The Infernal City

by Greg Keyes

  He turned about, spreading his arms. “That’s why I like this Ione. Because it’s new, because it speaks to the spirit of heroism that lies at the heart of each of us. Yes, there are no quaint old buildings or First Era statues, but it’s an honest place built by brave people.”

  “And you have a house here?” Radhasa asked.

  “A hunting lodge, in the hills just across town.”

  “That’s quite a hunting lodge,” the Redguard said when they entered the gate.

  Something about the tone irked him, made him feel a bit defensive. It wasn’t that big. It was built on the plan of an ancient Nord longhouse, each beam and cornice festooned with carvings of dragons, bulls, boars, leering wild men, and dancing, longtressed women.

  “I suppose after the simplicity of Ione, it comes as a bit of a shock,” Attrebus admitted. “My uncle built it about fifteen years ago. He used to bring me down here, and left it to me when he died.”

  “No, I didn’t mean to criticize it.”

  And yet, he somehow felt she had been critical of something.

  He pushed past it. There were other matters at hand now.

  “They’re all here, Gulan?” he asked.

  “They are.”

  “And the provisions?”

  “You had plenty in your stores. More than we can carry.”

  “Well, I don’t see any reason to dally, then.”

  He raised his voice and spread his arms.

  “It’s good to have you with me, my brothers and sisters in arms,” he called out. “Give us a shout. The Empire!”

  “The Empire!” they erupted enthusiastically.

  “Today we ride to the unknown, fellows. Against something I believe to be as deadly and dangerous to our world as that Oblivion gate down there was when it opened—maybe more so. We’ve never done anything this dangerous; I’ll tell you that now.”

  “What is it, Treb?” That was Joun, an orc of prodigious size even for his race.

  He settled his hands on his hips and lifted his chin. Then he laid it out for them.

  When he was finished, the silence that followed had an odd, unfamiliar quality to it.

  “I know there are only fifty-two of us,” he said, “but just below us Captain Ione went into Oblivion with fewer than that and shut down that gate. The Empire expects no less from us—and we are better equipped in every way than he was. Even better, we have someone there, inside this monstrous thing—someone to lead us in, help us find the heart and rip it out. We can do this, friends.”

  “We’re with you, Treb!” Gulan shouted, and the rest of them joined him, but it seemed, somehow, that a note was still missing. Had he finally asked too much of them?

  No, they would follow him, and this would knit them all the more tightly as a band.

  “An hour, my friends, to settle yourselves for the ride. Then we begin.”

  But as they dispersed, there seemed to be much furtive whispering.

  The grass still sparkled with dew when they reached the Red Ring Road, the vast track that circumscribed Lake Rumare. Across the morning gold of the lake stood the Imperial City itself, a god’s wagon-wheel laid down on an island in the center of the lake. The outer curve of the white wall was half in shadow, and he could make out three of what would—in any other city—be deemed truly spectacular guard towers. But those were dwarfed by the magnificent spoke of the wheel—the White-Gold Tower, thrusting up toward the unknowable heavens.

  He saw Radhasa also staring at the tower.

  “It was there before the city,” he told her. “Long before. It is very old, and no one is quite sure what it does.”

  “What do you mean, ‘what it does’?”

  “Well—understand first I’m not a scholar of the tower.”

  “Understood. But you must know more than I.”

  “Well, some think that the White-Gold Tower—and some other towers around Tamriel—help, well, hold the world up, or something like that. Others believe that before the Dragon broke, the tower helped protect us from invasion from Oblivion.”

  “It holds up the world?”

  “I’m not saying it right,” he replied, realizing he couldn’t actually remember the details of that tutorial. “They help keep Mundus—the World—from dissolving back into Oblivion. Or something like that. Anyway, everyone seems to agree it has power, but no one knows exactly what kind.”

  “Okay,” she replied, and shrugged. “So how do we get to Black Marsh?”

  “We’ll come to a bridge in a bit and cross the Upper Niben. From there we’ll take the Yellow Road southeast until we cross the Silverfish River. Then it’s overland—no roads after that except the ones we make.” He grinned at the thought of being in wild country again.

  “I wish I knew more about Cyrodiil.”

  “Well, you have an opportunity to learn now.”

  She was silent for a moment. “This person—the spy on the floating island—how do you speak to them?”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Of course I ‘believe’ you, my Pri—ah, Treb. I’m just curious. Do you have some sort of scrying ball, like in the old tales?”

  “Something like that,” he replied.

  “Very mysterious,” she answered.

  “Must keep a bit of mystery,” he replied.

  “We certainly must,” she said with a flirty grin.

  At noon they stopped to water the horses in the springs near the overgrown ruins of Sardarvar Leed, where the ancient Ayleid elves had once herded his ancestors, bred them for work and pleasure. Attrebus found a quiet spot and took the bird from his haversack.

  He saw Annaïg’s hands, working at some sort of dough, the cherry red fire pits beyond, and the hellish creatures that swarmed about the place. He dared not say anything now, but something in him needed to see what she saw, to make sure she was alive and well. His father and Hierem were right, in a way; this was in part about Annaïg. She’d picked him to send Coo to because she believed in him, because she knew that he would answer her prayers and do this thing that needed doing, even if that meant opposing his own father.

  He had no intention of letting her down, and tonight, when they could whisper to each other across the leagues, he would give her the good news that he was on the way.

  He was still thinking about that an hour later when he heard a dull whump and half of his men caught fire. For a moment he could only stare, as if watching a theatric. He saw Eres and Klau staggering, beating their hands at the blue flames that engulfed them, their mouths working to produce sounds unrecognizable as human. There was Gulan, not burning but trying to beat the fire off of Pash, but then he suddenly had strange quills growing from his back.

  It finally settled through to his brain that they were ambushed, and he drew his sword, looking wildly for the enemy as arrows came whirring from every direction. Radhasa was still next to him, her own weapon drawn and an odd look of joy on her face.

  The last thing he saw was her blade swinging toward his head.

  He clambered up from black depths, but it was a slippery slope. He had little moments when he thought he was awake, but they were full of pain and strange movement, and in the end might have just been a dream within a dream, a little of the Dark Lady’s whimsy. A little hope before the nightmares had him again.

  Finally, though, he opened his eyes, and bright light filled them. His head throbbed furiously, and there was blood caked in his mouth and nostrils. He was facedown in the dirt and one eye was covered tightly by a cloth of some kind.

  He tried to push up, but his hands were behind him, and from the pain in his wrists he knew they must be bound.

  He tried to call out, but all that emerged was a croak.

  “There you are,” a feminine voice said. He flopped his head over and saw Radhasa, sitting against a tree, eating an apple. Her horse was behind her, and so was his, along with a Khajiit and a Bosmer he’d never seen before, speaking in low tones a few yards away.

  “You t
ried to kill me,” he said.

  “No, I didn’t. I hit you with the flat. Could just as easily have been the edge.” She smiled. “I was supposed to kill you, though.”

  “Why?”

  “If I told you that, then I would have to kill you,” she replied. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it, Treb.”

  “Where—what happened to the rest?”

  “Ah, well, there’s the pity. Some pretty good people just died for you.”

  He tried to understand that. “How many, traitor? How many of my people did you kill?”

  “Well, unless you still count me—I’m thinking you don’t—I would have to say everyone.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Yep. Even little Dario.” She licked juice from her fingers.

  “He’s just a boy!”

  “Not anymore. Graduated with the rest of them.”

  “Why?” he sobbed. His eyes stung with tears.

  “Again, not telling. A little mystery, remember? Like your bird here.” She smiled. “How does it work?”

  “I’m going to kill you!” he screamed. “You hear me?”

  He lifted his head to direct his shout to the strangers. “Did she tell you who I am? Do you know what you’ve done?”

  Incredibly, they laughed.

  “All right,” Radhasa said. “Break’s over. Get him horsed, fellows, and let’s move along.”

  He tried to fight, but his head was ringing and his limbs were sapped of energy, but most of all he couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t get his mind to stand still. What was happening? This didn’t happen, not to him. How could all of his friends be dead?

  The horse started forward, and, slung over its back, he watched the wheel ruts in the road.

  She was lying, of course. Gulan and the rest were probably tracking them. Some of them probably were dead, but most of them must have made it. He’d never lost more than three of his personal guard in one battle anywhere, including the Battle of Blinker Creek.

  So she was lying, and they were coming. He just had to stay alive until they found him.

  How long had he been out? Where were they?

  The immediate answer to that last was that they were on a hunting trail of some sort, surrounded by massive oak and ash trees. The land rolled a bit, so it was a good guess they weren’t in the Niben Valley anymore, which meant that he must have been unconscious for at least a few days.

  His best guess was that they were somewhere in the West Weald, and by the sun, traveling mostly south.

  So where were they going?

  He looked to Radhasa, riding slightly ahead of him.

  “You said you were supposed to kill me,” he croaked. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because I’m going to sell you,” she replied. “I know a certain very eccentric Khajiit who collects people like you. He’ll pay more than ten times what I was offered to kill you. So we’re off to Elsweyr. Think of it as a holiday. A really, really long holiday that will be no fun at all.”

  “Radhasa,” he said, “that’s insane. People know what I look like. Someone between here and there is going to recognize me.”

  “You haven’t seen your face since I whacked it,” she replied. “Looks a little different at the moment. And we’ll keep the bandages on. Once we get you where you’re going, there’s going to be a real limited selection of people you’re likely to meet, and it won’t matter to any of them who you are.”

  “My father,” he said. “He’d pay more yet to get me back. Have you thought of that?”

  “He might,” she agreed. “But I don’t think I would survive that. Too many resources at his disposal, too many ways to trap us.”

  “Those resources are bent on you already.”

  “No, not anytime soon, I think.”

  “When he finds the bodies—”

  “Don’t worry about that,” she said. “It’s covered.” She chuckled.

  “What are you laughing about?”

  “Good thing you don’t like being addressed as ‘Prince,’” she replied. “Because you’re never going to hear anyone call you that again.”

  She snapped her reins and broke into a trot. His horse, leaded to hers, followed suit.

  FOUR

  The day after talking with Attrebus, Annaïg 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 Annaïg 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.

  Annaïg 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,” Annaïg 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.

  Annaïg 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,” Annaïg 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 Annaïg 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,” Annaïg 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,” Annaïg 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,” Annaïg said.

  “Disgust,” Luc chimed in. “Disgust is what?”

  Annaïg 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. Annaïg couldn’t tell if it had anything to do with the bottle.

  “Look,” Annaïg said, “I am helping you. I’ve an idea.”

  “And what is that?” Slyr demanded.

  Annaïg 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,” Annaïg 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 poison Ghol.”

  “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.”