PROLOGUE

Sundas, the 17th of Last Seed, the 201st year of the 4th Era

The straw on the floor stank of shit and urine. There were no windows or a bed, only a heap of lice littered straw and an old wooden bucket, tipped over in the shadows of the far corner of his cell. Raising his head, Azzais's eyes drifted over to the faint golden glow of torchlight that flickered from beneath the barred door of his cell, a heavy slab of iron, over six inches thick and reinforced with heavy steel chains.

Shackled and clad in rough spun, he had long since lost count of the days he had spent imprisoned, hours had turned to days, or so it seemed, with his only company being the rats that scurried back and forth amidst the straw riddled floor. His cell was within the dungeon, far beneath the depths of the Jarl's palace, far deeper than what he had imagined, deeper than even the bowels of The Ratway. In the earlier days of his imprisonment, he would reminisce about his time spent within The Ragged Flagon, listening to old guild master Gallus tell the tale of the first time he had been jailed, back in his early years after becoming a member of the guild.

He was beginning to think that they had forgotten him down here in the bleak, chilling darkness, when he suddenly heard the faint scrape of boots on stone.

At first he thought he was dreaming; it had been so long since he had heard anything other than the beating of his own heart in his ears. Azzais listened closely as the footsteps seemed to inch closer, echoing down the hall ahead of them, as well as the jangling of iron keys coming through the iron barred door of his cell. Five guards, he made out. Backing up, Azzais pressed his back against the chilly dampness of his cell wall and slowly climbed to his feet, his legs cramping and chains rattling as he made to stand.

As the door burst open with a crash, Azzais raised his arms to shield his eyes from the blinding torchlight with calloused hands, wondering whether or not they had finally come to kill him, and if weather or not they would drag him through the city so the executioner could lob off his head or would they merely force him to his knees and kill him here, down in the dark and be done with it, rather than having to deal with the risks of a public execution, or if perhaps they were only checking to see if he had finally starved to death.

It was then that two of the guardsmen stepped forward, while the others stood back silently, an iron oil lantern in one of their hands, obscuring their faces.

As the two guardsmen—clad in boiled leather over ringmail with the standard of the guards of Riften emblazoned upon their shields: two twin swords of nordic cast with blades crossed over—leapt forward to seize him by both arms, yanking him forward and causing the chains to rattle loudly against the stone floor, Azzais stumbled, his legs weak from lack of use, but managed to stay on his feet.

Next three of the other guardsmen pushed forward to close in around him from all sides, mailed hands clenched tightly around the hilt of their longswords, as a tall, older woman dressed in the traditional clothes of a high noble with hard, gaunt lines edging the nordic features of her face stepped forward into the darkness of his cell. As she stepped closer and closer, step by careful step, Azzais felt his own features contort in contempt as he realized just who it was that had come for him, and for what it would no doubt mean for the rest of the guild.

Raising a hand, she gestured brusquely to the guardsmen. "Leave us, and ensure that we are not disturbed." The men did as she commanded and made to depart, leaving behind the oil lantern. "So, you're the one. Hmm. You don't look so impressive, still, I trust that you were not mistreated," she asked after they had gone. "I was sure that I gave them firm instructions."

Azzias ignored the implied question. "What do you want Maven?" He asked icily. "I have broken no laws. You have no right to keep me here."

"Oh, but I do," Maven Black-Briar said. Her voice was very quiet, but her almond eyes sparkled in triumph. "I have every right. You see, nothing in this city gets done without my approval. I have the Jarl's ear, and the guards in my pocket. I practically own most of the members of your little rough spun group of vagabonds, and for those who make me angry, the Dark Brotherhood are but a summon away. You'd do well to remember that the next time you seek to speak out of turn to your betters." She grinned as she stepped forward, then knelt, a mere few inches from his face, and placed a single hand on his head, her fingers brushing through his hair before they tightened to grip a fist full of his matted ebony locs. "Lucky for you however, I have a job for you. One you'd be wise to accept."

"And why the hell do you think that I would work for you, after all you've done to the guild?"

She leaned closer and sneered, "Because what you don't seem to realize you sunburned cur, is that the Black-Briar family, my family, has always been allied with the members of your little guild. Our connections within the Empire and throughout Skyrim make for a perfect fit for your organization's particular set of. . . skills. I dare say the guild owes its survival as much to my family as it does to its own members." Her moist breath smelled like honeyed mead.

Azzias grimaced. "Why me?"

Maven smiled almost sweetly. "Brynjolf has assured me that you would be the perfect candidate to handle this assignment. He claims you possess some sort of uncanny aptitude for your line of work. Quite frankly I find that hard to believe."

Azzias's eyes narrowed at her words. He did not take kindly to having his skills questioned. Since the day that Brynjolf had approached him, in the hopes of taking him under his wing, admits a number of the many small stalls stationed within one of the many marketplaces that lay scattered throughout Riften, he had been one of the few members of the guild who had never failed an assignment. "I'm the best at what I do."

"Oh really? Is that confidence I hear. . . or is it arrogance? Strange how often they're confused. You have to understand, it's been a long time since Brynjolf's sent me anyone I can rely on."

Azzias had known that Brynjolf would drag him into his quarrelsome dealings with the matriarch of the Black-Briar clan, sooner or later. He wished it had been later rather than sooner. "How about we skip the conversation, and you just tell me what it is that you want me to do?" He urged as he shifted uncomfortably in his iron manacles.

"Ah quite a firebrand, aren't you? Finally it's about time Brynjolf recommended me to someone with a semblance of business sense. And just when I was beginning to think he was running some sort of beggar's guild over there."

Azzias did not rise to the bait of the slight aimed at his guild. "You have no faith in the Guild?"

"Faith?" Maven asked. "No. I don't have faith in anyone. I have no need for faith. All I care about is cause and effect. Did the job get done and was it done correctly. There's no gray area."

"You won't have that problem with me," Azzias pointed out.

Maven shrugged. "I hope not. This is an important job. I have a competitor called Honningbrew Meadery that I want to put out of business. I also want to know how they managed to get the place up and running so quickly."

"Where do I begin?" Azzias asked bitterly.

"Head to the Bannered Mare in Whiterun and look for Mallus Maccius. He'll fill you in on all the details. Oh and I'll tell you, just one more time in case I wasn't clear before. You butcher this job and you'll be sorry."

Azzias shook his head dismissively at the lightly veiled threat. "And who actually is it that runs the show at Honningbrew Meadery?"

Maven rolled her eyes in annoyance. "Some layabout called Sabjorn. Been a thorn in my side for the last few years now."

"Well now Sabjorn sounds like more than just friendly competition if he's truly been at it for as long as you say he has."

"Not a day goes by that I don't regret letting Sabjorn get as far as he did. In only a few short years, he's taken that bile he calls mead to market and a chunk of my profits with it! I can't imagine where he found the gold to take it to market so quickly."

"So you get rid of him and he's no longer a threat."

"Exactly. With Sabjorn in prison, his meadery will be forced to close. Then I swoop in and take over the place. No more competition."

"Why strike now?" He questioned.

"The Goldenglow Estate job has undoubtedly interrupted the supply of honey I need to make my mead. Sabjorn could use this interruption to his advantage and collect a larger share of the market. I can't have that nor will I allow it."