The Infernal City

by Greg Keyes

  “Let her stay, please.”

  “As I said,” he went on, disappointment evident in his voice, “it’s your choice, and remains your choice. I hope you will try to consider that decision without passion or sympathy. I hope you will be great.”

  “I will try to be great,” Annaïg said. “But I hope to do it without betraying my friends.”

  “Does this work, where you are from?”

  “I … I don’t know. Sometimes, I hope.”

  He nodded and his gaze found hers, and in his eyes she saw something both frightening and compelling. She felt again the caress on the back of her neck, and her belly tingled.

  “There is another decision I give you to make,” he said, very softly. “Like the first, you are free to make it on any evening I have you here.”

  She couldn’t find any words, or even think straight. She had flirted with a few boys, kissed a few, but it had always seemed clumsy and ridiculous, and she’d certainly never been swept away by the sort of passion she had read of.

  But this wasn’t a boy. This was a man, a man who wanted her, wanted her very badly, who could probably take her if he desired it.

  She realized she was breathing hard.

  “I—ah …” she started. “I wonder if I can have some water.”

  He smiled, and leaned back, and signed for water to be brought, and she sat there the rest of the evening feeling drunk and foolish and very much a little girl. He could see right through it all, through any manner and bearing she tried to fabricate.

  But beneath all of that there was this other, little voice, the one that reminded her that it should always be her choice, that it shouldn’t be something someone could condescend to give you. And that voice didn’t go away, and when dinner was over she returned to her room, where Slyr had passed out, alone.

  FIVE

  A short morning’s ride brought them to a hill overlooking Water’s Edge, a bustling market town that—like Ione—had done most of its growing in the last few decades. During the years when the old Empire was collapsing, it had served as a free port when Bravil and Leyawiin were independent and often at odds with each other, and Water’s Edge had been protected by both and by what remained of the Imperial navy. Even enemies needed some neutral ground for trade, a place where conflict was set aside.

  And now that the Empire was reunited, it was growing still, attracting entrepreneurs and tradesmen from crime-ridden Bravil especially.

  “I don’t understand why we didn’t just go to Bravil,” Attrebus complained to Sul. “That’s at least in the right direction.”

  “This was closer,” Sul replied. “Distance doesn’t matter so much as time. We’re short of time as it is. If I can get the things I need here, we have a far better chance of succeeding.”

  “And if you can’t get what you need?”

  “The College of Whispers has a cynosure here,” the Dunmer replied. “The things I’m after aren’t terribly uncommon.”

  “I should think opening a portal into oblivion would require something rather extraordinary.”

  “It does,” Sul said. “But I already have that.” He tapped his head, then swung himself up on his horse.

  Attrebus began saddling his own mount.

  “What are you doing?” the Dunmer asked.

  “You said you wanted allies. I’m going to see what I can do.”

  Sul looked as if he tasted something bad. “Let me check things out first,” he said. He switched his reins and rode off.

  Attrebus watched him go, then resumed making his horse ready.

  “You’re going into town, too?” Lesspa asked.

  Attrebus nodded. “Yes. There’s a garrison there, and I know the commander. I need to send word to my father I’m still alive. I might even be able to recruit a few more men.”

  “We aren’t enough for you, Prince?”

  “Yes,” Attrebus said. “About that. I appreciate your help up to this point, but you deserve to know what we’re up against. When you’ve heard me out, if you still want to go, that’s great. But if you don’t, I’ll understand.”

  “My ears are twitching,” she replied.

  And so he told her about Umbriel—or at least everything he knew about it—and about Sul’s plan to reach Morrowind. When he finished, she just regarded him for a moment. Then she made a little bow.

  “Thank you,” she said. Then she walked back over to her people.

  He finished saddling, then splashed a bit of cold water from the stream on his face and shaved. By the time he was done with that, he noticed one of the Khajiit tents was already down.

  He sighed, but part of him was relieved. He needed them, yes, but the thought of leading more people to be slaughtered was a hard one.

  His mood lifted a little as he entered the town and felt—for the first time since crossing the border—that he was really back in the Empire, in his element. The shops—many with freshly painted signs—cheered him, as did the children laughing and playing in the streets. A question merrily answered by a girl drawing water from the well at the town center sent him toward the Imperial garrison, a couple of wooden barracks flanking an older building of dark stone. A guard stood outside the door, wearing his father’s colors.

  “Good day,” the guard said as he drew near.

  “Good day to you,” Attrebus replied, watching for the glimmer of recognition, but either the man did not know his face or was good at concealing his reactions. “Can you tell me who is on post here?”

  “That would be Captain Larsus,” the fellow said.

  “Florius Larsus?” Attrebus asked.

  “The same,” the guard replied.

  “I should like to see him,” Attrebus said.

  “Very good. And whom shall I say is calling?”

  “Just tell him it’s Treb,” he replied.

  The guard’s eyes did widen a bit, and he went into the building. A moment later the door swung open and Florius appeared. He looked irritated at first, but when his gaze settled on Attrebus, his jaw hung open.

  “By the Divines,” he said. “You’re supposed to be dead!”

  “I hope I get to have my own opinion about that,” he answered.

  Larsus bounded over to him and clapped him on the shoulders. “Great gods, man, get in here. Do you even know how many men your father has out looking for you?”

  Attrebus followed him into a simple but ample room with a desk, a few bookshelves, and a cabinet from which Larsus produced a bottle of brandy and two cups.

  “If everyone thinks I’m dead, then why does my father have men out searching for me?”

  “Well, he doesn’t believe it. But the rumor is they found your body.”

  “Some rumors are better than others.”

  Larsus poured the brandy and passed the cup to Attrebus.

  “Well, it’s good to see you alive,” the captain said. “But don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me what happened.”

  “My companions were all slain, and I was taken captive. They took me to Elsweyr with the intention of selling me, but they ended up dying instead. And so here I am.”

  “That’s—I don’t know what to say. Are you alone?”

  “Yes,” Attrebus lied.

  “Well, you look well enough. A little battered—listen, I’ll arrange for your transport home immediately, and send a courier ahead to let your father know the good news.”

  “Send the courier,” Attrebus said. “But I won’t be returning to the Imperial City.”

  Larsus frowned, but at that moment another fellow entered the room—a man with sallow Breton features and curly black hair. He looked familiar—Attrebus was sure he had seen him at court, or at least in the palace.

  “Riente,” Larsus said. “See who it is!”

  Riente cocked his head to the side, and then bowed. “Your highness,” he said. “It’s wondrous to see you alive.”

  “Captain Larsus and I were just discussing that,” Attrebus said.

  “Well, I sho
uldn’t intrude, then,” Riente said. “I only came to report that the matter at the Little Orsinium Tavern is cleared up.”

  “Thank you, Riente.”

  “Captain, majesty,” he said, bowing again before vanishing through the door whence he’d come.

  Larsus turned back to Attrebus. “Now, Treb, what are you talking about? My orders are to return you to the Imperial City without delay.”

  “I’m giving you different orders,” Attrebus said.

  “You can’t countermand your father.” He paused and looked a bit sheepish. “My orders include permission to restrain you if necessary.”

  “But you won’t do that.”

  Larsus hesitated again. “I will.”

  Attrebus leaned forward. “Listen, Florius. I always thought we were friends, but recent events make me wonder. I know now that my life, up until now, has been something of a fantasy. Perhaps you, like so many, only pretended to like me. But I remember those days after we first met, when we were six? Did it really all go back so far?”

  Larsus colored. “No,” he said. “We were friends, Treb. We are. But the Emperor …”

  “I can’t go back, not yet. There are things I must do. And I need your help.”

  Larsus sighed. “What things?”

  And so for the second time that day, Attrebus recounted what he knew of Umbriel.

  “I’ve heard of it,” Larsus acknowledged. “But this doesn’t change anything. When the Emperor learns I’ve let you go, it’s my head.”

  “I won’t let that happen.”

  “How can you prevent it, if you’re in Morrowind, probably dead?”

  “I’m asking you to go with me, Florius. It’s the real thing this time, not the playacting of before. But this needs doing, and I’d like you at my side.”

  “Just the two of us?”

  “I lied. There is one other.”

  “I—even if you can keep me out of the dungeons, this will end my career, Treb.”

  “If we succeed, all will be forgiven. My father could never punish a savior of Cyrodiil—the people would never have it, and you know how quickly stories about me get around. I’ll write letters to my biographers—the story of our quest will be circulating in days.” He raised his voice, like a bard. “‘The prince, all thought him dead, but he rose up from defeat and went to find the foe …’” He returned to normal speech. “My father will have to embrace the story. And your part in it.”

  Florius squinted, as if Attrebus’s words were still there in the air to be examined.

  Then he nodded. “Very well,” he said. He rustled through the desk. “Write your letters and post them at the Gaping Frog—it’s just off the town square. I’ll send your father a message by Imperial courier, informing him of your safety—and my resignation. I’ll meet you at the Frog in, say, three hours.”

  “I knew I could count on you, Florius.”

  “I’m a fool,” Florius said.

  “But you’re my fool now.”

  “Go on. I’ll see you in three hours.”

  The Gaping Frog was almost empty when Attrebus made his way in and took a seat at the smoothest table he saw, which still had its share of nicks, scratches, and knife-scribed autographs. The place was mostly empty, rather sunny for a tavern, smelling pleasantly of ale and some sort of stew. He had an ale and wrote two more or less identical letters to his best-known biographers and posted them with the barkeep, a female orc with two broken teeth. Then—it being about midday—he had a bowl of what turned out to be mutton daube and two more ales, and sat there, feeling full and civilized, wondering how Sul had made out.

  The few people who had come in for lunch wandered out, until it was just Attrebus and the barkeep. But less than a minute after the last of the other patrons left, the door opened again. He looked up, thinking it might be Florius come a bit early, but instead it was a group of people. At first he didn’t understand what was wrong with their faces, but then he understood; they were wearing masks. And all of them had naked blades.

  He bolted up, drawing his own sword, Flashing. The barkeep made an odd sound, and he saw her stagger and then drop heavily behind the counter.

  “Who are you?” he shouted. “Show your faces.” He made a wild cut at the one nearest, but stepped back as his companions moved to circle him.

  The door burst open again, and the man on his left jerked his head to look. Attrebus thrust with Flashing, catching him in the ribs. The man cursed and fell back, clutching his side, even as one of his companions cut at Treb’s head. Attrebus dropped, feeling the wake of the blade on his scalp.

  He was struggling to get his blade back up when something big hit his only remaining attacker. The other three were busy defending their own lives against Lesspa and her cousins, and he now saw that it was Lesspa’s brother, Sha’jal, savaging the man at his feet.

  By the time he got around them, the rest of the fray was over.

  Attrebus rushed to the bar, but the barkeep was dead with a knife in her right eye.

  “Are you all right?” Lesspa asked.

  “I am, thanks to you,” he replied. “I thought you were leaving.”

  “No, no. We sent the kits and the old ones back with a few warriors, but the rest of us stay with you. We’ve been watching out for you. These fellows with their masks, they didn’t seem to have the best of intentions.”

  “Take their masks off,” Attrebus said, bending toward the corpse nearest him.

  Four of them were unfamiliar, but the fourth was Riente, the fellow from Florius’s office.

  “Florius!” he swore.

  He ran the two hundred yards back to the garrison, not caring if the cats were with him or not. He shoved the door open, blade in hand.

  Florius was in his chair, with his head on the table. There wasn’t much blood; he’d been stabbed at the base of the skull.

  “It told you to wait,” Sul said. “I should have tied you up before I left.”

  “He was going with us,” Attrebus said. “I talked him into it. I killed him.”

  “You killed him the moment he knew who you were. There was a guard dead, too—did you talk to a guard?”

  “Yes,” he said, feeling sick.

  “The massacre of your men, and now this? You need to ask yourself—who wants you dead?”

  Attrebus closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. “I’ve seen Riente before. In the Imperial City. And some of the things Radhasa said made it sound like someone there had hired her. I assumed it was some criminal faction, but … I don’t know who could want me murdered.”

  “It’s not just anyone,” Sul said. “It’s someone with a lot of connections. They may have scried you were coming here, but from your description it sounds more likely that they put someone here, in Bravil, Leyawiin—anyplace they thought you might turn up.”

  “One of the dukes, my uncle maybe. Maybe someone who doesn’t want me to be Emperor.”

  “Yes, but why now? Why not a year ago, in your sleep with venom from some woman’s lips? Why not a year from now?”

  “You think it has something to do with Umbriel?”

  “What else could it be?” Sul demanded. “Track back. Who knew what you were up to?”

  “Gulan. My father. Annaïg. Hierem, my father’s minister. But we weren’t in private—others surely heard.”

  Sul’s eyes went a bit strange for a moment, as if something Attrebus had said registered with him, but then it was gone.

  “Ah, well,” he said. “It’s moot for the moment.”

  “Florius is dead. It’s not moot.”

  “For the moment, I said. I found the things we needed. When both moons are in the sky tonight, we’ll go where no one will follow—that, you can be sure of. Now, I’m going back to town to sell the horses, because we can’t take them with us, and to pick up more supplies for the trip. This time, stay put. I’ll take some of the cats to help.”

  Sul returned a few hours before sundown, and under his direction they began to hike n
orth, first on the trail, then through the bottomlands. At dusk they reached their destination—the ruins of an Oblivion gate, not notably different from the one at Ione, except there wasn’t a town built around it. They gathered on the glassy, fused earth, and Attrebus and the cats knelt in a circle around Sul, who walked among them dabbing a red ointment from a small jar and marking each of their foreheads, and finally his own.

  When he was finished, he stoppered the jar and put it in his haversack.

  “Get what you need,” he said. “We’ll be traveling light. When we start, stay close to me, as close as you can. We’ll be moving fast.”

  Attrebus shouldered his pack and put his hand on Flashing’s hilt. He faced the Khajiit. There were four of the massive Senchetigers and four riders. Lesspa with Sha’jal, Taaj with S’enjara, M’kai with Ahapa, and J’lasha riding M’qar.

  “You’re sure about this, all of you?” Attrebus asked them.

  “Our lances are with you,” Lesspa said.

  “Only our lances,” M’kai added. “I hope you know how to use them.”

  His accent was so thick and his tone so solemn that it took a snicker from Taaj before he realized M’kai was joking.

  “We’re ready, Prince,” Lesspa said.

  “Okay,” he told Sul. “I’m ready, too. You can start whenever.” He looked up at the moons.

  Sul nodded and the sky shattered.

  SIX

  The landscape beneath Mere-Glim had changed considerably since he’d last been in the Fringe Gyre. Gone the dense forest, winding rivers, and oxbow lakes, all replaced by ash-colored desert and jagged peaks. That meant they were out of Black Marsh at last, and well over Morrowind.

  He’d never been out of his homeland before.

  Not that it mattered anymore. He was dead to the Hist, and almost everyone he knew was dead. For all intents and purposes, he hadn’t been in Black Marsh since he and Annaïg had come upon Umbriel. Crossing a border was just a formality.