“Everything is so bright and cheerful.” She spun in delight. “And everyone smiles so much!”
Sekhmet asked Prim, “Is she always this excitable?”
Primrose, looking extremely dignified, answered, “I’m afraid so.”
“How exhausting,” replied their guide.
“You’re telling us,” grumbled Percy.
“It’s one of her charms,” defended Quesnel.
But it was so bright and cheerful.
Rue was particularly fascinated by the consumption of a specific hot beverage, the earthenware mugs of which were then cast aside into the street to crumble to dust under the many feet walking by. Everyone seemed to be drinking it. Where was the vendor?
A Cederholm Condenser muscled its way through, obstructing Rue’s view and blasting hot steam from its carapace. The people around scampered away to avoid being burned. The smoke from its small antennae stacks was somehow dyed bright pink, which coloured the unwary with speckles of pigment, to no one’s surprise or avoidance. Prim shrieked, parasol up in defence of her yellow walking gown, although the smoke was nowhere near her.
Rue was seized with a mad desire to dance through it – it looked like fun.
Eventually, they made their way to the Cloth Market proper, which was, as advertised, mainly cloth with a few other vendors. Tethered at corners of the square were hot-air balloons, the primitive floating technology of yore still alive and well in parts of the empire. Rue’s mother had once told her a story of the Balloon Nomads of the Sahara, how they floated their patchwork giants above the desert. Anitra, remembered Rue suddenly. Hadn’t she said something about floating? Perhaps that was the connection. Here the balloons were also patchwork, and Rue wondered if these were distantly related tribes, or if it were merely the nature of ballooning that lent itself to patchwork.
Despite being early morning, it was not a sleepy gathering. The locals were enamoured of singing and yelling and laughter. Grey and black monkeys scampered through the crowd, hands in everyone’s baskets and business. Miss Sekhmet picked up a stick which she applied adeptly to any monkey, curious child, or beggar that approached Rue’s party with overly familiar intent. The monkeys, she explained, were considered reincarnated politicians, which made Rue laugh and the stick entirely understandable.
Quesnel had to restrain Primrose forcefully since she was intent on diving towards a display of colourful fabric. “Oh, but Queen Mums would so love that colour,” she kept saying. And then, “I’m delighted I wore my brightest dress today. Yellow seems in keeping with the spirit of the festivities, wouldn’t you say? Only look at that shawl.”
“Later, Prim,” Rue would reply, and then, “Yes, excellent choice. My peach feels quite drab. No, not the shawl! We are attempting to get the lie of the land, not shop.”
Inevitably, they found themselves in an area where the amalgam of goods saw Rue’s party spontaneously split apart despite her best efforts. Primrose spotted a sari shop full of such stunning embroidered cloth as to be utterly impossible to resist. Quesnel saw that the massive steam Ganesha had come to a stop overhead and went to look for a way to climb aboard and examine the machine up close. Finally, Percy noticed a combined chilli vendor and books stall and all was lost.
“So much for the group tour.” Rue found herself alone with Miss Sekhmet in the centre of a busy marketplace.
The guide seemed pleased with this. “A chance to speak privately.”
Rue gave an pointed head waggle at the craziness around them – anything but private.
Miss Sekhmet continued. “I must confess to an ulterior motive, Lady Akeldama. As you may have guessed they will not meet you here, not when one of their own has already been eliminated. We are at an impasse and I would like to prevent conflict. Have you had an opportunity to contact the muhjah? Has she changed her mind concerning involvement?”
Rue nibbled her lip. “Last night, at the garden party, I did receive some unexpected instructions. It was a busy evening. I must look into another matter now. Your interests will have to wait.”
The guide looked disappointed. “They will not be pleased. They expected at least an amendment to the agreement.”
Rue raised a hand. “Wait a moment – what agreement? Look, are we discussing the missing tea or the missing taxes? I know I should be all secretive and talk in code and all that rot, but there are a lot of threads loose right now. My concern is the tea.”
“You disguise your negotiating with bluntness? Very shrewd, Lady Akeldama. Very shrewd indeed.” Even only seeing her eyes, Miss Sekhmet looked frustrated and exhausted. She signalled and a man came over, a carafe of steaming beverage strapped to his back, dispenser tubes down one arm with thumb-activated nozzle, and mugs dangling from his waist. So that’s how they did it. Miss Sekhmet purchased two cups of the hot drink and led Rue over to one side of the marketplace where they could sit atop a low wall in relative privacy.
The beverage proved to be a tea unlike any Rue had sampled before. Someone had actually thought it necessary to spice the sacred drink with ginger, cardamom, cinnamon and a few other things that had absolutely no place in tea. It was sweetened as well. Rue grimaced but sipped it for the sake of politeness. She found if she imagined it were a liquid pudding instead of tea it went down easier.
Rue took a deep breath. She liked this odd woman. She wanted to be liked in return. “Your pardon but I believe we may be at cross-purposes. I mean no artifice at all, I swear it. You see, I had understood our earlier conversation to be on the subject of some very valuable tea.”
“Tea?”
“Yes, tea.”
The guide’s eyes crinkled in confusion. “But it was not.”
Rue nodded. “I am realising that now. So what have we been discussing? I’m afraid you must think me very thick, but I cannot seem to get a straight word out of anyone since I was jumped by a lioness in a tower teahouse.”
Miss Sekhmet seemed to sink into depression at that. She muttered, “Then the muhjah is not aware of the nature of our activities?”
Rue sighed, frustrated. “I am not privy to the workings of my dear mother’s brain, thank goodness. She knows more than most, but she told me nothing significant about my travels here to India before I left. Did you send her a message hoping for a response from me? Or perhaps you represent a local political body?”
Miss Sekhmet seemed only more inclined to obtuseness by Rue’s revelation of ignorance. “Why are the British always so against locals?”