Imprudence

by Gail Carriger

  Lady Maccon raised one hand. “There is something I should like to do first. It is a bit silly. Which, to be fair, is all your mother’s fault, Primrose dear. I had to invent something, you see, rather on the spot. And now it is tradition. Ridiculous, but tradition.”

  Primrose was serious. “Most traditions are ridiculous, Lady Maccon. Look at Eton.”

  “Point taken. If you ladies would please stand?”

  Mystified, Rue and Prim stood, skirts rustling.

  “And open your parasols?”

  When Mother got this way, it was best to play along. Rue opened her second-hand parasol, surprised at how heavy it was – full of deadly fluids and armaments.

  Primrose objected. “Lady Maccon, we are indoors!”

  “This will only take a moment.”

  Prim popped open her own lavender confection, edged in black chiffon ruffles and black velvet bows to match her dress.

  Lady Maccon looked like she would blush if her complexion allowed it. “Please spin your parasols three times and repeat after me: I shield in the name of fashion, I accessorize for one and all, pursuit of truth is my passion, this I vow by the great parasol.”

  Wide-eyed with suppressed amusement, Rue and Prim did as requested, reciting the strange pledge in unison.

  “Here I was worried about Paw going balmy. Now I think it might be you, Mother.”

  “Hush, infant. Now, raise your parasols to the ceiling.”

  Rue and Prim raised happily. But when Lady Maccon produced a small knife from her décolletage and unsheathed it to show a sharp silver blade, they exchanged worried looks.

  The strain of Paw’s illness was too much for her – Mother really has gone barmy.

  “Come here, girls.” Lady Maccon gestured.

  They pottered reluctantly over, baffled.

  “May the blood of the soulless keep your own soul safe.” Lady Maccon sliced into the pad of her palm. She grabbed Rue’s hand and did the same, pressing the two cuts together.

  “What!” said Rue. But then it was over.

  Lady Maccon gestured at Prim in her most commanding way.

  After a long stare, Primrose reluctantly took off her glove and allowed the same.

  “Mother, you’re a loon.” Rue sucked the cut to stop the bleeding.

  Lady Maccon sighed. “Let me explain. Sit down, both of you.”

  They sat.

  “For years now I’ve been running a sort of secret club. It’s for emergency use, communication, and generally keeping an eye on things around the empire. Your mother is a member, Lady Primrose. She goes by the moniker Puff Bonnet.”

  Primrose tied a silk handkerchief in a neat bow about her own cut. “Not a very covert name. Anyone could guess.”

  “Yes, well, she hasn’t made many contributions since turning vampire. I go by Ruffled Parasol. And Biffy by Wingtip Spectator.”

  Rue was startled into commenting. “Uncle Rabiffano is part of your club?”

  “Indeed, as are you two now. You’re all grown up, infant dear. Gained your majority and all that entails. I thought it time to pass along my connections. I have a feeling you will need them more than I.” She handed over a stack of documentation. “Other informants of note: the top sheet lists those in Egypt, plus any additional code names I know of. These aren’t members, mind you, just contacts. Not all are trustworthy. Watch out for the Wicker Chicken in particular, very tricky, that one. Weapons and weaknesses are noted in cipher. It uses the Isinglass cypher. I fancy you are already familiar with that.”

  Primrose took the package delicately. “I’m better with paperwork.”

  Rue only stared at her mother.

  “You’ll need code names.” Lady Maccon cocked her head in enquiry.

  Rue and Prim exchanged glances.

  Eventually, Rue gestured at her friend with a thumb. “The Ledger for that one.”

  Prim grinned. “Makes me sound all dark and ominous. And organised. I like it. And you, Rue, you should be… ?” She trailed off, frowning.

  “Hot Cross Bun.” Rue was firm on this.

  Lady Maccon sputtered. “Infant, that sounds quite rude.”

  Rue was unwavering. “I always said I’d rather be called a hot cross bun than a bit of crumpet and I’m sticking to it.”

  “Tradition demands you both be accessories of some kind.”

  Prim produced a dainty little ledger from her reticule, the one with the lavender leather cover in which she tallied the daily accounts. “Ledgers are accessories.”

  “So,” added Rue, “given the right set of circumstances, are hot cross buns.”

  Lady Maccon could not argue with that.

  Rue pressed for further information on this club of her mother’s. “Dama is a member? I learned Isinglass from him.”

  “Somewhat. We do share the cypher, just in case. He has a code name, Goldenrod, but I didn’t give it to him. It doesn’t pay, my dear, to involve Lord Akeldama in all one’s secrets, much as I adore him.”

  “You adore someone who isn’t me, wife?” Lord Maccon returned, Percy in his wake.

  Rue looked to her mother.

  Lady Maccon shook her head. Nothing else needed to be covered that afternoon on the subject of secret societies and code names.

  Primrose squinted at her brother suspiciously. “Percy, you look priggish. Well, more priggish than usual. It’s unsettling. Stop it at once.”

  “I’ve had some good news, sister darling.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  Rue made the motions of departure. It was past time to make their farewells. Prim and Percy could argue for hours if given the right incentive, like priggishness.

  “Mother, Paw, it’s been a pleasure transporting you here. I shall be certain to visit as often as I can. I do hope your tea endeavours prove both profitable and distracting.”

  Lady Maccon stood as well. “Thank you, infant.” She held Rue in an oddly fierce embrace for a long moment. Rue relaxed into the unexpected joy in her mother’s touch. There was no reason for it. Lady Maccon had nothing to steal from her that plague and sunlight hadn’t already rendered moot. It was nice, once in a while, not to be frightened of her mother.

  “You’ll look after Paw, won’t you?” Without his supernatural abilities, Lord Maccon could not hear his daughter’s whisper.

  “Since the day we married, I’ve watched over that lummox. I’m not stopping now,” Mother answered equally softly, with a wealth of love in her voice.

  “Good. Someone has to.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m fine on my lonesome.” Rue drew back, smiling into Lady Maccon’s worried brown eyes.

  “Fortunately for me, you aren’t alone.” Mother tilted her head slightly towards the twins who were still bickering amicably.

  “Too true.”

  “You’ll be careful, infant? Now you’re officially grown up and legally autonomous?” It was both a question and a statement rolled into one, as if Lady Maccon were trying to reassure herself.

  “’Course I shall.” Rue was unused to hesitancy from Alexia Maccon. “I’m your daughter after all.”

  Mother seemed to lose her voice and with a funny little wince, let her go and twirled away. Fishing about for a handkerchief, she dabbed at her eyes. “Blasted desert dust.”

  Primrose moved to distract her with more formal farewells.

  Rue turned to her Paw.

  He engulfed her in a fierce hug, fairly cracking her spine with affection. He snuffled into his beard unashamedly. He hadn’t his wife’s sense of propriety or gravitas. “Take care of yourself, little one. Try not to get into too much trouble.”

  “We’ll keep an eye on her, Lord Maccon,” said Percy in a most un-Percy-like cheerful manner.

  Lord Maccon grunted at him and let his daughter go.

  Rue and Prim gathered up their parasols. Percy went to find his hat, which he’d naturally forgotten in the other room.

  “Oh.” Lady Maccon gave a little sigh of ann
oyance. “One more thing. I really shouldn’t but I think you ought to know.”

  “What is it, Mother?” Rue felt a tinge of fear.

  “It’s that ragamuffin’s tank. The one we used for Conall.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s not meant for werewolves or vampires or anything similarly animate. It’s a ghost holder, for the preservation of dead bodies and the maintenance of a tether. Keeps a ghost from going poltergeist for much longer than normal, as long as you stick the dead body in quickly.”

  Rue frowned. “How much longer?”

  “I don’t know. Genevieve used one similar on her aunt, but that was decades ago. I’m sure both she and her son have made extensive improvements since then. It’s possible it could hold a ghost interminably.”

  Rue let out a sharp breath. “Useful little jobbie.”

  “Very useful. The question is, why do the Lefouxs think such a thing needed in Egypt?”

  Rue nodded. “Yes, that is the question, isn’t it? Thank you for telling me, Mother.”

  Lady Maccon looked almost sympathetic. “I take it that he didn’t tell you?”

  Rue wasn’t going to give her mother that kind of insight into her relationship. So she smiled at her without commenting further.

  Percy returned and they made their final goodbyes.

  Once free of the hotel, Primrose took Rue’s arm, pulling her close for private consultation.

  “What was that about a ghost holder?”

  Rue felt her skin prick, even though it was a hot afternoon. “Someone is going to die and Quesnel knows who it is.”

  “And he never told you?”

  “He never told me.”

  Prim looked even more upset than Rue. “You don’t think he intends to kill someone and stick them in there, do you?”

  Rue winced. “The fact that he has been so secretive certainly doesn’t bode well. Although we do have one advantage.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There a good chance he’s forgotten that one of a metanatural’s other skill sets is exorcism.”

  Percy bounced up and insinuated himself between the swishing skirts of the two ladies, taking their arms in his, in a crude imitation of a gallant escort.

  “Percy, really, what has got into you? You’re bubbly. It’s horrid.” Primrose was sharp in her exasperation.

  Percy didn’t notice. “Lord Maccon had a letter for me, and a few bits of other post. I had my club send it on to Shepheard’s just in case. It beat us here.”

  Rue took offence on the Custard’s behalf. “We’ve the fastest ship in the skies!”

  Percy shrugged. “Post doesn’t have to clear quarantine. Anyway, look at this!” He flapped a pamphlet against his sister’s skirt. Rue realised he had been holding it the whole time.

  “So tell us about it. We aren’t going to stop in the middle of a public thoroughfare to read.” Prim tried to limit her encouragement, but she did love her brother.

  It was nice to see Percy animated about something, Rue thought. But she wasn’t really listening to him. She was thinking about the ghost holder. She and Quesnel were already estranged; now she was questioning ever trusting him at all. Thank goodness she hadn’t allowed herself the luxury of falling in love. She was upset because, as his captain, he should have told her the tank’s true function. Not for any other reason. Of course, not for any other reason at all.

  Percy crowed. “This is a copy of a recent Royal Society Bulletin in which it is announced that my paper has been accepted and will soon be published. I shall be famous.”

  “Your paper?” Rue was suddenly suspicious.

  “Your paper about what?” So was Prim.

  “Werelionesses!” Percy crowed.

  Rue and Prim stopped dead in their tracks. A garble of outraged dialects met the three tourists impeding the walkway.

  “Percy,” hissed Rue, “you didn’t.”

  “I most certainly did! Far more romantic and exciting than weremonkeys, don’t you think? And I’m the only author.”

  “Primrose, and I mean this kindly, would you be awfully upset if I strangled your brother?”

  “Go right ahead.” Primrose’s fine eyes were flashing. “Percy, how could you! Tasherit explicitly asked that her status as a supernatural be kept private.”

  “I perjured myself in an official report to the queen by not mentioning her!” Rue added.

  “We all agreed!” insisted Prim.

  Percy came over truculent. “I didn’t agree. And I couldn’t very well let that insufferable inventor and his female confidante get the credit for the second most important discovery of the century.”

  “Oh, Percy, Miss Sekhmet is going to be so upset.” Prim nibbled her lip.

  “And that’s what really concerns you, isn’t it, sister?”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” Prim began walking again and the other two were forced to keep up.

  “As if I don’t see those whiskers sniffing around—”

  Rue could see where this was heading. “Stop it, both of you. Percy, you’re insufferable. You did this to get back at Quesnel and there is good chance we might lose Tasherit because of it. We need her desperately right now. She’s the best defence our ship has. Not to mention a fine friend and stalwart companion. How thoughtless of you.”

  Percy narrowed his eyes. “Footnote doesn’t like her.”

  “You can’t possibly tell me you feel the same? I thought you enjoyed Miss Sekhmet’s company. Or at least tolerated her more than most.” Rue was not going to let him sidle out of a bad decision.

  “Well, yes,” Percy muttered, “but this is a matter of academic pride and standing! Surely she’ll understand the seriousness of my intellectual position.”

  TWELVE

  Up the Nile Without a Puff

  Miss Sekhmet, as it turned out, did not understand the seriousness of Percy’s intellectual position. This was made evident shortly after Rue and Prim marched him belowdecks to face Tasherit and confess all. If she had been a lioness at that moment, she would have gone straight for his neck and no gentle nibbles about it.

  Lacking cat form, Miss Sekhmet used language to eviscerate instead. “Idiot child! Have you any idea what you’ve done? The danger you’ve brought down on us?” Even lounging in a chair, she seemed to loom, vibrating like an ill-struck chord.

  Percy was defensive. “The Spotted Custard has weathered worse. You’ll be safe here.”

  Tasherit bared her teeth, square and human but still menacing. “That is not the us I’m worried about. You can’t possibly have thought me the last of my kind?”

  Percy looked guilty. “Well…”

  “You have endangered my pride. What little is left of it.”

  “I don’t understand.” Percy, being a frightful booby, was never one to take his cherished book learning and actually apply it to reality. Presumably, he would find such a logical step quite silly.

  “Werecats have been safe, forgotten, lost to antiquity, free of the concerns of you paltry mortals with all your petty wars and sad little dynasties. Our safety is in anonymity, not numbers. And what now? Now your ships with their nets and sundowner guns will be after us.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Supernatural status is a legal right, one that needs to be granted, not assumed. Without the Crown’s protection, we are the world’s most exciting big game. Did you forget your own past? Your Dark Ages, before werewolves were part of society? Perhaps you should go and discuss history with Lord Maccon. I am certain he has not forgotten. You wanted academic credit, Percival Tunstell? Now your name will be recorded for all posterity as the architect of werelion genocide. It wouldn’t take much. We haven’t many breeding males left.”

  Percy was white, his freckles popping out like currents in a fruitcake. “How do you know?”

  Tasherit slapped both hands to the table and leaned forward. “Muttonhead! It’s what the British Empire does. You couldn’t possibly think your
expansion a glorious, enlightening, civilising force? All those books and you never once realised that is the song all conquerors sing?”

  Primrose was moved to speak. “Now, now, I wouldn’t take it so far.”

  Tasherit, colour high, eyes fairly shooting sparks of disgust, turned on her. “Wouldn’t you? And how might the Tasmanians feel about that? Wait, we will never know, will we? There aren’t any of them left. Or the rubber-workers of the Putumayo? And both are peoples classified by your government as human. Without any protection at all, my people are mere animals.”

  She turned back to Percy. “Collectors. Explorers. Hunters. It doesn’t matter what you name them. You – you insect! – have let them loose on my people. Mine. I was a fool to trust you. Any of you.” She glared, including both Prim and Rue in this statement.

  Rue could not argue; the werecat’s anger was justified.

  Primrose looked miserable.

  Even Percy was cowed.

  But Tasherit’s statement made Rue think. “Percy, did you send your paper to an academic review committee?”

  “Naturally. Why do you think it took them so long to announce the finding? Shockingly bad form to delay, if you ask me. But they wanted verification.”

  “So people outside the Royal Society know, likely have known, since before we left London?”

  Percy was not interested. “I suppose so.”

  Miss Sekhmet sagged, her face drawn, cheekbones even more prominent.

  “You can be quite the insufferable nib, Percy. You know that?” Rue scrubbed her face with her hand and began to pace.

  Primrose followed Rue’s reasoning. “You think the attacks back in London and during quarantine are related to Percy’s paper, not Quesnel’s tank?”

  Rue nodded. “Our attackers are likely after Tasherit. If Percy used her as the only known example and if he reported her presence in our crew as proof.”

  “Only to the review committee,” interjected Percy. “As evidence. I didn’t need it in the paper proper for publication.”

  “Committees talk.” Rue squeezed one hand with the other as she moved.

  “You think they attacked in order to get me to change shape?” Miss Sekhmet put effort into calming herself. Long practice, Rue suspected, from an old supernatural creature.