Loredas, 9th of Last Seed 4E201 Midday

Brynjolf

The first rule of thieving is 'know your mark.'

Depending on the job, you might need to look further into them, but get good enough, and a glance is generally enough. The new Nord adventurer often has loose purse strings to lift coin from. The lightly experienced Bosmer alchemist will buy into a miracle 'wisp essence' for their cure-all. The old Dunmer mage is… best left alone. But everyone has a weakness you can exploit, if you can find it.

That's how I know the Breton with a light pack and nothing else is not worth making a move on, despite an obvious limp that would make running from him a breeze. Sure, Vekel would say he has the look of someone that generally runs light on coin, which he does. Rune would likely say that his roving eyes upon the crowd mean he's alert and looking for someone, meaning he's more likely to notice someone sneaking up on him, which is also true. But the reason I'm second-in-command under Mercer is because what tips me off is the fact that this man seems perfectly at ease in Riften in a way that suggests he is perfectly aware of the town's reputation and completely unbothered by that fact. And THAT makes him either the greatest fool ever, or - more likely - very dangerous.

The Breton's eyes seem to find and lock on his target. Me. Well, this should be interesting. I briefly consider slipping into the crowd to lose him, but with our luck recently, I figure it's best just to get whatever this is out of the way and figure out if he's a threat to us personally.

"Brynjolf, I presume?"

AND he knows who I am. Wonderful. "You may indeed presume so. I doubt you're here for a sample of my genuine Falmerblood Elixir?"

"Afraid not. Much as I'd like to watch another master ply his craft, my business in Riften is rather time-sensitive."

Definitely dangerous. It's a particular sort of confidence he carries himself with that you only see in folks that are absolutely sure of themselves without being full of themselves. Of course, even they have their weaknesses as well, if you can keep their attention long enough to find it. And if all else fails… "Perhaps we should speak further on the matter in my office, then?" Take them to familiar ground to give yourself the home field advantage.

He smiles at my gesturing hand, but makes no attempt to move. "I know a blasted fellow who thought you might say that. He said you need not cry beef in the flash ken."

To say that got my attention would've been the understatement of the century. Cant from a cull? Who in the blazes could he be talking about… "I've not left anyone in a lurch, have I?"

"Well, someone gave office. Cove had tea with the pigs, and he smells a rat."

Damn. If nothing else, Delvin might know who hasn't come back from a job and who's been missing. It's not as if the Ratway and the Ragged Flagon don't have their fair share of malcontents pass through that ain't part of the Guild. "Fine. Just be smooth and follow me. Don't suppose your dromedary is goin' home?"

"He's no old hand, but he's no colt either. But yes, he's home. And he eager to have a chat with whoever threw him in the pound." Riften is a maze on the best of days, but the Breton keeps up with me just fine. He's used to crowds, that's certain. It's not long before we find one of the many entrances to the Ratway at the water level. The guards keep gating and locking off any they can find, but even if their locks weren't child's play for anyone in the Guild… well, it's called the Ratway for more than just the actual rats that live in it. There's always another entrance somewhere and new ones popping up all the time. Besides, Maven would never let the guards be too competent; she needs her cut too.

"Alright," I say as the stench of the sewers surrounds us, "enough gibberish. Anyone this far down would understand us anyway, so might as well speak plain Tamrielic. Also, tell your friends in Cyrodiil that no one 'cries beef' anymore."

The Breton seems just as ease down here as on the streets, nose barely scrunching - likely spent quite some time in cities then, the provincials tend to gag at their first whiff - and smirks. "Pray pardon, my cant is a bit rusty, and the gentlemen down in Cyrodiil are a bit old-fashioned. Your man filled in a few blanks for me, thankfully."

"And that man would be…?"

"Already forgotten me, eh Brynjolf?"

The man that steps out of the shadows has clearly been through the ringer. "Etienne? Shadow preserve, who did this to you?"

"The damned Thalmor, that's who," he spits. "Nabbed me on a numbers job. Kept asking about that old man hiding down past the Flagon and would not take no for an answer. Talao here broke me out-"

"And they're probably right behind us if not already here." The Breton - Talao - is already halfway down the passage. "To the point, I'm sure your Guildmaster doesn't want to get involved with the Thalmor, and I'm not asking you to, but if you could take us as far as your dive and point us in the right direction, all of Nirn would be grateful."

"...He's a right pushy cull, isn't he, Etienne?"

Etienne laughs, devolving into a bit of a coughing fit; there's a rough rasp to it, and I can only imagine the torture he went through to cause him to ruin his throat like that. "You don't know the half of it. But he's right. If the Thalmor are willing to go this far for one old man, he must be important. And even if he weren't, I'd help him get out just to spite them for what they did to me."

"Then let's head off before your new friend gets lost in the maze." If Riften proper is a maze, the Ratway is a labyrinth, a nest, and a trap all wrapped up in a neat little package. Only the desperate and the destitute live down here, and they constantly have to deal with the dregs of society that use its twisting passages to escape the law. Of which the Thieves' Guild is its primary attendant. Talao, for his part, still puzzles me to an extent, as he follows close behind us, keeping up despite the treacherous terrain. "Your new friend is interesting, Etienne."

"Like I said, Brynjolf, you don't know the half of it. Thought I was gonna die in that hole til this fella shows up dressed like a Thalmor, drugs the guard, lifts the key, and lets me and some other poor sod out. And then the frost troll…" There's a faraway look on his face, like he still can't believe what he saw.

"Mage then?"

I can't exactly see him throwing around flames, somehow, and Etienne's head shake says as much. "No magic as I've ever seen. Didn't see a spell, a hand gesture, nothing. I know not every mage throws magicka around like the College in Winterhold, but even what he said… I don't know what he is, but the more I watch him, the less I think he's even human, let alone Breton."

The puzzle grows. A downright enigma of a manmer. It was increasingly looking like Talao simply didn't fit into any box of person I was familiar with, which was fun to a certain extent. "Doesn't much matter now, though, eh Etienne? We'll get you right as rain soon enough, and I'll make sure Delvin gives you local jobs for a bit, nowhere near those damn Thalmor."

"About that," he frowns, holding up a hand for me to see. A tremor runs through it, not severe, but enough to be noticeable. "It's been a week since I got out, and it ain't much changed. Damn near dropped a glove. And while you may be a bit more forgiving, I doubt Mercer will care much keeping around a thief what can't thieve. Reckon it's about time I hang up the ol' leathers anyway."

I'm saved from having to answer right away by the creak of the Flagon's door opening. The den of iniquity and the worst place to get a drink in the Ratways. Course, it's the only place to get a drink down here, but who's counting. Half the crowd looks up as we walk in and I stave them off with a hand wave and a muttered, "Bene." Tonilia gives a questioning look, and I know she'll be dragging the story out of me later, but for now I lead the two behind the bar. "You'll find the old sewers through this door. I can't tell you exactly where the old man is - he paid and is paying us good money to keep that hush, and neither you nor the Thalmor will get it out of me - but he's probably the only sane one that lives that far. Though, you could call his sanity into question living in the madhouse."

"We'll keep our wits about, Brynjolf. Thank you." Talao heads through the door, and I stop Etienne for a brief moment before he follows.

"Listen. I'll not begrudge you leaving or try to convince you to stay. I can honestly say the Guild will miss you, and so will I, but it's always a bittersweet day when someone goes straight. Just know that there'll always be a seat waiting for you at the Flagon, and don't forget… informants get a cut from jobs too."

"Always one eye on business, Brynjolf." He clasps my forearm in his hand, pulling me in for a tight hug. "I owe it to Talao to see this business through, at least, but once I do, maybe I'll pull my stash and see if Honeyside is still for sale."

"An honest thief! I never thought I'd live to see the day. Take care, Etienne." He pulls away, following Talao into the old sewers. One eye on business, eh? Speaking of business… "Vex. You know who got our friend thrown in the pound?"

She steps out of the shadows behind the wardrobe. "My bet's Gissur. Haven't seen him around the Flagon about the same time as Etienne was gone. He was in here earlier, but left with a couple of Thalmor enforcers, according to Sapphire."

"I imagine a lowlife like him knows more than a few ways into the old sewers. Looks like Etienne might get to have a talk with him sooner than he thought." I sigh as Vex heads back into the Guild proper. Too late now. Trying to find a moving target like Gissur in the Ratways would be like looking for a needle in a field of haystacks. I'll have to trust those two to get along themselves. Well, at least it can't go as sideways as the Goldglow fiasco.


Surprise, another language that requires translation that isn't dovahzul, though the context should be fairly obvious. My sources may be dubious on the internet, but assume any 'incorrect' thieves' cant is just the differing circumstances of the world of Nirn.

Blasted fellow - a thief that has been abandoned

Cry beef - raise an alarm

Flash ken - a thieves' hideout

Left in a lurch - to be betrayed by ones' companions

Give office - to tell a constable of a thief's activities

Cove - a thief

Tea with the pigs - to be tortured

Rat - an informer

Smooth - quiet

Cull - an honest man

Dromedary - a bungling thief

Goin' home - to get out of jail

Old hand - experience thief

Colt - inexperienced thief (or One who lends a horse to a highway man, but definitely not relevant here)

To have a chat with - to murder

Pound - prison

Gibberish - Thieves Cant (yes, there is a cant word for thieves cant. Love it)

Drop a glove - lose a hand