Agatha H. And the Clockwork Princess (13 page)

“Doctor Beetle was a Spark! A strong one! And he was so afraid of the Baron, he got himself
killed
rather than let the Baron take him away. Your creator, Doctor Vapnoople—I met him! The students on Castle Wulfenbach call him “Doctor Dim!” What did the Baron
do
to him?

“And who am
I?
I’ve got no power, no protection. Nothing. If I had gone with Gil, maybe… maybe he would have been happy that I wasn’t dead, but what would happen after that? He would have taken me back to his father. The Baron killed Adam and Lilith! He gave orders that I was not just to be confined, I was to be kept sedated! And Gil…” Agatha took a deep breath and shook her head. “Even when he said he wanted to marry me, he made it into an order and tried to drag me off. And you saw how he acted with Pix…”

She hung her head. “…and even then, even
then,
it was still hard.” She absently scratched Krosp’s belly, and the cat stretched happily, closing his eyes and flexing his claws. “Even now, I feel kind of odd. He—they think I’m dead now. Even if I feel bad, I had to do it. It’s all right, I’ll get used to it. It’s just… hard to believe it’s over.”

“Don’t be a fool!” Zeetha snapped. She had appeared silently beside the wagon, as if she had dropped from the sky. Krosp leaped up in shock, eyes wide, fur bristling.

Then, to Agatha’s astonishment, Zeetha dropped to one knee and bowed her head. “Agatha Clay,” she said quietly. “I never got a chance to thank you for trying to save Olga. Nor have I yet apologized for my earlier outburst.”

This was certainly true. In the aftermath of the crab clank’s attack, Zeetha had taken charge of Olga’s body. She had changed the dead girl’s clothing, and stood by protectively while various members of the circus had applied their arts—giving Olga the finishing touches for her last role as the burned corpse of Agatha Clay. All the while, Zeetha had chanted a beautiful, haunting dirge in a flowing tongue Agatha knew must be Skifandrian. When Olga had finally been lowered into the ground, Zeetha had made a small cut on her arm, and allowed six drops of blood to fall upon the winding sheet before the grave was filled in. Then she had turned on her heel and walked into the woods, alone. Agatha had not seen her since, and had begun to think that the green-haired girl had left the Circus entirely.

Agatha shrugged uncomfortably. “Everyone was so busy. Besides, to have lost your friend—I’m so sorry. I wish I could have done more.”

Zeetha stood and nodded. “Olga
was
a good companion.” She waved toward the camp. “These others are kind, but they were never convinced I was telling the truth. Olga believed me. She helped me when I really needed it. I will miss her. But I have known since childhood that Death is always waiting to cut in on the dance.”

Then, to Agatha’s surprise, Zeetha sat down next to her. She was…different from when Agatha had first met her. Where she had been rough, full of suppressed anger, she now seemed serene. Her eyes were no longer empty. When she looked at Agatha, her gaze was alert, with a hint of friendship. Agatha realized that the girl was younger than she had first thought.

Zeetha took a deep, contented breath and leaned back, slumping comfortably against the wagon door. Agatha hardly knew the girl, but this seemed so out-of-character that she couldn’t help staring. Zeetha saw her surprise, and gave a rueful smile.

When she spoke next, her voice was soft. “Miss Clay, I have been wandering Europa for over three years now, searching for any news of my home. You are the first person who has ever even
heard
of Skifander.” She took another deep breath and let it out slowly. “Can you understand? It was like I was asking after a fever dream. I… I was beginning to think that I had made it all up while I was sick. No one in any of the cities had heard of it, not even at the Universities. I was reduced to searching the Wastelands, interrogating every traveler I met. I thought I had gone mad.”

She paused, and looked out at the encircling forest. “I was this close—” she held two fingers about a centimeter apart, “To picking a direction and just walking until I found either Skifander or death.” She looked at Agatha again and grinned. “And I wouldn’t have cared which I found first.” She dropped her hand.

They sat silently together and watched the shadows darken under the trees.

Finally Zeetha continued. “But you—you have let me know that my home, my family, everything that made me what I am really
does
exist, and for that, I wish to thank you.”

Agatha shrugged. “Oh, well, I—”

Zeetha leaned into her face and shouted: “By starting you on warrior training! Tomorrow morning!”

She leapt to her feet and glared down at Agatha, who sat, wide-eyed in shock. “It’s
‘over
.
’”
She snorted. “You speak like a child. The Baron’s people will be back, or if not, there will be others like them. You must be ready!”

Agatha looked up at her angrily. “What makes you say that? It’s a
perfect
plan. They think I’m dead!”

Zeetha cocked an eyebrow. “There is a serious flaw in this ‘perfect plan’ of yours. One that could undo everything at any time!”

Agatha puzzled over this, quickly running through everything they had done. She couldn’t think of anything wrong…

When Agatha didn’t answer, Zeetha gave a sardonic smile. “Just this: you’re not really dead, now are you?”

Agatha and Krosp looked at each other.

Behind Zeetha, the cooking fires ignited with a dramatic roar, and, just for an instant, she stood before Agatha—a fearsome dark goddess rimmed by fire. She grinned again, revealing her sharp teeth. “Tomorrow morning.”

CHAPTER 3

The ladies pale go riding, riding—

On their spiders striding, striding.

stealing girls asleep in bed—

drinking all their blood so red—

…

  
When pretty maidens die of fright,

  
Their ghosts go riding through the night.

—Traditional Walpurgis Night song

T
he Baron stood in one of the vast hangar bays of Castle Wulfenbach, an all-too-familiar weariness settling upon his shoulders.

On the ground before him was an open field coffin. Within lay a charred corpse, clad in the remnants of a green tweed dress. He stared down at it silently. It had been a long time since he had so keenly felt the loss of his old friends—and his old life. The faces of the Heterodynes flashed through his mind, and for the thousandth time, he wondered what had happened to them. Where had they gone? Why was he alone left to keep the Sparks of Europa in line—when half the time it ended so damned badly?

A loud crunch made him look around. Bangladesh DuPree stood beside him, cheerfully munching on a pear.

“Ah. DuPree,” he said carefully, his eyes returning to the body before him, “When I say the words ‘alive and unharmed,’ do any neurons actually fire in that brain of yours?”

The crunching stopped dead. Despite himself, Klaus counted under his breath until DuPree finally answered. “No sir!”

He nodded. “I thought not.”

Encouraged, Captain DuPree continued. “But I can’t take credit for this one. Some old crab clank burned her down before we got to her. I saved you the sigil plate.” She handed over a large enameled metal oval—cracked and blackened by fire. Sparks were notorious for “signing” their work, often decorating creations with heraldic colors or family sigils. The Baron encouraged this—it made it so much easier to assign blame.

In this case, the design was familiar. “Ah, yes, one of Von Bodé’s
¹⁵
little toys.” He tossed the plate aside. “Was my son… upset?”

Bangladesh snorted. “Oh, him? Sure was. Here he was all set to be a hero and rescue his girl, then he finds out he’d need fireplace tongs to get her undressed? Yeah—upset is one word for it.”

Klaus rubbed his forehead. “Thank you, DuPree, for that… vivid imagery. You may go.”

DuPree looked around, and then casually tossed her pear core into the coffin. “Let me know when you’ve got something else for me.” She sauntered out of the room, calling after her: “And try to make it a fun one!”

Klaus leaned down and fished out the core. Allowing himself a rare display of temper, he fired it hard into a distant trash barrel, where it struck with a tremendous clang and sent the barrel toppling backwards. His secretary and second-in-command, Boris, was entering the hangar at that moment, and coolly caught it in two of his four arms setting it back upright without ever taking his eyes off the paperwork he carried
¹⁶
.

“Herr Baron?” he said quietly, “The Jäger Generals are here.”

Klaus nodded. “Show them in.” Boris walked back and called to someone just out of sight. There was a rumble of reply, and the Baron turned to greet the three creatures who entered—the largest bending his head to get through the tall doorway.

These were the oldest of the Jägermonsters, constructs created to ride with the mad Heterodynes who had plagued Europa generations before Bill and Barry’s heroics had redeemed the family name. Long ago, these had been ordinary barbarian raiders, but through some process that Klaus had never been able to uncover, they were now nightmarish monsters—inhumanly strong, fast, and long-lived. All the Jägers were toothy, clawed and hairy to some degree. Some even sported horns or tails. Still, these three oldest stood apart from their brethren as much as the younger Jägers did from the rest of Humanity. Klaus wondered if the Generals had been the prototypes, with the procedure then refined for the other Jägers, or if the physical changes the creatures experienced became more pronounced the older they got. If so, the three who approached him now were very old Jägers indeed.

When they reached him, the generals paused smartly “at attention” before the Baron. The three wore uniforms from completely different armies. This was another peculiarity of the Jägers, who loved the idea of uniforms, but never quite understood the concept behind making everyone wear the same one.

General Zog, the most traditional, wore mostly his own luxurious fur—shining white under a leather and brass warrior’s harness that, although old, had been meticulously cared for. Zog was forever poised to sweep across Europa laying waste to all in his path—by himself, if necessary.

General Khirzhan was modern and cultured. He wore a bright red military uniform with huge epaulettes, all covered in shiny bullion, but no shoes. The general’s clawed green feet were bare, and tough as old leather. Tusks curled upward from his great mouth. These were capped with gold that had been engraved to match the pattern of the rings in his pointed ears.

General Goomblast towered above the other two, a shaggy behemoth with a brass dome screwed directly onto his cranium. He wore soft clothing with an eastern look to it, and a huge pair of goggles over his eyes.

After holding their pose dramatically for thirty seconds, the Generals seemed to feel that they had done their duty by military protocol. They relaxed, eyeing the Baron curiously.

“Generals.” Klaus began. “I want to thank you for your recent efforts.” The creatures acknowledged this compliment with serious nods. Without the Jägermonsters, the Slaver Wasps might actually have overwhelmed Castle Wulfenbach. Three of the monster soldiers had actually died, an extraordinarily high number.

General Khirzhan spoke up. “Yaz, Herr Baron. Ov course ve help vit de bogz, hey? Nasty tings. But… surely dere vos something else hyu vished to talk to us about?”

Khirzhan was the shrewdest of the old Generals—the one who remembered best what it had been to be human. It made him easier to talk to, but also more dangerous. This would be tricky, Klaus thought. Well, their reaction would be interesting…

“You have been enquiring after a…” The Baron pretended to think, “ah, yes, a Miss Clay?”

Zog blinked first. “Ah, vell, ve vas just—”

Khirzhan smoothly stepped on his foot. “Yas,” he rumbled. “Ve did. Vy?”

The Baron moved back and indicated the coffin on the floor. “I am sorry, but she is dead. She ran afoul of an old clank while she was traveling in the Wastelands.” The Jägers crowded in around the coffin and stared down at it.

Klaus paused. This was the dangerous part. The Jägers’ loyalty to the House of Heterodyne was unshakeable. To have a genuine heir appear suddenly after all of these years, only to be killed… Anything could happen. He continued. “I am not happy about this… it… is not what I wanted.”

The Jägers looked at him for a long moment. Even with their distorted features, Klaus could see their confusion.

Zog glanced back at the burned corpse. “But…”

Goomblast shook his head. “Dis iz—”

Khrizhan pushed forward. “Uv course hyu deed not vish for diz poor gurlz death. Who vould vant soch a ting?”

The other two Generals looked at each other, but kept silent. Khrizhan continued, “She vos a very nize gurl. Ve… ve are very sad. Poor ting. Thenk hyu for letting us know, yah?”

Klaus nodded. This was going better than he had dared hoped. It was a bit odd, actually. “If you would like some kind of service held…ah, discreetly, of course?”

Khrizhan open his mouth and then froze. He stared at Klaus for several seconds. General Goomblast smoothly stepped into the conversational void. “We did not get a chance to… properly know de yong lady but Hy em sure dot de spirits uv her ancestors vould—”

“THE HETERODYNE IS DEAD!” Khrizhan’s scream was no doubt heard through half of Castle Wulfenbach. The other two generals stared at him in astonishment. Then their heads snapped back towards the open coffin. Klaus could see the mental connections being made inside their ancient heads, they both then stared at him—

Klaus stepped back. This set the monsters off and with a great roaring and screaming, they proceeded to try to tear the hangar apart. In a blind rage, Zog came at the Baron with claws extended. It was a glorious fight, lasting almost half an hour, and afterwards, the Baron joined them in a bout of drinking that quite erased any doubts before they were even formed.

Ironically, it was the subsequent hangover that inspired Klaus to take the next step…