series 01 05 A Prince of Mars Read online

  “You did well earlier,” Kak’hamish said. “I would have told Miss Annabelle, you know. It was not necessary for you to do so, or to stay during the operation.”

  Nathanial looked up at him, his expression bleak. “It was absolutely necessary. She is my responsibility. Mine, and there’s a cruel joke for you. God, I’ve made a hash of things!”

  Kak’hamish sat down across from Nathanial, but not within arm’s reach. The man did not need a human touch right now, but he needed ears to listen. “She lives,” Kak’hamish said.

  “Yes,” Nathanial answered and laughed bitterly, “with one leg. What sort of life is that for a young woman? Answer me that. Here’s a bitter joke for you: tomorrow is her birthday. She turns twenty. What a gift we’ve given her!”

  Kak’hamish thought for a moment, thought as much about the truth of her situation as about the answer Nathanial needed to hear. “Her gift is her life, and it is better than many lives I have seen. She has both hands, both eyes, both ears, one good leg, and a courageous heart. These are things many, many people would pray for, if they thought prayers were answered. And you are going to fashion an artificial leg, are you not?”

  “Yes. Blackwood has quite a section on lower extremity amputations, and what is necessary for recovery. That was damned fine work you did in there, by the way. I read up on it, made sure you did what was needed to make an artificial limb viable—filing the bone edges, stretching the muscle across the bone and joining it, a proper flap of flesh with the subcutaneous foundation intact, and provision for drainage. Those were very professional-looking ligatures on the artery and vein, as well, just as in the illustrations. Ghastly illustrations.” Nathanial shuddered and shook his head, then looked up at Kak’hamish. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

  “For over a year I assisted a very great healer, perhaps the best the iTaka-Queln ever knew. It was not in my nature to face so much pain day after day, however. I am not that strong a man.”

  Nathanial looked at him oddly but said nothing.

  “Tell me of the artificial leg you will build for Miss Annabelle.”

  “I’ll have to make her several, of course, over time. Blackwood says the sooner she’s up and trying to walk on the limb the better. There’s no time or material handy to make a proper leg out here, so we’ll start with a simple socket and peg. The socket will have to be leather, because that’s all we have, but I’ll replace that with rubber on the final version.”

  “I will carve the peg, if you will give me the length needed,” Kak’hamish said. “You said you would build her a knee. Tell me of this.”

  Although Nathanial frowned in concentration, his gestures became more decisive, his words more forceful. “Yes, that will be the tricky part. Blackwood had an illustration of an artificial leg with a knee joint—mostly carved wood with an iron frame to either side, and a hinge where the knee was. It looked awkward and clumsy to me, but it is a starting point. You see, I think the knee joint has to flex a bit to right and left as well. Otherwise the socket is likely to chafe the―” he paused a moment and swallowed, “the stump. At least if it is to be mobile while walking. The leg they make now is only meant to bend while seated, so it does not stick out in front; it is stiff while walking. I think there is a way to get movement in the knee joint while walking, which will give her a much more natural gait.”

  Kak’hamish had worked with replacement legs. He did not see how a bending joint was possible during movement, particularly one which would also support a person’s weight, but Nathanial was now clearly engaged in the project. That was the most important thing. “How can you get movement in the knee while walking if she has no muscles to control it?”

  “Well that’s the problem, of course. And it has to be purposeful movement, not simply flopping about. I’m still working out the details, but she will have muscles in her stump which are still viable. I believe we can train those muscles to flex and activate the knee joint.”

  “Activate, yes. But power it?”

  “No, you are perfectly right there—not sufficient to power it. I think a clockwork mechanism will have to provide the substitute for muscle power, but I’m still working that out. Here, let me show you some sketches I’ve made.”

  Nathanial moved over next to Kak’hamish and drew a sheaf of diagrams from his jacket pocket. Kak’hamish listened to the explanation with half of his mind, but with the other half he wondered at the strange path which had brought him here to this brave Earth woman and this earnest young man.

  What had he told Gillsa? That he had gone to the desert because he had “done everything in this world my hand is fit for.” Then in the desert, the world had brought his hand one more task—to bring these two people out of the wilderness and safely home. It had even brought them from another world, so as not to make him a liar to Gillsa. What fun the world must have had doing that!

  One more task. He could wait long enough to do one more task.

  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 offici
ally 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?