Author's Note: This chapter gave me fits, sorry for the delay and hope y'all enjoy it.

Making Waves in Riften

Anuriel left Mistveil Keep not long after dawn, while the marketplace was deserted and silent. Glass crunched underfoot as she picked her way around broken bottles, remnants of last night's rowdiness. The city had celebrated nightly since the news of King Torygg's death. Mead had flowed like a sticky river through the Grand Plaza and Stormcloak sympathy had risen to a frenzy. Fortunately for Anuriel the revelers had finally wandered off to their beds. The jarl didn't know of this errand, of course, so Anuriel had no guard to protect her from harassment. To many of these backwater Nords, all elves looked alike and there was no guarantee they would know her as Bosmer (and their jarl's steward!) and not one of the hated Altmer.

Many of the locals had lost family to the Thalmor in the Great War. Their antipathy was perfectly understandable. She had let it be known that she, too, had lost kin to the Thalmor in far-off Valenwood. It wasn't true—no one in her family was fool enough to cross the Aldmeri Dominion—but it made a good story and she told it well. Even the notorious old Stormcloak Vulwulf Snow-Shod had once patted her arm in sympathy.

The debris stopped well short of Black-Briar Manor as if the house were protected by an invisible ward. In a way, it was. No doubt the city guard would swiftly deal with anyone foolish enough (or drunk enough) to cause a ruckus right outside Maven Black-Briar's home. The manor was quiet but Anuriel's knock was promptly answered. Maven's servant left her in the parlor and told her Lady Black-Briar would be right with her.

And then she waited. She had missed her breakfast to make this early morning meeting but where was Maven? Anuriel was steward to Laila Law-Giver, jarl of Riften. She was busy, she was important, she had meetings scheduled and things to do. Why did Maven keep her waiting like a tradesman in this stuffy little parlor? Was it Nord prejudice against an elf? She told herself to stay calm. If Maven saw her annoyance, she would make a point of always keeping her waiting.

Maven knew how busy she was. After all, Maven had plucked her out of the Thieves Guild and gave her this job.

The door opened and Anuriel heard the clink of dishes from the dining room. Maven had been eating breakfast while she sat here fasting! Maven strode in. Anuriel tightened her hands on her notebook when she saw her face. Maven's face often bore the lines of discontent but now her jaw was clenched with frustrated anger. What was wrong? Anuriel rapidly checked her conscience.

"Did you have a good trip?" she asked timidly.

"No, I did not." If Maven were a Khajit, she'd be lashing her tail, Anuriel thought. "Incompetence. Nothing but incompetence."

Anuriel did another quick check of her conscience.

"If Ulfric wins this damned war, it will be because of those fools in Solitude. I'm sure you've heard about King Torygg's death. Ulfric waltzes into Solitude, bold as brass, kills the king and disappears before anyone thinks to call the guard. Tullius and the Thalmor let Ulfric slip through their fingers. For all their claims of efficiency—oh, I have no patience for it."

Anuriel blinked. Shouldn't Maven be glad of this? The Rift backed Ulfric in this war. Why was Maven so vexed?

"They didn't try to arrest him?"

"Ulfric was not to be found. So they said." Maven grimaced. "All that time I spent cultivating Torygg—wasted. The gifts I sent that man! We had an understanding. I suppose now they will put that hen-witted Elisif on the throne." Maven's voice dripped scorn. "You should have heard her wailing in the palace, in front of everyone. You'd think no one had ever lost her man."

Maven dropped into a chair. Her restless fingers thrummed the chair's arm. "Ulfric has made a bold move and I don't see how to play it to my favor. That man is dangerously unpredictable." She shook her head. "The chaos in Solitude was unbelievable. I had to endure hours of Elenwen berating Tullius for letting Ulfric escape Solitude. They're both fools. In the end we may end up with Ulfric as High King! I can work with him if I must but he's a fanatic. Fanatics cause problems."

Elenwen was the First Emissary of the Thalmor's embassy in Skyrim. Anuriel's heart sank. "You've been meeting with the Thalmor?"

"Of course I have. I must be seen at Elenwen's insipid soirees, you know. And listen to her put on airs. Business is business, even in wartime."

"I don't think it's wise to—"

Maven blinked in astonished wrath. "What did you say?"

Anuriel squirmed. "The Thalmor, they're so hated here. People don't like it when they hear you're dealing with them."

"People don't like it? Most people in Riften have sense enough not to criticize me to my face."

"I—I'm sorry."

"Don't stutter. I can't abide stuttering." Maven gave her a long unpleasant look. "Ulfric himself has had his dealings with the Thalmor, a fact I may need to remind people of, should they dare to cause trouble. I believe that is quite unlikely." She tapped the table impatiently. "I hear the jarl's son has made a spectacle of himself."

How does she do it, Anuriel wondered. She's been out of town for days yet she knows everything that happens. I thought I was her spy.

"I'm afraid so," Anuriel said demurely, keeping her spite from her face. The jarl's oldest son Harrald was an intolerable brat but it was the youngest, Saerlund, that caused the most trouble for her personally. He saw too much and questioned too much. Harrald, at least, understood how things were done here in Riften and he knew why it was to his advantage to not make waves. "Saerlund spoke out for the Empire after dinner last night. He actually came out and said that Torygg's death was murder, not a lawful duel. The jarl sent him to his room."

"She sent him to his room like a naughty child? Laila has no control over her sons. If he doesn't shut his mouth, someone is likely to shut it for him. " Maven frowned. "They're calling Torygg's death murder in Whiterun as well. Has anything noteworthy happened in my absence?"

"One small issue, yes," Anuriel said nervously. "A group of townsfolk, mostly business owners, met with the jarl. They demanded a test of the new fire pump. Laila started to agree with them but I nipped in and stopped her."

"See that you continue to do so. That's what I pay you for." She tapped her foot in thought. "Have the pump develop some temporary mechanical problem." She smiled. "Charge Laila for the repairs." Anuriel dutifully smiled back. Riften had nearly burned to the ground years ago and had never fully recovered. Fire was a threat the city took seriously. Maven knew that, and had charged the jarl a fortune for a phony Dwemer fire pump to replace the unreliable water brigade in current use. The gold had gone to finance Maven's bribes to the Moot. She fully intended to be the next jarl of Riften.

"During the meeting, Wylandriah piped up with some scheme of her own. Unintelligible, of course."

Maven laughed. "Of course. At least we don't have to worry that any scheme of hers will cause us trouble. Hiring that lunatic as court mage was a stroke of inspiration. She wouldn't see trouble if it bit off the end of her nose. But speaking of trouble—"

Maven's hands tightened in a death grip on the arms of her chair.

"I called in at Honningbrew Meadery on my way back from Solitude. That damned fool Sabjorn hasn't answered my letters. And when I dropped by the meadery, he refused to see me. Refused! He had his tap boy tell me we had nothing to discuss."

"I take it he has turned down your offer then."

"Ha! I've withdrawn my offer of partnership. He'll regret making an enemy out of me. Is that Imperial you found—what was his name? Is he in place?"

"Mallus Maccius. Yes, he awaits your commands," Anuriel said.

"Good. Sabjorn had his chance to work with me. Now I'm going to ruin him."

Her aunt insisted Grelka ride Frost to Riften.

"A racehorse needs a lot of exercise, dear," she said. That was her gentle hint that everyone in the stable needed a break from Frost and his antics. Aela rode with her on one of the Companions' horses. She didn't like riding but smirked at Grelka and said, "You wouldn't be able to keep up with me on foot." Which was undoubtedly true. Traveling with Aela was—what? Grelka struggled to find the correct word. Restful? Restful hardly described a woman of such detached intensity. Her characteristic silence left Grelka plenty of time to brood over Thorald, her da's losses and this strange news of the death of the High King.

Of Thorald, all Aela had to say was, "My Shield Brother is a fool. Most men are." But she added, "If he had accepted the beast-blood, he'd not settle for playing soldier and taking orders." Grelka blinked and decided to think about that later. As if there was any point in thinking about what might have been instead of what was.

Of her da's misfortune, Aela said, "Unlikely the Imperials met him by chance. Someone tipped them off." Grelka agreed, only uncertain if loose talk had been picked up by an informer or if this was revenge from one of the hands her da had fired.

And of Torygg's death, Aela had shrugged and said, "Politics."

They parted at Riften. Aela arranged for the carriage driver to lead her horse back to Whiterun. She had a contract to clear out a nearby cave of trolls. She said she could best do that on foot but Grelka knew she was itching to get out of human form.

"You'll be all right getting back to Whiterun on your own?" Aela asked.

"I'll follow the carriage when I'm ready to go," she said. A lot of lone travelers did so for safety these days. A carriage had been attacked by bandits once. The carriage drivers were well armed but those particular bandits had been swarmed by irate passengers on their way to a funeral. One of them, a bard, had commemorated the event with a humorous ditty. Since then, bandits left the carriages alone.

This was Grelka's first trip to Riften and she had already decided it would be her last one. The gate guard tried to shake her down for gold and it had taken a heated discussion to make him back down. Once inside, she was stunned by the stench. Aela had tried to warn her but Grelka had assumed her beast-blood nose was oversensitive. Not so. Rotten fish from the docks, raw sewage from the canals, and over it all lay the sickly sweetness of the city's famous meadery. Ugh.

Beggars sat in the street and harangued bystanders. That would never have been allowed in Whiterun. The marketplace was crowded and every time someone bumped her she expected to have her pocket picked. Aela had warned her of that, too. There were Argonians and dark elves everywhere. Grelka had lived in Skyrim her whole life and never, ever had she felt like a minority. Until now.

It was strange and unsettling.

The news of High King Torygg's death had outraced her to the city and the story of Ulfric's meeting with the king grew wilder with each retelling.

The smithy, the Scorched Hammer, was right off the marketplace. She'd never met Balimund but when she introduced herself as Eorlund's apprentice, a smile lit his craggy face.

"You're the armor smith, right? A fellow came through town a few years ago," Balimund said. "He had this black shiny armor—never seen anything like it. I reckon you made it."

"That was chaurus chitin."

Balimund showed her around his smithy and they jumped right into an exchange of shop talk. He was proud of his forge. It was no Skyforge but there was something special about it. Grelka couldn't quite put her finger on what, but there was a strange smell and something—well, something alive about the glowing forge.

"I've seen people make armor out of mudcrab chitin," Balimund said, once they'd stepped inside his house. His apprentice scurried nearby, bringing snacks and mead—Black-Briar mead from the local meadery. It was very good.

"Chitin is light, flimsy stuff," he said.

"Chaurus chitin is better than mudcrab but still a bit brittle. I was never quite happy about how it performed in the field."

"You can't beat steel for protection."

She laughed. "You sound like Eorlund. And you're both wrong. For most people, light armor is better. And I'm going to prove it."

"Was a bit surprised to hear old Eorlund took an apprentice not kin," Balimund said. "Always been a Gray-Mane at the Skyforge."

"I pestered him until he had to teach me," she said. Balimund looked over at his own apprentice, Asbjorn Fire-Tamer.

"Sounds familiar," he said.

"Hey!" Asbjorn said. Then he laughed. "I would have pestered him if I'd had the nerve," he added. "I was in the orphanage. Honorhall Orphanage. Balimund met me and I guess we took a shine to each other."

"I know talent when I see it," Balimund said fondly. "I had a repair job at the fishery and that's where I saw Asbjorn. A skinny little brat but working hard as any man."

"I'll always be grateful for getting out of that orphanage."

"Orphanage," Balimund said scornfully. "Workhouse is more like it. That hag that runs it, they call her Grelod the Kind. Stoneheart would be a better name. Farms those children out to every dirty job in town and do they see one septim of their wages?"

"She told us we'd never be adopted so we might as well learn a trade."

"Someone should treat Grelod with the same 'kindness' she shows those children," Balimund said. "But enough of that. You said you came to Riften looking for a smith?" he asked Grelka. "This is the only smithy in town."

"So you've never heard of this man, Mallory?"

"No," Balimund said. "But, now that I think of it—"

"Yes?" she asked encouragingly.

"They say there used to be a smithy down in the Ratway. Supplied the Thieves Guild their armor and weapons. But that was years ago."

"The Ratway? What's that?"

"The city under the city. Riften's very old, you see. We had a bad jarl, a long time ago. My grandda told stories that would curl your beard. In the end, the people rose up and set the palace on fire, with the jarl inside. So that took care of him. But the flames spread, you see, and most of the town went up as well. We're still rebuilding years later and the city is just a shadow of what it once was. We were a major hub for trade with Morrowind." He turned to Asbjorn and beckoned for another bottle of mead. "Of course, Morrowind ain't what it was, either."

He took a swig. "City's being rebuilt in wood. That's all we can afford. And folks are real nervous about fire, as you might guess. The jarl raised a special tax last year. She's put in a Dwemer fire pump. They say it will never fail. You might have noticed those little boxes around town. If there's a fire you break the glass and there's a handle that starts the pump. Somehow. I haven't seen it. I reckon it's down below, by the old cistern in the Ratway."

"You were going to tell me what the Ratway is," she prompted.

"Well, it's mostly the old sewer system. Tunnels and such that were part of the old city. We've built right over the top of it. They say it's huge. Riften itself was much bigger than it is now."

"And people live down there?"

"Desperate ones do," Balimund said. "Beggars, fugitives, madmen. And the Thieves Guild, of course. It was said they had their own city down there but, like everything else in Riften, they're just a shadow of their former 'glory'."

"The Thieves Guild was glorious?"

"Once the Thieves Guild in Riften controlled most of the crime in Skyrim. Now they content themselves with shaking down the local merchants and doing Maven Black-Briar's dirty work."

"They shake you down?"

"That's part of the cost of doing business in Riften." He gave her a concerned look. "They may be a shadow of what they were but the shadow still has teeth. The Ratway is a dangerous place, lass."

"But this smith I'm looking for might still be down there?"

"I honestly don't know."

"Who would know?"

"Someone in the Thieves Guild, I suppose. That fellow Brynjolf that sells elixirs in the marketplace—they say he's a big man in the guild."

"I'll find him."

"Lass—be careful."

"If he messes with me, I'll holler for a guard. Don't worry. "

"That's part of the problem. The guard's in Maven Black-Briar's pocket and she more or less owns the guild as well."

"You've said her name before."

"Aye. She owns the meadery. Owns the town really. Nothing happens here without Maven's say-so."

"And people put up with that?"

Balimund shrugged. "Been that way a long time. The jarl means well, I suppose, but she's not practical. Maven gets things done. Of course she gets her cut off the top but I reckon all the jarls are like that with their taxes, if you think about it. That's just the way things are here." Even though they were inside, Balimund lowered his voice. "Riften supports the Stormcloaks. You know that, right? Some folks say if the war goes against us, the Imperials will put Maven on the throne."

"The Moot would never agree to that."

"Wouldn't they? This war's expensive and is going to be more expensive before it's done. Most of the jarls are already digging deep into their coffers. And they say Black-Briar gold is going to buy her all the votes she needs." He leaned back. "But that's just a rumor, you know. And it can be dangerous to speak of such things. So be careful. Riften's not a bad town but it can be tricky for outsiders. Keep your coin purse safe and watch what you say. Stay out of dark alleys and stay out of the Ratway. And you'll be fine."

"Hey, Delvin!," Dirge said. "Oh, sorry, old man. Did I interrupt your nap?"

Delvin Mallory glared at the bouncer. "What do you want? Spit it out."

A depressed silence had fallen over the Ragged Flagon. Silences here, deep in the Ratway, were silent indeed. If he had dozed—just a little—it was hardly surprising. He glanced around. Vex and Vekel still bickered quietly in the corner and Tonilia—now just where had Tonilia got to? If she was flirting with Brynjolf again, she'd better be damned careful. Tonilia's reaction to boredom had always been to stir the pot. Her man, Vekel, was never exactly easy-going but now, with the luck still against them, tensions continued to climb. A stirred pot could boil over.

"Some girl has been asking about you topside," Dirge said.

"What girl?"

"Don't know. Maul talked to her. He said she's Nord, she's pretty and she's got some real nice custom armor. And she was asking for Brynjolf too."

"What does she want?"

"Maul asked what her business was and she said it was none of his. He tried to lean on her a little and she got snippy. Told him off."

"Is that so? Was she armed?"

"Maul didn't say."

"Well, well. Not sure I like the sound of this."

"You want I should put up the drawbridge?" Dirge asked.

"Yeah. Put it up. I don't like visitors and I don't like surprises. She staying at the Bee and Barb?"

"Don't know."

"Send Sapphire up to find out. If she is, tell Sapphire to case her room. Not to take anything, just to look it over, okay?"

"I'll let her know."

Wylandriah closed the door to her sanctum with a sigh and pushed back her hood. She'd been so pleased to be appointed court wizard to the jarl in Riften. It had seemed such a step up from being just another student at the College of Winterhold. If she had known what it would be like, she'd have never left the college.

"Well? How did it go?"

Wylandriah jumped. "Saerlund! What are you doing here? Did we have an appointment?"

The gloomy young Nord slumped back into his chair. "No," he said. "I've been lurking here. Sorry. It's just so quiet and restful."

Not with you here, it isn't, she thought. "Don't rearrange those bowls, they're in order. I think."

"But what did she say?"

"Your mother?"

"Of course, my mother. You had a meeting with her. Is she sending me away?"

"Your mother is very worried about you, Saerlund." But her tone was a bit dubious. Saerlund scowled.

"Ha."

"But I managed to convince her that you were neither mad nor possessed."

"She thinks I'm mad? Because I don't agree with her? Because I think we should honor our oaths to the Empire? Because I don't worship the ground beneath Jarl Ulfric's feet?" He lurched to his feet and began pacing. Wylandriah watched anxiously as he strode between shelves crowded with expensive and delicate glassware.

"Being mad isn't so bad," Wylandriah said. "As long as you're the useful sort of mad and not the raving sort."

Saerlund stopped and stared at her. "Sometimes I think I am going mad. Riften will do that to you."

"Really? Something in the water, do you think? I've often thought it unhealthy, living so close to the canals. Night vapors, you know. Particularly when it seems everyone throws their waste—"

"That's not what I mean! I'm talking about the corruption—"

"Yes, me too, most unsanitary—"

"I'm talking about political corruption!"

Wylandriah blinked. "I'm sure that's unsanitary as well."

But Saerlund was wound up. "My ma is jarl of this city, but who makes the decisions? Maven Black-Briar does. She controls the Thieves Guild, she owns half the town and even my mother does what she says. She's nothing but a greedy old hag who cares about nothing but herself."

"Your mother isn't that bad."

"I meant Maven." He sighed. "And there's nothing I can do about it, nothing anyone can do. And if you speak up, like I tried to do, you get squashed. I feel so useless."

"Everyone needs to feel useful."

"Useful. Ha! I've been disinherited in favor of Harrald and he won't lift a finger to help anyone but possibly himself. There's no place for anyone useful around here, unless you're useful to Maven, perhaps."

"Why don't you make yourself useful to me? It will be good practice for you."

"What do you mean?"

"I need some supplies for my experiments." She felt her pockets then looked around. "I've got a list around here somewhere. You didn't touch any papers, did you?"

"No. Your experiments? You're not going to blow up the palace are you? Like Winterhold? Not that that is such a bad idea."

"No, no. Almost certainly not. This is for the city's protection. It's—I'd tell you but that would ruin the surprise." She spotted a paper on the floor, under the table. "You said you hadn't moved any papers."

"I didn't!" He looked at the list. "Wylandriah, I'm under house arrest. I can't go running off to Ivarstead and all these other places."

"Oh. Never mind then."

"You're not even going to nag me? I wish I could help. I really do. I don't want to be like Harrald, always thinking he's better than everyone because he's the jarl's son."

"You're the jarl's son."

"I'm the disgraced son." His expression lightened. "But you're right. Give me that list. I may be in disgrace but the courier doesn't know that. He can fetch these things for you."

Wylandriah smiled.

Right around supper time, Sapphire strolled into the Ragged Flagon. She plopped down at Delvin's table and propped her feet up in the empty chair.

"Who is this girl?" Sapphire asked.

"That's what I sent you to find out."

Brynjolf wandered over from the bar and knocked Sapphire's feet out of the chair so he could join them.

"Her name's Grelka and she's from Whiterun," Sapphire said, giving Brynjolf a mild glare, mere reflex. "That's all they know at the inn. So I went through her stuff. Interesting." She drawled the word out, watching Brynjolf from the corner of her eye.

"Well?" Delvin asked.

"You asked did she have weapons. She does. A sword and a bow. Skyforge steel, both top of the line. The bow is enchanted."

"So you think she is a Companion?" Brynjolf asked.

"Wait. There's more. She had a case of tools. All the best quality."

"What kind of tools?"

"Hammers, saws, awls, lots of gadgets I didn't recognize. Not thieving tools, if that's what you wondered."

"Any coin?" Brynjolf asked. "Jewelry?"

"She must be carrying it on her."

"Anything else?" Delvin asked. He knew there was, he could practically see Sapphire quiver.

"Oh, yes. She has this horse. Got papers on him, some long string of names I can't pronounce. His lineage. The boy at the stables called him Frost. Acted like he was famous or something."

"Frost?" Delvin said. "Well, well, well."

"You know about this horse? Is he valuable?" Brynjolf asked.

"Is he valuable?" Delvin repeated. "You don't follow the races, now do you, Bryn? You should. Lots of gold changes hands at the horse races."

"He's a racehorse?" Brynjolf asked.

"A very well-known racehorse. Without his papers, I'd say you could get several thousand septims for him, easy, just on his reputation." He grinned at their look and smirked at Sapphire. "With his papers—well, now. I'd say that horse would about be worth your weight in gold, young lady."

Sapphire whistled. "I've never stolen a horse," she said. "First time for everything, right?"

Brynjolf rubbed his hand across his chin stubble.

"We do this right," Delvin said, "We can earn quite a bit of coin and prestige for the guild. We do this wrong—"

"Out where I'm from, they hang horse thieves," Sapphire said.

"They hang them everywhere," Delvin said.

"We'll do it right," Brynjolf said. "I'll see to it personally."