“You are good, professor,” said Miss Sekhmet.

“Rue here doesn’t keep me on board for my good looks, I assure you.”

“Are you certain?”

Percy ignored whatever supposition the werecat was making about his – or possibly Rue’s – character and went pedantically on. “It’s the largest vegetation close to Bombay. And there appears to be a sacred temple at its heart.”

Rue could feel Miss Sekhmet nodding.

Percy was like a small child, always eager to share knowledge recently acquired as if it were some artistic creation of his own devising. “Vanaras are supposedly allied with local religions and superstitions. In the epics they are friendly with gods, if not gods themselves.”

Rue did not wait for him to continue. Percy, she knew, could keep parroting on for ever. She headed north, up the peninsula, fast enough for his words to be lost in the wind as she ran. Or, more precisely, fast enough for her to pretend that this was the case.

Bombay at night was quite different from Bombay during the day. There was little activity – odd, since it was so much cooler. Perhaps it has to do with fear of the Rakshasas? It made Rue nervous like nothing else had in India. It was very foreign, the stillness. London came alive at night with vampires, werewolves, ghosts, drones, clavigers, and associated sycophants roaming the streets. Military pubs and bars served werewolves and their fellow soldiers all night long. Theatres featured operas, dances, and comedy plays open to all. For the vampires and their companions there were private clubs, symphonies, arts houses, and late-night museums. Whole streets of shops stayed open all night long, catering to the shadow society and their fashionable inclinations. BUR agents swept the streets with warm conscientiousness and the unsavoury elements saw to other needs.

Bombay had none of this. After dark it was as quiet as it had been during the high heat of day. A few stray dogs and rats milled about. Packs of mangy monkeys roamed the marketplaces scavenging the remnants of the day’s gatherings. The city was theirs.

To Rue’s cat nose Bombay was all exotic stale smells. Odours ranged from rotting vegetation, mouldy meats, and excrement, to the more pleasing scent of cut rushes, roast lamb, fragrant spices, and perfume oils. Burning kerosene and gas permeated everything, as did the undercurrent of machinery and steam technology – coal dust and motor fluids.

Rue moved quickly through the empty streets. Faster than a horse at full gallop, not as fast as a train, or a dirigible in aetherosphere, but good enough to get her through Bombay and out to the far reaches in a quarter of an hour. The weight atop her back was no inconvenience except when it impinged upon her agility.