Read Online City of Night by Michelle West - Free Book Online Page B

clear now, and Angel knew that he gazed upon one of the god- born. He was not afraid of the god-born; indeed, as a younger child, he might have stood in awe of them, had he realized what they were.
    But he couldn’t afford awe today. He could afford only what he had been given, since the day his family had died: walking, one foot in front of the other, from Evanston to Averalaan, to this port and this dock.
     
    By the time Angel reached the stranger, a second man had come down the planking, and this man carried papers that he handed to Terrick. Terrick took them and made a show of leafing through them; the young assistant clerk stepped forward with his ink and his quill, as the Portmaster proffered a different set of documents to the second man. He in turn took them and made the same show of leafing through them as Terrick had done before he nodded briskly.
    Angel waited in silence, as did the first stranger, the man he had seen once before on his father’s farm. The Northerner waited in the same self-contained silence, although his lips were compressed in a slight frown. Clearly, the paperwork required by the Port Authority was both foreign and beneath his notice.
    But it was completed, and when it was, the Portmaster bowed and signaled an orderly retreat. Terrick, first to arrive, was last to leave, and as he left, he briefly touched Angel’s shoulder. That was all.
    Angel stood on the dock with the Northerner, the sea lapping at wooden bow and round, thick pole. The man with the pale spire and the long staff watched him, as if waiting. Angel could play the waiting game forever.
    Forever was, in this case, five minutes, and Angel knew this because, in his mind, he performed a simple farm chore, putting everything but his body in motion. Five minutes. He could mark time in longer ways, and in shorter ones, but when he waited, he always chose some way of keeping track of time; it was like keeping score.
    The older man cleared his throat. “You are Garroc’s son,” he said—in Weston. His eyes crinkled briefly, as if the light on water had struck them unexpectedly.
    Angel nodded. “And you are?” He also chose Weston, as it came more naturally to him.
    This caused a pale brow to rise, and one hand to tighten on the staff. But Angel didn’t move, and he didn’t speak again, and after a significant pause—feed for the chickens entering the bucket—the stranger’s lips curved in a cold smile.
    “I am Alaric,” the old man said, in Rendish. “I advise Weyrdon.”
    “I’m Angel,” Angel replied, in the same tongue.
    “Weyrdon is waiting for you.”
    Angel nodded, unsurprised. He shouldn’t have been, but it didn’t matter. In some way that defied logic, it made sense to him that his long trek from the ruin of the only home he had ever known would be significant enough that Weyrdon, in the remote North, would somehow know.
    He approached the plank, but it was the old man’s turn to play games. He did not move or step out of the way, and Angel knew better than to slide sideways around him. He didn’t like the idea of wandering around on a ship trying to find Weyrdon, and he didn’t think the welcome he would receive, without the permission of this grim stranger, would be worth the effort.
    “Who do you serve,” the man said at length.
    Angel said nothing.
    “Do you serve Weyrdon?”
    And lifted his chin, meeting the old man’s appraising glare. “I don’t know,” he said calmly. He could; the docks were Imperial, and he was still standing on them.
    Again, the man’s hand tightened on his staff.
    A minute passed, two, five; the sailors were now standing loosely near the dockside of the ship, watching.
    The old man offered Angel a second glimpse of his winter smile. “A fair answer,” he replied. “But not for one who styles himself of Weyrdon.”
    “I serve my father in this,” Angel said softly. “And it was his request. If it offends, I apologize.”
    “But you will not change