He took the envelope, then made a hash of trying to open it neatly with his shaking hands, almost tearing the single sheet of white paper as he pulled it out.
Mr. Shamandar, it read, you would find it profitable to investigate the identity of the instigator of your meeting with a certain party this evening. Especially if you studied others in the same position.
It was written in Sperethiel, the elven tongue. Which gave his guts another quick loop-the-loop. "Who gave you this?" he demanded gruffly. "I'm sorry but I don't know," the girl replied, stifling another yawn with her elegantly manicured hands. "I wasn't on the desk at the time. You'd have to ask Frieda, but she won't be back on duty until tomorrow night and your plane is boarding in fifteen minutes."
As he trudged to the departure gate, trembling hands groping for his ID, Serrin felt like a pawn in the midst of some dangerous cat-and-mouse game. In itself that wasn't so unusual. He'd already been scragged royally by life enough times before, but this had a certain starkness to it that he was beginning not to like at all.
Slot, he thought, I'm just getting old, that's all. The elf ran his fingers through his short graying hair and wondered what kind of protection he could buy once he got back to Seattle.
Squinting at the magnificent bloody sunset and the black clouds whipping in from the Atlantic, Kristen stretched her legs and pulled the wrap tighter about her
shoulders against the rapidly cooling air. She was happy with life right now: dollars in her pocket and dagga and drink in her bag, a smile spreading over her face at the thought of dancing at Indra's all night. This couldn't last, of course, it never did; but her luck tended to come in runs and maybe the mugged tourist's bag was the start of such a run.
She meandered down Main as the dull glow of the streetlights grew into a glare, past the plastic and chrome tourist traps of Vesperdene and into the warren of streets between Main and High. The first few big drops of rain sloshed against the sidewalk, promising Cape Town's usual evening drenching. All day Table Mountain had been wearing a shroud of hazy clouds that must have concealed the fifty-kilometer view it offered from its peak on a clear day. Hissing at the rain, she ducked into one of the malls, a whirring blur of neon, trid, video, and colorful humanity.
To her dismay, she walked straight into some lekker-boys laughing their way out of a bar. Cheaply dressed and absurdly proud of their garish clothing, they were as vain as peacocks and unpredictable as hell. The slag who seemed to be at the head of the pack looked at her disapprovingly while preening the lapels of his jacket. The others formed a circle around her before she could react.
"Don't like kaffirs dirtying up my threads," he snarled. Kristen winced at the insult, once spat at blacks by whites and now directed at mixed-race people, usually in one of history's little ironies by blacks.
"I'm sorry. Didn't mean it. Didn't see where I was going. Let me help." She clumsily reached out a hand to wipe at his jacket, but he gripped her wrist painfully and stared deep into her eyes. Kristen had the horrible certainty that this bugger was high on something not very pleasant, then she heard a metallic click behind her. She didn't need to turn around to know it was a knife.
"I ain't got nothing'," she whined, then suddenly remembered the money she was carrying. Even worse than the physical danger was the prospect of losing her treasure so soon after finding it. "Only some dagga. I give it to you, you leave me alone."
The man sneered. "She give us dagga, boys!" A faint swell of derision rose around her. The grip on her wrist tightened and the ganger twisted it a little. Kristen had to bite her lip to keep from yelping in pain.
"Maybe we want something else," he leered, dragging her close and opening his mouth in a broken-toothed smile. His free hand was rising to grab at her breast just as a much larger one seized his shoulder. The world-weary face of a black troll loomed above him.
"We don't want no trouble here, boys," the troll boomed in a deep voice. "Police were round last week and we don't want to see them back again so soon, do we? Run along and play somewhere else, you skollies." The lekkerboy turned and with a cool gaze took in the stun baton in the troll's other hand. Slowly he released Kristen, then made an obscene gesture as he led the rest of the gang off into the night rain, shoving aside anyone in their way.
"Thanks, chummer," Kristen managed to say, shaking worse than she should have. She got in and out of a dozen scrapes like this every week. Maybe that dagga was a little stronger than she'd thought or maybe it wasn't strong enough. "Hey, Muzerala, is that you?"
"You betcha ass," the troll said, not given to much in the way of polite conversation.
"I thought you were working at Indra's. Thought I'd see you there tonight," she replied. "Hell, I need a drink." "I guess you can come in," the troll told her, gesturing to the little bar whose entrance he'd been guarding. Then he shrugged and said, "I had a little disagreement with Indra. She owes me something like three hundred rand in back pay and wouldn't pay up. So I did a little damage cost her that much and more. Won't be seeing me around there for a while."
Kristen parked herself on a bar stool and ordered a beer. With a chaser. The barman looked dubious until Muzerela gave him a nod. "She just had a mess-up with some skollies. Needs a drink," he said. Scowling, the barman rudely pushed a glass across the bar. She didn't waste any precious dollars on him, paying instead with
what was almost the last of her rands. She needed to find Nasser and cut a deal on the bucks.
"Any chance of work?" she said rather pathetically to the troll. The bar was almost empty, which just might make the humiliation of rejection not quite so painful. A place like this wouldn't hire a mixed-race girl any more than it would normally serve one. Still, the troll just might have something, somewhere. But all she got was the offer she should have expected.
"Your face wouldn't fit," the troll said. "Nothing personal. My brother could always find you work, though." "Huh. Thanks but no thanks. I'm not down to that yet," she said, gulping down the beer fast. If the bar owner appeared, it might not be healthy for Muzerela that he'd let her in, especially since he hadn't been working here long. Kristen finished her drink too quickly and headed for the rest room.
Three minutes later she was back on the streets. She'd smoked the joint even faster than usual, and it hadn't been a good idea. She had to get to Indra's, dance away the effects, find Nasser on his late-night rounds and change her money. Then pull a fade fast before word got around and someone decided to slice her up for the money.
Looking up at the street sign, Kristen didn't have to read it to know that the street was named High. She was just chuckling at the appropriateness of it when the face of the American elf drifted into her mind. She was still disturbed by seeing it on the tabloid, and she longed to be able to read the words and try to figure out who he was and why he could seem so significant to her. It was then she saw the two men in the shadow beyond the streetlight, collars raised against the rain that had driven most people off the street. Something told her she wasn't going to be walking any further along High.
By the time the suborbital landed in Seattle, it was late afternoon. Serrin awakened from his doze and stared out the window at the haze shimmering all the way from the runway to the terminal. Great, he thought, limping his way toward customs, that's all I need. Sweltering heat.
By the time he picked up his bags, he'd decided to get a room at the Warwick. Last he'd heard, that luxury hotel had begun to specialize in unobtrusive security for corporate clients who expected a little more than the norm. The rates would be exorbitant, of course, but he was too
exhausted to care.
After a taxi deposited him at the hotel's elegant entrance, Serrin had no difficulty getting a room even without reservations. He asked to have his bags sent up, then took the elevator up to the small suite. Once inside, the door safely secured, he sat down on the edge of the perfectly made bed to work out his next move. But rubbing his chin reflectively only made him realize how badly he