The Pyramids of London

by Andrea K Höst

  That was not a response she had considered wise to suggest to Eleri, and she hoped she'd chosen the correct attitude: to not quite dismiss the possibility that the girl might find some future with Princess Celestine, and to do what little she could to support plans for courtship. It seemed unhappy timing, though, for such a goal-oriented creature as Eleri to face another challenge that could not be reliably solved by a precisely-drawn schematic and a stint in the workshop.

  Leaving the bus for the short walk back to Forest House, Rian set aside travails of the heart and tried to decide her next step. If the thieves suspected she had the last piece of artificial fulgite, could she use that to bait them? Or should she attempt again to communicate with the 'haunt' that seemed to drive the converted mannequin's movements? She'd chosen, at least, not to mention its existence to Lord Fennington, even though it appeared he was the true owner of both fulgite and finely-crafted commission.

  "Llllland of Whores, Land of Euuu-nuchs!"

  Two women and a man, arms linked, were making unsteady progress down the street toward her, bellowing Prytennia's unofficial national song. It must be later than she'd realised. Well-versed in the vagaries of drunks, Rian started to move further to the side of the street, but then stopped and stood still, concentrating.

  "Lleeeeggss are wide, brrrreasts are bare!

  "They'll wring you dry and hang you oooout to air!"

  The three passed her by, weaving faintly and not glancing once in her direction. Which proved nothing at all, of course, especially since to them this would be a very dark and unlit section of street.

  Shaking her head, Rian wondered if Makepeace would ever stop resenting her long enough to give her some idea what to expect. He was not someone who would respond well to polite requests.

  A cool breeze whisking around her legs, Rian turned back toward Forest House, and then froze. Directly in front of her, running silently in place, was a long-eared, long-legged, and insubstantial black hare.

  One of the Night Breezes of the Sulevia Sceadu.

  Twenty

  No-one could see the wind, but the Night Breezes were more than currents of air. The hare's ears lengthened as it raced relentlessly in place, streaming dozens of feet behind it before abruptly snapping back. Rian could see its nose twitching, and the eyes, black on black but clearly directed at her. A living creature, but with no river of blood driving it.

  Hares were a thing that she associated strongly with her mother, a part of the Processional work that had appeared often in her parents' house. And here was what those many statues had represented, bounding past her. She turned, only to discover, inches away, the antlers of a black stag hurtling toward her face. There was no chance to even take a step back before a roar of wind blasted over her, snatched her from the ground, and carried her away.

  Clutching her cloth-wrapped stick, Rian found herself on the stag's back, the sensation very different from riding a horse, since there was no gait to adapt to, and she could both feel its back beneath her, and the wind supporting her like a hand. Exhilarating! Also terrifying, as she rapidly rose to a fatal height, though it did not feel possible to slip from the stag's back and fall. The city spread out blue and silver beneath her, with hot notes of gold for the street lights and still-waking windows.

  "That's one way to sweep me off my feet," Rian gasped, then laughed at her own leaping heart, for there was no chance the Crown Princess had romantic intentions. Reviving her common sense, Rian instead simply admired the beauty of the moment. One to treasure, no matter the circumstances.

  When her semi-tangible mount slowed and circled a figure high in the sky, Rian had herself in much as order as was possible given a stag made of wind had carried her off to meet a princess riding a legendary three-tailed mare high above London.

  "The stars seem larger up here," Rian said as she came into earshot, which was not businesslike at all, but true.

  Aerinndís Gwyn Lynn was wearing a reinforced vest of leather, a long split tunic, and close-fitting trousers. With her hair braided and clubbed, and both a sword and a pistol at her hip, there was no doubt that she was dressed for duty. But all Rian saw was the Crown Princess' beautifully slender throat and the clean line of her jaw as she tilted back her head to consider the vast sweep of stars.

  The three-tailed mare tossed her head as Rian's stag crowded close. The winds seemed able to intersect without causing more than eddies, and Rian found herself within inches of someone she had thought to avoid, easily able to hear that husky voice without straining.

  "I doubt there is a measurable difference, Dama Seaforth," the Crown Princess said, the dry note in her voice perhaps for Rian's mesmerised stare. "We are only two hundred feet closer." Her gaze dropped to the cloth bundle Rian was holding, and tiny wind-mice swirled about Rian's hands, lifting it away. "What is this?"

  "A practical response," Rian said, watching as the cloth unwrapped itself, exposing the crude weapon.

  Princess Aerinndís was a noted swordswoman—simple good sense for the Suleviae Sceadu, who did not have access to godly defences during the day. She took the practice sword by its hilt and cut the air, a short, sharp stroke that made even a length of light wood seem deadly. But then she wrapped and returned the weapon without comment.

  "And how can I assist you today, Your Highness?" Rian asked, resigned to the fact that her heart would spend this conversation playing pit-pat and thunder.

  "Look," the Crown Princess said, nodding to the roofs beneath.

  They'd moved, and were now above Forest House, distinct for the enclosed trees and the clear circle of stone. Rian saw nothing to cause remark in the blue-tinged scene, and she was too far away to sense the rivers of blood that were living creatures. The Sulevia Sceadu was known to be able to see in the dark, but it was difficult to guess what had caught her attention.

  Movement spared Rian from admitting defeat: a lithe grey cat trotting along the spine of one of the warehouse roofs to sit beside a larger feline already waiting in the lee of a chimney. They were barely visible from the height, but even the cat was unusual given the general lack of anything but ravens willing to come anywhere near Forest House. That the larger watcher was a distinctive sand-and-white feline with black tufted ears gave Rian her answer.

  "The Huntresses."

  "The foreseeing or your involvement with the sphinx is likely to have drawn them. Look for signs of controlled animals during the day."

  It seemed the Crown Princess was only pointing this out in passing, for the stag and mare were moving again, with a small escort of hares and hounds. Knowing the increased acuity of her own hearing, Rian hoped the children were minding her warning not to talk of true secrets outside Hurlstone, and then gave herself to the pleasure of this unique view of the city, and the privilege of witnessing the Night Breezes.

  In the late evening the main roads were not yet quiet, and many of the entertainment houses were hot points of noise and brilliance, but along less central streets most windows had blacked their eyes. They were heading east, and as they passed along the river some of the dark hounds in the Sulevia Sceadu's escort raced down to gambol around the turbines of the wind towers, so that they whirred and hummed. Many of the towers, though, were foreshortened stubs, and even the great Wind Clock lacked its blades. Every night the Crown Princess would have this view of the toll of the summer's scouring, of the threadbare canopies of trees, the withered gardens, and the patched roofs of houses.

  For Rian there was another roof, green and boundless and now always with her. An ever-present reminder that she not only belonged to the forest, but was being tested by it.

  They descended into the docklands, half London crossed in a bare minute, and were deposited light as goose down on the flat roof of some form of factory. Makepeace lay on his back at their feet, hands behind his head, apparently occupied in gazing at the stars.

  He turned his head a fraction. "You may be unbearably smug, Wednesday, but not for more than five minutes."

&
nbsp; "I'll save it for later," Rian said, looking around the factory roof for some reason why they were there. "You found this fulgite dealer?"

  "Him, his superior, and now, hopefully, the head of the group responsible for the loss of the fulgite shipment earlier this year. You happened on a link between the resellers, who are kept carefully ignorant, and the core of this operation."

  "Surely worthy of at least ten minutes' smugness," Princess Aerinndís murmured.

  "It's a tightly-run organisation," Makepeace said, thumbing his nose at Aerinndís Gwyn Lynn, Sulevia Sceadu and Crown Princess. "Those making sales outside the core group received fulgite from a masked figure known to them as 'Wrack'. The description of this Wrack varies wildly—clearly a half-dozen different people all wearing a mask of the same pattern. More annoyingly, after initial contact the exchanges are conducted via package drops, and they seem to have an instinct for when one of their dealers has been discovered. Delway's lot have spent all summer watching packages that are never picked up, and I can't claim better luck since I was called in, which suggests someone god-touched is involved."

  "Delway's lot?" Rian had never heard the name.

  "Police Special Force," he said, customary irritability resurfacing. "No sign that they've been compromised, but I'm not risking them tonight. The dealer I've traced arranged a meeting at midnight at the warehouse across the street. I've been looking forward to talking to the real Wrack for some time."

  The trip past the Wind Clock meant Rian knew there was a half-hour to go. She glanced about and then sat on the edge of an inner dividing wall.

  "What of the cat plague?" Makepeace asked the Crown Princess.

  "Forest House, the palace, Alba Place, Ficus Lapis' office, and the main digging site under the Tamesas."

  "Now that last…" Makepeace sat up, puzzled. "Ficus Lapis naturally uses fulgite to power their diggers, and so could have some of this special batch. The firm's machines are in demand and they've assisted underground construction in a dozen different countries, with no hint of complaint beyond the usual price-gouging, but I don't know of a reason for the Huntresses to connect them to sphinxes. Is it because it's traditional to suspect Romans of being up to no good?"

  Princess Aerinndís seated herself neatly opposite Rian, looking no less completely in control for being perched on a railing. A lone transparent owl circled her in a wide loop, and her expression was thoughtful. "The winds have found no variation from the planned tunnels. There's a sealed area in their centre of operations, but those are so common as to be unremarkable. Here, there is a safe, but otherwise the place is open."

  Of the Suleviae, the Sulevia Sceadu was most feared, for there were few places the Night Breezes could not reach to carry back whispers. Or to do as they did now, abandoning furred and feathered forms to create the miniature outline of a room occupied by two people. One writing, the other drinking. Shadows without colour, the page empty of script beneath the moving pen, for this was a representation of the surfaces touched by the wind.

  "Can I see the man writing in more detail?" Rian asked.

  The image changed, so that only the desk remained, with its faintly-smiling writer intent on the black page. He was very thin, with a curling mop of hair.

  "I think I've met him," she said, slowly. "Reddish hair, and talks very rapidly. One of the auction house people? Yes, he came to run over the details of the auction with me. So." She stopped, for it was confirmation.

  "Ready for your revenge, Wednesday? Will you hit them with your little stick?"

  Rian stared at Makepeace, then down at the wrapped sword she'd forgotten she was holding. "I don't particularly care what happens to him. What's necessary is proving that Aedric and Eiliff did not die from their own incompetence, so their legacy is their achievements, not an ignominious death. That's what will make the difference for their children." She paused. "No, that's not entirely true. Killed, jailed, brought to justice somehow, but the most important thing is still proof."

  "That's the aim—" Makepeace began, then stopped as Princess Aerinndís held up a hand.

  "…and get out," the wind whispered. A woman's voice, diction slurred. "We've got back as much as anyone could hope to. I don't care what they're offering for the rest."

  "You'll care when your cut runs out, Min." Like his face, the man's voice was familiar. "If we can get our hands on the last of the big pieces, the bonus will see us swimming easy until you've drowned yourself in that rotgut."

  "No bonus is worth the risk. The plan was get it, sell it, fade. We were idiots to ever agree to try and get it back."

  The wind's image changed to show the room again, tiny figures to match the voices as the man blotted his writing and stood.

  "You won't get far calling Dane an idiot."

  "Dane's half the problem! She's changed, Penry. Something's been off with her all summer. And this thing with the masks has spiralled into an obsession. Ever since that Alban came along, she's lost all sense."

  Makepeace raised his eyebrows at that, glancing at Rian.

  "Got twice the money for the same haul, that's what we've done," the man said briskly, stooping with a key to unlock what must be the safe. "You need to stay out of your cups, Min. You've washed away your stomach."

  "I'll be wash-eaagh!"

  A third player had bounded onto the darkling stage. Massive shoulders, heavy head, an enormous clawed paw batting the woman from her chair. The bull-bear.

  "What in—?" the man began, but Rian did not see his fate, for Princess Aerinndís had reacted immediately, the three-tailed mare and two stags snatching the eavesdroppers from their roof and hurtling them over the street and through the doors of a warehouse two buildings down, the heavy wood shattering like glass as they blasted past.

  Stacks of crates blocked their view across the cavernous interior to an office tucked into the corner. As the three Night Breezes rode close to the ceiling, Rian saw the panes of the office's windows were shattered, the exposed interior painted with orange and gold. Fire.

  Set on her feet outside the remains of the internal door, Rian looked hastily for the bull-bear as a flurry of dark hares darted through the blaze, causing it to roar higher as they snatched objects—and two bodies—out into the main part of the warehouse. Meanwhile, wind hounds leapt in every direction, vanishing out to the street.

  "Nothing else in the building but a few rats," Makepeace said, as he stomped on one of the books rescued from the blaze. "No sign of how it got in or out, let alone where it went to."

  "It went nowhere," the Crown Princess said. "It neither came nor left; it simply was."

  The winds returned, heavy with moisture, and tossed a sizeable portion of the Tamesas over everything, leaving acrid smoke with a fishy undernote. Princess Aerinndís dropped to one knee beside one of the two bodies, and Rian saw to her horror that the person was still alive. A woman wearing knee-length trousers and a sleeveless tunic striped with red and white where the cloth had been shredded in parallel lines, the exposed flesh so deeply gouged that she looked like she had fallen under a plough.

  "…hurts," the woman said, clutching at the hand offered to her.

  Eyes wide, she was breathing in little gasps, the noise harsh and desperate, and Rian found that her own hand was at her throat, remembering the effort, the pain, and the sinking certainty that nothing could be done.

  Makepeace knelt on the woman's other side, shaking his head as he did so. He made no attempt to try to feed her his ka and blood. Even a Thoth-den would hesitate to try to save such a badly mangled woman: the risk of creating a ghul was too great.

  Then he said: "Attend me."

  That was too much, and Rian turned away, forcing her thoughts to a more useful response. The fire had been thoroughly doused, leaving the office a damp mess, but there were sections barely touched. Lifting a still-lit fulgite lamp onto a box, Rian found a tumbled ledger and a stump of pencil, and made quick work of two portraits.

  The woman was talking, a thready
but unemotional whisper. She didn't react to Rian's approach with the lamp, brow smooth as she gazed steadily at Makepeace's face.

  Makepeace glanced at the ledger Rian held out to him, then took it and held it up for the injured woman to see.

  "Do you know these people?"

  Calmly, the woman looked at the pages, then said: "The Alban. Has Dane—"

  And then she closed her eyes and died. Of course.

  Twenty-One

  The Crown Princess lowered the dead woman's hand so that it rested over the terrible wound, and then gently closed the woman's dimmed eyes. Her own hand was covered in blood, and she used it to draw on the still forehead three circles around a central dot to represent the first island of Annwn.

  "May you find your path," she said formally.

  "And may we find Dane," Makepeace said. "Whoever she might be. Perhaps we can ask your Alban," he added to Rian.

  Rian drew a long, calming breath, taking sudden violence and death and setting them in a place that would not interfere with larger goals. "I can't even guess which of them she recognised. I thought I might even be eliminating them, showing her those portraits."

  "I admit that I'd dismissed that pair as suspects, particularly the brother, since I'd questioned him under trance." He frowned down at the ledger. "Guileless and guiltless and yet, apparently not."

  Princess Aerinndís stood. "God-touched resistance?"

  "The most likely reason, though that would make Lyle Blair an extraordinary actor—one whose emotions match the falsehood he's telling. We now seem to be overwhelmed with god-touched possibilities: the possible truth-diviner, whatever that beast is, and someone who may perhaps be able to resist my abilities." He began picking up the various objects the winds had pulled from the fire and examining them.