The Infernal City (4 page)

“What does it matter?” Marall said. “If I told you he was responsible for the kidnapping and murder of sixteen toddlers, would that make you happy?”

“No, sir.”

“What if I told you his crime was to make a treasonous joke about her majesty’s thighs?”

Colin blinked. “I can’t imagine—”

“You’re not supposed to imagine, son. Yours is not the power of life and death. That lies far above you. It comes, in essence, from the authority of the Emperor. There is always a reason, and it is always a good one, and it is not your business, do you understand? You do not imagine, you do not think. You do what you’re told.”

“But I’ve been trained to
think
, sir. This office trained me to think.”

“Yes, and you do it very well. All of your instructors agree on that. You’re a very bright young man, or the Penitus Oculatus would not have approached you in the first place, and you have done very well here. But any thinking you do, you see, is in service to your job. If you’re asked to find a spy in the Emperor’s guard, you must use every bit of logic at your disposal. If you’re asked to quietly discover which of Count Caro’s daughters has been poisoning his guests, again, use your forensic training. But if you’re given a clear order to steal, injure, poison, stab, or generally do murder, your brain is only to help you with the method and the execution. You are an instrument, a utensil of the Empire.”

“I know that, sir.”

“Not well enough, or you wouldn’t be asking these questions.” He stood up. “You’re from Anvil, I seem to remember. One of the city guardsmen recommended you for testing.”

“Regin Oprenus, yes sir.”

“Without his recommendation, what would you be doing right now?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

But he did, in a general way. His father was dead, his mother barely got by doing laundry for the better off. He’d managed to teach himself to read, but his education wouldn’t have gone much further than that, and if it had, it wouldn’t have been of any use to him. At best he might have worked in the shipyard or managed to hire onto a ship. The Imperial invitation had been a dream come true, offering him everything he’d wanted as a young boy.

And that was still the case, despite … this. And now he would draw a salary. He could send his mother some of that before she worked herself to death.

“This is the test, isn’t it?” he said. “Not last night. Now.”

The intendant ghosted a little smile. “Both were tests, son. And this isn’t the last, just the last official one. Every day on this job is a new challenge. If you’re not up to it, the time to say so is now, before you’re in over your head.”

“I’m up to it, sir,” Colin said.

“Very well, then, Inspector. Take the rest of the day off. Report for duty tomorrow.”

Colin nodded and walked away, in search of his new lodgings.

When Annaïg awoke, Mere-Glim was still sprawled on the floor, his breath rasping loudly.

“Oh!” she muttered as she rose, pressing her throbbing temples, feeling her belly turn.

How much wine had they drunk?

She stumbled her way to the kitchen, winced at the sun as she unshuttered the windows. She built a fire in the stove, then opened the walk-in pantry in the diffuse light and considered the sausages hanging in bundles, the long blades of salted pogfish, barrels of flour, salt, sugar, rice, the pitiful basket of mostly wilted vegetables.

There were eggs on the counter, still warm, so Tai-Tai must be up and doing his job, which wasn’t always the case.

And there was her mother’s antique leather-bound spice case with its seventy-eight bottles of seeds and dried leaves.

Everything she needed.

Mere-Glim wandered in a few minutes after the garlic and chilies hit the oil and the air went sharp and pungent.

“I’m too sick to eat,” he complained.

“You’ll eat this,” Annaïg told him. “And you’ll like it. Old
Tenny used to make this for Dad, before we couldn’t afford her anymore.”

“If that’s so, why is it different every time you make it? Last time it had peanuts and pickled pork, not chilies and garlic.”

“We don’t have any pork pickle,” she replied. “It’s not the specific ingredients that matter—it’s the principles of composition, the balance of essences, flavors, oils, and herbs.”

Saying that, she emptied the spices she had ground a bit before with mortar and pestle, and the earthy scents of coriander, cardamom, lady’s mantel seeds, and ginger wafted about the kitchen. She added two handfuls of crushed rice, stirred that a bit, covered it with a finger of coconut milk, and set it to simmer with a lid on the pot. When the porridge was done, she ladled it into bowls and added slices of venison sausage, red ham, and pickled watermelon rind.

“That looks disgusting,” Mere-Glim said.

“Not done yet,” she said. She broke two eggs and dropped them, raw, into each bowl.

Glim perked up and his tongue licked out. “Goose eggs?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Maybe I will try it.”

She set a bowl in front of him, and after an experimental bite, he began downing it with gusto. Annaïg tucked into her own.

“I already feel better,” Mere-Glim said.

“See?”

“Yes, yes.”

She took another bite.

“So tell me more about this ‘floating city,’” she said. “When is it supposed to be here?”

“Ix said they outpaced it for three days and it never changed course before they finally got the wind they needed to really leave it behind. It was headed straight here, he said, and will arrive sometime early tomorrow at the pace it’s coming.”

“So what did he figure it was?”

“A big chunk of rock, shaped like a top. They could see buildings on the rim. The ship’s wind-caller didn’t like it. Quit the minute they got into port and left town, fast, on a horse.”

“What didn’t the wind-caller like?”

“He kept saying it wasn’t right, that none of his magicks could tell him anything about it. Said it smelled like death.”

“Did anyone take word to the Organism?”

“I can never understand you two when you’re together,” a soft voice wisped. She turned her gaze to the door and found her father standing there. “That smells good,” he went on. “Is there any for me?”

“Sure, Taig,” she said. “I made plenty.”

She ladled him up a bowl and passed it. He took a spoonful and closed his eyes.

“Better than Tenithar’s,” he said. “Always in the kitchen, weren’t you? You learned well.”

“Do you know anything about this?” Annaïg said, a bit impatiently. It always bothered her, talking to her father, and she knew it shouldn’t, and that bothered her twice. But he sounded so soul-weak, as if most of his spirit had leaked out of him.

“I wasn’t kidding,” he said. “You’ve been like this since you were children. I recognize a few words here and there …”

Annaïg waved the old complaint aside. “This—flying city that’s supposed to be heading toward us. Do you know anything about that?”

“I know the stories,” he sighed, picking at the stew. “It started with Urvwen—”

Annaïg rolled her eyes. “Crazy old Psijic priest. Or whatever they call themselves.”

“Said he felt something out in the deep water, a movement of some kind. So, yes, he’s crazy and the An-Xileel are irritated by him, especially Archwarden Qajalil, so he was dismissed. But
then there were the reports from the sea, and the Organism sent out some exploratory ships.”

“And?”

“They’re still out there, looking for a phantom probably. After all, Urvwen has been spreading his message down at the docks. No wonder if sailors are seeing things.”

“My cousin’s ship put to sea from Anvil three weeks ago,” Mere-Glim said. “He did not talk to Urvwen.”

Her father’s face tightened oddly, the way it did when he was trying to hide something.

“Taig!” she said.

“Nothing,” he replied. “It’s nothing to worry about. If it’s dangerous the An-Xileel will meet it with the same might that drove the Empire out of Black Marsh and the Dunmer out of Morrowind. But what would a flying city want with Lil-moth?”

“What do the Hist say?” Annaïg asked.

The spoon hesitated halfway up to her father’s lips, then continued. He chewed and swallowed.

“Taig!”

“The city tree said it was nothing to worry about.”

Mere-Glim made a high, scratchy humming sound and fluttered his eyes. “What do you mean? The ‘city’ tree?” He hesitated, as if he had said too much.

“Lorkhan’s bits, Glim,” Annaïg said. “We’re not visitors here, you know.”

He nodded. She hated how he was when he spoke straight Tamrielic. He didn’t sound like himself.

“It’s just, the Hist, they are all—connected. Of the same mind. So why mention the city tree in particular?”

Her father’s eyes searched about a bit aimlessly, and he sighed again. “The An-Xileel in Lilmoth talk only to the city tree.”

“What’s the difference?” Annaïg said. “Like Glim said,
they’re all connected at the root, right? So what the city tree says is what they all say.”

Glim’s face was like stone. “Maybe not,” he said.

“What’s that mean?”

“Annaïg—” her father started. His voice sounded strained.

When he didn’t continue for a moment, she raised her hands. “What, Taig?”

“Thistle, this might be a good time for you to visit your aunt in Leyawiin. I’ve been thinking you ought to anyway. I went so far as to set aside money for the voyage, and there is a ship leaving at dawn.”

“That sounds worried to me, Taig. It sounds like you think something’s wrong.”

“You’re all that’s left me that matters,” the old man said. “Even if the risk is small …” He opened his hands but would not meet her eye. Then his forehead smoothed and he stood. “I have to go. I am called to the Organism this morning. I will see you tonight, and we can discuss this further. Why don’t you pack, in case you decide to take the trip?”

For a moment she saw farther; Leyawiin was an ocean voyage away, but from there she could reach the Imperial City, even if all she had were her own two feet. Maybe …

“Can Glim go?”

“I’m sorry, I’ve only money for one passage,” he replied.

“I wouldn’t go anyway,” Glim said.

“Right, then,” her father said. “I’ll be off. I’ll have dinner brought from the Coquina, Thistle. No need to cook tonight. And we’ll talk about this.”

“Right, Taig,” she said.

As soon as he was out of earshot, she leveled a finger at Mere-Glim. “You go down to the docks and see what that crazy priest has to say, and anything else you can find out. I’m going to Hecua’s.”

“Why Hecua’s?”

“I need to fine-tune my new invention.”

“Your falling potion, you mean?”

“It saved our lives,” she pointed out.

“On a related note,” Glim said, “why, by the rotting wells, are you worried about flying at this time?”

“How else are we going to get up on a flying island, by catapult?”

“Ahh …” Mere-Glim sighed. “Ah, no.”

“Look at me, Glim,” Annaïg said.

Slowly, reluctantly, he did so.

“I love you, and I’d love to have you along, but if you don’t want to go, no worries. I’m not going to give you a hard time. But I’m going, Xhu?”

He held her gaze for a moment, and then his nostrils contracted.

“Xhu,” he said.

“Meet you here at noon.”

As Mere-Glim followed Lilmoth’s long slump to the bay Imperials named Oliis, he felt the cloud-rippled sky gently pressing on him, on the trees, on the ancient ballast-stone paving. He wondered, which is to say that he gave his mind its way, let it slip away from speech into the obscure nimbus of pure thinking.

Words hammered thought into shape, put it in cages, bound it in chains. Jel—the tongue of his ancestors—was the closest speech to real thought, but even Annaïg—who knew as much Jel as anyone not of the root—her throat couldn’t make all the right sounds, couldn’t shade the meanings enough for him to really converse with her.

He was four people, really. Mere-Glim the Argonian, when he spoke the language of the Empire, which cut his thoughts into human shapes. When he spoke to his mother or siblings he was
Wuthilul the Saxhleel. When he spoke with a Saxhleel from the deep forest, or even with a member of the An-Xileel, he was a Lukiul, “assimilated,” because his family had been living under Imperial ways for so long.