Queen of Mars - Book III in the Masters of Mars Trilogy (16 page)

“Enough!” Miklos said, taking the skin gently
from me and putting it aside. “There will be more later. Now we
talk.”

I felt slightly lightheaded, and happy.

“By all means, talk,” I said, dreamily.

“Your majesty, I am serious now,” Miklos
grumbled, and I pushed the effects of the wine aside and met his
eyes squarely. “These are the facts as we know them. There will be
others to meet up with us in the coming days, including the pirate
Pelltier and his men from the west.”

At this news I was startled, for no one had
even sought to call on the old pirate’s allegiance. To me his was a
picture in a history book. He had helped my grandmother Haydn when
she was hiding from Frane after the destruction of the First
Republic, and I was surprised to hear that he was still alive.

“This is marvelous news.”

He brings troops and supplies, and his men
have already been harassing Frane’s outward positions. He is a
scamp but he will be a great help, and has pledged undying
friendship to you.”

I nodded my pleasure.

“There are others, also, who will fight with
us. The Quiff, who have been friends to the gypsies for ages past,
have been patrolling the underground caverns that lead to this
place. Many of them are beneath us as we speak.”

As if prodded, I looked down at the floor of
my tent.

“And then there are also remnants of Mighty’s
people, the nomads from the middle and northern latitudes, who will
fight, though they are not many these days, I’m afraid.”

Another history lesson – Mighty had held my
grandmother for ransom, and ended up dying in her cause.

“There are also,” Miklos continued, “the
local clans, some of them outsider but most already pledged to the
republic, who will naturally join the cause and lend support.”

“This is very gratifying.”

“Yes,” Miklos said, but the joyless tone of
his voice made me listen to his next words very carefully.

“That is the good news, your majesty. All of
Mars, except the evil raiders, who as you know are mercenaries and
have taken to Frane’s army for coin, and the mad Baldies, are on
your side.”

“How many raiders does Frane command?”

“Two thousand. And there are two thousand
more Baldies, held in thrall by mocra root and wild beyond madness.
She commands upwards of five thousand troops all told. We will
approach that number, easily.”

“Then what is your concern, Miklos?” I
asked.

He was silent for a moment. “Two
things...”

I waited until my patience ran out, and then
said, “And they are?”

“Yourself, for one, your majesty.”

“Ah,” I said, leaning over to pull the
wineskin to me. I took a short quaff and wiped my lips. “You talk
not of the danger to me, but rather of my...let us say, ineptitude
in battle at Valles Marineres?”

Still studying the floor, he nodded. “Let us
call it...inexperience.”

“My grandfather, General Misst, commands the
troops now, king Miklos. I have learned my lesson, and am here
mostly to inspire.”

“That is good,” he mumbled, and, realizing
the possible insult, looked at me in apology. “That is to
say...”

I held out the wineskin and smiled.

He took a long drink and gave it back to
me.

“And the other thing?” I asked.

“The deviousness of Frane,” he said without
hesitation.

“What do you mean?”

“She has...made this all look too easy. She
sits on a sea of ice, with little high ground, and waits for
us.”

“You’re sure she’s there? The last
time...”

“She is among her troops. The Quaff have
spotted her, and kept track. Her blood red tent sits behind the
lines, and every day she marches among her army, distributing money
and mocra. It is said her severed arm is hideous, a ragged stump
uncovered by any cloth. She is as mad as the Baldies, and takes
mocra herself in vast quantities.”

“Then what is the problem? If she has grown
that mad then perhaps she has also grown stupid.”

Even as the words left my mouth I knew they
were foolish, for his own concerns had tapped some of my own inner
fears.

What have we forgotten?

He slowly shook his head. “Frane has never
been stupid.”

It was my turn to nod, and we both drank.

“Then what can we do?” I asked the gypsy
king.

“I don’t know,” he said. “If we meet this
insane army of hers on the ice, whether by frontal assault or by
stealth, we will easily defeat it. She must know that.”

“Perhaps,” I said, choosing to continue in
the role of devil’s advocate, “her madness has reached the point of
self-destruction—”

“No! There must be something else...”

He sighed, and drank long and hard. When he
rose he was a bit unsteady.

“We will continue to keep vigilant, and
continue to think. There will be no repeat of Valles Marrineris.
Begging your pardon, your majesty.”

“That’s quite all right.”

“I will speak with your grandfather, and make
battle plans.”

I held the wine up to him but he refused
it.

“It is for you, your majesty. Think of it as
a gift.”

“Thank you,” I said, admiring once again the
intricate etching design on the sides of the skin, the skillful
construction.”

“This is very beautiful. It is goatskin,
yes?”

“Dog,” he said, turning to leave, and it was
a good thing he did because I thought of Hector and gagged, and the
wine rose in my throat like bile.

T
here were many
hangovers the next morning, my own among them (though I did refuse
at dinner, which was excellently prepared by my husband and Tyron,
any gypsy wine contained in a skin), but that kept no one from the
matters at hand. At noon, in my tent, I met a representative of the
Quiff, another historical character from my father’s travels, whose
people resided mainly underground and were, up until a number of
years ago, completely unknown to the typical Martian land dweller.
He was an odd-looking fellow with long, fang-like teeth, but
pleasant enough; the other quirks I marked him with were his
penchant to stretch words when pronouncing and an extreme fondness
for fish. In fact, it had already been noted that where you found a
Quiff, you were likely to find an ice fishing hole.

“Thank you for joining us,” I said to him,
and he bowed.

“Your father was a wonnnnnderful mannnn,” he
replied.

“You knew him?” I said, startled.

He shook his head. “My owwwn father was his
guiiiiide. But I did seeee him when I wassss a kit. My father has
passsssed on.”

He then went on to explain to me that the
Quiff had explored many of the underground passages near the pole,
but that much of it remained uncharted.

“We have seeeeeen some strange thingssss,” he
said, citing among them caves that looked feline-made, and some
tunnels that led nowhere.

I thanked him again for his assistance, and
he bowed and left. He was immediately replaced by the most
ridiculous character I had ever seen, dressed in a red undershirt
beneath a frilly white bodice, and short breeches and long boots.
On his head was a cocked hat with a long yellow feather in it.

“Girlie!” he announced, and for a moment I
thought he was speaking his own name. But then the memory of my
grandmother’s adventure placed him for me, and I smiled.

“You must be Pelltier.”

“Indeed!” he struck a pose. “Da pirate, his
self! And you look little like Haydn, I say.”

He was squinting at me as if I was a new
cabbage, to be inspected and bought.

“You still run your lake camp near
Sagan?”

“You know of me, den?” His preening only
increased.

“Why, you must be quite old by now!” I
blurted out.

He deflated a little. “So you see tru my
make-up, den? Yes, I am old, but I want to look good for the
grand-girlie of my ol’ fren’ Haydn, so I – how do you say – ‘doll
it up’ a bit.”

He abruptly stepped forward and grabbed my
paw and kissed it.

“You are beautiful, yes, but in a diffren’
way den Haydn!”

“Thank you.”

He went to one knee, still holding my paw. “I
pledge mysel’, and my men, and my material to you, den.”

“Thank you, again.”

He stood up. “Good. And I bring some-ting for
you.”

He drew a packet from beneath his white shirt
and thrust it into my paw.

“It is tobac, like your gran-muder used to
li’!”

“Tobacco? Cigarettes?” I said in wonder. I
had never even seen the stuff, it had become so scarce. Never mind
the negative health effects Newton and the Science Guild had
claimed for so many years for it.

The faint, strange odor wafted up to my
nostrils.

“Thank you, Pelltier. For...everything.”

“Anyting for my girlie-girl!” he said, and
turned on his heel and walked out. It was only then that I detected
a bit of frailty, in the lack of spring in his step.

There were other dignitaries of other wayward
clans and groups who had now become allies. By the end of the
afternoon my paw was weary of kisses. But it seems our army had
almost doubled in size.

My grandfather joined me for dinner in my
tent, though Darwin, not surprisingly, was nowhere to be seen.
General Misst was gruff but confident – a little too confident, I
thought.

“Forward scouts report absolutely no movement
in Frane’s army.”

“That’s good news?” I said, cautiously.

“Of course! She has a plan and she’s sticking
to it. I doubt she knows the true size of our army.” His rasping
voice grew calmer. “Miklos’s spies say that Frane spends all of her
time in her tent, administering mocra to herself. She mumbles and
fumes, and acts mad as a whippet. She had an aid executed yesterday
just for asking her if she wanted to eat.

“Could it be an act, for our benefit?”

My grandfather seemed taken aback. “Why?”

“To lull us into complacency?”

“I don’t think so, your majesty.”

“There’s no need for the condescending tone
in your voice, general. Doesn’t this all look too easy – like
Valles Marrineris all over again?”

“Everything we know and see indicates—”

“I don’t care about what you can see,
general! There’s something about it that doesn’t feel right!”

“We’ll leave your feelings out of it,
granddaughter. If I may be so blunt: you had your chance at Valles
Marrineris. I took charge of this army on the condition that I
wouldn’t be second-guessed and meddled with. Correct?”

I nodded, though I still frowned.

“And what of my mother?”

His ebullient mood lessened considerably.
“That is the one thing I am not sure of. She has not been seen
anywhere in camp. My own guess is that Frane has secreted her
somewhere else, for use as ransom.”

I nodded. “But where?”

“That is a mystery at the moment. But with
luck, we will soon know.”

Again I nodded.

“Then will you leave me alone to win this
battle?”

I now saw some of the fierceness my
grandfather was known for – as well as some of the arrogance. I
wondered how much of that was in myself.

“Of course, general. Just, please, think on
these things.”

His anger had not diminished. “Of course I
will. As I think of another hundred things a day. We will march at
dawn, your majesty.”

“Very well...”

When he had gone I tried to put my finger on
these feelings I had, but was unable to point to any one spot and
stay there.

But: something was not right. Though I had
yet to come face to face with my bitter enemy Frane, I felt I knew
something of her. She had outwitted my grandmother and my
grandfather, two very smart felines. She had easily outsmarted me,
even when she wasn’t present. And now...

I drew out the packet of tobacco that
Pelltier had left with me, and examined it. Removal of the outer
wrapping revealed a frail paper box, red in color, and topped with
foil. I opened it carefully up. The odor became very strong.

Inside were twenty thin white paper bars,
each containing tiny brown flakes of tobacco. I opened one up with
a claw. The dry flakes spilled out.

I brought my open paw to my nostrils. The
scent was, in a way, alluring.

I took another of the white tubes and placed
it in my mouth. I found a taper and put it to my meager fire,
lighting it.

I brought the taper to the far end of the
cigarette and sought to light it, but nothing happened. Then,
remembering my grandmother Haydn’s description of the process in
her scant memoirs, written in the year after her assassination, I
gently drew breath into my lungs while lighting the far end.

It hissed into flame, burning the paper
tube.

My mouth was filled with smoke, and then my
lungs.

It was not as sweet as it smelled and as I
anticipated it would taste. It was, instead, harsh and, well, like
having a mouth full of smoke.

I coughed, and then coughed again, throwing
the cigarette to the ground.

I snuffed it out with my boot, still
coughing.

One of my attendants burst into the tent, her
eyes wide.

“Your majesty, are you all right?” she
asked.

“Yes,” I said, hacking out words between
coughs. “I’m...fine. Just learning another lesson is all.”

And then I coughed again, and put the packet
of cigarettes away as a memento, nothing more.

T
he morning was
bracing cold. A light wind put a bite into the chill, and the
horse’s huffing breath put clouds of artificial smoke into the air.
There was something about a packed and just-moving army that
invigorated me. I loved the sounds: chuffing horses, clanking
harnesses, the stretching protest of saddle leather and the clatter
of cook’s wagons, pots and pans making music, the grumblings of
feline soldiers not yet awake. Leaving nothing behind and going
somewhere new. A just-moving army meant change, and promise, and
the hope of victory. A camping army was a dead thing, without life
or vitality – but an army on the march was exactly the
opposite.