She found a wall and began working down it and soon discovered a seam that might be a door.
Slyr had joined her in exploring now, panting hoarsely.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” Annaïg said. “But I … I think this isn’t meant to kill us. It’s hot, but not that hot. And I don’t think it’s getting worse.”
“Right,” Slyr said. “You must be right. Why would he go through the trouble of capturing us only to kill us? He wouldn’t do that, would he?” She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself.
“I don’t know Toel,” Annaïg said. “I don’t know anything about him.”
“Why do you think I do?” Slyr snapped.
There was something strange about her tone.
“I didn’t say you did,” Annaïg replied.
Slyr was silent for a moment.
“Well, I do know a bit,” she finally offered. “He—” She stopped, then laughed softly. She folded back down on her bench.
“What?”
“I think they’re cleaning us,” she replied. “I’ve heard they use steam to draw the impurities from the body.”
“I’ve heard of that,” Annaïg remembered. “In Skyrim they do it, and it’s come and gone as a fashion in Cyrodiil. Black Marsh is already a steaming jungle and Argonians don’t sweat, so it never caught on there.”
Her breathing slowed as panic faded. Now that the surprise and fear were gone, the pervasive heat actually felt pretty nice.
“What else do you know about Toel?”
“Everyone has heard of Toel,” Slyr said. “Most master chefs of the higher kitchens are born to it, but Toel started down with us. When he wants something, he will do whatever is necessary to get it.”
“Clearly,” Annaïg replied.
“More than you know. Qijne and her kitchen served three lords. Toel serves a much greater one, but that is still a dangerous thing. Bargains must have been struck, and probably a few assassinations accomplished.”
“A few?”
“Other than the rest of our kitchen, I mean.”
“They’re all dead, aren’t they?”
“I didn’t see anyone moving.”
Annaïg was starting to feel a little dizzy. It wasn’t getting any hotter, but the heat was beginning to sit more heavily on her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know many of them very well, but you …”
“I hated most of them,” Slyr said. “And I was indifferent to most of the rest.”
“But you saved my life. Qijne was trying to kill me.”
“You’re—ah—different,” Slyr said.
“Well—thank you.”
Slyr crossed her arms. “Besides, he came for you. If you were dead, what use would I be to him?”
“Don’t sell yourself short.”
“I don’t,” Slyr said softly.
An awkward pause followed.
“I hope they let us out of here soon,” Annaïg ventured, to try to lighten things.
“Yes.”
But it was too hot to talk after that. Annaïg sat with her head on her knees, closed her eyes and pretended she was on the levee at Yor-Tiq, back in Black Marsh, lazing in the sun while Glim went diving for trogfish. It was a difficult fantasy to maintain; images of the slaughter kept coming back to her, especially Qijne’s dying gaze.
Remembering that, she felt at her wrist. It was still there, the torus. They hadn’t noticed it when they took her clothes. If she could figure out how to use it, she would at least have one small advantage.
She squeezed it, tried to think the blade out, but nothing worked, and the heat made her so tired she finally stopped trying.
Just as she thought she couldn’t take any more, light came flooding through what she had earlier guessed was a door, and behind it the sweet kiss of cool air.
“Out, and into the pool with you,” a voice said. Annaïg hesitated, embarrassed at her lack of clothing but anxious to get out of the heat. She saw the mentioned pool ahead. It looked cool, lovely.
Slyr was already on her way, so she followed. To her surprise, she didn’t see anyone, although the voice had sounded near.
The water was so shockingly cold that for an instant she thought she might lose consciousness. Her yelp literally got closed in her throat.
“Kaoc’!” she finally managed.
“Sumpslurry!” Slyr gasped.
Their gazes met, held for an instant—and then together they began laughing. It just exploded out of Annaïg, as if it had been bottled and pent up for a thousand years. The feeling wasn’t happiness; it was more like being crazy.
But it was a lot better than crying.
“You should have seen your expression,” Slyr giggled when she finally got control of herself.
“I’m sure it was no more ridiculous than yours,” she replied.
“Lords, this is cold.”
Annaïg took in the new chamber then; it had low ceilings of cloth woven in complicated, curvilinear patterns of gold, hyacinth, lime, and sanguine. It draped down the walls, giving the appearance that they were in a large, very oddly shaped tent. Globes like those in the sweat-room, but brighter, depended here and there, filling the chamber with a pleasant golden light. On the near wall, two golden robes hung.