Tarantadas, the 21st of Lost Speed, 4E 201

The victuals at Bridewed Inn were of quite some quality. Kharla knew this because she now sat, along with the others, on a table filled with every food and drink the inn served. After the dragon had been slain, the innkeeper, Davina, and the rest of the staff had proclaimed them all heroes and heroines of Kensgroove! They’d even provided them with one of their famed wedding cakes. It stood in the middle of the table, five tiers high and with a big chunk already gone from the bottom one. At the pace it was going, there’d soon be no more left of it than the Cake that had covered the dragon mound.

“Your fancy device sure took that dragon down!” Kharla said between mouthfuls of ham dipped in warm goat’s cheese.

Darleen stuck her fork into a small roasted potato on a white plate inlaid around the edge in a pattern of bells and ribbons. “My order devised them many years ago. They are called Skyblades. Alas, that was the last one and it’s damaged beyond repair. The knowledge of how to make more is lost.”

Kharla wiped some cheese from her chin. “So you said you’d tell us everything if Thral was the Dragonbore?”

Darleen nodded. “That’s right.”

“So who are you? What’s this order?”

“I am a member of the Order of Blades,” said Darleen. “We protected the Dragonbore Emperors, as bodyguards among other things. A long long time ago we were dragon slayers. The Order was disbanded following the Not-So-Great War and we were hunted down by the Tallmor. I am, to my knowledge, the last member of my Order.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Mell. “It makes me sad.”

Darleen looked at Mell. “Anger’s the only right response. Not sorrow. Anger to take revenge upon the Tallmor scum. It’s why I need your help. We need to find out what the Tallmor know, what they are up to, their connection to the dragons.”

“And how do we do that?” asked Kharla

Darleen lowered her voice and leaned forward. Everyone else did the same, except Thral who was clapping along to the bard as the latter banged his little drum in the middle of the room. “We’re going to have to infiltrate the heart of their operations here in Skewrim — the Tallmor Embassy.”

“You’re good at all that cloak-and-dagger stuff, Darleen,” said Draloth. “Why don’t you do it?”

“That place is locked up tighter than a Scrumpy addict’s grip on their last bottle. Besides, I’m well-known to them. They’d be on the lookout for me.”

“So you need us to do it?” asked Kharla.

“Yes, but I need some time to think of an excuse to get you in and get things all in place. If you could make your way to Solicitude, I’ll contact you when I have everything set up.”

“All right.” Kharla picked up her mug. “We’ll do it, unless anyone has any objections?”

“Solicitude? That’s where General Dullius is based. You think he might recognize us?” asked Draloth.

Kharla grunted. “If he does, he’s going to recognize my axe too — in his face!”

“I’ve heard he doesn’t mingle with the common folk,” said Eilgird. “Stays in that castle of his—what’s it called? Castle Dire?”

“Pity.” Kharla finished her mead.

***

They took a leisurely journey to Solicitude, not that they could’ve gone any faster—No carriage was going to take Bessie, and Draloth wasn’t going to leave all the dragonbone and dragonscales behind. The merchant had suggested taking a ship from the Windfarm Docks, but opted to walk once Eilgird had again informed them that none of the sponsorship money would be used on such an expensive cost when walking would do perfectly fine.

The four Khapiit of the merchant caravan camped outside Solicitude looked at Kharla and her party with interest as they walked past with a cow loaded up with huge bones.

“These walls.” Eilgird sighed as they passed through the outer gateway leading to the main gate. “They are so different to Whiteruin’s. All, well, complete. Strong. I can’t even see any sign of crumbling. A guard must feel confident walking these walls.”

They entered the city through a large gate and found a crowd gathered before a raised stone area to their right. Upon it a man knelt before a headsman’s block, the headsman behind him. There were also several officers and soldiers on the raised area dressed in the Solicitude uniform. No Legion. No Dullius.

“They can’t hurt Uncle Roger. Tell them he didn’t do it,” said a little girl to the man standing next to her in the crowd.

“But he did do it, Sally, and now he’s going to have his head chopped off,” replied the man.

“In here!” said Draloth, indicating toward the building to their left, over which hung a sign that read ‘The Stinkin’ Skreever’. “I’ll take Bessie round back.”

The inn was large and more up-market than any Kharla had seen before. Paintings of meals, drinks, and Skreevers adorned the walls. Kharla and the others took a table beneath a large painting of a Skreever tail roasting on a spit over the dying embers of a campfire.

They ate—and drank—well as the early evening whiled away, glad of the rest from the day’s journey. The bard was far better than Lurkbak—though that was certainly a low bar for comparison—but Kharla didn’t care for her choice of songs.

“And here’s an old favorite of mine,” began the bard. “A warning to all young daughters everywhere to treat their parents with the respect they deserve…

There once was a young child named Thora the Dread,

Who came storming to breakfast from her unmade bed!

And the brat she did rant and then brandish her spoon,

As she threw her hot porridge all over the room.

“I want a Sweet Roll right now!” the daughter did say,

To parents whose patience was beginning to fray.

“Oh, you moan and you cry and you eat all our food,

Now we think it’s high time that you pipe down for good!”

So the parents gave Thora a Sweet Troll instead,

Now she’s Thora the Daughtr, one of the undead.”

Kharla closed the door as the song ended, slipping out into the street. The crowd had dispersed, leaving the street empty apart from a guard at the gate and another walking his patrol. It was still light enough for Kharla to read the signs of the two stores across the street. ‘Bed and Pillows—Eternal Slumber Awaits’ read the sign of the one on the left, and ‘Radical Raiments’ read the other sign that hung over the door of the more opulent of the two buildings.

Kharla walked over to the latter. In the window stood several mannequins, mainly female in shape, draped in various forms of expensive clothing. One dress looked like a black porcupine, another was a slash of red wrapped around a blue silk gown. Cityfolk wore strange things sometimes, especially the noble families. Her eyes were drawn to the central display in the window where a variety of colored legwear hung from horizontal poles or had been placed on dismembered mannequin legs cut off at the knee. A sign on the window read ‘Superior Socks and Stockings—Branded Close-ended Hosepipery and Hosiery for the Discerning Customer’.

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A guard suddenly appeared from around the corner. He stopped and looked Kharla up and down. Kharla froze. Had her description been given out to the guards here?

“I used to be an adventurer like you,” he said.

Kharla nodded slowly. “And…”

“And then I retired and became a guard. Pay’s more reliable, and it’s far less dangerous. We even have a pension scheme going these days in Solicitude.”

“Right,” said Kharla as the guard went back to his patrol.

Letting out a sigh of relief Kharla looked up at the fortified stone building peeking up from the walkway a little farther into the city. Castle Dire. It had to be. On an impulse, and now knowing her description hadn’t been put out to the guards, she made her way toward the castle.

Moments later, Kharla had climbed the stone walkway leading to the area where the blacksmith and fletcher plied their craft, and stepped through the archway leading to the castle square. The two Impeccable guards at the castle’s door narrowed their eyes as she passed, but then looked straight ahead and stood to attention. Kharla frowned, looked across the square, and saw General Dullius with a female Nord officer and several others making their way hurriedly toward the castle door. So he’d survived Helga. I guess it was too much to hope the dragon had eaten him. Kharla couldn’t turn without looking suspicious, so she carried on toward the other end of the square.

“So you’re saying it’s jagged, Legate?” Dullius asked the Nord officer as Kharla passed.

The other sighed. “Yes, Sir.”

“But, Riker, doesn’t that make it impractical to wear? Have you Nords thought about laurel wreaths? They’re light and comfortable. You don’t even notice you’re wearing one after a while. Very popular back home.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that would fly here, General.”

Kharla didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. She pitied this ‘Riker’ if she had to put up with dull conversations like that all day. Still, it wouldn’t be for long. Now Kharla knew the General didn’t remember her, he’d be a lot easier to kill.

***

Floridas, the 22nd of Lost Speed, 4E 201

Kharla woke up to Mell giggling. She poked her head above the covers and screwed up her eyes at the sunlight flooding through the window. Mell, in the other bed, sat up reading a book. Kharla made sure she’d taken the bed nearest Draloth’s room. She’d kept an ear out for a good part of the night, and a nostril out for the entirety of it, but the night had passed without voices or fire.

The Breton, seeing Kharla stir, turned to her. “Some of these are quite funny.”

“What?” said Kharla.

“The jokes…in The Bumper Book of Tallmor Jokes,” she explained. “They are far better than the ones you lot have been inflicting on me, like your one about weighing rainbows. Here, let me read you one: Why are Tallmor ships of war always accompanied by tow boats?” Mell paused, barely able to contain herself. “Because they don’t believe in a Towless warship.”

Kharla groaned and put her head back under the covers. It wasn’t there long before there was a knock on the door. It was Eilgird.

“Good morning!” said the Nord. Kharla grunted and Mell giggled at another joke. “I have a note!” She held up a piece of paper. “A courier gave it to me as I returned from my dawn patrol with the city guard. Arrested a shifty Ergonian trying to recruit someone to sabotage a lighthouse. He asked about fifty people during the day, right there out on the main street, many of them multiple times. How did he think we wouldn’t find out? Criminals are stupid.”

“What does the note say?” asked Kharla.

“Says ‘Regarding the matter we previously discussed, all is in place. An associate of mine, a Wood Elf by the name of Malebun, will meet you at ten o’clock today in the Stinkin’ Skreever. Only one of you should speak with him as he gets quite overwhelmed by crowds. Give him anything you want to have with you once inside the place previously mentioned, as you will not be able to take anything with you. Small essentials only. Then meet me at six o’clock at the stables just outside the city.’ It’s signed with a D.”

They’d all just finished a rather long breakfast when a Wood Elf walked in. He wore a dark blue apron over a white coat, his long hair gathered and tied into a knot at the back of his head not far from the top. In his hands he carried a crate filled with bottles of milk. He approached the innkeeper, pulled a couple of bottles out with one hand at a time and stood them on the counter.

“I’ll pick up the empties tomorrow, Corpulent. Hope you don’t mind,” said the Wood Elf.

“No, that’s fine Malebun. We might even clean them out for you this time,” replied the innkeeper.

Malebun smiled. “You’re all heart. Now, mind if I grab a quick mug of mead?”

After the Wood Elf had been served he wandered over to one of the private booths with his empty crate. Kharla and the others—all of whom had been fully apprised of the contents of the courier’s note—glanced at him. Kharla had been nominated to speak with him, so she stood up and made her way over to the Wood Elf while the others did a very bad job of pretending to ignore them. Especially Thral. The Nord strongman had been particularly hard to convince. Thoughts of his ‘beloved’ off speaking alone with this ‘contact’ had got him very flustered, so much so that he insisted on keeping a watch on them. Hence the long breakfast.

Kharla sat down on the other side of the booth.

“I’m Kharla,” she said in a low voice.

“Good,” the Wood Elf said, keeping his eyes on his mug. “Put the items you want smuggled inside into this crate.” He slid the crate toward her with his foot.

There wasn’t much room. Kharla put her good axe in and several lockpicks procured by Ti’lief. “Do you know anything?”

“Two can enter. Now slide the crate back.”

Kharla slid the crate back and Malebun put down his empty mug, picked up the crate and left with a smile and wave to the innkeeper.

“They didn’t even speak or sit together,” Kharla heard Thral say as she reached the table. Well, if Thral had been duped then maybe anyone watching had also—no, that probably wasn’t a fair comparison either.

Kharla spent most of the day being instructed by Ti’lief in the use of the lockpick. She was all fingers and thumbs. At the end of their session, the Cat shrugged. “Well, maybe you can use your axe to smash the chest open if the lockpicks fail.”

“Or maybe you can come with me?” suggested Kharla. “Malebun did say two of us could go in. Maybe the place needs a bit of tidying? You never know.”

“Ti’lief not like Tallmor.”

Kharla grunted. “You’re not alone there, Cat.”

Kharla looked over to the other side of her room where Thral sat looking at one of Mell’s books. It was upside down. It appeared the love potion’s honeymoon period—if that was the right term—had started to wear off and had been replaced by a jealousy phase. Thral wouldn’t let Kharla be alone with any other men right now. Even Cats, it would seem.

By six they were all gathered at the stables just outside the city, minus Bessie who remained at the back of the inn. Draloth had been selling his wares. Eilgird had been on some more patrols. Mell had joined a group tour of the city conducted by a scruffy Wood Elf who, she said, kept on muttering about bones, madness, methods, and melodies.

Darleen appeared soon after they arrived. She’d added a small cape and a deeper hood to her leather traveling gear to not look suspicious. Over her shoulder was slung a brown bag.

“Good, you’re here. Now listen very carefully, I shall only say this once. There’s a meeting at the Tallmor Embassy starting soon. I’ve managed to forge two invites, copies of genuine invites to people who my contacts assure me are not attending. You will take their place. By the time the Tallmor realize the deceit, it’ll be too late.” She pulled out two invitations from her clothing. “I had my informants check for attendants who match your race and sex. The only two that matched were a female Orc and a male Dark Elf.”

Draloth’s red eyes widened. “What?”

“Looks like we’re going to be in this together, merchant,” said Kharla.

“What can I do in there? I’m terrible at acting. I failed in drama at school.”

“At least you had a drama class,” replied Kharla. “We had smithing, combat training, and pottery.”

“So what is this meeting exactly?” asked Draloth.

Darleen passed an invitation to Kharla and the Dark Elf. Kharla read it:

INVITATION

Milk Drinkers’ Annual Meet Up

7 in the evening, Floridas, the 22nd of Lost Speed, 201

Tallmor Embassy, Skewrim

Dear Mardee gra-Bar,

In recognition of your progress within our program for recovering dipsomaniacs, you have been selected to attend the Tenth Anniversary of the Milk Drinkers’ Annual Meeting to be held on the date and at the venue above.

Please bring this invitation with you and wear your Milk Drinker robes and your assigned mask. Carriages will be provided from the Solicitude stables. As always, complete anonymity will be observed.

Yours Soberly,

Eleven, First Emissary of the Old Merry Delirium, Skewrim.

“Here are the robes and masks.” Darleen handed a long white garment and mask to Kharla and Draloth. “The security is tight. They won’t let you in if you’re carrying or wearing anything more than this, save for your smallclothes.”

“And remind us what we’re supposed to be doing again?” asked Draloth.

“You’ll need to slip away from the meeting at some point. Maybe create a distraction. Malebon will facilitate your exit. Then you need to find the First Emissary’s Sauna. It’s a separate building but you need to go through the embassy to get to it. See if you can find any information about the dragons. Then slip back into the meeting or, if things go awry, escape. Whatever the case, we need information on what they’re up to.” She handed her brown bag to Kharla. “Now, you can get changed in the stables. Give your armor, clothing and other belongings to your friends here. The special carriage out on the road leaves soon, so hurry things up. I have to leave—too dangerous for me to linger here. Come find me at the Leaping Giant as soon as you can.”