by Carl Sargent
Kristen parked herself on a bar stool and ordered a beer. With a chaser. The barman looked dubious until Muzerela gave him a nod. “She just had a mess-up with some skollies. Needs a drink,” he said. Scowling, the barman rudely pushed a glass across the bar. She didn’t waste any precious dollars on him, paying instead with what was almost the last of her rands. She needed to find Nasser and cut a deal on the bucks.
“Any chance of work?” she said rather pathetically to the troll. The bar was almost empty, which just might make the humiliation of rejection not quite so painful. A place like this wouldn’t hire a mixed-race girl any more than it would normally serve one. Still, the troll just might have something, somewhere. But all she got was the offer she should have expected.
“Your face wouldn’t fit,” the troll said. “Nothing personal, My brother could always find you work, though.”
“Huh. Thanks but no thanks. I’m not down to that yet,” she said, gulping down the beer fast. If the bar owner appeared, it might not be healthy for Muzerela that he’d let her in, especially since he hadn’t been working here long. Kristen finished her drink too quickly and headed for the rest room.
Three minutes later she was back on the streets. She’d smoked the joint even faster than usual, and it hadn’t been a good idea. She had to get to Indra’s, dance away the effects, find Nasser on his late-night rounds and change her money. Then pull a fade fast before word got around and someone decided to slice her up for the money.
Looking up at the street sign, Kristen didn’t have to read it to know that the street was named High. She was just chuckling at the appropriateness of it when the face of the American elf drifted into her mind. She was still disturbed by seeing it on the tabloid, and she longed to be able to read the words and try to figure out who he was and why he could seem so significant to her. It was then she saw the two men in the shadow beyond the streetlight, collars raised against the rain that had driven most people off the street. Something told her she wasn’t going to be walking any further along High.
5
By the time the suborbital landed in Seattle, it was late afternoon. Serrin awakened from his doze and stared out the window at the haze shimmering all the way from the runway to the terminal. Great, he thought, limping his way toward customs, that’s all I need. Sweltering heat.
By the time he picked up his bags, he’d decided to get a room at the Warwick. Last he’d heard, that luxury hotel had begun to specialize in unobtrusive security for corporate clients who expected a little more than the norm. The rates would be exorbitant, of course, but he was too exhausted to care.
After a taxi deposited him at the hotel’s elegant entrance, Serrin had no difficulty getting a room even without reservations. He asked to have his bags sent up, then took the elevator up to the small suite. Once inside, the door safely secured, he sat down on the edge of the perfectly made bed to work out his next move. But rubbing his chin reflectively only made him realize how badly he needed a shave.
In the bathroom, Serrin tried not to look too closely at the face staring back at him from the mirror as he wet his skin, then he stopped suddenly and laid the razor down on the sink.
Maybe a beard wouldn’t be a bad idea, he thought. Even with the stubble, I don’t look much like that Newsday photo anymore. No one seemed to recognize me down in the lobby. Why should they? New York’s week-old news isn’t going to raise much of a fuss in Seattle. No, scratch the beard. He made a first pass with the cool steel of the blade, the familiar act of shaving relaxing him enough to ponder the situation calmly.
I need some muscle around me, at least for a while, Serrin reasoned. Then I can try to find out who’s after me. He toweled his face, ran a bath, and ordered some sushi from room service.
Stripping off his clothes and rubbing at his painful leg, Serrin wondered why he thought of Seattle as home at all. He hadn’t lived here for more than a couple of months at a time in the last five years. And the number of people he could call friends wasn’t more than a handful. Besides, he realized guiltily, he hadn’t made much effort at keeping in touch with them. Worse, a few calls soon informed him that his two best hopes were, in one case, out of town, and in the other, had upped and relocated to Nagoya.
He’d just bundled himself in the hotel bathrobe when his food arrived. Staring glumly down at the white and pink chunks of fish resting on their bed of rice and hints of vegetation, the elf wondered why he’d ordered it.
“Um, wine too, I think,” he mumbled.
“Red or white?” the waiter asked.
“Bring me a bottle of anything red from Australia,” Serrin told him, then laughed just for the hell of it. “And two packs of Dunhills.” He searched his pockets for some money, then handed the man a twenty. The waiter shrugged; it wasn’t a bad tip. The elf was obviously some kind of chiphead or dope freak, but he didn’t seem likely to offer any trouble.
After the food, mostly uneaten, and the wine, wholly consumed inside thirty minutes with a side order of three hungrily consumed cigarettes, the elf considered making some more phone calls but decided to sleep instead. Pleasantly lulled by a haze of alcohol, he checked the news service pages on the trid, but the index contained no entry for Serrin Shamandar. That was enough for now. He yawned prodigiously and just managed to crawl under the covers before falling fast asleep.
* * *
“Where did you turn this up, Magellan?” Jenna asked, her gaze turning pensively out across Crater Lake, her long elven fingers poised like mantis legs on the sheaf of paper in her lap.
“One has contacts,” the male elf sitting opposite her said casually. He knew the green eyes turning to him from the splendors of the Tir Taimgire countryside were hard and cold, but by now he’d learned how to face them down and keep some secrets to himself. He also knew she considered him too valuable to be pressed too hard.
“You have eyes and ears in the councils of the O’Briens?” she said, astonished. Jenna paid Magellan well, but he was going to deserve a bonus for this. If he’d somehow managed to worm his way into the secrets of the elves of Ti'r na nOg, he was a priceless resource to her. The elves of that faraway country held most of their Tir Taimgire fellows in contempt, and it was almost impossible to learn anything of what they were up to. Unless one was Ehran the Scribe, of course. But he wasn’t about to circulate whatever he knew to the other Princes of the Tir Taimgire High Council. Especially not to her.
“It cost me,” he said simply, evading her question. “Call it a hundred thousand.”
“Agreed.” She wasn’t going to quibble about the price. This was dynamite if the SES scientific evaluations were correct.
“You will not breathe a word to any other Prince,” she said, her tone almost brutal. “I have to think hard on this.”
“Have I ever betrayed your secrets?” he said, finding the courage to shoot her a challenging look.
She looked away quickly. “No. Forgive me. It’s just that we can’t risk a fool like Laverty finding out about something this big. He’d send a squad out to destroy this—precious thing. That would be unthinkable.”
“There is more, Jenna,” the male ventured. “The intelligence report on the German is correct. He is exactly what they say he is. I have made other inquiries.” His little finger crooked itself around the long flutted stem of his glass, and he swirled the red liquid around inside the wide, deep bowl.
“No doubt that cost you also,” she smiled. The warm glow of what this magical discovery might mean was beginning to permeate her now. The ultimate power of life and death was being offered to her and the thrill was almost too strong to bear.
“Another thirty thousand for research,” he said, making a dismissive gesture with his free hand. “Cheap at twice the price.
“I’ve also learned that he has certain special requirements that aren't easily satisfied. That have led him to kidnap certain rare individuals who can meet those requirements. Apparently his agents botched one such attempt very recently. It look
s, of all things, as if the local police stopped two of his hit squad for some minor traffic violation and so they never got to the right place at the right time.”
The two elves laughed at the absurd irony. “The target was a mage, as before. I haven’t had time to do much research on him, except that he was the one who recently rescued the mayor of New York from being killed by some mad Shi’ite. Three-day wonder stuff. He’s disappeared for the time being, but he’s got to re-surface again one of these days.”
“Find out more about him,” Jenna ordered. “We don’t want any loose ends.”
“There’s one complication,” Magellan said slowly, realizing that Jenna must not have heard or read about the mage, or else she’d know this one important fact herself. “He is an elf.”
“Ah,” she said, her hands tightening for just an instant into fists. “Now that does rather complicate matters. Maybe. All right, but we must still find out everything we can about him. Maybe he’ll just be glad to have gotten out of this alive, and won’t do any snooping around.”
“I’ll get on to it right away,” Magellan said, draining his glass and getting to his feet. He was about to turn toward the door when her expression stopped him.
“Later,” she ordered. “You should know by now what the scent of power does to me.”
“I was wondering about that,” he said with a sly smile. “Let me make two calls to get the other matter started. Then, uh, the water pool?”
“I think I’d prefer you as my servant,” she said drily. “Make your calls later.”
* * *
Serrin woke at seven in the morning after thirteen hours of sleep. He felt less hung over than he had any right to, but it wasn’t until he’d drunk half a liter of the steely mineral water on his bedside table that he paused to take a breath. His eyes caught the red winking of the telecom as he set the bottle down. A few taps on the console told him that a call had been received at his message-forwarding number and relayed through to the hotel. For a moment he couldn't even recall having made those arrangements, but then he gave up trying to remember. When he saw who it was had called him, he returned the call right away.
The suave features of the Welshman smiled back at Serrin from the screen. “Good morning, Serrin,” his friend breezed in his BBC English accent. “I hear you’ve been to Germany. What’s up?”
“I’m back in Seattle now, or I wouldn’t have gotten your message. But they told me you were away for a couple of days.”
“Got back a day early. Business concluded earlier than expected,” Geraint said simply. “A doddle, old boy. Now, what’s the problem?”
The elf paused for a second, not sure where to begin.
“Look, do you want me to call you back with a sampling monitor? To check whether your number is compromised, as I think you might say. We prefer bugged over here.”
“I don’t think so,” Serrin replied uncertainly. He hadn’t even contemplated the possibility until Geraint mentioned it, but the thought was evoking all the paranoia of the previous days.
“Come now, aren’t you a hero in your native land these days? Read it all in Newsday. Hope there was a decent payoff in it,” the Welshman joked.
“No, it’s more serious than that,” the elf said, then quickly ran down a summary for Geraint.
The Welshman listened carefully, waiting until he was sure Serrin was finished. “How can I help?” he asked finally.
“I don’t know,” Serrin’s usual early-morning mental constipation was refusing to budge. “When I was in Frankfurt, I thought of hopping over to London, until I found out you weren’t there.”
“Only the delicious Elizabeth,” Geraint said mischievously. “Don’t worry. She’s at Harrods buying some ghastly floral material or other. It won’t last, it never does. It’s doomed, thank God.
“Look if you need some help tracing the source of your problems, I’ve got a friend over there could help. His name’s Michael Sutherland. Brilliant decker. He could find out the exact value of Fort Knox in less than five minutes.” Serrin gave the Welshman a look of disbelief.
“Well, all right,” Geraint conceded, “I exaggerate; maybe it would take him seven. We knew each other at Cambridge. I heard our friend Francesca is away in Saudi, so he’s the best option. I can call him and make sure he charges you only the minimum. Hell, I can do better than that; I owe you.”
Serrin couldn’t quite figure that one out. He hadn’t seen Geraint face to face since their extraordinary experiences in London the previous year. They’d unmasked a Jack the Ripper clone and got themselves deep into an unholy mess. Everything had worked out all right in the end, but Serrin had noticed something strange about Geraint afterward, an evasiveness, even a faint air of guilt. Serrin trusted Geraint with his life, so it didn’t worry him. He guessed that anything strange in his friend’s behavior must have to do with the infinitely subtle and treacherous web of British politics. Indeed, Serrin was just as happy not knowing about it if Geraint didn’t want to tell him.
“I’ll give you a number,” the nobleman said, reciting off a telecom code that indicated a classy Manhattan address. “Wait a few hours, though. I’ll call him first and remind him of a few favors he owes me. How about getting yourself some muscle? I can’t really help you in that department, not Stateside. Or do you want me to send Rani over maybe?”
Serrin smiled. The Punjabi ork was someone you could count on if things came down to the wire. But it hadn’t got that bad yet.
“First let me check out some more faces and names here,” the elf said. “But thanks. I really appreciate this.”
“It’s the least I can do. Look, if you get into really deep drek there’s always my castle in Wales, right? I’ll make sure the staff is on permanent alert for you until I tell them otherwise. Hire a fraggin’ private jet and I’ll pick up the tab,” the Welshman said. The curse words sounded almost comical in his accent.
“I hope it doesn’t come to that. But thanks—again. And I’ll give this guy Sutherland a call after I’ve done a little checking around locally,” the elf said. The smiling face of his friend evaporated as the connection was broken.
Serrin tapped in a local number, and the sleepy face of an ork swam into focus on the screen.
“Hey, Gulrank, I need some protection,” the elf said simply. Subtlety would be lost on the samurai.
“Can’t help you,” the ork said in a tired voice. “Got a month’s fee up front from an Intelligencer guy doing research on some lowlife stories. Sorry, chummer.” He was about to hit the Disconnect when Serrin spoke urgently to catch his attention.
“Gulrank, I’ve tried John and he’s out of town. Torend too. He moved to Japan. I’m running out of names, chummer, and I need this.”
The ork paused for thought. It took some time.
“You could try Tom,” he said slowly.
“Spirits! You mean Tom’s still around?” The possibility hadn’t even occurred to Serrin. The troll had been so hell-bent on self-destruction that Serrin had almost given up on him after the last of his endless binges. It had been so long since anyone had seen or heard of him downtown, that Serrin had simply assumed his friend was dead. In that instant, he realized that he’d deliberately avoided trying to find out about Tom because the thought of his death had been just too painful.
“He’s changed,” the ork said. “I don’t know if he’d do muscle work anymore. Walks the way of Bear these days. Dried out, the works. Still down in Redmond, but I hear he’s doing the green number and saving people from the machine. Heli, you ain’t seen him since way back, right? You don’t know this stuff.”
“I had no idea,” the elf said, astonished.
“He talks ’bout you sometimes,” the ork said slowly. “I guess you kept him going long enough for him to save himself. Or so he says. You could do a lot worse, chummer. You got a friend there, which means you don’t have as many worries as you think.”
With that the screen went blank. Serrin immediately called
down to the desk and ordered a cab for Redmond for nine sharp. That gave him time for breakfast, the first cigarette of the day, and enough spare minutes to figure out what the hell he was going to say to Tom after all these years.
* * *
Feeling that the luck was still with her, Kristen retreated into the darkness on her side of the street, her mind racing as she watched the two unmoving figures across the way. The men had their hats pulled down over their faces, but the shadows hid them even better. It was obvious they were up to no good, but Kristen thought maybe she might profit from whatever it was. Didn’t her luck always come in runs?
Minutes passed, with almost no passersby braving the rain to change the scene, and she began to wonder what the frag she was doing. Her head spun with the effects of the soft drug and she had to make a special effort from time to time to keep her vision focused.
“How much, honey?” a well-oiled voice leered from over her shoulder. “You do special services?”
She turned to the man, his acne-ridden white face garish in the shop lights to his left, the edges of his repulsive grimace hidden in the shadow that also hid the hand seeking to curl itself around her rump.
“Frag off or I’ll suck you in and blow you out in bubbles, you brainwipe,” she spat out, sending him scuttling off in the direction of one of Carrag’s pomotoriums. On her way down to Indra’s, Kristen must have wandered closer than she’d intended to the edge of Cape Town’s red light district. But now Indra’s could wait. Something was about to go down right here. Every one of her instincts was screaming at her. The air was almost unbearably still, ear-splittingly quiet. And even on such a rainy night there should have been more people on the streets. It was almost as if some trid director had given orders to clear the streets.
