The Infernal City (3 page)

She couldn’t see him.

“Come on,” she told Glim.

They took three bottles of wine from the cellar and wound their way up the spiral stair to the upper balcony. She lit a small paper lantern and in its light poured full two delicate crystal goblets.

“To us,” she said.

They drank.

Old Imperial Lilmoth spread below them, crumbling hulks of villas festooned with vines and grounds overgrown with sleeping palms and bamboo, all dark now as if cut from black velvet, except where illumined by the pale phosphorescences of lucan mold or the wispy yellow airborne shines, harmless cousins of the deadly will-o’-wisps in the deep swamps.

“There now,” she said, refilling her glass. “Don’t you feel more alive?”

He blinked his eyes, very slowly. “Well, I certainly feel more aware of the contrast between life and death,” he replied.

“That’s a start,” she said.

A small moment passed.

“We were lucky,” Glim said.

“I know,” she replied. “But …”

“What?”

“Well, it’s no were-croc, but we can at least report the skooma dealers to the underwarden.”

“They’ll have moved by then. And even if they catch them, that’s a drop of water in the ocean. There’s no stopping the skooma trade.”

“There certainly isn’t if no one tries,” she replied. “No offense, Glim, but I wish we were still in the Empire.”

“No doubt. Then your father would still be a wealthy man, and not a poorly paid advisor to the An-Xileel.”

“It’s not that,” she said. “I just—there was justice under the Empire. There was honor.”

“You weren’t even born.”

“Yes, but I can read, Mere-Glim.”

“But who wrote those books? Bretons. Imperials.”

“And that’s An-Xileel propaganda. The Empire is rebuilding itself. Titus Mede started it, and now his son Attrebus is at his side. They’re bringing order back to the world, and we’re just—just dreaming ourselves away here, waiting for things to get better by themselves.”

The Argonian gave his imitation shrug. “There are worse places than Lilmoth.”

“There are better places, too. Places we could go, places where we could make a difference.”

“Is this your Imperial City speech again? I like it here, Nn. It’s
my home. We’ve known each other since we were hatchlings, yes, and if you didn’t already know you could talk me into almost anything, you do now. But leaving Black Marsh—that you won’t get me to do. Don’t even try.”

“Don’t you want more out of life, Glim?”

“Food, drink, good times—why should anyone want more than that? It’s people wanting to ‘make a difference’ causing all the troubles in the world. People who think they know what’s better for everyone else, people who believe they know what other people need but never bother to ask. That’s what your Titus Mede is spreading around—his version of how things ought to be, right?”

“There is such a thing as right and wrong, Glim. Good and evil.”

“If you say so.”

“Prince Attrebus rescued an entire colony of your people from slavery. How do you think they feel about the Empire?”

“My people knew slavery under the old Empire. We knew it pretty well.”

“Yes, but that was ending when the Oblivion crisis happened. Look, even you have to admit that if Mehrunes Dagon had won, if Martin hadn’t beaten him—”

“Martin and the Empire didn’t beat him in Black Marsh,” Glim said, his voice rising. “The An-Xileel did. When the gates opened, Argonians poured into Oblivion with such fury and might, Dagon’s lieutenants had to close them.”

Annaïg realized that she was leaning away from her friend and that her pulse had picked up. She smelled something sharp and faintly sulfurous. Amazed, she regarded him for a moment.

“Yes,” she finally said, when the scent diminished, “but without Martin’s sacrifice, Dagon would have eventually taken Black Marsh, too, and made this world his sportground.”

Glim shifted and held out his glass to be refilled.

“I don’t want to argue about this,” he said. “I don’t see that it’s important.”

“You sounded as if you thought so for a second there, old friend. I thought I heard a little passion in your voice. And you smelled like you were spoiling for a fight.”

“It’s just the wine,” he muttered, waving it off. “And all of the excitement. For the rest of the night, can we just celebrate that your ‘flying’ potion wasn’t a complete failure?”

She was starting to feel warm in her belly, the wine at its business.

“Well, yes,” she said. “I suppose that’s worth a toast or two.”

They drank those, and then Glim looked a little sidewise at her.

“Anyway—” he began, then stopped.

“What?”

He grinned his lizard grin and shook his head.

“You may not have to go looking for trouble. From what I heard, it might be coming for us.”

“What’s this?”

“The
Wind Oracle
put into port today.”

“Your cousin Ixtah-Nasha’s boat.”

“Yah. Says he saw something out on the deep, something coming this way.”

“Something?”

“That’s the crazy part. He said it looked like an island with a city on it.”

“An uncharted island?”

“An unmoored island. Floating in the air. Flying.”

Annaïg frowned, set her glass down and wagged a finger at him. “That’s not funny, Glim. You’re teasing me.”

“No, I wasn’t going to tell you. But the wine …”

She sat up straighter in her chair. “You’re serious. Coming this way?”

“’Swat he said.”

“Huh,” she replied, taking up the wine again and sinking back into her chair. “I’ll have to think about that. A flying city. Sounds like something left over from the Merithic era. Or before.” She felt her ample mouth pull in a huge smile. “Exciting. I’d better go see Hecua tomorrow.”

And so they finished that bottle, and opened another—an expensive one—and outside the rains came, as they always did, a moving curtain, glittering in the lamplight, clean and wet, washing away, for the moment, Lilmoth’s scent of mildew and decay.

A boy was once born with a knife instead of a right hand, or so Colin had heard. Rape and attempted murder planted him in his mother, but she had lived and turned all of her thoughts toward vengeance. She laughed when he carved his way out of her and went gleefully into the world to slaughter all who had wronged her and many who had not. And when his victims were drowning in their own blood, they might ask, “Who are you?” and he would answer simply, “Dalk,” which in the northern tongue is an old word for knife.

According to the legend, it happened in Skyrim, but assassins liked the story, and it wasn’t that uncommon for a brash young up-and-coming killer to take that alias and daydream of making that cryptic reply.

The knife in Colin’s hand didn’t feel remotely a part of him. The handle was slick and clammy, and it made his arm feel huge and obvious, hanging by his side just under the edge of his cloak.

Why hadn’t the man noticed him? He was just standing there, leaning against the banister of the bridge, staring off toward the lighthouse. He came here each Loredas, after visiting
his horse at the stables. Often he met someone here; there was a brief conversation, and they would part. He never spoke to the same person twice.

Colin continued toward him. There was traffic on the bridge—mostly folks from Weye going home for the night with their wagons and the things they hadn’t sold at market, lovers trying to find a nice place to be secret.

But it was thinning out. They were almost alone.

“There you are,” the man said.

His face was hard to see, as it was cast in shadow by a watch-light a little farther up. Colin knew it well, though. It was long and bony. His hair was black with a little gray, his eyes startling blue.

“Here I am,” Colin replied, his mouth feeling dry.

“Come on over.”

A few steps and Colin was standing next to him. A group of students from the College of Whispers were loudly approaching.

“I like this place,” the man said. “I like to hear the bells of the ships and see the light. It reminds me of the sea. Do you know the sea?”

Shut up! Colin thought. Please don’t talk to me.

The students were dithering, pointing at something in the hills northwest.

“I’m from Anvil,” Colin said, unable to think of anything but the truth.

“Ah, nice town, Anvil. What’s that place, the one with the dark beer?”

“The Undertow.”

The man smiled. “Right. I like that place.” He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “What times, eh? I used to have a beautiful villa on the headland off Topal Bay. I had a little boat, two sails, just for plying near the coast. Now …” He raised his hands and let them drop. “But you didn’t come here for any of that, did you?”

The students were finally moving off, talking busily in what sounded like a made-up language.

“I guess not,” Colin agreed. His arm felt larger than ever, the knife like a stone in his hand.

“No. Well, it’s simple today. You can tell them there’s nothing new. And if anyone asks, tell them that no food, no wine, no lover’s kiss is as beautiful as a long, deep, breath.”

“What?”

“Astorie
, book three. Chapter—What are you holding there?”

Stupidly, Colin looked down at the knife, which had slipped from the folds of his cloak and gleamed in the lamplight.

Their eyes met.

“No!” the man shouted.

So Colin stabbed him—or tried. The man’s palms came up and the knife cut into them. Colin reached with his left hand to try to slap them aside and thrust again, this time slicing deep into the forearm.

“Just stop it!” the man gasped. “Wait a minute, talk—”

The knife slipped past the thrashing limbs and sank into his solar plexus. His mouth still working, the fellow staggered back, staring at his hand and arm.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Colin took a step toward the man, who slumped against the banister.

“Don’t,” he wheezed.

“I have to,” Colin whispered. He stooped down. The man’s arms came up, too weak now to stop Colin from cutting his throat.

The corpse slipped to a sitting position. Colin slid down next to him and watched the students, distant now, entirely unaware of what had just happened.

Unlike the two men coming from the city, who were walking purposefully toward him. Colin put his arms around the dead
man’s shoulders, as if the fellow had passed out from drinking and he was keeping him warm.

But there wasn’t any need for that. One of the pair was a tall bald man with angular features, the other an almost snoutless Khajiit. Arcus and Khasha.

“Into the river with him now,” Arcus said.

“Just catching my breath, sir.”

“Yes, I saw. Quite a fracas, when all we asked you to do was slit his throat.”

“He … he fought.”

“You were careless.”

“First time, Arcus,” Khasha said, smoothing his whiskers and twitching his tail impatiently. “How slick were you? Let’s get him in the river and be gone.”

“Fine. Lift, Inspector.”

When Colin didn’t move, Arcus snapped his fingers.

“Sir? You meant me?”

“I meant you. Sloppily done, but you did do it. You’re one of us now.”

Colin took the dead man’s legs, and together they heaved him over. He hit the water and lay there, floating, staring up at Colin.

Inspector
. He’d been waiting three years to be called that.

Now it sounded like just another word.

“Put on this robe,” Khasha said. “Hide the blood until we get you cleaned up.”

“Right,” Colin said dully.

He got his documents the next day, from Intendant Marall, a round-faced man with an odd ruff of beard beneath his chin.

“You’ll lodge in the Telhall,” Marall told him. “I believe they already have a case for you.” He put down the pen and looked hard at Colin. “Are you well, son? You look haggard.”

“Couldn’t sleep, sir.”

The intendant nodded.

“Who was he, sir?” Colin blurted out. “What did he do?”

“You don’t want to know that, son,” Marall said. “I advise you not to try and find out.”

‘“But sir—”