“Yes, sir.”
“Any hints of impropriety.”
“Yes, sir, but what trader doesn’t, deserved or not?”
“What about in his case?”
“Probably more deserved than not, but not so much that dealing with him would sully anyone – lack of evidence, you understand. It never came to anything.”
“English jurisprudence is a wonderful bloody thing, don’t you think, Sergeant Hand.”
“Yes, sir. Despite the tendency for the wicked and ungodly to flourish, I think I’ll take barristers and judges over trial by combat any day.”
“Or the Napoleonic Code?”
“Don’t get me started on them Frogs, sir!”
“How does Daraph-Kor tie in with Thoza-Joran?” Folkestone asked.
“It may just have been part of his madness, sir, but I’m told he talked to Daraph-Kor as if he walked beside him, telling him what to do, acting strange.”
“Even compared to the worst of the under-people?”
“Even opium-eaters and the few dream-spicers there are.”
“You said Daraph-Kor was dead.”
“Presumed dead.”
“Wasn’t there some scandal? Quite a ways back?”
“Not quite a year, sir,” Hand corrected. “Of a sudden, Daraph-Kor vanished without a trace, leaving behind a thriving business and his family. It happened about the time we undertook that mission to…you know where.”
Folkestone nodded. The name Europa was not to be even whispered outside the secure confines of the Admiralty, and only then to less than a handful of military and ministry officials. The world would not be ready for years, if ever, to learn what transpired on that spectral moon of Jupiter; its discoverer, the German Simon Marius could not have known how accurate he was when he termed it demon-haunted, in 1609.
“At first, it was assumed he’d been killed by a rival trading house, but they’re apt to leave their victims as object lessons.”
“So, when no body turned up…”
“Just left the city, it seemed, for no reason, like some mendicant seeking the River of Life,” Hand snorted derisively.
“Odd that our lunatic of the labyrinths should speak to a vanished merchant, then vanish himself, only to reappear haunting haunted ruins, able to perform what both our ancient ancestors would term magic.”
“Yes, sir,” Hand agreed. Then he tilted his head a bit, gave his superior officer a sly eye, and whispered: “You don’t suppose it was magic, do you, sir?”
Folkestone looked slant-eyed at the Martian.
“Well, there are very old stories, sir,” Hand countered. “Even humans…”
“All races and cultures have their fair share of people not only ready to believe anything, but who desperately want to believe in the magical, the occult, the mystical,” Folkestone said. “My own mother goes to a crystal-gazer at least once a year, and gets her tea leaves read whenever she goes to the City.”
“For such beliefs to be common to all the planets,” Hand said, “surely there must be something to it all.”
“How anyone, in this age of steam, iron and aether travel between worlds, can believe in such things…” He shook his head. “Well, it’s certainly beyond me.”
Hand frowned suddenly.
“You don’t say there is no God, though, do you, sir?”
“Don’t be daft, Hand!” Folkestone snapped. “That’s a different thing altogether, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.” Then the Martian asked: “How do you explain what happened in the ruins?”
“I don’t, Sergeant Hand; I only know it happened.”
“Well, the Admiralty did seem a bit sceptical about our report,” Hand pointed out.
“Yes, well, they were that,” Folkestone admitted, “but the people who count know us well enough that we do not lie and are not prone to fantasies.”
“Sir, do you think it would be worth our while to speak to the widow of Daraph-Kor?”
“Do we know where she is?”
“Yes, sir, I discovered that from the meat seller.”
“Daraph-Kor may figure in this as nothing more than a phantasm of a fevered mind,” Folkestone mused. “Still, we seem to have little else to go on at this point. Lead on, Sergeant.”
They found the widow in a dusty chamber with tattered hangings, a hiding place that might have been ancient when Mars was young and hot. Once adorned with the finest work of stone cutters, metal workers and weavers, it now held the appearance of a looted tomb.
And the occupant within, one Mozah-Kor who formerly moved through the social circles of Syrtis Major like a scintillating comet, seemed little more than an animated corpse, brittle bones within stretched parchment skin all bound by the filthy garments of the grave, left behind like anything else not worth stealing. And yet, despite the surrounding squalor and her emaciated nature, there was in her features some lingering aspect of nobility, and in her eyes a last smouldering ember of defiance against these two intruders of the realm where she now held court.
“What do you want, human?” she demanded as they entered the taper-lit chamber, her voice like the whispering wind. Then her haughty gaze settled upon Hand. “And your highland cur.”
“We want to speak to you about your husband, High Lady,” Folkestone replied, kneeling so he was eye level with her.
“High lady,” she shrilled. “Once you would have addressed me with deference, but now it is but mockery.”
“I mean no disrespect, ma’am,” Folkestone countered.
“I do not want to speak of the dead.”
“Then you feel your husband is dead?”
“What else could he be?”
“It’s my understanding he vanished, that no trace of him was ever found, no track or trail, no physical remains,” Folkestone said. “Is it possible he is yet alive?”
She shook her once-aristocratic head. “I know that he is dead, feel in my heart that he is dead. Were it otherwise, I would know it. A wife knows these things.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I would not be in such a state were my husband still alive.”
Folkestone nodded. “Do you know a lowlander named Thoza-Joran?”
Again she shook her head.
“I have nothing to say to you, human; leave me.”
Folkestone reached into his pocket and quietly placed a stack of copper coins to the side, where she could conveniently ignore them. He started to move away.
“Poor Daraph-Kor,” she murmured piteously. “He died the moment he heard the Song.”
Folkestone turned back to the presumed widow.
“I remember well the night my husband departed the land of the living,” she whispered in the misery of her solitude. “He had remained wakeful long into the depths of the night, as was his wont, relaxing in our rooftop gardens, alone with his thoughts and fancies, his stars and the scented bowers. I did not usually disturb his solitary contemplations, but between his trade with the humans and other outworlders and his retreats into the dreams of our ancient past, he had had little time to attend to his spousal duties.
“He was alone in the rooftop gardens, but he spoke as if he were not alone, so I held back, not wanting to encounter a spirit” she continued. “You may scorn such ideas as spirits, human – do not deny such for I see it writ large upon your features – but such beliefs are common upon all the worlds, especially upon the world you call Mars, for we are the elder race and know well of such things. And it was an ancient spirit, a most antique spirit, that settled upon Daraph-Kor and brought him the soul-song.”
“Soul-song? I do not understand, ma’am.”
“You are blinded by your bigotry, by your hatred of this ancient world.”
“I want to understand…”
“The song of the Dark Gods came upon my husband and took him away,” she said. “He walked past me without seeing me, and in his eyes I could see he was no longer of this world.” She chuckled, a low mirthless laughter that s
ounded like crumbling parchment. “No longer of this world, wholly taken by the world that passed away, by the world that is to come. He is dead though living, an avatar of that which has bided long aeons.”
“If you could give me more…” Folkestone started to say.
The Martian woman uttered a undulating wail born of misery and fear, waxing louder until it seemed to shake the ancient stone chamber. Away, Folkestone could hear the sound of running feet, and he felt Hand tugging urgently at his sleeve.
“The Dark Gods stole away my husband!”
“Sir, we need to leave!” Sergeant Hand urged.
“Mars will again bleed,” the woman screamed. “And the rivers of blood will be yours, outworlder!”
The pounding footfalls were quite close, and Folkestone knew the truth of Hand’s words. The Martian woman’s screams would draw a crowd, the crowd would become a mob, and she would become an excuse to inflict violence upon a human. At heart a Martian was still a savage, and it took only the slightest scratch to reveal that savage heart.
Folkestone and Hand fled into a shadowed passageway.
They followed a circuitous route back to the surface, where they were found by an exasperated messenger, who carried orders for their return to the Admiralty.
Chapter 4
“Orders for Venus?” Captain Robert Folkestone snapped. “You can’t be serious!”
Lord Admiral Geoffrey Barrington-Welles lifted an eyebrow.
Folkestone added: “Sir.”
Folkestone stood in awkward silence in the Lord Admiral's office, acutely aware of the old man's smouldering gaze, yet also aware how difficult it was pry any secrets from that gaze. It was the same gaze Lord Admiral Barrington-Welles tendered whether sentencing a man to death for mutiny or awarding him the Empire's highest honours. Folkestone was certain there would be no medal added to his chest for the dog's breakfast he had brought the Admiral from Old Cydonia, but a mission off-planet was a totally unexpected turn of events. He distracted himself from those unwavering steel eyes by considering the rich mahogany panelling, the watercolours on the walls of English and Martian landscapes, the way the gaslight glittered off the Admiral's brass left arm. Then the Admiral gently cleared his throat, ensuring he had Folkestone’s full attention.
“I am quite serious in posting you and Sergeant Hand to Venus to look into a matter for me,” the Admiral insisted. “I can trust no one else to handle this confidentially.”
“This matter of what happened in Old Cydonia bears further investigation.”
“Your report and the corroborating report filed by Sergeant Hand are being evaluated at the highest levels,” the Admiral assured him. “Your involvement is no longer required.”
“Yet there is the matter of the missing Martian, Daraph-Kor,” Folkestone said. “There is some sort of connection between his disappearance and what happened with Thoza-Joran in the old ruins at Cydonia.”
“Based on what information, Captain?” Admiral Barrington-Welles demanded. “The inarticulate mutterings of a woman driven half-mad from the abandonment by her husband.”
“Sir, the disappearance of Daraph-Kor…”
“Is a tragedy for his family, but is solely a local matter, having nothing to do with Her Majesty’s Government,” the Admiral told him. “Daraph-Kor is, or was, a subject of the Red Prince, and lacking a solid material connection between him and the attack upon our aerial gunboat, we simply have no jurisdiction. I read the notes you provided from your unauthorised foray into this city’s netherworld, and the evidence for a connection between the two events simply does not exist.”
Folkestone stifled a sigh, for he had heard that tone before.
“Don’t take it personally, Captain,” Admiral Barrington-Welles consoled him. “We all have our orders.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right now, the case of Thoza-Joran is closed, except for the nature of the weapon used in the attack.”
“But, sir, there was no weapon. Our reports…”
“Yes, well, to tell you the truth, Captain, there is some dissatisfaction at high levels with the reports submitted by you and Sergeant Hand,” the Admiral confided, his voice dropping. “This morning I received an aether-facsimile from Whitehall in response; they are very concerned about your failure to recover the weapon.”
Before Folkestone could protest, Admiral Barrington-Welles raised a silencing hand.
“You know that you always have my fullest confidence, Captain, both you and Sergeant Hand, and your service has always been exemplary,” the older man said. “The two of you have had your share of strange adventures, but, really…ancient gods, superhuman powers, dire prophecies – you’re asking us to give credence to magic.”
“Any science advanced beyond our own capabilities would seem as magic, sir.” Folkestone pointed out.
“Perhaps, but, as of now, the case of Thoza-Joran is closed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good man.” Admiral Barrington-Welles nodded approvingly. “Considering the row your report has raised in Whitehall, a short mission to Venus might be just the thing for you and Sergeant Hand, get you both out of the spotlight and all that. Besides, the man I want you to see on Venus – Charles Mallory – is a personal friend, and I think you may be able to help him; it is this personal connection that makes me turn to you for assistance rather than assign someone already on Venus. I need a man I can trust implicitly, and you are the only man who meets that qualification.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now, about this Venus assignment, Robert, and Lady Cynthia…”
“Lady Cynthia?” Folkestone exclaimed is dismay.
***
When Sergeant Felix Hand saw Captain Folkestone emerge from Admiral Barrington-Welles’ office, he could tell by the Captain’s expression that the meeting had not gone well.
“Venus, sir?” Sergeant Hand said with no great enthusiasm when he was informed of the assignment. “Too hot and too wet.”
“At least it will be winter in the southern hemisphere.”
The Martian raised an enquiring eyebrow.
“The rain is less than scalding and the Nagas not moulting.”
“As far as I am concerned, sir, Venus has only one season, and it is called unpleasant,” Hand replied, “but, altogether, I’d almost rather be in France.”
“You don’t know the half of it, Sergeant.”
“Sir?”
“The Admiral said his daughter is currently on a mission to Venus.” Folkestone explained.
“Lady Cynthia!” Hand said, his tan face beaming; then he forced a frown to match Folkestone’s expression. “Yes, sir, that would be most inconvenient to run into her, of course, but Venus is a fairly big planet.”
“Not big enough,” Folkestone snapped.
“At least I’ll get some genuine segir for once,” Hand said.
“There is that, I suppose,” Folkestone conceded.
“Sir, the incident in the ruins…”
“Out of our hands,” Folkestone replied with dissatisfaction. “All information aether-facsimiled to London for further study.”
“They do not believe us?” Hand asked, his eyes wide.
“I think they know better than to doubt the veracity of our reports, considering all that has transpired over the last ten years,” Folkestone said quietly as they made their way down the marble and sandstone corridors of the Admiralty. “I don’t know whether the Admiral is holding back information from us, or if he himself is being kept in the dark.”
“For the First Space Lord that would seem unlikely,” Hand pointed out.
“Yes, there’s very little the old man doesn’t know,” Folkestone admitted.
“Perhaps they fear more than they let on,” Hand suggested. “Thoza-Joran claimed the Dark Gods of Mars were returning; were that to even be suggested to the Martian populace, there would be riots in the streets, mass conversions to the elder ways, and bloodletting such as you have never seen.”
“Good reason to play the matter down, but to do nothing…”
“There is a Martian proverb, sir: ‘When the enemy’s teeth are in your face, step back’.”
“Then flay him open with the knife you’ve kept out of sight?” Folkestone suggested.
“You do know Highlanders, don’t you, sir?”
“I should by now, don’t you think?”
Hand nodded. If any human could believably claim to be a Martian, it was Captain Robert Folkestone.
“Even assuming we are not being told everything about the reaction to the attack by Thoza-Joran,” Folkestone mused, “I can’t say I blame the Admiral for not seeing a connection between it and the disappearance of Daraph-Kor; I am not really sure I do, to tell the truth.”
“Nor I, sir,” Hand admitted, “but, still, it bears further investigation simply because it’s so very odd.”
“Which we cannot do while on Venus.”
“It is really a matter for the Court of the Red Prince.”
“That’s what the Admiral said.” Folkestone smiled slyly. “That is exactly what the Admiral said, so the thing to do is throw it into the lap of the Red prince.”
“Baphor-Ta. Sir?”
“Baphor-Ta,” Folkestone replied, quickening his pace.
* * *
“I have already looked into the disappearance of Daraph-Kor and there is nothing to it,” Baphor-Ta asserted, gazing morosely into the tumbler of segir, the potent Venusian whiskey, that Captain Folkestone had set before him. He should have know any free drink from these two would have a price tag attached. He looked up at them, across the scarred deal table in a secluded corner of his favourite watering dive. “He was not murdered by his wife, by his enemies, by his friends, by drug-crazed members of a secret Martian cult, or by a ruthless trade cartel; he left one night for parts unknown – observed by the night watch of the Syrtis Major south gate – and never returned. Surely, my friends, you may have heard of other men doing the same sort of thing from time to time?”
“We want to make sure there is nothing more to it than that,” Folkestone said. “Absolutely sure.”
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