They Who Fell (17 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“J
ust one trip, to the very bottom of the tower,” said Cassie. “One more trip, back to see your friends. And to do a little favor for me.”

“What kind of favor?” said Jana.

“Never you mind,” said Cassie. “All I need you to do is get down there. You convince him, and I won’t tell her. He snuck you out of here once, and that means he can do it again.”

Jana didn’t trust any of this. The tower was awash in schemes, and somehow she kept getting entangled in them. But she didn’t have much choice. She needed to wait for Rhamiel to extract her from Nefta’s clutches, however he planned to do it. And if Cassie were to tell her, she’d be handed down to Ecanus, and left to the same fate as Peter. Then again, it could be a bluff. Angels in a rage were known to kill messengers, and suspicions would inevitably fall on Cassie if she told.

“I don’t know when I’ll see him again,” said Jana.

“He’ll find you,” said Cassie.

“What if he says no?” said Jana.

“If he really cares about you, he won’t,” said Cassie. “I thought you were sure.”

“I’m sure,” said Jana. “And fine. I’ll do it. But you’re just as nasty as any of them. Don’t pretend you’re not. I know better now.” Her lips quivered as she spoke, holding in the anger and the pain. She’d been wounded by Cassie’s demands and threats. She’d thought of her as someone better, a mentor and protector, someone who might really care underneath her gruff exterior. Now she saw it as an act, a mask for someone just as devious as her masters.

“Mop,” said Cassie, and turned back to her scrubbing. She was silent for the rest of the afternoon, keeping to herself and keeping a distance from Jana. She couldn’t meet her eyes, and didn’t even correct her for leaving streaks or spots, though it must have been tempting given Jana’s general inexperience with this kind of chore. They endured the tension for hours, and had finally finished cleaning the entry room, carefully wiping the dust from the crevices of every mask, when they heard footsteps behind them.

“Dears,” said Nefta. “How do I look?”

She looked resplendent. She’d dressed herself up, far more formally than Jana had ever seen her. She wore a large, hooped gown, puffed outward at her hips to roughly match the length of her folded wingspan. It was the color of jade, spotted with black bows and tassels. She’d invested a great deal of time in her hair, arranging her blonde locks so that they flowed downward across her back and to the sides. Her wings were draped in a white felt, fitted to them with precision and lined with down feathers in a rough facsimile of the originals. And on her face was a black silken mask, lined at the edges with a string of black pearls and snaking across her face to precisely cover her scars. On either side of it there was a row of black feathers, pluming backwards from the mask and giving the impression of a miniature pair of wings. With her scars hidden, she was a stunning thing of beauty again.

“There’s a party tonight,” said Nefta. “A masquerade. It’s something of a send-off for the warriors of the tower. For Rhamiel’s Hunt. He’s preparing to chase down the one who scarred him, and avenge the indignity.”

“You look gorgeous,” said Cassie. “I’m sure Rhamiel will adore it.” She shot Jana a firm glance, and then turned back to their mistress.

“Won’t he?” said Nefta, spinning around in a quick circle to display her dress in its entirety. “He’ll be so focused on his war, but I think this will be just the thing to distract him. And I want you two to be there, at my side. We must find you something appropriate to wear, and masks of your own. Come!”

She snapped her fingers, and led them back to a large closet, filled with clothing for all occasions, from fancy formal wear to rough leather tunics more appropriate for the grime of a battlefield. Jana followed behind her meekly. She thought at first it must be some trap, or a prelude to violence or anger. Nefta had hardly been in the mood to play dress-up just a few hours earlier. But now she seemed so happy and so sincere, enthusiastically flipping through her private wardrobe to find something for each of them. Her swings in temperament were making Jana dizzy, but she seemed genuine about them, however impossible they were to reconcile.

“Oh!” squealed Nefta, pulling a teal silken gown from its hanger, and holding it up against Cassie. “It suits you, a match for your eyes! We’ll have to pin up the wing holes in the back, but no matter. You’ll look gorgeous. And you, Jana, we must find something for you.”

She poked around, flipping through dress after dress to find one she thought appropriate. “No,” said Nefta. “This shan’t do, it’s simply too flashy. And this would be fine, but for the frills. It isn’t that sort of party.” She tutted and clucked, pulling out beautiful gowns only to toss them aside. Finally she settled on a choice: a drab, tan dress that Jana thought looked like nothing other than a burlap sack. It was serviceable, but it certainly wouldn’t attract the attention of any suitors. “It’s perfect,” said Nefta, handing it to Jana with a cheery smile.

“Now,” said Nefta, “we must prepare. The evening’s ahead of us, and there’s not much time left. You girls need masks, and I’ve only the one. Cassie, send for the seamstresses, and bid them to fix something up for each of you. Jana, you must wash up. Your hands are grubby, and covered in filth. It’s cute, in a simple sort of way, but it won’t do for a formal affair.”

And so they went about their preparations; Cassie to track down a messenger, Jana to make herself presentable, and Nefta to hum to herself before a mirror as she worked the tiniest details of her appearance towards perfection.

Jana trudged off to the kitchen, filling a bucket with water from a large storage cask. They had to take care to conserve it, as overuse could agitate the servants on the outside. If it rained, they’d have plenty, captured on the outside via a system of funnels some of the more inventive servants had set up. If it didn’t, water would have to be lugged up to the top for lack of plumbing, barrel by barrel. The angels hadn’t bothered to install any when they’d built the tower, and by the time humans were living there it was too late. Uzziel’s fears aside, the tower was solid metal, scorched into its present shape by the angels. There was nowhere for pipes other than the halls themselves, an unsightly blight that the angels had no interest in permitting. No one dared complain directly about the extra work, but the servants outside weren’t above retaliating with shirking or minor sabotage if they could direct it at any human they felt was causing it. So Jana conserved as best she could, limiting her bathwater to a few gallons.

Soon the water was a cloudy brown mush, and Jana was tolerably clean. Nefta had been right; her hands in particular had been a disaster, with dirt caked under her fingernails from the day’s hard work. She’d cleaned a few spots from her face, paying careful attention to make sure she didn’t miss anything. Nefta had said Rhamiel would be there, the masquerade’s honoree, and it wouldn’t do to be a mess. He might see her and regret the things he’d said under cover of darkness, or decide that his conceptions of beauty were a little more conventional, after all.

Once she was satisfied, she emptied the bucket into another cask for the used water, and followed the sound of voices back into the entry room. Cassie was standing in the center, hands outstretched, as Nefta worked a needle at the back of her dress. She’d made a fine choice. Cassie wore it well, and the crafters below had put together a plain black mask to cover her eyes. Jana thought she looked almost ladylike. She’d never even imagined her outside her usual role cracking whips, but now she looked like a fine prop piece for Nefta’s social aspirations.

“Why Jana, you look lovely!” cooed Nefta. “I’d thought you were a street urchin before, but now you’re pristine. Put on your dress, and we’ll take care of you next.” Jana did as she was told, and then modelled it before them. “It’s simple,” said Nefta, “but sometimes there’s an elegance to simplicity. I like it, don’t you, Cassie?”

“I love it,” said Cassie, feigning enthusiasm while she looked Jana up and down. She seemed inordinately pleased with Jana being knocked down a peg. The best she could hope for was to be ignored, the worst to be a laughingstock.

“Now, let’s sew you up,” said Nefta. “Normally this is something I’d only take out on campaigns. It’s more of an undergarment, really, something to fit beneath your armor and keep you comfortable whilst slicing away at your enemies. But look, it fits you well, and it’s one’s attitude that matters anyhow.”

It did fit her, hugging her figure, which Jana supposed was some comfort. But she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to be confident in this thing—until she decided that, on reflection, perhaps she wasn’t. They affixed her mask, a simple black oval just like Cassie’s, and stepped back to take her in.

“You’re both looking splendid,” said Nefta. “Now, go and do your hair, and we’ll be off within the hour. I hope that’s sufficient time.”

“We’ll make it work, ma’am,” said Cassie. And they did, rushing to make themselves presentable while Nefta checked and double-checked her own attire. Finally they’d gotten close to ready, though nowhere near what they’d have managed if she’d given them more notice. But Jana thought she looked passable, under the circumstances, though she couldn’t help but worry that Rhamiel would disagree.

“We’re off,” said Nefta, as she led them out into the tower and through the hallways to yet another ramp, a tinier version of the one that ran through the tower’s center. They followed it upwards, though it only went a few floors before disgorging them on the roof of the tower itself.

The angels had created a flat, metallic surface at the top, with spires continuing upwards into the skies from the sides. They caught the lightning that way, a particular concern for them, and diverted it off onto harmless pathways on the tower’s sides.

The roof itself had been converted into a gathering place, a perfect location for parties thrown by and for the elite. There was nowhere higher to be, and nowhere else to climb. But tonight they’d opened it up to all of them, in honor of Rhamiel’s forthcoming expedition. The masquerade was already in full swing, as Nefta had been exceptionally fashionable in her lateness. Wooden poles surrounded the edges of the roof, with string running along them supporting colored lanterns that lit the area in the dark. Trusted servants were running between the angels as they mingled, rounding the rooftop with platters of food or wine for the guests.

The angels themselves followed no particular rule of costume save one: hide their scars. This was an easier task for some than for others. Most chose to fit covers over their wings, though those with a healthier set of feathers had relied on festively colored paints to liven up the black for the evening. This had the advantage of flaunting their feathers’ relative lack of damage, and so was in fashion for those who could pull it off. All wore masks, curving around their faces in patterns dictated by the scars. Some of them had been damaged so badly that they’d foregone masks in favor of well-ornamented hoods, leaving the entirety of their faces a mystery.

The men were dressed in warrior’s armor, their thick metal plates shaped to emphasize and enhance their physiques. The women favored gowns, cut to display feminine curves and to hide the damage from the Fall. Some in the center clapped and danced, listening to the sounds of servants plucking at harps and lyres. Most clustered together in groups, chatting away and enjoying themselves. All of them seemed to have new life breathed into them. Covering their scars had brought something of their old selves out of them, and everyone seemed to be in a pleasant mood.

Nefta led them forward, pushing her way through the crowd, and they followed behind her as quickly as they could lest the path close up behind her. She was inching closer and closer towards the largest cluster of angels, the life of the party. At its center were the tower’s elite, preparing for war and enjoying the accolades from those who’d stay behind. Some of them Jana didn’t recognize, at least not with their masks. She saw Zuphias, mingling with a few of the others and sniffing at a glass of brandy. And then she saw what Nefta had: Rhamiel, right in the middle, sharing a joke with a few of the others who were laughing uproariously.

They waited at the group’s edges as Nefta tried to worm her way in. They couldn’t well follow her; they’d be elbowed aside if they’d attempted it. So many wanted to be at the center, and so few could actually make it. So they stood there, ignoring each other and listening to snippets of the conversation. To their right, a grey haired angel in a leather tunic was droning on about the shortage of housing in the upper levels, and the need to plan an expansion. A few of the others were politely pretending to listen, as they watched for any opening to slip in closer to the evening’s honorees. To their left, a small group of female angels were enthusiastically chatting about recreating a heavenly choir and signing their own praises instead of the Maker’s. They’d given up on social climbing for the moment, absorbed by fantasies that their singing would win them fame and a fawning crowd of their very own.

Jana was bored by it all, and let her attentions wander. Everyone looked beautiful, now that they’d covered up their flaws. She thought the crafters must have had their work cut out for them, and she felt sorry for whoever had been tasked with measuring the scars to pattern the masks. It must have been dangerous, poking at their egos by poking at their ruined flesh. She marveled at the clothing they’d put together, and hoped she wasn’t conspicuous in her dingy brown dress.

She was looking around at them when she saw him, at the edges of the crowd. She didn’t recognize him at first. He wore black armor, lined with gold and covering his entire body. His wings were cloaked in black covers, his head covered by a black hood, and his face hidden by a white mask tipped with a long, narrow beak. His eyes were deep, round pools of black, goggles embedded into it that disguised his intent. They’d called it a plague doctor’s mask in times before, though Jana didn’t know it. Once it had been used by physicians as a place to tuck herbs that would block the putrid smell of their patients. Later, it had been the talk of Venice, a reminder of mortality in the midst of carnivals and revelry. Now it just made him look like a dark, ghoulish vulture, eager for carrion to devour.