Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel (7 page)

But showing her fear would only get her killed more quickly.
Toel had no use for the weak. She had to present him with something else.

“You’ve not invited me,” Annaïg replied.

He shrugged and breathed in mist from the long, curved glass tube he held.

“I’m aware of why you haven’t been here,” he said, frost forming on his nostrils. “Are you?”

“You’re disappointed that I asked you to spare Slyr, after she poisoned me.”

“It goes beyond that. I thought you were like me, driven to excel, to rise. But you hold yourself back, and there isn’t anything I can do about that.”

“Then why am I here?” she asked.

“Because still you intrigue me. You invent marvelous things. I hope to reach you, at last.”

The hairs behind Annaïg’s ears pricked up at the ominous sound of that.

“I do wish to please you, Chef,” she said.

“Do you?”

“Yes. But in my own way.”

“By definition, you can only please me by catering to my desires.”

Annaïg shook her head, tightening her belly to act bold. “That is only the beginning,” she said. “A child’s idea of pleasure.”

“What is a child?” Toel asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “My point is that the best chef cooks what the patron never knew he wanted.”

“And what is it that I don’t know I want?”

“That is for me to show you,” Annaïg said, trying to sound playful. “And it cannot be rushed.”

“And yet, I feel impatient,” Toel said, “and perhaps a bit condescended to.”

She forced a smile. “But still I intrigue you.”

“I cannot deny it,” he said, inhaling again.

He looked off into the distance for a long moment, and then returned his attention to her.

“There will be a banquet,” he said, “some days hence. It will be for the court of Umbriel himself. Four kitchens have been invited to present a tasting for Lord Rhel, Umbriel’s steward—mine, and those of Phmer, Luuniel, and Ashdre. Whichever kitchen pleases the steward most will cook for Umbriel. I need not tell you that it must be my kitchen that wins.”

“It goes without saying, Chef.”

“Phmer is our chief competition, to my mind. She is known for her creativity. Before Phmer, there were only eight essential savors: salty, bitter, piquant, sweet, sour, ephemerate, quick, and dead. But Phmer found a ninth sensation of taste, which has no name, and all attempts to duplicate it or ascertain how it is created have failed. And so, Annaïg, although you may tantalize me with these desires you know I have which I myself do not, this is what I tell you now: You will find this ninth savor for me. If you do not, any other plans you have to gratify me are moot. Do you understand?”

“I do, Chef,” Annaïg said. “I won’t fail.”

“Indeed,” he replied. She couldn’t tell if it was an affirmation or a question. “Now you may go.”

“A few questions, Chef,” she said.

“What are they?”

“Do you have a sample of this ninth taste, so that I might know what I’m trying to duplicate?”

“I don’t have any, no.”

“Have you ever tasted it yourself, Chef?”

For a moment his face might have been cast in stone.

“No,” he finally said.

“Can you at least tell me if it is a spiritual or gross substance?”

“We may assume spiritual, as only the highest lords have tasted it.”

“Thank you, Chef.”

Her knees were shaking when she left, and she felt profoundly unreal, as if she were watching this all happen to someone else. She returned to the kitchens, attempting to stay calm, to focus—trying to understand where she had to start.

She was sure she could duplicate anything she could taste, but that wasn’t in the offering. That left her with what seemed an impossible task, but it was pointless to entertain that notion, wasn’t it? She had to assume that it was possible. Phmer had done it, after all. Had it been an accident, or a design?

She went to her private bench, far from the hustle and bustle of the stations, and began idly thumbing through the various powders, liquids, distillations, and ferments in her cabinet. She fiddled with the flow of soul force through the refraxor, but after an hour of that pushed back and placed her face in her palms. Her brain didn’t seem to work at all. Sighing, she went back to her room, but her thoughts flowed no better there, so in the end she gave up and opened a bottle of wine.

She was on her second glass when Slyr entered.

“I’m sorry,” the other woman said. “You’re never here this early in the day. I—”

“No, join me,” Annaïg said. “I’m just thinking.”

“Well, I’ve no wish to disturb you.”

“Sometimes talking helps me think.” She pulled over a second cup and poured more wine. “Have a drink, talk.”

Slyr looked uncertain but did as she was told.

“What do you know of Phmer’s ninth savor?” Annaïg asked.

“I’ve heard of it,” Slyr said cautiously.

“Before I came to Umbriel, I knew of only four or five essential
flavors. When I was taught to cook, I was told that the success of a good dish was in the inclusion and balancing of these sensations. When I came here, you, Slyr, taught me that there were three more, all of a spiritual nature.”

“Quick, dead, and ephemerate,” Slyr supplied.

“So I’m thinking,” Annaïg said. “I taste the five gross senses on different parts of my tongue, and I read long ago that the tongue is grown to interpret such flavors. But I cannot, like the lords, taste the difference between quick and dead. I might discern that a wiggling shrimp is alive and a still one dead, but the taste is the same, because my tongue isn’t designed for that distinction. And as for ephemerate, that’s another thing entirely, isn’t it? Those are the ‘flavors’ we make with souls. The tongue doesn’t taste them, although that’s generally how they are introduced, since they’re presented as food. But really, the skin or eyes can taste them equally as well—and ephemerate isn’t a single kind of flavor, but hundreds, thousands, of very different things made possible by the cuisine spirituelle. Like the terror you tasted the other day, or the joy I could create tomorrow. How does that compare with the electric vitality of raw, unrefined soul energy, or the needling pleasure of filple?”

Slyr took a drink. “So you’re thinking that the ninth savor can’t be ephemerate, then? That it must be a new material flavor?”

“Or something completely different, as different from the ephemerate as the ephemerate is from salty and piquant.”

“How can such a thing be discovered, then? If one knew only piquant, sour, and sweet, how would you guess that salty existed and learn how to make it?”

Something shaped itself in her mind then, a worm that might become an idea.

“Especially if one had no tongue,” Annaïg pursued, her thoughts racing. “That is our dilemma.”

“Our?”

“You are still my assistant, Slyr.”

“I know that,” she said. “I only thought—”

“I’m giving you another chance,” Annaïg said. “One more, do you understand?”

Slyr nodded vigorously, and then her eyes narrowed.

“You’ve thought of something, haven’t you?”

Annaïg smiled. “It’s not what you think.”

“What, then?”

“I think I might be able to hit twice with the same stone,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Toel believes that I am not ambitious enough, that I’m not willing to do what I have to do to survive and get ahead.”

“Yes,” Slyr said. “I’ve heard him say so.”

“I’ll get the ninth savor,” Annaïg promised. “And I’ll show Toel just how far I’m willing to go.”

“How?”

“I’m going to steal it from Phmer.”

Slyr’s eyes widened and her mouth parted.

“That’s impossible,” she said.

“Look,” Annaïg said, drinking a bit more wine. “We can work for two weeks to invent this thing—and probably fail—or we can go where we know it already exists, and spend that time learning how best to use it to please Umbriel.” She sat back. “I think it’s what Toel intends me to do. I think this is a test he has devised.”

“That does sound like him,” Slyr admitted. “But to invade another kitchen, to pass all their safeguards and survive, much less escape being caught—I can’t imagine how it could be done.”

“I can,” Annaïg told her. “I know how to learn secret ways, and I know recipes for concealment that—with a bit of work—ought to keep me undiscovered.”

“I’m not sure you understand,” Slyr said. “Even if you escape—if Phmer finds any evidence that you stole from her, she can demand Toel give you to her, and he must do so. That is the law. Perhaps that is even what Toel has in mind for you.”

“Then I had better not be caught,” Annaïg said. “Or leave trace of my visit.”

Slyr’s face hardened into an expression of determination.

“Tell me what I can do to help,” she said. “I will not fail you.”

“You had better not,” Annaïg said. “This really is your last chance. You must understand that.”

“I understand,” Slyr replied.

“Good. I’ll let you know when I need something.”

Glim unfolded the note from Annaïg the skraw Jernle had handed him. It was written in the jumble language of their childhood—which only the two of them understood—although Glim hadn’t seen any evidence that anyone on Umbriel could read in any language. Still—avoiding leeches was better than picking them off.

What are you up to, Nn? he thought. For a moment he considered refusing the request until Annaïg agreed to make something to replace the vapors. He followed her logic, understood why she couldn’t do it, but still, something about her refusal bothered him. Maybe it was because she didn’t take him seriously, that she thought her cause was bigger than his. And it was, wasn’t it? How many of his people—his relatives—had died because of Umbriel?

But the skraws weren’t to blame for that. They didn’t even know it had happened.

But someone was responsible.

He turned to Wert, who was watching him patiently.

“I need detailed information concerning the kitchen of Phmer,” he said. “Bribe the pantry workers, if you must.”

“More maps?” Wert inquired.

“No. More than that.” He paused. “And let’s see what happens if some of the middens stop draining. That should get someone’s attention.”

Wert’s face broke into a huge grin. “At last!” he said. “Which ones?”

“You decide,” Glim said. “I need to have a second look at something.”

Everything led to the sump, which meant lots of things led away from it as well. Early on Glim had found his way to the trees of the Fringe Gyre.

The flying island of Umbriel was a rough cone, with the apex pointed down. The sump was a basin in that cone, and most of the population of the city lived in warrens in the stone. The lords lived on the upper edge in their delicate habitations of metal and crystal. But another world sprouted from the verge of the rim, enormous trees whose roots sank deep into the rock where vesicles from the sump fed and watered them, and whose boughs and branches flowed far out from the island like a sort of lacy collar, bending in a rightwise whorl. It was a world of strange birds and weird gardens growing from intentionally rotted places in the wood, of fruits and nuts and warbling monkeylike things.