Imran was late back from Shoreditch, and Rani was fretting over the chicken jalfrezi, splashing ghee all over the kitchen floor and the hem of her sari. Her nerves were still frayed from the attack, not least because she was sure she hadn’t heard the last of it. All day the front room, kept only for honored visitors, had seen a procession of cousins and friends who all suddenly developed an inventive range of pretexts for calling, usually soon after Imran had been using the telecom. She knew he was probably putting the word out. Today at least he’d been out of her hair, out hawking some Italian BTL chips and shady cyberware. Usually he traded in kind, haggling and bartering for goods he could then pass on in turn, balancing every deal with the finesse of a watchmaker. He enjoyed the game, reveled in bargaining with his fellow traders and customers, and salted away the favors any ork needed to get by in the world. It upped your survival chances like nobody’s business when the racists knew you had heat on call.