NINE

Soup Ladle of Death

Percy leaned against the helm and contemplated the last few highly successful hours of his existence. Aside from Prim’s obvious disappointment in his life goals, he considered it a most productive day.

When Virgil appeared, delighted to find Percy had survived the battle with his hat still firmly affixed to his head, Percy sent the valet down to his quarters to bring up a notepad and stylus. He must make notations on these Cappiocra pockets posthaste. He rather liked Rue’s preference for thinking of them as bubbles. Or had he started that codswallop? He might have to rename them such. Although Tunstell Bubbles didn’t sound quite right. He speculated on how they kept cohesion without dispersing into air, as aether ordinarily did. Ambient magnetic charge, perhaps? Some kind of particulated friction indicative of the air over South America? He ran calculations in his head. It was a most enjoyable half hour.

He’d no idea what was taking his sister so long but he wished her to perdition. Or at the very least away from him for another twenty minutes of uninterrupted bubble contemplation.

It was not to be, however, because someone else disturbed his mental wanderings.

Tasherit Sekhmet came to sit on the edge of his pit – half in and half out. It was much in the manner of Footnote, always lurking at the threshold of doorways, unwilling to commit to staying in or heading out. Cats liked to occupy liminal spaces: both inside and outside, both tame and wild, both yawn and meow.

Percy gave Tasherit an appraising look. One that he hoped also said, Enter at your own peril, this is my territory. The werecat would likely only understand that if he urinated in the corners of the navigation pit. He grinned at himself.

“Miss Sekhmet, what can I do for you today?” He cocked his head at her. Remembering his stupid fez at the last minute, he put a hand up to hold it in place. Virgil had been so pleased to see it still perched atop his noggin, he hadn’t the heart to remove it just yet. Perhaps after the lad went to bed.

Tasherit’s gaze was instantly drawn to it. “That’s a wonderful thing, isn’t it? So shiny.” Her dark eyes went wide and covetous. “I do love a nice tassel.” She looked like she really wanted to bat at it.

Percy wondered how Virgil would feel if Percy gifted the hat to her. He couldn’t be faulted for being generous, could he? Perhaps I’ll wait until my valet is present to witness the act. Then he can see her genuine affection for the ghastly thing.

In fact, the gleam in her eyes suggested something on the order of adoration.

“Is that Turkish?” she asked, licking her lips.

“It is.”

“The Ottoman Empire was a glorious time for tassels.” Her eyes went misty with memory.

Percy nodded. “Now mostly confined to carpets and pillows, I’m afraid. Tassels, I mean, not the Ottoman Empire.”

Tasherit nodded sadly. “Although, that too. Once tassels were all over everything – parasols and belts, sleeves and the tops of slippers. It was magical. I do think of tassels as the height of civilisation, don’t you?”

“Anitra has them at the ends of her braids.” It occurred to Percy that this was a rather bizarre conversation to be having with an immortal. But clearly Tasherit was particularly fond of a good tassel.

The werecat nodded. “She does. She lets me wiggle them sometimes.” A quick glance up at that, and a flush of shock on her gorgeous face. “Not in a courting sort of way, mind you,” she hastened to add. “My preference is for genitalia on the inside, you understand.”

That was not only embarrassing but a highly confusing statement to make.

“Uh?” said Percy.

“I mean to say, my intentions towards your sister are entirely honourable.”

Percy flapped his mouth a bit, wondering what honourable meant, exactly, to a werelioness hundreds of years old. Finally he said, “I never thought that they weren’t.”

The werecat let out a breath of air. “Oh, good. Rue tells me it is the custom in England to ask a male family member for permission to court his female relation? Yours is an extremely odd culture.”

“Is it?” Percy squeaked.

“Once, for us werelions, the queen had to be asked for permission to court the male breeder of a pride. But that was many decades ago. There are so few of us left, the tradition has long since been abandoned.”

“Has it?” Percy really had no idea where this conversation was going.

“So, may I please have your permission?”

Percy baulked. “You wish to breed with me?”

“No!” Tasherit practically shouted.

“Oh, good. I don’t think Prim would like that at all. And she is my sister. I wouldn’t want to upset her quite that much. And as you are an immortal, it wouldn’t work anyway. You know, the breeding.” He was babbling and he knew it. But in Percy’s defence, this was a most uncomfortable conversation.

Tasherit frowned at him. “I see what your sister means when she says talking with you is like dancing with jellied eel.”

“She says that?”

“Yes.” She looked around. “Now quickly, please, before she returns – may I court her, by your leave?”

“Aren’t you already?”

“Well, yes. But I should still like to have your permission to do so.”

“I hardly think it makes a difference. You’re in for a slog either way.”

“Nothing worth having is easy to acquire. Except cheese, of course, and even that took hundreds of years to reach my part of the globe. You see my point about the tassels?”

“No longer popular? What has that to do with my sister … or cheese?”

“I should have kept more around. Tassels, not cheese. Cheese doesn’t keep, tassels do.” Then, obviously to herself, “Why is this so difficult?”

“Do you love her?” Hard to get a cat to be direct, but Percy would not budge on this one point. He may have resigned himself to lonely scholarly pursuits, but Primrose deserved affection. Also needed it, he suspected.

Tasherit fidgeted under his direct gaze. Percy tried for a fierce glower in the manner of protective brothers the world over.

“Well, Miss Sekhmet?”

“Yes.”

Simple, and, Percy thought, genuine. “Elucidate further, if you would.” It was not his role to make this easy for her.

The werecat twitched and fidgeted in obvious discomfort. “Look, Professor Tunstell … Percy … I wish to keep your sister around. Or she can keep me. Or we can keep each other. Please let me?”

I just got a cat to beg. This really is a most excellent day. Percy decided to stop while he was ahead. Although it was unexpectedly enjoyable to torture an immortal. “You may proceed. However, it’s possible she’s more stubborn than you. One might say that your time with tassels may have entirely ended.”

The werecat looked determined. “Ever been stalked by a cat on the hunt?”

“I do live with Footnote.”

“We don’t give up easily.”

“Well, fine then, hunt on. And if you’re successful I’ll give you this fez of mine as an engagement present.” He considered, Could one use the word engagement? “So to speak.”

A stunning smile split across Tasherit’s already stunning face. “Thank you.”

Percy quirked a brow. “I didn’t say I thought you’d succeed. Simply elected to sweeten the pot.”

Tasherit reached forward, lightning quick, and batted at the tassel dangling over the side of his face. Percy was rather pleased with himself for not flinching.

“I think I shall like having you as a brother-in-law.”

Which might, just possibly, have been the nicest thing anyone had ever said to Percy. So, of course, he blushed beet red and turned away to pretend he had something very important to do down low, under the Mandenall Probe.

They had ended their chat none too soon, because Primrose reappeared with Anitra in tow. Rue and Quesnel joined them on the poop deck for a consultation. Since Percy was the only one who couldn’t leave his station, they all came to him.

As it should be.

Although, because Tasherit was still sitting on the edge of the navigation pit, legs dangling, the others all did the same. Percy wasn’t entirely convinced he approved the precedent this set. Seemed awfully casual and possibly disrespectful. Still, he was having such a pleasant day, he decided not to make a fuss.

Percy was looking awfully red in the face when Primrose arrived back at the poop deck, but that could be for any number of reasons. What worried Prim more was how incredibly pleased her brother looked. Almost – Dare I think it? – happy. Probably something to do with that academic paper on bubbles that he intended to write. The one that will change the world. Or what have you.

Rue got straight to the point. “Ladies and gentlemen, we essentially have our ladle enemy trapped. The question is, What to do with them? Do we destroy them utterly and shoot them out of the sky? Do we board and attack hand-to-hand at great risk to ourselves? If we board, do we take prisoners or simply try for the airship alone? We already have enough trouble with the one prisoner we’ve got – where would we put more? Yet I’m not entirely comfortable simply killing everyone aboard. That seems wasteful. Your thoughts?”

Primrose felt it incumbent upon her to add, “We are strangers, new to this area. Locals might look at such behaviour askance.”

Percy said, “I’d really like to take a closer look at that ladle, Captain. Take a few measurements, make more calculations based on closer inspection.”

Quesnel said, “I concur. We already know most of their technology is older than our own, but it would be good to know how much older.”

Primrose blinked. Did Quesnel just …? Yes, he did. He sided with my brother. Amazing.

Tasherit shook her head. “Not a good idea. Boarding is always a logistical challenge even if we could deploy highly trained warriors. The enemy knows their ship much better than we ever could. It’s too easy for them to hide and to ambush us. In addition, we’ve got no one trained in the correct combat techniques. That includes me. Even the best of our deckhands is a mere amateur.”

Prim knew Tasherit was referring to Bork, a former boxer and very handy at fisticuffs if it came to it. If Tasherit thinks of him as an amateur, she must really be embarrassed by the rest of us.

Rue sighed. “I see your point. Still, it would be nice to find out why we were attacked. I mean to say, they don’t know us. We don’t know them. Was it mistaken identity? Or do they treat all strangers like that here?”

Primrose spoke again, taking it as her duty to find a balance. Everyone was making good points. The scientists wanted to know how, Rue wanted to know why, but they were ill equipped to discern either without considerable physical risk. “How about we approach them and get close enough to simply ask, without boarding?” she suggested.

Everyone stared at her.

Prim soldiered on. “That way we might see what they have to say. Take a closer look at their ship without risk of combat. Keep our guns trained, knowing they’d have rearmed by then themselves. Percy, you could make some estimated guesses, and Quesnel, you could see most everything with advanced-focus opera glasses. After all, we did open up a massive hole in their hull right into engineering.”

Rue was nodding. “That seems an acceptable compromise.”

Percy looked like he didn’t agree at all, he’d never settle for less than actual measurements. But, for a change, he didn’t say anything. Instead he gave a curt nod. “I’ll start now, then. If it’s all the same to you, Captain? Virgil can take over navigation. I’ve got a set of very high-powered lenses and we’ll be losing light soon. It is getting on to sunset.”

Oh dear, thought Primrose, we missed luncheon. Everyone must be starving. I shall go get Cook to rustle up a picnic.

Quesnel nodded as well. “I’ll go get my opera glasses and some sketch pads.” He disappeared below. Percy followed after.

Primrose asked, “When the time comes to approach them, what should I do?”

Rue smiled. “Nothing, dear, stand there looking useless and pretty with your parasol ever at the ready. We may still need an element of surprise.”

Prim nodded. “Done. Meanwhile, should we eat?”

“Yes, very fine notion, just one moment more.” Rue’s sharp tawny gaze fell on their Drifter. “Anitra, how good is your Spanish?”

“I’ve been making a study of it with Professor Tunstell, but neither of us are fluent. We’ll do our best.”

“If Percy is busy examining their ship, conversation will naturally fall upon you, I’m afraid.”

Anitra straightened her spine. “May I make a recommendation then, Captain?”

“Please do.” Rue smiled encouragingly, clearly attempting not to railroad the girl.

Aw, thought Prim, she’s trying to be kind! How sweet. She gave her friend a nod of approval.

“If we waited until sunset, my grandfather could join us. His Spanish is excellent.”

Rue shook her head. “I think not. This is anti-supernatural territory, remember?”

“If he were to stay hidden? Floating with only his head above the floorboards, for example, near my feet where he can’t be seen from overboard. He could help me to understand.”

“Perhaps. But that still is quite risky.” Rue nibbled on her lip.

Anitra nodded. “There is another option.” She paused and grimaced. “Rodrigo Tarabotti. He’s fluent. He’s been helping me learn the language.”

“He could betray us.” Rue’s tone was more hopeful than suspicious.

“Have both my grandfather and Rodrigo join us, then? The one could keep an ear to the other.” Anitra was standing her ground. A good thing, Primrose felt, as she had a predilection for timidity which would do her no favours aboard The Spotted Custard.

Rue frowned. “Waiting until nightfall gives us one other advantage.” She looked to Tasherit.

The werecat tapped her cheek with her fingers, thinking. “You want me in lioness form?”

Rue nodded. “You can leap further than any of us can jump, and if we do end up having to board them …”

Tasherit finished the thought. “Far better to have an immortal shifter fighting on your side.”

“Your lioness is very impressive.” Rue grinned.

Primrose felt a strange touch of jealousy at that. Not that she thought Rue was flirting with Tasherit, but that she, Primrose, could not be the one to deliver such a compliment. Praise comes so easy to me with everyone else. Why not with Tasherit? She deserves it too.

Tasherit continued. “It’d be better if we were lower down. I’m stronger the further we get from the grey.”

Rue nodded. “If we are waiting for sunset we have some time. If we gunned down one of their helium balloons, they’d likely drop twelve puffs or so. Horrible waste, of course, but it’d sink them.”

Tasherit nodded.

Primrose interrupted. “Meanwhile you should take a nap, Miss Sekhmet, you look peaky. I’ll organise food for everyone, the gentlemen will make notes and draw sketches and argue about calculations.”

Rue was nodding her agreement. “And I’ll let Spoo shoot that balloon. She needs the practice.”

Primrose laughed. “She’ll love you forever.”

Virgil appeared at that juncture. “Can I help with the shooting of balloons?”

Rue shook her head. “You’re needed here in navigation. Sorry, my lad.”

“Spoo always has all the fun.”

“You’re a valet, not a deckling.” Primrose felt firmly that everyone and everything belonged in its place and that a place should be found or built for everyone and everything. It might even be her philosophy on life. Poor Virgil kept drifting.

Virgil looked resigned. “I suppose I do get to wear much nicer britches.”

“That’s the spirit!” Rue stood and patted him on the shoulder. “Your pit, Mr Virgil.”

“Yes, Lady Captain.” Virgil hopped down.

They dispersed about their separate duties.

Rue and Anitra went to consult with Bork, Willard, and Spoo.

A moment later the Gatling rat-tat-tatted out. There were shouts from their enemy and one of their balloons began the death wiggle. They sank, rather faster than anyone thought they would. That ship was definitely older and out of date.

Virgil depuffed The Spotted Custard, pacing them down through the air. They came to a stop riding a new breeze, one that was carrying them gently inland.

Prim’s ears popped.

Tasherit gave a little sigh of relief and some of the tension, which was likely part of what made her so twitchy, left her shoulders.

“Better?” Primrose asked, concerned.

“Much.”

“Nap now?” Prim pushed her friend in concern.

“Yes, and you’re visiting the galley. Shall we?”

Primrose found herself accompanying the werecat belowdecks. They paused, uncomfortably, in the hallway outside Tasherit’s room.

“I like your brother,” said the werecat.

Prim pursed her lips in surprise. “You’d be the first.”

“I thought the ladies went mad for him.”

“They do, but I don’t think they ever actually like him. He’s more like something they want to collect and put on the mantelpiece.”

“Look at the pretty smart man in my drawing room?”

“Exactly.”

“Poor Percy.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” She paused. “Percy? You call him Percy now?”

“We’ve reached an understanding.”

“You have? What kind of understanding?”

“It involves tassels.” Tasherit grinned wide and self-satisfied. Prim’s knees wobbled slightly. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or the opposite of fear that caused her stomach to clench. I’m simply hungry.

“Tassels?” she asked, seeking clarification.

“Tassels.” Tasherit leaned in, no doubt waiting for Prim to bolt.

Primrose straightened her spine and stood her ground.

The werecat smelled of hot sands and whipped cream, warm salt and mellow sweet. As she had once before, Tasherit pressed close, rubbing Primrose’s cheek with her own. This was not a kiss of the lips but of the flesh, satin smooth – an affection and a claiming in one. Then she nuzzled in against Prim’s neck, under the high lace collar of her day dress.

It made Primrose feel languid and cherished and fluttery and flushed all at once.

Tasherit scraped her teeth lightly across the spot directly under Prim’s ear. No bite, just the smallest of nibbles.

Prim’s whole body tingled.

The werecat drew back. “You taste divine. And you smell like amber and honey and milk.”

Primrose swallowed, and Tasherit watched the movement of her neck muscles with avid chocolate eyes. Possessive. Dangerous.

Prim searched desperately for a safe topic. “Should I bring you something to eat, before you sleep?” Her voice had gone overly husky, but strangely enough, she wasn’t embarrassed by that.

“No, I’ll bother Cook when I wake up at sundown. But thank you for the thought.”

I’m always thinking of you. “You’re welcome. I’ll instruct Cook to put something nice and bloody aside for you.”

The werecat gave her a tiny genuine smile.

Primrose backed away, frightened of how utterly she needed to lean in. She wanted more of cheek against cheek, lips against skin, teeth against neck.

“You say the nicest things, little one.”

“Sleep well.” Primrose fled.

Just before sunset, Primrose took up position next to Bork, who was manning the Gatling gun. She’d changed into evening attire for the negotiations, as was right and proper. Her dress was a midnight-blue velvet affair trimmed in delicate black lace and a tasteful sprinkling of crystal. She chose it because on a dark evening like this one, it was good camouflage. Plus it matched the night sky, the crystals like tiny stars scattered across the bodice. Primrose liked things to match. It also had gargantuan puffed sleeves, so big she needed her shoulder crinolines to support them. As the saying went: the bigger one’s sleeves, the more angelic one’s appearance. Primrose rather thought that massive sleeves would make her look intimidating to an enemy unfamiliar with current fashions.

However, the gown, while stunning, did not have any pockets. After much consideration, and with no little embarrassment, because if it became necessary she’d have to pull it back out again – in public! – Prim wedged her pistol down the front of her bodice into her corset. It fitted there well enough. She may not be as generously endowed as Rue, but her pistol was also only a .22.

Primrose did pause to consider the fact that she could stash any number of pistols inside her sleeves, and perhaps she should devise a means to do so in future, but for now, having one down her décolletage would have to suffice. In the end, she had to carry her battle parasol anyway, at night, so she was doomed to make a fool of herself over weaponry no matter what.

She put on a floating hat with a long veil, to protect her neck, to ward off the evening’s chill, and for fear of bugs. This was, after all, unknown country.

She made her way back up top in time to watch the sun set in a glorious riot of colour and majesty over the vast dark ocean.

Rue had all the sooties and deckhands hidden out of view for their safety, except Bork of course. He nodded at Primrose politely as she took position next to him, prepared to pop open her parasol at the slightest provocation. She didn’t know if he was familiar with the scope of its protective powers. She hoped neither of them would have to find out who would win in a pitched fight, her parasol or a Nordenfelt.

Tasherit bounded up shortly after dark, looking stronger and healthier for her rest. Or perhaps it was because she was in lioness form. She bunted Prim’s hip affectionately. Primrose could not resist a few ear and chin scratches. The werecat’s fur was thick and coarse and strangely beautiful. As ever, Primrose found Tash much easier to accommodate with equanimity when the werelioness was physically a cat – as opposed to only mentally.

Anitra arrived next. Rodrigo trailed after her. Rue had allowed him to leave his cell before, of course. Even a dog, she said, was allowed perambulations and fresh air. She could do no less for her cousin, even if he was an ass. She wasn’t an utter monster. Nevertheless, the Italian looked both thrilled and nervous to be suddenly free, involved in their affairs, and on the side of good. Or perhaps he understood that this was a test. Or perhaps he planned to try and escape. He was difficult to predict, their Italian.

Formerly Floote was there as well, hovering, as requested, with only his head above the deck boards. This was nothing if not bizarre looking, but he was hidden from enemy view by the Custard’s lower railing. At least they hoped he was.

It must be very odd to encounter the bottom half of his noncorporeal body hanging from the ceiling of whatever room was directly beneath him. Very odd. Prim considered the layout of the Custard. That’s the galley, most likely. Poor Cook.

Percy, of course, was secreted in navigation, his upper body a blurry shadow behind the helm up on the poop deck at the opposite end of the dirigible. This encounter was dependent on close manoeuvring. Percy was better utilised steering the ship than as an interpreter.

“Where’s Quesnel?” Prim asked.

Rue rolled her eyes. “He and Percy would not stop arguing about the efficaciousness of the ladle design, now that they have notes and sketches and numbers to argue about. I had to separate them.”

“Oh?”

Rue gave a wicked smile and turned to Rodrigo, whom she’d positioned at the very far end of the line. The order they now stood in, facing the main deck rail, was: Tasherit, Bork and the Gatling, Primrose, Rue, Anitra, Floote’s head, and Rodrigo on the far end. This put the preternatural Italian away from Rue – because he had once tried to kill her. This also put him very far away from the gun and the werecat, which were their two best and most vulnerable weapons. No one ever forgot that Rodrigo was a preternatural. He could turn Tasherit into a naked mortal human with a single touch. Uncomfortable for everyone, and hazardous to Tasherit’s health and well-being.

Rodrigo nodded to Rue. “Little Cousin.”

“Mr Tarabotti,” said Rue, formally. “Nice weather for it.”

“Sì. That it is.” He was holding Anitra’s hand.

Rue must have noticed, but she managed to restrain herself from making comment.

Without looking away from Rodrigo, Rue said, “To answer your question, Prim, I have Quesnel stashed safely away behind that barrel there, with his dart emitter focused on my dear cousin here. An extra precaution, if you would.”

Primrose nodded her approval. “Admirable forethought, my dear.”

“Thank you, I do try.”

“Shall we get on then?” suggested Prim, indicating with her head the waiting enemy airship.

“Percy, are you ready to move us in closer?” Rue’s yell cut through the still night air.

“Yes, Captain,” came Percy’s voice out of the darkness behind them.

“Bork, take aim.”

The deckhand settled his grip on the gun and shifted it to aim at the main deck of the ladle, where they could safely assume any people would appear. Firing the Gatling was usually a two-man job, but it could be manned solo if the gunner was long-limbed and dexterous enough to crank it with one hand while he fed in the belt with the other. Bork was one of the few aboard more than strong enough. Prim would hazard a guess that his biceps alone were as wide around as her waist. And while she kept her figure trim, she was corseted for comfort, not training. I ought to find much to admire in such a very masculine physique, Prim berated herself. She thought of Tasherit’s long golden limbs. Just as strong as Bork, and also able to shoot a Gatling alone and without aid. Which thought made Prim’s mouth a little dry, and her heart beat hot in her ears. I am entirely unnatural in my tastes. Well, at least I am in good company. She thought of Lord Akeldama and her mother’s hats. She forced herself to reconsider Bork’s biceps. That’s why he’d been chosen, muscles enough to fire without assistance. That way there was one less crewman exposed and at risk.

Rue barked out an order. “Percy, bring us into range of their aft balloon.”

Percy ramped up the Custard’s propeller. Prim could feel the whump-whump beneath the leather soles of her dancing slippers. We’ve been running it without break for a while now. Prim frowned in concern. An active propeller required a great deal of boiler power. Goodness, I hope this works. Quesnel is probably desperate for coal.

Primrose raised her parasol. To the tip and base of the ferrule she’d tied a corner each of her best white handkerchief. She waved it, like a small white flag, back and forth.

Generally speaking, people the whole world over regarded this as a symbol of peace, or at least a request to parlay, but that was by European tradition; they’d no idea if it would work here in South America. After all, they were in the land of soup ladle dirigibles – anything was possible.

Anitra stepped forward and hailed the crippled airship in halting Spanish. Even Prim could tell that her accent was abysmal and her understanding crude. But her voice was strong and clear, carrying across the intervening distance between airships with ease.

They were now about two stories apart, not yet close enough for Tasherit to safely make the jump, if needed. But getting ever closer. God, I hope she isn’t needed. I want her here and safe.

Silence greeted Anitra’s words.

Primrose waved her parasol harder, white flag fluttering.

Anitra tried again.

Then Rue nodded to her cousin and the Italian spoke. His accent was different but he said exactly the same phrase as Anitra. They were keeping him close and tame as possible.

Rue said, “Tell them we are still armed and can shoot them out of the sky if necessary. They only have one helium balloon remaining. We only wish to talk, but we don’t have to be nice.”

Anitra rattled off a string of staccato Spanish.

Primrose saw movement on the main deck of the other ship. The only deck, really, it didn’t have a forecastle, quarterdeck, or poop deck. It wasn’t modelled on a galleon like most English-made dirigibles.

A figure resolved itself out of the shadows on the ship and said something back to Anitra.

Primrose realised, now that she had some sense of scale, that the ladle was less than a quarter the size of The Spotted Custard. Voice and stance, what little she could see of it silhouetted against the night sky, indicated their enemy was male. He was wearing, so far as Prim could make out, rather old-fashioned attire. He looked somewhat like the flywaymen of fifty years ago who used to plague the southern reaches of England. He even had a tricorn atop his head, with an impressively large feather. Rue, no doubt, would be quite envious.

Rue said, voice curdled with amused disgust, possibly at her own expense, “Is that a pirate hat? Is someone throwing a masquerade? Are we invited? And me without my shepherdess costume.”

Primrose was willing to play along. “Well, you do have the ghastly cocked sugarloaf. And I’ve a sort of a medieval-style jester cap you could borrow, if you want to one-up the man. And there’s Percy’s Turkish cap.”

“Perhaps later. Anitra, what did he say?”

“He was very rude, Captain.” Anitra’s tone was more than disgusted.

Rodrigo laughed. “He called us all the bad things. This is fun, little cousin.”

“Hush now, no one asked you. Anitra, please ask him why he fired on us without warning or provocation.”

Anitra rattled off the question. A long response was yelled back almost immediately.

Anitra interpreted it for them. “I think he said they don’t like visitors. But I suspect it’s more that they are interested in our ship. He’s very curious about the Gatling gun. Keeps calling it pretty.”

“So it’s possible they are simply pirates or opportunistic scavengers, and not representative of local government attitudes?” Rue asked.

Primrose said, “In that outfit? I’ve never seen a statesman in a tricorn, except in paintings of questionable American presidents, of course.”

“Good point.”

Quesnel’s voice emanated from somewhere behind them, speaking French. Rue, Prim, and Percy all spoke decent French and it was a pretty safe bet that their enemy did not. No doubt that was why Quesnel did it now, to keep the enemy confused. “It would further explain the construction of their ship if they used it mainly for stealthy attacks.”

“Privateer is also a possibility, then.” Rue was thinking out loud, she did that in times of stress. “Anything else? Rodrigo, Floote, did Anitra miss anything?”

“No,” said both man and ghost at the same time.

“Very well, Anitra, please ask him if he knows anything about vampires.” Rue did, after all, have a mission to pursue. They were supposed to be tracking down local vampires, so it made sense to ask the local pirates for details.

Anitra tried.

No response came to her question at all.

Rodrigo tried.

Still nothing.

Floote made a few quiet suggestions on syntax and word choice.

Anitra tried again.

Finally Anitra said, “Sorry, Captain, but we don’t know what the right word is for vampire in Spanish. I tried vampiro, and blood-eating and flesh-eating old man, but as you can tell, he either doesn’t realise what I’m after or he doesn’t care to give us an answer.”

Rue was having none of that. “Bork, fire a few shots under their bowsprit. Wake him up a bit.”

Bork did as ordered.

A yell of rapid Spanish followed that.

Anitra tried to follow it. “He says they acknowledge our superior firepower. He doesn’t understand what we are asking about.”

Rue sniffed. “Tell them we are hunters. And we are hunting monsters.”

Anitra gave it her best effort. Formerly Floote had to supply the word for monster.

More Spanish came back in response to that.

Anitra responded in kind, without translating.

Again, their erstwhile enemy replied.

“What?” demanded Rue. “What are you two saying?”

Anitra sighed. “I asked about monsters, and he said that there are no monsters in the skies except him. I would suspect from the tone that there are more of these ladle ships around these airways. Probably all independent agents. I doubt he will tell us how many. I said that we were looking for real monsters, those that are on land and only come out at night.”

Rodrigo added, “Immortal and supernatural, she said. Or tried to.”

“They know those words. They said they are from Lima. No pishtacos there.” Anitra exchanged a look with Rodrigo. “We think pishtaco may be their word for vampire. Or it may be a kind of shifter. Or it may be something else.”

“So,” demanded Rue, “where do we find these pishtacos, then?”

Anitra asked their now chatty pirate friend.

A long silence, and then a single short sentence.

Anitra turned to Rue without bothering to consult with Rodrigo or Formerly Floote. “In the mountains.”

Without them asking an additional follow-up question, more Spanish flowed over the intervening gap.

“He says that they live with – or is that on? – the Quechua. What’s Quechua?”

Rodrigo corrected her. “No. He say depredare. Bah, how to put in the English?”

Formerly Floote said, “Prey. He’s saying these pishtaco creatures prey on the Quechua. Whatever they are.”

Rue threw her head back and yelled, “Percy, know anything about Quechua?”

Percy’s voice came back, acerbic as ever. “Of course. They’re mountain tribespeople indigenous to the high Andes mountain range of South America. Formerly known as the Inca. Perhaps you’ve heard of them? Gave the conquistadors a bit of a bother back in the 1500s or so.” Sarcasm fairly dripped from his voice.

“No need to be rude, Percy.”

“Well, really, Captain, you might have read something about the place we’re visiting.”

Rue raised a hand up, sharp and curt. “Percy! Anything else that might be useful?”

Percy yelled back, “You’re asking the questions. How do I know what’s useful?”

Primrose tried not to think too hard about murdering her brother.

“Ask him how many Cappiocra pockets there are here,” suggested Percy.

“Oh my God!” Prim could not help herself. “Why are you so annoying?”

Quesnel said, still hidden, “Actually that would be very useful to know.”

“Thank you, Mr Lefoux,” said Percy, smug wiffin.

“But impossible to ask,” shot back Prim. “We don’t know what they call the aether bubbles here.”

Rue threw her hands in the air. “Besides which, he’s hardly going to tell us their atmospheric secrets, even if he is outgunned!”

“He did just say much on the local catching-taco people,” Prim protested.

Rue rounded on her. “Pishtacos. That’s because they fear them and we have made clear our intent is to hunt them. It’s no risk to tell us about a danger to us. Ask about their ship, or their tactics, or their aether bubbles, and we put them in danger.”

“Very strategic, little cousin.” That was Rodrigo.

Anitra said, tentatively, “Anything else you wish me to say to him while we have his attention?”

Prim turned back to the enemy and away from her annoying brother. The tricorned silhouette was pacing about, impatient.

Clearly frustrated by the situation, Quesnel popped out from behind his barrel and dashed up to join the crowd at the railing. He kept his wrist pointed at Rodrigo, but said to Rue, “Ask them what they call the shape of their ship at the very least. Please, chérie? We can’t keep going around referring to it as a ladle, it’s undignified.”

Across the gap, loud screaming suddenly commenced. And someone started firing at them.