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Garyn sat in his usual stool at the Five Claws, watching the condensation slowly form over the edges of his fourth ale of the night as he rehashed his worries.
Ri’Darsha would be fine, he was certain. And even if he wasn’t, Garyn had done the best he could for him. If he hadn’t come with Lorbulg, someone who didn’t care about Ri'Darsha would have.
He could not say the same of the Guild.
It was clear to him now. As a lieutenant, or even as a second-in-command, Lorbulg was a good man to have around. Whether leading a drill or a contingent for battle, his instincts were sound and his physical courage was unimpeachable. Salms's harsh guidance had kept his worst instincts in check. But he had neither business nor moral sense - he’d never had to make rain for his guildmates before. And his unwillingness to speak or learn Ta'agra only made matters worse.
The Blackwood Company, fresh from their failed campaign in the Black Marsh, had sensed their weakness and established themselves in the Leyawiin city limits. They had no shortage of Khajiit and Argonians in their number. The Khajiit merchants and caravaners, who had trusted Salms and formed the backbone of their clientele, deserted Lorbulg and his guild.
Garyn had noticed the change. The jobs had gotten worse - nasty ones from nasty people, the sort Old Man could afford to turn away. But even this must not have been enough. He'd gotten into the skooma trade. He had surely been taking out loans. And probably not good ones, either. If Lorbulg was desperate enough to be pressing a low-level pusher like Ri'Darsha as hard as he was...
Garyn slumped in his stool, defeated. He could have stopped this at any time. He could have stopped it before it happened. Lorbulg had needed his guidance and linguistic skill, and he had shirked his duties by drinking himself into a self-pitying stupor.
Pity Lorbulg. Pity the Guild. Gods help him, Garyn still cared about this guild, as cruel a life as it had made for him. He couldn't bear to let it die.
But how to save it? Alerting the constabulary in this city would hurt his chances, if anything. Obviously, the main chapter in Chorrol needed to be informed of this. But Chorrol was on the other side of Cyrodil – at least two weeks’ journey, even in good weather. It would be at least a month and a half before he could expect help from them. Could he afford to wait that long?
Garyn took a long drink as he pondered this. Clearly, he could not. He would need to take matters into his own hands - and the Guild prohibited violence against a fellow member. Salvation of the chapter would mean his expulsion from it.
He could perform the Black Sacrament, of course. The Dark Brotherhood would make short work of him, as assassins always do. But would Lorbulg’s death deter his creditors? Surely they might suspect that someone in the Guild was responsible. They could well decide to collect from the Guild itself - in coin and in blood.
It was the only option. The time to resolve this lawfully had long passed. Between Lorbulg and the Guild, something had to die.
Garyn’s reverie was interrupted by three sets of footsteps approaching loudly behind him. He turned around slowly to see Apelles Velvus, all arms and no torso, flanked by two large orcs who looked like they could grind the little Imperial's bones to oatmeal.
“Evening,” he said.
Garyn snorted and turned his back to the man. “What do you want?”
“I’m looking for a friend named Ri’Darsha. I saw him down by the river yesterday, but he hasn’t turned up.”
Well, well. Lorbulg wasn't a total idiot after all. Garyn took another drink, measuring his words.
“I haven’t seen him since. Something seemed to be weighing rather heavily on him.”
“Oh? Like what?”
Garyn rolled his eyes. “A hundred pounds of rocks. Now leave me be.”
“Is that so?” Apelles said. “Well, the Boss was really hoping he’d turn up by now. It sends a message, you see. At least, that’s what he told you. It’d be a real shame if we never saw him again.”
“Then he can dredge him back up if he likes,” Garyn snapped. “Because right now he’s sucking mud from the bottom of the Niben. He was a popular Khajiit – it’s not like the world won’t notice once he’s been missing for a week. Now stop bothering me.”
“Not sure I like your tone, whoreson. Don’t think the boss will either.”
It was a clumsy, sneering schoolyard insult. The sort an orphan with unknown parents hears countless times throughout his life. It meant nothing coming from a waste of flesh like Apelles.
He'd put up with the likes of Apelles Velvus for long enough. He would not get away with it. Not now.
“If you want to find him, you can dive in the river. Gods know your father wouldn’t miss you.”
The Imperial grabbed Garyn’s shoulder, seeking to whip the Dunmer around to face him.
Garyn's fist was one step ahead of him.
Apelles buckled as the blow connected with his chin. He collapsed, unconscious, head-first toward the row of chairs behind him.
Garyn could hear the crack of the Imperial's neck upon the wooden stool leg as the orcs descended upon him.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The trial passed like the formality it was. Witness after witness came to the stand. More than could have possibly been in the Five Claws on a Middas. Each told of how they had seen him strike the fatal blow against Apelles Velvus, third son of the Baron and Baroness Velvus of Trans-Niben, just after he had confessed to the murder of Ri’Darsha, who was obviously not on hand to dispute the allegations. They brought out Apelles’ mother, who wept dutifully, and his father, who demanded justice. It was a trial in name only.
Garyn was barely even listening when they read out his sentence: one hundred ninety-nine years in the Imperial City’s prison. Two hundred, ninety-nine, what did it matter? No one survived long in there. In all of Tamriel, only Blackrose was worse. He would die in that dungeon – wasted away by time and neglect. Next to a long sentence in the Imperial dungeons, the noose is a mercy.
Lorbulg had set this up, he knew. Most of the rest of the Guildhall was either in his pocket or too cowed by his presence to act. He hadn’t known of Garyn's plans against him, but he suspected, and when dealing with the only Guildmember who could have challenged him, suspicion was enough. He hadn’t suspected that Garyn would kill Apelles, but he knew that Apelles was the perfect man to provoke the confrontation – dumb enough to think he could take Garyn in a fight but weak enough for his defeat to be assured. Garyn was an easy enough mer to provoke in a drunken state - any man as annoying as Apelles should have had an easy time of it. He would have settled for a trumped-up assault charge that would get Garyn thrown out of the guild. But his plan had worked beyond his wildest expectations.
Garyn had to admit, the orc was cleverer than he gave him credit for being. Not that it would save him in the end, of course. And not that it mattered now, anyway. Lorbulg wouldn’t get what was coming to him until he took the entire Leyawiin Fighters Guild down with him, along with anyone who had ever stood in his way.
Garyn had failed. And now his life was over.
Ri’Darsha would be fine, he was certain. And even if he wasn’t, Garyn had done the best he could for him. If he hadn’t come with Lorbulg, someone who didn’t care about Ri'Darsha would have.
He could not say the same of the Guild.
It was clear to him now. As a lieutenant, or even as a second-in-command, Lorbulg was a good man to have around. Whether leading a drill or a contingent for battle, his instincts were sound and his physical courage was unimpeachable. Salms's harsh guidance had kept his worst instincts in check. But he had neither business nor moral sense - he’d never had to make rain for his guildmates before. And his unwillingness to speak or learn Ta'agra only made matters worse.
The Blackwood Company, fresh from their failed campaign in the Black Marsh, had sensed their weakness and established themselves in the Leyawiin city limits. They had no shortage of Khajiit and Argonians in their number. The Khajiit merchants and caravaners, who had trusted Salms and formed the backbone of their clientele, deserted Lorbulg and his guild.
Garyn had noticed the change. The jobs had gotten worse - nasty ones from nasty people, the sort Old Man could afford to turn away. But even this must not have been enough. He'd gotten into the skooma trade. He had surely been taking out loans. And probably not good ones, either. If Lorbulg was desperate enough to be pressing a low-level pusher like Ri'Darsha as hard as he was...
Garyn slumped in his stool, defeated. He could have stopped this at any time. He could have stopped it before it happened. Lorbulg had needed his guidance and linguistic skill, and he had shirked his duties by drinking himself into a self-pitying stupor.
Pity Lorbulg. Pity the Guild. Gods help him, Garyn still cared about this guild, as cruel a life as it had made for him. He couldn't bear to let it die.
But how to save it? Alerting the constabulary in this city would hurt his chances, if anything. Obviously, the main chapter in Chorrol needed to be informed of this. But Chorrol was on the other side of Cyrodil – at least two weeks’ journey, even in good weather. It would be at least a month and a half before he could expect help from them. Could he afford to wait that long?
Garyn took a long drink as he pondered this. Clearly, he could not. He would need to take matters into his own hands - and the Guild prohibited violence against a fellow member. Salvation of the chapter would mean his expulsion from it.
He could perform the Black Sacrament, of course. The Dark Brotherhood would make short work of him, as assassins always do. But would Lorbulg’s death deter his creditors? Surely they might suspect that someone in the Guild was responsible. They could well decide to collect from the Guild itself - in coin and in blood.
It was the only option. The time to resolve this lawfully had long passed. Between Lorbulg and the Guild, something had to die.
Garyn’s reverie was interrupted by three sets of footsteps approaching loudly behind him. He turned around slowly to see Apelles Velvus, all arms and no torso, flanked by two large orcs who looked like they could grind the little Imperial's bones to oatmeal.
“Evening,” he said.
Garyn snorted and turned his back to the man. “What do you want?”
“I’m looking for a friend named Ri’Darsha. I saw him down by the river yesterday, but he hasn’t turned up.”
Well, well. Lorbulg wasn't a total idiot after all. Garyn took another drink, measuring his words.
“I haven’t seen him since. Something seemed to be weighing rather heavily on him.”
“Oh? Like what?”
Garyn rolled his eyes. “A hundred pounds of rocks. Now leave me be.”
“Is that so?” Apelles said. “Well, the Boss was really hoping he’d turn up by now. It sends a message, you see. At least, that’s what he told you. It’d be a real shame if we never saw him again.”
“Then he can dredge him back up if he likes,” Garyn snapped. “Because right now he’s sucking mud from the bottom of the Niben. He was a popular Khajiit – it’s not like the world won’t notice once he’s been missing for a week. Now stop bothering me.”
“Not sure I like your tone, whoreson. Don’t think the boss will either.”
It was a clumsy, sneering schoolyard insult. The sort an orphan with unknown parents hears countless times throughout his life. It meant nothing coming from a waste of flesh like Apelles.
He'd put up with the likes of Apelles Velvus for long enough. He would not get away with it. Not now.
“If you want to find him, you can dive in the river. Gods know your father wouldn’t miss you.”
The Imperial grabbed Garyn’s shoulder, seeking to whip the Dunmer around to face him.
Garyn's fist was one step ahead of him.
Apelles buckled as the blow connected with his chin. He collapsed, unconscious, head-first toward the row of chairs behind him.
Garyn could hear the crack of the Imperial's neck upon the wooden stool leg as the orcs descended upon him.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The trial passed like the formality it was. Witness after witness came to the stand. More than could have possibly been in the Five Claws on a Middas. Each told of how they had seen him strike the fatal blow against Apelles Velvus, third son of the Baron and Baroness Velvus of Trans-Niben, just after he had confessed to the murder of Ri’Darsha, who was obviously not on hand to dispute the allegations. They brought out Apelles’ mother, who wept dutifully, and his father, who demanded justice. It was a trial in name only.
Garyn was barely even listening when they read out his sentence: one hundred ninety-nine years in the Imperial City’s prison. Two hundred, ninety-nine, what did it matter? No one survived long in there. In all of Tamriel, only Blackrose was worse. He would die in that dungeon – wasted away by time and neglect. Next to a long sentence in the Imperial dungeons, the noose is a mercy.
Lorbulg had set this up, he knew. Most of the rest of the Guildhall was either in his pocket or too cowed by his presence to act. He hadn’t known of Garyn's plans against him, but he suspected, and when dealing with the only Guildmember who could have challenged him, suspicion was enough. He hadn’t suspected that Garyn would kill Apelles, but he knew that Apelles was the perfect man to provoke the confrontation – dumb enough to think he could take Garyn in a fight but weak enough for his defeat to be assured. Garyn was an easy enough mer to provoke in a drunken state - any man as annoying as Apelles should have had an easy time of it. He would have settled for a trumped-up assault charge that would get Garyn thrown out of the guild. But his plan had worked beyond his wildest expectations.
Garyn had to admit, the orc was cleverer than he gave him credit for being. Not that it would save him in the end, of course. And not that it mattered now, anyway. Lorbulg wouldn’t get what was coming to him until he took the entire Leyawiin Fighters Guild down with him, along with anyone who had ever stood in his way.
Garyn had failed. And now his life was over.