170Author's Opening Notes: Hey all! Firstly, Skyrim isn't mine, it belongs to Bethesda Softworks (as do the images used in the cover art). Secondly, I'd like to thank 16DarkMidnight80 for being so utterly awesome and going over this project. Thirdly, more credit where it's due: "Master of Assassins" is the title Frank Herbert ("Dune" and its various offshoots) used to describe the head of a Great House's covert affairs department. Since I don't think 'covert affairs' is a good phrase given the setting of Skyrim… Master of Assassins it is. So, credit where it's due for the title—but that's where anything Herbert-related stops.
I hope you enjoy this new adventure!
-L-
The cold Hearthfire winds of Solitude bit at my skin, trying to get through my warm wool wraps and cloak.
"Be careful," Lucinda breathed, kissing my cheek as we hugged one another. "It's dangerous out there, just now."
"Very," I answered, returning the gesture. It was like this every time we separated, my twin and I. Fortunately, the anxiety of separation had lessened as we got older and by now the hardest part was simply getting going.
I looked her over, dressed in a copper and yellow gown that brought out the warm undertones in her skin and hair. It was like looking in a sunny mirror—except were her eyes were slate grey, mine were bluer. Still, at a quick glance—especially to someone who didn't know us both—it would be easy to confuse us.
"You have your knife?" she asked, stepping back but keeping hold of one of my hands.
I patted the dagger hanging at my hip. "Sharp and ready."
"And your bow?"
I patted the wagon upon which Laurel (the driver) and her brother Stern (security) sat. "And a full quiver, just in case."
Lucinda nodded, nibbling her lip, her eyes clouding over. With the Rift being more of the Stormcloak persuasion since Ulfric's filthy little rebellion, Lucinda—a worrier by nature—has been getting worse about her loved ones traveling anywhere that isn't solidly Imperialist.
"Don't do that, you'll chew right through it," I chided, teasing the abused flesh away from her teeth. "Goodbye." I hugged her tightly again, then climbed up onto Felix's back. The buckskin snorted, shaking his head, then started off at a good clip when Laurel set the cart of goods in motion.
"Trade well!" Lucinda called.
"I'll bring you something back, even!" I called, twisting around in my saddle.
As I would have done for her, she waited until I was out of sight before going inside to get on with her day.
The winds tugged at my hair as I pulled my hood up, then tugged at my hood as my small trading party headed out of Solitude, away from the Box of Wonders. This month's trip would take me from Solitude, to Whiterun via Morthal, to Riften, then back to Whiterun, to Dawnstar, then home again.
Lucinda will take the next trip, and I'll be the one who fusses. Personality wise, she's a little less confident in the face of uncertainty… at least until she warms up to the idea. Then she's fine.
This trip is a little long in that we don't normally do much trade in Riften, at least we haven't since the Civil War broke out. Riften's leader is devoutly pro-Stormcloak (the city's politics, though, go where Maven Black-Briar tells them to). However, trade is trade, the city is as crooked as anything imaginable, and Madame Black-Briar would overlook a murder if she was paid enough. Overlooking a trader out of Solitude—most likely a Legion supporter which is, in fact, the case—is a matter of eight yards of fine velvet and a pair of ruby earrings that date back to the middle of the Third Era.
Also by not imitating the Stormcloaks and screaming about one's politics at the top of one's lungs.
My family dabbles in a number of things, as far as what we sell. The hope, right now, is to acquire on paper the Radiant Raiment. That's my pet project. I'm not fond of the proprietresses and hard times hit everyone, so the terms of the original proposal were incredibly fair. My father is rather idealistic for a trader: a measure of fairness in all dealings. The elves could have kept their shop and a generous portion of the profits.
The acquisition was more in line with an unspoken challenge; it would extend our family's reach in the mercantile world and prove that I am truly my father's daughter, a gifted merchant, a problem solver, and that my two-year stint with Supply in the Imperial Army all those years ago was not wasted. So far it hasn't been, but I would see getting Radiant Raiment on paper as conformation of my own skill.
Who doesn't like to prove herself to herself?
But no; they aren't interested 'on any condition, now leave before I evict you.' So now I have to tie and tighten the noose. I found the negative reaction rather strange: they were reliant on my family for their more exotic cloths, trims, and trinkets—which is where they do their best if not steadiest business—and benefitted greatly from the good word of Lucinda, Father, and myself outside Solitude.
Mother refuses to wear anything not made by Taarie or Endarie, and isn't shy about praising her seamstresses and making sure people know where to go.
Regardless of my family's support—and, strangely enough, after this unpleasant exchange (and several weeks later they were even nastier to Lucinda)—price of their more exotic cloths, trims, and trinkets started to rise.
It's the war, you know: Stormcloaks crawling all over the eastern half of the province, ambushing anything that moves.
It's risky business.
Surely they understand.
So sorry.
However, businesses close to us receive items closer to 'at cost' than businesses we simply do business with.
Hint-hint.
It's not a short-term goal. If there's one thing Mother instilled in me it's patience. Now, I hate chess. I think it's boring to sit around scraping pieces over a board with such set rules. However, it does teach patience and strategy—which has worked for me off the board. So I play, despite hating it, that I might learn from it.
Never overdevelop any one piece. Never let your opponent's aggression rattle you. Never let an opponent's defensive play rattle you. Never forget the power of a bluff, blind, or strategic loss. If the direct approach doesn't work, have a discreet one already in place—or mask the latter with the former. If an opponent sees what is expected he might not see the unexpected lurking off to the side.
It's like that in a marketplace setting: know who's who, know as much as possible about everyone's commercial business—who's on an up, who's having problems, what would they pay most for, what does the market demand. I keep notes on all these things and track patterns back at home.
Lucinda is the type who can smile someone into buying almost anything she sells.
I can convince almost anyone to sell anything I want to buy at a good rate. There may be an exchange of favors rather than coin, but in the main I can get what I want or whatever someone needs. I wasn't very highly regarded in the military—being in Supply as I was, since it's not as necessary as it was during the War—but I was good at it.
So, on the whole, Lucinda's and my talents complement one another. A perfect combination for a pair of entrepreneurs.
I like Whiterun. I know most of the merchants there, as I do in most of the major Holds, and do a pretty brisk business. There's an iron mine, you see, that Thane Bryling of Solitude owns and it's a rather productive mine—Adrianne and her husband Ulfberth in Whiterun buy a lot of the iron. Bryling mightn't bother with the shipping, since the East Empire Company is in Solitude except that there's a seething tension between two of the major houses in Whiterun. Ulfberth and Adrianne are considered Imperialist by default.
The Grey-Mane clan, headed by Eorlund who works the Skyforge, supports the Stormcloaks (hence why Adrianne is considered 'Imperialist by default'). Now, I know Fralia well, more as a personal friendship than a professional one—she fills the position of 'whop girl' peddling some of Eorlund's more delicate pieces. For a man of his size and who spends so much time making great hoarking swords, his skill with the delicate is quite remarkable. She's such a sweet lady, and not as steeped in politics as some—she's a loyal citizen of Whiterun, whatever else she might feel or think.
She really is a dear. I can't say as much for her lads, whom I know only vaguely. One of her boys ran off to join them not too long back. Broke Fralia's heart to see him go, but she was so proud.
Meanwhile, which is of interest to Bryling who is especially patriotic if a profit can be turned (one of the few traits that prevents her from becoming a second Madame Black-Briar), there is Adrianne, who works under her maiden name, Avenicci. Adrienne is also a smith and not particularly in favor of either faction—Stormcloak or Imperial Legion—but as the only other blacksmith in town, the staunchly Imperialist Battle-Born family does all their business with her. From what I once heard, a Battle-Born 'wouldn't trust Eolrund's steel not to turn when needed most,' which is very ridiculous.
The man takes pride in his steel, as any smith would. And he's got a right to—Lucinda's and my daggers we carry while traveling are both Skyforge steel. I've yet to find anything comparable in form or quality.
Adrianne herself is simply cheerful and pleasant, though I think she'd kill if it would get her an apprenticeship with Eorlund. I have no complaints about Adrianne's work, either. It's a little cheaper, and no less well-made comparing product-to-product… but somehow mundane compared to the art that comes out of the Skyforge.
That said, my family isn't really in the arms business. It might be different if Lucinda and I had been born boys—Father wanted a boy until he had twin girls—but he feels we'd be less of a target if we weren't perpetuating our political views with our cargo.
A trader, if she keeps her politics quiet, can go almost anywhere. I've been to Windhelm before the war—we're boycotting them right now—and found it to be a cold, dirty, nasty little city and I couldn't imagine anything but lack of funds keeping most of the population from just up and leaving.
I'm surprised the Jarl there doesn't realize that the only reason his army is as big as it is is because there are 'lesser folk' to manage the day-to-day affairs: shop keeps, dock workers, domestic servants for households who can't afford 'fashionable' help. If his 'true sons and daughters of Skyrim' had to keep the slack others take up, that would kill his rebellion rather quickly.
The fact that the Legion hasn't crushed him suggests he's a decent general, but I question his ability as an administrator—which is what a Jarl is supposed to be when not picking fights and heedlessly disrupting the Province.
Still… I suppose fighting is part of Skyrim's culture, however much we've advanced since the days where 'might equals right' was so highly fashionable. I should, perhaps, add that as far as 'Nord' and 'Imperial' go, drawing lines that way is utter garbage. My family has been in Skyrim for ages, with Imperials, Bretons, and Nords all along the bloodline. The blood mingles with humans, so the lines being drawn are inaccurate to a nauseating degree.
For instance, if Lucinda wears her hair down or braided in one of the so-called Nord styles, you'd notice her cheekbones and the shape of her jaw—classically Nord. If she brushes her hair out really well and dresses it after the Imperial fashions (which are much prettier than those utilitarian garments common in Skyrim), you notice the shape of her brow and that her cheeks are fuller than it usual for Nords.
The same is true, more or less, for me. It comes in handy, though—I played up the Nord look the last time I was in Windhelm and made an absolute killing. I made contacts, too, though by this point they probably aren't worth much.
Ah, well. There are nine Holds and many respectable settlements. Losing one Hold isn't going to kill business.
-L-
Riften is a bustling, hustling hub of activity, despite lacking Whiterun's strategic position smack in the middle of the Province. The Rift's capital is under the expensive and well-made boot of Maven Black-Briar, who is paid a kind of tithe every time my family wants to operate in her town.
Laila Law-Giver might be the Jarl, but she neither rules in actuality nor lives up to her name. Riften is so corrupt that nothing short of razing it to the ground and salting the earth would purify it (and, even then, having priests of the Eight should all come down, walk the perimeter, doing whatever they need to do to sanctify a place wouldn't go amiss). The only person unaware of this state of existence is Laila herself and I sometimes think it's an act of will rather than pure ignorance and the cleverness of Maven's forked tongue.
That would be a waste, though. So as long as the local pickpockets keep their hands away from my person there is and will be no difficulty.
One of the major exports of Riften is liquor from the Black-Briar Meadery and I had a rather large order for it. Unfortunately, haggling down Madame Black-Briar (or Madame by extension when going through her lackeys as is the common way) is like trying to break apart a mountain with one's bare fists. Her lackeys are terrified of her. Thus, Black-Briar products are always purchased at the original asking price and I don't even bother trying to haggle anymore. There's no point. I have to admire the woman—even her family isn't free of her standards—though personally I find her rather distasteful.
That's alright. As my father says 'trade isn't based on liking. It's based on coin and intelligence.'
Words to live by.
-L-
My lovely friend Aerin was home, but his dear Mjoll (who goes by 'the Lioness' and is a former resident of Solitude) was not.
I met Mjoll the first time I came to Riften alone. Madame Black-Briar's brute of an enforcer—a charming brute of a man by the name of Maul which is, apparently, his real name—was being intimidating and rude. To be honest, I wasn't sure if I ought to take him seriously, ignore him, or consider him a threat to my person and slit his belly open while claiming self-defense.
Fortunately, I didn't have to do any of those things. Mjoll caught wind of the trouble and stomped over—six feet tall, blonde and lovely in the most classically warrior-woman way—and basically told Maul that if he didn't back off she'd knock him from one end of Riften to the other.
I never saw a man that big and that fond of intimidation back down so fast. She didn't even have to raise her voice… and I think she would have had some deep personal satisfaction in turning her threat into reality.
"I really don't know how you manage this," Aerin said, regarding the lovely box of confections I'd so carefully carried from Solitude.
"Confections don't go stale, Aerin," I said, spooning a little honey into my tea. I'm not a great lover of honeyed tea, but it's a local thing and it does go rather well with the confections. "And I hope I find your interest in dear Mjoll just as fresh."
Aerin blushed at the neck, but didn't say anything for a long few moments. "I'm… starting to worry about her, actually."
I set my cup down. "Anything in particular? Can I help?"
Aerin shook his head, then sighed. "I'm starting to worry a lot… she pushes one more limit and Maven Black-Briar will have her thrown in prison—or worse!" He set his teacup down too hard and put his face in his hands, massaging his eyes with the heels.
"She's a crusader, Aerin," I soothed, "and she's not stupid."
He looked up at me. "She called Maven Black-Briar a bitch to her face. I didn't sleep for a week—they say Maven's in bed with the Dark Brotherhood!"
"Oh, that is ridiculous," I huffed gently, picking up my teacup. "That rumor's been around so long it would have been proved true if it was. As for Madame Black-Briar, she's too self-aware not to know she's a complete bitch and she's too elitist to care what some common adventuress calls her."
"Unless you catch her on a bad day."
"Madame doesn't have any other kind, Aerin. Half her power is in the fear she's managed to generate. I wouldn't worry quite as much as you are… although if you were anyone else I might needle you about using it as an excuse to keep close while she's sleeping." I winked at him.
It was Aerin's turn to snort, but he looked comforted.
I might have exaggerated about how Madame's long arm isn't as long as rumor suggests. But if it helps him sleep at night…
Mjoll is a crusader, and while she's managed a little bit of improvement, and managed to garner respect and gratitude from the downtrodden masses… well. This is Riften. The corruption isn't going to go away. She'd have better luck trying to clean up Windhelm's nasty attitudes.
"I told her I didn't want her to leave, but…" Aerin sighed, draining his tea and morosely popping a confection into his mouth without tasting it.
"But what you meant was that you didn't want her to stay if it might get her hurt or killed," I concluded.
Aerin nodded.
Aerin saved Mjoll's life, and apparently when he expressed a wish that Riften could be cleaned up a little she took doing just that as a way to repay her life. I understand the mindset, but I do think she's in the wrong place.
"So let me ask you this… if there was somewhere else she could do her crusading…?"
Aerin shook his head. "She'd just tell you she's never been a sell-sword and won't start now. You know how she is."
I nodded. The woman's got a prideful streak a league long. "And I take it she's still failed to notice your interest?"
This time Aerin snorted. "Please don't be gossipy like that with me. I might not mind as much if there was something to gossip about, but as there isn't…"
I let the subject drop. It's clear to anyone with eyes that Aerin is dead gone on Mjoll. He's a nice (if somewhat shy and retiring fellow, and she's this strapping crusader. They're a good match, personality-wise. He'd follow her anywhere, even if he really couldn't manage the situations in which he found himself.
"Well, what will be will be," I said. "And if I hear of any places where she can pack up and move her crusade for justice, I'll let you know."
Aerin, none too hopefully (he's a Riften native and I don't think he'd ever really want to leave), but with an air of gratitude nonetheless.
I tell you what, for his sake and if she'd do it, I'd hire Mjoll for some kind of security role in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, she is who she is and I can't change that.
"So, how are things in Solitude?" Aerin asked briskly, once the silence had time to settle and grow thick.
I didn't have to answer for, at that moment, Mjoll entered looking morose. "Oh, hello Leandra," she nodded.
I smiled at her, partly for her interrupting the urbanities Aerin and I had already gone through but mostly because I like her. "Hello Mjoll."
"Look!" Aerin hiked a happier expression onto his face before turning to face Mjoll, the box of confections in his hand. "Straight from Solitude."
Mjoll, trying not to look too interested—she's got a carefully concealed sweet tooth—peeked into the box. "…is there one of those little raspberry ones?" she asked, trying not to sound interested.
"By some strange coincidence there are three," I answered, picking up the unused teacup and filling it before passing it to her.
Mjoll sat down at the table and, nonchalantly, picked out one of the raspberry crèmes she's so fond of before accepting the cup. Tea really isn't a Skyrim thing, but it's not something that's hard to adopt. Not like the coffees out of Hammerfell; those take a little acclimation!
"So," Mjoll said once she'd nibbled at her sweet, "has Maul been minding his manners?"
-L-
I was coming out of the Benevolence of Mara—Mother doesn't say it, but she's hoping I don't turn out an old maid—when a courier stepped up. Lingering thoughts of prayers for Lucinda and the young man she's making eyes at (she's not ready to commit to wearing the amulet just yet) as well as for Aerin and Mjoll vanished like steam.
Not just any courier but a courier from Solitude. The merchant families of Solitude maintain a small band of couriers that know us and that are known to us—so a message delivered by one is sensitive at best. "Brendan," I manufactured a smile for him.
"Miss Ashlynn. Message from your mother." He presented the envelope with my family's seal in wax on the front and my name in my mother's elegant hand. It would be one thing to get a message from Father, but was something else entirely to get one from Mother.
I opened it and bit my lip as I'd told Lucinda to quit doing before leaving Solitude.
Dearest Leandra,
You need to come home, darling. Cut the buying trip short, leave the wagon with Laurel and Stern, they can bring it back without you and Brendan can ride with you. You must absolutely return at once. Oh, darling, I've rewritten this about six times and I still can't make it sound any better. But you're pragmatic, like your father, so here it goes.
Lucinda was taken two days prior to my writing this. By all evidences—that is, word of mouth from friends—the Thalmor were behind it. We don't know why; they just… snatched her up. So we want you home. Family should be together at a time like this.
Hurry back with all speed. Carry my love with you,
Mother
I reread the missive, because it didn't make sense.
I read it a third time. It made absolutely no sense.
Lucinda? Taken? But why? It makes absolutely no sense. She's a faithful devotee of Zenithar and respects the other seven among the Eight as she ought. There's nothing in her behavior that ought to draw their attention. Nothing.
I swallowed, feeling my eyes prickle. It might be a mistake… but if Mother hasn't heard anything or learned anything in the two days she held off sending this message then…
You hear stories, sometimes, about the Thalmor taking people—usually people accused of breaking the White-Gold Concordat or committing some other high crime. I always thought they were just stories, though—propaganda of the Stormcloaks, their sympathizers and their collaborators.
If there's one thing I hate, it's a collaborator.
"Thank you, Brendan," I swallowed, pleased that I didn't stammer as I wanted to. "Mother says I'm to ride home with you, and that Laurel and Stern are to follow behind."
"Trouble, Miss?" Brendan asked nervously.
That should be patently obvious. "Let me make some arrangements with Laurel. We leave at break of dawn. Take this," I fished out my purse and counted out several coins, "and rent yourself a room at the Bee and Barb. It's too late to start tonight."
Brendan took my avoidance of the question to mean 'very bad news'—that and couriers can't afford to be overly curious. He bowed, took the coins, and set off to do as I told him.
I made the arrangements in a sort of daze, as if I were watching someone else do it, or as though I were one of those Dwemer automatons on a guided track. I didn't cry; I just persisted in a state of shocked detachment. No one commented on anything odd in my behavior. No one mentioned anything amiss in my looks. It was as if my pleasant merchant's face was so practiced in settling into place that I didn't have to think about it anymore.
-L-
Thanks DeadChickenRunning for catching a minor error.
