Андреа Хёст - The Pyramids of London

“ 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.

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.”

“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.”