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as Europe's power had once been harnessed, to put it in righteous hands that would defend justice. But to do it, they needed a jewel of great magical power, the twin of the one the long-ago European king had used.
    To find that jewel, called Heart of Light, Nassira had gone to London. Yet once there, she had discovered that an Englishman was being sent to Africa in search of that same jewel. When she'd tried to make mind-contact with members of the Hyena Men in London, all her transmissions had been blocked. When she'd tried to physically find the other agents in London, she found they'd left their addresses and employment with no forwarding notice. It was as though the streets of London had swallowed them.
    In the eyes of the white people she questioned, Nassira had read disdain. But Nassira knew better. So she'd resigned her job as a cleaner in Nigel Oldhall's gentleman's club and found employment as a maid aboard the carpetship.
    She elbowed and pushed people aside, yet she fell steadily behind the tall blond man. He had a longer stride, and he presumably knew where he was going. As he disappeared into the crowd, she struggled against people who would not let her pass, not give her the right of way because her skin was darker than theirs. Water People, not fully human.
    She wished she could go back home, to her mother's comfortable house—its smoky interior and the kraal with the hundred cows, each of which she knew by name. Once she'd made a poem for them and sung it in the kraal.
    Impatient, thinking of her home and frustrated by the people around her, Nassira finally managed to push out of the carpetship and found herself in the crowded quay. The Arabs starting toward her backed away as they realized she was not an Englishwoman.
    They smelled funny, just as the Englishmen did. Englishmen smelled of soap and artificial fragrances; these other people smelled of soap and spices. None of it was right. There were too many people, all around, just like in London, all crowded together. Nassira longed for pasture and savanna, for the cloud-wreathed peaks of her rift-valley home. But she kept her gaze on the blond head quickly getting lost amid the vendors in the quay.
    “Miss. Ma'am—” A hand reached out and grabbed Nassira's arm.
    The confusion of names addressed to her made her stop. In front of her stood the wife of Nigel Oldhall.
    Not that the woman looked English. Unlike the pasty-skinned women that Nassira had grown accustomed to seeing in London, this woman had skin of a rich golden brown, like the color of the sun shining on summer-dry grass. But she was English and married to Nigel Oldhall, whom Nassira had followed all the way to Africa.
    “I need . . .” the Englishwoman said, and hesitated. She wore a white lacy dress and looked as at ease in it as Nassira felt in her stiff, dark maid's outfit. She clutched a parasol convulsively in her dainty hand. Her gaze turned toward where the blond man had disappeared. She swallowed, then continued with renewed force. “I must have a carriage for myself and my luggage. To take me to the Luxor Hotel.”
    Her voice was reedy and seemed to tremble on the verge of tears. Her man was nowhere around. Had he told her to go to the hotel alone? Nassira raised her eyebrows. Even she knew that Englishmen didn't treat their women with such carelessness. What could be wrong? And where had he gone?
    The Englishwoman stepped in front of Nassira. “You must call me a cab.” Tears filling her blue eyes, the woman said again, “You must.”
    Eyes downcast, Nassira ducked her head and murmured something in purposely broken English, something about not knowing what to do. But the Englishwoman grabbed her arm again. Her hand felt too cold. “Please,” she said. “Please, you must help me.”
    Nassira nodded. Something in the woman's need—in her fear—demanded Nassira's help. Nassira, too, had been a stranger in a land she could not understand. She had wandered the streets of