by Sharon Shinn
The hangings on the other wall looked more like maps to her—and one might even be Samaria. It was oddly proportioned, though, as if the continent had been laid across a globe and stretched and pulled to make it fit some unfamiliar contours. The Galilee River was sketched in, as were some of the major mountain ranges, but the land was not divided into the three provinces as it was in every modern map. So! Perhaps these were the rough dimensions of Samaria as the settlers had first seen it, hastily outlined and inaccurately represented, but essentially a plot of the homeland they would create. It must be as old as the history of the angels. It made Alleya shiver to look at it.
The other was far more detailed, a map of continents and oceans with every river, lake, mountain, desert and city shaded in and named. Idly reading over the foreign words, Alleya was startled to find, here and there, names she partially recognized: Jordan, Galilee, Bethlehem. Could this be a depiction of the place the settlers had come from? Alleya brushed her finger across the faded coastlines, the gray seas, and felt another chill spider walk down her back.
But she was not here to look at pictures hundreds of years old, maps that could tell her nothing. Books—now, books could tell stories with morals she needed to learn. If she could find the right books.
She sorted through the shelves and piles for a good hour, opening dusty covers and scanning incomprehensible pages, looking for names or phrases that sounded familiar. At first she made a stack of possibilities—anything that mentioned Hagar or Uriel, the first Archangel, often enough to seem like a record of their time period—but these began piling up so quickly she realized she would need another qualifier. And the task was beginning to look hopeless, for, as Alleya scanned the pages, she saw that almost none of the words were in current usage; she would have to look up each one, laboriously, individually—assuming she could actually find a dictionary. It could take years to translate a single chapter, and she did not think she had anywhere near that much time.
Until what? she thought, for the idea that there was a deadline approaching made her uneasy. Don’t have much time until what?
So it looked hopeless, but a certain stubbornness made her keep combing the shelves, anyway. Chance and her random browsing brought her a most fortunate find just as she was about to give up completely. It was a massive leatherbound book that she found on the floor, lying on top of two smaller books. The flyleaf of the biggest volume was inscribed by hand and signed by the oracle Josiah:
“I, Josiah, in the fifth year of the glorious reign of the Archangel Gabriel, have, at the direction of the Archangel, begun a translation of the earliest accounts of the settlers’ arrival in Samaria. It is the Archangel’s fear that we will lose the ability to read those early records as we lose all touch with that ancient language and as we forget the stories that have been told to us by our fathers and their fathers. Thus I set down in the modern tongue the words written in the lost language, choosing for my text the first volume of the historian Paul, known for his keenness in observation as well as his accuracy…”
There was more in the same vein, but Alleya skipped it to skim through the handwritten manuscript itself. Josiah had laid out the book in an unusual style, with a page of the old language facing a page of the modern version, so that the knowledgeable reader could interpret controversial passages of the original text for himself. Indeed, in several places he had inscribed question marks and possible alternative definitions in brackets next to a vague word in his translation. Just in flipping through the pages, Alleya found two instances where he had written yet another word in the margin, attributing it to “Ezekiel” or “Jezebel.” The other two oracles of his time, Alleya presumed; who else would know the ancient writing?
It couldn’t have been better. It was as if Gabriel had anticipated her need and fulfilled it; no wonder they said he had been the greatest Archangel of all time. Alleya was filled with equal parts excitement and awe, but she took a moment to glance at the other two books in Josiah’s little pile. One was completely unreadable—possibly the original text from which Josiah had been translating. The other—ah, another discovery, as good as the first.
This was not exactly a dictionary but a book of phrases written in the original language and translated to one that seemed very close to the modern Samarian version. It too was handwritten, with an inscription on the opening page from someone identified only as the oracle of Gaza during the reign of Michael. Well, there had been more than one Archangel named Michael, so it was impossible to place the oracle in a specific time frame, but it scarcely mattered when the seer had lived as long as he or she had taken the time to set down important knowledge in writing.
Alleya looked more closely at the lines of text and their explanations. Even the quasi-modern interpretations, though put in familiar words, made very little sense to her. “Is the genealogical program loaded?” “Is there sufficient memory left?” “Are there records that need to be purged?” Paging back to the introduction, Alleya received yet another jolt, for here the oracle had written, “Instructions for the novice upon first beginning to interface with the god.” These were the words and phrases used by the oracles when they spoke to Jovah through the glowing screen. These were words only the holy people should see, and Alleya closed the book quickly.
And then, after a moment’s thought, she opened it again. She was Archangel; she was desperate; and in her own way she communicated with the god all the time. This had been left to her, almost deliberately, it seemed, by the great men and women of the past. She would be foolish to leave it behind if it could help her learn what she needed to know. It was a bequest, and she would not forgo or abuse it.
She took another minute or two to look around, but she knew she had found what she came for. So she slipped the books into her leather carrying sack and slung the strap over her shoulder.
Entering the main chamber as she left the archives, Alleya could not resist one more glance at the interface. The next time she was here, perhaps, she would be able to read the dark words on the glowing screen, though she would not do anything so intemperate as to respond.
She turned to go, paused, and turned back, narrowing her eyes against the distance that separated her from the blue screen. She could not be sure, but she thought the hieroglyphics on the interface now were different from those that had appeared when she first stepped into the chamber. She crossed the room to stand once more before the screen, trying to remember exactly what those other letters had looked like. Well, there had been fewer of them, that much she remembered; the screen was now crowded with symbols, numbers, a pattern of pinpoints. That was not what had been displayed when she first walked in.
And then, causing her backbone to melt into her knees, the screen dissolved and shifted even as she watched it. She gasped; her hand flew to her mouth, but she stayed frozen in place as the letters wriggled and re-formed. Two short words only, but invested with a silent urgency, for each letter was several inches high and each word filled half the screen. It must mean something, something tremendous or terrible, but Alleya had no idea what.
Who was the god addressing and what was he asking? What was so pressing that he must offer his thoughts to an empty room, or did he hope that some learned stranger would happen through and see the message on his screen?
Or did he somehow know Alleya was standing there watching—and was he directing his message at her?
Leaving Mount Sinai, Alleya was in a state of some perturbation, so she was not paying complete attention during the early stages of her flight southeast toward Luminaux. She therefore barely noticed the sudden drop in temperature as she crossed the Galilee River, and the first strong gust of wind caught her almost totally off-guard. She had been flying lower than usual, out of sheer laziness, and the force of the wind knocked her sideways and dangerously low to the ground before she pumped her wings furiously enough to regain the necessary altitude—
Where she began to be more alert. The icy currents swirling into the warmer southern a
ir were sure signs of trouble, and she was not surprised, a few miles later, to find herself heading directly into a pelting rainstorm. The central regions of Samaria had received more than their share of rain in past months, although recent reports had indicated the weather was under control. But even from her vantage point far above, Alleya could see the ground was marshy; stands of trees stood drooping in unnatural pools of water, and fresh rivulets made rippling patterns around rocks and boulders that used to rest idly on dry ground. Clearly, rain was not welcome again here today. No one had asked her for a weather intercession—but she was here, and it was one of the few things she was truly good at.
She increased the pace of her wingbeats, angling upward through the dense wet masses of clouds. She was aiming for the still sun-drenched sky above the storm, but she climbed and climbed through the heavy air and never broke free to daylight. The clouds were thicker than she had ever seen them, piled on top of each other in impenetrable profusion.
Very well; she could sing in the storm. She slowed the sweeping rhythm of her wings, feeling the feathers curl and drag as they passed through the sodden air. All she needed was enough motion to hold her in place, although the air itself was so liquid she almost felt she could float in it as she could in a river. She lifted her arms above her head in a gesture of supplication; then, closing her eyes, she began to sing.
Her voice was sweet and thin as drifting campfire smoke; she always pictured its spiraling sparkle wending its way toward the god like a trail of vapor. Odd people had been moved by her voice. Poets, madwomen, autistic children, angels who cared for no singers but themselves—these were the people who crouched at her feet when she offered prayers to Jovah. Most others merely listened, and nodded, and went on their way, unaffected.
But Jovah heard her. He always had. Almost, she could follow the disintegrating mist of her song as it glittered through the lowering clouds and arced through the layer of sunlight somewhere above her, then skittered past the coruscating stars straight to Jovah’s ears. Like the lunatics and mystics, he heard her; her voice caught his wandering attention. She felt him start, as if he had been touched unexpectedly on the cheek, and then relax again as he realized it was only Alleya asking for a simple favor. Yes, of course, happy to do what you ask, she imagined him saying; and as she thought it, the air around her began to shift and lighten.
She stayed aloft another thirty minutes or so, hovering where she had prayed, and feeling the clouds shred away beneath her wings. It was a glorious feeling to petition the god and have the god respond. No matter how often she tried it, Alleya was gratified beyond measure when she succeeded. She strove hard not to be vain about her ability, for, after all, any angel could do the same, but she could not shake the secret belief that her voice pleased Jovah when other voices angered him, or bored him, or made no imprint upon his indifference; and it was indeed a marvelous thing to be one who could charm the god.
When it was clear that the storm had ended—even now a few shards of sunlight were slicing through the clouds—Alleya shifted her weight, dropped a few hundred feet and began flying more purposefully toward southern Jordana. She had wanted to reach Luminaux tonight, but realized that she might have delayed too long, for she had one more stop to make before she could complete her journey. She needed to make a visit of strategic importance to the angel hold at Cedar Hills.
There were many who considered Cedar Hills the best of the angel holds, but for Alleya’s taste, it did not have quite the majesty of the Eyrie or the quaintness of Monteverde. Built on an open, level plan, it seemed to her much more of a peasant village than a seat of divine power—which had been exactly the intention when it was built. However, the small houses, pretty shops and scattered angel dormitories seemed more like a campus for music students than a place where people gathered to confer about the god. Alleya landed gracefully in the well-trimmed patch of green, set aside specifically for angels to come to rest, and glanced about her at the bustling activity of the city center.
Micah, the leader of the Cedar Hills host, might be anywhere—if he was even here. She first tried the central compound, a four-level boxy stone building where most of the important functions of the angels were held—public meals, rehearsals, hearings with petitioners. He was as likely to be there as anywhere.
In fact, he was just leaving the building as Alleya approached it, and he came directly to her side as soon as he saw her.
“Well, this is an honor, angela,” he said, surprised but gracious. “What brings you to our humble hold?”
“Travel to Luminaux, mostly, and a desire to stay in touch,” she replied. “It seems I am rarely in Cedar Hills these days.”
“Well, you have much to occupy you in Velora,” Micah observed, leading her to a low, inviting building wrapped in the aromas of bread and coffee. “Let’s have something to eat, shall we, and catch up on events?”
He got them seated in a private room, ordered tea and cakes, and proceeded to regale her with tales of Cedar Hills, lightly told. Alleya listened, trying to decide if he seemed nervous or merely guarded. The third time he mentioned the Manadavvi Aaron Lesh, she realized he was uncertain about broaching a delicate topic.
“So the Manadavvi have been here,” she said directly. “What were they asking for? Special favors for their distributors, or for you to use your influence on me?”
He smiled ruefully and stirred his tea. “Both, actually. And in fact, it wasn’t the Manadavvi here, though it may as well have been. It was old Esau Heiver from Breven—one of the Jansai industrialists who deals with the Manadavvi.”
“Buying or selling?”
“Both. Buying raw material, selling finished products. You want luxury, angela, you go to Breven. You think you find it in the Manadavvi homes and the Semorran palaces, but they manufacture it in Breven. Unbelievable things—the silks they are weaving in those new factories are softer than a baby’s cheek. And the gold—they are making plates and cups and furniture from gold faster than the Bethel miners can dig the stuff up. You should fly up there for a day just to look at what they’re making.”
“Thank you, I avoid Breven whenever possible. I find the Jansai hard to love.”
“As do we all.”
“So why was Esau here? Complaining about the shipping problems along the river? I had a little dispute about that myself.”
“No, I think he’s entirely willing to let the Manadavvi solve their own problems. What the Jansai are unhappy about are the restrictions on child labor—they don’t want to give up the children. And, perhaps, in a few instances, they have a point. Children have smaller fingers, can reach into some of those wretched machines with more ease than adults can—but I have an innate distaste for the whole picture, those little bodies slaving away in those metallic coffins—”
“What did you tell him?”
Micah gave her his easy smile. He was a pleasant and likable fellow, but just a little lazy; Alleya did not always trust him to hold the moral line. “I told him I would discuss the situation with the Archangel, for I was sure you would have strong views.”
Alleya brushed a hand through her hair. It felt tangled and wind-blown, and no doubt looked worse. “Oh, I do,” she sighed. “I think the children should all be in school or playing happily on their lawns, but we both know there are too many children who have no access to either.”
“Sometimes the children are the only family members able to work in the cities,” Micah said softly. “Just the other day, a family came here. The father had worked in one of those factories. Lost a leg when some big wheel came crashing down on him. The mother—pregnant again. Four children already in the family. What can they do? He can’t farm. She has weaving and sewing skills, but with the factories working at top efficiency, the cost of a simple handmade garment is two or three times the price of one of those silk gowns. The children could work in some of those factories—although, give them credit, these parents were looking for something better. But many parents choose tha
t option—and they weren’t so happy when those age restrictions went into effect, either.”
Alleya nodded. “So what did you do? With the family?”
“Oh, gave the woman a job sewing feast-day outfits for the angels. I can’t bring myself to wear factory-made clothes.”
“That was a good solution.”
“Yes, but I don’t have that many jobs to offer. And it’s an issue that needs to be addressed. You and I both know that unless we enforce the laws, there will be violations—and I don’t have the manpower to patrol the factories of Breven every day.”
Alleya combed her fingers through her hair again. “Well, then. Let’s amend the laws. What do the Jansai respect above anything else?”
“Money,” Micah answered without hesitation.
The Archangel nodded. “Exactly. Tell them they can employ child labor—but at double the rate of an adult worker, and for half the time. So that a child who works a half day receives a full day’s salary. And that it must be documented. And that children who are short-changed should report it, and the errant factory owners will be fined. Everybody gets what they want, and those who abuse the system are exposed. No black market, no incentive to lie.”
Micah’s brows rose, and he smiled. “I like it,” he said. “What about the age restriction?”
“Keep it at ten, for now. Let’s see how many violations we have.”
“You realize, of course, it will ultimately send a wave of fury through the Manadavvi. Since costs will go up, prices will go up, and the Manadavvi are the buyers—”
“Cost of doing business,” Alleya said, smiling faintly. “If their prices go up enough, then women like your new seamstress will become marketable again, as expenses even out. Perhaps I don’t have a head for business. It doesn’t seem so bad to me.”
