Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(55)
Percy objected on principal. “I’ve studied several of the local dialects.”
“Percy, my duck,” said Rue, “there is a vast different between speaking and studying.”
Percy grumbled, as did Prim continuing belowdecks.
Lady Maccon jumped on the matter of linguistic challenges. “You should hire a dragoman, infant. Although, hard to do so before we’ve visited the tariff office. As I recall, I had no little difficulty in Alexandria at customs when we visited last.” She turned to Quesnel. “They objected to your mother’s hatbox in particular.”
“Oh?” The Frenchman encouraged all mentions of his mother’s past. Rue had the feeling Madame Lefoux could be maddeningly close-mouthed as a rule.
“You don’t happen to have any suspicious hatboxes with you, do you, young man? Could prove difficult.”
Quesnel went deadpan. “Lady Maccon, I assure you all my hatboxes are perfectly respectable and contain hats, nothing more.”
“That’s what Genevieve always said.” Lady Maccon was not reassured.
Primrose returned with her Baedeker’s.
A convenient little map of the city showed that there was a Ministry of Public Works Plus War in the south-western part of the city. They made their way in that direction, eventually spotting what must surely be the Customs and Tariff Obelisk. It jutted up from the centre of a park in between the Ministry of Public Works Plus War and the British Consulate General. It was a particularly tall spire of black basalt. It must be the right obelisk because all manner of transcontinental airships were clustered around it. Each de-puffed and moored in, but not for long.
The Spotted Custard joined the general hubbub of air traffic around the spire. A severe-looking military dirigible of the kind favoured by Queen Victoria’s colonial flotillahs appeared next to them, making the crew nervous. Likely its intent.
However, once they’d reached the obelisk and cast out their own mooring rope, the military craft drifted off to loom at some other newcomer.
A strange feeling of numbness overcame Rue’s whole body as they sunk further down. It was like being submerged in a bathtub, only it wasn’t wet. It felt a little like the moment when touching her mother cancelled out all metanatural abilities.
Rue sidled over to said mother. “Do you feel that?” She kept her tone low; no need for anyone else to be alarmed.
The crew was busy looking as respectable and efficient as possible. Not because The Spotted Custard was engaged in any nefarious activities – she was registered as a pleasure vessel with all the major regulatory bodies of the empire – but because the moment one entered the sphere of any bureaucratic body, one felt the need to put on a jolly good show. Nervous propriety was the natural consequence of proximity to an overabundance of paperwork. Even Quesnel popped off belowdecks to check with Aggie regarding the condition of the kettles and the general cleanliness of the boiler room.
Lady Maccon looked at her daughter. “The repulsion, you mean? Yes, a little. It’s not as strong as it would be with a preternatural skeleton nearby.”
“Mother, don’t be morbid. No, I’m getting a numbing sensation.”
“I suppose it would be different for you. What exactly does it feel like? I mean, what would you compare the sensation to?”
“You.”
Lady Maccon nodded. “Makes sense. It is me, in a grotesque way. Or, to be precise, a lot of dead mes. It’s not as strong as it used to be. But I suppose they haven’t been renewing or expanding it. One assumes over time, with exposure, even mummies decompose.”
“Really, Mother, must you?”
Lady Maccon patted Rue in a condescending way. “Don’t worry, dear. It’s no longer important.”
Rue fished about in her memories of family lore. “This is the God-Breaker Plague, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.”
“Well, then, I guess we can wake up Paw whenever you like, full moon notwithstanding.”
“Oh, of course!” Lady Maccon slapped her head with her hand. “How silly of me.” She immediately snapped her parasol shut and bustled below.
Rue didn’t stop her. It would be much easier to have an awake Lord Maccon when the customs officials boarded. Bureaucrats were likely to frown upon aristocratic Scotsmen preserved naked in tanks.
The three official representatives of the Ministry of Public Works, War, Customs, and Tariffs were exactly what one might expect. They were stiff and humourless. They sported, in varying degrees of vegetation, decidedly impressive moustaches. They kept a cottage, of sorts, at the top of the black obelisk. It was made of mud brick with slit openings instead of windows so that it looked quite grumpy. From under the cottage extended several articulated walkways. As soon as they were within reach, one of these clamped down to the railing of The Spotted Custard with the ease of frequent repetition. There were eight of these ramps, making the custom-house look like nothing so much as a brown spider waving long metal legs about and latching onto airships.
The wait was long enough for Rue and Primrose to don their frilliest dresses and most supercilious personas. Innocent young ladies with empty heads left officials feeling lost. There was something about the very rich, very young, very fashionable Englishwoman on a pleasure jaunt that defeated even the most hardened bureaucracy.
The man in charge was an agent of Queen Victoria by his dress if not his language, kitted out in something approaching a soldier’s uniform – although not quite the correct colours. The other two wore long white robes and funny little hats that Prim’s travel guide reliably informed her meant they were of Turkish extraction. The guide was very clear on how dress indicated social standing in Egyptian society. Primrose believed it wholeheartedly; Baedeker never led her astray. Rue was suspicious. What, for example, would Baedeker say of Primrose given only a few lines of dialogue and an encounter with her fluffiest hat?