Chapter 5: Among Thieves
26th of Hearthfire, 4E 201 | 4:45 p.m. | About four miles south of Whiterun
As it turned out, getting to the Greybeards took more time than the Greybeards themselves. They were probably used to it taking on the order of a year or two to teach a Shout, rather than a matter of minutes. He’d stayed a day to practice and get used to the new Shouts they had taught him—the second word of the Unrelenting Force shout that Fus had begun, and the first word, Wuld, in Whirlwind Sprint.
The Greybeards had asked him to retrieve the horn of Jurgen Windcaller from a ruin called Ustengrav, in Hjaalmarch. Hjaalmarch, where his brother sat brooding miserably, shackled in an Imperial fortress. Sjadbek would have to be sure to bring him a bottle of mead when he liberated him from the fort. Talos knew he deserved it.
The fastest way to Ustengrav was to go southward from Ivarstead around through Riverwood and Whiterun north into Hjaalmarch—to take the road through Valtheim would have necessitated either a swim through Lake Geir (which Burdnar, used to wearing heavy mercenary armor, did not particularly fancy) or a long trip back east to where the roads met up, halfway to Riften.
Not to mention they had to visit Riverwood and Whiterun anyway. Ralof’s sister Gerdur and her husband Hod had been very pleased to hear that Ralof had managed to make it out of Helgen, and happily sheltered the two Stormcloak sympathizers even though they had warned it could cause trouble—“Nonsense. I’m glad to help the sons of Skyrim however I can.”
She had warned them that it might not be the best idea to traipse around Whiterun in full Stormcloak gear—officially the city was neutral, hence Ulfric’s adamance that Whiterun pick a side—but the problems they’d face would likely be more brawls and fistfights from Imperial sympathizers. Fortunately, the Stormcloak cuirass itself was detachable from the chain mail by design, so they simply elected to put on ordinary tunics and wear the mail itself over them.
As they walked, a sabre cat leapt out of the bushes on the side of the road, but it didn’t seem to be targeting Sjadbek and Burdnar, but rather someone or something further up the road than them. Not knowing if it was animal, friend, or foe, they rushed ahead to see what was going on. If an animal, free lunch; if a friend, they’d likely saved their lives; if a foe, well—they could always kill them anyway, though so close to Whiterun it probably would be a bad idea. Still, it would dishonor them as sons of Skyrim not to try to help out, so they did.
It turned out to be a relatively corpulent Nord man of about forty years of age fighting alongside a horse and cart under attack from a sabre cat. A freshly-killed human corpse lay close-by, the ineffective bodyguard being the feline’s first victim. It seemed likely that he would be the second, absent the two Stormcloaks’ interference. Sjadbek went up and sliced the sabre cat’s tail off, turning its ire toward him and away from the man—the Dragonborn was more well equipped to deal with such monstrosities of nature anyway. A short but bloody battle ensued, with a large gash forming on Sjadbek’s right thigh.
“Hey, Burdnar,” he laughed, “you want sabre cat tonight?”
Burdnar gave an exasperated look at his shield-brother as the fat man began to speak to them. “Very much appreciated. Didn’t really think this dinky thing had what it would take if it took down old Morak so fast,” he said, brandishing what looked like a steel dagger. “You definitely look like sturdy warriors.”
“The best the Storm—Skyrim has to offer,” Burdnar boasted as Sjadbek gave him a sharp look.
“I know what you were about to say,” admitted the man. “Don’t worry. I’m on your side. Skirling Twice-Bruised, at your service,” he said with a bow. “Owner of several properties in Whiterun and, most importantly, the East Brittleshin corundum mines.”
“Sjadbek Steirsson, of Helgen when it was still around. Ran the butchery there, with my brother Bjaknir—but he was captured by the Legion.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Skirling responded.
“Burdnar the Brazen, toughest mercenary in all Tamriel!” the man boomed.
“There once was a hero named Ragnar the Red, who came riding to Whiterun from old—in this case, Ivarstead,” Sjadbek muttered, clearly not amused by Burdnar’s boastful antics, not at the present time. The song, while entertaining, was intended as a fable against immodesty. “Are you headed to Whiterun, too?”
“Indeed I am. Need a ride, or are you going to walk on that injured leg? I’ve got space, and as far as I’m concerned, killing that saber cat was your fee.”
“Well, I could heal up in the cart. I may as well take you up on your kind offer,” he admitted. It seemed fair enough; most Nords typically were willing to grant such hospitality—fair reward for services rendered, at the very least to their kinsmen. Rolff was a notable exception to this.
“Sjad knows magical healing,” Burdnar explained. “Comes in handy, the scrapes we get in. There is another favor, one I think you’d be in a position to grant if you’d be willing… We need an audience with the Jarl.”
“With Balgruuf? That will likely be difficult, but I’ll see what I can do.” Skirling put his finger to his chin in pensive thought as Sjadbek climbed the cart. “Hmm… there is a brand-new bounty out on some bandits camped out near at Red Snail’s Rest, only about five miles west of the city. Beat them and I’m sure the Jarl would have your ear. Get you a bit of gold, too.”
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29th of Hearthfire, 4E 201 | 9:15 a.m. | Whiterun
All things considered, Skirling seemed to Sjadbek like a decent and rather man of reasonable importance to Whiterun Hold—someone it would be useful to get to know. He told them about the two most powerful families in the realm—the Battle-Borns and Gray-Manes—and the feud between them that had arisen as a result of the Stormcloak uprising. The Jarl may have been neutral, but the citizenry was not: both Imperial and Stormcloak sentiment ran high in the town, bards were hesitant to sing either “The Age of Oppresion” or “The Age of Aggression” for fear that too many of the wrong crowd might be listening, and town guards hauling the combatants of brawls-gone-wrong to Dragonsreach Dungeon were a near-nightly sight.
The bandits at Red Snail’s Rest hadn’t been that tough to dispatch, and they’d filched some items that would likely fetch a decent price at market, or a decent reward if their owners could be located. Skirling had advised them that while Belethor’s store probably had the best stock of the general merchants in Whiterun, the owner of the store was a “sketchy, skeevy swindler; be on your guard”—the way he spoke of Belethor was almost as if he had a grudge against him, and the harshest words Sjadbek had heard leaving the Whiterun landowner’s mouth appeared to be reserved for the merchant. Still, it was worth a look, if only out of curiosity. Sjadbek thought himself decent at haggling. It was a necessary element of the butcher’s trade, but generally he priced his cuts fairly enough that little haggling was necessary.
And, in fairness, he did look rather intimidating, even for a Nord, which probably helped out a little. Having Burdnar by his side would probably help.
“Everything’s for sale, my friend! Everything! If I had a sister, I’d sell her in a second! Heh-heh,” proclaimed the Breton merchant as Sjadbek and Burdnar entered his shop. So far he wasn’t exactly doing much to dispel the rumors Skirling had mentioned about him; Sjadbek could see exactly why some of the townsfolk called him sleazy.
Belethor wanted to buy his stock of bandit-pilfered jewelry and silverware he was selling for the piddling sum of two hundred septims, but had quickly raised his offer when Sjadbek informed him that he knew, for a fact, that it would fetch him at least three hundred septims in Windhelm—“maybe 350,” and that he could probably get “at least 260, easily” at the jewelers outside in the full market.
The merchant relented, as equally persuaded by his statement as by the fact that the vendor had a rather intimidating body build and was traipsing around his shop in chain mail, and bought the goods for 275 gold and a minor stamina potion (“fifty gold fair value, I swear on Zenithar’s mother’s grave!”).
“Belethor’s not so bad,” Sjadbek commented as they left the general goods store. “If anything, I feel I swindled him.”
“Didn’t I tell you muscle bulk helped out in bartering with merchants?” Burdnar responded. “Now hurry up, we’ve got to get to the Jarl by ten.”
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4th of Frostfall, 4E 201 | Early Morning | Windhelm Jail
Sven shivered in the cold of Windhelm as he awoke from the pile of hay on which he slept, not exactly helped by the ratty rags they made him wear instead of his normal clothes. The guards wouldn’t even let him sing, claiming his “squawking was disturbing the other prisoners.” Julianos smite this frost-ridden city, Sven thought.
He’d been twice visited by Ulfric himself, slammed via his Shouts against the hard stone wall of his cell, bruised and beaten by Galmar and the guards, and had his shoulder dislocated on the rack all because he “refused” to give up information that he didn’t have, couldn’t possibly have. Whoever had planted that information had obviously been very good at both shill and forgery jobs, and the Stormcloaks had been relentless—they had to be. Bloody Thieves Guild—he had been as close to Riften as he could have been and still be in Eastmarch.
A guard walked in flanked by two particularly burly-looking Stormcloaks, one blond, one brown-haired. No, not today… he hadn’t finished healing up from the last round of punishment. “This is Sven’s cell?” the blond one said to the guard, who nodded. Were they new guards in training, maybe? There wasn’t much difference between the Windhelm guards’ outfit and the Stormcloak uniform, after all…
The blond man reached his left hand into the cell with a honey nut treat, and what for all intents and purposes looked like a bottle of mead. So this is their new tactic? Torture hasn’t worked, so now they try bribery? “I’ve already told you,” he pleaded, “I don’t know where the Eastmarch Imperial camp is, or the Winterhold one!”
“That isn’t what I’m here about, Sven,” the bribing Stormcloak informed him. “I actually have good reason to believe your ‘cover story’ is in fact the truth, though I’m not entirely certain you’re not an Imperial spy or at least an Imperial sympathizer. I have come here because I need to know the whereabouts of the Dragonstone, and I believe you know where it is.”
“Jarl Balgruuf sent me to Farengar and Farengar sent me to get it. I don’t know what he wants with it. It’s just a big hunk of stone, after all.”
“So then you’ve seen it?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said as he finally accepted the blond soldier’s treats. Got dragged all over Bleak Falls Barrow for it. Thought she’d let me bed her if I did this, since things with Camilla weren’t going so hot—”
“ ‘She’? Who’s ‘she’?”
“The Breton lady, Penelope. The stone was part of her share of the loot. She said she was going to Riften.” Sven took a swig of mead, the sweet liquid soothing his parched throat. “We hadn’t known Farengar needed it at the time.”
“Well then, Burdnar,” he said to his brunet comrade, “we’ve got to go to Riften and get it back.”
“I’m not looking forward to Riften,” Burdnar flatly declared.
“What did Riften do to you?”
“It stinks.”
“Are you a battle-hardened son of Skyrim, or a milk-drinking pansy?” Turning to Sven, the man who unbeknownst to the Riverwood bard was named Sjadbek spoke, “If we get the Dragonstone, I’ll talk with Ulfric about letting you go. He’s already agreed to hold off further torture since it appears your cover story is actually panning out. If we get the Dragonstone.”
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8th of Frostfall, 4E 201 | 3:00 p.m.| Just Outside of Riften
From the vantage point just beyond Riften’s southern exit, Maven Black-Briar could just make out the buildings of Goldenglow Estate, where a couple weeks ago fires had burned down a few of their hives—fires set on purpose to prove a point. She didn’t particularly fancy the drop in honey production the burned hives yielded in the short term, given that her own mead was just as equally dependent on honey (else it would not be called mead) but what had to be done had to be done. Aringoth had to be taught a lesson: do not try to compete with the Black-Briars.
Perhaps that Breton girl Brynjolf had recently inducted into the Guild was in fact not as much of a waste of the Guild’s resources as Mercer seemed to think. Certainly, their self-proclaimed “finest” infiltrator, Vex, couldn’t successfully infiltrate the heavily-guarded bee farm—but this Breton could. And fancy that—something Bretons actually were useful for, since they certainly weren’t useful for hauling around heavy crates.
There was still the matter of the Honningbrew Meadery. It had to go—there was no way around it. Competition in her direct business was thoroughly unacceptable; it would have defeated the purpose of a monopoly were she to allow the Honningbrew travesty to continue. On the other hand, there was no point in wasting a perfectly good meadery. Fortunately, the indentured assistant Mallus Maccius had… issues of his own with the proprietor Sabjorn, and would most certainly be willing to help.
Sabjorn could not be killed—harmed, perhaps, but not killed. It was not how the Thieves Guild operated, at any rate. For a fleeting moment she thought about contacting the Dark Brotherhood, but given the secretive agency’s lack of response regarding the more financially appealing target of the Jarl of Riften she sincerely doubted they would be at all up to the task. No, with the successful infiltration of Goldenglow, the Thieves Guild was clearly the more reliable of the clandestine guilds, and so this task should fall to them.
She cradled the stone of Barenziah in her hands, brought out from the manor for her to cherish. Someday, someday soon, I will have all of you.
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12th of Frostfall, 4E 201 | 4:30 p.m.| Riften
Bandits blocked the road to Riften. Of course bandits blocked the road to Riften; Riften was a den of thieves, vipers, thugs, and other personages of generally unpleasant nature. But what really surprised and angered the two Stormcloaks was a group of three Imperial soldiers marching a prisoner up the road just south of Shor’s Stone—here! Deep in the Rift!
Sjadbek and Burdnar were in full Stormcloak armor, of course—it was, or at least should have been, perfectly safe to wear it in this part of Skyrim, and as such were targets for the Imperials. And the Imperials, who had no rightful presence in Skyrim let alone the Rift, were of course targets for them. His blade steeled in bloody determination, Sjadbek charged forward at the Legion escorts, and screamed, “Zun!” Burdnar followed him.
The vanguard of the escort found his weapon forcibly wrenched from his hand as the Stormcloaks began to slash their swords against those who would, at least in Sjadbek’s mind, happily see Skyrim ground under the boots of the Thalmor. The prisoner is as good as Bjaknir, the Dragonborn thought. Save him. As the three Legion soldiers finally found themselves lying on the dirt, dead from bloody battle, Sjadbek took the opportunity to divest them of any gold or similar items.
What he found in the pocket of the escorts’ rear guard was a bill of sale to a Bersi Honey-Hand in Riften, of an inscribed amulet of Stendarr. The inscriptions were clearly detailed in the bill of sale, and were such that they could only have been the original property of one person.
Berdja.
If he hadn’t already had a reason to go to Riften, the retrieval of this amulet would have been enough for him. Talos willing, this Bersi was a merchant, and he could just buy it back, otherwise he’d have to figure out some way of acquiring it legitimately. This was the city of thieves, but Sjadbek, having technically been a merchant himself, wanted no part of thieves.
“Never been to Riften before, soldiers?” a tough-looking Nord heavy snarled as the two Stormcloaks entered the city itself. Burdnar had been right: Riften stank—worse than Sjadbek’s butchery cellar had ever done, even with large piles of animal carcass in it. Riften stank of its sewers and of the filth that resided inside it. “Take my advice—do what you’re here for and leave. Last thing the Black-Briars need is more of your kind coming in and stealin’ the action.”
“I will say they make good mead, though,” Sjadbek admitted, which seemed to please the thug. “You with the Black-Briars?”
“In a way. I’m Maul. Watch the streets for ‘em. If you need dirt on anything, I’m your guy, but it’ll cost you.”
Figures, Sjadbek thought. Of course information would come at a price in a den of cutpurses, swindlers, and con-men. Unfortunately, it happened to be exactly what he was here for, and Maul had specifically advised him to do just that. “Yeah, I need dirt on something,” he spoke, his Falkreath accent becoming stronger and his voice tougher as he continued conversation with the Black-Briar lackey. “Know anything about a ‘Dragonstone’?”
“I might. How much you gonna pay me for it?”
“How about I brawl you for it?” Sjadbek asked. He didn’t get into real scuffles often (without the help of swords and shouts), but he and Burdnar had taken down three Imperials, not to mention a fort full of bandits, so a simple brawl shouldn’t be a problem, right? “Fists only, no kicks, whole body’s fair game. I win, you tell me what you know about it.”
“A brawl? Heh, your funeral. Fists only, no kicking, everything from head to toe,” Maul confirmed, removing and setting aside his armor to reveal an impossibly hairy chest his tunic did a poor job of covering. “And when I win, it’ll be a Black-Briar Reserve out of your coin.”
“Fair enough,” Sjadbek said as he removed his Stormcloak cuirass and straightened the nondescript russet shirt underneath. Immediately after he did so, he found himself slammed in the gut by Maul’s right hook, and countered with a punch to his jaw. The brawl was on.
For several intense minutes the fight continued, though Maul clearly had the upper hand, much to Sjadbek’s chagrin. Bjaknir had largely shielded Sjadbek from youthful fistfighting, much of their roughhousing had been in the form of wrestling, and brawls were not wrestling matches. Punches were matched with counterpunches, feints, and dodges until Sjadbek, his stamina nearly drained, managed to pull a fist below Maul’s belt.
“Why, you weak-livered”—he threw a punch at Sjadbek’s already-split lip—“leather-bellied”—and now a punch to the left shoulder—“slime bucket. You learn to fight from an alchemist?”
“Come on, drive that pathetic sack of dragon dung to the ground!” someone called, though Sjadbek couldn’t make out who the insult was directed at. Probably him. Another last punch to the head and he crumpled to the ground in defeat. How could he have lost that?
“Get up,” Maul snarled. “A little practice, you might be able to lose a little less bad to me. Buy me my mead and then run back to whatever little milk farm you came from.”
Sjadbek staggered to his feet, clutching his ribs. So he wasn’t quite as good a brawler as he thought he was. This is going to take the whole evening to heal, he thought, before Maul spoke again. “If you still want that dirt on the Dragonstone, Stormcloak, I’ll give it to you, but it’ll cost coin this time. You got a hundred septims to spare?”
The cost was high, but he didn’t really want any more trouble from Maul, and he did need to find out where the Dragonstone was. “As you wish,” he said as he shilled out the money.
“ ‘Pathetic sack of dragon dung.’ Heh. I’m gonna have to use that. Breton woman named Penelope brought it in. But a word of caution, she’s with the Guild. Good luck finding her, and good luck getting anything from her,” Maul scoffed. “You’d better hope you’re better with a blade than you are in a brawl.”
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15th of Frostfall, 4E 201 | 11:00 a.m.| Riften | The Ratway
One hundred and seventy-five septims poorer after paying for the information and for Maul’s victory mead, Sjadbek had spent the evening of the 12th in the Bee and Barb tavern, healing up from the bloody brawl. It took just about every ounce of magical strength he had, even with the benefit of a potion of magicka and a circlet increasing magical strength he and Burdnar had pilfered from the bandits.
Note to self for future reference: avoid brawls in Riften if at all possible.
A decent chunk of the 13th was also spent healing up and resting, though Sjadbek and Burdnar did make a point to visit the Pawned Prawn, the shop owned by this merchant Bersi who had . He had seemed like a surprisingly kind man, something that appeared to be a rarity in this city—upon hearing Sjadbek’s story about Berdja, he said he sympathized, and allowed the Dragonborn to take the amulet for half the price he was willing to pay for it. Bersi had indicated he was trying to stay neutral with respect to the war, a task that became ever more difficult with each passing day—and more importantly, it was very clear that the general merchant was by no means a friend of the Thieves Guild.
But to the Ratway he had to go. The center of the blighted organization’s operations in Skyrim, the Ratway comprised the old sewers of the city and smelled, compared to Riften as a whole, about how Riften as a whole smelled compared to Windhelm. As Bersi had warned, the Guild had indeed stocked the labyrinthine warren full of thugs who weren’t good enough to join, and that had to be dispatched. Fortunately, there were no fistfights here—at least not ones where he was also agreeing to eschew weapons and shouting.
He certainly was not wearing Stormcloak colors here: In this rathole there was only one authority, and it wasn’t Ulfric, Laila, or the Emperor. It was whoever the heck ran the Thieves Guild. Chain mail and leathers would be enough down here, hopefully. After navigating the sewers, they came across a door, which a sign declared the interior to be the Ragged Flagon, the nexus of the guild. “We’d better be careful,” Burdnar muttered. “No telling what we’ll find in here.”
“What they found in there” turned out to be an extremely dinky and dark tavern, with a handful of people seated at a makeshift bar swilling Black-Briar mead. A redheaded Nord who Sjadbek thought he’d seen selling something called “Falmer Blood Elixir” on the day he came into Riften sat at a table with a surprisingly muscular Breton man (Sjadbek actually wondered if he was in fact a Breton, or just an unusually short Nord) and what appeared to be the same woman that—
“Is she the Breton they had on the block back home?” Burdnar whispered to Sjadbek, obviously having surmised the same thing, but they were interrupted by the redhead having noticed their presence.
“Never seen you two before,” he spoke in a pleasantly lilting Riften brogue. “Not many people make it through the Ratway alive. Least of all ones carrying notes of credit from the Banks of Windhelm and Whiterun.”
“How do you know about that?” Sjadbek challenged.
“Wealth is my business, lad. Had my eye on you the minute Maul pummeled you to a pulp. Certainly wasn’t expecting you down here after that, though. Word of advice, don’t mess with the Guild or you’ll find Maven Black-Briar breathing down your neck, and then a headsman’s axe falling on it.”
“Brynjolf, I don’t think they’ll be any trouble,” the Breton woman from Helgen insisted, for rather obvious reasons not wanting to continue any conversation that entailed the use of the words “headsman’s axe.” With a twinge of curiosity, she asked them, “What are you doing down here, anyway?”
“We’re looking for a stone tablet originally from Bleak Falls Barrow. A bard named Sven of Riverwood was looking for it, but he got caught around Mistwatch town carrying Imperial documents. Kept insisting they were planted on him—you wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“We got the wrong guy?” came a voice from the other side of the Flagon, a blond Cyrodilic woman Burdnar and Sjadbek had not yet noticed.
“How was I to know there was gonna be a second bard in Mistwatch inn that night?” snarled the brawny Breton thief in a much more unpleasant Riften brogue.
“I don’t think we should be discussing this with outside company present,” Brynjolf scolded.
The black-haired Breton lady agreed. “I actually do know something about that stone. Maul probably charged you a stiff price to lead you to me, especially if you were the one he beat up. Kind of surprised, actually. You look a lot stronger than that.”
“So you’re Penelope then?” Sjadbek asked. “And about that fight—I’m a bladesman, not a pugilist. In a swordfight, I’d have definitely beaten him, that’s for sure. You were at Helgen, weren’t you? About to have your head chopped off—I wasn’t sure why the Legion had you on the cart until, really, just now. You’re obviously a thief, or you wouldn’t be in the Guild.”
“I am in the Thieves Guild,” she admitted, “but that’s not why I was on the block at Helgen. It was a mistake—I was just trying to get to Riften to find information on my father, and I got caught up in a Stormcloak ambush.” She said the word Stormcloak venomously enough to make it clear that she was no particular friend to their cause. “Are you with the Legion? Do you know anything about my father? Captain Adrianus of Cheydinhol?”
Sjadbek and Burdnar blinked at each other, obviously the first time they’d been accused of being Legionnaires. “We don’t know anything about your father. I’m sorry,” Sjadbek apologized.
“And we’re definitely not in the Legion,” Burdnar added. “In fact—”
“Now, about this Dragonstone?” Sjadbek interrupted before Burdnar could tell her they were Stormcloaks.
“I don’t know if I can just hand it over,” Penelope admitted. “It’s fair loot. I got it from an ancient barrow—nearly died getting the heavy thing. And I’ve got to go to Whiterun tomorrow, anyway.”
“That’s great. We’ve got to go to Whiterun too. Look, all we want is the stone, that’s it. No gold, no jewels—we don’t even want it for ourselves; the court mage of Whiterun insisted we retrieve it. You go to Whiterun and I’ll tell the authorities you have it, and I’d really hate to do that. You seem like a decent lady, even if you are a thief.”
“All right, I’ll give you the Dragonstone when we get to Whiterun if you don’t interfere with what I’m going to do there.”
Sjadbek, ever bound by duty, had no choice but to agree. Without the Dragonstone, Balgruuf would not even discuss the war or take Ulfric’s axe—a really stupid idea on his part, the Stormcloak thought, as Ulfric could just as easily attack the city while he spent an eternity deliberating. Without a decision from Balgruuf, Sjadbek could not return to Ulfric. He had to succeed in his task.
“Fine,” he responded with a sigh, “I won’t.”