by Greg Keyes
“I’ve heard the prince is a flatterer.”
“Here’s our drink,” he said as Dario arrived with the beer.
Beer always tasted perfect after a fight, and this time was no different.
“So why do you seek my service instead of my father’s?” he asked her. “I’m sure he would receive you well.”
She shrugged. “Prince Attrebus, your father sits the throne as Emperor. In his service, I think I would see little in the way of action. With you, I expect rather the opposite.”
“Yes,” he said, “that is true. The Empire is still reclaiming territory, both literally and figuratively. There are many battles yet to fight before our full glory is reclaimed. If you ride with me, death will always be near. It’s not always fun, you know, and it’s not a game.”
“I don’t think that it is,” she said.
“Very good,” he said. “I like your attitude.”
“I hope to please you, Prince.”
“You can start pleasing me by calling me simply Attrebus. I do not stand on ceremony with my personal guard.”
Her eyes widened. “Does that mean …?”
“Indeed. Finish this beer and then go see Gulan. He will see you equipped, horsed, and boarded. And then, perhaps, you and I shall speak again.”
Annaïg saw the murder from the corner of her eye.
She was preparing a sauce of clams, butter, and white wine to go on thin sheets of rice noodle. Of course, none of those things were exactly that; the clams were really something called “lampen,” but they tasted much like clams. The butter was actually the fat rendered from something which—given Slyr’s description—was some sort of pupa. The wine was wine, and it was white, but it wasn’t made from any grape she had ever tasted. The noodles were made from a grain a bit like barley and a bit like rice. She was just happy to be doing something more sophisticated than searing meat, and actually enjoying the alien tastes and textures. The possibilities were exciting.
Qijne was at the corner of her vision, and she made a sort of gesture, a quick wave of her arm.
But then something peculiar happened. Oorol, the under-chef whose territory was Ghol Manor, suddenly lost his head. Literally—it fell off, and blood jetted in spurts from the still-standing body.
Qijne stepped away from the corpse as a hush fell over the kitchen. She watched what was left of Oorol fold down to the floor.
“Not good,” Slyr murmured.
Qijne’s voice rose up, a shriek that somehow still carried words in it.
“Lord Ghol was bored by his prandium! For the fourth time in a row!”
She stood there, staring around, her chest heaving and her eyes flickering murderously about the room.
“And now we have a mess to clean up and an underchef to replace.”
Her jittering gaze suddenly focused on Annaïg.
“Oh, sumpslurry,” Slyr faintly breathed. “No.”
“Slyr,” Qijne shouted. “Take this station. Bring her with you.”
“Yes, Chef!” Slyr shouted back. She turned and began gathering her knives and gear.
“Now we’re in it,” Slyr said. “Deep in it.”
“She k-killed him,” Annaïg stuttered.
“Yes, of course.”
“What do you mean, ‘of course’?”
“Look, we cook for three lords, right? Prixon, Oroy, and Ghol. Most of what we make is for their staff and slaves. That’s all you and I have been cooking—that’s all I’ve ever cooked. That’s not too dangerous. But feeding the lords themselves is—it’s not easy. It’s not only that they are feckless in their tastes, but they compete with one another constantly. Fashions in ingredients, flavor, presentation, color—all these can change very quickly. And now we’re cooking for Ghol, who doesn’t know what he likes. Oorol was pretty good—he managed to entertain Ghol for the better part of a year.”
Annaïg tried to do the calculations in her head; from various conversations, she reckoned the Umbrielian year at just over half a year on Tamriel.
“That’s not very long,” she said.
“It’s not. Hurry, now, we’ve got to subdue his staff, find out what they know, and have an acceptable dinner for him.”
“How did she—what did she kill him with?”
“We call it her filet knife, but no one really knows. You can’t see it, can you? And at times it seems longer than others. We’re not quite sure how long it can get. Now come along, unless you have more useless questions to slow us down and speed us toward the sump.”
“I do have a question. I don’t think it’s useless.”
“What?” the chef snapped impatiently.
“When you say we have to subdue his staff—”
“We’ll see. It might mean a fight. Have a knife in your hand, but hold it discreetly.”
Slyr’s previous staff had consisted of six cooks. Their new staff had eight—Annaïg and Slyr made ten.
In this case, “subduing” them simply meant calming them down and getting them to work, which Slyr managed with a minimum of slapping around, so they were soon discussing the lord’s tastes, or at least what little seemed consistent about them. To make things even more fun, it turned out he was having another of the lords—one who used another kitchen entirely—over for dinner, and about him, they knew nothing.
“What was the last thing he liked?” Slyr asked Minn, who had been Oorol’s second.
“A broth suspire made from some sort of beast the taskers brought,” Minn said. “There was an herb, too.”
“Ah. From outside.”
“Can you describe them?” Annaïg asked. “The beast and the herb?”
“I can show them to you,” Minn replied. They walked over to the cutting counter.
“That’s a hedgehog,” Annaïg said. “The plant”—she crushed the pale green leaves between her fingers and smelled them—“eucalyptus.”
“But we used both again today, and you saw the result.”
“You reason from that that he’s tired of these things?” Slyr asked. “Were they prepared in the same way?”
“Not at all. We toasted the bones to reveal the marrow and infused all with a vapor of the—ah—youcliptus?”
“That doesn’t sound good at all,” Annaïg said.
Slyr rolled her eyes. “Quickly now, I don’t need to say this again, so get it the first time. Some in Umbriel—us, the slaves, the laborers and tenders, farmers and harvesters, fishers and such—we eat things of gross substance. Meat, grain, vegetable matter. The greatest lords of this city dine only on infusions and distillations of spirituous substance. But between us and them there are the lower lords and ladies who still require matter to consume, but also have some degree of liquor spiritualis infused in their diet. But because they desire the highest status—which most will never achieve—they pretend to it, preferring to dine mostly on vapors, scents, gases. Of course, they must consume some amount of substance. They like broths, marrows, gelatins—” She sighed. “Enough. I will explain more later. For now we have to make something.” She turned to Minn. “What else can you tell me of his tastes?”
In the end they made a dish of three things: a foam of the roe of an Umbrielian fish, delicate crystals like spherical snowflakes made of sugar and twelve other ingredients that would sublimate on touching the tongue, and a cold, thin broth of sixteen herbs—including the eucalyptus—which had the aroma of each ingredient but tasted like nothing at all.
The servers took it away, leaving Slyr wringing her hands.
With good cause, because as they were all turning in for the night, Qijne found Annaïg and Slyr.
“It bored him,” she said. “Again, he’s bored. Make it right, will you?”
And then she left.
“We’re dead,” Slyr moaned. “Dead already.”
Annaïg was light-headed, almost to the point of being sick. Her teeth felt on edge from the foreign, probably toxic elements she had been handling. When she closed her eyes, she kept seeing Ooro
l’s head come off, and the blood, and his strange, slow slump to the floor.
In her third hour of sleeplessness, she felt her amulet wake against her skin.
The slippery voice of a nightbird drew the sleep from Attrebus and delivered it to the moons. He rose, taking a moment to study Radhasa’s slumbering form. Then he went out on the balcony to gaze out at the darkened but still-wondrous city, at the White-Gold Tower rising to meet the stars. He’d chosen this villa for just this view. He loved looking at the palace—not so much being in it.
A glance to the left showed him Gulan’s silhouette, at the far end of the balcony, which fronted several rooms.
“Surely you aren’t on guard,” Attrebus said.
“She’s new,” his friend answered, nodding his head toward Attrebus’s room. “Your father wouldn’t approve.”
“My father believes that anything between a commander and one of his soldiers weakens his authority. I believe that friends fight better and more loyally than mere employees. I drink with my warriors, share their burdens. You and I are friends. Do you think I’m weak?”
Gulan shook his head. “No, but we are not—ah—so intimate.”
Attrebus snorted. “Intimate? You and I are far more intimate that Radhasa and me. Sex is sex, just another kind of fight. I love all of my people equally, you know, but not for all of the same qualities. Radhasa has qualities that inspire a particular kind of friendship.”
“So do Corintha, Cellie, and Fury.”
“Yes, and there is no jealousy there, no more than if I play cards with Lupo instead of Eiswulf.” He cocked his head. “Why bring this up now? Do you know something I don’t?”
Gulan shook his head. “No,” he replied. “That’s just me, a worrier. You’re right, they all love you, and she’ll be no different.”
“Still, it’s good you can tell me these worries,” Attrebus said. “I’m not afraid to hear what you’re thinking, not like my father, surrounded by his flunkies who tell him only what he wants to hear. I love him, Gulan, and I respect him for everything he’s done. But it’s the things he hasn’t done, won’t do …” He trailed off.
“This is about Arenthia, isn’t it?”
“We only need a small force,” Attrebus said. “A thousand, let’s say. The locals will rise and fight with us, I know they will—and then we gain a foothold in Valenwood.”
“Give him time. He may yet come around.”
“I’m restless, Gulan. We haven’t done anything worthy of us in months. And yet there’s so much to be done!”
“Perhaps he has plans for you here, Treb.”
“What sort of plans? What have you heard?”
Gulan’s lips pulled back from his teeth.
“What?”
“Some say it’s time for you to marry.”
“Marry? Why in the world would I want to do that? I’m only twenty-two, for pity’s sake.”
“You’re the crown prince. You’re expected to produce an heir.”
“Has my father talked to you about this? Behind my back? Did he tell you to put this in my ear?”
Gulan drew back a bit. “No, of course not. But there are rumors in the court. I hear them.”
“There are always rumors in the court. That’s why I hate it so.”
“You’ll have to get used to it someday.”
“Not anytime soon. Maybe never—maybe I’ll perish gloriously in battle before it comes to that.”
“That’s not funny, Treb. You shouldn’t talk like that.”
“I know,” he sighed. “I’ll go to court soon, see if he’s planning on saying anything to my face. And if he won’t give us the men to go to Arenthia, maybe he’ll let us go north to train. There are plenty of bandits up around Cheydinhal. It would be something.”
Gulan nodded, and Attrebus clapped him on the shoulder.
“I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything, old friend. It’s just that, when it comes to matters like this, I find myself unaccountably irritated.”
“No harm,” Gulan said.
“I think I’m okay here,” he said. “I’ve subdued her. Go to bed.”
Gulan nodded and vanished into his room. Attrebus stayed at the rail, contemplating the night sky and hoping Gulan was wrong. Marriage? It could be forced on him. Would his father do that? It didn’t really matter, he supposed. He wouldn’t let a wife keep him home, away from his proper business. If that was his father’s intention, he was going to be disappointed.
A faint whir caught his attention, and he turned to find what at first seemed a large insect darting toward him. He leapt back, suppressing a cry, his hand going for a weapon that wasn’t there.
But then it settled on the balustrade, and he saw that it was something much more curious—a bird made all of metal. It was exquisite, really. It sat there, staring at him with its artificial eyes. It seemed to be expecting something from him.
He noticed that there was a little hinged door, like an oddly shaped locket.
He reached, then hesitated. It could be some sort of bizarre assassin’s device—he might open it to find a poisoned needle pricking him, or some dire magic unleashed.
But that seemed a little complicated. Why not put poison on the bird’s talon and have it scratch him? It could have done that if it had wanted to. Still …
He went back into his room, found his dagger, and returning with it and standing to the side, flipped the locket open.
The bird chirped a bright little tune, then fell silent. Otherwise, nothing happened. Inside was a dark, glassy surface.
“What are you?” he wondered aloud.
But it didn’t answer, so he decided to leave it where it was and have Yerva and Breslin examine it in the morning—they knew a lot more about this sort of thing than he did.
As he turned to go, however, he heard a woman’s voice, so faint he couldn’t make it out. He thought for a moment it was Radhasa, waking, but it came again, and this time he was sure it was coming from behind him. From the bird.
He went back and peered into the opening.
“Hello?” the voice came.
“Yes, hello,” he said. “Who is this?”
“Oh, thank the Divines,” the woman said. “I had almost given up hope. It’s been so long.”
“Are you—ah—Look, I feel silly talking to a bird. Can you get to that right off? And perhaps talk a bit louder?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t talk louder. I don’t want to be discovered. That’s Coo you have there; she’s enchanted, and I have this locket with me, so we can speak to one another. If it were lighter, we could see each other as well. I can sort of make out your head.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“Yes, it’s pitch-dark here.”
“Where? Where are you?”
“We’re still over Black Marsh, I think. I’ve only had a few glimpses of the outside.”
“Over Black Marsh?”
“Yes. There’s a lot to explain, and it’s urgent. I sent Coo to find Prince Attrebus …” The voice faltered. “Oh, my. You are the prince, aren’t you? Or else Coo wouldn’t have opened.”
“Indeed, I am Prince Attrebus.”
“Your highness, forgive me for addressing you in such a familiar manner.”
“That’s no matter. And who might you be?”
“My name is Annaïg—Annaïg Hoïnart.”
“And you’re in some sort of captivity?”
“Yes—yes, Prince Attrebus. But it’s not me I’m worried about. I have a lot to tell you and not much time before dawn. I believe our entire world is in terrible danger.”
“I’m listening,” he replied.
And he did listen as her husky lilt carried him through the night across the Cyrodiil and fetid Black Marsh, to a place beyond imagination and a terror the mind shuddered to grasp. And when at last she had to go, and the moons were wan ghosts in a milky sky, he straightened and looked off east. Then he went to his wardrobe-room, where Terz his dresser was just waking.
“I’ll be going to court,” he told Terz.
Titus Mede had been—and was—many things. A soldier in an outlaw army, a warlord in Colovia, a king in Cyrodiil, and Emperor.
And to Attrebus, a father. They looked much alike, having the same lean face and strong chin, the same green eyes. He’d gotten his own slightly crooked nose and blond hair from his mother; his father’s hair was auburn, although now it was more than half silver.
His father sat back in his armchair. He removed the circlet from his curly locks, rubbed his thickly lined forehead, and sighed.
“Black Marsh?”
“Black Marsh, Father, that’s what she said.”
“Black Marsh,” he repeated, settling the crown back on his head. “Well, then?”
“Well what, sire?”
“Well, then, why are we discussing this?” He turned his head toward his minister, an odd, pudgy man with thick eyebrows and mild blue eyes. “Hierem, can you tell me why we’re discussing this?”
Hierem sniffed. “I’ve no idea, majesty,” he said. “Black Marsh is rather a thorn in our side, isn’t it? The Argonians refuse our protection. Let them deal with their problems.”
Something swept through Attrebus so strong he couldn’t identify it at first. But then he understood: certainty. Before there was a question about who Annaïg might actually be, what her motives were. She could easily have been some sort of sorceress, tricking him to his doom.
He’d wanted to believe her—his every instinct told him she was genuine. Now he knew his instincts were dead-on, once again.
“You already knew about this,” he accused.
“We’ve heard things,” the minister replied.
“Heard th …” He sputtered off. “Father—a flying city, an army of walking dead—this doesn’t concern you?”
“You said they were moving north, toward Morrowind and at a snail’s pace. Our reports say the same. So no, I’m not concerned.”
“Not even enough to send a reconnaissance?”
“The Synod and College of Whispers have both been tasked to discover what they can,” Hierem said. “And of course some specialists are on their way. But there is no need for a military expedition until they threaten our borders—certainly not one led by the crown prince.”