Prudence Read online

  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.

  There 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 that 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.