by Phil Foglio
“Well...” she hazarded, “It could be a really evil town...” She saw Krosp glaring at her. “Okay, okay.” She shuffled all the papers together with a touch of regret. “I doubt I’d need anything this extreme anyway.” A colossal yawn caught her by surprise. She looked out the window and, for the first time, noticed the predawn light. She glanced at Lars—he had slept soundly all through the night.
“I believe I am now ready to get some sleep,” she confessed. She turned in her seat and pain exploded throughout her frame. She froze—suddenly remembering the grueling workout Zeetha had put her through the day before. “Acetylsalicylic acid!” she gasped.
The cat looked around. “Where? I don’t see the acid.”
Agatha would have glared at him, but even her eyeballs ached. “No,” she said patiently, as she carefully hobbled forward, “I have to find some.” The wagon door swung open and there stood Zeetha, leaning on a sturdy crutch. She grinned when she saw Agatha.
“You’re awake! Eager for training, eh? Well, I’d heard Sparks were tough.”
Agatha realized that there was only one door to the wagon, and thus, no escape. “No,” she whispered.
Zeetha laughed and dragged her into the clear morning air. “No more mollycoddling!”
The wagon door shut. Krosp stared at it for a moment. Unfamiliar feelings surged through his tiny, feline heart. “Why, this must be pity,” he thought in wonder.
A snort from behind announced Lars’ return to consciousness. “Is someone here?”
Krosp leapt onto the bed and stood on Lars’ chest. “That would be me.” Lars looked up at him owlishly. “This is when you offer to feed me,” Krosp suggested helpfully.
Lars nodded fuzzily and pushed Krosp aside. He climbed out of bed, freshened up at a washbowl, and began looking through the cupboards. A frown crept across his features as he peered into one empty container after another. “Where’d Agatha go?” He asked as he upended an empty pitcher. “Off to bed? I’ll bet she was pretty beat.”
A faraway bleat of pain caused Krosp’s ears to twitch. “She will be.”
To Krosp’s horror, Lars then noticed the stack of paper on the table. “Wow. She was busy.” He picked up the top sheet and frowned. “Is this some sort of cherry pitter?” He tilted the page slightly sideways—
“Hey! I smell food!” Krosp yowled, grabbing at Lars’ pants. “Open the door! Let me out! Hey! Hey! Open the door! Hey!”
Lars paused. A tantalizing aroma was indeed coming from somewhere outside. He tossed the paper back onto the table and opened the door.
“Is that breakfast I smell?” Lars called out cheerfully as he marched through the tall grass outside the camp. Abner looked up from beside the embers of the fire. A few glowing bones poked out of the pile of ash.
Lars stopped dead and looked sick. “Er—I sure hope not.” he muttered.
Abner grinned. He was enveloped by a huge quilt, the remains of a leisurely picnic strewn at his feet. Still asleep, but cuddled close up against him, was Pix.
“Mornin’, Lars,” Abner said softly. He nodded in the direction of the pyre. “Doesn’t look so scary now, does it?”
Lars looked askance at the fire. “That depends. What’s for breakfast?”
“Oatmeal—”
Lars looked relieved.
“À la monster!” Abner crowed.
“Half-wit.” Lars growled.
His friend shrugged modestly. “It’s a gift.”
Lars agreed that indeed it was. Pix made a small contented sound in her sleep and snuggled in closer to Abner.
Lars raised an eyebrow. “Pix sure looks happy.”
Abner smiled at her tenderly. “We sat up all night watching this thing burn.”
Lars looked impressed. “Wow. And I thought I knew how to show a girl a good time.”
Abner shrugged. “Well, we had a good long talk.”
Lars looked stern. “Just talked?” He asked skeptically.
“Just talked.”
“Hmph. You look pretty happy for a couple who ‘just talked.’”
Abner grinned again in a way that had Lars rolling his eyes. “Guess we liked what we heard.”
Master Payne strolled up. “Good morning, all. Ready to go, Lars?”
Lars gave a small bow. “I can eat in the saddle, so all I have to do is find some breakfast and my partner in crime, and we can set out.”
Payne nodded. “Excellent. Augie has been ready to go for the last half hour. He’s waiting for you near my cart, looking over maps and calling you several interesting and creative names. He’s got your horse all saddled, and he’s got your breakfast—so get going. The sooner we’re away from here, the better, and I daresay the ladies in the towns ahead are waiting.” Lars trotted off obediently.
When Lars had gone, Payne selected one of the iron cooking spits and poked at the remaining bones, peering curiously into the ashes. “So,” he asked. “I don’t suppose there was anything interesting hidden within our monster here? Jeweled heart? Enchanted princess?”
Abner shook his head. “I’m afraid not, sir. For what it’s worth, it smelled like horse.”
“Pity. Well, we’ll just have to come up with something interesting ourselves. We’ll make a good story out of it[23].”
Zeetha came toward them, leaning heavily on her crutch. She carried Agatha slung over her shoulder. When she saw the two showmen she rolled her eyes and grumbled: “Bah! Novices today! Ask them to move some rocks and they just collapse.”
“I think she was up all night, watching Lars,” Master Payne remarked.
Zeetha looked surprised, and then delivered a sharp smack to Agatha’s backside. “Idiot! You have to tell me these things!” When this got no response, Zeetha looked worried.
“Lars is getting ready to ride out, put her in his bed.” Master Payne ordered. “He won’t mind, and I’ll have Rivet drive the Baba Yaga today.”
“Yeah, okay. That’ll be good.” Zeetha agreed. “That chicken thing moves like a drunk.” She carried Agatha off toward the wagons.
Everyone was eager to be on the move as soon as possible, and the camp was a flurry of activity. Horses were being hitched, fuel added to boilers, and belongings stowed.
Lars and Augie were already mounted, Lars on a long-legged black stallion and Augie on a stout Serbian Clicking-Horse. They were nearly ready to head out, but first they joined the point riders, who were still busy making a thorough check of their equipment and mounts.
These three would escort the caravan, keeping watch for any trouble as they rode. Pushed up onto their foreheads were strangely-designed goggles that could give them spectacular views of the surrounding landscape as they rode. The five men took a few minutes to discuss the route ahead and compare maps. When they were done, they drew their swords and formally saluted each other. Then, Lars and Augie galloped away down the road. The point riders set out at a more sedate pace.
This was the signal for Abner to blow the “ten minute” whistle. Everyone was now putting out the remaining fires, tightening straps and climbing aboard wagons.
The Circus Master’s wagon was the first to set out, its brilliant black and orange roof tiles gleaming in the morning sun. It was pulled by a towering, snow-white draft horse and a sleek black mule with a long twisting horn rising between its fuzzy ears.
As the next wagon began to roll, Payne stood upon the footboard and called out: “A fair road to us all, my friends! And now—a little traveling music, if you please!”
At this, Balthazar, sitting on the roof of his family’s wagon, struck up a jaunty melody on his horn. André had found the bizarrely twisted, multi-belled instrument in an abandoned pawnshop, and then had never been able to get a note out of it. Balthazar, however, could get notes out of it, lots of them, and of great variety. And, as the horn was big, shiny, and terrifically loud, the boy had become extremely attached to it. He practiced with it constantly, knew lots of songs, and now played well enough that the rest of the troupe’
s “joking” attempts to hide the instrument had all but stopped.
To the curious music of the horn, alternately blasting like an elephant and twittering like a flock of tiny birds, the wagons pulled one-by-one onto the road and rumbled along toward their next show.
The ancient road that originally stretched from Imperial Rome to the Thracian province of Dacia was still the preferred route for anyone who traveled through the region. Although there were places damaged by time and weather, it was mostly in good repair—more so as one approached a town or castle. Travel became easier as the circus left the wilder parts of the Wastelands behind them, and traffic in both directions increased.
Still, as the wagons bumped along the weathered paving stones, Master Payne sat with his eyes turned skyward. Every time the wagon jolted through a hole where a stone had gone missing, the idea of retiring the venerable caravan wagons and outfitting a set of circus dirigibles sounded better and better.
This was not a new thought. It was an idea often raised after the troupe had escaped some monster, dodged bandits, or fought off a horde of cannibalistic mole-people. In other words, the subject was on the Circus Master’s mind a lot.
He was intrigued by, and not a little envious of, the new wagon belonging to Herr Helios, the aerialist. It was little more than a traditional wagon suspended from a small blimp. It had no engines, so the strange little aerial cart had to be towed along whenever the show traveled, but it gave the Circus a nice touch of the exotic and looked good when they paraded into town. Once, though, the tow rope had broken, and only luck and the quick action of Professor Moonsock and her trained albatross had prevented Herr Helios from drifting away to parts unknown.
But Payne considered Helios’ craft to be an intriguing “first draft.” He took a clinical pleasure in each new design flaw Herr Helios encountered. Imagining how he would prevent similar problems with his own, at-this-point-theoretical, airship was an amusing way to pass the long hours of travel.
Marie, who was driving, easily recognized the dreamy look in her husband’s eyes. She glanced at the sky and pulled a face, but left him to his thoughts. Although she had qualms about abandoning the traditional wagons, she suspected that most of them boiled down to an irrational fear of rolling out of her bed and falling five hundred meters to the ground.
She’d just told herself that if Payne ever did get hold of an airship, she’d just have to brew up something that would keep her afloat. This line of thought had produced some intriguing speculations.
And thus, dreaming their respective dreams, the circus rolled on.
Several hours later, Agatha awoke. She was so warm and comfortable that she was slow to emerge from her heavy fog of sleep. Finally, with a start or recognition, she realized that the bed she was curled up in belonged to Lars. Last she remembered, Lars had been the one asleep here.
She remembered a vague nightmare involving large stones and Zeetha, but she couldn’t remember falling asleep. She relaxed and stretched. Well, she had been up all night, and the bed really was soft, and had a delightful masculine smell about it. This traitorous thought brought her sharply awake, and in one great leap she burst from beneath the warm covers.
A set of unfamiliar clothes had been laid out. The outfit was covered in the colorful folk embroidery worn by the rest of the performers. Agatha felt happy as she pulled them on—the skirt and bodice were a perfect fit[24]. It was a little thing, but it seemed symbolic, as though she had been accepted into the troupe for real now.
She glanced at the table. There were no papers to be seen—the drawings she had worked on all night were gone. She rummaged through the cupboards and lifted the mattress on the bed. Nothing. A small twinge of panic snapped at the back of her skull. She didn’t want her new friends to get the wrong idea... even Krosp had been unusually horrified by some of the designs. Then, she realized that Krosp had most likely been the one who took them. Still, Agatha felt a bit piqued. She’d worked hard on those plans.
She pushed open the door and stopped in surprise. “We’ve moved!”
The circus had pulled off the road, and was camped in a wide field dotted with pine trees. Agatha took a deep breath. The smell made her think of the Christmas holidays[25]. Nearby, a fast-flowing river burbled down a rocky slope.
Guntar and Otto looked up from the dismantled husk of Smilin’ Stev. Guntar waved a wrench in greeting. “Good afternoon! You’ve been asleep most of the day!” Several sawhorse tables surrounded them, covered with carefully laid out parts and tools.
Otto chimed in: “Is true. We hit a stretch of the good road, found this spot and camped early while we still have much bright light for working!”
Guntar nodded. “We’ll have ol’ Stev here good as new in no time. He broke down three times today, and I don’t like holding everyone up.”
Balthazar was sitting on a nearby boulder, balancing a gear on a stick. “But it was kind of weird, that old Baba Yaga didn’t break down once.”
From inside Stev’s shell, Rivet’s voice echoed. “It was damn weird. No breakdowns, no jamming, and I swear the gearage improved while I was driving it.” She popped up from the depths and gave Agatha a piercing look. “What the heck did you do to it?”
Agatha looked back blankly. “But... I haven’t done anything. Not yet...” Rivet looked at her with raised eyebrows. “I mean, I looked it over, and I made some sketches, but everyone’s been keeping me so busy that I just haven’t had the time.”
Rivet’s eyebrows were now drawn down in a scowl. “No.” She shook her head. “No. I refuse to believe that you’re some kind of magical Spark who can fix something just by ‘making a few sketches.’”
Agatha held up her hands. “Well it wasn’t me!”
Rivet thought a moment, and looked like she was running through the events of the previous day in her head. “Yeah... you were busy all day yesterday. Huh. That’s really weird. But...”
Rivet did not like mysteries. She disappeared back into the damaged clank, grumbling: “Somebody’s been messing with that furschlugginer chicken house, and I want to find out who!”
Under the eaves of a nearby wagon, three miniscule clanks paused, cables dangling from their delicate mechanical hands. The cables were already partially strung, winding behind woodwork, through reworked cabinetry, and along newly redesigned axles.
The clanks looked at their leader in silent appeal. The little golden pocket-watch clank looked up from the sheaf of drawings it was studying and waved them back to work.
A short distance away a scene of shocking animal cruelty was unfolding. Unusually, the expected roles were reversed, but none of those involved appeared to appreciate the irony.
Krosp stood atop an upended barrel, enthusiastically pumping away at a concertina. He was also making a game attempt at singing and dancing. His song ranged from unearthly high-pitched yowls down to disturbing rumbling growls, all delivered with the vocal energy of an opera singer in a bar fight.
The troupe members who formed the small audience sat stunned by the spectacle before them.
“It’s... it’s just such a waste,” Abner said over the cacophony. “A cat who sings! Dances!”
Marie sighed. “But... not very well.”
Professor Moonsock had her hands over her ears. “He’s terrible!”
The Countess tried to find a positive side. “But he is a real cat who really sings and dances.” Krosp’s concertina playing was so awful that Marie couldn’t even try to find a good side to it.
Payne nodded slowly. “That’s the problem, I think. He’s unmistakably real.” Krosp came to the end of the song and finished with a shrill musical flourish that cracked one of the lenses in Professor Moonsock’s glasses. “It might be best if we kept him off the stage entirely. We don’t want to lose him, after all...”
“Lose him!” Professor Moonsock snorted. “Are you kidding? If anyone tries to steal him, we’ll just have him sing for them!”
Krosp flattened his ears. “Ridiculous
! I know I’m not yet ready for the Paris Opera—” André gasped and sat down, looking pale. “But this is hardly Paris! You can’t all have tin ears! This show needs my talent!”
Payne nodded judiciously. “I quite agree! Not using someone as unique as you would be quite a waste.”
Abner perked up. “Background wow?”
Payne nodded. “Background wow.”
“Background what?” Agatha asked Krosp as they trudged across the field.
“The idea,” Krosp said, “is to have a few ‘fabulous monsters’ in the background. Doing everyday, normal things.”
“Like how they have Yeti running the concession stand[26]?”
“Yeah, he’s the example they gave me. He’s big and looks great, but apparently he gets a nosebleed and faints if he goes onstage. But he’s strong as an ox, so he helps set up the tents; he’s got a good voice, so he does announcements; and he’s great at making change, so he sells snacks. The rubes are supposed to see him and say: ‘Golly-gee, if that’s what they have selling crunch muffins and cider, let’s go see what kind of amazing things are in the actual show!’”
Agatha was impressed. “That’s pretty clever.”
“Classic misdirection,” it was a term Krosp had just learned, but he used it with grudging approval.
Agatha tried to project cheer. “Well, don’t look so down. It’s an important part of the show! And you can still practice with the other stuff, um, well, outside of camp somewhere, probably... and, and until then, you really do look wonderful!”
Even though Krosp’s ears were flattened against his skull, Agatha could tell that he agreed. The cat now wore a brilliantly red, military-style, high-collared greatcoat with elegantly fringed epaulets. It was encrusted with almost a kilogram of shiny gold trim, frogging and stamped buttons, and it was a perfect fit. Against Krosp’s white fur, the effect was stunning.
“It was very nice of them to say you could keep it,” Agatha continued.