Imprudence

by Gail Carriger

  The metal bird cocked its head at them and let out a peep noise. It burst the ear socket it was so high.

  Percy objected. “Ouch. Stop that. What do you want?”

  The mechanimal twitched and peeped again.

  Then it threw its little beak back and its whole head rolled inside out and converted to a kind of morning glory flower shape, like a hearing trumpet. A human voice emerged, as if from one of those newfangled gramophones.

  It spoke a short stream in some foreign tongue, then in French, and finally in English. “Unregistered airships report to the Ministries of Public Works Plus War, at the Customs and Tariff Obelisk.” It then proceed on to various other languages before converting its head back to that of a bird and taking flight, returning the way it had come.

  “Nasty piece of work.” Rue felt it was one step removed from a pigeon.

  Percy began twiddling dials. “Seemed pleasant enough. Now we know what to do.”

  “Oh yes? And where is this Ministries of Public Works Plus War?”

  Primrose brightened. “Let me consult my Baedeker’s.” She trotted off to her room to retrieve the obligatory red leather travel guide.

  Rue hated to do it but she shouted after her friend, “Prim, you might rouse Miss Sekhmet while you’re there.”

  Primrose paused, turned, and gave Rue a nasty look.

  Rue tried to look contrite. “We might need her interpretive skills.”

  Percy objected on principal. “I’ve studied several of the local dialects.”

  “Percy, my duck,” said Rue, “there is a vast different between speaking and studying.”

  Percy grumbled, as did Prim continuing belowdecks.

  Lady Maccon jumped on the matter of linguistic challenges. “You should hire a dragoman, infant. Although, hard to do so before we’ve visited the tariff office. As I recall, I had no little difficulty in Alexandria at customs when we visited last.” She turned to Quesnel. “They objected to your mother’s hatbox in particular.”

  “Oh?” The Frenchman encouraged all mentions of his mother’s past. Rue had the feeling Madame Lefoux could be maddeningly close-mouthed as a rule.

  “You don’t happen to have any suspicious hatboxes with you, do you, young man? Could prove difficult.”

  Quesnel went deadpan. “Lady Maccon, I assure you all my hatboxes are perfectly respectable and contain hats, nothing more.”

  “That’s what Genevieve always said.” Lady Maccon was not reassured.

  Primrose returned with her Baedeker’s.

  A convenient little map of the city showed that there was a Ministry of Public Works Plus War in the south-western part of the city. They made their way in that direction, eventually spotting what must surely be the Customs and Tariff Obelisk. It jutted up from the centre of a park in between the Ministry of Public Works Plus War and the British Consulate General. It was a particularly tall spire of black basalt. It must be the right obelisk because all manner of transcontinental airships were clustered around it. Each de-puffed and moored in, but not for long.

  The Spotted Custard joined the general hubbub of air traffic around the spire. A severe-looking military dirigible of the kind favoured by Queen Victoria’s colonial flotillahs appeared next to them, making the crew nervous. Likely its intent.

  However, once they’d reached the obelisk and cast out their own mooring rope, the military craft drifted off to loom at some other newcomer.

  A strange feeling of numbness overcame Rue’s whole body as they sunk further down. It was like being submerged in a bathtub, only it wasn’t wet. It felt a little like the moment when touching her mother cancelled out all metanatural abilities.

  Rue sidled over to said mother. “Do you feel that?” She kept her tone low; no need for anyone else to be alarmed.

  The crew was busy looking as respectable and efficient as possible. Not because The Spotted Custard was engaged in any nefarious activities – she was registered as a pleasure vessel with all the major regulatory bodies of the empire – but because the moment one entered the sphere of any bureaucratic body, one felt the need to put on a jolly good show. Nervous propriety was the natural consequence of proximity to an overabundance of paperwork. Even Quesnel popped off belowdecks to check with Aggie regarding the condition of the kettles and the general cleanliness of the boiler room.

  Lady Maccon looked at her daughter. “The repulsion, you mean? Yes, a little. It’s not as strong as it would be with a preternatural skeleton nearby.”

  “Mother, don’t be morbid. No, I’m getting a numbing sensation.”

  “I suppose it would be different for you. What exactly does it feel like? I mean, what would you compare the sensation to?”

  “You.”

  Lady Maccon nodded. “Makes sense. It is me, in a grotesque way. Or, to be precise, a lot of dead mes. It’s not as strong as it used to be. But I suppose they haven’t been renewing or expanding it. One assumes over time, with exposure, even mummies decompose.”

  “Really, Mother, must you?”

  Lady Maccon patted Rue in a condescending way. “Don’t worry, dear. It’s no longer important.”

  Rue fished about in her memories of family lore. “This is the God-Breaker Plague, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Well, then, I guess we can wake up Paw whenever you like, full moon notwithstanding.”

  “Oh, of course!” Lady Maccon slapped her head with her hand. “How silly of me.” She immediately snapped her parasol shut and bustled below.

  Rue didn’t stop her. It would be much easier to have an awake Lord Maccon when the customs officials boarded. Bureaucrats were likely to frown upon aristocratic Scotsmen preserved naked in tanks.

  The three official representatives of the Ministry of Public Works, War, Customs, and Tariffs were exactly what one might expect. They were stiff and humourless. They sported, in varying degrees of vegetation, decidedly impressive moustaches. They kept a cottage, of sorts, at the top of the black obelisk. It was made of mud brick with slit openings instead of windows so that it looked quite grumpy. From under the cottage extended several articulated walkways. As soon as they were within reach, one of these clamped down to the railing of The Spotted Custard with the ease of frequent repetition. There were eight of these ramps, making the custom-house look like nothing so much as a brown spider waving long metal legs about and latching onto airships.

  The wait was long enough for Rue and Primrose to don their frilliest dresses and most supercilious personas. Innocent young ladies with empty heads left officials feeling lost. There was something about the very rich, very young, very fashionable Englishwoman on a pleasure jaunt that defeated even the most hardened bureaucracy.

  The man in charge was an agent of Queen Victoria by his dress if not his language, kitted out in something approaching a soldier’s uniform – although not quite the correct colours. The other two wore long white robes and funny little hats that Prim’s travel guide reliably informed her meant they were of Turkish extraction. The guide was very clear on how dress indicated social standing in Egyptian society. Primrose believed it wholeheartedly; Baedeker never led her astray. Rue was suspicious. What, for example, would Baedeker say of Primrose given only a few lines of dialogue and an encounter with her fluffiest hat?

  While the customs officers conducted their investigation, Rue and Prim trailed behind, chattering faster than a kettle at full boil about the most inconsequential things in a way that was not exactly distracting but certainly maddening and non-threatening. They tossed scones happily at one another in the galley, cooed over the crochet coverlets in the guest rooms, and giggled over a book in the library.

  When Lord Maccon appeared, coming up the spiral staircase from engineering, entirely unclothed and covered in faintly orange slime, the customs officers were so worn down they only stopped and stared, mouths agape.

  He examined the two Turkish officials with equal interest. “We’re in Egypt, then?”

  Lady Macco
n came up behind her husband and dipped under one of his arms, supporting part of his weight with her shoulders. She was unperturbed by slime on her dress. No wonder Uncle Rabiffano despaired of her.

  “Wife?”

  “Yes, husband?”

  “May I wear one of those relaxing-looking men’s dresses now that we’ll be taking up permanent residence here?”

  Lady Maccon coughed. “Come away, dear. Let us allow the gentlemen to continue their work. Do pardon my husband, good sirs. He has been enduring a protracted illness and has only just left his” – she paused, grappling – “bath.”

  The officials nodded gravely. Presumably, they understood the importance of baths.

  Lady Maccon steered her enormous spouse, the only man who made her look delicate, down the hallway towards the guest quarters. No doubt an officer would check their papers later.

  “Well, may I?” Rue heard Paw press the issue with Mother.

  “You’ll look utterly ridiculous.”

  “But I’ll be comfortable. It’s almost kilt-like.”

  Rue wanted to run after her resurrected father and leap into his arms. He looked better than he had in ages, even with the slime. It was a joy to see him safely out of that horrid tank. But she was captain of an airship and had a role to play, particularly with foreign officials. She and Prim were required for featherbrained chatter. Familial reunions could wait.

  Primrose had all the Custard’s paperwork in order. Although, she had passed it on to the head steward because they’d agreed record-keeping might be better coming from a soberly dressed man.

  The officials checked the numbers against the roster and counted up decklings, sooties, deckhands, greasers, and household staff. They clearly weren’t interested in laymen, for they quickly moved on to the officer’s papers. They insisted on interviewing every one of The Spotted Custard’s passengers as well. Lord and Lady Maccon and Tasherit Sekhmet came under considerable scrutiny.

  However, of the entire company, only that last proved to be of concern.

  The chief officer closeted himself with the werelioness for a good half hour. The fluted notes of an animated discussion emanated from Tasherit’s cabin. It being in a foreign tongue, Rue and Prim couldn’t even eavesdrop.

  Once he emerged, the officer insisted on speaking to Rue privately, as the captain, in order to finalise the ship’s approval. Rue insisted that Primrose accompany her, as chaperone. He agreed and they took to the stateroom.

  He stamped her application for an air tourist licence, then had her sign several documents of writ and disclaim. He then shuffled through the resulting stacks of papyrus sheaves awkwardly.

  Finally he said, his English heavily accented, “Very well, missis. You hitch to a red obelisk for twenty-four hours.” He whipped out a map of Cairo, pointing to several red x marks along the southern part of the Nile. “Until you clear Quinton.”

  “Quinton?” Rue hissed to Primrose, confused.

  “Do you mean quarantine, sir?” Primrose asked gently.

  “As I said, missis, Quinton. After that, you free to travel around our land. We give you flag. Guard it well. There are many who want flag, missis. Value is high.”

  Rue smiled at him vacuously.

  He passed over a little triangle-shaped flag, like those of the standard bearers in medieval tapestries. It was bright blue with an eye embroidered in yellow and gold thread.

  “After Quinton, you free to partake of Cairo. Here are your teskireh.”

  He went to pass over a stack of papers, then paused to examine one particular note.

  “Teskireh?” Rue whispered to Prim.

  Prim consulted her Baedeker’s. “Viceregal recommendations for the allowance of scientific study.”

  Rue squinted her tawny eyes. “Percy or Quesnel?”

  Prim considered. “Likely both. On the bright side, Teskireh carries with it a weapon’s licence for the acquisition of big game.”

  The official jumped on that. “Speaking of big game, your dreaded one is not free.”

  Rue blinked. “My dreaded one?”

  The man waved the papyrus at her, as if Rue could read the funny curly dotted writing as anything more than something that most closely resembled, in her experience, musical notes.

  At her continued confusion, he explained. “She who mauls, before whom evil trembles. She who speaks with hot breath of desert wind.”

  Rue screwed up her nose. “Miss Sekhmet?”

  The man’s smile from behind his tidy beard was startlingly white. “A good name. Yes. She not leave ship. Egypt does not welcome damned.”

  “Naturally.” Rue did not feel it necessary to point out that even with the God-Breaker Plague, Tasherit was cat enough to take any attempt at confinement as a challenge.

  After the officials left, Rue bearded the lioness in her den.

  Normally, Rue respected the werecat’s privacy, but this was a matter of ship safety, which gave her licence to pry. She left the door open so as not to cause gossip.

  “You’re not technically allowed out of quarantine while we’re in Egypt.”

  The werecat rolled her brown eyes. They were big and almond-shaped with thick lashes so monumentally unfair that combining them with flawless coffee-coloured skin, a straight nose, and full lips was basically an insult to every other female. Some supernatural creatures looked tired or old when they lost the shine of immortality. On Tasherit, the mantel of death turned her approachable, and by extension, Rue thought, more deadly.

  “I’m not surprised.” The werecat wasn’t offended. “They do not hold with females who have lost their faith. Even if I am older than its arrival in this country.”

  “You were born here?” Rue pounced on the clue, catlike herself.

  “I am a daughter of the desert sands, at least in part. I took my name from an Egyptian queen, as is our custom,” was all Tasherit would say.

  The phrase reminded Rue of the officer’s comment. “He called you ‘she who speaks with the hot breath of the desert wind’.”

  “A fair accusation.”

  “How did he know?”

  “I do not exactly match the rest of your crew, Lady Captain.”

  Rue narrowed her eyes. “You understand very well what I’m asking.”

  Tasherit fiddled with the thin chain around her neck. “He noticed this.”

  From the chain dangled two small gold charms. Rue had never seen them up close but judging on general shape they appeared to be a shield and a sword. They were not only tiny but also worn with age, so it was difficult to discern details.

  The werelioness explained. “Even the followers of Mohammad have not forgotten all the old symbols. It does not pay to count entirely on the God-Breaker to protect one from the outside world. The smart ones remember that borders shift, even anti-supernatural ones. It is best to know the signs of the damned, even if you believe them long gone.”

  “You don’t mind being trapped aboard?” Rue had made the promise on Tasherit’s behalf.

  “I don’t mind that they wish to pretend.” At Rue’s worried look, she added, “I will not go exploring this city. And Cairo doesn’t mind what happens to the south.”

  “Good.” Rue figured it was only the appearance of compliance that mattered. “Will we see you at supper?”

  “Indeed. I find my fragile mortal self is quite hungry. How do you people manage?”

  Rue laughed and stood.

  A veritable roar emanated from the guest quarters across the hall.

  Tasherit’s voice went bland in an effort to hide amusement. “I believe your father may be objecting to something.”

  “Probably my mother.”

  Rue went and knocked on the door opposite.

  The roaring continued.

  Rue knocked louder. With no response forthcoming, Rue let herself in.

  Paw was striding about the chamber yelling, mostly dressed and no longer covered in slime.

  His wife sat in calm tolerance at her dressing table,
brushing her hair and replying in a maddeningly reasonable tone. “Conall, do put a cork in it. People will hear you.”

  “Too late.” Rue shut the door behind her without bothering to ask if she could stay. It was, after all, her ship. And these were, after all, her parents. “Must you make a scene, Paw?” She walked over to him for a hug. “It is good to see you looking so well.”

  “Ah, little one!” He snaked her into a smothering embrace.

  Rue relaxed against his familiar rough affection. He did not smell quite as he used to – a product of mortality or time in a Lefoux tank; it was difficult to know which.

  “Are you feeling better?” The question was partly muffled against his broad shoulder.

  Paw released her. “I’m as hale as a man one third my age.”

  Lady Maccon began coiling and pinning up her hair. “One sixth, my dear, I think it is.”

  Paw shrugged. “Mathematics never was my strong suit.”

  Rue didn’t know quite how to ask if he was still suffering Alpha’s curse. How did one enquire as to the mental capacities of one’s own father?

  “Do you have any odd inclinations?”

  Paw looked confused. “Pardon?”

  Rue scrambled for some other delicate way of putting it. “Oh, I don’t know. A preference to don one of Aunt Ivy’s hats? The sudden feeling of euphoria and an inclination to polka with a palm tree?”

  Mother put down her pins. “Your daughter would like to know if you are still going insane, dear.”

  Paw considered this. “I’ve been married to your mother for over two decades. You might allow me certain dispensation for eccentricity.”

  “Paw, please be serious. I must consider the welfare of my ship.”

  “I love you too, sweetheart.”

  Rue crossed her arms and glared, looking, many might have pointed out, rather more like her Paw than she ought being half his size and female.

  He grinned. His Scottish burr became more prevalent. “Och, you fretful bairn. Whatever it is that pulls the senses out my head, ’tis linked to pack. I’m mortal, so that’s all gone, along with my pack.” A flash of pain cut across his face, quickly smoothed away with long practice.