Андреа Хёст - The Pyramids of London

“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.