Paul Kuranita.

The man had been untouchable, a brilliant freelance samurai whose movements were untraceable, until the troll in Jo’burg had left him so badly burned that all the reconstructive surgery and spare parts his millions could buy had not been able to put him back together. For six years, Kuranita had worked his way up the ladder of the Fuchi organization. Deputy Head of Active Security for Switzerland sounded like a joke, unless one knew that the Head was hopelessly senile and no more than a figurehead. The joke was even less amusing because of how powerful the Swiss division was in coordinating all of Fuchi’s European activities.

Serrin had never been a hundred percent sure of Kuranita’s complicity in his parents’ deaths. The evidence was only circumstantial, but then it could never be more than that with someone like Kuranita. Now, however, fortune had brought the assassin to Serrin, and he wasn’t going to pass up his chance.

He began to plan carefully. Immediate magical surveillance would be a mistake, of course, but perhaps some nuyen thrown to the garage attendant for information on Kuranita’s limo would be good for starters.

By the time the mage had made his plans, the world beyond his room had fallen dark. Passing through the lobby and down the emergency stairs to the garage, he did not see the nobleman gawking almost stupidly at him from the reception desk.

Geraint had no time to chase after the elf, as he was immediately stopped in his tracks by a relieved Earl of Smethwick. The earl was delighted to see him again and would really love to introduce Geraint to some distinctly tipsy young woman from OzNet who was digging up bits for a trid feature on the seminar. The pressure of Smethwick’s hand gripping his forearm unerringly conveyed the message, "Get this gopping bimbo off my tail and I’ll owe you a massive favor, friend,” with pressing urgency.