Imprudence (22 page)

Once he emerged, the officer insisted on speaking to Rue privately, as the captain, in order to finalise the ship's approval. Rue insisted that Primrose accompany her, as chaperone. He agreed and they took to the stateroom.

He stamped her application for an air tourist licence, then had her sign several documents of writ and disclaim. He then shuffled through the resulting stacks of papyrus sheaves awkwardly.

Finally he said, his English heavily accented, “Very well, missis. You hitch to a red obelisk for twenty-four hours.” He whipped out a map of Cairo, pointing to several red x marks along the southern part of the Nile. “Until you clear Quinton.”

“Quinton?” Rue hissed to Primrose, confused.

“Do you mean
quarantine
, sir?” Primrose asked gently.

“As I said, missis, Quinton. After that, you free to travel around our land. We give you flag. Guard it well. There are many who want flag, missis. Value is high.”

Rue smiled at him vacuously.

He passed over a little triangle-shaped flag, like those of the standard bearers in medieval tapestries. It was bright blue with an eye embroidered in yellow and gold thread.

“After Quinton, you free to partake of Cairo. Here are your teskireh.”

He went to pass over a stack of papers, then paused to examine one particular note.

“Teskireh?” Rue whispered to Prim.

Prim consulted her
Baedeker's
. “Viceregal recommendations for the allowance of scientific study.”

Rue squinted her tawny eyes. “Percy or Quesnel?”

Prim considered. “Likely both. On the bright side, Teskireh carries with it a weapon's licence for the acquisition of big game.”

The official jumped on that. “Speaking of big game, your dreaded one is not free.”

Rue blinked. “My
dreaded
one?”

The man waved the papyrus at her, as if Rue could read the funny curly dotted writing as anything more than something that most closely resembled, in her experience, musical notes.

At her continued confusion, he explained. “She who mauls, before whom evil trembles. She who speaks with hot breath of desert wind.”

Rue screwed up her nose. “Miss Sekhmet?”

The man's smile from behind his tidy beard was startlingly white. “A good name. Yes. She not leave ship. Egypt does not welcome damned.”

“Naturally.” Rue did not feel it necessary to point out that even with the God-Breaker Plague, Tasherit was cat enough to take any attempt at confinement as a challenge.

After the officials left, Rue bearded the lioness in her den.

Normally, Rue respected the werecat's privacy, but this was a matter of ship safety, which gave her licence to pry. She left the door open so as not to cause gossip.

“You're not technically allowed out of quarantine while we're in Egypt.”

The werecat rolled her brown eyes. They were big and almond-shaped with thick lashes so monumentally unfair that combining them with flawless coffee-coloured skin, a straight nose, and full lips was basically an insult to every other female. Some supernatural creatures looked tired or old when they lost the shine of immortality. On Tasherit, the mantel of death turned her approachable, and by extension, Rue thought, more deadly.

“I'm not surprised.” The werecat wasn't offended. “They do not hold with females who have lost their faith. Even if I am older than its arrival in this country.”

“You were born here?” Rue pounced on the clue, catlike herself.

“I am a daughter of the desert sands, at least in part. I took my name from an Egyptian queen, as is our custom,” was all Tasherit would say.

The phrase reminded Rue of the officer's comment. “He called you ‘she who speaks with the hot breath of the desert wind'.”

“A fair accusation.”

“How did he know?”

“I do not exactly match the rest of your crew, Lady Captain.”

Rue narrowed her eyes. “You understand very well what I'm asking.”

Tasherit fiddled with the thin chain around her neck. “He noticed this.”

From the chain dangled two small gold charms. Rue had never seen them up close but judging on general shape they appeared to be a shield and a sword. They were not only tiny but also worn with age, so it was difficult to discern details.

The werelioness explained. “Even the followers of Mohammad have not forgotten all the old symbols. It does not pay to count entirely on the God-Breaker to protect one from the outside world. The smart ones remember that borders shift, even anti-supernatural ones. It is best to know the signs of the damned, even if you believe them long gone.”

“You don't mind being trapped aboard?” Rue had made the promise on Tasherit's behalf.

“I don't mind that they wish to pretend.” At Rue's worried look, she added, “I will not go exploring this city. And Cairo doesn't mind what happens to the south.”

“Good.” Rue figured it was only the appearance of compliance that mattered. “Will we see you at supper?”

“Indeed. I find my fragile mortal self is quite hungry. How do you people manage?”

Rue laughed and stood.

A veritable roar emanated from the guest quarters across the hall.

Tasherit's voice went bland in an effort to hide amusement. “I believe your father may be objecting to something.”

“Probably my mother.”

Rue went and knocked on the door opposite.

The roaring continued.

Rue knocked louder. With no response forthcoming, Rue let herself in.

Paw was striding about the chamber yelling, mostly dressed and no longer covered in slime.

His wife sat in calm tolerance at her dressing table, brushing her hair and replying in a maddeningly reasonable tone. “Conall, do put a cork in it. People will hear you.”

“Too late.” Rue shut the door behind her without bothering to ask if she could stay. It was, after all, her ship. And these were, after all, her parents. “Must you make a scene, Paw?” She walked over to him for a hug. “It is good to see you looking so well.”

“Ah, little one!” He snaked her into a smothering embrace.

Rue relaxed against his familiar rough affection. He did not smell quite as he used to – a product of mortality or time in a Lefoux tank; it was difficult to know which.

“Are you feeling better?” The question was partly muffled against his broad shoulder.

Paw released her. “I'm as hale as a man one third my age.”

Lady Maccon began coiling and pinning up her hair. “One sixth, my dear, I think it is.”

Paw shrugged. “Mathematics never was my strong suit.”

Rue didn't know quite how to ask if he was still suffering Alpha's curse. How did one enquire as to the mental capacities of one's own father?

“Do you have any
odd
inclinations?”

Paw looked confused. “Pardon?”

Rue scrambled for some other delicate way of putting it. “Oh, I don't know. A preference to don one of Aunt Ivy's hats? The sudden feeling of euphoria and an inclination to polka with a palm tree?”

Mother put down her pins. “Your daughter would like to know if you are still going insane, dear.”

Paw considered this. “I've been married to your mother for over two decades. You might allow me certain dispensation for eccentricity.”

“Paw, please be serious. I must consider the welfare of my ship.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

Rue crossed her arms and glared, looking, many might have pointed out, rather more like her Paw than she ought being half his size and female.

He grinned. His Scottish burr became more prevalent. “Och, you fretful bairn. Whatever it is that pulls the senses out my head, 'tis linked to pack. I'm mortal, so that's all gone, along with my pack.” A flash of pain cut across his face, quickly smoothed away with long practice.

Rue had felt that same pang when Uncle Rabiffano turned his back on her. And she'd had only a short time within a pack. Paw had been with a pack for hundreds of years, in some form or another. He must be awfully lonely.

Mother clearly thought the same, for she stood and walked to her husband, slipping her hand into his.

Dama had once said, “Although they're careful not to use the word
tether
, never you forget, Puggle, that werewolves are tethered to pack, just as vampires are tethered to place. That's why they get stuck. It's a tragic weakness.” Dama had looked thoughtful rather than sad. “You may need to exploit it someday. Of course, it's also a strength, like Hollandaise sauce.”

Rue hadn't followed. “What's like Hollandaise sauce, Dama?”

Her vampire father had given one of his tight secret smiles. “The thing that links us up. Wolves to the packs. Queens to the hives. Even me, in my way, to my
darling
drones and beloved home. Hollandaise sauce – delicious and a vital part of many superior dishes.”

Rue understood that reasoning, being a frequent partaker of sauces. “But?” she'd prodded, knowing a classic Dama analogy was imminent.

“Well, my
buttercup
, it splits easily, does Hollandaise, if you aren't careful. Just divides up into its component parts and becomes inedible.”

Rue hadn't asked how he knew so much about cooking a sauce, being one who didn't eat anything. But she did take his point.

Paw had gone and split. The question now being, was he edible any more? She tried to catch her mother's eye, get her assessment, but Lady Maccon was focused on her husband.

Rue prodded. “Well, if you aren't deranged, what are you in a temper about?”

Lord Maccon looked confused.

“I heard you from across the way, howling like a buffoon.”

Lady Maccon looked suspicious. “What were you doing in Miss Sekhmet's room?”

“Talking to Miss Sekhmet.”

“Just
talking
?”

Now what is Mother on about?
“Yes. Now stop avoiding the question. Paw?”

“Oh, I was just yelling a bit. Alexia and I were discussing the pack transition. Ill handled, I think. I could have stayed longer, seen young Biffy settled into his new position.”

Lady Maccon snorted. “Don't be preposterous.”

Rue said simultaneously, “Oh, Paw! Even I know the old Alpha can't be overseeing the new one.”

Lord Maccon harrumphed. “Well, still, I might have done some good.”

“You see what I put up with?” Lady Maccon appealed to her daughter.

Rue knew an exit cue when she heard one. “Supper will be served at nine tonight.
Spotted Custard
is assuming daylight hours while everyone is mortal. There's a great deal to see in Egypt; might as well take it in. Although, we're under quarantine for the next twenty-four hours.”

“Are we dressing for dinner?” Lady Maccon resumed fussing with her hair.

Rue gave her father an evil look. “Might as well.”

She heard him groan as she closed the door behind her.

Dinner went off without incident. Paw behaved himself. More to the point, so did Mother. Primrose and Tasherit ignored one another. Quesnel was as engaging as ever, and Percy as lacklustre. After pudding, everyone trooped to the forecastle for cigars and drinks – brandy for the gentlemen, sherry for the ladies. The moon was a bulbous yellow orb over a fairy-tale city below.

Tasherit and Paw were obviously unnerved at basking in full moonlight, no curse shining down alongside.

“I forgot how very beautiful she is.” Tasherit was moved to something approaching sentiment.

“We could buy a silver cutlery set now, couldn't we, wife?” Paw sounded as though Lady Maccon had done nothing their whole marriage but lament the fact that they must use brass at the dinner table.

Rue's mother made a funny face. Rue was in no doubt that Alexia Maccon had never given cutlery a second thought.

Rue went over and touched first her father and then her werecat friend with a naked hand to the cheek. Nothing happened. The numbness was still on her. There came no indication of gaining supernatural abilities with her touch. No strength. No shift. No nothing.

“Odd,” she pronounced. “Paw, are you normal strength now?”

Lady Maccon laughed. “Infant, look at him. He's still built like a Clydesdale.”

“Thank you, wife.”

Rue smiled. “You know what I mean. Tasherit, what about you?”

“Normal. Slow healing and all else that goes with mortality.” Tasherit examined her snifter with pursed lips. “Susceptible to alcohol, too, I suppose. What bliss is that.” She drained the last of her brandy. She didn't hold with sherry. She'd been offered a cigar as well, since brandy was already quite manly, but declined, muttering something about hookahs being preferable.

Tasherit twirled the empty glass. “To tell the truth, younglings” – Rue supposed there was a good chance even Paw was younger than Tasherit – “it makes me feel odd and exposed.” She shivered, although the evening was warm. “I'm for bed. I shall enjoy the novel experience of sleeping at night.”