BRECHALON
By Wesley Allison
Brechalon
Copyright ? 2010 by Wesley Allison
Revision: 02-10-17
All Rights Reserved. This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If sold, shared, or given away it is a violation of the copyright of this work. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual people, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Wesley Allison
Cover Image Copyright ? 2015 Elisanth | Dreamstime.com
ISBN 978-1-4523-0652-0
* * * * *
For Becky
Senta and the Steel Dragon
Book 0
Brechalon
By Wesley Allison
Chapter One: The Greatest City in the World
There was no doubt about it. Brech was the greatest city in the world. Not best-but the greatest. It was the capital of the United Kingdom of Greater Brechalon and had been the center of Brech culture for almost two thousand years. Fifteen centuries ago it had been the largest city in the world and it still was. With a population of more than four million, it dwarfed Natine, Bangdorf, Szague, Perfico and the other capital cities on the continent of Sumir. The Great City, as most Brechs called their home, was filled with majestic buildings and monuments, magnificent parks, and spacious plazas. But beyond these were seemingly endless reaches of tenement apartment buildings, slapped up with none of the forethought and planning of the ancient structures of which the citizens were so proud. Though the vast system of horse-drawn trolleys and hansom cabs reminded one of the past, the oily black telegraph poles and the chugging, honking steam-powered carriages gave voice to a future bearing down at record speed.
Nothing about the Great City was lost on Captain Terrence Dechantagne. He had been back in the city for exactly one hour and fifteen minutes, but it seemed as if he had never left. As he strode down Avenue Phoenix, he looked at the shops on either side of the street, occupying the ground floor of buildings that had been old when his great-grandfather had been born. The cobblestone streets were filled with vehicles. Shiny new steam carriages swerved to avoid running over an old man pulling a donkey heavily laden with crates of produce. The trolley's bell reminding everyone else on the street that, by law, it had the right of way, even though the massive horse pulling it was far slower than the newest marvels of technology. Turning sharply to his left, Terrence crossed the road dodging neatly between a horse-drawn carriage and one of the steam-powered variety, and entered one of the storefronts-Breeding Booksellers.
The interior of the bookseller's shop was dark and crowded and it smelled of old leather, old paper, and old glue. Terrence took a slow, deep breath, enjoying the fragrance the way some people might enjoy the scent of a rose. An old bespectacled man lifted his head from behind a massive volume of Dodson. He raised his eyebrows when he saw Terrence's blue and khaki cavalry uniform. Terrence removed his slouch hat and fished his wallet from an interior vest pocket of his tunic.
"What can I do for you, sir?" asked the bookseller.
"Revenge," said Terrence without smiling.
A momentary look of panic crossed the older man's face, but then his eyes widened.
"Garstone?"
Terrence nodded.
"Yes, I have several copies behind the counter. Not the type of thing I'd expect an army officer to be reading."
"Don't judge a book by its cover," said Terrence. "One would think that a bookseller would know that."
"Indeed." The man paused and then pulled out several different editions of the infamous work of Kazia Garstone. He looked up to study his customer's face. "So many people are interested in this one, either for its politics or its, um? indecencies."
"You don't have a first edition?" asked Terrence, his face giving nothing away.
"Oh, I do. But I'm afraid it's not inexpensive." Opening a small cupboard behind him, the bookseller pulled out a book wrapped in linen and placed it on the counter. With great care he unwrapped the cloth exposing a green leather-bound book with gold leaf edging. "Two hundred fifty marks."
"I wonder what Garstone would say about such profiteering," said Terrence opening his wallet and pulling out five crisp banknotes that together equaled the stated amount.
"I don't think she would mind. You know, if you're interested, I might have a lead on a signed first edition of Steam."
"Really? How much?"
"Four thousand marks."
"Kafira's tit!" said Terrence, chuckling as the other man winced at his blasphemy. "I'm afraid that's beyond my allowance."
The man nodded knowingly. "Would you like me to wrap it up for you?"
"Nope." Terrence took the book and tucked it under his arm. "Is there still a fish and chips cart by the park?"
"Oh yes."
Terrence exited the store and turned left, heading for Hexagon Park. He had to jog across Prince Tybalt Boulevard, which was at least twice as crowded as Avenue Phoenix. He was almost hit twice, but arrived at the park's edge unscathed. Hexagon Park as the name implied, was an expansive park built in the six-sided shape of a hexagon. It was filled with fountains, ponds, walkways, flower gardens, orchards, and at its center, a plaza with a steam-powered calliope. Terrence could hear the music playing even at this distance. Along the sidewalk at the edge of the park, several vendors were selling food from carts. He purchased a newsprint cone filled with fried fish and golden chips and made his way down the cobblestone path to the center of the park, taking a seat about fifty feet from the bright red music machine.
The calliope made as much music as an entire band playing. People clearly enjoyed it, though only a few were gathered to watch it. Most followed along by bobbing their heads or humming as they smelled the flowers, looked into the fountains, or strolled among the fruit trees. Terrence ate his fish and chips and propped open his new book on his knee. His attention was pulled away from the pages though by the other people and their various activities.
Directly in front of him an older man in a brown bowler was throwing bits of bread to the flying reptiles that could be found all over the old city. Disgusting things. To Terrence's mind, they should be shot rather than fed. Several small children played Doggie Doggie on the open expanse of grass. Their simple homespun clothing and the fact that they were unsupervised indicated they were from poorer, working class families. Beyond them were several large groups of people wandering past the fruit trees, among them, a man in a dark brown overcoat that looked far too warm for this time of year. As Terrence watched, several people approached the man and exchanged money for small packages pulled from the expansive coat. The man was a drug dealer.
The young officer felt his eyes itch and begin to water and when he stood up to drop his garbage in the dust bin, he could feel his hands starting to twitch. He took two steps in the direction of the drug dealer. Then the man in the overcoat looked in his direction and just seemed to melt away into a crowd. Terrence was just thinking about following when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He turned to find a very large police constable holding onto him.
"Now, where are you off to?"
"All these people and you stop me?" Terrence wondered.
"Just keeping the peace. Someone from out of town might not recognize the fellow you were eyeing as trouble. Then again, he might. Either way, there's no reason that a fine young officer in His Majesty's service should be getting mixed up with the likes of him."
"I'll take your word for it."
"Do you have a place to stay in the city?" asked the PC, taking a small notebook and a short pencil from his pocket.
"My family has a house here."
"And where would that be?"
"Number one, A
venue Dragon."
The police constable's eyes shot from his notebook back to Terrence's face.
"That would be Miss? um, then she would be??"
"My baby sister."
Putting his notebook away with as much nonchalance as he could muster, the PC smiled and then bowed slightly at the waist.
"If I can be of any further service." It wasn't a question, and in any case, the constable left before Terrence could reply.
Terrence studied his own hand and noted that it was no longer shaking. Might as well go home. Get it over with. Then maybe he could find a quiet corner to sit and read Garstone.
* * * * *
Seven-year-old Senta Bly lay in one of the grassy fields on the northern half of Hexagon Park and looked up at the brown haze in the air above her as she listened to the sound of the calliope and tried to catch her breath. She had spent the morning playing with her cousin, Maro McCoort, and a dozen other children from the vast sea of tenements, who met each morning at the park and played a host of childhood games. Maro, who despite being five months younger than Senta, always looked out for her, nudged her and handed her half of the piece of cheese that he had that morning wrapped in a napkin and stuffed in his pocket. As she chewed it, she turned her head to the side and watched some of the other children running away.
"What's up?" she asked Maro.
"There's a wizard setting up over there," he replied.
Climbing to their feet, they ran in the direction that the other children had gone. Sure enough, a man in a brown suit but wearing a black cape had placed his bowler hat on the grass upside down, so that people could throw money in, and he was already performing his first magic. He swirled his right hand around in a circle parallel to the ground and spoke a series of magic words.
"Uuthanum Izesic." He grinned. "I give you the floating platform!"
Though it was invisible, there was a disc-shaped platform just below where he had formed the circle with his hands, and children rushed forward to sit on it. A few even tried to stand, though they were quickly pushed off by those wanting their turn. The round field of force lasted only a few minutes and then it was gone and the wizard was on to his next trick. He charmed a woman and made her act like a chicken, and then he summoned a horse from out of thin air. He turned a boy's hair blue and he made a passing steam carriage's horn meow like a cat. His grand finale was to induce snow to fall from the hazy but relatively cloud-free sky. This earned him cheers from the children and more than a few coins in his hat from the adults, despite the snow lasting only a few minutes and none of it sticking.
"It's time to get home," Maro told Senta, as the wizard gathered his earnings.
Senta thought she saw the wizard give her a strange look as she passed, but she paid little attention. Wizards were strange folk. She raced after her cousin who shot across Avenue Phoenix, dodging in and around traffic. They ran all the way to the Great Church of the Holy Savior, which marked the edge of the Old City. Then they skipped their way through block after block of tenement buildings. At last they arrived at their own building-a fifteen story stone structure that leaned ever so slightly to the right. Tramping up the narrow stairs, they reached their Granny's apartment on the twelfth floor.
Together the two children pressed against the door, tumbling inside when Maro turned the knob. They expected to find Granny, and indeed they did, but they were surprised to find her leaning over a tiny bassinette, gooing at the contents. Near her, sitting on the floor was a toddler with very fine, very blond hair. There were already four children living with Granny-Senta and Maro, Maro's brother Geert, and their cousin Bertice. Now it appeared that there were two more.
"This is Ernst," said Granny, patting the toddler on the top of the head. "And this is her baby sister Didrika."
Senta stepped quickly across the room and stared down into the bassinette, Maro at her side. The sleeping baby inside couldn't have been more than a few weeks old. The few whisps of hair on her head were strawberry blond and the tiny bow shaped mouth was pursed, as if she was dreaming of a bottle.
"Aw, cute," said Senta.
"We're not going to have enough food," said Maro.
"We'll make do," said Granny. "But you two will have to go to work. Maro, Mr. Blackwell has secured a place for you at his printing shop. And Senta, you will work at the caf? in the Great Plaza."
"Who are they, anyway?" asked Maro, indicating the new children.
"They are your cousins. My boy Colin was their father. He died in the war. Now they've lost their mother to a fever."
Twenty minutes later Maro and Senta were making the long trip downstairs to the sub-basement to get a bucket of coal.
"I guess we have to grow up now," Maro said. "I don't see why those damn kids have to come here."
"Their parents are dead," Senta replied. "Just like yours and mine."
"Your parents aren't dead."
"Uh-huh. Granny said so."
"I heard your Mom just didn't want you."
"Who wouldn't want me?" said Senta. "I'm just cute."
Maro made a noncommittal noise and they continued down the stairs.
* * * * *
Iolanthe Dechantagne pursed her lips and narrowed her unique aquamarine eyes at the man in front of her, who seemed to wilt in her gaze. They were in one of the back bedrooms of the Dechantagne house at Number One, Avenue Dragon. Occupying an entire city block and sitting four stories high, the house had dozens of bedrooms, so many that Iolanthe was sure she hadn't visited them all. She had been in this one though, many times. Not recently. So many rooms made the house expensive to heat and to care for, and right now Iolanthe needed her money for things other than taking care of a too large house. She had ordered all the rooms in the back two thirds of the building closed off, the furniture covered, and the other contents sold or stored. But this room was untouched. The dust-covered furniture was still home to dust covered personal items: brush, razor, strop, journal, war medals, shotgun.
"Well?" she said, ice clinging to the consonants and a cold wind blowing through the vowel sound. The servant actually shivered.
"I didn't think you meant this room," said the man.
"And why would that be?"
"This is the Master's room. I mean it was his room. I mean I thought?"
"My brother is master of this house now. And you are not paid to think." Iolanthe could feel the presence of Zeah Korlann, her head butler, just behind her right shoulder, but she didn't acknowledge him. "I said I wanted all of these rooms closed off, and that includes this one. Cover the furniture and sell the other things, and if you can't sell them, burn them."
The man nodded shakily. Iolanthe turned on her heel. Zeah was standing just far enough to the side that he wouldn't have to move if she walked directly back out of the room. He was a tall, dignified man with clear, intelligent eyes and hair that was a bit more salt than pepper. He had served the Dechantagne family since before Iolanthe was born, and his family had served them since the time of Iolanthe's great-great-grandfather. He stood completely straight, his right hand resting on the shoulder of a boy of thirteen or fourteen. Iolanthe raised one eyebrow.
"Um." Zeah cleared his throat. "Young Saba here needs to be assigned a position in the house."
"He is engaged in his studies, yes? I believe I pay for a tutor, do I not?"
"Yuh? yes. But Saba had his fourteenth birthday some time ago. It is time for him to work in the afternoons, after finishing with Master Lockley."
"Do you have an opinion?"
"I wuh? was thinking assistant porter."
"Very well." Iolanthe took three steps towards the door, then stopped and turned around. "What did he receive for his birthday?"
"You guh? gave him a very nice puh? puh? pair of pants."
"Perfect," she said.
"Muh? Miss?" said Zeah, leaving the boy where he was and stepping forward. He stood looking at her as if measuring w
hether he should continue.
"Yes?" she asked at last.
"Might you not want to keep suh? some items of a more puh? puh? personal nature?"
"Nothing of my father's is of interest to me or my brothers. He was a disgrace to the family name and the sooner I can forget about him the better. Wastrel. Coward." She pressed her lips together to say the other word. How she wanted to say it. Murderer. But the word stayed in her mouth. She stared at Zeah, daring him to ask something else.
"Yuh? yes Miss."
It took a full ten minutes to walk to the front of the house, that portion which was in use, and once there it took far too long to reach her boudoir. She had to detour around the hallway where workmen were busy installing an elevator. It was the last of many improvements that Iolanthe had made to the house in the past two years.
Yuah was waiting in the boudoir. Yuah was Iolanthe's dressing maid, as well as being Zeah's daughter. Two years younger than Iolanthe, Yuah had grown up with her and her brothers. There was a time that Iolanthe had thought of the younger woman as a sister. Without a word, she turned and shrugged off her jacket, which Yuah caught and immediately placed on a hanger. Then she was back to unbutton Iolanthe's day dress and help her remove it. This was followed by the large rear bustle made vital by modern fashion, and then the Prudence Plus fairy bust form corset. And for the first time all day, Iolanthe was able to take a deep breath.
"I won't need you for a few hours," she said, as Yuah draped her day gown over her shoulders. "You may retire."
"Thank you, Miss."
"I'm going to write Augie. Do you want me to send him your regards?"
"Yes, Miss."
As Yuah left the room, Iolanthe sat down at the small desk in the corner and pulled out a sheet of her personal stationary and her fountain pen. In her best hand she wrote her letter.
Augie,
I read with interest your description of Birmisia. It sounds like just the type of place for our enterprise. I was especially interested in the fact that there are as yet no other parties intent on establishing a colony there. It is distant, but that may very well end up being an advantage. Terrence has put forth Cartonia as a possibility, but with your experience in Birmisia, we will have first hand information and expertise. Continue to learn all you can. You know what we need. I don't have to tell you. In any case, I have a meeting with the Prime Minister later in the week and hope to begin negotiations.