Arabella of Mars (35 page)

Most disturbing of all, several enormous catapults were under construction in the midst of the encampment. Two of them looked to be nearly complete, and large pyramids of jagged hogshead-sized red stones waited near each of them.

*   *   *

After performing her morning necessities, Arabella joined the captain and their escort for the short ride to the near edge of the encampment. A large troop of mounted Martians rode out to meet them, hostility clearly visible in their attitudes, but as soon as they scented the
storek
on Arabella's forehead they relaxed. After a brief but thorough inspection of Arabella's and the captain's few possessions, they allowed them to enter the camp.

Their escort did not accompany them further. “We have delivered you to Corey House, as requested,” said the escort leader, “and now we return to our
akhmok
.”

“Thank you for accompanying us this far,” Arabella said, “and please convey my thanks and appreciation to Khema as well.”

The escort leader merely tossed her head in acknowledgement and rode off toward the rising sun, accompanied by her fellows and leading the two
huresh
that Arabella and the captain had ridden.

Arabella looked upon their retreating backs with considerable trepidation. Though she had finally returned to the planet of her birth, it now seemed foreign and dangerous. Even Khema, who was more dear to her than any one save her own family, had become barely recognizable. And now even that tiny particle of familiarity was gone, leaving Arabella alone and defenseless among angry, armed Martians who wanted her brother dead.

No … not alone. She had the captain by her side, for which she was more grateful than she could comfortably express.

“Come,” she said to him. “Let us present ourselves at the gate. The sooner my brother can explain himself, the better.”

*   *   *

They made their way through the surging crowd, Martian warriors hurrying this way and that with weapons, supplies, and construction materials for the gigantic catapults. Most of the warriors simply glared at them, but on many occasions they were approached by angry Martians with swords or spears raised, who backed down as soon as they scented the
storek
. By the twentieth or thirtieth such occasion Arabella had learned to stand her ground as though unafraid, though her heart still raced every time.

“How long does this … charm last?” the captain murmured to her as yet another armed Martian angrily swished her sword at them and stalked away.

“Khema said it would get us as far as the gate,” she replied. It was all she knew.

The crowd grew thicker and angrier as they approached the house, until by the time they reached the gate itself they found themselves pushing through a packed mob, many of who were hurling rocks or shooting arrows at the house's thickly shuttered windows. If not for the
storek
's influence they might not even have been able to progress on foot.

The gate itself, a heavy double door of
khoresh
-wood some ten feet wide, was deeply set into the red stone of the wall. Both door and wall were exceedingly scarred. Arabella banged the knocker, politely at first and then vigorously, but received no response.

They stepped back a bit. “Ahoy the house!” the captain called in a carrying voice that even stilled for a moment the furious activity of the Martians packed shoulder to shoulder around them. “Ahoooy!” he called again.

For some minutes nothing more happened. Then a clattering and a rattling sounded from the other side of the gate's thick wood. “How the d—l did you get here?” came a muffled voice.

“We have a safe-conduct from … from a Martian general,” Arabella called back. There was a tiny peep-hole in the door, she noticed, and she directed her voice to it. “We are here to negotiate an end to this siege.”

Voices sounded from inside, at least two different ones, but between the thickness of the door and the clattering of the Martians she was unable to make out the words. “There seems to be some disagreement within,” the captain said, and Arabella could only nod in unhappy agreement.

“Please let us in,” Arabella called again. “I am Arabella Ashby, Michael's sister. And this is Captain Prakash Singh of the Honorable Mars Company.”

“Miss Ashby?” came a voice from within, a different one. “I had thought you were on Earth!”

“I took passage on
Diana
, a fine and very rapid ship,” she said. “Oh, do let us in. I promise we mean you no harm.”

The argument within resumed, even more vehemently, until finally the first voice cursed and called out, “I shan't open the door unless you can get those d
____
d savages to back away at least five yards. And if they charge when I open it, I shall shoot the lot of them, and you too if I must!”

Even with the
storek
, it was not easy for Arabella to convince the Martians to clear the area near the door as the unpleasant voice demanded. The task was finally accomplished through a combination of gentle persuasion on Arabella's part, using every bit of Martian politeness she'd learned from Khema, and a display of self-assurance from the captain, who simply spread his arms and walked slowly forward, pressing the crowd back by sheer force of personality.

Rattles, thuds, and dragging sounds came from the door's other side as whatever barricade had been erected within was laboriously disassembled. “Get in close!” the unpleasant voice called. “I'll give you a count of three to get inside.”

Arabella and the captain moved in close to the gate. The crowd of Martians began to edge forward, diminishing the open space.

Suddenly, with a grinding scrape of wood on stone, the door was pulled open. It stopped when the opening was less than one foot wide. “Inside!” the voice demanded, accompanied by a pair of wild red-rimmed eyes, a rifle barrel, and a pale beckoning hand. “Hurry!”

Arabella squeezed herself through as quickly as she could, followed immediately by the captain. A moment later the door was pushed shut behind her, and she was roughly shoved aside as the door was barred and casks, crates, and heavy furniture were piled up against it. The grunts of men and the thump of wood on stone as the barricade was restored were matched by the cries and clatters of the Martians outside trying to get in.

“Come away from the door, child,” came the first voice. “It's not safe here.”

She turned away from the door and the three burly young men still barricading it. A lean old man, with wild white hair and an old-fashioned hunting jacket, stood beckoning with his left hand, a rifle clutched in his right. The butts of two pistols protruded from his pockets.

It was, she realized belatedly, Lord Corey, the owner of the house … though a much aged and diminished version of the jolly neighbor she'd left behind when her mother had taken her to Earth.

*   *   *

“Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Corey,” Arabella said, and dropped a curtsey. They had retreated from the door, with its continued thuds and clatters, to the drawing-room, a high and echoing chamber nearly unchanged from Arabella's memories except that it was now crowded with people and stacked high with crates and boxes. Apart from Lord and Lady Corey, their servants, and her family solicitor Mr. Trombley, she recognized none of the company. Where was her brother?

Lord Corey presented to the captain and Arabella the several dozen refugees who had retreated to his manor from the flames of Fort Augusta; Arabella presented the captain to Lord Corey. The refugees, as it turned out, were mostly people of Lord Corey's elevated social stratum, which explained their unfamiliarity to Arabella, and the contrast between their fine clothes and refined accents and their current straitened circumstances was sharp. But though under other circumstances Arabella would have been honored to make their acquaintance, between introductions her eyes kept darting about, still seeking Michael.

Many of the refugees had not left the house in a week or more, and they bombarded Arabella with questions. What was the situation beyond the gates? Had she any news of their relatives, their homes, their servants? And how had she, a lone girl with nothing but a heathen foreigner for company, managed to make her way through that mob of savages unharmed?

Arabella pushed down her ire at that last remark, and responded as politely as she could. “Captain Singh is a highly respected airship captain, ma'am, and we were under the protection of one of the Martian
akhmoks
, or generals.”

“And how did you obtain this protection?” begged the lady in question, raising her lorgnette and pressing forward eagerly. All other eyes also turned with desperate longing to this girl who had somehow obtained special sanction from the same Martians who had driven them from their homes.

“The
akhmok
in question had been my
itkhalya
.”

“Surely you must be mistaken,” said one of the men. “All
itkhalyas
are female.”

“I believe it is you who are mistaken, sir,” she replied, and though she felt a degree of heat entering her words she did not care to reduce it. “Among Martians it is the female of the species who is larger, more robust, and has the thicker carapace; it is only English sensitivities that restrict them to the positions of cook and nanny when we engage them as servants. Have you not noticed that by far the majority of the warriors besieging you here are female? My
itkhalya
was a prominent strategist among her people even before she became an
akhmok
, and she taught me of strategy and tactics along with all other aspects of Martian culture and history. I assure you that she is entirely suited by both temperament and training, as well as the physical characteristics of her sex, to the position.”

She found herself breathing heavily, glaring at the circle of distressed and indignant eyes that surrounded her. Most prominent among these were Lord Corey's. “My dear Miss Ashby,” he said, “I believe you must be overtired after your long and difficult voyage. Please allow my wife to convey you to a private room, where you can rest … and reconsider your words.”

Just as she was about to snap a reply to Lord Corey's condescension, she noted the captain's face. His head was tilted slightly toward her, one eyebrow raised, the corners of his mouth turned down.… It was an expression she'd learned to recognize as preceding a rebuke. And the captain's rebukes were never, ever unearned.

She took a deep breath, considered her response, and then let it out again with a deep sigh. “You are correct, of course, Lord Corey. These last few days have been extremely taxing, and I … I apologize for my outburst. I thank you again for your hospitality.” The captain, she saw, was not displeased by her expression of regret. “However, I must decline your offer of a place to rest until I have spoken with my brother.”

The glance that Lord Corey exchanged with his wife brought a chill to Arabella's heart.

“Where is he?” she demanded.

“My dear Miss Ashby,” Lord Corey said, “I regret to inform you that your brother was seriously injured while fleeing from his home after the attack there. One of the other members of your household carried him the last mile, saving his life. However…” His gaze lowered. “Unfortunately, he lost consciousness shortly after arriving here, and has not yet woken.”

Arabella felt as though the floor had dropped away, leaving her in a state of free descent.

“We have not lost hope,” Lord Corey said. “But we fear the worst.”

 

22

SIMON

Michael's face was pale and running with sweat, and his forehead burned with fever. From time to time he moaned and thrashed beneath the thin coverlet, but to Arabella's expressions of love and hope he made no conscious reply.

“I am very sorry for your brother's condition,” Mr. Trombley said, “but it would be far worse if not for your brave cousin Mr. Ashby.”

“My cousin
Simon
Ashby?” Arabella gasped.

“Indeed, miss. It happened while we were fleeing from Woodthrush Woods. At one point I noticed that your brother and your cousin were not among us; I doubled back and found your cousin Mr. Ashby crouching quite solicitously over your brother, who had caught an arrow in the calf. He had lost a considerable amount of blood, and was unconscious.” Mr. Trombley closed his eyes and shook his head at the grisly memory. “I bound up the leg, but it was your cousin who carried your brother the rest of the way here. He was very brave and determined; your brother would surely never have survived otherwise.”

Arabella stroked Michael's fevered brow, not quite able to credit this tale of Simon's heroism, but unable to deny the joy she felt at Michael's survival.

“Your brother was barely alive when we arrived at Corey House,” Mr. Trombley continued. “Fortunately Dr. Fellowes was here, and stitched up the wound, and we were all very hopeful. But then it began to fester, and the leg had to come off. He has not, sadly, regained consciousness since.”

Arabella gazed upon the absence beneath the coverlet where her brother's right leg should have been. She felt nothing but a cold numbness. Horror, she supposed, would come later.

The captain's strong brown hand rested upon her shoulder. She patted it absently, then stood. “Captain Singh, Mr. Trombley, Lord Corey … I appreciate your concern and expressions of support, but at the moment I desire to be left alone with my brother.”

Murmured condolences and sounds of departure followed, but Arabella simply stood and stared at her brother's troubled face, holding his hot and twitching hand.

He seemed so young to her now. Though he was still her elder, and of course nearly a year older now than the last time she had seen him, by comparison with the officers and men with whom she had spent the last few months—very eventful months indeed—he seemed little more than a child.