Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(84)

“Squeaker?”

“Yes. Helium, not ballast. We’re sinking.”

“Well, don’t let her squeak too much or we’ll need a refill at Wady Halfeh. We already have to stop for coal and water; add helium to that list and we’ll lose all the time you just bought us. I thought we were in a hurry.”

“Thank you, Mr Lefoux, for telling me something I already know.”

“You can count on me, chérie. Too bad other blindingly obvious truths elude you.”

Rue wasn’t going to let him bait her. “You’re too kind.”

He’d already hung up the tube.





Their little skirmish garnered them a good day’s lead, possibly two. Some more red handkerchief communication saw them set as brisk a pace as the Drifters could manage.

Rue consulted her friends and fellow officers over a light tea in the stateroom. It was stuffy and hot but she wanted the privacy afforded by closed doors against prying ears – otherwise known as Spoo.

“If we manage a coal and water suck and get out of Wady Halfeh before our friends repair and catch up, could we take to the deep desert here?” Rue pointed to a place on the map.

Percy stood next to her. The others were seated casually, in such a manner as to stand and come around if they felt they had something to add. Out of necessity, Floote and Anitra were included in the discussion. They were, after all, the closest Rue had to local guides.

Percy nibbled a date. “Depends on the wind direction. If we want to keep with our Drifter friends, we are reliant on the winds.”

Rue frowned. “They have propellers on their balloons, do they not?”

Quesnel shook his head. “Those are for catching and slowing a spin, not momentum assist. More like the rudder of a boat. Unless my understanding of aeronautics is entirely off.” He gave a depreciatory little bow in Anitra’s direction.

He was being falsely humble, for he knew perfectly well how Drifter balloons worked and had an impeccable understanding of all things aeronautical.

Rue tried not to sneer at him.

He passed Anitra the plate of toast tips in a solicitous manner.

Anitra took one. “He’s right. We need wind, and reliable winds stick to the Nile.”

Rue moved her finger further down the map. “What about here, at the second cataract? We go due south while the Nile veers west. We’d save considerable time cutting across the desert both there and later, at the third. We start following the river again at the sixth, here at” – Rue craned her neck about to read the city name – “Khartoom.”

Floote, who apparently didn’t need the benefit of a map to follow, sipped his tea. Tea in this weather! Rue supposed that as a frail old man who ate little, English tea was both his main sustenance and a comforting reminder of his former life. She was happy with water. Quesnel, Percy, and Anitra partook only of barley water tempered with a little lemon. Primrose, stubborn to the end, drank her tea with a will, something to be endured for the sake of tradition. Tasherit sipped iced milk from a teacup.

Floote said, “Nubia is dangerous.”

Anitra added, “Not exactly friendly. Not to Drifters, and certainly not to the English.”

Rue shrugged. “War is in the air, I know. But tracking the Nile is no way to ensure safety either. We’re over hostile territory, desert or river, and at least this way we save time. What do you think, Tash?”

Tasherit twitched, as though hoping for a tail to suddenly appear that she might lash. “Directness is not in my nature, but with an unknown enemy on our tail, I say risk the desert at speed.”

“Unknown enemy?” Quesnel’s eyes narrowed at Rue, as if it were her fault. “I thought we’d settled on them being some big game hunter.”

Rue sighed. “Too many attacked us back before we split the escort. Not even the Royal Society could float that many ships at once, nor would they spend all their might on collecting one werecat, rare though she may be.”

Miss Sekhmet’s brown eyes were grave. “That takes me down a whisker or two.”

“No insult intended.” Rue hurriedly backtracked, until she realised the werelioness was joking. Cats, terrible sense of humour, the lot of them.

Prim looked up from pouring herself another cup of endurance tea. “You mean to say, we’re back to not knowing who’s after us?”

Rue turned an enquiring look on her mother’s former butler. “Mr Floote, would you care to enlighten us as to who might be attacking The Spotted Custard?”

The old man put down his cup. His hands shook a little, with palsy, not fear.

“Hunters you call them?” He turned the question back on her, very Socratic.

“Back in London, Percy let it out that we had a werelioness aboard. They likely think she’s the last of her kind. We think that made her a pretty tempting prospect.”

“And if they knew there were more of her kind?” Floote cocked his head.

Tasherit hissed at this.

The elderly man held up a hand. “Would that diminish her value?”

Rue considered this. “Difficult to determine. But there’s no legal rights for Miss Sekhmet’s people either way, so we thought it had better be us doing the protecting.”

“Unless you are guiding the enemy straight to her pride.”