He saw Payne’s slow grin and caught himself in mid-babble. The two men assessed each other for a moment, and then the soldier raised his glass and saluted the caravan master with a grin. “T’cha! That’s another one to you, you damn thimble rigger.”
Payne was reaching for the cards, when the door to the wagon opened. Abner stuck his head in.
“Master Payne. Sorry to interrupt, sir, but it’s dawn, and we have a visitor.”
He was then pushed aside by a tall, determined looking man in a leather and fleece flying jacket. His hair was tousled and his face was coated with a layer of oil and dirt, except for two pale rings around his eyes, which had been shielded by the aviator goggles hanging around his neck.
“Good morning, sir.” His accent marked him as English, and upper class English at that. “I’m looking for a girl.”
While this was not at all what Payne had expected him to say, it was not entirely unprecedented. Many traveling shows were popular not because of the quality of their acts, but because of the quality of their actresses[72].
While Master Payne and the Countess turned a blind eye to the occasional sporting liaison various members of their troupe engaged in, they discouraged commercial prostitution per se, if only because the Baron taxed and licensed it, and mandated periodic medical exams for the entire caravan. This was a level of scrutiny they felt was best avoided.
“This is a respectable show, sir,” Payne rumbled. “The girls here are not for sale.”
The Captain leaned back and shrugged. “Astonishing, but true, sir! Me and the lads have tried.” He brought his chair down with a thump and he looked serious. “Now, sir, might I ask your business in Balan’s Gap?”
Wooster rubbed his eyes. “I don’t have time for this. There have been too many delays as it is.”
He leaned on the table and addressed Master Payne. “I think you will know the girl I mean. Agatha Clay.” Both Payne and Abner blinked at this, but gave no other indication. “You tricked the Baron into thinking she was dead.”
Surreptitiously, Abner began sliding a leather cosh out from behind his belt.
Wooster continued. “But he’s not fooled any more. He’s coming for her.” He tapped the table. “Here. Soon. I’ve been charged with getting her to safety. Where is she?”
The Captain blew out another plume of smoke. “And what does the Baron want with some girl?”
Wooster paused and then nodded. “Her real name is Agatha Heterodyne. She is the long lost daughter of Bill and Lucrezia. Raised in secret by the constructs Punch and Judy.” They all stared at him in stunned silence. “At the very least you must have noticed that she’s a strong Spark.”
At this the Captain burst out with a guffaw that almost dislodged his hat. “A lost Heterodyne heir? You came to these people for a—” Again he laughed. Not noticing that in this, he was alone. “You daft fool! These people are actors! They do Heterodyne stories! They play Sparks! And you thought—”
Whatever he was about to say was cut off by the Countess appearing at the doorway, breathing hard. “Payne! Get out here! The Baron is invading! His airships just appeared out of nowhere! They’re sealing the town!”
“What!” Instantly the old soldier was all business. He glared at Wooster. “You mean to tell me this fairy story is—”
With an elegant move that brought a look of approval from Wooster, Payne and the Countess, Abner leaned over and smacked the back of the soldier’s head, sending him senseless to the floor.
Payne looked at Wooster. “Prince Sturmvarous took her. She’s not here.”
Ardsley frowned. In the town? In the castle? In the middle of an infestation sweep? This was going to be a tricky one.
A spinning metal disk bounced down a winding set of stone stairs, finally impacting upon the wall at the bottom before clattering to the ground. For several seconds, nothing happened, and then a small set of arms and legs unfolded from the main disk. With a snap, the small clank leapt to its feet, and then staggered slightly before its balancing mechanisms finally reset themselves.
It then set off at a run, dashing down several corridors and passing through a small courtyard, which was filled with anxious people staring upwards at the looming airships.
Up another set of stairs. Finally, it reached the door of Tarvek’s laboratory. Executing a perfect third-base slide, it slid under the door. When it stood, it was confronted by a pile of deactivated clanks scattered about the room. Even more distressing was the Mistress’ machine, standing in the middle of the room.
Frantically, the small clank spent almost a minute trying to move the heavy device by itself before it conceded the futility of trying.
There was nothing else to do. With the mechanical equivalent of a shrug, it reached up and activated the machine. Then it ran away. Very fast.
“Captain! Explosion in Sturmhalten Castle!”
Bangladesh was on her feet instantly. “Are they shooting at us?”
One of the other spotters lowered his scope. “No, Captain,” he reported. “It appears that something actually exploded within the south tower keep of Sturmhalten Castle itself. A lot of the roof is gone.”
The rest of the bridge crew continued to work, but Bangladesh knew they were waiting to see what she would do.
She frowned. No signals had come in from the other ships, and Klaus certainly hadn’t ordered any of them to begin shelling. She scribbled a quick note and passed it to a messenger. “Get this to the Baron. He’ll be with the marines.”
The messenger hopped aboard his unicycle and sped off down the corridor. If the Baron wanted to—
“MISSLES!” screamed the spotter.
“Evasive action!” Bangladesh ordered even as she grabbed her own telescope and stared at the castle. The airship hove to one side, and began to rise.
“Belay that!” Bangladesh yelled. There were indeed missiles pouring from the ruined tower. Dozens of them. But they were travelling straight up for several hundred meters, and then detonating harmlessly.
The spotter confirmed this. “It... they look like... fireworks, Captain. It’s too high for shrapnel. All it’s producing is smoke.”
There certainly was a lot of that. Before long it hung in a tall white pillar over the castle. He turned towards the Captain. “Maybe they’re just happy we’re here.”
That snapped Bangladesh out of her momentary confusion. If there was one thing she was positive of, it was that no one was ever happy to see her. “It’s some kind of Spark nonsense,” she declared. “All hands, keep a weather eye out for anything unusual!”
In a small courtyard, Tarvek, Lucrezia and Vrin picked themselves up from the ground where they’d been thrown by the explosion. A few bits of rubble hit the ground around them. Tarvek stared upward in horror. “My castle!”
“Wasn’t that your laboratory up on that top floor?” Vrin asked innocently.
“My lab!”
Missiles began shooting upward. Tarvek looked at Lucrezia, and his face went pale. “Uh-oh,” he muttered.
“Tarvek!” Lucrezia grabbed him by the shirt and shook him until several buttons flew free. “The ‘useless machine’ that fool of a daughter of mine was building—What does it DO?”
Within the shattered room at the top of the tower, the last missile fired. From within the machine, a hidden array of lenses rotated into place and speaker vents opened. Lights flared.
Above Sturmhalten there was a sudden glow, a swell of unearthly music and there stood Agatha. She was easily recognized by those who knew her, and was clad in the revealing festival outfit Tarvek had supplied. This would have drawn every eye towards her under any circumstance. At the moment, however, it was but a minor detail, as she was easily fifty meters tall, glowing, and slightly translucent.
72
Luckily, for all concerned, sometime in the past, an anonymous female Spark developed a quiet useful plant, known as “Trusty Maiden Weed”. Due to its invasive qualities, it was now grown throughout Europa. When brewed into a tasty tea, and drunk on a regular basis, it prevented pregnancy, as well as a number of embarrassing diseases. Many traveling shows harvested it as they moved about and did a brisk business selling it in town. It was a rare woman who skipped her morning Maiden’s Cup.