Manners & Mutiny

by Gail Carriger

  “A man of many motives,” suggested Agatha darkly.

  “Or, worse, none at all,” replied Sophronia.

  They made their way out into the hallway, precisely in time to hear a shrill whining nose and then a woof sound, which ended in an impossibly loud boom.

  The door to the drawing room exploded outward. Several top hats were carried with the blast, flying through the opening on a cloud of smoke, falling to roll sadly on the plush carpet.

  Sophronia could only think of one thing.

  “Bumbersnoot!”

  A PROBLEM OF MOTIVATION

  Sophronia, Agatha, and Dimity ran toward the door now hanging by its bottom hinge. Drones came dashing from all parts of the house.

  Sophronia’s mind was in a loop of worry. Is Bumbersnoot in there? Is the explosion his fault? Or has he exploded himself, without permission? And then, Petunia!

  They clustered at the doorway, peering into chaos. The smoke cleared, exposing a remarkable tableau. Something large and mechanical had caused the blast. It had started out on a table in the center of the room, but now its parts were scattered everywhere and the table was cracked in half. It was hard to tell what it had been, but now it wasn’t anymore. There were shards of glass or possibly crystal, as well as gears, valves, coal, chains, and springs everywhere. But what really drew the eye was the guests.

  The supernatural creatures had leapt to shield the mortals. Lord Akeldama had whisked Monique behind a couch. The sandy-haired werewolf had the inventor and the newspaperman down flat on their fronts with him partly on top. The dewan had taken Petunia under his wing. The deadly butler, who might or might not be supernatural, had two others shielded by an overturned table in the far corner. But they hadn’t been able to get to everyone. There was a good deal of blood, mostly on arms and backs, as those without guardians had turned away to shield their heads. No one seemed dead, but several were certainly prone and writhing. Both active members of the Staking Constabulary, the chief field operative for the Bureau of Unnatural Registry, the overseer of the Vault of England, and the Ghost Wrangler were down.

  Petunia looked sobered but showed no inclination to faint, scream, or cry. Sophronia felt oddly proud.

  “Your sister has unexpected fortitude.” Agatha voiced Sophronia’s thoughts. “I suppose you must get it from somewhere.” She sounded quite adult in her assessment of the Temminnick family character.

  The rustle of a crinkling dinner dress and a small sigh next to them drew their attention.

  Dimity had noticed not only the blood on the human victims but that the backs of many of the supernaturals had been torn to shreds by shrapnel and were leaking slow black blood in large dollops. She fainted into the willing arms of one of the drones.

  Sophronia and Agatha left her to it.

  Sophronia dutifully went to check on her sister, all the while covertly searching the room for Bumbersnoot. Agatha began to circulate with a dampened handkerchief and sympathetic expression. The drones ran to their master, and by proxy, Monique, helping them to stand, cooing and brushing them down. Lord Akeldama began issuing orders for hot water, bandages, dust removers, cleaning supplies, smelling salts, clothing, tea, and the like. The drones, having ascertained that he was both unhurt and unruffled, ran to do his bidding. He held a heavily perfumed handkerchief to his nose and passed the same on to the werewolves, so they would not be tempted by all the human blood.

  Sophronia thought the vampire seemed more offended by the destruction of clothing than anything else. There was a hint of hauteur to his orders that was not ordinarily part of his public persona.

  The victims began to slowly sit and take stock. The newspaperman, looking equal parts pleased and terrified, made hasty farewells. He retrieved his coat from the hallway, and throwing it over his now wrinkled evening suit, dashed off into the night. He had his headline for tomorrow’s paper.

  The supernaturals milled around, assessing the damage. The drones tended to the wounded.

  “Petunia, are you unhurt?” Sophronia took her sister’s hand in both of hers in a clasp she had read about in one of Dimity’s horrible Gothic novels.

  “It appears that way, sister. I am most grateful to the dewan for his protection. I believe I owe him my life. Too kind, too kind. Although I must say this was more excitement than I was anticipating from a dinner party. Even among such august company.”

  “What was it that exploded?”

  “Some odd mechanical. Lord Akeldama was saying how it had unexpectedly come into his possession and that he thought we might like to see such a unique specimen. Then there was this whistling teakettle noise, and it went poof.”

  Sophronia nibbled her lip. Uh-oh. Whistling teakettle sounds like Bumbersnoot. I wonder if something in Vieve’s adaptations conflicted with this mechanical? Under the guise of helping her sister to her feet, she continued to check the room.

  Still no Bumbersnoot.

  Fortunately, none of the broken parts looked to belong to him. He was a particularly tiny mechanimal. All his bits were undersized, and the ones scattered around were too large for him. She noticed a large chunk of one of the new crystalline valves, distinctive in its bluish shade and multiple facets, which meant the Picklemen at one point had had their mitts on that exploding mechanical.

  After helping Petunia to sit and serving her with a necessary cup of restorative tea—three sugars to cope with the drama—Sophronia joined Agatha in tending to the company. They helped where they could, all the while looking for important clues and evaluating the scattered parts.

  There wasn’t much to do. By the time Dimity had recovered from her faint, all the supernatural creatures were fully healed, and the drones had seen them dressed in fresh shirts and jackets. They no longer matched quite so well, but even Dimity’s stylish sensibilities could not be ruffled so much by the new attire as to make her faint again. She joined the others in practicing the fine art of administrative small talk and ministrations after a crisis.

  They were all obeying their training to the letter. I don’t mean to be crass, ladies, but keep your wits about you, for it is after a disaster that intelligence is most likely spilled, Lady Linette always said. Thus they milled, and cooed, and soothed, and acted like little angels of mercy, and listened, and learned. So did Monique.

  Sophronia was checking on the Ghost Wrangler, a crone shrouded in the long white veil and gray robes of her trade. Her upper arm and shoulder were badly scraped, and Sophronia tried to be gentle with the elderly lady, but she would keep twisting to try to say something. Finally, Sophronia got the bandage wrapped and helped the lady to sit on a nearby stool.

  With a frantic glance around, the crone swiveled her face away from the company and parted her veil slightly. Sophronia thought she might be about to expectorate, but instead she hissed in a shaky voice, “Closer! I risked much to get this to you, and you missed the show.”

  Sophronia recognized the voice. Madame Spetuna! One of Geraldine’s field agents, and their best Pickleman infiltrator.

  “The explosion was intentional?” Sophronia could only see the intelligencer’s mouth. It twisted in annoyance.

  “No. But this gathering was at my request.”

  “You work for Lord Akeldama?”

  “Sometimes. That is not important. What’s important is that they are building war mechanicals. That’s what this was. They used our pilot technology and intend to create mechanicals that can commandeer military dirigibles.”

  That’s why the Picklemen snuck on board! Not to steal something, but to draw schematics so they can copy the school’s pilot mechanical.

  Madame Spetuna continued. “My communication threads to the school have been eliminated, so it’s up to you to relay the information.”

  “Lady Linette won’t believe me.”

  “You must make her believe.”

  “How?”

  “My file, the record room, there’s a…” Madame Spetuna trailed off as Monique approached, looking quite interest
ed in Sophronia’s conversation. Then a drone appeared and ushered Madame Spetuna away, muttering something about visiting a surgeon. Sophronia had faith in Madame Spetuna’s ability to extricate herself and return to the Picklemen. She was one of the best intelligencers Sophronia had ever met.

  Things died down after that. Sophronia never did find Bumbersnoot anywhere. They delayed their departure as long as was seemly under the circumstances, in the guise of offering assistance. But Petunia would not be denied a graceful exit, and she certainly wasn’t going to help clean. The restrictions of propriety must be honored. So Sophronia, not wanting to disturb Lord Akeldama with trivialities, left a note with one of the drones saying she had misplaced her reticule. It was dog-shaped and had great sentimental value. If he found it, would he please see it returned? She worried that someone from the party had stolen Bumbersnoot. But there was nothing more she could do given the recent crisis. Any fuss from her would look suspiciously selfish by comparison to injuries, destroyed evening wear, and a cracked table.

  The dewan gave her a significant look before they parted ways. He probably expected a full report from her. I don’t work for you yet. She glared at him.

  They set off in Petunia’s luxurious coach and arrived back at the Hisselpennys’ town house feeling a little shattered. They were much earlier back than they had planned.

  “Sister, may Agatha stay awhile longer? The night is still so young. For cards or something equally pedestrian? To calm us down?” Sophronia batted her eyes a little.

  “Ah, I remember when I was young like you. Such energy.” Sophronia hid a smile. Petunia was only eighteen. “Your father won’t miss you, Miss Woosmoss?” Petunia made a token protest.

  Agatha shook her head, red curls bouncing.

  A small whirring heralded Petunia’s mechanical butler proffering a red lacquered tray.

  “Cards came while we were out?” Petunia tossed them over. Two invitations and a sweep-cleaning service. “Well, the invitations are not what they might be, but better than none, I suppose. And perhaps the chimneys do need cleaning.”

  The buttlinger buttled off.

  “May I see them?” asked Sophronia politely.

  Petunia arched a brow but passed over the tray. Sophronia pocketed the card for the chimney sweep, distracting her sister with, “How delightful that Agatha can stay! Shall we play loo? It’s so very fortifying?”

  Petunia pressed her temple with one hand. “I myself must rest. We shan’t tell Mr. Hisselpenny of this evening’s events, shall we, ladies? I’m afraid he is rather protective.”

  “Do not worry yourself on that account, sister. We shall be most discreet.” She’s forgotten about the newspaperman. He, no doubt, will print a full report. Or perhaps Mr. Hisselpenny doesn’t read the Mooring Standard. “We will calm ourselves with loo and lemonade.”

  “Very good, ladies. Have the coach take Miss Woosmoss home when you’re done. I’ll bid you good night. And tomorrow…” Petunia brightened notably at a thought. “Tomorrow we shall go hat shopping.” She left without further discussion.

  The three girls curled up by a fire in the parlor, cards out, of course, in case someone came to check on them, but they played by rote. Sophronia told them of her conversation with Madame Spetuna, and they spent some time debating where her loyalties might lie and why she might be unable to transfer information any other way than via Lord Akeldama.

  “Although we must admit it worked.” Dimity was always one to give credit when due.

  “The teachers won’t believe us. It’s such a crazy idea, war mechanicals. Too extreme.”

  “They won’t want to believe us. Too scary.” Agatha showed unexpected insight.

  A pause while they all looked morose.

  Sophronia added, “She said something about her records—maybe there is a code word there that commands trust?”

  “What else did we learn?” Dimity moved them on to other speculations, as she didn’t want to talk about the record room. It brought back bad—well, sticky—memories.

  Agatha reported her observations. “The dewan used the explosion to push his agenda. He has something on the queen’s desk called the Clandestine Information Act. It’s designed to seize technological power for the Crown in the guise of patent control. I think he wants to persuade Lord Akeldama to this cause.”

  “Speaking of which, did any of you learn anything more about that suspicious butler?” Sophronia asked.

  “Administering a damp handkerchief will only get a young lady so far.” Agatha made a face.

  “Me neither. But I think he had a vested interest in the politics of the situation.” Dimity wound a hair ribbon around and through her fingertips.

  “Why?”

  “He moved toward the dewan anytime he mentioned controlling technology.”

  “Patent holder, perhaps?” Agatha had a brain under those red curls.

  “A patent holder carrying at least two small guns, one up each sleeve?” Sophronia was suspicious.

  “And a knife down his boot top.” Dimity flicked the hair ribbon.

  “Careful with that—you’ll have an eye out.” Sophronia put up a hand defensively.

  Agatha remained focused on the butler. “I noticed that, too. Assassin in the employment of a patent holder?”

  “Speaking of butlers.” Sophronia drew out the calling card for the chimney sweep service. “If you will excuse me a moment? I believe there is someone waiting to speak with me outside.”

  Agatha and Dimity squinted suspiciously, but let her go with only an exchange of teasing smooching noises.

  After creeping around a well-guarded floating school, the Hisselpennys’ town house was ridiculously easy to escape, just as Soap had told her it should be.

  Soap was waiting for her in the back alley by the kitchen delivery entrance.

  Sophronia vibrated with awareness of him, but was careful not to show it. “Good evening.”

  Soap was not so reticent. He moved in with supernatural speed, and before she could protest, nuzzled into the side of her neck in a wolfish manner. “Why do you always smell so tasty?”

  In response, Sophronia sniffed him loudly, trying to lighten the mood. He no longer carried the scent of coal and boilers. He smelled of something raw and wild, a tiny bit like freshly butchered beef and open fields. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it wasn’t comforting, either. She had found coal dust and oil so reassuring—once.

  A throat cleared. “Touching as this is, youngsters, there’s work to be done.”

  Soap backed away and the dewan stepped out of the shadows.

  Sophronia was mortified by the fact that she hadn’t noticed him there. Too much of her focus had been on Soap—how had he done that? She curtsied exactly the right depth for the dewan’s social superiority. He was, after all, landed as the Earl of Upper Slaughter, even if he couldn’t boast an actual country seat.

  “My lord, twice in one evening. To what do I owe the honor?” She tilted her head—to the degree of inquiry, not the degree of coquetry. It wasn’t done to expose too much neck to werewolf or vampire.

  “Now, now, little trickster, don’t go throwing wiles in my direction.” The dewan squinted at her.

  Soap snaked an arm about Sophronia’s waist and turned so that he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her.

  The dewan gave him a sharp look. “Like that, is it?”

  Soap blinked at him. “I have always been hers. Although she is taking her time accepting it.”

  “I didn’t realize you were so tame, pup,” replied the dewan, then dismissed it as unimportant with a wave of one massive hand.

  Sophronia tried to delicately shrug away from Soap, but his arm only tightened. His statement had held so much finality it made her uncomfortable. How could she possibly combat such a feeling?

  The dewan proceeded to grill Sophronia about her observations from the dinner party. She told him some of them. After all, he would be her patron eventually, and she had the sinking suspicion she might ne
ed his help in the days to come. He gave her little reaction, even when she spoke of his own agenda of trying to garner support for the Clandestine Information Act. His expression only changed when she mentioned the butler.

  “Noticed him, did you?”

  “Two guns and a knife? Of course I noticed.”

  The dewan gave a funny half growl, half snort. “He’s with me. At least, I think he is, for now. I wouldn’t concern yourself overly. He was once a valet to an enemy of the Empire. But his master is dead, and the butler, as you call him, has great cause to play nicely with queen and country.”

  Sophronia looked to Soap for further information. Soap’s expression said he was as mystified as she.

  “What is your plan, my lord? Let the Picklemen expose and bury themselves, then slap a law on them? That’s a very indirect approach, for a werewolf.”

  The dewan looked her up and down. “Should I take that as a compliment, coming from you, Miss Temminnick?”

  “What if that’s their plan, too? What if they are not intending an outright attack, but instead are trying to discredit you, the Shadow Council, and the entire supernatural set?”

  “Queen Victoria would never allow it.”

  “And right now the general populace would never allow you to take their mechanicals away. But if the Picklemen cause one major nationwide malfunction, and blame it on a vampire vendetta, and then a Pickleman-backed manufacturer steps in and fixes everything? Then the supernatural are the villains and political power sways with popular opinion. So long as the papers spin it right.”

  “You think that is their game?” The dewan was intrigued.

  “I think it’s possible.”

  Soap said, “I told you her brain worked in mysterious ways.”

  Sophronia couldn’t suppress a rush of pleasure. He’s been bragging about me to the dewan. How sweet.

  At least the dewan was considering her theory. Perhaps being indentured to him wouldn’t be so bad, if he gave her opinions weight despite her age and sex.

  Nevertheless, he disagreed. “I think it must be something less subtle. They have gone to a great deal of expense installing the new valves, which allow them to control every mechanical in the nation. They only need the right command center.”