“And if they knew there were more of her kind?” Floote cocked his head.
Tasherit hissed at this.
The elderly man held up a hand. “Would that diminish her value?”
Rue considered this. “Difficult to determine. But there’s no legal rights for Miss Sekhmet’s people either way, so we thought it had better be us doing the protecting.”
“Unless you are guiding the enemy straight to her pride.”
“That was my point,” put in Quesnel.
Rue glared. “It was Tasherit’s call and she said we go. So we’re going.”
Floote nodded his grey head. “I see. But you now think that many ships refute the hunter-collector theory? They could have help.”
“And who might be helping?” Rue was pleased they were back on her initial question.
Floote raised a liver-spotted hand and ticked off one gnarled finger after the other. “Templars. Order of the Brass Octopus. Some other secret society. Members of the British Royal Society. Museum, contract, or independent collectors. Sportsmen after exotic game. Or a coalition thereof.”
Primrose put down her teacup with a clatter. Her eyes were fixed on Tasherit. The werelioness looked like she was trying not to be ruffled by such a long list of enemies.
Rue let out a breath. “That’s a surfeit of interested parties. Could you elucidate further?”
Floote tilted his head. “The Templars are more concerned with your mother’s kind, and likely you, than with shape-shifters, but that doesn’t mean they don’t want to kill them. A new kind of immortal is a new kind of threat, so the Templars might send agents out of curiosity. Or they might prefer to finance others. Depends on how taxed their resources are right now. I’m afraid I’ve been out of the European loop. Regardless, it never pays to discount the Italians.”
Rue nodded. Her mother had mentioned Templars. She’d called them disagreeable fellows with a predilection for delicious food and lopping the hands off of preternaturals, religious zealots with funny ideas about immortality, nightclothes, and daemons. “You take my advice, infant, avoid Italy. It’s not worth it, even for the pesto.” Since Rue did not want her hand lopped off – preternatural policy likely extended to metanaturals – she had stayed out of Italy. Regretfully, as they were renowned for their pastries.
“And how would we know them?” Rue asked.
“Templars wear white tabards with red crosses. They aren’t above hiring outside aid, but there would be at least one present to watch the operation.”
Rue had to be grateful for Floote’s knowledge and his willingness to share. There was a lot, she was beginning to realise, that her mother and father had tried to teach her about evil and enemies and secret societies. She had either blithely ignored it, or thought it unlikely to apply to her, or not realised its import at the time. If she had, she might have asked more questions.
“And the Order of the Brass Octopus?” she asked, hopeful.
“They’re different, vested in keeping themselves secret.”
Rue pushed. “And they are?”
“A society of concerned scientists that occasionally interferes in politics when they feel the world needs a nudge. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of them for” – he frowned – “well over a decade, possibly two. You might ask our young friend there.” He tilted his head in Quesnel’s direction.
Quesnel flushed as the entire table turned various levels of anger, interest, and concern in his direction. He raised both hands. “Whoa there. You can check me for the tattoo. I’m not a member.”
Rue was tolerably certain, and she could feel herself heating up at the possibility of having to acknowledge this to everyone in the stateroom, that Quesnel hadn’t a single tattoo anywhere on his body. She’d conducted a complete inventory on more than one occasion. She would defend him if it came to that – no one deserved to be wrongly accused. However, it was one thing to hint to her friends about fraternisation and quite another to confirm it publicly.
Fortunately Quesnel said, “My mother was OBO. Is she up to her old tricks? I don’t think so.”
“It’s not her we’re worried about,” said Rue. At least I don’t think it’s Mother’s old chum. Rue had never entirely trusted Madame Lefoux. Partly because on those occasions when she’d observed them together, they did seem so very chummy.
Quesnel watched her for signs of suspicion. “You want to know if the OBO is still active?”
“Is it?”
“Likely, yes. I declined to join. Secret societies are too old-fashioned for words. Haven’t heard from them since. Regardless, I doubt they’d ally with the Templars – opposing views.”
Floote agreed. “The OBO is likely a better ally for sportsmen and collectors. Of the two, let’s hope it’s them.”
“Why?” Rue asked.