Glim perked up and his tongue licked out. “Goose eggs?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Maybe I will try it.”
She set a bowl in front of him, and after an experimental bite, he began downing it with gusto. Annaig tucked into her own.
“I already feel better,” Mere-Glim said.
“See?”
“Yes, yes.”
She took another bite.
“So tell me more about this ‘floating city,’” she said. “When is it supposed to be here?”
“Ix said they outpaced it for three days and it never changed course before they finally got the wind they needed to really leave it behind. It was headed straight here, he said, and will arrive sometime early tomorrow at the pace it’s coming.”
“So what did he figure it was?”
“A big chunk of rock, shaped like a top. They could see buildings on the rim. The ship’s wind-caller didn’t like it. Quit the minute they got into port and left town, fast, on a horse.”
“What didn’t the wind-caller like?”
“He kept saying it wasn’t right, that none of his magicks could tell him anything about it. Said it smelled like death.”
“Did anyone take word to the Organism?”
“I can never understand you two when you’re together,” a soft voice wisped. She turned her gaze to the door and found her father standing there. “That smells good,” he went on. “Is there any for me?”
“Sure, Taig,” she said. “I made plenty.”
She ladled him up a bowl and passed it. He took a spoonful and closed his eyes.
“Better than Tenithar’s,” he said. “Always in the kitchen, weren’t you? You learned well.”
“Do you know anything about this?” Annaig said, a bit impatiently. It always bothered her, talking to her father, and she knew it shouldn’t, and that bothered her twice. But he sounded so soul-weak, as if most of his spirit had leaked out of him.
“I wasn’t kidding,” he said. “You’ve been like this since you were children. I recognize a few words here and there …”
Annaig waved the old complaint aside. “This—flying city that’s supposed to be heading toward us. Do you know anything about that?”
“I know the stories,” he sighed, picking at the stew. “It started with Urvwen—”
Annaig rolled her eyes. “Crazy old Psijic priest. Or whatever they call themselves.”
“Said he felt something out in the deep water, a movement of some kind. So, yes, he’s crazy and the An-Xileel are irritated by him, especially Archwarden Qajalil, so he was dismissed. But then there were the reports from the sea, and the Organism sent out some exploratory ships.”
“And?”
“They’re still out there, looking for a phantom probably. After all, Urvwen has been spreading his message down at the docks. No wonder if sailors are seeing things.”
“My cousin’s ship put to sea from Anvil three weeks ago,” Mere-Glim said. “He did not talk to Urvwen.”
Her father’s face tightened oddly, the way it did when he was trying to hide something.
“Taig!” she said.
“Nothing,” he replied. “It’s nothing to worry about. If it’s dangerous the An-Xileel will meet it with the same might that drove the Empire out of Black Marsh and the Dunmer out of Morrowind. But what would a flying city want with Lil-moth?”
“What do the Hist say?” Annaig asked.
The spoon hesitated halfway up to her father’s lips, then continued. He chewed and swallowed.
“Taig!”
“The city tree said it was nothing to worry about.”
Mere-Glim made a high, scratchy humming sound and fluttered his eyes. “What do you mean? The ‘city’ tree?” He hesitated, as if he had said too much.
“Lorkhan’s bits, Glim,” Annaig said. “We’re not visitors here, you know.”
He nodded. She hated how he was when he spoke straight Tamrielic. He didn’t sound like himself.
“It’s just, the Hist, they are all—connected. Of the same mind. So why mention the city tree in particular?”
Her father’s eyes searched about a bit aimlessly, and he sighed again. “The An-Xileel in Lilmoth talk only to the city tree.”
“What’s the difference?” Annaig said. “Like Glim said, they’re all connected at the root, right? So what the city tree says is what they all say.”
Glim’s face was like stone. “Maybe not,” he said.
“What’s that mean?”
“Annaig—” her father started. His voice sounded strained.
When he didn’t continue for a moment, she raised her hands. “What, Taig?”
“Thistle, this might be a good time for you to visit your aunt in Leyawiin. I’ve been thinking you ought to anyway. I went so far as to set aside money for the voyage, and there is a ship leaving at dawn.”
“That sounds worried to me, Taig. It sounds like you think something’s wrong.”
“You’re all that’s left me that matters,” the old man said. “Even if the risk is small …” He opened his hands but would not meet her eye. Then his forehead smoothed and he stood. “I have to go. I am called to the Organism this morning. I will see you tonight, and we can discuss this further. Why don’t you pack, in case you decide to take the trip?”
For a moment she saw farther; Leyawiin was an ocean voyage away, but from there she could reach the Imperial City, even if all she had were her own two feet. Maybe …
“Can Glim go?”
“I’m sorry, I’ve only money for one passage,” he replied.
“I wouldn’t go anyway,” Glim said.
“Right, then,” her father said. “I’ll be off. I’ll have dinner brought from the Coquina, Thistle. No need to cook tonight. And we’ll talk about this.”
“Right, Taig,” she said.
As soon as he was out of earshot, she leveled a finger at Mere-Glim. “You go down to the docks and see what that crazy priest has to say, and anything else you can find out. I’m going to Hecua’s.”
“Why Hecua’s?”
“I need to fine-tune my new invention.”
“Your falling potion, you mean?”
“It saved our lives,” she pointed out.
“On a related note,” Glim said, “why, by the rotting wells, are you worried about flying at this time?”
“How else are we going to get up on a flying island, by catapult?”
“Ahh …” Mere-Glim sighed. “Ah, no.”
“Look at me, Glim,” Annaig said.
Slowly, reluctantly, he did so.
“I love you, and I’d love to have you along, but if you don’t want to go, no worries. I’m not going to give you a hard time. But I’m going, Xhu?”
He held her gaze for a moment, and then his nostrils contracted.
“Xhu,” he said.
“Meet you here at noon.”
As Mere-Glim followed Lilmoth’s long slump to the bay Imperials named Oliis, he felt the cloud-rippled sky gently pressing on him, on the trees, on the ancient ballast-stone paving. He wondered, which is to say that he gave his mind its way, let it slip away from speech into the obscure nimbus of pure thinking.
Words hammered thought into shape, put it in cages, bound it in chains. Jel—the tongue of his ancestors—was
