The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set

by Gail Carriger

  “He left me with two instructions, sir—protect Alexia and protect the Mandate of the Broken Ankh.”

  Biffy knew from the way the butler’s face closed over that he would get no more out of Floote that evening. But Biffy also could not afford to be wrong. Even knowing that it would disrupt the smooth running of the household, even knowing there was danger both at home and abroad, even knowing that Floote was elderly, even knowing that there would be werewolves traipsing around with badly tied cravats as a result, Biffy stuffed down his scruples. He drew back his fist and with supernatural speed and strength, tapped the butler on the temple hard enough to knock him senseless.

  With a very sad sigh, the dandy flipped Floote’s limp body easily over one well-dressed shoulder and carried him down to the wine cellar. There he removed the man’s guns—there were two, as it transpired—from his pockets, searched for anything else of interest, and locked him in. It was ironic that the wine cellar had originally been fortified as a prison to hold Biffy only two years ago.

  Biffy didn’t feel victorious. He didn’t feel as though he had solved some great mystery. He was simply sad. He was also grateful it would be up to Lyall to sort this mess out. His dear Beta would have to decide whether to tell Lady Kingair or not. Biffy did not envy him that conversation. With the heavy heart of a man burdened with unpleasant news, Biffy went looking for Lyall.

  Alexia didn’t want to awaken Conall—he was catching up on a few hours of sleep after a very hectic day—but she had news to relate and she was near to dropping from exhaustion herself.

  She’d been awake over twenty-four hours with no trace of poor Primrose. No ransom note, no trail, nothing. The sun would set in less than an hour, and Alexia felt like she’d been at her inquiries for an age.

  “Conall!”

  He snuffled into the pillow.

  She reached out to touch his bare shoulder with her bare hand, turning him human. Even that didn’t awaken him. He was knackered. Lord knows what he had been up to, gallivanting around angry and then tracing the baby and dealing with politicians. He had probably expended a lot of energy. And the sun was very hot and bright in Egypt.

  “Conall, really. Wake up.”

  The earl blinked tawny eyes open and glared at her. Before she could react, he gathered her in against him in a warm embrace. Always amorous, her husband. Then he seemed to remember that not only was there a crisis, he was still angry over her siding with Professor Lyall.

  He pushed her away petulantly, like a small child. “Yes, Alexia?”

  Alexia sighed, knowing he needed time to forgive her, if he ever would, but finding it hard not to be able to hold him under such nerve-wracking circumstances. “I’ve just had a message from Biffy. Or, better said, I remembered at the last minute my standing aethographor appointment. I managed to relay to him the current crisis, not that he could do anything, but I thought home ought to know. He sent a note back. Then I had to stop. The transmitter was booked and they booted me off. Me! Now, of all times! You know, I tried to extend the time, but the little old lady behind me in the queue had a terribly important message for her grandson and would not be reasoned with!”

  “Someday, Alexia, you will be that little old lady.”

  “Oh, thank you very much, Conall.”

  “The message?” her husband prodded.

  “Biffy says that he has traced the epicenter of the God-Breaker Plague to one particular bend in the Nile River, near Luxor.”

  “And this relates to Primrose how?”

  “It might. Because I managed to, well, um, bribe a few of the dahabiya captains down at the dock.”

  The earl raised an eyebrow.

  “Madame Lefoux definitely hired a boat, one of the fastest and best on the line, to take her upriver. But not to Cairo, only by way of Cairo. No, her fare was for Luxor, or that’s what one man said, based on the amount of money he observed changing hands. She had a mysterious bundle with her and she asked a lot of questions. So what do you think?”

  “Very suspicious. I think we should go after her.”

  Alexia bounced slightly. “Me too!”

  “How are Mr. and Mrs. Tunstell?” Lord Maccon switched topics.

  “Coping tolerably well. Tunstell, at least, has been responding to direct questions. Ivy is difficult but then that is Ivy for you. I think we can leave them for a few days and follow Genevieve up the Nile.”

  “Right, then. The sooner we set out the better.” Conall lurched out of bed.

  Alexia tried to be practical. “But, my love, we both need rest.”

  “Still mad at you,” he grumbled at her using an endearment.

  “Oh, very well. But, Conall, we still need rest.”

  “Ever the pragmatist. We can rest on the train to Cairo. I think we can still catch one. It won’t be as fast as Madame Lefoux, not if she hired one of the new steam-modified dahabiyas. But it will put us only a day behind her.”

  Alexia nodded. “Very well, I’ll pack. You tell the others. And get Prudence, please. She’s asleep in the nursery. I’m not leaving her behind with a baby snatcher on the loose.”

  The earl lumbered from the room, shirt hanging loose about his wide frame and his feet bare, before Alexia could stop him and make him dress. She supposed Ivy and Tunstell would be too distraught to take umbrage. She began a whirlwind of packing, throwing everything she could think of into two small cases. She had no idea how long they might be but figured they ought to travel as light as possible. Prudence would have to leave her mechanical ladybug behind.

  Lord Maccon returned a quarter of an hour later with a sleeping Prudence tucked casually under one arm and Tunstell trailing behind.

  “Are you certain I can’t accompany you, my lord?” The redhead was looking frazzled. His trousers were not as tight as usual.

  “No, Tunstell, it’s best if you stay. Hold down the home front. It’s possible we could be on the wrong track, that Madame Lefoux isn’t the culprit or isn’t following the culprits. Someone with a reasonable sense of responsibility must remain here to deal with the authorities, keep making a stink, keep them hunting.”

  Tunstell’s face was serious, no smiles for once. “If you think it best.”

  Conall nodded his shaggy head. “I do. Now, don’t hesitate to bandy my name about if you need the authority.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  Alexia added, “If Ivy feels up to it, there are messages coming in for me at the aethographor station every evening just after six. Here is a letter of permission granting Mrs. Tunstell the authority to receive them in my stead. Even so, they may not accept a substitute without my presence, but it’s the best I can do at short notice. Only if she feels up to it, mind you.”

  “Very well, Lady Maccon, if you’re certain I won’t do?” Tunstell was clearly falling back on his claviger training in order to deal with this crisis.

  “I’m afraid not, Tunstell my dear. The individual sending the messages from London will only respond to me or Ivy.”

  Tunstell looked puzzled but didn’t question Lady Maccon further.

  “Good luck, Tunstell. And I am sorry this has happened to you and Ivy.”

  “Thank you, Lady Maccon. Good luck to you. I hope you catch the bastards.”

  “As do I, Tunstell. As do I.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  In Which We Learn Why Werewolves Don’t Float

  There were no more trains to Cairo that day, which meant Lady Maccon and her husband were forced to return to the dock and hire river transport. It was easier said than done. Despite the fact that they were now familiar with Lady Maccon and her autocratic demands, the captains did not want to set out until the following morning. Then there was the price to negotiate. Very few dahabiyas carried any kind of modern conveniences—augmented small-craft outboard steam propellers or tea kettles, for example—making them mere pleasure vessels designed to be pulled slowly up the river by mule or, worse, human power!

  “It’s all so very primitive
!” huffed Alexia, who might ordinarily have enjoyed such a leisurely mode of transport.

  Her excuse for such bad behavior must be that she was, at this juncture, exhausted, dusty, worried about Primrose, and tired of carrying Prudence. It was after sunset and the toddler was entirely in her charge. Under such circumstances, everyone’s tempers were fraying, even Prudence, who was hungry. The quintessential Egyptian lack of urgency and insistence on haggling and negotiation was driving the efficient Lady Maccon slowly insane.

  It was almost midnight and they were talking with the eighth captain in a row when a tap came on Alexia’s shoulder. She turned around to find herself face-to-face with an extraordinarily handsome man, his features familiar, his beard cut neat and sharp—their Drifter rescuer from the bazaar.

  “Lady? You are ready now, to right the wrong of the father?” His voice was deep and resonant, his words clipped by an Arabic accent and limited English.

  Alexia looked him over. “If I say yes, will that get me any closer to Luxor?”

  “Follow.” The man turned and walked away, his dark blue robe a swirl of purpose behind him.

  Alexia said to her husband, “Conall, I believe we may have to follow that gentleman.”

  “But, Alexia… what?”

  “It has worked in my favor before.”

  “But who on God’s green earth is the man?”

  “He’s a Drifter.”

  “Can’t be—they don’t fraternize with foreigners.”

  “Well, this one does. He rescued us at the bazaar when we were attacked.”

  “What? You were what? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You were busy yelling at me about Professor Lyall’s manipulations.”

  “Oh. So tell me now.”

  “Never mind, we have to follow him. Do come on.” Alexia firmed up her grip on Prudence and dashed after the rapidly disappearing balloon nomad.

  “Oh, blast.” Conall, bless his supernatural strength, hoisted all of their luggage easily and trundled after.

  The man led them toward the Porte de Rosette. Eventually he veered off and, rounding a corner in the street, came upon a medium-sized obelisk carved of red rock that glittered in the moonlight. He was using it as a mooring, a heavy rope wrapped about the base, and his balloon hovered above like—Alexia tilted her head back—well, like a big balloon. The man stopped and made a move to take Prudence from Alexia. She jerked back but when he gestured at a rope ladder significantly, she nodded.

  “Very well, but my husband goes first.”

  Conall was looking with white-faced horror at the swinging ladder. Werewolves do not float. “No, really. I’d prefer not, if you don’t mind.”

  Alexia tried to be reasonable. “We must get to Luxor somehow.”

  “My dear wife, you have seen nothing in your life so pathetic as a werewolf with airsickness.”

  “Do we have a choice? Besides, with any luck we’ll be flying into the God-Breaker Plague zone soon. At which point you should be fine and human once more.”

  “Oh, you think that, do you? What if the plague doesn’t extend upward?”

  “Where’s your spirit of scientific inquiry, husband? This is our opportunity to find just such a thing out. I promise to take lots of notes.”

  “That’s very reassuring.” The earl did not look convinced. He eyed the ladder with even greater suspicion.

  “Up you go, Conall. Stop dawdling. If it’s that bad, I can simply touch you.”

  Her husband grumbled but began to climb.

  “There’s my brave boy,” said his wife condescendingly.

  Being supernatural, he heard her but pretended not to, eventually making it over the edge and into the balloon basket.

  Alexia noticed that the balloon was much lower than the first time she had seen it, during the day. She was grateful for this—less ladder to climb.

  The Drifter shimmied up, Prudence strapped to his back in a sling. The toddler squealed in delight. She, unlike her father, was very excited by the prospect of floating.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Alexia followed suit.

  A little street urchin, all unobserved until that moment, darted forth and unwound the rope from the obelisk mooring. Alexia found herself unexpectedly climbing a free-floating ladder drifting down the street. This was not quite so easily done as one might think, particularly not in a full skirt and bustle, but no one had ever called Lady Maccon a spiritless weakling. She hung on for dear life and continued to make her way up by slow degrees, even as the ladder on which she clung headed for a very large building at a rate rather more alarming than reassuringly dignified.

  She made it up into the basket just in time, somewhat hampered by the restrictions proper dress imposed upon the British female. She thought, not for the first time, that Madame Lefoux might have the right of it. But then she simply could not get around the idea of wearing trousers, not as a female of her proportions. The Drifter met her at the top with a strong hand of assistance, quickly hauling the rope ladder up after her.

  So it was that the Maccons found themselves floating low above the city of Alexandria in one of the famous nomadic balloons completely at the mercy of a man to whom they had not been formally introduced.

  The earl, with a muttered oath, lurched to the basket edge and was promptly sick over the side. He continued to be so for a good long while. Alexia stood next to him rubbing his back solicitously. Her touch turned him human, but it seemed that he was a man ill suited to travel by air, immortal or no. Eventually, she respected his dignity and his mutters of “do shove off” and left him to his misery.

  The Drifter unstrapped Prudence from his back and set her down. She began to toddle around investigating everything—she had her mother’s curiosity, bless her. The crew of the balloon, Alexia surmised after a short while, must be the man’s family. There was a wife, upon whom the harsh features of the desert were not quite so attractive but who seemed more ready to smile than her dour husband. This lent her an aura of beauty, as is often the case with the good-natured. The woman’s many scarves and colorful robes wafted in the slight breeze. There was also one strapping son of perhaps fourteen and a young daughter only slightly older than Prudence. The entire family was amazingly tolerant of Prudence’s curiosity and evident interest in trying to “help.” They pretended to let her steer with the many ropes that dangled in the center of the basket, and the boy held her up high so she could look out over the edge—an action that was met with peals of delighted laughter.

  The balloon remained rather low, especially for a lady accustomed to dirigible travel. Alexia remembered Ivy’s comment about the Drifters ordinarily landing at night because of the cold and then rising up with the heat of the day. It made her wonder.

  With the initial flurry of float-off past, Alexia left her self-imposed position of noninterference, checked once more on poor Conall, who was still expunging, and made her way slowly to their rescuer. It was difficult to walk for, while the sides of the basket were made of wicker, the floor was a grid of poles with animal skins stretched between—not the easiest thing for a woman of Alexia’s girth and shoe choice. Add to that the fact that her moving about shook the entire basket most alarmingly.

  “Pardon me, sir. It’s not that I’m not grateful, but who are you?”

  The man smiled, a flash of perfect white teeth from within that trimmed beard. “Ah, yes, of course, lady. I am Zayed.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Zayed.”

  The man bowed. Then he pointed in turn. “My son, Baddu; my wife, Noora; and my daughter, Anitra.”

  Alexia made polite murmurs and curtsied in their direction. The family all nodded but did not leave their respective posts.

  “It is very kind of you to offer us, a, er, lift.”

  “A favor to a friend, lady.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Goldenrod.”

  “Who?”

  “You do not know, lady?”

  “Evidently not.”

 
; “Then we will wait.”

  “Oh, but…”

  The man’s face closed down.

  Alexia sighed and switched topics. “If you don’t think it interfering, may I ask? We are very low—how can we float at night?”

  “Ah, lady. You know some of our ways. Let me show you.” He made his way over to the middle and threw several blankets off what looked to be a container of gas, of the kind used for lamp lighting back home in London. “For special, we have this.”

  Alexia was instantly intrigued. “Will you show me?”

  The man flashed a brief grin of excitement and began unhitching and hooking in various tubes and cords. He hoisted the canister so its mouth pointed into the massive balloon.

  While he was busy fussing, Alexia took a moment to take in her surroundings.

  The balloon was utterly unlike the British-made dirigibles Alexia had utilized in the past. She had traveled in both small pleasure-time floaters and the larger mail post and passenger transports—the company-owned monsters. This balloon was similar to neither. For one thing, the balloon part itself hadn’t the shape of a dirigible and was entirely made of cloth. It was guided by means of opening and closing flaps rather than by a propeller of any kind. For another, the basket was bigger than a personal jaunt dirigible but much smaller than one of the larger cross-country behemoths. It was twice the length of a rowboat but basically square. In the center was the mooring for the balloon and all the associated straps and contraptions required to see it float and directed properly. As the basket slowly spun with the balloon, there seemed to be no particular front or back. There was an area clearly used for sleeping, another for cooking, and one tented corner that Alexia could only assume was meant for doing one’s private business. She supposed that the family lived in the basket and that the various hanging sacks over the edge and from the base of the balloon—which she had assumed were ballasts—were probably goods and supplies.

  Prudence went wobbling past, the Drifter girl on her tail, both of them giggling madly and having a grand old time. Alexia made her way to Conall, to defend him from possible contact with his daughter. The last thing they needed was an airsick werewolf pup dashing about the craft. Better to have a large airsick man instead.