The Ember Covenant

by Hanyolo

Dragons have returned to Skyrim, and three unlikely heroes - a wandering mercenary, a disgraced scoundrel, and a misanthropic sorceress - find themselves caught up in the winding threads of destiny. Threatened by the end of time itself, they must unite in order to stoke Skyrim's dying flame. Continued in The Flames of Contempt.

7. The City of Greed

Jakt spent the first night cooped up in the Castle Dour dungeon on his feet, pacing. This was no mean feat, as his cell was so small he could barely stretch both arms out. After a fitful few hours of comatose sleep, punctuated only by the rattle of porcelain wordlessly shoved through the solid wooden door's slot, he let himself relax a little.

It was a strange sensation: for the first time in a long time fate had conspired to keep Jakt stuck in one place. Urgent responsibilities and other pressing matters remained, but felt far away and devoid of threat, hovering lazily like wasps that only attack when provoked. It gave him time to reflect on the past months, how inane everything had become – or perhaps it always had been inane, and he had spent the whole of his life before Skyrim in a trance. It seemed to Jakt that fate had taken away whatever agency he though he had and instead forced him down the narrow corridor of destiny.

He had spent much of his life wandering, first with the companies in Cyrodil and the Black Marsh, then the Fighter's guild, and finally on his own, to Skyrim. Always he had been content to board wherever he could find a bed, never allowing any shackles to slither around his ankles and tether him. Mercenaries make poor friends, after all, and the kind of women they usually attract make even poorer wives. Once upon a time, he felt liberated, freed, by this lack of responsibility. Now, having narrowly escaped the fury of the Aldmeri Dominion only to plop firmly into the bloated clutches of Old Man Septim, he longed for safety, for a sense of comfort and security that he hadn't felt since his mother had disappeared.

But some higher power had deigned Jakt of interest, and now his actions had consequences. Lydia and Malborn, and most likely Brelas now too: well-intentioned people caught up in his wake and swept away while still he clung on. His thoughts turned to Lysana: as the Imperial company led him back up the cobbled road to Solitude he'd caught glimpses of her, unmoving, slung over some Imperial's shoulder. His frustrated attempts to ask after her were met with silence or antagonism by his captors. And Drake… who knew what had happened to the thief.

Jakt spent the next day wracking his brains, trying to come up with a plan for escape. He'd spent time in a cell before, in his old life: drunken brawls, mostly, or misunderstandings with local militia related to mercenary work. The Guild usually bailed him out of these minor offenses, once he had proved himself an asset, of course. He doubted that Delphine would risk the exposure required for such a procedure, however; he was on his own this time. He remembered Drake explaining to him why it was a good idea to keep at least one lockpick hidden on yourself at any given time, but Jakt had little skill in such pursuits. His large, callused hands, although quick, lacked the fine-tuned dexterity necessary for use with small tools.

He cursed himself for not learning words such as "open" or "door" or "lock" in the dragon tongue, and for his use of the Thu'um so far: as a weapon first, a tool second. Then again, he reminded himself, dragons didn't really have the same problems with doors and locks as did Men and Mer. He decided against blowing down the door with the Voice, or setting it aflame, because of the sheer mess it would cause. The guards would come running, and the thought of locating and rescuing Lysana while fighting off the Legion unarmed soured his stomach.

Eventually he concluded that they would have to interrogate him at some point. And he was right.

On the third day, he heard a sharp rap on the door.

"Stand back, prisoner," came a crisp, commanding voice, "I am not alone. Comply or you will be subdued."

The door opened to reveal an Imperial in strange armor, flanked by three standard guardsmen with clubs. Their leader's cuirass was the standard skirted steel and leather, but painted a dark grey hue; his chestplate and shoulder pauldrons were adorned with the Imperial dragon symbol, inside of which was painted a simple bronze eye. The man was as tall as Jakt and looked to be the same age. He had small grey eyes, a full head of dark curly hair and a shiny black goatee. He stared at Jakt for a moment, his face a wooden mask, before beckoning him forward. Jakt stepped out of the cell. He produced a pair of iron shackles.

"Hold out your hands," commanded the man in the strange armor.

"Is this really necessary? I'm not going to try anything stupid." Jakt said, using his voice for the first time in days. It sounded rusty.

"That wasn't a question," replied the man with a smirk. One of the guards took a threatening step forward, raising his club. Jakt shrugged, held out his arms, and let the man shackle him.

Once it was done, the man spun without a word and began walking down the corridor. Jakt faltered for a moment, but one of the men prodded him forward with his club. They fell into step behind him.

The corridor led past several more cells, most of their doors open and their walls empty. At the end there was a slightly larger room with a menacing iron door. The Imperial led their small company into the room; it was sparsely decorated with a table and a few chairs, well lit by torches in wall skonces but completely windowless. The room was well cleaned, but freshly scrubbed walls and floors could not mask its sinister air; whatever happened in here, there must have been some great effort to conceal it. It made Jakt very uneasy.

The guardsmen stopped before the doorway and motioned Jakt inside. He followed their leader and took a seat across from him at the table, slumping low in his chair. The man had impeccable posture, most likely resulting from a lifelong career in the Legion.

A moment of silence passed between the two. Jakt could only imagine the figure he must cut in this strange man's eyes: battered and bruised, speckled in the dried blood of others, and dressed in rags. If he was surprised or curious, however, he did not show it, instead producing a small leather-bound book, opening it, and making a few quick notes.

"Witnesses at the Madam Ambassador's evening party gave your name as Sven," he began slowly, "bodyguard and steward to the Viscount of Skingrad."

He paused and looked up, looking bored.

"Yet you were found on the road to Solitude dressed in the customary Elven armor of a Thalmor guard. Hmm."

He leaned forward conspiratorially and continued. "We both know that the real Viscount of Skingrad was not in attendance. I'm willing to bet Sven is an assumed name, albeit not a very inventive one. But, you see," he paused, smiling, "I did you a favor. I could have turned you over to the Thalmor Justiciars, and they are far less pleasant than I."

He leaned back in his chair. "Of course, it still could be done. We have a good working relationship, I'll have you know. But I'm willing to consider striking up a deal of sorts if you would do me a favor in return and answer some questions."

"Where is the woman I was captured with?" Jakt asked, trying to keep the unease in his voice to a minimum.

The imperial shook his head. "I won't answer any of your questions until you answer mine. That's how a fair exchange of information works, you know."

"There's nothing fair about this particular exchange," Jakt replied.

"It could be a great deal less fair, if you continue to insist so."

"Who are you?"

"I was just about to ask you that question. What kind of fool breaks into a Thalmor Embassy?"

Jakt cleared his throat. "A very determined one."

"Clearly. Others might say, 'one with a death wish.' I'm surprised you made it out. Did you have help? Party guests? Agents of our own, perhaps?"

The man's pleasant tone was unnerving. Jakt felt his heartbeat ratchet up a couple of paces. "Why would your agents want to rob the Thalmor?"

The man laughed. "When it comes to gathering information, you won't find anyone else so precise and methodical. And with such little regard for life, for that matter."

"Am I detecting a note of jealousy?"

The man smiled. "Respect, perhaps. I get the feeling you know much about the Thalmor."

He reached under the table and produced a couple of leather-bound books. Jakt recognized them immediately as the dossiers that he had stolen from the interrogation room in the embassy and resisted the urge to groan audibly.

"In fact," the man continued slyly, "based on the spoils of your little thieving spree, I get the feeling that we might even be on the same side."

Jakt was silent. The man was probably trying to trick him into admitting something. He wished he were better at this sort of thing.

"If that is true," he replied slowly, trying a different tactic, "Then will you tell me who you are?"

The man shrugged. "I don't see the harm in it. I'm Gaius Maro. Imperial agent, obviously. Yourself?"

"Jakt," Jakt grunted.

The man laughed. "Short and to the point. How typically Nordic. But you don't speak Imperial with an accent. Are you from Skyrim originally?"

Jakt looked at him warily. There was definitely something very off-putting by Maro's easy manner. Then again, he didn't see the point of concealing arbitrary information.

"No," he said, "Grew up in Cyrodil. Came to Skyrim recently."

"Fleeing trouble?" Maro asked mischievously.

When Jakt didn't reply, the man shook his head and smiled. "Not that it's any of my business. What is my business-" he pushed one of the Thalmor Dossiers forward - "are threats to the Empire."

The dossier read "Dragon Crisis/Dragonborn." Jakt felt dread rising up from his stomach, like ice-cold bile. He wondered how much Maro knew, for the man was obviously accustomed to giving little away.

"It seems ours friends the Thalmor know as little as we do about Skyrim's dragon pest problem," Maro started conversationally.

"Your friends. They aren't mine."

Maro smiled condescendingly. "You Nords. You really don't understand the necessity of keeping up appearances, do you? I envy your tendency towards harsh candor, childish though it may be."

Jakt didn't reply.

"They are scrambling to understand it just as we are," Maro continued, "Only in a manner more dignified, at least on the surface. And they have come to the conclusion that this man-" he slid the dossier labeled Esbern forward - "holds the answers we all seek."

Jakt took the dossier in his shackled hands and opened it clumsily. It was very brief and only took a moment to read.

"He's a Blade," he said out loud, without thinking.

"You're familiar with them?"

Jakt looked up at Maro. The man was smiling, but his eyes were cold, calculating. Jakt did the only thing he could think of to avoid unintentionally giving something away or spilling his guts - he stayed silent.

Maro nodded slowly. "I suppose it doesn't matter. The Blades are a relic, long dead and buried, so they can't really help him any more, can they? But Jakt, you and I, we can help."

He leaned forward again. "If this Esbern knows what the Thalmor think he knows, then we need to track him down. The Gods know what the Thalmor would do with that kind of information."

"Why would I work for you?" Jakt asked bitterly, "I've been on the wrong side of Imperial justice before, if it even deserves to be called that. You talk about the Blades like they're dead and gone, but the truth is, you're headed to the grave as well."

Maro's smile disappeared. He pulled something else out of the knapsack underneath the table, which by now Jakt had figured out was the one he'd carried from the Thalmor Embassy. He slid it forward. It was a leather shoulder pauldron, painted black. Jakt recognized it as a piece of Drake's patchwork leather armor. Maro pointed to a small marking, etched with white, partially rubbed out. It looked like a tall, skinny diamond with a circle inside of it.

"Recognize that symbol?"

Jakt squinted at it for a moment and shook his head.

"The Thieves Guild," snapped Maro. "It's their sigil. They've got their grimy little paws in every cheap junket this side of Hammerfell. The penalty for association is quite steep, you know. Hefty jail time, at the very best." Maro's eyes glinted dangerously. "You don't have ties to them, do you?"

He paused. "In fact, I believe you left the Embassy with a member of the Thieves Guild, did you not?

Jakt's throat tightened. In his concern for Lysana, he had forgotten all about Etienne Rarnis. Then he felt a stab of anger when he remembered that Rarnis had tried to implicate them when they had been captured, giving them away as pretenders. The gratitude of the Thieves Guild, it seemed, was not worth much.

"I don't suppose you want to know what happened to your friend?" Maro asked softly.

Jakt shrugged. He cared little.

"He hanged."

"So to answer your earlier question," he continued, when Jakt did not reply, "Firstly, you don't really have a choice, unless you consider rotting away in a dungeon or swinging on a rope a valid option. Secondly, the Empire is the only one capable of standing up to the Thalmor. So you'd best hope that what you say isn't true, unless you want your children speaking Elvish. Should they even be that lucky."

Jakt tilted his head defiantly. "Ulfric Stormcloak has done more to resist-"

"Ulfric Stormcloak?!" Maro laughed, cutting him off. "Are you thick? The Thalmor love him!"

"That's horseshit."

"Don't believe me?" he slid another dossier forward, this one labeled Stormcloak. Jakt didn't bother to try and read this one, for it was much thicker.

"He keeps the Empire off balance. Let me tell you something, Jakt, the Thalmor have been working his angle for years, ever since the Great War, really. He needles away at us with his little rebellion, distracting us from our true quarry, and the best part is, they don't even need to order him around! He's the perfect agent." Maro looked jealous again, positively sulky at that.

Jakt shook his head. "I don't believe you. He's a hero. While you slither around in the tall grass, trying to get the jump on the Thalmor because you lack the guts to face them openly."

Maro shrugged. "Believe what you will. It matters not to me. What does matter is that you find this Esbern, learn what he knows, and report it to me. After that, you are free to run to Ulfric's arms, if you so desire."

Jakt raised his eyebrows at that. "Why give me this deal?"

Maro smiled cryptically. "I thought you were clever, Jakt. Come on! You're a nobody, untraceable. The Thalmor probably think you're working with the Blades, or something foolish like that. And, no offense, but you're also expendable."

"Even still," Jakt said slowly, finding it hard to believe, "This sounds like an awful risk on your part."

Maro's smile widened. "Well, lets just say, somehow in your travels you managed to make a very powerful friend. And that friend vouched for you."

At that, he stood and unlocked the door, leaving Jakt to puzzle over those words. "Now come. There's someone waiting for you. I will of course return your equipment, although I'm afraid we're going to have to hold on to the Thalmor garb you… confiscated. I had copies of the dossiers made, so you're free to take those as well."

"Will you unshackle me now?" Jakt asked, wryly.

Maro turned to look him in the eye. His eyes glinted.

"Do you know why I shackled you in the first place, Jakt? I didn't need to, of course. We both know you weren't going anywhere."

Jakt shook his head.

"I wanted to remind you who's really in control."

---

Maro led him out of the dungeon and into an anteroom where an armored Imperial Officer stood at attention. Jakt was surprised to see the officer was a woman. Her armor was well polished, adorned with the simple red and gold stripes of an Imperial Legate.

"He's all yours, Rikke," Maro said casually, bowing low.

"That's Legate to you, Maro," she replied coldly. "Out."

Maro smirked and stalked out of the room. The Legate turned to Jakt, sizing him up. Jakt did the same. She had striking features, clear blue eyes and distinctly Nordic fair hair, pulled back in a tight, low ponytail. Taller than he, Rikke made for quite the imposing figure. Jakt wondered if she wore her armor everywhere she went.

"I wanted to meet you," Rikke began, slowly. Her voice was low and sharp. "It either takes great courage or great stupidity to do what you did at that Embassy. The legion needs capable warriors, not to mention those capable of standing up to the Thalmor, and as far as I'm concerned, your distinctly Nordic propensity for risk-taking is an asset it has in short supply."

"You're trying to recruit me?" Jakt said, trying and failing to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

Rikke arched an eyebrow. "I know Maro has you running errands. He's a snake, he lacks honor. But the legion isn't about subterfuge; it's about service and sacrifice, protecting the goodly folk. Ulfric threatens that peace. As do the elves."

Jakt shook his head. He knew he had to be careful around an Imperial Legate, but he couldn't help himself. "Ulfric is fighting for that peace. It is the legion who is incapable of providing it."

Rikke scowled. "Bold words, for an outlander such as yourself. If you haven't yet joined him, my offer still stands. But make no mistake, you will have to make a choice, boy. And when you make it, pray that we do not meet on the field of battle."

She paused. "You're free to leave. Your mage is waiting in the next room. I suggest you take care of whatever task Maro has assigned to you quickly and efficiently and then walk away. His organization…" she paused to rethink her words.

"He's not worthy of your trust."

Jakt smiled. "At least we can agree on that."

Rikke nodded and pursed her lips in what might have been a smile. Jakt took that as a dismissal. He shouldered his re-packed knapsack, buckled his sword to his belt, and walked to greet Lysana.

She was standing in the entranceway of the main hall, reading, dressed once again in her familiar robes. She looked up to reveal a bruised, swollen eye, black as midnight. He could not resist grinning ruefully at her appearance, but it faltered when she raised her eyebrows and scowled.

"I'm not very skilled at restorative magic," she explained testily.

"Nice to see you too," Jakt said, pouting with mock hurt. Lysana smiled and shook her head.

"You too. Did you get interrogated as well?"

Jakt nodded. "Some spook. Gaius Maro." He was actually a little disappointed that she didn't seem happier to see him, but he pushed those thoughts away; apparently she wanted to talk business.

At that moment, however, the door creaked open, flooding the chamber with daylight. A small company of Imperial scouts filed in and marched by, sizing them up as they passed. Jakt did the same. They looked haggard, overtaxed, much like the rest of the legionnaires in Solitude.

Lysana looked around. "We shouldn't talk here. Back to the Winking Skeever."

---

Once they were out of sight of Castle Dour, in the thick of the bustling afternoon streets of Solitude, Lysana turned and threw her arms around Jakt. He seemed surprised; then again, she had put on a show in Castle Dour, uncomfortable of showing affection for anything in that stifling place.

"I was worried," she murmured into his shoulder.

He cleared his throat. "Me too."

She drew back and looked up at him. He obviously hadn't slept much, and his hair was unkempt and greasy. The guards had trundled him up in a spare tunic that had evidently belonged to a much fatter man, which he wore over his classic prisoner's burlap sack trousers and foot wraps.

"You look horrible."

He cracked a grin. "You look great. Did they give you a penthouse cell, or something?"

She grinned in return, but the effort of smiling made her bruised face throb, and it became a grimace instead. Jakt noticed and looked pained.

"I could use some sherry," she said quietly, "But first we should get you something else to wear. It's embarrassing to be seen with you."

They strolled through the market to a vendor selling armor. Jakt withdrew the fine mail coat from his knapsack and, after some haggling, traded it in for a scaled jerkin. It was decorated in the classic Nord fashion, inlaid with carved steel, and topped off with two large pauldrons. The polished scales glinted beautifully in the afternoon sunlight. The bottom half of the armor consisted of a thick fur skirt that came down to mid thigh, out of which sprouted two rigid scale pieces designed to protect the upper legs from slashing cuts.

Jakt unbuckled his sword, pulled off the overlarge tunic to reveal splendid musculature, and then slipped the scaled cuirass over his body. Then he turned to her and grinned.

"You need some proper boots," Lysana recommended, trying not to admire his bare arms too obviously.

Jakt nodded, withdrew some coin, and, instead of buying the matching scale boots, bought some reinforced leather ones and a pair of matching bracers for the same price. He pulled the boots on over the rucksack pants and tightened the bracers on his forearms. Then he buckled on his sword, shouldered the knapsack and turned again for her opinion.

Lysana smiled. "You look like a traveling vagabond. But not a shabby one, at least."

Jakt gripped his bare upper arms. "I'll have to sew on some leather or plate or something; I'll never understand the Nordic obsession with baring one's biceps. Just isn't smart."

"I didn't know the Fighters Guild taught their people to sew."

Jakt laughed. "You'd be surprised at the useful skills you pick up with them."

Suddenly a familiar smell wafted through the breeze. Lysana perked up and turned around to immediately spot her quarry: a small pastry cart manned by an old Breton woman.

She grabbed Jakt's hand and eagerly led him over to the cart. The woman appeared to be dozing off, but smiled when Lysana planted herself in front of the kiosk.

"Pastries from High Rock," the woman croaked.

"You have Jehanna Cinnamon Twirls?"

The old woman nodded. "Fresh baked."

"Jakt, try one!"

Lysana deposited eight septims on the counter and waited as the woman creaked down and retrieved two of the pastries from the warmed container underneath the cart. She bit back her disappointment when she saw them: they were crudely twisted, as opposed to elegantly twirled in the old Jehannan fashion. But a moment later, when she bit into the pastry, that disappointment blew away like a leaf in the breeze.

"My mother used to bake these back home," she explained to Jakt, beaming as he gingerly bit into his. He hummed with contentment and finished the whole thing off in one bite.

Lysana raised her eyebrow. "You're supposed to savor it!"

Jakt grinned back. "I was never a very patient child."

She shook her head. "She used to stuff them full of sweet cheese, then mix the cinnamon powder with icing and drizzle it on top. But these are almost as good."

"Was she from High Rock?"

She nodded. "Her parents were tavern owners in Jehenna. She was a barmaid; she followed my father to Markarth after she got pregnant with me. Then-"

She caught herself. Why was she telling Jakt this? If the College had taught her anything, it was that her old life wasn't important. Sorceresses must plan for the future, not sit around lamenting the past.

"She still around?"

She turned to look at Jakt. Their eyes met; the unmistakable pall of sorrow clouded his green orbs.

"No," she said solemnly. "Not that I know of, at least. They both disappeared after Ulfric… after the Markarth incident. I was young, I don't remember them well."

Jakt looked pained. "I'm sorry. I know how it feels."

Lysana shook her head. She wrestled this strange desire to confide in him into submission. "I don't think about it much. They were both young and foolish. It's a sad story, but it isn't very original." Her tone was colder than she intended.

Jakt nodded slowly, evidently understanding her subtext. He waited in silence as she finished her pastry then changed the subject.

"We missed the rendezvous with Drake," he began, "I don't suppose you've heard anything…"

"I was cooped up just like you were," she reminded him, "Although they saw fit to give me better accommodations, so it seems."

Jakt leaned forward. "They interrogated you too, you mentioned?"

Lysana scrunched up her face. "Your friend Maro came in and asked me some questions. I didn't tell him anything, naturally. I think he thought he would have better luck with you. Then the Legate came in and told me it was all a misunderstanding in the eyes of the law, and that I was free to go."

Jakt looked guilty.

"What did you tell him?" she asked dryly, feeling her chest tighten a little bit. Inwardly she bemoaned Jakt's patented lack of subtlety.

"Nothing, really," Jakt began, defensively. "He was well informed. He said he wanted the same thing as us."

"Does he know you're the Dragonborn, you fool?" Lysana felt herself starting to get angry.

"I don't know. He alluded, but never outright asked."

"You realize he wants to use you, right?"

Jakt threw up his hands in consternation. "Of course! I'm not brain-dead. But we - I didn't have a choice!"

Lysana was silent for a moment, trying to contain her frustration with him. "Well, obviously we've gotten the Empire's attention. No doubt they let us out so they could have us followed."

Jakt nodded. "I thought about that."

"Oh did you?" she replied, mockingly. He looked hurt for a moment and then she felt bad. It wasn't really his fault, after all.

"I'm sorry. It's been a rough couple of days. Let's get something to drink and then hit the road."

---

"So, the Thalmor seem to think that this Esbern has some connection to the Thieves Guild," Jakt began, thumbing through the dossier once.

Delphine perked up immediately. "What did you say?"

They sat in the secret room in the Sleeping Giant inn. After five long, hard days of traveling, watching the hills around of Solitude give way to the boggy pits of Eastmarsh, Lysana was tired and annoyed. At least her eye had finally started to heal. Delphine had greeted them with her customary coolness, then listened to their story with aura of disappointment. Lysana watched her intently as Jakt repeated what he'd been saying. "They seem to think that this 'Esbern' guy-"

Delphine leaned forward and gripped Jakt's hand like a vice. From the look on his face, it hurt pretty badly. It was the most expressive that Lysana had ever seen the old Breton.

"Esbern… he's alive!?"

"You know him?" Jakt said, puzzled.

"Of course! He's a Blade. Or rather, he was the chronicler for the chapter in Cyrodil. That crazy old bastard!"

She stood, her mouth breaking out into a smile of euphoria. Lysana found her newfound range of expression a little bit terrifying.

"Come on," she said, "We're leaving immediately. If there's anyone who will know how to sort out this mess, it'll be Esbern."

Jakt stood with her. "Wait, Delphine, I don't think that's such a great idea."

"Why not?" She replied sharply.

"Well for one thing, we're exhausted -"

"The Thalmor know you're operating in Skyrim, Delphine," Lysana interjected, "But they don't know where exactly. We can't risk the two of you in one place."

A look of pure rage passed over Delphine's face for a moment before it returned to its customary blank state.

"She's right," Jakt said, sliding the dossier labeled 'Delphine' over to her. "We'll go and retrieve him."

Delphine sighed and slumped a bit, picking up her dossier and thumbing through the pages. "Gods take me, you're right."

For a moment, just a moment, she looked old and tired. Then she snapped up.

"Right. The Thieves Guild has a presence in Riften. Start with the inn there, the Bee and Barb. I've heard rumors about a hideout in the Ratway, but that place is a labyrinth. If I know Esbern, and I do, he's gone to ground there."

Jakt nodded and exchanged an uneasy glance with Lysana.

"There's one more thing," he began, awkwardly.

"Drake - the Imperial - has he made any contact with you?" Lysana finished, quickly.

Delphine looked nonplussed. "He hasn't been through here. Then again, I doubt he would, were he not with you."

"We lost contact with him at the party," Jakt explained.

Delphine's brow furrowed. "You think they caught him?"

Lysana shrugged. "He wasn't in the interrogation room in the Embassy, or in Castle Dour. We missed our planned rendezvous when we were locked up, so I suppose it's possible the Thalmor might have gotten hold of him. But we also know he has - or used to have - contact with the Guild."

"Of course the little shit disappears when he could be most useful," Delphine said, grimacing. "Assume the worst. If he turns up, I wouldn't trust him."

Lysana nodded and then turned to Jakt, trying not to look too accusatory. Jakt swallowed, clearly chafing under her glare. She could tell he was conflicted, but Lysana knew that she was right. Had Drake ever really proved himself trustworthy to begin with?

"Jakt," Delphine said, clearly impatient to change the subject, "Esbern is even more paranoid than I. If you manage to track him down, you need to prove that he can trust you, or at least that you aren't trying to kill him. When you see him, ask him, 'Where were you on the 30th of Frostfall?'"

"Uh, okay. What does that mean, exactly?"

"It doesn't matter," Delphine waved her hand dismissively to illustrate her point. "Esbern will know."

Jakt sat down heavily. "We'll leave first thing tomorrow. I need a feather bed."

Delphine laughed, something that Lysana had never seen her do. Evidently the news about Esbern was enough to elicit mirth from the hard woman.

"I had no idea the Dragonborn was so soft," she said. "I'll have Orgnar make up a room."

---

Deja vu lurked in the back of Jakt's mind as they inched their way towards Riften. He remembered the last time he had come this way - barely two weeks prior - in order to kill the dragon at Kynesgrove. When the last semblance of normality had fled his life completely.

Lysana matched his steps. She had been coldly quiet, and Jakt knew why: when they first set out, they had argued bitterly about Drake. It had gone pretty much how he had expected. Lysana had immediately agreed with Delphine; the Imperial was not to be trusted, she had said, and might even have sold them out. Jakt vouched for him, lost his temper, told her to shut up. In response, she had labeled him naive and foolish, as she was apt to do, and had barely spoken since. He was beginning to feel bad about the fight. It didn't help that a nagging voice in his head kept reminding him that she had a point, that Drake was ultimately looking out for Drake. But he did not want to admit that she might be right, not only because of his pride, but also because he wanted to believe she wrong.

Now, they trudged up onto the plateau of the Rift in silence. Jakt watched as the coniferous trees and temperate climate of Whiterun hold gave way to cooler everglade forests. Once again he was struck by the surprising variety of Skyrim's climate, and the extent of its haunting beauty.

Suddenly Lysana tapped his arm and pointed ahead. Four men loped towards them, gripping their sheathed weapons in the customary manner of peaceful wariness. Jakt stopped, gripped his own sword tightly by the hilt, but left it in its scabbard. As they drew nearer, he recognized the sky blue of the Stormcloak rebellion. From the make of their garb - simple armor crafted of studded leather and fur - they looked to be scouts.

"Travelers!" the leader hailed the pair once she drew within five yards of them, "State your business in the Rift."

Jakt stepped forward, raising his hand from his hilt and placing his palms up in a show of peaceful deference.

"We make for Riften. Our business is our own. We are friendly, however, to your cause." He could practically feel Lysana's annoyed glare burning a hole in the side of his neck, but he ignored her.

The officer raised her own hand from her belted axe and motioned for her men to do the same. Then she strode forward and offered his hand to Jakt, who clasped it heartily.

"Hail, kinsman," the woman smiled. She was young, as were her comrades: young and proud. They all had the distinct Nord height and look, with fair hair and bright eyes.

"Its surprising to see Stormcloaks walking so brazenly on the Imperial highway," Lysana said to her, raising an eyebrow.

"Hail, little sister," the officer greeted Lysana with just a touch of condescension and turned back to Jakt. "You haven't heard the news?"

Jakt shook his head. "We're traveling from Whiterun Hold, so if it's recent news, than no."

"Ah," said the leader, narrowing her eyes, "That explains why you don't wear the blue. That old goat Balgruuf may bleat his neutrality without pause, but Talos knows his sympathies really lay with the Dragon."

"What happened?" Lysana interjected.

"The Stone-Fist, with his Army of Dusk, has taken Fort Greenwall," the officer began, puffing out her chest, "Driving those Imperial dogs completely from the Rift. The sons and daughters of the Rift need no longer be afraid to fly their true colors, and Jarl Laila Law-Giver has publicly thrown in her support with Ulfric."

Jakt smiled. But then something Maro had said flashed through his head - the Thalmor were using Ulfric to weaken the Empire - and his smile faltered. Maro had left him the copy of the Thalmor dossier on Ulfric, but Jakt had yet to open it. Lysana had insisted that he hang onto it, of course, but had apparently respected his decision not to read it, and had stopped bothering him about it. Jakt had a little too much pride to admit that he was scared to open it, in all honesty.

Then again, what did he care? If the Stormcloaks could overthrow the Empire, the seat of power in Skyrim for more than two millennia, surely they could defeat a Thalmor invasion. The whole reason that Skyrim belonged to the Empire in the first place was because Tiber Septim himself was of Nordic descent, or so the tales said. And the last of the Septim blood was long dead.

I owe nothing to the Empire.

"The Stormcloaks need your steel, brother," exclaimed one of the other scouts excitedly. "Have you any skill with that blade?"

Jakt nodded. He glanced at Lysana, whose face was impassive.

"I've business in Riften," Jakt explained, "But I will say that it bodes well for that business that there be no Imperial noses to sniff about in it."

The officer smiled and clasped his hand again. "Say no more, brother," she began, "I look forward to fighting by your side."

With that, the small company jogged off.

"That sounds like trouble," Lysana said wryly, once they were out of earshot. Jakt turned to face her, his temper rising once more.

"They're fighting for something they believe in," he said, his ears burning. "Can you say the same?"

"Jakt," she held out her hand, surprising him by dropping her cold and distant tone. "You might think Ulfric is trying to make Skyrim a better place. But really he's trying to make it a better place for Nords."

He brushed this aside. "Horseshit. The Empire prosecutes all its subjects, regardless of race. And don't even get me started with the Thalmor."

Lysana shook her head. "Did you see how they brushed me off back there? They don't respect those not of Nordic blood. They can tolerate Bretons because we're technically men, but do you think Khajiit or the Dunmer figure into Ulfric's vision? Tell me Jakt, is that something you believe in?"

Jakt scowled, but Lysana pressed forward, and the frantic look in her eyes made him pause.

"I know you grew up in Cyrodiil, and things are a little more cosmopolitan there, so I wanted you to see it for yourself. That may not have seemed like much, but things will be worse under Ulfric's thumb."

As she spoke, he recognized the glint in her eyes for what it was: fear.

"Just… It's something to think about. Keep an open mind. For me, okay?"

He nodded.

"Who knows?" she continued, shrugging. "Maybe if Ulfric wins, and gets what he wants, he'll ease up."

He could tell that she was just saying this to placate him. But why? A month ago she would have practically exploded at him for voicing his opinion on the issue. She had, in fact.

Jakt took a step forward and grasped her hand.

"You know… I wouldn't let anyone hurt you."

She drew away from him, a look of disgust spreading across her face. "I can look after myself. I'm not a floozy in distress, quivering every time a big strong man pledges himself to me!"

Jakt threw up his hands. "I was just trying to-"

"I know what you were trying to do, fool," she spat, "So typical for a 'big strong man.' You might be used to defenseless maidens melting at your feet but I promise you, it isn't that easy."

Jakt got the sense that her frustration wasn't really directed at him per se. Instead of fighting fire with fire, he held up his hands in a gesture of peace.

"I'm sorry,"

"No you're not."

"Well, I can't apologize for all my gender," he began, searching for the right words, "But I am sorry for making you feel… undervalued. I just wanted you to know that... I heard what you said, and I value your opinion."

She snorted.

"Also," he admitted, "To be honest, I haven't much thought about doing… whatever it is you're implying. And I certainly wasn't trying then. I've traveled with... paramours before, and it never ends well."

"Good," Lysana said, her tone still cold, but with the hints of a conciliatory note. "We shant speak of it again then. Now let's get a move on."

Jakt nodded and fell into step slightly behind her, hoping that his face didn't betray the nagging disappointment he felt at her words.

---

Lysana felt lingering frustration as they traipsed into Riften two days later. They had spoken little for the remainder of their voyage, he largely deferring to her. She was more frustrated with their situation than with him: the Thalmor no doubt on their tail, the Empire following reluctantly in the wake of their Elven overlords, and the Stormcloaks wreaking havoc all along the way. She knew that it was not Jakt's fault that Maro and his Imperial stooges were now a factor, and was a little frustrated with herself for taking it out on him. But she found it difficult to tell him this, especially given their tumultuous few days, and what she suspected might be some unspoken feeling between the two of them.

So they had marched on in relative silence.

At the gate to Riften, a guard stopped to demand a toll for their entry. Lysana threatened retribution from the College of Winterhold, her voice soft and frigid. It worked, the man awkwardly stepping back and apologizing profusely. She resisted the urge to shake her head at him: the superstition of Nords never ceased to amaze her.

It was with low spirits that she strolled through the gate, Jakt following wordlessly behind. She had heard the rumors of Riften's lawlessness: a foolish, proud Jarl totally in the dark, her authorities all on the payroll, and the leering menace of the Thieves Guild lurking in the shadows. A classmate of hers from the College who had grown up here held that Maven Black-Briar, the head of the successful Black-Briar Meadery, played the puppetmaster to all of Riften's dangling strings. Having never sought to visit it herself, she regretted having brushed him off as a rumormonger instead of seeking to gleam a kernel of truth from his words.

A large, bustling crowd greeted them as they walked down the poorly cobbled avenue towards the central canal that snaked its way through the town's main square. She could see the tall barges moored to the dock, each one containing merchants and their wares, draped in the sunlight for all to inspect. The central square itself was built like an Imperial amphitheater, decorated with wooden kiosks manned by all matter of men, mer and beast peddling a vast assortment of goods. If Solitude was the seat of government in Skyrim, and Whiterun its cultural epicenter, then Riften was its commercial capital. And as every man knew, where money flowed freely, so too did greed and corruption.

A large, dark-haired man, tall and wide in the Nordic way, dressed in carved steel armor with a battle-axe strapped to his back stopped them before they reached the gathering. He was leaning on one of the pillars that circled the amphitheater and beckoned them over with a simple gesture. His face was twisted into what looked like a permanent grimace, enhanced by the snakelike scars that adorned it.

"Hold," he growled, "You two don't look familiar. And I don't like strangers."

Jakt took a step forward, eyeing the man with an expression of challenge.

"We're couriers from Whiterun," he began, "Here on behalf of our master to deliver an important message."

The man grunted, clearly unimpressed. "Who's the client, and what's the business?"

Jakt exchanged a look with Lysana. "We're not at liberty to discuss that."

The man shrugged. "Suit yourself. But be warned: nothing stays private for long in Riften. Stay outta trouble, and stay outta my way."

He shooed them away with a wave of his hand. Lysana could feel Jakt's pride bristling, but she scooped him by the arm and led him to the marketplace.

"What do we do now?" he whispered to her.

"I don't know," she confessed, "Find some way to contact the guild." She kicked herself inwardly for the haphazard nature of this plan.

Suddenly Jakt perked up, then charged into the crowd. Lysana followed as best she could, but got held up by a pair of Khajiit who were trying to transport a rolled-up rug. Then she heard the sounds of a commotion and, with a sinking feeling, pushed her way through the crowd to where a circle of spectators was forming.

She reached the circle just in time to see Jakt pick up a small simpering man and send him flying into a pile of woven baskets. The baskets collapsed, sending their cargo - freshly-caught fish - sliding all over the place. The man pushed himself upright, grabbed his head and moaned, and Lydia recognized him - it was Etienne Rarnis, the fool who had repaid them for saving his life at the embassy by trying to sell them out.

Rarnis pushed a particularly sloppy specimen off his lap and looked up to see Jakt striding towards him with a purpose, his face twisted in anger. Several things happened in quick sequence: Rarnis screamed bloody murder, a loud whistle sounded, and a trio of guards burst through the outer perimeter made up by the spectators. Two of the guards moved to restrain Jakt while the third skidded to a stop. The fish merchant, a skinny Nord man in a funny-looking hat evidently away visiting some other kiosk, had returned and realized what had happened to his stock. He decided to add to the din by hopping up and down yelling profanities at Jakt.

"What in Oblivion is going on here?" yelled the guard commander, a tall fat man with drooping mustaches.

"He owes me money," Jakt growled at the man, narrowing his eyes at Rarnis, who had scrambled to his feet and was trying to slink off. A fourth guard moved forward and grabbed the small Breton by his arm, dragging him to the center of the scene.

"Disperse, people!" called the guard, waving both his hands, sweat dripping from his face. "Show's over. No more to see here."

The crowd began to break up, laughing and muttering as they meandered back to their business. The fish merchant continued to berate Jakt until Jakt turned a glowering gaze his way, shutting him up.

"Both of you will help Bolli pick up these fish," the guard captain began, addressing Jakt and Etienne as if they were naughty children, "And then we will get this sorted out."

Jakt obediently helped scoop the fish back into their baskets, wrinkling his nose at the smell. Etienne tried to run off as soon as the guard released him, resulting in a ridiculous dogpile as he promptly slipped on a wriggling bass and three guards threw themselves on top of him. The crowd started to return, laughter sounding from their ranks, only to be shooed away again by the arrival of yet more guards. This second attempt at escape landed Rarnis in ankle chains, and he waddled miserably over to the pile of fish and began to scoop them into the baskets with some difficulty.

Lysana moved over close to Jakt, watching with her arms crossed until he had lifted the last of the smelly cargo into their vessels and paid the fish merchant twenty septims for the trouble. He turned to her, rubbing his neck sheepishly, and she fixed him with the most withering gaze that she could possibly produce.

"If all of Riften didn't know we were here," she said in a low, dangerous voice, "They certainly do now."

Jakt winced. At that moment the guard captain approached, Rarnis shuffling after, his head hung low.

"Right then," huffed the man, his chins wobbling ever so slightly as he jutted them forward in what he no doubt considered an authoritative manner, "Do I have to bring you two down to the lockup or can we settle this out right here?"

"I don't have any money!" Rarnis cried desperately, blubbering "And I don't know what he's talking about! I've never seen him in my life! Don't let him get his hands on me!"

Jakt shook his head and rolled his eyes disparagingly. "We can hash this out, sir. Sorry for the public disturbance. I'm willing to forgo the debt if he tells me what I want to hear about my shipments."

Rarnis fell silent. The guard captain looked at Jakt for a long moment, his mind churning.

"Very well," he said at long last, "I'll let you off with a warning this time because you're new to Riften, and because Rarnis deserved that tumble you gave him. But be warned: the penalty for disturbing the peace is an afternoon in the stocks."

Jakt nodded, then waited as the guards unlocked the Breton and sauntered away, leaving them alone in the marketplace. Rarnis's eyes swiveled around, no doubt looking for another escape route, but before he could get any further ideas Lysana stepped forward to address the man.

"If you try and run once more," she began, "I'll burn you alive."

She snapped her finger, generating a tiny flame on the end of her thumb to illustrate her point. Rarnis whimpered.

"You ungrateful piece of shit," Jakt growled at him, "You're lucky we haven't gutted you."

"I couldn't get captured again!" Rarnis panted hysterically, "The Elves - they're…"

He staggered over to a stone bench and sat down, hyperventilating. Jakt lost some of his fire, a look of pity replacing the one of fury and disgust.

"I'm sorry," he admitted, "They're monsters. But you did get captured again, didn't you?"

Once he had calmed himself, Rarnis nodded. "Yes. Imperials."

"Why'd they let you go?"

Rarnis shrugged. "Dunno. Some spook got me to spill my guts about why the Thalmor had captured me and then told me I was free to go."

"They told me you hanged," Jakt said, frowning. Lysana studied Rarnis's face closely: he seemed genuinely surprised at that.

"What? Why?"

"They're playing games with us, Etienne," Lysana said, "They probably let you go to serve as a distraction for the Thalmor while we did their dirty work."

Rarnis' eyes grew wide and frantic. "Does that mean… Gods above, they've followed me here, haven't they?!"

Jakt scowled. "Quiet! You want to draw even more attention to us?"

Lysana put a hand on Jakt's arm and stared down at the little man with what she hoped was a soothing, pained expression.

"Etienne," she began, hoping that she sounded suitably supportive, "We can help you. Tell us what you know about Esbern, and the Thalmor will follow us instead of you and you'll be free to flee."

Rarnis looked up at her with a wild expression. "But then... They'll capture you and torture you too!"

Jakt, having caught on to her approach at this point, clapped a hand on his shoulder. "We can handle whatever the Thalmor throw at us, Etienne. Come, the faster you tell us, the quicker you can get out of here."

The man sighed, threw up his hands. "What do I care happens to the old coot anyways? All I know is, the Guild stuffed someone in the depths of the Ratway with the rest of the madmen that live there. People go there to hide, you know, people seeking asylum, and the Guild charges a premium for it. Most of them never come out, they're torn apart or else they become as mad as the rest."

Jakt looked to Lysana uneasily.

"Is there anything else you can-"

"No!" Rarnis interrupted, choking, "That's all I know, I swear it! Vex might know more - or Brynjolf. They're guild members. Go talk to them!"

"Who? How do we get into contact with them?"

"Brynjolf hangs around the Bee and Barb most evenings. Vex never leaves the Ragged Flagon except when she's on a job."

"The where?" Lysana was starting to get annoyed.

"The bar where the Guild drinks and networks - you won't find it unless someone in the Guild wants you to. Go ask someone else, I'm leaving!"

With that, he dashed off. Jakt let him go.

"Fool," Lysana muttered with spite, "Why did he think it was safe to come back here? He told the Thalmor practically everything he knows, of course they're onto him."

Jakt sighed. "They'll be onto us too now. At least we have some sort of lead now."

Lysana felt her shoulders droop. It was hard to believe just a week or so ago they were munching on pastries and flitting about like a pair of butterflies. Now all she wanted to do was walk away from him, from all of this.

She resisted that urge and followed him to the Bee and Barb.

---

Jakt turned around to catch a last glimpse of the moons high overhead right before the door to the Ratway closed behind them. He took a deep breath and immediately regretted it due to the dank, putrid smell that nearly overpowered his nostrils. Lysana cursed quietly, gripping his hand in what he assumed was a reaction to the smell. After a moment she whispered something and an orb of pale green light flashed out from her open hand. It floated lazily upwards to hover slightly above their heads. Jakt felt a deep sense of foreboding as he stepped forward into the corridor, now bathed in eerie green-blue shades.

He stepped to the side in order to avoid the scummy liquid that ran towards them in a wide, shallow trough that bisected the upwardly-sloping hallway. Placing a hand to the moist, clammy stone wall he inched forward then picked up the pace as his eyes grew more accustomed to the light. In response, Lysana began to dim the orb so that their eyes better adjusted, then finally cast a spell designed to heighten their night vision. The effect was to bathe the area in moonlight, giving everything an ethereal, ghastly glow. While Jakt appreciated the gesture, it put him even more on edge.

"We were lucky that she was so accommodating," muttered Lysana sarcastically as they trudged along, "I think she liked you."

Jakt sighed. When he had asked the Argonian barkeep in the inn about Brynjolf, he had wordlessly pointed to a beautiful, dark-haired woman dressed in supple leather armor who sat in the corner, sipping her wine with grace. The woman - who called herself Sapphire - had assumed that Jakt was making a pass at her when he sidled up and practically spat venom when she told him to get lost and shove his head… somewhere unpleasant. It took some cajoling to convince her that he was in fact a prospective Thieves Guild hopeful and that he sought to meet Brynjolf in order to petition for membership. Jakt had surprised himself by putting together a relatively convincing story under pressure about his prowess, then impressing her with knowledge of the organization he had gleaned from hearing Drake talk in his sleep. Perhaps Drake's effortless ability to spin tall tales had rubbed off on him. Finally Sapphire agreed to set up a meeting in the Ratway in order to assess his capabilities, but not before expressing her sincere doubt in him punctuated by a few choice profanities.

"Let's just keep moving."

Lysana had been in poor spirits for the past couple of days. Now her mood was positively abysmal, and Jakt was finding it difficult not to rise to her increasingly piercing barbs. She blamed him for their predicament, or so it seemed, and had a point: subtlety was not normally his strong suit. At this point, however, it was no use shedding tears over spilt ale. Then again, maintaining that kind of objectivity while crawling through a sewer was no mean feat.

To call the Ratway a sewer was to do it a disservice. It was more like a network of ancient tunnels that happened to serve the secondary purpose of waste collection and removal. They followed the corridor until they reached a sharp left, at which point the origin of the shallow trough of watery sludge revealed itself as a large grate in the wall. The tunnel descended sharply, then opened up into a larger, cavernous hallway with a much bigger canal of water that bisected the chamber. It looked deep and foreboding. Darkness stretched on in both directions, but luckily Sapphire had been kind enough to tell them which way to go.

They followed the chamber to the left until they came to a grated doorway. Jakt lifted it easily - it was unsecured - and stepped through the door into the small, low tunnel that lay behind it. Eventually the passageway opened up into a small room that contained an eerie scene: what looked like an alchemist's garden growing in a patch of sunlight that filtered down from a grated skylight far above them. All sorts of bizarre plants grew in the half-light: withered flowers, glowing moss, veined leaves, and large, stumpy mushrooms, all arranged roughly in the shape of a circle. In the middle of the garden, perched on a mound of grass, was a wooden stump. Buried in the stump was a woodcutter's axe, rusted with age. The stump itself was covered in the unmistakable stains of long-dried blood.

"I was told there would be one," came a soft, melodic voice from behind them. Jakt nearly jumped out of his skin as he whirled around. He felt Lysana draw close and clamp down on his arm in panic.

He could barely make out a lithe, feminine form in the eerie light. Whoever it was wore a hood, obscuring most of her face. She took a step forward, her hand on the ebony, carved hilt of a sheathed sword, revealing only a pair of purple eyes. The shadows seemed to cling unnaturally to her face and her form.

"You aren't Brynjolf, are you?" Lysana asked. Despite her dry tone, her grip on his arm remained tight and tense. Jakt mirrored the strange woman's pose and gripped his own weapon by the hilt.

"Tha' would be me, lass," came a second voice, behind them once again. Jakt turned again to see a man standing next to the stump in the middle of the garden, perching one leg atop it. He was strikingly handsome: he had a gaunt, sharp face crowned with long auburn hair and a meticulously-groomed goatee. His patchwork leather armor seemed perfectly designed for the practical thief, consisting of boiled leather plates criss-crossed with all manner of belts and pockets and dyed a deep dark blue. In style it was similar to the armor that Drake used to wear, Jakt realized.

"Now ye wouldn't both be wantin' to join the Guild, would ye?" he continued, his accent thick and uncommon for a Nord, "Or, as I suspect, have ye hailed us for some other perpouse?"

Jakt cleared his throat. The woman slowly stalked around to join Brynjolf on the grassy mound, weaving through the plants that grew about with silent grace. In the faint light, Jakt was able to make out her face: She was a Dunmer, her skin purple-black, the faintest hint of snow-white hair peeking out from under her dark hood. She, like Brynjolf, was quite the specimen, with a breathtakingly beautiful air that made Jakt feel a bit lightheaded. She placed a hand on Brynjolf's shoulder and leaned against him in a manner that suggested intimate familiarity.

Lysana spoke up. "We seek a fugitive, harbored by your guild."

"For what purpose?" The Dunmer spoke, her voice like the quiet lament of a songbird.

"Many seek to hide in the Ratway," Brynjolf began, lazily. "Friends a' the Guild, or at least our clients. Wha' reason have we to betray them to… disingenuous creatures such as yerselves?"

"We have ties to the guild," Lysana said, a mite defensively. Brynjolf looked bemused.

"We traveled at length with one of your members," Jakt explained, "An Imperial named Quintus Drake."

The dark elf woman hissed a curse in her native tongue. Brynjolf's brow shot up at the name.

"Ah," he started, "so ye're his latest victims, are ye? An honorless mercenary and a wizard pup?" His voice was mocking. "I see the 'Dawn Raven' keeps significantly lousier company of late."

"What do you mean?" Jakt replied, frowning in confusion. He had a sinking feeling that dropping Drake's name may have been a mistake.

"That fetcher is a whoring, lying traitor," the Dunmer spat, her purple eyes flashing in a declaration of anger that Jakt found undeniably attractive.

"Calm yerself, Karliah," Brynjolf drawled, waving his hand. He turned back to the two. "What happened to Drake? Ye no longer travel with him, I see."

"We were separated," Lysana said curtly, "While we rotted in prison he disappeared. Believe me, there is no love lost between us."

Brynjolf chuckled. "If ye thought ta' impress us with tha' name, ye miscalculated. But it makes no difference now. Quintus Drake is not who he says he is, and should ye ever meet again then I advise ye ta' stick blade in his ribs while he turns his back."

"He was a guild member, I take it?" Lysana asked.

Karliah nodded. "He broke our most sacred rules and was excommunicated," she explained. "As Brynjolf said before, it matters not. If we are to deal, then let us deal."

Their cold, practical business acumen made Jakt nervous, but then again options were few.

"We seek an old man," he began, "Goes by the name of Esbern. Our intentions are peaceable - we need his help."

Karliah and Brynjolf exchanged looks. "This Esbern has proven… troublesome of late," Brynjolf began, "Many seek him, according ta' our networks. And he bothers our other… clients."

"Three hundred septims," Karliah, "And we will lead you to him."

Jakt was surprised. "You would betray him so easily?"

Brynjolf shrugged. "Ye do us a service by retrievin' him. An' for what it's worth, I can always tell a liar from one who speaks truth. And yew, sir, are no great liar."

Jakt grinned sheepishly despite himself. He withdrew his coin pouch and counted out thirty ten-pieces and handed them to Karliah, who pocketed them without a sound.

"Good, then," Brynjolf said with a smile, "Now that we've taken care a' tha', come with me."

From there Brynjolf led them on a winding path through the Ratway, through what looked to be a bustling underground marketplace, complete with a well-stocked bar and pub, a herbarium, and a blacksmith. The marketplace was situated about a central pool, filled with strikingly clear water. All manner of clientele of all Nirn's races wandered about, hustling, drinking, boasting, flirting and even, in one corner, fist-fighting.

"This must be the Ragged Flagon," Lysana mumbled to Jakt, her hood pulled low over her face. Shaking off the scathing glares of two thuggish types as they passed through, Jakt wished for a similar method of disguise.

"She's right," Brynjolf chimed in with a merry grin, "The center of all questionable trade in Riften, and therefore of Skyrim itself. Not fifteen years ago this place was nigh-on abandoned, but the Guild brought it back to life. If ye aren't in a hurry I suggest taking a look at-"

"We are in a hurry, thanks," Lysana replied sardonically.

"Ah well lass, don't get yer knickers in a wad."

"How did you get it to not smell as bad?" Jakt asked with a grin.

Brynjolf grinned back, placed a finger next to his nose, and winked. "Trade secret," he replied cheekily.

From the Ragged Flagon their path led back into the Ratway, to the older tunnels. After a series of twists and turns down musty corridors they passed into an area that might have once been a dungeon. It was a long, wide corridor made of coarse stone blackened with age and moisture, and pockmarked with empty cells. At the end of the corridor was a doorway to a much larger, open area. Against one wall was a raised platform, under which more cells were situated. The top level looked to be accessible via a narrow stone staircase, and was decorated with arches. Further passageways dotted the room, some of them collapsed, others fading off into the darkness.

Some of the cells were occupied, it seemed. Muffled laughter sounded throughout the room, wafting in through one of the side tunnels. A disembodied woman's voice echoed a coarse lullaby while the sounds of a man tick-tocking like a clock mingled with the ambient ravings of what could only be the mad.

"Best stick close ta' me," Brynjolf said quietly to the both of them, "Welcome to the lower vaults of th' Ratway. This is where Skyrim's depraved and disfigured come to hide theirselves away. They fester away down here, the wretches, feeding on whatever scrambles their way, while their wits seep away into the stone." He turned around and smiled at them, and the eerie light of Lysana's night-vision spell made his gaunt face appear sinister and skeletal. Jakt swallowed. Who was Esbern, to hide himself away here, of all places?

They passed a cell, closed off with a wooden door, from which echoed the nauseating sound of a knife chopping through raw meat. Then another, which had metal bars, through which Jakt could see an ancient, gaunt woman who sat on the floor, rocking back and forth, crooning the names of the objects that lay before her over and over.

"Bucket. Inkpot. Stone. Book. Knife…"

Jakt shuddered to himself and kept moving, trying to block out her endless repertoire. Brynjolf led them up the staircase to the second level in the room, an arched stone walkway that continued into a short walled corridor. At the very end was a metal door. Brynjolf stopped and gestured to it.

Jakt approached cautiously. Whatever was behind the door was completely silent. He pounded away on the door, adding a metallic clang to the raucous chorus of the deranged.

"Who's there?" came a hoarse whisper from behind the door. A small rectangular slot at Jakt's eye level snapped open to reveal a pair of wrinkled blue eyes. Jakt stepped forward and squinted, hoping to catch a better glance at the face they belonged to.

"Esbern?"

The slot slammed shut, followed by a curse. From behind the door Jakt heard the sound of upended objects, rustling papers, the grinding clank of metal against wood and stone.

"Go away!"

"Delphine sent me!"

The rustling stopped, then continued again.

"Lhorkan's balls she did!"

Jakt pounded on the door again. "Esbern! Where were you on the 30th of Frostfall?"

The commotion stopped, for good this time. All of a sudden Jakt heard the familiar ratchet and click of locks turning. This continued for about a minute before the door finally swung open.

In the doorway stood a lanky old man holding a fire poker. He was tall, taller than Jakt, with wide shoulders, skinny wrists and a surprisingly lithe body. His face was weather-beaten and wrinkled, decorated by a long, unkempt beard and crowned with a shock of chalk-white hair, plastered upright due to the weeks devoid of a wash. From the way he carried himself he looked to be quite spry, despite what Jakt could only assume was extreme age.

"Couldn't find my damn sword," he grumbled when he noticed Jakt eyeing the poker warily. He dropped it and beckoned him forward.

"What in Oblivion are you waiting for? And you, spellslinger! Get your arses in here!"

Jakt turned to see Lysana looking bemused. Brynjolf had apparently slipped off. She shrugged and followed him inside.

"Now, who are you and what do you want? Are you Blades? Last I heard, they were all dead." Esbern had a hoarse, cranky voice that befit his age, but a surprisingly manic energy about him. He immediately set about scratching his way through the fantastic mess that made up his hideout. The small, well-lit room was chock full of all sorts of odds and ends - books and papers made up most of the clutter, but potions, alchemical ingredients, bottles of liquor, what looked like animal bones, porcelain utensils, a couple of daggers, a large stuffed goose draped with jewelry, and two sleeping cats also filled the space.

"What happened on the 30th of Frostfall?" Lysana asked, apparently curious.

"That's when it all fell apart, girl," Esbern said dismissively, not bothering to look up.

"Delphine sent us," Jakt said, exchanging a frown with Lysana as Esbern continued to sift through his accumulated refuse, "My name's Jakt, and this is Lysana. She thinks you can help us?"

"Good, good," he said, grunting as he lifted a small cauldron and threw it on the bed, causing one of the cats to hiss and spit as it jumped out of the way, "How is the old bird? Still playing with her sticks?"

"Uh… yes?"

"Best damn swordsman the Blades have ever trained. Well, except for Baurus ap Erhlich, but he died a long time ago. Or maybe Rowena of Kvatch. but she perished on the privy. Strained so hard her heart gave out and her eyeballs burst. No way for a master swordsman to die."

He straightened up. "Too bad Delphine's brain's full of cheese curds. You warriors and your twisted notions of honor. Hah!"

He had finally found what he was looking for - a curved sword almost exactly like Delphine's, if not a few inches longer. He unsheathed it, swung it effortlessly in an arc, then sheathed it again and threw it to Jakt.

"What the-" Jakt said, catching the blade.

"You'll need it more than I, fool," he said, cackling. "Nothing beats an Akiviri Katana in a straight fight. Best damn blade ever forged." He slipped over to a table and grabbed a wavy dagger forged of ebony, sheathed it, and tucked it into his belt. Jakt, unsure of what to do with it, buckled the katana to his back.

"Besides, I have atronachs do the fighting for me these days. Wait until those damn elves get an icy spike up their asses-"

"Elves?" interjected Lysana sharply, "The Thalmor? Have you seen them?"

"Not yet," he barked in reply, "Well, not recently, anyways. But if you two idiots have finally found me then you can bet they'll be close behind. It'll be one for the books - three suicidal fools against a legion of knife-eared sycophants!"

"What are you talking about, old man?" Jakt cut in incredulously, "We need to escape them, not fight them!"

"Oh no," Esbern replied while he buckled on an old leather breastplate, "I'm through running."

"But we need your help against the dragons!"

He stopped and stared at him, narrowing his eyes.

"Don't you know anything?" he said, after a moment. "That's hopeless, that! Dragons have returned, Alduin has returned, the End of the World is Nigh. Normally I'm not one for prophesy, but that one's actually got precedence. The World Eater is back and he hungers, I'm afraid! Nothing anyone can do except wait for the end. What I wouldn't give to see the look on those smug elven bastards' face when-"

"Esbern!" Jakt shouted at him, "I am the Dragonborn!"

He stopped again, narrowed his eyes, and pinched up his nose.

"You're the Dragonborn, you say?" he said, mockingly. "You can kill dragons and eat their souls?"

"Yes," Jakt replied without hesitation, "And use the Thu'um without any training."

"He's telling the truth, you old fool," Lysana interjected quietly. "Delphine will tell you so."

Esbern's face slowly changed from hardened skepticism to one of childish wonder. He immediately stopped buckling on his armor and instead dove towards his bookshelf, grabbing a knapsack from a peg on the wall in order to stuff it with books.

"Could it be so? The Gods damn me to Oblivion," he said to himself, "Dragonborn!"

"What, you believe me now?" Jakt said, surprised that his turnaround was so quick.

"Might as well," Esbern grunted, whipping the knapsack onto his back. "If you aren't, what is there to lose? But if you are..." He let his manic grin finish the sentence for him.

"He's right about the elves," Lysana cut in once more, a note of urgency in her voice, "We need to get going right now."

"Damned youth," Esbern, striding out the door with a sense of newfound purpose, his words echoing down the corridor, "Always trying to hurry us elder folks around-"

Something made him stop mid sentence. Jakt followed him out to where the tunnel opened up into the main room of the vaults. Looking down, he immediately realized why.

Standing below them was a small contingent of Thalmor elves, perhaps nine in all, led by three figures. The elves were all dressed in studded leather - most likely to better fit in with the Riften crowd - and armed with an assortment of steel. Their weapons were all drawn, Jakt realized, and his hopes evaporated away a little more with every naked sword he counted.

The leader of the elves, dressed in simple black robes, stepped forward. He was surprisingly stout for a High Elf, who tended towards the tall and narrow, with silvery-blond hair that he swept back into a ponytail. Jakt recognized the man to his left: it was the big, battle-scarred Nord from the marketplace earlier, dressed in steel and gripping his wicked battleaxe in a casual manner that hinted at disconcerting prowess with the weapon. He wondered briefly why this man had come, and apparently willingly. The third figure was -

"Drake," He heard Lysana gasp. And yet there he was: standing next to the big Nord, looking mighty uncomfortable but very much unbound, his bow in his hand. He had replaced his Thieves Guild armor with more conventional leather fare which fit poorly. Jakt's tongue suddenly felt very dry, his brain trapped in cobwebs, as he tried to process this development. He couldn't believe it - they had traveled together for so long - had Drake sold them out? He must have. Why else would he be here? Why didn't I see this coming? I knew him.

And he knew me.

"Esbern," the elf began, in the customary clipped tones of the Thalmor, "The cornered rat. We have you outnumbered. Come down peacefully and surrender, and we will be... accommodating."

"Ondolemar," Esbern called down, "Finally. It only took your fat arse some thirty years to catch up with me, and that's only because you let two dimwits do it for you. Come up here and get me, you stupid mule!"

"I've been waiting a long time for this," Ondolemar replied, His sharp elven features stretching into a cheshire grin, "They want you alive, you know, but they said nothing about your friends. If you don't surrender, I'll make sure they suffer before they die. Come down now, and their deaths will be swift."

Esbern had sidled up next to Jakt. "Whatever you do, don't let them know who you are," he growled quietly. Jakt barely registered - he was still too busy trying to digest Drake's presence.

"Ah ah, old man!" Ondolemar called up to them, "No whispering your escape! You're out of time. Thief, put an arrow in the Nord's eye."

With some hesitation, Drake notched an arrow to his bow.

"Quintus, you traitorous cow!" Lysana called down to him, her voice breaking halfway through the insult. Jakt looked over to see wetness around her eyes as she stared down at him with a mixture of horror and fury. He was uncomfortably surprised by the depth of her emotion. His eyes shifted to Esbern, expecting to see some similar reaction, only to see that the old Nord just stared down through narrowed eyes, deep in concentration, muttering something under his breath.

"I'm sorry!" Drake yelled up to them, taking aim; it was too dim for Jakt to make out his expression clearly. "But you don't understand who-"

"Enough talk!" roared the big Nord on his right, "Shoot him, you coward!"

Jakt tensed. There wasn't much distance between them - it would be easy for an expert marksman such as Drake. Then several things happened at once.

Drake released the arrow. Jakt didn't have time enough to duck or dodge. Before he could even blink, he felt something whistle past him and slash at his left temple. A portal opened in the middle of the crowd of elves and out stepped a hulking, jagged beast made completely from ice. And a wild man dressed in a bloody apron burst forth from behind a wooden cell door, a rusty meat cleaver in both hands, and yelled with savage frenzy, "I'm going to eat well tonight, my darlings!"

The elves yelled and scattered as the Ice atronach roared - or rather, crackled - its rage at being summoned from its icy plane of existence. The mad cook threw himself on one elf, tackling him to the ground where he tried frantically to pierce her armor with his rusted knives. Feeling blood running down the side of his face but otherwise still very much alive, Jakt gave a roar of his own, aimed for one of the staggering forms below, and threw himself off the raised platform.

Smashing one unfortunate elf to the floor, he righted himself and unsheathed his sword just in time to block the vertical swipe of another Thalmor soldier. He angled his opponent's blade out wide, sweeping it down and out, then lunged forward with his shoulder, driving his large metal pauldron into his assailant's nose. There was a sickening crack, blood spurted forth, and the elf toppled backwards, clawing at her face and yelling. Before Jakt could get in a killing blow, a lightning bolt struck the elf between the eyes and her limbs went haywire as she toppled; he looked up to see Lysana, her index and middle fingers of post hands poised, looking down with exhilaration painted on her face. To her right, Esbern held out his hands, a ward radiating out from each, protecting them from magical harm. In the background, the yells and screams of elves mingled with the frenetic crackle of ice on stone and flesh.

Before he could thank her the big Nord rushed at him, his battleaxe leading. Jakt sidestepped his first vertical swipe, but the man continued in a circle and his axe came back around at a different angle surprisingly quickly, forcing Jakt to pirouette like a dancer in order to avoid the serrated blade. As he whirled he caught a quick glimpse of Drake, sneaking off towards a side tunnel during the commotion.

Jakt cursed him for his cowardice and treachery, parried an overeager swipe from another Altmer who rushed in on his left, forcing the elf off-balance, and then jumped nimbly over the big Nord's battle axe as it hummed in at knee height. The axe buried itself deep in the leg of the overbalanced elf; the ensuing pandemonium gave Jakt a moment to step back and reassess the fight with the big Nord. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the ice atronach stagger under the explosive force of a fireball, while several elves had finally pulled the deranged cook off their counterpart. We are running out of time.

The scarred man didn't even blink as he yanked his axe free, letting the unfortunate elf collapse to the ground to clutch feebly at his nearly-severed limb. Jakt raised his sword and bent his knees in readiness, hoping that no elves would come to aid him. The axe was a powerful weapon but its only defense was that power: the man knew how to wield it well, but Jakt was fairly sure in a one-on-one fight that he could take advantage of the weapon's weight and size and pierce that defense. But before the scarred nord could engage Jakt once more, Ondolemar appeared at his shoulder.

"Maul," the Altmer said, "Finish off the beast. I'll deal with this one."

Maul nodded wordlessly and turned. Ondolemar whispered a command, and a spectral, serrated blade appeared in his hand. Jakt had seen battlemages fight with bound weaponry before: magical blades summoned from dangerous, otherworldly places, often powerfully enchanted. His stomach clenched.

Ondolemar sprung forward, feinting high. Jakt recognized the feint for what it was and prepared accordingly for a low backhand sweep. The elf was quick, his blade light as air, and when he reversed his swing and cut low instead Jakt just barely managed to parry it. When the blades made contact, Jakt heard the screech of protesting steel and the smell of burnt metal added itself to the rank stench of the vaults. With a deft slice Jakt arced the point of contact out wide and spun himself free, withdrawing to find a scorched black pockmark on his sword.

Ondolemar smiled at this development, the malice in his eyes plain. He rushed forward again, keeping Jakt off balance, forcing him to parry. Jakt was quicker than the elf, but his sword was made of actual steel, and Jakt had to work hard to keep out of its reach. He dodged when he could, but every time he had to block one of Ondolemar's sweeping arcs his sword screeched as if in pain. He took a slash on his right pauldron and felt the sword melt into the steel, and was grateful that it had not met scale or leather. I need to end this fight soon.

Jakt pushed forward desperately, parrying Ondolemar's next slash close to his hilt and sacrificing his sword's integrity to use force the elf's blade wide. Their blades locked together, down and out, Jakt barreled forward with a snarl, headbutting the surprised elf in the face. Ondolemar gave a cry and staggered backwards. Jakt ignored the ache in his head, disengaged the Altmer's foul weapon and swept his own blade around, homing in on his opponent's exposed neck.

Ondolemar somehow managed to get the bound sword up in time, too late for Jakt to retract his swing. When his weapon hit the elf's own, it screeched one last dreadful time and broke clean in two. The smoking blade portion went careening off into the darkened recesses of the vaults.

Ondolemar laughed triumphantly and darted forward. Jakt threw himself backwards to avoid his next slash, losing his balance and crashing onto his rear, the broken hilt of his old sword still in hand. Still laughing, the elf pressed forward again, prepared for the killing blow. Out of options, Jakt opened his mouth.

"YOL!"

Ondolemar's laughter turned to screams as a gout of flame poured forth from Jakt's maw. The elf patted frantically at his clothing and shrieked, turned to spot a stagnant pool and rushed towards it. Jakt staggered upright just in time to see the ice atronach collapsing to pieces under the combined attack of the remaining combatants, while more Thalmor reinforcements streamed into the room. Ondolemar threw himself in the pool and rolled until had extinguished the flames, and a couple of Thalmor rushed over to help him. In a moment they would run towards him as well, and the intent would not be as friendly.

Jakt took a deep breath and looked at the broken sword in his hand. Suddenly he felt a hand clutch his arm: it was Lysana, her eyes and hair wild, supporting a wincing Esbern who clutched at a scorch mark on his side.

"You are some kind of beautiful idiot, you know that?" She said, smiling and shaking her head with admiration.

"Side tunnels!" Esbern barked, "I know a way out! You, oaf, come support me! Nice shout by the way, though know they'll know who you are, oh well. Witch, leave them something to chew on!"

Lysana transferred Esbern to Jakt's shoulder then quickly summoned her own atronach, one of her favored fire demons. The beautiful form spun a delicate circle, cooed, and slung a fireball into the crowd of Thalmor, who had just finished with the ice atronach and were starting to regroup. Not waiting to watch the fight, Jakt hurried them towards the nearest side tunnel entranceway.

"Always… build yourself a back door," panted Esbern, his face contorted in pain. "Good work, girl. Got any other tricks up your sleeve?"

"A few," Lysana retorted, stopping in the narrow tunnel to quickly place a lightning rune trap on one of the walls. Jakt had seen them work before - walk near the rune and get a bolt of lightning up your ass. Esbern managed to pick up the pace a little and they charged onwards.

The corridor twisted and turned, sloping ever so slightly upwards. A sudden shriek and a sizzle told them that the Thalmor weren't far behind. Lysana stopped for a moment to erect some sort of magical barrier. Esbern looked on, impressed.

"Smart," the old man commended her, "Using Lyle's Ward against Physical Damage as a corporeal obstacle. I'm assuming you'll leave it here, but I was under the impression that actual contact by the caster was necessary at all times. How will you maintain it?"

"Same as any other ward," Lysana panted, "Sufficient concentration."

"By the Gods! She's smart!" he said with a hectic grin, "They teach you that here in Skyrim? Winterhold, I assume?"

"Nope. Made it up myself."

"They always were a bunch of elitist blowhards," Esbern laughed. Lysana laughed back.

"Is now really the time for this conversation?" Jakt interrupted irritably. Lysana grinned sheepishly and hurried forward.

"You should rut with her already, lad," Esbern muttered to Jakt's, grinning from ear to ear. "Or have you already? I'd do it myself if I were ten years younger. Been with a couple of sorceresses myself, and boy, let me tell you…"

Jakt could hardly believe what he was hearing. He was about to tell the old man to shut up when he spotted the lone figure in front of them, clutching a familiar curved sword.

It was Drake. The Imperial was standing at the end of the tunnel, which forked in two directions. He hardly cut an imposing sight, his expression nervous and pained.

"Out of my damn way," Jakt growled at him, skidding to a stop, "or I'll shout you to pieces."

"Wait, Jakt!" Drake said frantically, holding up his hand, "I can explain."

"There's nothing to explain-"

"It's Maven!" he interrupted, his voice borderline hysterical, "She wants you gone, and you don't - I can't - you've got no idea what she has on me!"

"If you mean what you say, boy, throw down your sword," Esbern said, rolling his eyes. Drake obeyed, sending his sword clattering to the floor.

"Perfect," Esbern continued, "Now gut him. Gets them every time."

"Wait!" Drake said as Jakt moved forward, gesturing the sufficiently-sharp point of his broken blade. He stopped himself, somehow.

"You sold us out," Lysana said, coldly.

"Sold you out? What are you saying? I saved Jakt's life!"

"What?"

"I missed!" the Imperial was clearly grasping at straws. "Just then! On purpose! And I didn't sell you out at the party, I swear! I thought you were both either captured or dead!"

"So you abandoned us," Jakt said accusingly.

"I couldn't come after you! I ran into Maven at the party - she recognized me immediately, threatened to expose me unless I did what she said! She's working with the Thalmor - she's invested heavily in them - and she controls the Thieves Guild!"

"Shit," said Lysana, frowning, "I knew finding Esbern was too easy. Jakt, think about it, it must have been a trap! They were onto us as soon as we got to Riften. I can't believe I'm saying this, but it probably wasn't his fault."

Jakt shook his head, his mind made up on the subject. "I don't care. Drake, get out of here. I can't trust you. Not that I ever could, or should have."

"I have… a better idea," Lysana said, her voice faltering. He turned to face her. Esbern leaned up against the wall, looking bored with all the drama.

"The barrier won't… hold forever." Her face was strained: Jakt realized that it was probably due to the effort of keeping her ward active. "We need to split up. Drake and I will draw them off your path. You take Esbern and find the exit."

"No," Jakt said, "Absolutely not."

"Lad," Esbern began, speaking seriously and with a hint of sorrow for perhaps the first time since Jakt had met him, "She's right. They won't stop until they think they've got us. At least this way some of us might escape. Any good with illusions, girl?"

"Good enough."

"Lysana-"

"Shut up, Jakt," she said, looking him in the face. "We'll buy you some time. And I'll see you…" she took a breath and screwed up her eyes, panting with concentration. "I'll see you back at the Sleeping Giant Inn."

"I'll get her there," Drake interjected, but Jakt didn't bother to look at him. He found her hand and gave it a squeeze. She squeezed back and smiled at him. Then, she whispered something, and all of a sudden he was looking back at himself standing where Lysana had stood.

"Go on," came Lysana's voice from his lips. He had made up his mind to pull her close and kiss her but the effect of the illusion was too disconcerting. He looked over her shoulder to see another Esbern, standing upright, gaping in a very uncharacteristic way. The real Esbern at his side began to cackle, but stopped abruptly respectfully when he remembered the serious nature of their parting.

Without a word Jakt turned and led the old man down the corridor as it wound its way upwards, resisting the urge to look back. He heard the clatter of boots on stone, the shouts of the pursuing elves, and had to close his eyes and force every step forward in order to press on. Esbern guided him forward, slowly but surely. When he opened them again, he could make out a pinprick of sunlight in the distance. Jakt tasted something salty on his lips and only then realized that his cheeks were wet.

---

A/N: Lots of cameos in this chapter! The first act of this piece is rapidly drawing to a close - I anticipate it growing more expansive and complicated, so I'll try my best to keep it streamlined. One of the challenges of writing Skyrim so far is giving its existing characters a little depth. In the case of Esbern, it was actually pretty easy and fun! Anyways, stay tuned.