Warning: This story includes spoilers for the main story questline, up to and including "Diplomatic Immunity" and "A Cornered Rat", and the beginning of the Thieves Guild questline, "A Chance Arrangement".

Borrowed Trouble

Chapter One: The Rat's Return

The first time Brynjolf heard tell of the woman calling herself Archer, he was in the market, peddling his petty wares.

As was often his luck – which was, unfortunately, none at all – he'd caught the glint in the eye of many a goodwife browsing the stalls that fine afternoon but had sold no vials of his tonic, and no offers or opportunities for more clandestine work had come his way. More than half the day had already slipped by; the other stall-keepers were beginning to grumble, and the guards stared overlong.

It was then that Sapphire had slipped by him, descending out of nowhere like some divine saving grace, to whisper in his ear that the rat Etienne Rarnis had finally returned to Riften, bleeding from a dozen wounds and ranting about the Thalmor – and a woman who'd freed him.

At the time, Brynjolf had given a second thought to neither the woman nor the damned elves. The words torture and interrogation, however – aye, those caught his attention, and gave him pause enough to close up shop.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Sapphire fading into the crowd as if she'd never come to him. She was a smart lass, but subtlety was an honour he could rarely bestow upon her. She tended to hound after her marks, trying to squeeze every last septim she could. It was risky, and it was sloppy.

Ofttimes, especially nowadays, the fine line between thieving and thuggery was a grey and blurry thing. To some at least, it seemed.

Still, there were other matters at hand to be dealt with.

By the time Brynjolf had made his way down to the Flagon, the half-starved Rarnis was well and truly drunk on the house mead while Vekel leaned over his back, cleaning out the ugly red lashmarks as best he could. The cruel latticework was a decent display of brutality, to be sure, but injuries a man could inflict upon himself – had he wanted to mislead the suspicion of his guildmates, men and women who might just have thought him a coward, a traitor, a rat better off dead with the carrion birds as his only mourners.

It had been close to three weeks since anyone had laid eyes on Etienne Rarnis. He had gone missing during a dubious burglary just outside of Solitude. The job was one of Vex's, and she had made all the arrangements. Glorified legwork.

Days had passed, and then days upon those days. Word on the street was that the house had been hit, and the trinket taken among little else of consequence. Yet no delivery was made to the guild, nor had there been any contact from the layabout mongrel of a Breton who'd disappeared on the job.

By then, it had become abundantly clear, even to the more forgiving folks of their little family, that something had gone awry.

More than two weeks had passed since that black realization. The members of the guild had disavowed all knowledge of Etienne's plan when asked. Tonilia had set her black market sources to finding the trinket, but her enquiries were met with little and less luck with each passing day.

Would that Brynjolf could have expected more, but resources were stretched thin enough as it was, and Mercer had no patience for Vex's small time jobs – nor the bit players who executed them. Etienne Rarnis was deemed a traitor of the guild and the usual threats of death and dismemberment were made over the requisite pints of ale. No more was said of the matter.

Of course, the sudden reappearance of the aforementioned traitor had shattered the uneasy silence. In fact, Rarnis was becoming something of a spectacle, and in their line of work, that was never a good thing. What little business that still took place at the Flagon had ceased all together. People were beginning to gather. Worst of all, the mead had already done its work loosening Etienne's tongue.

"– Just lets loose this bellow and it knocks 'em right off their feet! Never seen the like before, not ever in my life."

As Rarnis gestured drunkenly, he came close to knocking Vekel upside the head with an elbow. The tavernmaster dodged it easily, grumbling as he wiped at the filth and blood that caked Etienne's bare back with an equally filthy and bloody rag. Old wounds, fresh wounds, all of it infected – it would warrant a potion or three, should the guild decide his story true and his hide worth salvaging.

A story Brynjolf still needed to hear.

"– Didn't fall to pieces like they say, though, what do you make of that?" Rarnis slurred, his head beginning to droop. He did not look around to see that another patron had entered the Flagon, though in his sorry state, Brynjolf couldn't say that Rarnis would have been much bothered by his appearance, anyway.

It was Dirge who saw Brynjolf first. He was scowling. "How do you want to handle this?" he asked, shaking his head as he stared hard at the cause of the disturbance.

"Lightly, very lightly," said Brynjolf, still a little uncertain himself of how to approach it. "I want you to secure the Ratway. It wouldn't do to have any unwanted customers stumbling in on this, now would it?"

Nodding, and looking grateful for a task set away from the commotion in the Flagon, Dirge slunk off.

There was no time to be wasted. Brynjolf stepped out of the shadowy stone alcove and sought out Delvin Mallory, who stood leaning against the battered bar, where he had no doubt watched the whole volatile situation unfold with the same bemused expression on his grizzled face as he wore now.

"You didn't think to put a stop to this, old man?" Brynjolf asked.

"Why? It's just getting good."

Brynjolf wasn't fooled. For all the composure and lazy smiles the old thief had, sure as the dawn he was listening intently to every word the drunken rat said in an effort to sort out the meaning behind it all. Truth be told, it was a bit of a relief – if there was any sense to be had in the whole mess, Delvin would be the one to work it out.

"Where's Mercer?" asked Brynjolf, keeping a close eye on Rarnis.

"Had a meet with Maven," Delvin said, crossing his arms over his chest. "There's something going on with Goldenglow what's got her all in a tizzy. He's topside at the Bee 'n Barb right now, trying to smooth things over."

"Wonderful," Brynjolf muttered quietly to himself as he left Delvin's side to do something about the crowd.

Weaving his way around the tables, he touched the shoulders of those he passed, and gave a raised eyebrow or soft direction when required. Most got up and left with little more than a disappointed look on their face and nary a backward glance. Some, however, were less accommodating – Tonilia fired a few choice curses over her shoulder as she walked out, while little Vex outright refused to leave at all.

"I want to know where this rat stashed my goblet," she said, loud enough that her voice chased itself around the suddenly empty Flagon. "I've got a client breathing down my neck for it and this lush won't shut up about –"

"Didn't have time to stash it. Thalmor took it all. Sorry, love," Rarnis said, and saluted Vex with his empty mead bottle.

Brynjolf, ever ready to thwart trouble before it had a chance to start, put a firm hand on Vex's shoulder, just as she gave a threatening lunge toward Rarnis. His grip tightened. She didn't notice.

"Mercer wouldn't mind if I killed him, would he?" she asked, and gave a smile that was both so sweet and so menacing that even Brynjolf found himself wanting to step back. Alas, none of them were to have the pleasure of watching the lithe little blonde pummel the Breton bloody. He gave her shoulder a squeeze that was meant to be comforting, but if her tension relaxed even in the slightest, he could not feel it beneath his fingers.

"Head on into the cistern, lass," he said, and gave her one last nudge before letting her go. "I want you to send Mercer in here the minute he gets back. Tell him what he needs to know."

"Fine," she said, relenting and sorely unhappy about it.

"Don't go to mentioning the missing loot, though," said an eavesdropping Delvin. He glanced over, eyes lingering on Vex as they so often did. "One thing at a time, eh?"

Vex levelled Delvin with a scathing look, and stormed off without another word.

Brynjolf ran a hand down his face, sighing. "Let's get this dealt with then," he said.

"Beauty," said Delvin, still watching after Vex.

Brynjolf pulled up a chair out from the nearest table and set it down in front of Etienne Rarnis. Vekel had finished doing what little he dared for the wounds; no one was going to waste a potion on a man who might be floating at the bottom of the canal come nightfall. But the mead, well – the mead, they had in abundance.

Rarnis leaned back as Brynjolf sat before him, and it was with dismay that Brynjolf realized that Rarnis was not so drunk as he had first assumed. The Breton's eyes were wide and solemn and deeply troubled.

"Nearly twenty days since anyone last laid eyes on you," Brynjolf said, none too gently. Rarnis hung his head with the weight of the information, but Brynjolf had neither the patience nor the sympathy to spare. He had to press. "Where'd they grab you?"

"Just outside Riften, down by the lake," said Etienne. "They were waiting for me. Someone must have tipped them off. They knew I'd be coming back on the south road."

"What would the Thalmor want with the likes of you?" Delvin asked, his mask of impassivity doing a poor job at hiding his true, genuine interest.

"Not after me," Etienne said, and slumped against the back of his chair. He winced, as if he'd just remembered his marked and swollen hide, and shifted his weight to lean back on his shoulder. "They're after some old man. They think he's hiding out in the Ratway."

"They think or they know?" asked a hard voice. Mercer. Brynjolf had neither seen nor heard him come in; the guild master's sudden presence was terribly disquieting "What did you tell them?"

Etienne Rarnis did not shrink or quail beneath the tempered steel of Mercer's displeasure, although it seemed that weeks of suffering at the hands of the Thalmor had done much to dull his sensibilities.

"I told them there are a lot of crazy old men hiding down in the Ratway," said Rarnis, "but they insisted. And then they insisted." The mead bottle dropped from his hand, forgotten, and rolled a few feet away. He bent over himself, elbows to his knees and face cradled in his hands, hidden and ashamed. "That was all I told them. It was all I could tell them. I swear it, Mercer."

"That doesn't matter now," Mercer said, cold and dismissive. Brynjolf raised an eyebrow, not at the simpering traitor clinging to the shredded remains of his honour, but at his guild master and his casual disregard for their client in the Ratway, for there was no doubting whom the Thalmor were after. Mercer paid no mind to Brynjolf and his eyebrow. "Tell me how you escaped," he pressed Rarnis, who slumped ever lower.

"It's – I don't know, exactly. I heard fighting and thought I was as good as dead, and then she comes along, and the troll –" He shuddered, and went quiet.

"She," Mercer muttered darkly, and it was no simple query.

Brynjolf glanced over at his guild master. "Problem?"

"I don't know yet," said Mercer, but Brynolf could see that his wheels had already begun to turn, the slow grind of Mercer's thoughts narrowing his eyes and tightening his mouth.

That right there, well - that was a look Brynjolf had come to know well, one he had learned to respect, but in that moment, with the Flagon near to empty and the sight of Etienne Rarnis' bloodied back bared before him, he felt suddenly caged and uneasy, his heart filled with a strange ill-boding, while the wheels in Mercer's head turned on.

"Who was she?" Brynjolf asked Rarnis, as Mercer stood cold and still, lost to thought.

"Don't know, but the wood elf with her called her Archer," said Rarnis, still bent double, and shrinking into himself by the moment. "Pretty thing, and Breton, by the look of her. She was wearing Ulfric's colours."

"That's no business we need to get caught up in," Delvin said dismissively, and Brynjolf had to agree with him. Like it or not, the war was good for their trade, a colourful distraction for their underhanded shadow work. The only way that was able to go on was if they kept out of sight and off the toes of one side or the other.

"It seems that we're already in it," said Mercer with gritty disdain. "Now, to make sure we don't sink any deeper." With a last glance heavy with dark warning, the guild master turned and stalked off toward the cistern, to his desk, to his books, to his thoughts and his solitude, but most importantly, to that coveted list of contacts he kept as close as he kept everything else. Brynjolf was certain he'd see the first guild courier passing through the Flagon within the hour. One sidelong look around the tavern had him wondering if it might even be sooner than that.

Mercer was right; trouble was lurking close, and it could only go badly from that moment on, that much had become painfully certain, and quickly. The sight of Rarnis barely keeping upright and curled into himself in his chair was just a glimpse of what their future held. Or could hold. Fate could be a finicky minx, he'd learned that gem early in life, and Lady Luck had little favour to spare for the likes of him and his guild anymore. Frigid bitch.

Brynjolf knew his troubles were written all too clear on his own face, but no one was paying him any mind at all. Vekel grumbled to himself as he mopped the blood and spit and sick from the floor at Rarnis' feet, and Delvin was watching Rarnis with the same preoccupied expression on his face and thinking – well, Divines only knew what that old man was ever thinking, too cunning and clever by half, with a mug that gave nothing away, but Delvin was the least of his concerns.

"Get him into the cistern," Brynjolf said, breaking the uneasy spell as he gestured to Etienne. "Give him a potion for that infection. Let him sleep the rest off."

"Mercer didn't say –" Vekel began, looking down at the slumped and snoring Rarnis with a distaste only a barkeep could muster.

"He didn't say otherwise, neither, now did he?" Delvin pointed out, winking at Brynjolf as he leaned down to sling Etienne's arm over his shoulder and hefted him to his feet. So easy was it that when Vekel moved to take the unconscious man's other arm, Delvin waved him off. "I've got him. Poor bastard barely weighs more than a wet skeever. Get the door, would you? There's a good lad."

Brynjolf watched wordlessly as the three of them ducked awkwardly into the alcove, and was soon left blessedly alone in the Flagon. Over the years, he'd gotten used to the quiet around the place, but it had never been quite like this before, so empty and lonesome a space that even a single drop of water falling from the rafters to the pool below went up with an echo that sent a chill through his bones. Suddenly tired, he leaned back against the bar, and sighed heavily. He could hear voices carrying over from the cistern, but the excitement stayed on the other side of the door. Perhaps the return of Rarnis would give them all something else to talk about other than their own sorry luck for a few days.

He thought on all that Etienne Rarnis had said, and concentrated little on what he hadn't. He'd heard of the Thalmor nabbing folks, that was hardly news, rebels and ninth-divine gainsayers, but a member of the guild? Until today, Brynjolf would have staked his life on their protections against the Dominion – after all, the guild was in good with Maven, and Maven was in good with the Thalmor. It took care of itself.

Now – well, time would do the telling, wouldn't it? Still, it would be in the guild's best interests to be prepared. There was no knowing these days just how much more they could afford to lose.

By the time Delvin and Vekel returned, the girls close behind, Brynjolf had resolved to worry himself no more about the damned Thalmor until Rarnis had recuperated enough to give a more thorough retelling of his tale. He'd given no more thought to the woman Rarnis had mentioned until Delvin slid onto the stool next to him, slouching in that inconspicuous way he had.

"You hear what Rarnis was saying, about the girl?"

"Pretty," Brynjolf repeated. "One of Ulfric's. Whoever she was, she's no concern of ours."

Delvin shook his head. "I was referring rather to the bit about the shouting."

"Aye, I heard that," Brynjolf said, and smirked. "You think he's gone a bit mad?"

"Don't know," Delvin said, and shrugged. "More trouble, whatever it is. Our cursed luck." He spat on the floor.

Brynjolf laughed at the old thief, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Not cursed, just overlooked," he said, as always just as surprised to find he still believed it.

"Then this one's all on you, my friend," said Delvin to his back as he walked away.

Brynjolf left the Flagon, giving Dirge the all clear when he reached the Ratway. As he headed up into the bright sunlight of what remained of a lovely afternoon, his mind was clouded with worrisome thoughts. The subterranean chill followed him through the gate and up the water-logged wooden stairs to the walkways above. He looked for a moment to the market and all those going on about their daily lives, merchants and patrons both, and the guards who watched over them to see – well, to see whatever it was that they were paid to see.

It was just another beautiful day in the Rift, but it was soured now, Brynjolf realized. He turned away from the market and made his way toward the north gatehouse. Rarnis had made it into the city with nary a peep from the gate sentries, and Maul was nowhere to be seen. If any new faces were to appear on his city's fair streets, well, he needed to make damn sure he was going to hear about it before it was turning their world on its head again.

He'd had his fill of surprises for awhile.