Imprudence

by Gail Carriger

  “I won’t ask.”

  “Probably better that way. You ready?”

  “Always.”

  “Bring them to the boil, then, immediately, please.”

  “Consider it done.” Quesnel set down his end of the tube with a soft click.

  With remarkable efficiency, all around them, the nets were reeled in. The decoy dirigibles began puffing, while the Drifters divided into clusters around each one.

  The warning horns sounded again. Taking that as the signal to depart, they began heading in different directions. One group of Drifters even floated due north, down the Nile, towards the attackers.

  Rue put the spyglass to her eye and gasped, for charging them at speed were a dozen airships. Not just dirigibles either, but ornithopters and other flying machines. There were nimble and manoeuvrable and not dependent on wind. Not able to float the aetherosphere but good for close-range combat.

  Rue never thought there might be so many working together. It conflicted with her imagined solo collector out for reputation and glory.

  FOURTEEN

  Drifters Like Cats

  Aggie Phinkerlington appeared at Rue’s elbow. “You summoned?”

  Rue handed her a set of glassicals and pointed north. “We’ve got company.”

  Aggie looked through, her eyes wonky with magnification. “You always did attract the nicest types.”

  “And here I thought you liked Mr Lefoux.”

  Aggie handed her back the lenses. Was she trying not to smile?

  “I take it you know how to shoot that thing?” Rue gave a chin nod to the crossbow.

  Aggie didn’t bother to answer, simply made her way to the best vantage point on the forecastle, propped her massive crossbow up on the railing, and winched the string back to load a bolt. Old-fashioned, thought Rue, but serviceable.

  “Spoo,” she called, “leave off prep work, grab a friend, and man the Gatling gun. I take it you’ve figured out how to use it?” Rue had confidence in Spoo’s general interest in violence. She was eleven, after all. All eleven-year-olds were, by nature, bloodthirsty.

  “Aye, Lady Captain.”

  Spoo grabbed, of all people, Virgil, who had been herding Footnote belowdecks. They ran to ready the massive gun.

  “Don’t go shooting any friendlies. I spent far too long, and too much sugar, acquiring that escort for you to go potting a Drifter. Spoo, take your instructions from Aggie.”

  Aggie didn’t respond except to nod at Spoo.

  Spoo gave a reluctant, “Aye-aye.” A former sootie, Spoo had transferred up to deckling because she didn’t like Aggie.

  Nevertheless, Rue was pretty darn certain that if anyone could forge a working relationship under pressure to kill people, it was those two.

  Rue picked up her mother’s parasol, trying to decide which of its armaments would be most useful long range. “Percy,” she said, “set course due south and take us up. Not into the aetherosphere. Find us a good breeze so the balloons can keep pace but be prepared to boil up to full propeller if needed. Hold us towards the back of the pack so the gunners have shooting lines.”

  The Spotted Custard let out her usual noise of petulant flatulence but responded with eager nimbleness to Rue’s commands and Percy’s touch. They puffed smoothly upwards, shadowed by an escort of seven balloons. Fortunately they found a favourable southern wind and hooked in, moving quickly.

  Rue watched their hunters with her glass. They were obviously confused by the multiple ladybug dirigibles and their multiple Drifter companions.

  Anitra appeared at her elbow.

  “Floote’s plan seems to be working.” Rue gave her a cheerful smile. “They are dividing to follow, not sure which of us is the real Spotted Custard.”

  The young woman smiled back. “Best keep your distance, then. As soon as they have deck view, they’ll spot you as a female captain and know for certain which is which.”

  “I take it he didn’t go as far as to have all the decoy captains dress in decoy Worth tea-gowns?”

  “Bit pricy.”

  “Good point.” Rue kept grinning. “Could disguise myself with one of those Drifter robes. Got any spares?”

  Anitra shook her head. “Not with me.”

  Rue gestured to a deckling. “Run down and raise Miss Sekhmet. We could use her military prowess. Ask her to bring me one of those silk robes of hers and a scarf or two.”

  The deckling scampered off.

  Moments later Tasherit arrived. They were floating high but the plague remained strong; while Rue still felt the oppressive numbness, Tasherit seemed nothing more than blithely mortal under its sway.

  “Rue?” The werecat wasn’t one for formalities. She handed over a silver robe and some colourful scarves. Rue handed her the parasol and glassicals. Rue pulled the garment on, wrapping one of the scarves about her head, including her hat. She must look rather ridiculous, like a silvery beekeeping nun, but she hoped it would confuse their followers.

  “We’ve got ourselves a spot of bother.” Rue filled Tasherit in on the particulars of their new escort, the decoys, and the attackers.

  Miss Sekhmet handed her back the parasol with a lip curl. “What is that colour?”

  Rue looked at the ghastly thing in surprise. It was some species of brown, although in certain lights it had a red tinge, in others a green, and in still others a yellow. It was trimmed with a great quantity of lace and chiffon of the same not-quite-anything-reliable colour. She supposed it was meant to match any outfit, which of course meant it clashed with everything.

  “It is a Parasol-of-Another-Colour,” Rue announced in a formal manner.

  Tasherit sniffed and looked through Rue’s glassicals at the enemy, as if in an effort to avoid the parasol. “There are more of them this time.”

  “More even than that. See there? The decoys are drawing some away.” Only four airships remained tailing the Custard.

  “Strange that collectors would pull together. Isn’t the point to make the catch for yourself, alone?”

  “I thought that, too.” Rue nodded.

  “So, maybe not collectors?”

  “Whoever they are, they’re hostile. You got a gun with any range on it?”

  “No.” The werelioness looked over to where Spoo and Aggie were tensely pointing their weapons at the slowly encroaching enemy and bickering mildly with one another. “But I’m better at a Gatling than Spoo there.”

  “I wager you are. By all means, go and tell her to do something more useful, then.”

  “Oh, great, thanks for that. I was hoping you’d tell her. You know, for truly rapid fire we really need four operators.”

  Rue wrinkled her forehead. “I’m hoping it won’t come to that. Just a warning shot.”

  The werecat nodded. “Two of us will do, then.”

  She went and ejected a dejected Spoo from behind the gun but showed her how to feed in the Bruce instead. Virgil, looking relieved, was free to take on more valet-like duties. He went immediately to see to Percy’s cravat, which had, in the chaos, come undone and was wafting. Cravats should never be allowed to waft.

  One of the ornithopters pulled away from the pack and began closing in on them.

  “Bring him out of the sky, please, ladies.” Rue didn’t want him seeing their personnel and reporting back that this was the real Spotted Custard.

  The Gatling gun rat-tat-tatted.

  Aggie’s crossbow twanged.

  The bullets took the ornithopter in the engine block. Aggie’s bolt tore out one of the wings at its midway joint. The craft spiralled down to the desert. After that, their followers, now numbering only three, kept a respectful distance.

  They remained some leagues off for several hours until the other Drifter groups were mere dots on the far horizon. By which time Rue had formulated a plan.

  “Quesnel, could we simulate a mechanical malfunction? Gouts of black smoke out of the stacks or something? I’m thinking to try a lame-duck gambit.”

  At the
other end of the speaking tube, the Frenchman didn’t sound surprised by this request. “Most assuredly. When would you like it?”

  “Five minutes enough time?”

  “Certainly.”

  Rue hung up the tube and turned to her navigator. “Percy, prepare to de-puff and cycle down the propeller.”

  “Aren’t we in the middle of a chase?”

  “We are, but we can’t keep this up into nightfall. I’m thinking, I have some good gunners – we might was well turn this into an attack.”

  Percy grumbled, “I don’t know why I expected anything different from the daughter of a werewolf. Didn’t that vampire father of yours teach you any subtlety?”

  “That’s rich coming from the son of Aunt Ivy.”

  “Touché.”

  “You’ve a better idea, Mr Tunstell?”

  “Well, no…”

  Rue went to talk to her gunners.

  “I’m luring them in. I want you to take them out as soon as they are in range.”

  “You got a lot of faith in our abilities.” Aggie registered displeasure out of orneriness, not lack of confidence.

  Rue arched her brows. “I never doubted you for one second, Miss Phinkerlington. Remember, it was always the other way around.”

  Tasherit nodded at Spoo to prepare the Bruce. Spoo checked the cartridges with an intent face.

  “Anitra?” Rue called to the young Drifter woman, who was busy pacing the decks with no concrete roll to play aboard ship. She clearly wished to pitch in, being born to the skies, but knew that on a well-run airship she was likely to be a hindrance until she got their rhythm.

  Rue paused, seeing her crew through another’s eyes. Competent and sure, with a ballet-like grace to their movements. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. Is that because of, or despite, my leadership?

  “Looking bang-up, everyone!” Rue wanted to ensure they knew she appreciated them. A few of her decklings waved at her without pausing in their duties.

  Anitra came over. “Yes, Lady Akeldama?”

  “Can we get a message to your family and Ay? I’m assuming you have way of communicating while afloat?”

  “But of course.” Anitra pulled out two small bright red scarves from her sleeves, as if she were about to do some exotic dance. She waved them high above her head, signalling for attention from their escort.

  “What should I say?”

  “Ask them to please prepare their nets.”

  “We’re going to stop?”

  “No, we’re going to set a trap.”

  The Spotted Custard pretended weakness, puffing out gouts of smelly black smoke and sinking down and away from any protection afforded by the balloons.

  The hunters closed in, ignoring the Drifters.

  Tasherit and Aggie engaged in a solid exchange of fire. Aggie managed to take down a second ornithopter while Tasherit and Spoo annihilated the balloon of the smaller dirigible. Neither one was permanently damaged, but they were limp and grounded for the time being. The largest and best manned of the ships got in a few good shots of its own. One bullet splintered the aft section of the Custard’s gondola, while a second put a sizable hole through her balloon. It was enough to make their fake fall not quite so fake. Decklings scuttled to climb the lines and patch the tear. Rue let them, despite the danger both from falling and further gunshot. They couldn’t afford to actually be weak.

  Meanwhile, the Drifters dropped back and were coming around the enemy from above. They only boasted a couple of pistols among them, nothing like a Gatling, but they weren’t intending to join the fight. Instead, they hovered over the remaining hostile like a small swarm of chubby honeybees. When the time felt about right, they dropped one of their massive heavy nets. It slid over the aft point of the dirigible’s almond-shaped balloon and fell with a thud to drape over the gondola below. Nothing happened for a moment, and then the net, swaying, got tangled up in the propeller beneath.

  The propeller cracked and splintered, one paddle falling completely off.

  The crew of The Spotted Custard cheered.

  “Rev her back up,” said Rue to both Quesnel via the speaking tube and Percy at the helm. “No puffs yet – let the sooties fix our balloon first.”

  Percy nodded.

  “Fix? What happened to the balloon?” Quesnel’s tone was accusatory.

  “She got a bit of a hole. Should be patched shortly.”

  “Squeaker?”

  “Yes. Helium, not ballast. We’re sinking.”

  “Well, don’t let her squeak too much or we’ll need a refill at Wady Halfeh. We already have to stop for coal and water; add helium to that list and we’ll lose all the time you just bought us. I thought we were in a hurry.”

  “Thank you, Mr Lefoux, for telling me something I already know.”

  “You can count on me, chérie. Too bad other blindingly obvious truths elude you.”

  Rue wasn’t going to let him bait her. “You’re too kind.”

  He’d already hung up the tube.

  Their little skirmish garnered them a good day’s lead, possibly two. Some more red handkerchief communication saw them set as brisk a pace as the Drifters could manage.

  Rue consulted her friends and fellow officers over a light tea in the stateroom. It was stuffy and hot but she wanted the privacy afforded by closed doors against prying ears – otherwise known as Spoo.

  “If we manage a coal and water suck and get out of Wady Halfeh before our friends repair and catch up, could we take to the deep desert here?” Rue pointed to a place on the map.

  Percy stood next to her. The others were seated casually, in such a manner as to stand and come around if they felt they had something to add. Out of necessity, Floote and Anitra were included in the discussion. They were, after all, the closest Rue had to local guides.

  Percy nibbled a date. “Depends on the wind direction. If we want to keep with our Drifter friends, we are reliant on the winds.”

  Rue frowned. “They have propellers on their balloons, do they not?”

  Quesnel shook his head. “Those are for catching and slowing a spin, not momentum assist. More like the rudder of a boat. Unless my understanding of aeronautics is entirely off.” He gave a depreciatory little bow in Anitra’s direction.

  He was being falsely humble, for he knew perfectly well how Drifter balloons worked and had an impeccable understanding of all things aeronautical.

  Rue tried not to sneer at him.

  He passed Anitra the plate of toast tips in a solicitous manner.

  Anitra took one. “He’s right. We need wind, and reliable winds stick to the Nile.”

  Rue moved her finger further down the map. “What about here, at the second cataract? We go due south while the Nile veers west. We’d save considerable time cutting across the desert both there and later, at the third. We start following the river again at the sixth, here at” – Rue craned her neck about to read the city name – “Khartoom.”

  Floote, who apparently didn’t need the benefit of a map to follow, sipped his tea. Tea in this weather! Rue supposed that as a frail old man who ate little, English tea was both his main sustenance and a comforting reminder of his former life. She was happy with water. Quesnel, Percy, and Anitra partook only of barley water tempered with a little lemon. Primrose, stubborn to the end, drank her tea with a will, something to be endured for the sake of tradition. Tasherit sipped iced milk from a teacup.

  Floote said, “Nubia is dangerous.”

  Anitra added, “Not exactly friendly. Not to Drifters, and certainly not to the English.”

  Rue shrugged. “War is in the air, I know. But tracking the Nile is no way to ensure safety either. We’re over hostile territory, desert or river, and at least this way we save time. What do you think, Tash?”

  Tasherit twitched, as though hoping for a tail to suddenly appear that she might lash. “Directness is not in my nature, but with an unknown enemy on our tail, I say risk the desert at speed.”

  “Un
known enemy?” Quesnel’s eyes narrowed at Rue, as if it were her fault. “I thought we’d settled on them being some big game hunter.”

  Rue sighed. “Too many attacked us back before we split the escort. Not even the Royal Society could float that many ships at once, nor would they spend all their might on collecting one werecat, rare though she may be.”

  Miss Sekhmet’s brown eyes were grave. “That takes me down a whisker or two.”

  “No insult intended.” Rue hurriedly backtracked, until she realised the werelioness was joking. Cats, terrible sense of humour, the lot of them.

  Prim looked up from pouring herself another cup of endurance tea. “You mean to say, we’re back to not knowing who’s after us?”

  Rue turned an enquiring look on her mother’s former butler. “Mr Floote, would you care to enlighten us as to who might be attacking The Spotted Custard?”

  The old man put down his cup. His hands shook a little, with palsy, not fear.

  “Hunters you call them?” He turned the question back on her, very Socratic.

  “Back in London, Percy let it out that we had a werelioness aboard. They likely think she’s the last of her kind. We think that made her a pretty tempting prospect.”

  “And if they knew there were more of her kind?” Floote cocked his head.

  Tasherit hissed at this.

  The elderly man held up a hand. “Would that diminish her value?”

  Rue considered this. “Difficult to determine. But there’s no legal rights for Miss Sekhmet’s people either way, so we thought it had better be us doing the protecting.”

  “Unless you are guiding the enemy straight to her pride.”

  “That was my point,” put in Quesnel.

  Rue glared. “It was Tasherit’s call and she said we go. So we’re going.”

  Floote nodded his grey head. “I see. But you now think that many ships refute the hunter-collector theory? They could have help.”

  “And who might be helping?” Rue was pleased they were back on her initial question.

  Floote raised a liver-spotted hand and ticked off one gnarled finger after the other. “Templars. Order of the Brass Octopus. Some other secret society. Members of the British Royal Society. Museum, contract, or independent collectors. Sportsmen after exotic game. Or a coalition thereof.”