by Phil Foglio
A number of people were about, tending fires or eating. The boy whooped and pointed excitedly. There sat a wagon whose shafts were gripped by a squat, troll-like clank with a huge grin and a smokestack on its head. Agatha eyed it with interest. Even at rest, the clank looked powerful enough to substitute for a team of horses. “That one’s my wagon!” He dashed forward, but was checked by a loud call to the right. “Balthazar!”
Without slowing, the boy veered about and ran straight into the arms of an obviously relieved young woman, who dropped an elaborate crutch and knelt to enfold him in her arms. “Mama!” He hugged her tightly. “I got lost!”
Agatha cleared her throat. “He’s yours then. Good.”
The woman looked up, surprised. She reached for her crutch with one hand, and thrust the boy behind her with the other. Agatha smiled awkwardly and tried to look harmless.
After a long moment, the woman relaxed and smiled back gingerly. “Yes, he is. Thank you.” She hugged the squirming boy tightly, “I was so worried.”
“We found him sitting in a tree. Um... I’m Agatha Clay.”
“Trish Belloptrix.”
Balthazar squirmed free. “She’s nice, Mama! She’s show people!”
Trish looked surprised. “Show people?”
Balthazar nodded vigorously, “Yeah! She’s got a great talking cat act!”
Trish looked at Krosp, who was rolling his eyes and gnawing on a piece of grass. “Cat act.”
Krosp waved a paw lazily. “Hey, howzit going?” he drawled.
Trish’s face hardened, and she raised an eyebrow as she reassessed Agatha. “That’s your ‘act’ is it?”[6]
Agatha pointed at Balthazar. “He called it an act. Not me. We’re not actually performers.”
Krosp shuffled from one foot to another and waved his paws in the air over his head. “And I can dance, too! Voh-dodi-o-doh...”
Trish adjusted her crutch and pulled herself erect, leaning on it lightly. Agatha noted that although the woman had just one leg and obviously relied on the crutch, her movements were graceful and controlled, like a dancer’s.
She was wearing a style dismissed in towns like Beetleburg as too rustic to be fashionable, but so elaborately embroidered that it looked more like an opera company’s version of a peasant’s dress, rather than the real thing. Still, Agatha could see that the clothing, while clean and well cared for, had been patched and mended numerous times. This was no costume, it was the everyday garb of a performer who lived her life in full view of her audience. It made sense. Most people found that traveling players were worth watching, even off stage. The general assumption was that, not being “from around here,” they were exotic and slightly dangerous. You never knew what they might do next.
Trish smiled again. This time the smile was more genuine. She chuckled as Krosp continued to hop back and forth, humming to himself and waving the blade of grass above his head. “Ah. The townies must love him.” She gestured back to the wagons. “Why don’t you come with me? We were just starting a late breakfast when I missed Balthazar. A meal is the least I can do.”
Agatha hesitated, “Well... I don’t want to be a bother...but...”
Krosp marched on ahead, grabbing the ragged end of Agatha’s skirt as he passed and pulling her behind him. “Let’s go. Food is always good.”
Trish scanned the tree line where they’d emerged. “But...where are the rest of your people?”
Agatha shook her head. “Oh, It’s just us.”
Trish looked shocked. “You’re walking around the Wastelands alone?”
Agatha nodded. “We were on an airship. It crashed.”
Trish studied her. “Pretty lucky, then.”
Agatha looked blank. “Lucky?”
Trish nodded. “That you found us. I doubt there’s another human being within twenty kilometers of here. One that you’d want to meet, anyway.”
Balthazar broke in, “And not just anyone, no! For here you will find the greatest dissemblance of heroes in all of Europa!”
Agatha and Krosp looked at him blankly. Trish patted him on the head. “That’s ‘assemblage,’ dear.” Balthazar smacked his head. “Right.”
Krosp still looked blank. He looked at Agatha. “What? Heroes? What?”
But now that they had come closer, Agatha had been studying the signs on the wagons. The scenes and characters painted there told her everything she needed to know. “Ah—it’s a traveling Heterodyne show!” she exclaimed.
Krosp looked blank. “These people are Heterodynes?”
Agatha sighed. “No, no. I told you earlier, remember? Not everyone with a Heterodyne badge is really connected... Um... Let’s see... Do you know what theatre is? Acting?”
Krosp thought about this. There was a theatre on Castle Wulfenbach. It was used to make important announcements and presentations. And, due to one of the immutable laws of nature, because there was an underutilized stage, there was a Castle Wulfenbach Amateur Theatrical Society. Krosp had snuck in one evening and sat through three performances of “My Pardon, Sirrah, But Is That Your Piston?” a farce from Prague that had left him with several dozen questions about human relationships and a rather low opinion of theatre in general. “Sort of,” he said.
“Well the Heterodynes were real people, who had real adventures, and people like hearing about them. So theatre troupes started doing plays about them, and it became really popular.[7] There are lots of Heterodyne Shows. I always tried to go see them when they came through... Er...”
Agatha faltered a bit as the weirdness of it all sank in. All those dashing stories of the Heterodyne Boys... they were about her father, a man she had never seen. Her uncle Barry—who had disappeared when she was small. These people did plays—usually rollicking adventures with lots of slapstick comedy—about her family. She caught her breath and blinked, seeing the circle of wagons in a strange new light.
“Not a bad way of putting it, miss.” Agatha turned and discovered that they’d been joined by a young man with dark curly hair, a trim chin beard and another colorfully embroidered outfit. He had the air of a man with his mind constantly running over a hundred little details, all of which he was determined to see to before he allowed himself a much-needed drink.
Trish indicated the newcomers. “This is Miss Agatha Clay and her cat. The cat talks. Miss Clay, this is Abner de la Scalla, Master Payne’s apprentice. Abner talks a lot. He also helps run things. Abner, Miss Clay and her cat found Balthazar in the woods and brought him back.”
De la Scalla made a courteous bow. “Much thanks, miss.” He turned to Balthazar. “Jump to it! Go tell everyone that you’ve been found. While you’re at it, tell them that we’re packing up and moving out as quickly as possible.” Relieved that no punishment appeared to be looming, the boy gave a quick salute and dashed off.
Trish looked surprised. “Already? But we were going to—”
“Master Payne wants us out of this valley as soon as possible. There’s something out there that’s spooking the horses.” He blinked. “Did you say the cat talks?”
Trish nodded. “He does.”
Abner looked at Krosp speculatively. “Interesting.”
Trish continued, “I promised them a meal, but we might ask Master Payne to let them join us, if only because she’s traveling alone.”
This fully engaged Abner’s attention. “Alone? In the Wastelands?”
Agatha winced. “It really wasn’t my idea. My airship crashed.”
Abner studied her. “Aeronaut, weird-looking weapon, talking cat... You’ll probably fit right in around here,” he muttered. He then glanced uneasily back toward the woods. “You wouldn’t know anything about whatever is out there, would you?”
Agatha shook her head. “We didn’t see anything, and we slept out there all night.”
“So—were you the only survivors?”
“Oh no, it was nothing like that, it was just us on board.”
Krosp’s head snapped sideways. “Whoa! I smell
lunch!” He darted off.
Abner stared after him. “Did he...?” He focused more of his attention on Agatha now. “An airship, and you and... he... you were the only crew? That’s small for a craft all the way out here. Where were you coming from?”
Agatha tried to look innocent. “Is it important?”
“Could be. I see a Wulfenbach sigil on your backpack there, and the watchman in the last town said he saw Castle Wulfenbach sail past the night before last, so I’m guessing that’s where you came from. Do you work for the Baron?”
“No!” Agatha slumped. “I mean, I guess I did. For a while.”
By this time, they had reached the central area of the camp. A few of the other performers eyed her speculatively, listening in. When they heard her last statement, they looked at each other.
Abner rubbed his neck. “But you don’t work for him anymore, huh?” Agatha shook her head. “You’re on the run then.” She nodded. “Hoo, boy.”
A wiry, grizzled man in an apron scratched his chin. When he spoke, he had a slight Greek accent. “Wulfenbach, eh? He’s trouble, that one.”
Agatha whispered, “I didn’t hurt anyone. I just... left.”
The older man eyed her tattered clothing. “Looks like you ‘just left’ in a bit of a hurry.”
Behind him, a girl asked pointedly, “And how did you escape?” She was tall and blonde, with striking good looks. Her dress was obviously new, and was a fashionable cut, but the gold thread and sequins that covered it made the girl look like a flashy theatrical parody of a stylish young lady.
Agatha didn’t bother to object to the girl’s choice of words. A great tiredness settled upon her. “My parents. They... they came to get me, but they...” A shudder ran down her spine. “It was horrible. There was an outbreak of Slaver Wasps, and a fight. I... I escaped in the confusion. But my parents... I still can’t believe they’re dead.”
The mention of Slaver Wasps caused a murmur of dismay to flow through the crowd. Many people looked outright terrified. The stylish girl continued: “And you think they’ll come looking for you. When was this?”
Agatha shook her head. “Yesterday. It was only yesterday.”
Abner patted her shoulder. “You poor kid. I’m sure we could—” He didn’t get a chance to finish. The girl gripped his shoulder and spun him about. She was icily furious now. “Don’t you say another word!”
Abner looked surprised. “What?”
“This is important, and it’s Master Payne’s decision, not yours.”
“I was just—”
“Just about to say something stupid!” the girl snapped. “Get Master Payne!” The girl turned to Agatha, who was taken aback to see that her face was now as warm and friendly as any Agatha had ever seen. “You should wait here, my dear,” she said sweetly.
Abner tried a final time. “We should—”
The friendliness vanished in an instant as she rounded on Abner. “If you say another word I will kick you in the fork and set your hair on fire,” she hissed.
Abner opened his mouth. There was a pause. He closed his mouth. The two of them hurried off.
Agatha and the others watched them go. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble,” she murmured.
There was a snort from behind her. “The only people who don’t cause trouble are the dead.”
The speaker was a lean, well-muscled girl. Her face should have been pretty, but her expression was sullen, and there was an odd look in her eye that Agatha found uncomfortable to meet.
Her skin was a warm, golden color that Agatha found beautiful, but very unusual. She was dressed in a hard-used set of blue leather pants and a vest. Her arms were bare, except for a set of dingy gold bands around her upper arms. Agatha noted with a small, embarrassed shock, that the girl wasn’t even wearing a shirt.
Strapped across her front and around her shoulders was a sturdy leather and metal harness that held two sword scabbards on her back. The unusual handles of the swords they held bracketed her head. These at least, had been well cared for. They looked as if they had been recently polished and oiled. Her hair was twisted in a severe braid, tied in place with rags and bits of twine. For a sickening moment, Agatha thought that the girl’s hair was so dirty that it had turned green. A closer look revealed that this was apparently its natural color.
Across her forehead ran a leather circlet—a small golden face mounted in the center. This was so cleverly-worked that Agatha momentarily thought it was moving.
The green-haired girl hooked a thumb at the departing pair. “Those two have been like that with each other ever since Pix—that’s the girl in the tart dress—joined up. She’s got a hard bite, but Abner, there, he keeps trying to talk to her. I guess he likes the abuse or something.”
She was sitting on a log that had been dragged up to a fire pit, and now she moved sideways and waved Agatha over. A large iron cauldron hung from a chain and tripod arrangement. She snagged a wooden bowl from a stack and ladled in a huge helping of some sort of porridge, handing it to Agatha along with an elegantly hand-carved wooden spoon.
“She’s a great actress though,” the girl conceded. She reached down and produced a blue enameled metal pitcher. She leaned over and poured a dollop of thick cream into Agatha’s bowl. “Here. Eat.” She set the pitcher down. “I am Zeetha. Daughter of Chump.”
Agatha’s spoon stopped halfway to her mouth. The porridge smelled delicious, but—“Chump?”
Zeetha rolled her eyes. She looked like there was more she wanted to say, but all that came out was, “Just eat.”
Agatha thought she should at least show willing. “I am Agatha Clay. Daughter of blacksmith.”
Zeetha looked at her levelly and took a long slow breath through her nose. “No, really...” she said. “Just eat.”
The porridge was delicious. It was thick, warm and filling. Agatha thought about Krosp and his rat, closed her eyes, and sighed deeply, enjoying her breakfast’s rich nutty scent and delightful lack of rodent.
Agatha saw that Abner had been serious about moving out. People were scurrying everywhere, carrying supplies and equipment. Looking closely, Agatha saw that the chaos was, in fact, not chaos at all. What outwardly appeared to be a disorganized swarm of people would descend upon a section of the camp, and begin sorting, organizing, packing and stowing everything upon one of the waiting wagons—all with a grace and breathtaking efficiency that made the whole thing seem like it was part of a performance. She mentioned this out to Zeetha, who nodded grudgingly.
“Right the first time. This was all choreographed by Gospodin Rasmussin over there.” She pointed to a small, intense-looking man who was striding through the camp, rhythmically striking the ground with an ornately topped dance-master’s cane. As he went past, Agatha could hear that he was counting under his breath in Russian.
Zeetha grinned. “We can get the whole camp packed and ready in less than six waltzes, or three polkas, if we’re actually under attack.”
Agatha finished her breakfast just as a crew swept in and began collecting the various cooking implements. She surrendered her bowl and watched as it skimmed through the air to land in a tub of similar bowls. Agatha had a sudden realization, and guiltily looked around. “Are we the only ones not doing anything?”
Zeetha leaned back and nodded. “You’re a guest. I’m kept around to kill things, and at the moment,” she said frankly, “I’m keeping an eye on you in case I have to kill you.” She saw Agatha’s expression and shrugged. “You don’t get out much, do you?”
Agatha had to admit that, up until recently, this had been the case.
Zeetha snorted. “You really escaped from Castle Wulfenbach?”
Agatha nodded. “Yes.”
Zeetha eyed her speculatively. “You must be tougher than you look.”
Agatha considered this statement. “I had help,” she admitted.
Zeetha grinned. Agatha noticed that she had disquietingly large canines. “So? That’s a mark in your favor. My pe
ople say that a good friend is like a strong sword.”
“Your people?”
The momentary jocularity left Zeetha and she slumped a bit. For a moment, Agatha thought she wasn’t going to say anything, then she sighed. “I’m from Skifander. Ever heard of it?”
Agatha blinked. She suddenly remembered a small cabin high in some heavily-forested mountains. It had snowed furiously earlier in the day, drifts piling up around the carved wooden walls. Agatha had been young, very young, and had returned from building an army of snow minions to find her Uncle Barry leaning against the cabin. Night was falling, and he was watching the stars emerge in the night sky. They had gazed at them together, and Agatha had said something about the night revealing her hidden jewels.
This turn of phrase had delighted her uncle, and that night, while they ate in front of the crackling fire, he had told her fabulous stories for half the night about—
“Skifander!” Agatha declared with a nostalgic smile. “The Warrior Queen’s Hidden Jewel! Guardian of the Red Mountain! Oh, I remember that!”
The words had an electric effect. Zeetha’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped. She stared at Agatha as if she had spontaneously grown a second nose.
Agatha was surprised. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “Did I get it wrong? It’s been so long—”
Suddenly hands like iron gripped her arms. Zeetha’s face was centimeters from her own. Her eyes were wild. “You know where Skifander is?”
Agatha blinked—“No! I—”
Zeetha shouted her down. “WHO DOES?”
“My uncle! He told me stories—”
“Where is he?” Zeetha was frantic.
“I don’t know!” Agatha shouted. “He disappeared years ago!”
Zeetha staggered back, her eyes wide. “No!” she whispered. With a shimmer of steel, her swords appeared in her hands. “No, No, NO! NOOOO!” she screamed like an animal as the swords wove a glittering arc around them. Suddenly, Zeetha seemed to catch herself. Eyes still wild, she slammed her swords back into their scabbards and ran off, howling.
