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  “I’ve seen pictures!” Dooley said stubbornly, and I knew the two would get into what I feared were perpetual arguments about trivial matters.

  “Dooley, please ask Mr. Ho to join us. Perhaps she can ascertain if there is any injury to the stowaways.”

  “You think they really are stowaways?” Mr. Christian asked, looking both scandalized and thrilled. “Will we have to throw them in the brig?”

  “Considering we don’t have a brig on board the Tesla, that might be a little difficult. Let us first find out who they are and what they were doing in the hold. Perhaps they had some sort of an attack while the cargo was being loaded, and are here by mistake.”

  I didn’t believe that for one minute, but I couldn’t bear to contemplate the repercussions of the pair being spies.

  Mr. Piper gave me a long look, but said nothing, just cocked his hip up on a nearby barrel and watched silently as I made a cursory examination of the two.

  “Well, they don’t seem to have any weapons upon them,” I noted as I finished my examination of their pockets. The man was wearing an undershirt, and dark gray trousers. The woman was clad in a long blue tunic made of silk, and matching trousers. It was beautiful material, and I couldn’t help but touch the hem of the tunic with longing. Reality returned quickly, however, and I surreptitiously brushed down the heavy wool of my uniform jacket and skirt before turning to the bosun. “I wonder why the man is wearing nothing but an undershirt?”

  “And a black one at that,” Mr. Piper said, squinting at it. “Black as the devil’s cods, it is. Ain’t never seen one that color.”

  “Could be he’s a thuggee,” Mr. Christian piped up.

  I looked at him in surprise. “A thuggee? The Indian thuggees, do you mean?”

  “Aye.” He nodded, his expression earnest. “My mum used to tell me tales of the thuggees. Before the Moghul imperator took it over, the whole of India used to be ruled by these thuggees. They were dangerous men, very deadly and skilled in the ways of murder. My mum said that they all ran around in naught but their underthings, on account it made them silent and stealthy.”

  We all looked at the prone man. “He certainly is silent, but I don’t know how stealthy he is,” I commented. “He doesn’t look particularly Indian, either.”

  “That’s probably part of his clever plan,” Mr. Christian said, nodding as if it all made sense. “He wouldn’t want to look like a thuggee, now, would he? That would warn you to beware of him. They’re cunning, those thuggees. My mum always said they were as cunning as a cat.”

  “What would a thuggee be doing in the hold of my ship?” I asked, making another quick search of the man for weapons. I found none.

  “Well,” Mr. Christian said, making himself comfortable on a wine barrel. “What if he was a master thuggee, and had a job to do in Rome to kill someone important, say one of the emperor’s representatives? There’s a lot of them there now, what with the wedding and all.”

  “That is true,” I said slowly. The very reason Etienne had chosen my ship to hide his cargo in was the opportunity it presented to strike a blow against the number of imperial representatives who were in Rome. “I’ve heard that there is a large delegation in Rome to work out the terms of the treaty with the king of Italy.”

  “So the thuggee needs to get there, but with everyone watching all the passenger ships, he can’t take one of those,” Mr. Christian continued, clearly warming up to his theme. “So he stows away on an insignificant cargo ship, intending on catching the crew—that’s all of us—by surprise one night, and killing us all in our beds. That way he can land in Rome without anyone knowing he was there. His plan is no doubt to slip away once he lands, and conduct his nefarious affairs.”

  “God’s bollocks!” Mr. Piper said, looking askance at the still-unconscious man. “The brig’s too good for him! Let’s toss the murdering son of a scabby whore over the side, Captain.”

  “The Southampton Aerocorps frowns heavily on tossing people out of airships,” I said mildly, adding, “And even if they didn’t, I would not suggest that as a course of action in this case. There are two flaws in your reasoning, Mr. Christian.”

  “Oh? What’s that, Captain?”

  “One,” I said, ticking the item off on my finger, “you did not account for the woman’s presence. If this thuggee was sent to kill one or more of the emperor’s men, then why is the woman with him?”

  The young man’s face fell while he eyed the woman. “Well . . . mayhap she’s his accomplice?”

  “Doubtful,” I said, shaking my head. “Not knowing any assassins—or thuggees—personally, I am forced to rely on the testimony given by those who have, and never have I heard of assassins roaming the countryside in packs. They are solitary folk by nature, I believe, especially those who strive to achieve an unsurpassed level of stealth.”

  “What’s the second flaw?” Mr. Christian asked, a touch acidly, I thought.

  “He’s not armed. Not only would that make it impossible for a man to single-handedly kill the eight people on the Tesla, but it also leaves him at a distinct disadvantage when trying to assassinate an imperial official.”

  “The captain has a point,” Mr. Piper said slowly, nodding his grizzled head. “I’m not saying the lad isn’t a murderin’ bastard, but it’s a damned sight harder to throttle people by hand than it is to stick a shiv in their heart, or blast their brains out the back of their head with a Disruptor, or shove a red-hot poker—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Piper,” I said, quickly cutting off his gruesome catalog.

  “Course, there’s nothin’ to say he couldn’t be gettin’ a knife from the galley, and spillin’ all our guts on the floor. Nothin’ is easier than a quick disembowelin’, says I, though it takes ye a bit to die—”

  “Thank you,” I said louder, giving him a gimlet look.

  He pursed his lips and said nothing.

  “Mayhap we should toss him over the side, just to be sure,” Mr. Christian said, clutching his abdomen.

  “I don’t think such an extreme action will be necessary. The simple fact is that we have no proof that this man and woman are thuggees.”

  “Then who are they?” Mr. Christian asked, and I had to admit that there he had me.

  “We will have to wait for them to wake up to ask them,” I said calmly.

  “Could be the murderin’ sod is from the Corps, sent out to watch you,” Mr. Piper said, absently picking his ear. “But he’s not wearin’ a uniform, so I don’t think that’s likely.”

  “I know!” Mr. Christian said, raising his hand as if he were in the schoolroom. “He’s from the emperor, and he’s in disguise as a thuggee.”

  I ignored him, my eyes once again on the strange man. “It is a very curious thing, no matter who he is. As for his companion . . . I wonder what Mr. Mowen would make of this.”

  I held up a small rectangular white-and-black object. It was made of some sort of chrome, smooth and rounded at the corners, with dangling black wires.

  “What is it?” Mr. Christian asked, craning his head to peer at it.

  “I don’t know,” I answered, turning the object over. It was about the size of my hand, and cool to the touch. “There is a maker’s mark here: iPod. How very odd. I have never heard of such a company.”

  “Do you think it’s a bomb, then, miss?” Mr. Christian’s eyes came close to popping right out of his head.

  “It’s not ticking, and doesn’t appear to be active, but it does have wires, and everyone knows bombs must have wires. However, I’ve never seen one like this. It’s quite dainty.”

  Mr. Piper leaned over my shoulder to examine it. “I wouldn’t be thinkin’ a thuggee would carry a dainty bomb. A wicked-sharp shiv, now, that I could see. But a wee little bomb like that?” He shook his head. “Don’t make sense.”

  “I’m inclined to agree, but despite it appearing to be inactive, I believe we should get it off the ship. Since we are almost to Marseilles, we will drop it over the side into th
e Étang de Berre, where it will not harm anyone should it explode.”

  Mr. Christian’s gaze swiveled to the couple still draped over the crates. “A petite bomb! That must mean . . . Captain, do you think they’re”—his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper—“revolutionaries?”

  Mr. Piper sat up a bit straighter, but his eyes were on me, not the strangers. I didn’t mind him looking to me for direction, but the speculation in his eyes was a bit daunting.

  “I doubt that,” I said slowly, looking back at the man and woman, picking my words carefully. “I did not find the Black Hand insignia on them, nor do they have any weapons. It’s been my experience that revolutionaries always carry weapons.”

  “Oh. I suppose that’s so,” Mr. Christian said, his face falling. “Still, would have been exciting to have caught some revolutionaries, wouldn’t it? I’ve heard that the emperor himself rewards those who turn them in. I’d love to see him, just once.”

  “I’ve seen him,” Dooley said as he reentered the hold, his chest puffing out with self-importance. “He rode by when I was on leave in London. He was in a beautiful black carriage, made of glass it was, and there was a lady next to him, a glorious princess all dressed in gold, glittering and sparkling in the sun just like my brass buttons.”

  “Your buttons are a disgrace to the Corps,” Mr. Christian answered, his lip curling as he gestured toward Dooley’s jacket. “And that wasn’t a princess next to the emperor—it was the Duchess of Prussia, the one he’s marrying in ten days’ time.”

  I ignored their banter as I chewed over a possibility that had just struck me—could it be that Etienne had sent the couple to assist me? It wasn’t unknown for him to send assistance when he thought it necessary, but he knew me well. A memory rose of him pulling on his clothes as I lay tangled in the sheets, exhausted and sated, his gray eyes warm with amusement as he said that he could always count on me to be proficient in all that I did.

  A faint blush rose at the memory. The knowledge that I had given myself to a man who was using me for political reasons was not one of my finer moments, but I had survived it, just as I had survived everything else. No, Etienne would be confident in my ability to do my job. Besides, he would tell me if he was sending a couple of members incognito—and he hadn’t said anything of the sort the last time we’d met. Although it was true we hadn’t had more than a few snatched minutes, it not being at all the thing for a captain in the Aerocorps to be seen in the company of the head of the revolutionary force determined to overthrow the emperor.

  I sheathed the Disruptor. “Dooley, did you find Mr. Ho?”

  “Aye, Captain. She’ll be along directly,” he answered, hovering around the bodies.

  I directed a pointed glance at him. “Then please, about your duties. Mr. Christian, would you be so kind as to ask Mr. Mowen if he could spare a moment to examine the device we found?”

  “Aye, aye,” he answered, giving a brisk salute as he hurried out of the hold.

  I waited until the sound of their footsteps on the gangway faded into nothing before I turned to my companion. “Well, Mr. Piper?”

  “Well, Captain?” the old man said, his gaze skittering away from mine with cagey awareness.

  “Do you think they’re revolutionaries?”

  His eyes met mine again for a moment before turning to the two people. “What ye said about revolutionaries never bein’ found without weapons ain’t true, it ain’t true at all.”

  “No, it isn’t, but it’s better if Mr. Christian thinks so.”

  “Aye, the lad’s been dropped on his head once too often,” the old man agreed, idly scratching his rear end. “Could be they are revolutionaries. They have the look of strangers about them. But what would such as them be doin’ on the Tesla?”

  “Doing what revolutionaries do best, I suppose,” I answered, contemplating a miserable future that started with the people in front of me, and ended in disaster, possibly death. Probably my own. Or, God help me, worse. “Sowing dissent, attempting to overthrow the emperor, and destroying all things imperial. It’s going to be a nightmare when we land.”

  He slid me another odd look. “Perhaps.”

  Before I could ask him just what he meant, the unconscious man moaned, and lifted his hand to his head. “What the hell hit me?”

  His words were slurred slightly, but that wasn’t what concerned me—it was his accent. An American accent.

  “Ratsbane!” I swore, pulling out the Disruptor. “He’s American!”

  “I ain’t never heard of an American revolutionary,” Mr. Piper said meditatively. “Is there such a thing as an American thuggee?”

  “Sir,” I said, addressing the man with both words and the weapon. “You will regulate your movements. I am holding a firearm, and the setting is on sensitive.”

  “What?” The man rubbed his face, then opened his eyes, squinting at me. “What’s sensitive? Ow. Other than my head. Would you mind me asking who you are, and just what you’re doing in my lab?”

  “Could be he’s not so much a revolutionary as he is lackin’ in wits,” Mr. Piper murmured.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if that was true. A lab? What was the stranger talking about? He certainly appeared befuddled, his face expressing a combination of pain and confusion. Perhaps he was just a poor soul who had wandered onto the ship by mistake? No. That would be too much of a coincidence. He had to be there for a reason, a reason I was sure to dislike intensely.

  “Jupiter, Mars, and all the little planets,” the man said in a manner that indicated he was swearing. He rubbed his head, then turned to look at me. With a start, I realized his eyes didn’t match—one was brown, while the other was mossy green. Oddly enough, it was attractive on him, not discordant, as I would have supposed. In fact, his face was attractive, too.

  What the devil was a handsome spy doing on my ship?

  “Did I ask who you were?” he asked in a voice that was still a little thick.

  “Yes. I am Octavia Emmaline Pye.” I bit back an oath at my words. What on earth was I doing giving him my full name with such casual disregard? Captains in the Aerocorps demanded and received respect; they did not engage in common chitchat with suspected criminals. I strove to put the stowaway in his proper position, saying in a stern voice, “You may refer to me as Captain Pye.”

  With a sudden move that had me scrambling backward, the man swung his legs over the edge of the crate and got to his feet. He wobbled for a few seconds, then straightened up to his full height. He blinked in surprise at me for a few moments; then a smile curled his lips. “Did I miss the memo about a masquerade party?”

  Log of the HIMA Tesla

  Monday, February 15

  Forenoon Watch: Five Bells

  “Er ...” The man rubbed his head as if it pained him. His Efingers moved around from his forehead to the side, causing him to wince. “Sins of the saints—that’s a hell of a goose egg.”

  “You’re injured? We didn’t see any signs of that. Allow me to look,” I said, cautiously moving around to his side. I held the Disruptor firmly in case he was attempting to fool me, but he made no move other than to duck his head when I gently parted his hair.

  “Careful. I don’t know what happened to me, but it hurts like hell.”

  I sought, and found, the source of the pain—a lump on the side of his head the size and approximate shape of a quail’s egg.

  “What’s the fancy dress about? Ow! That hurt!”

  “I’m sorry.” I stopped gently probing the injury, taking a step back from the man.

  He grinned at me, a lopsided grin that tugged on something inside me. “ ’Sokay. It’s just that the pain is kind of ebbing and flowing, although at least it seems to be clearing now. Kind of. Sorry, did you tell me what the occasion is? I seem to be a bit rummy, still.”

  “Occasion?” I tried not to openly examine the man, but he seemed quite different now that he was animated. He seemed much . . . well, much more. More handsome, more alive, more
vital. And oddly endearing, which was a very odd emotion to feel about a person who could turn out to be a spy or worse.

  He waved a hand toward me. “For the costume. Is there a con going on?”

  “Con?” I mentally chided myself for repeating his questions in such an idiotic manner, but I didn’t for the life of me understand what he meant.

  “Convention.” He touched the lump on his head, winced again, and rubbed his jaw, instead. “Like a cosplay one? You heard of cosplay?”

  “No. Mr. Piper?” I glanced at the bosun. He looked as confused as I felt.

  “Nay, Captain. Codsplay, now, that I have. There’s a whore in Marseilles who can wrap her tongue all the way around a man’s cods and still have enough left over to—”

  “I’m afraid you have us at a disadvantage, sir,” I said loudly, interrupting Mr. Piper before he could go into any further detail. I gave him a sharp look, but he was too busy staring at the stranger to notice it. “What I would like to know is who you are, and what you are doing on my ship.”

  “That sounds like a useful sort of woman to know,” the man said to Mr. Piper with one of those male-to-male knowing looks.

  “Aye, that she was,” he agreed, propping himself up on the crate again. “She could milk a man dry with both her mouth and her—”

  “I think I’ve heard just about enough of your . . . friends . . . in Marseilles,” I interrupted again, this time managing to catch the bosun’s eye.

  He grinned. “Sorry, Captain. Forgot ye was a woman.”

  “Indeed.” I transferred my gaze from him to the stranger, who was examining me with a look of admiration that would have, had I been a lesser woman, had me blushing.

  “That’s a hell of an outfit,” he said, and, before I could say anything, moved around behind me, examining the back side. “Incredible. It’s just incredible. I love the scarlet coat. Steampunk, right? You don’t see much scarlet in steampunk outfits. Most folks go in for browns and blacks, but the scarlet looks really good, even though you have red hair. I was always under the impression that redheads weren’t supposed to wear red, but it looks good on you. And I really like the corset.”