Competence

by Gail Carriger

  “Did you eat, sir?”

  Percy frowned. Did I eat? “Anitra brought victuals round to Mr Tarabotti and myself in his, erm, quarters. But I might have left before consuming anything. Can’t remember. Conversation had flagged.”

  “I don’t like how friendly you are with that Italian scutter.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Virgil, I’m friendly with no one.”

  Virgil glared. “You talk to him, all the time.”

  “He’s interesting. Odd perspective on the state of the universe. I blame his upbringing.”

  “He could be corrupting you. Sir.” The sir was added with great reluctance.

  “Funny you should say that, Virgil. I was recently worrying that perhaps I was corrupting him.”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “He seems to be coming round to my way of thinking. You know…” Percy waved a hand airily.

  “He is?” Virgil sounded genuinely shocked.

  Percy bristled. “Well, and why shouldn’t he? It is, after all, the correct way of thinking.”

  Virgil looked confused. “It is?”

  “Of course it is. It’s mine, after all.” Percy felt this should be perfectly obvious, even to Virgil.

  Which is when the only other person allowed to break the sanctity of Percy’s library joined their conversation.

  “Preternaturals are ethically malleable,” explained Formerly Floote, shimmering into existence through a bookcase in that uncanny way he had. Percy was impressed by ghostly abilities. He thought he’d like to be a ghost one day, although it wasn’t likely at all. There was nothing creative about Percy. In fact, he rather abhorred creativity - so illogical. No one would ever accuse Percy of excess soul.

  The ghost glided over and began reading over Percy’s shoulder.

  Percy had found this habit rather annoying (not to say rude) at first. But Formerly Floote possessed a keen mind and an active interest in advanced learning, and Percy wasn’t one to kick anyone out for that, even if he was dead. Besides, it’s not like he could pick up a book and turn the pages himself.

  Also, Formerly Floote didn’t say much. Percy admired that in a chap. Although the ghost had said something just now. Only Percy forgot what that was.

  Virgil looked at the ghost.

  So did Percy.

  Formerly Floote was in excellent condition for a month-old ghost. Quesnel had stuck him into some kind of advanced preservation tank, developed specifically with him in mind. The tank kept Floote’s body in perfect condition during daytime and aether transport, and allowed just enough aetheric connection at night in atmosphere for Formerly Floote to manifest throughout the public areas of the airship. His range, most of the time, was not unlike Footnote’s.

  Percy remembered the thing about preternaturals and wiggly ethics and asked with interest, “Exactly how malleable are they, morally speaking?”

  The ghost shook his head. “No morals.”

  Percy frowned at this and Virgil looked smug. The little valet didn’t trust Mr Tarabotti. Not that Percy did, but Virgil had residual feelings about the Italian trying to shoot his deckling friends. Percy supposed this might make a lad like Virgil, all vibrating energy and young passion, a tad vindictive. Then again, Percy was tolerably certain that Rodrigo had tried to shoot him, Percival Tunstell, twice. Percy had nearly killed Rodrigo as well. But none of these attempts had been at all personal. Frankly, Percy was accustomed to offending people into near murderous rages. When someone actually tried to pot him off, it felt endearingly honest.

  Percy narrowed his eyes, considering the ghost’s terse words. “Ah yes, because morality is linked to the soul and preternaturals don’t have souls.”

  Formerly Floote nodded. “Hence the importance of an ethical grounding. Mr Tarabotti has never had one. Neither did his father. Or his grandfather for that matter.”

  “Your original master.” Percy considered. “But he changed, did he not, at the end? That first Mr Tarabotti? I mean to say, the story goes that he tried to kill a werewolf gone mad. For the good of society.”

  Formerly Floote looked thoughtful. His wispy blue-white form drifted as he lost a bit of control over himself in contemplation of the past. “Is that what you believe?”

  Percy shrugged. He didn’t like the word believe. Things were either true or they weren’t, there was no believe.

  “Is that not what happened?” He tested for veracity. Formerly Floote should know. Floote was there.

  The valet-turned-butler-turned-secretary-turned-spy-turned-dead merely nodded. “In a way.”

  Percy shook himself. This was not important, the past was irrelevant. The past was, most of the time, wrong. “So if we give Rodrigo Tarabotti some ethics, will he come around and stop trying to kill or kidnap us?”

  Formerly Floote looked even more thoughtful. This was odd, on a ghost, as if his manifestation were trying to access his corporeal brain meats, which were, of course, no longer active. “It’s possible.”

  Virgil glared at Percy. “I hardly think you are the one to do it.” He paused, then reluctantly added, “Sir.”

  Percy thought he ought to be affronted. “Why not? We’re oddly friendly, Mr Tarabotti and I.”

  “Well, sir, no offence, but you’re rather shaky with all things moral and ethical yourself.”

  Percy thought he ought to be even more affronted, but he found this to be more like a compliment thank not. It implied that he never allowed his scientific analysis of a situation to be troubled by how the rest of the world thought it ought to be. “I’m a perfectly decent human being.”

  “You’re constantly losing your hat, sir.”

  Percy sniffed. “I hardly see how hats have any bearing on this situation.”

  Both Virgil (his valet) and Formerly Floote (once a valet) looked utterly appalled by this statement.

  “The height of one’s top hat brings you closer to God,” intoned Virgil. Which explained why he was always trying to get Percy to wear a stovepipe.

  “Vox nihili. What a preposterous statement,” objected Percy. He straightened his spine, stood up, and went to rummage about in the philosophy and ethics section of his library. Admittedly a small collection, but there were a few good bits on logic from those ancient Greek fellows. Terribly philosophical, of course, and prone to swanning about in their nightshirts, but a solid starter to a quest for ethical stability and in life’s mysteries. Might as well begin with them. “I shall give these to Mr Tarabotti next. We will convert him to our side.”

  Formerly Floote whispered at him, “And how, exactly, would you define our side, Professor Tunstell?”

  Virgil looked equally intrigued. “Yes, sir, how?”

  Percy glared at them. “The superior one, of course. Now stop bothering me, I have aether noise transfers to investigate.”

  Virgil seemed to recollect himself at that juncture. “Actually, sir, you’re wanted on deck.”

  “I am? But we aren’t going anywhere.”

  “No, but the captain thinks there might be someone coming after us.”

  “Hardly see how I can be of use.”

  “You hid it well, sir, but now we all know you’re quite handy with a pistol. And there’s the multiple language capacity as well.”

  Percy wrinkled his nose. He was actually also rather handy with his fives, but he’d never tell anyone that. Physical exertion of any kind gave him the vapours, and punching someone was so very violent.

  Still, an order from his captain was not to be ignored, so he followed Virgil above decks dutifully, leaving behind his research with no little regret.

  He bumped into Anitra in the hallway. The young lady was looking flustered - odd, as she was generally an admirably unflappable individual. He handed her the Greek logic books. “Would you give these to Mr Tarabotti next time he has a meal?”

  She looked at them suspiciously. “Why?”

  “Your ghostly grandfather and I were talking, a
nd we thought it might be a good idea to get him started on a proper ethical foundation.”

  Anitra’s dark eyes brightened. “Grandfather suggested it?”

  Percy shrugged. “Apparently it’s worked well in the past, on other Tarabottis.”

  Virgil interjected, “That’s not exactly what he—”

  Percy glared. “Hush, Virgil, no one asked your opinion.”

  Anitra looked unexpectedly pleased with the prospect. “You think he can be saved?”

  Percy looked her up and down. Anitra was a pretty thing, a Drifter by birth and with all the fine strong features, big brown eyes, and tan skin one might expect from those of Ottoman descent. She even had dimples. Percy found her very pleasing, but more for her soundness of mind than her lithe appearance. It mattered not either way, she was without a doubt not interested in him for any kind of liaison. Her eyes were always friendly in their evaluation of his own form, but never hot.

  Percy wasn’t fussed, he was pleased to have her goodwill over her romantic interest. The former was a great deal more comfortable than the latter. The latter might have involved eyelash fluttering. Anitra had such very long and thick eyelashes, he might not have been able to resist.

  “Saved? Saved from what?” wondered Percy.

  “The gallows of course.”

  Percy frowned. “Oh, I don’t think anyone wishes to see Mr Tarabotti strung up, do they?”

  Anitra seemed surprised. “Don’t they? Isn’t that your custom?” She paused. “Not even Mr Lefoux wants it?”

  Percy considered this. Quesnel Lefoux had suffered the worst as a result of the Italian’s attack. His injury was still not completely healed and there was a good chance he would never regain full use of his right arm. “You understand that there is no love lost between myself and Mr Lefoux, Miss Anitra? But I should never describe Lefoux as a vindictive man. Although he is French, and the French can be quite passionate about… everything.”

  Anitra seemed to lose her taste for this conversation. Percy wondered if he had stuck his foot into his mouth as per usual. Still, even as her attention drifted, her expression remained pleased and she was clutching the Greek philosophers to her small bosom in a very ardent manner. Percy supposed there were some who felt ardent about Greek philosophy.

  She said, a little breathlessly, “I shall take these to him immediately.”

  Formerly Floote materialised through the wall at that juncture, looking with ghostly affection at the young lady. “Granddaughter?”

  “Grandfather! Professor Tunstell says Greek logic might save Mr Tarabotti and that you suggested this approach. Do you really think it possible?”

  The ghost was confused. “Now, now, my child, that’s a hasty supposition.”

  But she was off, trotting gracefully back down the hallway.

  Formerly Floote rounded on Percy. “Now look what you’ve done, gone and raised her hopes!” With which the ghost hurriedly drifted after her.

  Percy shook his head in utter confusion. He made his way up top. Women. Women and ghosts. And now Greeks. What a tangle.

  Above decks everyone seemed to be looking at some kind of mushroom which was falling from the wheystation above and headed in their general direction.

  Percy wandered over to Rue, who had an articulated spyglass to her eye and was squinting into it in a manner guaranteed to give a girl a headache.

  “I see my sister is headed our way,” said Percy, casually.

  “Do you really think it’s her?”

  Percy gave his captain a look. “Who else would drop a mushroom on us?”

  Rue nodded and continued staring through the glass.

  Percy said, just in case stating the obvious hadn’t already been done yet, “Bet it’s a great deal harder for them to see us than it is for us to see them.”

  The mushroom, after all, was silhouetted perfectly against the brightness of the station above it, but it wasn’t headed directly at them, and they were sunk into the obscuring darkness of beach and palm trees.

  Rue jumped. “Oh, my, yes! How could I be so foolish? Thank you, Percy, we should send up a signal of some kind. Let them know where we are. Quesnel? Quesnel, where are you?”

  The handsome Frenchman materialised out of Percy’s navigation pit on the poop deck. Percy tensed. What is he doing in my zone?

  Lefoux ambled over. “Yes, cherie?”

  Rue said, knowing it would please her lover greatly, “Get out the fireworks, would you, my darling? This situation calls for sparkles.”

  Mr Lefoux dearly loved blowing things up. Percy found this inclination juvenile. Rue found it utterly charming. Percy supposed it was Rue’s opinion that mattered both as chief officer and semi-spousal affiliation.

  “Did you want me for something else, Rue?” he asked, while Lefoux dashed off in pursuit of fireworks.

  Rue grinned at him. “I had Quesnel check over the navigation pit. Everything seems to be in good working order.”

  “As it should be.” Percy was affronted. “We sprang a helium leak, Rue, that’s nothing to do with navigation.”

  “Better to be safe than sorry.”

  “There’s no need for platitudes.”

  “I also wanted to ask you about our little Italian friend.”

  “Mr Tarabotti? We were just discussing him.”

  “Oh, were we? What we?”

  “Virgil, Formerly Floote, Miss Anitra, and myself. Oh, and Footnote.”

  “Percy, that’s a veritable tea party. You?”

  “It wasn’t by choice, Rue. Nor was it all at once. Footnote was party to the first, Anitra to the second.”

  Rue grinned at him, tawny eyes sparkling almost as much as the fireworks soon would. “And what did you conclude?”

  “Prevailing opinion seems to be in favour of a possible ethical reform.”

  “You believe the situation can be salvaged?”

  “Why does everyone think I have an opinion on the matter? What on earth would I know about reforming a man’s character?”

  “You make a very valid point, Percival.”

  Percy nodded in relief. At least Rue wouldn’t overestimate him. “I’ve sent him into the care of several Greek philosophers.”

  Rue nodded. “Logic?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll move him on to the medievalists next?”

  “I was thinking Thomas Aquinas.”

  “And then perhaps The Higher Common Sense?”

  Percy figured Rue was much better equipped to select a course of study for a soulless killer than he. After all, there was some question as to whether she herself had a soul or simply borrowed other people’s on occasion. No matter what, she seemed, to Percy, a generally positive influence on the world. Occasionally a tad enthusiastic in her methods, sometimes lacking in forethought, but her motives were, if not noble, at least affable and not intentionally malicious. She was, in her own bizarre way, a role model.

  “I believe I have a copy of Fausse-Maigre somewhere in my library,” said Percy, wondering where he’d filed Common Sense.

  Rue gave him a measured look. “Perhaps you should read it first and discuss it with him.”

  Percy nodded. And then, “Wait a moment. Was that a dig at my expense?”

  Rue blinked tawny eyes at him. “Oh, look, Quesnel’s brought up the fireworks. I should just go, um, supervise in a captain-type manner.”

  Percy spared her a sniff and wondered if he should get her to read the bloody books as well.

  Primrose liked to think she was a dignified individual. As a result, she cherished a particular preference for floating. It was, when all was said and done, a very dignified mode of travel. One might even call it a civilised pastime. Except for the way Rue did it. But then, while Rue was many things, dignified wasn’t one of them. During the more frustrating times in their long friendship, Primrose had even accused Rue of being uncivilised. Rue hadn’t denied it.

  Still, a
s Primrose leaned perilously over the edge of the slowly sinking mushroom, she did wish (ever so slightly) that they were dropping with a bit less elegance and a great deal more purpose.

  Around her, the contents of the mushroom, otherwise known as her fellow passengers in the dropsy, were restless. Their awe at sharing a basket with a merlion, and their confusion at finding said basket no longer heading in the preferred direction (towards the city of Singapore rather than one of its adjacent beaches) was giving way to a general murmur of distress and annoyance. In other words, the rising anger of the dropsy’s passengers was outpacing the speed of the dropsy’s dropping.

  There were many languages being spoken, and such a range of origins guaranteed that some were less awed by a merlion than others. Primrose watched them all covertly, and worried.

  The guide tore her eyes away from Miss Sekhmet-the-Fish and regarded Primrose suspiciously. Prim only continued with her subtle steering of the balloon, the artificial propeller dropped well over the edge and out of sight. She leaned carefully against the bearing straps so as to shield them from view. Her massive sleeves, at the very height of fashion, proved extremely useful in this regard. As did the design of her evening hat, which emphasised her constant glancing over the edge, the quivering of its feathers misconstrued as representing the distress of one who fervently wished to be elsewhere. Primrose appeared to be nothing more than a worried wealthy young lady who had sacrificed her safety on the altar of lesser transport and was now reaping the upset of fraternisation with the hoi polloi.

  Soon enough, the guide seemed to decide that Primrose was nothing more than she appeared. A grave mistake many had made before, and one that Prim would certainly count on many making in the future.

  The guide’s attention returned to Tasherit. Primrose heaved a sigh of relief and then, along with the rest of the passengers, emitted an unintended shriek of surprise when a loud bang and pop reverberated through the quiet night air.

  Someone appeared to be shooting at them! This was not part of her plan.

  Then the sky was briefly set afire with a brilliant flash of sparkling yellow and red.

  Someone screamed loudly.

  Someone else fainted.