It is a wretched hive of scum and villainy! 

Though, admittedly, most of the shopkeepers just look tired. The place is pretty run-down. The stands themselves are sad-looking, chipped paint showing where colours used to go, untidy repairs to what he can see of the shelf doors underneath, and the merchandise on display is lower quality than is usual. 

Marketgoers keep a close eye on anyone passing by them, and the default personal space bubble seems to be 'as wide as I can get away with'. Pickpocketing in this city must be a real challenge! 

While he's looking around, someone else is eyeing him back. 

"Never done an honest day's work in your life for all that coin you're carrying, eh lad?"

Gaemir turns, surprised, and surprised to be surprised. It's not every day someone sneaks up on him. 

He grins at the man's words, though, "It's like you know me," he says cheerfully. 

He smirks, "Hm, it's all in the way you walk, lad. It's a dead giveaway. You're experienced in the shadow business, or I'll eat my hood."

He gives a short laugh, "Flatterer," he accuses. He gives the man a longer look, taking in the leather armour, the plethora of pouches and pockets, the sword at his waist. Definitely what he's been looking for.

"I doubt you came over here just to complement me on my catfoot, though," he states leadingly. 

"And you'd be right about that." He agrees, "I've got a bit of an errand to perform, but I need an extra pair of hands." 

Sounds like a recruitment test. Either that or he needs a scape-goat, but there's no prison that can hold him, so if it is the man'll just owe him one. 

"Alright, what do you need?"

Well, that was easy. "I'm going to cause a distraction and you're going to steal a silver ring from the strongbox under the Argonian jewelry seller, Madesi's, stand. Once you have it, I want you to place it in Brand-Shei's -the Dunmer - pocket without him noticing."

Gaemir raises a brow, "Wow, what did Brand-Shei do to you?" He asks jokingly. 

He chuckles, "It's nothing personal. Just a contract, to remind Brand-Shei not to meddle in affairs not his own. Since we're not the Dark Brotherhood, we're not about to kill him, but a short stint in prison should get the message across."

Contracts, eh? Jackpot. 

"I'll watch for your distraction, then." 

With a pleased nod, he makes his way to the northeast entrance to the market, where the Guild has a stand leased permanently, for all it is rarely used. 

Reaching under the counter, he pulls out a box of liquid-filled bottles. Setting them on top, he turns to call out to the market, "Everyone! Everyone! Gather 'round! I have something amazing to show you that demands your attention! Gather 'round all! No pushing, no shoving. Plenty of room!"

He starts collecting quite the crowd. Casting his gaze out across it, he notes both Madesi and Brand-Shei among his watchers. Good. He turns his attention to talking up the benefits of his 'Falmerblood Elixer'. Maybe he can make this scheme even more profitable than just the promised contract payment. 

Once the Argonian and his surrounding stalls' owners are gathered around the friendly thief, Gaemir gets to work. 

The locks on the cabinet and strongbox are child's play, so he picks out a pretty little silver thing engraved with curling vines and relocks them. Then, casually as you please, as though he's a late comer to the crowd, he sidles up next to the Dunmer and slips the ring into his pouch. 

Once Brynjolf sees the little thief wandering away from the crowd again, he wraps up his sales pitch and leaves the stand to a guildmember he beckons over from where she's lurking nearby. Then, he ambles after him, slowly catching up as they leave the market until they reach a quiet side-street from which they have a good vantage point to watch as a pair of guards accost Brand-Shei and lead him away. 

"Looks like I chose the right person for the job." 

He pulls out a pouch of coin, tossing it over to the young Breton, "Here you go- your cut. The way things have been going around here, it's a relief that our plan went off without a hitch."

He catches it, tucking it into his belt pouch.

"Thanks- you've been having trouble lately?" 

He snorts, "My organization's been having a run of bad luck. Never mind that, you did the job and you did it well. Best of all, there's more where that came from... if you think you can handle it."

He eyes the kid up and down - he's armed and armoured similarly to most of the Guild, leather armour, blade, and an abundance of pouches. There's a bow and quiver peeking up over his shoulder, and a pair of slim daggers tucked into his bracers. He certainly looks like he could handle their work. 

Gaemir smirks under his gaze, "Oh, I think I can handle it," he says, leaning in a bit. 

He huffs, amused, and shakes his head, "I'm sure you can," he says, "But let's put that to the test. The group I represent has its home somewhere beneath Riften... a tavern called the Ragged Flagon. Get there in one piece and we'll see if you've really got what it takes."

That said, he ambles back out into the market, leaving the lad to find his own way - or not. 

Well, alright then. 

He wanders back out of the side street, making his way over to the people he'd passed earlier, who are still standing on the bridge discussing the corruption of Riften. Must be an extensive subject. He leans back against the railing, listening in. 

"...So called 'Gutter Saints' live in the sewers beneath," says the man.

The woman beside him nods, "I suspected as much. The real question now is do we do something about it ourselves or do we speak to the Jarl?"

"I say we go down there and clear the place out, just like old times," the young man says, gripping his sword hilt. 

The woman shaks her head, "No, my friend. That would be reckless. We have to help, but help in a way that doesn't directly place anyone in harm's way. For now, give this 'Ratway' a wide berth."

Humming, Gaemir wanders off, leaving the two to complement each other in peace. The 'Ratway', is it?

Thirty minutes later he steps through a door in the sewers, finding himself across a cistern from a tavern half-built over it. He makes his way around the edge and steps up onto the wooden platform, wiping the blood off his sword, coming to lean back against the friendly thief's table as he sheathes it.

"Nice place you've got here," he says, sarcastic. 

"Isn't it just," he agrees, amused. "Have any trouble on the way down?" 

"Nah," he denies, breezily, "Nothing I couldn't handle." 

"Hah, reliable and headstrong? You're quite the prize." 

Gaemir grins, "That I am," he agrees. "Anything else I can do to prove my qualifications?" 

He looks at him, thoughtful, "Well," he says, "How about handling a few deadbeats for me?"