Percy look shocked at the idea. “I highly doubt it. If they do exist – and it’s just a working hypothesis, mind you, Rue – they have taken a great deal of care not to be known by the British government.”

“Which would be why Miss Sekhmet kept being so mysterious. Then what was her negotiation about?”

Percy shrugged. “You can’t depend on me for everything, Rue, especially if it isn’t written down.”

“Of course not, Percy. I do apologise. Still” – Rue tapped Mrs Featherstonehaugh’s copy of the Epic of Ramayana – “exceptional work.”

Percy actually blushed. “It’s all in the books.”

Rue smiled. “Now if you will excuse me, I must find someone to take a message to Uncle Lyall. Spoo, I think. I like Spoo, very plucky.”

“Who?”

“Spoo.”

“Oh, the little lad who is always tormenting my valet?”

“Sort of.”

Percy nodded. “Yes, by all means send him off on an errand. Maybe Virgil will get some real work done for a change.”

“Now, Percy, don’t be mean. Virgil’s very diligent in your care. Why, I haven’t seen you once without a well-tied cravat or neat waistcoat this entire trip.”

“Oh, not that sort of work. There are manuscripts to dust and catalogue.”

“Percy, he is your valet. You hired him to tend to your appearance, not your books’ appearance.”

“I did?”

“Yes, you did. If you want an archivist, go and get yourself a clerk.”

Percy seemed much taken by this idea. “Do such useful persons exist for hire?”

“Of course they do. Now scoot.”

Percy scooted and Rue went to find herself a tea-gown so she was presentable enough to climb up top. Fortunately, Dama’s drones, accustomed to her predisposition for getting naked and stealing wolf shape, had supplied her with a full range of tea-gowns. They were technically the provenance of older married ladies, but allowances had to be made when balancing Rue’s relaxed attitude against her reputation. Tea-gowns were easy to get into and out of, and elegant despite their simplicity. Rue selected her favourite, one of light blue gauze that wrapped crosswise over her chest held fast by a wide belt. Over the gauze went an open overdress of dark blue velvet with white embroidery. It looked very modern and was comfortable, although perhaps not as cool as an evening in Bombay demanded. Nevertheless, she did not wish to offend the decklings’ sensibilities any more than she already had that night. She climbed up on deck.

“Spoo, walk with me?”

Spoo swung out of her hammock and joined Rue in drifting to the other end of the ship, away from the curious ears of other decklings.

“Do you need my advice about something, Lady Captain?” asked Spoo with all the serious maturity of a ten-year-old.

“Of a kind, Spoo.”

“That Mr Lefoux ain’t good husband material,” offered Spoo immediately, sounding a great deal like some disapproving aged aunt.