Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(76)

“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.”