The Drache Girl

by Wesley Allison

  THE DRACHE GIRL

  By Wesley Allison

  Smashwords Edition

  The Drache Girl

  Copyright © 2010 by Wesley Allison

  Revision: 11-28-15

  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 Joe Klune | Dreamstime.com

  ISBN 978-1-4523-6700-2

  * * * * *

  For Aunt Mary and Uncle Sam

  Senta and the Steel Dragon

  Book Three

  The Drache Girl

  By Wesley Allison

  Chapter One: Senta and Bessemer

  It was the second day of Hamonth, the first day of winter, and a chilly breeze blew across the bay and into the bustling colony of Port Dechantagne. A ship, the S.S. Mistress of Brechbay had docked at the recently upgraded port, and a row of happy immigrants was descending down the gangplank. They stared with fascination, mixed with a small amount of fear at the dockworkers below them. Dozens of lizardmen served at the port. Sluggish now that the cooler weather had arrived, they used heavy winches to lift cargo from the deck of the ship and to deposit it on the gravel road beside the dock. Other lizardmen then scooped up the crates, boxes, and barrels with hand-trucks and ferried them to the nearby warehouses. Both groups of lizardmen were supervised by human foremen.

  People all along the dock stopped and stared as Senta walked by. Hundreds of passengers leaned over the railing of the ship and others on the gangplank pointed and gaped with open mouths. Senta carried herself with a bounce that made her long blond hair sail behind her like a proud banner in the wind. She was dreadfully skinny, though the bustle beneath her yellow dress gave her a little bit of a figure. She was a child soon to become a young woman, and she was brimming with confidence. She was well known in the colony and she thought that she was quite pretty too. She had to admit though, that the people were probably not gawking at her, but at the dragon that walked along next to her. It was the size of a small pony, covered in scales the color of polished steel. Every step it took was a study in grace, and from the tip of its whiskered snout, past its folded wings, to the tip of its barbed tail, it seemed to just flow along.

  “They look as though they’ve never seen a dragon before,” said the dragon. Had someone heard his voice without seeing him, they would have thought it was a young gentleman speaking. It was a rich voice, but still young.

  “They probably haven’t,” replied Senta. “Dragons are pretty rare.”

  “Rare and very beautiful…”

  “Oh do shut up,” said the girl, and then, “There he is. Hey Graham!”

  A boy about the same age as the girl and about twice as heavy even though he was almost a head shorter, ran toward them. He had on the dungarees and heavy shirt of a dockworker, and both were stained here and there, no doubt from just such a form of labor. His unkempt brown hair and freckled face made his smile seem all the more genuine.

  “Hey Senta. Hey Bessemer.”

  “Hello Graham,” said the dragon.

  “You look a mess,” said Senta. “You did remember that we were supposed to go for lunch?”

  “Sorry, I can’t go. I gotta work. I can’t leave my crew alone.” He gestured over his shoulder at the group of five lizardmen awaiting his return. Looking like a cross between an upright alligator and an iguana, with skin ranging in color from a mottled olive to a deep forest green, each of the reptilians were two feet taller than the boy. They stood waiting, scarcely moving, and giving the dragon and his companion surreptitious looks.

  “I don’t care for those reptiles,” said Bessemer.

  Graham snorted.

  “What?”

  “It cracks me up every time you say that,” Graham told the dragon. “Besides, you know they think you’re a god or something?”

  “I didn’t say they didn’t have taste.”

  “Come on,” said Senta. “I’ve heard this entire conversation already twenty times. If you can’t come with us, we’ll just go get lunch ourselves.”

  One of the lizardmen hissed something, and then two others began replying in the local reptilian dialect.

  “Up your trolley!” yelled Graham at them, and then he too began to hiss in the native tongue.

  The lizardmen turned and walked back over to a pallet full of cargo, which they had evidently been in the process of carrying to the warehouse. With what seemed to be a great deal of unhappiness, but not a great deal of speed, they returned to work. One of them hissed again.

  “That’s right you! You keep your pecker on!” yelled Graham. He looked at Senta and flushed slightly. “Sorry. Ma says I shouldn’t use the language from the dock around the young ladies.” He said the words ‘young ladies’ in a strained falsetto imitation of his mother. “I’m sorry, but I can’t go. I didn’t know the Mistress was going to be docking today.”

  “Fine,” said Senta. “I’ll just dine with Hero and Hertzel.”

  “Hertzel’s working too. I just saw him take his crew up on the crane. It’s probably going to be a late night and we’ll probably be working this schedule for the next four days. Look, I’m sorry. But I’ll make it up to you next week, Okay?”

  “Fine,” said Senta, unhappily, and Graham set off back toward his cold-blooded staff members.

  “Don’t be so sad,” said the dragon. “You can have a ladies’ luncheon. You can be all hoity-toity and proper. You know how much you love that.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m going hunting for my own lunch.”

  “Just be careful. Watch out for predators that are bigger and scarier than you.”

  “There may be bigger, but there are none scarier!” He emphasized his last four words for the crowd of immigrants fresh off the ship who were forming around for their first look at a living dragon. Bessemer took a deep breath and blew three small smoke rings in their direction. The crowd, moving as one, took a step backwards, even though none of them had approached within a twenty-foot radius of him anyway. Then, with one swift motion, the steel dragon shot into the sky like an artillery shell and disappeared.

  Senta walked up the hill, following the white gravel streets through the warehouses and workshops that filled the area near the dock. She passed along the fence that separated the militia barracks and parade ground from the commercial storage facilities. Finally she passed through the gate in the Emergency Wall that had once separated the colony from the terrors of the primeval forest, but now separated the older part of the colony from the newer.

  Just beyond the gate was the Town Square. This was the only portion of town that was paved with cobblestone, and it had only been completed the previous summer. In the very center of the square was a small area of grass, lined with flowerbeds and set aside with small ornamental wrought-iron fencing. In the middle of the grass was a large flagpole, flying now, as it always did the red, white, and blue Accord Banner of Greater Brechalon. Around the edge of the square were about twenty buildings that comprised almost all of the community’s shops and stores. Senta had been in every single one of them. She had been in most of them many times. Today her stop was on the corner of the square at Mrs. Finkler’s Bakery.

  Mrs. Ada Finkler was a pleasant middle-aged woman, who had arrived on the second ship of colonists. Most colonists to Birmisia were indentured for a certain time to pay for the cost of their journey and to raise enough money to purchase some land for a home or a business. Mrs. Finkler had done just that, purchasing the land on the corner of Town Square
and constructing, with the aid of government loans, her dream. At three stories tall, the building was as high as any building in town save three, and being amongst such august company, it was a local landmark. The ground floor was the bakery and many in the colony relied on Mrs. Finkler’s bread rather than make their own. It also featured seven tables, three on the inside, and four on the outside, where patrons could dine if they wished. The first floor up was the office and home of Mrs. Finkler. And for a woman who had been a refugee from Freedonia just three years before, she was quite proud of the ‘palatial’ size of her personal domain. The second floor up was divided into four tiny apartments, which shared a single bathroom. These Mrs. Finkler leased out.

  Luncheon was being served at Mrs. Finkler’s Bakery when Senta arrived. All three of the indoor tables were filled, and all but one of the outdoor tables. A thin young girl with very long wavy black hair and dark flashing eyes stood staring at the unoccupied spot. Unlike Senta and most of the other women seen around town, the girl’s clothing was simple and monochrome, with none of the color and style that women were used to showing off. A simple unadorned dress covered white linen work clothes, topped off by a black sweater. She didn’t even have a bustle beneath her tan dress. Senta walked over and stood next to the girl. They had both turned twelve years of age and they were almost the same height. Senta was quite a bit thinner than the other child.

  “Well Hero, I suggest we go sit down,” said Senta.

  “We can’t. Aalwijn says that the seats at that table are saved for someone very important.”

  “Are they going to use them and eat lunch….Because it’s lunch time!”

  “I don’t know,” said Hero quietly, looking around. She had escaped to Birmisia from an oppressive regime in Freedonia, and was particularly worried about scraping the boat of someone “important”. Senta on the other hand, raised as an orphan and adopted by the most powerful magic-user on the continent, maybe two or three continents, didn’t much worry about anything anymore.

  “If they’re not going to eat, then the table shouldn’t be saved for them.”

  The two girls turned around to lean against the brick pillars that held of the awning of the bakery, when they spotted the woman walking across the square from Mrs. Bratihn’s Dress Shoppe. Aalwijn Finkler had said that the table was being held for someone important, and he was so very right. Senta could think of only two women who would warrant the adjective more. The young woman was quite beautiful with dark brown hair and deep brown eyes. She was dressed in an uncommonly lovely, feminine gown, which must have recently arrived from Greater Brechalon or even Mirsanna. It had elaborate, flounced, pleated ruffles, elegantly styled in a very pretty sky blue fabric. All the edges had pretty, embroidered lace, except for the bottom hem, which was smooth. The bustle created cascades down her back, and the pleated ruffles swished provocatively as the young woman walked. She stopped directly in front of the two girls.

  “Good day, Mrs. Dechantagne,” said Senta.

  “Good day, Miss Bly. Are you having lunch?”

  “We were going to, but they seem to be short a table here. They’re holding it for, I quote, someone important, end quote.”

  The woman laughed.

  “Come, you two must join me,” she said.

  Hero’s eyes went large. The woman laughed again and then stepped over to the empty table. Senta started to follow, but noticed that her friend hadn’t moved. She stepped back and took her by the arm, leading her to the table. Senta sat across from Mrs. Dechantagne and Hero sat on the side of the table between the two.

  Aalwijn Finkler brought a steaming pot of tea and three cups. He was fifteen years old, with brown hair and green eyes, and he would have been inclined to keep his long and slightly crooked nose in the air around girls as young as twelve. However one particular girl of twelve held quite a bit of fascination for all the boys in Birmisia—the girl who walked the streets with a dragon, and who could cast magic spells. As he poured the tea, Aalwijn tried to look at Senta without seeming to look at her, the result being that his head didn’t quite seem as though it were correctly attached to his shoulders. As he walked back into the bakery, all three females burst out laughing.

  “That’s better,” said Mrs. Dechantagne, who placed her hand over Hero’s. The girl immediately stopped laughing and tightened up her shoulders. This made both the woman and Senta start laughing again.

  “Now Hero, what shall we have?” the woman asked.

  “I don’t know, Ma'am.”

  “Come on, Hero,” said Senta. “You know that wasn’t even a real question. This isn’t Café Carlo in Brech. They have what they have. We’ve eaten here a thousand times.”

  “And no more of this ‘Ma'am’ nonsense,” said Mrs. Dechantagne. “You must call me Yuah. After all, I’ve known you almost as long as I’ve known Senta.”

  “Yes Ma'am.”

  “He didn’t bring any sugar,” said Senta.

  “I just want my tea to warm me up,” said Mrs. Dechantagne, putting her cup to her perfectly formed lips. “I suppose children must have sweets though.”

  “We don’t need any sugar,” said Senta. “We’re almost grown women, you know.”

  “I like sugar,” said Hero, meekly.

  Aalwijn returned with three large pewter bowls filled with steaming hot stew. He sat them down on the table, and then went back inside, returning a second time with spoons rolled in linen napkins and a cutting board. Sitting on the cutting board, stabbed with a knife, was a third of one of his mother’s famous five pound loaves of course grain bread, along with a small dish full of soft, fresh butter, and a little glass jar of dark, golden honey.

  For a few moments there was silence, as the woman and the two girls tasted their stew. It was filled with carrots and potatoes, celery and onion, and was seasoned with fresh parsley and thyme, all in a base made from red wine, stout beer, olive oil, and anchovies. It had large pieces of tender meat that might have been pork or dinosaur. The truth probably was that both types of meat were present.

  “Where is Zurfina the Magnificent?” asked Mrs. Dechantagne, cutting thick pieces of bread for herself and the girls. “I haven’t seen her for weeks.”

  “At home,” said Senta, her mouth full of potato.

  “And what is she doing there?”

  “Magic stuff.” Senta shrugged.

  “I certainly hope she’s not neglecting your education.”

  Senta frowned. “I’ve got this humongous book I’m supposed to read. Then she says I have to write about it. What is the point of writing about a book? The book is already written, right?”

  “When you write about things,” said Hero, quietly. “It helps you remember them.”

  “I imagine it’s an easy way to see if you actually read the book,” said Mrs. Dechantagne.

  “I’ll bet you didn’t have to read books,” said Senta. “I’ll bet you didn’t have to go to school at all when you were our age, because you were just a servant.”

  “Senta!” Hero whispered loudly, clearly shocked, but if Mrs. Dechantagne was insulted by a reminder of her common origin, she didn’t let it show.

  “It just so happens that I had to study with Master Akolos, the Dechantagne family tutor. I had to study just as hard as the three of them, and let me tell you I got none of the praise when my answers were correct. I suppose Master Akolos knew where his bread was buttered. I studied right along with Master… with Augie for seven years, Iolanthe too, though she was two years ahead of us. Terrence was there too, but he went off to military school after his… well, when I was still young. What is this humongous book anyway?”

  “It’s called Matter and the Elements by Phoebus somebody.”

  “Phoebus Dodson?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s quite advanced. What else have you read recently?”

  “I had to read The Pursuit of Perfection.”

  “By Dillan Westmacott, yes? I had to read that as well.”

  �
�And I read Privilege and Sacrifice by Kazia Garstone.”

  “Oh well, that wouldn’t have been allowed in the Dechantagne nursery, I’m afraid. I read it when I was older, because I heard it was racy, but I’m afraid that’s not how I found it. You?”

  “Boring,” said Senta.

  “How about you, Hero? Do you have a tutor?”

  “My sister Honor is teaching us. We have to have class every night, because she is so busy during the day, but I don’t mind.”

  “And what books are you reading?”

  “We have primers for levels one, two, four, and five, and Senta lets me read her books, too.” Hero’s eyes lit up and she grinned. “Sometimes we prop the book up in front of us and read at the same time under Terrence’s tree.”

  “Terrence’s tree?”

  “Oh…” Hero became quiet again.

  “That’s what everyone calls the big tree next to the governor’s storehouse. It’s because your husband used to sit under it all the time and write.”

  Mrs. Dechantagne paused for a moment and chewed on her lower lip.

  “Yes, I suppose he did,” she said.

  “Do you miss him?” asked Senta.

  “Senta!” Hero whispered, loudly.

  “Yes, I do,” said Mrs. Dechantagne slowly, then. “But he’ll be coming home again soon.”

  “And he’s going to be all fixed up too?” asked Senta.

  “Yes. I received a letter just the other day. With the help of the Bishop of Brech and a powerful wizard, they were able to restore his eyes.”

  Despite this seemingly good news, the animation seemed to have been drawn out of the beautiful woman and she spooned several small bites of stew into her mouth, while staring off toward the dress shop across Town Square from the bakery. Senta jumped as she was kicked in the shins. She looked sharply at Hero, who with very large round eyes, was tilting her head in Mrs. Dechantagne’s direction.