Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this chapter!
-K-
"Genuine Falmerblood Elixir for sale! Live for thousands of years or see into other people's thoughts!"
It was a gorgeous day in Riften. As it turned out, my antagonist really was a snake oil salesman. The thing was, though, that while everyone came to listen to what he had to say, I don't think anyone really believed him. He was known to be a scallywag. Luckily, circuses are full of scallywags and eccentrics, so this wasn't a problem for me.
"Learn a library's worth of knowledge in moments or grow back that missing limb with my genuine Falmerblood Elixir!"
This was when the crowd began heckling him back—apparently his name was Brynjolf. He took the heckling in stride, reminding me a bit of our Master of Ceremonies. He doesn't work the crowd: he just tells them what they need to know and gives them something to listen to so they don't get too bored during act changes.
I'm something of a people person, too. I know which people to avoid in life and my antagonist here was not one of them. I would never say he was safe, or safe to be around, but relatively speaking I didn't need to go out of my way to avoid him or just pack up and head for the next city along whichever road I took out of Riften. He wouldn't, for instance, murder me or worse if he caught me on the road, in the middle of nowhere, all by myself.
I snickered once he really got going—his silver tongue almost made up for his loud clothes.
It only took me a second to pick the lock on the stall's storage compartment, then the strongbox inside. When you grow up in a circus, there are two kinds of people: your minders and those who don't care. Your minders generally teach you their specialty, if only so you don't wander around annoying people or getting into trouble.
I've heard it said that a circus isn't really a place to raise a child, but that mostly comes from people who've never been there. It's better than a lot of places and I learned a great many useful skills. Picking locks. Slipping knots. Cheating at cards without getting caught. How to put a sling stone exactly where I want it. Special effects alchemy. All kinds of things.
"Don't miss out… purchase a bottle of my genuine Falmerblood Elixir! Only twenty septims each! A real bargain, ladies and gentlemen."
I located my mark and sneaked up on him, using the clutter of the market district—in this case, someone's stack of crates—to obscure myself. For a few moments I stood there, then ducked. There's a trick to not being noticed and I learned it. I don't think I could teach it, but I did learn it.
Brynjolf nearly ruined the scheme with the next words out of his mouth: "Make love like a sabercat or crush your enemies to dust like a giant!"
I nearly laughed, which meant my hand would have jerked if I hadn't been trained to freeze when something, anything, goes wrong or not according to plan.
"Only a mere twenty gold coins and all this could be yours!"
And the ring went into the pocket as easy as Sheila and Shayla catch those flaming torches. I slowly rose to my feet, then climbed onto the crates, kicking my heels against them, to watch Brynjolf's continued performance. To the casual observer, they would swear I'd been there the whole time. Unfortunately, noticing that I'd done what needed to be done meant he cut his routine short. So the pleasure of laughing at his ludicrous claims—and he gave them all with a merchant's straight face, which is to say with a charming grin—was denied to me.
I'm something of an optimist; I laugh when I can, I'm cheerful when I can be, and I occasionally annoy people with both. Still, better cheerful and optimistic than sad and woebegone. I'd hate to end up sad enough to drink myself to death. It felt like I was heading that way right after Mother died.
As Brynjolf closed down his stall for the day, he caught my eye and discreetly tipped his head in the direction of yesterday's meeting place.
If I can call it that.
-K-
"It's nice to see a plan come off without a hitch," Brynjolf observed as I joined him after taking a round about the plaza so as not to be seen following him. Or wandering off with him. I'd like my reputation to remain fairly decent for as long as possible.
"Oh?"
Brynjolf snorted, shaking his head, "My… organization… is having a run of bad luck. It doesn't matter—that's just the way it goes."
The best luck is the luck you make yourself, said Sheila, right before Shayla filched my hair ribbon. I was young, and it was a lesson, but I remembered it then and now. And filched my ribbon back first chance I got.
"Never mind that. You did the job and did it well. Best of all there's more where that—whenever you've gone and hidden it—came from."
I pulled the empty purse out of my pocket with an innocent smile. "Here. It looked expensive."
"Or distinctive," Brynjolf answered philosophically, taking the purse back.
"That too," I agreed. "So… that sounded like an invitation. What are you inviting me to, exactly?" Truth be told, I really was curious and, since he's not one of the people to avoid in life, I was comfortable exercising that curiosity. A snake oil salesman who's known as a snake oil salesman should have moved on to a new city a long time ago. However, Brynjolf is stubborn enough to stick around—he doesn't strike me as being too stupid to figure out when to leave a place. Interesting, right?
"The group I represent has its home in the Ratway beneath Riften—a tavern called the Ragged Flagon."
That sounds 'promising.' Promising of a wet nasty hole in the ground full of scruffy, smelly Nords. I should probably start hiking and keep on going until I get to High Rock. Or back in Cyrodiil, if I get my directions mixed up. It's been known to happen. Hey, even Morrowind wouldn't be too bad.
"Show up in one piece and we'll talk. See if you've got what it takes."
I scowled at this doubt of my skill. "I picked you, didn't I?"
"You also got caught."
"Twice."
Brynjolf didn't even blink at the lie, or pause to question 'wait… she did it twice?' "You still got caught—second chances are rare."
"And then you couldn't find it."
"Mind that sass, lass," Brynjolf chuckled.
"Ugh. Will you not call me that? You sound like Shamar the Strong-Man." I sighed, turning to rejoin the crowd. "I don't need another father-brother-stand-in, thank you—" I gasped as an arm wrapped loosely around my neck, hot breath appearing against my ear.
"Alright, lass," Brynjolf purred. "There. Is that better?"
I swear I could feel him smiling. "Eep!"
He let me go with a laugh, smirking at my discomposure.
"Call me whatever you want, as long as you don't say it like… that… again. Please and thank you!" I yelped.
"You're a jumpy one, aren't you?" Brynjolf asked, seemingly caught between amusement at my jumpiness and observance of it as a serious flaw in my character.
"I have nerves of steel. I just don't like being handled by strange anyone." It didn't help that having him purr in my ear like that brought to my attention something I had purposely ignored: his accent wasn't anything I'd heard in Skyrim—or anywhere else—to date. Purred in the ear all soft and rumbly was enough to mess with a girl's innards whether she wanted them messed with or not!
"Well, if you make it to the Flagon, try not to squeak like that. Wouldn't want anyone thinking you were no good and first impressions are so important," he dictated.
Don't I know it?
Also, I suspected it would be chalked up against him if I didn't show myself as a good find, a real gem among skinny blonde girls with potentially sticky fingers. "Don't worry. I won't trip over my feet or squeak or anything that might embarrass you."
His grin dimmed a bit as mine became toothy and enthusiastic.
Still, even if there was less of a grin on his face there was more of a challenge: I'd like to see you live up to that boast.
I knew what he was doing, this time, but I found I didn't mind. I was curious. I didn't need him to shepherd me into more curiosity.
-K-
The Ratway stank—in no particular order—of filth, stale water, gross, and nasty. If there was a smell that summed up 'seedy underbelly of Specific City' then the Ratway was full of it. It was a smell to remember, I'll say that much.
I wish it could be a smell to forget.
More than that, there were the corpses I had to step over, blood oozing wetly from their throats to pool beneath them. I knew a little bit about daggers from a knife-thrower that traveled with the circus for a while; whoever killed these men knew exactly what he or she was doing, and used a ridiculously sharp blade to do it. They were probably dead before they realized they'd been acted against.
I closed one eye as I stepped over them, watching with other in case they did something… like jump up and be alive after all. Or grab at my ankles or just… ugh. I don't do well with dead bodies. I'd rather run than fight, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.
The Ratway eventually funneled me to a door with a sign over it designating it as THE RAGGED FLAGON.
The Ragged Flagon was a massive cistern, with a sort of tavern built on the stonework to the back and partially over the waters. Stout posts with thick ropes seemed to scream safety first—can't have drunks flopping into the cistern and drowning. For such a seedy place, it was remarkably full, people clustering together at tables when they weren't holding up the bar.
Closer to the tavern end of the room was another, nicer signboard, the kind one might expect at a reputable tavern designating it 'The Ragged Flagon' and displaying a foaming mug with two swords crossed behind it. I had to say, looking at the empty niches around the walls—well, empty in that they were filled with the kind of junk, odds and ends no one ever seems to care about—and smell of stale water (thankfully less nasty than the air outside)… this was a pretty derelict place. The Ragged Flagon was well named.
For being so derelict, it was remarkably full of people.
"Hey."
I jumped back as a pillar moved. As per Brynjolf's wish, I refrained from my fallback answer of 'eep!' for when the stonework started moving of its own accord.
No, not a pillar, but one of the biggest Nords I'd ever seen, dressed in drab armor capped with a thatch of blond hair and the most amazing mutton chop sideburns I'd ever seen in my life—and this coming from Skyrim, the Capital of Face Fur! At first I thought they were just the back of his hair showing around his head but, no, they were definitely sideburns.
What is it with men and out of control face-fur in this frigid Province? Do women here like that kind of thing?
"Sorry?" I asked, my smile snapping into place. A smile and a quick wit will get you through a lot in life. Also, so will staying out of arm's reach. I wasn't knocked around much growing up, but there were enough people willing to get me a 'go away, kid, you bother me' clout.
"The last person that made trouble for Vekel ended up floating in the canal." He glowered so impressively that my smile became almost sickly. "Catch my drift?"
"Sure… no problem whatever." Never argue with a bouncer. Ever.
"Stay outta trouble or there'll be trouble." And, to emphasize his point, he slammed one ham hock into the other—that is to say, pounded one fist into his other open hand.
…that man has biceps the size of my head. I'll bet Shamar the Strong Man would have some real competition if these two were to arm-wrestle… hey, I'd love to see that match! "Okay! I'll absolutely keep that in mind!" I called as I edged around him.
As I did so (and with his grunt of 'you'd better') in my ears, I found Brynjolf sitting at a table with another redhead. "Heya, Bryn!" I announced as cheerfully as I could, waving so he couldn't possibly miss me. It looked like he was in the middle of a pretty serious conversation—but not particularly invested in it.
He spoke softly to the other redhead who turned in her seat to look at me, mouth pulled into a line that suggested I was interrupting and she wasn't happy about having Brynjolf distracted. Her bright blue eyes made me nervous, as if there was something behind them. I couldn't say what, all I knew was that those instincts I mentioned? They told me to give her a wide berth.
I did what I always do in situations where someone tries to intimidate me, when a smile and 'sure, you're the boss' before doing whatever I want to doesn't work: I ignored it. There were eight to ten people in the Ragged Flagon, counting Brynjolf, the redhead, and the bouncer, but not counting myself.
It was unusually quiet for a tavern this full, though.
"See you found the place alright," Brynjolf responded as he got to his feet.
He wasn't wearing those stupid fancy clothes. Instead, he was wearing leathers that revealed a lean, fit figure I wouldn't have expected from that first look at him. From the amount of equipment secured to his person—knives, picks, what looked like a mirror in a leather case, ditty pouches on a bandolier or at his waist—he looked like a competent professional sneak. The leathers—old, grey and well broken-in—really were flattering; he wasn't as bulky as most Nords, but solidly built. As far as Nords go, I could see him as a sneaky person. Judging against Bretons, Imperials, and Redguards… I'd have been surprised; but having seen enough of Skyrim's populace, I really wasn't.
Without the strident colors of those stupid clothes to distract my eyes, I could see that his hair was a rich auburn and that his eyes had a pleasant sharpness to their shape around the outer corners. I'll bet he's a real ladykiller, even if the world thinks he's just a snake oil salesman—I can't bet on whether he's the sort to take advantage of that fact.
And his mouth seemed made to smile, if not necessarily in general good humor. More like twisted grins and crooked 'come thither' if I'm any judge of such things.
"Nice leathers," I announced as I entered the room, ignoring all the eyes that jumped to me. Now, I can't strut or swagger to save my life, I'm just not good at it, but I still try to make the effort, especially when I'm not feeling confident or comfortable.
So I swaggered into the Ragged Flagon with all the swagger I could muster—which probably made me look a bit like I wasn't used to walking around with breasts affixed to the front of my torso and not having enough butt to balance the weight. My swagger is pretty pathetic, but you don't just pussyfoot down into a place like this. In sketchy places it is better to have a bad swagger than show weakness with a mousy walk.
I should know. You get laughed at. Laughing… is for clowns. 'Ooh,' 'ahh,' and awe are reserved for acrobats performing above the ring…
…so I suppose 'aw' as in 'look at the cute little Kitty' is also reserved for me. Beh.
"Unless you wish to be neck-deep in Thalmor without warning, I suggest you conclude your discussion with me, sir," the redhead still seated at the table declared in a grim tone.
Total silence fell over what conversations were in progress as the redhead got to her feet, unfolding out of her chair, stony-faced and thoroughly serious.
"What's this about Thalmor?" Brynjolf demanded, taken aback—or, at least, that's what I took his raised eyebrows and narrowed mouth to mean.
"I'm looking for someone. And so are they."
"Poor bastard," I breathed devoutly. Thalmor don't usually figure into the world of circuses and freaks, so I only knew them as 'be good or else' stories. Still, I wouldn't relish meeting them in person. Supposedly they have zero sense of humor and no tolerance for the frivolity circus performers encourage. And they definitely have a grudge against cute things—cranky stiffs who don't like humor, magic of the non-magical variety, or acrobats always do—and I qualify. "Go ahead. I can wait."
With that, noticing the redhead looked surprised that I gave up my chance at jumping the line for conversation so easily, I meandered up to the bar. Behind it was another Nord, this one not as ridiculously outsized as the bouncer, dressed stylishly in shades of brown, his brown hair pulled back from his stubbly (but comparatively clean-shaven) face. "So, your Bryn's latest pick," he declared, looking me over.
"Looks that way," I answered back. Brynjolf and his conversation partner both had tankards, and since I didn't know how long her business was going to take, erred on the side of 'probably awhile.' I produced a few coins, set the coins down on the bar and slid them over to the barkeep. I couldn't help but notice that the bar was ridiculously clean given the decrepit condition of rest of the room.
That's always a good sign for a tavern. If the bar is clean, so are the glasses.
"Best this'll get me," I declared.
The barkeep examined the coins (I winced, praying that Brynjolf had been lying about the counterfeits) then palmed them as he produced an appropriately clean tankard, which he filled and plunked down in front of me. "Enjoy."
The way he watched me take that first sip made me think it was poisoned.
The first sip washed away my suspicion and placed the barkeep at the top of my 'favorite people in Riften' list—maybe even the top of my favorite people in Skyrim list! The liquor was spicy, sweet and nutty all at once and made my taste buds tingle. "Wow! This is great!" I looked at the brew with enthusiasm. Mead is an acquired taste and I was still working on acquiring it.
The barkeep's complacent smile told me he brewed it himself.
Two long draughts from the tankard (with a compliment or enthusiastic comment after each—it pays to be friends with local barmen) told me I needed to stop drinking or it'd put me on my backside and I wouldn't be good for much of anything until the alcohol wore off—
I nearly spilled the stuff when a sound like thunder and the circus' show drums and loud applause at the end of a particularly good show—all these things at once, mind—shook the room. I thought I caught a guttural word in the sound, but I wasn't sure. I was too busy dancing away from my tankard so I didn't spill it all over myself in shock.
There was only one thing to say, among the curses and maledictions: I laughed, a bit shaky and surprised to be sure, but a laugh nonetheless. "Oh, wow!" What was that? I say what's on my mind—I've had it said it's a credit to me… and a discredit, depending on what I said and who I said it to.
There was no question from whom it came—that weird redhead talking with Brynjolf. She moved a hand as if apologizing and had the grace to look a little guilty.
How did she do that? Master of Ceremonies would kill to be able to do that! Or, at least, pay out for someone who could! Hey, Red—you looking for a real job? I know a guy! It's just a matter of catching up with him.
After a few more minutes, the redhead got to her feet, thanked Brynjolf, and exited the Ragged Flagon.
"Who was that?" I demanded, sliding into the chair across from Brynjolf and leaning on the table. "What was that thing she did?"
"Nothing but trouble there, lass. Stay away," Brynjolf declared before taking a long draught from his tankard. "So. I see you found the place alright."
"Oh yeah, stepped right over the corpses and into the tavern," I answered more cheerfully than I felt. I don't do well with violence, on the whole. Carrying a dagger is mostly for show—I can use it in a pinch, but I'd much rather run away.
"Corpses?" came Brynjolf's sharp demand.
"That would be my doing," a Dunmer at a nearby table announced without raising her voice. The words hung as whispers in the air, a sinister hiss that made my spine tingle, but everyone heard her. She was pretty, with her high cheekbones and delicate features, lips painted a deep shade of crimson, daringly short black hair (shorter than mine, but mussed up wash-and-wear rather than brushed and fluffy), with a dark silk scarf pooling around her throat to mingle with her hood. Like most of the people in the Ragged Flagon she wore dark leathers—but of a different pattern from the normal pouches-and-buckles look. Nothing that would stand out, but definitely not a local.
"I assumed your people," she aimed this at the man across from her, "would know to pick their fights better." A grim smile played around her painted mouth, her eyes glittering with amused menace.
She… makes me nervous. Why are there so many people down here who make me nervous? Kitty, my girl, I think you are in the wrong place. She's one of the people to avoid in life. Avoidance worthy of a leper colony.
"Aye and they do," Brynjolf grunted, casting the back of the Dunmer's head a grim look.
"Who is she?" I asked.
"More trouble. Don't get involved with that, either." This time, Brynjolf drained his tankard, looking as though he'd like to ask someone why all the weird and troublesome things were in the tavern today.
I grimaced, quite agreeing with him. "Hmph. They didn't look so tough. Just a lot of racket and theatrics."
Brynjolf laughed at this, put his face in one hand and laughed. I got the impression he doesn't laugh like that very often—openly and genuinely—so I smirked. I was never a comedian or a clown, but a little laughter a day goes a long way—as Chuckles, one of the clowns, used to say. "Do you sass everyone you meet?" Brynjolf asked, still amused.
"Mostly. They laugh. Like you just did. It's why I'm still alive."
Brynjolf shook his head. "You're turning out to be quite the…" he twirled a finger.
"Prize?" I asked hopefully.
"Character," came the flat take-the-wind-out-of-your-sails response.
"You're no fun," I pouted. By now, our interchange had an audience who were pretending not to pay attention.
"On the contrary, lass," he answered, leaning in close and narrowing those sharp-cornered eyes of his. "I'm often told how very fun I can be."
I didn't say 'eep.' "That's your business! I don't want to know about that!" I scooted my chair back by pressing against his. He wobbled at the change in placement, but I fell backwards. Fortunately, I know what to do when I fall, so I rolled and bounced to my feet without knocking into anyone or anything.
Ladykiller and he knows it.
"How's your knife-work?" the Dunmer whispered at me.
It took all I had not to jump and shy away from her. "Excuse me?"
She opened her mouth, smirking as she did so, to repeat the question but was interrupted by the grizzled Breton sitting across from her.
"Now, now, she's too jumpy for your line of work," the Breton chided, tapping the table with his free hand—the other was resting possessively over something shiny. He caught me peering at it and palmed it deftly.
Fine. Be that way. I'll bet it's just glass and shiny brass. Turn your skin green.
"I know someone who can tumble about that well. He'd be lethal if he got out more," the Dunmer shrugged.
"On second thought… I'll just sit back down with you, Bryn!" I chirruped—to general amusement—righted my chair and scooted so I sat catty-corner to Brynjolf (as far from the creepy Dunmer as I could get).
"Good choice," Brynjolf snickered, the humor not yet gone, but seeping away, like water out of cupped hands.
This told me he was someone who has a lot of responsibility to manage and was serious as a result. Maybe a worrier, given that crease forming between his brows.
"I'd love to know what you did before pickpocketing in Riften." He motioned to the barkeep to bring another round.
I paid for it. It was his gold, after all. "I would love to tell you."
"But you'd have to kill me, I assume. Or try to?"
"Oh no, nothing awful like that. I was just waiting from an invitation," I shot back. "I was an acrobat in Martindale's Dreamtime—source of the finest freaks, the most magnificent marvels, to-die-for damsels and the most daring acrobats you've ever seen! Dream with your eyes wide open!" I waved an arm, remembering how our caller, Ingrid, used to do it. She had a gift for alliteration and for encouraging curiosity.
"So, which were you?"
"I was one of the acrobats. I can't be a to-die-for damsel. In case you haven't noticed, I lack the necessary assets," I patted my hip as I smirked.
"Also, you squeak. Luckily, we're not in that business so it hardly matters," Brynjolf agreed with an air of assumed solemnity that didn't reach his glittering, mischievous eyes.
It was my turn to laugh. Oh, I do like him!
"Question is, can you be serious?"
I considered the table, poking at it and wondering how long it took for wood to accumulate a patina of grime like the one before me. The contrast in cleanliness between the table and the bar was astounding. "Probably not. I've never really tried. But what does being serious have to do with your proposition—or do you not want to tell me?"
"I was just waiting for an invitation," he shot back.
I giggled at this. I do like him!
"A quick wit and a nimble lip are fine. The question is how well you take direction and how well you follow those directions," Brynjolf continued, growing serious.
I bit the inside of my lip and listened. Someone in my line of work has to be able to listen (usually for safety reasons) and follow instructions (often for safety reasons).
"There are a couple of deadbeats around town who owe the Guild money. And when I say money I mean serious coin."
Ooooh. 'The Guild.' That means 'initiation test.'
When he paused, I blinked once—like a cat—to show I heard him but that I was listening and mentally writing down everything I was being told.
His eyebrows crept a little up his brow as if surprised by the silence and the intensity of attention. "Unfortunately, they've decided not to pay."
Okay. Slo-ow blink.
"I want you to… explain… to them the error of their ways."
"Who is 'them'?" I asked at the next pause.
"Keerava at the Bee and Barb, Bersi Honey-Hand of the Pawned Prawn, and Haelga down at the Bunkhouse."
I knew two out of the three—Keerava has the sweetest smile I've seen on an Argonian. She's also expecting to be married sometime soon. She's the last person I would expect to owe money to a Guild like this one appears to be. I felt a squirm of unease at the thought of shaking her down.
Now Haelga I don't really know except by sight. She runs the 'Bunkhouse' (I'm sure that's a euphemism) I walked into my first day here. Needless to say, I walked out again and rather quickly. There may or may not have been an 'eep' and a kicked knee during that time. I actually spoke to Svana, the maid, who was thoroughly unhappy with her lot. She was the one who warned me off—or tried to—before the eep-ing and the knee-kicking occurred.
You know, if there's a way to make Haelga uncomfortable, Svana would be too glad to get in on it… she's a nice girl, but her aunt is a hag with a face that doesn't match her personality.
Bersi I don't know at all, though I find the name Honey-Hand somewhat… off-putting. Still… a surname isn't necessarily his fault.
Even if it does sound like something someone might call one of the twins: hey there, honey-hands…
"Do this right, and I promise you a permanent place in this organization," Brynjolf declared.
Here's another bit of good advice: never agree to anything right off the get-go, even if you intend to do it.
"I'll think about it."
I pushed away from the table and had reached the bouncer when Brynjolf called, cheekily, "See you when it's done, lass!"
"Maybe!"
General laughter followed. Chuckles the clown would have approved.