Riften is quiet, which isn't too strange since the city is always still and rare when it comes to action. Apart from the voices in the marketplace, and Maven Black-briar teaching some poor chap a lesson on 'where to look when bypassing such an important individual like herself', Riften is quiet. Even Brand-Shei is silent, which isn't odd but is somehow unusual. He's always barking out deals of every sort to the same customers from yesterday.
The sounds from within The Bee and Barb are muffled from where I stand outside the door. I can hear Marcurio—the snobby "Apprentice Wizard"—chatting up someone with a promise of "gouts of arcane fire" and other mage nonsense. Only an idiot would hire such a nuisance; the moment one drops five hundred gold in his palm, all they'll hear is some more nonsense about carrying their load. Well, Marcurio, I think grimly. That's why you get the five hundred gold. To carry someone else's pile of-
I see him staggering along the boardwalk in front of Mercer Frey's house, and I'm following, rounding around Sniff's sitting spot and crossing the bridge with a careless air. No one's eyes follow, and I make no sudden shifts in my leisurely gait. I follow the cloaked figure into the graveyard behind the Temple of Mara and catch him by his arm. Etienne jumps and whirls to face me like I'm a bloody dragon, or worse, Maven.
"Where in Tamriel have you been, lad? Mercer's been climbing up the walls wondering where you went off to!" I hiss. And then I see his face, gaunt and pale. I take the edge of his frayed cloak and tug it open, revealing a chest marred by fresh scars and deformed by jutting ribs. In his hand, he clutches a dagger.
"What happened?" My voice deepens with concern and Etienne's eyes grow moist with unhappy tears. I pull the cloak back around him, and lead him into the sarcophagus with a supportive arm around the shivering Breton's shoulders.
...
"The Thalmor, eh?" Mercer says, rubbing the stubble on his chin with a thoughtful expression. "It's good to know who our enemies are, am I right, Brynjolf?"
I nod. Etienne had just finished telling us what happened at the embassy. His description, so detailed, had left many of us a tad disturbed. I'd seen Vex flutter back out into the bar with such a pale face that was ought to get a sly remark out of ol' Delvin.
"The Thalmor will definitely send their soldiers here to search the Ratways, and this is the easiest route through to there. We'd best be expecting company in a matter of days, since Etienne was there only two days ago," I say. "I bet that they'll be disguised. If I were them, I'd want to blend in and avoid trouble."
"Yes, yes," Mercer replies, a little distantly if so. "Which is why you'll be the one doing just that. Since Etienne needs to replenish his energy, I'm sure that you'll be willing to handle it."
My thoughtful frown drops away and I stare at Mercer in annoyance. "Why do I have to do everything? Send Vex. Or better yet, send Sapphire. She hates it down here anyway-"
"No, I'm sending you. I need someone reliable up there, someone with keen eyes and a persuasive personality," Mercer's voice loosens and a smirk lightens his features. "You'll open up that stall and sell that crate of health mixtures Delvin managed to snag. Tell them it's some kind of magic tonic, or maybe call it 'Falmer Blood Elixir'. I'm sure they'll find that quite fetching, a-ha-ha-ha!"
"As you say, boss," I grumble, rubbing the back of my neck tiredly. I make to step away and look for the crate, but Mercer beckons me back: "If the Thalmor do show up, come to me straight away. I don't need a fight breaking out in the marketplace and letting everyone know of our business. This stays private, understand?" His voice is grating.
"Yeah," I reply. Mercer's eyes glint and he looks back down at the papers on his desk.
"Oh, Mercer," A thought comes to mind. "What do I do if the girl comes here?"
"What girl?" Mercer asks without looking up.
"The girl who freed Etienne? Didn't he mention her?"
"Oh, yes," Mercer shoves the papers to one side of his desk and straightens, his eyes fixed on a point behind my head. "Make sure she isn't Thalmor. She could be a tracker of some type, meant to release Etienne and follow him to Riften to get to this 'Esbern'". Mercer shrugs and reaches for an age-flattened book under his desk. "The kid is smart. He should know the difference."
Mercer grows distant again as he pages through the book and grunts something under his breath about the 'East Empire Company'. I run my fingers through my hair and hear Rune and Sapphire arguing over an ingredient in the cooking pot, while Niruin lifts the ladle to his mouth to try it. Vipir passes me with a cheery smile and says, "It's good to see Etienne back home."
I find Etienne sitting on his bed. I put on a smile for the poor laddie and sit beside him. His chest and his arms are bandaged, and some kind of poultice has been smeared across the cuts on his face. He smells of ground-up roots and flowers now, unlike the horrid troll stench that wafted from his skin earlier.
"Feeling better, Etienne?" I ask. He nods and winces as he moves a shoulder.
"I overheard your conversation with Mercer and I wanted to ask…" he hesitates. "W-when you're up there watching for Thalmor, keep an eye for that girl, too. She saved my life, and I want to thank her," he requests with a hopeful smile. I sit on the bed next to the boy and stare at his bruised jutting cheekbone for a second.
"What's she look like?"
"I didn't get the best look at her. She's shorter than me and she was a Nord. The lighting in the prison was awful and I couldn't see well either. I do remember she carried a bow," he replies, giving me a very slight picture to work with. This girl could be anyone! "She was skilled with that bow. She took down two Thalmor just like that!" he snaps his fingers.
"Are you sure she wasn't meant to release you and, I don't know, follow you here?" I ask lightly. Etienne looks not only confused, but uncertain, and my stomach flips in worry. "I don't…I just know that she rescued the two of us. She killed the Thalmor without hesitation…"
"Etienne, I have to know. If she comes here, she could be a regular mercenary or a Thalmor plant. She wouldn't hesitate for any instances if it were her job," I try to be gentle. Etienne is chewing his lip as he struggles to wade through what will already be blurred memory.
"She wasn't a mercenary. She…she was just a girl," Etienne concludes. "I can't tell you what she was, Brynjolf. I just know that I'm happy to be out of there. But I know one thing for certain." A bright light shimmers in Etienne's eyes as he turns to me. I tilt my head in question.
"She'd be a wonder if she joined the guild," he smiles regretfully. "An absolute wonder…"
...
I remember Etienne's words as I stand in the market stall with a bottle of "Falmer Blood Elixir" in my hand, shouting out some enthralling lie about it and gathering curious eyes. I don't care for the money the odd folk drops on a bottle—although it is amusing to watch them uncork it and try a sip—or the humoured faces cast in my direction. I'm on the job, my eyes watching for any strange figures in the shadows. Five days come and go, and for five days I hardly sleep, waiting to defend my guild from any dangers. I'm an honest man, as far as honesty in a guild of thievery and lies goes and, although I've broken promises and betrayed those I could have once called my friends, I keep my word to Etienne, watching for the girl who doesn't seem to want to show. But after those five days, I begin to wonder if it's worth it to stand in the variable weather of Frostfall, and I wonder if Etienne's tale was nonsense or perhaps a dream.
And one day, when the divines are pissing on us for a second day in a row and bellowing their laughter across the stormy grey sky, and we are all huddling in The Bee and Barb for warm drinks and food, a girl is leaving as I am coming down the stairs from my rented bed on the upper level. She wears iron armour several sizes too big and ruined from misuse, and a Dwarven bow gleams dully on her back in dire need of a good cleaning. Her eyes seem too big for her face and far too wary to believe her to be a mercenary. Her hair is brown and braided atop her scalp while wet, tangled locks are nestled inside the top of her breastplate. She's as skinny as a rat, weary in the shoulders and shivering from the adjustment of cold to warm, but she holds a grace that only warriors bear.
It's her.
