“Of course you have,” said Anitra. “Your preference in lovers is for women.”
Primrose winced. Did everyone aboard the ship know her shameful secrets?
“But that is not quite the same thing. Your world doesn’t understand who you love, but it really doesn’t understand who I am. Drifters have found a means to accept my kind, but not yours. In my culture your inclination would dictate you be male, and I don’t think you want that.”
“So, had I expressed my inclinations at an early age, I should have been raised a man?” This was very odd to think on. Primrose rather enjoyed being female. Besides, she was tolerably certain that Tasherit liked her being female too. It was very confusing to think on sexual preferences, and physical appearances, and biological structures as independent entities.
“The captain has told me of her father, the vampire. His preference, like mine, is for men, but his soul is, and always was, male.” Anitra tilted her head. “Would you say your soul is male?”
“No.” Primrose frowned at the girl. “So for you it is something more than taste in lovers?” Primrose tried hard to understand. “Your soul is female. Is that how it works?”
“Exactly.”
“Does Mr Tarabotti know?”
Anitra smiled. “That is what surprises me so. I think it is the basis of my appeal. Drifters accept women like me, but because we cannot have children we are not often the first choice as wife. Rodrigo seems to want me because of who I am, rather than despite it.” She blushed and dipped her head and made a small downward gesture with her chin. “He likes every part of me.”
Primrose considered Rue’s mother, Lady Maccon, and her endlessly bizarre way of looking at the world. All practical and assessing, oddly lacking in judgement. “Preternaturals are like that. Is that what aravani means?”
“Yes, but it is not a Drifter word. It is from the northeast, and not exactly kind.”
“So what do Drifters call people like you?”
“Women.”
Primrose nodded. “It all comes down to semantics in the end, doesn’t it?”
Anitra laughed. “Why do you think I am so drawn to interpretation, translation, and languages?”
Primrose wondered if Anitra had ever dressed as a man for her espionage work, but felt it might be rude to ask.
Unfortunately, while all this was utterly fascinating, it meant that Prim’s real question - how she might reconcile herself to a life without children - was to remain unanswered. Anitra would have always known she could not give birth. Primrose was facing barrenness by choice. Even if Tasherit were a human, they could never have children together.
Wincing away from that thought, Primrose contemplated Anitra’s revelation about the malleability of the soul as separate from physical form and sexual inclination. She liked the idea. It was comforting to think that it was her very soul that had chosen to love women. That she was born this way. Perhaps it had hurt so hard resisting Tasherit’s easy affection because it was natural to love where one would and not as society dictated.
“Are Mr Tarabotti’s intentions honourable?”
Anitra smiled wide and happy. “He has asked to marry me.”
Primrose nodded. “Good. Do you know Rue, as captain of the ship, is able to perform the ceremony? Or we could do it here, I suppose. We are moored to a cathedral at the moment.” Trust was all very well and good, but if a thing was to be done, it ought to be done properly.
Anitra laughed. “I think the bishop would look askance if asked. I’m dressed as a nun, remember.”
“Oh dear, I forgot. Well, next time we’re in a float, Rue would do it, I’m sure. If you wanted.”
Anitra nodded. “I’d like that very much.”
Primrose thought, but did not say, that would provide one more tether keeping Rodrigo from drifting back into evil. To render a man’s soul without religion requires logic, love, loyalty, or legal tender. Percy thought epistemology would do the trick. No doubt Rue was already working on loyalty - since Prim sensed camaraderie and respect was developing between the cousins. But looking at Anitra’s happy face, Primrose rather felt love stood the best chance of them all.
Percy attended dinner reluctantly. He’d been nose deep in an absolutely fascinating book on the ancestral relationship between the alpaca, the llama, the white-tailed deer, and something called a jackalope. Quite, quite fascinating.
Some delicious scent disturbed his studies and drove Footnote into fits of meows and scratching at the door. It smelled like proper roasted meat - venison perhaps?
Percy shut his book, remembering that his sister would have gone to market that afternoon, which meant fresh produce at last. After so long in the grey, the very idea was mouthwatering.
He chivvied up to the mess hall. Footnote, tail high, led the way in that manner of cats which is one part banner-waving herald and one part attempted murder by tripping. Cats in hallways - escort meets assassination attempt.
They found everyone else already at supper. Percy apologised for his tardiness and took his customary seat. Footnote made no excuses and went to beg at Anitra’s feet. Being Drifter born, Anitra categorically adored cats in general and Footnote in particular. Which meant Footnote, most of the time, could take her or leave her, but he knew a sucker when meat was on the table.
“Is that venison, sister?” Percy asked.
“No, alpaca. A sort of hairy goat with big eyes and a long neck.”
Percy sniffed cautiously, then helped himself to the cubed meat. “I know what an alpaca is, I was just reading about the species. They aren’t goats but more likely some offshoot of deer.”
“Doesn’t look at all like a deer,” objected Primrose.
“You know nothing on ancestral cross-procreation, Tiddles. Does it taste like deer?”
“No, it tastes like pork.”
Percy snorted and took a bite. Unfortunately, she was right, it did taste like pork.
“Now, as I was saying before my brother so rudely interrupted” - Primrose turned to Rue and Quesnel - “you’ll never guess what Anitra and I learned about the local vampires while we were at the market.”
“I very much doubt I could guess, so please don’t be coy about it.” Rue leaned forward, eager.
“Well, wait till you hear!” Primrose spoke in exaggerated fashion for dramatic effect, being, in fact, quite coy.
Percy chewed his alpaca loudly in annoyance.
Prim ignored him. “We got our friend the potato man to ask his Quechua neighbour at the marketplace about pishtacos. She said that they aren’t inside the city at all, but are south of here down the valley. We kept asking everywhere we went, since, being nuns, it seems no topic is off limits. Apparently pishtacos occupy an Incan ruin a half day’s trek away. Or they live near to one. Distances are hard to convert in the highlands, but we got a description of the ruins, and it shouldn’t be too difficult to spot from the air. It sounds pretty isolated. There’s also something called a hacienda, which we think is a sort of a house or maybe a very big tree. According to market rumour, pishtacos feed off the villagers nearby. From what I could gather, it is not a symbiotic relationship, they don’t take drones or anything. It’s more like the old-fashioned feudal system of Eastern Europe. The pishtacos are lords of the manor, preying upon the local daylight folk.”
“Primrose! That is all excellent information. Really, very good.” Rue pointed her fork at Percy’s sister in excitement.
“Well, thank you for my part, no need to wave cutlery at me. And besides, Anitra did most of the talking.”
Rue shifted her fork and beamed at the Drifter girl. “Thank you so much!”
Anitra ducked her head and glowed with delight.
Percy sometimes (not often, mind you, but sometimes) wished he had Rue’s capacity for openhearted generosity and charismatic leadership. It was most annoying to see in action, even knowing that if that fork headed in his direction he would succumb himself. It
was just so very nice when she noticed his hard work and thanked him for it.
Primrose laughed. “Never underestimate the power of market gossip.”
Rue put down her fork and rubbed her hands together. “Well, Rodrigo and I learned from the bishop what pishtacos look like. He seemed happy to explain once he truly believed we were sent by the Vatican to exterminate them. He said he was planning on tracking them down and seeing to their demise himself soon. If we go after them, as he put it, he promises to send a cleanup and extermination team to follow.” Rue’s lip curled in disgust. “As suspected, they are all quite pale in complexion, which as you may have noticed is a great deal less common in this country. They are also quite thin. Apparently a lady of endowments is much admired in Cusco.” Rue indicated her own rounded figure with no embarrassment. “The bishop was most complimentary, I must say. Most complimentary.”
Quesnel looked up. “Oh was he, indeed?”
Percy frowned. “Well, to be fair, that’s not illogical in the high country. After all, it is cold enough now during their high summer. It must get very cold indeed during the wintertime, with crops lean and hunger common. The more fat you have, the more likely you are to survive a harsh winter.”
Rue glared at him. “Oh, thank you very much, Percy.”
What? thought Percy. What did I say? “I’m only trying to imply that thinness might be perceived as disfiguring in this part of the world.” He warmed to his topic. “This would make the skinniness of most vampires an additional aspect of their perceived monstrosity. London is, in effect, dominated by the vampire aesthetic of pale skin and slender limbs. My sister’s waist and complexion are envied because they are near to the vampiric ideal. But as such, she would be thought quite ugly here.”
Now Primrose was glaring at him. “Thank you, Percy, that is more than enough.”
Oh, for goodness’ sake, thought Percy, why is truth so often taken as rudeness? He decided to stop talking and keep eating instead.
“And on that note,” grumbled Rue, “let me tell what else the bishop said. According to local legend, the only way pishtacos can be killed is by sunlight. I’ve no idea if the garlic allergy, or a sundowner bullet, is as effective. But I’m tempted to say that a good beheading works on everyone.”
Rodrigo seemed to be following the conversation well enough to nod fervently at that. “Are we here to kill them?” he asked, hopefully.
“No.”
Rodrigo looked disappointed. Percy supposed he hadn’t taken much exercise in the last few months, he probably wanted to stretch his legs and arms a bit. What better way for a preternatural than killing vampires?
Rue continued, looking hard at her cousin. “Mother only wanted us to save them, they seem to be the last of their kind. But we have to assume they will be hostile. They are, after all, under constant threat and duress. This country is obviously against supernaturals. Also, let us not forget the Rakshasas. They could be quite nasty to us regardless of our intentions. Ideally, we get on their good side and come up with a plan to protect them permanently.”
Percy shuddered. The vampires of India had been quite the most unpleasant of creatures. Rakshasas were carrion eaters rather than bloodsuckers, so they had smelled to high heaven and boasted the most ridiculously enormous teeth. The fact that they were also the local tax collectors had merely added insult to injury.
That reminded him. “What about shifters? Did you ask his holiness if they have werewolves or werelions or weremonkeys in the area?”
“I didn’t ask. The bishop assumed we were here to hunt pishtacos. I didn’t think it wise to divert him off that subject since it pleased him so much to instruct us on the matter. Plus us going hunting hopefully keeps him from doing it and making a mess.” Rue looked thoughtfully down the table at her cousin. “Rodrigo was most helpful, of course, being trained as a vampire hunter and all. He asked all the right questions.”
Rodrigo gave a tiny bow. “Your servant, cousin. It was a, as you say, delightful conversation.”
Primrose said, “Not to shift the topic off of killing things, which I know you both enjoy, but could we please discuss logistics? We’ve now acquired sufficient supplies for another two weeks of travel. How did the refuelling go, Mr Lefoux?”
Quesnel gave one of his annoyingly charming smiles. “The cathedral was most accommodating. They have a great deal of coal in this area, which they use mainly in their local limekilns, if you can believe such a waste. Anyway, we’ve entirely restocked and at a fraction of the normal expense. We’ve more than enough water to make that stream the professor spotted south of town.”
Rue said, “Given that fact and that we now know the general location of this hive is in a similar direction, I suggest we float off within the next hour. That way we can make it to water and still have enough daylight to search for these Inca ruins we’re after. Percy, are you up for it?”
Percy looked up from his meal. Oh, now they want me to talk? “I’m well rested, thank you, Captain. I don’t suppose anyone thought to ask after a map from the bishop or the market?”
Rue and Primrose looked acceptably guilty.
Percy smiled. “I guess I shall have to prove my mettle taking us south by skill alone. I’ll need a deckling to play lookout for me. Quesnel, whenever engineering is ready, so am I.”
Quesnel give Rue a small smile. “Just one more cup of tea first, my love?”
“Always,” said Rue.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
On Hives, Haciendas and Hijinks
The Spotted Custard puffed away from Cusco’s cathedral square to companion cheering, flag-waving, and fanfare. The bishop stood out on his balcony for all to see and blessed them with Latin recitation and dramatic arm flails. It was all very theatrical.
Primrose in her full veil stood on the port side of the main deck and raised her own arms in kind. Anitra did the same on the other. The crowd seemed to find this very rewarding. Flowers were thrown.
Primrose enjoyed herself more than she ought. She’d always felt a kinship to actresses. Her mother had once trod the boards, and her father had died tragically, stage left, during a hugely well-regarded soliloquy. She felt them with her there, on the Cusco stage. She had played her role well. Daddy would be proud.
They left the city behind, floating on the ever-present southward breeze. It had kicked up at the approach of nightfall into a veritable wind.
Percy explained that this was common in high mountain valleys like this one.
Southeast of the city, it became clear that the terrain below was tilting downhill, for they were following a stream in the direction of flow. It was little more than a thin trickle this time of year, but the pishtaco hive was situated near a lake, and they hoped that it might be deep enough for the Custard to take on water.
One of the most confusing things about their journey was the number of ruins. From marketplace conversation, Prim thought they were looking for just the one. Unfortunately, the valley seemed to have once held several Inca villages and cities and such. Each hill they floated over boasted a ruin of some kind. They were easy to spot, being stone, where the living used mudbrick and built lower down, near the water.
However, these ruins were little more than one or two walls, no roof. Supernatural creatures, be they pishtacos or anything else, always had a means to create darkness during daylight. Their immortality depended upon it. So none of these could be the ruins Rue was after.
So instead the Custard looked for the lake.
By the time it became visible ahead, the sun had retreated behind the first of the mountaintops. It hadn’t set yet, however, so Tasherit had not appeared on deck. But the world around them was descending into long shadows, and it was getting ever colder.
Primrose leaned over the prow. Their lake, when they finally found it, turned out to be a big wide brown thing, still and low in its banks. The water was muddy. They’d have to drink what they’d gotten from the bishop and use this stu
ff for their boilers.
“I suppose we’ll have to make do with sponge baths for the foreseeable future,” she lamented to Anitra.
The Drifter patted her arm. “Even those are a luxury to me.”
“What a nice thing to say.” Primrose wondered how people bathed in the desert. Then, figuring she and Anitra had crossed a point in their relationship where such a question might not be deemed intrusive, “How do you bathe in the desert?”
Anitra laughed. “There is the occasional oasis. But mostly we rub down with sand.”
“And that works?”
“It does.”
“Remarkable.”
Rue came up and joined them.
“Ladies, what do you think?”
“It won’t be good to drink or wash, but it’ll do for the boilers,” said Prim. “Probably smelly.”
“Probably. Keep an eye out for those ruins we’re after. I’ll tell Percy to take us down and Quesnel to get the sipper tube ready.”
She wandered back towards navigation.
Primrose pulled out a pair of opera glasses and began scanning the hills all around. Anitra did the same with a pair of glassicals that looked suspiciously like they had once belonged to, and been modified by, Rodrigo Tarabotti.
“Where’s Mr Tarabotti?” Primrose asked.
“Collecting things that can kill vampires.”
“Is that allowed?”
Anitra gave a small smile. “It’s not like he wants a gun. Only sharp pointed objects. I think the captain might be persuaded. It is, after all, his nature. And hers.”
Primrose gave her an arch look. “I shall be interested in seeing the pointed objects fly, should it come to that.” And hope they do not fly towards us. She went back to scanning their surroundings with her glasses.
“Look, over there, see that long adobe structure? Very Spanish looking and a great deal larger than any of the village houses we’ve seen in ages.”
Anitra followed Prim’s pointed finger and trained her glassicals on the area. “Hacienda? Didn’t they say something about the pishtacos living on or near a hacienda as well as ruins. Is that a hacienda?”
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