Agatha H and the Voice of the Castle Page 2

  Carson tipped his head back and regarded several of the gargoyles ranked along the outer wall.

  “Another Heterodyne heir,” he grumbled to the air. “And this time it’s a woman, who seems to have gotten her ideas from too many Heterodyne shows.” He shrugged. “I expect she’ll be easy to discourage…”

  He considered this statement. “But she apparently had enough power to take on Klaus Wulfenbach. Which makes me think she might be trouble.”

  Across the way, Kars continued with his work. He picked up a windblown twig and tossed it over the low wall that followed the road out of town, and Carson watched a leaf detach and briefly spin in an updraft.

  Carson laced his fingers together. “And if she is, I expect you’ll help me deal with her. I know you’ll enjoy that.”

  A dray wagon loaded with empty barrels rumbled out from the gateway A large dog loped along behind it, tongue flapping.

  After a moment of protracted silence, the old man chuckled and settled back on his bench. “Well, at any rate…until we’re needed, I believe I’ll take a nap.”

  As the sun slowly rose, the defenders of Mechanicsburg waited.

  The Great Chronometer in the Red Cathedral had just boomed out the hour. Nine o’clock. From outside the gate, Carson couldn’t hear the shrieks of the clockwork nuns fleeing the clockwork Jägers, but he was familiar enough with the routine that he could visualize each of the hourly shows as clearly as if he were there. His lips twitched in a faint smile.

  So caught up was he in memories that, when the trio of horses stopped in front of him, he continued to drift. The young man on the lead horse had to repeat himself several times, in a slightly louder voice each time, before he was startled back to full awareness.

  A tall, friendly-looking fellow looked down at him and nodded his head respectfully. Behind him was a young woman, most likely his wife: young, alert, and wide-eyed. Currently she was staring up at the gate. Fair enough, it took some getting used to. At the gateway, the walls blossomed outwards, and a person entering the town experienced the disquieting sensation of entering a lair of grinning, cavorting gargoyles and other assorted monstrosities. The old Heterodynes were accused of many things, but no one ever said they were unfair. They always enjoyed letting visitors know exactly what they were walking into.

  Behind her was—Carson perked up a bit. The woman looked like one of those warrior nuns he’d heard of, from…the old man frowned. That convent fortress up near Lake Geneva…he cursed this further evidence of his aging memory. Twenty, no, even ten years ago, he could have reeled off the name of the place as well as what they usually ate for breakfast.

  He shook his head. In the nun’s lap was a—Carson’s breath hissed inwards in shock. It was a child. A terrible, misshapen child, tightly wrapped in bandages. The only thing he could see was a pair of mad, glaring eyes. He shuddered.

  Even before the rider spoke, the old man knew what he wanted.

  “If you would be so kind as to tell us the way to the Great Hospital?”1

  “Certainly. Straight down this avenue until you get to a square with a statue of the Heterodyne Boys. Turn left at the statue, and you’ll start to see the signs.”

  The young woman broke off her staring at the gate and turned to him. Her eyes held him transfixed and the old man felt his heart skip a beat.

  “Thank you, kind sir.” She broke the connection as she turned to her husband. “Let’s go, darling.”

  The old man let out a breath as the horses clopped off. Well. Apparently one is never too old to feel foolish over a pretty girl. He impatiently shook his head.

  “It’s unfortunate, that’s what that is,” he muttered. “Now’s a particularly bad time to show up with a sick child. The hospital will be in chaos what with the Baron there and everyone all stirred up.”

  He glanced upwards. “Perhaps I could—” He froze, then twisted around and stared up at the gargoyles that lined gate into town. All of them—every blessed one of them—had shifted on their pedestals, gazing after the trio of newcomers as they entered the city.

  Agatha glanced at her companions and couldn’t help the small smile that crossed her face as they left the old man. The idea of the boisterous and unrestrained Zeetha as a nun was almost as amusing as the thought of her being married to the normally prim and decorous ex-valet Ardsley Wooster, who had joined them in Sturmhalten. She caught a glimpse of Krosp’s furious eyes and turned away. Intelligent he might be, but Krosp was still a cat, and his dignity was suffering greatly under those bandages.

  As they finally cleared the tunnel through the great wall, Agatha had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. Mechanicsburg! She’d heard so much about it. It was the home of the Heterodyne Boys, after all, and for the last two months, she’d been slowly wending her way here—because she’d been told that she was a Heterodyne as well.

  As far as the rest of the world knew, the Heterodyne Boys had vanished years ago, putting a stop to the devastations of the Other: the secretive power that had nearly broken Europa nearly two decades ago. Agatha sighed. She had learned much in her travels, and almost all of it bizarre and unsettling. She, Agatha, was the daughter of the hero Bill Heterodyne, and the Other had been her own, equally brilliant mother, Lucrezia Mongfish. Agatha figured that she was now the only person in Europa who found the Other not just mysterious and terrifying, but horribly embarrassing.

  It would have been nice to be able to discount this as hearsay, but as Agatha currently had a copy of her mother’s mind lodged inside her own head, determined to break free and wreak havoc, she had to accept that hers was a family with…special problems.

  As the horses ambled down the street, they were approached by swarms of touts for many of the local establishments.

  “Try the Rusty Trilobite, sir! Soft beds! Hot running water! And you can’t even see the tannery!”

  “Nothing like a hot mug of golden rum to clear the dust of the road, ma’am! Come on over to the Laughing Construct! And don’t you pay attention to what anyone says—he’s laughing ’cause he’s happy!”

  “Hoy! You look like a man of the world, squire. Stow the ball and chain and get yourself over to Mamma Gkika’s. They’ll treat you right.”

  “Would the poor little fellow like a fried trilobite? Just—Sweet lightning! Those eyes! Hospital’s that way! Clear the road, you lot!”

  Like magic, the crowd thinned, and they proceeded relatively unhindered. This allowed Agatha a chance to look around a bit. According to the books she had read, the city of Mechanicsburg was almost a thousand years old and had been the home base of the Heterodynes from the beginning. The architecture varied wildly. Over there was a row of shops, equipped with fully modern plate-glass windows, yet hanging above the doorways were old-fashioned pictograph signboards. Over here was a row of mullion-windowed apartments, easily several hundred years old, but a set of peculiar-looking wind turbines thrummed away on the roof.

  And trilobites were everywhere. Mechanicsburg was built on a fossil deposit and the peculiar little creatures had been so common that there was even a trilobite incorporated into the city’s famous coat-of-arms. So, Agatha had expected to see them, but in actuality, their presence was overwhelming. They were chiseled upon buildings as assorted architectural features, and emblazoned upon the numerous posters, signs, and broadsheets plastered upon almost every vertical surface. These advertised everything from local attractions to a wide range of products, all of which were (apparently) personally associated with, or endorsed by, the Heterodyne Boys themselves.

  As for Bill and Barry, their likeness shone forth from pictures, statuettes, key-chains, mugs, belt buckles, and a thousand other bizarre and inappropriate items.

  Zeetha saw Agatha’s expression and leaned over. “It is a tourist town. Aside from the Great Hospital and the memory of the Heterodyne Boys, Mechanicsburg has nothing else worth selling…or so I’ve heard.”

  Ardsley Wooster snorted. “That is a perception promoted quite
heavily by the Mechanicsburg Chamber of Commerce. They neglect to mention that they are the leading exporter of snails to most of Eastern Europa.”

  Agatha blinked. Over the last ten years, snails had become a dietary staple on more and more tables.

  “But that’s something to be proud of, I’d think. Why downplay it?”

  Wooster glanced about and lowered his voice. “Because, according to the Baron’s agents, Mechanicsburg is also the center of at least three major smuggling and black market operations. Thus they take pains to dismiss the importance of shipments to and from the city.” He shook his head in admiration. “They are aided by the simple fact that it is a rare customs agent that is willing to burrow through a shipment of live snails—”

  Agatha nodded. “I can see that.”

  “Especially since some of the fancier varieties bite,” he finished.

  Suddenly Agatha reined in her horse and pulled it about. The others realized that she had stopped and looked at her questioningly. She frowned and scrutinized the street they had ridden up. It looked normal enough—bustling with crowds of people, merchants calling out their wares, hawkers, and street performers…

  It’s all for show, she realized. The merchants might be ebullient and boisterous while enticing passersby, but the moment their audience passed, their grins faded and their posture changed. Agatha thought they looked like poorly maintained automata. The town itself was similar. While the shop areas seen by visitors were reasonably clean and maintained, from here she could see that the upper stories were in serious need of paint and repair. It was like the people of the town no longer cared.

  Agatha pondered this as she swung her horse about and continued forward.

  Wooster claimed to know his way around the town. He led them up several ramps and before too long, Agatha saw that they were on a raised highway that circled Mechanicsburg’s inner core.

  Before them lay the bulk of the town, dominated by a massive black stone crag that loomed in the center of it all. Apparently growing from the top of the natural promontory was a ruined castle, partially hewn from the crag itself.

  It was a huge structure. The main tower, a square pagoda-like affair, was easily ten stories tall, emblazoned with an enormous gilded trilobite. To Agatha’s eye, it was apparent that the structure had been built over the course of centuries. Assorted architectural styles and fashions were jumbled together in a most disturbing way. The rest of the castle—Agatha’s breath caught as she took in the scope of the devastation. Many of the barbicans and towers were leaning away from the center. Atop the various roofs, the remains of assorted aerials, towers, and lightning rods could be seen drooping in disrepair. Vast sections of the curtain wall were blown out or were in danger of crumbling. The slopes of the crag were littered with chunks of the castle that looked small, but once you identified features such as windows, you realized that they must be several stories tall. From the base of the structure, where the masonry met the cliffs, an enormous gargoyle head spat a frothing torrent of water toward the rocks far below where it disappeared into a cloud of perpetual mist. This was the source of the Dyne, the river that meandered through the town before flowing through an elaborate set of gates to the valley beyond.

  Wooster saw the look on Agatha’s face and nodded in satisfaction. “Yes, that’s it. Happy?”

  Agatha still gazed up at the castle. “It’s a mess. But, to be honest? From everything I’d heard, I’d thought it would be much worse.”

  Next, she turned her attention to the rest of the town. It was built on uneven ground, with stairways and bridges connecting neighborhoods as often as streets. The buildings were mostly three-and four-story houses, many with a business tucked underneath. To the west, an immense factory complex dominated the skyline. Striking black and white clouds of smoke and steam poured from tall, slender smokestacks. To the north, an ornate, red stone Gothic cathedral rose, defiant beside the dark bulk of the ruined castle. To the east, a miniature lake and several acres of greensward gave way to orchards—which abutted a large white building that could only be the Great Hospital. Before them was a vast open area lined with what looked like rather dilapidated barracks.

  As a whole, once you got past the gates, the town was obviously run down. It was easy to spot the tourists—they were the ones strolling down the streets with a bit of a bounce to their step. The natives, though dressed more colorfully, simply trudged along, at least until approached by a customer, at which point they radiated colorful folksiness.

  Wooster allowed Agatha to take it in for another minute and then delicately cleared his throat. “So, my lady. You have arrived in Mechanicsburg. Now what?”

  Agatha looked at him blankly. Then she stared at the ruined castle. “I’m not sure,” she confessed. “I was told to go to Castle Heterodyne, but…” she gestured at it vaguely.

  “First things first,” Krosp declared. “Let’s get somewhere quiet and then get these bandages off of me!”

  “Are you sure—?”

  Krosp waved a paw. “This is a town. There will be cats. I’m a cat. I’ll blend in better.”

  Agatha had some doubts about this. Krosp had once confessed to her that while his creator had designed him to be a tool of espionage, he had engineered Krosp so that it was more comfortable for him to walk erect. The cat had to be frequently reminded to walk on all fours and any attempt he made at subterfuge seemed likely to be subverted by his constant complaining.

  As they clopped along, Zeetha covered Krosp with her cloak and with a few deft slices, cut him free of his bandages.

  “Better.” Krosp stretched luxuriously and continued. “So. The castle. I’d heard it was damaged by the Other.” He eyed the ruin and turned to Agatha. “I don’t suppose you can shed any light on that from…” He tapped his head.

  Agatha shook her head. She knew that the entity trapped inside her was indeed her mother—Lucrezia—and that Lucrezia had confessed to being the Other, but this only made things more confusing. “I can’t access her mind or memories.” She thought about this for a moment. “—Thank goodness.”

  Zeetha acknowledged her predicament. “Lucrezia Mongfish was supposedly kidnapped by the Other. But if they are one and the same…”

  “The part that confuses me,” said Agatha, “is that everyone says that Lucrezia and the Heterodyne’s infant son were kidnapped.”

  They pondered this. “Maybe,” Krosp suggested, “they didn’t know you were a girl. Heck, if you were young enough, your eyes might not even have been open yet.” Agatha ignored this suggestion.

  Wooster pulled his horse to a halt. When they all turned to look at him, he indicated the ruined castle. “Seriously. You’ve seen this castle. It’s useless. Worse than useless. Coming here was foolish, as it was the obvious thing you would do. Everyone is looking for you—”

  Agatha cut him off. “Mr. Wooster, we are here because when my foster mother was about to throw me to safety—just before she was cut to ribbons by the Baron’s Von Pinn creature—she told me ‘Get to Castle Heterodyne. It will help you.’ She knew it was a ruin. She knew people would be after me. But this is where she told me to go.” She looked the man firmly in the eye. “And since she was one of the few people I trust, that is where I am going. You did not have to come along.”

  Wooster reflected that he was still under strict—and secret—orders from Gilgamesh Wulfenbach to get Agatha to safety in England—with the threat that if he did not, Wulfenbach would boil the spy’s beloved island off the map. He rubbed his brow. “I rather think I did, actually.”

  Agatha patted him on the arm. “Don’t worry, Mr. Wooster, I’ll visit England eventually, if only to make sure that my friends there are being well treated.”2

  Wooster straightened up. “In that, at least, you may rest assured, my lady.” He took a deep breath. “Very well. Let us reconnoiter this family treasure of yours. If you find out enough about it, perhaps you’ll change your mind about going inside.”

  Mechanicsburg
sits in a small, rough-hewn valley, ringed by sharp mountains. It is a point of pride to the inhabitants that despite being the home of the most hated family for a thousand kilometers in any direction, the town has never been taken by an invading army. Much of the surrounding area is devoted to high-density farms and orchards, which contribute to Mechanicsburg’s vaunted self-sufficiency. Salted around the valley are a number of stone towers, which throughout history have served as watchtowers, storage bins, or places of assignation.

  In one of these, three Jägermonsters were leaning against some upper crenellations, longingly gazing at Mechanicsburg’s front gate.

  Maxim peered through a trim little wood and brass telescope. When Agatha and her party had ridden on through the great iron gates, he had stared for another few seconds and then collapsed the scope down and stowed it in a pocket. “Dey’s in,” he announced.

  Ognian was slouched atop the wall, apparently just enjoying the sun. “Any trobble?”

  Maxim glanced back. He could see that old Carson Heliotrope was getting up from his bench. “Hy dun tink so.”

  Ognian put his hands behind his head. “Dot’s goot.”

  Dimo was drumming his fingers on the stonework. “Ve should haff gone in vit her,” he muttered.

  “No Jäger,” a new voice reminded him, “is to enter Mechanicsburg until a Heterodyne iz vunce again in residence. Dot vas de deal.”

  Maxim turned with a grin. “Jenka! Nice schneekink dere, sveetie!”

  Jenka tried not to look pleased. Even Dimo looked a bit more relaxed. “Hy vundered vere hyu vas.”

  Jenka leaned against the parapet and shrugged. “Keepink busy. Deliverink newz. Cawzink trouble.”

  The three sighed. Some Jägers got to have all the fun.

  Outside the Great Hospital was a manicured park. Broad green lawns and beds of colorful flowers were laced with crushed white stone paths. On a typical day, depending on their condition, patients were either tending the flowerbeds or being wheeled around the walks by uniformed attendants.