For the last two months she had looked forward to the day when she would publicly denounce her cousin for threatening her with a pistol, imprisoning her, and setting off to Mars to murder her brother … and yet, for now, she held her tongue. For all his faults, he had indeed saved Michael’s life—whether that had been his original intent or not—and the current crisis, which threatened every one in the house, seemed far too pressing for Simon’s crimes to obtain the attention they deserved even if she should mention them.
And so she would wait until the crisis had passed. And if the waiting made Simon anxious as a cat, so much the better.
Another loud crash sent dust pattering down from the ceiling beams and made the whole company look nervously about. A second crash followed shortly thereafter, then a long and nervous silence. After a time they all began to relax.
“How many catapults did you say they had?” Lord Bertram muttered to Arabella.
“We saw two nearing completion,” she replied, “but there were at least three more under construction. And no end of boulders.”
Captain Singh called her over to where he was conferring with several of the men over a plan of the house hastily sketched by Collins, the late Lord Corey’s majordomo. “The dining-room, parlor, and master bedroom suite are lost to us,” the captain said, pointing. “They will certainly be destroyed by catapult soon, if they have not already been. Do we need to defend against boarders? Against Martians entering through the broken windows?”
“This house is impregnable,” Collins replied, his confidence undiminished by recent events. “Those windows are at least thirty feet from the ground. And the walls are sheer, quite secure from scaling.”
The captain glanced to Arabella, who shook her head. “I have seen Martians build ladders for descent into canyons far deeper than that.”
“Descent is not ascent,” Collins sniffed.
“But ladders are ladders,” the captain replied. He squinted at the plan, then at a staircase that spiraled up from one corner of the room. “How tall is that tower?” Another crash shook the house, rattling the table around which they stood.
Collins licked his lips nervously. “Sixty or seventy feet from base to top.”
The captain turned to Arabella. “Can the Martians’ arrows reach that high?”
“Not with any accuracy, sir.”
“Nor will it be an easy target for their catapults,” the captain muttered, half to himself. “Which is not to say they will not try, once we begin shooting at them from it.”
“The gallery at the tower’s top is crenellated,” Arabella said. “It would be extremely defensible.” To the questioning looks she received from Collins and the other men, she said, “My brother and I would retreat to that tower during our parents’ whist games with Lord and Lady Corey. We would often imagine ourselves to be in charge of the house’s defense.” Though the attackers they had envisioned in those playful days had been French soldiers, not the Martians who were their servants and teachers.
“Very well,” the captain said, and straightened from the plan. “We require three volunteers,” he called. “Have we any one here who is a particularly good shot with a rifle?”
Several of the gentlemen, and a few of the servants, raised their hands.
The captain pointed to three of them. “Take the best pieces you can find, and a quantity of ammunition, to the top of that tower.” He pointed to the staircase. “Stay out of sight as much as you can, but keep an eye on the wall below those smashed windows. If you see Martians making any attempt to climb it, shoot them. If you see any other unusual activity, send one of your number down to report it.”
As the men departed in search of rifles, another crash, this one considerably louder, echoed down the hall. “Damage report,” the captain called over his shoulder. No one moved. “You!” he snapped, pointing at a man standing near the door. “Go and find out what just happened.” The man stared, rabbit-like, at the captain for only a moment before bolting to comply.
“I should go to the tower as well,” Arabella said, “as an observer. I am best equipped to understand what I see.”
The captain relaxed from his attitude of stern command. “I thank you for volunteering, Miss Ashby,” he said gently, “but your services are required here, for possible negotiations with the Martians.”
He is trying to keep me safe, she realized. But, as well, she understood that he was correct—they must negotiate with the Martians, and somehow bring the conflict to a close, or the house would eventually be battered to bits around them.
But there was only one thing that she could think of that might pacify the Martians.
Pray God it still existed.
“Please excuse me,” she said to the captain, and went off to find Simon.
*