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

Gil actually smiled. “Ah. Now that is already taken care of, and is the one thing I do not have to worry about. There’ll be no Heterodyne heirs showing up in Mechanicsburg today.”

Ardsley Wooster grimaced, stuck a pinky in his ear, and wiggled it around.

His cloaked and hooded companion noticed and in a muffled but clearly female voice asked: “What’s the matter…darling?” The endearment was obviously taking some getting used to.

“Itchy ear,” the Englishman grumbled.

The hood rippled. “You know what that means.”

Wooster nodded. “It means I need a good hot bath.”

“After walking around in this outfit, so will I.”

They strolled a while along the promenade that ran beside the River Dyne before turning aside to cross a stone bridge. Beneath them, the river roared through the arches of the bridge. Before them rose Castle Heterodyne upon its pedestal of stone cliffs.

High above, they could just see the massive main gate of the Castle—gargantuan ironbound doors shut against the world. From there, a wide road wound down the hill, each switchback guarded by its own gate tower, complete with portcullis. The dark cliffs between were dotted with patches of scrubby thorn that waved gently, even though Wooster could feel no wind. An equally formidable gate at the base of the whole business completed the scene.

The lower gate itself was set into a colossal stone wall which surrounded the entire castle mount. Small guard posts were regularly spaced along its length. A decoratively scalloped pavement of white stone provided a contrast, a bright, open space that dramatically separated the river and town beyond from the wall.

The hooded lady looked along the pavement and paused. She swung around and looked back the way they had come. Across the bridge, the town bustled with life and movement. Tourists swarmed the streets and pushcart vendors and street performers called out to customers with songs, bells, drums, and simple shouts. Shop owners stood in their doorways and nodded invitingly to passersby.

The lady turned again and examined the area before her. There were no guards or barricades, yet the white stone parkway was empty.

“It’s a lovely place…though I’m surprised there aren’t at least a few souvenir stands…” she said uncertainly.

Wooster nodded and tucked her arm through his. “Curious, isn’t it? As far as I can tell, there’s no rule against setting up here. The locals just…don’t.”

“I don’t even see any guards.”

Wooster frowned and slowed to a halt. “Yes…that is a bit—”

Suddenly, a heavy wave of air pressure swept them. They blinked, and found themselves surrounded by a troop of guards. Uniformed men and women trained their weapons upon them, faces grim. As far as either of their captives could tell, they had not run or leapt into position, they had simply appeared.

The guards wore Wulfenbach uniforms—the badges and buttons adorned with the familiar winged castle proclaimed that—but their uniforms were unfamiliar, cut from black cloth in a slightly archaic style. The leader, a captain by his insignia, raised a strangely fashioned bayonet. “Do not move,” he said. “My people will not hesitate to shoot.” The captives froze.

The captain nodded and stepped forward. His hand darted out and grasped the hood of the cloak. “Let’s have a look under this hood, Lady Heterody—”

He stopped in surprise at the face before him, framed with a full head of vivid, emerald green hair.

Zeetha blinked and frowned at the perplexed officer. “Lady who?”

The soldier couldn’t take his eyes off of Zeetha’s hair. “What is this?”

Wooster stepped forward and yanked the fabric of the hood from the soldier’s unresisting hand. He pulled it quickly back over Zeetha’s head as he snapped: “It’s a fungus!” He made a show of tenderly adjusting the hood before wheeling about, the very picture of an outraged husband. “The doctors said not to expose it to light!”

The soldiers didn’t lower their rifles, but they began to look uncomfortable.

“That ain’t her!”

Zeetha and Wooster turned to see a soldier stepping out of one of the castle’s guardhouses, where he had evidently been waiting surreptitiously. He was an older man, thick and squat, yet he moved with an ease that said he was as fit as any of them. He was decked out in a green and blue uniform topped with a jaunty top hat. The wings on his Wulfenbach insignia were neither the usual bird wings nor the bat’s wings adopted by some of the Baron’s troops—these were styled like the wings of a dragonfly. His right arm was in a sling, but his left hand waved the other troops off. The hash marks on his sleeve identified him as a master-sergeant. “I said that ain’t her.” He tipped his hat to Wooster and Zeetha. “Sergeant Scorp. Sorry for the inconvenience, folks, we’ll have you on your way in just a minute.”

Another of the dark-clad soldiers swung her rifle up slightly. “Hair color is easy to change, sergeant.”

Scorp nodded. “True enough, ma’am.” He turned and eyed the pair before him. “But I saw her. Was this close to her. Different face. Different build.” He shook his head. “This ain’t her.”

The captain nodded and with a showy spin, sheathed his sword. “Right.” He turned to Wooster and Zeetha and apologetically touched his hat. “Sorry about that, ma’am, sir. We got word that there’s an escaped lunatic heading for the castle here. For her own protection…” he vaguely waved a hand at the rest of his squad.

“A lunatic?” Wooster frowned. “You don’t mean that new Heterodyne girl everyone is talking about?”

The captain rolled his eyes and sighed. “Yeah, that’s the one. I guess she missed the birth announcements about it being a boy.”

Zeetha glanced at Wooster. “Maybe there was—”

“A mistake?” the captain snorted. “Get serious. I was born and raised here. My aunt was one of the Lady Lucrezia’s midwives. I remember the day he was born. They rang the Doom Bell.” The captain shivered.

“There weren’t any daughters and Master Barry never had any kids. So…no. Now move along. Go visit the Heterodyne Museum on Vox Street. You can see his portrait.” He turned away. “Squad—Disperse!”

And with a huff of wind, they vanished. Sergeant Scorp again tipped his hat and strolled back to the guardhouse.

Zeetha and Wooster held their silence until they were halfway back across the little bridge that took them back to the bustling town.

“Those soldiers,” Zeetha said carefully. “They came out of nowhere.”

Wooster grimaced. “That’s…more true than you know. That was the Black Squad. If the Baron is using them—” He shook his head in annoyance. “I need a drink.”

They toiled up a sloping street until they came to a small café. On a sun-drenched patio with an excellent view of the Castle gates, Agatha was finishing up a buttery bacon quiche. A small set of binoculars rested on the table beside her.

Zeetha and Wooster joined her at the table. A smiling waiter appeared with more quiche and a tray of chilled flutes filled with a crisp, sweet spring wine.

When he had gone, Agatha tapped the table thoughtfully. “Well, I guess I won’t be getting in through the front gate.”

Zeetha thoughtfully took a sip of wine. “They said ‘for her own protection.’ What was that about?”

Wooster glanced at the nearest table—occupied by a single old man apparently engrossed in his newspaper. An odd feeling of déjà vu flickered across his mind. Agatha cleared her throat and Wooster leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The castle is haunted.”

The ladies stared at him blankly. Wooster looked embarrassed. “Well, I guess that’s the easiest way to explain it.”