“That’s men’s work, Rani. Tell Imran to see us, and we’ll see what we can do.” The man started to turn away, but Rani grabbed his arm.

“No time for that! The trail will be cold. I got to find out as much as possible right now, so my brother can follow up the right way when he’s better.” It was a clever pitch, acknowledging her brother’s primacy, but Bishen wasn’t having any of it. He folded his arms adamantly.

“Look, Rani, go back home, huh? Tell Imran to come talk when he’s ready. Nothing much we could tell him anyway.”

He turned away, head down, kicking at the remains of some produce rotting in the gutter. She’d gotten her first brush-off of the day, but Rani was sure it wasn’t going to be the last.

Rani had almost worked her way up to Bethnal Green by the time she succumbed to the smell of hot bagels wafting up the street. Rubbing her hands together to warm them a bit, she decided to try raising her spirits with a hot soystrami and soykaf. All she’d gotten for her trouble this morning was a string of no one’s heard anything, no one knows anything, no one’s saying anything, and we’ll talk to Imran, girl. Raising the best smile she could in response to the wrinkled vendor’s chitchat, she took her tray and retreated to a distant corner of the cafe. The place was filling up mostly with street sharks taking their morning break and flyboys and night girls just waking up to another pointless day or maybe heading home after a long night of oblivion. There was also a sprinkling of down-and-outs with hands cupped around the cheap soykaf they would nurse in sips long after it had gone cold.

She was lucky to spot the retractables, though the cybereyes would have been a dead giveaway. As Mohinder came through the door, the people seated at the counter quickly made a space for his powerful frame. Hand razors made anyone nervous. He strode slowly and deliberately; dermal plating, she guessed. The man had gotten lucky once with a big rollover in east Whitechapel: a bunch of foolhardy pixies had strayed in from Limehouse and some big credsticks had changed hands. That was a long time before Imran knew Mohinder, of course.

Careful not to let him spot her right away, Rani waited till he left the restaurant, then followed the big man to Sheba Street, where he ducked his frame through the small doorway of a demitech store, its frontage reinforced with steel-barred windows. She had a pretext in her pocket, so she took a chance on it.

Mohinder was just mooching around, waiting to see whether it was safe to ask the owner about what was under the counter. At first he ignored Rani, then shrugged when she discreetly showed the bulge of the pistol. One hard-eyed glance at the nervous man behind the counter got them behind the curtain and into the cramped little storeroom.

“You know about these," Rani said, producing the Ares Predator. “Does it look sound?" She tried to sound like she’d been sleeping in gutters for a month.

Mohinder took the gun in his huge hands, tested its weight and balance, checked the mechanism and the barrel. “Uh-huh. Give you thirteen hundred.” He detached the ammo clip and nodded with newfound respect. “Twelve armor-piercing in the clip," he said, checking. “Give you a premium on that. Call it fourteen fifty."

So he hadn’t been in on the deal. Of course not; he’d have wanted it for himself, surely, if he’d known. But he might know someone who’d seen something. She spun the conversation out a while longer.

“Fifteen.”

He looked coldly at her. "Don’t push your luck, woman. If I say fourteen-fifty, that’s what I pay. Not a nuyen more. You don’t want it, go away.”

"Okay, I’ll take it,” she blurted, quickly backing off from his annoyance. "I need something as a replacement, of course."

“Huh,” Mohinder grunted. “Imran know about all this?”

Ace it, he knew all about her. She was beginning to loathe the sound of her brother’s name. "You’re buying it from me, not him. I just need a little something for the house. To keep behind the door when he’s away."

That worked. "Nice little Ceska be just right for you. That’s eleven hundred, and you can have a spare clip of ammo. Yes?”

She waved the Predator goodbye, hoping the sacrifice wouldn’t be entirely in vain. Taking a deep breath, she began her pitch.

“Something important to my family, big man. Someone paid Imran for a run. It was a set-up, and now three’re dead.”

To her surprise, he didn’t seem to have heard about it. “Imran didn’t say anything to me." His arrogant annoyance gave her an opportunity to push further.

“He made a mistake there. Other people died for it. I need to find out who was the fixer.”

“Imran’s hiding behind skirts?" Mohinder was contemptuous now, turning to leave. In desperation, she stood in his way, arms open beseechingly.

"Mohinder, he blew it! I need to find out what I can, then go back to Imran and the family and see what they can do. It’s for the family." The implicit promise to remain in her proper place if she could just get some information seemed to count for something. He nodded as he waved her out of the way.

"Tell Imran to come see me at the Toadslab. I’ll have the pistol by Wednesday. I’ll bring the money, too. I don’t carry that much around if I don’t have to.”

Rani was dismayed at the thought of such a delay, but it was the only hope she’d gotten all day. She smiled and bowed her head respectfully as Mohinder headed out past the shop counter.

“Eight o’clock. Place’ll be lively by then." His hand razors snapped out of their sheaths as he opened the door. “Now I got to see a man about some money he owes me. Huh. Bye for now.”

Seated on ancient leather in the House of Nobles, Geraint’s thoughts wandered as an irate elf filibustered about road barriers and police patrols in northern Wales. He was only stuck here in the Westminster chambers to make up the numbers for the votes and he knew it. Damn Manchester, he thought, why’s he wasting my time like this?

Geraint hadn’t been able to do much more about Serrin. Returning to Longstanton would be far too dangerous. Inquiries among his contacts in the Home Office revealed no dead elves washed up downriver or found floating in a lock. Then again, the body wasn’t likely to turn up as a statistic in official body counts if it had been Fuchi security that got Serrin. On that score, he could only hope against hope.

Francesca was coming home from Maudsley Hospital tomorrow night. He’d ordered some flowers delivered, and he intended to make a second trip to the ward this evening if he ever managed to escape the interminable wranglings of the House. Doctor van der Merwe, the smooth and unctuous South African doctor, had reassured him of Francesca’s progress in a tone of voice that strongly suggested he believed that most people had IQs smaller than their boot sizes, and that they needed medical matters explained in words of two syllables at most. Geraint’s testy reference to his own degree in neuropsychology hadn’t made a dent.

He got away from the House just after six, the guillotine on the bill promising a merciful release after tomorrow’s business. Knowing Francesca would ask what the police had to say, he decided to check with them again.

It was purely by virtue of his title that he caught a couple of minutes with Chief Inspector Swanson. Tweed-suited and smoking an especially malodorous pipe, the pudgy man sat behind his spacious desk, obviously irritated at having to deal with the nobleman.

“We’ll make all possible inquiries, of course,” Swanson said, “but forensics didn’t come up with much. Besides, we’re stretched on manpower right now. A gentleman like yourself would know about that, of course.”