West of January by Dave Duncan

the ocean.” That had to be the angel’s voice, of course. It was higher-pitched, and it had a curious soft lilt to it. My skin shivered with excitement at being close enough to hear an angel speak.
    “And they are going north?”
    “I hope so.” The angel sounded exaggeratedly patient, as if he was repeating something he had said before. “We have been telling them for long enough. They certainly can’t go west. Any who go south will be trapped. There is no way out to the south.”
    “How far north?” Anubyl was angry.
    “The beaches extend into the fringes of Tuesday—about as far north as woollies like to go. The problem is that you have all these others ahead of you, and they will have cropped the grass. You may have to go very far north to find good grazing. I admit that you will have trouble. The woollies will become very sluggish, but that is better than having them starve.”
    There was silence, and then Anubyl’s harsher voice said petulantly, “I have scouted good water holes to the south—several of them.”
    There was more silence before the angel spoke again, still patient. “You have many fine women, I see. How many are with child?”
    “Two, at least, the old wives say. My first crop!”
    “I congratulate you. But if you go south, Herdmaster, the babes will die before they walk.”
    “You croak a hard call, sir.”
    “And all your woollies, also.”
    Anubyl grunted. He did not want to hear that hard call. “More tripe, sir? Some curd? You will not try the roo-brain mash?”
    “I am so full I could not eat a flea’s earlobe, Herdmaster. Your women are most outstanding cooks, even among the herdfolk, whose food is spoken of with awe throughout all Vernier.”
    “You are kind. They have other abilities, sir, also.” I heard a handclap and guessed that Anubyl was gesturing to his women to line up for inspection. “I offer you rest from your travels and the enjoyment of whichever companion may please you.”
    “Your hospitality has already put me more in your debt…”
    The speeches became formal, the angel complimenting his host and politely declining, the herdman insisting. This must be a ritual, I thought, like the speech Jalinan’s brother had made when he offered her to my father. But the second of the voices had changed, meaning that the two men had moved. Hoping my heart would not jump right out of my throat—where it had no right to be—I rose to my feet. Then I dashed through between tents to deliver my accusation.
    I almost ran into Anubyl, but he had his back to me. I dodged around him and past the angel also, seeking safety on his far side. The two of them were standing, studying the four younger women, who were likewise standing—in a line, blushing, excited, all greatly hoping to be chosen for this honor. The three old wives stood behind them, watching with interest. Nine sets of eyes turned to stare at me in shock or horror.
    “That man killed my father!” I shouted. My voice came out much more shrilly than I had expected. At the same moment I registered with astonishment that this pudgy angel man beside me was barely taller than myself.
    Anubyl roared and began to move.
    The angel stopped him with a gesture, and everyone froze.
    The pink, baggy, sweaty face studied me without expression. “What’s your name, lad?”
    I blurted out my name as Anubyl began to move again.
    “Truce, Herdmaster!” the angel snapped, and Anubyl stopped once more, quivering with fury.
    “And who was your father?”
    “Er…” I did not know my father’s name. I croaked and fell silent, choked by conflicting rage and terror and embarrassment.
    The angel’s white eyebrows dropped in a frown. “Was he herdmaster? Is that who you mean?”
    “Yes, sir.” Certainly! Who else?
    The angel glanced toward Anubyl. “I just had to be sure, you understand? The coloring?”
    “Of course, sir! Now you will permit me to teach a few manners?” The young man’s eyes had blood in them—my