I do not like surprises.
Dale ground his teeth as he approached the Falkreath longhouse. He heard the guard’s heart beating, but it was overshadowed by the sound of his own thoughts hissing and spitting at the situation he’d found himself in back in Riften.
I like knowing where I stand.
Ordinarily, he never worried about what other people thought of him. His mother had been as straightforward a woman as ever lived, and raised him to be likewise. If she was upset, she told him so. If she was sad, she cried in front of him without any sort of shame. “People get sad, Dale,” she’d told him. “And sometimes they get angry. People say you should hide those things, especially if you’re older; but I don’t agree. Your father and I met because neither of us cared to play games, and we didn’t worry about what others thought of us. Some people will like you and others will not. It’s nothing to be overly concerned about.”
And he wasn’t. He had no problem either with other peoples’ emotions or with his own; as long as he knew what was going on he could adjust to circumstances, easily. But he did not like it when he was surprised and had no control over, or understanding of, the situation in which he found himself.
He hopped over the fence and crouched down into the shadow of a small tree near the doorway, waiting for the patrolling guard to pass. The guard’s torch would likely blind him to things in the shadows, but it never hurt to be cautious.
I’m glad Nazir gave me this contract. It’s right on the way to the feral Agryn wants me to erase.
That thought had him growling again. It had been that unexpected confrontation in Agryn and Vyctyna’s home that had him rattled. People didn’t simply drop in to a vampire’s lair for a friendly visit. Particularly when they were fully mortal people.
Particularly when it seemed that they were once among the elite of one of the oldest vampire clans in Tamriel.
Particularly when they knew your father better than you did yourself.
Not that it would take much. I didn’t know him at all.
Ugh! Enough!
He forced thoughts of his father out of his mind to focus on the task at hand. Nazir had tasked him to remove Jarl Dengeir’s housecarl, Helvard. He had wondered briefly what the ancient old Jarl would do without his resourceful and hardy friend by his side. But then, it really wasn’t his place to worry about the situation. Someone had paid for this to be done, and it was his responsibility to do it. He took a deep breath and held it so as not to alert the door guard; and when the man glanced left toward the forge, he took advantage of the moment and slipped into the longhouse.
As expected, it was far too deep into the wee hours for anyone to be up in the great hall. Dale knew that the side chamber behind closed doors was the Jarl’s quarters, but not which of the others belonged to the Steward. He took the stairs to his left first, creeping silently up them. The private chamber at their landing held a soundly sleeping Altmer woman.
The steward. That means Helvard must be across the way. Sorry to disturb your rest, my dear.
He closed the door behind him and vaulted the railing to land lightly in the middle of the great room. For a moment he considered tasting the blood of a Jarl, but decided in favor of getting his job done and leaving. In the small chamber just above the Jarl’s, a large Nord man snored uproariously on his narrow bed. Dale could easily have killed the man with a bite. Instead, he drained a bit of blood for later use and then drew a blade, slipping it firmly between Helvard’s ribs.
There you go, my fine fellow. Rest well. Let’s hope a death by blade is the same to your gods whether it is a waking or sleeping death. You’ve earned that much.
He exited the longhouse as quietly as he’d entered it and started along the road west and north. It was a good long run to Broken Fang Cave, even for a vampire moving at night. He wanted to reach his destination before the sun rose and he was forced to move slowly again, so he headed that way directly.
Apparently the place is a regular vampire magnet. Vyctyna said someone removed the last tenants not many weeks ago and the feral I’m after took residence almost before the dust was swept from the living quarters. Well, I’ll empty it again, and hope that we can either keep it empty or fill it with someone Agryn finds more acceptable.
For some reason that thought made him uncomfortable again. Perhaps it was the idea of Agryn angry that made the skin on his back crawl. He’d absolutely exploded when Brynjolf had joked about borrowing Dale’s fangs. Even Brynjolf had looked fearful; and given what they’d shared about Brynjolf’s former status, that fear was even more impressive.
Why did it make Agryn so angry? And why would Brynjolf want so much to be a vampire again?
As he reached the crest of the hill next to Mammoth Manor and headed down toward the great plain of Whiterun Hold, he reviewed what he knew about Vitus. His father, by all accounts, had been of sharp tongue and sharp wit, a clever and resourceful man whose disposition tended toward the dark side.
We came from a rotten branch of the family tree, according to all I’ve heard. Mother told me as much. I never worried about it, though, because Mother was such a good and kind soul. And yet…
And yet nobody had thought it necessary to inform him that his own father had been both a vampire and an assassin. Learning that had been a complete and unwelcome surprise.
I do not like surprises.
The lair, once he entered it, proved to be a short tunnel leading to a medium-sized burial chamber. A lone vampire sat before a cooking fire. Dale paused to take the measure of the vampire. She was strong, a Mistwalker, as best he could tell. Stronger than he was, but not the feral he’d been tasked to remove.
This one will have to go as well, though.
He launched an arrow into the vampire and then tsk’d at how little damage it had done. The feral rose from her bench as Dale backed down the tunnel. He heard a conjuration spell being cast and cast one of his own in return: his trusty gargoyle would be needed. Two skeletons came rushing up the steps and then along the tunnel toward him, but he and the gargoyle made short work of them and then ran down into the chamber. The Mistwalker darted behind a column and started tossing ice spikes.
“I’m going to enjoy killing you,” she sneered.
“Ha! That’s rich,” Dale laughed. “Very well, if you insist.” Thanks to Agryn, Dale had at his disposal the flames of Coldharbour; and these he began casting at the vampire while pushing forward to find striking distance with his blade. With her vision obscured by the bright blue light, her magic attack was only vaguely in the right direction. He finally got close enough to see that she was in full chitin armor. Not that it’s going to help, he thought, stepping forward to pirouette on one foot and strike her head off, cleanly.
“You’re a vampire,” he murmured to her corpse. “I on the other hand am both a vampire and an assassin.”
Like my father.
Damn it, I always thought I was my own man. Now it seems I am but an echo of someone else.
He shook his head to clear the intrusive thoughts from it. He could sense another, much stronger vampire here. Dale crept about the chamber and finally found that one of the sarcophagi opened on both sides, leading through a roughly-hewn tunnel into a small cave. The flickering light within revealed a cage against the far wall.
A place for cattle, perhaps? Or cattle-to-be?
Dale crept forward until he could see into the room. There, at the far side, past a veritable maze of tables, chairs and chests stood an Altmer vampire, muttering to himself. Dale’s only hope was to creep up behind him unseen. He pulled the shadows in around him and readied his deadly blue flames, moving as quickly and silently past the vampire as he could. Then he struck out with his blade. To his utter astonishment, the vampire cried out once and fell dead.
“What? How?” He checked the room for valuables, returning to stare at the master vampire’s remains. “I must be stronger than I thought?”
Or a better assassin. It had to be the surprise attack that did it.
He left the lair and started east toward Whiterun. It would be full daylight by the time he took care of the hit there. Then he’d strike out north to deal with the Dunmer scholar Maluril, in Mzinchaleft. Nazir had warned him of the mer’s power, but Dale wasn’t particularly concerned.
He’d just passed the crumbling Western Watchtower when a figure clad in brown leathers stepped out in front of him. The man had two daggers raised, and stood in a tense stance that said he meant to have Dale’s wealth. Dale smirked at him, and reached for his own blades.
“Hand over your valuables,” the man said, “or I’ll…” He stopped in mid threat, squinting and leaning over his own body just a bit closer to Dale. “Wait.”
Dale was confused. “Yes? What is it?”
“I know you.”
“No, you really don’t.”
The man nodded vigorously. “Yes, I do! I’ve seen you in the Flagon. Sorry, I never would shake down a fellow Guild member. Good luck out there!” The man turned and slipped away down the road, leaving Dale completely befuddled.
The Guild? The Thieves Guild? Why in Oblivion would a common thief believe he’s seen me in the Ragged Flagon? I know where it is, but the closest I’ve come to it is standing in the marketplace talking to Brynjolf. I don’t understand.
He tried to clear his mind as he approached the gates of Whiterun. He needed to dispatch the wood elf named Anoriath; the easiest places to find him were inside the Drunken Huntsman and at the meat stall in the marketplace. He decided to approach the marketplace, first. To his delight, the hunter was there, calling out his wares. It looked as though he’d had several good hunts, too, judging by the fine cuts of meat on display.
Dale walked slowly to the stairway beyond the market, crossed the channel of water rushing down from Dragonsreach and slipped behind the house there on the hillside. Then he collected the shadow in about him again, prepared his bow, and circled around the home to a place where he had a clear shot but was near cover. He loosed an arrow, backed up, and stowed his weapon while listening to the gasps and cries of people in the marketplace.
I seem to have succeeded.
He hopped across the waterway again and strolled nonchalantly down the stairs. Anoriath was indeed on the ground, with one of the priestesses of Kynareth kneeling over him, making dismayed noises. He approached and looked down at the body, gasping.
“Oh! What happened?” he cried out, as earnestly as he could.
“I don’t know! One moment he was selling meat and the next an arrow came out of nowhere!” the priestess wailed.
“That’s simply terrible,” Dale said, looking around at the other spectators. “Someone should really alert the Jarl. It looks as though there’s a killer about!”
“You’re right!” a young man cried out. “I’ll go, right now!” He dashed for the stairs as Dale turned, tsking and shaking his head as he made haste for the city gates. He’d almost made it out of town when the sound of someone running toward him from behind had the hackles on his neck rising.
“Wait!” the out-of-breath voice called. “I’ve got something for you! Your hands only. It’s a special message.”
Dale turned to stare at the courier. “Oh? From whom?”
“It’s from Falk Firebeard, in the Blue Palace. He paid me extra to make sure it got to you right away. Here you go.”
Dale watched the courier dash off, frowning at the boy’s back. He wasn’t terribly pleased at having attention drawn to himself, no matter how briefly. He was also surprised to be getting another message from Solitude’s steward. Nevertheless, he broke the seal and opened the note.
Dale Perdeti,
Over the last few days we’ve had some disturbing information come to light regarding the events at Wolfskull Cave and the summoning and binding ritual you interrupted there. Given your involvement with that event, I’m asking you to return to Solitude to help us once more. I’m wary of putting all the details in print. Please come see me at the Blue Palace.
Sincerely, Falk Firebeard
“Hmm,” he murmured, stuffing the note into a pouch as he resumed his stroll toward the gates. “Intriguing. But I have other business to conduct.” And I’m not undertaking anything else in Solitude until I’ve spoken to Agryn about it. I wonder what’s going on.
There is nothing so pitiful as a vampire trying to move during a bright, clear day, he thought with a sigh, climbing the snow bank to look down into the ancient Dwemer ruin of Mzinchaleft. Now, though, a thick fog bank had moved inland from the Sea of Ghosts, both obscuring him from enemies and affording him a bit more freedom of movement.
He took stock of the surroundings. The mage Maluril was inside this partially-excavated ruin. There was an inner courtyard between two rows of buildings, with any number of people guarding the entrance. Dale would need to get through all of them to enter the facility, no matter how good he was at being silent. Dwemer metal doors generally made enough noise to wake the dead; the living would definitely hear him.
Dale lobbed an arrow at a bandit seated near an archway and waited – one heartbeat, two – until the man groaned loudly and slumped in his seat, dead. Unfortunately, the groan alerted the others. Dale both saw and heard the guards rushing toward the dead man. He stepped back just far enough that most of his body would be hidden by the snow banks, and slid left, finally taking up a position overlooking the courtyard.
“I’ve fought worse than you!” an Orc cried out.
Dale tsk’d. They knew he was there. But he readied a fury spell; and as soon as the Orc stopped running for a moment, he cast it. The next few minutes were a dizzying mass of bandits fighting each other while Dale watched gleefully. It wasn’t long before only the Orc was left alive. Dale slid into the courtyard, conjured his gargoyle, and started leaping over tables and barrels, staying just ahead of the Orc’s hammer while the gargoyle took care of the rest.
Dale slipped inside the ruin. A long, winding corridor led him to a pair of guards stationed before a fire pit. One paced back and forth behind the other, seated in a chair. Dale considered using his illusion spell again; but discarded the notion in favor of a silent vampiric attack. The bandit, a woman, went down easily enough but cried out loudly as she did so.
As Dale backed into the shadows the man rose from his chair, looking around with his weapon raised. Dale waited until the bandit had turned away from him, and then went for the man’s throat. He wasn’t able to drain the bandit, though; the man pivoted and attacked. Dale was ready with his life-draining spell and, as the man staggered, drove the blade in his right hand straight down into the man’s heart.
Dale tsk’d. Messy but necessary.
There were several more bandits stationed along the corridors, the last with a key on his person. Dale took it, creeping around behind the collapsed stonework to another set of noisy Dwemer doors. A note just outside told the guards that Maluril was not to be disturbed for any reason. Dale grinned and used the key. The passage behind the doors led to a nicely-appointed Dwemer bedchamber, where a lone, robed figure stood looking back and forth as though he knew there was something afoot.
No help for it. This one goes down to blades.
He was surprised when the man didn’t so much as flinch at his approach from behind. A single attack with two blades finished the mage.
I would have sworn he heard me enter. Apparently not. How anticlimactic.
He worked his way back up through the ruin, taking blood where he hadn’t earlier. Emerging into the brightness he was happy to have fed on his way out. It wasn’t terribly far from where he stood to the Dawnstar Sanctuary, so he decided to check in with Nazir while he was in the area.
Even as well-prepared for the daylight as he had been, it was still a relief to step into the cool, dark confines of the Sanctuary. As he peered ahead into its recesses he saw that he was not alone in this. The short figure at a table near the alchemy garden looked up as he approached, and smiled.
“A good day to you, Babette,” he said, executing the smallest of bows as he approached. Babette was not just the other vampire in the Brotherhood but was immensely older than he was himself. She was also one of the senior members of this particular Sanctuary.
“Hello, Dale. You’ve been busy, I take it.”
“Yes, I have,” he said, hesitatingly. This might well be a good opportunity to ask about the thing that had been bothering him. “Babette, you’ve been around for awhile.”
“Longer than you, for certain,” she said, smirking.
“So you would have had the opportunity to meet a great many former members of the Brotherhood.”
She nodded. “I have known all of them since the day I joined, yes.”
“Including, maybe…”
The corners of her eyes crinkled. “So you’ve finally found out about your father, have you? I wondered when you might.”
Dale made an astonished noise. “You knew him?”
“Of course. He didn’t call himself Vitus when he worked with us, but Cicero certainly knew him long before he came to Skyrim. He was ‘Andante’ when he worked here.”
“Why is it that nobody ever bothered to mention this to me before now?” Dale blurted out.
“I, for one, assumed that you knew,” she said calmly. “And we don’t generally pry, Dale. If you wanted to keep your lineage to yourself, that was your business.”
“I never met the man!” Dale snapped. Then he ran a hand over his face and blew out a breath. “Pardon me, Babette. I meant no disrespect. I’m just now truly learning about him. I knew his name, of course – my mother told me of him – but she certainly never knew about his other connections.”
Babette grinned. “No, I would think not.”
Dale couldn’t help but chuckle. “Alright. Thank you. I should check in with Nazir.”
“Do. And don’t forget to say hello to Cicero before you leave again. You seem to calm him. Maybe it’s because you look so much like your father. Cicero was very fond of him.”
“Um…” Dale blinked several times. “Do I even want to know what that signifies?”
“Probably not. But don’t worry about it. I keep an eye on Cicero and am quite certain nothing ever came of his flirtation with your father.”
Dale nodded, and then walked slowly down the steps to the main dining area, where Nazir sat in his usual place. The old Redguard looked up at him as he approached.
“Rumor has it that Anoriath was killed by an arrow that appeared from nowhere. Some of Whiterun’s more superstitious types wonder if one of the gods took offense. Hircine, perhaps. Well done. Here’s your payment. Now then, I have one more contract for you. You need to find and kill Safia, the captain of the pirate ship Red Wave. You may have to be patient until it’s nearby, but it’s likely to dock in Solitude when it’s in Skyrim.”
Dale nodded. “Any insight about Safia?”
“Ah yes. She’s a ruthless she-devil by all accounts. Deadly with a blade. And let’s not forget her crew – loyal and bloodthirsty, the lot of them.”
Dale grinned – perhaps a bit too widely, for he saw Nazir’s eyes flicker just a bit. “So am I. How convenient. Thank you. I’ll take care of it right away, as well as the Listener’s contract.”
“Be careful with this one, my friend.”
Cicero was muttering to the Night Mother’s corpse, as always, when Dale approached and cleared his throat. Cicero turned to him and broke out into a happy grin.
“Hello, Just Dale! Cicero is so very happy to see you!”
“And I am pleased to see you looking so well,” Dale said, even though he really didn’t care one way or the other how Cicero looked. “Might I ask you a question?”
“Of course, Just Dale! Of course. Ask me anything.”
“I’ve recently learned that a relative of mine used to work for the Brotherhood. I’m led to believe that you might have known him.”
It was as though someone had thrown a switch in Cicero’s mind. He turned to look at Dale, his face becoming deadly serious; Dale almost shuddered in surprise and alarm.
“You must mean Vitus. Yes, I knew him. I’ve always assumed you are his son. You look so much like him. He’s been gone so long now. So very long. I was very sad when he died.”
Dale tsk’d in spite of himself. “Nobody has ever seen fit to mention this to me? I don’t understand! It’s like finding out you’re not who you thought you were at all!”
Cicero nodded sadly. “Your father must have felt that way, too. He had forgotten about being Vitus when he came here. I’d known him since he was quite young, back in Cyrodiil. When Andante joined us here, I was so very pleased. But he didn’t remember me or Vitus until the end.”
“But, Cicero, why? Why did you not mention this to me before?”
Cicero snorted. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told the Listener. If a man in our line of work doesn’t discuss something there must be a reason for it. I’m mad, not stupid!”
And then Dale watched, almost mesmerized, as the moment of lucidity ended abruptly. Cicero giggled.
“Thank you for coming to see dear, sweet Cicero, Just Dale. Happy killing!” And with that he turned back to the Night Mother’s corpse and began murmuring to it.
‘Just Dale.’ It’s not worth bothering to correct him. As long as he recognizes me, that will do.
So everyone here knew my father. Everyone except me. I suppose that I understand why they’ve never said anything but I do feel a bit out of balance.
He continued feeling out of balance all the way back to Riften. Agryn seemed very short-tempered when asked about the note from Falk Firebeard – “Of course you should follow up! We need to have firm, solid roots in Solitude!” he snapped – and that set Dale even more off-balance. He could think of no reason why his sire should be displeased with him or his work.
Finally, he wandered back into Riften proper. He had a few things to sell, a few pelts to scrape down, and more than a few questions burning in his mind. He wandered over to the forge and began working the pelts. As always, the repetitive nature of the task let his mind wander on its own.
No, nobody had ever told him that his father was an assassin.
But if I really consider it – Mother may have guessed.
He cast his mind backward, trying to remember times when she’d talked about Vitus and his business trips. Once she’d paused, shaking her head. “He would come back and be so distant, for a little while. Distracted. Almost cold. I don’t know how to describe it. I didn’t dare ask.”
It wasn’t that she didn’t dare to ask. She didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to have her worst suspicions confirmed. No professional assassin would ever volunteer that about himself. But she should have realized he was a vampire. We’re not exactly warm people to snuggle up to, and there is the small matter of the fangs.
“…or grow back that missing limb with my genuine Falmerblood Elixir!” The distinctive voice shook him out of his thoughts.
By the gods. Do people actually fall for that?
He finished the pelt he’d been working on and then took a few moments to haggle with the smith. The lighter his load, the happier he was and the more quickly he could travel. Then he wandered across the marketplace and approached Brynjolf.
For a moment the big redhead didn’t seem to notice him. Dale watched him carefully. Yes, he thought, I can almost see it. I’d wager the man had a more rounded face, originally, just as I did. He may not be a vampire now, but the signs are still there. A certain angularity to his features.
He watched Brynjolf’s eyes flicker for a moment when he turned to face Dale. The man’s expression didn’t change but it was obvious to Dale that his resemblance to Vitus still startled Brynjolf.
“Falmerblood Elixir, lad?” Brynjolf said without missing a beat. Only his eyes had betrayed him, and that for the merest of moments.
Dale chuckled. “No, thank you.” He dropped his voice. “I have plenty of blood elixirs of my own. What I am interested in, though, are answers.”
“Aye? Is that so?”
“That is, in fact, so. As you might imagine, finding that every one of my new acquaintances know more about my father than I do myself is a bit disconcerting.”
“No doubt.”
“I can understand why nobody ever mentioned his – darker employment. It’s not exactly the kind of thing one advertises. Not even the employers in question mentioned knowing him.” He watched Brynjolf’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “What I can’t quite understand, though, is how my mother never so much as hinted that he was a…” He curled back his upper lip just enough to reveal his fangs.
Brynjolf chuckled. “No, lad. She couldn’t have known.” He dropped his voice so that nobody else could hear. “Andante didn’t become a vampire until after he came to Skyrim. He’d been working for me for some time before he turned. As to his other occupation, maybe he never shared that with your mother.”
Dale caught the tiny, momentary frown that flickered across Brynjolf’s face before being replaced by a careful, fake smile.
“You mentioned once before, that he worked for you?”
“Aye, lad. For my organization. That’s as much as I can say.”
Dale’s mind started racing. The thief on the road had assumed that Dale was someone he’d seen in the Ragged Flagon – a Guild member. Everyone in Riften – the guards, the merchants, the townspeople – said that the Thieves’ Guild was centered here in their city, even if they didn’t personally know where the Flagon was. And Brynjolf had just told him that Vitus had worked for him and his organization. The pieces fell into place.
That thief didn’t recognize me as a member of the Thieves’ Guild, he recognized “Andante.” Andante worked for Brynjolf before he became a vampire. Brynjolf … must run the Guild.
He thought of the day he and Brynjolf had discussed Vitus over drinks in the Bee & Barb. How Brynjolf had said both of them were powerful vampires. He could still hear the sharp edge of sadness in the man’s voice when he’d said I miss him.
There’s something else about this. Something important about my father.
A warm breeze blew across the marketplace, carrying the scents of all the blossoms from behind the Temple of Mara along with it. As he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the bouquet of aromas, a memory of a warm summer day rose in his mind. He and his mother had been working in the garden, looking down over the mountains toward the Imperial City. As he’d pulled weeds and sneezed at pollen, the breeze ruffling through his hair and the apiary buzzing, he’d chuckled.
“Mother, how do you know I don’t have brothers or sisters somewhere?”
His mother had laughed as well. “I don’t, son. But I would very much doubt it. Your father was very clear that he didn’t want children. That was why I didn’t tell him about you. And besides…” She had paused, laughing.
“Besides, what?”
“He was much more fond of gentlemen than of ladies. As far as I know, they can’t produce children.”
Dale opened his eyes and stared at Brynjolf in wide-eyed wonder, as more of the puzzle pieces fell into place.
“He was your sire, wasn’t he.” It was definitely more a statement than a question, but he wanted to see Brynjolf’s reaction. The Nord sighed, paused for a moment, and gave him a slight nod.
“Aye.”
Dale looked down. There was something else, something he couldn’t put his finger on…
My finger. His finger.
He looked at Brynjolf’s hand and saw the ruby ring. He remembered how odd it had seemed that Brynjolf had been caressing the stone with his thumb when he’d spoken of missing Vitus, with that sharp sadness in his tone.
By the gods. They were lovers. My father and this man before me were lovers. That’s why I disturb him so.
He met Brynjolf’s gaze and felt one corner of his mouth rise into a smirk, try though he might to suppress it.
“I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time, sir,” he said. “Please give my regards to your delightful daughter. I do hope I’ll see her again soon.” He stepped back before Brynjolf could say anything else, and started toward the north gate.
My father and Brynjolf were lovers.
I can use this.