Agatha H. And the Clockwork Princess (35 page)

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.