Percy put down his book and took up position without looking at her, the sourpuss.
Rue turned back to Quesnel. “Chief engineer?”
Rue fancied she sensed a certain reluctance to go below, which was ridiculous, of course. Quesnel was simply an emotional Frenchman who had thought her dead and reacted as he would a missing sister.
He gave her a cheery smile. “Delighted you retrieved your parasol, captain.”
Rue looked down at the item in question. “Oh, yes, me too. Gift from my mother. Hideous, of course, but it has sentimental value.”
“Of course it does.” Quesnel looked at the parasol as though it hid some secret and then he disappeared below.
Rue turned to her topside crew, giving Percy the nod. “Prepare for float-off, Professor Tunstell.”
She then put down her parasol and lifted the speaking tube.
Aggie Phinkerlington said, “Yes?” sharply from the other end.
“Mr Lefoux will be with you shortly. Prepare for float-off.”
“You shouldn’t scare him like that, miss,” remonstrated the mechanic.
“I beg your pardon!” Rue was genuinely shocked at a reprimand from an underling.
The greaser did not seem to care that Rue took offence at the intrusive comment, compounding insult with instruction: “Next time, don’t be so impetuous.”
Rue hung up the speaking tube without reply, afraid she might say something unforgivable.
“Well, I say!” said Rue to no one in particular.
Percy looked up from twiddling his knobs and levers. “Gave you a talking to, did she?”
“Are you going to lecture me as well?”
Percy, blast him, took that as permission. “You’re captain of a ship now, Rue. You can’t go tearing off willy-nilly like you did when I was in short pants.”
“Wonderful. You are going to have at me.”
Percy rolled his eyes. “Next time, think about your actions before you take them, all right? You don’t have werewolf or vampire skin to fall back on. Up here in the skies, you’re as mortal as the rest of us.”
Rue bristled. Was he implying that she used her metanatural abilities as a crutch to get out of sticky situations?
Percy went back to preparing for float-off, so Rue turned to her last and best ally, Primrose.
Prim was looking inscrutably placid.
Rue knew that expression all too well. “Really, you too?”
Prim arched one eyebrow.
“Oh, bother,” said Rue. “We’ll talk about this later, after the hops. I do have an excuse.”
“Darling,” said Prim. “You always have an excuse.”
Rue ignored this. “Percy, what’s our course looking like?”
Percy grimaced. “I hate to do it, but our best option is the Tripoli Twister. The Damascus Draw is smoother and more reliable but that’ll add an extra day to the journey, possibly two.”
Rue grinned. After being roundly scolded for taking unnecessary risks, she was obstreperous enough to stay with the theme. “Twister it is. Get the Pudding Probe up and calibrated.”
Percy’s face was blank. “I guessed you’d say that. The Mandenall is already set. Shall we proceed?”
Without further ado The Spotted Custard cast off, wound up her propeller, farted gently, and eased her way out of the Maltese Tower docking port. She glided sedately up into the aetherosphere, a fat satisfied ladybird.
Little differentiated this series of hops from those previously except that they were a great deal more bumpy. The Custard handled the intervening Charybdis currents with aplomb, as did Percy who was now almost comfortable with the procedure. The first two hops went as specified by charts and calculations, but the Tripoli Twister was one of the highest, and one of the hardest to stay the course. They’d need to reef the mainsail for the rough breezes. The decklings were scrambling about belaying ropes and tying items down as if The Spotted Custard were facing a storm. They were all more seasoned floaters than Rue and her officers. A few of them had even run the Twister before. For all of them, the Tripoli Twister was considered a worthy challenge, one that would yield bragging rights once they returned to London. Very few ships dared the Twister for any distance and the Custard was about to try for the full course.
Percy eased them up several more puffs – there must have been a dozen in total. Then the Mandenall Pudding Probe spat and they knew that directly above them swept the Tripoli herself.
Rue shouted to the deckhands, “Everything secure?”
“Aye aye, captain.”
“Decklings?” Rue asked.
“All buttoned down, Lady Captain, ready on your mark,” answered a familiar chipper voice.
“Spoo? What are you doing abovedecks?”
“Transferred position, captain. Bit of a snafu down below. You don’t mind, do you? I’ve worked topside before.”
“Certainly not.”
Spoo seemed to have become unofficial leader of the decklings in a very short space of time. Some kind of coup? Rue supposed she would have to make it official if the girl proved capable. For now she was glad to have someone whose name she knew to yell.
“Wait for it,” Rue instructed the girl and turned to her next concern. “Primrose?”
Her friend was solemn-faced, seated primly off to one side of the navigation area, parasol raised against the grey nothingness of aetherosphere, hat pinned firmly down. Rue trusted her to have warned the steward, cook, and purser so that the inside staff was prepared.
Prim tilted her chin in acknowledgment.
To free her hands, Rue tossed Prim Sand and Shadows on a Sapphire Sea for safekeeping.
Prim caught it easily.
Rue picked up the speaker tube. “Boiler room, are you ready?”
“We have never been more so,” came Quesnel’s reply.
Rue said to Percy, still holding the tube so Quesnel could overhear, “Make the hop, Professor Tunstell, on my mark. Three, two, one, and… mark.”
Percy pressed the puffer. The Spotted Custard jerked up, caught the current, and began to shudder uncontrollably. It was as if the whole gondola section of the ship was shivering from cold.
“Percy, what the devil?” It felt like they were nested inside the current – why was this one so different from the others?
“Almost in, captain.” Percy reached down and twisted something. The ship rose up an infinitesimal amount. The propeller whirred madly. The ship began to tilt sideways as though being pushed from the side. The main deck angled more than was comfortable. Anything not fastened down began to slide. Including Primrose, who looked resigned to the indignity.
Percy grabbed the tiller and wrenched it upright. “Come on, sweetness,” he growled, straining against invisible aether forces.
Rue dashed over and reached for the other side of the tiller, pushing at it with all her might to assist his pulling. She was tougher than she looked – Dama’s drones liked to arm-wrestle on occasion to keep themselves in shape for competitive whist. Together they managed to push the ship upright and facing the correct direction: due east.