Imprudence Page 32
“Primrose, would you like to accompany me?” It seemed to be a good idea to take a female into this situation. And Prim had many skills, one of which was diplomacy.
Primrose didn’t look excited by the rope ladder, but she kilted up her skirts and gave it her best effort. Rue was as graceless as ever but didn’t fall off. At the bottom, she pressed her feet down cautiously. The surface appeared to be layers of vegetation mounded up to disguise stretched canvas. They bounced as they walked. Rue suppressed the urge to giggle.
Miss Sekhmet’s two companions were of a similar complexion to her with strong features, heavy brows, and unconscionably long eyelashes. They stood tall and graceful with her lean edgy build and catlike grace. But they were not the same family. Their faces were too different. One was fierce and long with sharp cheekbones, and the other was round with a pointed chin and a mulish mouth. She looks like she gets her own way.
Tasherit made introductions. “My fur sisters, Queen Henuttawy and Miw-Sher, Lost Pride of the Desert Wind, meet my sisters-who-float, Primrose, and the skin-stalker, Prudence, Pride of The Spotted Custard.”
The queen – the one with the pert chin – spoke first. This was correct, given her rank. “A skin-stalker, rare indeed. What bloodline?”
“Roman,” said Miss Sekhmet.
They must be asking about my preternatural ancestry. Preternaturals always bred true, so Rue’s mother’s family, the Tarabottis, stretched very far back.
“We say Italian now, not Roman, yes?” That was the other werelioness, Miw-Sher. At least Rue assumed they were both werecats; hard to know without touching one of them.
Miss Sekhmet nodded, surprised. “You keep congress with the outside world?”
“You are not the only one to have left us and returned, sister,” answered Miw-Sher.
“Although, they were sent away willingly and welcomed back with open arms. You are not.” Queen Henuttawy’s tone was cool.
Rue had always suspected bad blood between Tasherit and her pride; apparently it was very bad indeed.
“Is this skin-stalker your excuse? While interesting, of course, she is not enough to allow you to return.” The queen evaluated Rue from down her nose, as if Rue were some kind of questionable pork sausage at a market stand.
Tasherit’s face twisted. “I am not interested in returning to you or your pride. I merely visit as a courtesy. I have become known to the outside world and there is no way to stopper up that knowledge. The Daughters of Sekhmet will not be able to remain lost any longer. The British are coming.”
“So you led them to us?” Miw-Sher pounced.
“They would have found you regardless. Just as they found the Source of the Nile. Just as they will find the secret you guard. It is a most desirable resource. The British prefer other people’s resources.”
“Traitor,” hissed Miw-Sher.
“Don’t be ridiculous, sister. You have been prepared for this a hundred years or more. It was only the Sudd that kept the first explorers at bay. Now there are ships in the aether. Barriers of water are no longer barriers in truth. I’m surprise you have not already been discovered.”
The queen looked more annoyed than angry. “Who is to say we have not? And dealt with the threat as we shall deal with this one.”
“Well, so. I have delivered my warning and I have brought you a proof.”
“You tell us she is a skin-stalker, but there has been no proof.” Queen Henuttawy raised one hand. Her attention had never shifted off Rue.
Watching these immortals circle each other verbally was not unlike watching ally cats fight.
“You want me to touch one of you?” Rue asked.
Queen Henuttawy moved forward, barely bouncing. She must have very relaxed knees, thought Rue.
One might have expected Miw-Sher to protest the danger to her queen, but apparently this was not that kind of monarchy. Rue supposed that one simply did not question the decision of a cat.
Rue put out her hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Queen Henuttawy touched fingertips.
Rue’s bones began their painful fracturing and re-forming, her muscles shifted, her skin stretched and slid about, and her hair crawled over her body to form fur.
She stood on four legs, panting among her clothes, pleased in her choice of attire for once. She had not destroyed her robe. Primrose would be proud.
“There, you see,” said Tasherit proudly.
The queen wore a look of profound discomfort. “Mortality feels odd, after so long.”
“You wear it well enough,” said Miw-Sher.
Queen Henuttawy shrugged, an awkward jerky movement as if she would rather lash a tail. She took a slow measured walk around Rue.
Rue sat under her regard, whiskers twitching. This cat form felt no different than when she stole it from Tasherit. This was no surprise, for that was how it worked with werewolves. Rue stole their immorality, but the animal shape was her own.
“So it is true, a skin-stalker is among us. Is this the end of nights?” Miw-Sher spoke into the silence.
Tasherit rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. No one believes that old nonsense.”
The queen’s eyes narrowed. “Still so dismissive. You have not changed.”
Tasherit inclined her head. “I have not.” She angled her body away from the queen and towards Primrose, a sway of intent like of a compass needle towards true north.
“Ah,” said Miw-Sher. The queen flinched.
Tasherit continued. “I have done as I see fit. Heed my warning or not. We will leave you to it.”
Queen Henuttawy shifted towards her, fingers reaching to touch Tasherit’s infinitely beautiful face. “You could come back to us. Back to me.”
Tasherit angled her head in as if scenting the other woman’s flesh. “Too late. I’ve changed too much.”
“You look the same.”
“And you look mortal. Let us put some distance between you and the skin-stalker, for your own safety.”
The queen turned to Miw-Sher, dismissing all the others.
“Well, I’m glad I came,” said Primrose, who hadn’t said a word until that moment.
“You were necessary nevertheless,” assured Tasherit.
“I was?”
“She needed to know I wasn’t hers to command any more.”
“And how would I help with that?”
“Because now she knows I am yours to command.”
Primrose ducked her head, hugely embarrassed. “Preposterous! Whoever heard of commanding a cat to do anything?”
Tasherit laughed. “It is a euphemism. Now, come along.” She was smart not to press her advantage. “We should get back aboard.”
Rue looked at the swaying ladder in confusion. How on earth was a lioness supposed to climb a rope? But the decklings had already thought of that. They lowered the blasted basket carrier. Rue sighed and leapt into it. They hoisted her up.
Rue stayed a cat once aboard. They were not far enough away yet; her tether to the queen remained.
Primrose, polite to the end, turned back once she had climbed on deck to wave goodbye. The two werecats were already gone.
“They spoke English,” said Primrose on a sudden realisation.
“Did you know that housecats, like Footnote, developed a whole set of meows simply to communicate with humans?” Tasherit hoisted up the rope ladder, coiling it back into its proper place.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
The werecat laughed. “We felines have a reputation for always going sideways to get to the point. Put plainly? Cats are good at languages. One of your early explorers, looking for the Source of the Nile, found the Daughters of Sekhmet as well and never left the lake. How do you think I learned the language before I met you?”
“How long have you been gone?” Primrose prodded.
“Long enough to no longer wish to return. But then I was always a wanderer. Rue, should I give the order to lift?”
Rue nodded.
Rue thought that if Tasherit had decided they were her new pride, perhaps she should make it official and take the werelioness on as first mate. It’d be a good idea to establish a chain of command. Tasherit was clearly up to the job.
Above them, one of the Drifter balloons lit up a lantern and waved it back and forth. Then another. A bell sounded, ringing faintly into the night.
From the crow’s nest came a cry. “Enemy coming in fast, Captain. Three, no, four dirigibles. Possible ornithopters strapped to deploy.”
Tasherit instantly began yelling orders. “Ready the Gatling gun. Primrose, run and fetch the captain’s special parasol and a robe, please. She’ll need both once she’s human again. Percy, tell engineering we’re under attack. Decklings, to your stations, crossbows at the ready. Spoo, Willard, Gatling aimed?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Percy, puff us up.”
Rue, still a cat, took her station on the forecastle at the very front near the bowsprit, first line of defence. The enemy dirigibles were moving swiftly in over the lake, coming from the north over the Nile. They weren’t firing. Whatever else their intent, they apparently didn’t want to destroy The Spotted Custard outright. Rue supposed that was a kind of mercy. She, however, didn’t feel as magnanimous. Soon as the hunters were in range, she wanted Spoo to shoot.
Percy brought the ship around using the flapper, presenting a smaller target but angled enough so the Gatling could still fire off port side.
They did have a duty to protect the Daughters of Sekhmet and their island. It was time to make a stand.
We don’t have a petticoat’s chance in hell, thought Rue.
The four coming in towards them were well armed and expertly crewed, no doubt by mercenary types accustomed to battle.
Let’s hope they really don’t want to shoot us out of the sky.
Tasherit seemed to feel the same. “Spoo, aim for their balloons. If we can tip their ballast enough, either way, we send them up to aether or down to water. They’re likely intent on landing on the island. Let’s make certain they can’t.”
The Drifters were doing their best to help. They’d moved to engage, or at least to try to block the path of the oncoming floatillah. But they were nothing more than augmented hot air balloons with little manoeuvrability.
The attackers clearly did not feel compelled to take precautions with Drifter safety. They shot at the Drifters. One balloon ripped asunder, the gondola falling down in a spinning flutter to splash into the lake. It bobbed. Rue hoped fervently that the Drifters could float on water as well as they did on air.
“Floote, can you speak with the scarves, like your granddaughter?”
Floote shuffled forward, nodding.
“Please tell our friends to stay out of it. We bargained for escort, not defence. They’re no good in this fight.”
Floote nodded, producing two red handkerchiefs that were more like actual handkerchiefs than Anitra’s scarves. He could not raise his hands as high, nor were his movements as graceful, but communication occurred.
He put his arms down. “It’s no good. Anitra’s family agreed to leave, but Ay insists his people stay. He says that the sacred war cats of the ancestors must be protected.”
Tasherit rolled her eyes. “And what have the Daughters ever done for Drifters?”
Floote looked at her, startled. “Did you forget? It was your people who gave the Drifters their freedom. They sing a legend of Sekhmet-on-Earth who returned after the others had fled, to free their ancestors from bondage. She led them out into the sands, where her hot breath inflated the first balloon. Hyperbolic, I grant you, but it is their origin story.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It was the French who brought balloons to Egypt. We were long gone by then.”
Rue yowled at the both of them. Now was not the time for a history argument.
“Quite right,” said Tasherit. “Apologies, Mr Floote. If they insist on staying, I can’t stop them. Just ask them to keep out of our line of fire.”
Floote nodded, looking exhausted, but began waving his handkerchiefs.
Tasherit resumed battle preparations. “Spoo, are they in range?”
“No, sir.”
“Hold your fire until they are. We haven’t the ammunition for anything more than a few passes. Concentrate on the balloons of the closest ship. Take down one at a time. Keep in mind that bullets go through things – someone we like may be on the other side. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” Spoo’s eyes were narrowed and intent. Next to her, Willard manned the crank. No doubt he would be ready to change positions the moment Spoo realised it was too much gun for her small frame. But he wasn’t dumb enough to argue with her ahead of time. Spoo’s pride took careful handling. It was best to let her figure these things out for herself.
The first dirigible came within range.
Something tore through their own spotted balloon. A carefully aimed shot, not rapid fire but a single very loud bang from an elephant gun. Helium began to outgas.
“Patcher to the balloon!” Willard’s voice had already gone to squeak. The leak was directly overhead.
“We’ve lost puff!” squeaked Percy.
Rue could feel it, too. Her tether, stretching as they rose away from the island, was now back in full as they sank down.
“Meower!” Rue’s cat voice was also high. She sounded like an excited kitten.
Rue considered running to engineering for a dip in the tank. She ought to give Queen Henuttawy back her form, for her protection.
But then their attackers deployed ornithopters.
Four short-range airships flapped down and out from their respective mooring. These were similar to the ones they’d encountered in Khartoom, two-man craft designed for nimbleness.
“They’re trying to board us!” squeak-yelled Tasherit. “They want to take the ship!”
Rue risked a glance up where two decklings worked furiously to patch the leak. Not fast enough, they continued to sink. And squeak.
Primrose reappeared on deck, carrying the Parasol-of-Another-Colour. She took in the crisis at a glance and instead of hiding as per normal, ran up the quarterdeck to take position on the poop deck near her brother. Rue couldn’t order her to safety, but it wasn’t a bad decision. Percy could use the support of his level-minded sister. And Primrose did, in theory, know how to use the parasol.
The enemy was approaching them front and port. The Gatling was closer to the rear of the ship, so Spoo was still unable to fire without risk to the Custard.
Tasherit strode across the main deck and leapt to the forecastle. She was now higher up and visible to most of the crew. This also put her away from the helium leak, the better to issue orders. She would stay in human form as long as necessary, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t fight. She was still an immortal either way, stronger, quicker, and self-healing. One of the deckhands passed her a wicked-looking curved knife, likely purchased at one of the Egyptian bazaars.
Rue joined Tasherit on the forecastle, deciding not to go to engineering. It was more important to have her fighting strong as an immortal than any courtesy to the tribe below.
The ornithopters closed in on The Spotted Custard.
Crossbow bolts flew.
“Spoo, Willard, fire a volley,” Tasherit ordered.
“Yes, sir!” The voices, in unison, sounded normal. The leak was fixed, but the Custard had lost a considerable amount of helium. And helium was a great deal more challenging to replace than water or coal.
The Gatling gun put a neat line of holes in the lower part of the balloon of an enemy dirigible. That must be their helium chamber as well, for they instantly began to sink, much faster than The Spotted Custard. They hit Lake Victoria, not too far from the fallen Drifter balloon.
“One down!”
Rue’s supernatural eyesight could make out Percy tugging madly at the puffer, but The Spotted Custard was barely maintaining
what little height she had. Rue figured they couldn’t outgas enough air at this juncture to rise and still keep the balloon from collapsing. They hadn’t enough helium left to get them up into the aetherosphere. They were trapped, unless they shed a lot of weight.
The decklings, meanwhile, managed to eliminate one of the ornithopters with bolts. However, the three others made it through their defences, gliding in to land – or more properly crash – one after another on the main deck.
“Gatling, fire at those dirigibles as you like! Decklings, crossbows inwards, watch for flames, and clean that codswattle off our decks!” yelled Tasherit. “Mind your aim. We can’t take another hit to the helium. And I’d like to keep my skinny hide intact.” With which the werecat gave an animal roar and jumped off the forecastle into the fray.
All was chaos. The three invading ornithopters took up most of the main deck. They’d splintered a good deal of wood, both Rue’s beloved ship and their own. The ornithopters were light beasties, practically paperweight, but carried enough speed to do superficial damage. The decklings dashed in and about, clearing the deck, putting out fires, and tossing excess weight over the side.
The six men who’d been inside the ornithopters were now on Rue’s ship. They’d jumped clear and were, mostly, ignoring the decklings. Two of the men carried weapons Rue knew all too well, a particular kind of gun that her father had once carried. A particular kind of gun that was pointed at Rue and at Tasherit, to the exclusion of all others.
Sundowner pistols.
“Nobody move,” said one of the men.
Everyone stopped and turned.
The six were dressed in the white robes of Egyptian natives but there was no mistaking the leader’s origin. He spoke English well enough, but he had an accent and it certainly wasn’t Arabic.
It was Italian.
“We’ve your cat and your captain in our sights. These are silver cage bullets and we don’t miss.”
Everyone froze.