“What is this place?” she asked. “Where is it from?”

“This place?”

“The whole—island. Floating mountain, whatever you want to call it.

“Oh. You mean Umbriel.”

“Umbriel?”

“Yes, Umbriel, it’s called.”

“And why is it here?”

Again he looked puzzled. “Here is here,” he said.

“No, I mean why have you come to my world? Why are you attacking it?”

“Well, I’m not, am I? I’m just in the Bolster Midden.”

“Yes, but why has Umbriel come here?” she persisted.

“I’ve no idea. Does it matter?”

“People are dying down there. There must be a reason.”

He stopped and scratched his head. “Well, yes, Umbriel needs souls. Lots and lots of souls—there’s no secret there. But he could get those plenty of places. If you’re asking why here in particular, I’m afraid I’ve no way of knowing that.”

“You mean it’s just feeding?” Annaïg asked, incredulous.

“Well, we’ve lots of mouths to feed, don’t we,” he replied with an air of diffidence.

“Why do they become—if their souls are taken up here—why do their bodies keep going?”

“Do I really have to explain this?”

“If I’m going to help you, I think I deserve whatever explanation you can give me.”

“Oh, very well. Look, something beneath us dies. The soul-spinners nick the soul with their lines, and then the larvae fly down and get all snug in the bodies—which then harvest more souls. You see?”

“The larvae have wings and round heads?”

“Yes. See, you do know this.”

“I saw one of them,” she replied. “It seemed like it should have been perfectly capable of murder on its own.”

“In Umbriel, sure. But they have to leave Umbriel to find souls, which means they lose their substance.”

“So that’s what I saw,” Annaïg said. “But why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do they become ethereal?”

“That’s a big word,” Wemreddle said.

“Yes, but—”

“I don’t know,” Wemreddle said. “I’ve never thought about it. You fall in water, you get wet. Stray from Umbriel, you lose substance. It’s just how things are.”

Annaïg digested that for a moment.

“Very well. But how does it start? I mean, if larvae can’t kill anything unless they have a soulless body to steal, how do the first ones get bodies?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“And what becomes of the souls?”

“Most go to the ingenium, which keeps Umbriel aloft and moving. Some go to the vehrumasas.”

“I don’t know that word,” she said. “What does it mean?”

“The place where they prepare food. Where the furnaces are.”

“Kitchens? You people eat souls?”

“Not all of us. I don’t—I’m not that elevated. But them at the top, and Umbriel himself, or course—well, they like their delicacies. We don’t see that in the Middens, do we?”

“And yet you were licking the cable,” she said.

He blushed. “It’s not against nature to want a taste, is it? Just a little taste?”

Annaïg had a sudden, unpleasant thought.

“Are the lords—are you—daedra?”

“What’s a daedra?” Wemreddle asked.

“You’ve never heard of daedra?” she asked. “But didn’t this city come from Oblivion?”

Wemreddle just looked blankly at her.

“There are sixteen daedric princes,” Annaïg explained. “Some are just—well, evil. Mehrunes Dagon, for instance—he tried to destroy our world, back before I was born. Others—like Azura—aren’t supposed to be so bad. Some people worship them, especially the Dunmer. But besides the princes, there are all sorts of minor daedra. Some people can conjure them and make them do their bidding.”

“We do the bidding of the lords,” Wemreddle said. “If I were a daedra, would I know it?”

“Maybe not,” Annaïg realized. “What is the name of your highest lord?”

“Umbriel, of course.”

“There’s no prince that goes by that name,” she mused, “although I suppose a daedric prince could be known by any number of names.”

Wemreddle seemed entirely disinterested in the conversation, so she let it drop. She had so many new questions now, she didn’t know what to ask next, so instead of questioning him further, she filled Glim in on what Wemreddle had been telling her.

“It’s horrible,” she said. “What if it’s really aimless? If our world is being destroyed just so this thing can keep in the air? What if there is no other agenda?”

“There must be more to it than that,” Glim responded. “There has to be. Otherwise why would Umbriel ally with the city tree? Why would it spare anyone?”

“Maybe it didn’t. If the tree is insane, as you think, it might have just imagined an alliance.”

“It’s possible.” He snicked his teeth together. “You were right, in a way,” he said. “It sounds as if we were to stop the flow of souls to this ingenium of theirs, then this would turn into just another rock.”

“Maybe. Could it be that simple?”

“I doubt it will be simple,” the Argonian replied.

They walked in silence for a bit, while Annaïg turned it all over in her head.

When they finally reached the Bolster Midden, she was sure of her earlier impression, for she could think of nothing to compare it to other than the gorged, bloated stomach of a giant.

And the smell—well, it was bad. Glim’s nictating membranes kept shutting, and Glim could wade through the most noisome fen without really noticing.

But this wasn’t a noisome fen, and she was, in fact, beginning to understand Wemreddle’s bizarre assertion. Animal was here, sweetly, sulfurously rotten, but there was also blood still so fresh she could taste the iron in the middle of her tongue. She made out rancid oil, buttery cream, old wine-braising liquid, fermenting again with strange yeasts and making pungent vinegars. Fresh herbs mingled with the cloying molder of tubers and onions gone to liquid.

Best of all were the thousand things she didn’t recognize, some deeply revolting and some like a welcome home to a place she’d never been. Some smells were more than that, not only engaging the taste buds and nostrils, but sending weird tingles across her skin and shimmering colors when she closed her eyes.

“You see?”

She nodded dumbly and looked around more carefully.

If this was the belly of a giant, he had many esophagi; more stuff fell periodically from five different openings in the vaulted stone ceiling.

In places, the trash moved.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“The worms,” Wemreddle replied. “They keep the Midden turning, make it all pure to siphon into the Marrow Sump.”

“Marrow Sump?”

“It’s where everything goes, and where everything comes from.”

That seemed like it would take a longer explanation, so she let it go for more immediate concerns.

“What’s up there?” she asked, indicating the apertures above.

“The kitchens, of course. What else?” He pointed at each of the holes in turn. “Aghey, Qijne, Lodenpie, and Fexxel.”

“And what do you do down here?”

“Hide. Try not to be noticed. They sent us down here a long time ago to tend the worms, but the worms pretty much tend themselves.”

“So where is everyone else?”

“In the rock. I’ll fetch them. But first let me find you a safe place, yes?”

“That sounds good,” Annaïg said.

A narrow ledge went around the Midden like a collar, albeit one whose dog had outgrown it a bit; here and there they found themselves trudging through offal and pools of putrescence. Light came dimly from no obvious source, but she didn’t try to make out what they were stepping through.

At last they came to a small cave, rudely furnished with a sleeping mat and not much else.

“You wait here,” he said. “Try not to make much sound.”

And with that Wemreddle was gone.

“I can’t breathe this forever,” Glim muttered. Their guide had been gone for a long time, although without the sun, moon, or stars, it was hard to tell exactly how long. Annaïg figured it was hours, though.