The Voyage of the Minotaur

by Wesley Allison

  “Have you ever seen the like?” asked Father Kerrdon.

  “My mother had a magical music box when I was a child.”

  “Oh, this isn’t magic,” said the priest, his words coming faster and faster. “Those magical music boxes only play one or two songs. This is a mechanical device. It can play hundreds, maybe thousands of songs. You see each of the songs is on a cylinder, like this one. It has grooves cut all around its circumference, in which a needle travels as the cylinder spins. Tiny bumps in the grooves…”

  “I really don’t care how it works.” Iolanthe’s interrupting voice was louder than she had intended in the small room. “I’m sorry, Father, but I have much to attend to. If we could get to the point at hand?”

  The crestfallen priest turned off the mechanical music and walked back to the two chairs. With a wave of his hand, he indicated that Iolanthe should take the right chair. Once she had done so, he sat down in the left. He took a deep breath.

  “The Bishop has explained to me that I am to assist you in any way possible,” he said. “But he did not give me any information as to what endeavor should require my assistance.”

  “The Dechantagnes are a historic and distinguished family. In the past, we have held positions of great influence—economically, politically, and socially. Now all that remain of the family however, are my two brothers and myself. While still quite comfortable financially, we would like to restore our lineage to its former greatness, and my brothers and I have come up with a plan to do this in a single bold stroke.”

  Iolanthe stopped to see if Father Kerrdon was following. He nodded to indicate that he was.

  “The world has changed in the last two hundred years. Our beloved country, as well as Freedonia and Mirsanna, have become wealthy as trade has become available from distant lands. But the world is about to change far more than most people have the capacity to realize. Greater Brechalon will soon have colonies all over the world. Those who become part of this from the very beginning will have an opportunity to become rich beyond their wildest dreams, to become the aristocracy of entirely new regions of a burgeoning empire, to become the most important leaders since Magnus the Great. My brothers and I have invested our family’s entire fortune in an expedition to establish new holdings in Birmisia, in Mallon.”

  “Mallon,” said the priest, quietly. “Good heavens, that’s twelve thousand miles away from here—twelve thousand miles away from civilization.”

  “No, Father. We’re going to bring the civilization with us.”

  “I see. And how am I to help?”

  “A civilized people need a civilized church, Father. We will of course, establish a church in our new colony. We will need priesthood members. We will need those who can call upon the power of the savior. We will need all the accouterments required by a church. We will need copies of the scriptures. We will need crucifixes. We may even need missionaries to convert the aborigines, if they have either souls or the capacity to be redeemed. I admit to no great knowledge in this particular area.”

  Iolanthe waited for the priest to process all of this information and was rewarded with quick nod of understanding.

  “How large will this expedition be?” he asked.

  “Somewhere in the neighborhood of a thousand souls on the first ship. I have already arranged for additional ships, one per month for six months to bring supplies and equipment. It is my expectation that we will have additional colonists on at least some of these vessels. I also expect that once the colony is established, more people will arrive.”

  “So you will need at least one full priest, several acolytes, and perhaps a dozen church laymen,” he mused. “At least to start. I should think you will need forty to fifty tons of associated cargo.”

  “Can you arrange for this cargo?”

  “Yes, of course. It will take time to get it all together, and it won’t be inexpensive either.”

  “You have two weeks.”

  “Two weeks?”

  “Yes and a budget of twenty-five thousand marks.”

  “Hmm. All right. I think it can be done.”

  “And can you find the priests and the others for us?”

  “Oh that won’t be any problem, Miss Dechantagne. There are many individuals, both within and without the church, who would be thrilled to start their lives over in a new land.”

  “That does not surprise me,” said Iolanthe. “My brothers and I are well aware of the service we are providing. Please note, that all will be held to a high standard.”

  “Oh, I can see that.” said Father Kerrdon.

  “Then I can leave this in your hands?”

  “You already have the Bishop’s assurance of my help.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Iolanthe stood up and Father Kerrdon led her out of the room, down the spiral staircase, and back into the crossing between the two transepts of the church. She stopped and looked to see if the little girl in the brown linen dress and brown wool sweater was still kneeling in prayer, but the child was nowhere to be seen. Once again, she looked up at the great marble statue of the savior.

  “Magnificent, isn’t it?” said the priest. “I’ve always thought it was the most beautiful recreation of the savior I’ve ever seen. One can see the pain, the hope, and even the forgiveness in that face.

  “Still,” he continued. “I would be willing to wager that all of the likenesses carved in marble by Pallaton the Elder are beautiful. I have not seen them all of course, but he is reputed to be the greatest artist of his period.”

  “Perhaps,” said Iolanthe, continuing on through the nave. “But I have always suspected that the savior was quite simply a very beautiful woman.”

  Outside the double doors of the church, Iolanthe paused to let her eyes adjust to the brightness, hyperventilated once more, and then made her way quickly down the steps, around the corner, and back to her carriage. She noted that the steam coming from the release was much less than it had been, and with a sigh, opened the coal bin and retrieved the small shovel that was lying upon the supply of extra coal. Using the shovel to lift the firebox latch, so that she wouldn’t burn her gloves, she shoveled a dozen scoops of coal from the bin to the flame. She then used the shovel to close the firebox door, tossed the shovel back into the coal bin, and closed the coal bin door. She flipped the steam cock to the engaged position and climbed aboard the carriage. Looking at her blackened gloves with disgust, she peeled them off and tossed them unceremoniously under the carriage seat. Then opening the glove compartment, she pulled out replacements from among several pairs of gloves, a small stack of handkerchiefs and two loose shotgun shells.

  Iolanthe released the brake and pressed down with her foot on the forward accelerator. The carriage slowly rolled forward. The steam built up, and soon the vehicle had returned to its former vigor. She tried to drive around the block of the Great Church of the Holy Savior, and get back onto the main road to return to the Old City, but the roads in this area did not seem to follow the normal grid pattern. And there seemed to be nowhere to turn around. After half an hour of trying to negotiate the unfathomable maze, she found herself at a dead end. She pulled the brake lever and sat trying to figure out at which turn she should have made a left, and how to get back to that point.

  Suddenly a figure approached the left side of her carriage. It was a dirty man, wearing dirty clothes, with a dirty bald head, and a big dirty nose. He stepped in close to her and ran his eyes down the length of her form. Another similarly dressed man stepped up behind him.

  “Well, this is nice, ain’t it?” said the second man. “We can have us a little fun.”

  “Yeah, fun” said the first man, pulling a long, thin knife from his belt.

  “Careful though,” said the second man. “She might have a little pistol in her handbag.”

  “Does you have a little pistol in your handbag, dearie?” the first man asked. He casually waved the knife in his right hand, as he pawed at her ankle with his left. Then he stopped
when he heard the sound of two hammers being cocked, and looked up into the twin twelve gauge barrels.

  “I don’t carry a handbag,” said Iolanthe, pulling the shotgun to her shoulder. She pulled the first trigger, disintegrating the head of the first man, and sending a fountain of viscous remains over everything within twenty feet. The second man had no time to react before the second barrel was fired at him. He was far enough away however, that though he was killed, people who had known him would still be able to identify his body.

  Iolanthe pushed the lever, opening the shotgun’s breach with her thumb, and tilted the weapon so that the two used shells dropped out onto the carriage floor. She opened the glove compartment and pulled out the two replacement shells, stuffed them into the shotgun, and snapped the breach closed. She then returned the still smoking weapon to its place behind the seat. Reaching back into the glove compartment, she pulled out one of the handkerchiefs and wiped some of the blood and jellied brains from her face.

  Looking down at herself in disgust, she said. “I’ll never be able to wear this dress again.”

  Chapter Three: The Head Butler

  Zeah Korlann watched as Miss Dechantagne spoke to the policeman. If he had come home covered in blood, and then called the policeman to tell him that he had just shot two men in an alley, he would be sitting in the deepest, darkest cell in Ravendeep by now. Miss Dechantagne on the other hand, took a careful sip of her tea, keeping her pinky straight, from a teacup that matched her dressing gown, as she told the blue-clad officer of her “adventure.” She then told him about how she had driven herself home and taken a long hot bath, after ordering her steam carriage cleaned and her clothing disposed of. Maybe the key was not being nervous. Policemen were used to dealing with guilty, twitchy, little people. Miss Dechantagne never felt guilty about anything, she never twitched, and she was most definitely not one of the little people. Then again, the policeman probably wasn’t listening to a word she said. She sat there with her luxurious auburn hair hanging loosely about her shoulders, her skin the very picture of porcelain perfection, her lips painted luscious red, and those unusual aquamarine eyes. And she was wearing what? Certainly not a bustle or a corset, just yard after yard of violet and silver silk dressing gown, from her neck to the floor. Maybe the key was that, as far as the policemen knew, there were no underclothes at all under that dressing gown.

  “Normally in these situations,” said the policeman. “We would bring the journeyman wizard from Mernham Yard to cast a truth spell, but I really don’t see the need. Everything seems to be straight-forward enough.”

  “Thank you officer,” said Miss Dechantagne. “You have been most considerate.”

  “My pleasure, Miss.”

  “Would you please leave your name and address with my man before you leave? I would like to send you a thank-you gift for your kindness in this trying time.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Miss,” said the policeman, clicking his heels and bowing before he left, but he gave his name and address to Zeah anyway, revealing the true key to living an existence free from police trouble. The officer would receive a gift basket filled with fresh fruit, expensive jams and jellies, canned kippers, loaves of rosemary and garlic bread, some very nice cheese, a sausage, and four or five hundred one mark banknotes.

  When the head butler had closed the front door behind the policeman, he turned on a heel and walked back into the parlor. Miss Dechantagne already seemed to have forgotten that she had been dealing with police business. She continued to sip her tea, but now she did so while reading the latest issue of Brysin’s Weekly Ladies’ Journal. Yuah entered carrying a small plate with three carefully arranged peppermint candies upon it. She gave Zeah a quick wink. It was just like the girl to get cheeky on her birthday.

  “Are you ready to go about your duties for the day, Zeah?” asked Miss Dechantagne.

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “A little birdie has reminded me that it is your daughter’s birthday,” said Miss Dechantagne, biting into one of the peppermints candies. “I do hope you have plans to celebrate it.”

  “The staff will be presenting her with a cake at dinner,” said Zeah.

  “Excellent,” said Miss Dechantagne, then turning to Yuah. “Take the rest of the evening off. I shan’t need you.”

  “Very good, Miss,” said Yuah.

  “Birthdays are important,” said Miss Dechantagne. “They come only once every three hundred seventy-five days.”

  “Yes, Miss,” said Yuah, and exited the room.

  “Do you have a gift for her?” the lady asked the head butler.

  “I’m picking up a scarf for her today.”

  “Excellent. Pick up something appropriate from my brothers and me. Charge it to my account.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “I’m sorry to ask you to make an additional stop today, Zeah. I had planned on stopping by the docks this afternoon to consult with Captain Gurrman on how much space still remains in the cargo hold and what other equipment that we might need. Unfortunately, my ‘adventure’ pushed those plans completely out of my mind. I need you, after you have completed your other duties, to stop at the docks and complete this mission in my stead. I trust this will not make you late for your daughter’s birthday party.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine, Miss,” he said. He well knew that taking a side trip to the docks, in addition to everything else he had to do, would make him miss any birthday celebrations entirely. What he couldn’t figure out was whether Miss Dechantagne didn’t understand the constraints of time on his schedule, or did understand and simply didn’t care.

  Zeah left the house on foot. Anyone else might have called the abode a mansion, or a manse, or possibly even a palace, but Miss Dechantagne called it a house, and so it was a house. He walked with the brisk pace of a much younger man. He could have taken the steam carriage if he had wanted. Miss Dechantagne would have allowed it without a second thought. He had her complete confidence, as his family had held the complete confidence of her family for five generations. But he had never learned to drive, and he was too old to learn now. It didn’t matter. With the breadth of the horse-drawn trolley system in the great city, under normal conditions, he didn’t have to have to walk very far. Going to the docks in the evening would complicate things of course. He had carefully planned out his journey in his mind, to minimize his travel time and allow him the efficiency that always gave him comfort. He would follow that plan to the exact step. The first stop had to be the bank, and so he traveled due west.

  When he stepped off the trolley in the center of Avenue Boar, he was in the heart of the city’s financial district. The great stone façades of the nation’s most powerful banks, stock brokerages, trust companies, and investment firms lined both sides of the street, and here, like nowhere else in the city, or in the entire United Kingdom of Greater Brechalon, could be found great numbers of the Short Men. He could see twenty or thirty walking down the street. Two brushed past him, without looking up.

  The Short Men were not really men at all. They were an entirely different species, as evidenced by their historic inability to interbreed with ‘normal human beings’. If the articles in the Royal Geographic Society Journal were to be believed, they had descended from a completely different, though contemporary, group of prehistoric cavemen. They were, as their name implied, short. The average height for males was about four foot six, and the women were slightly shorter. They were not proportionally narrow however, and tended to be just as wide as a human being. Coming in not quite the variety of colors and variations of the taller people they lived among, most were tan to brown skinned, and had thick locks of dark brown to black hair, as well as thick, similarly colored beards.

  The Short Men had stayed in the mountains, living their cave-dwelling lifestyles long after humans had moved to the river valleys to invent agriculture. This had served them well, for when the needs of civilization pushed technology beyond that of stone tools to copper, and then bronze
, and then iron, the Short Man had been sitting atop these precious resources. At first, there had been wars fought to acquire the raw materials needed by man, and the Short Men had been faced with the real possibility of extinction, but they had learned compromise and accommodation and became part of the procurement process of the riches of what they called “the tall man’s world.” Over the centuries, they had parleyed their control of rich metals into the control of even more rich metals, and the paper representation of those metals. Today the Short Men were an integral part of the financial world of Greater Brechalon and most of the other nations on the continent of Sumir. They owned a great many banks and brokerage houses, and those they did not own, they managed.

  Zeah walked up the steps of the most imposing of the structures on the street—the First Royal Charter Bank of Greater Brechalon. It was a stone building that dwarfed Miss Dechantagne’s house, as well as all the other bank buildings. A doorman opened the highly decorative, sixteen-foot tall door that led into the main bank chamber. This room alone seemed as if it might hold the Great Church of the Holy Savior. Three stories tall at least, with light streaming down from a glass-domed ceiling upon the hundred or more desks. At each desk sat a Short Man, his bearded face hunched over his accounting books.

  The head butler stood for only a moment, before he was approached, seemingly from nowhere, by one of the Short Men. This individual was dressed in a tweed suit, with a velvet vest, and a stiff white collar barely visible beneath his great beard. The beard was braided together with beads and gold wire into three separate ligatures.

  “I am Bergren Denholm,” said the Short Man. “How may I help you?”