were being expanded. Still brightly lit despite the lateness of the hour, teams of stevedores and balloonjacks were roaring and calling as cargo cranes groaned as they swung pallets loaded with cargo to and from the lines of waiting delivery wagons. The roads here were choked with carts and vans, their teamsters swearing and screaming at each other in a dozen different languages.
The driver of Agatha’s coach relied upon his distinctive horn to clear the way, but when that failed, he did not hesitate to leave the roadway and send pedestrians leaping for safety by driving down the sidewalks without ever reducing his considerable speed. Occasionally members of the city constabulary would hear the commotion, see the cause, and hastily drag themselves and anyone nearby to safety, stepping out again only when the royal coach had passed.
In this manner they approached the castle. This was a massive edifice, obviously built as a solid defense against a dangerous foe. Agatha realized with a start that this must be fabled Sturmhalten Castle itself.
Ancient battle scars covered its stone walls, but it stood unbroken. A wide moat, easily thirty meters wide surrounded it, spanned by a single grand causeway, lined with lights. The coach turned onto this, and Agatha glimpsed the gigantic doors of the castle itself, opening to admit them.
They passed beneath the massive portcullis and into an interior courtyard that was brightly lit with electrical lights and alive with servants bustling about.
Here the coach slowed and actually took some care as it threaded delicately between the people and inner structures. It finally glided to a stop, hissing, at the foot of a broad marble stairway, which was flanked by two statues holding large, electrically lit globes.
Several steps up, idly tapping his foot was a tall, elegantly dressed young man. Dark auburn hair was artlessly swept away from his eyes, which were adorned with a tiny pair of spectacles.
When the driver and footman saw him, they froze, and then leapt to the ground and frantically tried to get the coach door open while babbling. “Forgive me, your Highness!” Agatha then noticed the pin at the young man’s throat, which was the same sword-in-winged gear that adorned many of the walls and lampposts in the town. “We brought the young lady as swiftly as we could, Prince Tarvek—the market—!”
The young man waved his hand impatiently, cutting the babbling off dead. His voice, when he spoke was obviously amused. The sound of it sent an odd sensation down Agatha’s spine.
“Yes, yes.
He then turned to Agatha, who executed a perfect curtsey. “Your Highness,” she said.
Tarvek focused his attention upon her fully and his smile faltered.
Actress... Tarvek stopped and forced himself to mentally step back and analyze what he was seeing. The planes of her hair, the lines artfully painted upon her face, the perfection of awfulness that was her dress... His breath caught in admiration. There was cunning here.
The Prince smiled in genuine appreciation at a work of art, and took her hand, “Enchante,” he murmured. He then folded her hand across his arm and they climbed the stairs, and entered the castle.
They swept past rows of bowing servants. Several of these darted on ahead, no doubt to warn the rest of the staff, as wherever they went, they were met by downturned heads. Agatha began to wonder if Royalty was inclined to study phrenology.
“My father and my sister will be joining us.” Tarvek said. “It will be a small, family meal tonight. You must forgive the impromptu informality of the occasion, but we know your troupe will want to leave tomorrow, and we quite enjoyed your performance.”
The castle interior was magnificently decorated, with rich carpets and floor tiles arranged in intricate mathematical patterns. Grand tapestries depicting scenes of the Storm King’s legend lined the hallways, and where they were absent, lavish paneling and cunning woodwork carved into fantastically interwoven geometric shapes were to be seen.
They entered a large open area, which was dominated by a grand fireplace. Agatha paused in admiration. Most fireplaces, in her experience, served as large, efficient heat pumps apparently designed to suck warmth from all other parts of the room. This one, however, had been overlaid with a fantastic arrangement of large glass pipes, filled with a slow roiling liquid, which swept out from the sides of the fireplace and curled around the entire room in a series of graceful arabesques. As a result, the large room was delightfully warm, even here at the doorway. Agatha was impressed.
“The heat is stored in the liquid, which is piped around the room, where it evenly radiates back out,” she declared in admiration. She studied the liquid slowly moving through the nearest pipe. “This isn’t water, is it?”
Tarvek had looked surprised at her analysis, then pleased. “Close. It’s actually a super-saturated oil and brine solution of my own formulation.”
“You designed this?” She surveyed the system and looked at the Prince with a new respect.
Tarvek shrugged diffidently, while standing a little taller. “Oh, years ago.” He patted a pipe gently. “It has held up quite well though.”
“Your Highness is a Spark?”
The prince nodded. “A family trait we’ve managed to endure for the last five generations.” Warily he looked at Agatha. He saw that this news had not caused the usual reactions of visible fear, uneasiness or screaming. Indeed, and even more disconcerting, Agatha’s attention had shifted to the spinet that rested in the center of the room. How refreshing.
“What a beautiful instrument,” she exclaimed. It was slender and low. Its dark, varnished wood decorated with a splash of festive rosemaling. The top was open, and the mathematical perfection of the strings glinted silver in the light.
“Mademoiselle has a good eye. It’s a Christofori[44].” At this news, Agatha snatched her hand away.
Tarvek laughed. “It’s quite alright, this is certainly no museum.” He paused, “Do you play?”
Agatha nodded, and looked at the spinet with longing. To play such an instrument...
Tarvek came up behind her and murmured, “I would very much like to hear you play something. Perhaps after dinner.”
Agatha bit her lip. Tarvek really had a very nice voice. What Lars strove to create on stage, the Prince of Sturmhalten did naturally. The Countess had told her to try to get back as soon as possible, but surely, a little musical entertainment wouldn’t cause any problems...
“Please, brother—” A new voice crackled from the doorway. An odd, metallic voice. “Save the flirtation for dessert. It will go well with the rest of the cheese.”
The two of them turned. A small procession had entered the room. Leading the way was a grandly appointed lady, in a magnificent red brocade outfit. It was edged and looped by strings of gold beadwork that flashed in the light. Her retinue consisted of several maids, some of which were dressed in rather exotic outfits, no doubt gleaned from foreign traders that had passed through the city.
However the thing that drew the eye, was a foursome of liveried footmen, who carried upon their shoulders sort of palanquin that supported a large device. It was over a meter in diameter, and had been sculpted and adorned with flowers and assorted allegorical figures, which failed to hide the glowing dials and gauges covering the rest of its surface. On the back, a small engine chuffed quietly, powering a collection of filters and bellows, and sending out small puffs of blue smoke. Three thick leather pipes exited from the mouth of a carved serpent, and stretched down to connect to the back of the lady.
With a start, Agatha looked at her again and saw that she was not excessively made up, as she had first assumed, but was in fact, some of human-like clank, one that in construction, reminded Agatha of nothing so much as Moxana. The clank girl continued. “During dinner itself, I really
Agatha was so astonished at this apparition that her mind made the obvious connection and she spoke without thinking. “Tinka?”
