1

The first gleam of blood-red light arced across the cabin just as the massive tires of the suborbital Ghost shuttle screamed on first contact with Runway 11 of the world’s busiest airport. The mage’s mind was elsewhere, and the rough impact jolted him back into the real world of Heathrow’s dazzling lights and concourses.

The call had come just when Serrin thought he’d almost gotten used to Seattle, even begun to feel slightly at home there, his suitcases slouched against the wall of a cheap hotel for more than the usual week or two. He’d been wary of the offer made by the suit with the impossibly even tone of voice, but the nuyen glowing on his credstick was no lie and money enough to bring him to London as requested.

Perhaps the corporation that wanted to hire him couldn’t find a registered British mage to do the job for them. That was plausible enough, considering the way the Lord Protector’s offices had nearly every British mage tied up good and safe in red tape. Every practitioner of magic had to pay a hefty fee and submit a DNA sample to be registered by the Lord Protector’s office. A foreigner trying to register could wait weeks, or even months, just for the processing of his or her application. Serrin had bypassed the usual difficulties and delays-and possible refusal of his application-because the powerful Renraku Corporation had owed him a few favors. Thanks to them Serrin’s carefully coded DNA sample was properly filed in one of the huge basement complexes of the Temple District. Gently, without admitting it, they had pointed him in the direction of the right people, which was the least they could do to make up for his leg turned to mincemeat while doing some work for them.

“We’d like you to sign this disclaimer of responsibility, however,” the jittery accountant had muttered, all the while avoiding his gaze. ‘‘It’ll, ah, tie up any loose ends. Just protocol." Maybe a leg turned to mincemeat was just protocol after all.