Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(14)
Percival and Primrose Tunstell did not look like one another. Prim took after their dark-haired frippery of a mother and Percy their flamboyant father. Neither had inherited their respective parent’s personality, thank heavens, aside from a certain flair for the dramatic.
“Has anyone died?” Primrose demonstrated her flair immediately.
“Possibly.” Rue was thinking of the one man who had jumped overboard while not in possession of articulated bat wings.
At Prim’s harried expression she added, “But no one we know or care about.”
Primrose let out a whoosh. “And Tash – Miss Sekhmet?”
“She’s perfectly topping. Been down, changed forms, and back up to take control of the interrogation. We have two prisoners.”
“Rue, you never?”
At that juncture, Footnote made his appearance. Footnote was Percy’s cat, as much as any cat belonged to any person. He mostly lived in the library, although he, ostensibly, had the run of the ship. Since Tasherit had boarded, he ceded most of the territory to her. They coexisted in a barely civil arrangement, with Footnote hissing up a storm whenever he happened to run across her and Tasherit threatening to eat him on a regular basis. In fact, she seemed the only thing able to ruffle the black and white tom’s superior calm. At this moment, for example, he appeared to have slept through the battle. His impressive white whiskers arrowed forward as though sensing the oncoming yawn before it happened, pink mouth wide. He then stretched and wandered over to sit on Rue’s foot.
“I did. I took my first prisoners. It’s very exciting, not that I know correct prisoner acquisition etiquette.” She bent over to scratch Footnote’s head. “What does one do with prisoners?”
“Torture,” said Percy with confidence.
“Yes, but what kind of torture?” Footnote lifted his chin commandingly so she scratched his neck.
Percy, true to his nature, had a ready answer to that. Same answer he always had. “I must have a book here somewhere on the subject. Excruciation, maybe. Would you like me to look?” He seemed to have lost the bulk of his distemper during the course of the attack.
“Oh, no thank you, Percy. What a nice gesture. But I think I can come up with something vile on my own.” Footnote wandered over to Primrose to acquire a new set of scratches.
“Torture?” Primrose’s tone was thoughtful. “Cold tea?”
“German poetry.” Percy reached to a shelf and offered up an unpleasantly fat leather-bound volume.
Rue was arrested. “There’s such a thing as German poetry?”
Primrose nodded seriously. “Yes. Save yourself.”
Percy, in silent agreement, put the volume back.
Rue laughed. “Regardless, it’s safe to come out now, if you care to.”
THREE
In Which German Poetry Is Entirely Irrelevant
They never did get around to the German poetry, or any other form of interrogation that evening. Someone, likely from the All England Croquet, Lawn Tennis, and Airborne Polo Club Annual Fiscal Reserves Ball below, had reported the invasion to the authorities. Shortly before dawn, the constabulary hailed them, along with a member of BUR, which meant supernaturals were involved. These authorities demanded they hand over their prisoners. The Spotted Custard, a law-abiding ship, floated down and allowed the silvers to board.
“It’s not fair really.” Rue crossed her arms and glared, trying to be as fierce as her unfortunately friendly visage would allow. “They’re my prisoners. What business is it of yours?”
The bobby was not intimated one bit. He seemed to be trying not to smile, the chump. He flipped out a long writ of some irrepressibly official-looking variety and explained that these men were wanted on several counts of breaking and entering by various clubs, libraries, hive houses, and ministries of record all over London. Apparently, they were part of some kind of crime necklace, or ring, or what have you, which made Rue even more certain that they were after Quesnel’s fancy tank.
“Besides, miss, even if they did board your ship without permission, you can’t simply keep free citizens imprisoned on a dirigible.”
“I can’t?”
“Not done, miss. Not done at all.”
“Oh, very well.”
Rue reluctantly handed over the two men.
The BUR operative was not one she knew from Paw’s offices. He regarded the scratches all over the one man suspiciously but otherwise performed his duties with admirable aplomb. The Staking Constabulary disappeared once the prisoners were produced, and the crew of the Custard was left none the wiser as to the purpose of the attack.
They floated back up as high as they could while remaining moored to the croquet green, and Rue took to her bed, feeling rather the worse for a confusing night.
Rue awoke – it felt like five minutes after falling asleep, although the sun was high enough for it to have been five hours – to the dulcet sounds of Percy yelling.
Even as pipped as he’d been yesterday, and he was quite pipped, Percy rarely yelled. But somehow Rue knew it was him. She recognised the other voice, too. Both were loud enough to waft down to Rue’s cabin from the poop deck directly overhead. The second voice was cooler, more calculating, lilting in a slightly French manner, as it tended to when overcome with emotion. He always lost some of his cloak of proper Britishness, did Quesnel, in times of stress.