Angelica (12 page)

He was up with the sun, ate a quick breakfast in the tavern adjoining the inn, and was on his way again forty minutes after opening his eyes. Bright sunshine made the flying pleasant, especially when he rose high enough to escape the sun's heat, but once he crossed into the desert, even the upper atmosphere became oppressive. His wings slowed and he lost altitude, seeking a brisker current of air. None to be had. He
coasted into Breven feeling hot, sticky, and about fifty pounds heavier than when he'd started out.

And Breven was not a sight to gladden any man's soul. They called it a city, but it was little more than a collection of wagons and canvas huts and open-air markets, all looking as impermanent as an Edori camp. The Jansai were wanderers, gypsies, merchants, and peddlers, as well as thieves and cheats, and when they returned to the place most of them considered home, it was only for a brief visit. So there were few buildings more durable than shacks thrown together from a few planks of wood, and a large outlying band of wagons and campsites encircling the heart of the city for about ten miles deep.

Gaaron came to his feet in what passed for the business district, the collection of awnings and canopies that made up the most varied and cutthroat market of the three provinces. Vendors called to him, smells assaulted him, small boys darted past him shouting out unintelligible words. This close to the sandy soil, the air was unbearably hot. The heat rose through the leather soles of his boots and burned his feet.

Gaaron strode to the closest merchant's stall and did not bother to engage the vendor in polite chatter. “I'm looking for Solomon,” he said brusquely. “Is he here?”

“Good angelo, you have traveled far—you must be hungry. Here, a nice dish of spiced-wine stew—only a few coppers, the best you've tasted—”

“I'm not interested in food,” Gaaron said. “I need Solomon immediately. Where is he?”

“A glass of wine, then, or flavored water? I assure you, nowhere in Breven will you find a more—”

Gaaron slammed a fistful of silver coins onto the vending table. “Solomon,” he said flatly.

The man jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “The big tent at the far southern edge of the market. Blue-and-white stripes.”

“Thank you,” Gaaron said with an edge, and pushed himself through the crowd in the direction indicated. All the buyers were men, of course—all the vendors as well. Not a woman to be seen anywhere on the hot, dusty streets of Breven.

At the blue-and-white tent, Gaaron had to introduce himself to a villainous-looking old man guarding the entrance, but his name was actually good enough to gain him a quick entrée. He ducked his head to step through the canvas door, into the welcome coolness of shade, and then stood there a moment to get his bearings. The interior of the tent was at least as big as his two-room suite at the Eyrie, though not partitioned into separate chambers. It was filled with exotic furnishings—rugs of animal fur, chairs of stretched leather, glass globes of light hanging from highly figured bronze poles. Half a dozen people lounged around on brightly colored chairs and pallets, dressed in flowing robes of gaudy colors. All were covered in rings and necklaces and bracelets of thick gold; all were men.

One of them broke free of a conference and waddled over to the angel's side. “Gaaron!” he exclaimed, holding out a meaty hand and smiling up from the folds of fat on his broad face. He was even more brightly dressed than the other men, in clashing colors of scarlet and lavender, and he wore jewel studs in his ears next to big hoops of gold. “What brings you all the way to Breven from your inhospitable mountain hold?”

Gaaron smiled briefly and shook the gypsy's hand. A shrewd, cunning, and not altogether honest man, Solomon was the richest of the Jansai and the closest thing they had to a leader. Gaaron didn't trust him at all, but he could never bring himself to entirely despise the man. He had a greasy charm and swift flashes of insight that made him, when he chose to be, a formidable ally.

“News that you might not hear from any other source for days or weeks,” Gaaron said. “And a question.”

Without asking how private the information was, Solomon turned toward the others in the tent. “Out,” he said, waving his hand in one grand sweeping gesture. Without a word of protest, the others filed from the tent.

“Water? Wine? Refreshment of any kind?” Solomon said, leading the angel back to an arrangement of furniture in the middle of the tent. Gaaron chose a backless stool covered with dyed leather. Solomon sunk into a wide, soft armchair
that looked as if it had been crafted especially for him. “You are my guest. There will be no charge.”

This was said with some sarcasm. Gaaron could not help grinning. “Then, yes, I would like a chance to sample your hospitality.”

Solomon poured them both drinks, something sweet-tasting and wonderfully refreshing after the long flight and the hot city streets. “And what is your news?” the gypsy chieftain asked.

“I was with some other angels flying over southern Bethel a couple of days ago,” Gaaron said somberly. “We spotted a Jansai campsite—completely destroyed by fire. Impossible to tell how many were in the group, and there was nothing left that I could bring back as a clue for you to learn the identities of the travelers. I believed it was Jansai because the embers appeared to be shaped like Jansai wagons.”

Solomon was silent a moment, absorbing that. His broad, shiny face seemed remotely sad. “So. Another one,” he said at last.

That jerked Gaaron upright on his stool. “Another one? You mean other Jansai camps have been destroyed like this?”

Solomon shrugged. “Jansai—Edori—who can say? There were not even shapes left in the cinders for us to be able to judge. But everything was burned, and no one was left alive.” He looked over at Gaaron in the dim light of the tent. “Some of our people found a site like that five days ago not far from Luminaux. Who knows how long ago it happened?”

“Would you have any idea what caused such a thing?”

“No. Would you?” the gypsy shot back.

Gaaron shook his head. “No. But there may have been a witness at the site we found. A Jansai girl, about ten years old. We found her not far from the camp, hysterical. So far she will not talk to us.”

“And she should not ever talk to you, if she is a good girl,” Solomon said. “One of our women among the men of the Eyrie!”

Gaaron brushed this aside. “She's a child. And she's afraid. And we need the information she has. I thought you would be willing to send someone back to the Eyrie to question her.”

“If it is so important to you to get answers from her, why did you not bring her with you today?”

Gaaron smiled somewhat grimly. “She barely survived the flight to the Eyrie in the arms of a female angel. I did not think she could endure a flight of several hundred miles in my arms. Terror would have struck her dead.”

“As modesty should have,” Solomon muttered.

“But it did not, and I believe she has been spared for a purpose,” Gaaron said sharply. “Will you send someone? As quickly as you can?”

Solomon eyed him speculatively. “And if I do? What is such a service worth to the man who will be Archangel?”

Gaaron smiled again, a more feral expression this time. “I imagine, what it would be worth to
you
,” he said gently. “Information about any man or creature menacing travelers upon the road would have to be of interest to the Jansai.”

Solomon stared back at him a moment, and then gave a gut-deep laugh. “You can't blame a man for testing his limits,” he said genially, and poured more liquid into both their glasses. “But I doubt she will be able to tell us much.”

“I hope you're wrong,” Gaaron said. “For if there have been two such attacks—you know of only one other?—two such attacks, we have to assume there may be more. We need to know what we are facing.”

“I have told the Jansai to ride with care. I assume the Edori are likewise spreading the news among their clans.”

“If they even know of it.”

“They know,” Solomon said. “We saw tracks of Edori horses by the burned campsite.”

“And the river merchants? Have you told them the story?”

“All the Jansai are carrying it across the provinces. Before the week is out, I would guess every farmer from here to the north edge of Gaza will have heard the rumors.”

“I would appreciate,” Gaaron said, “being apprised of all such occurrences in the future. Anytime something untoward happens, anywhere across Samaria, I would like to be told of it.”

“Certainly, Gabriel,” Solomon said, his eyebrows raised high.

Gaaron smiled. “And for that, I will pay a service fee. When the goods are delivered.”

Solomon smiled back. “Ah, now we understand each other, Archangel-elect. I will be happy to do business with you over the next twenty years.”

Gaaron did not linger in Breven; he could not imagine anyone ever did. He did offer to fly a Jansai interpreter to the Eyrie, but Solomon laughed at him.

“And how would this Jansai return to Breven without horse or wagon to sustain him? And how would you carry both a man and a woman all that way from the desert to your mountain? And do you think we would really allow any of our women to be held so close in a man's arms for any purpose whatsoever? Gabriel! I thought you understood us better than that.”

“I was merely thinking of the time I could save,” Gaaron said, coming to his feet and preparing to exit. “I apologize if I said something offensive.”

Solomon followed him to the tent door, where the coiled heat was waiting to hiss and strike. “Time is not something about which the Jansai worry greatly,” Solomon said. “We will be there when we arrive.”

With that promise, Gaaron had to be content. He flung himself aloft, anxious to shake the actual dust of Breven from his wings, and struck a course that was almost due west over the mountains. He would not make it back tonight, but perhaps, this time, he could break his journey at Castelana or one of the other river cities, someplace that boasted accommodations a bit more civilized than the inn he'd slept in the night before.

However, he did not cover the miles as quickly as he'd hoped. The sultry desert air dragged on him, made his wings clumsy and sluggish, and once he got over the mountains, things did not improve much. A storm was brewing over the Jordana prairie, and the combination of wind and humidity made the flying both tricky and slow. By the time he got clear of the bad weather, he was tired and sunset was not far away. And he was nowhere near the Galilee River.

He banked and descended a little to scout the ground
below for signs of a settlement, though he could easily fly another hour or more before he had to look for shelter. This part of Jordana was fairly well populated, since it was on the direct trade route from Breven to the river cities, and Gaaron was certain he'd find something acceptable before true night came on.

What he found, and what, on impulse, he dropped down to investigate, was an Edori campsite. Mysterious fires and lost Jansai girls should not combine to make him forget that he had another mission to complete in the near future. He landed softly, rocking forward to shift his weight from his wings to his feet, and strode forward to see what he might find at the camp.

C
hildren ran forward to greet Gaaron, and the adult Edori came to their feet, looking mildly curious but completely welcoming. “Angelo, angelo!” the children cried out as they came close enough to touch. One or two of them actually put their fingers out to his feathers, and Gaaron twitched his wings away, folding them back as tightly as they would go.

“Children,” a voice admonished, and Gaaron found himself face-to-face with one of those indistinguishable Edori, all tan skin and long black hair. This one was male, and bigger than most, though not Gaaron's size or height. “Apologize for your rudeness. You would not stroke a strange woman's hair just because it was of an unfamiliar color. Do not touch the angel without his permission.”

“Sorry, angelo,” came from a chorus of voices, and the children stepped back, though they did not disperse. Gaaron smiled at his rescuer.

“Thank you,” he said. “No angel enjoys having his wings tugged on and poked.”

“No, and I would not like anyone to pull on my beard, either,” the Edori replied. “Despite the roughness of our greeting, we are happy to see you here. May we offer you
dinner? A place to stay for the night? We are just settling down for our evening meal and would be happy to have you join us.”

He had never broken bread with the Edori before. Until Mahalah had named his bride-to-be, it had never occurred to him to try it. But, unless he was luckier than the laws of chance generally allowed, this would not be his last foray into an Edori camp, so he had better get used to the customs.

“I would be happy to share your meal,” he said formally. “I regret that I have nothing to offer to share.”

The Edori laughed. “Your company, angelo, your company! And, if you choose to stay afterward, your voice as we sing around the campsite tonight. That would be a splendid gift.”

Was he serious? Did he really expect the Archangel-elect to lead a few Edori ballads after the meal was over? Then again, perhaps none of these people recognized him. It was a fact he'd never seen any of them before. “My name is Gabriel Aaron, and I lead the host at the Eyrie,” Gaaron said. “People generally call me Gaaron.”

“Then that is how I shall introduce you,” the other man replied. “I am Bartholomew of the Lohoras. I am eating with friends tonight. Let me take you to their fire.”

So Gaaron followed Bartholomew to a big fire where there seemed to be a dozen people gathered together, all cooking and talking and trying not to stare at the angel in their midst. Bartholomew gave all their names, but Gaaron only caught one or two, and could not have assigned them to the relevant face if he had been quizzed five minutes later. One of the women was named Susannah, and for a moment his heart leapt up, but she was holding a baby that looked like her, and she was here with the Lohoras. Gaaron did not think Jovah would have chosen for him a woman who was already wife and mother.

“Sit, please, Gaaron, and someone will serve you. Will this chair do for you? No, I suppose not. I do not know how you can be comfortable with those wings dragging behind you, but I suppose—ah, yes, thank you, Eleazar, that stool looks like just the right thing—”

In a few moments, Gaaron was seated on a rickety stool
before the fire, a battered metal plate on his knees and a circle of smiling Edori faces watching him from around the fire. Someone sang a quick prayer of grace, and then they all began eating. The food was surprisingly good.

“I would compliment the cook, whoever she is,” Gaaron said to the young woman sitting beside him. She was pretty and smiling, and he wondered if all Edori sat so close to their friends around the fire, or if she had deliberately drawn her own chair as near to him as she could get.

“I am one of them,” she said with a sideways look and another smile. “I like to cook. What do angels generally eat? I can make almost anything.”

“Oh—we eat what I imagine everyone eats,” Gaaron said. “Meat and vegetables and bread. Cakes and pastries.”

“I love pastries—those wonderful, sweet cherry-and-nut breads that you can get in places like Luminaux,” she said wistfully. “You have to live in the city to get such luxuries.”

He could not help but smile. “And do you like luxuries?”

“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed. “Every single one of them.”

“Keren is a Luminauzi at heart,” said a woman on the other side of the lovely girl. This one, he was pretty sure, was the one named Susannah. “She loves beautiful things. Craves them.”

“I would live in Luminaux if everybody else would,” Keren said, something of a pout on her full lips. “But no one else will stay, and I do not want to be the only Edori in the Blue City.”

Susannah lifted a hand to stroke Keren's fine black hair. At a guess, Gaaron would put the young Keren down as a vain and shallow flirt, but this Susannah seemed to feel a genuine affection for her. “And what would we do without you if you chose to stay in Luminaux?” Susannah asked her gently. “You must live with the Edori always, and pick up such luxuries as you may upon the road.”

Keren wrinkled her nose, then smiled and turned her attention back to the angel. “What kinds of luxuries do you have in the Eyrie?” she wanted to know. “Do you eat little pastries every day? Do you dine on plates of gold or silver? Do your women dress in silk?”

Involuntarily, Gaaron looked across Keren's head and met
Susannah's gaze. The other woman smiled and raised her shoulders in a tiny shrug.
What are you going to do with the envious young?
she seemed to say.

“We have some extravagances, I suppose,” Gaaron said. “Though we are nothing like the Manadavvi. Have you ever traveled north to Gaza? There some of the wealthy own so much land that a man cannot walk from one end of his property to the other in a single day. I have seen Manadavvi who use diamonds as buttons for their shirts. And, in fact, at a Manadavvi household I have eaten off of gold plates. But not at the Eyrie. We are too busy working to concern ourselves too much with niceties.”

Keren seemed disappointed by the conclusion of Gaaron's remarks, though she had been enthralled with the description of the Manadavvi. Susannah stirred and looked more interested, though. “What kind of work do the angels do?” she asked. “I admit, I am not used to considering you engaged in hard labor.”

He grinned at her over Keren's head. “Well, sometimes by the end of the day I feel that is exactly what I have been doing,” he said. “But mostly I am just talking. The merchants and the farmers come to have me settle disputes. Sometimes there is a disagreement about who owns what land, sometimes they need a mediator to help them reach some kind of trading arrangement. The Archangel and the leader of the host at Monteverde send me news and questions. The oracles tell me of pronouncements Jovah has made. And, of course, any number of people can visit the Eyrie to ask for a weather intercession—”

But he had lost her attention. “ ‘Jovah',” she repeated. “I have heard that is how you angels name the god.”

He was utterly confused. “That is his name.”

“We call him Yovah. All Edori do.”

It was as if someone had told him his sister's name was not Miriam, or his own name was not Gabriel. He could not at first credit it. “That is—but how can you call him by a name that is not his?”

Susannah was smiling. Keren, on the other hand, looked completely bored. “I imagine Yovah has many names,” Susannah remarked. “I imagine people see him in many
different ways. But he is wise, and he knows who calls on him and what they need from him, and he never fails to answer a prayer no matter how he is addressed.”

“To me the god has always been direct and unchanging,” Gaaron said a little stiffly.

Susannah smiled again. “To the Edori, very few things are simple or unchanging,” she remarked. “I am sure our way of life would be very strange for you—and your way of life very strange to us.”

“I wouldn't mind learning the angel way of life,” Keren interjected. “Even if you do work all the time. I would still like to see what the life is like.”

“Would you?” Susannah asked softly. “I don't think I would like it at all. I would miss my family and my freedom if I were living in one of those stone holds. I have not been to Monteverde, but I have seen Windy Point. From a distance. From below. It is so high up you can barely view it from the ground. And it looks so cold and so unfriendly that it makes me shiver.”

“Windy Point is placed rather inhospitably,” Gaaron acknowledged, “though it is a welcoming enough hold once you get inside it. And, like Windy Point, the Eyrie is hard to reach, for an angel must fly you up to the very top. But it is quite a beautiful place, full of warmth and music. You might like it better than you think.”

Keren had turned her big eyes on Susannah. “Not that you are any more likely to go to either one of those places than I am,” she scoffed.

“True,” Susannah said. “I just want to less.”

Before Gaaron could think of an answer to that, the people sitting around the campfire began to shift closer together. He looked up and noticed that others were joining them from their smaller fires. Keren edged even closer to Gaaron, then smiled up at him when her arm brushed against his.

“What is happening now?” he asked her.

“Oh, everyone is coming together to sing,” she said. “We have done so every night that the clans have traveled together. You could join in, if you like,” she added naively. “Everyone's voice is welcome.”

“Thank you,” he said, and dared not look at Susannah at
that point. But he could feel her smiling again. Or still.

Bartholomew was escorting the others over to Gaaron for their own introductions, so he rose to his feet and said polite hellos to a collection of men and women he would never recognize again. To their credit, he thought, they did not make much fuss over him. They treated him with the casual friendliness they might extend to anyone who happened to wander up to their campfire at night, angel or no. He could not decide if he found the lack of ceremony refreshing or just a little annoying.

The others reseated themselves, but Bartholomew stayed on his feet. “Let us thank Yovah for his many gifts this day,” the Edori said. He offered a prayer in a language that Gaaron did not know, but he listened appreciatively to the simple melody and the fine voice that delivered it. A chorus of Edori voices came in on the amen, much as angel voices might have in the same situation, and Gabriel appreciated that as well. Perhaps he would have something in common with his Edori bride after all, if they both loved music.

Keren had jumped to her feet, tugging on Susannah's arm. “Sing with me,” she demanded, and Susannah obligingly stood beside her. “That song that Ruth sang the other night. I will start it.”

Keren's voice was high and full of emotion, though not particularly strong, and Gaaron settled himself more comfortably to listen to it. He did not know this song, either, but at least this time he could understand the words. And the melody was not difficult. By the time she had sung it straight through twice, he would have been able to match her on it, note for note, had he been so inclined.

But then she skipped into the next verse, and Susannah's voice joined to Keren's, and Gaaron lost all inclination to do anything but listen.

Susannah had a rich alto voice, and it wrapped around Keren's sugar-sweet voice like a decadent layer of cream. The song was a tale of lost love, found love, everlasting love, and the twined voices made the story seem tragic and then triumphant. Keren's thin soprano was given extra depth and texture by Susannah's smooth alto, though the lower voice never intruded on the brilliance of the higher, just filled it
out and made it glorious. Gaaron listened, amazed. He hoped the song would never come to an end.

It did, of course, but instantly someone else called for Susannah to join in a duet. This time her partner was a young boy, maybe fifteen years old, whose reedy baritone could never have sustained any song all on its own. But Susannah, singing the harmony above the melody line, drew the other voice upward, lent it strength and range. Everyone around the campfire applauded heartily when the piece was over, leading Gaaron to suspect that this was one of the first times this number had been done in public, or at least successfully.

“Linus! One more!” someone called out, but the boy shook his head and quickly took his seat.

“Susannah! Over here!” a woman called, and Susannah stepped a few paces over. This new piece was more lively, and the other singer's voice was almost as strong as Susannah's, so it was quite dizzyingly beautiful to listen to. Their voices were nearly matched in range, so the harmonies were close, and at times the two lines became unison. The effect was of a length of bronze velvet folding and unfolding, revealing first one rich layer, then two, then just a single unbroken swatch of gorgeous color.

They finished the song on a few quick key changes, then burst into breathless laughter at the end. As before, the performance was greeted with acclaim, and the two women bowed at the crowd, then at each other, then at the crowd again, clearly enjoying themselves.