Manners & Mutiny Page 9
The other member of the Shadow Council, the potentate, was absent. Adviser to the queen, and the patron of Mademoiselle Geraldine’s, he was no doubt important. But, with few exceptions, a vampire was not able to safely visit another’s home. That said, Sophronia suspected at least one person come to dine was in the potentate’s pay, possibly several.
They were called into dinner by a butler-type human. This was not so odd, as vampires refused to employ mechanicals. He was of middling years and so ordinary that Sophronia would have passed him by, except that he moved like he could kill someone and would be good at it. All three of Geraldine’s girls looked at the butler with interest from under lowered lashes. He blinked impassively, holding the door. He does not like to be noticed, thought Sophronia. And he doesn’t like Lord Akeldama.
There seemed to be no consideration of the order of precedence in seating. Instead, they were guided gently but firmly by the drones to sit in a pattern orchestrated by Lord Akeldama. The girls were seated as far apart from each other as possible. They would be unable to pass notes. Dimity was next to the funny little inventor, Mr. Thermopopple, to whom she paid rapt attention. Dimity would never misapply dinner conversation. She would take advantage of the man’s expertise if it killed her. Given his flat voice and questionable subject matter—who cared about float capacity dynamics?—she risked at least being maimed by monotone. Agatha was next to the pack representative. The Beta was making an effort to put her at ease, but also trying to determine why three schoolgirls and their chaperone were in the midst of such august company. Petunia sat in a state of terror next to the dewan.
“Good evening,” rumbled the dewan.
“Meep,” said Petunia. Sophronia couldn’t fault her—the dewan terrified her on occasion.
The dewan rolled his eyes and turned to his other dining companion.
The long table was decorated with statues of shepherds and shepherdesses, and Grecian urns full of fluffy ferns arranged in such a way as to make hand signals nearly impossible between Agatha, Dimity, and Sophronia. Sophronia, on Lord Akeldama’s right, gave him a mock salute at the mastery of the arrangement. Nicely done. The known spies had been neutralized from communication. She felt isolated. But what the vampire had forgotten was that she had worked alone successfully before. Her friends were her strength, but not her only strength.
They were about to start eating when one final guest was ushered in—the type of guest who loved to make an entrance and had timed her lateness accordingly.
Monique de Pelouse was stunning in a dress of teal watered silk with black braid piping emphasizing her tiny waist. Her hair was a pile of gold, woven through with teal ribbon. Her sleeves were full enough to hide an armament, but not so full as to impede eating. Perhaps she wore a dash too much rouge, but only Sophronia suspected the rosy glow.
Lord Akeldama stood to greet her. He accorded her a distinction she did not deserve, gesturing her to the empty seat on his left, across from Sophronia.
“My dear Miss Pelouse, welcome. Does everyone here know Miss Pelouse? Lovely. Now that we have the countess’s representative, perhaps we can begin?”
A parade of drones, not footmen—Lord Akeldama wants only those he can trust working tonight—began serving. There were beautiful dishes for the human guests, exquisitely arranged platters of raw meat for the werewolves, and champagne mixed with blood for Lord Akeldama.
Sophronia had predicted that Lord Akeldama’s menu would be as frivolous as his dress. But in the matter of food, he either had simple tastes, or he farmed it out to someone who still ingested the stuff. The humans started with a pea soup made with ham broth, accompanied by bread sprinkled with powdered mint. The fish course was a John Dory in sage sauce, followed by a joint of beef with carrots, veal cutlets in curry gravy, and pheasant with truffles. They finished with a white pudding and stewed apples. It was delicious and perfectly prepared, but Sophronia could tell that others found it disappointingly familial.
Since Lord Akeldama was busy ensuring that the conversation flowed, Sophronia turned to her other dining partner. He had a laugh that sounded like he was chewing air and was already in deep conversation with his neighbor, unwilling to entertain the whims of a schoolgirl. She summarily dismissed him with equal disregard and greater contempt. Imagine discounting someone on the grounds of age and gender! Then again, she was trained to take advantage of exactly that kind of ignorance. However, it meant she was forced to look across the way, through the fern fronds, to Monique.
“Miss Pelouse, how are you this evening? I haven’t seen you in ages.” Sophronia dove in with a will.
“I suspect that is healthier for both of us, Miss Temminnick.” Monique was as barbed as ever.
“Oh, my, you didn’t suffer any adverse effect from your impromptu swim last winter, I hope?” Sophronia recalled Monique’s offended squawking fondly.
“Certainly not. I have an exceptional constitution.”
Sophronia nibbled her fish, pausing to phrase her next dart. “How are you finding the hive these days?”
“I consider myself quite pleasantly situated, thank you,” replied Monique primly. “I understand you are in London for the holidays?”
“To visit my dear sister. Recently married.” Sophronia gestured with her chin at Petunia, who was giggling desperately at the dewan.
Monique gave Petunia a disgusted look. “I suppose we all have our crosses to bear.”
Sophronia said, with no little feeling, “Too true. So the hive is still comfortable despite your misfortunes?” She tried to play on a sympathetic angle.
Monique sidestepped her. “We acquired a rather nice dirigible recently.”
“How excellent for the upcoming summer months. But surely, vampires cannot partake?”
“Sadly, no. But the rest of us are encouraged to learn the basics of floating. Drones must go where vampires cannot. It’s our role.”
“How nice for you. Is it a large craft?” Sophronia wasn’t certain why Monique would intentionally pass on information about hive assets. Is it a veiled threat of some kind?
“Not very, but I understand it possesses not inconsiderable speed.”
Now, that really was too much information. What is Monique up to? “Worried about flywaymen, are we?”
“No, not flywaymen.”
Conversational flow being as it was, Monique’s last phrase shot out into a lull and reverberated down the table.
Everyone looked at her.
Petunia broke the awkward silence. “Oh, those horrible miscreants.”
Monique tossed her head. “Well, it’s not them I’m worried about. Everyone knows who skulks behind the flywaymen these days. Is that not what we’ve been brought here to discuss? Or am I assuming too much, my lord?”
Sophronia looked through the fronds at her fellow diners for expressions of surprise. Petunia, of course, and perhaps two or three others.
Lord Akeldama leaned back, sipping his fizzy blood. “Has the countess told you something significant, Miss Pelouse?”
Monique stabbed at her fish. “Are you going to let them get away with it?” She looked down the table at the dewan. “Are you?” Then over at the werewolf Beta, gesturing at him with a fork loaded with John Dory. “Are you?”
“Come now, Miss Pelouse, no need to point fish. Let us allow the conversation to flow naturally, shall we?” As if by the vampire’s command, the others turned back to their dining companions.
Sophronia tilted her head at her erstwhile nemesis. Monique looked annoyed.
“Have you any holiday plans, Miss Pelouse?” With her free hand she gave the signal, What was that about?
“I had thought to visit my family, touring in Paris. Beautiful city, have you ever been?” You already know. To Sophronia’s surprise, Monique actually fluttered a reply. The problem with hand signals was that they were limited in specificity, being intended only for extractions from sticky social situations, or sticky physical situations, or, occasionally, both.
Monique chose to ignore Sophronia at that point, focusing on her food.
Sophronia did the same, listening closely to the conversations ebbing around her. The newspaperman with the piercing voice argued vociferously with the dewan about some malfunction. Whatever it was, Petunia was following, so it must be common knowledge. The newspaperman seemed the type to always argue, but Sophronia blessed his aggression because she could hear every word, even though they were halfway down the table.
“You cannot blame the government for a failure in private enterprise.” The dewan defended the Crown.
“My dear sir, we blame no one. We’re perfectly objective”—someone laughed coldly—“but public perception is that since everyone who is anyone has them, it is a society-wide situation, and the government is responsible. Like the water supply, or the gas, or even helium.”
A hush met that statement. Imagine, mentioning utilities at the dinner table.
Dimity spoke up, compelled by her training to cover for his gaffe. Of course, she was also happy to appear driven to attend his mistake while actually seeking further insight. “Forgive me for asking, but I have been away at finishing school and am regrettably out of touch. Has there been another opera incident?” Never underestimate Dimity.
The newspaperman looked kindly upon ignorance packaged behind a lovely face with wide hazel eyes framed by honey-colored hair. “Yes, my dear. Only recently my paper—you know it, of course, the Mooring Standard?—reported that a wave of mechanical malfunctions has been sweeping the nation.”
Sophronia was momentarily distracted by Bumbersnoot. He had been quietly slung over the back of her chair, but now was scrabbling to be set down.
Fortunately, no one seemed to notice except Lord Akeldama, who gave her a sideways look. Sophronia couldn’t afford to hush Bumbersnoot with a protocol command, so she stuck him in her lap. He remained so restless, she set him on the floor. He scuttled out the door and down the hallway. Sophronia figured if anyone could cope with her mechanimal, it was Lord Akeldama’s drones. They’d probably adopt him and dress him like a maiden aunt.
Dimity continued to coax. “Oh, but the opera, when sung by mechanicals, it is quite offensive. Can nothing be done to stop it?”
“My dear young lady, not opera. More a wave of small shutdowns, brief enough not to be noticed until one of my best investigators uncovered them. They have been happening in multiple households, in isolated pockets, all over the country.”
Sophronia looked hard at the dewan.
Monique jumped on the opening. “You see? They are up to something. Perhaps intending to damage the core of the Empire itself.”
The inventor chap, next to Dimity, joined the conversation. “We have seen no serious repercussions. Nothing but a spate of inconvenient shutdowns, and that first minor opera.”
The newspaperman seemed to take this as criticism of his reporting. “But it did happen, and all over, and no one knew about the shutdowns until we exposed them.”
Petunia moved gracefully back into the conversation. “I read your article on the subject with interest. We employ several mechanicals in our household, and I am concerned over their reliability. And the safety of my family, of course.”
“Exactly my point.” The newspaperman perceived this as support. “You are wise to be cautious, Mrs. Hunnelprissy.”
“Hisselpenny.”
Sophronia wished she could have a moment with the dewan. Had the government known about these shutdowns and covered them up, only to have the newspapers expose them? Or had they not known? The first meant they were evil. The second that they were incompetent and that the Picklemen were a step ahead.
“This is only a series of tests. They are planning something big.” Monique spoke with utter conviction.
The newspaperman was interested. “Oh? And who is this they of whom you speak? The government?” He looked ready to whip out his notebook.
The dewan was dismissive. “Nonsense, Gengulphus.”
The newspaper man took offense.
So did Monique.
The dewan, Sophronia realized, had very little training in the matter of conversational manipulation. I shall have to educate my own patron. How tiresome.
The dinner table erupted into argument, political accusations flying. No one named the Picklemen, and it was clear the newspaperman—and others—didn’t know of their existence. Some thought the conservatives might be trying to discredit the progressives. Some thought the vampires and werewolves, both always anti-mechanical, were somehow causing them to malfunction to prove a point.
Soon the entire table was involved. A gleeful Dimity egged everyone on. It was a good tactic, as high dudgeon often yielded information. Agatha paid rapt attention to the proceedings, inserting an occasional well-timed and seemingly innocent question that tossed more coal upon the fire.
Sophronia turned to stare, quite obviously, at Lord Akeldama. What is he up to?
The vampire’s face was impassive, but the person holding most of his attention was the newspaperman. What was his name? Ah, yes, Lemuel Gengulphus.
Perhaps we are going about this wrong, Sophronia thought, watching both vampire and muckraker. Lord Akeldama wants to know what the Picklemen are up to. So does Monique. So do I. But perhaps this is what they are up to. Perhaps their real plan is not death, destruction, or war but to make the government and the supernaturals running it look incompetent and unable to control technology. What if the Picklemen intend to force a major mechanical malfunction and then arrange for their political allies to heroically rescue everyone from the mechanicals? They could then overturn the supernatural stronghold on the government by arguing incompetence.
The dewan seemed to think that greater controls should be in place over mechanical technology. His stance was that the government might have to step in and remove or destroy them all, by force if necessary.
Petunia practically fainted at the idea. “But what would we do without mechanized staff?”
The newspaperman and the other humans at the table, including the inventor, also found this idea scandalous.
“Knives are dangerous, my lord, but we do not regulate them!” objected the inventor.
“True,” said the dewan. “But gas can explode, and we regulate that.”
The argument was becoming one of ideology rather than specifics, as these things do. Sophronia, however, wanted specifics. If she didn’t know exactly what the Picklemen were up to, how could she stop them?
Lord Akeldama stood. He was not very physically imposing, but he was their host, and his rising caused the table to quiet.
“Most entertaining, my dears, but as the cheese is away, perhaps we should adjourn to the drawing room? I have something there that might interest everyone.”
A murmur of excitement met that, and accordingly the gentlemen assisted the ladies to rise. The guests made their way out into the hallway. The dewan actually offered Petunia his arm. And Petunia took it!
Dimity, Agatha, and Sophronia lingered. Dimity pretended to have misplaced something. Agatha intentionally forgot her gloves. Sophronia found herself fascinated by the fern arrangements.
They clustered close.
“What do you think?” Sophronia asked.
Dimity’s nose wrinkled. “The food was rather too similar to something we might get at school.”
Agatha said, “Monique’s dress is divine.”
Sophronia glared at them.
Dimity giggled. “You are so predictable.”
“Quickly, please.”
“Now you sound like Lady Linette.” Dimity still wouldn’t play.
“So?” Soph
ronia was driven to put her hands on her hips.
Agatha crumbled. “The dewan doesn’t like that the government might be accused of malfeasance, but he also doesn’t want Parliament to attack the Picklemen openly. Not when, so far as they can prove, the Picklemen haven’t done anything legally wrong.”
“Agreed. Dimity?”
“Mr. Gengulphus is not as objective as his profession suggests. He would prefer to see the government humiliated, and if the vampires and werewolves share the sin, so much the better.”
“Is he politically conservative or in the pay of the Picklemen?”
Dimity pursed her lips. “I don’t think either. Simply one of those men who always suspects the people in power, whoever they may be.”
Sophronia nodded. “I can understand that stance.”
“Of course you can, you heathen.” Dimity was slightly proud of her reprobate friend. “Except that we know that Picklemen in charge would be worse.”
“Yes, we do.” Sophronia bit her lip. “We’d better follow before we’re missed. Plan of action?”
“I’ll keep egging them on when I can.” Dimity knew her strengths.
Sophronia grinned. “You do egg beautifully.”
Dimity went all over sly. “It’s all fun and information until the yolk breaks.”
Agatha said, “I’ll stick to the inventor. I don’t know why he was invited. He doesn’t seem to have a political stake in this situation, and while he works for the queen, he’s not that powerful.”
“Is it possible he’s a Pickleman intelligencer?” suggested Sophronia.
“Would Lord Akeldama invite one into our midst?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t figured out why he’s doing any of this.” Sophronia was only mildly frustrated. She doubted anyone could fully understand their vampire host in the space of a human life-span, let alone during the course of a dinner party.