“The Synod and College of Whispers have both been tasked to discover what they can,” Hierem said. “And of course some specialists are on their way. But there is no need for a military expedition until they threaten our borders—certainly not one led by the crown prince.”
“But Annaïg may not survive that long.”
“So it’s the girl?” Hierem said. “That’s why you want to mount an expedition into Black Marsh? For the sake of a girl?”
“Don’t speak to me like that, Hierem,” Attrebus warned. “I am your prince, after all. You seem to forget that.”
“It’s not the girl,” his father snorted. “It’s the adventure. It’s the book they’ll write about it, the songs they will sing.”
Attrebus felt his cheeks burn. “Father, that’s nonsense. You say it’s not our problem, but when it’s made everyone in Black Marsh and Morrowind into corpse-warriors, it will then turn on us. Every day we wait its army grows stronger. Why not fight a small battle now rather than a huge one later?”
“Are you now lecturing me on strategy and tactics?” his father snapped. “I took this city with under a thousand men. I routed Eddar Olin’s northward thrust with barely twice that, and I hammered this empire back together with a handful of rivets. Do not dare to question that I have this situation in hand.”
“Besides,” Hierem added, “you don’t know that it is coming here at all, Prince. It seems to have come from nowhere, probably it will return there.”
“That’s a stupid assumption to make.”
“If it comes for any part of the Empire, we will be ready for it,” the Emperor said. “You will not chase after this thing. That is my last word on the matter.”
The tone was final. Attrebus glared at his father and the minister, then, after the most perfunctory of bows, he spun on his heel and left.
He sat outside on the steps for a few moments, trying to cool off, get his thoughts together. He was almost ready to leave when he looked up at approaching footsteps.
It was a young man with a thin ascetic face, freckles, and red hair. He wore an Imperial uniform.
“Treb!”
Attrebus stood and the two clapped each other in a hug.
“You’re thin, Florius,” he said. “Your mother’s not feeding you anymore?”
“Not so much. It’s mostly your father doing that now.”
Treb stepped back and regarded his old friend. “You made captain! Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“I should never have let my father have you,” Attrebus said. “You should be riding with me.”
“I should like that,” Florius said. “It’s been a long time since we had an adventure together. Do you remember that time we snuck off into the market district—”
“I remember my father’s guards dragging us back by the ears,” Attrebus said. “But if you want to arrange a transfer …”
“I’ve been assigned to command the garrison at Water’s Edge,” Florius said. “But maybe when that assignment’s done.”
“I’ll come looking for you,” Attrebus said. “Divines, it’s good to see you Florius.”
“Do you have time for a drink?”
He paused, then shook his head. “No—I need to see to something right now. But I will see you in future.”
“Right, then,” Florius said, and the two men parted company.
Attrebus nodded to himself and went to meet Gulan. He found him near the gate.
“How did it go?” Gulan asked.
“Gather everyone at my house in Ione. We can supply there and be on our way by tomorrow. Be quiet about it.”
“That well, eh?” He shifted. “You’re going against the Emperor’s wishes? Are you sure you want to do that?”
“I’ve done it before.”
“Which is why he’s likely to suspect, and have you watched.”
“Which is why we’re being discreet. Disperse the guard as if I’ve given them a holiday, and have them come individually to Ione. You and I will take the way through the sewers.”
Gulan looked doubtful but he nodded.
Attrebus clapped him on the shoulder.
“You’ll see, old friend. This will be our greatest victory yet.”
TWO
“You’re the new skraw,” the man said. It wasn’t a question.
Mere-Glim nodded, trying to size the fellow up. He looked more or less like one of Annaïg’s race, although with a noticeable yellowish cast to his skin and eyes. He had a long, doleful face and red hair. He was wearing the same black loincloth that Glim now wore.
“My name is Mere-Glim,” he offered.
“Yeah? You can call me Wert. And what are you, Mere-Glim? They say you don’t need the vapors.”
They’d been walking through a stone corridor, but now they entered a modest cave. Water poured from an opening in the wall, ran in a stream across the floor, and vanished into a pool in the middle of the chamber. Several globes of light were fixed to the ceiling, nearly obscured by the ferns growing around them. The rest of the cave was felted in moss. Mere-Glim found it pleasant.
“Eh?”
Glim realized he’d been asked a question.
“My people call ourselves Saxhleel,” he said. “Others call us Argonians. I’m not sure what you mean by vapors.”
“You didn’t come out of the sump,” Wert said. “Nothing like you has ever come out of the sump. Which means you ain’t from Umbriel, ain’t that so?”
“It is,” Glim replied.