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Serpentine made her careful way through the green-tipped twilight of the Wood of St. John, following the barest echoless hum of her sister's voice. She walked with the elegant mincing steps of a cat in snow, and there was the suggestion of hesitation about her without it ever interrupting her stride. Rather the place of the Burnt Oak, with the strained peace that came of being on the edge of Ware grounds, with forcing yourself not to disturb them. Rather the forced amicability of the Floating Market, where each faction minded (and buried) their own. Rather even Warren Street, the twists and turns, the shouldn't mustn't daren't fight, for fear of what might find you…
Rather anything than this. The trees seemed to weave nets of silence, heavy and stultifying and omnipresent. The beams of sun sliding their slick way between leaves grasped her like fingers, warmed and slowed and dulled her wits; it was the greatest of efforts to concentrate enough to see the ghost-thin threads of rails to her left, the dell-dip in the grass where the platform must end.
This was part of the plan, of course. Victoria had been – slipping. Since the cold winter when the Velvets had appeared, since flattery and worthless knick-knacks (and the promise of a lack of a chill in the air) had allowed the Raven's Court to take their slow hold. Now Serpentine's closest sister – for there was a saying there, about enemies, about friends – was hoping that the place would ensure her safety (which it would) and her win, both.
Dulled wits or not, there was no chance of the latter.
A strong (clattering roaring rushing) breeze stirred the leaves in the forest, an impossible refraction of light far closer than it should have been; Serpentine shook herself out of her thoughts and refocused her energies on staying where a path might have pretended to be, on minding the barely visible Gap.
Her sister was waiting for her in a glade among the trees (or, out of another pair of eyes, in a place where the platform widened a little.) Serpentine would have laughed at the retinue she'd brought with her, but her eyes instantly went to the stillness of the woman at her right hand. Yes, she thought to herself, yes that will do nicely. It wasn't as though this had ever been what Victoria thought it was, anyway.
Arrayed in front of the corpulent black-clad figure of her sister - settled as she was into a throne-like chair that a white-faced man-at-arms must have carried, discreetly panting now against a tree – was a splendid chess set. The pawns were faceless figures, the court carved as fantastical beasts; only the Kings and Queens had been made to look human. The black queen had wild hair haloing her head to serve as a crown; her king was bland and barely noticeable. The white king was clad in a black suit, his round face smug and self-satisfied; his queen was veined with caramel and gold. This time there was nothing to derail Serpentine's laugh, and it rang rich and full through the glade.
"You will persist on thinking yourself the cleverer of us? Do you have no idea how the game works?"
"You will leave your weapons where you stand." Expressionless.
"Of course." Serpentine's smile was sharper than any of the blades she carried, and she set herself to shedding them.
This process took some time. Before she had even got to those above her waist the men-at-arms were sniggering behind their hands; before she had finished pulling the knives from her hair even the previously impassive woman to her sister's right was ducking her head to hide the upward creep of her lips. Only Victoria was not amused. Victoria was never amused.
Leaving behind even her boots – spring-loaded knives in the heels, compartments she had no wish for her sister to know about built into the soles – Serpentine walked barefoot to the table, settling herself into the far more modest wooden chair that faced Victoria.
"Hello, dearest." Serpentine leaned back, the wood creaking under her, and hooked one leg over the arm of her chair. "It's always a pleasure."
Victoria watched her impassively. Serpentine wasn't sure if the abundant pale skin of her face was capable of forming expressions, any longer.
"You will cease your incursions," she said.
"No pleasantries? Not even a quick hello for the favourite thorn in your side?" She waved a hand casually before Victoria could reply. "No matter. It's enough that you flatter me; you suppose I have any influence over the Shepherds, hold sway over Fairlop's girls?"
"If I win you will cease your incursions," Victoria repeated doggedly, ignoring her in the practised way of older siblings everywhere, "leave my grounds and my vassals unmolested, prevent your rabble from blockading – "
"And when I win?" Her sharp question was a broken rail to Victoria's train of thought. Another rattling gleaming wind-rush battered at the silence between them, as Victoria considered her answer.
"If," Victoria eventually corrected her coldly. "If you win, there are – trade partnerships, beneficial contacts – "
"Her," Serpentine said shortly, nodding at the woman next to Victoria, whose caramel skin flushed a little at the notice.
"Hunter?" Victoria's voice was incredulous. "She's in my employ, not my property. Short of breaking her contract…"
"I am willing," Hunter cut in, in a smooth, low voice.
"Then it's settled," Serpentine pronounced. She hadn't been expecting anything nearly so interesting out of this.
"You always were a fool," Victoria answered.
"And you always underestimated me. After you, my dear." She indicated the board with an ironically bowed head, not shifting her deliberately casual pose even slightly as the game began.
It was a game that was steeply lopsided in speed, in strategy, in – as became increasingly evident – skill. And – because this was London Below, because nothing was ever as it seemed – the stakes were higher than just what lay on the table between them.
Reaching quickly for a pawn, Serpentine's arm brushed one of her knights; tracks and lines and miles away her armourer inexplicably lost her footing. A white pawn Serpentine captured was rolled under Victoria's finger for a moment and then, with one violent flick, propelled over the edge of the table; from somewhere to behind her a cry was sharply cut off by the glistening, scything wind.
A laugh startled out of Serpentine, high and brief.
"Do you really think yourself untouchable? Or are you just that stupid?"
"You dare – "
"Oh, I dare," Serpentine said, and calmly captured Victoria's queen. "Checkmate, I believe?"
The folds of flesh shifted and resettled around Victoria's eyes. It looked rather as though she was attempting a smile.
"And for such low stakes," she said, still managing to be smug and making no effort to hide it.
Serpentine regarded her pityingly through narrowed eyes for a moment, reaching forward to pick up the white queen and roll it slowly between her fingers.
(Hunter released a barely audible breath.)
"Safer that way," she eventually countered. "I choose not to barter with things outside of my control."
"Outside of my - ?"
"You must ask the Raven King how he takes to losing one of his employees."
The slow collapse of her bravado was a pathetic thing to watch. Victoria was old, and weak, and about as powerful as one of her chess pawns; Serpentine watched disdainfully as her vassals packed her up like the playthings, and carted her away.
Hunter stood to one side, watching, her face impassive. Once they had disappeared between the trees, keeping far away from the grinding rush of invisible trains, she folded her arms in front of her with the fingers of one hand tightly wrapped about the leather bracer on the opposite wrist.
"You wish me to swear fealty?" Her voice shook almost imperceptibly, as Serpentine's fingers moved against the gold-veined chess piece she still held.
Serpentine's lips curled into a slow and satisfied smirk and her tongue flicked across her lips.
"I don't think you have it in you to be a vassal," she answered. "No, I have something else entirely in mind for you."
And she stroked her fingers slowly, deliberately, over the elegantly carved queen.