by Phil Foglio
“Not usually,” Agatha sighed, “But I’ll bet he starts tonight.”
They both chuckled, and then looked into each other’s eyes. They leaned in for a last kiss—
“Agatha! You missed a wet spot on my head! Bring the—” The flung towel struck Krosp in the face.
CHAPTER 7
On this spot we will build a shield against the Heterodyne.
A fortress so strong he cannot crack it. Like a mighty storm, he will rage and scream and throw himself against it. But here we will fight him, and here we will stop him. Because we will have a place of refuge. A place of strength. A place of hope. We will have Sturmhalten.
—Andronicous Valois, From the Commission of Building delivered to the Western Coalition after the Battle of the Six Skies.
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, High
ness. 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 h
er!”
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.”
