by Jane Lebak
Remiel tried to stand, but Raphael gentled her back down. “You need to take some time.”
“Time is what we don’t have. You gained us a few hours, but the sun sets here too, and we need to get to our safe house.” She forced herself to her feet and put her hand on the wall. It felt stable—and upright in a way that helped her vestibular senses determine which way was upright too. “I should at least scout our way.”
“I’ll be all right in a minute,” Zadkiel mumbled.
With her head pounding, Remiel braced herself to take stock of their surroundings. The alley to which Saraquael had flashed them was unpeopled, so they hadn’t immediately been seen, but in a city of two hundred thousand, it would happen sooner or later. She trusted Saraquael was doing something to keep them invisible to demons, of which there had to be a crowd because of that multitude of people, but his protection couldn’t last forever either.
Remiel took a step, and the smell assaulted her again: sewage, human refuse, death, sweat, all mixed in one bouquet that left her wondering if maybe hungry demons in the forest had been the better option after all.
Well, no time for regrets. They were here. With an act of will, she raised her head. “One last thing. We’re not presentable. Can you clean off her clothes, at least?”
Saraquael snapped. The dirt fell off Zadkiel’s tunic, and her hair styled itself into a twist. Remiel laughed. If he felt secure enough to show off, and he absolutely hadn’t in the forest, then they’d greatly improved their safety margin. There he’d been dismal, tense. Coming here was the right choice. Given that it was all her fault to begin with, she’d take a pounding headache to protect Zadkiel.
Zadkiel got to her feet, still pale but otherwise steady. Reaching for her hand, Remiel said to Saraquael and Raphael, “Thank you. I think we’ve got it from here.”
Raphael blessed them both, then vanished. Saraquael said, “If I can do it without compromising your safety, I’ll check you later tonight. You’ve still got your personal guards, although from now on you have to assume there are demons around you at all times, and here’s a map of the city.”
Abruptly Remiel knew the layout of all the streets, the location of the harbor, the house they needed to go to—and the remaining contents of her stomach. She went on all fours and dry-heaved until tears came to her eyes, and afterward only huddled around herself in misery.
Saraquael hunched in front of her, dismal again. “I’m so sorry.” His voice was broken. “I didn’t think about that. It’s just—”
“Just that you’re used to me being an angel.” Remiel swiped her wrist across her eyes. “It’s okay.”
Zadkiel rubbed Remiel’s shoulders. “Please don’t do that again, if you don’t mind.”
“Yeah, from now on, spoken directions.” Saraquael shivered. “I need to leave. I don’t want to undo the good of bringing you here.” And with a blessing, he vanished.
This stank. Where they stood literally stank, of course, but the situation itself also reeked of awfulness. It wasn’t fair. They were angels, except they couldn’t be. They should be able to move around, to transmit knowledge to one another, to face down demons with absolute freedom. Not this. This was imprisonment.
Zadkiel said, “Can you walk?”
“I’d better.” Remiel stood. “I’m going to guide you.” She put her hand on Zadkiel’s elbow. “At least I have the layout of the city in my head now, so I can direct us. We’re going first to the commercial agora.”
“For what?”
“Supplies.” Remiel steeled herself. “For one thing, I need better clothing.”
She guided them through the narrower streets onto a larger thoroughfare she suddenly recognized as Curetes Street. She attracted the attention she’d known she would: with shorn blonde hair, strange clothing, and a half-dozen earrings, she didn’t look like your standard Ephesian. Zadkiel, by contrast, had olive skin and black hair, plus she wore a chiton and an overtunic, so she fit right in. A half-step behind her, Remiel guided Zadkiel by resting a hand on her elbow and moving it like a tiller, and she kept her own head down.
The smells intensified, as did the sounds. Remiel bit her lip. It didn’t make sense to add pain in order to relieve pain, but for some reason it helped a little. As she walked, though, she laughed abruptly. In Greek, she said, “Remember when Paul wrote that the faithful could make up for whatever was lacking in the sufferings of Christ?”
Zadkiel said, a bit hesitant, “I do.”
“We’ve never had a chance to do that until now.” Remiel giggled. “So I guess some good comes from this.”
“Oh.” A momentary pause. “I wonder how we do that. Is there a ritual or a prayer?”
“You’d have to ask Paul.” Remiel shrugged. “Okay, this way.”
At the market, Remiel found to her surprise that Saraquael’s mental map included such information as which sellers dealt in which merchandise. That was helpful. Otherwise, the tumult might have overwhelmed her: if anything, her over-saturated senses were now even more saturated, and her head pounded harder. Whatever could have possibly been lacking that this is making up for it? In addition to the sounds and smells, she now had other human bodies to avoid, elbows and shoulders that wanted to slam against her as people rushed to finish their business before the day’s end.
And the conversations—even the snippets were too much to follow. Price haggling, arguments, softer thank-yous and how-are-you-doings, and several people gleefully recounting a gory murder that had taken place on the city’s outskirts only this morning. That topic came up repeatedly. The poor victim had died in three different and very graphic ways by the time Remiel reached the clothing merchant Saraquael wanted her to visit.
This particular older man with thin hair and a full beard had his tent near the tremendous theater under one of the colonnades. Remiel stopped before him, bowing. When he looked at her, she lowered her head and presented the fur coat. “Sir, how much will you give my mistress for this coat?”
Zadkiel’s head pivoted toward Remiel, but she ignored her. The merchant lifted the coat from her arms, examined it thoroughly, grunted, then offered an embarrassingly low price.
Not being stupid, Remiel said, “Thank you. We will move on.”
“Wait, wait!” The merchant stepped forward. “You’re not getting a better deal anywhere else. This isn’t worth anything. It’s not the style, and you can tell how warm it is in this country. You think you’re still in the North? No one needs this.”
Remiel bowed her head again. She said in flawless Greek, “Good sir, you are insulting my mistress. This coat will fetch you an amount five times as much. The workmanship is high-end, and people do travel northward. I’m sure some other merchant will be willing to discuss fair terms for its purchase. May you be blessed all the days of your life.”
“Now wait, wait. Don’t go cheating your mistress out of what should rightly be hers. By what authority are you negotiating?”
Zadkiel tilted up her chin. “Mine.”
Remiel kept her voice even and low. “She knows the garment’s value. She owns the garment together with the servant. You are not the first,” she added, “to under-estimate the value of these items. We will go elsewhere.”
Abruptly the merchant was more amenable to discussing money, whereas Zadkiel had gotten five times as tense. The money wasn’t the issue. Remiel didn’t care quite so much about the actual value of the garment—let him rip her off if he wanted to; only his own soul would suffer. More important than the price was her need to blend in, so she required an entirely new wardrobe, and the pair of them needed at least a little money. So the bartering continued: he said such a price was too much; Zadkiel said it was too little; Remiel said, “What if we also sold my boots?” which led to the merchant’s examination of her footwear, followed by him asking if she’d sell her tunic.
Now they were getting somewhere. “My mistress will not permit me to walk naked through the market.”
The merchant laug
hed. “Now that would be a sight! I’d purchase you myself for that, but you’re right, you’re right.”
A deal was struck: everything Remiel was wearing at an agreed-upon price for the mistress, plus new clothes for the slave. “Serviceable clothes,” the merchant assured Zadkiel. “She won’t be dressed more fashionably than you.”
Maybe he attributed the horror on Zadkiel’s face to the notion that Remiel might be more beautiful than herself. She said, “Let it be done.”
The merchant produced a tunic and sandals, plus the money, and then sold them a bag to keep the money in. He ushered Remiel into a nearby alcove where she made sure he wasn’t watching and then changed clothing. While there was nothing to be done about her hair and skin color, she emerged looking marginally more Greek than when she’d gone in.
“Now you look like a decent woman!” The merchant turned to Zadkiel. “Sell her to me too. I’ll reimburse you for twice her value.”
Zadkiel’s eyes flared. “Absolutely not!”
“No offense, no offense.” The merchant handed Remiel a pair of sandals. She removed the hot, heavy boots, and he watched her fumble with the sandal straps until finally he made a show of how to put them on. Her skin crawled at his touch. He said, “Did you hear about that foreigner who died over at the magician’s house?”
Remiel edged back her foot. “The one they found decapitated?”
“Nah, he got burned to death.” The merchant barked a laugh, and Remiel made a note to question Saraquael about what exactly qualified this merchant as desirable. “That’s what happens when you mess with the gods. I know the magician he was dealing with, though, and he deserved worse than he got.”
“Don’t we all?” said Remiel as she backed away from the merchant and strapped on the second sandal by herself.
Ten minutes later, two angels were back on their way through the streets.
Horrified, Zadkiel whispered, “You’re my slave?”
“You can’t see me, but trust me there’s no other conclusion anyone could reach.” Switching to a Gaelic tongue, Remiel patted Zadkiel’s arm. “I look like a Northerner, and from my hair it’s pretty obvious that I’m a prisoner of war, probably a gift from your father or husband. It’s not a big deal. I’m sure you’re a good owner.”
Remiel stopped at a food vendor shutting down for the day and bought his last two loaves of bread at a discount, plus some dried fish. Zadkiel ate the bread as they walked, but after one nibble, Remiel decided her stomach didn’t want to be occupied again quite yet. She tucked the rest of the food into their bag and hunched her shoulders. Exactly what are we making up for again?
Zadkiel said between bites, “I’m sorry you’re in this position. You outrank me.”
Remiel made a strangled sound. “No you don’t!”
“Absolutely you do.” After a moment, Zadkiel added, “And as my slave, you’re not allowed to contradict me.”
Remiel lowered her voice to a soft, smooth Greek. “My mistake, Mistress. You are correct in all ways.”
Zadkiel grinned.
Correct or not, Zadkiel didn’t know how to get to the Christian community in Ephesus, and Remiel did, so once again she walked a pace behind and steered her supposed mistress with a hand on her elbow. The sun had begun setting on the pair for the second time that day, and as it grew darker, Remiel’s headache lessened.
They walked for a quarter hour, the streets getting narrower and the people farther between. Voices moved from the streets into the buildings, and a smoky scent choked the air. The structures changed from temples and monuments to personal dwellings, smaller and more crowded-together. Eventually they reached a home that called out to Remiel as their destination. She stopped at the front gate, then steeled herself.
Zadkiel’s head lifted. “Is something wrong?”
“Not more than usual.” There wasn’t any point in delaying. It would hurt, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t do it.
They went to the entrance where an elderly woman was already standing. She wore a striped tunic and a tan head-scarf over her grey-streaked black hair. Her eyes meet Remiel’s with warmth, and in that moment Remiel knew the woman had been warned of their approach.
Remiel dropped to her knees and crossed her arms over her chest. “Chaire,” she said, “Kecharitomene.”
EIGHT
Michael stood outside Hastle’s cell, arms folded, eyes dark.
“It’s not as if we didn’t try,” Saraquael said, being overly generous with that we in taking the blame because Michael knew he hadn’t actually been part of the questioning team, only an observer. Still, Saraquael had picked the best questioners to go in there and start their work with the idea of keeping Michael out of the process, and here he was anyhow.
A little chagrined from the incident with Remiel, (unnecessarily so,) Saraquael said, “They pulled back before the situation got irredeemable, but I don’t think further interaction is going to change the situation. He’d demanding to talk to you.”
The second demon had given very little information because he didn’t have much. He’d been brought into the experiment solely for his expertise in stealth; as such, he knew it was in his best interests not to know anything more about what his superiors were doing. That demon’s information had centered around who worked in the lab and how often Asmodeus stopped by, why they’d chosen that location, and how he’d structured the cavern to make the Guard harder to detect should he need to put one up. They’d verified that there was only one lab location and the identities of the entire staff working on the project. (All the others were unfindable right now. Not a huge surprise: Asmodeus must have them under triple Guard.) The interrogation team had determined their detainee wanted to leave, and they’d ensured his cooperation by promising that once the situation was stable, he could go. It was in his best interests to hasten his own departure.
Which left them with only Hastle, who they hoped had more information. Michael sighed. “Let’s review it again.”
Saraquael opened his hands, and a light box formed between them. The scene unfolded just as before: the two direct questioners entering Hastle’s cell, Hastle saying, “The only one I’ll speak to is Michael,” and then making no further response. Saraquael helpfully included a timer at the bottom of the re-enactment, and it would run for a further twenty-three minutes while the interrogators tried speaking with Hastle, then bantered with each other, then prayed together. (Hastle at least obliged them there by moving to the room’s farthest corner.) Michael skipped ahead, at times focusing the recording in on Hastle’s face, his eyes, reaching into it to detect whatever emotions he’d let stray, except there were precious few. He noticed the first at the fourteen minute mark. Disgust. Determination.
It was, sadly, the Archangel he’d known way back when, and whatever game he was playing, he wanted Michael to play it with him.
“Before I go in,” Michael said, “I want you to stop second-guessing your decision to move Remiel and Zadkiel.”
With the color still bleached from his wings, Saraquael stared at the ground. “It could have worked out a lot worse than it did.”
“And yet it didn’t. You did fine.” Michael gestured to the cell. “You can go now. I’ll get the team back together.”
Michael met the interrogators. One was an Angel and the other a Principality. They’d worked together before, and even the way they stood near one another in total comfort displayed the rapport they’d developed.
Michael said, “You’re the experts here. I’m going to follow your lead as much as possible, so don’t hang back. I need you to drive the show. I’m only there enough to get him to open up.”
“Even with you present, he’s not going to open up,” said the Principality. “We’re going to have to pry him open.”
The Angel added, “Although he won’t realize at the time.”
The Principality gestured to the other four members of the team, a mixture of Angels and Archangels. “They’re going to be listening in the
whole time, and if they want us to push on a particular subject or back off, or if they want us to use a particular phrasing, they’ll advise. But it’s always the questioner’s decision whether to accept the suggestion, and given your greater history with him, I suggest you trust your judgment.”
Michael shrugged. “My judgment wasn’t all that great with him before.”
Either before, when they’d spoken in the cell, or before the Winnowing, when they’d been friends.
Michael loosened his shoulders and relaxed his wings. “Well, let’s begin.”
They began with a prayer, and after God’s blessing settled over them, he went with the other two questioners back into the cell.
Hastle hadn’t changed position since the last time Michael had met him. He sat against the wall, knees tucked up, eyes without any warmth. “Oh, look, the good little servants fetched you.”
Michael said nothing. The Principality led off. “You said you were willing to talk if he was present, and we want you to be as comfortable as possible.”
Hastle laughed out loud. “He’s an idiot,” he said to Michael, “and he must think I’m an idiot too. That isn’t what I said at all. I won’t talk to any of them. I said I’d talk to you.”
Michael knew that was a lie, but he didn’t bother to correct it. “I’m here, so let’s talk.”
The demon shook his head. “Only you. Dismiss your entourage.”
From the other side of the wall, Michael could feel the rest of the team giving an assortment of advice. The Angel moved nearer to Hastle. “Your name used to be Hastiel, right?”
The demon raised a hand. “Tell her to get back.” He glared at Michael. “Make them both leave.”
The Angel sent, Our presence is escalating his defensiveness.
Do you mind if we go? sent the Principality.
A thousand times yes, he minded if they left. The plan was supposed to involve two highly-skilled questioners luring Hastle into a sense of trust and cooperation, obtaining the information they needed, and then leaving him secure but otherwise unharmed until this situation resolved. Having two others with him gave Michael the ability to use the group’s dynamics to help with the questioning and kept Hastle’s focus divided amongst three questioners. But that was in an ideal reality, so Michael instead indicated it was fine as long as they continued their backup.
