Chapter 8 - The Gold Cat's City

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Trying to calm the rapid pounding of her heart and leaning against a small tree, Sigrid desperately tried to quell the pain that raced through her. Her efforts afforded her little success, she had to admit. Even more annoying, she also had to admit that it was entirely her fault: she had not trained as much on the physical level over the last few months, and now she was paying for it.

To think that before, she could hold her own against Minotaurs…she had to admit, there were some serious drawbacks to living the life adventurous while heavily pregnant. She groaned and massaged her lower back, biting her tongue against the phrase ‘maybe this was a bad idea’. The outcome...the outcome could make it all worth it, she thought, resting her hand flat against her bulging belly, before grimacing again and trying to stand up straight and proud. Still, good idea or not, being pregnant did complicate matters...

“Do you think we shook the soldiers off?” Sigrid grunted to her companion, perched nearby on the lookout at the top of a small hillock. She was holding very still and seemed for a moment to be listening to the wind itself. Then the Khajiit straightened and twitched her ears, much as a human might brush off clothes and pop knuckles.

The female Khajiit – Ashar, Sigrid reminded herself - did not reply immediately, but continued to scrutinize the surroundings, ears pricked and her muscled body tensed in concentration, ready to spring at anything.

Sigrid observed Ashar closely, a tide of jealousy rising in her chest at the thought of her own body which had become somewhat flaccid, not to mention wholly distorted by the baby.

“I think so…” Ashar finally whispered back, her eyes gleaming as they flickered back to Sigrid. She then slipped back along the slope and stopped in front of Sigrid, with a large cunning smile on her face. “And I very much doubt they will be able to trail us with Senches or with Khajiit Rangers…we are very fortunate,” Ashar announced as she produced a small leather purse. When she opened it, a nose-burning, throat-scorching smell filled the air nearby, immediately bringing tears to Sigrid’s eyes. Sigrid blinked her watering eyes rapidly to clear them, aches and pains momentarily forgotten: there was no doubt what was in that bag...

“Spices?” Sigrid raised a hand to block the fiery fumes from her nose, “Is that what you’re scattering behind us?” Sigrid bit down the impulse to bombard the Khajiit with questions as to the spices involved in such a mix, and watched her with some curiosity.

The Khajiit’s smile grew wider.

“Yes,” Ashar agreed, almost purring with anticipation of someone’s impending misfortune, “Very hot spices, to be precise. And I know a few guys whose sinuses are going to hurt quite a bit for a while…”

“What a nasty trick,” Sigrid’s intention was to merely quote a fact and not express a judgement on the Khajiit’s rather inventive methods. In fact, Sigrid considered, it might even work on certain humans she could name - this made her grimace. At least the spices’ effects would really linger.

The latter, however, took it as a personal attack. She turned around swiftly and put a handful of claws still stained with blood under Sigrid’s noise. The natural weapons glittered ominously in the poor light, and Sigrid’s nose continued to burn, from the spices that had gotten on Ashar’s hand when she’d opened her little bag. “So what? Do you have a better solution?!” she snarled at the Breton, eyes flashing dangerously, her ears pulling back to lie flat against her head.

“No! I was merely…” Sigrid began, startled.

“If you don’t like it, maybe you should go back to those mercenaries to apologise!”Ashar snapped.

“But…!”

The Khajiit brusquely turned on her heel, tail lashing angrily.

Sigrid’s hand slid slowly toward Clairvoix’s hilt as mix of anger and murderous distaste rose in her chest.

“Calm down, Sigrid…” Clairvoix urged appealingly in her head.

“She started it!”Sigrid snarled back, her eyes fixed between Ashar’s shoulder blades.

“Yes, she did, but what are you going to do? Stab her in the back?” Clairvoix demanded, sparking in annoyance and apprehension. “No, of course not...So calm down, prove you’re a bit more mature and go apologise.”

Sigrid rolled her eyes but tried to relax. Clairvoix was right. Getting angry was absolutely useless and, given Sigrid’s level of exhaustion and the Khajiit’s fighting abilities, it was wholly counter-productive…

“All right, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to irritate you!” the Breton exclaimed, running after the young Khajiit who ignored her superbly. Sigrid grit her teeth and struggled to curb her urge to slap Ashar hard across the face. She would, Sigrid thought bitterly, find herself trapped with the aloof queen of irritating. “And thank you for saving me from certain death…” she added with a forced smile which was far more like a grimace than a grin.

Ashar stopped walking and snorted, then finally deigned to look at the Breton before giving a shrug.

“It’s not me you should thank, but him,” she said shortly, pointing at the old Khajiit. He was sat a few feet from the two women and was fighting with the baby over a banana they had found the Gods knew where. “I would have happily abandoned you to your fate. But he would have made a huge fuss about it, so…” Ashar shrugged again, her tail lashing the air. She shook her head slightly as if to say that she was humouring her elder far more than was prudent.

“At least she’s honest,” Clairvoix snickered in Sigrid’s head.

The latter stuck her tongue at the sword mentally, and turned toward the old Khajiit. He had managed to get the banana from the baby and was now trying to prevent the infant from chewing his tail in retaliation.

“Well, er… Thank you, mister…?” Sigrid shot an inquisitive glance at Ashar, hoping for a name for the elder.

Ashar hesitated and the Breton saw a hint of suspicion in her eyes. But she finally made up her mind and introduced herself properly. “My name is Ashar. And these are U’baba and U’bhuti,” she added, pointing at the old Khajiit and then to the baby. Both the elder and the infant ceased fighting at the mention of their names, and flashed Sigrid matching toothless smiles.

“U’baba and U’bhuti, hey?” the Breton thought, her brow furrowing thoughtfully.

Sigrid’s grasp of Ta’agra, the dialect of the cat-people, was far from excellent but good enough to know that “father” and “brother” were not proper names – even regarding Khajiit standards on the matter. However, she decided to feign ignorance, firstly because Ashar certainly had the right to keep secrets from a perfect stranger. Secondly, because she – Sigrid - did not want to annoy a crazy Khajiit, with a serious disposition towards flying off the handle and armed with a nasty-looking razor blade…

“Nice to meet you, Ashar. I am Si… Berthe. Berthe Doe. And, this,” Sigrid declared politely as she nodded to her sword, “is Clairvoix.”

“Nice to meet you,” the sword said politely.

“Ah-hah!” Ashar exclaimed triumphantly, pointing at Clairvoix. “I knew you talked!”

“Clever kitty, aren’t you?” the sword replied, amused.

Ashar beamed – too toothily to be really reassuring – at and turned her attention back on Sigrid.

“So, Berthe…What has a powerful mage with a talking sword to do in the middle of Elsweyr?” Ashar asked softly, eyeing Sigrid, as if trying to detect any falsehoods or evasions the Breton might come up with.

Under the golden glare, Sigrid swallowed uncomfortably. It would help if the Khajiit would blink...or something...

“Er, nothing…” Sigrid replied, trying not to sound as ill-at-ease as she felt. She was not sure she succeeded.

Ashar blinked slowly.

“And what makes you thing I am a mage anyway?” Sigrid asked, trying to redirect the conversation.

“The spell you used against on Bombassa and his henchmen,” Ashar answered neutrally, while maintaining the intense glare she was pinning Sigrid with. “I am not an expert in magic, but this hex was not of the common sort, was it…?”She trailed off suggestively, her eyes sliding down to Clairvoix and back up to Sigrid’s eyes.

Darn… Sigrid was sure that, apart from the mercenaries and U’baba - who seemed as crazy as a loon - no one had seen her…

What rotten luck…! Sigrid mentally snarled, her grip on Clairvoix hilt tightening. The last thing the Breton wanted was to attract attention to herself. All she’d wanted was to slip quietly into Elsweyr, find out what she wanted to know, do what she had to do and leave. At this rate, she’d be a national figure within a week...of all the fetching bad luck! She was already too easily identifiable as a pregnant woman travelling alone, and now she’d be recognised as a mage with a magic sword. All she needed now was for the old Cheydinhal circus to show up and she could sell tickets!

“You are a powerful mage, aren’t you?” Ashar asked again.

The Khajiit’s insistence made Sigrid feel extremely ill-at-ease. For a second, she was tempted to tell the Khajiit to mind her own business. But, she did not, fearing her outburst might raise more questions and suspicion than a polite answer.

Fortunately, Clairvoix chose that moment to intervene.

“No, she is not a mage.” Clairvoix chuckled, as if at some private joke. “But I am a powerful magic sword!” it announced proudly.

“Oh? Are you?” Ashar asked, sounding very interested, her eyes sliding back down to look at the glittering blade.

Far too interested in Sigrid’s opinion, and Sigrid promptly decided to put an end to this avoid curiosity by redirecting the conversation once more.

“Er… Ashar? Excuse me, but maybe you should put an end to the fight between your two friends before they try to knock each other with their banana…” Sigrid suggested as innocently as possible, pointing past the Khajiit’s shoulder.

“Eh?” Ashar scowled in confusion and looked back, following the direction Sigrid was pointing. “Oh!” The Khajiit sighed a little helplessly and turned, rushing toward U’baba and U’bhuti, who had started fighting over a second piece of fruit. The young female grabbed the banana in contention – provoking a concert of offended screams and unintelligible babble from the old cat and the baby – and cut it into two wooden bowls she took out of her bag, murmuring quietly to the elder and the baby as she did so.

“Er… They like their bananas, don’t they?” Sigrid started in a pathetic attempt to revive conversation.

“Yes, they do.” Ashar replied, now crushing the banana in the bowls along with a bit of water. “Banana purée is all they can eat, you see, toothless as they are…” she gestured at her charges when she had a free hand with which to do so.

“Banana!” U’baba exclaimed happily. “Asante sana, squashed banana!” He laughed as he jumped to his feet and enthusiastically hit Sigrid over the head with his stick, provoking the Breton to squeal hysterically in pain. U’baba continued to dance about, as if completely unaware that it hurt to be bopped with that stick.

“Argh! Are you crazy!?” Sigrid snarled, rubbing her aching head.

“Wiwi nugu mi apana!” U’baba continued to carol blissfully unaware of or – as Sigrid was beginning to darkly suspect – ignoring the fact that he was causing pain and problems.

“Oh, I am so sorry…!” Ashar exclaimed, and she truly sounded it, gently shooing the old cat away. “I am afraid he does that to people he likes…” she explained with a tired sigh.

“What it would be if he didn’t like me…?!” Sigrid groaned back, rubbing her throbbing head and shooting U’baba dark looks.

The Khajiit had retreated a few feet away and was whispering and chuckling into his bowl. Despite the fact that he was not looking at her, Sigrid still felt like she had the old cat’s attention...though why, she wasn’t sure.

“So, er… What are you going to do now?”Ashar asked, looking at U’baba, and not at Sigrid, as if wondering what she, herself, planed to do now.

Sigrid took a few seconds to reflect before answering. She did not know why, but she had the feeling Ashar’s question was not only motivated by pure politeness…

“I am not sure…” she finally replied, opting for the truth...or, at least, most of the truth. Ashar didn’t need to know all of it, after all. “But I am certainly going to continue my travel south, to Corinth…”

At the words, Sigrid wished she’d kept her mouth shut, and the Khajiit’s ears perked up attentively and Sigrid a sly gleam in Ashar’s eyes. Or maybe she just imagined it, because it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Ashar smiled – but it was not exactly a sincere smile, “because we’re going to Corinth as well! How lucky for you.”

Crap…Sigrid groaned mentally – she knew the Khajiit had looked all too innocent for a moment, and now she was proved right!

“Oh, that’s good news indeed…” Sigrid replied in a very unenthusiastic tone.

“So, why not doing the journey together?” Ashar smiled, showing her many and very sharp teeth.

Re-crap…

“Well, er…” Sigrid fumbled for an excuse to give but was disappointed to find that her mind now seemed to be as slow as her body – nothing was coming up and the Khajiit continued smiling, like a cat that has cornered a mouse.

“And that mouse,” Sigrid thought sourly, “is me.”

“What a great idea!” Clairvoix exclaimed enthusiastically.

“Clairvoix, shut up please…” Sigrid whispered with a frozen smile on her lips.

“But…!” the sword protested.

“Shut. Up.” Sigrid snarled.

“Is there a problem?” Ashar asked, frowning and glaring at Sigrid and the sword in turn.

“Er… Would you excuse us a minute?” Sigrid asked with an apparently friendly smile. “Meeting time!”

And without further explanation, the Breton moved away from Ashar and installed herself far what she thought must be out of the Khajiit’s earshot. Sigrid took Clairvoix out of its sheath and held it in front of her – the position she adopted when she wanted to hash things out with it.

“I think I preferred when you were too exhausted to speak…” she growled at Clairvoix, glaring darkly at it. “Why do you want to travel with her? Are you crazy?!”

“Sigrid, we can’t refuse her offer! We don’t have the means to survive out here! We don’t, and you know it!” the sword protested.

“Clairvoix, the mercenaries who attacked us were after her! You heard Bombassa mentioning he wanted U’baba. And don’t forget, Ashar and Bombassa seemed to know each other really well…!” Sigrid added, remembering the cold look and the vaguely sadistic pleasure on the Khajiit’s face when she’d sunk her fist into the mercenary’s face.

“We all have our little problems, don’t we? After all, the Dark Brotherhood is looking for…” Clairvoix added.

“Ssssh, she could hear us!” Sigrid squeaked, shooting a quick glance above her shoulder to make sure Ashar was not trying to listen in on the conversation.

But the Khajiit was still busy feeding U’bhuti and U’baba, who were having a good laugh throwing handfuls of banana purée at each other, blissfully ignoring the content of the meeting going on, some yards away.

“Listen. There is no way we are going to travel with her, all right?” Sigrid said, softly but resolutely.

“Why not? Because of the mercenaries? We kicked their ass once, we can do it twice…”

“First, we didn’t kick their asses – we barely got ours out of trouble at the last minute. And secondly, this is not the same problem…! Have you seen Ashar’s weapon?” Sigrid dropped her voice a little lower, and leaned closer to Clairvoix, “Clairvoix, it’s a Dagomey Razor!” Sigrid’s eyes flickered back, catching the trio of Khajiiti in her peripheral vision. she looked back at Clairvoix. “That means she is a Virgin of Dagomey, Clairvoix! And don’t tell me you didn’t know, because I won’t believe you!” Sigrid added darkly.

“And that’s even better!” the sword retorted, sparkling in annoyance at Sigrid’s reticence towards seeing sense. “She must know the country and its dangers perfectly well! She’d be a perfect guide!”

“Of course she does, because she is one of those dangers…!” Sigrid groaned. “Are you just not listening to me?” she asked a little helplessly.

“Sigrid… Do you honestly have any idea of the direction to take to reach Corinth from here?”Clairvoix asked kindly, and sympathetically...the tone one uses when asking a rhetorical question, or a question to which they already know the answer.

“Well… Yes, of course!” Sigrid said staunchly and looked around, casting about for references or landmarks, “I mean… According to the position of the Shadow in the sky, and given that Masser and Secunda are moving east, we…”

A pause.

“Yeah, right, I don’t know where we are.” Sigrid admitted reluctantly, with a sigh, running a hand through her hair. “But it is not a reason to travel with a psychopathic teenager flanked by an old dodderer and a dribbling baby, all of them being chased by a bunch of bloodthirsty mercenaries!” Sigrid looked once more behind her, but Ashar was still busy feeding the baby. Reassured, she continued in a lower voice. “Have you heard of the Virgins’ reputation? They are nuts! Like nuts crazy-nuts – not like back...you know...They’re said to devour the males with whom they mate as well as any male progeny…!”

“You’re a woman so you have nothing to fear from her then!” Clairvoix replied cheerfully before its voice became serious again. “Sigrid, the Virgins of Dagomey are not chosen as the Mane’s personal guards for no reason – they’re amazing fighters, by Sithis! With someone like Ashar at our side, our chances to reach Corinth alive get multiplied by two!”

“Or divided by ten!” Sigrid retorted, wholly unconvinced. “This Bombassa guy and his gang are great fighters too!”

Clairvoix sighed. It knew they had reached a dead end in the argument. It better tried to find a powerful counter to this argument, or Sigrid would never accept Ashar’s offer. And it sounded infinitely better to Clairvoix to trust this Virgin of Dagomey – whatever Sigrid’s concerns –than to answer around in the middle of Elswerian Nowhere until they either died or went crazy.

“Sigrid, we don’t have any other alternative… I’d rather take the risk to face Bombassa again than getting lost in that huge savannah. That’s a lot of nowhere to walk through...particularly if you have no clue where you are!” The sword took a deep breath and reluctantly pulled out its trump card. “Didn’t you say you were ready to do anything if it could help you bringing Martin and Vicente back…?”it asked softly.

The ambient temperature seemed to drop several degrees. All the blood instantly drained from Sigrid’s face, leaving her pale as porridge.

Clairvoix held its metaphorical breath: this was it. All or nothing...

“Of course I am ready to attempt anything…” she said in a breath at last. “How dare you call that into question…?” Sigrid asked, sounding genuinely hurt. “How could you...you know I...that I...” she trailed off, biting her lip.

Sigrid started to absent-mindedly draw abstract figures in the red sand with her forefinger, a painful, clouded, but dreamy look in the eyes. Clairvoix wished he could still access her thoughts, but the Sigrid kept her mind carefully closed. She finally sighed and quickly erased her drawings carelessly with her hand.

“The thing is I don’t trust Ashar much,” she announced, rubbing her hands against one another to clear the dust from them. “It is obvious she’s hiding something from us…”

“I don’t trust her either, you know,” the sword replied encouragingly, giving Sigrid the mental equivalent of a pat on the shoulder. “But my intuition tells me our safety and our chances to see our friends again rely on her. That’s all I’m saying: ‘let her get us to Corinth’, not ‘trust her blindly’.”

Sigrid frowned thoughtfully, as she watched Ashar and her companions. Sigrid suddenly sighed and shrugged, and Clairvoix knew it had won.

“I hope you’re not wrong…” Sigrid said slowly, running a hand though her hair. “Otherwise, we are screwed.”

“No worries! Seriously, have I ever been wrong before?” Clairvoix asked cheerfully.

Sigrid grimaced and stood up, returning the sword it its scabbard, a little more roughly than she might normally have done, and ignoring its protests.

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Once again, the Night Mother’s crypt in Bravil was filled with the presence of Sithis, the Dread Father, the Void, the Great Empty Space, the End of All Things…

Of course, talking about the “presence” of an entity by essence entirely linked to the notion of emptiness was a bit paradoxical, but after all, this was Nirn, where magic was omnipresent, and paradoxes were numerous. And anyway, this precision in vocabulary did not seem to worry the Night Mother much…

“There we are, O my Lord.” her voice resounded against the damp walls. “As you wished, I informed Arquen she had my blessing to organise the Synod…”

“Good.”

“… even if I disapprove of it,” the Night Mother added grimly.

“Obviously.”

The Night Mother’s spectral eyes rolled in her likewise spectral sockets. She hated when her Lord was set on monosyllabic answers. “I hope you are satisfied, now.”

“I am.”

Two syllables…Ah!

“Tell me if I annoy you…” the Unholy Matron announced sullenly. “I know you know what I am talking about, but you could at least feign interest!”

“You are such in a foul mood today…” the Dread Father observed pleasantly. “You are worried, aren’t you?”

A sarcastic cackle answered It.

“Worried, me?” the Night Mother sniffed and crossed her arms, scowling, “No, not at all…. You see, I truly don’t care about the fact that allowing Arquen to organise a Synod will wreak havoc in the Dark Brotherhood! You are perfectly aware this blasted Altmer is going to take this as implicit authorisation to do as she pleases, and this will automatically generate tensions – and we both know how assassins tend to put an end to tensions…! ” The Night Mother finished her rant.

“Yes, we do…. But this is a salutary and necessary conflict, I am afraid.” Sithis replied. To someone not used to conversing with great cosmic entities, the Void’s voice might seem perfectly neutral and monotonous, but the Night Mother was certainly no beginner in the field and therefore was perfectly able to sense resignation in her Lord’s tone. “The Dark Brotherhood has been plagued for too long by the rivalry between the conservatives and the reformers – and Bellamont made good use of this opposition… It is time for the members of the Brotherhood to choose their side.”

“It would have been much simpler to order them to choose a side…!” grumbled the Night Mother.

“No. It would only force things to smooth for a while. The hostilities would start again later, but more violently and maybe not in a favourable time for us.” The Dread Father made a pause, and this time, the Night Mother sensed something like amusement in Its voice when It started speaking again. “You know, a civil war within the Brotherhood was exactly what J’Ghasta expected when he chose to go after Trencavel alone. And it is what Lucien dreaded when he decided to follow J’Ghasta and leave Arquen in charge. Fascinating how these two often have the same intuitions but have a different point of view on them…”

The Unholy Matron shrugged. The psychology of her absentee Listener and Speaker did not interest her much, and knowing she would not be able to make her Lord changing Its mind on the Synod, she decided to diplomatically change the subject.

“Speaking of those two big dummies… How are they doing?” she asked, a little sourly.

“Not bad. Not bad at all - even if they need a bit of help from time to time…But this is normal, given that they are no match for the forces which have already started to rise up against them. Nevertheless, they are being quite useful, as always…”

“And Trencavel?”

“As you know, she is beyond my reach... But we would know if something bad had happened to her.”

The Unholy Matron sighed heavily and shook her head. “I don’t understand… I really don’t. It is not the first time a Daedra Prince clowns around. Before, we carefully tried not to get involved,” the spectre commented, her face twisting into an irritated pout. “Our opposition to Merhunes Dagon last time was motivated by particular reasons but…”

“Yes, but this time, you know it is not only about Daedra Princes.” Sithis interrupted her. “We are now facing entities much more powerful than Daedra or Gods, and the resolution of the struggle remains very unsure…”

There was a sudden silence.

“Wait a minute…” the Night Mother started carefully. “Are you trying to tell me you don’t know what is going to happen next?!”

“Yes.”

The Night Mother’s jaw dropped.

“But you are omniscient!” she protested, trying to wrap her mind around the concept just presented to her.

“Not exactly…” the Void explained patiently. “I have a clear vision of the possible futures offered to us, but the current presence in the Game of the Eternal Champion, whose destiny is not written, prevents me to foresee exactly which one of the futures is going to prevail…”

“And… what are the odds for the future with a happy ending for the Multiverse?” The Night Mother asked, trying to sound nonchalant about it.

“If you are thinking about something like ‘one chance over a million’, I am afraid we are far from the count… But do not worry. Things are not completely out of hand – yet.”

An amused smile appeared on the Night Mother’s translucent lips.

“Is that supposed to put my mind at rest?”

“It is. Even if blind, I am not completely powerless…”

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A seagull reeled in the glorious blue sky above the far less glorious city of Senchal.

Senchal… The great, filth-ridden and foul-smelling den of all the pirates of the Topal Sea, the wart of the Quin’rawl Peninsula, the rear base of all the trafficking of all unlawful substances in Tamriel snoozed quietly in the unbearable humid heat of the Elsweyrian southern coast.

Well, snoozing? That was yet to be seen…Crime never truly rested, as proved by the screams of those who suddenly found themselves relieved of their purse, or in some extreme cases, of their lives.

Emperor Uriel Septim, while still alive, always worried about keeping his empire unified. He had shown deep concerned regarding the creeping chaos which ruled over Senchal, one of the most prominent harbours of the Topal Sea, outstripped only by Leyawiin and Soulrest. Therefore decided, after his ascension, Uriel took drastic measures against the scourge in Senchal, but while the Imperial Legions were sharpening their spears, ready for the hard way of enforcing the peace, the young Emperor caught everyone off guards by inviting the principal crime lords of Senchal to the Imperial City and offered them a deal they could not refuse…

It was easy. The Empire offered to surreptitiously close its eyes on most of the illicit activities going on, and even offered them titles and the relating benefits, in exchange for their maintaining an acceptable level of order in Senchal and the security of the ships passing through the harbour. Everybody would get what they wanted out of it: the crime tycoons could keep their sources of revenues while the Emperor would not have to spend a septim to guarantee social peace in the city.

It was quite an offer, which finally pleased all the parties, the latter having perfectly understood the points of common interest – especially when the alternative consisted for the Senchalians being mercilessly and immediately put to the sword as the Emperor launched himself into a military campaign that would cost him many lives, a lot of money, and no small amount of irritation…

Obviously, such innovative and progressive politics caused quite an uproar in the Elder Council. Uriel’s detractors argued that ‘you could dress cut-throats as respectable men and grant them titles, but they will only become well-dressed and elegant cut-throats’. This was probably true, but soon, even the malcontents had to admit that the Emperor was right to bet on people’s need for social recognition, as well as on the negotiating talents of a young and promising smuggler called Ya’Tirrje who soon managed to convince his colleagues of the validity and fairness of Uriel’s deal. Particularly as the aforementioned ‘putting to the sword’ would begin with those on hand – namely they themselves, the crime lords, now enjoying the position of ‘the emperor’s personal guests’.

And the aforementioned guards with spears sharpened were only too happy to make that start that very day.

Soon, the different gangs of smugglers and dealers slowly began to organise into small societies of bandits, then into bigger conglomerates. However, it was under the subtle, guiding influence of Lord Ya’Tirrje – now known as the “Gold Cat” – that they finally joined together in a loose federation simply known as the “SyndiCat”, based on a very simple principle: organised crime. But in Senchal, “organised” really meant ‘highly organised’…

Every illegal activity, bar none, relied on a complex system of quotas and of professional licences the goal of which was to ensure every criminal a job without killing any of the geese that laid the golden eggs.

And as weird as it may seem, it worked.

Slowly and timidly, the middle class who had fled the city came back, vaguely reassured by the arrangement of not being bleed dry, thanks to the ‘protection’ offered by the SyndiCat against those who persisted in exercising their criminal activity as freelancers. Of course, some criticized the “anti-thief insurance system”, which, according to them, was more like protection racket than a real insurance policy. But Lord Ya’Tirrje, as the enlightened leader he was, always made sure he listened to their complaints before throwing them in the Quin’rawl River with weights tied to their feet. It looked better, politically speaking to listen first, and deal with it later.

As a result, Senchal once more found itself an active commercial platform, its bourgeoisie thrived again and so did the criminals who were no more parasitically leeching the society, but living with it in more or less perfect harmony. The system functioned so well it even survived the weakening of the central power after the death of the last heir of the Septim dynasty. Too many people had too much to lose: for example, those luxurious villas with debatable taste in architecture which had burgeoned over the past decade on the top of Senchal.

And this was one of those expensive and well-furnished villas our seagull chose to perch on…

There was nothing particularly noteworthy about it, in this neighbourhood apart from the fact this was the only house in which people were partying, whereas the rest of the city was taking a noontime nap. And given the noise from inside – music, laughs and the like – people were definitely having a good time, certainly helped by the great quantities of Skooma and Moon Sugar they were gulping down…

But supplying those expensive drugs was certainly not a problem to Fog Marley, the Dagi Khajiit owner of the villa and organizer of the current little get-together… As one of Ya’Tirrje’s right-paw Khajiiti, he had unlimited access to the stocks of drugs which were otherwise carefully monitored by the Gold Cat in order to guarantee the stability of the prices on the market.

One could ask how Marley could have become such a prominent dealer in the traffic of Skooma and Moon Sugar without respecting the “Golden Rule” of the profession: never consume your own product. But Marley was more than a dealer – he was also a philosopher, a visionary and an artist who thought creation could only be found in artificial paradises. And to him, paradises were never artificial enough…

...enter moon sugar and all its lovely derivatives. Paradise in a bottle.

Sat on a small platform covered in silky cushions in the centre of the ‘dining’ room, Fog was patiently rolling a cassava pancake spread with Moon Sugar jam, trying to remember where he was exactly, with regards to his address… By Fadomai, it was so hard to focus and explain the Rastajiit philosophy on life(1)! Especially, he grinned, after having down three bottles of Skooma and a dozens of pancakes…!

Fog Marley scratched his head - or rather, the green, yellow and red coloured knit cap he considered highly fashionable, and wore jammed over dreadlocks and his own ears.

Hang on…wait a moment...He had already talked about the necessity to think positive and to free oneself from all those negative vibrations in order for them to find their I man, the inner self… But now what…? Oh yeah, now he remembered…!

“And don’t forget!” he started again, his voice vibrating with passion – or maybe just from too much Skooma. “We must remain careful about politicians and their dirty politics, because they will try to divert us from...!”

“Eh, sorry, man,” a Khajiit interrupted him, hazily waving a paw.

Fog Marley blinked at the – to his mind – odd motion. Why was this cat interrupting him?

“But I think you mean ‘politricks’ and not politics…” the other said lazily, flicking his tail back and forth.

Fog Marley looked at him for a while with a dumfounded expression on his face, before suddenly beaming with delayed understanding. “Oh, yeah! Sorry man! Politricks! Yeah, this is what I meant!”

The Rastajiits present in the room looked reassured and started beaming and nodding to each other. Politricks, yeah…They were extremely pleased with that new word they had invented. It sounded so cool, so witty, so... Rastajiit.

“Hey, sorry man, but I have question.” another cap-and-dreadlocks-bedecked Khajiit announced, raising a hand. “If we want to efficiently oppose of those evil politrickians, why don’t we simply create our own party? Not that I am criticising and stuff, but… action is often more efficient than talks, isn’t it?” he looked back and forth among his comrades to see if the idea would stick.

There was a long and embarrassed pause.

“Naaah, man, naaah… You don’t get it.” Fog Marley finally replied reproachfully. “Taking direct actions would mean entering the system and getting contaminated by it. And we can’t afford that, man! We need to stay pure. To reach our I man, and to stay pure, we mustn’t do anything.” Fog Marley beamed at the others, waiting for the top cotton on.

The whole assembly took a moment to let the though sink in and take root in Skooma-softened minds before they let out an unanimous cheer in favour of Fog Marley’s wisdom, and the Khajiit who had dared to propose something as gross as “taking action” slowly sunk in the silky cushions, red beneath his fur with shame. Indeed, deep in their heart, Rastajiits were “armchair” revolutionaries, whose philosophy could be summed up as “why bothering risking our life for our ideals if we could simply set the world to rights from our sofa, while rolling ourselves Sugar Moon pancakes”? (2)

“Feel the flow, man!” Marley declared, raising his hands above his head, his accent giving the words an almost lyrical note. “Let the flow drive us toward the Truth!”

The Rastajiits around him nodded appreciatively, even if they had absolutely no clue on the flow Marley was talking about. But it sounded good.

“You know, I feel like my I man’s getting iya and iya…” giggled one of the Rastajiits, who was so stoned he was squinting – not that it helped any. “Could you throw me the moon sugar jam please? My pancake feels lonely…” he gestured at said pancake with his free hand.

“Here you go, man!” Fog Marley replied ebulliently, tossing the jam and forgetting to cap it, threw it to the Khajiit who wanted it, resulting in a shuffle to catch it before it spattered everywhere, and much noisy licking of fingers. “And, by the way, the rhythm you’re beating is very cool.”

His companion blinked, looking up from his finger-licking, and shot Marley a weird look, but a weird look coming from the copious consumption of Skooma and Moon Sugar by either party.

“I’m not beating any rhythm, boss,” he said carefully. “But I think that’s someone’s knocking on the door…”

“Er... Beg your pardon, boss, but can I get in?” asked a muffled voice from behind the door.

“What do you want?” Marley barked. The dreamy look of blissful unconcern on his face had completely disappeared and had been replaced by a deep distrust.

The door opened an inch and the face of Gugu, Marley’s sergeant, materialised in the crack between door and frame.

“Sorry to interrupt your, er…” Gugu’s forehead wrinkled under the effort of concentration before his face suddenly brightened. “...Oh yeah! Your session of ‘creative and collective shooting’– but we need your help, boss. We’ve just arrested a couple of troublemakers and we’re not sure what to do with them.”

Fog Marley hissed in annoyance and dismissed the guard with a disdainful swipe of his paw, the motion of which nearly unseated him. “Be a bit more creative, man! I don’t know…! Give them a hammering and let them go – I have more urgent matters to deal with,” he added, shooting a sidelong glance at the jars of Moon Sugar jam.

“I’m sorry boss, but I must insist…” The soldier had an embarrassed cough. “The two were caught dealing in very likely stolen goods.”

“So what? It is more or less what we all do here!” Marley cried, waving his arms. This time, he actually did tip over onto one elbow, and merely settled into the newer, more comfortable position. “Be creative! Use your mind!” Marley waved the guard off.

“Well, yes boss, but the trouble is they… don’t have a license,” Gugu said, knowing it would usually take three or four iterations of a problem before the meaning actually penetrated Marley’s sugar-haze.

Everyone in the room gasped in a magnificent chorus. The music stopped immediately in a concert of false notes and all eyes riveted on the sergeant.

“They what?” Marley demanded, shooting to his feet and tottering slightly.

Gugu uneasily shifted from foot to foot. He was a simple henchman, just looking forward doing his job, he and hated being the centre of attention like this. Particularly when his boss was cruising on moon sugar and in a fairly unpredictable mood. “They don’t have a license, boss,” Gugu repeated, masking the bad news in a fake cough. “There were four of them, but we managed to arrest two.”

Fog Marley glared at his sergeant, now giving every appearance of being completely normal, and in his right mind. The news had the same effect as a cold shower, and Gugu knew perfectly well why…

The SyndiCat did not mess about illegal activity, and the managers who had the worst statistics on the subject of ‘freelancers horning in’ won a personal interview with Ya’Tirrje to talk about what people euphemistically called “career development”. And no one liked Ya’Tirrje’s concept of “career development”…

“Bring them to my office!” Marley demanded as he stormed from his sanctuary of sugary bliss to his office. Someone was going to pay dearly for forcing this unwelcome change in scenery...

After having crossed a few rooms and storming along several long corridors, the Dagi finally reached his workplace where several soldiers where already waiting.

“Bring them in!” the drug tycoon demanded as he threw himself down on the ground behind a small table that acted as his desk.

His henchmen obeyed him at once and dragged into the room the two shackled offenders: an exceedingly bedraggled Imperial and a rather relaxed-looking Cathay-Raht.

The dealer winced at the sight they offered.

The duo were definitely not in good condition, but strangely, it didn’t look like it was from any bad treatment they may have received from the SyndiCat’s soldiers…Indeed, Marley had the impression that they had not seen civilisation in a while, as evidenced by the scent emanating from them, which started to tickle his nostrils. The rags they wore were so repulsive he would not have made his maids clean the toilets with them, and for a second, the drug dealer even wondered if the Imperial was not a Rastajiit too, given his hairstyle… He’d never seen an Imperial with such a magnificent set of dreadlocks before...what a novelty! Unfortunately, Marley could also feel the bad vibes rolling off that one...

However, most surprising about the prisoners was not their deplorable physical state but rather the fact they did not seem at all concerned by their immediate environment and situation. They were simply too busy bickering violently despite their obvious level of exhaustion…Marley scowled, mildly confused by this walking pair of paradoxes.

“I told you it was a completely stupid thing to do!” the Imperial spat in his companion’s face. “But did you listen to me? Nooo, of course not!” he looked away irritably. Here, Marley decided the unnatural pink in the Imperial’s face was mostly sunburn, as the Imperial looked ready to turn purple at the slightest provocation.

“I would like to draw your attention on the fact I was trying to sell those things only to get money to buy you food, because you were an inch from fainting like the pampered girl you are!” the Khajiit replied between gritted teeth.

“What?!”

What indeed? Marley wondered as the Imperial began to take on shades like a boiled lobster. He glanced back at the Khajiit. With enough moon sugar...he should hire these two as his personal entertainers. If he didn’t kill them first.

“Yeah, you heard me right! You are a sissy!” the Khajiit sneered.

Fog Marley looked back at Gugu, raising an eyebrow to which the sergeant replied with a puzzled shrug. Marley shook his head slowly and rolled his eyes: why today? Why any day? The bad vibrations were going to give him a headache... “Excuse me gentlemen,” the dealer started politely, “but I think we…”

The prisoners were obviously not listening, more intent on facing each other with nasty gleams in their eyes. The soldiers were having difficulty keeping them from trying to attack each other and Marley suddenly realised his men actually had shackled the two hotheads to prevent them to go at it hammers and tongs. Oooh man, the Khajiit groaned in his head, why me?

“… not even mentioning the fact Ormil and Graman managed to beat it!” the Khajiit roared. “And what’s more with the few things we grabbed from those corpses in the river! What the hell were you doing when they ran away?!”

“Maybe I was too busy fainting like the pampered girl I am?” his accomplice snapped venomously.

“It is always the same with you, you can’t be trusted! If only you had been able to talk to Trenca…her without pissing her off and getting on your high horse, we wouldn’t be in such a skint!” the Khajiit shouted.

The Imperial became speechless with indignation, and Fog Marley saw there an opportunity to intervene.

“Eh, can I get a word in?” he asked, waving a hand between the two arguing prisoners.

Apparently, not, because the Imperial ignored him superbly, found his tongue and attacked again.

“The nerve…!” he said, making a falsely admiring whistling noise. “Why don’t you simply admit you sent me to the front on purpose, perfectly knowing it would be a complete disaster and just for the pleasure of blaming me afterwards!”

“Yeah, you’re right. I did that on purpose!” the Khajiit replied sarcastically. “You see, it is always such a pleasure to see your pride literally crushed by a girl!”

“Excuse me…!” This time, Marley yelled. The two paused in their argument, looked at him…and promptly started quarrelling again.

Marley goggled: it must be a very old argument indeed...and he was running out of patience.

“… and Polly is gone too now!”

“What a shame…!” the Khajiit sniggered. “Another girl who walked on you..!”

Fog Marley rolled his eyes. Despite the fact he was an inveterate criminal, the Dagi was not a violent man at heart and he truly believed in dialogue and mutual respect. But enough was enough!

He made a little sign to two his henchmen, who promptly gave a nasty blow to each of the prisoners’ abdomens, with the shaft of their spears. The result was instantaneous. They immediately stopped arguing to slowly collapse on their knees, their eyes full of tears and groaning in pain.

“I hope I am not interrupting you, gentlemen.” Fog hissed in an attitude of forced and sarcastic politeness, his fingers drumming impatiently on his table. “Now that I have your full attention, and if you don’t mind, I would like to talk with you about the reasons which brought you before me…”

He made another sign to Gugu, who cleared his throat and started to formulate the accusation.

“The defendants in question were caught red-handed, conducting criminal activities without a permit, and upon being asked to produce said licenses, assaulted the official representatives and members of the SyndiCat. The public prosecutor’s department demands…”

The Imperial frowned for a moment in confusion behind his curtain of dirty black hair at the statement of the facts. Then he took on an expression of absolute indignation, eyes flashing.

“Hang on, hang on… Defendants? Public prosecutor’s department?” he demanded indignantly. “Is this a tribunal? If so, I want a lawyer!”

Fog Marley sighed. Dear Fadomai, it was going to be a really, really long day…

“Gugu, please, would you mind explaining our guest how the legal system works here in Senchal?” he asked, trying not to sound as tired as he felt. Already he was wishing for nothing more than a comfy cushion, a massage, and a couple dozen moon sugar jam slathered pancakes...

The sergeant beamed and, turning toward the Imperial, he delivered him a nasty right hook, and the equally nasty left hook followed in quick succession. He then grabbed the panting prisoner by the hair and forced him to look at his chief.

“The system is as follows: he talks. You don’t.” Gugu said smugly.

“Would you like to make another suggestion, wise guy?” Marley asked with a friendly smile.

“Forget about the lawyer…” the Imperial whispered between ragged breaths, though his eyes clearly told everyone in the room what they could do with their moon sugared legal system.

“Good!” Marley replied in a honeyed tone, before his feline face twitched in anger. “Lawyers!? By Azura, where do you think you are!? In the Imperial City?!” he roared, banging his fist on his desk. “This is Senchal here, gentlemen! And no one can deal in stolen goods without a licence in my sector! Is that clear?!”

“We didn’t know about the licence!” the Imperial objected, apparently unable to keep his mouth closed. “We acted in good faith – all right, all right, I’m shutting up now!” he added quickly as Gugu moved toward him again, grinning, his fist ready to strike.

“And the goods were not exactly stolen,” the Khajiit corrected quite diplomatically by comparison to his comrade, “given we took them from people who did not seem to need them anymore…”

Marley had a little smile and shook his head.

“Nice try, man. But I am afraid looting corpses is still a crime, and thus, the goods must be considered as illegally acquired,” The Dagi brought his hands before his lips as if he was praying and took a falsely sad expression. “Thus, you two are guilty and have just won a ticket for a nice – but certainly short – stay in the scorpion pit.” The least they deserved, he thought pleasantly, for ruining such a lovely day with their bad vibes.

The Imperial’s face fell at the words, but his Khajiit companion remained rather nonplussed, if not amused. He was staring persistently at the dealer in a way which was making the latter feeling rather uncomfortable, to the point that Marley started to claw his desk – behaviour apparently common, if the deep grooves to either side of the table were any indication.

“Would you mind lowering your eyes and erase that little satisfied smile off your face very or should I ask Gugu to teach you a minimum of politeness?” Fog growled.

This did not seem to unnerve the other Khajiit the slightest. On the contrary, he gave the drug dealer a large piece-of-melon-shaped smile. “Oh, come off it, Ayodele! Knock off the tough guy act, you don’t impress me in the slightest,” he announced, shrugging.

Fog Marley blinked. He had not been called by his real name in ages. Only his dear old mother knew it, and the guy in front of him looked nothing like his mom…there wasn’t enough moon sugar in the world to confuse the two.

“My name is Fog Marley,” the drug baron snarled, his chops curling up and revealing a row of yellowed teeth. “And you don’t forget it – or else…!” he added nastily.

“Or else what? You already condemned me to the scorpion pit!” The Khajiit burst out laughing. “You know, I almost didn’t recognise you with that new hairstyle of yours and that shapeless thing on it. Seriously, it makes you look like a complete idiot…instead of only half of one. ”

“How dare you…?” Marley demanded, getting to his feet.

“Relax, Ayie of my heart...” the Khajiit coaxed mockingly, “Or do you want me to explain to your henchmen here how I used to kick you in the pants when you still were a kitten wearing nappies?”

The imperial glanced from one Khajiit to the other, as if coming to the confusion that he was the last sane person in this entire misbegotten city.

There was an uneasy, angry silence during which Fog Marley glared at the prisoner with something like fear in the eyes. Only one Khajiit in Mundus could know that level of details on him and be that cheeky…

“J’Ghasta?”

(1) Sloppy “wow-man-I-am-so-stoned” Putumayo I, the founder of the Rastajiit movement, could either be considered as a genius or as the biggest joker in the whole philosophical history of Tamriel.

Wishing to denounce the material and destructive side of society, Putumayo started to made up a theory of life mainly based on calling any living being “man”, consuming as much Moon Sugar and derivatives as possible, wearing funny colourful caps and dreadlocks and singing funny songs with maximum two chords in them…

Quite popular among the Khajiits of the South, the movement never spread further than the Quin’rawl Peninsula, but nevertheless drew the attention of historians and philosophers across the Empire.

Nowadays, those specialists are not sure if they are facing a true, deep and revolutionary philosophy of life, or simply an absolute farce made up by a guy mainly concerned about offering teenagers wanting to rebel against their parents’ authority a new way to give them shit…

(2) This rather extreme position has earned Rastajiits the reputation of being pacifists, even if a less charitable and probably more objective category of people tended to call them “bloody slackers”.