The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set

by Gail Carriger

  “Floote, what are you doing? What has the crockery done to offend?”

  Floote sighed. “You are an anathema to the Templars, madam.”

  Madame Lefoux nodded her understanding. “Like being one of the untouchables in India?”

  “Very like, madam. Anything in contact with a preternatural’s mouth must be destroyed or ritually cleansed.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake. Then why bring me here?” Alexia frowned. “And one of them must have carried me down the Alpine pass and then put me into bed.”

  “A professional handler,” answered Floote curtly, as though that were explanation enough.

  Madame Lefoux gave Floote a very long look. “And how long did Alessandro Tarabotti work for the Templars?”

  “Long enough.”

  Alexia gave Floote a stern look. “And how long did you?”

  Floote came over all inscrutable at that. Alexia was familiar with that attitude; he got it when he was about to clam up and become his most cagey. She faintly recalled from her nightmare time locked away in the Hypocras Club, some scientist saying something to the effect of Templars using soulless as agents. Had her father really been so bad as that? To work for a people who would have regarded him as not human. No. Could he really?

  Alexia did not have an opportunity, however, to try and crack Floote’s hard, curmudgeonly shell, for someone came out into the courtyard and began walking purposefully toward them. A Templar, but this one seemed perfectly capable of looking Alexia full in the face.

  The man wore practical middle-class dress twisted into absurdity through the presence of a white sleeveless smock with a red cross embroidered on the front. This absurdity was somewhat mitigated by the sinister presence of a particularly large sword. At his approach, Alexia and Madame Lefoux extracted themselves from the bench seats. Alexia’s nightgown ruffles got caught on the rough wood in a most annoying manner. She tugged them away and drew the robe closed more securely.

  Looking down at her attire and then back up at the man approaching, Alexia grinned. We are all dressed for bed.

  This Templar also wore a hat of such unsightliness as to rival one of Ivy’s more favored investments. It was white and peaked, boasting yet another red cross emblazoned on the front and gold brocade about the edge.

  Floote stood at Alexia’s side. Leaning over, he whispered in her ear, “Whatever you do, madam, please do not tell him about the child.” Then he straightened to his stiffest and most butlerlike pose.

  The man bared his teeth when he reached them, bowing slightly. It could not possibly be a smile, could it? He had very straight white teeth, and a lot of them. “Welcome to Italy, daughter of the Tarabotti stock.”

  “You are speaking to me?” Alexia said dumbly.

  “I am preceptor of the temple here in Florence. You are considered a small risk to my eternal soul. Of course, there will be five days’ cleansing and a confessional after I have terminated contact with you, but until then, yes, I may speak with you.”

  His English was simply too good. “You are not an Italian, are you?”

  “I am a Templar.”

  At a loss over what to do next, Alexia resorted to politeness and proper etiquette. Trying to hide the fuzzy slippers under the frilly hem of her nightgown, she curtsied. “How do you do? Allow me to introduce my companions, Madame Lefoux and Mr. Floote.”

  The preceptor bowed a second time. “Madame Lefoux, I am familiar with your work, of course. I found your recent paper on the aerodynamic adjustments needed to compensate for aether currents quite intriguing.”

  Madame Lefoux looked neither flattered nor inclined to make small talk. “Are you a man of God or a man of science?”

  “Sometimes I am both. And, Mr. Floote, how do you do? I believe I am familiar with your name as well. You are in our records, yes? You have maintained an unwavering connection to the Tarabotti stock. An intriguing display of loyalty not normally engendered by preternaturals.”

  Floote said nothing.

  “If you would all please follow me?”

  Alexia looked at her companions. Madame Lefoux shrugged and Floote appeared only slightly more stiff than usual, but he was blinking apprehensively.

  Alexia figured there was nothing for it but to play along.

  “With pleasure,” she said.

  The preceptor led them through the temple, all the while talking to Alexia in a mild, silky voice.

  “And how do you like Italy, My Soulless One?”

  Alexia did not like his use of the possessive, but nevertheless tried to answer this question. Since she had not, as yet, seen very much of the country, it was difficult. Still, from what she had glimpsed out of her window that morning, she had formulated one ready opinion. “It is very orange. Is it not?”

  The preceptor gave a little chuckle. “I had forgotten how extremely prosaic the soulless are. Here we sit in Florence, the most romantic city on God’s earth, queen of the artistic world, and she finds it orange.”

  “Well, it is.” Alexia gave him an inquisitive look. Why should she be the only one on the defensive? “I read somewhere that the Templars have an initiation ritual involving a dead cat and a duck made from a rubber tree. Is that true?”

  “We do not discuss the secrets of the brotherhood with outsiders. Certainly not with a soulless.”

  “Well, certainly, you would like to keep that a secret.” He looked dismayed but did not rise to the bait. Apparently, he was unable to. He could not refute her statements without discussing the very secrets he hoped to hide. Alexia relished her small victory.

  The rest of the temple, as it turned out, was just as richly furnished and religiously decorated as the parts Alexia had already observed. There was a certain sparseness to the design and a complete absence of personal items that gave the place the unmistakable aura of a monastery despite its luxuriousness. This feeling of piety was helped along by the general hush and quiet all about.

  “Where have all the other gentlemen gone?” Alexia asked, surprised not to have encountered any of the many men they had seen in the dining courtyard.

  “The brothers are practicing, of course.”

  “Oh?” Alexia had no idea what their host was talking about, but he clearly believed that she ought to. “Um, practicing what, exactly?”

  “The fighting arts.”

  “Oh.” Alexia tried a new tactic after that, asking about some of the artifacts on display in an effort to get him to reveal more about his agenda.

  The preceptor explained one or two with the same smooth calmness. “Salvaged from the treasury at Outremer,” he said of an entirely unremarkable piece of rock raised in glory atop a marble column, and, “The letter written by Preceptor Terric of Jerusalem to Henry II” of a papyrus scroll yellowed with age.

  Madame Lefoux paid attention with the interest of a bluestocking. Alexia was intrigued by the history but mostly mystified; she found religious relics rather dull, so the meaning was generally lost on her. The preceptor failed to reveal any useful secrets despite her cross-examination. Floote strode stoically behind, disregarding the artifacts being described and focusing on the Templar leading them.

  Eventually, they ended their tour in a massive library, which Alexia supposed must pass for the relaxation area. The Templars didn’t seem like the type of men to boast a card room. Not that she minded; Alexia had always preferred libraries herself.

  The preceptor rang a little hand bell, like those Alexia had seen worn by cows, and within moments a liveried servant appeared. Alexia narrowed her eyes and drummed her fingers. After a rapid conversation in Italian, in which the preceptor did most of the talking, the servant left.

  “Did you catch that?” Alexia asked Madame Lefoux in a whispered tone.

  The Frenchwoman shook her head. “I do not speak Italian. You?”

  “Apparently not well enough.”

  “Really? Italian and French?”

  “And a little Spanish and some Latin.” Alexia grinned. She was pr
oud of her academic achievements. “We had this fantastic governess for a while. Unfortunately, Mama found out that she was filling my head with useful information and dismissed her in favor of a dance instructor.”

  The servant reappeared with a tray covered in a white linen cloth. The preceptor lifted this with a flourish to reveal not tea but a piece of mechanical gadgetry.

  Madame Lefoux was immediately intrigued. She apparently preferred such things to tea. There was no accounting for taste.

  The preceptor allowed the inventor to examine the device at length.

  Alexia thought it looked… uncomfortable.

  “Some sort of analog transducer? It bears a passing resemblance to a galvanometer but it isn’t, is it? Is it a magnetometer of some kind?”

  The Templar shook his head, face stiff. Alexia realized what it was that bothered her so excessively about this man—his eyes were flat and expressionless.

  “You are clearly an expert in your field, Madame Lefoux, but no. Not a magnetometer. You will not have seen one of these before. Not even in one of England’s famed Royal Society reports. Although, you may know of its inventor, a German: Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf?”

  “Really?” Alexia perked up at that name.

  Both Floote and Madame Lefoux shot her dirty looks.

  Alexia backed hurriedly away from any show of enthusiasm. “I may have read one or two of his papers.”

  The preceptor gave her a sharp glance out of his dead eyes but seemed to accept her statement. “Of course you would have. He is an expert in your field; that is”—the man flashed her another nonsmile of perfect teeth—“in the field of you, as it were. A remarkable mind, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf. Unfortunately, we found his faith”—he paused meaningfully—“inconsistent. Still, he did devise this wonderful little tool for us.”

  “And what is it designed to detect?” Madame Lefoux was still troubled by her own inability to understand the gadget.

  The Templar answered her with action. He cranked a handle vigorously, and the machine whirred to life, humming softly. A little wand was attached to it by means of a long cord. There was a rubber stopper at the wand’s base, which corked up a glass jar in which the end of the wand resided. The preceptor pulled off the glass, exposing the wand to the air. Immediately, the small contraption began to emit a metallic pinging noise.

  Madame Lefoux crossed her arms skeptically. “It is an oxygen detector?”

  The Templar shook his head.

  “A methane detector?”

  Yet another shake met that guess.

  “It cannot possibly be aether. Can it?”

  “Can’t it?”

  Madame Lefoux was impressed. “A miraculous invention, indeed. Does it resonate to alpha or beta particles?” Madame Lefoux was a follower of the latest theory out of Germany that divided up the lower atmosphere into various breathable gases and divided the upper atmosphere and its travel currents into oxygen and two types of aetheric particles.

  “Unfortunately, it is not that precise. Or, I should say, we do not know.”

  “Still, any mechanism for measuring aether ought rightly to be considered a major scientific breakthrough.” Madame Lefoux bent once more over the contraption, enraptured.

  “Ah, not quite so important as all that.” The preceptor reined in Madame Lefoux’s enthusiasm. “It is more a device for registering the absence of aetheric particles, rather than measuring their presence and quantity.”

  Madame Lefoux looked disappointed.

  The Templar elaborated further. “Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf referred to it as an aether absorption counter. Would you allow me to demonstrate its application?”

  “Please do!”

  Without further ado, the man placed the wand into his mouth, closing his lips about the rubber stopper. No change occurred. The machine continued to emit the same metallic clicking noise.

  “It is still registering.”

  The preceptor removed the wand. “Exactly!” He carefully wiped the wand down with a small piece of cloth soaked in some kind of yellow alcohol. “Now, My Soulless One, if you would be so kind?”

  Eyebrows arched with interest, Alexia took the wand and did as he had done, closing her lips about the end. The wand tasted pleasantly of some sweetened lemony liquor. Whatever the preceptor had used to clean it was mighty tasty. Distracted by the taste, it took Alexia a moment to notice that the clicking noise had entirely stopped.

  “Bless my soul!” exclaimed Madame Lefoux, perhaps not so wary as she should have been over her use of religious language in the house of Christ’s most devout warriors.

  “Merph!” said Alexia with feeling.

  “Well, then, it cannot possibly be registering aether. Aether is around and inside of everything, perhaps in more minor quantities groundside than it is up in the aether-atmospheric layer, but it is here. To silence it like that, Alexia would have to be dead.”

  “Merph,” agreed Alexia.

  “So we have previously thought.”

  Alexia was moved by a need to speak and so removed the wand from her mouth. The device began ticking again. “Are you saying the soul is composed of aether? That is practically a sacrilegious concept.” She cleaned the end as the preceptor had done, with more of the yellow alcohol, and passed it to Madame Lefoux.

  Madame Lefoux turned the wand about, examining it with interest before popping it into her own mouth. It continued ticking. “Merfeaux” was her considered opinion.

  The preceptor’s flat, blank eyes did not stop staring at Alexia. “Not exactly. More that the lack of a soul is characterized by increased absorption of ambient aetheric particles into the skin, much in the way that a vacuum sucks air in to fill its void. Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf has theorized for years that preternatural abilities are the result of a lack of internally produced aether, and to compensate, the preternatural body seeks to absorb ambient aether from the outside. He invented this machine to test the theory.”

  Floote shifted slightly from his customary stance near the door, then stilled.

  “When it is in my mouth, it detects nothing because I have nothing to detect? Because I am absorbing it all through my skin instead?”

  “Precisely.”

  Madame Lefoux asked brightly, “So could this device detect excess soul?”

  “Sadly, no. Only the absence of soul. And since most preternaturals are registered with the local government, or are at least known, such an instrument is mainly useless except to confirm identity. As I have just done with you, My Soulless One. I must say, your presence presents me with a bit of a conundrum.” He took the wand back from Madame Lefoux, cleaned it once more, and switched the machine off. It let out one little wheeze and then the metallic clicking noise stopped.

  Alexia stared at it while the preceptor capped the wand with the little glass jar and then covered the machine with the white linen cloth. It was odd to encounter an instrument that existed solely for one purpose—to tell the world that she was different.

  “What do you Templars call that little device?” Alexia was curious, for he had specified that “aether absorption counter” was Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf’s name for it.

  The preceptor did not flinch. “A daemon detector, of course.”

  Alexia was decidedly taken aback. “Is that what I am?” She turned to look accusingly at Madame Lefoux. “You would tell me if I suddenly developed a forked red tail, wouldn’t you?”

  Madame Lefoux pursed her lips provocatively. “Would you like me to check under your skirts?”

  Alexia backpedaled hurriedly. “On second thought, I think I should notice such a protuberance myself.”

  Floote wrinkled one corner of his nose in a remarkably understated sneer. “You are a daemon to them, madam.”

  “Now, gentlemen.” Madame Lefoux leaned back, crossed her arms, and dimpled at them all. “Be fair. The last I heard was that the church was referring to preternaturals as devil spawn.”

  Alexia was confused. “But you gave me a bed… and this rather excitable ni
ghtgown… and a robe. That is hardly the way to treat devil spawn.”

  “Yes, but you can see why none of the brothers would talk to you.” Madame Lefoux was clearly finding this part of the conversation amusing.

  “And you understand the nature of our difficulty with your presence among us?” The preceptor seemed to think this fact obvious.

  Floote interjected, his tone gruff. “You have found good use for her kind before, sir.”

  “In the past,” the preceptor said to Floote, “we rarely had to deal with females, and we had the daemons controlled and isolated from the rest of the Order.”

  Floote acted as though the Templar had inadvertently given up some vital piece of information. “In the past, sir? Have you given up your breeding program?”

  The man looked thoughtfully at Alessandro Tarabotti’s former valet and bit his lip as if wishing he could retract the information. “You have been gone from Italy a long time, Mr. Floote. I am under the impression that England’s Sir Francis Galton has some interest in expanding our initial research. ‘Eugenics,’ he is calling it. Presumably, he would need a method of measuring the soul first.”

  Madame Lefoux sucked in her breath. “Galton is a purist? I thought he was a progressive.”

  The Templar only blinked disdainfully at that. “Perhaps we should pause at this juncture. Would you like to see the city? Florence is very beautiful even at this time of year, if a trifle”—he glanced at Alexia—“orange. A little walk along the Arno, perhaps? Or would you prefer a nap? Tomorrow I have a small jaunt planned for your entertainment. I think you will enjoy it.”

  Apparently their audience with the preceptor had ended.

  Alexia and Madame Lefoux took the hint.

  The Templar looked at Floote. “I trust you can find your way back to your rooms? You will understand, it is impossible for me to ask a sanctified servant or brother to escort you.”

  “Oh, I understand perfectly, sir.” Floote led the way from the room in what might have been, for him, a huff.

  They began the long trek back to their quarters. The Florentine Temple was indeed vast. Alexia would have gotten hopelessly lost, but Floote appeared to know where to go.