Principles of Angels

by Jaine Fenn

  Taro spoke louder, though each word was an effort, ‘Yaziler . . . is . . . a . . . Screamer.’

  For a moment Taro thought Resh hadn’t heard him. Then the lag looked confused. ‘What? A Yazil assassin? ’Im?’

  ‘Swear on the City,’ Taro managed. He tried to stop his head lolling forward.

  Resh looked over his shoulder and Taro wondered if Scarrion was in the room with them. ‘What if ’e is?’

  ‘Ha—Hafta tell Limnel.’

  ‘Don’t hafta do nothin’ ya say, ya shite-rot little whore. And y’know what?’ Resh’s expression turned cunning. ‘Reckon the boss already knows. An’ I reckon ’e don’t care.’ With that, Resh stood up and left. A few seconds later the curtain was swept aside and Scarrion strode in. Taro felt a brief stab of satisfaction at the sight of the fresh scratch on the Screamer’s cheek.

  Scarrion crouched down against the far wall, his hands resting on his lap. He gave Taro a look of cold appraisal. ‘It would appear that hate is stronger than chemistry. Interesting. That’s serious stuff, you know, not at all easy to fight. Extremely addictive too, although I expect you already know that.’

  Taro stared at him. How come the Screamer knew about the dust? That didn’t make any sense.

  Scarrion watched Taro’s eyes and barked a laugh. ‘How do you think a two-bit whoremonger like Limnel got hold of such quality merchandise? From me, of course, for services rendered.’ His tone said that in this case services rendered included delivering Taro to him.

  If Scarrion was mixed up with the drug that meant . . . that meant a whole lot of even worse shit he was too mashed up to work out at the moment. One thing he did know was that as long as Scarrion was crowing over him he wouldn’t be hurting him. ‘Don’ understan’,’ he slurred, as much to postpone the inevitable as because he wanted to know.

  ‘Such naïveté. Quite charming, really. Limnel wasn’t part of the plan, but he has turned out to be a very useful ally. Shall I tell you how we met?’

  Taro nodded, but didn’t speak. Scarrion carried on regardless, ‘It was when I followed you downside. You were easy to trail through the sidestreets, but once we got into the - what do you call them? Mazeways? - I lost you, but ran into Limnel instead, and he responded with the standard downsider welcome for trespassers from above. After I took out the boy he set on me I suggested he would find me a useful ally but a dangerous enemy. Limnel is a venal entrepreneur who likes to back winners. He understood at once. He agreed to tell me where to find your homespace in return for which I offered to make him sole supplier of a fine new drug, delicious and compulsive. And as I’d managed to drop my gun during the fight with his late associate, he even gave me a weapon in good faith. I understand that you use boltguns to fire support pins into the vanes of the Undertow? Up close, against flesh, they can be quite devastating.’

  Despite himself, Taro whimpered.

  ‘Ah, Taro. Your pretty face is a picture, you know? Yes, yes, Limnel gave me the gun that killed your “line-mother”. Actually, I was rather disappointed. I’ve never killed an agent of another City before and I was hoping for a bit more of a challenge. And it was irritating to be interrupted before I could finish you - though as it turns out, you’ve been very useful. If you hadn’t made that little scene in Confederacy Square I’d be out of a job now. And Limnel tells me you still work for the Minister.’ Scarrion raised his hands and pressed his palms together. ‘But much as I enjoy messing with your head, we really should get down to business.’ He moved swiftly and smoothly across the floor.

  Taro pressed his back into the wall, terror closing his throat. It looked like the Screamer’d had enough of taunting his prey. Now the pain would begin.

  Scarrion leaned forward and said, ‘You’re going to tell me what you’ve been doing for the Minister. Specifically, you’re going to tell me everything you know about the Angel Nual.’

  Taro was confused. Then he realised that the Screamer wasn’t just here for his own sick pleasure. The fucker needed something from him. The thought was enough to knock him out of his despair for a moment. To his amazement, he found himself laughing in the Screamer’s face. ‘No,’ he said, ‘’m not.’

  The Screamer looked surprised. ‘Really?’ He sounded intrigued. ‘You think?’

  Taro gathered what was left of his strength and whispered, ‘I hate you more ’n I’ve ever hated anyone. I’d kill you if I could. I sure-as-shit got nothin’ to say to you.’

  Scarrion gave a theatrical sigh and backhanded Taro across the face. The impact of his head on the wall jarred his entire body. He coughed and tasted blood.

  Scarrion continued, ‘You are alone, without friends, and without hope. You are only alive because you are useful to me. Continue to demonstrate your usefulness, or, failing that, your entertainment value, and you will continue to live. It really is that simple.’

  Taro struggled to speak through the pain. ‘Won’t play.’

  Scarrion picked up Taro’s bound wrists. ‘Don’t you want to live, Taro?’ he hissed. ‘Wouldn’t you do anything to survive? If you die, your hate dies with you. Your line-mother will never be avenged. Not that long ago you were willing to let me do whatever I wanted with that scrawny body of yours. Won’t you even talk to me now?’

  ‘Talk, aye,’ said Taro, the knowledge that he stood at the brink of his own destruction making him lightheaded, ‘I’ll talk to you . . . Fuck you, Screamer!’

  ‘Have it your own way,’ said Scarrion, his voice low and husky. Holding his hands to stop Taro pulling them back, he traced one well-manicured nail along the soft skin on the inside of Taro’s wrist. Taro flushed, the heat of panic driving off the mad momentary high of his defiance.

  ‘Now, where shall we start?’

  Taro flinched, his skin crawling under Scarrion’s caress. When the Screamer raised a hand to Taro’s cheek he jerked away, banging his head again, sending stars shooting through his vision.

  Scarrion grinned at Taro’s discomfort. Taro closed his eyes, unable to bear the cold gaze that said Taro’d had his chance to do this the easy way and now he’d turned it down things would get nasty. Just the way the Screamer liked it.

  Scarrion stroked the back of one of Taro’s hands, then suddenly dug a thumbnail between the tendons. Taro yelped, as much from shock as from pain, and opened his eyes.

  The Screamer shifted his weight to straddle Taro’s outstretched legs. Taro started to quiver, his breath coming in short gasps, as useless urges - Fight! Flee! - raced through him.

  The Screamer began experimenting in earnest now: twisting the restraints that held Taro’s hands until they bit into his wrists, pressing his knuckles into points on Taro’s neck or arms to send numb shocks shooting through his body, drawing a nail along Taro’s forearm hard enough to leave a long red track. Taro clenched his teeth, but he didn’t resist; he knew from their first encounter how Scarrion wanted him to fight back, how resistance excited him. He forced himself to accept the pain, though sometimes a moan or gasp escaped round the edges of his willpower.

  Then Scarrion bent the little finger of his left hand back until the tendons tore. Taro screamed.

  Scarrion started to speak in a low, bored voice, asking Taro how often he had spoken to the Minister, what his orders were, whether he had ever met Nual.

  Taro shook his head slowly in answer to the Screamer’s questions, holding on to the small satisfaction that Limnel was not the ally Scarrion hoped he was. He should’ve given the Screamer the dataspike, not copied it and returned it to Taro. Taro tensed at the thought. No matter what happened, no matter what else he ended up saying, he must keep the Minister’s dataspike from Scarrion.

  Perhaps taking Taro’s reaction to mean he was ready to co-operate, Scarrion repeated the last question. ‘Do you know where Nual is now, Taro?’ He paused, waiting for an answer.

  When Taro still said nothing, Scarrion sat back on his heels, a look of mock disappointment on his face. He reached into his jacket and drew out a thin, curved meta
l blade, the kind fleshers used to flay the bodies of the dead.

  Taro shrunk back. The Screamer’s smile widened. He leaned forward.

  A thin line, beaded with blood—

  The tip of the knife worked under a nail—

  The upper layer of skin flayed slowly from the layers beneath—

  And always questions . . .

  . . . questions that Taro answered now, the only way to stop the pain, at least for a while. He was past resistance, past lying. But he wasn’t yet past hope. He said only what he had to say to satisfy Scarrion’s desire for answers. But Taro was becoming aware of another desire, one he could do nothing to stop; over the sound of his own cries and mumbled responses he heard the Screamer’s breathing growing heavier.

  This was just foreplay to him.

  Scarrion reached forward to place the knife just above Taro’s groin, the point pricking through shirt and breeches. Taro’s breath caught in his chest and his vision went black at the edges. Scarrion let the blade rest there just long enough to savour Taro’s expression, then withdrew the knife a little, snagged Taro’s shirt and slashed upwards. The thin fabric of the shirt ripped and Scarrion pulled the remnants down over his shoulders, pulling his jacket off and pinning his arms to his sides.

  In his haze of fear and pain Taro heard himself begging, Jus’ make it quick, and Please, let it be over.

  Scarrion, smiling at Taro’s cries for mercy, spent a few seconds regarding his prey’s pale, heaving chest with gleeful anticipation. He reached out with his empty hand to grab the cord belt holding up Taro’s breeches—

  —and froze, arm still outstretched. He was staring at something on the floor by Taro’s legs.

  Taro stopped moaning, blinked and followed his tormentor’s gaze. The Minister’s dataspike had fallen from his pocket and lay on the floor by his right knee.

  For a moment they both stared. Then Scarrion slid his knife back into his jacket and picked up the chip, turning it over in his hands a couple of times. ‘Shit,’ he said under his breath. Taro, watching him through a dull mist of agony and receding hope, thought that this was the first time he’d heard the Screamer swear.

  Scarrion stood up and turned back to Taro. He pulled back his fist and punched him hard enough to send him into darkness.

  There were moments, as she travelled from the amphitheatre to Salik’s State Quarter apartments, when Elarn found herself coldly considering possible ways to solve her problem: Salik still had some influence, maybe enough to flush out Lia - Nual, as she was now - and put her in a position where Elarn had the advantage. More feasibly, his bodyguard was an assassin, already on the edge, and he might be persuaded to kill an operative of a rival City. She could use that. They could use that.

  But mainly she just clung to Salik and whispered in her mind, Hold me, save me! Make the fear go away!

  They hardly spoke on the short journey to his blandly luxurious penthouse. As soon as he closed the door she turned to him, ready to surrender to the wondrous, messy union, the loss of self in another. He was there for her, here and now. That was all.

  Despite the heat of her desire, it took a while to re-awaken the passions that Elarn had denied for so long, but Salik had the time and the skill to coax complete abandonment from her. As the afternoon faded into night, the world closed in on them until they were the only two creatures in the universe.

  Even as she rode the wild tide of back-brain pleasure, some part of her was amazed and frightened at the depth of need he had awakened. She was making love without barriers, with the man who was going to help her commit murder. If the church was right, she was damned, gloriously damned, for evermore.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Warm breath on his face. ‘Wake up, Taro.’ Female voice, whispering, nervous.

  Where was he? Why did everything hurt so much?

  Someone pulled at his arms, not hard, but enough to make the pain worse. He hoped they’d stop soon.

  ‘C’mon, Taro, wake up. I’m tryin’ to help yer!’

  Help him? He forced his eyes open, the lashes pulling painfully. The left eye wouldn’t open properly and kept watering. He couldn’t focus on the person who was tugging at him, but opening his eyes was enough to make him remember where he was. He groaned.

  ‘Shit! Stay with me now, Taro. Wake up!’

  Why was this girl bothering him? He wished she’d go away and let him sink back into the numb, safe darkness. ‘Go ’way,’ he mouthed. ‘Lemme die.’

  ‘What? Fuck’s sake, Taro, yer the one said tha’s not the way. Remember? Remember me? Arel?’

  ‘Arel?’ A lifetime ago, saving a stranger from herself. He’d told her things weren’t as bad as they seemed. What a lie that turned out to be. Taro blinked and opened his eyes again. He could see her now, squatting in front of him, sawing at the strap around his wrist with a fleck. ‘Why?’ he gasped.

  ‘Why what? Oh, why’m I doin’ this?’ He felt another tug on his hands. ‘Firstly, ’cause I owe ya, and I pay m’debts. There, got it.’ She pulled the restraints off.

  Taro’s hands dropped into his lap.

  ‘Yer gonna have to stand up. I ain’t carryin’ ya. C’mon.’

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘I ain’t givin’ yer a choice,’ she whispered angrily. ‘Right. I’m gonna pull ya up. It’s gonna hurt, but we gotta get out of ’ere ’fore anyone finds us.’ She grabbed his hand and Taro bit his lip as she pulled him up. He’d just about managed to get his legs under him when the dizziness hit. He gave a raw cough then retched, spewing up thin grey-yellow puke, all over his naked chest and across Arel’s shoulder.

  ‘Shit and blood!’ muttered Arel, stepping back. He fell to his knees, then toppled forwards. She caught him, hands on his shoulders.

  ‘Don’ hafta help me. Not yer problem,’ he whispered hoarsely.

  ‘Aye, well, if I’d any sense I’d jus’ leave ya. Yer not the only one who’s in comedown, y’know? Fuckin’ Keron decided to keep me hangin’ on, so I din’t get anythin’ last night. I feel like shit. But this’ - he saw her eyes flick over him, and wondered how bad he looked - ‘it’s not just that I owe ya. There’s more to it than that. Tell yer the rest when we get outside, mebbe. Give ya somethin’ to stay awake fer.’ She put an arm round his waist and pulled him up. Taro collapsed onto her. She staggered under his weight, slight though it was, but managed to keep them both upright.

  They had trouble getting through the curtain; Arel heaved a sigh of relief that the corridor outside was still deserted.

  Taro gave up trying to make sense of the world and concentrated on staying on his feet. He could feel the individual drops of sweat breaking out over his body, and he had to keep gulping to stop himself throwing up again. Arel, one arm round his waist, steered him through corridors he didn’t recognise to a narrow door, barred on their side. She hooked the bar off and pulled it open with her free hand.

  She helped him through into the darkness of the mazeways. She propped him against a vane and stood back. ‘Right. Yer outa there now. All right?’

  Taro started to slide down the vane, eyes closing.

  ‘Shit! I can’t leave ya out here, they’ll just find yer again. Know anywhere safe?’

  ‘Fenya,’ he managed after a moment.

  ‘The water-trader? All right. But then I’m off to Daim’s brother.’

  ‘Who—?’

  ‘Oh, I din’t tell ya, did I? Or mebbe I did, when I was pasted. Daim was me partner. Only he’s dead now.’

  ‘What?’ He remembered something about that, about other people’s shit. Maybe she’d managed to get free of hers. Good luck to her if so.

  ‘Tell ya while we get away from ’ere.’ She hoisted him up again, walking on the outside so he could lean into the vane. After a while she started to talk. ‘Me and Daim’d been close since we was kids, shared a blood father, though our mothers came from different troupes. Soon as we was old enough we started workin’ together, jackin’ the rollers. We worked for Limnel, bu
t casual-like. We’d give ’im a cut in return for protection an’ a place to stay, but we din’t hafta do what ’e said, long as we paid ’im off. Worked fine.’

  She paused and tensed. Taro sagged against her. No one was shouting at him or hurting him so he decided not to worry about whatever had made her stop. Now he didn’t have to concentrate on moving he found himself drifting off, heading to a place with no pain, no regret. Then she pulled him up again and muttered, ‘Fuckin’ meatbabies. Give me the creeps.’ Taro grunted vague assent and they were off again.

  When she started talking again her voice was a harsh, bitter whisper. ‘Three days ago Limnel suggests we buzz this offworld bitch in the transit hall, fresh off the shuttle. Said she’d be rich ’n’ easy, no guard, lotsa credit. Gave a real specific description, and ’e didn’t negotiate ’is cut up front. Smelled a bit smoky, but we took the tip anyway, ’cause his info’s usually prime. Only some fucker in Yazil colours turns up just when we’re about to get our hands on her cred-bracelet. He broke Daim’s fuckin’ neck. Jus’ like snappin’ a stick.’ She stopped for a moment, and drew a long breath. ‘An’ that’s when me life went to shit. Fuck. There’s nets ’ere, Taro. Can ya manage ’em?’