“Send the courier,” Attrebus said. “But I won’t be returning to the Imperial City.”

Larsus frowned, but at that moment another fellow entered the room—a man with sallow Breton features and curly black hair. He looked familiar—Attrebus was sure he had seen him at court, or at least in the palace.

“Riente,” Larsus said. “See who it is!”

Riente cocked his head to the side, and then bowed. “Your highness,” he said. “It’s wondrous to see you alive.”

“Captain Larsus and I were just discussing that,” Attrebus said.

“Well, I shouldn’t intrude, then,” Riente said. “I only came to report that the matter at the Little Orsinium Tavern is cleared up.”

“Thank you, Riente.”

“Captain, majesty,” he said, bowing again before vanishing through the door whence he’d come.

Larsus turned back to Attrebus. “Now, Treb, what are you talking about? My orders are to return you to the Imperial City without delay.”

“I’m giving you different orders,” Attrebus said.

“You can’t countermand your father.” He paused and looked a bit sheepish. “My orders include permission to restrain you if necessary.”

“But you won’t do that.”

Larsus hesitated again. “I will.”

Attrebus leaned forward. “Listen, Florius. I always thought we were friends, but recent events make me wonder. I know now that my life, up until now, has been something of a fantasy. Perhaps you, like so many, only pretended to like me. But I remember those days after we first met, when we were six? Did it really all go back so far?”

Larsus colored. “No,” he said. “We were friends, Treb. We are. But the Emperor …”

“I can’t go back, not yet. There are things I must do. And I need your help.”

Larsus sighed. “What things?”

And so for the second time that day, Attrebus recounted what he knew of Umbriel.

“I’ve heard of it,” Larsus acknowledged. “But this doesn’t change anything. When the Emperor learns I’ve let you go, it’s my head.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

“How can you prevent it, if you’re in Morrowind, probably dead?”

“I’m asking you to go with me, Florius. It’s the real thing this time, not the playacting of before. But this needs doing, and I’d like you at my side.”

“Just the two of us?”

“I lied. There is one other.”

“I—even if you can keep me out of the dungeons, this will end my career, Treb.”

“If we succeed, all will be forgiven. My father could never punish a savior of Cyrodiil—the people would never have it, and you know how quickly stories about me get around. I’ll write letters to my biographers—the story of our quest will be circulating in days.” He raised his voice, like a bard. “‘The prince, all thought him dead, but he rose up from defeat and went to find the foe …’” He returned to normal speech. “My father will have to embrace the story. And your part in it.”

Florius squinted, as if Attrebus’s words were still there in the air to be examined.

Then he nodded. “Very well,” he said. He rustled through the desk. “Write your letters and post them at the Gaping Frog—it’s just off the town square. I’ll send your father a message by Imperial courier, informing him of your safety—and my resignation. I’ll meet you at the Frog in, say, three hours.”

“I knew I could count on you, Florius.”

“I’m a fool,” Florius said.

“But you’re my fool now.”

“Go on. I’ll see you in three hours.”

The Gaping Frog was almost empty when Attrebus made his way in and took a seat at the smoothest table he saw, which still had its share of nicks, scratches, and knife-scribed autographs. The place was mostly empty, rather sunny for a tavern, smelling pleasantly of ale and some sort of stew. He had an ale and wrote two more or less identical letters to his best-known biographers and posted them with the barkeep, a female orc with two broken teeth. Then—it being about midday—he had a bowl of what turned out to be mutton daube and two more ales, and sat there, feeling full and civilized, wondering how Sul had made out.

The few people who had come in for lunch wandered out, until it was just Attrebus and the barkeep. But less than a minute after the last of the other patrons left, the door opened again. He looked up, thinking it might be Florius come a bit early, but instead it was a group of people. At first he didn’t understand what was wrong with their faces, but then he understood; they were wearing masks. And all of them had naked blades.

He bolted up, drawing his own sword, Flashing. The barkeep made an odd sound, and he saw her stagger and then drop heavily behind the counter.

“Who are you?” he shouted. “Show your faces.” He made a wild cut at the one nearest, but stepped back as his companions moved to circle him.

The door burst open again, and the man on his left jerked his head to look. Attrebus thrust with Flashing, catching him in the ribs. The man cursed and fell back, clutching his side, even as one of his companions cut at Treb’s head. Attrebus dropped, feeling the wake of the blade on his scalp.

He was struggling to get his blade back up when something big hit his only remaining attacker. The other three were busy defending their own lives against Lesspa and her cousins, and he now saw that it was Lesspa’s brother, Sha’jal, savaging the man at his feet.

By the time he got around them, the rest of the fray was over.

Attrebus rushed to the bar, but the barkeep was dead with a knife in her right eye.

“Are you all right?” Lesspa asked.

“I am, thanks to you,” he replied. “I thought you were leaving.”

“No, no. We sent the kits and the old ones back with a few warriors, but the rest of us stay with you. We’ve been watching out for you. These fellows with their masks, they didn’t seem to have the best of intentions.”

“Take their masks off,” Attrebus said, bending toward the corpse nearest him.

Four of them were unfamiliar, but the fourth was Riente, the fellow from Florius’s office.

“Florius!” he swore.

He ran the two hundred yards back to the garrison, not caring if the cats were with him or not. He shoved the door open, blade in hand.

Florius was in his chair, with his head on the table. There wasn’t much blood; he’d been stabbed at the base of the skull.

“It told you to wait,” Sul said. “I should have tied you up before I left.”

“He was going with us,” Attrebus said. “I talked him into it. I killed him.”

“You killed him the moment he knew who you were. There was a guard dead, too—did you talk to a guard?”

“Yes,” he said, feeling sick.

“The massacre of your men, and now this? You need to ask yourself—who wants you dead?”

Attrebus closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. “I’ve seen Riente before. In the Imperial City. And some of the things Radhasa said made it sound like someone there had hired her. I assumed it was some criminal faction, but … I don’t know who could want me murdered.”

“It’s not just anyone,” Sul said. “It’s someone with a lot of connections. They may have scried you were coming here, but from your description it sounds more likely that they put someone here, in Bravil, Leyawiin—anyplace they thought you might turn up.”

“One of the dukes, my uncle maybe. Maybe someone who doesn’t want me to be Emperor.”

“Yes, but why now? Why not a year ago, in your sleep with venom from some woman’s lips? Why not a year from now?”

“You think it has something to do with Umbriel?”

“What else could it be?” Sul demanded. “Track back. Who knew what you were up to?”

“Gulan. My father. Annaïg. Hierem, my father’s minister. But we weren’t in private—others surely heard.”

Sul’s eyes went a bit strange for a moment, as if something Attrebus had said registered with him, but then it was gone.