The rugged Redguard man peeled his eyes open, groaned, and slowly sat up on the unfortunate construction that was supposed to pass for a bed. He glanced over at the table nearby and saw that there was bread and cheese. That would be good. When he was ready to stand up, that is. Right at the moment, his head was pounding.
Gods damn it. That was really stupid of me. I should know better than to try to pull off a job in that kind of condition. Wonder how long I’ve been out this time?
He was in the Riften Jail, upper level, sitting in a cell across the open balcony from the smarmy bastard who’d gotten him into this mess in the first place. He looked across the jail and saw the man sneering at him.
Yeah, yeah. I’m not on a noble’s bed with a cushy rug underfoot, and I’m definitely not in a nice clean outfit, sipping wine and having a nice meal. You must be from money and power, friend, to have someone set you up like that even though you’re in prison. I’ve never had it that good, not in nearly fifty years of tryin’.
He was, in fact, in a set of ragged prison clothing. They’d taken his armor and weapons and put them somewhere. He was a little hazy on the details of what had happened, if he was honest about it. He’d been talking to a nervous man hanging about the entryway to the inn, who wanted someone to help him take possession of a horse he’d bought but hadn’t received. Something like that, anyway.
He reached up and rubbed his eyes, which felt like someone had been rubbing them with sand. Ugh. Probably bloodshot all to Oblivion and back. You’d think I’d know better after all these years but I don’t.
Ok, I do, but I don’t care. It’s just a pain in the ass when I end up in jail. Again.
He rubbed his forehead, trying to clear his mind. He’d come here, to the prison, to talk to that smarmy asshole about the papers for the horse, found out the man didn’t own the horse free and clear, and had agreed to look for the man’s ex-fiancé in exchange for information on how to get the horse. He had no intention of following up on that ugly bit of business, any more than the bastard had intended to hand over the horse to its buyer. That girl was as good as dead if she was found, and he wasn’t going to help anyone find her. Instead, he’d headed out to do a quick job and earn some quick septims. He’d gotten the horse ok, no problem there – led the big white stallion around the back of the lodge house to where the buyer was waiting, and turned it over. He hadn’t been a thief and a brigand for nearly half a century for nothing.
Then he’d gone back to get the papers. They were as important to the deal as the actual horse, which he thought was a bit ridiculous. It was one of those things, though; powerful people valued the labels on their things, and it seemed that this horse was important in that way as well. But he’d been drinking in the inn for several hours before all of it started and had decided, for reasons that escaped him now, that it would be a good idea to supplement that particular buzz with some of what had brought him to Riften in the first place.
“I’m an idiot,” he grumbled aloud.
“I heard that,” the man across the way called out. “And yes, you are. A stunningly perceptive observation on your part. I understand that Louis Letrush still doesn’t have his horse. And you don’t have your swords. But I still have Louis’ money. That makes you, by any measure, an idiot.”
The Redguard just glowered at him. Letrush did have the horse, just not the proof that it was a valuable stud. It wasn’t worth the effort to argue. The truth of the matter was that he had muddled his head just enough that he’d gotten sloppy and noisy trying to get into the house where the horse’s papers were. Why the guards hadn’t outright killed him was the thing that he was most confused about. They’d just dragged his ass into town, stripped him of all his goods and tossed him in this cell to dry out overnight.
Or longer.
And of course I’m sure they all enjoyed the fruits of my labor. Can’t have contraband sitting around in the prisoner’s belongings chest. Damn it.
Well, it’s not the first jail cell I’ve wriggled out of and it probably won’t be the last. Let’s see what we have here.
He heaved himself up off the cot and stretched, nodding at the guard who wandered by and gave him a suspicious look. It wasn’t anything special, the food they’d left on the table for him; but he’d had much worse, and much less at times. He knew better than to turn up his nose at food when it was offered. That’s why he still had decent mass and strength at his age in spite of being a not-quite-recovered addict.
He walked slowly around his cell while he chewed on the slightly stale bread, examining every inch of the space for anything he might use. There were some clothes in a cabinet, and he chuckled at that.
Why bother giving a guy access to clothes if you’ve slapped him in rags? Dumb.
There were the usual things. The bed was fastened tight to the floor, lighting provided not by loose torches – which could be used to start fires and create distractions – but by sconces permanently fastened to the walls. Sometimes people hired to orchestrate jailbreaks left lockpicks on the top of horizontal wall supports, or tucked behind wall hangings or even under the threadbare bedding on the cots; but he ran his hands over all those surfaces without finding anything. When he picked up what passed for a pillow, though, and tried folding it, he couldn’t. He examined it closely and discovered a lone lockpick that had been forced into the fabric. He pulled it out, grinning, and hid it in the waistband of his clothes.
Now then…
There probably wasn’t much chance of getting out through the cell unarmed, even though he could probably pick the lock. In dire circumstances, he supposed, the chair could be broken and its legs used for rude weapons, but that was a stretch, and not something he wanted to risk doing.
He finished his first circuit of the place and grabbed a slice of cheese. It was much more to the point than the bread had been, and he smiled as he started around the room again. Looking up, he noticed something he’d missed before: an odd symbol scratched into the wall stud nearest the cot. It was a circle, with a vertical line running through it and a v beneath.
I’ll be damned. A Shadow mark. I’ve heard about these but I didn’t think they were still used. Wonder what it means…
That was what drew his attention to the ring in the wall.
It was almost exactly the color of the stones surrounding it, and in the dim lighting it was easy to overlook. It might easily have just been another shadow cast by uneven construction. A slow grin broke across his face.
It means “this way to the egress,” if I’m right.
He turned to see where the guard was on his circuit and waited till he’d passed and was out of the line of sight. Then he yanked on the ring. To his utter satisfaction, a section of wall – cleverly designed so as not to reveal a nice straight line like a door – pivoted on one edge and opened into a dirt-filled, downward-sloping tunnel entering part of the storm sewer. He didn’t hesitate a second; instead, he bolted through the opening, past the shattered remnants of what had been a wooden cover to this opening.
He doused the light from the torch on the left wall, and made a quick left into what turned out to be a dead end. The floor was full of soggy dirt and discarded items washed into the sewer over the years; one of the items was a sword stuck halfway down into the muck. It was rusty and dull, but it was better than his fists; so he grabbed it and doubled back down the sewers, past the escape hatch and around two corners to where the basement area butted up against the jail once more.
There was a semicircular grate in the wall, its lower edge at just about his shoulder height. A quick peek at what he could see through it showed him everything he needed to know. This was the guard station and that chest sitting next to the grate was likely where his belongings were. After making certain that no guards were in the room at that moment, he jiggled the grate, which was not fastened well and dropped open at his touch. It was a simple matter at that stage to pick the chest’s lock open and reach inside. As he had expected, his armor was there. So were his swords. But the bag holding a dozen or so bottles of what he’d brought to Skyrim was gone.
No wonder they aren’t already after me. Probably can’t see or hear at this point. I suppose it doesn’t matter, if I think about it. Where’s the proof I made that? It could have easily been stuff I stole.
He didn’t waste time getting equipped. Someone was bound to notice he was gone; and he needed to get out of the sewers. Dressing himself could wait a few more moments.
The short corridor past the guard station ended in a flight of stairs down, past a skeever that caused him to make more noise than he’d hoped to make, but for which he was happy to have found the rusty sword. Water was flowing down the walls and into what had been a lower room, based on the moldering furniture he could barely see through the murky water. But there was pursuit, now. He could hear movements and people talking up above and behind him. He scurried away in the darkness like a skeever himself, and dropped down into the covered drainage exit that emptied directly into Lake Honrich.
The Redguard wasn’t one to care much about how clean something was, but he was grateful for the fresh water of the lake after the muddy, smelly drainage inside the sewers. He swam far enough away from the city to disappear, and then happily peeled himself out of the prison clothes and into his own wet but otherwise undamaged armor. Shaking himself off, he turned back toward the city. If he was lucky, the man he’d come to see would still be out and about. He jogged around to the eastern gate and ignored the stares of the guard posted there. If he didn’t slow down or give the man a chance to react to his presence, he’d be fine.
Of course you know me, fool. But I have business to conduct.
He made his way to the marketplace, and in the fading light saw the person he’d been looking for. He was an older Nord, tall and solidly-built, packing away some large flasks underneath one of the market stalls. As the Redguard neared, he made some further judgments about the Nord.
Older than me, but how much I can’t tell. His face says he’s had some rough times in his life; no wonder he has this side business. Something’s got him rattled right at the moment, but I can work around that.
He approached the man and cleared his throat.
“Hey, uh… you’re Brynjolf, yes?”
The Nord looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. “And who wants to know?”
“I do. The proverbial little bird told me that that there might be an opening for someone with a particular manufacturing skill set around here, and you were the guy to talk to about it.”
The Nord straightened up and stared at him, taking the same measure of him as he’d just taken of the Nord. After a few moments, he nodded.
“There might be. And yes, I’m Brynjolf. Tell you what. Find your way to the place in question and I’ll join you after I’ve had a chance to change. If you know what I’m talking about and make it there in one piece, we’ll talk more.”
“Fair enough,” the Redguard said. “Oh and just so we’re on equal footing – my name’s Coe.”
“I’ll see you later, then, Coe,” Brynjolf said, turning to leave the marketplace.
Coe rubbed his hands together. He was completely confident that he knew “the place in question” and was looking forward to showing Brynjolf what he could do. He’d spent some quality time there the previous day, before heading up to the inn to find trouble.
He trotted back across the marketplace and down the stairs to the old canal. There was a cage-type door standing open, with a wooden door beyond; this, he knew, was the way to get to a tavern called the Ragged Flagon and the small market that surrounded it. His kind of people; his kind of place. But instead of turning left past the drawbridge, toward the Flagon, he continued straight through the room with the leaky ceiling and into a round chamber with roots growing straight down from ceiling to floor. There was a chopping block there in the center, and another cage door that led further into the sewers. He hadn’t explored beyond that point except to peer down over the stairs. No, he was headed for the wooden door sunk deep into the shadowed wall, to the left of that exit.
He pushed inside the smoky room and inhaled deeply, smiling. My kind of people; my kind of place.
“Our Redguard friend is back for more, is he?” the Khajiit woman seated on the floor greeted him.
“Later, Zarashi,” Coe grinned. “Right now I’m here to wait for someone. I expect you know who.”
“If this someone has red hair and a scar, Khajiit does indeed know him. You are most welcome to wait.”
There was another Redguard there, seated at one of the small tables and surrounded by empty skooma bottles. His eyes were red and just barely open, and he was eating bread slowly, almost as though he wasn’t aware of doing so. Coe grinned at him and sat down, wishing he could join the party but wanting to be as clear-headed as possible until business was finished.
It didn’t take too long – twenty minutes, perhaps. The door opened, and Brynjolf strolled in. He’d changed into a set of dark armor – much more suitable for Riften at night, seems to me – and moved like he owned the place.
He probably does.
Brynjolf nodded to Zarashi and then stared pointedly at the other Redguard seated with Coe. Coe cleared his throat. The man finally took the hint and moved away, finding one of the empty bedrolls along the room’s periphery and flopping down onto it.
Coe chuckled, and pointed a thumb in the man’s direction. “Another satisfied customer.”
“So here you are,” Brynjolf said with a small smirk. “And therefore I expect we understand each other as far as product to be manufactured is concerned.”
“Of course,” Coe said, grinning. “I heard some of the best was coming from this area. I’d like to learn the recipe. I’m a damned good cook myself, but there’s something to be said for new horizons and I’m ready for a more settled life than I’ve been living. I’m not a youngster hauling lines on a ship anymore.”
And there’s more truth than fiction to that. Been on the move my whole life and on the run for thirty solid years. Lost my partner-in-crime at least twenty of those ago, and I’m ready to stop running. Who knows how long I’ve got left.
“You understand I need to see for myself whether you’re worth the risk and the pay,” Brynjolf said, motioning for Coe to stand. “Follow me.”
Coe nodded. If I’m not worth the risk, I’m a dead man walking. And he knows I wouldn’t have come here if I wasn’t worth it. “Another test? Well, can’t say as I blame you.”
He followed. It was back out the way he’d come in, and all the way around the canal-level boardwalk to the stairs on the canal’s north side. At the top of the stairs, Brynjolf pointed silently toward a small house leaning out over the lake. Coe nodded and followed him to the door and in. The place was well appointed, but looked disused.
Brynjolf looked around, nodded, and blew some dust off the mantle. “Nobody lives here anymore,” he said. “It’s a shame, but too many eyes saw too many people come and go for too many years.”
“Ahh,” Coe said. “One of those situations. I understand. Too bad, though; looks like a nice house. So what can I do for you?”
Brynjolf pointed to an alchemy station at the back of the room. “Time to show me what you’ve got. I learned from one of the best, back when he used to live here.” He frowned. “Damndest thing. I met someone today who claims to be his son.” He shook his head.
Ah, so that’s what has him rattled. Interesting. Realizing he’s no spring chick anymore, I guess. That throws me off sometimes, too.
“It doesn’t matter,” Brynjolf continued. “I can’t take on someone who can’t equal the quality of what I can make myself. I had help for a time but… the habit has a way of killing people, one way or another. And demand is such that I can’t do it all myself anymore. We’ve been looking for someone who can do that.”
Coe nodded. “That’s what the grapevine told me. Now before you even ask, let me reassure you. I’ve been living with this habit for forty years and it hasn’t killed me yet. Came close, back when I was a youngster, but you can see that’s not the case anymore. I value my product and I make sure I’m clear-headed when I make it.”
Brynjolf nodded. “That’s good to know. I was going to ask, if you hadn’t told me. Your eyes told me a lot about you. The man who taught me was… similarly afflicted. But never mind that. You should find supplies in the cabinet. Let’s see what you can do.”
“Yes, sir,” Coe said, grinning at him. Gods-damned bloodshot eyes. At least he understands.
It was quite a process, distilling moon sugar down to skooma. It was something he’d learned as a way to keep himself supplied, back when he’d been in danger of completely losing himself – and his life – to the habit. He’d lost enough as it was: pride, friends, wealth, and even a measure of self-respect; but he’d always been a survivor. He’d finally cleaned himself up enough to work, and was careful to be at his best whenever he was cooking, because the ingredients were too expensive, and too hard to find, to waste. He bent over the table, now, as he’d done a million times before, humming a nonsense tune to himself and giving himself over to the routine. At first he was aware of Brynjolf studying him intently. But Brynjolf did this, as well; he knew the routine. He wasn’t a distraction after the first few minutes.
At last he straightened up and stretched his back, pointing at the small bottle on the side of the bench.
“There ya go. Coe’s Special Blend. I hope it passes muster. It’s better when it’s aged a bit, but I expect you know that for yourself.”
Brynjolf smirked. “Indeed. Well. Let’s see.” He picked up the bottle and downed it. Coe watched intently. A few moments later, he had to stifle the urge to laugh as a foolish grin spread across Brynjolf’s face.
“Shor’s beard, lad!” Brynjolf said. “That’s potent.”
“Told ya.”
“Well,” Brynjolf said, clearing his throat and chuckling, “assuming I can find our way back to the office, you’re hired. This is at least as good as what I can make. Follow me. Again.”
“Alright,” Coe said. It was odd, traipsing all over the city like this, but he’d surely seen sketchier business practices in his day. And it did make sense to have a dedicated operation placed somewhere other than in a house where too many eyes had been watching for too long.
He did notice Brynjolf weaving just a tiny bit once or twice, but he had to admire how well the man held himself together in spite of what he knew was an overpowering dose of skooma coursing through his veins at the moment. They walked almost all the way to the north gate and then turned down the alley along the city walls.
“Here’s the thing about this,” Brynjolf told him. “It’s a bit of a test getting in. Traps. You’ll want to be careful. We’ve never had an off switch installed because we don’t want people just wandering in. But it’s not impossible if you just pay attention.”
“Do I want to know why there were traps?”
“Probably not.”
Coe chuckled. “Ok, then. Show me.”
They went through a darkened, slightly overgrown yard and up a set of steps to a ramp. The building was odd: it looked like the doors were all barricaded, and possibly the windows too. The only way in, as far as he could see, was the second-story door at the top of the ramp. Once they slipped inside and Brynjolf nodded to the two toughs guarding the second floor, Brynjolf led him to a bedroom.
Oh? This could be fun. Wasn’t expecting it, but you never know…
But the big Nord walked directly to a wardrobe on the far side of the room and pushed on its back panel, sliding it aside. Unsurprisingly, the space opened to a steep ladder-like staircase down.
“Up to you, once you get going, whether to have those two upstairs or not. We have guards because nobody’s living here, and they know better than to go anywhere but the second floor. We’ve… made that abundantly clear to them, over the years. Trust me, they don’t break that rule.” Coe knew better than to ask why, but expected that he could guess. By the time Brynjolf had finished speaking, they’d arrived at the lowest level of the home, a storage room with a hole deliberately punched in the wall. It led back into…
“The Ratway?”
Brynjolf grinned. “Yes. The former owner of the house had this elaborate setup created and we’ve just never changed it. Now here’s where it gets a bit tricky. Hope my reflexes still work.” He stopped for a moment and rubbed his eyes. Coe heard a rhythmic, raspy sound start up just around the corner.
In front of them were two sets of razor-sharp, crescent-shaped blades on the end of pendulums. Between those was a swinging log trap that could easily bash a man’s head in if he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“I see,” he said slowly.
“It looks worse than it is,” Brynjolf told him. “Time the first set and step into that alcove. Wait till the log is on its way back up and zip through the second set of blades. It’s not hard, but it looks bad enough to keep most unwanteds off your back.”
He led the way through, effortlessly as far as Coe could tell. He was a bit nervous, himself; but it couldn’t be much tougher than keeping your feet on a slippery deck in a bad storm, surely. And it wasn’t, really, he discovered as he faded around the corner to the right just ahead of another drop of the blades.
“Ok,” he said. “Not bad. Next?”
“Flame traps under pressure plates in the floor. Again it looks worse than it is. Only the plates with scorch marks have actual flame working. The others are all just red herrings. Follow the un-scorched path and you’re home free. Or leap across.”
“Maybe when I was twenty,” Coe grumbled.
“I know what you mean,” Brynjolf chuckled. “Once we’re past this and avoid the really obvious pressure plate in the hallway, though, it’s done.” And he led the way through, trotting down the last hallway to a wooden door. He opened it up to reveal a small, but not cramped, lab. There were double distilling tables set up, chests with supplies, and even a table with equipment including a hookah.
Gotta make sure the batch is good, I suppose. Quality sampling.
“So what do you think?” Brynjolf asked him.
Coe sat down in the single chair and looked around. “Yeah, this is a nice setup,” he said. “The only thing is getting here.”
Brynjolf rubbed his chin. “Right. The way out is close.” He showed Coe the door leading to the drop-down into the sewers. “Down there, and two doors to the right is the Ragged Flagon. It’s quicker getting out. Getting back in, though… we should be able to rig something up. Let me think about this, assuming you don’t mind running through the house a few times before it’s done.”
Coe smirked. “You did this run every day for… how long?”
Brynjolf laughed. “At first I just – well, I used to be able to jump up this exit.”
In spite of having seen most things in his life, Coe was impressed. “From down there? You jumped up? That’s quite a leap!”
“I, uh… can’t do it anymore. Yeah, I’ve been making the trip through the house for years. So what do you say?”
Coe nodded. “Tell me the details. Oh, and I’ll need to know where I should stay.”
They chatted for some time, and then Coe held out his hand to shake Brynjolf’s. “Deal. I’ll get started right away.”
Brynjolf nodded. “I thought right away that we were on the same wavelength, more or less. So, uh…” He fished into a pocket for a moment, and then tossed something through the air that Coe caught in surprise. “Keys to Honeyside. That’s the house we were in earlier. Nobody else is using it; you might as well, unless you’d rather stay here. I have a place outside the city with my wife.”
Coe smiled. “Ah. Married, are you? I wondered.”
“Yeah.” Brynjolf smiled. “Two grown children. Once you get settled in I’ll take you over to meet my wife. She’s a Redguard, too.”
Coe laughed. I thought I caught a bit of “I like Redguards” from this man. Guess I was right. And maybe something else as well. I wonder if I’m right about that, too.
Guess we’ll find out, eh?
