Arabella of Mars(86)
“Come away from the door, child,” came the first voice. “It’s not safe here.”
She turned away from the door and the three burly young men still barricading it. A lean old man, with wild white hair and an old-fashioned hunting jacket, stood beckoning with his left hand, a rifle clutched in his right. The butts of two pistols protruded from his pockets.
It was, she realized belatedly, Lord Corey, the owner of the house … though a much aged and diminished version of the jolly neighbor she’d left behind when her mother had taken her to Earth.
*
“Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Corey,” Arabella said, and dropped a curtsey. They had retreated from the door, with its continued thuds and clatters, to the drawing-room, a high and echoing chamber nearly unchanged from Arabella’s memories except that it was now crowded with people and stacked high with crates and boxes. Apart from Lord and Lady Corey, their servants, and her family solicitor Mr. Trombley, she recognized none of the company. Where was her brother?
Lord Corey presented to the captain and Arabella the several dozen refugees who had retreated to his manor from the flames of Fort Augusta; Arabella presented the captain to Lord Corey. The refugees, as it turned out, were mostly people of Lord Corey’s elevated social stratum, which explained their unfamiliarity to Arabella, and the contrast between their fine clothes and refined accents and their current straitened circumstances was sharp. But though under other circumstances Arabella would have been honored to make their acquaintance, between introductions her eyes kept darting about, still seeking Michael.
Many of the refugees had not left the house in a week or more, and they bombarded Arabella with questions. What was the situation beyond the gates? Had she any news of their relatives, their homes, their servants? And how had she, a lone girl with nothing but a heathen foreigner for company, managed to make her way through that mob of savages unharmed?
Arabella pushed down her ire at that last remark, and responded as politely as she could. “Captain Singh is a highly respected airship captain, ma’am, and we were under the protection of one of the Martian akhmoks, or generals.”
“And how did you obtain this protection?” begged the lady in question, raising her lorgnette and pressing forward eagerly. All other eyes also turned with desperate longing to this girl who had somehow obtained special sanction from the same Martians who had driven them from their homes.
“The akhmok in question had been my itkhalya.”
“Surely you must be mistaken,” said one of the men. “All itkhalyas are female.”
“I believe it is you who are mistaken, sir,” she replied, and though she felt a degree of heat entering her words she did not care to reduce it. “Among Martians it is the female of the species who is larger, more robust, and has the thicker carapace; it is only English sensitivities that restrict them to the positions of cook and nanny when we engage them as servants. Have you not noticed that by far the majority of the warriors besieging you here are female? My itkhalya was a prominent strategist among her people even before she became an akhmok, and she taught me of strategy and tactics along with all other aspects of Martian culture and history. I assure you that she is entirely suited by both temperament and training, as well as the physical characteristics of her sex, to the position.”
She found herself breathing heavily, glaring at the circle of distressed and indignant eyes that surrounded her. Most prominent among these were Lord Corey’s. “My dear Miss Ashby,” he said, “I believe you must be overtired after your long and difficult voyage. Please allow my wife to convey you to a private room, where you can rest … and reconsider your words.”
Just as she was about to snap a reply to Lord Corey’s condescension, she noted the captain’s face. His head was tilted slightly toward her, one eyebrow raised, the corners of his mouth turned down.… It was an expression she’d learned to recognize as preceding a rebuke. And the captain’s rebukes were never, ever unearned.
She took a deep breath, considered her response, and then let it out again with a deep sigh. “You are correct, of course, Lord Corey. These last few days have been extremely taxing, and I … I apologize for my outburst. I thank you again for your hospitality.” The captain, she saw, was not displeased by her expression of regret. “However, I must decline your offer of a place to rest until I have spoken with my brother.”
The glance that Lord Corey exchanged with his wife brought a chill to Arabella’s heart.
“Where is he?” she demanded.
“My dear Miss Ashby,” Lord Corey said, “I regret to inform you that your brother was seriously injured while fleeing from his home after the attack there. One of the other members of your household carried him the last mile, saving his life. However…” His gaze lowered. “Unfortunately, he lost consciousness shortly after arriving here, and has not yet woken.”
Arabella felt as though the floor had dropped away, leaving her in a state of free descent.
“We have not lost hope,” Lord Corey said. “But we fear the worst.”
22
SIMON
Michael’s face was pale and running with sweat, and his forehead burned with fever. From time to time he moaned and thrashed beneath the thin coverlet, but to Arabella’s expressions of love and hope he made no conscious reply.