Dark Bringer: Chapter Six

Angel Tower was the tallest building in Arioch. You could stand on almost any street corner and see its golden cupola, a reminder that while the provinces enjoyed a degree of autonomy, Mount Meru was the final authority.

Two guards waited on the fourteenth-floor landing platform, their wings damp with rain. The doors of the north gate stood open. They made a starburst with their fingers as Gavriel alighted on the platform, followed by seraphim carrying Yarl and the luggage.

“Have a safe journey, Lord Morningstar,” said one.

He nodded curtly and strode through the gate. Inside, the tower opened into a hollow atrium where hundreds of angels went about the business of running the empire. Records of births and deaths, tariffs and tax revenues, agricultural production, provincial decrees, treaties, laws, and other documents — all were held in a vast repository.

Certain angels, known as enumerators, counted every human, witch, and cypher for the census. Since it was conducted every five years, the work never ceased and there were always rivers of paperwork flowing between the provinces and Mount Meru.

When they spotted Morningstar, the steady hum of activity ceased at once. Heads turned, voices hushed, as their archangel flew upward in lazy spirals. Gavriel could not instantly move from one place to another by forcing, as the witches did. Lithomancy was beyond his powers. But the Angel Towers in each province were connected with liminal ley.

It was the most subtle and peculiar type of ley, flowing along the boundaries where one thing ended and something new began, but neither state was yet fully present. It was the gap between past and future, light and dark, here and there. Gavriel knew scholars in Antioch who had studied the liminal ley for their entire careers and still barely understood it.

Only the gods did, and they were the ones who had directed the construction of the seven Angel Towers.

Gavriel landed in the round chamber at the very top, where six archways stood equidistant from one another. Some showed views of shifting sand, others of snow and ice. Gavriel chose the one that led to Kota Gelangi. He paused at the threshold to lay a steadying hand on Yarl’s shoulder. “Nearly there.”

Yarl swallowed and gave a firm nod. The seraphim to either side stared straight ahead.

“Take care with him,” Gavriel warned them, and stepped through the arch.

There is a certain unease one feels upon entering a liminal space. It is both familiar and uncanny. They are not places one ought to linger in, and Gavriel beat his wings hard, plunging into a fine mist. He flew blindly until he spied the golden glimmer of another tower, a twin of the one he had just left. He angled his wings and made for the open archway. A glance behind showed the seraphim and Yarl following.

Gavriel flew through the arch, folding his wings as he alit. Haniel, the archangel of Satu Jos, was waiting for him.

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He had not seen her in some time, but she looked the same. Scarcely older than a human child of thirteen or so, with fair hair and eyes the shocking blue of a glacier. She wore a silvery gown with fine embroidery at the neck. Her wings were white as a swan’s breast.

Gavriel bent a knee. “Permission to enter your city?”

“Of course.” She inclined her head. “Welcome, brother. We are honored to accept the aid of the esteemed Morningstar at this difficult time.”

Gavriel couldn’t tell if Haniel was being sarcastic. She didn’t look honored, but she rarely expressed emotion. Although he’d known her for centuries, he never quite understood her. She was the most aloof of the archangels. Her policy, if she had one, seemed to be to stay out of human and witch politics entirely, and focus only on bureaucratic tasks.

Gavriel knew he was lucky to have Cyranthe Dagan as his consul in Kirith. They didn’t always see eye to eye, but at least Cyranthe was honest and did what she thought best for the province. He could not imagine dealing with a consul like Barsal Casolaba.

Well, he could. Gavriel simply would not stand for the man’s corruption. But Haniel was tolerant to a fault.

“I hope you will stay with me during your time here,” she said, as he rose to his feet. “I’ve had rooms prepared.”

Before Gavriel could answer, the two seraphim arrived carrying his secretary between them. Yarl’s natural complexion was brown, but Gavriel sensed a green undertone. He claimed liminal travel gave him indigestion.

Haniel’s bow lips tightened. “I do not wish to be ungracious,” she said, “but the towers are for angels alone, Gavriel. I am certain that we have had this discussion before, yet you insist on violating the prohibition.”

“A thousand apologies, sister,” Gavriel said, turning to his secretary. “Master Yarl, would you be kind enough to go ahead to the Red House and inform them of my arrival?”

Yarl composed himself with admirable speed. “Of course. I shall request a full dossier on the consul’s recent activities.”

“And arrange for the usual accommodations while you’re at it.”

Yarl nodded and closed his eyes as the seraphim gripped his arms once more and spiraled down through the hollow core of the tower.

“The usual accommodations?” Haniel echoed. “Tell me you are not taking quarters among the humans, Gavriel. I’ve already had rooms prepared at my residence for you.”

This, too, was an ancient dispute.

“A kind gesture,” he said, “but you already know my answer. I require solitude when adjudicating cases.”

“But it would be far simpler to stay with me.”

Gavriel met her gaze, which was somehow innocent and calculating at the same time. “I’ll be here for three days, no more. You’ll receive a copy of my report before I depart.”

“So brief a sojourn?” She affected indifference, yet he caught a flicker of relief.

“I did not wish to come at all,” he said sharply. “Three days will suffice.”

“Very well.” Haniel picked up the thread of her previous argument. “But I’ve said before and will say again, bringing humans through the arches taxes them severely. You should not do it. The poor man.”

“And yet he survives,” Gavriel replied. “Now to the matter at hand. What are your thoughts?”

She paused as a cherubim flew into the chamber bearing a tray with a pot of hot kopi, the sweet, muddy beverage popular in Kota Gelangi. Gavriel accepted a cup, gazing through the archway leading to Mount Meru. It was hidden by clouds, but he had a sudden longing to see his father. What counsel would Valoriel offer? Surely that it was another sign of the empire’s slow decay.

“Consul Casolaba was neither an honest nor a good man,” Haniel said matter-of-factly once the cherubim had departed. “Of course, few humans are.”

“That doesn’t justify his murder.”

She made a noise of dismay. “Did I say such a thing? I am merely warning you that you have a very large haystack to comb through. Barsal Casolaba behaved more like a king than a consul. He used his influence to reward his allies and ruin any who stood in his way. The only surprise is that he managed to survive this long.”

Gavriel sipped his kopi. “Give me the short list, Haniel.”

She proceeded to name the Miners’ Union, spies from Kievad Rus, certain factions among the witches, and even the deputy consul, who had been angling for Casolaba’s position for years.

“That’s not counting the dozens of other violent enemies he must have acquired among the city’s underworld,” Haniel reported with some relish. “But I am certain you will get to the bottom of it.”

Gavriel could not stop himself. “Why did you permit his corruption, Haniel? Isn’t there something you could have done?”

She regarded him with pity. “First of all, the humans are Travian’s children. He ought to manage them.”

“Travian has been gone for centuries,” Gavriel reminded her.

“Nevertheless, it is not my place to overstep.” She adopted a prim expression that irritated him no end. “My role is an administrative one. And even if I cared to get involved, who should I have replaced him with? They are all the same. Grasping for wealth, pleasure, power — whatever eases the pain of their brief and pointless lives.”

“Some, yes. But I disagree that they are all the same,” Gavriel said quietly.

“You are entitled to your opinion. But I do not envy you this task.” Haniel set her cup aside untouched, her voice honeyed again. “Should you require anything, brother, anything at all, you need only ask.”

* * *

Gavriel fell through the hollow core of the tower, its levels passing in a blur. At the twelfth floor, he snapped his wings open and arrested the descent. The guards at the east gate touched their breastplates in a salute as he passed through.

Kota Gelangi was three hours earlier than Kirith, but it was the southern winter and dark had fallen by the time he reached the Red House. Liberty Square was mostly empty, but a young man waited with Yarl at the top of the steps. He wore a maroon coat with diagonal brass buttons and clutched a leather valise.

“Lord Morningstar,” he said with a nervous bow. “I am Levi Bottas, aide to the late Consul Casolaba. I’ve been assigned to assist in your investigation.”

Bottas was in his early twenties, with short side-parted black hair and a clean-shaven, artless face.

“You can begin by showing me the consul’s office,” Gavriel said.

“Of course. It’s on the second floor.”

The entered the Assembly and started up a marble staircase.

“How long did you work for Casolaba?” Gavriel asked.

“About a year and a half, sir. I came from Zembda last spring.”

He’d heard of it. A small resort town on Satu Jos’s southern coast. “What brought you to the capital, Bottas?”

He cleared his throat. “My uncle runs the Sapphire Bay Hotel. He’s, er, a generous donor to the Freedom League. When I expressed interest in politics, he arranged an introduction to the consul.”

Nepotism, Gavriel thought with disgust. Like every other appointment in this city.

Other than a pair of watchmen, who stood straighter and looked alert when they saw Morningstar, the halls of the assembly were quiet. They made their way down a corridor. Bottas produced a ring of keys. “The consul’s office has been sealed since the discovery of the body, by order of the witches,” he said. “Shall I. . .?”

The door had been taped with the symbol of the Morag, head of the witches’ High Council. Gavriel examined the seal closely. Satisfied that it was intact, he nodded and Bottas removed the tape.

“Give me the keys,” Gavriel said.

Bottas handed them over, and Gavriel unlocked the door. “This will serve as my base of operations. I require interviews with anyone who had contact with Casolaba in the week before his death.”

“I’ll prepare a list,” Bottas said.

The consul’s office occupied a corner overlooking Liberty Plaza. It was cluttered with items ranging from a gold-tasseled humidor to ochre Lagashi pottery and expensive artwork. Gifts, no doubt, from Casolaba’s benefactors.

Above the desk hung a portrait of the dead man. Middle-aged, jowly, with a white beard and receding hairline. The swell of his coat suggested a prodigious appetite.

“Who discovered the body?” Gavriel asked.

“A man named Tristo Arpin. He sweeps the square every morning and spotted it from below. Arpin alerted the watchman and they climbed the stairs to the dome. Kota Confidential printed an exclusive. I hear they paid a handsome sum for it.” Bottas opened his valise and unfolded a broadsheet with the screaming headline, His Eyes Were Burned Out!

Gavriel quickly devoured the article. He had not known that particular grisly detail.

“Shall I add Arpin to the witness list?” Bottas asked.

“Since he has given such a detailed account to the scribblers,” Gavriel said dryly, “that won’t be necessary for the moment. Where is the body now?”

“Er, I’m not sure. The morgue?”

“Is that a question or an answer?” Gavriel snapped.

Bottas swallowed. “I shall find out straightaway, sir.”

“What about this watchman? The one who was on duty. Did he hear or see anything?”

“I’m afraid not. He made a statement, it’s in the file. But he’s rather hard of hearing, sir. And his eyesight isn’t very good.”

“You have a deaf and blind watchman?”

“Not completely. Er, his cousin is a delegate’s aide.”

“Of course.” Gavriel sighed. “I’ll want a complete list of everyone who was in the Assembly building yesterday, their arrival and departure times, and any unusual visitors in the past month.” He set the broadsheet aside. “We will commence the interviews with senior staff and lawmakers now.”

Bottas looked embarrassed.

“Is there a problem?” Gavriel asked.

“No, sir, but—” He hesitated. “It’s past the sixth hour. Everyone is gone for the day.”

Gavriel stared at him. “Their consul has been murdered. They demanded my presence. And now they’ve left for supper?”

Bottas shifted uneasily. “It is how things are done here, Lord Morningstar.”

Gavriel drew a slow breath and tamped down his fury. “So it is. I had forgotten.” He fixed Bottas with an icy stare. “But you will go nowhere until I dismiss you.”

“Of course not, sir.” He handed over a book. “I already retrieved Consul Casolaba’s appointment diary from his residence. And I can give you a preliminary list of his close associates.”

“Good.” Gavriel turned to Yarl. “Go to his home and fetch his banking records, his will, and a summary of all assets. I’ll also want records of criminal cases with his name on them, both as complainant and accused.”

“His wife may object, sir,” Bottas ventured.

“His wife has no choice.” Gavriel opened the first dossier and set to work.

For the next several hours, he sifted through Haniel’s haystack while Bottas and Yarl came and went, fetching more documents. The picture that emerged was of a vindictive, petty, greedy man whose corruption was matched only by his success in evading punishment. Bribery, witness tampering, and extortion were among the various charges, none of which resulted in conviction.

“What great fortune!” Gavriel muttered acidly. “Witnesses who recant or disappear, evidence that goes missing, judges who suddenly reverse themselves and rule in his favor.”

“His patronage extended throughout the city,” Bottas admitted. “From the docks to the fire brigades.”

“And where were you the night he died?” Gavriel asked, looking up from the records.

“In my flat sleeping, sir. Like most people at that hour.” Levi Bottas looked frightened, but that didn’t mean he was guilty. Anyone in his position would be worried.

“Do you know whom he might have met with?”

“I don’t, sir, I’m sorry. His last appointment of the day was at four-thirty. I attended him and we left the Assembly together.”

“Who was it with?”

“Primo Roloa. The head of the Freedom League.”

“I know who he is. What was discussed?”

“Just the usual end-of-the-day meeting. They talked about some upcoming bills and went over the expected vote tallies.”

“You shall write a statement detailing every word that was said, to the best of your memory.”

Bottas stared at him like a cow over a fence.

“Now, please,” Gavriel barked.

Casolaba’s aide drew a breath and leapt up to fetch some blank paper. “Certainly, sir.”

The sixth hour became the ninth, then midnight. Bottas brewed a strong pot of kopi. The wheels of the empire’s justice tended to turn slowly, but Gavriel could not afford to waste a moment. His reputation depended on it. If someone in Kota Gelangi thought they could commit murder and escape the reckoning, they were mistaken.

* * *

Dawn was creeping over the rooftops when Gavriel closed the last ledger. Yarl, who had been dozing with his back straight as a board, stirred and blinked owlishly. Levi Bottas was still awake but he looked bloodshot and rumpled, his maroon coat dangling from the back of a chair.

“You’re dismissed, Bottas,” Gavriel said. “Go home and return in four hours. We shall commence with the interviews at nine sharp.”

Bottas bowed, obviously relieved to be cut loose. Gavriel and Yarl gathered a few essential documents and locked the consul’s office behind them. It was a pleasantly cool morning. Gavriel wondered if Tristo Arpin might be sweeping the square, but no one was about. Perhaps the man had taken his bounty and gone on a seaside holiday.

It was almost funny. Gavriel had expected to find a city in mourning, but Kota Gelangi had greeted Casolaba’s demise with a shrug. Which, he supposed, was entirely in keeping with a province where fortunes might be won and lost in a single day.

The biggest mining operations were owned by a handful of old witch families and their human surrogates. They were the lions, but there were plenty of scavengers who fought over the leavings. Likely Casolaba had done someone dirty, expecting he’d be untouchable — but this time he was wrong.

Above the two men, dark ribbons of bats streamed through the sky, returning to their roosts after a night of hunting. Yarl peered up at the infamous spire atop the Red House. “If only they could speak,” he murmured.

“Indeed.” Gavriel’s lips curved in a rare smile. “I would subpoena them as witnesses and our crime would be solved by lunchtime.”

They headed down the broad avenue leading from the Red House to the district where visiting dignitaries, members of the assembly, and various special interests kept houses.

“I’m afraid I couldn’t secure your usual residence,” Yarl said. “It was occupied by a delegation from Iskatar.” He paused. “The broker suggested an alternative. It was all I could find at such short notice.”

“Our stay is brief,” Gavriel said. “I’m sure it will serve.”

The house stood at the end of a cul-de-sac, four stories of pink stone faced by a fountain with frolicking stone nymphs. The inside was worse. Gilt mirrors, red velvet upholstery, and nude statuettes plated in gold.

“Did you rent a brothel?” Gavriel asked.

“It belongs to Councilor Adnan Virek,” Yarl explained, “who is currently serving a term of house arrest in his second residence. He was convicted of perjury and witness tampering in an unrelated matter.”

Gavriel shook his head. “If the scribblers discover I am staying here, they shall turn it into a scandal.”

“Which is why I dismissed the household staff. The broker promised discretion.”

“And I’m sure you paid well for it. No matter, this will suffice.” Gavriel softened his tone. “Get some rest. We have a long day ahead.”

“Sir.”

They parted ways, and Gavriel wandered through the house. Virek apparently collected glass figurines of the Sinn, for they were everywhere. It was a peculiar local custom, keeping idols of the monsters that laid waste to their mines on a regular basis. He picked one up, studying the long tail and fierce teeth.

Some experts claimed the Sinn were a throwback to the primordial deity Valmitra, whose form was serpentine when she came to this world. Gavriel could not say if it was true. But something in the mingled blood of angel and witch had created an entirely new species, draconic and bent on destruction.

There were Sinn in Kirith, but they were the forest-dwelling kind, rarely seen. Their desert cousins were much larger and more aggressive. He had spotted ones a few times from the air during his travels, but they never came near. He was not certain he would have survived the encounter if they had.

Gavriel climbed the stairs to the rooftop terrace. Kota Gelangi was more spread out than Kirith , the buildings lower. All except for the Angel Tower, which stood white and gold against the lightening sky.

He sat on a stone bench, clearing his mind in preparation for the day. After a few minutes, a soft scuff made Gavriel turn. Yarl stood in the doorway leading to the stairs, his figure silhouetted against the interior darkness.

“Up so soon?” Gavriel said. “I thought I told you to rest.”

Yarl’s silence was disconcerting. He was in his seventies now. What if he was suffering a stroke? The thought of losing him — not just a loyal and efficient secretary, but Gavriel’s closest companion — provoked a rare moment of self-doubt.

I shouldn’t have made him work through the night. Shouldn’t have brought him through the archway without considering the strain.

“Yarl?” He rose and took a step forward. “Are you unwell?”

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The sun crested the distant hills, washing across the terrace. Yarl’s features were rigid. A counterfeit mask of the man Gavriel knew. Too late, he grasped the truth.

Illusion.

The figure raised a hand, and a hammering force struck Gavriel’s chest. He slammed into the waist-high wall enclosing the terrace. There was the snap of bone cracking. For a heartbeat, he teetered at the edge.

Then he was falling. His broken wing flared with agony as he tried to slow his descent. The left extended, beating uselessly against the air, as he plummeted toward the marble fountain below.