they might be. For a café dedicated to the uncovering and passing on of important information, there was a lot about the place that remained deliberately obscure. Hell, I’m a Drood, and I don’t know. There’s a lot of businesses like that in old Soho.
It didn’t matter. All Willy and I needed to know was that an agreement had been made on my behalf so that Shaman Bond was never challenged. I frowned, briefly and inwardly so as not to upset Willy, as I remembered what Uncle Jack had said: It’s all about Pacts and Agreements . . . While I was thinking about that, Willy produced a highly up-to-date handheld scanner and ran it over my body, checking for listening bugs and other inquisitive things that might have been planted upon my person without my knowledge.
Willy was always pleased enough to see me; in the past, I had dropped the occasional hint that Shaman Bond was a local source for a number of well-regarded investigative journalists, all of them dedicated to sticking it to the Man; and Willy loved that. He did a quick, professional job with the scanner, and I let him do it because it gave him a false sense of security. I knew I didn’t have any bugs on me—my armour would have detected them immediately. And I knew Willy’s scanner wasn’t powerful enough to detect my torc, or any of the toys and surprises I kept about me; otherwise I wouldn’t have let him scan me. Willy finished the scan with a flourish, put the thing away, clasped his bony hands together over his sunken chest, and gave me another of his weakly assertive smiles.
“All part of the service, Mister Bond. And always good to see you, of course. Have we been smiting the ungodly again?”
“I make them pay,” I said solemnly. “From those who have shall be taken, and serve the greedy buggers right.”
“Will you be wanting your regular private room, Mister Bond?”
“That’s what I’m here for, Willy.” I paused, and considered him thoughtfully. “Has anyone been . . . asking around, about Shaman Bond?”
“Not that I’ve heard of,” said Willy, blinking at me owlishly through his bifocals. “And I’m sure I would have heard something if there’d been anything worth the hearing. I mean, that’s what I’m here for.”
He led me between the packed tables, each in its own little pool of light, with people hunched over their computers like priests at prayer, only not quite. No one looked up at us, even for a moment. Willy unlocked a door at the rear of the café and led me into the private room with its single table, chair, and computer. The hanging bare bulb turned itself on as we entered—a bitter yellow light that somehow banished every shadow in a moment. I nodded my thanks to Willy, and he immediately backed out, nodding bashfully as he closed the door firmly behind him. I sat down before the computer. I didn’t bother with the keyboard. I was probably the only person in the café who knew that this particular machine was just a shell, containing nothing but a preprogrammed scrying ball, provided by my family. (Reverse-engineered alien tech, rather than a mystical artefact, for whatever difference that makes.)
I spoke aloud, giving my real name, and identified myself officially by armouring up one hand and placing the golden palm flat against the monitor screen. The machine immediately came to life, chattering quietly to itself in half a dozen languages at once, while it made up its mind who it was today. I armoured down again. I didn’t think anyone would get past Willy to take a quick peek in through the door, but it’s always best not to take chances you don’t have to. The monitor screen turned itself on, and I spoke up quickly before it could start reeling off all its various options and services. AIs do so love to show off. Like actors working as waiters who insist on declaiming all the day’s specials.
“I don’t need any of the usual contact protocols for my family,” I said. “Or any of the diagnostic or investigative tools. Just give me a standard interface, with information and communication skills.”
There was a pause, and a certain sense of sulkiness from the machine, that it wasn’t going to be allowed to demonstrate all of its many wondrous skills; then a metal face appeared on the screen before me. All harsh, angled lines and old-fashioned character. Like the