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
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
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