The headquarters was within a spire in the lower part of the city that reached nearly as high as the temple mount itself, a reflection of Michael-lan’s exalted status. Lemuel had worked for Michael before the Great Celestial War, and afterwards had overseen the erection of the tower as a monument to the archangel’s brilliant generalship. When the Eternal Enemy’s rebellion had threatened to lap over even the great jasper walls, Yahweh himself had fought, nearly single-handedly turned back the tide with his rod of iron. Or so the story went and there were none who would argue with it. Nevertheless, it had been Michael’s leadership in the grinding war that had eventually brought the victory, or as close to a victory as it had proved possible to come. It was his leadership that had been the more prominent, and stuck in angels’ minds.
Lemuel-Lan-Michael launched himself up, feeling himself inflate slightly and enjoying the tightening of his back and breast muscles as his pure white wings beat the air behind him, lifting him off the pavement. The offices of the League were in the second ring of the tower, beneath only those of Michael himself. Two centuries ago, that would have been – had been – a measure of their importance in the choir and the esteem in which Michael held their leader. Now, things were slightly different in the political climate, and Lemuel had spent the last several decades on and off trying to put his finger on it. Part of it was the changes Michael had slowly introduced from the top – foreign changes, but on the whole the choir now ran more efficiently than it had even in the Celestial War, but he wasn’t quite sure just what those changes had been, or even whether Michael had intentionally made them.
Generally, though, he shrugged and did his job. And right now, that involved making sure he didn’t bump his head or scrape his wings on the frame as he alighted in his office with a graceful swoosh. It wasn’t cluttered; he had scrolls neatly lining a shelf in the corner – open cases involving powerful people – and one open on his desk, his daily schedule. Writing and record-keeping, one of the bigger changes, had made life both easier and more complicated.
But he didn’t need to check his schedule to know what was next on his agenda. He went to the shelf and pulled down a scroll, unrolled it on his desk. When Ishmael had been arrested, the League had searched his hideout in hopes of finding the scrolls that proclaimed his blasphemy. They hadn’t found any, something that had disappointed Lemuel severely, but they had found something very peculiar. A glass bottle full of a strange brown substance, one Lemuel had never seen before. He reached for the bottle and looked at it, a strange elixir to be certain. There was a label on it, one in English and it read “Southern Comfort. 100 Percent Proof.”
It was strange, strange beyond measure and Lemuel puzzled over the label. It was obviously an elixir that gave absolute proof of something but what? That the answer to a problem lay in the South? He shook his head, there was nothing down there but farmland. Lemuel rolled the bottle around in his hands, then put it up on the marble shelf to study later. His troubled thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. He opened it, and there was the towering form of Michael-Lan, pure-white wings folded casually across his back.
“Hey, Lemuel, I’m on my way to run an errand for the Almighty. He has a message for his Son.” Lemuel nodded. Michael’s close friendship with Jesus was not unknown within the Eternal City. It seemed a breach of the divine order somehow, the seven Archangels of the First Order might be the highest of The One Above All’s servants but they were servants none the less. For Michael-Lan to be friends with the Eternal Father’s only son seemed, disrespectful somehow. It wasn’t the first time that Michael-Lan had done the unexpected though. Many times, during the Great Celestial War, Michael had wanted to try some unorthodox tactics and Lemuel had advised against them as violating the code of honor, then later as they’d grown into friends. Lemuel always argued against bending the rules – if one started, where would one stop? – and generally prevailed, but the several occasions when Michael had directly overruled him, he’d had to admit that it generally provided results, such as Michael’s stunning defeat of Satan at the Battle of Megiddo Valley.
“What do we have here?” Michael-Lan was staring at the bottle on the shelf. Lemuel felt a sudden surge of guilt that cleared as he looked at the records he had just filled out. A light came on in his head at that point, records didn’t just preserve information, they protected those who kept them.
“We took down Ishmael this morning. We found that in his belongings and I was going to investigate it. Do you know what that is?”
Michael-Lan picked the bottle up and peered at it. “It looks human?”
“That’s what I thought, I thought it might be one of their potions. Whatever it is, it shouldn’t be here.”
“I’ll agree with that.” Michael-Lan looked at the bottle again and carefully put it back on the shelf. “This is serious. Lemuel, I want you to investigate this in depth. Keep the information to yourself, but I want a briefing every day on this. More often if there is something important discovered. Make sure only your most trusted agents are employed and as few of them as possible, telling each of them as little as possible. But, I must know everything, is that clear? You have no idea how important this could be.”
Lemuel bowed his head and swept his wings forward in assent. Michael-Lan nodded in acknowledgement and left, brushing his wings on the passage walls as he passed. Then Lemuel closed the door and stepped out into midair, his heart rising into his throat as he expanded his sacs and spread his wings to catch the fall. The four joints on his back where they hinged to his spine and scapulae strained, and felt as though they were about to tear, but – as always – he slowed and began to glide.
The Eternal City was built on a smooth basalt plain around the temple mount, the stones of the city quarried from far away – other dimensions, even – and beneath its foundations the basalt still stood. There were tunnels in the rock, tunnels that were older than the first angelic settlements here, and though most had forgotten, some, like The League of Holy Court, still used them when there was a need. Generally, that need turned out to be when someone had to disappear quickly, quietly, and efficiently, and then, after disappearing, needed to answer questions.
Lemuel glided around the tower before alighting at its base, then entered through the crowd of angels – craftsmen, lawyers, merchants, and more – going to and from work. Once inside, he slipped off into a little-used passage and took a lantern from a sconce to light his way as he descended the steps, preferring the artificial light to wasting his own magic.
As he spiraled down the staircase, the stone around him changed from translucent white to dusty white to red flecked with white and gray to dull black. At the base, the stair emptied into a passage wide enough for Michael to fit through, and Lemuel turned left. After navigating another maze of tunnels, he came into a room where the unlucky Ishmael was strapped down to a table. There wasn’t any blood spattering the walls or pooling on the floor yet – that would come later – but Ishmael was sobbing already. Lemuel noticed a couple of fingernails stacked neatly nearby on the table.
Two of his interrogation specialists were already in the room. As Lemuel entered, they both looked up and snapped to attention. “At ease,” he said. “What’s the scoop?”
“Sir, he’s not admitted to anything yet,” said one. Lemuel raised an eyebrow, then stepped forward. “I know all about your blasphemy Ishmael. That alone is enough to condemn you. But, I need to know where you got that bottle of elixir from. “