Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(77)
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.
The closer they got to Luxor, the more profound the nullifying feeling of the plague. Rue learned to tolerate it. She spent most of her time standing on the main deck, eyes glued to magnification lenses, watching the Nile below. Paddle ferries chugged along while old-style dahabiyas, with their two triangular sails, nipped in and around them. Closer to the embankments, small reed rafts floated, from which scantily clad young men slapped the water with big sticks in a pretty, if confusing, method of fishing. Or was it crocodile control?
They arrived in Luxor as the sun set on the third day. It seemed to grow larger as it sank, a massive orange globe tinted red at the bottom by the dust of the desert. Primrose owned a dress that did that.
Luxor was greener than Cairo, the Nile near the city dotted with half-formed islands. The banks were thick with palm trees, which crowded into the sandstone of the town, while rocky grey monoliths spiked out of the desert beyond. The Spotted Custard floated in over the massive statues of Memnon, sitting in faceless judgement over those little islands, like two stern governesses. Primrose – Baedeker’s in hand – pointed out Karnak at one end of the town and the Temple of Luxor at the other.
At Rue’s orders, The Spotted Custard and company remained high above the city. The feeling of the plague was simply too unpleasant if they de-puffed even slightly. The decklings were disappointed. They wanted to see the Valley of the Kings up close.
That evening, Rue was to host a Drifter gathering. Quesnel declined to attend. Primrose didn’t feel it was her place and Miss Sekhmet made herself obligingly scarce. Which left Rue and Percy, of all people, to welcome their guests.
It was a still night, with little wind, so the balloons performed their dance in stately majesty. Slipping about each other like the most dignified of matrons at a church ball, they collected into pods of ten or so family groups and cast out more of those massive nets. Each pod netted to another, until all hundred-plus airships were linked together.
Quesnel, on deck for this occurrence, was impressed despite himself. “I had a friend at university, used to draw schematics of molecules in just such a manner. He theorised that chemical bonds were more net-like than stick-like in the Kekulé model.” He spoke mostly to himself.
“Preposterous.” Percy overheard the mutter.
“Yes, so our professor always said. But if one were to conceive of molecules on a two-dimensional plane and then extrapolate into three dimensions? Perhaps netting bonds is not quite so outlandish.”
At that juncture, a holler and a thrown net saw the Custard bonded to the greater molecule as well.
“Note how the nets allow for each individual ship to sway and bob about where a stiffer material would not? Is it so far-fetched to imagine a molecule might enjoy equal flexibility?”
“Oh, go below, Mr Lefoux, do.” Percy’s tone was only mildly annoyed. “No one is interested in your ridiculous theories on the chemistry of airships.”
With a bow, Quesnel unexpectedly did as instructed.
Percy was disappointed at being denied a theoretical debate.
Rue felt a twinge of pain. It wasn’t like Quesnel to cede an intellectual point, much less take an order from Percy. He must be feeling quite low. She stopped herself from following him.
Around them, the nets became walkways by which matters of business were conducted. Women began paying social calls on other balloons. Children commenced games with one another. After a complex series of greetings and gift exchanges, each group decided upon a representative. These converged upon Rue’s dirigible.
Rue felt a distinct pressure to make her guests welcome and not to commit any outrageous social gaffes, if she could possibly help it. Considering social gaffes were her forte, she was nervous.
Twelve leaders from the various family groups – plus Anitra, Floote, Percy, and Rue – were too many for the Custard’s stateroom, so they held the assembly on the main deck. The Drifters seemed not at all insulted by an al fresco setting. Nor were they disturbed by the delighted shrieks of the decklings, who had discovered that the net walkways were particularly amenable to a modified game of cricket.
“Spoo,” ordered Rue from over the railing, “don’t let anyone fall off!”
Spoo waved at her from the middle of the net where she was bouncing higher and better than anyone else. “Course… not… Lady… Captain,” she yelled at the apex of each bounce.