Principles of Angels

by Jaine Fenn

  The bodyguard rode in a pedicab behind theirs and, when they reached their destination, a small restaurant at the rimwards end of the Street, stationed himself at the bar while the Consul led Elarn into the main dining area.

  Like many of the more up-market establishments, this one was themed, but whatever part of Confed history or culture it represented was largely incomprehensible to outsiders. The small tables were made of woven reeds, and stands of ornamental grasses in ceramic pots gave an illusion of privacy. A band of musicians dressed in real animal skins played low-toned pipes and soft percussion.

  ‘I know, I know,’ whispered Salik as a waiter dressed in a homespun robe showed them to their table, ‘no one comes here for the décor - unless they like tacky ersatz nomad as a style - but the food is excellent. It’s entirely fresh, and cooked on that great hotplate over by the wall.’

  ‘Fresh’ meant imported, and that would mean expensive, but there were no prices displayed, and no menus; instead the waiter brought round a tray of artfully arranged raw vegetables and meats to choose from.

  Elarn was still on a high from the concert, and the first glass of fizzy pale wine went straight to her head; she decided not to worry about the price, or who was paying, or anything else, at least for a while.

  Salik chatted comfortably about music and history and the City, giving her the opportunity to join in or to listen, as she chose. Mainly she listened, lulled by the wine and his presence. She had been concerned, amongst everything else, that this meeting, her first ‘date’ in many years, would be tense and difficult. She was out of practice at this sort of social interaction. But she needn’t have worried; Salik was polite, witty and attentive.

  The food was as good as he had promised but, despite not having had anything since lunch, she found herself more interested in her companion than her meal.

  She probably should have eaten more; when they stood up to go her legs wobbled before locking into place and the room jumped in and out of focus.

  Salik put a hand out to steady her. ‘You look exhausted. Are you all right?’

  She nodded. Exhausted, in a comedown from an adrenalin high, and yes, quite drunk. Oh dear.

  ‘I think we need to get you back to your hotel,’ he said with a smile, and took her arm. Outside the restaurant he guided her rimwards. ‘We’re not going to take a pedicab,’ he explained. ‘I’ll pay for a quicker ride.’

  ‘But you’ve paid for everything tonight,’ she said, feeling a little guilty. ‘I feel I should contribute.’

  ‘Not at all, I invited you, if you recall,’ the Consul said firmly. ‘But if you do insist, you can buy me lunch tomorrow, assuming that fits in with your plans - I happen to have a few hours free in the afternoon.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to buy you lunch,’ she said, thankful her obvious lack of social graces had not put him off. He wanted to see her again.

  At the end of the Street, they started up the steps to the circle-car. Elarn was momentarily concerned: the circle-car was a very public form of transport, open to anyone with a City ID, and not as safe as a pedicab. Still, she should be fine with the Consul and the ever-present bodyguard trailing silently behind them. But he turned off before they reached the main platform and, after another sweep of his cred-bracelet, led her to a small, four-seater aircar on its own platform. Without a word being said Scarrion climbed in the front with the driver and Salik helped Elarn into the back. The driver wished them both a good evening and as Salik gave their destination, Elarn settled back into the padded seat and sniffed the faint smell of artificial flowers. Her hip and knee just touched Salik’s; she could feel his warmth next to her.

  They took off so smoothly that Elarn had to blink to get her sluggish vision to follow. Suddenly the entire City was laid out below her like a dish of jewels, the lines of the Streets like great neon spokes.

  As the air-taxi passed the spine, Elarn had a sudden sense of just how immense, and how impressive, Khesh City truly was. It was a spectacular example of hubris, humanity showing off its cleverness and ingenuity. She couldn’t help wondering if humans had ever really been clever enough to create this alone.

  ‘This City,’ she asked, ‘is there any Sidhe influence here?’

  Salik laughed, and she realised how thoughtlessly she had spoken. ‘Well no,’ he said, ‘given that the Sidhe have been dead for a thousand years.’

  So everyone thinks, she didn’t say. Instead she said, ‘No, what I meant was, it was built during the Sidhe Protectorate, wasn’t it, or just after? Did they . . . help?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. There’s a legend that says a renegade Sidhe faction who sided with humanity lived here, even at the height of the Protectorate, so it’s quite possible there is Sidhe technology in the City.’

  And that would support her theory that they had sent her, rather than deal with their renegade personally, because they did not want to risk running into ancient traps created by the rebel Sidhe who had wanted humanity to be free. The thought made her feel a lot more sober and a lot less comfortable. ‘And it’s still here, this technology, whatever it is?’

  Salik shrugged. ‘Who knows? To be honest, the detailed workings of the Three Cities are something of a mystery, even to their inhabitants. They have worked perfectly for more than a thousand years, and we assume - hopefully correctly! - that they’ll continue to do so for the next thousand years.’

  His tone was indulgent, but he probably thought this an odd topic of conversation for this time of the evening. And he was right.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘this place just keeps taking me by surprise.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ve lived here all my life and it still surprises me sometimes. I can hardly blame you for suffering from cultural vertigo.’

  He put a hand on her knee, just a reassuring touch, quickly withdrawn. She wanted to return the touch, now, while the wine still gave her the courage, but they were already descending, coming in to land at the end of Lily Street.

  Walking down to Street level, Elarn wondered where the evening would go now. Part of her wanted to invite him to come back with her; another part was appalled that she would even consider it, so soon in their acquaintance.

  At the bottom of the steps he hailed a pedicab and helped her in, but made no move to follow. ‘I have a few things to do in the morning,’ he told her. ‘Would it be all right if I called you some time after midday tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course.’ She smiled down at him.

  He reached up to kiss her cheek, a light, gentle kiss, neither forward nor presumptive. She leaned into it and closed her eyes.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Where the fuck d’ya go, anyway?’

  Taro jerked his head up to find Keron staring down at him, a couple of the other tarts watching from behind the pimp’s back.

  When Taro had got back from the Exquisite Corpse, the sleeping room had been half-empty, with the night shift still out. Though he was tired, he’d played his flute softly for a short while. People seemed to like it, especially the girl who’d been standing next to him on Soft Street. When the lamps began to burn low and the day shift whores had curled up to rest, he’d put the flute away and dropped off to sleep almost at once.

  ‘I went—’ he started but Keron, eyes big and shining, didn’t have time for him to wake up. He pulled Taro’s arm and Taro let the pimp haul him to his feet.

  Keron was speaking again. ‘Boss wants to see ya. ’Spect he wants to check how yer getting on.’

  Taro coughed to clear his throat. ‘Sure, Keron.’

  ‘Came to find ya earlier, when the first shift came in. Ya weren’t back. But yer ’ere now. C’mon.’ Keron turned to go, then turned back to him and hissed, ‘No need to tell him ya got off early, eh?’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ murmured Taro, letting Keron drag him out the door. He could really use another six hours’ sleep, or at least a wash and a change of clothes. He wasn’t going to get either, of course. They headed s
traight for Limnel’s lair and when Keron pushed him through the bead curtain Taro found the party in full swing, the gang-boss lounging on his couch with a dozen cronies sprawled on the cushions around him, smoking, drinking and laughing. Taro wondered if he was the floorshow. He didn’t feel particularly entertaining.

  ‘Ah,’ Limnel gestured at him, ‘there ya are. Come in, come in. No, I din’t say sit, jus’ come in. Come in an’ tell us all jus’ where the fuck ya went off to. We’d love t’know. I mean, I know I said ya could report to the Minister on wossname, that Angel—’ He snapped his fingers. ‘What was ’er name, Taro?’

  ‘Nual.’

  ‘Right, Nual. Report on her, aye. Piss off fer a day lookin’ fer ’er, no. That’s not part o’ the deal. Not at all. I assume ya was lookin’ fer her?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m sorry, I—’

  ‘Shut up.’ Limnel’s obvious pleasure at having Taro at his mercy went up a notch in company. ‘So where ya been?’

  ‘The Exquisite Corpse.’ Seeing Limnel’s blank look, Taro added, ‘It’s a bar, fer Angels, under the Merchant Quarter.’

  ‘That’s a ways from ’ere. D’ya find yer Angel?

  Taro tried to keep a level head, but he was still half-asleep, the smoke was making his eyes sting and he kept finding himself staring at the carved box on the cabinet beside Limnel. If they were all wrecked and he’d been called in here to be the fool, he’d best play along. Maybe Limnel might give him a little something from that box, if he reckoned that’d make things more fun. ‘Nope, jus’ some weird-shit alien with wings who wouldn’t tell me where she lives.’

  This earned him some scattered laughter from Limnel’s gang, but the boss looked unimpressed at his feeble attempt at humour. He leaned forward. ‘Then I’d say ya wasted yer day, an’ a wasted day means no wasted night, neh?’ He looked meaningfully at the box by his elbow, which got more laughs.

  Limnel eased himself back into his seat and looked round the room. ‘Whaddya reckon, boys an’ girls? Should we let our newest troupe member join the party, or just leave ’im danglin’?’

  That got a variety of responses, from stoned and clueless smiles to friendly gestures for Taro sit down. Resh, sitting by the door with a bottle of burnt mash by his side, muttered it weren’t worth wasting quality gear on that fucker.

  Limnel picked up the box and looked hard at Taro. ‘So what’d ya do today to earn yer reward, boy?’

  Though he hated himself for it, Taro suddenly realised he’d do almost anything for another hit of that golden dust. He took a long, slow breath and said, ‘Nothin’, p’rhaps. But I meant what I said. I’ll do me best fer you, fer the troupe. If that means workin’ harder than the gang members who’ve been ’ere a while, that’s prime. Sorry I went off today, but I earned m’share fer the day and I ’anded it over. I’m payin’ me way, like I said. An’ I’ll be up on the streets again tomorrow.’

  ‘Pretty speech,’ said Limnel, opening the box on his lap. ‘Time’ll tell if it’s more than words.’ He dipped the spoon into the box. ‘C’mere, then.’

  Taro’s mouth was actually watering. The pile of powder on the spoon was small, far less than Keron’d given him last night, but he couldn’t look away from it.

  ‘I’m not gonna stand up, y’know. Not at this time of night. Ya gotta kneel down.’

  Taro hesitated, then fell to his knees in front of the gang-boss. Limnel slipped the spoon under his nose. Taro sniffed.

  The rush wasn’t as rich or long this time, but the pain and exhaustion were instantly gone, and the world was a better place again. He stayed kneeling, one hand out for balance, lost in the high, while Limnel put the box away. The distant laughter of the gang members rose and someone pushed him gently. He slid over to sprawl onto his side in the cushions. He lay there for a while, numb and happy.

  After some time had passed, he looked up to see Limnel bending over him. Limnel leaned closer and drawled, ‘One thing yer ain’t got netted yet: ya can’t serve two masters.’

  Taro was still trying to make sense of the boss’s comment when the bead curtain rattled behind him. He pulled himself round to see Keron standing in the doorway, holding the arm of a girl whose hair hung down over her face. ‘Crash’ll hit soon: anyone else wanna go while she’s still conscious?’ he asked loudly. The girl just stood there.

  Limnel addressed the room. ‘Anyone? Resh? Thought ya might. Can’t keep off the grind, can ya, Resh m’boy? Leave ’er down the corridor when yer done, neh? Don’t want ’er disturbin’ the other whores again.’

  Keron dragged the girl away and Resh stood shakily, ready to follow.

  Taro wasn’t so stoned that he couldn’t pity the poor bitch, whoever she was. He sat up, keeping his head bowed, trying not to attract attention.

  ‘Well, yer ain’t exactly the life an’ soul, are ya?’ Limnel was watching him again.

  He nodded at the boss. ‘Reckon that last batch was a bit smoky. I’d complain to me supplier, if I was you.’

  Limnel snorted. ‘Very funny. Plenty more where that came from, if yer a good boy. But if yer straightenin’ out, why don’t ya make yerself useful? Get yer arse down to the room where yer fucked our regular last night, wait outside until Resh has finished - doubt that’ll be long - then go in an’ keep an eye on Arel. Make sure she don’t do nothin’ gappy when the gear wears off, neh?’

  ‘Aye, boss.’ Taro struggled up, his limbs more or less under his control again.

  Outside the meeting hall he turned left, hoping he’d remember the way, and sighed with relief when he spotted the familiar mesh-curtained doorway, beyond the locked door and just before a narrow gap in the floor. The noises from behind the curtain made it clear he was in the right place. He sat against the wall, feeling tired and dizzy and not so high at all any more, until Resh emerged, tying his breeches.

  He looked down at Taro and laughed. ‘Not much left fer you, Angel-boy.’ He sauntered off, back towards Limnel’s room.

  Taro drew a deep breath, lifted the curtain and went in.

  The room reeked of bad sex. The girl lay curled on one corner of the mattress, half under the blanket, her clothes in a pile by the door.

  As the mesh curtain dropped back into place with a faint swish, she whimpered and pulled herself into a tighter ball.

  ‘Not gonna hurt you,’ said Taro quietly.

  No response. He’d bet others’d told her that today, and lied.

  ‘Yer name’s Arel, ain’t it?’

  She didn’t move. Well, he wasn’t going to spend the night standing in the doorway. His legs and head were starting to ache again. ‘I’m guessin’ they gave you a shitload of dope, and fer a while you din’t care no more. That right?’

  That could’ve been a nod. He took it as a good sign and sat down on the edge of the mattress. She shivered and edged away. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not gonna touch you. Just wanna talk. The thing you gotta understand ’bout grind like that is that what you did when you was blasted - what they did to you - it don’t count. Not really.’

  She muttered something and he moved a little closer. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Yer used to it,’ she repeated, almost whispering. ‘Prob’ly think a bit of grind with an ugly-fuck punter is pure blade.’

  That was nice. But at least he’d got a response. ‘No, I don’t. But I know how to deal with it. They ain’t fuckin’ you, they’re fuckin’ their mothers or their ex or their best friend or’ - he laughed shallowly - ‘if they ain’t got no imagination - like that piece o’ shit Resh - they’re just fuckin’ a warm, moist hole. It ain’t nothin’ personal. You gotta remember that. You let yer body do its stuff, but whatever the punters do, it’s just flesh fer cash. They can’t touch you, the real you, not if you don’t let ’em.’

  Until Scarrion. No, he wasn’t going to think about that bastard right now. This girl needed him to be strong, so he had to forget the shit in his own life and help her.

  She rolled onto her back, arms still clasped tight round
her knees. Her face showed a nasty collection of scratches and bruises. He thought her right eye had been hurt bad, ’cause it looked too big, until he realised this was an old scar, perhaps even something she’d been born with. Her eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling. ‘No, you don’t understan’.’ She laughed hollowly. ‘I ain’t meant to do this, y’see. Daim and me worked the rollers together. Nothin’ violent or heavy. He’d distract ’em while I palmed them, or sometimes we’d buzz stupid loners with no guard. We were good at it. Pure blade. But Daim’s gone now.’ Tears started to leak out of the corners of her eyes. On the right side they gathered in the gap of her scar before tumbling across her cheek. ‘He’s dead and I’m alone now and I’m nothin’, nothin’. I’m only useful fer fuckin’ strangers now.’ Her sing-song voice died away. Taro knew that look. He was losing her.