Competence

by Gail Carriger

  Quesnel (and by extension Rue) had clearly not thought of this issue.

  “For now, don’t extend him the courtesy of staff visitation. One of the others will take him his meals.” A wicked grin split the man’s face, “We could make Mr Tarabotti tend to him. With supervision, of course. If that Italian is going to be loose about our ship, he should earn his weight.”

  Prim’s smile was equally evil. “Very good point, Mr Lefoux. By all means, let’s keep Mr Tarabotti occupied. Could you use some help in engineering as well - coal scuttling, perhaps?”

  Quesnel laughed. “I shall put Aggie in charge of him.”

  “Poor fellow. That’s going too far.”

  Quesnel gestured at his injured arm and shoulder, still supported by a sling. A serious gunshot wound - he’d nearly died at the hands of that Italian.

  Primrose was pleased to know that someone else aboard mistrusted Rodrigo Tarabotti as much as she did.

  Tasherit hissed, “I’ll watch him for you.”

  Without looking at her, Primrose said, “No, you will not. You’re the most vulnerable of any of us. He’s trained his whole life to kill your kind.”

  “He’s trained to kill werewolves.”

  Primrose raised a hand. “A trifling difference.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “And vampires,” Quesnel added.

  Tasherit curled her lip back at him.

  Primrose sniffed. “Yes, yes, you’re special, better and more powerful than werewolves, a superior hunter in all things.”

  Tasherit preened under the praise, oblivious to, or uncaring of, the sarcasm. “Thank you.”

  “He can still kill you.”

  “He can’t! I can take him down, you see if I can’t.”

  That finally forced Primrose to glare directly at her. “How long has it been since you faced off against a Templar-trained preternatural?”

  Tasherit looked disgruntled. “About a hundred years or so.” She pouted. “But I am still better. I would show you.” Her tone said this bragging was all for Primrose’s benefit.

  Oh dear. This is about her being good enough to provide for me. This is about her worthiness as a mate. Prim had read something on lion society when Tasherit first joined the crew. Also, they had spoken at length over the dinner table on the subject of werecat dynamics. Everyone found it fascinating, it being the opposite of everything they knew about the supernatural.

  Europe’s vampires and werewolves skewed almost entirely male, no one knew why. When women did survive the bite, they were automatically in the superior social position of vampire queen or Alpha werewolf. Scientists had believed this connected to the general inclination for muscle mass in the male physique. Although if one took into account some vampires (Lord Akeldama for example) the point about muscle mass would seem to be moot. Regardless, when Tasherit revealed the fact that werecats were predominantly female, and that males were the ones less likely to survive metamorphosis, the scientific community had been thrown into a tizzy. (Percy added this to his paper.) Some found this fact even more shocking than the revealing of their existence in the first place. After all, the existence of new shape-shifters in other parts of the world had been hypothesised, but the idea that females might dominate was tantamount to social upheaval. The suffragists were ecstatic about the whole thing, and had seized upon the lioness as a symbol for their movement. Tasherit had even been invited to speak when next in London. Lord knows what she would say. Primrose counted it fortunate they rarely visited the capital.

  What Primrose had learned and would have told said scientists if asked (which she would never be, because she was, after all, only a woman - and wasn’t that ironic?) was that a female social structure for lions was mirrored in nature. Why be surprised? Prides were made up of sister lionesses and their young, as a rule, with only one male. Why should the supernatural be any different? The lionesses did the bulk of the hunting. They were, in effect, the family providers.

  And Primrose was learning by the moment that Tasherit hated it more than anything when Prim questioned her ability to provide. Whether that be affection or protection.

  So Prim hastened to smooth over the situation. “Miss Sekhmet, I’m certain you could protect us all from Mr Tarabotti. And I promise to call upon you if necessary. But please stay away from him if your intent is merely to test his mettle? No one requires that you prove yourself capable.” Least of all me. She did not say it out loud, but she hoped Tasherit understood that it was implied. “We all know you are a fierce warrior.”

  Just then they heard a commotion at the top of the ladder. Quesnel made an erp noise and rushed past them towards the captain’s ladder, which would take him safely up to his and Rue’s quarters. Formerly Floote sank down through the floor, leaving Prim and Tasherit alone once more.

  Mindful that she had been instructed to avoid the prisoner, and not knowing if he was awake, Prim pushed passed Tasherit, avoiding the werecat’s questing hand, and retreated to the safety of her own room.

  Behind her she heard Tasherit hiss in frustration. But Prim wasn’t sure if that was because she had so carefully avoided contact, or because of the lack of an immediate fight with Rodrigo Tarabotti, or both.

  There was a tentative knock on her door just prior to sunrise. Primrose supposed she ought to have expected it. She was preparing for bed, and some small part of her hoped that it might be Tasherit knocking. A larger part of her was terrified that it actually was.

  She put on her ugliest robe. Prim had, most of the time, most excellent taste. This robe was a quite flattering teal colour, but it was not well cut. She didn’t want to display her figure to Tasherit. That was a very bad idea.

  Fortunately, or unfortunately, it was not Tasherit at her door. It was Prudence.

  “Rue? Aren’t you exhausted? Shouldn’t you be abed?”

  “Prim dear, we need to talk.” Rue looked stubborn. Well, more stubborn than usual.

  Uh-oh.

  “Come in. I was just completing my ablutions.” Primrose gestured with her tortoiseshell hairbrush.

  Rue marched in and grabbed the brush from her hand. Then she guided Prim to sit at the small vanity.

  It was a soothing thing to have one’s hair brushed by another. They’d done this for each other many times over the years - fashioned braids and coils, woven in flowers and ribbons. All this to the manifest horror of Rue’s mother, the amusement of Rue’s fathers, and the delight of everyone else. It was Uncle Biffy who eventually took them under his wing and showed them how to really arrange hair properly.

  These days Rue barely bothered with her coiffure. Even Primrose resorted to a simplistic if stylish arrangement, which she tried to improve upon with sophisticated hats.

  But Prim still loved it when Rue brushed her hair. It reminded her of her youth, easy innocence and lost silliness.

  “Quesnel told me what he saw,” Rue said after a few strokes in silence.

  “Of course he did.” Primrose was no fool. She’d always known she could rely upon Rue to keep her secrets from Quesnel. However, she could not rely upon Quesnel to keep anything from Rue. He adored her, and for him adoration turned into verbal incontinence.

  “What’s going on, Prim dear, really?” Rue’s brushstrokes did not pause.

  Primrose hedged. “How can I be certain that he was honest in his description of the physical transaction, as it were?”

  “He said he saw Tasherit Sekhmet kissing Primrose Tunstell in the hallway.” Rue could be blunter than the tag end of a rutabaga when it suited her. “Well? Was she kissing you?”

  “She was.”

  “And were you kissing her back?”

  “I was.” Primrose may do many dishonest things in the pursuit of perfection, but she never lied to her best friend. To herself, assuredly, but not to Rue. Well, not unless it was for Rue’s own good.

  Rue and Prim always joked that when they handed out shame, Rue got confused and too
k a double helping of daring instead. It was never more obvious than at times like this - Prim’s best friend had no shame whatsoever. “Do you want her?”

  “I don’t know what I want.”

  “You know what you think you should want, and that clearly hasn’t worked, has it? How many failed engagements is it now, Primrose?”

  Prim hung her head and tried to work a defensive statement around the lump in her throat.

  Rue continued brushing her hair. “And you know I don’t mean that kind of want. I mean the kind where you want to push her down on your bed and pounce, or let her pounce on you.”

  “Prudence Akeldama!”

  “Yes, me. Remember? The one you used to trust.”

  That hurt. “I like affections with her more than I ever liked affections with any of the fiances.”

  “Oh, stuff affections, is it? And you’ve done more affectionate activities with her than with any of them, haven’t you?”

  Primrose could feel herself blushing. “How on earth do you know that?”

  Rue gave her an eye roll via the vanity mirror. Quesnel must have seen a great deal more in that hallway than Primrose realised.

  She whimpered in humiliation. Then she whispered, “Rue, I genuinely don’t even know what she wants me to do… with regards to said stuff.” She waved a limp hand at her own body. “I mean to say, what do two women even do together?”

  “Affections apparently.”

  Prim groaned and sagged forward to rest her forehead on the vanity.

  “My Primrose, always wanting to plan and be prepared for everything. That’s not something I can answer for you, darling. But I will say with confidence that I’m certain Tasherit has more than enough experience for the both of you. Centuries of experience. And no doubt a willingness to teach you everything.”

  “Oh God.” Prim thumped her head against the lacquered surface.

  Rue tried to hide a smile and failed. “Leaving aside your objections over the social acceptability of such a relationship—”

  “Yes, about that…”

  Rue forestalled her. “Oh, can we not leave it aside? Very well. Primrose Tunstell, I don’t care. No one on my ship will ever care or they won’t remain on my ship. You can hide it if you like when we go home. Tash won’t mind hiding. She’s a werecat, stealth is part of her nature. You are creating obstacles for yourself because of your own rigid expectations, and none of us can help you overcome those.”

  Rue put down the brush and petted Prim’s hair, soothing her, as if she were the lioness, not Tasherit. “I know it’s difficult for you to give up the ideal of home and marriage and children.” She hugged Prim’s shoulders gently. “But what is the Spotted Custard if not your home? What is the crew if not your children? You spend your days mothering us all. And we love it. You must merely change the way you look at the world. And I know that’s hard for you. If not impossible.”

  Primrose gave a most unladylike gulp noise and unexpectedly started to cry. And not in the pretty way, but with those stupid fat tears that made her skin go all blotchy.

  “None of that now.” Rue rubbed little circles on Prim’s back. “You’re strong, you’ll figure it out.” You’ll come around was what she was really saying.

  Rue kept rubbing in silence for a few minutes. “I actually didn’t come here to upset you. I’ve a present.”

  Primrose managed to stop crying at that. She loved presents.

  “Quesnel gave me something to pass along. We thought, you know, if you were scared of the unknown, these might help.”

  Rue reached into the pocket of her dressing gown and pulled out a stack of postcards.

  Curiosity won over misery. Primrose dried her eyes and blew her nose on a silk handkerchief and then reached for the cards.

  They were French postcards.

  Oh my, thought Prim, I knew they existed, of course. Like French letters. One hears of such things. But I didn’t know they came in such numbers and with this particular variant.

  They were all quite lewd, and most upsetting, and absolutely fascinating. She didn’t want to touch them, and she wanted to keep flipping through them as fast as she could. It was humiliating, because these had clearly been selected with her in mind. The very idea of Quesnel and Rue discussing such a thing! And why did Quesnel have this variant in the first place?

  The images were tasteful… to a point. The ladies in them were all wearing lovely underpinnings - lace abounded and the corsets were very well fitted. Until they were not wearing anything at all. Or one of them wasn’t and the other one was only in stockings. That being the nature of this particular stack of cards, all the images were of ladies with other ladies.

  Primrose found herself tilting her head to one side, as if she might see a different angle. “You can do that?”

  “I suppose you can and they do.” Rue looked slightly uncomfortable. Which, frankly, Primrose didn’t think was possible with her friend.

  Prim flipped to the next one. The one girl had her mouth… Well, she had her mouth going where Primrose was tolerably certain that no mouth ought to go. Really, it was too much.

  “Now that I know you can do.” Rue was grinning.

  Prim swallowed, eyes wide. “Does Quesnel…?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “How extraordinarily… French.”

  “Oh, but I do it too. So it must also be English.”

  “What!” Prim wrinkled her nose in disgust. Somehow that seemed like a horrible idea. Male parts were so dangly. Wouldn’t that be a little like bobbing for apples. Or bobbing for sausages? “Yech.”

  She flipped to the next card. It was quite sensual. The two women were kissing, nothing more, but enjoying it. I like this one.

  “Aren’t you jealous that Quesnel has these?” she asked Rue, fanning out the collection of French postcards full of pretty women.

  Rue laughed. “No, silly. Look at the ladies.”

  Primrose was looking. But then she kind of understood what Rue was getting at. Quesnel clearly had a type of lady that interested him, and that type looked exactly like Rue. Generously curved, cheerful, dark haired. “Oh, they all look like you, or one of them does in each scene.”

  “Exactly.”

  Rue’s grin broadened as Prim’s discomfort increased. “Not to your taste, is she?”

  Primrose thought of Tasherit’s long lean golden limbs. She blushed. “Probably not. Um, no offence?” The very notion that she might find Rue attractive was incestuous. Not only were they essentially sisters, they also looked alike. They’d successfully pretended to be siblings on more than one occasion.

  Rue actually giggled at Prim’s horrified expression. “No offence taken. Now, I’ll leave these with you, shall I? It’ll give you an idea on concept and possible acrobatics, you know, for you and Tash’s stuff.”

  Primrose put the cards down and put a hand to her throat. “Oh dear.”

  Rue stood and made to leave. “You’ll be fine.” Then she had the temerity to wink. “Have fun.”

  Primrose wouldn’t have called it that, but she certainly had an educational hour or so after Rue left. After all, Rue was right, she did like to be prepared for every eventuality. The French postcards gave her much to think about, and at least some preparation.

  It took Percy less time than it ought to recover from the fact that he’d been mistaken for a monster of some bloodsucking and ill-named sort. Pishtaco, indeed!

  He puffed the Custard through the rest of the night’s float without incident. With Rue and the others asleep (even Virgil needed his rest, he was a growing boy) Percy sat skipper through to luncheon the next day. By which time he was almost the monster their new prisoner feared him to be. He was accustomed to long nights without sleep from his time at university, but he was beginning to think he was too old for such carrying on now.

  He used the propeller to guide them in over the last mountain towards a point where all the roads below them seemed t
o be leading. From what he’d read, that point should be the city of Cusco. He was, it must be admitted, a mite worried. If the locals reacted universally in such a virulent manner to these pishtacos, there must be a serious extermination mandate in place. These Andean vampires were in grave danger. Humans were, of course, food to vampires, but they also always outnumbered them. If the Dark Ages proved anything, it was that no matter how strong the supernatural creature, enough determined mortals could kill them to near extinction if given the right motivation. And fear was the best motivator of all.

  It was puff and go, as he had no map, so he kept having to run to the rail of the poop deck and look over, see where they were, run back, and make the adjustment accordingly. In this, he kept being thwarted by scraggly white low-floating clouds obscuring his view.

  Nevertheless, the Spotted Custard cleared what he hoped was the final mountain peak and sunk down through the clouds to find a city spread out below.

  It was a tidy-looking thing from up high, all muted browns, greys, and whites, gridded out with clear main avenues and smaller streets. It reminded him of those European cities that were based on Roman fortifications - well planned and militarily severe. A warlike race preferred organised civilisation, Percy recalled from his old history professor. The Incan policy on construction seemed not dissimilar to that of the Romans.

  I wonder if they too wore big bottlebrush rooster combs out the tops of their helmets?

  Percy twirled his own tassel thoughtfully.

  He toggled the propeller over a nudge to guide them in, and the thing simply ground to a halt. The whump-whump noise beneath his feet, the one that permeated the ship like a heartbeat whenever the propeller was active, stopped whump-whumping.

  Percy didn’t want to talk to anyone about this problem. He really didn’t, because Percy knew Quesnel was asleep. That meant Aggie Phinkerlington had taken on the dusk shift. But this was a serious problem. Without a propeller, the Spotted Custard had no maneuverability.

  He picked up the speaking tube. “Miss Phinkerlington?”

  “Mr Tunstell.”

  “Professor, please. Or Navigator, if you must.”