Serrin and Kristen were just tumbling out of the terminal, as disorganized as ever, when Geraint climbed out of the limo blinking in the afternoon sunlight like a surprised owl. The dark-skinned woman gave him her big, wide smile and a ferocious hug, immersing him in the scent of sandalwood and frankincense and warm wool. Behind her, the gray-haired elf looked healthier than Geraint remembered him. He still walked with the slight limp from an injury that had shattered his left leg, but when Serrin shook Geraint’s hand, the old tremor seemed to have gone and his grip was firm, his gaze steady.

“Good to see you,” Geraint said cheerfully. ‘Hop into the limo, hmmm?”

“Our luggage-” Serrin began.

“Harold will see to that,” Geraint said a little hurriedly.

The elf’s eyes narrowed “Something wrong?”

“Not really.” Geraint decided that he wasn’t quite up to lying and it wouldn’t be the ideal start to a visit anyway. “We were followed by a car with diplomatic plates for a while. Nothing to worry about, he beetled off over there,” he added, waving vaguely into the distance.

“So what’s going on?” Serrin asked with a mischievous smile. “Michael arrives in town and right away you’re being tailed? What game’s afoot, to paraphrase one of your best-known detectives? You said you had something that might interest me.”

“Let’s get home first,” Geraint said. “We can talk there.”

“What are you discussing?” Kristen bounced back to the pair after having checked the baggage. “Boys’ talk already?”

They turned and stared at her together. She wasn’t much more than half the age of either of them, and the reference to “boys” seemed both incongruous and appropriate at the same time.

“Nothing important. Just world domination and the collapse of civilization as know it,” Geraint said laconically. Kristen looked uncertainly at Serrin, who just smiled and ushered her toward the waiting limo, shooting a reproving look over his shoulder at the nobleman.

Actually, I was just being honest, Geraint thought, but then we’ve time yet to go through it all. Several days, in fact. Now let’s get into the car and get a trace on those number plates.

As the limo sped away with the nobleman and his guests, a Frenchman got silently into the back of a much humbler vehicle parked outside Terminal 5 and exchanged little more than a grunt with the Italian who’d driven it there. Had he known that the man had tracked Geraint to the airport, he might very well have been tempted to shoot him then and there, but there were other things on his mind. He knew how little time was left, and that it was absolutely essential to close off the leads to the returned Master-not to mention getting rid of that troublesome individual, if shooting people was on his mind, he had not as yet included his driver on the list.

“Get moving,” the man said in his even, humorless voice. “And is the Circle prepared?”

“Yes, sir,” the Italian replied dutifully.

“Then take me to it,” the Frenchman spat back.

5

When the limo returned Geraint, Serrin, and Kristen to Mayfair, it was a pale and drawn Michael who got rather unsteadily out of the armchair to greet the trio when they exited the elevator. Geraint was angry, and almost lost his temper and shouted at his foolish friend.

“I told you not to do anything until I got back,” he said firmly.

“Sorry,” Michael said meekly. “But we’ve only got nine days, after all. It doesn’t look like Fuchi got the image, so far as I can see. The frames are still sifting through the data.”

“You got into Fuchi?” Geraint’s anger evaporated slightly as it mixed with admiration. The Fuchi datacores were the hardest to crack on the planet.

Michael grinned. “No persp. Had to stage a decoy, though, and I may have fried one of my frames.” He glanced at Serrin and Kristen. “But let’s not talk shop already. We can go into that after dinner.”

“So Geraint really does have some work for me,” the elf said thoughtfully. “Well, we’ve been living off his hospitality long enough.”

“Nonsense, you’re welcome to stay as long as you want,” Geraint protested, and again Michael had the sense that something wasn’t quite right between the nobleman and his elven guest, but he said nothing.

They began to chitchat, starting with the matter of the weather and before the pleasantries were completed the caterers had arrived with their boxes and cases and had set up camp in the kitchen The skies darkened and Geraint clean forgot to check the data on the registration number as he busied himself with mixing cocktails and relaxing into the bonhomie of the early-evening. If he’d done it, of course, the evening’s unexpected and most unwelcome guest might not have arrived and he’d have saved his insurance firm a small fortune in the cost of repairing his apartment.

Serrin stared at the chromalin turning it over in his short-nailed, chewed fingers. Opposite him, toying with the remains of the filet mignon, Michael awaited his response.

“So, what do you think?”

“You told me what your data showed,” Serrin said, and I don’t think I could add anything. “But you’re not telling me exactly why you want to know.”

Michael hesitated. “I told you it was left in a corporate Matrix system after an induced crash,” he said defensively. “Let’s say it was a big crash. This is the signature of whoever did it. I just think there’s more to this image than I’ve been able to find out. I’m good at trawling through Matrix data and operations. This is a little more on the arcane side. You’ve got contacts. I was hoping you could tell me more.”

“I’ll do what I can,” the mage said thoughtfully. I take it you don’t want this to get too public, but if I start asking questions, word is going to get around.”

“That’s inevitable,” Geraint said as he refilled their glasses. Given the confidentiality of what they were discussing, he’d dispensed with waiters from the catering outfit. “There’s so little time left anyway that I don’t think we should worry about that too much.

“Anyway, that’s for tomorrow,” he continued cheerfully, “Tell me what you’ve been up to on that godforsaken island of mine.”

Sarrin grinned. “Making friends with the druids, mostly,” he said. “Wandering along the seashore. Being happy. That sort of thing.”

He exchanged swift glances with the dark Azanian woman next to him. They shared a kind of secret smile before he returned his gaze to the other two men.

Well, well. He really is happy, Michael thought. That makes a nice change.

“I’m grateful,” Geraint said carefully. “The druids can be difficult at times. I leave the place to them to run, but some of them still get prickly about the issue of ownership sometimes.”

“Well, they say it’s been a sacred place to them for several thousand years and you can’t buy that with money,” Serrin said tartly. “But there aren’t any real problems. The wiser of them hold sway and they’re content that you leave them undisturbed. It took me some time to gain their trust, and I’m still learning. But they’re good people.”

“They’re improving the value of my real estate,” Geraint said mischievously. “Thanks to them, the marine wildlife around the coasts has flourished. The fishing rights have tripled in value these last five years.”

“Don’t give me that,” Serrin mocked him. “You’re not in it just for the money.”

There was a short silence, broken by the chink of chromed steel against porcelain as Geraint began a coffee-pouring ritual. If anything, the tiny sound made the situation more uncomfortable because it was so easily discerned, underlining the silence.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, what is it with you men?” Kristen burst out suddenly. Frustration sparked in her brown eyes. “You’re so good at not saying anything that matters.” Michael turned and stared at her, one eyebrow raised. “There’s something wrong between you, and you talk about fishing rights!”