Author's Note: This chapter's a bit short but I had fun with it. Hope you do too.

18: Pride Goeth Before...Splat

Grelka carried one of the smaller scales in her pocket and fingered it constantly.

"How I wish I had my tools," she complained. Again.

"Didn't Haelga say they were in the canal?" Thorald asked.

"Yeah. Gone forever."

"Oh, I don't know. They certainly wouldn't float away. I expect we can find them down there." Once Thorald latched onto an idea, he was hard to deflect, although Grelka certainly tried. She followed him down the rickety steps to the canal level, protesting all the way.

"You can't go in there. This is foolish. The water is filthy! You'll catch a disease."

"If I do, the temple is right across the square." The healers had finally released Thorald's new friend, Etienne, and he'd disappeared into the Ratway, seeking vengeance. Or information. Or information leading to vengeance. Grelka didn't have much sympathy for anyone in the Thieves Guild, but Stendarr's mercy! Tortured by the Thalmor for days? Not even a thief deserved that.

"But Thorald, you can't swim!"

"I can swim. Sort of."

"You can barely dog-paddle!"

"That's all I need. It doesn't look that deep. Besides, the water is so thick I can practically walk on it." He pulled off his shirt. His boots. His pants.

"You're going to freeze in that nasty water."

"Sun's out. I'll be okay. You know, on second thought, I think I'll put my boots back on."

"They'll be ruined. The water is so dirty you can't see where you're stepping. I don't need my tools this bad. Balimund's are fine. Really."

He grinned at her. "Come now, you're supposed to be all impressed with my heroics!"

"Idiot!"

But he just laughed and plunged into the water. "Talos, that's cold!" he yelled when he emerged a moment later with an empty mead bottle. He threw it up on the walkway and submerged again. More bottles followed. "That one was broken," he said, displaying a bloody hand.

"We need to get that bandaged," she said.

"Naw, it's nothing."

"You're going to get a disease."

"You already said that."

The typical Riften crowd of gawkers began to form.

"My, my, he certainly strips well," Haelga purred in Grelka's ear. Grelka suppressed the urge to push her landlady into the foul water. The cold bath might do her good but why give Haelga an excuse to take her clothes off? Thorald saw her and waved.

"Is this where they threw her things?" he hollered up.

"Maybe more that way," Haelga said, with a languid wave.

Grelka heard whispers behind her. Is that the Dragonborn? What's he doing? Why is he in the water? And she heard Haelga fill the nosy people in. More busybodies began to line the rails and a few trooped down to the canal level for a better look.

"Do you suppose the meadery will buy back all those bottles?" someone asked.

"Maybe. The real question is, will they wash them before refilling them?"

Balimund clumped down the stairs to stand beside Grelka.

"Getting to be quite the party," he said. She looked around and realized he was right. And then Madesi joined them. He didn't say anything to Grelka but he gave her a nod and then began to strip down to his loincloth.

"Could you use some assistance, land-strider?" he called out to Thorald. Thorald's white teeth flashed in a grin.

"Absolutely!"

Grelka looked at the pattern of scales on the lizard's broad back. The Argonian slid into the water without even a splash. She fingered the scale in her pocket. They should lay together just so, she thought. Last night she had spread all the dragon scales out on the floor, had moved them and arranged them over and over. Like so, she thought. Like so. I can almost feel it.

Balimund, deciding to take a holiday from work as, apparently, the rest of the town, sent to the inn for refreshments. Talen-Jei brought out two large trays of mead and snacks and was greeted with a roar of approval from the folks now crowding the lower walkway. The Argonian stared in astonishment. He gazed into the canal. Not long afterwards, he and Keerava came out and joined the divers. Grinning like a kid, Bersi Honey-Hand rowed into the canal in a flat bottomed skiff and began to dredge the bottom with a long-handled net. The crowd cried out at each new discovery, prosaic as they were.

A cart wheel. A candy dish. A chamber pot. There was a regular little mountain of leaky buckets, broken jars and the ubiquitous mead bottles.

"Hey, you there, boy," someone yelled from the upper level. "Yeah, you in the Thieves Guild armor. Why don't you go lend a hand?"

"Huh. Why should I?"

"Go help the Dragonborn, you layabout."

Another voice joined in. "Aren't you the one that threw that girl's stuff in the canal?"

"Wasn't me."

"Oh, yeah? It was one of you lot. And why should we believe you, you damned thief?"

"Why should I care what you believe? Piss off." His voice rose. "Hey! Watch it!" There was a scuffle and an urgent cry. "Hey! I can't swim!"

"You'll learn," someone promised. Thrown over the rail, the thief hit the water with a wail and a huge splash.

"Ask the Argonians for lessons," someone shouted gleefully.

Mjoll came and stood beside Grelka.

"Would this have happened yesterday?" Grelka asked, looking around. "Would they have tangled with the guild?"

"People have been ready for a change for a long time now," Mjoll said. "Everyone's lost something to the thieves. The townsfolk would love to see anything recovered from them. But I think this is mostly your man's doing. He brings hope."

Grelka squeezed the scale in her pocket. Yes. He did. He never seemed to know when things were impossible. Long ago, at the Eldergleam, he'd climbed the tree like gravity didn't apply to him. Kynareth has touched him, the priestess had said. And watching him now, she had to believe. He compelled belief. It was impossible to find a small bag of tools in this huge nasty canal. But Madesi found them. He raised the bag in triumph and the whole city cheered him. They cheered an Argonian! Grelka cheered with them.

Thorald came out of the water, lips blue with cold. He bounded over to her, cheerful and practical. Here's your tools. That Madesi's a good man. Lizard. Whatever. Make a new bow, he told her. You're going to need it. As if there was no doubt she would be by his side, fighting dragons or whatever it was he had to do. And she realized that was exactly where she wanted to be. By his side. Fighting. And she wanted more than that. She wanted to make him armor like the world hadn't seen in centuries. She turned the scale in her hand.

When Vipir squelched into the Ragged Flagon, dripping from his unexpected dunking and burning with rage, all eyes turned to Mercer Frey. What did they expect, the guild master wondered. They think I can just wave my hands and make everything all better?

Unbelievable.

They complain about lack of respect from the town, he thought. What makes them think I hold them in any less contempt than the townsfolk do? Failure after failure. That's all he got from these incompetent fools. Just the other day, Brynjolf was bragging in the Flagon about a horse he'd swindled away from some rube. A horse. As if that made up for the debacle at Goldenglow Estate. He clearly remembered the reaming he'd taken from Maven Black-Briar. First Vex had gone in and found the estate swarming with private guards, who drove her off and damned near killed her. Brynjolf and a couple of his lads had gone back in to burn a few hives but the wind shifted and they all caught fire. All the hives, totally destroyed. Inside, he found the estate deserted and nothing in the vaults but a cryptic bill of sale.

"Your guild has certainly gone downhill since Gallus died," Maven had said. "I'm beginning to wonder if you're of any use to me at all."

"Is that a threat?" he asked.

"Damned right it is a threat. I cannot abide incompetence."

Neither could Mercer.

Mercer endured Maven's fury and scorn because he hadn't been ready to act.

He wouldn't endure her again. He was ready now.

He wondered how long it would be before Brynjolf and Delvin checked the guild vault. He wished he had some way to see their faces when they realized all the treasure was gone. All of it. For months, he'd cleared things out, bit by bit. That inconvenient nobody, Etienne Rarnis, had even seen him do it, but that little nobody was taken care of. Everything was taken care of. The bulk of the treasure was distilled down to nicely portable jewels and letters of credit.

And now it was time to go.

Mercer's horse set a comfortable pace along the road heading south and west out of Riften. His only solid regret was he'd never managed to really stick it to Maven Black-Briar for all the crap he'd had to take from her over the years. Oh, well. These things had a way of working themselves out. Maybe she'd maneuver herself into becoming Skyrim's High Queen. He wouldn't be surprised. Then it would be worth his time to stick it to her good. For now, his plan was to cross into Cyrodiil and then—well, then he would see. There would be opportunities. There always were, for a man with his talents. And maybe one day he'd come back. Not just to plunder Maven, either. All Gallus's maps and the data he'd collected for the showy, legendary heists he so loved—all his grandiose plans were carefully wrapped in oilskin in Mercer's pack. One day, he'd come back. One day the dragons would be gone and the asinine civil war would be over. One day the Thieves Guild would finish its long crumble into obscurity. Then he'd return. After all, the Eyes of the Falmer still waited for him.

He realized he'd almost nodded off in the saddle when his horse gave a little jerk. She had heard or scented something. You fool, he told himself. Wolves had been known to attack lone travelers even during daylight hours.

But it was no wolf that stepped into the road before him. It was a man. A lone swordsman, and surely he knew that face.

"Sabjorn?" He was the owner of Honningbrew Meadery. Maven had sent Mercer to negotiate with Sabjorn once but the man had insolently brushed him off. "I'm surprised to see you here."

"Glad to hear it." Sabjorn had a bizarre little smile on his bland, shopkeeper's face. This meeting could be no coincidence, Mercer realized. But how could that be? How could Sabjorn have known he would leave Riften today when Mercer's decision was only hours old?

"What do you want?"

"For a start," Sabjorn said. "Why don't you get down off that horse so we can talk like civilized people?"

Now Mercer had been ready to ride on, trampling over Sabjorn if need be, but something about the challenging way the pompous little brewer looked at him rankled. Mercer was one of the finest swordsmen in the Rift. This stupid fat Nord thought to stand in his way? He dismounted and made sure his sword was ready at hand. He let the reins drop—his horse was well trained—and he strode towards Sabjorn.

"If you have something to say to me, better make it quick," Mercer said.

"You're a busy man," Sabjorn said. "Places to go. People to betray. I understand."

Mercer drew his sword. "There is nothing to keep me from cutting you down where you stand."

"Well, there's this," another voice drawled. "Not quite nothing." An elven archer stepped out from behind a group of trees. He had an arrow nocked and ready. Mercer stared.

"Aringoth?" Mercer said. The owner of the bee farm? "I thought you'd sold out and left Riften."

"I sold out," he said. "But I haven't left. Not yet. I'm doing a little favor for the new owner."

"And who is that?" Mercer asked. He'd been wildly curious about who in Skyrim would have the guts to throw down the gauntlet to Maven Black-Briar in her own city.

"An old friend of yours," Aringoth said.

"Who?"

The arrow hit him in the back before he was aware there was a third opponent. Mercer fell to his knees and then toppled over. Aringoth released his arrow.

"Thank the Eight," he said. He shook his hands out. "I couldn't have held my bow steady much longer. I'm getting too old for this nonsense."

Sabjorn laughed. "As am I! I almost wet my loincloth. For a moment there I thought he was going to kick up his horse and run me over. Then we'd have been in a pickle. Is he dead?"

"Mercer Frey is not dead," the third person said. She left the shadows on the other side of the road. "Merely paralyzed."

"You sure about this, Karliah?" Aringoth said. "I thought we were going to kill him. Surely that would be easier than hauling him back to Riften."

"With the evidence in these saddle bags, we don't have to kill him," she said. The Dunmer bent over his prone body and slid her hands inside his tunic. "Although I suspect he's not going to be in this world much longer. One now calls for his blood as will more, when his deeds are known." Almost to herself, she muttered, "I do not envy him his existence in the next world." Then louder, "With Mercer out of the way, we can all get back to business. Profitable business. Now where is it? He always has secret pockets," she said. "He was my old partner, you know. And while I would never say he was predictable, he—ah. Here."

"A key?" Sabjorn asked. "We did all this for a key? You spent a fortune in gold to get a key? Not that I'm complaining, mind you. My business has really taken off, thanks to you."

"This is no ordinary key," she said. For a moment, her normal watchfulness relaxed. Her normal sorrow lifted. She smiled. Neither of them had ever seen her smile. "Gentlemen," she said. "I do believe our luck is about to change for the better."