by Paul Crilley
Violet stopped at a wide set of stairs. Octavia leaned over the balcony and peered downward. She could see all the way to the bottom of the airship.
It was magnificent.
She was about to turn away when a flash of color caught her eye. She frowned, wondering what it was that had caught her attention. Then she saw it again. A purple suit.
Her stomach clenched. She leaned out over the railing to get a better look, wondering if she was seeing things.
She wasn't. Three levels down, striding along the corridor, was Sekhem, fancy cane and all.
What on earth was he doing here?
“Miss?”
Octavia looked over her shoulder at Violet. “Are you well?”
Octavia turned back, but the momentary distraction meant she had lost Sekhem in the crowd. She searched the floors, but there was no sign of him anywhere.
She had to tell Tweed.
They descended to level one. (The staff worked and slept on level zero, Violet informed her with a half-smile.)
Level one was where the first class cabins were situated. The corridors here were wider than anywhere else, the carpets and finishings even more expensive-looking. Original paintings on the walls, interspersed with framed photographs by new, up and coming artists who were the current toast of high society.
Octavia paused to study a photograph of a young chimney sweep, his face black with dust while an automaton stood next to him, gleaming, without a spot of coal dust on its casing.
“Do you like it?” asked Violet, nodding at the photograph.
“I think it's in extraordinarily bad taste.”
Violet smiled. “I knew I liked you, Miss Stackpole.”
Her cabin was larger than she'd thought it would be. A main room with a chesterfield lounge suite, a glass-topped table, a drinks cabinet, a bookshelf with all the classics set out in order of size. (All of them leather bound). Then a doorway leading to the bedroom, where she had a four poster bed all to herself, and finally a door leading to the bathroom. It even had a bath.
“Where do they keep the water?” she asked Violet.
“Tanks down below the servant's quarters. The airship will restock in Egypt.”
Octavia smiled.
Well, maybe she could enjoy it here. Just a little.
Tweed was not going to enjoy it here. Not at all.
The day started off well enough. He packed his suitcase, left a note for Barnaby, (and another in case the old man from the customs offices showed up), then made his way to Trafalgar Square to sign on aboard the Albion.
The first thing he had done was report to the head of household to find out how many people the head of wait staff would be in charge of, what his duties actually were, that kind of thing. Of course, he wouldn't be so obvious in his questions. He'd have to find that out subtly, by using probing questions and his superior intellect.
He was in for a bit of a shock on that front.
The head of household was a tall, stern-faced man whose back was so straight Tweed wondered if he actually had the ability to bend over. Tweed was tempted to drop something on the floor just to see how he managed to pick it up.
“Ever been in the military, boy?” were his first words to Tweed.
Tweed had to admit to being slightly nonplussed by this. Was he wearing a military uniform without knowing? Had he picked up a military issue weapon without realizing? He looked down at his hands. No, they were empty of guns, rifles, bayonets, and the like.
“Er…no.”
“Didn't think so. You can judge a person by his willingness to serve his country, doncherknow. What's your excuse?”
“Um…There haven't actually been any wars lately.”
“There are always wars. You can find one if you look hard enough.”
Tweed decided to just ignore this statement for the preposterous waffle that it was. “Yes. Good,” he said briskly. “My name's Sebastian Holmes. I'm to be the new head of wait staff.”
“The name's Hardstone. And no you're not, sir!”
“Excuse me?”
“Smythe mentioned his concern about your age and experience. And I must confess I agree with his assessment. I don't like the look of you, lad. Much too young. You have the look of a troublemaker about you.” He stepped forward until he was in Tweed's personal space. Way, way in his personal space. Then he inhaled.
Tweed leaned back, not even trying to keep the look of disgust from his face.
“You will not be the head of the wait staff,” said Hardstone. “You will instead be a waiter. One of the serving staff. That'll teach you some humility.”
Tweed's eyes widened in outrage. “I don't need a lesson in humility! I'm perfect as I am!”
“You will report to me, boy. I am taking over as head of wait staff for the duration. I've sent a message to Egypt and hopefully a replacement can be found when we dock in Cairo. Until then, you either take on your duties like a man, or cry like a little baby. And if you choose the latter, it means you will be cleaning latrines twelve hours a day. So, which is it to be?”
Tweed's mind raced. What options did he have? He had to stay on the airship. It was their only chance of finding Octavia's mother. He couldn't let her down.
He sighed. “I'll face my duties.”
“Good man! Now take your things to your cot and report to the servant's dining room at 0800 hours. Don't be late! Tardiness is a sign of the devil!”
Tweed thought about saying something in response to this ludicrous statement, but he realized it meant he would have to stay here a bit longer. Instead, he picked up his bag and slouched away.
“Stand up straight, boy!” shouted Hardstone.
Tweed straightened up, muttering curses under his breath. This was not going to be as easy as he'd thought.
The servant's dining hall was more like a huge common room. It had tables and chairs in the center of the floor space, but around the edges were comfy couches, billiards and cards tables, and a few other games that Tweed suspected none of the staff would get a chance to use seeing as they would be so busy serving the toffs upstairs.
All the staff had gathered in the room. Tweed tried to do a quick count but gave up after a hundred and fifty.
He hated to admit it, but he was slightly nervous. He stared at the other waiters, wondering who would be the first to call him out as a fake. He was trying his best to act like the other members of staff, but he found himself struggling. He'd never held down a normal job before. He'd spent his life with Barnaby taking part in cons. All this “respecting authority” malarkey was new to him. And painful.
And annoying.
And draining.
He nudged a tall fellow standing next to him. “Can't wait to get out there and do…” he cast desperately about, “serving stuff, eh? Waiting on all the rich people. What larks.”
The fellow just frowned at Tweed, then slowly shuffled away.
“Be like that, then,” said Tweed. He saw a girl watching him with an amused look on her face. “Hello,” he said, waving cheerfully.
“Hello.”
“Um…” Tweed racked his brain about what the procedure was when meeting people. “Oh yes. I'm Tw—Holmes. Sebastian Holmes.”
The girl held her hand out. “Violet.”
Tweed shook it.
“So are you ready to be at the beck and call of over-entitled, pompous windbags?” she asked.
Tweed raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I don't know. I've met Hardstone. He's not that bad.”
Violet laughed, a surprisingly loud and rather…distracting cackle. It broke off abruptly, as did the low babble that had dominated the room.
Tweed glanced up to see Hardstone enter and survey his charges. Tweed narrowed his eyes. That should have been him entering, surveying his staff, his army of cleaners and waiters. It should have been him they all hated and gossiped about behind his back. Tweed had been quite enjoying the prospect of such a thing. But now, now he was one of them, a grunt in the trenches.
/> “I'll keep this brief,” said Hardstone loudly. “We're already a man short, but we will not let that affect our services. Our guests have paid good money to travel aboard this airship, and we should all consider ourselves lucky we have been chosen to serve. I will brook no shenanigans. No hanky-panky. No smart comments. I want smiling faces and obedient staff who go out of their way to make sure the needs of our guests are met.” He gave them all a dirty look. “Understand?”
A rumble of agreement swept through the staff.
“Good. Now. Kitchen staff. Off you go. Mrs. Deacon is waiting for you.”
A third of the people in the room moved to the doors. Once they'd left, Hardstone surveyed those that remained. “And you lot are to go through every single room. A final check. I do not want to see a speck of dust or the slightest crease in bed linen. Everything in its place. Go. We have five hours till the guests arrive.”
Violet grabbed Tweed by the arm and pulled him toward the closest door.
“Before he picks us for some other task.”
“Like what?”
“Like making sure all the latrines are clean. I've heard about Hardstone. Cross him and you'll be on latrine duty for the entire voyage.”
“Yes, he's already mentioned that.”
Luckily for Tweed, he didn't plan on staying the entire voyage. At least, he hoped not. The Albion traveled at thirty miles an hour and it was about 2200 miles to Egypt. So they were talking about three days travel time. That's how long he and Octavia had to find Molock and force him to reveal Octavia's mother's location.
Violet led him up to the first floor of the airship. Tweed strolled along the carpet, inspecting the paintings and photographs, his arms behind his back as he took in the ambience.
“If you don't mind me saying,” said Violet, glancing at him over her shoulder. “You…don't really seem to be of the waitering mindset.”
“Oh? And what mindset is that?” asked Tweed absently. He nodded at a painting. “That's a fake. I wonder if the owners know.” Tweed cast a suspicious glance both ways along the corridor. “Actually, I wonder how many more are fake. Someone could have made some serious money here.” He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Say…one out of ten is a reproduction. Just enough to pocket some surplus money, and not enough to draw attention. Maybe even one in seven?” He thoughtfully sucked his teeth. “Of course, the supplier would have to cover himself. Use a middleman. Who I'll bet has vanished already.” Tweed became aware that Violet was staring at him. “What? Sorry. Were you talking? Drifted away there.”
“No,” she said. “Not talking. Just…listening.”
“Good habit that. Listening. You learn more than by talking.”
“Yes. I agree.”
Tweed opened his mouth, then he paused and closed it again. “Yes,” he repeated. “Er…should we get on? Lots of rooms to check.”
The first room fairly boggled Tweed's mind. It was massive. An elegantly furnished room that wouldn't look out of place in the Savoy. Furniture from France, clocks from Switzerland, and some traditional paintings from Africa, by the looks of it.
“How many people stay in this room?”
Violet looked at him in surprise. “One. It's a single.”
“A single…” Tweed looked around in amazement. He opened one door, peered into the bathroom, opened another into the bedroom, then opened yet another into a second bathroom. He gestured at it. “Two bathrooms! For one person! Can the rich not walk? Are they so weighed down by money that they can't make it across the room to their single bathroom before they soil themselves? This is ridiculous!”
Violet tilted her head to the side. “You haven't been around the upper class much, have you?”
Tweed had. Although the contact was brief and only lasted long enough to take their money.
“I tend to avoid things that disagree with me,” he said.
“Really?” said Violet mildly. “How do you get through life then?”
“With difficulty,” declared Tweed. “With difficulty and a certain amount of sprightliness.”
Violet stared at him for a few more seconds, then let out her low cackle again. “You're very odd, Sebastian. I think I like you. Now come on. Let's check the other suites.”
“Let's not and say we did.”
But they did, and it was incredibly boring. Tweed yawned his way through their duties. (He had, after all, barely slept the night before.)
Bedrooms: inspection of: (30.) All immaculately clean.
Cutlery: inspection of: (1300 complete sets.) all immaculately clean. In fact, some of them were a bit grubbier after Tweed picked them up. He couldn't help it. His hands were clean. But the silver just kept smearing from the oil on his fingers.
Dinner plates: inspection of: (1300, dinner, side, bread, dessert.) All clean.
Table cloths: ironing of. (Too many to count. Tweed's mind actually switched off from the sheer boredom. And he wasn't even ironing them. He was holding the already-steamed sections off the ground so they wouldn't crease again.)
Finally, it was it was time for the guests to arrive. The junior waiting staff (of which Tweed was one) had a chance for a brief rest as the guests landed in ornithopters, while the more senior staff (like Violet) escorted them to their cabins. Tweed didn't know how people did it, toiling away at an honest day's work. It was enough to turn him back to crime.
Once all the guests had arrived, their names ticked off, double-checked, triple-checked, and then checked again by the captain (Couldn't fly off without all the guests. Think of the scandal!), it was time to begin the journey.
There was a narrow balcony outside the waiter's dining hall that ran all the way around the airship. Tweed slipped outside and leaned over the railing, peering down at Trafalgar Square. The crowds had increased as the morning wore on. When he arrived early this morning there had been a tramp with a dog. The tramp, for some reason, was singing “Auld Lang Syne.” Now, there were hundreds of onlookers crowding the plaza in order to see the Albion off.
Tweed was joined by some of the other staff. There was a heavy thunk from below as the mooring cables were released, then winched upward into the belly of the airship. The dirigible bobbed slightly. Tweed could feel the tension running through the ship as it strained to rise into the air. But there was still a central mooring line left attached. Once the others had all been wound into position, this final cable was released, and with a loud cheer from those below, the airship Albion surged upward.
Tweed could hear polite applause from above. He leaned over the railing and could see the bottom of another balcony about twenty feet above him.
The airship kept rising, Trafalgar Square, then London itself receding far below them. The Thames unraveled like a silvery-grey snake, heading out into the snow-covered fields and farms that surrounded the city.
Mist and clouds fell around them, obscuring Tweed's view. Most of the staff disappeared inside, but Tweed stayed where he was, thinking over his plans. They had three days. Three days in which to get information out of Molock about Octavia's mother. Chase and Temple could deal with Tesla. They obviously thought they were better suited to that inquiry, after all.
After a few minutes the grey clouds started to thin, and then with a suddenness that took Tweed's breath away, the airship burst softly through the top of the cloud bank into icy blue skies. Tweed squinted, the winter sun blinding him. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, gazing in awe at the emptiness that unrolled in every direction.
The brilliant blue all around him, the grey snow clouds below, the Albion in the middle, resting between two worlds.
And then the Albion started to move forward. Tweed felt the ship vibrate as the Tesla Turbines kicked in, the top secret technology propelling the ship forward at thirty miles an hour. Tweed had heard it could go much faster, but thirty miles an hour was the optimal speed for comfort.
Tweed sighed and slapped the delicately carved balcony. Time to get to work. And by work, he didn't
mean Hardstone's chores. He meant finding out where Molock was hiding.
Tweed had thought it would be relatively simple getting to the captain's offices. (He assumed that was where the guest register or whatever it was that listed who was staying in which cabin was kept.) He imagined a small corridor at the end of which was a personal cabin. And inside that cabin a small office.
Nice and simple.
The reality was rather different. The top level of the airship was taken up with operational rooms. Offices given over to plotting their course, a mess hall for the important staff members, personal cabins for same, a radio room, logistics rooms. And on and on and on. Tweed's rather naive thoughts about where the records would be kept quickly turned to ash.
He briefly considered waiting till night time to sneak around, but then he thought better of it. He was exhausted and couldn't be bothered with all that fumbling around in the dark. Besides, he was wearing one of the best disguises available. He could go anywhere he wanted on board the airship and no one would give him a second glance. However, if he was caught sneaking around in the middle of the night, it wouldn't be so easy to explain.
“Excuse me,” he said to the first person he spotted, a young man with a crisp white shirt and a pile of maps clutched in his arms. “Where is the records room?”
“The records room?” The man frowned. “What?”
Tweed thought quickly. “Sorry. I was told to go to the records room. May have misheard. It's all a bit chaotic downstairs.”
“Up here as well,” said the man, his frown easing slightly.
“I assume Hardstone meant the place where records are kept. Files, guest lists, that kind of thing. He wants me to sort out a room mix-up.”
“Ah, I see. You want the customer files. Head to the front of the ship, into the bridge, and through the door to the right.”
Tweed nodded his thanks and hurried along the dark-paneled corridor. It was much narrower up here. More like a real ship. No need to build in extra space like they did for the paying customers. This was for the workers.
