"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. He 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, um, 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?"
"Eleven-fifteen," Geraint told her. "Looks as if Serrin is trying to wake up, too. Let’s get a coffee relay going and talk this all out."
* * *
Two pots of coffee later, they had all begun to perk up a little. Serrin still felt light-headed and unsteady when he tried to stand, which Geraint warned him was how he would feel most of the day. Francesca was more worried about Geraint’s leg.
"Well, tomorrow I think I may have to ask you to drive me to a friendly contact of mine in Oxford. Get this dealt with." The wound was clean, bandaged, but even after a local shot, his whole leg throbbed with pain and stiffness.
Rani spoke up. "Why were you in my patch last night? You’re strangers, but you must have known it wasn’t safe.
The Harry Hooks or the other gangs, they’d have ripped you apart if they’d been around. You were lucky." Her directness caught the others off guard. They looked at each other for a second or two. How much could they trust her?
"Ah, well, Rani." Geraint began uncertainly. "We were ... we were trying to prevent a murder."
"Why should you want to do that? They happen every day. Was it someone important?" She was very curious.
There was a long silence. "Rani, please don’t be offended, but we aren’t really sure how much we should tell you. We may be dealing with a string of related murders, and we haven’t yet had a chance to talk about last night among ourselves. There may be another murder soon and we’ll have to figure out what we can do. We’re still not sure who we can talk to. . . ." Geraint’s voice tapered off into an attempted apology for not trusting her enough to tell her more, but she was unabashed.
"Can I tell you about me? Trusting me might be easier if you know what I was doing."
"Sure. Fire away," Serrin said. If nothing else, it would give them time to think while she spoke.
Rani began by explaining the need to revenge the deaths in her family, the bungled sucker run in which several had been killed, and why her brother wasn’t helping much. She didn’t give any details, and was rather awkwardly beginning to explain her Undercity exploits.
"This bungled run," Serrin broke in. "When was it?" Something she’d said had his mind fretting.
In her urgency to explain, to prove herself trustworthy, Rani had forgotten all about the elf. She smiled in delight as she played her trump card. "You know already. After all, you were there too."
"What?"
"I saw you. Imran and I were running from troopers and a huge fire thing—"
"Fire elemental, yes." Serrin looked confused.
"Fire thing, it was coming after us. I saw you, and then it disappeared. We managed to get to our car and get away. The others weren’t so lucky."
The girl was sitting forward on the edge of the armchair. Her gaze was fixed directly on the elf and her shoulders were hunched forward, the power of her ork muscles very apparent.
Of course, Geraint realized. Strength; here she is. He addressed himself to the mage.
"Serrin, do you remember that I said someone else was going to be a part of this?"
The elf struggled to remember. So much had happened to him since Geraint had foretold the struggle to come. But then, as if a storm-gray cloud had lifted from him, he perked up, and smiled. Yes, he remembered.
Rani, though, looked confused, not understanding Geraint’s inference.
"Rani, I don’t know how much of what I’m going to tell you now will make sense. We’re still trying to sort it all ourselves. But it seems to me an amazing coincidence that Ser
rin’s magic saved your skin last week and then you rescued us last night. I suppose in some sense that makes us quits."
She smiled sadly. That was what Smeng had said, and she had lost him. She didn’t want to lose the excitement of being with these people, such different people in this different world.
"But I still feel we owe you an explanation," Geraint went on, "as far as we’ve actually got one. You’ve told us enough about yourself. Now it’s our turn."
* * *
As the conversation unfolded, they began to realize that two different strands of events had been affecting their lives.
On the one hand, there were the murders, the living Ripper in the here and now of London, 2054. Geraint thought this affected only the three of them, so he kept his explanations short, deliberately eliminating any details of the brutal, gory scenes he and Francesca had witnessed. When he got to the fourth name, though, Rani’s expression changed. Before, she’d been simply attentive. At the mention of Catherine Eddowes, she grew upset and then angry.
"I knew her, a little. She used to come into Beigel’s Bake in the mornings, always had coffee and two cheese bagels. When I was little my dad used to tell me not to go near her because she was a bad woman. Because of what he said I was afraid of her, but when I got old enough to go down to the markets with my brother sometimes she used to buy me coffee and a treat. She didn’t change after I, um, after I changed, you know? She was kind to me. Plenty of people weren’t." Rani shifted uncomfortably in her chair, reliving some painful memories of late childhood.
"I saw her only a few weeks ago. She’d been knocked about, had a bad black eye and a bruise covering half her forearm. She looked miserable, and for the first time I could see she was getting old. Now some bastard’s cut her up." She held her head in her hands for a few moments, then sat upright and reasserted her presence and strength. "I want to help find out who’s doing this. I live in the East End. I know the patch and the people. I could help you."
"You probably can, Rani," Geraint replied. "I hope so. But in the meantime, we still have to figure out what we’re going to do next."
Then they talked of the other business, less straightforward, difficult to comprehend. In some way, they had all been drawn into set-ups of one kind or another. Serrin couldn’t figure out what had been going on with his employment, Francesca had blundered into something vicious in the Matrix, and Rani had been part of the most obvious set-up job of all. They had chased their tails thinking about this one before, and they still couldn’t work out what, if anything, had been behind each of their misfortunes. But when Rani began talking about the man Pershinkin for the second time, the crucial detail she had omitted first time around gave them something extra.
"So the fat man with the jewel in the tooth and his thin accomplice disappeared into the limo and—"
"What? Say that again." Serrin couldn’t believe what he had just heard her say. He grabbed the table for support and leaned forward toward her.
Rani was not sure what she was supposed to reiterate. "Two of them, the fat one and the thin one, they got—"
"No, no!" he snapped impatiently. "What did you say about the fat guy?"
"Well, um, he was losing his hair. . . . and he had a jewel in his tooth. Sorry, that’s all I was told."
"I don’t suppose you got to hear which one?"
"Which what?"
It was becoming a comedy of errors, Serrin shouting, Rani confused, Geraint and Francesca totally bewildered. Finally, though, they heard her say that the fat man had a jewel fixed in a front tooth.
Serrin sat back with an expression as black as thunder. "Frag me with a baseball bat. That’s fragging Smith!" Geraint looked pained. "Please, Serrin, you’re not in Seattle now, and there are ladies present. Watch your language."
The elf wasn’t bothered about his language. Now he was suspicious as hell. "Smith. Smith and Jones, right. You know, the men who hired me? Smith was a fat guy, balding, chiphead, and he had a small ruby set in his right front tooth. Couldn’t miss the damn thing."
Excited, Rani confirmed him. "Yes! Yes! Smeng, the ork who told me about them. He said these men were users—the fat man shook a lot, he said."
Serrin was nodding. "Didn’t he, though? Well, my friends, this is getting interesting."
"So the same people hired Rani for a fake decoy run and—" Francesca said, trying to get a handle on the situation.
"More than that. Geraint, do you remember, I told you that security was actually looking right at them when they popped up? I bet you a thousand sterling to a brass button that Smith and Jones tipped off Fuchi. Maybe they were Fuchi."
"No, no, wait." Francesca stopped him from getting carried away. "How about this? Smith and Jones, we think, hired Rani and her family for a sucker run. They also hired you, but they didn’t hire you to hit this guy—what’s his name, Kuranita?"
Serrin nodded, his excitement diminished. "Yes, that’s a real problem. They didn’t actually hire us to do that." The connection seemed to be failing. Francesca reestablished it.
"No, but they did change your instructions. They specifically told you to attend the Cambridge seminar in the Crescent Hotel. Maybe they knew you would see Kuranita, or at least hoped you would. Then they hoped you’d try to make a hit on him. Rani and her people were a decoy for you. They hoped you’d get a shot."
Serrin and Geraint looked across at each other.
"I think she’s got something," the Welshman said with a frown, trying not to contemplate what it meant.
"But they would only expect me to do that if they knew my past pretty well. I didn’t exactly broadcast what I found out about him," Serrin replied thoughtfully.
"Still, someone might have noticed your inquiries. A really good corp, for one. Then you’d become an unpaid hitman."
They pondered that for a while, until Geraint hit upon some objections to this explanation. "Two difficulties, although one isn’t insoluble. First, they couldn’t have been certain that Serrin would definitely see Kuranita."
"They’d have had contingencies for that, surely. They’d have fed him the information somehow," Francesca said.
"Yes, I know. Which is why I say this problem isn’t insoluble." Geraint paused for a moment to give what he was about to say an extra emphasis.
"Unfortunately, it doesn’t make sense. We’re suggesting that an unknown corp spends a fair bit to track down a fullish past history on Serrin, then lays a trap based on his maybe seeing Kuranita, and then maybe taking a shot at him, with a hired decoy to make sure the shot gets fired from an unexpected place. Right?"
"That sounds like it," Serrin agreed.
"So, with all this money and time and effort, and too many maybes, why the hell don’t they just spend the same money and get some real assassins in? Let’s face it, we’re hardly expert hitmen, are we?"
That silenced them all for a while. It seemed an impossible confusion. Geraint, though, decided to do something while the others pursued their own thoughts.
"I think there’s one thing I can work on right now. We’ve had murders on November the eighth, fifteenth, and twenty-second. Okay, so the first half of the double event was on the twenty-first, but it still looks to me as if the twenty-ninth is a fair bet for number five—if there’s going to be a number five. And I really do think that there will. So excuse me while I begin to track down Mary Kelly. I’m afraid that we’re going to come up with a fair few Mary Kellys. So I’ll make a start." He walked to the cyberdeck.
Geraint sat absorbed in his frame programming as the others checked for any relevant reports on the trid news. Newstext had an item on mage warfare in the East End, two killed, but nothing on Catherine Eddowes. Serrin and Francesca were puzzled by that.
"They wouldn’t get baggies involved if there was any chance of keeping it quiet," Rani explained. "The pimps there handle any trouble themselves. They’d have barricaded the front doors and turned all the lights out as soon as they heard sirens. Customers wouldn’t like
getting ID’d by the baggies either. They’d have cleared it all up themselves. Probably even sold her corpse to the meatmen."
Serrin didn’t want to know any details about the meatmen. He remembered the trolls and their trays from the night before. "We can hardly go back and interrogate the orks about what they’ve seen," he said. "Not after what I did to them. On the other hand, maybe Rani could ..."
They sat staring at the screen as Geraint hunched over his desk. The first fall of snow was dropping on those parts of London not covered by the ragged remnants of the disastrous city dome, destroyed by a corrosive years ago. On the street it turned swiftly into gray-and brown-slicked filth, but against the penthouse windows the soft flakes hung for a second, almost white, before they melted. Serrin went to turn the central heating up a notch or two. He was shivering again.
* * *
Sunday, November 22, 2054. Noon. London. They’re going to try very hard to find Mary Kelly. They’ll find a whole bunch of them, but there’s only one who matters.
The monster’s head is beginning to fill with that Mary Kelly. He sees her picture, watches the hologram, begins to understand that she is a shield for the woman he hates and fears. Why, these are her clothes! He lifts the linen and cotton in his hands and wads them up in his balled fists. They have her scent on them, cheap floral perfume, and her woman’s smell. He watches the holograms dance; she is a skilled whore herself. The mania begins to burn in his brain, and his hands shred the clothing as the moans and groans fill his head. He is swiftly restrained, but the anger and hatred rage within him, his fear and terror.
The smiling man in the suit watches the vidscan.
Four down, one to go.
23
Plans were beginning to form as dusk fell. They had decided from the outset not to contact the Metropolitan Police; their own role in the events surrounding Catherine Eddowes’ slaying made that impossible. Geraint needed time to analyze data on the fifty-four Mary Kellys he’d discovered in the capital. The programs wouldn’t take longer than seconds to run. It was the programming that was going to take time. Before then, he would have to deal with his troublesome leg, and that meant a trip out of town.
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