I'm deviating a fair bit from the game events here, but we'll be returning to the questline as it is in-game next chapter. Slight warning in this one for Melyna throwing out some mild bad language, because she's Melyna. Also, a great deal of sass.

CHAPTER TWO - THICK AS THIEVES (QUITE LITERALLY)

That day was an interesting one for first impressions. First Brynjolf mistook me for someone he needed to kill. I in turn got a fairly bad impression of him from the whole trying-to-kill thing, which I'm pretty sure is understandable. I then proceeded to give a spectacularly bad impression of myself to something like the entire town in my first Guild job, which involved running around acting as a glorified debt collector. And then, I met those two men I mentioned.

Nerevar's pants, but those were some interesting first meetings.

I kind of feel it's almost a crime to write about the first guy. Like I'm somehow paying tribute to him by setting his name down in ink, and he deserves no tributes. None at all. But this is my story, and whether I like it or not, this man is part of my story. In a way, he's the reason for my story being as it is.

So, I'll write about him. I'll write about how Brynjolf shook my hand when I passed over the coin purses I'd collected from the stubborn townsfolk, and how he beckoned me towards a door at the far end of the Ragged Flagon. 'Time for me to show you what our outfit's all about,' he told me. 'Which means, you coming to meet the Guildmaster.'

'And I'm assuming Guildmaster is your fancy name for a leader.'

Brynjolf rolled his eyes. He told me once that he thinks being around me is bad for the state of his eyes, because of how often he ends up rolling them in my presence. 'A leader's just in charge of people. Mercer's something more. The Guildmaster manages contacts, connections, fences, reserves of coin, employment, the full works. Sure, he might dish out jobs to his members, but everything comes back to him.'

I freely admit that my first reaction was to respect this man, right away. I mentally kicked myself for it seconds later, and I mentally kick myself even harder for it now. Quite aside from what I would come to learn about Mercer Frey, you should never respect anyone before you meet them. But it was hard not to feel some kind of… appreciation, at the very least, for a man who was so deep in the underworld that he could be in charge of so much.

I don't think it had really occurred to me what an enormous step I was taking. Before, I had been a freelancer, someone who stole only to get by. Now, I was making stealing my career. It hit me then, as I entered the Cistern for the first time. You'll be practically growing up in the Cistern, Leonardo, so you'll always be used to its size, its… grandeur. Funny word to use to describe a place called the Cistern, I guess, even more so back then, when the Guild was in such bad shape. But let me tell you, it was a grand sight, that first time. That high, domed roof. The little waterfalls gushing out of the pipes build into the walls. The lanternlight shimmering slightly on the pools. And everywhere, people dressed in dark leather armour, simply going about their business. This was a place where thieves could live without having to look over their shoulders for guards, and I knew instantly that I wanted it. I wanted this place and the life it offered me.

That was the moment, I think, that joining the Guild became about more than simply looking for my mother.

Brynjolf led me over a wide brick walkway build over the huge central pool, to where a man waited on the circular platform where the walkways met. Said man, a Breton, was talking to a fellow Guild member as we approached, or lecturing him, more like. As we neared the pair, the older of the two slapped a sheathe of paper into the other's hands and made a few vehement gestures; the younger stammered out something that was probably an apology and hurried away, the papers fluttering furiously in his arms.

'Tell Delvin to give up trying to teach Rune to do the numbers. He's absolutely hopeless,' the man growled, not looking at Brynjolf as he spoke. 'Can this new recruit of yours add and multiply?'

I couldn't hold back a smirk. 'Only in Ta'agra.'

The man's brow was already furrowed, and now that frown became more pronounced. 'You'll speak when spoken to, recruit. What's your-'

He had been turning to face me as he spoke. As he said the word your, his eyes swept over my face, and his entire body simply froze. He went as rigid as if he'd been shot with an arrow dipped in a paralysis poison – and let me state for the record, you go pretty darn rigid when one of those things hits you. His mouth opened, the frown vanished behind a look of pure shock, and for a moment, my ears – sensitive like all elves' ears – stopped picking up the sound of his breathing.

It was Brynjolf who broke the silence and shattered the frozen moment. 'I know she looks like… well, you know, Mercer. But take a closer look. The lass is a stranger here.'

Mercer took a slow step towards me, his jaw clenched so tight that it was probably painful. His eyes locked onto mine, and held my gaze. I folded my arms and lifted my chin, so that he knew I was not afraid. But I won't deny that something about the look he gave me made me shudder. I can't say for sure what it was. If there was rage or hatred or disgust in his eyes, I didn't see it, not clearly. Maybe I simply sensed that it was there.

But the moment passed, and Mercer stepped back. I let out a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding. 'You know, normally I wouldn't complain about having guys stare at me, but this is starting to creep me out. Besides, both you two are a little old for my tastes.'

Mercer sucked in a long, hissing breath between his teeth. Brynjolf shot me a quick look that I took to mean, don't wind him up.

'What's your name, elf?' Mercer said at last.

'Melyna,' I replied. 'And if you're going to go for the whole interrogation thing like your pal here did, then I'm Morrowind-born. Born near Blacklight.' The lie was somehow easier the second time around. 'But I grew up in Elsweyr, which is why I've got a Khajiit accent which is apparently thick as a Nord's skull – no offence,' I added, glancing at Brynjolf.

'Who're your parents?'

I was beginning to get more than a few bad feelings about this. 'I already told your redhead deputy guy here. My parents were merchants who traded with the Khajiit.'

His eyes narrowed even further. 'Is that so?'

This time, I decided to take a risk. 'It's your choice whether or not you believe me. This is a Guild for thieves, after all. I'd hope you're not looking for totally honest people in a place like this.'

Brynjolf let out soft, appreciative chuckle. 'She's got a point, Mercer.'

Mercer snapped his head around to look at him. 'Brynjolf, we're going to talk about this. Now. Come on.' He turned to jab a finger in my direction. 'You – stay there until we're done.'

I raised my eyebrows. 'Right here?'

'I said stay there and I meant stay there.'

'As in, right in this spot. This spot right here, on the wet brick platform here. Not moving.'

'I was always told elves had good hearing. I told you to stay.'

I nodded, shrugging. 'OK. Staying here, then. Not moving. I'll just stand in this place without any seat or anything. And I will remain standing, because that floor is probably too wet to sit on. And I will, you know, pass the time by looking at all the pretty bricks.'

Mercer's jaw clenched even tighter, and Brynjolf gave a small shake of his head. 'I think she can go and sit down, can't she, Mercer?'

'She's staying put,' Mercer grunted, and marched away towards a desk positioned against one of the walls. Brynjolf gave me a quick, apologetic shrug, and hurried after him.

So I waited, watching. It was impossible, of course, to hear what it was they were saying, but I could see their movements. Mercer slamming his hand down on the tabletop, repeatedly. Brynjolf leaning forward to say something in what I imagined was a low, urgent voice. Mercer turning around and pacing an agitated circle. Brynjolf shrugging and shooting glances at me.

Malacath's stubby toenails, mother, I thought, sending the thought flying in the direction of the mysterious purple-eyed Dunmer who had given birth to me, wherever she might be. If this is all because I happen to look like you, then what in the name of every Divine and Daedra in existence did you do to make these people react like this?

After perhaps ten minutes (during which I took to disobeying Mercer's instructions and pacing around the platform, since my legs were getting stiff), I saw Brynjolf nod and walk back towards me, leaving Mercer standing behind the desk with his arms crossed and his head bowed. Reaching me, Brynjolf jerked his head, gesturing for me to follow him out of the Cistern and into the Ragged Flagon, where he headed straight for the bar.

'All right, lass,' he said, pushing some coins across the bar and receiving two tankards of mead in return, one of which he shoved in my direction. 'I'm not going to tell you what all that was about, so don't ask. All I'm saying is that you've got a face that brings back bad memories for both myself and Mercer. The more I look at you, the more I wonder if we're both overreacting, but the fact is, Mercer doesn't feel completely at ease letting you into the Guild.'

I was glad to be able to raise my mug to hide my face; I wasn't going to let this man see me looking worried. 'Right, fine. I won't ask for details. What I want to know is whether I'm in or not.'

'Well, normally Mercer's fine with just one or two aptitude tests, and you've done those. But this time… Mercer says he wants to give you a slightly trickier challenge. I think maybe he's going a little far, but then, the Guild was always a sink-or-swim place, and if you fail this one, then maybe you've not got what it takes after all.'

I slapped my tankard down with as much force as I could without it seeming melodramatic. 'Try me.'

He grinned. 'That's the attitude we need. So listen. Sometimes the Guild manages deliveries of certain illicit goods up and down Skyrim. Moonsugar, illegal arms, stolen property, that sort of thing. We like to steal that sort of thing ourselves, of course, but we're in a rough spot right now, and we can't afford to turn away any business. We have a few trusted contacts we use to deliver these things, but sometimes, things go wrong.'

This, I understood completely. 'I've been a traveller long enough to know the roads around Skyrim aren't the safest places.'

'You got it. A while back, one of those contacts I mentioned was managing a delivery of stolen goods, and he never arrived. We sent some of our junior members to investigate. They came back reporting that they'd found the delivery caravan in shreds – horses and men dead - and the goods gone. They followed the trail a little way, to one of those abandoned hillforts you find everywhere in the mountains. Turned out the place was abandoned no longer. Crawling with bandits. I thought maybe they were exaggerating to get out of a rough job, so I went to look myself about a week ago.'

'And let me guess, they weren't exaggerating?'

'I wish they had been. And I also wish Mercer wasn't asking you to go and get those goods back.'

I took a long, slow sip of my mead. 'Right. You really weren't kidding about the sink-or-swim.'

'I'll be honest with you, lass, I think it's a little much. I tried to talk him down and he wasn't having any of it. If you wanted to walk away from this now, I don't think anyone would judge you.'

'I'm not walking away.' I'd have said it even if I hadn't been looking for my mother. I've been called stubborn more than once in my life. I tend to prefer the term determined, but stubborn will do.

Brynjolf gave me a slow nod. 'Had a feeling you'd say that. Look, there's about twenty men in that place, and no guarantee the goods are even still there. I've got a list of the items that were stolen, and to be honest, I think Mercer would count the mission as a success if you came back with even half of them. Still, it's not going to be easy going. And I'm not allowed to send one of the others with you.'

I gulped down the last few dregs of my mead. 'So, it's just me against twenty bandits, trying to find some goods that might have been sold on by now.'

'Well, not exactly. Even if they were sold on, you might be able to find out who they were sold to. And it doesn't have to be just you.'

He slipped a hand into his pocket, brought out a cloth pouch, and tipped a pile of coins onto the bar. 'That's five hundred Septims, lass. Don't think this is a free handout – if you decide you're joining up with us, I'll take it out of your wages until it's paid off. And sure, I understand there's nothing to stop you running off with it, but bear in mind that even in this state, we've got eyes in a lot of places. If we wanted to, we could find you.'

'I've no intention of running off,' I said firmly, closing my hands around the heap of gold. 'Before I take this, though, two questions: what's this for, and would your permanently-frowning leader approve?'

'I highly doubt he'd approve, but it's my coin, and I think you're a worthwhile investment. Besides, Mercer's probably been at that extra-strong spiced wine if he thinks you can take that fort alone. I can't give you official help, but I can help you get it unofficially. That's what the coin's for.'

He shoved the now-empty purse back into one of the many pouches attached to his leathers. 'There's usually a mercenary or two staying in the inn, waiting for employment to stroll by. Last time I was there, there was an Imperial lad. Some kind of mage, from the looks of him. Dark hair, ponytail. You pay his fee, and you'll have help in that fort.'

I raised one eyebrow. 'I'm fine with it on principle. I've got good experience with mercenaries. But a mage isn't going to be the greatest help when it comes to sneaking around.'

'Trust me, lass, you'll need brute force in that place as much as you need stealth. Normally the Thieves Guild isn't about killing people, so don't get into the habit of it. But this once… you're not going to make it out of that place without a few people biting it, trust me.' He shrugged and gestured to the coins. 'Take the money, and you take the job.'

I didn't hesitate. I pulled out my shamefully light purse and swept the offered gold into it. 'Deal. So where am I heading? And what am I looking for?'

After digging around in several other pouches, Brynjolf produced a scrap of parchment. 'There you have it. All the items in the delivery we lost, and a map with the location of the fort.' He set down his mug and met my gaze, his expression suddenly serious. 'If you change your mind, bring that and the money back and we can consider all loose ends tied. But if you're going for it, you've got a three-day time limit to get us what we're owed.'

'Don't worry your ginger head about it. I'm seeing this through.' To underline my point, I pushed back my chair and rose to my feet. 'I'll be seeing you soon.'

Brynjolf nodded, smiling. 'You've got backbone, and we need more of that down here. I hope to be seeing you soon.'

'You will be,' I told him, and, collecting up the map, headed for the door.

'Hey, Melyna.'

I turned and glanced back at him.

'Don't get killed, lass.'

There are several places that could claim to be the centre of Riften. Forget the Jarl's palace – that woman has all the brains of a senile skeever. No, the heart of Riften is no official building. Perhaps it's the underground Cistern where the Guild manages its business. Or maybe it's the Black-Briar meadery. But quite possibly, it's the Bee and Barb inn. This place… it's where the rumours fly, where the secrets are carefully passed around, where tongues are loosened by the taste of mead and ale. It's also where the travellers come, where the strangers stop to rest. The place where the nobleman and the beggar get drunk just the same as each other. There's something about an inn that makes people equal.

So it was no surprise that a place that thrummed with life as the Bee and Barb did would be the place to find a sword for hire – or a spell for hire, if what Brynjolf had told me was true. This place was barely comparable to the dingy Cornerclub where I'd met Teldryn. There was energy here.

I ignored the filthy looks sent my way by the Argonian couple who seemed to be in charge; Brynjolf's earlier errands had involved squeezing money out of them, and it was hardly surprising that I was an unwelcome sight. But I'd had plenty of glares directed at me in my life, and I wasn't going to start being fazed by them now. I blocked them out, and turned in a slow circle, scanning my eyes over the motley assortment of Riften's denizens assembled in the room.

There. There he was, seated near the door; those orange robes were a complete giveaway. An Imperial man of about my own age, with dark hair tied back into a ponytail, just as Brynjolf had said. A book lay open in his lap, and he was carefully turning the pages in between sips of whatever liquid was in his tankard. He had the same air of being different to the others in the room that Teldryn had had; the same air I knew I had.

I crossed the room to stand in front of him, waiting for him to notice me. He did so after only a few seconds, his eyebrows rising. I could almost see the mental calculations taking place as he glanced at my weapons and armour – was I trouble, or was I potential profit? At last, he closed his book and set his flagon on one side. 'Might I be of assistance?'

I regarded him for a second or two, and I'm sure I remember thinking that he was fairly good-looking. The eyes, mostly. I've always kind of liked human eyes, they're so much more interesting than the various shades of red that Dunmer can have, you know? Well, red and the occasional splash of purple, but whatever. This guy's eyes were a shade of brown that was almost amber, and it was nice to look at. It wasn't the instant feeling of Azura, but he's hot, that I'd got with Teldryn, but it was something, it was there.

Still, I didn't dwell on it; there was business to do. 'Someone told me you're a mercenary looking for a client.'

He made a small sound, kind of like, hrm. 'I prefer mage-for-hire to mercenary. I'm no mindless brute to be shoved at the enemy. My skill in battle is unmatched, and fortunately for you, that skill can be bought.'

I snorted. 'Gods, you hirelings are all the same. Last one I travelled with kept insisting he was the best swordsman in Morrowind. You come up with worse pick-up lines than a drunk looking for a date.'

He stared at me for a moment, then gave a small shake of his head. 'Are you looking for battle assistance, or simply for someone to act as a whetstone for you to sharpen your tongue on?'

'Well, I never pass up the latter when it shows itself, but mostly I'm here for the former.'

'Then look no further.' He folded his arms, leaning back against the wall. 'I'm a Destruction specialist first and foremost, but I've some skill in the schools of Restoration and Alteration to go along with it. Whether you want healing, or to watch your foes burn alive in a gout of arcane fire –'

'Yeah, yeah, skip the speech.' I was already digging around in my pockets for Brynjolf's gift of coin. 'How much are you asking?'

He rattled off the answer in a way that made it clear he'd rehearsed it. 'Five hundred is my usual fee. Should you dismiss me from your service and decide to hire me again at a later date, it's possible I'll waive the fee, depending on how long it's been since -'

'I said quit the lecturing.' I flicked my hand, sending the coin purse spinning through the air to land with a thump and a clink in his lap. 'I've work to do, I need a hand with it, and you're apparently the only soul in Riften who's available. You don't need to try to sell yourself.'

He didn't respond to this until he'd had a good long look at the contents of the purse, counting the contents under his breath, and determined that everything was in order. 'Then say the word, and I'm at your service. That's as long as I'm not ordered to press any suspicious buttons that clearly should not be pressed, swim in slaughterfish-filled rivers, or carry immensely heavy items.'

'I can pretty much promise the second won't happen. If the first thing happens, I'll be the one doing it. I make no promises about number three.'

He sighed heavily and took a long swig from his tankard. 'Wonderful.'

'Finish your mead, or whatever it is, and let's get a move on.' I jerked my head towards the door. 'I've got a time limit on this job, so I'm not standing around if I can help it. What's your name, by the way?'

He knocked back the rest of his drink and stuffed his book into his backpack before replying. 'Marcurio. And you are?'

'Melyna,' I said, and stuck out my hand, because I figured I might as well. He took it and shook it, and just like that, I'd met my future husband. Nothing, really, to let me know what he was going to come to mean to me, aside, maybe, from some nice eyes.

Funny how that works. With Mercer, there was no deep, ominous music playing in the background to let me know that he was going to be my mortal enemy, and with Marcurio, there weren't lutes and flutes and all that garbage. There was no thunderbolt of this is it, no deep heartfelt conversation that showed we had a special connection that would endure for all sodding eternity, and so on, pass the sick bucket. 'Cause that kind of thing doesn't happen, Leonardo. You can't see these things coming. They just happen, and Gods, but they're a whirlwind of surprises when they do.

'You might have warned me.'

I pushed myself up from the position I'd been lying in, belly flat against the cold (and rock-strewn, I might add) ground, so that I had a better view of the man lying in an equally uncomfortable position next to me. A better view meant I could glare at him more effectively.

'Look, mister arcane fire, I told you I needed help, and you didn't ask for more details. If you wanted an easier job, you should have changed that big self-selling spiel of yours. My skill in battle is unmatched, as long as I'm only dealing with nice safe cozy threats.'

'You're the one who said she didn't want to hear that speech, so it wouldn't have made any different if that had been in there,' Marcurio retorted.

I gritted my teeth. 'Look, if you've got a problem with fighting a fort full of bandits, give my money back, turn around and head back to Riften. I'm not stopping you.'

'I have nothing wrong with fighting a fort full of bandits! I just said that some warning of what I was walking into might have been nice.'

'Then you should have asked for one. Are you coming or not?'

He let out a loud huff. 'Yes, I'm coming!'

'Good!'

'Fine!'

We were lying behind a conveniently large bramble thicket which lay a distance away from the outer wall of the fort Brynjolf had marked on my map. By sticking to the tree cover, we had approached undetected thus far, but now we were up close, it was obvious that getting inside was not going to be a simple task. At least five were seated on the walltop, busily engaged in some kind of card game, and all it would take would be for one to turn his or her head at an inopportune moment for us to be spotted. And before you ask, no, there wasn't a back way into the fort, on account of it being built up against a cliff. It was the front entrance or nothing.

'We need a distraction,' I decided. 'Can you summon those flame spirit things?'

'Atronachs,' he snapped. 'They're called atronachs. And no, I can't.'

I nodded slowly. 'Some unmatched mage you are.'

He sucked in a deep breath, as if trying to steady himself. 'I can use a number of fire spells. I could try setting fire to their cards. I could probably hit from here.'

'Nah, you do that and it'll be easy for them to work out that the spell came from down here. Might be better to do something that could happen naturally, like, I don't know, setting fire to a tree.'

'And start a forest fire? I'll pass.'

This was a good point, but I sure as Oblivion wasn't going to admit it. 'Can't a master of the arcane use ice spells to keep a fire under control?'

'If I have to be there to control the fire, not only will I be spotted easily, but it defeats the purpose of distracting them so we can sneak in.'

Another good point. Damn it. I glared up at the bandits as if it were their fault that my travelling companion was so Gods-damned snarky, and it was then that I saw the answer. Grinning, I snapped my fingers.

'The flag. There.'

It was a shabby thing, frayed at the bottom and the sides and filled with more holes than Helgen's anti-dragon defence plans. The colouring was faded, but it looked as if it had once been purple; maybe this fort had once been under control of the Rift's Jarl, a place to lodge soldiers perhaps. But the crucial thing was that it was some distance away from the bandits, attached to a pole that stood to the left of their position. If it went up in flames, they would surely notice; but it was far enough from Marcurio and I that they would be unlikely to look in our direction.

'So we set that on fire,' Marcurio said, pursing his lips. 'Which hopefully distracts these people long enough for us to get through the entrance without being noticed. Do you actually have a plan for doing whatever it is you need to do when you get inside?'

'I'm retrieving some stolen objects. Hold on.' I fished the list out of my pocket. 'Two silver candlesticks, Breton-made. An Akaviri katana, malachite, with a dragon pattern engraved into the blade. Some enchanted ebony gauntlets, an antique lute made with oak wood from the Valenwood forests, and a signed original copy of The Sultry Argonian Bard.'

Marcurio stared at me. 'What was that last one again?'

I ignored him. 'The sword and the gauntlets… the bandits would probably have kept those, right? They like to keep fancy weapons and stuff when they steal them. And knowing the kinds of people they are, I bet they kept The Sultry Argonian Bard. The rest… they might have sold that. But if we're lucky, they'll be stashing it until they have a chance to find a buyer. I mean, people who buy suspicious expensive goods from bandits aren't exactly a Septim a dozen in the wilds of Skyrim.'

'I'll refrain from asking why you want these things,' Marcurio muttered. 'And I'll simply say, with all due respect, that no matter how good at sneaking around you are, I think it's unlikely you're going to remain undetected while rummaging through every chest in this place for those… items.'

I snorted. 'Why do I get the feeling that when you say all due respect, you're giving no respect at all?'

'I'm giving you all the respect you're actually due.'

'Yeah, whatever. Anyway, my employer as good as told me that stealth wasn't going to be any good this time around. We'll sneak in as much as we can, and when they find us, are you up for some good old-fashioned bandit-slaying?'

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, and a tongue of flame sparked into being in each of his palms. 'I've not got any problems with that. This is the part of the business I enjoy.'

I couldn't help but laugh at that, quickly biting my lip to stop it in case the bandits overheard. 'And what's the part you don't enjoy? The travelling, the cold, the working with smartarse Dunmer women?'

Marcurio shrugged. 'I'm fine with the first, the second is a curse from the Daedra, and I've yet to form an opinion on the third.'

'Well, be sure to let me know when you sort that one out. Whatever kind of opinion it ends up being, I'm willing to bet that it'll be colourful.'

'On that, we can agree.' He glanced in the direction of the flag. 'Shall we begin?'

'Fire away. Literally.'

Frowning with concentration, Marcurio curled his fingers tight around his fistfuls of fire, giving them a few seconds to build up their power before letting them loose. Two smouldering trails of orange snapped through the air and struck the flag dead-centre. The ancient cloth went up in flames instantly – and the impact of the spells striking home was enough to tear it free from the pole. As luck would have it, at that exact moment, a gust of wind came sweeping low through the forest, and sent the now-fiery flag soaring directly towards the bandits. And that gust of wind died at the perfect moment to send it falling more or less right onto their heads.

There was a moment of silence, followed by a bellowed mixture of screams, roars, yelps, and beautifully colourful expletives. The bandits leaped to their feet, one of them desperately shaking the burning flag from his shoulders, where it had deposited itself like a rather painful cape. Another yelled something about fetching water. Another scrabbled to pull the playing cards to safety – without success, if his despairing moan was anything to judge by. And within a few seconds, they were stumbling away in the direction of the stairs that led down to ground level, nursing burns in an array of places.

I looked at Marcurio. He looked back at me.

'Even if I do say so myself,' he said, the biggest smirk I have ever seen stamped on his face, 'that was perfect.'

For once, I couldn't help agreeing with him. 'Freaking brilliant. Reckon you can pull that off again sometime?'

'Give me another flag and a pack of bandits and I'll see what I can do.'

'I'll see if I can set that up. But right now we got work to be getting on with.'

We didn't wait; there was no time. We leaped from the bushes, pushing through the branches and sprinting towards the fort entrance. It was an open archway, no door, only a ramshackle wooden barricade which it was a simple matter to slip past. Beneath the arch, we paused, flattening ourselves against the cool stone of the walls, watching as the last few bandits disappeared inside the main building.

'Only one door,' Marcurio muttered.

I shrugged. 'It'll all be easier once we get inside. We can't afford to fight them out here, there's no cover, but in the fort, it'll be different. We'll have an advantage, even with just the two of us.'

'I have never known a group of two people to have the advantage over an entire pack of bandits. Unless those two people were giants.'

'Gods, what wouldn't I give to be able to launch these guys into the sky the way giants do,' I muttered. 'But the thing is, bandits are stupid. That definitely gives me an advantage over them, I don't know about you.'

He rolled his eyes, but otherwise made no response to this. 'Well, let me know when we're going in after them.'

I gave it a minute, so that we wouldn't be right on the bandits' heels, then nodded. 'Let's move.'

It was a simple matter to dash across to the entrance, wrench open the door, and slip inside. And to be honest with you, Leonardo, I can't remember most of the details of what happened after that, so if you were waiting for the epic description of our glorious battle through the fort of outlaws, I'm going to have to let you down, kiddo. I'll just have to give you a sketchy outline of what I remember. Cut me some slack, it was four years ago.

Our first victory was finding the place where the bandits slept. It was a small, dimly-lit room with beds and bedrolls scattered across the floor, and there were only two inside, sitting against a wall with a book propped open in front of them. Both were sniggering furiously, and both quickly stopped. It's hard to snigger when there's an arrow between your eyes or an ice spike through your chest. The book they had been sniggering over, was, of course, the signed first edition of The Sultry Argonian Bard. So into my backpack it went – with a few spots of blood sprinkled over Act Three Scene Two, but safely retrieved. And a few rooms and corpses later, we had the lute and the candlesticks too – and more besides. If you ever become a bandit, Leo – which I do not at all recommend – don't stack all your treasure in one room, OK? It makes life far too easy for visiting thieves. Find someone to buy it right away.

And yes, there was fighting in all this. Bryn hadn't been mistaken about the number of bandits in that darn fort. We happened to stumble upon the place where the ones who'd been outside had retreated to see to their wounds – or rather, where a Bosmer mage was mending their wounds for them.

This part, I do remember vividly. Because it was the moment when I saw that my companion's claims about being a master mage weren't completely unfounded. When we pushed open the door and saw them all in there, six or seven of them, there was a moment of complete stillness and silence. Then they leaped to their feet as one, snatching up weapons and racing towards us.

Marcurio took a step forwards and shot me a look that said clearly, leave this to me. And because he'd have no reason to want us both to get killed, I did so. I jumped back a pace and let him stand in the doorway as the bandits charged him, praying that whatever kind of plan he had was a good one.

It was better than good; it was freaking brilliant. To be honest, it didn't really need a plan so much, but it was still impressive. It was a thing of beauty to watch, the lightning lancing forth from his hands, closing the distance between Marcurio and the nearest bandit in less than a second. And then to watch that streak of white and purple fork, to erupt as it stuck the bandit, into two separate shafts of light. One shot left, one right, and even as the first enemy fell, a smoking black mark over his chest, two more bandits stopped dead, suddenly transfixed by the blaze of energy. And then the two forks divided themselves, and four more bolts of lightning – thinner and frailer than the first, but still fizzing and crackling with power – and each of them hit another target.

Marcurio stepped back, wringing his hands; I noticed that his sides were heaving as if he'd just run from Windhelm to Whiterun. 'Chain lightning,' he explained, somewhat breathlessly. 'It takes a bit of energy to fire out that much… well, energy.'

'Did the job, though,' I murmured. The first three bandits were lying in various uncomfortable-looking positions in front of us – and I mean the kind of positions that someone only lies in if they're dead. The remaining four had been either knocked off their feet or just thrown a short distance backwards, but that was all I needed. My hand flew to my shoulder, my fingers closed around an arrow, and in a second my arm was performing the fluid movement I'd put it through a million times. Nocking arrow to bowstring, pulling it back, letting it fly. One of the bandits, an Argonian who'd just regained his feet, went smacking to the ground again. And repeat, I told myself, reaching for another arrow.

I took out the next two, and by that time, Marcurio had recovered enough to dispatch the last with a perfectly-aimed spear of ice. Don't tell him I said this, Leo, but by that point I was already beginning to feel I'd got my money's worth from the guy. Brynjolf's advice had been sound.

So that was it; on we went. I guess we could've turned around and gone back then and there – we had most of the stuff on the list. But hell, if there's one thing people should learn about me, it's that I'm stubborn as shit. Damn it, I went and swore in this thing, and I was trying not to.

Anyway, there was no chance I was going to turn back unless I knew the things I was looking for weren't there. And as it happened, they were. Marcurio and I found that when we reached the top room of the fort's tower, pushed open the door, and saw the man standing there with the gauntlets on his hands and the katana strapped to his belt.

Now, I don't think even bandits are mad enough to wear their armour all day, so I reckon that the man standing next to the armoured feller had found or heard the carnage downstairs and run up to warn the guy, and boss-man grabbed his armour so he was ready to face a fight. I didn't stop to ask. You know how they say that you should never shoot the messenger? Well, I went ahead and shot the messenger. People do tell me that I never listen.

The man in armour let out the sort of yelp that a ten-year-old boy might make as the messenger-bandit next to him crashed to the ground, my arrow buried in his neck. He spun around to face us, and I saw that he was a Nord – and I mean a Nord Nord, with bright red warpaint just about everywhere, more braids than I could count, and all the height and girth you'd expect from a Skyrim-grown warrior. With a scraping swish, he drew the katana. Marcurio flicked a fire spell into being in each palm. I slung my bow over my shoulder – arrows weren't the best weapon to use against someone wearing plate armour that covered most of their body – and pulled my own sword from its sheath, wishing I'd had time to get hold of something better than one of those cra… those shoddy blades the Imperials carry during my flight from Helgen.

'What do you want here?' The Nord twirled the blade around in his hand – a showy move, but not really a practical one. Would have been easy for him to have dropped it. 'What in the name of the Nine gives you the right to waltz in here and kill my men?'

'The answer to your first question is, we're after that sword and those gauntlets, because you stole them from my employers,' I replied smoothly. 'And as for your second question - for one thing, we didn't waltz. It was more of a march. Or just a plain old boring walk. And for a second, they weren't your men. People don't belong to people, unless you're in one of those stupid sappy romances where the guy and the girl are all, you belong to me, my love, we are destined for each other because our love is so pure it makes us belch butterflies. Besides, they weren't all men, anyway, there was a woman back there.'

There was a long silence.

'You what?' the Nord said at last.

'Never flipping mind. Anyway, the point is, the stuff you stole – I take it you've been stashing it here to sell it later? Or maybe you were just keeping it for the hell of it, but whatever. That stuff, I need it. I've already taken most of it.'

Marcurio coughed.

'Sorry, me and my smart-arse sidekick have already taken most of it.'

The man did a few more seconds of staring, then shook himself, apparently decided that we were a lost cause, and charged us. Which, for the record, is a damn stupid thing to do to a pair of spellcasters. I raised my left hand, Marcurio raised both of his, and as one we sent fire shooting towards him. He howled as it struck his armour, the heat spreading through the metal to reach and scorch his skin.

'Didn't know you were a mage,' Marcurio remarked, shooting me a sidelong glance.

'I'm not. I just know a few fire spells.'

'Ah, good. No chance that I'll be overshadowed, then.'

What followed was… almost embarrassing, actually. I mean, I was embarrassed on behalf of this ridiculously overdressed bandit guy. Heavy armour might keep you safe, but you just try keeping up with a professional thief in that stuff. And how do you fight a pair of spellcasters who can send fire at you from anywhere, when your reach is only as long as your blade? 'Course, it was hard for Marcurio and I to actually dish out any damage, what with the guy having steel covering him head to toe, but at least we could burn and zap him, while all he could do was blunder around, flailing in our direction. Once, he steeled himself and charged right at Marcurio, but my hired help simply help up his hands and send a fireball smacking right into the man's chest. Not enough to break the armour or anything, but enough to send him reeling.

The Nord stumbled back three and a half steps, almost overbalancing in his stupidly heavy armour, and spent a few moments panting and gaping at us before drawing himself up to his full height, puffing out his chest, and pointing the stolen katana in our direction. 'You… you won't win this! I'll be kicking your dead bodies before the day's out. This fort and its treasure – they're mine! I am Jormadric Bear-Blade, son of Jaroslaf Bear-Blade, and my family has robbed the roads of Skyrim for generations. No ragged Dunmer wench or Imperial mageling is going to take this fort from me-'

I glanced at Marcurio. He glanced at me. In unison, we rolled our eyes and readied for our weapons, my hand going to pull my bow down from my back, his fingers closing around a handful of purple lightning.

I've learned something about Nords over the years: they like to brag. Bryn tells me it comes from old traditions, where warriors would boast about their ancestry and exploits and so on before any duel or sparring match. And aside from the fact that they look like prats doing it, I've not got a problem with it, per se. The issue is that they tend to think that people will respect their traditions and stop and listen to them. Marcurio and I didn't.

Jormadric of the over-inflated ego was still in mid-rant when he realised that he had an arrow and a lightning spell aimed at his heart, and by then it was too late. My shaft struck him in the neck, where a gap between helmet and breastplate let the point through. He reeled back another step, staring wide-eyed at the shaft now embedded in his neck.

It hadn't gone far in, and perhaps he would still have survived it, had Marcurio's lightning spell not struck him dead in the chest and blasted him off his feet. He hurtled the length of the room, crashed into the wall with a metallic clank, and crumpled at its base, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide and vacant, and the sparks from Marcurio's spell still skidding across the surface of his armour. His body jerked a few times in the grip of the lightning, then fell limp.

'Well, he looks shocked,' I said.

Marcurio let out a low, pained groan. 'You didn't just make that pun. Please tell me you didn't.'

'Fine, I didn't. Does it make you feel any better?'

'No!'

Smirking, I crossed the room and knelt beside the gormlessly gaping corpse. 'Well, take comfort in the knowledge that the job is done. Here is a katana, and here are a pair of ebony gauntlets. That's the full set.'

I dropped my backpack down beside me, pulled it open, and realised a problem; the lute, book and candlesticks already completely filled it. After a moment of reflection, I pulled the candlesticks out of my pack and thrust them at Marcurio, then, as an afterthought, snatched up the lute and did likewise. He yelped and hurriedly threw up his arms to catch them. 'I'm out of room,' I explained. 'Take these for me, would you?'

Two outraged amberish-brown eyes glared at me from under the stack of items. 'I am an apprentice wizard, not a pack mule!'

'Well, you're stubborn as a mule, and you look plenty like one, so forgive me if I treat you as one. Come on, I've got to get these back to Riften somehow, and there's only so much room in my pack.'

He glared at me for a moment more, then gave in, shrugged off his own bag, and shoved the candlesticks inside. 'All right, fine, I'll take them. Who are you delivering these to, anyway?'

'I'm not delivering them, I'm retrieving them. What the Oblivion do you think I am, a flaming courier?'

Marcurio paused in his wrestling match with his bag in order to take a good long look at me. 'In my experience, couriers are less att.. I mean, less armed.' He coughed. 'To the extent that I did once see one turn up to deliver a message naked.'

I let out a rather explosive snort. 'You're not serious. Naked?'

'Well, he was in his underwear. Plus boots and hat.'

'But nothing else? Honestly? Did you ask him why…?'

'I was scared to. Maybe it had been a really warm day when he set out, or maybe he just didn't have much time that morning, or maybe he was robbed somewhere along the road.'

'Well, if it was the latter, then that's some bloody impressive dedication to duty.'

I realised, suddenly, that we were both laughing. It was a pleasant realisation. It had been far, far too long since I'd laughed with someone about anything. I'd laughed at people, sure, but there was something different about this. This felt companionable and… right.

'I've seen stranger things in my time, I guess,' I said, finally managing to tie my bag shut and swinging it up onto my shoulders. 'I've been travelling Tamriel practically non-stop for the past six or so years.'

'That's… fairly impressive, I suppose. Any good stories?'

I frowned. 'Well, there was this one thing that happened in Morrowind. Let's move; I'll tell you on the way.' I jerked my head at the door, and Marcurio walked at my side as I made my way out of the tower room and down the stairs.

'This mercenary I was travelling with, Teldryn – he and I were travelling across the ashlands, one of those peaceful dull evenings where nothing much is happening, you know? Then we see this Bosmer mage standing up ahead of us, chanting some gibberish about how he's going to touch the sky like a dragon. Then as he finishes mumbling this gobbledygook, he casts some kind of spell – and then just like that, he shoots up into the air. And, like, ten seconds later we see him plummeting back down towards us…'

It was dusk by the time we found our way outside again. But a few candlelight spells, and one shared story after another, kept the dark at bay was we made the long trek back towards Riften.

There's not much else to tell, I guess, when it comes to that day's events. Marcurio and I parted ways in the inn, but he told me that the payment I'd given would be enough for him to happily join me for free for a few more adventures. I promised that if I needed help with any more jobs, I'd come to him. I never told him I was with the Thieves Guild, but I think that he worked it out for himself, somewhere along the way. He didn't make an issue of it. I was paying him, after all.

I delivered the goods to Brynjolf, who grinned from ear to ear and said something like, 'Good on you, lass,' when I, with no small amount of difficulty, heaved the entire set of stolen trinkets onto a table in the Ragged Flagon. Mercer was called to see my victory for himself. He eyed me slowly and coldly, then said he couldn't argue with my success. I was sent to Tonilia to be measured for my armour, then assigned a bed and a personal chest in the Cistern. And suddenly, for the first time in my life, I had a home. Not just a tent pitched in the wilderness over a patch of ground that would host me for the night. A place that was properly mine.

It was just a bed in an underground sewer hideaway, but it was mine.

Three days later, I was given my armour. The day after that, I was given my first break-in mission, overseen by Brynjolf. Soon I was being paired up with the more junior members, and then trusted to go it alone. Often, if I knew combat would be involved, I would head to the inn, where Marcurio would be waiting, willing to provide me with a partner both in battle and in verbal sparring. And so the days passed, and I stopped missing the feel of the wind on my face as I woke. My ears started to tune out the Cistern's constant waterfall sounds. And finally the day came when I stopped, blinked a few times, and realised that I had completely forgotten about trying to find answers about my past.

It simply hadn't occurred to me, for day after day. I hadn't been thinking about it.

Because I had come to the Thieves Guild looking for a mother. And I'd got better. I'd got a family.

Next chapter, the actual Guild quests will be starting - sorry for taking a while to reach them, but I needed to set up Mel and Marcurio's relationship here... and it was fun to write it.

Thanks for reading!