The Riften guard removed his leather gloves, rubbing his hands together briskly. It was only three thirty, but the sun had already disappeared behind the tops of the trees in the distance, and small clumps of wet snow fell from the trees as the guard turned to the sullen brazier in the corner. He stooped to feed some small charcoal blocks onto the pile of glowing embers. Footsteps stumped up the stairway and something knocked on the underside of the hatch behind him.
The guard put his gloves back on before reaching for the metal ring and pulling up the slush-sodden door. "Ho, Brint," said a voice, followed by a pair of hands which held up a small iron kettle. Inside the kettle was a small cloth bag and a crude wooden mug.
"Ho, Sig. Thanks."
"That's all right, my friend. Just don't leave the kettle up here to freeze, eh? Bring it back when you come down for dinner."
"I'll do that," Brint said, pawing clumsily at the cloth bag. He took a deep sniff of its contents. "Thanks, again."
Sig thumped the door shut, assisted by the wind, as Brint turned to place the mug and cloth bag on the floor next to the brazier. He took the kettle to the large water barrel and set it on the ground; he used the hilt of his dagger to break the thin ice and dunked the kettle inside. Humming tunelessly, he set the kettle on the brazier, and steam furled up from the water on the outside of the kettle.
Brint pulled up a tall stool close to the brazier and sat with a soft rustling and clanking of mail and leather. He clapped his hands together inside their gloves and stared out across the great white plain. The shadows were long on the ground, but there were still places where light glittered off the snow in the distance. Brint watched the kettle impatiently, willing the water to heat faster. Only a few more hours before he could go inside and eat something hot and drink some mead. He hated walltop watches as much as the next person, but Sig's tea deliveries usually helped at least somewhat. There was always the long wait, though, before the water boiled, and it always seemed like an empty eternity to Brint.
Some time later, the water was steaming promisingly and Brint was considering lighting the oil-soaked torches on the wall. He liked to have the extra light and heat, but wall commanders were continually warning guards not to waste fuel, and that lighting the torches too soon made it difficult to see at dusk. Brint saw their point, but decided that since he was the one sitting out in the wind and snow, he was entitled to light the torches a little early.
He had taken the first few torches off the wall and lit them on the brazier, when he saw something approaching on the road. Brint blinked hard and squinted into the wind. It was harder to see with the torches lit. The figure approached steadily and became a small armored person, leaning into the wind. Brint rubbed his eyes. No horse? No wagon? This person had come alone and surely had been travelling all day. The figure continued to approach unhurriedly, reaching up to adjust its hood over its helmet.
Brint called into the wind, but the figure didn't look up, now trudging through the shadow of the guardtower. Muttering something under his breath, Brint dipped the wooden cup into the kettle and threw some leaves into it, then carefully carried it down the ladder and towards the hooded figure, which was now studying the securely closed town gate.
"Greetings, traveler," Brint said loudly. The figure turned and jerked a little in surprise, though whether at Brint's sudden appearance or at the proffered mug of tea it was hard to say. It wore a dark cloak and red hood and gloves over heavy armor, and a steel burgonet with a falling buffe shielding its face from the wind. It did not move to accept the tea, staring at Brint. He cleared his throat and continued,
"Town gate's closed for the night. Been having some trouble with unsavories sneaking in after dark, see. So we close it every night and don't let anyone in without they get cleared by a guard first. Here, before you take your death of cold. What's your business here? Where are you coming from?"
The stranger lifted its hands and unfastened the buffe, revealing a young Orc woman. She accepted the tea and raised the cup to her lips, draining the hot liquid in one long, careful draught. Brint tried to discreetly study the buffe, which, like her helmet, was expertly hammered and etched with strange designs. "I thank you," she said, and her deep voice brought him back to attention. "I'm glad to have made it to safety tonight. My horse died yesterday and I've been on foot since. From Windhelm."
"What brings you here from Windhelm?" Brint asked.
"Business." The Orc gestured vaguely to the large pack on her back. "I deal in jewels and ore. There are some say that Riften's the place to buy and sell jewels."
"Buy and sell is one word for it," said Brint darkly. "You'll not want to go talking overmuch about your cargo in mixed company. There's plenty here would be glad to relieve you of your load."
"I thank you. I'll take heed," said the Orc politely. She looked pointedly at the gates.
Brint took the hint. "Let's get you inside and out of this wind. Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?" He turned and started to climb the ladder.
"No," the Orc said, following. "I have the coin to pay for a room, though."
"It's the Bee and Barb you'll be wanting, then," shouted Brint over his shoulder as he reached the top and went to the barracks door. "Come along and I'll show you there."
Brint lifted the trapdoor and swung himself down into the warm ladderway to the barracks. The Orc followed easily, though a bit encumbered by her armor, pack, and frozen limbs. Brint called for one of his fellow guards to take his place until his return, and someone slunk past them to climb the ladder to the wall. The woman paid no attention to the quick, pointed looks she received from some of the guards, who went silent as she and Brint passed through the room. Out once again into the cold, though the wind was now mostly blocked by the massive wooden town gate.
"So, what brings an Orc here?" asked Brint conversationally.
She appeared to take no notice of his question, her gaze darting down narrow alleyways and into doorways as they walked. She said, "You mentioned unsavories."
"So I did. You're likely not in any real bodily danger here, mind, but best be careful of your belongings and keep your mouth shut about your business here if you're the type to enjoy a little mead with your supper. It's happened many a time that someone gets a little too free with their words and ends up with nothing but an empty purse and an aching head at the end of it all."
"Unsavories like who?" she persisted.
She noticed Brint's eyes flash around them, as if to make sure that no one could hear him say, "You've heard of the Thieves' Guild up in Windhelm." It wasn't a question, and he looked suddenly very serious. The friendliness that had been in his voice had vanished, and his voice was hard as he continued, "They used to be this high and mighty guild, but now they're like stinking rats in a sewer, picking off the plates of honest folk like yourself. They frighten all the tourists away and most of the business, too. It's rare these days to see a jewel trader like yourself. You're a brave woman."
"I guess that's one word for it," she said.
They stopped in front of a large, thickset building. Muffled music and laughter seeped under the door, and warm firelight glowed in the windows. "This is the Bee and Barb. I need to be off back to the barracks, but you'll find a warm bed and a decent meal here for an honest price, and no one will enter your room. The keeper takes security seriously. Come find me at the wall if you need anything while you're here."
"Thank you." She gripped his hand and shook it. "You've been most kind. Thank you again for the tea."
He walked away and she pushed the door open. A few minutes later, the Orc was hanging her wraps and hood to dry in front of her room's brazier, and soon lying down to sleep with daggers under her pillow. Rats in a sewer.
The next morning, the young Orc rose and packed her bag to take with her. The day had dawned cold and clear, though not windy, so Thorgilja forewent the heavy wraps and simply threw on her cloak over her leather and mail.
"Hey," said a low, aggressive voice, not twenty paces down the road from the inn. Thorgilja turned to find a surly man studying her from an alleyway a few feet away. He leaned on a wooden pillar. "I don't know you. You here lookin' for trouble?"
The Orc stared back at him. I'm not afraid of you, Nord. He folded his arms.
"Well?"
"Business."
"What kind of business?" he demanded.
"Mine."
The Nord stood up straight and unfolded his arms. "Look, Orc, you don't want trouble here, see? Name's Maul. I know everybody. So keep your nose clean and your stupid mouth shut. Got it?"
"You know everyone?" she asked calmly. "And everyone knows you?"
"That's right."
"Important man," she concluded. "What kind of business do you do, then, Nord?"
The Nord took a few aggressive steps towards the Orc, who didn't move, but stood straight. He looked around and hissed, "Look. I watch the streets here, okay? So, like I said, watch your step."
"Maybe you could give me some directions, then. Since you know everyone," Thorgilja suggested with a hint of frost. Her palms were tingling.
At this, Maul straightened up again and gave Thorgilja quite a different look: furtive, calculating. He evidently made a decision and retreated back into the alleyway. Thorgilja waited for a moment and walked away, around the other side of the building, and met him behind a wagon in the narrow alley. She held a small cloth bag in her hand. She tossed it to Maul, who weighed it in his hand. He shook it to listen to the silvery clinking inside.
"All right. I didn't tell you this, see? But if it's something you're looking for of a certain...secret...nature, look for Brynjolf. He's the big ginger bastard runs a booth in the market. That way, down the river." Maul jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the appropriate direction.
"Thanks," she murmured, and started off down the street without looking back. The market was filled with merchants crying their wares, most of which were obviously stolen. Thorgilja pretended to browse. She picked up a small amulet and turned it in her fingers, listening intently to the voices around her. She thought she heard a deep laugh coming from somewhere to her left.
"Five hundred for that, Orc," rasped the hooded Argonian behind the table.
Snapped out of her concentration, Thorgilja tossed the amulet back on the table. "Five hundred?" she said softly, seeming to speak to herself.
"Don't put your grubby hands on my merchandise if you can't pay for it," the merchant shot back.
Thorgilja looked at her hands, and opened and closed them a few times, leather gauntlets creaking. She could feel the muscle on her forearms tightening and relaxing with each soft clench of her fists, and her quiet smile spread. Her shoulders and hips seemed to settle and then to subtly brace. She felt the ever-present thrumming warmth ebbing and flowing in her muscles, waiting, wanting to expand in a white-hot rush. Her private smile disappeared as she remembered her harrier. She was of a height with the man, and she raised her head and met his fierce glare like stone.
"Well, are you buying something?" he demanded, a little shrilly.
"No."
"Then quit wasting my time!"
Thorgilja turned and shouldered her way through the crowd, now listening again to the general commotion and trying to sift voices from the noise. Once again she heard the deep laugh a little ahead of her, and pushed towards it.
A huge, red-haired and red-bearded Nord stood in a group of people, with a large tankard in his hand. It slopped suds over its brim as he gestured widely, evidently telling a story. The people around him laughed, and one man slapped the Nord on the shoulder, wiping his eyes. Thorgilja stopped for a moment, not wishing to obviously focus her attention on the man. How to approach him? It was already obvious that an Orc woman was not a common sight in these parts. She would be noticed.
She pushed through the crowd and off to the Nord's left, hoping to secretly get closer. She stole a few more glances at the Nord, Brynjolf, if that was who he was. His lamellar cuirass was of high quality, but well-worn. A few of the plates had recently been replaced. The helmet on the table next to him had a wavy bit where Thorgilja supposed that a deep dent had been skilfully hammered back into shape.
Thorgilja felt something brush her side; in the press of people, she almost didn't notice the gentle tug on the small purse slung at her hip. Without looking, she snapped her left hand back to grab the wrist of the thief, who turned out to be a withered crone with a toothless snarl on her face, with three fingers in Thorgilja's purse. The woman tried to free her wrist, but only succeeded in twisting the bones of her hand painfully. Thorgilja tightened her grip ever so slightly, and turned a little to observe the woman who was now releasing a stream of curses, saliva flying.
Thorgilja let her stony gaze travel slowly over the woman, ignoring the curses which were growing louder and cruder by the moment. Filthy, thin, but not starving, voice gravelly with years of drink and smoke. Clumsy stitch lines veined the old woman's cloak, evidently hand-done. The boots on her feet were nearly new, Thorgilja noted, though they looked to be too big for her.
The Orc's eyes flicked around the crowd. Most people seemed to take only cursory notice of the commotion. Back to the woman, who was still hissing. "You stupid, filthy Orc bitch, how dare you put your stinking paws on me? People know me, you stupid shit-eater. You don't know who you're dealing with, you dumb horker, and you'll never leave Riften alive after-"
Thorgilja flicked a blade into her right hand from her sleeve and slashed at a small bulge in the woman's cloak. Coins, jewels, jewelry, and various trinkets spilled out onto the ground. There was a sudden swarm of people diving at the ground, clawing at necklaces and rings. The crone screeched, and the Orc let go of her hand to let her join the group scrabbling at the cobblestones.
"Ah," said Thorgilja mildly, and turned away. There was a bark of laughter from a table to her right, and she turned. The crowd had pushed her closer to the gigantic Nord and his group, and Thorgilja blinked in surprise to note that they seemed to be laughing at her. One man, filthy, helpless with mirth, leaning heavily with one hand on the large pine table, gestured at her. "A mug of mead for the stonepurse!" he yelled to no one in particular, swaying dangerously, and there was a general roar of assent. Thorgilja glanced around the group of about ten men – most well-armored and well-armed, some battle-scarred, and all drunk. She watched carefully as the laughing man grabbed a tankard from the table and filled it sloppily at the barrel.
"You called me stonepurse," she said to the laughing man as he shoved the tankard into her hand. Mead splashed her brigandine.
"Huh. Right! Can't cut your purse, see?" He leaned close; his breath was vinegary and sour. "You're not from these parts. You sure showed Arla, ehhhh?" He chortled.
"The old hag didn't know what hit her," chuckled another, older man. He was one of the only people in the group who wore no armour, but instead wore a rumpled set of blue robes. A long scar unfurled across his left cheek, widening as it approached his ear. When he smiled, the left side of his face remained largely frozen, with only his green eyes twinkling at his companions. He continually pushed his grey-streaked, reddish hair out of his face with his hand; the grace of the movement seemed out of place.
"It was well done," said an earthy voice. Thorgilja turned her head to see the huge Nord studying her. His words didn't sound entirely complimentary. "Arla might be a bit of a joke when you catch her red-handed, but catching her is no easy thing. She's been lifting purses since before the Great War. You're quick."
Thorgilja took a sip of mead as he spoke, and didn't reply.
"Well, lucky you made an example of her before...someone else...tried their hand," burbled the laughing man.
"I make no examples. She got herself caught," Thorgilja said. Something in her tone made the man hesitate a little.
"Sure, I meant no offense," the laughing man said uncertainly, belching.
"I took none. Thank you kindly for the mead." Thorgilja glanced at him and softened her gaze. He eased, and turned to fill his tankard again. Thorgilja raised her mug again, and looked around. Most of the men had grown bored and gone back to the conversations they'd been having before she arrived. The man who she supposed to be Brynjolf was watching her look around the group. Their eyes met. Thorgilja lowered her mug.
The Nord cleared his throat, and Thorgilja noticed one or two of the men around him stop to listen. "So," he said. "What are you called, stonepurse?"
"Thorgilja."
He repeated the name, stumbling a little over the end. "So, Thorgilja, what are you doing in a backwater like Riften?"
Careful. She looked straight at him. "Business."
"Oh? And what business would that be?"
"I don't tell strangers my affairs." She watched his face. He hesitated one tiny moment, and then smiled. He had deep laugh lines around his eyes.
"Right you are, Orc. Where are my manners?" He wiped his hand on his trousers and extended it to her. "I'm Brynjolf." She shook his hand. It was warm and slightly damp. "You've a strong grip!" he said, and then smiled as though a little surprised at himself. "I mean, for a lass. But then, you are an Orc."
"I grew up mining and smithing at a stronghold."
"Ah! A needful art, that." He released her hand but did not withdraw his own, gesturing for her mug. "Another splash of mead to wet the tongue?"
"My thanks." She handed him the tankard and watched as he turned to fill it at the barrel.
"So, a smith, eh?" he said, handing her back the mead. "Afraid we've already got our Balimund to keep our weapons sharp. He might be seeking help, though, with the Stormcloaks and Imperials denting each others' armour these days."
"I'm no longer a smith by trade," said Thorgilja. "though I can see your smith is a fine worker." She thrust her chin at the helmet on the table. "That's an excellent repair."
"Glad to hear it." His tone was casual, though his eyes hardened. "So, not a smith, then. So what is your business here? Not many come to Riften for the beauties of the season." Brynjolf raised his mug and drank.
"Like I said. I don't tell strangers my affairs." The Orc slid her gaze from side to side, indicating the crowd around them.
One of the men behind her, overhearing, stood up and dropped his gloved hand heavily onto her shoulder, hissing into her ear. "You'll show some respect to those whose mead you're drinking, Orc."
Thorgilja didn't turn. "Is this how Riften folk treat guests?" she asked Brynjolf, who looked somewhere between amused and embarrassed.
"Guests?" the man blurted. "I see no guests here, Orc, just a-"
"Enough," said Brynjolf. He shot a warning look over Thorgilja's shoulder. "There's been no disrespect done here, Thrynn. The lass is wise to be cautious." His gaze settled back on Thorgilja as Thrynn removed his hand from her shoulder and sulkily withdrew.
"Besides, you idiot, she's an Orc," said another voice from the other side of the table. "She could rip your arm off soon as shake your hand." There was a cluster of laughter. Thorgilja set her half-full mug down carefully, wiping her mouth with the back of her other hand. Yes. Yes, I probably could. She took no sneering pleasure, the way some of her kind did, at the fearsome reputation which preceded them wherever they went; nor, however, did she cringe and try to curry favour, as some others did. She took note of the group's reaction: a few, drunk, laughing loudly, harmless; one or two, smiling uneasily, taking enigmatic sips of ale, staring into their cups; two, at the corner of the table furthest from her, muttering darkly to each other (she took careful note of their faces); one, Brynjolf, watching her. She stared at him stonily.
"This Orc is our guest," said Brunjolf, turning his gaze to the rest of the group, raising his voice very slightly. "She's drunk of our own mead from our own mugs. I'll hear no more of this old wives' tale nonsense."
"But-" smiled the laughing man, his brightening face indicating some impending witticism.
"Aw, will you put a cork in it, Torsten," growled the blue-robed mage. He sat down heavily on the bench. "Please, miss, sit down," he said, slapping the bench next to him. "Take some weight off your boots, as they say. I like to hear of the travels of young people, and you've travelled a long way."
"I thank you kindly," Thorgilja said, "but I must be going." She drained her mug in one draught and set it down a little forcefully on the table. She extended her hand for the mage to shake. "Thorgilja."
"Marten." She noted that he didn't hesitate to grasp her hand; evidently he didn't fear having it torn off.
"Thank you, Marten, for your kind offer. I don't refuse hospitality lightly, but I have other affairs to attend to. I hope we'll meet again sometime, though my stories are perhaps not the exciting ones you'd like to hear." She released his hand, and straightened.
"Leaving so soon, Orc-lass?" Brynjolf crinkled his eyes at her. Thorgilja was accustomed to hearing the word "Orc" practically spat, as though it were a curse, but Brynjolf seemed to be one of the few people who could say it almost pleasantly. Thorgilja searched for a thread of menace in his tone, but could find none.
She ignored the question and extended her hand again. Before she could speak, Brynjolf took her hand in a strong grip and yanked her close. She had a second of panic – no, not here – before she realized he was speaking to her in a low voice. She bent her head to listen.
"No need for any of your, em, very polite thank-yous, but come see me at the Ragged Flagon down the canal if you need...advice...about your, ah, business. Might be I could help you. Don't go shouting it, mind, but the name Brynjolf still means something in these parts." He still gripped her hand, and Thorgilja fought the urge to wrench free. "Don't mind the others. The drink does most of the talking for them, more's the pity. Watch your step, though, lass. Folk like Arla may look simple, but the webs in this town go deeper and darker than you might think." He straightened, released Thorgilja's hand. She nodded, then turned to Torsten, who had in the meantime practically collapsed across the table as if his legs had suddenly transformed into matchsticks and immediately snapped. Thorgilja clapped her hand on his shoulder, making him jump and nearly fall off the bench he was haphazardly sprawled on. "Another drink for Torsten," she said, giving the back of his head a rare smile, and filled the mug that he'd accidentally flung halfway across the table. She set it down beside him and left without looking at either of the men who watched her go.