Streets of blood

17

Serrin woke in the darkened room to see Geraint still hunched over his desk, his hands moving in the pool of light from the desk lamp. Beside him a vidscreen was flickering silently, but he was shuffling a pack of heavy, large cards.

The mage stretched out his endless legs and ran the fingers of one hand through his hair. Collecting his gangling form, he pulled up and out of the chair and sidled across the room. “Tarot, huh? Didn’t know you were interested in that.’’

Geraint sighed and pushed the pile of cards to one side. “I was only just learning when you knew me before, My mother used the cards, but I resisted it for a long time. She always told me I would have the Sight, too, but I think I was hoping to prove she didn’t always know what was right for me. I’ve always been stubborn. You know that."

Serrin looked at the paintings on the upturned cards, knowing better than to touch them without Geraint’s permission. “Think I’ve seen them before somewhere. Twentieth-century, aren’t they?"

“You won’t have seen these. I designed them myself. Well, no, that’s not strictly true, you might have seen something very like them. Based on an old occult deck, the Thoth. Rather idiosyncratic. I liked the cards, but a few of the images seemed wrong to me. These aren’t exactly traditional designs."

Serrin could see that from the glorious explosions of color, the sweeping ebb and flow of the complex images.

“So I hunted down a woman who was the great granddaughter of the one who had painted them originally. She’s an artist, too. I scanned the images and let her redesign some using a paintbox. Very elementary. Actually, she didn’t get everything quite right so I rescanned and reconfigured some of them myself. Got what I wanted in the end.”

Yes, my friend, and that’s what usually happens, Serrin mused. But what do you do when you can’t get what you want? "Mind if I ask a personal question?"

“Fire away, old chap.”

“What are you worth these days?”

Geraint smiled. "Don’t mind telling you that. Forbes and Dunn could do the same for a trivial fee. Well, it varies day to day with interest and speculations, natch, and about sixty percent is usually tied up for a week or so, but in total, call it eighteen million, give or take one percent. And I watch that one percent like a hawk, mind you.”

“Eighteen million pounds? Spirits, how the-"

“Eighteen million nuyen, dear boy. About forty-five million in sterling, not that I ever bother with it myself. Strictly nuyen for business.”

“My God, your family must be rich. You know, I had no idea you Welshies were worth that much.”

“Well, actually, they’re not. I made most of it speculating. As for my father, he owns a lot of land but it’s meager as far as rents and properties go. I deal with the estates, such as they are. Since I rarely go back to Wales, I don’t like to squeeze the tenants. I think it’s a pretty rum do when some absentee landlord charges a fortune of people who are struggling over their heads just to survive, then kicks them out when they meet hard times.”

Well, what do you know? the elf thought. He actually cares about those people. Enough not to rob them blind anyway. Good for you, chummer.

“Like I say, I rarely go back there. Bloody disgusting country. Hills that pretend to be mountains, valleys on the more depressing side of desolate. Welsh people are friendly, but by God they’re nosy, too. There’s an old proverb: a Welshman prays on his knees on Sundays, and preys on the rest of humanity the remainder of the week.”

"Well, this one doesn’t seem to be like that," Serrin smirked.

“Too right. Won’t find me in chapel on the sabbath.” They laughed genuinely. Geraint put the pack back into its silk wrap then got up and flexed his aching shoulders. “How about some coffee?”

"I’ll make it." Serrin was about to head for the kitchen when something on the trideo caught his eye. "Hey, what was in that cough medicine anyway?” He’d just seen the time display. “I’ve been asleep nearly four hours.”

Never you mind. It’s an ancient Welsh recipe specially made to stop elves from asking difficult questions.”

Serrin had come back with the coffee by the time Francesca was stirring. By now it had also occurred to him that a cough medicine invented in the l850s might not, after all, have been concocted for elves. He put the tray down, smiled at Geraint’s back, and thought: this isn’t over yet. Goodbyes aren’t in order, surely.

Geraint had found nothing at the drop address. Even the sight of a hefty chunk of high-denomination notes hadn’t unbuttoned the clerks lip. He even insinuated that Getaint might be an agent from the Administrative Bureau come to entrap him into indiscretion.

Well, good for you, Geraint had thought as he left. If I ever need a dead-letter drop, this is where I’ll come.

“So that’s a dead end.” he was saying now. “I don’t see how we can track Messers. Smith and Jones further, unless we hire some street detectives. I know a discreet, good firm, but those two are still only middlemen. Hell, Serrin, they didn't even come to Seattle for you, they used a second middleman there. Even if we find them, I doubt we can do much with the information. Maybe they’re back in South America.”

As stuck as ever, they reluctantly decided to give up the pursuit.

“What arc your plans, Francesca?”

“I think I’m going to spend a few days upgrading my system software. Need some better armor programs and I think the medic must have taken a beating. I’m also going to get me some hot poison.”

Geraint gave a low whistle as he sucked in his breath. “You’ll never get a license for that. Even the corps have to tread carefully with that kind of stuff.”

Poison programs, otherwise known as persona-attacking. It was almost the equivalent of an anti-personnel weapon in the Matrix. The officious British licensing regulators didn’t like that kind of thing at all.

“No problem,” Francesca muttered. “I’ve got a corporate contact who’s sure to have a global license I can hide under. Did some work for them a year back, maybe the best work I’ve ever done. I know I can get what I need. They’ll know I don’t intend to use the program unless I absolutely have to.”

Geraint was surprised at that. If Francesca had that kind of pull, she must be outstanding at her work. “Would it be impolite to ask which corp?”

Unfortunately it would. Not Transys or Fuchi, though. Of course, half the time I’ve got no idea who I’m actually working for. As long as I get paid, that’s enough for me.” Her hard edge, that one unattractive feature, was showing again.

Serrin jumped up from his chair with a yelp, making them all start. Hey, I’ve got to call the Crescent. I should have checked out or back in hours ago. They’ll have thrown my stuff away by now.” He was utterly panicked at the thought.

No, they won’t,” Geraint reassured him. All your things are in the guest bedroom. I had most of it here anyway, so I thought I might as well get the rest sent over. You can stay here awhile. How long’s the visa for?”

“Until the end of the month, but-”

“Well, that’s no problem. Terms and conditions: one, no spellcasting. The building security mage won’t like it. He’s getting on a bit now, doesn’t want any trouble, what with his pension getting closer. Two, you’ll have to pay half the coffee bill, the way you go through the stuff.” Serrin pushed his mug away guiltily. “You can raid the fridge and freezer for anything else, as you wish. Third, don’t stay in the shower for an hour in the morning. Uses up all the hot water, and I get nasty if all I get is cold water. If you can handle all that, stay as long as you like. I won’t force you to stay the month, but I’m sure you can manage the weekend"

“I’d love to stay. If you want, I can conjure a water elemental to do the dishes. Only a very feeble little thing, promise."

“No thank you! Domestic service people do all that kind of thing. All you have to do is dump the dishes down the chute. Rubberized valves and relays make sure they don’t break-miracle of modern technology. In this day and age, we don’t even have to see our servants.”

Francesca playfully pretended to swipe him across the head as they laughed together. She got up to get dressed, and scant minutes later she was back in her overcoat, ready to go.

“Want me to drive you over?" Geraint asked, still a little concerned.

“No, I’m fine. Really. I’ll pick up a cab outside. See you!” She ambled down the hall, and Geraint got up to walk her to the door.

“Give us a call, Hey, why don’t you come for dinner Saturday night? Tell you what, I’ll get Fortnum’s to do the catering and we’ll have a bottle of Petrus. Real Welsh beef, too. Chateaubriand or Wellington?”

Ten thousand nuyen a bottle for the wine alone. He certainly knows how to enjoy his money, Francesca thought a little guiltily.

“Sure. That’s a wonderful idea. I’ll bring you some champagne for aperitif. Dom Ruisse, huh? That funny bottle with the long tapered neck. Yeah, let’s celebrate. Seven for seven-thirty?"

“Perfect. Keep well, you.” He closed the door behind her, rubbed his chin lazily, and went to park himself in his favorite armchair.

Serrin gave Geraint a look worthy of one of the Lord Protector’s puritanical high officials. “You’re a self-indulgent pair!”

“Special occasion, old chap. We haven’t been together in a long, long time. I think it’s worth a celebration. I saw it. you know; the Tarot told me. Must have been right after you landed at Heathrow.” But wait. He was forgetting something, trying to figure out what he’d missed. Of course.

“There was someone else, though. A woman. A strong woman. She was part of it, with you and Francesca. No sign of her yet. But there will be.” He also remembered the Nine of Swords. Bloodied blades.

That must have been Annie, he reflected, but tried not to remember that. To clear his head, Geraint thought he’d go make some money. He’d been neglecting that for too long.

Well, old friend, I’m going to be unmovable in front of the cricket in a few hours, and until then I’m going to be sticking my snout into the trough of speculative financing. Got to check out the West Coast markets. They’ll be humming by now. So you’ll have to excuse me for tonight.

“There’re some good shows in town. Check the text service on the Beth’s C-net, that’ll tell you everything you want to know. If you’re homesick, OzNet on the trid has reruns of ancient American sitcoms and soaps. Or there might be something on the satellite channels. Avoid anything Italian, though; it’s either the worst game shows in the world or atrociously dubbed porn. Tomorrow, we can do some touristy things. Y’know: Tower of London, the Palaces, all that glop. Sound good to you?”

Geraini didn’t get the reply he expected. Instead, he heard the query that every British man dreads in the deepest recesses of his soul whenever it comes from an American.

“Um, Geraint, could you explain to me the rules of cricket?"