Imprudence

by Gail Carriger

  “Quesnel, this will have to wait!” she said, almost desperately.

  Quesnel backed off but did not return below. He stayed up top to observe the rest of the transaction.

  Which is how he was on deck when it happened. Which was how he got shot.

  SIXTEEN

  In Which Percy’s Cognac Proves Useful

  The gun crack was loud and stark and utterly surprising.

  Quesnel crumpled.

  Rue screamed in a way that was quite melodramatic, but she couldn’t help it.

  Tasherit twisted and heaved, throwing the man she’d been mouthing down the gangplank over the heads of the remaining sooties. His arm tore, misting blood over the heads of Rue’s crew. No one seemed to care much, except for the man.

  Rue ran to Quesnel, keening and vibrating with fear like some agitated violin. She slid down next to him, heedless of ripped skirts. Her eyes were instantly drawn to the bloom of red near where his right arm connected to his chest.

  Anitra was there, too.

  Rue scrabbled at Quesnel uselessly, convinced that the best thing would be to get his clothing off. Ironic that.

  The Drifter girl pushed her away, gentle but insistent. “Let me see.” She put a hand to his throat. “He’s alive.”

  Rue wasn’t sure how long that would last. “We should check for continued bleeding, stop it if possible, right?” Her tone was hesitant. She had no experience with bullet wounds. Mild mauling, scratches, and the occasional neck bite were standard fare in her parents’ households, but bullet damage? And this was Quesnel!

  Anitra did not look up from the fallen man. “I know what to do. Please attend to your ship, Captain.”

  Rue blinked. The reminder brought her out of the shock. She didn’t want to leave Quesnel, but responsibility forced her to stand, trance-like.

  She took in the activity around her. The decklings were panicking without Tasherit in human form to keep discipline. Deckhands were torn between establishing order and their own defensive duties. Rue felt a wave of cold flow over her; it carried with it a surreal calm.

  She holstered her parasol into attack position.

  Another gunshot rang out.

  “Everyone, down! Stay moving at a low level.” It was unnecessary information to impart, as most had already taken cover, but Rue wanted her crew to know she was paying attention to them.

  She yelled out more useful orders. “Sooties, close up the feed, last of the coal is not worth our lives. Then get below – we’re going to need you stoking! Percy, puff us up. Whatever speed we can get.”

  “Not much.” The redhead’s lips were set firm in either fear or determination or both. Fortunately, the helm was seated in such a way that only his head and shoulders were targets and so far, no one seemed to have aimed for navigation.

  “Give us what you can. Tell Aggie she has charge of engineering and must put our new fuel to good use.”

  Percy activated a puffer and they jerked up with a massive flatulent noise. The gangplank, not properly winched in, crashed down against the side of the ship. There was a plunking sound as coal, and possibly people, fell into the river.

  “Decklings in the sky, talk to me!”

  Voices called down from viewpoints up on the balloon, crow’s nest, and around the deck.

  “Nothing, Lady Captain.”

  “Can’t see ’em.”

  “Bloody dark out there.”

  “State your location as well as your report, please!” Rue barked.

  Decklings instantly responded.

  “Aft, nothing.”

  “Fore, nothing.”

  “Port, nothing.”

  “Starboard, man down, dangling plank.” That was Spoo.

  “Crow’s nest, nothing! No, wait—” Top of the mast started his call and then stopped. The boy’s voice was high from youth, thank goodness, not a helium leak. “Correction. Ornithopters. Two, sir. No, three. Sorry, Lady Captain, not sir.”

  “Just report!” Rue yelled back. “Don’t worry about formalities.”

  “They’re coming in under the starboard side, must have taken off from land. One looks like it might try to land on deck… no, only coasting in close. Watch out, Bennie!”

  There came a twang and a curse. Bennie, the deckling stationed on the aft railing, shot at the approaching ornithopter with his crossbow.

  “Nicely done,” called out the boy in the crow’s nest. He was now clinging like a monkey to the ropes of the aft tie point, leaning out and swinging around to get as best a view of their attackers as possible.

  Rue said, “Willard, to aft. Give Bennie a hand. Spoo, Virgil, man the Gatling. Tasherit, patrol the perimeter. Everyone, I want line of sight on the other two ’thopters.” She made a mental note to evaluate the weight allotment and see about installing a second gun starboard.

  Spoo dashed by, making for the gun.

  “Spoo! What’s the name of my eyes up there?” Rue gestured with a thumb to the boy dangling near the crow’s nest.

  “Nips, Lady Captain!”

  Rue winced. Unfortunate name. Plus “Lady Captain” was quite the mouthful under adverse conditions. “Sir will do for now, Spoo.”

  “Yes, sir!” Spoo ran to the gun.

  “Nips!” Rue shouted up. “The others? A location if you would.”

  “Out of sight, Captain. I think they’re below us. Can you have a sootie look out the boiler hatch?”

  “Good idea. Percy, get Aggie on the tube. Have her people check.”

  Percy was occupied with navigation and just as unwilling to deal with Aggie as Rue, especially when engineering was without Quesnel. Nevertheless, he did as ordered.

  “Aggie says you’re a blowhard doxie and they’ve two in sight, one heading up port, the other fore and starboard slightly.”

  “Spoo!” Rue took the information without acknowledging the insult. “Ready to shoot a deterrent blast on my mark. One pass, don’t waste bullets. Just keep them from boarding your side. Put the fear of death into ’em.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “And don’t kill anyone we like.”

  “’Course not, sir. I ain’t sloppy!” Spoo’s tone was offended, but Rue worried the gun was an awful lot to handle. Spoo was small for her age.

  “Tasherit, one’s coming up fore and right. Get ready to give them hell, but don’t get yourself captured, for goodness’ sake. Decklings with crossbows, back up the lioness.” Repelling an invasion was harder than it looked.

  Another few shots rang out. Loud bangs reverberated through the night, attackers firing on them. Then came the answering rat-tat-tat of the Gatling. Mixed in was the twang of crossbows and the hiss of an angry werecat.

  Rue went to support her decklings aft, dealing with the first attacker. She flipped her parasol, opening it for acid emission. It was silly to waste lapis solaris on a mortal, but it would, hopefully, eat into the canvas of the aircraft’s wings. She reached the railing. The ornithopter was close, a graceful two-seater with one man piloting and another shooting. The decklings were busy loading and firing crossbows as fast as they could. It wasn’t easy and most of their shots bounced harmlessly off the engine.

  Rue took position, gave them a feral smile, which the decklings appreciated. She held her parasol by the tip and tilted it over the railing. She dialled in the emission and pressed the release button hard, spraying acid upon the attackers.

  One of them screamed.

  Another shot rang out. A hole appeared in Rue’s parasol. Wonderful, now it’s even uglier.

  Rue felt an icy pain in her right arm, worse than shape change, which she hadn’t thought possible, and red liquid appeared where her sleeve used to be. I’ve been shot, she thought inanely. Fortunately, she was possessed of enough gumption to pull her parasol back to safety before she began blacking out.

  “Tasherit,” she called weakly.

  The next thing she knew, her bones were breaking and re-forming and she was shaking golden fur and feeling the might of immo
rtality in her bones. The extrusion of the bullet from her foreleg, fortunately not silver, was an odd, awful sensation. Her rapidly healing body simply ejected the shrapnel out of the muscle as if passing wind.

  Rue should have considered her dress. How many times had she shifted form, and yet she always forgot to consider her dress. Worths are wasted on me. She tried to extract herself from the tangle of skirts, hat, and petticoats without tearing anything.

  As if agreed upon ahead of time, Tasherit reached in, pulled out Rue’s petticoat, and slipped it on. She pulled it up and tied it across her chest, leaving her lower legs bare but otherwise establishing some modesty. She immediately began striding around barking orders. Since these were basically the orders Rue would have given, Rue left her to it. Tasherit had been running drills with the deck crew for months. They were accustomed to obeying her in matters of defence. Rue supposed she’d have to formalise the arrangement – if they survived this journey and Miss Sekhmet stayed aboard.

  Percy hauled on one of his nobs and the propeller kicked in. The Spotted Custard put on a burst of speed. He puffed them up twice in rapid succession. The Custard farted with the exertion but it got them away. A two-man ornithopter with a good pilot could match a dirigible for speed and lateral course correction but hadn’t much vertical manoeuvrability.

  Tasherit noticed this fact and ordered two more puffs. That put them quite high, not yet in the aetherosphere but close. Everyone’s ears were popping. Judging themselves mostly out of danger and giving the decklings and deckhands strict instructions to stay on the alert and fire on anything that closed in on them, Tasherit turned to Rue.

  “Should we go into aether cover? I’m assuming they can’t follow us there. You’ll lose me to sleep, and you’ll be mortal again.”

  “No!” yelled Percy. “It’s uncharted, could be an immediate twister or worse.”

  Rue shook her head as well.

  “Right, hold course into the desert. Let’s find our missing escort,” Tasherit acknowledged.

  Rue took a breath and padded over to where Quesnel lay. She sniffed at him, whiskers twitching at the smell of blood, thick and coppery. Rue was lucky she wasn’t a true werecreature. The scent did make her hungry but it did not make her crazy. She tried a tentative touch with one paw. He was still warm. Her throat rumbled. He’s alive! She nosed against his good side, trying for the scent of oil and smoke that always permeated his skin.

  She stretched out next to him, for he must be in shock and she was warm in cat form.

  Tasherit, judging them safe enough for the time being, came over as well.

  “Condition?” she asked Anitra.

  “Gunshot to the back, upper right near the shoulder blade. I think it’s missed the important stuff. Through and through, thank goodness, out the front here.” She pointed.

  Rue winced. That had been her favourite place to rest her head.

  Anitra continued. “Bleeding’s slowed. No sucking sounds. He’s unconscious. Blood loss or shock or both.”

  “Suggestions? Healing mortals is not my area of expertise.” Tasherit gave a smile that looked more like a grimace.

  “We need it clean. Hard alcohol, the stronger the better. Grain if you’ve got it.”

  Tasherit took off.

  Anitra evaluated Rue the lioness, her long furry form stretched along the length of Quesnel’s body. Anitra had loosened his cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirtwaist. It exposed him to the cool night air, but they needed to see to his wounds. “Um, Miss Prudence?”

  Rue lifted her head.

  “Amazing. I mean, I’d heard of your particular skills from Grandfather, but I never thought to see… Where is Grandfather? He would be useful right now.”

  Rue realised that Anitra couldn’t go anywhere. She was holding pressure to Quesnel’s wound, one hand under his back, the other on his front.

  “If you could stay in cat form and keep him warm? Soon, however, it would be better to have you able to issue orders.”

  Rue nodded.

  The missing Floote appeared. He looked older and shakier than ever.

  Anitra’s face relaxed into profound relief. Until that moment, Rue hadn’t realised how frightened the girl was.

  “Granddaughter. You are doing well. Hold steady. Is that the werecat or our captain?”

  “That’s the captain. She was shot, too. Fortunately, Lady Prudence has a quick way of healing. I’ve asked for strong alcohol to clean the wound. What else?”

  Tasherit reappeared with a bottle of Percy’s best cognac.

  “Good enough.” Floote took it. “Now, Lady Sekhmet, we need linen bandages. If none are available, a clean silk shawl. Lighter colour. Ask Miss Primrose. And blankets, we need to keep him warm.”

  Tasherit dashed off again.

  Several of the decklings appeared with their own blankets at that juncture, the ones they stored about the decks and used in their hammocks. Floote piled them over Quesnel’s lower body and arms. They were not very clean, but it was a kind gesture.

  Tasherit reappeared with Primrose in tow. Prim had her arms full of linen bandages. Rue had no idea Prim stocked the shipboard medicine cabinet that thoroughly, but she shouldn’t be surprised. Primrose did tend to think of everything.

  Prim fell to her knees next to Quesnel’s body with no care for her lovely dress. In times of great stress, Prim was one of the better elements. She instantly began unfolding the bandages. She was weeping copiously, although it did not affect her efficient handling of the necessities.

  Floote grabbed a strip, wadded it up, doused it in cognac, and handed it to Anitra. She used this to swab the back of Quesnel’s wound, the side they could not see.

  “I’ve iodine as well.” Prim produced a small bottle of the stuff.

  “Alcohol first,” said Floote. “Iodine once it’s clean.”

  “Should we roll him onto his side?” Anitra wondered.

  Floote considered. “Yes, to check. Lady Primrose, you’ll be the brace. Decklings, man his legs. On my mark, slow but steady and gentle. We need to know if he is bleeding out.”

  They rolled.

  The entrance wound oozed out from Quesnel’s jacket.

  “Cut away the cloth,” advised Floote. “Anyone have a sharp knife?”

  A rustle and then Percy, of all people, appeared and passed over a gleaming blade, from the look of it, silver, kept as sharp as one could keep silver. A vampire’s son was raised to take werewolf precautions. He remained looking on, strange given his contentious relationship with Quesnel.

  Floote doused the knife with the cognac and then shook his head. “My hand’s too shaky. Miss Sekhmet, if you would?”

  “It’s silver!” the werecat hissed.

  “You aren’t immortal at the moment.”

  “Oh, of course. I forgot.” She still looked uncomfortable.

  Primrose tsked and handed Tasherit the bandages. “You hold these. I’ll do it.”

  Face pale but determined, Primrose took hold of the knife and began to smoothly cut away the layers of fabric around Quesnel’s wound. The decklings steadied the Frenchman, who remained blessedly, but scarily, insensate.

  Primrose pulled the layers of clothing off. Anitra returned her free hand to the wound in between layers, applying pressure with the alcohol-dampened rag.

  Willard came to help her, applying corresponding pressure to the exit wound on Quesnel’s front so she might have one hand free.

  Once Quesnel’s back was clear of fabric, Primrose grimly doused it with more of the cognac.

  Rue expected to hear Percy at any moment, objecting to the misuse of his perfectly good bottle of alcohol. But he remained quiet, face set into an odd expression that might have been concern for another human being.

  Everyone huddled in, silent as they focused on their ministrations.

  One small part of Rue’s brain took a moment to be worried about how many were crowded around. Who is manning our defences?

  She was about to pa
nic when she noticed that Spoo and Virgil were not in the crowd. Nor was Willard’s second, Bork. That meant Spoo was still at the Gatling, Bork was seeing to the remaining crew, and Virgil was in the navigation pit – Percy had been training him, by default, as backup navigator.

  Rue wanted desperately to have her human form back. But instead she stayed with Quesnel, providing as much warmth as she could. It was all she was good for at the moment. She cursed herself for not thinking to hire a shipboard surgeon. As soon as they returned to London, she’d take out an advertisement. And for a proper bonesetter, one with real wartime experience, not one of those academically minded physicians.

  Rue growled at Tasherit. She need not sit there holding bandages like a wet blanket! She should get back to captaining the ship. Rue gestured with her head, tail lashing.

  Tasherit shook herself. “Yes, of course. We aren’t clear yet. We don’t know what kind of backup those ornithopters had. Stay on the offensive. You too, Rue. You’re no more good here. Blankets have arrived.”

  Indeed they had. Someone smart had thought to raid Rue’s closet and brought up a ridiculous fur cape Dama insisted she pack, despite Rue’s protestations that she was “travelling to a desert country, for goodness’ sake.”

  Quesnel would be plenty warm.

  Reluctantly, Rue joined Tasherit in trotting about the ship, making sure decklings were in place. Occasionally, she reared up on her hind legs to glare out over the railing into the hostile night.

  Everything looked under control and they’d no followers. Rue nosed Tasherit towards the poop deck and the helm.

  “You want me to take over? That’s silly. Virgil’s better at it than I.”

  Rue jumped down into the navigation pit. Virgil didn’t even flinch at the sudden presence of a lioness. Rue lifted the speaking tube with her teeth and hissed around it at Tasherit.

  “Oh, yes, of course, tell engineering what is happening.”

  Rue would have liked to give her advice on talking to Aggie. She suspected that even a werecat with hundreds of years of experience would be just as awful at it as everyone else.

  So it proved to be the case. Although, even with supernatural ears, Rue could only hear one side of the conversation – tubes were like that.