Brynjolf sat at his accustomed table in the Ragged Flagon, waiting for Delvin Mallory to join him from the Cistern. He yawned hugely, unable to prevent it, and then chuckled to himself hoping nobody had seen him with his jaw wide open.
Got to get some sleep soon. I’m getting to be too old for this kind of schedule.
He’d never been quite as enchanted by another living being as he was with the tiny, feisty Qaralana, but she had made sleep a rarity since her birth. She woke them every two to three hours, demanding attention, or food, or dry clothing. He didn’t mind – she was a brand-new infant, after all – but his system found it jarring. Sayma, though, seemed to take it all in stride.
He smiled, thinking about it. He’d not seen her deal with an infant when Chip was born. He hadn’t even known she was still alive when Chip was born. This experience, therefore, was completely new to him. And even though he didn’t generally sleep much himself, he was getting even less sleep than usual and in shorter stretches. Sayma, though, seemed to be able to tuck Qara into the crook of her arm and grab a nap effortlessly, and somehow wake seemingly refreshed. She hadn’t had so much as a cranky moment since the child had been born. In fact, she’d been as peaceful and as loving as he could ever remember seeing her.
The lass is amazing. I’m a lucky man.
He rubbed his bleary eyes and tried to focus his muzzy brain. It didn’t really matter. He felt like a father. Really and truly, a father.
He loved Chip. He was proud of Chip, enjoyed seeing him growing daily; it was just that he’d not been there for the beginning, to know within himself in the core of his being that he was a father. It was obvious, though, that Chip was his son – obvious to everyone who saw him. Even Maven Black Briar had noted his presence in Riften, lifted one perfectly-sculpted eyebrow and said, “I see that you’ve been busy, Brynjolf. Don’t let fatherhood stand in the way of your business sense.”
Brynjolf frowned at the memory. Once more, the nagging idea that had been growing quietly in the back of his mind for months knocked loudly at the door of his consciousness.
Maven is getting to be a problem. It’s time we did something about it.
My ‘business sense’ says that we’re no longer losing money because a thief is siphoning it off every day, the way we were while Mercer was still alive. My ‘business sense’ says that between us, Delvin and I can make more money for this Guild than Maven ever heard of and none of us will ever have to take orders from her again.
It had all started when he’d approached her with an idea he’d had, about the potential for setting up their own business. It would take her connections at first, of course, to get a supply chain established from Elsweyr up through either Cyrodiil or Morrowind and into their hands. But if that could be done, he’d told her, he had the knowledge necessary to start them down a path that would make all of them very, very wealthy. And after all, wasn’t that what the Guild helped her accomplish? Imports and exports, the redistribution of wealth?
Maven had turned him down cold.
“I have things well under control, Brynjolf. This moment of time is crucial for me and my businesses, and therefore it is crucial to you as well. Don’t forget that.” She had paced back and forth in her Riften manor, giving him long-suffering looks now and then. “It might have been a good thing in disguise that the wretched Stormcloaks managed to win the war. I did enjoy being the Jarl – after all, I do run the hold in all but name, and always have – but it may work out better for me this way. However, it is going to require a delicate touch to adjust various operations to our best advantage. And you, my dear Guildmaster,” she had said, the sneer on her face showing how sarcastically she meant the title to be understood, “do not have a delicate touch. It is your job to do what I say, when I say it, and to provide the muscle to get things done when I tell you to. That’s all.”
Brynjolf had felt his temper rising at that. He’d put up with Maven and her orders for a great many years, without complaint, because that was the way Gallus had told him it was supposed to be, and it was the way Mercer Frey had told him that it was supposed to be. He hadn’t questioned any of it, for a very long time. Decades. And they’d gotten along reasonably well in spite of his chafing under the weight of her withering sarcasm from time to time.
But now he was the Guildmaster. And he was one of the three Nightingales, sworn to protect the conduit to Nocturnal’s power in the tangible world. He was married to another of the Trinity. And furthermore, he had spent a considerable amount of time as a Nightlord vampire, with a level of power that “Lady Maven,” as she liked to be called, could not begin to understand or appreciate. He had looked at her and imagined what it would feel like to rip into her jugular, letting her blood flow, watching her ruination at his hands. Once, it had been such a strong impulse for just a moment that he’d almost drawn back his lips into the position to allow a fanged attack – and then he’d remembered. He was human. He had no fangs or claws. All he had was his dagger and, sharp though it may have been it was not on its own enough for him to withstand Maul, and Maven’s son Heming, and the others who would come running to her assistance at a second’s notice.
The problem with having power now – much more power than Maven was aware that he had, in spite of his human status – was that he wanted his freedom as well. He wanted the Guild to prosper on its own, without having to kowtow to the whims of the brilliant but overbearing woman with whom the well of his patience had, after most of a lifetime, just about gone dry.
He’d bitten his tongue, that time, and dropped the subject, and gone back to the Cistern to supervise the business of being Maven Black Briar’s hired thugs. And he’d fumed. The Thieves Guild had a long and storied history that was more than that. He wanted it to be more than that once again.
He and Sayma had discussed Maven from early in their marriage when she was still Dagnell. Sayma had never liked Maven or the control she had over the Guild and over Brynjolf in particular. It had been a sore point between them before Dagnell left and it continued to be a point of contention now, although less of one with every day that passed. She wouldn’t necessarily be pleased with what he had in mind, but he was certain she’d approve the goal.
The lass was right about her. She needs to be taken down a peg. Several pegs. But how do we do it?
Well one thing we do is…
Loud, rapid footsteps on the wooden platforms around the Flagon interrupted his train of thought, and he looked around to see what was happening. A slightly built but fairly well-dressed young man ran up to him and stopped for a moment, holding up one finger while he caught his breath.
“What can I do for you, lad?” Brynjolf said.
“You’re Brynjolf?”
“That depends. Who are you?”
“I’ve got something for you. Your hands only.” He peered at Brynjolf and raised one eyebrow. “Assuming that you’re Brynjolf. I was told to look for a man with red hair, green eyes, and a scar. I can’t see your eyes,” he said, leaning down and squinting. “Too dark. But the rest?”
Brynjolf chuckled. “I match the description. Well yes, I am, as it happens. So what is it that you have for me?”
“A message from Windhelm. “ He handed Brynjolf a folded and sealed piece of fine parchment.
Brynjolf’s eyebrows rose. “From Windhelm, you say? Let me see.” He took the paper, broke the seal and started reading.
To Brynjolf of Riften
I understand that you had knowledge that was shared with my wife regarding the recent unpleasantness along the northern shipping lanes. Your actions had almost immediate and highly beneficial effects and for that we thank you. It has come to my attention, however, that the situation has once more deteriorated. I believe we may have mutual interests in this area and would like to speak with you in person regarding them. This would be my preferred meeting place but other arrangements could be made.
Please send a reply via my trusted courier.
Ulfric, Jarl of Windhelm
He folded the parchment up again and slipped it into his leathers. He frowned, considering what he might say to this courier.
Ulfric Stormcloak. Who would ever have imagined that he, a ratty urchin from Falskaar, would end up being summoned to discuss business with the future High King of Skyrim? He had no particular awe for that Jarl, or any other Jarl for that matter. They were all people, just like him, each of them having strengths and weaknesses of their own. But this particular Jarl had connections to his existence in ways he’d never imagined. Some of those connections would argue very strongly against his coming anywhere within arm’s reach of the man.
He thought about Roggi, and what he knew of the situation between the two of them.
Not all that long ago I was ready to go to Windhelm and tear the man apart because of what he did to Roggi. But I suppose that if Roggi was a big enough man to forgive him – at least enough to come to Riften for the man’s wedding – I can be big enough to speak to him about business.
He looked at the courier and nodded. “I’ll need to speak to a few people before I can send the answer. Why don’t you relax? Spend the night in the inn, and I’ll have a reply ready for you in the morning.”
The courier looked uncomfortable for a moment, until Brynjolf fished a handful of septims out of his pocket and handed them to him. “Here you go. My treat.”
“Thank you, sir!” The courier’s face lit up. “I’ll come to see you in the morning.” He headed immediately for the exit, no doubt looking forward to visiting Keerava’s bar before doing anything else.
Brynjolf ran a hand down his face and rubbed his chin. This development added yet another layer of complexity to what he had in mind. So the Jarl of Windhelm has concerns about shipping, does he? So do I. Maybe there is some common ground between us, after all.
He heard the familiar sounds of the false storage cabinet scraping along the floor, and looked toward Vekel’s bar in time to see a familiar figure enter from the corridor beyond. Delvin stopped to speak to Vekel, and then made his way over to Brynjolf.
“Alright, boss. I’m done now.” Delvin pulled out a chair and sat down at the table with him. “What is it that I can do for you?”
“I have a bit of a business proposition in mind, Delvin, and I want your opinion on it. But it must remain in the strictest confidence between us. Absolutely nobody else can know at this point.”
Delvin’s eyebrows arched in curiosity. “Shoot.”
Brynjolf paused for a moment. Once he broached this idea to Delvin, allowed it out of its cage, so to speak, it could never be re-caged. It was now, or never. He’d known Delvin almost his entire life. He was certain that he could trust Delvin.
But he’d been certain that he could trust Mercer Frey, as well. That hadn’t turned out so well in the long run.
“Boss?”
“Yes, Delvin. You have to understand that this is a very delicate situation and I have thought about it for a long time before bringing it to you.”
Delvin leaned forward in his chair, his eyes sparkling. “Now you’ve got me intrigued.”
“As well you should be.” Still he hesitated. What am I doing? It’s like a mutiny.
Delvin frowned. “You know me, Bryn. If I couldn’t keep my mouth shut I’d have been dead a long time ago.”
Brynjolf took a drink of his ale and smacked the tankard down onto the table. “Alright. Here’s the thing. You know that I spent some amount of time with Vitus Perdeti.”
Delvin’s eyes rolled. “Yes, how could I forget that? The two of you strutting around like you was married or something.”
Brynjolf grinned. Yeah, I guess we did, didn’t we? He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “And you know what his family was known for, in Bravil, yes?”
Delvin’s brow furrowed. “Mmm-hmm. I do indeed.”
“And you remember that stock of – goods – that I had you take care of not long after he died.”
“Yes. Get to the point, Bryn.”
Brynjolf lowered his voice even further. “What if I were to tell you that Vitus showed me how to… replicate… that particular material? Had me practice making it? Would that be a thing that would pique your interest?”
Delvin’s mouth fell open for a moment, and then shut, only to open again in a smile. His eyes opened wide for a moment and then narrowed, sparkling. “Oh yes. Oh yes indeed. If I am understanding you correctly, that is.”
“I think you are, Delvin. I assume that you sampled the material before you found buyers for the rest?”
“I did. And you weren’t kidding, Bryn; that was…” He stopped himself and chuckled. “The best. Just like you told me.” He sat back and rubbed his hands together. “Well, well. Aren’t you the clever one.”
“I’d like to think so, Delvin. But there is a small problem. Several of them, really.”
Delvin nodded. “Supply chain strikes me as the obvious one.”
“That’s the first obvious one, yes.”
Delvin stared at him, silently, working his mouth. “Well you know such things can be arranged, Bryn. But something tells me there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“Yes, it’s the big problem.”
“Sayma?”
Brynjolf chuckled. “I can see where you’d think that, Delvin. And that will be a bridge I need to cross at some point. I’m pretty sure we’ll be fine. No, she’s not the problem.”
Delvin’s expression went completely flat, and Brynjolf started to panic just a bit. Had he overestimated the depth of their friendship somehow? Was Delvin going to immediately go to Maven? And would he need to take his family and escape Riften, after all the years he’d been here? And to where? Back to Falskaar? Could he even find his way around the place after most of a lifetime away from it?
“We’ll have to be particularly careful in that case,” Delvin murmured. “Assuming we’re talking about the same … problem.”
Brynjolf released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Yes. Very much so.”
“You haven’t spoken to this person about it. Just so I’m completely clear.”
“Not in so many words. Whenever I try to broach the topic of having ideas I’m told … how to put it… we are the muscle and nothing more.”
Delvin sneered. “I don’t know about you, Bryn, but I’ve had about enough of that noise for one lifetime.”
Brynjolf grinned. “Feeling brave?”
“Well my brother knows a lot of bolt-holes if I need to use them. Solstheim’s a good place to hide.” He sat and studied Brynjolf for a few more moments.
“Profits?”
“To be divided up between the principals and the Guild. Quietly, of course. Some of our people could use a raise.”
Delvin nodded. “Manufacturing?”
“I think it could be done quietly enough right here in the Ratway, don’t you?”
Delvin snorted. “Now that we don’t have the Thalmor running around under our noses all the time, sure. At least for the time being.” He rubbed his chin. “I wonder if we can get into that safe room Mercer had under his house.”
“That would be ideal, wouldn’t it? Good. I know of one other perfect spot but it’s full of vampires, so…”
Delvin shuddered. “Then it’s not a perfect spot.” He glanced around to make sure they were well out of anyone’s earshot; but even Vekel knew better than to try to eavesdrop on a conversation between the two principals of the Guild, especially when it was well known that at least one – and maybe both – of them had close ties to the Dark Brotherhood.
“Distribution?”
Brynjolf sighed. “That’s one of the other problems. It’s a big one. You know that the EETC had some big issues awhile back.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I may or may not have dropped a hint or two about that in an ear that has access to…”
“Let me guess. Ulfric Stormcloak.”
Brynjolf grinned. “Right. I don’t know him but…”
“Roggi?”
“Um, no, that’s not the ear I used, but for a good reason. At any rate, Delvin, there was a pirate group to blame and…”
“Yeah.” Delvin looked around again and leaned closer. “Blood Horkers. And someone busted up their headquarters pretty good. So shipping’s on again and we’re good to go.”
“Not so much though. The piracy’s started up again. I think something fishy is going on and I think the fishy smell leads here.”
Delvin ran a hand over his face. “Ok, boss. If you’re right, that’s a big issue. So tell you what we’ll do. You get me a list, I’ll start shopping. In the meantime… maybe you could get ahold of that ear you were talking about.”
Brynjolf nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.” He leaned back and blew out an enormous breath. “It’s a big step and I’m more than a bit nervous about it, Delvin, but something has to be done. We’re better than that, better than a group of hired thugs.”
Delvin waved his hand around, indicating the businesses that had settled in and grown busy in the area outside the Flagon in the time since Mercer Frey’s demise. “And this proves it. We always was better than that, boss, it’s just that times were tough for awhile. Then you lot took care of Mercer and it’s been just like a miracle.”
Brynjolf smiled. Delvin still didn’t know one piece of information that he deserved to know.
“It wasn’t a miracle, Delvin. It was Nocturnal. We opened the conduit to her shortly after we took care of Mercer and that’s what’s done it.”
Delvin’s head cocked to one side. “What are you talking about, Bryn?”
Brynjolf leaned forward again and spoke quietly. “You’ve seen Karliah wearing her dark armor.”
“Yes, who hasn’t?”
“True, she does like it. It doesn’t suit me quite as well, but before she was expecting it looked awfully good on Sayma, too.”
Delvin blinked. Then he blinked again. His head cocked to the other side.
“Now wait just a bleedin’ minute, Bryn. Are you saying that you and Sayma are…”
Brynjolf grinned. “The other two Nightingales, yes. There was a lot going on right around that time, Delvin, and that was just part of it.”
“Well I’ll be. You’re just full of surprises aren’t you?” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “So speaking of surprises, how’s the baby?”
“Noisy,” Brynjolf said, chuckling. “And beautiful. I never thought I’d be looking at myself and seeing a father, Delvin. But here we are.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice again. “And that’s part of why this is important. I’ll protect the Guild as long as I live. You’re my first family. But now I have another family, too. And I don’t want all of us sitting around waiting for scraps to fall from a certain highly placed table if we can do better on our own. I’ve had enough of that. I’ve got about enough time to get things done before I’m an old man, and I intend to do it.”
Delvin grinned. “You young ones, talking about old age. You’ll never cease to make me laugh.” He rose from the table and headed back toward the Cistern. “Alright then. I’ll start working on it.”
Brynjolf waited for a few moments, trying to settle the nerves he hadn’t expected to surface, before pushing his own chair back and returning to the Cistern. He stopped by the bed he’d used there for many years to fish his other outfit – the green quilted clothing he wore in town – out of the chest where he’d left it.
After changing, he climbed up out of Riften’s lower level to take his place at his stall in the marketplace, and began reciting the spiel about Falmerblood Elixir. He was still selling it, after all this time. There were those who had bought some once, tried it, and were utterly convinced that it had worked despite its being nothing more than some goat blood mixed with water and a few benign herbs. They constituted a steady clientele and also brought new customers frequently enough that he was able to continue the scam as a cover for observing the ebb and flow of life in Riften. He’d picked up a lot of useful information that way, even though some days were spent just standing around thinking. He expected this to be one of those days. He hoped it would be.
He needed a bit of time to think, before he decided on his next steps. He needed to consider all of the potential angles involved in making a trip to Windhelm to speak with Ulfric Stormcloak. He didn’t know what Ulfric might be thinking, and he really wished he could pick Roggi’s brain before he approached the Jarl; but the fewer people who knew he was going there, the better. Most importantly, though, he wasn’t about to go anywhere or do anything without checking in with Sayma first.
We’ve been through so much. If Delvin and I get this operation going, it’s going to be hard for her to take. I don’t want her to hate me for it, but if I approach it just right…
He paused in his thoughts, remembering the long, awful day when he and Dagnell had finally aired all of their differences, when she’d been forced to acknowledge that she’d gone to Roggi first with her deepest and most painful memories, not to her husband. All of those things had been hard to learn. Getting past those moments had taken a lot of time and a lot of work.
And yet one of the things that had stood out to him about that period of time, over and above all of the other painful moments, was that Dag hated the stranglehold in which Maven Black Briar held the Guild. Surely she would support him if he’d found a way to break them free from that stranglehold. Delvin clearly liked the idea.
On the other hand, Delvin wasn’t his wife. He didn’t share children with Delvin.
Brynjolf sighed. He needed to let her know that Ulfric had called for him. She would have valuable insights about what all of it might mean. As to the rest…
Maybe she doesn’t need to know.
___
Sayma was sitting on the back porch of the house, rocking the baby in her cradle, when Brynjolf entered the protected vale where their home was situated. Iona was running around with Chip, and the two of them were giggling as though they were the same age and not several decades apart. He grinned at the sight and sat down beside Sayma.
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s fine,” Sayma said quietly. “Sleeping, finally. You did a wonderful thing by making this cradle, Bryn.” She pushed it a couple of times more and then looked over at him. “So why is it that you’re here? You’re usually working right about now.”
“I had a courier come to visit,” he said. “A special courier even, from Windhelm.”
“Windhelm? Really?”
“Yes. It seems that the Jarl would like me to visit him there.”
Sayma stared at him. “Ulfric wants to see you?”
He nodded.
“Why?”
“There’s disruption going on in the shipping. Again. He wants to talk to me about it.”
“Why you, Bryn? I didn’t even realize he knew you.”
“Because right after the war ended, his new wife was here in Riften and I suggested to her that she might want to get him to look into the state of shipping. You remember. The Blood Horkers were interrupting everything that the East Empire Trading Company tried to move. Bad for them, bad for us. Bad for everyone, really. It turns out that Frina was behind routing them out of their hidey-hole and opening up the supply chain for everyone again.”
“That’s good, then!”
“Aye. The problem is that the pirates seem to be starting up again and for whatever reason, Ulfric seems to think I’m a person to talk to about it. So his courier is waiting for me at the Bee & Barb. He wants an answer.”
Sayma frowned. “I don’t see any problem with you going to Windhelm.”
“No?”
“No. I’m fine here. Iona’s with me, Karliah’s been checking in. If push comes to shove we can have her fetch one of the others, though I’d rather not; the fewer of them know the way in here the better.”
“I agree. So why are you frowning?”
Sayma hesitated for a moment, as if putting all of her thoughts together carefully and testing them out before airing them. She nodded, after a moment, and looked him in the eye.
“Because, Bryn, the whole thing smells of Maven Black Briar.”
Brynjolf nodded slowly. “I see that we’re both thinking along the same lines.”
“Even with as much influence as she has over the EETC, she doesn’t outright control it. But if she can disrupt it enough, she can slip more of her people into important positions. And what happens then? More gets skimmed off and funneled directly to her. And she has leverage over people in other parts of Tamriel. Important people.”
Brynjolf nodded. “Aye. It’s bad enough for her that Gulum-Ei’s skimming comes to us, not to her directly. She hates that.”
“Well, you know what I think about her influence on our operations.” Sayma looked at him for a long while, and then glanced back down at Qaralana as she squeaked. Satisfied that the baby wasn’t going to wake up, she looked back at him.
“So are you finally getting tired of her, Red?”
Brynjolf grinned. “That would make you happy, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, but I’m more interested in what’s going on to get Ulfric Stormcloak, of all people, involved at the level that he’d want to speak to you, specifically.”
“I’m not sure, lass. But I expect that he had the idea from Frina. She would know that I have access to various things here, because she’s close to Roggi, and…”
“And Roggi and Dar and Frina all fought together. Ok, that makes sense. So you’re asking permission to travel, Guildmaster?”
He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss. “Yes. I’m asking permission to travel, Listener. I don’t want to leave my beautiful wife and beautiful children alone if they aren’t willing to be left alone. We spent enough time apart.” He smiled at her. “Alright then. I’ll send the message with the courier tomorrow and make sure everything is under control before I leave.”
He settled back onto the bench and watched his children as one of them slept and the other ran about on his stubby little legs. Chip was growing so quickly; already it was hard to remember how small he’d been on that horrible day outside the Dawnstar Sanctuary. But he was a little charmer. His language was becoming clearer by the day and he was soon going to be waist-high to his father.
Am I going to be a good father? Is it even possible? Will I be able to give them any kind of example in life, after all of the things I’ve done?
He sighed loudly.
“What was that all about?” Sayma asked.
“I was thinking about being a father,” he said.
She snickered. “Not too hard to think about given the evidence before your eyes, I would hope. Seems to me you are one, whether you were ready for it or not.”
“Aye, that I am. But I want to be a good one, lass. Not like…”
“Not like your father. Or mine. I understand.”
“I don’t want Chip to be ten years old and running away from me because I’ve beaten him over a septim on the table in front of Delvin.”
“You won’t,” she said quietly.
“And how can you be so sure about that?”
“Because I saw you hold Qara right after she was born. Because I see you turn into a mass of smiles whenever you get to pick up Chip. Because, Mr. Guildmaster, I have seen your face when you were truly angry and truly unhappy, and I’ve seen it when you are at peace. And you’ve never once looked at either of these children with anything other than a peaceful expression.”
He considered that for a moment, smiling. He thought back through all the things he had been through with this woman and nodded. She was right.
“Thank you, lass.”
“For what?”
“For giving me the family I never had.”
Sayma smiled up at him. “You’re welcome, Brynjolf. For what it’s worth, I never had a family either. Not a real one. Not after I was a tiny child. This makes me feel… like a normal person. Or as normal as I can ever be, under the circumstances.”
He chuckled. “Yes, here we are the two of us and most people would just as soon lock us away. Or worse. But we have a family.”
“I love you, Red.”
“I love you too, lass. Now and forever.”
They sat and rocked Qaralana for a long while, each of them wrapped up in solitary thoughts, but both of them sharing their comfort.