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.