The Pyramids of London

ONE

Sunlight picked out motes of dust, and burnished mellow wood to match Arianne Seaforth’s hair as she strolled through the Southern Nomarch’s library. Heavy bookcases jutted from the inner wall, stopping short of the many-paned windows, and Rian walked along a corridor formed by the gap, watching a drama of wind.

A rope had snapped. The First Minister’s airship canted to one side, and then the ballonet bounced, threatening to smash the gondola onto Sheerside House’s sweeping back lawn. The very problem First Minister Aquila had come to discuss was likely to strand her in Prytennia’s battered south.

Rian had travelled to Sheerside by train, not airship, and even heavy iron had shuddered beneath the morning windstorm. The journey had shown her a landscape scoured: trees and crops stripped by weeks of gusting onslaught, animals all either hiding or huddled in protective masses. Occasionally a roofless house displayed its innards.

It was unusual for the second windstorm of the day to be prolonged, and Rian would in other circumstances be uneasy, but today she felt little more than academic interest, for she had come to a vampire’s house to hunt a murderer.

Lyndsey. One overheard name, and a location discovered from a discarded envelope, with no guarantee that either of them were connected to sudden death. Scant basis for the ten year sacrifice coming to Sheerside entailed, but in the months since Aedric and Eiliff’s deaths, gaining a position to follow that name was the only real progress Rian had made.

Movement drew her attention away from the airship. She had reached an area clear of shelving—one of the library entrances—dominated by a long reading table, the near end of which sat in the direct fall of sunlight. The reflection off the polished wood dazzled, so she had failed to see a young man sprawled at the far end of the table until he’d lifted one hand, thumb canted to form a partial frame for the scene outside. Blinking to help her eyes adjust, Rian moved away from the window, and the youth’s hand dropped to rest flat. Otherwise he barely moved, head remaining pillowed on one arm as he studied her.

“And what are you?” A soft, dreaming voice, cut with a note of derision.

Having no idea where he stood in the hierarchy of the House, Rian replied neutrally: “Newly arrived.”

“A non-answer.” He still didn’t move, but swept his gaze up and down, taking in travel clothes that were well kept and nicely cut, but far from new. “Another governess for the brats? No, I have it.” His nose wrinkled. “You’re the new Wednesday.”

“Wed—” She realised what he meant, and held back instinctive rejection. She didn’t like what being here would entail, but there was no point pretending it was not going to happen. “That’s certainly one way to term it.”

“Come down in the world?” It wasn’t a sympathetic question. “Let me guess—someone died and left you without sufficient fortune. You wanted to be kept in style?”

“That’s a very Roman attitude,” Rian said, unbothered by such a wide shot. She considered him: a slight young man, not wearing a coat, and the laces missing from his shirtsleeves. His dark brown hair was several inches long, tousled and not quite curling. He didn’t match his surroundings any better than she did. “What are you, the resident starving artist?”

His eyes narrowed. “What makes you say that?”

Rian lifted one hand, thumb canted at a right angle, and used it to partly frame the scene through the window. The gesture was something her father had often used. Out in the wind, a basket barrelled across the lawn, but the airship’s attendants were winning their battle with its tethers.

“I have some interest in photography,” the young man said, sounding less than amused. Annoyed she’d seen that. “Could you be one of the Pyrial? No, you don’t seem nearly lack witted enough to mistake which appetite’s involved.”

“You obviously feel strongly about blood service.”

He made a low, disgusted noise. “It’s the most pathetic of ideas. That kind of bond—it’s not meant to be a business transaction.” He’d finally found the energy to sit up, all the better to glower at her.

“Meant to be? What is it meant to be, then?”

He shifted one shoulder, a sketch of a shrug. “Raw. Revolting. Profound. Anything but watered-down, antiseptic domestication.”

Perhaps he was the resident poet. Rian would have left him to his opinions, but since the primary reason she had accepted the chance to become the ‘Wednesday’ at Sheerside was to investigate its occupants, she couldn’t pass up any opportunity. And for all she knew, this was the ‘Lyndsey’ she was searching for. After so long failing to make any progress, she wasn’t going to turn away on account of a little annoyance, and so refocused the calm centre that had taken her through far more difficult conversations.

A voice with a hint of a northern accent forestalled any attempt at subtle interrogation. “Dama Seaforth?”

Rian turned. A man had opened the library’s door. Tall and impeccably dressed in light tunic and a long pleated shendy in summery shades of blue and cream, he had his eyelids blackened in the Egyptian manner, the kohl only a few shades darker than his skin.

“I’m Evelyn Carstairs,” he went on. “Are you ready for your tour of the building?”

“Yes, indeed.”

As Rian headed for the door the poet-photographer switched his glower to the new arrival, who simply nodded and said: “I beg your pardon for interrupting, Dem,” and moved so Rian could precede him.

Rian heard the poet murmur as she left the room, and thought he said, “Dairy orientation,” but paid no further attention, looking with interest at her guide. What day would he be to her ‘Wednesday’?

“I knew Sheerside House was large,” she said, “but I underestimated the tangle. I thought I’d followed the directions on how to find you, but—”

“But if ever there was a mot juste for Sheerside’s design, it would be ‘labyrinthine’,” Carstairs said. “Start by thinking of it in three sections. The tower, which is the oldest, holds the offices. The centre block surrounds the tower and is where you’ll find the kitchens, most of the dining and function rooms, and the entrances to the Underhouse. The residences, the newest and largest section, brackets the centre block. There’s also the Underhouse, of course, but you won’t need to concern yourself with that yet. It’s not barred to you, but the lighting in most areas is kept low, and there are some dangers.”

Not least the vampire she had come to serve: Msrah, Nomarch of the Southern Dragonate. “I think I’ll concentrate on finding my way to my room, to start with,” Rian said, and he smiled and obligingly took her upstairs, then taught her how to reach the nearest bathroom, the breakfast room, the main and garage entrances, and finally a day room with an elegant arrangement of chairs and lounges, and even a piano. Glass-panelled patio doors rattled in the gale.

“This particular room is given over to us—Lord Msrah’s Bound,” Carstairs said. “It’s quiet most days, and more active in the evenings.”

“Will my nephew and nieces be permitted here?”

“Of course.” Carstairs paused at the doors, looking right, and Rian followed his gaze to see the region’s greater pyramid, much taller than the Nomal House’s tower. The main portion was slate grey, while the upper third was capped with a green-tinged stone.

“There are fifteen children currently part of the household,” Carstairs continued. “Including the Lord’s son Kafele. Most, like your charges, will be away at school until the end of the summer term. When they are here they will be given some supervised activities and of course are forbidden the Underhouse, but are otherwise free to explore. It’s a glorious place for a child. So long as the chaos is limited, play is encouraged. I had endless adventures learning its corridors.”

“You grew up here?” Rian asked.

“My parents are also of the Nomarch’s Bound,” Carstairs said. “After I had my fill of travelling, I returned.” He smiled, perhaps in response to her expression. “It’s the politics that drew me back. Lord Msrah has a finger on the world’s pulse, and I missed knowing so much about what was going on.”

The patio doors rattled violently, and he turned to pull a chased bronze lever. With a subdued whir, metal wings descended. Rian had seen the blue and silver expanses above the windows when she arrived. Ma’at’s Wings: protective blessings in the Egyptian style. She had not realised that they functioned as shutters.

“Are there levers outside?” she asked, picturing herself locked out after some midnight snooping.

“Yes, though they will sound an alert if used,” he said, directing her toward a collection of chairs by the fireplace. “And if the House is under attack the shutters can only be released from inside, either at the central control, or with an override.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Actual attacks, no. More than a few false alarms. See over there—” He indicated a series of labelled bellpulls. “The red is the alarm. That will lock down the entire House. The last time there was any real reason to use it was nearly twenty years ago, during the Automaton Riots. If it’s something less than an invading force, use the Security pull.”

He went on to describe routines of the household: meals, mail, laundry, cleaning. The location of the Nomal House’s Circle, and also arrangements to accommodate visitors who did not bow to the Trifold. And then, at last, the part of Rian’s future that was the price of her investigation.

“You must begin to prepare yourself at least two days before you are due to serve the Lord,” Carstairs said. “Conserve your energy so your ka is at its peak. Avoid alcohol, and foods that affect the potency of your blood—strawberries, peppermint, cinnamon, aniseed—the list is quite long. You’ll find a copy in your room, but we simplify the issue by placing ‘safe’ meals in green serving dishes. It’s no disaster if there is some slip, but of course we aim to be as efficacious as possible. Do not use tobacco or opium at all.”

“The Lord usually rises in the early afternoon. On the day you are to serve, be ready any time from midday. You should not leave the house on the day of your service, and no further than the grounds during the two days before. Ensure that your clothing does not prevent access to your wrists.”

Watered-down, antiseptic domestication. Rian shook the thought away as Carstairs rose and pulled back one sleeve to expose walnut-toned flesh. There were no marks, no scarring.

“Avoid perfumes during the preparation days, and of course wash well. The Lord will send for you soon after rising, and we usually wait here or in our rooms as a matter of convenience. He will lick your wrist, which will numb the physical sensation somewhat, but not enough for your skin to not know it has been pierced. Unless circumstances are unusual, he will take little blood—between a spoonful and half a cup. Only if he has been injured will he need more. The amount of ka he draws from you will vary considerably, particularly if he has weather work to do. Life force recovers more quickly than blood, so there will be times when he draws heavily, and when he does so, the wound will be shallow, merely an access to your ka, rather than your blood. Only on the rarest of occasions will he deeply drink both. You’ve gone very pink.”

Startled, Rian laughed. “It’s…odd to apply to myself,” she said, and saw comprehension in Carstairs’ eyes. It did not help that he was a more than attractive man. Habitually correct, but saved from pomposity by an equal measure of charm.

“There is an inevitable amount of embarrassment,” he said. “But the Lord is very good, and sees no need to underline certain aspects. It’s not the drawing of blood, but the ka that is the challenge to face. First because it hurts—it always hurts, a sensation almost as if your breath is being stolen away, or as if you are being threaded through a needle. During the bonding, the Lord will draw only lightly on your ka, to limit your distress, but he will drink deeply of your blood. Then he will cut his finger and mingle his blood with that at your wrist, before allowing you to drink from him. Not a great deal, and after the first time only a few drops, to keep you at a balance. You will feel his ka transferring to you, and when you have drunk you will stay in the Underhouse while the Lord’s blood reproduces in you. As you were warned, there are risks—there can be very individual physical reactions to colonisation—so you are monitored during the transition. For the first week or so after the bonding you will be sensitive to light, but you will stabilise as the colony matures. You will likely begin to be aware of the presence of living creatures near to you, and notice an increase in physical strength. And, since the Lord is of the Shu line, you will become quite sensitive to changes in the weather.”

Because she would have gone part of the way toward becoming a weather vampire. Not a small change. “That must make days like this—”

“Gales can try the nerves, yes. Though it is useful for avoiding being caught out in the rain. Once the growth of the Lord’s blood has stabilised it will be considerably more beneficial for him to drink from you, and your ka will have become aligned with his so that, while it still hurts when he draws it, it is—” He paused, full lips quirking. “It is a sweet pain.”

Many centuries of literature had dwelled on that ‘sweet pain’, so this was certainly not news, but it was rare to discuss it with someone who had experienced it.

“What are unusual circumstances?”

“Outside of injury? If something has prevented him from feeding for a period. Difficult manipulations of the weather. Or if he journeys somewhere we cannot go, when he may store against future need. It is rare that we wouldn’t travel with him, however.”

“Evie, the Lord wants you.”

The speaker was a freckle-spattered young woman in a blue tea gown of the Continental style. Carstairs stood immediately, with a murmur of apology for Rian, and resumed his coat.

“This is Dama Hackett. Delia, Arianne Seaforth. Dama Hackett will look after you, Dama Seaforth.”

“Been having the speech?” Dama Hackett asked, as Carstairs strode briskly off. “Are you thoroughly mortified?”

“Just squirming.” Rian smiled at the red-headed woman, and added her to her list of possible suspects. “Are you—?”

“One of the Lord’s Bound? Yes and no—I’m technically still bound, but the Lord has begun the process of releasing the bond. Though they say it never leaves you fully. You’re my replacement.”

For some reason this made Rian feel awkward, but the woman patted her arm companionably.

“And so looking forward to it. I’m off to kick up my heels, disport on sun-kissed beaches, dance in the snow and racket about, mad and wild. To…to live a disorderly life.”

“Is it so very structured here?” Rian asked, as they headed back toward her bedroom.

“Your time will be structured. Sheerside itself can be very variable, since so many dignitaries visit to consult Lord Msrah, and new staff are always coming and going. Today everything’s been a hidden hive thanks to the First Minister arriving—or, more to the point, not leaving, and bringing extras. But—” The woman shrugged. “Two weeks from now will be my hundredth birthday, and I’ve seen the world change and change again, but I don’t feel like I’m living in it. And…” Her lips curved. “And, to be frank, Evie was starting to look a little too tempting. After dallying with both his parents over the years, and having wiped his bottom for him when he was a tot, I can’t quite reconcile myself to temptation.”

“That sounds very…”

“Incestuous? Or—that’s not the word for it, but let’s say the idea gave me pause. If you’ll take my advice, fill your time: whether it’s a side position with Lord Msrah’s administration or writing books or proving some extreme scholarly point, or competitive gardening. Something that can take you out of the role of Bound. Being paid well to present your wrist once a week throws all sorts of perspectives out of balance. Especially when those couple of minutes with the Lord are so impossibly intense.”

“There wasn’t any difficulty about leaving?”

“No. Don’t fret about that. After the initial ten years, you can give notice at any time.”

“Is turnover high?”

“Not really. People seem to fall into two groups—those who serve ten years and then leave, and those who stay for decades, until they grow restless. I don’t know of anyone who has broken contract with Lord Msrah, though of course it happens elsewhere. I’m second oldest of the Lord’s current Bound, and Evie is the youngest, having served two years. We do make a nodding acknowledgement to seniority, though those of us who work with the Lord’s administration complicate any attempt to keep a real hierarchy. Oh, good, they’ve brought up your trunk.”

And unpacked it, which was an aspect of a large household that Rian would need to keep in mind. There was nothing written down, but she could risk no hint of her true purpose. Could her target be among the servants? A place this large would have dozens.

“The house was partially wired last year, which is a luxury I most definitely will miss. I’ll leave you to dress for dinner. The Lord doesn’t always expect us to dine with State guests, but we do make useful table fillers—”

Sccrrrttt. Trrckttt.

Delia Hackett’s warm smile dropped away, and she backed toward the door, staring at a large box sitting on the dressing table. “What—?”

The thin, secretive sound came again, and Rian stared blankly at the box, square-tied with coarse twine. But then she remembered a sleek blond head, eyes determinedly lowered, and a box thrust at her during the last moments of the previous day’s school visit.

“It’s a gift from Eleri, one of my nieces. She’s following her parents’ profession.” Rian unpicked the knot, and lifted the box lid to reveal a layer of tissue paper shifting fitfully.

A wooden arm rose, dragging down the concealing paper, and Rian caught her breath—not so much at the sight of an automaton, but the particular form it took. There was even the faintest scent of turpentine, to conjure memories of sunny afternoons in the studio. Old paint had been refreshed, and posable wooden joints replaced by delicately-worked bronze-gold metal, but this was definitely a former friend, not seen for years.

“My father’s mannequin. He brought it back from Lutèce when I was ten,” Rian said, pulling away the last of the tissue. “I called him Monsieur Doré, and painted the monocle and moustache on him. I thought he’d been lost years ago. So Aedric had him.”

She hesitated, then lifted the now-still automaton out of the box and sat him on the dressing table. Over two feet tall, the mannequin was even heavier than she remembered, but the joints repositioned smoothly and silently, and the wood and metal figure could be sat upright without sliding.

“But it was trying to get out?” Dama Hackett took a step closer.

“Eleri probably added a movement,” Rian said. “I suppose it was meant to be a gift for my brother’s birthday, and the charge has run down.”

“And now I feel a fool,” Dama Hackett said. “And have opened wounds. I’m so sorry, child.”

With a charmingly inconsequential grace the woman brushed over awkwardness and moved on to instructions on how to reach the dining hall, before leaving Rian to freshen and dress for dinner. Rian closed the door firmly, then looked back at the dressing table.

The automaton now sat leaning forward, the head turned toward the door. The face was merely flat planes marked by the curling moustache and the thin gold circle of the monocle, lacking any eyes at all. Yet Rian felt quite certain it was looking at her.

“Well, Monsieur Doré,” she said. “You are a most unexpected development.”

The automaton shifted, attempting to stand, but then slumped, tilted, and remained unmoving as Rian returned to the dressing table.

Gingerly, she cleared the box away and then touched a wooden arm, not quite certain whether she should be afraid. There had been stories all through spring and summer of automatons spontaneously activating, running wild. But then, there’d been such stories since the first automatons.

When her cautious prodding produced no response, Rian laid the mannequin face down, and puzzled out a way to unfasten the back. The mechanism she exposed, intricate and cramped, centred around a globe of faded purple crystal.

Her eyebrows rose. “Now this is beyond excessive.”

Lifting the globe out of its casing, she held it toward the window. Fulgite had transformed Rome’s lightning into a workable force they called fulquus—the lightning horse—capable of hauling the world into a new age of machines powered by crystals. Which it had then promptly stranded, as supplies of fulgite ran painfully short.

An automaton the size of Monsieur Doré could be comfortably powered for weeks with a crystal a quarter the size of Rian’s smallest fingernail. This globe, as large as a pigeon’s egg, was tantamount to pulling a wheelbarrow with an Iron Dragon’s steam-forced engines. It represented a considerable amount of money, especially since the theft of Prytennia’s last fulgite shipment had led to a tripling of already intolerable prices. The shape was unusual: smooth and rounded instead of faceted, and it offered a puzzle, and a new layer of complexity to her investigation.

“You might have mentioned this, Eleri,” Rian murmured, and suspected her greatest challenge was not murderers or vampires, but three children who considered her a stranger and an interference. Perfectly true, of course, but they at least shared the same goal. Now did the gift represent a last-minute decision to trust—or a challenge?

“First step, a portable dynamo,” Rian said, since she could hardly send such an unusual piece to be charged with the rest of the household crystal. But a dynamo should be a simple enough request in an establishment the size of Sheerside House.

That decided, Rian fastened Monsieur Doré’s back, buried the fulgite in her tin of bath salts, and turned her thoughts to suitable dress for a dinner with the First Minister.