Principles of Angels

by Jaine Fenn

  She had mixed feelings of relief and disapproval when the receptionist answered completely normally, ‘The Manor Park Hotel recommends the Personal Protection Emporium in the atrium of the Hotel Splendide, which is a short walk rimwards from here. If medame is considering a visit to the Leisure Quarter, might we also recommend a guard service?’

  She thanked him for the advice, but turned down the offer of a guard.

  The Hotel Splendide, fabulously tasteless in purple and gold, contained a miniature shopping mall on its ground floor. The shop to which the receptionist had referred her had a window display of guns that looked more like fashion accessories than lethal weapons.

  Inside, the bored shop assistant sat her at a projector table and showed her how to navigate the menus to display the forms of personal armament available. ‘We have everything you see in stock, medame, though if you choose the mimetic or colour coordination options it will take a little longer.’ As she bent over her, Elarn caught a whiff of the assistant’s perfume: rather pleasant, but of course it probably masked pheromones, another enhancement that was perfectly legal here.

  Despite her initial impression, Elarn soon saw that the selection was not particularly good; there were various dart and pellet guns using compressed air technology, and tasers and other electrical and chemical stun weapons, but there were no plasma or laser guns, and nothing firing explosive projectiles.

  The assistant, sighing at the foreigner’s naïveté, told her that Khesh City might trade on its lawless reputation, but there were strict prohibitions on weaponry, an obvious precaution when you were in an enclosed City floating three kilometres above the ground. Those who lived in space habitats would barely notice the restrictions, being subject to such rules themselves, but life on an unspoiled planet meant Elarn had no idea about such things. She wondered what other assumptions about Khesh City she would find were completely wrong. She was used to living under obvious rules that bound, restricted and supported society like an exoskeleton; here it appeared the structure was more like an endoskeleton; it was hidden deep beneath the surface, but it was just as hard, just as unyielding.

  After much deliberation, she selected a dart-gun rejoicing in the name of Silversliver 75: it was compact enough to fit in her bag but it had - so the assistant claimed - an impressive range and accuracy. It looked as good as any of them to Elarn.

  ‘Excellent choice, medame,’ said the assistant, without much sincerity. ‘Will medame be taking the standard package with it?’

  ‘What exactly is the standard package?’ Elarn asked, looking around for a display.

  ‘Tranq, delivered by needle. The target loses consciousness in one to three seconds, depending on bodyweight and metabolism. There are seventy-five rounds in a magazine, hence the name. We also do a forty-round option, with the same strength of tranq but a larger needle size - in case medame expects to encounter armoured opponents.’

  Elarn resisted the temptation to make a sarcastic comment: this was a gun she was talking about, for God’s sake. Stress and alcohol were making her flippant. Instead she asked, ‘What are the other options?’

  ‘With the Silversliver range you can use everything from euphoric sedative to lethal rounds. Tranq is by far the most popular. ’

  ‘I’ll take that, then, but I’d like one box - magazine - of lethal too, if you would be so kind.’

  The girl raised an eyebrow and stated flatly, ‘I am required by my employer to make you aware that Vellern has extradition treaties with most major governments in this sector, which may result in your being placed under arrest by authorities representing those governments, should you kill any of their citizens. And although manslaughter of Confederacy citizens in proven self-defence is not illegal within the Three Cities, you may also be liable to lawsuits from the relatives of any citizen you kill.’

  ‘Including downsiders?’

  The girl laughed snidely. ‘Downsiders aren’t citizens, medame. Except Angels, and I assume medame will not be picking a fight with an Angel.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Elarn tried not to sound shocked. ‘I won’t be “picking a fight” with anyone. Nonetheless, I wish to purchase lethal ammunition as well.’

  ‘As medame wishes. If medame would care to wait here.’ The girl keyed a stock number into the console and sauntered into the back room of the shop.

  Away from the girl’s bored regard, Elarn swallowed hard, the sweet aftertaste of the Eiswein bitter as bile in the throat. She had been calmly discussing committing murder with a surly stranger.

  The girl returned with a box containing a palm-sized silver weapon. Without being asked she explained the firing mechanism, showed Elarn the release for the ammunition clip, then dropped it back into the box. ‘Full instructions and warranty are coded into the box lid, so kindly remember to download them to your com before disposing of the packaging.’ Elarn half-expected her to ask whether she wanted the thing gift wrapped, but the girl just deducted the payment from Elarn’s bracelet and insincerely wished her a pleasant afternoon.

  Back in her room, Elarn took the gun out of the box to practise changing the ammo clip. It was a light, elegant thing, more like a toy than a real gun. She could hardly imagine this little device taking a life . . . except it wouldn’t be the gun, it would be her, squeezing that trigger. She slid the weapon into her bag, suddenly repulsed by the touch of the thing.

  She went straight into rehearsing that night’s repertoire, but found herself unable to engage with the music. Whatever calm her art might have given her this morning was long gone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Federin had Fenya pack him a bag, then he hitched up his robe - made from scraps of quality fabric given as payment for his services - and led Taro into the mazeways. Once they were out of familiar territory, the remembrancer navigated by the tags on walls, or by a kind of dead reckoning, stopping at junctions, closing his eyes and relying on memory. Feeling out the City, he called it. Remembrancers had a rep second only to Angels, so they had no worries about getting caught up in the feuds that often blew up between gangs and troupes. With Taro’s colours and the remembrancer’s robes, everyone they met gave way to them, some with respectful bows.

  When they came into the mazeways under the Guest Quarter, Federin told Taro to check the view below. ‘My old body’s not up to hanging off ledges these days,’ he said.

  Taro wasn’t sure his young one was just now, but he let the remembrancer slip a harness over his head and clip a tether to it. Federin attached the other end of the line to one of the support ropes that held up the mazeway. Taro went down onto all fours, then dropped onto his elbows, hands curled round the edge of the mazeway. He took a deep breath before leaning forward, pivoting himself around his hands to let his head hang off the mazeway. He knew better than to keep his eyes open - looking at the ground below could unbalance you sure as a kick up the arse - but as soon as he closed his eyes all his blood rushed to his head, with his stomach trying to follow it.

  He started to tip forward.

  A bony hand grabbed his belt. ‘Steady there,’ said Federin.

  Taro remembered how to breathe, and coughed painfully. Federin loosened his grip, but kept his hand on Taro’s back. ‘Are you sure you’re up to this journey, Taro?’

  Probably not - but he didn’t have a choice. He practised breathing awhile, then said, ‘I’ll be fine.’ A few more breaths and he could face opening his eyes to the upside-down view across the bottom of the Undertow. ‘Got it netted now, Federin, thanks,’ he murmured.

  ‘Good. The Heart of the City is ahead of you, aye?’

  Taro focused on the distant dark line of the spine that ran down the centre of his vision. ‘Spot on, Federin.’

  ‘Good. Now give me the colours on the nearest water-traps and tell me where they are in relation to the Heart.’

  Taro recited them. After half a dozen Federin told him he had what he needed and hauled him back onto the mazeway - which was good, ’cause much longer and he’d ha
ve thrown up for certain.

  After that, they stopped and checked the ’traps every few hundred metres, but Federin’s perfect memory and dead-straight sense of direction meant Taro didn’t have to spend too much time upside down.

  Dusk fell as they reached the edge of the Merchant Quarter; the ground below faded from orange to brown before disappearing into darkness, and the twilight of the mazeways deepened into night. Taro started to shiver and pulled his jacket tighter. But at last Federin said they were close enough to their goal that they needn’t check any more ’traps. The remembrancer produced a small lantern and tinderbox from his bag. While he was lighting the lantern Taro asked what he knew about the Angel Nual.

  ‘That who you’re looking for?’ asked Federin.

  Taro nodded.

  Federin sighed and started speaking in the sing-song voice he used when reciting histories. ‘Lives on the sunwise edge of the Merchant Quarter, nearly under the State Quarter. Nineteen chartered Removals. Eighteen successes. No acknowledged lineage. ’

  ‘Don’t s’pose you know what she looks like?’

  ‘Looks like?’ Federin sounded puzzled. How an Angel looked was nothing like as important as her record. ‘Let’s see. She is not pure-blood. From what I’ve heard she’s short, built like a topsider. Her hair’s dark, I think - even darker than yours - though she wears it properly.’ Long and straight: Angels didn’t wear troupe colours in their hair. They didn’t need to.

  Federin handed Taro the lantern and nodded for him to carry on. The candle fizzed and smoked in the damp evening air and he had to pull his sleeve over his hand to hold the hot metal handle.

  After a couple more turns they arrived outside the Exquisite Corpse. The bar was off an open area where four mazeways met, beyond a curtained doorway so wide three people could walk in side by side. But the ledge of the mazeway outside was barely wide enough for one person and the gap between the mazeways wasn’t netted.

  Federin took the lantern and pushed Taro forward.

  ‘Wait. Ain’t you comin’ in?’ Taro asked.

  ‘I’ve no place here. Neither would you, if you weren’t on the Minister’s business.’ He turned and moved off into the shadows.

  Taro edged along the narrow mazeway. He should be grateful there was a ledge at all; it wasn’t like Angels needed one. Just beyond his toes, darkness gaped like a pit. He kept his eyes on the curtain of tanned skin that covered the doorway. Music, the buzz of conversation and the occasional laugh seeped out from beyond the curtain. The music sounded like a beat-box, the sort used by topside street-performers, with a low hypnotic voice weaving a melody through the back-beats.

  He smoothed down his hair and checked his ribbons and plaits were moderately neat. He should probably have removed his make-up, but it was too late now. He took a steadying breath and pulled the curtain aside.

  The place wasn’t much wider than the sleeping room at Limnel’s, but it was way longer, with a step up to a higher level at the far end. The floor was made of something darker than vane material, and it ran solid from wall to wall with no gaps or joins. The light came from tubes propped up against the walls and hung from the ceiling; the soft purple glow gave the place a feel of seductive danger. The air was warm and stuffy, and smelled of burnt mash, incense and cooked meat. There was more furniture here than Taro had ever seen in the Undertow - tables and chairs clustered along both sides of the room - but no two pieces of furniture were the same. There were plastic tables like the ones in cheap topside bars, comfortable low seats like those Taro had seen in hotels, even a curved metal bench that looked like it belonged in the Gardens.

  Most of the chairs were occupied, and everyone was looking at Taro. So much for slipping in quietly and seeing what he could overhear.

  He kept his eyes down and took a step into the room. His feet slid away from him and he grabbed the edge of the curtain to catch himself. The floor was slippery - not wet, but smooth and, he saw with a jolt, clear. Thank the City it was night, otherwise he would’ve been able to see all the way to the ground.

  A ripple of laughter went round the room at his not-so-prime entrance. He let go of the curtain and slid one foot carefully along the floor.

  A woman and a small girl sat at the table nearest him. The woman wore a dark, long-sleeved dress, and her long white hair was loosely pinned up with a pair of bone chopsticks. The girl, dressed in a patchwork dress of red-and-black, was still giggling at Taro, ignoring the roast meat the woman had been trying to feed her. The woman pressed her lips together and gave Taro a look that said he’d caused quite enough trouble, thank you. When Taro, unable to look away from the little girl’s huge plate of food, continued to stare at them, the woman waved a hand to dismiss him. Taro glimpsed the flash of metal at the Angel’s wrist and moved on quickly, sliding his feet along the floor, arms out for balance.

  Of the six tables on the lower level, five were occupied. Any patrons who weren’t Angels wore City colours in their hair. The largest group, opposite the mother and child, were playing jacks with bone pieces, betting paper scrip; the Angel with them was a man, one of only three male Angels in the service of the City. People said that the Minister recruited mainly women because they were smarter and more loyal than men, and that not being natural killers, they wouldn’t take too much pleasure in their duty - a lesson other Cities could do with learning, Taro thought bitterly. Then again, Limnel thought most Angels were female because the Minister was a dirty old cove.

  The next table up was empty, a glass lying on its side in a pool of clear spirit. Taro slid round to sit with his back against the wall. He recognised the sickly, slightly acidic smell: burnt mash, Malia’s favoured drug.

  He looked around and checked out the upper level, which was smaller and not so well lit. There were people at two of the tables, and a couple dancing in the space in the middle. The boy looked and moved like someone in Taro’s own line of work. His Angel partner had long dark hair and for a moment Taro wondered if his luck had changed, but Federin had said that Nual was short, and this Angel was as tall as Taro. She danced with eyes closed, feet dragging, arms draped over the boy’s shoulders. She held a shot glass loosely in one hand.

  Beyond her Taro could just make out a hunched figure sitting against the back wall: a meatbaby. She was moving her stunted arms in time to the music, and Taro realised she was singing: the sounds she made were nonsense, but the song had a strange beauty, as fascinating as the dark drop to the ground below.

  Taro’s eyes were drawn to someone backing into the room through the open doorway next to the singer. Someone - or something; Taro couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing until the figure turned round and he saw it did have the normal number of arms and legs - even if they were freakily thin and angular - and a head in the usual place - even if it was too small and pointy. What had thrown him were the folded wings that stood up from the thing’s shoulders. The creature held a tray balanced on one bony hand and now it bustled across to the empty table near the back door and, reaching over with a motion at once both ordinary and impossible, started gathering up used glasses. Taro watched, entranced. This must be the owner: Malia had really meant it when she said the place was run by an alien.

  ‘Hoi! Yer in my seat!’

  Taro jumped. The Angel who’d been dancing with the joyboy stood at the end of the table. She swayed forward to stand in front of Taro, leaning into her companion. She wore a long black dress, green eye make-up and a thin red choker.

  ‘I’m sorry, lady. My mistake,’ gulped Taro. ‘I’ll move.’

  ‘Aye. Get out.’ She rubbed her head absentmindedly against the whore’s cheek and half-closed her eyes. The boy was smiling, but Taro could see fear in his eyes. He knew full-well that he was here to give this Angel whatever she wanted, including his life, if that was her wish. Taro started to ease his way out from behind the table. The Angel held up one clean, long-nailed hand. ‘No, wait. I c’n manage two, I think.’ She giggled, then narrowed her eyes and lunged a
t Taro. She was too drunk to complete the movement; the boy barely caught her in time to stop her sprawling across the table. She laughed as though that was what she’d meant to do all along, and pointed at Taro’s hair.

  ‘Who—Whose boy’re you, then?’

  He had hoped no one would ask that. ‘I claim me lineage from the Angel Malia,’ Taro said, his voice hoarse with fear.

  ‘Malia? Heard she took the fall,’ slurred the Angel.

  Shit and blood. So the rumours about his line-mother’s death had spread this far. This wasn’t going to plan. But you don’t lie to Angels. ‘She did, lady,’ he croaked, ‘ just under a week ago.’

  ‘Din’t hear feud’d been called on her. An’ I wouldn’t have thought she’d jump. Still, it’s alw’ys the quiet ones, eh?’ She elbowed her companion in the ribs and laughed.

  Just for a second, he considered blurting out the full truth. If Malia’s fellow Angels knew what Scarrion had done, they’d hunt the Screamer down and tear him to pieces. But they’d never believe Taro’s story. An agent of another League, taking out an Angel, in her own territory? Unthinkable. And even if they did believe him, they’d want to know how the Screamer had found his way down into the Undertow, and Taro would have to admit being gappy enough to lead him there. He could imagine how they’d react to that.