I will tell Ivaanov this when we have a moment of privacy: "Ivaanov, I have to inform you that until we know that High Arbitor Krade has not been compromise mentally or spitually, may The Emperor protect him, under my authrity as acolyte of My Master, you will work under my command."
You play along with the smile-girl, Srina, only to a point, letting her down gently by confiding that despite her charms, you love another. So genuine and decent is your treatment of her, she takes this revelation with no hard feelings, her hand pinching your cheek playfully. She tells you that her friend is named Mollene and works out of room #337 at the Gran Pallazzar's lodging stack. By way of your rapport with Srina and the PI, Dorsaunt, you move the conversation toward the two of them, and before long Iacton swaps seats with the shabbily dressed detective so they can better get to know each other.
Shaking your head, you grin in spite of yourself, glad to see you haven't lost your touch.
Yes I am still keeping with my original intent. With hopes of reuniting with Aebena. Granted Srina is probably savy enough to realize I probably just saved her life. Pimps always keep an eye on there property. I have hopes that she will become another friend/contact.
I will leave her with a sigh. It's never easy to turn down the advances of a beautiful woman who swoons at your every word. Exspecially when you know its geniune.
Granted if my attempts of rebuilding my relationship with Aebena fails miserably. I might be back later to pick up where I left off with Srina.
As we are leaving I look for Kalaiel. If I find her, I will ask her to follow us.
As we are leaving I look for Kalaiel. If I find her, I will ask her to follow us.
As the rickshaw enters a clear lane in the busy thoroughfare, picking up speed, Uriah glances out from under the canopy toward the roofline of the Gear Box. He makes a mental reminder to speak to Ivaanov regarding the expectations of his loyalties.
His eyes passing over the pennants and blazons, he sees no sign of the cherubim. She is gone.
As Iacton changes seats, Savalos notices his hand move a small matchbook stamped with a red gear deliberately and surreptitiously across the bar.
I will look to see where Iacton is leading me with the matchbox as inobviously as possible. While keeping up any converations I currently have going.
I will look to see where Iacton is leading me with the matchbox as inobviously as possible. While keeping up any converations I currently have going.
As unobtrusively as possible, Savalos continues his dialogue with Srina while glancing down the bar in the direction that Iacton indicated. The man is relatively nondescript in his stained blue coverall, and although the logo's shape is familiar to you, you cannot recall which Geltdown manufactory it is associated with, or read it at this distance.
More to the point, you recognize him.
The pale, unhealthy skin dotted with a weeks worth of stubble, and the drawn, rat-like features are unmistakable to you. Even after two years away little has changed about Sigmunt Vedangio, one of the Duct Wolves most successful hit men.
The rickshaw eventually merges from the pedestrian-packed boulevard, descending a vehicular traffic ramp on to the inner ring-road of the Grey Way. As the velocipede picks up speed it leaves behind the elaborate festivities of the street bazaars behind, disappearing into the crowded but faster moving vehicle lanes that service the loading docks and warehouses behind the towering casino-hotels that now rise to your left-hand side.
Although the ride could never be called smooth, Stroinigli navigates the chaotic traffic of bulk hauling eight-wheelers and luxury groundcars with the practiced ease that only an expert hack can manage. Before long you exit the three lane elevated roadway on your right-hand side, descending a ramp beneath a brightly lit, green and gold luminen-striped sign proclaiming that you have entered the Vaxus District Administratum Hub. The ramp's decline steepens until finally leveling out in a winding sub-level traffic tunnel ringed with all manner of conduit and piping. More signs, dimly illuminated and hard to read by the amber colored emergency lighting blurring by on either side of tunnel, flash by in your peripheral vision with their attendant exits. The rickshaw driver changes lanes abruptly to head-off a slow moving cargo hauler, and slows down to negotiate a corkscrewing exit ramp.
When you leave the tunnel, you merge into a traffic filled highway circumscribing a much smaller, almost self-contained segment of level -119. The dominant feature is the awe-inspiring central shaft of Orcut VII hive, a pentagonal cluster of brightly illumined cylindrical buildings that ascend hundreds of meters before vanishing into the darkness of the district's curving, hemispherical ceiling. Stroinigli turns on to a feeder roadway, as straight and perfect as a spoke on a rockcrete wheel, accelerating toward the center of the hub and the countless lifts enclosed in the very spine that supports the hive.
The rickshaw finally coasts to a halt in a line of traffic queuing at a fortified checkpoint that comprises the outer perimeter of the Administratum district. The hive-spine's cluster of gold-lit towers almost fill the artificial horizon beyond the gates, while the gray, brooding, multilevel fortress-compound that houses Adeptus Arbites Precinct #77 is set off by itself just past the walls to your right.
Your vehicle pulls up to the checkpoint and a squad of green and gold, flak-armored arbitrators approach. A helmeted sergeant raises his hand, the other one on the butt of his handcannon and the twist stops the carriage obediently.
"Halt. Produce your identifiers."
On microbead:
"Rico, handle this, only revealing ourselves if necessary."
The problem is that I expect our cover as Malfians was blown with the shuttle landing and our disappearance.
With a stretch of my back at the bar. I scoop up the box of matchs, and politely excuse myself for a bit from the bar. Needing to use the mens room. "Please be keeping my seat warm. I'll be back shortly." With a warm smile to Srina I leave. Allowing her to scoot closer to the P.I, and freeing up Iacton to shadow my movements.
Once I turn my back from the lot of them. I go into predator mode. Alot of fatal accidents have happened in the mens room. Slipping on a wet floor and cracking ones head open on a sink, or something worse. Usually by the assistance of another.
Since Sigmut spotted me. It means others have as well. Some friendly, and some not so friendly. Its time to see what happens. Better here than a firefight out in the street. Or a quick driveby. I need to see who is tailing me that I didn't see. And I need to make contact with family.
Administratum Hub
The arbitrator sergeant approaches Stroinigli cautiously, his eyes sweeping back and forth in threat assessment over the rickety rickshaw while one of his subordinates passes by one the opposite side with a hand-held auspex.
When he reaches the driver, it is difficult for him to mask his distaste when he realizes Stroinigli is a twist. His manner becomes more assertive and abrasive as if a switch is flipped.
"Identification. Now."
The Gear Box
Savalos rises and walks the length of extensive bar, proceeding to one of the restrooms on the far side of the Gear Box from his seat so that he can keep more of the room in front of him for a longer period, his goal to draw out anyone else who might be subjecting he and Iacton to scrutiny.
When he passes Vedangio, the man pay him little mind, merely downing another shot. When the former ganger reaches the end of the bar, however, Iacton watches the little man rise from his seat, turn, and follow Savalos through the crowd at a casual pace.
Administratum Hub
The arbitrator sergeant approaches Stroinigli cautiously, his eyes sweeping back and forth in threat assessment over the rickety rickshaw while one of his subordinates passes by one the opposite side with a hand-held auspex.
When he reaches the driver, it is difficult for him to mask his distaste when he realizes Stroinigli is a twist. His manner becomes more assertive and abrasive as if a switch is flipped.
"Identification. Now."
"We hear and we shall comply."
Johnnie moves to produce his ident.
"But are you not Sergeant Luthos, yes?"
"We hear and we shall comply."
Johnnie moves to produce his ident.
"But are you not Sergeant Luthos, yes?"
Johnnie, in order to alleviate the mounting pressure on Stroinigli, calls out to the arbitrator. At first, the officer seems perturbed at being interrupted. When he realizes that the filthy rickshaw appears to carry a group of reasonable well-dressed citizens, including one who likely is an arbitrator himself, he curtails the aggressive posture in the way that policing agencies have been doing since time immemorial.
Especially in the face of one of their own.
The sergeant appears to recognize Rico almost immediately, possibly due to the esteemed position he holds in Precinct #77's history as the man who ended the Vaxus Ductside Killer's reign of terror.
"Investigator Juan Rico! Luthos it is sir, what brings you to the seventy-seven hub again chastener, I thought you were retired?"
By his tone and inflection, Rico can tell that Sgt. Luthos is presuming he has returned to offer insight into the investigation into the recent spate of killings.
I watch carefully, as Rico handles the problem as I requested.
Johnnie, in order to alleviate the mounting pressure on Stroinigli, calls out to the arbitrator. At first, the officer seems perturbed at being interrupted. When he realizes that the filthy rickshaw appears to carry a group of reasonable well-dressed citizens, including one who likely is an arbitrator himself, he curtails the aggressive posture in the way that policing agencies have been doing since time immemorial.Especially in the face of one of their own.
The sergeant appears to recognize Rico almost immediately, possibly due to the esteemed position he holds in Precinct #77's history as the man who ended the Vaxus Ductside Killer's reign of terror.
"Investigator Juan Rico! Luthos it is sir, what brings you to the seventy-seven hub again chastener, I thought you were retired?"
By his tone and inflection, Rico can tell that Sgt. Luthos is presuming he has returned to offer insight into the investigation into the recent spate of killings.
"I am flattered that you still remember me, hahaha."
"But to answer your question: I fear that there are some things that will simply not remain forgotten, if you take my meaning? And those in high places think that we may be able to help."
Johnnie nods in the direction of his companions.
Johnnie then whispers in Luthos' ear, "As it is, you do understand that we cannot advertise our presence lest we touch off a panic? Remember Vaxus?"
"I am flattered that you still remember me, hahaha."
"But to answer your question: I fear that there are some things that will simply not remain forgotten, if you take my meaning? And those in high places think that we may be able to help."
Johnnie nods in the direction of his companions.
Johnnie then whispers in Luthos' ear, "As it is, you do understand that we cannot advertise our presence lest we touch off a panic? Remember Vaxus?"
Sgt. Luthos looks back at his men who are awaiting instruction, nodding to Johnnie's whispered words conspirationally as he leans into the rickshaw window. He casually peruses the ident cards as they are produced.
"Hence, the low-profile conveyance, eh?"
Iacton silently watches as the man watching them follows Sanvolos, then slowly stands up and simply melts into the teeming masses.
My eyes constantly roam the mass's as I make my way through the crowd.
"Sergeant, I would really appreciate it if you can bring me up to speed on the situation. Your insight may prove invaluable."
My eyes constantly roam the mass's as I make my way through the crowd.
Glancing into the mirrored lenses of a rowdy manufactory worker passing the other way, you note that Sigmunt Vendangio has left his place at the bar and is following you at a discrete distance, his face betraying no emotion. Disturbingly, for so small a man, the crowd seems to part before him, as if subconsciously aware of his reputation.
Iacton silently watches as the man watching them follows Sanvolos, then slowly stands up and simply melts into the teeming masses.
You follow Vendangio, forcing yourself to wait a full minute before rising from your place at the bar, while keeping a respectable distance behind him. The man carries himself like a weary prol, is short in stature, and seems harmless, but there is something indefinable about him that your finely honed instincts sense. Something dangerous.
You do not think he notices you.
You do notice the pair of heavies that have detached themselves from the bar to follow you, each appears to be a slab-muscled brute with scarcely any sense of how to stalk someone. They naively think that because they are behind you, you cannot sense them jostling their way through the crowd to keep up.
One wears a synth-leather vest adorned with an overcoat of sparkling golden gelt stitched into the seam-lines.
While making my way toward the restroom. I will try to steal a glance via reflection in the mirror, or some other unnoticed angle to see if the security man who has been keeping his eye on me follows or alerts others to do so.
I give no indication that I am aware that Sigmut is following me. Though I am sure he assumes so since I telegraphed my initial move.
Am I also aware of the bookends following Iacton, or are they to far back for me to notice?
"Sergeant, I would really appreciate it if you can bring me up to speed on the situation. Your insight may prove invaluable."
Sgt. Luthos wrinkles his nose from the accumulating fumes produced by the rickshaw's exhaust. He leans his head further into the carriage, crossing his arms on the top of the door to escape the smell. He tilts his head away from the others to speak confidentially with Rico, lowering his voice in hopes only the retired arbitrator investigator can hear, but the engine isn't loud enough to drown out what he says despite his precautions.
"I'll be honest, it's getting bad, chastener. I may not be much help though. Better you speak to Intelligencer Leprade, he's been the primary investigator on the case since it became clear the killings were from a serial offender. I know you didn't always see eye to eye with him in the past, but I'm glad he called you in. Shows the man has some sense left."
Luthos lowers his voice still further.
"I've been on security detail since a year after you stepped down, so all I really can give you is what my rank and file still out on street duty tell me. The friggin brass keeps saying to us that this bloke is just some stimm-addled copycat killer and he'll slip up sooner or later, but it just doesn't make sense to me. He ain't no amateur, that's for sure. The women just vanish until they're found. Or parts of them at least. Many of them just disappearing from their casino suites, or plucked from suspensor litters on busy streets. One highborn lady was even sitting by her beau in a private booth in the Vermillion Ring, watching a championship pitfight between the Orcut Heartvesters and the Fulcus Dreadnoughts, and never saw her taken. By the time he was done cheering for the home team's title win, she was gone. Gone right from under his nose. Even Leprade has wised up on that count, he makes a show of agreeing with the higher-ups, but I think he is leaning toward this guy being another serial headcase, maybe even the 'Viscerator's understudy or some such. Leprade may be a prick, but he ain't stupid. One or two murders like the Eviscerator woulda been one thing, but near as Intelligencer Leprade can determine there fifteen or more murders 'tributable to this nut. Fifteen, Rico."
"I feel like I should be out there, pounding the rockcrete and taking statements or shaking down an informant or two for leads, but they want me here. They want veteran guys minding the wall so to speak. The Administratum drones are petrified of the damn Yellobacks since they came to power. They've been bold, bolder than the Wolves ever were. They don't respect the boundaries, or the rules of the game either. It's crazy, but our rank and file are even outgunned by them sometimes. It seems like someone with clout is watching their backs, too. More than one big raid has gone afoul of someone tipping them off. Some of the more paranoid guys say it could even be in-house, but I'm not ready to believe that yet. Damn captain has me and my men following up on an in-house theft of a friggin' forensic crew's gear for Throne's sake! It's enough to make me want to turn in my papers and retire. I'm glad you're back though, we need you."
While making my way toward the restroom. I will try to steal a glance via reflection in the mirror, or some other unnoticed angle to see if the security man who has been keeping his eye on me follows or alerts others to do so.
I give no indication that I am aware that Sigmut is following me. Though I am sure he assumes so since I telegraphed my initial move.
Am I also aware of the bookends following Iacton, or are they to far back for me to notice?
In the reflection of a gear-shaped, polished silver tray carried upright back to the bar by one of the waitstaff, you can see that the fellow you thought was Gear Box security by the podium is gone.
Your furs are beginning to feel like a Throne-damned wideband broadcast signal beaming to all the bar patrons in the know around you. Many of those watching give incredulous or even dumbfounded looks at your colors, as if they just saw an extinct animal cross their path. The bolder of them laugh, or even give withering stares that leave no doubt as to their ultimate loyalties. They wouldn't dare act here, but their looks don't lie. They show no worry, only irritation. To their eyes, you are already a dead man.
Even without my furs. The ink on my skin would leave no doubt; even to the slowest minded of to whom my affilation is. Dead man or not, I am proud of the family I was born to. I may bleed out tonight in a forgotten ally. But I will not crawl out of this bar with my tail between my legs. I will keep special mind to remember those giving me hard stares. I can tell they forget an important rule of the underhive. You never corner a wolf.
Iacton pays the men following him no mind. They will not catch him, for they do not know that nudge can be as effective as a push and neither are as useful as simple avoidance. They will not harm him, for he is as untouchable as the void. They will not stop him, for he is enacting the Emperor's will.
Thus, Iacton continues to follow the man following Savalos.
The woman carrying the mirror-like tray lowers it from near her face and stops dead in her tracks in front of Savalos.
She is as lovely as you remembered. Her smooth brown skin, so devoid of any imperfection. A slender waif-like build that has the delicate, finely boned nature of one of the Emperor's angels. Luxuriantly dark hair that flows to either side of her oval-shaped face like a parted cataract framing perfection, the spill of it down her back almost to her knees. Almond-shaped eyes the color of smoky jade, endlessly expressive, yet soft. Oh, and her lips, the wide, voluptuously full lips that are presently framed in a tiny "O" of stunned surprise.
Aebena stares at you in shock.
She drops the tray and although your heart races in your chest, by instinct more than anything else, you catch it as it falls, eyes never leaving hers.
You have waited so long for this, but the only thought going through your head is how dispassionately cruel the universe can be sometimes.
Iacton watches Savalos stop dead in his tracks in front of one of the waitstaff and the man following him does likewise.
"I understand that sentiment, Sergeant. I really do. And I appreciate your candor. Rest assured that we will do all we can to make this stop."
"The Emperor protects."
"My team and I will proceed on ahead with your leave, sergeant."
Although the others stopped, Iacton continues on. After all, the men following him did not seem like they were there to simply watch him. Thus, he circles around the two of them, trying to both keep them in sight and evade his pursuers.
My eyes soften at the sight of her. How long I have wanted to see her face, my heart pounds a thousand times faster than from the unseen threat that surrounds me.
In a whisper to her. "Get clear of me quick til later Aebe. Hunted." I hand her back her tray like any customer would. I betray nothing in my stride. I then proceed to the back toward the restrooms. Where blood is going to spill.
It kills me that those are the first words I have to say to her. Not that I love. I've missed you. How these last three years have been hell without you.
She was born to a Duct Wolf. She knows what Hunted means. I just pray to the Throne she still loves me, and knows what to do.
"I understand that sentiment, Sergeant. I really do. And I appreciate your candor. Rest assured that we will do all we can to make this stop."
"The Emperor protects."
"My team and I will proceed on ahead with your leave, sergeant."
Sergeant Luthos smiles fraternally at Investigator Rico, a genuine smile. One of his subordinates hands back the ident cards after he finishes running them through a portable auspex.
"Well, chastener, these idents all check out, I expected nothing less. you are free to proceed."
Luthos then leans in again, out of earshot of his men his tone is softer and more informal.
"It was good to see you, Johnnie. A lot can change in two years, I just want you to know that a lot of the rank and file still appreciate what you an Quinny did back then...whatever else may happen, you have friends here, don't forget it."
The Gear Box
Aebena and Savalos' reunion is over in less than minute, but for Iacton, circling the couple and Vendangio is like being a surveillance satellite in a decaying orbit around a dying star.
What is the acolyte playing at?
He risks a glance at the two Yellobouros heavies and notices they have blatantly halted their pursuit to watch, a further sign that they are essentially overconfident amateurs.
So. the thugs following Iacton have stopped to watch the events surrounding Savalos unfold. He now sees no reason to not do the same.
"Get clear of me quick til later Aebe. Hunted."
The Gear Box
Aebena's mouth and jaw begin to move for a moment, but no words escape her lips. Hearing your whispered entreaty, she flinches as if struck, but recomposes herself quickly, looking deep into your eyes, her unbroken stare speaking volumes: Anger. Pain. Relief. Joy. It is over in but a moment and she then retrieves the tray from your hands, moving off toward the bar again, without betraying that you know one another at all.
You sigh deeply and continue toward the restroom.
The scarred wooden door is covered in an elaborate embossed mosaic comprised of the establishment's ubiquitous iron gears depicting the arrow-shaped astrological sign for "male".
When you push open the door, your nostrils fill with the familiar, pungent scents of lavatories across the universe; urine, stale beer, and cloying, medicinal-smelling antiseptic soaps. A line of ten wooden stalls with doors in various states of disrepair fill the wall to your left, while a trio of wall-mounted sinks are on your immediate right. A long, partially smudged stainless steel mirror is riveted into the tile wall above them. A long, rust-stained cast iron urinal trough runs the full length of the remainder of the space on the right-hand wall, just past the sinks. The faded ghosts of hundreds of years of graffiti are omnipresent.
The restroom is surprisingly almost devoid of occupants. A heavy-set manufactory laborer with long stringy black hair zips up his jumpsuit in front of the trough and begins making his way to the door as you enter. A pair of faded, hobnailed jackboots can be seen under the lower edge of the second stall in the series.
Administratum Hub
Stroinigli cannot mask his relief upon motoring away from the cadre of armed arbitrators. He shouts back over the sputtering burps of the exhaust through a small mesh window in the carriage wall behind his seat on the velocipede as you zip into the heart of the Administratum Hub.
"Stranjur-frens sure 'ave frends in high places, den!"
He considers something, his brow furrowing and throat tendrils writhing, paying no attention to the road as he addresses Johnnie.
"Mayhappenin' ye can help ol' Stroinigli with som'dem parking vo'lations, den, eh?"
He winks conspirationally.
Ishmael seethes with every word from the twist.
"I pray that the rest of you know the restraint I show in suffering this fool of an abomination to live. He should thank the filth he crawled up from my adherence to the mission takes precedence over the desire to watch him burn. My only solace is that this ride is almost ended."
I breathe a sigh of relief watching as Aebena heeds my warning, and walks away. Now I just have to worry about staying alive for the next few minutes. Then I can worry about the firestorm that will come my way that is Aebena's heart.
As I enter the bathroom. I quickly scan it. Seeing one guy is finished, and another is camped out in the second stall. I make my way to the sink. I pretend that I am going to go wash my hands and turn the water on. I look for anything loose I can use as a makeshift weapon. Once the laborer leaves the room. I will grab the makeshift weapon if one is available. I will leave the water running in the sink. I will enter one of the empty stalls that is not next to the one that is taken. I will lock the door, and stand on the seat so my feet will not show from underneath. I will be in a posture to kick the door out if someone stands in front of it. Hopefully knocking them on there can, and gaining the initiative. I am ready for a dirty, and very close quaters fight.
If its an ally they will set themselves up likewise. I just feel sorry for the guy in the second stall.
Iacton silently watches the man enter the restroom after Savalos. He then finds a place to stand near the door and waits for either the man with Savolos or the men following him to act.
As the laborer leaves the restroom, Savalos makes his way to the sink and runs the tap. Looking at his exhausted reflection in the mirror it is hard for him to imagine that not even twenty hours ago he was still on the Void Needle waiting for a punchline that never came. He can still see the boots in the second stall over his shoulder.
Leaving the water running, you scan the contents of the room, but nothing seems to lend itself to an improvised weapon. The rules of the Gear Box are strict. No weapons. No violence.
Satisfied that you have no other alternative, you examine the stalls one by one, selecting the fifth in the row for having the stoutest looking door. Entering, you quietly lift your feet and stand upon the stainless steel commode inside. You slowly close the door, latching it when you are done.
After a moment, you hear the door open again, and soft, self-assured footsteps stride in. They pause for a moment near the mirror, and whoever it is turns off the water. They footfalls approach the second stall, pause, and continue down the line. Finally stopping at yours. The feet turn and face the door.
A gravely voice with a chronic lho-smoker's rasp quiety speaks poetry through the door in a pedestrian, emotionless voice more suited to an Administratum accountant.
A shadow up on the rock,
the three moons hang behind,
My wolf song that is sung,
is a search for my own kind...
The voice stops and the figure waits for a response.
Iacton watches the one Savalos called Vendangio enter the restroom. The two Yellobouros thugs seems to be hanging back about five meters into the crowd, watching to see what you will do.
A Wolf Song pierces the shadow.
Searching for its own kind.
One song answered by another.
A pack brother it did find.
There is a short pause after your refrain.
Sigmunt Vendangio then deadpans,
"So. That is settled. Now, are we going to talk face to face, or did you have to s%~%?"
I laugh and open the door stepping out Offering my hand to Sigmunt. "I know I am being shadowed. Otherwise your shadow would be in here already."
Administratum Hub
The wide, spoke-like feeder road narrows considerably the closer the velocipede gets to the monolithic towers of the hive's central spine-shaft. The pentagonal cluster of gold-lit, cylindrically-shaped towers cannot rightly be called buildings, as they plunge through the countless levels of the hive below and thrust up to the very spires, not having roofs to speak of until they brush against Oremor's sky. Technically buildings or no, they are occupied by countless divisions of the Adeptus Administratum and the infrastructure and support systems necessary for operating the hundreds of variously sized lifts accessing the hive's many levels.
As you draw near the closest of the pillar-like towers, it fills the entire view in front of the velocipede, a curving wall of golden-hued reinforced durraloy kilometers high. A vast pentagonally-shaped paved courtyard surrounds the base of the structure, turning into dozens of alternating ramps and stairwells where is skirts the perimeter of the tower.
Stroinigli speeds across the deserted courtyard toward the wide central stair leading to the lift hub. Halfway across the courtyard, the tolling sound of a colossal, sonically augmented bell rings twelve times, marking the transition from night cycle to day cycle.
Like a flock of birds released from a cage, hundreds of gray robed Administratum clerks exit from the many doorways at the base of the tower, flooding the courtyard in their haste to return home. Behind you, like the counterweight in some clockwork machine, another wave of clerks enters the courtyard from behind the rickshaw, the oncoming shift surging in to replace their brethren inside.
With so many pedestrians all around, hundreds in all, Stroinigli has no choice but to stop the velocipede halfway across the courtyard, the rickshaw becoming an odd island buffeted in a crowded sea of humanity.
I disembark and say:
"Ivaanov, will you please lead the way."