Percy did his best to translate, using Hindustani where he could, English words where he couldn’t.
The Vanara Alpha did not respond for a long time. He turned and went to speak quietly with one of the other weremonkeys, a smaller, delicate-looking creature with almost white fur. Eventually he returned his attention to Rue.
“We have legends of Vanaras in the past who could take many forms in service to the gods. Are you one of these? A lost kinswoman?”
Rue said, “I’ll take it. Kinswoman is better than Foreign Devil Woman any evening. If it helps, I too am fond of tea. Perhaps it runs in the family?” But despite her enthusiasm, the Vanara did not relax in his aggressive stance, even though it was he who had extended the offer of kinship.
He continued, “This seems a reasonable explanation. Tea love is always good, but sadly we cannot hold you as family in truth. Our foreign brothers whose form is one with Bhairava’s mount have lost their way and fight for the Rakshasas and their pact with your queen.”
Percy interjected at this point: “‘Bhairava’s mount’ is their term for werewolves. Although, according to legend, I believe the mount was a dog of some variety.”
“Yes, thank you, Percy.”
Behind the twitching Vanaras, in her silver birdcage, Miss Sekhmet suddenly spat and hissed in agony or frustration.
The Vanara Alpha ignored her and continued talking to Rue. “So you too, kinswoman, might be an agent of evil. Turned by the Rakshasas against us in the service of conquerors.”
It was an insulting way to put it but Rue had to admit, from his perspective, it was a fair assessment. How on earth was she to explain British politics, the position of the East India Company, or the very idea of social progression, to a bunch of monkeys?
She gave it her best shot. “The Rakshasas are unpleasant. On this matter we entirely agree. But our vampires at home are not the same. And you must understand, Her Majesty did not know of your existence.”
“This is irrelevant to the fact that you allied with them. You gave daemons money, trade, technology, tea.”
Rue struggled with a way to defend what seemed to be a grievous political error the British Empire hadn’t even known it was committing. “We are a civilised nation. It is our policy to ally with the supernatural wherever we are in the world. Our politicians draw little distinction between werewolf and vampire, between Rakshasa and Vanara. Forgive me if this seems an insult. In the queen’s eyes all are special. All are worthy.”
Around her, as Percy repeated her words, the Vanaras chittered in annoyance. Rue wasn’t certain if they were angry with her, with what had happened with first contact, or with the implication of her words.
When a little of the noise died out, Rue took a chance at asking her own question. “Is this why you have stolen the taxes, an Englishwoman, and my father’s tea? Is it an opening to negotiations? Do you wish to change the terms of India’s supernatural treaty with England? You needn’t have kidnapped a lady to make a point. I am sure Queen Victoria would have opened negotiations the moment we confirmed your existence. You need not have hidden.”
Once more the Vanara around her erupted into yelled conversation. Percy did his best to repeat some of what he heard. “With the Rakshasas on your side? All attempts would be corrupted. They foul everything they touch. The British gave them control over money and technology and communication and thought those daemons would not use it to drive us away? To see us extinct? Is she mad? How could anyone ally with the Rakshasas and not know their true nature? They’re evil, always been so.”
Oh dear, thought Rue. I might not be doing any good whatsoever.
She said loudly. “Where is Mrs Featherstonehaugh? May I see her? Is she unharmed?”
Percy actually tried to shout her words, looking mortified at having to raise his voice.
The Alpha Vanara heard him. “Now is the time to stop talking, kinswoman. You have given us much to think on and discuss. Dawn is soon to come.”
But someone else had heard Rue’s query and, high above, out from behind a series of arches, stepped a lady. She was perhaps a year or so younger than Rue, dressed sensibly in a travelling suit – four seasons old – of grey canvas with a black velvet-trimmed collar. Under the jacket was a ruffled shirtwaist and a gentleman’s-style waistcoat. Perched atop flaxen hair scraped into a bun was a straw boater with black velvet ribbon. She held a wooden cane with an ivory handle in one hand. She had a face too long to be pretty but her attitude was becomingly frank. Her stance was firm and Rue noticed that she had not been manacled. Perhaps the Vanaras did not like to restrain women. After all, Rue herself had not been shackled. Yet.
Rue looked her over as she approached. “Mrs Featherstonehaugh, I presume?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LADYBIRDS TO THE RESCUE
Mrs Featherstonehaugh walked around and down, the limp that required the cane one of inconvenience rather than pain. Either that or she’d learnt not to show her discomfort. The Vanara treated her courteously¸ if not with any particular reverence. Nor were they overly familiar. She was a guest and free to move around, but not considered particularly important.
Rue said, with a small curtsey, “Prudence Akeldama at your service. How do you do?”
The woman’s face showed no sign of recognition. Either she was very good at being impassive or her status as Dama’s agent did not confer with it knowledge of his family connections. Or she didn’t know who her master really was.
“How do you do, Miss Akeldama?” Mrs Featherstonehaugh stopped a few feet from her. Omission of title? Was Mrs Featherstonehaugh trying to insult her? Lady Akeldama’s name was so prevalent in the society column that it was odd the spy didn’t recognise it.
“My dear Mrs Featherstonehaugh, we thought you were in grave danger.”
The lady dismissed any concern with a twitch of her cane. Nor was she the type to be taken in by Rue’s sympathetic tone. “Very kind I’m sure, but who is we?”
Forthright indeed! Rue felt it only right to respond in kind. “Oh, you know, your standard concerned party of miscreants.”
The woman looked her up and down. Had she a monocle, she would have peered through it suspiciously. “I see. In which case, you will understand that I cannot trust you.”
Rue thought hard, frowning. Trying to remember the name spoken by that young woman, Anitra, in the Maltese Tower. Oh yes. “Goldenrod sent me.”
Mrs Featherstonehaugh paused. “You are not his normal type.”