Agatha H. and the Clockwork Princess

Three pairs of eyes stared out at the scene glumly. Their owners were watching the movement of the shadows across the green, counting down the hours until market day, when they would have something to look at besides grazing livestock.

“She’s gunna keel uz hyu know,” muttered the one on the right, for easily the hundredth time.

The one in the middle rolled his eyes. “Hy know, Hy know.”

The left one snorted. “Ho! Ve should get off so easy.”

The one on the right tried to nod, but that didn’t work very well. He gave up. “Hyu gots dot right, brodder.”

The middle one considered this solemnly. “Hy vill admit dot she ken be unreasonable, bot in dis caze, Hy tink mebbe she gots some cause.”

The right one scowled. “Iz dot supposed to make me feel better? Iz not vorkink.”

The one on the left brightened. “Hey! Vait a minute! Mebbe ve gets lucky! Mebbe ve be dead by der time she gets here!”

The three considered this. “I hadn’t thought uf dot,” the middle one admitted.

The right one sighed. “Iz hyu crazy? Den ve’d really be in trouble.” Suddenly, his attention was caught by the group of people in showy clothing walking toward them across the grass. He brightened. “Hoy! Brodders! Company!”

Master Payne and Lars stared up at the three Jagermonsters hanging by their necks from the gallows. They were a strange-looking trio—all the Jagermonsters had presumably once been human, or at least, that was the rumor, but whatever change had been worked on them long ago had given them strange, monstrous features that set each of them apart, even from his fellow Jagers.

The first of the three, in addition to the pointed ears and claws common to most of his kind, had long flowing hair and skin of a purplish hue that looked as if it had been that color even before its owner had been strung up. His face was finely boned and handsome, with sharp teeth that jutted over his lips from his lower jaw. The second sported a large ram’s horn—curling out from one side of a mop of dirty blonde hair. His feet were huge and unshod, with two great toes that looked like fat bird claws. The third had skin so olive it was actually green, and dark, untidy hair that ran down the sides of his wide face into a little pointed beard. He, of the three, was the only one who still wore a hat—a green billed cap that matched his skin topped by a pair of worn goggles. A long plume like a horse’s tail sprang from a small carved skull in the top center, to cascade down his back. The creatures swung slowly in an almost nonexistent breeze, hands tightly tied behind their backs.

“Are you insane?” Payne turned to Lars. “We can’t perform here!”

Lars cast a glance at the watchman, a grizzled old soldier wearing armor emblazoned with the town seal. The man stood back deferentially, but he was observing them closely. His face was carefully blank.

“I know, sir.” Lars rolled his eyes. “Believe me, I tried. But all entertainments have to be performed in the town square. As it was, I had enough trouble convincing them to let us camp on the meadow. I actually had to pay out some coin for that.”

Payne frowned, but he knew Lars was good at his job. If money had to be spent, it wasn’t because Lars was a fool. Even so, this was a bit much. “Performing next to corpses is disrespectful! And unhygienic!”

Now Lars really looked uncomfortable. “Ah, well, if that’s your only qualm...”

The green Jager grinned down at them apologetically—flashing an alarming collection of large, pointed teeth. “Sorry for der problemz,” he called out in a friendly, slightly strangled, voice.

A man of Master Payne’s dignity rarely leapt into the air in surprise. Lars grinned in spite of the situation. He felt privileged to have been a witness to it. “They’re still alive?” Payne was incredulous.

“They’ve been up there for two days, sir.” Lars said, “Apparently, they just aren’t dying.”

Payne stared at the watchman in confusion. “But... after a hanging... they’re supposed to be cut down after twenty-four hours. The Baron’s rules of conduct and hygiene...”

“That’s a bit of a grey area, sir,” the watchman answered stoically. “According to our Mayor, that’s twenty- four hours after they’re dead and all.”

Payne glanced at Lars, who nodded. “The Mayor’s got a betting pool going over how long they’ll last.”

Payne’s lip curled. “Lovely.”

“Oh, he is that.” Lars agreed.

“Well...” Payne looked at the town. Its charm had soured in his eyes. “Fine. One night. We re-supply essentials only, charge double and leave at dawn.”

Lars was surprised. “But I’ve paid for three days. Tomorrow’s a market day—” Payne gave him a look that stopped him cold. “One night. Yessir.”

As they moved off the Jagers grinned at each other. “Did hyu hear dot?”

“Yah! Ve gets to see a show. For free!”

It was going to be an interesting day after all.

Tonight would be Agatha’s first show as a real part of the troupe. Agatha had expected Zeetha to forego the usual morning training—but that had proved wishful thinking. She had been awakened—before sunrise, as always —by the now-familiar beep on her nose.

Zeetha’s foot had healed quickly, and she had celebrated the removal of her bandages by singing a boisterous song in Skifandrian as she trotted behind Agatha on her morning run. Before the run, she had presented Agatha with two heavy buckets full of water, and whenever her pupil had spilled any, or showed signs of slowing down, Zeetha had cheerfully kept time by swatting her across the backside with the freshly-cut switch she carried for just that purpose.

As a result, it had taken some effort for Agatha to stand up straight, wave and smile as the circus caravan rumbled through the cheering crowd at the town gates.

As Zeetha was fond of reminding her, Agatha was still in hiding. To the world outside Master Payne’s Circus of Adventure, she was still Madame Olga: the teller of fortunes. In the odd corners of her days, when Agatha was not peeling vegetables, repairing bits of machinery or running from Zeetha’s stick, she practiced the essential skills she would need for her new identity: observation and lying. The troupe’s sharpshooter, Thundering Engine Woman, was quite a good fortune teller herself, and she had been coaching Agatha in the tricks of the trade. As the circus rolled into the town of ZumZum, she stood at Agatha’s side waving, smiling, and muttering last minute advice. “Remember—eye contact, knowing smile, then look away mysteriously. And for goodness sake, show a little more ankle!”

An hour later, the square had been transformed. The cows and sheep had been moved aside, and now the wagons were arranged in a tight circle on the green. Sideshow booths had been set up, and, even though they would leave the next day, the circus roustabouts were assembling the largest and most elaborate of the Circus’ stages.

The preparations were all of great interest to the three Jagers. Having nothing better to do, they held a long, lazy discussion of past Heterodyne shows they had seen, comparing them to the real people and events on which they were supposedly based. When they got tired of that, they made a game of guessing what each performer’s act might be. Through it all, they cheerfully called out helpful suggestions and friendly remarks to the female members of the troupe, who grimly ignored them.

Suddenly, the wind shifted. The green Jager stiffened in surprise. The other two were in the middle of a drawn-out argument over the best way to dip a cat in caramel, when he growled at them. “Hey! Shot op! Shot op!”

The other two looked sideways at him with mild astonishment. “Use hyu noses!” he ordered.