"Serena’s, and be sharp about it," Serrin snapped as the cab jerked into motion. Inside his coat he clutched his credstick for comfort. As long as he was in London he was going to get some decent talismongering out of this deal. Liverpool Street station and tickets for Cambridge could wait.

3

“The Greens need all the votes they can get for the Regeneration Bill in the House of Nobles?" Geraint’s voice was rough with surprise and too many cigarettes smoked into the wee morning hours.

"We’re going to need you, Llanfrechfa." When the Earl of Manchester addressed him by his formal title, it meant the matter was serious. ‘‘It’s the elven faction, I’m afraid. They’re out to cause trouble because they think Wales isn’t getting a big enough slice of government money, the greedy bastards. Damn it, they’ve got less pollution and toxic waste down there than anywhere else in the country. What are they whining about? Probably Glendower’s doing, damn woman.” The Earl of Manchester’s antipathy toward women, in general, and the Countess of Harlech, in particular, was legendary. “We have to vote down their amendments."

“How close is it?"

“We could go down on this one. Winstanley will be sure to take note of who supported us at a difficult time.” If the earl was implying the Prime Minister’s interest, Geraint knew it meant the promise of a favor sometime in the future. Opportunities for stashing favors were Geraint’s specialty. ‘‘I know you’re a Welshman yourself, Geraint, old man, but you can be sure no one will forget your support.”

“Of course," Geraint said. “I’ll be at the House at two o’clock sharp. Perhaps we can meet in the smoking rooms for a brandy after lunch, sir." Geraint tried for just the right amount of willingness, with a terminal grovel in the “sir.” He grinned inwardly.