Angels at the Gate Read Online Free PDF Page A

night meal,” I say. “I can come to your tent.”
    Raph considers. “And when your goat?”
    This is the tricky part. I do not want to wait long. “In three days,” I say in his language to further impress my skills. “I will teach you for three days, and then you will say if my lessons are worthy. If not, youowe me nothing, but if you wish to continue, you must purchase my goat.”
    With thumb and forefinger Raph rubs his clean-shaven chin. “This fair.”
    â€œA pact then,” I say, holding out my palm.
    He nods and presses his palm into mine. “A pact.”

CHAPTER

6
    Abram was very rich in livestock, silver, and gold.
    â€”Book of Genesis 13:2
    A S SOON AS RAPH LEAVES , I roll onto my hands and knees and carefully rise, taking shallow breaths to avoid the pain. To my relief, Mika’s bandage helps. I will not run and jump for a while, but this is manageable. I eat the breakfast of flatbread, dried dates, and goat’s milk my father has left, clean my face with a damp cloth, and go to find Chiram.
    Chiram has already begun to pack, which means bread, dried meat, and dates for the mid-meal. He sends Danel to find something. As he passes by, Danel shakes his head. “Stupid boy.”
    Chiram kneels before the bronze pot that is his pride and looks up at me from beneath the black forest of his brows. “So, you live.”
    I look down at the grass and shift a stone with my foot.
    â€œIdiot,” Chiram grumbles. His voice is gravel. “You cost me.” He places a long wooden stirrer into the pot for traveling, protecting it with leather packets of spices and dried food. Between them, he lays a couple of knives. Chiram is most fond of his knives—he always tucks at least two into his sash. His favorites are two matching daggers with ibex-horn hilts. When he is not busy with matters of the pot, he sharpens or practices throwing them. He is quite skillful.
    My foot rolls the stone back over. “Cost you? How?”
    â€œLost the pups to hyenas while that bitch was out chasing you.” His brows slide together, forming a single dark ridge over his eyes. “You owe me.”
    His words seem to float somewhere above my head, refusing to sink into my head.
Lost the pups?
    My chest hurts with a different kind of pain than the fall from Dune imparted, my mind filling with images of each pup—the perpetually sleepy one with a white splash on his throat; the female who was a reflection of her mother, black face with golden brown on her brows and under her muzzle; the playful silver-gray one with black splotches; and the sweet one with a golden nose I had taken with me yesterday.
    The pain in my chest twists up into my throat, and I have to wait long moments before speaking. Finally, I say, “I am sorry.”
    I am sorrier to Nami than to Chiram, who intended to cook them all. “I will pay for all of the pups in three days with a young goat.”
    â€œA goat?” Chiram looks up.
    I quickly add. “And for Nami.”
    Chiram considers. “That’s a costly dog.”
    I stare at him. “Why did you buy her? Surely, you did not purchase such a dog to eat her pups. Better a goat that will give milk every day. A goat is a very good bargain for a dog.” He has no use for a dog anyway.
    He shrugs. “Won it. Let some desert rat stake it in a game.”
    Chiram does not think much of the desert nomads. My people are wanderers too, but our customs are different, and we do not traverse the deep desert, but stay in the hills and grasslands with our flocks.
    â€œMeant to put it back in,” Chiram grumbles, “but the former owner passed out.” He runs the knife expertly along the sharpening stone. “So I was stuck with the scrounger.”
    Scroungers
. That is how people in the city look at dogs. Herders and farmers, and, of course, the desert people see dogs through better eyes. I do too, but Chiram