by Jaine Fenn
In contrast to the people, the buildings had an underlying uniformity: their heights varied by no more than a couple of storeys and most of the frontages were aligned. Though each was decorated differently, with a profusion of balconies, statues and porches, Elarn was acutely aware that this place was a construct, a habitat that had been made, not a natural settlement that had evolved over time. The thought brought back the barely constrained unease that had afflicted her for the last two weeks. This was as much an artificial prison as the ship had been . . . and a far more dangerous one.
Medame Binu finished her call and turned to Elarn. ‘I was hoping I might meet you for lunch tomorrow, but I’ve had to reschedule a meeting,’ she said. ‘Things are just insane at the moment, what with the Grand Assembly bringing in all the extra tourists. Perhaps you should com Consul Vidoran, see if he’s free.’ She laughed girlishly. ‘Only joking! But a girl can dream, eh?’
‘Actually, I was thinking I might look up an old friend.’ For the second time Elarn had the satisfaction of seeing her agent taken aback.
‘I had no idea you knew anyone in Khesh City.’
‘We met on Khathryn, a while ago.’
‘Really? Was this perhaps a . . . special friend?’ Medame Binu sounded almost breathless with anticipation.
Elarn was tempted to tell the woman to just grow up, but of course her agent had no real interest in Elarn other than as a source of income. And she was the only contact Elarn had here, unless she did manage to meet up with Salik Vidoran again, so she might as well use her. ‘A special friend? Yes - but we didn’t part on the best of terms.’
‘Ah,’ said Medame Binu. ‘I see.’
Elarn was quite sure she did; no doubt having a long-lost ex-lover in the City increased her romantic appeal. But more publicity meant more chance of alerting her quarry. She’d had to put up with a certain amount of fuss, as a professional engagement was the only way she could afford to travel to Vellern - and as out of character as this mini-tour was, it was also the excuse she needed to come here.
Shamal Binu continued, ‘You know, the City has an excellent directory service.’
‘So I’ve heard - but I suspect my . . . friend . . . may have taken the chance to buy a new identity. I believe such things are available here?’
The agent nodded sagely. ‘Well, yes, people do take advantage of the lack of restrictions in all sorts of ways. In that case you need an infobroker. My hairdresser used one to track down the directors of a cosmetics supply company on one of the Yazil moonlets after the company went bust. They were trying to avoid paying their creditors. From what she said, he did a pretty thorough job. Now what was the man’s name? Marain—Meraint? That was it. I believe his office is in Talisman Street.’
‘And is he discreet?’
‘Oh yes, decent infobrokers always take the confidentiality of their clients into account. It’s part of what you pay for.’
Elarn sighed. ‘I would rather no one else knew about this.’
‘Of course not.’ The agent couldn’t quite keep the disappointment from her voice. Another selling point missed. ‘Ah, here we are: the Manor Park Hotel. I think this will be just right for you.’
The pedicab drew up in front of a pale green building decorated with attenuated black columns. It was lower and narrower than the hotels on either side.
Madame Binu flapped around Elarn as she climbed down. ‘You’ve got my com number? Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything - anything at all. And don’t work too hard. Take the time to explore a bit. I’ll pick you up at six tomorrow. Bye for now, my dear.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Where’d ya say ya got it?’ Limnel nodded at the lag’s departing back. The gang-boss lounged on a battered but comfy-looking couch that must’ve been a bitch to winch down into the Undertow - as must the etched metal cabinet next to it.
Taro eyed the cushions scattered round the edge of the room. After the long walk through the Leisure Quarter, the climb back down and the wait while the guard on the homespace’s main entrance went back inside to find his boss, those cushions looked well prime. But Limnel hadn’t invited him to sit.
Taro kept his tone respectful. ‘The Minister gave it to me.’
Limnel leaned back in his seat. ‘The Minister gave yer a valid cred-bracelet? What fer? Some sorta pay-off fer losin’ yer ma?’
After years of having to give Taro respect because of his lineage, Limnel was making the most of having the upper hand . . . and Taro was just going to have to live with it. ‘I just started workin’ fer him,’ he said.
Limnel brushed an imaginary fleck of dust off his sleeve. Despite having a face that reminded Taro of a rat with a broken nose, Limnel fancied himself quite the dandy, and he wore topside suits, made specially to fit his lanky downsider build. ‘So,’ he said slowly, ‘yer’ve just started workin’ fer the Minister, but ya wanna buy yerself into me troupe. Am I missin’ somethin’ here?’
‘It’s like this, Limnel. I don’t have a home, an’ I’m gonna need to work to get one. I’ll work fer you, in return fer a place to stay—’
‘Don’t put yerself out, boy,’ muttered Limnel.
Too arrogant. He needed to butter the gang-boss up. ‘I’ll pull me weight, do me part, an’ work hard. I don’t expect no favours ’cause of what I once was. The deal with the Minister is only casual. I just gotta report to him regularly.’
‘Report? On what?’ Limnel’s interest in the Concord didn’t extend much beyond the occasional betting scam, but Taro couldn’t afford to piss him off by holding anything back. The Minister hadn’t said not to tell anyone about his mission.
‘Anything I find out about the Angel Nual.’
Limnel waved vaguely. ‘Never ’eard of ’er.’
The lag who’d taken the cred-bracelet away slipped back through the bead curtain and handed the bracelet to Limnel. ‘Only got a coupla creds on it, but the ID’s valid till midday tomorrow.’
Limnel slipped the thin strip of grey plastic into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Reckon I could find a use fer this. Awright Taro, yer in, fer now at least. Ya do what yer told, when yer told, and any shit ya hafta do fer the Minister ya do in yer own time. Clear?’
‘Aye.’
‘That’s aye, boss.’
Taro tried not to grind his teeth, ‘Aye, boss.’
Limnel glanced at the com he wore on his wrist above his own cred-bracelet. More of his style-over-substance, Taro thought, as the City’s bulk blocked com signals from above, but the gang boss was just checking the time. ‘Yer’ve missed the first shift; the sluts ’ave already gone topside, but I’m sure we’ll find ya somethin’ to do.’ He turned to the lag still hovering by his elbow. ‘Show our boy ’ere where to stash ’is stuff, then send ’im along to the ’trap room to give Osin a hand.’
The lag, who didn’t bother to introduce himself, led Taro back through the troupe’s meeting hall and down a side-passage, down another passage, and round a corner. He nodded at a faded brocade curtain at the end of the passage. ‘Whores sleep in there,’ he said. He turned to the row of cubby-holes set into the wall. ‘You can leave yer pack here - there’s a gap top right.’ When Taro hesitated, pack half off his shoulder, the lag continued, ‘It’ll be safe. Ya jack another troupe member, yer take the fall.’
Taro heard the murmur of conversation and smelled burning tallow from the other side of the curtain, but the lag led him back the way they’d come, then down another side-passage to a long room with half a floor. The open section of the room wasn’t netted so the three water-traps hanging from pulleys set into the ceiling could be lowered and raised through the gap. Two of the ’traps were down, their ropes twisting and creaking. The third one was on the floor beside the gap. The man sitting cross-legged next to it looked up as Taro entered.
‘New recruit,’ said Taro’s escort. ‘Boss’s sent ’im to ’elp ya fer a while.’
The man, who must have been forty years old, more than twice Taro’s age,
continued to stare at Taro long after the lag had left. Finally he said, ‘Yer Taro, ain’t you?’
‘That’s right. You must be Osin.’
Osin gave him a slow, shy grin. ‘That’s right. An’ the boss wants you to help me?’ He sounded unsure.
Taro smiled back. ‘Aye. I’m joinin’ the troupe.’
‘Oh.’ Osin looked round, as though wondering if he should have tidied the place up in case of visitors. ‘You ever cleaned a water-trap?’
‘No, but I’ll learn.’
‘Bolted. Have a drink first if y’like.’ He’d seen the way Taro was looking at the jars and waterskins along the wall.
Taro thanked him before dipping a cup into an open jar: it tasted top prime.
Scraping off the green grunge that accumulated in the corners of the metal trays was nasty work, but Taro did his best and didn’t complain. After they’d got the tray clean, Osin had Taro re-plait the troupe colours into the rope where he’d been repairing it. Taro was just easing a scrap of dark-green rag through the strands when Osin said, ‘Sorry to hear about yer line-mother.’
Taro looked up at Osin’s friendly smile. Here was someone who got no joy from seeing an Angel’s line-child brought low. ‘I—Thanks,’ he murmured, then, thinking he might be willing to pass on gossip, ‘Osin, whadda people say happened?’
‘Happened?’
‘To Malia.’
Osin looked uncomfortable. ‘They say it musta been another Angel. Only I hadn’t heard feud had been called on her. Didn’t look like the type to go rogue, from what I’d heard.’
‘But that’s what people think? She was killed on the Minister’s orders?’
‘Most people, aye.’
‘And who don’t think that?’
‘You know Federin? Lives with Fenya, the water-trader just hubwards of here.’
‘The remembrancer?’ Taro recalled sitting on the floor of Malia’s homespace while the old man - he’d been old even then - recited Malia’s lineage, mother to daughter, back more generations than Taro could count on both hands. That had been Malia’s formal adoption of him, soon after his birth-mother died. ‘Aye, I know ’im. Did ’e see somethin’?’
‘Well, y’know how he is, a bit gappy these days.’
‘So they say - but what does ’e think happened?’
‘Says he saw a roller in the Undertow, about the time Malia died. Crazy, I know. ’Course, you’d know the truth.’
‘Aye, I would.’ Taro suddenly didn’t want to continue this conversation as his head filled with the sight of Malia’s headless body, the Screamer laughing behind her. ‘Osin, d’you know anythin’ about the Angel Nual?
Osin looked confused, ‘Was she the one who . . .’ He saw Taro’s expression and stopped, shrugged, and said, ‘Wish I could help, but she ain’t local, is she? Don’t know much about any Angels other than them as watch over us ’ere. Sorry.’
Osin was happy to talk now the worst of the work was done, so Taro asked him about the gang set-up: seven extended families, plus several odd members with no blood ties, making more than sixty members. Taro needed to know who did what, who to avoid and who to be nice to, and Osin was glad to pass on the info. The boy in charge of the whores was called Keron; he was best friends with Resh, and liked to let Resh have ‘freebies’ with the new or juicy ones. ‘You’ll be safe though,’ he told Taro. ‘Resh prefers girls.’
Finally Osin looked at the dark landscape below. ‘Dinner soon,’ he said, and stood. ‘We’ll put this’un down and check the others after we’ve ate.’
Dinner was served in the gang’s common-room, which was bigger than most troupes’ entire homespaces with no floor-gaps. The vanes inside the space had been cut off just below ceiling-height and the cut pieces laid flat to give a fully enclosed - if uneven - floor, supported by ropes attached to the stubs the vanes had been cut from. Light came from clusters of lamps hanging from the ceiling. Limnel and his seconds sat at a trestle table at one end; everyone else sat on the floor, grouped on this cut vane, or inside that framework of ropes, territories Taro needed to learn and respect.
He’d arrived late, after a detour to fetch his bowl and spoon from his pack. He spotted Osin with a group of older men on a sunken vane; the ’trap mender waved for Taro to join him. But he was attracting attention from all over the room, especially from a group of a dozen or so brightly dressed youths in the far corner: his new troupe-mates. The girls had cut their shirts so they fell off the shoulder, and both sexes had dark eyeliner around their eyes, and red-stained lips. They weren’t hostile so much as curious, but they weren’t inviting him to join them either. He nodded to Osin, waved at the tarts and chose a space by himself against the wall.
Cooks entered, carrying a couple of steaming cauldrons slung on yokes. A murmur of appreciation went up as someone spotted meat in the stew. Taro, remembering this morning’s hunt, was less wild about it - right up to the point the smell hit his stomach.
The troupe ate quietly, conversations muted. When the bowls were empty and the slops washed out in cauldrons of steaming water brought by the cooks, silence fell.
Limnel stood up. ‘Three announcements this evenin’. Firstly, Shera’s ’ad a boy. It was an ’ard birth and she’s still at the healers. Yers can go visit her, but go in yer free time, an’ take a sunwise diversion so’s yers don’t go through Rinya’s territory. No point flauntin’ our colours and causin’ trouble with ’er gang until I says. Second, fer those of you who know Daim an’ Arel, Daim took the fall. We ain’t got no one else to partner Arel, so she’s joinin’ the sluts. And we got another new whore’ - he nodded at Taro - ‘who some of yers might know. Taro’s on probation, earnin’ his new colours.’
That got Taro more curious, not-quite-hostile looks. When Limnel sat down again, people started to get up. Taro stood and moved towards Osin, but a lag with narrow-set eyes and enough topsider blood in him to make him shorter than anyone else Taro had seen there so far came down from the table to intercept him. ‘I’m Keron,’ said the boy. ‘Yer one of me sluts now.’
Taro nodded and made to follow the giggling mass of pretty boys and girls as they headed out the main door, but Keron grabbed his arm. ‘Oh no, yer ofta see a special client.’
He led Taro out the back of the hall towards the room where Limnel held court, talking all the time. ‘She likes to try all the new boys. After her, anythin’ ya pick up topside’ll be top prime.’ He gave a nasal laugh. ‘Tell yer what, why don’t I give yer a little ’elp? How about it, eh? Somethin’ to make sure things is well bolted?’
He grabbed Taro’s arm again and pulled him into Limnel’s room, which was currently empty. He picked his way through the cushions to Limnel’s couch, lifted out a carved wooden box from the cabinet and placed it on top, then started fiddling with the tumbler lock on the front of the box.
Taro stayed by the door. ‘You sure Limnel ain’t gonna mind?’ he asked a little nervously. ‘I mean, ain’t this his private stuff?’ This was just the type of smoky business he wanted to avoid: the new boy getting the blame for whatever shit anyone wanted to lay on him.
Keron shook his head. ‘No, no, the boss is prime with this.’ The box clicked open and Keron gestured for Taro to come over. ‘This gear’s new, but he’s got shitloads of it - this box is fer general use, all ’is top people know the combination. Fortunate fer us ’e’s so generous. Here.’ Keron held out a snorting spoon loaded with golden powder.
Taro hesitated. He’d drunk booze and shared smokes and powders with clients before now, but the look in Keron’s eyes suggested that this was more than a mild mood enhancer. Serious drugs were either a final resort for the lost, or a luxury for those who could handle the risks, like Angels. Malia had gone on binges more than once, using burnt mash or topside designer chemicals, and Taro understood why; earning your glory killing strangers had its price. He didn’t have any reason to go chasing oblivion like that. But he wasn’t being given a choice. Keron was his new boss.
�
��C’mon, Taro. Ya’ll thank me fer this later.’
Taro wasn’t so sure, but he obviously had no choice. He guided the spoon under one nostril, pressed the other one shut and sniffed.
It hit fast, hard and beautiful, singing through his head and setting the tips of his fingers tingling. Taro drew a long slow breath, feeling the universe settle into place.
Keron was saying something, but Taro only managed to catch up partway through. ‘—pure blade, eh?’
He smiled at Keron, his friend Keron, though smiling made his face feel funny. Keron smiled back, eyes bright. For what may have been a minute or an hour, they stood together, swaying gently, Keron still holding the spoon. Then Keron exhaled hard, put the spoon back in the box, and said, ‘Let’s get ya to the bitch ’fore the rush fades.’
