The man came further up the plank, flanked by three large friends, each had some kind of small sword, or big knife, strapped to his belt.
The leader, now standing where the gangplank met the gate in the Custard’s railing, seemed not particularly suspicious of anything he saw. Not even the Gatling. When he gestured at it, asking Anitra for an explanation, she shrugged and said, “American,” pointing to their flag.
The man nodded his understanding.
Eventually, without bothering to look belowdecks or ask after their needs, he left the way he’d come.
“What now?” Rue asked Anitra.
“We wait.”
“Why so easy about the gun?”
“Americans have a reputation, guns and flags. Plus that gun of yours is a Colt.”
“Ah. British manufacture would mean a” – Rue hesitated, trying to remember – “Maxim?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, then, I’m delighted Dama has less pride in national manufacture than interest in an attractive appearance.” Rue had no doubt her vampire father had researched the best rapid-fire to mount on The Spotted Custard, but she also had no doubt that he was attracted to the round golden sheen of the custom lightweight Gatling. The Maxim was a brutal-looking thing and the Nordenfelt positively unseemly. If one must give a young lady a ballistic birthday gift, it should, at the very least, be pretty.
“So far, I think they are buying our ruse. I may have convinced them you are the daughter of a South Carolina railroad baron.”
Rue blinked at Anitra. “Have you, indeed?”
“Oh yes. Miss Prudence Mayberry.”
Rue blinked again. “All righty, then.” She’d heard a Southern accent out of the United States once. It sounded, to her ear, slightly like a gramophone playback off speed. She could try to combine that with cockney but had a feeling the results would be disastrous.
“Lady Captain?”
“Spoo?”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d avoid the stage, were I you.”
“Noted.”
An hour or so later, the man returned. Through Anitra he quoted Rue a quantity and a price, the quantity less than she’d asked for and the price extortionist. Rue accepted both, tight-lipped.
After some haggling, the tradesmen agreed to bring the coal up to the mouth of the fuel tube and Rue agreed to provide sooties to feed at that point. At this juncture she cursed herself for doing it at night: it would be difficult to check coal quality in this light. Nor could they bring a gas lamp out. So far, all activities had indicated both the airship and supplier wished to keep the transaction private. Rue’s guess was that the local government imposed a heavy tax and, with a war on, took it out of the tradesmen’s product as well as their coffers. Their host was likely desperate for regular trade.
Rue called down to Quesnel, for the boiler room was always well lit. “Check the quality as it comes down the feed, please? I don’t wish to be gypped. Call up to Percy if at any time we aren’t getting a burnable seam.”
“Are you undertaking the trade yourself?”
“Of course.”
“Couldn’t you have Tasherit do it?”
“No. I have her in lioness form.”
“It’s not safe.”
“Quesnel, now is not the time to question orders. I’ve taken precautions. I have my parasol.”
“A parasol! What good is that?”
“It’s my mother’s.”
“So?”
“Your mother made it for her.”
“Oh.”
“Exactly. Now, please check the coal?”
“Yes, Captain.”
Rue went to her cabin to retrieve the gold. Dama had been generous. She could cover this refuelling and a few more like it. She took only the agreed-upon amount back up; she was aware of what a vast sum it was in this part of the world.
The coins were Spanish. Old. Dama preferred hard currency over promissory notes. She marched forward with the cash, flanked by her two largest deckhands. She tried to look like a silly American schoolgirl who nevertheless had enough shopping experience to know what she was doing. Even if this was coal and not hair muffs.
She handed the tradesman the velvet bag. He took it, glanced inside, removed a coin at random, bit into it, and then nodded.
Suddenly things happened very quickly.
He faded to the back, down the plank, and in one fluid motion his bullyboys charged. Presumably to take Rue hostage.
Rue brandished her parasol, pressing a button in the handle. A poison dart imbedded itself into one of the men. The other two, however, had her pinned. Willard, who lately seemed to be more a bodyguard than deckhand, engaged a fourth ruffian man to man. That attacker had leapt up off the gangplank to come at her from behind, as if lifted by coiled springs.
Rue twisted and kicked, trying to get loose from the two holding her. Then she felt the cold sharp sting of steel at her neck and went still.
A roar from one side heralded Tasherit’s charge. She was beautiful to behold. Even frightened, Rue was impressed by the intense grace of her leap.