by Sharon Shinn
Miriam smiled. “That’s what I told Zibiah,” she said.
“You told her that I would fly out to Breven?”
“No, I told her that you would know what to do.”
Gaaron regarded his sister helplessly for a moment. She looked completely sincere. So many souls relying on him—Nicholas, Ahio, Miriam, Esther, everyone in the hold—so many truly believing that he knew, he always knew, exactly what to do all of the time. He felt that familiar weight settle onto his back, and he straightened up in bed to help him catch his balance.
“Well, all I want to do right now is get up and put on some clothes,” Gaaron said. “So out you go. I’ll check in with you later.”
She scooted out the door, and he slowly rose and dressed. It was a day in which not much could be accomplished; certainly he could not expect a reply from Adriel before tomorrow. It would take Ahio eighteen hours or more to fly to Windy Point, and he would have to rest both on the way and before he attempted the flight back.
It occurred to Gaaron only after breakfast that he did not have to await the Archangel’s reply before he set off for Breven to make his own inquiries.
He paused in his eating to consider this. Adriel might have similar tales to tell him, of random fires on the Jordana plains or strange men flickering in and out of view right on the edge of the Caitana Mountains, but he could not imagine that, even if she did, she had interpreted these events any more definitively than he had. And he needed to get to Breven as soon as he could, to inform the Jansai that one of their own was even now recuperating in the Eyrie hold. Adriel’s reply could wait upon his own return; he need not waste any more time.
Therefore, as soon as he finished his meal, he called to Esther and asked her to fix him a pouch of traveling rations. She looked disapproving, for she never liked it when he was gone from the hold overnight, but all she said was, “How many days will you be gone?”
Two days to fly to Breven—a few hours there—a night of rest—two days to fly back. “At least two days’ worth. I’ll get food for the return journey there,” he said. “I’ll leave within the hour.”
Then he had to seek out Miriam, to tell her where he was going, and inform the other angels that he would be gone a few days; they must take turns greeting the petitioners who arrived, looking for mediation. It was a matter of a few minutes to pack several changes of clothes, for he required no formal wear to visit with the Jansai. He slung a pack over his shoulder, carefully fitting the strap between the joints of his wings and cinching it around his waist so that it did not inconvenience him while he was flying. He flexed his shoulders. The fit was perfect.
Once he had picked up his food, he was off. The morning was clean and as sweet-scented as freshly washed laundry, and the air felt as soft against his skin as well-worn cotton. He was traveling alone; he could fly as high and as fast as he liked, which, today, was very high and very fast. His skin prickled with the cold of the upper atmosphere, but the sensation invigorated him. Most of his life, he was too warm. Like all angels, he had hot blood designed to withstand the frigid air at high altitudes—and he, with his big body and bulky muscles, had an even higher temperature than most. It was always a relief to him to plunge upward, into the icy reaches of the heavens, and it was even better when the unfriendly color of night enhanced the illusion of chill. He preferred the winter feel of starlight on his skin.
He flew on for hours without stopping, crossing the Galilee River before he even considered touching down for a rest. A quick break for food, then he was aloft again, winging on toward the coast, just south of the Caitanas and a little east of the mountain range that turned this edge of Jordana into a desert. He was feeling strong and relaxed, well into his easy rhythm of downbeat and upswing, and thought perhaps he could fly straight through to Breven without stopping for the night. But that was stupid. He would arrive dull and tired and incoherent, and a man always needed his wits about him when dealing with the Jansai.
So he dropped down to cruising altitude and began to scan the ground below him for a pattern of lights that would indicate a town big enough to boast an inn. He found one about an hour later, though it wasn’t much of a town or, in fact, much of an inn. The proprietor, a thin and balding older man, wore a calculating expression that just now was overlaid with awe at the angel’s arrival.
“My best room—that you’ll have—my very best room,” the man chattered, scrawling something down in his desktop ledger.
In lieu of payment, Gaaron flashed his bracelets, universal currency for angels on the road. They were thick gold bands set with a triangular pattern of sapphires—the blue gems to represent the Eyrie, the pattern to signify Gaaron’s lineage. The Eyrie would accordingly be charged for Gaaron’s stay. “I would prefer that no one wake me in the morning,” Gaaron said. “But you may not see me anyway, since I will be on my way early.”
“Very good. As the angelo wishes. This way, please.”
The room was small, the bed lumpy, and the heat high. Gaaron cleaned himself up and then lay down gingerly, seeking an easy place to rest his spine so that his wing joints did not dig into the mattress. There appeared to be no comfortable spot on this bed. He groaned, turned to his side, and prepared to spend a miserable night.
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 hapter S ix
Children 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.
