The day after talking with Attrebus, Annaig 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 Annaig 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.
Annaig 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,” Annaig 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.
Annaig 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,” Annaig 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 Annaig 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,” Annaig 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,” Annaig 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,” Annaig said.
“Disgust,” Luc chimed in. “Disgust is what?”
Annaig 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. Annaig couldn’t tell if it had anything to do with the bottle.
“Look,” Annaig said, “I am helping you. I’ve an idea.”
“And what is that?” Slyr demanded.
Annaig 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,” Annaig 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
“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,” Annaig 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.
