Brynjolf looked up at the wooden sign above the tavern door. Beneath green letters reading "Drunken Huntsman" was the illustration of an overflowing mug. Pushing the door open, he was immediately greeted by warm air, laden with the smell of roasting stew. Had he been in search of entertainment, he would have sighed with disappointment. The sleepy, little tavern was too quiet for his taste. He had grown up in Riften, where opening a tavern door revealed roars of raucous laughter and yelling, amidst a cacophony of crashing mugs and glasses. Surveying the room nonchalantly, he looked for exits and coin purses of interest, as was his habit, only to find neither. The red headed Nord shook his head, missing the Bee and Barb. Just what sort of tavern had a jester in it, anyway?
Spying his contact, Brynjolf wove through the patrons and toward the hearth, seating himself and leaning forward, as he spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.
"I came as fast as I could, lass. What have you found?"
The slight woman beside him let out a soft sigh of disappointment from beneath her dark hood.
"Very little," she said, in a delicate murmur. Karliah's voice was, as always, like silk to his ears; soft and tender. "He was here a week ago, according to the guards. The housecarl confirmed the same. She's concerned with his absence as well."
"We're calling off the Black-Briar job for now. Maven will have to wait until this is settled," he said, scratching his beard. "You suppose she found out what was coming and made a move?"
The door opened and several villagers walked to the counter, greeting the owner.
"I don't know," Karliah said solemnly, looking up at Brynjolf from beneath her hood, concern in her violet eyes. A war with Maven Black-Briar could cripple or destroy the Thieves' Guild. Therion had devised a way to destroy Jarl Black-Briar's choke hold over Riften, quickly and quietly, and had then vanished into thin air.
Laughter at the counter interrupted the heavy silence between the two companions.
"No!" Elrindir shouted in disbelief, the Bosmer owner behind the counter looking positively shocked.
"Yes, it's true! I heard it from one of the guards who was there!" a villager said to a small crowd of patrons.
"I always wondered what he was into…" someone murmured scandalously.
"Didn't think he had it in him… seemed like he was more "interested" in dragons," another chuckled, thinking himself very witty.
A bald, pompous looking man sneered as he said, "I, for one, am shocked. It's bad enough, fooling with dark, unnatural things like, ugh, magic. But I never thought he was prone to acts of such depravity…"
"Depravity?" the first villager echoed.
The pompous man shook his head looking disgusted. "It's a disgrace! A member of the Jarl's court bedding a… a..." he struggled, as if the word was too revolting to say aloud before finally exclaiming, "...an elf!"
Elrindir looked at the man, rage building in his eyes, as though the Bosmer was warring with the impulse to leap over the counter at him.
"Well," one of the younger men said slowly, "High Elves are sort of pretty, you have to admit. And they're real good with magic, so it kind of makes sense the Jarl's wizard would have some kind of interest-"
"It's unbecoming of a Nord!" the outraged, older man hollered righteously. "And I do not have to admit anything of the sort!"
Brynjolf heard Karliah scoff as she muttered something about 'a backwater hole of a town'.
Another joined in, "Well, it's not just any elf though, is it? It's the Dragonborn!"
Brynjolf and Karliah sat up, more interested in the conversation.
"And it sounds like Farengar rebuffed him! Threw him out a week ago!" the youth went on.
Farengar looked up from his desk, sensing he was not alone.
Since the incident, he had become more irritable than usual. He was a private man, preferring to be left alone. His new status as a celebrity was mortifying. The number of idiotic questions he received daily seemed to have increased a hundredfold.
"What?" he snapped sharply, causing his newest, and most bizarre, visitor to gasp in shock.
"Oh my, Cicero has angered the court wizard! And poor Cicero was just standing here!" spouted the tall jester dressed in black and red, sounding hurt. The bells on his costume jingled as he spoke eccentrically, their melody as disharmonious as their wearer's gaze. "No, no, no! No time, none at all!" he growled, making a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. "Cicero broke the rules, poor Cicero, he broke them! He must speak with the Jarl's wizard, no time, no time!"
Farengar looked him over.
"I think he's the large brute by the throne, the one wearing a lot of armor. Go and bother him," he said, returning to his tome, hoping to pawn the strange man off on the guards. Which, he considered, needed a lesson on whom to allow into the keep.
A disconcertingly shrill laugh came from the jester as he danced from foot to foot. "Ah hah, a jest! The wizard jests with Cicero! Oh yes, how thrilling!" he cackled with veritable excitement. His voice turned unexpectedly low and menacing as he added, "I do enjoy a good laugh."
Farengar reconstituted himself against his sudden change in tone.
"And what business would a madman have with a Jarl's court wizard?" he asked, leaning back while secretly placing a ward in one hand and paralyze in the other.
"Cicero is not mad, he is worried! A message for the wizard, message message message! Bring the Listener now, now!" he cried urgently.
"Yes…" Farengar said slowly, vowing to discuss the guards' sense of humor regarding his visitors with Irileth. "The Temple of Kynareth is what you're looking for. Danica is a superb listener," he said, forcing himself to keep a straight face as he described the impatient priestess.
Cicero began to scream with frustration, then quickly shushed himself, muttering under his breath. Farengar watched his mercurial mood swings with growing concern. Perhaps he could tempt him into drinking a sleeping potion, and avoid injuring him in combat.
"Therion!" the jester whined, catching Farengar's undivided attention. "Loredas, Sundas, Morndas - Cicero waited, waited and worried, pacing beside Mother! Poor Mother was beside herself, inconsolable! By Tirdas, Cicero could wait by himself no longer! The mer always comes on Loredas, to sit and listen to Mother, never late, never! He brings Cicero tidings, and oh yes! Sweet rolls… gooey and delicious. Kind words, he always speaks to Cicero," he said despairingly, before snapping ferociously, "The wizard must tell Cicero where he has gone!"
Farengar looked at the peculiar man, deciphering what he could from his gibbering.
"I neither know, nor care, where that man is," he said, tiring of the nonsensical ramblings of the jester. "As you can see, he is not here, in my laboratory. Try looking in a rotting crypt. Or, if he's not robbing my ancestors, a tavern." Farengar had no actual knowledge of how Therion spent his time, but he had a general idea of the habits of adventurers and their ilk.
Cicero glared at him sullenly, grumbling 'no help at all' repeatedly. As he turned to leave, he shot a maniacal look at Farengar. "If the wizard took away the Listener, if he hurt him…" he cackled gleefully, before his voice fell to a dark whisper, "I will bring him home to meet Mother."
Farengar watched the lunatic leave with an unsettled, bemused look. Shaking his head, he reached down into his desk and fished out his strongest bottle of ale. As he sat up, he was greeted by two new figures standing before his desk.
"Divines, what now?!" he demanded, slapping his hands on his desk as he stood up. The red headed Nord male in adventurer's garb and the female figure, wearing a familiar set of black armor, both started in surprise. "No, I don't want to know! I'm retiring for the evening. Away with you!" he said with a curt wave of his hand.
"Hey now," Brynjolf said, his voice warm and easy going. "We only need a moment. Then we'll leave you to enjoy your drink and bed. We're in search of information, and we can compensate you for your extremely valuable time," he said, producing a large coin pouch and tossing it onto the wizard's desk.
Farengar looked at it, a bit surprised. There were at least 500 septims in the pouch, by the size of it.
"What do you want, then?" he asked impatiently, taking the coin purse, as tomes and rare alchemy ingredients, danced in his mind's eye. "Directions to a crypt? Deciphering an ancient text?"
Karliah shook her head. "We're looking for information regarding the location of Therion Adamonest."
Farengar wrinkled his nose, exhaling sharply. "How many more people will break into my offices to ask this question tonight? I have no idea where the population of Skyrim conceived the notion that I know where the Dragonborn hides himself, but I do not know, nor care to know, what that man does in his spare time! Perhaps he was tragically eaten by a dragon!"
Brynjolf nodded to Karliah, glancing over the table.
"What is that?" Karliah asked, pointing to the armor laying beside his enchanting station. Therion's armor. Which, he noticed, was identical to her own.
"He left it here, last week," he said with a disinterested sigh.
"And you didn't think it odd he never retrieved it?" Karliah asked, wondering what Therion saw in this grumpy lover.
Farengar glared at her, reading her tone.
"I never gave him cause to remove it in the first place," he growled, although it was something of a gray area to the truth. His only comfort from the whole affair was knowing that Arcadia was sitting in jail, carrying out her month long sentence in misery. "He left Dragonsreach and that was the last any of us saw of him."
"A dead end, it would seem," Brynjolf said to Karliah.
"Not necessarily… How are you with locating spells?" she asked Farengar, picking up Therion's armor and gently folding it, before placing it on his desk.
Farengar looked at the armor. "I can use it to track him, but the Jarl would never permit me to-"
"I can pay you five times the amount Brynjolf just gave you," she said, producing several brilliant diamonds in her black glove.
Farengar raised his eyebrows, sorely tempted.
"And another 5,000 septims when Therion is safely recovered," Karliah added, setting the stones atop Therion's shadowy armor.
Some quick math concluded that his visitors were indeed willing to pay him the price of a house, fully furnished, all to find the Dragonborn.
"What is your association with the Dragonborn?" Farengar felt himself compelled to ask, reminded of Therion's remark to 'not ask' about his night job.
"He and I are not romantically involved, if that's-" Karliah began.
"That is NOT what I was inquiring," Farengar snapped.
"Brothers in arms," Brynjolf supplied with a casual shrug of his shoulders.
"I'll inform the Jarl I'm departing to investigate the location of his missing Thane," Farengar said. Adding, as something occurred to him, "5,000 septims when he is safely recovered… and if he's dead?"
"I will honor our deal. And you may help yourself to the pockets of those following him closely to the afterlife," Karliah said with dark promise.