Arabella of Mars (39 page)

Arabella, too, cast a long glance back at her brother before closing the door behind herself.

*   *   *

They found the drawing-room, when they arrived, nearly empty of both people and supplies. Only a few servants remained, rushing in and out, carrying crates and barrels away to the kitchen, and they were all too distracted to take any notice of Arabella and the increasingly anxious Simon. Even so, as they approached the spiral stair, one of the footmen paused in his work and called out, “You ought not go up there, sir and miss! It is too dangerous! Even the riflemen have been forced to retreat.”

Simon quailed at this. “Will you accompany me, Cousin?” he said, his voice tremulous.

“Of course,” she murmured reassuringly.

At the second turning of the stair they found, to Arabella's disturbed surprise, bright sunlight streaming down from above, accompanied by fresh air and the chattering sound of the Martian army. One more turning confirmed her fears: The tower's top had been shattered by the Martians' catapults, and the stair ended in a ragged edge of broken stone and mortar.

Again Simon hesitated, but this time he managed to gather his own courage. “What have I to fear?” he said, half to himself, and set his trembling feet upon the step. Arabella followed.

They reached the top and stood blinking in the sunlight, a stiff breeze plucking at their hair and clothing. The Martians below toiled like ants, already beginning to flow up the house's battered sides to the rough opening smashed into the former dining-room. Plainly they would be within the house very soon.

Suddenly Arabella noticed that Simon had stepped back from the edge. “Courage, Cousin,” Arabella said, turning to face him. But what she saw as she turned was not the hesitant expression of a man unwilling to face death, but the calm and confident leer she had last seen in Simon's dining-room in Oxford.

Along with the pistol from that same occasion.

“I am frightfully sorry, Cousin,” he said, “but I find myself unable to perform the service you have requested, and must ask you to do so in my stead. You will confess to the Martians that it was you who stole the egg, and it is you who will surrender yourself to them.”

The last time she had seen that pistol, the muzzle had seemed as big as the world. But since that time she had stared down the barrel of a French cannon, and the pistol now seemed small and ineffectual. She straightened. “I was not even on Mars when the egg was stolen.”

“The Martians do not know that.” Simon drew back the pistol's hammer. “You will confess, or you will die at this moment, and I will give them your body, saying that you were at fault all along. But they will more readily believe it, and more readily give up their campaign, if they hear your confession from your own lips. And you do desire to bring this conflict to an end, do you not?”

Arabella's eyes sought an opening, but Simon had carefully positioned himself so that she had no means of escape. “What becomes of my brother?”

“He will have to go, of course, sooner or later. Though I assure you that once the estate is mine, I will treat your mother and sisters at least as well as your side of the family ever treated me.” He pressed forward then, and perforce she took a step backwards, finding herself upon the highest remaining step. Only a great void of air lay beyond that.

She steeled herself for what she knew must be done.

“
Karaa, karaa!
” she called, waving her arms, until the Martians took notice. “This is Simon Ashby!” she cried, pointing to him.

At the name a great howling roar sprung up from the nearer Martians, quickly spreading to the rest of the crowd. Arabella had never before heard such an expression of furious wrath.

Simon's expression was equally furious. “Confess now,” he snarled, taking another step forward and thrusting the pistol toward Arabella.

This was exactly the reaction she had hoped for. As soon as Simon came within her reach, with one swift motion she seized his wrist and thrust it to the side. It went easily, for Simon was only an English dandy, whereas Arabella's arms bore the strength given them by months of honest sailor's work.

Simon shrieked and pulled the trigger, but though the shot rang in Arabella's ear and the sudden sharp scent of gunpowder stained the air, neither was anywhere near as powerful as
Diana
's cannon. The ball flew harmlessly into the air, while Arabella squeezed Simon's wrist until the pistol dropped from his hand. It bounced once on the broken step's edge, then fell spinning to the rocks below.

Simon twisted his wrist from Arabella's grasp and took a step back, glaring at her. Arabella gestured to the ravening Martians below, chattering and waving their forked spears—an enormous mob of them, seeming to stretch all the way to the horizon. “It is you who brought them all here,” she said, “and only you can prevent them from killing every last Englishman on Mars. Here is your chance, Cousin. Do the honorable thing, for once in your miserable life.”

In answer Simon growled and charged at her, seeking to force her over the edge. But at the last moment she sidestepped and twisted away from his thrust, just as Khema had taught her, and he sailed past her.

Past her and over the edge, his eyes shining with hatred all the while.

A moment later he landed among the Martians.

Arabella turned away from the scene, but the horrible crunching sounds would stay with her until her dying day.

 

25

MICHAEL

The captain and Mr. Trombley met her at the base of the spiral stair. “The footman said that you and Mr. Ashby had gone up to the tower!” Trombley cried. “Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?” He blinked, looking past her to the darkness of the stair. “And … and where is Mr. Ashby?”

The captain's eyes were firm and cool, expressing only an intellectual inquiry, as though he were merely curious as to the fate of some large and exotic insect that had happened to land upon her shoulder.

As for herself, though Arabella's emotions were all in a roil—her heart pounding rapidly, her breath shallow, her hands chill—she found her voice firm and steady as she replied. “Mr. Ashby has given himself to the Martians.”

“Dear Lord!” cried Trombley.

“I had wondered at the sound,” the captain said. And, indeed, after Simon's death the Martians had cried out in triumph, then fallen silent.

Arabella closed her eyes, but nothing could shut away the memory of Simon's fate. “Somehow … somehow he found the courage to redeem himself,” she said, knowing that every one still considered him a hero and not wishing to argue the point at this moment. “I only pray that his sacrifice will bring an end to the insurrection.”

“Oh dear,” said Trombley, mopping his brow. “Oh dear me. What horrible news. Horrible, horrible. I … I extend my deepest condolences upon the loss of your cousin.” He bowed. “Shall I summon a servant to bring you a glass of water?”

“No thank you, sir.” She curtseyed, the action coming automatically despite her inner tumult. “I thank you for your concern, but I am certain the servants are all occupied in preparing the defense of the kitchen.”

“Of course, of course, how stupid of me.” He bowed again, quite unnecessarily. “I shall bring you some water myself.” He bowed again and retreated rapidly, his own emotions obviously in a state of considerable distress.

As soon as he had departed, she collapsed. But before she could land in a heap upon the stone floor, the captain's strong arms were beneath her shoulders. Without a word he helped her upright, holding her up until, with a gesture, she indicated that she could once again maintain her own feet. Yet despite the turmoil in her heart and the feverish tremor in her limbs, her eyes remained dry.

Still without a word, the captain led her to a nearby sofa. After she had seated herself he sat silently beside her, hands chastely folded in his lap, waiting patiently for her to collect herself.

At last she drew in a shuddering breath, then let it out all in a rush. “Thank you for your understanding,” she said, her voice shaky. “If that prattling fool had kept up his jabber for one moment more…”

“Do not concern yourself with him,” he said.

Arabella, realizing that she was on the verge of babbling herself, quieted her tongue.

After another stretch of silence, during which Arabella's racing heart steadied and slowed, the captain spoke again. “Did Mr. Ashby truly give himself voluntarily? Without coercion or … assistance?”

Not for the first time, Arabella wondered at his seemingly superhuman ability to perceive the truth of any situation. “Not … entirely.” She looked up, dreading the captain's judgement. “He rushed at me, I evaded his charge, and he … he went over the edge. But I did not push him. I swear this to you.”

His gaze was clear and steady and untroubled. “I could not imagine otherwise,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” she replied with deep sincerity. “But you must not share the details of his fate with the others. Not yet.”

“Of course not. It would destroy morale.”

She frowned then, and added, “We must make some provision for his family. Though Beatrice assisted Simon in imprisoning me, I believe she was compelled to do so, and her daughter Sophie is an innocent undeserving of punishment for her father's misdeeds.”

“You have a most generous spirit, Miss Ashby.”

At that moment Mr. Trombley reappeared, though without the promised glass of water. “Miss Ashby! Miss Ashby!” he cried. “The Martians are at the gate, demanding to speak to you! And Michael has regained consciousness!”

Arabella looked to the captain. Her shock and indecision must have been plain upon her countenance, for he straightened and in a firm yet compassionate voice said, “You must tend to your brother. Go. I will treat with the Martians to the best of my ability.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” she said, and saluted.

She did not realize until she was halfway down the hall that she had done so.

*   *   *

Michael was sitting up, drinking from a glass of water, as Arabella entered his bedchamber. “Michael!” she cried, and despite the presence of Dr. Fellowes and several others in the room she embraced him with heedless enthusiasm. A moment later she realized her mistake and drew back, fearing she might have damaged his already-injured body with an excess of zeal.

But her brother's face, though ashen and sunken of cheek, showed nothing but pleasure at the sight of her. “My dearest sister,” he said, gripping her hand. His grasp seemed terribly feeble. “My dear Arabella. How I had worried about you!”

Michael's voice was rough, hollow, and weak, but unmistakably, joyfully his own. It was a voice she'd feared so many times in the last few months that she would never hear again, and at the sound of it she was quite overcome with emotion. She sank to her knees at the bedside, still holding her brother's hand. “Words cannot express my relief at your recovery,” she managed in a hoarse whisper.

“I am, you may be sure, astonished at your presence on Mars at all,” Michael said, “never mind here at Corey Hall. The last I had heard of you was a letter from Mother, which arrived on the last packet-ship before the insurrection. She said that according to cousin Beatrice, you suddenly ran mad and vanished into the countryside. Pray tell, how came you to be here?”

For a moment she hesitated—not knowing just where to begin, nor how much of her adventure she ought to share with him in his obviously still fragile state of health. But then she recalled the verve with which he'd raced across the dunes with her and Khema, and smiled. “I did not run mad,” she said, “let me assure you. Though I was exceedingly vexed.…”

She sketched out the story quickly, knowing that the details would be filled in over many conversations to come, but despite the shocked expressions on the faces of Dr. Fellowes and Mr. Trombley, neither of whom had heard any of it before, she felt no need to either moderate or exaggerate her tale. She simply told it as it had happened. Michael's reactions were quite satisfying, ranging from gape-jawed astonishment to hearty laughter.

“Privateers?” he gasped.

“Privateers,” she repeated, and went on to describe the battle in some detail.

Just as she was describing the ship's arrival at Mars, a commotion came to Arabella's ears from the corridor outside, followed by a knock at the door. Mr. Trombley opened it, to reveal the captain.

Suddenly she recalled the continuing danger of the Martians without, which she had quite forgotten in the excitement of her brother's return to consciousness. But though she ached for news of the insurrection, the forms must be obeyed. “Michael,” she said, “please permit me to present to you Captain Prakash Singh of the Honorable Mars Company airship
Diana
. Captain Singh, my brother, Michael Ashby.”

The two men shook hands with great propriety. “I have heard so much about you, Captain,” Michael said. “I thank you for taking my sister on in your crew, though I must apologize for her deception as to her sex.”

“No apology is required,” the captain replied with a bow. “Her position was earned, and well-earned, with intelligence, skill, and bravery.”

“Please, sir,” Arabella interrupted, bursting with anxious curiosity, “what of the Martians?”

He paused. “Your, ah, Miss Khema, is in the entry-way, being too large to pass through the inner door. She says that the council of clans has met and, having heard and considered her entreaties upon our behalf, has decided to accept your cousin's death as sufficient recompense for the egg's abduction.”

At the words “your cousin's death,” Michael's face showed shock and sadness. “My cousin Mr. Ashby? He who saved my life in the fighting at Woodthrush Woods?”

“I am afraid so, sir. It was he who took the egg, which triggered the insurrection, and it was his confession and death which brought it to an end.”