Queen of Mars - Book III in the Masters of Mars Trilogy

by Al Sarrantonio

  My husband laughed like a kit, and explained to me, “He used to do this to me when I first met him, when I was barely out of kithood!”

  “He tried to run and hide from me, the scamp, but I caught him up – just like a fish – ha!”

  Miklos put Darwin down, and the two of them wrestled and hugged in a most affectionate manner.

  Suddenly Miklos was down on one knee before me, and kissing my ring.

  “As a gypsy king,” he said seriously, “and like my brother Radion before me, land rest his soul, I pledge myself and my people to you, my Queen, just as we did to your father King Sebastian. Long live Queen Clara!”

  And before I could protest he had stood up, taken me by the scruff of the neck, and held me high in the air, showing me like a rag doll to my own troops, who howled with laughter, and his own people, who had materialized behind him and began to cheer.

  I could do nothing else but laugh myself, and when the huge gypsy had set me down, saying, “I hope I have not embarrassed you, my Queen – it is our way,” I merely adjusted my cloak and said, “Of course not. Welcome, king Miklos.”

  “He will fight with us!” Darwin announced. “He has a hundred men but they will fight like a thousand. He’s been tracking us for days!”

  “You knew this?” I said to my husband in surprise.

  “Oh, yes. But Miklos didn’t know I was following him!”

  “Ha!” Miklos said again, and lifted Darwin up once more. “Little fish has always been quiet, and sneaky, and wise!”

  Such as could be prepared, we had a celebration that night. Doubly so, when Miklos learned that Darwin and I were wed, and he took the two of us by the scruffs of our necks and marched around the entire camp, announcing our good fortune. Darwin, when let loose, introduced me to the gypsy band’s cook, named Tyron, a sour-faced fellow who beamed in my husband’s presence.

  “I taught him everything he knows about cooking, when we both traveled with Radion.”

  At the mention of Radion – who I knew had died fighting by my father’s side – both of them went silent.

  I lightened the mood by saying, “Then it is you, Tyron, who I have to blame for my husband’s bland preparation of meals?”

  “Bah!” he said, beginning to get angry before he saw the joke, and Darwin broke into laughter.

  “She loves my cooking – and all because of you!” he said, slapping the gypsy cook on the back.

  The sour-faced man smiled. “Then I will prepare a special feast for you tonight, my Queen!”

  “I shall look forward to it,” I said, and left the two cooks to plan their meal.

  I found Miklos, or, should I say, he found me. He loomed up before me as I was entering my tent, and I invited him in. He readily agreed, and produced, when we were comfortable inside, a huge skin of wine.

  “I don’t like wine,” I declared, when he offered me the skin, which looked to be made of goat skin.

  “What!” he cried. “Then you have never been offered real wine. Taste this, please.”

  I could not refuse a king’s offer, and so brought the skin’s tip to my lips and tried it.

  It was like honey in my throat.

  I took a second sip, and a third.

  Miklos nearly grabbed the skin from my paws and took a great long drink, pulling the skin’s tip away from his mouth so that the golden-red wine squirted in from nearly a foot away.

  “That is how to drink wine!” he announced, handing the skin back to me. “Try it!”

  My first try resulted in wine everywhere but in my mouth, but soon I had mastered the trick, and the concoction, like melted butter in the throat and warm in the belly, had begun to work its magic on me.

  “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.

  Twenty-Six

  There 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.

  Twenty-Seven

  The 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.

  The wind was into our faces, which kept the crispness in the air as the sun rose to our right. Before us was a wall of blue-white ice as far as the eye could see from west to east. As we drew closer it resolved into a series of steppes and bluffs and switchbacks. We had been placed well, and though the climb would be a good one it would not be hard.