Manners & Mutiny

by Gail Carriger

  She wondered if she could find a gun in one of the teachers’ rooms. The school had an armory, of course, and Sophronia even knew where it was, but she couldn’t get into it. There was no entrance without activating a special drawbridge, and only Professor Lefoux and Lady Linette knew how to do that.

  She withdrew, unhappy, from the boiler room. She stuffed a few pieces of coal down her cleavage for Bumbersnoot. The stupid ball gown had no pockets, and she was running out of means to attach stuff to herself. The little mechanimal was fine at the moment, but she wanted to make certain he stayed running. Back out the hatch, she skirted up past the second level so she could continue her sweep of the ship, starting with the teachers’ rooms in the red-tassel section.

  It was easier to get inside the teachers’ private chambers via their balconies, so she stuck to the outside of the ship. At the very front, in the best suite, Mademoiselle Geraldine’s display of fake tea cakes stood solitary vigil. The headmistress was not there. Sophronia didn’t bother breaking in, as Mademoiselle Geraldine would have nothing of use.

  Sister Mattie’s balcony was crowded with vegetation, and her door was unlocked. The most easygoing of their teachers, Sister Mattie always felt that if she had done her job properly the students should have access to any poison they wished, not to mention good nutrition. She was also quite absentminded. Professor Lefoux’s balcony was full of gadgetry, with her door triple-locked and booby-trapped. Fortunately, both locks and trap were ones Sophronia had dealt with before. She picked and disabled them. She filched a few smaller deadlier items from each teacher, poison from the one, hooks and a timepiece from the other, ribbons from both. She upended both bedrooms searching for a gun or a crossbow. No luck.

  Professor Braithwope’s rooms were empty of both the vampire and useful items. She searched thoroughly, but the tiny special crossbow was nowhere to be found. Probably everything else had been removed after his tether snap, to keep him from injuring himself.

  Lady Linette’s rooms were bolted with a Devugge system so sophisticated it presented a real challenge. Sophronia spent a futile few minutes trying to pick the lock, only to have the mechanism slide out of her way every time she felt she was getting somewhere. Excellent design, she thought. She might have kept at it longer, except she realized her normal training—to get in and out without being seen—was irrelevant under these particular circumstances. She used her hearing trumpet to determine that there was no one inside, and then used Bumbersnoot’s bottom to shatter the stained glass of the balcony door. She then upended the chamber. No guns at all? What kind of spymasters are these? The best kind, she supposed, to leave no evidence of their true nature in their private quarters.

  In one corner of Lady Linette’s room, in pride of place and quite incongruously surrounded by boudoir-style velvets, sat a large wicker chicken. It was heavy, and something inside was mechanized. It smelled faintly of brimstone and chalk. Sophronia remembered a conversation her debut year about Monique being gifted with an exploding wicker chicken from a Bunson’s admirer. It would appear that Lady Linette had confiscated it—young ladies weren’t allowed gifts of such magnitude. The chicken was bulky, but it was also a kind of projectile, and Sophronia was getting desperate. So, shifting Bumbersnoot around to a better angle, she used several lengths of curtain cord to strap the deadly bird to her back.

  Of course, she was now nowhere near as sneaky looking. Nor, for that matter, as dignified. Here I am, infiltrating a stolen dirigible, wearing a wicker chicken. But she moved on, climbing to the scaffolding that supported the pilot’s bubble. She knew from personal experience that it could only fit two men. So she simply took it as fact that there were two Picklemen inside and added them to her mental tally.

  She moved back through the ship. The classrooms were all empty. She did find a water-projecting device filled with acid in Professor Lefoux’s laboratory, which she liberated. She also put on the leather pinafore Professor Lefoux used when she was mixing chemicals. It was durable and protective, and, most important, it had pockets and a high neckline.

  Sophronia didn’t bother with the student residences. The enemy wouldn’t be hiding there, and it would take too long to search through them all for anything useful. She contemplated returning to her own room and changing into breeches, but a certain sense of urgency convinced her she hadn’t the time. Besides, the ball gown was less annoying now that she had covered it with leather. Leather, she reflected, was good like that.

  The front section of the third level housed the exertion and tumbling classroom, the library, and the solar. She gave them a cursory look-through, unsurprised to find all empty. The Picklemen did not strike her as the type to enjoy physical discipline nor literary pursuits or sun exposure on a regular basis. Above her were the testing rooms and the compartments where the weapons and soldier mechanicals were stored. Assuming those were as inaccessible to the Picklemen as they were to her, Sophronia had only two zones left to explore: below her, the massive dining hall where they had been hosting the New Year’s tea, and the very front forward top of the ship, back in the red-tassel section, where the administrative and record rooms stood, forgotten and unused.

  It was when Sophronia reached the dining hall that everything became clear. It was impossible to sneak into the dining hall without the cover of a crowded tea party. So she took to the outer hull and peeked through one of the portholes that lined the top of the cavernous room under the crown molding. It was a great vantage point, but did not permit her to eavesdrop, only to observe. Her lip-reading ability was good, but most of the men wore beards, which made it nigh impossible. Perhaps this was on purpose? Dimity always said beards were suspicious. Now Sophronia was inclined to agree with her.

  The bulk of the enemy had assembled there. Most of the tables were still up against the starboard side, but the head table was in place. It was set with salvaged food, and four Picklemen and three Cultivator-status younger men congregated around it, partaking. The younger men were acting the role of footmen, running errands, leaving the room for long periods before returning, likely being used as messengers to cohorts in the propeller room, in the boiler room, in the pilot’s bubble, and on the squeak decks. These must have been the ones who had infiltrated the tea party—they looked young, and two were beardless.

  A half dozen flywaymen also lurked about. Distinguished from the Picklemen by crass mannerisms and poor dress, each looked like a cross between a country squire out for the hunt and an old-fashioned pirate. By contrast, the Picklemen and their minions sported evening dress with green ribbons about their hats. Even though they were at a meal, they still wore their hats. Perhaps because it wasn’t a formal engagement?

  Sophronia scrutinized each man for any clue or relevant tidbit of information. Of the four Picklemen, the one in charge was distinguished by a wider ribbon around a stovepipe topper that was both taller and shiner than any other hat there. He was on the corpulent end of the spectrum, with a bushy beard and a large flat face that looked as if it had been sat on regularly. But when he stood, he moved so lightly on his feet that Sophronia knew to be wary. There was such an air of arrogance about him, and the others treated him with such respect, that he could only be the Chutney. His closest confidant was a gangly man with black hair, probably dyed, large gold spectacles, and terrible posture. He slouched over a note pad, jotting things down. The two others were heavy muscled bully boys.

  Sophronia turned her attention to the flywaymen, determining which was in charge, which might be the most dangerous, and which was the weakest. It took her a moment, but eventually she realized that one of the flywaymen wasn’t a man at all. It was Madame Spetuna, dressed as a man, but making no attempt to hide her femininity. She was conducting business as if she had always worked among the enemy.

  She seemed to be liaised with the flywayman commander, either as a lover or as a lieutenant, or both. Sophronia wasn’t sure what this meant. Had the record room been correct? Had she betrayed them? Or was she so deep in her
infiltration that any move she made to extract herself was too dangerous?

  It would be very useful, thought Sophronia, if I had someone on the inside. But do I risk trying to contact her or will that expose us both?

  It occurred to Sophronia to worry about the record room. If the flywaymen got hold of the information stored there, all active intelligencers would be in danger. I have to destroy it before they find it.

  Sophronia withdrew from her vantage point and began climbing up. As she got closer to the squeak decks, she was scared of being seen by the lookouts, so she made her way inside as soon as she could, heading at speed for the record room. This, however, proved more challenging than expected. As vacant as the lower levels had been, the uppermost hallway was patrolled by multiple mechanicals. She recognized them as belonging to the school but suspected they had been fitted with the new crystalline valves. There was no knowing what their new protocols might command them to do if they caught her. Fortunately, there were no soldier mechanicals in the mix, but clangermaid and buttlinger models could be dangerous enough with the right instructions.

  Sophronia had to employ her obstructor the entire way to the record room. It was with some relief that she finally reached the door.

  She barely inched it open. A quick glance inside had her twirling away and flattening herself against the hallway wall. At one of the desks sat a Pickleman, one of intellect rather than muscle. He was hard at work dialing in the records and making copious scribbles in a small notebook.

  At the far end of the hallway, ’round a bend where the tiny administrative room occupied the very front of the ship, a door banged.

  “And stay there, you imbecile!” a deep voice ordered.

  Footsteps came along the corridor toward Sophronia, the voice now yelling, “Bawkin! Spice Administrator Bawkin? He wants your report immediately.”

  Sophronia turned and sprinted around the next bend in the hallway. Just the other side of the corner, she flattened herself against the wall, straining to hear what was said. The door to the record room crashed open—Deep Voice was inexcusably brutal to doors—and she heard him say, “You’ve had enough time poking about. You’re wanted in the dining hall for the next stage.”

  “But there is so much more to learn.” The answering voice was higher and tinged with Yorkshire.

  “Stuff it, Spicer. Gather your things. And come back to me before you head down. I’ve a few items of interest for the Gherkin”—That means Duke Golborne is on board! How did I miss him?—“and some notes from my interrogation for that idiotic book of yours. The blasted runner scampered off without pause, idiot boy. Where do we get our recruits these days? Honestly, I don’t know why we bother.” From the fading volume, Deep Voice was already walking back the way he’d come.

  Sophronia stuck her head around the corner.

  A large wall-shaped sort of chap was striding away. He’d left the door to the record room wide open.

  I could go in, wicker chicken blazing, and take Note-taker out right now. Or I can target his notebook, and steal it after he’s gotten the next bit of information from Deep Voice. Sophronia liked the second option best. Once Note-taker was on his own, headed to the Gherkin, he’d be vulnerable. Then again, if he had encountered Madame Spetuna’s record and knew who she was, the man himself must also be eliminated. Sophronia nibbled her bottom lip. How do I sabotage a Pickleman without giving my own presence away? Right now my only real advantage is surprise. No one knows I’m on board. But I don’t want to kill the blighter. She was capable, of course, but always found murder the least appealing part of espionage. She wasn’t squeamish, like Dimity, but she wasn’t as bloodthirsty as Preshea, either.

  For now Sophronia elected to follow him until he collected more information. The intellectual chappy appeared in the record-room doorway, pulling on his coat and hat, and, notebook clutched under his arm, he headed after the other man.

  Once he disappeared around a bend in the hall, Sophronia followed.

  A CLASSICAL EDUCATION

  The administrative room was Deep Voice’s only possible location. Of course, Sophronia had explored the room before. She’d investigated most of the school by now. It was rarely used, for Mademoiselle Geraldine kept no proper administrators on staff. It was a cramped, dusty place, filled with piles of forms, bootlaces, defused mechanicals, old lesson plans, and irrelevant embroidery samplers. It was an odd place to station a Pickleman, its only advantage being a front-facing location and, perhaps, the fact that by comparison to other rooms, it was unused.

  It was possible, Sophronia supposed, for an infiltrator to have been living there unnoticed for weeks. Or possibly to have stashed something important there, with no one the wiser.

  She watched as Note-taker let himself inside. She then ran down the hallway after. The sign on this door read ADMINISTRATOR ACCESS ONLY, NO PEONS. Under it someone had pinned a scrap of paper that read NEEDS DUSTING. Under which someone else had penned another note scrawled with a prosaic WHY BOTHER?

  Sophronia ignored the notes and took out her hearing trumpet, pressing it to the crack.

  “Here, take this as well,” Deep Voice was saying.

  “Why on earth would I want that? You know I prefer reading to sportsmanship.”

  “It’s not for you, idiot. It’s for the Gherkin. The creature seems to think it’s vital. I had a devil of a time getting it out of his claws.”

  “You do realize he’s insane? What’s vital to him is likely useless to the rest of us.”

  “Do as you are told, Spicer. Here, take the bolts, too.”

  There was a rustling noise and a funny kind of a moan.

  “Shut your mouth, fang boy,” barked Deep Voice.

  Ah, thought Sophronia, I appear to have found Professor Braithwope. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the first.

  “Couldn’t you be a little kinder to the poor fellow?” said another voice, this one rich and female. “He may be lost about the mind, but I assure you he is a gentleman and quali-tay.”

  And Mademoiselle Geraldine is here, too.

  Even realizing that her teachers were in trouble, Sophronia was relieved that at least she knew they were still alive. It made her feel less isolated. By her calculations, there were fourteen Picklemen, plus three younger runners, and half a dozen flywaymen, one of whom was Madame Spetuna. Against them Sophronia had about two dozen sooties, enslaved in the boiler and propeller rooms, and now, Mademoiselle Geraldine and Professor Braithwope.

  I now know all the players and their locations. At last I can start to plan.

  It was unfortunate that the enemy was spread all over the ship, making them harder to eliminate en masse. But it had one great advantage—it slowed communication. While she had been surveying the situation, the airship had kicked up speed, and they were heading to London at the fastest float possible. Admittedly, it wasn’t very fast. Last time, the float to London took four days, but they had taken layovers and been under steam cloud cover. Pressing the issue, she thought it would be two and a half to three days.

  Well, she thought, if London is the target, at least I know I have some time.

  Not at the moment, however, for footsteps were heading toward the door. Once more she raced away. That was the one good thing about dancing slippers—at least she was soft-footed.

  She heard Spice Administrator Note-taker shut the door, and she could guess what path he would take. The end of this hallway was a staircase down to the middle level. It was impossible to go directly the length of the ship on the upper level, unless one had a hurlie and the will to climb. So Sophronia ran ahead of him, heading for the classrooms.

  She chose the first classroom after the stairs, Lady Linette’s. It was open, as she’d left it during her search, dark and quiet. Sophronia dropped Bumbersnoot outside the door, in the hall, with a command to stay. She could only hope he would obey. She and Vieve had never determined all of Bumbersnoot’s protocols—as a result, he pretty much did as he pleased. Leaving the door ajar, Sophro
nia arranged herself inside the room. She opened the curtains so the moonlight would kiss her face. Then she sat down at Lady Linette’s large harp, fortunately undamaged. Staging, in seduction, is almost as vital as the seduction itself. She dabbed a bit of lemon tincture on the floor so the scent permeated the air, and began playing softly.

  Sophronia was perfectly well aware that she made the most absurd picture. She was still wearing the pinafore over her ball gown. Not to mention the fact that there was a wicker chicken strapped to her back. She angled so the chicken wasn’t entirely visible, determined to make the best of the situation. She imagined its little wicker head peering over her shoulder suspiciously at the harp.

  Sophronia was an abysmal harpist. She’d only had a few lessons in tinkling for torture and diversion and had done badly at those.

  Nevertheless, when Note-taker came down the stairs to find the door open and a loose mechanical, how could he help but investigate? It was pure temptation.

  And there he was, as predicted, peering myopically into Lady Linette’s classroom.

  The room alone was a shock to anyone, being a combination of conservatory, boudoir, and house of ill repute. It featured a good deal of red fringe, highly questionable artwork, and long velvet fainting couches shoved to one side by the crash. Lady Linette appeared to have evacuated her three fluffy cats, so at least they weren’t in residence giving Sophronia’s harping the yowls it deserved.

  Sophronia looked up, arrested, as if caught on canvas by a master painter. She used the moonlight and the angle to her advantage, targeting an ethereal effect. She stopped playing as though interrupted in deep reverie. She floated one white hand gracefully up to push back a stray lock of hair, still maintaining its curl despite the trials of the evening. This exposed her neck, which Lady Linette said was a sign of vulnerability.