They Who Fell (2 page)

CHAPTER THREE

“T
here were four of us. Held at bay for hours. Bolt after bolt ripped through the air around us. We were outgunned, outnumbered.” Uzziel had told this story many times before, but his dinner companions tolerated it without any complaint. Most of their own stories were just as stale, and Uzziel had gotten quite masterful at the telling after years of practice. His audience had all lived for at least a few thousand years, and they were used to repetition. Besides, Uzziel was a warrior, and these were likely to be the last war stories he’d get a chance to tell. The rebellion was over, and the prospect of any future glories now gone. All that was left was to glorify the past.

Uzziel was short and stocky, with mad little eyes that saw menace in everything. He stroked his thick, black beard as he continued to regale the others. “We were damned determined, though. It was at the height of things. And I don’t have to tell any of you, but we were in no mood to let the Crystal Towers stand.”

“Symbol of oppression,” said Rhamiel as he sipped from his wine. Rhamiel looked substantially younger than Uzziel, although that didn’t mean much with their kind. He had an aloof air, born of vanity. Virtually all of the angels had at least dabbled in sin since the Fall, if not plunged into it, and that had been Rhamiel’s vice of choice.

“That it was, Rhamiel. We were going to torch those towers, Maker be damned. Sachiel was clipped as we entered. Lost control. He had to glide down, to a hard landing. But we kept going. We fought through a row of constructs. Came to a door, a reinforced door. And we pounded and pounded, and we burst through. And what did we find?”

“The Maker’s own son, Uzziel? Returned at last?” Ecanus smirked as he interrupted. Ecanus was slight of frame, and didn’t look big enough to be very threatening. But he had a reputation among the servants for unprovoked outbursts, and they all tried to give him a wide berth.

“Better,” said Uzziel. “One damned cherub. His fat little fingers clutching the defense controls.”

“And you turned the other cheek, of course?” Rhamiel asked, idly swirling his wine around in a golden, jewel-encrusted goblet.

“Ha! No, that we did not. We stuffed him into a barrel of ammunition and lit it on fire. Then we razed the towers, and moved on to the Ethereal Gardens.” Uzziel laughed heartily, and turned to demolishing the contents of the plate in front of him.

Behind them, the servants moved in. Their actions were carefully choreographed, almost a dance.
Take the fork, then replace. Remove the plate, bring it to Sam. Get the next course, put it down, then backs to the wall.
Jana ran the list through her head, over and over. Things had to look good. Most of the diners didn’t care, but a few were particular. You can’t please everyone, but the servers had to try.

Jana glanced up quickly, taking in the room. Around a dozen of them were seated at the long, formal dining table in front of her. Ornate tableware was lined before the diners, ready to receive the intricately prepared delicacies they’d be served. Everything was a mish-mash, a schizophrenic menu guided solely by Sam’s guesses as to the diner’s preferences for the evening. A roasted hog sat at one end of the table, stuffed with apples and sugars and waiting for Uzziel’s attentions. Noodles of various kinds ruled the center of the table, and a vegetable medley of eggplant and zucchini slices finished things off at the other end. Imposing red banners bearing the symbol of some heavenly faction had been hastily hung along the walls, a nod to Uzziel’s penchant for war-making.

Sam’s admonition against making eye contact was a good one. Seeing an angel would have been unsettling in and of itself. But these angels had fallen, and most of them hadn’t made it through quite intact. They all bore scars of some sort. Most had burnt skin, twisted tissues that covered most of their bodies. Their wings ranged in color from a light soot to a charred black. Many had sustained damage to their faces during the Fall, and they could be sensitive about it. Give one of them the wrong sort of look, and they’d give you a scar of your own.

Jana moved behind one of the chairs, standing at the ready. She’d drawn Nefta, who tended to be one of the more reasonable ones, and had thus been considered a good choice for Jana’s maiden service. It was all relative, of course, and any one of them could explode if their mood dictated it. Some of the angels seemed to have descended into full blown psychopathy after the Fall, treating humans as playthings in a sandbox they were frustrated to be confined to. Others could even approach kindness. They’d all spent centuries in service of humanity in one way or another, and old habits die hard. But they still had an air of superiority about them whenever they interacted with their former charges. It could manifest itself as something closer to paternalism or something closer to disgust, but it was always there.

Jana stood, waiting, and looked to Sam. Dressed formally and standing at attention, Sam was a leader and a mentor. What was left of his thinning hair was graying prematurely, a byproduct of the stresses of his duties. The lines on his face were etched into a permanent expression of worry. A little older than the others, and a lot wiser, Sam acted as a conductor of sorts. He stood at the back of the dining room, carefully watching the flow of the conversation for the right time. It wouldn’t do to interrupt a story or a joke by collecting the plates too soon. You had to lean over the table to do that, and you had to be seen. Whoever was speaking might take offense; whoever was listening might be distracted. Sam watched, saw the conversation enter a lull, and gave a slight nod to the other servers. It was subtle, and you’d miss it if you weren’t watching closely. Fortunately none of them did, and they approached the table in unison.

Jana reached for Nefta’s fork, replacing it with a fresh one. She then removed the plate, keeping her eyes locked on a point she’d selected at random on the table in front of her. She couldn’t see any movement from the periphery, which was a good sign. Nefta had picked at her food, leaving most of it on the plate—a bad one. Hungry angels could be angry angels. If she disliked the food, she might hold Jana responsible. Or she could simply be brooding, or any of dozens of other explanations that Jana couldn’t help but begin running through in her head. She forced herself to stop, to focus on the task at hand.

She walked the plate back to Sam, following a line of other servers. One by one, they approached a stainless steel cart next to him, deposited their plate and its contents as quietly as they could, and resumed their places behind the chair of the diner they were serving for the evening. As Jana approached, Sam eyed Nefta’s plate nervously. They exchanged a quick look of worry as she scraped the food into a bin on the cart. There was nothing he could do, but she at least had his sympathies. She carefully stacked the plate, then pivoted, returning to her place to await the arrival of the next course. Sam rolled the cart out of the room, staring downward and trying to look as submissive as possible. The best servers projected a practiced air of obsequiousness, which seemed to draw the least negative attention.

“Ecanus, I hear you had a little foray into the world of man recently,” said Rhamiel. “Anything exciting? Or is the Maker’s pet creation as dull as it’s always been?”

“The only excitement out there is what we make for ourselves,” Ecanus replied. “I went southwest with Tavael, a few days flight. We found some smaller camps, but the fun’s gone from those. I came up with something much more entertaining than mindless slaughter. Not to name names, Uzziel.”

Uzziel responded with something between a grunt and a growl. His slaughter was anything but mindless. He’d been of high rank in the Heavens, the rough equivalent to a general. He left the tower only for sorties, planned missions with a checklist of goals designed to keep the remains of humanity disorganized and panicked.

“We found a hidden path they were using to travel between encampments. It was buried in a forest, and you almost couldn’t see it. But Tavael has good eyes. We landed, picked a place of ambush, and started confronting travelers along the path. We asked them riddles.” Ecanus paused, smiling. Jana listened, but dared not look up. It was hard not to flinch if you looked at him directly, and any look could be interpreted as a stare. Ecanus had more scarring than most, and his face had been ruined. Red blotches blurred into pocks and dents, and all that was left of his hair were a few scattered, lonely tufts. His wings were singed a dark black, making him resemble an angry, half-broiled raven that had escaped from some farmer’s stew.

“Riddles?” asked Nefta. “You’ve never been the intellectual sort. Where did you even come up with them?” Ecanus had been strictly a foot soldier before the Fall, with no sign of a bent towards puzzles.

“I’m not. And we simply made them up. What has three hands, a mouth, and cannot breathe?” He waited patiently as his audience pondered the question.

“Some sort of clock?” guessed Uzziel.

“Perhaps,” said Ecanus. “I don’t really know. We made up the riddles; we didn’t bother to come up with the answers. The results were splendid. We’d surprise someone, pose the riddle, and demand that they answer or die. They’d sputter, think, and then take a guess. We’d confer, and make them wait awhile. They had such hope in their eyes, that we might be considering sparing them. That maybe they’d guessed correctly. Then we’d laugh, and kill them all anyway. It was incredible fun.”

He took a drink, surveying the room. None of the servers looked up, although they all knew the story had been told at least partly for their benefit. Ecanus reveled in cruelty, but most of the other angels expected at least some restraint in dealing with their servants. Getting them trained took time, and the supply wasn’t unlimited. Psychological torture, though, left no visible scars.

“Cute,” Rhamiel said. “I suppose it gives an added bit of artistic touch to the violence. But you really should branch out. The Maker prohibited so much. You ought to at least taste some of the other vices, otherwise you’ll never appreciate their virtues.”

Jana couldn’t help herself. She looked up. Rhamiel’s gaze was fixed directly on her as he spoke. There was something in his eyes, and she couldn’t tell exactly what. They were a bright, shimmering blue, and they seemed to draw you into them. He had a cold predator’s stare, but there was a playful twinkle in them, too. The contrast was unnerving. It didn’t help that his vanity was justified. Of all the angels she’d seen, Rhamiel had been least affected by the Fall. His face was flawless, and other than some slight scarring on his hands he was the picture of angelic perfection. He had a taste for the formal, and wore an opulent bronze chest plate that showed off his well-developed physique. His wings were virtually undamaged, flush with feathers that shimmered with a light grey tint. Jana looked down quickly, hoping to dodge his stare. However he might look, they could all be deadly. She knew that with them she had to assume a mask of meekness, no matter what she might be feeling inside.

No one else seemed to notice Jana’s faux pas, though Nefta seemed to have noticed Rhamiel’s fixation. Jana could see her drumming her fingers against the table and tensing her wings against the back of her chair. She hoped Nefta’s irritation wasn’t being directed her way, but there was no way to tell from behind. She knew she couldn’t look up again, and so she focused on the floor as Ecanus continued on, glaring at Rhamiel and contorting the scar tissue on his face into a burnt, wrinkled scowl. “I didn’t rebel just to dirty myself with some glorified chimpanzee. If the Covenant hadn’t—”

“Ecanus!” bellowed Uzziel from across the table. The room fell silent.

“Some things aren’t discussed in mixed company,” said Nefta icily. “I’d expect even the lowest and crudest among us to have more tact than that. It’s a wonder you aren’t invited to dinner more often.” There was an awkward pause in the conversation. Ecanus’s eyes narrowed to slits, and his face puffed and twitched as he fumed, clanking his utensils loudly and continuing to eat. The other angels focused on their food, pointedly ignoring him.

The silence broke only when Sam returned, pushing a fresh cart containing the next course. The servers looked to him for guidance, terrified. Recognizing the tension, he began service at once. Again Jana lined up, waiting to receive a fresh plate. She hoped it was more to Nefta’s liking. She ran things through to herself, one more time.
Just get the plate, turn, and stand behind her in your place. Watch for your cue.
That part went smoothly. She made it safely back and positioned herself behind Nefta. She stood at attention, waiting for everyone else to return. Then Sam nodded, and they all stepped forward as one.

Jana reached in front of Nefta, carefully placing the plate in front of her. She thought she could see Nefta staring at her, but couldn’t be sure. She’d learned her lesson, and her eyes kept a laser focus on the plate. As she backed away, she heard it. A clink from across the room.

She backed herself against the wall, where she was supposed to be. So did everyone but Daniel, one of the other servers. A few years older than Jana, he’d helped her practice some, and had been filled with advice on how to avoid an incident. Now he stood chained to the table by Ecanus’s grip. He’d had made some error delivering the plate, and had knocked it against the table ever so slightly. The food was intact. Maybe nudged around the plate, but that was enough. Ecanus now held his wrist, forcing his arm against the table.

“Pick a finger,” said Ecanus. Daniel remained paralyzed, unable to respond.

“Pick one, or I’ll take them all.”

Daniel stuck out his pinkie, clutched the rest into a tight fist, and closed his eyes.

“Wise choice,” said Ecanus, as he unsheathed a flaming knife from his belt. The knife flickered as he raised it into the air, and sparks flew as he brought it down onto the table.

CHAPTER FOUR

“S
it him down. Sit him down. Let go, boy. Let me take a look.” Sam pushed Daniel into a chair, trying to calm him. Daniel released his injured hand, giving it over to Sam for inspection. Daniel’s face still bore a look of complete shock. Far worse things could have happened, but he hadn’t been expecting any of them. He’d never caused offense, and had never suffered more than a mild verbal scolding.

“Is he okay?” asked Jana, hovering at the edges of the commotion and trying to get a peek. There wasn’t much any of them could do. The wound had instantly cauterized, and in any event no one had been bold enough to ask Ecanus to return the finger. But they cared about him, so they put on a show, and they hoped that it might calm him down. Ecanus could do as he pleased, and there was nothing that could stop him or any of the others from coming down to the servant’s quarters to continue the fun if they were so inclined.

“It hurts. It’s on fire. How am I going to keep working? I’ll drop things,” said Daniel. His eyes welled with tears, and he couldn’t keep himself from sneaking glimpses at his charred skin. None of the other servers could, either. Something about tragedy draws the eyes, whether it’s a need to process the horror or some animal instinct to learn lessons from the missteps of those around us.

“You’ll be fine. It wasn’t your fault. You were just there,” said Jana. She tried to sound soothing, hoping it might calm him down.

“If he’d really been angry with you, he’d have taken the hand,” said Sam. Cold comfort, but true. Ecanus wasn’t known to forgive a slight.

“Give him space. Give him space. Go clean things up now, and let me tend to him.” Sam shooed the crowd of servers out of the room. They’d made their sympathies known, and it was time to get back to work.

Peter led the way back to the kitchen, and Jana followed. Peter was thin, almost to the point of being sickly. Younger than Sam, he had ambitions of climbing the ranks, such as they were. There weren’t many rungs on that ladder, and it seemed a little silly to Jana. There were no perks to leadership here, only peril. But he kept at it anyway, directing the others and using any opportunity to take charge. Men find comfort in hierarchies, and things always look more comfortable at the top. He wasn’t the kind of man you’d expect to see running things, but he had a tenaciousness to him. He had the temperament of a determined little terrier that won’t let go of someone’s ankle, convinced its prey will eventually succumb to the nipping no matter their size.

“Let’s get started on the dishes,” said Peter. “We want them sparkling. There could be an inspection at any moment, and we all know what would happen if we failed.” There had never been an inspection, not by the angels. They didn’t care for details, and didn’t care to sully themselves or their reputations by making a trip to the kitchens for something as inconsequential as dishware. They preferred to manage by watching for errors and punishing them, swiftly and savagely. Sam would scour the dishes to ensure they were clean, and probably several times. But his wrath they could handle.

Jana soaked a stack of plates in a wooden bucket, boiling away the grime. There weren’t a lot of amenities there, but they did have fire. Sometimes it was from wood, sometimes from paper, and sometimes from coal, if they were lucky. The angels allowed caravans of necessary supplies into the tower under strict supervision. The humans living there weren’t their only servants. Others outside were in their service as well, and did whatever was needed to keep their masters content. It was much more dangerous out there. Angels often couldn’t tell humans apart, or affected not to be able to. And many on the outside would relish the chance to settle their quarrels with the angels by having a friendly chat with those who served them.

Jana mixed in some dish soap and began scrubbing. Plenty of goods had survived the Fall, and Sam was diligent about impressing their needs on the scavengers who made the deliveries. If it could arguably contribute to the pleasure of the angels, they were likely to get it. He always had the trump card of threatening to tattle, or simply lying and saying that someone like Ecanus had made a special request. There were limits, though, and the comfort of the servants was a distant priority.

“Someone’s taken an interest in you,” Peter said to Jana, as a few of the other servers smiled knowingly.

“No one’s interested in me,” replied Jana. Peter could be insufferably irritating when he wanted to, and she just knew where he was heading.

“Some of us saw,” said Peter. “Rhamiel was staring so much, we couldn’t help but see.”

“I didn’t notice,” said Jana, trying to get back to her dishes. She’d hoped that Rhamiel’s wandering eyes would go unnoticed, but no such luck. Now she’d never live down the teasing, even if she’d survived the meal unscathed. Some of the other girls were already starting to roll their eyes at her and whisper amongst themselves. She’d done nothing to encourage him, but it wouldn’t stop them from acting on their envy or trying to knock her down a peg.

“Be careful,” said Peter. “You’re not the first one he’s looked at. I’ve been doing this a lot longer. You have to watch yourself, or you could end up like poor Daniel. You really want to keep your distance.” He loved giving advice, and Jana and the others generally let him. They already knew everything he had to say, but he meant well, and Sam always said that it couldn’t hurt to reinforce the basics. The servants’ best hope for survival was blind submission, and they did everything they could to ingrain it in themselves as force of habit.

Jana finished her part and dried her hands. “I’ll be fine. I was new. It was just a look.”

“It’s never just a look,” said Peter.

She wasn’t sure, herself. You could never be too sure, not with them. They hadn’t been free for long, and it made them like children in some ways. Many didn’t seem to know what to do with themselves. They could be mercurial, flitting from interest to interest, and Peter could be right. Then again, Peter could have interest of his own. It wouldn’t be unlike him. He wanted to be more than he was, and a man on the make needs a woman by his side.

The chores done, the servants retired to their quarters. They lived in a spartan common area. Old sleeping bags lined the floors, set off from each other just enough to give a sense of personal space. They each kept a knapsack of personal items or mementos, and there wasn’t really room for anything else. It was getting late, and they gathered in the center by a small fire pit. Sam had convinced the servants on the outside to bring in a few wooden logs, and he’d arranged them in a triangle around the fire pit as benches to give them a place to gather and sit together. They didn’t get much free time, and didn’t have much they could do in it. So they sat together each night, singing songs and telling stories. Mostly they stuck to bland popular favorites from before the Fall. The older servants tended to lead things, working from memory. They were careful—some subjects were taboo, so they had to self-censor. Jana sang along to the songs she knew, but didn’t have much of her own to add. She’d been young when the Fall had happened, and her memories from before were fading. They never told stories from after out in the open. Either they wouldn’t be interesting or they wouldn’t be safe, so the servants opted to just avoid the issue entirely.

As the night went on and the fire dimmed, the crowd around it thinned. One by one, they took to their beds and went to sleep. When it felt late enough, Sam called the night. Jana had waited until the end. She was exhausted, but didn’t think she’d be able to sleep. She still felt the nervous energy from earlier in the day, a relic of her adrenaline. It wouldn’t always be like this. She just had to adjust. But her first service was a milestone, and though the day hadn’t been perfect, she’d heard of worse. She certainly hadn’t been the cause of anything, which was about as much as one could hope for. She stood, began the trudge towards her sleeping bag, and went to sleep.

She awoke sometime later, hearing voices. In the shadows of the doorway was a figure, talking to Sam. It didn’t have wings, so it couldn’t be one of them. It walked closer—a woman. Another servant, from higher up in the tower.

“Jana,” the woman said, looking directly at her. “You need to come with me. You’re wanted up top.”