The faint reflection from the window glass gave Blade a picture of his face and body. It was a strong face-the face of a warrior rather than a courtier. Blade had been both in his career, in places stranger and more distant than anyone in the room could or would believe even if he chose to tell them.

And the body inside the custom-tailored jacket-that was an athlete's body, six feet one and a little more, carrying two hundred and ten pounds on its large bones. It suggested a former rowing or tennis Blue from Oxford who had kept himself in excellent trim. Blade had been those, among other things.

Now he was almost physically itching with boredom. He looked at his reflection in the window again and noticed a pale face framed in dark hair hovering near his right shoulder. He drained the last of his drink and turned to face the slender woman who had drifted up behind him as he stared out the window.

She must have been at least five feet eight. Her dark brown hair swept up to a point almost on a level with the top of Blade's head, and her wide gray eyes looked almost straight into his. From her grooming and poise, Blade thought at first that she might be a fashion model. But her figure was too full in the hips and bosom, and her legs were too elegantly curved to make her a good object on which to hang current fashions.

She smiled as she sensed his eyes going over her. «You look bored, I think. Yes?» There was a slight trace of a foreign accent in her low voice. Blade tried to place it. Not French; not Italian. German? Vaguely, but not quite. Somewhere farther to the east? Quite possibly. Without any outwardly visible sign, Blade was on the alert.

«Rather,» he drawled. He wanted to sound a little like the stereotyped silly-ass English playboy. A little, but not too much.