Фил Фоглио - Agatha H. and the Voice of the Castle

Thus, it was within a bubble of calm that the group turned onto a small drawbridge decorated with legions of grotesque little monsters in red-painted wrought iron and crossed to a barren islet in the center of the river that wove through the town. Something struck Agatha as odd, and she paused to look about. Though the rest of the town was a textbook example of high-density urban design, there were no structures on the island itself except for the bridge platform that crossed it. Agatha peered over the chest-high walls but could see nothing except patches of scrubby lichen. A small metal sign bolted to the stones warned them not to leave the path. 12

There was no other traffic here. Agatha stopped and faced the old man. “I think this a good place for us to talk. Who are you, sir?”

The old man regarded her for a moment, then leaned back upon a railing. “That is what I intend to ask you, Miss.”

Ardsley shook his head. “I do not think we should reveal—”

Agatha overrode him. “But I do. I think he knows a lot. We know nothing.”

She took a deep breath and stood tall. She looked the old man in the eye. “I am Agatha Heterodyne. My parents were Bill Heterodyne and Lucrezia Mongfish.”

The old man smiled and nodded agreeably. It was disappointingly anticlimactic. “Interesting.” He paused. “Where are they?”

Agatha blinked. There were a number of possible answers to that question, most of them awkward: (“My mother? Well, her consciousness appears to be lodged in my head…”) but she decided to keep things simple for the moment. 13

“I don’t know. I last saw Uncle Barry eleven years ago. I was raised in Beetleburg by…well…you’d know them as Punch and Judy.”

This caused the old man to raise an eyebrow. “Not a hidden monastery in the Americas? That’s different,” he allowed. “Did Punch ever mention a Master Heliotrope?”

Agatha frowned. “No, because he couldn’t talk.”

Now both eyebrows went up. “Not many people know that.”

Agatha leaned in. “They probably also don’t know that he got the hiccups after getting an electric shock.” The old man was silent. “I know you’re testing me. I can keep this up.”

An odd expression swept across the old man’s face. “But—it’s impossible,” he whispered.

“Yeah, I think it’s pretty weird myself.” Krosp’s voice was loud in his ear.

That snapped the old man out of his reverie and he turned on the cat that stared up at him with a smug gaze. “Don’t you try to boggle me, Mister Talking Cat. This is Mechanicsburg and you are by no means the oddest thing in this town!” Krosp looked slightly disappointed but the old man didn’t notice.

He had already turned his attention back to Agatha. There was a new gleam in his eye. “But you, my lady— you are something quite special.”

Agatha blinked. “You…you believe me?”

The old man tapped a fingernail against his teeth. “Not yet,” he admitted, “but I will listen.”

With that he swept off his flat cap, revealing a pattern of odd scars upon his head as he bowed. “I am Carson von Mekkhan. Former seneschal and keeper of the keys to Castle Heterodyne. Welcome home, my lady.” He straightened up and his gaze sharpened. “If my lady you be.”

Wooster had started at the old man’s name. “Von Mekkhan…von Mekkhan was the name of the seneschal. But—he died in the attack upon the castle. The family is extinct.”

“You’re remarkably well informed, young man.” Carson’s face grew older. “Yes, I died a bit that day…” He straightened up. “But the Masters always considered that a poor excuse. For the last several years I have been going under the name of Carson Heliotrope.”

Wooster waved a hand. “The records clearly show—Lady Heterodyne, this can’t be the seneschal!”

Carson pointed with his bony forefinger. “And I know, personally, that this young lady cannot be who she says she is!”

He then regarded Agatha with uncertain eyes. “But.” he continued slowly, “I’m an old man and I’ve lived in Mechanicsburg my entire life. One thing I’ve learned is that just because something is ‘impossible,’ doesn’t mean that it cannot happen.”

Agatha frowned. “Yet you say you don’t believe me.”

Carson grinned an evil grin. “This is a town built by science, my lady. Mad science, I’ll concede, but science still. I’ll entertain the idea that you are an impossible thing, but belief requires proof.” His grin faltered. “You… you don’t have any proof on you, do you?”

Agatha thought about the locket at her throat. It contained pictures of Bill and Lucrezia, but no doubt so did a thousand others for sale less than a hundred meters from where she was standing.

“Nothing concrete, sorry.”

The old man clearly didn’t seem to know if he should be disappointed or relieved. “Well, you could still be useful,” he mused.

Agatha raised her eyebrows questioningly.

“You don’t act like the usual bogus Heterodyne heir,” Carson explained. “You’re too low-key.”

He offered Agatha his arm and the little group continued onward. They crossed another bridge and entered a neighborhood that displayed no tourist paraphernalia. The shops and cafés displayed markedly cheaper prices, and while everything still had a feeling of slow decay, the people here were more personable.

Krosp glanced upwards at the hovering dirigible. “Ah, so the one who entered the castle—”

Carson interrupted him. “No, she doesn’t fit either. We get fake Heterodynes through here every year or so, sometimes more. Fewer these days than we used to, but they still come. They’re either con artists or deluded, messianic crazies.” He sighed. “The tourists love it, of course, and that’s good for business. The townspeople…” He checked himself and continued on a different tack.

“But the one now in the castle—she’s different. She has an armed staff. She has an airship. She has funding.” He prodded Agatha in the arm. “She is being managed.” And at this, Carson’s face grew dark. “And that means someone is trying to take over my town.”

At this point, they stopped walking, and with a sigh, Carson indicated they should enter a small shop. Agatha glanced at the name over the door: The Sausage Factory. However, when they entered, she was surprised to find not a butcher’s shop, but a café. It was large and well lit with high, arched ceilings and the walls and furnishings were covered in decorative woodwork carved in the Art Nouveau style.

The gold and red tiled floor was crowded with small round tables covered with crisp white tablecloths. Cozy booths with tall wooden backs and scandalously carved privacy screens lined the walls. Along the back ran an elaborate glass-fronted counter, behind which were a number of intriguing machines as well as shelves crammed with bottles and row upon row of porcelain mugs in a variety of sizes. Within the counter were long glass shelves displaying assorted pastries and cakes, pies and quiches, sweet cheeses and blocks of halvah, and marzipan molded into trilobites and other festive shapes.

An amazing smell hit them as they walked through the door, combining the odors of fresh baking, warm butter, chocolate, nutmeg, cinnamon, and fresh coffee.

Zeetha stepped through the door and stopped dead. She took a deep, appreciative sniff, and declared, “I am living here now.”

One of the waitresses, a plump girl with a dazzling smile, laughed. “Sorry, Mademoiselle, but there’s a waiting list.”

Krosp’s face settled into a frown. “I don’t smell any meat. Or even plants. What kind of restaurant is this?”