The Pyramids of London

EIGHTEEN

Eluned’s tendency to drastically change the subject whenever her drawing came under discussion was a thing Rian would need to revisit. For the moment, her concentration was needed for an uninterrupted progress through a crowd where every third person was keen to strike up a conversation, or at least stop and stare. Becoming a personage of note was truly a double-edged sword.

The advantageous blade was the entirely too handsome young man who appeared to guide her to a maple-panelled elevator in the new school building, whisking her directly to a plush little foyer on the third floor, and then into a most sumptuous example of a principal’s office, with a formidable sweep of desk set before a wall of windows overlooking the clock tower and central garden.

The owner of all this wood panelling and fine-cut glass was drooping rather before the view, perhaps because the streaming crowds seemed to be mostly made up of curious locals, with only a small number genuinely interested in having their children attend.

“My lord,” murmured Rian’s escort, as he accepted her hat.

“Dama Seaforth!” Lord Fennington said, springing from a high-backed revolving chair with a gust of energy. “Oh, how nice of you to come! Let me take you through to the Inner Sanctum, don’t mind the capitals. This room is all very well for a fine dose of pomp and awe, but that leaves very little room for comfort.”

“An impressive outlook, though,” Rian said, rather taken by the tiny pair of pompoms above the hem of his tunic, like a little tail. They were the same colour as the main cloth, and easily overlooked until the man was walking away from you. Her instinct was to distrust purposeful ridiculousness, but in Folly Fennington it felt genuine, a celebration.

Her less than reliable new sense for the emotions of others worked best when she touched a person, but she didn’t engineer contact immediately, simply gauging the man as she normally would as he exclaimed over one of her father’s farmhand series, and then fussed over settling her into a comfortable chair.

The blond man who seemed to be his personal assistant made a timely arrival with a silver trolley laden with bottles, and stood by to hand over tongs and glasses at critical moments while his lord prepared their Towering Follies.

“I was terribly complimented, of course, when Lady Prentegast named this for me, though always, always there lurks at the back of the mind a little bit of writhing embarrassment. Is it pretentious to serve a drink named after yourself? And what if people don’t like the taste? It’s a little sweet for some.”

He turned, holding out a more than generous glass of splendid sunset gradient, adding: “Gin, a dry white wine, grenadine, maraschino liqueur, and one single caper to finish it off. Do drink up, and tell me what you think of my little school.”

“I think it’s not very little,” Rian said dryly, glad she’d managed to find an opportunity to eat during his speech. “And that it would be an adventure to attend. I do, however, have a nephew with a positive horror of even the smallest animal, and a niece who considers organised sport an interruption to her studies. How would they fit in at Tangleways?”

“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?”

“For that investigation? Every need.” Lord Fennington rose and placed a hand on his assistant’s shoulder. “Sit,” he said. “No arguments, please.” He waited until the man obeyed, and then poured him a generous shot of brandy.

Offering Rian one before he sat back down, he tugged at his lower lip briefly, then said:

“Haunted automatons. There have always been stories, guesses as to what could cause such movement. Angry spirits who have escaped Arawn, or lesser godlings finding strange new homes or…oh, any of a dozen explanations. They make a fine tale, but there is a fear that underlies them. Automatons are tools that should only ever dance to their master’s tune. An automaton that acts on its own—that could replace people—well, fear of that’s what the automaton riots were about. Any research that moves to create such a thing must be done on terms of utmost secrecy.”

“You—you think that the automaton was stolen by anti-technologists?”

“Upon my soul, I have no idea. But that movement is why, when some particularly odd fulgite fell into my hands, I had Matthiel send most of it to a skilled independent. There is no way to keep such a thing secret in a workshop.”

“Particularly odd?” Rian said.

“Round! And practically unbreakable! I hit one with a hammer, and didn’t even chip it. I bought them from Jilly Eyleson, who races, you know. Ridiculous engines, and a need for more than the fingernail-sized shards that is all you seem to be able to get of fulgite these days. She rather lost her enthusiasm when her latest toy kept taking off without her, finally touring half Tollesby Falt with her youngest in the passenger seat, and no driver. Ended in a mill race, and the lad left with a broken arm. Between that and all the attempted thefts, she’s gone back to horses, with a sideline of one of the new motopetrol things.”

“Fulgite is becoming unsustainable,” he continued. “Fennington Industries lost a dozen pieces in a most curious accident last month, and we switched to wiring the workshops rather than try to replace it. Why, Jilly was telling me that even her own source was trying to buy back the pieces she sold me.”

“I suppose it’s possible that a large piece of fulgite itself may have been the target,” Rian said. “Simply for its value. But, no. Why take the automaton, if that was the case? It’s so strange, though, since even Aedric’s apprentice had no idea there was anything unusual about the commission.”

“If the arrangements I made were kept, then I should have been the only person who knew that the Tennings had that fulgite,” said Matthiel.

“How did you find Eiliff in the first place?” Rian asked.

“We had a list of exceptional independents prepared when looking for teachers for the school,” Lord Fennington said. “A useful smokescreen.”

Matthiel said. “Actually, my lord, Dama Tenning came on personal recommendation from Dama Blair.”

“Young Lynsey? Well, we won’t find the source of the leak there. A most close-mouthed child. Still, I will ask her if she mentioned it.” Lord Fennington held out his hands to Rian and gripped hers warmly. “I hate, I simply hate the thought that my commission brought this upon your family, but I’d be a fool to ignore the possibility. If there is anything you need, please, please do not hesitate to tell me.”

He wasn’t telling her the whole truth, but there was no outright lie behind the gust of sincerity that washed over her. Rian thought rapidly, balancing her decision to pretend there had been no direct investigation with a need for further details, then said:

“Did you say someone tried to buy the fulgite back?”