Prudence

by Gail Carriger

  Rue was arrested. “How do you know what cognac tastes like?”

  Prim replied, as though it were nothing of significance, “Queen Mums likes a snifter of an evening.”

  “Baroness Ivy Tunstell, vampire queen, drinks cognac?”

  Prim grinned. “Apparently Madame Lefoux introduced it to her back when they were girls.”

  Quesnel did not look surprised at the sudden appearance of his mother in this particular conversation. Rue wondered if that meant that Madame Lefoux made a habit of corrupting young ladies with cognac.

  Rue blinked in amazement. “Your mother shared this habit with you?”

  “Not exactly. Percy and I used to sneak a sip upon occasion, because we weren’t supposed to.”

  “Percy drinks cognac?”

  “Ladies,” rasped Percy, “I’m walking right here.”

  Rue and Prim ignored him.

  Prim said smugly, “Well, yes, old Percy’s very cultured in the matter of spirits.”

  “Madness.” I guess one can still learn something new about friends of twenty years. “Clearly I’m going to have to instruct our cook to stock cognac.”

  Primrose looked at her brother thoughtfully. He glared back, eyes still watering slightly. “Perhaps not the best idea. Percy has been known to overindulge.”

  “Still right here,” he said.

  Rue and Prim continued to ignore him.

  “Percy gets looped?” Rue hooted.

  “Yes, rather like now.”

  Percy drew himself up and said with considerably dignity, “I am not at all looped. It’s simply that I don’t like chilli peppers.”

  “I should like to see Percy looped,” commented Rue, meaning it.

  Quesnel took a strange sort of pity on Percy. “Are they always like this around you, old man?”

  Percy was morose. “My whole life.”

  Quesnel said, “No wonder you’re so deranged.”

  Percy sniffed. “Thank you very much.”

  “It’s a wonder you don’t drink more cognac.” Quesnel didn’t bother to hide his grin.

  Percy sighed. “Yes, well, if you’ve all had enough fun teasing poor old Percy for one evening?”

  “It never gets old,” answered his sister.

  The tide had progressed inward, causing The Spotted Custard to tie in closer to the promenade, making their walk back shorter than their walk out. The hot evening had become almost temperate, quite bearable. Rue was enjoying herself – she’d met Dama’s contact, received a code, uncovered possible scandal from her parents’ past, and encountered long-lost relations. Not to mention the fact that there had been a kidnapping recently. India, she thought, was turning out to be a delightful place.

  Unfortunately, when they arrived back at the ship things took a turn for the worse. They could not board, for the gangplank was hauled in. Arranged up on the main deck was a row of fierce-looking sooties, decklings and Greaser Phinkerlington, all armed with slings and other projectiles. Down below, standing on the shore, trying to look like he didn’t care, was a man.

  “’Ware, Lady Captain,” shouted Spoo, the moment they were within earshot. “We got us an uninvited vampire.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  RAKSHASAS

  T

  he vampire turned to face them. Rue expected him to look like any other vampire, only Indian in appearance. Mostly, he did. Mostly. But it was in the vein of how a broad bean looks like a runner bean – different, but both still beans. He had thick dark hair, a straight nose, high cheekbones, and a dark complexion combined with the clear smooth skin indicative of immortality. His facial topiary was questionable, being one of those large thick moustaches that curved down and around below the cheeks before connecting to the hair above the ears. An unflattering statement at best, but not one he could really be blamed for selecting. It was probably the height of fashion when he was metamorphosed. Poor vampires – so obsessed with style yet often cursed to look decades behind the times.

  The crew of The Spotted Custard had, at least in part, been assembled by a vampire. One might expect them to be amenable to a visit from the supernatural. However, it was clear why they stood arrayed against this vampire, for he was too different a bean.

  This was quite possibly the most unpleasant-looking creature Rue had ever had the misfortune to meet. His fangs were larger than those of British vampires and closer to the front of his mouth so that they protruded, and could not be tucked respectfully away under the lips. And those lips, while well-shaped, were red and moist and curled at the edges. His eyes appeared sunken into his skull with circles so dark that the skin looked black. His fingernails were long and wickedly sharp and shone with some oily substance in the moonlight. He smelled of carrion.

  All vampires smell of rotten meat to werewolves. Rue was not in wolf form, yet her inferior human nose wrinkled in disgust at the powerful odour. Vampires at home were not as obvious about what they were and how they ate. Dama, for example, always smelled of lemon pomade. He also had no moustache to speak of. This creature showed outwardly that he was a bloodsucker, with no pretence at anything civilised. The lack of artifice was off-putting, not to say embarrassing, and explained the crew’s reaction.

  The vampire had an unctuous way of moving. His eyes were so full of malevolence that Rue actually thought he might charge and bite without even the courtesy of a greeting, let alone an introduction.

  Rue stepped to the front of her group and pulled off her gloves. She was repulsed by the very idea of touching this creature. She would not want to turn into such a being, even as a lark, but she had better be ready in case it became necessary.

  Quesnel took position on her left, pushing back his coat and shirt sleeve to expose the dart emitter strapped to his wrist. She knew without having to check that Percy had extracted the long sharp wooden cravat pin he always wore and that Prim had pulled out the tiny little crossbow she carried in her reticule and armed it with a wooden dart. All four of them had parents who saw no harm in training children to protect themselves. And all of those parents – whether supernatural or not – knew what form that protection should take when faced with a vampire.

  The creature drew back his lips further and actually hissed at them like a rat.

  “Pardon you,” said Rue. If one already looked as ugly as he did, there was absolutely no call for hissing.

  He darted at her. Rue raised her bare hands. Her best threat to any supernatural was her metanatural state. Few immortals could face the idea of being mortal, even for a short space of time. It was what made Rue’s preternatural mother so universally despised. The idea that not only would he lose his form, but someone else would have access to it, was adding insult to injury. Where a soulless was merely the enemy, a soul-stealer was dishonourable, a defiler of the supernatural state. Rue was not just despised, she was vilified.

  It was pure instinct which caused Rue to raise her hands in defence. And it was that very instinct which gave her away.

  The vampire turned all his attention on her and spoke in broken English. “Soul-stealer. Go home. The Rakshasas do not welcome you here.”

  It was so reminiscent of Sekhmet’s first approach that Rue wondered if this was the contact she was supposed to have met at the garden party. “Quite the unoriginal sentiment, I’m afraid,” she said.

  “You are not invited to India.”

  Rue sucked her teeth in exasperation. “I do not have to be invited. I am not a vampire.”

  “Go home to your tiny island. Or we will consider this a breach of our agreement with your queen.”

  Percy said, “There’s no mention of metanaturals in that treaty.”

  Of course. Rue was pleased. Percy read it before we arrived.

  “No, but she is like soulless. Like muhjah. And muhjah is forbidden.”

  “I must say, like most daughters, I resent being accused of emulating my mother.” Rue jerked forward, pleased when the vampire lurched away. “Come a little closer, bloodsucker, and you’ll
see how unlike her I am.”

  The vampire only repeated, “Go home, soul-stealer.”

  Percy said, taking a risk, “Actually, you yourself are currently in breach of the agreement. Local vampires are empowered by the crown as tax collectors, are you not? And we recently learnt those taxes have gone missing.”

  The vampire hissed again. “Soon. We will find the thief and return your taxes.”

  “Very well,” said Rue primly, “After you have done that, I will go home. That seems a fair bargain.”

  The vampire growled something in his own language and slid off, moving as if he were skating on the promenade. He wore garments very like those of Sekhmet earlier that day, but dark in colour. As he slithered away, supernaturally fast, he seemed to fade into the night.

  “What a pestilential gentleman,” said Prim, putting her little crossbow back into her reticule. “Not at all like Queen Mum’s vampires, I must say.”

  “Although equally responsive to threats of paperwork and legal action, thank you, Percy.” Rue was grateful for Percy’s keen interest in local bureaucracy.

  “The Rakshasas,” said Percy pedantically, “are a different breed altogether from our vampires. Much in the way that poodles and dachshunds are different breeds of dog. Rakshasas are reviled in India. Their position as tax collectors is an attempt by the crown to integrate them in a more progressive and mundane manner.”

  Rue said, “Oh, how logical. Because we all know ordaining someone as a tax collector is the surest way to get them accepted by society.”

  Prim said philosophically, “That’s the government for you.”

  Quesnel seemed drawn out of his dislike of Percy into the science of the business. “Like Mr Darwin suggests? Vampires, like other creatures, evolved differently in different parts of the world?”

  Percy was only too happy to elaborate. “That’s one theory. They are, after all, the terminal predator. Perhaps in this part of the world, to feed on humans vampires needed more fang and darkening around the eyes. Who’s to know for certain?”

  “Very attractive,” said Prim.

  “Some reports claim the Rakshasas eat living flesh as opposed to merely sucking the blood,” Percy continued.

  “Like a moon-mad werewolf?” suggested Rue.

  Noticing his sister’s repulsed expression, Percy added, “There are also stories of Rakshasas desecrating the dead and feasting on rotten corpses, but these may be more like our own early legends of vampires as monsters, before we got progressive and learnt the truth.”

  Rue considered the way the Rakshasa had smelled. “Or maybe not.”

  “Regardless, darling,” said Prim to Rue, “you are clearly most unwelcome.”

  “Evidently. Shall we stay a while?” The two exchanged mischievous grins.

  Quesnel rolled his eyes. “Lord save us all from beautiful young ladies too accustomed to the supernatural for good sense. You are pigeons in front of a hawk.”

  “Poppycock,” said Rue. “I’m not beautiful.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Prim at the same time. “Pigeons have no natural predator except Rue.”

  Rue added, “And hopefully Footnote. And, frankly, I resent being compared to a pigeon. Nasty dirty chubby creatures. Are you saying I’m nasty, dirty, and chubby?”

  Quesnel smiled. “Nope, I’m saying you are delicious and fluffy and squawk all the time. Perhaps I should call you ma petite pigeonneau.”

  Rue refused to dignify that with an answer. Instead, she called up to her crew, who had been watching the entire interchange with interest and were still fully armed. “Permission to come aboard?”

  Aggie Phinkerlington, much as if the ship where her personal property, said, “Permission granted.” The redheaded greaser shouldered her crossbow. Hers was larger and more deadly-looking than Prim’s and it was interesting to note that she owned one. Rue would wager on Greaser Phinkerlington being an excellent shot. Rue had no concrete reason. Aggie simply seemed the type of female mean enough to be good with a crossbow. Aggie disappeared belowdecks, presumably before anyone could engage her in civilised conversation or attempt to be nice to her or anything revolting like that. The sooties followed. Rue had intended to commend them for managing the Rakshasa situation. Too late now.

  “Lower the gangplank, please,” requested Rue politely of the decklings.

  Spoo’s voice called out, “Aye aye, Lady Captain.”

  The gangplank cranked down in a massive puff of steam, the decklings chattering and groaning with collective effort.

  Rue’s party climbed on board. Rue ensured the gangplank was pulled in and locked closed, and that the ship was belayed to float as high out as possible, beyond the leaping distance of even the most powerful werewolf. Primrose settled the rattled nerves of the youngsters with soothing talk and profiteroles. Percy slouched uncomfortably, and Quesnel took a moment to ensure everything was in working order.

  Rue felt utterly exhausted. It seemed to have been an overly long evening. The others looked much the same, but when they would have dispersed to their beds, Rue insisted that Quesnel, Primrose, and Percy join her in the stateroom for a consultation.

  “Prim dear, would you make a note, please? I think we should stock additional crossbows, and darts both silver-tipped and wooden. Perhaps we should put some thought into a defensive training program for decklings and deckhands?”

  Primrose nodded.

  “Oh, wonderful,” said Quesnel. “You anticipate more such encounters?”

  Rue said, “I come from a long line of people who attract trouble. It’s best to be prepared, don’t you feel?”

  “When you put it like that, perhaps we should hire militia when we return to London?”

  Quesnel was joking but Rue felt the suggestion was worth considering. “Prim, make a note of that too, please? I could ask Paw. He might know some candidates. Now, so we can get off to bed, the reason I asked you for a quick conference.” Rue fished about in her cleavage.

  Quesnel looked away.

  Percy said, deadpan and brotherly, “Rue, please spare us. We have already had sufficient appreciation of your assets for one evening.”

  Rue gave him a quelling look and produced the slip of paper Lieutenant Broadwattle had given her. “As it turns out, the good lieutenant was Dama’s contact in the matter of the tea. You remember the reason we are in Bombay? This is what he gave me.”

  The three passed the slip of paper between them. It ended up in front of Percy.

  “It’s a code of some kind.”

  “Yes, it is. Brilliant deduction, Percy. Now, you’re the don of this operation – what does it say?”

  Percy stood to retrieve a roll of parchment and a stylus from a nearby sideboard. He began making notes and doing sums, while Prudence explained about Lieutenant Broadwattle being Dama’s redundancy agent and the fact that her real contact was the recently kidnapped brigadier’s wife, Mrs Featherstonehaugh. She also explained that she felt there was another interested party, also after the tea, represented by Miss Sekhmet and possibly the Rakshasas. While she had expected to be approached at the party, that element had never appeared.

  Eventually, Percy looked up from the bit of paper. “Nothing basic. Nor is it algorithmic. It may be something I’m not quite able… that is… The numbers don’t translate to letters of the alphabet nor is it any variation or foreign language with which I am familiar. My guess is that it is based on a book of some kind. See here? The first is always a number between one and about two hundred, the second between one and thirty, then the third between one and ten. It follows that the first is a page number, the second a line number, and the last the word in. So each set of three numbers represents a word in a text, thus constructing a complete correspondence. Without knowing the book, it’s meaningless.”

  Rue and Prim looked at one another.

  Rue said, “I think we know the book. Prim, if you would be so kind?”

  Prim scurried off to Percy’s library, returning a s
hort while later clutching Sand and Shadows on a Sapphire Sea: My Adventures Abroad by Honeysuckle Isinglass.

  Quesnel picked it up and read a few lines. He sputtered laughter.

  Percy looked utterly mortified. “Why on earth would you think anyone would choose that as a cypher? And what are you doing with it, Tiddles? I thought we swore an oath never to grace it with––”

  Prim said, “It’s not my copy. It’s Rue’s.”

  “Rue, how could you?” Percy looked genuinely betrayed.

  Rue held up a hand. “Before you accuse me of treating in family secrets, it was given to me by an agent of Dama’s at the Maltese Tower. I had no idea why or what for, and I didn’t know it had any bearing on your family. Now I suspect it is the means by which Dama transmits messages.”

  “Isn’t it just like that vampire to use something so domestically embarrassing?” grumbled Percy.

  Rue gestured encouragingly. “Go on. Test it and see if it works.”

  Percy did so, paging through swiftly and jotting down words until he had a full message written out on his parchment.

  While he worked, Quesnel asked, confused, “Why domestically embarrassing?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing much, simply that Aunt Ivy wrote that book,” answered Rue.

  Quesnel chuckled. “The Wimbledon Hive Queen? Fantastic. Wait until I tell Maman.”

  “Don’t you dare,” instructed Rue. “It’s a family secret. You are now sworn to safeguard it to the grave as a potentially damaging moral hazard. Not to mention our communication cypher.”

  Quesnel arched an eyebrow. “Am I, mon petit chou? I don’t remember any swearing.”

  Rue narrowed her eyes at him.

  Percy put down his stylus. “Well, there it is. The message makes perfect sense, so this book must be the code-breaker. Unfortunate indeed, but such is life.”

  “Ever full of our mother’s embarrassments?” suggested Prim.

  “What does it say?” Rue was dying of curiosity. She may have squirmed a bit in her seat. This was all so deliciously espionage-ish.