Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(86)
They continued on, over the unmarked Nubian border, finally arriving at Wady Halfeh. At first glance it was similar to all the previous villages in Egypt. The buildings built of mud-brick with tile roofs, all tan, yellow, and orange. Paths cut from it out into the desert in sand wheel-whorls. But as they de-puffed, it became apparent that Wady Halfeh was different.
The town jutted up on pillars fully three storeys high, out over the Nile. It was constructed to allow for the annual flood, but its focus seemed turned to the desert, looking to the camel trails for trade because the river was too fraught to provide. Tall industrial pipes spiralled into the skies like obelisks, smoke gusting out. This shrouded the town in sooty gloom, not as much as London, but only because the Nile’s persistent breeze carried some particulate away. Still, it covered much of Halfeh in a layer of grime, making the town grungier than the desert around it.
From above, it looked like a great big smudge.
This place was more a creature of the modern age, as Rue had come to understand it, than any she had seen in Egypt. She half expected to find a railroad, spearing out into the desert towards Abu Hammed.
“The desert eats it up,” Anitra explained when Rue asked. “The tracks, I mean. It’s been tried but it never lasts. One could parallel tracks along the Nile, as they do in the Delta, but the flooding is less predictable here. It’d have to stop half the year and then be dug out after. So, with no train, Wady Halfeh does the heavy lifting for aircraft in these parts.”
Rue nodded her understanding. “There’s always lot of airships where trains can’t go.”
“Exactly.”
Rue nodded. “Can’t complain. After all, we intend to refuel here.”
“Nubia has a few way stations further south. But respectable dirigibles don’t moor there unless it’s an emergency. Even then I wouldn’t recommend it. At least Wady Halfeh has some laws.”
Rue nodded. “Understood. Percy, take us down.”
The Spotted Custard sank down, de-puffing in stages towards what looked like the main dockyard. It wasn’t designed up, like most dirigible service ports; instead it soared out over the Nile, bringing airships in low to tether to one island or another.
“We are responsible for our own water intake while moored?”
Anitra nodded. “Coal transfer takes place via a centralised venting system in the centre of town. See there?”
“Percy, take us there first, please.”
The coal-dispensing station looked like a massive cauldron, with holes plus anchor points at various junctures, like a strawberry pot. They were hailed the moment it became clear they were in need of fuel and directed into one vent by the gesticulations of a precariously stationed native boy.
Spoo supervised as they let out the lines to a group of eager local sooties whose hands reached out from the cauldron interior in an eerie disembodied manner. Like a poltergeist.
Anitra undertook a rapid haggle over cost.
Primrose, as ship’s purser, stood by wearing a deeply contemplative expression more common when deciding how to dress for a ball.
For a price that Prim deemed just shy of extortionist, a tube was ejected outward and connected to the open porthole of The Spotted Custard’s boiler room. Coal was transferred aboard and gold transferred off. Transaction complete, they were gestured rudely away by the disembodied hands.
Rue directed Percy to moor far out over the rapids, at the most isolated island.
She still felt their position exposed. True, there were white-water rapids between them and shore, but there were also rope bridges aplenty and small light aircraft developed exactly to deal with the difficulty inherent in living near cataracts.
“I don’t like this, Lady Captain. We’re awfully easy to board.”
“Agreed, Spoo. But what can we do? We need water and this is the only way to take it on.”
Tasherit joined them, leaning over the forecastle rail.
“Not a particularly defensible military position.” Her attitude was deceptively casual.
“Nevertheless,” said Rue, “I’m afraid you must guard us against attack.” She looked down at her small shadow. “No shore leave, Spoo. Apologies.”
“Understood, Lady Captain.”
Quesnel appeared.
“Must everyone come up top right now when we are at our most vulnerable?” Rue asked the world at large.
“Got to supervise the water coming in, Lady Captain. It’s not easy to draw off rapids.”
“Fine. Just please be careful.”
“Didn’t think you cared.”
Rue glared.
Quesnel glared back.
“Softly, you two.” Miss Sekhmet was the only one brave enough to modulate the crackling friction between captain and chief engineer.
Rue considered Spoo’s finer feelings and relented by walking away.
Miss Sekhmet strode the deck, stationing armed deckhands and decklings at various points, including up the sides of the balloon in lookout positions. She kept her own pistol at the ready. Spoo and Virgil manned the Gatling gun, although they were under orders not to use it in port unless given a direct command. Meanwhile, Quesnel, with Anitra on his arm, oversaw the sooties as they telescoped the hydrology tube down to sink into the rapids. It took seven tries to find a point deep enough not to break the pumps with too much air intake.
Rue carried her Parasol-of-Another-Colour open against the sun – it was greenish today – reassured in the knowledge of its armament. Acid was effective on everyone, and she wore goggles on her hat to pull down upon emission. She’d refilled its complement of lapis lunearis, lapis solaris, and lemon and basil tincture from the ship’s medical cabinet. Thank goodness Primrose kept that fully stocked. She’d ensured the parasol’s remaining four numbing darts were loaded. It occurred to her that, if necessary, the lemon and basil tincture might be added to barley water, improving taste and mood in one dose. The idea put a spring in her step.