Chapter 6 - Travels and Exoticism

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“Place! Make place for ubasi Raksada!”

The colourful crowd scattered as a richly decorated litter surrounded by many guards and servants was pushing its way through the busy and noisy streets of Torval. It was really early in the morning, and, as usual, the inhabitants of the city were trying to make the most of the fresh hours to carry out their occupations before the heat became too unbearable. And in Elsweyr, “unbearable” meant being roasted alive – or steamed if you lived in the tropical regions.

“Place, I said!” barked on of the guard again as he whipped a bystander which flock of goats which was not moving aside quickly enough.

Contrary to their Cyrodiilian counterparts, straight as die and perfectly arranged, the Elsweyrian cities were the nightmare of all urban engineers with their mazes of small streets which did not obey to any kind of logic and were always crowded with people and animals, their buildings of red clay piling up on one another in a cheerful anarchic way and their nonexistent sewers system. And obviously, Torval, Elsweyr’s administrative capital, was no exception to this, to the greatest displeasure and disgust of the occupant of the litter…

While his equipage was continuing its difficult progress, Raksada had opened his curtains a bit and did not make any effort to hide his sheer repulsion toward the sight offered to him.

By the Daedras, how he hated Elsweyr… Everything was an insult to his awesomely superior Elven senses: the smells, the heat, the noise, the dust, the insects, the people…

Suddenly, a pig chased by a young boy emerged from a parallel street and passed just in front in the litter, forcing it to swerve. The brutal move made Raksada flew in the back of his cabin.

“Damn Khajiits!” he thought he pushed away angrily the silky cushions from his face.

How could one consider seriously such, superstitious, gullible and mewing folks – no, no, not folks. Beasts! – as a sapient specie? Ah, what he would not have given to be in Mournhold and to revel into the exquisite sophistication of the Dunmer civilisation...!

Raksada sighed and started to look outside again. Yes, one day he would be back, but for the moment, there was still a lot to do here…

His eyes moved from the show of the Elsweyrian streets to a cloud of reddish dust which was rising in the distance, just outside the city walls. A satisfied smile stretched his thin lips at the sight. The building work was going well, much better than he had initially planned, and this was definitely good news, because, on the other fronts, the situation was not as brilliant…

The Dark Elf sighed heavily and closed his curtain. At least, he had nipped in the bud the rebellion fomented by this big moronic brute of Dro’Ba, nevertheless Raksada was not sure it would be enough to reassure Incosi Sha’ka. Especially if the king already got to hear of the other pieces of news…

But the Dark Elf would soon find out as his litter had finally arrived in front of the Kraal of Torval, the seat of the government established by Incosi Sha’ka. The latter had razed the former old clay-made construction to make a more “modern” Kraal, and the building was the only monument in the city to be made out of real stone – white marble sent at great expense from Cyrodiil. The rumour said it was Raksada who supervised most of the building work, which explained why the fortress Sha’ka had in mind finally turned out to look more like a sophisticated palace than a stronghold…

When the litter finally stopped in front of the monumental stairs which lead to the entrance of the palace, one of the Khajiit servants rushed on one side of the litter and threw himself to the ground on all fours. Almost as simultaneously, Raksada got out and the servant winced when the Dunmer leaned heavily on him to get down, thrusting his heels in his back.

The soles of the Dark Elf’s leather sandals had not yet touched the ground that, as if they were especially waiting for him, a swarm of flies immediately attacked him from all sides.

“Damn insects!” he enraged while shaking his flyswatter around in vain attempts to chase them. “Is that country plotting against me to make my life an absolute Oblivion?!”

“Ah, ubasi Raksada, you are back!” said a breathless voice on his right.

The Dunmer stopped his rather undignified gesticulation and tried to recover a more noble composure before turning toward his interlocutor. Before him was standing King Sha’ka’s main chamberlain, an old man Raksada had never managed to remember the name – and had never made the effort to, actually…

“Yes, I am back, you old moronic moth-eaten carpet.” Raksada thought, trying to hide the disgust the Kahjiit was inspiring him. “Which probably explains why I am standing here in front of you…By Sheogorath’s Staff, why do people have to be so stupid?!”

“Incosi Sha’ka demands to see you without any delay.” the Chamberlain carried on. “He wants to discuss with you extremely urgent matters…”

The Dark Elf’s eyes narrowed slightly. The sly and pleased expression on the Khajiit’s did not bode well, because, for some reason, people tended to rejoice in Raksada’s presence only when the latter was in deep trouble.

Actually, to qualify the Dunmer as unpopular was the euphemism of the Era. He was simply and purely abhorred by the Khajiit population. But he was dreaded too. And he had been Sha’ka’s right arms for decades, which was granting him a certain influence over the newly appointed ruler of Elsweyr and on all the political taken by the latter. Indeed, did not the rumour say about Raksada that, in all affair of state, he was the man to please – but that he was real great when he had a girl to squeeze ?(1)

But there were so many rumours that were going round him... Some said that, despite his very young appearance, he was so old he had seen the setting up of the rule of the Tribunal in Morrowind, that his magical powers had no cause to be envious of the greatest of all mages in Tamriel’s history, that there would be a major war between all the evil entities known on Nirn because they all could claim ownership over his soul and that his sexual appetite has no limits. But in this tissues of lies – often carefully exuded by Raksada himself – were hiding a few truths…

In fact, despite his fine physique with his toned body, his long dark curly hair and his natural stylishness, Raksada had absolutely no interest into squeezing girls – or boys, to that matter… – and unrestrained sexual orgies. Politics, on the other hand, was all his life was about. And by politics, he actually meant Politics, with a capital “P” as in “Power”, “Plots” and “Pawning-everyone-to-become-Mister-Number-One”.

It was well known that if Sha’ka was the military genius behind the victories which had allowed him to have most of the southern tribes and lands of Elsweyr under his thumb in just a few months, Raksada was Sha’ka’s éminence grise and the political mastermind who had concluded all the political alliances consolidating the position of the victor.

“Hmmm, did Incosi Sha’ka give you more details about the aforementioned ‘extremely urgent matters’?” Raksada asked in a cough. “Forewarned is forearmed.” he added to himself mentally.

“He wanted to make you the surprise, o ubasi.” replied the Khajiit looked beside himself with joy and Raksada felt a bit of apprehension rising in his chest. All this was really ominous…

“Damn servant!” thought the Dark Elf. “You and the others are dreaming of Sha’ka bumping me off, hey? But this won’t happen - and I should stop saying ‘damn’ all the time, it is becoming a bad language habit…”

Not wishing to annoy the king even more by making him waiting, Raksada quickly took his leave from the Chamberlain, climbed the stairs in double-quick time and ran along the corridors of the palace. And it is a bit out of breath he finally arrived in the stateroom.

It was quite vast one, and despite the unique and massive Redguardian openwork designed window made into one of the wall, it remained very dark, much closer to the Elsweyrian taste – or lack of it in Raksada’s opinion – in term of interior decorating than he rest of the palace.

Numerous war shields painted in bright colours and strange patterns were hanging on the wall, sharing the space with different kind of assegais and spears as well as with the pelts and skins of most of the fauna living in Elsweyr.

At the far end of the room was a platform on which was resting a throne. And on the throne was sitting a Cathay Khajiit with the dark fur typical of the tribes living in the tropical forests. He was wearing the traditional outfit of the Khajiit of the south, that is to say a very colourful loincloth, a pair of leather sandals and a lot of jewellery made out of leather, bones and shells. Only the silver and golden headband he was wearing was indicating his rank.

King Sha’ka was bending over the desk which had been brought in front of him to allow him to do his paperwork. The Khajiit seemed engrossed in reading a parchment and had not bothered to raise his head when his advisor had entered the room, but Raksada had known the Khajiit long enough to know the latter was carefully observing him nevertheless.

“Bayete, Incosi! Hail, o King of Kings!” Raksada said, deeply bowing in front of his sovereign as he greeted him in the traditional Elsweyrian fashion.

When he lifted up again, Sha’ka had raised his head from his paperwork and was glaring at him in silence.

“I have excellent news, Incosi! I just came back from Valley Guard and …”

Raksada broke off, his eyes having just stopped on a motionless form lying a few feet from the king on the ground and – element which was worth taking into account – the Dunmer noted how it was bathing in a pool of blood…

“I think I already have been informed of your… excellent news, Raksada.” Sha’ka replied in a deep voice. The Khajiit got up from his throne and pushed the immobile figure with his foot. The thing tumbled down the few steps before landing in front of the Dunmer.

“Woe to the bearer of bad news…” Raksada murmured as he examined the face of the dead messenger who was lying on the ground, his throat literally torn off.

“Indeed…” Sha’ka replied with a smirk. “And now, o my most devoted councillor and friend, would you mind explaining me in what this can be considered as excellent news?”

The Khajiit lord shook the piece of parchment right under Raksada’s nose. The latter carefully took it in between two fingers as if it was going to expose right in his face and his red iris started to scan the content of the message.

“Ah. The Empire is sending us emissaries…” commented the Dunmer after a while, rolling the parchment back and scratching his chin carefully with it. “Well, such a move had to be expected, o Incosi. Chancellor Ocato could not stay with his arms crossed while we were unhurriedly undermining the few authority and control the Empire still had over Elsweyr…”

At the words, Sha’ka’s face turned into a mask of pure rage. He gave a terrible roar which echoed along the corridors of his palace, making a group of cockatoos who was drinking in a basin outside flew away in panic. He then grabbed Raksada’s neck in one of his powerful paws, lifting him a few inches above the ground. The Dunmer winced while his hands instinctively clutched the Khajiit’s wrist.

“You said Ocato was far too busy dealing with the quarrels within the Council of Elders and with the stabs in the back of King Helseth of Morrowind to interfere in our business!” the king yelled in Raksada’s face.

“He…is, Incosi. He… really is…” the latter gargled. “This is why… I think he is… sending us emissaries and not a whole… contingent… of Imperial Legionnaires.”

Sha’ka brought the Dark Elf right under his muzzle and tightened his grip a little more on his councillor’s throat. The latter felt the bones in his neck creaking a bit.

“You’d better be right, Raksada. Or else…!” growled the Khajiit.

And to punctuate his sentence, the king violently threw away Raksada, who collapsed on the ground, coughing and massaging his bruised throat. Sha’ka turned is back to him, walked toward the impressive window and leaned against on of its jambs, his arms crossed on his chest.

“You are lucky I still need you, Sha’ka… But this little incident will earn you a long and painful death soon.” thought the Dunmer, his eyes shooting Sha’ka a murderous glance. “Very soon…”

“And now, what are we going to do?” the King continued, a faraway look in the eyes as he watched the landscape before him. “We easily crushed the few garrisons the Council had left in Elsweyr because they were numerically inferior and badly prepared. But I really don’t have the means at the moment for a military confrontation with the Empire Legions. Because, no need to bury our face in the sand, I seriously doubt the emissaries are going to be please with what they are going to find here…”

Simultaneously, the eyes of the Khajiit and the Dunmer moved toward the huge building site outside the city which had attracted Raksada’s attention earlier and which was visible from the window.

“This won’t be necessary, Incosi.” the Dark Elf said in a hoarse voice. He made a face, stopped and coughed to clear his hurt throat before carrying on. “All we need is to play for time, and there are many way to do that other than wage war on the Imperial forces... We will find a way to neutralise those emissaries – whoever they may be – until we are ready. And the time for the Empire to react, there actually won’t be an Empire to be a problem to us anymore…”

“The end of the grip of the Cyrodiilian Empire over Tamriel – and the rise to the power of Elsweyr…” the king whispered.

Sha’ka came back into the room and Raksada could see he was smiling widely, the whiteness of his teeth accentuated by his dark fur and darkness of the room. But his face suddenly became all stern and worried again.

“Unfortunately, this could only be achieved if we find them…”

Raksada winced mentally. Ah, yes. Them… The main flaw in the Dunmer’s ingenious plan which had allowed Sha’ka to rise to power.

“They could not have gone far away, o Incosi.” The Raksada replied in an appeasing voice. “We made sure they have nowhere to hide and will not be able to find any kind of support… It is just a matter of time before they will fall into our hands.”

“The Virgins of Dagomey should not be underestimated, o ubasi Raksada.” a soft and lilting voice interrupted him. “You did it once, and this enabled them to escape.”

There was a metallic sound from behind the throne and a slender, not-so-much-dressed but covered-in-jewellery silhouette materialised by Sha’ka. At the sight, a nasty smirk materialised on Raksada’s face.

“Ah, Princess Naandi. I should have known you were not far away… The smell of affairs of State attracts you as honey attracts bees.” said Raksada politely in spite of the actual comparison he had in mind implied more big greenish flies rather than cute little bees.

“They indeed attract me as much as contemplating your face revolt me, ubasi.” the female Khajiit replied in an equally courteous tone.

The king burst out laughing at the young female’s sally while Raksada’s smile froze a bit. No wonder why Sha’ka was so annoyed against him. It was odds on that the pretty Naandi put her husband Sha’ka on him, because Princess, which fur was as pale as Sha’ka’s was dark, was nothing less than Raksada’s worst nightmare in Elsweyr.

“There are no more Virgins of Dagomey, Princess.” Raksada said with a malicious smile. “No more Mane, no more Moons Staff, no more stupid beliefs, I saw to that.”

“We both know it is not entirely true, ubasi.” Naandi retorted in a soft voice.

Their glances clashed until Sha’ka interrupted their silent confrontation.

“So, do you have any news of the fugitives?” the king asked his First Councillor.

“My men have picked up their trail, Incosi.” the Dunmer replied. “They should catch with them in a few days.”

“Where are they exactly, Raksada?”

The Dunmer looked embarrassed.

“Well, it seems they… are coming back to the south again.”

There was a silence.

“It doesn’t make sense…” Sha’ka finally commented thoughtfully. “They should be trying to put as much distance as possible between us and them.”

“Maybe they are trying to seek refuge in that small village in the Tenmar forest which still resist to the invader and which seems to cause our dear Raksada no end of trouble…” Naandi whispered in her husband’s ears, giving the Dark Elf a provocative wink. The latter resisted the urge to strangle her.

“If this village has not been burn to the ground yet is because it is not presenting a direct menace to the power of Incosi Sha’ka!” the Dunmer protested, but the king did not look convinced.

“I know many refugees and rebels are trying to go back to the place, Raksada. I don’t want to see the set up of another centre of rebellion…”

“The traitors we crushed a few days ago, o Incosi, made a clear example of what will happen to rebels!” Raksada exclaimed, having difficulty to repress the impatient tone of his voice. “Elsweyr, from Dune to Senchal, is submitted to your authority! We have absolutely nothing to fear from a handful of scruffy wretch from the swamps!”

“Maybe, maybe…” Sha’ka murmured, looking attentively at his councillor. “You have an answer to everything, haven’t you Raksada…?”

The lips of the Dunmer turned into one of his typical thin smile and it was with his eyes riveted on Naandi he replied to his king.

“I am only here to serve, o Incosi…”

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“Seriously, how many chances over a million were there for that dimensional gate to open right here?” J’Ghasta asked to the company at large. “I still think it is extremely weird!”

As he said so, the Khajiit shot a meaningful glance at Polly the Parrot, who was flying above the little group which was progressing slowly in the green maze of the jungle.

“Excuse me, J’Ghasta, but you call that a chance?” Lucien replied sarcastically. “Landing in the middle of nowhere, in this stupid mix of savannah and rain forests, with nothing to eat or drink, no clothes, no shoes, no money, no…?”

“Well, we are back on Mundus. You should be happy, shouldn’t you?”

“I am, but I really would to know exactly where on Mundus, if no one minds…”

J’Ghasta sighed.

“For the fiftieth time, we are on the Eastern coast of Elsweyr, Lucien. I am sure of that.”

“Oh, and how can you be that sure?”

“Khajiit awesome sixth sense.” J’Ghasta replied very seriously. Lucien rolled his eyes. “All I need now is to find that darn river so we could follow it down to Senchal.”

“Great… But you know it would be nice if you could find your way before we got eaten alive by those blasted mosquitoes…” Lucien grumbled bitterly as he swatted one against the back of his neck. “It has been three days we are walking around, finding nothing but mosquitoes.”

“Come on, it’s not a couple of mosquito bites which are going to kill you, Lucien…” Graman replied. The Orc had less problems with insects, certainly because his thick skin could protect him from a rain of arrows and his great paws allowed him to squashed not one but entire swarms at once.

“I beg your pardon? A couple of mosquitoes, you said?!”

With an angry move, Lucien torn off the last strips of shirt hanging on his chest, revealing a very pale skin covered, among other things, in insects bites.

“There are millions of them! And those stupid insects are so big they don’t sting you but impale you!” he shouted with hint of hysteria in his voice. “Look at this!”

And he pointed dramatically at his chest. Graman and J’Ghasta winced at the sigh, and the latter admitted it did not look good at all.

“So, what do you want, Lucien?” the Khajiit asked. “To make another pause again?”

“Not a good idea.” Graman commented, looking preoccupied. “The sun is going to set soon, and we need to find a place to spend the night over.”

“You two do whatever you feel like. I am sick and tired of that jungle, with its awful smell of rotten things, its insects and its impenetrable vegetation.” Lucien replied in a categorical tone. “I am exhausted and I am staying here.”

Suiting the action with the words, he leant against a tree and slowly slid against the trunk to the ground with both a weary and annoyed expression on his face.

J’Ghasta turned toward the Orc, raising an eyebrow which meant “So?”. Graman shrugged and sat down near Lucien, imitated by Ormil and J’Ghasta while Polly perched on a nearby branch.

While his companions were installing themselves comfortably, J’Ghasta observed Lucien in silence.

Of the member of the little group, the Imperial was the one suffering the most. Indeed, despite J’Ghasta had not put a paw back in Elsweyr in decades, he remained a Khajiit, a creature designed to evolve in those rather inhospitable lands. Graman was an Orc and as such, could basically survive anywhere. As for Ormil – who was currently in deep conversation with a tree – it seemed his insanity had immunized him against tiredness and pain.

But Lucien did not dispose of all those physical and mental protections and he remained deep at heart an urban creature. If hunting the targets of the Dark Brotherhood’s contracts in the wild for days had J’Ghasta’s favours, Lucien was definitely a society assassin who was only perfectly at ease in the busy background of cities. There was no one better than him in the Brotherhood to discreetly eliminate a target in a busy room while having a mundane conversation on politics. In short, Lucien had turned murdering someone in between eating cucumber sandwiches and drinking a glass of expensive alcohol into an art, but he could not find his bum with his hands when confronted with Mother Nature.

And to think he was worst than a chick regarding his physical appearance… J’Ghasta was happy there were no mirrors around, because the sight his friend was offering was rather… pathetic.

What had survived of Lucien’s clothes after the wreck had not resisted the thick and thorny vegetation of Elsweyr’s bush, and all that was left of his very fashionable and classy outfit only consisted now in a pant in tatters. His chin was covered by a three-day beard, and, in addition to the mosquito bites, his skin was covered in blood, scratches, mud and his nose was starting to peel because of sunburns. But the worst was probably his long hair. It was so full of knots that, compared to it, dreadlocks actually looked like a very clean and tidy hairstyle.

“There is a bit of grubs left, if someone feels a bit hungry…” Graman said as he opened a little piece of tissue full of difficult to identify stuffs.

“Can only I eat the heads?” Ormil asked with a voice full of hope. “I don’t like the wobbly bits. They’re yucky!”

“You eat the whole thing or else you won’t get anything, Ormil. Do you want some, Lucien?”

“No.”

“You should. You really did not look well…”

“I said no.”

“But they are full of proteins…!”

“You really don’t want me to explain where you can stuff your proteins, Graman…”

“All right, all right, no need to get impolite!”

No one said a word in the five following minutes, and nothing could be heard apart from Ormil who was happily chomping his grubs.

“Would you mind shutting your mouth when you are eating?” Lucien barked to the High Elf.

“Mommch?”

“Hey, has someone seen Polly?” Graman asked straight out. “She is not on her branch anymore…”

J’Ghasta yawned, stretched and laid back on the ground, his arms crossed behind his head.

“Bah, don’t worry, she must be flying around. She is in her element here in the jungle…”

“Polly wants a crackeeer!”

“Talking of the Daedra…”

“Crrrrrrrr! Polly wants a crakeeeeeeeeeeeer!”

Graman looked around, frowning.

“But where is she…?!”

“I have no clue.” Lucien replied, scanning the surroundings as well. “And she seems much excited…”

The little group became quiet again, listening to Polly’s crazy “crakeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer!” screams which were getting gradually even more hysterical.

“Last time she was like that, it was when she had found the interdimensional gate…” J’Ghasta said in a soft voice.

There was another pause.

“Do you think she found another one?” Lucien asked in disbelief.

Graman giggled.

“Fifty bucks she found the river!”

J’Ghasta raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll take you up on it!”

He got up and walked in the direction from which the cries of the parrot were coming from. The rest of the group could hear him swearing as he progressed through the dense vegetation. Then the noise faded and it seemed an eternity before J’Ghasta came back with the parrot. He had a ten-foot long face which made Graman burst out laughing.

“Don’t tell me… She found it!”

“Yeah.” the Khajiit replied darkly.

The Orc stopped laughing immediately and Lucien’s eyes narrowed. There was something in the Khajiit’s voice...

“You are not making such a sinister face because you lost your bet, aren’t you...?” Lucien asked, forgetting a moment his personal minor hesitations as his assassin senses came on alert immediately.

“No.”

Around them, the jungle was suddenly very silent. Even Polly remained unusually quiet and it seemed to Lucien the smell of humidity and of rotten vegetations had suddenly become more oppressive.

“So, what is the problem?” the Imperial asked again, trying to stay patient and calm despite the feeling of alarm rising in his chest. “It is not the good river?”

“Oh, it is the good river. But last time I saw it, there were not as many corpses floating in it...”

(1) His detractors – who mainly reproached him his hold on the affaires of State – actually made a song about him which soon became a smash hit and on which all Elsweyr’s gilded youth loved to dance on.
Sadly, Raksada having a very limited sense of humour and self-derision, he made sure his enemies as well as the music-loving people quickly found themselves pushing out the daisies so everyone understood it was at their own risk they hummed chorus like:

“Ra Ra Raksada
Power behind King Sha’ka
Here is a cat that really is gone
Ra Ra Raksada
Who checks the King’s agenda
It is a shame how he carries on.”