When Annaïg awoke, Mere-Glim was still sprawled on the floor, his breath rasping loudly.
“Oh!” she muttered as she rose, pressing her throbbing temples, feeling her belly turn.
How much wine had they drunk?
She stumbled her way to the kitchen, winced at the sun as she unshuttered the windows. She built a fire in the stove, then opened the walk-in pantry in the diffuse light and considered the sausages hanging in bundles, the long blades of salted pogfish, barrels of flour, salt, sugar, rice, the pitiful basket of mostly wilted vegetables.
There were eggs on the counter, still warm, so Tai-Tai must be up and doing his job, which wasn’t always the case.
And there was her mother’s antique leather-bound spice case with its seventy-eight bottles of seeds and dried leaves.
Everything she needed.
Mere-Glim wandered in a few minutes after the garlic and chilies hit the oil and the air went sharp and pungent.
“I’m too sick to eat,” he complained.
“You’ll eat this,” Annaïg told him. “And you’ll like it. Old Tenny used to make this for Dad, before we couldn’t afford her anymore.”
“If that’s so, why is it different every time you make it? Last time it had peanuts and pickled pork, not chilies and garlic.”
“We don’t have any pork pickle,” she replied. “It’s not the specific ingredients that matter—it’s the principles of composition, the balance of essences, flavors, oils, and herbs.”
Saying that, she emptied the spices she had ground a bit before with mortar and pestle, and the earthy scents of coriander, cardamom, lady’s mantel seeds, and ginger wafted about the kitchen. She added two handfuls of crushed rice, stirred that a bit, covered it with a finger of coconut milk, and set it to simmer with a lid on the pot. When the porridge was done, she ladled it into bowls and added slices of venison sausage, red ham, and pickled watermelon rind.
“That looks disgusting,” Mere-Glim said.
“Not done yet,” she said. She broke two eggs and dropped them, raw, into each bowl.
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. Annaïg 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?” Annaïg 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 …”
Annaïg 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—”
Annaïg 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?” Annaïg asked.
The spoon hesitated halfway up to her father’s lips, then continued. He chewed and swallowed.