Competence

by Gail Carriger

  “Yes, Percy dear, amazing.” His sister was scanning the skies, her own small pistol at the ready. They’d been boarded midair by Rodrigo and his people, so now they knew it was possible. Primrose must be thinking of that. She’d had to shoot a person then. They both had. It was a little embarrassing to remember, and no doubt she did not wish for a repeat performance.

  Percy felt the need to revel further in his scientific breakthrough. “I’ll be welcomed back to the Royal Society with open arms.”

  “Aren’t you already their dearest darling? After you betrayed Tasherit and exposed the existence of werecats?”

  Ah well, thought Percy, that didn’t last long. She was back to criticising him. “I apologised for that.”

  “Did you, Percy? Did you really?” He forgot how fierce his sister could get when protecting the people she loved. She’d been a hellion when they were little. He was skinny, sickly, awkward, and always saying the wrong thing. It was Prim who’d defended him. A tiny perfect champion in plaits and lace, using vicious cutting words and a well-wielded fan, even at age eight.

  Now she more often used her words against him rather than in his defence. Is that because I have changed, or because she has changed?

  Percy couldn’t stop himself, even knowing she’d react badly. “Bah! In the end who really cares if there are yet more shape-shifters in the world? This! This proof that aether pockets exist. This isn’t simply a discovery, sister. This is the discovery of the ages. This is real science. I shall be famous.”

  “Oh.” Primrose looked him up and down, disappointed rather than angry. “Is that all you want? Fame?” Disappointment, as it turned out, was worse than anger.

  Percy glared. To be revered and praised for his mind was all he’d ever wanted. He thought she understood that. “Of course!”

  “Fine, then will you stop after?”

  “Stop what, exactly?”

  “Being a total prat.”

  Rue interrupted them with a look that suggested she was doing it on purpose. “Percy, bring us in. Prim, deploy your battle parasol. Willard, fire when ready.”

  Percy went back to his job of navigation and ignored Primrose. She wasn’t making any sense anyway.

  Primrose jumped down and went over to stand near the Gatling, ready to fire when they were in range of her small pistol. She pushed open her parasol. Quesnel’s mother had armoured it somehow. Prim arranged it so that she was partly protected by one side, and Willard by the other. Of course, she’d do it like that.

  She was fearless, sometimes, his sister. Usually when she was most annoyed with him, or felt her family was threatened. And the Spotted Custard was her family now. His too, if he let himself love them even a little.

  Percy shook his head at his own whimsy. He was horrible at loving, better to write papers on aether pockets and have done with it.

  Prim took to the main deck in the hopes of an opportunity to shoot something. Ordinarily she wasn’t bloodthirsty but her nerves were frayed by too much worry in too short a time, and she thought, if pressed, she might shoot her brother. Better to give herself an opportunity to shoot the enemy instead.

  Sadly this was unnecessary, as Willard took a clean pass with the gun and disabled the ladle with no spill, no fuss, and no loss of life.

  Perhaps the pocket people weren’t accustomed to dirigibles with the Spotted Custard’s level of nimbleness. Or perhaps it was the superior technology and reach of the Gatling gun that got to them. Regardless, Willard’s first volley hit the enemy craft amidships and did a tremendous amount of damage.

  By rights it should have been a great deal more dramatic. Prim was disappointed and kept her weaponised parasol open and raised against the sun, just in case. And to ward off freckles, of course.

  With his second volley, Willard took out their bottom propeller and then the lower section of the bowl of the ship. It was his best guess as to where their boilers were located. It was pretty common to put engineering in the base of any ship.

  The enemy airship was such a strange design, one might expect boilers to be located above decks or somewhere equally incongruous, but this time the airship was per international standards.

  A massive chunk of the ladle’s grey hull fell away, and steam burst forth from the gaping hole left behind. Apparently Willard had hit their main boiler. The hull must be made of some very flimsy material indeed, paper thin, as the escaping steam continued to tear away at it, peeling it back until nearly half the side of the ship was gone, exposing the crude structure within.

  Prim was no builder and certainly no engineer, but even she could see that just as the enemy’s Nordenfelt was an older gun, their steam technology was old-fashioned as well. Perhaps a decade out of date.

  The airship itself may have been unique and new to them, but what drove it wasn’t new at all.

  Since all the ladle’s balloons were still whole, the ship remained floating, but she had no manoeuvrability and was adrift on the breezes - no longer a threat to the Spotted Custard.

  Rue barked out orders and Percy propelled them out of range, but then he maintained a steady drift so that they paced the lame craft.

  “Percy, hold us on their broadside.”

  “That’s what I’m doing, Captain.”

  Something has my brother’s britches in a bunch.

  Rue ignored Percy’s snappy reply and continued barking out orders. “Willard, keep them in your sights. I don’t want them boarding us. Fire on anything that leaves that ship and heads in our direction.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “Primrose?”

  “Yes, Rue?”

  “Call up Quesnel and see if you can find Anitra, please. I’d like a quick meeting on the poop deck in half an hour with all officers.”

  “Aye, aye,” said Prim, trying it on for size. It was kind of fun to say.

  She climbed down to engineering first. She might have used Percy’s speaking tube, but she’d rather not be close to her brother at the moment. She was disturbed by how far he’d skewed his priorities. She’d thought that his overt concern with facts and academic standing was a mere front to hide a sweet and squishy soul. Now she wasn’t so certain.

  Did I lose my twin when I wasn’t looking? Did I let him get broken into nothing but sharp and cutting parts? Was it my job to remind him there’s more than ambition to this life? Or are we both lost? Oh heavens, have I too turned cold? Is my need for a husband just my version of Percy’s need for approval, in another guise?

  Surely not? It can’t be that. I want a marriage of convenience because I hope it might be easy. Simple. And I would make an excellent wife. But do I want it because I don’t think myself capable of more? Does Percy prioritise scientific discovery because he believes it the only thing he is good for? Are we both limiting ourselves in the guise of ambition?

  She stuck her head into engineering. “Mr Lefoux?”

  “Miss Tunstell?”

  “The captain would like a word up top when you have a moment to spare.”

  “I take it we are out of danger?”

  Prim smiled. “The enemy has been neutralised for the moment.”

  “Topping. I’ll be right up.”

  “Do you know where Miss Anitra has gone? She’s not in her quarters. I knocked.”

  “Check the prisoner’s cell.”

  “Like that, is it?”

  “More than. Ask the Professor. He spends considerable time with them both.”

  “You think that’s something Percy would notice?”

  The Frenchman gave a funny kind of a half smile. “I think your brother is more observant of people than anyone gives him credit for.”

  “That was always my role.”

  “You are twins. More alike than either of you think. You saw his hat.”

  “What’s a fez got to do with it?”

  “To be truly insensitive to the feelings of others, Professor Tunstell would have removed tha
t hat or refused to wear it. Consider why he did not.”

  “Only a Frenchman would place so much import on the presence or absence of a chapeau.”

  “My mother did once own a hat shop.”

  “So she did. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Quesnel nodded.

  Prim caught sight of Aggie Phinkerlington, just beyond him, issuing instructions to her team of sooties. Everything looked good in the boiler room, but the sooties scuttled quickly at her command, as if they were still in grave danger.

  Primrose admired her efficiency. She gave Aggie a nod of approval.

  The woman’s gaze was startled, but she nodded back.

  Prim went to check their imprisoned Italian’s cell, thinking about why her brother would wear a hat he loathed. Because he didn’t want to offend Virgil? Because it was a gift from their disastrous mother? Perhaps he was not so hardened as she had previously thought.

  She nodded to the sootie on guard detail and knocked loudly before entering the locked room.

  Rodrigo Tarabotti was, without question, the handsomest man Primrose had ever met. His eyes were deep and dark and bubbling with barely suppressed passion. His lips were well formed, his cheekbones high, his brow fierce. He had thick hair and a compelling voice, with that Italian accent women customarily swooned over. There were, no doubt, statues in vampire houses all over the world depicting men much like him - only naked.

  And she cared not one jot for any of it.

  Primrose hadn’t had much contact with the man. She’d shot at him once, of course. But that was standard practice these days. She thought that, in his presence, she ought to feel palpitations. Ladies of her age and breeding were known to faint upon encountering such a magnetic specimen of manhood. He might be paraded through the finest drawing rooms in London as a Byronic ideal of masculine beauty.

  But she felt nothing.

  Anitra, clearly, was not so immune.

  Primrose gave their interpreter an assessing look.

  Mr Tarabotti was reclining, Roman feast-like, upon his bed in an attitude of performed casualness. Anitra stood a discreet distance away but she looked mussed. Her lips were a little swollen, and her veil was askew. The tassel at the end of one braid was wrinkled.

  Primrose suddenly felt as if she had failed in her duties as chaperone. First I lose Rue to a Frenchman, and now I lose Anitra to an Italian. There has been a Continental invasion into my domicile and I didn’t even realise I needed to mount a defence of the fortress of womanhood. Now it is too late.

  Anitra’s eyes fairly shone when she looked on their prisoner. Primrose had little hope of rectifying the situation. Although she would surely try to put a dampener on proceedings come nightfall.

  She looked back and forth between them, pointedly. “I shall have to talk with your grandfather about this, Miss Anitra.”

  A mostly idle threat, the man was dead after all. But not powerless. Formerly Floote was many things, but powerless wasn’t one of them. He had knowledge.

  Anitra hid her face briefly behind her veil. “He’s not really my grandfather.”

  “And how would your father feel about this? You said you were not available for courting, if I recall.”

  Anitra hissed, “Not here!”

  But Mr Tarabotti sat up at that. “You’re not?” He looked truly injured by this revelation.

  Uh-oh, thought Prim. Have I got this wrong too? Is it Anitra who is taking advantage of Rodrigo? Could he genuinely wish to marry her?

  Anitra ducked her head. “You know why.”

  Rodrigo stood up from his bed, no longer relaxed. He clasped Anitra’s hand in both his own. “As if that should matter to me of all people! You know what happens with preternaturals and children. We cannot even be in the same room with our progeny.”

  Prim felt extremely uncomfortable; this was a private matter and absolutely none of her business. It seemed Mr Tarabotti was implying that Anitra was barren. A confidence most intimate indeed! Was that why she’d no interest in marriage? Poor thing. And how had she possibly found this out?

  It’s all none of your concern, Primrose Tunstell! she told herself firmly. “Perhaps this matter might be addressed later, with the supervision of Formerly Floote? As it stands, the captain has requested Anitra’s presence up top. If you wouldn’t mind, my dear?” Prim looked pointedly at the Drifter girl, ignoring the impassioned Italian.

  Anitra nodded, her dark eyes full of profound sadness. She gently withdrew her hand.

  The two ladies made their way out into the hall.

  Compelled to offer some form of consolation, for Anitra really looked most unhappy, Prim stopped her with a touch. “I did not mean to intrude.”

  Anitra wobbled out a smile. “He is most persuasive.”

  “I can see how he might be.”

  “I have never attracted the interest of such a man before. I always believed this, what I am, was all I would ever have. We don’t—” She paused, struggling for words. “We don’t get offers very often, women like me. Usually they come from an older man, widowers with children already, looking for a servant rather than a wife. A companion in old age.”

  Primrose could understand that. Men married because they wished for a mother to their children. What would I do if I were unable to have children? A tingle went up and down her spine. I’d be free to choose whatever I wanted. She was immediately horrified that this was her first thought. Her stomach churned.

  “And do you want more than that?” Prim asked the young lady.

  “I never thought to want at all.” Anitra dimpled in a smile, sudden and sweet. “This, being here on this ship, is so much more than I hoped for in life. To have love as well? It is too much. Overwhelming.”

  Primrose cocked her head. “Do you trust him? He seems awfully flirtatious.”

  “That is a concern. But still, the fact that he is interested at all. In me. Even knowing what I am.”

  She spoke about being barren as though it were a curse. As though she were a pariah or an outcast. In her culture, perhaps she was. Perhaps Drifters threw barren women overboard.

  Primrose knew exactly what to say to that kind of diminished self-worth brought on by others. “If he does not care,” she said, staunch and confident, “then neither should you.”

  Anitra bowed her head again, as if, again, she was trying not to cry. “I don’t think you quite understand.”

  Primrose narrowed her eyes. “We are worth more than our capacity to produce children!”

  “Oh, you think…? Oh no, that’s not…” Anitra bit her lip. “I mean, that is true, I can’t give him babies. But I’m” - she gestured to herself - “this.”

  Primrose was confused.

  Anitra winced. “Aravani.”

  “Is that like being outcast? Untouchable?”

  Anitra looked down at her feet. Smoothed out her braid tassel.

  Prim patted the other woman’s arm, tentatively. “Let’s talk about this more later? Rue needs you now.”

  Anitra straightened and nodded. “Yes, of course. My duties.” And there was a tone to her voice, a tone Prim well knew from herself - relief and comfort found in responsibility. As if by organising the outside world, she might ignore the confusion in her heart.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Soup Ladle of Death

  Percy leaned against the helm and contemplated the last few highly successful hours of his existence. Aside from Prim’s obvious disappointment in his life goals, he considered it a most productive day.

  When Virgil appeared, delighted to find Percy had survived the battle with his hat still firmly affixed to his head, Percy sent the valet down to his quarters to bring up a notepad and stylus. He must make notations on these Cappiocra pockets posthaste. He rather liked Rue’s preference for thinking of them as bubbles. Or had he started that codswallop? He might have to rename them such. Although Tunstell Bubbles didn’t sound quite right. He speculated on how they kept cohe
sion without dispersing into air, as aether ordinarily did. Ambient magnetic charge, perhaps? Some kind of particulated friction indicative of the air over South America? He ran calculations in his head. It was a most enjoyable half hour.

  He’d no idea what was taking his sister so long but he wished her to perdition. Or at the very least away from him for another twenty minutes of uninterrupted bubble contemplation.

  It was not to be, however, because someone else disturbed his mental wanderings.

  Tasherit Sekhmet came to sit on the edge of his pit - half in and half out. It was much in the manner of Footnote, always lurking at the threshold of doorways, unwilling to commit to staying in or heading out. Cats liked to occupy liminal spaces: both inside and outside, both tame and wild, both yawn and meow.

  Percy gave Tasherit an appraising look. One that he hoped also said, Enter at your own peril, this is my territory. The werecat would likely only understand that if he urinated in the corners of the navigation pit. He grinned at himself.

  “Miss Sekhmet, what can I do for you today?” He cocked his head at her. Remembering his stupid fez at the last minute, he put a hand up to hold it in place. Virgil had been so pleased to see it still perched atop his noggin, he hadn’t the heart to remove it just yet. Perhaps after the lad went to bed.

  Tasherit’s gaze was instantly drawn to it. “That’s a wonderful thing, isn’t it? So shiny.” Her dark eyes went wide and covetous. “I do love a nice tassel.” She looked like she really wanted to bat at it.

  Percy wondered how Virgil would feel if Percy gifted the hat to her. He couldn’t be faulted for being generous, could he? Perhaps I’ll wait until my valet is present to witness the act. Then he can see her genuine affection for the ghastly thing.

  In fact, the gleam in her eyes suggested something on the order of adoration.

  “Is that Turkish?” she asked, licking her lips.

  “It is.”

  “The Ottoman Empire was a glorious time for tassels.” Her eyes went misty with memory.