Imprudence (29 page)

“Of course.” Quesnel straightened in offence at any question of his people's efficiency. “You going to tell me where we're going?”

“Miss Sekhmet is taking us to the Source of the Nile. We are at her disposal in order to fix his mistake.” Rue gestured at Percy.

Quesnel blanched. “The source is in contested lands. Is that wise?”

“Probably not,” Percy muttered.

Rue glared at him.

Quesnel remained focused on Rue. “Why there? What's happened? What has he done?”

“Why don't you try living for a while without all the necessary information? See how pleasant it feels,
chérie.
” Rue was not above revenge.

Quesnel gave her a little bow. “Yes, Lady Captain.” With which he twirled and marched from the room.

“Oh, Rue! His face. Did you have to be so mean?”

Rue glared at Primrose. “He should have given Percy that darn byline! We'd never be in this mess.”

“Thank you, Rue,” said Percy.

“Don't start,” Rue shot back. “And he should have told me about the ghost holder from the beginning. Who, exactly, does he think is going to die?”

“But he's awfully fond of you,” defended Prim.

“He's awfully fond of withholding information. And he's awfully fond of my enthusiasm under the duvet.”

“Rue!” Primrose was appalled.

Percy stood abruptly and marched from the room.

Primrose took control of her shock. “I think you malign Quesnel's character.”

“Which of us has been kissing him lately?”

“Exactly why you're in no condition to properly assess his intentions.”

Rue was past caring. “I'm small, round, outrageous, and – as I just explained – possibly not legally a human being. What makes you think that man takes anything seriously, least of all me?”

Prim took a breath. “Wouldn't you like to be taken seriously?”

“Oh, Prim. You're such a romantic.”

Prim frowned. “I believe you're rendering a disservice both to your worth and his attentions.”

Poor old Prim – she always wants to see the world in the best possible way.

“Primrose, I just drank barley water for you. For the moment could you leave off my entanglement, such as it is?”

Primrose nodded. “I'll say no more on the subject.”

“But?”

“I'm worried about you, Rue. You're isolated.”

“I'm on a ship full of people, you chump.”

Prim shook her head, annoyed with her own inability to articulate. “You've lost your family. Well, left them all behind.”

“To be fair, some of them left me.”

“Exactly my point. I don't like you feeling so… abandoned.”

Rue couldn't deny that. Even Dama had left her to her own devices.
And I was so glib with him about gaining my majority, so glad to be free. I did not realise what else the world would take away as well as his guardianship – my pack, my parents.
“It's not so bad, Prim. They're all still alive, further away but alive, and less mine than they once were. Isn't that growing up?”

“Well, if it is, it's pretty darn awful for you. Excuse my language.” Her dearest friend pushed on, embarrassed but determined. “I only mean to say, we're still here for you, Percy and I.”

Rue tilted her head, suspicious.

“Fine, me more than Percy. But we're twins enough for me to speak for both of us. It's just… We are also your family. You do realise that?”

Rue came over a little teary and said what Primrose couldn't quite muster. “I love you, too.”

The presence of Anitra and her grandfather at supper mitigated any possible emotional outbursts into tense small talk. Rue never thought she'd have reason to be grateful for polite niceties, but at that meal she certainly was.

Quesnel was at his flirtatious best; perhaps his eyes twinkled less than normal but his words were even more than commonly facetious. Anitra enjoyed his attentions. And why shouldn't she?

Both visitors were curious to meet Miss Sekhmet, who sat in glorious dignity nibbling a kipper. Anitra was almost reverential when speaking to the werecat. Tasherit took this as her due. Primrose took this as offensive. Mr Panettone was more an observer than participant. Something about sitting at the supper table unnerved him. Rue treated him as gently as she could but was happy for his sake when he excused himself early for bed.

“Please forgive Grandfather. He isn't well.”

“Oh, I am sorry!” Rue had noticed real affection between the two, even if they were not actually blood related. Being adopted herself, she understood entirely.

“It's mostly age, I think.”

Everyone was grateful when the pudding course was served and the party could disperse. In the old days, Rue and her friends would have taken to the upper deck for drinks and cigars, but in this instance they all took to their rooms.

Rue was entirely unsurprised when Quesnel did not come to her chamber that evening. She forced herself to drink more barley water and cried into the glass. Tears, as it turned out, didn't improve the taste in the slightest.

N
ext 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 work 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.