Free Principles of Angels by Jaine Fenn Page B

for.
     
    After he was spent she had him withdraw and work her again with his fingers and mouth. He was getting a little tired now, but finally she pushed him away and sat up, saying, ‘Enough, boy.’
     
    She wiped herself off with a rag and started getting dressed. Taro lounged on the mattress, at peace with the world. He was a little worried that he might have to move at some point, as his legs appeared to have stopped working, but really, if he died right now that wouldn’t be so bad.
     
    At the curtain the woman turned and said, ‘That was good, boy. I’ll ask fer you again. What’s yer name?’
     
    ‘Taro,’ he said dreamily.
     
    After she’d gone he curled up on his side. He was just slipping away to an even happier place when he felt someone shake his shoulder.
     
    ‘Can’t sleep ’ere, Taro.’
     
    Keron helped him up. He still felt good, but somewhere at the back of his head the beginnings of a killer headache had begun to sidle in. Limnel passed them as Keron led him back to the whores’ sleeping room.
     
    ‘How’d he do?’ the gang-boss asked.
     
    ‘Quality, boss. She loved him.’
     
    ‘Prime.’
     
    Limnel turned to Taro. He raised a hand and took one of Taro’s braids. Taro let him. Why not? Limnel wasn’t such a smoky boss to work for.
     
    He teased out a strand of red cord from the braid, twisting it between his fingers. ‘Ya know what, Taro? I think we’re gonna get along just fine.’
     

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    It had been a busy morning and Ando Meraint was looking forward to getting out of the office for lunch, but when the door chime went he decided to check the cameras anyway. If he was going to make enough money to keep up with his darling wife’s gambling habit and still send his daughters to a decent school on one of the better Kheshi habitats, he needed to stay open to every opportunity.
     
    His cameras showed a mature, striking-looking woman at the foot of the stairs. She wasn’t wearing City colours and she was dressed with a level of taste rare outside the State Quarter. Meraint pressed the buzzer to let her in.
     
    The woman was paler and taller than most Kheshi. Her clothes were expensive and she wore her light-brown hair plaited and piled elaborately round her head. His scanners hadn’t picked up any weapons on her, not even a knife. She wore an expression of calm determination.
     
    Ando Meraint found it paid to work out what people wanted and give it to them, and he extended this to treating people the way he thought they wanted to be treated. So he met her at the door, showed her in and offered her refreshments.
     
    She accepted the courtesy of being shown to her seat graciously, but refused the drink. ‘I’d like to get straight down to business, Sirrah Meraint, if that’s all right with you.’ Her accent confirmed she wasn’t local.
     
    He settled down behind his desk. ‘Of course, medame. How may I help you?’
     
    ‘I understand that you find, filter and collate information.’
     
    ‘That’s one way of describing infobroking, yes.’ A very succinct way, in fact. He called up the basic price-list. ‘You’ll see the services and associated charges displayed on the flatscreen set into the desk in front of you.’
     
    She scanned the screen, pressed her lips together, then said, ‘I hope you won’t think me rude, but I have to ask: in a City without rules, where information is freely available, what precisely would I be paying for?
     
    ‘A reasonable question. Firstly, it is a common misconception that the Three Cities have no rules. For example, the statutes of the Concord are both explicitly stated and rigidly enforced.’
     
    ‘I know, I’ve read them. I found them surprisingly dry reading, considering the process they regulate.’
     
    Her tone conveyed a mixture of distaste and unease. Meraint concluded that she was either doing a good job of affecting disapproval, or else she was one of those rare visitors who was not attracted