Brechalon (5 page)

“
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.