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.”

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.”

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.  Nevertheless, 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.

Chapter Five: Putting Plans in Motion

 Yuah knelt down and used the buttonhook 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.”