Elarn, recognising the parallels in her own life, found herself recounting details of her personal history she rarely even thought about. She explained never having married in terms of Khathryn’s culture; under Salvatine law marriage was a lifelong commitment. Though there had been lovers, she had never met anyone she felt strongly enough about to want to make that commitment with. When he asked about family she said, ‘My parents had their own prospecting company. Khathryn has a lot of natural resources, plenty for everyone, if you’re willing to take the risks to get it. My mother had a talent for spotting market openings and my father was a geologist and natural risk-taker. They made a good team. I spent the first ten years of my life in temporary apartments, on rigs, on board ships, all over the place, but they always promised we’d get somewhere stable when we could afford it, and we did. I still live in the house my mother had built for us, and the money they made allowed me to launch my career as a singer.’
‘Presumably they’ve retired now?’
She sighed. ‘They died when I was twenty, victims of Khathryn’s weather - or at least that’s what the inquest concluded, that the rig accident that killed them was due to the weather. Lack of maintenance by the previous owners or possible sabotage by business rivals were never even considered.’ Though it was nearly two decades ago, Elarn was still angry about how her parents’ deaths had been swept under the carpet of religious hypocrisy. She took a sip of her drink to cover her outburst, half wishing she had ordered alcohol of some kind.
Salik said with quiet sympathy, ‘You’re not a Salvatine, are you?
‘No. I’m not. Does it show? My agent would be annoyed.’ She looked away, across the Gardens, skimming her gaze past Scarrion eating with one eye on his master, to a small open arena where a pair of jugglers were entertaining the strolling crowds. ‘I do respect - even envy - those who have genuine faith, but my belief was already wavering when I lost my parents. That was the final blow.’
‘Doesn’t being agnostic put you in a minority? I had heard that non-believers can face discrimination on theocracies like Khathryn.’
Elarn, embarrassed at showing her feelings, was glad of the chance to steer the conversation back onto more abstract topics. ‘A little, but I’ve managed. I suppose it must seem odd to you, a whole world professing one belief system. I think a culture like Khathryn’s only works in a hostile environment. People need a constant feeling of their own insignificance to submit willingly to a divine authority.’
‘Not so strange, really. Your world has the Salvatine creed. Mine has the Concord.’
She looked back at him and said, ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Then she added, without thinking, ‘Though the Salvatine church gave up burning its heretics before the Protectorate.’ Seeing the shadow that passed across his face she put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh God, that was a terribly insensitive thing to say, after what almost happened to you! Please, I’m so sorry.’
He shook his head, and when she dropped her hand to the table he covered it with his own. ‘It’s all right. I knew the risks, as they say. I don’t mind talking about it. In fact I find it quite therapeutic. I could do with an unbiased and sympathetic listener - though you must stop me if I rant.’
‘Please, rant away.’
The warmth of his touch stayed with her when he withdrew his hand. She wanted to touch him back, though she lacked the courage that the combination of wine and adrenalin had given her last night. But something had changed; this sharing of personal admissions had moved their friendship onto another level. Elarn wished she were better, or at least more practised, at interpreting relationships.
As he talked about his career and its recent dramatic disintegration Elarn reminded herself to try to glean what useful facts she could from the information he was offering, but she kept finding herself gazing at his long-fingered hands, wondering how it would feel to hold them, and his sensuous lips, wondering how they would feel on her skin.
As they stood to go he said, ‘I hope I wasn’t hogging the conversation too much. I took the fact that you didn’t fall asleep or get up and walk off as a signal I could carry on, but I expect you were just being polite.’
She laughed. ‘No, I really was interested. This place is amazing. ’
As are you
, she thought.
He smiled at her. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you’re a breath of air in a closed room, Elarn.’ He offered his arm to lead to her to the pedicab stand, and she took it, feeling as weak and foolish as a girl.
As they rode down Lily Street she turned her head, knowing the time was right, and felt his lips on hers. His kiss was as gentle as rain, but it awoke something long hidden inside her. She was happy in the moment and nothing else mattered. When she climbed down, he said apologetically, ‘I really wish I didn’t have to go back to the cursed Assembly this afternoon.’
‘So do I,’ she said softly.
‘Can I call you this evening when I get out?’
‘Yes. Please do.’
Back in her room she resisted the temptation to stare out the window to see if she could spot his departing pedicab. Instead she made herself sit in the chair by the bed and turn the com on.
Something was nagging at the back of her mind, something Salik had said at lunch, but when she tried to chase the thought, all she saw was his face. It didn’t help that the com was still set to scan for data on him. She reset it to search for events she could attend this afternoon. She should get out, do something unrelated to her mission, her music or to him. She needed a distraction, something to give herself distance, objectivity—
Because she was falling in love
.
She had come to Vellern to cause another’s death, and now she was falling in love. This should not be happening.
But it felt so good.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Thirst woke him. Taro untangled himself from Arel, who murmured something but didn’t wake. He slithered off the lumpy mattress, managed to stand upright on the second attempt, and lurched down the hall to get a drink and find the nearest piss-pot. There was no one else around and, from the look of the light coming up through the netted gap, it was still early. Good. He had an errand to run before he went topside. Not that he wanted to do anything except curl up and fall asleep again. He felt like his head was coming loose, his guts had been knotted and he’d been beaten up. Actually he
had
been beaten up, not that he blamed the poor bitch.
He left the waterskin by the mattress; she’d need it when she woke up.
Though he reckoned everyone in this part of the Undertow should be able to hear the thudding in his head, he took it slow and careful, and managed to creep out of Limnel’s homespace without being seen. Once in the mazeways he sped up a little; not too much: in this state he could easily trip and end up taking the fall. Out in the relatively fresh air the headache began to ease off a bit, but the shakes were coming on now. Fuck, the comedown on this stuff was fierce. The withdrawal would be a killer but he’d have to face it sooner or later. Even if Limnel did have an everlasting supply of dust he was happy to lavish on his troupe-mates - which he doubted - Taro had no intention of living out his days as a slave to chemicals.
He slowed as he approached his old homespace. It felt odd to be in the familiar mazeways again. He should’ve done this days ago. As the last of her lineage it really was his duty to pass his linemother’s gun on to another Angel, or return it to the Minister. Until last night, when it’d provided a useful lie to save his skin, he’d been too busy just trying to survive to give this obligation much thought. Now he needed to make the lie true before it got him in more trouble.
The shit-gardeners who’d taken over his homespace had already replaced the green curtain over the doorway with a door of wood and plastic, but it didn’t stop the smell of composting shit drifting down the mazeway. Taro rapped on the door, then waited until a child’s voice asked who he was. When he said he was Malia’s line-child a boy of about ten pulled the door open, looking puzzled, then alarmed. Taro suspected he didn’t look his best right now.
Taro, breathing through his mouth, said, ‘Hoi there. I’m just ’ere to collect somethin’ Malia left.’
The boy called back inside. A woman, his mother, maybe, came forward. She didn’t invite Taro in. ‘I’m sorry but when we claimed this space we gave you the chance to take whatever you could carry. We’ve traded most of what was left for a new cutter,’ she said. She shuffled and looked away, apologetic-like.
‘Not her gun?’
‘Of course not!’ She sounded shocked. ‘We respect the Angels. We know the gun’s the property of the City.’
‘So could I maybe ’ave it now?’
‘You’d be welcome to it, if we had it.’ Seeing Taro blanch, she said quickly, ‘It wasn’t here when we moved in. We thought you’d already passed it on.’ She looked worried. ‘We’d help if we could, but we don’t know anything.’
After a moment Taro collected himself. ‘All right,’ he told the woman, ‘thanks.’
Only one person could’ve stolen his line-mother’s gun: Scarrion. For a Screamer to have an Angel’s weapon was sacrilege. The Minister needed to know about this.
Taro started back along the mazeways heading rimwards, but from the look of the light below it’d soon be time to join Keron’s merry band of sluts. If he went topside now and made the call, he could be on Soft Street when they came up, which meant Limnel would still get a full day’s work out of him. But it’d also show Keron up if he just turned up like that, plus if he looked even half as bad as he felt, he doubted he’d pull many punters today. Better to head back to Limnel’s, get cleaned up a bit, have a drink, perhaps even some food, if his belly would accept it. He’d just have to hope Keron would let him call the Minister before he started work. He changed course.
Halfway along a wide mazeway with patched nets he felt a prickling between his shoulders. He spun round, almost falling before managing to grab a support rope. He blinked, firstly to clear his vision, then to confirm what he was seeing.
A woman wearing a red-and-black panelled coat stood no more than three paces from him. She had dark hair, and the most beautiful face he’d ever seen. Taro stared at her, his mouth open, his mind blank.
When she spoke her voice was calm, soft. ‘I have been told that Malia’s son wanted to see me. Would that be you?’
Taro nodded, then finding his voice, said, ‘Aye, lady. That’s me . . .’ He hesitated, then asked, ‘Do I have the honour of addressin’ the Angel Nual?’
‘So you are not entirely without manners.’ Her eyes were dark and hypnotic, the proportions of her face almost dangerously perfect. ‘I was told you had something for me.’
‘I . . . thought I did,’ Taro’s voice slipped. ‘Me line-mother’s gun. But—’ He could hardly tell her it was most likely in the hands of an agent from another City. He gulped and spread his hands. ‘—but I don’t ’ave it.’
‘So I see.’ She sounded more intrigued than angry. ‘You lied. You know that it is a sin to lie to an Angel. A sin punishable by death.’
Oh, he knew. His hasty words last night had made his life forfeit at least twice over. He said nothing.
Nual raised one hand. The blade slid out slowly and she watched it emerge as though it wasn’t part of her but some strange and beautiful thing she’d unexpectedly come across. She let the blade slide back and raised her head. ‘But I have had enough of killing. I would rather talk.’
She took three quick steps to close the distance between them, until Taro stood toe to toe with her, feeling as though he was impaled on her gaze. After giving a tiny wrinkle of her nose - presumably at the state he was in - she smiled, making Taro revise his estimate of her age down by five years, and said, ‘And I think I’m going to buy you something to eat first. You look like you need it.’ She put an arm round Taro’s waist and pulled him towards her. Taro froze, confused and, against all sense or reason, aroused. She gave no sign of noticing that, just said, ‘Put your arms round my neck.’
It dawned on him what she was about to do just before she stepped off the mazeway. He grabbed for her.
Suddenly he was falling, plunging towards his death.
No, not plunging. Floating, held in place by the Angel. Except for his stomach. That was still plunging.
‘If you throw up on me, I
will
drop you.’ Her voice was soft in his ear, as though she was whispering endearments rather than threats.