Okay: first off, sorry for the huge delay! I can at least say that I'm commited to finishing this: there's 100,000 words of it written on the KP Slash Haven, although it is raw stuff compared to this finish product. Part of that is thanks to Messers. Ffordesson and KenZero/Celestialdoggie, who have offered their services to make this mess legible, and in parts quite more palatable than before. And for those wondering why it is labelled as a "Kim P. & Shego" fic, it's because there aren't tags for "Mim P. & Shego's Edwardian Ancestor Know Only As Miss Go"!

Important Note: starting in this chapter, I've got a couple of footnotes: * is just a translation, in case it is needed, while the numbered footnotes (e.g. (1)) are historical ones. Feel free to ignore them if you want, but thought I should mention that they are more than typos! Footnotes are at the bottom in bold.

The disclaimer from the first chapter still stands, I own nothing, so, with that in mind, I hope you enjoy the second chapter...

27th December, 1902

My dearest friend Jonathan,

I hope my letter finds you well, that your selfless acts of October have not brought unforeseen consequences to bear, and that my telegrams from Manila and Singapore have reached you. While I yearn for news of home, my dear travelling companion continues to thwart my attempts to learn our destination. I can only hope that we are nearing our goal, for Miss Gow has at least deigned to reveal to me that we shall not again be boarding a steam ship until we are ready to return to the United States.

Ah yes, my noble cohort. She remains all but insufferable, and my prayers that the eighty-five degree heat coupled with the near ceaseless downpour of the monsoonwould subdue her devilish spirit have not only gone unanswered, but have been decisively revoked. The poor weather seems to have positively empowered the woman, in fact; she left me huddled in our cabin while she set about cheating our fellow passengers out of their wealth in a series of card games which can only have been rigged. No honest gambler could sustain such a winning streak as my guide achieved.

We finally made Calcutta on Christmas Eve, and swiftly found lodgings. Calcutta is truly a city that never sleeps; the ceaseless sounds of activity that kept me too long from my sleep almost made me recall the cicadas of Singapore with fondness.

I had expected Christmas Day to be the most miserable of my life, but when I awoke and saw the 'City of Palaces', as it is known, in the full light of dawn, I realised that there was far too much I wished to see and experience to leave any time for misery. I had expected the nearest church to be filled with Englishmen and little else, but found men and women from all across the world worshipping within; many native Indians singing English hymns in their remarkable accents, a single Chinese trader with a long opium pipe, Egyptian and South African merchants, using even Christmas morn to fight for every ship bound for Europe and America to make port in their homeland, even French and German dignitaries were present.

As I wandered the streets, I found a small crowd around a half-naked Indian man, his head covered in a turban and neat beard, who played some sort of native flute in front of a wicker basket. As we watched, a serpent reared out of the receptacle, and began to sway with the music. The creature opened a strange hood-like attachment to its head, and seemed hypnotized by the musician. I can only assume that this viper was the legendary King Cobra(1), yet the people did not seem at all alarmed to see such a deadly creature all but loose on the streets of a metropolis; I have included a rough sketch of the scene with this letter.

Everything is so different from home. Even the grand buildings are strange; some, such as the General Post Office and the High Court, appear as if lifted from the streets of London, but the grand Gothic style of these structures is no less astounding for it. Then there are the great Indian buildings, their style as alien to me as the ceaseless heat of their climate, such as the beautiful temple on the river, which I was told is called the Dakshineswar Kali temple. Finally there are the strange hybrids, the western façades decorated with Indian patterns, like the Marble Palace. In between these marble monuments and mansions, there lie low dwellings and shanty towns. Even the roads are marvellous contradictions; some paved and lined with wrought-iron electric lamps, others little more than dirt paths delineated by refuse and lacking even a burning torch to light them in the dead of night.

My sketchbook is already quite full; should I ever return to writing for the Middleton Gazette, I shall have some truly amazing articles to publish.

Tomorrow, I hope to discover more of the folklore and beliefs of the people of the city; if they are even a tenth as rich as the architecture and people, then I fear that a lifetime may not be sufficient to devote to their study.

But know that even as I explore this strange new world, my thoughts are never far from Middleton, my family and my friends. I pray daily that I may soon be reunited with you all.

Yours with deepest affection,

Mi

Mim lifted her pen from the paper and sighed. She had gotten so caught up in describing her adventure to Jon that she had almost forgotten the reason she had embarked upon it in the first place. Should she fail to bring this Lipsky character to justice, then it would not be in Jon's best interest to possess correspondence from a known felon. Mim gave a resigned sigh, then finished her signature:

Michelle Probable

As Mim set about placing the letter and a few sketches into an envelope, the door to the small suite opened and Sheridan stepped in. She looked utterly different from the plainly clad woman Mim had 'delivered from purgatory' (as Sheridan liked to refer to it). Mim had been horrified at the sum her travelling companion had spent in California, but the money had kept on being supplied by the banks as Sheridan had handed over her 'Sheryl Gow' papers, and Mim had to admit that the decision to replace the heavy cotton clothes they had been wearing with the lighter linen outfits had been a godsend in the tropical heat.

The most recent addition to Sheridan's wardrobe was a very wide-brimmed hat, which she insisted was the fashion, but Mim remained convinced that it was a testament to the woman's vanity that she wore the ridiculous accessory to maintain her pale complexion beneath the Indian sun.

"Is Her Highness all done sightseeing?" Sheridan asked, strolling over to where her trunk lay, proceeding to open the luggage and pack all of her belongings that lay within arms' reach.

Mim felt a momentary surge of disappointment that she wouldn't have more time to study Calcutta, but it was quickly overwhelmed by her natural curiosity.

"I thought you said we were finished travelling?"

"Oh, no, Peaches; I remember precisely what I said, and what I said was that we were finished with sailing," said Sheridan, shaking her head and chuckling at Mim's naivete. "I thought you reporters were supposed to be observant."

Mim's eyes narrowed, and her lip twitched, but she said nothing.

Seemingly oblivious to Mim's seething rage, Sheridan continued unabated. "Now, we've got more than a thousand miles left to go, and I managed to get tickets for a train to Delhi—at utterly ludicrous prices, I might add; some big pow-wow there this week."

"And this Lipsky is in Delhi?" Mim asked.

"No. From Delhi we'll get another train to Lahore, then to Peshawar."

"And Lipsky is in Peshawar?" Mim tried again.

"Come now, Kitten," Sheridan chuckled as she stood, stretched, and made her way into the small twin bedroom of the suite before calling back, "I know you're a reporter, but can you stop playing the Spanish Inquisition?"

"So we have to pack everything now?" Mim asked, ignoring the question, although a part of her mind replied silently 'Maybe if you told me where we're going... and what you're planning when we get there.'

"Precisely," Sheridan answered the redhead's vocal question. "The train leaves at five."

Mim pulled out her pocket watch and snapped it open. She blinked a few times.

"You... do mean five tomorrow morning?"

"No, five this afternoon," Sheridan answered nonchalantly.

Mim looked back at her watch. Four thirty-three. She stared a few seconds longer before jumping upright with a strangled noise.

"Half an hour!?" she shouted, "To pack everything, pay for the hotel, and get to the station?"

Sheridan walked back into the room with her arms laden down with her belongings from the bedroom.

"Calm down, Kitten; you've really got to learn to relax," she taunted, then she returned to packing her trunk. "I've already paid the hotel, sent one porter for a cab, and another will be up to help with the luggage in ten minutes," Sheridan half-turned to shoot Mim a smirk. "Plenty of time; as you so often insist on informing me, anything is possible..."

Mim returned the smirk with a glare of pure venom, struggling for a moment with an urge to forcibly remove the hateful expression from Sheridan's face. Forcing the feeling down, Mim instead leapt to her feet and bounded through the bedroom door to begin packing, only to turn around again with a muffled curse, having forgotten her papers and various writing utensils. Once she had gathered these up, she made her way back to the bedroom, and her own trunk, as quickly as possible.

As soon as Sheridan was certain that Mim was out of sight in the other room, she picked up her speed terrifically, shovelling her belongings into the trunk with little care for their condition. She really was cutting it rather close with the timing, but there wasn't another train to Delhi until the next day; the fact that she could get under Mim's skin was just a very... satisfying bonus.

By some miracle, in the same second that Mim forced her trunk closed, a knock on the door signalled the arrival of a porter. Mim walked out of the bedroom towards the suite's door, and saw Sheridan, lounging on top of her own trunk, once again inspecting her fingernails, although now that she was a free woman, Sheridan was able to file away imperfections she found. Once Mim had passed, Sheridan, as quietly as possible, tried to bounce up and down surreptitiously on the trunk's lid to force it closed, and as soon as she achieved that result, she clicked the clasps closed, managing to time the click exactly to Mim's opening of the door. With a silent prayer, Sheridan stood up, and was relieved when the packed trunk didn't burst open without her weight to hold it down.

Five minutes later, the pair were sitting rather uncomfortably close together in the rickshaw that had arrived for them; two of the hand-pulled contraptions had arrived, and since it was blatantly impossible to safely fit both woman and trunk on the seat of either one, Mim and Sheridan were now next to each other in the lead rickshaw while the second carried the two trunks, balanced precariously on top of each other in the seat.

Fortunately for Mim, having shared twin bedrooms with Sheridan on the steam ships they had travelled to India on board, and again in the Calcutta hotel, she didn't feel too uncomfortable with the proximity. Mercifully, Sheridan seemed to be willing to allow the journey to pass in silence, allowing Mim to try and commit the city to memory.

The rickshaws made good progress, proving surprisingly nimble as they dodged knots of people and market stalls jutting into the street, until they turned onto a main carriageway and were met with a remarkable sight.

A caravan of perhaps a dozen elephants, each with a howdah high upon its back, and maybe a score of horsemen accompanied by thirty or so Indians on foot, was slowly making its way toward the two rickshaws. In each howdah sat a pair of Europeans, sometimes a man and wife, sometimes a pair of British officers or officials, all of them with an Indian in front of them guiding the Elephant from its back, and a second behind, holding sun umbrellas over the white men's heads; some of the men were still holding expensive hunting rifles in their hands, while others lounged luxuriously with sparkling drinks.

As the first elephant passed by, Mim saw a long, still-raw scar along its flank, and saw the creature was limping slightly. She looked up at the towering beast with its thick grey skin, and wondered what sort of creature could inflict such a wound. She didn't have to wait long to find out.

As the Indian bearers behind the elephants drew level with the rickshaw, Mim saw that many of them were arranged into pairs, each pair bearing a long pole between them, borne on their shoulders, and hung by its legs from the first pole was the corpse of a magnificent animal; a great cat, striped vividly in orange and black, lips now eternally curled back to reveal sparkling white, long, razor sharp teeth. The animal was at least eight feet long, and must have been a terrifying creature to meet when it was alive.(2)

As the procession passed, Mim counted four tigers, three cheetahs and a dozen deer carried by the bearers. When the last horseman had passed them by, Mim turned excitedly to Sheridan, to be greeted by an unexpected visage; Sheridan was staring straight ahead, jaw tight, face paler than normal, brow furrowed in a scowl, breathing heavily through her nose. When she felt Mim's concerned gaze, she blinked and turned to stare at the other side of the street, and muttered,

"Bastards."

Mim was shocked; not only at the language (she had known that Sheridan had few inhibitions with words, but she had never heard her swear so foully before), but also by the incredible venom in her tone. In their two months together, Mim hadn't heard her pale guide express anything in her voice other than amusement or boredom, but here she sounded as if she was wishing every member of that hunting party a thousand eternities in hell.

"E-excuse me?" Mim asked timidly. Sheridan whirled back round to face her, and in their close proximity Mim was astonished to see what could only be traces of tears in her companion's eyes.

"You heard me! They're bastards!" Sheridan returned, far louder than the first utterance. "Those scum think that just because they have money and guns, they have the right to shoot anything that moves!" Mim recoiled slightly from the outburst, but now that Sheridan had started she didn't seem inclined to hold in, "They buy their rifles, recruit dozens of assistants, and set out in parties a hundred strong to hunt down some poor solitary animal whose only crime is to be more beautiful than the entire race of man could ever hope to be. And why? Because the creature is 'wild!' Those small, scared men on top of the elephants – look at them! They can handle beauty, oh yes – as long as it's docile and subservient, as long as they can control it! But if they ever come across something pure and real, something they can't understand, then they call it 'wild' or 'savage' or 'uncivilised!' And they sit and watch like cowards as their men senselessly butcher the most majestic creature any of them have ever seen, and they go back to their sprawling estates and they boast about it! That's what galls me most of all; it's not self defence, it's not competition for food, it's nothing but something to crow about over dinner! Yes, they're bastards!"

Mim's mind had almost shut down in the face of the rage Sheridan was projecting, but her automatically reasonable soul tried to put things in perspective.

"Are they really that different from hunting parties back home?" she asked.

"No," Sheridan replied, in that same low, venomous tone, returning to glaring out at the street before them. Mim opened her mouth, curious and slightly shocked by the thief's fervent attitude, but closed it again as Sheridan added, as if to herself, "Tigers should live in the jungle."

The pair spent the rest of the journey to the station in silence, Mim digesting her first unscripted exposure to her companion's emotions.

The two rickshaws arrived at the station with a couple of minutes to spare, and a pair of Indian porters jumped from where they had been lounging by the station entrance to grapple with the two trunks, and while Mim handed the two drivers payment, Sheridan displayed their tickets to the two porters, who nodded and once again called Sheridan "Memsahib*" before dashing off to their train.

As the two American women made their way through the station, pausing for a moment as Mim slipped her letter into a post box built into a wall, it became apparent that there had been no need to hurry to the station. Their train sat silently on the rails, with a few occasional glimpses of movement in the shadowed interior of the carriages... except for the final carriage, that is, at the opposite end to the engine.

This carriage was a hive of activity, with British soldiers, each in crisp, clean red coated uniforms, buttons all firmly closed despite the heat, pith helmets shining white rather than the usual khaki colour, standing at each entrance. While their turn out looked ceremonial, the Martini-Enfield rifles they held were real enough, and despite their shine, the bayonets were sharp. White officers and immaculately dressed civil servants moved freely in and out of the carriage, which was festooned with flags, predominantly the flag of the British Raj(3); a Red field, with the Union Jack in one corner, and the coat of arms of the Order of the Star of India displayed proudly, although several normal Union Jacks were also present.

As Mim and Sheridan moved to board one of the less ostentatious carriages, they heard a commotion from the station entrance; turning, they saw their second procession that day.

This one was composed entirely of men on foot, and a single woman. The three figures leading the procession were surrounded by more pristinely uniformed soldiers, while a dozen more uniformed officers and civil servants followed. The lead figure was a tall man with dark hair rigorously oiled back and a stern expression borne with an arrogance that could only come from a man whose family had occupied the highest reaches of society for generations. He was dressed in an expensive suit, dark frock coat covering a golden waistcoat and black cravat. Beside him, the lone woman strode to keep pace with the leader; her dark hair was tied back in fiercely controlled curls, clad in an outfit that was as expensive as it was opulent. The final member of the trio walked a few paces behind the other two. His liquid grey-blue eyes and combed-flat hair gave him a detached, uninterested quality, his true expression hidden behind a flawlessly maintained moustache.(4)

As the group approached the decorated carriage, Mim felt Sheridan insistently poke the small of her back, forcing her to proceed onto the train. As she entered the sweltering interior of their own less ostentatious carriage, Mim turned to Sheridan.

"Who was that?" she asked curiously.

"My guess is, it was the Viceroy; he's the most important man in India, so you'll forgive me if I don't wish to draw the attention of the man."

Logically, Mim knew that the chance of the guard of the Viceroy of India knowing the identity of a pair of Go City's least infamous criminals was nil or less, but logic didn't play any part in the slight chill that ran down her spine.

Mim subconsciously picked up her pace along the corridor, and after a few seconds felt a slim hand yank on her shoulder, bringing her up short.

"Hold your horses, Kitten, this is our stop." Sheridan smirked and opened the small door at which they had stopped to reveal a tiny room, maybe ten feet by five, with a curtained window. Their two trunks rested beneath the bunk bed beside one wall, each a kind of cot to ensure that passengers didn't fall out should the train round a sharp corner in the middle of the night.

"Well, this is... cosy," Mim smiled nervously, suddenly feeling claustrophobic despite her previous experiences of sharing accommodation with Sheridan.

Sheridan grinned, and sat down on the lower bed.

"I'd have gone with 'sweltering'," she said, theatrically producing a handkerchief and dabbing her brow. "Well, we've got eighteen hours before we arrive in Delhi," Sheridan reached up and started to undo the elaborate fastenings of her dress.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Mim asked nervously. Sheridan rolled her eyes.

"Getting comfortable," she answered.

"C-can't you do that somewhere else?"

"Such as, Peaches?" Sheridan taunted. "We're on a train; there's no second room or bathroom to use, and if toilets on Indian trains are as I remember them, I refuse to inhabit those dysentery-ridden cesspools for one second longer than is absolutely necessary – and I am being stupidly optimistic, because we will be very lucky if dysentery is the worst threat that lies within. So, to answer your question, no, there is nowhere where else I can do this. Now then..."

Sheridan slowly slid the shoulder of her dress off, revealing inch after inch of smooth, pale skin along her shoulder and arm, and a glimpse of the top of her corset. Mim flushed bright red, and backed the short distance to the door.

"I-I-I-I think I'll just go and... and... and see where the dining carriage is!" she stuttered, before diving out of the room and heading along the carriage, Sheridan's laughter ringing in her ears.

1st January 1903

Sheridan suppressed a smile at the unending, infectious excitement that Mim was showing at everything that surrounded them.

The brunette had planned to stay in Delhi only as long as it took to find the next train to Lahore, but Mim had insisted on staying for the grand event of New Years Day; the Delhi Durbar. The event was being held to celebrate the new British King, Edward VII, ascending to the title of Emperor of India. While Sheridan couldn't give a damn about what some European aristocrat decided to call himself, she had to admit a strong interest in the event.

Sheridan had travelled far and wide in her relatively young life, partly so that she could experience a respite from the suffocating atmosphere of her family's home in Go City, and partly so that her family could experience a respite from Sheridan's company; her father, who entertained hopes of one day holding the office of Mayor, had given up trying to estimate the sum of political donations Sheridan had cost him with her... less-than-orthodox dinner table conversation.

As such, Sheridan had seen a great many things around the globe, but she couldn't think of anything to match the scale of what was happening on this plain outside Delhi. A small city of tents had been erected in the field, and everything, from hotels to restaurants to shops, was represented in the canvas town. A small, custom-built railway ferried people who couldn't find lodgings within the makeshift city – such as Mim and Sheridan – in from Delhi. The 'roads' between the tents were patrolled by policemen in a uniform specially tailored for the event, and when night fell, electric lights illuminated the crowded plain. Everything, from drains to stables, was present on a stretch of land that four months ago had been a wilderness. From one side, over the murmur of the crowd, strains of "God Save The King" drifted, while from the other direction, the faint notes of the less familiar (to the American duo, at least) Sikh music sounded; the entire settlement was teeming with festive atmosphere.

Mim was currently scribbling notes and sketches into her third notebook, having already filled the pages of two, and Sheridan found herself repeatedly having to grab the redhead's shoulders to steer her through the crowds of spectators as Mim herself stared at the latest sight to catch her notice; as such, Sheridan was not only acting as an impromptu tour guide but a pilot as well.

"So what are those horsemen doing?" Mim asked.

"Wha-- playing polo," Sheridan replied, deftly steering Mim between a Bombay lawyer and a Turkish journalist.

"And that bearded man with face paint?" Mim continued, pencil flying over paper.

"Which-- oh, a Sadhu, a Hindu holy man, or probably a beggar pretending around here," Sheridan pulled on Mim's left shoulder, spinning her away from a New York photographer trying to get a shot of the polo players.

"And how about--"

"Look, Kitten," Sheridan interrupted, pulling Mim to a stop, "I've been in India twice before, but I am not a damned guide book."

"Oh, sorry," Mim started to blush, but her expression quickly disappeared as she caught sight of another marvel over Sheridan's shoulder.

Sheridan rolled her eyes as Mim pushed past her, before turning to pursue the redhead herself. Despite her mounting frustration at the shorter woman's ability to flit from one thing to another in a heartbeat, Sheridan had to admit that Mim's enthusiasm was infectious; she even felt a genuine smile tug at the corner of her lips as she forged through the throngs of people in the direction that Mim had headed.

She caught up with the redhead as Mim was standing beside a stretch of land upon which a group of Indian and British cavalrymen were tent-pegging(5),while Mim attempted to sketch some rough detail of the various uniforms on display.

After a moment one of the riders, still on horseback, approached the pair; he was one of the Englishmen, resplendent in the blue uniform and heavy gold brocade, of the 11th Hussars, with wavy blonde hair beneath his cap and an easy smile. As he halted his mount before the two women, he pushed himself up the stirrups in order to execute a sweeping bow as he removed his cap. He flashed the pair a too-bright smile as he asked, "Might I be of assistance, ladies?"

Sheridan took an immediate dislike to the man; his smile belied his intentions. Mim, however, seemed to take the question at face value and immediately answered, even as she shifted so that she could make out the other cavalrymen behind the blonde officer. "Ah, yes, absolutely! Please, sir, could you perhaps tell me what is the point of what you're doing?"

The Englishman, still grinning winningly, turned his horse so that he was facing the other troopers and leaned from his saddle towards Mim, as he began to explain;

"It's all about control, you see, ma'am; a trooper has got to be able to put his sword point in the right place at full gallop. I've, ah, got something of a knack for it," the Hussar finished, in a tone that tried to convey modesty even as the words boasted his alleged prowess.

Sheridan eyed the Englishman distastefully; while Mim might be unaware of his designs, the brunette felt as if waves of lecherous intent were radiating from him.

It wasn't as if Sheridan objected to the man purely on those grounds; it wasn't as if she cared whether some bored limey treated the annoying redhead like a floozy. She was just impatient to bring her time escorting the reporter to an end, and the quickest way to do that was to capture Lipsky, so any time Mim was... otherwise engaged was time wasted. That was all.

Meanwhile, the Englishman continued to talk, unaware that Mim, her pencil once again flying over her pad, was scarcely listening.

"A cavalryman has got to know his drill, you know, and be able to put his lance point square between the enemy's eyes. I don't like to boast, but..."

At that blatant lie, Sheridan opened her mouth, but was cut off by a calm, aristocratic voice from just behind her shoulder.

"While I have no doubt, Mister Courster, that your woefully inadequate grasp of cavalry drill is most entertaining, might I suggest that you return to your practice, and leave these ladies in peace?"

The officer, now identified as Courster, turned in the saddle to face the source of the voice, and immediately the grin vanished from his face as he tried, still facing a completely different direction to his horse, to throw a fumbled salute, and answer with a garbled "Yes milord!" before cantering his horse away.

Sheridan, amused at the sudden loss of composure of the young man, turned to face the newcomer. The man she found was tall, gaunt, dark haired and possessed of a prominent aquiline nose to go with his upper class accent. What stood out, however, was his dress; while most of the Western men in the vast field were wearing either military uniforms, or the opulent white uniforms with plumed pith helmets of the staff of the Viceroy or in light, linen suits, this man was dressed in a dark suit that would have been at home on the streets of London, and in all likelihood had been tailored there too.

"That was almost amusing," Sheridan congratulated the man, who turned his brown eyes from watching the retreating Courster to look at Sheridan, his own ghost of a smile still in place.

The man's expression flickered as he finally took in Sheridan's face; for a split second, his brow furrowed, and his eyes flashed with... not recognition, but rather that which came just before recognition. In an instant, however, his calm appearance was back, and he answered,

"I suspect that you Americans have a bad enough view of we Brits without having your thoughts compounded by men like Courster," the aristocrat bowed slightly at the waist, and introduced himself; "Randulph Fiske, Baron of Ashford, at your service, Miss...?"

Sheridan, rather than bow, held out her hand to Fiske, who, after a moment's surprise, took it, and as Sheridan shook, she replied, "Sheridan Gow," while carefully studying the peer's expression. While this time the man's face remained calm enough, Sheridan thought she caught a flash of something behind the eyes. Still carefully watching the man, she added, gesturing to the still engrossed reporter, "and this is Miriam Possible."

Mim turned at the sound of her name, and afforded Fiske his first clear view of the redhead. Sheridan, watching closely, felt a surge of... disappointment? Surprise? Even relief?... that the Englishman showed no sign of recognition, even deep in his eyes. Mim was a stranger to him, of that much she was sure.

"Excuse me?" Mim asked, gaze flicking confusedly between Sheridan and Fiske.

Fiske bowed his head to Mim and informed her, "I was just apologising to Miss Gow for my countryman's behaviour."

"His... behaviour?" Mim asked, confused. Fiske raised his eyebrows, carefully scrutinising Mim's face for any sign she was having a joke at his expense; finding none, he glanced at Sheridan, who shrugged.

"...Indeed," Fiske said dryly, before suggesting, "Perhaps you might permit me to make amends for Courster's indiscretion? Might I offer you a place within the Royal Pavilion?"

Sheridan studied Fiske carefully; the offer seemed gentlemanly, chivalrous, and very generous. As such, Sheridan didn't trust it... but even she, with her ever cynical eye, couldn't discern any of the devious intent she had sensed radiating from Courster; the request seemed to be nothing more than a courteous offer. Still, Sheridan wasn't--

"The Royal Pavilion?" Mim asked, wide-eyed. "Is the King here?"

"Alas, no," Fiske replied with a smile. "His Majesty cannot be with us... his brother, the Duke of Connaught, presides in his place, however."

"And you can gain entrance to his tent?" Mim continued, eagerly.

"I had the good fortune of attending Oxford alongside the Viceroy," Fiske assured her. "So, might I take it that you accept my invitation?"

Sheridan, given the choice, would have declined... but Mim wasn't prepared to give her such a choice, and leapt in, "Oh, certainly! Uh, I mean, it would be an honour."

"Excellent!" Fiske clapped his hands once and then produced a notebook and a pen from his coat and jotted something down. "Bates!" he called, and a short, broad-shouldered man who had previously escaped the duo's notice stepped out of the crowds winding through the tented city.

"Milord?" he asked quietly.

"Here, take this," Fiske instructed, ripping the new note from the pad and passing it to Bates. "I shall be escorting our American guests to the Royal Pavilion." With that, Fiske turned back to Sheridan and Mim. "Now," he said, with a smile, "shall we?"

As the trio wound their way through the crowds, the man identified as Bates looked at the note in his hand. In his master's handwriting was an instruction:

Telegram, Arundel House(6), London; information requests, Sheridan Gow, Miriam Possible

Folding the paper in half, Bates began to make his way to one of the nearby telegraph tents.

*Memsahib: respectful Indian term of address for a European/Western woman, basically equating to "ma'am".

(1) King Cobras tend to be rather too large and far too dangerous for snake charmers to use, as well as living in very remote areas and being naturally shy; Mim probably saw a charmer using an Indian cobra, which is smaller and, while still deadly, not capable of injecting the same volume of venom as a King Cobra.

(2) Tiger Hunting in British India was big business; it was part of the mystique of the Imperial overlord that many upper and even middle class Britons bought into, as well as historically being a 'sport' of the ruling class of India. Shikars (shooting parties) were hugely popular, with the Indians accompanying them on foot carrying their own fowling pieces and joining in the 'fun'. They tended to be long expeditions, in order to track the animals, including as many as 30 elephants and their cargo. A Lieutenant William Price recalled one party which brought back "22 tigers, 5 bears and 81 hay-deer". This Imperial sport had a large part to play in driving the tigers (and many other great predators all across the world) to the brink of (or in the case of some, such as the Quagga in South Africa, into) extinction, and driving the Asiatic Cheetah out of India (fortunately, Shikars such as this were becoming rare in the heavily populated Calcutta region, and kills of that magnitude were even rare anywhere in India by the start of the 20th Century, although sadly not unheard of).

(3) The British Raj was the administrative area of the Empire that was also known as British India, although it encompassed what are now India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Burma and even a colony around Aden, in what is now Yemen.

(4) This procession will have been that of the Viceroy; Lord and Lady Curzon, Viceroy and Vicereine of India, followed by Lord Kitchener, a man who would later gain immortal fame as the man in the 'Your Country Needs You' recruitment posters, but currently commander of the armed forces of the British Raj, and a man who was hungrily hunting for Curzon's position. Also, the Viceroy wouldn't tend to travel with the security I've described, at least not along the streets of Calcutta, but this is a special occasion (more to come next chapter).

(5) Tent pegging is a sport, and, back in this period and earlier, a show of martial skill, practised by horsemen. Essentially, it involves a galloping cavalryman using a lance (or other edged weapon, such as a sword) to pierce and lift a small object (such as, surprise surprise, a tent peg) from the ground without slowing their mount. While it looks very impressive, it is actually fairly easy once you have the knack (or so I am told by a friend, not being a horse rider myself).

(6) There doesn't seem to be any official organisation in Britain for espionage and intelligence before the 1907 Secret Service Bureau. Equally, the British government used spies long before that, so I have just given them a grand address in London, although I have no reason to believe any such organisation was based in Arundel House... mind you, I can't find what was in Arundel House in 1903, so you never know.