13: Leverage

The rest of the staff had been dismissed, leaving Ancano and Elenwen at the embassy's formal dining table. Ancano loathed her breakfast meetings. To degrade a meal by working through it was a repulsive gesture towards so-called efficiency. Surely the First Emissary had lived far too long amongst Imperials. The others were in the kitchen now, neglecting their work and surreptitiously filling their rumbling bellies while he endured this private briefing. All left her meetings hungry for none dared get caught with their mouth full should Elenwen suddenly call on them to report. So much for efficiency.

Elenwen began the lengthy process of cracking the knuckles on her right hand, one delicate joint at a time. Crunch, crunch, snap. Ancano suppressed a wince. He couldn't wait to get back on the road.

"I've had news from our informant in Whiterun," she said. "I believe I have identified your Nord mercenary."

Ancano sat up straighter. "Who is he?"

But she frowned. "Is there any truth to this rumor that Ulfric Shouted the dragon into obedience?"

"I've heard that too. I didn't witness any more than you did."

She tapped the table, in thought. "If I had known he had this ability, this Shout, I would have made him demonstrate it for me while he was under my—care." While she tortured him, Ancano knew. "He kept it a secret until the Markarth Incident. I wonder why?"

"That was when you lost control of him, isn't it?" Elenwen glared but didn't answer. "You don't suppose—"

"What?"

"Well, this dragon appearing so timely—you don't suppose there's anything to this Talos business? They say the Septims—"

"There is absolutely no evidence that Ulfric possesses so much as a drop of Septim blood. And we have looked carefully, believe me. There are no Septim heirs in Skyrim. The diviners are quite certain of that. The Septim line is dead. Most tellingly, Ulfric himself makes no such claim."

"If Ulfric can control this dragon—what a weapon it would make. It destroyed an Imperial fortress."

"I'm aware," she said drily. "If the Stormcloaks control this dragon, the sooner we can take it from them, the better. I need a dragon expert and I need one now."

"Is there such a thing?"

"Perhaps. I'll look into dragons. I need you to look into this Thorald Gray-Mane."

"Is that the mercenary's name? Sounds familiar."

"It should. He's the son of that blacksmith the Nords all talk about, the one who works some ancient mystic forge in Whiterun."

"A mystic forge?" He shook his head. "Nords." They saw the divine in everything, no matter how unlikely. They even called one of their own a god. As if a man could be a god. Ridiculous.

"More importantly, he is the nephew of Vignar Gray-Mane. He's known as Vignar the Revered and he has the potential to be quite troublesome. He was once a great warrior in the Companions. He is a close personal friend of Ulfric Stormcloak and he is the man who stands ready to replace Jarl Balgruuf, should Whiterun Hold tire of his neutrality and declare for the Stormcloaks."

"Vignar Gray-Mane," Ancano said. Yes, he had heard of him.

"From all accounts, Thorald looks to be his heir."

"If we had Thorald under our control, what excellent leverage he would make," Ancano said.

"My thought as well."

"Where is he now?"

"You're going to find out. Track him down and bring him to Northwatch Keep. I want regular reports from you. If I learn anything here, I'll send coded messages to the usual drops. And Ancano." She smiled and began to crack the knuckles on her left hand. "I've found the coldest, most miserable rock in Skyrim for your next posting, should you fail me. Ever hear of Winterhold?"

Grelka thought her head was going to explode. Not only was her fury rapidly heating to incandescence, her body gave increasing protests. She hurt. How could she be bruised all over and not remember how that happened?

The guards laughed at her. They laughed.

They said she was lucky Keerava hadn't pressed charges. They said she was lucky the other people she assaulted didn't press charges. Other people? She'd assaulted other people? What nonsense was this?

She went to the guard captain. She showed him the phony bill of sale.

"This isn't my handwriting."

"I don't know your handwriting," the captain said. "But I know the steward's. Right here. Looks official to me."

"I didn't sell my horse. It's a lie!"

The guard captain gave her a chilly look. "Make a nuisance of yourself and you'll be taken in for vagrancy. I think it's best if you get out of town. Today."

"I'd like nothing better than to get out of the cesspool, as soon as I get my horse back."

"We'll be watching you. Troublemakers don't fare well in this town. Best you remember that."

She went to the steward. Anuriel was her name. At first she refused to see her but Grelka made a pest of herself until she was finally granted a few precious moments.

"You did appear inebriated when you came before me yesterday but there's no law that says you can't do something foolish, now, is there?"

"Inebriated? Are you saying I was drunk?"

"I'm saying you smelled like a brewery and staggered like a sailor on shore leave."

"When was this? You didn't try to stop me?"

"What right had I to stop you?" The steward lifted delicate eyebrows. "I can assure you, the sale is perfectly legal. You may, of course, approach the Black-Briar family and offer to buy the horse back, but they are under no obligation to sell him."

"I can't. All my money was stolen."

"Oh, dear. How unfortunate. You have reported this crime, I hope?"

Was that a smirk? Did that elf dare smirk at her? Grelka felt like her eyes were ready to shoot flames. She stormed out of the palace. She stormed down the walk towards the market square. She almost ran over a large woman, whose war paint inexpertly covered a painful-looking black eye.

"Is your name Grelka?" the woman said.

"Why?"

"We need to talk."

"How do you know who I am?"

"I am Mjoll. I was introduced to your fist last night. I'd like to get to know the rest of you." Grelka gave her a suspicious look. "I know you're in trouble," she said. "I'd like to help."

Mjoll claimed to be an old friend of Balimund's and took her to his house next to the smithy to talk. The healer had released him. He was pale and tired from the poisoning and determined to blame himself for what happened to her.

"Is it true then? I was fighting last night?" Grelka looked at her swollen knuckles. "That's impossible. I don't do things like that."

"What do you remember?" Mjoll asked.

Grelka had been thinking of little else. She remembered the trip to Shor's Stone and her return to Riften. The Bee and Barb. Putting her things in her room. And then a black hole swallowed everything until she woke in the Ratway. Everything gone. What would she have done when she left her room? Gone down for supper? Surely she would have gone down for supper and maybe a drink after her long day. That was only logical. Something itched at the back of her mind. A drink. Someone bought her a drink. "Some man said he had news of the smith I've been looking for, that Mallory fellow."

"You're looking for Delvin Mallory?" Mjoll asked in surprise. Balimund and Grelka both looked at her.

"You know him?" Balimund asked.

"Delvin Mallory is no smith," Mjoll said. "He's one of the leaders of the Thieves Guild. He lives down in the Ratway with the rest of them."

"The Thieves Guild!" Balimund said.

"Some Argonian found me in the Ratway," Grelka said.

"Yes, Madesi told me about that," Mjoll said. "That's why I've been looking for you. He said you looked very ill."

Grelka frowned. "But it's not Delvin Mallory I'm looking for. Mallory is right but the first name was different. One of those funny Breton names—Hatter, Booter, something like that. And the man last night said oh, you're looking for his brother. So I guess I'm looking for Delvin's brother? He said he'd left Riften a long time ago." Why could she remember this when she remembered nothing else? She and this man had talked. And then he ordered a drink. And then—nothing.

"Who was this man you spoke to?" Mjoll asked.

"He was Nord. Reddish hair. He told me his name," she said with a wan smile. What was it? "I don't quite—"

"Was it Brynjolf?"

"I think so."

Mjoll frowned. "Grelka, I think you were drugged last night."

"Drugged." She thought. "I knew it! Those damned Argonians! I knew that innkeeper was acting funny."

Mjoll shook her head. "Keerava wouldn't drug you. She's one of us. No, I'm afraid it was Brynjolf. He, too, is one of the leaders of the Thieves Guild."

"Keerava threw me out of the inn! All my things are gone—why would she let thieves take my things from her inn if she's not part of it?"

"She's afraid. Many in Riften are afraid. The Black-Briars are the power in this town, and even the Thieves Guild serves them. Keerava has family just across the border and they hold this over her head. There are some of us here trying to band together to stand up to the corruption in this city, but it is very hard when what was done to you can be done to anyone."

"They took my horse! My father gave me that horse. He was special."

"I understand it was valuable?" Mjoll said.

"Yes. Is that why they targeted me?"

"Probably," Balimund said.

"But they didn't just take my horse and my money. They took everything I have. They took my bow. It was enchanted!"

And what a fuss she'd had with Eorlund over that. He was of the mind that magic was for elves, who used enchantment to make an inferior weapon acceptable. Ah, she had told him, but look what enchantment does to a superior weapon! She felt a surge of anger and homesickness rise up and choke her. And that reminded her of the final outrage: "They took my tools!"

"I'll loan you some tools," Balimund said.

Grelka sighed. "Eorlund made those tools from Skyforge steel. He stoked the fire with the sacred wood of the Gildergreen. He gave them to me to mark the end of my apprenticeship. They were to last me my entire life." She took an angry swipe at the tear that dared form. "But thank you. I'm sure this seems silly to you."

"Not to me," Mjoll said. "When I lost my sword, Grimsever, it was like an amputation. I'd lost a piece of my life. I will never be the girl I was then. But I still have my life and I have made a new life for myself. Grieve. But do not despair."

"We have to fight back. Where are these thieves? I'll find them. I'll pay them back for what they've done."

"We will fight back," Mjoll said. "But carefully. Remember, the Black-Briars control the city guard and have great influence over the jarl. We will fight back but we must not become the lawless beasts that we fight."

"But you said the law is on their side."

"For now it is."

"So we are powerless."

"For now we must help each other and wait for the proper time to act."

"How is that any different from being powerless?"

"We have sent petitions to the High King."

"The High King is dead," Grelka said flatly.

"That is why we must wait." Mjoll fingered her black eye. "We would love to have a fighter like you."

"I'm not a fighter. I hate fighting. I haven't punched someone since I was a kid. Well, you know."

"If you want to leave, I'll pay your carriage fare back to Whiterun," Balimund said. "I wouldn't blame you for wanting to go home."

"I'm not leaving without my horse." She groaned. "But I don't know where he is. I don't have any idea how to get him back. Oblivion, I don't even have a place to stay or a change of clothes. The guard captain threatened to take me in as a vagrant."

"We have some ideas about that, Grelka," Balimund said.

"We've rented you a room at Haelga's Bunkhouse. You're paid up for the week. It's not pretty but it's cheap."

"And I could use your help in the smithy. Anything you make, you can sell in the market. There's an open stand available."

"I can't accept all this."

"Of course you can."

And she did. It was that or slink back to Whiterun.

Once again, Anuriel found herself kicking her heels in the Black-Briar parlor. She only had routine paperwork and reports today, so unless Maven had much to go over, the meeting should be quick. She hoped so. She and Unmid had a discreet meeting planned for mid-morning.

Raised voices from the dining room—Maven and Ingun, she thought, going at it again. She moved silently to the door and cracked it open.

"I can't go to the meadery today," Ingun said. "Father will just have to do without me. My experiments are at a delicate stage."

"How much longer do you intend to waste your life concocting your foolish little potions?"

"It's not a waste!"

"Your performance at Honningbrew says differently."

"Don't you dare blame Honningbrew on me. I had everything under control. Everything! It's all father's fault and that wretched Imperial, Mallus Maccius. I told them not to poison the nest. Only the mead! Father didn't listen. He never listens! And now Hamelyn is dead and everything is spoiled."

"Who, pray tell, is this Hamelyn person?"

"He was my friend! An alchemist, like me," Ingun cried. Maven snorted. "He brought the skeevers into Honningbrew, just like you wanted."

"That's all fine and good but once Sabjorn was out, what use would an infested meadery be to me?"

"You told Hemming to kill the skeevers!"

"Of course I did."

"Hamelyn had raised them into an army!"

"Precisely. Why would I want an army of skeevers destroying my meadery and eating up my profits?"

"But mother, you don't understand. Hamelyn's army was to serve you. We had it all planned out."

"An army. Of skeevers."

"Yes! They obeyed Hamelyn perfectly. You could have sent them against your enemies—undetectable until they struck! You'd have no further need of the Dark Brotherhood. Skeevers can travel anywhere, eat anything, and strike in secrecy and silence."

"Skeevers are unclean pests."

"These were special. Altered by alchemy and carefully trained—and the Companions killed them and Hamelyn as well."

Anuriel could practically hear Maven's frown in her voice. "Hemming said this alchemist of yours was a madman."

"Father destroyed Hamelyn's life's work for no reason! He and I had an agreement and Father spoiled everything! Of course Hamelyn was upset. How would you feel?" There was a pause. "Why did he do it? I told him—but he didn't listen. If you told him to do it then it's your fault, too."

"I left the details to Maccius."

"He didn't listen to me either," Ingun said. "He snuck us into the meadery and left us there."

"Unfortunate but what's done is done. Meanwhile, I expect you to report to Hemming as I told you."

"As I told you, my interest in the family business is quite low. I aspire to be much more than a mere merchant."

Oh, how Anuriel would have liked to see Maven's face. Mere merchant!

"Your interests lay where I wish them to lay."

By the time the front door slammed, Anuriel was demurely seated on the far side of the parlor, conscientiously reviewing her notes. By then, Maven had her face under control. Only the rigidity of her back betrayed her aggravation. Maven gave her orders with curt efficiency. Anuriel scrambled to make a note of everything she needed to do. Maven flipped through the paperwork one more time. Raised her brows.

"It seems we have acquired a horse."

"It is a racehorse. Said to be quite valuable."

"I have no use for a racehorse. Where did it come from?"

"Brynjolf found it."

"Found it? He didn't find it wandering by the road, I presume. Will we have trouble with its former owner?"

"No, we have all the paperwork, including a bill of sale and the lineage papers that prove its worth. Brynjolf handled it quite well." She spoke with a touch of pride. She might be the jarl's steward, she might be Maven's flunky, but first and foremost she was a member of the Thieves Guild.

"Competence from the Thieves Guild? How unexpected. " A pause. "Oh, come now, Anuriel, don't bristle so, this is no reflection on you. My point is, of late, the guild has disappointed again and again. They seem to be making a habit of failure." She leaned in closer. "Perhaps you will pass on the word to Mercer Frey next time you see him? Failure is not a habit I wish to encourage. At any rate, this horse can remain at the lodge for now. I may have some use for it after all."