Authors: Jaine Fenn

Principles of Angels (22 page)

BOOK: Principles of Angels

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So the Screamer had no way of knowing what information had passed between Meraint and Medame Reen other than by Meraint telling him. And he planned to tell him only what he absolutely had to, just enough to keep the Screamer off his back.

He’d spend an hour or so on one of his tasks, then call it a day. A news agency paid him to correlate removal statistics and extrapolate future trends. If they knew who the most likely targets were, they could prepare their reports in advance and be the first to dish the dirt when a new name popped up on the hot-list. He had a pretty good hit-rate, which was why they kept him on retainer. He hadn’t predicted Consul Vidoran, though.

It wasn’t the most interesting or challenging work, and when the door chime went only a few minutes later he was glad of the distraction. Then he checked the cameras. Though the figure outside had his head bowed, Meraint recognised him by his ostentatious clothes and long fair hair. For a moment he considered not answering, or maybe even heading for the back door, but running away would only make things worse in the long run. If he kept the Screamer happy, he’d have no reason to hurt him, or, more importantly, his family.

He pressed the buzzer, allowing his visitor in.

The Yaziler took his time, sauntering up the steps and entering with the same indifferent grace he’d displayed on his first visit. This time, however, he came straight over to sit in one of the comfortable chairs on the far side of the desk. Surely he realised that Meraint had fixed the office’s defences? Of course he did. He was making a point of not caring. It was his way of reminding Meraint that he wasn’t acting alone. Meraint had called up everything he could on the Screamer’s activities after his first visit and from the look of it he was still very much in the pay of Consul Vidoran.

Scarrion - though he had not deigned to introduce himself when they met, it had been easy to extract his name from the records - crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair. He raised one eyebrow quizzically.

Meraint cleared his throat. ‘What do you want?’

The Screamer sat silently for a couple of seconds before answering, ‘You haven’t called. I was in the area. I decided to check you hadn’t lost the number I sent you.’ He delivered each statement crisply, like a lawyer stating the facts that would damn the defendant.

‘I still have it. I was waiting until I had something of substance to report. A new development, so to speak.’

‘And? Are there any “new developments”?’

He could lie . . . no, he couldn’t. Not while those cold, dead eyes regarded him like a piece of inferior meat. ‘Actually, yes, and as soon as I finished this job I was going to call you—’

‘Ah.’ Scarrion smiled unpleasantly. ‘Perhaps I didn’t manage to impress on you the importance and urgency of my request.’ He frowned to himself. ‘I think I used the phrase “at once”. I didn’t use physical violence, or explicit threats to your loved ones. That’s probably where I went wrong. Are your daughters really identical in
every
physical attribute, Sirrah Meraint? And how is your wife? Debts make one so vulnerable . . .’

‘All right, all right, I understand. I’ve managed to find a probable match on the search I was doing for Elarn Reen.’

‘Show me.’

‘It’s not very long and it’s only a probable.’ He called up the original of the clip he’d sent to Medame Reen, set it running and turned the screen to face the Screamer. The Screamer watched the short sequence impassively, eyes flicking between the recording and the stats added by the sad little freak whose library Meraint had raided to get the clip. The data showed possible names and estimated kill-rates for the Angel in the recording; three possibilities, based on the physical characteristics recorded by the voyeur. Meraint had an idea that one of the names was the same Angel who had failed to kill Consul Vidoran the day before yesterday. If this was news to the Screamer, he gave no sign.

At the end of the clip he said blandly, ‘I’ll need a copy of that.’

Meraint swung the screen back and requested a copy of the file. From the corner of his eye he noticed the Screamer was sitting back comfortably again. Bastard was probably feeling pleased with himself, confident that his renewed threats were enough to ensure Meraint’s full co-operation from now on. But he hadn’t asked whether Medame Reen had seen the file yet, and he was not about to volunteer that information, nor was he intending to mention her question about the Screamer’s own master. That Yazil bastard wasn’t as smart as he thought he was. Meraint felt a fearful excitement at his secret defiance. He wiped the sweat from his palms and ejected the dataspike into a waiting holder, then handed it over and waited for the Screamer to leave.

His visitor pocketed the ’spike and leaned forward to look Meraint in the eye. He flinched but held the assassin’s gaze. ‘And if Medame Reen calls you again, you’ll be certain to tell me?’

‘Of course.’
Not unless I think you’ve found a way of checking up on me, I won’t.

Scarrion swivelled out of the chair and headed for the door. Meraint half expected another chilling threat as he left, but the assassin just waved a hand casually and slammed the door behind him. Meraint called up his surveillance. He wanted to make sure the murderous little shit was really leaving. Not for the first time he had cause to be grateful for the extra credit he’d shelled out for the panoramic option on his external cameras.

As soon as he thought he was out of surveillance range, the Screamer stopped, looked round and got his com out.

No doubt he was calling his master.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Taro’s plan was simple enough: go back to the Exquisite Corpse and ask Solo to find Nual. Being given orders for a removal from the Minister’s own hand qualified as urgent, so the alien should be happy to find her friend.

The plan relied on him being able to find his way back to the Corpse. Chance Street was sunwise of his normal haunts, so if he got into the Undertow from the sidestreets round here he was already part of the way there. He’d only used this way down a couple of times and it took him a while to find it again. Once downside, he headed hubwards, looking out for the point where he could pick up the route Federin had used last night. It might’ve been the detour to avoid a pair of squabbling meatbabies who weren’t going to give way no matter what colours he wore, or the way the midday light put the Undertow in the shadow of the City, or the fact that he wasn’t at his best at the moment, but he got all the way to the hubwards end of the mazeways without finding the turning he was looking for. There was nothing ahead of him now but the uncut vanes of the no-man’s land leading to the Heart of the City.

He didn’t have a tether on him, and he wasn’t going to risk putting his head below the mazeways to get his bearings without one, so he retraced his steps. Time to do what he should’ve done in the first place, if he’d been thinking straight: head back sinwards, find Federin and ask him to guide him again.

It was mid-afternoon by the time he reached the water-trader’s neighbourhood. He was just about to turn the corner into the mazeway leading up to Fenya’s homespace when someone stepped out in front of him. He looked up to see Resh’s familiar leer. ‘Boss thought yer might come back this way, so ’e sent us to check. And ’ere ya are, Angel-boy.’

Taro glanced back over his shoulder. A young lag was coming up the mazeway behind him. The boy had a boltgun and a shit-eating grin, obviously pleased at being asked to help bring in the bad-boy slut.

Resh didn’t have his flecks out; perhaps he could barge past him and run for Fenya’s. He quickly dismissed that option: even if he managed to knock Resh off the mazeway, the other lag might shoot him in the back before he got to the corner.

He spread his hands to show he wasn’t going for his flecks and said, ‘Hoi, Resh, how’s it hangin’?’ He resisted the urge to add, ‘Raped any more junkies recently?’

‘Lot better now we got yer. Reckoned we’d be ’ere till nightfall on the chance ya came this way, but we’d only just got ’ere. Ain’t that prime?’

‘That’s right. I only just got here. And I gotta go somewhere else soon. So, what can I do fer you, Resh?’

‘Yer can come with us. Boss wants to see ya.’

Shit and blood. He didn’t have time for this.

Resh nodded to his companion and said, ‘Cover ’im while I get ’is flecks.’ He let them come up and unbind the narrow sheaves from both his wrists. It wasn’t a good sign that they wanted to take his weapons but he didn’t have much choice. Maybe if he co-operated with Limnel, the boss wouldn’t keep him too long. But if Limnel had sent people out to look for him, chances were he was after more than just an explanation why Taro had missed his shift.

Resh led the way to the troupe’s homespace with the other lag bringing up the rear. The boy couldn’t resist digging the boltgun into Taro’s back whenever he slowed down or stumbled, which happened more and more as they got towards the gang’s homespace. Taro felt sick and twitchy, fear piling on top of the stress of the comedown.

He wished he had some idea why Limnel wanted to see him all of a sudden. Was it because he’d found out that Malia’s gun was missing? Did Limnel have it? No, he might not have much respect for the Concord, but stealing an Angel’s gun was just gappy. It wasn’t like he could use it and if he tried to sell it on he’d risk another Angel finding out and coming to pay him a visit. Maybe it was something to do with Nual. He might’ve been seen with her. When Limnel had asked about Taro’s mission Taro had assumed that was just his boss being nosy. Now he wasn’t so sure. But why would Limnel give a fuck about an Angel who lived on the other side of the Undertow?

Resh left him in the meeting hall with the other lag while he went off to find Limnel. Taro asked what this was all about, but the boy just waved the boltgun at him and told him to shut up.

Resh came back, grinning nastily. ‘Think yer better ’n us, eh?’ he muttered as he took Taro’s arm and led him towards Limnel’s room. ‘Think ya can leave the boss danglin’, jus’ come and go as yer please? Yer deep in the nets now, Angel-boy, deep in the nets.’ With that he thrust Taro through the bead curtain.

Limnel sat at the far end of the room, smoking a long-stemmed plastic pipe. Despite what Resh had said, he looked chilled and happy. There was no one else in the room, though Resh and his mate waited outside.

Seeing Taro’s eyes flick back towards the door, Limnel said casually, ‘They’re gonna hang round, in case ya decide to do anythin’ rash. Yer ain’t gonna do anythin’ rash, are ya, Taro?’

Taro started to shake his head, winced, then said, ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, boss.’

Limnel put down the pipe and waved a hand at the cushions beside him. ‘Come up ’ere, then. Take a seat.’

Finally being offered a seat told Taro that he was in trouble, but he picked his way through the cushions and sat next to the boss as ordered.

‘Ya look tense, Taro. Ya need to relax.’ Limnel lifted the box from the cabinet. ‘This stuff still don’t ’ave a name, it’s that new. I’m thinkin’ somethin’ like “Serendipity”. Not as catchy as “Edge” or “Heaven”, but accurate in its way, neh?’ He opened the box.

‘Thanks, but I’m fine,’ Taro said, waving it away. He was far from fine and he had to fight the urge to lick his lips at the sight of the box, but he couldn’t afford to get wasted now, not when he still needed to get across the Undertow to the Exquisite Corpse.

Limnel looked up, spoon poised over the box and said, ‘Am I ’earin’ ya correctly? Are ya turnin’ down me generous offer? You’ve been ’appy enough to accept what I give ya up till now.’

‘It’s jus’ that—’ He needed a lie. As usual, he found one and went with it before he could think it through. ‘I gotta meet a special punter. Solid prime, lotsa credit. A roller with lotsa credit.’ Limnel didn’t look impressed. ‘You’ll still get yer share, of course,’ he added, hoping that Limnel would think the nerves in his voice were ’cause he hadn’t been intending to cut his boss in and had just thought better of it.

‘This roller,’ said Limnel, ‘where ya gonna meet them? At the piss-dealers?’

‘No,’ Taro saw the fall coming, but his mouth was already damning him. ‘At the Exquisite Corpse. I needed Federin to show me the way.’

‘So, yer meetin’ a tourist at an Angel bar in the Undertow.’ Limnel sucked at his lip. ‘Right.’

‘Aye, yer right. It’s not a punter.’

‘How ’bout ya stop shittin’ me, Taro?’

BOOK: Principles of Angels

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