Count Volger nodded. "For that matter, why a machine gun? The Colt-Browning weighs fifteen kilograms. A bit large for a saboteur to use."
"And we won't find any bullets for it either," Deryn added. "Our beasties would've sniffed out the gunpowder."
"Rather a mystery," Dr. Barlow said, turning to Miss Rogers. "Though in a way I am relieved. Perhaps your Mr. Francis is merely an arms smuggler." She frowned. "And a supplier of . . . movie film."
Miss Rogers shrugged. "I have no idea what's going on, I promise. But I'll have a snoop around tomorrow, and see what I can find out."
"Just don't forget that this is my story," Malone said.
Miss Rogers frowned, but gave him a curt nod.
"We'll check the rest of these barrels, ma'am," Deryn said to the lady boffin. "Then I'll have the ship's carpenter seal them back up so no one's the wiser."
Alek nodded. If the ship wasn't in immediate danger, there was no need for a confrontation. The best way to uncover Mr. Francis's plans was to let him make the next move.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The next morning Deryn stayed close to Mr. Francis and his camera assistants.
She served them breakfast in the middies' mess, then took them on a tour of the ship - "scouting locations," they called it. The captain had given the newsmen free run of the upper decks, so as not to give away any suspicions, and the guards watching the barrels in the cargo room had been ordered to stay out of sight.
Deryn noticed that Adela Rogers, the young lady reporter, was also keeping an eye on Mr. Francis. She pretended to wander the ship on her own, but always stayed within earshot of Francis and his cameramen. And when Deryn left them in the middies' mess with lunch, she found Miss Rogers skulking outside.
Closing the mess door carefully behind her, Deryn whispered, "Pardon me, miss, but we mustn't let Mr. Francis know we're on to him."
"Well, of course not." The woman adjusted her hat. Just as last night, she was immaculately tailored, this time in a matching pin-striped jacket and skirt, with a black fedora in fabricated beaver fur. "Do you think I was born yesterday?"
"No, but you're being a bit obvious, following him everywhere."
"You're the one trailing after him, not me."
Deryn pulled the reporter farther down the corridor. "It's my barking duty to escort him! But you're tagging along like some village lassie in love."
Miss Rogers laughed. "Really, young man, I doubt you would know the signs of that condition. In any case, it isn't Mr. Francis I've been following. It's you."
"Pardon me, miss?
"Because you're quite obviously the bell captain of this ship."
Deryn blinked. "What are you blethering about?"
The woman took a step back, looking Deryn up and down like a tailor sizing up a client. "I grew up in a hotel, you see. Daddy was hopeless at housekeeping, and my mother wanted nothing to do with us, so it was our only hope of a civilized life. I learned at a tender age that the most important person in a hotel isn't the owner, or the manager, or even the house detective. It's the bell captain. He's the one who knows where the bodies are buried. He got quite a nice tip for burying them, if you know what I mean."
"No, miss, I don't know what you mean," Deryn said. "I'm a midshipman, not a bellman."
"Oh, yes. I caught your act last night, all white gloves and merrily pouring the brandy. But underneath it you're in on everyone's secrets, aren't you? And everyone glances at you when they've got a pickle to deal with. Dr. Barlow, Prince Aleksandar, even that crusty old count - they all want to know what the bell captain thinks."
Deryn swallowed. This woman was either quite mad or dangerously canny. She'd proven quite deft at embarrassing Alek the night before, which had been amusing enough. But now she was being a bit too . . . perspicacious.
"I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean, Miss Rogers."
"The only thing my mother ever taught me is that the servants always have the keys.̵
"I'm not a servant. I'm a decorated officer!"
"So is the bell captain at any fine hotel! Note the employment of the word 'captain.' I wouldn't mistake you for a bellboy, not ever."
Deryn took a step back. What had she meant by that, exactly?
"Just because I'm a 'girl reporter,' don't think you can - " Miss Rogers's next words were cut off by the sound of an alert, single rings in quick succession.
Deryn frowned. "That's the 'enemy spotted' signal."
"What enemy? We're over neutral territory."
"Indeed, miss. You'll have to excuse me." Deryn turned away, grateful for any excuse to escape the reporter. As she headed toward the central stairs, the corridors filled with men rushing toward their battle stations.
"Mind if I come along?" asked Miss Rogers, who was, in fact, already coming along.
"No, miss! My post is on the spine, and passengers have to stay in the gondola. You should head back to your stateroom."
Not waiting for an answer, Deryn headed off through the bustling corridors. With the ship at high speed there would be no climbing the ratlines, so she made straight for the interior passages. For that matter, the wind topside would be too much for message lizards to be wandering about. Deryn snatched one up and shoved it into her jacket, in case she needed to get word to the bridge quickly. After all, there were German agents wandering about the ship, reporters everywhere, and now an enemy in the sky.
Neutral territory, indeed.
The desert rolled past below, spotted with cacti and red-flanked gulches, and a few small farms cut into verdant rectangles. At three-quarter speed, the view swept past at almost fifty miles an hour, and only the master rigger, Mr. Roland, and a few of his men were topside. Deryn made her way toward them in a half crouch, ready to grab the ratlines if a gust sent her stumbling.
"Middy Sharp reporting, sir!"
Mr. Roland returned her salute, then pointed. "Spotted it twenty minutes ago. Some kind of manta airship. Local colors, Clanker engines."
A sleek, broad-winged form stood out against the western sky, the pontoon gasbags under its wings striped with red and green. Smoke trailed from it, though Mexico was a Darwinist power.
"Might that engine be German-made, sir?"
"Can't tell from this range," Mr. Roland said. "But they're matching our speed."
Deryn watched the Mexican airship's shadow rippling across the desert, and estimated a wingspan of no more than a hundred feet. "Too small to trouble us, though. Perhaps they're only curious, sir."
"Fair enough, as long as they don't get too close." Mr. Roland frowned, raising his field glasses. "Is that another one?"
A second winged shape had caught the sun, just behind the first. Deryn shielded her eyes and swept the horizon, and soon spotted a third manta airship off to starboard.
She pointed at it. "More than just curiosity, sir."
"Perhaps," Mr. Roland said. "But even three to one, they don't stand a chance against us."
Deryn nodded. Stern chases were tricky in the air. Beasties or rockets launched from the trailing ships would be fighting a fifty-mile-an-hour headwind, while the Leviathan could drop an aerie of strafing hawks into their laps at any time.
A moment later the Leviathan's engines roared up to full speed.
"It seems the captain has taken a dislike to them!" Mr. Roland shouted over the thunderous noise. Both of them knelt on the ratlines as the wind grew fiercer. The Mexican airships didn't seem to be losing much ground, though. Their smoke trails thickened, spreading across the horizon like storm clouds.
One of the riggers called from behind them, and Mr. Roland turned to face the headwind. "Who in blazes is that?"
Deryn turned and saw a figure making its way toward them along the spine. She held her hat on with one hand, and her skirts billowed around stockinged legs.
"Blisters! That lady reporter must have followed me! Sorry, sir. I'll tend to her."
"See that you do, Sharp."
Miss Rogers had the wind at her back, and looked surefooted enough. But when Deryn made to stand up, the headwind sent her staggering backward. She swore and clipped her safety line to Mr. Tesla's antenna. It was easier than re-clipping herself every few feet.
She scuttled ahead in a crouch until she reached the reporter.
"What in blazes are you doing up here?"
"I'd like to interview you!" the woman yelled, then pulled out a notepad. The pages fluttered furiously, and her unsecured fedora lifted off and shot away. "Oh, dear."
"Now's not the barking time!" Deryn shouted. "As you can see, we've got a bit of trouble brewing!"
Miss Rogers peered into the distance. "Our 'enemy' ships would appear to be Mexican. Do you suppose they mean us harm?"
Deryn took the lady reporter by the arm, but pulling her back toward the hatchway proved impossible. The woman's skirts caught the headwind like a frigate at full sail. It was a wonder she was standing at all.
"You're not getting rid of me that easily, Mr. Sharp." Miss Rogers frowned. "Is there something moving in your jacket?"
"Aye, a message lizard."
"How odd. Now, please tell me about these airships."
Deryn glanced back at the Leviathan's pursuers, then sighed. "If I answer a few questions for you, will you be sensible and go back down?"
"It's a deal. Let's say . . . three questions."
"All right, then! But hurry!"
"Who is following us?"
"Mexicans."
"Yes, but under which of the generals?" Miss Rogers asked. "You realize there's a revolution on, don't you?"
"I don't know which general, and yes, I do realize there's a revolution on. That was three questions. Now let's go!"
She tried to pull Miss Rogers toward the hatch, but the woman stood firm. "Don't be preposterous! That was only one question, which required two follow-ups due to your vagaries. My father was a lawyer, you know."
"Barking spiders, miss! Why can't you just - "
A metal shriek shattered the air, and a cloud of acrid smoke whipped across them both. Deryn turned into the wind, and saw the starboard Clanker engine spitting flame. With an awful groan its propeller seized, coughing out one last flurry of sparks.
"What in - ," Deryn began, but with one engine halted, the ship went into a sudden starboard turn. The spine rolled beneath them, and Deryn grabbed Miss Rogers's arm and yanked them both to their knees. Tesla's antenna slithered beside them, stretching tighter as the airbeast bent hard along its length.
A moment later the port engine coasted to a halt, and the ship began to straighten again.
"What's going on?" Miss Rogers asked.
"No idea! But you'll have to wait here."
The airflow was already fading as the Leviathan slowed, and Deryn unclipped herself and ran forward toward the pods. Had the captain run the Clanker engines too hard this last week? Or was this sabotage?
But Mr. Francis had been followed from the first minute he'd come aboard, and the engines were manned at all times. It had to be a coincidence. . . .
Deryn reached the hump above the engines and pulled the message lizard from her jacket. "Starboard engine pod, this is Middy Sharp. Report!"
She set the beastie down, and it scampered toward the pod, making good time. Even with the electrical engines still churning, the wind of the ship's passage was quickly dying. The airbeast's cilia never pushed while the Clanker engines were at full-ahead, so they'd been quiet for the better part of ten days. It might take an hour to wake them up again.