Walk by the Shadows

X. Thick as Thieves

"So, the job's done and best of all, it was clean. Dumping bodies and keeping the guards quiet can be expensive," Brynjolf said when she returned with the 300 gold.

"Like I said, as long as it's not Edvar, you don't have to worry about me sticking a blade in them." Macayla handed him the three coin purses.

He took them, counted out half, and gave the rest back to her. "Payment for another job well done. I think you'll do more than just fit in around here."

She put the coin purse in her pocket. "May I ask you something?"

"What's on your mind?"

"Word is your outfit's not doing so well; sounds like it's more than just bad luck..."

The cheerful mood she had given him faltered some. "We've run into a rough patch lately, but it's nothing to be concerned about. Tell you what: you keep making us coin and I'll worry about everything else. Fair enough?"

She nodded. "Fair enough. Bad luck can't last forever."

"No, it can't. Now follow me; it's time I show you what we're about."

He stood, and she followed him past the bar and Vekel the Man—the tavern owner—sweeping to the niche acting as The Ragged Flagon's storage closet. A floor to ceiling storage cabinet took over the right wall, shelves laden down with plates, tankards, and various cooking supplies filled the left wall, barrels and boxes were crammed into the corners and a door sat at the end. She assumed Brynjolf headed toward the door, but he turned to the storage cabinet. He opened the door to shelves resembling those behind her and pushed some hidden button; the shelves pulled back as the false panel opened up.

Brynjolf stepped through and Macayla followed suit; he pushed the secret door closed. The hidden room they were in was another tunnel ending at another wooden door. This time, Brynjolf headed for the only visible exit. He opened the door and held it open for her.

She stepped through to find another cavernous room like the one The Ragged Flagon sat in. The Cistern also held a conclave ceiling with natural light streaming in through a hole in the ceiling and water pouring out of two grates into connecting pools—two others weren't cascading with water. Small wooden bridges crossed the rivers of water, forming a circle around the smaller stone circle in the center of the water—accessible only by four stone bridges. There were four niches opposite each other; the one directly opposite her dominated by large, steel double doors—it looked like a vault.

About six people milled about: one in target practice with his bow, another sitting on the edge of the stone walkways. She recognized Sapphire talking with another man.

A lean, lone figure stood on the stone circle; Brynjolf headed for them. She could feel their eyes sizing her up as she walked. When she got close enough, she could make out his features: he was a Breton with a boxy face, neck-length dirty blond hair, and eyes that bore right through you. The way he was planted on his feet screamed of his confidence in his experience. This man was years older than Brynjolf, which meant he had to be the Guildmaster.

"Mercer, this is the one I was talking about," Brynjolf began. "This is Macayla."

"This better not be another waste of the Guild's resources, Brynjolf." Mercer's voice was deep and impassive, like everything disappointed him.

Mercer Frey turned his eyes back on her and they narrowed. His closed-off appearance—arms crossed, body defensively turned to her, nostrils slightly flaring, and eyes focused on her—never changed. She felt a quick defensiveness but also had a strange feeling of anger toward him. The defensiveness she could understand since he looked at her with doubt, but the anger, she had no clue.