I made my way to the Warrens which were little more than a squalid cave. A couple fireplaces, barely embers now, faintly illuminated the cavern, and liquid that I hoped was water dripped down the side of the walls. The smelt workers were asleep when I walked through the dark entrance, save for two men sitting cross legged by the nearest fire pit. They stood uneasily, staring at me with a leery gaze as I approached.

"I hope you're not here to cause any trouble, friend," said the one with long red hair. "Is there something you need?"

"Yeah," the other one piped in. In the lighting he looks very similar to his friend, but his brunette locks were braided into two strands that draped over each shoulder in a Breton fashion. "We don't get many visitors here in the Warrens. 'Specially not at this time of day."

I paused for a moment, taking in the surrounding cavern with disgust.

"This place is a dump," was all I said in response.

They looked at each other as if to ask, Is this elf for real? and laughed.

"Observant one, ain'tcha" the redhead scoffed, but sat down again nevertheless and gestured for me to join them around the dying fire. He grabbed a nearby stick and began to poke at the coals, sending sparks flying into the air, dancing wildly in their brief blazing moment of freedom as I tried to find the driest spot on the damp ground.

"What brings a traveler like you down here?" asked the man with the barids when we settled as comfortably as we'd get. "Most visitors go up the stairs here in Markarth, not down."

"Do I need a reason?"

"I suppose not."

There was a moment of silence as we listened to the fire crackle softly, and I took the time to get a better look at the two smelters. They were young and fairly muscular due to their profession, but they otherwise had the sunken look of the poor that probably added a couple years to their faces. The glow from the fire highlighted dark circles under their eyes from countless restless nights, and having known my fair share of poverty, I couldn't help but feel a surge of sympathy for the men.

"What's your name?" the redhead said, breaking the surprisingly companionable silence.

"Nami," I said automatically.

He didn't even bat an eyelid. "Your real name, stranger," he smiled thinly.

Normally I would have been pretty irritated having my lies blown blatantly out of the water, but I couldn't help but smile. There was something to be said for a guy who could cut through dishonesty like he had a daedric dagger.

"Kasha," I grinned unashamedly, lowering my hood. "And yours?"

He nodded, satisfied with my honesty. "The name's Garvey. This guy over here is Omluag." He slapped his friend heartily on the back and for a moment they looked like two regular, healthy Bretons before they shifted and the fire once again highlighted the gauntness in their cheeks.

Garvey turned back to me. "So what's your purpose here, Kasha?"

"What makes you so sure I have a purpose?"

"Because you're in Markarth," he said simply.

I lowered my voice and leaned in, making a split second decision to trust them. "I'm looking into the market attack. I need to find out more about Weylin."

Garvey's reaction was subtle but immediate. His eyes hardened and I could see goosebumps emerge on his bare arms, the thin hair standing on end.

"Oh yeah, Weylin," Omluag said obliviously, drawing my attention away from his redheaded friend. "Mulush was furious 'bout that. Would have killed the man himself if he wasn't dead already. He kept muttering 'Bastard could have at least gone crazy after we made our silver quota.'"

"Mulush?"

"Mulush gro-Shugurz. Damn tyrant of an orc. He's the overseer of the smelt workers, always being goaded on by the Silver-Bloods to get more work out of us. Doubt you'd be able to get anything out of him though, even if you could find a way to talk to him."

"Did you notice anything odd about Weylin before the attack?"

He looked as if he were about to speak, but fell silent at a look from Garvey.

"Look, Kasha," Garvey said apologetically, looking tense. "Whatever you want to know, we're sorry, but we can't help you. We're smelters. That's it."

My eyes narrowed and flickered to Omluag but he just stared at his twiddling thums, giving nothing away.

"The guards have the market situation under control, I assure you," Garvey continued. "You should just leave it to them."

I waved him quiet and rolled my eyes, making it clear that I wasn't going to stand for his half-baked fibs either. "You're preaching to the wrong person here," I said. "Anything you have to say to discourage me, I've heard – most of it coming from myself, too. Believe me when I say that it's not me you should be worrying about, but yourselves. Take a look around you. The Silver-Bloods are living like Jarls while you guys are down here starving, and all I need to take them down a notch is a scrap of information about Weylin. Don't you want something to change?"

"We get worked like slaves, beaten if we make a mistake, and spend the only money we earn on food and rent for this piss hole," Garvey said softly but without hesitation. "Of course we want something to change, but the only thing more scarce here in Markarth than a polite word is a decent job for non-Nords."

"Then just let me do all the dirty work," I pressed.

Garvey gave me a strange look, realization dawning onto his face like a sunrise.

"Eltrys put you up to this, didn't he?"

I stared at him for a few moments, but that seemed to be enough of an answer for him.

"That idiot," he grumbled. "I really don't think you know what you're getting yourself into," Garvey said. "Eltrys shouldn't have gotten an outsider like you involved in Markarth's problems. You shouldn't be here."

"And yet, here I am," I shrugged. "I'm fairly sure I'm in too deep at this point to back down now anyways."

That drew a dry laugh from the man. "You're probably right about that. This city has eyes everywhere. I wouldn't be surprised if a couple people have already heard of our conversation here."

I couldn't help but grimace at that comment. How do you hide when the walls have eyes?

"So are you going to help me?" I asked, looking first at Omluag and then at Garvey.

"Alright, alright," Garvey leaned forward, looking nervous but determined. "I didn't notice anything odd about Weylin's behaviour before, but Omluag told me he saw something strange when we received our last paycheck – if you can call it that, anyways."

We both looked over at Omluag. "He... He had a little extra slip of paper, I saw," Omluag said. "Took it right to his room after he got it and holed himself up there for a long time."

"A note? A letter?"

He shrugged.

"In any case, that's perfect," I said, pushing myself up, trying not to let my bubble of hope swell too large yet. "That's exactly the kind of thing I was looking for. Can you get me into his room?"

"Lucky for you, this rare streak of courage from me is still ongoing and I handle the keys here in the Warrens." Garvey plucked an ashy silver key from a keyring at his hip and gave it to me. "His room's right over there. As soon as you're done with that key, you give it back and leave immediately, got it?"

I flipped the key in the air, the dull surface managing to cast orange stars on the walls as it reflected the remaining embers from the fire.

"Of course," I grinned.

I was in and out of Weylin's room in two minutes. Thanks to my current occupation, it was easy to figure out where people kept the things they thought were of value: a strongbox, a chest, a display case – people were always too careless with their belongings and placed too much trust in locks.

In Weylin's case, it was a smelly chest in the corner of his dimly lit rocky room.

And it's not even locked, I thought, feeling a little disappointed at the lack of a challenge, but relieved at the same time. If only everything could be this easy.

The note was made of fine paper with a pretty decorative border and a red wax seal broken hastily. I held it tentatively between my thumbs and forefingers, thinking that it was no wonder that Omluag had noticed such a flamboyant letter. The paper was crumpled and damp and dirty and the ink was a little smudged, but it was still clearly legible.

Weylin,

You've been chosen to strike fear in the heart of the Nords. Go to the market tomorrow. You will know what to do.

-N

Instead of victory, I felt frustration overwhelm me as I scanned the note. It seemed for every mystery I solved, more replaced it. Margret was murdered because she was an Imperial spy, and Weylin was no more than someone's lackey, murdering on their behalf. But who was N? How did Thonar Silver-Blood fit into this? These were all the pieces of a huge puzzle, and I was infuriatingly unable to see the big picture.

I folded the note and placed it between the covers of Margret's journal for safe keeping, rocking back and forth from my heels to the balls of my feet and chewing my nails in thought as I tried to figure out which trail to follow at this point.

I need to get these to Eltrys, and then I can figure out where to go from there.

True to my word, I slipped out of Weylin's room without so much as a word and placed the key back in Garvey's hand on my way to the door, but as I turned to leave, I felt a tug on my sleeve.

"I don't want to know what you found in there, Kasha," he whispered slowly. "But secrets don't like being uncovered here, and those that are revealed often have a bloody aftermath." He didn't blink once as he spoke, demanding my full attention. "I've taken a liking to you, so don't get yourself killed, you hear? Be careful."

I nodded, and he let my sleeve slip through his fingers, turning his gaze back to the embers and not sparing another glance my direction.

People keep telling me to be careful, I reflected, as I raised my hood once more and set out. Maybe I really should start taking some more extensive precautions...

Either way, it was due time to report back to Eltrys. With clues on Margret and Weylin, I had done everything he had asked, but I had no doubt that he would ask me to investigate Thonar Silver-Blood and this 'N' as well. He already had a foot in the door, so if he had the gold, I'd probably do it.

Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw movement. Freezing, I scanned the dimly lit lower levels of Markarth, searching, searching, searching. My breath steamed out in front of my face, the cloud a stark white contrast to the dark background that drew my attention to its provocative dance before fading into the air, only to be replaced a second later.

Was it just my breath I saw? No, I was certain I saw something.

Suddenly I felt a hand grab my hood and yank. I choked as I was forced backwards and around, gasping as the rough grasp ripped out a few stray strands of my hair that had gotten caught in the grip with my hood, but that pain was quickly overshadowed as a fist made contact with my jaw, my vision exploding with stars.

I fell to the floor with a grunt, skidding a few feet on my side from the impact. Vision swimming, I pushed myself up onto one knee. From my kneeling position, I glared up at my now visible attacker, a large Breton man sporting a mohawk that would have looked ridiculous had he not also been sporting an intimidating set of muscles and a decent suit of hide armour that added much to his bulk. Some damn stealthy bulk. But aside from the fact that he'd somehow managed to sneak up on me, it was clear that this man was merely hired muscle. Someone had sent him.

"You've been digging around where you don't belong," he said in a gruff voice, cracking his knuckles theatrically as he advanced. "I think it's time you learned a lesson."

To be honest, I really could have lived without learning a few of the lessons I'd learned in my lifetime, and my aching jaw was telling me that this one was one I could probably do without as well.

"Who sent you?" I asked, raising slowly into a defensive crouch. I felt like I had a pretty good idea who was behind this, but clarification was always nice.

"Someone who doesn't like you asking questions."

I had a pretty good idea that that would be his answer too.

He charged at me then, fists raised despite the axe at his hip. It was at this moment that I realized that not only was he severely underestimating me because he'd caught me relatively off guard, but that his only goal was to scare me.

Center of gravity already low, it only took a a quick sidestep and sweep of my leg to bring the large man down. Within seconds I had a knee digging into his back between his shoulder blades, and a hand pressing his face into the gritty wooden dock.

"Who sent you?" I hissed again in his ear.

He grunted and struggled and would have thrown me off his back had I not grabbed a fistful of his mohawk and slammed his head back into the ground as I regained my balance. It stunned him for a moment, but when another bout of his struggles threatened to switch our positions, I knew my body weight alone wouldn't be enough to subdue the mercenary.

Still gripping his hair tightly, I fumbled for the dagger hidden in my jacket with my free hand, and yanked his head back to expose his throat.

"Ready to talk yet?" I asked, pressing the dagger gently to his skin until he stopped squirming. I wasn't going to kill him, but he didn't need to know that.

"You mangy piece of pit bait," he swore.

"I've been called worse. Now talk, or I send you to the gods."

He gasped as I accidentally broke the skin at his neck. I could see the fear fleet through his eyes.

"I-I was sent by Nepos the Nose," he blurted out, suddenly a coward. "The old man sends out the orders."

"Orders?"

When he remained silent, I realized that was all the mercenary knew, and with a disgusted noise, relinquished my grasp of his mohawk, and carefully stood up, though I kept a good grip on my dagger in case he decided to try anything. But the mercenary was all bark and no bite, and with only a dark glare and a muttered curse, slunk away with his tail between his legs like the dog that he was.

The Thieves Guild wasn't the Dark Brotherhood. That was something drilled into our heads since day one of initiation. Accidents could happen, but that was one of the reasons why we usually avoided head-on violence. Still, there was something extraordinarily satisfying about taking down a man twice my size that even competed with the thrill of a heist.

Pain flared from my jaw, distracting from my moment of triumph, and I hissed again, naturally compelled to prod at the blooming bruise.

I felt both alleviated at having taken down the man who had given me the bruise and annoyed that I had gotten it in the first place. Clearly I wasn't on my A-game tonight, and I could only hope that nothing worse would stem from my carelessness.

But knowing my luck, I highly doubted that.