Arabella of Mars(77)

Despite the vast conspicuous bulk of Diana floating above, despite the creak of the capstans and the plainly audible chanting of the men … no one was hurrying from the manor house to greet them. “Captain…,” she began, but he cut her off with a gesture, barking commands to Richardson as he strode the quarterdeck.

Stross stepped to the rail next to Arabella. “Where are they?” he muttered to her, gesturing with his chin to the manor house.

“I do not know,” she responded. “They should certainly be coming out by now, out of curiosity if nothing else.”

Stross turned from her to address the captain. “I don’t like the look of the situation, sir.”

The captain’s eyes flicked from the balloons to the anchor-ropes to the horizon. “Understood,” he replied. Then, to Richardson, he said, “Prepare to strike envelopes.”

A moment later came a long whispering crunch as the ship’s keel settled into the sand, followed by the soft double thuds of the sand-legs touching down. “Strike envelopes!” Richardson cried, and a man at the base of each balloon pulled hard on a slim line that had been kept, up until now, made fast to a cleat.

A large circular flap opened at the top of each balloon, fluttering like a pennant in the shimmering draft of escaping hot air. Teams of chanting men shepherded the descending loops of fabric and rope into their cabinet as the balloons deflated and collapsed.

“Well, we’re well and truly landed now,” Stross said, shaking his head.

Beneath Arabella’s feet, the ship seemed to sigh as she settled deeply into the red sand beneath her keel.

Just then, a great clattering burst out from the watch-tower at the northeast corner of the manor house—a clatter like the mharesh call with which Martians greeted the dawn, but harsher and more strident.

A moment later the clatter was joined by other sounds: the harsh rustle of Martian voices, the susurration of feet on sand, and the clash and snap of steel on armored carapaces.

A huge crowd of Martians boiled from the manor house like angry thuroks from their nest, surging to surround the helpless Diana.





19

SURROUNDED

In every direction Arabella looked, she met glaring eye-stalks, bared swords, and the wicked tines of forked spears. Hundreds of Martians, perhaps even a thousand, surrounded the ship, with more pouring out of the manor house and joining the periphery of the crowd even as she watched.

But though the Martians were fully armed, every one clad in their bright clan colors, with steel blades fixed to the joints of their carapaces and spikes on every elbow and shoulder, it was the behavior of the men aboard Diana that frightened her more. All along the gangways, and leaning aggressively over every rail, they held pistols and rifles at the ready; many gripped cutlasses and boarding axes. Belowdecks, she was sure, men she could not see were arming themselves as well.

“Captain,” she importuned, rushing to his side, “you must tell the men not to fire.”

Stross and Richardson both glared at her. “Miss Ashby,” Richardson replied, “you should retire to your cabin and leave the defense of the ship to the crew. For your own safety.” His dark and furrowed brow put the lie to his protestations of concern.

The captain’s brow, too, was drawn, but he did not speak. He simply looked to Arabella, apparently awaiting some explanation for her statement.

“Can’t you see they are not attacking?” she said.

“I can see the cowards are just waiting until they have us outnumbered twenty to one!” Stross replied with considerable heat, pointing to the Martians still streaming from the manor house.

“They are maintaining a distance of twelve korek.” She gestured to the front of the crowd, where a broad red strip of bare sand stretched between the tightly packed Martians and Diana’s hull. Each anchor, as well, was surrounded by a circular bubble strictly empty of Martians. “This is traditional upon meeting a group of strangers in time of conflict. They are awaiting a formal invitation.”

“A formal invi—!” Stross stammered, going red in the face.

Arabella turned to the captain. “Please, sir, I beg of you, do not antagonize them. Their customs and formalities are every bit as strict as ours, but a failure of etiquette in this case could result in far more than our ostracization.” Behind him, she could see the mass of Martians packing tighter and tighter, their spears held aloft and quivering with rage.

“Sir, I must protest!” said Richardson, but the captain silenced him with a gesture.

“What would you suggest we do, Miss Ashby?”

“We must invite their rukesh—their leaders—aboard, and permit them to inspect the ship. They will be quite thorough. We must also present them with gifts. Parchment and whisky are traditional.”

“Parchment!” sputtered Stross. “Sir, are you seriously considering entrusting the ship’s safety to the mad advice of this girl? What use have these savages for parchment?”

Arabella turned to him and spat, “Do you not know your history, sir? It was Captain Kidd himself, on the very first English voyage to Mars, who discovered the Martians’ fondness for it.” She returned her attention to the captain. “Any form of leather will do, sir, but parchment, well-inked and well-handled, is best. I believe there are some charts of the Venusian approach that could be spared. And the whisky should be of the very best quality.”