“We’re heading to Baandari Trading Post yet?” Gelur asks. “My daughter, Athemel, works as a cook at the inn there.”

“How do you spell that?” I ask as I diligently go to write it down, and Gelur chuckles as she spells it for me.

We head into the Khajiit trading post. Unlike Redfur, Baandari Trading Post sports actual walls and isn’t just some tents and stalls set up around some ruins.

A Nord on the street is grumbling about a missing shield. I seem to recall running across one at some point, but that was a while ago. Surely he should have noticed it missing by now. Unless he’s been spending more time drinking lately than fighting. Eh, not my business.

When I go to return his shield, he mistakes me for being with the Ra Gada at first. I’ll admit that I’m dressed like an Orc and the Drublog were working with the invading force at the time, as silly as that was.

“Don’t worry,” I assure him. “I killed that bastard chieftain who thought allying with the Ra Gada was a great idea.”

He’s still grumbling a bit and might not be terribly convinced, but he’s grateful to have his shield back.

After being introduced to Gelur’s daughter, we split up and explore town, browsing the shops and listening to the latest gossip. At some point, they’re going to regret having Ilara mind me in town, because she never stops me from doing anything fun.

A sign mentions that there’s an Imperial-style house for sale in town for a surprisingly reasonable price. After bag upgrades, I feel like my view of money has been skewed a bit. It feels so cheap that I impulse-buy it and then as I’m walking off with the deed, wonder why I just did that.

There’s a vendor there selling trained pet monkeys, and I absolutely must have one. There’s one wearing a purple vest named Jingles (the monkey, not the vest). I purchase him and proclaim him to be King of the Monkeys. Half of my friends are thrilled at seeing him, and the other half are are less than thrilled.

“Oh, isn’t he the cutest little darling!” Gelur says while Merry just sighs.

“Is this… part of how to win friends and influence people?” Eran asks.

“Yep!” I reply cheerfully. “Cute animals are an incredible disarming tactic. Sadly, no one around here reacts the same way to guars and they seem to prefer furry animals. Plus, he’s at least as smart as a Nord and he’s already trained in pickpocketing.”

Jingles squeaks in protest.

“Fine, you’re as smart as a Goblin,” I say.

That seems to satisfy him.

Eran clears his throat. “Well, at least naming a monkey ‘Jingles’ beats calling an axe that…”

“He came pre-named,” I say. “It would have been rude to rename him.”

It’s probably just as well the Jingles cannot speak, or he would be repeating his trainer’s favorite jokes as well, which include such classics as, “If a Bosmer goes in the forest, what does he wipe his butt with?”

“Greetings, Jingles-ri,” Ilara says, making a polite gesture. “This one is Ilara-daro. May you walk on warm sands.”

According to Gelur’s daughter, there have been some problems with some hired mercenaries lately. (Gelur’s daughter is named Athemel, as I remind myself. It would seem rude to keep simply referring to her as “Gelur’s daughter.”)

The situation is that, with the problems from the Houndsmen recently, the trading post (or whoever is in charge of it) thought it a good idea to hire some mercenaries for security. The hired mercenaries are Colovians, and I can’t say I’m terribly familiar with that particular breed of human.

The Khajiit named Eraral-dro (which I am never going to try to say aloud) might be the person in charge here? He has a job for me to help, because I clearly look so trustworthy and not just because Gelur’s daughter vouched for us. I need to intercept a courier coming from the north. I wasn’t planning on killing the messenger, but he insists on attacking me like an idiot. He clearly thinks himself a mighty mage just because he can cast an ice barrier, but not only am I wielding a fucking battle axe, it’s not much help when it only covers your front and barely any of that. Unfortunately, I want to question him, so I can’t just dismember him and be done with it.

Anyway, with the courier captured and his letter delivered to Errararal-dro, the Khajiit wants me to put on the uniform and deliver a fake letter with new orders to send the mercenaries up against werewolves instead. I didn’t even ask the bandits I recruited to go fight werewolves, sending them instead against soft targets that aren’t especially scary on their own. (I mean, my view of potential risk might be a bit skewed, but I’d still think the average person would just find a weird-colored Elf to be not much more threatening than usual.)

“I’ll have the courier questioned to find out who their new employer is,” the Khajiit says. “Provided he even knows, but he’ll at least know who gave him the message.”

“Hmm, I don’t look like much of an Imperial,” I muse.

“You don’t look like much of an Orc, either, and you’ve still fooled actual Orcs who weren’t looking too closely,” Eran points out.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“Just get some swagger going!” Gelur suggests. “Imperials always swagger like they own the continent.”

I shake my head. “This is a silly idea.”

“Do you have a better plan?” asks the Khajiit, and I always love when people ask me that because I always do.

Admittedly, sometimes my better plans involve impromptu decapitation, but that’s still a valid backup plan.

“I’ll just go as an Orc and wave gold at them. They won’t care that I’m not their usual courier.”

“Do you have more of a plan than that?” the Khajiit asks. “We were thinking of assassinating their commanders and using werewolf paws to make it look like they’d been killed by werewolves.”

I stare at him. “Seriously? That’s a waste of perfectly good unscrupulous mercenaries. And they won’t fall for it.”

“Are you sure? They seemed not particularly bright.”

“Not being capable of poetry analysis doesn’t mean they’re not competent with combat,” I say. “If someone’s thinking about fighting all the time and about being sneaky, of course they’re going to be thinking people will be trying to be sneaky and wondering how they can fight it.”

“Fine,” the Khajiit says. “I don’t care how you do it, so long as we do not wind up being slaughtered by them.”

“Yeah, don’t worry,” I say. “That would be a waste of a perfectly good Khajiit trading post. I’ll take my payment in moon sugar.”

He chuckles. “Deal.”

Although I have to wonder if these mercenaries realize there’s a guildhall for the Fighters and Mages Guilds here. Neither of them seem willing to go out and kill werewolves or whatever, but I’m quite sure that they’d be capable of killing a few upstart mercenaries if their guildhall or favorite inn were under attack.

“The real question here is, who stands to benefit from the trading post being destroyed?” I ask the leading question, looking around the room.

“The Daggerfall Covenant or the Ebonheart Pact,” Eran suggests.

“The Worm Cult,” Merry adds. “Although in their case, ‘benefit’ implies that they just want all of us to die.”

“Redfur Trading Post,” Ilara puts in lightly. “Not that they would. Probably.”

“Does it matter?” the Khajiit asks.

“It matters in how badly I need to murder their would-be employer to actually solve this problem,” I say.

“Their employer isn’t even in Malabal Tor.”

“True, it would be a bit out of the way,” I say. “But it’s not like I was busy doing anything else.”

“Stopping the Worm Cult?” Merry says.

“Saving the world?” Gelur suggest.

“Conquering Tamriel in the name of the Aldmeri Dominion?” Eran puts in.

“Accidentally building an empire based on moon sugar?” Ilara adds.

“Yeah, those things too,” I say. “Anyway, first off, I’ll go talk to them. Ilara-daro, you’re with me. Eran, guard the prisoner. Gelur and Merry, stand nearby and be ready in case negotiations go badly. Jingles, stay with Eran.” I point.

Eran looks less than thrilled at the thought of suddenly being assigned to ‘monkey-sitter’ in addition to hostage guard, but makes no complaint.

I haven’t really dealt much with Colovians. Not living ones, at any rate, and the ones that wind up in Coldharbour tend not to exhibit much in the way of arrogance or interest in the politics of Nirn. Coldharbour changes everyone. Mostly for the worse.

The captain of the Gold Coast Mercenaries is a woman named Aurelia Blasio. She seems surprised to see us.

“What is this?” the captain says. “I was expecting a courier. You’re not my men. Did the Baandari send you?”

“Yeah, about that courier,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “He attacked us on sight. Wasn’t a great life choice on his part. Who even does that? Do I look like someone that’s a good idea to attack for no reason?”

The captain clears her throat. “I see. So are you here looking for retribution for being attacked?”

“Oh, I can be reasonable,” I say, my body posture anything but reasonable. “It’s not like I have an army of Orcs in my bag, after all.”

“What do you want, then?” the captain asks. “Spit it out. I have things to do.”

“I have gold, drugs, property, and favors,” I say. “Any offer anyone else makes you, I will match it, with a bonus.”

“Reasonable,” the captain says. “I take it you killed my courier?”

“Nope,” I say. “I’m sure you understand, I must know who your would-be employer was. I have to know who my enemies are, after all, and I will be tracking down and murdering whoever sent him.”

The captain makes a face. “You looking for a name in exchange for his release?”

“Are you offering?” I ask.

“You’re holding my man hostage for the name of someone threatening your allies,” the captain says. “And you’re probably going to torture him for the information if I don’t give it to you.”

I look at her silently, seeing no need to say anything here.

“I can’t tell you that,” the captain says. “I’d like to, but I don’t have that information. You’d need to talk to my boss, who hands our contracts.”

“Then send a message to your boss and tell him that someone has made you an offer you can’t refuse,” I say. “I’ll beat any offer anyone else makes. I’d imagine the cats are underpaying you considering you’re having to defend the place from Daedra, werewolves, and cultists. Otherwise, I’ll get another band of mercenaries or just bring in my Orcs, and you can go peacefully while you have the chance.”

The captain grumbles a bit. “I am going to actually want more money if you want us fighting Daedra, werewolves, and cultists.”

“Ilara-daro wonders if you are worth it,” Ilara puts in sourly. “This one has heard your men are not always the best guests. She has seen more respect and politeness out of Orcs.”

The captain looks at her sourly, possibly mistaking her for one of the Khajiit with the trading post. “We are absolutely worth it. The Gold Coast Mercenaries are the best this side of Tamriel.”

“Tell you what,” I say. “You make sure your men are on their best behavior. I can get you a bonus incentive. How about that nice Imperial-style house in town? It would be much more comfortable than this camp, I’d imagine.”

“You think the cats would actually let us move in there for a bribe?”

I shrug. “I don’t know, but I own it so I can do what I want with it.”

“It’s a good offer,” the captain admits, her defensive posture softening. “You can get money and drugs anywhere, but property is another matter. Usually the best you can hope for in my line of work is a drafty ruin. Fine. Release my courier and I’ll send a reply to my boss with your offer.”

“Don’t forget the name I wanted.”

“Right. Of course.”

We head out of the tent, I give Ilara the signal we’d arranged for ‘hide and eavesdrop’, and she disappears. Possibly literally. I meet up with Gelur and Merry and return to the building where I’d left Eran.

“Good news!” I tell the captive courier cheerfully. “We’re going to have a hostage exchange instead of a torture session.”

“We were going to have a torture session?” Eran asks.

“No, but the captain made some assumptions,” I say, going over to the courier. “I’m not a big fan of pointlessly inflicting pain.” I poke the courier in the forehead annoyingly. “And you. How’s about you try talking first instead of attacking on sight? Especially if it’s five people including two mages and a guy with a battle axe.”

“Point taken,” the courier grumbles.

“You’re very fortunate that you caught me in a good mood or there’d have been a lot of bloodshed today,” I say, untying him. “It’s never too late to take charge of your own destiny.”