XI - The Thieves Guild

They spent two days laying low in Whiterun, living out of the attic in the Bannered Mare and watching out the window as Thalmor scouts paraded up and down the streets. News trickled into the bar that there had been some sort of scuffle in the Ratway in Riften – a thing people normally wouldn’t take any notice of, but they were curious at the involvement of the Thalmor. As a rule, the Altmer legion wasn’t trusted in Skyrim, and Merill and Nalimir had no problem agreeing. All Merill had to do was remember the cold bite of Armion’s blade against her eye and her hard, cold days on Markarth’s streets after their cabin was burned and Brelin murdered. They didn’t talk about the cabin much – the memory was still fresh for them both. But they often spent the empty hours of the day on the rug in their dusty attic room, Merill straightening the fletching on her arrows or carving new patterns into the arms of her bow while Nalimir sprawled on his back, flipping through books he’d coerced Delphine into letting him borrow, their quiet punctuated by stories and reminisces of when they were children in the forest.

Just having someone’s company was a comfort, Merill found. She’d convinced herself that she didn’t need anyone for those long, hard years in the city, that she was fine on her own, shutting herself off from anyone that tried to pry their way into her life. With Nalimir, she was comfortable in perfect silence, just glad for his presence – the two of them sitting together, working, was a gentle reminder of how life used to be, and she relished it.

When the Thalmor were gone from the streets and the gossip about the conflict in Riften had subsided, Nalimir deemed it safe for them to venture outside Whiterun. They trekked out onto the plains the first morning to hunt before the sun had risen, and Merill was astounded at how easily they picked up one another’s habits once again. Her dead left eye lent her ear on that side extra sharpness, and Nalimir understood her every move. She would freeze on picking up a sound to the left – a snapping branch, the whisper of fur brushing past grass – and his eyes would pinpoint the target in an instant. They worked magnificently together, their skills honed during their years apart, and returned to Whiterun in the middle of the day with a plentiful hunt of game across their shoulders.

“Well, what do you think?” Nalimir asked her, when they’d sold off their spoils and sat in the branches of the blossoming pink tree in Whiterun’s square, sharing a sweetroll they’d nicked off a cart in the market. Merill glanced up at him through the pale flowers, meeting his gaze. It was nearing the end of the year, and the flowers would soon wither and die, but today they swayed gently in the crisp breeze, their fragrance almost pungent.

“About what?” Nalimir gave her a lopsided grin.

“The Guild.”

“Oh.” She glanced down at the sticky roll in her hands. “I hadn’t thought about it in a while. Kind of more bothered with not getting gutted by Thalmor agents, yeah?”

“You ought to sort out your priorities, then,” he replied lightly. There was a pause. “I meant it, Mer. You’d do well there, and we could use the extra hands. And the cash.” She glanced down at the throngs of people spinning below them, most of them chattering about a dragon attack that had just decimated half a village a few hours’ ride from Whiterun. They were pretty sure that the tree was some sort of sacred symbol for Whiterun and they’d be scolded for climbing it, but they’d slipped high up into its branches, concealed by the thick pink flowers all around. Had they been a few years younger, Merill would have tried to convince Nalimir to help her throw bits of bread at the heads of unsuspecting market-goers.

“You really think I could do it? I mean, the shit I pulled in Markarth – that was little stuff, yeah? It was just enough to get by on. You think I could do this and get paid for it?”

“Hell, Mer, you used to steal my books from right behind my back when you got mad at me,” he told her, amused. “I dunno, it’d be something to pass the time until they find that Temple. And I need to head back there before too long anyway. Jobs lining up and all.” She paused, leaning back against her branch and staring up through the fluttering flowers at the cloud-streaked sky overhead. Not a leathery wing or fire-filled eye in sight.

“I’ll give it a try, then,” she said finally, and chanced a grin. “See if I can’t break your record.”

So it was with some trepidation mingled with excitement that she followed Nalimir through the dark, twisting passages of the Ratway days later, stepping over lowlifes and vagrants that tried to bar their way. There was an easier way in, Nalimir told her, through the graveyard behind Riften’s temple, but he imagined they should take the long way through her first time. They soon found themselves in a large, high-ceilinged stone cavern, dominated by a shallow pool of green water. Narrow walkways led around each side to the tavern itself, situated at the back of the canal. The whole place smelled damp and a bit mildewey, but Merill found she didn’t much care as she followed Nalimir around the water toward a wooden sort of dock held the tavern Brynjolf had mentioned. The stone floor here was covered with grimy fur rugs and the walls were stacked with barrels and crates and sacks, spotted by a few small tables occupied by tired-looking people.

“Evening, lad,” someone called out as Nalimir strode into the bar, tugging down his hood. “Who’s your friend?” At this question, the chatter in the bar quieted, and the people grouped around it turned to stare, their hard eyes on Merill as she hovered at Nalimir’s elbow, staring right back at a haughty-looking Imperial girl perched on a stack of barrels nearby.

“What was that you were saying, Delvin?” a familiar voice called out, and Merill spotted Brynjolf seated at a small round table with a grimy-faced, seedy-looking little man. Brynjolf was in stark contrast to the others grouped around the bar, looking positively gleeful. “‘Part of a dying breed,’ I think it was?” The man muttered something unintelligible and went back to his drink, and Brynjolf stood, waving the onlookers off.

“Go on, then, back to your swill!” he called, and they turned back to their conversations, murmuring.

“Nalimir, lad, you got her down here after all!” Brynjolf said, clapping Nalimir on the shoulder. “I was hoping I’d see you again, but I wasn’t so sure.” Merill felt her temper flare.

“You thought a couple sewer-rats would cause me problems?” she asked sharply, and Brynjolf laughed heartily, only further annoying her.

“Reliable and headstrong? You’re turning out to be quite the prize!”

“I’m nobody’s prize,” Merill snapped, and Brynjolf shook his head. She felt Nalimir’s hand on her shoulder, and forced herself to calm.

“For us you are, lass,” Brynjolf was saying. We need more people like you in our outfit. And I think you’ll do more than just fit in around here.” Merill frowned, crossing her arms.

“Word is your outfit isn’t doing well,” she said, and Brynjolf grimaced. “I take it that’s true?”

“We’ve run into a rough patch lately, but it’s nothing to be concerned about,” he told her offhandedly.

“Ah, don’t lie to her, Bryn,” Nalimir cut in.

“Tell you what,” Brynjolf tried, casting Nalimir a sharp look. “You keep making us coin and I’ll worry about everything else. Fair enough?” Merill shrugged, which Brynjolf evidently took for a positive answer. “Now if there are no more questions, how about following me so I can show you what we’re all about?” Merill nodded, and Brynjolf turned, jerking his head in a gesture for her and Nalimir to follow. They went past the staring eyes of the tavern and through a cupboard with a false back that led to a new hallway. “Watch your step, lass,” he called back as Merill followed through the cupboard. From there, Brynjolf pushed open a door and held it for her, letting Merill go first into a grand, high-ceilinged cistern, water shuttling into the pools at its base, four bridges meeting at the center to form a round platform. All around the edges people in matching armour walked, talking with one another, lounging on the beds there, rummaging in chests, cooking and doing alchemy.

“Mercer!” Brynjolf called, walking past her, and immediately everyone in the great cistern looked up as Brynjolf’s voice echoed around the stone walls. Determined not to look at them, Merill followed Brynjolf to the center platform where another man was striding up to meet them, Nalimir trailing at her elbow. “This is the one I was talking about. Nalimir’s girl.” They joined him on the platform and Merill saw he was a Breton, worn and tired-looking, with hard lines in his face and dark, untrusting eyes that he immediately turned on her.

“This better not be another waste of the Guild’s resources, Brynjolf,” he said sharply, turning his haggard eyes on 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.” Merill had a retort ready, but Nalimir cast her a sharp look that silenced her. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Clearer than Mid Year,” she said, offering him a mock salute, and the Breton’s face soured.

“Then I think it’s time we put your expertise to the test.”

“You’re not talking about Goldenglow, Mercer?” Nalimir asked quickly. “Even Vex couldn’t get in.”

“You claim she possesses an aptitude for our line of work,” Mercer shot back. “If so, let her prove it.” He turned back to Merill. “Goldenglow Estate is critically important to one of our largest clients. The owner, however, has suddenly decided to take matters into his own hands and shut us out. He needs to be taught a lesson.” I’ll teach you a lesson, Merill thought scathingly. “Brynjolf will provide you with the details.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Mercer?” Brynjolf pressed.

“Oh, yes,” Mercer muttered, fixing Merill with an appraising glare. “Since Brynjolf assures me you’ll be nothing but a benefit to us, then you’re in. Welcome to the Thieves Guild.” With that, Mercer turned on his heel and returned to the side of the cistern and vanished down a hallway.

“I think he likes me,” Merill muttered sardonically.

“Mercer’s like that with everybody,” Nalimir told her offhandedly.

“Aye, welcome to the family, lass,” Brynjolf said, clapping her on the shoulder. “I’m expecting you to make us a lot of coin, so don’t disappoint me. Talk to Delvin Mallory and Vex when you’ve got time. They know their way around this place and they’ll be able to kick some extra jobs your way. And Tonilia in the Flagon will set you up with some new armour. Nalimir here can introduce you.”

“So tell me about Goldenglow,” Merill said, keenly aware that a great many of the thieves in the cistern were watching her.

“Goldenglow Estate is a bee farm; they raise the wretched little things for honey,” Nalimir told her, his arms crossed. He looked annoyed.

“It’s owned by some smart-shit wood elf named Aringoth. No offence, of course, Nalimir,” Brynjolf added. “All you have to do is burn three of the hives and get out.”

“What’s the catch?” Merill asked critically.

“The catch is that you can’t burn the whole place to the ground,” Brynjolf explained. “The important client Mercer mentioned would be furious if you did.”

“And Mercer’ll want you to do it alone,” Nalimir told her sourly.

“Makes sense. What about Aringoth, then?”

“Maven prefers that Aringoth remains alive, but if he tries to stop you from getting the job done, kill him.” Brynjolf folded his arms. “The Guild has a lot riding on this. Don’t make me look foolish by mucking it up.”

“I’ll try not to,” Merill shot back wryly, and Brynjolf gave her a sardonic smile. “Talk to Vex when you have the time. She tried to get into Goldenglow earlier, she’ll probably be some help. And if you can clear the safe in Goldenglow, you’ll be paid extra.” He strode away, leaving Merill and Nalimir alone at the Cistern’s center.

“It’s not much,” Nalimir told her, glancing around at the grimy stone walls.

“Better than where I’ve been living the past few years,” Merill told him, gazing around. The Cistern was damp and dark and smelled sour, surely, but it was a roof and a bed. And people around its edges. That might have excited her once. She hugged her middle, frustrated with her own inability to trust. Nalimir sensed this and gave her a searching look, and she silently thanked him for not reaching out. The last thing she needed was for these hard-edged thieves to think she was weak.

Following Brynjolf’s advice, Merill returned to the Flagon, where Nalimir introduced her to Tonilia, the local fence, who handed her a set of armor and pointed her toward Vex, a pale-haired Imperial leaning on the bar. Merill approached her alone as Nalimir went to settle some business with his partner, and she fixed Merill with a heavy-lidded scowl.

“You the new recruit?” she asked, towering over Merill, and Merill nodded, meeting her cold gaze evenly. “Gather round everyone, come meet Brynjolf’s newest protégé!” Vex called in mock excitement, and a number of Thieves turned to watch, chuckling and nudging one another. “You might think you’re good at this ‘cause you’re small,” she snarled, grabbing the front of Merill’s cloak and pulling her close. “But you’d better shut your damn mouth and listen when I tell you that I’m the best infiltrator in this dump, and some ugly one-eyed bitch that’s never seen a sewer before isn’t going to change that.” As much as she knew she shouldn’t, Merill shoved Vex sharply away from her, causing a stir amongst the onlookers.

“I’m not here to take orders from you,” she snarled, her fingers curling into a fist, the dragon blood roaring and clawing to escape inside her. Someone catcalled.

“You little cunt –” Vex started, but someone lurched forward and pulled her away.

“Let’s not go scaring off every newblood that comes in here Vex,” the heavyset Nord told her, and Vex whirled around and slapped him.

“The next time you lay a hand on me, Dirge, I’ll cut it off along with your stubby cock.” The onlookers tittered as Vex shoved past Merill and disappeared into the cupboard entrance to the cistern.

“Don’t mind Vex,” the big man called Dirge told her, chuckling as he rubbed his cheek where she’d slapped him. “She’s got a bit of a temper.”

“So have I,” Merill snapped in retaliation, and the thieves around the bar laughed alongside him.

“Then she’ll try to make life hell for you. But just ignore her. She knows that if she lays a hand on a good recruit Mercer’ll have her doing petty jobs for the next four years.”

“We’re not all that hard-shelled around here, though most of us pretend to be,” someone behind her said, and Merill realized a number of the thieves that had been in the cistern had filtered out into the bar.

“It’s been too long since we had someone new around here,” someone said, and there was a murmur of agreement as someone passed Merill a drink and offered her a chair. And despite the dank, gloomy atmosphere of the cistern, Merill began to ease as she listened to their stories, carefully avoiding their own questions about her life. Her guard was up, but she tried to coax it down, if only for a time. Someone told her that Vex had gotten into Goldenglow through a sewer system, since Vex wasn’t likely to tell Merill herself, and someone else mentioned that Aringoth had hired mercenaries to guard the bee farm. Delvin Mallory, the seedy little man Brynjolf had been speaking with, slipped her a chart of guild Shadowmarks, etchings made by fellow thieves outside shops and houses to indicate whether or not there was loot inside.

“Why would Mercer give me the Goldenglow job if the guild’s best infiltrator couldn’t get in?” Merill asked after a time.

“Because he’s testing you,” a familiar voice from the back of the group said, and the gathered thieves turned in their seats to see Mercer there, his hands on his hips. He strode forward, irritation in his eyes. “If you’re really as good as Brynjolf and Nalimir say you are you’ll be able to do even what Vex couldn’t. And I don’t like people questioning my orders,” he added sharply. “The rest of you,” he snapped, his voice echoing along the walls. “Get your asses back to work!” There was a lot of muttering and scraping of chairs on stone as everyone set down their tankards and stood, and Mercer caught Merill’s arm and pulled her close. “I’ve got my eye on you,” he whispered sharply before shoving her away and turning to vanish back into the cistern.