in the air? What if there is no other agenda?”
“There must be more to it than that,” Glim responded. “There has to be. Otherwise why would Umbriel ally with the city tree? Why would it spare anyone?”
“Maybe it didn’t. If the tree is insane, as you think, it might have just imagined an alliance.”
“It’s possible.” He snicked his teeth together. “You were right, in a way,” he said. “It sounds as if we were to stop the flow of souls to this ingenium of theirs, then this would turn into just another rock.”
“Maybe. Could it be that simple?”
“I doubt it will be simple,” the Argonian replied.
They walked in silence for a bit, while Annaig turned it all over in her head.
When they finally reached the Bolster Midden, she was sure of her earlier impression, for she could think of nothing to compare it to other than the gorged, bloated stomach of a giant.
And the smell—well, it was bad. Glim’s nictating membranes kept shutting, and Glim could wade through the most noisome fen without really noticing.
But this wasn’t a noisome fen, and she was, in fact, beginning to understand Wemreddle’s bizarre assertion. Animal was here, sweetly, sulfurously rotten, but there was also blood still so fresh she could taste the iron in the middle of her tongue. She made out rancid oil, buttery cream, old wine-braising liquid, fermenting again with strange yeasts and making pungent vinegars. Fresh herbs mingled with the cloying molder of tubers and onions gone to liquid.
Best of all were the thousand things she didn’t recognize, some deeply revolting and some like a welcome home to a place she’d never been. Some smells were more than that, not only engaging the taste buds and nostrils, but sending weird tingles across her skin and shimmering colors when she closed her eyes.
“You see?”
She nodded dumbly and looked around more carefully.
If this was the belly of a giant, he had many esophagi; more stuff fell periodically from five different openings in the vaulted stone ceiling.
In places, the trash moved.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“The worms,” Wemreddle replied. “They keep the Midden turning, make it all pure to siphon into the Marrow Sump.”
“Marrow Sump?”
“It’s where everything goes, and where everything comes from.”
That seemed like it would take a longer explanation, so she let it go for more immediate concerns.
“What’s up there?” she asked, indicating the apertures above.
“The kitchens, of course. What else?” He pointed at each of the holes in turn. “Aghey, Qijne, Lodenpie, and Fexxel.”
“And what do you do down here?”
“Hide. Try not to be noticed. They sent us down here a long time ago to tend the worms, but the worms pretty much tend themselves.”
“So where is everyone else?”
“In the rock. I’ll fetch them. But first let me find you a safe place, yes?”
“That sounds good,” Annaig said.
A narrow ledge went around the Midden like a collar, albeit one whose dog had outgrown it a bit; here and there they found themselves trudging through offal and pools of putrescence. Light came dimly from no obvious source, but she didn’t try to make out what they were stepping through.
At last they came to a small cave, rudely furnished with a sleeping mat and not much else.
“You wait here,” he said. “Try not to make much sound.”
And with that Wemreddle was gone.
“I can’t breathe this forever,” Glim muttered. Their guide had been gone for a long time, although without the sun, moon, or stars, it was hard to tell exactly how long. Annaig figured it was hours, though.
“At least we’re breathing,” she pointed out.
“Well, as long as we’re settling for the least,” he replied.
“Glim …” She put a hand on his shoulder.
He snapped his teeth. “I need to eat something,” he said.
“Me, too,” she said. The wait had given the shock and adrenaline time to wear off, and now she was ravenous. “I can go out there, see what I can sort out.”
He shook his head. “That’s disgusting.”
“Some of it is still food.”
“Stay here. You’ve no idea what those worms might do, or what else might be out there.”
“What, then?”
“I’ve been thinking,” he said.
“Not your strong suit.”
“Yes. But I’ve been doing it, nonetheless. Four kitchens above us, and four other Middens. Do you know how much refuse that suggests, if this is even close to typical?”
“A lot.”
“Yes. Which suggests that somewhere up there, a lot of people or—something—are doing a lot of eating.”
“I did see what looked like a city along the rim.”
“I think we’re still far below the rim,” he said. “Still, I’m thinking there must be thousands on this island, at least.”
“Okay.”
“And Wemreddle, the trash keeper, wants you to help with some sort of revolution. Against who knows what and who knows how many? There’s a daedra prince up there, for all we know. I’m not sure we want to be a part of this.”
“So you think we should leave before he gets back.”
“I think we should go looking for food. In the kitchens. See what we’re up against. We can always come back here if the trash-tender still seems like a good bet.”
“How will we know that until we meet the rest of them?”
“Of whom?”
“Whoever he went to get. The underground. The resistance.”
“You and your books,” Glim muttered. “Resistance.”
“Look around you, Glim. When people are forced to live in places like this, there’s usually a resistance.”
“Lots of people lived like this in Lilmoth,” Glim replied. “They didn’t resist anything.”
“Well, maybe they should have,” she retorted. “Maybe then the An-Xileel couldn’t have—”
“It was the tree, Nn, not the An-Xileel. The Hist decide.”
“The city tree is psychotic.”
“Maybe.”
“You said it’s happened before, one Hist breaking with the others.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“Fine. We might as well have some options. Do you know how to get to these kitchens?”
“Of course not. But we know where they are.” He pointed up.
“Fair enough,” she conceded. Her hand still on his shoulder, she pushed up to standing. Then she noticed some figures approaching along the path that had brought them there. “Oops. Too late. Wemreddle’s back.”
“That’s not much of a resistance,” Glim noted. “Six besides him.”
“At least they’re armed.”
Like Wemreddle, they all appeared to be human or mer. They wore uniforms—yellow shirts, aprons, black pants—and they carried an assortment of large knives and cleavers. The only one who was dressed differently was a fellow with thick, curly red hair and beard. His shirt was a black-and-yellow tartan pattern.
Wemreddle was trailing the lot. The red-beard spoke.
“It’s true, you’re really from the world beyond?”
