Agatha H. And the Clockwork Princess (30 page)

Agatha, red-faced, seized upon the one part of this analysis that seemed conversationally safe. “What do you mean ‘Move on?’ Why should I—”

Zeetha interrupted. “
You’re
the one who said that you were only with us until Mechanicsburg. That’s just a little over a month from now.”

Agatha opened her mouth in surprise. “But… but I thought…” She paused. What
was
she thinking?

Zeetha had been polishing her swords. She stopped now and leaned in, putting a firm hand on Agatha’s shoulder. “Hey. This—” she gestured vaguely at the surrounding circus—“This is not where you belong.”

Agatha frowned. “What do you mean?”

Zeetha looked troubled. “Explaining things other than fighting isn’t really what I’m good at. But I’m your Kolee. I know you.” She waved away any potential objection. “Not story stuff, like your favorite color or how you shaved the cat when you were six years old or… or crap like that. But I
know
you, Agatha Clay… if that’s your real name—” Agatha started. Zeetha made a calming motion with her hand.

“No, no. That stuff isn’t important. See, I know what
kind
of a person you are. Better than anyone here.” She paused, “Except maybe for the Countess and Master Payne. They’re even sharper than they look.

“But you, you’re not like these people. Sure, they’re Sparks, but you… you’re a whole different level. You just haven’t had a reason to show it yet.” She sat back and cocked her head to the side. “When you do, you won’t fit here anymore.”

“But…” Agatha looked around. “But they like me here. I like acting. I like traveling. I…” she looked down shyly. “I am honored to be your zumil.”

Zeetha leaned in and gently beeped her nose. “You will always be my zumil, silly girl.” She stood up and stretched. “But a warrior must learn that nothing ever stays the same, which is why the things we want in life must be grabbed before they slip away. In this case, the thing you want to grab is Lars.”

“But I’m not really sure that I want to grab his—” Agatha realized what she was saying, and put her head in her hands, profoundly grateful that Zeetha was the only one listening.

Zeetha laughed and tousled Agatha’s hair. “Relax, no one’s expecting you to marry him.” She frowned slightly. “But he
is
acting uncharacteristically shy.”

Things got odder. Onstage, Lars took every opportunity to get close to her. To touch her arm, to run his hand along her jaw. His eyes smoldered, and their climactic kiss was beginning to dominate Agatha’s dreams, as well as some of her daytime musings.

But off stage, Lars remained formally polite, when he could be found at all. Increasingly, he took every opportunity to leave the troupe, for any number of perfectly plausible reasons. It was evident that he was utilizing the tricks he’d learned to avoid confrontations in a half a hundred towns. It was only obvious because he was using them all for the same audience.

Agatha tried to dismiss her feelings and distract herself by working. After all, aside from this irrational infatuation, she enjoyed her day-to-day life quite a bit, and there was always something to keep her busy.

Great strides were made on the Silverodian. One quiet, foggy morning, Agatha actually managed to produce a tortured set of hoots and squeals from the pipes, which caused everyone to run out, weapons in hand. But this, along with the work the various troupe members piled upon her, was not enough, and the Sparks around her began to feel the result.

Almost all of the Sparks in the show found themselves being questioned by Agatha about their work. These sometimes turned into marathon sessions that left them feeling, as Augie put it later, “As if she turned me upside down, poured all my theories out onto the ground, examined them, kept the good stuff, and pointed out the rubbish.”

Indeed, there was a bit of a Renaissance amongst the lesser Sparks, as a number of theories and concepts were aired out and scrutinized. There were also, it has to be said, some hard feelings, as a few cherished ideas were thoroughly disproved, sometimes in embarrassing detail
³⁶
.

The result was a quietly rising tide of chaos and small disruptions. Small, but to those who knew to watch for such things, quite noticeable.

And thus it was that one evening, in a small village with an insatiable appetite for candied mimmoths, after the show had ended and the troupe had bedded down for the evening, Lars found himself strongly invited to have a drink with Master Payne and The Countess.

The inside of their wagon was done in a tasteful blend of dark inlaid woods, rich fabrics and stained glass. Within the compact space, souvenirs and trophies gleaned from decades of travel caught the eye, and everywhere, there were cards.

Playing cards from throughout history and hundreds of cultures were carefully mounted upon every flat space large enough to accommodate it. Elegant cards made from starched silk, impossibly thin slices of wood, decorated with gilt and crushed gems, alongside a thousand different varieties of paper and parchment adorned with everything from crudely drawn symbols to excruciatingly detailed miniature oil paintings.

As they made small talk and settled into place, Payne nonchalantly pulled a series of cords and levers. It quickly became evident that the wagon was a marvel of compact engineering. It seemed that almost every surface swiveled, unfolded or slid out to become or to reveal something else. By the time the old magician was done, a table, complete with tablecloth and settings, had appeared, as had several plates of snacks, along with a bottle of wine and three glasses. As Payne leaned back and adjusted his cuffs, a small arm swung down and a tiny music-box-like mechanism played a jolly tune as it deftly removed the cork from the bottle before swinging back up and out of sight.

The Countess offered Lars a savory egg-cream tart as Payne carefully poured him a glass of deep red wine. “A little something the Countess put up a year or two ago. Do let me know what you think.”

Lars sipped. He was suddenly reminded of a Spring Festival. The air was cool and fresh, the sun—clear, but not too bright. The music, the laughter, the first kiss of a shy girl—

He shook himself, and examined the drink in his hand. He slowly nodded in appreciation. “That’s mighty good stuff, m’lady.” Marie looked pleased.

Payne steepled his fingers together. “So Lars, perhaps you’ve noticed that things around here have been a bit…” He looked at his wife.

“Higgelty-piggelty,” she said promptly.

Payne frowned. “…Chaotic,” he suggested.

Lars shifted uneasily. “I have, sir. But that doesn’t have anything to do with me…” He looked at the two of them. “Does it?”

“The
direct
cause appears to be Miss Clay.” Lars looked to the side. Marie continued. “She seems to be…” She looked at Payne.

“Agitated?” He said.

“Frustrated,” she corrected. The two of them swung their gazes upon Lars. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“I didn’t touch her,” Lars said defensively.

Again the two glanced at each other. Payne harrumphed awkwardly, and tried to assume his best man-of-the-world demeanor. He opened his mouth—

“Why in Heaven’s name not?” Marie asked. Payne rolled his eyes.

Lars saw that the Countess was looking at him expectantly. This was when he fully realized just how difficult it would be to extract himself from the encircling furniture. He blew out a breath, took a deep drink, and sat back.

“It… It’s not that I don’t want to,” he found that this discussion was easier if he kept his eyes focused on the wineglass in his hand. “I’d… kind of planned on it. But… do you remember Doktor Spün and his Cylinder of Touch
³⁷
?”

Payne nodded. Hiring Doktor Spün had been one of his rare personnel mistakes. His firing had been cathartic however, even if it had taken awhile to put out.

“That damned thing was beautiful. You wanted to touch it. To feel it.
I
wanted to. But I knew—I
knew
that it was a bad idea. I had that walking into a bad town feeling. I
told
you at the time, remember?”

He took another sip of wine, and finally raised his eyes to Payne’s. “I… I get the same feeling from Agatha. I want to touch her. Red fire, I want to… but, then I get the feeling that if I get too close, there’s going to be trouble.”

Payne slowly sat back, and thoughtfully poured the young man another glass of wine. He then turned to the Countess. “I’ve seen Moxana’s game. I can’t argue with that.”

Marie regarded Lars and slowly tapped her chin. “You’ve never…dallied with a girl possessed of the Spark, have you?”

Lars looked surprised. “No, m’lady. All the town girls I…” he paused, “—talk to, are regular folk. There’s never been any available ma—uh—
gifted
ladies with the show.” He thought about this. “You think that’s it?”

Payne shrugged. “Only an idiot would think about knowingly involving himself with a woman with the Spark,
—if
he planned to take advantage of her.”

“I wasn’t—!”

Payne held up a hand. “Neither one of us thinks you’re
that
foolish, my boy. But wooing even a normal lady is not something a fellow should do lightly. You have a finely tuned sense of danger. I think it only natural that this would be a situation that would cause it to sit up and start screaming.”

Lars thoughtfully took a drink. “I think I see what you mean, sir.”

Payne nodded. “Now, both the Countess and I think you an honorable person.” Marie cleared her throat. Payne continued smoothly “—In your own way. Which is why, at the very least, you should stop giving her these mixed signals. It’s not fair to Agatha. Settle it one way or the other before she gets so wound up that she dismantles half my circus.”

Lars sat back, and slowly sipped his wine. What he was afraid of was the unknown. The mysterious thing that reached out from behind your back and grabbed you.

When he knew what a particular danger
was
, Lars was surprisingly good at dealing with it. There was the screaming afterwards, of course, but no one is perfect.

Another thing Lars was good at, was talking to women. Now in this case, he was dealing with an infatuated, naïve, and inexperienced woman who could literally warp the laws of nature and probably turn him into a carrot if he did her wrong.

But when he thought of it that way, it began to seem like an interesting challenge…

There had been a thunderstorm the night before, leaving the air cool and crisp, and putting a sparkle on the leaves of all the trees.

The circus was currently parked next to the map dot that was known to the locals as the village of Borlax. The local solstice stock fair was winding up, tonight would be the last show and tomorrow the circus would be back on the road. Today, however, the locals were engaged in a final frenzy of deal making that involved more histrionics and high drama than the actors dished out in a month. Thus, the troupe was enjoying a little extra free time.

Many were critiquing the locals’ use of hyperbole and invective. Rivet and Captain Kadiiski were replacing a broken wheel on one of the caravan wagons. Agatha was examining a small device she had discovered hidden in the back of her wagon. It was a complicated little hand-cranked thing of gears and spheres within spheres. It looked like it should produce music of some kind, but she couldn’t figure out how it worked.

Suddenly she released a catch, there was a small click, and a gear slid into place. She gave a satisfied grin and blew a lock of hair out of her eyes.

At that moment, Dame Ædith strolled over. “Good day to you, Miss Clay. If I may take a moment of your time?”

Agatha nodded. “Is everything satisfactory?” The vampyre hunter had asked Agatha to do some minor repairs upon her wagon.

The older woman paused, and marveled at the small device in Agatha’s hand. Agatha graciously passed it over and wiped her hands on a square of rag. “Ah, that is the thing,” Ædith continued. “It rides right smoothly, and the brakes are now most effective…” Absent-mindedly, she spun the crank on the device and gave a small delighted smile as a number of spheres spun and twisted about each other, accompanied by a barely heard high-pitched twittering.

“…But?” Agatha interjected.

Dame Ædith kept spinning the crank, but frowned. “But now the accursed thing doth make this most vexatious
clicking
noise.”

Agatha looked surprised. “Clicking noise?”

“Aye, and a right loud one too. I thought—” What she thought was never to be revealed, as at that moment, a large brown bat cannoned into her hat, and with a great deal of flapping and squeaking, tried to climb under it. Dame Ædith shrieked and batted ineffectually at the creature, in the process throwing the device into the air. Agatha caught it before it crashed to the ground. As she did so, she saw that there was a faded paper label stuck to the bottom, which she had neglected to examine. It read “Bat Summoning Engine.” Under this, in a crabbed hand, someone had added the notation; “excessively effective.”

She looked up. The bat was clinging to Dame Ædith’s hat, even though the woman was now waving it about frantically trying to dislodge the creature. Agatha surreptitiously slipped the device into a tool bag and said brightly, “I’ll just go take a look, shall I?”

Dame Ædith’s wagon was as garishly decorated as any of the others, but when you got close enough, it became evident that the décor consisted of holy symbols. Hundreds of them, fitted together chock-a-block, forming an intricate pattern that drew spiritual comfort from hundreds of different faiths and belief systems, in no evident order of precedence.

The roof bristled with totems, icons, spirit flags and ætheric antennae constructed of everything from precious metals to bones and seashells. Signs covered the sides, promising cures for anemia, sleepwalking and a “fear of garlic.” Agatha had noted that the exact nature of the “cure” was never specified.

Whenever the wagon moved, an ingenious gear system automatically rotated a plethora of prayer wheels and played simple melodies upon several gongs and chimes. There was also a fat copper chain that dragged along behind, because, Agatha had been informed, Dame Ædith’s cart was struck by lightning on an average of once a month. A fact the vampyre hunter found “statistically inconvenient.” Privately, Agatha attributed this to the excessive amount of metal used in the decorations.