“There is such a thing as right and wrong, Glim. Good and evil.”
“If you say so.”
“Prince Attrebus rescued an entire colony of your people from slavery. How do you think they feel about the Empire?”
“My people knew slavery under the old Empire. We knew it pretty well.”
“Yes, but that was ending when the Oblivion crisis happened. Look, even you have to admit that if Mehrunes Dagon had won, if Martin hadn’t beaten him—”
“Martin and the Empire didn’t beat him in Black Marsh,” Glim said, his voice rising. “The An-Xileel did. When the gates opened, Argonians poured into Oblivion with such fury and might, Dagon’s lieutenants had to close them.”
Annaig realized that she was leaning away from her friend and that her pulse had picked up. She smelled something sharp and faintly sulfurous. Amazed, she regarded him for a moment.
“Yes,” she finally said, when the scent diminished, “but without Martin’s sacrifice, Dagon would have eventually taken Black Marsh, too, and made this world his sportground.”
Glim shifted and held out his glass to be refilled.
“I don’t want to argue about this,” he said. “I don’t see that it’s important.”
“You sounded as if you thought so for a second there, old friend. I thought I heard a little passion in your voice. And you smelled like you were spoiling for a fight.”
“It’s just the wine,” he muttered, waving it off. “And all of the excitement. For the rest of the night, can we just celebrate that your ‘flying’ potion wasn’t a complete failure?”
She was starting to feel warm in her belly, the wine at its business.
“Well, yes,” she said. “I suppose that’s worth a toast or two.”
They drank those, and then Glim looked a little sidewise at her.
“Anyway—” he began, then stopped.
“What?”
He grinned his lizard grin and shook his head.
“You may not have to go looking for trouble. From what I heard, it might be coming for us.”
“What’s this?”
“The
“Your cousin Ixtah-Nasha’s boat.”
“Yah. Says he saw something out on the deep, something coming this way.”
“Something?”
“That’s the crazy part. He said it looked like an island with a city on it.”
“An uncharted island?”
“An unmoored island. Floating in the air. Flying.”
Annaig frowned, set her glass down and wagged a finger at him. “That’s not funny, Glim. You’re teasing me.”
“No, I wasn’t going to tell you. But the wine …”
She sat up straighter in her chair. “You’re serious. Coming this way?”
“’Swat he said.”
“Huh,” she replied, taking up the wine again and sinking back into her chair. “I’ll have to think about that. A flying city. Sounds like something left over from the Merithic era. Or before.” She felt her ample mouth pull in a huge smile. “Exciting. I’d better go see Hecua tomorrow.”
And so they finished that bottle, and opened another—an expensive one—and outside the rains came, as they always did, a moving curtain, glittering in the lamplight, clean and wet, washing away, for the moment, Lilmoth’s scent of mildew and decay.
TWO
A boy was once born with a knife instead of a right hand, or so Colin had heard. Rape and attempted murder planted him in his mother, but she had lived and turned all of her thoughts toward vengeance. She laughed when he carved his way out of her and went gleefully into the world to slaughter all who had wronged her and many who had not. And when his victims were drowning in their own blood, they might ask, “Who are you?” and he would answer simply, “Dalk,” which in the northern tongue is an old word for knife.
According to the legend, it happened in Skyrim, but assassins liked the story, and it wasn’t that uncommon for a brash young up-and-coming killer to take that alias and daydream of making that cryptic reply.
The knife in Colin’s hand didn’t feel remotely a part of him. The handle was slick and clammy, and it made his arm feel huge and obvious, hanging by his side just under the edge of his cloak.
Why hadn’t the man noticed him? He was just standing there, leaning against the banister of the bridge, staring off toward the lighthouse. He came here each Loredas, after visiting his horse at the stables. Often he met someone here; there was a brief conversation, and they would part. He never spoke to the same person twice.
Colin continued toward him. There was traffic on the bridge—mostly folks from Weye going home for the night with their wagons and the things they hadn’t sold at market, lovers trying to find a nice place to be secret.
But it was thinning out. They were almost alone.
“There you are,” the man said.
His face was hard to see, as it was cast in shadow by a watch-light a little farther up. Colin knew it well, though. It was long and bony. His hair was black with a little gray, his eyes startling blue.
“Here I am,” Colin replied, his mouth feeling dry.
“Come on over.”
A few steps and Colin was standing next to him. A group of students from the College of Whispers were loudly approaching.
“I like this place,” the man said. “I like to hear the bells of the ships and see the light. It reminds me of the sea. Do you know the sea?”
Shut up! Colin thought. Please don’t talk to me.
The students were dithering, pointing at something in the hills northwest.
“I’m from Anvil,” Colin said, unable to think of anything but the truth.
“Ah, nice town, Anvil. What’s that place, the one with the dark beer?”
“The Undertow.”
The man smiled. “Right. I like that place.” He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “What times, eh? I used to have a beautiful villa on the headland off Topal Bay. I had a little boat, two sails, just for plying near the coast. Now …” He raised his hands and let them drop. “But you didn’t come here for any of that, did you?”
The students were finally moving off, talking busily in what sounded like a made-up language.
“I guess not,” Colin agreed. His arm felt larger than ever, the knife like a stone in his hand.
“No. Well, it’s simple today. You can tell them there’s nothing new. And if anyone asks, tell them that no food, no wine, no lover’s kiss is as beautiful as a long, deep, breath.”
“What?”
Stupidly, Colin looked down at the knife, which had slipped from the folds of his cloak and gleamed in the lamplight.
Their eyes met.
“No!” the man shouted.
So Colin stabbed him—or tried. The man’s palms came up and the knife cut into them. Colin reached with his left hand to try to slap them aside and thrust again, this time slicing deep into the forearm.
“Just stop it!” the man gasped. “Wait a minute, talk—”
The knife slipped past the thrashing limbs and sank into his solar plexus. His mouth still working, the fellow staggered back, staring at his hand and arm.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Colin took a step toward the man, who slumped against the banister.
“Don’t,” he wheezed.
“I have to,” Colin whispered. He stooped down. The man’s arms came up, too weak now to stop Colin from
