He chose a street of commerce, buildings two and three storeys tall with small gods or tutelary spirits on their signboards and carved in the mainbeams of their roofs. There were well-dressed people afoot and plenty of mules, along with minimal reek of chamber pots -- all indicating some prosperity. Where there was wealth, there was wisdom.
"A thousand pardons," the Angel said, stepping in front of a likely man wearing stained gray brocade and a worried expression. The Angel's voice was hollow and thin, for he had to draw air in to make his words, but he rarely thought to take enough. "May I beg of you some small assistance?"
The worried man barely met the Angel's eye, nodding slightly, and pressed a worn copper in the Angel's hand before walking onward, muttering of debentures and defaults in some fiduciary incantation.
"Ah," the Angel said to no one in particular. He turned the copper over in his hand. It showed the vague profile of a man on one side -- or possibly a head of cabbage -- and something weaponlike on the other. Typical, he thought, and turned the copper in his fist until it spread lacy wings and flew away, a staggering, glinting progress brought to a quick end by a voracious pigeon.