by Carl Sargent
The directness of the questions hurt. The elf was acutely aware that a life like hers was eminently disposable. Street kids disappeared every day, in London, Cape Town, Rio, Seattle, any city you could name. No one cared about them, or their fate. The best chance of survival often came with gang membership, but that usually ended up with the kid dead or maimed in a stabbing or a Shootout anyway.
"It just didn't feel like the right thing to do," he said lamely, preferring not to think about his own experience of losing his parents at a young age. It wasn't just the usual disappointment and hurt of goodbyes. There was a lot more to it than that, but he'd never delved much into that whole bundle of confused and powerful emotions.
"Why didn't you ask me in right away?" Kristen said,
stretching out a little on the bed. He didn't understand what she meant.
"You haven't made a pass at me," she said coolly.
The elf hesitated. He knew that if he said the wrong thing, it could ruin everything. He decided to wait until he had more of a clue about what she wanted him to say.
"Should I have?" he asked.
"Everyone else does. You're rich, you wear fine clothes, you stay in hotels. Your face was on the cover of a magazine. When people like you come dockside, there's only one reason. Usually."
He wasn't sure whether there was any hostility lurking in all this. He was very uncomfortable, aware that despite his greater age and experience of the world he was suddenly at a major disadvantage. Trying to buy some time, he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. To his surprise, he managed an immaculate smoke ring with the final stages of the exhalation. He sat down beside her.
"I don't know about everyone else. It's not that you aren't pretty. It's just that I got burned recently," he said, and then told her about what had happened with Julia Richards. He felt somewhat relieved. It was getting him off the hook.
"But it's not just that," he blurted out. "I don't know, I really don't. I feel like I've known you a long time, which is just plain crazy. And I don't mean that you remind me of someone else." It flashed through his mind that in some way that wasn't quite true, but he was too confused and uncertain to say that. "I care for you, but it isn't sexual. Somehow. Oh, spirits, I don't know."
He gave up on it and sat with elbows on his knees, balled fists on either side of his chin, looking down. Then he smiled and turned to her.
"But you do have the cutest feet," he laughed, trying to break the tension somehow. She chuckled, letting her toes play with the carpet. She got up, stood before him, and grabbed his forearms with her hands.
"Let's go dancing," she cried, taking Serrin utterly by surprise.
"What? In the middle of the afternoon? Hell, I can't dance. I've got a shot-up leg, Kristen."
Her grip tightened. "Let's just do it," she begged.
"Oh, what the frag," he said, smiling broadly. "Let's go dancing." She took him by the hand and led him through the door.
"I had a word with one of the tour people," Michael said quietly to Tom as they sat at the lace-covered table. "Gave them a few bucks. We'll be able to get into the less, er, authorized places. I didn't want to mention any names, just told him we were looking for some authentic shamanism, not just the tourist stuff. Of course, he'll think that we just want the next-to-tourist stuff rather than the real thing. But it gives us a start. I'll drop this Shakala's name later and see what reaction I get."
"Hmmm," the troll replied. He knew Michael was making an effort to keep him involved, keeping him up on everything that was going on. But Tom felt almost superfluous. He was here as Serrin's bodyguard, but still hadn't needed to raise so much as a fist. Michael seemed to be doing everything that needed doing. Not that he'd have expected someone with such an obsession for control to be any other way.
He looked around toward the doorway, saw Kristen and Serrin coming in behind a liveried waiter struggling with an indecently large soup tureen. As soon as the limping elf came into view, he noticed something different. From this distance there was no way Tom could have seen the details, but he sensed them anyway. The lines around Serrin's eyes were less strained, the tremor in his hands virtually gone. Though he was limping a little more than usual, he seemed almost, well, carefree.
Kristen and Serrin came up to the table, sharing some whispered words that left them both smiling. Serrin made to pull out a chair for her to sit, but she gave him a reproachful look and he left her to it, sitting down opposite her.
"Have a good time?" Michael asked innocently.
Serrin looked sheepish and told him what they'd been doing.
"You should have told me. I'd have lent you a tux," Michael smiled.
"No need, old boy," Serrin mocked him. "The waltz isn't the favored dance around here. I don't think I'd look good in one anyway."
"You'll see how you look in khaki tomorrow. For all the technology of this wonderful century, nothing has replaced it for trekking in heat," Michael replied. "Now, let's eat. Apart from the pumpkin, which is habitually boiled into submission, everything looks good. Oh, avoid the farmed hippo. Texture of old boots and it tastes greasy and fishy."
"But is the crocodile as good as Louisiana gator?" Serrin asked.
About the time his quarry was turning in for the night, Magellan landed in Cape Town, where it took only a couple of hours on the street to find out what they'd been up to. They'd flashed in, picked up some street girl, and taken off again. Magellan hardly needed to inquire where, though he checked with the airport just in case. Then the Tir elf booked a room for the night in a suitable anonymous airport hotel, needing to snatch a few hours of sleep before his own flight to the Zulu Nation. Serrin was getting warmer now, and if he got to the Babanango plant, he might get too close to the truth.
What will he do with it, though? Magellan wondered. I don't want to kill him, not one of my own blood. And the decker, he's too smart to be fooled and lied to. Spirits, the decker just might be good enough to make the trace, to find out who owns the plant, and then he's just one little step away from the heart of it all. Luther will destroy him first, but that's not what worries me. If he finds out the truth, he'll make sure that everything he knows will automatically be relayed to someone else in case anything happens to him. He's got some friends who can cause real trouble. Damn, maybe he's even told someone already. The English lord? That journalist who splashed the elf all over Newsweek? No, not yet, surely. He isn't certain enough. One thing I can be sure about is that he's overcautious. He'll want to know more before he blows the whistle.
Fretting, Magellan tried to sleep in the early hours, but
his brain buzzing with plans and schemes kept him awake almost until dawn. He overslept and missed his flight, cursing himself for not requesting a wakeup call. Then he remembered the one person in the Zulu Nation who owed him a favor. He made the call from the airport. It was only a contingency, might not be necessary after all, but the price was fair and a pack of Zulu samurai were always useful. Maybe his earlier idea would turn out to be the correct one after all.
Feeling a lot better, he picked up his tickets and made for the departure gate.
18
Serrin tottered off the plane at Nkandla feeling very groggy. Mistakenly, he'd thought the luxurious coach had arrived at the Imperial to take them to the Umfolozi reserve, but all it did was deposit them back at the airport. The plane, which made the 777 they'd flown in earlier seem like the height of luxury and safety, wasn't any make Serrin recognized, and had little better than bucket seats inside. The flight was less than sixty miles, but it might have been to Mars for how long it seemed. Serrin had never heard of clear air turbulence before, and suspected it was an invention to disguise the fact that the plane was in the process of falling apart. He only barely managed to retain the contents of his stomach during the trip. Michael had told them they were going to one of the less popular, more out-of-the-way campsites, but he hadn't expected the transport to be quite so awful.
Michael was appallingly unflappa
ble, resplendent in khaki shorts, shirt, walking boots, and a pith helmet. With his thin white legs and knobby knees, he looked the perfect English tourist. The zinc cream smeared over his nose and lips, added to a generous dosing of lighter sun block over every inch of exposed flesh, looked more than faintly ridiculous. He was clearly loving every minute of it.
"If you haven't sprayed yourself with repellent, now's the time to do it," he said cheerfully, squinting through his shades along the red-brown dirt strip that passed for Nkandla's runway. "And don't forget to spray that talc inside your underwear. Sweat chafing can take off a layer of skin in hours out here, even in dry heat. And Tom,
even though you're a troll, in this climate you need sun block. Really. Trust me."
Tom grunted and hurriedly attempted to extract some of the cream from his plastic bottle as the jeeps roared into sight in a great cloud of dust. He managed to deposit roughly three-quarters of its contents into his huge hands and began busily smearing himself. The heat of the brilliant yellow sun was intense enough for him to feel even through a skin thicker than anyone else's around, black or white.
Serrin looked around at the handful of other people along for the safari. Most of them, he was pleased to see, looked as absurd in shorts as he might have if he hadn't opted for long khaki pants instead. Two Americans, a trio of dumpling-shaped Germans, and a pair of Japanese; the standard mix. Only Kristen looked as if she was at home here, neither uncomfortable nor out of place. The half-dozen touf guides pointedly avoided speaking to her, though they were short on conversation anyway. Ruanmi, the leader of the group, was the one who'd done almost all the talking, but most of what he had to say consisted of the standard warnings and reminders to sign the usual disclaimer forms.
After piling into two of the jeeps and roaring off northward into the heart of the reserve, the group had to hang on for dear life. The seatbelts in the jeeps certainly weren't there to provide safety in the event of a crash; their main function was to stop passengers from being hurled out as the vehicle raced across the bumpy plains.
"Shaman lions east," Ruanmi yelled to the convoy. "Single male with two, three females. One of the females has young, a pair of cubs. Twins, I think." He dumped himself back into his seat after delivering that announcement. Serrin, meanwhile, couldn't figure out how the man succeeded in standing up in the wobbling jeep. The idiot attempting it with his fabulously over-priced camera in the vehicle directly behind them had been lucky to fall backward into the vehicle rather than onto the rock-hard surface they were traversing.
"They create illusions?" Serrin asked anxiously to Ruanmi. He didn't know what the Awakened lions were
capable of, though he seemed to remember that detail. Ruanmi grinned and fingered the collar of teeth around his neck.
"They will not harm us," he said. Serrin had already sensed power in the man, and concentrating now, he could sense that the spell focus was powerful. Intulo, the other shaman, was always silent, and from his apparel Serrin guessed that his totem was Crocodile. He didn't want to think about that too much. He was much more comfortable with Ruanmi, whose mane of hair proclaimed him as a Lion shaman as strongly as his proud walk and the freak golden speckling in his brown eyes. The shaman seemed not to dislike Serrin, which was a relief to the elf. Maybe he knows I love cats, Serrin thought with an inward chuckle.
Despite suffering from the effects of the endless bumping, Serrin still had enough wits about him to be impressed once they reached the razorwire perimeter of their campsite. The elephants, wildebeest, and flocks of birds scattered across the plains and waterholes were a dramatic sight, not least for their sheer numbers. The blood kites had alarmed him, but, again, the shamans protected them from any harm posed by the dangerous creatures. He was irked, though, to find that he needed the help of the African man to get out of the jeep, his bad leg completely drained of any strength. Kristen had just leapt out behind him, and he felt like an elderly invalid as he struggled to get his boots down onto the dust-dry earth.
Tents had already been pitched for them, the site men surrounding the camp with their LMGs glad to see the relief column. They shook hands with their replacements, speaking animatedly in the Zulu tongue. Though Kristen could not understand every word, she bristled with barely disguised anger at what they said about her.
Ruanmi gathered them together in the center of the camp for a repeat of the standard warnings. The razorwire already spoke of the injunction not to leave the camp unaccompanied, but the guide was savoring the task of lovingly describing all the venomous insects and small reptiles of the area and which antidotes to use against the poison of each and every species.
"We know there are two nagas in Unlanga River just east of here, maybe one-quarter hour away," he said. "We make a blind nearby so we can take their pictures at dusk. Four of you only can make this trip; others interested can try again tomorrow. No guarantee nagas will be active, but we see adults more often now that young have left the territory to go out on own. And nagas not so fierce now there is no need to protect their young."
Serrin was only too happy to let the enthusiastic Americans and Japanese take Ruanmi up on the offer. It would have been a pity not to let such expensive cameras fulfill their function in life, after all. Michael sidled up to him, and to his astonishment he saw that the Englishman was carrying an HK227 submachinegun in his right hand like some veteran soldier of fortune.
"Told you we'd be better off out here with something that can't be taken for a hunting weapon," Michael said, smiling. "And you don't need a license for one of these things on an accredited safari trip. I thought Tom might feel more comfortable with it. He tells me he has an Uzi back home, but I've always thought the H amp;K a better weapon myself. Besides which, Ruanmi couldn't get us an Uzi in the time we had."
By coincidence, a couple of sharp reports not far away made Serrin jerk his head away in surprise.
"That'll be dinner," Michael said, picking at a fingernail. "They offered to take us along to go deer shooting, but I'm rather squeamish myself and you don't look in any condition for hunting right now. Tom didn't seem all that interested either."
He reached into one of the saddlebag-sized pockets in his long khaki jacket and pulled out a pistol, handing it to the elf.
"Do you have an entire armory in there?" Serrin asked.
"Not quite, old boy. But you should give that to Kristen. She's probably never used a gun, so let's hope she can at least point it in the right direction if necessary. Just tell her the most important thing might be to hold it and look like she's done it before."
"Do you think we're going to need them?" Serrin said anxiously. "I mean, this place looks pretty safe to me."
"I was rather thinking about when we leave it," Michael said without even blinking.
Serrin looked down at the pack that had replaced his habitual suitcase. Somewhere beneath the bottled water, which he carried in case the camp supply became contaminated, medicines and sprays to augment Michael's cache, tinned food for emergencies, and the other clutter he'd been forced to bring along, lurked his clothing and clean-up kit. Then he looked longingly at the improvised shower rigged up near the trees. The shade cover looked as good as the prospect of washing up felt.
"Which is my tent?" he asked, glancing around.
"We're sharing. I suppose I'd better go with Tom, even if he does snore. Crikey, what with roaring and growling animals all night it probably won't make any difference," Michael laughed.
Serrin fought his way through the tent's netting-covered flap and found Kristen inside, having already dismembered her pack over the groundsheet.
"Do you mind sharing with me?" he asked. "I could sleep outside if you want privacy."
She laughed at him, "Sure, and get eaten by mosquitoes. Don't be silly." She scooped her things into one half of the tent, leaving the rest of the area clear for Serrin. He struggled to extract his towel from the bag, then made for the shower. He passed two Zulus lugging what he took to be a small ant
elope through the camp gates, and saw that a fire for the roasting had already been started inside old rusted steel drums. His stomach told him antelope charred on the outside and bloody in the middle wasn't what he wanted right now or at any later time, and he turned away, grateful he could at least look forward to a shower.
Michael had to wriggle under the tent flap to wake them, since the cloth was fastened from the inside and he didn't want to make any noise. In the low light of his torch, he saw them lying together, her arm around his chest. They looked extraordinarily peaceful. He felt almost guilty having to shake the elf's shoulder.
"Huh? What?" Serrin half-yelled. Michael motioned him to be quiet, then spoke urgently.
"We're going. Ruanmi has made a contact. Shakala will see us. Ruanmi says the word is he's a very temperamental fellow. If he says yes now, you go now, because tomorrow he might feel different. Get your stuff together. As quietly as you can."
Serrin rubbed his face and was glad that he'd repacked most of his bag. "What time is it?"
"Just after four. It won't be light for a while. It's apparently about eight miles from here. Just out of Babanango. Come on, let's move it."
Kristen grumbled at being awakened and simply turned over to go back to sleep. Serrin had to shake her vigorously before she grudgingly opened her eyes. It was ten minutes before they were out into the surprising chill of the African winter's night. Tom and Michael were already piling into the jeep.
"I cannot go with you," Ruanmi told Serrin. "I must stay in camp all the time. Nholo will take you to Shakala. He comes right back, though. You must find own way back, except he go back for you same time tomorrow. If not we tell the others you got eaten by the king," and he made an extremely realistic, throaty lion's growl, then chuckled quietly to himself.
"Thanks, chummer," Serrin said drily and belted himself into the back seat. With Tom hogging the front seat, he had to squeeze into the back with Kristen and Michael. The jeep's headlights lit up, revealing a miasma of huge-winged moths and buzzing insects. Serrin fumbled for the repellent spray in his bag, but he had no time to get it before the jeep started off on its bone-crunching journey. After that, getting anything out of anywhere was virtually impossible. The elf only hoped that they'd be moving too fast for anything to bite him.
