It was drizzling the next morning as we loaded our bags into Caimbeul's rental car. I'd set the alarm and cast spells, and as I locked the front door I had the terrible feeling that this would be the last time I would ever see Arran.

Damn them all, I thought. If they would only have listened. If they 'd stopped playing with things they only barely understood. Then I wouldn't have to leave my house and venture into matters I've spent hundreds of years avoiding.

But I knew the worst of the bunch were the ones who knew the dangers and went ahead with their foolishness anyway. Damn them, too.

Caimbeul had opened the passenger-side door and stood there waiting for me to get in. I dropped into the synthleather seat, sniffing the vinyl scent of new car as I did. After shutting the door behind me, Caimbeul came around the front of the car and got in on his side.

"I made some plane reservations while you were still asleep," he said. "It was bloody expensive and I expect to be reimbursed."

"I can't believe you're bringing up money at a time like this," I said.

Out the comer of my eye I saw him shrug.

"I know you're good for it," he said.

"So are you. You've got piles of the stuff hidden everywhere. What's a plane ticket to you?"

"That's not it," he said, primly. "It's the principle of the thing." '

"The principle of the…" And then I couldn't continue because I was laughing too hard.

I contented myself with watching the passing sce- nery and playing with the vid, trying to get some decent signal to come in. But all I found were walls of noise and static. Finally I managed to tune in a pre- historic station that was doing a retrospective of tum-of-the-century music. Snapping off the trideo portion, I let the sounds wash over me. I confess I liked the older flat-screen stuff: Nine Inch Nails, Cold Bodies, Sister Girl's Straight Jacket. Nothing like a little atonality with my angst.

Every so often I would glance over at Caimbeul. Excuse me. Harlequin. I don't think that name will ever come trippingly to my lips. And I hate what it represents even more.

Yes, I know you think you understand him. You might even think you know him well, but you don't. I've known him for longer than either of us cares to remember. And he wasn't as you see him now. That stupid painted face. Though he wasn't what many would call handsome, I have always found him at- tractive. Maybe even beautiful. Oh, I know that sounds peculiar, but there is an aspect of ugliness that is so shocking and strange it becomes beauty.

And his wild hair, all gold and brown woven to- gether. He'd let it grow long again, which I like. But he insisted on pulling it back in that ridiculous pony tail. It made me want to sneak up behind him with a scissors and cut it off. Either you wear it long or you don't was my way of thinking.

His hands lay easily on the wheel. I knew they were smooth and feminine with calluses on the fin- gertips. There was a hint of yellow between the first and second fingers where he held those Gaullets he smoked. And he smelled of tobacco and clean linen. 54

And I wondered whether he remembered those sorts of things about me. The little details that only come from intimacy.

"Will you turn that off?" he asked.

"I like it," I replied as I leaned forward and nudged the volume button up a little.

"I know," he said. "You always did have terrible taste in music."

"No, I've always had broad taste in music. Unlike you who only seem to like classical music and the occasional jazz group."

"I prefer to think of it as a refined taste."

"I know you do."

We didn't say anything else and I went back to watching the kilometers slip by as the rain streamed across the windows.

Edinburgh was crowded. Old ladies were crying and hugging uncomfortable-looking teens. Suits hur- ried by, oblivious to everything but their own sense of self-importance. I've never been too fond of cor- porate thinking. That whole bigger is better drek was what had led to most of the problems in the world, as far as I could tell. Okay, indoor plumbing was the one exception to this rule, but otherwise…

We found the gate for the flight to Tir na nOg. As we came around the comer, I saw that the usual se- curity measures were in place. All our luggage was going to be searched. There would be the usual weapons scan and the endless procession of bureau- cratic red tape. Like I said: corporate thinking.

The worst of it was that once we got to the Tir, all this would begin again.

As we approached the head of the line, the elven official looked up from the display screen where he was sliding credsticks to check documentation. He gestured us forward, ignoring several people ahead of us.

"May I see your passports and visas?" he said. He tried to keep it polite, but you could tell he wasn't going to take no for an answer.

We handed over our sticks with our IDs and travel permits on them, and he asked us to step into a small room off the main corridor. As the door shut behind us I could hear the other passengers whispering to each other. You could cut the paranoia with a knife.

"Is there a problem?" Caimbeui asked.

The security drone didn't answer as he sat down at a display on the far side of a small formica table in the center of the room. The walls were a dirty white and one of the fluorescent lights flickered on and off erratically. I read his name off his badge:

Clovis Blackeye. No wonder he was an officious prig. With a name like that I'd be a drekhead, too.

He was gaunt and stoop-shouldered for an elf. His hair was tied back into a ponytail and was shot through with premature gray. A perpetual expression of misery lined his face and made his eyes look sunken and bruised. He knew he would never be anything more than a low-level bureaucrat.

Sometimes there was no explaining UGE.

"I said, 'Is there a problem?' "

Clovis finally looked up from the screen. His beady eyes swung from Caimbeui to me. "It says here that you're visiting relatives in Tir

na n6g. But it doesn't list who those relatives might be."

"Is that necessary?" I asked.

"How do we know you really have relatives in the Tir? Maybe you're from that other place, come to cause trouble."

"That other place?"

"Tir Taimgire. The fallen ones."

I glanced at Caimbeui and he rolled his eyes. Nothing worse than a patriotic officious prick.

"And perhaps we have relatives who don't want every low-level clerk knowing who their relatives are," I said.

His flat piggy nose flared slightly.

"That's not for you to decide," he said. "Now tell me or you don't get on that plane."

I leaned forward across the table then and grabbed his collar. For a moment I thought he might resist, but the force of my will kept him from moving. It was as easy as a snake hypnotizing a rat.

"Listen to me, little brother," I said in Eireann sperethiel. My accent might have been a bit off, but otherwise I was letter perfect. "You are playing in things far beyond your knowledge or concern. You wish to know who we are to visit? Then come closer and I shall tell you."

I jerked him across the table and whispered a name in his ear. The blood fled from his already pasty cheeks. As he pulled away, I let him see me-really see me. These are the kinds of tricks I hate- obvious displays of power-but he'd slotted me off.

"Now you can well imagine how annoyed this person would be if they discovered their name came up in this sort of situation," I said. "So I would suggest that we all forget this unfortunate incident."

Old Clovis was only too happy to oblige. He gave us back our papers like he'd just discovered they'd been tainted with VITAS. We were ushered onto the plane without further delay. I settled into the thick leather upholstered seats of the first-class section and smiled at the attendant who handed me a glass of single malt scotch.