We explored the streets of the various trades and stopped for a drink at a sidewalk cafe, watching pedestrians and horsemen pass. I had just turned toward her to relate an anecdote concerning one of the riders when I felt the beginning of a Trump contact. I waited for several seconds as the feeling grew stronger, but no identity took shape beyond the reaching. I felt Coral’s hand upon my arm.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

I reached out with my mind, attempting to assist in the contact, but the other seemed to retreat as I did so. It was not the same as that lurking scrutiny when Mask had regarded me at Flora’s place in San Francisco, though. Could it just be someone I knew trying to reach me and having trouble focusing? Injured, perhaps? Or —

“Luke?” I said. “Is that you?”

But there was no response and the feeling began to fade. Finally, it was gone.

“Are you all right?” Coral asked.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” I said. “I guess. Someone tried to reach me and then decided otherwise.”

“Reach? Oh, you mean those Trumps you use?”

“Yes.”

“But you said ‘Luke’…” she mused. “None of your family is named — ”

“You might know him as Rinaldo, Prince of Kashfa,” I said.

She chuckled.

“Rinny? Sure I know him. He didn’t like us to call him Rinny, though…”

“You really do know him? Personally, I mean?”

“Yes,” she replied, “though it’s been a long time. Kashfa’s pretty close to Begma. Sometimes we were on good terms, sometimes not so good. You know how it is. Politics. When I was little there were long spells when we were pretty friendly. There were lots of state visits, both ways. We kids would often get dumped together.”

“What was he like in those days?”

“Oh, a big, gawky, red-haired boy. Liked to show off a lot — how strong he was, how fast he was. I remember how mad he got at me once because I beat him in a footrace.”