Chapter 26

"You'll be pleased to know that they've decided to move the vault to my basement." Mercer lets out a crack of laughter as I clear the table of empty plates and bottles.

"Just as planned."

"Please. You were going to abandon them; a complete waste of resources. It's just as well you had such a capable collaborator." He receives a small wink before I sit back down opposite, looking him over expectantly. "Speaking of which," I hold my right hand open in front of him, "the Skeleton Key." He lets out a small huff of feigned exasperation, -"So obsessive." - reaching into a pocket before dropping the Key in my outstretched hand.

My vision blacks out, assaulted by spectacles, locations, people. A lone man, hunted under the full moon; caverns teeming with undead; olive liquid decaying stone. Priests, invaders, mired in an unending slumber; dark blood oozing from open wounds; metal shards lost to time. Figures morphed through treachery; the air itself slicing portals to liliaceous planes; skilled combatants locked in open conflict; blackness spreading like infection, drenching all in its taint.

The images leave as quickly as they arrived, pain pounding against my temples at any attempts at recollection. My eyes refocus on Mercer, who has removed the Key from me. His scowl is much more pronounced than usual; any deeper and his face just might crack in two. My expression mirrors his own as I reach for the artifact back.

"You're bleeding," pulling my hand away, I find that he's correct, blood collecting in last week's dagger wound, "and your eyes were pitch black while you held it."

Well. That's unexpected.

"So I take it the Key doesn't give you visions."

"No." I don't believe you.

"It's always most intense the first time." I'm not even sure why I'm bothering to be reassuring, given that he's keeping information from me. The blood on my hand is much darker, more viscous than fresh, not to mention that the cut shouldn't even be bleeding in the first place. I suppose I should be a touch more concerned about it than I am. "I need more time with it to figure out what exactly I just saw, and to learn the enchantment." I leave my seat to clean the blood and wrap my hand in a fresh bandage.

"You're not getting the Key." Yes, I am.

"It'll be on loan." Slipping between the table and Mercer, I sit on his lap, legs either side of his chair. My fingers busy themselves with the laces holding his shirt closed. "I can negotiate, my good thief."

Things return to some level of normalcy over the next few months. On the Guild front, Cain handles all the recruitment, communication and other people-managing tasks, while Brynjolf deals with most of the day to day operations and delegation of smaller assignments. That leaves my main responsibilities to include maintaining the ledger - apparently they really didn't learn anything from Mercer's betrayal - and the allocation of members and resources to longer term investments and projects. On the occasion that my grumpy associate is over, he provides information, maps, and tips on larger heists in exchange for a reasonable cut. He even has his own line in the ledger: "independent informers".

Mercer leaves the Skeleton Key in my company for a few days at a time while he goes off to do whatever it is he does with himself; he could be breaking into religious institutions, or he could just be scrounging up enough money to cover his rent, for all I know. He's taken to wearing lighter, fitted clothing and long hooded cloaks in lieu of his old Guild armour, which I don't dislike. His Amulet of Articulation is with me, but I'd rather not wear it in case it's spotted by anyone that understands its significance.

The Skeleton Key is intriguing, to say the least. Physical contact with any of my old injuries brings about flashes of visions and unnatural bleeding, yet in my left hand it is, for all intents and purposes, simply an unbreakable lockpick. The latter was simple enough to learn without Mercer's assistance, and was initially my highest priority. With this new enchantment, I can incentivise interested thieves into completing more dangerous tasks, even send them after artifacts should I feel that pursing one myself isn't worth my time. I haven't made as much progress in regards to the visions, however, - the only thing I have managed to isolate is a figure in a blue tagelmust, standing before a golden cauldron, but there are no clues as to who or where he is - and my associate is more interested in engaging in other physical activities while he's visiting.

The Breton has a knack for timing his calls just as I'm at my mental limits, making the prospect of release incredibly difficult to resist. While his advances aren't unwelcome, I can't help but feel as if he purposely wants to keep me from my work. Ultimately it's my own failing for involving the less intellectual parts of me in the decision making process.

The knowledge bound by the Key is a vice, clawing at my mind even when the artifact itself isn't in my possession. I should be focussed on other tasks when I don't have access to the Skeleton Key, yet I find myself lingering, fruitlessly attempting to reproduce and clarify its messages.

"Still working." Despite knowing that he can't surprise me, Mercer continues to insist on sneaking around in my house. I notice that he's wiping one of his daggers clean with a stray rag as I leave my seat to acknowledge his presence.

Blood.

The realisation hits me immediately, the first pieces of an infinite puzzle clicking into place. Stepping into his space, my left hand reaches into the pocket in which he keeps the Key, the right moving towards the blade in his hand. My index and middle fingers run across the sharpened edge, just firmly enough to draw blood. One, two drops; bright red, fresh, fall onto the sphere-topped handle and part of what I've been pursuing for months unlocks in mere seconds.

"The Guildmaster has sent you here because he believes you to be skilled, and capable of completing a task for me." I don't even know what the name of this thief is; my research has taken up the entirety of my spare time, and I've stopped making idle social calls, careful not to accidentally reveal any clues as to my identity or alliances. "It will be dangerous, and you are free to refuse, but in addition to double your regular share, you will be rewarded with an incredibly powerful item."

She doesn't react as I place a seemingly ordinary lockpick on the table between us.

"An unbreakable lockpick," She shakes the hood off her head, revealing short, curled tendrils of dark blonde hair, "we can head to the training room for a demonstration, if you don't believe me." Muttering something of the negative, her voice is lightsome and barely audible. Taking it as enough indication of her interest, I drop a pouch of coins onto the desk.

"Head to the Shrine of Peryite, northwest of Karthwasten, and seek out the Khajiti priest who makes his home there. Your goal is to attain the Spellbreaker," I show her its likeness in one of my books, "by any means you deem necessary. Bring it back to me, and you will receive the remainder of your payment, as well as unlimited enchantments, whenever you see fit." Promises of such remunerations are difficult to resist, especially for those on the avaricious side, and it's no surprise when she takes the initial advance, pulling her hood back over her eyes, and subsequently taking her leave.

She had better be as proficient as Cain believes she is.

"Isn't she lovely?" Right on queue, our cheery Guildmaster is spending far too long observing the thief I just sent on the artifact hunt, as she walks with her back to him to the Flagon's exit. I am, however, glad that he has - at least outwardly - moved on with his affections.

"Well, she didn't really speak to me very much."

"That's because she doesn't know you." The Dragonborn invites himself into my workshop, two bottles of mead in hand. "I'm getting pretty sick of receiving your orders via letter, when you live practically five minutes away, too." I glare at him to speak quietly, but he just waves me off. "If you ask any of the newer members, our resident enchanter is an old, sullen workaholic, who only makes public appearances for business."

"I apologise. I've been quite occupied."

"I can see that; you look like you haven't slept for months." There isn't really much I can say to that, I'm not of the habit of discussing my engagements. Some time passes as we drink in silence. "Listen, I've heard rumours about a talking dog in Falkreath."

"A talking dog." Nothing good comes from mixing mead with skooma, and I certainly hope the Imperial hasn't developed that as a new hobby.

"Come on, a change in scenery will be good for you!" He ushers me out of my seat and towards the Cistern. "Let's let Brynjolf know and be on our way; a talking dog will be more fun with the both of us, no?"

A/N: Well this took forever, didn't it?

I'm actually going to go through and rewrite, and possibly combine some of the older chapters. I don't intend to change any of what happens, more just polish the narration a little more and make it more consistent with the chapters I've written recently. Naturally this is going to slow down new chapter progress as well, so you have all of my love for bearing with me.