The Alleluia Files

  “Manna-root salve,” she murmured.

  The ex-priest looked at her sharply. “Manna root is one of the ingredients, but how do you know that?” he asked. “Only the priests use it. It’s too rare for ordinary men and women to play with.”

  She shrugged against his grip. “There was an Edori woman I knew in Luminaux. She had some. Apparently the Edori use it all the time. It’s not so rare in Ysral.”

  Ezra grunted. “Maybe not. They say the angelicas used to know how to pray for manna seed to fall from heaven, but they’ve forgotten or lost the prayers that used to coax it from Jovah’s hands. But the Edori remember prayers none of the rest of us ever learned.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in prayers to Jovah.”

  “I believe in the results I see.”

  They sat for a while in silence as the salve went to work. First it felt cool against her arm, then it caused a shivering tingle, and then the whole area went dead. After about five minutes Ezra poked at her arm with a needle.

  “Feel that?”

  “No.”

  “All right. Look away if the sight of blood offends you.”

  But it was her own blood, her own body, and so she watched. Working with an unexpected delicacy for a man with such big hands, Ezra retrieved a small, wickedly thin knife from his briefcase and made one quick incision in her arm. She felt a certain pressure but no pain, even as the blood quickly welled up along the cut. Only when the droplets slid down her skin, past the numbed area, did she feel their sticky warmth.

  Ezra was pulling another treasure from his case. “Ever see one of these?” he asked. “Not attached to a person, I mean.”

  He handed her a strange contraption that looked like nothing so much as an opal-backed spider, only bigger than any spider she’d ever seen. With her left hand, she took it, and held it up to the insufficient light. The top portion was smooth, beautiful, gemlike, an extremely hard glass filled with opaque shadows. The bottom half consisted of a tangle of metallic black wires, stiff but bendable.

  “A Kiss,” she said. “How does it work?”

  He snorted again. “Depends on what you believe, I guess. The faithful say that the Kiss is a product of Jovah’s, fashioned by his hand, and that the blood of a man—or woman—animates it. The Jacobites believe that it is some kind of electronic link to this spaceship they’re always talking about. And that human warmth or movement or what have you switches it on and allows the computer to track them around the planet till they die.”

  “The second explanation sounds infinitely more reasonable to me,” Zeke called from across the room.

  “Be quiet,” Ezra said, not even looking at him. “As for the mechanics of it—” He took the object back from Tamar and proceeded to separate the trailing wires. “These are inserted into the incision and graft themselves to the bone over a period of three days. You can remove or reposition a Kiss for up to seventy-two hours, but after that, there’s no digging it out of a person’s arm without breaking through the bone itself. Or cutting his arm off.” He grinned wolfishly. “Which is something I have known to be done. Here, now, brace your hand against the edge of my chair. And hold very still.”

  “Can I talk?”

  “I would imagine nothing could stop you,” he said, but absently. With one hand, he was holding the Kiss; with the other, he was prying apart the edges of her slit skin. He seemed to do no more than lay the wires against the cut and wait. Through the deadened nerve endings, she almost believed she could feel those narrow metal fingers shiver with a slowly quickening life of their own, sink through the layers of muscle and vein to seek out the sturdy anchor of the bone. Ezra applied some pressure to the crystal top of the Kiss, edging it back and forth to attain some perfect placement, then was still again.

  “Does it light up?” Tamar asked.

  “Does what light up? The Kiss? Not that I’ve ever seen.”

  “I’ve heard it said that when true lovers meet for the first time, the colors in their Kisses go wild.”

  His face wore a disdainful look. “Romantic tales told by lovelorn girls,” he said. “The idea makes no sense.”

  “Well, it would make sense if Jovah was a computer,” Tamar argued. “If he had his reasons for wanting to mate certain men and women. The lights and colors could be—not an emotional reaction, but an engineered, scientific one.”

  “Ridiculous,” Ezra said. “It doesn’t happen.”

  “So how many of these Kisses have you installed over your life?” she wanted to know next.

  “Uncountable,” he replied. “Thousands.”

  “And where did you get the Kisses?”

  He responded with a short dog’s-bark laugh. “When I was first ordained, I was presented with this case of instruments and a box of one hundred Kisses. When I had used up every last one, I returned to the oracle on Mount Sinai, and she gave me one hundred more. And so I continued for as long as I was a priest.”

  “Where do the oracles get the Kisses?”

  “I did not ask. Perhaps they construct the items themselves. Perhaps there are storerooms of them buried in each of the retreats. Perhaps Jovah sends them as requested. I never cared.”

  “And how many Kisses do you have left from that final box of one hundred?”

  This time the laugh was fainter. “Five.”

  “Then I am glad I came to you when I did.”

  “And this night of all nights. You are never completely safe in Breven, but today and tomorrow and the next day you might be considered a little less at risk.”

  Tamar’s voice was scornful. “That is why we chose to come tonight, of course. Do you think we are complete fools? With the Gloria to be sung tomorrow morning, all the angels and most of their Jansai servants will be on the Plain of Sharon. We do not have to worry about them.”

  “Well, I would still worry a little bit,” he said. He lifted his hand cautiously from the Kiss, but it stayed grounded in her arm. He nodded. “Good. It looks like it has rooted. I’m going to smear some more cream around your incision and bind the whole thing.”

  “And how do I care for it while the wound heals?”

  “It shouldn’t take more than a couple of days to heal. The cut is shallow, and the manna root is a marvelous salve—and, here, you can take this jar of ointment. I’ve got more. But remember, the Kiss itself will not be absolutely implanted in your arm until the three days are up. Keep the area dry and cover it with a bandage daily to keep it free from dirt and dust. After that, you should have to give it no more care than you give your fingernails or your teeth.”

  “And if something goes wrong? If it hasn’t—rooted?”

  He gave her that lupine grin again. “Then come back. I’ll fix it.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “I wouldn’t trouble myself. In the twenty-five years I installed Kisses, day in and day out, only twice did a Kiss fall awry. And in both those cases, the problem lay with the person receiving the Kiss—both young children who scratched and clawed at the alien marble in their arms. That’s the reason we always preferred to graft the Kiss to infants—they don’t like it any better, but there’s less they can do about it.”

  “And when the salve wears off? Will it hurt?”

  “Like any wound. It will improve every day.”

  “Then we’re all done here?”

  “You’re done.”

  Tamar rolled her sleeve back down, glad that its full folds hid the bulky bandage. She had hoped she would be able to walk out of Ezra’s place boldly, flashing her badge of citizenship, but apparently she had three more dreary days to wait before she could pass as an ordinary woman of Samaria. Well, she had waited twenty-eight years. She could wait three more days.

  “Ready, Zeke?” she asked, coming to her feet. Ezra, rising to his considerable height beside her, forestalled her with a gesture.

  “And where do you plan to go once you’ve left here?” he asked. “No respectable inn would take you at this hour of
the night.”

  “We can go to the wharf,” Zeke said, crossing the room to join them. “I need to look for passage to Ysral.”

  “Not at midnight,” Ezra said. “That’s when the patrols are most zealous.”

  “Do you have a suggestion?” Tamar asked quietly.

  He gestured around the room where they were standing. “It’s not luxury, but you can spend the night here,” he said. “Leave at dawn. It’s safer.”

  “I have no more money to pay you for such a great favor,” she said.

  Ezra shrugged. “Included in the fee.”

  “Then we accept your offer,” Tamar said before Zeke could come up with any protests. Though she suspected he was as glad as she was to find a haven for the night.

  Ezra nodded once, sharply, and turned to leave the room. Even this gesture of altruism did not incline him to easy friendship. “Don’t disturb me when you leave in the morning,” he said. “Just take the stairs and go out. The door will lock itself behind you.”

  “If we are not to see you again, let me thank you now,” Tamar said, her voice slipping into the slight singsong of formal gratitude. “For the use of the room, and for the great service you did me tonight. Even though I offered you money, you could have refused, and you did not. I am in your debt.”

  He waved off the speech, though he did not look entirely ill-pleased. “Best be careful on the streets as you leave, Gloria or no Gloria,” he said. “Be especially wary on the wharf. The Jansai love nothing so much as Jacobite meat for breakfast, especially when that Jacobite is on the verge of escaping.”

  “We’ll be careful,” Tamar said, holding out her left hand. Almost reluctantly, the big man took it.

  “Jovah keep you,” he said, “if you care for that blessing.”

  She smiled, and responded with the Jacobite’s traditional farewell: “May your friends guard your back, may the seasons be kind, may you never weary in your faith, till we find the Alleluia Files at last.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Zeke and Tamar were up at first light. They quickly dressed and ate from their dwindling supply of rations. Tamar wasted a few minutes investigating the Kiss on her arm. During the night the numbing agent had evaporated, and she had woken to a deep, insistent ache—not unbearable, but not easy to overlook, either. She carefully untied the bandage Ezra had applied and was pleased to see no bleeding or swelling around the incision. Manna root was an excellent salve indeed.

  The Kiss itself looked different in the light of day—more vibrant, more concentrated. More sentient, Tamar thought, though that was a concept that belonged more to the angels than to a properly educated atheist like herself. If it indeed represented an electronic link to the computer that orbited overhead, then it might perhaps have animated somehow as it connected to her flesh, but it did not grow more alive. It was a mechanism, a thing, constructed by men for the edification of a machine.

  Still, the faintest milky glow seemed to swirl dreamily in its crystal depths.

  She spread a little of the manna ointment around the incision but, contrary to Ezra’s instructions, did not rebandage her arm. When she donned her Jansai veils and garments again, she left her arms bare so the Kiss would show. It might not be completely anchored in her bone yet, but she would be careful not to bump or bruise it; this was a badge she could not wait even one more day to show.

  “Are you finally ready?” Zeke asked impatiently as she finished tying her headdress in place.

  “Ready. Let’s go.”

  They moved quietly down the steps and let themselves out on the street, closing the door behind them. Tamar tugged on the handle till she felt the lock fall home, then she turned to survey the close alley. Not much more welcoming in spring sunlight. They needed to get to the more publicly traveled areas.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Instead of canvassing the wharf, it might be safer to go to the marketplaces or the cafés and see if we can find an Edori captain off his ship. Make arrangements there. He might be able to help you get safely on board.”

  “Makes sense,” Zeke said. “But how will we recognize a sea captain?”

  She grinned. “Well, I’d guess any Edori we run into in Breven will be a sailor, whether or not he’s a captain. That’s a start. And of course we’ll recognize any Edori we see.”

  “True enough,” Zeke said. “Let’s go look.”

  It was true; though rare on the Samarian continent these days, Edori were instantly recognizable anywhere. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, mahogany-skinned, Edori all possessed a certain resemblance that would have set them apart from ordinary Samarians even if their genial, welcoming dispositions did not. Tamar had not met many Edori, for most of them had emigrated to Ysral over the past hundred years, but all of them had amazed her with their fearlessness, joyousness, and genuine interest in the world around them. She could not believe centuries of oppression had not bred such common delights from them. It had only taken a trio of decades to turn the whole lot of the Jacobites grim.

  Breven by day was a very different proposition than it had been by shadowy night. For one thing (Gloria or no Gloria), there were hundreds of people abroad, cramming the sidewalks and filling the pitted roads with vehicles of all descriptions. Most of those they passed were Jansai—as distinctive as the Edori, but mainly by virtue of their loose, flowing clothing and predilection for gaudy jewelry. But the whole range of Samarian society could be found on these streets, for Breven was a trading capital second only to Luminaux. In the past fifty years it had even eclipsed Semorrah, the inland city that had been the business heart of Samaria for centuries. Thus Zeke and Tamar passed elegant Manadavvi from Gaza, middle-class burghers from Bethel, ordinary farmers from southern Jordana—and, finally, a solitary Edori man standing outside a shop window and looking in with an expression of wonder.

  He was gazing at a confection of lace and satin, a woman’s garment that Tamar would never have expected to see in a Breven market, and she nodded at Zeke to let him know she could handle the opening conversational gambit. Accordingly, she came to a halt beside the spellbound traveler and let loose a lilting laugh of complicity.

  “I’m not sure what I’d say to a man who brought that home to me,” she observed. “But at least I’d know what was on his mind!”

  The Edori turned to her instantly, his waist-length braid whipping over his shoulder. A quick grin lightened his dark face. “Well, if a man wanted to bring a woman a gift he’d be sure she’d like, this might not be the one,” he replied. “Is what I was thinking.”

  “Are you shopping for a wife—a lover?” she asked, remembering belatedly that the Edori were said to never marry. “Or merely courting?”

  Still smiling, he put both hands before him, palms outward, as if pushing away trouble. “A man like me’s got no business courting,” he said.

  “And why would that be?”

  “I’m a wanderer by nature. The ocean is my lover, or so the women say.”

  “Oh, a sailor,” she said, nodding sagely. “And how long will you be in port?”

  He glanced up at the sun, measuring time, and laughed. “Another two hours, it looks like. I should be back on board already. But facing two weeks of nothing but wave and wind, a man likes to take a few more minutes to feel his feet on solid ground.”

  “Cargo boat?” she asked. “Or merely pleasure?”

  He laughed again. “Well, despite what you’ll hear any sailor say, there’s a pleasure merely to be on board ship, crossing the ocean again and again. But we’re a cargo boat. We trade mostly in spices, gold, and electronics.”

  “Passengers?” she asked, and suddenly her voice was very low.

  His face immediately grew sober, but not a muscle in his body changed position. Anyone watching them would have noticed nothing tense in either of their postures. “From time to time,” he said. “But it’s a rarity.”

  “Would it be possible,” she said slowly, “for you to tell me the conditions?”

  “Are
you the one who desires passage?”

  “No. My friend. The man across the street who’s eating the tangerine. He wishes to set sail for Ysral immediately.”

  “It’s not my decision,” the Edori said regretfully. “My captain’s on board already, and it’s his boat. His choice. I’d be willing to ask him. One man isn’t much of a burden.”

  “He can pay a little, though not much,” Tamar said. “But he can work to help pay his way.”

  “It’s not the gold. It’s the getting out of Breven harbor. Let me ask. I’ll see what the captain says.”

  “You said you’re sailing in two hours. Will you come meet us somewhere? What shall we do?”

  The Edori thought swiftly. “The ship’s called The Wayward. She’s docked on the southern edge of the port, facing the Varnet Building. Do you know it?”

  She shook her head. “Describe it.”

  “White marble. Sixteen stories. Everything else around it is squat and dark, so you cannot miss it.”

  “All right.”

  “If the captain has agreed to take your friend, an hour and a half from now we’ll throw a red blanket over the railing that you can see from shore. I’ll bring the dinghy to the dock and pick him up. He must be watching for the blanket, for that will be the moment I leave the ship, and it will only take me ten minutes to make it to shore. I will only stay dockside long enough to pick up a passenger. If he is not there, I will return to my ship immediately. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly clear. I know thanks are inadequate—”

  Now he smiled again, the rich, happy smile of the Edori. “We, too, know what it is like to be persecuted by the Jansai,” he said. “We are all brothers under the skin. We will help anyone who asks. No thanks are needed.”

  “But I am glad to give them. And my friend will be profuse in his gratitude.”

  “Your friend—his name is?”

  “Zeke. Ezekiel.”