Андреа Хёст - The Pyramids of London

“Niblings!” Lord Fennington beamed. “I have four nephews myself. A delight, all of them, though still at the dandling stage. As to yours, there must, of course, be a certain flexibility to our programs. The idea is to guide our students to find their best, not crush them against their limits.”

“A lad who cannot handle an animal can still learn about them, and assist in tasks that do not require direct contact. A lass who finds sports a bore might have her interest sparked by exploring the history, or even the physics involved. Or perhaps just be exposed to a sufficient variety of games to find one she likes. The point is to develop systems and methodologies, to not leave children stranded as they too often are, even in these modern times, with a hapless village teacher of no qualifications reading lists out of random books.”

Taking the bit between his teeth, Fennington spoke passionately and at length, while Rian obligingly sipped her very strong cocktail and wondered if she should pretend to be tipsy.

“But I mustn’t maunder on,” he said, once most of her drink had been safely swallowed, though to be fair he’d tossed off all of his own, and was working on a second. “Nor, never fear, will I pester you with silly questions about foreseeings. I’m sure you’ve had your fill of them! But, as has no doubt been transparently, simply transparently clear, I did want to have a little gossip. Do forgive my blatant lubrication.”

“Time for the caper?” Rian asked.

“Ha! Yes! The pickle, the sting, the little kernel of sour that cuts through all the sugar. Dear Prentegast was being too, too pointed with her recipe.”

“I’m not likely to forget your business ventures are almost invariably profitable, Lord Fennington, whatever your enthusiasms.”

“Call me Folly, do. I can tell we’re going to be friends.”

“My friends call me Rian,” she replied, surprising herself because she had been keeping a certain mental distance with the subjects of her investigations. But she did like Folly Fennington.

“Then I shall be honoured to do so,” he said. “Rian, I want to ask you about Comfrey Makepeace.”

Unexpected. “Not my favourite topic,” Rian said. She was not entirely certain of the limits Makepeace had placed on her, and wondered idly if she would be choked off mid-sentence if she tried to tell what she had been forbidden.

“Quite understandable, my dear. Do, do squash me thoroughly if I rouse painful memories. I will deserve it entirely, I assure you.”

“What do you know about Makepeace?” she asked. “I hadn’t even heard of him before I encountered him at Sheerside.”

“Exactly! I hadn’t heard of him. Do you know what an achievement that is? I am a snoop, a busybody, a chinwag, an inveterate pryer, and a natterer of monumental proportions. Now, if he were, perhaps, an obscure little vampire, recently blooded, or never stirring from some dreary backwater… But instead it is apparent the man is the Suleviae’s personal agent, on terms of complete intimacy with the royal family, and has been since the early days of the Gwyn Lynns’ ascendency, being one of Prytennia’s more senior vampires. In addition! In addition he is the Keeper of the Deep Grove, the most important of the groves in the whole of the country, which, as I understand it, means this vampire must give his allegiance to Cernunnos! Yet until his most unfortunate attack on you, Rian, I’d never even heard his name.”

“I suppose he can be those things, and not be notorious. Especially since he delegates the Keeper role. And it’s to his advantage to not be well-known if he investigates on behalf of the Suleviae.”

Fennington tossed off the last of his second glass. “And yet, nor is he unknown. Quite half the people I spoke to—among those who make it their business to know things—were fully aware of the ‘Wind’s Lapdog’, as they call him.” He smiled at Rian’s helpless snort. “Yes, it’s a marvellous name. Brings to mind the Heriath of the Melanian rule, without the teeth. Surely a marvellous little titbit to share, yet no-one does. Those who know simply don’t talk about the man, as if he was completely uninteresting.”

The Amon-Re line can control minds . To the extent that dozens, even hundreds, unconsciously chose not to discuss Makepeace?

“You’re talking about him,” Rian pointed out.

“I am! It’s not as if people don’t answer questions when asked. Young Lynsey Blair explained how you came to encounter him, and I found him entirely unexceptional to talk to. And yet I am fascinated! He is like the word on the tip of one’s tongue, out of reach and ever so tantalising.”

“To talk to?” Rian blinked, then decided it wasn’t worth anger, that she should have expected it. “You’ve met him then?”

“Oh, yes, a few days ago, quite as if he’d heard I’d been asking about him. We chatted about the Sheerside attack, and the Huntresses, but he managed to tell me nothing at all.”

“The main thing I know about him is that he dislikes blood service. And seems determined to annoy me.” Makepeace had evidently found nothing to pursue after vetting Fennington, but Rian decided to press on anyway. “To be fair, he did put me forward for the Keeper’s role once he’d made it impossible for me to serve as Lord Msrah’s Bound. Forest House will give the children the stability they’ve lacked since Eiliff and Aedric’s deaths.”

“Then I hope that Tangleways will aid in that goal,” Lord Fennington said, with not the slightest hint that the names meant anything to him.

“I saw that you had an excellent workshop,” Rian continued doggedly. “Eleri’s the only one who has followed her parents into automaton work, but she’s certainly inherited the Tenning flair.”

“If ever there was a school suited to a budding—why, Matthiel. Are you ill?”

Rian turned, and hid a tiny sigh, for on the face of Fennington’s handsome assistant was all the recognition that his lord had lacked.

“Do you—forgive me Dama Seaforth,” the man said. “But do you mean to say that Eiliff Tenning is dead?”

“She and Aedric died toward the end of spring,” Rian said, keeping her voice neutral while she strained to gauge his feelings. “In an odd accident, after the theft of an automaton.” She allowed a trace of suspicion to leak through. “Did you know Eiliff?”

“What is this, Matthiel?” Lord Fennington asked.

“The—the self-determination experiment, my lord. Eiliff Tenning was the independent commissioned.” The golden young man stared at Rian. “I—I am sorry, did you say an automaton was stolen?”

Lord Fennington puffed out his cheeks, cheer fading into bewilderment, and then his skin mottled red briefly before he shook his head. “I am at a loss. Rian, could you please explain what it is that has happened?”

She told them an edited version of the truth, leaving out Monsieur Doré, and any suggestion that she had been investigating anything.

“The children insist that the house had been searched, and an automaton was missing from the workshop, but I’ve not been able to find any trace of it, or who it was intended for. This was you, then, Folly?”

“So it seems,” Lord Fennington said. “Matthiel, why have I not heard of this theft until now?”

“The arrangement was for Dama Tenning to report at the beginning of autumn, unless a breakthrough was made.” The man blinked rapidly, though Rian realised this was due not to fear of his master, but simple distress. “You believe the accident was staged, Dama Seaforth?”

“The children were convinced of it,” Rian said. “I could find no proof, though I did try to push the authorities into looking deeper. I don’t understand—Fennington Industries runs several workshops. Why would you need to commission Eiliff and Aedric at all? What was the need for secrecy?”