"I think I'll hit the town. Michael, what do you think?"

"It should be safe," the Englishman said carefully. "It looks as if our quarry has bolted. We're chasing him now, not the other way around. Just stick to the safe places if you can figure out what they are."

"We did some wandering the other day. Spirits, was it only two days ago? I'm losing track of time."

"Just be sure to be back in bed for your cocoa by half-past ten," Michael chuckled. Ignoring Serrin's injunction that he go slot, the Englishman climbed out of the cab at the entrance to the hotel and paid the driver.

"Can I come with you?" Kristen asked Serrin.

He grinned and took her hand. "Sure," he said with a mischievous grin. "Let's go and have some fun. Catch you later," he called to Michael and Tom as the cab pulled away with him and Kristen still in the back seat.

Tom looked worried as he and Michael entered the lobby. "Don't like it," the troll fretted. "I'm supposed to be his protection, but I can't go with them. I'd be in the way."

"You could hail a cab and tell the driver to follow them," Michael laughed. "Just like in the trid. Hang easy, chummer. They'll be fine.

"Meanwhile, term, I've got some work to do. After dinner I'm going to track down whoever owned that place. What about you? You can sit in if you want. I don't expect any problems, but I wouldn't mind having you around on the off chance I do run into some bad 1C. I could use someone to pull the plug if steam starts coming out of my ears."

The troll smiled. "Can I get room service?"

"Eat the place out, matey. Be my guest." Michael smiled at him, more at ease with the huge troll now. He guessed that Tom felt he'd done something important by getting them Shakala's help. Perhaps the troll wouldn't be so stand-offish with him now.

"Where's all this going to end up, I wonder?" Tom said in the elevator after Michael had reclaimed his deck from hotel security.

"God knows. Ask Nostradamus," Michael said.

"Who's he?" Tom was truly puzzled.

"Middle linebacker for the Seahawks," Michael replied, laughing at his own joke while the troll looked on, uncomprehending.

"Seriously, Tom," he said. "I haven't got a clue where all this is going to end up. Honestly. But give me a few hours and we'll be another step closer."

Serrin knew he shouldn't have risked the spicy beef strips at the club. He'd been happy enough listening to the music, enjoying a drink, laughing and talking with Kristen, and just generally observing the scene. Now the food wasn't doing his digestion any favors.

'Scuse me, Kristen," he said, getting up from the table. "Be back in a minute." His guts were telling him loud and clear that he needed to get to the men's room fast.

Too busy groaning in discomfort, Serrin didn't register the magical warning from his spell lock fast enough. He'd just entered the cubicle when the door to it was suddenly kicked open and two hard-faced men with Predators stood staring menacingly as he struggled to get his pants up. They gestured him to put his hands on his head, a request with which he wasn't in any position to argue. A gun held to his back, he was led past an astonished group of men at the urinals and out to a back door; not through the bar, but through the back of the building, past the crates of empty bottles littering the rear. Waiting just outside the door were two more men with SMGs.

Slot, Serrin thought, I shouldn't have taken the chance of showing my face in town tonight. Now that they know we've been out to Umfolozi, they're going to dispose of me damn quick.

He considered a suicidal last spell, trying to take out as many of them as possible, when he remembered that Kristen was still in the bar. When he never came back, she'd beat feet to Michael and Tom. Perhaps it wasn't over yet. When he thought of her, the idea of self-immolation lost its appeal anyway.

The pair of muscleboys forced him into a waiting limo at gunpoint and then the auto sped away along the highway.

"Don't try to shout or scream at the robot, no one will hear you. The doors and windows are soundproof as well as bulletproof," said an elven voice coming from the darkness-shrouded figure sitting on one side of Serrin, opposite the gunman who'd forced him into the car.

"Robot? What robot?"

"Sorry, mage. Local term for traffic lights. Guess you haven't had time to pick that one up yet." The elf leant forward to the driver; in the brightness of a passing streetlight Serrin saw the details of his lean face. That red hair wasn't common among American elfs, though his accent was pure Tir Tairngire. Tir Tairngire? The name of that elven enclave had never showed up on Michael's

lists. Serrin suddenly began to wonder about this in a way he wished he'd done a lot sooner.

"So I've got the right blood type," Serrin said very cautiously. The other elf reached for a button with his right hand and a glass barrier hissed upward, separating them from the driver's compartment.

"I think I might enjoy it if you talked a little more," the red-haired elf said, grinning. On his left side, Serrin felt a gun-barrel pressed into his side. "But not here. Later, somewhere else. If you reach into the compartment in front of you, you'll find a small plastic cup with a blue liquid in it. Tastes quite pleasant. I suggest you drink it. It's merely a sedative. Something to make sure you won't be able to remember what route we'll be taking to our destination.

"So be a good boy and drink it," the distinctive elven voice continued with a harder edge. Serrin had no choice. Within two minutes, the street lights seemed to become a dazzling kaleidoscope, and then everything was swallowed in a darkness black as pitch.

His head felt truly dreadful, like a migraine or the fog of a terrible cold. It was late, he knew, but the drug had apparently played havoc with his system for he felt his heart pounding faster than normal. Oh well, he figured, standard interrogation procedure. Keep me awake when my resistance is low.

Serrin sat up on the cot to find himself in a room that was bare except for the makeshift bed, a table, and a rickety chair. Lit only by a naked bulb on the ceiling, the place would have made a barracks look like a gaudy Turkish brothel in comparison. The red-haired elf sat with his elbows resting on the back of the chair, legs splayed indolently to either side. He broke open a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Serrin. The mage hesitated.

"Oh, come on," the other elf said. "Go ahead. If I wanted to drug you, I've got some friends outside who'd just love to help me out."

Serrin took the cigarette. His own brand. He accepted a light from the elf and breathed in the smoke.

"Who are you?" he asked him.

"I think I'm the one who'll be asking the questions, wouldn't you say? But you can call me Magellan. You've been causing some trouble, I'm afraid. Oh, before you consider doing any flashy stuff with your magic, I'd advise you to forget it. We've spread a powerful magical damper around here. You wouldn't be able to get off the feeblest little squirt. There are also half a dozen big Zulus with a variety of exciting weapons outside, so you don't have a hope in hell of getting out of here."

He was confident, Serrin realized. Maybe too confident. And didn't even seem to be packing a weapon.

"Trouble?" he asked.

"Well, let's put it this way," Magellan said, pouring himself a glass of red wine from a bottle sitting next to the ashtray on the small table, "you've been trotting around the globe a lot lately. Which, I'd guess, must have something to do with that business back in Heidelberg."

"Why don't you just ask me what you want to know?" Serrin said, then wanted to kick himself for being so dumb. He should be playing for time, but the after-effects of the drug were playing havoc with his ability to think straight.