The Ratway was nothing more than the sewers that ran underneath Riften. The entrance was on the lower piers, below the ones the majority of Riften's citizens strolled; other than a few struggling businesses, only beggars and the poor lived down here.

And Macayla could see why: the canal reeked from the fisheries dumping their excess and no small cargo boats stirred the water. The air was still too; gates prevented the breeze off of Lake Honrich from bringing in fresh air and clearing the stench. The lower section of Riften wasn't a place people with standards willingly frequented. But perfect for thieves to reside comfortably without someone being nosy.

She found the door leading down into the Ratway, also guarded by an iron gate. She opened the first and shut it behind her, knowing not to leave any sign of her passing. Bracing herself for the possible smell, she opened the wooden door and wafted in the sourness. Macayla took a moment to adjust to the odor, then entered.

The lighting in the Ratway was poor, the walls oozed and dripped with moisture, and the air clammy and cold. Macayla kept Brynjolf's warning about lowlifes and skeevers in the front of her mind as she headed in deeper.

A brighter glow shone up ahead and Macayla slowed to a cautious approach as voices reverberated down to her. She crept to the lit opening to see two men arguing about their next planned raid. She wondered if they could be a part of the Thieves Guild, but their insistence for violence dismissed her thought—these were just crooks trying to score by any means necessary.

So Macayla stayed hidden in the shadows as she waited for them to disband. Their conversation ended and one started walking toward her as the other turned toward the tunnel behind him. The man heading for her was destined for the chair facing the entrance so he could be lookout. As soon as he passed her—not seeing her in the dark—Macayla slipped behind him and hurried for the opening the other man entered. Within, she found him on a bedroll, facing away from her, asleep. She snuck by him and kept going.

The Ratway twisted and turned, and there were many nooks that didn't lead anywhere. Macayla was careful not to step in what appeared to be puddles of water... at least, she hoped it was water. She came upon a large opening with a space separating her from the other side, the wooden drawbridge connecting it raised, and the floor down below her leading to another tunnel. She couldn't see a rope she could shoot to drop it.

"Of course," she muttered as she prepared to drop down to the lower level. She twisted to hold on to the ledge to lessen the impact of her fall as she let go. Straightening up, she headed for the next opening.

Raspy breathing warned her of skeevers—filthy, enlarged rats. Macayla crouched down as she pulled out her bow and notched an arrow. She peered around the wall to see one of the vermin sniffing the air in the tunnel, aware of her presence. She didn't have much time before it pinpointed her, so she stepped away from the wall and shot it. It fell away from her and hit the wall of the tunnel, dead. Macayla pulled her arrow out of it; it still had its point, so she kept it notched as she walked down the tunnel—it was never just one skeever.

She found more lurking about and killed them all. She found more lowlifes too: one so quiet and guarded by bear traps she almost didn't see him and a woman mumbling nonsense to herself, obviously crazy. Macayla finally came to the room she would've entered if the drawbridge had been down. She considered going to lower it when she saw the lowlife in the room, his back to her and reading a book, but facing the raised drawbridge. There wouldn't be a way she could do it without being seen.

There were also two doors: an iron gate leading back toward the entrance and the wooden one down some steps to her right. She felt drawn to take the latter, so she kept behind the man's line of sight as she crept to the door. She opened the door and pulled it shut behind her.

Immediately, she knew she had chosen the right door. Fresh air replaced the stagnant and putrid air. Most of the light was natural—the hole in the conclave ceiling allowed the light and air to seep in from the outside. The majority of the room was water, bordered by stone walkways and a wooden pier built over it. A tavern sat opposite her and voices echoed from it.

Macayla started walking around the water, headed for the tavern, and passed by two niches built into the wall—two others were mirrored on the other side. She couldn't guess what they had been constructed to hold, but they were empty and dusty from disuse. The wooden pier had also been built onto the stone walkway and she walked up the slight ramp with an aged hanging sign reading The Ragged Flagon.

Five people were gathered: two women and three men—one was Brynjolf. One woman was a redguard sitting at a table and the other a white-haired Nord propped against the wall splitting the pier with her arms and legs crossed. A bald man sat at a table, turned to Brynjolf and the other man sitting at the bar with a tankard in hand was big and stocky with dark blond hair. The barkeep had neck-length brown hair.

Brynjolf had changed from his nice merchant attire back to his darkened leather jerkin with multiple pouches and flaps, pants and boots. He talked to the man behind the bar. The white-haired female noticed her approach immediately and eyed her suspiciously.

"Give it up, Brynjolf. Those days are over," the man behind the bar said.

"I'm telling you, this one is different."

The big man seated at the bar scoffed. "We've all heard that one before, Bryn. Quit kidding yourself." He had a deep grumbling voice, similar to Maul's.

The brown headed man shook his head. "It's time to face the truth, old friend: you, Delvin, Vex, Mercer, you're all part of a dying breed. Things are changing!"

Brynjolf felt her presence and turned. "Dying breed, eh? Well, what do you call that then?"

The barkeep stared at her in astonishment as the others turned to see who he gaped at.

Macayla crossed her arms. "Giving me compliments, are you? Well, keep going; don't let me stop you."

Brynjolf chuckled. "You continue to impress, lass."

"I told you to give me something more challenging."

"Oh, it's coming; trust me."

"So, I got here; now what?"

"I need you to handle a few deadbeats for me."

She got some more information on each of her marks, specifically their personalities and weaknesses. Brynjolf gave her some hints on what she could use to make them relent, then she left to start Part Three.

***

Getting out of the Ratway was just as easy as getting through. Once she got topside, though, Macayla inhaled deeply; no matter how used to the sewers she got, fresh air would still be welcomed.

First place she decided to stop by was The Pawned Prawn. She walked in to find a woman seated at a table reading a book and a pudgy and balding man behind the counter: Bersi Honey-Hand. She strolled up to the counter, noticing the dwarven urn Brynjolf said Bersi was fond of. If she couldn't persuade him, smashing his precious ornament would surely work.

"So, can I interest you in anything today?" he asked.

She placed a hand on the counter and looked at him meaningfully. "I have a message from Brynjolf."

His forehead crunched. "Wha—what?" Realization dawned on him. "Oh, it's one of you people. So Brynjolf doesn't even bother to show up himself anymore, eh? What's this message?"

"Simple: you don't pay, bad things will happen."

"Petty threats and fist waving aren't going to sway me! You people are all talk, and everyone knows it. Pay you to protect me? You can't even protect yourselves."

His impudence irritated her. "We can protect ourselves, trust me."

"Don't fool yourself. It's only a matter of time before you people are run out of Riften."

"I've had enough of this," she said as she turned.

"Likewise. Now, I have a lot to do, so I'm afraid you just have to leave." Bersi started to say something when she unsheathed her dagger. The woman gasped in fear at the sound.

"Now you don't—"

Macayla slashed at the blueish-gray and gold urn, leaving a long scrape.

"NO!"

She swiped at it again, leaving another ugly line, and then brought the hilt of her dagger on it, breaking it into large pieces. Macayla slowly turned to find the woman standing behind Bersi in fear and the man gaping at the destruction.

"That urn was priceless," he said.

"Want me to smash something else?" she asked.

"Just pay her, Bersi!" the woman hissed.

"Alright, I get it; I'll pay on time from now on. Just don't smash anything else." He reached under the counter and shoved a coin purse at her. "Take your gold and leave me in peace."

Macayla counted to make sure all 100 septim were there. "Pleasure doing business with you," she said with a smile as she walked out on his sneer.

She felt bad about destroying the urn for a second, but Bersi was as pig-headed as Brynjolf had said. He deserved to have that valuable broken for trying to back out on paying.

Her next stop was Haelga's Bunkhouse. Macayla quickly understood that this wasn't a typical inn, with the staff being scantily clad women and the customers men. The glazed and lustful looks the men gave their female servers told Macayla enough—she knew those looks too well.

"If you're looking for a room, I'd suggest The Bee and Barb; this place is for the working man," the blonde woman behind the counter said: Haelga—her second mark.

"Your warning isn't needed," Macayla began. "But I'm not here as a customer. I have a message from Brynjolf."

"What does he want now? I've already explained to him that you can't get blood from a stone."

"This isn't about the money anymore."

"Look, I can't make the coin appear out of thin air. Please, be reasonable. I'll... I'll pay next month."

"We've run out of patience."

Haelga got mad. "And so have I. What's the point of paying, anyway? Your outfit can't even fend for itself. I could be better off throwing the gold into the sewers. You can't scare me with your tough talk. I'm not paying you people a single coin."

A clamor pulled her attention to the right, where a drunken customer was getting too touchy with a serving maid. The girl yelled at him to stop and kept swatting off his sweaty hands.

"I think you should go," Haelga ordered as she walked around the counter and went to defend her employee.

Macayla quickly looked around, searching for the statue of Dibella Brynjolf said would work as good leverage. She couldn't locate it but saw a wall blocking her view; she headed that way to see if she could find it. She did. She snatched the golden statue of the almost naked woman and walked back to find Haelga.

The owner was walking back to her station behind the counter when she saw Macayla re-emerge.

"I thought I told you—" Her eyes widened at seeing her statue in the thief's hands. "Don't take my statue, please! It's the only thing of value I have left."

"Should I drop this down the well?"

"NO, not Lady Dibella! I can't lose her." Her eyes narrowed. "I get your message; here's your gold. I hope you choke on it." Haelga grabbed a coin purse under the counter and handed it to her. The coin purse weighed right; Macayla gave her the statue in exchange.

She walked out of the house of sin and headed for her last destination: The Bee and Barb. The inn was just as busy as last night; Macayla headed straight for the bar and the female Argonian behind it, Keerava. The red-scaled reptile didn't have any customers in her face. She looked up when Macayla approached.

"I have a message from Brynjolf."

Her eyes grew round. "It's you!"

"Me?"

"Word travels fast here. Look, everything was all just a misunderstanding. I didn't mean to tell Brynjolf to go jump off the pier. You'll tell him I said sorry, yes?"

Macayla chuckled at that as the Argonian frantically dug for a coin purse. Finding it she handed it to her quickly. "Take this; every single coin I owe is there, I swear it."

"Thank you," she said genuinely as she headed out. Part Three was complete; hopefully now she would be officially inducted.