Blood and Silver VI
Falrielle blinked. She then blinked a second and a third time for good measure but she could not believe her eyes. In her years as a sellsword, Falrielle had seen her share of cities. For a time, she and Faerin lived in coastal Dawnstar where the Sea of Ghosts would exhale deathly mists on its darkened alleyways. From then, she drank in the taverns of Windhelm, brawled in the cobbled paths of Whiterun, and robbed in the docks of Riften. Great cities they were but it was still hard to compare what the Dwarves had built in Markarth.
A hand shoved her from behind, forcing the elf to march forward.
She emerged from the gatehouse and into a market square flanked by tall, narrow structures. Enterprising merchants hawked their goods with a religious fervour in their voices; demanding all to listen and denouncing their competitors as swindlers and charlatans. Dancers and musicians entertained passers-by while urchins and footpads picked pockets and cutpurses.
Falrielle was surprised. Did these people not notice that colossal temple nor the giant statue of Dibella, the Goddess of Beauty, thrusting her enormous breasts for all to admire? How were they not intimidated by that fortress of a palace that gazed upon the city like an eagle on its eyrie? How could they move about as if none of this was impressive? The elf raised her nose and sniffed. She smelled roasting goat, cooked pies, and hot bread but no trace of the usual filth of piss and shit though there was something else. She detected a whiff of smoke, blood, and silver.
She had often heard of rumours that the Dwarves were a highlight meticulous people and for ounce, it seemed that the rumours were true.
Each stretch of street was precisely ten paces wide, and they did not wind and turn chaotically. Falrielle reckoned that if she were to climb somewhere higher, she could look over the other end of the city in a straight line. It did not take her long to figure that the city was divided into neat squares like the very flagstone paths she threaded upon.
North. She had to go north. Falrielle looked up and saw buildings emerging from the cliffside.
The sellsword rested one hand on her purse and the other on the handle of Beater. In the country, bears and wolves were common predators but they were for the most part, reasonable and predictable creatures. Stay away during breeding or feeding season and they would return the favour. Trolls did show up every now and then but trolls cowered at the torch and did not venture far from their dens. Falrielle dealt with them all at some point of her life and they left nary a scratch on her.
People on the other hand…
Predatory eyes were on her. Her ears felt it and so did the scars on her side. Here and there, Falrielle caught sight of the greens of the Markarth City Watch though their presence did assuage her fears. She was, after all an elf. A knife-ear in the city of humans who lived in the carcass of the Dwarves.
The sky had turned orange when Falrielle entered the Noriclett District. She had been walking for hours and ascending all the time. Falrielle dared to peek over terrace and immediately regretted it. The view was grand, she'd admit – she was well above most of the city and she felt like a bird overlooking at ants going about their evening business. Grand but Falrielle just realised how high she was above the lowest floor.
She froze there for dozens of heartbeats and when she finally moved, a wintering finger still traced its icy tip on the back of her spine. Was it the distance that paralysed her? She doubted it. If she were to fell, she was comforted by the fact that a drop this high would make for a quick death.
This was it, she told herself. One final job with the lads. Falrielle decided that after she received her pay, she bought the pig and other luxuries, she'd have some serious drinking to do. Afterwards… maybe find the strength to live by herself but that was a bridge to be crossed when the time came.
Falrielle knew the Treasury house as soon as she saw it. The Treasury was large and opulent like the other buildings of the Noriclett District. Intricate carvings bore upon the stone, and the geometric and angular engravings were illuminated by ornamental lanterns. However, the Treasury was also fortified like a fortress on the marches. The windows were narrow, far too thin for even a child to slip in but enough for archers to pelt arrows at a wide angle. The door was large and strong. If a gang or two would attempt to raid the place, all they would achieve is chipping the masonry before dropping dead from missile fire.
Three men gathered outside the Treasury house.
The first was a large man with a sun-kissed mane and a short, braided beard. He wore runic tattoos on his face and his exposed arms. A scaled vest protected his chest and, on his belt, hung a short-hafted axe. This one was stereotypically Nord as Falrielle had ever seen.
The second man was not as large; squat even but he was stouter than his taller companion. This one was bald except for a dark ponytail. His broken nose and cauliflowered ear gave the impression of a seasoned prize-fighter, as did his ham like fists. He wore a sleeveless jerkin of leather and like his companion, his arms were tattooed from shoulder to finger. When he threw his head back and laughed, Falrielle saw that this one had a few rotten stumps for teeth.
The last man stood out from the trio. This one was not a Nord but a Redguard. Dark-skinned and hook-nosed, the Redguard was the smallest of the trio, being the shortest and the lithest though he was by no means a small man. He wore a brown leather jacket with a bandolier of pouches crossing from his left shoulder to his right waist. Gold earrings shone in his earlobes and his black boots shone in the dying light of the sun. On his belt hung a pair of decorated hilts of two curved swords, the traditional weapon of the Redguards.
Falrielle found them strange. It wasn't that these men, three heavily armed scoundrels were congregating outside a well to do building like the Treasury house that was the strange part. No, it was how they smelled – like fresh lavenders.
It wasn't like the Bretons of High Rock. Even with their noxious perfumes, Falrielle could still pick out the sour body odour beneath but these three, they smelled washed – clean. That only made Falrielle notice how she smelled, which was as she looked like – like shit.
The Redguard turned to Falrielle and flashed a roguish grin.
'And a stranger approaches,' he said in a voice tinged with the rolling Rs of Stros M'Kai. His companions spun and glared at the elf. 'A stranger that walks with purpose and intent. I wonder what this one wants.'
'Mah business is in the Treasury hoose. Noo if ye wouldn't be sae kind,' Falrielle rested a hand on Beater. 'As tae mynd yer ain fucking business.'
The large and the bald one let out a roaring laugh. The Redguard chuckled.
'Mynd yer ain fucking business,' the large one repeated in a mock Paleman accent. 'Listen to the knife-ear talk, all trying to sound tough. Shouldn't you be in the forest hugging some trees or something?'
Falrielle grew pale and tightened her lips.
'What's that? Nothing?' The bald one drew a knife from his side and smiled. 'There something wrong with your ears, elf? Maybe I can help with that,' he added, flashing his teeth.
'Gentlemen, please!' the Redguard said. 'That is no way to talk to a lady.'
'Ah'ament a laddeh.'
'Respected warrior, reliable sellsword, what have you,' he continued, smiling pleasantly. 'They call me Camon. This is Kjarl and Rus', and we are here to make sure no one tries anything funny at the Treasury house. And to what do I call the nameless wanderer before me?'
'Sellsword.'
'Very well, Sellsword.' He grinned. 'What business do you have here? If you're here to turn in your credit notes or do some banking yourself, you'll have to come back tomorrow.'
'Ah hae a delivery.' Falrielle produced the wooden plaque. 'And am supposed tae gie this tae the mick gaffer of the steid.'
'I see.' The Redguard held out his hand. 'No need for you to trouble the Chief – I'll do so on your behalf.'
'Whit's that? Let ye take all the pay?' Falrielle sneered. 'Whin ye pull ye rheids oot of yer arses and the dragons return, then mibbie ah will dae it. But now? Ye can go fuck yourselves.'
'A pretty mouth this one has!' cackled the large one.
'And ears! I'm always looking to add more to my collection,' The bald one said. 'Maybe even something else. A flank or just a little piece…' he added, licking the side of his blade.
Falrielle unlatched Beater from her belt and let the club droop from her wrists. 'Gang aheed. Huv a go at me, ye fucking scunner.'
'Everyone please,' the Redguard said cheerily as he walked between Falrielle and his companions. 'No need to get impulsive and make a mess. Now sellsword, your delivery will have to wait because the Chief is a very busy man.' He flashed a smile. 'Inspiringly diligent, truly, for he works even after the bankers have returned home to make love to their wives. Come back tomorrow.'
A reasonable proposition, she knew but all the same, Falrielle felt a rage boil within. Here she was, marching one end of the bloody Reach to the other while pulling a wain like some whipped beast. She had endured the cold heights of the rocky crags, shivered in the hail-laden rains, and fed upon tree barks to stave off hunger. She, the coward, survived when all the others earned a glorious death and now, here at an axe's throw away to closure and now she was being denied. She was hungry, filthy, tired, sober, and skint broke, and she was not going down without a fight.
However, before the sellsword could do anything rash, she pulled out the parchment with the chicken scratches and wordless offered it to the Redguard. When the rogue accepted, Falrielle wondered what compelled her to do that. Whatever it was, it seemed to be the right choice.
As he read the contract, Redguard's expressions shifted from smiles and charms to one of ice and steel. His companions noticed and Falrielle could smell the fear reeking from them.
The Redguard returned the contract with a smile on his face. A perfect smile. Too perfect, like a painted expression on a mask. 'You wish to speak to the Chief?' he said pleasantly. 'Follow me.'