Free Heart of Light by Sarah A. Hoyt

quite.
    Because Nigel had lived long enough in the world, and had known Peter at that innocent age when disguise is ineffective and all emotions are painted upon the face like colors on a blank canvas. He knew very well what Peter's reaction to the question about his means of travel meant.
    Peter's conveyance between Britain and Africa was far less distinguished than the hundred-thousand-pounds-apiece price for the rooms aboard Victoria's Invicta . In fact, from the way Peter spoke, Nigel would not be surprised to learn that Peter had worked his way to Africa, manning the magical engines of some cargo ship. Which would explain Peter's financial survival. But it also tainted him with the dreaded hand of commerce—something none of his class would admit.
    How could Peter have fallen so low?
    No matter how poor his family might be, Peter's old, hallowed name, his being descended in a direct line from Charlemagne himself, made him capable of being as good as the best. What governmental department would not want to add Peter's name to its rolls? What regiment would not take pride in having him for an officer? Particularly when someone like Borne-Watkins, of lower birth and with far less intelligence, prospered so greatly.
    It was none of Nigel's business. And yet, as a portent of the world's being turned upside down, it interested Nigel very much indeed.

 

    A FOOL'S ERRAND

    “Who are you?” the young man who opened the door asked Nassira.
    She could easily have asked the same, but she remembered him from their mind message. Perhaps he hadn't seen her image, she thought. Perhaps he'd only heard her.
    She straightened her back and glared at him. “I am Nassira, daughter of Nedera. Of the Masai.”
    He smiled as if he found this funny, and his hand closed the door some more—his foot doubtlessly behind it, to prevent her pushing past him. His voice mocked her as he replied, “And what do you wish of me, Nassira, daughter of Nedera of the Masai?”
    Nassira almost turned and went away. In her heart, she longed to ignore the Hyena Men and their machinations, but she couldn't allow this man to scare her away that easily. He was arrogant and in dire need of a lesson. If they'd been still in Masai land, her father would thrash him for speaking to her so disrespectfully. A wealthy man, with only one daughter and no sons, Nassira's father wanted everyone to treat his daughter as the marvel she was to him.
    The door the rude young man had opened was a nondescript one for this part of Cairo: red inset in a tile-covered facade. Though this part of town—at least judging from the people that Nassira had seen during her walk here, and from the faces that peered from windows and looked out of half-closed doors—was inhabited mostly by people from deeper in the African continent, yet it was—like the rest of Cairo—a Muslim town. That meant that the facades were composed of tiles inscribed with indecipherable arabesques in blue and gold, or red and gold.
    The man who'd opened the door to Nassira looked like his mind image, and yet different. He was as black as everyone else she'd seen around here. Blacker than Nassira, in fact, a black as dark as a starless night over the savanna. He stood very tall, too—taller than all the Englishmen that Nassira had met in England. Tall enough, she judged, to be a Masai. But that he wasn't. His features lacked the clear-cut Masai traits, their prominent cheekbones, the straight, high-bridged nose. In their place was a face more long than broad, and features that belonged to no tribe, no people that Nassira had ever known. He didn't even look that much like a Zulu in person. His eyes were too large, his chin too square.
    She straightened her shoulders and faced him, standing as straight and proud as she knew how. “I owe no explanation to anyone,” she said. “Certainly not to you.” She glared at him. “In your mind message, you called yourself Kitwana. Is that your real name?”
    The man