The Infernal city

“Why?”

“Because I hate all this,” he said. “I hate them at the top of the chutes. And you—you might be able to help with them.”

“Why do you say that?”

“This new place. You know things about it? The plants, the minerals, the ways of things. They say you flew here without wings.”

“I know a little,” she said.

“Yes. That’s powerful knowledge. Enough to change things. Will you come?”

Annaig looked sidewise at Glim, but his expression offered no opinion.

“This might be what we’re looking for,” she told him.

“I can’t follow him. What’s he saying?”

“I think he’s with some disenchanted group, a resistance maybe. They want our help against another faction. We can exploit this, as Irenbis did the various factions of Cheydinhal.”

“Irenbis?”

“Irenbis Songblade.”

“That’s from a book, isn’t it?”

“It’s a chance, Glim. You agreed we have to do something.”

“Something it is, then,” he replied.

SEVEN

“What is that?” Annaig asked, trying not to gag at the stench. Her belly was already empty and her throat and chest ached.

“That’s the Midden,” Wemreddle said. “Of the four lower Middens, Bolster has the richest scent.”

“Rich?” Annaig drew another breath, this one worse than the last. “I wouldn’t describe it as rich. How far away is it?”

“We’ve still some way to go,” Wemreddle said. Then, defensively, “If you wouldn’t say rich, then what? Savor the layers of complexity, the contrast of ripe, rotten, and almost raw, the depth and diversity of it.”

“I—”

“No, no, wait. When we’re there you’ll understand better. Appreciation will come.”

Annaig somehow doubted that. It seemed more likely that her lungs would close themselves and suffocate her rather than take in any more of the waxing stench. As they progressed, the floor and walls of the tunnels became first slick and then coated in a dank, putrid sheen, and she began to picture herself climbing up through the bowels of some enormous beast.

“What is this place?” she asked. “Where is it from?”

“This place?”

“The whole—island. Floating mountain, whatever you want to call it.

“Oh. You mean Umbriel.”

“Umbriel?”

“Yes, Umbriel, it’s called.”

“And why is it here?”

Again he looked puzzled. “Here is here,” he said.

“No, I mean why have you come to my world? Why are you attacking it?”

“Well, I’m not, am I? I’m just in the Bolster Midden.”

“Yes, but why has Umbriel come here?” she persisted.

“I’ve no idea. Does it matter?”

“People are dying down there. There must be a reason.”

He stopped and scratched his head. “Well, yes, Umbriel needs souls. Lots and lots of souls—there’s no secret there. But he could get those plenty of places. If you’re asking why here in particular, I’m afraid I’ve no way of knowing that.”

“You mean it’s just feeding?” Annaig asked, incredulous.

“Well, we’ve lots of mouths to feed, don’t we,” he replied with an air of diffidence.

“Why do they become—if their souls are taken up here—why do their bodies keep going?”

“Do I really have to explain this?”

“If I’m going to help you, I think I deserve whatever explanation you can give me.”

“Oh, very well. Look, something beneath us dies. The soul-spinners nick the soul with their lines, and then the larvae fly down and get all snug in the bodies—which then harvest more souls. You see?”

“The larvae have wings and round heads?”

“Yes. See, you do know this.”

“I saw one of them,” she replied. “It seemed like it should have been perfectly capable of murder on its own.”

“In Umbriel, sure. But they have to leave Umbriel to find souls, which means they lose their substance.”

“So that’s what I saw,” Annaig said. “But why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do they become ethereal?”

“That’s a big word,” Wemreddle said.

“Yes, but—”

“I don’t know,” Wemreddle said. “I’ve never thought about it. You fall in water, you get wet. Stray from Umbriel, you lose substance. It’s just how things are.”

Annaig digested that for a moment.

“Very well. But how does it start? I mean, if larvae can’t kill anything unless they have a soulless body to steal, how do the first ones get bodies?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“And what becomes of the souls?”

“Most go to the ingenium, which keeps Umbriel aloft and moving. Some go to the vehrumasas.”

“I don’t know that word,” she said. “What does it mean?”

“The place where they prepare food. Where the furnaces are.”

“Kitchens? You people eat souls?”

“Not all of us. I don’t—I’m not that elevated. But them at the top, and Umbriel himself, or course—well, they like their delicacies. We don’t see that in the Middens, do we?”

“And yet you were licking the cable,” she said.

He blushed. “It’s not against nature to want a taste, is it? Just a little taste?”

Annaig had a sudden, unpleasant thought.

“Are the lords—are you—daedra?”

“What’s a daedra?” Wemreddle asked.

“You’ve never heard of daedra?” she asked. “But didn’t this city come from Oblivion?”

Wemreddle just looked blankly at her.

“There are sixteen daedric princes,” Annaig explained. “Some are just—well, evil. Mehrunes Dagon, for instance—he tried to destroy our world, back before I was born. Others—like Azura—aren’t supposed to be so bad. Some people worship them, especially the Dunmer. But besides the princes, there are all sorts of minor daedra. Some people can conjure them and make them do their bidding.”

“We do the bidding of the lords,” Wemreddle said. “If I were a daedra, would I know it?”

“Maybe not,” Annaig realized. “What is the name of your highest lord?”

“Umbriel, of course.”

“There’s no prince that goes by that name,” she mused, “although I suppose a daedric prince could be known by any number of names.”

Wemreddle seemed entirely disinterested in the conversation, so she let it drop. She had so many new questions now, she didn’t know what to ask next, so instead of questioning him further, she filled Glim in on what Wemreddle had been telling her.

“It’s horrible,” she said. “What if it’s really aimless? If our world is being destroyed just so this thing can keep