Angel-Seeker Page 6

  The young man looked him over with hostile eyes. He had fair skin burned dark by the sun, muddy blond hair, and the physique of a runner. Don’t be so proud; you’ll be fat in another five years, Obadiah thought uncharitably. But it was true. He had never seen a thin Jansai who was over the age of thirty.

  “He’s inside,” the man said at last. “But I don’t know if he’s got time to talk to visitors.”

  Obadiah nodded pleasantly. “That’s fine. I can wait.”

  The young man hesitated a moment. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  “Thank you. You’re so kind.”

  The man disappeared inside the tent. Obadiah found himself wondering what he would do if he really had to kill a few hours in this godforsaken town. Find a hotel for the night, he supposed. He would have to stay overnight in any case, since the flight back was too long to accomplish this evening, whether or not Uriah chose to speak to him now.

  But the Jansai chieftain was disposed to be gracious. He emerged from the tent with his arms flung wide and a smile spread across his broad, greasy face. Uriah embodied the full flavor and style of the Jansai elder. He was heavy, sly, oily, well-dressed in the Jansai fashion, covered with jewelry, and wholly untrustworthy.

  “Obadiah! What a pleasure to see you in Breven, and at my tent of all places! Come in, come in! It is a hot and uncomfortable day, but it is cool inside, and I can give you all manner of refreshments.”

  “Thank you. I would greatly appreciate your hospitality.”

  They stepped inside the red tent, and indeed, the temperature was at least ten degrees cooler. The interior was crammed with comforts—overstuffed chairs, piles of pillows, metal candelabra in whimsical shapes—and so many baubles and ornaments that it resembled a market booth itself. Still, it was more appealing than Obadiah’s own living quarters at the moment. The angel chose the only appropriate seat in view, a four-legged stool covered in a painted purple leather, and let his wings settle behind him.

  “Sit, sit! Will that be comfortable? What would you like to drink? Water? Wine? My wife makes a concoction of mixed fruit juices that is most refreshing on a hot day—”

  “Yes, I would like some fruit juice, if some is available.”

  “Instantly, angelo, instantly.”

  It was a few more minutes before they were settled in, and one of the sullen sons had brought a tray of refreshments to set on a table by Uriah’s hand. The Jansai handed him a glass filled with pulpy red liquid.

  “So! Tell me, Obadiah of the Eyrie. What brings you to Breven on such a hot day?”

  Obadiah smiled. “I understand that all days are hot in Breven, so if I am to come at all, I must choose to come in the heat.”

  Uriah laughed more heartily than the joke warranted. This was another feature of Jansai hospitality: a great pretend warmth that could evaporate in seconds. But the Jansai always led with a show of friendliness. It was a strategy Obadiah could appreciate.

  “Not all days—come visit us in winter sometime, and you will see how miserable a hot climate can be,” Uriah said. “The wind is bitter indeed when there is nothing but sand to shield you from its malice.”

  “The wind at high altitudes is bitter as well, but I have grown accustomed to it,” Obadiah said. “Still, my guess is that I prefer your city in summer or fall, so I am glad this is the time I have chosen to arrive.”

  “And to what purpose? To examine goods in our market? Just tell me what you’re seeking, and I will be happy to advise you on where to spend your money. I would want an angel to be shown only the highest quality merchandise, of course.”

  “No, I’m not here to buy. Or sell. I’m here—” He lifted his glass and smiled as winningly as he could. “To lend an ear to the Jansai. The Archangel Gabriel has told me that there are troubles among your people, and he knows he has not done what he can to address them. Gabriel is busy—Nathan is busy. I merely sit on the high plateau at the Eyrie and sun myself, so they didn’t think I was quite as busy. And they have sent me here to treat with you.”

  “Ahhhh,” Uriah said on a long sigh and sat meditatively sipping from his glass. “Well, that was generous on Gabriel’s part,” he said at last. “It is good to know he takes me seriously.”

  “Gabriel takes everyone seriously. Gabriel is a serious man.”

  “Gabriel is a blind, pigheaded, stubborn fanatic, and no one can deal with him,” Uriah said roundly.

  Obadiah smiled again. “I assure you, you aren’t the only one to hold that opinion. But I have to say I don’t share it. I have found him always thoughtful and well-reasoned, though a bit high-handed, I must admit. Gabriel likes things his own way. But I have seen him bend when he has been convinced his way is wrong.”

  Uriah leaned forward in his chair. “The liberation of the Edori—”

  Obadiah shook his head. “It will not be reversed.”

  Uriah flung his hands out. “But it will bankrupt the city! And if the Jansai fail, let me tell you plainly, your country will crumble within a year.”

  “The last thing Gabriel wants—the last thing any of us want—is to see the Jansai fail,” Obadiah said quietly, with such sincerity that Uriah nodded. “Let us begin with the assumption that we are both working to ensure the success of the Jansai. But let us also work with the assumption that the Edori are to be in no way jeopardized. The Edori are no longer an option for you. Thus, we must look at other options.”

  “I am not ready to relinquish the Edori,” Uriah grumbled.

  “Then perhaps we will not get very far in our discussions today,” Obadiah said, still pleasantly. “But these are matters that will take some time to sort out, don’t you agree? We do not have to solve everything in one evening.”

  Uriah brooded for a moment, then suddenly his face lit in a smile. “You’re right; I am not in favor of negotiations that are finalized in the snap of a finger,” he said, striking his fingers together in just such a gesture. “I distrust a man who arrives with his mind all made up, knowing just what he wants of me without seeing what else I have to offer. We will spend a little time together, and we will talk again later in the week—or later in the month—and we will see how we like each other. That is how the strongest deals are made. When you know the best of what your opponent has to offer.”

  “Or the weakest spot in your opponent’s defenses,” Obadiah said.

  Uriah roared with laughter. “You’re a witty one!” he exclaimed. “Did Gabriel send you here because of your quick tongue?”

  “He claimed it was my charm of manner,” Obadiah said.

  Uriah smiled widely, revealing rather large and dirty teeth. “I can be charming myself,” the Jansai said. “When it suits me.”

  “Then I think we shall deal together extremely well.”

  “Agreed! Are you staying for dinner? You must, of course! Jovah’s bones, you will have to spend the night, I suppose, for your puny wings won’t carry you all the way back to the Eyrie in a single night.”

  “My puny wings are more impressive than any wings I have seen you sprout,” Obadiah said genially, “and I am not headed back to the Eyrie. I am staying in Cedar Hills for the foreseeable future.”

  “Still too far to travel by night.”

  “I agree. I was going to find a hotel.”

  Uriah nodded. “I can recommend a good one.”

  That was a relief. For a moment he had been afraid Uriah would insist that the angel stay with him, either in this tent or whatever unfriendly stone house the merchant might own in the central district. But no; the Jansai were not known for accommodating strangers. There had been no real chance that Uriah would take him in. “Thank you. I appreciate your kindness.”

  The night that followed was only an inch away from debauchery. Obadiah constantly had the sense that, had he appeared the least bit interested, Uriah would have supplied him with fallen women, opiate concoctions, and even stronger liquors than the ones that were served. They took their dinner in another tent, an even more expa
nsive one on the border between the city center and the stone houses of the residential district. The furnishings were opulent, the food magnificent, their companions inebriated and happy. Obadiah was careful to drink enough to appear convivial but not so much that he lost his sense of purpose. He laughed even when he was not amused, complimented his host extravagantly on the food, and listened attentively to every interminable story of hunting and trade offered up by Uriah and his friends. He thought possibly he had never spent a more miserable night in his life.

  Well past midnight, Obadiah came to his feet, a little more shakily than he would have liked. “I’m a working man with a report to make in the morning,” he told Uriah. “I must be off to bed now if I’ve any hope of leaving the city before nightfall tomorrow.”

  “I knew that an angel could not match ale pots with a Jansai,” Uriah said in satisfaction. “But you made a brave try! And I like you for it.”

  “Thank you,” Obadiah said. “I was hoping you would like me for something.”

  “Michael!” Uriah roared, and one of the drunken companions stumbled to his feet. “Escort the angelo back to his hotel. He is staying at the Desert Wind, near the viaduct.”

  “It is not so far. I am certain I can find it on my own,” Obadiah said.

  “You can, but if you are on your own, other things may find you first,” Uriah said, briefly serious in the middle of this hedonistic evening. “There are people here—other Jansai, I admit it, friends of mine, perhaps—who might not be so happy to see an angel in our midst. I would rather see you under safe escort than open you up to—hostilities—so late at night.”

  Obadiah could not credit the idea that he could be in any real danger, but he allowed Uriah the chance to prove himself a watchful host. “Thank you, friend,” he said soberly. “Your concern for me does me honor.”

  Michael, when he came weaving up to Obadiah’s side, did not look prepared to fend off any Jansai dissidents who might happen upon them during their walk to the hotel. He was short, stout, and almost too drunk to stand. But he tried to arrange his features into some semblance of ferocity. “Are you ready, angelo?” he growled. “Then let us go.”

  The night air was cool enough to be pleasant, and the streets empty enough to seem devoid of threat. Obadiah breathed deeply, glad to get away from the close confines of the tent and the overpowering scents of incense and alcohol. His companion paced beside him with his eyes trained on the cobblestone street, as if afraid to miss a gold coin left carelessly in the gutter.

  “I see no one bent on taking my life,” Obadiah said as the Desert Wind came into view around the corner. “You can part with me here.”

  Michael lifted his eyes to give Obadiah one quick, scorching look, then returned his gaze to the ground. “Every Jansai hates the angels,” he said in a gruff voice. “I do. Do not be so sure someone wouldn’t hurt you if he could. I would.”

  Obadiah shrugged, unimpressed. He had come to a halt and now faced his Jansai escort in the dimly lit street. “How do you think you could harm a man who can leap to the sky and fly away the minute you show him menace?”

  Moving more swiftly than Obadiah would have thought possible, Michael plunged a hand in his pocket and emerged with a knife, which he laid against Obadiah’s heart in one deft stroke. “I could run you through so fast you would not have time to take wing,” the Jansai muttered.

  Obadiah’s hand closed around the other man’s wrist with such power that Michael yelped. “Has no one ever told you,” Obadiah said coldly, “that angels have the strength of two or three men? I could break your arm with no real effort.”

  “Do it, then,” Michael panted. “You’ve broken us in every other way.”

  Obadiah released him and took a step backward. “The angels have done nothing to the Jansai but right a wrong the Jansai perpetrated on others,” he said rapidly. “You cannot think you will win our favor through threats of violence. The world has changed in these past two years. You must learn to live in it, or see your people disappear entirely.”

  “If we disappear, all of Samaria will suffer.”

  We have suffered enough because of the Jansai; let us see how deep our suffering runs if they are gone, Obadiah thought. He did not voice the words. “The angels would like to see an end to suffering,” he said instead. “That is why I am here. You do your cause no good by attacking me. I am here to befriend you.”

  “No angel was ever friend to Jansai, except the Archangel Raphael,” Michael said and turned away. Sheathing his knife somewhere in the folds of his clothing, he stalked off into the night. Obadiah made the rest of the short trip to the hotel unescorted and extremely alert.

  Obadiah woke up earlier than he would have liked, and feeling much less clear-headed than he would have preferred. Still, he had been neither knifed nor poisoned the night before; he supposed he must consider that a victory of sorts. He showered and shaved, donned a clean shirt and his flying leathers, and inspected himself in the mirror. His blond hair was still damp from washing but otherwise unaffected by a night of heavy drinking. His face looked a little tired, with faint circles emphasizing the light blue eyes. He appeared to be slouching a little, so he pulled himself upright, straightening his broad shoulders and unfurling his wings to their fullest extent. There, now he looked more like an apparition out of the Librera, the holy book that told of “Jovah’s winged creatures, mighty and just and fierce.” For the moment, he would simply settle for “winged.” Once he grabbed a quick breakfast, he would go aloft and be on his way.

  He was airborne within the hour, but a building headache kept him flying low so that he did not have to contend with the thin air of high altitudes that could make his ears ring even when he didn’t have a hangover. He flew on a southwestern course directly back toward Cedar Hills, marveling at how heavy and sticky the air felt when he was forced to fly this near to the ground. Now and then he flew over Jansai caravans, some heading in toward Breven, some traveling away. He was close enough to see the upturned faces of the men watching him pass overhead. He was not close enough to see their expressions of dislike and calculation, but he imagined them in place all the same.

  A little past noon, he became aware of a raging thirst that nearly draining his canteen did nothing to alleviate. There was not much water near Breven, but he was close to one of the rare oases that dotted the perimeter of the desert, so he angled downward. He would drink from the small geyser till his thirst was slaked, eat a piece of fruit, refill his canteen, and be on his way again. The farther from Breven by nightfall, the better.

  He was only a couple hundred yards above ground when a searing pain ripped through his left wing. He cried out as he began tumbling through the air, madly beating the wind with his good wing but feeling the heavens spin around him. A second streak of fire caught him across his thigh, and he shouted again, drawing his body into a tight ball. He could not hold a course—his injured wing could not lift and beat—the ground rushed up at him from a crazy angle. When he was too close to even attempt to ease his fall, he wrapped his wings protectively around his body, ducked his head, and hit the ground hoping to roll.

  Heavy impact on hard, hot sand—a few moments of motion as he skidded across rocks and desert—another few minutes of stunned immobility and deep, desperate breathing. He lay sprawled across the ground, heart hammering, head spinning, half of his body on fire. He could breathe and he could think—barely—so he must be alive. But what had brought him from the sky? And how badly was he hurt now?

  Shakily, he forced himself to a sitting position, though the pounding in his head was so severe that for a moment he could not focus. Sweet Jovah singing, there was a bloody gash across his left leg that looked like it had been ripped there by a burning-hot iron. The edges were crisp and black, and the whole of it was so raw and so red that it looked like it should be causing excruciating pain. The fact that he felt only a low throb in his leg made him shift with worry. He must be going into shock; he must be even worse off than h
e thought.

  Slowly—because this limb did shudder with an exquisite agony—he extended his left wing. There, dead center in the lavish overlapping spread of white feathers, was a hole about half the size of his fist. It, too, was black and powdery around the edges, as if a streak of fire had tunneled through his wing and left a singed opening behind.

  Someone had deliberately shot at him, and with a fearsome weapon. He was so near Breven that he would have to assume his attacker was Jansai.

  He must tell Nathan. He must tell Gabriel. But first, he must drag himself to water and safety.

  He lifted his head, squinting against the sharp afternoon sun. He had been close to the oasis when he was brought down; surely he could not be far from it now. Yes—there—a smudge of green against the undulating gold and tan of the desert. It did not appear to offer even the thinnest, sorriest tree to give shelter against the sun, only a patch of forlorn grass against a feeble spout of water. But he needed water now, even more than he had a few moments ago, both to slake his thirst and to clean his wounds.

  And then he would need to rig some kind of shelter from the sun, maybe by stretching one of his shirts over a pile of stones. And then he would need to raise a plague flag—again, perhaps, one of his dirty shirts tied to a stick plunged into the ground—if he could find a stick—if he had the strength to paw through his pack and dig out a shirt—

  The oasis could not have been more than seventy-five feet away, but Obadiah was not sure he could get that far. He could not fly, that was certain. His wing was quivering in pain, twitching a little; there was no way he could force it to hold his weight. He could not walk the distance either, for his leg felt numb and peculiar.

  He would crawl there. It was so far, but he had no choice.

  Accordingly he forced himself to his hands and knees and began a slow, dreadful journey forward. The gritty sand was hot and unpleasant against his palms and his knees, and now and then he would put his hand down too hard on a sharp rock or a colorless but prickly plant. He had not gone ten feet when he stopped and, moving clumsily, wrapped a shirt protectively around the open wound on his leg. Sand had already spit up from the ground and come to lodge inside the red heart of the injury. If, as he half-expected, he ended up flat on his belly, pulling himself by sheer will the final yards to his destination, the wound would be even more compromised if he did not bandage it. He refastened his pack and sat there a moment, forcing himself to breathe evenly, shutting his eyes against the glare of the sun. Then he tipped himself back to his hands and knees and resumed his slow crawl toward salvation.