Prudence

by Gail Carriger

  “That would be my guess. After all, the taxes were stolen too. Do you think we’ve stumbled into local economic hostility? How droll.”

  “Perhaps those black-clad men were Rakshasa drones putting a stop to any information that might be relayed against them.”

  “Or possibly these dissidents are setting the Rakshasas up to take the fall in an effort to keep the money themselves? From what Percy said, the locals are terrified by the very idea of vampires. Do they have the courage to undertake direct opposition? Who is Miss Sekhmet working with?”

  The flowers yielded up nothing concrete. Rue did find a small necklace – a bit of stone strung on a length of cord. The stone was carved to look like a monkey. Rue popped it into her reticule, uncertain of its significance – if any – and whether it might be connected to Miss Sekhmet, her kidnappers, or merely dropped by one of the hundreds milling about the square.

  Rue said, “We’d better find Percy and Primrose. We must get back to the Custard and we’ve no guide any more.”

  They extracted Prim, laden down with bolts of cloth and packages full of embroidered shawls and scarves. “What happened? Where’s our lovely guide? A flower cart exploded? Oh, Rue, really.”

  Quesnel said, deadpan, “Miss Tunstell, might I suggest in future that any time you hear an explosion, you check to see if our Prudence is involved?”

  Rue objected. “It wasn’t my fault. Never you mind it now, Prim. I will explain once we collect Percy. No sense in telling the story twice.”

  Percy was immersed in books and chillies. He was neither surprised nor worried to learn of the explosion, nor their lost guide. “I have a map of Bombay,” he said, as if that alone could safely get them through an alien city.

  Rue said on a sudden realisation, “Percy, we need books that illuminate the nature of the Rakshasas, and anything to do with the Indian agreement to the Supernatural Acceptance Decree. Anything at all. That is the parliamentary act under which the agreement that made local vampires tax collections would fall, yes?”

  Percy was easily distracted. “Nature of the Rakshasas? Analytical or mythological books?”

  “Both.”

  He dived back into the stacks all around him, emerging with various volumes and bound journals, a few rolled parchments, some looking quite old, and a string of dried red chillies draped about his neck. “It won’t be inexpensive.”

  Rue said, “I shall put them on the ship’s account. You’re going to have a great deal of researching to do when we get back. None of the rest of us reads Hindustani.”

  Percy gave her a look as much as to say tell me something I don’t know and could you please come up with something more challenging next time? He said none of this, however, only grunted.

  They purchased the books and the chilli necklace because it was better to stay on Percy’s good side at the moment. Laden down with these, as well as Prim’s fabric, they had to move quite slowly through the crowded streets.

  Quesnel refused to carry anything and insisted that Rue keep her parasol hand free in case of further attack. So the twins bore the brunt of the burden, with no little complaining. But their enemy, whomever they might be, seemed content having extracted Miss Sekhmet.

  No small thing, as it turned out. Without her guidance, it took them over an hour to find their way back to the steam carriage. Even with Percy’s command of the language, it was another two hours to direct the driver back to the ship. All this despite, or perhaps because of, Percy’s map. They had to stop several times for more of the spiced tea, which Rue was growing to enjoy and find most restorative, even in the heat. Starvation necessitated a pause for luncheon at a street-side stand where chunks of some mysterious meat of a remarkably vibrant red colour were roasted on sticks over large clay pots. Rue, Quesnel, and Prim nibbled happily, finding the flavour delicious. Percy refused, for fear of chilli, and only ate some fruit.

  To try to raise their spirits, Quesnel told them all about the working of the elephant head. Unfortunately, no one was quite as excited as he about engineering. Still, it was nice of him to try.

  Tired, dusty, sore, and overly hot, they finally returned to The Spotted Custard.

  Percy immediately made for his room to begin reading. “Percy,” instructed Rue, “do concentrate on the Rakshasas and how they relate to the agreement. This issue may become life-threatening by the time the sun sets. Please, don’t get distracted.”

  Percy took offence. “Me? I never get distracted.”

  No one dignified that with an answer.

  Prim retreated to her chambers to soak her sore feet in rose water, repair her hair, and admire her newly acquired fabrics.

  Quesnel paused before going to his rooms.

  Rue was too sunburned and grumpy to hope for another kiss.

  Apparently, he felt the same, for he only gave her a long look. Or possibly he still hadn’t decided if he wanted to be her tutor in matters of romance.

  “You are unharmed from the incident with the flowers, chérie?”

  “Only my pride. Thank you.”

  “If you’re a true sundowner, where is your royal gun?” Quesnel asked, offended on her behalf.

  Rue arched an eyebrow. “Good question. I shall bring it up with my family as soon as I get home.”

  “In the meantime, would you consider some form of projectile weapon? For my peace of mind, mon petit chou?”

  Rue said, “The difficulty is in how to keep it with me if I change shape.”

  “Rue.” He almost growled her name.

  “Fine,” said Rue. “I’ll consider it.”

  “That’s all I ask.” With which he made to leave.

  Rue forestalled him, “And have you been considering my offer? It’s nothing important, you do realise? It was only a thought.”

  He actually winced at that, which hurt in a way she hadn’t anticipated. Rue had thought she had presented him with an opportunity, but perhaps he saw it as a burden. Perhaps he had always seen her as nothing more than a meaningless flirtation and now she had placed him in an awkward position, as her chief engineer.

  But his charm returned in an instant. “It is a gift, mon petit chou, and it is important.”

  Rue stumbled on, “But if it’s too much a bother, I could seek elsewhere.”

  Quesnel’s face shuttered over. “You must do as you see fit, chérie.” Which, of course, was no answer at all. He gave her a small bow and retreated to his own quarters without even trying to touch her.

  Rue thought she saw a flicker of movement in the doorway of Percy’s room but wasn’t certain. Percy would already be occupied with his research. Perhaps Virgil was being nosy? Hard to keep one’s business private on an airship. She and Quesnel would have to be more careful about assignations in future.

  Rue caught herself out with that. Future assignations indeed! He hasn’t even considered my terms. He had taken Prim’s arm as they walked that morning. And he’d been very taken by Miss Sekhmet. Clearly, she had overblown his flirting, and her own appeal.

  He must be regretting last night’s embrace. In which case, Rue was back to square one as far as romance was concerned. It was a lot more painful than she had anticipated, rejection.

  Rue retired to her room to stare up at the ceiling and, in order to not dwell on a certain flirtatious French engineer, tried to think about who might have a grudge against Indian vampires. Which was the problem with vampires – almost everyone had a grudge against them.

  CHAPTER TEN

  VANARA

  R

  ue was wearing an old-fashioned skirt of lilac satin, mismatched to a bodice of burgundy velvet with elaborate beadwork about the neck. It was heavy for the weather and hugely inappropriate to Rue’s rank.

  “Goodness, chérie, you look like a lady of the night,” was Quesnel’s assessment. But his eyes were delighted and not at all critical as he took in her very well-emphasised figure.

  Rue tilted her black velvet hat at him. Three seasons old when there had been
a blessedly brief fad for sewing small gears to hatbands. “Do I really? Excellent!”

  “Prudence Maccon Akeldama!” was Prim’s opinion, rendered in a very high voice. “Is that rouge? On your lips? And your cheeks! And what on earth do you think you are wearing?” She looked as if she might faint.

  Quesnel said, “I think it’s delightfully flattering.”

  “It’s certainly rather tight.” Rue was trying not to breathe too deeply for fear of the seams bursting.

  Percy said, “Suspiciously accurate, as these things go, if you ask me.”

  Prim responded to her brother. “No one did ask. And I’m shocked you would know.”

  Rue was further delighted. She twirled. She’d even left her hair down. It felt very wicked. “Is it possible I have a bad case of the spotted crumpet?”

  Quesnel laughed. “The worst.”

  “I think we are ready to depart then.” Rue and Quesnel turned to leave.

  “This is a terrible idea,” said Prim. Not for the first time.

  “I agreed that Quesnel could come along only if you stopped questioning my judgement,” responded Rue. Also not for the first time.

  Before Prim could say anything more, Rue left the ship.

  Quesnel followed, chuckling.

  It was dark as they marched towards the werewolf barracks. It was the barracks that accounted for Rue’s attire. Only one type of woman visited a soldier’s den after hours. Rue tried to sashay in a manner she though such women might walk. This was not a role she felt comfortable in; she wasn’t familiar with the nuances. She tried for movements and expressions that would appear worldly, but from Quesnel’s ill-disguised grin she wasn’t doing very well.

  Quesnel was dressed in the part of her curator. Showing less skin, sadly, although his trousers were fantastically tight. His favourite top hat was turned to the seedy side through the addition of some very loud plaid ribbon. He’d even donned a small waxed moustache.

  The fortress was quiet – presumably most of the military were off looking for the missing Mrs Featherstonehaugh, or fighting dissidents, or wheeling cheese, or whatever. The werewolves, unable to work during the day, would no doubt be conducting the night-time search. Rue hoped to catch them before they left. Or more precisely, she hoped to catch her Uncle Lyall.

  There was a sleepy guard posted at the side entrance. He jumped to his feet at Quesnel’s throat clearing, but didn’t seem to know quite what to do when faced with a flesh dealer and his wares.

  “Good evening,” said Quesnel. “Mr Pinpod and a lady to call upon the Kingair Pack. Please inform them that we are here.”

  The man stuttered, “I wasn’t told. That is – your names are not on the list. Sir and, uh, lady.”

  “They most certainly are,” insisted Quesnel.

  The young man looked terrified. He couldn’t leave his post to check with his superiors, and he didn’t want to cause a scandal.

  “Oh dear. If you could wait a moment, miss, my lady? They should be surfacing soon.”

  No doubt he meant it literally. Werewolf attachments were often housed underground, for everyone’s safety.

  “At ease, private,” came a calm soft voice, and Uncle Lyall materialised out of the shadows behind the relieved guard. “The lady is not unexpected.”

  Rue batted her lashes. “La, sir!” she simpered.

  The guard eagerly ceded all responsibility to Lyall’s authority. He resumed his post while the werewolf guided them inside and out of sight around the corner of a munitions building. “Herself is in a temper. I wouldn’t bother her if I were you. Can I help?” He didn’t even flinch at Rue’s attire.

  Rue smiled hopefully. “Actually it was you I wanted to see. It’s Mrs Featherstonehaugh – I think she may be more important than anyone realised. I’d like to know more about her. Anything you can tell me would be useful.”

  Uncle Lyall shrugged. “We didn’t socialise, I’m afraid. The brigadier is happy to have a werewolf attachment but unhappy to have a Scottish one. The pack was never invited to his private functions. Mrs Featherstonehaugh seemed nice enough, rather young. Bookish.”

  Rue perked up. “What did she like to read?”

  “I never had the opportunity to ask. Do you think it important?”

  “I’ve been charged with investigating,” Rue replied cautiously. Was this estranged former member of Paw’s pack trustworthy?

  Uncle Lyall didn’t seem to take this amiss. “Have you indeed? Well, my offer stands.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the brigadier’s quarters are there, second storey window. You could borrow my form and take a look for yourself if you like. He’s out of town. Guards on the first floor.”

  Rue considered. “If I’m seen, Kingair would be blamed.”

  Uncle Lyall shrugged. “We’re already in the soup for losing the chit in the first place.”

  Quesnel looked suspicious. “That’s right. It was pack acting escort. You’re certain you didn’t socialise with Mrs Featherstonehaugh at that time? It’s a long journey back from the hills.”

  Uncle Lyall didn’t resent his honesty being questioned. “I wasn’t with them. Left behind to act as pack anchor.” His tone spoke volumes. Clearly he felt that if he had been with them, they wouldn’t have lost the girl, and he blamed himself for not having kept a closer eye on things.

  Rue thought for a moment. “Then I accept your offer. Have I ever stolen your form before, uncle?” She had been a holy terror in her childhood on this matter.

  Uncle Lyall chose not to answer.

  Quesnel said, “Mon petit chou, shouldn’t you consider your nice dress?”

  Rue snorted at him.

  Quesnel managed to look both guilty and determined. “Well, I suppose we could get you another one.”

  Rue wasn’t sure why but something in his tone both embarrassed and thrilled in a way that no romantic comment would have. He likes it when I look a little less buttoned up, does he? I’ll have to remember that.

  Uncle Lyall looked sharply at the young man but was too much a gentleman to say anything. Rue had the distinct impression he was taking mental notes on the flirtation.

  Rue took her gloves off and touched the back of Uncle Lyall’s bare hand to distract him.

  It was painful. It was always painful. More painful even than the day before she got her monthly courses. She remembered, before she had matured as a woman, that the shift had not hurt when she was a child. But when she stopped growing and her bones firmed into their adult shape, the fracturing of those bones into wolf was no longer mere discomfort – it was agony. But she had withstood it before and she would again.

  Her revealing tight velvet bodice tore beyond repair. The skirt, tight over hips and posterior, also ripped. Rue wanted to console the crestfallen Quesnel that she could certainly lay her hands on more tight dresses. Goodness, if that was what it took to get him looking at her like that, she’d start a new trend as soon as they returned to London.

  The hat stayed on her head. It was small enough to perch between her ears. Rue let it be. At least she could save one article of clothing.

  Uncle Lyall, being the type, made quick work helping her to extract herself from the remains of her costume.

  Rue yipped her gratitude and bounded towards the officers’ residence.

  “How on earth is she going to look through books without fingers?” Quesnel wanted to know.

  “I take it once she touches one of us she is in wolf form and can’t turn back to human voluntarily?”

  “Not that I’ve ever heard.” Quesnel was careful not to give anything away.

  “Very intriguing,” said Uncle Lyall.

  Rue bounded back, supernatural ears having caught the entire conversation. She crouched in front of Quesnel expectantly.

  “Oh no,” said the young man, blushing tomato red. “Chérie, I couldn’t possibly. Not ride a lady.”

  The corners of Uncle Lyall’s mouth twitched. He smelled like the poma
de Dama and Uncle Rabiffano favoured. Guess it is more popular than I thought. He must import it at great expense. She sniffed deeper. There was also a hint of sandalwood and fresh linens, and perhaps smoked fish on his breath.

  Rue growled at Quesnel. He smelled of boiler smoke and hot coals and a little lime.

  Uncle Lyall said, “She’s right. Time is getting on. Best if I don’t go. If you’re caught, someone has to get you out.”

  “But you’ve lost your wolf form.”

  “Did I say I would need to fight? Dear boy, no, that’s not my style at all.”

  Rue growled at Quesnel again.

  With a sigh he slung a leg over and squatted on top of her gingerly.

  Rue rose up precipitously.

  Quesnel made a pathetic noise of discomfort.

  Professor Lyall gave him brief instructions on wolf riding – how to lean forwards and tuck his feet up and back. Quesnel leaned, stiff and uncomfortable. It was a good thing he was relatively slight or Rue’s supernatural strength would have struggled to make up for the awkwardness of disproportionate mass.

  “You have your father’s markings, little one,” said Uncle Lyall. “But, like me, you’re not so very big. Speedy, I suspect?”

  Rue lolled her tongue in agreement.

  “He’s as settled as he’s going to be. In future, you might consider training your crew in wolf riding.” Professor Lyall stepped away, not a hair out of place. Well, to be fair, it was very good pomade. He did not seem at all perturbed to be mortal. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself. Hard to tell – he was a master of the impassive. Rue envied him that.

  Quesnel was as affixed as he was likely to get, so Rue took off. She got up a good speed, showing off for her Uncle Lyall, and leapt. The brigadier’s window was large and wide open. Being inside a military fortress and up a storey, the man clearly felt little need to take precautions. Well, there was a werewolf regiment nearby, and his wife was already missing.

  Rue sailed through, landing softly in the sitting room.

  Quesnel tumbled off, shaken. “Not quite like riding a horse, is it?”