Welp, I might as well post this here as well, rather than just on my LJ (http://donotham.livejournal.com). I dunno why I've been putting it off so long.

This is, yes, another Nerevarine story (although I'm a bit late to the party). Hopefully this story will be somewhat different and not just a re-tread of the familiar quests. Also I will be using characters and storylines from Kateri's mod http://www.gamesas.com/topic/1418801-julan-ashlander-companion-thread-15-wipz-v20/, because the characters are awesome and my Nerevarine refuses to go anywhere without them.

I've uploaded everything I've written so far, and hopefully making this so public will encourage me to actually finish the thing.

So, without further ado...

TABLE OF CONTENTS
http://www.gamesas.com/topic/1429945-unwelcome-destiny/page__view__findpost__p__21927529
http://www.gamesas.com/topic/1429945-unwelcome-destiny/page__view__findpost__p__21927543
http://www.gamesas.com/topic/1429945-unwelcome-destiny/page__view__findpost__p__21927566
http://www.gamesas.com/topic/1429945-unwelcome-destiny/page__view__findpost__p__21927580
http://www.gamesas.com/topic/1429945-unwelcome-destiny/page__view__findpost__p__21927595
http://www.gamesas.com/topic/1429945-unwelcome-destiny/page__view__findpost__p__21927615
http://www.gamesas.com/topic/1429945-unwelcome-destiny/page__view__findpost__p__21927628

Prologue

Vvardenfell, Arayn Llervu decided, was in dire need of horses.

Not that he could actually afford a horse, or even knew how to ride one, but -- and this was key -- horses allowed for a type of transportation known as "wagons." And traveling by wagon, by Arayn's calculations, was approximately ten point five times better than walking.

This was especially true when walking to Ald'Ruhn, particularly when an ash storm was twenty minutes away.

The wind picked up again, flinging grit into his eyes. He pulled his scarf tighter across his face and coughed. He could have taken a silt strider, or even paid for transport via guild guide, but no, he had to take the scenic route. He grumbled a bit, if only to distract himself from the weather. Guild guides were out of the question. He had been teleported by magic once, and due to the resulting nausea he had no desire to repeat the experience. And silt striders, well, he was not too ashamed to admit they were rather creepy.

Still, there was a part of him that was glad that he had decided to walk. Even the Ashlands had a sort of harsh beauty all of their own. If it weren't for the ash storms, he felt he could almost get comfortable in Vvardenfell. That and....

His gaze was drawn inexorably towards Red Mountain. The volcano loomed over the entire island, casting a shadow over the hearts of everyone who dwelled there, an ever-present reminder of the danger they faced every day. With an effort he dragged his eyes back to the path in front of his feet. He knew what was up there, if only by hearsay, and he didn't like to think about it.

One foot in front of the other, lather, rinse, repeat ad nauseum. He could see the giant shell nestled in the hillside that indicated he was nearing Ald'Ruhn. If he just kept his eyes on that, he wouldn't have to see the ash storm billowing down the mountain, and he wouldn't have to wonder if he would be able to make it to shelter in time. Perfectly reasonable.

He decided it would be a good idea to jog. For the exercise, of course.

The storm grew in the corner of his eye. Soon he was in a flat-out run, and he left his pretensions in the dust behind him.

~*~

Arayn closed the door behind him with no small amount of relief, and the howling of the wind was replaced by the murmur of conversation. He shook the ash out of his scarf and looked around. The Rat in the Pot was more crowded than usual, filled with refugees from the storm like himself. The bartender was looking particularly harassed.

What he was supposed to be doing was finding a certain Hassour Zainsubani, but he would have to put that off until the storm died down. In the meantime - he glanced at the racks of unfamiliar alcohols and grimaced. Well, he wouldn't get too drunk, anyway.

He dragged his protesting limbs up the steps and dropped heavily onto a barstool. "Anything for you?" asked the bartender, barely looking at him.

"Just a beer - uh, mazte, thanks."

The bartender grinned at his choice of words and slid a jug his way. He took a long swig and coughed a little. Maybe alcohol wasn't the best thing to drink after getting caught in an ash storm, but by the Nine was he thirsty.

"Not used to the local brew?" said a voice beside him, and he turned to find a Dunmer man had come up and was leaning on the bar.

Arayn raised an eyebrow at his accent. "You're from Cyrodiil?"

"Same as you." The man grinned and appropriated a barstool of his own. "You don't meet many Cyrodilic Dunmer around here, so it's nice to see a friendly face."

"No kidding!" Arayn said with a smile. "It's fine just walking around, but the moment I open my mouth -" He waved a hand vaguely. "I lose every dram of respect."

The other man sighed, though not unhappily. "You'll have to get used to it. You'll always have the accent, trust me."

"Why, how long have you been here?"

The man shrugged. "Around eight months. Since just before the quarantine began, actually." He paused, and tilted his head. "Wait, and you've been here since...?"

"Just a month."

"A month?" The other was gaping. "You mean you came to Vvardenfell despite the blight and corprus?"

"Well." Arayn shrugged nervously, a little embarrassed. "There's something important I've got to do over here."

"Huh." The stranger was still giving him a strange look, but quickly smoothed it over with a smile. "Brave of you! I didn't come over here by choice myself, so I'm just muddling along until I can leave."

"You didn't come by choice? Why'd you come then?"

The man waved a hand dismissively. "It's a long and boring story."

Arayn smiled. "I'll take your word for it." And if he heard this man's story, he thought, he might be obliged to tell his own, and he doubted he'd be able to come up with a convincing lie.

"So are you in Ald'Ruhn on your 'important business', or what?" asked the other.

"Well, actually, I'm a retainer of House Redoran, so I'm often up here anyway," he said.

"Oh!" The man slapped a hand on the bar. "I think I've seen you around! You're rather distinctive, you know."

Arayn ran a hand through his mohawk self-consciously. "Yes, well. You're in Ald'Ruhn often?"

"Well, I work under Skar occasionally, but I wouldn't say often."

Arayn tilted his head, scrutinizing, but the other man didn't seem familiar. "Well! I might see you around then. I won't be staying in Ald'Ruhn long, though, since I have some business in Balmora -" He stopped and came to his senses when the other suddenly flinched at the mention of Balmora. He silently cursed himself. Next he would be mentioning Caius Cosades, or gods forbid, the Blades! He shrugged and grinned lamely. "Well, like you said, it's a long and boring story."

The man laughed. "I'll take your word for it."

"Donotham!" An Ashlander pushed through the crowd and stopped behind Arayn's companion. "What's the hold up?"

"Oh, Julan!" The man glanced back, surprised, and grinned. "I got lost."

The Ashlander looked at Arayn skeptically. "I'm sure you did."

The man waved a hand sheepishly. "All right, all right, I'll order." He turned to the bartender as the Ashlander appraised Arayn. He tried a nervous grin, but the Ashlander was not impressed. "Two sujamma -"

"Mazte," interrupted the Ashlander.

"-and two mazte," the stranger finished. He received his order, flashed a quick smile in the bartender's direction, and turned back to Arayn. "Anyway, it was nice meeting you," he said, and turned to leave with his friend. "Good luck with whatever you're doing!"

"Who was that?" He heard the Ashlander say.

"I don't know, some guy."

"You talk to strangers often?"

"I'm talking to you, aren't I?"

"Oh shut up."

Their voices dissolved into the din, and Arayn sighed. He took a long, considering look at his mazte, then took another swig. He was really no good at this secret agent thing at all, he reflected.

Chapter 1

Eight months ago

"Caius Cosades, huh."

The Halfway Tavern was loud with conversation and drunken revelry, it being a Fredas night, but Donotham heard the words easily enough. The amulet he had been swinging by its chain faltered, then continued in its graceful arcs. "Who?" he said, very carefully keeping his eyes on the twirling jewelry.

Jiub was not looking at him either, but rather at a piece of parchment he held loosely in one hand. "Caius Cosades," he repeated, tapping the parchment with one finger. "You're supposed to...'report' to him, is what it says here." He looked up now, and his gaze was a bit sharper than it had any right to be after an entire jug of sujamma. "Have you forgotten already? It's only been a week."

How had he gotten those papers? He thought he had hidden them rather cleverly. Still, he couldn't condemn him for his curiosity -- the same trait had gotten him into trouble far too many times -- and he couldn't help but commend him for managing to find them. "I wasn't really paying attention," he lied. "I was still pretty nauseated at the time."

Jiub grimaced, probably at the memory of vomit on the ship deck. "Don't remind me," he said dryly. He fell silent again as he scanned the letter, and Donotham resisted the urge to fidget. The letter seemed to him almost a parody of the entire secret agent concept, and he would have thought it a joke had it not been handed to him by a man clearly high up in the Legion hierarchy. The thought that he had been entirely serious made his hands shake. "I have a friend in Balmora," Jiub said finally, almost offhandedly.

Donotham caught the amulet in his hand, halting its admittedly annoying trajectory, and removed his feet from the chair next to him. "That's all you have to say?" he demanded. "After reading something like that?"

Jiub just raised an eyebrow. "What sort of reaction would you like?"

Donotham's fingers clenched and unclenched in the fabric of his pants. "Oh, I don't know -- amazement, confusion?" He eyed a jug of mazte that was looking increasingly tempting. "Righteous indignation?"

Jiub's other eyebrow joined the first. "Indignation? For what?"

"That I hadn't told you?" It came out as a question, and Donotham winced.

"It says here not to tell anyone." He held up the parchment for Donotham to see. It did.

Donotham grabbed the jug of mazte that had been taunting him, then put it back. Empty. He leaned back with a sigh. "You didn't open the package, did you?"

Jiub's face lost some of its tension, tension Donotham hadn't realized had even been there until now. "Of course not. I wouldn't want to risk the wrath of..." He put the parchment on the table and folded it over once. "...whoever."

"The Blades, probably. Some big secretive government group, in any case."

There was a silence, in which Jiub seemed to expect Donotham to continue, but he said no more. "You don't seem too anxious to...carry out your orders," said Jiub after a moment.

"I don't see why I should," he replied, attempting an airy tone and, he was aware, failing miserably.

"I'm pretty sure I had mentioned 'wrath' before," said Jiub before unceremoniously shoving the parchment in Donotham's face. He stared at it for a moment before taking it and tucking it into a pocket. "I know you're not fond of the government right now -- exiling you to Morrowind for a minor offense, et cetera et cetera -- but you can't hide from them forever. Especially not in an Imperial town."

Donotham was staring at the table. The grain of the wood was really very interesting, he decided. "They don't know my face, I can avoid them long enough," he said, and managed to sound more confident than he felt.

"Long enough for what?"

"Until the quarantine ends."

Jiub didn't reply for a long while. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. "You think it will end?" he said finally.

"It must." Donotham was scowling at the empty jug of mazte now. "How else will we get out of here?"

Jiub chuckled humorlessly. "The blight has been around for years, and they only get around to closing off the island the day after we get here!" he said. "Just our luck, isn't it?"

Donotham snorted. "I don't know about your luck, but it certainly seems to fit mine to a tee."

"This happens to you a lot?"

Donotham glanced at Jiub sidelong. "You mean get trapped in a foreign country during a quarantine?" Jiub sent him a Look, and he smirked. "Not as such. But situations that seem tailor-made to make me miserable? Much more often than I would like."

Jiub rolled his eyes and hooked his arms over the back of his chair. "A bit melodramatic, don't you think?"

Donotham sighed deeply. "Oh, probably. I seem to have brilliant strokes of luck just as often." He tilted his head to one side, and he felt one corner of his mouth threatening to twitch upward. "It's because I'm born under the Serpent, you see." He waved a hand vaguely. "Equally cursed and blessed, and all that."

Jiub laughed outright at that. "Are you really! You don't meet many of those." He waved at a barmaid and signaled for another round. "You don't actually believe all that nonsense, do you?

"That my sign determines my personality? Not really." Donotham shrugged and reached for another jug of mazte, which was mercifully full. "I have a friend in the Imperial City who was born under the Steed, and he's the most patient man I know." He stared moodily at his mazte. "He is a fast runner though," he added, half to himself.

He swirled the mazte around in its jug, feeling the liquid sloshing against the clay. Though the architecture was Imperial, and though he could hear Cyrodilic accents floating through the air, the alcohol was undeniably foreign, and there were enough Morrowind accents as well to dispel the illusion of familiarity. An Ashlander was talking very loudly behind him, and he put down the mazte, deciding he didn't really want it anymore.

"Let's not talk about Cyrodiil," said Jiub, looking pointedly at his clenched fist.

Donotham glanced at the amulet he still held in his hand. He realized he had been clutching it tightly, and forcibly relaxed his hand. Light flashed briefly over the initials engraved on the back. He fastened the amulet around his neck again, so that he wouldn't have to look at it. "What do you suggest we talk about then?"

"The future," Jiub said without hesitation.

He almost laughed, but stopped himself. It sounded so trite, but Jiub looked so serious. He sighed, and figured he might as well humor him.

His fingers ghosted over his amulet again, unconsciously. The future? Hopefully, a return to Cyrodiil was in his future. He picked up his abandoned mazte and held it up for a toast. "To a Morrowind free of blight," he said.

Jiub looked almost surprised, but then he smiled and raised his sujamma. "To a blight-free Morrowind, then."

~*~

Donotham floated on an endless sea. He was drifting -- no, he was caught in a current. Someone was speaking to him, but the water distorted the words into meaningless sounds. There was something he was supposed to do, but he couldn't for the life of him remember what.

The current carried him further, far from home -- no, it was the other way around. The stars told him not to fear. But no, stars have their own agenda. He must get out of this current. He tried a backstroke, but he was floating face down. He was drowning, and he didn't particularly care. He was dead already, wasn't he?

Donotham stared at the ceiling and realized he was awake.

He heard no sound but that of his own breathing and the crickets outside. At least they had crickets here, he thought. Jiub had left sometime during the night, up to some mischief no doubt, leaving Donotham to his own devices.

He rubbed a hand over his eyes, saw the afterimage of a starry sky, and decided he wouldn't be getting much sleep that night.

He untangled his feet from the sheets, which he had mostly kicked off in his sleep, and swung his legs over the side of the bed until his bare feet touched the wood floor. He sat there for a while, just breathing, and trying to avoid thinking too hard.

It was the second time he had had that dream, or something like it. He had always been a vivid dreamer, but the dreams usually faded away after a few minutes of being awake, until he forgot them entirely. But this dream he remembered clearly, though it made no more sense than any of his other dreams.

He shook his head and stood up. Nights in Bravil were always just as hot and muggy as the days were, but here in Pelagiad it was very pleasant. A breeze was drifting through an open window, bringing with it the scent of.... Donotham sniffed. Flowers? Possibly?

He padded over to the window and let his upper body lean out. Pelagiad was dark, lit only by the torch of a single patrolling guard. Donotham almost smiled. If that was the extent of the security, he could get away with almost anything.

Now there was a thought. He closed his eyes and pressed two fingers to his eyelids. He mouthed a few words, and when he opened his eyes again the world was a flat, bluish color. It was a simple enough spell as long as he didn't try to make it last too long, and he preferred a lower-powered version anyway. He had learned the hard way that if he made it too bright, he lost all depth perception.

He twisted around and looked up at the roof. Yes, he could get up there easily enough, although from here he wouldn't really have anywhere else to go, and of course there was always the possibility of the guard hearing.

He paused. But why not, after all? What could they do to him for climbing on a roof? Exile him to Black Marsh?

Before he could argue with himself further, he climbed up to stand on the windowsill and hauled himself up on the roof. He took a few cautious steps. Steeper than he was used to, but the tiles were all in place, and he didn't think he was in danger of stepping on a loose one and slipping off.

He took a few more steps to stand at the apex, then turned to look over Pelagiad. There was a light in the rooms above Mebestien Ence's shop, and the guard had gotten bored and was leaning against a wall, but that was all the illumination there was. The moons were hidden behind the clouds, and the sun would not rise for hours yet.

He allowed himself a sigh and sat down. The clouds drifted, curling in on themselves, allowing a sliver of light through before covering Secunda once more. Slowly his nighteye faded until he could see nothing at all.

He really needed a hobby, he thought as the darkness enveloped him. He had already been inside every house in Pelagiad, and had found absolutely nothing of interest. There were enough Guild members around to make things a bit interesting, but there were no jobs. The alcohol wasn't even very good. And that left him with...what, exactly?

He had almost convinced himself that it would be a good idea to sneak into the fort, despite the very real possibility that he wouldn't come back out, when a voice whispering his name floated up from behind him.

He turned before remembering that he wouldn't be able to see anything anyway. "Yeah?" he whispered back. The reply was a sigh so distinctly Jiub's that he had to grin. "Just a moment, I'll be right down." Another quick spell and the world flared to life again. A few steps took him to the edge of the roof, and he swung his body over the edge. He let himself fall the distance to the window, caught himself on the windowsill, then fell the rest of the way to the ground.

When he rose from his crouch Jiub was looking exasperated. "There's this new invention called 'stairs,' you may have heard of them?..."

"Ah, but then I'd have to use those 'door' things. Those are tricky." Donotham grinned. "Dare I ask what you're up to?"

"I," said Jiub, "am working." He patted one of his pockets meaningfully. Obligingly, Donotham made a vague noise that could possibly be interpreted as interest. "I suppose it's safe to assume you're just lazing around as usual?"

"Oh, you wound me, Jiub, right here." He patted his chest just above his heart. "Most people 'laze around' this time of night, you know. We're not all night owls like you."

Jiub was looking at him a bit too knowingly. "Couldn't sleep?"

Donotham nodded, feeling his humor leave him. He tried a grin anyway, but it came out looking like a grimace. His nighteye was fading already, and he wondered if Jiub could see him at all.

Jiub seemed to decide something, and leaned against the wall with a sigh. "You can't keep going like this, you know," he said. "There's nothing here for you."

Donotham frowned, wanting to protest, but knowing he was right. Retired legionnaires were apparently not the best target for their particular skills. The others in the Guild had mostly turned to banditry, or else only stayed in Pelagiad sporadically. The only work he had found had been carrying boxes for Mebestien once. "Nothing here for you, either."

"Which is why I'm heading to Balmora in two days."

Donotham just stared into the inky blackness where he knew Jiub to be. "You...you're leaving?" he managed.

Jiub sighed. "And you're coming with me. You need a change of pace, Donotham, that much is clear."

Donotham huffed and looked away. The thought of leaving Pelagiad rankled. Pelagiad was...nothing like Cyrodiil really, but at least he could pretend. He was even beginning to carve out a niche here, although that particular niche was rapidly approaching "town drunk."

"We could find work there," Jiub insisted. "Real, legitimate work. Our names are clear over here."

Donotham just snorted. Thieving was what he was good at; it was all he knew. "And what do you expect me to do? Beg and plead to be apprenticed to someone?"

"Menial labor, Donotham! Don't tell me it hasn't crossed your mind!" Donotham didn't answer, and in the darkness Jiub laughed incredulously. "It really hasn't? You've never wondered what it would be like not to be looking over your shoulder all the time?" He paused. "Or is menial labor just not good enough for you?"

"I never -"

"I know your type." There was a shift in the air as Jiub began to circle round him. The hairs rose on the back of Donotham's neck, sensing something predatory. "You steal for the fun of it, don't you? The exhilaration?"

Donotham felt a growl rising in his throat. "That's not -"

Jiub laughed again, and the sound was not a comforting one. "It's all a game for you, isn't it? Break a few windows, avoid a few guards, and if it ever gets too tough you'll still have a warm bed -"

"I have never had a bed." All he heard was his own ragged breathing. He mentally dared Jiub to say something, but he was silent. "I might have stayed in inns before, but the gutter is the place I call home!"

They stood there for a few moments, breathing heavily, neither one saying anything. Their standoff was interrupted by the sound of steel boots on dirt. Torchlight fell on their faces. "Is there some sort of problem here?" asked the guard.

Donotham knew he was visibly surprised, but Jiub rallied admirably. "Sorry," he said, waving one hand unsteadily. "We're still a little drunk."

The guard looked dubious, but nodded, clearly not wanting to get involved. "Get back to the inn," he said, motioning with his torch. "If we get complaints about loud drunks, I'll have to be the one to handle them."

"And I wouldn't wish Farusea on you," Donotham put in, knowing who would likely be doing the complaining. "We'll get moving."

The guard smiled tightly at them and left. The two Dunmer made their way back to the inn, silent until they crossed the threshold and Jiub got a good look at him. "...You're not wearing any shoes."

Donotham looked down and wiggled his toes thoughtfully. "...Huh. So I'm not."

Jiub just stared at him, mouth twitching, until he allowed himself a chuckle.

They stood there for a few moments, shifting uncomfortably. Someone had forgotten to snuff out a candle, and the light cast flickering shadows on their faces. They avoided each other's eyes. Finally Jiub started, "Listen, Donotham -"

He shook his head. "No, I'm sorry." He grinned a little, chagrined. "You know as well as I do it's a vicious cycle. I had never even considered the possibility that there was an alternative."

Jiub considered him closely. "Will you come with me to Balmora, then?"

Donotham nodded, uncertainly at first, then firmly. "I'll come."

A slow grin made its way onto Jiub's face. He clapped one hand on Donotham's shoulder. "Good! We'll find some real work there, you'll see. Maybe you can even find that Cosades fellow, see what he's on about."

Jiub turned to head up the stairs, and thankfully didn't see Donotham's sudden frown.

Chapter 2

Two days later they arrived in Balmora beneath an overcast sky. The air was cool and heavy in anticipation of the coming rain; the wind had picked up and was already flinging small droplets on their heads. A few quick questions to passers-by revealed the locations of the nearest taverns. There was a bar close to the entrance of the city, but on Jiub's recommendation – or rather, on the recommendation of Jiub's mysterious friend-in-Balmora, dutifully related by Jiub – they headed across the river to a place called the South Wall Cornerclub.

Once inside, Donotham's increasing twitchiness eased, but not by much. Even as he nodded and smiled at the friendly faces of his fellow patrons, he couldn't shake the feeling of Trouble. Years and years of noticing every detail of a situation had led to something of a sixth sense, and for whatever reason Balmora triggered that sense with a vengeance. Balmora was too...watchful, he had concluded. Maybe it was just because they were new in town, but he felt as if there were always a pair of eyes on his back. It was making him jittery, and Jiub had noticed.

“Two sujamma,” Jiub told the bartender as they settled onto the barstools.

Donotham rubbed his forehead and glanced around. They were not the only ones already drinking, though it shouldn't have surprised him. A large man with a sword was sitting in a corner, quietly drinking himself into oblivion; money passed hands between a Nord woman and a Bosmer man; a Redguard couple were having an animated conversation in which the local wine seemed to play a large part. Two Khajiit women stood by the stairs discussing something, with the occasional lightning-fast flicker of a glance in his direction. “Sujamma? I still haven't recovered from my last sujamma.”

“Ah, but you look like you need it, friend.” He handed Donotham the sujamma the bartender had supplied and downed a mouthful of his own with nary a cough.

Donotham sighed and took a drink of his own. It was easy enough on the tongue, until it kicked you like a horse halfway down.

When he had recovered he found that Jiub was looking at him, something that might be concern in his eyes. He had turned on his stool to face Donotham fully. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

Donotham leaned his elbows heavily on the bar. He wasn't talking about the sujamma, he knew. “Yeah – well, no,” he admitted. He tapped at the jug with one finger. The click of his fingernail against clay did nothing to ease his thoughts. “I'm just nervous, I suppose.”

“Nervous? About what?”

“That's the thing.” Donotham shrugged awkwardly, his shoulders hunching forward. “I don't really know. I feel like the guards are closing in around me, but I haven't even done anything yet. Or – or like the owners are home, and have knives.”

Jiub's lips were very thin. “You think we're in danger?”

“You don't feel it?” Jiub shook his head, and Donotham sighed. “Maybe I'm just paranoid,” he muttered, raising the sujamma to his lips again.

“The Dunmer has reason to be paranoid,” purred a voice by his ear. He turned, and one of the Khajiit women slid onto the stool next to him. “This is a Camonna Tong town, friend. They don't like outlanders.”

“Camonna Tong?” Donotham turned questioningly to Jiub, whose brow was furrowed as if trying to remember something. He turned back to the Khajiit. “What's that?”

“The local criminal syndicate, that wishes to...” She twirled one clawed finger in the air thoughtfully, something that might have been the beginnings of a growl in her throat. “...eradicate the Thieves Guild.” She tilted her head, and added almost as an afterthought, “And all other outlanders as well.”

“Do you think they might succeed?” asked Jiub.

“At driving out all outlanders? No.” Here she paused, and let her gaze pass languorously over the two Dunmer, a careful consideration in her eyes that was only partially masked. She seemed to find whatever she was looking for, and very deliberately she raised her left hand to scratch at the right side of her nose. Fellow thief? “At driving out the Thieves Guild? More likely. Does this trouble handsome Dunmer?”

Jiub chuckled a bit at the 'handsome' sobriquet – for it was he the Khajiit was addressing – but his mood was somber. Reluctantly, he returned the gesture. Fellow thief. “Troubling to many of us, I should think,” he said.

The Khajiit grinned suddenly, a fanged grin that was nonetheless friendly. “They are cautious in Cyrodiil, yes? But be not afraid in Vvardenfell, friend. This island is a lawless place,” she said with some relish.

“If we are to be friends, then I think we should introduce ourselves,” said Donotham with a grin of his own. He bowed his head slightly, one hand over his heart. “Donotham.”

Jiub nodded as well. “Jiub.”

The Khajiit purred in delight, though by the twinkle in her eyes it was partially in jest. “These Dunmer are very polite! Sugar-Lips Habasi greets you. Come to her if you are in need of a job.”

The local doyen, then. Good to know, as he hadn't been planning on cutting all ties, certainly not now when he had heard of the Camonna Tong. “And I am at your service,” he said, pointedly ignoring the look Jiub was shooting him. They would be having a Talk about this later, he knew. “How dangerous are these...Camonna Tong, anyway?”

“Very,” said Habasi darkly. “Two weeks ago, Habasi's friend Bastien went for a midnight swim in the Odai and is there still.”

Donotham grimaced and drew in a hissing breath. “Oh, I'm sorry.”

Her tail was twitching agitatedly, and her claws dug into the bar for a moment before she calmed herself. “Friend Donotham would do well to stay away from the Council Club across the river,” she told him. “That is where they gather.”

“If it's known where they gather,” said Jiub slowly, as if puzzling something out, “why have they not been taken care of?” He had been staring into the middle distance, and suddenly pinned Habasi with a stare. “How is it that they can continue to exist?”

She met his stare unblinkingly. “Because the Hlaalu do nothing,” she said with a low growl, claws clutching at the empty air. “They have known for years who the Camonna Tong are, what they do, and yet they do nothing.”

“And the Legion isn't getting involved?” he asked.

She snorted. “The Legion is de-clawed. The Cammona Tong have friends high in Hlaalu, it seems. Friends who can make the bounties disappear.”

“Wait, wait.” Donotham looked between Jiub and Habasi. “What's Hlaalu?”

“One of the Dunmer Great Houses, the government of Morrowind,” said Jiub. “House Hlaalu controls this area, and is the most friendly to Imperials.”

“But why would a pro-Imperial faction support a violent racist gang?”

“Easy.” Habasi smiled unpleasantly. “Money.”

“Ah.” Donotham leaned against the bar again. His hand found his jug of sujamma, and he took another burning gulp of it. “Should have guessed.”

“Hlaalu do not pander to the Imperials because they admire their culture, but because it fills their coffers,” Habasi added. “So do the Camonna Tong.”

“They've been bribing the magistrates?” At Habasi's nod, Donotham continued, “Then if that could be brought to light –”

“It would do nothing,” Habasi interrupted. “Bribes are a normal business practice among Hlaalu. Even if evidence could be found, it is unlikely Hlaalu would do anything. Most of them have taken bribes at some point or another, and they would not want to...set a bad precedent.”

“So the way to get Hlaalu to stop protecting them would be to deprive the Camonna Tong of the source of their money, or present Hlaalu with a more attractive alternative to their bribes,” Donotham concluded gloomily.

She nodded. “And neither option is viable. The driving force behind the Camonna Tong is untouchable, and the Guild does not have the funds for counter-bribes.”

Donotham sighed noisily. “Lovely. So what are our options?”

“They are few. Now, it is a defensive war we fight.” She smiled grimly. “We huddle with our litter, keep our claws out. It is all we can do, for the alternative...”

“An offensive war,” Jiub finished for her.

“Yes. It is a last resort.”

They fell into a grim silence. Donotham became aware, suddenly, like coming up from under water, of the lighthearted talk and laughter of the other patrons. Their cheer grated against his own dark mood.

He felt eyes upon him and found that Jiub was staring at him expectantly. “What?” he asked.

Jiub jerked his head, indicating the hallway. “I need to talk to you for a moment.”

He nodded with a sinking feeling. They exchanged a look with Habasi, who nodded silently and let them go.

He followed Jiub up the stairs to the hall leading to the entrance. They stopped by a small table that only held a single candle. Jiub turned to face him. His eyes roved over his face for a few moments before he spoke. “You intend to get involved,” he said; not a question, but a statement.

Donotham swallowed. “Yes, I do.”

“Even now that you've decided to work above the table?”

“I'm inclined to think this is rather more important than what I want,” Donotham said, more confidently than he felt.

Again Jiub studied him before speaking. “Are you sure it's wise?”

“Of course it's not wise.” Donotham laughed nervously. “Trust me, I know how dangerous gang wars can get.”

“Salvius's gang,” said Jiub in a sudden moment of clarity. “You were still in Bravil six years ago?”

“You've heard about it?”

“Only bits and pieces. What happened?”

Donotham shrugged uncomfortably and turned so that he wouldn't have to look at Jiub. “Salvius killed another Guild member. Claimed it was an accident and refused to pay the blood price, got kicked out of the Guild. He and his friends cried foul and insisted he be let back in, but J'Sadar – the one who was killed – his friends were having none of it.” He stared at the wall, tracing the shadows with his eyes. “Things escalated to violence.”

“And people were killed,” Jiub said.

Donotham breathed out shakily. “Yes.”

Jiub's shadow on the wall stretched and wavered as the candle flickered in some unfelt draft. “And you're still willing to get involved?” he said finally.

Donotham turned now, feeling his resolve strengthen even as he spoke. “That's why I'm willing to get involved! Salvius – that only lasted a week before he was arrested, and it was just random violence. The Camonna Tong are organized. This has been going on for years.” His mouth was very dry, and he licked his lips. “I don't want to see any more deaths.”

They just looked at each other for a few long moments before Jiub turned away. His arms crossed, not defiantly but defensively; an unconscious movement. “I can't stop you from doing this,” he said softly. “But I can't help you either.”

Donotham's arms fell loosely to his sides, whatever tense strings strings that had been holding him up suddenly cut. “Of course,” he said, just as softly. “Of course.”

They stood for a moment that stretched on too long, neither looking at the other, separated by mere feet that had become miles. Donotham rubbed at a phantom ache behind his eyes. “Listen,” he said, and it sounded oddly muffled in his ears. “I just...need some fresh air. It'll clear my head.”

Jiub turned just enough to raise an eyebrow at him, a sight that was becoming distressingly familiar. “Donotham, it's raining.”

Donotham lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted parody of a shrug. “It's not too bad. After living in Bravil most my life, I think I can handle a little moisture.”

Jiub regarded him cautiously, then said reluctantly, “All right. Just...don't do anything stupid.”

Donotham found it somewhere within him to smirk just slightly. “This is me we're talking about, remember?”

“That's what I'm worried about,” came the expected dry response, and Donotham's smile grew a little more genuine. He turned and headed for the door.

It was barely raining at all yet, he found as he stood just outside and took a deep breath. He might have even classified it as mist, were it not for the fact that it was moving in a generally downward direction.

He took a glance around. He was in one of the worst parts of town, he could tell, and not just because of the presence of a Thieves Guild den behind him. All those who passed moved at a quick, nervous pace, arms positioned stiffly to protect their coin bags from questing fingers (which – Donotham knew only too well – just let pickpockets know where to look). The walls were dirty with grime and graffiti, and the street was littered with trash. He tilted his head to get a better look at a piece of paper that had been plastered to the ground by the rain. It looked like it might have once been a wanted poster, but the ink had long since been smudged into an unrecognizable mess. Someone stepped on it, and it was torn apart like so much tissue.

Predictably enough, the urge to wander struck him. Following the sound of running water, he ducked through an archway and came out on the wide street that followed the river. People and carts were still moving up and down the road at the same pace as they had when he and Jiub had come this way earlier, the only concession to the rain being the hoods pulled over their heads. He ran a hand through his own damp hair self-consciously. Perhaps he ought to invest in a cloak.

He stood for a few minutes on one of the bridges that arched over the river, watching the muddy water flow beneath him. He could see clearly now the division of the city – the slums on the east side of the river, the middle-class district on the west side, and the stately manors high on the hill further west. He had never seen a city that was quite so visually stratified.

The only anomaly – he craned his neck – was a building on the west side of the river that seemed almost an extension of the slums. It was not so much its appearance, which was meticulously well-kept, but by the way people hurried past it. A few minutes of observation of the crowds confirmed that people were actually going out of their way to avoid the building.

That, he deduced, must be the hangout for those Camonna Tong. It didn't take much in the way of mental debate for him to begin trotting in that direction. Sure, Sugar-Lips Habasi had warned him against it, but when had he ever been a mer to do the sensible thing?

As he neared the building, he caught sight of what must be the main source of discomfort – two Dunmer men were standing on the roof watching the crowds pass beneath them. Their postures radiated a sort of casual hostility. One nudged the other and said something that elicited a grin, and their eyes turned to follow the path of a young Breton girl carrying a covered basket. Seeming to sense their gaze, she shivered and picked up her pace.

Donotham reassured himself that all his knives were present and accounted for and continued on the path he had set himself on. As soon he passed within the cone of their vision he felt that familiar tingle that meant he was being watched. Immediately he knew why Balmora put him on edge. This air of watchfulness permeated the entire city, but it was centered here, where the cautious foreigner knew he needed to watch his back. As he passed the building his uneasiness lessened, but only by so much. The uncertainty remained – which Dunmer were Camonna Tong, and which were harmless bystanders? By the way eyes still followed him warily, it seemed others had just as much trouble making the distinction as he did.

The street opened up on a wide plaza, where street vendors were packing away their wares. The rain was beginning to fall in earnest, and the gloom of the overcast sky was quickly being replaced by the gloom of night. He knew he should have headed back already, but one thing stopped him – someone had been following him.

It had only been since he had passed the Camonna Tong hideout, so it was possible that it had been only coincidence. But when he stopped and pretended to study a sign, the footsteps behind him stopped as well, and he was left with no doubt in his mind. He decided a confrontation in the plaza was infinitely more desirable than a confrontation in a dark alley and turned.

He was faced by a tall Argonian, and his suspicions regarding a possible Camonna Tong tail evaporated. Still, he kept his guard up. “You need something?” he asked, his voice cautiously friendly.

The Argonian blinked, looking surprised, but quickly recovered. “I apologize for startling you, but – did you drop this?” He held up a coin bag.

Donotham almost laughed. “No, that's not mine,” he said, not reaching to check his own like the Argonian likely expected him to. He hadn't thought he would be a very promising mark for a pickpocket, but he supposed this Argonian might be very desperate.

The Argonian however persisted, much to Donotham's confusion. “Are you certain? You should check to make sure –” The Argonian drew closer, and Donotham unconsciously took a step back. What was he doing? He was far past the point where a pickpocket attempt was still viable. Was someone coming up from behind him?...

“You are being followed,” said the Argonian, quiet enough that Donotham only heard him due to his close proximity.

He froze, then forced himself to relax. He let his eyes roam lazily over the soft fabric of the coin bag, but he hardly saw it as he focused all his other senses on the plaza around him. “By who?” he murmured in reply.

“Camonna Tong.”

He shook his head. The fact that he had been right to be paranoid was a cold comfort. “It's not mine,” he said in a more natural tone, looking up now into the Argonian's eyes. “Where'd you pick it up?”

“By the Council Club,” was the reply, a small smile in his eyes indicating that he had caught the veiled meaning in Donotham's words.

“Do you think the owner is still around?”

He paused, as if listening for something. “No, he's gone,” he said finally, and put the coin bag away.

Donotham let himself relax. “Thanks,” he said as he ran a hand through his hair anxiously. “Can't imagine why I'd be so interesting to them, though.”

The Argonian gave him an appraising look. “Have you been to the South Wall Cornerclub?”

Donotham was about to ask what that had to do with anything before it hit him. “Oh,” he sighed. “They're watching it, are they?”

The Argonian nodded. “As a foreign Dunmer who...associates with that sort, they consider you to be among those they hate the most.”

“Good to know,” said Donotham with a humorless half-grin. He shifted from one foot to another. The rain was coming down steadily now. The Argonian didn't seem to mind, but his own damp clothes were beginning to annoy him. “Listen, I'm getting soaked here. I've left a friend at the South Wall, and I'm sure he's wondering where I am. Why don't you come with me? I at least owe you a beer.”

The Argonian nodded graciously. “Who am I to pass up free alcohol?” he asked wryly, and gestured with one hand to follow him. The pair set off at a brisk pace. “Though I think it would be good if we knew each other's names. I am known as Nine-Toes,” he said with a nod.

“Donotham,” he said, and he couldn't help the grin that spread across his face.

~*~

They arrived at the South Wall thoroughly drenched, and it was with no small amount of relief that Donotham wrenched open the door and stepped into the warmth of the bar. “Jiub's going to love this,” Donotham muttered as he wrung water out of his shirt. Nine-Toes' only response to that was a chuckle, and Donotham couldn't help but laugh as well.

They clattered down the stairs, heedless of the wet footprints they left behind. The bar had filled up in the short time he had been gone. Judging by the friendly jostling and the cheerful shouts across the room, most of the clientèle seemed to be more than just casual acquaintances. Donotham smiled, feeling like he had found a small piece of home.

He wove his way through the crowd until he found a familiar bald Dunmer still sitting on a barstool. He leaned over and inserted himself in his line of vision. “It's a bit damp out.”

Jiub turned, and expressions of disapproval and amusemant seemed to be at war for control over his face. “Donotham! I was beginning to think I was going to have to fish you out of the river.” He looked him up and down. “But it seems like you managed that for yourself.”

Donotham grinned sheepishly. “Yes, well. I had a bit of help.”

Jiub now was looking at something over Donotham's shoulder. “I see you've found my friend Nine-Toes,” he said.

Donotham turned to look at the smirking Nine-Toes in a new light. “This is your friend who lives in Balmora?”

He laid his hand flat on his chest and bowed very slightly. “None other.” A strange sort of Argonian grin crossed over his face. “Jiub, old friend, I had not expected to find you here.”

Jiub's smile became strained. “My trip here was a bit...unanticipated,” was all he said.

Nine-Toes seemed to understand, as he just nodded and changed the subject. “We knew each other back in Cheydinhal,” he told Donotham as he appropriated a barstool for his own use. “When I moved here several years ago, we kept up correspondence.”

“Which is how I knew we could find cheap drinks and lodging here,” Jiub put in. He shot a sly glance at Nine-Toes. “Though he never said this was a Thieves Guild den.”

“I did not think it prudent to mention in a letter that might very well be read by the authorities,” Nine-Toes replied mildly.

Donotham started at that. “They really do read our mail? I thought that was conspiracy theory territory.” It was very strange, Donotham decided, to see the Look he normally associated with Jiub on an Argonian's face. Even stranger to receive it from two people at the same time. He shrugged. “Well I can't say I've ever had occasion to write a letter, so I wouldn't know.”

Jiub and Nine-Toes chuckled, a private look passing between them. “No, the Empire doesn't read civilians' mail,” Jiub said in a tone that was obviously meant to be reassuring, but sounded to Donotham more patronizing. “It was an inside joke, don't worry about it.”

Immediately Donotham's spirits fell. He felt acutely aware suddenly of just how many inside jokes he shared with people who were now thousands of miles away. The laughing faces and happy voices around him lost their luster. He knew none of these people. Not even Jiub, not really. The realization stung.

He shrugged again, awkwardly, and forced a grin on his face. “Oh, good. I suppose I can write those ludicrous tales of my own deeds after all.”

Jiub just shook his head and chuckled. “I'm sure you will. Anyway, before I forget – I asked around, and I found out where that Cosades fellow lives.” Here Nine-Toes suddenly shot Jiub a sharp look that Donotham barely caught sight of before it was quickly smoothed over. Donotham's brow furrowed minutely, but Jiub was oblivious. “You can go see what he has to offer tomorrow.”

Donotham, preoccupied with determinedly not looking at Nine-Toes, realized belatedly that a response was expected of him. “Oh, uh...right. Thanks.”

Jiub shifted slightly, a concerned expression creeping onto his face. “Are you all right? You seem distracted.”

Donotham waved a hand reassuringly. “No, just tired I suppose,” and damn him but his eyes had flickered over to Nine-Toes. The Argonian had given no sign, but Donotham felt certain he had caught it. He smiled and forced his paranoia into the back of his head. “I surprised you're not sleepy yourself, old man.”

Jiub regarded him dubiously for a moment, then shook his head again and snorted. “Just because you're mentally fifteen doesn't make me old. And stop leaning on the bar, you're dripping in my mazte.”

“Oh, my apologies.” He glanced around for a barstool, and finally snagged one from a young lady who would apparently rather sit on the man next to her. “I'm mentally sixteen, thank you very much, and I'll have you know I was quite mature for a sixteen-year-old.”

“'For a sixteen-year-old' being the key phrase here,” put in Nine-Toes in a low, amused rumble.

Donotham laughed along with Jiub, but deep in his heart his amusemant was overshadowed by a suspicion he couldn't quash, a suspicion of Nine-Toes' motives. Even as drinks were ordered and the conversation was continued, he couldn't quell the thoughts that were stirring in the back of his mind, and as the night drew on he couldn't help but think that the Argonian was watching them all too closely.

Chapter 3

Caius had been trying to read the same paragraph for ten minutes when his admittedly already broken concentration was shattered entirely by a sharp rap on the door. He frowned, but set the book on his bed resignedly. He would probably have to re-read the last few pages anyway. “What?” he called out irritably.

“Does a Caius Cosades live here?” came a muffled voice from behind the door.

His brow furrowed minutely. Business? He hauled himself to his feet and opened the door. “And what would you want with an old skooma-fiend like me?” he asked, leaning on the door frame.

The Dunmer outside hesitated just slightly, then handed him a sealed package. “I was given orders to report to you and give you this.”

One glance at the seal confirmed it. Business, indeed. “You had better come inside,” he told the other man, and stepped away from the door.

As the man stepped inside and shut the door behind him, Caius turned his attention to the package and broke the seal. A quick scan of the encoded message within raised an eyebrow. Now that truly warranted a closer reading. After a quick, curious glance at the messenger, who seemed perfectly comfortable leaned against the wall, he went back to the beginning.

After a full reading of the message, and not a few mental eye-rolls, he folded the papers carefully and turned to his visitor, taking a closer look this time. Fairly young, redhead. Small scar over his left eyebrow. A bit of tenseness about the shoulders, but otherwise putting on a good show of being calm. And, he noted, rather wary at his scrutiny. “Donotham,” he said, and the man twitched. “Been on Vvardenfell long, then?”

“Two weeks,” Donotham replied, watching him carefully.

So he wasn't going to ask how he knew his name. Probably smart enough to lace his own boots at least, then. “What'd you do before you came here?”

Donotham shrugged. “Carried things, mainly.”

How delightfully vague. He had hoped to get some useful information about his capabilities, but it seemed Donotham would rather purposefully obfuscate things. “No need to be so tight-lipped, Donotham.” He waved the papers meaningfully. “I know you were a prisoner, what I want to know is what you were in for.”

He scowled and glared at the wall. “Trespassing.”

Which was a blatant lie if he had ever heard one. No one got put in prison for trespassing, unless he had somehow made his way into the Imperial Palace...and if he had succeeded at that, he would likely be more triumphant than sour. “I don't eat guar [censored], Donotham, so don't feed me that.”

Donotham just stared at him defiantly, which might have been amusing if Caius weren't so annoyed. Did he really think he could get away with acting like this for long? Still, maybe a different approach was in order. He sighed and let his posture relax into something a little less threatening. “All right. Cards on the table.” He gestured at his table, the non-metaphorical one he ate at. “Have a seat.”

Donotham's expression was guarded, but he nodded with a tight smile and took the chair facing the door. Interesting, but not unexpected. Caius dragged the other chair so it was between Donotham and the door and sat down. The Dunmer's eyes were following him closely, he noted.

“You might have been wondering what was in this,” he said, putting the papers on the table. The Dunmer's eyes flickered to them briefly before returning to Caius. “Well, I can't reveal everything, but I can tell you this – it seems that the Emperor wants me to induct you into the Blades.”

Donotham almost didn't react at fist, but soon his blank look gave way to surprise. “What?!” he exclaimed, eyes almost comically wide.

Caius resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Keep your voice down! Yes, I'm a Blade. I'm the Imperial Spymaster in Morrowind, so you'll be reporting to me.”

“For how long?” he asked flatly, after a moment.

“Indefinitely,” he replied. Donotham's face was very carefully blank, the barest twitching of his eyebrows indicating the emotions behind the mask. “You could refuse, of course,” he added casually, watching his reaction. “But that would just mean a trip back to prison for you – and after refusing an order from the Emperor himself, I'm not sure they'd let you back out.”

He didn't reply, and after a while it became clear that he was no longer even looking at him, but was absorbed in his own thoughts. Caius leaned back and waited. Donotham's fingers twitched against his crossed arms; finally he let out a puff of air that might have been a laugh. “Don't have much choice, do I,” he said with a defeated little smile. His gaze drifted wistfully to the wall. “I wanted to be a Blade when I was a boy, you know.”

Caius snorted, relieved that that had gone so well. “Well, real spy work is a lot more tedious than those adventure novels would have you believe,” he told him.

Donotham smirked ruefully. “Yes, I had kind of figured.” His quick glance at Caius's bald head was quite enough to indicate what he meant by that.

“Don't get cocky,” he drawled. “I can order you to sit in a swamp for three days if I so choose, so watch what you say.”

Donotham didn't seem terribly threatened by that, saying only, “I'll keep that in mind.”

“Now – enough banter,” said Caius, and straightened from his slouch. “I need to know where your talents lie, so I can know what sorts of assignments I can reasonably send you on.”

Donotham hesitated, then said warily, “I can get in and out of buildings undetected.”

Caius grinned at him reassuringly. “Thought as much. Don't worry, you work for the Blades now. We'll put that to good use.” He tapped one finger against the table thoughtfully. “Any combat training?”

“I can defend myself, if need be,” he said, looking a little uncomfortable.

“That's not what I asked. Do you have combat training?”

Donotham shifted in his chair. “No.”

“Hm. Any talent with magic?”

“I can cast Night Eye and I can heal my wounds. I can also cast Detect spells.”

“Is that all?” The other nodded. “Well then, here are my first orders – go get some training. Learn some destruction spells, or learn how to use a bow, or a sword, I don't care. Just learn how to defend yourself. Really defend yourself,” he insisted over Donotham's protests. “What you learn from bar fights won't help you against bandits or nix-hounds.” Donotham frowned, but didn't dispute it. Caius retrieved his coin bag and withdrew 200 septims. “Use this for whatever training or equipment you need.” He set them on the table, halfway between himself and Donotham.

Donotham's eyes widened fractionally, and he took the coins reverently. It seemed his new recruit wasn't used to seeing so much money at one time. “Am I getting paid for this?” he asked suddenly with a suspicious look.

“The Blades will pay for whatever you need on your missions,” Caius said. By the look on his face Donotham realized he was dodging his question, but he didn't pursue it, having seemingly deduced the answer to be 'no'. “It's really not a bad deal, Donotham,” he continued as Donotham hid the money away somewhere on his person. “You'll be reimbursed for what you spend on a mission – within reason, of course – and my door is open if you ever need a place to sleep. If you feel like you need any extra income, join a faction – Fighters Guild, a Dunmer Great House, or what have you. It would be a good cover.”

Donotham was looking a little bewildered, so he leaned back and let him get bearings. “Any questions?” he asked when none seemed to be forthcoming.

He looked up from whatever reverie he had fallen into. “Huh? Oh, uh, not really.”

Caius nodded. “Hm. Well, if you think of any later, feel free to ask.” He stood up, pushing the chair back with a squeak of wood against wood. “But right now I need to get some work done. Things to research. Come back in a week and we'll see where we are.”

Donotham nodded and stood up as well, still looking a little dazed. The chair clattered to the floor in his hurry to get up, and he righted it shakily. Caius was frowning now, but he didn't seem to notice. “I'll see you then,” was all he said before he opened the door and closed it behind him with an undeserved ferocity.

The silence following his departure was sudden, but not unwelcome. Caius stared at the chair he had recently vacated and reviewed their meeting in his head.

The inflections of his voice, the way he wouldn't always meet his eyes, and of course that door slam just moments ago – Donotham was hiding something. He would play dumb for now, let him get comfortable, but he would have one of his agents keep an eye on him. He'd find out whatever it was sooner or later.

~*~

Donotham managed to make it to the cover of an alley before he exploded into a frenzy of frantic pacing. The Blades! The Empire exiles him from everything and everyone he had ever known in a travesty of justice, sends him in chains to a country that hates foreigners – especially Dunmer foreigners – and then they expect him to work for them? And what was more, without pay? He had heard more sane plans from skooma-addled Khajiit! He could betray the Blades right now! One anonymous tip to those – those Camonna Tong, and Caius Cosades would be dead within the week!

He stopped abruptly in his pacing and kicked the wall. But he wouldn't do that, would he? He knew that, but did they? Did they know him so well that they could be certain he wouldn't stoop to that? He kicked the wall again. Too far fetched, even for the Blades.

Another, more chilling possibility occurred to him. What if they knew about Belina and Hjoldmir? He felt, suddenly, sharply, the warm metal of his amulet against his skin. He braced himself against the wall with two splayed hands. One hint of disobedience from Donotham, and they could swoop down and arrest them. Belina certainly had a criminal record as long as his own, and he had long suspected – though he had never known for certain – that Hjoldmir had done things far worse than Donotham ever had. Who knew what his refusal could sentence them to?

But no, that made no sense either. Why would they bother giving him that silly 'orders from the Emperor' drivel if they could hold the threat to his friends over his head? The threat of prison, after all, could hardly hold up to that, especially since he had come to Balmora of his own free will in the first place –

He raised his forehead from where it had been resting against the cool stone wall. His own free will. He could leave Balmora right now and never come back, couldn't he?

He nearly laughed as the world opened up before him once more. Freedom! It was within his grasp, and he hadn't even known it! It was as simple as walking away!

He shook his head, forcing himself to think this all the way through. No, it wasn't so simple. He turned to lean against the wall and looked up to the narrow band of sky that remained unobstructed by buildings. Were there more Blades in Balmora – or even if Caius was suspicious enough to follow him himself – any movement he made might be watched. He couldn't assume that Caius hadn't accounted for this possibility. He couldn't just waltz out the front gate.

And then, of course, there was Jiub. One of the clouds above his head shifted just enough to let a beam of warm sunlight through. He shut his eyes against the dazzle. Jiub would, without a doubt, view this as running away. If he told him, he would probably encourage him to join the Blades. Stable employment, and all that.

To Jiub, his coming to Morrowind was a return home. From what he had heard of his past, he had lived here as a child until Temple persecution had driven his family from the country. But to Donotham, Morrowind was a jail cell. A large, sometimes beautiful jail cell, but a jail cell nonetheless. He didn't think he could stand staying here indefinitely, not when he had left so much behind in Cyrodiil. It was a crueler sentence to him than any hard labor.

Jiub would not understand this, would not understand this desperate need for freedom. When he left him – and he would have to leave him, as he certainly couldn't tell him about the Blades, couldn't give him a proper explanation – he would see it as going back on his promise to break free from his former life. Donotham knew he wasn't, but Jiub wouldn't, and that was what mattered.

And finally...was it worth it? Going back to a life of running, abandoning the only friend he had in the entire country...was it worth it, just because he was angry with some Imperial bureaucrat?

He imagined a future where he chose the path of the Blades. Following orders from the very people who had exiled him, knowing that every day their grip around him was tightening. Would he ever be free of the Blades? When he was too old to be useful, would he be forced to retire to some mountaintop somewhere, just to keep the secret?

No. That was not his future. Donotham shook his head resolutely and opened his eyes again, feeling stronger somehow. What would come next – slipping out under Caius' nose, his journey alone into an an unknown country – were mere trifles when compared with the initial, wrenching decision.

He would not allow himself second thoughts. He levered himself away from the support of the wall and emerged from the alley. He grinned at the confused child who witnessed his appearance, not feeling quite as cheerful as he was pretending to himself he was, and strode off in the direction of the marketplace. He wouldn't want to wander off into the wild unprepared, after all, and now he had 200 septims given to him for that very purpose. He felt a small twinge of genuine amusemant. He wouldn't want to waste such a generous gift, now would he?

~*~

Jiub,

I wish I could have stuck around with you, but I've gotten into something over my head, and Balmora isn't safe anymore. If it ever was. I've skipped town, and I hope that will be enough to put them off my trail. Don't look for me, I don't want you getting involved. Take care of yourself.

Donotham replaced the quill in the inkwell. No amount of agonizing over the wording was going to make this sound any better, he had finally decided, and so had just scribbled out what had come to mind. He blew on the paper a bit, urging the ink to dry faster. Hopefully Jiub would take the nebulous pronoun “them” to mean the Camonna Tong, and wouldn't pursue it...or him.

As he waved the paper in the air absently, he glanced up from where he sat cross-legged on the floor to Jiub, sprawled ungracefully across his bed. One arm trailed to the floor, the other curled possessively around his pillow. He looked somehow older when he was asleep. Maybe, Donotham thought, knowing he was verging on maudlin, because the wry expressions that so animated his face were gone, leaving only the scars and wrinkles. He scowled and looked away. It would do him no good to get sentimental now.

After acquiring supplies for about a week's worth of travel (and, more importantly, a map), he had as a farewell gift gotten Jiub completely plastered. Though this also had the fortunate side-effect of making him sleep more soundly than usual, his primary motivation had been a sort of preemptive apology. He could only hope that Jiub would take it the right way.

The ink had been dry for a while now, but he blew on it a few more times for good measure. Carefully he folded the paper in half, matching the edges of the paper against each other exactly, and pressed a sharp crease with his thumbs. His hands were dark against the cream of the paper. He slowly folded it twice more until he was satisfied and stared at its sharp edges for a while, some part of his mind still in denial about exactly what he was doing.

He heaved himself to his feet mechanically and took a few ponderous steps to stand by Jiub's bed. He stood for a few moments wavering, but finally he held back the sigh that so desperately wanted to escape and slipped the note into Jiub's trouser pocket. Jiub was almost certain to find it there, and it was unlikely to be found by anyone else other than the most talented and desperate of pickpockets.

Before he could change his mind he grabbed the pack he had set out on his own bed and blew out the candle he had lit. He quietly let himself out of the room and shut the door gently behind him. His feet only made the softest of noises as he padded down the stairs, and he found himself thankful for the absence of any creaking floorboards. The hall was empty and dark, and his breath cut into the silence harshly. With one last glance around he stepped outside.

No one was up at this hour, at that peculiar juncture that was no longer night but was too early to be morning. In an hour the fishermen along the coasts would be out in their boats, casting their nets and lines early enough to have the day's catch fresh for the market, but not yet. Here in the city even the thieves were asleep. All of Balmora was shrouded in an eerie silence, broken only by the occasional tramp of a guard's boots.

To Donotham it was only slightly unnerving. Though the darkness and the absence of crowds afforded him among the best cover he could ask for, any movement or sound he made would stand out that much more. He allowed himself a smirk. Evading imaginary Blades agents could hardly be more difficult than evading the guards.

He slipped into the night like a shadow, and the world was still once more.

~*~

...The vast machineries of the Imperial bureaucracies cost far more to maintain than can be recovered in duties and taxes. And the cost of establishing and maintaining the garrisons of the Imperial legion in the far-flung wilderness posts of these provinces would be cost-effective only if there were evidence of a military threat from the East. But no such –

There was a pounding on the door, and Caius bit back a frustrated growl. He'd never finish the book at this rate! “What now?” he called out, half-expecting a sheepish Donotham to come in, though he wasn't supposed to be back for a week yet.

But it was not Donotham who flung open the door, but another one of his agents. “I've lost him,” said the agent, chest heaving, as if he had run here.

Caius shot up from where he was reclining on his bed. The book slipped forgotten from his fingers. “Who? What are you talking about?”

“Donotham. He's gone,” said Jiub.

Chapter 4

Donotham peered at his map for what seemed to be the nineteenth time. The road to Caldera was easy enough to follow, but he swore it was much closer on paper. He had hoped to get there by dawn, but the sun had already risen and Caldera was still at the far end of the long flat road he was on. He shook the map a bit, as if that would change anything, then sighed and put it away.

As far as he could tell, he had escaped from Balmora unnoticed, and he had managed to cover a fair distance under the cover of night. Once the adrenaline had faded and the first beams of light crept over the horizon, however, his body began to protest his ill treatment of it. He had not slept at all the night before, fearing that he would unintentionally sleep through his intended departure time; he was pushing himself along at a pace he was not used to; and while perhaps he shouldn't have drunk quite as much the night before, he couldn't exactly get Jiub drunk while he himself drank nothing.

Now, in a late summer heat that was quickly progressing to sweltering, his feet dragged along a road that had already turned dusty. The sun was peering over the ridges of the Red Mountain in a particularly irritating fashion, so he had taken to keeping his eyes down and watching the clouds of dirt his feet kicked up. He knew he should be going faster, but his legs didn't seem to be willing to cooperate. When averaged with the near run he had started out at, he supposed that made for a fair pace.

There were precious few trees on the side of the road, so when he came to a large rock he took the opportunity to slide into a sitting position in its shadow. His back was sticky with sweat, and the cool stone provided some measure of comfort. He took out his water-skin and took a much-needed drink. With any luck he would make it to Caldera before noon, before the heat got even worse. He had always thought it would be cooler this far north.

He was contemplating resting there for a short while when a small sound made him snap to attention. Before he had even registered what the sound was he had moved instinctively. A scuffle of feet behind him, a rush of air – he twisted and found a sword at his neck.

“Your money or your life,” said the man at the other end of the long blade.

Donotham's eyes darted. Automatically he sought out cover, no matter how little good it would do him in this situation. All he found was the rock he had been sitting by, the rock the man had been hiding behind. His eyes were dragged to the blade, going slightly cross-eyed in the process. Iron, not terribly sharp. He could still be bludgeoned to death without much effort. He gaze slid down the blade to the hand that held it, then up the arm to the man's face. Nordic, certainly; small, deep-set eyes and wide lips that were scowling impatiently. The bandit was staring at him, and his hands twitched at his sides. The sword in turn twitched in warning. His breath hitched, and reluctantly he moved one hand to his coin bag.

“Slowly,” the bandit broke in. “Hands where I can see 'em.”

He paused, then continued in his cautious movement, the other hand raising up in a sign of surrender, still gripping at his water-skin. The bandit was watching him closely. He felt the fabric of the coin bag against his fingers, and the metal of the throwing knife he kept hidden next to it. He hesitated in indecision. He could whip it out right now and send it straight into the man's chest, but then what? With the armor the man was wearing, would it be anything more than a distraction? And was it worth the price if he missed? The sword inched closer to his throat and he drew out the coin bag instead.

He tossed it over to the bandit, who caught it easily. Keeping the sword level with Donotham's neck, he blinked at the weight and rifled through it. Donotham couldn't hold back a wince – he hadn't actually used much of the money Cosades had given him; there was easily more than 150 drakes left in there.

A feral look came over the man's face. He pocketed the coin bag and waved the sword at Donotham again. “Now hands on your head and get on your knees.” He grinned nastily. “You might want to close your eyes.”

Donotham blinked. A cold fear gripped at his heart. He meant to kill him? But – “If you intended to kill me, why didn't you do so from the start?”

An unpleasant laugh burst from the man's lips. “Because I didn't think you had money like this on you,” he replied, almost conversationally. “For a small consideration, I might let you live.”

“And what's stopping you from killing me and searching my body?” his mouth went on without him.

“Because I don't know what other assets you have. Bank accounts, hidden stashes....”

Something rather like hysteria was bubbling up from his chest. He wasn't sure whether he was about to laugh or cry. “I'm hardly a – a noble in disguise, or anything,” he protested incredulously.

The bandit shrugged. “Then what are you doing with so much cash?”

“Got it off a guy in Balmora. Which is why I'm not in Balmora anymore.” Which was, conveniently enough, mostly the truth.

The man laughed again, and not unkindly. “Fair enough!” The sword was lowered, just enough that Donotham wasn't in immediate fear for his life. “Pleasure doing business with you.” When Donotham didn't move, he made a dismissive motion with one hand. “Well, go on.”

Still, Donotham hesitated. The grin on the man's face seemed more amused than anything else. Slowly he took one step backwards, then another. The man made no move against him. Before he could change his mind, he turned and ran.

As his feet pounded at the road, he cursed himself, his luck, and life in general. His plan, such as it was, had hinged on that money. He reflected that he probably should have come up with a Plan B.

Light flashed in the distance. He stumbled a bit, and realized it was the sun glinting off armor. He was close enough to Caldera now that he could make out the guards standing at the edge of the town. They weren't moving, and he heard no footsteps behind him, so he allowed himself to slow to a stop.

He panted for a while, coughing occasionally when the dust got too bad, then wiped at his face with the back of his hand and straightened. His water-skin was empty now, its contents somewhere on the road behind him. He put it away, feeling embarrassed for no particular reason.

He regarded the guards silently for a few moments, and finally decided to continue on as if he hadn't just been robbed. Running into town yelling about bandits would just launch an investigation that would go nowhere, and draw far too much attention to himself in the process. That, aside from the perfectly natural fear of guards that came with being a thief, was enough to discourage him from pursuing the matter.

He muttered a few choice words. He should have been able to get away from that bandit, talk his way out of it, something! But his mind had blanked. For once he cursed the lack of Legion patrols. Cosades had been right, damn him. Maybe if he knew how to do something with his knives other than throw them away, he wouldn't be in this mess.

He passed into Caldera now, and the guards didn't so much as glance at him. The town was bigger than sleepy Pelagiad, but not by much, and wasn't any busier either. The buildings all looked new, and the streets were about as clean as dirt could ever be. There didn't seem to be anyone out and about aside from the guards and a nervous Bosmer.

He found a shady alley to rest in and heaved himself up to sit on a barrel. As he rubbed at his aching muscles he wracked his brain for some way to get ahold of some money, and fast. The entire point of leaving in the middle of the night had been so that by the time he was missed, he would already be halfway to Caldera, but now it appeared that his head start was wasted. The place looked fairly well off, though, he could probably find something worth stealing -

He stopped that line of thought before it got too far. He had promised Jiub he wouldn't be doing that again. But finding honest work to do could easily take the rest of the day, if not days. What else could he do? He went over the various things he had done for money over the years. Beg? While the people in this small town wouldn't be as inured to beggars as the people he was used to, a healthy grown mer wasn't likely to get as much as he had gotten as a child, and would invite too much attention besides. He thought he could still juggle a bit, but again the entire point of juggling was to draw attention, and that was something he definitely wanted to avoid. Or – he grimaced. No, there was no way he was doing that again.

He had been jiggling one leg restlessly for several minutes now, and he forced himself to still. The stone wall he was staring at provided no inspiration. No matter what directions his thoughts took, inevitably he found them turning to theft. It was the quickest way of getting money, and – for him, anyway – the easiest.

Someone passed by close to the entrance to the alley, and Donotham nearly fell off the barrel in alarm; but it was just an Argonian chuckling quietly to herself. She passed out of sight, and Donotham ordered himself to pull himself together. He was high-strung, he knew, now especially, and it wasn't helping any.

He sighed. His decision had been made a while ago, but he had put off admitting it. Burglary was really his best option at the moment. He was sure Jiub would forgive him.

(He hoped Jiub would forgive him.)

He hopped off the barrel and emerged from the alley humming a thoughtful little tune. He didn't like to burglarize people's homes unless he was completely desperate, and although his current situation probably qualified, doing so in broad daylight was tantamount to marching up to the nearest guard and declaring himself the Gray Fox. Waiting until the cover of nightfall, much less until everyone was actually asleep, would just allow anyone following him that much more time to catch up. Shoplifting then was probably his best bet.

He wandered the streets for a good while, studying the shops and estimating what the value of their goods might be. Once he had made the rounds of the town he was forced to conclude that of the shops that would carry something worth stealing, none would be selling anything he could actually afford with the few drakes he had hidden away. Leaving a shop without buying anything was just asking for trouble. Luckily he had a plan for just this sort of situation – a scam he had pulled once before, in the Imperial City.

His target was a building with a sign that advertised the talents of one Falanaamo, Clothier. He pushed the door open and breathed in the cloying scent of perfume. To his left an Altmer man was struggling to extricate a particularly recalcitrant bolt of cloth from a pile of its fellows. The door shut behind him, and the Altmer looked up. He looked Donotham up and down, nostrils flaring briefly, and then without letting go of the cloth asked in a low drawling voice, “Can I help you?”

The Altmer clearly would have liked to be chasing him out of the shop with a broom, but Donotham smiled politely. “Yes, I believe you can. Falanaamo, correct?” He walked over to the counter and looked around in feigned interest. The quick glance around soothed his doubts – there wasn't much in the way of actual merchandise out, which meant that this clothier likely tailored each outfit to specific measurements rather than churning out ill-fitting clothing for the masses. It was a bit odd finding such a high-class merchant in town this size, but he wasn't about to question his luck.

The Altmer was still staring at him, as if he wasn't quite sure how to react. Donotham blinked, then pretended to look down at his travel-stained clothes in surprise. “Oh! I apologize for my dress, I've only just arrived.” He smoothed down his shirt to no great effect and grinned apologetically. “I wouldn't exactly want to travel in my best clothes, would I?” Never mind that these were, in fact, his best clothes, indeed his only clothes.

The Altmer let go of the cloth and turned to face him directly. “And what is it you need today?” he asked, his tone now cautious but curious.

Donotham had to suppress a grin of unholy glee. Just acting confident worked wonders, and nobody suspected anything amiss. “I represent a lady by the name of Uravasa Hlervu, recently risen to some prominence in Balmora. Her station requires that she have several new dresses for formal and semi-formal occasions. She would like something elegant, but nothing reeking too much of new money – a subtle touch, and you come highly recommended.”

The flattery took immediate effect. Falanaamo puffed out his chest and utterly failed to hide a proud smile. “I have a wide selection of designs for all occasions, if you would care to take a look,” he said, gesturing with a wide sweep of his arm to a book that lay open on the counter.

For the next fifteen minutes, though to Donotham it seemed much longer, they went through the book, Falanaamo describing each outfit in mind-numbing detail. Occasionally he would duck under the counter to bring out this or that accessory, or carry a bolt of cloth over for his consideration. The supercilious tone had disappeared, only to be replaced by an equally grating eager tone. He amused himself for a few minutes, imagining Falanaamo stuck up a tree and nodding all the while, when it seemed to him that the Altmer had finished. His long fingers he had steepled together, and he was looking at Donotham expectantly.

Donotham straightened from where he had been bent over the book and nodded. “There are many designs here that I would think would be suitable, and palatable to my lady's taste. However, having limited knowledge of women's fashion, I shall have to consult with her before making the order.”

Falanaamo nodded and drew out a pamphlet from somewhere beneath the counter. “Of course, of course. Just take this to her, it outlines all of the women's styles that I have explained to you.”

Donotham took the pamphlet with a polite nod of his head. “I thank you for all your assistance. I expect I shall be back within the week.”

“My thanks to your lady for her business,” the Altmer said with a gracious bow, and Donotham left with a smile.

Once out of the shop Donotham drew a necklace from his pocket and inspected it. In his eagerness to make a sale, the Altmer had not been paying much attention, and so when his back had been turned to bring over some dark velvet that looked exactly the same as the last, he hadn't noticed Donotham's quick hand darting over to snatch a necklace from its display case, which had been unlocked whilst Falanaamo had been searching beneath the counter for a hairclip. He grinned, pleased that his gambit had actually worked this time.

He headed now to a pawnshop he had noticed earlier. Ideally he would hand the thing off to a fence, but he didn't have the time to find out where one might be. Before entering he affected a very slight air of reluctance, while making sure not to overplay his part. It was a difficult balancing act to pull off, but it was one he had perfected over the years.

The shopkeeper was a middle-aged Redguard man with a prominent scar that ran up along one arm before disappearing beneath his rolled-up sleeves. His face was lined, but he didn't look like he would need any help in lifting even the heaviest of boxes. “What can I do for you today?” he asked, turning towards Donotham with a practiced, pleasant grin.

“I need this appraised,” he said shortly, and held out the necklace.

The man took it and glanced at it only briefly before saying, “Forty drakes.”

Donotham widened his eyes fractionally. “What? That – that can't be worth any less than eighty!”

The man looked at it again, but only said, “Forty.”

“But that cost me -” He trailed off.

The man raised an eyebrow. “I have a sneaking suspicion that you were ripped off, son.” He held out the necklace and pointed to a small defect. “See that there? Evidence of shoddy craftsmanship.”

He had noticed it, of course, but he looked at the necklace as if in a new light. “Oh. I – I see.” He let his shoulders droop a bit. “But, surely, maybe – fifty-five – ”

“I can give you forty-five, but that's it. Any more and I'd have to overcharge the poor sod who buys it.”

He wasn't sure how things were priced in Morrowind, but he thought he could surely get fifty out of it. He was about to protest when he realized the part he was playing was something of a na?ve bumpkin. He sighed and let it go. “Forty-five, then.”

Money and necklace changed hands, and he left the pawnshop with the pleasant feeling of gold weighing him down. Forty-five was enough for his purposes, but he had been hoping for more. But of course pawnbrokers were immune to the puppy dog eyes.

With the preparations out of the way, it was high time to pick up and skip town. He had spent too much time with the clothier, had let him get rather more familiar with his face than he would have liked, and it would be best if he if was long gone from Caldera by the time he realized Uravasa Hlervu didn't exist.

A familiar sign of an eye hung at the next building, the wood not yet pitted and scarred by the ravages of time. He pushed open a door that turned easily on its hinges and grinned at a man who was doing something with a mortar and pestle. The Breton just returned a rather distracted smile of his own and went back to his business.

The Mages Guild was quiet, and smelled faintly of sawdust. Aside from the alchemist, there didn't seem to be anyone there. He headed up the stairs in the back, and aside from rather bored-looking woman reading a book, the upper floor was empty as well. Perfect.

He adopted a worried, slightly fearful look and took a few quick steps over to the woman. “Listen, I...I need your help on something,” he told her in an urgent voice.

She closed the book, keeping her place with one finger. “What is it?” she asked, her eyes sharp.

His fingers worried the edge of his shirt. “You're the Guild Guide, right?” At her nod, he continued, “I need transport – I mean, obviously I do, but -” Here he broke off and looked back over his shoulder towards the stairs. “They can't know that I- ”

“They?” the woman broke in. “You mean the - ”

Donotham nodded. “Yes. Yes, they...my arrival in Morrowind has, uh, caught their interest....”

The woman stood up, leaving her book on her chair. “I understand. Curse those thugs! You need to get as far away from here as possible, yes?”

“That was the plan. What's the furthest destination from Balmora?”

“On Vvardenfell? Sadrith Mora, or Vivec – I'd suggest the latter, it's easier to get lost in.”

He bit his lip and considered. “All right, here's what we do – send me to Sadrith Mora. If they ask you, say you haven't seen me, then when they bribe you, tell them I went to Vivec.”

“I'm not sure they would bribe so much as threaten, but it's a sound idea,” she said, and nodded approvingly. “I can contact the Guild Guide at Vivec as well, tell her to say she saw you.”

“Thank you,” Donotham said, and meant it. He took her hand in both of his and squeezed it. “You're a life-saver.” Now he took out his coin bag, his other one that he generally filled with pebbles and used as a decoy. Now it served to hold coins like its partner had done. “How much will this cost?”

“Twenty-five septims normally, but for you I'll drop it to twenty.”

He took out forty septims. “All right, twenty for the transport, then ten for your trouble. And send ten to the Vivec Guild Guide as well.” She shook her head, but he pressed the money into her palm. “Take it. For your kindness, and the danger I'm putting you in.”

Slowly she nodded and deposited the money in some unseen pouch. She motioned to a complex circle drawn on the floor in chalk. “Stand there, this shan't take a moment,” she said, suddenly all business.

He did as he was directed, and as he watched her cast her spell he let a faint smile of relief play over his face. Easy as toast, he thought, and the world around him shivered and blurred, and he was whisked away as if in a fine mist.

Chapter 5

Yes, Donotham, let's go someplace where the only viable transportation is by boat! Brilliant! Donotham leaned his forehead on the railing and fought valiantly to keep down what remained of his breakfast. Next, let's go someplace where you have to get everywhere by levitation. Surely you'll go down in history as the smartest mer alive!

The ship lurched under his feet, and his stomach lurched in the opposite direction. Some of the crew were snickering at his seasickness on what amounted to a ferry ride, but at the moment he couldn't find it within himself to care. He rubbed at his head, as if that would somehow stave off the headache that was currently pounding his skull. If he had known Tel Mora wasn't terribly welcoming to anyone with a [censored], he would've had time to recover from his trip from Sadrith Mora. Tel Mora was odd, he thought somewhere beneath the sea of nausea. One would think that in an all-female town, they would have quite the opposite opinion of men.

The sea between Tel Mora and Vos was unusually choppy for this time of year (or so said one of the crew members, who Donotham suspected was just trying to assuage his wounded ego), and the morning fog was only just lifting. He pushed his lank hair out of his eyes and peered into the mist. There – the sinuous form of the docks and one of those fleshy bulbs that passed for architecture in Telvanni territory were emerging bit by bit from the fog. He groaned in relief, an end to his misery finally in sight.

He was one of the first off the boat, and he stumbled as the dock seemed to heave. He knelt and waited for the world to come to rest as the other passenger stepped around him. He let out a cry of “Sweet land!” and kissed the ground, mostly for crew's benefit. The resulting laughs did much for his mood.

Eventually he regained his balance and made his way off the docks. A weathered sign caught his eye and he grinned. At the Varo Tradehouse, he had been assured, he could find food and lodging, and it would serve as his base of operations for the next few days. He whistled a happy tune as he headed up the spiraling walkway. With a bit of skill and luck, he would be heading back to Sadrith Mora with a nice prize for one of the Thieves Guild's clients.

Sadrith Mora was as large and sprawling as he could have hoped for. Despite the official restriction placed on non-Telvanni, in those crowds no one looked twice at a foreign-born Dunmer. Unfortunately when he had first arrived, his financial situation had been poor to say the very least – he couldn't even rent a room with only five septims – and so inevitably his path eventually led him back to the Thieves Guild.

The initial theft back in Caldera had been the catalyst. Despite the extenuating circumstances, his promise to Jiub had been, in his mind, already broken. Surely just a few more petty thefts wouldn't hurt anything? Just until he got back on his feet again? So ran his thoughts. And of course he couldn't steal anything without making an appearance at the local Guild. And of course he couldn't refuse to help them against the Camonna Tong. And of course stealing from the Camonna Tong didn't really count. And of course stealing from slave owners didn't count, either. And surely they didn't really need all those jewels....

His descent back into the seedy underbelly of society had been swift. It had been his adolescent years all over again, compressed into the space of mere months. Distantly he realized that, his promise to Jiub notwithstanding, he didn't really mind. He supposed it was just easier the second time around. All the mental acrobatics necessary to justify his life to himself he had already performed years ago.

So it was with a light heart Donotham set off from Sadrith Mora to burglarize a Dwemer museum.

The round door creaked open and he stepped into the warmth of the tradehouse. He inhaled the smell of scuttle and kwama eggs, and strangely enough what seemed to be a very strong cheese. He shut the door behind him and took in the room. The place looked fairly new, the floor still unworn by the passage of feet and the walls clean of any dirt or grime. There was a bar off to the side, though there was no one behind it; behind it was a meager collection of alcohol. Aside from a small mousy man writing at the room's only table, the place was empty.

He collapsed into a chair next to the man and grinned at him. “Not very crowded, is it?”

The man just stared at him for a moment and then went back to writing. “This is a farming village,” he told him without looking up. “All the real business goes on up at the tower.”

“I take it you don't get much tourism then?” he asked with a wry grin.

The man snorted. “Most of my business comes from the villagers and the local Ashlander tribe. If you're seeking entertainment, you've come to the wrong place.”

Most of, huh. Where did the rest of it come from, then? “I suppose I'll be terribly bored during my stay here, then,” he drawled.

His last statement had the desired effect, and the man looked up from his sums. His gaze fell for the first time on the small bag by Donotham's feet. He put down the quill. “Ten drakes a night, and two more will get you a hot meal in the evening.”

“Sounds reasonable to me.” Money exchanged hands, and Donotham was directed upstairs to what was ostensibly his room. Not much privacy was afforded him, as all that separated it from the rest of the tradehouse was a stairway and a rail, but he could work around that. He dumped the contents of his bag on his bed and sifted through it all. Change of clothes, rope, a map, provisions, a few emergency potions, a needle and a bit of thread, and a battered old book on the Dwemer he had stolen. He picked it up and thumbed through it absentmindedly, but despite its claims to be an “introductory text,” it made no more sense now than it had yesterday or the day before that. Phrases like “patrilineal descent” and “exogamous moieties” just made his head spin, and the diagrams of Dwemer machinery were even worse. Still, though it had done little towards his understanding of the Dwemer, it was always good to have a prop around to complete his persona. Hopefully what he had understood was enough to prevent him from sounding entirely ignorant.

He tossed the book back on the bed and stowed the rope away under the mattress – what would an aspiring Dwemer scholar need it for, anyway? - before bounding back downstairs. The owner was still doing sums and didn't look up, but Donotham threw him a cheerful wave anyway and trotted outside.

He cracked his back and looked up the steep path the boat's other passenger had taken. Above him he could see the tiny village of Vos sprouting out of the hillside, and when he craned his neck he saw what seemed to be a mushroom attacking an Imperial fort.

He tilted his head. So that was Tel Vos. He had been warned that it was strange, but Telvanni architecture was strange enough that the monstrosity perched on the top of the hill hardly fazed him.

A familiar glee bubbled up within him as he started up the path. He didn't need his thief's senses to tell him that this was going to be his most interesting heist yet.

~*~

Tel Vos, it seemed, was perilous indeed. He had only been there for a few minutes (discounting the time spent searching for a door at ground level) and already he had ended up in the tower's jail. Admittedly his only indiscretion was taking a wrong turn, and he wasn't on the wrong side of those barred doors just yet, but it was nevertheless an uncomfortable place to be.

Curiosity being one of his better (or worse) traits at times, he tried one of the doors and found it unlocked, and took a step into the room beyond. The room was in thorough disarray, tendrils of Telvanni mushroom snaking through the very stone in places. Two of the cells were rendered completely useless, and one door it seemed had been thrown off its hinges quite forcefully. The third cell remained mostly intact, though upon inspection there was a pile of rubble at the back. Donotham turned and took in the room thoughtfully. Either the tower was very new indeed, or its master simply didn't care that his dungeon was nigh useless.

Back on the other side of the hallway a second door led to another room, also empty, though the cells actually seemed functional. It occurred to him that it was rare that he had the opportunity to study a jail cell before he had to escape it. He smiled and twirled a lockpick in his fingers.

He spent a few minutes testing the locks (easy enough to pick from the outside, but impossible to get at from the inside) and was busy anolyzing lines of sight in the hallway when he heard footsteps coming down the stairs behind him. A blond Bosmer woman in leather armor turned the corner and stopped, her expression of surprise quickly giving way to quietly amused scrutiny. Her upturned nose and downturned eyes made her look young and helpless, but the mischievous glint in her eyes told him she was anything but. Finally she cocked her head to one side and smirked. “Lost, are we?”

“That happens a lot here, does it?” he returned.

“I'll take that as a yes.” She took a few steps toward him, almost predatory. “I'd wager you have a delivery for Andil, or Alenus maybe, and didn't think to ask for directions.” She shook her head slowly and tutted disapprovingly, though the grin never left her face. “Men are awfully silly like that sometimes.”

Donotham grinned at her playful tone and rocked back on his heels lazily. “Oh, I'm afraid you'd lose that wager, as actually I'm on my way to the Dwemer museum.”

The woman looked up and down the hallway, then back at Donotham. “Well you're not going to get there this way.”

“It would be a rather odd design choice, wouldn't it? An effective deterrent for thieves though, I would think.”

“I'll have to relay that thought to Master Aryon,” she said, and laughed. “One of the guards saw you coming down here earlier. When you didn't come back out we worried you might have gotten eaten by a daedroth.”

Involuntarily he looked back down the hallway, where it opened up on a cave on some sort. “There are daedroth down here?”

“Not to my knowledge. But it's a Telvanni wizard's tower, there just might be.” She held out one arm for him to take. “Here, I'll take you to the Dwemer museum, it's not far.”

She was looking up at him through her long lashes. Slowly he smiled and took her arm. “Oh good! I wouldn't want anyone to think I was lost.”

They arrived at the Dwemer museum in short order, the Bosmer smirking at him the whole way. She ushered him through a doorway and swept her arm out in a wide flourish. “And here we have the Dwemer museum,” she announced as Donotham looked around with what was ostensibly scholarly interest. “Master Aryon's had a lot of stuff brought up from Nchuleft lately to augment his own collection.”

“Oh, yes, Nchuleft,” he said with a nod, as if the name had any but the slightest significance for him. At least he knew how it was pronounced now. “Very convenient, so close to the tower.”

“That's why it was built here, partially anyway.” She gestured around the room at the various items that were on display. Ancient crockery and the guts of old machines had been put on tables, and incomprehensible schematics adorned the walls. He had to remind himself that reaching out and touching them was probably a bad idea and stilled his restless fingers. “Most of this is from the rule of Heruthanc of course, but we've got a goblet we figure Adrun Gar used to drink out of as well.” She pointed out a cup that to Donotham looked no different than the others. “If you look closely at the rim you can see signs that it used to be overlaid with some valuable metal, probably gold.”

Donotham just nodded and pretended he knew what she was talking about. He wasn't sure whether he should be happy or annoyed that he seemed to have acquired a chatty tour guide.

He was saved from having to say something intelligent when the strange hissing that had been issuing from around the corner suddenly crescendoed into a high-pitched whine before stopping entirely. His guide swore colorfully and stormed around the corner. Donotham followed curiously in her wake.

The Bosmer and another woman in leather armor were fussing over a hulking golden form that looked like what a Metal Atronach might look like if such a thing existed. It was listing slightly to one side and looked to soon be in danger of falling over.

“Don't tell me the centurion's on the fritz again,” the Bosmer was saying as she and the other woman worked to lower its entire bulk safely to the ground.

“The centurion's on the fritz again,” the other woman growled. “Nine only know how many times the coolant's fizzled out – shows what you get when you ask Alenus to do it.” She glared at it for a moment, then kicked it. “Maybe if Master Aryon could take some time out of his busy schedule trying to understand those slugs he might deign to maintain his museum -”

“Do kindly shut up Ronerelie.” The Bosmer sighed and turned back to Donotham. “Well, if the damn thing was actually working, you'd see here a mostly-functional Steam Centurion. As it is, though, it's mainly a scrap heap.”

“No, it's all right,” he said, and knelt down to touch its face. The metal was hot to the touch. The empty eyes stared out at nothing from beneath the heavy brow. “I don't think I'd want to see it working anyway. It looks like it could up and start talking any minute as it is.”

The Bosmer gave the centurion a fond pat on the head and stood back up. “Don't worry, that's not going to happen without some creative use of enchantments.”

“That's what's disturbing about it.” He regarded the silent form for a moment and shook his head. “It's never been my area of study anyway.”

“I suppose I needn't wax poetic about those gears over there for you then,” she said, gesturing at a table in the corner. She grinned at him and directed his attention to another nearby table. “These ceremonial weapons are much more interesting anyway – this sword here used to have some sort of tassel on the pommel, but it's long since rotted away -”

But Donotham's eyes were still on the table full of gears. Propped up amidst them all was a strange flat device about the width of his hand. It seemed to consist of many thin gears stacked atop one another to form concentric rings, with smaller gears seeming placed at random elsewhere on its face. It was clearly reconstructed, as bits of it were held together by pins or clamps, and large chunks of it seemed to be missing. The surface was scratched and stained, and though it looked to be inscribed with Dwemer writing, none of it was even close to legible.

It also looked rather disturbingly similar to the artifact he was supposed to steal.

He found that he had drifted over to the table, and the Bosmer was looking at him curiously. “What's that?” he asked.

“A Dwemer Whatsit,” she said, and shrugged. “Hell if I know. Master Aryon was studying it for a while, but it was too damaged for him to make heads or tails of it.”

“So now it's in the museum?”

“Might as well get some use out of it, eh?”

Except that the thing was supposed to be in storage. With it out in the open like this it would immediately be missed, and he would be the obvious culprit. He rubbed at his temples. The headache from earlier seemed to be back with a vengeance. “And there aren't any others?”

“I certainly hope there are. Master Aryon's been a bit...unpleasant since he found out it was worse than useless. None of us want to deal with a frustrated Master Aryon for the next twenty years.”

Donotham frowned. “Now I want to know what it does.”

“Good luck with that, f'lah. I doubt even Divayth Fyr could make much sense out of it.”

Donotham shook his head. For all that he was supposed to be a scholar, displaying too much interest just before stealing the thing was almost as bad as shouting out his intentions beforehand. “Let's hope there's another one, then. Not knowing what it's for is almost worse than never finding it in the first place.” He smiled. “Anyway, that sword -?”

The grin quickly returned to her face and she continued her explanation enthusiastically. Even as he listened with half an ear, asking questions whenever he felt it appropriate, beneath the surface his own gears were turning. This was going to be a bit trickier than he had anticipated.

~*~

“Tricky” was perhaps an understatement, he mused gloomily two days later. The cold wind whipped his hair about his face as he stared up at the towers of Tel Vos defiantly from one of the many criss-crossing walkways. It was not the towers themselves however that so defeated him, but rather the people within them. The museum was guarded day and night by a handful of annoyingly competent guards. As a test earlier that day he had engineered a distraction at the end of a very long shift, but the Argonian on duty resolutely remained at his post, only investigating once his replacement had arrived. The artifact was constantly under someone's watchful gaze, and for the life of him he couldn't think of a way of removing it without detection.

Donotham was pushing his hair behind his ears for the umpteenth time when he heard the sounds of conversation below him. He leaned over the paraqet. The Bosmer woman, Gaerwen, was speaking to Ronerelie and a large Khajiit man in armor. The wind was buffeting his ears, but he could still make out most of the conversation.

“For the thousandth time, yes,” Gaerwen was saying. “I've got it right here – see? - hell, I'll sleep with it under my pillow tonight if that makes you feel any better.”

Ronerelie snorted loudly. “You'd just forget it there, and then where would we be?”

“In Nchuleft with no rope,” the Khajiit answered helpfully.

“Thank you, Ra'Kothre.”

“Anyway, as I was saying.” Gaerwen glared at the other two. “We might not even need the rope with you two there. The only reason I couldn't move it before was because I was on my own. With the proper application of leverage -”

“Yes, yes, all very well and good,” Ronerelie interrupted. “But my question, if you had been listening, was are you sure of what you saw?”

“Absolutely certain. You know how long I've been poring over our dear Dwemer Whatsit, I'd recognize another one in a heartbeat.”

Donotham perked up at that. Another Dwemer Whatsit? He bit his thumb thoughtfully. If there was another one in Nchuleft somewhere, then he'd have one to bring back to the Thieves Guild without having to bother with the museum at all! He strained to catch the end of the conversation as the group wandered out of his hearing.

“Yes it has to be tomorrow, it's too late to leave today and I don't want to take the chance that some raider stumbles upon it before we can get to it. We can meet at the Tradehouse an hour before dawn -”

“Before dawn? Really?”

“Fine, dawn it is then....”

Donotham grinned at their retreating backs. He hummed a cheerful tune and pulled open the door to go back inside. Perhaps it was time to take a more thorough tour of the tower. Surely there was a map of Nchuleft to be had somewhere....

Chapter 6

Donotham left well before dawn, not wanting to encounter Gaerwen and the others on the road. Finding Nchuleft wasn't difficult – it was visible from Tel Vos, and in any case it seemed to be a popular enough spot to still have a dirt path winding right up to the front door. By the time he had climbed the hill to stand in the shadows of the ruined towers, the sun was nearing its zenith, or at least what passed for a zenith at this time of year.

Moss was growing on the sides of the ruins, but it was a shaky foothold at best – the Dwemer metal seemed oddly resilient in the face of time and decay. The structures were still intact for the most part, not being made of the conveniently portable and reusable bricks or stones of other ancient peoples. Even the ballista guarding the entrance was still armed, ready to fire on some long-dead enemy on the Grazelands below. He briefly entertained the thought of firing the thing before continuing past it.

A round metal door was nestled into the side of the mountain. Donotham put a hand against it cautiously. The metal was warm to the touch, an oddity on a cold Sun's Dusk day. From beyond it he thought he could hear a faint hissing and clanking, much like the Steam Centurion had made. Were there more of those inside? He frowned, then heaved the door open. Surely there wouldn't be any more working after all these years.

It wasn't nearly as dark inside as he had been expecting. Somewhere ahead of him a clear glass tube was attached to a wall, casting a strange orange glow unlike that of torchlight or candlelight. As he drew closer he realized it was humming. He held a hand up to it and quickly pulled away. The thing was burning hot.

He surveyed the area around him that was illuminated by the strange glowing cylinder. The walls and floor were made of the same metal that the towers outside were made of, covered with the dirt and grime of disuse. The short hallway he had just come down ended where it intersected another hallway that continued on into the darkness on either side of him

He breathed in and out. All he heard aside from his own breath was the light tube's buzzing, the odd clanking of some machine echoing up from the depths of the ruin, and the ever-present hiss of steam. The air was warm and stagnant, and his every breath created billowing clouds of dust. With nothing distinguishing one hallway from another, he could only choose a corridor at random and hope he was headed in the right direction. He turned to the right and continued on.

He picked his way along the hallway carefully, aided by a Night-eye spell in the patches of darkness left by the broken light tubes that lined the walls. The floor was littered with the accumulated detritus of centuries. Old bits of broken machinery, empty bottles, broken pottery, rusted spears, a lockpick or two, a belt buckle – all the remains of ancient lives ended in an instant long ago. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, though there were disturbances where some scavenger had picked up something deemed valuable enough to keep, and a faint track was worn down the center of the hall. One set of footprints in particular seemed fairly recent, and without a map – the resources available to him at Tel Vos had been woefully inadequate – he decided they would be better guidance than none.

As he followed the footprints deeper into the ruin it became oppressively hot, and he had soon rolled up his sleeves and tied his hair back. When the hall turned a corner and opened up into a room he saw the reason why. The metal floor ended at a ledge with a low rail, and deep below a river of lava flowed sluggishly along its channel. The lava was so hot it glowed, casting a red light on everything in the room.

Donotham was sweating now, and though his discomfort only he grew he edged closer. The Dwemer had sunk pipes down into the flow, and above it hung a hissing and rumbling hulk of machinery. Donotham stared at the turning gears but couldn't divine its purpose.

Glancing back at the footprints, he saw that Gaerwen – he assumed it was her, anyway – had wandered around the room before returning back the way she had come. Remembering the old stories, he silently thanked Azura for Dunmer heat tolerance as he took a thorough look around. Along one wall was a row of shelves holding various tools and spare gears. Nearby was a desk piled haphazardly with more of the same, and he imagined some industrious Dwemer sitting there repairing the inner workings of the machine behind him.

He stood there for a few moments, thinking of how lively these ruins must have been once – guards clanking along in their armor, the playful shouts of children, workers grumbling over this or that, the sounds of merriment as families ate together – but it was all gone now, replaced only by the echoing clanks and hisses of machines still working for a people that no longer existed. He sighed and shook his head. The depths of a sweltering ruin were hardly the place to stand around daydreaming.

The machine in the middle of the room had several pipes leading out of it; some disappeared into the ceiling, but most led into another room accessed by a short hallway. One of the pipes had broken just above the hallway and was spewing scalding steam into the air, effectively blocking the way. Donotham tried several angles of approach, but he was always forced back in pain before he could get very close.

He peered into the gloom. It was difficult to see with just his Night Eye and the light of the lava, but in the room beyond he thought he could make out a number of gears. Another glance at the hanging pipe and he made up his mind.

He took the rope out from his pack and unwound a good length of it. If he could just get the pipe to point in another direction, he might be able to slip through into the other room. After a few false starts he managed to throw one end of the rope over the pipe, and by feeding it more rope he was able to lower the end to a height where he could grab it. Now with the rope looped over the top of the pipe he began to pull.

The pipe creaked and shuddered towards him. Donotham wrapped the ends of the rope around his hands and tugged. The pipe snapped off at the break and flew towards his head, forcing him to to sidestep to avoid being hit. The pipe clattered to the ground and rolled away.

He began coiling his rope back up as he assessed the situation. Sure enough the steam was spewing out along the top of the doorway now, leaving it safe to enter. He stowed his rope away and ventured further in.

It grew much louder, with much hissing of steam and clanking of metal. The cavernous room had two levels, and as he entered he found he was on a walkway hanging over the floor far below him without so much as a rail separating the empty air from solid ground. The gears he had seen earlier by virtue of his Night Eye spell were actually mounted on some huge machine that took up the majority of the far wall. The walkway continued around the perimeter of the room to allow access to the upper reaches of the machine, but any ramps to the floor below had collapsed.

He inched forward. The walkway itself seemed sturdy enough, so he took a few cautious steps before going over the the machine. It was still in fairly good condition, and if its rumbling and humming were any indication at least partially functional.

Donotham let out a low whistle, and it echoed oddly, sounding strange in such a dead place. “Wonder what this does,” he said to fill the ensuing silence. The darkness swallowed his words almost as soon as they had left his mouth.

He looked the thing over. Now that he was closer he could tell that none of the gears looked like the Dwemer Whatsit – they were much too thick and had none of the markings from what he could see.

As he scanned the machine for any likely candidates his eyes fell on a lever, and without much thought he reached up to pull it, intending to use it to pull himself up for a better look. However a screeching noise from above made him pause. He looked up at the large cylindrical...thing that was suspended from the ceiling above him. Experimentally he pushed the lever back up. There was a dull thunk, and the cylinder seemed to shift a bit. He squinted into the darkness curiously. He pulled the lever again and there was another metallic screech, long and drawn out this time. That didn't sound too good -

The screech turned into an ominous groan. One end of the cylinder was falling, then the other. Donotham took a step back, but there was nothing but air.

There was a moment of freefall for both mer and machine. Donotham managed to twist into a roll at the last second but still hit the ground hard as above him the machine hit the walkway. There was a tumult of noise as metal twisted and sheared, the walkway crumbling beneath it. Donotham scrambled backwards as everything tumbled to the ground. A cloud of dust rose up, and he fell into a coughing fit.

When the dust began to settle again and his eyes had stopped watering he heaved himself to his feet with a groan. His back and shoulders would surely be one big bruise soon enough, but he didn't think he was seriously injured.

The walkway he had been standing on was just a pile of rubble now, strewn with the remains of whatever it was that had fallen. He picked his way through the debris towards the machine. The ruins of the walkway didn't pile high enough for him to climb them back up to the upper floor, and in any case – he put a foot up on a large piece of the walkway still remaining, and it tilted precariously under even a small portion of his weight – it didn't look nearly stable enough.

His gaze fell once again on the huge machine. Levers, gears, dials, and who knew what else protruded from it at random intervals, and with any luck were firmly enough attached to provide him with hand- and foot-holds. He shrugged. Well, it was worth a shot.

The climb took longer than he had hoped, but about as long as he had expected. The Dwemer contraption itself was constantly confounding him by falling apart at inopportune moments, and some of the dust it seemed had settled in his lungs so that he was periodically hacking something up. So it was that Donotham finally clambered back up onto the walkway, both body and ego bruised.

“Well that was a fun little detour,” he muttered as he brushed himself off. The Dwemer Whatsit wasn't in here, that was fairly clear by now, and he had wasted a good amount of time already – he would hardly want to find the Dwemer thing only to meet Gaerwen on the way out. He shifted from one foot to another, then translated his nervous energy into a jog back out the way he had come. He didn't have the time to allow himself the luxury of wandering.

Again going by the freshness of the footprints in the dust, after a few wrong turns and dead ends he eventually found himself all the way back at the entrance, where paths of old prints criss-crossed and trampled each other in a jumble he couldn't decipher. Cautiously he crept over to the door. When he put his ear to it he could hear nothing outside, so he wasn't in any immediate danger of being detected, but he didn't dare open it lest he be seen by anyone approaching. His jaw clenched briefly before he forced himself to relax. He continued back into the ruin.

As he explored the rest of Nchuleft he found that as he ventured further from the well-traversed areas near the entrance, the footprints wearing a track down the center of the hall trickled away into various hallways, leaving him clearer trails to follow.

It also made one fact immediately clear. He was hardly a tracker, but even he could tell that one very recent set of tracks was made by the distinctive paws of a Khajiit.

Donotham broke into a run, hoping against hope that what he thought had happened hadn't. His exploration of the ruins became a game of “follow the Khajiit-prints,” which was rather difficult given how indistinct the imprints often were. More than once he found himself doubling back, confused by other trails, but soon he was so deep in the ruins that the dust and dirt hadn't been disturbed for hundreds of years, and the tracks became unmistakeable.

His suspicions were confirmed when he heard three voices echoing from somewhere nearby. He slowed his pace and quieted his breathing, hoping to listen in on the conversation.

“Keep pushing, I said!” came a familiar voice – Gaerwen.

“Ra'Kothre does not think this will work.”

“Quit flapping your mouth for one second of your life, will you? Your negative attitude is not helping.”

“As if you're one to talk about negative attitudes, Ronerelie....”

Donotham could see the trio from around a corner now. The three of them were in what seemed to be a natural cavern augmented by the Dwemer with the addition of pillars, statues, and a door now blocked by fallen rocks. They were pushing at a half-ruined pillar, already at a less-than-vertical angle, but they didn't seem to be making any headway. A torch lay on the ground nearby, its wavering flame throwing everything into stark contrast. In the light of the torch he could see that the wall behind the pillar had broken at some point, leaving a narrow crack opening into some unseen room beyond. The pillar itself blocked most of the opening, leaving only the barest sliver accessible.

Gaerwen heaved a great sigh and wiped her forehead. “I don't think this is going to work,” she said and stepped back from the pillar, and the others followed her lead.

“Ra'Kothre just said that....”

“So what do we do next?” asked Ronerelie, ignoring the Khajiit.

“Now?” Gaerwen held up a short length of rope and stretched it taut between two hands. “Now we try Plan B.” As Ra'Kothre rolled his shoulders and stretched behind her Gaerwen tied the rope into a lasso. “See, if we apply force at the top rather than at the bottom, we can use the weight of the pillar against itself!”

Ronerelie watched with interest as Gaerwen tried to throw the loop over the broken end of the pillar. “What I want to know is why this wasn't Plan A in the first place.”

The rope flopped to the ground, and Gaerwen pulled it back in towards her. “I just wanted to see if we could push it over,” she replied.

“Figured as much.”

Seven or eight attempts later Gaerwen was scowling. “Just like..the ring toss...at a festival!” she grunted, and flung the rope at the pillar once more.

Ronerelie and Ra'Kothre both had grins on their faces. “Except the ring toss is rigged,” Ronerelie put in unhelpfully, and Ra'Kothre snickered.

Gaerwen caught the rope in its fall and turned; her face was red. She shoved the rope at Ronerelie. “You try it then!”

She snatched it from her hands. “Thought you'd never ask.” Ronerelie settled into a wide-legged stance, a look of intense concentration on her face. She bit her lip. The hand with the rope shot out -

And the rope missed by a mile. Ra'Kothre and Gaerwen burst into laughter behind her.

Back at his corner Donotham was biting his thumb anxiously. Scenarios were running through his head, each more unlikely than the last. At this point his only hope was to get the artifact somewhere in the interval between Aryon's retainers removing the pillar and entering the room. But what kind of distraction would draw them all away at once? Somehow he didn't think he could make ghost noises convincing enough for them all to run in the opposite direction. Maybe if they thought the ruins were collapsing...? But no, they would run towards the exit – towards him. Scaring them off was probably out, then.

Something to draw them, then. He very nearly snapped his fingers as he thought of something – Erer, a mage who hung around the Cornerclub in Sadrith Mora, had been teaching him a sort of voice-throwing spell that he hadn't had an opportunity to use outside of practice yet. Now was his chance to test it in the field.

He risked another peek around the corner. Someone had gotten the rope around the pillar, and they stood now in a line pulling at it. The pillar groaned and shifted, and Aryon's retainers redoubled their efforts. Donotham held his breath. The pillar tilted, and then with a slow sort of majesty toppled to the ground. The others jumped out of the way, and the crash of impact resounded almost belatedly in Donotham's ears.

It was now or never. Donotham selected a spot on the opposite side of the room, where another hallway opened up on the chamber, and cast his spell.

He ducked back behind the wall. He drew a deep breath and then, with all that his lungs had to give, shouted out a panicked “HELP!”

The call echoed across the cavern, and Donotham froze. The sound had not come from across from the room as he had intended, but from his own throat. His spell had failed.

Gaerwen, Ronerelie and Ra'Kothre rushed into the hallway, the latter two with their weapons drawn and Gaerwen carrying the torch. Upon catching sight of him they lowered their weapons slightly and slowed to a stop, looking confused. Taking advantage of the no doubt stricken expression on his face, Donotham said awkwardly, “Thought...thought I saw a ghost.” Thinking quickly he added, “Sorry I'm late, by the way.”

Ronerelie lowered her dagger exasperatedly. “What in Oblivion are you doing here?” she asked, and sheathed her weapon with more force than was necessary.

Donotham blinked. “Gaerwen didn't tell you I was coming?”

The other two looked at Gaerwen accusingly, and Donotham fought back a wince. He hated to put her on the spot like that. Gaerwen shrugged, eyes innocently wide. “I'm just as confused as you are!” She turned to Donotham and narrowed her eyes. “Just what are you trying to pull?”

Donotham raised his hands defensively. “I'm not trying to pull anything! Don't you remember, last night?” When Gaerwen just stared at him blankly, he said, “You mean you don't remember at all?”

“Gaerwen does not remember the Dunmer's bed?” Ra'Kothre put in with a snicker, and Gaerwen smacked him.

“We didn't sleep together, idiot,” she said, and leveled a glare at Donotham. “Or at least I should hope we didn't. I don't think I was that drunk...”

“No, no, I would never do that,” Donotham assured her, feeling vaguely insulted, and thought back to the night before. He and Gaerwen had indeed drunk together in the Tradehouse, on his part in hopes that a hangover would delay her departure. It looked like that little scheme had been to no avail, but perhaps she been drunk enough to buy his next gamble?... “I just – we were talking about Nchuleft, remember? And I was saying I wished I could see it, and you told me -” Donotham let his shoulders slump. “Look, I didn't mean to get you in trouble.”

Gaerwen's eyes softened slightly. “I'm hardly in trouble, Donotham. I do happen to be in charge of this little expedition -” Here she shot pointed looks at her two companions. Ra'Kothre just smiled innocently, and Ronerelie rolled her eyes. “ – and if I made a promise to you last night, I intend to keep it.”

“Really?” At Gaerwen's nod, Donotham let a smile spread across his face. He took one of her hands and clasped it both of his. “Thank you! Really, it's a miracle I got this far without a guide -”

Gaerwen shook his hands off, and though it was hard to tell through the blue-green tint of his Night-eye spell he thought he saw a blush on her cheeks. “It's no trouble, honestly,” she said, her voice softening. “If you made it this deep into the ruin without falling into a pit, I shouldn't have to babysit you.”

Donotham's smile grew a bit strained as he remembered the pit he had fallen into. “You won't even notice I'm here,” he told her, then raised his gaze to Ronerelie and Ra'Kothre. “I hope you don't mind?”

Ronerelie threw her arms up and turned away, as if to say, 'It's out of my hands.' Ra'Kothre just chuckled and muttered, “Scholars! No common sense at all.”

“Well! If that's settled,” Gaerwen said in a final tone. “You're just in time, actually, Donotham – we've just made it to the room with the Dwemer Whatsit.”

“How convenient!” Donotham commented cheerfully, and the four of them made their way to the hidden room.

With the pillar out of the way the opening was large enough to squeeze through, but only barely – it was narrow enough that Ra'Kothre, in all his armor, wouldn't fit, so he offered to stay outside to keep watch. “In case of of ghosts,” he said, wiggling his fingers at Donotham. Donotham made a face at the Khajiit and slipped through the crack.

The room was fairly small, by Dwemer architecture standards at any rate – Donotham reckoned a good-sized tavern would fit in here. From the numerous shelves and rotting books laying about it looked like this room had once been an office or library. On the floor was a burnt-out torch that looked fairly recent. Ronerelie toed it curiously. “Now what's this?” she murmured, half to herself.

Gaerwen for some reason turned a bit red. “Oh, that.” The faint undercurrent of guilt in her tone caused Ronerelie to turn and look at her sharply. “The torch wasn't bright enough to light up the inside of the room from out there, so I threw it in here.”

Ronerelie stared at Gaerwen. “And it didn't occur to you that you might send the place up in flames?” She gestured at the loose pages on the floor.

“I took a calculated risk,” Gaerwen huffed.

“...It didn't occur to you,” Ronerelie concluded flatly. After a moment she shook her head and strode further into the room. “Now where did you see this thing?”

Embarrassment forgotten, Gaerwen ran ahead. “It's hanging from the far wall, difficult to –” She skidded to a stop. In the light of the torch they could see that the floor had collapsed into the room below, leaving a wide gap across the entire width of the room. He could see the Whatsit hanging on the wall across the room, larger and more complete than the one in the museum, but without a way across the hole in the floor it remained inaccessible.

“...miss,” Gaerwen finished, as Donotham came up behind her. She cursed under her breath and looked about the room for another way across. “That looked a lot easier to jump from outside.”

“Gee, a big hole in the ground,” Ronerelie drawled. “What a surprise.”

“Seems to be a running theme in this place,” Donotham muttered. Gaerwen glanced at him curiously but didn't say anything.

“You wouldn't happen to know any useful spells, would you?” Ronerelie asked him dryly. “Levitation, telekinesis, that sort of thing?”

Donotham shook his head. “Telekinesis, but it certainly can't reach that far,” he said, considering the distance thoughtfully.

Something caught his eye as they examined their newest obstacle. “Let me have the torch for the second,” he asked Gaerwen, and she obligingly handed it over. He headed over to one of the walls the hole bisected, left intact by whatever had destroyed the floor. Unlike the opposite wall this one was made of the natural stone of the mountain itself. Over the years stress had taken its toll, and it was riddled with small cracks. A grin grew on his face. “I think I have a solution.” He tossed the torch back to Gaerwen and shrugged off his pack.

Ronerelie had come over and seemed to have divined Donotham's intentions. “There's no way you can climb across,” she told him, eyes lazily narrowed. “How in Oblivion would you even hold on?”

Donotham wagged his finger at her reprovingly. “Watch and learn, friend – watch and learn!” He ran his fingers over the rock, searching for a viable handhold. His fingers slid into a crack, and he tested his weight against it. The rock held, and he swung himself to hang from the wall.

Behind him Gaerwen whistled. “Not bad...”

“Just wait, he'll lose his grip sooner or later,” he heard Ronerelie say.

He shifted a bit in his grip and braced his feet against the rock. When he had gotten into a more stable position he tilted his head back to wink at the two women back on the ledge. “Your confidence in my abilities is inspiring,” he said with a grin. Ronerelie rolled her eyes at him.

Inch by inch he made his way across the gap, clinging to whatever handholds he could find. Finally he got a foothold on the far ledge and hauled himself up. He wiped his hands on his pants. “So it's this thing over here?” he asked unnecessarily, already moving towards the Whatsit.

“Mm-hm,” Gaerwen said. He heard her take a step forward, and the light of the torch shifted, the shadows it cast dancing in response. “Quick, get it down! I want to see it.”

“What all else is over there?” Ronerelie put in. “Anything interesting?”

“Well, let's see....” Donotham put two fingers to his eyes and muttered a spell. The ruins flared to life in a dull aquamarine hue, and he fought back a wince as pain flashed behind his eyes. Seems he'd overdone all those Night-eye spells. “There's a desk here with something that might have been a book once on it...I guess this is an inkwell? There's an abacus with glass beads, looks like it's in good shape. Too big for me to carry over, though.” He spun one of the glass beads absentmindedly. “Lots of...stuff that probably used to be paper...” He patted his hands over the desk, searching for anything that might have escaped his eyes. His palm landed on something small and circular. “Ooh, a ring!” He put it on without much thought. It was a little too large for his fingers, but it stayed on well enough.

Gaerwen made an annoyed noise behind him. “Just get the Whatsit already!”

Donotham waved his hands in the air. “All right, all right!” He leaned over the desk and reached with both hands to lift the Whatsit from where it hung on the wall with various tools. He grasped it carefully, and jerked slightly when he found it lighter than he had expected. “Got it!” Experimentally he turned one of the gears; the other gears spun in response, some almost imperceptibly. Everything moved in fits and starts, dust having built up over the years in between the gears.

“Just how do you plan on bringing that back over?” Ronerelie asked.

Donotham stared at the device in his hands for a moment, then at the wall he had to climb. He looked back at the other two. Ronerelie had a wry grin on her face, and Gaerwen seemed to be holding back a giggle. “Um,” he said.

Ronerelie sighed pointedly and flung his pack over the gap. Donotham caught it in one hand. “I assume that won't unbalance you too much?”

“I can climb with my pack on,” Donotham said defensively. “It's just easier without.” He slipped the artifact gently into his pack, sandwiching it between coils of rope, and began the tedious climb back over.

By the time he had reached the other side Gaerwen was actually bouncing on the balls of her feet. Even Ronerelie turned from her lazy perusal of the bookshelves with barely restrained interest. Without needing to be asked Donotham took the device from his pack and handed it to the Bosmer woman.

Gaerwen took it reverently, and Ronerelie crowded forward to get a good look. “This is even better than I had hoped for!” she breathed. “Look at this – the engraved writing is so clear!”

“It doesn't even look like any pieces are missing,” Ronerelie added. She ran her fingers lightly over the ancient gears. Neither of them dared to turn the gears as Donotham had.

After a few minutes of studying the device, spouting random bits of commentary Donotham couldn't understand all the while, Gaerwen carefully wrapped it in a cloth before slipping it into her own pack. “Now,” she said to Donotham. “Let me take a look at that ring.”

Donotham started; he had almost forgotten about the thing. He held up the hand with the ring for Gaerwen to take. He smiled mischievously. “What's the verdict?”

Gaerwen mirrored his expression and took his hand in one of hers. She pulled his fingers straight gently, in the process stroking them rather unnecessarily, and leaned forward. A soft puff of breath ghosted across his fingers. “You? Definitely guilty,” she said. Her eyes shone in the flickering torchlight. “But this ring?” She pursed her lips and studied it seriously before smiling seductively again. “A common ring of the house of Dreurnac, a large artisan family. We have one just like it in the museum.” She pushed his hand back to rest on his chest. “Keep it. I'm sure you'll take good care of it.”

Ronerelie scoffed from where she was squeezed half-in and half-out of the crack in the wall. “Quit flirting and get moving,” she told them. “I want to get back to Tel Vos by nightfall.”

Donotham raised an eyebrow at Gaerwen. His grin widened. “Flirting? Are we flirting?”

“Oh, I don't know!” Gaerwen said airily, the smile never leaving her face. She walked casually over to the crack, hips swaying invitingly. “Have I even once fluttered my eyelashes at you?”

Donotham followed with a certain nonchalant slouch to his posture. “Well something's been fluttering, certainly,” he drawled.

“Ugh,” was all Ronerelie had to say to that. Gaerwen and Donotham laughed, and outside Ra'Kothre added his own deep rumbling chuckle.

Part One complete of Plan...he supposed he was on C by now. As they walked through the dusty ruin, the empty halls considerably more cheerful with company, even as he talked and joked with the others his mind worked furiously. Plan C, if he could even call it a plan, would need a lot of work before he could get out of Tel Vos, Dwemer artifact tucked safely into his pack, with none the wiser.