Gregory Keyes - The Infernal city

“She betrayed Qijne?”

“She saw a chance to rise. I admire that in her—I came from a lowlier position than hers, and my desire to better myself brought me here. She has the ambition but not the talent—you have the talent but not the ambition.”

Oh, I have ambition all right, Annaïg thought. The ambition to bring all of you down.

But did she? If she could find some way to destroy Umbriel, could she do it, and doom all of these people?

But she thought of Lilmoth and knew that she could.

Why, then, couldn’t she bring herself to let Toel kill Slyr, who, after all, had just tried to murder her? Who had betrayed her comrades in Qijne’s kitchen to violent death? Surely this was someone who deserved to die.

But she couldn’t say it, and she knew it. It was too personal, too close.

“Let her live,” Annaïg said. “Please.”

“The terms remain the same,” he said. “She remains your assistant. What makes you think she won’t try again?”

Because I won’t be here, she thought.

“She won’t,” she told him.

He made a tushing noise. “You really don’t have it, do you? I thought you might be great, perhaps even greater than me one day, but you can’t do what must be done.”

He signed, and one of Toel’s guards pushed Slyr from just beyond the door. The woman’s red eyes brimmed with misery.

“What’s wrong with you?” Slyr asked. “I don’t understand you at all.”

“I thought we were friends,” Annaïg replied.

“We were,” Slyr said. “I think we were.”

“That’s beautiful,” Toel said. “Touching. Now listen to me, both of you. Annaïg may have no drive, but she is more than a curiosity. She gives this kitchen the edge over the others, and I will brook no threat to her. Slyr, if she slips in the kitchen and cracks her head, you will die in the most horrible manner I can conceive, and I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors. I don’t care if Umbriel himself walks down here and strikes her down by his own hand, you will still suffer and perish. Only her breathing body keeps you alive. Do you understand?”

Slyr bowed her head. “I do, Chef,” she murmured.

“Very well.” He lifted his chin toward a servant in the corner. “When Annaïg is steady enough, bring her her clothes and return her to her rooms.”

“And this one?” the guard said, indicating Slyr.

“She’s shown initiative,” he said, “misguided, but there it is. Clean her up and bring her to my quarters.”

Slyr’s eyes registered disbelief, but then her lips curled in triumph.

Molag Bal take them all, Annaïg thought. I’m getting off this damned rock.

NINE

Annaïg was still weak from the effects of the poison, but she insisted on sleeping in her own quarters that night, and Toel’s servants allowed her her wish. Slyr did not return—a fact for which she was extremely grateful.

That night she wrote Glim a note, in the same argot he’d written hers in. It was very simple.

Glim. I’m glad you’re alive. I’ve got what we need. I’m ready to go. How soon, and where? Love .

The next day, still pale and tending to tremble, she went early to the pantry. She found a skraw—not the same one—a woman this time.

“What do you have here?” she asked her.

“Thendow frills,” the skraw wheezed. “Sheartooth loin. Glands from duster stalks …”

After a few moments, the pantry workers stopped their curious stares and went back to their business. They probably figured if one of the chefs wanted to come down and do their jobs, who were they to argue?

When she was pretty sure no one was looking, she slipped the skraw the note. “I want the pearl-colored ones next time,” she said. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, lady,” the skraw replied.

“Good,” she said, and left the dock.

She returned to the kitchens, did her portion of the dinner—Lord Irrel only ate one meal a day—and then went back to the tree-wine vats. With no hesitation at all she made eight vials of tonic. She put four in her pocket and the rest in the cabinet, and it was all very much like moving in a dream, detached, without fear, as if the poisoning had somehow made her invulnerable.

It had certainly made her less visible. Toel didn’t speak to her at all, and Slyr kept her distance, although she did occasionally catch the other woman looking at her with what was probably disdain.

But it didn’t matter. It just didn’t matter.

She slept alone again that night, and the next morning she had a reply from Glim.

Midnight tonight. Meet me at the dock .

Something struck his feet, and Treb’s knees buckled, taking him straight down on his face in a bed of yellow wildflowers that smelled like skunk. He and Sul were on a hillside covered in various colorful blossoms and odd, twisting trees with caps like mushrooms.

They were on a jagged island in a furious sea beneath a sky half-filled with a jade moon.

They were on an island of ash and shattered stone, still surrounded by water, but this water appeared to be boiling. The steaming air stank of hard minerals, and the sky was bleak and gray.

Sul just stood there, studying the ground, kicking at what looked like a shallow excavation, but he didn’t appear surprised.

“Are we trapped again?” Attrebus asked.

“No,” Sul grated. “We’ve arrived. Welcome to Vivec City.” He spat into the ash.

“I thought we were still in Oblivion.”

“This doesn’t look homey to you?”

“I—” He took in the scene again.

The island stood in the center of a bay that was close to perfectly circular, with a rim standing somewhat higher than the island except in one place where it opened into a sea or larger lake. It reminded him of the volcanic crater he’d once seen on a trip to Hammerfell.

To the left, beyond the rim, the land rose up in rugged mountains.

“Don’t you see the how beautiful she is, this city?” Sul snapped. “Can’t you see the canals, the gondoliers?” He stabbed his finger out across the bay. “Don’t you see the great cantons, each building a city in itself? And here, right here—the High Fane, the palace, the Ministry of Truth—all for you to gaze upon that you might wonder.”

Attrebus bowed his head a bit. “I’m sorry, Sul. I meant no disrespect. I’m sorry for what happened here.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for as regards to this place,” Sul said. “But there are those who must account.”

His voice sounded harsher than usual.

“You might have warned me about the fall, back in Hircine’s realm,” Attrebus said, hoping to lighten the mood.

To his surprise, it seemed to work. A hint of a grin pulled at Sul’s lips.

“I told you it was harder to get to,” the Dunmer reminded him.

“Just a tiny bit harder, I guess.”

“It’s done now.”

“I wish Lesspa—” He stopped, realizing he didn’t want to talk about that. Not long ago he’d had his arms around her waist, felt the breath in her, heard the savage joy of her cry. To think of her, torn and cold, her eyes staring at nothing …

“We’d be dead now if it weren’t for her,” Sul said. “The Khajiit didn’t hold them for long, but it was long enough. We could have died with her, but then what about Umbriel, Annaïg, your father’s empire? You’re a prince, Attrebus. People die for princes. Get used to it.”

“It wasn’t even her fight.”

“She thought it was. You made her believe it was.”