Changeless pp-2

by Gail Carriger

  “Biffy, my dove, dash round to that scrumptious new hat shop on Regent Street and collect the proprietress for a bit of a hobnob, would you, darling? There’s a good fellow. She should be expecting something of the kind.”

  Biffy smiled. “Certainly, my lord. Good evening, Lady Maccon. Is this arrangement of your making? You know the master here has been dying to meet Madame Lefoux ever since she opened that shop, with no excuse to do so for an age.”

  “Biffy!” hissed Lord Akeldama.

  “Well, you have,” replied Biffy truculently.

  “Off with you, you impossible infant, and keep that lovely mouth shut.”

  Biffy bowed shortly and tripped lightly out, lifting his hat and gloves from a nearby side table as he went.

  “That young whippersnapper will be the death of me. However, he has an admirable knack for being in the right place at the right time. Yesterday evening, for example, he was outside the Pickled Crumpet, that horrible little pub near St. Bride, known for a preponderance of military and blood whores. Not his normal watering hole by any means. And you will never guess whom he encountered skulking about the back alleyway, just behind the pub.”

  Lady Maccon sighed. “My husband?”

  Lord Akeldama was crestfallen. “He told you.”

  “No, it simply seems like the exact kind of place where my husband would be skulking.”

  “Well, let me tell you, my petunia blossom! Biffy says that he was in a perfectly indelicate condition, trying to make his way toward Fleet Street.”

  “Inebriated?” Lady Maccon was doubtful. Generally speaking, werewolves were not prone to intoxication. Their constitutions did not allow for it. Besides which, that simply was not like her husband.

  “Oh no. The poor dear had encountered that disastrous malady ravaging the downtown area and found himself entirely human and unclothed quite suddenly in the heart of London.”

  Lord Akeldama’s eyes were twinkling.

  Lady Maccon could not help herself; she began to laugh. “No wonder he did not tell me about the incident. Poor thing.”

  “Not that Biffy complained about the spectacle.”

  “Well, who would?” Alexia had to give credit where it was due, and her husband did have quite the splendid physique. “That is interesting, though. It means that one does not have to be present when this antisupernatural blight attacks. One can wander into the infected area and be struck down.”

  “You think it is a disease of some kind, do you, my little pumpernickel?”

  Lady Maccon cocked her head to one side. “I do not know with any certainty what it may be. What do you think it is?”

  Lord Akeldama rang a different bell rope for tea. “I believe it to be a weapon of some kind,” he said, unusually blunt.

  “You have heard of something like it before?” Lady Maccon sat up straight, intent on her friend. Lord Akeldama was a very old vampire. There were rumors he was older even than Countess Nadasdy, and everyone knew she was five hundred or more.

  The vampire tossed his queue of long blond hair back off his shoulder. “No, I have not. But it does not have the feel of a sickness about it, and my experience with the Hypocras Club has taught me not to underestimate modern scientists and their vulgar technological dabblings.”

  Lady Maccon nodded. “I agree, and so does the rest of the Shadow Council. BUR is holding out that it is a disease, but I am leaning in favor of a newly fashioned weapon. Have your boys found out anything of significance?”

  Lord Akeldama puffed out his cheeks. He did not like open acknowledgment that his collection of apparently decorative and inconsequential drones, possessed of high family connection and little evident sense, were in fact consummate spies. He resigned himself to Alexia, and, via Alexia, to Lord Maccon and BUR, knowing of his activities, but he did not like them mentioned openly.

  “Not as much as I had hoped. Although one of the ships, the Spanker, transporting multiple regiments and associated packs, was said to be afflicted by a human condition the entire passage home.”

  “Yes, Major Channing mentioned something of the kind. Although the Woolsey Pack had returned to supernatural normalcy by the time they reached the castle.”

  “And what do we think of Major Channing?”

  “We try not to think on that repulsive individual at all.”

  Lord Akeldama laughed, and a handsome young butler entered with the tea tray. “You know, I once tried to recruit him, decades ago.”

  “Did you really?” Lady Maccon could not countenance the idea; for one thing, she did not believe Major Channing leaned in Lord Akeldama’s direction, although there were rumors about military men.

  “He was a splendid sculptor before he turned. Did you know? We all knew he had a good chance of having excess soul; vampires and werewolves were vying to be his patron. Such a sweet young talented thing.”

  “We are discussing the same Major Channing, are we not?”

  “He rebuffed me and went into soldiering, thought it more romantic. Eventually, he was converted to the fuzzy side of the supernatural during the Napoleonic war.”

  Alexia was not clear on what to make of this information. So she returned to the original topic. “If it is a weapon, I must find where it has gone. Lyall said it was headed north, and we believe it to be going by coach. The question is, where, and who is carrying it?”

  “And what exactly is it?” added the vampire, pouring the tea. Lady Maccon took hers with milk and a little sugar. He took his with a dash of blood and a squeeze of lemon.

  “Well, if Professor Lyall claims it is heading northward, then northward it is. Your husband’s Beta is never wrong.” There was an odd tone in Lord Akeldama’s voice. Alexia looked at him sharply. He added only, “When?”

  “Just before I came here.”

  “No, no, primrose. I mean, when did it begin to move northward?” He passed a small plate of some excellent biscuits, declining the comestibles himself.

  Lady Maccon did some quick calculations. “Seems like it would have had to depart London late yesterday evening or early this morning.”

  “Just as the humanization in London stopped?”

  “Precisely.”

  “So what we need to know is what regiments, or packs, or individuals came in on the Spanker, then proceeded north yesterday morning.”

  Lady Maccon had a sinking feeling all fingers were about to point in one particular direction. “I place great confidence in the fact that Professor Lyall is already hunting down just that information.”

  “But you already have a good idea of who the perpetrators might be, don’t you, my little periwinkle?” Lord Akeldama stopped relaxing back into the love seat and tilted forward to peer at her through his monocle.

  Lady Maccon sighed. “Call it instinct.”

  The vampire smiled, showing his two long fangs, pointed and strikingly lethal. “Ah, yes, your preternatural ancestors were hunters for generations, sugardrop.” Delicacy did not permit him to remind her that they hunted vampires.

  “Oh no, not that kind of instinct.”

  “Oh?”

  “Perhaps instead I should say ‘wifely intuition.’ ”

  “Ah.” Lord Akeldama’s smile widened. “You believe your oversized husband to be connected to the weapon?”

  Lady Maccon frowned and nibbled a biscuit. “No, not exactly, but where my dear spouse goes…” She trailed off.

  “You think this whole thing may be connected to his visiting Scotland?”

  Alexia sipped her tea and remained silent.

  “You think this has something to do with the Kingair Pack losing their Alpha?”

  Alexia started. She did not realize that little fact was common knowledge. How did Lord Akeldama come by his information so quickly? It was really remarkable. If only the Crown could be so efficient. Or BUR for that matter.

  “A pack without an Alpha can behave badly, but on this kind of scale? You think—”

  Lady Maccon interrupted her friend. “I
think Lady Maccon may suddenly feel quite oppressed by the dirty London air. I think Lady Maccon may have need of a vacation. Perhaps to the north? I hear Scotland is lovely this time of year.”

  “Are you barmy? Scotland is wholly abysmal this time of year.”

  “Indeed, why would one wish to travel there, especially with the trains down?” This was a new voice, tinged with a very faint French accent.

  Madame Lefoux had not forgone her men’s garb, although she had formalized it for visiting, changing her colorful cravat for one of white lawn and her brown top hat for a black one.

  “Lady Maccon fancies herself in need of air,” replied Lord Akeldama, rising and going forward to greet his new guest. “Madame Lefoux, I presume?”

  Alexia blushed at not having jumped in to make proper introductions, but the other two seemed to have matters well in hand.

  “How do you do? Lord Akeldama? A pleasure to make your acquaintance at last. I have heard much of your charms.” The inventor gave the vampire’s startling black and white shoes and smoking jacket an intent look.

  “And I yours,” replied the vampire, casting an equally critical eye to the inventor’s stylish masculine garb.

  Alexia noted a certain undercurrent of wariness, as though they were two vultures circling the same carcass.

  “Well, there is no accounting for taste,” said the Frenchwoman softly. Lord Akeldama appeared about to take offense, but the lady added, turning slightly to the side, “Scotland, Lady Maccon, are you certain?”

  A flash of wary approval crossed the vampire’s face at that. “Do sit,” he offered. “You smell divine by the way. Vanilla? A lovely scent. And so very feminine.”

  Was that a return jibe? wondered Alexia.

  Madame Lefoux accepted a cup of tea and sat on another little settee, next to the relocated calico cat. The cat clearly believed Madame Lefoux was there to provide chin scratches. Madame Lefoux provided.

  “Scotland,” replied Lady Maccon firmly. “By dirigible, I think. I shall make the arrangements directly and depart tomorrow.”

  “You shall find that difficult. Giffard’s is not open to nighttime clientele.”

  Lady Maccon nodded her understanding. Dirigibles catered to daylight folk, not the supernatural set. Vampires could not ride them, as they flew too high out of territory range. Ghosts were usually inconveniently tethered. And werewolves did not like to float—prone to terrible airsickness, her husband had explained the first and only time she intimated interest in such a mode of transport.

  “Tomorrow afternoon,” she amended, “but let us talk of more pleasant things. Lord Akeldama, are you interested in hearing about some of Madame Lefoux’s inventions?”

  “Indeed.”

  Madame Lefoux described several of her more recent devices. Despite his old-fashioned house, Lord Akeldama was fascinated with modern technological developments.

  “Alexia has shown me her new parasol. You do impressive work. You are not seeking a patron?” he asked after some quarter of an hour’s talk, clearly impressed with the Frenchwoman’s intelligence, if nothing else.

  Understanding fully the unspoken code, the inventor shook her head. Given Madame Lefoux’s appearance and skills, Alexia was in no doubt she had received offers of a similar nature in the past. “Thank you kindly, my lord. You do me particular favor, as I know you prefer male drones. But I am happily situated and of independent means, with no wish to bid for immortality.”

  Lady Maccon followed this interchange with interest. So Lord Akeldama thought Madame Lefoux had excess soul, did he? Well, if her aunt had turned into a ghost, excess soul might run in the family. She was about to ask an impolitic question when Lord Akeldama rose, rubbing his long white hands together.

  “Well, my little buttercups.”

  Uh-oh, Alexia winced in sympathy. Madame Lefoux had achieved Akeldama-appellative status. They would now have to suffer together.

  “Would you charming blossoms like to see my newest acquisition? Quite the beauty!”

  Alexia and Madame Lefoux exchanged a look, put down their teacups, and rose to follow him with no argument.

  Lord Akeldama led them out into the arched and gilded hallway and up several sets of increasingly elaborate staircases. Eventually they attained the top of the town house, entering what should have been the attic. It proved, instead, to have been made over into an elaborate room hung with medieval tapestries and filled with an enormous box, large enough to house two horses. It was raised up off the floor via a complex system of springs and was quilted in a thick fabric to prevent ambient noise from reaching its interior. The box, itself, comprised two small rooms filled with machinery. The first, Lord Akeldama described as the transmitting room, and the second the receiving room.

  Alexia had never seen such a thing before.

  Madame Lefoux had. “Why, Lord Akeldama, such an expense! You have purchased an aethographic transmitter!” She looked about the crowded interior of the first room with enthusiastic appreciation. Her dimples were in danger of reappearing. “She’s beautiful.” The inventor ran reverent hands over the many dials and switches that controlled the transmitting room’s tangled gadgetry.

  Lady Maccon frowned. “The queen is reputed to own one. I understand she was urged to acquire it as a replacement for the telegraph, shortly after the telegraph proved itself an entirely unviable method of communication.”

  Lord Akeldama shook his blond head sadly. “I was vastly disappointed to read of the report of that failure. I had such hopes for the telegraph.” There’d been a noted gap in long-distance communication ever since, with the scientific community scrabbling to invent something that was more compatible with highly magnetic aetheromagnetic gasses.

  “The aethographor is a wireless communication apparatus, so it does not suffer from such severe disruption to the electromagnetic currents as the telegraph,” Lord Akeldama explained.

  Lady Maccon narrowed her eyes at him. “I have read of the new technology. I simply had not thought to see it so soon.” As a matter of course, Alexia had been angling for an invitation to see the queen’s aethographor for over a fortnight, with little success. There was some delicacy to its function that would not allow it to be interrupted during operation. She had also tried, unsuccessfully, to visit BUR’s aethographor. She knew that they had one at the London offices, because she saw rolls of etched metal lying about. Her husband had been utterly impossible about it. “Wife,” he had finally stated in abject frustration, “I canna interrupt business simply to satisfy your curiosity.” Unfortunately for Alexia, since they had come into government possession, both aethographors had been in constant operation.

  Lord Akeldama picked up an etched metal roll, flattened it out, and slotted it into a special frame. “You put the message for transfer, so, and activate the aetheric convector.”

  Madame Lefoux, looking about with avid interest, interrupted him mid-explanation. “You would, of course, first have to input an outgoing crystalline valve frequensor, just here.” She pointed to the control board, then started. “Where is the resonator cradle?”

  “Aha!” crowed the vampire, apparently thrilled she had noticed this flaw. “This is the latest and greatest design, squash blossom. It does not operate via crystalline compatibility protocol!”

  Madame Lefoux looked to Lady Maccon. “Squash blossom,” she mouthed silently, her expression half offended, half amused.

  Alexia shrugged.

  “Usually,” explained Lord Akeldama to Alexia, misinterpreting the shrug, “the transmitting component of the aethographor requires the installation of a specific valve, depending on the message’s intended destination. You see, a companion valve must also be installed in the other party’s receiving room. Only with both in place can a message transfer from point A to point B. The problem is, of course, that exact times must be agreed upon beforehand by both parties, and each must possess the appropriate valve. The queen has an entire library of valves linked to different aethographors d
otted all about the empire.”

  Madame Lefoux was frowning. “And yet your device has none? It is not very useful, Lord Akeldama, to transmit a message into the aether with no one at the other end to receive it.”

  “Aha!” The vampire pranced about the tiny room in his ridiculous shoes, looking far too pleased with himself. “My aetheric transponder does not need one! I have had it installed with the latest in frequency transmitters so that I can tune to whatever aetheromagnetic setting is desired. All I need is to know the crystalline valve’s orientation on the receiving end. And to receive all I need is the right time, a good scan, and someone who has my codes. Sometimes I can even pick up messages intended for other aethographors.” He frowned a moment. “Story of my life, if you think about it.”

  “Good Lord.” Madame Lefoux was obviously impressed. “I had no idea such technology even existed. I knew they were working on it, of course, but not that it had finally been built. Impressive. May we witness it in action?”

  The vampire shook his head. “I have no messages to go out at the present time and am not expecting any incoming.”

  Madame Lefoux looked crestfallen.

  “So what happens, exactly?” asked Lady Maccon, who was still looking closely at the equipment.

  Lord Akeldama was all too delighted to explain. “Ever notice that the metal paper has a faint grid on it?”

  Alexia switched her attention to a scroll of metal Lord Akeldama handed her. The surface was, indeed, divided into a standardized grid. “One letter per square?” she hypothesized.

  Lord Akeldama nodded and explained further. “The metal is exposed to a chemical wash that causes the etched letters to burn through. Then two needles pass over each grid square, one on top and the other on the bottom. They spark whenever they are exposed to one another through the letters. This causes an aether wave that is bounced off the upper aethersphere and, in the absence of solar interference, transmits globally.” His gesturing throughout became wilder and wilder, and on the last phrase, he did a little pirouette.