The slaves’ bunkhouse was dark and freezing, all the slaves were lying on the ground on the damp straw, and the constant rattling of their chains kept Grulmar awake. He could feel the familiar weight on his wrists and ankles too, the chains and shackles cold against his skin, only reminding him of the recent escape attempts. The Dres were now more careful than ever, shackling their Orcish slaves during the night, lowering their chances of escape even more.
The twelve-year-old Grulmar had learned to understand his new place in life quite quickly and escape was something he didn’t even dare think about.
He was lying on his side, shivering even as his back burned, two new whip-marks added to his collection. He had done nothing wrong of course, he had just been doing his job, but the overseer had felt the need to break the so-called indomitable spirit of the Orcs. And it was some spirit. The older ones never stopped fighting, always pushing the boundaries of their enslavement, hoping for a quick death instead. But their little revolts always reflected back to hurt the other slaves, making all their lives even harder. The entire group suffered for the transgressions of one person.
This night the slavers came to the bunkhouse shortly after sundown, dragging several Orcs away. Gularzob - Grulmar’s older brother - was among them.
Gularzob was the only family he had left. He hadn’t seen anyone else of his clan since the great auction in Kragenmoor where he had been ripped right out of his mother’s arms.
And now they were taking Zob away without a single word and he was scared. If his brother didn’t came back he… he would be all alone in this world.
‘Psst, runt! Ya sleepin?’
Not entirely alone apparently. The voice echoed between his ears, clear and audible. Which didn’t mean Grulmar was in the mood for talk, certainly not with the voice. It was all his fault.
‘I know y’are up, I can feel yer eyes twitch under yer eyelids. Listen, I got a bit further away tonight, almost reached the main house. I’m gettin’ further and further away every day! Just imagine it, constantly pushin’ the limit. How far could I go with enough practice? What else I could do beside talk?’
‘Go away,’ Grulmar hissed silently. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘I understand how ya feel-’
‘How could you?’ the Orc snapped angrily. ‘You’re just a voice, nothing more. A voice that caused all this. Because of you I am here, because of you my family has been torn away from me. Because of you!’ He was whispering, but even then he could feel his voice dripping with the poison of anger, and he noticed some of the slaves turning around in their sleep, stirring in their slumber.
‘Damn. It’s like I’m hearin’ myself right now,’ the voice replied after a moment of silence, with pain behind his words. ‘That anger, that… loathing. I just never expected I could ever be on the receivin’ end…’
‘I hate you,’ the Orc silently sobbed, curling up on the floor.
‘I know,’ came a sad and broken reply. ‘I’m sorry.’
The door into the bunkhouse suddenly burst open and all the slaves immediately jumped up, huddling close to each other. Light from a lantern illuminated the bunkhouse, shining on every single one of them, and then a Dunmer walked in. Grulmar recognized the face, the grimace. Overseer Aven Dres. The Dunmer was playing with the whip at his belt and then he snorted, looking over his shoulder and nodding.
Two Dunmer walked in, dragging someone between them and they threw the person on the floor. The light of the lantern revealed an Orc, covered in bruises and blood and Grulmar immediately recognized Gularzob. But he didn’t dare move.
Aven Dres’ eyes found him and they glistened with cruel pleasure and he snorted again like the pig he was before walking off, slamming the door shut behind him.
‘Is that… Gularzob? Shit. What did they do to him? What happened here?’ the voice pressed.
Nobody dared approach Gularzob, including Grulmar - especially Grulmar. What if he was dead? What if his older brother was dead? What if-
Gularzob groaned and Grulmar quickly moved closer to him, his chains rattling in the process. ‘Zob?’ he spoke, turning his brother on his back and then he froze. Gularzob’s face was swollen and covered in blood, his skin was split in several places, the slave brand on his left cheek was even more prominent now. ‘Zob! What did they do?’
Gularzob opened his eye and looked straight at Grulmar, seemingly finding enough strength to smile at him. ‘Don’t tell me you were worried, little brother,’ he chuckled and then groaned in pain. ‘Could I have a drop of water?’
Grulmar ran towards the bucket they were using to catch rain water and made a bowl out of his hands, carrying at least some to his brother. He poured it down his throat and Gularzob groaned again - though this time it was difficult to say if it was in pain or pleasure.
‘This doesn’t look good. Not at all.’
Grulmar ignored the voice. ‘What did they do?’
‘They made us fight,’ Gularzob narrowed his eye, anger glistening in it. ‘Fight the Argonians and Khajiit. Then fight each other. And there were Dunmer all around, cheering and laughing. We fought just for their amusement, little brother, for their amusement. Some died. Some were taken away, probably sold.’
‘Tuskin’ Dunmer pieces of pissin’ shit-’
‘Shut up!’ Grulmar growled and Gularzob frowned, looking at his brother with worry.
‘The voice again?
Grulmar nodded.
Gularzob grabbed him by his forearm and squeezed. ‘I’m here, little brother. Don’t listen to the voice. Listen to me. You and me, we will survive this, together. I will protect you. Do you hear me? I will always protect you.’
And Grulmar nodded again.
Together they would survive everything. They would take care of each other, protect each other. They were brothers, bound by blood and heritage. Nothing could separate them.
The Dres took Gularzob away the following week, for the fights in the mansion. He never came back.
Lash woke up and squinted into the dim light of the dying lantern. His back was burning with pain and he could feel the cold shackles on his wrists. For a moment he thought he was still in Morrowind. He looked around the small room and suddenly recalled - Anvil. Yes, Anvil. And the shackles around his wrist… he had clasped them there before he fell asleep - a terrible habit, but it helped him sleep for some reason.
He looked up and noticed two shadows standing above him.
Well, that’s new. He blinked several times and rubbed his eyes. When he looked again, there were still two shadows. One was intangible, smoke-like, and the second was - wait, is that the boy who stitched up my back last night? Something was different about that one now. The elf’s stance was neutral, almost stoic, and when Lash found his silver eyes they seemed completely devoid of life. He had seen such eyes before. Plenty of slaves stared like that when they were completely broken, unable to feel anything anymore.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked as he began rising from his bed, groaning as the wound on his back reminded him to take it slow.
‘Well, we’ve got a bit of a turn of events with Doll here,’ the shadow pointed at the boy. ‘He’s not really a slave, he’s… an assassin. Seems like there are people who actually want to put out the slavery, but instead of goin’ at it from the gutter like we do, they go straight up. So if we help him find that person, in return Doll will help us. Somehow.’
’I will?’ the boy spoke, polite but utterly cold. ’I do not remember discussing any such thing, Mister Sticker.’
Lash blinked a few times, his eyes darting to the shadow and back to the boy. ’Assassin? Mister Sticker? I think I’m still sleeping because I don’t follow.’ This boy - this fragile girlish little boy - was an assassin? Difficult to believe at best, but then again the change in his bearing was quite obvious. He rubbed his eyes again and sighed, walking towards his desk to get a bit of water - maybe that would wake him up.
’Yes. Sticker. Would ya believe it? It took me almost seven years to figure out my own name, and boy, does it fit, eh? But seven years! Me! How could that happen, right?’
’I do not think that is what Mister Grulmar is struggling to understand,’ Doll said dully.
Grulmar looked over his shoulder, glancing at the shadow - who for some reason had taken the form of a robed man with his head covered by a hood. ’So you’re talking with others again?’
’Well… Didn’t want to wake ya up.’
Grulmar took a sip of the water and grimaced. Rainwater collected from the roof. Old, tasting of rust. He sat down into the chair, sighing again. His cloak was draped over the back. He rested his neck on it and rolled his head before speaking again. ’Alright, slowly this time. You’re calling yourself “Sticker” now and the boy is an assassin.’
’Yeah, infiltrated the auction with hopes of bein’ bought by the middleman workin’ for the person backin’ - and pretty much allowin’ - all the slavery in Anvil. Guess that didn’t go accordin’ to plan. I wonder why.’
Lash glared at the smoke-like figure. “If you have something relevant to say, shadow, then say it. If not then shut up.’
Sticker melted like a slab of ice, spilling all over the floor. ‘Nope, nothin’ to say.’
Doll watched the shadow crawl under the bed with one eyebrow cocked like a crossbow. Crossbow. Should’ve known - but saying that out loud would mean admitting that the shadow was right. ‘Is Mister Sticker always so talkative?’ the elven assassin asked.
‘Pretty much.’
‘I’m still here!’
Lash sighed yet again, shaking his head. He was tired, not so much physically as he was mentally, even though the wound was sapping his strength. He didn’t want this responsibility, the burden of holding the slaves’ lives in his hands. He was out of his depth here, and he had no idea how to get them out of the city or how to help them start new lives somewhere... out there. Getting everyone out would be hard even with the shadow’s - Sticker, pfft - abilities, and even while the shadow might have some ideas it would only get them so far. They were in desperate need of help.
So maybe the elven boy was exactly what they needed. ‘He says you could help us. Is that true?’
‘Possibly.’
That wasn’t as clear an answer as Lash had been hoping for. ‘And what do you want from us, precisely?’
‘The Twin Lamps’ information on major players in the slavery business. One of them is most likely my target.’
‘He was siftin’ through Baker’s documents upstairs when I caught him,’ Sticker chimed in, his tone dead serious this time. ‘I’m talkin’ just to ya now, ‘cause I sure as Oblivion don’t trust him. Somethin’ ‘bout him is wrong. But on the other hand, if he puts out the people in charge of the slavery in Anvil it means we can get the tusk out of here, right?’
Lash forced himself not to reveal anything in his facial expression when he measured the elven boy. ‘In return we will need much more than “possibly.” The safety of these slaves is now my responsibility and… and they need to be safe,’ he said, feeling rather clumsy. ‘I don’t know how right now, but I need to keep them safe.’
The elf studied him for a moment, leaning a little closer. His face was almost prettier when he wasn’t pretending to be someone else, but those eyes ruined the entire picture. Bright but colourless. Dead. Beautiful, but only in the sense that a painting was beautiful, or a marble statue.
‘I see. You care a great deal for these slaves, Mister Grulmar,’ Doll said, just the smallest drop of sweet poison in his voice.
Lash bristled and felt himself go on edge, glad that his chains were still on his person.
‘Ooookay. If it comes down to it, go for the… nah, I’d rather not consider it. Think top class Third Era magic, matey, if ya even know what that means - ya probably don’t, so think charred and melted flesh the instant you take a step forward. And that’s bad. Got it? Baaaaaad. So be a good lad and just for one tuskin’ moment use yer bloody head, yeah?’
Grulmar clenched his jaw, loudly inhaling through his nose. Just because his damn shadow said something about his chances didn’t mean he couldn’t take this tiny elf down, magic or no magic, but… what good would come out of trying?
And then the moment passed and Doll’s lips curved up into a pleasing smile, his eyes glistening softly, amicably, even as his facial features lifted. Lash remained tense. He wasn’t about to get fooled a second time.
‘Well, then, if I could put forth a proposal,’ the elf said, his tones approachable and friendly, almost deferential.
‘Go on,’ Sticker said cautiously.
‘By now, the slavers - whom, you are doubtlessly aware, comprise a great multitude of different organisations and individuals - will be combing the city in search of the escaped slaves. It helps, of course, that being an illegal auction, none of the slaves were branded as is the fashion in Morrowind, but their height, weight, build and other physical features are all items of information that their captors possess, and will likely pass on to the hunters that they mobilise.’
‘Hah. He talks even more flowery than he looks, doesn’t he?’
‘As one of the highest priced slaves in the auction, I am certainly a priority target,’ Doll continued.
‘Got a high opinion of yerself, eh?’ the shadow spoke to both of them this time.
‘It is simple logic,’ Doll replied. ‘I was sold for nearly fifty thousand septims, far higher than most of the other chattel presented. That amount of gold is sufficient to purchase real estate in Anvil’s garden district.’
‘Chattel,’ Lash said, the cords on his neck tightening. ‘They’re people, not… movable goods.’
‘As you say, sir.’ The elf looked wholly unconcerned. ‘I am also one of the most readily recognisable slaves if I remain in my current garb. My appearance in any region of Anvil will attract the attention of any hunting parties deployed to the area-’
‘Y’are usin’ yerself as bait.’
‘Tacitly put.’ Doll nodded before turning back to Lash. ‘Mister Sticker can attest to my ability to move expediently while avoiding detection.’
‘He says that without even blushin’, considerin’ the fact that I sniffed him out in the first place. But well, it’s true.’
‘If I remain hidden until I arrive at the southwest area of the city, I can linger around long enough to draw in slave hunters in the immediate vicinity. I am positive I will be able to evade any pursuit myself, and once the hunters regroup after the search - likely at the end of the day - the majority of the hunting parties in all of Anvil will cluster around the southwest, far away from your position here in the northeast, which will free up your movement and take pressure off your freed slaves.’
‘That could work.’
‘That’s all well and good, but there’s a problem,’ Lash said reluctantly. ‘I don’t have the information you need. I do know who has it. Baker was in charge of this cell, she kept all the important information for herself. It’s just that… well, I have no idea where she is. She could be hiding with another Twin Lamps cell, or she could be long gone from Anvil.’
‘And she kept most of the stuff in her head, cause’ there’s nothin’ in the documents, eh?’
‘Respectfully, Mister Grulmar, why should I render any assistance if you yourself have nothing to offer?’
Lash ground his teeth, looking at the elf. The words were dispassionate but pragmatic. It dawned on him that the elf was not doing this because he actually cared. He did allow himself to be sold as a slave after all. This wasn’t an alliance forged out of shared ideals, but a mere business transaction where one needed something from the other. And they had nothing to offer.
‘I could find Baker,’ Sticker said and Lash noticed that he was speaking with the elf too, based on his reaction when the boy glanced towards the shadows on the floor. Lash had to admit it was getting rather annoying, not really knowing who the shadow was talking to or who he was leaving out.
‘Mister Grulmar has just admitted that he doesn’t know where Miss Baker is,’ the boy looked at Lash and then at Lash’s shadow on the floor. ‘But you, Mister Sticker, claim you can find her. So you do know where she is, while your… host… does not?’
‘“Host.” Hahahaha, good one. But no, I don’t know where she is. But I can find her.’
‘How?’
Lash pondered the same question. Was Sticker lying, or did he actually know where to find the Dunmer? If so, shouldn’t he have told Lash? But then again, the truth was that Grulmar wasn’t very good at lying. It was something that still remained from his past as a slave, this inability to lie straight to someone’s face, because deep down he was still scared of getting punished if he was caught.
‘House by house, street by street,’ came Sticker’s reply and Lash couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows in surprise. He knew what the shadow could do, how fast he could be and how he saw more than regular mortal eyes could, but Anvil wasn’t some small town where only a few hundred people lived. There were tens of thousands of residents in the port city, not even counting the floating population.
‘How long would that take?’ Doll asked, completely unfazed. It made Lash wonder what kind of strange things the boy must’ve seen if something like that couldn’t even make him blink.
A short silence followed before Sticker replied, his voice a bit uncertain. ‘If I’m bein’ totally honest, not entirely sure. Never really tried it on such a scale yet, and with a city as big as this… one day? Two maybe?’
‘One day?!’ Lash couldn’t help himself but gasp.
‘Close yer mouth, matey, or someone might shove somethin’ in there,’ Sticker chuckled. ‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘Very good,’ Doll said. ‘In that case, I will begin immediately. The armed men in the employ of the slavers are largely former Legionnaires - their combat technique shows. Their search pattern will be more efficient but also more thorough, given their training. My distraction should buy you approximately forty-eight to sixty hours, beginning from this evening.’
‘Two days, give or take,’ Lash murmured. ‘Two days to get the freed slaves to Baker. Yes, the other cell will know what to do.’ Just saying that lightened the weight on his shoulders.
‘Two days to find Baker, too,’ Sticker said to him privately. ‘We’ll have to do that before actually moving the slaves.’
Lash frowned. ‘But if you start at the same time…’
‘Shut up!’ the shadow hissed. ‘I’ll be damned if I believe a single word comin‘ out of this murder-doll‘s mouth. Did you hear what he said? All of a sudden he’s familiar with Legion tactics now? Nah, matey. I’m gonna take a gander and see for myself just what he’s about to do.’
Doll couldn’t hear their muted conversation, but his eyes moved from Lash to Sticker almost as if he was tracking it all the same.
After a minute or so, he spoke again.
‘If there is nothing else to discuss, I will be off.’
‘Right,’ Lash said awkwardly. ‘Good luck, I guess.’
‘Why, thank you,’ the elf beamed at him. By now he knew it was most definitely faked, and he saw full well how it never reached those hollow silver eyes, but it was still a very nice smile. ‘May I have your cloak?’
‘Wha-’ Lash faltered. ‘My cloak? Sure, but it’s really not-’
Doll swiped the cloak right off the chair and wrapped it tight around his body. ‘Mmhmm,’ he breathed, taking a long sniff, a coquettish note entering his voice as he pulled the hood over his head. ‘It smells of you, Mister Grulmar.’
‘Uhhh…’
And then he was gone, gliding out of the room like a ghost.
‘If I could I’d throw up right now.’
The streets of most districts in Anvil were usually more crowded during the day, with the entertainment district being one of the few exceptions. Harrow navigated his way out of the slums carefully, shrouding himself with Grulmar’s cloak to cover the brightly coloured silk of his furisode. The cloak was grimy, months’ worth of body odour dripping off the fabric, but Grulmar’s strong scent of virile, sour-tasting sweat was hardly the worst thing Harrow had ever inhaled.
This was quite the unusual development. Getting his cover broken by a sentient, shape-shifting shadow - that was an entirely new experience, and none of his masters or instructors had ever mentioned anything like this during training or lectures.
I wish I could go to them for guidance, but that would be unwise right now. From what I’ve seen of this entity’s abilities, he can adhere to or imitate a person’s shadow with practically no flaws, and is capable of extremely rapid movement - a shadow moving within shadows, Harrow summarised. He was able to chase me down in seconds even while I was utilising lightning riding techniques, and now he claims to be capable of sweeping the entirety of Anvil in one day. I cannot afford to expose the village or the other operatives in the city.
Besides, the outlook of his mission had improved, now that they had largely the same goal. How long would that last, though? Their interests were not aligned - all three of them. Harrow was not particularly worried about Lash; the Orc was straightforward enough and would be child’s play to manipulate, but the shadow… whoever he was, he was a whimsical being, fickle, even, and certainly capable of treachery.
I like him, Harrow thought, and almost smiled. Then the memory of her broke back into his head and he felt the familiar emptiness creep back in. He accepted it gladly, knowingly.
Like? I don’t deserve- what I’ve done- I’m not meant to like. The only things I should be concerned with when it comes to people outside of the village is whether or not they can be used and whether or not I should kill them.
That’s right. The only people who would ever care about him was the village. Conversely, the only people he should ever care about was the village. The village was all that mattered. Everything for the village. Anything for the village.
And speaking of killing-
Could the shadow be killed? If they were forced into a conflict, that may become necessary.
Sticker - Harrow sneered at how crude the moniker was - mentioned having ‘an eternity’ to spend. He could have been bluffing, but assuming he wasn’t, that could mean he was effectively immortal or simply that he was impervious to old age. The latter was more likely. After all, even deities could be killed. First Grandmaster Furiya and Fourth Grandmaster Satsujin have both performed assassinations on such a level. There are no true immortals.
Back to basics. What did he know about the shadow?
Sentient - sapient, obviously. Has an extreme amount of control over his own form. Insubstantial, perhaps even completely incorporeal, and is thus immune to conventional weaponry and most other forms of physical attacks.
However…
The entity had exhibited signs of pain when Harrow’s lightning was brought to bear. His shape-shifting abilities had been disrupted. Perhaps powerful light could disperse his form, force the shadow back - or perhaps electricity, being pure energy, could actually inflict damage.
If so, I have a means of attack, he concluded. I might not have enough power to kill the shadow outright as I am now, but if I burned up all of my magicka reserves at once, the lightning produced should be enough to at least temporarily immobilise him.
Furthermore, it was becoming quite evident that the shadowy entity was bound to Grulmar in some way. Eliminating the Orc may be enough to destroy him or banish him, but that was pure speculation.
I hope it does not come to that. I still have uses for Mister Grulmar.
As he ruminated, he made his way out of the slums and began moving more boldly. The streets livened up as he headed further south, the impoverished shacks slowly replaced by stalls and shops and furnished buildings. A few minutes passed and he was now weaving through crowds of increasingly well-dressed pedestrians. Anvil’s richer citizens tended to live closer to the coast.
The rooftops were more closely clustered in such areas, but civilian presence was also far more heavy. I did mention my ability to move quickly to Grulmar and Sticker, but doing so on foot may incur a higher risk of detection, and I absolutely cannot afford to get spotted before I reach the port district.
The public carriage system, then. A standard, two-septim carriage ride across Anvil from the northeast of the city to the port district in the southwest would take over half a day considering all the stops. The express carriage would get him there in barely an hour, but the fee for that was fifty septims - and he didn’t even have two septims on his person to begin with, much less fifty.
Harrow chewed his lip and sighed under his breath. Time to use up some of his allowance.
Tsukikage had rules concerning theft. Only when necessary, and no large-scale larcenies. Even then, it was generally discouraged. If every single shinobi from the village of two thousand used their skills to steal without restriction from the Tamriellian populace, they would cause minor economic upsets wherever they went. Not to mention the disrespect of such misconduct, stealing from Imperial taxpayers.
Apologies, Emperor Mede-ri. Harrow whisked past a merchant in a green and yellow doublet, left hand slipping out from the cloak and through the crowd to press against his shoulder blade, the sensation misdirecting the man long enough for his right hand to swipe his purse. Judging from the weight and the size of the coins, there were at least eighty septims.
Now, by my estimation, it should almost be-
Nine gongs rang throughout the city. The timing couldn't have been better. The express west-bound carriage was boarding now. As the sun climbed ever higher above Anvil’s red brick houses and grey cobblestones, Harrow clambered onto the large, six-horse vehicle, paying the fee with four ten-septim coins and five two-septim coins. He inspected the occupants before he took his seat. Mostly middle-class citizens who had pressing business. The rich had personal coaches, while the poor wouldn’t be able to afford carriage rides in the first place.
He sat down on the back end of the wagon, thankful for Grulmar’s cloak. It was a great many sizes too big, so it covered him up to the hem of his robes. Bowing his head, he pretended to fall asleep.
Ten minutes later the carriage set off, trundling down the streets as it headed west on the main roads. It took a little longer than expected, almost one and a half hours, during which Harrow practiced a series of subtle breathing exercises, testing the blood flow to his legs. He had exerted himself quite liberally earlier in the morning.
My myaku is normal. Excellent. I can move at full capacity.
He likely wouldn’t need to, but it was still good to make sure that his options weren’t limited.
When the carriage rolled to a stop at approximately ten thirty-five, the air had taken on the crisp saltiness of the sea. They had arrived at the port district.
Harrow got off, moved several blocks away from the stop, waited a few minutes, then loosened Grulmar’s cloak, revealing a few hints of the flowery patterns on his robes, and began meandering around the district.
This should not take long. The ferries are logically the fastest route the slaves can take to escape the city and more importantly the reach of the slavers, so there will already be a sizable number of hunting parties in the area.
He was right. The toll for eleven o’clock echoed throughout the city as he reached the docks, and as the bell clashed he spied a Redguard in a leather jerkin marching towards his direction. Harrow remembered seeing him patrol at the auction.
The dance began, his motions practiced; his movement deliberate. It was close to midday, and Anvil’s docks were busy, clamouring with passers-by from all walks of life. Some were tourists stopping to inspect stalls in the bustling seaside marketplace, for which the city was well-known. Others were deckhands and sailors loading and unloading goods, heading off or returning from shore leave. Fishermen hawked their fresh catches right next to the lapping waves, and new arrivals headed inland even as departees headed for their ships and yachts moored on the full half-mile of Anvil’s west port. Harrow cut his way right through all of them, even as the Redguard thug did the same.
They met in the middle, the Redguard still completely unaware that his quarry was now ten feet away from him. Then five. Then two.
Their shoulders brushed. Harrow rubbed against him as he looked up, the gesture sliding the hood five inches back to reveal a few strands of his hair, his forehead, and his eyes. The Redguard stared down. With a gasp, Harrow brought his hands to his mouth as he forced a scream back down into his diaphragm.
‘Black hair, silver...’ the slave hunter mumbled his description under his breath, his shock quickly morphing into triumph. He reached out with one hand. ‘Found you, you saucy little-’ he grinned.
Harrow drowned out whatever he was about to say with a piercing shriek as he shrugged and let Grulmar’s cloak fall from his shoulders.
‘Help, help!’ he squealed. ‘This man is a pervert!’
The tourists, deckhands, sailors, fishermen and travellers all turned their heads to see a vulnerable young maiden in a fancy dress with her arms clapped around her chest in some vain attempt to preserve her modesty being accosted by a brutish thug standing there frozen with his fingers outstretched like claws towards her midriff and a singularly stupid expression spreading across his face.
And then it was bedlam. The onlookers jeered and spat, flinging insults at the slave hunter as a tide of angry self-styled heroes separated the two of them.
‘Booo! Godless savage! Away with you!’
‘Guards! Guards!’
‘Have you no shame?’
‘People like you give our city a bad name!’
‘Knew it, all you Redguards are fucking rapists!’
A rotten tomato splattered on the thug’s cheek - courtesy of a nearby vegetable stall - followed quickly by a series of pebbles and small stones - courtesy of a roadside construction project - accompanied by a barrage of bad oysters - courtesy of one of the local fishermen’s baskets. The Redguard roared in frustration as the mob held him back from a tearful Harrow, who was sniffling ‘I’m all right, I’m all right’ to the concerned pair of ladies helping him away from the whole scene.
As more and more people joined in to see what the commotion was, the slave hunter turned around to stare wildly at two newcomers - a Nord and an Imperial both in leather, like he was. ‘Lokiel, Marsellus - Number Twenty-One is right there!’ He jabbed a finger out at him, twisting his wrist.
The two other hunters spun widdershins and headed directly towards Harrow, brandishing clubs as they strong-armed their way through the crowd.
One of the ladies bolted. The other moved in front of Harrow, her arms spread out as she shielded him. Her face was set, defiant and brave. ‘Get away from her!’ she cried.
‘Move, bitch,’ the Imperial snarled, hefting his club.
The Nord rolled his eyes. ‘We don’t have time for this,’ he said, and slapped her hard across the face. She fell to the ground, but before either of the thugs could get close to Harrow, the woman found her knees and grabbed onto the Imperial’s leg from behind.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake-’
The Nord’s club came crashing down, staving in the woman’s skull and reducing her forehead to a mass of red and white. She fell again. This time she didn’t get back up.
Ah. Collateral damage. Unfortunate.
The thugs turned back around to see Harrow running away using a quarter of his normal speed.
‘Slippery bastard,’ the Imperial cursed, setting off in chase with the Nord in tow.
Harrow led them around the port district for three minutes, making sure he was in full view of both his pursuers. Then he pushed his way into a rather dingy bookstore a short distance away from the docks.
The storekeeper stared at him as he barged in, the bell tinkling furiously as he slammed the door shut. No one else was inside.
‘May I help you, young lady?’
Harrow ignored him, made straight for the bookshelves in the back, and waited next to a window.
Fifteen seconds later the Nord and the Imperial entered the store.
The Imperial spoke a single word, smacking his palm with his club menacingly. ‘Where?’
Quivering in his boots, the storekeeper pointed.
It was the Nord’s turn to speak in single syllables. ‘Out.’
Still shaking, the storekeeper shot straight out of the door.
‘All right, come-’
The window Harrow was crouching against led out to an alleyway. He unlocked it and slid it open.
Both thugs drew in a sharp breath and sprinted over to the back of the store. By the time they reached the window, it was hanging ajar, a slight breeze was blowing the curtains out of place, and neither of them were small enough to fit through.
‘Shor’s bloody- Back outside!’
The pair circled around to the other side of the bookstore, where the alley opened.
‘He didn’t come out this way, we’d have seen him,’ the Imperial panted. ‘So he must have gone further in. Come on!’
Groaning, the pair ran on deeper into the alleyways, clutching their sides with one hand as they did.
Harrow studied them from his perch on top of the bookstore, mildly amused. Ambarro would be laughing his head off at this point.
With a sudden pang, he realised that he hadn’t seen the dunce for well over three months now.
The noonday sun glared down from overhead. There were no shadows on the rooftop he could use to hide, much less move undetected. Harrow jumped back down the side of the bookstore before anyone could take notice of his presence and strolled leisurely out of the alley.
Like most southern Cyrodilics, Anvil citizens lunched early. The streets were thinning slightly, which gave Harrow an advantage - he could pick out and identify individuals within the throng more easily, whereas his own size and build kept him concealed. He headed back towards the north, using the civilians in more garish clothing as camouflage.
He passed a Yoku java house on the way and the scent of toasting kahve beans wafted into his nostrils.
Smells aroused memory far more effectively than sights and sounds.
‘Waaah!’ He had made a face. ‘It’s bitter!’
‘What, your first time?’ She had laughed. Her voice was hard, lower than his, but in this moment she was-
Harrow shook his head, disappointed with himself. Control. Self-control.
In the event of resurgence, visualise, compartmentalise, and neutralise, he reflected, remembering Bengakhi’s instructions. He reached into his mind and killed her memory just as he had killed her person. Her voice faded, going flat, losing its mesmeric quality. Another week and he should be able to displace these lingering distractions entirely.
Ah, he thought happily, lovingly. How can I ever thank you enough, Bengakhi-ra?
Completely refocused, he picked his way towards the market district, slowly and cautiously.
He had one last stop to make before returning to the Twin Lamps’ safehouse. The situation was becoming rather unpredictable, which meant that he would need his gear.
Thankfully, Bengakhi-ra also taught me just how far I should plan ahead.
Shifting his pace, he made for the Bank of Cyrodiil, Anvil Branch. At a brisk walk, he arrived in three hours, the journey taking him from the port district through the garden district all the way into the centre of the market district.
The bank was a grand structure. Classical Second Era Imperial architecture, with marble pillars and wrought iron gates. Owned by the Empire itself, the bank’s security force was composed of elite Legionnaires, and heavy patrols went on around the clock. From the smallest deposit box to the largest strongroom, each vault was reinforced with steel - and the most important ones were kept secure with enchantments and adamantium locks.
In short, the Bank of Cyrodiil was the ideal location for Tsukikage shinobi to stash their gear while in the field. The Penitus Oculatus did the same with their own agents. Between these two organisations, it was highly likely that at any given time, any branch of the Bank was housing at least one operative’s equipment.
Harrow walked in through the front door, a brief inspection of the area revealing no hunting parties in his immediate vicinity. The lobby was as lavish as the exterior, with fresh flowers poking out of polished ceramic pots. As always, the premium queue was short and the clerks at the end efficient. He stepped in line.
The Breton in front of him was done in under a minute. He stated his name, the clerk looked at a small black book from behind the counter, he gave his account number, the clerk looked at the book again, he signed a piece of parchment with a quill provided by the clerk, the clerk looked at the book one final time and handed the man a large bill.
As the Breton walked off, pleased, Harrow stepped in front of the counter.
‘Why, hello there, miss,’ the clerk smiled brightly down at him from behind steel bars. ‘Are you here to register for your first premium account?’
‘Actually,’ Harrow smiled back. ‘I’m here to open a vault.’
‘Oh,’ the clerk’s eyelashes fluttered as she examined him, adjusting her gold-plated monocle, clearly reevaluating her position. ‘I see. Of course, madam! If I could please have your name and account number. You know the procedure, no doubt…’
‘Indeed I do,’ Harrow said pleasantly. ‘Alois Donnadieu. Four-Nine-One, Zero-Four-Five-Seven-Four, Zero-Zero-Six-Zero.’
He clasped his hands behind his back and watched as the clerk flipped through the little black book, reached the last few pages and blanched, shock, fear, disbelief and professionalism fighting for dominance over her facial muscles. After a few seconds, professionalism won. The clerk swallowed, rummaged around her desk, and passed a piece of vellum and a quill over to Harrow.
‘Sign three times if you please, sir,’ she said apprehensively.
He did as she requested, scrawling Alois R. Donnadieu across the fine parchment. The magicka traces curling off the quill were faint and wispy, but distinctive nonetheless. They ran down Harrow’s arm each time he completed a signature, and he felt them resonate with the magicka in his nervous system.
Complex gramarye, and remarkably subtle - a masterwork by a specialist, likely of the College of Whispers, Harrow observed even as he admired the enchantment. I must admit, I’m curious as to what would happen if a person uses the quill to sign under a false identity.
He finished the signatures and handed them back. The clerk closed the counter, left her seat, and went out into the lobby.
‘If you would please follow me, sir,’ she said, having fully recovered her composure. ‘Your vault is this way.’
Well. Sayin’ this is an interestin’ turn of events would be an understatement, Sticker thought, comfortably settled in Doll’s shadow, the elf completely oblivious to his presence.
He knew he should be searching the city for Baker, but as he’d said to Lash before, he didn’t trust the assassin. Just the word assassin bred mistrust and Sticker wasn’t some amateur who would trust the first person to offer help. If his life had taught him anything it was that it was better not to trust anyone.
And yet the elf had delivered what he promised. He’d thrown the slavers off and in quite the amusing - yet efficient - way. All the more reason to be careful with him.
But then Doll headed straight to the Bank of Cyrodiil and that only cemented Sticker’s decision to tail him. The boy was up to something, but Sticker had no idea what.
The clerk led Doll into the personal vaults and Sticker’s awareness roamed around the bank, expanding around the safes and lockboxes and their contents. Beside the hoard of septims in the main vault there was pretty much every kind of valuable a thief could name in the personal vaults. Trinkets, paintings, weaponry - for one second he had a feeling that his senses were brushing up against something that shared an uncanny resemblance with one of Mora’s Black Books. And Sticker would know, he had some experience with those. Either it was the best damn copy he had ever seen or… He simply had no idea how it ended here, in an Imperial bank, in Anvil. But it was worth remembering.
This place actually reminded him how he missed the old days, no magic, no weird shit and all that. Just surviving and stealing. It was much simpler then and the truth was he wouldn’t mind robbing this place. It could be an interesting challenge. Oh well. Maybe some other time, eh?
What was curious was how the boy just walked in and almost immediately got access. It was almost like something from Investigator Vale, secret occult societies stashing their prized objects in plain sight - which the bank certainly was - using fake names - which Alois certainly was, because who the blazes would name their child Alois?
But none of this was getting him any closer to figuring out who the boy worked for - or with. Using the Imperial bank… Well, Sticker knew shit about the more nuanced workings of the Empire but not just everyone could just walk in, sign few papers and immediately get lead to a personal vault.
So if I up the game a bit… Dark Brotherhood? He’s certainly creepy enough to be one, cold as ice and all that. But as far as he remembered the Dark Brotherhood was still mostly underground at this point. And even if that wasn’t the case and something was completely tusked up in this world, in order to hire the Brotherhood one had to still perform the Black Sacrament. And besides all the weird occult shit it required the performer to know who the intended victim was. If I got the memo right, that is. And on top of that why would anyone hire the Dark Brotherhood to put out the person responsible for slavery in Anvil? Well, it would have to be quite personal for that someone.
There was another group that would make more sense. The Penisus Ocularis or somethin' - stupid Imperial names. They could care enough ‘bout slavery in Anvil, right? Enough to take it out. But Sticker had no real experience or knowledge with this group to be able to say it with certainty. All he knew was they were an organisation under the Emperor, some kind of spies or bodyguards, but what they actually did was beyond him. Maybe this is exactly what they do.
The clerk led Doll into the personal vault, which was a room locked behind a bars which contained safes of solid Cyrodilic steel. The room was three steps wide and three steps long, with the safes forming the walls. One safe was standing right on the floor with the second one right on top of it, which meant ten safes for each wall.
Not very personal. Maybe they only let people in here one by one.
‘Take as much time as you need,’ the clerk said when she unlocked one of the safes and then left the room. The elf watched her leave and then he walked towards the safe, slowly opening it. There was nothing ceremonial to it when he pulled out a tightly tied sack of soft leather and slung it over his shoulder before he closed the safe and walked out.
So...this divergence was just for a nice sack, eh? Well, let’s see then. Sticker’s awareness slipped into the sack and if he could he would most likely raise his eyebrows. The largest bundle inside was a dark grey tunic tailored in a fashion that wasn’t too different from Doll’s robes, even if it was much, much less girlish. Folded under it were trousers of the same material, a hood, a pair of boots, and a series of small strips and belts - holsters? It seemed so, but the four-pointed metal stars housed inside them were like nothing he had ever seen before. They were flat and tiny, and there were more of them in a pair of pouches attached to a belt, along with round pellets about an inch in diameter. Sticker hazarded a guess that the stars were weapons meant for throwing, but he had no idea what the pellets were for.
And speaking of weapons, the sack also contained two blades. One was a sword, slim and straight, in a scabbard of sleek black wood. The whole thing was short, less than three feet in length counting the hilt. The other was even shorter, looking about nine to ten inches long, with a diamond-shaped blade almost like a spearhead and a ring at the end - it almost reminded the shadow of the throwing daggers he used to have, only this dagger had a grip.
But that sword. Yeah, Sticker definitely knew that design. No pommel, and a small disc in place of a crossguard. Akaviri. And as far as he knew there were only a few people using swords like this. The Blades. Are ya a damn Blade, Doll? Well, that could explain a few things. The top secrecy and effectiveness for one, also the fact the elf had no backup.
Though weren’t the Blades sort of put out of business by the Thalmor? If there were some left around, they certainly wouldn’t be bothering with a slave trafficker - they would be more concerned with laying low and licking their wounds. So most likely not a Blade, but Sticker wasn’t ready to let that option go just yet. He would keep it in reserve.
But if the elf wasn’t a Blade then he had absolutely no idea who in the name of Arkay’s marble balls was he working for. Or with. It was one big unknown and that was maddening, because if they had no idea what kind of goals the elven assassin had - beside killing his target - who knew what surprises were waiting for them along the way?
Doll left the bank in a pace that didn’t garner any special attention and when he walked out, he stopped for a second, his head making slight turns as he scanned the streets.
What’s he lookin’ for? The slavers?
The elf headed down the main street. His eyes kept a constant watch on the buildings around him, as if he was actually looking for something specific. At the same time he was almost perfectly mingling into the crowd, going with the flow and subtly avoiding anyone walking in the opposite direction as if he was seeing everything at once.
Thought that was my thing, Sticker thought and then suddenly Doll changed direction and headed into a narrow alley. Now what are ya up to?
The mer took a sharp turn, getting off the sight of the people on the main street and then all of sudden ran directly against the wall of the closest house. Ran up the vertical surface several steps then pushed himself off it. He flew through the air and grabbed a ledge on the opposite house. He pulled himself up, balancing himself with just the tip of his toes on a surface barely any wider than his palm, then jumped up, grabbing the edge of the roof and vaulting up with one hand.
Sticker spread his awareness, and it revealed the building was completely empty. It seemed it used to be a workshop of some kind, the ground floor had traces of sawdust on the floors. A joinery maybe. He would have noticed the building was empty sooner if he hadn’t focused his senses on the elf so much and-
Doll found a way into the house, slipping into the attic for some reason. Wait, is he about to-
The elf undid the belt holding his flowery dress robe together, then hooked two fingers into each side of his collar and shimmied. The silk slid down slowly across his body, unveiling like a tapestry two tapered shoulders - this is a boy - a slender back with actual curve - this is a tuskin’ boy - and, as more and more skin was revealed, a narrow waist widening into - Oh for tusk’s sake! Don’t ya have at least enough common decency to wear somethin’ under that?!
‘Enjoying the show, Mister Sticker?’ Doll said suddenly, turning to stare directly at the shadows in the attic as the robe slipped down from his thighs to pool around his feet.
Oh no. Not fallin’ for that. Nope.
'I know shadows, sir - their texture, their depth, their intensity. I know what kinds of light sources cast what kinds of shadows on what materials through what substances.’ The elf smiled another one of his black widow smiles. ‘If you wanted to see me nude,’ he sighed, sweeping his hair back as he tilted his head, giving the shadow full access to his neck. ‘All you had to do was ask...'
Sticker swallowed his biting response. It’s a trap, matey, a damn trap and ya know it. It’s all just a tactic to make ya uncomfortable. Just a tuskin’ bluff, nothin’ more.
Sure enough, after he kept silent for another two minutes or so, Doll abandoned the approach.
‘Hmm,’ he said, voice dropping back into his clipped, businesslike tones, going from sensual to cold in an instant. ‘Have it your way, sir. Just know that I remain quite aware of your presence.’
And I’m Orsinium’s princess. Load of horseshit, that’s what it is, matey. Sweetened or frozen, horseshit is horseshit. Not fallin’ for any of it. There was simply no way in Oblivion he could detect him, no one ever did. Not even the best mages could. That thought gave him a pause though. Just because no one had managed to do it didn’t mean it was impossible. No, no, no. He’s just tuskin’ around with yer head. Or better yet he’s just a paranoid murder-doll. Yes, crazy and paranoid, that’s it.
Unwrapping the sack, Doll got dressed, pulling on the dark grey tunic and trousers as he stuffed the robes into the sack. The metal stars went with their holsters onto his forearms, which he hid with his sleeves. The sword went on his hip, which he fastened onto the belt along with the pouches. The dagger went into his boot, sheathed next to his ankle. The hood came with a cowl, and the boy tugged it on, tightening the fabric around his face. Only his eyes were left visible. Even Sticker suddenly found it harder to pick him out from the shadows of the room.
And then the boy simply sat down, kneeling with his hands placed on his thighs as he closed his eyes and breathed with even more control than before, inhaling for ten seconds before exhaling for twenty.
Heh. And now he’s meditatin’ in black pajamas.
A minute passed. Then two. Then five. Then fifteen. Half an hour later Sticker was getting restless.
What exactly is yer game, matey?
Another few minutes passed.
‘So how long have you been with Mister Grulmar, Mister Sticker?’ Doll asked in perfectly conversational tones, as if he was right next to him - which he was.
The shadow nearly replied from force of habit. If he had been in his physical body, he might have. Speech was a different process in this form, though, and he reined himself in just in time. Whew. Think y’are so clever, eh?
Almost as if he had heard him, the elf shrugged. ‘Ah, well, can you blame me for trying?’
That one was worse. People in general were inclined to respond to questions, and now Doll was just actively inviting him to gloat. Paranoid persistent bugger!
The day dragged on. Doll tried a few more times to engage him at irregular intervals, then he appeared to give up. Six gongs of the bell came from the distance. The sun was slouching down to touch the horizon. He rose smoothly and comfortably, despite the fact that he’d been kneeling on the same spot for hours.
‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘The sky has darkened, and the shadows are long. Let us head back.’
After waiting another few seconds for him to slip - yeah, keep tryin’, matey - the elven assassin stalked out of the attic and began moving over the rooftops again.
Yet again he was surprised at how eerily fast the elf’s movements were, making him think that there had to be something… different about his body. He couldn’t imagine how was that possible, but on the other hand, he himself was a talking and shape-shifting shadow, so if that was possible…
They were nearing the slums, when Sticker felt something a bit out of place, something that wasn’t supposed to be there. It was below them, below the ground.
He could sense rats, their heartbeats and movement. The choking air, the smell of filthy dust.
And voices.
Suddenly he was blinded by a bright light and it took him a moment to realize it was a torch. Several torches.
The light didn’t allow him to come closer, but the flames danced and cast mad shadows in the narrow tunnel and he focused-
The slavers! They were in the same tunnel they’d used to crawl out, directly under the slums. Close to the safehouse. Far too close.
Shit!
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