To that Fox only glared, beneath dripping eyebrows. “In any event, it is clear that I owe you a certificate attesting to your navigational ability, and a prize huresh from my stables. May I beg your indulgence, under the circumstances, to delay payment until we return to Mars?”
“Of course, sir.” Again she smiled, though the uncertainty of that date was troublesome.
“Thank you, madam.” He fell silent for a moment, and his streaming face was contemplative. “I suppose it is best, after all, that you won our bet. For a gentleman to share a private dinner with a married woman, let alone a kiss, would be too unseemly for even a despicable privateer such as myself.”
At that Arabella laughed aloud, though her feelings at that moment were, in fact, extremely mixed. “And to do so with a woman engaged to be married would be acceptable?”
“Marriage is a state of being, madam, but an engagement is merely a statement of intention … and intentions can change.”
“La, sir, you are more of a rogue than I had thought.” But Arabella had to admit that she found herself flattered … and the tension between her pretended status and the reality was suddenly very palpable.
Eventually the downpour ended, as suddenly as it had begun, and Fox took his saturated coat back. And though its sodden weight was quite uncomfortable in the steaming heat that followed the rain, for reasons she could not quite articulate Arabella found herself somewhat bereft at its loss.
* * *
The rain having ceased, Arabella looked around at the steaming landscape. The plant life had changed while she had been slogging though the downpour; giant ferns had been replaced by squat, thick-bellied trees, more like English oaks than the towering spars of Martian khoresh-trees. The land, too, had risen, and—as her weary legs informed her—continued to rise gently, the mud through which they had trudged for the first part of their journey giving way to stony soil. This was a relief, though the stones greatly pained Lady Corey’s slipper-shod feet.
And then they came to a clearing, and the view changed dramatically.
Arabella paused, looking out over a valley shrouded in mist. They had, apparently, reached the peak of a low rise, and the ground descended away from them to the west. Across the valley, a substantial manor house—white-painted wood with a green brick foundation—looked down over the thick forest that filled the valley floor. But where the mist drifted, it was clear that the forest was heavily scarred with areas of bare earth—long narrow rectangles devoid of trees or any other plant life—and from many of these rose threads of smoke. And at the far end, the lower end, of the valley, stood an enormous pyramidal structure of green brick, from the top of which four large smokestacks belched black smoke which rose to mingle with the lowering clouds above.
The smell of all that smoke was strong and pervasive; if not for the rain, they would certainly have been smelling it for the last several miles of walking. And, Arabella realized, it was familiar; it was the smell of charcoal, to which she had become inured during Diana’s stay on the asteroid Paeonia. Yet there was another note to it as well—a metallic tang which brought to mind the taste of blood after biting one’s cheek.
Iron.
“Madame,” said one of the French guards, breaking into her reverie with the minimum of politeness, “il faut que vous avancez.” Indeed, all the other Touchstones, the officers and Lady Corey as well as the men, had continued their trudging progress down the path while she had stood staring at the prospect before her. Only she and this one guard remained in the clearing.
For a moment she considered an attempt at escape. But the guard held his rifle at the ready, and she … she had nothing but the trivial contents of her reticule, her blistered feet, and her weary brain against unknown miles of French-controlled Venusian territory. She had not even the slightest idea in which direction freedom might lie; indeed, whether the prospect of freedom existed any where on this entire planet.
With a sense of exhausted resignation she inclined her head and plodded forward. The guard fell into step behind her.
“S’il vous plaît,” she asked the guard as they walked, “qu’est-ce que c’est là-bas?” What is that down there?
“C’est la plantation de fer,” the guard replied.
12
MARIEVILLE
At the end of the path—the increasingly well-worn path, which became a rutted road of packed earth before it ended—they found a stockade, a high wall of split logs, with a gate wide enough to admit a heavily laden cart. This gate opened to the call of their guards, the leader of whom went inside, leaving the Touchstones sweltering in the clearing outside the wall.
“Oh, I do hope that we will be able to rest soon,” Lady Corey said, hands pressed to the small of her back. “What time might it be? Ship’s time, I mean? It must be horribly late.” Arabella, rubbing her perspiring feet one at a time, shared that sentiment. For, though the bright patch of clouds that represented the Sun still stood well above the western horizon, her body was more bone-tired than even a long day’s slog through heat, damp, mud, and rain could account for.
“Four in the morning,” Fox replied, nearly dropping his watch before managing to return it to his waistcoat pocket. Arabella shook her head and wiped her brow; whatever the hour, the air was hotter than the most sultry English mid-day.
The officer of their guards returned from inside the wall, accompanied by another French officer with still more braid on his shoulders and a more resplendent hat. This other officer was followed by a phalanx of fresh troops, comprising more Venusians than Frenchmen, who surrounded Touchstone’s airmen with brisk efficiency and marched them away. Gowse, Mills, and all the rest trudged through the gate without the energy even to look back. Arabella could only hope that she would see them again.
The Touchstones were followed by their previous guards, who would presumably receive rest and food within. But a few of the new guards remained behind, and led by their commander, they came over to where Fox, Arabella, Lady Corey, and the officers were standing. “Permit me to introduce myself,” the commander said to Fox in accented English. “Capitaine Lefevre, commandant of Marieville.” With a grand gesture he indicated the stockade behind him.
“Captain Fox, master and commander of the privateer Touchstone out of Sor Khoresh. Where have you taken my people?”
“To the barracks, where they will be fed and allowed to rest before beginning work to-morrow morning. We are not monsters, monsieur. As for yourself and your officers, you will naturally be permitted the liberty of our little town … provided that you make no attempt to escape or to hinder our operations in any way.”
“We are gentlemen, sir,” huffed Fox, stiffening. “We gave our parole when captured, as a matter of course. A man’s parole is his word, and for an English gentleman to break his word is unthinkable.”
“Thank you,” replied Lefevre with a nod, and instructed his men to convey the Anglais to their logements.
“Brave heart, madam,” Fox muttered to Arabella as he was led away.
Lefevre then turned to Lady Corey. “As for you and your…?” He tilted his head, indicating Arabella.
“I am the Right Honorable Lady Corey, and this is my companion Mi—Mrs. Singh.” Suddenly Arabella realized that, as a supposedly married woman, she no longer required—nor, indeed, could she depend upon—the protection of a chaperone. Even after the many sorrows of this extremely distressing day, this loss struck her with an unexpectedly poignant sting.
“Enchanté,” Lefevre said with a bow. “The two of you will be housed in the manoir along with myself and my officers. Our accommodations are, necessarily, rather spare, but we will do what we can to make you comfortable.”
“If you please, sir…” Arabella said, then paused, not quite certain how to continue. She pressed ahead regardless. “My, my husband is Captain Prakash Singh of the Mars Company airship Diana. I am given to understand that he is imprisoned here.”
“Ah yes, le capitaine Singh.” Lefevre sighe
d dramatically. “As he is an officer, he is not, of course, imprisoned. Though this may not always be the case.… His actions on behalf of his men have often skirted the very limits of his parole.”
At this reminder of her captain’s assiduous dedication to Diana’s people, Arabella’s heart swelled painfully with love and longing. “If I may, sir, I wish to be … to be housed with him.”
“Of course, madame. I believe he has his lodgings at the Auberge Gugnawunna, along with some of the other officers of his ship, and I will have you conveyed thence.” He turned to Lady Corey. “And yourself, my lady? You would be most welcome at the manoir. We have been deprived of feminine company for time beyond measure.”
The prospect of being the only human woman in a house full of Frenchmen and Venusians clearly distressed Lady Corey, but she smiled and nodded her assent. “It would be my pleasure.”
Lefevre turned his attention to his men, and Arabella took the opportunity to whisper to Lady Corey, “I am certain you would be welcome in the officers’ lodgings.”
“It would be beneath my station, my dear. And the opportunity to observe these frog-eaters at close quarters must not, alas, be lightly dismissed.”
The moment passed, and Lefevre bowed and clicked his heels. “Madame Singh, my officers will conduct you to your husband. Lady Corey, may I accompany you to the manoir?” He held out an elbow.
“I would be honored,” Lady Corey replied. She kept her voice pleasant, but her expression of sheer loathing—invisible to Lefevre and the other Frenchmen behind her—nearly made Arabella laugh aloud. Lady Corey smirked at Arabella’s reaction; then her mien turned serious. “I have done all I can to prepare you,” she said, taking Arabella’s hands. “But from now on you will be on your own. Keep your wits about you, trust your instincts, and above all be polite to every one you meet.”
Arabella’s eyes stung with tears. “Will we see each other again?”
“In Heaven, if not before.” Unexpectedly she leaned in and embraced Arabella—her bosom warm and soft, her fleshy arms unexpectedly strong. “Do be careful, Miss Ashby,” she whispered in Arabella’s ear. Then, with one final squeeze, she released her, took the Frenchman’s arm, and departed with as much grace as she could muster—which was, Arabella realized, considerable, especially under the circumstances.
Watching the great lady sweep through the gate, Arabella felt herself a deflating balloon, with Lady Corey taking the very last of her air with her. Suddenly the lateness of the hour—four in the morning, had Fox said?—and the full weight of an exceptionally long day spent tramping through heat, mud, and rain in unaccustomed gravity came crashing down upon her shoulders. It was all she could do to remain upright as two unsmiling French officers ushered her through the gate.
* * *
Within the stockade Arabella found what appeared to be a bustling small town. Buildings of one or two storeys, roughly and apparently hastily constructed of peeled logs, stood shoulder to shoulder, and in the streets between them men, Venusians, and animals moved with a brusque, industrious attitude. The animals—squealing things smaller than horses, supported on rubbery tentacles rather than legs and having a glistening hide like wet black leather—pulled single-wheeled carts loaded with lumber or charcoal, goaded on by Venusians with iron prods. The Venusians took no apparent notice of Arabella, while many of the humans—ragged and filthy men, supervised by a few uniformed French soldiers—stared openly. No doubt she was the first human woman they had seen since arriving in this desolate place.
The stench of the town was oppressive. The streets reeked of mud, the swampy muck of the Venusian animals, and slops from the workers’ meals; the air, dark with smoke, carried the same metallic tang she had detected earlier, only far stronger. Arabella held a handkerchief to her nose, but as the smells were so pervasive she feared she would have no alternative but to become habituated to them. However, as the heat and gravity were still as oppressive to her now as they had been when she landed, that habituation seemed unlikely.
Finally her guards brought her to a two-storey building which bore a sign above the door in tadpole-like curves which she took for Venusian writing; below this, in smaller letters: AUBERGE GUGNAWUNNA. Her guards conveyed her within—the doorway was covered by a rubbery leather flap rather than a proper door—and, with a curt salute, departed.
Weary to her bones, blinking in the sudden dimness, Arabella stood swaying on her feet. The room held nothing but a few chairs and tables; doorways led to other rooms. “Hello?” she called.
A Venusian, wearing a cutaway coat of Continental style, ludicrously ill-fitting to his inhuman form, emerged from one of the doorways. Upon seeing her, he bowed low. “Bon après-midi, mademoiselle,” he croaked. “Permettez-moi de me présenter; je m’appelle Gugnawunna, l’humble hôte de cette auberge modeste.” I am Gugnawunna, the humble host of this modest inn.
So exhausted was Arabella that the ridiculous sight of a man-sized frog speaking elevated French drove her nearly to tears of despair rather than laughter. “S’il vous plaît, monsieur, parlez-vous anglais?”
“Certainement pas!” he huffed, plainly offended by the very suggestion that he might speak English.
Arabella sighed and racked her weary brain for some usable scraps of French. “Je cherche mon mari,” she managed somehow, “le capitaine Singh.”
“Bien sûr, madame,” the Venusian replied, correcting her marital status without a blink of his large, shining eyes. “Il réside certainement ici, mais il n’est pas présent au moment. Souhaitez-vous vous asseoir?” She didn’t understand all of that, but “not present at the moment” was clear, as were the words “seat yourself.”
“Merci, monsieur,” she assented with unfeigned gratitude, and sank into one of the chairs. It was hard and low and rather crude and splintery, but still a great relief. “Avez-vous…” She could not for the life of her recall the French for “something cool to drink,” so she mimed drinking.
“Quelque chose à boire? Naturellement, madame! Nous avons une jolie kulawagagna. Très rafraîchissant.”
She had no idea what a “jolly kulawagagna” might be, but if it was “very refreshing” she was more than willing to try it. “Merci, monsieur.”
The Venusian did not move. “Ce sera cinq sous, s’il vous plaît.” Five sous. A sou was a French coin, a small one, though she had no idea of its relative value.
“Je n’ai pas … pas d’argent vénusienne, monsieur.” She fumbled in her reticule. “J’ai d’argent anglais…” Though, in truth, she had very little in the way of English spending money either. What she did have was a letter of note for five hundred pounds sterling drawn on the Bank of Fort Augusta, but that would do her no good for small transactions, and she feared it might not be negotiable at all in the French-controlled areas of Venus.
The Venusian’s wide mouth drew even wider, an inhuman expression but certainly not one of approval. “Nous ne pourrions jamais accepter une telle chose ici!” In addition to his harsh tone of voice, the words “never accept” were unmistakable.
“Je m’excuse, monsieur…”
“Vous pouvez néanmoins attendre ici,” he sniffed—the last two words meant “wait here”—then without another word he turned and withdrew to the back room from which he had emerged.
Hot, heavy, thirsty, weary, exhausted, alone, and desolate, Arabella put her head in her hands and cried.
* * *
An unknown time later Arabella’s misery was interrupted by the sound of the door flap, along with footsteps and a momentary decrease in the dimness of the room. The footsteps stopped suddenly, accompanied by the sound of an indrawn breath.
“Miss … Miss Ashby?”
Even as she raised her tear-streaked face she knew what she would see, for that voice, even after so many months of separation, was as familiar and beloved to her as her own: it was that of her fiancé, her beloved, her captain.
But the man she beheld was not what she expected. Instead, she saw a di
stressing apparition, like a figure of Death from some medieval manuscript—little more than dark skin stretched over long bones. Deep hollows lay beneath his eyes, and she could count every rib. He had a long, ragged beard, streaked with gray though he was only thirty-two years of age; his hair was bound up in a cloth; and he was shockingly naked, except for a sort of diaper of white cloth bound about his loins. But his eyes … they were still dark and full of intelligence, and though clearly very weary and sad there was no mistaking them.
“My dear Captain Singh,” she began, and then words fled and she rose, stumbling, to fling herself across the room and into his arms. “My dear, dear, Captain Singh,” she repeated, holding him close—feeling his collar-bone sharp against her cheek, smelling the smoke and sweat of his unwashed skin, but not caring … for finally, after all these months, she was reunited with her captain.
Then the sound of a throat being cleared made her raise her head.
Captain Singh had not been alone when he had entered. Richardson, Diana’s first mate, and Stross, her sailing-master, stood behind him. They seemed as thin and haggard as their captain, though unlike him they wore proper breeches, waistcoats, and shirts—albeit ragged and filthy—and their faces reflected a mixture of pleased surprise at Arabella’s presence and shock at her unseemly behavior.
“Pardon me,” she managed, separating herself from the captain. She noted that he had not embraced her as she had embraced him, and for this she was simultaneously impressed—by his propriety, even under these circumstances—and, she must confess, disappointed. “It was merely that I … that I have not seen my husband in so long.” As she spoke, putting a slight but significant stress on the word husband, she looked directly into Captain Singh’s face, willing him to understand.
That face, turned away from the officers behind him, displayed a rapid sequence of emotions—puzzlement, surprise, and dawning comprehension—which reassured Arabella that her love for him and trust in his intelligence were not misplaced.
Arabella and the Battle of Venus Page 15