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 Oorol’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?


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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.


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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.


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“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.


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But there is no need for a military expedition until they threaten our borders—certainly not one led by the crown prince.” “But Annaïg may not survive that long.” “So it’s the girl?” Hierem said. “That’s why you want to mount an expedition into Black Marsh? For the sake of a girl?” “Don’t speak to me like that, Hierem,” Attrebus warned. “I am your prince, after all. You seem to forget that.” “It’s not the girl,” his father snorted. “It’s the adventure. It’s the book they’ll write about it, the songs they will sing.” Attrebus felt his cheeks burn. “Father, that’s nonsense. You say it’s not our problem, but when it’s made everyone in Black Marsh and Morrowind into corpse-warriors, it will then turn on us. Every day we wait its army grows stronger. Why not fight a small battle now rather than a huge one later?” “Are you now lecturing me on strategy and tactics?” his father snapped. “I took this city with under a thousand men. I routed Eddar Olin’s northward thrust with barely twice that, and I hammered this empire back together with a handful of rivets. Do not dare to question that I have this situation in hand.” “Besides,” Hierem added, “you don’t know that it is coming here at all, Prince. It seems to have come from nowhere, probably it will return there.” “That’s a stupid assumption to make.” “If it comes for any part of the Empire, we will be ready for it,” the Emperor said. “You will not chase after this thing. That is my last word on the matter.” The tone was final. Attrebus glared at his father and the minister, then, after the most perfunctory of bows, he spun on his heel and left. He sat outside on the steps for a few moments, trying to cool off, get his thoughts together. He was almost ready to leave when he looked up at approaching footsteps. It was a young man with a thin ascetic face, freckles, and red hair. He wore an Imperial uniform. “Treb!” Attrebus stood and the two clapped each other in a hug. “You’re thin, Florius,” he said. “Your mother’s not feeding you anymore?” “Not so much. It’s mostly your father doing that now.” Treb stepped back and regarded his old friend. “You made captain! Congratulations.” “Thank you.” “I should never have let my father have you,” Attrebus said. “You should be riding with me.” “I should like that,” Florius said. “It’s been a long time since we had an adventure together. Do you remember that time we snuck off into the market district—” “I remember my father’s guards dragging us back by the ears,” Attrebus said. “But if you want to arrange a transfer …” “I’ve been assigned to command the garrison at Water’s Edge,” Florius said. “But maybe when that assignment’s done.” “I’ll come looking for you,” Attrebus said.


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“Divines, it’s good to see you Florius.” “Do you have time for a drink?” He paused, then shook his head. “No—I need to see to something right now. But I will see you in future.” “Right, then,” Florius said, and the two men parted company. Attrebus nodded to himself and went to meet Gulan. He found him near the gate. “How did it go?” Gulan asked. “Gather everyone at my house in Ione. We can supply there and be on our way by tomorrow. Be quiet about it.” “That well, eh?” He shifted. “You’re going against the Emperor’s wishes? Are you sure you want to do that?” “I’ve done it before.” “Which is why he’s likely to suspect, and have you watched.” “Which is why we’re being discreet. Disperse the guard as if I’ve given them a holiday, and have them come individually to Ione. You and I will take the way through the sewers.” Gulan looked doubtful but he nodded. Attrebus clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll see, old friend. This will be our greatest victory yet.”


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The Infernal City: An Elder Scrolls Novel “You’re the new skraw,” the man said. It wasn’t a question. Mere-Glim nodded, trying to size the fellow up. He looked more or less like one of Annaïg’s race, although with a noticeable yellowish cast to his skin and eyes. He had a long, doleful face and red hair. He was wearing the same black loincloth that Glim now wore. “My name is Mere-Glim,” he offered. “Yeah? You can call me Wert. And what are you, Mere-Glim? They say you don’t need the vapors.” They’d been walking through a stone corridor, but now they entered a modest cave. Water poured from an opening in the wall, ran in a stream across the floor, and vanished into a pool in the middle of the chamber. Several globes of light were fixed to the ceiling, nearly obscured by the ferns growing around them. The rest of the cave was felted in moss. Mere-Glim found it pleasant. “Eh?” Glim realized he’d been asked a question. “My people call ourselves Saxhleel,” he said. “Others call us Argonians. I’m not sure what you mean by vapors.” “You didn’t come out of the sump,” Wert said. “Nothing like you has ever come out of the sump. Which means you ain’t from Umbriel, ain’t that so?” “It is,” Glim replied. “So I reckon you’re one o’ them they was searching for, down below.” “They found us.” “Makes you—well, there ain’t no word for it, is there? A From-Somewhere-Elser. Well, then, welcome to the sump. Lovely place to work.” He chuckled, but that turned abruptly into a nasty cough. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, and Glim noticed it came away bloody. “Vapors,” Wert explained. “What are they?” “Well, see, I’m told you can breathe down there. But none of us can, not without the vapors. We go to the yellow cave, and we breathe ’em in for a while, and then we can stay under until they wear off.” “How long is that?” “Depends. A few hours, usually. Long enough to get some work done.” “So what do we do?” “Well, I’m to show you, I am,” Wert said. “That’s where we’re on to right now. I’ll go take the vapors—I won’t be back here, because if I don’t get in the water right away, I’ll suffocate. So you just swim out and wait for me. Don’t wander by yourself. And please don’t try to run away. You won’t make it, and I’ll pay the price.” He watched Wert go, then walked over to the pool and lowered himself in, letting the mild current take him along. The pool bent into a tube, and he could see light ahead. A moment later he emerged in shallow water, just about as deep as he was tall. The sump spread out before him, a nearly perfectly circular lake in the bottom of a cone-shaped cavity. Umbriel City climbed up and away from him in all directions.


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Some of it hung above him. He thought that if crows could build cities, they would look something like this—vain, shiny, lopsided, brash, and bragging. A few moments later Wert’s head appeared a few yards out. He gestured for Glim to follow. The shallows teemed with strange life: slender, swaying amber rods covered in cilia, swimmers that seemed like some strange cross of fish and butterfly, living nets composed of globes propelling themselves with water-jets and dragging fine webs between them, centipede-things as long as his arm and little shrimplike things no bigger than his thumb-claw. He stopped when he saw the body. At first he saw only a thick school of silver fish, but they parted at his approach. It had been a woman with dark skin and hair; now bones were showing in places and worms clustered on exposed organs. Shuddering, he turned away, but then he saw another, similar swarm of fish. And another to his right. He started at something in the edge of his vision, but it was only Wert. “They drop the bodies from above or send them down the slides. This is where they start.” His voice was weird, thick with the water in his lungs. “Why were they killed?” “What do you mean? Most just died of something or other. I suppose a few mighta been executed. But this is where we all end, ain’t it—in the sump.” He waved his hand vaguely. “We collect a lot of stuff for the kitchens here. Orchid shrimp, Rejjem sap, Inf fronds. Other things we fish for deeper, especially shear-teeth. You’ll learn about that, but mostly you’ll work in the deep sump. That’s perfect for you. So come on, let’s go to the Drop.” They swam on, with the water getting gradually deeper at first. He didn’t have to be told what the Drop was—he knew it when he saw it. The sump became a steeply curving cone that drove deep into the stone of Umbriel. And at the very bottom, in the narrowest place, an actinic light flashed, like a ball of lightning. “What’s that?” he asked. “That’s the conduit to the ingenium,” Wert said. “The sump takes care of our bodies—the ingenium takes care of our souls and keeps the world running. I’d stay well clear of the conduit, if I was you. Or me, now that I think of it.” Well, Glim thought. There’s something Annaïg would want to report to her prince. If only I had some way of talking to her. He glanced at Wert; he seemed not to be a bad fellow, but in the bigger picture—Annaïg’s picture—that wouldn’t matter. Though Wert could temporarily breathe underwater, his body was clumsy, not built for swimming. Glim knew he could easily escape him. If he killed him first, that would probably give him more time. But if he survived long enough to find Annaïg and give her this bit of news, then what?


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How could he hide when he was the only one of his kind on Umbriel? He couldn’t. Not for long. No, before he did something like that he’d need to have a lot more information to pass on. Could the ingenium be damaged from the sump? From anywhere? If so, how? They descended about two-thirds of the way down the sump, and Wert began moving toward what appeared to be translucent sacs stuck to the wall. There were hundreds of them, maybe thousands, in all shapes and sizes. As he drew nearer, he could make out vague forms within the sacs. “These are being born,” Wert said. Curious, Glim moved closer, and to his astonishment found himself looking into a face. The eyes were closed, the features not fully formed, but it wasn’t a child’s face; it was that of an adult—just softer, flabbier than most. It was also hairless. “I don’t understand.” Wert grinned, plucked something from the water, and handed it to Glim. It was a sort of worm, very soft. It pulsed in and out, and with every contraction, a little jet of water squirted from one end of it. Other than that, it was featureless. “That’s a proform,” Wert said. “When someone dies, the ingenium calls one of these down to the conduit and gives it a soul. It comes back up here and attaches to the wall, and someone grows.” “That’s interesting,” Glim said. He looked at the proform. “You all start as this? No matter what you end up looking like? This is what you really are?” “You’ve got funny questions in your head,” Wert said. “We are what we are.” “And everyone is born like this?” “Everyone, from lord and lady to me and—well, not you. At least not yet.” “How are they born?” “Well, that’s one of your jobs—to recognize when one of these is about to start breathing. You can tell by the color of the sac—it gets a sheen, like this one. Then you swim that up to the birth pool—that’s another cave up in the shallows.” “What if you don’t do it in time?” “They die, of course. That’s why this job is the most important, really. And it’s why you’re so suited for it, see? Nah, they won’t waste you much on gathering. This is where you’ll be.” He doubled over suddenly, and Glim realized he was coughing. A dark stain spread from his mouth and nostrils. “Are you okay?” Wert gradually unfolded, then nodded. “Why do the vapors hurt you like that?” “Why is water wet? I don’t know. But I have to go up soon. Not lasting so long, this time. So let’s go see the birthing pool.” As they started back up, Glim glanced back down toward the light, but he didn’t see it. Instead he saw a maw full of teeth gaping at him. “Xhuth!” he gargled, jerking himself to the side and stroking hard to turn.


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The fish turned, too, but not before he saw the thing was fifteen feet long, at least. Its tail was long, whiplike, and it had two great swimming fins set under it, like a whale. But those teeth would shame a shark to blush. “Sheartooth!” Wert shouted. “You’ve made it mad somehow.” Glim swam desperately, but the head kept right toward him, so he slashed at it with his claws. They caught but didn’t tear the creature’s tough hide. He let go, then struck again, this time at the back, behind the head, and there he dug in. It couldn’t bite him there. It could try, though. It thrashed like a snake in a hot skillet; he saw Wert stab at it with his spear, only to be struck by the tail. The skraw went limp in the water. Wonderful. He was starting to get dizzy and his arms and shoulders were aching. He’d have to do something soon. Here’s hoping your belly is softer, he thought. He let go with one set of claws and swung underneath. He was almost thrown clear, but one of the fins actually buffeted him back to the belly, and he slashed with all his might. Again his claws caught. He sank in the other hand. The sheartooth gyred into a loop, and the force was such that he knew he could only hold on for another few seconds. But the same force dragged Glim down the belly, opening it up like a gutting knife, and he was engulfed in a cloud of blood. He kicked hard and swam free of the still-twisting monster, but it had lost interest in him, focusing instead on its own demise. He realized suddenly that he’d forgotten Wert. He had drifted down fifty or sixty feet. His eyes were closed and his chest was moving oddly. Glim slung Wert over his back and kicked straight for the surface. He could feel the man quivering on his back. The light of the sun seemed a long way off. He burst into air and reversed his hold, keeping Wert’s head out of the sump as he vomited water from his lungs and began to struggle. His eyes opened, looking wild. He began to make a horrible sucking sound that wasn’t breathing. “Should I take you back under?” Glim asked. Wert shook his head violently, but Glim wasn’t sure if that meant yes or no. But then he seemed to draw a real breath, and then another. They reached the shallows, where Glim could stand and Wert could lean against him. “Shearteeth—usually not so vicious,” he said. “Usually don’t attack us. Something about you set it off. Maybe because the sump was still learning you. Thought you were—intruder.” He glanced at Glim. “Thanks, by the way. I wouldn’t have made it back up.” “I thought you were going to die anyway.” “It’s always bad between,” Wert explained.


“You don’t want to be underwater when you start breathing air again, but then again, you still can’t breathe air.” “That’s horrible,” Glim said. “There must be some better way to do this.” “Sometimes a lord or lady will come down for a swim, and they have other ways, not like the vapors. But the vapors are cheap, my friend. And so are we—always more of us being born. You’re different—for now.” “For now?” “Well, the sump knows you now. So does the ingenium. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a few more of your sort, pretty soon. And when there are enough of you—well, you’ll be cheap, too.”


The Infernal City: An Elder Scrolls Novel When Attrebus, Gulan, and Radhasa arrived at Ione, dawn was just leaking into the sky. It was cool, and the breeze smelled of dew and green leaves. A rooster gave notice to the hens it was time to face the day. The town was waking, too—smoke from hearths coiled up through the light fog and people were already about in the streets. “It’s not much to look at, this town,” Radhasa noticed. Attrebus nodded. Ione wasn’t picturesque; a few of the houses were rickety wooden structures faded gray, but most were of stone or brick and simply built. Even the small chapel of Dibella was rather plain. “It’s not very old,” he said. “There wasn’t anything here at all fifty years ago. Then—well, do you know what that is?” They had reached the town square, and he didn’t have to point to indicate what he was asking about. The square was mostly stone, oddly cracked and melted as if from terrible heat or some stranger force. Two bent columns projected up in the middle, each about ten feet high, and together they resembled the truncated horns of an enormous steer. “Yes, I’ve seen them before—the ruins of an Oblivion gate.” “Right. Well, when this one opened, it opened right in the middle of a company of soldiers recalled from the south to fortify the Imperial City. More than half of them were killed, including the commander. They would have all died, but a captain named Tertius Ione managed to pull the survivors together and withdraw. But rather than retreat all the way to the Imperial City, he instead recruited farmers and hunters from the countryside and Pell’s Gate. Then he made them into something more than what they were. They returned and slaughtered the daedra here, and when they were done with that, he led them through the gate itself.” “Into Oblivion?” “Yes. He’d heard that the gate at Kvatch had been closed somehow by entering it. So Ione went in with about half of his troops and left the rest here, to guard against anything else coming out.” “It looks like he closed it.” “It closed, but Captain Ione was never seen again. One of his men—a Bosmer named Fenton—appeared weeks later, half dead and half mad. From what little he said that made sense, they reckoned Ione and the rest sacrificed themselves to give Fenton the chance to sabotage the portal. The Bosmer died the next day, raving. Anyway, Ione was gone for a long time before the gate exploded, and in the meantime his company built some fortifications and simple buildings. Once the gate was gone, it was a convenient and relatively safe place, so a lot of people stayed, and over time the town grew.” He turned about, spreading his arms. “That’s why I like this Ione. Because it’s new, because it speaks to the spirit of heroism that lies at the heart of each of us.


Yes, there are no quaint old buildings or First Era statues, but it’s an honest place built by brave people.” “And you have a house here?” Radhasa asked. “A hunting lodge, in the hills just across town.” “That’s quite a hunting lodge,” the Redguard said when they entered the gate. Something about the tone irked him, made him feel a bit defensive. It wasn’t that big. It was built on the plan of an ancient Nord longhouse, each beam and cornice festooned with carvings of dragons, bulls, boars, leering wild men, and dancing, longtressed women. “I suppose after the simplicity of Ione, it comes as a bit of a shock,” Attrebus admitted. “My uncle built it about fifteen years ago. He used to bring me down here, and left it to me when he died.” “No, I didn’t mean to criticize it.” And yet, he somehow felt she had been critical of something. He pushed past it. There were other matters at hand now. “They’re all here, Gulan?” he asked. “They are.” “And the provisions?” “You had plenty in your stores. More than we can carry.” “Well, I don’t see any reason to dally, then.” He raised his voice and spread his arms. “It’s good to have you with me, my brothers and sisters in arms,” he called out. “Give us a shout. The Empire!” “The Empire!” they erupted enthusiastically. “Today we ride to the unknown, fellows. Against something I believe to be as deadly and dangerous to our world as that Oblivion gate down there was when it opened—maybe more so. We’ve never done anything this dangerous; I’ll tell you that now.” “What is it, Treb?” That was Joun, an orc of prodigious size even for his race. He settled his hands on his hips and lifted his chin. Then he laid it out for them. When he was finished, the silence that followed had an odd, unfamiliar quality to it. “I know there are only fifty-two of us,” he said, “but just below us Captain Ione went into Oblivion with fewer than that and shut down that gate. The Empire expects no less from us—and we are better equipped in every way than he was. Even better, we have someone there, inside this monstrous thing—someone to lead us in, help us find the heart and rip it out. We can do this, friends.” “We’re with you, Treb!” Gulan shouted, and the rest of them joined him, but it seemed, somehow, that a note was still missing. Had he finally asked too much of them? No, they would follow him, and this would knit them all the more tightly as a band. “An hour, my friends, to settle yourselves for the ride. Then we begin.” But as they dispersed, there seemed to be much furtive whispering. The grass still sparkled with dew when they reached the Red Ring Road, the vast track that circumscribed Lake Rumare.


Across the morning gold of the lake stood the Imperial City itself, a god’s wagon-wheel laid down on an island in the center of the lake. The outer curve of the white wall was half in shadow, and he could make out three of what would—in any other city—be deemed truly spectacular guard towers. But those were dwarfed by the magnificent spoke of the wheel—the White-Gold Tower, thrusting up toward the unknowable heavens. He saw Radhasa also staring at the tower. “It was there before the city,” he told her. “Long before. It is very old, and no one is quite sure what it does.” “What do you mean, ‘what it does’?” “Well—understand first I’m not a scholar of the tower.” “Understood. But you must know more than I.” “Well, some think that the White-Gold Tower—and some other towers around Tamriel—help, well, hold the world up, or something like that. Others believe that before the Dragon broke, the tower helped protect us from invasion from Oblivion.” “It holds up the world?” “I’m not saying it right,” he replied, realizing he couldn’t actually remember the details of that tutorial. “They help keep Mundus—the World—from dissolving back into Oblivion. Or something like that. Anyway, everyone seems to agree it has power, but no one knows exactly what kind.” “Okay,” she replied, and shrugged. “So how do we get to Black Marsh?” “We’ll come to a bridge in a bit and cross the Upper Niben. From there we’ll take the Yellow Road southeast until we cross the Silverfish River. Then it’s overland—no roads after that except the ones we make.” He grinned at the thought of being in wild country again. “I wish I knew more about Cyrodiil.” “Well, you have an opportunity to learn now.” She was silent for a moment. “This person—the spy on the floating island—how do you speak to them?” “You don’t believe me?” “Of course I ‘believe’ you, my Pri—ah, Treb. I’m just curious. Do you have some sort of scrying ball, like in the old tales?” “Something like that,” he replied. “Very mysterious,” she answered. “Must keep a bit of mystery,” he replied. “We certainly must,” she said with a flirty grin. At noon they stopped to water the horses in the springs near the overgrown ruins of Sardarvar Leed, where the ancient Ayleid elves had once herded his ancestors, bred them for work and pleasure. Attrebus found a quiet spot and took the bird from his haversack. He saw Annaïg’s hands, working at some sort of dough, the cherry red fire pits beyond, and the hellish creatures that swarmed about the place. He dared not say anything now, but something in him needed to see what she saw, to make sure she was alive and well. His father and Hierem were right, in a way; this was in part about Annaïg.


She’d picked him to send Coo to because she believed in him, because she knew that he would answer her prayers and do this thing that needed doing, even if that meant opposing his own father. He had no intention of letting her down, and tonight, when they could whisper to each other across the leagues, he would give her the good news that he was on the way. He was still thinking about that an hour later when he heard a dull whump and half of his men caught fire. For a moment he could only stare, as if watching a theatric. He saw Eres and Klau staggering, beating their hands at the blue flames that engulfed them, their mouths working to produce sounds unrecognizable as human. There was Gulan, not burning but trying to beat the fire off of Pash, but then he suddenly had strange quills growing from his back. It finally settled through to his brain that they were ambushed, and he drew his sword, looking wildly for the enemy as arrows came whirring from every direction. Radhasa was still next to him, her own weapon drawn and an odd look of joy on her face. The last thing he saw was her blade swinging toward his head. He clambered up from black depths, but it was a slippery slope. He had little moments when he thought he was awake, but they were full of pain and strange movement, and in the end might have just been a dream within a dream, a little of the Dark Lady’s whimsy. A little hope before the nightmares had him again. Finally, though, he opened his eyes, and bright light filled them. His head throbbed furiously, and there was blood caked in his mouth and nostrils. He was facedown in the dirt and one eye was covered tightly by a cloth of some kind. He tried to push up, but his hands were behind him, and from the pain in his wrists he knew they must be bound. He tried to call out, but all that emerged was a croak. “There you are,” a feminine voice said. He flopped his head over and saw Radhasa, sitting against a tree, eating an apple. Her horse was behind her, and so was his, along with a Khajiit and a Bosmer he’d never seen before, speaking in low tones a few yards away. “You tried to kill me,” he said. “No, I didn’t. I hit you with the flat. Could just as easily have been the edge.” She smiled. “I was supposed to kill you, though.” “Why?” “If I told you that, then I would have to kill you,” she replied. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it, Treb.” “Where—what happened to the rest?” “Ah, well, there’s the pity. Some pretty good people just died for you.” He tried to understand that. “How many, traitor?


How many of my people did you kill?” “Well, unless you still count me—I’m thinking you don’t—I would have to say everyone.” “Everyone?” “Yep. Even little Dario.” She licked juice from her fingers. “He’s just a boy!” “Not anymore. Graduated with the rest of them.” “Why?” he sobbed. His eyes stung with tears. “Again, not telling. A little mystery, remember? Like your bird here.” She smiled. “How does it work?” “I’m going to kill you!” he screamed. “You hear me?” He lifted his head to direct his shout to the strangers. “Did she tell you who I am? Do you know what you’ve done?” Incredibly, they laughed. “All right,” Radhasa said. “Break’s over. Get him horsed, fellows, and let’s move along.” He tried to fight, but his head was ringing and his limbs were sapped of energy, but most of all he couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t get his mind to stand still. What was happening? This didn’t happen, not to him. How could all of his friends be dead? The horse started forward, and, slung over its back, he watched the wheel ruts in the road. She was lying, of course. Gulan and the rest were probably tracking them. Some of them probably were dead, but most of them must have made it. He’d never lost more than three of his personal guard in one battle anywhere, including the Battle of Blinker Creek. So she was lying, and they were coming. He just had to stay alive until they found him. How long had he been out? Where were they? The immediate answer to that last was that they were on a hunting trail of some sort, surrounded by massive oak and ash trees. The land rolled a bit, so it was a good guess they weren’t in the Niben Valley anymore, which meant that he must have been unconscious for at least a few days. His best guess was that they were somewhere in the West Weald, and by the sun, traveling mostly south. So where were they going? He looked to Radhasa, riding slightly ahead of him. “You said you were supposed to kill me,” he croaked. “Why didn’t you?” “Because I’m going to sell you,” she replied. “I know a certain very eccentric Khajiit who collects people like you. He’ll pay more than ten times what I was offered to kill you. So we’re off to Elsweyr. Think of it as a holiday. A really, really long holiday that will be no fun at all.” “Radhasa,” he said, “that’s insane. People know what I look like. Someone between here and there is going to recognize me.” “You haven’t seen your face since I whacked it,” she replied. “Looks a little different at the moment. And we’ll keep the bandages on. Once we get you where you’re going, there’s going to be a real limited selection of people you’re likely to meet, and it won’t matter to any of them who you are.” “My father,” he said.


“He’d pay more yet to get me back. Have you thought of that?” “He might,” she agreed. “But I don’t think I would survive that. Too many resources at his disposal, too many ways to trap us.” “Those resources are bent on you already.” “No, not anytime soon, I think.” “When he finds the bodies—” “Don’t worry about that,” she said. “It’s covered.” She chuckled. “What are you laughing about?” “Good thing you don’t like being addressed as ‘Prince,’” she replied. “Because you’re never going to hear anyone call you that again.” She snapped her reins and broke into a trot. His horse, leaded to hers, followed suit.


The Infernal City: An Elder Scrolls Novel The day after talking with Attrebus, Annaïg felt energized, despite the lack of sleep. She went early to her work archiving the plants, animals, and minerals that appeared on her table every morning. She surveyed what was before her for a moment, then glanced up at the cabinets and drawers that climbed the wall to the ceiling. “Luc,” she said quietly. The hob peered out of the empty cabinet it habitually slept in. “Luc,” it echoed. “Luc, you know what’s in all of those cabinets up there?” “Luc knows.” “Do you find them by name?” “If Luc has name.” “And if you don’t have the name?” she pressed. “Then describe—color, taste, smell.” “I see.” She thought about that for a moment, and then got some of the eucalyptus distillation they had used before. “Smell this, Luc.” The creature wrinkled its wide nostrils at it. “I don’t know the name of what I’m looking for, but it is black and smells a bit like this. I want you to search the cabinets and bring me anything that fits that description, one container at a time.” “Yes, Luc find.” He bounded off, and Annaïg took a deep breath. She hadn’t dared instruct the beast to bring things only when she was alone; it could tell Qijne, and that would raise questions. Glim had been right about one thing—she needed to re-create the elixir that had allowed them to fly here. Once Attrebus was near, it might be the only way to reach him. In any case, she needed options. Being able to fly would be a big one. She set to work on what was before her—arrowroot, silk leeches, and cypress needles. Luc brought her a bottle. She sniffed it, and got an intensely stringent, herbal, minty smell. “Not that one,” she said. Luc bounded back off. She remembered the sound of the prince’s voice. He’d believed her, hadn’t he? A prince. And he had talked to her like she was important. She’d always known that was how it would be, if they met, but to have it actually happen … “You’re awfully cheerful for a dead woman,” Slyr commented from just behind her. Annaïg jumped about a foot, her heart racing. “It’s the lack of sleep,” she said. “Makes me giddy.” She lifted her pen and scribbled a few notes regarding the willow bark on the table in front of her. “I need you.” “That’s nice to hear,” Annaïg replied. “But this is my time for cataloging. Remember?” “Yes, well that was before we were put in charge if Lord Ghol’s victuals,” she snapped. Annaïg shrugged. “If you think you can talk Qijne into releasing me from this duty, I won’t argue.” “You’re only saying that because you know I wouldn’t dare.” “That’s true,” Annaïg replied. “On the other hand, Lord Ghol is bored, yes?


We need something new, and that’s likely to come from these things.” “Yes, well, Oorol was using the ingredients you identified, and it didn’t help him.” “That’s because he didn’t understand them,” she said. “Any more than you do.” Slyr stiffened, and for a moment Annaïg thought she had gone too far, but then the other woman relaxed. “You’re right. That’s why I need you. How often are you going to make me repeat it?” “I’m in this, too.” “She won’t kill you,” Slyr replied. “She needs you.” “She’s insane,” Annaïg said. “You can’t use logic to predict Qijne.” Slyr chuckled bitterly. “You’ve a big mouth,” she said. “You may be right, but she’s not entirely unpredictable—if she hears you said anything like that—” “She won’t,” Annaïg said simply. Slyr stepped back. “Really, you looked beaten and ready for the sump last night. Now you’re full of sliwv. What happened last night? Did you cozy up to someone? Pafrex, maybe?” “Pafrex? The bumpy fellow with quills?” “Or maybe you’ve trained your hob … unconventionally?” “Okay, that’s disgusting,” Annaïg said. “Disgust,” Luc chimed in. “Disgust is what?” Annaïg felt a sudden flush. The hob was holding out a bottle of something black toward her. “Just put that down, Luc,” she said. “Forget that and fetch me that snake over there,” she said. “Luc!” the hob replied, bounding across the huge table to retrieve the viper she indicated. Slyr was frowning down at her. Annaïg couldn’t tell if it had anything to do with the bottle. “Look,” Annaïg said, “I am helping you. I’ve an idea.” “And what is that?” Slyr demanded. Annaïg lifted the serpent carefully, behind the head, even though it was as stiff as a rod. Most of the animals came like this—not dead, but sort of paralyzed, frozen even though they weren’t cold. Their hearts didn’t beat and they didn’t age. They had to be released from that state by a rod Qijne carried. Still, with something this deadly, it was hard for her to trust a spell she didn’t understand. “The Argonians call this a moon-adder,” Annaïg explained. “When it bites, it injects venom that—in most beings—is almost instantly fatal. Argonians, however, can survive it, and in fact sometimes seek the venom out.” “Why would they do that?” “It provides them daril, which means something like ‘seeing everything in ecstasy.’” “Ah. It is a drug, then. We have many of those, but they are not so much in fashion. Besides, we don’t want to poison Ghol.” “No, no. I’m sure that would be bad. The venom is just a starting point. From what Glim told me, daril unfolds in stages, no stage like the last, and it confuses the senses.


You see sounds, hear tastes, smell sights.” “Again, we have such drugs.” “The venom is transformed by a certain agent in Argonian blood—” “If this is another attempt to find out where your friend is, I can only reiterate that not even Qijne knows where he is—or even has the ability to discover it.” “I know,” Annaïg said, swallowing the sudden lump in her throat. “I don’t actually need Argonian blood. I’m just explaining. It comes down to this: I think I can make a metagastrologic.” “This is a nonsense word.” “No. It’s something I’ve read about, something the Ayleids—ancient people from my world—once used in their banquets.” “A drug.” “Yes, but the only sense that they affect is taste—nothing else. No general hallucination, no loss of clarity. Look, the essential flavors are sweet, sour, salty, and hot, right?” “Of course. And with the lower lords like Ghol you can add dead, quick, and ethereat, at the same level.” “Really? How interesting.” She wanted to know more about that, but didn’t want her idea to lose momentum. “Anyway,” she pushed on, “a good dish will still balance those essentials, yes?” “Yes. Or contrast them.” “So with a metagastrologic, the first taste of the dish will have a certain balance of flavors, but as it lingers on the tongue, they begin to change. Salty is confused for sweet, ah—ethereat for hot, and so forth. And it will keep happening, different each time.” Slyr just looked at her for a long moment. “You can do this?” she finally asked. “Yes.” “Such a dish would have to be carefully thought out, so that no matter what inversion of flavors occurred, most would be pleasurable.” “It would require a chef of some skill,” Annaïg agreed. “Well,” Slyr sighed, “it will not be boring, at least. I will go work on a foundation.” Annaïg tried not to watch her depart, but she finally stole a glance to make sure she was gone. Then she closed her eyes and thanked the gods, carefully opened the bottle, and smelled its contents. “That’s not it either, Luc,” she said. “Keep trying. But—um, I’ll ask you to see them, okay? I don’t want you interrupting my chain of thought. Just keep them in your cabinet.” “Luc do,” the hob said, and started toward the wall. “First go and find the chef and tell her we need this snake quickened.” “Luc do.” He bounded off. A few moments later he came back following Qijne’s hob, which had the baton. Annaïg placed the viper on the table, put the sharp edge of a cleaver on its neck, and touched it with the baton. When it twitched to life, it jerked back and nearly slipped free, but its head caught and she put all her weight on the cleaver so the edge bit, then followed the skull back to the neck, slicing cleanly through. The body fell away, twitching, which gave the hobs something to hoot about.


She expressed the venom into a glass vial and set to work. Hours passed, and so absorbed was she in the task that she hadn’t realized Qijne was watching her. “Chef?” “What’s your hob doing going through the cabinets? Everything up there is known to me already.” “But not to me,” Annaïg answered. “And if I’m to be a proper cook to Lord Ghol, I need to be familiar with all of it.” Qijne’s expression didn’t change, but her glaze flickered down to Annaïg’s work in progress. “Not really doing anything you’re supposed to do,” she observed. “This is for the meal,” she said. “An additive.” “Explain.” Annaïg went back over the general properties of the metagastrologic. The chef tilted her head slowly left, then right. “You’re cooking, in other words. When you’re supposed to be cataloging.” “I am, Chef.” “Which is not what I told you to do.” “No, Chef. But Slyr is worried—” “Slyr? Slyr put you up to this?” “No, Chef. It was my idea. We failed last night. I didn’t want us to fail again.” “No, no of course not,” Qijne said vaguely. Her eyes lost focus. “Carry on. Only know that if it does not please him, I will kill Slyr and cut off one of your feet, right?” “Right, Chef.” “That’s not a joke, if you think I’m joking.” “I don’t think you’re joking, Chef,” Annaïg said. After the meal went up, Slyr wandered off, her face pinched with fear. Annaïg slipped off, too, and had a look at her locket, but got nothing but darkness. She went back to the dormitory to wait for her meal. A bit later Slyr rushed into the room. “Come on,” she said. “Come with me.” She followed the chef through the winding corridors and great pantries of the kitchen and into what appeared to be a wine cellar—there were thousands of bottles of something, anyway, racked all around her. “Through here.” Slyr was indicating a sort of hole in the wall just barely wide enough to slip through. It led into a small chamber illuminated by faint light. Once in it, she could see the light came from the sky—the chamber was at the bottom of a high, narrow shaft. Slyr handed her a bottle and a basket of something that smelled really good. “He wasn’t bored,” she said. “In fact, he sent one of his servants to commend me.” She looked up shyly. “Us.” “That’s good news.” “News worth celebrating,” Slyr said. “Try the wine.” It was dry and delicious, with a fragrance she couldn’t quite place but that reminded her of anise. The basket was filled with pastry rolls stuffed with a sort of buttery meat. “What is it?” she asked, holding up the roll she was eating. “Orchid shrimp. They live in the sump.” “It’s delicious.” “It was supposed to go to the Prixon Palace servants for their night ration. I snatched a few.” “Thank you,” Annaïg said. “Yes, yes,” Slyr said. “Eat.


Drink.” “What about Qijne?” “She may be—ah, as you said. But when we succeed, so does she. Lord Ghol was on the verge of becoming the patron of another kitchen. When kitchens lose patrons, people start wondering whether the master chef ought to be replaced. We did well, so she’ll look the other way a bit if we take very discreet privileges.” “What sort of privileges?” “Well … this is about it. Having a little of the good stuff and not being watched too closely at night.” Annaïg felt her face burn a bit. “Ah, Slyr—” “Don’t flatter yourself,” the chef replied. “I just thought you would enjoy being here, where you can see the sky. And no noisy, smelly dormitory. I love being here, alone—I don’t think anyone else knows about it. I just don’t dare come here often.” “Well, then,” Annaïg said, “I am flattered, then.” Slyr became a little sloppy after the first bottle of wine. “I have heard something about your friend,” she confided. Annaïg nearly choked on her drink. “Really?” she gasped. “About Glim? He’s okay?” “He’s in the sump.” It jagged through her like lightning. “What?” she whispered. But Slyr smiled. “No, not like that,” she assured her. “He’s not dead. He’s working in the sump. The guy who brought the shrimp mentioned him. He can breathe underwater, did you know that? All of the sump tenders are talking about him.” “Of course he can breathe underwater,” she replied. “He’s an Argonian.” “Another of your nonsense words? There are more like him?’ She remembered the slaughter at Lilmoth. “I hope so,” she said. “Oh,” Slyr said. “They’re down there.” “Don’t you ever—” But she stopped herself. She couldn’t trust anyone here with thoughts of somehow stopping Umbriel. But Slyr was waiting for her to finish. “Have you ever been above?” she asked instead. “To the palaces? No. But it is my dream to.” She looked up and her forehead wrinkled. “What are those?” she asked. Annaïg followed her regard up to the small patch of night sky. “Stars,” she said. “Haven’t you ever seen stars before?” “No. What are they?” “Depends on who you ask or what books you read. Some say they are tiny holes in Mundus, the world, and the light we see is Aetherius beyond. Others believe they are fragments of Magnus, who made the world.” “They’re beautiful.” “Yes.” And so they ate, and drank, and talked, and for the first time in many, many days Annaïg felt like a real person again. When Slyr finally curled up to sleep with her blanket, she opened her locket again. There wasn’t anything there, which meant Coo wasn’t with Attrebus. She waited, hoping he would answer, but after an hour or so she fell asleep, and her dreams were troubled.


The Infernal City: An Elder Scrolls Novel To Colin, the corpses looked like broken dolls flung down by a child in a tantrum. He couldn’t imagine any of them ever having been alive, breathing, talking, feeling. He couldn’t find any empathy even for the worst of the lot—those burnt to char—and he knew he ought to. He should at least feel sick or repelled, filled with the fear of such a thing happening to him, but he just couldn’t find anything like that in him. Well, Prince, he thought, congratulations. Well done. “Stay away from the bodies,” he told the royal guardsmen. He didn’t have to tell his own people; they were professionals. “Put sentinels on the road and in the woods. Stop any wagons and route foot and horse traffic well around this. Tell them a bunch of ogres have set up camp and we have to clear ’em out. “Gerring, you start the search for witnesses. Every house, every shack in the area. Hand, you go to Ione and Pell’s Gate. Guilliam—you take Sweetwater and Eastbridge. Be discreet. See who’s saying what in the taverns. You know what to do.” He nodded at a flurry of “Yes, inspector” but kept his gaze on the scene. Most had been struck by arrows and had either died of that or of having their throats very professionally slit later. A sizable fraction had been immolated, presumably by sorcery. The attackers, interestingly, either hadn’t had any casualties or—if they had—didn’t leave them behind. The arrows he recognized as belonging to an insurgent faction from County Skingrad that called themselves the “Natives.” A number of the bodies had been beheaded, a practice also in keeping with that same nasty bunch of thugs. He stopped in front of one body that was burnt but not incinerated. Bits of clothing and jewelry still clung to it and a notably large ring. The head was missing. “Too convenient,” he murmured as he took a closer look at the ring. As he suspected, it was the signet ring of Crown Prince Attrebus. Of course, if it had been the Natives, they would certainly have singled out Attrebus’s head as the best trophy. But then, why leave the ring? “Oh, sweet gods,” someone gasped. “It’s the prince.” Irritated, Colin turned to find Captain Pundus dismounted and standing a few feet away. “Captain, I asked you to stay clear of the bodies.” Pundus reddened. “See here, I’m the leader of this expedition. Who do you imagine you are, shouting orders at me and my men?” “You were the leader of this expedition until we found this,” Colin said, parting his hands. “Now I am in charge.” “On whose authority?” Colin removed a scroll from his haversack and handed it to the captain. “You know the Emperor’s signature, I assume?” Pundus’s eyes were trying to pop out of his head. He nodded rapidly. “Good.


Then set your men to divert traffic, as I requested, and advise them not to speak of anything they’ve seen here. I advise you the same.” “Yes, sir,” the captain said. “After I’m done, we’ll need wagons, enough to hold the bodies. We’ll want them covered, as well. See if you can locate some in the nearby towns. And again, not a word.” “Sir.” The captain nodded, remounted, and rode off. He looked around a few more moments, then took a deep breath. He found the spark in himself that belonged not to the world, but to Aetherius, to the realm of pure and complete possibility. He was lucky—this was easy for him. If he’d needed to start a fire or walk on water, it would require training, a mental sequence worked out by someone else to convince him that such things could be done. But for what he was doing, he need only focus and pay attention, look beneath the rock that everyone else didn’t notice. The scene darkened and blurred, and for a moment he thought there was nothing left, but then he saw two spectral forms. One, a woman, was staring down at her body. The other, a man, was crouched into the roots of a large tree. The man was closer, so he took the few steps necessary. He was already starting to feel himself weakening, the spark fading, so he knew he should hurry. “You,” he said. “Listen to me.” Vacant eyes turned to him. “Help me,” the ghost said. “I’m hurt.” “Help is on the way,” Colin lied. “You need to tell me what happened here.” “It hurts,” the specter said. “Please.” “You came here with Prince Attrebus,” Colin pursued. The man laughed harshly. “Help me up. I just want to go home. If I can get home, I’ll be fine.” “Who hurt you? Tell me!” “Gods!” He breathed raggedly, then stopped. His head dropped against the tree. A moment later it rose again. “Help me,” he said. “I’m hurt.” Colin felt a sudden surge of anger at the pitiful thing. “You’re dead,” he snapped. “Have some dignity about it.” Almost shaking with fury, he went over to the other spirit. “What about you?” he asked. “Anything left of you?” “What you see,” the woman murmured. “Your accent—you’re Colovian, like me.” “Yes,” he replied. “Where are you from?” “I was born near Mortal, down on the river.” “That’s a nice place,” he said, feeling his anger leave him. “Peaceful, with all of those willows.” “There were willows all around my house,” she replied. “I won’t see them again.” “No,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, you won’t.” She nodded. “Listen,” Colin said, “I need your help.” “If I can.” “Do you remember what happened here? Who attacked you? Anything?” She closed her eyes. “I do,” she said. “We were with the prince, off following some half-cocked scheme of his. Headed for Black Marsh, of all places. We were ambushed.” She sighed. “Attrebus.


I knew he would get me killed someday. Is he dead, too?” “I don’t know. I was hoping you did.” “I didn’t see. First there was fire, and then something hit me, hard. I didn’t even get to fight.” “Why were you going to Black Marsh?” “Something about a flying city and an army of undead. I didn’t listen that closely. His quests were usually pretty safe, well in hand before we even arrived, if you know what I mean.” “The Emperor forbade him to go. He disobeyed.” “We weren’t sure what to believe,” she said. “Might’ve been part of the game. There were other times like that.” She shook her head. “I wish I could help you more.” “I think you’ve helped me quite a lot,” Colin said. He looked around at the carnage. “Are you staying here, do you think?” “I don’t know much about being dead,” she said, “but it doesn’t feel that way. I feel something tugging at me, and it’s stronger all the time.” She smiled. “Maybe I only stayed to talk to you.” “Are you afraid?” “No,” she said. “It doesn’t feel bad.” She cocked her head. “You, though—something wrong with you, countryman.” “I’m fine.” “You’re far from fine,” she said. “You take care of yourself. Maybe next time you see a willow, think of me.” “I will.” She smiled again. He pulled back into himself and the sun returned. They were all just broken dolls again. He thought his head was ringing, but then he understood that it was just birds singing. He was starving. Unsteadily, he went to find something to eat, and to hear the reports.


The Infernal City: An Elder Scrolls Novel “Draeg’s late,” Tsani told Radhasa, her golden tail twitching in agitation. “Really late.” Attrebus, nearly asleep in the saddle, tried to appear actually asleep, in hopes they might let something useful drop if they thought he couldn’t hear them. It had taken him two days to figure out there were eight of them, because no more than four were riding guard on him at any given time. The others, he guessed, were scouts—one in front, one in back, one on each flank, and probably pretty far out. Radhasa was a constant, but he was just too out of it at first to realize the other faces were rotating. Now, after a week, he knew all of their names. Tsani, one of four Khajiit in the group, the others being Ma-fwath, J’yas, and Sharwa. Besides Radhasa, there was a flaxen-haired Breton woman named Amelia, a one-handed orc named—not too surprisingly—Urmuk One Hand. He’d had an iron ball fixed to his stump. The missing Draeg was the Bosmer he’d seen earlier, on awakening. Radhasa didn’t say anything, just tugged at her mount’s reins to guide him down the steep path through increasingly more arid country. In the last few days the land had risen, and the thick forest and lush meadows of the West Weald had devolved into scrubby oaks and tall grass. Now, on the southern side of the hills, trees were more like big bushes, except when they came to a stream or pool, and tall grass prevailed in clearings. His spirits had been sinking with the altitude, because he was certain they were already in Elsweyr. It would be more difficult for his friends to find him here; few of them had ever been south of the border, and the cats were less than friendly with the Empire they had once been a part of. Any force that tried to retrieve him might be seen as an invasion. But then he saw a glimmer of hope in the situation. By the time they were camping for the night, it was clear to everyone Draeg was probably more than delayed. The glimmer brightened. “Trolls, probably,” Radhasa opined. “The hills stink with them.” “I can’t imagine Draeg having trouble with a troll—or much else for that matter,” Sharwa said. “More likely he just decided this deal was too dangerous.” “We were supposed to kill him,” Tsani said. “That’s what we were paid to do. Now we potentially have two powerful enemies—the Emperor and our employer.” “He will be thought dead,” Radhasa replied. “There’s nothing to worry about.” “I’m not—at least not enough to scratch at the money. But Draeg—he’s a worrier.” “Well, more for us, then,” Radhasa said. “Tsani, you go back and take his position.” “Fine. Are we going into Riverhold?” “Are you crazy? It’s swarming with Imperial agents. We’d have to keep his highness gagged, and that might attract attention.


No, there’s a little market town a few miles west of there, Sheeraln. Ma-fwath and J’yas will go in and trade our horses for slarjei and water.” They came to the crest of the last of the hills before sundown, and the plains of Anequina stretched out to the horizon. He’d always imagined Elsweyr as an unrelieved desert, but here it was green. The tall grass of the upland prairies had been replaced by a short stubble, but that still seemed a far cry from the naked sand he’d been expecting. Streams were visible by the swaying palms, light-skinned cottonwood, and delicate tamarisk that lined them. A herd of red cattle grazed in the near distance. Riverhold was visible a bit east, sprung up at the convergence of three dusty-looking roads. The walls were saffron, irregular, and not particularly high. Behind them, domes and towers of faded azure and cream, vermilion and chocolate, gold and jet, crowded together like a gaggle of overdressed courtiers waiting in the foyer of the throne room. It was a city that seemed at once tired and exuberant. He wished they were going there. But instead they did as Radhasa planned—they followed a goat trail into a copse of trees along a meandering stream, where he was forced to dismount. Then Ma-fwath and J’yas took the horses. “Bathe,” Radhasa told him. “You’re starting to smell.” “Hard to do with these bands on.” “You promise to be good?” His heart sped a bit. “Yes,” he said. “Swear it on your honor that you won’t try to run.” “On my honor,” he replied. She shrugged, came up behind him, and untied the ropes. “There,” she said. “Go, then, bathe.” He stripped off his stinking clothes, feeling watched and somehow ashamed. Radhasa had seen him undressed before—had helped undress him, in fact. He hadn’t felt in the least uncomfortable then. Now he hurried into the water and submerged himself as quickly as possible. The water was cool, and felt unbelievably good. He let it wash over him, closing his eyes and trying to concentrate only on the sensation. It might have been a half an hour before he opened them. When he did, he saw that Radhasa was the only one besides himself in the camp. She was sitting with her back to a tree, not quite facing him. She seemed deep in thought. Between him and her lay a pile of gear, and protruding from it was the hilt of his sword, Flashing. He didn’t hesitate, but launched himself out of the water toward the weapon. Radhasa saw him, but even then didn’t seem to understand the situation until he actually had the weapon in his hand. Then she came slowly to her feet. “You promised,” she accused. “On your honor.” “I promised not to run,” he corrected. She drew her sword. “Ah,” she said. “I see.” He circled her, waiting. She wasn’t in armor, so there was no advantage there.


And he’d fought her before, knew her signals. He feinted, but she didn’t twitch. He cut deeper, and she evaded with a quick sidestep. Then she did what he knew she would; her whole body sagged, the tell that she was about to make a hard attack. She started forward; he threw up his parry and stepped to meet her … Except that her attack was suddenly short, and he was blocking nothing but air. Then she was in motion again, cutting at his exposed legs. He tried to jump back, but he had too much momentum, and so dropped his blade to parry. But that was also a feint, and in an instant she was inside, right on him, and her off-weapon hand wrenched at his grip in a strange, painful manner, and then he was facedown on the ground. Flashing thumped to earth a few feet away. Radhasa stepped back. “Want to try again?” Growling, he once more took up the blade and came at her with his famous six-edge attack, but halfway through it her point was at his throat. “Again?” she asked. Enraged, he flew at her with everything, but almost without seeming to work at it she had him disarmed and on the ground once more. “You—You lost on purpose, when you were applying,” he said. “You think?” He climbed back to his feet. “You’ll have to kill me,” he said. “No I won’t. I’ll just knock you out again.” “Why did you do this? For entertainment?” Her usually beautiful face twisted into something rather ugly. “I wanted you to know,” she said. “I hate losing, and I hate pretending to lose.” “Then why did you? Back at my villa?” “Orders, Prince.” “From your employer? To get me to let my guard down?” She rolled her eyes. “From Gulan, you idiot. Don’t you understand yet? You’re a worse than mediocre fighter. You’ve never fought a fair fight in your life. You’ve never been in a battle that wasn’t a rigged, foregone conclusion. Until now.” Attrebus suddenly realized he’d missed something about Radhasa; she wasn’t merely deceptive, treacherous, and greedy—she was completely insane. “Sure,” he said. “Whatever you say. Clearly you hate me, although I don’t know why. I was nice to you, took you into my guard.” “I don’t hate you as such,” she said, “I just hate what you are. It’s not your fault really—this was done to you. Yet I can’t help feeling that if you’d ever used your brain just once, if you had the slightest ability to step outside of your narcissistic little world—” “You’ve been with me two days. What do you know about me?” “Everyone interviewed for your guard is told, Attrebus. And they all talk, don’t they? How could they not? The way you blustered about as if they were your friends, the casual, everyday condescension—I don’t see how any of them stood it for more than two days.


I mean, yes, the pay is good, and in general you’re assured fairly safe situations, but Boethiah’s ass, it’s annoying.” A slow, gentle cold was working its way up from his belly. “This isn’t true,” he said. “My men loved me.” “They mocked you behind your back. The least of them was worth three of you. Did you really think you’re the hero in the songs, in the books? Were the odds really ten-to-one at Dogtrot Ford?” “Some authors tend to exaggerate, but it’s all basically true. I can’t help the mistakes some bard in Cheydinhal makes. But I did those things.” “At Dogtrot Ford you faced half your number, and they weren’t insurgents, they were condemned criminals told that if they survived, they would be freed.” “That’s a lie.” He felt dizzy, very dizzy. He leaned against a tree. “You’re starting to see it, aren’t you? Because somewhere in that skull of yours you have at least half of your father’s brain.” “Just shut up,” he said. “I’ve no idea why you’re saying this, but I won’t listen to it anymore. Kill me, tie me back up, but just shut up, for the love of the Divines.” She wrinkled her brow and leaned on her sword. “Are you really that dense?” He charged at her, howling. A moment later he was on the ground again. “If it’s any consolation,” she said, placing her foot on his throat, “even if by some fluke you managed to kill me, Urmuk and Sharwa have been watching the whole time.” As she said it, he saw the orc and the Khajiit appear from behind a copse of bamboo. The boot came off of his neck. He turned his head and saw someone else—a lean, hawk-nosed man with charcoal skin and molten red eyes striding purposefully into the clearing. Had he missed someone? “You there!” Sharwa shouted. “What do you—” The man kept coming, but he thrust out his arm, and his hand flashed white-hot. Sharwa’s hideous yowl was like nothing Attrebus had ever heard before. Radhasa kicked him in the head, and he rolled, groaning, sparks flashing behind his eyes. Sobbing in pain, he came to his feet and rubbed the tears from his eyes. He was just in time to see the orc lose his other hand, making him—presumably—Urmuk the Handless. The newcomer’s long, copper-colored blade pulled right through his wrist, then angled up to deflect a murderous head blow from Radhasa. Urmuk stumbled back and tripped over Sharwa, who seemed to be trying to stand, despite the smoke rising from her chest. Radhasa jumped back and continued to retreat. Attrebus didn’t blame her. This wasn’t a man—this was some daedra summoned from the darkness beyond the world, a fiend. “What do you want?” Radhasa screamed. “You’ve no business with us.” The fiend didn’t say anything. He just picked up the pace, half running toward Radhasa, and then suddenly bounding forward.


She planted herself and then danced nimbly aside as his blade soughed by her, and her own weapon came down two-handed toward the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He caught her blade with his off-weapon hand. Attrebus saw Radhasa close her eyes, and then his blade went in through the pit of her left arm so deeply the point came out through her ribs on the other side. He withdrew the weapon and stalked toward Urmuk, who was holding the bleeding stump of his wrist. Whatever Urmuk was, he wasn’t a coward, and he hurled the massive weight of his body at his attacker, clubbing at him with the iron ball he had fixed to his left hand. Sharwa was crawling away on her belly. Urmuk fell and the fiend turned on Sharwa. “You can’t,” Attrebus managed. “She’s injured—” But her head was off by then. And now the fiend turned on him. Attrebus snapped out of his paralysis and ran toward his sword, but when he had it, he saw the killer was merely watching him. Attrebus brought his weapon to guard. “I killed a Bosmer back in the hills and a Breton on the ridge back there,” the man said. His voice was hard and scratchy. “I make there are two more—Khajiit. Where are they?” “They went to some village,” he replied. “To change the horses for slarjei, whatever they are.” “Slarjei are better in the desert than horses,” the man said. “How long have they been gone?” “An hour, maybe.” “Well, Prince Attrebus, we ought to be going, then.” “Who are you? How do you know who I am?” “My name is Sul.” “Did my father send you?” “He did not,” Sul replied. Now that he was closer and not in constant motion, Attrebus had a better look at him. He was old, his dark skin pulled in tightly against his bones. His hair was black and gray and cropped nearly to his skull. “Who, then?” “My reasons are my own,” he replied. “Would you rather I hadn’t come?” “I don’t know the answer to that yet, do I?” Attrebus said. “I’m not here to kill you,” Sul assured him. “I’m not here to hurt you. We have a common destiny, you and I. We both seek the island that flies.” Attrebus blinked. He felt as if the earth kept shifting beneath his feet. “You know of it?” “I just said so.” “And what is your concern with it?” “I will destroy it or send it back to Oblivion. Isn’t that what you want?” “I … yes.” What was happening? “Then we are together, yes?” Sul said. “Now, should we go or wait around so that I have to fight the other two as well?” “You didn’t have much trouble with these,” Attrebus noticed. “Most men die surprised,” Sul said. “One of those two might have a surprise for me. I don’t fight anyone without a reason.


I have you, and I don’t want slarjei unless we need to go south into the desert. Do we need to go south?” “No.” “Well, pick the direction, and let’s be off.” Attrebus stared at him, teasing that out. Then he understood. “You don’t know where Umbriel is.” Sul barked out something that might have been a laugh. “Umbriel. Of course. Vuhon …” He trailed off. “No, I don’t know where it is.” “How do I know you won’t kill me as soon as I tell you?” “Because I need you,” Sul said. “Why?” “I’m not sure. But I know I do.” Attrebus considered his reply for a long moment. But really, what did he have to lose? “East,” he said. “It’s over Black Marsh now, heading north.” “North toward Morrowind,” Sul sighed. “Of course.” “Does that mean something to you?” “Nothing that matters right now. Very well. East we go, then.” “Let me get my things,” Attrebus said. “Hurry, then.” Attrebus was glad Coo was in Radhasa’s haversack and not on her body. The idea of approaching her, seeing what Sul made of her, made him sick. True, she was a lying traitor, but she had been warm in the bed with him not long ago. Alive and beautiful, sweaty, enthusiastic—or so she had seemed. Of all of the women he’d been with, she was the first to be—well, dead. At least so far as he knew. It was upsetting. Sul gathered a few things from the bodies, then led him upstream among the trees for some distance until they finally came to three horses—two roan geldings that looked as though they were from the same mother and a brown mare. One of the roans was packed up, the other two horses were saddled. “Ride the gelding,” Sul said. Attrebus sighed, feeling that was somehow fitting. A few moments later he was riding east with the man who had saved his life, wondering what would happen if he tried to run north, to Cyrodiil, to home. And he had to admit that at the moment he didn’t have the courage or the confidence to find out.


The Infernal City: An Elder Scrolls Novel Colin curbed the impulse to pace, but although he had walked into the room of his own free will—and there was no evidence that he couldn’t leave it—he felt caged somehow. But his mind had been spinning for two days now, and the thread it turned out was beginning to look more like a garrote. The vanishment of Prince Attrebus wasn’t his first case—it was his third. The first had been simple enough; he’d planted spurious intelligence in the minister of war’s office and waited for it to come out somewhere. When one of their agents in a local Thalmor nest reported it, he easily backtracked the leak to a mid-level official who was apparently hemorrhaging information to a mistress who was—as it turned out—a Thalmor sympathizer. It was simple, clean. No arrests and no bodies. Once the leak was known, it was more useful to leave it in place. His second assignment had been to discover the whereabouts of a certain sorcerer named Laeva Cuontus. He’d found her without ever knowing why he was looking for her. He didn’t know what happened to her after he reported her location, and he didn’t want to know. When he’d been sent out with the patrol to locate Prince Attrebus, it hadn’t seemed that odd. Apparently the prince often had to be shadowed, and it didn’t require a particularly senior member of the organization to do the job of what amounted to a bit of tracking, questioning, and bribing. But now he was in the middle of something pretty bad, and a sensation between his sternum and his pelvis told him that it hadn’t been an accident that such a junior inspector had been sent to discover such nasty business. He didn’t have any proof of that, of course. Just that feeling, and the certainty that he was missing some piece of the puzzle. And now he was in a well-furnished room on the second floor of the ministry, which was apparently the office of no one. He turned as Intendant Marall entered the room, followed by two other men. One was Remar Vel, administrator of the Penitus Oculatus. The other … “Your majesty,” he blurted, taking a knee. He felt suddenly in awe, an emotion he hadn’t experience in a while. As a child he’d worshipped this man. Apparently some part of him still did. “Rise up,” the Emperor said. “Yes, highness.” The Emperor just stood there for a moment, hands clasped behind his back. “You were there,” he finally said. “Is my son dead?” Colin considered his answer for a moment. If anyone else had asked him … But this wasn’t anyone else. “Sire,” he said, “I do not believe so.” Titus Mede’s eyes widened slightly and his brow relaxed, but that was his only reaction. “And yet his body was recovered,” Administrator Vel said drily. “A body, sir,” Colin said.


“A headless body.” “It’s said that the rebels in that area take heads,” the Emperor said. “Other heads were taken.” “I don’t believe the Natives were responsible, majesty.” “Why not? They’re vicious enough, and we have information, do we not, that they are supplied and funded by our ‘quiet enemies’?” “You mean the Thalmor, majesty.” “They are in everything, these days.” “And yet I don’t see how killing your son advances their aims.” “Who are you to say what their aims are?” Vel snapped. “You’ve only been an inspector for a month.” “Yes, sir, that’s true. But my training focus was the Thalmor.” “Which does not include—by any means—everything we know about them. Their aims are obscure.” “I respectfully disagree, sir. I may well not be privy to many details, but their goal is clear—the pacification and purification of all of Tamriel—to bring about a new Merithic era.” “We have an inkling of their long-term goals, Inspector, but their intermediate plans are less scrutable.” “Begging your pardon, sir, but not always. When they took Valenwood, that was pretty straightforward, and quite logical—they put the old Aldmeri Dominion back together, which makes perfect sense in terms of their ideology. Their harassment of refugees from the Summerset Isles and Valenwood also fits their broader pattern, as does what little we know of their activities in Elsweyr. But the murder of a prince—I’ve tried many ways of looking at that, and it doesn’t make sense.” Vel started to retort to that, but the Emperor shook his head and held up his hand. Then he spoke again to Colin. “What is your opinion? If my son is not dead, do you believe him kidnapped? And if so, by whom, and for what purpose? And why leave this trail that seems to lead to the Thalmor?” Colin took a another deep breath, and began to lie. “If we assume that much of the ‘evidence’ left for us was false,” he began, “then I might suggest it’s someone interested in drawing our attention to the Thalmor. A distraction to keep our eyes turned, perhaps even coax us into a fight.” “Leyawiin?” the Emperor muttered. “They are still restless under our rule.” “Maybe it’s not someone restless under your rule, majesty. Maybe it’s someone who would prefer someone else inherit the throne.” “My brother?” He massaged his head. “It’s not impossible. I do not like to think it.” “Sire,” Vel said, “your brother did not hatch this plot. He is more than adequately surveiled.” “He is perhaps more clever than you think,” Mede replied. “But lay that aside. If we find my son, we find our enemy. So I want him found.” He frowned and stroked his upper lip. “Captain Gulan was among the dead?” “He was,” Vel replied. “Is there any question regarding his identity?” “No, sire,” Vel said. “He was killed by arrowshot, and his head was not taken.


Sire, I know it isn’t easy to accept, but we must consider the possibility that the body we have is that of the prince, the inspector’s opinion notwithstanding. It is the right size and shape—” “My son had a birthmark on his right side, just where the ribs end. I have seen the corpse; that portion of it is charred while other parts are not. Like the inspector, I find that too convenient. And it does not feel like Attrebus. So—I believe him alive. Someone has him. I want him found. Inspector, is there any indication of where the attackers went?” “They broke into smaller parties and left in different directions. But I would look south for Attrebus, your highness.” “And why is that, Inspector?” “Because it is the only direction in which there were no tracks whatsoever, sire.” The Emperor grunted and nodded. “Inspector, Intendant, Administrator,” he said, addressing the three, and left. Vel waited a moment and followed him, shooting Colin an unpleasant look. “That wasn’t the brightest thing you could have done,” Marall said. “The Emperor asked my opinion,” Colin said. “Isn’t it my duty to give it?” Marall sighed. “The Emperor doesn’t care if you get assigned to sewer cases for the rest of your life—or worse, sent to spy on Nords. It’s better if these things go up the chain of command. Now, Vel appears to be less well-informed than his most junior inspector.” “I fully intended to follow that chain,” Colin said. “I came here believing Administrator Vel was going to hear my report. It isn’t my fault that the Emperor was present.” Marall nodded. “You’re right, of course. It’s just your inexperience showing. You shouldn’t have so bluntly disagreed with a superior. There are more subtle ways to go about things.” How subtle is a knife? Colin angrily thought, but then pushed that away. “I’m still learning, sir.” “If Attrebus is alive, and they find him on your counsel, you will gain the Emperor’s favor, and that will be a good thing for you. But if they do not find him, or if that body is him, then the Emperor will not think of you again. I advise you to keep as quiet as possible now, and find some way to come to Vel’s attention in a more positive way.” “In that case,” Colin said, “I wonder if I could be reassigned?” “Oh, I can guarantee that,” the intendant said. “Vel will put you under a rock. The only question is for how long.” When he emerged from the palace, night had fallen and the sky blazed down upon the Imperial City. He was tired, but he wanted a walk and a pint. He needed to think. He was missing something. He had an idea what it might be, and that went well with the stroll and the ale.


In Anvil, where he was born, darkness brought quiet to the city; people went home or to the pubs and taverns, but the streets were pretty empty. Not so here, at least not in the Market District, which was his destination. The streets were crowded with trinket vendors and soothsayers, self-styled prophets of any daedra or Divine imaginable. Women, mostly comely ones, stood outside of alehouses, flirting to attract business, and there were others of both genders and all races flirting to sell somewhat different wares. Beggars choked the edges of walkways, and little stalls were turning out the enticing smell of roasted oysters, fried cheese, bread, skewered meats, and burnt sugarcane. People wandered in crowds, as if afraid the city would swallow them up if they found themselves alone for long. The Crown’s Hammer was off the main thoroughfare, around a corner and almost hidden in an alley. It was a half-timbered building, very old. He pushed his way in the front door. The barkeep was a withered old fellow who favored Colin with a nod. “You’re having?” he asked as he cleaned a mug with a rag that looked slightly dirtier than the container it was wiping out. “Ale,” Colin said. The man nodded, held the glass under the tap of a wooden keg and filled it with a rich, dark red liquid. Colin paid for the drink and then found a table in a corner. He took a seat where he could see the door, and sipped at the ale. It was strong, sweet, and had just a taste of juniper, a Colovian Highland style now popular throughout western Cyrodiil, but hard to find here in the East. The place was nearly empty when he came in, but it was starting to fill up now, because the patrol and the soldiers were changing shifts. The Hammer catered to Colovians, and Colovians in this part of the world were mostly military. So he wasn’t surprised when Nial Sextius walked in, noticed him, and grinned. “Colin, lad,” he said. “It’s been an age.” “It’s good to see you, Nial,” he replied. “I was hoping you would be in tonight. Have a seat—let me buy you a drink.” “Well, fine, if I can have the next round.” When they were both looking over foam, Nial cracked his knuckles and settled his elbows on the table. He was a big man, thick in every dimension, with a ruddy, wind-worn complexion that made him look older, although he and Colin were of an age. “Where’ve you been?” he asked. “It’s almost two years. I thought you’d left town.” “No, just very busy,” Colin said. Nial wagged a finger at him. “Come to think of it, you were a little thin on why you’re all the way over here last time we talked. Distracted me with that story about my sister.” “Yah,” Colin said, taking a drink. “I—ah, work in the palace.” Nial’s eyes widened. “And don’t I, too?” he asked.


“So why haven’t I seen trace of you?” “I’m in a different part of the palace, I guess. In the tower.” “Doing what? Making ladies’ dresses?” “Studying,” he said. “In school, as it were.” “In school? But that—” He stopped, rolled his eyes and took a drink. Then he lowered his voice. “Ah, Colin, you’re one of them—you’re a specter, aren’t you?” “I serve the Empire, same as you,” Colin said. “Not the same as me,” Nial disagreed. “Col, why?” “They offered me a way up, Nial. A way so my mam doesn’t have to work herself to death. I’m sorry if that doesn’t make sense to you.” “Now, don’t get your back up, scruff,” Nial said. “I’m just surprised, is all. I don’t fancy most of your fellows, but I’ll make an exception for you.” “I don’t fancy some of my fellows,” Colin said. “But I don’t fancy being judged either. If the Emperor didn’t think we mattered, we wouldn’t exist.” “Fine, like I said,” Nial said. His voice dropped even lower. “So, see here,” he said. “Maybe you’d know, then. Is all this true about Prince Attrebus?” “I don’t know what you’ve heard.” “Heard he finally got himself—and all of his guard—murdered.” “It looks like that,” Colin said. “Did you know any of them?” “Yeah, a few. I thought about applying a few years back, but I didn’t think I could handle it, you know?” “The danger, you mean?” Nial grunted out a laugh. “That’s funny,” he said. “What do you mean?” “You mean you’re a specter, and you don’t know about the prince?” “Not my field of expertise,” Colin said. “Well, he was just for show, you know. Only he didn’t know it.” Colin nodded. That fit with the picture forming in his head. So why hadn’t he been briefed about that before being sent to fetch the prince back? “Well, he walked into a bit of danger this time,” Colin said. “Yeah.” “I wonder how? I mean, he must have been watched, if what you say is true.” Nial thumped his glass on the table. “You’re prying me, aren’t you? In specting.” Colin sighed. “It’s this, Nial,” he said. “I’m new to all of this. I think there’s something strange going on, and I’m not sure who to trust. Except you. I believe I can trust you.” Nial stared at him for several long moments, then took his mug back up. “What, then?” “The Emperor asked about a man named Gulan, specifically. He wanted to know if his body was found.” “Was it?” “Yeah.” Nial nodded. “Gulan was Attrebus’s right hand. He kept him out of trouble. Whenever the prince would try and go be a hero in the wrong place, Gulan would bring it to the attention of the Emperor, and something would happen to stop it.” “Well, he didn’t this time, it seems. He didn’t report directly to the Emperor, did he?” “No, he’d go through the prime minister’s office.” Colin nodded.


Now he was sure about what he was missing. “Thanks, Nial,” he said. “You look tired, boy,” Nial said. “Are you all right?” “I’m fine. I have some trouble sleeping, that’s all.” “You used to sleep so sound thunder wouldn’t wake you,” Nial said. “Things change,” Colin said. He studied the table for a moment, before looking back up at his friend. “Look, try to forget we had this conversation. Don’t ask any questions, just leave it be.” “I might be able to help,” Nial said. “You’ve helped me more than enough. Now, come on. Let’s talk about something else.” “Yeah, like what?” “Like what a slut your sister is, for instance.” “If it weren’t true, I’d thwack you for that. Maybe I should thwack you anyway. Let’s have another round while I think it over.” “That’s good for me,” Colin replied. He finished the ale and watched Nial walk off to fetch two more. There wasn’t anything else to do tonight, and it felt good to talk to a friend. It had been a long time since he’d done that. And it might well be the last.


The Infernal City: An Elder Scrolls Novel Qijne glared down at the trays and the food they contained. “Explain,” she snapped. “Start with the fish.” “Annaïg calls it ‘catfish,’” Slyr said. “The taskers bring us quite a lot of them.” “I’m aware of that,” Qijne said. “We’ve burned hundreds for the Oroy mansion workers. What I want to know is, why are you sending a complete fish to Lord Ghol? It’s far too coarse for his palate.” Why question us? Annaïg wondered. Except for that first time, we’ve done nothing but succeed. Can’t you just trust us? She could not, of course, say that out loud. “That’s true, Chef,” she said instead. “He will be surprised by it, I believe.” “Not pleasantly, I should imagine by looking at it.” “Ah, yes, but when he touches or breathes on it, it will deliquesce. That will release a series of odors viandic; the fish will liquefy and mingle with the void and fire salts there around the fish, which will then release their essences. That will lead nicely into the second course, here, a cold broth of tadpole bones garnished with live frog eggs. Finally, the white froth of Terriswort will cause his palate to vividly recall each aroma and taste—but in reverse order.” “Another of your metagastrologics?” “Yes, Chef.” “These are tricks, stunts,” Qijne complained. “You hazard boring him.” “I think he will be pleased,” Slyr said. “But if you have any suggestions, I would be most happy to hear them, Chef.” Qijne narrowed her eyes, clearly trying to decide if she should feel insulted. Annaïg had to stop herself from holding her breath. The moment passed, ending when Qijne simply walked off. “That’s it, then,” Slyr said. “Let’s send it up.” The news from above was good that evening. She and Slyr hadn’t been back to the little room with its view of the night sky in days, but that night they celebrated there again. Slyr brought baubles as well as food this time—little coils of glass that glowed like small suns. And after Slyr was asleep, Annaïg felt her amulet wake. “Thank Dibella,” she murmured. She lifted a coil, rose and tiptoed out of the room into the cellar, and only then did she open the locket. And there was Prince Attrebus, looking back at her. The light seemed to be firelight, for shadows flickered about him, but his face was bruised and battered. His eyes were full of concern, but now his features relaxed in relief. “There you are,” he said. “I was worried about you.” “And I about you, your highness. It’s been days. I’ve tried to contact you—” He nodded. “I’ve been unable to respond,” he said. “I …” He trailed off. He seemed different—not the assertive, confident man she remembered from their earlier conversation. “I understand, Prince Attrebus,” she said. “You’re a busy man.” He nodded. “I want you to know,” he said, “that I am coming, as I promised.


But it may be that …” Again he didn’t finish. He seemed very vulnerable. But then something seemed to strengthen him and his tone became firmer, more familiar. “Have you discovered anything new?” “Yes. I’ve found a place where I can see the sky—a way in and out. And I’m trying to re-create the tonic that Glim and I used to reach this place.” “That’s good,” he said. “Perhaps I can find something like that on my way there. We should pass through Rimmen in a few days, and then Leyawiin.” That sounded a little odd, as if he didn’t have his mages with him, but maybe he preferred to handle certain things himself. “I’ve always wanted to see Rimmen,” she told him. “They say the Akaviri built a magnificent shrine there, the Tonenaka. They say it houses ten thousand statues. And the canals are said to be amazing.” “Well, I’ve never been there either,” Attrebus said. “But I’ll tell you about it next time we speak.” “That would be wonderful, Prince.” “I shan’t be dawdling there, though,” he went on. “Time is of the essence. But I’m sure I’ll see something worth mentioning.” He paused. “I find titles cumbersome in conversation. I would prefer you did not use them.” “What should I call you, your highness?” “Attrebus will do, or ‘Treb.’ It will save time when we talk.” “I’ll try,” she said. “It seems strange to be so familiar with you.” “Try it, for my sake.” There was that troubled look again. “Are you—well, Attrebus? Is something wrong?” “There have been some setbacks here,” he said. “I won’t bore you with the details.” “It wouldn’t be boring,” she said. “Well, then I’d rather not talk about it,” he modified. She realized then that his eyes were glistening a bit. “I must go now,” he said. “Keep yourself safe, above all. Will you do that?” “I will,” she said. He nodded, and then his image vanished behind Coo’s door. She stood there for a moment, a bit breathless, then snuck back into the shaft-room. Slyr didn’t look as if she had stirred. Annaïg sat with her back against the wall. Something was wrong with the prince. That didn’t bode well, did it? But at the moment there wasn’t much she could do but continue to stay alive, try to get in touch with Glim, rediscover the secret of flying … Actually, that was quite a lot, wasn’t it? Her hands were full. So she needed her rest. No use to worry about things that were, at the moment, beyond her. But she hoped Attrebus—he’d asked her to call him Attrebus!—she hoped he was all right. Attrebus closed the little door on the bird. This was the first time he’d seen her face; her green eyes and generous, sensual lips, a nose that some might consider a bit large, but belonged perfectly on her face. Hair like dark twists of black silk. The face of the woman he’d failed.