Chapter Three

“A Hidden Friend?”

1.

the caravan began stirring before dawn, like an enormous beast coming slowly to life. Nathanial had remained awake all night watching Annabelle, and so he saw the young boys take leather water sacks to the stream before dawn, saw the cooks start their fire and then pile the flaming brands around a large glazed clay kettle. That was one of the odd things about this world: the scarcity of metal. Earth was rich in metal, so much so that Nathanial took it for granted. Here one had only to look at the daily existence of ordinary people to see how metal-poor their world was. Glazed clay cookware and plates, bone utensils, leather buckets, tools made from wood, stone, and ivory—the average Martian might go the entire day without his hand ever touching metal.

The eastern horizon glowed a faint pink, although the pre-dawn twilight was shorter than on Earth, probably due to the thinner atmosphere and smaller diameter. The twelve enormous ruumet breehr had become black silhouettes against the charcoal grey of the sky, and Nathanial heard the odd clucking sounds of the smaller mounts as they anticipated their morning feeding. The smaller animals—gashants—seemed a curious cross between birds and lizards. They stood and ran upright, reminding Nathanial of ostriches in their gait, but they were of course featherless and were powered by massive hind legs and balanced by a long spiked tail.

“Good morning, Nathanial,” Kak’hamish said softly as he emerged from the darkness behind the tent. “I wish you had let me relieve you for at least part of the night.”

“I have to move the stump frequently to encourage good circulation and healing,” Nathanial answered. “I assisted Annabelle in doing so, even though it troubled me to disturb her repose and…her privacy. I am unused to seeing her so helpless, emotionally as well as physically. I could not sleep in any case. That was a very fine gift you gave her, and it seemed to help lift her spirits. All night she slept with it clutched in her hand. Thank you.”

When Annabelle had regained her senses, Kak’hamish had given her the long carved ivory horn which seemed to be his only possession, aside from his ragged clothing, knife, and the small leather fetish bag he wore around his neck. Now Kak’hamish looked away and said nothing.

Most of the people of the caravan slept rolled in blankets on the open ground, there being very little weather to threaten their repose, and now the indistinct shapes began to move. Men and women rose in ones and twos and made their way toward the small stream to wash, or away from it for their other business.

“You must have her move the stump herself, starting tomorrow,” Kak’hamish said after a moment.

“So soon?”

“She must do for herself, and she must begin doing so as soon as possible. There is still a danger from infection, but the greater danger is despair. Many times I have seen the loss of a limb break the will to live. She has a strong spirit, but you must help it. She is not your woman, is she?”

“My woman? No, certainly not. She is…well, my ward you might say, although not officially so. More like a female relation actually, not a sister of course, perhaps a cousin or―ˮ

“That is unfortunate. She will fear she is undesirable. It would be good for her to feel desired.”

Desired? Nathanial swallowed. He felt a good many things for Annabelle, including a growing affection of the most tender nature, but desire was not among them. Why not? Most men of his age found her pretty enough to act foolish in her presence. She had an attractively active mind—perhaps even too active for a young lady. Just look at the trouble in which her curiosity had repeatedly landed them—not that this horrible injury was in any way her responsibility. He should have been more firm. He was not sure where or when he could have put his foot down and avoided the catastrophic chain of events which had brought them here, but that was a measure of his own inability, was it not? Annabelle would make a fine match for someone someday, hopefully a man keen for adventure—because keen for it or not, adventure would certainly ensue.

Provided she recovered.

“Here is Onxym Haat, the caravan owner,” Kak’hamish said.

A fat Martian approached, walking with a rolling gait like a sailor’s. He wore practical clothing but clearly of expensive manufacture—bright colours, finely woven cloth with a sheen reminiscent of silk—and he wore several silver rings. He stopped and smiled at Nathanial, said something in a jabbering tongue to Kak’hamish, and held out his hand, which Nathanial promptly shook.

“Onxym Haat is pleased to meet you and offers congratulations on saving Miss Annabelle’s life,” Kak’hamish translated.

Jabber jabber.

“He is pleased to welcome you to his party and invites you to dine with him this evening, where you can meet the other notables of the caravan.”

“Tell him I shall be pleased to dine with him, although I must apologise for my lack of formal attire. I am afraid after climbing out of an atmosphere suit, all I had about me were these coveralls.”

Jabber jabber jabber.

“Dinner on caravan is informal, he says, although he will be pleased to send you a robe should you so desire. Accept.”

Nathanial glanced at Kak’hamish and then smiled and nodded. “I would be most gratified.”

With another handshake, Onxym Haat left them to make his way toward the cooking pot.

“He seems like a pleasant enough fellow,” Nathanial observed.

“He would have left you here to die had you been without the means to secure a passage, but your pistol excited his greed.”

That seemed a harsh assessment, but Kak’hamish had the benefit of a lifetime’s experience with his own people. Judging from the condition of his face, benefit might be the wrong word. Could that horrible beating and disfigurement have left him unjustly suspicious of others and inclined to think the worst of them? It would have done so in most people, but that seemed quite unlike the man who had accompanied them from the deadlands, saved Annabelle’s life with his surgical skill, and now watched over them like a sheepdog guarding its flock. No, it was not his own harsh past which made Kak’hamish cautious, Nathanial decided; it was the burden of responsibility for the safety of him and Annabelle.

“Well, he’s welcome to the damned gun. After seeing how one simple pistol bullet ravaged Annabelle’s body and nearly stole her life, whatever stomach I ever had for firearms is quite gone. Honestly, I have little taste for any of this,” he said, and swept the horizon with his arm. “All this dashing about, people hatching dastardly schemes, trying to kill one another, overthrow governments, start wars—it just won’t do.

“I am a man of science, not a man of action. I flatter myself that I am quite accomplished in the field of electro-magnetism. With Annabelle’s uncle I designed an aether propeller governor which is an enormous improvement on anything in use before, so much so that it enabled the largest aether battleship ever built to manoeuvre in close proximity to the lunar surface, even descend into a narrow canyon. Do you know what an accomplishment that is?”

“No, but it sounds quite impressive,” Kak’hamish said.

“I should say so. That is what I am good at—conceiving and designing, not actually…going and doing. A chap who builds ships does it for the building, doesn’t he? He doesn’t then just jump in and sail away to the four corners of the world when he’s done.”

“The Earthman who invented the aether flyer, though…” Kak’hamish said with a thoughtful frown.

“Edison?”

“Yes, Mister TA Edison. When he built his first aether flyer, did he not sail to Mars?”

“Well, that’s different,” Nathanial said.

“Oh. How is it different?”

“It just is,” Nathanial snapped. “And besides, Edison was an American.”

“Ah yes, an American,” Kak’hamish said. “Like Miss Annabelle.”

Indispensable as Kak’hamish had undoubtedly become, on occasion Nathanial still found him quite annoying.

2.

Kak’hamish watched the others arrive and take their places around the low dining table in the caravan master’s pavilion. Onxym Haat’s guests, aside from Nathanial and Kak’hamish, included two other merchants, a diplomat from Sharranus, and the commander of the caravan’s mercenary guards—who styled himself the Master of Sword, a rather exalted title for the leader of a dozen ill-disciplined riders and as many musket-armed footlings, Kak’hamish thought.

Each of the guests was accompanied by a servant or assistant seated behind them. Kak’hamish had been seated behind Nathanial, which suited him. Here he had no obligation to converse, beyond providing translations, and was free to observe the diners at length.

The Master of Sword had the look of a grizzled street tough—knife scar on his chin, obviously broken nose, and suspicious eyes always moving around the room. Perhaps that was the sort of man it took to keep hired thugs in check; most of them were caravan guards when there were employers willing to pay, but the rest of the time followed occupations best left overlooked.

The younger of the two merchants seemed a thoughtful, taciturn man. The other guests conversed as they arrived and settled in, while he limited himself to polite greetings. The older merchant, grey-haired and thin as a pole, was already half drunk when he arrived and began work on the other half immediately.

The ambassador interested Kak’hamish. He clearly exercised, and ate to moderation, for he had the look of an active, physical man, despite his fine robes and numerous expensive jewellery. His friendly expression frequently turned to engrossment or amazement at the comment of one of the others. Kak’hamish doubted that any man could be so intrigued by the before-dinner conversation of these men, but supposed the art of pretending so would be useful to a diplomat. Still, a man that accomplished at pretence bore watching.

“The holy men still dine alone?” the diplomat asked their host.

“Something to do with purification for the pilgrimage, my lord,” Onxym Haat answered, “the same reason they travel at the rear of the caravan, lest contact with the laity contaminate them.”

“A pity. I am sure they would have much of interest to tell us. But as to that, I imagine our new dining companion can offer as rich a feast.”

They spoke in the trade tongue Koline, as was the custom on caravan, and Kak’hamish leaned forward to translate for Nathanial.

“Friends well-met,” Onxym Haat said to the table at large as the last of them settled in, “welcome our new companion, Mister Nathanial Stone, a subject of the British Crown. He travels with his ward, Annabelle Somerset. She dines alone, recovering from a harrowing injury sustained in their travels. Mister Stone, I present his lordship Kaleen Jed-An, ambassador-designate from the Principate of Shareen to the court of Akhanoon III.”

“I am honoured to meet his lordship,” Nathanial said after he heard the translation, and then turned to Kak’hamish. “What about the others?”

“It is custom to introduce only the most exalted person to the visitor. The others you will meet during the meal,” Kak’hamish said softly. He noticed Ambassador Jed-An lean back and gesture to his servant, who leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

“I am most interested in your opinion of the meal, Mister Stone,” Onxym Haat said as servants carried in the first of the covered dishes. “It is simple fare, of course, as we are on caravan. But the soup and game course are seasoned with ereban, and I hope to introduce its use to the British colony, and perhaps even to people on Earth.”

“That is the principle purpose of this caravan,” Ambassador Jed-An said. “Our host and his two partners hope to make their fortune in the spice trade with your people. As trade invariably leads to friendship, I drink to its success.”

Glasses rose all around the table, and around the circle of servants behind the diners as well. The food for the servants would be less elaborate and the drink was a raw young purple wine, fruity and too sweet for Kak’hamish’s taste, and too cheap for the master’s table. Once Kak’hamish might have enjoyed it, but his tastes had been altered by five years with the iTaka-Queln, where the only alcoholic drink was fermented skrill milk—called paang. It had also taught him the wisdom of drinking in moderation; too much paang caused not only drunkenness but also unpleasant hallucinations. Very unpleasant.

Servants poured soup, Nathanial tasted it, and he almost put his spoon down before he remembered Kak’hamish’s pre-diner instructions. He recovered well, Kak’hamish thought. The others around the table looked at him as he took another spoonful and thought about it.

“It is an acquired taste, I believe, not immediately pleasant to the pallet, but with a deeply layered variety of flavours. A taste worth acquiring, I should think. I know very little about trade, of course, but I believe this will find a market.”

When Kak’hamish finished the translation, Onxym Haat beamed and the other diners applauded politely.

“We have closer contact with the Russian enclave to the north, by wet canal, but they seem strangely uninterested in trade, or perhaps they are poorly organised for its execution,” Jed-An said. “Our host has decided to strike west. His principal competition comes from bhutan spice, over which the North Stafros Mercantile Combine holds a monopoly. Their direct access to the Grand Canal puts them in a favourable position, wouldn’t you say?

Kak’hamish remembered to translate the trading combine’s title as Boreosyrtis League, as he remembered it was called in Nathanial’s interesting, and often unintentionally amusing, tongue.

“I am afraid I know very little of the geography of your world,” Nathanial replied, “although I hope to learn as much as I can. My only experience with Russians was on Luna, our moon, and it did nothing to raise them in my esteem, I assure you. I will say that I have had bhutan curry on Earth several times. My superior at the Chatham Dockyard, Director William White, was quite taken with it and served it several times at dinner. I did not much care for it, to be honest, but it is quite popular, and very dear. I have heard it sells in London for as much as nine shillings an ounce. This spice of Mister Haat’s—ereban is it?—seems much more appealing to my poor palate.”

This additional embellishment by Nathanial so pleased Haat and the other diners that they did not notice he took no more of the soup. Kak’hamish did not blame him. When his own soup came he found it over-seasoned and over-cooked, with the tubers soft and mealy and the meat grey and tasteless—except for the overpowering flavour of ereban. He had cooked with ereban on many occasions. It had an earthy flavour, excellent for toning down the saltiness of preserved meat, but best used in moderation.

“Did I understand you to say you worked at a dockyard, Mister Stone? Was that interesting work?” Jed-An asked.

“I found it so. My field is electro-magnetism, primarily as it is used to manipulate the luminiferous aether, and so I do a great deal of work with aether propellers. Chatham yard once concentrated on steam conversions in naval vessels, and still does some of that, but now does much of the Royal Navy work on interplanetary craft and atmospheric flyers. I was quite fortunate to have Director White as my patron. He is now Director of Naval Construction as well as Assistant Controller of the Royal Navy. I am on…ah…a temporary leave of absence, but expect to return to work there as soon as we can make our way to the crown colony at Syrtis Major where I hope to petition the governor there, Sir Henry Routledge, to expedite my return home.”

Nathanial was clearly proud of his position, but Kak’hamish wondered if this might not be more information than was wise. Most of those around the table listened with polite interest, but Jed-An stroked the outer veins of his left ear as he considered Nathanial’s words, his brow momentarily lined with thought.

“These other gentlemen travel for profit, but you do so on matters of state, your lordship,” Nathanial said to Jed-An. “If I may be so bold as to ask, is there a special issue which takes you to Aubuchon?”

“Skrill riders,” Jed-An answered, and then paused for another spoon of soup.

Kak’hamish did not like the sound of that, but he saw Jed-An’s servant’s eyes on him, watching him carefully. Earlier Jed-An had gestured to the servant and the servant had spoken to him—after Kak’hamish had translated Nathanial’s words. Was the servant a translator as well? Did he speak English? That would be unusual this far east of the British holdings, but not impossible. He would have to take care.

He translated Jed-An’s words without comment.

“Really?” Nathanial said. “I believe my companion Kak’hamish may be able to help with that. He lived with the skrill riders for a number of years. They are called the Queln, are they not?”

Jed-An’s servant leaned forward and whispered in the ambassador’s ear, and the diplomat’s face darkened for a moment before resuming its normal expression of vague friendliness. So the servant did speak English.

Clack-clack.

“Nathanial Stone wishes me to say that I lived with the Numaka clan of the iTaka-Queln for over five years. He does not understand that this may excite your suspicion and hostility, because he knows little of our ways and he speaks always directly from his belly. He thought my experience may be of use to you.”

All eyes in the pavilion, save Nathanial’s, turned on Kak’hamish, and all of the polite smiles of a moment earlier vanished. After a moment Nathanial noticed and turned to Kak’hamish as well, his smile replaced by confusion and concern.

“And will you be of use to us?” Jed-An asked.

“That depends on your purpose, wise lord.”

“My purpose is to make it rain skrill blood,” the Master of Sword announced before the ambassador could answer. “How many caravans do they have to plunder before someone does something about it? Well, let them raid us and see what happens!”

The words provoked nods and murmurs of agreement around the table. Jed-An held up his hand for silence.

“All here have accepted Onxym Haat’s hospitality. All are welcome today, regardless of where they supped yesterday, is it not so? I travel to Prince Akhanoon’s court to propose joint action by the cloud fleets of Sharranus and Abak’hn against the high aeries of the Queln. I tell you this because it is no secret. I would travel by cloudship myself, but all our armed vessels are engaged in patrols, and the merchant vessels avoid the southern trade routes. The Queln have become more aggressive this last half year.”

“Not the Numaka clan,” Kak’hamish answered.

Jed-An gestured as if brushing aside a fly. “Perhaps not. But one minor clan more or less means nothing. Will the Numaka pledge never to raid the gardenways again, and surrender hostages to insure compliance? No, of course not. It is the way of the Queln to prey on the weak, and they will continue doing so until there is a stiff price to be paid. Fate willing, that day will come soon. Only then will the gardenways be safe.”

Another murmur of approval rippled through the pavilion and Nathanial looked around in confusion and alarm. Kak’hamish put his hand on the young man’s shoulder to reassure him.

“I will explain in detail later,” he said in English, “but sentiments run high against the Queln here. You had no way of knowing and there is no real harm done. Any hostility will be directed at me, and my belly is strong. You would say my skin is thick.”

Little conversation accompanied the remainder of the uncomfortable meal.

3.

annabelle considered the scrap of paper for perhaps the hundredth time. What did it mean? The words were simple enough, written in a spidery hand.

Take Hart. A frend is near.

For three days the caravan had made its deliberate way northeast, setting out in late morning, pausing for two hours in early afternoon, and then continuing nearly until dusk. Annabelle rode in a provision wagon towed behind one of the stately ruumet breehr. Pain was her nearly constant companion. She had a small bottle of laudanum but tried not to use it—she had seen several women ruined by its habitual use. Even in the short run it upset her digestion, and she could not believe that would assist her prompt recovery.

So the pain persisted, shot through her leg and hip with a sudden intensity that made her gasp, and then subsided to the throbbing rhythm of her heart. But the most disturbing pain was in her missing leg. When she awoke the second morning, for a moment she was sure she had dreamed the amputation, because she could feel her right leg. Her ankle felt inflamed, her knee throbbed, and hot, sudden flashes of pain lanced through her big toe. The sensations were so real, so convincing, that when she tossed back the sheet, she cried out anew in horror at the sight of her bandaged stump.

Her mind was not addled. The pain was real, even if her leg was missing. The nerves which had run to the knee, ankle, and toe were shorter but still there, still connected to her brain, still sending these ghostly messages of pain. Loyal, dutiful, stupid little nerves, telling her something is wrong, wrong, so dreadfully wrong! the only way they knew how. Pointless messages reminding her only that she was…what?

Incomplete.

She had been a complete woman, but she was no longer that. Her first order of business when she got home, she had decided with dark humour, would be to throw away half her shoes. What would her second order of business be? Although she was now an incomplete woman, she had to be a complete something, did she not? But what?

She remembered very little of her childhood, or of her parents, but she remembered them skiing. Her father had come to America from Australia, met and married Joan Grant, and in the winter taught her to ski in the White Mountains when few others had even heard of the sport. Where they had obtained skies Annabelle had no idea, but she remembered herself as a very little girl, bundled in coats and quilts, sitting at the bottom of the hill on a layer of heated bricks and watching her mother and father ski down the slope toward her. Their paths had crossed and re-crossed, coming together and drawing apart, twisting around each other in what she now recognised as a sensual celebration of physical love. On hissing skies they raced toward her and at the last moment slid sideways to stop in a small blizzard of snow. She could never recall the details of their faces in repose, but she remembered vividly how they had looked after that run down the mountain, red-cheeked and laughing, eyes aglow. Someday, she had promised herself, she would ski like that. Someday she would ski with her lover.

At first she had made a nest among the grain sacks in the depth of the wagon, but by the second day she grew restless. Sitting alone with pain led inevitably to self-pity, and one day of solitary tears was all Annabelle allowed herself, or would wish upon anyone. The next day she moved back to the rear of the wagon where she had a better view. The air at least circulated well through the open sides and provided a refreshing breeze. Every two or three hours the ruumet breehr hauling the wagon defecated—and managed to do so without breaking stride, she noticed. On those occasions she was obliged to hold her nose for a minute or two until they had passed beyond the heaping piles interwoven with half-digested grass, looking for all the world like very large horse apples. Other than those times, however, she happily drew in air rich with the scents of exotic wildflowers and grass freshly crushed beneath wheels and massive hooves.

Nathanial or Kak’hamish would walk beside her wagon for part of the day and converse with her in ways calculated, she clearly saw, to keep her cheerful. They meant well, of course, but her moods were, she had come to realise, the exclusive products of her own soul. Were her spirit so insubstantial as to benefit materially from the transparent manipulation of well-intended friends, what support could she expect from it in difficult times? No. She would mend her spirit. It simply would not mend in a day, or a week, or even a year perhaps. But it would mend.

Several of the tall Martian musketeers walked near the wagon. Annabelle watched them and judged them a strikingly graceful people, their long legs giving them a gliding, unhurried stride. None of them spoke English, of course, but by the end of the second day Annabelle had learned their names, and on the third day they began to teach her words and phrases in Koline. I am hungry. I am English. (She wasn’t, of course, but to these men all Earth humans were either “English” or “Ru-Shaan.”) What colour is the sky? The sky is blue.

That was odd. She had vaguely expected the Martian sky to be red, but it was blue—a darker, greyer blue than at home, and with very few clouds, but blue nevertheless.

At the luncheon break Nathanial and Kak’hamish joined her and helped her with her exercises. Her leg was still too swollen, and the stitches too fresh, to risk putting any pressure on the bottom of her stump, but she raised and lowered it, moved it from side to side, and practiced walking with a crutch. In the evening she repeated the exercises, then had dinner with Nathanial and Kak’hamish―when they were not summoned away to dine with the dignitaries.

So the days had gone, one the same as any other, until this fourth morning when she awoke to find the scrap of paper rolled up, tied with a red ribbon, and placed conspicuously in her one remaining boot.

What does it mean?

As soon as she dressed, which had become a demanding and nearly exhausting exercise, she summoned Nathanial and Kak’hamish.

“Now this is exciting,” Nathanial said after passing the note to Kak’hamish. “A mysterious benefactor, a hidden ally—intriguing, of course, mysterious, but exciting as well.” He beamed at the note in Kak’hamish’s hand, his spirits clearly elevated.

Kak’hamish, on the other hand, frowned and shook his head in concern. Clack-clack. “Someone entered and left your tent without detection.”

That unsettling thought had occurred to Annabelle as well.

“From now on Nathanial and I will sleep closer to its entrance. Beyond that, this tells us someone else in camp can write English. We already knew Jed-An’s servant speaks English, but writing it is a different matter. These words—hart, frend—are those the common spellings?”

“No,” Annabelle answered. “I noticed that as well. I assumed the note was written in haste. Perhaps that is the explanation.”

“Perhaps,” Kak’hamish said doubtfully, “but as you two are the only Earth humans in the caravan, it is certain whoever wrote this note did not count English as their native language. If the author is a friend, why remain anonymous?”

“If?” Nathanial asked. “Why would an enemy write such a note?”

Clack-clack. “To put us off our guard. To distract us—involve our minds in this riddle while a more important one lies beneath our gaze. To prepare us to be deceived and betrayed later. There are more reasons for an enemy to write this than a friend.”

Nathanial shook his head is irritation, unwilling to accept Kak’hamish’s gloomy interpretation, but some of the sparkle had clearly gone out of his mood. Annabelle thought it interesting that, were she to characterise their reactions to the note, the adjectives she would employ would be almost opposite of those she would use to describe these two men’s personalities. Nathanial, cautious and given to worry, had met the message with cheerful optimism. For Kak’hamish, by nature the very embodiment of cheerful optimism, the note had produced caution and suspicion.

For her, it had been a welcome distraction.

“I believe we have gone as far as sensible consideration can take us,” Annabelle said. “Until we know more, all that is left us is pointless speculation. As for me, I have exercises to do. Nathanial, would you be so kind as to help me to foot?”

She no longer asked for help to her feet, and today she hardly felt the twinge of loss, the tightness of throat, which had at first accompanied her use of this other expression. That was progress.