Jovah's Angel (6 page)

It would not be hard to track her, if they attempted to do so. Everyone in Samaria knew her face, knew her voice, knew her story. But Samuel was certain they would not need to search for her. “She'll let us know where she is,” he said a dozen times.
“She's a reckless girl, but she's not that heedless. She knows we may have need of her.”

And indeed, ten days later, Delilah did send a courier with a message that she could be found in Luminaux if anyone had reason to contact her. She did not give an address, though, and Alleya sometimes doubted if even the Luminaux location was correct, but it did not matter. Delilah was gone, and effectively out of reach for help with day-to-day problems; and those mounted with each passing week. Alleya had not wanted to be Archangel, and she was not enjoying a single day of it.

And now even the old angels had failed her, the musicians who had laid down these tracks six and a half centuries ago. She had to be note-perfect on at least one Gloria-quality mass within four and a half months, and she had been rehearsing diligently during whatever free time she could find. But if she could not listen and could not learn, she could not possibly give a creditable performance at what would be the most public event of her life.

She ground her forehead against her crossed arms and fought back the urge to cry. She almost succumbed, but in a matter of minutes she had managed to force back the tears and come steadily to her feet as if she were in complete control. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless, and Alleya savored it; for she'd had precious few triumphs in the past three months. Even a little one would do.

She had scarcely set foot outside the room when Samuel approached her. She was sure, from the expression on his face, that she would not want to hear the news he brought. She was right.

“Visitors, awaiting you in the small breakfast hall,” he said.

“Visitors from where?”

“Gaza. It is Aaron Lesh and Emmanuel Garone of the Manadavvi. They do not look pleased.”

“When have they ever?” Alleya said lightly, but she frowned as she spoke. She had dealt very little with the Manadavvi since she'd been named Archangel—mostly, she felt, because they had decided she was too insignificant to bother with. Of all the mixed races and social strata on Samaria, the Manadavvi were the highest and the most self-sufficient. Consisting of a few fabulously wealthy and tightly guarded families, the Manadavvi owned the most productive farmland on the continent. These huge tracts of land, which lined the upper northeast coastline of Gaza, for centuries
had been farmed by dependent workers in an almost feudal arrangement, with the Manadavvi as oath-holders. Some of that had changed back in the Archangel Gabriel's time, for he had fought to get rights and autonomy for the Gaza serfs; but lately, with the onset of primitive industrialization, conditions for the tenant farmers had steadily worsened. Efficient machinery was beginning to replace humans in the great work of planting and harvesting the Manadavvi estates, and the humans who had lived for generations servicing the same land were finding themselves without homes or employment.

Alleya had not found time to address this problem.

“Did they say—?” she began.

Samuel shook his head. “Only the Archangel is good enough for them to speak to.”

Alleya actually grinned. “Would you like to participate? Come along to give me a little added consequence?”

“If it would please you.”

“I need any help you can offer,” she said frankly. “Please ask someone to bring refreshments to the breakfast hall. I need to do what I can to improve my appearance. I'll be there in ten minutes.”

There was a moment's pause. “Make it twenty,” Samuel said. Alleya was surprised into a laugh. Even though it was not entirely a joke. From her first wretched day as Archangel, Samuel had been her most consistent ally, unobtrusive, helpful, informative and kind. If he thought she should appear her best for her highbrow visitors, he was no doubt right.

“Twenty,” she agreed. “I'll do what I can.”

As swiftly as she could, she negotiated the tunnels of the Eyrie warren, all carved from the rich, warm stone that made the Velo Mountains the most beautiful in Samaria. She no longer made the automatic turning toward her own small room, the chamber she had lived in since she was a child, but instead went straight to the larger apartment that had been Delilah's. Alleya was wholly uncomfortable there, despite its many amenities. She still felt like an intruder—worse, an imposter. Though the room now contained her own furniture, and the closets were filled with her own clothing, she felt as if she were usurping somebody else's life.

And she didn't even want to.

Inside the room, she dashed to the full-length mirror to take inventory. Face smudged, clothes wrinkled, hair a disaster. Make it thirty minutes. She had read somewhere that only unimportant
people would jump to do another's bidding; people of consequence made others wait for them. Promptness had always seemed to her more a matter of courtesy than consequence, but for the moment Alleya was willing to subscribe to the theory. She should not shame herself before the Manadavvi.

Therefore, she washed her face quickly and applied the lightest of cosmetics, then attired herself in the sky-blue gown that matched her eyes and suited her coloring best. She was never able to do much with her hair, a fine, shoulder-length butter-blond that resisted any styling, so she just brushed it vigorously and tied it back with a matching ribbon. For jewelry, she wore only the bracelets that all angels wore—in her case, sapphire fleur-de-lis set in a gold band. The sapphires identified her as an angel of the Eyrie; the pattern was one she had chosen when she first arrived at this hold. Most angels wore designs that identified their lineage, but Alleya had no close blood ties to anyone at the Eyrie.

When she was done, she eyed the whole picture once more in the glass. She looked grave and tidy; that would have to do. Now if she could manage to avoid being flustered or intimidated, she should be fine. She hoped Samuel was already in the breakfast hall.

He was, and he and the Manadavvi men were sipping what seemed to be a fruit drink. Alleya came through the doorway slowly (though she had practically run down the hallways to get here) and nodded at everyone coolly. That was the other thing she tried to remember: The power belongs to the one who listens first.

The two Manadavvi crossed the room to stand before her, making infinitesimal bows. “Angela,” they said, using the courtesy title in low, well-bred voices. “Good of you to see us so soon.”

She glanced at the tray of food and drink that lay on a nearby table. “You have been taken care of? Is there anything I can send for?”

“No, we have been well looked after.”

“Thank you, angela.”

“And your journey? Was it cold traveling this time of year?”

“We kept ourselves warm, thank you.”

“The weather? It still holds good across the Gaza border? I have not heard reports of a new storm in some weeks.”

“The weather has been excellent, angela.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Samuel smile slightly. This was, then, the correct way to open the conversation, with
genteel trivialities. Alleya was not sure how much longer she could sustain it, but she was damned if she would ask them what they came for. Let them make the awkward transition.

She poured herself a glass of what the others were drinking, and found it to be really excellent unfermented grape juice. Possibly a gift from the Manadavvi, because it certainly wasn't a traditional Eyrie offering. “Do you plan to stay overnight? We have room here for guests, of course, or Samuel could recommend one of the better inns in Velora.”

“Thank you, angela, our accommodations have been seen to.”

“This is a wonderful drink. Of such quality that I would venture to guess it came from Manadavvi vineyards.”

“Indeed, angela, Emmanuel brought two cases for your exclusive use. Despite the storms, last year was an excellent year for grapes, and we wished to share the bounty with you.”

“I greatly appreciate it. Samuel, you have tried it?”

“Indeed, Alleya, and found it most superior.”

His use of her nickname had to have been deliberate; Samuel never committed social solecisms. She thought quickly. Ah—yes. Proving to the visitors that he was on intimate terms with the Archangel, and thus a party to be reckoned with. Automatically giving his voice more weight, if he should choose to speak. She smiled at him.

“Perhaps you should reserve a bottle or two for yourself,” she said. “I'm sure there's enough to share.”

“I was hoping you would say that,” he said, returning her smile.

This byplay finally proved enough for the Manadavvi, who almost visibly shifted into a businesslike mode. “It is about vineyards and their harvests that we have come to talk to you,” said Aaron Lesh. He was a young, round-bodied man who appeared to have lived easily and well, though his ice-blue eyes belied any impression of softness. By contrast, Emmanuel was tall, spare, older and absolutely ruthless, in a civil and efficient way. They made an odd pair, until you remembered that the common denominator for all Manadavvi was acquiring wealth and keeping it.

Alleya contrived to look solicitous. “There is a hazard to your vineyard? The storms have caused flooding? Or—some insect infestation, perhaps? I know little about crops—”

“There is no threat to the growing of the product,” said Emmanuel,
“but in the selling. In the shipping. In taking it to a viable market.”

On the instant, Alleya realized what the visit was about and that her own moral ground was much higher than theirs. Betraying nothing, she kept an inquiring and respectful expression on her face. “Yes? You are having trouble with the markets?”

Aaron seemed exasperated. “Not with the markets—with the shipping,” he said. “The market is there. Semorrah, Castelana, all the river cities—they could consume practically every bottle of wine we produce, and funnel the rest to Breven. The river cities are the key, you know, to our distribution network.”

“Not just for wine, but for grain, fresh produce and dried meat,” Emmanuel cut in smoothly. “Only a fraction of our harvests do we sell direct. Almost everything goes through the river merchants.”

“And you have come here—why? You suspect some deception on the part of the Semorran buyers? You think they are treating you unfairly? Offering you an insufficient price?”

Emmanuel looked annoyed. “We have no quarrel with the merchants,” he said. “It is getting to the merchants that is the problem.”

Alleya spread her hands. “I don't understand. What problem?”

Aaron took up the attack again. “The Galilee River has always served as the conduit between Gaza and the river cities—” he began.

“And the storms have flooded the river? Made it impassable?”

Emmanuel gave her a sharp look; he was beginning to suspect that she was being deliberately obstructive. Aaron plunged on, unheeding. “No—well, yes, there has been a little danger to the rivercraft because of higher waters, but that is not really our problem. We just deliver the merchandise to the banks.”

“And
that
, angela, is the heart of the trouble,” Emmanuel interrupted again. “We always used to take our wagonloads to the highest point of the river, just south of the Plain of Sharon, and the merchants' boats would meet us there. But now—the land along that portion of the river is no longer available for open commerce. We have had to reroute our wagons fifty miles farther south, causing delays and some accidents as the drivers try to find the best passageway—costing money, angela, costing money.”

“The northern portion of the river is no longer open for commerce…” Alleya repeated slowly. She chose to let Aaron complete the sentence.

“Because it has become a protected area for Edori,” he burst out.

Alleya looked at him thoughtfully. “It was my understanding,” she said slowly, “that it had been agreed upon by a council of angels, merchants, Edori and other citizens that it was in the best interests of all the people of Samaria to create sanctuaries for the Edori. Were you not consulted? Did you not agree?”

It was the most inflammatory issue that Samaria had dealt with in half a century, and had been painfully settled only last year; and literally no one wanted to see the arguments reopened. The nomadic Edori tribes, who had for centuries wandered where they would, had found, with the growth of urban areas and the shrinking of the open land, fewer and fewer parts of Samaria available to them. In the past twenty years, the number of Edori had dwindled alarmingly—with many moving to the cities and even to the farmlands, it was true, but many more just dying off from inability to sustain their traditional life. In a bitter and passionate series of conferences last year, a delegation of statesmen from all classes of Samaria had agreed that the only way to save the Edori was to grant them possession of a few wild tracts of land. Getting the council to agree to such a step had been hard enough; choosing the sites had been nearly impossible.

“Absolutely—the only thing to be done—everyone knows that,” Aaron said hastily. “We want sanctuaries as much as the next man does. But not quite there, do you see? Fifteen miles down the river—or even on the Jordana side of the Galilee—”

“But all these sites were carefully chosen by the same council, if I recall correctly…” Alleya said, again slowly, again as if uncertain of her facts. Which she was not. She may not have been involved in this particular affair, but she was a voracious reader and she remembered everything; it was her one real skill. “Everyone agreed to them. Even the Manadavvi.”

“That was before we realized quite how it would affect the shipping patterns—”

“But you must have studied the proposals—”

“Angela. We did not,” Emmanuel put in. He was very fond of taking control, cutting right to the heart. “As Aaron says, we have no interest in seeing the Edori dispossessed. Far from it. But moved, perhaps. Downriver? Across the bank? I believe Edori can live anywhere. What difference would a few miles make to them?”