Mara il-naħal

“What in Oblivion do you mean no good?” She snatched the gold band up, holding it swinging by the chain looped through the center, close to her face to scrutinize the piece. It was rather simple, besides the polished deep red stone in the center and the inscription that read simply: “Mecius”. She reached with a free hand and dragged a thumbnail across the surface, feeling for the texture of the gem.

“No good, just cheap copper and glass. Wouldn’t earn back the effort it’d take to move it. The inscription doesn’t help. I’ll take the rest though; here,”

The Orc pulled open his purse, thumbing a modest sum of coin onto the bench. Nagul was always hard to read, demeanour uncannily calm even when Neluth spat at his offers, and his voice was rougher than most from years of smoking. Even now his pipe smouldered with whatever musky herb he had imported special into the city.

“Now off with you. No doubt you’re off to throw it all away for sugar.” This time he gave her a real grimace as he straightened, deep, craggy lines drawn in his forehead.

Her eyes narrowed on him, pulling a wry scowl. “None of your bloody business what I go spendin’ my coin on, Nagul. At the end of the day you always get paid.” The girl pulled the chain over her head, tucking the ring into her tunic. She’d argue her case in favour of the trade further, but the fence was more stubborn than she had the patience for.

The Orc pulled the pipe from between his teeth and grinned much the same way. “Least you ain’t denyin’ it any longer. Found no use in it I suppose when you started to reek like a Khajiiti potluck. Stop bringing me trash, Sparrow. Shoo.”

Neluth felt a spark of defensive anger warm in her throat, opening her mouth to throw insult back, but just as quickly it stilled and died. A thick, hazy ache tugged at the back of her skull. “Whatever, Nagul.” She turned on her heel, stalking through the ankle-deep waters of the sewer mouth that served as the fence’s market, and pulled herself up the silty bank back towards home. Tomorrow it’d be Niranil there, she’d try her instead.

Neluth slouched with knees bent on the threadbare cushions padding her cot. Her pale, eyes peered and fretted over the junk ring, turning it over and over between long fingers, the chain still looped around her neck. Sabrin, the woman whom she’d taken it from, had seemed simple and unassuming, but Neluh hadn’t taken her for a fool. Perhaps the old woman knew it had been a fake, set out as some sort of decoy, the real valuables hidden more carefully among the mess of her home.

She tucked it away again, clucking her tongue unhappily. There was no chance of returning to discover for certain. At first thought it seemed easy enough; Neluth couldn’t recall a Sundas where the Imperial wasn’t seen walking the path along the wall to cross into the City. Yet it had been midday, and hindsight reminded her of the consequences of getting caught thieving from your fellows in the district.

Guilt tried to deter her from picking the lock to the woman’s abode, but she’d bit it back with bitter excuses. Sabrin’s home was nicer than most of the Waterfront, set high on stilts above those that sat squat in the mud and the tide, free of mildew and washed up rubbage. She also seemed to pass freely into the City, never harassed by the guards. The fact the woman had a lock to pick at all held no small significance; locks were a sign of wealth hidden away, a glaring temptation to nimble fingers and empty purses. They gave folks like Sabrin false security, enough so she’d leave something like the ring out in the open. Neluth had laughed aloud at the sight of it hanging on the bedpost. Too bad it was garbage.

She pushed it from her mind though, eased to sit upright and pull a water pipe closer across the bedside table. The same scrutinizing gaze she’d cast over the ring was now focused on the tin bowl, prodding with a fingernail at sooty crumbs, to sift ash from the meagre shavings of skooma crystal she had scarcely been able to afford.

Neluth handled the pipe delicately, going through the motions as though it were a ritual. First a word to stir flame from her fingertips, free hand bringing the mouthpiece to her lips. Her breath coaxed the sweet vapour from the crystal, filling her lungs with it, and held it there. The knot that had gathered tight at the nape of her neck stirred, and then unfurled. The weight turned to heavy smoke, skittered down her spine, reverberating and loosening tightly wound limbs. It instantly mended frayed tension and smoothed the young halfmer back across the bed as she exhaled.

The pillows felt silken against her skin, as though time had unwound and removed the damp and the damage, returning them to their former glory. The shared, narrow waterfront shack, with it’s wooden walls bloated with mildew now cradled rather than confined. Light shone where before there were no windows, the soot of her peat fire turning to layered sunlight, throwing warmth over her like a blanket. Even the ever-present stink of the fishmonger’s scraps ceased their lingering.

Neluth lay like this without concept of time, but eventually something pulled her upwards. Her head lulled with the motion, chin tucked against her chest, and she watched with a lazy smile as the muck and the stink of the Waterfront shrank below her. After a while her feet dragged against solid earth, and she tried to catch her footing as she gazed at her new surroundings.

A hand cracked sharply across her face and was followed by a hard female voice. “Back to your senses you moon-kissed wretch.”

Black blotches blossomed across Neluth’s vision, the dream from before snapped from view as she let out a ragged gasp. Fight or flight shocked through her limbs like icy water, unprepared and dizzied by the force. Someone held her arms firmly behind her. Amidst the clattering of drawers upturned, and shelves cleared of their possessions, Neluth strained to cast a bewildered gaze the woman’s way.

The air had already been shocked from her lungs, so Sabrin’s hard, shrewd visage only drew a stupid croaking whine from the back of her throat. The elderly woman stood looming before her, one hand and it’s spindling fingers resting on her hip, the other ready should she need to remind the girl to wake up again. “Where is it?” She demanded.

Neluth shook her head slowly, instinct leaning towards lying and feigned ignorance. “W-where’s what?”

Another slap across her face, at least she was expecting this one. “Ratshit. Where is it? Or are you planning on spitting more lies at my feet?” She appeared like Neluth had never seen her before, voice wet with venom and rage like a Hagraven’s twisting her face.

“Sparrow, give it up. You’re in over your head for this one.” Nagul’s rough drawl sounded above her, and she realized he was the one grasping her arms firm from behind. A hollow grew in her stomach and she strained to look up, betrayed. “I’m wearing it. Around my neck.”

Sabrin’s hands lunged like claws into the front of her tunic to retrieve the chain and the ring, and then she stepped back, staring at it as the chain twined around her fingers. “Explain yourself, girl.”

“I-I don’t know what to tell you.” Neluth’s voice tripped over her words, breathless. Sabrin didn’t look at her, only inspecting the ring a moment, before she threw the chain over her neck and gestured to the Orc behind her. “Nagul,”

A hard sigh sounded from him and he shoved Neluth forward on unsteady feet, pushing her back towards the crate that served as her bedside table. Grasping her right hand, he pressed it firm against the surface as Sabrin pulled a hatchet from her belt.

Neluth watched, horrified as the woman laid the edge of the sharpened metal across the top of her wrist, giving her cause to pull and wriggle desperately against Nagul’s pressing grip. “Explain yourself, and maybe you’ll have a hand at the end of this.” Sabrin tapped lightly with the hatchet.

Fighting back the urge to be sick, she brought her gaze back to Sabrin’s, hopeful the sincerity was readable on her face. “I lifted a purse off an off-duty guard, g-got caught. They won’t let me into the City without haulin’ me to the cells. Out of c-coin.” Ashamedly, her voice stuttered in her fear.

Sabrin’s cold gaze remained, but her free hand reached to grasp Neluth by the chin, bringing her face close. “So how about I just drag you bleedin’ to them, eh?” She gave the girl a firm shake, continuing, “How stupid are you then, stealing from your own? Who do you think pays them to turn their gaze when your sort stroll across the bridge in the first place? Who makes sure they don’t come down here looking for you themselves? Me!”

As though punctuating her claim, Sabrin buried the hatchet into the wood of the crate, and Neluth tried unsuccessfully to wrench away from both her’s and Nagul’s hold. It took her a moment to realize her hand was still intact, and she forced herself to meet Sabrin’s eyes again, shaking.

The woman was unflinching, but a strange solemn tone had taken over the anger in her voice. “I’ve seen you down here since you were scarcely tall enough to lift a purse. I knew your mother. I know all of your sort, every single one. You’re like most, ambitious and arrogant with youth. You’ll end up like most of them too, from the looks of it.” She let go of Neluth’s chin, and next swatted the skooma pipe to the ground, shattering the vessel at it’s base. “Skooma-sick, mad, useless. Eventually dead, food for the crows and the mudcrabs.”