Authors: Jaine Fenn

Principles of Angels (38 page)

BOOK: Principles of Angels

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When he thought he’d reached the right place he stopped and knelt down at the edge, feeling for marker pegs. Nothing. He moved along another couple of paces and tried again. There! A single bolt, just over the edge. He lay flat and felt over the lip until his hand brushed something. He recognised the rope by touch, the way in which four cords had been woven together; this was a route down he had used a lot. It came out near his old homespace.

He slung the gun over his shoulder, pushed the cloak back to free his hands and eased himself over the lip of the City and into the nets.

The gun and cloak made the climb harder but his body remembered the route, tuning in to the familiar pattern of the nets under his hands and feet . . . except something was wrong. Part of the net was missing. The shaking had been bad enough topside, where you couldn’t fall off; here in the Undertow it must’ve been terrible. He pulled himself over to the intact part of the nets and carried on.

Taro had spent his whole life in the mazeways. Now, for the first time, he had to get below them to get a clear view across the Undertow. That’s how he would take out Vidoran as he headed towards the Heart of the City. Taro found himself remembering his flights with Nual; it’d be easy enough for an Angel, but she was gone, perhaps even dead. The thought stung like a fleck to the heart, but he had to put her out of his mind. As he couldn’t fly, he needed another way to get into position. Leaning over the edge of a mazeway was a well smoky option; even if he’d had a harness and tether, he wouldn’t be able to use the gun while dangling upside down. He briefly considered Solo, but even if the alien was willing - and able - to carry him, the Exquisite Corpse was on the other side of the City.

What else? He
had
to find a way . . .

‘Water-traps!’ he said out loud. They hung below the mazeways, and they were pretty sturdy, had to be, to take the weight of all that water. If he emptied out a big one, he could stand in it and get lowered down that way. And who had the biggest ’traps?

Water-traders.

He pulled up the hood of Nual’s cloak and set off hubwards and sunwise, towards Fenya’s - surely she’d let him use one of hers, ’specially when he turned up with an Angel’s gun and cloak.

The usual murmurous sounds of the Undertow had a panicked edge, and Taro soon came across more damage: torn nets, mazeways out of true or, where the ropes supporting them had snapped, missing completely. The few people he met either didn’t spot him under the cloak or, if they saw him at all, assumed he must be an Angel and quickly got out the way.

He was making a minor detour to avoid a missing mazeway when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye: a furtive shadow, gone almost at once. A few seconds later a whistle sounded from just behind him.

Odd time for a meatbaby hunt
.

As he rounded the next corner he saw a section of mazeway about four metres long had fallen. The nets were gone too, though some support ropes still hung from bolts just above head-height and the lower line of bolts that had once supported the mazeway were still intact. The only other route he knew was a long way out of his way and would take him deep into Limnel’s territory. The missing stretch wasn’t that long, and the ropes and bolts were still there. He’d have to chance it.

He stopped at the end of the mazeway and, careful not to look down, reached up to grasp the first support rope. He pressed his cheek to the vane and edged out with his left foot until his toes found the first bolt. He raised his right arm and grabbed the support rope so he was hanging from it with both hands. Finally he slid his right leg along the vane and eased it in behind his left foot. With both feet splayed out he had a fairly secure, if less than comfortable, perch on the bolt. He let go of the rope with his left hand and slid it along the wall until he reached the next rope. He repeated the procedure until he was standing on the second bolt, hands twisted in the second hanging rope. The third rope was shorter, having snapped just below the bolt, so he’d have to be careful . . .

He was straddled between the second and third sets of bolts when something hit him in the back, not hard, but enough to send the adrenalin surging through his already stressed-out system. He stopped, quivering. Another impact.

He turned his head to look back the way he’d come, scraping his chin along the vane, his neck creaking in protest.

A lag he didn’t immediately recognise stood at the end of the broken vane he’d just left. He had a handful of bolts.

‘Shit!’ said the boy, taking a step back. Then louder, ‘It’s him!’ He gave a short double whistle.

Hidden in the folds of Nual’s cloak Taro had been nothing but a vague outline against the vane. By throwing the bolts the boy had made him turn his head and show himself. Shit and blood! If he’d just stayed still the lag might’ve given up and left him alone - he obviously didn’t have a gun, just bolts.

As he watched, the boy turned and ran back along the mazeway. Taro saw him more clearly now: one of Limnel’s general thugs and dog’s-bodies, reporting to Resh. Just what he needed.

He eased his head back to face the way he was going and carried on.

By the time he’d got himself onto the third bolt and was reaching for the fourth his ribs were slick with sweat, despite the chill. Any second now he expected to see a gang member with a boltgun step onto the ledge ahead, but it stayed clear. From the sounds of the whistles, he guessed that most of the gang were still behind him.

He had just leapt from the final bolt, grateful to have a mazeway under his feet again, when he heard a familiar
shhwoop!
and ducked without thinking. Someone swore and Taro looked back to see the boy who’d found him and an older girl standing on the mazeway behind. The girl was just lowering her boltgun, looking pissed off. That’s right, thought Taro with relief, you don’t have the range.

But there was no reason to think other hunters weren’t already on their way round to cut him off. Taro took a deep breath, spoke a prayer he knew the City wouldn’t hear, and ran into the mazeways. .

Elarn wasn’t sure how she had managed to find her way back to the Street. As she stood in the mouth of the alley it took her a moment to register that the damage - people lying on the ground, a crashed pedicab, a spray of dirt and flowers from an upturned planter, cracks in the façades of some of the buildings - existed outside her own head.

Somehow, she had caused this. She remembered little after submitting to Nual’s probe but she knew that the scream - the chaotic force hidden in her soul by the Sidhe - was responsible for the devastation around her. She had always thought Salvatine notions of possession little more than symbol and psychobabble . . . the irony of discovering that it really could happen, and worse, that it had happened to her, an unbeliever, almost made her laugh. But a laugh could so easily turn into a scream—

Control, control, control.
She must keep control. The scream was dormant inside her for now, though she had to keep gulping to make sure it stayed there. She needed to act quickly, before it rose up her throat again.

She frowned at the sky, trying to get her bearings. The orange of the forcedome was scabbed with irregular dark patches but the thin needle of the central spine was still distinct against it. She needed to head away from that.

As she stepped out onto the Street she almost walked into an elderly man holding a cloth to his bloody face. He looked at her, dazed but not hostile. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. He muttered that it was all right, but he obviously didn’t know what she was apologising for. ‘No, really,’ she said, ‘this is all my fault, you know: everything. But I know how to stop it getting worse.’

He stared at her for a moment, then hurried away. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her. The infernal buzzing in her head made it hard to know whether she was really speaking out loud or just to herself.

The cold was bitter and each step jarred her vision. She found herself crying, tears leaking down her cheeks to drop onto the ground.

The end of the Street was still blocked by a fence. Fine, there were other ways. She turned around. Was that movement, someone coming towards her through the wreckage? She felt her lips part and forced them shut.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw something - steps? A way up: that was what she needed.

The steps were covered in debris and she had to pick her way through with care. The effort made the buzz rise to a roar and she could feel the scream rising with it. Lia must have let it out when she had tried to see what the Sidhe had put in her head. She had only been trying to help, but she was probably dead now.
And soon we will all be dead, unless I can destroy the scream before it escapes
, she thought sadly.

Control. Keep control. Just a little longer now and it will all be over.

The barrier at the top of the steps had collapsed into a pile of plastic and metal. As she heaved herself up onto it her cloak snagged on a jagged edge. She pulled and it tore, but held. In desperation she unclasped it and half-slid, half-fell down the other side. On the far side of the barrier she stopped to catch her breath and wait for her pulse to stop deafening her.

Snow had started to fall, possibly just in her head, but still she found herself smiling at this incongruous detail: snow at the end of the world. How peculiar.

The platform was divided by the circle-car track, but the bridge over the track was more or less intact. The far side was wider, with an air-taxi pad off to the side. There were a few people on the platforms, but most looked to be injured, or helping those who were. Elarn crossed the bridge to the far platform and found another fence at the edge. For a City that was meant to be dangerous, they did their best to make the environment safe, but there was a small gap, where the pylon nearest the air-taxi pad had buckled and torn the chainlink. That was where she needed to go.

‘Medame, kindly keep away from the edge.’

At first she assumed the voice was in her head. At least her hallucinations were giving sensible advice now, even if she had no intention of following it. But this was a man’s voice, vaguely familiar.

So, not a hallucination. She glanced over her shoulder to see Salik’s bodyguard standing on the bridge between the platforms. What was he doing here? She didn’t have time for this creepy psycho now. She reached for her bag, before remembering that both bag and gun were long gone. She said nothing, but he seemed to consider the fact that she was no longer walking towards the fence reply enough.

‘That’s right, medame. Come back here.’ The Screamer continued to walk towards her. She didn’t turn, but kept watching him over her shoulder. He looked as beaten up as the City, and wore the same wary look as the old man she had tried to speak to earlier. A killer like that regarding her with a caution amounting to fear was quite disconcerting. ‘Sirrah Vidoran is very concerned for you, Medame Reen.’

‘Oh.’ Now why did the vile assassin have to mention Salik? Things were so much simpler if she avoided thinking about him.

‘Why don’t you come back over here and wait for him? He’ll look after you, medame.’

Elarn found her head filling with images of Salik; of his elegant hands, of the way his mouth quirked when he smiled, of . . . other parts. If only he had been the saviour she had wanted him to be, not the liar she now knew him to be.

Without another word she turned away and began to run towards the fence. The gap was bigger than it had first looked, and it wasn’t far.

She was nearly there when something landed on her back and she slammed into the floor, winded, her nostrils suddenly filled with the smell of sweat and blood.

She shrieked and raged, but she was pinned fast.

A shadow entered her vision and a figure crouched next to her. Salik. Despite herself, she found hope entering her heart at the sight of him. ‘Make him let me go! Salik, he’s hurting me!’

He said, his eyes full of pity, ‘Let her get up, Scarrion.’

The weight decreased and he held out a hand to help her. She got as far as sitting before giving up.

‘Oh Elarn,’ he said, ‘you have suffered so much.’

‘Yes, yes, and I deserve it all!’ she cried. ‘You have to leave me alone, let me break the vessel, so the scream can’t use it.’

He crouched down beside her. ‘What vessel?’

BOOK: Principles of Angels

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