An Excuse from the Author: So it's been a good couple months since I last updated this. There's the usual excuses for this: got a terrible case of writer's block after writing over fifty-thousand words of this goddamn story, got distracted by ME3 coming out, life got exponentially better, etc. Still the honest truth is, this chapter has been floating around on my laptop completely finished for about a month and a half now, but I thought it unfair to update with such a slow "nothing really happens" chapter after such a long time. However, I realized as I'm halfway into writing chapter seven that I keep putting this off and I'm just wasting time. So here's chapter six - finally. Chapter seven should be up within a week. Thanks for all the feedback. You guys are great.
Chapter Six: Nature
Night fell upon Riften, and the marketplace deadened as the customers and shopkeepers alike went back to their homes or over to the inn for a drink. The week had been turning out to be an uncharacteristically busy one, and after a long day of conning people out of their well-deserved coin, Brynjolf wanted nothing more than to retire to The Ragged Flagon for a bottle, or four, of mead and the warm company of old friends. Running his hand through his hair, he sighed in exhaustion and began to pack up his counterfeit potions. As much as he hated to admit it, age was catching up to him, and it wouldn't be long before he spent his days like Delvin drinking in the tavern, doing paperwork, and handing out contracts. Brynjolf tried not to think about that. He still had some life in him. Besides, Delvin had more or less chosen to do that after being made a senior member of the Guild. He had made an excellent thief in his day, but he was always more of a business man than he let on.
Once he reached the cemetery, the Nord entered the mausoleum and pressed the Shadowmark button with his foot. The marble slowly slid back with a grating, mechanical buzz, and Brynjolf made a mental note to look into new options for a hidden entrance that didn't make such an irritating noise. As he climbed down the ladder into the cistern, he looked around to find it completely void of any signs of life. There was no thud of arrows hitting against targets or bickering or anything. Like something out of a nightmare, he half expected Vex to come stumbling out of a corner, riddled with arrows, telling him everyone had died before she took a final breath and fell lifeless on the floor. Swallowing his apprehension, he searched around the cistern – behind corners, in the training room, even stooping to look under a couple beds – for his fellow thieves. The isolation racking his nerves, he started toward the Flagon in hopes that there would be someone there to explain the emptiness. As he reached for the door, it flew open and revealed a loud roar of laughter and music coming from inside the tavern as two figures stumbled into the cistern.
Just as startled as he was, Sapphire and Rune stared up at Brynjolf and instantly untangled themselves from each other. Like two youths caught in an act of debauchery by the town priest, they held themselves at attention and vainly attempted to mask their inebriation. Finding his voice, Rune greeted the red-haired thief like a soldier addressing his superior.
"Brynjolf."
Brynjolf held his mouth tight to keep from giving away his shock. He nodded his head in acknowledgment. "Rune. Sapphire."
"We were just – uh. There was a, um – Tom and Niruin are back from Solitude!"
Rolling her eyes, Sapphire crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame. "Can we go in?"
Despite the fact there was no possible way he could see this ending well, Brynjolf stepped past the two, and they hastily continued into the cistern, slamming the door behind them. Shaking his head, Brynjolf followed the sound of merriment down the hall and into the tavern. As he looked on the scene, he knew he had to be in a dream. Vipir the Fleet sat on a barstool playing a lute – a skill he had undoubtedly learned to impress a woman – as Vekel poured more mead into Cynric's cup. Leaning against the bar next to Vipir, Thrynn and Dirge were laughing as they watched Delvin inelegantly dancing with Tonilia, who smiled and laughed at the absurdity. Next to them, Niruin spun a near hysterical Tom around like a ragdoll. At a table in the corner, Vex and Mercer sat drinking from bottles, much calmer than the rest but still smiling and enjoying the celebration. Brynjolf hadn't seen the Guild in such high spirits in years.
"Mallory!" Vekel barked, but his demeanor remained cheerful. "Hands where I can see them!"
A sly smile on her dark lips, Tonilia broke away from Delvin and darted to the bar, knocking a puzzled Cynric Endell out of the way. She wrapped her arms around Vekel's neck and planted a passionate kiss on his lips. Disoriented by the sudden lack of a partner, Delvin swaggered a bit, and as he readjusted himself, his dark eyes fell on Brynjolf. An excited grin on his lips, the old man called out to his friend over the noise of the tavern.
"Bryn! There you are!"
Behind him, Tom looked over at Brynjolf and smiled as she continued to dance with the Bosmer. Scurrying over to Brynjolf, Delvin slapped the Nord on the shoulder and held out his hands in a wide gesture.
"That girl a' yours, I swear. Didn't think she could do it, but she did it!"
"What in the Nine Holds is going on here, Del? Have you all gone mad?"
With incredulous eyes, the drunken Breton stared up at him. "Didn't anybody tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"'Bout the job. The elf and that girl of yours went to Solitude to do business with a potential client. We got a foot in the city now! We're movin' up in the world."
Wide-eyed at the revelation, Brynjolf's eyes found Tom again. He watched the girl spin across the floor of the tavern with Niruin. Her face full of unadulterated bliss, she seemed so far from the distrustful, shifty shadow of a person he had met only months ago, and without a doubt, she would transform right back into that same person by morning. Nevertheless, tonight, she was cheerfully enjoying her victory, and Brynjolf felt a warm sense of parental pride for her accomplishment. Following Delvin back to the table where Mercer and Vex were sitting, Brynjolf pulled up a chair and sat down next to Vex. As Delvin picked an empty glass off the table and headed over to the bar, Vex's eyes flickered over to Brynjolf.
"I got to hand it to you, Bryn," she said. "This one turned out to be half-competent."
"Why, Vex. Did I just hear you give someone a compliment? It really is the end of times."
Smirking, she leaned back in her chair and pointed a finger at him. "Don't push it."
"So why was I the last to know about this new client?"
"To keep from getting anyone's hopes up," Mercer answered, "it was on a need-to-know basis."
Brynjolf frowned. "And I didn't need to know?"
"Please, Bryn," Vex replied. "If anyone was going to be crushed if the job fell through, it was going to be you. Besides, it all worked out, didn't it?"
"I still would appreciate being in the know."
Frowning, Mercer rubbed his eyes. "Relax, Brynjolf. Have a drink. Let your hair down. It's a celebration for Mara's sake. Divines know we're overdue for a little fun."
There were rules to the Guild – business related things like "don't kill people on jobs" and "don't steal anything of importance from fellow Guild members" – that were told to new recruits on their first day, but there were also some unspoken laws. These unofficial Guild rules were more guidelines to harmonious living or, in some cases, continued living. These were things that could be learned only from experience, such as: "never stand between an angry Vex and the object of her hatred," "attempting to bed Ingun Black-Briar is highly frowned upon," and "bringing flame atronachs into the cistern is not a clever joke." With the exception of the last one, which had ended with an expulsion from the guild and a vow never to let that happen again, almost all of these rules had been broken at least once after being made. Still there was one universally understood law that if Mercer Frey told a person to lighten up, then that person was taking things far too seriously. Immediately, Brynjolf let the subject slide and relaxed in his seat. Vex, on the other hand, sat up and tilted her head.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I have fun all the time."
With weary eyes, Mercer glanced over at her. "I meant fun that doesn't involve taunting Delvin and pushing the elf into Lake Honrich."
"That was one time."
"Twice," Brynjolf corrected, dryly. "Three times if you count the time you did it to Vipir."
"Vipir started that."
Mercer simply rolled his eyes and took a sip from his bottle, but he still held a rare air of lightheartedness. Brynjolf had missed this side of the old guild master. Too often these days, Mercer kept to himself, and he scowled so much that it had gotten to the point where a lack of frown was considered a smile. Granted, Mercer had always been a headstrong bastard, but back in the day, he more resembled Vex than his current state of perpetual exhaustion and irritation. Brynjolf smiled to himself as Delvin returned to the table with two glasses full of mead and set one down in front of the Nord.
As the night went on and the others danced and partied themselves into oblivion, the four of them sat at their table drinking and reminiscing over old times. Though Vex had not been around for most of the stories, she still listened and laughed at the older member's former exploits, especially when the story was at Delvin's expense. Mercer and Delvin even went as so far to tell a couple tales of the days before Brynjolf joined the Guild, when they were much younger and even less sensible than they were now. Eventually, Vex decided to retire for the night, and Delvin wandered off to go speak with others, leaving only Mercer and Brynjolf at the table. Sighing, Mercer took a sip from his bottle, and Brynjolf noticed the muscles of his mouth twitch as if he were mulling over something.
"Something wrong?" Brynjolf asked.
"I got something I need to talk to you about that you're not going to like."
Brynjolf couldn't tell if the guild master was simply being ominous and dramatic or if he actually had bad news. It could go either way with Mercer.
"Oh?"
"Over the past few weeks, I've been working on this little project – that could potentially bring in more than a good amount of coin. Now before you ask, it's top-secret. When I get all the details down, this will be the biggest theft yet – something that would put the Grey Fox to shame. Now you understand that with something this monumental, I can't risk letting the plans get out. So I'd prefer it if you don't mention this to anyone."
"Understood," Brynjolf replied, "but I don't see how that's something I wouldn't like."
"The thing is, business has been picking up ever since you brought that girl in. I'll admit it. I doubted you at first. I thought this was one of the worst strays you took in, but she's a real find, Bryn, and you should be proud of that. However, I imagine life down here is going to get a lot busier, and with the amount of attention this project requires, I'm going to need you down here, focusing more on your duties as Guild second."
Brynjolf stifled a groan. The dreary life of paperwork had finally caught up with him, and he wasn't the least bit pleased with it. It wasn't about his little stall in the marketplace. He didn't particularly enjoy the job and had only been doing it because the Guild had sunk so low and desperately needed the coin. Still, it had been something. It hadn't been sitting around in the cistern, pushing a quill across parchment, and doing busywork. It had been working with people and sizing up his targets. As inane as his stand had been, it had been at least somewhat of a challenge, a test of his abilities. Nevertheless, he held his tongue and shifted in his seat, telling himself it was for the good of the Guild. Mercer noticed his subordinate's unease, and a gruff look returned to his face.
"Brynjolf, this is what you signed up for when I made you Guild second. It's your duty to manage the day-to-day things. Once this project is finished, you can go back to conning farmers out of their septims or threatening merchants for coin or whatever it is your doing now. I don't care what you do then, but right now, I need you down here. Do I make myself clear?"
"Crystal."
"Good." – His demeanor relaxing again, the guild master stood up. – "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work. Don't sulk too much. It's unbecoming of you."
Almost chuckling, Brynjolf looked up at the old Breton. "Don't worry. I won't."
After Mercer left, Brynjolf continued drinking, now alone and in silence, as the tavern around him continued reveling in their victory. Several cups of mead later, the sound of hands slamming against the wood of the table pulled Brynjolf out of his thoughts. Her face lit up with a small grin, Tom stood over on the other side of the table as Brynjolf looked up at her. He must have appeared downright miserable because at the sight of his face, Tom tilted her head and her smile faded into a small pout. As drunk as a sailor on shore leave, her words slurred together as she spoke.
"Why the long face?"
At once, Brynjolf put on a smile. "It's nothing, lass. How much have you had to drink?"
"Not going to lie. I might get sick in the tunnels at some point tonight, but I'll be fine."
"I hear you're the reason for this little celebration. Good job. I'm proud of you."
Smiling, Tom brushed her short, dark hair out of her face. Though still shorter than most women's, her hair had grown noticeably longer in the past couple months from the short crop she had when he had first met her. A lot of things about her had changed since he met her in The Bee and Barb.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"It's the end of the month, lass. You still thinking about leaving?"
"No. I think I'm going to stay. This place – I think I'm beginning to understand the whole family thing you keep talking about."
"I'm glad to hear that."
There was a silence. Looking for words, Tom rubbed her shoulder awkwardly. Brynjolf noticed dark bruises encircling the girl's neck, the kind that only came from hands being pressed against the throat, choking the victim until they lost consciousness or worse. He debated asking who had nearly strangled the life out of her, but the day Tom told the truth would be the day he made an honest coin.
"Did you want to speak with me about something?"
"Right," Tom said, almost laughing at her absentmindedness. "Came over here for a reason. Some of the others are putting together a game of cards. You want to join in?"
Brynjolf nodded. "Aye, I think I will."
. . .
"It ain't my fault they sound the same!"
"Then maybe you should do a little more research before you waste my time again."
Standing at the bar of The Ragged Flagon, Vex and Delvin were locked in the middle of yet another argument. Despite his defensiveness, which nothing more than a part of the dance, Delvin didn't really mind these fights so long as Vex didn't hit him. The girl could throw a punch twice as hard as any man Delvin had ever met, and Delvin had gotten into his fair share of brawls. Still, when Vex got angry, her body pulsed with this raw, unbridled energy, which caused his mind to wander off and imagine how passionate and ferocious she must be in the bedroom. It created this overwhelming sexual tension that just wound up every inch of his body, and one day, Delvin just knew she would feel it as well. She had a saucy fire in her like no woman he'd ever seen, and there were few men Delvin wouldn't kill to get even the slightest taste of it. He didn't even want to tame the wild cat. He just wanted to fight it, one round with the lioness. Vex shook her head and spat on the ground.
"You fucking pig."
A hard smack across the face snapped Delvin out of his fantasies and left a burning sensation in his left cheek. Rubbing his injury, he stared up at Vex with his mouth hanging slightly agape.
"What the shit was that for?"
"I don't know, Del. Maybe because I was berating you for your poor business sense, and you were staring at my chest?"
"Was not!"
A familiar snicker came from behind the two, and Vex spun around turning her attention, and her anger, elsewhere. Lounging back in a wooden chair not far off, an infuriatingly smug smirk sitting comfortably on his lips, Cynric Endell held his hands up, caught, and slyly grinned as he leaned forward in his seat. Delvin wondered how long the man had been there and just how much he had overheard.
"Oh, don't let me interrupt. Please, continue."
Lazily leaning back against the wood of the bar, Vex arched her spine and lifted her chin ever so slightly so she could glare down her nose at Cynric. The tension in muscles eased up, but the hate in her cold eyes remained as she shot him a condescending smirk. Sighing, Delvin prepared himself for the inevitable headache that would soon be plaguing his ears. Along with being a colossal cock-tease and a tremendous bitch, lording her status as Guild third over Cynric had to be one of Vex's favorite hobbies guessing by the way she managed to bring it up every single time the two were in the same room. It wouldn't be that much of a pain in the ass if Cynric could just take her insults like everyone else did and wasn't such a smarmy bastard about it, but no, he would talk back, and to be honest, Delvin wasn't quite interested in listening to Vex yell at other people.
"Well, well, well. Look who's managed to drag his sorry ass back to Riften. Heard Whiterun's all on edge after a thief broke into Jorrvaskr. Tell me something. Did Hulda happen to wander into the place with the ring on her, or are you completely mad?"
"They didn't catch me. I got your ring and some pretty trinkets for Tonilia. Did I forget something?"
Jumping to his feet, Cynric took a couple steps towards Vex and crossed his arms. His lips still held a smirk, but the rest of him appeared as indifferent as ever. Even if he came out of this argument the victor, which he almost always did so long as Vex didn't break his nose again, it still wouldn't change a damn thing about him. Dreadfully distant and self-assured, nothing ever seemed to intimidate or sway Cynric, especially not Vex, who equaled him in arrogance but lacked his emotional control. The Imperial woman wrinkled her nose at his approach.
"I suppose you didn't, but if some lumbering brute turns up on our doorstep looking for his stolen goods, don't think I won't hesitate to turn you over to him."
"I've got a better idea," Cynric replied. "How about you sleep with him and call the whole thing even. Lumbering brute is your type, isn't it?"
Her pupils dilated with a strange enticement, Vex stared wildly at him as her lips curled into a tight sneer. "You're insufferable."
"Now, what's that saying about pots and kettles?"
"Just give me the ring."
Pulling the silver band from his pocket, he tossed it over to her, and she effortlessly snatched it out of the air with one hand. Eying it over, she puckered her lips before shrugging her shoulders and shoving the ring in her pocket.
"You know it's funny." – Here it came. There were things in the world that were simply part of the natural order: birds flew, grass grew, and Vex played the "I'm your superior" card. – "You'd think since you've been here longer, you would be the one giving me jobs."
"You know what I find funny? You butchering a job that a fresh-faced recruit handled without so much as hair out of place."
Her hands balling into fists and her nostrils flaring like a bull about to charge, Vex took a couple heavy steps toward Cynric, and just when Delvin was convinced that the man was about to get his nose broken again, Vex exhaled and shoved a coin purse into Cynric's hand. Without another word, she pivoted on her heel and stormed off. Delvin felt a surge of relief that their little tiff hadn't escalated as far as it could have. As she left, Vex shoved past Brynjolf, who had just entered into the tavern. Shaking his head, Brynjolf crossed his arms and patiently waited for the sound of the door to the cistern slamming shut before he spoke.
"All right. Which one of you milk-drinkers had the bright idea of pissing off Vex?"
Though he had enough courtesy in him to at least ask before he made any accusations, Brynjolf's weary eyes instinctively fell on Delvin. Still, the implication was downright insulting. Every single time Vex had something stuck up her ass, the blame immediately fell on Delvin. Sure, most of the time it was kind of, sort of, a little bit his fault. Frowning, Delvin shook his head and gestured wildly with his hands.
"No, no. Don't look at me like that, Bryn. I didn't do nothin'. Spriggan-Lover over here's the one who brought up Goldenglow."
"You were the one who got her all wound up in the first place."
"I'll wind you up, Endell."
Rubbing his temples, Brynjolf sighed and raised his hand, silencing the both of them. With nothing more than casual shrug of his shoulders, Cynric went off to find Tonilia, leaving Delvin to deal with a ragged and exhausted Brynjolf alone. The corners of the Nord's mouth were pulled down into an exasperated frown, and dark, heavy circles lined his eyes from lack of sleep. Delvin felt a pang of guilt for adding to his friend's stress. Over the past week, Delvin had noticed that Brynjolf had been smiling less and less as he tried to manage the Guild mostly on his own, and as the days went on, the red-headed Nord had started to resemble Mercer more and more. Though he still respected the old guild master, Delvin had already watched one of his old friends have the life drained out of him by having to deal with all the pressures that came from running the dying Guild, and he wasn't about to let it happen again.
"No offense, Bryn, but you look like shit."
A feeble smile crossed the Nord's lips as he rubbed his eyes. "I hadn't noticed."
"Here, let me buy you a drink. You look like you could use one."
"Just one. I got important things to do."
"I'm sure you do. – Vekel!"
As Delvin called out for the bartender, Brynjolf hopped up onto a barstool and held his head as he sighed again. Seeing Brynjolf, a man marked by his inability to grant himself more emotions than gruff apathy and cheerful wit, so openly despondent was rather unsettling. As Delvin hopped up on the barstool next to Brynjolf, Vekel the Man emerged from the storage room with a couple flagons in hand. A giant grin lit up his face as he strolled over to his usual spot behind the bar.
"You called?"
"Two meads, on me."
"Coming right up." His gaze turned to the sighing Nord, and a worried frown crossed his lips. "You doing all right, Brynjolf?"
At once, Brynjolf put on a lively front and forced himself to smile. Part of Delvin was comforted by the fact that Brynjolf was now at least feigning cheerfulness. He was used to Brynjolf hiding his emotions away like a dog burying a bone. The familiar, no matter how frustrating, always felt more comfortable than the unknown. The other part of Delvin, however, wanted to smack the man upside the head for being such a stubborn, old fool – and yes, he recognized the irony of that desire.
"I'll be fine," Brynjolf replied. "Bit of a rough day, you know."
Unconvinced, Vekel pulled two mugs from under the bar and set them down in front of Brynjolf and Delvin, but he didn't press the subject. After the bartender poured their drinks, Delvin turned his attention to Brynjolf and held his chin up on his hand in a concerned gesture.
"Now, tell ol' Delvin what's been troublin' you?"
"It's nothing."
"Horseshit."
"Fine. With the news that we have influence in Solitude, Honey-Hand's got the city riled up again, saying if they don't act now we'll soon infest all of Skyrim and all hope will be lost for the honest trader and what have you. Normally, I'd simply pay him a visit and remind him of the consequences of breaking our little agreement, but I'm supposed to be leaving for Solitude today to discuss business with some merchants who haven't taken kindly to the new management. I've been trying to find Thrynn for the past hour so he can handle it and I can get on my way. You don't happen to know where he is?"
"Yeah, Mercer's got him straightening out a couple deadbeats down at the Black-Briar Meadery in Whiterun for Maven. He should be back by tonight."
"Shit, tell me Sapphire's at least here."
"Sorry, Bryn. She's in Windhelm retrievin' some priceless gem for Vex."
"Vipir?"
"Markarth."
"You have got to be shitting me."
"'Fraid not." Delvin pursed his lips and patted Brynjolf on the shoulder. "Tell you what. I'll handle the Bersi situation, and you get yourself to Solitude. Hell, stay an extra day if you want. Vex and I are more than capable of picking up the extra slack. Ain't like anything's changed that much. I don't see why Mercer's got you down here."
"Well, he does."
There was a moment of silence as Brynjolf finished off his drink. With a heavy hand, he slammed the glass down and heaved yet another sigh. Just as he said he would, Brynjolf didn't stay for another drink. Instead, he stood up and sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck.
"I didn't mean to be curt with you. I just – never mind. It's not important. I'm sorry. Thank you, for everything."
"Don't worry about it."
Brynjolf's lips curled into a genuine smile. "Well if you'll excuse me, I've got to go pack. I'll be back in a week, tops. You know the drill. Write down any expenses in the ledger, get someone to deal with Bersi, don't let the Flagon catch on fire, keep Vipir away from Sapphire – oh! And I was supposed to meet with Maven on Tirdas. Do me a favor and send someone else on that. She doesn't like anyone, but she especially doesn't like you."
"Yeah, yeah, I got it. Now go."
As Delvin waved him off, Brynjolf turned and left for the cistern in a haste. Don't let the Flagon catch on fire. It had only happened once, and it hadn't been preventable or in any way foreseeable. Sometimes Delvin wondered just how seriously Brynjolf took him. Shaking his head, he ordered another drink from Vekel.
Down in the sewers, time often slipped by without notice. The scarcity of natural light made it hard to judge how many hours had passed from one event to the other, and because of this, it disconnected the denizens of the Ratway even further from the proper folk up topside. The only way to keep track of time was by habits. Delvin mostly woke up around midday and fell asleep a couple hours before sunrise. The time between that was a stream of events that flowed without any sense of minutes or hours. Since the Guild was nocturnal by nature, the thieves would flood into The Ragged Flagon around sunset, usually setting up a game of cards or dice or anything else that involved gambling away their gold. They would have couple drinks, lose a bit of coin, and occasionally pick up contracts from Vex and Delvin before they left to terrorize the good people of Riften with petty larceny and drunken escapades.
That night was no exception. Vex and Cynric had put aside their earlier hostilities and now sat at a table, playing cards with Rune and Tonilia, as they made half-teasing, half-genuine jabs at each other. Tom and Niruin were having drinks at the bar. They were an odd pairing, he with his constant chatter and she with her lips shut tighter than a priestess's legs, yet the two had become near inseparable since Solitude. The nature of their relationship was anyone's guess, though the elf insisted it was strictly platonic. When asked, Tom didn't say much on the matter, but Tom didn't say much on anything. Behind the bar, Vekel tidied up and kept the drinks coming. Everything was as it had always been.
On the outside, this was simply another night in The Ragged Flagon, but, despite the familiar scene, something still felt out of place. It didn't necessarily feel wrong, just different. It had been like this since Tom and Niruin returned from Solitude. After the initial celebration, which had been a rare night of uninhibited joy as the guild members put aside all pretenses of how they were supposed to act and simply enjoyed themselves, things had quickly died down as the thieves returned to the natural order of life in the Ratway, but the spirit of that night lingered in the air. Without a doubt, a change was coming for the Guild, and with the way their luck had been going, it had to be a good thing. Delvin knew he should dismiss these feelings as wishful thinking. If Tom turned out like all the other strays Brynjolf had brought back over the years, it wouldn't be the first time a promising recruit had pulled off an impressive feat only for them to fail later and everything return to the way it had been. Nonetheless, he still held hope in his heart that their curse had finally been broken, even if it meant setting himself up for disappointment.
Once Thrynn finally got back from his assignment at the meadery, Delvin intercepted the former bandit on his way back to the bar. They were discussing how to discourage Bersi Honey-Hand's little revolution when the sounds of the tavern suddenly died down and Vex's lone voice called out to the old man.
"Del, we got a visitor."
It wasn't often they got visitors. Brynjolf must have forgotten to mention this one before he left. A puzzled frown forming on his lips, Delvin peeked over Thrynn's shoulder to see a Bosmer heading toward the tavern with such a proud stride one would think he owned every stone in the place. All eyes were on the elf as he strolled up to the bar and ordered a drink from Vekel the Man. Poised and undisturbed by the thieves' distrustful stares, the elf held an air of confidence as he sipped his drink and looked around as if he were waiting for someone to approach him. Tilting his head, Delvin decided to play along and walked over to the bar. As casually as he could, the old man leaned against the wood next to the elf.
"You lookin' for someone?"
"I am, actually," the Bosmer replied. His tone was friendly, and he stuck his hand out for Delvin. Uncertain by this turn of events, Delvin shook the elf's hand. "Syndus is the name. You wouldn't, by chance, happen to be Delvin Mallory?"
"Yeah, that's me."
"Splendid. I understand you're the man to see when it comes to business matters. I'm a fletcher by trade, and I was wondering if your organization would be interested in me setting up a little shop down here. I assure you I can easily see this being mutually beneficial."
"Hold on – uh, let me go get Mercer. He's the one really in charge of these sorts of things."
"Understood."
With the eyes of the tavern now fixed on him, Delvin turned on his heel and headed for the cistern. The proposition caught Delvin off guard. It had been so long since they had a merchant down in the Flagon, and now, one had just strolled into the place and offered to set up shop without so much as a "how do you do." Either this was a dream and at any minute Delvin would look down to see he no longer had any trousers on, or things were certainly looking up for the Guild.
. . .
Teaching had never been the Breton's strong suit. How Delvin, Vipir, Niruin – hell, even Vex – could take someone under their wing and show them exactly where they were making mistakes and how to do it correctly mystified him. As the arrow flew past the doe, causing the creature to run off into the forest, Cynric shrugged his shoulders and gave Tom an apologetic glance. Standing up, her lips puckered into a frustrated pout, she put away her bow and trudged over to the general area where her arrow had fallen as Cynric sat down at the foot of a tree. If that damned elf was here, he would know how to tell the girl what she was doing wrong, but no, the Bosmer had other obligations. Exactly what those obligations were, Niruin had not explained, but Cynric got the feeling this was some twisted sort of punishment for hiding the elf's bow two weeks ago. Sometimes he swore he would strangle the skinny, pompous bastard if it weren't for the fact that his spiteful rapport the little ponce was probably the closest thing Cynric had to a friendship, but he digressed. At least Tom seemed to be enjoying the little trip, when she wasn't beating herself over the head over every missed shot. He meant this figuratively, of course, although he wouldn't be surprised if she started literally doing it. The girl was a temperamental thing and growing increasingly impatient with her failures.
Still, it was better than watching the young woman doing restless laps around the cistern like a wild beast pacing around its cage as she had been hours earlier. It had been a slow day in the Ratway. Only Cynric, Tom, and Mercer had been in the cistern that morning, and Mercer had barely even counted as a person as he looked over the ledger with lifeless eyes. Enticed by the spirit of a new beginning, the thieves were picking up contracts left and right. Because of this, the Ragged Flagon continuously fluctuated between being a lively hub of debauchery and corruption and being as empty as a long forgotten tomb. That morning, it had been the latter. After about the eighteenth time Tom had come full circle around the room, Cynric had pulled her aside and asked if she wanted to do something, just so she would stop pacing like a madwoman.
It had been her idea to go hunting, and though he would never admit it, the only reason Cynric had agreed was due to the eagerness that had sparked in her giant, brown eyes when she propositioned him. The moment of weakness had left Cynric all unsettled and a tad bit disgusted with himself. This hadn't been the first time he had gone out of his way to be nice to the girl, and Cynric knew better than to develop a soft spot for some wide-eyed kid who she was bound to leave at any moment. Sympathy wasn't a weakness, per se, but getting attached to something temporary was always a mistake, and mistakes could cost everything in his line of work. As well as she had done so far, there wasn't a doubt in the old thief's mind Tom wouldn't be packing her bags by the end of the year, just like all the other recruits Brynjolf had dragged back to Mercer – like a boy wrapping his tiny arms around the neck of some mangy, flea-bitten mutt as he asked his mother "can we keep it?" – had done. It was just the way things went.
"At least, it's a nice day," Tom commented as sat down a couple feet off from him.
Cynric's reply was no more than a shrug and a twitch of his lips. There was some truth to her words. The sun high in the clear sky, there wouldn't be many more days like this before Riften was assaulted by the heavy showers of mid-spring and the streets of the city were reduced to slippery pools of mud that made running from pursuing guards even more difficult. However, though he could appreciate it on a purely aesthetic level, Cynric had never been one for rolling hills and picturesque landscapes. A city man through and through, nothing felt like the cold stone walls of a large city, where the houses and people were so tightly packed together that no one took notice of a gentle bump of a shoulder or a hand sliding in their pocket. Despite the fact that he would most likely end up spending the rest of his days in the country, most of Skyrim was too quaint for his tastes. Even Solitude had this sickeningly homey charm to it. There was just too much air in this winter wasteland of a country.
"It's okay, I guess," he replied. Tom's bewildered expression prompted him to explain. "Nature doesn't like me, and I'm not particularly fond of it."
"What do you mean nature doesn't like you?"
"Need I remind you the last time you and I were out here, I ended up wrestling a wolf?"
Tom shrugged. "The wolves attack everyone."
"All right." – He ran his finger down a scar on his left eye. – "Here's where a spriggan nearly took my eye." – He pointed to his right shoulder. – "Got a nasty one here from a bear attack."
"In the bear's defense, you probably started it," she replied, smirking.
He forgot that under that cold, fidgety exterior, Tom was just as capable of bantering as the rest of the Guild. Taking her comment in stride, he grinned and leaned his head back against the wood of the tree.
"You know half the Guild didn't believe Delvin when he said the dragons were back until I nearly got roasted alive by one."
She smiled. "Did that leave a scar?"
"Nah, I managed to get away from it before it could do any real damage."
After faking a pout of disappointment, Tom began tracing her fingers against the ground, making figures in the dirt. Despite the childishness of her actions, in that moment, Tom appeared much older than Cynric had thought she was. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, or maybe he had simply never gotten a good look at her face. The latter seemed more likely than the former. Cynric made it a point to rarely look at people too closely. The general consensus of the guild members was that Tom couldn't be more than eighteen or nineteen years old, if not younger. She was "the girl," no more than a child in the eyes of her peers, but as they sat there, he noticed how although her face was somewhat round, her cheeks were thin and hard, lacking the delicate softness of youth, and how faint creases lined the area around her mouth and eyes. Once he noticed it, he wondered how he could have ever thought her to be so young. Scars carved a timeline of violence into her sallow skin. Even now, she was barely concealing faded, yellow bruises that covered her neck with the collar of her armor. This was a woman who had either seen battle or gotten caught in some exceptionally vicious bar brawls.
"What about you, girl? You look like you've been in your fair share of fights. Got any stories?"
As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew it was a foolish question. Tom constantly deflected any and all questions about her identity or history with transparent lies. Tom's mouth twitched, but she unexpectedly humored him, smiling as she pushed back her bangs to reveal a small indentation above her right eyebrow.
"I worked in a tavern several years back. I was sweeping when some patron got too rowdy one night and flung a bottle 'cross the room, and this," – she traced her finger along a long faded scar that ran across her cheek from right below her eye to the side of her nostril – "is where I picked a fight with a pirate when I was ten."
"C'mon. What really happened?"
She chuckled. "That is what really happened. Believe it or not, I was a rather fearless child. Thought I was so tough. Time sure fixed that mistake."
A melancholy tone lingered in her words as she finished speaking, but she shook her head and continued to smile as if she had just told a joke. In a way, it was a joke to her at least, but the dark humor of dramatic irony could only be enjoyed by the person who experienced the loss. To others, it left an overwhelming feeling of unease in the air. Shifting his body as if his discomfort was physical, Cynric forced a grin and shrugged his shoulders.
"Can't say any of mine are from pirates," he said. He touched his hand to his collarbone. "But I got one right here from where a man walked in on me and his wife. I barely had time to get off of her before he buried his blade in my chest, but it was worth it."
Smiling, Tom's eyes scanned the forest. The wilderness suited her, a reflection of her own self, wild and untamed yet easily broken. Sighing, Tom tilted her head and turned her attention back to Cynric.
"I wish you'd told me earlier about your aversion to the outdoors," she said. "I wouldn't have dragged you out here if I knew."
"It's fine." He shrugged again. "I like to think of hunting as revenge against the little buggers."
A small laugh escaped her lips. "Then, I'm sorry I'm such a lousy shot."
"You're not that bad. Besides, an apprentice is only as good at his craft as his master is at teaching."
"So, it's Niruin's fault?"
"Exactly."
Giggling, Tom came to her feet and walked over to where her pack was lying on the ground. Kneeling down, she picked it up and returned to Cynric, offering out her hand.
"Want to go rob Riften? The marketplace should be filled with pockets to be picked right now."
A grin on his lips, he took her hand as she pulled him up. "Now you're speaking my language."
The two packed up their things and headed back to the city. Just as Tom had predicted, the area was as tightly cramped as ever. Tom shot Cynric a grin. She suddenly pushed her way to the horde, quickly disappearing into the chaotic sea of shoppers, and he followed suit. The noise of the merchant's yells over the muffled chatter of the townsfolk sounded just as sweet in his ears as the melodious plucking of a harp's strings. Skillfully maneuvering through the crowd, quickly enough to avoid unwanted attention but slowly enough to avoid making any hasty mistakes, he pilfered a considerable amount of gold and small trinkets from the pockets of the customers before he finally caught sight of Tom again. She was sitting on the wall that encircled the central marketplace, watching the crowd and biting into an apple undoubtedly pinched from Marise Aravel's cart. Her eyes lit up as Cynric strolled over to her.
"Had enough already?" he asked.
Holding her finger up, Tom chewed her food and swallowed. "I was looking for you. The Snow-Shod manor is empty. I just saw Vulwulf and Asgeir enter The Bee and Barb, and Nula's always at the shrine at this time of day."
"You suggesting we clean their house for them?"
"I'll meet you there in five minutes."
Slinging her pack over her shoulder, she hopped off of her perch and disappeared back into the crowd. He opted to stay in the market a bit longer, sizing up the customers for one last theft, when he spotted the perfect target. A familiar Bosmer woman, dressed in the finest furs coin could buy, stood at a stall not far off, arguing with Madesi over the price of an amulet. Vain and materialistic, it was surprising how careless Nivenor was with her possessions and coin, often tying her coin purse to her belt where it could easily plucked from her side without her feeling a thing. As he headed toward the Snow-Shod manor, Cynric bumped past the woman and relieved her of a ring from her pocket. The Bosmer spun around at his touch.
"Watch it!" she snapped.
Restraining the initial urge to run off before she called the guard, Cynric quickly slid the ring into his sleeve and turned around to face her. At once, the woman's expression softened, and she shoved a coin purse at the disgruntled Argonian and grabbed the silver amulet from the counter. Cynric's eyes flickered over to the Snow-Shod manor to see Tom wasn't there yet. He turned his gaze back to the elf, who stepped closer to him.
"Well," Nivenor said, her tone suddenly as sweet as honey, "if it isn't one of Mercer's boys. I bet you get up to all sorts of trouble."
A golden necklace encrusted with a rather large diamond hung around the Bosmer woman's neck, and like a bird distracted by a shiny object, Cynric's imagination ran wild with plans to acquire it. Judging by her flickering eyes and coy smile, Nivenor was hoping he would rob her of something else. Fortunately for him, her intentions would make it all the easier for him get that necklace. Though he found her personality lacking – "harpy" may have been a word he once used to describe her – the elf was far from unattractive, and his morals were flexible when a considerable profit was involved. Cynric shrugged his shoulders and smiled back.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, tongue-in-cheek. "I assure you I'm a completely upstanding citizen."
"Pity," she said, looking him over. "Here I mistook you for a dashing thief, a man with agility and – nimble hands."
"Oh, did you now?"
"My husband's on business in Markarth. Imagine it, a woman all alone in her home. Who knows what sort of degenerates could sneak in at night?"
"Sounds terrible. Someone should keep you company."
"Someone should."
"I, uh," – Prying his eyes from the necklace, he looked back toward the manor. Tom was leaning against the wall of house, playing the innocent loiterer. – "I have to leave. Important business to attend to, I'm afraid. Maybe I'll see you around."
"Maybe you will."
With a flashy smile, Nivenor turned and headed off to another stall. Cynric quickly fought the crowd and found Tom by the manor. As he approached her, she gave him the same disappointed look his mother had given him after his first of many arrests. Then, despite herself, a teasing smile formed on the girl's lips.
"You're awful," Tom said.
Smirking, Cynric unsheathed his dagger and pointed it at her. "Yeah, yeah, shut up and stand guard."
Her lips pursing, she handed him a lock pick and crossed her arms. Her eyes scanned the crowd in search of any potential witnesses as Cynric crouched down and used the tip of his dagger to turn the lock slightly to the left. Breaking into a house during the day always had a certain thrill to it. Knowing that at any moment the wandering eye of one of the townsfolk or guards could stray his direction and spot the crime at hand, having to trust his skill and luck alone would keep him from a bounty being put on his head, it sent a rush of adrenaline through his body. The Breton kept his hands steady as he felt for the pins with the lock pick. As was expected for the Snow-Shod's, the lock was a difficult one, but nothing he couldn't handle. Quickly, he pressed the pins up one by one, listening carefully for the near silent click before he moved onto the next one. After the last pin clicked in place, Cynric turned his dagger fully to the side, unlocking the door.
"Got it," he said to Tom.
The girl nodded and followed him into the manor, shutting the door quietly behind her. Once inside, Cynric crossed his arms and was about to ask Tom about how she wanted to handle the situation, whether she wanted to take only things of great value or completely clean the house out of everything they could carry, when the girl quickly headed over an end table and opened it up, stuffing the contents into her pack and answering the man's question before he could even open his mouth. With a small shrug, he sauntered over another end table on the other side of the room, pocketing a couple coins that sat on top of it before he opened the drawer.
"So what did Bolli's wife want?" Tom asked in an awkward attempt to fill the silence.
"What do you think she wanted?"
"Oh. Are you going to?"
Cocking an eyebrow, Cynric looked over at his shoulder at her. "Why? You jealous?"
His sarcastic ribbing went right over her head. Flustered, Tom slammed the drawer shut and spun around to face him. Despite his amusement at her frantic behavior, he kept his face straight as he watched her stammer, trying to justify her question.
"No. I just – I was just – I'm not –"
Unable to keep it in any longer, Cynric broke into a smirk. Realizing he had been playing her, Tom's brow furrowed and her lips pulled into a sour frown. She glared over at the man with contempt in her narrowed eyes.
"You're an ass," she said. "I was just trying to make conversation."
"Fine, fine, sorry," Cynric said, snickering as he turned his attention back to his work. "I couldn't help it. You should have seen yourself. To answer your question, well, I don't know if I will or not. Maybe. She was wearing a pretty impressive rock around her neck that I want, and that seems like the easiest way to procure it."
"Right, that's what you're interested in, her necklace."
Tom chuckled as if she couldn't believe anyone could care more about monetary profit than physical pleasure. She clearly didn't know him. Sure, sex was great – no, that was an understatement. There were few things in the Nirn that felt better than sex, but it wasn't practical. It led to pregnancy scares and being stabbed by angry husbands and possibly worst of all, tears. Coins didn't cry or try to kill him when he left them. Closing the drawer, Cynric simply shrugged his shoulders in response and headed toward the kitchen. Unconvinced, Tom followed Cynric into the adjacent room and leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms, as if she were waiting for him to confess that he wasn't only interested in getting the woman's necklace. She could wait in that spot all day. He was telling the truth.
After swiping the candlesticks and a couple plates from the table, Cynric walked over to Tom, who was still leaning against the doorframe and staring at him incredulously. He took her pack from her and stuck the stolen goods inside. Pausing for a second, he examined the old, leather bag before he gave it back to her. Torn and weathered, it had seen its fair share of travels, which was unsurprising, considering that the girl took it with her everywhere she went.
"You should get a new one," he commented as he handed it back to her. "Thing looks like it's about to fall apart."
Tom didn't respond, opting instead to sling the pack right back over her shoulder and continue on with her skeptical stare. She was rather stubborn for someone who could barely hold herself together. Finally playing along, Cynric grinned and tilted his chin.
"What?" he asked, feigning ignorance.
"A woman propositions you, and all you care about is her jewelry?"
He shrugged. "Girl, you severely underestimate how much I like gold more than people."
Judging by Tom's reaction, his response hadn't set well with her at all. The side of her face twitched, and her body tensed up as she took a defensive stance.
"So what? You'd sell someone out just to make a quick septim?"
"Depends on the person."
His answer was, at the very least, honest, but he knew it wasn't what the girl wanted to hear, what she needed to hear. She didn't want to hear about the innocent people he had framed for crimes, blackmailed, extorted, or otherwise betrayed. As a youth, Cynric had been a firm believer in the saying that there no honor among thieves, and rightfully so. It was perfectly reasonable to believe that those who lied, cheated, and stole would stop at nothing to achieve their means even if it meant stabbing their comrades in the back. In his day, Cynric had exploited that idea as a justification for his crimes and a reason never to rely on anyone. He could see that Tom held the same belief, but instead of embracing the ideology as he had, she chose to fear it. Of course, if the Guild had taught him anything over the years, it was that the old adage was simply untrue.
Tonilia had been the first one to call the Guild a family. She had first said it ten years ago as snide remark after one of the many altercations that had occurred in the Ragged Flagon. The term caught on as a joke because although the denizens of the Ratway weren't a particularly honorable sort, there was a twisted dedication they had towards each other under all the scornful glares and threats of violence like some sort of dysfunctional family. People came to the Thieves Guild seeking many things, mostly fortune, adventure, or protection, but they never sought camaraderie. It wasn't in their blood. Thieves were solitary creatures by nature, but bonds still managed to form between the guild members in drunken nights spent gambling in the tavern, in jobs gone horribly and hilariously awry, and in the never-ending race to upstage each other in both talent and wit. The hardships the Guild had endured over the years just made these bonds all the more significant. For the older members, it was no longer about the fortune or adventure or protection or whatever other reason they had initially joined the Guild for. They stayed out of devotion, and that was what Tom needed to hear.
"Don't worry, kid," Cynric said. "I have my loyalties. If I really only cared about profit, I would have left Riften a long time ago. Divines know the Guild wasn't exactly swimming in coin before you showed up. Hell, we're still not doing that well, and something tells me we'll fall right back into old habits after you leave."
Tom didn't reply immediately. She let the words sink in as her body relaxed. Cynric shrugged and continued cleaning out the room of valuables. There wasn't anything else he could say to her. She would either come to understand it or she would leave, and his money was on the latter. Finally, her timid voice came out from behind him.
"How long has it been like this?"
"Has what been like what?" Cynric asked.
"The Guild. It wasn't always like this."
"Oh that," he said. "Eh, about nine or ten years now, but even before that, it wasn't doing so well. Delvin says we've been cursed, but I don't believe that."
"What do you believe?"
"An exceptional guild master was murdered by one of his own. The Guild lost morale, and his successor couldn't fill his shoes. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying what happened is by any means Mercer's fault. Frey's done everything he can to hold this shitty, little band of thugs together, but he's no Gallus."
Cynric shut the drawer to the cupboard he had been rifling through and walked back over to Tom. Instinctively, she handed him her bag.
"What was Gallus like?" she asked.
"Look, if you want stories of the 'glory days,' you're better off asking Delvin or Brynjolf. They're the only ones left from that era – well, Mercer too, but in case you haven't noticed, he isn't exactly the chatty type, but I digress. My point is I'm not the one to be asking about Gallus or how things used to be. I never met the man. He died years before I ever came to Skyrim. The way people talk about him, though, you would think he was the Grey Fox."
Her lips pursed tightly, Tom's face twisted up in confusion. "I thought you joined up before his murder."
"The elf tell you that?" Cynric asked. Tom nodded in reply. "Heh, thought so. Here's a piece of advice, girl. Don't trust everything Niruin says. He's not exactly a liar, but he does have a tendency to exaggerate."
"Noted."
"C'mon. There's bound to be better stuff upstairs."
Grinning, Tom swiftly snatched her bag from Cynric's hand and headed past him out of the kitchen back to the main room. He followed her, watching her curiously. No one in their right mind could swing between emotions as quickly as Tom did. He didn't know how Niruin put up with her all the time, but Cynric imagined it had something to do with the elf having a desire to break his "no humans" rule.
"Speaking of the little ponce," he said, "what's going on with you two? You, uh, fancy him?"
"Why? You jealous?"
Horribly pleased with her own wit, Tom shot him a devious glance over her shoulder, and Cynric had to force his face straight to keep from chuckling at her childish pride.
"Yes, I am completely and utterly jealous," he said, completely deadpan. "Stay away from my woman."
"Well, there's no need to be," she replied as she headed up the stairs. "There's nothing going on between us, and I don't 'fancy' anyone. Love is messy, and my life's complicated enough right now."
"Whoa there, I didn't say anything about love. I was just wondering if you two, well, you had a little fun in Solitude."
"No." A soft smile graced her lips. "That – that is even messier."
"I hear that."
. . .
Never had the air been filled with such suspense as when the rugged hero and his witty sidekick crept down the halls of the Count's castle. As the pair reached end of the wall, the muscle-bound warrior held his finger up to the elven mage, signaling for her to wait, and he peeked his head around the corner. There it was – the door to the room that held his love captive, guarded by two of the Count's men. Quickly, he began to devise a clever scheme to distract the guards when a gravelly voice came calling out –
"Elf!"
His nostrils flaring, Niruin slammed his book shut and glared over in the direction of the voice. Cynric sauntered up to the table where the elf was sitting with a sheepish Tom following obediently on the man's heels. Immediately, Niruin knew no good could possibly come out of whatever it was that the Breton wanted to speak to him about. Cynric had that look on his face that he always had whenever he was about to get Niruin to agree to something he didn't want to do. At best, it would only end in a slight headache. At worst, the Bosmer would end up hung-over in Winterhold with a three-thousand gold bounty on his head and a still unexplained pocket full of moon sugar again. Bracing himself, Niruin sat his book down on the table and straightened himself up as the two Bretons approached him.
"I do have a name, you know," he said bitterly.
Completely ignoring the elf's statement, Cynric pointed at the plate sitting in front of Niruin and cocked an eyebrow.
"Is that seared slaughterfish?"
Niruin wearily gestured with his hand. "Go ahead."
A skip in his step, Cynric sat down across from Niruin and pulled the plate over to his side of the table. Shaking his head, the Bosmer picked his book back up and began flipping through the pages to find where he had left off, as Tom walked around to the other side of the table and sat down next to Cynric. Wordlessly, he offered her the apple on the plate, and she instantly took it with a grin. As she bit into the fruit, her gaze fell curiously on the book Niruin was reading.
"What is that?"
"The Tale of Danarius," Niruin answered without looking up.
"What's it about?"
"It's a book about an Imperial farm boy who travels to High Rock–"
Cynric interrupted him. "A terribly inaccurate portrayal of the country, you ask me."
"Nobody did," Niruin replied. Rolling his eyes, Cynric made a nagging face that was clearly supposed to be a scornful imitation of the Bosmer. Niruin decided it would be best to ignore the old thief's mockery. "As I was saying, he travels to High Rock after his sister is kidnapped by pirates only to fall in love with a dastardly count's daughter and teams up with a secretive Altmer wizard as he unravels the mysteries of corruption and deceit that surround his sister's kidnapping."
"Sounds interesting," Tom said.
The girl's eager interest was quickly extinguished by Cynric holding up his hand as he chewed his food. Once he swallowed, he shrugged his shoulders and told her, "It falls apart halfway through the book after Gareth stabs Mirie."
Niruin's jaw clenched. "I hadn't gotten that far yet."
"Sorry. She doesn't die if it makes you feel better. They just spend the next three chapters thinking she's dead, and then when she comes back–"
"I don't want to hear it." – Smiling, Niruin turned his attention to Tom. – "If you want, I would be more than happy to lend it to you when I'm done."
"Oh, no," Tom replied. "It's fine. I don't – I don't read books."
Her stammered confession struck the elf as strange, and judging by the sideways glance Cynric was giving Tom, he shared Niruin's confusion. The only thing that could keep Tom's attention for more than a minute was a good tale. With both men's eyes on her, Tom's cheeks blushed as she swept her short bangs to the side and picked at her lip. Niruin tilted his head curiously.
"May I ask why?"
"It's not that I can't read. I can. Just not when there's big words and lots of them. I, um." – Her eyes scanned the cistern, and she forced a smile. – "Oh, look! Vipir's back. He promised me pickpocket training. I better go talk to him before he gets too drunk to function."
In a strange frenzy, Tom got up from the table and scurried off to talk to the Nord. Not fooled by her transparent excuse, Cynric and Niruin watched her leave before exchanging an incredulous glance as if to say there was something seriously off about that girl.
"Well," Niruin said. "That was – odd."
Giving a small shrug, Cynric returned to his meal. "By this point, I'm beginning to think odd is putting it lightly. Kid's not all there, if you catch my drift."
Niruin would be lying if he said he hadn't grown fond of the peculiar, young Breton over the past months. Though strange, her withdrawn nature had a certain charm to it, and she was just about the only person in the Guild who would willingly listen with what appeared to be genuine interest as Niruin blathered on for hours on end. By the Gods, he had nearly gone into a panic when he found her washed up on the shores outside Solitude, strange bruises on her neck that she had still yet to, and most likely never would, explain to him exactly how they had gotten there. However, despite any affection or protectiveness he might have felt for her, Niruin had spent far too much time around Tom to argue with Cynric's statement. From her wild eyes to her blatant dishonesty to her tendency to pick at her own flesh, nothing about Tom gave him the impression that she possessed even the slightest hint of mental soundness.
His mouth twitching, Niruin put down his book again and glared over at Cynric, who was chewing a bite of what had formerly been the Bosmer's dinner. It was moments like this that he wondered if he would have been better off if he had never joined the Silver Crescents. While life in Valenwood had certainly been dull, at least he wouldn't have be impoverished, sitting at a dilapidated table in a sewer with a dissocial bastard who stole his food, made jokes at his expense, and occasionally talked him into starting drunken brawls with guards for no reason other than "it seemed funny at the time." Instead, Niruin would be unreasonably wealthy, sitting at a beautiful, marble table in a mansion drinking wine with his gorgeous wife, Ilsynia, as he prayed for sweet death to deliver him from the soul-crushing prison of unending monotony and silent misery. On second thought, Cynric wasn't that bad, and he did, from time to time, save Niruin from being devoured by wild animals with daring acts of stupidity.
"Needs more salt," Cynric commented, pointing at the plate. "I swear, elf, you can't cook worth shit."
– On the other hand, Ilsynia had been easier on the eyes and not a dissocial bastard who stole his food and then insulted his cooking.
"Surely you must have interrupted my reading for something more important than simply robbing me of my dinner."
The Breton frowned. "No, I mostly just wanted your dinner."
"Brilliant," Niruin mumbled as he returned to his reading.
Their plan now in action, Mirie stepped out into the middle of the hall and began waving her arms at the guards, playing the distressed damsel screaming for help, while Danarius lay in wait for the perfect opportunity to –
"So what exactly did you have to do today that was so damn important?"
Once more, Niruin snapped the book shut. It was useless even to attempt to relax and enjoy himself around the infuriating, little Breton. Forcing an amiable smile as he set the novel down on the table, the Bosmer straightened his posture and looked over the table at Cynric.
"I had a meeting with Maven Black-Briar," Niruin said, dully.
Nearly choking on his food, Cynric snickered. "How'd that go?"
"Same as always, she was frigid, condescending, and curt. She actually went out of her way to emasculate me at one point in the conversation, but she didn't threaten to have my body dumped in Lake Honrich so I think it went fairly well. How did your little outing with Tom go?"
"Fine. She needs more practice with you. She can shoot anything so long as it's five feet in front of her, but get any farther from that and she's pretty hit and miss – emphasis on miss – but we didn't stay out there very long, thank the Eight or Nine or whatever it is these days."
Niruin's eyebrows rose with sudden interest. "Oh? You were gone for quite awhile. What took you? From what Brynjolf says, our dear Tomas knows her way around the charm spells."
Somewhat amused by the suggestion, Cynric looked up at the elf, and the side of his mouth tightened to a curl. "Don't worry, darling. The kid and I just did a little house-cleaning. You know you're the only woman in my life."
"Oh, ha, ha, you're so witty."
"Aren't I though? But to be honest, the girl's too young for me anyway. Not to mention she's a dead ringer for my kid brother."
"She does resemble you – minus thirty years."
"I'd say more like fifteen."
Niruin couldn't help but laugh at this uncharacteristic assertion. The Bosmer was used to this type of denial from the other thieves, but never from the Breton. Most of the Guild members were far from young. Since he couldn't really hide it, Delvin was rather forthright about his age, but he didn't appreciate the others implying he was any older than he was. Vipir was getting on in years, as were Vex and Thrynn. By Oblivion's gates, Vex was practically an old maid, though she would most likely stab anyone who dared say it out loud. Then there was Brynjolf, who was probably the worst of all when it came to age. He constantly pretended to be younger than he was, gallivanting around Riften like he was still in his prime and constantly courting women all of whom were young enough to be his daughter. Though he was about the same age as the red-haired Nord, Cynric, on the other hand, was usually more than satisfied playing the part of the embittered, old thief, acting much older than he was. Either the Breton had finally hit some sort of age-related crisis, or it had been some sort of sarcastic joke. Niruin's coin was on the latter. With a dull expression, Cynric glared over at the giggling elf. Niruin calmed himself and tilted his chin.
"Oh, come on," the Bosmer said. "You can't be serious."
"Believe it or not, I am."
"You've been spending too much time with Brynjolf."
"Please, I'm not that bad. I'm just saying the kid's not as young as she seems. Really look at her sometime." – Cynric paused and grinned – "and I'm really not that old, elf."
"You're pretty old."
The Breton shrugged. "Eh, younger than Delvin."
"Everyone's younger than Delvin," Niruin deadpanned as he picked up his book once more. "There are draugr younger than Delvin."
. . .
Things had gone from bad to worse for Gulum-Ei. First, Karliah showed up in the middle of the night and given him a business proposition he couldn't refuse even if it meant causing trouble with Mercer, and then those two thieves had been up to something in the city. By the Hist, he swore his heart must have stopped beating when he caught sight of them, but fortunately they didn't give him any trouble and continued on their business. Unfortunately, word quickly spread after that day about how the Thieves Guild was branching out again, specifically in Solitude, and that didn't bode well for the Argonian who had crossed them. Making matters even worse, the big, bad Brynjolf himself was now staying in The Winking Skeever, temporarily displacing Gulum-Ei from his normal routine. In order to avoid the thuggish Nord, the Argonian had taken to drinking down by the docks, and that's where he was when he saw the last person he wanted to see.
The moons were high in the night sky as Gulum-Ei hummed a song and took another swig from his bottle. Warm with intoxication, he could almost forget how much danger he was in, but still it loomed over his back with every cracking stick stepped on by some innocent passerby. He knew there was always the possibility that they had not yet found out about his treachery, but there wasn't a doubt in his mind that they would, and when they did, Mercer Frey's fury would come down on him worse than any sword and he would suffer an end he wouldn't wish on his worst enemies. So he continued drinking until he did forget all his troubles and the night was still and silent – almost too silent.
"There you are."
He jumped at the sound of the muffled voice and dropped his bottle into the waters below. Whipping his head around, he saw a dark, feminine figure standing behind him, and he let out a sigh of relief.
"Damn it, woman," he said. "Nearly killed me there."
"What has you so jumpy?" the Dunmer asked. From anyone else, the sentence would have been a teasing jab, but Karliah's soft voice sounded serious and concerned as always, as if she didn't even realize the terrible mess she had gotten him into. Bitterly, Gulum-Ei turned his attention back toward the sea.
"In case you don't remember," the Argonian drawled. "I put my scales on the line by acting as your proxy."
"They haven't caught on yet, have they?"
"I don't know. How about you ask your old friend, the Red Knight? He's staying in the Winking Skeever as we speak."
"The Red Kni–" her voice became slightly panicked. "You mean Brynjolf? He's here in Solitude?"
"Why do you think I'm drinking out here in the cold? Rumor has it the Guild's got influence in the city again. Looks like your little plot backfired. They're back on their feet again for the first time in years."
"I know," Karliah replied, wistfully. "That's actually why I'm here."
Ignoring her, the Argonian grabbed another bottle from his bag and opened it up. He took a long drink and continued staring out at the ocean, watching the waves crash into each other. After a long pause, he finally replied, "I don't suppose you're hoping I can be of assistance with whatever plan you've schemed up now? Because you've already got me in enough trouble with the Guild, and I don't fancy the idea of being made into Mercer Frey's new boots."
"I know you're cross with me, but I don't need you to do anything. I just need some information."
"Information, I can do," he said, "at a price, of course."
"Don't think I thought for a second you would do this without compensation. I need to know anything you've heard about the Guild – names, plans, anything that would explain how they've suddenly recovered. Here."
Karliah set down a rather large bag down next to his own. Sighing, Gulum-Ei took another drink and rolled his head back. He had heard something, even before the Guild had gotten its greedy little claws back in Solitude. Karliah always paid handsomely. Maybe this payment coupled with her last could get him out of the city and somewhere where Mercer could never find him. Frowning, he looked through the bag to see it contained a rather large coin purse and several gems. It was not enough to get out of Solitude, but it was satisfactory.
"Tom," he said. "He's supposedly this grand thief who could steal the scowl off a Dunmer – no offense. Word is the Guild recently recruited him, and he's robbing the whole country blind, even made off with some of Vittoria Vici's valuables, stole it right out from under her guard's noses. If he's real and half as good as they say, I'm guessing that's who you need to get to if you want to stop the Guild."
She was quiet for a long time. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it," he grumbled and turned around to face her, but she had already disappeared into the night. Shaking his head, he looked back toward the ocean and took another drink.
"Crazy bitch."