THIRTEEN
In Which Rue Learns About Antiquity
Next morning found The Spotted Custard floating some distance south of Cairo following the course of the Nile towards Luxor. Ill-rested and sandy-eyed, Rue donned a set of advanced ocular magnification lenses and took a closer look at the flock of balloons surrounding them in the morning light. Most of the airships were similar to Anitra’s, small and family-run with a tendency towards comfortable well-tended shabbiness. The four dirigibles were more modern, of fine workmanship and able floating, although certainly nothing on her Custard. Whatever Mr Panettone did, he made good money doing it. Unless, of course, his wealth was inherited. Rue put the lenses down. He didn’t act like a nobleman.
As if her thoughts had summoned him, the antiquity in question joined her on the forecastle.
“Lady Prudence.” He greeted her with a painfully formal bow. Rue was afraid he might fall over with the effort. He looked so frail, the slightest breeze could tip him spout over handle in the manner of a porcelain teapot.
“Mr Panettone. How are you this morning?”
“Tolerable.”
A man of brevity, this one.
Rue gestured for him to sit in a nearby deck chair. He did so with relief. Rue was sympathetic; the stairs and ladders of her ship were not designed with the aged or infirm in mind. Quite the opposite, having been conceived of by an ageless vampire and executed by a series of disgustingly healthy drones.
Rue turned back to their surrounding flock. “I find it interesting that these dirigibles of yours are all painted red with black spots. Newly painted, unless I miss my guess. Surely this is no coincidence? Not that I think my taste unique, simply eccentric.”
The man barely cracked a smile. “I had word of your coming.”
“And somehow knew I would need ladybug decoys?”
“You may be different from your mother, but not that different.”
If that wasn’t the perfect opening for more questions, Rue would eat her hat. “Eighteen fifty-five was the date. Mother would have been around eight. How did you—?”
“I was in service to your family.”
That explained his general demeanour. “Oh yes?”
“It is a family in ever great need of decoys.”
Rue wrinkled her nose. Truer words were likely never before uttered.
She prodded. “Grandmother’s household?”
He inclined his head. “Butler.”
“I do apologise.” Rue had little to do with Grandmother Loontwill over the years, first at her mother’s insistence and later at her own. Grandmother Loontwill was unpleasantly silly and had produced two equally silly follow-up daughters to Alexia. Aunt Evelyn came to the pack’s Sunday roast once or twice a year but Grandmother Loontwill wasn’t welcome in the Maccon household. There was another aunt, Felicity, but she and Mother did not speak. She’d left London and was reputed to be worse than the whole rest of the family put together. “That could not have been a very pleasant house to work in.”
Mr Panettone did not acknowledge this statement. “Before that, I worked for your grandfather as valet.”
Rue was totally floored by this. “The Italian one?”
“Alessandro Tarabotti.”
“Is that why you have an Italian name?”
“That’s why I use one.”
Ah, then it’s not his real name. “Mother said her father was an unsavoury sort but that he’d died heroically and was burned without headstone.”
“True enough.”
“Dama said he was one for both women and men.”
This seemed to rather shock Mr Panettone. “One does not discuss such things, Lady Prudence.”
Rue grinned. Of course, he was from a different generation. “I assure you, one certainly does. We’re very frank aboard this ship, quite modern. Well, not Primrose. I’d wear bicycle bloomers all the time if shape-shifting weren’t easier in tea-gowns. And you’ve seen Miss Sekhmet marching around in split skirts and a military jacket.”
The gentleman went silent.
“Mr Panettone, have I offended? I beg your pardon.”
He sniffed. “You might as well call me Floote. It seems odd to use any other name with Alexia’s daughter. You may not look like her, but your voice is reminiscent.”
“Mr Floote, then.”
“Just Floote.” That rang another bell in Rue’s memory. Hadn’t she heard him mentioned by the Maccon staff in a reverential manner? The Great Butler who came Before.
“I remember that name. They missed you.”
A tiny smile crept through the wrinkles. “Nice to know I made an impression. They wouldn’t include Lady Maccon, would it?”
“No.”
“I thought not. We parted badly.” He appeared impassive, but there was something stilted in the way he spoke.
“Not uncommon with my mother.” Rue’s voice held a trace of bitterness. On more than one occasion, she had been on the receiving end of her mother’s militant obstreperousness.
“Not her fault.”
“I suppose not.” Rue was dying to know more about this wrong person that Floote had killed. “She apparently objects to untidy death.” She prodded.
“To be fair, so do I.” He did not take the bait.
“Then you disagreed over the individual in question?”
An inclination of the head.
“Not going to tell me more, are you?”
A slight shake.
“And my grandfather?” Rue shifted forward. “What about him?” It was rare Rue got to ask anyone about her grandfather. Lady Maccon had told Rue some things – things relevant to being preternatural. After all, Alexia had inherited her soullessness from Alessandro Tarabotti. Which meant Rue owed half her metanatural powers to this long-dead ancestor. But Mother was more circumspect about her paternal line than she was about anything else. Which must have been difficult for her.
“Very tidy about death was Mr Tarabotti. Not to mention, good at doling it out. A curious man. He had his own morals, although they were not always commensurate with that of society.”
“Which society?”
“British. Italian. Egyptian.” The old man looked thoughtful. “I suppose he never did fit in.”
Rue nodded. “Like Mother. Preternaturals find it hard to fit in. I sympathise.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Rue was surprised to find herself saying, “Imagine being the world’s only metanatural.”
“You have Lord Akeldama as guardian.”
“Not any more. I reached my majority.”
His eyes narrowed. “Have you indeed. I am getting old.”
“And Paw lost the pack.”
“Inevitable, of course.”
“So I don’t belong anywhere.” I’m supposed to be getting him talking, yet here I am babbling about my problems.
Floote looked around, taking in the ship, decklings chattering away as they shifted from night to day watch. The deck vibrated slightly as the boilers picked up steam. Soon Primrose would appear and herd them to breakfast.
“I think you’ve found your place.”
Rue smiled. “She’s called The Spotted Custard.”
“You always did like ladybugs.”
“I did?”
“Indeed. Your grandfather was fond of crimson, too. His favourite jacket would have matched your balloon to perfection.” The old valet stopped himself before relaying anything further.
It must be hard, thought Rue, to always curtail one’s speech. The elderly folk she knew liked nothing more than to mutter about the past. With Floote it was like pulling essential gears from an ornithopter, painful and possibly resulting in a crash.
“I wager you know all the stories,” she tried to encourage.
He inclined his head. “Which is why I had my dirigibles painted red with black spots.” He closed his eyes then.
“You don’t really want to talk about Grandfather, do you?” Rue put some of Dama’s training to w
ork reading the man’s tone, even as his face remained impassive.
Floote did not respond or move.
“Would you tell me about my mother when she was little? I am beginning to think there is much I do not know. Or did not think to ask. Or heard and forgot.”
The old man smiled like a proud parent. “What do you want to know?”
“What do I need to know?”
“Once upon a time,” he started, clearly humouring her, “the Templars kidnapped Alexia.”
It turned out to be a most entertaining afternoon.
The day passed in sleepy progress. It was gruellingly hot, although the proximity of their companion Drifters cast shadows over the Custard’s deck, alleviating some of the direct sunlight.
“The heads of the families will want to meet with you,” said Anitra. “Discuss plans.”
Rue nodded. “I’m afraid I don’t speak your language.”
Anitra shrugged. “Grandfather and I will interpret for you.”
Rue didn’t like that this put her in a dependent position but she supposed she was already dependent upon these two for this whole arrangement, so she might as well cast herself adrift on the Drifters’ whims.
“About your grandfather…”
“He told you more?”
Rue nodded.
“He’s a good man, loyal. It has cost him much, I think, that loyalty.”
Rue wondered if that loyalty was to her mother or her grandfather or someone else further back in time. He was, after all, ancient. Instead she asked, “The name, Panettone?”
“Is an old one around here. He is not the first to use it. We remember only because we Drifters have dancers of record whose steps stretch back for a thousand years. Panettone is not as old as Goldenrod, but whose name is?”
Rue gave a small smile. “Tasherit perhaps?”
“Ah, that one. Best if she not come to our meeting this evening.”
“Are Drifters not fond of the shape-shifters?”
“It depends entirely on the shape. They ruled the Two Lands as gods for a very long time, before they didn’t. While the fettered of the earth remember only their harshness, we Drifters remember more. The Daughters of Sekhmet left of their own volition. They were not thrown over. They have ever been the hot breath of the desert winds. We make our living by those winds. Your deadly lady, without her shape, unable to prove her true nature, with all that beauty, she would be unsettling, confusing. Confusion is dangerous to negotiations.”
Rue thought about the God-Breaker Plague. Even floating as they did, high above the river, she could feel its oppressiveness – so much like her mother’s touch. It was getting worse the closer they got to Luxor. Taking away the sparkle of opportunity, the possibility of other’s shapes. Rue didn’t like the sensation. Perhaps I truly am the inhuman parasite some have thought me to be. Rue shook off that depressing thought.
“Are you Drifters against the God-Breaker Plague?”
Anitra tilted her head. “How is one to be against reality? It is what it is, a plague of unmaking. It is no political party to protest. We have accepted it but we are Drifters, so we need not live within it. It no longer expands, of course, not now, but it will remain as long as the Creature in the Sands still reaches out into the desert.”
Rue didn’t follow. “If you say so. I suppose it has its uses. If you’re a supernatural who wants to die, for example.” She tried to keep the hurt out of her voice. To lose her father in such a way… it was still difficult to face.
The closer they got to Luxor, the more profound the nullifying feeling of the plague. Rue learned to tolerate it. She spent most of her time standing on the main deck, eyes glued to magnification lenses, watching the Nile below. Paddle ferries chugged along while old-style dahabiyas, with their two triangular sails, nipped in and around them. Closer to the embankments, small reed rafts floated, from which scantily clad young men slapped the water with big sticks in a pretty, if confusing, method of fishing. Or was it crocodile control?
They arrived in Luxor as the sun set on the third day. It seemed to grow larger as it sank, a massive orange globe tinted red at the bottom by the dust of the desert. Primrose owned a dress that did that.
Luxor was greener than Cairo, the Nile near the city dotted with half-formed islands. The banks were thick with palm trees, which crowded into the sandstone of the town, while rocky grey monoliths spiked out of the desert beyond. The Spotted Custard floated in over the massive statues of Memnon, sitting in faceless judgement over those little islands, like two stern governesses. Primrose – Baedeker’s in hand – pointed out Karnak at one end of the town and the Temple of Luxor at the other.
At Rue’s orders, The Spotted Custard and company remained high above the city. The feeling of the plague was simply too unpleasant if they de-puffed even slightly. The decklings were disappointed. They wanted to see the Valley of the Kings up close.
That evening, Rue was to host a Drifter gathering. Quesnel declined to attend. Primrose didn’t feel it was her place and Miss Sekhmet made herself obligingly scarce. Which left Rue and Percy, of all people, to welcome their guests.
It was a still night, with little wind, so the balloons performed their dance in stately majesty. Slipping about each other like the most dignified of matrons at a church ball, they collected into pods of ten or so family groups and cast out more of those massive nets. Each pod netted to another, until all hundred-plus airships were linked together.
Quesnel, on deck for this occurrence, was impressed despite himself. “I had a friend at university, used to draw schematics of molecules in just such a manner. He theorised that chemical bonds were more net-like than stick-like in the Kekulé model.” He spoke mostly to himself.
“Preposterous.” Percy overheard the mutter.
“Yes, so our professor always said. But if one were to conceive of molecules on a two-dimensional plane and then extrapolate into three dimensions? Perhaps netting bonds is not quite so outlandish.”
At that juncture, a holler and a thrown net saw the Custard bonded to the greater molecule as well.
“Note how the nets allow for each individual ship to sway and bob about where a stiffer material would not? Is it so far-fetched to imagine a molecule might enjoy equal flexibility?”
“Oh, go below, Mr Lefoux, do.” Percy’s tone was only mildly annoyed. “No one is interested in your ridiculous theories on the chemistry of airships.”
With a bow, Quesnel unexpectedly did as instructed.
Percy was disappointed at being denied a theoretical debate.
Rue felt a twinge of pain. It wasn’t like Quesnel to cede an intellectual point, much less take an order from Percy. He must be feeling quite low. She stopped herself from following him.
Around them, the nets became walkways by which matters of business were conducted. Women began paying social calls on other balloons. Children commenced games with one another. After a complex series of greetings and gift exchanges, each group decided upon a representative. These converged upon Rue’s dirigible.
Rue felt a distinct pressure to make her guests welcome and not to commit any outrageous social gaffes, if she could possibly help it. Considering social gaffes were her forte, she was nervous.
Twelve leaders from the various family groups – plus Anitra, Floote, Percy, and Rue – were too many for the Custard’s stateroom, so they held the assembly on the main deck. The Drifters seemed not at all insulted by an al fresco setting. Nor were they disturbed by the delighted shrieks of the decklings, who had discovered that the net walkways were particularly amenable to a modified game of cricket.
“Spoo,” ordered Rue from over the railing, “don’t let anyone fall off!”
Spoo waved at her from the middle of the net where she was bouncing higher and better than anyone else. “Course… not… Lady… Captain,” she yelled at the apex of each bounce.
They hadn’t enough chairs for all their visitors, which turned out to be no bad thing, for the men �
�� and by clothing and prevalence of beards they were men – chose to sit cross-legged directly on the deck.
Primrose, blushing and desperate, fetched cushions from everyone’s beds so the visitors need not sit on the hard wood. This seemed to be both a kindness and a luxury. The cushions were met with murmurs of approval. Prim saw to the distribution of cups of tea, which seemed to be a kindness and a confusion, and then scones with strawberry preserve, which were universally regarded with suspicion and then delight. The niceties having been observed, she made herself scarce with almost improper haste. Rue couldn’t blame her – there were men, in robes, sitting on the floor.
Rue, with a shrug, joined them. Percy, askance, followed suit. He looked uncomfortable and unsure as to why he had to be there. Floote took a seat next to Rue, and Anitra next to Percy.
Floote asked in her ear, “Is that the parasol?”
Rue patted her mother’s hideous accessory where it rested tucked against her side. “It’s one of them. She’s had quite a few over the years.”
Floote raised his eyebrows. “Two while I was with her.”
Rue smiled. “Tough on parasols, my mother. She already has a desert-edition replacement on order.”
“I never doubted.” Floote gave a little seated bow, either to Rue or the parasol it wasn’t clear which.
One of the few men without a beard spoke first. Despite the fact that he wore light-coloured robes and no veil, he had a voice that was – without question – female. This confused Rue. Particularly when Anitra translated, “He is welcoming us all to the circle and thanking you for the generosity of food and drink.”
Rue wasn’t one to question; if the handsome older woman across from her wished to be a he, why gainsay?
Anitra continued her role as interpreter. “Ay asks if the young lord will be speaking for himself or if the fire hair is his voice in matters of barter.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Anitra dimpled a little. “You are the young lord. Mr Tunstell is the fire hair.”
Imprudence Page 23
