Chillrend

ONE: A Fine Facade

Mercer's first mistake had been letting him choose his pseudonym for the job. Had he expected Niruin to pass up the opportunity for some fun? It had barely taken him half a moment to construct Facadien Bandarre. Facadien, of course, derived from the Bosmeris word for 'fake'—and Bandarre an obvious bastardisation of the name of Baan Dar, the Bandit God.

The Bosmer thief was still feeling rather pleased with himself an hour later as he swanned around the main hall of Dragonsreach. Hell of a job, this one, but with that easy arrogance that had glided him through so many situations, Niruin had confidence that it would turn out fine. Nocturnal willing. He raised his goblet to one of the other nobles in attendance—some Thane from a hole out in the Reach who had clearly been in hiding too long, judging by the dusty hem of his doublet—and tipped the entire contents of it down his throat, ignoring the nervous look. It came with being an elf, these days, with the Thalmor crawling like praying mantis among ants all across Skyrim.

Nonetheless, some of the other esteemed guests were also mer, with even a couple of fellow Bosmer in attendance. It took genuine effort not to hunt one down to share and revel in disapproval at the lack of finesse in Nord wine. As it was, Niruin kept that rich man's dreamy not-a-problem-in-the-world half-smile on his face, placed the goblet down firmly on the table and went wandering pleasantly through the throng of nobles (bristling with expensive furs) and servants (who in the Storyteller's name sold sandals in a place like Whiterun?).

There was no better member of the Thieves' Guild for the job, he was certain. Few of the others came from wealth; in fact, it was only Mercer as far as Niruin could tell, and one didn't charm secrets out of the tipsy rich by glowering relentlessly at everyone all evening. The thought of Delvin or—gods forbid—Dirge trying to pass themselves off as toffs was as hilarious as it was terrifying. They may as well try to pass themselves off as the Jarl's mother. Vex and Brynjolf might have been passable, perhaps Sapphire too, but why settle for less when they had the genuine article among them?

All right, technically he was from wealth and not nobility, but try to find a Bosmer that described themselves as aristocratic. They had a king, certainly, but they were an informal, clanlike folk. The other Bosmeri here, he was certain, were wealthy merchants or wishy-washy healers of some kind that got into any occasion with an anodyne smile and a blessing. As it was, he only had their names: Cahda and Finyl.

Perhaps if he'd been the kind for deeper thought and introspect, Niruin would have pondered a moment on how effortless it was to slip back into his old persona, his old life. The maroon-brown hose, the fine green satin edged with glimmering gold-threaded trimmings that Tonilia had lifted just the day before… how long it had been since he'd last felt the glide of satin—

Ah, but when opportunity knocks, sneak around through the back door and mug the bastard for everything its worth. Niruin's serene-faced drifting had brought him right to the arch he was looking for, and everyone seemed to have their attentions elsewhere (on the ornate and distinctly furry decorations thrown around the place, or on the no doubt fascinating story an embezzling monk had to tell). Through it, then, he stole with ease.

The drop in temperature was immediately tangible when he stepped out into the stony little corridor, even though there was no door in the archway. Drat, perhaps he should have made like Jarl Balgruuf and wrapped himself in enough sabre cat pelts to build a tent with, but that stuff was heavy and there was always the chance he'd have to run. Nimbly, he slipped down the narrow corridor and around a corner, only pausing there to catch his bearings momentarily.

It was a map he was after, though that hadn't stopped him from lifting various trinkets from the Great Hall or even from a couple of the hapless nobles. It would be blamed on the servants when discovered, he expected—he carelessly tossed any further thought of them aside. Not his problem. Besides, there was still a small part of his mind that regarded servants as 'just servants.'

He'd already gone and made some trouble for them; why not make it worth everyone's while? His eye had been caught by a marvellous tankard. Gold, or gold-encrusted? Not just gold-leaf, surely. Trust a Nord to paste a clumsy booze-bucket with the precious, if gaudy, metal. It was ugly, certainly, but Niruin was no magpie. Neither was he prone to light fingers simply for the coin it made when sold on. No, Niruin had always been in it for the thrill. Shits and giggles, as some called it. Was it perhaps a bit heavy to take with him on his further explorations of Dragonsreach? Ah, probably not, and nobody need ever know…

"Ahem. Facadien Bandarre?"

Quick but by no means slapdash, he assessed the voice that cut through the draughty air of the corridor. Not a guard; no guard would ever bother someone dressed in finery so abruptly. Or, for that matter, say 'ahem.' Niruin relaxed his face into barely-lucid joviality before turning to face his interrupter.

"Proventus, good man!" he cried out, adding an impressive slur, sending up a quick note of thanks to Nocturnal. The steward shouldn't be an issue, from what he'd heard about him. "Charming place you're keeping here… quite the… hrrm… agreeable. Mm?" 'Absolutely hammered' was another character Niruin could play well, from both observation and practical application. Perhaps he should have become an actor. He was sure he'd be a hell of a lot more appreciated.

To his credit, Proventus still looked rather suspicious. "My thanks," he said, just a shade too slow to sound entirely sincere. "Are you looking for someone?"

"No, not partic'ly, friend," Niruin said, waving a hand gaily. Honestly, who ever heard of a Bosmer getting sloshed so early in the evening? Or, for that matter, a Bosmer with a surname? Fool. "Jus' taking a little look around. Was getting hot in there."

"Perhaps I could see about adding fewer logs to the burner," Proventus said, still hovering determinedly. Niruin belched loudly in the hope of deterring him. Dignity came second to the job, and the look on his face was rather enjoyable. Too world-weary and used to this kind of nonsense to even appear properly bothered. Excellent. Just another typical party in the House of Balgruuf, then. Nothing suspicious at all. "Are you here with the other Wood Elves?"

"Finyl's my sister," he said, emphasising the slur on the last word.

"Ah. She's a Bandarre too, then?"

Niruin just winked. It wasn't supposed to make sense—but now he was on a timer. From this point until the moment the words 'who in the name of the Storyteller is Facadien Bandarre?' fell from her lips. He gave himself fifteen minutes at most if he sent Proventus on his way.

Plenty of time.

"Funny story, there," he said, scratching his nose. "Now, say, do you have an outhouse here, or one of those fancy in-built privies?" The oldest trick in the book, but by gods did it work. Especially if alcohol was (allegedly) involved.

"It will be the outhouse, I'm afraid," Proventus said sniffily. Bastard. Niruin had seen a mock-up of some of the building plans: they had a pail closet just down the hall! That was it. Just to rub this robbery in, he was going to make sure he used it before he left. For the time being, he smiled in appreciation and added a stumble to his step as he headed down the corridor to supposedly find his way to this outhouse. He waited for Proventus' shuffling footsteps to completely disappear before executing a swift pivot on the spot and haring away down the corridor as quietly as he could. All hint of the swaying drunkard was gone; he was sure-footed and silent, as all good Bosmeri are. Though very few good Bosmeri went thieving from Jarls.

Time was short. He had a map to get his hands on. Proventus was probably going to amble his way through the crowd, find an opportune moment to tweak Finyl aside and start quizzing her on her drunk, hitherto unheard of brother with the strange name that he just found feeling up a bejewelled tankard.

Some people were so blind.

Disclaimer: disclaimed!

A/N: My first piece of fanfiction for a long time, and my first ever for the Elder Scrolls series. I'll warn that there are spoilers for the Theives' Guild quest starting in the next chapter! However, the whole story happens before the events of Skyrim; this is my own headcanon for how Mercer attained the lovely sword Chillrend which can be found locked in his basement. With a little help from his friends...

"Facadien" is based on the Latin "faccia," i.e., fake. Not actually Bosmeri, but seeing as the word is never brought up in-game, I can do what I like with it. ;)

Next time: Mercer shows his caring side. No, not really. "Relax. He vanishes for a day? Then we worry about his skin." "I'm not worried about him. I'm worried about the loot."