Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Colville is a fool. If he had it all his way, we would be little more than a band of minstrels telling stories no one cares about,” Persaye grumbled. S’maash was not altogether surprised by her opinion. For a moment longer, they stared at one another. “Well, I know of the tome you seek and will gladly give it you,” her words trailed off like honey.
She ran fingers through her chestnut locks then smiled at S’maash. In turn, he raised his brow quizzically.
“Naturally, you require something on my part,” he said.
She nodded. “I want Colville removed. I don’t care how, I just want him gone,” Persaye said, looking away.
The elf gauged her. He thought she might have remorse or embarrassment. She did not.
“Why don’t you do it?”
She turned back to him with a frown then placed her chin in her left hand, elbow on the table. “The rest of the Blades won’t follow my lead…Colville is not a bad person, no, he is rather well liked and respected. I require a seemingly natural progression to Captain of the Blades.”
“You could hire the Dark Brotherhood.”
“Yes…surely he would be gone then, but I do prefer a less violent end.”
“You have something in mind?”
“I do, and it requires an outsider,” she answered. “Colville has a son, a young boy. Colville’s mother lives in a settlement just outside Markarth. She watches the boy. If you convince Colville that his family is in danger, he might resign from the Blades and settle back home. In this manner, no one gets hurt, and I rise to captain; you get your book, and everyone wins,” Persaye explained.
S’maash nodded. I do need that book, don’t I? No one has to get hurt, hopefully. Perhaps….
“How do you intend to carry this out,” S’maash inquired.
“I have a forged document implying a Forsworn attack on Left Hand Mine is imminent. Deliver it to the Jarl of Markarth. News will travel; I’ll make sure of that. Once it reaches Colville’s ears, I’ll make sure he tends to it. Finally, after he mobilizes the Blades, you’ll have to lead the Forsworn to Left Hand Mine,” she said.
“Lead the Forsworn?!” he was shocked. She shushed him and, they looked around. No one had overheard. “How will I do that?”
“You’ll have to enter a nearby redoubt and let them attack you. If you pose as a wandering merchant and leave behind a supply bundle along with another, forged document I’ve prepared, they’ll believe you came from Left Hand Mine. No doubt, they will mount a raid,” Persaye replied.
“Unless they strike me down.”
“A possibility you’ve no doubt encountered many times. I saw you handle yourself today. I beleive you can do this…this is the only way you’ll get your book, and the Blades at your side, to boot,” Persaye smiled.
S’maash nodded rhythmically as he considered her proposition. “Both the Blades and Markarth’s guard will help to quell the Forsworn raid, right,” S’maash asked. “I won’t do this if anyone gets hurt in the process.”
“No one will get hurt,” she huffed. “Except for the Forsworn, of course.”
Grinding his teeth, he tried to search his feelings. The Forsworn were people, and they had a right to live, but he had come to learn that their way of life consisted of raiding, and if they had no raid planned on that particular day, it made little difference; one way or another, the bandits were going to attack at some point. They needed quelling.
“Alright, but…you mentioned Colville’s family.”
“With Colville tricked by my words, he’ll doubtlessly make sure Left Hand Mine is evacuated before the Forsworn arrive,” she replied.
“When can I have the book?”
“Once I’m captain, I’ll have it delivered to where ever you like,” she answered.
“You might as well send it to the College of Winterhold. If I’m not there, Archmage Tolfdir may accept it. Now, I’ll deliver that message to the Jarl,” S’maash said.
Persaye handed over two, folded pieces of parchment, each sealed with wax. “This one, with the Blades’ seal, is for the Jarl. This one, with the red wax, is your false, merchant, supply list. Safe travels, S’maash.”
He took the documents then proceeded out of Skyhaven Temple. Several hours had passed and night was settling over Karthspire. Corpses of the previous battle littered the bloody ground. S’maash made the slow journey to Markarth.
Trudging on, he pondered over the implications of Persaye’s plan. Everything sounded under control, and his part was minimal. He continued walking in the cold, Skyrim night. An uneventful journey down the paved road led right to the mining settlement of Left Hand Mine. S’maash did not so much as stop to look. Instead, he proceeded directly inside the walls of the former, dwemer city. Exhausted, he crossed the stone bridges to Understone keep.
“Hail, summoner. Conjure me up a warm bed, would you,” the guard posted outside the brass-like doors asked.
“No, Ma’am,” S’maash replied, indifferently.
Inside the keep, it was far too early for the Jarl to be awake, so the elf waited. After an eternity of boredom, and slight nervousness, S’maash went to check on Aicantar, just hoping he was awake. The dunmer was glad to find the high elf busy with some books on the falmer.
“Greetings, Aicantar,” S’maash called as he approached.
“What? Oh yes, greetings, S’maash. How are you?”
“Fairly well, I suppose, and yourself?”
“I was pouring over some translations my uncle left behind. I fear the falmer may be mounting some kind of attack on surface dwellers in the future,” Aicantar replied.
“Truly?”
“Aye. Fortunately for us, here in Markarth, we should be well protected.”
“But the falmer have easy access into Markarth by way of Nchuand-Zel,” S’maash rebutted. “Or they did before we ventured inside….”
“Well, yes and no. The automated defenses hold up quite well, too. If they did indeed attempt an attack from the dwemer city, the guard would have an easy time keeping them at bay. Furthermore, a simple barring of the doors would suffice. Truthfully, having access to the falmer via Nchuand-Zel has its benefits,” Aicantar explained.
The conversation gave S’maash a new respect for strategies of war. After further discussions, and the sun’s rising, he bid Aicantar good day, and headed to the Jarl’s throne room.
The Jarl, Thongvor Silver-Blood, was an aging nord, bald and gruff. As such, he was unwilling to be bothered, so in turn, his steward took S’maash’s note.
“You think the Forsworn will attack,” Reburrus asked.
“It is not for me to know. The Blades believe it a likely event. After a short meeting with them, in the wake of a battle between them and the Forsworn, they bid me provide you with this parchment,” S’maash answered.
“I will have word with the Jarl. He often worries The Reach is in danger of such attacks. Here is a small payment for your trouble.”
He handed S’maash twenty five Septims then bid him safe travels. Upon concluding the conversation, the elf traveled into town. He asked around for the provisions store and was directed to Arnleif and Son’s Supply. The modest shop was located just inside Markarth’s doors. Inside, a red haired woman with a fuzzy cap addressed him.
“No, I’m not Arnleif. Yes, I know it’s called Arnleif and Son’s.”
“Very well...I simply need to purchase supplies,” S’maash replied.
“I’m Lisbet. The selection seems small, but we can provide everything you need. Just ask.” S’maash purchased some clothing to cover his travel hardened figure and packs and satchels to better portray a merchant. He then filled those bags with some relatively cheap provisions including food, potions, soul gems, pelts, and ingots. By the time he was set, he had spent one hundred Septims. “Thank you for your patronage,” she said.
“One, last thing; what can you tell me about the Forsworn?”
“The Madmen of the Reach? They hav
e structures around. They call them redoubts. The closest one is Cold Wind Reach, a smaller camp to the northeast. What business do you have with those animals,” Lisbet asked.
“I, I just want to steer clear of their camps,” S’maash feigned a smile.
Lisbet shrugged indifferently, so the elf exited Markarth and started the long journey towards Cold Wind Reach. The early day’s sun was rather warm. No wind blew, and S’maash was comfortable traveling.
It did not take too long to reach the redoubt. He saw the wooden construct built into the mountain side from hundreds of paces off the road. While approaching, an arrow landed at his feet. He looked up and overcasted ebony flesh.
“I’m just a traveling merchant,” S’maash called out.
“You’ll be easy to rob when you’re dead,” came back, from an angry, female archer.
S’maash saw the feathers in her hair from where he stood. He feigned running, and feigned difficulty in running as well. To lighten his load, and move faster, he dropped his new, leather bags. Inside one was the forged list. Everything was in place, so long as S’maash ran away before a real fight broke out.
The wizard had developed quite a bit of stamina in his travels, so it was with relative ease that he ran all the way back to Markarth’s stables. Upon arriving, and only just out of breath, he approached the cart master, who was sitting on his carriage, outside the town walls.
“Need a ride,” the nord asked.
“Yes. To Winterhold, please.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine