Work Text:
Ilias-Tei didn’t want to be in Solitude—no, not even a little bit—but she did owe Brynjolf some allegiance, after all he’d done for her following the death of her twin. Her path was never, however, meant to be one of thievery and trickery. If Saxhleel were wont to smile in a manner that wasn’t altogether unsettling, she’d have laughed at her own folly—but now was not the time. There was work to be done, to be sure, though she felt oddly exposed in these rich city streets under such open, blue skies—not to mention how many guards crawled about, always watching. It was a far cry from the dark, sodden comforts of the Ratway and the canal leading out into lake Honrich.
She shifted the crate she’d been carrying, which had been unloaded outside the city gates with Brynjolf’s supervision.
“Ilias!” Brynjolf exclaimed, turning and throwing his arms wide—notably, he was not carrying a large, heavy crate—as he walked backwards. “Welcome to Solitude, and the biggest opportunity for, ah, profit you and I have ever had.”
“This idea was not yours,” Ilias-Tei muttered, each ‘s’ bringing forth a small snake-like hiss from her voice in her immense irritation. “Also, it’s Ilias-Tei, for the thousandth time.”
“What’s a new nickname between friends?” Brynjolf said, his odd Bruma brogue scraping at Ilias-Tei’s last nerve. It had been a very, very long journey from Riften.
“I’ll give you a nickname,” she quipped.
Brynjolf only responded with laughter, moving to take the crate from her claws. She sighed, glad for the chance to rotate her sore shoulders. She did so then, grass green scales glinting in the sun as her joints popped in a way that aged her a century or more.
She straightened her blue mage robes, its enchantments humming softly with each pass of her palms. Though she’d given up her studies and fled south when Ilas-Tei had passed, these were still a comfort. They reminded her of easier times, before the guild and Nocturnal. Plus, nobody looked at a scrawny Saxhleel mage and thought, “thief!” and that had kept her safe enough, when her magic failed to do so.
“Do you think,” she ventured after a moment, “that the Dragonborn is at the market already?”
“Unfortunately she will be otherwise occupied for the duration of our ploy,” Brynjolf said, then proceeded to sigh like a lovestruck man missing his wife—which, Ilias-Tei supposed, he more or less was. She would have rolled her eyes if she could.
“Then why send us here of all places?” Ilias-Tei asked, failing to calm her rising temper. She crossed her arms over her chest.
“She’s the Guildmaster,” Brynjolf said. He grinned. “We’re just following orders.”
“And how,” Ilias-Tei said, “am I supposed to help when you won’t even tell me what those orders are?”
“Peace, Ilias!” Brynjolf said, motioning toward her, palms pressing downward as if she could be so easily placated. “Everything will work out just fine. Are you upset about this job? Is that what’s got you in such a sour mood? I know how you get with marks that aren’t rich.”
“No,” Ilias-Tei said, voice going deadpan. “It’s not the job. ”
It’s the company, she didn’t say.
“Then let all the negative energy go.”
Ilias-Tei hated when he used the Dragonborn’s manner of speaking as if he, too, was some kind of witch.
He isn’t smart enough to be one, she didn’t say, either.
“All this for what, exactly, Brynjolf?”
The crate he now carried contained a large lot of tiny potion bottles all labeled ‘Falmer Blood Elixir,’ which, to the best of Ilias-Tei’s knowledge, was just the Dragonborn’s famous chicken broth. People, however, seemed to believe whatever Brynjolf told them about it, though.
“Because,” Brynjolf said with a nonchalant shrug, “we needed a valid reason to be in the marketplace.”
Ilias-Tei hissed out an aggravated sigh in response, which Brynjolf ignored.
They’d arrived at their stall in the courtyard of the Castle Dour, which was surrounded by local vendors selling all manner of inventory ranging wildly from spiced wine to handcrafted furniture. People milled about in droves, running their hands over expensive fabrics, or pointing discerningly toward imported cheeses. The sun had crept behind a smattering of clouds and flurries had begun, giving the crowded Saturalia Market a proper aesthetic, if one cared for such things.
Ilias-Tei didn’t. She hated the cold—as did most sensible Saxhleel. She tucked her hands into the pockets of her robes, watching as Brynjolf set up shop.
He hummed a tune about how great the Dragonborn apparently was—entirely off key—as he organized gleaming bottles of ‘elixir,’ and a hand-painted sign, as if it all would give their venture an air of credibility. Any moment now, he’d begin spouting his useless drivel about the purported benefits of the product, and people would gather round, rapt. Ilias-Tei would be expected to cast Calm and then—? Well, if it was anything like Riften, some new recruit or another would be out amongst the shoppers moving more quietly than a shadow, and robbing people blind.
“Ilias,” Brynjolf said, voice more of a whisper than she had expected, “we’re going to have you cast Fear instead, at my signal.”
“You’re sure?” she whispered back. There were a lot of people here, and it wouldn’t be the first time that spell caused real damage.
“Trust me,” Brynjolf answered, all humor gone from his voice.
Annoying as he may be, Brynjolf had never given Ilias-Tei reason not to trust him. She swallowed hard at a lump in her throat and nodded. The severity melted from the man’s features as he turned back to the crowd. She took her place in the shadows and watched him perform as comfortably as any actor on any stage in Tamriel would.
It wasn’t long before she noticed his hand signals. Those, combined with the serious expression that had flickered across Brynjolf’s face as he motioned for her to cast, put Ilias-Tei on edge—but she did as she had been asked.
Magicka poured forth out of both of her hands. She felt the spell twisting into shape as she released it, each mind of every person in the crowd becoming sparks in her vision—things to be controlled like wind over a flame. Terrible suggestions poured from her spell into the sparks of those minds: Frostbite spiders, ancient dragons, powerful Daedra—or worse.
A woman screamed first—the spiced wine vendor. The sound of it split the air and carried far, igniting a panic in the crowd as people saw their worst fears manifest out of thin air. Most, unfortunately, were not trained to resist such intrusion.
Ilias-Tei melded into the shadows, serpentine eyes glinting in the low light as Brynjolf disappeared from sight. She could still hear him, even as the screaming of the crowd got louder and they all began scrambling to get away, destroying stalls and knocking goods to the cobblestones in their wake.
She closed her eyes, listening for the tawny wingbeats that lived perpetually in the back of her own mind—Nocturnal’s presence. Then she, like Brynjolf, slipped between light and shadow, and was gone.
Exiting the purple haze of the Evergloam would always feel like having to breathe air again after so much time underwater—almost unnatural. Carrying a whole person through Oblivion and out the other side, back to Nirn, would be even more laborious.
The Dragonborn had met them in those shadows, Vitorria Vici in a wedding gown slung over the strong Nord’s shoulder. Brynjolf now bore that burden, but Ilias-Tei still felt the press of Nocturnal’s ire all around them, watching to be sure the perceived intruder did not wake and see what was not hers to see.
“This will surely start a war with Astrid,” Ilias-Tei noted, dismayed. She’d heard Delvin talk about this contract in the Flagon just last week. She hadn’t remembered that the Saturalia Market and the wedding had been scheduled at the same time until the plan was already in motion.
“Precisely why I didn’t tell you,” Brynjolf said solemnly. They both stepped through Oblivion out onto the cobblestones of the road leading out of Solitude. A carriage, conveniently, waited for them there. “I know how you are about war, too—even necessary ones. Astrid, however, needs to be stopped.”
Brynjolf settled Vittoria into the hay in the back of the wagon and covered her with his cloak, heedless of the weather against his own skin.
Ilias-Tei glanced down at their new passenger warily. “I suppose I’ll keep an eye on her, then?”
“Indeed. Ina is handling the assassins and the chaos in the marketplace. We just need to keep Ms. Vici safe.”
“What about the husband?” Ilias-Tei ventured after a moment.
“How did you think Astrid hatched this scheme in the first place?” Brynjolf asked, voice grave.
No wonder the Dragonborn had taken it upon herself to put a stop to this.