Brechalon

BRECHALON

By Wesley Allison

Smashwords Edition

Brechalon

All Rights Reserved. This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If sold, shared, or given away it is a violation of the copyright of this work. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual people, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Cover design by Wesley Allison

ISBN 978-1-4523-0652-0

* * * * *

For Becky

Senta and the Steel Dragon

Book 0

Brechalon

By Wesley Allison

Chapter One: The Greatest City in the World

There was no doubt about it. Brech was the greatest city in the world. Not best—but the greatest. It was the capital of the United Kingdom of Greater Brechalon and had been the center of Brech culture for almost two thousand years. Fifteen centuries ago it had been the largest city in the world and it still was. With a population of more than four million, it dwarfed Natine, Bangdorf, Szague, Perfico and the other capital cities on the continent of Sumir. The Great City, as most Brechs called their home, was filled with majestic buildings and monuments, magnificent parks, and spacious plazas. But beyond these were seemingly endless reaches of tenement apartment buildings, slapped up with none of the forethought and planning of the ancient structures of which the citizens were so proud. Though the vast system of horse-drawn trolleys and hansom cabs reminded one of the past, the oily black telegraph poles and the chugging, honking steam-powered carriages gave voice to a future bearing down at record speed.

Nothing about the Great City was lost on Captain Terrence Dechantagne. He had been back in the city for exactly one hour and fifteen minutes, but it seemed as if he had never left. As he strode down Avenue Phoenix, he looked at the shops on either side of the street, occupying the ground floor of buildings that had been old when his great grandfather had been born. The cobblestone streets were filled with vehicles. Shiny new steam carriages swerved to avoid running over an old man pulling a donkey heavily laden with crates of produce. The trolley’s bell reminding everyone else on the street that by law, it had the right of way, even though the massive horse pulling it was far slower than the newest marvels of technology. Turning sharply to his left, Terrence crossed the road dodging neatly between a horse-drawn carriage and one of the steam-powered variety, and entered one of the storefronts—Breeding Booksellers.

The interior of the bookseller’s shop was dark and crowded and it smelled of old leather, old paper, and old glue. Terrence took a slow, deep breath, enjoying the fragrance the way some people might enjoy the scent of a rose. An old bespectacled man lifted his head from behind a massive volume of Dodson. He raised his eyebrows when he saw Terrence’s blue and khaki cavalry uniform. Terrence removed his slouch hat and fished his wallet from an interior vest pocket of his tunic.

“What can I do for you, Sir?” asked the bookseller.

“Revenge,” said Terrence without smiling.

A momentary look of panic crossed the older man’s face, but then his eyes widened.

“Garstone?”

Terrence nodded.

“Yes, I have several copies behind the counter. Not the type of thing I’d expect an army officer to be reading.”

“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” said Terrence. “One would think that a bookseller would know that.”

“Indeed.” The man paused and then pulled out several different editions of the infamous work of Kazia Garstone. He looked up to study his customer’s face. “So many people are interested in this one, either for its politics or its, um indecencies.”

“You don’t have a first edition?” asked Terrence, his face giving nothing away.

“Oh, I do. But I’m afraid it’s not inexpensive.” Opening a small cupboard behind him, the bookseller pulled out a book wrapped in linen and placed it on the counter. With great care he unwrapped the cloth exposing a green leather-bound book with gold leaf edging. “Two hundred fifty marks.”

“I wonder what Garstone would say about such profiteering,” said Terrence opening his wallet and pulling out five crisp banknotes that together equaled the stated amount.

“I don’t think she would mind. You know, if you’re interested, I might have a lead on a signed first edition of Steam.”

“Really? How much?”

“Four thousand marks.”

“Kafira’s tit!” said Terrence, chuckling as the other man winced at his blasphemy. “I’m afraid that’s beyond my allowance.”

The man nodded knowingly. “Would you like me to wrap it up for you?”

“Nope.” Terrence took the book and tucked it under his arm. “Is there still a fish and chips cart by the park?”

“Oh yes.”

Terrence exited the store and turned left, heading for Hexagon Park. He had to jog across Prince Tybalt Boulevard, which was at least twice as crowded as Avenue Phoenix. He was almost hit twice, but arrived at the park’s edge unscathed. Hexagon Park, as the name implied, was an expansive park built in the six-sided shape of a hexagon. It was filled with fountains, ponds, walkways, flower gardens, orchards, and at its center, a plaza with a steam-powered calliope. Terrence could hear the music playing even at this distance. Along the sidewalk at the edge of the park, several vendors were selling food from carts. Terrence purchased a newsprint cone filled with fried fish and golden chips and made his way down the cobblestone path to the center of the park, taking a seat about fifty feet from the bright red music machine.

The calliope made as much music as an entire band playing. People clearly enjoyed it, though only a few were gathered to watch it. Most followed along by bobbing their heads or humming as they smelled the flowers, looked into the fountains, or strolled among the fruit trees. Terrence ate his fish and chips and propped open his new book on his knee. His attention was pulled away from the pages though by the other people and their various activities.

Directly in front of him an older man in a brown bowler was throwing bits of bread to the flying reptiles that could be found all over the old city. Disgusting things. To Terrence’s mind, they should be shot rather than fed. Several small children played Doggie Doggie on the open expanse of grass. Their simple homespun clothing and the fact that they were unsupervised indicated they were from poorer, working class families. Beyond them were several large groups of people wandering among the fruit trees, among them man in a dark brown overcoat that looked far too warm for this time of year. As Terrence watched, several people approached the man and exchanged money for small packages pulled from the expansive coat. The man was a drug dealer.

The young officer felt his eyes itch and begin to water and when he stood up to drop his garbage in the dust bin, he could feel his hands starting to twitch. He took two steps in the direction of the drug dealer. Then the man in the overcoat looked in his direction and just seemed to melt away into a crowd. Terrence was just thinking about following when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He turned to find a very large police constable holding onto him.

“Now, where are you off to?”

“All these people and you stop me?” Terrence wondered.

“Just keeping the peace. Someone from out of town might not recognize the fellow you were eyeing as trouble. Then again, he might. Either way, there’s no reason that a fine young officer in His Majesty’s service should be getting mixed up with the likes of him.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Do you have a place to stay in the city?” asked the PC, taking a small notebook and a short pencil from his pocket.

“My family has a house here.”

“And where would that be?”

“Number one, Avenue Dragon.”

The police constable’s eyes shot from his notebook back to Terrence’s face.

“That would be Miss… um, then she would be…?”

“My baby sister.”

Putting his notebook away with as much nonchalance as he could muster, the PC smiled and then bowed slightly at the waist.

“If I can be of any further service.” It wasn’t a question, and in any case, the constable left before Terrence could reply.

Terrence studied his own hand and noted that it was no longer shaking. Might as well go home. Get it over with. Then maybe he could find a quiet corner to sit and read Garstone.

* * * * *

Seven year old Senta Bly lay in one of the grassy fields on the northern half of Hexagon Park and looked up at the brown haze in the air above her as she listened to the sound of the calliope and tried to catch her breath. She had spent the morning playing with her cousin Maro McCoort and a dozen other children from the vast sea of tenements who met each morning at the park and played a host of childhood games. Maro, who despite being five months younger than Senta always looked out for her, nudged her and handed her half of the piece of cheese that he had that morning wrapped in a napkin and stuffed in his pocket. As she chewed it, she turned her head to the side and watched some of the other children running away.

“What’s up?” she asked Maro.

“There’s a wizard setting up over there,” he replied.

Climbing to their feet, they ran in the direction that the other children had gone. Sure enough, a man in a brown suit but wearing a black cape had placed his bowler hat on the grass upside down, so that people could throw money in, and he was already performing his first magic. He swirled his right hand around in a circle parallel to the ground and spoke a series of magic words.

“Uuthanum Izesic.” He grinned. “I give you the floating platform!”

Though it was invisible, there was a disc-shaped platform just below where he had formed the circle with his hands, and children rushed forward to sit on it. A few even tried to stand, though they were quickly pushed off by those wanting their turn. The round field of force lasted only a few minutes and then it was gone and the wizard was on to his next trick. He charmed a woman and made her act like a chicken and then he summoned a horse from out of thin air. He turned a boy’s hair blue and he made a passing steam carriage’s horn meow like a cat. His grand finale was to induce snow to fall from the hazy but relatively cloud-free sky. This earned him cheers from the children and more than a few coins in his hat from the adults despite the snow lasting only a few minutes and none of it sticking.

“It’s time to get home,” Maro told Senta, as the wizard gathered his earnings.

Senta thought she saw the wizard give her a strange look as she passed, but she paid little attention. Wizards were strange folk. She raced after her cousin who shot across Avenue Phoenix, dodging in and around traffic. They ran all the way to the Great Church of the Holy Savior, which marked the edge of the Old City. Then they skipped their way through block after block of tenement buildings. At last they arrived at their own building—a fifteen story stone structure that leaned ever so slightly to the right. Tramping up the narrow stairs, they reached their Granny’s apartment on the twelfth floor.

Together the two children pressed against the door, tumbling inside when Maro turned the knob. They expected to find Granny, and indeed they did, but they were surprised to find her leaning over a tiny bassinette, gooing at the contents. Near her, sitting on the floor was a toddler with very fine, very blond hair. There were already four children living with Granny—Senta and Maro, Maro’s brother Geert, and their cousin Bertice. Now it appeared that there were two more.

“This is Ernst,” said Granny, patting the toddler on the top of the head. “And this is her baby sister Didrika.”

Senta stepped quickly across the room and stared down into the bassinette, Maro at her side. The sleeping baby inside couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old. The few whisps of hair on her head were strawberry blond and the tiny bow shaped mouth was pursed, as if she was dreaming of a bottle.

“Aw, cute,” said Senta.

“We’re not going to have enough food,” said Maro.

“We’ll make do,” said Granny. “But you two will have to go to work. Maro, Mr. Blackwell has secured a place for you at his printing shop. And Senta, you will work at the café in the Great Plaza.”

“Who are they, anyway?” asked Maro, indicating the new children.

“They are your cousins. My boy Colin was their father. He died in the war. Now they’ve lost their mother to a fever.”

Twenty minutes later Maro and Senta were making the long trip downstairs to the sub-basement to get a bucket of coal.

“I guess we have to grow up now,” Maro said. “I don’t see why those damn kids have to come here.”

“Their parents are dead,” Senta replied. “Just like yours and mine.”

“Your parents aren’t dead.”

“Uh-huh. Granny said so.”

“I heard your Mom just didn’t want you.”

“Who wouldn’t want me?” said Senta. “I’m just cute.”

Maro made a noncommittal noise and they continued down the stairs.

* * * * *

Iolanthe Dechantagne pursed her lips and narrowed her unique aquamarine eyes at the man in front of her who seemed to wilt in her gaze. They were in one of the back bedrooms of the Dechantagne house at Number One, Avenue Dragon. Occupying an entire city block and four stories high, the house had dozens of bedrooms, so many that Iolanthe was sure she hadn’t visited them all. She had been in this one though, many times. Not recently. So many rooms made the house expensive to heat and to care for, and right now Iolanthe needed her money for things other than taking care of a too large house. She had ordered all the rooms in the back two thirds of the building closed off, the furniture covered and the other contents sold or stored. But this room was untouched. The dust covered furniture was still home to dust covered personal items: brush, razor, strop, journal, war medals, shotgun.

“Well?” she said, ice clinging to the consonants and a cold wind blowing through the vowel sound. The servant actually shivered.

“I didn’t think you meant this room,” said the man.

“And why would that be?”

“This is the Master’s room. I mean it was his room. I mean I thought…”

“My brother is master of this house now. And you are not paid to think.” Iolanthe could feel the presence of Zeah Korlann, her head butler, just behind her right shoulder, but she didn’t acknowledge him. “I said I wanted all of these rooms closed off, and that includes this one. Cover the furniture and sell the other things, and if you can’t sell them, burn them.”

The man nodded shakily. Iolanthe turned on her heel. Zeah was standing just far enough to the side that he wouldn’t have to move if she walked directly back out of the room. He was a tall dignified man with clear intelligent eyes and hair that was a bit more salt than pepper. He had served the Dechantagne family since before Iolanthe was born, and his family had served them since the time of Iolanthe’s great-great grandfather. He stood completely straight, his right hand resting on the shoulder of a boy of thirteen or fourteen. Iolanthe raised one eyebrow.

“Um.” Zeah cleared his throat. “Young Saba here needs to be assigned a position in the house.”

“He is engaged in his studies, yes? I believe I pay for a tutor, do I not?”

“Yuh… yes. But Saba had his fourteenth birthday some time ago. It is time for him to work in the afternoons, after finishing with Master Lockley.”

“Do have an opinion?”

“I wuh… was thinking assistant porter.”

“Very well.” Iolanthe took three steps towards the door, then stopped and turned around. “What did he receive for his birthday?”

“You guh… gave him a very nice puh… puh… pair of pants.”

“Perfect,” she said.

“Muh… Miss?” said Zeah, leaving the boy where he was and stepping forward. He stood looking at her as if measuring whether he should continue.

“Yes?” she asked at last.

“Might you not want to keep suh… some items of a more puh… puh… personal nature?”

“Nothing of my father’s is of interest to me or my brothers. He was a disgrace to the family name and the sooner I can forget about him the better. Wastrel. Coward.” She pressed her lips together to say the other word. How she wanted to say it. Murderer. But the word stayed in her mouth. She stared at Zeah, daring him to ask something else.

“Yuh… yes Miss.”

It took a full ten minutes to walk to the front of the house, that portion which was in use, and once there it took far too long to reach her boudoir. She had to detour around the hallway where workmen were busy installing an elevator. It was the last of many improvements that Iolanthe had made to the house in the past two years.

Yuah was waiting in the boudoir. Yuah was Iolanthe’s dressing maid, as well as being Zeah’s daughter. Two years younger than Iolanthe, Yuah had grown up with her and her brothers. There was a time that Iolanthe had thought of the younger woman as a sister. Without a word, she turned and shrugged off her jacket, which Yuah caught and immediately placed on a hanger. Then she was back to unbutton Iolanthe’s day dress and help her remove it. This was followed by the large rear bustle made vital by modern fashion and the Prudence Plus fairy bust form corset. And for the first time all day, Iolanthe was able to take a deep breath.

“I won’t need you for a few hours,” she said, as Yuah draped her day gown over her shoulders. “You may retire.”

“Thank you, Miss.”

“I’m going to write Augie. Do you want me to send him your regards?”

“Yes, Miss.”

As Yuah left the room, Iolanthe sat down at the small desk in the corner and pulled out a sheet of her personal stationary and her fountain pen. In her best hand she wrote her letter.

Augie,

I read with interest your description of Birmisia. It sounds like just the type of place for our enterprise. I was especially interested in the fact that there are as yet no other parties interested in establishing a colony there. It is distant, but that may very well end up being an advantage. Terrence has put forth Cartonia as a possibility, but with your experience in Birmisia, we will have first hand information and expertise. Continue to learn all you can. You know what we need. I don’t have to tell you. In any case, I have a meeting with the Prime Minister later in the week and hope to begin negotiations.

On a personal note, Terrence arrived yesterday. He looks as well as can be expected. Yuah sends her regards. As always, return with your shield or on it.

Sincerely,

I. Dechantagne

* * * * *

Yuah Korlann arrived in the servants dining hall just a moment after her father and Saba. Half a dozen kitchen workers under the supervision of the head cook, Mrs. Colbshallow scurried around preparing for the luncheon. Mrs. Colbshallow had been the head cook since Yuah was a little girl. She was a wonder in the kitchen. She was also Saba’s mother and she gave him a big squeeze as she passed by.

“There’s my handsome boy,” she said.

“Mother!” he whined back.

“Are you looking for something to eat, dear?” Mrs. Colbshallow asked Yuah.

“Yes, I’d better eat while I have the chance. You know how she is.”

“Don’t get cheeky,” said her father.

“I’ll get you a nice plate,” the head cook replied, waving over one of the kitchen staff. “You know I think you need to put on a bit of weight. You can’t catch a man if you’re all skin and bones.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Yuah, sitting down across the table from Saba. “I’m not likely to run into a man around here, and if I did, no man is going to be interested in me.”

Saba’s adoring gaze, which Yuah chose to ignore, said as plainly as words that he thought he was interested and he thought no other man worthy of the position. But it was her father who spoke.

“You’re far too young to worry about a man. Why, you’re barely twenty.”

“I’m twenty three, Papa. Another two years and I’ll be an old maid.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Colbshallow, setting down in front of Yuah a plate with a large sandwich atop a tremendous pile of golden chips. “You’re still young and you can find a man easily enough, if um… well, are you determined to that he be of your faith?”

“Of course she is,” said Zeah.

“As long as he has all his parts, I don’t care if he worships apple trees and sacrifices chickens when the moon is full. It’s not as if I’ve been to shrine in years myself.”

Zeah and Yuah belonged to the minority Zaeri religion, a faith that had once been the dominant belief all across Sumir, while Mrs. Colbshallow and her son, and most of the other staff were Kafirites. Kafira Kristos who had lived and died two thousand years before, had been a Zaeri Imam, but her followers had broken away from the main faith upon her death and supposed resurrection. Now millions worshipped her as the Holy Savior and the daughter of God and those ethnic Zur who remained true to their faith and the few converts to the Zaeri religion were the subjects in most places of animosity, prejudice, and discrimination. At least they were in most places outside the Dechantagne home. Miss Dechantagne would brook none of that.

“Excuse me,” said a voice from the doorway. Everyone in the room turned to see Master Terrence leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe. None of the staff were sure just how long he had been standing there. “Mrs. C, could I get one of those sandwiches? I’m really not in the mood to sit through one of Iolanthe’s luncheons.”

Mrs. Colbshallow had the plate in his hands almost before he finished speaking, and though he hadn’t asked for one, she pressed a chilly bottle of beer into his other hand.

“Thanks,” he said, turning and walking out of the servant’s hall. Nobody noticed Yuah giving him just the same sort of look that she had been receiving from young Saba just a few minutes before.

Chapter Two: In Distance Places

Schwarztogrube sat atop the Isle of Winds, situated almost exactly in the center of the channel between Brechalon and Freedonia. Its massive stone walls rising high above jagged cliffs were not broken by a single door. The few windows visible were all far too small for anything approaching the size of a human being to pass through. The only entrance was through a secret passage at the water’s edge: gated, guarded, and locked. The towers rising up into the sky were topped with pointed minarets allowing no entrance from the air. The waters around the tiny island were constantly patrolled by Brech warships. Inside, Schwarztogrube was the harshest, ugliest, and most formidable prison in the world, yet few even knew of its existence.

Nils Chaplin had been a guard at Schwarztogrube for almost a whole week before he saw a prisoner. That wasn’t so surprising, considering the guards outnumbered them at least ten to one. An entire wing was devoted to incarcerating only about two dozen men. The prisoners carried out their lives, such as they were, never leaving their cells, but supplied with food and a few simple comforts such as a pillow, a blanket, or a book. None of them looked particularly dangerous, and they weren’t. At least they weren’t while they were here. Schwarztogrube was a magic prison. A prison set aside for wizards and sorcerers—the only place in the world where magic would not work.

It was his third week and Chapman was looking forward to a week off back in Brechalon, spending his paycheck, eating fish and chips, and enjoying life outside of massive stone bocks, when another guard, Karl Drury, at last led him to the north wing. Chapman didn’t like Drury. He told disgusting jokes to the other guards; viciously beat the prisoners, and when he could get away with it he buggered the boys working in the kitchen or at the dock. He also stank. But as Chapman followed Drury though the deathly cold stone walls, he wasn’t thinking about the other guard’s shortcomings. He was wondering at the empty cells that they passed. Finally they came to the one door that was locked shut.

“Here we be,” said Drury. “That there’s the only one in the entire wing.”

“Special, huh?”

“Take a butchers.”

Chapman pressed his face against the small barred window. Most of the room beyond was dark, illuminated only by a square of light carried in from a four by four inch window high up on the far wall. The room had no pillows or blankets as did the rooms in the south wing. There was no bed. The only thing in the cell approaching furniture was a piss pot. Curled up in a fetal position against the far wall was a human being. The dirty ragged clothing and matted hair of unknown color gave no hint to the identity of the figure.

“Who is he?” wondered Chapman.

“That’s not a he. That’s a she. And that’s the most dangerous creature in the world, that.”

“Really?”

“That’s what they say. So dangerous, we’re not even ‘sposed to be here. Ain’t that right, eighty nine?” he called to the prisoner. She didn’t stir. “Lucky for us the warden’s gone to the mainland, eh?” Drury pulled out a large key and placed it in the massive lock on the door.

“Maybe we shouldn’t ought to do this,” said Chapman.

Drury paid no attention. He opened the door and swaggered into the cell. The woman curled up against the wall didn’t move. When Drury had crossed the room to her, he nudged her with the toe of his boot.

“Get up, eighty nine.” She remained still.

The sadistic guard grabbed a handful of the prisoner’s dirty, matted hair and dragged her to her feet. Chapman could finally make out that she was a woman. She was thin. She looked half starved, but he could still tell that she had once had quite a figure. Drury held her up by her hair, presenting her for view as if she were a freshly caught trout.

Suddenly the woman came to life, kicking the guard in the shins. Drury let go of her hair and knocked her to the ground with a back-hand slap. She looked up at him and even across the poorly-lit cell, Chapman could see the hatred in her cold grey eyes. She pointed her hand and spat words that might have been a curse in some ancient, unknown language.

“Uastium premba uuthanum tachthna paj tortestos—duuth.”

Even here in Schwarztogrube, where no magic in the world would work, Chapman could have sworn that he felt a tingle in the air. Nothing else happened though. Drury kicked her in the face, knocking her onto her back. He kicked her again and again. And again. Finally he grabbed her once more by the hair and lifted her to her feet. With his other hand, he began unfastening his trousers. Chapman turned and left. He didn’t need to see this.

* * * * *

Lieutenant Arthur McTeague paced back and forth, from one end of the small clearing to the other. Around him grew the dense forest full of incredibly high redwoods and huge maples. Most of his platoon was gathering together brush to build a barrier around the spot that had been chosen as their campsite for the night. The remainder were laying out fuel, tinder, and kindling for the campfires. McTeague’s fellow lieutenant, Augustus P. Dechantagne, sat on a large rock at the edge of the clearing.

“I signed up for the artillery,” said McTeague. “What about you, Augie?”

“Artillary.”

“Then how come we’re out here in the middle of nowhere, not a cannon in sight?”

“You’re lucky they let you have a rifle,” said Augie as he pulled an envelope from his tunic pocket.

“What’s that then?”

“Letter from my sister.”

“Anything interesting at home?”

Augie handed him the letter, and he read through it quickly.

“Wow. Tender.”

“Oh, she loves me in her own way.”

“Anything else in the envelope?”

“Just my allowance.” Augie held up a wire transfer in the amount of two thousand marks.

“Kafira! You can have quite a week on the town with that. All you can drink. Good food. Women.”

“Do you see any women?” asked Augie, waving in the direction of the tall trees. “Do you see any food? I’m not even sure I can cash this when we get back to Mallontah. How likely is it that someone there will have two thousand marks lying around? I’d have been better off if she sent me a five pfennig piece taped to the inside of the envelope like my Auntie Gin used to do. It’s a good thing I have two bottles of contraband in my pack.”

“That’s what I like about you—always prepared.”

That night, the two bottles were produced, one passed around among the men and the other shared by the two lieutenants as they warmed their feet by the campfire, their heads resting on their packs. The noises of this strange forest were far different than back home. There were squawks and squeaks and in the distance, roars. Not distant enough for McTeague’s taste.

“Don’t worry,” said Augie. “They’re more afraid of you than you are of them.”

“I can attest to the fact that that is not the case.”

The next morning all of the men expressed similar concerns as an entire herd of great beasts made their way through the nearby forest, heedless of the humans. The monsters were up to twelve feet tall and thirty five feet long, though there were many smaller members of the species among them. Though their bumpy skin and thick legs put one in mind of an elephant, they walked on hind legs, only sometimes using quadrupedal locomotion. Their heads were shaped something like the head of a horse, but their long, heavy tails spoke of their reptilian origins.

“What are they called again?” wondered McTeague.

“Dinosaurs,” said Augie. “All I can think of when I see them is the size of the brisket you could get.”

“I doubt it would taste good.”

“Our cook back home, Mrs. Colbshallow, can make anything taste good. Let’s get the men together and get going. If those are the sheep in this country, I don’t want to see the wolves.”

The column of forty two soldiers dressed in blue and khaki walked north, away from the dinosaurs. Though the ground was thick with rhododendrons and other small brush, there were enough game trails that overland travel was not too slow. Along the way the men saw more and more of the strange creatures, though Augie didn’t know if the smaller ones were rightly dinosaurs. They had feathers and looked much more like scary birds. They marched all morning and came to their destination just after noon. It didn’t look any different than a hundred other forest clearings except that this clearing contained the parties they were sent to meet.

Three creatures stood before the soldiers. They were all well over six feet tall and they looked far more reptilian than the dinosaurs or scary birds did, as though alligators had been given the power to stand up on their back legs and use their forelegs for hands as men did. Each had a long snout filled with peg-like teeth and a long tail which trailed behind them, remaining just a few inches above the ground. Though they wore no clothing, their scaly bodies were painted in bizarre designs of red, black, and white. All three as one raised their right hands, palms outward, to the dewlaps on their throats and spoke a hissing language.

“What did they say?” asked McTeague.

“Something about a tree?” Augie replied.

“Aren’t you here as the interpreter?”

Augie shrugged, and then spat out a series of hisses and gurgles of his own.

“Everything’s fine—greeting, greeting, hail, hail, promise not to kill you, etc.”

“Alright, tell them what I say.” McTeague produced a note from his pocket and read it. “Hail to you and your chief. We come to you in peace and friendship from across the sea and bring you word from your new great chief that he now claims these lands. So that you know your new great chief means well, he has sent us with these gifts.”

As Augie translated, McTeague gestured to one of the men who brought forth six small bags tied at the top. McTeague handed two to each of the reptilians, one of whom opened a bag, spilling out a handful of copper pfennigs into his hand.

“The army plans to win over the lizardmen with twelve marks worth of coins?” wondered Augie, after he had finished the reptilian tongue.

“Coins good,” said one of the lizardmen. “Like coins. Not kill you.”

* * * * *

Ssissiatok was returning to the village when she heard their strangely musical voices. They didn’t sound like the voices of the people and they didn’t sound like any of the animals in the forest. She made her way through the trees toward the sounds, carefully watching ahead as she moved through the bushes. They were easy to spot. There were many of them and they had bright blue upper bodies. They stood erect like her people, but they didn’t have long thick tails to balance them. They didn’t have tails at all. Then she saw that they were not alone. Tattasserott, Ssterrost, and Toss were with them. They were talking with the strange creatures. She ducked down into the bushes.

Ssissiatok was young. She had only grown tame enough to enter into a hut a few years before. Like all young ones, she had lived life as a wild animal from the time she was hatched until she had become large enough. Then a group from her hut had captured and tamed her and taught her how to be civilized. Now she lived with a group of twelve others in a large square wooden home where Toss was the elder.

She was close enough now that she could make out Toss’s voice. He was saying something about trading to Ssterrost. Then he began speaking the bizarre lyrical words of the strangers. It seemed so strange to hear those sound coming from his long handsome snout. As she watched, it suddenly occurred to her that the blue and earth colors on the strangers were not their hide or feathers, but some strange material that they had clothed their bodies in. It made sense to her. They wore it like her people wore their paint.

Suddenly one of the strangers called out in a warbling cry. Many of the others took it up as well. Glancing quickly to the Toss and the others, she could tell by their posture that they were as startled as she was. The one that had started the warbling was showing his teeth. She saw Toss relax. She remembered what he had told her. They showed their teeth when they were pleased.

The elder had spent many evenings telling her and the others about when the strangers had come before. They had come and gone when Toss was young and now they were back. Most people thought they would leave again just like they had before, but Toss thought that they might stay this time. Ssissiatok wondered what they would do if they stayed. Would they build villages like her people? Would they trade with them? Would they fight?

The one that had first made the strange warbling stepped away from the others. He walked directly toward her, stopping about six feet away to lean on the trunk of a maple tree. He was looking around at the trees and flowering plants. Ssissiatok remained very still. It didn’t seem possible, but he didn’t see her. She was right there. Was it even a male? Ssissiatok didn’t know for sure. He opened the lower part of his clothing and urinated on the trunk of the tree. Ssissiatok leaned over to get a better look.

Suddenly the stranger caught her out of the corner of his eye and jumped, letting out a shout and a series of melodic words. He fastened his pants and wiped his hands on the leaves of a handy bush. Then he called over to the others in words, most of which Ssissiatok could understand.

“Ssterrost, is this one of yours? I thought I was about to get my blah blah bit off.”

Ssterrost came quickly over and it was clear from his posture that he was not happy.

“Ssissiatok, get back to the village! You are not supposed to be here. If I catch you where you’re not supposed to be again, I’ll bite your tail off.”

Ssissiatok hunkered down to make herself look smaller and turned toward the village, hurrying through the forest. Behind her she could hear the stranger. He was once again making the strange warbling cry.

* * * * *

This was another part of the city that Terrence Dechantagne knew well. It was known to the rest of the city as The Bottom and to those who lived there as Black Bottom. It was a section of the town built on land sloping down toward the River Thiss and it seemed as if it was perpetually falling into the green waters. Besides thousands of two and three story houses that all seemed to be either leaning toward the river because of the sloping land or leaning in the other direction in hopes of countering the slope, there were countless seedy pubs, sordid meeting houses, and hidden drug dens.

Terrence drove his sister’s steam carriage down Contico Boulevard, past the ancient stone buildings of the Old City and past the sea of tenement apartments, turning off into the dark and winding roads of Black Bottom. His vehicle was the only powered one on the road here. Foot traffic predominated, though there were quite a few horses, either pulling carriages or being ridden. There were enough of them that there was a two foot tall embankment of horse manure that ran down either side of the road. Flies filled the air almost as thickly as did the stench.

Following a series of alleys that would have confused anyone not intimately familiar with the area, Terrence brought the vehicle to a stop in front of a nondescript house. He peeled off his driving gloves and tossed them onto the seat next to him, and then he climbed down. The only light came from the dim headlamps and the tiny sliver of moon, but Terrence didn’t need either to detect the three men coming toward him from the shadows between two houses on the other side of the street. The foremost had a knife. The second carried a cricket bat. The third one was a big man. He didn’t seem to have a weapon, probably thought he didn’t need one.

“Hey blue coat. You can’t park here unless you pay the…” The man stopped talking when Terrence shoved the barrel of his forty five into the man’s mouth.

“You’re not going to talk to me anymore,” said Terrence. He looked at the other two. “Either one of you talk?”

“Put that away,” said the second man.

“I’m not taking orders right now either. This fellow a friend of yours?”

“My brother.”

“Then I take it you don’t want me to splatter his brains across the street.”

“You won’t. People like you follow the law.”

“People like me are the law,” said Terrence. “Your brother and I are going inside. When we come out again, I’ll pay your toll or whatever you want to call it. But. Anybody touches my car, bothers me, or brasses me off in any way, and I make you a little closer to being an only child.”

Terrence guided the man, still sucking on the barrel of his pistol and now walking backwards, around the car and to the door of the building. He rapped the door three times and it opened an inch.

“I’m here to see Blackwood,” said Terrence.

The door opened and Terrence pushed himself and his unwilling companion through. Inside was a large dark room. The person who had let them in turned out to be at least as large as the muscle in the street. He loomed over both of them and most people would have been intimidated. There was no furniture in the room and the dozen or so people there in various states of unconsciousness were sprawled out across the floor.

“I’m here to see Blackwood,” said Terrence again.

“Nobody sees him unless I say they do,” said the big man, his deep voice just as menacing as his physical presence.

“’Salright, Teddy. Dechantagne’s an old friend.”

Blackwood came down the stairs at the far end of the room. He was a small man with a head of thick, curly, red hair and a cigar clenched in the corner of his mouth. His appearance and his attitude reminded Terrence of a bantam rooster.

“’Dja bring a friend with you Dechantagne?” he asked in his thick brogue.

“A fellow I picked up on the street.”

“Would’ja mind lettin’m go?”

Terrence pulled the barrel of his forty five from the man’s mouth and, wiping it on the fellow’s shirt, he tucked it back into his belt.

“You’re dead mister.”

“Shut your damn mouth, Mika. Don’t go thinkin’ that because Dechantagne here is a pretty boy he won’t kill you dead. He will. On the other hand, if you give him any trouble, I’ll kill you and your whole family.”

The man—Mika went white.

“Now get on outa’ here.”

“Thanks,” said Terrence blandly, after the other man had hurried out the door.

“You know I’m not sentimental, Dechantagne. You’re just worth a lot more alive to me than he is. That changes; you’ll be the first to know. Now what can I do for you, as if I didn’t know.”

“Ten bottles.”

“Ten bottles. Kafira, you’re gon’ta kill yourself.” Blackwood chuckled. “It’s still a hundred a bottle.”

Terrence growled but nodded.

“I know you can get if for twenty out in the wilderness from some savage in a loin-cloth, but this is the good stuff, ya know.”

Terrence pulled a roll of bills from his tunic and peeled off a thousand marks. It was about a third of his pocket cash. He shoved it into Blackwood’s hand.

“Ya know I’ve got other products—things that will actually make you feel good. Ya might want ta give them a try sometime.”

“Just get the spice.”

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

Blackwood headed up the stairs in the back, while his muscle took his position once again at the door. Suddenly Terrence felt a tugging at his pants leg. Looking down he found a pale faced man with bloodshot eyes looking up. He couldn’t have been more than thirty, but he looked far older than that.

“I see a castle,” said the man. “She’s in a castle. What do you see? Is she in a castle for you?”

Terrence kicked the hands free of this clothing. The man looked up resentfully.

“You don’t see a castle, do you? You live in a castle here. You don’t need to see a castle there. She probably comes to you in a shack in the middle of nowhere.”

“Bugger off,” said Terrence.

“You see the purple flowers though, don’t you? You see those.”

Blackwood returned with a small wooden box, which Terrence opened. Inside were ten tiny cylindrical bottles, made of dark indigo glass. Each was filled with a milky white liquid and topped with a cork stopper. There it was—White Opthalium. Visio, as it was sometimes called, or See Spice, was made from rare enchanted lotus blossoms and blue fungus from Southern Enclep, whipped together with magic. Just looking at it made Terrence’s mouth and eyes water.

“Ya sure there’s nothin’ else?”

Terrence shook his head and left. The street punks were gone, though he hardly noticed. His attention was fixed only on the small box now in his possession. It was a quick drive back to the Old City and back to Avenue Dragon. He parked the car in the motor shed, but walked around to the west side of the house and went in through an almost never used entrance. This was part of the house that Iolanthe had closed off. He found a bedroom and locked himself in. Then he pulled aside the drop cloth that covered the bed and sat down with his back against the headboard. Opening the box, he pulled out one of the small indigo bottles and pulled off the stopper. He could just detect its florid smell.

Placing a finger on the tiny open mouth, he overturned the bottle to moisten his finger with the milky white liquid inside. Then he reached up and rubbed it directly onto his left eyeball, and then his right, quickly recapping the bottle and tossing it next to him on the bed as the room around him suddenly drained of color. He was seeing it.

No longer on the bed in an unused bedroom in the house at Number One, Avenue Dragon, he was now sitting in the middle of a great field of purple flowers that stretched ahead and to the left and right as far as the eye could see. Each flower was a foot tall, with a blossom as big around as his hand, with five purple petals, dark purple along the edge merging with the same indigo as the little blue bottle in the middle. And in the middle of each flower, where normally one would find the pistil, was a very human looking eyeball. Terrence stood up and turned around. Twenty yards away was a small yellow cottage, with a green roof and door and two windows with green shutters. And to the left and the right of the house, and beyond the house, the field of purple flowers stretched away to the horizon.

Chapter Three: Life in the City of Brech

Iolanthe Dechantagne sat in her parlor and sipped her tea. Across the table her guest mirrored her activity. He was a tall sandy haired man with deep-set, intelligent blue eyes. His pin-striped suit was carefully tailored and his paper collar was tight around his neck. As he sipped his tea, he nodded appreciatively.

“Very nice. An Enclepian blend, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You are quite right, Professor Calliere,” said Iolanthe, her aquamarine eyes sparkling. “Not many people can pick it out so easily.”

“Well, I’ve made more than a few trips to Nutooka. Collecting specimens for the university, you know.”

“How is your work going?” Iolanthe didn’t need to feign interest. She found all knowledge interesting and it usually proved valuable as well.

“Oh, zoology is nothing but a hobby of mine.” Professor Calliere set down his teacup and leaned forward. “Not that I haven’t made a few interesting discoveries. But no, my real work is in the mechanical engineering lab. I just filed a patent on a very important invention and I expect to be able to live quite comfortably off the proceeds for the rest of my life.”

“You won’t stop your work?” asked Iolanthe with one arched brow.

“Of course not, but this will allow me to concentrate on my next project without having to worry about day to day finances. Money is so… bourgeois.”

“Careful now Mr. Calliere. People will think you are a socialist.”

He chuckled. “Of course not. I just prefer to have somebody else deal with the tiresomeness of money.”

“So what was this very important invention?”

“Brakes. Brakes for trains.”

“Don’t trains already have brakes?” wondered Iolanthe. “It seems that all the trains I’ve ridden on did eventually stop.”

“Yes, but the old brakes must be worked manually. My brakes are pneumatic, which is to say they work on air power. They will be much safer and will allow trains to operate with a single brakeman instead of several. Best of all, engineers won’t have to start stopping so soon, so travel speeds will actually increase.”

“Professor Calliere, you amaze me. Brakes that actually make a train travel faster?” Iolanthe set down her own teacup and reached for a tiny cress sandwich. “Try one of these.”

“My next project is far more advanced,” Calliere paused to bite into the sandwich. “Mechanically speaking, I mean. I already have my assistant Mr. Murty doing the groundwork.”

“Oh? And just what is it?”

“It’s a calculating machine. It’s actually an expansion of a device I built several years ago, though this one will be far more complex.”

“What exactly do you mean, ‘a calculating machine’?” asked Iolanthe.

“Just that. It will be a machine, steam powered of course, which adds and subtracts, multiplies and divides large numbers, both large in the sense of being very big numbers and large in the sense of there being a great many of them. It will calculate and it will do it hundreds of times faster than a human being. It will be a marvelous test of mechanics.”

“It will be more than a mechanical test,” said Iolanthe. “I can imagine that there will be quite a few applications for such a device.”’

“Really? Like what?”

“Well for one thing, you could calculate artillery trajectories, taking into account force and angle and such.”

“My dear Miss Dechantagne, I had no idea you were so well versed in the art of artillery.”

“My brother is an artillery officer.”

“Indeed. And may I say how attractive it is to see a woman who has such a keen intellect beyond the usual fields of art, music, and literature.”

“You may,” said Iolanthe.

Calliere looked toward the ceiling and stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“Yes. Charts. Tables. Artillery. Latitude and longitude. Train schedules. Surveying. Yes, this bears thinking about. I need someone to create a mechanical language. I may know just the person…”

“Professor?”

“Hmm? Yes?”

“This machine will be quite expensive, will it not?”

“I will need a bit of capital for the work. I was going to go to the University for the funds.”

“No need.” Iolanthe smiled and poured more tea into the man’s cup. “I will finance it for you.”

* * * * *

“What do you think of him then?” asked Mrs. Colbshallow. “He is tall.”

“Yes, he is tall,” replied Yuah, looking down the hallway toward the parlor.

“You don’t like him?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like him. He is rather queer though, isn’t he?”

“I don’t think he is.”

“Well, I guess I don’t mean that he is,” Yuah explained, turning around. “But is that the type of man you imagined she would go for? I always thought she would be trying to land a sturdy war hero type.”

“That’s your type Dear, not hers.”

“Don’t be thick, Mrs. C. I don’t have a type.”

“Whatever you say.” Mrs. Colbshallow returned to the kitchen and gave the tea tray one more check before sending it off to the parlor with Tilda, the downstairs maid. “You might as well sit down. She’ll be busy with him for another half hour at least.”

“I still don’t see the attraction,” said Yuah.

“Not that you have a type.”

“Not that I have a type,” Yuah sat down.

At that moment, Zeah entered the servant’s hall carrying the mail.

“You have a letter from Mrs. Godwin, Mrs. C,” he said.

“Bless her heart,” said Mrs. Colbshallow. “Poor Mrs. Godwin, running around that great country estate, practically all alone now that Miss Dechantagne and the boys have moved away. I would be going half wobbly if it was me.”

“I wouldn’t mind a bit of peace and quiet, I can tell you that,” said Yuah. “It’s all Yuah fetch me this and Yuah put that away and Yuah I need you for something.”

“Yuah,” called a stern voice from the doorway. Everyone in the room jumped and hastily attempted to look busy. Nobody needed to look to see that it was Miss Dechantagne who spoke. Then in a low purr, she said, “Yuah, I need you for something.”

Mrs. Colbshallow, who was facing away from the mistress of the house, rolled her eyes as Yuah passed.

* * * * *

Senta didn’t mind working at Café Carlo in the Great Plaza. For the most part it was great fun watching people. Horse drawn trolleys, loaded with passengers, passed every three minutes. Most of the men wore suits, though a few of them were dressed as laborers. The ladies were dressed nicely, and wore huge bustles that made their rear ends stick out two feet behind them. Some people rode by in horse drawn carriages. There were also many, many pedestrians. The most interesting travelers though, were those riding in steam powered carriages, which spewed smoke and hissed steam.

The bad part about working at Café Carlo was that Carlo himself, the chubby proprietor of the establishment, treated her like an idiot. She was young, but she wasn’t stupid. He handed her a huge push broom and told her “sweep,” as if she didn’t know what a broom was for. Senta swept the walkway all around the café, starting on the far right and sweeping left one day and then on the next day, starting left and working her way right. It usually took her an hour and a half to sweep along the entire breadth of the café. Then she took the enormous broom around the building to the janitorial closet in back—the one which could only be reached from the outside, and she would put it away. Then Carlo would hand her a bucket of warm soapy water and a bristle brush and say “clean,” as if she didn’t know what a bucket of warm soapy water and a bristle brush were for.

The wrought iron railing that encircled the café was covered with soot. Everything in the entire city was covered in soot. The soot came from the smoke stacks of the factories that lined the waterfront. It came from the trains that rolled through the city to the great station four blocks north of the plaza. It came from almost all of the steam powered carriages that drove about the wide streets of the city. It was a good thing too. Now Senta and other children would be able to earn enough money cleaning that soot to pay their keep.

Senta started scrubbing the wrought iron railing, starting on the side opposite that which she had started sweeping on, so that if she swept from left to right, then she cleaned soot from right to left. Soon it was cleaned and Senta took the bucket of warm soapy water and bristle brush back to the janitorial closet. Then Carlo would hand her a clean cloth and a jar of polish. Next she would polish the brass dragon at the entrance to Café Carlo. It was about three feet long, including its serpentine tail, and about four feet wide, its wings outstretched. It sat on a stone plinth, so that it could just about look Senta in the face. She took great care to polish the entire body. While she did, she talked to the little statue.

“It’s all quite funny when you think about it,” she told the dragon. “I live in the city of Brech, so I’m a Brech aren’t I? But if I lived in the Kingdom of Greater Brechalon, but not in the city of Brech, I’d still be a Brech. That’s just odd, that is.”

The dragon, completely unmoving, professed no opinion.

“What do you think about the steam carriages,” she asked it. “I bet you could breathe enough fire to make one of them go, couldn’t you?”

Once she had finished polishing the brass dragon she hurried home. The fact that a six year old crossed the length of the city, through busy traffic and alone, raised no eyebrows. She was just one more of the endless supply of ragamuffins that was one of Brech’s greatest resources. Though tired, she managed her way up the twelve flights of stairs to Granny’s apartment without too much difficulty.

When Senta entered her home, she didn’t find the warm, pleasant atmosphere that she was used to. Fifteen year old Bertice, who was usually at work this time of day was home, and she and Granny stood in the front of the room holding each other. They both had faces red from crying. Ten year old Geert sat on the beat up old couch, and though he hadn’t been crying, he looked as though he wanted to.

“What’s the matter?” asked Senta.

Granny raised a hand, silently inviting Senta to her side, and then pulled her close.

“There has been an accident at the print shop. Maro was hurt.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s in on Granny’s bed, Dear. Why don’t you go in? I know he’d love to see you.”

Senta walked into the only other room in the apartment, the kitchen and living room being for all practical purposes a single one. Propped up in the center of the bed was Maro. Though his eyes were closed, it was obvious that he was awake. He was gritting his teeth and tears were squeezing out from the corners of his eyes. His right hand was wrapped up in bandages so completely that it looked to be three times its size. On a crate next to the right side of the bed was a large brown bottle of laudanum. Stepping over near it, Senta reached out and touched his left arm.

Maro started and opened his eyes. They were red from crying.

“My fingers got cut off,” he said.

“All of ‘em?”

“No, just two.”

“One of them wasn’t your thumb, was it?”

“No. It was the end two.”

Senta nodded. Then she climbed up into the bed beside her cousin and wrapped her long skinny arms around him.

“I bet it hurts.”

“Yup.” He snuggled closer and leaned his head on her shoulder.

“Maybe you won’t have to work at the print shop anymore now,” Senta offered.

“The print shop is ace. It’s my fault I stuck my fingers in the press. I hope they don’t give the job away…” Anything else Maro had to say was lost as he was finally carried away by drug induced slumber.

* * * * *

Running Miss Dechantagne’s errands around the city was not something that Zeah Korlann minded. It was his chance to get out of the house and get some fresh air. It was his chance to be away from the ever-present expectations of others. It was his chance to be anonymous. Today he was headed to the millinery shop for his mistress and then to the employment office for the house.

Just down the street from the house was the trolley stop. The massive brown mare which pulled the trolley turned one large brown eye toward him as he passed her and stepped up onto the running board and then into the car. As he dug a pfennig out of his pocket to drop in the glass money container, the driver looked at him and gave him a friendly nod. He took a seat near the middle of the carriage and folded his hands in his lap as he waited for the horse to start on its way. There were only four other people on the trolley—two older women that Zeah vaguely recognized as servants from a house down the street, a young soldier with red hair, and an odd looking man in a brown bowler with a long nose and thick whiskers.

Zeah’s attention was immediately drawn to the newspaper being read by the soldier. The young man was reading page two, leaving the headline staring the butler in the face. The two inch high block letters proclaimed “Dragon Over Brechalon.”

“I didn’t think there were any dragons left in the world,” Zeah said to himself. “At least not in Sumir.”

“There are a few,” said the odd looking man.

“They say it’s old Voindrazius,” said the soldier, peering over his paper. “They used to see him all the time in Freedonia… in the old days. A hundred years or so ago.”

“It’s not Voindrazius,” said the odd looking man. “It says very clearly that the dragon seen over Brechalon had metallic scales—some said golden scales. Voindrazius was a red dragon.”

Zeah didn’t see how the man could have read the soldier’s paper from his seat, and he didn’t have his own. He must have read it earlier in the day.

“I hope it doesn’t cause any damage,” said Zeah.

“I’m sure it won’t. Dragons once ruled this continent, but those few who are left just want to be left alone. You’re Zaeri, are you not?”

Zeah shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Yes.”

“Then you should know from the scriptures—The Old Prophets chapter twenty six, verse three.”

“Fear neither dragon nor storm,” quoted Zeah. “Well, I still fear storms too.”

“How about eclipses?”

“Eclipses?”

“Yes, there’s an eclipse the fourth of next month.”

“No, I guess I’m fine with eclipses.”

When Zeah stepped off the trolley, he found himself on Avenue Peacock. Like Avenue Phoenix, both sides of the street were lined with stores. But unlike Avenue Phoenix, here none of the stores looked like stores. There were no large windows showing off the wares that each establishment sold. They looked more like banks or discreet gentlemen’s clubs. That made sense, because like those places, these stores were for people with a great deal of money. The stores were labeled, but they were labeled with small letters just to the right of the doorways, rather than large signs above them. Zeah headed for one of the closer buildings, one marked Admeta March, milliner.

There was no bell above the door, like any store that Zeah would have shopped in. Inside, it didn’t look like a store at all. There was a couch and there were several chairs, a coffee table and several end tables with lamps—all made of very dark wood and a material of the most horrendous shade of pink. Zeah had been here before and knew just what to do. He sat down. After a few minutes, a thin pinch-faced woman wearing a dress the same horrendous shade of pink came in through a closed door of the same very dark wood.

“May I help you?”

“I’m here to pick up a hat for Miss Dechantagne.”

The woman nodded and left. Zeah sat back down and waited for what seemed an inordinate amount of time to get a hat, but at last she returned. She had a box, a hat box naturally, but it had not yet been tied shut with the usual bow.

“Would you care to see it?” the woman asked, opening the lid.

“Um, no.” Zeah turned and stared at the horrendous pink wallpaper.

The woman shrugged and went back out through the door. Zeah had never looked at any article of clothing that he had picked up for Miss Dechantagne, and he wasn’t about to start looking now. It wasn’t that there would be any impropriety. It was simply that, as Zeah’s luck ran, there would be something wrong with the hat. Not having much in the way of fashion sense, of course, Zeah would have no idea that there was anything wrong, and even if he did, he wouldn’t know what that something was. When Miss Dechantagne found the flaw in the apparel, she would ask Zeah if he knew anything about it, and he wouldn’t be able to say that there was no way that he could know anything about it because he had never seen the article in question before. He had seen it. All in all, it was better if he didn’t.

Taking another trolley, one that had many passengers though none of them soldiers and none of them odd looking men in brown bowlers, Zeah arrived at Avenue Boar near the banking district. The Prescott Agency was here, occupying the same columned, white building that they had occupied for more than fifty years. It was the job of the Prescott Agency to place top quality servants in the wealthiest and most important of Greater Brechalon’s homes. Zeah was at least as well versed in the protocol here as he was in the millinery shop. He walked up to the second floor to Mrs. Villers’ desk and told her what he needed.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said Mrs. Villers.

“Wha… what?”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“Wha…why not? You don’ t have anyone to place?”

“Oh, no. It’s not that. We have people to place, but you want someone with experience.”

“Yes.”

“Well, how can I put this? None of the experienced people want to work for her. They’ve all heard the stories.”

“The stories are, um… well, not exaggerated exactly… but still.”

“I understand,” said Mrs. Villers. “You are the head butler and I would be shocked if you spoke ill of your house. I certainly wouldn’t want you to. But you see my dilemma. I have several very promising looking newcomers.”

“Um.” Zeah stopped and examined the ceiling for a moment. “Yes. Send them around.”

He looked back at Mrs. Villers.

“Mr. Korlann?”

“Yes?”

“Was there anything else?”

“Um… no.” Zeah turned and headed for the stairs that led him down to the first floor and out onto Avenue Peacock. All in all, he thought it might have been better if there had been a flaw in the hat.

Chapter Four: Memories

Nils Chapman looked through the small window in the armored door at prisoner eighty nine. The warden was once again away from the island and Chapman was happy to note that Karl Drury was gone as well. Chapman had spent the previous weeks trying to find out anything he could about the lone occupant of Schwarztogrube’s north wing. He didn’t know why, but he felt compelled to find out all he could about her. The prison didn’t have any open records and asking the warden would have invited dismissal, so he had quizzed the other guards and the south wing prisoners. From the former, he hadn’t gotten much—only that she was an extremely dangerous, extremely powerful magic-user. From one of the latter though he had gotten a name—Zurfina.

“Zurfina,” he called out. “Is that your name? Is that who you are?”

Slowly, very slowly, the head came up until he could see the two grey eyes peering from between the dirty, blond hair like the eyes of a tiger looking out of the jungle—filled with hatred.

“Are you Zurfina?”

Slowly the fire in the eyes died, and the eyes turned glassy. Then the head dropped back down. Though he called to her several more times, prisoner eighty-nine gave no more indication that she heard or understood. Eventually he gave up and made his way back to the south wing, so he didn’t hear the words that came from the cracked lips.

“One thousand nine hundred sixty eight days. One thousand nine hundred sixty eight days. One thousand nine …”

One thousand nine hundred sixty eight days before, Zurfina the Magnificent had been moving through the throngs of people in Marcourt Station. She was not dressed as the other women in the station, or anywhere else in the United Kingdom of Greater Brechalon. High-heeled leather boots and leather pants matched the spiked leather collar around her neck and the fingerless black leather gloves on her hands. The black leather corset, worn as a shirt, left her white shoulders bare as it did the two inch star tattoo above each breast. No one noticed the bizarrely clad figure though. Zurfina was a master of obfuscation. To everyone else at the station, she seemed nothing but a non-descript brunette in a brown dress with an appropriately large bustle. To almost everyone else.

Zurfina had her ticket on the B511 out of Brech to Flander on the south coast, where she had already arranged to meet a boat that would take her to a ship bound for Mirsanna. There was no way that she could stay in Brechalon any longer. The government had refused to accept her independence. They would have her join the military or they would see her destroyed. They had already sent a dozen wizards and two sorcerers against her. But Zurfina was the greatest practitioner of sorcery in the Kingdom and was more than a match for any wizard.

A man in a brown suit stepped out from behind a pillar. To the other people in the station, he seemed nothing out of the ordinary, but to Zurfina he glowed bright yellow and was surrounded by a sparkling halo. She didn’t wait for him to cast a spell. She pointed her hand toward him and spat out an incantation.

“Intior uuthanum err.”

Immediately the man doubled over, wracked with uncontrollable cackling laughter. But before Zurfina could smile appreciatively, she was thrown from her feet as the world around her exploded in flames. She had been hit in the back by a fireball, and only the fact that she had previously shielded herself prevented her from becoming a human candle, as four or five innocent bystanders around her now did. Rolling to her feet and turning around, she found that she faced not one, but four wizards. The one who had evidently cast the fireball was preparing another spell, while the other three were casting their own. Her shield protected her from the lightning bolt, and the attempt to charm her, but one of the four magic missiles hit her, burning her shoulder as though it had been dipped in lava.

“Uuthanum uastus corakathum paj-- Prestus Uuthanum.” Zurfina ducked into a side alcove as one of the wizards turned to stone and her own shield was replenished. Several more magical bolts struck the stone wall across from her, creating small burnt holes. Peering quickly around the corner, she saw the four wizards just where she left them, the three trying to use their petrified comrade as cover. Looking in the other direction, she saw that the wizard cursed with laughter had recovered and he had been joined by two more.

Seven wizards—well, six. That was a lot of magical firepower. But then Zurfina looked across the station platform. Directly opposite her was the open door of a train; not the B511, but a train bound for somewhere else. If she could reach it, she could get away. She glanced quickly around the corner again. The smell of burnt bodies mixed with thick black smoke in the air, but though there was plenty of the former, there was not enough of the latter for Zurfina’s taste.

“Uuthanum,” she said, and a thick fog began to fill the station platform.

“Maiius uuthanum nejor paj.” The three wizards to her right suddenly faced a dog the size of a draft horse, snarling and foaming at the mouth, and they felt their spells were better aimed at it than any blond sorceress.

Turning to her left, Zurfina cast another spell. “Uuthanum uastus carakathum nit.”

The cement that formed the other end of the platform turned to mud. The petrified wizard, deprived of his secure foundation toppled over onto one of his comrades crushing him, while the other two struggled to pull themselves from the muck. Zurfina shot out of the alcove and ran toward the train. She had almost made it, when Wizard Bassington stepped into the open doorway in front of her.

She stopped right there in the open, unbalanced, unsure now whether to run left or right or back the way that she had come. She felt uncomfortably like an animal caught on the road in the headlamps of an oncoming steam carriage. Bassington didn’t move. He stared at her with his beady eyes. His eyes went wide though when Zurfina reached up to snatch something out of the air. Normal, non-magical people couldn’t see them, but he could—the glamours that orbited her head were spells cast earlier, awaiting the moment when she needed them.

She crushed the glamour and pointed her hand at the spot where Bassington stood, just as he dived away. The entryway where the wizard had been, and the passenger coaches on either side of him exploded, lifting much of the train up off the track as metal and wood shrapnel and human body parts flew in every direction. The flash knocked Zurfina herself back onto the cement and sent her sliding across the pavement and into the far wall. Before she could get up, she was hit with a dozen bolts of magical fire, some but not all of them deflected by her magic shield. It was a spell of weakening, followed by one of sleep though that finally dropped her head unconscious to the ground. The last thing she saw was Bassington’s hob nail boots walking toward her. That was one thousand nine hundred sixty eight days ago.

* * * * *

Two thousand twenty one days ago, Zurfina ducked into her lodgings on Prince Tybalt Boulevard. She had a second degree burn on her thigh and blood ran down her arm from a bullet wound just above her elbow. She bolted the door then staggered across the room to the dresser. Opening the top drawer, she pulled out a brown bottle of healing draught and splashed a generous amount onto first the bullet hole and then the burn. Finally she took a large swig. She turned quickly, raising her hand as the door opened. But she lowered her arm again when Smedley Bassington entered.

“I locked the door,” she said, taking another swig from the brown bottle.

“Are you alright?”

“A fat lot you care, you bloody bastard.”

“It’s not my fault,” he almost whined. “I told you what would happen. It’s not too late. Go with me to the Ministry of War. One word and it will be over. Everything can go back to the way it was.”

“Not the way it was,” she spat. “I wasn’t the Ministry’s lapdog before. That was you.”

“Zurfina…”

“Uuthanum,” she threw a quick gesture in his direction, which turned into a knife in the air.

“Uuthanum,” he said, sending the knife in an arc around the room and back at her. In midair it turned into badminton shuttlecock.

“Uuthanum,” she sent it back to him again, now transformed into a squirming serpent.

“Uuthanum.” As it sailed at her again, the snake became a rose.

Zurfina snatched it from the air and winced as the long pointed thorns bit her hand. “Son of a bitch!”

“You can’t get away,” said Bassington.

“No?” Zurfina gestured and was gone, leaving the wizard alone in the room.

That was two thousand twenty one days ago.

* * * * *

Two thousand nine hundred and seven days ago, Zurfina reclined across the park bench and took a deep breath, savoring the smell of the white rose that Smedley held to her nose. She shifted slightly, nestling her head more comfortably in his lap. A light breeze was whipping around her and as she looked up into the sky. She could see clouds floating by at a surprisingly quick pace.

“You haven’t given me an answer,” said Smedley.

“An answer to what?”

“An answer to the most important question in my life.”

“And what might that question be?”

“Infuriating woman,” Smedley snapped. “You know what question. You haven’t yet told me whether you’ll marry me. In antediluvian times, I’d simply have hit you over the head with a club and pulled you by the hair back to my cave.”

“Yes, well.” Zurfina’s charcoal-lined, grey eyes slowly rose to meet his. “Then I would wait until you were asleep and slice your throat with my stone knife.”

A slight shiver ran through Smedley’s body that made her smile, but he didn’t look away.

“So?”

“So what?” she purred.

“Will you marry me?”

“I believe I will have you. Yes.”

“Thank you,” he beamed. “You’ve made me the happiest man in Brech.”

“Not yet, but soon.” she replied, reaching under her head and stroking the crotch of his trousers. “After all, just because I must wait to have you, doesn’t mean that you must wait to have me.”

“What a tart.”

That was two thousand nine hundred and seven days ago.

* * * * *

“One thousand nine hundred sixty eight days. One thousand nine hundred sixty eight days.” Zurfina pressed her face against the cold stone of the cell. “Bloody bastard.”

* * * * *

Terrence had no idea what day it was. At least he knew it was Pentuary. Oh, yes. He knew that. It was starting to get hot and nobody wanted to spend their days indoors. That was where he had spent most of the last week though—holed up in to the back part of the house “seeing.” During that time he had very little food and almost no real sleep. He looked at the collection of tiny bottles in the wooden case. He had already finished one and all but finished another. He tucked the box under the bed and left the room, carefully locking the door behind him. The empty hallway and the stuffy air gave him a strange sense of déjà vu.

* * * * *

It had been Pentuary too when it happened, sixteen years before. Iolanthe, Augie, Yuah, and Dorah were sitting in a circle on the floor around Master Akalos, who was making them recite the names of the books in the Modest Scriptures. That two of them were the children of aristocrats and two were the children of servents made no difference to Master Akalos. That three of them were Kafirites and one of them was a Zaeri did, and the tutor gained a perverse delight in drilling them on the set of scriptures that the Zaeri did not believe in. Terrence, who was watching from beyond the door, could see the queer laughter hiding behind the man’s eyes. Both twelve year olds, Terrence and Enoch, had finished their lessons for the day. Enoch had hurried off to his chores in the stable, while Terrence had made himself a sandwich.

He leaned against the doorframe and took a bite. From this location he could see both the other children at their studies through the door and the carriage sitting in front of the house through the open window. His mother’s friend, Simon Mudgett, was visiting again. His carriage was out front, the horses still harnessed. He squeezed the last two or three bites together into his mouth.

“Julien, Wind, March, Magic, Raina, Egeria, Dallarians, Zaeri…” the four children recited, almost together. Iolanthe missed Raina and went right from Magic to Egeria. Yuah was determined to recite the loudest. Augie was moving his mouth without actually saying anything at all. All of them were casting envious glances at the scant breeze blowing in through the window.

Then Terrence saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. It was his father down the hallway. Quickly heading down the hall after him, Terrence saw the shotgun in his father’s hand. This was a great opportunity. Terrence liked shooting as much as any boy. But his father was going the wrong way. He was headed up the stairs. Had he already been shooting? Was he going to clean his shotgun now?

Terrence followed, now just a few feet behind his father, and as the elder Dechantagne opened the door to his wife’s bedroom, Terrence followed right on in. Then it was as if everything was in slow motion. Terrence’s mother was in bed, the bedclothes covering only the bottom half of her naked body. Next to her was Simon Mudgett.

With agonizing slowness, Lucius Dechantagne raised the shotgun to his shoulder and fired. A red spray blossomed from the bare chest of Iphigenia Dechantagne, covering the bed in blood. A second shotgun blast hit the bed just to her left, but Mudgett was already on the floor running for the window. The snap of the shotgun being opened was drowned out by the crash as he broke the glass from the already open pane, crashing through and falling naked and bloodied from the sloped roof to the grounds below. Terrence’s father snapped the weapon shut again and walked to the window, only to find nothing to shoot at. He turned around to find his wife, her mouth and eyes wide open as she gurgled a few last dying breaths and his twelve year old son, his face gone white, staring at each other. He shot his wife once more in the chest, turned and gave the boy a long look, and then turned back and shot her in the head, leaving a corpse that no longer at all resembled a living human being.

* * * * *

Terrence walked into the parlor to find it surprisingly cool. Iolanthe was there sipping an iced beverage. The outside of the tall glass was covered with beads of condensation. She looked up casually, but narrowed her eyes at his appearance.

“What have you been doing?” she asked.

“What are you drinking?”

“Iced tea.”

“Really? Is it any good?”

“Very refreshing. Would you like one?”

He nodded, taking a nearby chair, and she waved to a servant standing in the doorway, who then hurried off after the drink.

“What have you been doing, I ask again?”

“Reminiscing.”

“I have been as well.” She gestured to the family scrapbook on the divan next to her.

“You should burn that.”

“We can’t do that. But you are right, dear brother. We should stop looking to the past. Our future begins now.”

“If you say so, Iolanthe.”

* * * * *

Minutes before her brother had arrived in the parlor, Iolanthe had indeed been thinking over the past. It was not the same tragedy that Terrence had been reliving though. She knew that Terrence carried a scar from the murder of their mother, though she didn’t quite understand exactly what it was or how deep it cut. She had her own, more recent scars—scars scarcely ten years old.

Iolanthe had continued to live in her father’s house near Shopton, long after her brothers had gone away to military school. By her seventeenth year she had grown into a strikingly beautiful young lady. Not one to stay in the brooding mansion, she spent her days happily riding across the countryside. It was here that she met a young man named Jolon Bendrin. At first, she found him attractive. He certainly found her so. They met several times and talked and she enjoyed his company.

Then one day, he changed. They both attended a party at the Banner residence. Afterwards they had walked in the garden. Nothing seemed strange. When he kissed her, she had let him. But then he forced her down onto a stone bench and reached under her dress. She only realized the danger of her situation when he put his hand over her mouth. He raped her. Then week after week, he did it again. She tried to avoid him but she couldn’t. He seemed to be everywhere. What could she do? She wasn’t strong enough to fight him off, and there was no male protector for her—her father was in a drunken stupor and her brothers were both away. And who else could she tell, without disgracing herself? When she turned eighteen, she left Mont Dechantagne, moving to Brech, and leaving her father to waste away by himself.

* * * * *

Iolanthe took another sip of iced tea and looked at her brother sitting across from her. No, there was no point in living in the past. One must look toward the future. There was a great deal to do. But there was always the possibility that Jolon Bendrin might come to Brech. What would she do then?

Chapter Five: Putting Plans in Motion

Yuah knelt down and used the button hook to fasten the twenty eight buttons on each of Iolanthe’s shoes. As she fastened the last button, Yuah had to smile appreciatively. These shoes cost more than she made in a year, but unlike most wealthy aristocratic women, Iolanthe paid a premium not because the shoes were encrusted with jewels, but because they were exceptionally well-made, and they were very comfortable.

“What are you smiling at?” demanded Iolanthe.

“Nothing, Miss. I would never smile in your presence.”

Iolanthe pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes.

“What do you think about moving to some faraway land, Yuah… say for instance Mallon?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yuah feigned.

“Oh please. I know you’re all a bunch of spies. There is nothing that goes on in the house that you and your father and the cook don’t know about.”

“I’m just the servant, Miss. You’re the mistress.”

“You’re cheeky too. I would fire you in a minute if it weren’t that Augie is under the impression that you are his sister instead of me.” Iolanthe stood up and brushed out her dress. “Have you heard from him, by the way?”

“Yes, Miss.” Yuah had gotten at least three letters from Augie since Iolanthe had last asked her. He did indeed think of her as a sister, and she thought of him as a brother. She sent him a letter for everyone she received. They were the same age, two years younger than Iolanthe, and six years younger than Terrence, and had spent an enormous amount of time together as children.

“And?”

“Hmm?”

“And what did he say?” asked Iolanthe, pointedly.

“Oh. He wrote mostly about the native…people. Can you call them people? They aren’t really people are they?”

“It matters little what you call them,” said Iolanthe as she crossed the room to the cheval glass.

“Well, he’s been talking to them and learning their language. Isn’t that marvelous? Imagine talking to reptiles. And he writes about the creatures that live where he is. It’s all quite amazing.”

“Amazing that he hasn’t managed to mess it all up.”

“Not at all,” replied Yuah, raising her chin defiantly. “I think Master Augie is doing the family proud.”

“My family,” Iolanthe reminded her.

“Yes, Miss.”

“Still, he’s not the brother you would prefer to hear from, is he?”

Yuah’s face turned red. “I don’t know what you’re talking about… Miss.”

“Returning to my previous topic.” Iolanthe carefully placed her new hat atop her carefully coifed hair. “Life would be different for you outside of Brechalon… in a colony, I mean. Colonial life is different. You wouldn’t be a servant any more. In fact, you could probably afford servants of your own. You might be quite an important part of the community.”

“Are you trying to tell me that in the colonies I might marry Terrence?”

“God no,” Iolanthe laughed musically. “Perhaps we could marry you off to a tradesman.”

* * * * *

Zeah sat on the step in the courtyard and sipped his tea. It was hot and muggy and many might have preferred a cold beverage but the butler found tea soothing. The courtyard sat towards the side rear of the house, separated from the street on the east side only by an eight foot tall stone wall. Though windows looked down onto it from all three stories on the other three sides, most of those rooms were not in use, so it was relatively private. Never-the-less, the door behind him opened and young Saba stepped out. Hopping down the steps, he sat down next to Zeah.

“Good morning, Mr. Korlann.”

“Good morning.”

The boy had a large brown glass bottle with a rubber stopper, which he pulled out with his teeth and spat onto the step. Then he tilted the bottle back and took a great swig.

“You’ll pick that up in a minute, I trust,” said Zeah, indicating the stopper with a nod.

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

“What are you drinking?”

Saba held up the bottle and Zeah read the label. Billingbow’s Sarsaparilla and Wintergreen Soda Water.

“Is it any good?”

“I love it. Would you like a taste?” The boy pointed the open mouth of the bottle at the man.

“Um, no, thank you.”

“Is Miss Dechantagne really going to move to Mallon?”

“Where did you hear that?” asked Zeah, looking at the boy.

“I overheard my mother talking to Yuah about it.”

“I think it best not to speculate what Miss Dechantagne might or might not do.”

“You’re afraid of her, huh?”

“Ah… afraid? No, I’m not afraid of Miss Duh… Dechantagne.”

“Sure you are. Don’t feel bad. Everyone’s afraid of her. I’m afraid of her. I think Master Terrence is afraid of her.”

“I, um…”

“You know how you can tell that you’re afraid?”

“I’m not… um, how?”

“You only stutter when you’re nervous.”

“I duh… don’t stutter… and nuh… nervous is not the same thing as afraid.”

Saba took another swig of soda. “Sure it is. It’s just another word for it, like hart is just another word for horse.”

“They’re not the same thing at all. A hart is a deer.”

“You know you shouldn’t be nervous. It’s not like Miss Dechantagne is going fire you.”

“It’s not?”

“No. She always says she’s going to fire somebody, but when was the last time you saw her really do it.”

“About five minutes ago,” said Zeah.

“Really? Who’d she fire?”

“She dismissed Nora.”

“I don’t know anybody named Nora.”

“She was the girl I hired the other day.”

“Well, you see there,” said Saba, knowingly. “She was new. When was the last time Miss Dechantagne fired anyone that had been with the house for a while?”

“She dismissed Tilda yesterday.”

“Yeah, I miss her,” said Saba wistfully. “So is Miss Dechantagne really going to move to Mallon?”

“Um, I think it’s best not to discuss this. Why do you want to know?”

“Well, I was just thinking. If she goes then I imagine that we would get to go with her.”

“Do you want to move to Mallon?” asked Zeah.

“Sure. Who wouldn’t?”

“Um, I wouldn’t.”

“Sure you would. It would be great. It would be just like living in a Rikkard Banks Tatum novel.”

“Don’t all of his books involve monsters, chases, and narrow escapes from danger?”

“You bet,” the boy grinned. “It’ll be the dog’s bullocks.”

Saba drained his bottle of Billingbow’s and stood up.

“Well, I guess I’d better get busy. I’m supposed to wash the steam carriage. Do you think I could drive it out of the motor shed?”

“No,” Zeah replied. “You had best push it out.”

The boy’s grin disappeared. He sighed and then walked across the courtyard to the motor shed. Zeah reached down and picked up the rubber stopper that Saba had left, then stood up, stretched his back, and went up the steps and back into the house.

* * * * *

It was the first time that Nils Chapman had seen prisoner eighty nine doing anything other than lying curled up in a fetal position. Today she was sitting, cross-legged in the center of the room. It was hot and muggy and he had to wipe the perspiration from his eyes in order to see her clearly. She was muttering something, but he had to listen for a minute to make out just what it was.

“…nine hundred seventy four days. One thousand nine hundred seventy four days. One thousand nine hundred seventy four days.”

“Why are you counting the days?” he called to her through the small window in the armored door.

She locked eyes with him, but didn’t stop repeating her words.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

She stopped. “Yes.”

“Alright. I’ll get you something.”

Chapman made his way down the stone corridor toward the south wing and the kitchen. He hadn’t quite reached it, when he ran into Karl Drury going the other direction. The other man wore his usual scowl and his shirt was soaked through with sweat. He didn’t need to ask what the other man wanted.

“Why don’t you leave her alone?” said Chapman.

“Why don’t you piss off?” Drury replied and shoved him into the wall.

Chapman immediately leaned back toward Drury.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he growled, which was in fact not true at all.

“You’d better be,” the other man hissed, producing a knife from somewhere. “I could gut you right now… or maybe I’ll do it tonight, while you’re asleep.”

“Tosser,” said Chapman, but he hurried away toward the kitchen.

Purposefully waiting a good half hour before returning to the north wing, Chapman unlocked the door after he was sure that his sadistic fellow guard had gone. Prisoner eighty nine was sprawled across the stone floor like a ragdoll. It was no surprise that she had been raped, but the guard was shocked at how badly she had been beaten. Apparently she was not nearly as acquiescent as she had been before. Her eyes were open, but they stared at the ceiling, unmoving.

“I brought you a Roger’s Pie.”

He sat the wooden bowl containing the bun filled with meat and turnips next to her head. Her eyes rolled around in her head then looked at him. She sat up and snatched the pie from the bowl, stuffing it into her mouth.

“Have to keep my strength up,” she muttered with her mouth full. “One thousand nine hundred seventy four days.”

“Why are you counting?”

She finished the pie, but didn’t reply to his question.

“Is your name Zurfina?”

Suddenly her eyes came alive, full of fire, of danger, and of power.

“Zurfina the Magnificent,” she said.

“Can I get you something else?”

“Why?” she asked, the now dangerous grey eyes narrowing.

“Um, I don’t know.”

“Bring me a knife!” she hissed.

“I can’t do that,” he said. “Even if it wouldn’t get me sacked, you’d hurt yourself.”

He now saw that the woman had a series of slash marks up the length of both arms and on both thighs.

“You’re trying to kill yourself.”

“I promise I’m not going to kill myself,” she said.

Chapman turned to leave and stopped in his tracks. Covering the entire wall of the cell all around the door were strange symbols, black against the grey of the stone. Though they weren’t really letters and certainly weren’t from any language that he knew, there was something nevertheless familiar about them. They seemed to swirl and move unnaturally, as if the wall was made not of stone but of rubber or something similarly malleable and it was being manipulated from behind, creating waves and bulges.

“Kafira,” he swore, and then he jumped as he heard the woman stir behind him. When he looked at her though, she was only getting to her feet, slowly.

“What is that?” he asked, afraid to look back at the wall and afraid to keep his back to it as well.

“That is Omris and Siris,” she replied cryptically. “That is Juton and Treffia. It is Worron and Tommulon.”

“I don’t know any of those words.”

She moved so close to him that her smell gagged him. She stank of years of sweat and urine and filth, and something else.

“That’s your blood!”

“Tell no one about this,” she ordered. “Tell no one. Tell no one.”

He stepped quickly away and slammed the door shut, locking it behind him. He ran down the corridor toward the south wing, and he didn’t look back. Still, he could hear her voice behind him.

“One thousand nine hundred seventy four days. One thousand nine hundred seventy four days.”

* * * * *

Avenue Boar ran west from the Great Plaza of Magnus to St. Admeta Park, which was a lovely square expanse of fruit trees and green swards open to the public only on holidays or special occasions. To the north of St. Admeta park was Palace Eidenia, home of the Princess Royal, though since the death of Princess Aarya some ten years prior it had been unoccupied by any member of the royal family. To the west of the park was Avenue Royal which led to Sinceree Palace, where King Tybalt III spent his days while in the city, and to the south was Crown Street which led to the Palace of Ansegdniss where the Parliament of the United Kingdom of Greater Brechalon met. Along either side of Crown Street were the official homes of the King’s ministers. Number 3 was the home of the First Lord of the Treasury while number 4 was the home of the Second Lord of the Treasury and Chancellor of the Exchequer. The Foreign Minister lived in number 7 and the Judge Advocate General lived in number 8, but the largest of the homes on Crown Street was number14: that of the Prime Minister.

Stepping out of her steam carriage, Iolanthe Dechantagne retrieved her parasol from behind the seat and opened it, even though it was a walk of only thirty feet to the door. She tucked a small envelope of papers under her arm. The parasol matched Iolanthe’s outfit, a grey pin-striped day dress framed with waves of antique lace. The single police constable stationed at the Prime Minister’s door nodded affably and made no mention of the fact that Iolanthe’s parking skills had resulted in both tires on the right side of her car being well up onto the sidewalk. He opened the door for her, and she stepped into the vast foyer of the official residence. A maid was waiting to take the parasol and lead her into the offices of the Prime Minister.

Iolanthe had not expected to be kept waiting and indeed she was not. The PM, The Right Honourable Ewart Primula stood up from behind a massive oak desk that had been fashioned from the timbers of the ancient battleship H.M.S.Wyvern. He was a tall, balding man with a thick middle and rather loose jowls that tightened up when he smiled.

“Lady Dechantagne,” he said, hurrying around, but waiting for her to shake his hand.

Iolanthe pursed her lips. “Prime Minister, you know that title is not appropriate.”

“Well, it should be,” the PM replied. “It is most unfair that you should suffer because of… well, because of your father. If it were up to me, your title would be restored and your brother would be viscount.”

“We both know it’s not up to you, and the one man that it is up to is not likely to share your inclination.”

“Let’s not speak of it then,” said Primula, gesturing toward a comfortable antique chair. As Iolanthe took it, he walked back around the desk and sat down. “What can I do for you today?”

“As you already alluded to, my once historic and distinguished family is not quite what it was.” Iolanthe licked her lips. “No viscounts in the house at present, I’m afraid. My two brothers and I could of course live comfortably for the rest of our lives on our household income, but we have bigger plans. We are going to bring the greatness back to our name.”

The Prime Minister nodded.

“Our plan is not just to help ourselves though,” she continued. “Freedonia and Mirsanna are building colonies in distant lands and are becoming wealthy as a result. Greater Brechalon must do the same thing. We propose to build a Brech colony, assuming a royal charter is available”

“In Birmisia,” the PM said, nodding.

“We have as yet not decided. Birmisia is one possibility. Cartonia is another.”

“I think you have settled on Birmisia. You went to a great deal of trouble to have your brother stationed there.”

“Why Prime Minister,” said Iolanthe, with a thin smile. “I didn’t know that we warranted such attention.”

“If anything, I believe I have not been paying enough attention. You are quite a remarkable person, particularly for a woman.”

“And you are quite a perceptive person, Prime Minister, for a man.”

Primula chuckled. “So what is it that I can do to facilitate this expansion of our empire?”

“First of all,” said Iolanthe. “There is the question of the aforementioned charter.”

“I see no undue complications there.”

“Then there is the question of transportation.”

The Prime Minister looked puzzled. “You will charter ships, yes?”

“I will arrange for a number of ships to deliver both settlers, and equipment and supplies. But in order to assure the safe transit of the first settlers and to guarantee the establishment of the colony, I would like the use of a Royal Navy ship, preferably a battleship, along with its crew, of course.”

“Of course,” Primula laughed. “You know you just can’t charter a battleship like it was a yacht for the Thiss Regatta.”

“Talking of which, congratulations on your victory yesterday.”

“Thank you. The regatta is one of the few pleasures I still allow myself.”

Iolanthe leaned forward, her hand reaching out with a heretofore unnoticed small envelope, which she gave to the Prime Minister. He accepted it, opened it, and unfolded the document inside.

“Sweet mother of Kafira,” he gasped, his face turning white. “Where did you get this? No. I don’t want to know. Does anyone else know about this?”

“No.”

“But they will if I don’t accede to your demands?”

“Don’t be silly, Prime Minister.” Iolanthe leaned back, folding her hands in her lap and smiled. “This is the original. There are no facsimiles. This is a gift.”

Ewart Primula jumped up from his seat and pulled aside a large portrait of His Majesty on the wall behind him. He quickly turned the combination on the safe which was revealed, and in a moment he had placed the paper and the envelope inside, closed and locked the safe, and replaced the stern portrait of the King. Turning around, his face took on a wary look, as if he only just realized that there was a tiger seated across the desk from him.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said slowly.

“Don’t mention it, Prime Minister,” Iolanthe smiled. This did nothing to drive the image of a tiger from his mind. Neither did her next words. “I consider it my duty, one I can perform again. There are a great many similar documents drifting about, you know.”

The PM dropped heavily into his chair.

“As I understand it,” he said with a sigh. “There are two battleships coming in for extensive refit in the next few months—the Minotaur and the Indefatigable, if I’m not mistaken. One of them could be held until you are ready. It is of course, in the best interest of the empire to establish this colony.

“Oh, indeed it is,” replied Iolanthe.

“Is there anything else?”

“Oh, export papers and manifest waivers, and things of that sort; nothing we need to discuss face to face.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to give you a government wizard?” More than a hint of sarcasm was present in these words, but Miss Dechantagne appeared not to notice.

“No. When the time comes, we will hire our own spellcasters—ones we can trust.”

She stood up and the Prime Minister walked around the desk to take her hand, though he seemed far less enthusiastic about it than he had on her arrival.

“You can’t trust any of them,” he said.

“It is not a question of whom one may trust, Prime Minister,” said Iolanthe. “It is a question of how far. I will trust them precisely as much as I trust anyone else.”

Chapter Six: Blood

Yuah Korlann woke so suddenly that for a moment she didn’t recognize where she was. She was of course, in her own bed, in her own small room, in the servant’s quarters of Number 1 Avenue Dragon—in Brech… in Greater Brechalon. She threw her legs over the side of the bed and stuck them into her house shoes. What a queer dream that had been.

She had been walking down a road. It had been winter. Patches of snow lay here and there on the ground and some of the trees were bare, although there were many evergreens. She had been bundled up in a thick fur coat, far more luxurious and expensive than anything she would ever really be able to afford. She even had a fur muff. The most extraordinary thing though, wasn’t where she was, but who or more precisely what, she was with. It was an alligator, walking upright and wearing a yellow evening gown. As they walked along, they talked about the strangest things: the state of the Kingdom, literature, and religion.

Reaching for the glass of water on her nightstand, Yuah saw the open book lying there. She had been reading Night of the Snake by Ebrahim Detsky. That was the problem. She ought not to read books like that right before bed.

Getting up and throwing the housecoat over her night dress, she shuffled out the door, down the hallway and into the servant’s hall. It was just light enough to see and she realized it was a quarter past four when the wall clock sounded four sharp chimes.

Padding her way on into the kitchen, she thought about having a cup of tea, but that would have meant starting a fire in the oven. Instead, she opened the door of the icebox and withdrew a glass bottle of milk—one of six, and got a glass from the cupboard. She poured her milk, put the bottle back, and carried the glass into the servant’s hall, where she sat down at the great table. As she drank her milk, she could hear the clock tick-tocking in the other room. It seemed to get louder and louder.

“You’re up early.” At the sound of the voice Yuah jumped, dribbling milk down her chin.

“Heavenly days! What’s wrong with you?” Both the exclamation and the question were out of her mouth before she turned around to find Terrence staring wryly at her.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Don’t look at me! I’m practically naked!”

“You’re kidding, right? You’ve got more clothes on that an Argrathian virgin.” He stepped past her and made his way into the kitchen.

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” said Yuah.

“About Argrathians or about virgins? Shouldn’t there be some cheese in the ice box? Oh, here we go. Now where’s the breadbox?”

“Why didn’t you just press your buzzer?”

“What?” He poked his head back in through the doorway.

“You have a buzzer in your room next to the bed. When you press it, whoever’s on duty, I think it’s Eunice, will bring you whatever you want.”

“When did I get one of those?”

“Your sister had it put in a few months ago.”

“How much do you suppose that cost? Oh, here’s the bread.”

“You would think that you would know. After all, it is your money she’s spending.”

There was a clattering of knives and plates, but Terrence said nothing else until he emerged back from the kitchen with a cheese sandwich on a plate in one hand and what was left of Yuah’s bottle of milk in the other.

“If I’m not worried about it, you shouldn’t be,” he said, sitting down.

He took a bite of sandwich and they were both quiet for a moment.

“That’s your problem, you know,” Yuah said quietly. “You never worry about anything.”

“You’re overstepping yourself, little maid. It’s not your job to worry about what my problem is.” He drained the milk bottle and set it down, hard, on the table.

“Somebody has to. You’re hiding out somewhere poisoning yourself, aren’t you?”

“Shut the hell up,” he said, getting to his feet.

“You’re not taking care of yourself and nobody else it either. I nursed you when you were little, but who’s looking after you now?”

“And just who did you think you were, when you were nursing me? My sister or my mother?”

Yuah flushed.

“I see,” Terrence stepped close and leaned down to look her in the face. “You thought you were my woman. Well, you’re not.”

Yuah felt tears flooding unbidden down her cheeks. She wanted to scream that she wouldn’t marry an idiot like him in a million years, but all that came out was “I hate you!”

“Yeah, welcome to the club.” He stood up and tossed the sandwich onto the table, where it fell apart and scattered.

Yuah jumped to her feet and rushed toward the doorway, pausing just long enough to yell once more at Terrence. She wanted to tell him that he hated himself so much that he would never be able to love anyone else, but all that came out was “You can’t have me.”

“Why would I want a skinny little bint like you?” shouted Terrence after her.

* * * * *

“What do you suppose this is supposed to be?” asked Arthur McTeague.

“I suppose it was a city a long time ago,” replied Augie Dechantagne, with an emphasis on the second word.

The two lieutenants and the full platoon of soldiers were standing on a smooth surface of stone slabs that had been fitted together. There were steps here and there, breaking the area up into several terraces of varying heights. In a few places there were piles of stone that might have indicated that a wall had once stood there, but there were no buildings. On the far side of the clearing were a series of seven large stones. Each stood about eight feet tall and they were roughly oval in shape. At either end of the row were the remains of other similar stones that had once stood in the line, but had long ago crumbled, either from exposure to the elements or from ancient vandalism. Though those that remained were weathered and worn, one could see that each had been carved long ago to represent a dragon.

A loud squawk announced the arrival of eight or ten creatures that burst out of the trees and ran across the ancient stones. They were only slightly larger than the average chicken and were covered in hairy feathers, though their faces looked all too reptilian and their mouths were full of needle sharp teeth.

“Now, are those birds or dinosaurs?” asked McTeague.

Augie shrugged, but pulled out a book from his tunic.

“And what’s that?”

“That my friend is called a book. People, not artillery officers mind, but other people, sometimes read them.”

McTeague gave him a withering look. “What book is it, you great tosser.”

“It's Colonel Mormont's journal. My brother sent it to me.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of the chap. He was here in Birmisia a few years ago, right?”

Augie didn’t reply. He was busy flipping through the pages.

“What does he say about those little buggers?”

“Hold on a minute. I’m looking.”

McTeague folded his arms and waited. Several of the men were chasing the small creatures around the edge of the clearing.

“Here it is. Here it is. I knew I recognized them.” Augie held up the open page to a drawing that did indeed bear a strong resemblance to the creatures in question.

“Buitreraptors,” McTeague read. “Why do you suppose they all have to have such strange names?

“You know how these naturalist types are. Besides, if you just went with ‘chicken-lizard’ and ‘turkey lizard’ you’d soon run out of names. Face it. That’s really what they look like.”

A much louder squawk than those heard before announced to all the soldiers that something larger and more frightening than the skittish buitreraptors had arrived. A monster burst out of the brush and ran toward the tiny creatures. It was a bird lizard too, covered with feathers ranging from a deep turquoise on the head to a light green around the legs, but it didn’t fit Augie’s earlier nomenclature, if for no other reason than size. Its body was as large as the biggest horse, its head bobbing back and forth about seven feet above the ground, but it’s long, feathered tail stretched straight out behind it to make it more than twenty feet long. Though the puny wings would have made any attempt to fly laughable, the clawed fingers and the huge sickle-shaped clawed toes prevented any such jocularity.

The monster apparently had been stalking its tiny cousins through the woods, but now that it saw the human beings, it abruptly changed its targets. Why chase after a tiny morsel when a much juicier and slower prey could be had? It needed only to shift its weight and maintain the same stride to put it on its new trajectory. With a leap into the air that amazed everyone watching, the beast flew more than forty feet to land on top of Private Holloway, clawing him and bending down to give him a killing bite before anyone could react. A second later the beast was peppered with more than twenty shots fired from all over the clearing.

“Kafira damn-it!” Augie shouted. “Color Sergeant!

“Sir.” Color Sergeant Bourne ran toward him and came to attention.

“Set up a perimeter watch. Make sure all the men have chambered rounds. And prepare a burial detail.” The Color Sergeant hurried off to his duties. Augie turned to McTeague. “Come on.”

The two lieutenants stepped over to the giant bird and Private Holloway. It was only too obvious that he was beyond hope. His head had been bitten half through.

“Nothing to be done,” said McTeague.

“Not for Holloway,” Augie agreed.

* * * * *

It was a large spider crawling across his face that woke Nils Chapman up. It tickled his right nostril and then continued on its way down his right cheek and over his right ear. He turned his head and watched it as it went over the edge of the mattress. He didn’t want to get up. He wanted to count—one thousand nine hundred seventy nine… No! No, he wasn’t going to do that. He felt sick to his stomach. He had felt sick to his stomach ever since he had seen the impossible undulating movement of the wall in prisoner eighty nine’s cell. He hadn’t gone back to the cell since, but the uneasiness, the slowly creeping nausea did not go away.

He turned over and looked toward Karl Drury’s bunk. The sadistic guard was not there. On the one hand, this made Chapman happy, because he found that he was increasingly happy whenever Drury was not around. On the other hand, if he wasn’t here and he wasn’t on duty, he was probably in eighty nine’s cell, abusing her. Chapman shuddered. He had become increasingly sickened by Drury’s treatment of women in general and this one in particular, but now he felt even more ill at the thought of the cell itself, and the wall, and the strange writing, and the undulating movement… he shuddered.

He sat up and rolled out of bed. Taney was the only other guard in the bunkroom.

“Where’s Drury?” he asked.

“The filthy bastard’s got duty at the loading dock,” came the reply. “I wouldn’t want to be one of the boys working down there.”

“Somebody should stop him.”

“Go ahead,” said Taney, “if you want a knife between your ribs.”

Chapman didn’t want a knife between his ribs, but he didn’t know what else to do, so he went down the ancient spiral stone steps to the docks. Six boys were unloading a skiff, but Chapman didn’t see any guards. But as he stepped out into the open, he noticed something strange. There was a shadow in the middle of the dock where a shadow had no right to be. As he stepped closer, he realized it wasn’t a shadow—not in the real sense of the word. It was a man-shaped blob of shadow, occupying the same area that a man would occupy had he been standing there, but with no mass and no substance and completely transparent.

“What is that?” he asked.

The boys stopped and looked at him.

“What is that?” he asked again.

“What is what?” asked one of the boys.

“Where’s Drury?” he asked, his voice rising.

“He’s standin’ right in front of you, you great tosser,” the boy replied, pointing at the shadowy blob.

“That’s not Drury! I don’t know what that is!”

Turning, Chapman ran up the stairs, oblivious to the open-mouthed stares of the boys. He ran past the bunkroom and down the corridor to the north wing. He ran into the door of prisoner eighty-nine’s cell, banging it with his fist, as if she could open it from the inside. Finally he rummaged through his pockets for the great key and unlocked the door, rushing inside.

Chapman screamed. Karl Drury was hanging, naked, upside down from the ceiling. His neck had been sliced open and his blood had been drained into the piss pot on the floor beneath him. His gut had been sliced open and long lengths of bowel and a few internal organs hung down like ghastly wind chimes. He had been castrated and his privates were shoved in his mouth.

Chapman screamed again, as he felt the feather light touch of the woman on his shoulder.

“I needed more ink.” Her sultry voice cut into his soul like a knife cutting through pudding.

She stepped past him and picked up the bucket of blood, tip-toeing like a ballerina to the north wall of the cell, where she dipped her fingers into the gore and began painting strange images onto the stone blocks. As she drew, she spoke to herself. Chapman didn’t need to hear what she was saying. It had been bouncing around in his head since he had gotten up.

“One thousand nine hundred seventy nine days.”

“Stop it!” he shouted. “Stop it! Stop counting!”

The woman turned toward him and grinned fiercely. “Not much longer now— just a few more days. Go on back now. Don’t want to draw suspicion.”

He crept out of the chamber like a dog that had been beaten. He didn’t go back to the south wing though, instead climbing the stone stairs until he found an alcove with a small opening to the outside world. Here he dropped to the ground and curled up into a ball and wept.

* * * * *

“That’s pretty,” said Senta. “Is that a sunset or a rainbow?”

She was walking down Contico Boulevard, hand in hand with her cousin Bertice. Mrs. Gantonin who lived next door had told Granny about a family whose boys had died and who were now giving away their clothes. With a house full of children, free clothes were not to be overlooked lightly.

“What are you talking about, you little bint?”

“Up there.” Senta pointed off to the right.

“Didn’t you learn that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west? That way is south. How could it be sunset? Besides, it’s only half past four. I’d still be at work if they hadn’t run out of number four thread.”

“A rainbow, then?”

“There’s no rainbow. There’s not been a drop of rain for a week. How could there be a rainbow. I don’t see anything at all.”

“Well, I see something. It’s swirly with red and yellow and blue and purple, like a storm that’s coming, only made out of colors.”

“You need to get your eyes fixed, you do,” said Bertice, giving her arm a yank.

Chapter Seven: Victories

My Dear Miss Dechantange,

It was with deep regret that I left your company on the twenty-fifth, but I ease the ache within me by recalling the week that I spent with you. Surely no other fine lady of the Great City can equal you in hospitality, graciousness, or dare I say beauty.

The funds that you forwarded for the new machine have been received and have put to good use. I have hired a new assistant in whom I see a great deal of promise. With her assistance and with the aid of Mr. Murty, of whom I believe I spoke during our conversations, we should be ready to begin construction within a matter of weeks.

I will of course keep you informed of the major milestones as they occur, but I would very much enjoy a visit by you to University Ponte-a-Verne. I believe you would find the architecture and the gardens to your liking and the village has many interesting sites as well. I would be more than pleased to extend some semblance of the kind courtesy which you offered me.

Eagerly awaiting your next letter,

Your humble servant,

Meced Baines Calliere Ph.D.

Iolanthe folded the letter closed and with a satisfied smile, placed it in her letter box. Clearly the Professor was smitten. She thought that he was someone that she could marry. He was certainly interesting, from a well-placed if not wealthy family. He was intelligent and relatively resourceful. Best of all he seemed willing enough to be led, which would spare her from the tiresomeness of a man who would pretend to be her master. That there was no spark of passion, at least from her perspective, didn’t bother her. She had never known it and she didn’t believe it existed.

She placed the letter box in the bottom drawer of her private desk just as the head butler entered, carrying a silver tray.

“The morning post has arrived, Miss.”

The letter from Professor Calliere had arrived on the evening post the day before. Iolanthe typically did not open her letters until she was ready to reply to them, but she took the bundle of envelopes, tied together with a bit of red ribbon, and looked through them. There was a letter from Mrs. Godwin back in Shopton, Mont Dechantagne, and there were several bills from the carpenters that should have gone to her solicitor. Then there was an official looking envelope with a golden wax seal, which when opened, was revealed as a hand-written note from the Prime Minister.

Dear Miss Dechantagne,

I have made the arrangements we discussed earlier. The vehicle in question will be under refit for the next nine months, so I suggest you plan your timetable accordingly.

With Regards,

E. P.

“Why Prime Minister, how very cloak and dagger of you. ‘The vehicle in question.’ No one would suspect that a vehicle under refit would be a ship.” She laughed.

“Muh… Miss?”

“What is it, Zeah?”

“Are um… are you really going to Mallon?”

“If I do, don’t worry. You shall go with me.”

“Muh… me?”

“Of course, Zeah. Why, I wouldn’t be able to function without you.”

“But, what would I duh… do?”

“I’m sure we’ll find enough to keep you busy.” She smiled. “Now, have the car brought around. My brother and I are going out.”

Zeah raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t seen much of Master Terrence at all in the three months he had been home. But he hurried off to see that the vehicle was made ready. It was more than simply bringing it around. Care had to be taken to see that the boiler was filled with water and the fire box was filled with coal and lit and that a good volume of steam was allowed to build up.

Half an hour later, Iolanthe sat impatiently behind the steering wheel. Her leather driving gloves just matched her green day dress. The tall black top hat with white flowers that she had chosen was tied to her head with a large strip of green ribbon. Zeah, who stood on the sidewalk, watched as her eyes grew narrower and narrower. He was very happy when at last Master Terrence walked down the steps. Terrence wore a new grey suit with a red plaid vest. He had shaved, but had dark bags under his eyes. Rather than climbing into the passenger seat, he walked around to the driver’s side.

“Move over,” he said.

“I’m driving,” said Iolanthe.

“No. No, you’re not.”

“It is the year of our Lord eighteen hundred ninety seven and women can drive.”

“Some women can drive. Not you. Scoot over.”

Iolanthe pursed her lips but moved across the seat to the other side, careful not to smash her bustle. Folding her hands in her lap, she waited for her brother to climb in and get settled. He released the brake with his right hand and stepped on the forward accelerator with his right foot, and they were off.

“Where are we going now?” Terrence asked.

“King’s Park Oval. You remember where it is?”

“Of course I remember.” He pressed his foot down on the decelerator and whipped around the fountain of Lord Oxenbourse and drove north up Scrum Boulevard. “Why are we going there?”

“West Brumming is playing Ville Colonie.”

“I thought you hated cricket.”

“I don’t hate cricket.”

“Yes you do. You hate all sports.”

“I don’t hate sports.” Iolanthe explained. “I just don’t see the point of watching a group of men you don’t even know play at games, let alone of rooting for them. I went to one or two games when I was at university.”

“Well, St. Dante isn’t playing. So why are we going now?”

“I thought it would be good for you to get out of the house for a bit. You’ve hardly gone out of doors since you arrived.”

“Hmm,” said Terrence noncommittally. He concentrated on his driving but after a few minutes felt his sister’s eyes on him. “What?”

“Perhaps you should visit a bordello.”

Terrence almost lost control of the vehicle and swerved into another lane. “Kafira!”

“I know men have needs.”

“Iolanthe…”

“Perhaps that’s why you’re feeling poorly.”

“Please stop talking.”

“When was the last time you were with a woman?”

“If you don’t shut up, I may never be able to be with a woman again.”

“All I’m saying is that it may not be healthy to keep things bottled up, so to speak.”

Terrence stamped down on the forward accelerator taking the steam carriage near its top speed of forty miles per hour, but had to almost immediately decrease the speed to turn off onto the grassy drive to the cricket grounds. Thankfully Iolanthe remained quiet as he parked the car at the end of a line of similar vehicles. He climbed down and walked around to help her down. She opened her parasol and took his arm and they walked toward the bleachers.

“Just think about it,” she said.

“Shut up,” he snapped, and then muttered. “I shall be able to think of little else.”

Ville Colonie had been designated as the visitors, randomly it seemed as this was the home grounds of neither team. Ville Colonie was a village on the small channel island of Petitt Elvert, while West Brumming was a small town about fifty miles north of Brech City. The team members from the north were dressed in white shirts and grey dungarees, while the team from Ville Colonie, as might be expected from those descended from Mirsannan immigrants were flamboyantly arrayed in bright blue stripes. Next to the home team hutch were several dozen chairs around tables with large parasols, where all of the women and the men who were with them sat, while next to the visitors’ hutch was a grandstand filled entirely with men.

“Good heavens,” said Iolanthe. “I had no idea that cricket was so popular. There must be four hundred people here.”

“I doubt there’s anyone left in either of those towns.” Terrence led his sister to one of the few remaining empty tables, pulled out a chair for her, and then sat down himself.

The two team captains joined the umpire on the pitch for the coin toss. It was determined that Ville Colonie would bat first and the players took their positions. The West Brumming bowler was getting his eye in as a heavy set blond batsman waited. At last the match started as the bowler sent a beautiful bouncer down the wicket, but a loud crack indicated a shot and the two batsmen, including the big chap went running.

“Would you like something to drink?” Terrence asked.

“Is there a waiter?” wondered Iolanthe, looking around.

“No, there’s a snack kiosk over there.” He pointed to a small shed just beyond the visiting team hutch. “What would you like?”

“I don’t suppose they have any wine.”

“I doubt it.”

“A beer then.”

Terrence took his place in the queue, only occasionally looking back at the game. He wasn’t really that interested in cricket, even though he had played it at university. There was no point in telling Iolanthe though. Once she had her head set on something, it wasn’t likely to change. He purchased two bottles of beer, which came in tall brown bottles with cork stoppers.

Just as he turned around to leave, he was approached by a young woman with long red hair. She was dressed in a long brown skirt and a white blouse and looked as though she might have just come from a factory job. She was pretty, in a course sort of way, and she wore no makeup.

“Can you help me, Sir?” she asked, and then turned and began to walk away before Terrence could answer.

He shrugged and followed her, a beer bottle in each hand, around the corner of the kiosk and between a pair of small sheds. As he made the second corner, Terrence came face to face with three men. Two of them were brandishing knives. For a second he didn’t recognize them. Then suddenly he did. They were three men outside Blackwood’s. The memory of the white opthalium made his eyes water slightly. What was it that Blackwood called the first fellow… Mickey, Mikey, Mika?

“Thanks luv. Hurry on your way,” said Mika to the girl, who quickly left. He then turned and smiled unpleasantly at Terrrence. “You’re so happy t’see me your eyes are waterin’ eh?”

“I’m sentimental,” Terrence replied.

The toughs had chosen their spot well. They were shielded from the street by a hedgerow and from the cricket game and the spectators by the sheds. Without conscious thought, Terrence’s mind ran through his options. He could drop one of the beers and go for the pistol in his pocket. He could simply bash the bottles into a couple of skulls. In either scenario, he’d probably take at least one knife blade. He could always yell for help. There were plenty of people within earshot, probably even a copper. Again, he’d probably get stabbed. Besides, he’d never yelled for help in his life.

“Care for a beer?” he asked.

“I’m goin’ t’enjoy lettin’ the air outa you.”

Suddenly there was a loud report followed by a wet smack and the man behind Mika, Mika’s brother Terrence suddenly remembered, dropped to the ground with a massive hole in his chest pouring out blood like a johnny pump. Before anyone had time to think or to move or to think about moving, three more shots rang out. The beer bottles in Terrence’s hands exploded and a good portion of Mika’s jaw was ripped off his face. He dropped to the ground with a gurgled scream, while the third man in the group turned and ran. Terrence turned to his left, still holding the shattered remains of the bottles, to find Iolanthe in a cloud of gun smoke, a forty five caliber pistol pointed in his general direction. It was an exact match to the one in his pocket save only that hers had a pearl handle.

“Kafira’s tit, Iolanthe! You almost hit me.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied, closing her left eye and taking a bead on the fleeing man’s back.

“Let him go,” he said, and looked down at the sad remains of Mika, now whining pitifully.

A police constable came jogging up from behind Terrence, followed by a few cricket players, one carrying a bat, as well as a few stout fellows from the grandstand.

“These men were trying to rob my brother,” said Iolanthe, stepping forward.

“Oh, it’s you, Miss Dechantagne,” said the constable. “Are you injured?”

“No PC, thank you for asking, but I believe one or both of the men I shot may be in need of ambulance service.”

The constable knelt down and checked Mika’s brother for a pulse.

“This one doesn’t need an ambulance. He’s dead. What are these boys doing so far from the Bottom?”

“Not to belabor the point,” said Iolanthe. “But I believe they were practicing daylight robbery.”

“Even so. Will you be leaving now?”

“Of course not. The match is not over.” She flipped open the revolver and used her fingernail to pull out the spent cartridges. “Come along Terrence.”

The constable left for the police telegraph box to call for an ambulance, while a man from the grandstand rendered what aid there was to give. Everyone else, including the Dechantagne siblings wandered back toward the game. Terrence, who was still holding the spouts and necks of the broken bottles, dropped them in a dust bin as they rounded the corner to the snack kiosk.

“Where did you have that pistol?” he asked. “You don’t have a handbag.”

“I have plenty of room for it under my dress.”

He glanced at his sister’s form. While the top of her dress was very form-fitting indeed, the bottom half of her, thanks to her bustle and voluminous undergarments, blossomed out to such a degree that she could have hidden the arsenal for the good part of a rifle company within her skirts.

* * * * *

“I make a hundred and fifty feet,” said Lieutenant Arthur McTeague, without taking his eyes from the binoculars.

“Decrease elevation two degrees,” called Lieutenant Augie Dechantagne.

“Ready!” called Corporal Worthy from the centermost 105mm howitzer.

“Fire.” There was a long pause and then a distant explosion.

“Oops. You’re long,” said McTeague. “I mean, longer.”

“Kafira damn it!” yelled Augie. “I said decrease elevation! Decrease!”

“Sorry sir! Ready sir!”

“Fire!”

“On target,” said McTeague, after the wait.

“Lay down a pattern of fire!” The five guns began rapidly firing, only to be immediately reloaded and fired again.

McTeague lowered his binoculars and pulled his earplugs from his pocket. Stuffing them into his ears, he walked over to stand next to Augie.

“Why are we shelling this village again?”

“I didn’t ask,” Augie replied.

“Do you suppose they’re going to counter-attack?”

“It’s not my job to worry about it. It’s theirs.” Augie pointed to the line of Royal Marines, their red coats and white pith helmets clearly visible halfway between the guns and the lizzie village that was rapidly becoming a flaming hell.

“Well, I suppose they needed to be taught a lesson. Put the fear of God and his Majesty into them.”

“This will certainly teach them something,” said Augie.

* * * * *

“It says here that the remaining robber will be moved to Herinnering Gaol as soon as he is ready to leave hospital,” said Mrs. Colbshallow, her face buried in the morning paper. “And Miss D is being considered for a Citizen’s Safety Award.”

“It’s considered safe to shoot two people now, is it?” It was Merriman, the main floor butler. “If I’d shot two men, I’d be in jail. She shoots two men and they give her a bloody medal.”

“Best not to think things like that,” said Zeah.

“Especially out loud,” added Yuah.

“It’s you, Yuah, that she usually wants to shoot,” said Barrymore, the upstairs butler, grinning.

“She can’t shoot me. She couldn’t live without me.”

“Don’t get cheeky,” said Zeah. “I had to hire four new ones this week.”

“Well, it’s not as if these men didn’t deserve to get shot,” said Mrs. Colbshallow. “Imagine trying to rob someone in broad daylight. We need more police, that’s what we need.”

“I’m going to be a copper in a few years,” said Saba, walking in from the front hallway and sitting down.

“No you aren’t,” his mother informed him. “I would be forever worrying. It’s far too dangerous for any child of mine.”

Saba didn’t reply to his mother or point out that he was the only child of hers. He just scooped up large mounds of fried eggs, white pudding, and sausages. Mrs. Colbshallow went back to commenting on the news, particularly how information of the coming eclipse did not belong in the weather section. With Saba’s addition there were eleven people eating breakfast in the servant’s hall at that moment, a good portion of the staff having already eaten and started on their morning duties, and those few who had the overnight shift had mostly already gone to bed. Marna, one of the last of the latter group came in from the side hallway, looking like she could fall asleep on her feet at any moment.

“Yuah, Master Terrence wants to see you,” she said.

“I’m not interested.”

“I’m just the messenger.”

Yuah turned to look at Marna, and saw Terrence standing in the hallway several paces behind her.

“I’m not his valet.” With careful precision, she lifted her chin into the air and turned back to the table. “I’m the dressing maid.”

A minute later, under the guise of reaching for a scone, she cast a sideways look at the spot where he had been standing to find that he was now gone.

* * * * *

Karl Drury was a shadow of his former self-- literally. As far as anyone knew, he still made his rounds through the fortress of Schwarztogrube, he still hurled insults at almost everyone, and he still stuffed his ugly face in the mess hall. If he beat some of the prisoners less than he used to or abused the boys less than he used to, who was going to complain about that? The only one who seemed bothered by Drury these days was Nils Chapman. He began to shake every time Drury entered the room and he refused to look at him. But Chapman knew what nobody else did. That was not really Karl Drury. The real Karl Drury was dead. He had dropped the sadistic guard’s body into the ocean himself. Of course Nils Chapman was a shadow of his former self too—figuratively. His eyes had gone dull and his skin was pale. He didn’t sleep anymore and he could hardly eat.

“One thousand nine hundred eighty three days,” he muttered to himself over and over again, from his spot, curled up in a ball in the corner of cell eighty nine.

“Don’t worry, Pet.” Zurfina reached down and stroked his hair. “It’s almost over. This time tomorrow we’ll both be gone.”

Chapman grabbed hold of her leg and held it close as he kept his eyes pressed tightly shut. He couldn’t bear to see the walls, all four of which were covered in ghastly markings of smeared blood, and all four of which pulsed and throbbed sickeningly.

Chapter Eight: Day One Thousand Nine Hundred Eighty Four

“What do you have there?” asked Zeah.

“It’s magic glass,” replied Saba, holding up a small square of very dark but very shiny material.

“This conversation sounds like the beginning of a fairy tale. Did you trade your magic beans to get this magic glass?”

“Don’t be silly Mr. Korlann. I didn’t have any magic beans and this cost me 75P.”

“Good heavens. Why would you pay seventy five pfennigs for that?”

“For the eclipse.”

“Eclipse?”

“Sure. There’s an eclipse today. Almost a full one. If we were in the channel it would be full. It would get dark in the middle of the day.”

“Oh, yes yes. It was in the paper. I imagine it will be spectacular enough right here in Brech City. But what is the glass for?”

“Haven’t you ever heard that you shouldn’t stare at an eclipse because you’ll go blind?”

“Of course.”

“I can’t tell you how much that has worried me since I found that out,” said Saba. “I’m always afraid that I might accidentally look at the sun and it would be just my luck that there was an eclipse going on right then and I would go blind.”

“Well, first off, there’s nothing special about an eclipse that is worse on your eyes. Stare at the sun anytime, eclipse or no, and you risk damage to your…”

“Anyway,” the boy interrupted. “I got this glass so I can watch the eclipse. You can stare at it all day through this and not get blinded. Can’t see a bloody thing through it now though.” He tried to look at the head butler through the small pane held to his right eye.

“Let’s hope it really works,” said Zeah skeptically. “I trust you bought it from a reputable dealer.”

“Sure. I got it at the potion shop on Avenue Phoenix. They’re selling loads of them. If it doesn’t work, they’ll be hip deep in angry blind people.”

* * * * *

“It’s almost time now, Pet,” said Zurfina looking at the sun, through the tiny window high up on the wall.

Nils Chapman was crawling on his knees next to her. Shaking and twitching uncontrollably, he no longer had the ability to stand on his own. This didn’t bother him, because he no longer had the ability to think on his own either. He crawled along on all fours drooling like a dog to the center of the cell.

Zurfina peeled off the filthy rags that had been her only clothing since she had been brought to this hell hole one thousand nine hundred eighty four days before. She tossed them aside and sat down cross-legged in the center of the cell. Chapman pressed against her, but she pushed him away, and closing her eyes, she began to chant.

“Uuthanum, uuthanum, uuthanum, uuthanum.” She repeated the word over and over again. Twenty times. A hundred times. Slowly the room became darker and darker. She continued to chant. The eclipse was at his height.

Chapman screamed. Zurfina opened her eyes and smiled. The four walls were walls no more. They were shining, rippling, silvery surfaces like the surface of frighteningly cold and deep water. Sounds could be heard from the other side—freakish, awful piping noises that tugged at one’s sanity. Then the surface directly in front of her bubbled and churned, touched by something on the other side of that boundary between cell eighty nine and the abyss beyond.

“Yes!” Zurfina screamed. Then she began reciting a new set of words. “Uuathanum eetarri. Uuthanum eetarri. Uuthanum blechtore. Uuthanum blechtore. Uuthanum maiius.

* * * * *

“So can you see the eclipse?”

“Sure. It’s ace,” said Saba, standing in the courtyard. Then he turned and saw who was speaking and flinched.

“Would you like to take a look, Miss?” he asked, offering Iolanthe the magic glass pane.

Taking the almost opaque square, she held it up to her eye and pointed her face toward the sky.

“Interesting. It looks like of a halo.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it does look like a halo, um… Miss.”

“It doesn’t feel like a halo, though, does it?”

“Miss?”

“Look at it again,” she said, handing back the magic glass. “This time, tell me what you feel.”

The boy looked again and suddenly shuddered. When he looked back at her, his face was accusing. She had made him aware of something he hadn’t noticed before. There was something evil about the eclipse, and though he had looked forward to the event since he had first heard about it from his mother, now all he wanted was for the return of the sun in its full glory.

* * * * *

The thing on the other side of the membrane between two worlds tested it once again, and a moment later it burst through. It was long, thick tentacle, necrotic grey and covered with suction cups. It searched along the stone floor of the cell, tentatively at first. Then it touched the sorceress sitting naked and chanting and suddenly it shook and thrashed throughout the chamber.

“No!” shouted Nils Chapman and he jumped in front of Zurfina. The tentacle found him and wrapped around his waist.

“No!” he cried again, and then it yanked him so violently that the snapping of his neck was clearly audible, as it pulled him beyond the shimmering veil.

Then the room was filled with a hundred tentacles, touching every inch of the cell, caressing the woman like a demonic lover. She slowly rose to her feet, the tips of the alien appendages touching every inch of her skin.

“Uuathanum eetarri blechtore maiius uusteros vadia jonai corakathum nit.”

A black fog poured into the cell from all four walls. It filled up the tiny chamber and sprayed through the openings in the door, creeping down the corridors of the prison and into every room and every cell, every nook and every alcove.

* * * * *

“How is it?”

“It was ace,” replied Saba. “Now I just want the sun to come back.”

“Don’t be like that.” Yuah stepped down the stairs from the back door and put an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Let me take a look.”

Saba held the square of magic glass up and Yuah pressed her eye to it, leaning back to find the sun. “There. The sun’s starting to move out from behind the moon. In a few minutes everything will be just like it was before.”

“Good.”

“You shouldn’t let Miss D ruin your fun. She’s a right bitch, you know.”

“No, she’s not.”

“She is.”

“Well, it’s not her fault.”

“What do you mean?” asked Yuah.

“Nothing. Here. Do you want this?” Saba pushed the magic glass into her hands and started up the stairs into the house.

* * * * *

Zurfina smiled as the dead grey tentacles caressed her.

“Now I will leave and now I will lay my vengeance on this stony prison and this little kingdom and this world.” She raised her arms and began her final incantation. “Uuthanum…”

At that moment a thin streak of light entered from the small window high up on the wall. It was so tiny that it might have gone totally unnoticed, had it not stuck the first and largest of the grey arms moving around the cell. But the tiny sliver of sunlight burned through the tentacle like a hot ember through a slice of bread. The great tentacle jerked and thrashed about the room and the other appendages did too, one of them striking the woman and throwing her halfway across the floor. More sunlight entered through the window and all of the unearthly, unholy members were yanked back through the portals that shimmered where the walls of the cell had once been.

“No! No, I’m not finished!” screamed Zurfina.

* * * * *

Yuah stood in the courtyard, idly staring up at the eclipse, and totally unaware that she was being watched from a window on the third floor. Terrence watched her, appraising her in a way that he didn’t bother appraising other women. There was no doubt that she was beautiful. She wore no makeup, had her hair pulled back into a bun wrapped by a maid’s cap, and she wore a simple maid’s dress with minimal bustle and almost no color. And yet she was one of the most beautiful women that he had ever seen. There was no doubt about that. Iolanthe was thought to be a great beauty and with her flawless skin and those striking aquamarine eyes, she was something special. Yuah’s chocolate brown eyes had a tenderness and an innocence in them though that one would never find in his sister’s, and Yuah’s features were perfect. She could have been one of those women that the great sculptors of old used as a model. She was just the right height and she was well-proportioned. So what if she was a bit skinny.

Yuah was almost perfect. But Terrence didn’t want an almost perfect woman. He had thrown away any chance at a wife and a family and a home. That was not going to be his future. His future was far away, in another time and another place, on a great field of purple flowers with a woman who was frighteningly perfect. He turned away from the window and climbed back into bed, pulling the box filled with small blue vials from beneath the pillow.

* * * * *

A large square of sunlight filled the center of the cell floor and sprawled naked in the center of that square was Zurfina. She lifted her head up just enough to look around and then she slammed it back against the stone floor. Then she lifted it up and slammed it back down again: once, twice, three times, till there was a bloody spot on the floor and a bloody contusion on her forehead. The walls of the cell had all returned to their original stone texture. Not even the arcane bloody scrawling remained.

Schwarztogrube really was proof against magic. She had summoned the most ancient magic in the universe, a feat only possible because of the eclipse, and had used it to release the dead demon-gods that awaited beyond the edge of sanity. But even they had not been able to completely pierce the veil. Even that magic was not enough. Without the power of the eclipse, it was not enough, and the eclipse had not lasted long enough. And it would be a long time before the next full eclipse over Schwarztogrube.

“Eight thousand four hundred thirty seven days,” Zurfina wailed. “Kafira’s bloody twat!”

She looked up at the ceiling as if she could see the sky beyond it and dared the Zaeri-Kafirite God and his crucified daughter to strike her dead. Could even his magic penetrate this magic-proof hell? Prove it!

* * * * *

“Is it over?” asked Senta.

“Yup.” Maro stood up from the pin-hole camera that he had made to watch the eclipse, in actuality nothing but a small pasteboard box with a hole cut in the side. Shining in through the tiny hole, the image of the sun had been visible on the back side, and as the moon had moved across the sun, the small white orb in the box had been covered and then uncovered.

“That was pretty ace, wasn’t it?”

“I guess so,” said Senta. “I wish we could have watched the real thing.”

“You’d be blinded.”

“Yeah. I’m glad you were able to make it with only eight fingers.”

Maro nodded and looked at the three remaining fingers on his right hand.

“Maybe someday you’ll be really rich and you can pay a wizard to regrow your fingers for you,” offered Senta.

“Maybe I’ll get so used to having eight fingers I won’t want my other ones back. I bet pretty soon I’ll be able to do my eight times as good as you can do your tens.”

“What’s seven times eight?”

“Fifty six.”

“Is that right?”

“Yup.”

“Wow.” Senta looked impressed and she was. “What are we doing now?”

“I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m going to play Mirsannan cricket at the park. You can’t go because you’re a girl.”

“Then I’m going to the toy store and buy a doll.”

“You don’t have enough money to buy a doll.”

“Uh-huh. For pretend.”

“Yeah, alright.”

“You know when you said my mom didn’t want me?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t understand it.”

“What?”

“Well, look at me. I’m just cute.”

* * * * *

“Eight thousand four hundred thirty seven days,” Zurfina told herself. “I’ll be old. Well, I’ll be older.”

The sorceress was already far older than she appeared. Thanks to magic used long ago, her body was much younger than it should have been. But it was aging now. Here in this place where magic had no hold, it was aging. In eight thousand four hundred thirty seven days, she would most surely begin to look old—not as old as her true age, but old. Too old. She would have no youth, just as now she had no magic. She couldn’t wait eight thousand four hundred thirty seven days. She had to get out. But she couldn’t use magic. What could she use? What did she have?

She had her youth… for now. She had her beauty… for now. She had this body, this body that men wanted.… for now. She had to use what she had.

Chapter Nine: One Month Later

“I wish you didn’t have to leave,” said Iolanthe, as she brushed a stray piece of lint from her brother’s navy blue uniform.

“The army needs me.”

“I know you will do the family proud, and while you are away, you may leave everything in my capable hands.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And as always, come back with your shield…”

“Or on it,” he finished for her.

“Indeed.”

“Could you do one other thing for me, sister?”

“Of course.”

He pulled an envelope from his tunic and held it toward her.

“Would you give this to Yuah after I’ve gone?”

She stared at it for a moment before taking the envelope.

“Of course,” she said.

Terrence kissed her on the cheek and left the room. Iolanthe stepped over to the window and watched as his luggage was loaded onto the back of the steam carriage. Terrence walked out the front door, down the steps and climbed into the passenger side of the vehicle, while Merriman climbed into the driver’s side. Iolanthe watched as the car made its way down the street and around the corner. Terrence never looked back.

Walking to her desk, she used her silver letter opener to slice through the envelope, and then pulled out the single sheet of paper inside. She put away the opener and read through the message as she walked the length of the boudoir. She shook her head and then tossed the letter and the envelope in the fireplace, watching as it burned brightly and then turned to ash.

“Yuah,” she called.

A moment later the dressing maid arrived.

“Yes, Miss?”

“I’ll have my white and yellow day dress.”

“Yes Miss.”

“My brother has gone.” Iolanthe watched her dressing maid’s back stiffen.

“Yes Miss?”

“Did he stop to say goodbye?”

“No Miss.”

“Pity. No doubt he forgot.”

* * * * *

Zeah carried the mail from the morning post into the servant’s hall and sat down with a sigh.

“Well, he’s off to the train station.”

“Maybe Miss D will be less distracted now,” offered Saba.

“If anything, I think she could use with a bit more distraction,” said Barrymore.

“Barrymore, you have a letter,” said Zeah, handing the younger man an envelope. “And you have another letter from Mrs. Godwin, Mrs. C.”

“Bless her heart,” said Mrs. Colbshallow, opening her mail. “You know she’s gone half wobbly in that great big house by herself.”

“Mother, you say that every time you get a letter from her,” said Saba, then under his breath. “People are going to think you’re going all wobbly.”

“My goodness!” Mrs. Colbshallow exclaimed. “She says that Miss D has sold Mooreworth cottage and the lands around it.”

“Really,” said Zeah. “That’s a surprise. The old master enjoyed that house.”

“Probably why she’s selling it,” said Saba, voicing what the older members of the staff would never have put to tongue.

“Still,” said Zeah. “The family owns a dozen properties in the area. You don’t imagine she’s planning to sell them all, do you?”

No one in the servant’s hall dared to make a guess, not even Saba.

* * * * *

“Kafira, help me!” pleaded Arthur McTeague, as he hung his face over the railing and vomited once again into the white-tipped waves of the open ocean.

“Buck up, my friend,” said Augie, slapping him on the back. “Kafira helps those who help themselves.”

McTeague rolled over, hanging so precariously over the railing that Augie felt compelled to grab him by the collar and pull him back. Though he had been fine for the first two days of the voyage from Birmisia, once they had hit a bit of rough weather McTeague’s seasickness had surfaced. He hadn’t been able to keep a meal down in almost a week.

“Curse you, Dechantagne. How can you look so pleasant?”

“Well, I am pleasant, come to that. You’ll be right as rain in um… well, a week or two. A week or two in Mallontah and then home to Brechalon. And when we get to Mallontah, I’ll make you forget all about it. I’ve still got that check from my sister. Remember? Wine, women, good food.”

At the word food, McTeague turned around again and spewed toward the ocean.

“I didn’t think you could have any more in you.”

“I should have just stayed in Birmisia.”

“You liked it there?”

“God no. I hated it, but at least I didn’t puke my livers out there.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m coming back,” said Augie. “You could come with me.”

“If I survive this trip, I’m never setting foot on a ship again.”

* * * * *

The inside of the divination shop was dim and smoky, but the room was rent by daylight, seemingly as bright as lightning, as Wizard Smedley Bassington swept in from the street, his rifle frock coat trailing behind him like a black cape. In two long steps he was at the comfortable chair by the fireplace. Sweeping the coat to one side, he sat down and placed first one black hob nail boot and then the other on the corner of the sorceress’s desk. He crossed his arms and stared, his horn-rimmed glasses making his beady eyes seem even beadier.

“Madame de la Rosa,” he said.

The old sorceress behind the desk looked as though her skin was made of dried apples. She was small and hunched over, even sitting there. She raised a wrinkled hand and waved at the strikingly beautiful olive-skinned woman behind her.

“Amadea, get the wizard a cup of tea.”

Bassington waved the girl off, though his gaze carefully took in all of her curves.

“So what do you know?” Though his eyes were still on the young woman, his question was for her mistress.

The old woman reached beneath the desk and pulled out the perfectly round pearly white orb, precisely thirteen and three fifths inches in diameter that Bassington had left in her care two days prior. Given that Madame de la Rosa was a diviner, one could have been excused for assuming that it was a crystal ball of some type, but it wasn’t. From its complex swirly white, silver, and grey appearance it might have seemed a pearl taken from some gigantic oyster, but it wasn’t.

“It is a dragon egg,” said Madame de la Rosa.

“Don’t waste my time.”

“Watch your mouth, Wizard,” hissed the young woman.

“Don’t mind Bassington, Amadea,” the old woman soothed. “You may leave us.”

“What kind of dragon is it?” asked the wizard, once the girl had left. “Gold? Silver? Flame? Red? Green? Night?”

“Is is a Mirlughth Dragon.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Mirlughth is an ancient shiny substance. That’s all I can tell you about it.” Madame de la Rosa pressed her fingertips together creating a steeple. “There hasn’t been a Mirlughth Dragon seen in millennia. This particular dragon will be very powerful and important. He is destined to rule a vast land and be worshipped as a god.”

“Maybe we should destroy it now.”

“If you did, and I’m not sure you could, but if you did, you would be destroying an important ally of the Kingdom of Greater Brechalon.”

“Oh? What else did you see?”

“The dragon will be raised and protected. He has to be, you see. He has to be raised and protected by someone powerful enough to be the surrogate parent to a dragon. Do you know anyone like that?”

“I know who you’re talking about, but she’s in Schwarztogrube.”

“She won’t stay there.”

A look of panic briefly crossed the wizard’s face.

“Don’t worry. She won’t get out for some time. You have plenty of time to get out of the country.” Her laugh was like seeds rattling inside a gourd. “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want her after me either. But I know a magister we can trust, who will sell her the egg. She’ll never know that either of us had anything to do with it.”

“How do you know she’ll even want a dragon?” asked Bassington.

“Come now.”

“Alright, but Zurfina’s not going to stay in Brechalon if… when she gets out. What if she takes it to Freedonia or Mirsanna? We certainly don’t want either of them to have a pet dragon.”

“You don’t want that,” replied the old sorceress. “I don’t care one way or the other. But there is an easy answer. Do you know the name Dechantagne?”

“Vaguely.”

“The Dechantagne family is planning to build a Brech colony in Mallon or some other distant place. A Brech colony would be the best of both worlds. The dragon would be safe from Brechalon’s enemies and Zurfina would be safe from you and your masters.”

“How do you know that she’ll go to this new colony?”

“I’ll put a bug in her ear. I feel certain that when she hears about it, she’ll be very interested.”

“I’ll leave it to you then,” said Bassington, getting to his feet. “And don’t even think about playing any games. I know where that egg is at all times, and you know what will happen to you if you cross me.”

“I couldn’t if I wanted to,” said Madame de la Rosa, her eyes looking at some distant object. “It’s future, like my own, is foreordained.”

“And keep an eye on that pretty little apprentice,” he said as he got to his feet and headed for the door. “She’s already steeling from you.”

“I know.” The old woman cackled again. “Oh, Wizard Bassington?”

“Yes?”

“Wouldn’t you like me to answer the question that everyone else who comes to see me wants answered?”

“I’m not everyone else.” He crinkled his forehead. “What is it?”

“How you will die.”

“Alright. Tell me.”

“Wouldn’t it be ironic if you, who have dealt such a blow to dragons by stealing their eggs, were to be killed by a dragon?”

“No. It would be, um… whatever the opposite of ironic is.”

“Well, this is how you will die. You will be killed by a dragon.”

Bassington looked thoughtful. “Good,” he said, and left.

* * * * *

“Welcome to Schwarztogrube, Mr. Halifax,” said Sergeant Halser, saluting.

“Thank you. No need to salute. I’m a civilian after all.”

Mr. Halifax held out a hand and Sergeant Halser helped him out of the small boat and up onto the shaped stone dock on the lowest section of the ancient castle. He was a short, rotund man wearing a white suit, the shirt of which was still stained with his lunch, eaten aboard the ship that had brought him. Halifax led him up the stone stairway to the upper levels.

“Can you explain to me what happened? The Judge Advocate General was rather vague in his description.”

“As far as anyone can tell, it was some kind of disease. It could have been brought here by one of the guards returning from leave. They were all killed. Most of the prisoners. A few of the boys. The boys might have been less affected because of age or because they were all down near the water. No one really knows.”

“I have no doubt it was due to mismanagement of some form or another,” opined Halifax. “That’s why operations were taken away from the Ministry of War and were given to us.”

They reached a fork in the passageway.

“The north wing is this way, Sir. It’s where the offices and kitchen are and most of the prisoners.”

“How many prisoners are there?”

“There are twelve surviving prisoners in the north wing; one in the south wing.”

“Only one?”

“Yes. Prisoner eighty nine was segregated from the others. There’s no record of why. Perhaps it is because she is the only woman.”

“A woman? Here?” Halifax frowned and licked his lips.

Halser nodded.

“Take me to her cell.”

Halser led his new superior up another set of stairs and down the stone hallway to a door with a single small, barred window. Halifax had to stand on his tip-toes to peer through. He could see a blond woman inside, dressed in rags, sweeping the floor of the cell with a broom.

“Open it.”

Halser unlocked the door and followed Halifax inside. The woman immediately stopped sweeping and stood demurely with her head bowed. The room was clean but Spartan. Only a single window high up on the wall let in a square of sunlight. Halifax glared accusingly at Halser.

“It was worse, when I got here, Sir. I had the cot brought in and a chamber pot, and a broom so that she could clean the place up.”

“It’s true, Sir. Sergeant Halser has been very kind.”

“Still, it seems poor treatment for a young lady, regardless of your crimes. What is it you are here for?”

“I used magic without approval, Sir. And when they tried to arrest me, I fought back. I may have injured a wizard, Sir.”

Halifax’s expression said all too clearly that he thought the injury or death of a wizard to be a relatively minor offense. “Well, you can’t do any magic here, so we don’t have to worry about that. And what is your name, my dear?”

“Zurfina, Sir.”

“Zurfina. Like the daughter of Magnus the Great?”

“Yes, Sir.” Zurfina curtsied.

“Is there anything you need right now?”

“If it’s not too much trouble, Sir, I would appreciate a bucket of water so that I could bathe. And if a needle and thread could be had, and some scraps of cloth so that I could make myself something to wear.”

“Sergeant Halser, see if you can find a bucket of water and some soap for the young lady, and a washrag too. You can leave the keys with me. I’ll lock up.”

“Yes, Sir.”

After the Sergeant had left, Halifax stepped close to the woman and reaching out, brushed the hair from her face.

“You are not unattractive.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Things are not going to be like before,” he said, pacing first toward the door and then back to her. “There will be better food and cleaner conditions. Maybe we could have some decent clothes brought from the mainland for you and perhaps an occasional sweet.”

“That would be most delightful, Sir.”

“When my duties allow, I could come to your cell here and visit with you. Would you like that? Would you be… cooperative?”

“Oh, yes sir.”

He reached out and brushed her hair back again, this time caressing her temple with his thumb. “You do understand what I mean when I say cooperative, don’t you?”

Zurfina looked up from the floor and into his eyes. She reached up and pulled his chubby hand from her face, moving it down to rest on her breast.

“I’m anxious to be cooperative,” she said. “Very, very cooperative.”

The End.

Available Now!

Senta and the Steel Dragon Book 1

The Voyage of the Minotaur

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“Zurfina, I presume,” said Iolanthe.

“Zurfina the Magnificent.” The woman had a husky voice that put Iolanthe in mind of a teen-aged boy.

“Am I supposed to call you Zurfina the Magnificent?” asked Iolanthe. “Do I say ‘good morning Zurfina the Magnificent’ or ‘meet me for tea, Zurfina the Magnificent’ or ‘look out for that falling boulder, Zurfina the Magnificent’?”

“You are of course quite right, Miss Iolanthe Dechantagne,” said the woman. “We shall be on a first name basis, Miss Iolanthe Dechantagne.”

Iolanthe heard a small sound coming from behind her and to her right and suspected that Yuah was suppressing a laugh, or perhaps, worse, a smirk. She didn’t turn to look at the dressing maid, just aimed evil thoughts in her direction.

“Show us some magic, then,” she said. “I feel the need to be impressed. I know my brother is already.”

Augie, who had been so engrossed in the woman’s posterior, that he had not even noticed that his sister had entered the room, suddenly startled to awareness and stood up straight. The blond woman favored him with a sly smile over her shoulder. Then she raised her arm out straight in front of her, palm down. Turning her hand over, a flame sprang up in her palm. Within two or three seconds, the flame had coalesced into a humanoid figure, eight or nine inches tall, which immediately began pirouetting and spinning in a miniature ballet, all without leaving Zurfina’s hand.

“That’s it?” asked Iolanthe. “That’s your great magic?”

“Well I thought it was smashing,” said Augie.

“You don’t like fire?” said Zurfina. “How about ice?”

The tiny figure turned from fire to ice, but continued dancing, breaking off little pieces of itself as it did so, to fall to the floor like tiny snowflakes. Iolanthe pursed her lips.

“My brothers and I are preparing to embark on a great expedition,” she said.

“I know all about it,” said the sorceress.

“Then you know I need a magic user with real power. Just dressing like a necromantic whore doesn’t make you a powerful witch.”

“Oh, you are so right,” said the sorceress. “Clothes do not make the woman.”

She waved her hands in front of her own body, and her clothing became an exact match for Iolanthe’s own evening gown, right down to the red and black trim.

“Or does it?” Zurfina said.

She waved her left hand in front of her face and it became an exact match of Iolanthe’s. She even had the red and white carnations atop her head. The false Iolanthe gave a very flouncy and very un-Iolanthe-like curtsy, then raised her chin and said in a very Iolanthe-like voice. “Yuah, fetch me a white wine!” Yuah took several steps forward before remembering herself and stopping.

“Outstanding!” shouted Augie, clapping his hands.

Iolanthe took a deep breath. “Not bad, I do admit. But show me something that I won’t see one of our journeyman wizards do.”

The sorceress pointed her arm at Yuah, fingers splayed. “Uuthanum uastus corakathum paj.” There was a grinding sound, as though someone were walking upon gravel, and suddenly Yuah froze in place. She, her grey and white dress, and everything else she wore had been turned into a stone statue. She looked like one of the apostles which lined the nave in the Great Church of the Holy Savior. It was as though Pallaton the Elder had been brought from his time into the present to capture the essence of a Zaeri dressing maid.

“My God!” said Augie, absent-mindedly crossing himself.

“Now that is most impressive,” said Iolanthe. “We have to sit down and discuss your terms and my conditions.”

* * * * *

It was mid-afternoon when Terrence stepped back out of the tent and back into the marketplace of Nutooka. He paid no attention to words of goodbye from Oyunbileg. As it always did afterwards, the color seemed to have drained out of the world and it now looked as monochrome as a picture from a photographic plate. And just as they always did afterwards, sounds seemed far more intense than usual, and he felt as though he could pick out individual voices from among the crowd of native merchants and their customers. He pulled off his slouch hat to mop the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, and then started as two women brushed past him. They were two women from the Minotaur, and seemed too engrossed in their conversation to notice him.

He recognized both of them. One was Professor Calliere’s red-haired assistant. The other was a dark-haired woman, about two inches taller and thirty pounds heavier, who was a female medical doctor. Her name was something that started with a ‘k’ sound—Cleves or Keeves or something. Terrence stood and admired both women as they walked near the edge of the stall selling bolts of cloth in many colors. Both were women of class: dynamic, intelligence, determined. They were both the kind of women that he could have seen himself courting, in another life.

He was still watching the two women when the sounds of a great kafuffle somewhere on the other side of the market reached his ears. No sooner had this registered than seven or eight mounted men rode into the market near the two women from the Minotaur. These riders were dressed in various clothing of tan, brown, and white, but each had a red sash wrapped around his waist, and each wore a red hood completely covering his face, with only two holes cut out through which to see. The most remarkable thing about these mounted men though, wasn’t the men themselves, but their mounts. Terrence knew that horses were unavailable on Enclep, but it was still a shock to see riders upon huge, ferocious-looking birds. The birds were as tall as a horse, though unlike that noble steed, they ran on only two massive legs, and had tiny useless wings. Their clawed feet were almost two feet across and the massive beaks upon their mammoth heads looked as though it could easily clip off a man’s arm, or disembowel him in a moment. They were mostly covered with brown feathers, though there were black and white details on some of them. The men had them saddled, and though they squawked incessantly, they seemed to be under firm control.

One of the men on bird-back, reached down and scooped up Professor Calliere’s assistant as though she were a shapely bag of wheat. Another grabbed the female medical doctor. Still another grabbed a native woman from nearby. Two or three had already appropriated women from somewhere else in the market and two more tried to grab nearby native women only to be thwarted by their intended victims diving behind market stalls. The entire flock of riders raced to escape the market and the city, which led them down the path directly toward Terrence Dechantagne.

With one deft motion, Terrence pulled both his nickel-plated forty five revolvers from their shoulder holsters. He fired first one and then the other in rapid succession emptying all twelve cylinders. The first rider fell to the ground, hit several times, as did the great bird that he had ridden. The second rider, shot through the neck, tumbled to the ground. The woman that had been his captive plopped unceremoniously onto the dirt. The rest of the riders turned their birds, in a way that would have been impossible in the confined area had they been riding horses, and headed for the far side of the pathway between stalls, leaving their dead fellows and a single noisy giant bird behind.

Quickly popping the cylinders of his revolvers open and reloading them, Terrence barely noticed the short red-head at his side. He tasted the metallic cloud of gunpowder smoke that hung in the humid air. By the time he had finished reloading the guns though, the mounted men had turned the corner and vanished, and he had time to take notice that it was the professor’s assistant whom he had rescued from the second rider.

“Are you alright, Miss?

“Lusk, Egeria Lusk. You’re going after them,” she said. It was more a command than a question.

* * * * *

“Yep, it’s me,” said Senta. “I’m going to take you out, but you have to have your leash on.”

The dragon hissed. She opened the door of the carrier and the dragon climbed out onto the top. He turned his head and pointedly looked the other direction as she snapped the little chain onto the ring around his ankle. Once the little clip had snapped shut, Senta attached the other end of the chain to a bracelet on her right wrist.

“See there. We’re both chained by the wrist. Nobody’s the boss.”

“Gawp,” said the dragon, and then spreading its wings to balance, it climbed up her arm and onto her shoulder. It slithered down to lie across her shoulders, one hand and one foot holding onto her dress and one hand and one foot holding onto her hair. Senta stood up. The little dragon was now over four feet long from nose to tip of tail, but he was only about six inches thick across the belly and he was surprisingly light.

“What do you want to do?”

“Gawp.”

“Me too. This is sooo boring.”

The ship had been sailing parallel to the coast for the past four days and Senta was getting tired of it. What was the point of sailing all the way to Mallon, if you didn’t get out and walk around on it? Twenty days was more than enough time to explore every square inch of the largest battleship and Senta had spent more than three times that length of time on the Minotaur. Not even murders, gunfights, and drinking wine until you threw up could take away the boredom forever.

“Fina,” said the dragon.

“Alright.”

Senta walked toward the front of the ship. She had gone only about halfway to where Zurfina and the others stood watching the coastline roll past, when a figure stepped out of the shadows. A freckled face and striped shirt quickly identified the shady figure.

“Hey Graham,” said Senta.

“Hi Senta. What’ya doing?”

“Nothing. He wants to go up by the grown-ups.” She indicated the dragon with her thumb.

“Can I come?”

“Sure. Just don’t get too close, ‘cause he’ll bite you.”

“I thought he was tame.”

“You can’t tame a dragon. Zurfina says you can’t tame anything that’s smarter than you are.”

“Who says he’s smarter than me?” Graham was indignant.

“Not just you, stupid. Dragons are super smart. When he gets big, he’ll be able to talk and do magic and all kinds of cool stuff.”

“Brill,” said the boy.

Senta and Graham walked forward, the boy keeping several paces behind her at all times, until they reached the group of adults. Miss Dechantage was wearing a yellow dress with lots of lace and a matching hat, tied below her chin with a lace ribbon. Her dress was almost the same color as the suit Professor Calliere was wearing. It made him look like a very large banana. Mr. Korlann was much more dignified. His grey suit was so light that it would have seemed white, had he not been standing next to Miss Lusk in her white day dress. Senta saw Miss Lusk reach over discretely and touch Mr. Korlann’s hand. Wizard Labrith was wearing a light brown suit and Wizard Kesi, for once not in colorful silks, was dressed the same. They both stood near the back of the group, all four of their eyes boring holes into the back of Zurfina’s black dress. The two Dechantagne brothers were both wearing khaki safari clothes and pith helmets. The older brother looked like he was sick. Finally Father Ian had eschewed his traditional robes for a more modern suit with a clerical collar.

“This is it just ahead,” said Lieutenant Dechantagne, pointing. “You see the bay just here, and this land just beyond is the peninsula.”

“I’ll send word up to the Captain,” said the older Dechantagne brother.

“Children are limited to the aft deck of the ship,” said Miss Dechantagne, noticing Senta and Graham for the first time and looking down her nose at them.

“Children with dragons may go wherever they wish,” said Zurfina, without turning around.

* * * * *

“Kafira’s eyes!” snapped Iolanthe. “Don’t you know how to knock?”

“Sorry Ma’am,” said the soldier, nervously. “Sergeant Clark’s compliments, Ma’am. There is a large force of lizardmen approaching from the southeast. The sergeant has already called for all troops to man the ramparts. And the lizardmen have rifles, Ma’am.”

“Where the hell did they get rifles?” wondered Calliere.

“From our troops,” said Iolanthe, gravely. “How many lizardmen are there?”

“We don’t know, at least a thousand.”

“Tell the sergeant to hold the wall,” she ordered. The soldier then ran out of the tent. Turning to the women, she said. “Thirty five men aren’t going to hold the wall for long. Get everyone moving. We’re evacuating out to the end of the peninsula.”

“What are we going to do there?” asked Dr. Kelloran.

“We’re going to make our stand. Zeah, get some of the men and distribute as many guns and as much ammunition as we have. Go. Mercy, come with me.”

Iolanthe stepped out of the tent and marched purposefully toward the wall. Professor Calliere followed along behind her. When she reached the wall, she gathered up her dress and extensive petticoats into her left arm and used her right to climb up the ladder to the walkway that served as a firing platform twenty feet off the ground. Sergeant Clark was there.

“Where are they?” she asked, panting for breath and peering out of a firing port.

“Still mostly in the trees, but they’re out there.”

“And your men?”

“I’ve got them spread out fifty feet apart, but that means we’ve only got a fifth of the wall covered.”

“I can do the math,” she snapped. “You aren’t going to fight them from here. Just make them think you are. I want you to keep them cautious long enough for the colonists to get out onto the peninsula. Send four men to break the machine guns out of storage and set them up at that bottleneck four hundred yards north of the dock. That’s the only place we have a hope of holding them off.

“Mercy, you know the place, don’t you?”

Calliere nodded.

“Good. You supervise. Get those machine guns set up.”

Calliere nodded again and rushed back down the ladder. Sergeant Clark called four men and ordered them to follow the professor. Iolanthe turned back to the soldier.

“I’ll send word to you when to fall back,” she said. “Remember Clark. You cannot fall back until those colonists are out near the coast. If those tribesmen get past our trap, it will be a bloodbath.”

“I understand.”

The Voyage of the Minotaur

Senta and the Steel Dragon Book 1

Available now at Smashwords.com

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About the Author

Wesley Allison is a teacher and author and lives in Henderson, Nevada with his wife Victoria, his daughter Becky and his son John. For more information about the author and upcoming books, visit http://amathar.blogspot.com.

Books by Wesley Allison

Princess of Amathar

His Robot Girlfriend

Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Elven Princess

Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Sorceress

Brechalon: Senta and the Steel Dragon Book 0

The Voyage of the Minotaur: Senta and the Steel Dragon Book 1

Coming Soon

Tesla’s Stepdaughters

The Dark and Forbidding Land: Senta and the Steel Dragon Book 2

Table of Contents

Brechalon