Once she was sightless, Smeng led her along by the hand again, whispering passwords or other reassurances to unseen others as they went. It was a ways before they stopped and he untied the rag from her eyes.

They were standing at the bottom of a twisting, narrow duct that they had to navigate on all fours, clambering with gasping breaths. It led upward, taking them to a main tunnel. Feeling a current of air flowing through it, Rani knew she was near the surface again.

Her words about her brother had also brought important questions to the surface. She made her play in the deserted Tube station.

“I didn’t have much luck trying to locate who hired my brother for a sucker job that left so many of us killed. All I got is a name. Man named Pershinkin or something." She tried to conceal the fact that she was watching Smeng for a reaction.

He stiffened a little and looked away. “Yeah? Well. Wish you luck with it.”

He wasn’t going to bite, she thought. Instead, the ork began to tell her where he would leave her, saying that she must look straight ahead when she got out, and not look back at her exit point. “It’s best if you don’t see too much. Just take a right, a right, a left, and you’re in Fenchurch Street. I can’t take you where we came in at sun-up, too dangerous. Just keep strolling through Aldgate and you’re back at Whitechapel High Street, and then safe at home. You know."

“Yeah, I know,” Rani said, feeling almost sad at having to return to the other world.

When they got closer to their destination, she saw the reinforced door, and knew this was her last chance. "Pershinkin,” she said. "Would the name mean anything to any of your people who go spitside? Three dead, Smeng, three of my family dead. It matters.”

He sighed and motioned her up the last few stairs. “Look, girl, I’ll do what I can. Maybe I’ll find something out, maybe not, but I can’t promise you nothing. We’re quits, huh? Now, you keep safe. No more going out alone at night. And you know how to keep your mouth shut about us. You just got flipped and woke up in a dump. Right?"

"I hear you." A little surprised at herself, she hugged him close. After a moment he put his arms around her and kissed her gently on the forehead.

When the ork had closed the door behind her, she forced back tears and squinted into the gray light morosely filtering through the filthy and mostly broken windows of the warehouse. It was only then that she checked her inside pocket and found the wad of nuyen, forgotten in all the excitement. With a broad smile bringing her face alive, she skipped across the dirty stone floor while figuring what to do with it.

Maybe I’ll get myself some slap patches with this stuff, she thought, and better ammo. What the hell, and one of Sunil’s saris, too. That lovely purple one with the silver threads.

Her delighted thoughts raced like a child’s. At the doorway she peered in both directions, then stepped cautiously out on to the street. At that instant, an entirely new idea flashed through her thoughts.

Banging! It’s my birthday tomorrow, Rani exulted. Sweet eighteen. I’ll go down to that old Polack store and get some of his firewater, the clear stuff with the plum skins in it. I can get drunk!

What’s that like? she wondered.

17

Serrin woke in the darkened room to see Geraint still hunched over his desk, his hands moving in the pool of light from the desk lamp. Beside him a vidscreen was flickering silently, but he was shuffling a pack of heavy, large cards.

The mage stretched out his endless legs and ran the fingers of one hand through his hair. Collecting his gangling form, he pulled up and out of the chair and sidled across the room. “Tarot, huh? Didn’t know you were interested in that.’’

Geraint sighed and pushed the pile of cards to one side. “I was only just learning when you knew me before, My mother used the cards, but I resisted it for a long time. She always told me I would have the Sight, too, but I think I was hoping to prove she didn’t always know what was right for me. I’ve always been stubborn. You know that."

Serrin looked at the paintings on the upturned cards, knowing better than to touch them without Geraint’s permission. “Think I’ve seen them before somewhere. Twentieth-century, aren’t they?"

“You won’t have seen these. I designed them myself. Well, no, that’s not strictly true, you might have seen something very like them. Based on an old occult deck, the Thoth. Rather idiosyncratic. I liked the cards, but a few of the images seemed wrong to me. These aren’t exactly traditional designs."

Serrin could see that from the glorious explosions of color, the sweeping ebb and flow of the complex images.

“So I hunted down a woman who was the great granddaughter of the one who had painted them originally. She’s an artist, too. I scanned the images and let her redesign some using a paintbox. Very elementary. Actually, she didn’t get everything quite right so I rescanned and reconfigured some of them myself. Got what I wanted in the end.”

Yes, my friend, and that’s what usually happens, Serrin mused. But what do you do when you can’t get what you want? "Mind if I ask a personal question?"

“Fire away, old chap.”

“What are you worth these days?”

Geraint smiled. "Don’t mind telling you that. Forbes and Dunn could do the same for a trivial fee. Well, it varies day to day with interest and speculations, natch, and about sixty percent is usually tied up for a week or so, but in total, call it eighteen million, give or take one percent. And I watch that one percent like a hawk, mind you.”

“Eighteen million pounds? Spirits, how the-"

“Eighteen million nuyen, dear boy. About forty-five million in sterling, not that I ever bother with it myself. Strictly nuyen for business.”

“My God, your family must be rich. You know, I had no idea you Welshies were worth that much.”

“Well, actually, they’re not. I made most of it speculating. As for my father, he owns a lot of land but it’s meager as far as rents and properties go. I deal with the estates, such as they are. Since I rarely go back to Wales, I don’t like to squeeze the tenants. I think it’s a pretty rum do when some absentee landlord charges a fortune of people who are struggling over their heads just to survive, then kicks them out when they meet hard times.”

Well, what do you know? the elf thought. He actually cares about those people. Enough not to rob them blind anyway. Good for you, chummer.

“Like I say, I rarely go back there. Bloody disgusting country. Hills that pretend to be mountains, valleys on the more depressing side of desolate. Welsh people are friendly, but by God they’re nosy, too. There’s an old proverb: a Welshman prays on his knees on Sundays, and preys on the rest of humanity the remainder of the week.”

"Well, this one doesn’t seem to be like that," Serrin smirked.

“Too right. Won’t find me in chapel on the sabbath.” They laughed genuinely. Geraint put the pack back into its silk wrap then got up and flexed his aching shoulders. “How about some coffee?”

"I’ll make it." Serrin was about to head for the kitchen when something on the trideo caught his eye. "Hey, what was in that cough medicine anyway?” He’d just seen the time display. “I’ve been asleep nearly four hours.”

Never you mind. It’s an ancient Welsh recipe specially made to stop elves from asking difficult questions.”

Serrin had come back with the coffee by the time Francesca was stirring. By now it had also occurred to him that a cough medicine invented in the l850s might not, after all, have been concocted for elves. He put the tray down, smiled at Geraint’s back, and thought: this isn’t over yet. Goodbyes aren’t in order, surely.