Sabjorn was a perfectly obnoxious man, a Nord with a built-in sneer and an oily voice. He looked down his nose at them when they walked into the meadery the following morning, even though he was clearly distressed by the dead skeevers bleeding on the floor in front of his bar. “Isn’t it obvious?” he growled when Dag asked what was wrong. “I’m supposed to be hosting a tasting of my new blend for the captain of the guard, and he will be here at any moment. I need to clean up this mess before he gets here, or my reputation will be ruined.”
Dag looked at him, standing there in a filthy apron and looking as though he hadn’t bathed recently, and wondered what sort of grand reputation someone like him might have. “Maybe I could help,” she offered, trying hard to sound as though she’d just had the idea that moment.
“Well I don’t suppose you’d do it for free, would you,” he whined.
“No, not really,” she said shaking her head. “Pay up front. It’s the only way I work.”
“I’ll pay you when the job’s done.”
“Now, or I start yelling ‘skeever.’” Sabjorn cringed. This is actually kind of fun, Dag thought. Even better than watching Brynjolf fight to control his temper.
“Now, now, let’s not do anything hasty,” Sabjorn stammered. “I’ll pay you half now. I got some poison for the pests. I was going to have my lazy, good for nothing assistant Mallus take care of it, but he seems to have gone missing. Here’s what you’ll need. Don’t come back until every last one of those vermin is dead.” He handed Dag the poison and a satisfying amount of coin. “Now hurry up. I need to take care of this mess.”
Roggi followed Dag into the adjoining room, where they found the door to the basement. There were bloodied bear traps and skeever carcasses near the door.
“This is why we came all the way to Whiterun? To get rid of some skeevers?” Roggi asked, puzzled.
“Yes. As you heard, this guy is hosting the captain of the guard for a tasting in just a little while, and the success of the event is crucial to the person back in Riften who hired me. We’ll be paid a really good sum. I didn’t question why it had to be me and not somebody local; I just need the money.” That all was true enough, Dag thought, even if it wasn’t the entirety of the story. There was no need to tell him in what way it was crucial. She was positive that Roggi would not approve.
It didn’t take long before Dag was once again thankful to have Roggi at her side. The skeevers in Honningbrew’s basement were larger than the usual strains, mean and aggressive and eager to have Dag and Roggi for breakfast. Roggi’s arrows took out four of them to every two she sliced apart with her swords.
Dag entered the next area first and found herself facing more of her favorite spiders. These, however, were the smaller variety, and she had no major issues except one; just as her arrow found the last spider, there was a very human scream and a man casting a frost spell at her came rushing out from the dark end of the cave. Dag was good in a swordfight but not so good against magic and especially not frost magic; she drew her swords but her limbs didn’t want to respond. “Help!” she cried, trying her best to swing at the mage and missing wildly.
Roggi barreled ahead with his greatsword high, and brought it down onto the man’s shoulder with the same efficient slice she’d seen him practice at Oengul’s smithy. It divided the man’s upper body in two. He dropped like a rock, bleeding out into the dirt. “That’s how a true Nord fights,” Roggi growled at the corpse, then turned to her. “Are you all right?”
“No,” Dag moaned, shivering, trying to rub life back into her arms. “Yes. Honestly, if you hadn’t been here I’d be dead right now. Thank you. I’m so bad with cold. It’s embarrassing.”
“That was some skeever,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “Sabjorn didn’t mention him.”
And neither did Mallus, Dag thought. I shall have to discuss that with him later.
Nearby the spot where the mage had been camped out they found the nests, which she poisoned; there wouldn’t be more baby skeevers there again any time soon. It made Dag’s stomach turn to think of him living with, and so close to, the skeevers; she had to wonder whether he’d been breeding them. At least the legitimate part of the job was complete, and Dag hoped Mallus would adequately appreciate that fact. With money.
They worked their way up into the boiler room. Dag scanned it quickly and saw that the only access to the vats was upstairs. She couldn’t very well let Roggi watch her poison the mead. “Um, how about you check around down here and see if there are any other skeevers or signs of nests? I’ll go up top and do the same.”
“Sure thing.”
Dag scurried up the steps to the platform that ringed the building, then around to where ingredients could be dumped into the vats. It was simple to slide the covers aside just enough to drop poison into them, and not so simple to replace them quietly; but she managed to do it by yelling “it’s clean up here, how does it look below?” to cover the sound of the heavy lids clunking back into place.
“All clear down here. I think we’re done,” Roggi responded.
The external door was locked, as Mallus had said it would be, but the key was hanging next to the door. They let themselves out and replaced the key before closing the door behind them, then returned to the bar.
Sabjorn was wringing his hands nervously while a man in Whiterun guard armor looked about in the public areas, which were now clean and tidy. Mallus had returned while they had been exterminating skeevers, and was standing out of the way near the door. She looked at him and gave him a slight nod, then walked over to Sabjorn.
“It took you long enough,” he whined at her.
“Well the job’s done,” she said. “How about the rest of my pay?”
“You’ll just have to wait,” Sabjorn said dismissively. “I suppose you can stay until the tasting is over, if you simply must.”
“I simply must,” she agreed, frowning at him but laughing inside. You’re a nasty girl, the sarcastic little voice in the back of her mind observed. Yeah, yeah, she told herself. Brynjolf knows what he sees, and he saw me. I get it.
Sabjorn was perfectly obsequious to the Captain. “Welcome. Now, it’s time for the tasting. I like to call this ‘Honningbrew Reserve.’ I think it’s our finest blend to date.”
The Captain snorted. “Come now. This is mead, not some wine to be sipped and savored.” He drew himself a deep flagon of it, then downed it in one go.
An endless moment passed, while Sabjorn, Mallus, and Dag held their breath in agonized anticipation.
The Captain turned pale, almost green. “What,” he gulped, nearly retching, “is the meaning of this?”
Sabjorn blanched. “I don’t understand. What’s the matter?”
The Captain clearly didn’t feel well at that moment. “I should have known better than to trust this filth-ridden place. I’ll see you in the dungeons for the rest of your days!” He stifled a belch and his hue changed for the worse a second time. He walked slowly over to Mallus, glancing briefly at Dag as he passed. “You. You’re in charge here until we get to the bottom of this.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Mallus murmured, nodding in acquiescence.
“Get moving!” the Captain barked at Sabjorn, pulling his sword. “You’re coming with me. We’ll see what your story is after you spend some time in the Dragonsreach prison.” Sabjorn protested and stammered, but finally put his head down and shuffled out the door with the Captain, struggling to keep from heaving, at his back.
Mallus approached Dagnell. “I don’t think that could have gone any better,” he said, handing her a bag of coin.
“Yes, aside from the madman in the basement, it was easy. You’ll have to clean that up yourself, by the way.” She liked the feel of the coin purse, but she wanted to see Mallus squirm a bit anyway.
Mallus at least had the good sense to look embarrassed. “I thought it best to keep some of the details to myself. I didn’t want you to quit the job.”
“Of course,” Dag said, frowning, and purposefully adjusting her swords. “I’ll try to remember not to share that little detail with our — mutual friend.” Or maybe I will, Mallus. Do I make you sufficiently uncomfortable?
Mallus smiled nervously. “Now, is there anything else you need before you return to Riften?”
“Yes. I need to get a look at Sabjorn’s papers.”
“Ah, I see,” he said. “She wants to find out who Sabjorn’s secret partner was. Here’s the key to his desk upstairs. Take all the time you need. And,” he added, dropping his voice so that only she could hear him, “if you ever need anything fenced while you’re in Whiterun, look me up. Pass along a good word to Maven for me, ok?”
“Sure, Mallus,” Dag said, glad that they’d soon be putting distance between themselves and this unpleasant man. “Would you mind setting my friend up with a mead? Assuming you have some put aside that doesn’t have poison in it? It would be the least you could do. If not for him I’d be dead and you’d still have Sabjorn to deal with.”
“Of course.” Mallus turned away to speak to Roggi, and Dag went to the second floor of the adjoining room.
Sabjorn’s bedroom had a few baubles and coins in it that found new homes in Dag’s pockets. His desk held some papers, including one marked “Promissory Note.” It read: “Sabjorn, within the enclosed crate you’ll find the final payment. As we discussed, Honningbrew Meadery should now begin brewing mead at full production.” The writer also promised to keep Maven and her “assets” at bay, which made Dag chuckle. The signature, though, was not a name, but the same odd symbol that had been on the Goldenglow Estate bill of sale.
Dag nearly turned to leave, but noticed a door at the back of the room. Jiggling the door handles, she found it locked. It’s a perfect time to put these gloves to another test, she thought, smiling, and set to picking the lock. This time she broke three picks before it opened, but the fourth was the charm. This small back dressing room held, in addition to the mundane clothing and books one would expect to find, some jewelry, several very fat coin purses, and a shiny golden decanter that seemed just the type of gaudy trinket Delvin might be interested in. Grinning, she slipped it into a pouch and made her way back to the front.
“Thanks, Mallus,” she said, heading for the door. “Found what I needed. Let’s head back to town, Roggi.”
He smiled at her. “Sure thing. Good luck with Honningbrew,” he said to Mallus, waving as they walked through the door.
Dag heaved a great sigh once they were out in the fresh air and walking back toward Whiterun. “I’m glad that’s over. I’ll be happy if I never see another skeever up close. Look, I have a bunch of coin to split with you. I wasn’t expecting to get paid until we got back to Riften, but I think this will make the trip worth all of the bother.”
Roggi smiled at her. “It’s ok. I’ve enjoyed it so far. Good company and all. But I won’t pass up the coin. Why don’t you hang onto it until we get you back to Riften in one piece?”
Dag chuckled. “Thanks, Roggi. I have, too. I think we should treat ourselves to another night at the inn before we head back. Oh, and don’t feel as though you have to sleep in your armor. Really. I won’t bite and I promise I won’t try to take advantage of you.” The little sarcastic voice in Dag’s head snorted. Yeah, right. You know you want to try. Dag ignored it. “Besides, I liked being warm for a change,” she teased him.
Roggi blushed.
“All right,” he agreed. “That’s what we’ll do.”