Changeless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Second (28 page)

U
sing the information Lord Akeldama had provided, and with the assistance of a personable young man the vampire referred to
only as Biffy, Professor Lyall set up an operation. “Ambrose has been meeting with various members of the incoming regiments,”
Lord Akeldama had informed him over an aged scotch—a warm fire in the grate and a plump calico cat on his knee. “At first
I thought it was
simply
opiates or some other form of illegal trade, but now I believe it to be something more sinister. The hive is not only employing
its vampire contacts—it’s approaching any common soldier. Even the ill-dressed. It’s
horrible.
” The vampire gave a delicate little shudder. “I cannot discern what it is they are buying up so greedily. You want to find
out what Westminster is up to? Tap into those werewolf military connections of yours,
darling
, and set up an offer. Biffy can take you to the preferred venue.”

And so it was, on the information provided by a rove vampire, that Professor Lyall now sat in a very seedy pub, the Pickled
Crumpet, accompanied by a spectacularly well-dressed drone and Major Channing. A few wobbly tables away sat one of Major Channing’s
most trusted soldiers, clutching several suspicious packages and looking nervous.

Professor Lyall slouched down and nursed his beer. He hated beer, a vile common beverage.

Major Channing was twitchy. He shifted long legs, jostling the table and sloshing their drinks.

“Stop that,” his Beta instructed. “No one’s come yet. Be patient.”

Major Channing only glared at him.

Biffy offered them a pinch of snuff. Both werewolves declined in thinly veiled horror. Imagine mucking about with one’s sense
of smell! Such a vampiric kind of affectation.

Some while later, with Professor Lyall’s beer barely touched but Major Channing on his third pint, the vampire entered the
pub.

He was a tall, exceedingly comely individual, who looked exactly as a novelist might describe a vampire—sinister and pensive
with an aquiline nose and unfathomable eyes. Professor Lyall sipped his beer in salute. He had to give Lord Ambrose tribute—the
man put on an excellent show. Top marks for dramatic flair.

Lord Ambrose made his way straight to the soldier’s table and sat down without introduction. The tavern was loud enough to
make an auditory disruptor unnecessary, and even Lyall and Channing with their supernatural hearing caught only about one
word in ten.

The exchange moved quite rapidly and culminated in the soldier showing Lord Ambrose his collection of goods. The vampire looked
each one over, then shook his head violently and stood to leave.

The soldier stood as well, leaning forward to ask a question.

Lord Ambrose clearly took offense, for he lashed out with supernatural speed, striking the man across the face so fast even
a soldier’s reflexes stood him in poor stead.

Major Channing immediately jumped to his feet, his chair crashing back as he surged forward. Professor Lyall grabbed his wrist,
halting his protective instinct. Channing all too often thought of his soldiers as pack.

The vampire’s head swiveled around, focusing in on their little band. He hissed through his teeth, the tips of both fangs
visible over thin lips. Then with a swirl of long burgundy greatcoat, he swept majestically from the inn.

Professor Lyall, who had never done anything majestically in all his life, faintly envied the man.

The young soldier came over to them, a harsh red welt about the side of his mouth.

“I’ll murder the liverless bastard,” swore Major Channing, making as if to follow Lord Ambrose out into the street.

“Stop.” Professor Lyall’s hand tightened on the Gamma’s arm. “Burt here is perfectly fine. Aren’t you, Burt?”

Burt spat out a bit of blood but nodded. “Dealt with worse at sea.”

Biffy picked his snuffbox off the table and tucked it into a coat pocket. “So”—the young man gestured for the soldier to pull
up a chair and join them—“what did he say? What are they looking for?”

“It’s the weirdest thing. Artifacts.”

“What?”

The soldier bit his bottom lip. “Yeah,
Egyptian
artifacts. But not objects as we might have thought. Not a weapon as such. That’s why he was so angry with my offerings.
Thems is looking for scrolls. Scrolls with a certain image on ’em.”

“Hieroglyphic?”

Burt nodded.

“What image, did he say?”

“Seems they’re quite desperate, ’cause it was pretty indiscreet of him to tell me, but, yeah, he said. Something called an
ankh, only they want it broken. You know, in the picture, like the symbol was cut in half.”

Professor Lyall and Biffy looked at one another. “Interesting,” they both said at the same time.

“I wager the edict keepers have some kind of record of the symbol.” Biffy, of course, had some knowledge of vampire information
sources.

“Which means,” Lyall said thoughtfully, “this has happened before.”

Alexia left her husband soundly asleep. After centuries as an immortal, he had forgotten how a mortal body seeks succor in
slumber when it has injuries to deal with. Despite the excitement, the night was young and most of the rest of the castle
was still awake.

She nearly ran full tilt into a rapidly scuttling Ivy in the hallway. Miss Hisselpenny had a fierce frown decorating her normally
amiable face.

“Good Lord, Ivy, what an expression.” Lady Maccon leaned casually on her parasol. The way things were progressing this evening,
she was unwilling to part with the accessory.

“Oh, Alexia. I do not mean to be forward, but I really must venture: I simply loathe Mr. Tunstell.”

“Ivy!”

“Well, I mean to say, well, really! He is so very impossible. I was given to understand that his affection for me was secure.
And one little objection and he switches allegiance quite flippantly. One might even call him flighty! To bill and coo around
another female so soon after I went to such prodigious lengths to break his heart. It gives him the countenance of a, well,
a vacillating butterfly!”

Lady Maccon was arrested trying to imagine a cooing butterfly. “Really, I thought you were still quite enamored of him, despite
rejecting his suit.”

“How
could
you think such a thing? I positively detest him. I am in full agreement with myself on this. He is nothing more than a billing-cooing
vacillator
! And I shall have nothing more to do with a person of such weakened character.”

Lady Maccon was not quite certain how to converse with Miss Hisselpenny when she was in such a mood. She was accustomed to
Ivy-overset and Ivy-chatterbox, but Ivy-full-of-wrath was a new creature altogether. She opted for the fallback position.
“You are clearly in need of a fortifying cup of tea, my dear. Shall we go and see if we can hunt one down? Even the Scots
must stock some form of libation.”

Miss Hisselpenny took a deep breath. “Yes, I think you may be right. Excellent notion.”

Lady Maccon solicitously shepherded her friend down the stairs and into one of the smaller drawing rooms, where they ran into
two clavigers. The young gentlemen were more than eager to hunt down the requisite tea, see to Miss Hisselpenny’s every whim,
and generally prove to the ladies that all good manners had not fled the Highlands along with its complement of trousers.
As a result, Ivy forgave them their kilts. Lady Maccon left her friend to their stimulating accents and tender care and went
in search of Madame Lefoux and the broken aethographor, hoping for a peek at its functional component parts.

It took her some time to track the massive machine down. Castle Kingair was a real castle, with none of Woolsey’s practical
notions on conservation of space and gridlike layout. It was very large, with a propensity for confusing itself with additional
rooms, towers, and gratuitous staircases. Lady Maccon was logical in her approach (which may have been her mistake). She surmised
that the aethographor must be located in one of the many castle turrets, but
which one
proved to be the difficulty. There was a decided overabundance of towers. Very concerned with defensibility, the Scots. It
took a good deal of time to climb the winding steps to each turret. She knew she was in the right area, however, when she
heard the cursing. In French, of course, and not words that she was familiar with, naturally, but she was in no doubt as to
their profane nature. Madame Lefoux appeared to be experiencing some form of inconvenience.

When she finally attained the room, Alexia came face-to-face, or as is were, face-to-bottom, with yet another good reason
for the lady inventor to don trousers. Madame Lefoux was on her back, half underneath the apparatus, only her legs and backside
visible. Had she been in skirts, it would have been a most indelicate position.

Kingair’s aethographic transmitter was raised up on little legs above the stone floor of the castle. It looked somewhat like
two attached privy houses with footstool feet. Everything was brightly lit with gas lamps, as the pack had clearly spared
no expense on this room. It was also clean.

Lady Maccon craned her neck to see into the darkened interior of the chamber that Madame Lefoux worked under. It appeared
that the transmitting mechanicals were the ones being problematical. The Frenchwoman had with her a hatbox that appeared to
be no hatbox at all but a cleverly disguised toolkit. Lady Maccon instantly coveted one herself—so much less
obvious
than a dispatch case.

The bespectacled claviger, with the ever-present expression of panic, crouched nearby, passing the inventor, one after another,
a string of exciting-looking tools.

“The magnetomotor modulating adjustor, if you please,” Madame Lefoux would say, and a long, sticklike object with a corkscrew
of copper at one end and a glass tube full of an illuminated liquid at the other was passed over. Shortly after, there would
emit another curse, the tool would be passed back to the claviger, and a new one called for.

“Goodness gracious,” exclaimed Alexia. “What
are
you doing?”

There came the sound of a thump, Madame Lefoux’s legs jerked, and further cursing ensued. Moments later, the Frenchwoman wormed
her way out and stood up, rubbing her head. The action only added to a vast collection of grease smudges covering her pretty
face.

“Ah, Lady Maccon, how lovely. I did wonder when you would track us down.”

“I was unavoidably delayed by husbands and Ivys,” explained Alexia.

“These things, regrettably, are bound to occur when one is married and befriended.” Madame Lefoux was sympathetic.

Lady Maccon leaned forward and, using her parasol as a prop, tried to see underneath the contraption. Her corset made this
action mostly impossible, so she turned back to the Frenchwoman. “Have you determined the nature of the problem?”

“Well, it is definitely the transmitting chamber that is malfunctioning. The receiving room seems fully operational. It is
hard to tell without an actual transmission of some kind.”

Alexia looked to the claviger for confirmation, and the young man nodded. He did not appear to have much to say for himself,
but he was eager to help. The best kind of person, felt Alexia.

“Well,” said Lady Maccon, “what time is it?”

The young gentleman took out a small pocket watch and flipped it open. “Half past ten.”

Lady Maccon turned to Madame Lefoux. “If you can get it ready by eleven, we can try to raise Lord Akeldama on his aethographor.
Remember, he gave me the codes, a valve frequensor,
and
an eleven o’clock time slot for open-scan transmission.”

“But if he doesna have our resonance, what good is that? He willna be able to receive.” The claviger snapped his watch closed
and stashed it once more in his waistcoat pocket.

“Ah,” Madame Lefoux jumped in, “he has a multiadaptive model that does not operate using crystalline compatibility protocol.
All he need do is scan for a transmission to his frequency during the allotted time. We can receive back because Lady Maccon
does
have the appropriate valve component.”

The claviger looked even more surprised than usual.

“I understand they are dear friends.” Madame Lefoux appeared to feel this would explain everything.

Alexia smiled. “On the evening of my wedding, I held his hand so he could watch the sunset.”

The claviger looked confused. Again, more confused than usual (his was a difficult face for expressing the full range of human
emotion).

Madame Lefoux explained, “Lord Akeldama is a vampire.”

The young man gasped. “He trusted you with his life?”

Lady Maccon nodded. “So trusting me with a crystalline valve, however technologically vital, is no very great thing by comparison.”

Madame Lefoux shrugged. “I do not know about that, my lady. I mean to say, one’s life is one thing; one’s technology is an
entirely different matter.”

“Nevertheless, I can provide you the means to test this aethographor’s effectiveness, once it has been repaired.”

The claviger gave her a look of burgeoning respect. “Efficient female, aren’t you, Lady Maccon?”

Alexia was not certain whether she should be pleased or offended by the statement, so she chose to ignore it.

“So, I had better get to it, hadn’t I?” Madame Lefoux turned and crawled back under the transmitter, returning to her tinkering.

Muffled words emanated a few moments later.

“What was that?”

Madame Lefoux’s head reappeared. “I said, would you like to inscribe a message to Lord Akeldama while you are waiting?”

“Superb idea.” Lady Maccon turned to the claviger. “Would you mind finding me a blank scroll, a stylus, and some acid?”

The young man jumped to oblige. While she waited for the supplies, Alexia poked about looking for the pack’s valve frequensor
library. Who did Kingair communicate with? Why had they bothered to invest in the aethographor at all? She found the crystalline
valves in a small set of unlocked drawers off to one side. There were only three, but they were all entirely unlabeled and
without any other identification.