She put on a floating hat with a long veil, to protect her neck, to ward off the evening’s chill, and for fear of bugs. This was, after all, unknown country.
She made her way back up top in time to watch the sun set in a glorious riot of colour and majesty over the vast dark ocean.
Rue had all the sooties and deckhands hidden out of view for their safety, except Bork of course. He nodded at Primrose politely as she took position next to him, prepared to pop open her parasol at the slightest provocation. She didn’t know if he was familiar with the scope of its protective powers. She hoped neither of them would have to find out who would win in a pitched fight, her parasol or a Nordenfelt.
Tasherit bounded up shortly after dark, looking stronger and healthier for her rest. Or perhaps it was because she was in lioness form. She bunted Prim’s hip affectionately. Primrose could not resist a few ear and chin scratches. The werecat’s fur was thick and coarse and strangely beautiful. As ever, Primrose found Tash much easier to accommodate with equanimity when the werelioness was physically a cat - as opposed to only mentally.
Anitra arrived next. Rodrigo trailed after her. Rue had allowed him to leave his cell before, of course. Even a dog, she said, was allowed perambulations and fresh air. She could do no less for her cousin, even if he was an ass. She wasn’t an utter monster. Nevertheless, the Italian looked both thrilled and nervous to be suddenly free, involved in their affairs, and on the side of good. Or perhaps he understood that this was a test. Or perhaps he planned to try and escape. He was difficult to predict, their Italian.
Formerly Floote was there as well, hovering, as requested, with only his head above the deck boards. This was nothing if not bizarre looking, but he was hidden from enemy view by the Custard‘s lower railing. At least they hoped he was.
It must be very odd to encounter the bottom half of his noncorporeal body hanging from the ceiling of whatever room was directly beneath him. Very odd. Prim considered the layout of the Custard. That’s the galley, most likely. Poor Cook.
Percy, of course, was secreted in navigation, his upper body a blurry shadow behind the helm up on the poop deck at the opposite end of the dirigible. This encounter was dependent on close maneuvering. Percy was better utilised steering the ship than as an interpreter.
“Where’s Quesnel?” Prim asked.
Rue rolled her eyes. “He and Percy would not stop arguing about the efficaciousness of the ladle design, now that they have notes and sketches and numbers to argue about. I had to separate them.”
“Oh?”
Rue gave a wicked smile and turned to Rodrigo, whom she’d positioned at the very far end of the line. The order they now stood in, facing the main deck rail, was: Tasherit, Bork and the Gatling, Primrose, Rue, Anitra, Floote’s head, and Rodrigo on the far end. This put the preternatural Italian away from Rue - because he had once tried to kill her. This also put him very far away from the gun and the werecat, which were their two best and most vulnerable weapons. No one ever forgot that Rodrigo was a preternatural. He could turn Tasherit into a naked mortal human with a single touch. Uncomfortable for everyone, and hazardous to Tasherit’s health and well-being.
Rodrigo nodded to Rue. “Little Cousin.”
“Mr Tarabotti,” said Rue, formally. “Nice weather for it.”
“Si. That it is.” He was holding Anitra’s hand.
Rue must have noticed, but she managed to restrain herself from making comment.
Without looking away from Rodrigo, Rue said, “To answer your question, Prim, I have Quesnel stashed safely away behind that barrel there, with his dart emitter focused on my dear cousin here. An extra precaution, if you would.”
Primrose nodded her approval. “Admirable forethought, my dear.”
“Thank you, I do try.”
“Shall we get on then?” suggested Prim, indicating with her head the waiting enemy airship.
“Percy, are you ready to move us in closer?” Rue’s yell cut through the still night air.
“Yes, Captain,” came Percy’s voice out of the darkness behind them.
“Bork, take aim.”
The deckhand settled his grip on the gun and shifted it to aim at the main deck of the ladle, where they could safely assume any people would appear. Firing the Gatling was usually a two-man job, but it could be manned solo if the gunner was long-limbed and dexterous enough to crank it with one hand while he fed in the belt with the other. Bork was one of the few aboard more than strong enough. Prim would hazard a guess that his biceps alone were as wide around as her waist. And while she kept her figure trim, she was corseted for comfort not training. I ought to find much to admire in such a very masculine physique, Prim berated herself. She thought of Tasherit’s long golden limbs. Just as strong as Bork, and also able to shoot a Gatling alone and without aid. Which thought made Prim’s mouth a little dry, and her heart beat hot in her ears. I am entirely unnatural in my tastes. Well, at least I am in good company. She thought of Lord Akeldama and her mother’s hats. She forced herself to reconsider Bork’s biceps. That’s why he’d been chosen, muscles enough to fire without assistance. That way there was one less crewman exposed and at risk.
Rue barked out an order. “Percy, bring us into range of their aft balloon.”
Percy ramped up the Custard‘s propeller. Prim could feel the whump-whump beneath the leather soles of her dancing slippers. We’ve been running it without break for a while now. Prim frowned in concern. An active propeller required a great deal of boiler power. Goodness, I hope this works. Quesnel is probably desperate for coal.
Primrose raised her parasol. To the tip and base of the ferrule she’d tied a corner each of her best white handkerchief. She waved it, like a small white flag, back and forth.
Generally speaking, people the whole world over regarded this as a symbol of peace, or at least a request to parlay, but that was by European tradition; they’d no idea if it would work here in South America. After all, they were in the land of soup ladle dirigibles - anything was possible.
Anitra stepped forward and hailed the crippled airship in halting Spanish. Even Prim could tell that her accent was abysmal and her understanding crude. But her voice was strong and clear, carrying across the intervening distance between airships with ease.
They were now about two stories apart, not yet close enough for Tasherit to safely make the jump, if needed. But getting ever closer. God, I hope she isn’t needed. I want her here and safe.
Silence greeted Anitra’s words.
Primrose waved her parasol harder, white flag fluttering.
Anitra tried again.
Then Rue nodded to her cousin and the Italian spoke. His accent was different but he said exactly the same phrase as Anitra. They were keeping him close and tame as possible.
Rue said, “Tell them we are still armed and can shoot them out of the sky if necessary. They only have one helium balloon remaining. We only wish to talk, but we don’t have to be nice.”
Anitra rattled off a string of staccato Spanish.
Primrose saw movement on the main deck of the other ship. The only deck, really, it didn’t have a forecastle, quarterdeck, or poop deck. It wasn’t modelled on a galleon like most English-made dirigibles.
A figure resolved itself out of the shadows on the ship and said something back to Anitra.
Primrose realised, now that she had some sense of scale, that the ladle was less than a quarter the size of the Spotted Custard. Voice and stance, what little she could see of it silhouetted against the night sky, indicated their enemy was male. He was wearing, so far as Prim could make out, rather old-fashioned attire. He looked somewhat like the flywaymen of fifty years ago who used to plague the southern reaches of England. He even had a tricorn atop his head, with an impressively large feather. Rue, no doubt, would be quite envious.
Rue said, voice curdled with amused disgust, possibly at her own expense, “Is that a pirate hat? Is someone throwing a masqu
erade? Are we invited? And me without my shepherdess costume.”
Primrose was willing to play along. “Well you do have the ghastly cocked sugarloaf. And I’ve a sort of a medieval-style jester cap you could borrow, if you want to one-up the man. And there’s Percy’s Turkish cap.”
“Perhaps later. Anitra, what did he say?”
“He was very rude, Captain.” Anitra’s tone was more than disgusted.
Rodrigo laughed. “He called us all the bad things. This is fun, little cousin.”
“Hush now, no one asked you. Anitra, please ask him why he fired on us without warning or provocation.”
Anitra rattled off the question. A long response was yelled back almost immediately.
Anitra interpreted it for them. “I think he said they don’t like visitors. But I suspect it’s more that they are interested in our ship. He’s very curious about the Gatling gun. Keeps calling it pretty.”
“So it’s possible they are simply pirates or opportunistic scavengers, and not representative of local government attitudes?” Rue asked.
Primrose said, “In that outfit? I’ve never seen a statesman in a tricorn, except in paintings of questionable American presidents, of course.”
“Good point.”
Quesnel’s voice emanated from somewhere behind them, speaking French. Rue, Prim, and Percy all spoke decent French and it was a pretty safe bet that their enemy did not. No doubt that was why Quesnel did it now, to keep the enemy confused. “It would further explain the construction of their ship if they used it mainly for stealthy attacks.”
“Privateer is also a possibility, then.” Rue was thinking out loud, she did that in times of stress. “Anything else? Rodrigo, Floote, did Anitra miss anything?”
“No,” said both man and ghost at the same time.
“Very well, Anitra, please ask him if he knows anything about vampires.” Rue did, after all, have a mission to pursue. They were supposed to be tracking down local vampires, so it made sense to ask the local pirates for details.
Anitra tried.
No response came to her question at all.
Rodrigo tried.
Still nothing.
Floote made a few quiet suggestions on syntax and word choice.
Anitra tried again.
Finally Anitra said, “Sorry, Captain, but we don’t know what the right word is for vampire in Spanish. I tried vampiro, and blood-eating and flesh-eating old man, but as you can tell, he either doesn’t realise what I’m after or he doesn’t care to give us an answer.”
Rue was having none of that. “Bork, fire a few shots under their bowsprit. Wake him up a bit.”
Bork did as ordered.
A yell of rapid Spanish followed that.
Anitra tried to follow it. “He says they acknowledge our superior firepower. He doesn’t understand what we are asking about.”
Rue sniffed. “Tell them we are hunters. And we are hunting monsters.”
Anitra gave it her best effort. Formerly Floote had to supply the word for monster.
More Spanish came back in response to that.
Anitra responded in kind, without translating.
Again, their erstwhile enemy replied.
“What?” demanded Rue. “What are you two saying?”
Anitra sighed. “I asked about monsters, and he said that there are no monsters in the skies except him. I would suspect from the tone that there are more of these ladle ships around these airways. Probably all independent agents. I doubt he will tell us how many. I said that we were looking for real monsters, those that are on land and only come out at night.”
Rodrigo added, “Immortal and supernatural, she said. Or tried to.”
“They know those words. They said they are from Lima. No pishtacos there.” Anitra exchanged a look with Rodrigo. “We think pishtaco may be their word for vampire. Or it may be a kind of shifter. Or it may be something else.”
“So,” demanded Rue, “where do we find these pishtacos, then?”
Anitra asked their now chatty pirate friend.
A long silence, and then a single short sentence.
Anitra turned to Rue without bothering to consult with Rodrigo or Formerly Floote. “In the mountains.”
Without them asking an additional follow-up question, more Spanish flowed over the intervening gap.
“He says that they live with - or is that on? - the Quechua. What’s Quechua?”
Rodrigo corrected her. “No. He say depredare. Bah, how to put in the English?”
Formerly Floote said, “Prey. He’s saying these pishtaco creatures prey on the Quechua. Whatever they are.”
Rue threw her head back and yelled, “Percy, know anything about Quechua?”
Percy’s voice came back, acerbic as ever. “Of course. They’re mountain tribespeople indigenous to the high Andes mountain range of South America. Formerly known as the Inca. Perhaps you’ve heard of them? Gave the conquistadors a bit of a bother back in the 1500s or so.” Sarcasm fairly dripped from his voice.
“No need to be rude, Percy.”
“Well, really, Captain, you might have read something about the place we’re visiting.”
Rue raised a hand up, sharp and curt. “Percy! Anything else that might be useful?”
Percy yelled back. “You’re asking the questions. How do I know what’s useful?”
Primrose tried not to think too hard about murdering her brother.
“Ask him how many Cappiocra pockets there are here,” suggested Percy.
“Oh my God!” Prim could not help herself. “Why are you so annoying?”
Quesnel said, still hidden, “Actually that would be very useful to know.”
“Thank you, Mr Lefoux,” said Percy, smug wiffin.
“But impossible to ask,” shot back Prim. “We don’t know what they call the aether bubbles here.”
Rue threw her hands in the air. “Besides which, he’s hardly going to tell us their atmospheric secrets, even if he is outgunned!”
“He did just say much on the local catching-taco people,” Prim protested.
Rue rounded on her. “Pishtacos. That’s because they fear them and we have made clear our intent is to hunt them. It’s no risk to tell us about a danger to us. Ask about their ship, or their tactics, or their aether bubbles, and we put them in danger.”
“Very strategic, little cousin.” That was Rodrigo.
Anitra said, tentatively, “Anything else you wish me to say to him while we have his attention?”
Prim turned back to the enemy and away from her annoying brother. The tricorned silhouette was pacing about, impatient.
Clearly frustrated by the situation, Quesnel popped out from behind his barrel and dashed up to join the crowd at the railing. He kept his wrist pointed at Rodrigo, but said to Rue, “Ask them what they call the shape of their ship at the very least. Please, cherie? We can’t keep going around referring to it as a ladle, it’s undignified.”
Across the gap, loud screaming suddenly commenced. And someone started firing at them.
CHAPTER TEN
Cats Can’t Be Trusted
Primrose immediately pushed open her parasol and lowered it down to protect Bork. Fortunately, it seemed to be simply a personal pistol or rifle or two firing at them, not the Nordenfelt. She wondered if they were out of repeat fire, or if this was an unauthorised and uncoordinated attack.
Rue and the others ducked down, including Quesnel, who hit the deck hard. Unfortunately, they didn’t have Prim and Bork’s level of parasol protection.
Tasherit belly-slunk over to Prim and screamed out a roar of anger, her tail lashing. This only seemed to panic the crew opposite them further. More yells and more gunfire resulted.
Rue panicked, dropped her captain’s persona, and said, “Quesnel, are you all right?”
“Yes, cherie, only surprised.”
Rue glanced at the others. “Anyone wounded?”
Quesnel’s eyes were wide and scared. “What did we do? Why did they suddenly start firing at us? Was it me? Was it something I said?”
“Perhaps they object to the French tongue?” suggested Rodrigo pertly.
“Don’t be silly, they probably don’t even know it to identify it.” Rue dismissed her cousin as an imbecile. “Bork, return fire. Clear their deck.”
Bork did so, firing a volley across the main section of the ladle. They could still only really see the man in the tricorn. At the sound of their Gatling, he dropped out of sight. There must be others, of course, because someone was shooting at them, but they couldn’t see anyone at all now.
Rue was quite annoyed at this turn of events. “For goodness’ sake, what spooked them?”
Primrose looked about for some kind of indication or sign. The only thing new to the mix had been Quesnel and his French. To be quite honest, there was nothing remotely fearsome about either. Quesnel had likely engendered many sensations during his lifetime (love, annoyance, affection, amusement) but never terror. A medium-sized slender gentleman of erudite mannerisms and easy smile with blond hair, violet eyes, and dimples simply was not scary.
Rodrigo crouched next to Anitra with one arm over her back in a protective manner. He looked rather more thrilled than concerned. His expression in that moment was so like Rue’s, Primrose began to suspect that a reckless love of danger was inherent in the Tarabotti line.
The gunfire stopped and they began to discern words mixed into the shouting cries on the ship opposite.
“Pishtaco! Pishtaco!”
Well, we can discern one word.
Anitra said, “I believe that they think we have one of their much-feared vampire monsters aboard our ship.”
Rue frowned. “What did you say to make them think that?”
Rodrigo positively glared at Rue. “Basta! She say nothing wrong.”
Percy waved him off. “Oh, stop, don’t get all passionate on us now. No call for strong emotions, not even from you.”
Competence Page 19
