    ______       
   /\\-----\    A Dance in Fire (NoteFolio Appvars)
   \ \\_____\   by Eric Kittlaus (aka Cangor)
    \ \------\  blueblazegames@gmail.com
     \ \______\ Wednesday, July 6th, 2005
      \/__o___/ for the TI-83+/SE, TI-89, TI-92+, V200

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This the the book from The Elder Scrolls 3: Morrowind in NoteFolio
format for the TI-83+/SE, TI-89, TI-92+, and V200. (You can download
each in a separate file.) I hope you enjoy it. Please email me about
any errors.
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A Dance In Fire, Chapter I
by Waughin Jarth

Scene: The Imperial City, Cyrodiil
Date: 7 Frost Fall, 3E 397

It seemed as if the palace had always housed the Atrius Building Commission,
the company of clerks and estate agents who authored and notarized nearly
every construction of any note in the Empire.  It had stood for two hundred
and fifty years, since the reign of the Emperor Magnus, a plain-fronted and
austere hall on a minor but respectable plaza in the Imperial City.
Energetic and ambitious middle-class lads and ladies worked there, as well as
complacent middle-aged ones like Decumus Scotti.  No one could imagine a
world without the Commission, least of all Scotti.  To be accurate, he could
not imagine a world without himself in the Commission.

"Lord Atrius is perfectly aware of your contributions," said the managing
clerk, closing the shutter that demarcated Scotti's office behind him. "But
you know that things have been difficult."

"Yes," said Scotti, stiffly.

"Lord Vanech's men have been giving us a lot of competition lately, and we
must be more efficient if we are to survive.  Unfortunately, that means
releasing some of our historically best but presently underachieving senior
clerks."

"I understand.  Can't be helped."

"I'm glad that you understand," smiled the managing clerk, smiling thinly and
withdrawing. "Please have your room cleared immediately."

Scotti began the task of organizing all his work to pass on to his successor.
It would probably be young Imbrallius who would take most of it on, which was
as it should be, he considered philosophically.  The lad knew how to find
business.  Scotti wondered idly what the fellow would do with the contracts
for the new statue of St Alessia for which the Temple of the One had applied.
Probably invent a clerical error, blame it on his old predecessor Decumus
Scotti, and require an additional cost to rectify.

"I have correspondence for Decumus Scotti of the Atrius Building Commission."

Scotti looked up.  A fat-faced courier had entered his office and was
thrusting forth a sealed scroll.  He handed the boy a gold piece, and opened
it up.  By the poor penmanship, atrocious spelling and grammar, and overall
unprofessional tone, it was manifestly evident who the writer was.  Liodes
Jurus, a fellow clerk some years before, who had left the Commission after
being accused of unethical business practices.


"Dear Sckotti,


I emagine you alway wondered what happened to me, and the last plase you
would have expected to find me is out in the woods.  But thats exactly where
I am.  Ha ha.  If your'e smart and want to make lot of extra gold for Lord
Atrius (and yourself, ha ha), youll come down to Vallinwood too.  If you
have'nt or have been following the politics hear lately, you may or may not
know that ther's bin a war between the Boshmer and there neighbors Elswere
over the past two years.  Things have only just calm down, and ther's a lot
that needs to be rebuilt.

Now Ive got more business than I can handel, but I need somone with some
clout, someone representing a respected agencie to get the quill in the ink.
That somone is you, my fiend.  Come & meat me at the M'ther Paskos Tavern in
Falinnesti, Vallinwood.  Ill be here 2 weeks and you wont be sorrie.




-- Jurus

P.S.: Bring a wagenload of timber if you can."


"What do you have there, Scotti?" asked a voice.

Scotti started.  It was Imbrallius, his damnably handsome face peeking
through the shutters, smiling in that way that melted the hearts of the
stingiest of patrons and the roughest of stonemasons.  Scotti shoved the
letter in his jacket pocket.

"Personal correspondence," he sniffed. "I'll be cleared up here in a just a
moment."

"I don't want to hurry you," said Imbrallius, grabbing a few sheets of blank
contracts from Scotti's desk. "I've just gone through a stack, and the junior
scribes hands are all cramping up, so I thought you wouldn't miss a few."

The lad vanished.  Scotti retrieved the letter and read it again.  He thought
about his life, something he rarely did.  It seemed a sea of gray with a
black insurmountable wall looming.  There was only one narrow passage he
could see in that wall.  Quickly, before he had a moment to reconsider it, he
grabbed a dozen of the blank contracts with the shimmering gold leaf ATRIUS
BUILDING COMMISSION BY APPOINTMENT OF HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY and hid them in
the satchel with his personal effects.

The next day he began his adventure with a giddy lack of hesitation.   He
arranged for a seat in a caravan bound for Valenwood, the single escorted
conveyance to the southeast leaving the Imperial City that week.  He had
scarcely hours to pack, but he remembered to purchase a wagonload of timber.

"It will be extra gold to pay for a horse to pull that," frowned the convoy
head.

"So I anticipated," smiled Scotti with his best Imbrallius grin.

Ten wagons in all set off that afternoon through the familiar Cyrodilic
countryside.  Past fields of wildflowers, gently rolling woodlands, friendly
hamlets.  The clop of the horses' hooves against the sound stone road
reminded Scotti that the Atrius Building Commission constructed it.  Five of
the eighteen necessary contracts for its completion were drafted by his own
hand.

"Very smart of you to bring that wood along," said a gray-whiskered Breton
man next to him on his wagon. "You must be in Commerce."

"Of a sort," said Scotti, in a way he hoped was mysterious, before
introducing himself: "Decumus Scotti."

"Gryf Mallon," said the man.  "I'm a poet, actually a translator of old
Bosmer literature.  I was researching some newly discovered tracts of the
Mnoriad Pley Bar two years ago when the war broke out and I had to leave.
You are no doubt familiar with the Mnoriad, if you're aware of the Green
Pact."

Scotti thought the man might be speaking perfect gibberish, but he nodded his
head.

"Naturally, I don't pretend that the Mnoriad is as renowned as the Meh
Ayleidion, or as ancient as the Dansir Gol, but I think it has a remarkable
significance to understanding the nature of the merelithic Bosmer mind.  The
origin of the Wood Elf aversion to cutting their own wood or eating any plant
material at all, yet paradoxically their willingness to import plantstuff
from other cultures, I feel can be linked to a passage in the Mnoriad,"
Mallon shuffled through some of his papers, searching for the appropriate
text.

To Scotti's vast relief, the carriage soon stopped to camp for the night.
They were high on a bluff over a gray stream, and before them was the great
valley of Valenwood.  Only the cry of seabirds declared the presence of the
ocean to the bay to the west: here the timber was so tall and wide, twisting
around itself like an impossible knot begun eons ago, to be impenetrable.  A
few more modest trees, only fifty feet to the lowest branches, stood on the
cliff at the edge of camp.   The sight was so alien to Scotti and he found
himself so anxious about the proposition of entering the wilderness that he
could not imagine sleeping.

Fortunately, Mallon had supposed he had found another academic with a passion
for the riddles of ancient cultures.  Long into the night, he recited Bosmer
verse in the original and in his own translation, sobbing and bellowing and
whispering wherever appropriate.  Gradually, Scotti began to feel drowsy, but
a sudden crack of wood snapping made him sit straight up.

"What was that?"

Mallon smiled: "I like it too. 'Convocation in the malignity of the moonless
speculum, a dance of fire --'"

"There are some enormous birds up in the trees moving around," whispered
Scotti, pointing in the direction of the dark shapes above.

"I wouldn't worry about that," said Mallon, irritated with his audience. "Now
listen to how the poet characterizes Herma-Mora's invocation in the
eighteenth stanza of the fourth book."

The dark shapes in the trees were some of them perched like birds, others
slithered like snakes, and still others stood up straight like men.  As
Mallon recited his verse, Scotti watched the figures softly leap from branch
to branch, half-gliding across impossible distances for anything without
wings.  They gathered in groups and then reorganized until they had spread to
every tree around the camp.  Suddenly they plummeted from the heights.

"Mara!" cried Scotti. "They're falling like rain!"

"Probably seed pods," Mallon shrugged, not turning around. "Some of the trees
have remarkable --"

The camp erupted into chaos.  Fires burst out in the wagons, the horses
wailed from mortal blows, casks of wine, fresh water, and liquor gushed their
contents to the ground.  A nimble shadow dashed past Scotti and Mallon,
gathering sacks of grain and gold with impossible agility and grace.  Scotti
had only one glance at it, lit up by a sudden nearby burst of flame.  It was
a sleek creature with pointed ears, wide yellow eyes, mottled pied fur and a
tail like a whip.

"Werewolf," he whimpered, shrinking back.

"Cathay-raht," groaned Mallon. "Much worse.  Khajiti cousins or some such
thing, come to plunder."

"Are you sure?"

As quickly as they struck, the creatures retreated, diving off the bluff
before the battlemage and knight, the caravan's escorts, had fully opened
their eyes.  Mallon and Scotti ran to the precipice and saw a hundred feet
below the tiny figures dash out of the water, shake themselves, and disappear
into the wood.

"Werewolves aren't acrobats like that," said Mallon. "They were definitely
Cathay-raht.  Bastard thieves.  Thank Stendarr they didn't realize the value
of my notebooks.  It wasn't a complete loss."

A Dance in Fire, Chapter 2
by Waughin Jarth

It was a complete loss.  The Cathay-Raht had stolen or destroyed almost every
item of value in the caravan in just a few minutes' time.  Decumus Scotti's
wagonload of wood he had hoped to trade with the Bosmer had been set on fire
and then toppled off the bluff.  His clothing and contracts were tattered and
ground into the mud of dirt mixed with spilt wine.  All the pilgrims,
merchants, and adventurers in the group moaned and wept as they gathered the
remnants of their belongings by the rising sun of the dawn.

"I best not tell anyone that I managed to hold onto my notes for my
translation of the Mnoriad Pley Bar," whispered the poet Gryf Mallon. "They'd
probably turn on me."

Scotti politely declined the opportunity of telling Mallon just how little
value he himself placed on the man's property.  Instead, he counted the coins
in his purse.  Thirty-four gold pieces.  Very little indeed for an
entrepreneur beginning a new business.

"Hoy!" came a cry from the wood.  A small party of Bosmer emerged from the
thicket, clad in leather mail and bearing arms. "Friend or foe?"

"Neither," growled the convoy head.

"You must be the Cyrodiils," laughed the leader of the group, a tall
skeleton-thin youth with a sharp vulpine face. "We heard you were en route.
Evidently, so did our enemies."

"I thought the war was over," muttered one of the caravan's now ruined
merchants.

The Bosmer laughed again: "No act of war.  Just a little border enterprise.
You are going on to Falinesti?"

"I'm not," the convoy head shook his head. "As far as I'm concerned, my duty
is done.  No more horses, no more caravan.  Just a fat profit loss to me."

The men and women crowded around the man, protesting, threatening, begging,
but he refused to step foot in Valenwood.  If these were the new times of
peace, he said, he'd rather come back for the next war.

Scotti tried a different route and approached the Bosmer.  He spoke with an
authoritative but friendly voice, the kind he used in negotiations with
peevish carpenters: "I don't suppose you'd consider escorting me to
Falinesti.  I'm a representative for an important Imperial agency, the Atrius
Building Commission, here to help repair and alleviate some of the problems
the war with the Khajiit brought to your province.  Patriotism --"

"Twenty gold pieces, and you must carry your own gear if you have any left,"
replied the Bosmer.

Scotti reflected that negotiations with peevish carpenters rarely went his
way either.

Six eager people had enough gold on them for payment.  Among those without
funds was the poet, who appealed to Scotti for assistance.

"I'm sorry, Gryf, I only have fourteen gold left over.  Not even enough for a
decent room when I get to Falinesti.  I really would help you if I could,"
said Scotti, persuading himself that it was true.

The band of six and their Bosmer escorts began the descent down a rocky path
along the bluff.  Within an hour's time, they were deep in the jungles of
Valenwood.  A never-ending canopy of hues of browns and greens obscured the
sky.  A millennia's worth of fallen leaves formed a deep, wormy sea of
putrefaction beneath their feet.  Several miles were crossed wading through
the slime.  For several more, they took a labyrinthian path across fallen
branches and the low-hanging boughs of giant trees.

All the while, hour after hour, the inexhaustible Bosmer host moved so fast,
the Cyrodiils struggled to keep from being left behind.  A red-faced little
merchant with short legs took a bad step on a rotten branch and nearly fell.
His fellow provincials had to help him up.  The Bosmer paused only a moment,
their eyes continually darting to the shadows in the trees above before
moving on at their usual expeditious pace.

"What are they so nervous about?" wheezed the merchant irritably. "More
Cathay-Raht?"

"Don't be ridiculous," laughed the Bosmer unconvincingly. "Khajiiti this far
into Valenwood?  In times of peace?  They'd never dare."

When the group passed high enough above the swamp that the smell was somewhat
dissipated, Scotti felt a sudden pang of hunger.  He was used to four meals a
day in the Cyrodilic custom.  Hours of nonstop exertion without food was not
part of his regimen as a comfortably paid clerk.  He pondered, feeling
somewhat delirious, how long they had been trotting through the jungle.
Twelve hours?  Twenty?  A week?  Time was meaningless.  Sunlight was only
sporadic through the vegetative ceiling.  Phosphorescent molds on the trees
and in the muck below provided the only regular illumination.

"Is it at all possible for us to rest and eat?" he hollered to his host up
ahead.

"We're near to Falinesti," came the echoing reply. "Lots of food there."

The path continued upward for several hours more across a clot of fallen
logs, rising up to the first and then the second boughs of the tree line.  As
they rounded a long corner, the travelers found themselves midway up a
waterfall that fell a hundred feet or more.  No one had the energy to
complain as they began pulling up the stacks of rock, agonizing foot by foot.
The Bosmer escorts disappeared into the mist, but Scotti kept climbing until
there was no more rock left.  He wiped the sweat and river water from his
eyes.

Falinesti spread across the horizon before him.  Sprawling across both banks
of the river stood the mighty graht-oak city, with groves and orchards of
lesser trees crowding it like supplicants before their king.  At a lesser
scale, the tree that formed the moving city would have been extraordinary:
gnarled and twisted with a gorgeous crown of gold and green, dripping with
vines and shining with sap.  At a mile tall and half as wide, it was the most
magnificent thing Scotti had ever seen.  If he had not been a starving man
with the soul of a clerk, he would have sung.

"There you are," said the leader of the escorts. "Not too far a walk.  You
should be glad it's wintertide.  In summertide, the city's on the far south
end of the province."

Scotti was lost as to how to proceed.  The sight of the vertical metropolis
where people moved about like ants disoriented all his sensibilities.

"You wouldn't know of an inn called," he paused for a moment, and then pulled
Jurus's letter from his pocket. "Something like 'Mother Paskos Tavern'?"

"Mother Pascost?" the lead Bosmer laughed his familiar contemptuous laugh.
"You won't want to stay there?  Visitors always prefer the Aysia Hall in the
top boughs.  It's expensive, but very nice."

"I'm meeting someone at Mother Pascost's Tavern."

"If you've made up your mind to go, take a lift to Havel Slump and ask for
directions there.  Just don't get lost and fall asleep in the western cross."

This apparently struck the youth's friends as a very witty jest, and so it
was with their laughter echoing behind him that Scotti crossed the writhing
root system to the base of Falinesti.  The ground was littered with leaves
and refuse, and from moment to moment a glass or a bone would plummet from
far above, so he walked with his neck crooked to have warning.  An intricate
network of platforms anchored to thick vines slipped up and down the slick
trunk of the city with perfect grace, manned by operators with arms as thick
as an ox's belly.  Scotti approaches the nearest fellow at one of the
platforms, who was idly smoking from a glass pipe.

"I was wondering if you might take me to Havel Slump."

The mer nodded and within a few minutes time, Scotti was two hundred feet in
the air at a crook between two mighty branches.  Curled webs of moss
stretched unevenly across the fork, forming a sharing roof for several dozen
small buildings.  There were only a few souls in the alley, but around the
bend ahead, he could hear the sound of music and people.  Scotti tipped the
Falinesti Platform Ferryman a gold piece and asked for the location of Mother
Pascost's Tavern.

"Straight ahead of you, sir, but you won't find anyone there," the Ferryman
explained, pointing in the direction of the noise. "Morndas everyone in Havel
Slump has revelry."

Scotti walked carefully along the narrow street.  Though the ground felt as
solid as the marble avenues of the Imperial City, there were slick cracks in
the bark that exposed fatal drops into the river.  He took a moment to sit
down, to rest and get used to the view from the heights.  It was a beautiful
day for certain, but it took Scotti only a few minutes of contemplation to
rise up in alarm.  A jolly little raft anchored down stream below him had
distinctly moved several inches while he watched it.  But it hadn't moved at
all.  He had.  Together with everything around him.  It was no metaphor: the
city of Falinesti walked.  And, considering its size, it moved quickly.

Scotti rose to his feet and into a cloud of smoke that drifted out from
around the bend.  It was the most delicious roast he had ever smelled.  The
clerk forgot his fear and ran.

The "revelry" as the Ferryman had termed it took place on an enormous
platform tied to the tree, wide enough to be a plaza in any other city.  A
fantastic assortment of the most amazing people Scotti had ever seen were
jammed shoulder-to-shoulder together, many eating, many more drinking, and
some dancing to a lutist and singer perched on an offshoot above the crowd.
They were largely Bosmer, true natives clad in colorful leather and bones,
with a close minority of orcs.  Whirling through the throng, dancing and
bellowing at one another were a hideous ape people.  A few heads bobbing over
the tops of the crowd belonged not, as Scotti first assumed, to very tall
people, but to a family of centaurs.

"Care for some mutton?" queried a wizened old mer who roasted an enormous
beast on some red-hot rocks.

Scotti quickly paid him a gold piece and devoured the leg he was given.  And
then another gold piece and another leg.  The fellow chuckled when Scotti
began choking on a piece of gristle, and handed him a mug of a frothing white
drink.  He drank it and felt a quiver run through his body as if he were
being tickled.

"What is that?"  Scotti asked.

"Jagga.  Fermented pig's milk.  I can let you have a flagon of it and a bit
more mutton for another gold."

Scotti agreed, paid, gobbled down the meat, and took the flagon with him as
he slipped into the crowd.  His co-worker Liodes Jurus, the man who had told
him to come to Valenwood, was nowhere to be seen.  When the flagon was a
quarter empty, Scotti stopped looking for Jurus.  When it was half empty, he
was dancing with the group, oblivious to the broken planks and gaps in the
fencework.  At three quarters empty, he was trading jokes with a group of
creatures whose language was completely alien to him.  By the time the flagon
was completely drained, he was asleep, snoring, while the revelry continued
on all around his supine body.

The next morning, still asleep, Scotti had the sensation of someone kissing
him.  He made a face to return the favor, but a pain like fire spread through
his chest and forced him to open his eyes.  There was an insect the size of a
large calf sitting on him, crushing him, its spiky legs holding him down
while a central spiral-bladed vortex of a mouth tore through his shirt.  He
screamed and thrashed but the beast was too strong.  It had found its meal
and it was going to finish it.

It's over, thought Scotti wildly, I should have never left home.  I could
have stayed in the City, and perhaps found work with Lord Vanech.  I could
have begun again as a junior clerk and worked my way back up.

Suddenly the mouth released itself.  The creature shivered once, expelled a
burst of yellow bile, and died.

"Got one!" cried a voice, not too distantly.

For a moment, Scotti lay still.  His head throbbed and his chest burned.  Out
of the corner of his eye he saw movement.  Another of the horrible monsters
was scurried towards him.  He scrambled, trying to push himself free, but
before he could come out, there was a sound of a bow cracking and an arrow
pierced the second insect.

"Good shot!" cried another voice. "Get the first one again!  I just saw it
move a little!"

This time, Scotti felt the impact of the bolt hit the carcass.  He cried out,
but he could hear how muffled his voice was by the beetle's body.
Cautiously, he tried sliding a foot out and rolling under, but the movement
apparently had the effect of convincing the archers that the creature still
lived.  A volley of arrows was launched forth.  Now the beast was
sufficiently perforated so pools of its blood, and likely the blood of its
victims, began to seep out onto Scotti's body.

When Scotti was a lad, before he grew too sophisticated for such sports, he
had often gone to the Imperial Arena for the competitions of war.  He
recalled a great veteran of the fights, when asked, telling him his secret,
"Whenever I'm in doubt of what to do, and I have a shield, I stay behind it."

Scotti followed that advice.  After an hour, when he no longer heard arrows
being fired, he threw aside the remains of the bug and leapt as quickly as he
could to a stand.  It was not a moment too soon.  A gang of eight archers had
their bows pointing his direction, ready to fire.  When they saw him, they
laughed.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to sleep in the western cross?  How're we
going to exterminate all the hoarvors if you drunks keep feeding 'em?"

Scotti shook his head and walked back along the platform, round the bend, to
Havel Slump.  He was bloodied and torn and tired and he had far too much
fermented pig's milk.  All he wanted was a proper place to lie down.  He
stepped into Mother Pascost's Tavern, a dank place, wet with sap, smelling of
mildew.

"My name is Decumus Scotti," he said. "I was hoping you have someone named
Jurus staying here."

"Decumus Scotti?" pondered the fleshy proprietress, Mother Pascost herself.
"I've heard that name.  Oh, you must be the fellow he left the note for.  Let
me go see if I can find it."

A Dance in Fire, Chapter 3
by Waughin Jarth

Mother Pascost disappeared into the sordid hole that was her tavern, and
emerged a moment later with a scrap of paper with Liodes Jurus's familiar
scrawl.  Decumus Scotti held it up before a patch of sunlight that had found
its way through the massive boughs of the tree city, and read.


Sckotti,

So you made it to Falinnesti, Vallinwood!  Congradulatens!  Im sure you had
quit a adventure getting here.  Unfortonitly,  Im not here anymore as you
probaby guess.  Theres a town down rivver called Athie Im at.  Git a bote and
join me!  Its ideal!  I hope you brot a lot of contracks, cause these peple
need a lot of building done.  They wer close to the war, you see, but not so
close they dont have any mony left to pay.  Ha ha.  Meat me down here as son
as you can.

-- Jurus


So, Scotti pondered, Jurus had left Falinesti and gone to some place called
Athie.  Given his poor penmanship and ghastly spelling, it could equally well
be Athy, Aphy, Othry, Imthri, Urtha, or Krakamaka.  The sensible thing to do,
Scotti knew, was to call this adventure over and try to find some way to get
back home to the Imperial City.  He was no mercenary devoted to a life of
thrills: he was, or at least had been, a senior clerk at a successful private
building commission.  Over the last few weeks, he had been robbed by the
Cathay-Raht, taken on a death march through the jungle by a gang of giggling
Bosmeri, half-starved to death, drugged with fermented pig's milk, nearly
slain by some kind of giant tick, and attacked by archers.  He was filthy,
exhausted, and had, he counted, ten gold pieces to his name.  Now the man
whose proposal brought him to the depths of misery was not even there.  It
was both judicious and seemly to abandon the enterprise entirely.

And yet, a small but distinct voice in his head told him: You have been
chosen.  You have no other choice but to see this through.

Scotti turned to the stout old woman, Mother Pascost, who had been watching
him curiously: "I was wondering if you knew of a village that was at the edge
of the recent conflict with Elsweyr.  It's called something like Ath-ie?"

"You must mean Athay," she grinned. "My middle lad, Viglil, he manages a
dairy down there.  Beautiful country, right on the river.  Is that where your
friend went?"

"Yes," said Scotti. "Do you know the fastest way to get there?"

After a short conversation, an even shorter ride to Falinesti's roots by way
of the platforms, and a jog to the river bank, Scotti was negotiating
transport with a huge fair-haired Bosmer with a face like a pickled carp.  He
called himself Captain Balfix, but even Scotti with his sheltered life could
recognize him for what he was.  A retired pirate for hire, a smuggler for
certain, and probably much worse.  His ship, which had clearly been stolen in
the distant past, was a bent old Imperial sloop.

"Fifty gold and we'll be in Athay in two days time," boomed Captain Balfix
expansively.

"I have ten, no, sorry, nine gold pieces," replied Scotti, and feeling the
need for explanation, added, "I had ten, but I gave one to the Platform
Ferryman to get me down here."

"Nine is just as fine," said the captain agreeably. "Truth be told, I was
going to Athay whether you paid me or not.  Make yourself comfortable on the
boat, we'll be leaving in just a few minutes."

Decumus Scotti boarded the vessel, which sat low in the water of the river,
stacked high with crates and sacks that spilled out of the hold and galley
and onto the deck.  Each was marked with stamps advertising the most
innocuous substances: copper scraps, lard, ink, High Rock meal (marked "For
Cattle"), tar, fish jelly.  Scotti's imagination reeled picturing what sorts
of illicit imports were truly aboard.

It took more than those few minutes for Captain Balfix to haul in the rest of
his cargo, but in an hour, the anchor was up and they were sailing downriver
towards Athay.  The green gray water barely rippled, only touched by the
fingers of the breeze.  Lush plant life crowded the banks, obscuring from
sight all the animals that sang and roared at one another.  Lulled by the
serene surroundings, Scotti drifted to sleep.

At night, he awoke and gratefully accepted some clean clothes and food from
Captain Balfix.

"Why are you going to Athay, if I may ask?" queried the Bosmer.

"I'm meeting a former colleague there.  He asked me to come down from the
Imperial City where I worked for the Atrius Building Commission to negotiate
some contracts," Scotti took another bite of the dried sausages they were
sharing for dinner. "We're going to try to repair and refurbish whatever
bridges, roads, and other structures that got damaged in the recent war with
the Khajiiti."

"It's been a hard two years," the captain nodded his head. "Though I suppose
good for me and the likes of you and your friend.  Trade routes cut off.
Now they think there's going to be war with the Summurset Isles, you heard
that?"

Scotti shook his head.

"I've done my share of smuggling skooma down the coast, even helping some
revolutionary types escape the Mane's wrath, but now the wars've made me a
legitimate trader, a business-man.  The first casualties of war is always the
corrupted."

Scotti said he was sorry to hear that, and they lapsed into silence, watching
the stars and moons' reflection on the still water.   The next day, Scotti
awoke to find the captain wrapped up in his sail, torpid from alcohol,
singing in a low, slurred voice.  When he saw Scotti rise, he offered his
flagon of jagga.

"I learned my lesson during revelry at western cross."

The captain laughed, and then burst into tears, "I don't want to be
legitimate.  Other pirates I used to know are still raping and stealing and
smuggling and selling nice folk like you into slavery.  I swear to you, I
never thought the first time that I ran a real shipment of legal goods that
my life would turn out like this.  Oh, I know, I could go back to it, but
Baan Dar knows not after all I've seen.  I'm a ruined man."

Scotti helped the weeping mer out of the sail, murmuring words of
reassurance.  Then he added, "Forgive me for changing the subject, but where
are we?"

"Oh," moaned Captain Balfix miserably. "We made good time.  Athay's right
around the bend in the river."

"Then it looks like Athay's on fire," said Scotti, pointing.

A great plume of smoke black as pitch was rising above the trees.  As they
drifted around the bend, they next saw the flames, and then the blackened
skeletal remains of the village.  Dying, blazing villagers leapt from rocks
into the river.  A cacophony of wailing met their ears, and they could see,
roaming along the edges of the town, the figures of Khajiiti soldiers bearing
torches.

"Baan Dar bless me!" slurred the captain. "The war's back on!"

"Oh, no," whimpered Scotti.

The sloop drifted with the current toward the opposite shore away from the
fiery town.  Scotti turned his attention there, and the sanctuary it offered.
Just a peaceful arbor, away from the horror.  There was a shudder of leaves
in two of the trees and a dozen lithe Khajiit dropped to the ground, armed
with bows.

"They see us," hissed Scotti. "And they've got bows!"

"Well, of course they have bows," snarled Captain Balfix. "We Bosmer may have
invented the bloody things, but we didn't think to keep them secret, you
bloody bureaucrat."

"Now, they're setting their arrows on fire!"

"Yes, they do that sometimes."

"Captain, they're shooting at us!  They're shooting at us with flaming
arrows!"

"Ah, so they are," the captain agreed. "The aim here is to avoid being hit."

But hit they were, and very shortly thereafter.  Even worse, the second
volley of arrows hit the supply of pitch, which ignited in a tremendous blue
blaze.  Scotti grabbed Captain Balfix and they leapt overboard just before
the ship and all its cargo disintegrated.  The shock of the cold water
brought the Bosmer into temporary sobriety.  He called to Scotti, who was
already swimming as fast as he could toward the bend.

"Master Decumus, where do you think you're swimming to?"

"Back to Falinesti!" cried Scotti.

"It will take you days, and by the time you get there, everyone will know
about the attack on Athay!  They'll never let anyone they don't know in!  The
closest village downriver is Grenos, maybe they'll give us shelter!"

Scotti swam back to the captain and side-by-side they began paddling in the
middle of the river, past the burning residuum of the village.  He thanked
Mara that he had learned to swim.  Many a Cyrodiil did not, as largely land-
locked as the Imperial Province was.  Had he been raised in Mir Corrup or
Artemon, he might have been doomed, but the Imperial City itself was
encircled by water, and every lad and lass there knew how to cross without a
boat.  Even those who grew up to be clerks and not adventurers.

Captain Balfix's sobriety faded as he grew used to the water's temperature.
Even in wintertide, the Xylo River was fairly temperate and after a fashion,
even comfortable.  The Bosmer's strokes were uneven, and he'd stray closer to
Scotti and then further away, pushing ahead and then falling behind.

Scotti looked to the shore to his right: the flames had caught the trees like
tinder.  Behind them was an inferno, with which they were barely keeping
pace.  To the shore on their left, all looked fair, until he saw a tremble in
the river-reeds, and then what caused it.  A pride of the largest cats he had
ever seen.  They were auburn-haired, green-eyed beasts with jaws and teeth to
match his wildest nightmares.  And they were watching the two swimmers, and
keeping pace.

"Captain Balfix, we can't go to either that shore or the other one, or we'll
be parboiled or eaten," Scotti whispered. "Try to even your kicking and your
strokes.  Breath like you would normally.  If you're feeling tired, tell me,
and we'll float on our backs for a while."

Anyone who has had the experience of giving rational advice to a drunkard
would understand the hopelessness.  Scotti kept pace with the captain,
slowing himself, quickening, drifting left and right, while the Bosmer moaned
old ditties from his pirate days.  When he wasn't watching his companion, he
watched the cats on the shore.  After a stretch, he turned to his right.
Another village had caught fire.  Undoubtedly, it was Grenos.  Scotti stared
at the blazing fury, awed by the sight of the destruction, and did not hear
that the captain had ceased to sing.

When he turned back, Captain Balfix was gone.

Scotti dove into the murky depths of the river over and over again.  There
was nothing to be done.  When he surfaced after his final search, he saw that
the giant cats had moved on, perhaps assuming that he too had drowned.  He
continued his lonely swim downriver.  A tributary, he noted, had formed a
final barrier, keeping the flames from spreading further.  But there were no
more towns.  After several hours, he began to ponder the wisdom of going
ashore.  Which shore was the question.

He was spared the decision.  Ahead of him was a rocky island with a bonfire.
He did not know if he were intruding on a party of Bosmeri or Khajiiti, only
that he could swim no more.  With straining, aching muscles, he pulled
himself onto the rocks.

They were Bosmer refugees he gathered, even before they told him.  Roasting
over the fire was the remains of one of the giant cats that had been stalking
him through the jungle on the opposite shore.

"Senche-Tiger," said one of the young warriors ravenously. "It's no animal --
it's as smart as any Cathay-Raht or Ohmes or any other bleeding Khajiiti.
Pity this one drowned.  I would have gladly killed it.  You'll like the meat,
though.  Sweet, from all the sugar these asses eat."

Scotti did not know if he was capable of eating a creature as intelligent as
a man or mer, but he surprised himself, as he had done several times over the
last days.  It was rich, succulent, and sweet, like sugared pork, but no
seasonings had been added.  He surveyed the crowd as he ate.  A sad lot, some
still weeping for lost family members.  They were the survivors of both the
villages of Grenos and Athay, and war was on every person's lips.  Why had
the Khajiiti attacked again?  Why -- specifically directed at Scotti, as a
Cyrodiil -- why was the Emperor not enforcing peace in his provinces?

"I was to meet another Cyrodiil," he said to a Bosmer maiden who he
understood to be from Athay. "His name was Liodes Jurus.  I don't suppose you
know what might have happened to him."

"I don't know your friend, but there were many Cyrodiils in Athay when the
fire came," said the girl. "Some of them, I think, left quickly.  They were
going to Vindisi, inland, in the jungle.  I am going there tomorrow, so are
many of us.  If you wish, you may come as well."

Decumus Scotti nodded solemnly.  He made himself as comfortable as he could
in the stony ground of the river island, and somehow, after much effort, he
fell asleep.  But he did not sleep well.

A Dance in Fire, Chapter 4
by Waughin Jarth

Eighteen Bosmeri and one Cyrodilic former senior clerk for an Imperial
building commission trudged through the jungle westward from the Xylo River
to the ancient village of Vindisi.  For Decumus Scotti, the jungle was
hostile, unfamiliar ground. The enormous vermiculated trees filled the bright
morning with darkness, and resembled nothing so much as grasping claws, bent
on impeding their progress. Even the fronds of the low plants quivered with
malevolent energy. What was worse, he was not alone in his anxiety. His
fellow travelers, the natives who had survived the Khajiit attacks on the
villages of Grenos and Athay, wore faces of undisguised fear.

There was something sentient in the jungle, and not merely the mad but
benevolent indigenous spirits. In his peripheral vision, Scotti could see the
shadows of the Khajiiti following the refugees, leaping from tree to tree.
When he turned to face them, the lithe forms vanished into the gloom as if
they had never been there. But he knew he had seen them. And the Bosmeri saw
them too, and quickened their pace.

After eighteen hours, bitten raw by insects, scratched by a thousand thorns,
they emerged into a valley clearing. It was night, but a row of blazing
torches greeted them, illuminating the leather-wrought tents and jumbled
stones of the hamlet of Vindisi. At the end of the valley, the torches marked
a sacred site, a gnarled bower of trees pressed closed together to form a
temple. Wordlessly, the Bosmeri walked the torch arcade toward the trees.
Scotti followed them. When they reached the solid mass of living wood with
only one gaping portal, Scotti could see a dim blue light glowing within. A
low sonorous moan from a hundred voices echoed within. The Bosmeri maiden he
had been following held out her hand, stopping him.

"You do not understand, but no outsider, not even a friend may enter," she
said. "This is a holy place."

Scotti nodded, and watched the refugees march into the temple, heads bowed.
Their voices joined with the ones within. When the last wood elf had gone
inside, Scotti turned his attention back to the village. There must be food
to be had somewhere. A tendril of smoke and a faint whiff of roasting venison
beyond the torchlight led him.

They were five Cyrodiils, two Bretons, and a Nord, the group gathered around
a campfire of glowing white stones, pulling steaming strips of meat from the
cadaver of a great stag. At Scotti's approach, they rose up, all but the Nord
who was distracted by his hunk of animal flesh.

"Good evening, sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if I might have a
little something to eat. I'm afraid I'm rather hungry, after walking all day
with some refugees from Grenos and Athay."

They bade him to sit down and eat, and introduced themselves.

"So the war's back on, it seems," said Scotti amiably.

"Best thing for these effete do-nothings," replied the Nord in between bites.
"I've never seen such a lazy culture. Now they've got the Khajiiti striking
them on land, and the high elves at sea. If there's any province that
deserves a little distress, it's damnable Valenwood."

"I don't see how they're so offensive to you," laughed one of the Bretons.

"They're congenital thieves, even worse than the Khajiiti because they are so
blessed meek in their aggression," the Nord spat out a gob of fat which
sizzled on the hot stones of the fire. "They spread their forests into
territory that doesn't belong to them, slowly infiltrating their neighbors,
and they're puzzled when Elsweyr shoves back at them. They're all villains of
the worst order."

"What are you doing here?" asked Scotti.

"I'm a diplomat from the court of Jehenna," muttered the Nord, returning to
his food.

"What about you, what are you doing here?" asked one of the Cyrodiils.

"I work for Lord Atrius's building commission in the Imperial City," said
Scotti. "One of my former colleagues suggested that I come down to Valenwood.
He said the war was over, and I could contract a great deal of business for
my firm rebuilding what was lost. One disaster after another, and I've lost
all my money, I'm in the middle of a rekindling of war, and I cannot find my
former colleague."

"Your former colleague," murmured another of the Cyrodiils, who had
introduced himself as Reglius. "He wasn't by any chance named Liodes Jurus,
was he?"

"You know him?"

"He lured me down to Valenwood in nearly the exact same circumstances,"
smiled Reglius, grimly. "I worked for your employer's competitor, Lord
Vanech's men, where Liodes Jurus also formerly worked. He wrote to me, asking
that I represent an Imperial building commission and contract some post-war
construction.  I had just been released from my employment, and I thought
that if I brought some new business, I could have my job back. Jurus and I
met in Athay, and he said he was going to arrange a very lucrative meeting
with the Silvenar."

Scotti was stunned: "Where is he now?"

"I'm no theologian, so I couldn't say," Reglius shrugged. "He's dead. When
the Khajiiti attacked Athay, they began by torching the harbor where Jurus
was readying his boat. Or, I should say, my boat since it was purchased with
the gold I brought. By the time we were even aware of what was happening
enough to flee, everything by the water was ash. The Khajiiti may be animals,
but they know how to arrange an attack."

"I think they followed us through the jungle to Vindisi," said Scotti
nervously. "There was definitely a group of something jumping along the
treetops."

"Probably one of the monkey folk," snorted the Nord. "Nothing to be concerned
about."

"When we first came to Vindisi and the Bosmeri all entered that tree, they
were furious, whispering something about unleashing an ancient terror on
their enemies," the Breton shivered, remembering. "They've been there ever
since, for over a day and a half now. If you want something to be afraid of,
that's the direction to look."

The other Breton, who was a representative of the Daggerfall Mages Guild, was
staring off into the darkness while his fellow provincial spoke. "Maybe. But
there's something in the jungle too, right on the edge of the village,
looking in."

"More refugees maybe?" asked Scotti, trying to keep the alarm out his voice.

"Not unless they're traveling through the trees now," whispered the wizard.
The Nord and one of the Cyrodiils grabbed a long tarp of wet leather and
pulled it across the fire, instantly extinguishing it without so much as a
sizzle. Now Scotti could see the intruders, their elliptical yellow eyes and
long cruel blades catching the torchlight. He froze with fear, praying that
he too was not so visible to them.

He felt something bump against his back, and gasped.

Reglius's voice hissed from up above: "Be quiet for Mara's sake and climb up
here."

Scotti grabbed hold of the knotted double-vine that hung down from a tall
tree at the edge of the dead campfire. He scrambled up it as quickly as he
could, holding his breath lest any grunt of exertion escape him. At the top
of the vine, high above the village, was an abandoned nest from some great
bird in a trident-shaped branch. As soon as Scotti had pulled himself into
the soft, fragrant straw, Reglius pulled up the vine. No one else was there,
and when Scotti looked down, he could see no one below. No one, that is
except the Khajiiti, slowly moving toward the glow of the temple tree.

"Thank you," whispered Scotti, deeply touched that a competitor had helped
him. He turned away from the village, and saw that the tree's upper branches
brushed against the mossy rock walls that surrounded the valley below. "How
are you at climbing?"

"You're mad," said Reglius under his breath. "We should stay here until they
leave."

"If they burn Vindisi like they did Athay and Grenos, we'll be dead sure as
if we were on the ground," Scotti began the slow careful climb up the tree,
testing each branch. "Can you see what they're doing?"

"I can't really tell," Reglius stared down into the gloom. "They're at the
front of the temple. I think they also have ... it looks like long ropes,
trailing off behind them, off into the pass."

Scotti crawled onto the strongest branch that pointed toward the wet, rocky
face of the cliff. It was not a far jump at all. So close, in fact, that he
could smell the moisture and feel the coolness of the stone. But it was a
jump nevertheless, and in his history as a clerk, he had never before leapt
from a tree a hundred feet off the ground to a sheer rock. He pictured in his
mind's eye the shadows that had pursued him through the jungle from the
heights above. How their legs coiled to spring, how their arms snapped
forward in an elegant fluid motion to grasp. He leapt.

His hands grappled for rock, but long thick cords of moss were more
accessible. He held hard, but when he tried to plant his feet forward, they
slipped up skyward. For a few seconds, he found himself upside down before he
managed to pull himself into a more conventional position. There was a narrow
outcropping jutting out of the cliff where he could stand and finally exhale.

"Reglius. Reglius. Reglius," Scotti did not dare to call out. In a minute,
there was a shaking of branches, and Lord Vanech's man emerged. First his
satchel, then his head, then the rest of him. Scotti started to whisper
something, but Reglius shook his head violently and pointed downward. One of
the Khajiiti was at the base of the tree, peering at the remains of the
campfire.

Reglius awkwardly tried to balance himself on the branch, but as strong as it
was it was exceedingly difficult with only one free hand. Scotti cupped his
palms and then pointed at the satchel. It seemed to pain Reglius to let it
out of his grasp, but he relented and tossed it to Scotti.

There was a small, almost invisible hole in the bag, and when Scotti caught
it, a single gold coin dropped out. It rang as it bounced against the rock
wall on the descent, a high soft sound that seemed like the loudest alarm
Scotti had ever heard.

Then many things happened very quickly.

The Cathay-Raht at the base of the tree looked up and gave a loud wail. The
other Khajiiti followed in chorus, as the cat below crouched down and then
sprung up into the lower branches. Reglius saw it below him, climbing up with
impossible dexterity, and panicked. Even before he jumped, Scotti could tell
that he was going to fall. With a cry, Reglius the Clerk plunged to the
ground, breaking his neck on impact.

A flash of white fire erupted from every crevice of the temple, and the moan
of the Bosmeri prayer changed into something terrible and otherworldly. The
climbing Cathay-Raht stopped and stared.

"Keirgo," it gasped. "The Wild Hunt."

It was as if a crack in reality had opened wide. A flood of horrific beasts,
tentacled toads, insects of armor and spine, gelatinous serpents, vaporous
beings with the face of gods, all poured forth from the great hollow tree,
blind with fury. They tore the Khajiiti in front of the temple to pieces. All
the other cats fled for the jungle, but as they did so, they began pulling on
the ropes they carried. In a few seconds time, the entire village of Vindisi
was boiling with the lunatic apparitions of the Wild Hunt.

Over the babbling, barking, howling horde, Scotti heard the Cyrodiils in
hiding cry out as they were devoured. The Nord too was found and eaten, and
both Bretons. The wizard had turned himself invisible, but the swarm did not
rely on their sight. The tree the Cathay-Raht was in began to sway and rock
from the impossible violence beneath it. Scotti looked at the Khajiiti's
fear-struck eyes, and held out one of the cords of moss.

The cat's face showed its pitiful gratitude as it leapt for the vine. It
didn't have time to entirely replace that expression when Scotti pulled back
the cord, and watched it fall. The Hunt consumed it to the bone before it
struck the ground.

Scotti's own jump up to the next outcropping of rock was immeasurably more
successful. From there, he pulled himself to the top of the cliff and was
able to look down into the chaos that had been the village of Vindisi. The
Hunt's mass had grown and began to spill out through the pass out of the
valley, pursuing the fleeing Khajiiti. It was then that the madness truly
began.

In the moons' light, from Scotti's vantage, he could see where the Khajiiti
had attached their ropes. With a thunderous boom, an avalanche of boulders
poured over the pass. When the dust cleared, he saw that the valley had been
sealed. The Wild Hunt had nowhere to turn but on itself.

Scotti turned his head, unable to bear to look at the cannibalistic orgy. The
night jungle stood before him, a web of wood. He slung Reglius's satchel over
his shoulder, and entered.

A Dance in Fire, Chapter 5
by Waughin Jarth

"Soap! The forest will eat love!  Straight ahead!  Stupid and a stupid cow!"

The voice boomed out so suddenly that Decumus Scotti jumped.  He stared off
into the dim jungle glade from which he only heard animal and insect calls,
and the low whistling of wind moments before.  It was a queer, oddly accented
voice of indiscriminate gender, tremulous in its modulations, but
unmistakably human.  Or, at very least, elven.  An isolated Bosmer perhaps
with a poor grasp of the Cyrodilic language.  After countless hours of
plodding through the dense knot of Valenwood jungle, any voice of slight
familiarity sounded wondrous.

"Hello?" he cried.

"Beetles on any names?  Certainly yesterday yes!" the voice called back.
"Who, what, and when, and mice!"

"I'm afraid I don't understand," replied Scotti, turning toward the brambled
tree, thick as a wagon, where the voice had issued. "But you needn't be
afraid of me.  My name is Decumus Scotti.  I'm a Cyrodiil from the Imperial
City.  I came here to help rebuild Valenwood after the war, you see, and now
I'm rather lost."

"Gemstones and grilled slaves ... The war," moaned the voice and broke down
into sobs.

"You know about the war?  I wasn't sure, I wasn't even sure how far away from
the border I am now," Scotti began slowly walking toward the tree.  He
dropped Reglius's satchel to the ground, and held out his empty hands. "I'm
unarmed.  I only want to know the way to the closest town.  I'm trying to
meet my friend, Liodes Jurus, in Silvenar."

"Silvenar!" the voice laughed.  It laughed even louder as Scotti circled the
tree. "Worms and wine!  Worms and wine!  Silvenar sings for worms and wine!"

There was nothing to be found anywhere around the tree. "I don't see you.
Why are you hiding?"

In frustration born of hunger and exhaustion, he struck the tree trunk.  A
sudden shiver of gold and red erupted from a hollow nook above, and Scotti
was surrounded by six winged creatures scarcely more than a few inches long.
Bright crimson eyes were set on either side of tunnel-like protuberances, the
animals' always open mouths.  They were legless, and their thin, rapidly
beating, aureate wings seemed poorly constructed to transport their fat,
swollen bellies.  And yet, they darted through the air like sparks from a
fire.  Whirling about the poor clerk, they began chattering what he now
understood to be perfect nonsense.

"Wines and worms, how far from the border am I!  Academic garnishments, and
alas, Liodes Jurus!"

"Hello, I'm afraid I'm unarmed?  Smoken flames and the closest town is dear
Oblivion."

"Swollen on bad meat, an indigo nimbus, but you needn't be afraid of me!"

"Why are you hiding?  Why are you hiding?  Before I begin to friend, love me,
Lady Zuleika!"

Furious with the mimics, Scotti swung his arms, driving them up into the
treetops.  He stomped back to the clearing and opened up the satchel again,
as he had done some hours before.  There was still, unsurprisingly, nothing
useful in the bag, and nothing to eat in any corner or pocket.  A goodly
amount of gold (he smiled grimly, as he had done before, at the irony of
being financially solvent in the jungle), a stack of neat blank contracts
from Lord Vanech's building commission, some thin cord, and an oiled leather
cloak for bad weather.  At least, Scotti considered, he had not suffered
rain.

A rolling moan of thunder reminded Scotti of what he had suspected for some
weeks now.  He was cursed.

Within an hour's time, he was wearing the cloak and clawing his way through
mud.  The trees, which had earlier allowed no sunlight in, provided no
shelter against the pounding storm and wind.  The only sounds that pierced
the pelting of the rain were the mocking calls of the flying creatures,
flitting just above, babbling their nonsense.  Scotti bellowed at them, threw
rocks, but they seemed enamored of his company.

While he was reaching to grab a promising looking stone to hurl at his
tormentors, Scotti felt something shift beneath his feet.  Wet but solid
ground suddenly liquefied and became a rolling tide, rushing him forward.
Light as a leaf, he flew head over feet over head, until the mudflow dropped
and he continued forward, plunging down into a river twenty-five feet below.

The storm passed quite as instantly as it had arrived.  The sun melted the
dark clouds and warmed Scotti as he swam for the shore.  There, another sign
of the Khajiiti incursion into Valenwood greeted him.  A small fishing
village had stood there once, so recently extinct that it smoldered like a
still-warm corpse.  Dirt cairns that had once housed fish by the smell of
them had been ravaged, their bounty turned to ash.  Rafts and skiffs lay
broken, scuttled, half-submerged.  All the villagers were no more, either
dead or refugees far away.  Or so he presumed.  Something banged against the
wall of one of the ruins.  Scotti ran to investigate.

"My name is Decumus Scotti?" sang the first winged beast. "I'm a Cyrodiil
from?  The Imperial City?  I came here to help rebuild Valenwood after the
war, you see, and now I'm rather lost?"

"I swell to maculate, apeneck!" agreed one of its companions. "I don't see
you.  Why are you hiding?"

As they fell into chattering, Scotti began to search the rest of the village.
Surely the cats had left something behind, a scrap of dried meat, a morsel of
fish sausage, anything.  But they had been immaculate in their complete
annihilation.  There was nothing to eat anywhere.  Scotti did find one item
of possible use under the tumbled remains of a stone hut.  A bow and two
arrows made of bone.  The string had been lost, likely burned away in the
heat of the fire, but he pulled the cord from Reglius's satchel and restrung
it.

The creatures flew over and hovered nearby as he worked: "The convent of the
sacred Liodes Jurus?"

"You know about the war!  Worms and wine, circumscribe a golden host,
apeneck!"

The moment the cord was taut, Scotti nocked an arrow and swung around,
pulling the string tight against his chest.  The winged beasts, having had
experience with archers before, shot off in all directions in a blur.  They
needn't have bothered.  Scotti's first arrow dove into the ground three feet
in front of him.  He swore and retrieved it.  The mimics, having likewise had
experience with poor archers before, returned at once to hovering nearby and
mocking Scotti.

On his second shot, Scotti did much better, in purely technical terms.  He
remembered how the archers in Falinesti looked when he pulled himself out
from under the hoarvor tick, and they were all taking aim at him.  He
extended his left hand, right hand, and right elbow in a symmetrical line,
drawing the bow so his hand touched his jawline, and he could see the
creature in his sight like the arrow was a finger he was pointing with.  The
bolt missed the target by only two feet, but it continued on its trajectory,
snapping when it struck a rock wall.

Scotti walked to the river's edge.  He had only one arrow left, and perhaps,
he considered, it would be most practical to find a slow-moving fish and fire
it on that.  If he missed, at least there was less of a chance of breaking
the shaft, and he could always retrieve it from the water.  A rather torpid,
whiskered fish rolled by, and he took aim at it.

"My name is Decumus Scotti!" one of the creatures howled, frightening the
fish away. "Stupid and a stupid cow!  Will you dance a dance in fire!"

Scotti turned and aimed the arrow as he had done before.  This time, however,
he remembered to plant his feet as the archers had done, seven inches apart,
knees straight, left leg slightly forward to meet the angle of his right
shoulder.  He released the last arrow.

The arrow also proved a serviceable prong for roasting the creature against
the smoking hot stones of one of the ruins.  Its other companions had
disappeared instantly after the beast was slain, and Scotti was able to dine
in peace.  The meat proved to be delicious, if scarcely more than a first
course.  He was picking the last of it from the bones, when a boat sailed
into view from around the bend of the river.  At the helm were Bosmer
sailors.  Scotti ran to the bank and waved his arms.  They averted their eyes
and continued past.

"You bloody, callous bastards!" Scotti howled. "Knaves!  Hooligans! Apenecks!
Scoundrels!"

A gray-whiskered form came out from a hatch, and Scotti immediately
recognized him as Gryf Mallon, the poet translator he had met in the caravan
from Cyrodiil.

He peered Scotti's direction, and his eyes lit up with delight, "Decumus
Scotti!  Precisely the man I hoped to see!  I want to get your thoughts on a
rather puzzling passage in the Mnoriad Pley Bar!  It begins 'I went weeping
into the world, searching for wonders,' perhaps you're familiar with it?"

"I'd like nothing better than to discuss the Mnoriad Pley Bar with you,
Gryf!" Scotti called back. "Would you let me come aboard though first?"

Overjoyed at being on a ship bound for any port at all, Scotti was true to
his word.  For over an hour as the boat rolled down the river past the
blackened remnants of Bosmeri villages, he asked no questions and spoke
nothing of his life over the past weeks: he merely listened to Mallon's
theories of merethic Aldmeri esoterica.  The translator was undemanding of
his guest's scholarship, accepting nods and shrugs as civilized conversation.
He even produced some wine and fish jelly, which he shared with Scotti
absent-mindedly, as he expounded on his various theses.

Finally, while Mallon was searching for a reference to some minor point in
his notes, Scotti asked, "Rather off subject, but I was wondering where we're
bound."

"The very heart of the province, Silvenar," Mallon said, not looking up from
the passage he was reading. "It's somewhat bothersome, actually, as I wanted
to go to Woodhearth first to talk to a Bosmer there who claims to have an
original copy of Dirith Yalmillhiad, if you can believe it.  But for the time
being, that has to wait.  Summurset Isle has surrounded the city, and is in
the process of starving the citizenry until they surrender.  It's a tiresome
prospect, since the Bosmeri are happy to eat one another, so there's a risk
that at the end, only one fat wood elf will remain to wave the flag."

"That is vexing," agreed Scotti, sympathetically. "To the east, the Khajiiti
are burning everything, and to the west, the High Elves are waging war.  I
don't suppose the borders to the north are clear?"

"They're even worse," replied Mallon, finger on the page, still distracted.
"The Cyrodiils and Redguards don't want Bosmer refugees streaming into their
provinces.  It only stands to reason.  Imagine how much more criminally
inclined they'd be now that they're homeless and hungry."

"So," murmured Scotti, feeling a shiver. "We're trapped in Valenwood."

"Not at all.  I need to leave fairly shortly myself, as my publisher has set
a very definite deadline for my new book of translations.  From what I
understand, one merely petitions to the Silvenar for special border
protection and one can cross into Cyrodiil with impunity."

"Petition the Silvenar, or petition at Silvenar?"

"Petition the Silvenar at Silvenar.  It's an odd nomenclature that is typical
of this place, the sort of thing that makes my job as a translator that much
more challenging.  The Silvenar, he, or rather they are the closest the
Bosmeri have to a great leader.  The essential thing to remember about the
Silvenar --" Mallon smiled, finding the passage he was looking for, "Here! 'A
fortnight, inexplicable, the world burns into a dance.' There's that metaphor
again."

"What were you saying about the Silvenar?" asked Scotti. "The essential thing
to remember?"

"I don't remember what I was saying," replied Mallon, turning back to his
oration.

In a week's time, the little boat bumped along the shallow, calmer waters of
the foaming current the Xylo had become, and Decumus Scotti first saw the
city of Silvenar.  If Falinesti was a tree, then Silvenar was a flower.  A
magnificent pile of faded shades of green, red, blue, and white, shining with
crystalline residue.  Mallon had mentioned off-hand, when not otherwise
explaining Aldmeri prosody, that Silvenar had once been a blossoming glade in
the forest, but owing to some spell or natural cause, the trees' sap began
flowing with translucent liqueur.  The process of the sap flowing and
hardening over the colorful trees had formed the web of the city.  Mallon's
description was intriguing, but it hardly prepared him for the city's beauty.

"What is the finest, most luxurious tavern here?" Scotti asked one of the
Bosmer boatmen.

"Prithala Hall," Mallon answered. "But why don't you stay with me?  I'm
visiting an acquaintance of mine, a scholar I think you'll find fascinating.
His hovel isn't much, but he has the most extraordinary ideas about the
principles of a Merethic Aldmeri tribe the Sarmathi --"

"Under any other circumstances, I would happily accept," said Scotti
graciously. "But after weeks of sleeping on the ground or on a raft, and
eating whatever I could scrounge, I feel the need for some indulgent creature
comforts.  And then, after a day or two, I'll petition the Silvenar for safe
passage to Cyrodiil."

The men bade each other goodbye.  Gryf Mallon gave him the address of his
publisher in the Imperial City, which Scotti accepted and quickly forgot.
The clerk wandered the streets of Silvenar, crossing bridges of amber,
admiring the petrified forest architecture.  In front of a particularly
estimable palace of silvery reflective crystal, he found Prithala Hall.

He took the finest room, and ordered a gluttonous meal of the finest quality.
At a nearby table, he saw two very fat fellows, a man and a Bosmer, remarking
how much finer the food was there than at the Silvenar's palace.  They began
to discuss the war and some issues of finances and rebuilding provincial
bridges.  The man noticed Scotti looking at them, and his eyes flashed
recognition.

"Scotti, is that you?  Kynareth, where have you been?  I've had to make all
the contacts here on my own!"

At the sound of his voice, Scotti recognized him.  The fat man was Liodes
Jurus, vastly engorged.

A Dance in Fire, Chapter 6
by Waughin Jarth

Decumus Scotti sat down, listening to Liodes Jurus. The clerk could hardly
believe how fat his former colleague at Lord Atrius's Building Commission had
become.  The piquant aroma of the roasted meat dish before Scotti melted
away.  All the other sounds and textures of Prithala Hall vanished all around
him, as if nothing else existed but the vast form of Jurus. Scotti did not
consider himself an emotional man, but he felt a tide flow over him at the
sight and sound of the man whose badly written letters had been the
guideposts that carried him from the Imperial City back in early Frost Fall.

"Where have you been?" Jurus demanded again. "I told you to meet me in
Falinesti weeks ago."

"I was there weeks ago," Scotti stammered, too surprised to be indignant. "I
got your note to meet you in Athay, and so I went there, but the Khajiiti had
burned it to the ground.  Somehow, I found my way with the refugees in
another village, and someone there told me that you had been killed."

"And you believed that right away?" Jurus sneered.

"The fellow seemed very well-informed about you.  He was a clerk from Lord
Vanech's Building Commission named Reglius, and he said that you had also
suggested that he come down to Valenwood to profit from the war."

"Oh, yes," said Jurus, after thinking a moment. "I recall the name now.
Well, it's good for business to have two representatives from Imperial
building commissions here.  We just need to all coordinate our bids, and all
should be well."

"Reglius is dead," said Scotti. "But I have his contracts from Lord Vanech's
Commission."

"Even better," gasped Jurus, impressed. "I never knew you were such a
ruthless competitor, Decumus Scotti.  Yes, this could certainly improve our
position with the Silvenar.  Have I introduced you to Basth here?"

Scotti had only been dimly aware of the Bosmer's presence at the table with
Jurus, which was surprising given that the mer's girth nearly equaled his
dining companion.  The clerk nodded to Basth coldly, still numb and confused.
It had not left his mind that only any hour earlier, Scotti had intended to
petition the Silvenar for safe passage through the border back to Cyrodiil.
The thought of doing business with Jurus after all, of profiting from
Valenwood war with Elsweyr, and now the second one with the Summurset Isle,
seemed like something happening to another person.

"Your colleague and I were talking about the Silvenar," said Basth, putting
down the leg of mutton he had been gnawing on. "I don't suppose you've heard
about his nature?"

"A little, but nothing very specific.  I got the impression that he's very
important and very peculiar."

"He's the representative of the People, legally, physically, and
emotionally," explained Jurus, a little annoyed at his new partner's lack of
common knowledge. "When they're healthy, so is he.  When they're mostly
female, so is he.  When they cry for food or trade or an absence of foreign
interference, he feels it too, and makes laws accordingly.  In a way, he's a
despot, but he's the people's despot."

"That sounds," said Scotti, searching for the appropriate word. "Like ...
bunk."

"Perhaps it is," shrugged Basth. "But he has many rights as the Voice of the
People, including the granting of foreign building and trade contracts.  It's
not important whether you believe us.  Just think of the Silvenar as being
like one of your mad Emperors, like Pelagius.  The problem facing us now is
that since Valenwood is being attacked on all sides, the Silvenar's aspect is
now one of distrust and fear of foreigners.  The one hope of his people, and
thus of the Silvenar himself, is that the Emperor will intervene and stop the
war."

"Will he?" asked Scotti.

"You know as well as we do that the Emperor has not been himself lately,"
Jurus helped himself to Reglius's satchel and pulled out the blank contracts.
"Who knows what he'll choose to do or not do?  That reality is not our
concern, but these blessings from the late good sir Reglius make our job much
simpler."

They discussed how they would represent themselves to the Silvenar into the
evening.  Scotti ate continuously, but not nearly so much as Jurus and Basth.
When the sun had begun to rise in the hills, its light reddening through the
crystal walls of the tavern, Jurus and Basth left to their rooms at the
palace, granted to them diplomatically in lieu of an actual immediate
audience with the Silvenar.  Scotti went to his room.  He thought about
staying up a little longer to ruminate over Jurus's plans and see what might
be the flaw in them, but upon touching the cool, soft bed, he immediately
fell asleep.

The next afternoon, Scotti awoke, feeling himself again.  In other words,
timid.  For several weeks now, he had been a creature bent on mere survival.
He had been driven to exhaustion, attacked by several jungle beasts, starved,
nearly drowned, and forced into discussions of ancient Aldmeri poetical
works.  The discussion he had with Jurus and Basth about how to dupe the
Silvenar into signing their contracts seemed perfectly reasonable then.
Scotti dressed himself in his old battered clothes and went downstairs in
search of food and a peaceful place to think.

"You're up," cried Basth upon seeing him. "We should go to the palace now."

"Now?" whined Scotti. "Look at me.  I need new clothes.  This isn't the way
one should dress to pay a call on a prostitute, let alone the Voice of the
People of Valenwood.  I haven't even bathed."

"You must cease from this moment forward being a clerk, and become a student
of mercantile trade," said Liodes Jurus grandly, taking Scotti by the arm and
leading him into the sunlit boulevard outside. "The first rule is to
recognize what you represent to the prospective client, and what angle best
suits you.  You cannot dazzle him with opulent fashion and professional
bearing, my dear boy, and it would be fatal if you attempted to.   Trust me
on this.  Several others besides Basth and I are guests at the palace, and
they have made the error of appearing too eager, too formal, too ready for
business.  They will never be granted audience with the Silvenar, but we have
remained aloof ever since the initial rejection.  I've dallied about the
court, spread my knowledge of life in the Imperial City, had my ears pierced,
attended promenades, eaten and drunk of all that was given to me.  I dare say
I've put on a pound or two.  The message we've sent is clear: it is in his,
not our, best interest to meet."

"Our plan worked," added Basth. "When I told his minister that our Imperial
representative had arrived, and that we were at last willing to meet with the
Silvenar this morning, we were told to bring you there straightaway."

"Aren't we late then?" asked Scotti.

"Very," laughed Jurus. "But that's again part of the angle we're
representing.  Benevolent disinterest.  Remember not to confuse the Silvenar
with conventional nobility.  His is the mind of the common people.  When you
grasp that, you'll understand how to manipulate him."

Jurus spent the last several minutes of the walk through the city expounding
on his theories about what Valenwood needed, how much, and at what price.
They were staggering figures, far more construction and far higher costs than
anything Scotti had been used to dealing with.  He listened carefully.  All
around them, the city of Silvenar revealed itself, glass and flower, roaring
winds and beautiful inertia.  When they reached the palace of the Silvenar,
Decumus Scotti stopped, stunned.  Jurus looked at him for a moment and then
laughed.

"It's quite bizarre, isn't it?"

That it was.  A frozen scarlet burst of twisted, uneven spires as if a rival
sun rising.  A blossom the size of a village, where courtiers and servants
resembled nothing so much as insects walked about it sucking its ichor.
Entering over a bent petal-like bridge, the three walked through the palace
of unbalanced walls.  Where the partitions bent close together and touched,
there was a shaded hall or a small chamber.  Where they warped away from one
another, there was a courtyard.  There were no doors anywhere, no any way to
get to the Silvenar but by crossing through the entire spiral of the palace,
through meetings and bedrooms and dining halls, past dignitaries, consorts,
musicians, and many guards.

"It's an interesting place," said Basth. "But not very much privacy.  Of
course, that suits the Silvenar well."

When they reached the inner corridors, two hours after they first entered the
palace, guards, brandishing blades and bows, stopped them.

"We have an audience with the Silvenar," said Jurus, patiently. "This is Lord
Decumus Scotti, the Imperial representative."

One of the guards disappeared down the winding corridor, and returned moments
later with a tall, proud Bosmer clad in a loose robe of patchwork leather.
He was the Minister of Trade: "The Silvenar wishes to speak with Lord Decumus
Scotti alone."

It was not the place to argue or show fear, so Scotti stepped forward, not
even looking toward Jurus and Basth.  He was certain they were showing their
masks of benevolent indifference.  Following the Minister into the audience
chamber, Scotti recited to himself all the facts and figures Jurus had
presented to him.  He willed himself to remember the Angle and the Image he
must project.

The audience chamber of the Silvenar was an enormous dome where the walls
bent from bowl-shaped at the base inward to almost meet at the top.  A thin
ray of sunlight streamed through the fissure hundreds of feet above, and
directly upon the Silvenar, who stood upon a puff of shimmering gray powder.
For all the wonder of the city and the palace, the Silvenar himself looked
perfectly ordinary.  An average, blandly handsome, slightly tired-looking,
extra-ordinary Wood Elf of the type one might see in any capitol in the
Empire.  It was only when he stepped from the dais that Scotti noticed an
eccentricity in his appearance.  He was very short.

"I had to speak with you alone," said the Silvenar in a voice common and
unrefined. "May I see your papers?"

Scotti handed him the blank contracts from Lord Vanech's Building Commission.
The Silvenar studied them, running his finger over the embossed seal of the
Emperor, before handing them back.  He suddenly seemed shy, looking to the
floor.  "There are many charlatans at my court who wish to benefit from the
wars.  I thought you and your colleagues were among them, but those contracts
are genuine."

"Yes, they are," said Scotti calmly.  The Silvenar's conventional aspect made
it easy for Scotti to speak, with no formal greetings, no deference, exactly
as Jurus had instructed: "It seems most sensible to begin straightaway
talking about the roads which need to be rebuilt, and then the harbors that
the Altmeri have destroyed, and then I can give you my estimates on the cost
of resupplying and renovating the trade routes."

"Why hasn't the Emperor seen fit to send a representative when the war with
Elsweyr began, two years ago?" asked the Silvenar glumly.

Scotti thought a moment before replying of all the common Bosmeri he had met
in Valenwood.  The greedy, frightened mercenaries who had escorted him from
the border.  The hard-drinking revelers and expert pest exterminating archers
in the Western Cross of Falinesti.  Nosy old Mother Pascost in Havel Slump.
Captain Balfix, the poor sadly reformed pirate.  The terrified but hopeful
refugees of Athay and Grenos.  The mad, murderous, self-devouring Wild Hunt
of Vindisi.  The silent, dour boatmen hired by Gryf Mallon.  The degenerate,
grasping Basth.  If one creature represented their total disposition, and
that of many more throughout the province,  what would be his personality?
Scotti was a clerk by occupation and nature, instinctively comfortable
cataloging and filing, making things fit in a system.  If the soul of
Valenwood were to be filed, where would it be put?

The answer came upon him almost before he posed himself the question.
Denial.

"I'm afraid that question doesn't interest me," said Scotti. "Now, can we get
back to the business at hand?"

All afternoon, Scotti and the Silvenar discussed the pressing needs of
Valenwood.  Every contract was filled and signed.  So much was required and
there were so many costs associated that addendums and codicils had to be
scribbled into the margins of the papers, and those had to be resigned.
Scotti maintained his benevolent indifference, but he found that dealing with
the Silvenar was not quite the same as dealing with a simple, sullen child.
The Voice of the People knew certain practical, everyday things very well:
the yields of fish, the benefits of trade, the condition of every township
and forest in his province.

"We will have a banquet tomorrow night to celebrate this commission," said
the Silvenar at last.

"Best make it tonight," replied Scotti. "We should leave for Cyrodiil with
the contracts tomorrow, so I'll need a safe passage to the border.  We best
not waste any more time."

"Agreed," said the Silvenar, and called for his Minister of Trade to put his
seal on the contracts and arrange for the feast.

Scotti left the chamber, and was greeted by Basth and Jurus.  Their faces
showed the strain of maintaining the illusion of unconcern for too many
hours.  As soon as they were out of sight of the guards, they begged Scotti
to tell them all.  When he showed them the contract, Basth began weeping with
delight.

"Anything about the Silvenar that surprised you?" asked Jurus.

"I hadn't expected him to be half my height."

"Was he?" Jurus looked mildly surprised. "He must have shrunk since I tried
to have an audience with him earlier.  Maybe there is something to all that
nonsense about him being affected by the plight of his people."

A Dance in Fire, Chapter 7
by Waughin Jarth

Scene: Silvenar, Valenwood
Date: 13 Sun's Dusk, 3E 397

The banquet at the palace of the Silvenar was well attended by every jealous
bureaucrat and trader who had attempted to contract the rebuilding of
Valenwood.  They looked on Decumus Scotti, Liodes Jurus, and Basth with
undisguised hatred.  It made Scotti very uncomfortable, but Jurus delighted
in it.  As the servants brought in platter after platter of roasted meats,
Jurus poured himself a cup of Jagga and toasted the clerk.

"I can confess it now," said Jurus. "I had grave doubts about inviting you to
join me on this adventure.  All the other clerks and agents of building
commissions I contacted were more outwardly aggressive, but none of them made
it through, let alone to the audience chamber of the Silvenar, let alone
brokered the deals on their own like you did.  Come, have a cup of Jagga with
me."

"No thank you," said Scotti. "I had too much of that drug in Falinesti, and
nearly got sucked dry by a giant tick because of it.  I'll find something
else to drink."

Scotti wandered about the hall until he saw some diplomats drinking mugs of a
steaming brown liquid, poured from a large silver urn.  He asked them if it
was tea.

"Tea made from leaves?" scoffed the first diplomat. "Not in Valenwood.  This
is Rotmeth."

Scotti poured himself a mug and took a tentative sip.  It was gamy, bitter
and sugared, and very salty.  At first it seemed very disagreeable to his
palate, but a moment later he found he had drained the mug and was pouring
another.  His body tingled.  All the sounds in the chamber seemed oddly
disjointed, but not frighteningly so.

"So you're the fellow who got the Silvenar to sign all those contracts," said
the second diplomat. "That must have required some deep negotiation."

"Not at all, not at all, just a little basic understand of mercantile
trading," grinned Scotti, pouring himself a third mug of Rotmeth. "The
Silvenar was very eager to involve the Imperial state with the affairs of
Valenwood.  I was very eager to take a percentage of the commission.  With
all that blessed eagerness, it was merely a matter of putting quill to
contract, bless you."

"You have been in the employ of his Imperial Majesty very long?" asked the
first diplomat.

"It's a bite, or rather, a bit more complicated than that in the Imperial
City.  Between you and me, I don't really have a job.  I used to work for
Lord Atrius and his Building Commission, but I got sacked.  And then, the
contracts are from Lord Vanech and his Building Commission, 'cause I got em
from this fellow Reglius who is a competitor but still a very fine fellow
until he was made dead by those Khajiiti," Scotti drained his fifth mug.
"When I go back to the Imperial City, then the real negotiations can begin,
bless you.  I can go to my old employer and to Lord Vanech, and say, look
here you, which one of you wants these commissions?  And they'll fall over
each other to take them from me.  It will be bidding war for my percentage
the likes of which no one nowhere has never seen."

"So you're not a representative of his Imperial Majesty, the Emperor?" asked
the first diplomat.

"Didn't you hear what I'm said? You stupid?" Scotti felt a surge of rage,
which quickly subsided.  He chuckled, and poured himself a seventh mug. "The
Building Commissions are privately owned, but they're still representatives
of the Emperor.  So I'm a representative of the Emperor.  Or I will be.  When
I get these contracts in.  It's very complicated.  I can understand why
you're not following me.  Bless you, it's all like the poet said, a dance in
fire, if you follow the illusion, that is to say, allusion."

"And your colleagues?  Are they representatives of the Emperor?" asked the
second diplomat.

Scotti burst into laughter, shaking his head.  The diplomats bade him their
respects and went to talk to the Minister.  Scotti stumbled out of the
palace, and reeled through the strange, organic avenues and boulevards of the
city.  It took him several hours to find his way to Prithala Hall and his
room.  Once there, he slept, very nearly on his bed.

The next morning, he woke to Jurus and Basth in his room, shaking him.  He
felt half-asleep and unable to open his eyes fully, but otherwise fine.  The
conversation with the diplomats floated in his mind in a haze, like an
obscure childhood memory.

"What in Mara's name is Rotmeth?" he asked quickly.

"Rancid, strongly fermented meat juices with lots of spices to kill the
poisons," smiled Basth. "I should have warned you to stay with Jagga."

"You must understand the Meat Mandate by now," laughed Jurus. "These Bosmeri
would rather eat each other than touch the fruit of the vine or the field."

"What did I say to those diplomats?" cried Scotti, panicking.

"Nothing bad apparently," said Jurus, pulling out some papers. "Your escorts
are downstairs to bring you to the Imperial Province.  Here are your papers
of safe passage.  The Silvenar seems very impatient about business proceeding
forward rapidly.  He promises to send you some sort of rare treasure when the
contracts are fulfilled.  See, he's already given me something."

Jurus showed off his new, bejeweled earring, a beautiful large faceted ruby.
Basth showed that he had a similar one.  The two fat fellows left the room so
Scotti could dress and pack.

A full regiment of the Silvenar's guards was on the street in front of the
tavern.  They surrounded a carriage crested with the official arms of
Valenwood.  Still dazed, Scotti climbed in, and the captain of the guard gave
the signal.  They began a quick gallop.  Scotti shook himself, and then
peered behind.  Basth and Jurus were waving him goodbye.

"Wait!" Scotti cried. "Aren't you coming back to the Imperial Province too?"

"The Silvenar asked that we stay behind as Imperial representatives!" yelled
Liodes Jurus. "In case there's a need for more contracts and negotiations!
He's appointed us Undrape, some sort of special honor for foreigners at
court!  Don't worry!  Lots of banquets to attend!  You can handle the
negotiations with Vanech and Atrius yourself and we'll keep things settled
here!"

Jurus continued to yell advice about business, but his voice became
indistinct with distance.  Soon it disappeared altogether as the convoy
rounded the streets of Silvenar.  The jungle loomed suddenly and then they
were in it.  Scotti had only gone through it by foot or along the rivers by
slow-moving boats.  Now it flashed all around him in profusions of greens.
The horses seemed even faster moving through underbrush than on the smooth
paths of the city.  None of the weird sounds or dank smells of the jungle
penetrated the escort.  It felt to Scotti as if he were watching a play about
the jungle with a background of a quickly moving scrim, which offered only
the merest suggestion of the place.

So it went for two weeks.  There was lots of food and water in the carriage
with the clerk, so he merely ate and slept as the caravan pressed endlessly
on.  From time to time, he'd hear the sound of blades clashing, but when he
looked around whatever had attacked the caravan had long since been left
behind.  At last, they reached the border, where an Imperial garrison was
stationed.

Scotti presented the soldiers who met the carriage with the papers.  They
asked him a barrage of questions that he answered monosyllabically, and then
let him pass.  It took several more days to arrive at the gates of the
Imperial City.  The horses that had flown so fast through the jungle now
slowed down in the unfamiliar territory of the wooded Colovian Estates.  By
contrast, the cries of his province's birds and smells of his province's
plant life brought Decumus Scotti alive.  It was if he had been dreaming all
the past months.

At the gates of the City, Scotti's carriage door was opened for him and he
stepped out on uncertain legs.  Before he had a moment to say something to
the escort, they had vanished, galloping back south through the forest.  The
first thing he did now that he was home was go to the closest tavern and have
tea and fruit and bread.  If he never ate meat again, he told himself, that
would suit him very nicely.

Negotiations with Lord Atrius and Lord Vanech proceeded immediately
thereafter.  It was most agreeable.  Both commissions recognized how
lucrative the rebuilding of Valenwood would be for their agency.  Lord Vanech
claimed, quite justifiably, that as the contracts had been written on forms
notarized by his commission, he had the legal right to them.  Lord Atrius
claimed that Decumus Scotti was his agent and representative, and that he had
never been released from employment.  The Emperor was called to arbitrate,
but he claimed to be unavailable.  His advisor, the Imperial Battlemage Jagar
Tharn, had disappeared long ago and could not be called on for his wisdom and
impartial mediation.

Scotti lived very comfortably off the bribes from Lord Atrius and Lord
Vanech.  Every week, a letter would arrive from Jurus or Basth asking about
the status of negotiations.  Gradually, these letters ceased coming, and more
urgent ones came from the Minister of Trade and the Silvenar himself.  The
War of the Blue Divide with Summurset Isle ended with the Altmeri winning
several new coastal islands from the Wood Elves.  The war with Elsweyr
continued, ravaging the eastern borders of Valenwood.  Still, Vanech and
Atrius fought over who would help.

One fine morning in the early spring of the year 3E 398, a courier arrived at
Decumus Scotti's door.

"Lord Vanech has won the Valenwood commission, and requests that you and the
contracts come to his hall at your earliest convenience."

"Has Lord Atrius decided not to challenge further?" asked Scotti.

"He's been unable to, having died very suddenly, just now, from a terribly
unfortunate accident," said the courier.

Scotti had wondered how long it would be before the Dark Brotherhood was
brought in for final negotiations.  As he walked toward Lord Vanech's
Building Commission, a long, severe piece of architecture on a minor but
respectable plaza, he wondered if he had played the game, as he ought to
have.  Could Vanech be so rapacious as to offer him a lower percentage of the
commission now that his chief competitor was dead?  Thankfully, he
discovered, Lord Vanech had already decided to pay Scotti what he had
proposed during the heat of the winter negotiations.  His advisors had
explained to him that other, lesser building commissions might come forward
unless the matter were handled quickly and fairly.

"Glad we have all the legal issues done with," said Lord Vanech, fondly. "Now
we can get to the business of helping the poor Bosmeri, and collecting the
profits.  It's a pity you weren't our representative for all the troubles
with Bend'r-mahk and the Arnesian business.  But there will be plenty more
wars, I'm sure of that."

Scotti and Lord Vanech sent word to the Silvenar that at last they were
prepared to honor the contracts.  A few weeks later, they held a banquet in
honor of the profitable enterprise.  Decumus Scotti was the darling of the
Imperial City, and no expense was spared to make it an unforgettable evening.

As Scotti met the nobles and wealthy merchants who would be benefiting from
his business dealings, an exotic but somehow faintly familiar smell rose in
the ballroom.  He traced it to its source: a thick roasted slab of meat, so
long and thick it covered several platters.  The Cyrodilic revelers were
eating it ravenously, unable to find the words to express their delight at
its taste and texture.

"It's like nothing I've ever had before!"

"It's like pig-fed venison!"

"Do you see the marbling of fat and meat?  It's a masterpiece!"

Scotti went to take a slice, but then he saw something imbedded deep in the
dried and rendered roast.  He nearly collided with his new employer Lord
Vanech as he stumbled back.

"Where did this come from?" Scotti stammered.

"From our client, the Silvenar," beamed his lordship. "It's some kind of
local delicacy they call Unthrappa."

Scotti vomited, and didn't stop for some time.  It cast rather a temporary
pall on the evening, but when Decumus Scotti was carried off to his manor
house, the guests continued to dine.  The Unthrappa was the delight of all.
Even more so when Lord Vanech himself took a slice and found the first of two
rubies buried within.  How very clever of the Bosmer to invent such a dish,
the Cyrodiils agreed.