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 two 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.

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 that 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 on which she had started sweeping, so that if she swept from left to right, then she cleaned soot from right to left.  Soon it was cleaned and she 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 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 the boy’s 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.

“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.

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.”