Brechalon

BRECHALON

By Wesley Allison

Smashwords Edition

Brechalon

Copyright © 2010 by Wesley Allison

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 © 2010 Liliya Abdullina |
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. Terrence
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 among the fruit
trees, among them 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, Avenue
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.