in mind for you.”
“Then I had better not be caught,” Annaig said. “Or leave trace of my visit.”
Slyr’s face hardened into an expression of determination.
“Tell me what I can do to help,” she said. “I will not fail you.”
“You had better not,” Annaig said. “This really is your last chance. You must understand that.”
“I understand,” Slyr replied.
“Good. I’ll let you know when I need something.”
Glim unfolded the note from Annaig the skraw Jernle had handed him. It was written in the jumble language of their childhood-which only the two of them understood-although Glim hadn’t seen any evidence that anyone on Umbriel could read in any language. Still-avoiding leeches was better than picking them off.
What are you up to, Nn? he thought. For a moment he considered refusing the request until Annaig agreed to make something to replace the vapors. He followed her logic, understood why she couldn’t do it, but still, something about her refusal bothered him. Maybe it was because she didn’t take him seriously, that she thought her cause was bigger than his. And it was, wasn’t it? How many of his people-his relatives-had died because of Umbriel?
But the skraws weren’t to blame for that. They didn’t even know it had happened.
But someone was responsible.
He turned to Wert, who was watching him patiently.
“I need detailed information concerning the kitchen of Phmer,” he said. “Bribe the pantry workers, if you must.”
“More maps?” Wert inquired.
“No. More than that.” He paused. “And let’s see what happens if some of the middens stop draining. That should get someone’s attention.”
Wert’s face broke into a huge grin. “At last!” he said. “Which ones?”
“You decide,” Glim said. “I need to have a second look at something.”
Everything led to the sump, which meant lots of things led away from it as well. Early on Glim had found his way to the trees of the Fringe Gyre.
The flying island of Umbriel was a rough cone, with the apex pointed down. The sump was a basin in that cone, and most of the population of the city lived in warrens in the stone. The lords lived on the upper edge in their delicate habitations of metal and crystal. But another world sprouted from the verge of the rim, enormous trees whose roots sank deep into the rock where vesicles from the sump fed and watered them, and whose boughs and branches flowed far out from the island like a sort of lacy collar, bending in a rightwise whorl. It was a world of strange birds and weird gardens growing from intentionally rotted places in the wood, of fruits and nuts and warbling monkeylike things.
Next to the sump, he liked this place most, and sometimes better. Part of it was the feeling of freedom the place afforded, but part of it was a familiarity that spoke to him almost below the level of consciousness, a sense of intrinsic belonging he’d lost months ago.
The view, however, was disturbing. If he looked to the horizons, he saw plains and forest, softened and made beautiful by distance. If he looked down, however, that was another story. Any open ground revealed the thousands of corpses walking, animated by Umbriel’s larvae.
The ground was very open now. Umbriel had changed direction, taking them east over vast mountains, and below them was heath and snow, and few trees to hide the undying. They seemed numberless, and-perhaps worst of all-organized, marching in a rough semblance of ranks.
“I haven’t seen you lately,” a pleasant feminine voice quietly said.
He glanced up but already knew who it was.
“Hello, Fhena,” he said.
With her charcoal complexion and red eyes, Fhena might have been a Dunmer woman of about twenty years. But she was no more Dunmer than Wert was human, and since Umbrielians were born adult, he’d reckoned from their earlier conversations she was probably no more than five or six years old. She wore her usual blouse and knee-shorts; today the former was green and the latter yellow.
“Did you bring me more orchid shrimp?” she asked hopefully.
“No,” he said, “but I thought you might like these.”
He handed her a pouch, which she took with an expression of purest delight. But when she saw what was inside, her look wandered toward puzzlement.
“Kraken barnacles,” he explained.
She pulled one out of the bag. It was about the size and shape of a large shark tooth, smooth and dark green, with a wet, tube-like appendage sticking out of the wide end.
She bit the tooth-shaped shell.
“Hard,” she said.
“Here,” he said. “Let me show you.”
He took the barnacle, gave it a squeeze so the shell cracked, then pulled out the soft mass inside by the projecting stalk. He handed it to Fhena, who bit into it, chewed a moment, and then laughed.
“Good, yes?” Glim said. “Those are native to the seas around Lilmoth, where I grew up. The taskers must have collected some and brought them up, because they’ve suddenly started growing in the sump.”
“Delicious,” she agreed. “You always find some way to surprise me.”
“I’m glad to be of service,” Mere-Glim said.
“But I’m not often able to repay the favor,” she replied.
“You might today,” he said. “Tell me about the trees.”
“The trees?”
“Yes.” He tapped on the nearest branch.
“I’m not sure what to say about them,” she replied.
“Well,” he said, trying to think how to go about this, “I’ve noticed that they produce nuts and fruit and even grains, of a sort. But what else?”
“What else?” She clapped her hands. “Salt and sugar, acid and wine, vinegar and sulfur, iron and glass. The trees have a talent for making things-they just have to be told how.”
“Who tells them?”
She looked thoughtful. “Well, I’m not sure,” she said. “They’ve been making most things for so long, I think they may have forgotten. Or at least they don’t talk about it. They just tell us when something needs doing, or collecting, or when something isn’t right and them in the kitchens must help.”
“Wait a minute,” Glim said. “The trees talk to you?”
“Of course. Can’t you hear them?”
“Almost,” Glim said. “Almost. But what does it mean?”
Her eyes had widened, and he realized his spines were puffed out and he was giving off his fighting odor. He tried to calm himself.
“What’s this about, Glim?” she asked.
“It’s about me,” he said. “It’s about my people, and why they died.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “But I can see how upset you are. Can you explain?”
Glim thought about that for a long moment. Annaig would tell him not to trust the girl; she didn’t trust anyone on Umbriel. But Fhena had only ever helped him.
“I would like to explain,” he finally said. “Because it might mean something to you. It might make you think of something. So don’t be afraid to interrupt me.”
“I won’t,” she replied.
“I’ve told you before; I’m from a place named Black Marsh. My people call themselves the Saxhleel, and others call us Argonians.”
“I remember. And you said all of your people are the same.”
“The same? Yes, compared to your people. We all have scales, and breathe beneath the water, that sort of thing. Umbriel chooses your form when you are born. Mine is chosen by-ah-heritage.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not important right now. We can talk about that later. What’s important is this; there is another race in Black Marsh-the Hist. They are sentient trees, and we are-connected to them. They are many and they are one, all
