“Leave it, wife,” she heard Paw say.
Despite whatever it was her mother thought was happening, Rue entered the captain’s quarters alone. She changed into a tight red velvet top, beaded about the neck, and a narrow satin skirt. Remembering Quesnel’s reaction back in India, she put a bit of kohl about her eyes and rouged her cheeks and lips. With her abundant curves, Rue looked like a ladybug and felt silly. But Quesnel had liked it so much last time. She had this notion that if she dressed for him now, he might wear his leather workman’s apron and nothing else for her later. Privately, of course. She was rather too intrigued by the idea of a smudged and sweaty Quesnel wearing leather on the front and nothing at all over his back.
She sat on her bed and waited.
Rue was not a bad captain, not by any accounts. Spoo would not hear a word against her. She always posted a watch. Tonight it was a light watch, as they were moored at the top of an obelisk on the outskirts of town, only a long rope tying them to the world below. The spire could not be ascended; unlike other mooring posts, the red quarantine obelisks had no lifting platform, no tracks, no stairway winding about, not even a rope ladder. The Custard shared the obelisk with two fat luxury merchant vessels with skeletal crews and disinterested staff. No one would have thought any risk inherent in such an isolated position.
No, Rue could be excused for not being wary while they were in quarantine.
They were attacked anyway.
ELEVEN
In Which Percy’s Unbearable Smugness Is Revealed
It was a much fairer fight this time. Rue and her crew no longer had a werelioness or a werewolf on their side. Although, no one tried to stop either former werecreature from rallying round.
Tasherit was spoiling for some kind of battle, tetchy from arguing with Primrose. Lord Maccon was never one to sit idle and waded in, meaty fists flying. Rue might have said something, not sure if Paw was up for it. Lady Maccon might have said something, because she was accustomed to an immortal husband and not particularly fond of the idea of losing him. But both had been with him long enough to know that any attempt at mollycoddling would be met with outraged disgust.
These men were different from those at Wimbledon. These were comprised of some species of bandit in native Egyptian dress, all swirling robes, fierce dark skin, and bearded faces.
Rue supposed that could all be faked – beards, swirls, and skin colour. But they spoke to one another in some form of Arabic, so she had to assume they were of local extraction.
Percy and Primrose, showing admirable restraint, poked their heads out of the main hatch, ascertained the violence of the activities, and disappeared back below. In this the twins agreed: fisticuffs were not worth their time.
The decklings took potshots at the fray from various vantage points. The crew was mainly represented in combat by deckhands, two footmen, and the cook. Rue worried about the cook. Good cooks were hard to come by, and this one was a whizz with puff pastry; she didn’t want him damaged. Still, he seemed to be enjoying himself, brandishing a nasty-looking cleaver in one hand and an iron skillet in the other. Lord Maccon had acquired a cutlass from some unfortunate. Tasherit held forth employing a weaponless kicking technique that turned her into a blur of vicious intent. Lady Maccon wielded her ugly parasol with remarkable precision both as a blunt instrument and via emission of various darts. It also sprayed acid, which Rue’s mother used to admirable effect, backing a couple of bandits up against the railing and then over it, in their desperation to avoid the burning liquid.
Rue did her level best. Dama had given her some instruction in the defensive arts, but his was an old-fashioned soldier’s technique. “It’s been a very long time since I fought in any actual physical battles, Puggle dear. As a rule, try to avoid altercations. One doesn’t want to sully one’s gown with blood. This is why gathering information is so important. If you know what’s going on, you can avoid it.”
Classic mistake. Rue ducked a punch, knocking her assailant in the throat with her elbow. I didn’t know enough about Cairo when I came in to port. I had no idea an enemy might be waiting in ambush. I ought have taken precautions given our previous incidents. No dirigible, not even The Spotted Custard, could move faster than an aethographic transmission. Someone must have arranged from London for Cairo’s premier bruisers to take on the Custard. Rue had to assume, with no other evidence presenting, that they were still after the Lefoux tank.