To Kill a Nightingale

A Job like Any Other

But it was. So there was that.

"Well, now," he said, "I take you for softened up. Now we have a little talk. Who sent you?"

The Khajiit painstakingly picked up his head, affording his tormentor his best defiant glare. "Shadya of Da'kheavek."

"And who would that be?"

"A Khajiit. An innocent who was brutally murdered by your boss, the Nightingale."

"Aha," said Bashnag. "So, did then the ghost of this Shadya of . . . —Da'kheavek, was it?—send you to kill the Nightingale?"

The prisoner gave something like a puzzled frown, then hissed. "The dead never truly rest while their unjust deaths go unavenged!"

"So, in other words, you were not in fact sent by her at all?"

The prisoner said nothing.

Bashnag sighed, and rose. The chair groaned, as if to demand he make up his mind about standing or sitting up. He walked up to the prisoner, and once more punched him in the face.

"If I may request," he then growled in a low voice, leaning in closer "please stick to words pertainin' to the immediate reality as it actually stands; in other words, refrain from the use of metaphor, allusion, and the like."

The Khajiit stared at him in confusion. With a pang of shame, Bashnag realized that he had spoken too much. This shame immediately morphed into the most acute irritation, which he then contemplated assuaging by pummeling the cat again. But no, he shouldn't take the misworkings of his own mind out on this poor hapless creature. Instead, he grunted. "Alright."

He ambled back to his seat, and sat his bulk down as the chair protested. "Okay, let's try this again, shall we. Who sent you?"

The prisoner remained silent.

Bashnag grunted.

Runa belched. The beers she'd downed at Dawnstar had already lost their buzz, but that didn't keep 'em from revisiting from time to time. The aftertaste sure left room for hoping: it seemed as though Windpeak Inn's brew had gotten increasingly worse over the years. That Thoring had always been a standup fella, but perhaps his absent-mindedness had gotten out of hand with age and was now affecting his work. Why the man had ever insisted on serving his own brew instead of just supplying the usual stuff was a whole 'nother question.

Whiterun city poked out of the rocky ground of its surrounding plains like a sore thumb. The tall and narrow shape of Dragonsreach had always worked as a beacon of sorts, helping one to navigate to the city even if a bit more sauced than usual. But the drink wasn't hampering Runa this day. The damn sun, though, could have done with some tuning down the way it beat down on her. And it wasn't even noon yet! Sweat runneled down her temples and made the shirt under her armor stick to her back. The downside of being made to withstand cold seemed to be that she'd never handled heat all that well. One of the main reasons, she told herself, why she'd never set foot outside of Skyrim. Even the alcohol, which she'd often found helped cool her, didn't seem to be working this time 'round.

She stopped at the stables outside of the city and swung off the saddle. Paying the stablehand a small handful of gold, she left her horse, Frost, to be tended to while conducting her business.

The Khajiit camp stood in its usual place by the city's outer gate. As Runa stomped toward the large main yurt consisting of furs piled atop a wooden frame, the head of the male sitting cross-legged on a small mat by the entrance came up.

"Welcome!" the merchant crooned. "How may I—"

"Dra'Ajira," Runa said. "She in there?"

"Ah," he replied. "You must be her."