“Of what type is the travel book, Lady Captain?” he asked.
“Bad?” said Rue cautiously.
The boy grinned. “No, I meant what part of the world, flowery retelling or solid factual detail?”
“Oh. Egypt.”
Primrose added, “And flowery. Definitely flowery.”
Virgil led them around the back of two chairs, both covered in rolls of maps, metal scrolls for aetherographic transmitters, and current charts. He pulled one of the chairs away and pointed down to a shelf near the floor stacked with small, cheaply made, slim travel memoirs. There were an awful lot of them. Fortunately, none of the others was pink. Percy, great collector of the written word though he may be, evidently did not already own a copy of his mother’s infamous work. Rue tucked the volume in among its fellows in as innocuous a location as possible.
She straightened. “Thank you very much for your help, Virgil.”
Prim asked, “Does my brother have anything in a less flowery vein on travelling in India, do you know?”
“Over here.” Virgil pointed up at a higher part of the same shelf. The books there had been disturbed and stuffed with bits of notepaper marking pertinent sections. Percy had obviously been following instructions to read up on their destination.
Prim stood on tip-toe to read the spines. She selected The Complete Indian Housekeeper and Cook by Flora Annie Steel and Grace Gardiner.
“Thank you kindly, young man. I believe this will do nicely.”
They made their farewells to Virgil and Footnote, both young males pleased to have been of assistance but eager to get on with their regular tasks – in Virgil’s case, as boot-black, and in Footnote’s, interfering with the boot-black.
“What is that about?” Rue pointed to The Complete Indian Housekeeper and Cook clutched in Prim’s hands as they exited.
“Best to give Virgil something more to report to my brother than us returning a book. If we took something from his collection, Percy will focus on that and forget the one we added.”
“Very nice tactic.” Rue respected Prim’s manipulative talents.
“Besides, this looks like an interesting read.”
At which statement Rue, who preferred adventure novels, was properly horrified.
Three days later, they left off their slow spinning, to the great relief of all. It had become disorientating, even in the grey nothingness of the aetherosphere. Prim had stopped taking tea on deck, claiming the stateroom was more restorative. Rue made a vow to eschew the waltz at future balls – it may be old-fashioned of her, but she had a newfound respect for the quadrille.
Percy de-puffed them expertly into a more relaxed and standard current, the Central Hyderabad Waft, which would take them on to India and down towards Bombay. From the maps, Rue knew that they must be above the Baghdad Environs at the moment, but the aetherosphere provided no evidence to this fact. Much as she loved to float, Rue was finding that she preferred the slower method inside the actual air, where one could see the landscape below.
It would take another three days to reach Bombay but Rue insisted they continue without pause. This might tax their stores and leave them low on fuel, but there was no convenient tower near the Hyderabad Waft. They’d have to go to ground for a restock and dipping down would severely waste hours.
Everyone was prosaic about this decision except Primrose, who panicked over the prospect of running low on milk. She instructed Cook to take all non-dairy essentials, including Rue’s favourite custards, off the menu until further notice – all milk being required for tea – and even considered extracting the Swiss condensed reserves out of storage.
“I don’t think we need go that far,” was Rue’s response to the idea.
“Extreme measures,” hinted Prim darkly.
Despite her friend’s doom talk, they made it to Bombay with little fuss and no shortage of milk. They de-puffed out of the aetherosphere to find India spread below them like a great red and brown apple fritter nestled in a pool of blue sauce. There were sprinkles of green jungle, which, if one continued the comparison, meant the fritter was mouldy.
Rue had no idea if Bombay was typical of the colonies, but it was not typical of any city she’d ever visited before. Which she guessed meant the onus was on her to change what she considered city-like. It was lyrically beautiful, a place of colour and spice. Aunt Ivy would have waxed most verbose at the sight. Possibly even written another slim travel memoir.
Rue, while impressed, was frightened of flowery language even when faced with such an amazing sight as Bombay.
“Oh, my,” was the sum total of her commentary, as Percy guided them slowly through the atmosphere, ever downward towards the mass of buildings, dirigibles, roads, rails, and humanity that made up the First Great Port of the Great British Empire.
Later, Rue added to her eloquence with, “Gracious me.”
Bombay was, ostensibly, a peninsula, but it looked from above more like an island, surrounded on almost all sides by water. Percy was directing them towards the southern-most tip where a parade ground gave way to an old cemetery and the Colaba Battery. A muddy beach along the western edge had been misappropriated for airship use and was dotted with dirigibles, ornithopters, and balloons, plus associated loading docks and mooring points. The airships were tied down using long lines fixed to bollards set into the ramparts of the parade ground. In cases of very high tide, the airships were given lee to rise up above the water. It was impossible to board at such times, but given the crowded city, this made for a sensible use of an otherwise unreliable beach.
Fortunately, it was low tide as The Spotted Custard floated in to ground.
The ship caused no little fuss upon arrival. Bombay and her resident regiments were accustomed to airships in many shapes and sizes but The Spotted Custard was a cut above the rest, and rather shiny. Officers liked flash, particularly red flash, and they were suitably impressed by a large ladybird bobbing into port. A few of the off-duty foot even wandered over to see who might disembark from such an impressive ship.
Also, as Rue was to shortly discover, the native population appreciated transport disguised as animals.
“Let’s give them a show as we disembark, shall we?” suggested Rue to Prim’s evident delight.
Primrose was fond of the military – rather too much for Aunt Ivy’s comfort; Rue a little less so, as she grew up with werewolves who were always attached to some regiment or another.
“Shall we change?” suggested Rue.
Prim was grinning.
Rue turned to her crew, busy battening down the Custard for docking. The mainsail was in, the mooring ropes out, and the propeller wound down.
“You all right from here on without me, Navigator Tunstell?”
Percy nodded without bothering to reply.
Rue wondered if she should ask him if he wanted to come along but, knowing Percy, calculated that this was a waste of breath.
The two ladies linked arms and headed across the poop deck to the ladder down to their quarters.
Since the idea was to impress, they chose two of their best walking dresses – after consultation to ensure the outfits would display well together. Primrose selected a lemon-yellow organza with black velvet trim in petal-like layers over the skirt and black flower appliqué on the bodice. It had a wide black velvet belt to emphasise the slenderness of her waist. The sleeves were the latest in leg-of-mutton cut with wide black ribbon cuffs. And, of course, it boasted a matching black hat decorated with yellow bows and a huge ostrich plume out the back.
Rue went with a burnt umber Indian silk Worth. Dama was dear friends with Jean-Philippe and had a standing order in for Rue – new gowns every season. Dama referred to the older Worth’s demise earlier that year as the Great Tragedy, and had consoled Jean-Philippe with copious flowers, bolts of silk, and letters of condolence. Jean-Philippe had responded with, among other things, this very dress. It was simpler than Prim’s gown, with a slashed bodice and overskirt. Out from the s
kirt peeked crêpe of a slightly darker umber, and from the bodice a Madras muslin of cream with brown flowers. The edges of the gown were bordered in more of the crêpe, with collar and cuffs of brown velvet. A patten of cream appliqué over the bodice echoed that of the black on Prim’s lemon gown. Rue’s sleeves were narrow and cut high with a lace trim. Her hat was a great deal more modest – of flat Italian straw with one brown velvet bow and three umber silk roses. Together they looked rather like excited mobile tiger lilies.
Both ladies carried parasols against the Indian sun – Rue rejected her mother’s as too ugly and borrowed a brown lace one from Prim. Prim had, of course, a matching lemon-yellow number with black edging. They looked, as Spoo whispered behind their backs, a treat, and might have strolled through Hyde Park at the height of the season with not a single nasty remark from any patroness of high society, not even the anti-supernatural set.
It was wickedly hot. By the time they crossed the deck and strolled down the gangplank, Rue thought she might be melting. She blessed her own irreverent nature and shape-shifting inclination which allowed her to forego stays and undergarments. To wear anything more than outward modesty required, even for the sake of decency, was patently ridiculous. Poor Prim looked likely to faint after only a few minutes’ walk. She did not sweat of course, not the Honourable Primrose Tunstell, but there was a certain sheen to her face that delicacy might term a damp aura.
Rue expected Bombay to play host to the bustle of an exotic marketplace as her mother had described Alexandria. But the place was remarkably still. They were in the imperial section of the peninsula and not the city itself, but she could see the tops of buildings outside the ramparts and even there Bombay seemed… well… dead.
Prim said, “Perhaps respectable folk stay in during the hottest part of the day.”
A few boys in white shifts, brown limbs exposed, scampered by, tossing a large fruit back and forth. Here and there a stray dog wandered, but that was all.
“Either that or there’s a plague,” replied Rue, making light and then regretting it at Prim’s panicked expression.
They walked along the beach or – properly – mudflats, and then up onto the promenade around the edge of the barracks. This brought them closer to the city proper, looming beyond the walls of what Prim said were the Cotton Godowns and the Victoria Bunder. Beyond the walls were rows of massive trees forming a demarcation between representatives of Her Majesty Abroad and everyone else.
The city was pleasingly unfamiliar in shape and smell. The rooftops were all red or covered in coloured tiles. They boasted tall spires or the occasional onion-shaped protrusion. It had its fair share of empire builders too – sky trains, massive rotary carriers, and evidence of other steam transport was everywhere, from rails to divots to cycle hooks. Unlike London, all these machines were decorated. The local sky rail, likely used for transporting goods from warehouses to shipyards up and down the peninsula, loomed high above the buildings. It too was at rest in the heat of the day, hanging from its one massive cable. It featured all the expected components – steam vents, smoke stacks, guidance arms – but it had been made to look like a large elephant. The elephant had huge ears made of brightly coloured animal skins and chains of fresh flowers and paper lanterns garlanded about its neck. Rue marvelled at how close this sky rail came to breaking the Clandestine Information Act, entering the realm of Forbidden Machines. The elephant component must be purely decorative and have no independent protocols, doing nothing more risky than running up and down its cables like any other delivery steamer – only prettier. Otherwise, surely it would have been destroyed.
Rue grinned. England had brought steam to India, but the locals were clearly insistent that steam be attractive. She liked it very much. It was irrepressibly cheerful, a word Rue doubted anyone had ever used to describe a sky train before.
Primrose, the aestheticist, clearly felt the same, for she revived out of her wilted state long enough to remark in wonder, pointing down near the water with her parasol. “Would you look at that? I think it’s a garment washer, but it looks like a monkey. Charming, quite charming.”
Rue pointed at the sky rail.
Prim gasped. “How lovely!”
A voice behind them said, “You admire our Ganesha, ladies?”
Rue and Prim turned to find themselves face to face with an officer in uniform and two customs officials. The officer looked youthfully good-natured but the customs men were sweating profusely and seemed unhappy at being forced to move around.
Rue and Prim curtseyed prettily.
Rue said, “My dear sirs, we do apologise for calling you out in such heat. Had we not been in need of a restock we should have waited to land until a more respectable hour.”
“No need to apologise,” replied the officer. “It happens regrettably often. The currents carry at their whims – science wills it so. If you ladies would step over to the shade just there? We can dispense with the paperwork as soon as may be.”
The two native gentlemen merely murmured, “Madam Sahib,” and allowed the officer to lead the social interchange.
A small table and few spindly chairs were arranged under the shelter of some glorious flowering tree. Rue and Prim stepped.
Rue contemplated enacting one of her schemes. Miss Sekhmet had warned of danger. Should she reveal her true name? She looked to Prim for assistance in determining tactics.
Primrose was busy fluttering her eyelashes at the officer. She was equally identifiable. The name Tunstell had quite the reputation due to the baroness’s hats. Everyone knew that the Wimbledon Queen had had two children pre-metamorphosis because it had been quite the scandal at the time. Thus they couldn’t register the ship under Primrose or Percy’s names either. They might use Quesnel, but Rue wasn’t entirely certain that if she registered The Spotted Custard under his name, the Frenchman wouldn’t gleefully abscond with it.
Fortunately or unfortunately, the decision seemed to have been taken entirely out of Rue’s hands.
The officer gestured for the ladies to sit and introduced himself: “How do you do? I’m Lieutenant Broadwattle. On behalf of Brigadier Featherstonehaugh, I am charged with welcoming you to Bombay.” He looked back and forth between them before hazarding a guess. “You are Lady Prudence Akeldama? And you are the Honourable Primrose Tunstell?”
Rue swallowed a smile. “Other way around, but not to worry – it happens all the time.”
Prim simpered at the young man. “Fortunately, we are such dear friends we do not mind being mistaken for one another.”
“On some occasions we even encourage it,” added Rue.
“Ah, well, two such delicate ladies must, perforce, accompany one another.”
Rue was not one to be distracted by flattery, even by a dasher in uniform. “You were alerted to our imminent arrival?”
“You are earlier than expected, but we did have an inkling. The brigadier expressed his particular interest once the pack informed him of your connections. You’re aware that Bombay’s regiment is honoured by a werewolf special forces attachment?”
Rue brightened – shapes to steal. “Oh, how nice. Anyone I know?”
“The Kingair Pack?”
Rue winced. “Ah. I see.”
Prim looked at her sharply. “What?”
“Fringe relations. They advised Brigadier Featherstonehaugh of my coming?”
The officer nodded, smiling nervously at her reaction.
“Now I know why Paw didn’t fight harder to keep me home,” said Rue. “Werewolves. Interfering busybodies, the lot of them.”
“Rue, language,” remonstrated Primrose, fidgeting awkwardly in embarrassment.
Like a true gentleman, Lieutenant Broadwattle moved the conversation on. “Unfortunately, pressing business makes the brigadier unable to welcome you himself. Nevertheless I am charged with informing you as to his profound honour at being graced by a visit from the daughters of such collectively esteemed vampires, Tunstell and Akeldama.” Rue cou
ld read the truth behind that statement – they were an inconvenience. The officer continued, “I suggest, however, that you keep your ancestry private. We have tried desperately to civilise this country but vampires, I’m afraid, are not at all liked in India. Natives categorise them as Rakshasas, a folkloric daemon. We are told that the cultural practices of vampires are less sanguine in this part of the world. Although I have not had the pleasure myself.”
The two customs officials winced noticeably at the word Rakshasas and made small hand gestures to ward off evil. They were both Indian, heads wrapped in cloth, with dark eyes and impressively full beards.
The young officer moved swiftly on. “Werewolves, on the other hand, are most welcome. Many animals are considered, at least partly, sacred in India. Although they have no native packs – wrong climate – the werewolf curse is thought a blessing… with sufficient full moon controls, of course.”
“How novel,” said Rue.
“Not to mention forward-thinking,” added Primrose, smiling warmly at the two native men. She was trying to show that she had no hard feelings for their vilification of her relations.
One could not blame a people for disliking vampires. Vampires were like Brussels sprouts – not for everyone and impossible to improve upon with sauce. There were even those in London who disapproved of Dama, and he was very saucy indeed.
The young officer managed a weak smile. “If we could get on to the minutia, ladies? Because of your connections, we have tried to make this as simple as possible. Of course, in casual conversation when you are home, perhaps a favourable mention in polite company on the efficient nature of my regiment?”
“I assure you, thus far, we will have nothing but glowing things to say about the Bombay company.”
Lieutenant Broadwattle smiled radiantly, his slightly homely face made handsome by good cheer. “Here are your papers of registration for the airship. Spotted Custard, as I understand, is the name? You, Lady Akeldama, are down as primary owner, with three other members of rank listed as the Honourable Primrose Tunstell, Professor Tunstell, and one Mr Lefoux. Is that correct?”
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