It’s the middle of the twenty-first century, but the November fog is not so different from what it was in fin de siecle nineteenth-century London. The soup may not be quite as thick, but it boasts a more powerful cocktail of pathogens and chemical pollutants. The famous fog also still provides cover for those who want to slip unseen into the shadows, especially closer to the River Thames, where most of the street lights have been shot out.

At three-ten in the morning, the thermometer is still hovering around zero. Blood is beginning to seep through the floorboards of a room in Whitechapel and soon it will begin to show on the ceiling of the chamber below. That won’t worry the girl asleep downstairs; she’s a trancer. The drugs won’t wash out of her system until a police doctor arrives after the constables smash down her door later on. A young constable, the one who is first on the scene upstairs, will be vomiting uncontrollably in the street outside. The police photographer will be very, very glad he never takes more than coffee for breakfast.

So it begins.

2

Serrin woke with a start.

Seven-thirty. The familiar and unchanging BBC voice, anonymous for generations, was reading off the mundane litany of disaster that comprised world news. The only good thing, the elf thought groggily, was that the BBC was less parochial than the American broadcasts he was used to. You actually did get world news and not just what happened in your city, tribe, or state in the previous twenty-four hours.

He yawned and stretched his whole body until his hamstring gave him a twinge, reminding him not to push it too far. That thought had distracted him from the first part of what the BBC voice was saying about some five murders in London last night, somewhat above the average. The part he caught was about a particularly messy murder of a prostitute in the East End, hardened policeman turning white or green or similar implausible shades, blah blah, blah. Serrin reached for the remote and ran his fingers over the buttons to switch to trideo. The picture shimmered into focus instantly-not bad for an average hotel box-only to show some airhead prancing around a weather display that suggested Britain was doomed both to rain and garbage breakfast entertainment for some months to come. He eased his long legs over the edge of the bed and creaked to his feet.

"Message for you, Mr. Shamandar,” the telecom crackled with a cheerfulness utterly unsuited to such an hour of a British morning.

"Thanks, go ahead,” Serrin wheezed, spluttering back his thick, early-morning cough.

"Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones cordially invite you to a business breakfast in the Chippendale Suite at nine o’clock. They politely request that you be prompt. Thank you for taking this message." The voice squeaked into silence.

Serrin headed for the bathroom opposite the bed, and wrenched the tub’s brass hot-water tap into life. One of the few things he appreciated about Brits was the ambivalent quality of hotel baths: lots of towels, excellent, subtly perfumed soaps, and appalling plumbing and cold bathrooms. The chill guaranteed that you’d want to stay in the hot water of the bath purely to survive. The plumbing, however, guaranteed that every bathtime was something of an adventure; would you get enough hot water to fill the respectably large tubs before it ran lukewarm?

Francesca had told him that it was solely the principle of the thing that made Brits refuse to use decent chiptech in their hot-water systems. Baths, they seemed to think, shouldn’t be enjoyed too much. It offended their puritanical asceticism. At the time he’d assumed that it had more to do with plain, old-fashioned British inefficiency. Strange that thoughts of Francesca should cross his mind now. It had been five years since they had last met.

With a tug at his heart that he hadn’t felt for a long time, the elf remembered holding a terrified young woman outside a restaurant full of corpses in San Francisco. Closing his eyes, he sank into the welcoming warmth of the water as a wave of memory brought back the sweet smell of her fresh-washed hair against his face. Serrin rarely thought about women, nor did he linger on the topic now. He leaned back against thedeep tub, turning his thoughts to business and to the fact that the accommodations the suits had chosen for him did not reveal much about them. The Crescent Hotel was neither real class nor the fake kind for Americans and Japanese with more money than true discernment; it was simply a reasonably good place to stay. He guessed that the pair would not give much away in the breakfast meeting, either, that there might be some cat-and-mouse about this job. I’ll worry about that later, he thought. Right now, it’s time to soak these bones and get out some of the jet lag.

“Thank you for being so prompt, Mr. Shamandar.” The pudgy hand gripped his with routine corporate strength; not weak, not strong, just an in-between reassurance.

The Chippendale Suite could have seated twenty in ample comfort, so whoever was behind Messrs. Smith and Jones wasn’t worried about their expense credsticks. The serving table groaned under the weight of a very traditional British breakfast: bacon, kidneys, smoked herring in butter, scrambled eggs in a great silver bowl, poached eggs in salvers, acres of toast that would be as cold as the chill gray morning, yellow butter in white dishes, thick and distressingly dark marmalade, preserves, urns of tea the color of boot polish, and silver pots of Colombian coffee, enough to feed an army of the urchins roaming the streets of the South London Squeeze zone. They’d have died young from gamma-cholesterol furring up their arteries, but then those urchins had a very low life-expectancy anyway.

Serrin turned his mind back to the matter at hand and heaped a Wedgwood plate with bacon and eggs, hoping that the steam rising from the yellowed eggs would live up to the promise of some residual heat in them. The suits settled for coffee, toast, and what the jar label claimed to be Scottish raspberry jam. The mage vaguely recalled some blight having wiped out Scottish fruit-farming several years ago, but maybe the druids of the Wild Lands in the Grampians had restored the land of late.

The leaner suit, Jones, saturnine and with an almost polished skin, interrupted Serrin’s meandering thoughts. "We require a skilled operative to conduct some low-risk surveillance, sir."

The opening gambit was not unexpected: nice and vague. Serrin nodded without speaking. Let them come to the point.

"Our client has an interest in a certain key area of research," Jones went on. “And such research is being conducted in facilities in a city not far from London. Naturally, our client observes the proprieties, while aiming to conduct multimodality surveillance.”

Serrin winced mentally, hoping it hadn’t shown on his face. Where did these people learn to speak like this? He nodded once again, gratified to find that the eggs had retained just enough heat to warm the toast.

“It would not be frank to fail to apprise you that our client has initiated observations in the cybersphere.”

Cybersphere? Come on, chummers, cut the gibberish. I know what computerized snooping is and I’m sure you’ve hired a good decker. But what do you want from me?

The other man, Smith, took up the patter. As he began to speak, Serrin was intrigued by the small ruby embedded into one of the man’s teeth. Not exactly standard-issue for a faceless British corporate mouthpiece.

"Our client is anxious that these observations be enhanced by magical surveillance," Smith was saying. “Our client is aware of your reputation in such matters. He has heard among the knowledgeable that you are one who can deal with watchers. If I may put it so, those spirits who exist in the etheric plane in astral space. At least, this is what I gather that philosophers on such matters say."