“And the Order of the Brass Octopus?” she asked, hopeful.

“They’re different, vested in keeping themselves secret.”

Rue pushed. “And they are?”

“A society of concerned scientists that occasionally interferes in politics when they feel the world needs a nudge. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of them for” – he frowned – “well over a decade, possibly two. You might ask our young friend there.” He tilted his head in Quesnel’s direction.

Quesnel flushed as the entire table turned various levels of anger, interest, and concern in his direction. He raised both hands. “Whoa there. You can check me for the tattoo. I’m not a member.”

Rue was tolerably certain, and she could feel herself heating up at the possibility of having to acknowledge this to everyone in the stateroom, that Quesnel hadn’t a single tattoo anywhere on his body. She’d conducted a complete inventory on more than one occasion. She would defend him if it came to that – no one deserved to be wrongly accused. However, it was one thing to hint to her friends about fraternisation and quite another to confirm it publicly.

Fortunately Quesnel said, “My mother was OBO. Is she up to her old tricks? I don’t think so.”

“It’s not her we’re worried about,” said Rue. At least I don’t think it’s Mother’s old chum. Rue had never entirely trusted Madame Lefoux. Partly because on those occasions when she’d observed them together, they did seem so very chummy.

Quesnel watched her for signs of suspicion. “You want to know if the OBO is still active?”

“Is it?”

“Likely, yes. I declined to join. Secret societies are too old-fashioned for words. Haven’t heard from them since. Regardless, I doubt they’d ally with the Templars – opposing views.”

Floote agreed. “The OBO is likely a better ally for sportsmen and collectors. Of the two, let’s hope it’s them.”

“Why?” Rue asked.

“Templars like to kill first and ask questions later. The OBO would rather experiment first and kill later. Either way you end up dead, but at least with the OBO there’s a chance of escape.”

“Very optimistic.” Miss Sekhmet looked, if possible, even more worried.

Primrose poured her another cup of iced milk.

They were two days out from Wady Halfeh. All that first afternoon, they floated high and fast over the gates of the cataracts. Anyone free of shipboard duty hung over the railings staring down at the widening of the Nile below. The great river became a near lake, dotted with white rapids and the peaks of a thousand varied islands – rocky, sandy, or covered in palm trees. During the night, they floated over Assûan, a town so small they barely marked it passing. Dawn had them at the second cataract. Rue had never before wished to explore groundside so badly. The fierce beauty of the place drew her, the rapids forming a barrier so inhospitable that no villages edged this Nile, yet the scattered lush islands were the stuff of fairy tales.

They continued on, over the unmarked Nubian border, finally arriving at Wady Halfeh. At first glance it was similar to all the previous villages in Egypt. The buildings built of mud-brick with tile roofs, all tan, yellow, and orange. Paths cut from it out into the desert in sand wheel-whorls. But as they de-puffed, it became apparent that Wady Halfeh was different.

The town jutted up on pillars fully three storeys high, out over the Nile. It was constructed to allow for the annual flood, but its focus seemed turned to the desert, looking to the camel trails for trade because the river was too fraught to provide. Tall industrial pipes spiralled into the skies like obelisks, smoke gusting out. This shrouded the town in sooty gloom, not as much as London, but only because the Nile’s persistent breeze carried some particulate away. Still, it covered much of Halfeh in a layer of grime, making the town grungier than the desert around it.

From above, it looked like a great big smudge.

This place was more a creature of the modern age, as Rue had come to understand it, than any she had seen in Egypt. She half expected to find a railroad, spearing out into the desert towards Abu Hammed.

“The desert eats it up,” Anitra explained when Rue asked. “The tracks, I mean. It’s been tried but it never lasts. One could parallel tracks along the Nile, as they do in the Delta, but the flooding is less predictable here. It’d have to stop half the year and then be dug out after. So, with no train, Wady Halfeh does the heavy lifting for aircraft in these parts.”

Rue nodded her understanding. “There’s always lot of airships where trains can’t go.”

“Exactly.”

Rue nodded. “Can’t complain. After all, we intend to refuel here.”

“Nubia has a few way stations further south. But respectable dirigibles don’t moor there unless it’s an emergency. Even then I wouldn’t recommend it. At least Wady Halfeh has some laws.”

Rue nodded. “Understood. Percy, take us down.”

The Spotted Custard sank down, de-puffing in stages towards what looked like the main dockyard. It wasn’t designed up, like most dirigible service ports; instead it soared out over the Nile, bringing airships in low to tether to one island or another.

“We are responsible for our own water intake while moored?”

Anitra nodded. “Coal transfer takes place via a centralised venting system in the centre of town. See there?”

“Percy, take us there first, please.”