Section F: The Arse-Kickers

Chapter Three

Even having traded his soggy tweed suit for a Tarraleah First XI T-shirt, Ugg boots and oversized track pants, the Archduke managed to maintain the air of self-assured superiority and bonhomie. Seated before the fire with a blanket over his shoulders, he drained his mulled wine (the ordering of which were his very first, almost reflex-like words upon regaining consciousness) and, looking around with the first signs of genuine attention since his defrosting, noticed Peregrine standing by the bar.

"Ah, excellent. You, bar-wench." He held up his empty glass. "Another."

"Wench?" Peregrine grinned in delight. "Ha! Can't remember the last time somebody called me that."

"Never fear, my dear." The Archduke waggled both the glass and his eyebrows at her. "If it's name-calling you fancy, you've come to the right man. And you'll be called something a damn sight worse if you don't damn well hurry up and fetch my damn wine." He turned to Fields, standing alongside his partner. "And you, potboy. Bring me a steaming bowl of whatever swill this benighted establishment of yours calls soup, and make it snappy. And then throw another log on the fire, damn it. I'm sure I can't recall ever feeling quite so bloody cold."

"Uh..." Still taken aback that what he'd been sure was a corpse had instead turned out to be alive and kicking—and apparently a bit of a dickhead—Fields stared wide-eyed at the Archduke's haughty, mutton-chopped features. Despite the facial hair, he was younger than Fields had expected, looking far fresher and clear-skinned than any man born in the first half the 19th century had a right to. "I'm not actually...although, I s'pose I could..."

The Archduke rolled his eyes. "Bloody colonials," he declared, shrugging off the blanket and getting to feet. "One would be forgiven for thinking they don't speak the Queen's own English. A fellow could freeze to death waiting to be serviced properly around here. Now," he continued, sauntering over to the two agents, "are you two slack-jawed layabouts going to shake a leg and do as I say, or I shall I give you both the thrashing of your lives? Hmm? What's it going to be?"

"Now, now, Archie." Peregrine gave his arm a friendly pat. "I know your brain's probably still part popsicle, but you may want to dial it back a notch there, sunshine. After all, we just—"

"My, my," interrupted the Archduke, raising an eyebrow as he leaned in closer. "What have we here? Unlike most of the Highland Arm's trollops, you improve with proximity, my dear. My goodness yes, you're a definite cut above the usual class of floozy they have here. What a complexion. Peaches and cream ain't in it." He again glanced around the interior of the pub. "In fact, the whole establishment is looking rather fresher than usual"—he sniffed—"and a damn sight less malodorous, to boot. In any case, cancel the soup and the wine"—he gave Fields a broad wink—"I can think of a far more enjoyable way to warm up. Rowr, as the Tasmanian tigers say. Or at least, I assume they do. I generally shoot the buggers before they get within hearing distance."

"Hey." Instinct kicking in, Fields stepped between the two, even though he could think of few people less in need of protection than Peregrine. "Watch it."

The Archduke merely smiled. "Never fear, my boy. You can have her back afterwards. She may have even learned a new trick or two."

Expression stony, Fields had time to clap a hand on the defrosted man's shoulder and growl, "Right, that's en—" before his world turned upside down, the breath whooshed from his lungs and a galaxy of stars exploded before his eyes. Moments later, he found himself under a table, breathless and in pain, taking in a hazy ground-level view of the Archduke's tracksuited legs sidling closer to Peregrine's pants-clad pair.  

"Now, mon cheri. Where were we? Ah yes, I was just about to sample—"

The Archduke's legs jerked rigid, twitched a few times and then he went down like a tree, hard enough to bounce on impact with the floorboards. His wide-eyed, fixed expression was a curious blend of astonishment and lechery.