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 One, 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 nightdress, 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 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 than 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 icebox? 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 is 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.

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 89 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 89 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. Her eyes rolled around in her head and 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.”

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 every one 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. 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.

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 servants 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, having replaced the two shells. He 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?

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’d 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.

Nils Chapman looked through the small window in the armored door at prisoner 89. 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 strands of 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 89 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 nondescript 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 southern 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 hobnail boots walking toward her. That was one thousand nine hundred sixty-eight days ago.

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 hatbox 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 Boar. All in all, he thought it might have been better if there had been a flaw in the hat.

“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 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.