Competence

by Gail Carriger

  Anitra’s big eyes looked wounded. “I didn’t. That is, I don’t think I implied anything of the kind. Did I, grandfather?”

  Formerly Floote’s ghostly head shook a negative.

  Rue grumbled. “This is ridiculous. We aren’t going to get anything more out of them now. Percy,” she yelled, “prepare to pull us back.” Quietly, to the others, she added, “At least now we have an idea where to start looking for my mother’s vampires. The Andean highlands.”

  Then, without acknowledgement or permission, Tasherit slithered back halfway across the width of the deck, stood fully to her four paws, and charged the railing. She got up a decent amount of speed and, muscles bunching, jumped the gap between the airships in a remarkably stunning display of physical prowess.

  Primrose squeaked in horror.

  Tasherit landed safely on the ladle.

  Rue yelled, “What in hell? Miss Sekhmet. I say! Get back here this instant!” Had she been standing, Rue might very well have stomped her foot. “Oh my God, why can’t cats ever do what they’re told?”

  She twisted where she crouched. “Percy, belay that order. Take us in even closer. Primrose and Bork, fire when you’ve clean line of sight, prepare to cover her return. What on earth did she go over for? What’s she after?”

  Rue glared at Primrose.

  As if I know anything about the workings of Tasherit Sekhmet’s mind.

  “Don’t look at me,” Prim defended herself. “She’s not my responsibility.”

  “Oh, you say not?”

  Graced with the presence of a werecat, the other ship descended into utter chaos. The main deck, which had appeared empty mere moments before, was now swarming with figures. A half dozen at least, and it was not a big deck.

  There was a great deal of yelling. It was a kind of horrific shadow puppet display, complete with flailing arms and flying hats, possibly a limb or two, although Prim tried not to notice.

  There were screams and crunching noises and people leaping and falling and crashing about. Occasionally, they caught sight of a cat tail or a cat head as Tasherit wreaked absolute havoc.

  She was doing a decent amount of damage. Well, she was a supernatural creature. Prim and Bork were too afraid of hitting her to fire their guns. Fortunately, their enemy seemed too afraid of hitting each other to fire either. Tasherit was a blur.

  This chaos persisted a goodly while, while everyone onboard the Spotted Custard held their collective breath.

  Finally Rue said, “Percy, bring us in closer. If she’s gone to fetch something, she won’t be able to make the leap back as easily with the extra weight.” Rue seemed to have resigned herself to their current predicament.

  Primrose breathed out a sigh of relief. She didn’t know what she’d do if her friend insisted on abandoning the werecat for insubordination and reckless behaviour. Probably become insubordinate and reckless herself. I’d hate to have to choose between my best friend and my…

  Tasherit gave another of her loud roaring screech noises. Primrose felt she could make a good case for that sound being equally as frightening as a werewolf’s howl, if not more so. It was, after all, less common.

  Then the cries of fear across the way evolved to keening wails of distress. Tasherit’s big cat form leapt back towards them. She carried in her mouth and slung partly over her back the limp body of a man. Primrose guessed it was the no-longer-tricorn-wearing captain of the enemy airship.

  The lioness landed with a tremendous thump, skidded a bit across the deck, and then spat out the torn and bloodied body of the ladle pirate.

  “Marvelous,” said Rue. “I thought I made it entirely clear that I did not want another prisoner. And this one’s been savaged to perdition. What possible good can he do us? Prim, run and get the bandages, will you?” She yelled back to navigation, “Percy, get us out of here! Make for the Andes Mountains behind Lima.”

  “But Captain, I don’t think we have enough—”

  “Now, Percy!”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Bugger it,” said Rue, much to Prim’s shock - such language! “Where are we going to put him?”

  “He can have my room,” replied Rodrigo, rather too cheerfully.

  Rue glared at him. “Speaking of, we’d better lock you back up again.”

  “So soon? I was just starting to like you.” The Italian pouted. “Was I not useful?”

  Rue sucked her teeth. “Fine, you can stay. But don’t touch anything. And don’t kill anyone.”

  “Not even him?” Rodrigo indicated their new prisoner, who was in rather worse condition then their old one.

  We traded down, thought Prim, slightly hysterically. She was well aware that she had been given orders to collect bandages. Nevertheless, she made her way over to the lioness first.

  Tasherit was giving herself a post-battle wash, long pink tongue diligently at work.

  “How could you?” Prim hissed, finding herself a great deal more angry than the situation really warranted. “You defied orders. You put yourself at grave risk. You could have been killed! The leap alone, even an immortal can’t survive a fall like that.”

  The massive raspy tongue licked over the finger Prim was waving in Tasherit’s furry face.

  “Yech! Your mouth’s all bloody. That’s disgusting.” Primrose retracted her hand and flapped it to dry it off, she didn’t want to wipe it on her very nice evening gown. Then she remembered her handkerchief was still tied to the tip of her parasol, a parasol that was still open in defensive position. She made a show of closing the deadly accessory, removing the handkerchief, and wiping her hand off on it.

  Tasherit emitted an affectionate chuffing noise at her and flopped over, exposing her belly.

  Frustrated to near tears, or perhaps it was some form of relief at seeing the werecat unharmed, Primrose whirled away and went to find the bandages.

  She returned ten minutes later, composed and with good clean linen wraps, poor man’s brandy, and iodine.

  The situation was well under control.

  Rodrigo, of all people, took the brandy and began cleaning the injured man’s wounds where he could. One of the decklings brought over a good gas lantern with a steady flame, so Prim could sew up one particularly deep claw slash on his thigh. The pirate remained insensate, which was better for all concerned.

  “You’re very good at that,” she told the Italian, as he efficiently wrapped the man’s forearm. Defensive wounds.

  “Practice,” he said succinctly.

  Primrose supposed Templar training would include field dressing. After all, they sent their soulless out into the world expressly to hunt and kill supernaturals. The man had to have had his fair share of injuries over the years. Even if he could touch supernatural creatures and make them mortal, he was mortal himself and susceptible to serious damage.

  But his fingers were nimble about the dressings and his touch was sure and gentle.

  Prim finished her stitching, glad she didn’t have to play nurse further. It usually fell to her, and frankly, it was her least favourite duty. She hadn’t signed up for that one at all.

  Anitra and Floote stood a little way away watching the proceedings.

  Rue, having ensured they were well out of firing range and conferred with Percy about making for the Andes, came to check on them. “Is he awake yet?”

  “No,” replied Prim.

  “You’re sure he’s not shamming?”

  Rodrigo hauled off and slapped the man’s face, hard. Certainly harder than was necessary.

  I take back my thoughts on his being gentle.

  No response.

  “You are a bastard, aren’t you?” said Rue to her cousin, but with very little irritation. “Well, we can’t keep him forever. Knowing we will let him go—”

  Tasherit hissed.

  Rue rolled her eyes and corrected herself. “Eventually. We’d better not let him know we’ve a supernatural advantage aboard. He’d go
off and tell his friends. Formerly Floote and Miss Sekhmet, if you would make yourselves scarce? Prim, go ready our improvised cell, we’ll put him there.”

  The Italian looked hopeful.

  Rue noticed. “Yes, cousin, you can take one of the guest quarters.”

  Prim said, as the man stood, “I’ll see your belongings are moved, such as they are. And ask one of the staff if they could change the linens.”

  Without any pretence, she then turned and said to Rue, “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “Trusting Mr Dark and Smarmy?”

  “Yes.”

  Rodrigo gave Primrose a big-eyed pleading sort of look that suited him ill, like a shark attempting puppy eyes.

  Primrose rolled her own eyes at him and continued talking to her friend and captain. “He’s still, you know, him.”

  “What’s he going to do?” Rue looked unconcerned.

  “We are in a foreign land and among possible enemies. He’s incredibly dangerous. He could turn us in to the local authorities. He could murder us all while we sleep. He could try to steal the Custard and take us to parts unknown. He could escape. I don’t know. He could generally behave in accordance with his training and nature.”

  Rodrigo Tarabotti said, “Never!”

  Rue gave a dismissive downward wave at her cousin. “Hush, you. Your opinion is neither required nor helpful. Primrose, for now we’ll give him enough rope to hang himself. I’ll be careful, I promise. Please go see to the room arrangements.”

  Primrose nodded reluctantly. Rue was in charge, after all. Before attending to her duties, Prim visited her own room and dropped off her parasol. She left her gun tucked into her bodice, having decided that she’d better keep it there while Mr Tarabotti was loose.

  Percy was concerned about the state of their fuel. Or perhaps, not so much the state as the absence of any state. It wasn’t really his job to worry about such things, it was Quesnel Lefoux’s, but at the moment that didn’t stop him.

  This was out of character. Percy mistrusted the Frenchman in many ways, of course. Not the least of which being that he was, in fact, French. But he trusted Mr Lefoux to do his job as ship’s engineer with aplomb.

  Yet the worry persisted. The Spotted Custard had spent a great deal of time in atmosphere, working the propeller enough to put them dangerously low on coal. Everything Percy had read suggested Lima would have supplies, but now Rue was insisting on making for the smaller, more mysterious city of Cusco. And he worried that they simply couldn’t do it. Even Rue couldn’t out-stubborn coal.

  He and Quesnel had not discussed the matter, yet he knew this was a shared concern. There was no need to talk about it. There’d been an exchanged look when Rue insisted on heading onwards without stopping.

  Are we becoming kindred spirits? Do we have a mutual understanding and respect? Percy shuddered. Are we friendly? How ghastly.

  On top of that, Cusco was a difficult location to navigate into. The city nestled between high peaks in a high mountain valley. Percy wasn’t even certain it boasted a wheystation, let alone a coal supply. He’d certainly read no indication that there might be one. They might very well be limping into Cusco only to get flat-out stuck there.

  He’d tried to tell Rue all this but she was insistent they press on. Now that they had taken a local man prisoner, they were at risk and unable to make nice with the government. She wanted them in and out quick, not dabbling about like ducks in the wind. Whatever that meant.

  “I believe that I can get us in fast, Captain,” he said, hedging. “It’s the getting us back out again I gravely doubt.”

  In typical fashion, Rue only replied with, “Let’s worry about that when the time comes.”

  “Rue, that’s my point, the time has come.”

  “How long until we get within depuffing distance?”

  Percy shrugged. “Several hours, maybe more, maybe less. I’m floating mostly blind here, especially at night. Not much to go on. Have you looked down? The country has no gas. I mean I know, loosely, where Cusco ought to be located, and there are some roads, but they aren’t cobbled, and nothing else indicates the direction of civilisation.”

  Rue nodded. “Get Virgil up here to sit the helm then, so long as a course is basically set in.”

  “It is. But why?”

  “I want your opinion on this new prisoner of ours.”

  “I don’t have opinions on prisoners.”

  “You have opinions on everything. Now, see here. I’m letting Mr Tarabotti out on a longer lead and locking this one up in his place.”

  “Greedy.”

  “Percy, are you trying to be funny? I didn’t know you could.”

  Percy ignored this. “How does Mr Tarabotti feel about his newfound liberty?” Percy was genuinely curious.

  “Cheeky,” said Rue. “You aren’t mad at me about it? Primrose is.”

  “Primrose is usually mad about something. Nice to have it be you instead of me, for a change. I think that it is premature and thus risky. We haven’t finished reading Higher Common Sense yet. But you always were a risk taker who ignored common sense.”

  “Do you believe my cousin really is now considered a traitor by the Templars? Might he be friendly to our cause?” Rue clearly wanted to believe it.

  “It seems not unlikely.” Percy was cautious. He wasn’t the best at reading people, never had been. Maps he could read. And aetheric current charts. Even cats used their tails to indicate feelings in a predictable manner. But people? Especially personable secretive people like Rodrigo Tarabotti? It’d be easier on Percy if they, too, had tails.

  “But?” Rue pressed.

  “Rue, why are you interrogating me on this subject? Ask my sister, she’s much better at judging the accountability of a man’s character.”

  “Yes, but you’re Mr Tarabotti’s friend.”

  “Friend? Am I indeed?” First Percy had heard of it.

  Rue shook her head. “Just summon Virgil and come over with me, please.”

  Percy waved a hand about, attempting to summon his valet out of thin air. Virgil was no doubt hidden somewhere on deck. There was no way he would hide below for a second time, not if Spoo got to stay up top and watch the excitement.

  When no valet materialised, Percy took off his fez and waved it about. Then he threatened to toss it.

  Virgil appeared.

  “Take over for a bit here, would you please, Virgil? The captain wants me as a character reference.”

  Virgil gave him a very confused look.

  “Exactly how I feel.” Percy levered himself out of the navigation pit and followed his captain.

  He joined the group around the injured prisoner. Their new man was not very prepossessing. He was on the shorter squarer side of humanity and dressed in unequivocally piratical-looking apparel of dark material and ill fit. He wore a loose shirt belted at the waist and loose trousers that could only be drawstring, like a potato sack. No boots, though. To be a true pirate there would be boots. Instead he had on rope sandals of some ilk. Against his dark complexion the many bandages were startlingly white and expertly applied. Probably Prim’s doing. Someone’s jacket was balled up, propping up his head.

  Quesnel stood on the opposite side of the man’s chest from Percy, looking down. Rue went and stood near the man’s head. Rodrigo and Anitra were at his feet, with Bork standing beyond, brawny arms crossed.

  So it was that when their prisoner blinked awake at last, he was staring first at Rodrigo and Anitra.

  Rue said, “Ask him how he feels, please. And welcome him aboard.”

  The man looked up at Rue’s voice. Then tilted his head slightly to catch sight of Quesnel.

  At which juncture he screamed in unmitigated terror and tried to scoot away from the Frenchman.

  Percy could understand that kind of reaction to Quesnel’s personality, of course, but not to his appearance. Percy didn’t like the man, but that didn’t stop him fr
om acknowledging the fact that Mr Lefoux was easy on the eyes. It was a fact, after all. Percy was always careful with his facts.

  The man’s eyes widened in horror. They were riveted on Quesnel. He tried crab crawling backwards on the deck. It was more flop than crawl as he had been recently savaged by a lioness (such things detrimentally affect mobility something fierce). His efforts to escape caused him, eventually, to bump up against Percy’s feet and ankles.

  The prisoner started and jerked his gaze from Quesnel to Percy.

  At this he screamed even louder, eyes fairly bugging out of his head, mouth gasping and panting between cries.

  Percy, startled to engender that kind of reaction in anyone, put both his hands up instinctively in a warding gesture and then bent over to touch the man in an attempt to calm him.

  Much to everyone’s horrified embarrassment (except the man himself, who was too far gone into terror to feel anything but pure fear) the prisoner then wet himself and fainted.

  “Well. I say. I mean, really,” was all Percy could sputter.

  Everyone was staring at him as if it was all his fault.

  He flushed. “Do I have something on my face? Or… is it the fez?”

  Rue ignored his weak attempt at humour. “It’s not your fault, Percy. He reacted badly to Quesnel too.”

  Percy exchanged glances with his fellow boffin. What was so scary about them to the exclusion of the others? Could their prisoner somehow sense a scientist? Was this academiphobia? They were not the only men, so it wasn’t their trousers. After all, the man had seen Rodrigo first. He and Quesnel were no taller and no more fearsome looking than the Italian. In fact, if it came to masculinity, Rodrigo had them both by a mile and a glower.

  “Why us?” wondered Quesnel. “What’s so different about us?”

  It was Rodrigo who figured it out. “You are the bianchi.”

  Anitra grinned. “Oh, yes, I see. The skin. You boys are white. Pale.” She made a motion around her own brown face.

  Percy nodded. It was true. He’d a few freckles but he was about as white as one could get. His sister had insisted that even above decks the navigation pit be protected by a wide shade parasol, and the rest of Percy’s life was spent in libraries. And Quesnel was a blond, prone to working inside boiler rooms and laboratories. They were, not to put too fine a point on it, as near to white as pink humans could get. Especially if compared to the others currently present.