“He’s at Burke’s Club,” Gowse said, “and he’s no interest in leaving … though he’d accept a call from you there.”
“He would accept—?” Arabella huffed, appalled at Fox’s impertinence.
“So he says.” Gowse shrugged. “As I told you, he’s a cheeky b—d.”
Arabella paced the stall. Hector, sensing her mood, scuttled away to the corner. “And you have no other friends who might conceivably be persuaded to provide passage to Venus?”
Gowse shook his head. “I’ve put the word all around, but what with the embargo, there’s no ships to be had. It’s Fox or nothing.” He spread his palms. “Course, some other ship could come along next week.”
Arabella was keenly aware of how far a ship could travel in one week, once she had attained the trade winds which blew between the planets at rates approaching ten thousand knots. By now Fouché might have covered as much as a quarter of the distance to his destination; she could not afford to wait even a week more if she were to have a chance of freeing the captain before the Executioner of Lyon reached Venus.
She drew in a breath, then blew it out in a forceful sigh. “Very well,” she said. “Make preparations for a call on Fox.”
* * *
Burke’s Club, an establishment of which she had never before even heard, lay in Gokhura Street not far from the docks. It proved to be a private dwelling of middling character, lacking any sign and indistinguishable from its neighbors save that the hall door stood ajar. “This is the place,” Gowse said, glancing up and down the street. “But it’s no place for a lady, miss. Perhaps I should go in and—”
“I must speak with this Fox myself,” Arabella interrupted, pushing past him and striding through the half-open door.
The hall, once her eyes adjusted to the dimness within, proved to be interrupted in the middle by a second door, in which was constructed a small spy-hole. A single watery eye immediately came to the hole, blinking out at her in leery astonishment. “Is this Burke’s Club?” she demanded of it.
“It is, miss.”
“Pray let me in. I understand that Mr. Daniel Fox is in residence, and I desire to speak with him immediately.”
Again the eye blinked, then retreated. Muttering came from within, and she heard the name Fox repeated several times. Gowse came up beside her, and they waited together in silence.
After some minutes the door creaked open, revealing an older man in a cheap yet fashionable coat. “Mr. Fox is here, miss, though he cannot come to the door.”
“Then I must go to him.”
The older man glanced to Gowse—who merely shrugged—then gave Arabella a slight bow and admitted them within. “Welcome to Burke’s, miss. You’ll find Mr. Fox in the hall upstairs.”
At the top of the stairs they were met by yet another door, this one heavy and iron-bound, which swung open as they approached. Beyond it lay a single large room, well illuminated by substantial chandeliers, the daylight being completely excluded by heavy curtains. Several large oblong tables filled the space, each covered with green baize and surrounded by a boisterous crowd of men. Some were in shirt-sleeves; others wore coats in the latest colors and trimmed in gleaming Venusian silk. Martian and human waiters carried trays of food and drink, and the atmosphere was pungent with the smells of roast meat, strong wine, and snuff.
“Which one is Mr. Fox?” Arabella inquired of the doorman.
He gave her a peculiar little smile. “At the hazard table, miss,” he replied, gesturing. “In the blue jacket.”
The indicated gentleman was, at that moment, standing at the head of the table and shaking his cupped hands vigorously above his left shoulder. He was, in Arabella’s opinion, quite attractive, with a strong chin and aquiline nose. His sandy brown hair was cut in a fashionable Brutus style, but his strong and sinewy hands showed that he was not the type of captain who forbore hauling on a line himself. And though he was not yet forty, the blue eyes in his wind-burnt face bore wrinkles in their corners from frequent smiling.
With a whoop, Fox brought his hands down, casting a pair of dice down the length of the table. The men around the table drew in a collective breath as the dice rolled to a stop, then erupted in a shout of mingled triumph and despair—depending, she supposed, upon how each man had wagered. Fox himself regarded the dice silently, with an expression that attempted to cover disappointment with a self-consciously cheerful determination.
For a moment she considered this man, this privateer captain. Could she truly bear to take passage from one who was little more than a legalized pirate, sailing rapaciously beneath the flag of a Martian satrap? Not too many months ago another privateer, albeit a Frenchman, had nearly killed her captain and herself. Yet Fox was her best hope—indeed, at the moment, her only hope—to rescue Captain Singh from Venus, and perhaps she could learn to respect his skills if not his occupation. She straightened her back and stepped forward.
As Arabella approached the table, the player to Fox’s left, a lean gentleman with very prominent ears who wore a dark leather thukhong-jacket, took up the dice. Fox sat and gestured to a passing waiter, who filled his goblet to the brim with wine. The pile of coins in front of Fox, she noted, was considerably smaller than that of any of his neighbors.
“Mister Fox,” Arabella said. “My name is Arabella Ashby. May I have a word with you?” To introduce oneself was an impropriety, she knew, yet for a young unmarried woman who had already invaded a gambling-hell without proper companionship it was a comparatively venial sin.
Fox looked up at her with bleary suspicion. His eyes were quite blood-shot and underlined with substantial dark circles, but as they swam into focus on her his expression changed to one of somewhat inebriated delight.
“Of course, my dear Miss Ashby. Always a pleasure. Where do I recall having heard the name before?”
“I approached you by means of my manservant Gowse, who I believe is a friend of yours.”
He blinked. “Oh yes, the adventuresome heiress!” He looked over her shoulder at Gowse, who was just catching up to Arabella in her headlong advance. “You did not tell me she was such a beauty.”
Fox’s slightly slurred but apparently sincere compliment flattered, vexed, and embarrassed Arabella in equal measure. “Sir,” she replied, firming her jaw, “I require passage to Venus, as soon and as speedily as possible, for which I am prepared to compensate you handsomely. Are you able to provide it, or must I look elsewhere?” The fact that she had nowhere else to look, she thought, was immaterial; the projection of confidence was all. This was one of the lessons she had learned from her Captain Singh.
Fox inclined his head and gestured to the tiny heap of coins before him. “I am not, alas, currently in a position to provide any such thing. I must confess that at the moment I am very slightly in arrears to the bank—”
At this point a lean, sharp-eyed, and decidedly sober gentleman in a dark frock coat, who had moved up very quietly as Arabella and Fox had been conversing, spoke up. “To the tune of three hundred twenty-nine pounds ten shillings, including interest.”
“Yes…” Fox acknowledged, casting the dark-coated fellow a rather irritated glance. “I have been here for three days and two nights,” he declared, returning his attention to Arabella and Gowse, “and I have no intention of departing until I have restored and indeed redoubled my initial stake.”
The sharp-eyed gentleman’s countenance, though guarded, could not help but reveal to Arabella’s eye his low estimate of Fox’s chances of success in this endeavor … and the pleasure he felt at the prospect.
Three hundred twenty-nine pounds ten shillings, Arabella thought, was an appalling amount of money to squander at hazard. But it was not terribly much more than the three hundred pounds Michael had allowed her for passage, over and above the five hundred pounds allocated for expenses. “If I were to settle this debt for you, would you convey me to Venus in exchange? Immediately?”
“Miss!” gasped Gowse, appalled at her effrontery. Th
e sharp-eyed gentleman looked daggers at her, no doubt furious at the prospect of being deprived of Fox’s forthcoming additional losses.
But Fox, though well supplied with wine and overconfidence, was apparently not completely lacking in wits. He regarded Arabella for a moment with hooded eyes, lips pursed, then nodded slowly. “Could we say, perhaps, three hundred fifty?”
Arabella’s eyes met Fox’s. Part of her wanted to appease this man—this handsome, flattering captain who was her only known means of transport to Venus—but the shrewder, more cunning part sensed that he was a wild huresh who required a firm hand on the reins. “Three hundred twenty-nine,” she stated succinctly, “and ten shillings.”
Fox seemed about to balk. But then the player to his left nudged Fox’s elbow. “I’ve seen how you play,” he said. His accent suggested Mars’s northern colonies. “I suggest you take the young lady up on her offer.”
At that Fox bristled. The other player pointedly glanced down at Fox’s very diminished stake, then back to Fox, and shrugged.
Fox’s eyes, too, drifted down to the small pile of coins on the table before him. He contemplated it for a bit, then shook his head and looked up, smiling and raising his wine cup to Arabella. “Very well, Miss Ashby. We have a deal.”
* * *
She waited until after breakfast the next day to tell Michael, when he would be rested, well-fed, and happy in the view from the verandah. Chakti chittered in the shrubbery, and the khoresh-trees marched to the horizon in orderly rows. “I have engaged a ship to take me to Venus,” she said as she passed the scones. “She is called Touchstone, out of Sor Khoresh, captained by a man named Fox.”
“One of Tura’s privateers?” he replied, shock and dismay clear from his tone.
Sor Khoresh, north of Fort Augusta, was one of the more powerful Martian satrapies, independent monarchical states which ruled the portions of Mars outside of the Honorable Mars Company’s control. In the vast deserts beyond the borders of St. George’s Land, the satraps of Mars were as powerful as any European king—only their lack of gunpowder and aerial ships prevented them from projecting that power beyond their own planet, and their treaties with the Company prevented them from acquiring those things for themselves. In exchange for this limitation and other considerations, they received considerable autonomy and substantial assistance from the English; and Tura, the satrap of Sor Khoresh, had taken every advantage of the situation.
Though the satraps were denied ships of their own, one of the powers permitted them by treaty was the granting of letters of marque—official documents authorizing, in effect, legalized piracy—to the ships of certain Earthly nations. Thus, many Russian, Dutch, American, and even English captains sailed the air as privateers under Martian flags, capturing the merchant ships of France and her allies, and sharing the spoils with their Martian sponsors. The arrangement profited the privateers and the satraps, and benefitted the English cause, so no one objected to it—save the French, of course, and their opinion was of no consequence.
“I intend to depart as soon as possible,” she continued. “You know I will not be dissuaded.”
“I do,” Michael spat, throwing down his napkin and pushing himself to his feet. “And you know I can be every bit as stubborn as my sister.” He fumbled his crutch under his arm and began stumping about in agitation. “Even on Mars, there are certain proprieties which must be maintained. If I cannot persuade you to set this dangerous project aside, then I must at least insist that you be properly chaperoned.”
“I could not possibly be saddled with such an encumbrance!”
Michael continued, undaunted by Arabella’s outburst. “For an unmarried young woman—and though you are engaged, this is indeed your state—to be seen unchaperoned in mixed company is very damaging to your reputation. Though I know you care little for your own reputation, poor behavior on your part reflects badly on the entire family.” He took a breath, let it out. “I will ask Lady Corey to accompany you to Venus.” He nodded to one of the servants. “Bring me paper, pen, and wax.”
“Lady Corey?” Arabella gaped. “She is entirely inappropriate!”
“There is none more appropriate on this planet.” The servant returned with the requested implements, and Michael immediately settled himself at the table and began scratching out an invitation.
Michael’s statement was true, in some ways. With Arabella’s mother on Earth, tens of thousands of miles away, and no living aunts or cousins any where on Mars, the widowed Lady Corey—a long-time friend of the family—was her most appropriate mentor and protector in the eyes of society.
But for the journey which Arabella anticipated, Lady Corey was the worst possible companion. After the horrific events of the insurrection, which had cost the lives of Lady Corey’s husband and many members of her staff, Arabella was certain that if any thing even slightly untoward should happen to occur on the voyage, the elderly lady would be completely undone by distress.
“Please, Michael. I beg of you not to ask this of her. You know that I am entirely able to defend my own honor.”
Michael folded and sealed the letter. “Take this to Lady Corey at Miranda House,” he said to the servant, “and await her response.” He returned his attention to Arabella. “It is not merely your honor that concerns me. You require guidance and a proper introduction to society. After all, you are soon to be a married woman.”
“I shall never be married at all if my fiancé dies tortured to death in a prison on Venus!”
Michael’s only response to this outburst was a small, disgusted sound. “Lady Corey is far stronger, and will be far more helpful, than you think. Merely meet with her—this is all I ask.”
“Oh, very well.” But Arabella’s mind was already spinning with a stratagem to evade this unwanted imposition.
* * *
“Good morning, Lady Corey!” Michael cried, rising with as much grace as he could muster. “Thank you so very much for joining us on such short notice.” The Sun shone brightly on the best silver tea-service, tidily arrayed on the sitting-room table. All the finest had been brought out for the great lady’s visit.
Arabella curtseyed, fighting to keep a pleasant expression despite the tightness of her jaw. It was already a day later than she had hoped to depart for Venus, never mind the additional days which would likely be lost in preparations if Lady Corey were to accompany her.
Lady Corey accepted Michael’s proffered hand and, with his help, seated herself upon the settee. “It is no trouble at all, Mr. Ashby. It is always a pleasure to visit with you.”
Lady Corey had always reminded Arabella of a ship of the sea, with her generous bosom and plump arms swelling like sails before the press of wind. Her age was something over forty—ancient to Arabella—and her hands were soft and pale. She wore a round robe of fine iron-gray cloth, trimmed with chenille fur and clasped with lozenge clasps of jet. Her ear rings and necklace were also of jet, emphasizing her continued state of mourning, her beloved Lord Corey having been crushed by a Martian catapult-stone less than a year earlier.
All in all, Arabella thought, Lady Corey was like a beautiful, expensive, stifling cloak which Michael intended to throw over her, when what she truly required was a thukhong—a rough, practical garment in which she could move, run, and fight.
They spoke for a time of the weather and other inconsequentialities—with Arabella fidgeting impatiently—before Michael finally broached the topic of his invitation. “As you know,” he said, “Arabella lacks any female relatives on Mars.”
“This may explain her questionable choice of fiancé.” Her expression, still pleasant, nonetheless betrayed her distaste at Arabella’s near-scandalous behavior.
Arabella opened her mouth to defend Captain Singh, but Michael interrupted. “She plans a journey,” he said quickly, “in the very near future, and we were hoping that you might be willing to accompany her as chaperone.”
At that Lady Corey’s round, pink face brightened, and Arabella
’s hopes declined correspondingly. “A journey? How delightful. My daughter has been encouraging me to get away from town, with all its unpleasant memories. I would be delighted to accompany dear Arabella … once my responsibilities here have been discharged, of course.” Arabella’s spirits fell still further. “Where might she like to go?”
Arabella cleared her throat, forcing Lady Corey to meet her eye. “Venus is my destination,” she enunciated clearly.
“Oh,” the great lady replied, recoiling slightly. “Are you certain? If you wish a holiday, I understand the sand-falls at Sor Khoresh”—unlike many Englishmen, she managed the kh in Khoresh quite creditably—“are lovely at this time of year.”
“I have important business there.”
Lady Corey’s glance flicked from Arabella’s face to Michael’s and back. “Really, I cannot imagine why any well-bred young woman should want to visit such an … uncivilized place as Venus. Surely it has nothing to offer in the way of entertainments.”
“I have no idea,” she replied honestly, then realized this question presented an opportunity. “Perhaps my old itkhalya Khema can offer some suggestions.” Immediately she rose and tugged the bell-pull, ignoring Michael’s puzzled expression.
Conversation continued, somewhat strained, until Khema arrived. Arabella hid her nervousness by buttering her crumpet.
“Ah, Lady Corey!” Khema said as she entered, ducking and turning sideways to fit through the sitting-room door. “So delightful to see you again!”
Though her command of the English language was impeccable and her manners unimpeachable, Khema was nonetheless quite an intimidating sight. During the recent insurrection she had transformed into an akhmok—a sort of natural general—and now loomed nearly eight feet high and almost half that broad, with spiny protrusions at every joint. Yet, despite her bulk, her movements were so fluid and graceful that her curtsey was neither laughable nor intimidating.
At least, it was not intimidating to Arabella or any other member of the Ashby household. Yet Lady Corey, Arabella was certain, would find Khema’s appearance distressing; her reactions would demonstrate to Michael how inappropriate it would be to encumber Arabella with her as chaperone for the voyage.
Arabella and the Battle of Venus Page 3