Solitude’s ancient stones held the day’s warmth, but as the sun dipped behind the Blue Palace, the city’s shadows grew long and cold. As if in purposeful contrast to the growing dark, the streets glowed under golden lanterns with the warm bustle of life: merchants hawking wares, guards in blue and silver patrolling with practiced indifference, and the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer echoing off metal and stone. Sloan moved through it all with the ease of someone who had learned to blend in, her eyes flicking from shadow to shadow, always alert.

 

It was a small thing at first: a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye, a shadow that lingered a heartbeat too long. She tested it, pausing at a vendor’s stall to finger a length of silk, using the opportunity to cast a careful look around.

 

There. In the reflection of a rain-streaked window, Sloan caught a glimpse: a Khajit, tawny-furred, acting for all the world as if she was merely looking at the wares in the window. Had Sloan not known the cat, the ruse might have worked.

 

But, of course, she recognized Gilna.

 

Sloan’s mind flickered with memories – a kitchen and knives, a deer in the woods; a deadly game of tag in the rafters of a church. Sloan’s lips curled into a wry smile; a smile that faded when she realized what the presence of her old friend (inasmuch as anyone had been a friend) meant: somehow, Sloan had been connected to the murder of Grelod. And probably Mishi as well.

 

And the Dark Brotherhood was not happy about either one.

 

That assumed Gilna was part of the heretofore mythical organization, but Sloan had little doubt, knowing Kira was in charge of the tong. Even if it wasn't the Brotherhood themselves, the Khajit's presence meant someone was on to Sloan.

 

Sloan thought about simply walking over the cat and striking up a conversation, but she knew Gilna would not like that. The cat loved to play with her prey; Sloan decided to let her. She turned away from the silk and entered a narrow alley, her steps casual but deliberate. The alley twisted behind a row of shops, empty save for a few crates and the lingering scent of fish from the morning’s market.

 

She didn’t have to wait long. Gilna appeared at the mouth of the alley, moving with her usual confident caution.

 

Sloan slipped deeper into the maze of alleys, her boots silent on the damp stones. She darted through a gap between two buildings, emerging onto a narrow lane lined with laundry flapping in the breeze. She snagged a shirt that smelled of soap and wet linen as she ducked beneath a sagging clothesline and quickly exchanged it for hers, then tossed her shirt down one alley while turning the opposite direction, picking up her pace while weaving through the labyrinthine backstreets of Solitude. She slipped into the shadow of a crumbling archway, pressed herself against the cold stone, and waited. The city’s noise faded, replaced by the distant caw of gulls and the slap of water against the docks. Her heart hammered in her chest, but her breathing was steady.

 

After counting fifty heartbeats, she slipped out of the alley and onto the main street, blending with a group of sailors heading toward the docks. She kept her head down, her stride loose, but her eyes were always moving, scanning for the flicker of a tail, the glint of feline eyes in the gathering dusk. She saw nothing but the normal flow of the city.

 

Just as the sailors turned to follow the path downward, Sloan doubled back, taking a circuitous route through the market square, past the statue of Torygg, and into the warren of alleys near the Winking Skeever, where she used a barrel to boost herself onto the closest low rooftop, then onto a higher one. She moved along the roofs until she found a vantage point overlooking where she had exited the alleyways earlier.

 

The Khajit was there, gripping Sloan's shirt as she scanned the crowd, her tail lashing in frustration. Sloan grinned as she slipped to a lower rooftop below, crept her way to the edge, and, with a final peek, dropped down behind the cat and pulled out her daggers.

 

“You always did rely too much on your nose in dark places.”

 

Gilna had lost nothing of her reflexes in this new world – she had turned with daggers in hands before Sloan had finished her sentence. Sloan was ready for the move, though, and Gilna stopped short as Sloan’s own daggers pressed into the fur of the khajiit’s neck.

 

Gilna laughed and eased her daggers back into their sheathes. “You do not disappoint.”

 

Sloan smiled as she lowered her daggers. “I was not aware I had a reputation.”

 

The khajiit snorted. “Of course you do. The Dark Brotherhood is not made of fools, you know. We know it was you who killed Grelod the Kind in Riften.”

 

Sloan’s heart thudded once, hard, but she kept her face impassive. “I did you a favor – the pay would not have been adequate. You should be grateful.”

 

Gilna snorted again. “Grateful? Maybe. But you know how these things work. Grelod was a contract, and you took it without permission. The Brotherhood doesn’t like loose ends.”

 

“You haven’t tried to kill me, so I assume this is about something else. What does the Brotherhood want with me?”

 

They studied each other for a long moment, the silence between them thick with unspoken questions, then Gilna’s tail flicked. “I am not the one to say. I was sent only to find you and deliver a message. The Matron wants to meet you. You’re to come to the old warehouse by the docks at midnight. Alone.”

 

Sloan weighed her options as she searched Gilna’s face for any sign of recognition, any hint the cat remembered the past. But, predictably, there was nothing -- just the cool professionalism of a hunter delivering a message.

 

“And if I refuse?”

 

Gilna’s lips curled into a smile, all sharp teeth and amusement. “You won’t. The Brotherhood doesn’t take kindly to being ignored. Besides, aren’t you curious?”

 

Sloan allowed herself a small, enigmatic smile. “Curiosity can be dangerous.”

 

“For some. For others, it is a matter of survival.”

 

With that, Gilna melted back into the shadows, her footsteps silent on the damp stones. Sloan stood alone in the alley and forced herself to keep her breath steady, to avoid showing the fear that played Sparklekins down her spine and flooded her belly with a gnawing ache.

 

The one thing she had hoped to avoid had gone out of its way to find her; it seemed she would have to play out the game after all.

 

Well, then, play it she would. She was prepared this time, or more so, at least – she knew who this Matron was (she gave her head a shake – of course Kira was still called The Matron in this world!) and had some idea what she wanted. It was a giant step ahead of where Sloan had started last time.

 

She slipped out of the alley and headed for the shops to prepare for the encounter as best she could as a wave of regret passed over her – she still had not swung by the old cabin where her mother (or whoever Melissa was to her)’s supply cache was hidden. That armor had saved Sloan from Kira’s wrath once before; suddenly she felt exposed without it.

 

 

 

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