The Embankment was busier than normal. Not quite rush-hour, which should be renamed crawl-hour, but a little more frantic than expected for this time of the day. The cars and buses were vying for supremacy of the tarmac. Tricky potholes, hidden away in the gutters, were snagging drivers and riders alike. Millions of pounds would be spent in tyre-changing emporiums and on inner-tubes from cycling websites. London loves cyclists but treats them mean. The light was escaping over the rooftops and the streetlights had come on. Clever electronic sensors had been fitted to the lights, so that they turned themselves on now.
Morcant loved the city of the Mundane. He was a prince of the Iceni and a prominent figure in the world of the Under Folk. The last few days had been savage, and his kin were
