Middas, 2nd of Sun's Dusk, 4E 202
Deirdre followed the boardwalk until she found the place where it split into a set of wooden stairs going down. At the bottom, she stepped onto a second boardwalk a mere foot above the half-frozen waters of the canal. She followed the old man's instructions through the lower portion of the city, her stride quick and purposeful.
She had gone back to the inn after speaking to the old man. First, to get her new dagger (a gift from Aela, to replace the one left behind in Gerdur and Hod's house), and second, to leave a note for Vilkas at the bar. He'd vowed not to help her if she was foolish enough to become a pickpocket's prey, but she didn't want him to think she'd been kidnapped or something. If she were fast, she'd be back before he even received the message.
In short order, she found what she was looking for. Cut into the stone wall upon which the upper portion of the city sat, was an unexceptional archway. It was barred by a swinging metal gate and illuminated by two small glass lanterns, one on either side. Beyond the gate lay a shadowy entryway, at the end of which stood a heavy wooden door covered with metal studs. The entrance to the Ratway.
Deirdre put a hand on the dagger on her belt, steeling her nerves. She walked forward and pushed open the gate. It gave a whine of protest; she looked back to see if she'd drawn any unwanted attention. The two Argonians strolling along the boardwalk did not even glance her way.
After stepping forward, she nudged the gate closed with her foot and proceeded to the heavy wooden door, leaning her weight against it to force it open. Once inside, she released the door and it fell shut with a booming thud.
Several stone steps stretched down before her, many of them mossy and cracked. The air was humid, the scent of the canal even more potent than outside. A sputtering torch was bolted to one wall.
At the bottom of the steps, Deirdre came upon a long corridor with a low, arched ceiling. A handful of torches had been placed along the length of the wall to her left. To her right, a deep, narrow stream trickled—more canal water, channeled to carry the city's sewage away. Where it let out, Deirdre didn't know, but the downward slant and constant stream at least meant it wasn't sitting stagnant, and the smell was manageable.
As she walked beside the stream, an icy drop of water fell from the ceiling onto her head. She made a face and pulled up the hood of her cloak. It was just as well; if she ran into anyone down here, she'd rather they didn't realize she was a lone young woman.
"People like you don't come to places like this," Vilkas reminded her.
He was starting to sound like her voice of reason. But her previous voice of reason had justified lingering with Brynjolf, so perhaps that was for the best.
She passed a small, recessed space in the wall to her left, and a few feet later, passed another. Both times, she felt a chill draft. She guessed the recesses either led up to exit points into the city, or were for ventilation.
At the end of the corridor, her path turned left, while the stream continued running straight on beneath a stone wall with a closed door. She took the left turn and came into another corridor, one that branched off into opposite directions at the end. On the wall straight ahead hung a wooden sign with a frothy mug of beer painted on it, as well as an arrow pointing right. This was precisely what the old man had described: the path to the underground tavern known as the Ragged Flagon. Apparently, members of the Thieves Guild were frequent patrons.
She was halfway down this second corridor when she noticed the light coming from the left path was advancing—as if someone were approaching with a torch.
"… livin' in a sewer! You said we'd have a house as big as the Black-Briars' by now," echoed a gruff male voice.
Deirdre stopped walking. The light from the left path grew steadily brighter, accompanied by moving shadows.
"You just worry about bashing people's heads in. I'll worry about the Guild, okay?" snapped a peevish male voice in return.
Deirdre's eyes widened.
To her left she saw another recess in the wall. She darted into it, shuffling as far back as possible within the dark space. For once her size came in handy; Vilkas would have been too bulky for such a hiding place.
I wouldn't need a hiding place to begin with, quipped her Voice of Reason.
The peevish man was closer when next she heard him, and the moving light had entered her corridor.
"Let's go check the entrance. Next person who comes down here, we jump 'em."
"Won't do any good if they're broke as we are," muttered the gruff one, close enough for Deirdre to hear him clearly.
She covered her mouth with her hand, abruptly aware of how loudly she was breathing. She tried to breathe so slowly as to be silent, and to be so still, her dark cloak and hood would blend into the shadows.
Two men walked directly past her, one big and wide, the other short and wiry, the former holding a torch. Neither turned his head to look into her hiding place.
Deirdre waited until their torchlight had gone and their footsteps sounded as if they'd exited the corridor. She peeked to check that the coast was clear. Seeing no one, she scurried as quietly as possible down the corridor and took the right turn toward the Ragged Flagon.
She continued following the signs with the mug and the arrow, on guard but feeling better now that she'd avoided danger. At times her path again brought her alongside a stream of canal water, and even when she couldn't see it, the trickling sound was always audible. She entered larger spaces at irregular intervals, always with doors leading who knew where. If not for the Ragged Flagon signs, she would have been hopelessly lost.
"Some call it the city beneath the city," the old man had said. She was beginning to see why.
One of these larger rooms with doors was rectangular, and leaning against the wall were two women. They had their heads bent toward each other while they conversed, and one held a lit pipe in her hand. The other stopped talking when Deirdre entered her line of sight. Her dark eyes narrowed.
The fairer woman with the pipe glanced lazily in Deirdre's direction. She smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, despite the shapeliness of her rouge-darkened lips.
Deirdre took note of their cosmetic-caked faces, the low cuts of their necklines, and the indecently long slit up the side of one's skirt. She averted her eyes. The fair one snickered before taking a drag on her pipe, turning back to her companion.
Another room was round, with three branching paths. Down one, Deirdre could see flickering lights and many dancing shadows, and heard the hollers and cheers of a crowd. As she caught sight of the path with the Ragged Flagon sign, she heard a great crash from the direction of the noise. A burst of jeers and fervid shouting followed.
Deirdre shook her head as she took the path with the sign. Illegal brawling, maybe? Dog fighting? She could only guess.
She was slowly gaining more confidence navigating the Ratway. It felt like she was getting close; there were clay lanterns on the walls now instead of torches, and the burble of flowing sewage seemed especially faint, as did the smell. It felt like she had entered more civilized territory.
As she thought this, she entered a small hallway that opened up on the other end into a big, softly-lit room. She heard voices coming from the room, and slowed her step. She crept nearly to the end of the hall, staying far back enough to be out of sight, and paused to listen.
"Easy there, Gian," complained a woman. Her voice was hoarse, her tone impatient.
"Lay off 'im," grumbled a much deeper voice. It was almost impossibly deep; a bass much lower than Farkas's. "He's runnin' low."
"So'm I!" said the hoarse woman.
Deirdre sneaked a look into the room. At the far end was a rounded archway similar to the one at the entrance to the Ratway. A big sign with fresh paint sat above it, displaying yet another frothy mug of beer. From the ceiling hung several round clay lanterns, though one of them was cracked and had dripped all its oil onto the stone below.
Seated on the floor near the archway were three figures. One was a painfully thin woman, her dirty blond hair cropped and sticking up in messy tufts. Another was an olive-skinned man with a bald head, save for long locks of brown hair falling from the sides of his head to his shoulders. And the third was a male orc. Much like Argonians, Deirdre had yet to meet an orc. He was just as big as she'd been led to believe an orc would be, with thick green skin and tusks jutting up from his lower jaw, extending above his upper lip. His roughspun clothes were the nicest of the three, though this wasn't saying much; the man's shirt was stained and full of holes, and the woman's clothes were clearly tailored for a man, and far too big for her.
The orc was slouched at the base of the wall by the archway, with his leg extended across the gap, foot propped against the opposite wall.
Deirdre drew back into the hallway. The big sign above the archway probably meant the Ragged Flagon was near, or why else would it be larger and nicer than the other signs? And it appeared to be the only way to get where she wanted to go. It did not seem coincidental that this little party had positioned themselves where they had.
Thieves Guild? Deirdre wondered. Somehow she doubted it. Surely the Thieves Guild wouldn't stand between potential customers and their base of operations.
Deirdre took stock of her options. Retreat was not one of them. Those two thugs near the entrance were probably still there, for one thing. For another, the three people guarding the way to the tavern looked more like beggars than anything else, and since she didn't have any money to give away, they couldn't expect anything from her. Hopefully.
Pulling her hood down low over her forehead, she braced herself, wrapped her fingers around the handle of her dagger, and walked into the room.
Three heads turned. They watched in silence as Deirdre came toward them. She stopped a few feet away, out of reach of hands or feet. Figuring it would make her seem more intimidating, she said nothing, and stood straight.
"Who're you?" barked the woman.
"You want somethin'?" followed the orc.
Deirdre stayed quiet. They probably couldn't see her face well under her hood, and she wanted them to think she could be older and male for as long as possible.
"You headin' to the Ragged Flagon?" said the orc, impatient.
In as firm and deep a voice as she could muster, Deirdre said, "Yes."
The orc rumbled wordlessly. He shifted his weight, letting his foot slide down the wall. As it met the ground it hit something small, which clinked and rolled across the floor. It was a tiny glass bottle.
"Got any skooma?" asked the orc.
"No."
"Money?" asked the woman.
"None."
The woman snorted.
The third man, with the bald head and long sidelocks, was silent. His eyes were bloodshot, and he sat rocking in place as he stared at Deirdre. His hands were clenched tightly around something (another bottle), tendons visibly taut. His fingernails were ragged and short, as if he chewed on or picked at them regularly.
"You got anythin' there, pipsqueak?" the orc said.
"No."
"Well, see, that's a problem. This's what you'd call a tollway. You give us a toll, we give you the door. 'S real simple."
Deirdre's palm felt clammy around her dagger. They were beggars, albeit more aggressive than the ones aboveground. All she had to do was promise them something in return.
"I won't have money until I go to the Ragged Flagon."
The orc and the woman gave her matching glares. Even the third one changed his expression, lip curling.
Deirdre tensed. She gripped her dagger tighter.
"No one goes through without paying the toll," said the orc. "Go get money and come back."
"I can't. I have to go to the Ragged Flagon."
The woman stood. Deirdre took three steps back and pulled the dagger from its sheath, holding it out and planting her feet, like Aela had taught her.
Pausing, the woman looked her up and down. It was then that Deirdre saw her eyes were also bloodshot, and her limbs were jittery. The skin was stretched too tightly over the bones of her face.
The woman grimaced. She stuck a trembling hand into the baggy pocket of her trousers and drew out another little bottle. She broke off the wax seal and threw back the contents of the bottle like a shot of liquor. Holding the glass to her lips, she closed her eyes for a moment. The tremors in her hand diminished.
She threw the bottle down, shattering it. When she looked at Deirdre, her pupils had grown in size.
"Take off your hood," the woman ordered.
Deirdre didn't move.
The woman advanced; Deirdre retreated with a wave of her dagger. The woman stopped. She scowled, extending both hands and flexing her fingers in a grabbing motion. Unlike her friend, she certainly did not chew her nails; they were long and dirty.
"You sound healthy, pipsqueak. I bet you got nice hair too."
Deirdre repeated the words in her head. "What?"
The woman made a jerky motion toward her own hair. "You can sell hair for good gold. Give us some of your hair. For the toll."
Deirdre stared. For a crazy second, she considered it.
The woman, huffing, took another step, a keen look in her dilated eyes. Deirdre again made a short warning motion with her dagger, but the woman didn't stop, reaching with both arms. Deirdre slashed out in a panic.
The woman yelped, skittering back while cradling her sliced palm against her chest. It began bleeding into her ill-fitting shirt. She gnashed her teeth, doubling over with her hand pressed to her heart. She released an angry keen.
"You bitch!" thundered the orc.
The two men rose from the floor. Deirdre backed up all the way to the entrance of the room, eyes darting from her bloodied dagger, to the orc, to the silent man.
"I'll have money after I go to the Ragged Flagon," she reiterated, trying to sound brave, trying to salvage the situation. She just needed to get around them, but that was looking less and less likely.
"Too late for that," the orc spat, stepping forward with his comrade.
He was huge. Easily taller than Farkas; easily two feet taller than Deirdre, likely more. As he raised his hands to crack his knuckles, Deirdre had a perfect view of the sinewy muscles of his forearms, flexing under his skin.
The silent man was looking at her the way a starving dog would look at a rabbit.
Do something! shouted her Voice of Reason.
Deirdre looked to the floor. To the puddle of lantern oil, into which the silent man had just stepped.
She thrust out her free hand, and threw her mind to Helgen—to the thunderous jet of fire, the rushing heat, the way the world lit orange.
A torrent of flame shot from her palm, directly at the feet of the silent man. The oil beneath him caught fire.
He shrieked, leaping back, arms pinwheeling, feet dancing as he tried to stomp the burning oil off his worn shoes. The back of his hand smashed into a clay lantern, breaking it. Oil splattered down his arm, along with a lick of fire.
"Shit!" swore the orc, as he lurched out of the way.
"Gian!" cried the woman.
Deirdre, jaw dropping, watched Gian's shirt and hair catch fire.
He howled. He began beating at his shirt with both hands. Fire crawled up the long strands of his hair, along his tattered clothes. He threw himself to the ground and rolled, thrashed. But there was more oil on the ground, and within seconds, he was covered in flames.
"HE'S ON FIRE! HE'S ON FIRE!" the woman squawked.
Deirdre raised a frantic hand and tried to mimic Athis's frost spell; she tried to imagine snow, ice, water, anything cold—but Gian was screaming in agony and the room was bright with fire and she had been the one to do that, she'd set him on fire, oh gods she hadn't meant to set him on fire—
"YOU KILLED HIM!"
Deirdre looked up to see the orc pressed against the wall, as far from Gian as possible. His face was warped with rage.
"YOU KILLED GIAN!"
Gian was writhing on the floor.
"YOU KILLED HIM!" shrieked the woman.
The woman lunged around Gian.
Deirdre whirled and ran.
Night had fallen by the time Vilkas walked into the Bee and Barb. He was looking forward to taking off his armor and winding down with a drink.
He did not see Deirdre anywhere on the tavern floor, which wasn't surprising. She tended to go to bed early, and she had probably gone straight to her room to mope after seeing the kids at the orphanage.
Still, he felt compelled to check, just in case, and approached the innkeeper behind the bar.
"Hey, did that blonde girl I came with go up to her room?"
The Argonian woman, not pausing as she wiped down her counter with a rag, reached into the pocket of her apron and handed him a slip of paper. She turned away to wipe the other side of the counter as Vilkas blinked confusedly at his hand.
He unfolded the note to read it. He froze.
"Are you SHITTING ME?" he cried.
The noisy room fell silent. The innkeeper stopped wiping to look at him. He slapped the note onto the counter, rattling an empty mug nearby.
"How long ago did she leave this?"
The innkeeper's yellow eyes narrowed. "An hour or so? I don't like your tone."
Vilkas choked back a growl. The cogs in his head spun furiously. An hour. Anything could have happened in an hour.
"Son of a bitch!"
He crumpled the note, spewing profanities as he spun and ran to the door, back out into the night.
Night in Riften. Night in the Ratway.
His gut clenched at the thought. A flurry of images bombarded him as he ran, each one worse than the last. Deirdre being mugged. Deirdre attacked, drugged, kidnapped. Deirdre assaulted by some skooma addict too broke to buy a prostitute.
He felt physically sick.
Please don't be dead. Please, Talos, don't let me find her after something's happened.
Aela wouldn't forgive him. Tilma wouldn't forgive him. He wouldn't forgive himself; he'd be forever dogged by regret. But why, why on Nirn, would Deirdre be so stupid as to go by herself? What had possessed her? Overconfidence? Naivety? Had she not believed his warnings after the relative ease of their trip? Did she not remember that creepy bastard in the carriage, the hungry eyes of the people in the tavern at the Pale Pass? Did she not understand just how little and defenseless she was? Had she not been through enough already?
Why hadn't she at least waited for him?
Deirdre sprinted through the small hallway as the woman made an enraged noise behind her. She shot through the previous room, into another corridor. The woman's incensed panting, practically growling, echoed in the narrow space. The thump of her boots was gaining.
"I'LL KILL YOU!" she screamed.
Deirdre careened around a turn in the path, her dagger nicking the wall. She heard the woman hit the wall as she tried to take the turn, heard the scuffle of her stumble. The woman screeched in annoyance, picking up the chase.
This hallway was a long, straight shot; it led back to the circular room with the three paths, where Deirdre had heard other people. But the woman was catching up. Would catch up.
She's out of her mind! yelled her Voice of Reason.
Deirdre tried not to cry, but her throat grew tight from fear. Her eyes stung hot. This woman was out of her mind; she could really kill her. She hadn't meant to set Gian on fire. She didn't want to die.
As if in answer, her Voice of Reason threw out an idea. She had no time to consider it. She took a gasping breath, blinking hard.
She slowed nearly to a stop, pivoting. She planted her feet as best she could in a split second. She gripped her dagger before her with both hands, and braced her arms.
The woman didn't even try to slow. She threw herself at Deirdre full force. Her body collided with the dagger first, then Deirdre, knocking her to the ground. Deirdre barely managed to release the dagger and twist to avoid the handle protruding from the woman's torso. The woman collapsed atop her lower half.
The woman's eyes flew wide, her mouth opening on a choke. A warm, wet liquid pooled on Deirdre's hip.
Deirdre tried to scramble out from under her. The woman made a throaty, shocked, furious sound. A strong hand shot out to grab the clasp of Deirdre's cloak, yanking her back. The woman rose partly onto her knees; blood trickled down the handle of the dagger piercing her stomach.
The woman's second hand lashed out toward Deirdre's face. Deirdre snapped her head aside to no avail. The woman's nails gouged parallel scratches down her cheek, over her jaw, catching on her neck. Deirdre cried out, kicking at her. Her leg knocked into the dagger. The woman made a gurgling yelp. She gave another yank on Deirdre's cloak, breaking the clasp.
Freed, Deirdre scuttled out of her cloak, backwards on hands and feet.
The woman took hold of the blood-slicked handle of the dagger and pulled it from her body, throwing it haphazardly in Deirdre's direction. Her face was ashen, her eyes glazing over but feverish-bright.
Deirdre, panting, met the woman's gaze. The woman flapped her mouth like a dying fish. She curled her arms around her stomach and sank in a fetal position to the floor, taking hitching, confused breaths.
At the end of the long hallway, a huge shape burst into view. The orc was thundering toward her.
Deirdre screamed. The orc roared, either in response, or because he'd just spotted the woman on the ground. His legs were so long, his stride so fast, that by the time Deirdre had stumbled to her feet, he was stepping over the woman.
Deirdre made a dash for the dagger. The orc caught her by the arm and threw her bodily into the wall. The back of her head hit the stone, hard enough to make her dizzy.
Huge, iron fingers wrapped around her throat. The orc squeezed. Deirdre tried to gasp, but couldn't, as he applied pressure to her windpipe. Her hands scrabbled at the back of his, nails digging into his skin, fruitlessly trying to pry his grip loose.
The orc's fingers tightened. With a single hand he pushed her against the wall, slid her body up, lifting her feet off the ground. She could hear herself choking. Her vision swam from tears.
"Magic little bitch!" the orc snarled.
He drew her forward and slammed her against the wall. Her mouth opened in vain, desperately fighting for air. Her eyesight was dimming; her lungs burned; an intense pressure was building in her head; her skull throbbed. She could barely hear for the ringing in her ears.
The orc's face got right in hers, spittle flying from his mouth. "Thought you could run? Magic bitch!"
Deirdre, magic!
Deirdre stopped trying to pry his fingers loose. She slapped her hand over the orc's eye, thought of Helgen, and blasted the orc point blank in the face.
He released her with a bloodcurdling yowl. Deirdre fell, gasping, coughing, as she collapsed to her knees, catching herself on just her left hand. Tears poured freely from her eyes. Her gasps turned partially into sobs as she lifted her right hand and blinked down at it, seeing the patches of skin seared away, white flesh at the edges of the red holes. Her spell wasn't meant to be used via direct touch.
The orc had similarly fallen to his knees, holding both hands over his face as he howled. He was sobbing too.
Deirdre wobbled to her feet, drunkenly staggering toward the bloody dagger. She grabbed it in her left hand and turned away from the orc, from the still woman on the ground.
Unsteadily, she hastened in the direction indicated by the sign on the wall. She tried to stop crying, the prey animal in her brain fearful of attracting more predators, fearful that the orc would somehow recover enough to hear and pursue her.
She'd have to go back to the room where they'd left Gian. Would he still be burning? Screaming?
She couldn't help it; she sobbed wildly for a moment, before clinging to the idea of her Voice of Reason. She would pretend he was there. He would tell her to be logical, like when she'd been sick.
You have to make it to the Ragged Flagon. At this point, it's your safest bet.
Yes, he would say that. He would be calm and blunt. She imagined him walking behind her—steady, annoyed at her pace, uncomfortable with her tears.
Strangely, it helped.