Imprudence Page 31

  “Prim, you know Quesnel doesn’t embroider?” Rue shifted a little away from the patient so Prim might bustle.

  Bustle Prim did. “But I do and someone should sit with him.”

  “I sent for Virgil.”

  “Excellent, then we can take it in shifts.”

  “You’re too good sometimes, Primrose.”

  “I know.”

  “What’s the pie tin for?”

  Prim went very red. “His, um, tender essentials.”

  Rue blinked and then, “Oh.”

  Primrose puttered about extracting various additional necessities from the reticule – her embroidery kit, the diminished bottles of cognac and iodine, more bandages, and a jar of calf’s foot jelly.

  “And the jelly?”

  “I don’t know. But Mother was always sending round calf’s foot jelly to invalids and I knew Cook had some, so I thought I might as well bring it along.”

  “I’m impressed you stocked laudanum and bandages. Admirable foresight, my dear.”

  Primrose glowed at the compliment. “We have as complete a medical cabinet as I could manage. I used Steel and Gardiner’s recommended list for a family emigrating to India and multiplied the contents tenfold.” She stood back, contemplating her stack. “Now, have I forgotten anything?”

  “If you have, send Virgil out for it when he gets here.” Rue stood, stretching. “Don’t be surprised if Quensel wakes up talking of robins.”

  Rue stayed, looking down at Quesnel while Prim settled in, organising things in that competent way of hers.

  His face, without the twinkle and animation, was different, lost. And, of course, she’d never seen what he looked like sleeping.

  “Primrose?”

  “Yes, Rue?” Primrose put a comforting arm about Rue’s waist and rested her head on her shoulder.

  “Did I do wrong by him?”

  “Did he say he loves you?”

  “You knew?”

  Primrose wore an expression that said, clear as if she spoke the words, that the entire ship knew.

  “Oh.” Rue tugged on one hot ear, crestfallen.

  “I believe there is a great deal of wagering on the subject. The decklings and sooties have a pool going. Did you say it back? I believe I’ll be in for two crowns if you did.”

  “Does it count if he was sleeping?”

  Primrose frowned. “Excellent question.”

  Rue sighed, letting everything go and bowing to the inevitable. “Why didn’t you tell me he felt that way? I might have been nicer to him. Why didn’t you tell me I felt that way, for that matter?”

  “I tried. You didn’t want to hear it.”

  Some day, thought Rue, I’m going to be saying those words to you. I hope you don’t bungle it as badly as I did.

  Primrose looked smug. “Apparently it takes a bullet wound to bring you to your senses.”

  Rue hung her head, ashamed.

  “So, it’s done now. You’ll have to accept your fate, Rue.”

  “Why must you be so logical all the time?”

  “You know my mother and brother.” Primrose’s voice held a wealth of familial responsibility.

  “Ah.” Rue nodded her understanding and left the sickroom.

  Perhaps there was a little more bounce in her step than there had been before. Why not just let herself be in love with Quesnel? Seemed silly now, to bother to fight it. Of course, he could still go and die on her and cock it all up. Rue chose to believe he would heal nicely. It was only his right side, after all. Rue knew from intimate experience that Quesnel was left-handed.

  Quesnel didn’t die.

  They set up a rotation of personnel to tend him, with each visitor training the next in keeping his injury clean, changing the dressings, checking for infection, and allowing him the cheat at piquet.

  Rue came in one evening to find Aggie, a fireman, a greaser, and two sooties all smoking and dicing with the invalid. The room was full of pipe smoke and laughter. Quesnel had a little colour in his cheeks. Rue had never seen Aggie cheerful before. She might even be called pretty. Although the moment she saw Rue, she scowled.

  Rue shook her head and tutted at them for the smoke and the dice because she felt it her role to do so, and then left them to it.

  The Spotted Custard was six days following the White Nile southwards ever further into uncharted territory. All the while Quesnel steadily improved. It would take him months to completely mend, and he wasn’t out of danger until his wounds sealed over. Anitra worried he’d never regain full use of his right arm. Although by the fourth day he could squeeze Rue’s fingers softly when she placed them in his right hand. They chose to be optimistic. Tasherit said that there might be a healer of some kind among her lost pride.

  “Why would they have need?” Primrose asked.

  “Oh, you think we do not have… what do you call them? Clavigers.”

  “A pride lives alongside humans?” Primrose was fascinated.

  “We call them our Chosen Ones.”

  “You make it sound so noble. One step from being a drone.” Primrose had grown up in a vampire hive. She was odd about the whole food-source arrangement. She could recognise that werewolves were different, but it still made her twitchy.

  Miss Sekhmet looked down her nose at them both in a regal manner. “It is an honour to be one with the Daughters of Sekhmet, to have the option of becoming a cat. Who would not want such a thing?”

  Primrose answered, without pause, “Me! Why is it immortals always think everyone else wants to be immortal?”

  Rue hadn’t given the matter much thought, as by her very nature she would never have the option.

  “Lady Primrose, you’re an odd duck.” The werecat’s tone was condescending.

  “Not that odd!” Rue leapt to her friend’s defence. “Countess Nadasdy had Mabel Dair, the famous actress, in her stable for years. She never asked for the bite. And there’s Quesnel’s mother, indentured to a hive and never considered metamorphosis even though there’s a good chance she has extra soul. She’s awfully creative.”

  “And Quesnel, too, I’d say.” Primrose looked at the werecat with sudden intensity. “Would you have bitten him, if the bullet necessitated it?” Her dark eyes were fixed on the werelioness.

  Tasherit dipped her head, embarrassed. “Don’t be silly. I’ve no breeding bite. I’m female.”

  That surprised the two girls.

  Rue narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean? Female vampires are always makers. Female werewolves are always Alphas. It’s much harder to survive a bite if you’re a woman, but you’re awfully powerful once you do. We assumed, you being female and immortal, that it was the same.” She looked to Prim for corroboration. Her friend nodded vigorously.

  Tasherit gave them the kind of head wiggle that implied they were both insane. “Lioness, remember? Can go up high. Not as badly affected by aether. My kind is as different from werewolves in this as in other things. Prides are usually made up of one male lion and several lionesses, whether in natural or supernatural form.”

  Rue and Primrose exchanged startled looks.

  “You mean werecats are mostly female immortals?” Primrose was gobsmacked.

  “And only one male maker?” Rue was slowly puzzling it out. “Like the opposite of a hive?”

  The werecat inclined her head. “Exactly. Although, we, too, have a queen.”

  “So male werecats are harder to metamorphose? And they need to be protected by the others because without him the pride would die out?”

  “Yes, poor things. Of course, we need werelions to continue to exist, but the lads are useless without us.”

  Primrose frowned. “How many of you are left? This pride we are going to find?”

  Miss Sekhmet shrugged. “In my pride? A dozen or so last I checked. It’s been a while. We aren’t on good terms. If this weren’t a serious matter of exposure, I would leave them be.”

  “And how many males?”

  “Just the one, Mios.
Hopeless buffoon, but sweet. The ladies like him. Not really to my taste.”

  Rue and Prim both struggled to button down their surprise. They’d never heard of such a thing. The Vanaras, surprising though it was to find a whole herd of shape-shifters that were basically large monkeys, had otherwise fit the general mould of werewolves. They were all male with an Alpha male leader. The idea that a pride of werecats might be mostly female was mind-altering.

  An awkward silence descended.

  “It sounds lovely,” said Primrose finally.

  Rue, who’d been raised by large numbers of males on both sides of the family, couldn’t even conceive of the idea. She supposed, in general, things would smell better.

  They continued south, leaving the desert behind at last. The White Nile became the Sudd, a vast marshland bloated with splotches of floating papyrus islands.

  The Drifter escort waved red hankies in discomfort. They were nomadic but never left the desert to float over such an alien landscape. Rue reminded them that they had a bargain, so they stayed, bobbing nervously.

  “We will have stories to tell our grandchildren.” Anitra was riveted by the swamp, eyes wide in awe. “To see so much green in one lifetime.”

  Eventually, the Sudd narrowed into a proper river again and on the morning of the eighth day, they floated over the small trading post of Gondokoro. Rue consulted Aggie, who was moderately civil, and said they were fine on fuel, having little used the propeller. Rue instructed Percy to press on.

  The Blue Mountains appeared to their left, aptly named. The Nile below them pushed through dense jungle. The next day they passed over Lake Albert, after which the Nile turned white and perilous, full of waterfalls and rapids. Then, a full ten days on from their unpleasant stop at Khartoom, low on food rations and almost out of boiler water, they limped over Lake Victoria.

  Lake Victoria was quite the sight from high up, the horizon an arc instead of a line. It sprawled southwards as far as they could see. It was dotted with islands, the vegetation around the edge varied and lush; here and there floated large bright green blobs of more papyrus.

  Even Percy left the helm to stare out over the dark water with its verdant banks.

  “As big as Ireland, they say.” He looked pensive. Since his guilt-ridden confession to Rue, he’d sunk ever more into himself. It must have taken quite an effort to become even more glum. He had found a pamphlet on the proper treatment of bullet wounds, which helped insofar as it supported their initial medical decisions, but otherwise Percy never again spoke of Quesnel’s injury. He had visited the sickroom and each time emerged looking thoughtful. Rue wasn’t certain if that was a good or a bad thing.

  If Percy is too much for me to have puzzled out in the space of twenty years, that’s not going to change anytime soon.

  “Take her down, please, Mr Tunstell. We could use some water. Plus everyone would like a bath I’m sure. Take us far out from shore so we have a clear view of possible attackers. Anitra, please let our friends know.”

  Anitra waved her handkerchiefs while Percy de-puffed them to hover over the lapping waves, nearly cutting the surface with their propeller.

  They spent a few hours sucking water into the boilers through their large hydrological tube, while anyone who wished took a dip. Percy wore his smalls, given that his striped bathing costume had been sacrificed for a flag.

  Rue ensured a strict rotation so not everyone frolicked at once. She set watch at the stern, focusing on the place where the Nile fed out of the lake. She kept the portside Gatling manned by two at all times. Just in case the enemy caught up to them.

  Nothing approached.

  By nightfall, Rue was wondering if they had lost the hunters.

  They drifted back up, eyes searching below for signs of civilisation. Sekhmet’s lost pride was not making itself easy to find. A few villages dotted the shoreline, but they were abandoned summer stations for pastoral nomads.

  The sunset over the lake was a sight so beautiful that Rue considered having Quesnel carried up to see. They’d managed to get him abovedecks a few times so he might take a bit of air. But Rue decided that tonight they were pushing things, having lurked around the lake for most of the day. Besides, last she heard, Quesnel was in engineering. Able to sit up for longer periods of time, they’d improvised a couch for him on the viewing platform at the top of the spiral staircase. He wasn’t allowed to be there too long, smoke and soot and all that. But he did love being back in his own element and his favourite place, singing out orders through a bullhorn.

  Miss Sekhmet appeared next to Rue as soon as the last rays sunk below the horizon.

  “So, here we are.”

  “No sign of your people. We’ve been circling a while. It’s making me nervous.”

  “You have to know where to look. Ah. There.” The werecat pointed to one of the papyrus islands, floating some distance offshore relatively near the mouth of the Nile.

  Rue put her glassicals on and stared hard. “It’s empty.”

  “Just go at it.”

  So they did, taking a slow downward approach. It became gradually clear that the papyrus was not, as with the other islands, floating directly atop the water. Instead it had grown to form an arched roof, beneath which were structures, woven into the reeds. It was a massive barge.

  “A fake floating island. That’s amazing.”

  Tasherit looked smug. “It’s all engineered. You think a people who built the pyramids could not handle such a task?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  They de-puffed. Percy took his time to better narrow in on the target. The Spotted Custard was considered extremely manoeuvrable for an airship, but she was having a rough time of it. Rue would never admit it to him, but they were lucky to have Percy at the helm.

  The Drifter balloons stayed clustered above, like a curious bouquet of bubbles. They lowered a little, then netted together but showed no interest in landing. Rue liked them there above her on the lookout. It felt safe.

  The closer the Custard got, the less it looked like an island. It was several storeys up out of the water, much higher than Rue realised at first. Strands of papyrus and other vegetation trailed out from the sides, tent-like, which made it look both bigger and more connected to the water. The rounded nature of the reed roof seemed more rounded, as if made of inflated canvas in a massive bubble.

  Rue began to wonder how long they would be allowed an uncontested approach. Did the residents intend to entirely ignore a landing dirigible? Or was the place abandoned? Quite apart from all that, what could they moor to? The island seemed to have no protrusions whatsoever.

  A flare of light and the sound of air compression came from the island. Followed by a loud, damp thunk.

  The Custard rocked at impact.

  “They’ve fired something at us,” said Rue. “Something, uh, squishy? Any damage?”

  “Looks like they hurled a big clump of mud at us. Warning shot? No damage.” Willard leaned over the main deck railing. “Pain to clean off, though.”

  They were about three storeys above the island now. Miss Sekhmet, with one of her feral smiles, shifted herself to lioness shape and leapt over the railings, leaving a pile of silken robes behind.

  Primrose, who’d been taking tea near the helm on the poop deck, gave a squeak of alarm and rushed over to look down. Rue flipped her glassicals down from her hat and followed the leap with interest.

  The lioness landed, undamaged, and bounced, rather higher and with more enthusiasm than squishy papyrus ought to allow. She came to an ungainly stop, closer to the edge of the island than she likely intended.

  “What on earth?” said Rue.

  “Not earth, I don’t think,” Primrose said from the poop deck.

  “Agreed.”

  “Bouncy.” Spoo joined them.

  “No, Spoo, you can’t go after.” Rue didn’t even need to look at her.

  “Spoilsport.” Spoo made a face.

  Rue laughed. “Back to yo
ur station, and watch the horizon, Spoo, not the island. I’ll tell you if we need to fire on them. But right now, we’re assuming they aren’t hostile. I don’t think bullets would be healthy for that island. It’s clearly inflated.”

  Miss Sekhmet disappeared over the edge of said island, under the tent-like vegetation, presumably heading to where the occupants actually lived.

  Primrose jumped down to cross the quarterdeck. “It occurs to me that such a pontoon – or whatever that thing happens to be called – is a very odd place for a load of immortal cats to live. You know, in the middle of a lake.”

  “Truer words,” agreed Rue. “Hold position, Percy.”

  Primrose hopped off the quarterdeck. “Do you think they’ll all look like her?”

  “Goodness, I hope not. Can you imagine?” Rue bumped shoulders with her friend as she leaned next to her.

  “Rather well, actually.” Prim flushed.

  “The world is not ready for that kind of excess.”

  “No wonder the ancients thought they were goddesses.”

  “I suspect,” said Rue, “that the part where they could change into massive lionesses probably did the trick.”

  “Beauty always helps.”

  “You should know.”

  “Flatterer,” said Prim.

  Miss Sekhmet reappeared in human form. She hoisted herself up and walked back across the papyrus. She was draped in a white robe and followed by two other women. While similarly dressed, neither, thank goodness for Prim’s peace of mind, was as beautiful as Tasherit.

  “Come on down,” the werecat yelled up.

  Rue signalled for Willard to bung over the rope ladder. “Right, I’m going. Who else?”

  She considered. Circumstances being different, she would have taken Quesnel with her. She looked over her crew. Percy must stay at the helm, in case of attack. Spoo and Willard were needed to marshal troops. Virgil had to keep Percy calm. Aggie must stay in engineering; besides, she’d cock up any diplomatic mission. Floote was standing to one side, looking interested but inconspicuous. Frail as he was, he likely couldn’t handle the climb. Anitra was on Quesnel duty down in engineering. Rue didn’t mind. She and Quesnel had talked little over the past week; serious matters remained unresolved. But Rue had decided to trust that his intentions towards her were mostly honourable, and his attentions towards Anitra were mostly platonic. Still, that really left only one person.