffoon, as you rightly termed him to the guards." He nodded vigorously. "Now, you see, I -- being the judge of character that I am, that I have to be to survive in my line of work -- knew that I could trust you to think of some magnificent cover story for yourself. But I could not leave you in suspicion, my friend. Oh no, I could not do that. Because, if people saw me enter, and you told a story that did not correspond, they would say, 'Ah, the valet is in on the plot!' And then you and I together would be hanged. But I thought to myself, 'We have no time now to sit and strategize; people have seen me enter, perhaps heard our struggle, and know that something bad has happened...now we must act as if we were these roles that we are playing. I must be the coward and buffoon that the townsmen know -- the one who drinks and chases women and makes a fool of himself. And you -- you must be the valet, the good, loyal servant, who witnessed the murder but could do nothing to stop it. So, since I am my character, I flee; and you remain behind." He shrugged again. "And I know how smart you are, and how quick is your brain...so I know that you will think as fast as lightning, and come up with some marvelous story. And I will pretend to be a fool and buffoon and coward, and run away. And then I will trip, and lose consciousness until I have heard your story, so that I do not contradict it."

Edward paused to gasp for breath, having come to the end of his lengthy explanation. He was, despite his breathlessness, rather proud of himself for his elaborate bluff. Dragonheart, for his part, frowned at him, as though lost in thought.

"Well, then, sir," he asked at last, "if that's true, how did you know I wouldn't just turn you in to save myself?"

A pang of betrayal shot through Edward at these words, but he suppressed his thoughts of "That little bastard! How dare he even think of betraying me?!" Instead, he answered smoothly, "Ah, but I know you to well to think you capable of such baseness!"

The valet's expression brightened, and then broke into a smile. "True enough, sir. Well then, your logic is good, so you must be telling the truth."

Edward smiled and accepted these words, but, inwardly, he found himself cursing his servant. The man was clearly not trustworthy, he thought, to even consider such a betrayal. "If only life was not so damned difficult and complicated," he mused inwardly. "If only one didn't have to worry about things like laundry and paying for things and tedious details. Then I could send this ingrate packing without having to fend for myself."

"Sir?" the valet asked, interrupting his thoughts. "Is everything alright?"

Edward started, realizing that he was sighing in a very melancholy manner.

Killers, run, run, run for the hills!
Murderers, hide, hide, hide in the shadows!
Take heed, heed, heed, there's danger waiting!
– Line from “The Ten Killers”, as spoken by the character Quivile

Chapter Eighty-Eight

Edward had given his wayward servant the afternoon off -- the other man had indicated that he'd wanted to meet up with an old friend and, upon learning that the friend was a "filthy Argonian", he'd lost the sliver of interest he'd had in meeting his valet's friend. So, left to his own devices, Edward decided that he'd pursue the one thread of inquiry that might, just might, lead him to his Emperor and victim -- Friar Jauffre.

It was a quick ride to Weynon Priory, and, with much dread and a slight pang of guilt in his heart, Edward dismounted. He was ready to find that the Friar had been murdered days ago by the Mythic Dawn. At least then, though, he might be able to question his subordinates.

The place was eerily still as Edward walked toward the Priory house, and the early afternoon sun seemed to look upon the desolation in a mocking brightness. His footsteps rang loudly on the cobblestones, and he could feel his pulse racing. There was an inexplicable, but dread, fear upon him.

Perhaps, he mused with a touch of annoyance, it was conscience. There was nothing for it, however, so he pushed open the priory door, and stepped into a poorly lit interior. All at once, he felt the cold touch of steel at his throat, and heard a laughing voice speak to him.

"Ahh, so you didn't get the point, eh?" it asked. "You want to follow your buddies?"

Edward croaked in alarm as he realized the steel was in fact a blade, digging most uncomfortably into his neck.

"Prepare to die, assassin!" the voice continued.

"Please!" Edward begged. "Spare me!" He couldn't see the speaker, but he felt sure that he recognized the malicious, satisfied voice as that of Friar Jauffre's.

"Hold on a second!" it boomed. "Is that...?" A sudden sputter of light illuminated the side of Edward's face, and he pressed himself against the door jam as the flame of a candle passed alarmingly close to his face. "It is! Well, by the Dragon's toes!" it continued. "What are you doing here, slimy?"

Feeling the blade slip away from his throat, Edward glanced behind him. To his amazed horror, he saw Friar Jauffre, but not the Friar that he remembered. Rather than an irate, bellicose but restrained little monk, he saw a frenzied man of war, his eyes flashing with fury, and his robes streaked with blood. "Umm...what's going on?" he breathed. "Have I come at a bad time or something?"

"Oh no, the perfect time! The perfect time!" Jauffre exclaimed enthusiastically. "We just fought back a wave of those worthless dirt-eating assassins. There!" The monk jabbed with his fingers into the dimly lit interior.

"Umm...what?" Edward, squinting to see anything as his eyes were still a little dazzled by the candle that had been thrust so close to his face.

"Oh, that's right," the monk acknowledged with a nod. "There's no more of them out there, is there?"

Edward, seeing that this question was directed at him, although he had no idea what it meant, said, "Umm, no?"

"Ahh good," the monk nodded. With this, he walked from Edward's side to several candles and torches throughout the room.

Edward watched in growing horror as first one pocket of light, and then another, and then another sprang up to light an intensely macabre sight.

"Here," the monk declared, setting his candle down on a table. "I was just finishing up my work-" With this, he pointed to a pile of corpses. "-When I heard you coming. I thought it must be more of the toad faces, so I put out the light and waited for you." He sighed, and Edward was sure that it was a disappointed sigh. "But that's alright," he said after a moment. "You can help me now."

"Help you?" Edward croaked. His eyes were transfixed on a pile of headless corpses in one end of the room.

"That's right," the monk answered. "Here! Help me carry these." This said, he bent to lift a bundle of pikes that, for whatever reason, Edward had somehow missed up until now.

Seeing what was on the end of these pikes, however, proved too much for Edward, who fell suddenly into a dead faint.

Rivers run to the seas,
Life ends in death,
It is the way of things
So embrace what you cannot change!

-- Musings on Death, by Friar Jauffre
Chapter Eighty-Nine

Edward had not been able to stop retching ever since he'd woken up. He was currently outside by the stables, where Friar Jauffre had insisted he stay while he did his "vile business"; for his own part, the mad little monk was running about the Priory grounds, planting pikes atop which were situated various severed heads, all frozen into some macabre grimace of death. This, he'd told Edward, was to "warn those filthy little heathens" should they want to "have another go at old Jauffre."

Hearing an all-too-familiar laugh of satisfaction, Edward felt the bile rising in his throat once more. He had somehow managed to loose what must have taken months to get inside him; and yet still his stomach churned and heaved.

"Alright now, lad!" the friar declared, slapping his shoulder with a bloody hand. "Now, what are you here for?"

Edward fought the urge to retch again despite the overwhelming odor of blood and death that the monk carried with him, less from any strength of his own than the mere emptiness of his innards. "I came to ask you..." he started, and then turned away to gag anew.

He heard the monk sigh impatiently, and he felt his knees quavering as much as his stomach. Friar Jauffre was clearly not one to annoy.

Finishing this latest bout of sickness as quickly as he could, he faced the monk. "I came to ask you about the Emperor," he answered.

He noticed Jauffre turn a shade greener as his breath hit him. "Ye gods!" the friar declared disgustedly, stepping away from him. "I've gutted men whose insides smelled better than your breath!"

Edward felt the urge to retch come on him again, but he fought it. He had no desire to test the patience of the man who had, apparently single-handedly, just fought off a dozen or so Mythic Dawn assassins, and then decorated his priory grounds with their heads. "Umm...sorry," he replied. "But, anyway, about the Emperor. I need more information on him."

The friar's fiery eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Why?"

"Umm, well, because I..." He felt his knees shaking again, and cursed himself for never being prepared. Why hadn't he thought of an answer to this inevitable question?! "I, umm, want to find him."

"What for?"

"To, umm..." Edward hesitated. He obviously couldn't say "kill him". So what could he say? "Serve him!" he finished.

The monk burst into laughter. "You? Look here, slimy, the Emperor needs real men! Not little weaklings like you."

Edward grimaced, but rightly decided it was better to put up with this abuse than to contradict the abuser, much less whilst he was still feeling the effects of bloodlust.

"It's a noble thought," the monk continued, "or a damned fool one -- although I do think you'd make a fine little corpse. But Martin doesn't need you getting in his way. He's weak enough as it is without interference from your ilk."

"But," Edward began, "maybe if-"

"Nope," Jauffre answered, shaking his head. "There's an end of it, I'm afraid. Now come, you better be going. I've work to do. Those filthy assassins murdered my friends, and I've got to get to work burying their bodies."

Edward nodded. Perhaps, deranged as he was, there was some good in the monk after all, he thought.

"As it is," Jauffre continued, "their heads are already adorning my priory."

Edward blinked. "Their heads?"

The monk nodded. "No sense letting good corpses go to waste," he told Edward. "Figured they'd fit right in with the assassins -- nobody'd know the difference, as heads on pikes tend to do a pretty good job of disguising whose a good guy or a bad guy." He shrugged, and explained with the faintest hint of a grin, "Heads is heads, when they're dead. And since they're already dead, figured they wouldn't mind. And it's a sight more impressive having all those heads than if there were fewer, isn't it?"

Blades of steel,
Steel-hearted Blades,
Well armored warriors,
They are the empire's armor.
-- Song of the Blades, written by Friar Jauffre

Chapter Ninety

Edward had made the mistake of pleading once more with Jauffre for information, and, for that, he'd been drafted into grave digging. His protests had fallen on deaf ears, and, barely catching the shovel that had been hurled at him, he thought it better to fall in line and do as he was told that risk the ire of Friar Jauffre.

For his own part, Jauffre was patrolling the Priory grounds to "keep an eye out for those assassins." He seemed, Edward noted, completely oblivious to the actual reason that the Mythic Dawn had come -- the Amulet of Kings. Instead, he was absorbed in some fanciful notion that the Mythic Dawn agents had come to assassinate him, and would without doubt be back.

Knee deep in the hole he'd dug, Edward was already panting heavily. Grave digging was not easy work -- and that much less so when everywhere he looked were the the grim expressions and listless gazes of decapitated heads, strategically placed about the Priory grounds as a sort of macabre d?cor. Worse yet was the pile of headless corpses that the monk had carried out and deposited with no great concern in a heap next to the hole on which Edward was working.

The thought of running had occurred to Edward, but he felt sure that he'd never be able to outrun the bellicose little monk even on horseback. Then he would be just one more head guarding the Priory, he knew.

Gritting his teeth, Edward sunk his spade deep into the earth beneath him. There was nothing for it but to dig these graves, or die in the attempt, he knew. Heaving heavy, damp shovelfuls of earth over his shoulder, time seemed to slow to a crawl. His muscles ached, and he was sweating profusely -- as much from fear as from exertion. Furthermore, his progress was agonizingly slow, and made all the more so by the nauseating smell that wafted from the headless, still bleeding corpses nearby. "This," he thought, "must surely be what hell is."

"Alright my lad!" an eager voice sounded behind him, causing him to start. "Looks like it's all clear, for the present anyway. I can help you now." This said, Friar Jauffre -- the speaker -- leaped into the hole beside Edward, wielding a shovel of his own.

As strange as it was to be disheartened by assistance in this seemingly endless task, Edward felt his heart sink. It was one thing to be doomed to hell; and another entirely to serve alongside the devil.
"Right now," Jauffre continued, "this is always the best part, you know."
Edward stared at him. "It is?"
"Yup. Here you lay the bastards to rest, good and proper. Making the grave -- it's like poetry," the monk explained, his shovel flying at least as fast as his words. "A good grave digger is like a fine poet. He can craft a masterpiece from a simple hole in the earth."
Edward just stared at the other man wordlessly.

"It comes naturally to some men, but even then you have to work at it."

"Digging?"

Jauffre nodded. "It's part of a monk's business, you know, knowing how to dig a proper grave. For the sick and all of that, of course, plus cases like these." He paused, glancing up at Edward, who -- while listening to him -- had stopped working. A frown creased his brow. "Well get on with it, boy!" he reprimanded.

Edward started anew, and jumped back to work. Still the monk prattled on. "It's easy for men of my piety to make enemies. This isn't the first time I've had assassins after me, I can tell you that much! Two of them came the other day, too; unfortunately, I was out and the Brothers were able to handle them. But that fool Brother Piner insisted that they be buried intact." Jauffre shook his head darkly, pausing only long enough to point out a patch of fresh earth on the other side of the lawn. "That's where I put them -- I dug the graves, of course. If only Piner had listened to me...then it would be their heads adorning the lawn, and not his." He laughed to himself at these words, as if satisfied that his point had been made to Brother Piner. Edward shuddered.

Dear Bishop Clemence,
Forgive me for writing, but I feel compelled by honor to do so. I must make a formal protest against the vehemence with which Frair Jauffre drives the acolytes. I sometimes fear for their safety – and my own, when he gets into a proper rage. Please advise, as I don't know that even my soothing spells can control the man.
Yours respectfully, etc.,
Prior Maborel

-- Letter dated two years prior to Prior Maborel's death, sent to Bishop Clemence

Chapter Ninety-One

Edward was so exhausted that his knees were trembling with fatigue; but, at last, the final corpse was buried. "Now then," Jauffre, who seemed, if anything, more exhilarated by the work, "I've been thinking of what you said to me. And I suppose that, if a man can dig a grave as well as you, he might be of some use to me."

Edward wheezed at him, which was, in his state, the closest he could come to expressing agreement.

"So, I'll tell you what I know about the Emperor -- and it isn't much, but it's what we have." This said, he paused to look around. "Well, not 'we' anymore I guess." He laughed at something that was apparently meant as humor, but which bypassed Edward completely. "Anyhow, he used to study here. He wanted to become a priest." Edward couldn't repress an involuntary shudder at the idea, but Jauffre seemed not to notice. "Like I said, some of his friends died during a cram session...after that, he packed up and left." Jauffre grimaced at the recollection. "No stomach for death, that one. And a man who can't stomach death isn't fit for life, seeing as how death is the natural result of life."

Edward blinked, amazed by his own brain, which somehow followed Jauffre's logic.

"But we let him leave...Prior Maberel was strict in regards to fighting, and it didn't matter how much a man deserved a good beating...if he hadn't attacked you, you couldn't hit him." He sighed. "Anyhow...he left. The last I heard, he was working for an elf-" He said this word with marked disgust. "An elf in the Imperial City." He shook his head. "To think that our Emperor -- our Emperor! -- subjected himself to such degradation as working ...and for a barbarian, at that!" His lips were curled in disgust, and it made Edward very uncomfortable that he could understand the monk's feelings on the subject.

He was silent several moments, apparently lost in disgusted reverie. Then, he glanced up at Edward, his expression once again bright and cheerful, despite the somewhat psychotic gleam in his eye. "So, that's all we know," he told him. "If that helps you, good for you. And, of course, if you do happen to track him down, you have to bring him back here." As Edward made no attempt to agree, he pressed, "Right?"

"Umm, yes, definitely," Edward hastened to confirm.

"Good man," Jauffre nodded with satisfaction, adding with a smile, "We'll make a proper Imperial of you yet." Edward managed a nervous laugh. "Now you'd better get going...those assassins didn't get me this time...they'll try again!"

Edward frowned. "Are you sure they were after you," he asked without thinking, "and not the amulet?"

Jauffre gasped, and Edward cursed himself for his big mouth. "The Amulet!" Jauffre exclaimed. "It might be...that would explain their persistence in the face of certain death!"

Edward nodded meekly, but the monk seized his arm and dragged him toward the Priory House. Strangling a gurgle of fear and an outcry of pain as the little man's bony fingers dug into his flesh, Edward thought it best to obey the summons without protest. Pushing his already weary legs beyond their last reserves of strength, Edward was only barely able to make it into the gloomy, bloodstained house, up the likewise stained stairs, and into a room that he'd not even noticed the first time he entered.

Jauffre loosed a scream of fury so tremendous it might have echoed from the bowels of Oblivion itself as he sunk to his knees near a smashed chest. "It's gone!" he growled.

"Maybe it was on one of those guys you buried?" Edward wondered, again speaking before he thought. He gasped as soon as the words escaped his lips, however, knowing that that could easily mean digging up a dozen headless corpses in the now setting sunlight.

But, to his eternal relief, Jauffre shook his head. "No," he answered. "I searched their bodies before I cut their heads off. None of them had the amulet."

Edward couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity for the monk as he stared at him, his bent form hovering over the smashed chest in such a despairing fashion. At last he glanced up at Edward, and his eyes seemed to convey the sense of loss his posture had only hinted at. "That means," he said, his voice trembling with raw emotion as he spoke, "that one of them got away!"

Whoehahahaha.... :rofl: I can sooo see it in front of me. Jauffre losing his marbles.... All those heads on a stake.....