Chapter Text
The golden light of dawn is just beginning to crest over the Velothi mountains, shining through the sparse autumn leaves and dappling the dew-damp cobblestone road with little round spots like glittering coins, when the caravan reaches the lowest dip of the valley and sees the gates of Riften begin to loom ahead of them in the distance. Morna’ma gazes down at his paws, dark like a shadow on the shimmering wet stone, and listens as his mother, Zaynabi, leans close to her cousin Dro’marash to whisper something in his ear as they walk. He catches some of it—his mother is worrying again about money, and about Skyrim’s ever-stubborn city guards, and asking Dro’marash to try to speak to them when they arrive at Riften—but Morn pays it very little mind for the moment, tuning it out until their voices are a soft background hum, almost musical with the pleasant lilt of Ta’agra. They’ll reach the city soon, and he’ll think about his mother’s worries then; for now, he stares down at the path and counts the different types of stone, catalogs them in his mind based on their texture, their shape, and how they reflect the light.
Morna’ma’s ears flick back and forth as a falling leaf lands on one of them, jolting him out of his trance. The city gates are close, now, and he can see the rest of the caravan members beginning to get anxious; tension shows in the lines of muscle in Dro’marash’s neck, in the wrinkle of his aunt Ahkari’s nose, in the way his mother wrings her hands and picks at the hems of her sleeves as she walks. The whispering ceases, a nervous silence falling over the caravan as they near the final slope up to the city. There’s only one guard by the gate at this time of day, Morn notes, and the stable hands aren’t yet out to tend to the horses in the stables at the right of the city’s entrance, either.
Time to start thinking, then. He’s seen his aunt Ahkari work with guards before, knows that many of them are more than willing to look the other way if there’s enough coin in it for them. But the caravan is low on coin these days, their sales less than stellar with the decrease in foot traffic outside of the city walls. The war is partially to blame, Morn thinks, but there are bound to be other factors he hasn’t been able to account for yet. He could offer a portion of their sales to the guard, on the condition that the caravan is allowed to sell inside the city—better foot traffic will mean better sales, so more to offer as payment—but that would depend on a guard trusting their little caravan enough to guarantee payment at the end of the day and not just slink off into the night. Morna’ma knows all too well that most Nord guards aren’t likely to trust a group of Khajiit that much. He could try, but…
Stealth likely won’t get them far, either; Dro’marash’s armor is far too loud to sneak effectively, and Ahkari’s clothes far too bright. Besides, hiding in the city won’t bring them much more foot traffic for sales than setting up in plain sight outside the city. He supposes his mother was probably asking Dro’marash to intimidate the guard, and it might work, but Morna’ma worries that scaring one guard today will only make the others more hostile the next time they travel through the Rift. No, intimidation isn’t ideal; Morn increases his pace ever so slightly, catching up to Ahkari at the front of the group.
“Ahki, are you going to try talking to the guards?” Morna’ma asks quietly in Ta’agra, tapping on her arm to get her attention.
“Mm, I am unsure,” his aunt looks down at him with a strange expression, squinting at the rising sun to her left. “I’ve had little success with Riften, in the past.”
“I could try,” Morn offers, switching to speaking Cyrodiilic as the caravan crosses into earshot of the guard at the gate. “If that’s acceptable to you?”
Ahkari smiles down at him.
“Your accent is getting very good, little one,” she says fondly, her voice warm and melodic, before switching to Cyrodiilic herself. “Yes, go and speak to the guard if you like. We will wait here.”
Ahkari puts out a hand to stop the caravan, gesturing for Morna’ma to go on ahead. The guard has definitely noticed them, now, and Morn can see pale greenish-blue eyes watching him warily from beneath the guard’s helmet.
“Greetings,” Morna’ma offers, holding out both hands to his sides to show he has no weapon in them. “My family is here to trade and sell to the people of the Rift.”
The guard looks him over, apparently sizing him up, and Morn can see her raise an eyebrow. It disappears beneath the edge of her helmet.
“There’s space by the stables to set up your tents, Khajiit.”
Morna’ma nods, clasping his hands together in front of him like he’s seen Ahkari do when she’s bartering.
“Yes, we have been to Riften before, thank you. But,” Morn leans in a little closer to the guard and lowers his voice, like he’s entrusting her with some kind of secret, “our sales have been quite poor lately, with so little traffic outside the city walls. If you let us in,” Morna’ma pulls a single coin from his pocket and holds it up between two fingers, rolling it over them and letting it clink against the backs of his claws, “we would be certain to make a lot more, and could spare more than a few coins for you as thanks for the favor.”
The guard narrows her eyes at Morna’ma and takes a step back, apparently displeased with having her space invaded.
“Khajiit are not allowed inside the city walls, boy. Laws are laws, and there’s nothing I can do to change them.”
“Ah,” Morn says. He feels a strange little twist in the pit of his stomach, annoyance and defiance trying very hard to rear their angry heads. He ignores them, his face blank. “Thank you for your time, regardless.”
The guard looks at him like he’s grown a second head, then shrugs. “Not like I’m doing anything else with it,” she says, and chuckles to herself. Morn isn’t sure he understands what’s funny, but he smiles at her anyway.
“We’ll go to set up our tent by the stables, then,” Morna’ma agrees, and just as he’s about to turn and rejoin his family, there’s a shout from inside the gates.
“Thief! Stop him!”
The gates burst open and a man dressed in a set of buckled leather armor sprints out, knocking Morna’ma aside and barreling through the other Khajiit waiting just back on the road. A stampede of guards follows the man, weapons drawn, all shouting as they chase down the apparent thief. The guard at the door grins viciously and draws her own weapon, joining the crowd in their dash to catch the thief and leaving the gate still swinging—and conveniently unguarded.
Ahkari stares wide-eyed at the scene, her jaw hanging open in surprise. Dro’marash seems like he might be laughing, though at what, Morna’ma is unsure. Zaynabi simply smiles at Morn, apparently realizing what he’s thinking, and tugs at Ahkari’s sleeve.
“The gates,” Morn’s mother whispers to her sister, pointing to where Morna’ma stands. Morn sticks one paw out to stop the gates’ swinging and gestures inside.
“Quietly,” Ahkari warns, gathering up her skirts and hurrying past Morna’ma into the city with Zaynabi and Dro’marash close on her heels.
The streets of Riften are empty of guards, eerily still and full of a low-lying fog that’s drifting up from the river and canals below. The Khajiit stick to the East side of the street, long shadows cast by the rising sun covering them as they make their way toward the center of the city.
Most of the stalls in the center square are still empty, but an Argonian is already unpacking the day’s stock onto the shelves of one: necklaces and rings and circlets catch the sharp angle of the light and gleam as he lays them out on the stall, and Morna’ma can’t help but stop and stare for a moment at a brilliant golden circlet set with stones so dark green they’re nearly black.
“You’re not from the city,” the Argonian says, eyeing the caravan as they crowd into the empty square, looking around for a place to set up shop.
“No,” Morna’ma says, stepping forward and meeting the Argonian’s eyes, trying to predict whether he’s about to call for the guards. “We are not.”
“It’ll be good to have some novelty.” The Argonian smiles, tilting his head to one side as if considering something. “Maybe you’ll bring a little attention to the rest of us, as well.”
Morna’ma deflates a little, his sense of threat relieved somewhat. He takes another step toward the Argonian’s stall and offers a dark-furred hand, which the Argonian takes in his own scaled claws and shakes.
“My name is Morna-Siir. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The Argonian chuckles. “So formal! Madesi, at your service, young man.” He releases Morn’s hand and gestures to the stall next to his own. “You’re welcome to set up here for the day, if you like.” He leans a little closer across the stall and whispers, “I heard a rumor that Grelka has come down with something… nasty, so she’s not likely to be out and about today.”
Morna’ma has no idea who Grelka is, but he nods and gestures for Ahkari to join him over by the stall. Madesi shows her how to unlock the little sliding door in front of the shelves, and even offers to help Dro’marash unpack some of their wares into the little stall. By the time they’re set up, a few other merchants have wandered into the town square to start getting ready for the day, and the sun has climbed high enough to peek over the edge of the city walls and cast the square in warm golden light.
The city guards have yet to return, but that’s just fine by Morn. He stands anxiously by the side of the stall while Ahkari and Zaynabi argue good-naturedly over pricing for a few elixirs, doing his best to keep an eye out for any trouble when the guards, inevitably, notice their presence in the city.
Madesi seems to be right, however, about their novelty attracting onlookers, because by the time Morn spots even a single guard, the city square is bustling with activity, the people of Riften apparently curious to see what a Khajiit caravan is offering in the city market. The guard approaches with one hand on his weapon, though he doesn’t draw it yet.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says, and he looks right at Morna’ma.
“Ah,” Morn says, his heart suddenly thudding in his ears. “That is true.”
“Oh, leave the lad alone,” a voice cuts through the bustle of gawkers and shoppers, and Morna’ma looks up to see a Nord man with deep red hair and a look of amusement on his face. The man throws an arm around the guard’s shoulders as if they’re old friends, though if the guard’s grimace of discomfort is anything to go by, they absolutely are not.
“Brynjolf,” the guard says through gritted teeth, “this isn’t your business.”
“Ah, but it is!” The man—Brynjolf, apparently—grins at the guard in a way that strikes Morna’ma as practiced, but ultimately false, camaraderie. “Business hasn’t been this good in weeks! Look at how many people are out shopping today! Wouldn’t you know, I’ve made twice as much just this morning as I did all day yesterday. The cats are good for business, I say let them stay!”
The guard grumbles something which Morna’ma hasn’t heard before, but based on the tone, he assumes it’s some manner of Cyrodiilic curse.
“What was that?” Brynjolf nudges the guard.
“Today. They can stay for today,” the guard mutters, hurriedly extracting himself from Brynjolf’s embrace and stalking off back to his post. The redheaded Nord watches him go, chuckling a little to himself.
“Thank you,” Morna’ma says quietly, a little embarrassed by the whole scene. “That could have been… unpleasant, had you not intervened.”
“It’s nothing,” Brynjolf says, turning back to Morn with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Your accent is the best I’ve heard from any Khajiit in Skyrim. What’s your name, lad?”
Morna’ma finds himself frozen, looking up at the Nord who likely just saved him from being thrown into Riften’s jail. The man’s eyes are a piercing blue and creased at their edges, his expression lined with an attentive sharpness that tells Morn that this man is more than just a merchant.
“Morna’ma!” Dro’marash calls from a few stalls over, where he’s been chatting with the city blacksmith. Morn startles, his ears flicking backwards and the hair on his neck rising for a moment. “Come here! Take a look at this dagger!”
Morn turns and stands up on his toes to peer over at Dro’marash, waving to him and holding up a clearly enchanted dagger the blacksmith had been showing him.
“I should go,” Morn says, nodding deeply at Brynjolf, nearly a bow.
“Aye,” the man says, a strange half-smile on his face. “I’ll be seeing you, then.”
As Morna’ma scurries off to join Dro’marash and the blacksmith, he’s certain he feels Brynjolf’s eyes on him, watching him as if sizing him up for some unknown challenge.
The other Riften merchants begin to pack up their stalls as the sun is setting, and by the time it dips below the horizon with a flare of red across the darkening sky, the square is nearly empty. As Morna’ma helps his mother finish tucking the remainder of her unsold goods into her knapsack, however, he feels a prickle at the back of his neck.
He’s being watched.
Morn surveys the square quickly. No guards have come to throw them out yet, so the one he spoke to earlier must have kept his promise. No, it’s not a guard looking at him, and it’s not Madesi, the last of the merchants still packing up for the day. Morn glances across the square at the tavern nearby and… yes, there’s a pair of piercing blue eyes watching him from the shadows below the tavern sign. That red-headed Nord who got the guard off his back has been watching him this whole time.
“I’ll be right back, Ahki,” Morna’ma whispers to his aunt. She nods, watching him with a curious expression as he crosses the square and all but vanishes into the shadow beneath the tavern’s facade.
“You want something from me,” Morna’ma says to the darkness, to the shadowed man waiting for him there.
“Aye, you’re an astute one, aren’t you?” Brynjolf takes a step away from the wall of the tavern, the light of the rising moons catching a gleam of metal on his boots. They’re leather, tall, with several buckles along the side to adjust their fit and soft soles that make no sound in the darkness. The thief, Morn thinks, was wearing something quite like them when he made a break for it that morning through the gate.
“I know when someone is lying to me,” Morn says, and Brynjolf, irritatingly, laughs.
“Ah, but I haven’t said anything yet, lad. Will you hear me out, at least?”
“You don’t need to speak to lie.” Morna’ma gestures stiffly at the man’s boots. “You’re a thief.”
Brynjolf does not seem alarmed, or even particularly bothered, by this statement. He takes a step closer to Morn, forcing him to look up at the Nord now standing mere inches from him in the shadows. Morna’ma’s heart feels as if it’s slowly clawing its way up his throat.
“Aye. And you could be one, too. A great one, I think, if you set your mind to it.” Brynjolf smiles, and this time, the smile nearly reaches those sharp blue eyes.
Morna’ma squints at him, unconvinced, and crosses his arms over his chest.
“You’re more skilled with your eyes and your tongue than half the members of my guild.” Brynjolf continues, undeterred. “I think the Thieves Guild could use someone like you. And I’m willing to bet you could use the coin.”
Morn stares up at Brynjolf; his face, despite his earlier acting with the city guard, seems oddly sincere now, maybe even excited.
“It sounds,” Morna’ma starts, speaking slowly, “like you see me as an asset you’d like to acquire.”
Brynjolf grimaces. “I… well, I wouldn’t exactly put it that way.”
“But it is true, regardless of the niceties you couch it in.” Morna’ma stands up a little straighter. “If I am so valuable to you, I would like something in return.”
“Oh?” Brynjolf raises an eyebrow, that amused, crooked smile returning to his face. “Name your price, lad. I’m sure you’re worth it.”
Morn glances back toward his family in the square; his mother is helping Dro’marash with his pack, and his aunt Ahkari is still going through their strongbox, counting out more septims than they’ve seen in weeks.
“My family,” Morn says, turning back to Brynjolf and gesturing over his shoulder at them. “We made more gold selling in Riften today than we’ve seen in months of selling outside the city walls.” He takes a breath, preparing to ask the impossible, and looks Brynjolf steadily in the eyes. “Get us passage into Riften, permanently, and I’ll allow you and your guild to use my skills however you see fit.”
Brynjolf, to Morn’s surprise, does not shoot the offer down immediately. He tilts his head a little, looking down at Morna’ma, and crosses his arms.
“You’re asking a lot, you know that, lad.”
Morna’ma swallows, his heartbeat loud in his ears. He nods.
“But… to be honest, I think you’re probably worth even more than that.” He puts a hand on Morn’s shoulder, and Morna’ma has to hold his breath for a moment, trying to stay still and not flinch back from the way the man’s touch feels like fire, even through layers of leather and fabric and fur.
“Uh. Thank you?” Morna’ma says, unsure what else there is to say.
“I’ll see what I can do, lad.” The hand on Morn’s shoulder squeezes tight for a moment. “In the meantime, take care of yourself.”
And with that, Brynjolf disappears into the shadows of Riften’s narrow streets, vanishing like a ghost into the fog rising silently from the canals.