When they finally sat down to eat, Michael ordered most of the dishes on the breakfast menu, daring the staring waiter to say anything about Kristen by simply being
as polite as hell. They were seated in a secluded corner that offered both quiet and privacy. By the time the coffee, juice, cereals, and toast arrived on a silver tray, he'd learned what had happened to the computer. He tipped the waiter generously to stop his glaring at the girl, then ordered bacon and eggs for Tom, who was staring at the healthy stuff on the tray as if it were a dead rat.
"You know where to find this man again?" he asked the girl. She nodded.
"But the machine will be in pieces by now," she said sadly.
"Maybe, maybe not. It's worth a train ride down the coast to find out." He tucked a linen napkin into his shirt collar to keep any errant preserve off his tie.
"I've got this," she said brightly, drawing out a ragged and dirty scrap of paper from her bag. She handed it to Serrin, who looked through the names, then passed the sheet to Michael.
"There are more names than the ones you gave me on the phone," he said to Kristen.
"I couldn't get them all read out," she said a little worriedly, as if afraid she'd missed something important.
"It's fine," Serrin reassured her. "It just means we've got more than we thought."
"There are some odd code symbols here too," Michael said slowly. "More than just names and numbers. But you say the computer got glitched up somehow?"
Kristen explained again how she'd played with the little box and how it had suddenly seemed to malfunction. She also had to explain that she couldn't read the messages flickering on the screen, and she felt bad about that. It showed, all too obviously.
"Ain't nothing to be ashamed of," Tom told her after chewing the last of the bacon. "We live in one of the richest countries in the world and half the people there can't read nor write their own names. If nobody gives you the chance, it ain't your fault. Don't make you stupid."
By the time they'd breakfasted, Michael had gotten everything he could from the girl. Her account of the kidnapping and killing made Serrin nod at the remembrance of some details, but she couldn't give any close-up descriptions of the men who'd made the hit. There was no way of knowing if it had been the same people who'd tried to snatch him in Heidelberg, and he said so.
"Heidelberg?" She was confused. "But I thought you only just came over here. From America. You were in Azania a few days ago?"
Now Serrin looked confused, until Michael explained it to him. "You've forgotten your time in Johannesburg, term. Part of the megaplex is the old town of Heidelberg to the south. There's a Middelburg out east too. Easy to get mixed up.
"Look, I'm going to get to work on this stuff," he continued, tucking the paper into his top pocket. "My deck's over at the Hilton in the hotel safe. I didn't want to leave it at Indra's. I took a room over there as well so I can work, and it's a place we can hole up if there's any trouble at Indra's. Not that I expect any, of course. Come on, Tom, we've got work to do."
He gently kicked the troll in the shin under the table. Surprised, Tom gobbled down the last of his muffin and stood up beside the Englishman.
"You're not going to get picked off here," Michael said, looking around at the crowds growing along the street outside. "See you for lunch and a lovely siesta afterward, I think. Later!" Before the elf could respond, the Englishman had taken Tom's arm and they were out through the doors and into the street.
"What was that all about?" Tom asked.
"She spent the entire time looking at Serrin," Michael explained. "She wants to talk to him. We're the extras. We got what we wanted. Now let's leave them alone."
The troll was looking away, and Michael followed the direction of his gaze.
"Ah, the mountain," he said quietly.
"What's up there?" the troll inquired. He could see that the huge, flat-topped peak was a place of power. Anyone with a shred of talent would have registered that.
"The Rain Queen. The dragon Mujaji. If you want to go up top, you've got to be very careful and very polite and not go anywhere you're not supposed to. The shamans up there are weird people. You can take the cable car up, but keep quiet and stay to the roped-off areas."
"Hmmm," Tom grunted. "You didn't ask the girl about the mage. Urn, Shakala?"
"For a very good reason," Michael said, fiddling with his tie. "She's Xhosa. Mixed race. It's not polite to ask about a Zulu."
"I don't get it."
"If you lived here you would or else you'd be dead," Michael retorted. "Take the Rain Queen for starters. Xhosa myth says she protects them against their great enemy, the Zulus. She sends torrential storms to ruin their crops, to make it impossible for their armies to march on the Xhosa. In her earlier manifestations as a woman, she played the Boers and Brits off against each other too."
"I still don't scan. Is she a dragon or a woman?" Tom asked.
"Both. The Xhosas distinguish between the Great Spirit of the Rain Queen and her manifestations. Both the woman and the dragon are manifestations of the same thing. But she's theirs and she protects them against their enemies. No Zulu would be allowed to set foot on that mountain."
"I want to put my feet on the ground up there," the troll said slowly. The sense of power drew him, despite this sinister and forbidding tale.
"Then do it," Michael replied. He hailed a cab and gave the driver instructions.
"The Hilton, please. Then please take my friend to the cable terminus for Table Mountain."
Martin had finished the last of the analyses by the time the steel trunks arrived. He was stiff across the shoulders from hours hunched over the work station, and his eyes were sore from the night's ponderings of printouts and screen displays. But the data looked pretty complete; the PET scans and NMR data from Azania were producing results that confirmed each other very closely. There just wasn't enough in the way of an elven sample. Curious of Luther to be squeamish about that at this stage, Martin thought. Especially given what his hunger had demanded he do of late.
The phone from upstairs told him of the arrival. Excited, he almost knocked over his swivel chair as he raced for the door and up the stone steps of the old crypts. When he reached the hallway, its beautiful mosaic floors were half-hidden by the trunks. What they contained wasn't that big; most of it had to be padding and packaging to protect their fabulously valuable cargo.
"His Grace instructed us to call him as soon as these arrived," one of the footmen said hesitantly.
"Take them to the east wing. I shall unpack them and call him. I will take responsibility," Martin said. He had no idea whether Luther would want to be disturbed right now, but didn't want to take the chance. It would require a couple of hours to unpack everything, and the more time he gave Luther to calm down the better. Besides, he knew that Luther wouldn't want to sit fretting for two hours while this stuff got unpacked.
The footman hesitated still. Someone else taking responsibility was only acceptable if he could be certain that Luther approved. It did not do to disobey orders.
"Just do it. And use the trolleys. If you drop any of them, you'll wish you were dead," Martin snarled. Delaying no longer, the men scurried off to find trolleys for the trunks.
Martin left them to it and returned to his subterranean haunt to issue the last order to the Azanians. Hopefully, it wouldn't be too messy. It would cause a furor, for a while, but it could all be disguised as an accident easily enough and no one would investigate that closely, not immediately. He had run the simulation enough times, and he knew exactly where a cigarette butt dropped beside the right leaking pipe would do the job. It was time to cover their tracks.