Meron Therault stepped off the rickety wagon and into the chill wind that always seemed to blow through the hills and gullies of the Reach. He wrapped his cloak around himself and made for the gates.
He held out his hand to the guard there, a beefy man wearing leather and chainmail, complete with the green tabard typical of that hold. "I am Meron Therault, son of Leoman. I have an appointment with Meracle, Lady Governor of Northpoint."
The guard looked dubious. Meron sighed. Playing at being a nobleman's son, on important business, had eased his passage into many a city before. Apparently, these guards were more suspicious that most.
"Lady who of where?" The first guard asked, while the second smirked at Meron.
"Lady Governor Meracle of Northpoint, and to expand on your next question, of High Rock." Meron replied coolly.
"Nice try, breton." The first guard spat, as if Meron's race was somehow an insult, "there ain't no lady governor here." There wasn't, of course. But over the years, the young rogue had learned that outrageous stories tended to get one into places one ought not be getting.
Besides, he was expected in Markarth. The letter the courier had shoved into his hand had said it was so. Meron glanced at the second guard, a woman a little younger than himself, with cropped blonde hair and a chainmail tunic. "Shall I take the matter up with your commander?"
Both guards glowered at him, then the first stepped aside. "Enter. But you best keep your nose clean while you're here." Meron nodded and entered the city.
Markarth was a large city, befitting a hold capital. But it was not as impressive as some of the keeps of his youth, and it was certainly no sprawling metropolis. Rather, the city was split into two halves. The wealthier, more impressive structure built into the upper cliffs, while the mines and hovels squatted at ground level. High above, past a roaring waterfall, was the keep.
But he had no desire to see the jarl. Not at the moment, anyways. The letter he'd been given had told him to meet his contact at the Silver Blood inn. That was close enough. He made his way there.
The Silver Blood was an old inn, owned by an old family, if the rumours were true. However, the interior was much the same as a dozens of inns and taverns Meron had visited in his travels. Dark, loud, and stinking of stale ale, piss, and worse besides.
"Lovely place," the rogue grumbled, taking a seat out of the way and settling to await likeminded individuals, or the contact they were to meet there.