Chapter Text
Riften was a well-defined smudge on the horizon when Kjennar pulled Irileth away from the others, making camp among the maples. The roguish Nord was unusually serious. “Are you and the monk really detouring there?”
“Priest,” Irileth corrected – not because Florentius had at all grown on her in the time they’d travelled together, but because she liked to be precise about what something and someone was. “And yes, we are. I trust you and the rest can find your own way back to Fort Dawnguard?”
“You kidding?” Kjennar said, tossing his mop of dark hair out of his eyes. “A child could find their way down the south road. It’s not ourselves I’m worried about.”
Irileth arched her brow. “You. Worried.”
“I know. But you’ve grown on me, Housecarl. That’s why I want to pass on the warning.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“I wasn’t... entirely truthful about my history.”
“Of course not. You had something to do with the Thieves Guild, didn’t you?” Sensing Kjennar’s surprise, Irileth elaborated. “Operative, I was the Housecarl of one of the most powerful men in Skyrim. My job depended on being one step ahead of his enemies. Don’t think I wasn’t aware of, and didn’t monitor, the Thieves Guild’s resurgence across Skyrim. So, are you about to tell me that you’ve been spying for them?”
“What? No, nothing of the sort,” Kjennar laughed. “No, I’m here to tell you that I used to run with them. Every cutpurse and footpad in the province has dealt with them at some point. The Guild’s grown exponentially these last two years, but I, I failed their little initiations and they threw me to the dogs, as it were. Still, for a little while I called Riften home.”
“My condolences. What are you getting at, Kjennar?”
“You’re heading into Riften, just the two of you, to look for this supposed vampire assassin?” At Irileth’s nod, Kjennar pulled out one of his silver knives and played with it. “Smart. Two Dawnguard – or rather, you and that priest – makes for good gossip. A whole party attracts attention. Any vampire behind the walls would be tipped off before you hit the gates.”
“We don’t know for certain if it’s there. Just that priest’s word for it.” Irileth rolled her eyes. “In any case, subterfuge is best fought with subterfuge, especially while we’re treading water.”
“I’ve no doubt you know how to handle yourself, Housecarl. Still, Riften is a world apart from the sunny skies of Whiterun. You don’t do anything in the city without someone noting it down. I’ll say this. If you need information, look for a red-haired man, and have your coinpurse ready. You’ll know who he is when you see him – or when he sees you.”
Irileth took Kjennar’s silver knife, weighed it in her fingers, then hurled it with deadly precision into a slender maple trunk twenty yards away. “I think we should be able to uncover some evidence without having to resort to a thief. But, Kjennar, I’ll keep it in mind.”
So Irileth did as she and Florentius peeled away from the rest of the Dawnguard patrol and rode towards the lakeside city. She knew that asking around was as dangerous as it was necessary. In a city like Riften, those who asked questions attracted attention, and those who attracted the wrong sort, or asked the wrong questions, befell accidents before they had a chance to act on their discoveries. She didn’t doubt Kjennar’s information for a second. “You know full well that we’re riding into a nest of vipers, priest,” Irileth said, as Riften’s walls loomed through the autumnal trees. “Keep your mouth shut unless your life depends on you opening it.”
“Oh, Arkay knows exactly what kind of place Riften is,” the Imperial man muttered with great disdain. “Filth, bilge, scum! Sycophants and profiteers, beggars and thieves! Profane in the eyes of the gods. You’d think none of them had ever heard of the Ten Commandments.”
Irileth faced him. “The what?”
Florentius looked as if he’d been slapped. “Arkay preserve us! You mean to say –?”
“Spare me the disbelief, priest. Not everyone drools over your gods. They’re some kind of divine law, correct? Well, no divine law I’ve ever seen puts food on the table or warms you from the cold when it’s all you have left.”
“It shapes the spirit,” said Florentius primly, “which is far more sacred than any physical shell of man and mer –”
“Tell that to a man or mer who hasn’t eaten in three days. Just shut up and keep your ears open.”
They left their horses at the roomy stables and faced the heavy city gates. Irileth grimaced and checked her hood was well over her head. She’d never cared to visit this city. “You’re still certain there’s a vampire here?”
“Completely,” Florentius murmured. “Well, as completely as one can be when Arkay says –”
“All right, that’s enough,” Irileth interrupted, and through the gates they stepped.
It certainly was no Whiterun. Riften was Skyrim’s southernmost city, where the warm winds threading the Velothi Mountains from the east kept the valleys of the Rift more temperate than others, even in the eye of midwinter. The streets were numerous and narrow. Countless alleyways peeled off between the lumber houses. A canal carved its way through the centre of the city, gurgling a literal undercurrent to the daily city life. Riften’s proximity to Morrowind and the salmon-rich Lake Honrich had resulted in a plentiful population of Dunmer and Argonians, unseen anywhere else in Skyrim, and they numbered almost as much as the Nords. Riften was by no means poor; its fishing and mead exports were bountiful year-round. But it was kept poor. The city looked and felt shabby to the eye, and beneath the damp smell of timber and moss lay the sweeter, sicker one of rot. Full of vampires long before the bloodsucking ones arrived.
And if that was not enough, the narrow streets were even more crowded than they ought to have been. Rough hide tents pitched under every charitable awning, the wet air scorched with the pungent stink of campfire smoke. Narrow, frightened faces peered out at Irileth and Florentius as they passed them by. Florentius shook his head in dismay at the sight. “Arkay protect these poor souls, who without home or family have been driven here...”
“They shouldn’t be here,” Irileth agreed, and flicked her eyes aside as a Riften guardsman passed her, staring curiously at her armour. “Farmers. Millworkers. Landowners. Driven behind the walls. This is the vampires’ doing. Civilians know they’re targets in their isolated pockets.”
“But isn’t the Dawnguard protecting them?”
“There’s only so many of us, Florentius.” Irileth gripped the hilt of the broken blade. “But be assured, we’ll spread across the province, too.”
“Oh, Arkay assures me –”
“Just stop with that,” Irileth hissed.
Florentius sulked. “And why should I, Irileth? If there is anywhere in Skyrim in dire need of a Divine’s presence –”
“This place isn’t it. Every pebble is watched by the Thieves Guild. Bend a blade of grass and they’ll know about it.”
“The Thieves Guild! Hah! Arkay assures me they’re just dishonest rabble, honourless men and women who’ll kill each other over a gold coin, like all thieves.”
“Your god hasn’t been paying attention. The Thieves Guild’s back in full power across not just Riften but all of Skyrim, and this is their stronghold.”
“Well, excuse me! If this is such common knowledge, then why doesn’t the Jarl do anything about them, then?”
“Because she’s got her hand deep in their pockets. Maven Black-Briar, Jarl of this despisable city... I don’t know what that military governor was thinking. Seems gold greases all palms, in the right amount.”
They reached the canal and a busier thoroughfare of labourers about their daily tasks. Irileth cast her eyes about, mapping the city landmarks. There lay the city tavern, across the footbridge, and the marketplace beyond that. The spires of a temple jutted over the security of high walls; so, there was a holy place in this destitute town. A much larger building towered above the rest, surmounted on a hill and preceded with a flagstone staircase. “That must be the Jarl’s palace,” Irileth muttered, and couldn’t help but be underwhelmed by it. The whole thing would’ve fit in Dragonsreach’s main hall.
They continued towards it, their conversation disguised beneath the everyday city clamour. “Seems this Jarl is a woman far fallen from the grace of the Divines,” Florentius observed.
“To fall from somewhere, you’d need to have some sort of standing with them first. The whole family’s rotten to the gills. Plenty of rumours pinned Black-Briar doing dirty – regular – business with the Dark Brotherhood.”
“Arkay’s ward,” Florentius swore, and made an embarrassingly obvious religious symbol over his chest. “You don’t believe that, do you?”
“Absolutely. A woman of her power? Of course she’d turn to hired knives to ensure her spiderweb of influence stayed immaculate, and deadly. Well, at least she’d used to.”
“‘Used to’?”
“Dark Brotherhood’s been gutted. They’re wiped off the face of Nirn.”
“Gutted! As in destroyed? Could it be? What gods-anointed champion could have prevailed against such godless, immoral evil?”
“A local one, pissed off at the Thalmor’s dishonourable attempt on his life.” Irileth weighed up the disbelief in Florentius’ eyes and rolled her own. “Come on, priest. Everyone knows the Thalmor performed a Black Sacrament on the Dragonborn. They denied it, but they had no one fooled. He tracked down the assassins’ Sanctuary, somewhere deep in Falkreath forest, and it was the work of a night. We saw the smoke from Whiterun.”
“Arkay preserve us,” murmured Florentius in awe. “When was this?”
“Late ‘204, I think. When the Civil War was definitely leaning in the Legion’s favour. There were rumours the Thalmor meddled there, too – prolonged it or some such. They just proved those rumours right when they tried to off the one who turned the tide.” Irileth couldn’t resist a contemptuous cackle. “Stupid fetchers.”
They reached the steps leading to Mistveil Keep, the Jarl’s palace. “You’ve quite the ear for rumour, don’t you, Housecarl?”
“You hear a great deal in the hub of a province.” Irileth frowned as the door-guards descended to meet them halfway up the staircase, clearly on the path to intercept. “Let us through,” she barked. “We need to speak with the Jarl.”
“The Jarl ain’t receiving.”
Irileth’s eyes glowed like red coals. “What is this nonsense? A Jarl’s court is an open forum for all citizens of Skyrim.”
“Jarl’s orders. Court is closed.”
Irileth indicated the burning shield medallion she wore at her throat, as part of her uniform. “I’m an operative of the Dawnguard. If this lockdown is due to the vampire threat, it’s all the more imperative that Jarl Maven Black-Briar needs to hear what I –” Right, the priest. “What we have to say.”
“You deaf, greyskin?” The guard stepped forward, his full-face helm aggressively thrust into Irileth’s face. “Get. Lost.”
It didn’t take much to flip the stone, did it? Weak minds, greased palms. Irileth found it repulsive; not the guard’s words, but the ease of exposure, soft and fetid like festering flesh. She let the large guardsman menace her, quite indifferent to their looming size difference, and pondered how to respond. Presently they were poised on tenterhooks. She could challenge them and force her way in, in a breach of decorum – no, it wasn’t that urgent. Any further resistance would shred their frayed patience and result in an arrest. Definitely not the attention she wanted to attract on herself or the Dawnguard. Irileth’s insides boiled as the only way forward became clear – and it was to retreat. There was nothing more to be done here, yet.
She still held the guardsman’s gaze for an insolently long period before she at last turned away. “Come on, priest.”
The guards’ eyes followed them, like knives pressed to their necks, as they descended back down the palace stairs and back into the streets. Irileth bit a quiet, savage curse in her mother tongue and planted her hands on her hips. “Stupid old witch.”
Florentius also seemed agitated. “Housecarl, that can’t be all we do. Arkay –”
“Button it, Florentius.”
“Housecarl, Arkay says –”
“I said button it.” Irileth seized his arm, her voice low and furious. “Of course it’s not all we’re doing. But we are not discussing it in the open street. Get it? Use your wits, if you have any to your name.”
With greatly injured dignity, Florentius wrenched his arm out of Irileth’s grip. But, mercifully, he remained silent. Irileth nodded and jerked her chin across the marketplace. Only one place in a city like this where I know we won’t be overheard. “Come on, Florentius,” she growled. “I could go for a drink.”
~
The Bee and Barb was a surprisingly spacious and well-kept tavern. Irileth had expected something seedier, but the atmosphere inside was as warm and rustic as the Bannered Mare. The midmorning was seeing the lunch rush start and the roomy space rapidly occupy with hungry dockworkers, fisherfolk and meadery workers. The two Argonian tavernkeepers were kept rushed off their feet serving their patrons. Irileth and Florentius slipped inside almost unnoticed and quickly scooped up one of the last tables, out of the way against the wall. Irileth was conscious how horribly exposed her back was – the chairs flanked the wall, rather than faced it – but at least she had an easy view of the rest of the tavern. Florentius, who likely had no experience with assassins of any kind, slumped in his seat and promptly devoted all attention to the matter that had brought them to Riften at all.
Briefly Irileth’s attention flicked back to Redwater Den, when the mission had been simple, the investigation straightforward. She withdrew the small red phial from the padded pouch against her thigh and held it up in the candlelight. The viscous liquid slithered like a living thing within the sturdy glass. “From the Den,” Irileth said shortly, as Florentius looked. “All that’s left from that spring you purified.”
Something more focused and professional replaced Florentius’s usually dreamy expression. “May I see it?”
Irileth passed it over. “I plan to get this alchemically appraised. The Volkihar empowered some sort of relic with it, and the Redwater skooma was tainted with the same stuff.”
“Well, I suppose Isran’s rallied a whole crew of herb-pushers by now.”
“He hasn’t, actually. Something we’re short on. Are you volunteering?”
“I suppose,” Florentius shrugged. “Alchemy and enchantment were my professions in the unhappy days I shared in Isran’s company. Besides, Arkay says it will fulfil a much-needed service for the Dawnguard.”
Irileth scoffed as she beckoned for Florentius to return the vial to her safekeeping. “Right. I’m just relieved you actually do more than prattle religious spiel.”
“Scorn me all you like, Housecarl, but I felt the danger as sure as a dry man in thirst when we stepped in the gates. Danger grips the shadows like a hand at the throat. Arkay insists that there is some terrible spell about to be placed on this city.”
“‘About to be’? Florentius, you assured me outside Redwater Den that there was a vampire threatening the Riften Jarl!”
“Yes, well... certainly the Jarl would be involved, but directly, who can say?”
Irileth massaged her temple and growled in high frustration. “One straight answer, Florentius. Would it kill you to give me one straight answer?”
Florentius combed his beard. “I can only give you Arkay’s assurances –”
“Oh! Brilliant!” Irileth tangled her arms and leaned back in her seat. “As if the guesswork and faith wasn’t enough! Nerevar, I’m such a fool...”
Florentius offered a smile. “Have faith, Irileth. Arkay will guide us.”
Spoken with all the fatherly assurance of one whose soothing words would mend all agitation. Irileth pinched the bridge of her nose. “Florentius,” she growled, “how many times do I have to tell you, I don’t believe in –”
Wham! Three foaming tankards slammed down on the scrubbed table between them, making Irileth and Florentius jump. “Pardon the interruption,” said the Nord that had delivered them. He wore merchant’s robes and a flawless smile. “But I couldn’t help but note Keerava hadn’t served you yet. So, hope you don’t mind me takin’ a little liberty.”
Irileth scowled up at the intruder with her dismissal poised like one of Kjennar’s silver knives, and noticed the Nord had red hair. Violently red hair.
“Pardon me,” said Florentius politely, “but I don’t drink.”
“All the more for me, then, lad.” The Nord scooped a chair from seemingly thin air and planted himself at their table. “What about you, lass?”
Irileth took the measure of him at once, and suddenly knew exactly what kind of honey-tongue she was dealing with. “I’m no lass of yours. What do you want.”
“Now, lass, that’s not how it works here. You’re the visitor, I’m the friendly local. What do you want? No one visits Riften unless they want something from it. And you strike me as the sort who doesn’t do things by halves, Housecarl.” The red-haired Nord winked. He’d played the first card of his extensive hand.
Irileth was no stranger to the game, though it’d been a long time since she’d played. “And you strike me as someone who has his fingers in the right kind of pies, Brynjolf.” Surprise cracked the Nord’s friendly veneer, and Irileth took up her pint, satisfied she had his attention. “That’s right. I’m not the only one who knows things. Now what do you want with us?”
Not to be deterred, the Nord sipped at one of the foaming mead mugs. “You catch on fast. They said you were sharp. Just not sharp enough, eh?” Irileth didn’t grace that with an answer, and resisted the temptation to even touch the hilt of the broken sword. Brynjolf lowered his tankard. “All right. I’ll admit that was one below the belt.”
“Do honourless opportunists ever strike anywhere else?”
“Irileth,” exclaimed Florentius, and he looked quite abashed. “This is a guest at our table!”
He’s really got no idea. Irileth arched her brow. Piteous scrib.
“It’s quite all right,” Brynjolf smiled, all charm. “I’d imagine these last few months chasing shadows in the dark doesn’t leave the lass with much energy for trust.”
“There’s never an excuse for bad manners,” said Florentius haughtily.
Irileth suddenly smiled. “Of course, Florentius, you’re quite right. Brynjolf, would you accept my apology?” She offered a hand, as innocent as Brynjolf’s smile.
Brynjolf took it with a chuckle. “Of course –” His smile became fixed as his hand locked around Irileth’s, paralyzed in place by currents of shock running electric fingers along every delicate nerve in his hand.
Irileth, still smiling, leaned close. “Call me lass again, and I’ll leave it dead for a week. Now, are we going to keep playing this game, or are we going to get down to business?”
Brynjolf’s smile fell clean off his face. “To business, then,” he said, “as soon as you let go of my hand.”
Irileth released him and took renewed measure of the man across from her. It was always satisfying to prove who and what she really was to someone unused to underestimating their target. “Better. I’ve been informed that you’re a Nord with his finger on the pulse of Riften.”
“You’d be correct.” Brynjolf reached for the second untouched mug of mead. “No one comes and goes from the city without my knowledge. No one visits the Jarl, or attempts to, without my knowledge.” He nodded to Irileth’s medallion. “I’ve seen that before, too. A Redguard wore that, when he came visiting to organize supplies down to a certain Dayspring Canyon.”
“Fort Dawnguard’s location is no secret, not even to our prey. If you think you can hold that over our head, you’re mistaken.”
“Not at all, la – Housecarl. Merely making an observation. Now, don’t get me wrong; the Dawnguard pursue a noble cause, and one even my organization can get behind. It’s hard doing business with the dead. I’d be happy to organize an audience with Maven.” His pine-green eyes grew steely. “For a price, of course. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how busy a Jarl’s schedule can be.”
Well, Kjennar had warned her. Irileth slowly withdrew her coinpurse and planted it on the table. It was a rather sad little thing. Two seconds of silence assured Irileth it was far from enough. She nodded to Florentius. “Yours, too.”
“I don’t understand,” Florentius protested. “The Jarl’s life could be in danger – all of Riften! Yet if this man works for her, we have to pay his salary?”
Well, he’d have to lose his innocence to this sort of thing sometime. “It’s called a bribe. Pay up.”
“Bribery!” Florentius, as expected, took issue at once. “To sink to the level of wicked men, who avert their heads from the wisdom of Zenithar –”
Irileth and Brynjolf sat silent through the tirade. It was difficult to tell whose expression was the more exasperated. “Priest?” Brynjolf guessed.
“Yup.” Irileth reached again for her mug. “Florentius, we’ve wasted enough time. Cough up and let’s get on with this.”
Florentius looked with considerably more dislike upon Brynjolf, starting to cotton on at last to his true character. “You would really turn a profit over the life of your Jarl?”
“Over Maven?” Brynjolf arched his brow. “Absolutely.”
Florentius’s coinpurse plonked on the table. “The Divines will judge you.”
“I’ll take my chances.” Brynjolf weighed up the two purses and tutted. “Hmm. This won’t even get you close, Housecarl.”
“Confirm, then,” Irileth said, overtalking Florentius as the priest puffed up with indignant fury. “Maven’s court – anyone new arrive to it, any strangers to Riften. Likely hooded.”
“Hooded?” Brynjolf seemed to chuckle at some hidden joke. “Aye, Housecarl, that I’ll give you. There was a guy, walked through Riften like he owned it. Very distinctive tread. And aye, he wore a hood, through a fine and balmy day. He went straight to the Keep. Not long after that, the doors shut, and stayed shut. Now Maven hardly takes guests.”
“I told you,” said Florentius, immediately triumphant. “I told you – or rather, Arkay told you – but did I not say?”
Irileth gripped her swordhilt. “You guessed, priest, and you guessed right.” Somehow.
“But what now? We’re as stuck as we ever were.” Florentius shot Brynjolf a cold look. “No thanks to this fox-haired hustler.”
“Now, now,” Brynjolf chuckled, “what happened to our manners, priest?”
Irileth spoke caustically. “Thank you for your information.”
“Oh, it’s my pleasure, Housecarl. But I think we can still come to an arrangement. In fact, I believe it necessary. You still need access to Mistveil Keep, after all.”
“The Dawnguard isn’t helpless. We’ll find another way to reach the vampire.”
“Vampire?” Brynjolf’s eyebrows knotted in a frown. “No, Housecarl, you’re mistaken.”
Irileth turned her scorching glare on Brynjolf. “Excuse me?”
Florentius sensed a fresh wave of tension brewing at their little table, but he couldn’t interpret why. For Irileth, it rang in her ears clear as day. Brynjolf knew exactly who she was, from her Housecarl past to her Dawnguard present. He would’ve pieced it all together as they talked and got the measure of one another’s wits and strengths. Brynjolf knew she was a seasoned warrior and familiar with the ways of Skyrim’s courts, and likely guessed at her darker history. To still be told she was the one mistaken, so confidently, so assuredly, was to be equally informed that Brynjolf knew something about this vampire that she didn’t.
And that opened a whole new jar of flin.
“I imagine you are aware,” said Irileth coldly, “just why your city is now housing a considerable settlement of refugees across your Hold?”
“Of course,” said Brynjolf. “These vampires are a threat to everyone.”
“Oh, everyone?” Irileth said. “Really?”
“Not everyone, gods be good.” Keerava, the Argonian innkeeper, brushed by with a tray of empty dishes. She’d caught the tailwind of their conversation, and her husky rasp briefly joined them. “You’re talking about the vampires, yes? Those lost souls stream through the gates because the walls protect them.”
Irileth scoffed quietly. Whiterun’s walls made Riften’s look like a sheepfold. “Walls don’t stop them.”
“Well, ours do. There’s been plenty of vampire attacks in all the other cities across Skyrim, but Riften? Haven’t had a single sighting. Frightened off by those Dawnguard types, I imagine.” Keerava shook her head and sauntered off. “First decent thing to happen in this Hist-cursed Hold...”
Irileth turned sharply on Brynjolf, fired by this new, unusual information. “And why, exactly, would that be?”
Brynjolf shrugged easily. “How would I know the minds of vampires, Housecarl? I believe it’s the Dawnguard’s mission to protect civilians from these creatures – aren’t you pleased to hear they can find refuge here in the city?”
“Irileth?” Florentius frowned, still puzzled. “Just what are you getting at?”
“Vampires throw themselves at the Dawnguard, trained soldiers, and think they can kill us. Meanwhile they leave a city ripening with displaced refugees and beggars? You’ve seen this place, Florentius. It’s ruled by the shadows. Vampires could gorge themselves and no one would ever notice.” Irileth turned to Brynjolf. “No one but those who share those same shadows. What aren’t you telling us?”
“Now, Housecarl,” said Brynjolf, smiling, “be careful before you accuse something you can’t justify.”
“Justification, is it? Hordes of hungry vampires pound at Dawnguard’s walls, Skyrim’s cities scramble to keep their own civilians safe in the darkness, yet Riften, city of shadows, remains untouched. Why is that, Brynjolf?”
“Riften’s still in danger,” Florentius protested. “Arkay insists on it.”
“And Florentius, I finally believe you,” said Irileth, folding her arms, “because Riften’s been sold out. This city isn’t a sanctuary, it’s a herd being raised for slaughter.”
Brynjolf’s chair scraped backward as he stood in one swift motion. Irileth calmly met his angry green eyes and knew she’d finally flipped his stone – or budged it just enough to glimpse the darkness of the true self beneath it. “Let me make something very clear to you, Housecarl,” he warned, quietly and dangerously. “If you know what we are and what we do, you’ll know also that this is our city. Nothing happens in it or to it without our say-so.”
“And yet, you don’t deny it,” Irileth said.
“You couldn’t afford the truth.”
“You’ll find a way to accommodate us, before word gets out that the Thieves Guild is aligned with the Volkihar Clan.” Irileth stood and faced him, her face thrust close to his. “It’s hard, but not impossible, doing business with the undead, isn’t it, Brynjolf?”
“Thieves Guild?” Florentius repeated, and he scrambled out of his seat as if stung by a wasp. “You!”
Brynjolf set his jaw, his face an inscrutable, well-trained mask. Even Irileth couldn’t guess at the thoughts that circled unseen beneath it. “Rumour away, Housecarl,” he only said. “You can’t prove a word of it.”
Irileth gripped her swordhilt. “Yet.”
