passed him by, on foot or on the wing, stared until it seemed their eyes must burst. Most either took a couple of steps away or made a deliberate show of
not
doing so, but few showed any inclination toward approaching him.
Few, save the flight of five circling high above, who had been with him since the gate. Guards, doubtless, watching to be sure he started no trouble. Well, let them watch!
It occurred to War that he must be passing all manner of establishments: workshops and warehouses, shops and homes. Yet he could see no way of telling one from another. Every structure was grand and imposing, more magnificent than temples or palaces in most other worlds. Some boasted sigils in angelic script above or near the doors, and War assumed that these were sufficient to tell the angels what they needed to know. Other than those, he could find no pattern, nor any hint of what purpose any given building served.
And he had plenty of time to examine them, for his route could generously be called circuitous. Even though he’d chosen the most efficient and straightforward path to the structure that the Council’s agents had dubbed his objective, he would be long in reaching his objective—because the most efficient that
he
could manage was still not efficient at all.
The angels had to transport goods and building materials, and they often played host to Makers or other Old Ones, so the vast majority of their structures were indeed accessible by bridge and by road. For their own part, however, the angels were creatures of the air as much as the ground, and the most direct path between this building and that, this district and that, was often open sky. War and Ruin, bound as they were by gravity, had to wend their way around entire neighborhoods, up and down multiple levels, for hours on end, to reach a destination that, for an angel, was only a few moments away.
Finally, just as War was growing truly irritated, and the wonders of Heaven had ceased to hold any appeal, he recognized the landmark for which he’d been searching. Recessed into a niche in the side of a great cathedral-like hall stood a particular statue. It, like nearly all the others, was the effigy of an angel, nearly three times War’s height. Where most either crouched, as though kneeling to some higher power, or stood rigid in an attitude of endless vigilance, this one leaned forwardas though just beginning to swing the massive sword it clutched in both hands.
Once he’d spotted that statue, he was to continue on, past the next intersecting bridge, to the first building on the right. There, if the Charred Council’s informants had not deceived them, he would find Abaddon’s hidden arsenal.
If the spies
had
deceived them … Well, War had no idea who the informants were, or what influence the Council held over them to command their assistance, but if he’d been lied to, the Horseman was quite prepared to spend decades tracking them down.
War was now several levels deeper than the gate. The web-work of bridges and platforms above were sure to give his “escorts” some difficulty in keeping an eye on him, though he knew they were still above, trying their best. He was certain, as well, that many of the passersby on the roadway were actually guards, watching over the covert installation. So, although he’d much have preferred an open and comprehensive reconnaissance of his target, he settled for halting Ruin in the midst of the intersection, glancing about as though trying to remember his way. From here, he could at least study his objective from the corner of his eye. Several angels grumbled as they were forced to detour around the massive beast, but none seemed inclined to challenge him directly.
It was unimpressive, so far as White City architecture was concerned. It was less than two hundred paces across; the sweeping walls and minarets were “only” the height of a great castle. It was, for an angelic structure, downright humble.
Its walls were
not
doing so, but few showed any inclination toward approaching him.
Few, save the flight of five circling high above, who had been with him since the gate. Guards, doubtless, watching to be sure he started no trouble. Well, let them watch!
It occurred to War that he must be passing all manner of establishments: workshops and warehouses, shops and homes. Yet he could see no way of telling one from another. Every structure was grand and imposing, more magnificent than temples or palaces in most other worlds. Some boasted sigils in angelic script above or near the doors, and War assumed that these were sufficient to tell the angels what they needed to know. Other than those, he could find no pattern, nor any hint of what purpose any given building served.
And he had plenty of time to examine them, for his route could generously be called circuitous. Even though he’d chosen the most efficient and straightforward path to the structure that the Council’s agents had dubbed his objective, he would be long in reaching his objective—because the most efficient that
he
could manage was still not efficient at all.
The angels had to transport goods and building materials, and they often played host to Makers or other Old Ones, so the vast majority of their structures were indeed accessible by bridge and by road. For their own part, however, the angels were creatures of the air as much as the ground, and the most direct path between this building and that, this district and that, was often open sky. War and Ruin, bound as they were by gravity, had to wend their way around entire neighborhoods, up and down multiple levels, for hours on end, to reach a destination that, for an angel, was only a few moments away.
Finally, just as War was growing truly irritated, and the wonders of Heaven had ceased to hold any appeal, he recognized the landmark for which he’d been searching. Recessed into a niche in the side of a great cathedral-like hall stood a particular statue. It, like nearly all the others, was the effigy of an angel, nearly three times War’s height. Where most either crouched, as though kneeling to some higher power, or stood rigid in an attitude of endless vigilance, this one leaned forwardas though just beginning to swing the massive sword it clutched in both hands.
Once he’d spotted that statue, he was to continue on, past the next intersecting bridge, to the first building on the right. There, if the Charred Council’s informants had not deceived them, he would find Abaddon’s hidden arsenal.
If the spies
had
deceived them … Well, War had no idea who the informants were, or what influence the Council held over them to command their assistance, but if he’d been lied to, the Horseman was quite prepared to spend decades tracking them down.
War was now several levels deeper than the gate. The web-work of bridges and platforms above were sure to give his “escorts” some difficulty in keeping an eye on him, though he knew they were still above, trying their best. He was certain, as well, that many of the passersby on the roadway were actually guards, watching over the covert installation. So, although he’d much have preferred an open and comprehensive reconnaissance of his target, he settled for halting Ruin in the midst of the intersection, glancing about as though trying to remember his way. From here, he could at least study his objective from the corner of his eye. Several angels grumbled as they were forced to detour around the massive beast, but none seemed inclined to challenge him directly.
It was unimpressive, so far as White City architecture was concerned. It was less than two hundred paces across; the sweeping walls and minarets were “only” the height of a great castle. It was, for an angelic structure, downright humble.
Its walls were
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