Percy sighed. “If you insist.” He paused, remembering his position. “Very good, Captain.”
Percy was terrified of most females in the region of his own age - apart from Rue and Prim, of course. That was because, for some strange reason he’d yet to fathom, strange young females always seemed bent on fluttering their eyelashes at him, or trying to talk to him about silly things, or, at the very least, trapping him into an assignation. It’s a horrible thing to be the near-constant victim of strategically applied eyelash fluttering. Drove a man to despair over all manner of things, from the state of the universe to the efficaciousness of a pudding course. Percy didn’t like to be put off his feed by anything, let alone a misapplied eyelash. I mean to say, who jolly well would?
Despite the prevalence of feminine wiles in his social interactions, which had resulted in him becoming hell-bent on avoiding both wiles and society, Percy knew himself well enough to be confident that he preferred the female form. He’d experimented at Eton - who didn’t? After all, hypothesis, thesis, and experimentation was the only proper scientific path to truth. Thus he was tolerably certain, after continued observation of Lord Akeldama and his handsome drones, that his own biological preferences lay in the region of internal sexual organs rather than external ones. Not to be clinical, but there it was. Percy had continued modest research to his own satisfaction, and hopefully the satisfaction of those few ladies he’d hired to finalise his studies. Thus Percy supposed he’d have to suck up his eyelash abhorrence and marry at some point, if only to satisfy his mother. He doubted his sister would be providing the grandchildren.
Why am I thinking about this right now? He climbed down the first set of ladders to the corridor that led to where they’d turned the smallest guest room into an improvised prison chamber. Hannibal ad portas.
He tapped on the door and then unlocked the deadbolt to let himself inside. The sootie on guard detail nodded at him and then bolted the door behind him, trapping him inside with their resident Italian.
Oh yes, that’s why I was thinking it.
If Percy were the type of man to prefer the company of other men, Rodrigo Tarabotti would have tempted him.
To be fair, Rodrigo Tarabotti had tried to tempt him on several occasions. He was wily, and one of those wiles was seduction. And an apparent disregard for the gender of the object of said seduction.
Percy had been startled by the approach, and then amused and even a little flattered, but he put a definitive stop to the attempts some two weeks into Rodrigo’s imprisonment. However, he could intellectually understand why such wiles might work on a gentleman less confirmed in his preferences.
Rodrigo was a swarthy Italian man, both he and Rue sharing their mutual grandfather’s cheekbones, straight fierce eyebrows, dark wavy hair, and tan complexion. Rodrigo’s nose was more pronounced and eyes deeper set and brown, not tawny. He had lashes most women would envy. Primrose had actually complained about them. She would. And here I am, thinking about lashes again.
“What happened?” the Italian demanded, the moment Percy stepped inside the cell.
Percy shrugged. “Bit of a blunder.”
Rodrigo sneered at him. Italians were very good at sneering. Although, truth be told, this was Percy’s first Italian, still he felt it was something they ought to be good at.
“Basta. What does it mean, this blunder?” Rodrigo shook his hands about while he complained. He always seemed to speak almost as much with his hands as his mouth. Percy was grateful - it did help them to understand each other better.
“We sort of, well, fell.”
The man’s dark eyes widened. “Fell? From where?”
“The sky.”
“To where?”
“The beach. Well, almost but not quite.”
Rodrigo tilted his head and made a frantic spiral gesture with his fingers around one temple. “Are you folle?”
“Crazy? Perhaps. Some have suggested this. But personally, no, I don’t think so. And I fail to see what that has to do with this conversation.”
“Are we sicuro?”
“Define secure?” Percy knew he was being difficult, but he did wish others took language and semantics more seriously. Imprecision was so very frustrating.
“We suffer the attack? There is the battle?”
Percy shook his head. “Not since you. No, we sprung a leak. It’ll get fixed momentarily.”
“When?” Both of Rodrigo’s hands came up at this, as if in prayer.
Really, the constant gestures were fascinating. Are there any books on Italian that take into account this aspect of the language? If not, I should write a short paper on the subject. I should need an artist to assist. I wonder if Anitra can sketch? Percy rather liked Anitra, the ship’s chief cultural liaison and interpreter (and sometime spy, but everyone has their foibles). She was a sensible girl, rarely said much, and never interrupted him in his library.
“Soon, I hope.” Percy answered the man’s question, if not his gestures. To be fair, the leak was already fixed, but Rodrigo didn’t need details. He was, after all, a prisoner.
The Italian looked oddly relieved that the ship which held him captive was in no grave danger. He was a strange man. To come aboard and attempt to confiscate, or possibly kill, Rue, and then when he lost the battle to acquiesce with relative grace to being kept aboard for no other reason than that Rue had no idea what to do with him next. Technically, he’d attacked her outside the bounds of the British Empire. Being a native Italian, he wasn’t really in violation of any laws that Queen Victoria could enforce. Aside, of course, from the laws of common human decency and the general feeling that one ought not to go around attempting to kidnap one’s cousin all willy-nilly. Rue had turned over his men as poachers to the Germans in Zanzibar. But she met with some resistance when she attempted to confer responsibility for Rodrigo himself, as ringleader and Templar agent. After much discussion, the German officers agreed to send an aetherogram to the Bureau of Unnatural Registry in London requesting advice. Since a metanatural and a foreign preternatural were involved (thank goodness Major Channing was in charge these days and knew all about Rue) BUR forwarded the correspondence to the Shadow Council. The Shadow Council concluded that this was a family affair and therefore Rodrigo Tarabotti and his disposition were Rue’s problem. Which meant he was the Spotted Custard‘s problem. Which meant he was Percy’s problem.
“So where are we now? In the world.” The Italian looked curiously out his tiny port window at the top of a palm tree just visible through it.
“Singapore.”
“Ah.”
“Ah what?” Percy knew that look. Rue wore that look when she was up to something.
“Might be good things, if Singapore did not know I am here.”
“And why is that, Mr Tarabotti?” As if we told anyone you were aboard ever.
“I think I might be - how do you say? - wanted for a kill in Singapore.”
“Oh, Mr Tarabotti, have you been murdering people again?”
“It was… some time ago. But still.” He shrugged broad shoulders and raised his hands up.
“As you do.”
The man inclined his head.
Percy enquired, without sarcasm and out of genuine interest, “Is there anywhere you aren’t wanted for murder?”
“Italy.”
“Of course.”
“Although…” Rodrigo let himself trail off and looked thoughtfully down at his own large rough hands.
“Yes?”
“They might want me dead now too.”
This was an interesting turn of events. “Why would they want that? I thought you were one of the Templars’ best agents.”
“Si, si, but I am of the soulless. We have the history.”
Percy cocked an eyebrow. “Oh yes, what history is that?”
“Of the… how do you say? Going to the native. Left away from the Templars too long. We go bad. Or I say, for you, we go l
ess bad. How long have I been here, on little cousin’s ship?”
“A month or so.”
“Si. So I think it.”
“So you thought,” corrected Percy. “But what does that matter?”
“I near the end date.”
“You mean, if you are away too long the Templars consider you a traitor to the cause?”
“Si.”
“Because why? Because you turn against their corrupt and evil teachings through exposure to outside influence and logic?”
Rodrigo looked surprised at Percy’s vehement interest. “Well, yes. Si.”
Percy considered him in all seriousness. “Do you think it’s something you’re likely to do?”
“What?”
“Go native.”
The Italian stared at Percy for a long moment. “You are - how you say? - a strange poultry, Professor Tunstell. Are you not?”
“An odd duck? Well, I don’t think so, but I suppose my opinion doesn’t count for much in the matter of other people’s impressions of myself. Would you like to talk more about the Templars’ philosophical stance on the matter of soulless integration?”
Percy had found in Rodrigo a decent mind and a top-quality philosophical debating partner - aside from the language barrier, of course. Percy spoke only limited Italian, although his Latin was excellent. And Rodrigo wasn’t exactly fluent in English. Nevertheless, they’d spent many an evening over the last few weeks debating the general Templar beliefs, impressed upon Rodrigo from an early age, that preternaturals were a kind of demon. Soulless killing machines meant only to do God’s dirty work, at the Templars’ request. Percy found this entire philosophy preposterous and was delighted to poke as many holes into the theory as he could, long into the night on several occasions.
Rodrigo was a willing partner in such conversation. Or perhaps he simply liked the company. Had to be lonely, being a prisoner. Not that Percy got lonely, he had his books. Which he’d taken to loaning to Rodrigo as well. Which sparked more conversation. They imbibed too many cups of tea and moved on to the general question of balancing science with religion, and whether that was even possible, and from there into theories on the state of the aetherosphere, the universe, and even the rise and fall of civilisations and whether the integration of the supernatural and preternatural was an effective bellwether for cultural longevity.
Percy was no judge of character. His sister had informed him, on more than one occasion, that he was, in fact, decidedly poor He supposed one had to like people in order to really understand them. Yet while Percy, generally, did not like people, he found, despite himself, that he liked Rodrigo Tarabotti.
Oh, he wasn’t going to do anything stupid. The man hadn’t persuaded him of anything, but he was fun to argue with. It occurred to Percy to wonder, now, if perhaps he had persuaded Rodrigo of something. If perhaps he, Percy, had managed to change the man’s general inclination to kill everyone aboard. Or whatever it was he wanted with Rue… and the rest of the crew by proxy.
It’d be rather an unexpected perk if I did. Considering it was all unconsciously done and I have never, to my knowledge, effected a profound change on any gentleman’s moral fibre. At least, I don’t think I have.
Oddly, Percy wished his sister were here. She would know. Primrose could come in and figure out what was going on in this man’s head. She was good like that. Persuasive with men. Rodrigo certainly found her appealing. Now that’s a disgusting thought.
Unless he prefers men, in which case maybe I could get Quesnel to seduce him to our cause.
Do we have a cause?
Bah, thought Percy, I’m not good at this kind of thing.
So he switched topics. “Have you had a chance to read the paper I gave you?”
“Ah, the one on the moral fibre versus ethical standing as pertains to excess soul and the creative mind?” Rodrigo read out the English words carefully, pulling the small pamphlet out from under his pillow.
Percy nodded. “What did you think?”
Rodrigo turned to settle back on his bed. Percy, as was his custom, folded himself awkwardly onto the small tuffet that was the only other piece of furniture in the room.
Footnote, his cat, came to sit on his feet. He’d no idea how the cat had gotten into the cell, but one didn’t question Footnote on his feline abilities. So Percy simply reached down to scratch him about the ears.
Primrose had a decidedly civilised lunch at a very international tearoom by herself. It served all forms of tea, but seemed confused by her request for milk to go with the leaf, so eventually she gave up and drank it black. After much menu confusion, she ended up with an array of what appeared from the outside to be small hot cross buns, but which were filled with meat, or fruit paste, or meat paste - odd but not unpalatable. The bun part had a pleasant sweet squishiness to it, and Prim found she rather enjoyed the whole concept. Wonderful how most cultures develop, relatively quickly, a means of transporting a meat item inside a bread item.
She thought fondly of Cornish pasties. And then purchased a dozen more of the little buns to feed the werecat when she awoke.
Fortified, she then went off to investigate the refuelling stations. There did appear to be several helium suppliers aboard but they all expected, not illogically, to tube over a supply to a waiting dockside ship, not tank a dose to the surface. Giving up that quest by teatime, Prim turned her attention to simply getting herself and Tasherit groundside, given that then at least they’d be reunited with the Spotted Custard and crew.
There seemed to be very few ways to get to the surface. Most of them were independent high-flyer services - a large omnibus dirigible drop left every hour, but stopped running at sundown. The dockworkers used a freight transport, but Prim would need a local licence to board that.
Which left the higher-risk, privately operated dropsies as her only real option. They were odd mushroom-shaped things, helium filled up top (Prim perked up at that), air-ballast filled below, but weight-balanced for the drop. Which is to say they took on a mess of passengers and it was the sheer weight of those passengers that drove them to ground. Once there, the bottom of the transport opened up and everyone inside, except the driver, fell out. Without the weight, the dropsy instantly bobbed right back up to repeat the process over again. The dropsies were tethered loosely to vertical wires, but at their hearts they were rudimentary contraptions. Quesnel would have sneered at the engineering, for marvels of mechanical invention they were not. Percy would have sneered at the design, for exemplars of modern scientific theory they were not, either. But they were dangerous, which Rue would have enjoyed, and they were practical, which Prim modestly appreciated.
She did not, however, appreciate their general mushroom appearance, or the rough-and-tumble way in which they were operated. They were run by frankly suspicious sorts of people. They were patched-up, dirty, messy-looking creatures, both dropsy and dropsy captain. Untrustworthy, Primrose felt. Still, with no other option…
Also, at her best guess as proud purser of the Spotted Custard, one dropsy was probably packing enough helium to load over to the Custard and get a rise out of her. Which meant, while Primrose hated to think so poorly of herself, she was already trying to come up with a plan to steal one of them.
Primrose strolled along the edge of the dropsy lineup, trying not to look suspicious. She wished she had a parasol with her, parasols always helped one look less suspicious. The straw hat was doing its best for her, but a parasol was always a great deal more effective. In this part of the wheystation anyone of Prim’s dress and mannerisms was a little out of place, but she thought she managed to avoid too much notice.
She found the largest and most disreputable-looking dropsy and met up with the equally large and disreputable individual who appeared to be in charge of passenger drops. She arranged a fare for two adult females, average weight (although she thought Tasherit might be on the denser end of things as a werecat but wasn’t going to admit that to an
yone), for just after sundown, when the dropsies began running. Prim guessed dropsies waited until the omnibuses stopped and then picked up the fares of those passengers who had missed the last puff down and were desperate for another method of grounding.
Plan at least somewhat in place, Prim then ambled casually off and spent a little more time wandering the station pretending to be a tourist, in case she was followed. She knew she was an odd case, a wealthy young lady better suited to the omnibus - why wait until nighttime transport? So she had to occupy herself with reasons to whittle away the day that might explain the delay. She was self-conscious to be rambling about on her own without escort, but it seemed to be not unusual in this part of the world. She noticed a number of females, in various different types of attire and of ranging ages, alone and without appropriate companions.
After some consideration, Primrose paid a visit to the garment district, where she found a truly lovely iridescent teal-and-blue-taffeta bolt, some needles and thread, and a basket full of lovely large shell buttons of the imitation black pearl variety.
Another teahouse for her afternoon repast and Primrose returned to the hotel, shopping in hand, ideas forming, and a rather crafty grin on her pretty face.
CHAPTER THREE
A Merlion in a Mushroom
Primrose spent a pleasant afternoon in the hotel, the bellman supplying her with seemingly endless pots of tea in an oddly desperate manner that suggested her approval of said tea was paramount for his continued existence. Certificate of merit to the bellman, Primrose felt, bestowing upon him a grateful smile each and every time, which only added to his desperation.
Tasherit remained oblivious to the bellman’s antics, the sun confining her to motionlessness. She curled in a silent ball in the exact middle of the bed, on top of the coverlet but under a throw, which Prim had insisted upon for the sake of the bellman (and her own sensibilities, of course). Prim found her presence there oddly comforting, despite the near nudity. The bellman found it confusing.
Competence Page 4