Another boat, this one of more conventional design but even so propelled by natives at the oars, pulled up to the starboard rail. “Mesdames, messieurs,” said the French commander with a bow, “if you will be so kind as to accompany me?” But despite his politesse, the two French airmen glowering beside him made it clear that refusing the invitation would not be permitted. Arabella declined the commander’s proffered hand and stepped down into the boat without assistance.
As they rowed away from Touchstone, Fox looked backward with an expression of undisguised despair, and Arabella very nearly reached out to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. But then he pressed his eyes tight shut and shook his head, and when he reopened them his jaw was firm and his gaze was directed forward.
Arabella too looked forward, where the boats containing Touchstone’s crew were already beginning to unload, the men being mustered into lines on the dock. It might not be a pleasant prospect, but it was her future and it must be considered.
* * *
Once Touchstone’s crew had all been unloaded from the boats, they were marched through the city to a large open square, where again they were mustered into groups. The officers and passengers, as before, were treated more gently than the men, but even so it was made plain that they had no choice but to obey.
Most of the buildings they passed were one or two storeys, wider at the bottom than at the top; they were constructed of wide, flat green bricks, with black stone foundations and lintels and dark green tile roofs. But at one end of the square stood a large building looking very like an English town hall, though built of the same green brick and dark stone as the native structures. Above its broad wooden door a large French flag hung unmoving in the still and soggy air. The flag was new—crisp and pristine despite the humidity—and as the door opened and three French Army officers emerged from it Arabella speculated that this city had not been French territory for long.
“Qu’avons-nous ici?”—What do we have here?—called the officer with the largest hat and the most gold braid on his uniform, looking down upon the assembled Touchstones from the terrace at the top of the steps. Lieutenant Desjardins stepped smartly up, saluted, and began a lengthy disquisition in rapid French.
“What is he on about?” Lady Corey muttered.
“I cannot quite make it all out,” Arabella replied in a similar undertone, “but he is describing the circumstances under which we were captured. Something about ‘zone interdite’—a prohibited zone?” She continued to listen, then snorted. “To hear him tell it, we put up rather a fight.”
“By French standards,” Fox murmured, “we did.”
“Silence,” snapped one of the guards—the meaning of the French word being clear even to Fox—and they obeyed.
At the end of Desjardins’s report, the Army officer turned away and conferred with his two compatriots. But the discussion soon turned argumentative, and voices were raised—to such an extent that Arabella was able to discern the point of contention. “There seems to be some dispute over where to send us,” she whispered to Fox and Lady Corey. “The one on the left is saying, I think, that more men are required to work in the ship-yard. But the one on the right says we should instead be sent to, to…” Then she heard a word which made her breath catch in her throat. “… to Thuguguruk!”
“That name seems familiar,” muttered Fox.
“It is where Captain Singh is being held!” Then she shushed him, so as to pay closer attention to the argument as it progressed.
The discussion, though heated, did not last much longer; the commander snapped an order and both of his lieutenants straightened, saluted, and shut their mouths. He then paced for a moment on the terrace, stroking his chin, and finally nodded to the officer on the left … the one who wished the prisoners to be sent to the ship-yard. As that officer smiled triumphantly and the other frowned, the commander turned to the assembled Touchstones and raised a finger, preparatory to making an announcement.
“Excusez-moi!” called Arabella, interrupting him before he could speak.
All eyes turned to her, and she was nearly as shocked as they by her outburst. The two French Navy officers closest to her raised their pistols, but at a glance and a gesture from the commander they relaxed their guard … though only slightly.
The commander waved her forward, and she stepped hesitantly to the foot of the steps—accompanied by one of the French officers. Even as she walked, a plan began to formulate itself in her mind.
“Oui, mademoiselle?” the commander said, his expression more amused than annoyed.
“Madame,” she corrected, lifting her chin.
From behind her came a choked sound of surprise—most likely from Lady Corey, but it might have been Fox. She strove to put it out of her mind.
The commander bowed. “Veuillez m’excuser, madame. Qu’est-ce que vous avez à dire?” What do you have to say?
She paused a moment, struggling to recall her verbs. “Mon mari est prisonnier de vous, à Thuguguruk, et je veux rester avec lui.” My husband is a prisoner of yours, at Thuguguruk, and I wish to stay with him. Or should that have been de la vôtre?
In either case, apparently she had gotten her point across. “Et quel est le nom de votre mari?”
Arabella straightened. “My husband is Captain Prakash Singh, of the Honorable Mars Company airship Diana.” She did not realize until the complete utterance had escaped her lips that she had spoken in English.
At that name the commander’s lip quirked in wry amusement. “Ah, yes,” he replied, also in English. “The musulman. I know him well. He has been a, how you say, a thorn in my commandant’s side.” He held up a finger. “A very polite thorn to be sure, but a thorn nonetheless. And because of his thorny nature, I am afraid he and his crew are no longer at Thuguguruk.”
At that statement, and the expression of cruel satisfaction on the commander’s face, Arabella’s heart shrank to a cold hard cinder.
“They have been transferred to Marieville,” the commander continued—the unfamiliar name being pronounced in the French fashion, Ma-rhee-vee—“to labor on the plantation de fer!”
Arabella must have misheard that last phrase; it made no sense. Surely, even on Venus, iron did not grow on a plantation like a khoresh-tree?
“And because I am disinclined to break up a happy family,” the commander went on, “and as there is always need for more laborers there, it is to Marieville that I shall send you and your shipmates, to toil for the duration of your captivity with your thorny husband and his crew. You will depart immediately.” He called out commands in French, and the officers began herding the Touchstones away.
“And what of our possessions?” Arabella asked, suddenly petrified. “Are we to return to our ship for them, or will they be sent after us?”
The commander arched an eyebrow. “You have no possessions, madame, and no ship. Your former vessel, and all her contents, is now the property of His Imperial Majesty Napoleon the First, By the Grace of God and the Constitutions of the Empire, Emperor of the French. You may retain your clothing and any belongings you happen to have on your person.” He clicked his heels together and bowed in the Continental fashion. “Your servant, madame.”
Plainly she had been dismissed, and with a brusque gesture her guard directed her to return to where the officers and Lady Corey stood. But before she turned to go, she could not fail to see that both of the commander’s two lieutenants were looking at her with venomous expressions.
And when she did turn, she saw the same expressions on the faces of Fox, Liddon, and all the other Touchstones.
* * *
Arabella trudged along, fanning herself with her hand, the mud squelching beneath her feet on every step. She was very glad of her sturdy Martian-made half-boots, but her fan and every thing else remained in the ship—now property of Napoleon.
She paused, wiped her dripping brow with her hand, and looked up. The Sun—merely the brightest spot in the bright and roiling clouds—stood di
rectly overhead, and seemed to have done so for ever, even though they had been marching for what certainly must have been hours and hours already. She hurried her step to catch up to Fox and Lady Corey.
“May I inquire the time?” she said to Fox, who had retained his pocket-watch.
Fox drew the timepiece from his waistcoat pocket. “Half past nine in the evening.” He wound the watch as he continued in his plodding pace. “That is, of course, ship’s time; local time appears to be a bit before noon. We were not, sadly, offered the opportunity to co-ordinate our chronometers before landing. I shall add this offense to my litany of complaints to address with Napoleon when we meet.”
Arabella considered this information. No wonder she felt so very weary. “Why then have you not changed your watch to match the Sun?”
Fox shrugged. “It would not remain so for long. It is of Martian make, built for a day of twenty-four hours and forty minutes. Venus’s day is twenty-eight hours and ten minutes.” He contemplated the timepiece for a bit, then slipped it back into his pocket. “I do not imagine I will have the opportunity to obtain a local watch any time soon.”
Lady Corey spoke up. “As it is so late in the day for us, do you suppose our captors will permit us to stop and rest soon?”
In answer Fox only looked at the French guards, who strode resolutely forward like men entirely habituated to long marching. Even the Venusians in their number, looking absurdly like taxidermy frogs dressed up in French Army uniforms, stepped along at the same pace. Though their broad webbed feet and the odd construction of their knee joints made their stride rather ridiculous, their bayoneted rifles were held in firm readiness.
“I see,” said Lady Corey.
They fell into exhausted silence then, and plodded along together for a time. The damp and cloying air was redolent with strange smells—some exotic as cinnamon, others common as manure, and many unfamiliar and disturbing. The same air carried the sounds of the Touchstones’ squelching feet—the men were being marched along in lock-step by their guards, while the officers and passengers were permitted to walk at their own pace so long as they did not fall too far behind—and occasional wailing animal cries from the dripping ferns to either side of the path. The mud, Arabella noted with disgust, had soiled her dress to the knee despite her best efforts.
Lady Corey cleared her throat demurely, and indicated with her eyes that she wished private conversation with Arabella. The two of them moved away from Fox, who took no apparent notice of their departure.
“So,” said Lady Corey, “Mrs. Singh … when, exactly, were you planning to share the happy news of your nuptials with me?”
Arabella had not known that it would be possible to become more miserable than she already was. Her announcement had, of course, been a lie—an impulsive, spur-of-the-moment creation driven by her burning desire to be reunited with her captain—yet she dared not admit this even to those closest to her, for fear that this intelligence might make its way to the French. “I must apologize for my … my dissimulation,” she stammered. “I knew that you would not approve.”
“Indeed I do not.” She sighed. “But what is done is done, and despite my reservations I do wish you joy.”
“I thank you for that,” Arabella said, and in that she was entirely sincere.
“Tell me about the wedding.”
“It was … it was a private affair, obviously.” Arabella’s mind whirled. She had attended but two weddings in her life, one in Fort Augusta and one in England, and she racked her brain for telling details. “Only the captain and myself, and the, the sheriff.” She knew from reading novels that a justice of the peace could perform weddings, but as to her knowledge no such office existed on Mars she imagined that the local sheriff might perform a similar function.
Lady Corey blinked. “I had no idea a sheriff could perform weddings. Still, I suppose Parson Keene, being so close to your brother, was out of the question.”
“Indeed,” Arabella breathed with relief.
“But who were your witnesses?”
“Well, Michael, of course, and—”
“So your brother was in on the secret?”
Arabella clapped her hand across her mouth before it could emit any other contradictions, thinking as rapidly as she could. “Yes, er, I, yes, naturally he was. I could not keep such important news from the one closest to me. But, but, Parson Keene, he is such a gossip, you know … if we had involved him, every one would have known before next Sunday.”
“To be sure,” Lady Corey said, but her eyes showed she had noted the discrepancy. “I am certain it was a lovely ceremony.”
“Well, it was very rushed, to be sure. We were forced to use the … the number two drying-shed, though the decorations, the, er, the flowers, they…”
“My dear Mrs. Singh,” Lady Corey sighed, interrupting. “The first thing you must learn about prevarication is to reduce detail to an absolute minimum.”
This advice brought Arabella to a standstill. “I … I must apologize, Lady Corey…”
Lady Corey took Arabella’s hand. “Come along, dear girl,” she said, tugging her forward. “Those horrible frogs are staring.” Moving like a worn and creaking automaton, Arabella resumed her trudging progress. “Equivocation is, sadly, one of the womanly arts, and one in which I can see you require considerable instruction.” She looked upward at the Sun, still hidden behind Venus’s perpetual cloud and still nearly at the zenith. “Fortunately, or unfortunately as the case may be, it seems that we have many hours yet for me to provide appropriate tutelage.…”
In some ways Arabella was grateful. Lady Corey’s advice—be brief, remain as close to the truth as possible, and be genuinely apologetic whenever it is advantageous—was useful, and she could see that it would help her to keep her secret safe from the other captives as well as the French. Furthermore, the lessons served to distract Arabella’s mind from her increasing weariness and the growing pain in her blistering feet. She suspected they did the same for Lady Corey, who despite her greater age and weight seemed to be bearing up well under the burdens of the march.
But still, all in all, being lectured by a baroness on how to lie, while trudging through the mud beneath the sweltering sun of Venus, was not how she would have wished to spend her day if she had been given the choice.
* * *
Eventually, though the Sun still stood high in the sky, so many of the weary Touchstones were unable to proceed that the French were forced to call a halt to the march. Arabella collapsed upon a low shrub and, despite the day’s light and heat, immediately fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
She was awoken, far too soon, by a prod in the shoulder by a French rifle-butt, accompanied by the brusque offer of a tin cup of water. She roused herself and gulped it desperately. The bright patch in the sky was still well above the horizon, and as the prisoners were chivvied into motion she realized that they would be walking directly toward it. The entire back and one side of her dress were ruined, caked with mud and filth.
Though dimmed by the ever-present clouds, the Sun’s light hurt her aching eyes and his heat made her face, indeed her entire front, feel as though she were sitting too close to the fire. But that direction, she knew now, was west.
She would need to learn much in order to escape. She vowed to hold this information in her mind.
Grimly, she placed one foot in front of the other.
* * *
In the late afternoon, as measured by the Sun, a thunderous storm of rain blew up, soaking every one and every thing to the skin. The guards, seemingly accustomed to this meteorological phenomenon, did not even slacken their stride, and the prisoners were forced to do likewise.
The rain brought with it no freshness, only an increase in the steamy wetness of the air, and rather than washing the mud from Arabella’s dress it merely distributed it more widely, changing the white silk to a clinging gray. Miserably she marched forward, head down against the pounding rain and arms crossed to retain what lit
tle modesty the sodden, near-transparent silk allowed.
So disconsolate was she that she did not even notice that Fox had approached her until his jacket was gently placed on her shoulders. “Oh, please sir,” she protested, “I cannot accept this.”
“The loan of a jacket is little hardship,” Fox replied mildly. “I retain my shirt, waistcoat, trousers, and much else besides. Truly, the vast difference in the quantity of fabric allocated to fashionable men and women is inexplicable.”
At this Arabella, despite the dreadful situation, found a smile drifting onto her face. And the jacket, its collar turned up, did serve to protect her from the pummeling raindrops and the leering eyes of the French guards. “In that case, I thank you, sir.”
“Please do take care not to let any thing fall from the pockets.”
“I shall endeavor to comply.”
They slogged along together through the downpour for a little while, until Fox said, “I have been meaning to speak with you for some time upon a certain matter.”
Despite the miserable heat, Arabella felt a chill. “What matter might that be, sir?”
“The matter of our wager.” At once Arabella looked to Lady Corey, but though she walked not very far away from them, the clattering of the rain upon the ground and leaves would certainly prevent her from overhearing the conversation. “It cannot have escaped your notice that we are, in fact, upon the planet Venus.”
“This is indisputable.”
“And the date”—he sighed theatrically—“is, alas, several days sooner than the arrival date projected by my original course.”
“Eight days,” Arabella teased. “Perhaps even nine, depending on the exact hour of our landing.”
Arabella and the Battle of Venus Page 14