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The day of the banquet I wore my sage green doublet. Percy, ever the ankle biter, peppered me with second guessery as he fluffed my sleeves, something about a more somber ensemble to suit the diplomatic gravity of the evening. I rebutted him that a well composed man brought with him a gravity all his own — and I was dressed for conquest. There was a more practical reason for my selection; accessible with the flick of a button, the Miser’s Mirror lay (still shrouded in black cloth) tucked against my left breast, a round indentation itching against my flesh.

I arrived at the throne room by mid-afternoon to find the space reimagined by rows and rows of tables brought up from storage that ran its length, right up to the foot of the pillared throne dais which overlooked the city beyond. As the servants bustled about with cutlery and plates that chimed in time with their bell sleeves, I aided a court wizard in empowering the frost charms onto all the ice statuary to stave off melting, for the arrival of Frostfall (or as the locals called it, the Eighth Moon) meant little to the Anequinan sun which still mercilessly baked the palace each day.

Due to the heat, a fine mist steamed off great ice crystals on long chains above, the vapor below was colored azure by enchanted magelights trapped within their frozen cores. The centerpiece, around which the banquet tables broke-off and curved to accommodate like a great colossus rising from sea, was ice formed likeness of our holy Mane, a hundred hands tall, standing atop a faceless foe unlucky enough to have a saber against his throat.

My brother arrived to stand at my elbow and as I circled my hands over the sculpted victim's head and neck, providing a stay of execution through a deeper freeze.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Like I'm twelve again, getting ready for one of mother's country gentry galas."

"I know just what you mean," he said, and I suppose he did, "but don't forget that we are the ones setting the tune tonight," and he put a hand on my shoulder, "all our preparations have set the course — this is our night."

I tried to smile, and it came easier than I expected. We took up horse-hair brushes and painted the walls with body-height calligraphy in our best approximation Akaviri benedictions. We mocked each other's poor penmanship even though neither of us could distinguish where one's scrawlings began and the other's ended. By the end some of the anxiety I had held in anticipation of the evening had evaporated. I felt an odd liberation seeping through me since the day prior — a subtle liberation knowing that my brother would be there to ensure the alliance came through.

Soon enough the room was full to bursting with a milling stampede of Elsweyr's courtly folk, high and low placed alike, along with the entirety of the Valenwood delegation. We all stood of course, enjoying a cocktail hour of sorts, until our most holy and predestined Mane arrived wearing his traditional headdress (the namesake Mane, broader even than his own shoulders and heavy with so much hair it was a wonder he could walk under the thing) and consecrated the banquet as part of the higher lunar order.

He gave his speech from the throne as the sun's last rays blinded us — a furnace's heart about his dark halo of hair that bobbed with deep voice, all carefully orchestrated of course. I recall turning to Lady Elindel beside me and asking if banquets in Valenwood often began with such ritual and pomp.

She shook her head so that the polished bone charms in her sandy hair clinked together. "Never. We're usually onto our first course while its heart is still beating."

I laughed, but paused when I noticed her pointed little teeth behind her grin back at me.

Eventually the blessings concluded. The Mane made as if to sit, but then paused before staring back over the crowd. “One more thing-UH. I have decided to pardon those who worship the outer deities, those that outsiders call Daedra. Those kittens of Lazy Azurah and her kin. Let all earlier claims of their lawlessness and dispossession be revoked, and they be allowed to reenter into my new revolutionary order to reestablish our traditions. Let tonight be a night of reconciliation-uh.”

And with that we all sat for dinner. The room feel into a confused murmur as the sun fell behind the far off mesa walls, the still bright sky cooling to pale blue.

As my brother and I had planned, I was seated across from the prince, his lady, and their Baron; I was comfortably sandwiched between my brother and Sorvild, who wore a dashing feathered cap over his bald dome that evening. The mercenary captain had somehow been arranged to sit in that enviable position after Rokash's seating place card had been tragically misplaced out of a palace window.

We were no sooner seated than Prince Findulain rounded his pointy chin toward the one new face to him: Sorvild. "So, what's your story?" he squeaked.

Swallowing. "Sorvild, Silversword Company Captain. A mercenary your majesty."

Her ladyship sighed preemptively as one if his majesty's legs began to hammer up against the table with excitement, with such force that he began bouncing like a jockey on his chair. He squeaked involuntarily once more. "A mercenary? That must be — a life! An experience I mean. Living on the edge like that. Life and death on your own terms, free of the cares of lesser men. Cared for men."

"It's a hard life your majesty, but we survive on gold and silver wages like anyone else, but we get our hard earned pay by honoring contracts, and those of us lucky enough to prove ourselves earn the best reward, this," he slapped the silver hilt at his waist, causing Findulain to shoot up to inspect it over the table, "which is my greatest wealth. Silver I could never spend, because its value is what it represents, a lifetime of honorable service to my clients and brothers in arms."

This bravado nearly sent the prince firing off into the ceiling, restrained only by a gentle hand from his lady which pinned one of his legs down to Nirn as he squirmed back into his seat and fired off a barrage of questions at old Sorvild: how had he become a mercenary, where had he fought were they fair fights or ambushes for the most part?

The questions went on unbroken as dinner was served, and I assure you the complexity of dietary requirements at our table surpassed any feast your dear mother ever had to throw. The Bosmer, of course, eat and drink no plant products; they were accommodated with steaming trays of ribbed meat from some lizard or another, but for drink they had brought along their own supply of something they called bloodwine. Sorvild informed us he did not eat reptiles, and sheepishly declined to elaborate, and was provided some bird drumsticks instead. We also had a natural vegetarian in Baron Hoot-hoot, who alternated between forkfuls of his mound of leafy salad and taking rips at a great plant stalk that I can only describe as a tree sapling, which he held in his offhand like a club and tore off great rips to chew with a mouthful of enormous flat teeth.

A distant pair of dulcetists from Hammerfell twinkled the air with soft chords, a stark relief to the tribal drumming so popular in that region, as my brother finally interrupted Sorvild's interrogation by raising his own glass to new friends and opportunities.

Lowering my own glass, tart purple wine wetting my lips, I smiled winningly at the prince. "We should get to discussing our own campaigns ahead your majesty, you may be interested to know —"

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I halted at a small finger pecking into my back, between my neck and shoulder. A lithe Bosmer lass, a courtier I presumed, but not one I recognized from the day prior.

"An urgent message for you, oh Fate Weaver. A private one."

Despite the powder makeup I recognized her voice — Benezia in disguise. I wasn't the only one either based on Sorvild's grimace.

I excused myself to nobody's great concern, patting my brother's shoulder as he gawked over Benezia as though she were the first female he'd seen all year — I suppose she was perhaps one of the less hairy — before following the undercover Blade between crowded tables until we reached the far pillars, lit mage-lamp blue nearest us and faint orange on the side opposite where the fallen sun's glow warmed their face over a sheer drop into the city. Benezia turned and stopped me with a stare between two pillars. Deja vu.

I crossed my arms. "You've heard back from Caius then?"

"Not yet. But I've been doing some reconnaissance. It's about the prince. They're going to have him killed."

I allowed myself a chortle. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Well not directly, but they're planning to have him die in some pointless raid against the Senechal faction led by the other Mane."

"And why, pray tell, would they do that?"

She drew herself up, eying the crowd with feigned casualness. Fortunately for her, in Elsweyr there is no custom of remaining seated throughout a meal. Our seance was completely unremarkable as already several dozen other groups had peeled off from their tables to smoke, talk privately, or (in the case of a few young priests) climb up the ice chandeliers as though they were play swings.

"Think about it Berry, Prince Findulain is only a second cousin to his king, he's not even a treethane. He's probably never even left the capital until now, much less visited his fief in the eastern whitewoods which is wilderness even by Valenwood standards. He has no army except for his personal guard, but he's connected. If he's killed it could be escalated into a diplomatic incident."

I didn't like where she was going one bit. Her whole tone was negative, nosey even.

"And who are you saying is behind this conspiracy?"

"Rokash, the Mane, and your doppelganger—"

"Deviator."

"Sure. Well they've been orchestrating this long before we arrived."

I ran a thumb over my bristly chin. True, His Perfection had seemed a bit blasé about the specifics of the Findulain's future prospects, but was it really as clear cut as murder? So far as I knew there were not even plans for any raids so long as war remained undeclared — meaning the diplomatic game was still king.

"Assuming you're right, what do you want me to do about it? Last time we spoke you wanted me to create an alliance with the Lunar Priests and prepare to kill… well you know.."

"I know what I said Berry, but we should stop any provocations that could move us into open conflict. I need you to cool the Prince on the idea of joining the fight for now—"

I snorted. "Cool him down? You haven't met this guy."

"Well don't totally reject him, but make him uncomfortable and don't give him what he wants either until I get more clarity. Until then you are to distract and annoy him."

"I don't know if I can."

"Come on Berry, you were born for this."

"Easy for you to say," I sighed, the skin under my collar was getting a bit hotter than I'd like to admit, "I have a reputation here. People respect me. I can't be seen to be shifting with the wind, against a prince no less."

"Then make it look like an accident."

I looked into those great merlot eyes for the smallest sign of pity.

"Do I have to?"

"Berry!"

"Okay fine, you win — you win damnit! I'll figure something out."

And I huffed off. But what could I do? As I have stressed before, I am merely an academic with no skill for these games of intrigue. So I walked about the hall paying my respects to some notable clan mothers (the Druiz‐J'ruids clan, the western line) and then bumped into a few Bosmer honor guards who recognized me from the day prior. They hailed me over to join them for a sip of their fermented meat beer — rotten stuff, siltier than gutter water run over a rat carcass.

It was only a few minutes until the solution presented itself in the form of Do'Qanar's black turbaned head amongst a gaggle of lesser chiefs toasting His Perfection at the high table. If there was one catman amongst the legion present that I could depend on to give offense to a foreigner it was the good chieftain.

So I brought Do'Qanar back to my table, a hand on his shoulder I guided the bemused tiger-man on and assured him that he 'just had to' make the prince's acquaintance.

I introduced the chieftain and was about to give Do'Qanar my seat when my starry-eyed brother intervened.

"He can have my seat," said he, stumbling to rise.

"It's fine," I assured him. "He can have mine, you just enjoy your meal."

But my brother stumbled away without a word, nearly falling face first over his chair before drifting off like a man possessed.

I shrugged and seated us. I immediately knew I had made the right move when Prince Findulain craned his neck around, jaw jutting forward and asked: "So, what's your story?" in a commanding tone that set Do'Qanar's tail stiff.

The chieftain was still replying through gritted teeth as I felt a meaty hand pawing at my shoulder. It was Sorvild, who gestured with his thumb that he needed a private audience with me.

“Really, right now?” I asked.

“Please.”

Back up, through alternating clouds of perfume and steaming kabob meat from a different animal at each table. We rallied at the foot of the ice sculpture of His Perfection. The soothing music did nothing for my foul mood, but I bit back the sharpness of my tongue.

"What do you need Sorvild? I really must attend to his majesty."

He turned his head about conspicuously before leaning in to whisper, warm and wet as a belch into my ear. "It's Benezia. I know she's trying to sabotage this war from ever happening for her own ends, the alliances… and to that end I am asking — begging you Berry — please don't listen to her!"

The giant swayed at the knees such that I was quite sure he was about to fall to them and beg if it weren't for the crowd surrounding us.

I had to blink a few times before I could manage a response. "Aren't you aligned with… you know, her group?"

"I was just an informant, passing on troop movement logs from the Reach. It wasn't even for the money, more a patriotic duty, but I didn't sign up for this… it's unethical of them to force a mercenary to make peace, even more so when the spoils are within his reach! I have men depending on me — mouths with bellies to fill. Please Berry, I need this win."

I ran a hand through my hair, completely at a loss. "She's just wants to hold the status quo."

Beads of sweat glistened blue on his scalp by magelight. "Well good then. But should that change you'll let me know won't you? We both stand to wet our beaks in this conflict."

I assured him I would, really not giving a toss where his company landed at that moment.

"Thank you Berry, you've always been an independent minded fellow with a good head on his shoulders."

As we returned to our seats I hurried ahead, anxious to see how my plot with Do'Qanar had progressed. Over a sea of heads and cat ears I could see the prince vibrating in his seat again, barely restrained under his lady's grasp. I was nearly back when a massive barrel of a body rolled in front of me.

"Hoo-hoo, may I have a moment of your time Fate Weaver?"

I jerked my head aside to see around him, but could not lean far enough to see around the ape-man's frame. "Of course dear Baron, I'm all ears."

I was anything but, yet appearances had to be maintained. I made a silent prayer for patience as he held me prisoner on the banquet floor and spun a tale of how his people's traditional forage routes had been interrupted the past thirty-some years since the 'unfortunate' war with Elsweyr under the old Mane. Valenwood had lost some border grasslands full of termite mounds wherein they had feted on good bugs since time immemorial — an indispensable part of their diet and culture, I was told.

"A tragic situation," I said, "and I suppose your people would like… grazing rights?"

"A requirement of our support, hoo-hoo, regardless of what his majesty chooses to tell you."

I eyed the great ape-man a moment, his dark face now split with a cautious smile no doubt meant to put me at ease. What would Benezia or Sorvild think of such an agreement? The prince, Mane, my brother? What the hell did I even think about it? This skullduggery was all really getting to be too much for me.

"I'll see what I can do. All I can say for now is that I hear you, my good Baron."

"Good… so long as we have an understanding, hoo-hoo."

Finally, my pulse quickening with anticipation, I returned to find my table awash with laughter. My brother was still missing, but Do'Qanar and the prince were in deep conversation about some hunting story, they were so deeply engaged in fact that it required both Lady Elindel's hands to keep his majesty from flying forward and falling onto the table. I sulked and chewed a mouthful of dry lizard meat as they spoke more and more of the coming heroics they would accomplish in the war against the false Mane of Senechal.

I had made a massive error, or massive victory in fostering an alliance with this minor prince depending on who you asked. I didn't know the difference and I decided to keep silent and let the world think me a genius rather than a stumbling fool on too many competing puppet strings.