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The Third Era had just begun and as things always were, the thieves were the first to make their mark. Across all of Tamriel the Guild was hitting high priority targets. In Riften, however, things were much more low key. The new foundling of the Guild there, Barenziah, whose future held many things, was still doing what she could to make a name for herself.
She was a good thief, that was obvious, but was young and cocky. She knew she was good. She also knew she could have any man in the Guild she wanted, and already had had several of them. Well, any man except one.
Andaro wasn’t what you might expect from a thief. He was an Altmer, for one, and enjoyed having long philosophical conversations. It wasn’t the gold or the jewels that he was after, only the joy of practicing what he called his “art”.
He was tall, slim, and good looking, but Barenziah’s charms seemed to have no effect on him, or at least only bemused him momentarily. Among other things, he was the Guild’s “key” as they called him, for no lock had ever been found that he could not pick.
Most of the mundane locks seemed to hardly require his attention. With just a flick and a twist of pick and probe he’d spring them as easily as if he’d had a key. Part of Barenziah was jealous of this feat, and she’d watched him do it many times, but never got the hang of it herself.
Moreover quite often she would break into a house or a store barn and find he’d already been there. She could tell, as well as anyone, because of Andaro’s peculiar habit of marking every lock he picked with a queer sigil of two triangles facing each other and a line down the center.
Naturally, Barenziah would come storming back to the safehouse in a rage only to find Andaro sitting there smugly, as if he were waiting for her. Often he’d offer to give her what he’d taken, but she always refused out of pride.
“That man,” she once fumed at the Khajiit, Therris, “Is a skeever-eating bastard!”
Oh how Andaro frustrated her, and her frustration made her want him all the more. Finally, one day after finding his little sigil inside a chest it had taken her four hours of skulking through the shadows to get to, she confronted him in his quarters.
“How do you do it?” she demanded, crossing her arms in front of her chest. The Altmer smiled, a small glimmer in his eye.
“I wasn’t always a thief, you know,” he replied in a smooth voice, “I used to be a locksmith.”
“A locksmith…” Barenziah echoed. Aha! Now that made sense.
“A lock is a beautiful thing, girl,” Andaro continued, “Such subtle mechanisms and intricate mechanics. Every lock is different. Some are firm and gruff, others quiet and supple, you never know until you’ve picked it. Each one is like meeting a new person for the first time.”
Barenziah blinked, not sure quite what to make of the man’s ramblings and turned to go. Before she could, however, a small lockbox in the corner caught her eye. The lock seemed to be of pure gold and was encrusted with jewels.
Ah, now that will teach him, she thought to herself. If she were to break into his own lockbox that might show him who the real thief was among them. She knew, however, that he must have made the lock himself, and it was unlikely that she had the skill to pick it… yet.
For weeks and months she practiced, locking and unlocking chests and doors during every spare moment. Finally she felt prepared, and the day came that Andaro was out surveying a new possible mark.
Hastily, she stole into his quarters and found the lockbox where she had remembered it being. It was covered in dust and seemed as though it had not been opened in ages. Hesitantly, she probed around it looking for traps, but found none.
With baited breath she slipped first the pick then the probe into the gilt lock and began to work. An hour passed, then two, then a third. Andaro would be back any minute, she knew, but she had to do it, she was so close and- click!
The box sprung open, revealing a red velvet interior. Inside, laid out carefully was a simple amulet on a chain of silver rings, half a diamond embedded in it. She stared at it in wonder. What a strange trinket, and certainly not worth keeping under such heavy guard.
“I see you’ve learned a few tricks of your own,” a deep and silky voice replied from behind her. She spun and stood, coming face to face with Andaro.
“I’ve been watching you for the last ten or twenty minutes,” he said as if nothing had happened, “You’ve got good technique, it just needs a little refinement.”
“Is that all you have to say?” she blurted. He chuckled. She was about to storm out of the room but a thought stopped her.
“What is it?” she asked, almost anxiously. Andaro bent down and hooked a long finger around the amulet’s chain, lifting it out of the box and letting it dangle in front of him as he looked it over.
“A symbol,” he mused.
“Why half a diamond?” Barenziah replied.
“Because of who bears the other half,” the Altmer said, a wisp of melancholy in his voice.
“And who’s that?” she asked, feeling very much a child asking so many questions.
“My wife,” Andaro said, slipping the amulet back into the lockbox and locking it with a silver key he withdrew from his robes. That’s when Barenziah understood it, the riddle of his little sigil. Two halves of a diamond, and why she couldn’t have him.