The Infernal City by Greg Keyes

how much refuse that suggests, if this is even close to typical?”
    “A lot.”
    “Yes. Which suggests that somewhere up there, a lot of people or—something—are doing a lot of eating.”
    “I did see what looked like a city along the rim.”
    “I think we’re still far below the rim,” he said. “Still, I’m thinking there must be thousands on this island, at least.”
    “Okay.”
    “And Wemreddle, the trash keeper, wants you to help with some sort of revolution. Against who knows what and who knows how many? There’s a daedra prince up there, for all we know. I’m not sure we want to be a part of this.”
    “So you think we should leave before he gets back.”
    “I think we should go looking for food. In the kitchens. See what we’re up against. We can always come back here if the trash-tender still seems like a good bet.”
    “How will we know that until we meet the rest of them?”
    “Of whom?”
    “Whoever he went to get. The underground. The resistance.”
    “You and your books,” Glim muttered. “Resistance.”
    “Look around you, Glim. When people are forced to live in places like this, there’s usually a resistance.”
    “Lots of people lived like this in Lilmoth,” Glim replied. “They didn’t resist anything.”
    “Well, maybe they should have,” she retorted. “Maybe then the An-Xileel couldn’t have—”
    “It was the tree, Nn, not the An-Xileel. The Hist decide.”
    “The city tree is psychotic.”
    “Maybe.”
    “You said it’s happened before, one Hist breaking with the others.”
    “You’re changing the subject.”
    “Fine. We might as well have some options. Do you know how to get to these kitchens?”
    “Of course not. But we know where they are.” He pointed up.
    “Fair enough,” she conceded. Her hand still on his shoulder, she pushed up to standing. Then she noticed some figures approaching along the path that had brought them there. “Oops. Too late. Wemreddle’s back.”
    “That’s not much of a resistance,” Glim noted. “Six besides him.”
    “At least they’re armed.”
    Like Wemreddle, they all appeared to be human or mer. They wore uniforms—yellow shirts, aprons, black pants—and they carried an assortment of large knives and cleavers. The only one who was dressed differently was a fellow with thick, curly red hair and beard. His shirt was a black-and-yellow tartan pattern.
    Wemreddle was trailing the lot. The red-beard spoke.
    “It’s true, you’re really from the world beyond?”
    “Yes,” Annaïg said.
    “And you have knowledge of its plants, animals, herbs, minerals, essences, and so on?”
    “Some,” she replied. “I have studied the art of alchemy—”
    “Come with us, then.”
    “To where?”
    “To my kitchen. Fexxel’s kitchen.”
    “Wemreddle,” Annaïg exploded. “You piece of—”
    “They’ll let me come up,” the man simpered. “They’ll let me work up there. This is for the best. You’ll be protected. You need that.”
    “Protection from whom?”
    “Me, for one,” another voice shouted.
    A second group was approaching, twice as large as Fexxel’s, and just as heavily armed.
    Fexxel spun. “You worm,” he roared at Wemreddle. “I bargained in good faith with you!”
    “I didn’t tell her! I swear it!”
    Annaïg could make out the newcomer now. She wore a checked indigo-and-lapis shirt, apron, and indigo pants. Her face was angular, drawn, hard, and her teeth gleamed like opals in the dim light.
    “He didn’t, actually,” the woman said. “One of your own betrayed you. More’s the pity for the poor worm, because I don’t owe him anything.”
    Wemreddle began a sort of soft wailing.
    “I’ll have them, Fexxel.”
    “I have right, Qijne. I have claim.”
    “The Midden is neutral territory.”
    “I found them first.”
    “Well, you can take it up with someone next time you come out of the sump,” she replied. “Or you can walk back to your kitchen in the meat you’re