“Lady Daphne, are you well?” Wright said, walking toward her. She looked back over her shoulder at the grisly lump on the threshold. She was utterly certain the dead man was Wright, which meant… what? Daphne felt rooted to the spot, horror stunning her. It was impossible, but true. This was not Wright. Someone had taken his place. Someone who might alter his body to play the part of a dead man. A Shaper.
Wright looked past her. “What is that?” he said, taking a few steps past her. She grabbed his coat to stop him. Her mind was still too stunned for rational thought, but in her heart she knew she could not permit him to see the body.
“A… delivery,” she blurted out. “It is nothing—come with me, Captain Fletcher left instructions—”
He pulled free of her grasp and kept walking. She knew the moment he realized what it was when he stopped abruptly and half-turned toward her. “A body?” he said. “Lady Daphne, did they bring it to you? You should not have had to witness such—faugh, it stinks!”
She examined him as thoroughly as she could, backlit as he was by the sun shining through the doorway. He was a good substitute, almost perfect except for the eyes, which, now that she was looking at them, now that she knew what to look for, were a paler blue than Wright’s. But then, eye color could not be Shaped. And the man she had seen at the palace and later in the bazaar, the one she had pursued, was the right height and build to imitate Wright. All he had had to do was change his skin color and the shape of his face, and any Shaper was easily capable of that.
Wright stepped back toward her and took her arm. “You are in shock,” he said, “you should lie down.”
“Yes, I—come with me, and they will remove the body,” Daphne said.
The servant who had insisted on Daphne coming to the door ran back toward them, but skidded on the tiles, staring at Wright. He turned back and looked at the corpse, then at Wright. “Rakshasa,” he whispered, then screamed something else in Hindoostani and fled in the direction of the front door. He skidded again before reaching the body, reversed direction, and slammed through the dining room door.
“What? Why does he believe I am a demon?” Wright turned a confused look on Daphne. He looked so normal. It simply could not be true. Such things only happened in stories. And yet—
On an impulse, she reached out to touch his cheek. “Remarkable,” she said, not thinking to be afraid in her astonishment. “Who are you?”
Wright’s brow furrowed. “Lady Daphne?”
“You must have—it was the day of the riot, was it not? And you captured poor Lieutenant Wright, and—who are you, and what do you want?”
The false Wright’s eyes flicked again to the body but now focused more intently on it. In a flash, his pleasant, confused expression transformed into something hard and cruel. Without a word, he shoved Daphne and sprinted for the door.
The pain of hitting the floor broke Daphne out of her reverie. She cursed herself. She should have pretended ignorance, kept the Shaper there until the officers returned and could capture him. Cursing again, she Skipped to the courtyard and looked around. The Shaper was already out of the Residence walls and diving into the crowd of people thronging the road, no doubt Shaping his legs to be as fleet as a deer. She took a deep breath and focused on following his essence, but it was already distorting out of recognition as his Shaping altered his body. Daphne Skipped again, higher this time, and surveyed the crowd. She could still find him visually. There he was, dodging down an alley. She Skipped to a point just in front of him and planted herself to stop him.
The Shaper kept running. Just before he would have plowed into her, he leaped, an impossible jump, over her head. Daphne spun around and Skipped after him, throwing herself at his legs. They were long and thin under his uniform trousers, and his boots had swelled and split from the force of his calves distending for that jump. The Shaper kicked her hard in the jaw, making her cry out and release him. Blinking away tears of pain, she stood and ran after him, her face hurting enough that she could not yet concentrate for a Skip.
He ran as if his life depended on it, which was probably true. Daphne’s short legs ached with the effort of trying to catch him. She followed the sound of outraged cries as the Shaper shoved men and women out of his way. The bright sun beat down upon her as she ran, sweating from heat and exertion. Her jaw throbbed, and she rubbed it fiercely, willing the pain to diminish and permit her to Skip once more. She tripped over a beggar seated cross-legged directly in her path, spat a hasty apology over her shoulder, and pushed herself to run faster.
Finally, she Skipped and got ahead of him again. She staggered into a couple of men who grabbed her and held her upright. “Let me go!” she shrieked, struggling against their grip. The Shaper turned a corner and disappeared. She wrenched free of their helping hands and Skipped high above the streets, searching for her quarry. There, turning another corner. She Skipped to the air just above him, timing it so she fell the last few feet and struck his back, knocking him down with the momentum of her fall.
He shouted in surprise and twisted, taking Daphne with him. “You will return to the Residence with me, and Captain Fletcher will learn the truth!” she shouted. The Shaper responded with a gabble of Hindoostani, struggling against her hold. Startled, Daphne took a better look at him. He was the right size, and his hair was black, but he was not the Shaper.
With an oath, she was high in the sky again, searching for the Shaper. People gaped up at her, pointing, as she Skipped repeatedly to keep herself in position, almost hovering above Madhyapatnam. Everyone had black hair. Half of them were men. She had lost him.
Wanting to weep with rage and humiliation, she Bounded back to the Residence hallway, startling Sir Rodney. He swore, apologized, and said, “What is this about a body?” Men in dark civilian coats rushed past, giving the impression of ants hurrying to rebuild their nest.
“We have been cruelly tricked,” Daphne said, “and Captain Fletcher must return immediately.”
“Very well, but who is dead? Lady Daphne, you should have sent for someone. You should not have been subjected to such a sight.”
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, such a perfect echo of the Shaper descending only moments before—surely it had not been more than fifteen minutes?—that Daphne’s heart raced. “Is anything the matter?” Bess said.
“Everything,” Daphne said. “You must call the officers back. We have been tricked, and I do not know what to do next.”
Sir Rodney, who had gone to crouch next to the body that still had not been removed, straightened with a surprised oath. “Lieutenant Wright!” he exclaimed. “But this man has been dead for at least three days!”
“I cannot explain it now, Sir Rodney, but the man we believed was Lieutenant Wright was an imposter. A Shaper.” Daphne felt even wearier than her exertions could account for, weary and filled with irrational guilt over not having realized the trick sooner. “It must wait for the others to return. Please, have someone care for the lieutenant’s body? I cannot bear to look at it longer.”
“I should say not,” Sir Rodney said. Men in red coats, soldiers from the battalion, stood grouped around the body as if they had never seen one before. Daphne turned and walked with slow, weary steps toward the drawing room where Fletcher had assured her, only hours before, that Wright was simply avoiding him.
How had the Shaper done it? Making himself look like Wright was one thing; aping his mannerisms and knowledge was surely impossible. She thought back over the days since the Shaper must have taken Wright’s place. He had been quieter, had not flirted with her or Bess at all, had spent the evenings in his room rather than socialize… she had noticed the difference, but put it down to the lingering effects of his injury. He had succeeded primarily because none of them had even considered the possibility he was not who he appeared to be. After all, why would they?
“Daphne, sit, you look as if you might fall down if you do not,” Bess said. “I have told Captain Fletcher and Ensign Phillips to return, t
hat… how is it possible that Lieutenant Wright is three days dead? Daphne?”
“A Shaper took his place,” Daphne said, sinking into a seat by feel, “and I cannot imagine our enemy Amitabh did not have something to do with it. Please, do not ask me, Bess, I do not believe I can repeat the story twice.”
“A Shaper!” Bess fell silent, for which Daphne was grateful. She was angry with herself for not having captured the man, and had to remind herself that no guilt attached to that failure. She had done her best, but the Shaper knew Madhyapatnam as she did not, and could alter his body to become anything he wanted: the perfect runner, the perfect fighter, the perfect imitation. She should not castigate herself for not apprehending him.
Even so, her failure burned beneath her skin. How much might Fletcher have learned from interrogating him? Instinct told her as reason could not that the Shaper was connected to Amitabh—had likely been sent by him, to do… what? Spy on them? That seemed reasonable. The more she thought about it, the more facts fell into place. The Shaper had known where to find Vaachaspati because Fletcher and the officers had sought out the house where he had told stories in case she and Fletcher needed assistance. And those two soldiers whose throats had been slit last night—they would not have suspected any evil of a comrade. The Shaper’s guise had been perfect.
She groaned, and Bess said, “Is something amiss?”
“No, it is just… I cannot believe that Shaper lived among us for three days without us knowing it.”
“I still do not understand. Surely even a Shaper could not have effected so perfect an illusion? There must be some other explanation.”
Daphne shook her head. “It was just our bad luck that among our number we had one whose physique and coloring were enough similar to the Shaper’s that he needed only a few alterations. A Shaper may even alter the sound of his voice, did you know that? I attended a performance once in which a singer, a singer who was also a Shaper, sang in thirteen different voices in a single night.”
“It is astonishing,” Bess said, and once more fell silent.
The door opened. “What the devil is going on around here?” Ainsworth said. He and Phillips entered the room, both of them red-faced and sweaty with running. “Your message was quite cryptic, Miss Hanley.”
“We must wait for Captain Fletcher—”
“Miss Hanley told us Wright is dead,” Ainsworth said. “You must tell us something, Lady Daphne, or I for one will run mad.”
Daphne regarded his desperate, frustrated face, and could not find it in her to deny him. “Very well,” she said, “but you must sit quietly, and not ask any questions until I finish, or you will simply confuse things further.”
She intended only to gloss over the events of the morning, but found herself adding details for clarification, and in the end told Ainsworth and Phillips the whole story, including her conclusions about what the Shaper had done in Wright’s form. “Now if only Captain Fletcher would return,” she concluded, “we might begin devising a plan to mitigate this disaster.”
“Disaster indeed,” Phillips said. “That Shaper knows all our plans. If he is employed by Amitabh—who knows what damage he might do?”
“We must assume Amitabh knows we are hunting him, and that we know his hiding place,” Ainsworth said. “He will be prepared to repel an attack. Surprise was to be key to our assault, and we no longer have that.”
“Then you know where he is?” Bess said.
“We learned of an abandoned estate, on the outskirts of Madhyapatnam northward, that would be an ideal hiding place for anyone seeking to conceal an army.” Ainsworth paced beneath the windows, exactly where Fletcher had that morning. “We were returning when Miss Hanley summoned us back.”
“But the Shaper does not know that,” Daphne said. “He fled before your return.”
“It is irrelevant in any case,” Ainsworth said. “Amitabh will surely move as soon as the Shaper reports he has been exposed. He will disperse his army into the populace to hide until he calls them up for an attack.”
“I may still explore—”
“No, Lady Daphne,” Ainsworth and Phillips said as one. “It was one thing, you risking yourself in reconnaissance when we thought we were acting in secrecy,” Ainsworth went on. “But the Shaper knows of that plan. You would simply be walking into a trap.”
“So there is nothing for it but to make a new plan,” Phillips said, “as soon as Captain Fletcher returns.”
“But—” Daphne said, then subsided. Phillips was correct; there was nothing else to do but wait.
“Let us eat something,” Ainsworth suggested, “and then I propose to search Wright’s room, in case the Shaper left anything of himself behind.
It was a good idea, though Daphne had to stifle some unworthy thoughts about Ainsworth and his appetite. She herself could only pick at her meal, straining to hear the sound of the outer door opening and Fletcher’s quick stride crossing the hall. She longed to see him, and not for the usual reasons; she felt she would not be truly comfortable until he told her, himself, that she was not to blame for losing the Shaper. She told herself it was foolishness, that she did not need his good opinion, but she thought of his smile, and the comforting touch of his hand, and knew her heart was utterly lost.
In which the principles of Bounding lead to another discovery, less shocking
fter the meal, Daphne and Bess retreated to the drawing room, closing the shutters against the noon sun. Bess soon became engaged in Speaking, and since Daphne felt it would annoy her for Daphne to ask repeatedly to whom she was Speaking, she reclined on one of the sofas and watched dust motes dance in the currents of air flowing from somewhere near the ceiling. She felt bone-weary and emotionally drained, too tired to join in Ainsworth and Phillips’ search, too tired even to read. Eventually she nodded off and dreamed of dancing with Wright, surrounded by a thousand faceless men in uniform. In the dream, she was as tall as he, and they danced a dance she had never heard of in the waking world. As they danced, Wright’s face grew darker, began to rot, and she dragged herself out of the nightmare just as the flesh slipped from his skull.
Nothing appeared to have changed. Bess still sat with her head tilted back. The room was sufficiently shielded from the sun that with its northern exposure she could not immediately guess what time it was. Daphne stretched and tried to put the horror of her nightmare behind her.
“Are you rested?” Bess said. She still sat in the attitude of a Speaker, her eyes closed, but Daphne knew her hearing was acute. “You seemed to need sleep badly.”
“I suppose I did. What time is it?”
“I don’t know. After four o’clock, I believe.”
Daphne sat up straight. “And Captain Fletcher has not yet returned?”
Bess opened her eyes. Her expression was tense and strained. “We would have woken you if he had.”
“But—you did tell him to return?”
“I have Spoken to him five times since you first asked me to summon the officers back. I have no way of knowing if he hears me, or what might account for his delay. I stopped Speaking to him an hour ago in fear that I might be interrupting some delicate negotiation. I am certain there is a good explanation for his absence, Daphne.”
“Something is wrong. I am certain of it. I cannot imagine anything more important than the news that one of our own has been murdered and replaced by an imposter.” Daphne rose and immediately felt light-headed. “We must search for him.”
“How? Madhyapatnam may not be as large as Calcutta, but it is still enormous.”
“I do not know, yet. Where are Captain Ainsworth and Ensign Phillips?”
Bess sighed. “Out searching for Captain Fletcher. They do not believe it is impossible either.”
“I am so glad. I will change my clothing and join them.”
She ran to her room, not even thinking to Bound there in her agitation. Whatever had happened to Fletcher, they would find him, she was certain of it. Swiftly she donned her Bo
under uniform and secured her hair more carefully. They would find him, and he would think of some way to defeat Amitabh and his Shaper. There was no reason to fear for him—he was a capable officer and strong—but tendrils of doubt crept into her thoughts. She stomped them out ruthlessly and ran downstairs. Perhaps she should have Bess call Ainsworth and Phillips back, so they could coordinate their search—but no, if they had made progress she did not want to ruin it. She would find them herself, and proceed from there.
At the bottom of the steps she stopped, startled. “Major Schofeld,” she said, a little breathlessly. “I did not know you were here.”
“Delivery for Sir Rodney,” Schofeld said, smiling pleasantly. “How nice to see you, Lady Daphne. May I join you in the drawing room? I am invited for dinner, and I would enjoy talking to you until then.”
Daphne suppressed a shudder. “No, Major, I must—of course I would enjoy—but I am on an errand and may not stay.”
“Oh? Is it anything I might help with?”
“No, I—wait, yes, Major, you will be of great help!” Schofeld might dislike Fletcher, but he could not wish any real harm to come to him. “Captain Fletcher is missing, and there are only three of us to search. Will you help?”
Schofeld made the tiniest expression of distaste before his features smoothed into affability once more. “Missing? For how long?”
“Oh, perhaps five hours? But—”
“Five hours is not long enough to worry. I am certain he will return in time for dinner.”
“No, Major, he was summoned back and has not returned, and there is such news that I know he would have returned had he been able. I fear something has happened to him.”
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