“Take her down, please, Mr Tunstell. We could use some water. Plus everyone would like a bath I’m sure. Take us far out from shore so we have a clear view of possible attackers. Anitra, please let our friends know.”
Anitra waved her handkerchiefs while Percy de-puffed them to hover over the lapping waves, nearly cutting the surface with their propeller.
They spent a few hours sucking water into the boilers through their large hydrological tube, while anyone who wished took a dip. Percy wore his smalls, given that his striped bathing costume had been sacrificed for a flag.
Rue ensured a strict rotation so not everyone frolicked at once. She set watch at the stern, focusing on the place where the Nile fed out of the lake. She kept the portside Gatling manned by two at all times. Just in case the enemy caught up to them.
Nothing approached.
By nightfall, Rue was wondering if they had lost the hunters.
They drifted back up, eyes searching below for signs of civilisation. Sekhmet’s lost pride was not making itself easy to find. A few villages dotted the shoreline, but they were abandoned summer stations for pastoral nomads.
The sunset over the lake was a sight so beautiful that Rue considered having Quesnel carried up to see. They’d managed to get him abovedecks a few times so he might take a bit of air. But Rue decided that tonight they were pushing things, having lurked around the lake for most of the day. Besides, last she heard, Quesnel was in engineering. Able to sit up for longer periods of time, they’d improvised a couch for him on the viewing platform at the top of the spiral staircase. He wasn’t allowed to be there too long, smoke and soot and all that. But he did love being back in his own element and his favourite place, singing out orders through a bullhorn.
Miss Sekhmet appeared next to Rue as soon as the last rays sunk below the horizon.
“So, here we are.”
“No sign of your people. We’ve been circling a while. It’s making me nervous.”
“You have to know where to look. Ah. There.” The werecat pointed to one of the papyrus islands, floating some distance offshore relatively near the mouth of the Nile.
Rue put her glassicals on and stared hard. “It’s empty.”
“Just go at it.”
So they did, taking a slow downward approach. It became gradually clear that the papyrus was not, as with the other islands, floating directly atop the water. Instead it had grown to form an arched roof, beneath which were structures, woven into the reeds. It was a massive barge.
“A fake floating island. That’s amazing.”
Tasherit looked smug. “It’s all engineered. You think a people who built the pyramids could not handle such a task?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
They de-puffed. Percy took his time to better narrow in on the target. The Spotted Custard was considered extremely manoeuvrable for an airship, but she was having a rough time of it. Rue would never admit it to him, but they were lucky to have Percy at the helm.
The Drifter balloons stayed clustered above, like a curious bouquet of bubbles. They lowered a little, then netted together but showed no interest in landing. Rue liked them there above her on the lookout. It felt safe.
The closer the Custard got, the less it looked like an island. It was several storeys up out of the water, much higher than Rue realised at first. Strands of papyrus and other vegetation trailed out from the sides, tent-like, which made it look both bigger and more connected to the water. The rounded nature of the reed roof seemed more rounded, as if made of inflated canvas in a massive bubble.
Rue began to wonder how long they would be allowed an uncontested approach. Did the residents intend to entirely ignore a landing dirigible? Or was the place abandoned? Quite apart from all that, what could they moor to? The island seemed to have no protrusions whatsoever.
A flare of light and the sound of air compression came from the island. Followed by a loud, damp thunk.
The Custard rocked at impact.
“They’ve fired something at us,” said Rue. “Something, uh, squishy? Any damage?”
“Looks like they hurled a big clump of mud at us. Warning shot? No damage.” Willard leaned over the main deck railing. “Pain to clean off, though.”
They were about three storeys above the island now. Miss Sekhmet, with one of her feral smiles, shifted herself to lioness shape and leapt over the railings, leaving a pile of silken robes behind.
Primrose, who’d been taking tea near the helm on the poop deck, gave a squeak of alarm and rushed over to look down. Rue flipped her glassicals down from her hat and followed the leap with interest.
The lioness landed, undamaged, and bounced, rather higher and with more enthusiasm than squishy papyrus ought to allow. She came to an ungainly stop, closer to the edge of the island than she likely intended.
“What on earth?” said Rue.
“Not earth, I don’t think,” Primrose said from the poop deck.
“Agreed.”
“Bouncy.” Spoo joined them.
“No, Spoo, you can’t go after.” Rue didn’t even need to look at her.
“Spoilsport.” Spoo made a face.
Rue laughed. “Back to your station, and watch the horizon, Spoo, not the island. I’ll tell you if we need to fire on them. But right now, we’re assuming they aren’t hostile. I don’t think bullets would be healthy for that island. It’s clearly inflated.”
Miss Sekhmet disappeared over the edge of said island, under the tent-like vegetation, presumably heading to where the occupants actually lived.