Agatha H. and the Clockwork Princess

CHAPTER 7

It was a crisp, frosty dawn. The weather up here at the pass was still meandering towards spring, but the drivers of the circus wagons were dressed in their performing finery, albeit over several layers of winter underwear.

They certainly attracted a fair amount of interest as they rumbled through the outskirts of the town. Technically, Balan’s Gap was still before them, constrained behind the city walls, but along the main road a ramshackle collection of businesses that existed to service, supply (and swindle) travelers had grown up around the various industries that had been placed outside the town for various health, space or aesthetic reasons.

Last night the circus had arrived at one of the staging areas that existed for arriving or departing trade caravans. While there were still plenty of other travelers who used the old roads, there had been enough excess space in the staging area that the circus had been able to put on a late night performance, to great success. Thus, this morning, they were buoyed along by a large crowd of well-wishers, and noisily escorted by a ragtag convoy of children who frantically waved at the drivers and the various characters who sat waving back wearing grins that didn’t look forced at all.

Abner and Master Payne sat together on the driver’s seat of the lead wagon, sharing a couple of mugs of stewed tea, and a large basket of freshly baked cardamom butter rolls.

To the amazement of a small girl, Payne drew an impossibly large handkerchief from Abner’s ear, delighted her brother by blowing his nose in it with a sound like a rampaging elephant, and then scandalized their mother by stuffing it back into his long-suffering apprentice’s ear.

The cart slowed to a stop. Before them were several other wagons, all awaiting the pleasure of the gate masters of the town. Each wagon was assessed an entrance fee based on the number of riders, number of horses, purpose of travel, and how much trouble you gave the gate keepers. Three wagons ahead, a stout, richly dressed merchant was making things expensive for himself by insisting that the animal pulling his cart was not, in fact a horse, but a rare, short-eared mule.

Both of the watchers appreciated natural comedy in the wild, and were mentally making notes for a future skit.

“So,” said Abner, taking a sip of tea, “You really think this—” he glanced back at the wagon’s door, “Is going to work?”

Payne looked at him askance. “Come now, Ab. It’s far too late to say anything other than ‘Yes.’”

With this cheery statement ringing in Abner’s ear, the wagon eventually rolled to the head of the line and stopped at the behest of a guard in a grey woolen uniform and a non-regulation set of enormous fur mittens.

He sauntered on over. Payne offered him a steaming pastry. The guard accepted it as his due. “Welcome to Balan’s Gap.” He leaned to the side and quickly surveyed the line of circus wagons. “A Heterodyne show is it?”

Payne nodded. “Twenty-six wagons. Sixty-two horses, one clank, and three cows. Forty-eight people.”

The soldier smiled. Tolls for large parties were always easier to skim. “Well, let me tote that up for you, sir.” He began to assess the quality of their clothing. “Will you be stopping in town?”

The upper half of the wagon door behind Payne and Abner slammed open and Dimo, now sporting a jaunty cap emblazoned with a prominent Wulfenbach insignia, leaned out and snarled. “Hoy! Vat’s der holdup?”

The young soldier reeled back in surprise and hammered twice on the door of the guardhouse behind him. This swung open and an older officer stuck his head out. The younger soldier muttered, “Jägers, Sir.”

The older soldier swallowed and stepped forward. “We weren’t informed you were coming.” He eyed the wagon and frowned, “You don’t look like one of the Baron’s... official convoys.”

Dimo guffawed and leaned on the door. “Nah. Dey vas just goink our vay, und dey’s fonny guys.”

Payne nodded rapidly. “It’s been a great honor, having them travel with us, but surely the Prince could get them where they’re going faster? Or perhaps we could just leave them here? Please?”

The older guard smiled grimly. “Oh, no. I’m shunting you to the military lane.” He pointed to a different gate, which was still sealed. Unbidden, the younger soldier dashed off and moments later the portcullis began to grind upwards. He continued, “Once the Prince gives his approval, you’ll be through the town within the hour and there’s no charge.”

Payne looked distraught. “But... supplies...”

The officer threw him a brass and beribboned token, which was stamped with the town seal. “Surrender that to the Quartermaster once you’re past the city and he’ll give you supplies. Our compliments to the Baron.”

Payne tried again, “But—”

The old soldier interrupted with a curt, “Move along!”

Payne hesitated, and Dino smacked the top of his head. “Hyu heard de man, sveethot, ve iz schtill bunkies!”

The old soldier shuddered, but held firm and waved the caravan along, and then made sure the gate was lowered behind them.

Within the depths of Sturmhalten Castle, the seneschal, a tall angular man with elaborate moustaches, received the city gate report from a deeply breathing soldier. He scanned it and waved the man back to his post. With a sigh, he strode down through the elaborately decorated hallways, past the bustling domestic staff.

He stopped before an enormous door constructed of wrought iron and blue enamel, and selected a large silver key. Once he’d gone through, he very carefully closed the door again and then stepped up to the little platform. Above said platform was a large raised area, which was cluttered with a bewildering array of devices, several of which meticulously tracked his every movement.

At the center was a large, dark, wooden desk, carved in the Jacobean style. Seated at this desk, in a tall backed leather and gold ornamented chair, with his back to the door, was the master of Sturmhalten, The Gatekeeper of Balan’s Gap, His Royal Highness, Prince Aaronev IV. The Prince waved to acknowledge his seneschal’s presence, but did not look up, as he was engaged with something laid out upon the desk before him. His seneschal could not quite see what it was from this angle, but every now something twitched briefly into view, and he was just as glad.

He waited patiently until there was a thin squeal, which was suddenly cut off. The Prince sighed in annoyance and leaned back in his chair. He began to wipe his hands with a towel. “What is it, Artacz?”

The waiting man pulled out the report and cleared his throat. “It’s today’s report, sir.”

Aaronev paused, reached out and tapped an elaborate chronometer sitting upon his desk. “It’s a bit early, yes?”

Artacz nodded. “Indeed it is, sire. But to start at the beginning; we had an unusually large party of tailors through the Copper Gate—” he paused.

Aaronev drummed his fingers several times. “Hm. Challburg is celebrating the Feast of Saint Finnemede The Overdressed early this year... what else?”

“A fight with rather amusing consequences at the Rusted Swan—”

Aaronev interrupted, “Again? Mph. Tell the landlord that he is to stop trying to make change in base eight, or he’ll be paying his taxes in base twelve.”

Artacz smiled briefly. “Good one, Highness. And finally, a party of the Baron’s Jägers have attached themselves to a traveling Heterodyne show. They have been shunted to the Military road, and are awaiting your clearance.”

Aaronev waved a hand. “Ah. Klaus occasionally foists a few Jägers onto travelers. It lets him assess the safety of the roads while keeping them out of his hair. Well, I certainly don’t want to keep them here, so if that’s all, you may go.”

Artacz bowed and stepped backwards until he reached the doors. Smoothly he opened them and was just about to exit when Aaronev shouted, “Wait!”

The seneschal looked up in surprise. “Your Highness?”

Aaronev had turned about in his chair. A look of keen interest was on his face. He leaned forward. “Did you say—A traveling Heterodyne show?”

Payne crumpled the note in a massive fist and slammed it down upon the table top. “A command performance!” His roar of despair reminded Abner of a dying rhinoceros. He shook his fist with the crumpled note at a cruel, mocking universe. “And he very kindly sent the Jägers on ahead—Just like we asked!”

Marie judged that the main explosion had passed and gently stroked his perpetually tangled hair. “Enough, dear,” she murmured. “It was a good plan. And at least we haven’t been searched. It seems that all he really wants is to see a show.”

Abner dug into the paper bag on his lap with a rustle. A crudely printed label proclaimed that it contained genuine candied fish. This initially loathsome, but surprisingly addictive delicacy was one of the town’s principal items of export. “It’s not your fault that the Prince was bored, sir.” He crunched down a lemony minnow.

After a moment Payne nodded grudgingly. “True enough.” He leaned back and slid an arm around Marie’s waist. “Well, we’ll keep Moxana out of sight, and just give him a good show.”

Abner swallowed a lime guppy and grinned mischievously. Yes sir! I was thinking The Socket Wench of Prague.”

Marie stiffened in disapproval. Payne looked worried. “Um... that one’s a bit risqué, don’t you think?”

Abner sat back and balanced a chocolate carp on his fingertip. “Oh, yessir. They might even run us out of town tonight.”

Master Payne and the countess looked at each other and began to grin. “Now that’s a good plan,” Payne conceded.

A brisk knock at the door announced Professor Moonsock, who carried a rather official looking envelope as if she was afraid it might explode. “This just got delivered, sir. It’s a note from the palace.”

Marie took the envelope and sliced it open with a fingernail. “The Prince wants to see a specific show,” she looked up with tired eyes. “The Socket Wench of Prague.”

Abner’s eyes bugged. Payne shrugged. “Okay—not so good a plan.”

Marie cleared her throat. “P.S.—Tart It Up.”

Payne slumped and rubbed his eyes. “Downright terrible plan.”

“All right! I get it!” Abner leapt to his feet, crammed a last fish in his mouth and stomped towards the door. After but two steps, he gagged and spat it back out into his hand. Payne and Marie looked at him in astonishment. “Sorry,” he said embarrassed, “Somebody slipped in a pollywog.”

The Royal Theatre of Sturmhalten was small, but elegantly appointed. The architect that had been brought out from Paris had understood that the building itself should be part of the theatre-going experience. Red velvet seats and gilded carvings of extremely healthy young people in exceedingly impractical clothing were lavishly spread about. An afternoon rehearsal had revealed excellent acoustics, a Spark-designed-but-probably-not-too-lethal lighting system, and a concession stand serving a variety of drinks and local delicacies, of which candied fish was noticeably absent.

There was also a Royal Box, directly overlooking the stage, equipped with a gleaming machine cannon mounted upon a swivel. The caretaker had helpfully pointed out that it could cover almost any part of the theatre. He also emphasized that the Prince hated a dull show. This had led to a feverish rewriting session.

It was now evening. The show had started. Richly dressed merchants and government officials were drinking and applauding the antics onstage, as uniformed ushers glided through the darkness, escorting patrons with softly glowing crank operated lanterns.

Up in the Royal box, Prince Aaronev had just allowed his servant to pour him another glass of tokay, when the door swung open and a richly dressed young man entered the box.

He was tall and broad at the shoulder. A little stockier than he should have been, but it was obvious that he kept himself in shape by the grace with which he moved. His reddish hair was cut full, and pulled back into a small queue, which was the current fad amongst the dandies in Vienna, and an elegant pince-nez perched upon his nose.

With a small motion, he dismissed the servant, locked the box door, made a small bow of familial respect, and seated himself in the next chair.

Aaronev smiled in genuine pleasure. “Tarvek. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.” He glanced at the box’s empty third chair. “Where is your sister?”

The young man shrugged. “Sorry, father, we had some late guests I had to see to.” The Prince frowned. Tarvek continued, “As for Anevka, you know she isn’t keen on anything that isn’t grand opera. She begs your indulgence and says that she will join us later at supper.” He looked down at the stage, where Dame Ædith was throwing knives with amazing accuracy, especially since she was continually being harassed by what looked like a demented bat. Tarvek wondered how they’d managed to train the creature. “What have I missed?”

The Prince had still been brooding over the news of the aforementioned guests, but at Tarvek’s question, he visibly perked up.” Quite a bit! An excellent magician, some song and dance, a sword mistress you would have enjoyed, I’m sure, and a hilariously bad midget in a cat suit.”

Tarvek eyed the stage. “Yes, I can see the bullet holes from the warning shots.”

The Prince chuckled. “I was laughing so hard I could hardly aim.”

Tarvek nodded as he spooned some caviar onto a cracker. “It’s good to see you so happy, father. I’ve been worried for you of late.”

The Prince sipped from his glass. “Thank you, my boy. Yes, this show is a welcome change of pace.”

On the stage below, Master Payne was booming out the traditional opening of the main event. The audience grew hushed as his stentorian voice rolled over them, setting the scene. Aaronev quietly continued, “I must confess, son, I...” He breathed deeply. “I have felt—for some time—that our task may be... impossible.” He sighed, “I—We have looked for so long.”

Tarvek leaned towards him. “There are certain realities that are undeniable. No one could say you were disloyal, father.”

Aaronev scowled. “They can! They have!”

Tarvek reached out and took one of his father’s gloved hands. He spoke earnestly. “Anevka and I—We both know you have given this task your all. I know that if The Mistress were here, she’d say—”

“KNEEL, YOU MISERABLE MINIONS!”

Both of the men froze in terror, and then whipped about to stare at the stage. Below them, Agatha, in an extremely tight leather outfit, strode about demanding to know if various implements of torture had been prepared to her unreasonable specifications. After a moment, the younger man slumped back into his chair and chuckled.

“Ho! That gave me a bit of a turn! That girl they’ve got playing Lucrezia certainly has a commanding voice, don’t—”

“Tarvek!” Aaronev’s voice cut across the younger man’s burbling. He had pulled a slim, metal box out from under his coat. Dials and small meters encrusted its surface. At the moment, all of the lights were flashing green. “It’s her.”

Tarvek stared at the glowing device like a bespectacled hamster looking at an approaching snake. “No!” He whispered. “Impossible!”

Aaronev thrust the device into Tarvek’s hands. “Look at the meters! The harmonics match perfectly!” He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “It’s her!”

Tarvek stared at the device. Viciously, he smacked it against the arm of his chair several times. The dials wavered, and then the needles swung back into the green. “The fuses must be old! This isn’t proof—”

His father grabbed his coat, and with surprising strength, dragged him to the edge of the balcony and pointed towards the audience.

Throughout the entire theatre, the audience, as well as the ushers, had dropped to their knees, and were staring, enraptured, at the figure marching back and forth upon the stage.

Tarvek stared at the tableau below them for a moment and then slowly collapsed backwards into his chair. “Oh dear,” he muttered.

The curtain came down for the final time. The audience was on its feet. The enthusiastic applause was beginning to taper off, but was still satisfyingly loud to the cast filing off into the wings. The Countess took a final look at the audience through a chink in the side curtain, and signaled Captain Kadiiski to bring up the house lights. She then turned away and smiled. “Good show, folks.”

Taki grinned as he removed the Baron’s pants from his head. “We have got to do that one more often!”

André rolled his eyes as he handed the giant screwdriver to one of the prop handlers. “Don’t be absurd! The catfight scene in the grease vat? That alone would get us jailed anywhere east of Bucharest.”

Guntar smiled as he wiped off his construct stitching. “If I can play one of the grease monkeys? So worth it.”

Pix sashayed over to Abner. Her diaphanous High Priestess outfit strained as she leaned in and gave him a deep kiss. He responded, but then realized that with this outfit, there were no publically acceptable places to put his hands.

Pix murmured, “I was worried that this play might be a bit too...” She glanced over at Agatha. “Sophisticated. But she did just fine.”

Abner smiled. “Yes, well, I had her rehearse her lines separately. She didn’t know the context.”

Agatha was peeking through the curtain at the exiting crowd. Lars stood beside her, giving her a gentle hug. “You did good.”

“But I’m not sure what I did.”

Lars coughed delicately. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to take some time and explain the nuances. For your own good, of course.”

Agatha felt her heart skip a beat. “Yes,” she said. “I think I’d like that.” She turned to Lars and shyly smiled. They looked into each other’s eyes, and leaned in for a kiss—

There was a brief clamor from one of the side doors, and an elegantly dressed retainer in a blue velvet coat and a powdered wig stepped backstage. He was met by Master Payne.

The retainer bowed his head respectfully. “His Highness wishes to convey his pleasure in your performance.” With this, he drew forth a thick leather purse, which he dropped into the circus master’s hand with a satisfying “chink.”

“How generous,” Payne murmured. It was certainly a surprise. Usually a Command Performance meant that, as one old showman had famously put it, “They command, we perform, nobody pays.” But this—

The retainer nodded and then continued. “In addition, the Royal Family was so taken with the young lady who played the Lady Lucrezia, your Madame Olga, I believe, that they have requested her presence at the palace for supper this evening.” His gaze found Agatha. “A coach is waiting.”

Several minutes later Agatha found herself the center of a great hum of activity. Several dressmakers were busy sewing her into a splendid lace confection colored a rather bilious sea foam green.

She critically examined a sleeve. “Um... I don’t know a lot about fashion,” she ventured, “but this color—”

“It looks terrible on you,” the seamstress said around a mouthful of pins. She sat back and eyed Agatha critically. “It would look terrible on almost anyone, but on you? It’s hideous.”

Agatha stared at her. “That’s good?”

The seamstress sighed. “It’s tricky. We can’t put you in rags, because that would be an insult. We have to put you in a good dress. But we want you to be subtlety unappealing enough that you won’t have to fend anybody off.” She spit a pin into her hand. “Princes hate being fended off. So we go for an off color. Simple, yes?”

Her hair was being plaited and set by two hairdressers and the troupe’s make up artist was delicately running brushes over her face. While this was going on, she was being given a crash course in court etiquette, which essentially boiled down to “Vaguely agree with everything, commit to nothing.”

Finally everyone was done and nodded at each other in satisfaction. Agatha turned to look at herself in a mirror and gasped in dismay. She looked... not terrible... it was a nice dress. Her hair was stylish and her make up was flawless, but she looked... totally uninteresting.

Even as she understood what had been done and appreciated the artistry behind it, it was a terrible thing to do to a young girl.

Marie knew what was going through her head and patted her hand. “Just think of it as another part, my dear.” Agatha tore her eyes away from the dull creature in the mirror and nodded.

Lars strode up and took her left hand. “Here,” he said briskly. “This couldn’t hurt.” He slipped a gold ring upon Agatha’s finger. She examined it. It was a wide band, seemingly constructed of smaller gold wires laced together. She looked up at Lars.

He grinned. “Tell him you’re married. Some of these guys don’t like to shop second-hand, if you know what I mean.” Agatha blushed. Lars continued. “I use it keep me out of trouble when I pass through a town.”

Agatha looked at him askance. “What kind of trouble?”

“Unasked for romantic entanglements,” he said frankly. “More importantly, it unfolds into a very serviceable lock pick that opens a wide variety of cell doors.” Lars smiled. “Trust me on that.”

Agatha leaned in and gave him a kiss. “Thank you, Lars.”

As Master Payne escorted her to the waiting coach, a small frown crossed her face. “People keep giving me rings,” she confided to him, “But I think a small death ray might be more practical.”

Master Payne merely patted her hand and assisted her into the waiting coach.

This was a splendid looking vehicle. A roomy, elegantly styled black compartment, adorned with fenders and finials of gleaming silver. Silver caged lights festooned the surface, and the now-familiar sword and gear sigil was emblazoned upon the sides.

As the footman assisted her up into the plush, satin-lined interior, Agatha realized that there were no horses. Once the door was closed, the driver threw a lever, and there was a great hissing from the back of the coach. Through the small, leaded rear window, Agatha saw an sturdy little motor burble into life, and with a cloud of steam, the coach rumbled off.

Agatha took the opportunity to examine the passing scenery. Balan’s Gap was a prosperous town, thanks to the pass, and had been so for quite awhile. All of its streets were paved with cobblestone or brick, and the night was illuminated by hundreds of lights.

Not just by the traditional torches, gaslamps and incidental fires of the still bustling shops and taverns, but also by the startling blue-white glare of the new-fangled electrical arc lamps that were coming out of England. Overall, surface travel was certainly reduced from its glory days, but you’d never know it here. Travelers from all across the Empire wove through the streets of Balan’s Gap.

But the town had its eye upon the future. They rolled past the airship docks, and Agatha could see that they were being expanded. Still brightly lit despite the lateness of the hour, teams of stevedores and balloonjacks were roaring and calling as cargo cranes groaned as they swung pallets loaded with cargo to and from the lines of waiting delivery wagons. The roads here were choked with carts and vans, their teamsters swearing and screaming at each other in a dozen different languages.

The driver of Agatha’s coach relied upon his distinctive horn to clear the way, but when that failed, he did not hesitate to leave the roadway and send pedestrians leaping for safety by driving down the sidewalks without ever reducing his considerable speed. Occasionally members of the city constabulary would hear the commotion, see the cause, and hastily drag themselves and anyone nearby to safety, stepping out again only when the royal coach had passed.

In this manner they approached the castle. This was a massive edifice, obviously built as a solid defense against a dangerous foe. Agatha realized with a start that this must be fabled Sturmhalten Castle itself.

Ancient battle scars covered its stone walls, but it stood unbroken. A wide moat, easily thirty meters wide surrounded it, spanned by a single grand causeway, lined with lights. The coach turned onto this, and Agatha glimpsed the gigantic doors of the castle itself, opening to admit them.

They passed beneath the massive portcullis and into an interior courtyard that was brightly lit with electrical lights and alive with servants bustling about.

Here the coach slowed and actually took some care as it threaded delicately between the people and inner structures. It finally glided to a stop, hissing, at the foot of a broad marble stairway, which was flanked by two statues holding large, electrically lit globes.

Several steps up, idly tapping his foot was a tall, elegantly dressed young man. Dark auburn hair was artlessly swept away from his eyes, which were adorned with a tiny pair of spectacles.

When the driver and footman saw him, they froze, and then leapt to the ground and frantically tried to get the coach door open while babbling. “Forgive me, your Highness!” Agatha then noticed the pin at the young man’s throat, which was the same sword-in-winged gear that adorned many of the walls and lampposts in the town. “We brought the young lady as swiftly as we could, Prince Tarvek—the market—!”

The young man waved his hand impatiently, cutting the babbling off dead. His voice, when he spoke was obviously amused. The sound of it sent an odd sensation down Agatha’s spine.

“Yes, yes. Calm yourself.” He stopped before the bowing servants and languidly motioned for them to straighten up. “My Royal father insisted that I meet the coach.” The servants blinked and stood rooted to the spot. The young man sighed. “”You may now leave us. We shall escort our guest to dinner.”

He then turned to Agatha, who executed a perfect curtsey. “Your Highness,” she said.

Tarvek focused his attention upon her fully and his smile faltered. What the devil is she wearing? he thought to himself. For a moment he wondered whether the circus had tried to send a different girl. This plain thing bore only a superficial resemblance to the fiery actress he’d seen strutting about the stage—

Actress... Tarvek stopped and forced himself to mentally step back and analyze what he was seeing. The planes of her hair, the lines artfully painted upon her face, the perfection of awfulness that was her dress... His breath caught in admiration. There was cunning here.

The Prince smiled in genuine appreciation at a work of art, and took her hand, “Enchanté,” he murmured. He then folded her hand across his arm and they climbed the stairs, and entered the castle.

They swept past rows of bowing servants. Several of these darted on ahead, no doubt to warn the rest of the staff, as wherever they went, they were met by downturned heads. Agatha began to wonder if Royalty was inclined to study phrenology.

“My father and my sister will be joining us.” Tarvek said. “It will be a small, family meal tonight. You must forgive the impromptu informality of the occasion, but we know your troupe will want to leave tomorrow, and we quite enjoyed your performance.”

The castle interior was magnificently decorated, with rich carpets and floor tiles arranged in intricate mathematical patterns. Grand tapestries depicting scenes of the Storm King’s legend lined the hallways, and where they were absent, lavish paneling and cunning woodwork carved into fantastically interwoven geometric shapes were to be seen.

They entered a large open area, which was dominated by a grand fireplace. Agatha paused in admiration. Most fireplaces, in her experience, served as large, efficient heat pumps apparently designed to suck warmth from all other parts of the room. This one, however, had been overlaid with a fantastic arrangement of large glass pipes, filled with a slow roiling liquid, which swept out from the sides of the fireplace and curled around the entire room in a series of graceful arabesques. As a result, the large room was delightfully warm, even here at the doorway. Agatha was impressed.

“The heat is stored in the liquid, which is piped around the room, where it evenly radiates back out,” she declared in admiration. She studied the liquid slowly moving through the nearest pipe. “This isn’t water, is it?”

Tarvek had looked surprised at her analysis, then pleased. “Close. It’s actually a super-saturated oil and brine solution of my own formulation.”

“You designed this?” She surveyed the system and looked at the Prince with a new respect.

Tarvek shrugged diffidently, while standing a little taller. “Oh, years ago.” He patted a pipe gently. “It has held up quite well though.”

“Your Highness is a Spark?”

The prince nodded. “A family trait we’ve managed to endure for the last five generations.” Warily he looked at Agatha. He saw that this news had not caused the usual reactions of visible fear, uneasiness or screaming. Indeed, and even more disconcerting, Agatha’s attention had shifted to the spinet that rested in the center of the room. How refreshing.

“What a beautiful instrument,” she exclaimed. It was slender and low. Its dark, varnished wood decorated with a splash of festive rosemåling. The top was open, and the mathematical perfection of the strings glinted silver in the light.

“Mademoiselle has a good eye. It’s a Christofori[44].” At this news, Agatha snatched her hand away.

Tarvek laughed. “It’s quite alright, this is certainly no museum.” He paused, “Do you play?”

Agatha nodded, and looked at the spinet with longing. To play such an instrument...

Tarvek came up behind her and murmured, “I would very much like to hear you play something. Perhaps after dinner.”

Agatha bit her lip. Tarvek really had a very nice voice. What Lars strove to create on stage, the Prince of Sturmhalten did naturally. The Countess had told her to try to get back as soon as possible, but surely, a little musical entertainment wouldn’t cause any problems...

“Please, brother—” A new voice crackled from the doorway. An odd, metallic voice. “Save the flirtation for dessert. It will go well with the rest of the cheese.”

The two of them turned. A small procession had entered the room. Leading the way was a grandly appointed lady, in a magnificent red brocade outfit. It was edged and looped by strings of gold beadwork that flashed in the light. Her retinue consisted of several maids, some of which were dressed in rather exotic outfits, no doubt gleaned from foreign traders that had passed through the city.

However the thing that drew the eye, was a foursome of liveried footmen, who carried upon their shoulders sort of palanquin that supported a large device. It was over a meter in diameter, and had been sculpted and adorned with flowers and assorted allegorical figures, which failed to hide the glowing dials and gauges covering the rest of its surface. On the back, a small engine chuffed quietly, powering a collection of filters and bellows, and sending out small puffs of blue smoke. Three thick leather pipes exited from the mouth of a carved serpent, and stretched down to connect to the back of the lady.

With a start, Agatha looked at her again and saw that she was not excessively made up, as she had first assumed, but was in fact, some of human-like clank, one that in construction, reminded Agatha of nothing so much as Moxana. The clank girl continued. “During dinner itself, I really must insist upon intelligent conversation.”

Agatha was so astonished at this apparition that her mind made the obvious connection and she spoke without thinking. “Tinka?”

Prince Tarvek gave a start at this and regarded her with amazement. “This, mademoiselle, is my sister, the princess Anevka Sturmvarous.” Agatha quickly repeated her curtsey. Tarvek continued. “And this, Anevka dear, is Mademoiselle Olga. Her circus—”

He paused, and then clapped his hand to his head and laughed. “Of course! Master Payne’s Circus of Adventure! I had forgotten their name! No wonder she knew about Tinka!”

Anevka’s eyes had been examining Agatha. Darting about and focusing with a series of quick, audible clicks. Now she glided forward. The men behind her stepped forward as she did, maintaining their exact distance, as if they were connected to her by an invisible yoke.

“Extraordinary.” Anekva’s voice, while odd, was fascinating. Her face, it appeared, had only a limited range of expression. Her actual voice emanated from a small, decorated grill nestled in a jeweled collar at her throat. “Then it is to your wonderful circus that I owe my life.”

Agatha blinked. “Do tell.”

Tarvek shrugged. “An—” he hesitated. “Experiment of my father’s went wrong. As a result, my sister was dying. Her body itself was failing. I won’t bore you with the details as they were quite horrifying, but the only thing that could save her was to remove her. Easy enough, of course, but the associated psychological trauma of no longer having no actual body was almost as deadly.”

Anevka fluttered her fan. “I had just redone my entire wardrobe. The irony was simply too much to bear.”

Tarvek ignored this. “Then a traveling show came along. And there, treated as just another sideshow novelty, was a Van Rijn! A real one! I’ve been studying them for years, and there was no mistake.”

He shook his head at the memory. “Well, I took it. I’m not proud of that, but time was running out.”

He straightened up and gestured at his sister. “And I did it. I was able to reverse engineer enough of Van Rijn’s designs that I could build Anevka a working body that was more sophisticated than a hand puppet. I sent payment to the circus, but by then they’d quite sensibly left town.”

Agatha stepped forward and examined Anevka’s head in wonder. A frown crossed her face.

“And your brain fits in there? I would think the necessary mechanisms alone—” Belatedly Agatha realized what she was saying and her hand flew to her mouth in embarrassment. “Forgive me, your Highness! I... I was just—”

Anevka burst out laughing and lightly bonked the top of Agatha’s head with her fan. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear girl! You can’t imagine how refreshing it is to have some honest curiosity. Most people do their damndest to pretend that everything is perfectly normal.”

She swiveled about and indicated the device the four retainers carried upon their shoulders. “That is where the corpus Anevka is located. My catafalque keeps me alive, and through these—” she indicated the leather hoses, “I am able to manipulate and control this clever little doll my brother built for me.”

Agatha regarded the device and the obviously delighted Anevka with awe. “Your brother has done you proud, your Highness. It’s a magnificent feat of medical engineering.” She realized that this might be a bit abstract as far as compliments go. “And you wear it so well.”

Anevka laughed. “He’s very clever, for a boy who kept buttoning his shoes together.”

Tarvek rolled his eyes. “I was four!”

“Four and a half.”

Tarvek turned to Agatha. “Ignore her. As you can see, she still needs work.” With his hand, he quite openly made the universal gesture that all mechanics made to declare “This is a dangerously crazy machine[45].”

Agatha tried to ignore this. “But what happened to Tinka?”

Tarvek immediately stopped smiling. “Ah. Once again my father enters the story.”

“Hi—hihi—ness—ness—”

They all turned, and coming from another doorway was a second clank woman. She was dressed in a simple robe. But unlike Anevka, this was obviously an automaton. She moved in a distressing, jerky motion, and even when she stood in one spot, she swayed slightly, as if she was perpetually off balance.

“Tinka!” Tarvek quickly moved to the clank’s side and helped steady her. “Tinka, why have you left the lab?”

The machine’s face swiveled towards him. Her enormous eyes blinked with a click. “I—I—I heard—servants said—Ma—Ma—Master Payne’s circus he—he—here?”

Tarvek nodded slowly. “Yes, it is.”

The clank shuddered. “Would you—would you—I—I—I can—would you like to see me dance?” She jerked away from Tarvek and spun about in a graceful twirl that ended with her slamming into the nearest wall. Tarvek leapt to her and caught her before she fell. She looked up at him. “I—I—I require maintenance. Please please please—” This continued until Tarvek gave her a short smack on her shoulder, at which she stopped in mid-word.

Anevka tilted her head to one side and gently tapped her folded fan against her jaw. “This is very unusual,” she confided to Agatha.

“What, her condition?”

Anevka shook her head. “Oh no, in that she is moving at all.”

Meanwhile Tarvek had waved over a pair of servants, to whom he passed the malfunctioning clank. “Take her back to my lab. Tinka, I’ll be there soon.”

The clank jerked in the servant’s arms. “The circus. I must—”

The servants led her away, still stuttering. Tarvek wearily ran a hand through his hair and turned back to Agatha and his sister. “As I was saying, my father couldn’t resist taking her apart. I’ve done the best I can reassembling her and that is the result.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “She can walk and she can talk. But there is something seriously wrong and I cannot figure it out. I—feel like I owe her. Without her—” He glanced at his sister, who patted his arm before turning away and leading her entourage out through the far door.

“I will repair her.” He glanced at Agatha, and with a small smile, again offered her his arm. “I suppose that sounds foolish. To feel obligated to a... a glorified clank.”

Agatha covered his hand with her own. “Not at all,” she assured him. “I think it’s rather noble. Besides, Master Payne believes they were—are, more than just clanks.”

Tarvek considered this. “Hm. I might want to talk to your Master Payne.” A small bell chimed from the other room. “Ah, dinner.”

With that, they went through the doorway into an elegantly appointed dining hall. Light was supplied by the ubiquitous electric lamps, which were hung in decorative clusters across the frescoed ceiling. The walls were lined with the castle’s now familiar liveried servants, who stood motionless, their hands at their sides. A long table was covered in a snow-white linen cloth and another electrical display merrily buzzed and crackled down the center. Only four place settings were in evidence, each of them bracketed by entirely too many utensils. Agatha examined one, and upon hefting it, guessed that it had been cast from solid electrum.

Anevka was ensconced on one side of the table. Most of her retinue had been dismissed, except for the four men who carried her device. They stood quietly behind her ornate, open backed chair.

Agatha and Tarvek were seated together. Next to Agatha, at the slightly raised head of the table, sat the master of Sturmhalten, Prince Aaronev IV.

He was obviously Tarvek’s sire, with the same blue eyes frankly assessing her from behind an odd set of glasses. These contained several inset lenses, which he used by disconcertingly moving his head about as he studied her. Aaronev and his daughter were in a discussion as Agatha and Tarvek entered.

Anevka was leaning forward, her voice quiet, but intense. “But why can’t you just analyze—”

Her father cut her off. “Enough daughter. This discussion is finished. Our guest is here.”

When they reached the end of the table, Agatha again curtsied. I’m getting good at this, she thought.

Tarvek stepped forward, and made a small formal bow. “Father, may I present Madame Olga, of Master Payne’s Circus of Adventure.”

The Prince waved Agatha forward. “Do be seated, my dear.”

Agatha settled into the chair that a servant held for her. A small swarm of them then descended upon the table, pouring wines and setting out various foodstuffs. Agatha’s wineglass was filled from an elegant green cut-glass carafe. The wine was a deep purple and smelled of spices and green fields. Agatha took a cautious sip.

Agatha had not really had much experience with wine before she left Beetleburg. Her parents had not favored it. Once she had joined the circus, she had been given an instructional course in wine, beer, ale, and cider as well as a wide variety of cordials and homebrewed spirits. Partially, the Countess had explained, because a young lady should be educated about these things, and be able to converse about them knowledgably. Partially, Pix had explained, because a young lady should be aware of the effects of these things upon her and be able to recognize when she was being plied. And partially, Zeetha had explained, because sometimes a warrior needed to get really drunk, and like all worthwhile things, it got easier with practice.

This had lead to some rather amusing nights and some rather awful mornings. On the whole, Agatha had decided that alcohol was something that she could take or leave, and for the most part, left. This particular beverage, however, seemed tasty and of a rather low potency.

A server placed a small bowl of what proved to be a deliciously savory red cabbage and bacon soup before her. The others were similarly served, which precipitated a discreet clattering of spoons.

Anevka ate nothing, but merely sat with folded hands and chatted with her father about a few items of castle management. After a few moments, the Prince cleared his throat and turned to Agatha. “We very much enjoyed your performance this evening.”

Agatha nodded. “Your Highness is most kind.”

Aaronev raised his own glass and looked at her over the rim. “We knew the lady you played, you know.” Agatha choked slightly on a spoonful of soup[46].

“Oh. I... I hope I haven’t given offense,” Agatha stammered. “It’s difficult to remember that we actually portray real people.” She thought for a moment. “Sort of.”

Aaronev laughed. “Nonsense, my dear. Truth be told, you captured her perfectly.”

This gave Agatha a bit of a pause, as she was still reconciling herself to the idea that Lucrezia Mongfish was her actual mother.

Aaronev continued casually. “In fact, it’s remarkable, really, but you sound just like her.”

Agatha smiled gamely and took another sip of wine. The taste was growing on her. “Why, thank you, your Highness.”

Aaronev slowly swirled the wine around in his glass. “Have you known many Sparks?”

Agatha waved her hand in dismissal. “Oh no!” She paused and then felt compelled to add, “Well, I did grow up in Beetleburg, so I saw Dr. Beetle, of course.”

The Prince nodded. “Oh, of course. Did you see him a lot?”

“Almost every day. I assisted in his lab for years.”

Aaronev’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Did you now?”

“Oh yes, I was there when he died.”

Tarvek broke in. “We heard about that. A great shame. We had heard that this mysterious son of the Baron’s killed him.”

Agatha nodded. “Yes, but to be fair, Dr. Beetle did throw a bomb at him.” She smiled. Gil would be happy she remembered that part. That made her happy, too.

Aaronev nodded as if this was a perfectly normal turn of events. “So you’ve seen the Baron and this son of his?”

“Oh yes, I saw the Baron a bit when I was abducted onto Castle Wulfenbach, and his son, Gilgamesh Wulfenbach wanted to marry me.” Tarvek choked on a spoonful of soup at this, and had a small coughing fit. A servant stepped up and thumped him on the back. Tarvek waved him away and grabbed his wineglass.

Anevka leaned forward. “Did he now? But here you are.”

Agatha shrugged. “I had to escape from Castle Wulfenbach when everyone found out I was actually a Heterodyne.”

This time Tarvek actually sprayed his wine across the table.