Imprudence Read online

  “Can you be another nationality? Raise a flag and don a foreign tongue?”

  Rue didn’t think they had any other flags aboard. She was not devious enough to have thought of that ahead of time. To be British was, well, British. Why be anything else? That was the general British attitude. Although Rue was beginning to learn, the hard way, the ever expansion of their empire was not exactly welcomed by its recipients.

  “What would be less threatening?”

  Anitra ticked off on one hand. “French and Italian are all out. Canadians are allied with British, so they’re no good either.”

  Rue mentally ran through her and Primrose’s collective wardrobes.

  “American? We would only have to try an accent.”

  Anitra considered. “Might work. Americans do like to play tourist and this ship is garish enough.”

  Rue nodded. “I’ll call a meeting.”

  She sounded the duck horn, a resonating quack that was, quite frankly, ridiculous but shook the boards of The Spotted Custard in such a way as to permeate the airship as far down as the boiler room. Three blasts everyone knew meant the officers were to meet. In very short order, Rue had Primrose, Quesnel, and Percy in the navigation pit. Anitra joined them. Rue decided it wasn’t necessary to awaken Tasherit. They’d tell her later, if they survived until nightfall.

  “We’re desperate for fuel. I’m sorry it’s got so bad. I should have asked engineering for an update sooner.” She figured she might as well own responsibility, although in future she’d put Quesnel and Aggie under orders to alert her the moment they had less than eight hours at maximum use. She was annoyed they hadn’t alerted her and wouldn’t put negligent sabotage past Aggie, but there was no point in calling Quesnel out in front of the others.

  “So we must refuel here in Khartoom.”

  Everyone’s faces went a little white.

  “Unfriendly city at the moment, so we are going in to moor under a different nationality.”

  No one expected that.

  “American.”

  No one objected. There was no love lost between England and her former colony, particularly over the matter of supernaturals, but that made the Stars and Stripes a better cover.

  Rue assumed her most captain-like air, attempting to sound cool and calm. “Primrose, you have that dark blue dress with the white dots; that’ll do for the stars. Percy, I’m afraid we need your striped bathing costume. Cobbled together, those two will make for a passable flag. Primrose, Virgil’s a valet; he likely has rudimentary sewing skills. Put him to work with a quick baste. Doesn’t need to be hemmed or anything – only needs to withstand a glance through glassicals. Luckily we don’t fly colours regularly, so there is nothing to take down that might already have been spotted.”

  Primrose looked like she wanted to object to the conscription of her blue gown but nodded and left to do as she was bidden.

  Percy looked dour but did not object. He had very little love of anything material that wasn’t typed on paper. “Virgil will have to find me something else to swim in. He’s not going to be happy. Made enough fuss about the stripy one.”

  Rue didn’t say anything but she was secretly pleased to hear Percy even slightly worried about the opinion of his valet. Every valet should keep his master a touch terrified of his good opinion.

  “I want everyone on high alert, but say as little as possible. I don’t think they’ll speak much English or can differentiate accents if they do, but best to stay silent unless communication is vital. That includes you, Spoo.”

  Spoo was, naturally, eavesdropping on the conference. Rue hadn’t even bothered to look where. A disembodied voice said, “Yes, Lady Captain.”

  Rue turned to Anitra. “Additional suggestions?”

  “Speak cockney if you can. To those not fluent in your tongue, it sounds enough like American to pass. Grandfather taught me that.”

  “Oh, I say!” said Percy.

  “Percy,” said Rue, “you are not to speak at all.”

  Percy’s expression said he felt that silence was superior to cockney regardless.

  “Will we be boarded? We haven’t United States documents.” Quesnel spoke quietly. “I’ve got French but that’s almost worse than British right now. Politically, I mean.”

  Rue winced. “We must assume trade is more important than hostilities to the laymen. I do have gold. It should speak loudly enough to get us coal. As long as we choose the right vendor.”

  She looked to Anitra, who nodded but still seemed worried.

  “So let’s hope we can bribe officials to look the other way, if they do try to check. Meanwhile, let’s make ourselves look as innocent as possible. Two hours to nightfall. Recommendations?”

  “Wait,” said Quesnel promptly. “Better to have an immortal awake than asleep.”

  “Do it soon,” countered Percy. “People are less evil in daylight. And we’ve better view to shoot with the Gatling, should it be necessary to get out fast. Also I’ve better close-up manoeuvrability if I can actually see.”

  Rue weighed the options. Percy was right, but they could disappear better at night if it came to a chase.

  “Night it is. Percy, set us a course desert side, puff up as well, minimal propeller use, drift, save our reserves. Find us a small refuelling station in a bad part of town that might be more interested in money than morals.”

  Percy nodded. It was a marker of his growing comfort with her command that he did not object further. She’d listened to his concerns but decided otherwise. He’d learned to accept that this was not a personal affront. Even if it did mean the loss of his striped bathing costume.

  Primrose had a tolerably decent, if misshapen, American flag flying from the aft balloon by sunset. Virgil was, it turned out, a dab hand. So were several decklings.

  The flag clashed horribly with the ladybug spots.

  Miss Sekhmet appeared abovedecks, snorted at it in amusement, and was brought up to speed about the situation. She deemed it prudent to shift to lioness form before they landed. Rue saw no reason to object.

  Percy found them a refuelling station attached to one of the southernmost water wheels. It puffed black smoke with enthusiasm, but its owners, a group of robe-shrouded and bearded chappies, did not look favourably upon wayward tourists limping in, desperate for a refuel. American or no.

  Rue put on her most supercilious rich young lady airs, her fluffiest dress, a scarf about her head in a mockery of a veil, and a particularly bad cockney accent.

  The man who came, cautiously, up the gangplank to meet her didn’t seem to know what to do with her.

  Anitra spoke to him in some lyrical tongue.

  He seemed to mostly understand her.

  She explained to Rue, “He’ll sell us coal but wants proof we aren’t a ship of war.”

  Rue responded. “Ey up. Why’re we be?”

  Spoo hissed to Virgil. “What does she think she sounds like?”

  The man came further up the plank, flanked by three large friends, each had some kind of small sword, or big knife, strapped to his belt.

  The leader, now standing where the gangplank met the gate in the Custard’s railing, seemed not particularly suspicious of anything he saw. Not even the Gatling. When he gestured at it, asking Anitra for an explanation, she shrugged and said, “American,” pointing to their flag.

  The man nodded his understanding.

  Eventually, without bothering to look belowdecks or ask after their needs, he left the way he’d come.

  “What now?” Rue asked Anitra.

  “We wait.”

  “Why so easy about the gun?”

  “Americans have a reputation, guns and flags. Plus that gun of yours is a Colt.”

  “Ah. British manufacture would mean a” – Rue hesitated, trying to remember – “Maxim?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, then, I’m delighted Dama has less pride in national manufacture than interest in an attractive appearance.” Rue had no doubt her
vampire father had researched the best rapid-fire to mount on The Spotted Custard, but she also had no doubt that he was attracted to the round golden sheen of the custom lightweight Gatling. The Maxim was a brutal-looking thing and the Nordenfelt positively unseemly. If one must give a young lady a ballistic birthday gift, it should, at the very least, be pretty.

  “So far, I think they are buying our ruse. I may have convinced them you are the daughter of a South Carolina railroad baron.”

  Rue blinked at Anitra. “Have you, indeed?”

  “Oh yes. Miss Prudence Mayberry.”

  Rue blinked again. “All righty, then.” She’d heard a Southern accent out of the United States once. It sounded, to her ear, slightly like a gramophone playback off speed. She could try to combine that with cockney but had a feeling the results would be disastrous.

  “Lady Captain?”

  “Spoo?”

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d avoid the stage, were I you.”

  “Noted.”

  An hour or so later, the man returned. Through Anitra he quoted Rue a quantity and a price, the quantity less than she’d asked for and the price extortionist. Rue accepted both, tight-lipped.

  After some haggling, the tradesmen agreed to bring the coal up to the mouth of the fuel tube and Rue agreed to provide sooties to feed at that point. At this juncture she cursed herself for doing it at night: it would be difficult to check coal quality in this light. Nor could they bring a gas lamp out. So far, all activities had indicated both the airship and supplier wished to keep the transaction private. Rue’s guess was that the local government imposed a heavy tax and, with a war on, took it out of the tradesmen’s product as well as their coffers. Their host was likely desperate for regular trade.

  Rue called down to Quesnel, for the boiler room was always well lit. “Check the quality as it comes down the feed, please? I don’t wish to be gypped. Call up to Percy if at any time we aren’t getting a burnable seam.”

  “Are you undertaking the trade yourself?”

  “Of course.”

  “Couldn’t you have Tasherit do it?”

  “No. I have her in lioness form.”

  “It’s not safe.”

  “Quesnel, now is not the time to question orders. I’ve taken precautions. I have my parasol.”

  “A parasol! What good is that?”

  “It’s my mother’s.”

  “So?”

  “Your mother made it for her.”

  “Oh.”

  “Exactly. Now, please check the coal?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Rue went to her cabin to retrieve the gold. Dama had been generous. She could cover this refuelling and a few more like it. She took only the agreed-upon amount back up; she was aware of what a vast sum it was in this part of the world.

  The coins were Spanish. Old. Dama preferred hard currency over promissory notes. She marched forward with the cash, flanked by her two largest deckhands. She tried to look like a silly American schoolgirl who nevertheless had enough shopping experience to know what she was doing. Even if this was coal and not hair muffs.

  She handed the tradesman the velvet bag. He took it, glanced inside, removed a coin at random, bit into it, and then nodded.

  Suddenly things happened very quickly.

  He faded to the back, down the plank, and in one fluid motion his bullyboys charged. Presumably to take Rue hostage.

  Rue brandished her parasol, pressing a button in the handle. A poison dart imbedded itself into one of the men. The other two, however, had her pinned. Willard, who lately seemed to be more a bodyguard than deckhand, engaged a fourth ruffian man to man. That attacker had leapt up off the gangplank to come at her from behind, as if lifted by coiled springs.

  Rue twisted and kicked, trying to get loose from the two holding her. Then she felt the cold sharp sting of steel at her neck and went still.

  A roar from one side heralded Tasherit’s charge. She was beautiful to behold. Even frightened, Rue was impressed by the intense grace of her leap.

  At the same time, the small pifftt of a tiny but enthusiastic gun sounded.

  One of the men holding Rue jerked. His grip relaxed. The knife at her throat clattered to the deck. Rue spun, kicked, and wrestled herself free of the remaining man. Then Tasherit was there, shaking him by his scruff. Rue would rather not think that the snap sound was his neck. The lioness tossed him overboard. He splashed into the Nile below.

  Seconds later, Tasherit had the arm of the man holding the velvet money bag in her mouth. With a gentle but insistent pressure, and only a hint of teeth, she dragged him back up the gangplank. He obeyed her without protest, barely breathing, hypnotised by those teeth closed about his flesh.

  “Dreaded one,” he whispered.

  Tasherit made him stop on deck, right at the point where he might be pushed overboard if necessary.

  He began to babble.

  Anitra had taken cover so no one understood what he said.

  Rue realised with a sick stomach churn that the second man who had held her had been shot, in a hugely unattractive way, in the face. It was most unpleasant to look upon, even in the dark. So she tried not to.

  Floote came over, looking almost sprightly as if violence were a cure-all. He evaluated the dead man with satisfaction. “Of course, Miss Mayberry, I was aiming for his chest. These older guns really aren’t accurate. Sentimental value, you understand? Or perhaps I’m not what I once was. Ugly shot, I do apologise.”

  “Say nothing of it. Mistakes will happen.” Since he’d saved her life, Rue was disposed to be magnanimous.

  The elderly gentleman gave a little bow, whipped out a large handkerchief from somewhere within his robes, and draped it over the dead man’s ruined face. Then he drifted away and ostentatiously reloaded his tiny parlour pistol. Rue felt, in that one moment, she had more insight into his role as Mother’s butler than ever.

  Anitra reappeared. Possibly holding a tiny knife in one hand but it was too dark to make out clearly.

  “What’s he babbling on about?” Rue pointed to the man with the large cat attachment.

  “He apologises but hopes you understand a businessman must seize opportunities.”

  Rue gave a small nod. “As long as he understands the same holds true for me.”

  “He suggests that perhaps the deal might continue as originally arranged if the lioness could be persuaded…”

  Rue shook her head. “I think not. Tell him to shout down to his compatriots. Bring the coal up as ordered. We have the feeder ready, off to the side there. We will keep him hostage until our transaction is complete. Will that work for you, Miss Sekhmet?”

  The werecat nodded her massive head, keeping the man’s arm in her mouth, so he had to give a clumsy salute.

  Anitra told him their new arrangement.

  Percy called down for engineering to send up sooties.

  After that things went smoothly, although Rue put considerably more thought into hiring a militia. She was even more grateful for Miss Sekhmet’s presence than she had been in the past.

  The coal shunted down the tube apace. When it began to slow, Rue released two of the sooties to return to their duties in engineering.

  Shortly after that, Quesnel came up top in a positive flurry.

  “Rue!”

  Since he rarely called her by her preferred name, Rue was instantly alert. She left Anitra and Tasherit in charge of their hostage, and the deckhands guarding against further infiltration, to meet the Frenchman amidships before he could blurt out anything secretive. After all, she did not know if their supplier really was ignorant of the English language.

  She kept her voice as low as possible but spoke in cockney just in case the tradesmen had a distance listening tube. “Mr Lefoux, please return below. We have us some bad’uns.”

  Quesnel was clearly very upset, for he didn’t even rib her on the atrocious accent. “So I heard.”

  “So there be somewhat wrong
with them coals, then, me laddie?” Rue was perfectly well aware that she sounded like a pirate in a small operatic production in some backwater hamlet. Spoo was staring with a hand over her mouth.

  Rue’s question, or performance, dampened Quesnel’s anger. “No, it seems fine. If they’re trying to swindle us, it isn’t through the goods. I even had a sootie test for combustion. It’s quality stuff.”

  Rue let out a breath. At least they had fuel. “Then what’s the tick? Did they try for belowdecks?”

  “No.”

  Rue was beginning to lose patience. “Then what? I’m in the middle of taking the egg.” She gestured back to where Tasherit stood with her mouth around the man’s wrist. “Poor cat, I can’t think that tastes good.”

  “You…” Quesnel was scrambling for words.

  Rue knew English was not his first language but he had seemed fluent until this moment. Now it was as if vowels were choking him.

  “Out with it.” She let impatience colour her words. She couldn’t think of any cockney slang for getting a man to open his saucebox.

  “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  Rue crossed her arms, sort of; she was still holding the parasol in one hand.

  “It was a stupid risk, Rue, putting yourself forward.” Still angry, he nevertheless softened his tone to a hiss.

  Rue flinched when his hand came towards her face. But all he did was touch her neck, fingers shaking. They came away smeared with blood.

  The man’s knife must have cut her worse than she thought. “I’ve had worse playing with wolves.”

  “You should have had a deckhand act as purser. We knew they were hostile and crooked.”

  “It’s just a nick.”

  Quesnel took a shaky breath, but his hand was back on her skin. An inquisitive finger smoothed along the uninjured part of her neck, stroking the pulse point, tracing the veins. It was as if he was reassuring himself her blood still moved.

  “You aren’t your father. You aren’t immortal.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you? You don’t act like it.”

  It was nice but this was not the right time for whatever emotion drove him.