Manners & Mutiny
Page 57
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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.”
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.”
