Agatha H. and the Clockwork Princess

They both stared up at the opening for a moment. Then eyed each other. “I’ll bet he snores,” said Lars.

“Not usually,” Agatha sighed, “But I’ll bet he starts tonight.”

They both chuckled, and then looked into each other’s eyes. They leaned in for a last kiss—

“Agatha! You missed a wet spot on my head! Bring the—” The flung towel struck Krosp in the face.

CHAPTER 7

On this spot we will build a shield against the Heterodyne. 

A fortress so strong he cannot crack it. Like a mighty storm, he will rage and scream and throw himself against it. But here we will fight him, and here we will stop him. Because we will have a place of refuge. A place of strength. A place of hope. We will have Sturmhalten.

—Andronicous Valois, From the Commission of Building delivered to the Western Coalition after the Battle of the Six Skies.

It was a crisp, frosty dawn. The weather up here at the pass was still meandering towards spring, but the drivers of the circus wagons were dressed in their performing finery, albeit over several layers of winter underwear.

They certainly attracted a fair amount of interest as they rumbled through the outskirts of the town. Technically, Balan’s Gap was still before them, constrained behind the city walls, but along the main road a ramshackle collection of businesses that existed to service, supply (and swindle) travelers had grown up around the various industries that had been placed outside the town for various health, space or aesthetic reasons.

Last night the circus had arrived at one of the staging areas that existed for arriving or departing trade caravans. While there were still plenty of other travelers who used the old roads, there had been enough excess space in the staging area that the circus had been able to put on a late night performance, to great success. Thus, this morning, they were buoyed along by a large crowd of well-wishers, and noisily escorted by a ragtag convoy of children who frantically waved at the drivers and the various characters who sat waving back wearing grins that didn’t look forced at all.

Abner and Master Payne sat together on the driver’s seat of the lead wagon, sharing a couple of mugs of stewed tea, and a large basket of freshly baked cardamom butter rolls.

To the amazement of a small girl, Payne drew an impossibly large handkerchief from Abner’s ear, delighted her brother by blowing his nose in it with a sound like a rampaging elephant, and then scandalized their mother by stuffing it back into his long-suffering apprentice’s ear.

The cart slowed to a stop. Before them were several other wagons, all awaiting the pleasure of the gate masters of the town. Each wagon was assessed an entrance fee based on the number of riders, number of horses, purpose of travel, and how much trouble you gave the gate keepers. Three wagons ahead, a stout, richly dressed merchant was making things expensive for himself by insisting that the animal pulling his cart was not, in fact a horse, but a rare, short-eared mule.

Both of the watchers appreciated natural comedy in the wild, and were mentally making notes for a future skit.

“So,” said Abner, taking a sip of tea, “You really think this—” he glanced back at the wagon’s door, “Is going to work?”

Payne looked at him askance. “Come now, Ab. It’s far too late to say anything other than ‘Yes.’”

With this cheery statement ringing in Abner’s ear, the wagon eventually rolled to the head of the line and stopped at the behest of a guard in a grey woolen uniform and a non-regulation set of enormous fur mittens.

He sauntered on over. Payne offered him a steaming pastry. The guard accepted it as his due. “Welcome to Balan’s Gap.” He leaned to the side and quickly surveyed the line of circus wagons. “A Heterodyne show is it?”

Payne nodded. “Twenty-six wagons. Sixty-two horses, one clank, and three cows. Forty-eight people.”

The soldier smiled. Tolls for large parties were always easier to skim. “Well, let me tote that up for you, sir.” He began to assess the quality of their clothing. “Will you be stopping in town?”

The upper half of the wagon door behind Payne and Abner slammed open and Dimo, now sporting a jaunty cap emblazoned with a prominent Wulfenbach insignia, leaned out and snarled. “Hoy! Vat’s der holdup?”

The young soldier reeled back in surprise and hammered twice on the door of the guardhouse behind him. This swung open and an older officer stuck his head out. The younger soldier muttered, “Jagers, Sir.”

The older soldier swallowed and stepped forward. “We weren’t informed you were coming.” He eyed the wagon and frowned, “You don’t look like one of the Baron’s... official convoys.”

Dimo guffawed and leaned on the door. “Nah. Dey vas just goink our vay, und dey’s fonny guys.”

Payne nodded rapidly. “It’s been a great honor, having them travel with us, but surely the Prince could get them where they’re going faster? Or perhaps we could just leave them here? Please?”

The older guard smiled grimly. “Oh, no. I’m shunting you to the military lane.” He pointed to a different gate, which was still sealed. Unbidden, the younger soldier dashed off and moments later the portcullis began to grind upwards. He continued, “Once the Prince gives his approval, you’ll be through the town within the hour and there’s no charge.”

Payne looked distraught. “But... supplies...”

The officer threw him a brass and beribboned token, which was stamped with the town seal. “Surrender that to the Quartermaster once you’re past the city and he’ll give you supplies. Our compliments to the Baron.”

Payne tried again, “But—”

The old soldier interrupted with a curt, “Move along!”

Payne hesitated, and Dino smacked the top of his head. “Hyu heard de man, sveethot, ve iz schtill bunkies!”

The old soldier shuddered, but held firm and waved the caravan along, and then made sure the gate was lowered behind them.

Within the depths of Sturmhalten Castle, the seneschal, a tall angular man with elaborate moustaches, received the city gate report from a deeply breathing soldier. He scanned it and waved the man back to his post. With a sigh, he strode down through the elaborately decorated hallways, past the bustling domestic staff.

He stopped before an enormous door constructed of wrought iron and blue enamel, and selected a large silver key. Once he’d gone through, he very carefully closed the door again and then stepped up to the little platform. Above said platform was a large raised area, which was cluttered with a bewildering array of devices, several of which meticulously tracked his every movement.

At the center was a large, dark, wooden desk, carved in the Jacobean style. Seated at this desk, in a tall backed leather and gold ornamented chair, with his back to the door, was the master of Sturmhalten, The Gatekeeper of Balan’s Gap, His Royal Highness, Prince Aaronev IV. The Prince waved to acknowledge his seneschal’s presence, but did not look up, as he was engaged with something laid out upon the desk before him. His seneschal could not quite see what it was from this angle, but every now something twitched briefly into view, and he was just as glad.

He waited patiently until there was a thin squeal, which was suddenly cut off. The Prince sighed in annoyance and leaned back in his chair. He began to wipe his hands with a towel. “What is it, Artacz?”

The waiting man pulled out the report and cleared his throat. “It’s today’s report, sir.”

Aaronev paused, reached out and tapped an elaborate chronometer sitting upon his desk. “It’s a bit early, yes?”

Artacz nodded. “Indeed it is, sire. But to start at the beginning; we had an unusually large party of tailors through the Copper Gate—” he paused.