It had been a year and a half, give or take a month or two, since the Stormcloaks had swept through the town like a raging tide of fury, washing the Imperial garrison away and changing Tekla’s life forever.

 

From scullery maid to Steward of the Jarl of Falkreath – who could have predicted such a rise? At first, when Dengeir had regained the Seat after his brother’s defeat and offered her the position of Steward, she had hesitated. Who was she to have such power? What would the nobles say? She knew nothing about running a government.

 

But she had accepted out of devotion to Dengeir, who had given her everything she had, and soon discovered that running a Hold was exactly like running a house, just on a larger scale. It took only one weedy noble to question her in front of everyone; her long-honed motherhood instincts kicked in and she grabbed both the noble and the Hold by the ear.

 

Only one person had the capacity (and the Jarl’s leniency) to disrupt the order Tekla had instilled. And that person was coming this day.

 

Isla was Dengeir’s granddaughter, his only living relative save his brother Thadgeir, and he doted on her to the point of spoilage. It had been bad enough when Dengeir was merely the deposed Jarl with no power other than what his name carried; once he became Jarl again, Isla had taken her insufferable attitude to vast new heights. Every time she showed up, she disrupted the balance Tekla had so meticulously built. It had taken a solid month to gets things back to normal after her last…

 

“She’s here.” Thorygg's gravelly voice cut through Tekla’s fretting thoughts. The Stormcloak commander glanced at her, then at the door. “What do you suppose she wants this time? She was just here this summer.”

 

“More money, no doubt. What she does with…”

 

The door slammed open and what she had done with it was clear.

 

“What happened to your hair?!” The words were out of Tekla’s mouth before she could stop them.

 

“Do you like it? It’s all the rage at Court.” Isla patted her glowing blond hair, which rose to dizzying heights and was woven into a pattern that caused Tekla’s eyes to water. The five-foot-two girl had to duck her head to fit through the doorway.

 

“It’s…something,” Thorygg said at the same time Tekla snipped, “Solitude is not Court.” It was petty pedantry and she knew it, but she just couldn't help herself around this brat.

 

It didn’t matter because the girl ignored both of them. “Where is grandpappy?”

 

The unbefitting childish nickname made Tekla grind her teeth but she merely pointed. “He is in his office conducting business. Once he is finished, you may…”

 

“Thanks!” Isla stepped toward the door and Tekla held up a hand.

 

Time to enact the plan. She had been drilling the staff on it for weeks. “I said once he is finished. You have had a long journey. How about some refreshments?” The cue was sent.

 

“I don’t…”

 

The girl’s sentence was cut off when several of the local young women dressed in their finest dresses rushed forward and began oohing and aahing at Isla’s outfit and hair. They led her toward the banquet table while showering her with compliments (most of which they probably meant – it had not been hard to convince them to play their part. The local girls were enthralled by Isla and, especially, any gossip from Solitude) and asking questions about “Court.” As hoped, Isla’s vanity won out and she basked in the attention while allowing herself to be escorted to the table.

 

Tekla met the eyes of her staff and got subtle nods in return. They would watch over the proceedings. Tekla took the opportunity to duck through the door.

 

She had arranged a litany of activities to keep the Jarl entertained and, more important, busy throughout the day. He should be just about done with massage from the slave girls. Next would be the whore she had arranged – blond, voluptuous, big-boobed, and empty-headed, just his type. The goal was to get him to say no to seeing Isla for as long as possible.

 

The whore was waiting outside Dengeir’s room, flirting with the pair of Stormcloak guards. Their quiet chatter stilled and the soldiers came to attention at Tekla’s approach. She nodded at them and made a “wait” motion with her finger at the whore, then opened the door to his bedchambers to see the two slaves packing their lotion bottles. They stopped and straightened, then bowed as she entered. She pointed at the Jarl, wearing nothing but a towel draped over his rear, with a questioning look. The slaves smiled and nodded and made sleeping motions.

 

Perfect. Tekla waved them out, then moved to the head of the bed and bent over.

 

“My lord?”

 

A grunt and then a muffled, “Mmm?”

 

“We have a guest.”

 

“Hmm?” A little bit more coherence as he lifted his head a little. “Who?”

 

“Someone from Solitude.” She flattened her inflection on the last word. Not someone you would be excited to see, she hoped to convey. He seemed to get the message.

 

“Mmmph. Tell them to come back later.”

 

“Of course, my lord. Oh, there is something else.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Solaf sent one of his girls. Shall I show her in?”

 

That garnered some interest. He lifted his head again, all traces of sleepiness erased by a twinkle in his eyes. “Did he, then? Anyone I know?”

 

“No, this is a new girl. I think you’ll like her – she’s just your type.”

 

“Excellent! Send her in!”

 

“Yes, my lord. And if anyone needs you…”

 

“Bah. I don't want to see anyone else today. You handle it. That’s what I made you Steward for, isn’t it?”

 

“Of course, my lord. I’ll see to it.”

 

She went to the door and motioned the whore through, then stepped into the hall and closed the door. She didn’t try to hide the smile that crossed her face as she made her way back toward the main room.

 

Later that night, after a delightful afternoon and evening of turning down every request by an increasingly agitated Isla because “the Jarl said he wanted no visitors today, no matter who they are,” Tekla’s smile froze and her laughter turned to screams when she found Dengier laying naked on his bed, dead eyes locked on the ceiling, cold face locked in a grotesque expression of bliss.

 

***

 

Miles away, Sloan dropped the bundle of silk garments, breast augmenters, and the blond wig down a well near an overgrown burned-out shell of what had once been a farmhouse, then rinsed her mouth with water and spat it back out. She had done the same several times already, but she wanted to be very sure the poison was completely out of her mouth. Administering poison via blow job had been a new experience, and not one she had enjoyed – the paranoia of possibly swallowing the stuff had been beyond distracting. 

 

It had taken a little longer than she had hoped - with only two days left to spare for the deadline Mishi had imposed, she had cut this assignment close. But Mishi could bitch all she wanted about how long it had taken (and Sloan was quite sure she would do just that), in the end, the job had been completed on time. 

 

Being in the clearing made her feel exposed but she forced herself to keep a steady pace as she moved away. Her heartbeat only began to slow once she was in the trees and the abandoned farm was out of sight. She was certain she hadn’t been followed, but she kept her senses trained for anything out of the ordinary as she made her way through the copse. She breathed a little easier once she reached the hollow tree where she had stashed her gear. Moments later, she joined the general flow of traffic toward Whiterun dressed as a farmer pushing a nearly-empty cart, only a few heads of wilted cabbage on the bottom.