Arabella of Mars(91)
“We think they might be massing for an assault, though,” said the first. “You can see there, where they’re building ladders. But when and if they do attack, you can be certain we will defend the house to the last.”
“Thank you, sirs, for your service,” she said. But she observed to herself that these three men and their half dozen hunting rifles had no more chance against the thousands of Martians massed below than she herself, unaccompanied, would have had against the privateers who had nearly destroyed Diana.
Simon merely stared down at the vast insurrection that he, however unintentionally, had provoked. “How will they even hear me?” he asked Arabella.
“Their hearing is quite good. You should begin by calling ‘karaa, karaa’ to get their attention.”
“Must I speak in Martian? I do not know the language.”
“Most of them have at least a little English.”
With Arabella’s encouragement he stepped up onto a box of cartridges, raising himself into the Martians’ view, where he called out a creditable “karaa, karaa” and waved his arms. Several of the nearer Martians paused in their work and pointed at him; soon a respectable crowd had turned their eye-stalks up to him. None, she noted, loosed an arrow at him, despite his vulnerable position above the crenellated battlements. She took this as a good sign for the potential success of their negotiations.
“You have their attention,” she told Simon. “Begin by stating your name.”
“My name is Simon Ashby,” he called, and though his voice trembled slightly it carried loud and clear across the roofs and rocks. He swallowed and closed his eyes. “I am here to confess that it is I who stole the egg.”
A chuttering rattle of consternation greeted his words, though again Arabella was pleased to note that no Martian fired an arrow or even threw a rock.
Simon opened his eyes and looked to Arabella for reassurance. She smiled encouragingly and whispered, “Go on.”
“I am genuinely sorry for this … precipitate action,” he told the gathered Martians. “To demonstrate my sincerity, I reveal to you the location in which I have hidden the egg: It is buried in the sand beneath a rough outcropping of orange stone, one mile to the west of the Ashby plantation, not far from the path. The outcrop is conical in shape, and it is marked by a diagonal vein of black stone.” To Arabella he said, “Is that sufficient?”
She hoped that it was. “The egg is of utmost importance to them. They will search until they find it.”
He swallowed and turned again to the Martians. “Again, let me extend my sincerest apologies for my intemperate action. I … I did not realize the significance of the egg, and I pray that you will forgive me. And all of us.” He looked out over the Martians for a time, as though hoping for an enthusiastic response. Finding none, he simply stepped down from the box. “It is done,” he said.
“You have carried that off creditably,” Arabella replied, and not entirely out of politeness. “Now we must wait. Once they have found the egg, I expect that they will send an emissary.”
*
All the rest of that day they waited. The catapults ceased their hammering of the house, but a brief essay out the gate resulted in a rain of arrows—though the Martians were no longer attempting to destroy the house, they nonetheless insisted that the Englishmen remain within it.
During this respite from the catapults’ pounding, the captain directed the men in inspecting and repairing the house. The destruction was frightening—in several places bearing walls, some quite deep in the house, had been demolished by the stones, and sections of the roof had collapsed. Worse, the base of the tower from which they were observing and defending the house had taken serious damage.
They did what they could to shore up the damaged sections, but it was plain that even their redoubt at the back of the manor would not survive long if the Martians resumed their assault. Either the walls and tower would fall, allowing armed Martians to enter, or the house would simply be brought down on top of them.
While the captain and most of the men worked at reinforcing the house, Arabella sat with Michael in his bedchamber, spooning soup into his mouth as she had once done for the captain. But where the captain in his stupor had licked the soup off his lips when it was placed there, Michael seemed to actively fight it, spitting out soup and spoon and all as he thrashed in his fever.
“He’s growing weaker, isn’t he?” she asked Dr. Fellowes in the kitchen.
“I have seen men recover from more serious infections,” the doctor replied, but his expression was grave.
Simon, too, continued to spend time at Michael’s bedside. “I am so very sorry, my dear cousin,” he said, though Michael showed no sign of understanding. “I hope that you can somehow find it in your heart to forgive me my trespasses. If there were any thing, any thing whatsoever, I could do to atone for my errors, please rest assured that I would do so.”
Despite her deep-seated suspicions, Arabella wondered if Simon’s contrition might be more than mere pretense. She longed to denounce him as a worthless, foolish wastrel who had dissipated what little fortune he’d had, squandered what remained on a fantastical and murderous scheme to wrest the estate from Arabella’s branch of the family, and cost her brother his leg, his health, and possibly his life. But she could not condemn him, not entirely at least. For though he had begun the insurrection that had injured her brother and so many others, he had also saved her brother’s life. And now, at least, he seemed repentant, and had shown himself willing to take action, quite serious action, in an attempt to make amends.