Rue growled at him. Never liken a lady to a horse.
“Pardon, how crass of me. I do apologise. Now, what are we looking for?”
Rue nosed towards the bookshelves.
Quesnel perused the titles. “Mostly military history, how exhausting. This must be the husband’s collection.”
Rue left him to it and trotted off to look for other clues. She sniffed her way to the bedroom, following the scent of shaving soap and sweaty sheets. It was clear whose side of the bed was whose. One smelled like horse and leather; the other like violets and shaved metal. Also, one side had a monocle and a tin of snuff – In bed? Disgusting – and the other a pot of cold cream and a lace bedcap. There was a book under the cap, all about the mythology of India.
Rue barked softly and Quesnel came running.
Her nose was pressed on the book.
Quesnel looked at it doubtfully. “You sure?”
Rue growled.
Quesnel pocketed the small volume.
Rue heard clattering outside in the hallway. She charged back towards the sitting room.
Quesnel followed. “What? What is it?”
She crouched.
“Already? There are a few books over there and I’ve barely recovered from the––” Then he heard the clattering. Military never could move quietly.
He jumped onto Rue’s back and seated himself, although not quite as well without Uncle Lyall’s guidance. Rue wanted to tell him to hold on tight but she hadn’t the vocal cords so she simply growled again.
The door behind them burst open. “Who’s there?” barked a voice.
Several soldiers came crashing into the room.
Rue leapt out of the window, landed, and took off, Quesnel jostling atop her.
“Was that a werewolf and a ruffian?” she heard one soldier ask another.
“Sure looks like. Curses, I knew Kingair couldn’t be trusted.”
The soldiers attained the window. Rue knew this without looking because they started firing rifles at them.
She charged towards the side entrance, hoping Uncle Lyall would keep the pack from getting involved. Soldiers couldn’t catch her, but if the pack gave chase she hadn’t a chance.
Shots fired again. Rue dodged and twisted mid-leap.
Quesnel made a keening warble of distress.
For one horrible moment she thought he had been hit.
But then the wolds resolved themselves into: “My hat. My favourite hat!”
The rifles fired again. Quesnel flattened himself against her, modesty and hat forgotten. He wrapped strong arms around her neck. Rue was glad for her supernatural form or she might have been strangled. She dampened down worry by telling herself that surely his hold would slacken and she would smell blood if he were hit. Still, her best option was to get him out of range quickly. She put on a burst of speed – rifles continued to fire. She wasn’t going to make it to the doorway.
She veered right, and with a tremendous heave, went up and over the outer wall, just clearing the ramparts with her back paws. She landed, stumbling only slightly and zipped away, impressed with herself, only to skid badly on the looser dirt of the promenade. She scrabbled and managed to stay on four feet, wondering how much longer she would have them. It was very dry in India so her tether to Uncle Lyall was most likely longer than the equivalent in London. But she was about to test those limits.
It turned out to stretch pretty far. She almost made the ship before the tether snapped.
Then poor Quesnel found himself sitting on top of a very naked, very human Rue in the middle of mudflats.
Rue said, the instant she recovered her voice, “You aren’t shot?”
Quesnel seemed to be less concerned by bullets than by decency. He proved himself uninjured by leaping off her as if she had stung him. He took a few steps, resolutely facing away. Then remembered manners and returned to help her stand. Then clapped one hand over his eyes.
Rue started to laugh. He looked as near to nervous hysteria as she had ever seen. “Stop. You’ll do yourself an injury.”
He faced away and began backing towards her, breathing deeply. “Mon petit chou, it is not that I am not impressed, but I seem to lack the resources to cope with this particular situation.”
Rue’s laughter turned to snorts. “Give me your coat, silly man.”
Rue had hoped it would be under more romantic circumstances that Quesnel would rip off his jacket with enthusiasm and speed. Truthfully, she had hoped to be naked with him in a more intimate setting. And not covered with foul-smelling mud. Sadly not the case.
Heads poked over the rails of her ship.
She could tell, even in the dim of evening, that Primrose was frowning. Percy too, probably.
She pulled on Quesnel’s frock coat and stood with as much dignity as possible under the circumstances. Her legs were showing like a French dancer’s but – and Rue could be proud of this – she had rather nice legs, even covered in mud. She felt a certain satisfaction in the way Quesnel’s breath hitched and the small side glances he kept sneaking despite himself. Then again she was practically naked – perhaps any rake would do the same in a similar position. Rue chose to be flattered.
Spoo ran down the gangplank and over to them.
“Lady Primrose sent this.” The deckling shoved one of Rue’s voluminous robes into her hands. “Lady Captain, that was aces! I didn’t know you could be all over wolf and such.”
“Thank you, Spoo.” Rue pulled on the robe over Quesnel’s coat.
Spoo said, “Can you teach me?”
“Afraid not. You have to be born this way.”
“Well, can I ride sometime, then?” Peppery as all get-up, was Spoo. “I’m sure likely to be better at it than him. Jiggling all over the place and falling off like that.”
Quesnel recovered some of his faculties. “Now wait just a moment there, you scrubber!”
Rue thought about Uncle Lyall’s recent advice. Teach her crew to ride, should she? “Sometime, Spoo, sometime soon.” With which she lead Quesnel, still pale with shock, and Spoo, ginning hugely, back aboard the ship.
The riflemen, having run down the stairs, through the yard and out of the barracks the regular way without supernatural speed, arrived at the promenade in time to see a very odd-looking family boarding their even odder-looking ship. The mother wore a robe, the man had only a shirt and waistcoat, and the child was dressed like a sailor. Assuming they were circus performers, the soldiers turned away to look for the werewolf intruder with the ruffian rider.
Rue instructed Quesnel to give the book to Percy to investigate and ignored the twins’ disgusted expressions.
“I may have to send ’round to the werewolf pack for the remains of my dress,” she said to Prim.
Prim sniffed. “Why bother?”
Quesnel looked crestfallen. “Not your dress and my hat? I hope that book was worth it.”
Rue patted at her head. Miraculously, her own hat had made it all the way through. Small blessing. Feeling buoyed by its survival, Rue scooped up her trailing robe and glided queen-like towards her quarters, leaving muddy footprints on the nice clean deck.
“I’m exhausted,” said Rue. “I believe I shall retire for a nap. Rouse me if anything interesting happens.”
“Rue,” said Primrose. “Do take a bath first, won’t you?”
Rue hadn’t been completely lying. It felt as if she hadn’t slept a wink since they landed in Bombay. She was dozing off when a knock came at her cabin door.
Groggy, she went to open it and found Percy, head down, absorbed in the book they’d so recently liberated.
“Yes, Percy?”
“Oh, good afternoon, Rue.”
“Night, I think it still is?” corrected Rue.
“Yes, well, what did you want?” Percy was staring at the book.
“You knocked on my door.”
“I did? Oh yes. I know who might have kidnapped that bridge’s wife, Mrs Flibbertyblue.”
“Briga
dier’s wife, Mrs Featherstonehaugh. She wasn’t kidnapped – at least, we don’t think so any more. And, Percy, I don’t think it proper for you and I to be alone together in my boudoir.”
Percy looked at her, genuinely bewildered. “Worried you might be overcome and take advantage of me?”
“No, Percy, not exactly. Strangely enough, I seem to be one of the few women in existence able to resist your copious charms.”
“I know,” said Percy morosely. “Terrible tragedy.”
“Oh, Percy, do stop it. I get enough of that from Quesnel.”
“Another tragedy.”
Rue sighed. “Fine, be like that. What was it you had to tell me? Do be quick before someone catches you here.” She turned and marched back to her bed, flopping on top of the counterpane. Percy followed, sitting gingerly next to her on the very edge.
“What have you learnt?” Rue asked, and regretted it the moment she said it. Too open-ended a question for Percy.
Percy took a deep breath and prattled. “Under Her Majesty’s Supernatural Acceptance Decree – referred to by the unfortunate colloquial moniker of SAD – all agreements between the East India Company and undead of conflicting nationalities are standardised. Bombay Presidency doesn’t deviate. It is based on the traditional legal language maintained unbroken over thousands of years. Very correct and vampiric, as one might expect. Hives have these things well in hand, and most local vampires are eager to treat with the British Empire because England has such a progressive stance on open acknowledgment and incorporation of the supernatural.”
Rue blinked at him. What had this to do with anything? Oh yes, she had asked him to look into the Rakshasas before they stole the book on mythology. “Percy, did you find something out particular to the Rakshasas?”
“No, not that.”
“Percy!” Rue was not in a temper to play flighty word games with her resident academic. Nor was she a particular fan of the Socratic method. It impinged upon efficiency. “Just tell me.”
Percy sniffed. “Very well. I believe we may be dealing with Vanaras, not local dissidents. Or, more precisely, the Vanaras may be local dissidents.”
Rue had never heard the word before but she wasn’t going to dignify him with continued questions. She crossed her arms and glared.
Percy, in classic Percy fashion, remained oblivious to her frustration. He said nothing further, apparently feeling that this one statement was sufficient to explain everything that had happened to them since they landed in Bombay.
Rue finally crumbled. “Percy, what do you mean by Vanaras? Is it a different tribe? A thing? A population category? Please, O brilliant one, illuminate me.”
Percy relaxed, enjoying his superior knowledge. “Actually, this book held the key. She had the pages marked. It was almost too easy.”
“Please, Percy, enlighten me with your genius.”
“Since you ask so nicely. Vanaras – to wit, mythological creatures featured in Hindu legends, most specifically the Epic of Ramayana which your Mrs Festtenhoop was reading.” He tapped a passage in the book Rue had so recently retrieved. “They are extolled as brave and inquisitive, amusing and mildly irritating, honourable and kind, and so forth. They are reputed to have, at various points in the distant past, assisted local kings and generals in resisting Rakshasa domination.”
“You think these legendary creatures might have intersections with reality?”
“Well, the first British explorers determined them mere legend, flights of local fancy. Since then, British forces in India have never encountered evidence of Vanara existence. But what if they were real? After all, the Rakshasas are real, although perhaps not exactly as depicted in the myths. What if Vanaras simply didn’t want to be found? India is a very big country.”
Rue nodded. “Go on. What other evidence do you propose to support their tangibility? After all, there are myths about Ganesha but I don’t hold that we will see a giant elephant-headed man with multiple arms marching over the horizon any time soon.”
“I am afraid I must appeal to Mr Darwin on this. We have now seen evidence with our own eyes that Indian Rakshasas differ from European vampires. Vanaras are reputed to be shape-shifters.”
“Are you saying these Vanaras are what amounts to India’s version of werewolves?” Rue couldn’t help but be deeply enthralled by the idea.
“Why ever not? Different kind of vampires, ergo different kind of werewolves. If we have supernatural men who change into beasts, what is to stop other countries from having their own version thereof? It would be terribly conceited of us to believe Europe unique in this matter. Only…”
“Only what?”
“I don’t think they are wolves exactly.”
“Oh, no?”
“If my translation is correct, of which I am certain, of course, for I am never wrong in the matter of foreign tongues, then the best wording would be, well…”
He trailed off, acutely embarrassed. Wherever else this new theory was taking him, it was into questionable territory. It must be very questionable indeed to unnerve the man who once publicly hypothesised that bacon could be blamed for the explosion of Mount Vesuvius.
“Go on, Percy. Out with it,” urged Rue.
“I suppose the best way of putting it would be… weremonkeys.”
Rue couldn’t help it – she snorted a surprised laugh. It seemed so very undignified. “Men who change into monkeys?”
Percy nodded. “Very, very large monkeys.”
“Goodness, it hardly seems worth the effort. There is not so much difference, is there?”
Percy shrugged. “I suppose monkeys are stronger, faster, and can climb with greater dexterity.”
Rue cocked her head. “Climbing could be useful. So where in India might we find these Vanaras, should they exist?”
“All the various epics describe them as forest-dwelling. So, unless all my suppositions are entirely misguided––”
“Never that.”
“Exactly, highly unlikely. Your Mrs Fetherpottoot––”
“Featherstonehaugh.”
“Will be in a forest. I suspect there’s one nearby.”
“You don’t know?”
“I can’t do everything for you,” protested Percy, forgetting who’d procured him the book in the first place.
It was as good a theory as any and at least it indicated a course of action. This was a great relief to a girl of Rue’s particular character. She could now start planning. “Percy?”
“Yes, Rue?”
“Please go and find out the location of the nearest forest.”
“But, Rue, I haven’t even finished this book.”
That’s Percy for you. “Well, if you can’t help, I suppose I could ask Quesnel to check his areal…”
“You think I can’t figure it out? I have maps.”
“Of course you do, Percy.”
Rue suddenly thought of something and went to rummage about in her peach dress from that morning’s tour of Bombay.
Absentmindedly she said, “Thank you, Percy dear, you’ve been extraordinarily useful.”
Percy puffed up with pride. “Yes, well.”
Rue emerged, triumphant. From the interior of her small bag she discovered the stone monkey on the cord she’d found after the flowers exploded.
“Percy, what if Miss Sekhmet was speaking for them?”
“For whom?” Now it was Percy’s turn to be confused.
Rue showed him the little statue. “The Vanaras.”
“She was a very odd sort of woman.”
“Terribly careless of us to let her get captured like that. But why didn’t she just say something? Was that why she kept harping on about my mother? Did she think the Shadow Council knew about the weremonkeys?”
Percy look shocked at the idea. “I highly doubt it. If they do exist – and it’s just a working hypothesis, mind you, Rue – they have taken a great deal of care not to be known by the British government.”
“Which wo
uld be why Miss Sekhmet kept being so mysterious. Then what was her negotiation about?”
Percy shrugged. “You can’t depend on me for everything, Rue, especially if it isn’t written down.”
“Of course not, Percy. I do apologise. Still” – Rue tapped Mrs Featherstonehaugh’s copy of the Epic of Ramayana – “exceptional work.”
Percy actually blushed. “It’s all in the books.”
Rue smiled. “Now if you will excuse me, I must find someone to take a message to Uncle Lyall. Spoo, I think. I like Spoo, very plucky.”
“Who?”
“Spoo.”
“Oh, the little lad who is always tormenting my valet?”
“Sort of.”
Percy nodded. “Yes, by all means send him off on an errand. Maybe Virgil will get some real work done for a change.”
“Now, Percy, don’t be mean. Virgil’s very diligent in your care. Why, I haven’t seen you once without a well-tied cravat or neat waistcoat this entire trip.”
“Oh, not that sort of work. There are manuscripts to dust and catalogue.”
“Percy, he is your valet. You hired him to tend to your appearance, not your books’ appearance.”
“I did?”
“Yes, you did. If you want an archivist, go and get yourself a clerk.”
Percy seemed much taken by this idea. “Do such useful persons exist for hire?”
“Of course they do. Now scoot.”
Percy scooted and Rue went to find herself a tea-gown so she was presentable enough to climb up top. Fortunately, Dama’s drones, accustomed to her predisposition for getting naked and stealing wolf shape, had supplied her with a full range of tea-gowns. They were technically the provenance of older married ladies, but allowances had to be made when balancing Rue’s relaxed attitude against her reputation. Tea-gowns were easy to get into and out of, and elegant despite their simplicity. Rue selected her favourite, one of light blue gauze that wrapped crosswise over her chest held fast by a wide belt. Over the gauze went an open overdress of dark blue velvet with white embroidery. It looked very modern and was comfortable, although perhaps not as cool as an evening in Bombay demanded. Nevertheless, she did not wish to offend the decklings’ sensibilities any more than she already had that night. She climbed up on deck.
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