Prudence (The Custard Protocol 1)

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.