The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (155 page)

Chancellor Neshi stepped forward, slowly and with empty hands held up in supplication. “Please, Lord Maccon, we are unused to such antics.”

Conall only growled, low and furious.

If Alexia had expected an apology at that juncture, she was sorely disappointed. The man, showing not insignificant bravery, only inched closer and gestured the wolf toward the door like a porter. “This way, my lord. We thank you for your visit.”

Taking that as a statement of permission, Alexia turned and strode from the room with all haste. No sense in dawdling where one was unwanted. After a moment's hesitation, Conall followed.

Prudence struggled mightily in her mother's arm, but Alexia had had enough of
that
for one night and gripped her tightly.

The infant cried out, “No! Mama, no. Poor Dama!” in her high treble and strained back to the room.

Feeling her daughter's attention shift and possessed by the same compulsion, Alexia paused and turned to look back. The hive vampires stood in a huddle before their mistress, but the dais raised Queen Matakara high enough
for Alexia's eyes to meet those of the vampire queen above the crowd. Alexia was struck once again by the profound unhappiness there and by the belief that Matakara wanted something of her, wanted it enough to bring her all the way to Egypt.
How can I help you with anything?
Alexia felt a tug at her dress and saw Conall had his teeth firm about her hem and was tugging her into motion. She did as she was bid.

Chancellor Neshi had to jog to catch up. After a moment's thoughtful regard, the vampire directed his conversation at Alexia, rather than her now-hairy husband. As if nothing unbecoming had happened, he inquired politely, “May we offer you some coffee before you leave?” They walked down the cold stone stairs to the entrance.

“No thank you,” responded Alexia politely. “I think we had better depart.”

“Mama, Mama!”

“Yes, my dear?”

Prudence took a deep breath and then said slowly and carefully, “Mama, get her out.”

Alexia looked to her daughter in startlement. “Are we speaking in complete sentences now, Prudence?”

Prudence narrowed her eyes at her mother suspiciously. “No.”

“Ah, well, still, that is an interesting theory. Trapped, you think. Against her will? I suppose anything is possible.”

Biffy and Lyall spent that night much as though nothing of significance had happened in the previous one. They met with Lady Kingair and proceeded with the investigation
as if there had been no fight, no life-altering decision, and no beginnings of a romance.

Lady Kingair sniffed and then glared at the two men suspiciously when they entered the room, but apart from that, made no comment about any change in state. If she noticed they were more relaxed around one another or the little touches they sometimes exchanged without quite realizing, she made no comment.

Biffy was sure Floote knew, because Floote always seemed to know such things. The butler attended to their requirements with the same solicitous efficiency as always. Perhaps more so, as it seemed that without Lady Maccon's demands to occupy his time and attention, he was ever on hand to help them with anything they might need.

Lyall spent his time looking over all the evidence they had gathered on the owners of private dirigibles in London. He compared these to political and tradesmen's concerns in Egypt but was unable to come up with any connections. Lady Kingair delved into the manufacture and distribution of sundowner bullets, trying to determine who might have access and why, but this also seemed fruitless. Biffy concentrated his efforts on Egypt and what Dubh might have found there. The man had clearly been inside the God-Breaker Plague zone to have emerged so weakened. Biffy gathered together passenger manifests on trains and steamers out of Egypt, attempting to access baggage information on the theory that, due to his emaciated state, Dubh must have been traveling in the company of at least
part
of a preternatural mummy on the voyage home. He must have disposed of it, or it had been stolen, as no supernatural creature in London had experienced ill effects upon his return.

Biffy was not one to get easily distracted, but after several hours immersed in manifests of one kind or another, he found himself drawn into an obscure treatise on the nature of the God-Breaker Plague written some fifty years ago. That, in turn, referenced a different report from the very first antiquities expeditions some hundred and twenty or so years prior. Something in the two documents struck him as odd, though he could not pinpoint the particulars. This sent him into a flurry of activity, pulling books on Egypt down from the library and sending Floote off to collect reports from the foreign office on the subject. The God-Breaker Plague was of peculiarly little interest to daylight folk and of particular secrecy to vampires and werewolves, so there was very little substantial information.

“Biffy, I don't mean to disturb your readings, but you appear to be getting a tad distracted from our original objective.”

Biffy looked up at his Beta, rubbing his eyes blearily. “Mmm?”

“You seem to be delving further and further back in time. Away from our murder investigation. Are you tracking something of relevance?”

“There is something
peculiar
going on with this plague.”

“You mean aside from the fact that it exists at all, a pestilence of unmaking affecting only supernatural folk?”

“Yes.”

“What, exactly, are you on to, my boy?” Lyall crouched down next to Biffy, where he sat on the floor, surrounded by books and manuscripts.

Lady Kingair looked up from her own papers.

Biffy pointed at a line in one of the older texts. “Look here, one hundred and twenty years ago, reports of the plague being situated as far as Cairo. See here, particular mention of the pyramids being
clean
.”

Lyall tilted his head, a sign Biffy was to continue.

“And here, a similar mention. No one seems interested in charting the exact extent of the plague, possibly because it would take a werewolf interested in scientific investigation, and willing to turn mortal on a regular basis as he walked through the desert. But so far as I can tell, fifty years ago, the God-Breaker Plague stretched from Aswan to, still, Cairo.”

“Well?”

Biffy shook out a map of the Nile River Valley. “Taking into account topography and allowing water features and territory markers, much as werewolves and vampires do themselves, the plague would have extended like so.” He drew a loose circle on the map with a stick of graphite. “So far as I can tell, the initial extent, here, remained fixed for thousands of years, ever since werewolves were divested of their rule and the plague began.”

Lyall bent over the map, intrigued. “So what has you worried? This all seems to be as the howlers sing it. Ramses, the last pharaoh, who lost the ability to change and became old and toothless because of the God-Breaker Plague.”

“Yes, except sometime after this last report, the one dated 1824, it moved.”

“What! What moved?”

“Well, perhaps not moved. Perhaps
expanded
is a better word. Look at the more recent reports on the plague BUR got hold of, dated a few decades ago. Admittedly they
come out of the Alexandria Hive and one loner wolf who braved the desert out of some kind of religious fervor. But I would say, at a conservative guess, that the God-Breaker Plague has expanded some one hundred miles in the last fifty years.” Biffy drew a second larger circle on his map. “Here. It now includes Siwah and Damanhúr and stretches all the way to the outskirts of Alexandria.”

“What!”

“Something happened five decades ago that caused the plague to start up again.”

“This is not good,” stated Professor Lyall baldly.

“You think our Dubh might have been carrying this information back to us?” wondered Lady Kingair.

“He was sent looking for preternatural mummies. What if he found more than any of us had wagered on?”

“Why be so obsessed with contacting Lady Maccon on the subject?” Lady Kingair seemed to find this point particularly aggravating.

“Well, she
is
a preternatural,” said Biffy.

“We must send them an aetherogram immediately with this information. Do you have an appointment scheduled with Lady Maccon, Biffy?” asked Lyall.

“Yes, I… How did you know?”

“Because it's what I would have done in your place. When is it?”

“Tomorrow at sunset.”

“You must relay this information to Lady Maccon.”

“Of course.”

“And you must warn her of… you know…” Lyall gestured with his head at Lady Kingair.

“Yes, that your secret is out, that our pack is about to change. I know.”

“You are still not resigned to the change?” Lyall cocked his head to the side and lowered his voice.

“You will leave me, and you will leave me with a great deal of responsibility.” Biffy looked up at him out of the corner of his eye, pretending further interest in the map of Egypt so as to disguise any sentiment.

“I believe you might have just proven how well placed my faith is in you.”

“Well, gentlemen,” interrupted Lady Kingair, “how about you prove Lord Maccon's faith and figure out who shot my Beta?”

L
ady Alexia Maccon awoke midafternoon. The light was rich and golden, peeking around the edges of the heavy curtains. She checked her husband's slumbering face, handsome and innocent in sleep. She trailed one fingertip down his fine profile and giggled when he snuffled a little snore at the familiarity. Sometimes she allowed herself to wallow in the sentimentality of knowing that this wonderful man, overbearing, impossible, and werewolf though he might be, was hers. Never in her old days as spinster and social outcast could she have imagined such a thing. She had thought that some kind, unassuming scientist might be persuaded to take her, or some midgrade clerk, but to have landed such a man… her sisters must envy her. Alexia would have envied herself, had that not proved logistically rather complicated. She kissed the tip of her husband's nose and climbed out of the bed, eager to investigate Egypt in the daylight.

She was not, however, to enjoy the pleasures of such an
exploration alone. The gentlemen were still abed, but Mrs. Tunstell, the nursemaid, and the children were all awake and enjoying coffee in the room dedicated as the nursery.

“Mama!” came Prudence's excited cry upon seeing Lady Maccon in the doorway. She slid down off the chair and toddled over excitedly. Alexia bent to pick her up. Prudence grabbed her mother's head, one chubby hand to each cheek, and directed her attention at her own intent little face. “Tunstellings! Silly,” she explained. “Eeegypttt!”

Alexia nodded slightly. “I agree with you on all points, my darling.”

Prudence stared seriously into her mother's brown eyes, as though trying to determine whether Alexia was addressing the matter with due attention to the important details. “Good,” she said at last. “Go go go.”

Mrs. Tunstell stood back politely while Lady Maccon and her child conversed. At this she said, “Alexia, my dear, are you perhaps pondering what I am pondering?”

Alexia replied, without hesitation, “My dear Ivy, I very much doubt it.”

Ivy took no offense, possibly because she did not perceive the insult, only saying, “We were considering a little stroll about the town. Would you be interested in joining us?”

“Oh, indeed. Do you have your Baedeker's? I need to get to the local aethographor by six o'clock or thereabouts.”

“Oh, Alexia, do you need to
transmit
something significant? How exciting!”

“Oh, nothing of any material consequence, simply a matter of coordination. You have no objections to us making it one of the objectives of the excursion?”

“Certainly not. Taking the air is so much more enjoyable when one has purpose, don't you feel? I ordered up a donkey. Would you believe they don't have perambulators in this part of the world? How do they transport infants in style?”

“Apparently by donkey.”

“That,” stated Ivy most decidedly, “is
not
style!”

“I thought we could pop Primrose and Percival into those adorable little basket panniers, and Prudence here might like to try to ride.”

“No!” said Prudence.

“Oh, come now, darling,” remonstrated her mother. “You come from a long line of horsewomen, or so I like to believe. You should start while you are young enough to get away with riding astride.”

“Pttttt,” said Prudence.

A polite tap came at the open door and Madame Lefoux stuck her head in. “Ladies”—she tipped her elegant gray top hat—“and Percy,” she added, remembering that one, at least, was a very minor gentleman.

Percy burped at her. Primrose waved her arms about. Prudence nodded politely, as did Alexia and Ivy.

“Madame Lefoux,” said Mrs. Tunstell. “We were about to head out on an exploratory expedition around the metropolis. Would you care to join us?”

“Ah, ladies, I should ordinarily be quite eager, but I am afraid I have my own business to attend to.”

“Ah, well, don't let us detain you,” said Alexia, quite burning with curiosity as to the nature of Madame Lefoux's business. Was the Frenchwoman acting for the Order of the Brass Octopus, Countess Nadasdy, or herself? Lady Maccon wished, not for the first time, she had
her own team of BUR-style field agents she could set to tail suspicious individuals at will. She looked with consideration at her tiny daughter, who was occupied playing with a curl of Alexia's hair.
Perhaps I should train Prudence in covert operation procedures? With an adopted father like Lord Akeldama, half my work will already be completed
. Prudence blinked at her and then stuffed the curl into her mouth.
Perhaps not just yet
.

Madame Lefoux made good her escape, and Alexia, Ivy, and the nursemaid dressed and mobilized the three infants. They made their way down and out the front of the hotel where a docile, soft-eared donkey and companion boy stood awaiting them. The twins took up basket position with little fuss, Percy being given a bit of dried fig to gnaw upon and Primrose a length of silver lace to play with. Both wore large straw hats, Primrose looking quite the thing with her dark curls peeking out and her big blue eyes. Percy, on the other hand, looked rather uncomfortable, like a fat, redheaded boatman unsure of the high seas.

Prudence, set astride the donkey, drummed her chubby legs and grabbed the creature's neck like a seasoned professional. What little sun she had experienced aboard ship had turned her skin a faint olive. Alexia was horribly afraid her daughter had inherited her Italian complexion. This spectacle, of three foreign children dressed in all the frills and lace of England's finest, plus donkey, caused a stir in the streets of Alexandria. It was just as well, since they couldn't move very quickly without Prudence falling off. The nursemaid walked alongside, keeping a watchful eye to them all, neat as a new pin in her navy dress, white apron, and cap. Mrs. Tunstell and Lady Maccon strode at
the front, leading the way, parasols raised against the sun. Lady Maccon was dressed in a fabulous walking gown of black and white stripes, courtesy of Biffy, and Mrs. Tunstell in a complementary day dress of periwinkle blue and maroon plaid. Periodically they would pause to consult Mrs. Tunstell's little guidebook, until this took too long, at which juncture Lady Maccon would simply pick a direction and stride on.

Alexia fell deeply in love with Egypt on that walk. There really was no other way of putting it. As suggested by Ivy's Baedeker, Egypt had no concept of bad weather in the winter months, giving them instead a mild summer. The sandstone and mud brick buildings basked under the friendly orange glow, and the slatted rushes high above their heads made crisscrosses of shade at their feet. The flowing garb of the locals provided an endless shifting of bright colors against a muted monotone background. The native women carried baskets of food balanced upon their heads. Ivy, at first, thought this a peculiar kind of hat and was very interested in procuring one for herself, until she saw a woman lift the basket down and dole out bread to an eager donkey boy.

The gentlemen and ladies of Egypt seemed to possess a self-respect and innate gracefulness of manner, regardless of societal rank, that could only be thought engaging. That said, they also seemed inclined to sing while they worked, or sat upon their heels, or stretched out upon a mat. Alexia was not a particularly musical person, and her husband, a noted opera singer in his human days, had once described her bath time warblings as those of a deranged badger. But even she could recognize complete tunelessness, coupled to a certain rhythmic vocalization.
The resulting renditions seemed a means of lightening labor or sweetening repose, but Alexia thought them monotonous and displeasing to the ear. However, she learned, as she had done with the harmonic auditory resonance disruptor, to disregard it as mere background hum.

As they tottered happily along, Alexia felt compelled to stop at many a small shop and one or two bazaar stands to investigate the goods on offer, mainly drawn, as was her wont, by delicious and exotic foodstuffs. Ivy and the child-burdened donkey trailed in her wake. The nursemaid paid due attention to her charges and was properly shocked by the foreignness of the city about them the rest of the time. “Oh, Mrs. Tunstell, would you look at that? Stray dogs!” or “Oh, Mrs. Tunstell, would you believe? That man is sitting cross-legged, on his front step, and his legs are bare!”

Mrs. Tunstell, meanwhile, became increasingly addlepated over their getting lost in a foreign land.

Prudence held on with all her might, and after taking in her surroundings with the jaundiced eye of a seasoned traveler, tilted her little head back, nearly losing her hat, and cooed in delight over the amazing sight of the many massive colorful balloons that hovered above the city. Egyptians were not yet proficient in dirigible travel but had for many hundreds of years played host to the balloon nomads of the desert skies, bronzed cousins to the Bedouin. The first of the English settlers named them Drifters, and the moniker stuck. A vast number hovered above Alexandria during the day, having come in for the markets and the tourist trade. They were every color of every hat Ivy had ever possessed, many of them patchwork or striped. As fascinating as the daily life of the natives
might be, Prudence was lured by the promise of flight high above. She warbled her glee.

Thus pleasantly entertained, the group made its way through the city, pausing overlong only once, in one of the bazaars when Alexia was particularly taken by a fine display of leatherwork. Looking up, she noticed that the man seated behind the goods attractively arrayed on a colorful striped rug was not the same in looks as all the others they had encountered thus far. He had a different garb and bearing. His sharp, bearded features and steady gaze betokened firmness, resolution, and an autocratic nature. He was also
not singing
. This was no Alexandrian local but one of the Bedouin nomads of the desert, or so Alexia believed at first. Until she noted that a long rope ladder was tied to the building behind him, a ladder that stretched all the way up into the sky above, attached to the basket of one of Prudence's beloved balloons. The man was uncommonly handsome, his dark eyes intent, and he stared hard at Alexia for a moment.

“Leather for the pretty lady?” he asked.

“Oh, no thank you. Simply looking.”

“You should look farther south. The answers to your questions lie in Upper Egypt, Miss Tarabotti,” said the Drifter, his accent thick but his meaning unmistakable.

“Pardon me. What did you just say?” Alexia was startled into asking. She looked for Mrs. Tunstell. “Ivy, did you hear that?” By the time she had turned back, the man was gone, shimmying up his rope ladder into the sky with remarkable dexterity and speed, almost supernaturally quick—impossible, of course, as it was still daylight.

Alexia watched him go with her mouth slightly open until a new voice said, “Leather for the pretty lady?” and
a small boy, in typical Alexandrian garb, looked hopefully up at her from the exact place the man had just been.

“What! Who was that bearded man? How did he know my name?”

The boy only blinked his fringe of lashes at her, uncomprehending. “Leather for the pretty lady?”

“Alexia, are we finished here? I hardly see what you would want with such goods.”

“Ivy, did you see that man?”

“What man?”

“The balloon nomad who was just here.”

“Oh, really, Alexia, it says right here in my little book—Drifters don't fraternize with Europeans. You must have imagined it.”

“Ivy, my dearest boon companion, have I ever
imagined
anything?”

“Fair point, Alexia. In which case, I am very sorry to say that I did not observe the interaction.”

“A disappointment for you, I'm sure, for he was a remarkably fine specimen.”

“Oh, my, Alexia, you shouldn't say such things! You're a married woman.”

“True, but not a dead one.”

Ivy fanned herself vigorously. “La, Alexia, such talk!”

Lady Maccon only smiled and twirled her parasol. “Ah, well, I suppose time is of the essence. We should press on.” She tried to memorize the stall's location and the color of the man's balloon, a patchwork of varying shades of deep purples.

With no further disruptions, they made their way to the west end of Boulevard Ramleh, arriving by six o'clock
exactly. Alexia left her party in ecstasies over Port Neuf, glittering rich and blue under the low light of the late afternoon sun. She strode swiftly inside and, finding it was English run and quite up to snuff, had her own valve in place exactly on time to transmit a message to Biffy. At least she hoped it was the right time; so many things could go wrong with aethographors.

“Ruffled Parasol in place,” her message ran. “Booking this time this location until departure.” She then added the Alexandria codes and waited with bated breath. Within moments, as ordered, there came a reply. Unfortunately, it was not the reply Lady Alexia Maccon would have wished.