Interlude: Belethor Considers a New Investment
Strange, after all these years, how wiping off a dusty shelf could still grant Belethor a shiver of satisfaction at the end of a trying day. He sighed the sigh of a merchant whose safes were full of gleaming septims well-protected by the best magical traps and enchantments that could be secured in a city as backwards and provincial as Whiterun.
Belethor descended his short ladder, considering every step with careful regard. None of us are as young as we used to be, eh? The gray in his hair was proof enough of that. No doubt his enemies would be pleased if he took a tumble and broke his neck, leaving them without competition. Yes, Ysolda and Kishla would certainly weep tears of joy over his coffin. He stepped off the last rung and imagined their greedy little faces as they passed by the market each day and were forced to watch his domain expand building by building. Ysolda had her little inn, yes, and a few market stalls, but that was all. To think he had once considered making the wench his protégé...and that Khajiit, Kishla, was far too bold. She thought his fear of the Guild kept her safe, but Belethor had the ear of the Jarl, and Hrongar would serve as the perfect blunt tool to smash any thieves that dared show their faces around any of the city's honestly run enterprises.
Just gotta find the evidence, Belethor mused, as he languidly strolled through his shop to make sure nothing had been stolen from the shelves. Or, yes, 'find' the evidence, heh heh. But that steward is damned clever. Kept me from sealing that deal with that oaf War-Bear. I could have snatched his daughter's little smithy up in one fell swoop.
"Um, master Belethor, sir?" A thin voice came at him from the other side of a bookshelf. Sigurd's dull face peered through the gap between a volume of The Lusty Argonian Maid and a complete set of The Real Barenziah. "Wanted to talk to you about something."
"What did I tell you about bothering me while I'm thinking, boy?" Belethor shifted the books so that Sigurd was no longer visible, and continued his inventory. All too soon, he once again encountered the little wretch's face staring at him from the other side.
"Belethor...I've seen almost thirty years now. I'm no boy, and I really need to talk with you."
"Gods, what do you want from me?" Belethor ran a hand down his beard and stomped around the shelves to face the boy. He looked much the same as when he'd first come whimpering for a job years ago and Belethor had distractedly ordered him to start chopping wood out behind the shop. Commoner's clothes stained with mead and mended too many times, a square and open face that hid nothing of its owner's feelings. The face of a mark, a sucker, a fool. The boy was sodding lucky Belethor was so honest. "Spit it out. I already paid you, didn't I?"
"Well, that's actually what I wanted to talk about." Sigurd shifted from foot to foot and rubbed the back of his neck. "I've been working for you for almost ten years now."
Belethor crossed his arms and grinned. It was hard to find good entertainment in Whiterun, these days, so he took his pleasures where he could. Watching the boy squirm like a Sload child in a cauldron was the most fun he'd had all week. "If you say so. Go on, I'm listening."
"Well, it's not that I don't appreciate what you've done for me, sir. I know how hard it is to find steady work these days. Been a bad winter for all of us."
"Yes, yes. Everyone's cold and miserable. Get to the point." More likely than not, the kid was going to ask for another raise. Master take me, but damn if I won't cough up the gold if Sigurd asks. Maybe if those halfwits working with Ysolda and Kishla see how a man in my service is rewarded, they'll think twice about their choice of employment.
"It's just that...I'm tired of it, sir. I'm tired of chopping wood and moving crates of merchandise. My back aches every night. Legs, too. A priestess at the temple said if I go on like this, then when I'm old my body won't work so great."
A knot of heat grew behind Belethor's forehead. He rubbed his knuckles between his eyes and walked over to the store's counter to lean back against it. "I don't know what you want from me, son. Wood and moving is what you do. It's what I pay you for. Now, if you're looking for a raise, we might be able to reconsider some things when I do the books next Loredas." On second thought, he'd decided to string Sigurd out a bit in regards to any potential wage increase. The little sop was giving him a headache, with that whiny voice of his.
"I-I'd like to run one of your properties, sir."
"I...must have misheard you, heh. Long hours're getting to me. Now, about that raise - how's ten more septims a week sound?"
Sigurd planted himself in front of Belethor, his stupid little chin thrust into the air like a Forsworn spear. "I'm not talking about a raise, and you know it. When I started working out back, this shop was all you had to your name. Now you've bought out Arcadia, Severio Pelagia, the Gray-Mane properties - I'm sorry, sir, but you're a liar if you say there's not a place for me somewhere higher up. Maybe something like what Haesmar does for you. I deserve better."
"Deserve?" Belethor picked up his rag, and absently passed it between his hands.
"Y-yes, and you know I'm right. I polish your shrine to Zenithar every morning, sir. I know you're a man who wants to do right by the Divines. For my loyalty and toil, I've more than earned what I'm asking."
The shrine in question was positioned on the highest shelf against the wall above the shopkeeper's counter, surrounded by various other valuable objects and curios from all across Skyrim. It was indeed well-polished. Always important to maintain the image of godliness, you know, especially in such an uncivilized province.
"Ten years, you said." Belethor slowly made his way behind the counter, as if working out a thought. "Ten years of work for ol' Zenithar-loving Belethor."
"Almost ten, sir, yes."
"Ten years. You know what that tells me, boy?" He leaned forward, his elbows on the counter, seizing the young Nord with his gaze. "You're a chump. Let me tell you - working for me, all loyal and deserving. For what I pay you, that's been a rotten deal for, hmm, just about ten years. And if you've let me play you for a fool for a decade, how in Mara's name do you get the idea I'll let you run one of my investments? Ha! You couldn't sell your soul to Mehrunes Dagon."
"I...no!" Sigurd turned as red as one of Nazeem's famous tomatoes, the ball of his throat bobbing up and down. "I stayed because I was loyal, because you valued me! I - Zenithar-"
"To Oblivion with Zenithar," Belethor said. "And to Oblivion with me, if I ever let you touch anything so important as a letter of receipt."
A trembling finger pointed towards Belethor's chest. "You'll see. You'll see what happens when you treat someone like dirt, you old bastard. I think...I think Ysolda would be very interested to know how you convinced Pelagia to sign over his farms. And steward Avenicci, too. Yeah, that's right!"
"You shouldn't have said that." All traces of mirthful scorn left Belethor's tone. The air inside the store suddenly felt as chilling as an Atmoran winter. "I always thought I could smell the treachery on you. Run away to Ysolda, huh? With your pockets full of the gold you've been skimming off the top for years, I'm sure. Tell me. How long have you been her pawn? How long have you been stealing from me while I let you sleep under my roof and paid you a fine wage?"
Sigurd stammered, "N-no, wait, you got it all wrong-"
"Don't bother taking your things from your room." His voice increased in volume as he spoke. "I'm selling them to those damned Khajiit your mistress so adores, at cost! No, you know what? I'm donating your possessions to the temple. If you want them back, you'll have to steal from the gods instead of me. It'll be fine practice for the work Kishla and Ysola will have you at."
"That's not fair - hold on, Kishla?" But Belethor was already shoving him towards the door. He stumbled like a child first learning to walk in the snow. The rush of bracing air that washed over them both when the door opened only sharpened Belethor's bitter glee. He planted his boot in Sigurd's back and launched him down the steps, where he collapsed into a heap.
Belethor regarded the pathetic sight and shook his head in mocking sadness. "Over ten years of loyal service. It's a shame, Sigurd. How will I find someone else that can chop wood and carry sacks?"
His laughter echoed off the tall walls of the shop as he let the door swing shut on the frigid night. The memory of Sigurd's wide eyes staring up at him from the ground was well worth the cost of having to build his own fire afterward.
Life in Skyrim could be challenging; there was no denying that. Sure, things had been quiet for a few years now, but who knows when the latest apocalypse would come knocking at Whiterun's gates? Dragons, daedra, Thalmor, the volatile political conflicts of the Nords themselves: they all represented potential threats to provincial trade, but in the line between strife and safety a savvy merchant could find opportunity if he was willing to take on risk.
Who could fault an innocent Breton shopkeeper if prices had been a little high during the Civil War and the dragon crisis? Those had been dangerous times, after all. If you want to blame someone, look to Ulfric Stormcloak and that pointy-eared Dragonborn fellow. Blame General Tullius and his Empire, or the elves and their Dominion. Belethor was pretty sure they'd all been the cause of the trouble, from the little half-pieces of passing rumors he'd picked up from browsing customers. A man has to make a living, and sometimes that means higher prices. Sometimes the cost of lumber goes up just before a siege. Sometimes he has to charge a tad more for healing potions after a dragon attack. What of it? A merchant was as much beholden to the market's tides as any customer. To stand by and let opportunity slip away, in the name of charity - now, that would be the true crime. He wasn't a priest of Mara, after all. Far from it.
By the time midnight fell on the never-sleeping city, Belethor's eyes felt as raw as freshly shucked oysters, and his fingers ached from hours of ceaseless writing. A stack of receipts sat on the left side of his desk: a symbol of his determination. How many other merchants making as much as he did insisted on double-checking every sale, for every enterprise they owned? Haesmar was a competent second-in-command, but the old Nord was far more clever than Sigurd. Belethor had no doubt Haesmar would someday betray him, but that was the risk of employing someone with more than mammoth cheese between their ears. But if he was plotting some treachery at the moment, there was no sign of it in the financial reports.
Despite his pains, Belethor smiled as he leaned back in his tall chair and pondered popping open a bottle of Arenthian brandy. It was already too late to return home; this was one of those nights where he'd have to sleep in the shop, as he had in the early days when he'd not yet acquired a meter of property outside these four walls. Besides, there was a restlessness in his bones. Sigurd's exodus inspired a dynamic mood. Change, of the right kind, could be very good for business.
Before he could decide on the brandy, a firm knock-knock on the store's front door reached up from the ground floor and slithered its way up to his office. He dismissed it as a byproduct of his weary mind at first. After all, who would come knocking at this hour? Likely some drunken louse who wandered over from the Mare. Best to ignore that kind, wasn't it?
The knock repeated. Belethor sighed, rubbed his eyes, and plodded downstairs. He took his candle with him: the shadows of shelves ran across the walls of the store as he approached the doors. If it's that damned Sigurd, I'll make him watch me burn everything he owns. To betray your employer, and actually end up with less gold than you started with...such bountiless treachery made Belethor queasy.
He yanked the door open. "Can't you read the sign? Shop's...shop's, uh…"
"Sir Francois Montrose, at your service." The enormous knight bowed neatly, so that his bald head pointed at Belethor's stunned face like an olive-skinned cannonball. "You must be Belethor, unless I'm mistaken? I must say, this is some shop you have here. Forgive the lateness of our calling. I would have much preferred to browse your fine wares by the light of day."
Our? Belethor glanced past the armored behemoth to see another of his kind waiting in silence. This one was vaguely woman-shaped, with a silver mask covering half her face. The visible eye regarded him coldly, and he thought he recognized something familiar in it.
"Let me get the hearth started," Belethor spoke, his mind catching up to his mouth. The armor they wore was likely worth more than Dragonsreach. Even a fool like Sigurd could have recognized their wealth. He stepped back and swept his arm in a welcoming gesture. "Never too late to open my doors to a fellow Breton, heh heh. Please, come in, come in! Feel free to take a look around. What would become of this world, if we couldn't rely on the hospitality of kinsmen?"
"My feelings precisely!" Montrose ducked inside, and Belethor wondered at the strength of the floorboards. The other knight slipped in behind him and closed the door. She's the quiet one, for now, but no doubt she'll pipe up if I try to cheat the big fool. Divide and conquer, that's the way.
Flickering firelight filled the shop, and Belethor took up a post behind the front counter as the knights made a show of browsing. He could tell quickly that Montrose had little care for the children's dolls, survival supplies, or shelves of books his pale green eyes took in with such apparent eagerness; this performance was a preamble to some more serious proposition. The scarred knight did not even feign interest, but followed in the footsteps of her tall commander with her arms crossed.
All part of the game, though, and I'm a far better player. Belethor remarked, "About time we had some real knights in this city. No harm meant to our friends in Kynareth's temple, heh, but the light of the Divines has always shone so dimly here. Your order belongs to Akatosh, is it? Or is it Stendarr? Begging your pardon, but it's been so long since I left our fair homeland behind."
"Think nothing of it." Montrose's head surfaced from behind a rack of leather knapsacks, and his wide grin stirred unease in Belethor. "No Vigilants of Stendarr, be we. I'd not be surprised if you'd never heard of the Silver Dawn. We pay tribute to no particular Divine, but be damn sure we have the strength of the gods behind us."
"Ahhh, ahh, I see," Belethor lied. "Silver Dawn, you say? Well, if it's that blessed metal you're searching for, I have five ingots in the back with your name on them, kinsman. Guaranteed to put down any undead you come across, or I'll donate a generous portion of your refund to the local temple."
The scarred knight snorted. "That's supposed to be comforting? You're every bit the snake I remember."
A murky memory rose to the surface of Belethor's mind. He never forgot a face, but it took the sound of the woman's voice for him to recall: "My lady, you should have reminded me of our long ago acquaintance! I'd be happy to throw in a discount for the former housecarl of our dearly departed Dragonborn. He's still a very beloved figure in Whiterun, you know."
Montrose strolled towards the front counter, his arms folded neatly behind his back. She followed him like a shadow. "We seem to bump into purifier Lydia's old mates every time we stop, Belethor, but you're the first to recognize her in return. It seems your reputation as a savvy man of business is not unfounded. In any case, it was not want of silver that landed us on your doorstep. In fact, good Lydia here just returned from a sojourn to Markarth that should secure our supply of metal for some time."
"Dealing with the Silver-Bloods, eh?" Belethor smiled good-naturedly, but internally he despaired. If those fobbing maniacs in their stone city had already stuck their fingers in this delicious Silver Dawn pie, it would be that much harder for Belethor to finesse his own slice. "You're braver than I am, friend. But I take it from this arrangement that you'll be taking up permanent residence in Skyrim?"
"What did I tell you, Lydia?" Montrose marvelled. "He hits the nail on the head, before I even utter a word! Your intuition serves you well, Belethor. We are, in truth, looking for a new home within the city walls. Jarl Hrongar's steward, despite his best efforts, could not find us any available properties suitable for our purposes. I do not blame the poor chap, but, alas...the private merchant often has connections beyond that of a courtly attendant."
"Don't get me started on the, heh, limitations of that upjumped weasel Hrongar has running things," Belethor let his mouth run itself as he knelt down to retrieve a sheaf of documents from a cabinet. Properties, yes, I'll sell you some properties. A deft hand, for these Silver Dawn people; the kind of trickery they wouldn't notice until months or years down the line, if they ever managed to find someone competent to run their affairs. "If you ask me, he's only here because no court in Cyrodiil would give him the time of day. Now, what were we looking for in terms of size? Something similar to Jorrvaskr, I suppose?"
"The mead hall, you mean? No, not precisely," Montrose replied, a muscle twitching in his cheek. A lesser man than Belethor would not have noticed the hint of an edge in the words. Not a friend of the Companions, eh? Might be something to work with, there. For now, best not to mention them.
"What'd you have in mind, then? It might help if I knew how many of you there are in Whiterun."
Montrose's grin returned from its brief exile, and the knight watched cheerfully as Belethor flipped through sheets of parchment. "We are a dozen, presently, though I expect our numbers soon to swell. The Jarl has granted us provisional ownership of a ruined fort just north of the city, but I seek a more local base from which to guide its restoration and handle recruitment. Forgive me for my impertinence, good man, but my eye alighted upon a worthy property as soon as the purifier and I stepped through the city gates."
Belethor peered up, his fingers frozen in motion amidst the myriad deeds. "Oh, did you? That's just fine, brother, just fine. The customer's always right, that's what I say, but let's just make sure the place you're looking for is actually in my possession. I don't quite own the entire city yet, heh heh."
Lydia scoffed and turned towards the front door, clearly eager to leave. Montrose chuckled and stroked his bare chin. His entire head was sheared of hair, even down to his eyebrows - that made it more difficult to read his expression. "A friendly servant of our esteemed Jarl told me it was once called 'The Drunken Huntsman' - evidently it met an untimely end during some foul business years ago."
"Oh." Belethor's brow furrowed. "You want that scorched old elf tavern? Really?"
"If it would not trouble you overmuch, chap. The location is sublime, and we have gifted craftsmen among our ranks. I expect we'll be able to throw up a small guildhall in short order."
"Well, if you insist," Belethor spoke, much less confidently than before. "The customer's always right, sure. Let me see...here's the deed." He laid the parchment flat on the counter and blew the dust off. At least he wouldn't be losing any gold on the deal. The Wood Elf hunters who'd owned the Huntsman had sold it to him dirt cheap, during the height of Whiterun's anti-elven hysteria. Belethor had bald-faced cheated them, and the sorry fools had thanked him for it.
As he looked over the deed, Montrose murmured, "We'll be happy to pay your asking price twice over, of course. In the pursuit of building a warm relationship between our two parties."
"Is that right?" Belethor licked his lips. "You're a Divines-touched man, sir, I knew it as soon as you walked through my doors. I'll have a contract written up by tomorrow morning. Where would you like it sent?"
"Oh, no, I'm sure that won't be necessary." Montrose waved the idea away as if it were an annoying insect. "Simply provide a blank piece of parchment, I'll sign the bottom, and you can fill in the details. I trust you to have our best interests in mind, dear brother. Is that arrangement acceptable to you?"
"I...I think that'd work out just fine, my friend." Belethor hid his shaking hands beneath the counter. Was this his godly reward, for casting out worthless Sigurd? Had his lord sent him the most gullible mark in all of Skyrim? "Ah, parchment. Here you go. And a nice big quill, fit for a knight, eh? Thank you, thank you. Go ahead and take your deed, wise sir. Don't worry yourself, I'll sort out all the paperwork with that stooge Avenicci."
"If our meeting is any indication, Belethor," Montrose spoke, gazing fondly around the shop. "Then I believe Whiterun will be a swell home for the Silver Dawn."
"Let me be the first to offer you congratulations, and a warm welcome!" Belethor came around the counter and shook Montrose's hand in the Breton fashion. "It'll be wonderful to have some new faces in town, that's for sure. You know, you've got me in such a kindly mood, I'll tell you this: any member of your order comes into one of my businesses, they get ten percent off any purchase. No exceptions!"
"Oh! Oh! I tell you, Lydia, you have this man figured all wrong! She had me near-convinced I'd leave your store bereft of my possessions, without a septim to my name."
"An innocent mistake, I'm sure. The Nords in this fair city can sometimes have trouble accepting outsiders, but I can't really blame the poor folks for being suspicious. To them, even the customs of us ordinary Bretons must seem otherworldly and exotic."
Lydia cleared her throat. "Commander, you mentioned you wanted to grab a sweetroll and a drink at the Bannered Mare? S'argo will be waiting for us, and for the sake of the Mare's patrons you ought walk in with him."
"Oh, yes, you're right!" Montrose's attention jerked to the timepiece above the eastern shelves. "By the Eight, look at the time! I beg you, dear Belethor, join us in our revelry if you can tear yourself away from your worthy toils anytime soon. I intend to celebrate until sunrise. Come, Lydia, quickly!"
"I'll just be a minute."
Montrose moved unsettlingly fast for such a large man, and soon the store's doors were swinging shut in his absence. Lydia turned towards Belethor, the skin around the scarred part of her face tightening.
"Heh heh, you know, there's an elixir I keep in the back that might be able to do something about those burns of yours. Very rare, very secret, I only offer it to select customers. Comes from Falmer blood, you see, and Zenithar knows the stuff is perilous to ac-"
He found himself halfway across the counter, his collar gripped by fists of gleaming silver. The muscles in his back screamed in pain at being forced into such an unnatural position.
"The Commander sees the best in people," Lydia spoke in his ear, through her teeth. "But I know what you are. A cheat. A liar. A parasite on this city. People don't change. You are what you always were. But living under Hrongar has made you bolder, hasn't it? He isn't half as clever as my elder cousin was."
"I-"
"Quiet," she insisted, tightening her grip. Belethor took a choked breath. "My commander has decided you'll work with us, and I will follow his lead. But if I ever find out you've swindled so much as a septim from the Dawn, you'll wish you never left the Reach, you slimy son-of-a-bitch."
Lydia released Belethor and he fell stumbling against the far wall.
"What..." He struggled to speak, as she turned to leave. "What are you people doing here?"
"Cleansing Whiterun of evil. Daedra worshippers. Vampires. Werewolves." Lydia did not look back at him. "If you suspect anyone, the Silver Dawn is always ready to listen."
She was gone before Belethor could think of anything else to say. The blank contract sat waiting for him on the counter, and in it he saw the potential for riches and death alike.
"Steady, Belethor." He swallowed and approached the contract with eager eyes, despite Lydia's threats. "Steady, steady. This will take a deft hand, indeed."