By the time Dagnell got to Bersi Honey Hand, she found that word of her activities had already spread in just those few hours. He’d practically fallen over himself in his eagerness to turn his money over, along with his regards to Brynjolf, without a hint of a problem. It was truly amusing. She hadn’t needed to so much as crack her knuckles to get the jobs done, but in the rumors that had spread almost instantaneously she was bigger and badder than she’d ever hoped to be.
The information Brynjolf had given her had been the key. Talen-Jei was visibly afraid of Brynjolf, and worried for Keerava’s safety. He couldn’t bear the thought of someone getting hurt. He had told her to mention Keerava’s family, who lived not far across the border. Just saying “maybe I should visit that farm in Morrowind,” had resulted in Keerava’s handing her the money owed with a chastened “you can tell Brynjolf that he won’t have any more trouble from me. And it was all just a mistake. I didn’t mean to tell him to jump off the pier.” That had made Dag want to laugh aloud; she could just imagine Brynjolf’s face after hearing that crack. It was clear that he didn’t like not being taken seriously.
Haelga had been the toughest nut to crack; at first she flatly refused to pay up. Dag hadn’t threatened violence; she had simply walked around the corner into the next room, picked up the gaudy yellow statue of Dibella, returned to Haelga and calmly asked “so you won’t mind if I drop this statue down a well?” Haelga had practically panicked, and had turned over the funds almost before Dag had the statue back on its shelf.
Haelga was probably not going to be one of her closest friends.
She should have felt bad about it, but she didn’t. She’d had a brief conversation with Haelga’s niece, who did the dirty work around the “bunkhouse” and hated it and her aunt. It seemed that Haelga took her devotion to Dibella’s arts of love very seriously, sleeping with as many men as she could. Dag wasn’t a prude, but Haelga was hardly an innocent victim.
On her way back to the Ragged Flagon Dag pondered the tasks she’d just done. They hadn’t been difficult. Brynjolf clearly intimidated all of these people. Why had he been having trouble collecting on what was, in the end, a fairly small amount of coin? He could easily have done what she’d just done, and likely more easily than she had. It made no sense. Unless it was just another little test, or some kind of payback for her being a smart mouth. That had to be it. Except – she remembered Brand-Shei’s sarcastic “what is it this time, Brynjolf?” Maybe his influence was waning. Still, she was hardly an imposing figure. Maybe it would all make sense at some point.
Brynjolf was exactly where she had left him, and she had to wonder how much he’d had to drink in the intervening time. Honestly, man, she thought. How are you still sitting upright on that stool? And they made a big deal about Roggi. No wonder the Guild had no money if this was how they spent their time. Or maybe they just drank so they wouldn’t smell the place. She slid back onto the stool beside him, to find him almost smiling. Apparently news had travelled fast.
“So the job’s done and you even brought back the coin,” he said, his gaze resting on the flagon in front of him. She had to use both hands to maneuver those heavy flagons; just one of his wrapped almost completely around it. “Best of all, you kept your blade clean. I like that,” he purred.
Dag suddenly felt very warm.
By the Eight, Dag thought, surprised at her own reaction. She had to give the man credit. He could be desperately unpleasant but that was one damned seductive voice. She would wager he knew how to use it to his advantage, as well. He was old enough to have had lots and lots of practice.
He took a deep drink. “Larceny’s in your blood,” he continued. “The telltale sign of a practiced thief. Well done.”
Dagnell said nothing. Sure, she had learned from a young age how to take what she needed. She’d had to. She wasn’t a practiced thief, or at least not purposefully so; she was a survivor. But she didn’t dare argue with Brynjolf after the way she’d pushed him earlier. Like it or not, Brynjolf made her very uneasy. Not afraid, not necessarily, but definitely uneasy. It seemed important not to push limits any farther at the moment.
“Judging by how well you handled yourself with the shopkeepers, I’d say you’ve done more than simply prove yourself. We could use more people like you in our outfit. How about you come with me and I’ll show you what we’re all about.” He started to rise from the barstool.
“There’s just one thing,” she said.
Brynjolf quirked an eyebrow at her. “What’s on your mind?”
“Word is that you’re not doing so well down here.”
His face hardened a little. He’s hiding something, she thought.
“It’s nothing to worry about, just a rough patch. Tell you what. You keep making us coin, and I’ll worry about everything else. Fair enough?”
Dag did not like being patronized. She wanted to belt him, yet again, but managed to contain both her fist and her tongue. “Fair enough,” she grumbled. After all, he was more or less in charge, and he was entitled to have his people follow instructions. Taking a deep breath, exhaling, and wishing she didn’t have quite such a short fuse, she slid off the barstool and followed Brynjolf toward one of the alcoves that surrounded the Flagon’s central pool.
He told her they were heading to the Guild’s actual headquarters, the Cistern – an appealing name if she’d ever heard one – to show her the operation and to meet the Guildmaster, Mercer Frey. She was surprised to hear the amount of genuine respect in his voice when he mentioned the Guildmaster. After seeing how naturally everyone else deferred to Brynjolf, the idea of his doing the same toward someone else was intriguing. She was prepared to be impressed. “Let me show you our operation,” he had said, “and then you can ask your questions.” So she just nodded and told herself that he was just doing his job.
At the back of the alcove, Brynjolf turned to fiddle with what looked like an odd storage cabinet. It swung open to reveal a passage; he disappeared around the corner to the left and she followed suit. She couldn’t help but notice as he walked that the tight Guild leathers suited him especially well from the back. He was nicely put together. The bastard probably knows it, too, she thought, grinning in spite of herself. She couldn’t possibly be the only one down here who had noticed.
They went through a door into a large, round chamber. It was damp from the pool of water in the center of the room and the weeping, ancient stones above, and it smelled stale, musty, and dank. There were threadbare beds placed in niches along the walls, their covers’ most recent laundering of indeterminate vintage. Everything else in the area – tables, chests, bookshelves – was covered by the same sticky dust as the barrels in the Ragged Flagon.
It was disgusting.
In the center of the Cistern, over the pool of water, was a circular stone platform with ramps in the cardinal directions leading to it, light shining down from an opening in the ceiling. On the platform stood a wiry, graying, utterly unremarkable Breton in black leathers.
Brynjolf led her to the center of the room. “This is Mercer Frey, our Guildmaster,” he said, again with the same respect and admiration evident in the tone of his voice and the look on his face.
She looked the Guildmaster over, trying to take the measure of him. Mercer was shorter than Brynjolf by half a head or more. He wasn’t exactly skinny, but he in no way approached the bulk of Brynjolf or most of the other men she’d seen in the Flagon. He had a long, sharp-featured face with a distinctly unpleasant expression, and resembled nothing so much as a skeever, she decided. Dag had to fight the small shudder that threatened to erupt from her gut. Brynjolf had annoyed her from the moment she’d met him; this man, on the other hand, gave her the creeps. And she was stuck there.
“Mercer?” Brynjolf said, almost apologetically. “This is the one I was talking about, our new recruit.”
Mercer turned to look her over, without the slightest hint of a smile, his eyes wary and expressionless. Dag couldn’t tell whether he was sneering or it was just his natural expression at work. Then, without so much as addressing her, he turned toward Brynjolf.
“This had better not be another waste of the Guild’s resources, Brynjolf.” His voice was higher than Brynjolf’s, and had a nasal tone. There was something about the way he pronounced Red’s name that bothered her, stressing it in a way that felt demeaning, as though he felt compelled to put Brynjolf in his place.
Or maybe she was just imagining things because this was just such an uncomfortable, dismal place to be.
Mercer finally turned to her. “Before we continue, I want to make one thing perfectly clear. If you play by the rules, you walk away rich. You break the rules and you lose your share. No debates, no discussions. You do what we say, when we say. Do I make myself clear?”
It was the least friendly greeting she’d ever had. Even bandits who’d declared that they couldn’t wait to count out her coin had sounded more eager to make her acquaintance. Well, yeah, I get it, she thought. In spite of some of the snappier retorts that sprang to mind, she choked them all down and simply said “Certainly.” Skeever-face. Red and Skeever-face. Wow am I a lucky girl.
“Good,” he told her. “Then I think it’s time we put your expertise to the test.”
Brynjolf had been looking around the Cistern but his attention snapped back to Mercer Frey at that. “Wait a moment; you’re not talking about Goldenglow, are you? Even our little Vex couldn’t get in.” He looked honestly astonished.
She had to control the urge to roll her eyes again. Their “little” Vex? The pro thief? The one described as part of a dying breed? Please, gods, spare me from this man before I have to strangle him in his sleep.
“You claim this recruit possesses an aptitude for our line of work. If so, let her prove it,” Mercer replied. He’s up to something, Dag thought. I’m being set up.
He turned to her again. “Goldenglow Estate is critically important to one of our largest clients. However, the owner has suddenly decided to take matters into his own hands and shut us out. He needs to be taught a lesson. Brynjolf will provide you with the details.” He started to turn away, the conversation obviously at an end as far as he was concerned.
“Aren’t you forgetting something, Mercer?” Brynjolf said.
He stopped. “Hmm? Oh, yes,” he said grudgingly, looking her over again. “Since Brynjolf assures me you’ll be nothing but a benefit to us, then you’re in. Welcome to the Thieves Guild.”
Dagnell stood for a moment, marveling at her own ineptitude. How had she managed to get herself into this situation? She looked at Brynjolf and tried to suppress a grimace. It’s Red’s fault, she thought. He annoyed me so much that I had to show him that I could handle myself. On the other hand, he obviously had been selling her skills to the Guildmaster, so that was something to consider. Then she sighed. Really, what else did she have to do, where else did she have to be? She would give it a try. She knew how to disappear if necessary.
“Welcome to the family, lass,” Brynjolf said. “I’m expecting you to make us a lot of coin. So don’t disappoint me.”
Dag ground her teeth. Family, indeed. What an annoying man, and what a ridiculous situation.