Prudence Page 33

  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?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  IN WHICH TEA SOLVES EVERYTHING

  N

  egotiations, Rue soon came to understand, required a great deal longer than fifteen minutes and were better suited to a personality not hers. Not to mention someone who had mastery of monkey voice and face – she would keep slurring her words. The Vanara Alpha and the brigadier refused to see reason. They didn’t seem likely to come to an agreement before dawn, let alone before her beloved ship was attacked by her own country.

  Percy had them almost to the ground and tucked away, partly hidden by overhanging trees. But as soon as the floatillah was close enough they would be easy to spot. The great red, dotted balloon of the Custard poked up too high, slightly out of the trees in such a way as to look like a massive embarrassed mushroom.

  Around them in the clearing below, the monkeys and wolves cavorted together.

  Lady Kingair had changed shape after Spoo helpfully tossed down one of Rue’s spare dressing-gowns. Occasionally, that good lady would shout something autocratic up at them. She wanted to know exactly what in all atmospheres was going on! Prim would lean over the railing and yell down as much of an explanation as she could.

  Rue kept up with negotiations. Uncle Lyall sat in the background, amused by the entire situation.

  The pack and the Vanaras settled into a game, something along the lines of chase my tail, chase your tail, flip over, and wrestle. Between these two species, at least, accord had been found. They remained determinedly oblivious to the fact that the floatillah was coming and that the werewolves may be cashiered and the Vanaras imprisoned. Rue supposed for the werewolves it was a little like finding a lost pack, knowing they were not alone in the world, that there were other types of shape-shifters. The Vanaras seemed happy to be out in the open at last, to reveal themselves to their wolf cousins.

  Where is Miss Sekhmet? Rue wondered. The werelioness would be most useful in these negotiations.

  Rue said to the Vanara for what she felt was the millionth time, “Jussssh sign the Supernatural Acceptance Decree and I’m certain our queen will see reason. The brigadier here would be bound by the termsss, yesh?”

  Brigadier Featherstonehaugh huffed into his tiny excuse of a beard. “Well, I don’t see that it’s obvious these creatures are the same as werewolves, in which case…”

  “Except that I can pershonally assure you they are immortal supernatural shape-shifters.” Rue waved her monkey tail at him in annoyance. “Ish no difference.”

  Percy translated for the Vanara prince, who said, “We are not interested in your queen and her agreements.”

  Rue tried to frown. It was challenging with a monkey face. “What if I offered you a treaty with a separate branch of the British government?”

  The brigadier looked as if he would like to object but as Percy translated what Rue had said, the Vanara Alpha perked up.

  “Nothing to do with Rakshasas or their alliance?”

  Rue thought fast, calculating what she knew of the Shadow Council. How would her mother react? Dama, she suspected, would want peace. As potentate he tended to favour the most civilised non-violent road if possible. But he’d want his tea back. The werewolves and the Vanaras were getting along well enough that the Kingair Pack would return a favourable report to the dewan. So she could probably count on his vote. Her mother? Well, her mother could be persuaded eventually. So Rue felt safe in offering an alliance with the Shadow Council, as if it were an independent entity. The Vanaras need not be told of their intimacy with Queen Victoria. She wondered if the brigadier even knew of the existence of the Shadow Council. She would have to speak with circumspection around him. Nevertheless, it seemed the most promising course of action.

  “My father,” she said, “has some business interests here in your land.” She purposefully did not mention which father. Better if the brigadier thought she spoke of Lord Maccon, otherwise he might let slip the fact that her adopted father was a vampire. The Vanaras wouldn’t like that at all.

  Everyone looked perfectly blank at this seemingly unrelated statement.

  “He, like you” – Rue acknowledged the Vanara Alpha with a nod – “ish a great fan of tea. Thish new breed” – she gestured at the spheres all around them – “will grow well in this climate, in the fields next to Tungareshwar Forest. If we were to offer the Vanaras a trade agreement, perhaps governorship and control of these new tea plantations? As part of an alliance?” Dama is not going to like this.

  The brigadier looked upset. Rue turned to him and said under her breath, “Bloody John has its alliance with the Rakshasas. It’s time to balance the books.”

  It was not an outright admission that she was going against the East India Company, but it was implied. If the brigadier was anything like most military men, he opposed the Company’s military influence. Rue listened to Paw’s pack gossip and more often than not they objected to the might of Bloody John. It was politically challenging because of vampire involvement in the Company, but Rue had guessed right, for the brigadier’s militant expression relaxed.

  He huffed, more thoughtful than combative. “Are you saying this agreement would circumvent the East India Company?”

  “Yes, exactly. And the Rakshasas.” She nodded at the Vanara prince.

  Both men looked interested. Rue was pretty certain she’d get an earful from Dama about bargaining away his private tea investment for an alliance with local weremonkeys, but he
was a reasonable man and if all else failed, she could use her daughterly wiles.

  Percy said for the Alpha Vanara, “Tell me more?”

  Then Percy said for Percy, “Oh, I say!”

  The floatillah was upon them.

  Cannons deployed out of the base of the airships, trained on The Spotted Custard.

  Rue’s entire crew held its breath and stared at the brigadier. No doubt all of his subordinates in the floatillah had binoculars trained on him. The only reason they had not been instantly attacked was the fact that the brigadier was sitting unharmed in the company of a British lady, taking tea. It wasn’t exactly a hostile situation – Vanaras or not.

  Beads of sweat appeared on the brigadier’s brow. If he signalled his ships to fire, indicating that he was a hostage, then he risked his own demise, as well as the end of any possible treaty.

  Primrose reached one trembling white hand forward. “Please, good sir, call off the floatillah. For my sake?”

  He looked to the pretty young aristocrat and said nothing.

  “For all our sakes?” Prim pressed her luck, batting eyelashes.

  Rue wondered if Prim would risk mentioning Aunt Ivy given that there seemed to be history between them. That proved unnecessary, for mere moments later, a lioness leapt aboard the ship, carrying Mrs Featherstonehaugh atop her back.

  Mrs Featherstonehaugh was less excited to ride a leaping lioness than Spoo had been. She dismounted looking as fragile as fine china. She’d lost her cane and had to limp to her husband and the tea table, one of which – the husband – rose at her arrival.

  “My dear!” He rushed to her. “The major let you go? I’ll cashier the blighter.”

  Mrs Featherstonehaugh looked at the werecat. “The major had no choice, Jammykins. The lioness was most insistent.”

  The cat in question disappeared belowdecks, no doubt to borrow another robe. If Miss Sekhmet would keep shifting form on board, Rue supposed they should stock a selection of those colourful drapes she preferred and assign her a wardrobe.

  The brigadier looked at Rue. “Is that your cat?”

  Rue considered, then used the escape she had given Sekhmet at the beginning of their acquaintance. “You know cats. They don’t really belong to anyone.”

  Primrose said, still sitting demurely at the table, “Mrs Featherstonehaugh? Do join us for tea.”

  Such a smart girl, Prim, for in that simple request, she had ensured everyone’s wellbeing. Mrs Featherstonehaugh couldn’t refuse tea and still be thought anything like a respectable lady. And the brigadier wasn’t going to let his floatillah attack a ship with his wife on board. He may risk his own life, but he wasn’t going to risk hers. Not again.

  He waved away the looming ships, all casual, but there was a complex hand signal involved. They moved a little way off. The three ladies – Rue still a monkey – entertained the three gentleman with politics. And the three ladies, as is often the case when women of sense serve tea to men of passion, prevailed.

  For the Vanara Alpha, Rue spun a yarn about this new breed of tea and how it might provide economic independence. She bragged of her personal political connections, implying that she could draw up an agreement based on the tenets of SAD that would name the Vanaras as allied not with the queen but with others, one of them a werewolf. Percy faithful translated it all and did not laugh once.

  “In fact, I’m sure Percy here could write you up a nice mock treaty while you rest for the day. Would that be acceptable? Of course, I would have to take it back to England for the official seal of approval but I think I can guarantee it will be passed through committee. In the interim, if you, brigadier, would abstain from any further action?”

  “Yes, dear,” pressed his wife. “Do abstain, do. It’s very manly to think seriously about a course of action and not go rashly dashing into war.”

  “Is it indeed, Snugglebutter?” huffed the husband.

  “Why yes, don’t you find, ladies?”

  Grave nods all around.

  Rue suggested, in a mild tone, “This new treaty, we might consider naming it the Featherstonehaugh Accord.”

  The brigadier and his wife looked positivity delighted. The brigadier said, “Well, I am needed in Waziristan. If we could finish up here relatively quickly, I might just forget to file a report on this matter until I return from campaign.”

  Sensing a favourable shift, Prim called for celebratory muffins and jam.

  Muffins and jam seemed to sooth everyone’s temper, particularly the Alpha Vanara’s whose delight in the jam was that of a child discovering blancmange for the first time. Rue could sympathise. She often felt that way about really good jam, not to mention blancmange. And this was, after all, gooseberry.

  The sun was soon to rise, at which point the werewolves would lose their wolf forms and the Vanaras – including Rue – their monkey shape. All but the very strongest supernatural creatures would be driven into shade and sleep, and any chance at further discourse would have to wait until the following night. Rue was prepared to land her ship and invite all on board, offering up sleeping quarters if she had to.

  Muffins consumed, jam admired, and bellies full, Primrose said in her most motherly tone, “Well, dears, bedtime?”

  Rue rose. “Perhaps, gentlemen, if we all slept on it? Percy, I believe it is time to take us to ground. Then, Spoo, I think it is safe to lower the gangplank. We have guests to accommodate.”

  The brigadier and the Vanara Alpha were looking almost relaxed. The brigadier could even be called jolly.

  Rue thought of Lady Kingair and her Scottish pack. “Do we have any shortbread?” she hissed under her breath.

  “Good notion,” said Primrose, crooking her finger at a harried-looking steward. “All the shortbread stores, please.”

  The Spotted Custard went down as low as possible to hover above the moss of the clearing. The floatillah sailed off about other business. The brigadier’s signal must have included a set of instructions. The decklings lowered the gangplank and Professor Lyall and Lady Kingair trotted up it. Then, when Rue issued a formal invitation, all the werewolves and all the Vanaras followed. Virgil ran off to find robes. Prim hustled the wolves belowdecks to change shape in seclusion. The Vanaras were enthralled by the ship, and Rue wondered if they had ever been on board a dirigible before. It moved her to a certain affection regardless. After all, a lady likes to have her ship admired.

  She had thought that Miss Sekhmet would reappear at that juncture. But perhaps she didn’t want to remind either party of her presence and felt that Rue was well able to settle the treaty situation. Rue was honoured by such trust. Always assuming, of course, that peace had been the werecat’s objective all along. Hard to tell objectives and reasons with a cat.

  A short time later found the ship’s stores of shortbread greatly strained, and the cook in near hysterics at having to feed not only a pack of werewolves but also a troop of weremonkeys. A generally gregarious quarter of an hour ensued – except for the cook – while everyone sorted themselves out, slurped tea, and nibbled.

  The werewolves, now back to human shape, borrowed whatever dressing-gowns were available, including a few of Prim’s more frilly styles. They carried these off with the aplomb of very large Scotsmen, who, on a regular basis wore skirts anyway. It must be said, however, that large hairy men ill-suited pink ruffles. It was like seeing a mastiff in an ostrich feather boa.

  Nothing was left of the muffins but crumbs, and the gooseberry jam jar had actually been licked clean by a Vanara warrior, for which Primrose rapped his knuckles in rebuke. However, it did look as if hostilities had abated.

  Rue offered their best spare room to the brigadier and his wife, who accepted with alacrity and made for it with indecent haste.

  “We have, after all, been separated for several days,” whispered Mrs Featherstonehaugh so only Rue could hear.

  If she had eyebrows, Rue would have raised them high. Given the age and aesthetic differences between the two, not to mention
Mrs Featherstonehaugh’s clandestine activities, Rue had thought there was little real affection between the couple – apparently not.

  Mrs Featherstonehaugh giggled – actually giggled – as her big bear of a husband helped her down the staircase, following Prim to guest quarters.

  After some further jocular exchanges, oddly pantomimed between Vanaras and werewolves – Percy dragged to and fro to interpret – it was agreed that the following night the wolves would be taken on a tour of Tungareshwar by the monkeys. The Vanaras thought that wolf-riding might indeed be their new favourite thing ever. The werewolves requested they remove some of their gold armour for the event, as it tended to dig. Both parties agreed that dozing on board the Custard, with an infantry still unsure of their orders tramping about the forest, was probably the safest option. All twenty or so strapping immortals, which felt like a great deal more, wandered belowdecks to sleep wherever they might find a spot.

  Rue requested that they try to stay out from underfoot as she did still need to run her ship. The storeroom, she suggested, was an excellent option. Although she feared greatly for the supplies.

  Prim returned and they found themselves in possession of the upper decks, with the exception of all the spheres of tea. Rue, Percy, Prim, and the decklings watched the sun rise over the trees, listening to a great cacophony of birds singing it up and wondering what had happened to the army.

  “I suppose the floatillah might be off to track them down and let them know,” said Rue.

  “Let them know what exactly?” said Quesnel, coming up to join them. “What did I miss, mon petit chou?”

  “We brokered a peace deal, I think.” Rue tried not to be so very pleased to see him. Not to mention pleased with herself.

  “You – peace?”

  “I know, incomprehensible, isn it.” She grinned.

  Quesnel’s huge violet eyes were huger than normal, the wide-eyed look of having been up for twenty-four hours. One cheek was terribly smudged with coal dust. Rue repressed the urge to clean it with her thumb. She also suppressed the urge to push the floppy bit of blond hair back from his forehead.