CHAPTER VII
_The Flight of a Princess_
The province of Hanlon, Prince Joro's hereditary domain, began aboutfifty miles west of South Tarog. It was a region of thorn forests,yielding a wood highly valued for ship-building, and the canal waslined with shipyards, most of which belonged to the prince. Theso-called republic had been established before Joro was born, but thereigning family of Hanlon had always been richly endowed withastuteness. Deprived of their feudal holdings by a coup of state, theyhad won back nearly all they had lost in the fields of finance andtrade. Joro was a monarchist for sentimental reasons, not for theprofits that might accrue to him.
It was the purity of Joro's devotion to his ideal that made him sodangerous to all who might oppose him. Lesser men might be bribed,frightened, distracted. Not Joro: he believed that the monarchy wouldsoothe the rumblings of internal dissension that continually disturbedthe peace and tranquillity of Mars. He drove forward to thatconsummation with a steadfastness and singleness of purpose such ashave carried other fanatics to glory or to the grave. And in additionto his zeal he carried into the struggle his exceptional ability, aknowledge of government and of people.
* * * * *
He had need for all of his rare skill now. It had been an easy matterto carry forcibly the Princess Sira to his palace in Hanlon. Tolto wassafely out of the way; Mellie had been dismissed. As for the otherpalace servants, they had been silenced with bribery or the stiletto.
But Sira had remained adamant, and Joro, abstractedly toying with hislaboratory apparatus in the basement of his palace, tried to find thekey to her change of heart.
"Can't understand it!" he mused. "She always seemed to have all theroyal instincts: cold to suitors, with that delicacy and reserve onefinds ideal in a princess. She does all things well, handles a swordnearly as well as I do. Her mind is as keen and limpid as a diamond.She swims like an eel...."
He sighed. "I thought she and I saw eye to eye in this matter. Notmore than a week ago she seemed eager for news of the accord I wasarranging. She had no great aversion to Scar Balta. Now she says shewill die before she espouses him."
He paused, thought a moment, added, with that absolute fairness andimpartiality that was characteristic of him:
"True, Balta is not the ideal prince consort. He would not add kinglyqualities to the royal line. But he would confer cunning upon hisoffspring; and energy--neither to be despised in a royal family thatmust forever resist intrigue." He sighed again. "The responsibility ofking-making is a hard one!"
A sudden thought struck him. "She spoke warmly about the proposed war;could that be at the root of her strange change of heart? After all,she is a woman, and with all her fine, true temper she has a gentleheart. To her the death of a few thousands of her subjects may notoutweigh the unhappiness that millions are now experiencing. But thefinanciers demand the war to consolidate their position, and Wilcox issolidly with them."
With new hope he set down the beaker he was toying with. "Perhaps wecan outwit them."
* * * * *
He left the laboratory, climbed a flight of stairs, entered thespacious reception hall. This, like most Martian buildings, was domed.It was richly furnished. The walls were hung with burnished, metallicdraperies of gorgeous colors, the floor a lustrous black, thefurniture of glittering metal. As the prince entered a servant steppedforward.
"Go at once to the Princess Sira's chamber!" Joro commanded sharply."Request her to come here. Tell her I have thought of the solution toour difficulty."
Impatiently he paced up and down, stopping at a window for a momentand looking out into the night.
"Your Highness! Your Highness!" The servant was sobbing withexcitement. "Your Highness, Princess Sira has escaped!"
Joro left the man babbling, dashed up the broad stairs, unheeding theservants who scattered before him. Their punishment could wait. Justinside the princess's chamber, still unconscious from a blow on thehead, lay the guard whose duty it had been to stand before that door.How long ago had she gone? Probably not more than a few minutes.
Joro saw to it that her start would not be much longer. In a fewseconds men and women were scouring the palace grounds, and radioorders to the provincial police of Hanlon were crowding the ether.
* * * * *
Sira had contrived her escape without any particular plan in mind. Infact, it had been initiated on impulse. The fellow on guard at herdoor had excited intense dislike in her. High-strung, and excited byher kidnaping, she had been further annoyed by his officiousness, hisfawning, which thinly disguised impudence. The third or fourth timethat he intruded on her privacy to ask if she wanted anything she wasready, with the heavy leg, unscrewed from a chair. She felled him inthe middle of a smirk, and seized the opportunity created.
It happened that there was a service corridor close at hand. Down thisshe sped, into the darkness of a boat-house. The doors were barred andlocked, of course, but the depths of the water showed a faint greenishglimmer of light. Sira dived in, unhesitatingly, and after an easyunderwater swim she emerged in the open canal. There was aconsiderable swell, for there was a slight breeze blowing from thenorth across twenty miles of water, but this did not distress Sira atall. She undulated through the waves with perfect comfort. Phobos wasjust rising in the west, and orientating herself by this tiny moon shestruck out in a north-easterly direction, seeking a favorable currentto carry her toward Tarog.
Early explorers on Mars were astonished to find that the canals werenot stagnant bodies of water, but possessed currents, induced by wind,by evaporation, and the influx of fresh water from the polar ice caps.
This was near the equator, however, and the water was not unreasonablycold, although the night air was, as usual, chilly. After a fewminutes Sira discarded her clothing, and so settled down to a longswim.
* * * * *
Ten miles out she struck a brisk easterly current, flowing towardTarog, and she gave herself up to it. Floating on her back she saw thelights of the prince's ships flying back and forth over the water insearch of her--or her body. But none came near her, and she wascontent.
The abrupt tropical dawn found her in mid-canal, half-way to Tarog.She had no intention of swimming all the way to the capital city, tobe fished ignominiously out of the canal by the police. She was inneed, not only of clothing, but of clothing that would disguise her.Her coral pink body near the surface of the water would attractattention for considerable distance, and would lead to unwelcomeinquiries.
She was glad when she saw a fishing scow anchored in the current aheadof her. The man who owned it had his back to her, fishingdown-current. She approached the boat silently and worked her wayaround it by holding to the gunwale.
Sira now saw that the fisherman was old, gnarled and sunburned so darkthat he was almost black, despite the dilapidated and dirty pithhelmet he was wearing. His lumpish face was deeply seamed andwrinkled. His sunken mouth told of missing teeth, and his long,unkempt hair was bleached to a dirty gray.
"Have you an old coat you can lend me?" Sira asked, swimming intoview.
The rheumy eyes rolled, settled on the water nymph. The old man showedno surprise, but pious disgust. His eyes rolled up, and in a crackedvoice intoned:
"Wicked, wicked! O great Pantheus, thy temptations are great--thyvisions tormenting. In my old age must I ever and ever live over--"
"Foolish old man!" Sira snapped. "I'm not a vision!" She dragged downan old sack that hung over the gunwale, washed it, and tearing holesin the rotten fabric for her arms and head, slipped it on. It was alarge sack, coming to her knees; satisfied, she climbed aboard, whereshe spread her black hair to dry.
"Not a vision?" the old man quavered. "Then thou art reality, come togladden my old age--nay--to return youth to me! In my hut there is anold hag. She shall go--"
* * * * *
Sira did not
answer. She was neither disgusted nor amused by the darktorrent that stirred in this decrepit old fisherman. She saw only thathe had pulled in his nets and was bowing his long arms to the oars,pulling for shore.
It took about two hours before they reached the fisherman's hut, anondescript, low-ceilinged shelter of logs, driftwood and untarnishedmetal plates off some wreck. Several times they were hailed by otherfishermen, who addressed the old man as "Deacon" and asked jocularlyabout what kind of a fish he had there.
The deacon's wife awaited them. The old man's description of her as ahag had not been far wrong. She, was as diminutive and weakened as hewas ponderous and heavy. She was acid. Her skin was like a pickledapple's; her expression sour, her voice sharp.
"Hoy there, you old hypocrite!" she hailed when they came in earshot."So this is the way you lose a day! Who's the hussy with you?"
The deacon nosed the old and evil-smelling scow into the bank. Hiseyes rolled piously.
"The great Pantheus sent her. He said--"
* * * * *
The old woman came closer and inspected Sira, who endured her gazecalmly. That look was like the bite of acid that reveals the structureof crystal in metals.
"Why, she's a lady!" she exclaimed then. "Not fittin' to be on thesame canal with you! Come in, my dear. You must be nearly dead!"
She conducted Sira into the hut, which was far neater and cleaner thanits exterior suggested.
"A lady!" she repeated. "In that heat! Young woman, what made you doit? Look at those arms--near burnt! Let me take off that old sack. Butwait!"
She tip-toed to the door, threw back the faded curtain sharply. Thedeacon, too surprised to move, was standing there in the attitude ofone who seeks to see and hear at the same time. He lingered longenough to receive two resounding slaps before fleeing to his boat,followed by a string of curdling remarks.
Back inside, she proceeded to anoint Sira's body, exclaiming herpleasure at its perfection. The oil smelled fishy, but it wassoothing, and it was not long before the claimant to the throne ofMars was deep in restful slumber.
Late that afternoon the deacon returned and hung his nets up to dry.He was dour, his fever having left him. But he had a strange story toimpart.
"I think that girl I picked up is the Princess Sira," he told the oldwoman. "On the fish buyer's barge, in the teletabloid machine, I sawthe forecast of her wedding to Scar Balta. And I'll swear it's thesame girl!"
"And why," queried his wife, "would she be swimming in the middle ofthe canal if she was getting ready to marry Scar Balta?"
"That's just it!" the deacon exclaimed, and his eyes began to rollagain. "They say it's not a love match! Oh, not in the teletabloid!They wouldn't dare hint such a thing. But the men on the barge. Theysay there's a rumor that she ran away. And she looks like the girl Ipicked up, though I thought--"
"Never mind what you thought!" she snapped. "It may be, I served theoligarchy and the noble houses--before I was fool enough to run awaywith a no-good fisherman--and I can see she is a lady. Well, she cantrust in me."
"They say," the deacon hinted, "that if one went to Tarog, andinquired at the proper place, there would be a reward."
The little old woman chilled him, she looked so deadly.
"Deacon Homms!" she hissed. "If you sell this poor little girl to ScarBalta, your hypocritical white eyes will never roll again, becauseI'll tear them out and feed them to the fish. Understand?"
Considerably shaken, the deacon said he understood.
* * * * *
But the next morning, on the placid bosom of the canal, he forgot herwarning. The fleshpots of Tarog called him. Tarog, where he had spentyouth and money with a lavish hand. Tarog, where a reward awaited him.
He hauled in his anchor, gave the unwieldy boat to the current andbent to the oars.
Back in the hut, unsuspecting of treachery, Mrs. Homms and Sira wererapidly striking up a friendship. A shrewd judge, of characterherself, Sira did not hesitate to admit her identity, and without anyprying questioning the old woman soon had the whole story. It thrilledher, this review of the life she had once seen as a servant.
"I wonder if I will ever see Tarog again!" she sighed wistfully.
"You shall!" Sira promised, "if you help me."
"I will do what I can gladly."
"I need a workingman's trousers and blouse, and a sun-hat that willshade my face. I have a plan, but I must get to Tarog. Can you get methese things?"
"I have no money, but wait!" She rummaged with gnarled fingers in achink in the wall, withdrew a small brooch-pin of gold, with a pinkterrestrial pearl in its center.
"My last mistress gave me this," she said smiling sadly. "I will rowto the trading boat and buy what you need. There will be a littlemoney left to buy your passage on a freight barge."
And that was why, when the deacon arrived at the head of a squad ofsoldiers that evening, there was no girl of any description to befound. Ignoring the cowering and unhappy reward seeker, the old womandelivered her dictum to the sergeant in charge.
"Princess? Ha! The deacon, sees princesses and mermaids in every mudbank. His imagination grew too and crowded out his conscience. No,mister, there ain't any princess here."