Dave Duncan - West of January

Uriel was furious, his fists so tightly clenched that pale spots showed on the big black knuckles. “Very well, Holiness, although I’ve had no chance to interview them in private, as is the custom.”

“It is hardly the custom for pilgrims to arrive in their own chariot.” Michael was making no effort to soothe the tall man; indeed, he seemed to be trying to provoke him.

Five archangels rule Heaven. Gabriel tends the records and the ancient lore. Uriel trains the cherubim. Raphael builds and maintains the chariots and all the other equipment the angels need. Sariel attends to the housekeeping of Heaven itself—the feeding and housing of so many people, the welfare of the dog teams and the snortoises. Michael gives orders to angels.

The hierarchy is clearly defined. At the bottom are the seraphim, who do manual labor for Sariel and Raphael. They are mostly youngsters of the twilight ghoulfolk, who work off their adolescence in Heaven and then head home with a farewell gift of Heaven’s unique manufactures, such as nails and steel blades and certain medicines. With those, they can buy first-class wives.

Above the seraphim come the cherubim, future angels, followed by the learned saints who report to Gabriel—at least in theory they do; some saints have been lost in obscure research for so long that they have forgotten their own names, let alone his.

Above the saints come the angels, and the five archangels.

All archangels are former angels, accustomed to obeying Michael, and Michael appoints other archangels whenever there is a vacancy. In Heaven’s long history, there have been few instances of a Michael who could not get his own way in the Council of Five.

There was no question that pilgrims seeking admission as cherubim must be first approved by Uriel. The former Black-white-red was new to the post. He had not interviewed many candidates before Quetti and I arrived, but it was certainly his privilege to do so. His anger at Michael’s intervention was understandable, even if Michael’s own motives were not. And my own mind was already reeling at what it was beginning to suspect.

“How do you feel about the spinster now, pilgrim?” Uriel asked.

“I worship her memory,” Quetti said very quietly. “Could she be restored to life, I would gladly pasture silkworms for her until nothing remained but my bones. Not for anyone else by choice, though.”

Uriel shuddered. “You claimed you had a token…?”

I was still staring at the shrouded figure of Michael and especially at those small pale hands. Wetlander hands. His face was a pale blur within cowled shadow.

“I had one,” Quetti said. “But I left the spinster’s web with nothing, not even a whole skin, as you know. Knobil had three!”

“Three?” Two archangels, one saint, and one angel all echoed the word in astonishment, or perhaps disbelief.

“Three! But he lost them in an ants’ nest.”

“Very convenient,” said Uriel.

Michael intervened sharply. “Tokens are not important! They are not necessary for admission and they do not guarantee it. Tokens help in recruiting, but they are mostly of value to us as a means of learning where the donors were. The marks on the back of a token back tell us that. If an angel is lost, we like to know how far he got… That’s all. What counts is not the token, but the man who brings it.”

“Nevertheless,” Uriel insisted, “I am going to ask. Tell us about yours, Pilgrim Quetti.”

“I was quite small,” Quetti said cheerfully, “paddling along in my kayak. I chanced upon an angel about to be eaten by a pack of ice frogs. He seemed to appreciate my help.”

“His name?” Uriel queried suspiciously.

“Orange-lime-orange.”

“I have his report here, Archangels.” Kettle was fumbling with his papers. “He has just returned from the Thursday venture, so we can easily call him in as a witness if you wish. He described the incident as ‘terrifying’ and an ‘extremely narrow escape’.”

Quetti returned Uriel’s glare with a smirk. “You gotta know where to hit ’em, that’s all.”

Uriel grunted, as if impressed despite himself. “Michael, this man is obviously a survivor. I recommend that we accept Candidate Quetti.”

“Agreed. Welcome, Cherub.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“As I said,” Michael continued, “I believe that wetlanders make the finest angels of all. We are loners by nature, yet our background has taught us to cooperate. We are not frightened by open spaces. Is this not so?” He laughed quietly, in an old man’s dry, cynical chuckle. “And we also have a streak of ruthlessness that can be very convenient at times—true?”

“Er…yes sir,” Quetti said, turning red.

I thumped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations!”

Uriel said, “The other candidate—”

“I am not a candidate, Archangel.”

Quetti spun around on his chair. “Knobil!”

Uriel sighed. “Then I am saved the duty of refusing you. You are about twice the age we require, and a cripple. And a herdman!” He hesitated. “But I admit I would like to hear how a man collects three tokens in one lifetime.”

I saw Michael’s hands clench.

“Violet-indigo-red gave me one…” For a moment I recalled my old, old dream of marching triumphantly into Heaven, and of Violet coming forth to welcome me and declare me a cherub. Nothing remained of that dream, nothing at all.

“Why?”

“He saw me running from a tyrant—perhaps it was a reward for intelligence? He was a little crazy. The second I got from Brown-yellow-white, because I rode a great one up the Great River. But hundreds of others did the same right after. The third…the third was only a promise, not an actual token. From Orange-brown-white—”

Quetti shot me a startled glance but said nothing. Michael’s fingers unfolded slowly.

“Orange-brown-white?” Saint Kettle sat up eagerly. “Where? How long ago? Why only a promise?”

“A promise because he had no tokens to give me. He had nothing left but his skin, and not as much of that as feels good. He promised me a token if we escaped. It was humor—not very funny humor, but then we had very little to laugh about.”

The audience exchanged glances, and Uriel leaned across the table as if he wanted to bite me. “Orange was a slave? You are saying that those ants had the audacity to enslave an angel?”

“Is that worse than enslaving a herdman?”

“Well, if—no, I suppose not.” He obviously thought that it was, though. “We shall need a detailed report. He’s dead now?”

“Very.” I outlined how Orange had died soon after my capture, long, long ago. It had been about then that I had lost all hope that Heaven would ever, or could ever, do anything about the ants, but now suddenly I realized that in this case they might at least try, inspired by my tale of the captured angel. My mouth began to water at the thought of Hrarrh dying at my feet, slowly and painfully.

Uriel looked over Michael’s head at Kettle. “Is there a mine recorded near the Gates of the Andes?”

The fat man nodded. “I believe so. I’d have to check, but it seems to me it is one of the poor ones, not exploited in every cycle.”

The snortoise took another giant lurch forward. The room rocked and creaked. Then came the bellow.

When silence returned, Michael was already speaking, or thinking aloud. “…a Friday Freeze due, but latest word is that the seafolk are already on the move… I could free up more men there, at least until the ice actually closes… The Thursday party’s back—Have we the equipment, though? That’s the problem!” He rose and the others followed, the angel straightening up from the wall.

I was astonished by the little man’s authority, by the way he could make larger men than he behave like herdwomen around their master. How did he do that? I saw that there might yet be things I could learn in Heaven—things that would assist me in my planned revenge. Even if nothing came of this proposed attack on the ants’ nest, I might want to stay around for a while and observe.