Lilith Saintcrow - The Red Plague Affair

He did not mind it so much as he minded the fear – and yes, it was fear, for a mentath was not devoid of Feeling – of the infirmity somehow reaching his faculties. Dimming them, and the glory of logic and deduction fading.

That would be uncomfortably like the Hell the old Church, and even the Church Englican, did spout so much about.

It took him far longer than he liked to reach his feet, setting his jacket to rights with quick brushing movements. His knees were suspiciously, well… wibbly. It was the only term that applied.

Ludovico watched, far more closely than was his wont. “Good God, sir, I am not about to faint.” Clare took stock. He was respectable enough for tea, at least.

“You look dreadful.” But then the Neapolitan waved away any further conversation. “Come, tea. At least la Francese will have antipasti . Ludo is hungry. Hurry along.”

The Rostrand was not an old hotel, but it was fit for visiting royalty. Very few of Englene’s natives would stay in its luxurious wallow; it was far too Continental . The walls were sheathed with kielstone, which meant the native flow of æther would not overly discommode foreign guests with any sorcerous talent. And, not so incidentally, so their own alienness would not create stray harmful bits of irrationality.

Rudyard was not a foreigner, precisely. He had been born in the glare and monsoon of the Indus. Which was practically Empire, true… but it still made certain of his talents unreliable when he ventured beyond the subcontinent’s borders.

How that must irk him .

It was no great trick to locate him in the coffee room off the cavernous overdone lobby with its glittering chandelier overhead sparking and hissing with repression charms. Mirrors in gilded frames reflected fashionable plumed hats atop women’s curls, the height of Parissian fashion favouring dark rich jewel-colours this year, and men in sober black, a faint look of ill-ease marking every foreigner no matter how expensively dressed. The gaslamps were lit, their light softening each edge and picking out nuances of colour sunlight would bleach. The morning’s glamour had not made her overly sensitive, but she still blinked rapidly. Even the rainy light outside was too much, sometimes.

The French were much in evidence today, and Emma’s trained glance stored faces while her obedient memory returned names for some of them. Some of the guests here bore watching – the Monacan Ambassador, for one, oiled and sleek and quite fashionable to have in a drawing room lately. His tiny principality did not rate him such importance, and there were certain troubling rumours about his proclivities, both personal and professional, that would require attention sooner or later.

The coffee room was sun-bright and pleasant, done in a rather Eastern style. Sky-blue cushions with gilt tassels, a splendid hookah in a nook by a chimney – most likely defunct, a relic of some travel through a pawnshop – and cages of well-bred canaries cringing under a lash of high-pitched noise.

No, it was not difficult to locate Kim Finchwilliam Rudyard after all. For the small monkey, the ruff around its intelligent little face glowing silver, was screeching fit to pierce eardrums and shatter every single mirror and glass in the Rostrand’s atrium.

Several harried employees fluttered about carrying different items perhaps meant to appease the howling beast – or its master. Who sat, apparently unconcerned, in a large leather chair near one of the fireplaces, one of the day’s broadsheets open before his lean tanned face.

His cloth was sober and surpassingly fine, his waistcoat not disguising the taut trim frame beneath and his morning coat no doubt the finest the Burlington Estate could produce. Not for him the snappish newness of Savile Row; Rudyard’s taste for the most conservative of fashions was an involuntary comment upon what he no doubt fancied was a hidden desire. To be more of the Isle than Britannia Herself would have suited him royally, for all Rudyard was a young and bastard son.

A nose too hawk and cheekbones too broad, a skin deeply tanned by the Indus’s fierce sun – but not enough to be native of that dark-spiced country, no. Later he would be as seamed and rough as a nut, but for the time being, he was merely unusual. A gold ring very much like a Lascar’s adornment dangled from one earlobe, and his hair was too fair for the Indus and the wrong manner of dark for Britannia. He wore no moustache, and though his colour was not muddy as so many half-castes were, the exotic on him was a dangerous perfume.

She did not see his kukuhri -knife with its hilt of sinuous dark carven wood, but that did not mean he was not armed. Emma took her time approaching him, taking note of the various glances and exclamations from the Rostrand’s staff. Mikal touched her shoulder, a fleeting pressure, and she nodded.

Of course he is armed somehow. And you can tell he is of the Indus. I wonder if you will recognise more of him?

The question of how to deal with the screaming monkey was solved as soon as the creature sighted her. For it froze, its mouth wide open and sharp ivory teeth gleaming, its wide white-ringed eyes fixed on Emma.

No, not on her, but over her left shoulder. At Mikal.

Well, that is very interesting.

The sudden silence was almost shattering. The top edge of Rudyard’s broadsheet trembled slightly, and Emma came to a halt at a polite distance, eyeing the monkey. It was an odd little creature, and idly she wondered if Victrix would enjoy such a pet. The shrieking might even be a side benefit, to drown out her Consort’s gruff-grumbling displeasure. Did the expense of obtaining one balance the satisfaction to be had in its presentation?

Like Clare, she would have to postpone the question for further analysis. Her lips twitched slightly, and she dispelled the rising softness from her features, schooled them into an appropriately firm expression.

The broadsheet’s top edge quivered again. Rudyard inhaled, smoothly and slowly.

“Like old dark wine.” His baritone, lightly accented, was pleasant enough. “Sorcery’s spice, and the dust of the grave. Can it be?” The paper lowered and Rudyard’s odd hazel eyes, more gold than green, surveyed her from top to toe. Emma suffered it, the slight well-bred smile frozen to her face. “It can. Well, well.” He unfolded himself in a leisurely manner and rose, and rose – he was quite provokingly tall.

“Sir… sir .” A rotund man in an ill-cut suit and moist paws for hands bustled officiously into range. “Sir, that creature —”

“Is enticing indeed, but I doubt you would wish to lay hand upon it. A poison bloom is she.” Rudyard’s teeth, just as white as the monkey’s, gleamed in a smile, just their tips showing. “The female of her species is deadly.”

“As is the assault upon the eardrums from your charming companion,” Emma cut in, her tone light, arch, and amused. Let us see how easy you are to provoke this time. It should lighten my mood immensely to darken yours. “We shall require champagne, despite the hour, and a private room.”

Rudyard’s eyebrows lifted. You could see the echo of military bearing in his straight back, weight evenly balanced and his boots sharp-shining. He had been slated for a sepoy’s life before his sorcerous talent had manifested itself. “Business, then. Very well.”

“Sir…” The man – steward or head concierge, perhaps, with an incredibly harried air – next appealed to her. “Madam, that creature, the creature —”

She had very little patience for soothing him, though it was perhaps her female duty to do so. “I believe it is called a monkey, and it shall accompany us. Hurry along now, and prepare a private room. Champagne, and some light refreshment.”