TEN
Vanara
Rue 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 pomade 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?”
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 led 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.”
“Brigadier’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 looked 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 would 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.
“Spoo, walk with me?”
Spoo swung out of her hammock and joined Rue in drifting to the other end of the ship, away from the curious ears of other decklings.
“Do you need my advice about something, Lady Captain?” asked Spoo with all the serious maturity of a ten-year-old.
“That Mr Lefoux ain’t good husband material,” offered Spoo immediately, sounding a great deal like some disapproving aged aunt.
“Not that sort of advice, Spoo. Although as it happens, I wholeheartedly agree with you.”
“What then?”
“I have a very grave and possibly dangerous mission for you.”
Spoo straightened her spine, thrilled by the prospect. “I’m your man, Lady Captain.”
Rue raised her eyebrows. “Well, if you put it like that. There is a werewolf in residence at the local barracks. He’s with the regiment. Beta by pack standing, goes by the name of Lyall. Have you heard of him?”
Spoo shook her head, eyes wide. “Werewolf like you was earlier, Lady Captain?”
“Very like. Now, I need you to get a message to him and they may not be very welcoming to strangers right now. See that long brick building beyond the steeple of that church? You’ll need to argue your way in and find the underground residencies. Say to anyone you encounter that you have a very important message for Kingair from Lady Akeldama about a recent upset. This is werewolf not military business. The werewolves might have left by now, but don’t give the message to anyone but Professor Lyall, not even Lady Kingair.”
Spoo nodded, small face very serious. “I understand, Lady Captain. What’s the message?”
Rue gave Spoo the stone monkey on the cord. She trusted her instincts, and hoped that Professor Lyall would know enough about local custom to connect this to the Vanaras. Was he scientist enough to figure it out or would he be trapped in the belief that there was only one kind of shape–wolf? Rue didn’t entirely believe Percy’s theory herself. Hidden weremonkeys? The very idea! But then again, it might just be outrageous enough to be true.
Spoo looked at the funny little necklace doubtfully. “That’s all?”
“And ask if I can have my dress and shoes back, would you? And Mr Lefoux’s hat, perhaps?”
Spoo looked scandalised. “I don’t think I want to know.”
“Good, because I’m not going to explain further.”
Spoo popped the monkey charm about her own neck. “Aye aye, Lady Captain.”
Rue was about to rouse the others to extend the gangplank, when Spoo waved an airy hand. “Gangplanks are for you proper types.” Without further ado she ran, grabbed a dangling rope on the landward side of the ship, and leapt over the railing.
Rue’s hands went to her mouth, stifling a scream. Then she realised this must be a common deckling activity, for the rope was rigged to respond to Spoo’s slight weight. It belayed down rapidly but not too rapidly. Spoo continued swinging back and forth until it had lowered her almost to the ground, at which juncture she let go and dropped the remaining distance. The rope rebounded, winding back up to the ship, leaving Spoo alone on the mudflats. She stuffed her hands into her jodhpurs, lowered her cap, and scurried towards the military fortress in a purposeful manner.
“I wonder if I can get her to teach me that trick,” said Rue.
“Absolutely not,” said Primrose, coming up behind her. “Now come and have some tea. You look like death warmed over without exorcism.”