Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(78)
They hadn’t enough chairs for all their visitors, which turned out to be no bad thing, for the men – and by clothing and prevalence of beards they were men – chose to sit cross-legged directly on the deck.
Primrose, blushing and desperate, fetched cushions from everyone’s beds so the visitors need not sit on the hard wood. This seemed to be both a kindness and a luxury. The cushions were met with murmurs of approval. Prim saw to the distribution of cups of tea, which seemed to be a kindness and a confusion, and then scones with strawberry preserve, which were universally regarded with suspicion and then delight. The niceties having been observed, she made herself scarce with almost improper haste. Rue couldn’t blame her – there were men, in robes, sitting on the floor.
Rue, with a shrug, joined them. Percy, askance, followed suit. He looked uncomfortable and unsure as to why he had to be there. Floote took a seat next to Rue, and Anitra next to Percy.
Floote asked in her ear, “Is that the parasol?”
Rue patted her mother’s hideous accessory where it rested tucked against her side. “It’s one of them. She’s had quite a few over the years.”
Floote raised his eyebrows. “Two while I was with her.”
Rue smiled. “Tough on parasols, my mother. She already has a desert-edition replacement on order.”
“I never doubted.” Floote gave a little seated bow, either to Rue or the parasol it wasn’t clear which.
One of the few men without a beard spoke first. Despite the fact that he wore light-coloured robes and no veil, he had a voice that was – without question – female. This confused Rue. Particularly when Anitra translated, “He is welcoming us all to the circle and thanking you for the generosity of food and drink.”
Rue wasn’t one to question; if the handsome older woman across from her wished to be a he, why gainsay?
Anitra continued her role as interpreter. “Ay asks if the young lord will be speaking for himself or if the fire hair is his voice in matters of barter.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Anitra dimpled a little. “You are the young lord. Mr Tunstell is the fire hair.”
“I’m what?” Rue looked down at her considerable bust. The light blue tea-gown she wore was not as daring as a ball gown, but the square neckline for all its lace trim did nothing to conceal the fact that she was, most determinately, a woman. If anything, it advertised this fact. There were bows all the way down the front.
Anitra tried to explain, “You captain this ship, and you are wearing something similar to a blue robe.”
Rue continued to blink.
Floote said, his voice cracked with age or exhaustion or humour or all three, “They think of you as male.”
Rue regarded the leader who had started the talks with new interest. “Women in charge are thought of as men?”
Floote nodded.
“Right, then, do continue. Please inform them that I shall speak for myself.”
The woman who was no-woman, Ay, waited politely until Rue nodded at her and then continued.
Anitra said, “He is congratulating you on the beauty of your airship and your crew.” After another lengthy statement from Ay, Anitra blushed and covered her mouth to hide a smile. “And wishes to know if your woman is entertaining suitors? Ay represents a very powerful family and he thinks she would make an excellent wife. He enjoyed the little fluffy breads very much.”
This was getting most bizarre. “Primrose? She – wait, he – is interested in marrying Primrose? Because he liked the scones?”
“Oh I say!” said Percy. “That’s not on. That’s my sister you’re haggling over.”
Rue kept a straight face. “Please thank her – er, him – for the compliment and inform him that Miss Tunstell has a prior commitment.” Primrose, Rue realised, had been wearing a navy dress. That colour seemed the provenance of women. Rue supposed it wasn’t so odd to have attire intimately linked to social conventions. After all, back in England, an inordinate amount of time and attention was spent on the niceties of mourning garb. The presence or absence of black crêpe in British society was certainly as esoteric to an outside observer as gender-determining robes were to Rue.
Ay inclined her head and then waved in a dismissive manner.
Anitra said, “It is of no great import.”
Floote whispered to Rue, “Good response.”
Anitra explained, “Ay’s offer may have been sincere or it may have been a compliment. In either case, it is now acquitted without shame to either party.”
Rue whispered back, “You mean, she might actually wish to marry Prim, in that also acting as a man?”
Floote inclined his head.
Anitra laughed. “Ay has two wives already. And three children.”
Rue reeled. “How is that possible?”
Floote went deadpan. “To know, I believe you must ask the wives. Now focus.”
Rue focused. She was aware that she must play by Drifters’ rules. The Spotted Custard could not afford to be abandoned on its own so far from Cairo. Now that they had the escort, it would be better if they could keep it.
The other leaders around the circle introduced themselves. They all seemed, by voice and facial hair, to be biologically male, although Rue decided not to take anything as truth until told so.
Rue tendered her gratitude for their assistance thus far and the meeting proceeded apace. With Anitra’s and Floote’s help, Rue believed she avoided cultural pitfalls. But she wasn’t entirely certain, given the fact that she comprehended neither language nor expressions. Percy, too, although adept at foreign tongues, could no more follow this conversation than he could a school of gossiping goldfish. He stuck his nose in the air and whispered to Rue that it was, “Quite a primitive tongue,” in a tone that suggested he was annoyed that the language was outside his comprehension and that the opposite was actually the case. It was too sophisticated for even his vaunted brain to follow.