“I didn’t realize you were leaving, Wizard Coote.”

The wizard turned around to find Police Chief Saba Colbshallow standing very close. Unconsciously, his hand reached up, even as the incantation for an amnesia spell came to his lips. Then he noticed Saba’s hand in his pocket, the shape indicating that a pistol probably accompanied the hand.

“I… I was hoping to leave unnoticed.”

“Why? You haven’t done anything that should concern me, have you?”

“Of course not.” His eyes were suddenly moist. “It’s just time to go.”

“I thought you were going to help us with our wizard problem.”

“Don’t you know? Can’t you see?” Coote’s voice cracked. “You don’t have a wizard problem.”

Saba frowned. “We shot one. Arrested a couple more. That seems to have put a damper of public disturbances,” he allowed. “Of course we’ve got a few in jail. Still, there are quite enough to keep my men on their toes.”

“Fools! They’re fools!” Coote grabbed the police chief by the lapels even as he broke into a fit of sobbing. “They don’t have enough art in them to feel what’s coming! It’s coming! It’s coming and none of us are going to survive!”

Saba grabbed the wizard by the wrists and pulled him around the corner of the ticket booth.

“Go on about your business,” he barked to the few other passengers turned audience members. Around the corner of the building, with nobody in sight, he looked deep into Coote’s eyes. “What they hell are you on about? What’s coming?”

“The Drache!”

“The dragon? It ate one wizard, and nobody’s seen it since.”

“Not the dragon.” His voice became a whisper. “It’s mother.”

“What they hell are you talking about? That dragon was raised from an egg by…”

The wizard squeaked.

“Senta!”

Coote began shaking. Saba kicked open a side door of the office, throwing the man inside and then following him. A middle-aged man in a railroad uniform was sitting in the only chair, sipping a cup of tea. Saba pulled out his pistol.

“Get out!”

The man dropped his teacup, which shattered on the floor, and ran out. Saba shoved Coote into the recently vacated chair.

“Senta’s not dead?”

“No,” cried Coote. “I mean I don’t know if she is or isn’t or was or whatever. But whatever it was… that she was… it was their fault! And now she’s killing them all!”

Saba slapped him across the face, knocking off his hat.

“Listen. Tell me what’s going on and I’ll let you get out of here.”

The wizard nodded.

“Who are they?”

“The Zenith.”

“And what is The Zenith?” asked Saba, through clenched teeth.

“It’s a secret extra-governmental organization of wizards.”

“Another secret magical cabal? Like the Reine Zauberei?”

“No, not like them. The Reine Zauberei were trying to ensure the purity of the master race. The Zenith is, well, mostly just about making sure that Brech interests are secured.”

“Yes, it’s the exact bloody opposite. Are you one of them?”

The Port Dechantagne Hospital was one of the newest additions to the downtown business district. It was a three-story building of red brick, with white stonework along the corners and the windows, very much in the same style as Police Headquarters. Inside there was very little similarity. The hospital had a large entryway that led to three wings stretching out to either side and to the back. At an oak desk just inside the door was an aged nun who smiled pleasantly as Saba Colbshallow stopped to inquire the location of Maro McCoort.

A young girl in a candy-striped dress was summoned to lead him to room 128 in the east wing. The room was typical of the hospital, large and with four beds, two on either side. All four were filled with patients, all but one of whom were unconscious. McCoort was in the bed on the far left. A nurse standing beside him was writing notes on a clipboard.

“How is he?” Saba asked her.

“Oh, Chief Colbshallow.” She stopped writing and fiddled with her hair for a moment before answering. “Mother Auni and the doctors have done all they can for him, but he still hasn’t come to.”

“Do they expect him to?”

The nurse shrugged. “He was frozen… I mean, rock hard. I don’t think anyone has seen that happen to a person… who survived, I mean.”

“I want to be contacted immediately, if he wakes. I intend to see that the person responsible pays.”

“I for one am a little surprised that you’re so vehement,” said a voice behind him.

He turned around to find a young man in a Colonial Guard captain’s dress uniform. With him was a girl, a few years younger, in an expensive green day dress.

“And why exactly would that be, Tiber?”

“Maro was never very generous in his editorials about the police department.” Tiber Stevenson smiled crookedly. “Oh, you remember my sister Mona, don’t you, Chief?”

Saba nodded to the girl and then turned back to her brother.

“All the more reason to be vigilant in the execution of my duties. People need to know that the police department is here to maintain law and order for everyone, no matter what may or may not have been said in the past.”

“Very judicious of you.”

“You’re looking very sharp,” observed Saba. “Not dressed up just for a hospital visit, are you?”

“No. We’re on our way to the wedding.”

“Oh, Sam Croffut’s. I had forgotten that it was today. I had to send my regrets, what with all that’s going on.”

“I’m standing up for Sam,” said Tiber, “as well as acting as Mona’s escort. Her fiancé is in Mallontah on business. She’s engaged to Fitzroy Norich, you know.”

“I hope you’ll be very happy,” Saba told her. “Do you suppose your older brother will ever find a young woman?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” said Tiber.

“He means you’ll find out when he’s disinherited,” said Mona.

“Really! Prepared to give up everything for true love? I would never have thought you had it in you, Stephenson. You’ve grown three-fold in my esteem.”

“That and a pfennig will buy me a cup of coffee,” said Tiber. “Now if you’ll excuse us, Chief, I would like to spend a few minutes with my sick friend.”

Saba nodded and left the two young people beside Maro McCoort’s bed.

Maro and Sherree McCoort sat across from one another at a cozy table in Bonne Nourriture. A lizzie waiter arrived with open bottle of wine and poured a sample for the gentleman. He took a sip and nodded. The lizzie filled both of their glasses and stepped away.

“This is a lovely treat,” said Sherree. “I didn’t think we would be able to go out as often, since our livelihood in the form of the publishing house and newspaper is gone.”

“That’s all being taken care of,” said Maro, waving his hand dismissively. “The colony can’t do without a newspaper. The banks have to give us the loans we need to get going again. Until then, we’ve got your family’s money.”

His wife frowned, but didn’t say anything else on the subject.

The human waiter, a rather oily-looking Mirsannan arrived at the table. “And what would monsieur and madam like to start out with?”

“We will have the escargot in garlic butter.”

“Very good, monsieur.”

“Why do we always have to start our meal with escargot?” pouted Sherree, when the waiter had gone. “I would like to try the crepes. Everyone says they’re wonderful.”

“But escargot is the best appetizer they have. It’s three marks fifty more than the crepes, so it has to be better. I’ll tell you what. You pick our main course.”

“All right. I think we should have seared xiphactinus with crabmeat in sherry sauce.”

“Are you sure? The beef is one mark fifty more. It’s probably better.”

“Oh, no! I’m not eating Beef Dechantagne!”

“But they don’t call it that here,” he said. “It’s just boeuf en crute.”

“I don’t care,” she pouted. “Those people are just too full of themselves, without going and naming food after them too.”

The couple ate their dinner of fish with crabmeat and both enjoyed it. For pudding, they had Mirsannan ice cream topped with local pineapple. With a friendly handshake for the maître-de, a clandestine five mark banknote in his palm, Mr. McCoort guided his wife out of the restaurant and down the walkway to where his bright yellow Sawyer and Sons steam carriage waited. Helping her into the passenger seat, he started to step around to the driver’s side.

“Bechnoth uuthanum pestor paj,” said a voice from the darkness.

Bright blue light engulfed Maro McCoort and within seconds, his body was frozen solid. Sherree screamed.

“Shut your yap, girl,” growled a man stepping out of the darkness.

He was tall and thin. Dressed in a suit and bowler hat, he seemed completely unremarkable, unlike the wizards who had been strutting around town. But his black eyes were filled with menace. He climbed up into the seat next to the woman.

“You can get out and take care of your fellow, or you can take a ride with me.”

Sherree jumped out of the car and hurried around to stand by her husband. With a laugh, the man slammed his foot down on the forward accelerator. Then he frowned as the vehicle rolled a few feet. The steam cock had not been set.

“Premba uuthanum tachthna,” he growled, placing his hand on the dash. The vehicle lurched forward and raced away into the darkness.

A man in a pristine black suit with a grey waistcoat came down the line, finally reaching Iolana and Esther. His carefully waxed mustache emphasized his thin-lipped smile.

“This is the procedure,” he said. “When you hear your names, you will step forward and stop at the yellow dot on the floor in front of the throne. Your name will be called, and you will curtsy. Then you will exit through the opposite door. If the king asks you a question, you will answer in as few words as possible, finishing with ‘Your Majesty’. If either of the princes should address you, the same applies, but in their case, it is ‘Your Royal Highness’.”

“Of course,” replied Iolana.

“I was told you understood Brech?” said the man to Esther.

“She does,” said Iolana.

“Then, there will be no surprises?”

“No sssurprises,” said Esther.

The line moved slowly onward. They were afforded a view of the royals long before it was their turn to stand before them. His Majesty King Tybalt III was a tall, thin man who, though his red uniform seemed to hang on him, was still quite spry for his sixty-four years. His thinning hair and mutton chops were still more blond than grey. Behind the throne, on either side, stood the two princes, dressed, like their father, in red uniforms filled with medals. Twenty-four-year-old Crown Prince Tybalt was on the left, looking completely bored. His fifteen-year-old half-brother, Prince Clitus, looked more nervous than anything else.

When she was close enough to actually hear the king’s conversation, Esther paid close attention to the exchanges.

“Lord Winsdall and his daughter Lady Ewa Windsdall,” droned the announcer.

“Good day, Lord Winsdall,” said the king. “This can’t be your daughter. There has to be some kind of mistake. Why, your daughter was only this big,” he held his thumb and forefinger about two inches apart, “when last I saw her.”

“They do grow up fast, Your Majesty.”

“Tell me, young lady, do you shoot? My son is a great shot.” He waved toward Prince Tybalt.”

“I don’t, Your Majesty, but I’d love to see him shoot.”

Prince Tybalt glanced down at the young woman the way a street sweeper looks at a pile of horse dung, sniffed, and turned away.

“Mr. and Mrs. Marvin Van Josen,” called the announcer, signaling that Lord Winsdall’s time was over.

“You’re the fellow that laid the trans-ocean telegraph line, aren’t you?” asked the king.

Prince Clitus looked interested. His older brother still looked bored.

“I was the chief engineer, Your Majesty. It was a team effort.”

“Quite, quite. You should all be congratulated, and you will be. We are sure to see your name on the list for the Order of St. Ulixes.”

Mr. Van Josen bowed. Prince Clitus looked as though he wanted to say something, but held his tongue.

“And how are you finding Brech City, Mrs. Van Josen?”

“Ser gute, Majesty.”

“Sir Redry Moorn, Lady Honoria Moorn, and Lady Hortence Moorn,” called the announcer, as the Van Josens stepped away.

Prince Tybalt was suddenly interested, particularly in Lady Honoria, who was a lovely young woman in a lavender gown. Both young women batted their eyelashes at him, but he was oblivious to Lady Hortence who was pretty enough, though not in her sister’s class. He leaned over and whispered something in his father’s ear.

“Sir Redry. These are your daughters?”

“Step-daughters, Your Majesty, though they are as dear to me as if they were my own.”

“You are in the city for a few days?”

“A fortnight, Your Majesty.”

“Very good. We shall see that they are invited to the Crown Prince’s tea.”

Sir Redry bowed curtly.

“Lady Iolana Dechantagne Staff and Esther… Ssaharranah of Birmisia.”

Iolana shot Esther an annoyed glance before turning her attention to the royal family.

“Lady Iolana,” said the king. “We were sorry to hear of the death of your father Sir Radley. We found him to be a fine man.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“And we express our admiration for your mother. A most remarkable woman.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Iolana suddenly looked as if she had bitten down on a lemon.

“So.” King Tybalt rose to his feet and stepped down to stop directly in front of Esther. “This is a lizzie. We are told you understand Brech.”

“Yes, Your Majesssty.”

“Outstanding! Boys, come down here.” The two princes hurried to take spots on either side of their father. “We must know these Birmisians, as we are their king too.”

Prince Clitus looked at Iolana.

“I read your book… um, two of them—the one on dinosaurs and the history. You know, Colonel Mormont was my third cousin.”

“Twice removed, Your Highness, yes, I did know that.”

“I’m hoping to go to Birmisia some day,” he said.

“There is no reason you shouldn’t,” said the king, slapping the prince on the shoulder, and then turning to ascend to the throne. “How are you being treated here in Brechalon?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Well, Your Majesty, there seems to be…” started Esther.

“She’s being treated very well,” interrupted Iolana.

“Excellent. We shall hope to see you again before you sail for home.”

“Sir Reynold Isenn,” called the announcer, as Iolana and Esther were ushered out a side corridor.

“What is this Ssaharranah business?” demanded Iolana.

“It means exiled.”

“I know what it means! No one has exiled you. You are Esther Staff! You have always been part of my family.”

“Is that what is says on my baptismal certificate?”