4
They pulled me up in fronta His Jarlness Whiterun, and I thought for sure I would be executed on the spot.
His Jarlness on his granite throne surrounded by his ministers was lookin like it was all a bit dull. I having had an ale or two was feelin quite the opposite. You’d never guess from his face the guy was quizzin me on a buncha folks sayin they saw a dragon at Helgen.
“You were at Helgen, were you not?” he says to me with a yawn, hand out like la-de-da, “Or are you a prisoner washed in from somewhere else?”
After sittin in the grotto for another half hour, I’s finally convinced Old Ugly was dead enough to creep past his corpse. I had a look about for Ulfric, knowin I was a wanted man in the south and likely as not t’be wanted in Whiterun too by Arcadia, who’d fronted Margeth n me the gold for our little pharmaceutical venture. With Ulfric I could get into Windhelm, where it was cold as ass but at least nobody much knew me.
Well anyway I was standin on the road lookin down onto Whiterun Plain, and thought I saw a carriage about four miles off to the northeast. Goin like a blight outta Oblivion, it were. Soon as I saw it I knew there went my ride.
While I was standin there, feelin plenty sorry for myself n poor dead Margeth, I did happen t’hear horses round the bend above the bridge. I still had the goldy-coloured sword in my hand like any dumbass bandit, n so shoved it under the rotten piece of linen passin for my belt.
Glad I did. For sure enough, my ears din fail me, and there happened along the six shitty guard-horses poorly mounted by six tin-headed ‘perials.
“Drop your weapon!” shouts five of the ‘perials at once. I already have my hands in the air. Horses canter round me. Says the sixth silver, an elf woman bit brighter, cleaner, n certainly easier on the eyes than the rest, “Some of my men reported seeing a dragon in the area. What can you tell me about it?”
“Nothin,” I said, hands in the air, a blade ticklin my throat. “Except it’s over there.”
I tip my head up the hill. ‘perials clamour, all of them drawing weapons. Elf shouts for a couple of them to check if I be truthin. They go, she looks me up and then down.
“You’re a prisoner.”
Surprise she noticed over the stench and the leaf mould and the mud. “Got free legit,” I tell her, with a burnt and grimy smile. Try for charming, go on. “Dragon dropped into Helgen, gave us all a pardon.”
Elf’s eyes narrowed. Horsehead crest on her shield showed she’s a Whiterunner. “Arrest him. No one bar the Jarls and the High King (rest his soul) grant pardon in Skyrim.”
Wonner the ‘perials wriggles his sword my way. “We could kill him now. Save us the trouble of having to cart his sorry ass home.”
Elf pauses. Considers. “No,” she says at last, n I nearly dance with relief. Not that it’s ever more’n an hour between attempts on my life anyway. “We’ll take him. The court will be interested to hear his account. Jarl Balgruuf can decide whether he is to live or to die.”
As silvers one and two are helping me into shackles, I say, “Brother, I’m parched. Would you have any ale on ye?”
Grumbling, silver one nonetheless obliges, passin me the flagon on his hip. It isn’t good solid Nord mead, but crappy runny ‘perial wine. Tastes of Cyrodiil and oppression. Well I might be biased by the continual attempt of ‘perials to kill me for not doin nothin. And I guess oppression ain’t all that bad cause afore I know it the flagon is empty.
“Thanks, brother.” With hands shackled before me I toss silver one the flagon. “Wouldn’t have any mead to wash away the taste?”
Silver two shoves a bottle of Nord mead into my hand before silver one can belt me over the head with the flagon. I’m enjoying the powerful aftertaste from the comfort of a poorly-bred draft horse when the two reconnaissance agents come a-galloping over the ridge, shoutin, “It’s dead! It’s already dead!”
Elf is suspicious, eye slotted, mouth hard. “You’re certain?”
“Lady. There’s a pretty difference tween a live dragon n a dead one. They’d pick it.”
It ain’t my turn t’speak, but whadda they gun do – arrest me?
Well, whatever it is, it isn’t unarrest me. ‘s how I wound up lookin at His Jarlness Whiterun with a belly full of cheap mead and wine, wonderin if His Jarlness ever did a single dirty day’s work with them long thin hands or if they was entirely for makin him appear pensive.
“I ain’t from Helgen,” I tell him, since he was kind enough t’ask. “Born n bred in Shar’s Stone. And I wouldn’t mind gettin back there if your Majesty is done detaining me.”
His Jarlness seems almost amused. “Majesty? You really are a simpleton! We would be as foolish as you are to expect your witness; evidently this dragon business is some fantasy of the lower classes. Never mind it. As thanks for your assistance in the matter, knave, I hereby pardon your transgressions in the Hold. Irileth, show him the door.”
Actually I’ve already seen the door n’ve been thinking about it a whole bunch, specifically never seeing the back of it again. Seems His Jarlness isn’t such a bad bloke after all.
Elf has just got her dainty killer hands on me when mon signor’s steward clears his throat. “Yer Lordship. The going rate for any information provided for the aid of the Hold is fifty Septims, for a knave...”
Did someone say Septims? I turn from the beautiful door to His Jarlness, who is already scowlin at me, or maybe was scowlin inwardly anyway the entire time, likely as not smellin the skooma n mead n wine on my breath and jealous as a spriggan over its grove that it’s my breath and not his.
I let him glower. He soon runs to the end of it. “Fine.” He reaches under hisself on the seat, drawing out a ratty coin purse and tossing it to the steward, which that excellent man then passes to me. Heavy. About forty-eight Septims heavy, I’d gauge. Figure my freedom accounts for the missing pieces. Probably the deal is His Jarlness promises not to behead me if I promise not to mention his being skinflint.
I make the coin purse disappear into my filthy tunic. Even manage a bow, which is really just a mooning in reverse. The Elf hovers at my side. She seems even lovelier now the world has taken on Tiber Septim’s golden glow. I smile at her and she scowls at me. But’a course; she’s a Dunmer, and Dunmer hate everybody. Matter o fact once I knew a Dunmer hated everyone so badly that when his wife cheated on him he threw her a party.
Moments later I’m out the door. I din get much of a tour’a Dragon’s Reach, but it dun take much figuring to know I preferred the outside better.
Guards on the drawbridge hurry me on. I’ve heard the Jarl’s unwanted visitors often end up under the bridge as opposed t’on toppa it. Yeah. The view is definitely better up here. Orange sunset makes a fiery lake of the plains. About a quarter hour til the shops shut and the real drinking gets started. I need to get to Belethor’s and then the inn if I’m to find a sucker give me a lift to Shor’s Stone tomorrow.
“Brotherrr!” Heimskr cries as I pour myself down the stairs into the upper plaza. “Does the love of Talos fill yourr hearrrt, guide yourrr everrrrry action?”
I stop short by him, tastin mead on the air. “It sure does, cousin. Why just this mornin I said to Talos I said, boy, Talos, I’d sure love it if ev’y man n his dragon in Skyrim up n tried t’kill me, and d’you know what? Good old Talos saw to it my wish came true!”
Heimskr breaks into a huge, beaming grin, which nestles like a wolf lying in ambush in the red bush of his beard. “Talos does oblige the faithful.”
“Yup. Reckon he might also summon an ale for me since I asked. Tell you what; Imma wait at the inn for a miracle to happen.”
“Don’t wait, brother! Go, spread the love of Talos!” Heimskr reaches into his robe and flings a bottle’a mead at me. He sounds one hearty prayer from orgasm. Unwilling to become the trigger for another man’s pleasure, I quickly thank him and run across the plaza n down the stairs into the marketplace. On the way I down the mead, secreting the bottle behind Carlotta’s fruit stall. She shouts somethin at me, but my eyes are on Belethor’s main man Sigurd out front’a his place. Sigurd is lounging by the door and he hastily shoves a bottle behind hisself as he catches my eye. Word on the street is Sigurd is set to take over shop should Belethor ever slip up on his own slimy trail. I palm a Septim to him, look meaningfully towards the mead bottle and then to him, and wink.
Sigurd turns the red of a Daedra rose and hurries to open the door for me.
“Don’t tell!”
“I won’t,” I tell him, “But you’d better give me that mead bottle all the same. Belethor asks about your breath I’ll tell him I kissed you on the mouth.”
He dun divvy up, but nor does he resist when I pry the bottle from his hands. With refreshments thusly provided, I roll into the shop, Sigurd hopping on my heels.
Belethor greets us both with a hearty roar of, “You! What’re you doing in here!”
Sigurd n myself share a moment of confusion. Then Belethor stalks out from behind the counter, cocks his fist, and punches me to the floor. I din expect the hit yet nonetheless have been punched enough times in the mouth that I roll with it n don’t lose so much as a tooth.
“That’s for skipping out of town on me!” Belethor bellows from somewhere above his knees, which are as much of him as I can see. The view dun greatly improve upon my revival, as I’m a good head taller than my lecherous buddy n can easily pick out the bald patch he thinks he’s combed out of sight.
“Excuse me. Last time I saw you we’s both got drunk n then when I woke up the next day you’d bet all my gold on a mule in a horse race n sold my clothes to pay for your drinks.” I stare down at Belethor. He squirms. As a toad tends to when caught in a hole. “Don’t you try t’dig yer way through the floorboards, either,” I tell him, “I want new clothes or my old ones back, and drinks t’make up for the ones you enjoyed on my Septim.”
“You do stink horribly,” Belethor agrees, somewhat made mollied by the looming list of transgressions I could recall at any moment. Belethor might seem like your everyday scummer-Tamriel merchant, but you ever see him at a bard’s night when the lute n drums are bringing down the crossbeams and you’ll known he’s a Daedra at heart.
He hesitates a moment longer by the fire pit before swaggering over to a wardrobe. “I don’t keep this stuff on display,” he calls over his shoulder, as sweet as if he were born a lamb, “It’s too good. For the everyday customer, that is. For you I think it will be just right.”
Sigurd glances at me, sees I’ve finished his mead, and hurries to fetch us another drink. “What happened to ya anyway, mister?” he wonders as he pulls bottles of Alto wine from under the counter, “You get under arrest fer summin?”
Did I ever tell you drinking makes of me a proficient liar? Well I prob’ly woulda told you while I was sober, but being drunk you’d more likely be smellin bullshit.
“I’m a secret agent, working for His Highness.”
This is as far as I get before Belethor bursts out laughing. He turns from the wardrobe. “You? A secret agent for the – the who? Torygg (bless his immortal soul)? What’re you investigating in those rags – the quality of Skyrim’s prisons?”
“I was tasked with infiltratin the ‘perial legion in order to suss weaknesses in allegiance to His Highness General Tullius.” That dun sound quite right to me but it’s too late now to change it. “So far I’ve discovered seventy-five per cent of ‘perials are actually Cloaker spies.”
I would’a sided with Ulfric’s boys, only after he done left me to die in the woods I din have half as many nice words for him as was needed to lie about it.
Belethor has gone back to his rummaging. He pulls out the odd garment and drapes it over his arm. ‘Wow. I didn’t realise the silvers were so far down shit creek.”
“It ain’t shit creek; it’s Cloaker Creek, n they’re paddlin as fast as their little heads can handle.”
With a snort, Belethor leaves off pickin dresses for me n wanders back over with what he’s got. “How about that dropkick brother of yours? He a secret agent as well?”
“No,” I say, and take a draught of Alto wine to waylay the treacle pumping through my arteries. “On account of he’s dead.”
You can tell the news shocks them from how they just stand there, slack-jawed n starin at me. Difference is Sigurd is a good kid n likely feels poorly for the death of a man, while Belethor is gutted he lost of source of income. I swear that man mourns every death in Tamriel.
Finally, he clears his throat, and drops his starin eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that. I won’t say Margeth was the greatest contributor to the glory of Nordkind, but he had his moments. Man always knew where to find skooma. Like a horse smelling water.”
“To Talos,” says Sigurd.
The eulogy is over and I’m not sure if I should be crying. It’s true what they say; Margeth never had a talent, not a single one, other than gettin his hands on skooma n mead n very cheap women. He couldn’t read, or chop wood good, or play the lute, or skin rabbits, or even pick deathbell very well. But he was my brother. He was my brother and I loved him.
“’preciate your condolences,” I mutter. I look briefly at the exquisite garments Belethor has brought me over. They really aren’t all that bad, so either he’s feelin poorly for screwin me over last time or he reckons I’ve got gold now that I’m workin for General Tullius. “How much is that?”
Belethor holds up some brown patchwork thing looks cheaper’n the rest. “For you? Forty-eight Septims. I’ll throw in a pair of boots for free.”
I started with either forty-seven or forty-eight Septims and gave wonner them to Sigurd. “Maybe y’oughta show me what you show yer regulars.”
“Naw, come on. Take it. Forty-eight Septims is all it will set you back.”
“Forty-seven,” I say, “And you owe me another drink.” And then a bunch more drinks once I stole his wallet.
“Done. You can get dressed out the back.” He pauses, glancing me up and down. “You don’t... you’re not going out in that state, are you? You’ll scare off the whores!”
“Oblivion no. You got a pump I could use t’get cleaned up?”
Quarter hour later I’m s’fficiently clothed and as clean as I ever am. I also know the reason Belethor sold me the fine robe so cheap is the inner lining is so moth eaten it disintegrated as I pulled it on. One of the boots he gave me has a hole the size of a Septim in the sole, but that was nothing couldn’t be patched with a little cardboard n nail. I check my reflection on the pump splashback to realise I’s much blonder than I recall. I toss my prison rags in the shop-back fireplace as I wander downstairs.
Belethor n his boy are standin by the open door onto the marketplace. There’s a heckova ruckus coming from outside, jingle of a lotta steel armour in motion. Belethor ushers me closer, game t’touch me now I ain’t smellin like a bed’a corpses.
“Being that you’re a secret agent, you might know about this,” he whispers, fixed as Sigurd on the commotion, “What’s this about a dragon?”
I retreat from the door. There’s plenty of mead and Alto wine in here. No need to go out and risk being spotted by silvers in need. Plus the room is swayin as the laws of physics sync to my drunkenness. “It’s classified. Dragon is a codename for a really boring project I can’t tell you anythin about. Where d’you keep the Black-Briar mead?”
He doesn’t answer, so I help myself to the stock under the counter. Soon as Belethor hears the hiss of quality mead reacting with air he lifts his head towards me. I’m sittin in his chair n drinkin his beer.
“Get out of that!”
“Shut the door and I’ll share it with ya.”
Belethor dun take much convincing. Sigurd dun take any at all. We’re sittin around the fire pit having a grand if hazy time listenin to Sigurd tell us about the one time he nearly got laid but then didn’t on account of his being morally uptight about sleepin with his cousin, and we might’ve all had three or six or fifteen or so when the door bursts open and this vision of an Elf in leather armour bursts in with twenty other ‘perials behind her.
One of her triplets waves her sword in my direction. “Prisoner, you must come quickly. Urgent news from the south – a dragon is attacking the western watchtower!”
I’m about to say no (in fact I’ve said it a couple times) when she begs me,
“Please, you must. Only you have experience with the dragons. You must help us save Whiterun!”
Gee, thanks, Talos.
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