FIFTEEN

Weremonkeys in Dressing-Gowns

Ouch. After two stints as a weremonkey, Rue had almost forgotten how much more painful full animal shift was. Her bones broke and re-formed. Her senses altered entirely–her nose became primary, her ears secondary, her sight limited by the reds fading away. Given that everything was taking place under a silvered moon and in flickering firelight, colour was not so great a loss. It was a bit like suddenly forgetting how good cheese tasted: convenient in that it kept one from craving cheese; inconvenient in that one no longer got to eat cheese.

Rue’s whiskers twitched. The Vanara odour was all warm fur, dried moss, and some exotic fruit. They had neither the predator meat odour of werewolves, nor the carrion rot of vampires. A slight breeze wafted through the temple, bringing with it the overwhelming scent of tea plants. It caused her to sneeze sharply, once, before she named it in her head and forced it into the background.

Rue didn’t wait to see if Miss Sekhmet would determine how to get out of her birdcage. If she was smart, she’d stay there–safer until after hostilities. If hostilities happened. She was now fully mortal, after all. And hostilities could be damaging to mortals.

So far, however, the standoff hadn’t changed and didn’t look to. And now, Rue couldn’t argue with anyone, although she dearly wished to. Back to the cheese situation. Her tail lashed in annoyance.

Then out of the forest materialised the cavalry component of the British Army. Rue craned her head back–several large airborne dots were also heading in their direction. The brigadier had mobilised the float reserves. Most of the regiment was in pursuit of his beloved wife. Or the taxes. Or both. Rue could maybe support such action over tea, but taxes and wives? It seemed excessive.

The brigadier, distinguished by a particularly large and dictatorial hat, raised a large hand. Behind him the cavalry stilled, flanking the werewolves. Now the British outnumbered the Vanaras, and surely the infantry would follow soon.

Rue slunk through the line of tense Vanaras and the group of werewolves to leap into a tree near the brigadier. She attempted to hold her tail up in as non-threatening and perky a manner as possible. The tip was a bit difficult to control–it dangled and twitched like a small, furry, excited flag. Nevertheless, there was a gratifying gasp of fear and the sound of several rifles cocking, which suggested the cavalry thought her a real and dangerous lioness. She wondered how they reconciled the artfully draped orange scarf.

Brigadier Featherstonehaugh didn’t seem to notice her even when dangling above him on a tree branch. He was a large man on a large horse. He smelled of said horse mixed with expensive cigars, curry dinner, and coconut pastry. Clearly the loss of one’s beloved wife was not allowed to interfere with one’s enjoyment of supper. Beneath his impressive hat there was very little hair. He had pronounced eyebrows and a substantial moustache paired with an oddly diminutive beard.

He was accompanied by a young native gentleman in turban and British uniform, who was obviously his translator. This man was struggling to harmonise his position as herald in the face of a group of his own gods. He was bowing over and over to the Vanaras from his saddle.

The brigadier glared at him and said, “Stand to, soldier!” Then he turned to face the Vanaras.

“Monkey people,” he said. “Give me back my wife and the queen’s money, and we will be lenient with you.”

Mrs Featherstonehaugh limped forward into the light of the fire. She raised her cane in salute. “Jammykins!”

“Snugglebutter!” said the brigadier. He was easily twice the age and size of his wife, but there was evidently at least some affection between them if the tenor of their endearments was to be believed.

“They have been very kind to me. The Vanaras are good-natured civilised creatures, much like werewolves. And the empire has accidentally mistreated them.”

“Now now, Snugglebutter, you know the empire is never wrong. I’ve read of this phenomenon. It happens sometimes with impressionable young ladies, taken in by the enemy–they become sympathetic to local causes.”

Mrs Featherstonehaugh stamped her foot. “Jammykins, I have not gone native.”

“No, dear heart, no, worse. Now you hush up and let your Jammykins handle this. It’s the queen’s business. Don’t you trouble your little head about it.”

Mrs Featherstonehaugh gave Rue’s tree a desperate look. Rue was actually enjoying the spectacle. Prim and Quesnel had out The Spotted Custard’s grappling hooks and were stealthily drifting about, throwing down and pulling up as many spheres of tea as possible. Since this was going on behind the Vanaras’ backs and they were concentrated on the army before them, none of them had noticed. A few of the cavalry were giving the Custard odd looks, but they were soldiers and knew better than to interrupt a brigadier with questions about custards. The werewolves couldn’t say anything even if they wanted to.

Mrs Featherstonehaugh could not argue further without sounding like a hysterical female unless she revealed herself as an agent of Goldenrod. She needed someone with official authority to stand up to her husband. Rue, even had she been able, was pretty certain she couldn’t reveal her position openly either. Besides, as a young, unmarried, and mostly naked lady, she would have been summarily dismissed.

Brigadier Featherstonehaugh said to the Vanaras, “Who among you will speak in your defence?”

His assistant translated his words.

None of the Vanaras moved. They all remained quiet, weapons at the ready, watching their Alpha out of the corners of their eyes.

“Very well, you leave me no choice. I will take back my wife and Her Majesty’s money by force!” The brigadier raised up his sabre. “Company. Prepare to charge.”

The weremonkeys stiffened.

The werewolves all looked to their Alpha.

Rue tensed her muscles, ready to leap. Although she wasn’t certain who or what she was going to leap at.

Then, into the silence, a voice said, “Wait!”

Miss Sekhmet walked into the firelight. She’d found a length of Vanara cloth from somewhere, which she’d wrapped regally about her body. Her brown shoulders were bare but for her long thick hair and the silver net, draped like a mantel. In mortal form she was only a little more tan-coloured than as an immortal, and still so painfully beautiful it was almost unreal. Somehow the wrapped cloth, the hair, and the silver net combined to make her look like a goddess of legend, more so than the Vanaras. Rue leapt down and ran to her, coming to stand at her left side. Lady Kingair was a heartbeat behind. The werewolf stood on her right.

The Vanaras, the werewolves, and the cavalry all stared in awe at the vision before them.

Behind the brigadier, in the jungle, Rue’s werecat hearing picked up the crashing of booted feet. The infantry was approaching. Above the forest, the float enforcements moved relentlessly forward. Soon the full might of the British military would be upon them. Miss Sekhmet didn’t have much time.

Miss Sekhmet said, “Brigadier, this is all a terrible misunderstanding. These are the Vanaras of the epics, weremonkeys, kinsmen to your very own werewolves. They have the right to petition for sanction under the Rules of Progression and the Supernatural Acceptance Decree.”

“Confound it, they kidnapped my wife!”

Miss Sekhmet pulled her slim shoulders back and said, “Not precisely correct. She took the initiative to come here and talk to them voluntarily. I think she is to be commended.”

“You? And who are you to involve yourself with my wife? And what about our taxes?”

Miss Sekhmet said obliquely, “I represent those interested in facilitating the safety and integration of supernaturals. Your wife made for a lovely ambassadress. Under her gentle touch, the Vanaras might have been amenable to an introduction. Now, however, we must work to salvage this situation.”

Rue thought that Miss Sekhmet must have had experience with negotiation–excellent use of the word “we”.

Mrs Featherstonehaugh said, “I rather overstayed my visit, Jammykins. It was no one’s fault. I have been treated with all honour as a guest here.”

Brigadier Featherstonehaugh continued to glare at Miss Sekhmet. “Oh yes? And who exactly do you represent?”

“I am not at liberty to say. Friendly interests, to be sure, sir,” replied the werecat primly.

The brigadier crooked a finger at his wife. “Now, Snugglebutter, you just come over to me. Slowly.”

Mrs Featherstonehaugh looked with desperation back and forth between her husband and the Vanaras. The Vanaras made no overt effort to keep her with them, but everyone knew the moment her husband considered her safe he would attack. He’d now have his eye not only on the missing taxes, but all the gold mounded up in the temple.

“Silly chit,” said the brigadier when she did not move. He gestured to one of his flanking riders. “Major Dwillrumple, fetch me my wife.”

Major Dwillrumple did not look pleased with this order. Said wife was standing behind a bristling line of Vanara spears and arrows.

“Sir?” Major Dwillrumple was an older, pudgy gentleman whose rank looked to be in his skill at strategy rather than with the sabre.

“Now, major.”

The major did as he was ordered, trotting his horse forwards slowly, both of them glistening with sweat in the firelight.

The Vanaras firmed their line, closing ranks as if they too were military trained.

Behind them, Rue watched Prim, Quesnel, and the decklings haul in another sphere of tea.

Mrs Featherstonehaugh, in a desperate attempt to forestall bloodshed, limped through the Vanara group and around the bonfire.

The major trotted up to her and bent to offer her a hand, swinging her sidesaddle in front of him. Mrs Featherstonehaugh clutched her cane awkwardly in her lap and looked terribly afraid. The major spurred his horse back to rejoin the ranks.

Mrs Featherstonehaugh stared at Rue the entire time, as if she were trying to tell her something mind to mind.

Everyone prepared for battle.

Rue looked to her ship.

Prim and her crew had managed to capture most of the tea containers. The bubbles rolled about the deck like many round brass eggs in a gondola-shaped basket. Rue worried they might fall overboard should the ship list in any particular direction. She wanted to yell up orders to keep the Custard steady, prevent tea-crushing accidents. But she still had no voice. In lieu of an actual speech, she turned to Miss Sekhmet and, lips curled away from the burn, bit at the silver mesh, trying to pull it off her.

Miss Sekhmet understood and with a grace that seemed to suggest some long-gone acrobatic ability–had she once been a dancer of some kind?–she shrugged off the net.

Rue jerked her head at her and Lady Kingair.

Miss Sekhmet looked to the Alpha. “May I?”

The pack leader nodded, wary. Miss Sekhmet mounted up. Lady Kingair turned and ran into the forest. A wolf carrying a goddess atop her back, thought Rue poetically.

Everyone but Rue was confused by this.

“What in the aether is that crazy female up to?” demanded the brigadier as he watched his werewolf Alpha break for the trees. Almost as one, the rest of the Kingair Pack whirled and followed. They may ostensibly fight for the British army but werewolves fought for their Alpha first. If that Alpha wanted to dash off into the jungle with a mysterious goddess on her back on a whimsical evening run in the middle of a prospective battle, they would go with her.

Rue was pretty certain Miss Sekhmet would rather keep her identity as a werelioness secret. It was all very well to reveal weremonkeys to the British government but werecats was taking things too far. Rue agreed. It wouldn’t do to broaden their tiny political minds too quickly. One werethingy at a time. She made for the trees, in the opposite direction.

“What on earth?” the brigadier demanded of the vacant air. “Deserters! I’ll have your guts for garters.” He did not have long to dwell on prospective courts-martial, for without the werewolves between him and the Vanaras, his attention shifted to more urgent matters. The Vanaras were advancing steadily towards him and his cavalry.

The weremonkeys respected their wolf brethren more than anyone realised. Now that the pack was gone, they were intent on taking this battle into the forest, home turf, where they could use their climbing abilities to greatest advantage. Everyone there knew this.

Horses could only hold ground in a clearing. So, before the cavalry could be pressed under the canopy, the brigadier signalled the charge.

“No!” yelled his wife desperately. “Miss Akeldama, do something!”

Rue was among the vines and out of sight up another tree.

Brigadier Featherstonehaugh would brook no contrary women around him in battle. “Major, get my wife away from here.”

“Sir!” The major wheeled and, while Mrs Featherstonehaugh struggled against him, he held her fast and urged his horse into a gallop away from temple, seeking safety.

Afterwards, even though she occupied a good vantage point on a nice sturdy branch, Rue could not remember who struck the first blow. All she knew was the twang of bow strings, and the air filled with arrows flying in one direction and bullets in the other. Soon after came the sound of clashing steel and wood, of sword and spear, as the cavalry closed in on the Vanaras. She smelled the sour salt of fear sweat, and the copper richness of fresh blood.

It was not a fair fight.

Without the werewolves and their supernatural strength, the abilities of the Vanara warriors would inevitably carry any conflict against mortals. Not knowing, or not believing, that they might be up against shape-shifting immortals, the brigadier and his men were not armed with silver, only steel sabres and leaded bullets. These the Vanaras could shrug off, hardly slowed by injuries that closed and healed even as they collected new ones. There were no licensed sundowners in this regiment, no specialised ammunition to take down supernatural creatures. The British army ordinarily made it a particular point not to fight the supernatural, certainly not on native soil. How could England be thought a civilising force if they disobeyed their own policies abroad?

So when the weremonkeys attacked, throwing their spears and shooting their arrows with deadly accuracy, they were attacking an army trained to work with them, not against them. Oh, the cavalry was efficient, although they could never hope to be so strong or so fast. The riders shot bullets and hurled knives in perfect formation, and for a short moment it looked as if they were driving the supernatural creatures back. But the Vanaras were stronger, more agile, and better trained. In a coordinated charge, half the weremonkeys leapt to the horses, swinging nimbly about from tree branch to saddle, lifting and throwing riders off bodily with long strong arms and prehensile tails until only a very few–the brigadier among them–were left seated. The horses, even the best-trained, were driven off into the jungle riderless and afraid.

The Vanaras closed in on what little cavalry remained.

That would have been the end of it except that the initial stalemate had lasted too long. It had given the infantry enough time to catch up. At a quick march they pushed through the forest and emerged to form ranks exactly when it looked as if all might be lost for the British.

Now the Vanaras, immortal though they may be, faced a solid line of a hundred harsh-faced soldiers ready to do battle. Even against monsters of legend.

The Vanaras may be more numerous than a werewolf pack but even at a dozen strong and fierce, they were not made to take on a whole regiment of fighters. They retreated to the bonfire and regrouped. The Alpha yelled out commands and instructions in ancient Hindustani combined with monkey clicks.

There was another brief pause. Fallen cavalry, those who could, pulled themselves upright to stand with the infantry.

The brigadier joined his reinforcements, a fierce look of triumph in his eyes.

At that point, Rue realised that the Vanaras had carefully tried not to actually kill anyone. A few of the cavalry stayed down but their bodies were not wounded, and it appeared that they had merely been knocked unconscious.

Something odd was going on in those fuzzy monkey heads. Something that kept them from wanting all-out war with the British Empire. Rue wished fervently she could yell at the brigadier to notice this restraint. To realise that his enemy was holding itself back. For him to stop and consider. For him to comprehend that they may not be an enemy at all.

Then Rue felt her bones breaking, felt a scream of unexpected pain pass her lips. Well, that was embarrassing. She was left panting, clinging precariously to a tree branch in human form. The branch was a lot higher up to human Rue than it had been to lioness Rue. Nevertheless, she swung around to hang from her arms and let go before she could really think about it. She landed badly, ankle twisting. With no time to worry she limped towards the fray.

So it was that as the infantry came to their cavalry’s defence, they were just in time to see a pale British lady of aristocratic bearing and generous proportions wearing nothing at all limp into the firelight. Rue’s orange scarf, after much torture and two bouts on a weremonkey, had given up the ghost as a rum deal and stayed hanging in the tree. She ought to have realised that. But she didn’t until it was too late.

The Great British army had seen many things as it conquered the empire. Yet, they had never seen anything like Rue. Not an actual British female, entirely unclothed. The very idea.

Not a lot could stop an infantry in full march, but Rue supposed she was now one of the few to claim that dubious honour. If only some of the now conquered lands had known–naked aristocrats is all it takes. Rue stood up and dressed herself in nothing but sublime dignity. She tried to think about it as one of life’s new and exciting experiences.

The brigadier said again, even more surprised, “God’s bones, who are you?”

Rue ignored him and, with as much hauteur as possible, bent and retrieved Mis Sekhmet’s discarded silver mesh. It would provide no real covering but she had a feeling she might need it later.

The Vanaras, having already seen most of her, were not as easily distracted by the apparition of Nude Englishwoman. They took the infantry’s sudden stillness as an opportunity to retrieve fallen spears, preparing to defend themselves against the near-overwhelming odds of an entire regiment.

Rue, with great stateliness under the circumstances, made her way over to her ship. The Spotted Custard, in its dedicated pursuit of tea, was hovering off to the right side of the temple now, away from the stream. The crew watched the battle and tried not to get involved.

A rope ladder dangled.

Deciding that a naked Englishwoman in the middle of a jungle in India, no matter how unexpected, wasn’t worth any more of his valuable time, the brigadier returned to the attack. Bolstered by foot reinforcements, he barked out a new set of instructions. Tearing their eyes away from Rue’s rounded–and retreating–buttocks, the infantry obeyed the brigadier’s orders. They regrouped into that concentrated efficiency for which England was famous and marched forwards, pushing the Vanaras further into temple grounds, away from the advantage afforded by trees.

As Rue climbed the rope ladder, she noticed that the air support was almost upon them.

Those dozen weremonkeys were destined for annihilation. Should the infantry not possess enough leaded bullets to keep them down against all supernatural healing abilities, the dirigible floatillah was armed with ammunition strong enough to blast the group from above. It might not kill them completely, but it would certainly incapacitate them long enough to facilitate capture. There also was an ominous pinking in the eastern sky which meant that the sun was soon to rise. If Vanaras were anything like werewolves, such an all-out attack could certainly kill all but the very oldest and strongest with the help of sunlight.

Rue landed on deck to find herself instantly surrounded by chattering crew. Prim threw a dressing-gown about her. Quesnel looked her determinedly in the eyes, telling her off for risking her safety in no uncertain terms, at the same time giving her a full report on the state of the engines. Percy was waving a piece of parchment at her and using a number of long legal words. Spoo was trying to explain something about tea pods and grappling hooks.

Rue could not have felt more at home. The moment her bare feet hit deck she relaxed.

She held up a hand for quiet. “No time to visit. Prim, do we have all the tea?”

“Yes, captain.”

“Spoo, could you switch the grappling hooks for a large fishing net–you know the one we use for hauling up cargo? Also, please put this silver one on the drop lines.”

“Yes, Lady Captain.”

“Percy, is the treaty as we guessed? Does the agreement specify Rakshasas?”

“Yes, captain–I mean to say, no, captain. I mean to say, Rue, the Vanaras are legally included under the pertinent clauses because the agreement only utilises the term supernatural. They simply need to sign it.”

Quesnel stopped yelling and reporting at Rue and said seriously, “You have a plan, don’t you, chérie?”

“Yes, I most certainly do. And don’t call me chérie in public.”

“So I may do so in private?” Quesnel brightened.

Rue snorted to cover a smile. “Crew, listen, please.”

Those assembled all straightened expectantly.

“Let’s steal this war away from them, shall we? Spoo, I want you and the decklings to use that silver net and target one particular Vanara–the one who is wearing more jewellery than the others. He is their Alpha. Try to catch him. Once you’ve caught him, keep him dangling–don’t reel him in; too dangerous. Let me know the moment you’ve got him secure.”

Rue pointed to two of the deckhands–larger bulkier men who did a great deal of the heavy labour that the smaller nimbler decklings couldn’t. “You two, man the rope net and try for the brigadier. Unless I’m wrong about personalities, those two will try to fight one another directly, so they should be close together. Understand?”

“If you say so, Lady Captain.”

Rue glared. “We are trying to stop a major international kerfuffle here. This isn’t for larks. I want the two leaders netted before the floating reinforcements get here. Which reminds me–Quesnel, Percy, we need to make aether and outstrip that floatillah if possible. Both of you, prep your stations. Percy, I want due notice. You keep an eye to the incoming puffs and let me know with a countdown before we lose our window to outrun them.”

Percy and Quesnel didn’t bother to answer. They both ran off to do as ordered–Quesnel for belowdecks and Percy for the navigator’s station on the poop deck.

Prim and Rue took up position on the main deck, ship’s centre, one on either side, looking down over the railing to watch the action below from two different angles.

“Percy, take us in and down,” yelled Rue.

“A little to starboard,” added Prim.

“And a little more,” said Rue. “Spoo, how’s it coming?”

“Nearly there, Lady Captain.”

Below, Rue saw the Kingair Pack materialise from the trees. Lady Kingair was at the front, Professor Lyall, the sandy fox-like one, close to his Alpha. The rest of the pack followed in formation.

The sound of the battle below was almost deafening but, nevertheless, Rue leaned over the edge and yelled down to her kinsfolk. “Yoo-hoo, niece of mine?”

Lady Kingair looked up, yellow eyes flashed once.

“I’m trying to steal this war. Give me some time?”

Lady Kingair nodded and, with great elegance, she sat, right there at the edge of the jungle. As one, all the pack sat with her–refusing to participate in the fight.

Fortunately, the brigadier had not yet seen them. So far the werewolves could only be accused of desertion, but if he saw them and ordered them to participate, they could be accused of wilful disobedience or even mutiny. Pack attachments could act with a certain amount of autonomy, but not that much.

Just then a shout came from one of Rue’s deckhands. They’d managed to net the brigadier right off the back of his surprised horse.

Rue saw him dangling, struggling in his net, trying to cut his way free with a hopelessly tangled sabre. His hat had fallen off and he looked much less imposing without it. She changed her orders. “Pull him in and bring him on board. He might get out otherwise.”

“Yes, Lady Captain.”

“Spoo, how are you doing with your Vanara trap?”

“He’s a fast one, Lady Captain. A little help wouldn’t go amiss.”

Rue went over to see if she could assist, but just as she came up, Spoo gave a cry of victory.

“We netted ourselves a weremonkey!” she crowed.

Rue blessed the element of surprise. Whatever else they had been expecting, the Vanaras were not prepared for an attack from above. Not that she wanted to think of herself as attacking. She leaned over the railing and there he was–all monkey anger, gleaming gold and rich silks, struggling in a silver net. It burned his exposed skin, palms and feet not protected by fur. He tried to rip his way out but the silver not only burned, it sapped supernatural strength. His own net defeated him.

At that moment, the deckhands reeled in the brigadier and dumped him unceremoniously on the deck, as if he were a load of fish. He flopped about trying to unwind himself–no one bothered to assist him. Rue didn’t have any militia on board to keep him controlled. Now that he was her prisoner, there was nothing else for it but to rise high and fast so he couldn’t jump overboard safely, even if he wanted to.

Of course, she had no idea what would happen to a Vanara in the aetherosphere. To the best of everyone’s knowledge, supernatural creatures and aether did not mix. Werewolves got violently ill. Vampires went mad or worse. No one wanted to talk about that one test, back at the beginning of aether travel, when a rove had fallen from the skies like Icarus. But Rue had read the reports. Then again, Miss Sekhmet had been perfectly fine in the Maltese Tower.

There was only one way to find out. “Percy, take us up.”

“Yes, captain.”

Even as she gave the order, Rue had a sinking suspicion that Vanaras were like werewolves, linked to pack. She didn’t want to damage their inadvertent guest permanently. She only wanted to give everyone time to calm down. Perhaps serve tea. Tea was very soothing.

So, even as Percy began to puff up the Custard, Rue said, “Hold position for one moment.”

Behind her on the forecastle, the brigadier shuffled off the net and cast around, looking for someone to blame. He spotted Rue and made for her, murder in his eyes.

Spoo was shouting something about not being able to hold on to the Vanara Alpha much longer.

Rue leaned over the railing and yelled to the wolves, still sitting patiently on the sidelines.

“You ever consider hunting monkey, auntie?” Lady Kingair put her muzzle up in the air and barked. “I don’t mean you to hurt them–simply bring them along, track us on the ground.”

Lady Kingair cocked her head as if considering the situation.

Percy said, “This is your warning, Rue–incoming floaters are nearly on us.”

Rue had inherited many things from her parents, but she hadn’t any of their pride. She was not above begging. “Please, niece. Please, I need your help.”

Lady Kingair barked again.

At which the werewolves waded into the fray.

Rue didn’t wait to see which side they were on. “Percy, take us up, fast as you can. But don’t go into the aether; we need to be seen from the ground. And take us out, away from the floatillah. Hopefully, they’re too confused down there to realise we netted us a brigadier. With any luck, the floatillah will go down to liaise with the troops before they realise they should be chasing us instead.”

“Aye aye, captain.” The Custard’s propeller ramped up to speed with its customary flatulent sound. Rue was grateful for the noise of battle which hid it. She stayed glued to the railing, watching the fight.

The Kingair Pack moved in with remarkable stealth. Werewolves trained in many manoeuvres and, while covert tactics were unusual, Kingair specialised in being secretive. They slithered through the battling infantry, who had the leaderless Vanaras surrounded. The monkey warriors, somewhat lost without their Alpha, still stood strong, defending themselves against the mass of attacking mortals with lightning-fast twists of spear and sword. They still seemed to be trying not to kill.

The wolves broke through the ranks. The Vanaras paid them little mind. They did not expect their lupine kinsfolk to attack them.

Lady Kingair went first. Instead of charging and going for monkey throats, she oiled in and dived under one of the Vanaras. The hapless weremonkey suddenly found himself riding a wolf. At a loss for anything else to do, the Vanara wound his legs and tail about the Alpha’s furry waist and his hands into the ruff at her neck.

The others of the pack imitated Lady Kingair until each wolf had a monkey riding him.

The Vanaras, after the initial shock, decided to cast themselves in with their wolf compatriots. They knew they could not win against overwhelming odds, particularly not when holding themselves back from dealing mortal blows. They could also sense that the sun was soon to rise. Without an Alpha to order them otherwise, the remaining Vanaras threw themselves pillion behind their fellows so that each wolf carried two weremonkeys. As a group, the supernatural creatures turned and dashed through the infantry ranks, heading at speed into the trees.

The army was left behind with nothing to fight and no means of following.

Dirigibles can never be said to race anywhere. They were designed originally as pleasure crafts and all the technology of the modern age had yet to make them fast. Even with the propeller cranked up high, and having found a brisk favourable wind, The Spotted Custard could only be said to drift with purpose. Within the aetherosphere was a different thing entirely, but right now, Rue needed distance without height. They had to stay high enough so that one of their guests didn’t take it into his head to jump, and low enough so the other didn’t suffer from tether snap separated from his pack. It was a delicate balance that took a great deal of Rue’s attention, even as Brigadier Featherstonehaugh came stomping over and started yelling at her. He looked like he might punch her, and had she been anything but British and female he would certainly have done so.

“Woman! Do you know what you have done? You have betrayed your country. You have countermanded a military action. I will see you court-martialed, you fatuous bint.”

Rue looked down her nose at him, which was hard as he was twice her size in most directions. “Now now, brigadier, language. This is my ship you’re on. I wouldn’t be so hasty if I were you. Besides I’m not in the army, so you can’t try me in a military court.”

“Oh no?”

Rue ignored him at that juncture, squinting down into the jungle, hoping the werewolves and Vanaras were managing to keep pace. It was too thick to tell.

“I’ll be with you in a moment, brigadier. Spoo, how’s our other guest?”

“Still secure, but I’m not sure for how long. That silver net isn’t quite meant for lifting, I don’t think, Lady Captain.”

Rue nibbled her lip. “Percy, please make for a clearing. There must be somewhere big enough to set to ground, perhaps with enough overhang so we could tuck out of view. That possible?”

“I’ll do my best.” Percy said this without looking over at her.

The brigadier said, “Young lady, take this ship down immediately! Or turn us around to rendezvous with my floatillah.”

“Absolutely not. Now hush up; I’m thinking.”

The brigadier gaped at her as if he were a fish.

“Prim,” called out Rue. “A little help?”

Prim came bustling over. “My dear brigadier, sir. Welcome aboard. Would you care for some light refreshment?”

The brigadier blinked in utter amazement at the audacity of such a request, but social niceties were never to be ignored, even under the most trying circumstances. Brigadier Featherstonehaugh was a good British officer to the last. “How do you do, Miss—?”

“Miss Tunstell, the Honourable Primrose Tunstell. How do you do?”

“Not little Ivy’s daughter?”

Everyone was startled at that. Prim replied quickly, eager for any way to distract the military man from arguing with Rue, “Why, yes indeed, sir. You know my dear mother?”

“Why, yes, yes, I most certainly do.” A soft expression suffused the big man’s fierce face like a walrus having discovered a much beloved oyster. “We were engaged once, a long time ago. Such a sweet young lady. Ruined by association with that harridan.”

“Engaged?” Prim pressed her gloved hand delicately to her lips. It was always distressing to discover one’s parent had an amorous past. Recovering her poise, Prim linked her arm gracefully with the brigadier’s and gently led him to the poop deck, the tea trolley, and folding chairs which had miraculously survived all chases and battles. “How romantic. Do come and tell me all about it.”

The brigadier thus distracted, Rue could return her full attention to Spoo’s netted Vanara. They were high enough up so that, as a mortal, he would die if he jumped, but as a supernatural he would survive if he wrestled himself free. Which meant Rue had no other option than to make him mortal.

She dashed over. Spoo and her crowd of decklings who stood, muscling the three ropes that held the Vanara Alpha suspended below the gondola.

Rue rolled back the sleeves of her quilted dressing-gown. “Pull him up to this railing, slowly. Nice and steady.”

The decklings began to haul.

By careful degrees the Vanara came closer. When he was within arm’s reach Rue folded herself over the railing and flailed down, fingers stretching. She caught the whites of his terrified eyes–this man does not want to be mortal– precisely before her hand brushed his cheek. He craned his neck to bite her finger but it was too late. He was now suspended there–a mortal Indian prince netted out of legend, all dark eyes and liquid beauty. Rue was now a weremonkey once more, wearing a very proper English dressing-gown of ice-blue silk with pastel embroidered flowers up the front. Her tail made the back of the robe tilt up in a ridiculous manner. But at least she was covered. She thought that a nice tassel wrapped about her tail tip to match the tassels down the front of the gown would complete the look to the height of absurdity. Or possibly a fez. However, she had no time to attend to tassels.

She now understood why werewolves hated to fly. Her stomach turned into a hive of wasps that had been recently poked with a sick. All her muscles, many of them new and extra big, ached as if fevered. This had nothing to do with shifting shape. She felt queasy and dizzy. She contemplated succumbing to the vital humours in a faint, or having a bout of hysteria. On top of all that discomfort, it was as if she could sense the aetherosphere high above her. This was difficult to articulate, even in her own head, but she felt it in her blood like a thorny stinging blanket draped inside her, between skin and flesh. She had a certain instinctual knowledge that flying up any further and entering that grey nothingness would drive her mad with pain and loss.

She swallowed down all of it–her monkey face must look quite green–and put a supporting hand on the railing to steady herself.

“Right, decklingsss, pull him all the way in,” said Rue in her low slurring voice, surprised it wasn’t shaking with strain.

The decklings, with admirable lack of upset at their captain suddenly having a monkey’s face, obeyed her order.

Despite feeling ill, Rue stayed to act as muscle. She had supernatural strength and speed, so she was needed to keep their newest guest under control should he decide to fight. Primrose would not be as effective with this warrior, potent weapon of etiquette though she may be.

The mortal Vanara Alpha was docile under the ministrations of the decklings as they stripped him of his silver mesh. He stood tall and calm until he was entirely free. Once liberated, he made no move to try to fight or escape.

Rue nodded at him and made a gesture towards the poop deck, indicating he should follow her. Percy couldn’t leave his post to translate so the Vanara must be taken to Percy. His bearing proud, the Alpha followed Rue with an air of one who was granting a favour.

They arrived at the tea trolley, where the brigadier and Prim were nibbling cucumber sandwiches. Percy was guiding the ship almost casually, biscuit in one hand, helm in the other.

Rue said, voice tired, “Pershy, how low can we shafely go?”

Percy looked at her. “Rue, you feeling quite the thing?”

“No, this floating as a supernatural is no lark. I feel like curdled milk. Can you safely take us down and still evade the floatillah?” Rue covered her mouth on an ugly burp.

Percy gave her a worried look and said, “If we go down much more, we’ll lose this favourable breeze. But if we have to, I will.”

Rue thought about it. They were not yet far enough out to risk loosing the advantage simply for her personal comfort. The floatillah, once it realised what had happened, could still chase them down before dawn. “No. We need speed. I’ll hold on a bit longer. Any sign of a likely clearing?”

“Yes, ten minutes to the north. See–there?”

Rue saw. “Very good. I can make it.”

Percy took her word for it and returned to his duties.

Rue sagged into one of the deck-chairs.

Gingerly, the Vanara did the same.

The brigadier stared at them.

After a pause, Prim poured them both tea.

“Milk?” she asked the Vanara.

He ignored her.

“Sugar? One lump or two?”

“Give him two,” Rue suggested. From her experience with the spicy native version, the locals took their tea sweet.

While Rue battled nausea and weakness to stay at least seated upright, Prim engaged the brigadier in conversation. The Vanara Alpha calmly sipped his tea with an expression of mild shock. No doubt he was as confused by this situation as everyone else. Or perhaps he was merely as surprised by the taste of British tea as Rue had been by the local spiced variety.

Nine and a half minutes later, Percy brought them in and down to hover below treetop height over a bare patch of land. They remained high enough so that neither visitor could jump to the ground without injury. Nor were the Vanaras and werewolves–who soon collected in the clearing to wait expectantly–able to leap up.

Fortunately they were low enough so that Rue’s stomach settled and the oppressive blanket feeling of the aetherosphere no longer troubled her with its spiky presence. In fact, she felt perfectly normal, or as perfectly normal as a girl can when in monkey shape. Percy left navigation to Virgil and Spoo, and joined them at tea to act as translator.

Rue found herself delighted with the civilised nature of it all. She guessed that she had about fifteen minutes before the floatillah arrived and opened fire. Could one broker an end to hostilities, rectify a missed opportunity for peace, and facilitate the introduction of a new species in fifteen minutes?