Agatha H and the Siege of Mechanicsburg

by Phil Foglio

  “And thus, the Kingdom was freed. The prince took the throne, and as the Storm King, he ruled wisely and well for the rest of his days.”

  Klaus took a deep breath and allowed his head to sink back onto his pillow. “The end,” he whispered. He glanced at the storyteller. “You really haven’t heard that one before?”

  “Um . . . no. It’s got no basis in actual history and it doesn’t even fit in with any of the other stories about Valois. No, I’ve never even heard one like that before. Not about the Storm King.”

  Klaus closed his eyes. “Amazing. And you’re such a collector too.”

  The storyteller was intrigued. “You know my work?”

  “Tales of the Despot: Portrayals of the Baron in Tavern Jokes and Songs. That was yours, yes?”

  “Erk. A . . . a minor work, Herr Baron, of no real importance.60 I was drinking—”

  “Ah, well, I hoped that you might be able to remember the name of the book.”

  “The . . . the book?”

  “Oh yes, it was a large one, and very old . . . red binding . . . all stories of the Storm King. They were great favorites of my son when he was young. Now, who was the author? He was a Hungarian . . . was it Masat?”

  “Masat? The master storyteller? But all his work was lost!”61

  Klaus waved this away. “Oh, surely not all of it. Well, never mind. My son does still have the book—”

  “He does?”

  “Oh yes, I’m sure he’ll be able to tell me its name.”

  The storyteller was frantic. “But . . . but I must—”

  Klaus yawned, and his eyelids drooped closed. “Ah. And I am tired now. Tell DuPree I said ‘good job.’ ”

  “But . . . ” The storyteller flapped his arms in frustration. Klaus opened one eye and fixed him with a hard, questioning look and the storyteller gave up. “Thank you, Herr Baron.” Without another word, he turned and left.

  As the door shut, there was a metallic pop from the shadows. “Well, I thought it was a load of nonsense.”

  The shadow of a satisfied smile ghosted across the Baron’s face. “Really? Well, it wasn’t for you.”

  The clank that had once been Anevka Sturmvoraus and now held its own version of the consciousness of Lucrezia Mongfish, tossed her head in amused irritation. “Oh, you’re impossible. Just go to sleep.” Instantly, as he’d been ordered to, the Master of Europa slept.

  CHAPTER 5

  History is one of the world’s great soporifics, if only because it mostly consists of perfectly ordinary people doing the logical thing in order to get home in time for dinner. But it does not have to be! What readers want are stories! Tales of evil, or possibly just absurdity, people going to great lengths to ensure nobody gets to enjoy dinner but themselves. An instructor must, of course, chronicle the same dry events and long-dead personalities that have bored untold generations of students. But with the addition of a mad queen who occasionally storms through the narrative torturing kings and seducing monsters, I can solidly guarantee those same students’ undivided attention!

  —Gaspard Masat, in a letter to the Board or Regents of the University of Wittenberg, applying for the position of History Master62

  On the streets of Mechanicsburg, Vanamonde von Mekkhan,63 seneschal to the Heterodynes and de facto leader of the town of Mechanicsburg, awoke to realize he was being led through a street of small shops by the gentle pressure of a hand tucked inside the crook of his arm. Moreover, someone was talking to him. “So even though the Baron has the town officially sealed, the Smuggler’s Guild has been bringing in food. They hope to stockpile enough to last an additional six months.”

  There was a pause and Van realized he was expected to contribute something. “Thass good,” he mumbled.

  “Ah. You’re awake again. Good.” The hand on his arm gave a slight squeeze. “They said we could discuss terms later.”

  “Thass bad.”

  “I agree. So I demanded a bulk discount of an additional twenty percent off now or they could discuss terms later with the Jägers.”

  “Thass . . . ” Van ran the statement back through his head. “Wait. Is that good?” He opened his eyes and peered at the small figure resolutely dragging him along. She was at least twenty centimeters shorter than he, so all he could really see was the top of her head. Her hair was a rich chestnut and cut in a wavy bob that bounced gently as she strode along.

  “Well, I admit it wasn’t very nice,” she was saying. “I also told them that we’d been approached by the Wulfenbach Dark Fleet,64 so they took it.”

  Val pondered this. “Thought the Dark Fleet was a . . . whatchamacallit . . . rumor.”

  “Oh yes, but it’s one they’ve heard.”

  This actually got Van’s eyes open all the way and he leaned forward to examine the girl a little more closely. She glanced his way with large, blue eyes, then went back to watching the street. The rest of her face was delicate with a snub nose and a small, thin-lipped mouth. She was dressed in a white traveling half-cloak and dress. Initially Van registered her as a tourist, but the ease with which she was navigating the streets spoke otherwise.

  Van licked dry lips. “Who are you?”

  The girl glanced at him again and Van saw that she was tired as well. “Oh, not this again.”

  Van looked worried. She took pity on him and sighed, “I am Vidonia Orkaleena. I am the one who is putting you to bed. For the first time in days.”

  Van considered this. Orkaleena was the name of a prominent Mechanicsburg family of snail traders, but this young lady was completely unknown to him. This, in of itself, was very odd, as both his mother and grandfather had contrived increasingly outlandish situations where he had found himself spending time alone with every suitable bachelorette Mechanicsburg possessed. Thus, he was conflicted. He certainly wanted to go to bed, but would be damned if he let an outsider dictate his actions. He opened his mouth and Vidonia turned to face him.

  “You’ve already done everything you possibly can, and you need to sleep now or you will be of no use whatsoever to the town when the attack comes!”

  Well, Van thought, if she is an outsider, she’s a remarkably sensible one.

  Technically, Vidonia was not an outsider, though Vanamonde could be excused for not knowing who she was. The Merchant House of Orkaleena had been a rather modest importer of glassware and exporter of Snezek—the famous Mechanicsburg liqueur65—when, about twenty years ago, the Mechanicsburg snail had begun to make major inroads onto the tables of the rest of Europa.66 The patriarch of the family at that time, Opa Orkaleena, saw an opportunity and went after it with gusto. Under his direction, Mechanicsburg snails appeared in London, Istanbul, Khartoum, Moscow, and just about everywhere in between.

  As a result, his eldest daughter, Vidonia, had grown up on the road with the occasional flying visit home. Her education had been an exotic blend of foreign politics, languages, mercantile stratagems, and an exhaustive knowledge of the care and feeding of vast herds of snails. All through this, she had clung to the idea of Mechanicsburg as a place of refuge and security. She had endeavored to learn as much as she could about it, which proved useful as her family’s clients were always interested in hearing more about it.

  Two months ago, her father had died and she had turned over the running of the family business to her equally gastropod-infatuated brother, Opa Junior. And now—young, unencumbered, tired of a life on the road, and modestly wealthy—she had returned to Mechanicsburg only to discover it to be one of the most boring places on Earth.

  She had been sitting in a coffee shop, deciding what to do with herself when a strange girl had walked in, built a coffee machine, and completely changed her life. From that moment on, she had been delightfully busy. Also from that moment, she had been one of the people telling other people what to do. She had really missed that.

  Vidonia also discovered she was drawn to the only person here who seemed to be working harder than she was and, increasingly, she found herself helping to
facilitate his orders. A short while ago she had discovered him blearily trying to convince a gas cylinder that it needed to paint the street, which was when she had led him off.

  They turned the corner onto the Street of Schemers and Van halted. Vidonia ran into him. “Wake up,” she said.

  “Wait. Stop.” Vidonia paused. Van sounded more awake now. He pointed. “That’s my house.”

  Vidonia nodded encouragingly. “And a very pretty house it is. Let’s—”

  “Look!” With a shock, Vidonia noticed the front door at the top of the stairs was hanging slightly to one side. Someone had smashed the door open and then tried to prop it back up so it wouldn’t be noticeable. “Something’s wrong,” Van growled. He went up the stairs at a run.

  A slight push and the door crashed to the floor. They stepped inside. There was no one to be seen. “Mother?” Van called. He was answered by silence. Vidonia looked around. There was evidence of a fight. Nothing extreme, but a turned over table with a shattered vase and scattered books spoke volumes. Van ran deeper into the apartment. “Grandfather?”

  He stepped into his grandfather’s bedroom and came to a halt. Here they were. His grandfather, Carson von Mekkhan, propped up stiffly in bed; his mother, Arella, sitting upright at its foot. Van blinked. His mother looked injured. Her face was bruised. Why were they glaring at him like . . .

  A sudden gasp from behind caused him to spin about. There was Vidonia, in the no-nonsense grasp of a squat, aging man with an evil grin. The man held a short, businesslike knife pressed delicately to Vidonia’s throat. “Indeed, indeed!” he said in a jocular tone. “Here they are, and here you are and here we all are! And now, I have you—the most important man in Mechanicsburg, yes?”

  How does he know? Vanamonde wondered. I’ve tried to keep such a low profile.

  The little man smiled even wider. “Vanamonde Heliotrope:67 the Ringer of the Doom Bell!”

  Van blinked. “The what?”

  The man with the knife rolled his eyes. “The Doom Bell? Big bell? Middle of town? Surely you’ve seen it?

  “Of course I’ve—” Van took a deep breath. He doesn’t know. “What do you want?”

  “Why, I want you to do your job, sir! I want you to ring the Doom Bell!”

  Van licked his lips. “My job—”

  The man tutted and flicked a card towards Van, who managed to catch it in midflight. He was surprised to see it was one of his grandfather’s Official Doom Bell Ringer cards.

  “That is your family’s job. Is it not?” He allowed himself to look about the room and nod approvingly, although his grip on Vidonia remained rock solid. “A nice soft place, sir, yes? A familial reward for services rendered to Heterodynes past, no doubt. Live on the payroll of the town but never do the work?” He shook his head in mock severity. “Tsk. No, that will never do.” He became deadly serious in the space of an instant. “I will have you ring that bell.”

  Van glanced at Vidonia. He could see she was furious. She was swiveling her eyes about, trying to figure out something to do, which caused his heart to seize up, as the man holding her was obviously well-versed in this sort of business. The knife was positioned to be driven home in an instant, and despite the man’s ebullient bonhomie, Van knew he would do so in a heartbeat. Van felt his exhaustion ebbing. He took pride in his role as the de facto ruler of Mechanicsburg. He still wasn’t sure who this girl was but, as he felt a certain responsibility for both the locals and tourists of the area, he wasn’t about to let her get murdered right in front of him.

  He made soothing motions with his hands. Ostensibly for the man, but really for Vidonia, who seemed to get the message. “But—” Van tried to wrap his head around the situation. “But why are you doing this? You’re Baron Krasimir Oublenmach, right?” The man’s start of surprise confirmed his identity to Van’s satisfaction. “You’re one of the people who brought in that false Heterodyne girl. Why are you even still here? Your plan is ruined! Your ‘Heterodyne’ was severely injured while fleeing the Castle! She’s under heavy guard at the Great Hospital—if she isn’t already being interrogated.”

  Surprisingly, this just made the little man grin even wider. “Indeed, indeed! Routed by a genuine Heterodyne, no less! Even you must be surprised at the turn of events, eh? Astonishing times, are they not, sir?” He sighed the sigh of a man who tried not to be surprised by life’s surprises. “Yet real or fake, it makes no difference to an old pirate like myself!”

  Van shook his head. “But, your fake Heterodyne! Your plan . . . ”

  Oublenmach chuckled in what looked like genuine delight. “What a glorious plan it was! A magnificent edifice of dreams and iron.” Here he gave Van a knowing grin. “Those aristocratic fools did love it so!” He shrugged. “But I am a lesser man, alas, and I am simply in it for the treasure!”

  “Treasure?” Van’s eyes went wide. “You’re talking about the Treasure of the Heterodynes? Are you serious?”

  Oublenmach laughed like a man sharing a secret-but-delicious shame. “Oh, I know. I know! The fabled treasure, accumulated by generations of brigands too mad to actually pay for anything! Absurd, yes?” He waved a hand dismissively. “It’s a fairy story treasure hunters have told each other for a hundred years!68 Right down to the loyal guardians, who would rather die than betray their masters.

  “More level heads, of course, know there is no treasure. A castle, a town, a monstrous fighting force—all of these must be maintained—paid—fed—and no doubt the old seneschals, at least, were practical men. They must have been devilishly good at it, for in the thousand years this town has existed, never—not once—has there ever been a record of the place experiencing hard times, no matter the current state of the actual Heterodyne. An extraordinary thing in and of itself. Yes? And the stories say the main vault only opens when the Doom Bell rings! Why, it is the final fillip that declares the whole thing naught but a fanciful embroidery on a dreamer’s tale!”

  Oublenmach sighed wistfully, then tightened his grip on Vidonia. He pressed the knife slightly deeper into the flesh of her throat, causing her to give a small gasp. “Ah, but still . . . I think we shall ring it anyway, yes?”

  Van shared a glance with his grandfather, then straightened up. “You do realize the bell is only to be rung at the Heterodyne’s command?”

  Oublenmach’s face settled in a moue of disappointment. “Sir, we both know that, technically, you are incorrect. It is also rung when a new Heterodyne is declared, yes? And is there not a new Heterodyne? Why, yes sir, I believe there is! So, gentlemen, I believe the bell should ring! Tradition demands it!”

  “No!” Carson interrupted. “Not yet! The bell can’t be rung until the Castle accepts her!”

  Van nodded slowly. “It’s true. We can’t just—”

  A squeak from Vidonia cut him off. Oublenmach ostentatiously relaxed his hand. “Ah, what is this?” he mused. “It seems there is a grain of truth to even the most outlandish story. Loyal guardians indeed. You see, I would think that given the present circumstances, a small excess of enthusiasm on your part would be seen as quite natural. What else about the story is true, I wonder?” He chuckled. “Ah, curse this insatiable curiosity of mine.” He stared at the family von Mekkhan and shook his head. “Would you truly sacrifice your lives? Quite possibly, quite possibly. You are noble men and women of a family with a long tradition of service and sacrifice, I have no doubt, yes? But, as I said before, I am made of lesser stuff.”

  He pointed his chin towards Arella, who sat seething at the end of Carson’s bed. “As you can see, I have no scruples about striking a woman—even your dear old mother—and I’ll do it again, if I must. But I will admit, sir, my heart wouldn’t be in it. Motherhood and all that.” He then pressed down gently and Van saw a small bead of blood form where the point of the blade touched Vidonia’s throat. The girl closed her eyes and refused to make another sound. “Ah, but I can cut the throat of this innocent young lady, sir. That I can do as easy as pie.”

&nb
sp; Van felt sheer rage fill him, blowing the last vestiges of fatigue from his mind. He nodded once. “Grandfather,” he said, never taking his eyes off of Oublenmach. “Where are the keys to the bell tower?”

  Carson blinked. “But . . . ”

  Van cut him off. “Agatha is the Heterodyne. You know it. I know it. I should have started repairing the bell yesterday!”

  “Repair?” Oublenmach growled. “Talk fast, sir.”

  Van sneered at him. “Do you think you’re the first to hear of the treasure? The hundredth? ‘Ring the bell and gold will fall out of the sky.’ Minstrels have been bleating that drivel for centuries!”

  He pointed at Oublenmach. “Have you looked at the bell? I mean, really examined it? Because if you have, you’ll have seen that striker mechanism has no hammer! We had a steady stream of treasure hunters stomping in here for years after the Heterodyne Boys vanished. Before the Baron took over, we had to deal with them ourselves. So we disabled the bell by removing the hammer.” Van shrugged. “It can’t ring.”

  Oublenmach smiled coldly. “Ingenious, as a short term solution, sir. But I will not believe that anyone in this town seriously thought the Heterodynes were extinct. You have prepared for your master’s return, so do not expect me to believe that you cannot repair the bell easily, when you must.”

  Van smiled at him, and a touch of unease slid across Oublenmach’s brain. “Of course it can be repaired,” Van said quietly. “And yes, I know where the hammer is. I’ll even tell you where to find it; It’s hanging in a bar in town.”

  Aboard Castle Wulfenbach, Boris strode into the main war room. He paused a moment, admiring the work of the mapmakers. The paint on the scenery before him was still fresh. The master strategists of the empire had many cities and traditional battlegrounds models kept in permanent storage, but no one had ever seriously thought Mechanicsburg would be the site of an engagement. The scene before him had been built very quickly and entirely from scratch.