Rue tried not to sneer at him.
He passed Anitra the plate of toast tips in a solicitous manner.
Anitra took one. “He’s right. We need wind, and reliable winds stick to the Nile.”
Rue moved her finger further down the map. “What about here, at the second cataract? We go due south while the Nile veers west. We’d save considerable time cutting across the desert both there and later, at the third. We start following the river again at the sixth, here at” – Rue craned her neck about to read the city name – “Khartoom.”
Floote, who apparently didn’t need the benefit of a map to follow, sipped his tea. Tea in this weather! Rue supposed that as a frail old man who ate little, English tea was both his main sustenance and a comforting reminder of his former life. She was happy with water. Quesnel, Percy, and Anitra partook only of barley water tempered with a little lemon. Primrose, stubborn to the end, drank her tea with a will, something to be endured for the sake of tradition. Tasherit sipped iced milk from a teacup.
Floote said, “Nubia is dangerous.”
Anitra added, “Not exactly friendly. Not to Drifters, and certainly not to the English.”
Rue shrugged. “War is in the air, I know. But tracking the Nile is no way to ensure safety either. We’re over hostile territory, desert or river, and at least this way we save time. What do you think, Tash?”
Tasherit twitched, as though hoping for a tail to suddenly appear that she might lash. “Directness is not in my nature, but with an unknown enemy on our tail, I say risk the desert at speed.”
“Unknown enemy?” Quesnel’s eyes narrowed at Rue, as if it were her fault. “I thought we’d settled on them being some big game hunter.”
Rue sighed. “Too many attacked us back before we split the escort. Not even the Royal Society could float that many ships at once, nor would they spend all their might on collecting one werecat, rare though she may be.”
Miss Sekhmet’s brown eyes were grave. “That takes me down a whisker or two.”
“No insult intended.” Rue hurriedly backtracked, until she realised the werelioness was joking. Cats, terrible sense of humour, the lot of them.
Prim looked up from pouring herself another cup of endurance tea. “You mean to say, we’re back to not knowing who’s after us?”
Rue turned an enquiring look on her mother’s former butler. “Mr Floote, would you care to enlighten us as to who might be attacking The Spotted Custard?”
The old man put down his cup. His hands shook a little, with palsy, not fear.
“Hunters you call them?” He turned the question back on her, very Socratic.
“Back in London, Percy let it out that we had a werelioness aboard. They likely think she’s the last of her kind. We think that made her a pretty tempting prospect.”
“And if they knew there were more of her kind?” Floote cocked his head.
Tasherit hissed at this.
The elderly man held up a hand. “Would that diminish her value?”
Rue considered this. “Difficult to determine. But there’s no legal rights for Miss Sekhmet’s people either way, so we thought it had better be us doing the protecting.”
“Unless you are guiding the enemy straight to her pride.”
“That was my point,” put in Quesnel.
Rue glared. “It was Tasherit’s call and she said we go. So we’re going.”
Floote nodded his grey head. “I see. But you now think that many ships refute the hunter-collector theory? They could have help.”
“And who might be helping?” Rue was pleased they were back on her initial question.
Floote raised a liver-spotted hand and ticked off one gnarled finger after the other. “Templars. Order of the Brass Octopus. Some other secret society. Members of the British Royal Society. Museum, contract, or independent collectors. Sportsmen after exotic game. Or a coalition thereof.”
Primrose put down her teacup with a clatter. Her eyes were fixed on Tasherit. The werelioness looked like she was trying not to be ruffled by such a long list of enemies.
Rue let out a breath. “That’s a surfeit of interested parties. Could you elucidate further?”
Floote tilted his head. “The Templars are more concerned with your mother’s kind, and likely you, than with shape-shifters, but that doesn’t mean they don’t want to kill them. A new kind of immortal is a new kind of threat, so the Templars might send agents out of curiosity. Or they might prefer to finance others. Depends on how taxed their resources are right now. I’m afraid I’ve been out of the European loop. Regardless, it never pays to discount the Italians.”
Rue nodded. Her mother had mentioned Templars. She’d called them disagreeable fellows with a predilection for delicious food and lopping the hands off of preternaturals, religious zealots with funny ideas about immortality, nightclothes, and daemons. “You take my advice, infant, avoid Italy. It’s not worth it, even for the pesto.” Since Rue did not want her hand lopped off – preternatural policy likely extended to metanaturals – she had stayed out of Italy. Regretfully, as they were renowned for their pastries.
“And how would we know them?” Rue asked.
“Templars wear white tabards with red crosses. They aren’t above hiring outside aid, but there would be at least one present to watch the operation.”
Rue had to be grateful for Floote’s knowledge and his willingness to share. There was a lot, she was beginning to realise, that her mother and father had tried to teach her about evil and enemies and secret societies. She had either blithely ignored it, or thought it unlikely to apply to her, or not realised its import at the time. If she had, she might have asked more questions.