Competence

by Gail Carriger

  Rodrigo had lost some of his colour during his imprisonment, but he still had an olive complexion by birth. Rue was nut-brown as a result of her heritage and her disinterest in maintaining any kind of complexion. She tended to run about above decks without a parasol or broad-brimmed hat. Anitra, being of Drifter blood, was darker still. Bork, while standing in the shadows, had African ancestry. Percy and Quesnel were positively ghostly by comparison to the others assembled around them.

  “Oh.” Percy understood Rodrigo’s line of thought. “Vampires. He thinks we’re vampires.”

  Rue let out a surprised laugh.

  Percy nodded at Rodrigo. “You’re assuming, of course, they’re just as pale in this part of the world as they are back home.”

  “It does make sense.” Quesnel raised his hands at the revelation. “They started panicking the moment I appeared on deck, remember?”

  “But Prim’s pale. She was there all along.” Rue was confused.

  “My sister was wearing her floating hat and veil.” Percy wondered at himself for having noticed such a thing. But he had.

  Anitra added, “And she spent most of her time shielded behind a parasol.”

  “Then you appeared, my love, all blond and angelic.”

  Quesnel side-eyed Rue. “Angelic, is it?”

  Anitra continued, “That’s why they started screaming about pishtacos. They thought you were one, Mr Lefoux.”

  Rue was grinning. “Well, I did ask Anitra to explain that we were hunting vampires.”

  Anitra frowned. “It is possible I got the word wrong and said catching instead of hunting. In which case…”

  Quesnel smiled. “And Percy is even whiter than me. Plus if they don’t get many blonds in these parts, they surely have even fewer redheads.”

  Percy nodded. “Well, that’s a relief. I mean to say, I know I’m no Byron, but my face has never before engendered that kind of reaction.”

  They all looked back down on their prisoner, still insensate.

  “So much for trying to hide the fact that we have supernaturals aboard.” Quesnel looked thoughtful. “Not sure how I feel about being mistaken for a vampire. Should I be insulted?”

  “I’d take it as a compliment, if I were you, dear.” Rue’s tone said he’d better. Rue’s much-beloved adoptive father was a decidedly handsome and charming blond vampire, and she would never allow a word said against him. Wait a moment, thought Percy. Charming. Blond. No wonder she likes Quesnel.

  “I suppose Mr Lefoux and I should make ourselves scarce and warn Prim. Best not to torture the man at the get-go. I don’t think he’ll be useful when we’re around. You can use us to frighten him later, of course.” Percy found himself oddly untroubled by the idea of being an instrument of torture.

  Quesnel nodded. “Agreed. I find it funny that he won’t be scared of Miss Sekhmet in her human form. And she’s the only real supernatural we’ve got.”

  Rue was considering the whole situation. “Very well. Bork, come give us a hand with the prisoner, please? Rodrigo, if you would take his legs and Bork his shoulders? Let’s get him below decks. Anitra, Rodrigo, you’re with me in case he wakes up. Quesnel, if you would please run on ahead and warn Primrose about this reaction of his? I mean to say, if he screams when she sees her face she could burst into tears. Could do irreparable damage to Prim’s emotional stability.”

  Percy wholeheartedly agreed. His sister was thoroughly invested in how others perceived her.

  Rue continued. “Oh, and please ask her if she can look through ship’s stores and find him some spare trousers. We must have something that will fit.”

  Since the smell of the man’s emission had hit them all now, Percy felt Rue was on a roll with intelligent orders.

  “Percy” - Rue looked at him - “you have the deck. Don’t crash us into anything.” And then she goes and ruins it like that.

  Percy did not dignify that with an answer.

  It didn’t take all that long to turn over Rodrigo’s former cell. Prim found one of the maids huddled in the dining mess and corralled her into helping. The girl had been with them from the start and still found gunfire daunting. I may have to let her go. It’s not like the gunfire is going to stop anytime soon, not with Rue for a captain. The application of instructions and familiar duties, however, effectively brought the young woman out of her shock.

  There wasn’t much to do. Mr Tarabotti had no luggage with him when he boarded the Custard, of course, and had had no opportunity to acquire any during his confinement. He had only a few books borrowed from Percy and some personal effects that Prim had supplied as a matter of basic human decency out of stores. These included a change of clothing, a bottle of pomade, and a shaving kit. These were easily moved to the guest quarters down the hall, directly opposite Anitra.

  Primrose chose that particular room because she was still uncomfortable with the decision to allow Mr Tarabotti his liberty. She could have put him up front in their spare officer room, now that Quesnel had essentially taken up residence in the captain’s quarters. But that would place a preternatural right below Tasherit, and that made Primrose awfully uncomfortable. She could move Anitra, of course, but the girl preferred to be near Floote’s tank, so she could visit with her grandfather’s ghost. The officers’ quarters were beyond Formerly Floote’s tether reach. Besides, a ghost was a pretty good chaperone. She hoped.

  “We’re done here, Jane, thank you,” she informed the little maid. Jane bobbed a curtsey and made herself scarce, taking with her the dirty linens.

  In taking on another prisoner we also have another mouth to feed. And I had to dip into my medical cabinet again. Goodness, I do hope Rue lets me shop in our next stop. We need supplies badly. Primrose went to retrieve her ledger, intent on making a list to that effect. I should check with Cook. I’m sure we’re running low on everything, but I’d like to know what we’re in dire need of, what we can substitute, and what can wait. Things like puff pastry and milk kept their captain in good spirits, but lemon and vinegar and brandy alike were medical necessities as well as vital to the cuisine and palate.

  Primrose was so very intent on her list that she might be excused on the grounds of distraction for bumping full tilt into Tasherit as the werecat emerged from her room. She was back in human form and swathed in her customary colourful silken robes.

  “Oh! I do beg your pardon,” said Prim, stumbling into the wall.

  “All right there, little one? What’s the rush?”

  “Must jot down some thoughts on our next supply run while they’re fresh in my head.”

  “Always so busy.”

  “Keeping a ship of this size sufficiently supplied is no mean feat. I mean, I’m aware you must know something about such things. You are, after all, in charge of our security.”

  Tasherit inclined her head, eyes as always intent and wholly focused on Prim. “You’re angry with me.”

  It was not a question.

  Primrose was, of course, but she wasn’t going to say anything. However, if the werecat opened herself up like that, well then…

  “You just leapt over there, under enemy fire. Did you know you could make such a distance safely? Was it worth it simply to bring back a prisoner, when that was expressly forbidden?”

  “We need answers. Hunting is what I do. It is what I’m good at.”

  “That’s all? Like a dog? Nothing but instinct? No self-control, no class?” Primrose spat.

  That got Tasherit angry. Her chocolate eyes flashed and narrowed. She pressed Primrose back against the hallway wall.

  Prim refused to be bullied. “You are hundreds of years old, don’t excuse a pre-meditated action with animal drive. That’s cheap and shoddy and beneath you. You’re better than that. I know it. You may have Rue convinced you’re some half-wild foreign creature. She knows what it’s like to be in animal form, so she thinks she knows what it’s like to be you. But she’s wrong. You’re stronger and much older. And
you knew exactly what you were doing just now, and what you did was wrong!” Primrose didn’t even realise she was now the one pushing Tasherit back. She had two fingers out and was prodding the woman in her sternum and walking her backwards down the hallway towards her own quarters.

  “Fierce little one,” breathed out Tasherit, eyes still hot but not at all angry anymore.

  “Why? Why would you really do that?”

  “The captain’s order was wrong and lacked forethought. We need insider information. We know nothing about this place, these people. I brought us leverage.”

  “You can’t defy orders like that.”

  Tasherit shrugged, “This is not a military operation. Besides, I was in lioness form. I couldn’t very well ask permission.”

  “Better to beg forgiveness?”

  The werecat hissed. “I never beg. Although you, of course, are welcome to try to get me to.”

  “I cannot believe I am attempting to argue with a cat.”

  “Neither can I. You should kiss me instead.”

  “I should… what!”

  “You want to, little one.”

  What Primrose wanted was to scream. She wanted to keep yelling at Tasherit, no matter how ineffectual, because it was the only way she could manage the roaring in her ears and the vibrating in her body. On deck she had wanted to lunge after the leaping lioness. To catch her by the tail and yank her back or to follow her into the abyss, Prim wasn’t sure which. It terrified her, and now that fear had become rage.

  I’m a tangled mess of needs I never thought to have and cannot seem to control. Tasherit pretended to be this wild untamed creature and she seemed to engender in Primrose something equally wild and untamed. Prim had never felt such sensations in her life. No book of etiquette addressed this mad desire to touch or to strike. No dancing lesson had ever taught her how to waltz this fast. She had no means but anger, even knowing anger was a childish recourse.

  She deflated on that thought. I am behaving like an infant. She pulled herself in and up, dropping her hand, humiliated by her own fierceness. Ashamed at her loss of control. And yet still yearning.

  Primrose knew the moment that her own face crashed into misery. She could feel it sink cool prickling over her flushed cheeks. She saw it register in Tasherit’s eyes - always so intent, always so focused on her, always so filled with yearning. But Primrose could no more control Tasherit’s wanting than she could her own.

  “Help me,” she pleaded with her torturer. “Please.” She was only human, and she allowed herself to beg.

  “I like it when you let go.” There was sympathy but no compromise in the werecat’s soft words. Did Tasherit think Prim’s turmoil a petty thing or simply mortal and, by extension, childish?

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” I build fortifications of what should be and she pushes, and pushes, and pushes at me with the possibility of what could be. And I want it so very badly and am so very afraid.

  Tasherit tugged. At some point the werecat had taken Prim’s hand in her own - cool and soft and sure. Primrose followed the unspoken request.

  Tasherit’s lips were cool and soft and sure too. She murmured into Prim’s mouth, before switching to tiny lapping licks that Primrose found less shocking than she should. It was as if Prim were spilled cream from a broken jug and Tasherit was tasting her - tentative, wary of sharp pieces, yet deeply taken by the flavour and the risk.

  Tasherit was pressed against her a full body length now. Everything about it felt perfect. One golden hand pressed the back of Prim’s neck, more for reassurance than insistence, fingers nestled into her hair, testing the softness, thumb curved about her throat, testing the pulse of blood beneath. Primrose had been kissed and held by a few of her many fiances. Society allowed some canoodling, up to a point and within reason, of course. Primrose had allowed it precisely because she felt nothing and thus it was easy to stop. It never felt right.

  She fit against Tasherit right. The werecat’s other hand was exactly right against the small of her back, fine boned and very strong, warm sandstone and satin. The fingers pressed a pattern of right, mine, right, over and over into Prim’s flesh.

  Because of that, Primrose regretted her favourite evening dress, velvet was too thick a fabric. She regretted her stays, solid reinforcement though they may be. She wished only for Tasherit’s hand as her support.

  Tasherit’s fingers at Prim’s throat slid around, exploring, down to her collarbone.

  “I’ve known vampires whose skin was not so fine. Like warm alabaster.” Tasherit silenced herself, pressing her lips to the spot where her thumb had recently been. She tested Prim’s pulse points with tiny nips and licks, almost worshipful.

  Her hand kept petting down from collar to chest, and Primrose knew she should stop it. She’d never allowed a man such liberties, and she was tolerably certain she should not like anything as much as she liked this.

  Then Tasherit encountered the hard ivory handle of the pistol down Prim’s cleavage. Primrose noticed for the first time that it was pressing most uncomfortably against her sternum.

  The werecat drew back with a startled laugh.

  “Surprised?” said Primrose, knowing she was flushed and mussed.

  Not for long. Soon Tasherit would return to kissing her, her eyes promised it. And Primrose was going to let her, because she wanted it more than was proper. And Primrose had never wanted anything more than was proper.

  A polite cough emanated from down the hallway.

  We are in a hallway. A public hallway. And someone has seen us. Prim’s whole body froze up. Where seconds before she had been flushed, she turned clammy and cold.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Our Lord and Saviour the Spotted Custard

  Tasherit said something, no doubt quite foul, in some long-dead language of the deserts, raspy with hunger and disuse. She dropped her hands from Prim’s waist and chest. This left Primrose shivering and incomplete.

  The werecat backed slowly away. But her eyes, while human for the moment, said mine, mine, mine in gleams of pure feline possession.

  Primrose jerked, ashamed and intent on running into her room. Not sure she even wanted to know who had caught them in flagrante delicto.

  But she had to look.

  Formerly Floote hovered a ways down the hall at the point where the ladder led down to the stateroom, with crew quarters beyond.

  The fact that it was the ghost who’d seen her in a compromising position was a relief. No doubt he would tell Rue if she asked, but she would have to know to ask. He was the least forthcoming human Primrose had ever met in life, and was even more taciturn in death.

  There was no censure on his noncorporeal visage. There might even have been a gleam of understanding or sympathy.

  “Apologies. But you are not alone, ladies,” he said.

  Tasherit glared at him.

  So Primrose responded with a polite, “Thank you.”

  “Ah yes, well…” The ghost slid aside, to reveal the fact that Quesnel was almost to the bottom of the ladder, climbing down from the deck. He had paused there, dangling slightly from his one good arm, and was staring up at them, mouth agape, big purple eyes blinking in utter confusion.

  Primrose knew she must have turned absolutely scarlet in humiliation. Quesnel’s shock was genuine. Rue had never told him. She trusted Rue, of course, knowing that her friend would never betray her struggles, not even to a lover. Yet now, through her own indiscretion, he knew it all. He knew more than Rue did. More than Percy implied he’d guessed.

  Since Primrose had no other way to manage the situation, she ignored it.

  “Formerly Floote, the captain has decided to put the new prisoner in the old prisoner’s cell. Or what amounts to his cell. Which means I am putting Mr Tarabotti in the guest quarters across from your granddaughter. I realise this is not ideal, but I won’t have him any closer to Rue or Miss Sekhmet.”

  The ghost nodded. “I und
erstand.”

  “I don’t think it is a wise decision to allow Mr Tarabotti his freedom, but it is not my place to question Rue’s assessment of her cousin’s character.”

  “You don’t trust him?” That came from Quesnel, who’d recovered from his surprise, climbed the rest of the way down, and was now on a level with them.

  Tasherit crossed her arms and glared at both ghost and man. Prim found herself unexpectedly attuned to the werecat’s movements. As if they were tethered in time as well as in space.

  Prim said, “No, I don’t trust Mr Tarabotti. And as it’s your granddaughter, Formerly Floote, I thought you might be persuaded to keep an eye on him as much as possible.”

  “Agreed,” said the ghost. He did not seem as concerned for Anitra’s reputation as Primrose would have anticipated. After all, he must have seen them holding hands during the battle earlier. But she supposed, on a purely practical level, if Anitra was indeed barren, ruination via illegitimate children was impossible.

  Quesnel seemed to remember he had something official to report. “They’re bringing the new prisoner down now. Is the room ready, Miss Tunstell?”

  “It is, Mr Lefoux,” replied Prim, falling back on formality and official duties with no little relief.

  “You and I, Percy, and Formerly Floote here are all to avoid contact with him,” Quesnel said.

  “Why is that?”

  “We think that this prisoner believes that those of us with very pale skin are vampires, or pishtacos, as he says. He awoke to find Professor Tunstell and myself bending over him and went insane with panic. Rue does not wish to provoke him further.”

  Prim frowned. “That will make maid and footman service quite difficult. They are all near as fair a complexion as you.”