In the dark, it took Dag a few minutes to find the stairs leading down to the lower level of boardwalk; but she knew she was in the right place as soon as she got there. The lower part of Riften was seedy-looking, mildewed, neglected. The canal that had once been a busy thoroughfare had long since been blocked off to shipping, leaving its waters more stagnant than not. Without a fresh lake breeze to clear the air, it smelled of fish. Dead fish, to be exact; dead fish that had overstayed their welcome. It also smelled of the brown sludge that accumulates at the bottom of a pond and other scents she couldn’t – and didn’t really care to – identify. Walking around the boardwalk she found an apothecary shop and several homes, and marveled at the idea that anyone would find this an acceptable place to do business, much less to live. Around a corner, in a spot mostly obscured from view, was an open metal gate set into the curve of the stone wall. A wooden door beyond that gate opened into what could only be the Ratway.
It seemed pitch dark on the other side of the door before her eyes could adjust. The odors from outside were worse inside, cloying, almost making her retch. She moved forward, slowly, by following the wall with one hand. Cobwebs dangling from the ceiling kept catching her hair, and from the scuffling sounds it seemed certain that there were skeevers afoot and gods knew what else. She was grateful that she couldn’t see her feet; she really didn’t want to know what was on the floor. She heard a creaking, followed by a crash, and froze; but nothing came out of the darkness at her, so she breathed and moved on. Dag wasn’t afraid, but she certainly wasn’t enjoying being there.
Not far ahead in the twisting corridor, Dag saw torchlight flickering around the corner. As she walked into the light, two scruffy men turned and drew their swords. “Well, look what we have here,” said one, drawing himself up into a threatening pose. “Why don’t you just hand over your coin?”
She was in a narrow corridor, and they had room to move. They had weapons drawn, and she did not. It was a poor situation to be in. She held up her hands. “Whoa there. I’m just looking for the Ragged Flagon.”
The man snorted. “Brynjolf’s been sending idiots like you down here for years looking for their hideout. But they never counted on me being at the entrance.” Something about his tone made her give the two a closer look; they were greasy-haired, ragged, and hungry-looking. For years, you say? Uh-huh, she thought. You’ve been here for years and you think they don’t know about you. Sure.
Dag wasn’t in the mood for more puffed-up egos just then. “Why don’t you just let me through, ok?” she threatened, drawing her sword and gathering her flame magic in her left hand. “I’ve killed dozens like you.” Dozens was an exaggeration. Maybe. Well, alright, it wasn’t an exact figure, but it probably wasn’t too very far off.
To her utter surprise, the man backed down. “Ok, no need to be rash,” he gulped. “It’s ok,” he said to his companion. “Let her through.” Dag pushed past them warily, listening for the attack she expected to come from the rear. It never came; they had simply moved down the hall to an alcove. Huh, she thought. I must look like I’ve had enough. I certainly feel that way. Grinning, she continued down the corridors.
The place was, as she had thought, infested with skeevers. The big ugly rats were everywhere. They didn’t take more than a hack or two with a sword to put down, but it was tiring. Another distinctive scent caught her attention, though; in one area the floor was covered with a slick of oil. She smirked. No wonder the two thugs had been a bit nervous about her having a flame spell ready. Stepping back a few paces, she fired a shot at the oil and watched it erupt and race down the hall. When the flames died, Dag found that a great many skeevers had, as well.
The hall emptied into a two-story room. There was a drawbridge that had been raised, from the other side; if she hadn’t stopped at the opening she’d have simply fallen to the floor a story below. That bridge was undoubtedly the crashing sound she had heard. She was going to have to find a way around to the other side from below, and she didn’t relish the idea of dropping down a level. There was no help for it, though. After what seemed like an eternity of looping around the lower level, dispatching more skeevers and an unarmed man who punched incredibly hard, Dag found the stairs up. The raised bridge blocked all obvious access to this room, save the stairs, and anyone trying to use them would have had to make it through the unarmed man to get there. It was a pretty safe spot for an organization that didn’t want unexpected visitors. She lowered the bridge, then looked around for the source of the muffled voices she heard.
In this ridiculously laid-out sewer system was another absurd entrance, a ramp leading down half a level or so to a door with the tiniest slivers of light oozing out from around its edges. She eased it open just enough to slip in silently and close it again, and blinked.
This was a dreary place, dimly-lit, dirty, full of randomly-piled barrels and crates layered with dust, surrounding a pool of stagnant water into which condensation from the stones above dripped at irregular intervals. Alcoves around the pool were largely empty and full of dirt and cobwebs. A few random planks led over the pool to a beaten-down echo of the circular boardwalks at street level.
At the far side of the area from Dag was a sign, behind which she could just see a bar with several people hovering around it. It had to be the Ragged Flagon. How appealing. Dag crossed over to the boardwalk and moved as quietly as she could to just behind the sign, then listened.
“Give it up, Brynjolf. Those days are over,” said the bartender, whose face she could see from her vantage point. He was fairly young, and not at all bad looking.
“I’m telling you, this one is … different,” she heard Brynjolf say, in a tone she hadn’t heard him use before. He sounded thoughtful, maybe even genuine.
A gravelly voice answered. “We’ve all heard that one before, Bryn. Quit kidding yourself.”
“It’s time to face the truth, old friend,” the bartender added. “You, Vex, Mercer, you’re all part of a dying breed. Things are changing.”
Dag edged out from behind the sign, to find that an older Breton man with a shaved head, seated quietly at a table near the bar, was sizing her up. So much for stealth. Near him, leaning up against one of the supports with her arms crossed, was a gorgeous blonde Imperial who looked like she could knife Dag in the back without changing her current position. Both of them were dressed in full, dark leathers with multitudes of pouches and pockets. Neither of them said a word, nor did they take their eyes off her.
Brynjolf was standing by the bar. He had ditched the green robe and was wearing the same leathers. Ah, now here is the real Red, she thought. The armor suited him like a second skin, much more natural than the gentleman’s outfit. He hadn’t looked at her yet, and she hadn’t made a sound; but he backed up a step from the barstools and spoke. “Dying breed, eh? Well what do you call that, then?”
That is damned uncanny, Dag thought. He senses when people are near him. And he’s a lot better at it than I am, the ass. All eyes in the room turned to her.
Brynjolf turned and sauntered toward her as she moved farther into the room, his gaze surprisingly open. He almost – not quite, but almost – looked welcoming.
“Well, well,” he said, drawing out the second word. “Color me impressed, lass. I wasn’t certain I’d ever see you again.”
“Getting here was easy,” she lied. “If I hadn’t looked like someone who didn’t give a horker’s ass any more I would have been killed” would have been the accurate answer, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing it. She wrinkled her nose. “But I don’t know why I bothered. This place is a mess. Don’t any of you people own a broom? Besides him?” she said, pointing at the bartender, who was busy with his. The bar was neat and clean, she had to give him that much.
Brynjolf’s face froze into a sneer, and any sign of interest he’d had vanished from his eyes. “If you were looking for a palace, maybe you’re not cut out for this line of work,” he said, his voice venomous. “Our methods involve secrecy and discretion.” Behind him, Dag could see the other men in the room smirking at her.
Oh please, she thought, nodding. “Of course. And everyone knows that you absolutely can’t have secrecy and discretion without cobwebs, stench, and grunge. It’s a requirement. I get it.” Dag was pushing it, and she knew it, but she couldn’t help herself. The men behind Brynjolf dropped their smirks and looked uncomfortable. On the other hand, while she wasn’t positive she thought she saw the corner of the old Breton’s mouth twitch the slightest bit. So maybe someone in this godsforsaken hole had a sense of humor?
Nobody was laughing, though. In fact, it felt like they were collectively holding their breath. It dawned on her; they were waiting for Brynjolf to react. He didn’t just “represent” the organization; either he ran it or was near the top of it. It figured. Persuasion was a great skill to have when people reported to you. And she had just challenged him in front of his people. Dag fought not to visibly swallow the knot that seemed to be rising into her throat. Good job, me.
Brynjolf took a deep breath, glaring at her. So, she thought, he has a temper, not just an ego. Either he’s going to deck me right now or he’s going to tell me off and get my temper going. Fifty-fifty, and not a winning proposition for either of us.
After a moment he exhaled. “How about doing a little business for us?” he asked, as though nothing had happened at all. She was surprised, and impressed. He had wanted to smack her, she felt sure of it, but he hadn’t. Not everyone was capable of such self-control, at least among the men she knew. “Some of the local merchants owe our organization some serious coin and refuse to pay. I want you to explain to them the error of their ways.”
You are not a nice man, Red, she thought. I’m to be your enforcer now? Why a skinny Redguard and not one of these big boys around you? She also, unfortunately, could feel her coin purse where it rested against her body and knew it was much thinner than it had been before she’d rented that room for a second night. She had to at least find out what she might gain from this arrangement.
“Ok, so fill me in.”
He relaxed just a bit. “Honestly, the coin is secondary. I just want you to get the message across. Of course, you’ll get a cut; we take care of our own.” Our own, was it now, she thought with annoyance. Really? Did he think he owned her?
Dag’s blood suddenly froze as though one of those nasty spiders had hit her full-on with a gob of venom. Of course he owned her, and she was an idiot. He’d gotten her to do a shill job with him; he’d told her more about his Guild than anyone on the street should know, and he’d brought her to their headquarters. They couldn’t very well just let her walk off like this had been a social call. Her brain shrieked. How in the world did I let myself fall for this? I got conned, by someone I already knew was a con man. This wasn’t just an imposing but annoying man standing before her, but a very dangerous one.
She prayed that her face wasn’t revealing her thoughts.
Brynjolf walked back over to the bar and motioned for her to take a seat at his left, while everyone else in the room went back to their business. He pushed a few coins onto the bar and said, “Vekel, please,” nodding at the man behind it, who drew two flagons of mead. Dag hesitated, but the mead helped clear the knot from her throat, and she was grateful for that because, somehow, his proximity was unnerving. He managed to loom, even while sitting on a barstool.
He explained that the three marks in question had gotten bold enough to refuse to pay what they owed. “They’re good for it,” he said, “but they’ll try to tell you otherwise. You need to do some convincing.”
Keerava, the innkeeper at the Bee and Barb, was going to be stubborn, he told her. She should talk to Talen-Jei, the waiter, about how to get to her. “They’re well acquainted, if you catch my meaning.” Dag couldn’t help but grin at that, and thought she saw a glimmer of mischief in his eye in return. Bersi Honey Hand, owner of the Pawned Prawn down by the Black-Briar Meadery, had a big ugly Dwemer vase that would convince him if she threatened to destroy it; Haelga, owner of the Bunkhouse, had a statue of the goddess Dibella that would serve the same purpose.
“Alright,” she said. “I can do this.”
He nodded, taking a swig of his mead. “Of course you can, or I wouldn’t have picked you for the job. Consider it an opportunity to demonstrate to everyone else how useful you can be. They aren’t the types to just take my word for it.”
Dag looked at him, pondering the great jagged scar running down his face, with its smaller companion just above. Whatever had done that, he’d been fortunate to survive it, and with both eyes intact. She had the sudden overwhelming urge to ask a question. “Falskaar, right?”
He looked at her, surprised. “What?”
“You’re from Falskaar?”
“Oh. The accent. You’ve got a good ear, lass. Aye, I was born in Falskaar. Came to Skyrim when I was not much more than a lad. You know the place? Not everyone does. I barely remember it myself, except for the trees. They’re like the trees here. Good for climbing, as I recall.”
Try as she might, she couldn’t picture Brynjolf as a child. And if his parents were still alive, what did they think of him now? Probably better not to know. She laughed to herself, finishing off her own mead. “If you’re asking whether I’ve ever been there, no; but I’m from Stros M’Kai. We had sailors.” He raised one eyebrow at that, and she grinned. Yes, Red, we had sailors. Imagine all you like how I meant that. “Your voice was hard not to notice out there. Even over Balimund’s hammering. Falmerblood Elixir,” she muttered, shaking her head.
“Heh,” he responded, grinning. “It brings in a bit of coin while I watch things. It’s enlightening how many people like the idea of making love like a saber cat.”
Was she crazy, or did he actually smile at her just a little bit? Did she see the slightest warming in those intense green eyes? He almost looked pleasant. She wasn’t buying it. She stood back from the bar and started away, then turned back toward him. “By the way. Not that you asked, but my name is Dagnell. Dag for short. You can call me Dagnell.”
Whatever hint of a smile he’d had vanished, replaced by a glare. She feared she would giggle like a little girl but managed to contain herself. Some day she was going to push him too far; but today was not going to be that day – at least not if she could scuttle away from the bar quickly enough.
The older man met her eye as she passed. “Talk to me when you’ve proven yourself to Brynjolf.” He didn’t miss much. It was not a warm tone, and he didn’t smile; but she thought she caught just a hint of amusement in his eyes.