Imprudence

by Gail Carriger

  Rue had felt that same pang when Uncle Rabiffano turned his back on her. And she’d had only a short time within a pack. Paw had been with a pack for hundreds of years, in some form or another. He must be awfully lonely.

  Mother clearly thought the same, for she stood and walked to her husband, slipping her hand into his.

  Dama had once said, “Although they’re careful not to use the word tether, never you forget, Puggle, that werewolves are tethered to pack, just as vampires are tethered to place. That’s why they get stuck. It’s a tragic weakness.” Dama had looked thoughtful rather than sad. “You may need to exploit it someday. Of course, it’s also a strength, like Hollandaise sauce.”

  Rue hadn’t followed. “What’s like Hollandaise sauce, Dama?”

  Her vampire father had given one of his tight secret smiles. “The thing that links us up. Wolves to the packs. Queens to the hives. Even me, in my way, to my darling drones and beloved home. Hollandaise sauce – delicious and a vital part of many superior dishes.”

  Rue understood that reasoning, being a frequent partaker of sauces. “But?” she’d prodded, knowing a classic Dama analogy was imminent.

  “Well, my buttercup, it splits easily, does Hollandaise, if you aren’t careful. Just divides up into its component parts and becomes inedible.”

  Rue hadn’t asked how he knew so much about cooking a sauce, being one who didn’t eat anything. But she did take his point.

  Paw had gone and split. The question now being, was he edible any more? She tried to catch her mother’s eye, get her assessment, but Lady Maccon was focused on her husband.

  Rue prodded. “Well, if you aren’t deranged, what are you in a temper about?”

  Lord Maccon looked confused.

  “I heard you from across the way, howling like a buffoon.”

  Lady Maccon looked suspicious. “What were you doing in Miss Sekhmet’s room?”

  “Talking to Miss Sekhmet.”

  “Just talking?”

  Now what is Mother on about? “Yes. Now stop avoiding the question. Paw?”

  “Oh, I was just yelling a bit. Alexia and I were discussing the pack transition. Ill handled, I think. I could have stayed longer, seen young Biffy settled into his new position.”

  Lady Maccon snorted. “Don’t be preposterous.”

  Rue said simultaneously, “Oh, Paw! Even I know the old Alpha can’t be overseeing the new one.”

  Lord Maccon harrumphed. “Well, still, I might have done some good.”

  “You see what I put up with?” Lady Maccon appealed to her daughter.

  Rue knew an exit cue when she heard one. “Supper will be served at nine tonight. Spotted Custard is assuming daylight hours while everyone is mortal. There’s a great deal to see in Egypt; might as well take it in. Although, we’re under quarantine for the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Are we dressing for dinner?” Lady Maccon resumed fussing with her hair.

  Rue gave her father an evil look. “Might as well.”

  She heard him groan as she closed the door behind her.

  Dinner went off without incident. Paw behaved himself. More to the point, so did Mother. Primrose and Tasherit ignored one another. Quesnel was as engaging as ever, and Percy as lacklustre. After pudding, everyone trooped to the forecastle for cigars and drinks – brandy for the gentlemen, sherry for the ladies. The moon was a bulbous yellow orb over a fairy-tale city below.

  Tasherit and Paw were obviously unnerved at basking in full moonlight, no curse shining down alongside.

  “I forgot how very beautiful she is.” Tasherit was moved to something approaching sentiment.

  “We could buy a silver cutlery set now, couldn’t we, wife?” Paw sounded as though Lady Maccon had done nothing their whole marriage but lament the fact that they must use brass at the dinner table.

  Rue’s mother made a funny face. Rue was in no doubt that Alexia Maccon had never given cutlery a second thought.

  Rue went over and touched first her father and then her werecat friend with a naked hand to the cheek. Nothing happened. The numbness was still on her. There came no indication of gaining supernatural abilities with her touch. No strength. No shift. No nothing.

  “Odd,” she pronounced. “Paw, are you normal strength now?”

  Lady Maccon laughed. “Infant, look at him. He’s still built like a Clydesdale.”

  “Thank you, wife.”

  Rue smiled. “You know what I mean. Tasherit, what about you?”

  “Normal. Slow healing and all else that goes with mortality.” Tasherit examined her snifter with pursed lips. “Susceptible to alcohol, too, I suppose. What bliss is that.” She drained the last of her brandy. She didn’t hold with sherry. She’d been offered a cigar as well, since brandy was already quite manly, but declined, muttering something about hookahs being preferable.

  Tasherit twirled the empty glass. “To tell the truth, younglings” – Rue supposed there was a good chance even Paw was younger than Tasherit – “it makes me feel odd and exposed.” She shivered, although the evening was warm. “I’m for bed. I shall enjoy the novel experience of sleeping at night.”

  Rue finished her sherry. “Me too.” She gave Quesnel a slight smile.

  He lowered his eyelids in a blatant lure. Pansy eyes glittering from behind fair lashes.

  She wanted to nibble the back of his neck as she passed.

  Lady Maccon gave Rue a dour look as she made her way to the stairs.

  “Leave it, wife,” she heard Paw say.

  Despite whatever it was her mother thought was happening, Rue entered the captain’s quarters alone. She changed into a tight red velvet top, beaded about the neck, and a narrow satin skirt. Remembering Quesnel’s reaction back in India, she put a bit of kohl about her eyes and rouged her cheeks and lips. With her abundant curves, Rue looked like a ladybug and felt silly. But Quesnel had liked it so much last time. She had this notion that if she dressed for him now, he might wear his leather workman’s apron and nothing else for her later. Privately, of course. She was rather too intrigued by the idea of a smudged and sweaty Quesnel wearing leather on the front and nothing at all over his back.

  She sat on her bed and waited.

  Rue was not a bad captain, not by any accounts. Spoo would not hear a word against her. She always posted a watch. Tonight it was a light watch, as they were moored at the top of an obelisk on the outskirts of town, only a long rope tying them to the world below. The spire could not be ascended; unlike other mooring posts, the red quarantine obelisks had no lifting platform, no tracks, no stairway winding about, not even a rope ladder. The Custard shared the obelisk with two fat luxury merchant vessels with skeletal crews and disinterested staff. No one would have thought any risk inherent in such an isolated position.

  No, Rue could be excused for not being wary while they were in quarantine.

  They were attacked anyway.

  ELEVEN

  In Which Percy’s Unbearable Smugness Is Revealed

  It was a much fairer fight this time. Rue and her crew no longer had a werelioness or a werewolf on their side. Although, no one tried to stop either former werecreature from rallying round.

  Tasherit was spoiling for some kind of battle, tetchy from arguing with Primrose. Lord Maccon was never one to sit idle and waded in, meaty fists flying. Rue might have said something, not sure if Paw was up for it. Lady Maccon might have said something, because she was accustomed to an immortal husband and not particularly fond of the idea of losing him. But both had been with him long enough to know that any attempt at mollycoddling would be met with outraged disgust.

  These men were different from those at Wimbledon. These were comprised of some species of bandit in native Egyptian dress, all swirling robes, fierce dark skin, and bearded faces.

  Rue supposed that could all be faked – beards, swirls, and skin colour. But they spoke to one another in some form of Arabic, so she had to assume they were of local extraction.

  Percy a
nd Primrose, showing admirable restraint, poked their heads out of the main hatch, ascertained the violence of the activities, and disappeared back below. In this the twins agreed: fisticuffs were not worth their time.

  The decklings took potshots at the fray from various vantage points. The crew was mainly represented in combat by deckhands, two footmen, and the cook. Rue worried about the cook. Good cooks were hard to come by, and this one was a whizz with puff pastry; she didn’t want him damaged. Still, he seemed to be enjoying himself, brandishing a nasty-looking cleaver in one hand and an iron skillet in the other. Lord Maccon had acquired a cutlass from some unfortunate. Tasherit held forth employing a weaponless kicking technique that turned her into a blur of vicious intent. Lady Maccon wielded her ugly parasol with remarkable precision both as a blunt instrument and via emission of various darts. It also sprayed acid, which Rue’s mother used to admirable effect, backing a couple of bandits up against the railing and then over it, in their desperation to avoid the burning liquid.

  Rue did her level best. Dama had given her some instruction in the defensive arts, but his was an old-fashioned soldier’s technique. “It’s been a very long time since I fought in any actual physical battles, Puggle dear. As a rule, try to avoid altercations. One doesn’t want to sully one’s gown with blood. This is why gathering information is so important. If you know what’s going on, you can avoid it.”

  Classic mistake. Rue ducked a punch, knocking her assailant in the throat with her elbow. I didn’t know enough about Cairo when I came in to port. I had no idea an enemy might be waiting in ambush. I ought have taken precautions given our previous incidents. No dirigible, not even The Spotted Custard, could move faster than an aethographic transmission. Someone must have arranged from London for Cairo’s premier bruisers to take on the Custard. Rue had to assume, with no other evidence presenting, that they were still after the Lefoux tank.

  Speaking of which, a holler rent the air and Quesnel Lefoux bounded into the mêlée followed by Aggie Phinkerlington and two of their biggest greasers. Quesnel had his dart emitter out, deploying one after another with impressive accuracy. Aggie and the greasers were wielding iron firebox prods with deadly skill.

  Once out of darts, Quesnel was about Rue’s ability with intimate combat. Someone had taught him the basics, but he was no proficient. All his muscles, which Rue could personally attest to, were from labour in the laboratory, not sporting at White’s.

  Rue grinned at him during a lull in the proceedings.

  “More of a lover than a fighter, pretty boy?”

  He winked. “You should know, chérie, I was on my way to your room. Your week’s wait is up.”

  “So it is. Bother this interruption. So rude!”

  The odds having been evened by Quesnel’s arrival, it was merely a matter of sorting through who was more tenacious in pursuit of their ends: the bandits in securing whatever they had been sent to secure or Rue’s crew in defending the ship.

  Rue had complete faith in her crew. The invaders may be many things – more prepared, more powerful, and more ferocious – but Rue’s people were most assuredly more stubborn.

  “I know. I was so looking forward to it. Speaking of, I adore your dress.” He winked at her.

  Rue whacked a particularly harassed-looking beard with a mop handle. For some reason mops were the first things she grabbed in a scuffle. She twisted it about and shoved the dirty rag end into the offender’s face, twirling it savagely.

  “Take that!” she said, knowing the man likely couldn’t understand her. “You have interrupted my deflowering. There’s no excuse for that kind of thing!”

  Quesnel laughed. “Especially when we’ve been practising for days.” He danced around Rue’s opponent in a fair imitation of a Highland Fling and, applying the principles of leverage and fluid dynamics – because he was an excellent engineer – utilised a bit of a ramp and some machine oil to slide the confused bandit over the side.

  “Exactly!” Rue turned a manic grin on her next opponent.

  Lord Maccon had led the front lines in several wars, not to mention the fact that Scotsmen had a well-earned reputation. It wasn’t for flower arranging. For Conall Maccon, a nice brawl under the moonlight was, to put it mildly, old hat. Trusting in his wife to know the way of things – Lady Maccon wasn’t a great fighter, but she was an unrelenting one – Rue’s father, nibbling a date, came to secure his daughter.

  Only to find her dressed like a dollymop and flirting outrageously with a Frenchman. In terms most indelicate and, frankly, alarming for any father to hear.

  “Your what?” he roared, banging together the heads of two attackers and looking as if he would like to bang Rue’s and Quesnel’s heads together next.

  Rue did not desire her father’s input in this matter. Nor did she feel he could add anything of value to the situation. “Flouring, Father. Quesnel and I were to learn baking techniques from Cook this evening. We were interrupted before we could get started. That’s why I’m wearing this old dress.”

  Lord Maccon was not mollified. “And face paint?”

  Rue turned big innocent eyes on him. “Didn’t you know? All the best cooks wear face paint.”

  Lord Maccon had nothing to say to that, only glared at Quesnel and turned to bash his fist into the face of some luckless scrapper.

  Quesnel gave Rue a look of profound cock-up.

  Rue nodded her agreement before returning to the rumpus.

  It didn’t last much longer. Fully half of the invaders had been repelled, and upon realisation that they were losing the battle, the others ran and jumped over the railing. Rue thought it a tad extreme to die simply because one didn’t get one’s way, until it became clear that just below them were two dirigibles. What the men were doing was leaping off The Spotted Custard to land comfortably in a net held taut between the two gondolas and then scrabbling over to one ship or the other.

  “Ingenious,” said Rue.

  “Drifters have them.” Lady Maccon sprayed down the last of her acid, perhaps hoping to eat away at the net. She either hadn’t enough or the net was resistant to such things. A few hapless malingerers squeaked at the burn, but nothing else resulted.

  “Bother,” said Lady Maccon. “Now I require a refill. I don’t suppose you happen to stock lapis solaris in acid as a general rule?”

  Rue pursed her lips. “You’ll have to ask Primrose; she handles provisions. I wouldn’t be surprised. Acid is one step removed from citrus, and she’s convinced we must always have a full complement of limes. Very paranoid about scurvy, is Prim.”

  Rue considered manning the Gatling gun. However, it was on the port side, which would make for some wonky manoeuvring to get a clear shot. Plus she wasn’t certain they were allowed to fire on native craft while under quarantine.

  Instead, she looked at Quesnel with overly bright eyes. “This is rather fun, isn’t it?”

  “Feral little beastie, aren’t you?” Quesnel’s tone was affectionate.

  Primrose appeared on deck at that juncture. She evaluated Tasherit from under her lashes before becoming quite businesslike. “Right, who’s injured?”

  The crew numbered an assortment of scrapes and bruises. On the more serious end of things, one of the greasers had a long cut up his left shoulder and one of the sooties had fallen and broken an arm. Prim did what she could. She stitched the wound neatly. She had a fine hand with the needle, and the man, fortunately for everyone, fainted. She set the arm, such as she could.

  “I’m no leech,” she said crossly to Rue. “If you insist on taking us into dangerous territory, you ought to hire someone.”

  “That’s fair.”

  Primrose blinked. She hadn’t expected such rapid capitulation.

  Rue turned to her crew. “Deckhands, I’d like one of you on duty rotation all night long, plus at least two decklings, armed with crossbows. I do apologise. I believed quarantine was an opportunity to relax but apparently not. Walk the railing every half hour, please, and
keep an eye below. I’d rather we weren’t boarded again. Man the Gatling gun at any suspicious approach portside; fire a warning shot into their balloon. Hang the restrictions. If the authorities don’t like it, they should protect us better.”

  “Hear hear!” said a few voices at that.

  Rue continued, smiling her approval. “Thank you all for your defensive work. I hope it goes without saying that hazard pay will be forthcoming.”

  As usual with that statement, a rousing cheer went up. The decklings began their Custard Doom war chant.

  Primrose said to Rue, under cover of the noise, “You might also consider a small complement of militia. I know we aren’t a military ship, but this is getting absurd. And, frankly, expensive in hazard pay.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Rue raised her voice. “Bedtime, the rest of you.” She gestured roundly to the assembled nondeck crew.

  Another more half-hearted cheer met that and the defenders dispersed, feeling victorious.

  Rue would not have been surprised if Paw posted a guard at her door. However, Quesnel let himself in after only an hour with no impediment. Paw either hadn’t set a watch or Mother had interfered.

  “You made it.” Rue let the pleasure colour her voice, still euphoric after their battle.

  Quesnel tossed his hat to one corner of the room and charged over, scooping her up like some Lothario from a novel.

  “Stop it, you ridiculous creature. You’ll strain something.”

  He dropped her onto the bed and she bounced.

  “Rue, my deadly darling, I worship that dress.”

  “I thought you might. Sometime we must talk about what I’d like to see you wearing.”

  “Oh yes?” He began unwrapping his cravat and removing his jacket at the same time. It was not particularly dexterous – he got the long tail of the first caught in the sleeve of the second.

  “I was ruminating on your leather apron.”

  Quesnel was momentarily arrested by confusion. “Oh, indeed?”

  “You know, the one you wear to work the boilers, all smudged and such.”