She followed the Embankment around as far as Geraint’s street. driving smoothly down the ramp into the underground garage. It took fifteen minutes to get changed and emerge looking passably like occupants and guests of a nobleman’s penthouse. Rani pulled the hood of the dark velvet cloak over her head as she emerged from the car, keeping her head down as if that would somehow prevent detection. She and Francesca draped Serrin’s lifeless arms around their shoulders while Geraint limped along on his ebony walking stick. Then they were into the elevator at last, and then staggering into Geraint’s flat.
Rani gazed speechless at the evidence of the meal they'd eaten so many, many hours ago. Geraint tried to bow to her, bidding her welcome to his home! but his face betrayed the pain and impossibility of the gesture.
“Let me look at your leg. I know about cleaning wounds,” she volunteered eagerly.
“You sure about that?” he said, alarmed. On the other hand, he didn’t want to call Careline about this one. They had to notify the Lord Protector’s minions automatically when called upon to treat bullet wounds, whether the injured party was a noble or not. And that would start a lot of awkward questions being asked.
“At least let me look,” Rani urged.
He hobbled into the bathroom, showing her the medical kit that boggled her mind. Where she came from, people would kill for a tenth of what this man had in the kit alone.
Geraint had been lucky, as far as it went; the bullet had passed right through the big muscle at the back of his leg, doing no serious damage. Rani gave him a local and cleaned away the dried blood. Lying on his stomach, he watched her work in the big mirror at the end of the room. Her hands were hard-skinned, almost gnarled, and the last word anyone would have used to describe them was delicate, but her touch was gentle even though he was anesthetized.
Finally, the cumulative stress of the night caught up with him, his mind clouding and his vision beginning to blur. He had just managed to ask what her name was and to hear her reply when his muscles gave up the effort in a final bodily sigh and he passed out.
Rani left him on the floor, putting folded towels under his belly and calves and laying a pillow from the huge bedroom under his head. The mage was lying comatose on a sofa, his breathing shallow, but he seemed peaceful enough. The woman hadn’t even undressed before crashing out in the second bedroom.
Rani skipped around the room, very pleased with herself. Then, guiltily at first, but with a growing sense of delight, she began to stuff her mouth with truffles from the remains of the meal on the table.
If only Imran could see her now.
22
Rani gazed in awe at the control systems in the penthouse. She longed to play with them, to find out what did what, but she feared setting off some alarm or rousing security, so she contented herself making coffee, raiding a fridge stocked to overflowing, and taking twenty minutes to figure out how to operate the juicer. After getting it to work without breaking it, she gulped down the tangy orange juice, licking her lips with a murmur, almost a growl, of pleasure.
“Help yourself!” He stood watching her from the kitchen doorway, weight on his right leg, elegant in a kimono that was finer than any sari she had ever seen. She put the glass down guiltily.
“No, I meant it.” Geraint sniffed at the aroma of fresh coffee. “Oh, that smells good. Thank you.” He limped to the breakfast table, poured himself a cup of strong black coffee and considered a cigarette. Not this morning, he thought. My body’s taken enough of a beating.
In the living room beyond, Serrin groaned in his sleep and stirred. He’d still be groggy from the reaction to the drugs Geraint had administered.
“I don’t know what you like,” he said waving at the fridge, “but there’s bacon, ham, eggs, cereals in the cupboard there, fruit and cheeses and, oh, let’s see what else…” He clambered up painfully to investigate the contents. He didn’t feel much like eating, but thought he’d better force something down. lie settled for some Jarlsberg and salami on rye while Rani began to assemble a sandwich on some grainy black bread, piling layer upon layer more out of curiosity than anything else. By the time she was done, the sandwich was an inch and a half high. She chewed a great chunk happily, and then looked warily askance at his expression.
“No,” Geraint smiled. “I’m not laughing at you. Glad to see you enjoy the food. I don’t know what, urn, ork people like.” He didn’t know what else to say.
Rani looked at him suspiciously, backing off a little.
“Don’t take offense, please. It’s just that my friends and acquaintances don’t include many orks. Well, not really any, to be honest. You see, I’m a member of the House of Nobles, and as you may know, not many noble families have orks among them.” Geraint knew he was digging an even deeper hole the more he talked, but the words came out faster than he thought.
She didn’t know any of the details, but it was a well-known fact of Life that the Sixth Age hadn’t changed noble prejudices in Britain. When the first wave of unexplained genetic expression brought elves and dwarfs, the first of the metahumans, into the world, noble families got their fair share of pretty elven children but only the rare ugly little dwarf. Registered stillbirths and neo-natal deaths among dwarf babies had been astonishingly high among society’s upper echelons. Then, when the transformations brought orks and trolls into their midst. British nobles took steps to make sure they stayed elegant, handsome, and socially acceptable. Most of the unfashionably ugly creatures proved to have alarmingly short lifespans, for having an ork in the family just wasn’t done.
“Please forgive me. It isn’t prejudice, or at least I hope not, it’s just ignorance. You are very welcome here. We owe you our lives. I’m not going to forget that,” Geraint smiled genuinely at her.
Rani knew he was sincere, and she wanted to stay and talk to the elf she’d seen that fateful night just over a week ago, but she was still unsure.
“She doesn’t like me” The allusion to Francesca was obvious.
He sighed. “I’m sorry, but I suppose she’s just not used to you either. She lives among the same kind of people I do. And she’s, ah. well, she’s a little vain about her own looks, But I know Francesca. When she’s had time to think it through, she won’t forget what she owes you.”
“Doesn’t mean she’ll like me any better,” Rani mumbled, hands in her lap, the remnants of the enormous sandwich left untouched on the table.
“Please,” Geraint said almost pleadingly. “It’s something like the way you had trouble with the controls in the kitchen, right? It didn’t mean you were dumb because you couldn’t figure them out right away. It just meant you aren’t used to this kind of place. Well, it’s the same with us-we're not used to you and your ways. Doesn’t mean we don’t like you just because we need a little time to get used to you.” He wasn’t entirely sure what he was saying, and he wasn’t sure why she seemed to need their approval, but when the words came out they seemed to reassure her a little.
“I’ve seen him before.” She pointed to the elf, who was groggily trying to sit up on the sofa. He looked to be losing the struggle.
“Yes?” He was casual, looking at Serrin more than listening to her. He assumed Serrin had done a little wandering around the Smoke before they had met, and perhaps she’d seen him somewhere on his jaunts.
Rani was about to explain when Francesca ambled into the kitchen. The Indian girl fell silent again, feeling awkward.
The woman almost seemed to ignore Rani, poured herself some coffee and rubbed her eyes. “God, I’m wiped out. What time is it?”