Sloan tossed and turned in frustration. It was far too bright to sleep. Just as in the alley, the prison, which by all appearances should have been a gloomy place lit only by regular intervals of sputtering torches, may as well have been open to the clear blue sky.

 

She flipped to her stomach and buried her head in her arms, which helped a bit but made her back feel exposed. She sighed and sat up just as footsteps and jangling keys approached.

 

“Here it is, just like you left it.”

 

“Are you sure? I was in the middle of my model. I’d hate to have to start over.”

 

“Don’t worry, we didn’t touch anything.”

 

A guard – not the one who had arrested her - and a prisoner came into view from around the corner of the cell block. Sloan assumed he was a prisoner, anyway, despite his well-tailored noble’s clothing in lieu of the prison outfits everyone else worse. Sloan studied the man as the two stopped at the cell next to hers and the guard opened the door.

 

The man entered the cell with a sigh and went straight to the heavy desk that was placed along the back wall. He moved with the unconscious grace of the well-born; clearly his clothing was not a mirage.  

 

The desk was not the only odd accoutrement in the cell – it had a plush feather bed, a pair of stocked bookshelves (Sloan had borrowed a couple of the books in her three days there), a thick rug that covered most of the floor, and an assortment of curious odds and ends. It looked more like a comfortable bedroom than a cell. Sloan had wondered what it was all for. Now, apparently, she was finding out.

 

“We got you someone nice to look at this time, too.” The guard gestured at Sloan. “Just let me know if you want to do more than look.”

 

The man waved a hand without looking back. “I would not be so uncouth, as you well know, James. You may go.”

 

The guard made a rude gesture toward the prisoner, tossed Sloan a leer, then locked the door and sauntered away.

 

The man sighed again as he turned the oil table lamp up a few notches, opened a drawer of the desk, and removed something that, once it was on the desk top and Sloan got a good look at it, made her heart skip a beat.

 

“That’s a dragon!” The words slipped out of her mouth without thought (she heard Mishi’s sneering, “Sloppy!” in her head).

 

The man turned to her with an expression of quiet surprise. “It is. The dragons are my passion. Well, and making snowberry jam, but that is on hold once again.” Yet another sigh as he turned back and began fishing small tools from a smaller drawer. “I just know no one is watching my plants, even though they promised they would.”

 

Sloan stood, peering at the carved statue as she moved closer. The base and back half were still rough-hewn wood, but the front was intricately detailed. Too detailed, in fact.

 

“Why does it have front legs?”

 

The man frowned. “They aren’t wyverns, they’re dragons. They have four legs.”

 

“True, but they don’t have separate front legs - their front legs are part of their wings. The wings fold back and the…I guess it’s sort of their wing elbows become the front legs.”

 

“What? That’s preposterous! Who told you that?”

 

“I…” Sloan stopped as her mind caught up to her mouth. The return of the dragons would not be widely known, if they were even back yet.

 

Yet this seemed an opportunity – here was a man who was clearly wealthy and connected. Exactly the sort of person she had been seeking. Someone who could get her information or, at least, have connections who could do so. She smiled and blinked with her best innocent-child expression.

 

“I saw a picture in a book.”

 

“Well, whoever wrote that book was a fool.”

 

“Really? The dragons have been gone a long time. How do you know so much about them?”

 

He told her. For the next three hours he told her, in fact – everything she might ever want to know about his twin passions of dragon research and snowberry jam making, all the time carving delicate peels of wood from his statue. If his jam-making was as good as his carving skills, it must be very good jam indeed. When she said, “I would love to try your jam someday,” it wasn’t even a lie.

 

He brightened at the words. “Really? I’ve given it away as gifts and such, but I don’t think people actually eat it. I have also sold some to the market vendors but I think they only bought them because of my family name, not because they intended to sell it.”

 

“Your family name?”

 

Another sigh, the latest in a long string of them. “Yes. I don’t mind telling you because it is hardly a secret. I am Tihwen Black-Briar.”

 

Ah. Another twist, and decision time. The Black-Briars were the local power broker family, far more influential than the actual government. What their matriarch, Maven, said was law in this little corner of Skyrim. But an orphan fresh out of Honorhall would not know that.

 

So, then, keep the orphan ruse or try a different track?

 

In the split second she had to decide, she deemed the safest route was to stick with the innocent role. Any hint that she might know about the local politics could turn him against her in a flash.

 

She blinked. “Black-Briar? Like the mead?”

 

Tihwen laughed. “Yes. My family made its fortune with that mead.”

 

Sloan thought that might start another long lecture on the making of mead, but it did not seem a subject that interested him. Instead he yawned, set down his tools, and stood.

 

“It is nice to have someone in the next cell who is interested in pleasant conversation. Usually it is just a drunk or, worse, some loud-mouthed brawler, and their noise and stink make it difficult to concentrate. So I thank you.”

 

“I…thank you. It was nice for me too. I learned a lot!” And she had – she did not have to feign her enthusiasm.

 

He smiled. “I am glad. But it is late, so I shall retire for now. I hope you have pleasant dreams.” He gave her a sort of half-bow, then turned and walked toward his lush bed, but took a moment to adjust a large screen so he was hidden from her view.

 

Sloan laughed to herself as she crossed back to her own rough cot and laid back down. She had access to a Black-Briar, a spot of good fortune. Now she only needed a way to make use of that fortune. As plans started to percolate in her head, leading her thoughts along twisted paths, she finally was able to slip into sleep.

 

She awoke some unknown time later. It still seemed as bright as day to her eyes, but her internal clock told her it was still deep into the night. She had slept for maybe an hour or two. Her bladder was not complaining, so that meant something else was. She focused on staying still and keeping her breath even and deep, as if still asleep, as she scanned the area.

 

It did not take long to find the culprit, and culprit they certainly were – a figure dressed in dark clothing slipped along the corridor between the cells. Definitely not a guard. Had Sloan not had this strange new ability to see in the dark, she might not even have noticed the figure, even with her training, especially since, she now noted, all the torches in the area had been doused.

 

As it was, she saw with perfect clarity when the figure stopped at the door to Tihwen’s cell, unlocked it with a key (not a pick, Sloan was interested to note), and pulled the door carefully open just enough to slip inside. Had there been any question of the figure’s intent, it was answered when they pulled out a black-bladed dagger and advanced with careful steps toward the screen hiding the bed, behind which Tihwen’s snores filled the air.

 

 

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