Imprudence Page 12

  After luncheon, Rue reviewed their course while Percy read. The last book before they floated, Rue supposed, wondering what tome could possibly be worthy of such an honour.

  She peeked at the cover. “On the Respiratory, Restorative, and Regenerative Applications of Aspic Jelly.”

  Well, there you have it.

  They should not have been faulted for being unprepared. After all, who would have thought a daytime attack at all likely?

  It took Rue a few minutes to realise that The Spotted Custard was, once more, under siege. She had just re-emerged after an afternoon nap belowdecks via the captain’s ladder.

  Primrose was supervising the delivery of a cartload of kippers, dried apricots, raspberry jam, and other vital necessities. The gangplank was down as the last of the provisions were wheeled up.

  Tea was laid out near navigation. Rue was contemplating whether she could manage a scone, when she suddenly had no options at all. The tea hamper was knocked up into the air and on top of her by a man apparently intent on throttling Percy.

  Percy was understandably surprised to find himself under threat of strangulation.

  Rue was not surprised at all. She often wanted to throttle Percy. But then, she knew him. Fortunately, he was not as easy a mark as he appeared. Aunt Ivy was quite silly – everyone knew this – and it’s not like one became less silly because one turned into a vampire. However, she was not wilfully ignorant. She insisted both her children – yes, even the girl – be trained to protect themselves. Thus Primrose and Percival Tunstell knew the rudiments of self-defence against vampires specifically, but that translated pretty darn well to everyone else.

  Percy twisted and elbowed his assailant in the throat.

  Rue struggled to extract herself from a newly intimate relationship with the tea hamper.

  Percy delivered a very nice punch to his opponent’s eye. The man, who may or may not have been one of those who tried to board before, pulled a knife and turned his attention onto Rue.

  Rue found a grip on the hamper and swung it in a wide arc, clipping him on the side of the head. Until that moment she had not realised how satisfying the sound of wicker crunching could be.

  It didn’t fell the ruffian, but it dazed him enough for Percy to get in another punch.

  “Bloody hell,” said Percy, shaking his hand, “that hurts.”

  “Imagine how he feels.” Rue’s attention drifted to assess the larger situation. She needed to establish command.

  “Percy, can you manage this?”

  “If I must.”

  Rue left the poop deck for the quarterdeck. Away from the helm and associated clutter, the quarterdeck afforded her a better vantage point on the battle taking place on the main deck below.

  Several ruffian types had boarded once again. Decklings had one invader up against the forecastle break, four deadly crossbows pressing against his delicate parts. Other decklings had taken to the rigging and were poised for a clear shot, should any of the enemy try to escape. Deckhands engaged two others in fisticuffs.

  The three remaining enemies seemed to be trying to make their way belowdecks via the main hatch to the staircase.

  Behind her came a crash as Percy brought one of her potted sunflowers down on his assailant’s head. The man fell, insensate.

  “Oh, Percy, really, must you waste my disinfecting sunflowers?”

  Percy look prim. “The evidence supporting the efficaciousness of sunflower use in aetherosphere transit is sketchy at best.”

  Rue turned back to the battle. What are they after? Percy’s research perhaps? Or Quesnel’s preservation tank? A tank that would allow vampires and werewolves to travel by air was a gold mine. No doubt Professor Lefoux was busy writing up petitions to modify the patent, now that they knew it worked on werewolves. Quesnel will have told me everything. Or Mother will have. Inventors did talk to each other. If someone knew what that tank could do and blabbed? It could be a target. And now her father was inside it.

  Rue barked out orders, trying to cut through the yelling of excited decklings. “Threat headed belowdecks! Stop them! Willard, Spoo, marshal your troops. Don’t forget your training.”

  Spoo gave a series of piercing whistles. “Decklings to the ground! Invaders at the main hatch!” Those who had been waiting high up to pick off stragglers leapt down.

  Willard left off trading blows and, with a signal from his beefy arm, called one of his fellows to replace him. The deckhand stepped in and Willard followed Spoo’s decklings towards the three men wrestling with the hatch.

  The main hatch was big and heavy but not difficult to open. It operated on a hydraulic pump, with a foot lever on both sides, so someone carrying, for example, a large wicker tea hamper could make it down without need of hands. Fortunately, the concept of a foot-activated door seemed incomprehensible to the enemy. Two were scrabbling about looking for a hand lever and the third was trying to muscle the thing open with his fingertips. Since the hatch fitted seamlessly into the deck, there was no way to get a grip and the man was merely bloodying his nails.

  There were two other ways to get below. One was the ladder which Rue had just used from the captain’s quarters to the quarterdeck aft. It was a non-standard modification, so even had the enemy stolen schematics of The Spotted Custard they wouldn’t know it was there. The other was the staff ladder near the forecastle, which no gentleman, not even one bent on criminal activities, would deign to use.

  “He’s staining my deck with his blood!” objected Rue.

  “Don’t you worry, Lady Captain, that’s what swabbing is for,” comforted Spoo as she nipped by to join the fray.

  The invaders rather gave up at that juncture. No doubt they had not anticipated the ship to be so well defended and so populated, everyone being on shift in preparation for the imminent float off.

  The leader, one of the three trying to go below, looked up and made eye contact with Rue. He was a darkly handsome man, or would have been had his visage not been marred by a fierce scowl that only deepened upon seeing Rue. Of course, when they attacked, she’d been out of sight. Aha! thought Rue, pleased. Scared of me, are you? Quite right.

  Then Willard hit him broadside with one meaty fist. The man twisted away and yelled some fancy foreign word. With which all the invaders took off down the gangplank.

  Two deckhands made to chase but Rue called, “No time. We’ve a current to catch.”

  Decklings took pot shots with their crossbows at the retreating men, but only in a desultory fashion.

  Just like that, it was over.

  “I want to know what they were after.” Rue let frustration colour her voice. “Please report in with clues and theories. Nothing is too minor. Everyone understand?”

  Her crew nodded.

  “Now, is anyone injured?” No one seemed to be, except the tea hamper and one potted sunflower, which had taken the brunt of the battle. There were a few bumps and bruises, but nothing her crew might not garner during the ordinary course of work.

  “Please see Miss Primrose for plaster and medicinals.”

  They hadn’t a medic on board, but Primrose was capable in a pinch. She emerged from where she had taken refuge, behind the overturned cartload of kippers. She’d lost her hat and a smoked fish now draped over her lovely hair in a jaunty manner. Rue forbore to say, although she really wanted to, how this would only make Prim more intriguing to Tasherit. The werelioness was awfully fond of kippers.

  Rue continued issuing instructions. “Cook will be authorised to distribute alcohol to soothe the nerves as needed.” The decklings cheered, which made Rue rethink a little. “During off-duty shifts, obviously.” There was a murmur of disappointment. “But you have all earned hazard pay for this action. It’s not your job to fight for the honour of The Spotted Custard.” Another cheer. “I want you all to know how much I appreciate the effort.”

  The decklings started up a raucous song at that.

  “We are The Spotted Custard!

  From th
e crow’s nest to the tomb!

  Spotted Custard is your saviour,

  or Spotted Custard is your doom!”

  Aren’t they precious? We have a chant. Rue was utterly delighted. She wanted to march about in a drummer boy fashion, but that might be a smidgen undignified in a captain, so she only nodded to the beat with a pleased expression.

  Rue raised a hand when everyone would have dispersed. “I know we are still an hour from float off, but let’s get this basket up, shall we? London clearly isn’t interested in doing us any favours. Decklings prepare the balloon, deckhands the propeller. I want those kippers cleaned up and loaded into storage. All non–crew members should be groundside in ten minutes and the gangplank tucked in. Navigation, prepare the helm for… Percy? Where the devil is Percy? Damnation, did they steal our navigator?”

  Percy had not been kidnapped but had simply disappeared below via the captain’s ladder to, as he explained when Rue found him, “Check on something.”

  Rue became even more suspicious that their attackers were after a Percy-related whatnot. Percy could hold the secrets of the universe against all comers, however, for he utterly refused to elaborate further.

  “I understand we are floating early?”

  “Yes, I thought we might take in the view, drift above London for a bit.”

  It being winter, London was a grey, gloomy thing. Percy was not impressed with this plan. “I did want to get in another chapter.”

  “Human life, I’m afraid, must take priority. I won’t give our enemy time to regroup again. Whoever they are.”

  So The Spotted Custard let loose her moorings and drifted up. At a safe height, she bobbed, taking the opportunity to tune her motions. It had been a few weeks since she’d tackled serious floating, and while their plotted currents were not challenging, one could never be certain with the aetherosphere. Rue wanted her crew prepared for anything, especially now.

  The sun set and they rose higher, waiting for Percy to call the mark for wind-up and puff.

  Tasherit appeared on deck. She reached her long graceful arms above her head for a stretch, taking in the busy crew with interest.

  “What’s going on? Pleasure jaunt?”

  Primrose stared at the werecat, eyes popping.

  Rue explained. “Had to lift earlier than planned. We had visitors. Your troops, by the way, did marvellously. I’m impressed.”

  Tasherit lowered her arms. “They’re charmingly enthusiastic. Early, you say? Are we off somewhere particular, then?”

  “Oh goodness. I forgot you’ve been asleep. We’re headed to Egypt. I do apologise. It must feel as if we catnapped you.”

  The werelioness only grinned. “Don’t be silly, I’m thrilled. It’s one of the reasons I joined up with you, Lady Prudence. Never a dull moment. It’s been ages since I visited Egypt. Could get a little awkward for me, given the plague and all. Plus, in some circles, I’m not at all welcome. But we’ll worry about that when we get there, shall we?”

  She moved to join the twins in the navigation area. Her nose twitched and she narrowed her big brown eyes at Primrose. “Little flower, you smell positively delicious.”

  Prim blushed scarlet. “There was a kipper incident.”

  “Don’t stop,” begged the werecat.

  Primrose rolled her eyes. “Would you like some?”

  The lioness was not to be diverted. “Of you or the kipper?”

  Primrose glared.

  Tasherit would have twitched whiskers, had she sported them at the moment. “If we intend to break aether soon, then yes please. I should eat before I’m forced back to bed. Kippers would be lovely.”

  The aetherosphere reputedly made vampires insane and werewolves ill. The werecat was affected as well, although not so badly. The moment they entered the grey, Tasherit fell into the deepest, most immovable sleep. Like a vampire during the daylight, she appeared dead, curled in a tight ball. Rue had asked her why she was different, able to travel in the aetherosphere where other supernaturals could not.

  In classic fashion, Tasherit had answered with no answer. “I’m a lioness, darling. Heights are what cats do. We’re good at being solitary, hence my lack of hive or pack… well, pride in my case. And we’re good at being high up. And we’re good at sleeping. I can’t wake until we are out of aether, though. I doubt you can steal my form either, little skin-stalker.” At Rue’s expression, she added, “It might be dangerous to try. I am accustomed to the catnap-solid-state-flop. You are not.”

  Kippers arrived and Tasherit ate them with alacrity, accompanied by a large mug of heavy cream. She had horrible table manners, so the others left her to it, bustling about putting everything in order. Primrose retreated to wash her hair, given that while the kippers themselves had been removed, the stench had not.

  Primrose still hadn’t told the werecat about her engagement. Her gloves stayed very firmly on. Little coward.

  Tasherit completed her meal and returned below to prepare for the journey.

  Rue was looking one final time over the rail at the dim lights of her home city when she heard Percy having an annoyed one-sided conversation. He was on the blow horn to engineering.

  Rue marched over and put out her hand.

  Relieved, the navigator passed her the speaking tube.

  The voice on the other end was mid-diatribe. “What the hell is going on up there? I thought we had another twenty minutes. What are we doing floating unnecessarily? You’re wasting fuel, Mr Tunstell. I can’t promise we’ll make the beacon without risk. Stop larking about.”

  “It’s me, Mr Lefoux.”

  “Rue, what the hell?”

  Quesnel was calling her by her real name. He must be annoyed.

  “We were attacked. I thought it prudent to float off before it could happen a third time.”

  Quesnel’s tone altered. “Are you injured? Is anyone hurt? How’s the ship? I’m coming up.”

  “No, you most certainly are not! We have only a few minutes before first puff and I want you in the boiler room. Everyone is perfectly fine. Tasherit’s been training them, remember? There may be a sunflower that needs to be put out of its misery, though.”

  “She hasn’t been training you.”

  “I’m fine, too. How’s my father? Did he wake after sunset?”

  “No. Nor should he, if my calculations are correct. The tank should hold him in an optimal non-degenerative sleep state for the entire trip. And keep him from aether illness once we enter the grey.”

  “Should?”

  “It’s not designed for werewolves, chérie.”

  “Oh? What is it designed for? Vampires?”

  “It’s designed for apologies and reparations. Or so my mother tells me.”

  “Lovely. Some day do you think you might reveal the particulars?”

  “Some day. You sure you’re unhurt?”

  “I’m sure. I had an ignominious encounter with a tea hamper, which I roundly defeated, I’ll have you know.”

  Quesnel laughed. “Of course you did. Very brave.”

  The tension was still there. Rue had apologised to Percy but not to Quesnel. The same truth held. He had deserved the reprimand, but she should have been less cruel about his shortcomings.

  She only said, “Everything on track for float on your end?”

  “Naturellement.”

  “Then we will see you at supper once we’ve made our current.”

  “Yes, Captain.” Quesnel sounded as tired as Rue felt.

  “Carry on.”

  The puffing went smoothly and they achieved flotsam status with no trouble at all from any Charybdis currents. For all their bickering and dislike of one another, Percy and Quesnel made for a synergistic team. Primrose reappeared smelling of violets and kept Rue company while Percy manned the tiller and the puffer buttons with an aplomb one would not have thought possible a month ago. He was such a bookish boffin that to witness him acting like a sailor out of some piratical yarn was surprisingly charming. Percy could
never look tough, not with his winsome face, but he could look dashing. Rue saw a glimpse, briefly, of what made him so deadly when allowed to roam free among impressionable young ladies.

  They settled into the Gibraltar Loop with ease. The route to Egypt wasn’t tricky to navigate – one of the reasons travel between London and Alexandria had grown so popular. A smooth current and a lower-level puffing made all the difference in the age of dirigibles. With the sail up, rudder down, and propeller off, they drifted through the grey nothingness of the aetherosphere. At first it had bothered Rue, the motionless gloomy quiet pressing against her, but now she enjoyed the peace. It felt like a physical blanket inside her skin.

  Her mother still wasn’t up. Rue decided to be happy about that. Should she check on Paw? No. Rue trusted Quesnel to tell her if anything was wrong and she felt that the sight of Paw’s still body surrounded by that bubbling orange liquid might be too dismal.

  After brief consultation, it was deemed safe enough for the officers to retire. Primrose had ordered in an interim feeding so they could hold off until later for supper with Lady Maccon. They tried to do it justice, but it was a silent group. Percy wasn’t permitting himself a book, but that didn’t mean he became loquacious. Quesnel’s quick elegant movements were tempered by fatigue, although he was as neat with his manners and address as ever. He kept sending tiny glances in Rue’s direction but she pretended not to notice. Primrose did her best to carry the conversation, but she was tired enough to allow it to lapse occasionally.

  Finally, Percy was moved to exasperation. “For goodness’ sake, Tiddles, you don’t have to talk simply because it is mealtime. We are all friends here. Could we not eat in silence?”

  Quesnel leapt to Prim’s defence. “Now, Mr Tunstell, that’s not fair. Societal conventions dictate—”

  “Blow societal conventions. A little less chatter once in a while would be to everyone’s benefit.”

  Primrose looked as if she might weep: a mark of exhaustion, for normally her twin’s snide remarks rolled off her.