Brechalon (8 page)

“
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 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.”

* * * * *

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?”