With an amused nod at Eleri, Princess Leodhild left.
"Oh indeed?" Lady Trevelyan studied a suddenly scarlet Eleri. "Quite a breach in etiquette, you know."
"I—I beg your pardon, Lady Trevelyan," Eleri said.
"The proper procedure, setting aside the error of examining unpublished plans in the first place, would be to open correspondence with the designer. At which point a response might have let you know that we had considered that option, and discarded it—for reasons that can be touched on when you are not recovering from distracting excitements. At a later date, perhaps you would enjoy a tour of the workshops here."
"Very much, thank you."
Leaving Li Sen and Li Zhi to discuss the coursers, they climbed thankfully into the tiger brought by the pair's mother. This lady's name was Lu Lan Ying, and she was Mama Lu's middle daughter, and had taken up a managing role in Nathaner's Workshop nearly ten years ago. She didn't feel it would be a big problem that the coursers were currently being examined with great interest by people at the Ministry workshop, since Nathaner's was already geared up to produce them. The whole drama of the day might even prove to be a useful advertisement, since the whole of London would most certainly be talking about dramatic dashes for safety before the day was out.
Sitting in the seat behind Aunt Arianne and Dama Lu, Eluned was impressed at how naturally Aunt Arianne could ask all these questions without sounding like she was rudely prying at all, and then manage to insist on a generous payment despite Dama Lu's polite demurrals. Eluned knew she would never be able to make that conversation anything but graceless, just as sometimes only her eternally heavy glass shield allowed her to keep her composure, while Aunt Arianne floated through awkwardness so effortlessly.
Most particularly, Aunt Arianne so rarely let slip what she was really thinking and feeling. It wasn't until they were inside that Eluned was even sure she wasn't angry, when Aunt Arianne, resting the back of her hand on Griff's forehead, said:
"I think your punishment will be a few days in bed."
"I'm not tired," he said immediately.
"Well, that will make it feel more like a punishment then," Aunt Arianne said, looking amused. "Do we need to stop by Hurlstone before you drag your feet reluctantly upstairs?"
Griff pulled a face, but then dug in his pocket and produced a ball of chicken wire, which he silently held out to Aunt Arianne. Eyebrows lifting, she took it from him, examined the shape, and then picked it apart to reveal a crumpled but precisely moulded hand.
Twenty-Five
A walk through the fringes of the Great Forest helped Rian enormously in regaining her centre. It had been an altogether difficult day, beginning with a shameful near-argument with a grieving child, and then a parade of visitors interrupting her attempts to catch up on sleep.
Dama Lu's arrival, and the tense journey to the airfield, had left her berating herself for the decisions she'd made moderating the children's desire for an active role in this hunt. She had thought visiting workshops a relatively safe pursuit, and could not have been more wrong.
Felix had spared her the worst, a favour she would remember, whatever his involvement in this tangle. She allowed herself to accept good fortune and move on, just as it was best to simply recognise that she had misjudged Lyle and Lynsey Blair, rather than castigate herself for starting to like them.
Two things, however, were not so easily settled, and Rian had to resort to a long bath after dinner to tackle the hurdles that had woken her over and over, and then kept her from sleep.
Time should surely make the fear fade. Weeks or months would take the teeth from two words, and return them to being a well-known phrase with no power to make her tremble. Until then, she would simply have to gird herself against memory whenever she was around Makepeace. Nearly dying didn't seem to be something she could shrug off.
The other problem might take even longer to shift, because Rian was suffering from a bad case of 'Why not?'.
Her own words kept coming back to haunt her. When you meet someone who fills you up until there's no room for anything else, trying to put all those feelings away is harder than even the most hopeless pursuit. Rian's level-headed dismissal of the idea of a romance with Aerinndís Gwyn Lynn had not held up well against a moonlit flight with her, let alone that conversation in the attic.
She had sat in the dark and exposed her throat: opened up her cupboard of vulnerabilities, and invited comprehension. She had wanted a response that had nothing to do with duty, or protecting Prytennia. She had, she could not deny, wanted the Crown Princess to truly see her.
The question was what to do now, when every spare thought drifted to analysis of the Crown Princess' response, to trying to discover a hidden reason for those questions. Had Princess Aerinndís, very serious about her duty to the country, truly detected some great fault in the latest tool given to her service? Or had her interest been for Rian herself? Or was it both?
It did not seem possible to think in terms of light flirtation. Everything felt desperate and world-shaking, as if Rian had been catapulted back to her earliest fumbling romances, where to be the first to admit to longing was an act of boundless courage—or weakness, a baring of the stomach to the wolves of mockery and scorn.
Uncertainty and second-guessing were not good for maintaining the calm centre Rian relied upon. But that brought her back to the 'Why not?'. If she was going to suffer either way, why not take the more active path? Unlike her last attempt at something serious, there was little chance she would have to hastily leave the country so that the 'accidents' would stop.
Stupid thought. She was not fool enough to try to pursue Aerinndís Gwyn Lynn. There would be a great deal of fantasising, a period of interminable aching, but it would pass, and the calm centre that kept her going would return.
Still, when Rian left her bath she dressed herself with care. Practical clothing, a touch of colour to the lips, and a lot of time brushing and arranging her hair. She doubted she looked any different from usual, but she was acknowledging a change to her frame of mind.
Since past evidence suggested that Makepeace did not have to wait for sunset so long as the grove was in shadow, Rian could not be certain when she would be 'collected'. She busied herself checking on the children—Griff's light fever at least did not seem to be climbing—and then reviewing the neat household account Dama Seleny had prepared. And then she contemplated, once again, the mysterious hand Griff had brought out of Ficus Lapis' workshop.
The craftsmanship was very good. The fine-gauge mesh had been precisely cut, and then each severed link neatly joined so that the seams were barely visible. Rian had done her best to return it to its pre-crushed state, and thought it was intended to be a woman's hand. When Makepeace finally made his entrance, as the last hints of sunset were fading from the windows, she held it out to him and said:
"I cannot think of a single reasonable explanation for this."
A small victory to confuse such an ancient monster. He took the hand, started to say something, then frowned and looked at it more closely. "Chicken wire."
"I have no idea whether they knew Griff picked it up. He says it was on the floor inside the door."
"Your brats need to learn to draw a line between precocity and stupidity."
"I hope to keep them alive long enough to teach them that distinction. Have the authors of today's lesson been found?"
"In part. We'll save the dissection for the meeting."
He strode off, then waited impatiently on the stair when Rian detoured to let Eluned and Eleri know she was leaving. She was finding it easier to manage his presence, though that perhaps was due to the distractions involved in trailing him through a close night in the Great Forest. Amasen were not the only things coiling among the branches.
Rian paid attention to the path, wondering if she could make the trip alone. This part of the Great Forest was Cernunnos' domain, and in theory she would have his protection, but she suspected it was not so simple, espec
ially since she had seen no path at all when she passed in this direction earlier in the day, and certainly no gate less than five minutes' walk away. It was made of iron, and far less ornate than the grand work at Forest House, but presented the same basic image: two amasen holding a lock in their mouths. It opened into a tight cluster of trees wedged between a wrought iron fence and a faded green door.
The gate into the Great Forest vanished altogether when Makepeace closed it. He fished a more ordinary key out of a pocket and unlocked the door, leading her into a long corridor distinguished by several tea trolleys, a broom, and a reel of cable.
"Where is this?" she asked, peering through the trunks of the forest always with her.
"The MoP."
The Museum of Prytennia. Not where Rian had expected. "How far can you go, doing that?"
He ignored her. But perhaps after a thousand years she too would take some time to warm to the 'beginning of her end'. Rian had certainly not yet accustomed herself to the idea of a life measured in centuries.
It mattered a great deal how long she had before Makepeace went to stone. There had been so few Amon-Re vampires that she had little basis for comparison. Makepeace—Heriath—was said to pre-date the Trifold Age, which meant he had lived at least eleven centuries. But Hatshepsu had ruled for seventeen before she entered rept, and her daughter had vanished almost immediately after.
He led her to a lift, barely giving her time to enter before tugging the grill shut and hauling on the control lever to send them downward. Sub-basement Two, kept warm and dry, and filled with racks and drawers, and one useful cupboard that swung like a door. Rian would be amused to discover that the sprawling museum in the heart of the oldest part of London functioned as a secret base, but she was caught up in anticipation.
Makepeace glanced back at her, no doubt in response to the sudden leaping of her pulse, but forbore to comment. After a millennia, she supposed he found the distractions of attraction exceptionally boring. Vampirism removed the drive for sex, and the stoneblood tended to avoid romance with mayfly mortals.
Despite herself, Rian was enjoying newfound passion. That she could cross the Great Forest, and follow a vampire through a locked museum into a hidden room, brought expressly to discuss the conspiracy she had spent months attempting to unravel, and yet see one and only one occupant: back ramrod straight, mouth in its habitual downturn, heavy hair braided into a coronet. And for that mere sight to set her blood singing, as if the moon and all the stars had been given to her as a gift.
Foolishness of the grandest order, but Rian allowed herself a moment to savour it, then put away longing, as much as was possible, and looked past transparent ropey roots to inspect the rest of the scene. A very secure second door, some incidental cabinets, and a long, scarred table with two princesses and three strangers sitting around it.
"Chicken wire," Makepeace said, tossing the sculptured hand on top of the neat pile of papers in the table's centre.
Princess Leodhild laughed. "Very dramatic, Comfrey. So the young lad found a little more than he admitted, Dama Seaforth?"
"Picked up within the door of the sealed room, Your Highness," Rian said, following Makepeace's lead in taking a seat. "He thinks he was unseen."
The Sulevia Leoth leaned forward to collect the hand, held it up so Princess Aerinndís could glance it over, and then passed it to the woman at her right.
"Fascinating," the woman said, lifting the pair of pince-nez she had hanging around her neck and using them as a lens. She was a large-framed woman, muscular, and very stylishly dressed.
"Welcome to the Night Council, Dama Seaforth," she said, passing the hand to the angular woman to her right. "I'm Lydia Bermondsley, Curator of the Divinities and God-Touched Collection here at the MoP. This is Commander Delway, of the Special Force. And Finch, the Council Secretary. As we have a lot to get through tonight, shall we start?"
Princess Aerinndís inclined her head, then said: "Your report, Commander Delway?"
"Highness." Commander Delway's features were harsh, angular, and did little to hide a forceful character. She tucked a shining wing of black hair behind one ear and spoke rapidly.
"Latest first: when Fitwald force arrived at Ficus Lapis' headquarters they discovered workers tidying up. Their story is the company found the Fitwald location too remote and have shifted in near the Tamesas tunnel site. They've stuck to that, and kicked no fuss leading the way to the new location. Growlers were there, contents in the process of being unloaded, and they did not resist a thorough search. Nothing of interest."
She gave the hand a disgusted look and added: "No chicken wire. Doubt we'd have been able to trace a thing if we hadn't already had eyes on their tails. Our people followed the growlers, witnessed the offloading of persons and crates when they crossed the river. Also spotted two cats riding on the roof of the second of the growlers. These boarded the barge onto which the crates had been loaded, but were discovered and tossed overboard. One of my people commandeered a fireboat, and the other arranged an intercept." She clicked her tongue. "The barge was a feint—they crossed the river to waiting vehicles and split up. We've recovered three of the crates, and one driver."
"And?" Princess Leodhild leaned forward. "What was in these crates? Please don't say chicken wire."
"Fulgite." Commander Delway tucked her hair back again, a movement replete with disgust. "Not the stolen shipment. More than four times the amount of fulgite that was stolen at the beginning of the year."
"Ha!" Princess Leodhild slapped the table. "You lose, Bermie."
Dama Bermondsley slid a pound out of a purse laced to her belt, and passed it to the princess. "I refuse to believe they're mining it here."
"And charging us through the nose for the privilege. You can't fault their audacity."
"It still doesn't make sense—it's not like we haven't looked. A substance only Romans can find?"
"If you have a counter-theory for where all that fulgite has come from that doesn't involve egg-laying sphinxes, I'd be glad to hear it."
"What does the driver say?" Princess Aerinndís asked.
"Little enough." Commander Delway selected a piece of paper from her pile. "Told to take the crates to Folkestone. Deliver them to a ship, the Pilgar, and then make his way back to Rome. Claims there's been nothing improper in the company's conduct, though cagey when questioned about people involved in this scene with the Tenning children. Would appreciate your assistance with him, Makepeace."
As usual, Makepeace was propping his head on one fist. He lifted a shoulder, then said: "What was the thing at the airfield, Bermie?"
"Oh, most interesting!" Dama Bermondsley flipped open one of the books. "Not Roman. Hellenic!"
"I thought, technically, those were the same gods," Princess Leodhild said.
"No, not at all—at least not before Rome's Answered, even with the way the Romans went around telling everyone that their local gods were the same as the Romans' but with different names. Look at their attempts to claim Sulis as Minerva—and we all know exactly what She thought of that! Rather a lot of Hellenes maintain that the split is along the lines of the Aesir and the Green Aesir—gods that separated before the main wave of Answering, and now are two distinct, almost mirror groups. Not a theory that's popular in Rome, and one liable to put one in a distinctly awkward position if you happen to go around airing..."
"Didn't we have a lot to get through?" Makepeace sighed.
"Ah, yes." Dama Bermondsley coughed. "This particular god is Dolus, according to the Romans. Dolos to the Hellenes. Deceit and trickery. It's extremely rare to see Dolus' powers in such a public display, but there were several recorded incidents of what's known as the 'Sea of Lies' at the very height of the Empire, when the West and East schismed. It's believed to be more usually used as a method of quiet assassination. I was not certain until I heard Your Highness' fuller report, with mention of a woman and a man who had difficulty walking. These, I believe, are our god-touched."
"
Were," Commander Delway muttered.
"Yes, chances are they're halfway across the Channel. But that is not a certainty yet and—" Dama Bermondsley glanced restively at the wire hand. "Truly, I don't care to think through some of the possibilities. Those who have given full allegiance to Dolus pay for his blessing with their ability to walk. This is due to the event that gave Dolus his area of duty. Dolus was an apprentice to Prometheus, and during his master's absence attempted to copy a clay avatar of Veritas that Prometheus had been sculpting. He ran out of clay before he could complete the feet, and when Prometheus fired both statues, Dolus' copy could not walk. The forgery with no feet was named Mendacium, and so are those who give their allegiance to Dolus. Their great skill is forgery, but there will always be a flaw, visible on close inspection."
Everyone at the table was looking at that wire hand now.
"Mining fulgite and forging people?" Princess Aerinndís sounded less than impressed. "While also attempting to buy back stolen fulgite?"
"No verifiable link there," Commander Delway said. She opened a flat box, and set out a row of objects. A fragment of burned paper. A charred mask. A piece of green glass.
"Min Wishon. Penry Hulun. Dane Dayson. Known to the Docklands Force for sale of stolen goods, but not picked up for anything in the past year. Dayson lives alone, adjusts settings for a reputable jewellery firm. She failed to appear some weeks ago. Reported missing, feared dead." Delway touched the piece of glass. "An incendiary, source of the fire. What documents survived establishes a large amount of money exchanging hands, but customer names are abbreviated. The buy-back process appears to have begun in spring on behalf of an 'M'." She glanced at Rian. "An entry two days after the death the Tennings suggests a major sale. No further detail. No sign of any link to Ficus Lapis."
Dama Bermondsley reached for the mask and the charred fragment of paper, and held up the latter to display its shape. A cut-out of an animal, vaguely resembling a bull, or a bear. On the half that had survived the fire, a horizontal line was visible.
The Pyramids of London Page 25
