Agatha H. and the Airship City

CHAPTER 7

Agatha stared at the cat. “Oh,” she said carefully, “I’m dreaming again. How disappointing.” The cat rolled its eyes. “You work with mad scientists and you’re surprised at a talking cat? I’m the one who’s disappointed.”

Agatha gently placed the cat back onto the lab bench. Instead of dropping to all fours, it remained on its hind legs, which Agatha now saw didn’t look like normal cat legs at all.

She took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m sorry. You really talk. You just startled me.” The cat nodded briskly. “Right. Now that we’ve got that settled, I’m here to help you.” Agatha nodded back. “Help me. Okay.” She paused. “Do I need to get you some boots?”

The cat glowered at her and his tail lashed back and forth in annoyance. “I don’t do the boot thing, so knock it off. I’m serious. We can’t talk now.” His ears flicked towards the door. “Someone will be here soon.”

Agatha opened her mouth—the cat raised his hand peremptorily.

“Tonight. Your room. Bring something to eat.” He leaned forward. Agatha found herself doing the same. “And be careful around young Wulfenbach. He’s up to something. He knows that you’re a Spark and—”

“WHAT?” The cat looked surprised at Agatha’s outburst. “I am not a Spark,” she said.

The cat frowned. “What? Of course you are!”

Years of worrying about the state of her mental health found voice and Agatha slammed her hand down on the bench, hissing: “Don’t you make fun of me, cat. I—”

The cat swiftly but gently smacked her nose with his paw. Agatha’s mouth snapped shut in surprise. “Shhh,” the cat said, and gestured her closer. Gingerly Agatha leaned in and the cat put its muzzle up to her ear. “You talk in your sleep,” he whispered. Agatha reared back.

Suddenly there was a clack and the door to the corridor swung open. With a fluid motion, the cat flowed off the bench and under a stack of gears leaving Agatha alone. She whirled to face the door and saw Ardsley Wooster, his head discreetly averted, holding forth his large coat. “Good morning, Miss Clay. Master Gilgamesh informed me that you would require a cover-up as well as an escort back to your quarters. This afternoon I am to show you the way to the location of your new duties.”

Klaus Wulfenbach was in a genial mood. He strode down the center of the corridor, marginally aware of the crowd that carefully broke before him and stood aside as he passed. Coming up to a large, reinforced door, he nodded to the Jägermonsters that were lounging before it. The nearest picked up a small book and leafed through it at random, then looked up. “Vat is de sqvare root uf 78675?”

Klaus nodded in approval, thought for a moment, and then replied: “345.”

The Jäger carefully checked the book before him and then grinned. “Dot is correctly incorrect. In hyu go.” The other Jäger moved and spun the locking wheel on the door until it opened with a chunk.

Klaus stepped inside and waited until the door was shut behind him. He unlocked another door and then entered a small laboratory lit only with red lights. Humming a tune, he removed his greatcoat and began donning protective equipment. A small sound caused him to look over his shoulder and smile genially. “Ah, good afternoon.”

In the center of the room, strapped down to a massive examination table, lay Othar Tryggvassen. His muscles strained against the bonds holding him. When this proved to be useless, his head thumped back against the neckrest and he settled for glaring at the Baron.

Klaus scanned a report in his hands. “Didn’t sleep well? Quite understandable. Today is going to be a very exciting day.”

“You’ll excuse me if I don’t share your enthusiasm, you twisted fiend!”

Klaus shrugged good naturedly. “Quite all right. I’m used to it.” Silence descended, broken only by Klaus quietly humming a waltz as he began to check a row of surgical instruments.

“No matter how you torture me,” Othar declared, “I won’t talk.”

“If only that were true,” Klaus muttered.

Othar stared at his back for several minutes. “So. What is it you want to know?”

Klaus turned, holding a small bone saw. “Why you’re a Spark. What is it that makes you different from other people.”

Othar chewed on his lower lip. “But I… I don’t actually know that.”

Klaus smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Of course you don’t. Neither do I. But I intend to find out.”

Despite himself, Othar looked interested. “How?”

Klaus began holding up a series of drill bits against Othar’s skull. Othar couldn’t help but notice that they were getting progressively larger. “I will destroy selected parts of your brain,” Klaus explained, “until you no longer are a Spark.”

“You ah—” Othar tried to maintain an even tone to his voice. “You can do that?”

Klaus nodded. “Oh yes. Eventually.”

Othar considered this for a moment. “And afterwards?”

Klaus sighed. “Ah. That whole ‘quality of life’ question.” He ran a hand through his mop of hair. “I’m working very hard on that.” He smiled ruefully. “And I’m getting much better.”

Othar strained against his bonds. “But my work!” he shouted. “My mission!”

Klaus activated a device attached to a swing arm that descended from the ceiling. With a whine, a number of blades began spinning. “Yes, a bonus, that.”

“You villain!”

“Yes, yes.” Klaus muttered as he began to position the device above Othar’s head. “Normally, there would be a lot more tests. You’d have a long, productive career working for me while I studied your habits and patterns.”

“But?”

“But I’m afraid that you are far too dangerous.” The device’s whine took on a higher pitch. “Now look up…”

With a clack, the lighting changed from red to white. With a sigh, Klaus moved the device back up and turned it off. He turned towards the door with a frown. “Yes, Boris?”

The Baron’s secretary nodded apologetically. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Herr Baron, but you did tell me to tell you the moment Herr von Zinzer said he had something.”

“Indeed I did.” He looked down at the smaller man who had been cowering behind Boris, his eyes taking in the scene before him. When he realized that the Baron was staring at him, he jerkily brought forth a sheet of paper and extended it before him.

“It’s… um… it’s all here!” The Baron made no move to take the paper, but continued to look at Moloch. The shaking of his hand increased so much that the paper itself rattled. “I… I know what I want to do, but I don’t know where to get some of these materials.” He extended the paper upwards. “It’s all here,” he repeated.

The Baron plucked the paper from Moloch’s hand and studied it. A frown crossed his features and he studied it again. After several seconds he pursed his lips and his massive eyebrows rose and all but disappeared beneath his hair. “Interesting,” he said, like a man bestowing a great compliment. “Very interesting indeed. Yes, some of this will be quite tricky.” He looked down at Moloch with new eyes. “This will take some time to assemble, but I look forward to the results.”

Moloch blinked. “Really?”

Klaus nodded. “Yes. Boris? See that these items are secured, and make sure that I am informed when Herr von Zinzer is ready for the initial test run. I wish to attend.”

Boris looked surprised. “Yes, Herr Baron.”

Klaus handed the paper back to Moloch. “I must say that I was beginning to have my doubts about you, but this… this justifies my original estimates and then some. What was holding you back?”

Moloch started and then shrugged. “Oh, er… it… it was that assistant of mine. I… fired her this morning. She was very distracting.”

Klaus nodded. “I see.” He turned away dismissively. “And now I must—”

Boris cleared his throat apologetically. The Baron’s shoulders slumped slightly. “Yes, Boris?”

“I’m sorry, Herr Baron, but as long as I have your attention… The city council of Hufftberg is still unhappy about the glassworks. They’re really just feeling slighted because Tarschloss got the new university.”

Klaus drummed his fingers on a nearby bench. “Tell them that I will cover the cost of a Corbettite rail terminal if they will supply the labor.”

“But didn’t the Corbettites petition us to place a terminal there already?” Klaus merely looked at him, and the secretary looked embarrassed. “Ah. Yes, I understand. No doubt they’ll see it as very generous. But if they continue to be difficult?”

Klaus whirled. “Then tell them I’ll have the Jägermonsters there in two days and the city council will be the labor!”

Boris smiled. “Yes, that should do it. Good day, Herr Baron.”

As the Baron’s secretary and a relieved von Zinzer left, Klaus leaned against a bank of controls and sighed. To Othar he remarked, “I swear, it is like running a kindergarten.”

“What is that, Tyrant?” Othar asked snidely, “Does your precious Empire give you no pleasure?”

Klaus frowned, and he straightened up. “No,” he admitted, “it gives me no pleasure. Politics always annoyed me, and now I have to play it every day. I despise the whole business. I haven’t seen my wife in years—”

Othar started violently. “Your who?”

Klaus ignored him. “I haven’t traveled or explored—”

“Who exactly is this wife you mentioned?”

“At least with the Heterodynes we had the adventures. The occasional fight. We expected people to at least be able to govern themselves after we cleaned the monsters out for them. Well I won’t make that mistake again. Now I just send in the armies, then the bureaucrats with mops. Same old formula, over and over again.” He stared darkly at something only he could see, then shook himself free of his reverie and turned back to Othar. “Well, we do what we must. But I will confess that one of my few pleasures is in these rare moments of research.” He patted Othar on the head as he started up the drills again. “So hold still, and rest assured that I am going to enjoy this very much.”

Othar braced himself as the device began to descend, when a fussy voice from the doorway broke in. “Your pardon, Herr Baron?”

Klaus froze. Then slowly and deliberately stopped the drills, removed his goggles and then turned towards the door. “Yes?”

he asked politely.

At the door stood one of the Lackya in a state of high indignation. Standing beside him was a sullen Theopholus DuMedd.

“Sorry to disturb you, Herr Baron,” the servant said in a voice that clearly didn’t realize how annoying it was, “but young DuMedd here refused to report for grease trap duty this morning. He had hidden himself in one of the smaller machine shops.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” DuMedd said testily, “I was working.”

Klaus looked interested. “Working? On what?”

“On an automatic grease-trap cleaner, Herr Baron.”

A large hand came up to try and hide a small smile that vanished instantly from the Baron’s face. “Ah—hmm. Potentially useful, certainly, Herr DuMedd, but I must insist that such things be pursued in your free time. Think of this duty as inspiration.”

DuMedd rolled his eyes. “I have a surfeit of inspiration, sir.”

Klaus turned away. “Well, if that is all—”

Suddenly Othar shouted out, “Don’t be too clever, lad, or you’ll be on this slab next!”

“Silence!” Klaus roared. He swung back to Theo and fixed him with a piercing glare. “Master DuMedd is aware that he is under my protection.”

DuMedd nodded vigorously. “Of course, Herr Baron.” He said cheerfully, “Very much aware!” With a large grin on his face he moved towards the door. “I apologize for causing you any annoyance, Herr Baron. I’ll just be getting back to those grease traps. In fact, I’ll put in a little overtime! Yes sir!” And then he was gone, the sound of his running boots echoing down the corridor was cut off by the closing of the inner door.

The Lackya did not see Klaus move, but suddenly found the lapels of his greatcoat clasped within an immense fist and a furious Klaus inches from his face.

“Idiot!” He said through clenched teeth, “You were told to never bring any of the students into this lab!”

“But, Herr Baron, the guards outside said—”

“You like to listen to them? Done! You are now a Jäger orderly until further notice!”

The Lackya went white. “No, Herr Baron! Please, I—”

“I could have you shipped to Castle Heterodyne?”

The terrified construct visibly considered this option, then sagged in the Baron’s grasp. “Yes, Herr Baron.”

Klaus flung him away. “Get out.” The Lackya spun about and silently vanished.

“Confound that idiot!” Klaus muttered, “To jeopardize all my work with DuMedd—”

“That boy is not stupid,” Othar said. “A web of lies can unravel at the lightest touch of the truth!”

Klaus whirled, smacked aside the massive drill, snatched up a scalpel, and grasped Othar’s face in his other hand. He grinned fiercely. “This will hurt slightly less if you don’t move.”

A voice sang out from the doorway. “Ta-daaa! I am here!”

“GIVE ME STRENGTH!” Klaus screamed as he drove the scalpel into the table scant centimeters from Othar’s face. Composing himself, he turned about. “Bangladesh DuPree,” he acknowledged.

“That’s right! It’s me!” A tall, shapely young woman sashayed into the room. Her dark east Indian complexion was complimented by the crisp, white airship captain’s uniform she wore. Her long black hair cascaded down her back until it was gathered in a series of small tufts. Ornamenting her forehead, a small skull-shaped bindi glittered.

Bangladesh was one of Klaus’ freelance agents. She patrolled the wilder parts of the Wastelands, and was occasionally dispatched when circumstances warranted the use of a barely controlled homicidal maniac.

Bangladesh’s mother had been a pirate queen, ruling one of the small remote islands of the North Sea. The princess Bangladesh had been away when the island populace had revolted and her mother was slain. Determined to avenge her, Bangladesh had taken up the family business, and ruthlessly built up her own organization of air pirates, which had quickly earned a fearsome reputation throughout Scandinavia and northwest Europa. Preparations for the assault to reclaim the family island were almost complete when she had returned from an expedition only to find her fortress a burnt-out hulk, her fleet in ruins, and her crew dead or vanished. There was no clue as to who had destroyed them.

Then and there, she took a bloody oath upon her family’s malevolent god to avenge them, but until she could discover who was responsible, she needed a job.

To her surprise, she was recruited by Klaus Wulfenbach. Klaus had followed her career from a distance, and realized that having Bangladesh working for him would be preferable to eventually having to fight her.

Bangladesh had accepted his offer on the condition that the Baron’s intelligence gatherers seek out those who had destroyed her base. Klaus had agreed. However there were no other similar incidents, and in the subsequent three years, Klaus had successfully found useful avenues in which to channel DuPree’s murderous tendencies for his own ends. When correctly applied, she was terrifyingly efficient.

There was also, he had to admit, something fascinating about her. DuPree was disarmingly open about her thirst for blood and destruction, and Klaus found that he enjoyed the challenge of keeping her in check. She was also one of the very few people who displayed absolutely no fear of the Baron whatsoever. She treated him like an equal in all things, which made for a refreshing change in some respects, though her familiarity sometimes caused him great annoyance.

She was also one of the nastiest fighters Klaus had ever seen. With some trepidation, he had asked that she instruct his son in combat techniques while he was in Paris. To her surprise, Gilgamesh had survived her instruction, and proved an apt pupil, though he had acquired several scars, some of which were physical.

Klaus was positive that he could take DuPree in a fair fight, but was equally positive that he’d never have a chance to prove it.

“I heard that you wanted to see me, and I knew you wouldn’t want to wait.” She got about halfway into the room when she saw Othar. A look of concern crossed her face. “Say, what are you up to here?” She looked at Klaus suspiciously. “Klaus, are you torturing this man?”

Klaus looked embarrassed. “No—”

“YES!” Othar shouted. “Help!”

Bangladesh blinked in surprise. “He asked me to help!” She grinned and a blackened stiletto materialized in her hand. “A wise choice! Nobody knows more about torture then me!”

“I believe,” Klaus murmured, “he expected you to rescue him.”

Bangladesh pouted and the knife vanished. “What—Is he stupid?”

“A bit.” Klaus opened a slim leather volume that had been crudely adorned with hand-drawn skulls, scenes of decapitation, flogging and other acts of violence that Klaus carefully did not look at too closely. “I noticed something interesting in your latest log book…” He looked up. “A pity about that walking gunboat, by the way.”

“Yeah, that was over way too quick.”

Klaus opened his mouth, and then just sighed and shook his head. “What caught my eye was this note in your Phenomena Log.”

“The rain of marzipan?”

“No—though that is intriguing. I meant the apparitions.”

Bangladesh grew serious. “Yeah, those were weird.” She thought back. All trace of frivolousness was gone now. “The first time was when I was watching that gunboat burn. There was this… crackling in the air, a kind of hole in the sky opened up, and there were these people… it was like they were right next to me. One of them looked like Gilgamesh, but—” She thought. “But older than he is now. Not a lot older, but—” She patted Klaus’ great shoulders. “Bigger. Tougher. He’d been working out. And you could tell from his face that this guy didn’t go around moaning about how miserable his life was; he made life miserable for other people,” she said approvingly. “He looked right at me, like he could see me. And then he said ‘maniac.’ You know, I think maybe it was Gil, because he’s always saying pointless stuff like that.” Klaus forced himself to nod sympathetically.

“The second person was a girl. Light hair, fair complexion, a little shorter that Gil, big hips, but in good shape, not fat. Big glasses. She was running some sort of mechanism. When they appear she’s in mid-sentence and she says, ‘—A little earlier. How’s this?’

“A third guy, he’s shorter, darker, trim beard and moustache, kind of rumpled. Looks like a minion. He’s looking at the burning gunboat and he starts jumping up and down and shouting, ‘Yes! There they go! They made it!’

“At this point a Geister enters from the right. The others don’t even blink. She seems to be addressing the girl, and she says, ‘Mistress—you are needed.’

“The short guy says ‘Thanks.’ and the girl smiles and does something to the controls and the hole in the sky kind of collapses in on itself.” Bangladesh paused. “I just remembered. Gil was dressed like one of the Geisterdamen. It didn’t really suit him. Does any of that make sense to you?”

Klaus shook his head.

Bangladesh shrugged and continued. “Then, two weeks later, I’m investigating this burnt-out town, Furstenburg, which I did not do, when—ZAP! There’s another hole in the air. Same group of people, same situation. The girl says, ‘Okay, there’s Bang.’ Like she knows me, you know? Then she says, ‘You see your friends?’

“The little guy looks around and says, ‘Um… no, this isn’t the right place.’

“Gil notices that I’ve pulled my shooter and he says, ‘Hey mistress—’”

“Mistress?” Klaus asked sharply.

“That’s what he said. For what it’s worth, he looked kind of annoyed, and he’s saying it like he’s saying something stupid. So he says, ‘Hey mistress, she’s getting ready to shoot you.’

“The girl looks at me and says, ‘Don’t worry. I’m going to try—’ And then it was gone. Say, are you okay?”

This question was asked because Klaus was staring grimly at nothing, and his hands had crushed a metal canister without his knowledge. When he spoke, it was obvious that he was trying to project a calm demeanor. “This is very important news, DuPree. Thank you.”

To her astonishment, Bangladesh found that she was upset at Klaus’ obvious inner turmoil. She realized that she relied on Klaus’ imperturbability as a sign that all was well. Awkwardly she reached out and patted him on the shoulder. “Hey. Don’t worry. What do I know? It couldn’t really have been Gil. You’ve had him caged up here for the last couple of months, haven’t you?”

Klaus went still, and the air of worry vanished. He turned to Bangladesh and nodded. “You are correct, of course. Thank you, DuPree.”

Bangladesh relaxed. “Always am. So. Any news about my problem?”

Klaus shook his head. “No. I told you I’d let you know.”

“It’s been three years.”

“And I’ve heard nothing.”

Bangladesh sighed, then shrugged. “Well, a group that tough can’t hide forever. I’ll be in dock for the next three days if you need me to burn down Sevastopol or something.”

Klaus waved his hand in dismissal. His brow furrowed in thought as DuPree strode out. “This is very bad,” he said conversationally. He turned towards Othar. “Surely even you realize—”

The examination table was empty. The restraints cut cleanly, as if by a scalpel. From behind, Klaus heard Othar’s triumphant voice, “Ha, villain! Realize that your reign of evil is at an end!”

Klaus sighed.

Agatha and Wooster stepped through a giant set of metal doors, and Agatha stopped in confusion. This was yet a different lab, still filled with a bewildering array of machines and benches, but the ceiling was easily thirty meters high. Almost one entire wall was covered in glass revealing a magnificent cloudscape, as well as several dozen of the Wulfenbach support fleet. On an outside ledge along the bottom, several gargoyle clanks squatted motionless. The center space was dominated, and almost filled, by pieces of a gigantic clank. With a shock, Agatha recognized a section of the exterior carapace, which was hanging from a set of enormous chains.

“It… that’s Mr. Tock!”

High above, Gilgamesh’s head and shoulders popped out from inside a cavernous hole in the massive chest plate. Agatha saw a large clock mechanism hanging beside it, waiting to be placed within. “Ah, Miss Clay! Wooster, do show her in!”

Tossing aside a large wrench, Gil clambered out onto a precariously balanced ladder, which began to fall backward. Agatha gasped, then blinked as Gil calmly stood on the falling ladder until it passed a hanging chain, which he snagged with one hand, as he kicked at the ladder with one foot. The ladder swung back into place with a thunk, just as Gil touched the ground next to Agatha and Wooster. “Today I’ll just show you around the lab and let you settle in.”

“Shall I fetch some tea, sir?”

Gil looked around and, not finding what he was looking for, shrugged and nodded. “That would be excellent, Wooster, thank you.” With a short bow, Wooster glided away. Agatha looked up at the immense clank.

“What are you doing with Mr. Tock?”

Gil blinked. “I’m fixing him, of course.” He patted a gigantic toe affectionately. “He’s too much a part of Transylvania Polygnostic’s history and tradition.” He then turned serious. “Dr. Beetle may be dead, but the University his family built will continue as he wanted it to.”

Agatha smiled. “That’s good.” They stood looking at each other awkwardly for a minute. Agatha looked around. “So how many labs do you have?”

Gil smiled. “Four. You’ve seen the flight lab, and you—” he coughed discretely—”saw the entrance to the chemical lab. This is the large mechanical lab, and my private lab and library are through those doors.”

“You really need four different labs?”

Gil snorted. “My father has forty-three onboard the airship, plus two ground-based complexes. As far as I’m concerned, I’m a model of efficiency.”

Agatha felt a light tug on her skirt and, looking down, saw a single eye staring at her from under an oversized hat. “Hello again.” Agatha smiled.

“Ah. You haven’t been properly introduced.” Gil reached down, lifted the small creature up and deposited him on a nearby bench. Try as she might, Agatha could only see the tips of large blue claws peeking out of fleece-lined cuffs and two long-jointed antenna. Everything else that might have given a clue as to the little creature’s nature was hidden beneath layers of clothing.

“This is Zoing.” The little creature clicked its heels and bowed slightly. Gil continued, “Zoing, this is Miss Agatha Clay. She will be helping us now.”

Zoing studied Agatha for a moment and then turned back to Gil. “Schmeka tee?”

Gil shook his head. “No, that’s still your job.” He paused, then looked guilty. “Although, I couldn’t find you a moment ago, and I believe Mr. Wooster is fixing us some now.”

Zoing squealed like a penny whistle and, faster than Agatha would have believed, leapt off the bench and scuttled away, furiously waving its claws.

Gil rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll hear about that,” he sighed. A crash of crockery from the next room seemed to verify this.

“What is it?” Agatha asked.

“My friend,” Gil replied tersely as Wooster gave a yelp of pain.

“I’m sorry, I meant—”

An entire china cabinet collapsed now. Gil held up a hand and, closing his eyes, took a deep breath. He opened his eyes. What sounded like a fire alarm went off, and then was silenced, if the noises were any indication, by being pummeled with a live animal. Gil resolutely ignored it. “It’s understandable. He’s a construct. I made him when I was younger.”

“He was eight,” Wooster informed Agatha. Unruffled and impeccable, he set a laden tea tray down upon a bench. From the next room could be heard a frantic hammering, as if from inside an overturned cauldron.

“Eight?”

Gil shrugged. “Even my father was surprised.”

Wooster handed Agatha a sturdy triangular mug. She tasted it and realized that the mixture was exactly as she preferred it. Wooster hadn’t bothered to check her response, but was pouring another mug.

“As well he should have been. Eight is very young. Most of the gifted break through in their teens—or even later. Master Gilgamesh is a very strong Spark indeed.”

Gil accepted his mug with a shrug. “This is Ardsley Wooster. He does my bragging for me.”

Wooster smiled. “I had the pleasure of meeting Master Gilgamesh while we were both students in Paris. After graduation, he kindly arranged for me to be his assistant here. This was before I knew who he was, of course.” Wooster looked down in surprise. A third mug of tea had apparently materialized in his hand. He shot Gil an exasperated look.

Gil smirked and raised his mug. “You should have seen his face!”

Wooster raised his mug in return, and took a sip. “Very sneaky, sir. Most amusing.”

Gilgamesh took Agatha’s elbow and steered her towards a series of work stations. “To start with, you’ll be giving me general assistance when I require it. When it isn’t required…” They stopped before a small bench that was littered with old tools and scraps from other projects. “You have permission to work on your own projects here, as long as they don’t interfere with your other duties.”

Agatha looked at Gil, the hand holding her tea mug frozen midway to her mouth. “My own… I can work on my own projects?”

“Certainly.”

“This is my space?”

“Yours and yours alone, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your other work. Later today you can clear it off and set it up for your requirements.”

Agatha turned towards the bench and slowly ran her hand along it. She put her tea down, quickly picked it back up, found a large gear and used it as a coaster. She turned back to Gil. “Thank you. I’ve never had… I mean, at the University I couldn’t… they…”

Gil awkwardly patted her on the arm. Their eyes met and locked. Gil felt his breath stop as he realized that Agatha’s eyes were the largest and deepest he’d ever seen.

Agatha saw eyes that regarded her as someone with thoughts and ideas that were worthwhile. Eyes that saw her as she had hardly dared to see herself. The moment seemed to last forever until a small gasp of pain broke the spell. Whirling about, the two saw Wooster trying to maintain a semblance of dignity, while attempting to dislodge one of Zoing’s claws from his foot. Gil opened his mouth to say something, looked at Agatha, and instead, gently pulled her away from the gyrating figures, over to a large series of bookshelves. “You will also be in charge of my library.”

Scores of books filled the racks, books of every type. Large leather tomes framed and braced with metal clasps, scrolls in intricately decorated bamboo cases, roughly bound manuscripts and notebooks were mixed in with scores of the cheaply printed textbooks that were emblematic of university students. Agatha noted that while the sciences predominated, books on an astonishing range of subjects were present, many showed signs of use, such as cracked spines or thickets of bookmarks sticking up from the pages. One rack in particular caught Agatha’s eye. These books, cheap though they were, obviously were part of a set, and a familiar set at that. “You collect the Heterodyne Boys books?”

Gil looked embarrassed. Agatha pulled down The Heterodyne Boys and Their Pneumatic Oyster. “These are so much fun!” A thought struck her. “Oh, of course! Your father is in these, isn’t he?”

Gil mumbled, “I… uh… I don’t really remember…”

“Of course he is! Here we go…

‘Hey Klaus, what are you doing in that vat?’

‘You put it under the hatch you great idiot! Help me out!’

Punch scratched at his massive head. “Wull, iffen you hadn’t been running away…’”

Agatha stopped. “Oh. Oh dear.”

Gil gently took the book from her and tucked it back onto the shelf. “Yes, well… I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention these.”

“Of course.” Another set of books caught Agatha’s eye. They were gaudily bound in red, white and blue, and looked quite new. “What are these?” She read a title: Trelawney Thorpe, Spark of the Realm?

Gil’s face lit up. “Ah, these are terrific! Total British propaganda, of course, but really good!”

This last comment was clearly heard by Wooster, who paused while carrying a large, thrashing sack over his shoulder. He frowned. “Oh, I say sir—as I have told you before, Miss Thorpe is a real person.”

“Yes, yes, and I’m sure that these stories are just as accurate as the Heterodyne series.”

Wooster wagged his finger. “Ah, but these publishers are British.”

Gil gave up. “Of course.” He turned back to Agatha, who was sliding several of the volumes around on the shelf. “Feel free to borrow any you like,”

Agatha pulled a book out from behind the others. “This one must’ve slipped back—” The title caught her eye: “—In the Seraglio of the Iron Sheik?”

Wooster waggled his eyebrows. “A favorite, I believe.”

Agatha did not actually see Gil move, but suddenly there was a different book in her hand. “I’d recommend that you start with this one.”

“The Glass Dirigible? Sounds interesting.”

Gil glared at his servant. “Wooster, take Zoing and help him clean the flight lab.” A blue claw punched through the sacking and missed closing on Wooster’s ear by several millimeters. Wooster sighed. “Very good sir.”

Agatha looked up. “But about that seraglio one—”

Quickly Gil reached up and pulled a large lever. “Oh, Hey! What do you think of this?”

With a hiss, part of the wall folded back to reveal a series of figures. They were animals, dressed in formal evening wear, arranged as an orchestra, equipped with instruments. From the center, a small figure, which looked disturbingly like the Baron, rose from a hidden cavity with a pneumatic hiss, and raised a slim baton. After a brief pause, the tip of the baton glowed, and the orchestra began to play a light waltz. Small statues that Agatha had thought were merely there to hold lighting fixtures began to sing a melodic counterpoint. Agatha began to notice the little details, how the rabbit playing the piccolo managed to twitch aside its ears every time the trombone slide approached from behind, the small mice with penny whistles that occasionally popped out of the bells of various horns. She was entranced until she felt a light tap upon her shoulder. Gil bowed. “Would milady care to dance?”

Agatha shyly curtsied. “I would.” She felt Gil’s strong hands grasp her hand and shoulder, but resisted slightly. He looked at her enquiringly. “But later, I want to see how it works.”

Gil smiled. “I expected nothing less,” and with that she allowed him to swirl her around in time to the music. Never had Agatha felt so grateful to Lilith as she did then, for the endless dance lessons that she had endured, acting as a prop for Lilith’s male students. Seeing that she was no novice, Gil nodded in appreciation, and increased the complexity of the steps. With a gleam in her eye, Agatha returned the favor, catching Gil off guard, but with a delighted laugh, he carried through on the change, and, locked together, they swirled around the floor in a graceful arabesque that, when the music ended, deposited them exactly where they had started. But now they were closer to each other, their eyes again locked, their hands grasping the other’s, and their breathing slightly faster than even the exertions they had completed would account for.

With a hiss, the orchestra bowed in unison and went still. After a moment, they both, reluctantly, released each other’s hands. “That…” Agatha ventured, “that was wonderful dance music. Who wrote that?”

Gil smiled modestly. “I did. When I was a student in Paris.”

“If that’s any indication, you really liked Paris.”

Gil nodded. “I loved it. It’s beautiful. You can be anything you want there.” He glanced at Agatha and visibly pulled himself back from the past. A calculating look flashed across his face. He crossed over to a large wall cabinet and, reaching inside, pulled out a large globe of blue glass which was mounted upon a small brass figure of a man holding it, Atlas fashion, upon his shoulders. Several nozzles and connectors were placed upon the exterior, and a small brass trilobite was mounted upon a band that ran down the center. “This is a genuine Heterodyne artifact I found at a curiosity shop. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to figure out what it is yet. What do you think?”

Agatha looked at the device for a moment and then looked at Gil over her glasses. “It looks like a lamp.”

Gil frowned and pulled it back. “It is not a lamp. I’ve been fiddling with it a bit. But nothing I run through it seems to do much. Unless it just takes an enormous amount of power, I must be doing something wrong.” He displayed several sides of the object to Agatha. “I’d like to open it up, but as you can see, there’s no visible screws, hinges or access plates. I’d hate to take a chance on breaking it just to find out what it does.”

Agatha nodded. “Your father knew the Heterodynes. Maybe he would know what it is.”

“I’m sure he would, but where’s the fun in that? I’ll get it eventually.”

As Gil was placing the globe back in the cabinet, Agatha’s eye was caught by a large ceramic tube festooned with cables that seemed to be surrounded by charred equipment. “What’s this?”

Gil’s eyes lit up. “Lightning generator. Watch.” So saying, he activated a small control unit and instantly a bolt of electricity crackled through the air and a copper globe vaporized into molten fragments.

Agatha whistled in admiration, but Gil was shaking his head in annoyance. He held up his hand with the control unit and clicked it a few times, but nothing happened. “It still needs work. At the moment it takes way too long to recharge.”

Agatha took the control unit and peered up at the glowing tip of the generator while flicking the switch a few times herself.

Over the next half hour, Gil showed Agatha the layout of the labs and explained the procedures she’d need to know. Eventually they came to a large room that looked to Agatha like a gymnasium, complete with several racks of fencing swords. There, the battered, spider-like clank that dominated the middle of the room looked even more out of place than it ordinarily might have. It had a large humanoid torso, with a single left arm, which clutched a dueling saber. Its lower half consisted of four triple jointed legs, which were crouched down, bringing the torso almost to the floor. The only ornamentation that Agatha could see was a small, cherry-red heart, which was located in the center of the clank’s chest.

“That looks nasty,” She remarked.

Gil nodded. “It is. I wanted a more… realistic fencing clank to practice with. The ones the students use are kind of tame, don’t you think?”

Agatha frowned. “I don’t fence, actually.”

Gil looked at her speculatively. “You should. It comes in useful.” He picked up a foil and tossed it to Agatha, and nodded in satisfaction at the way she snagged it out of the air. “Plus it’s fun. You should ask Zulenna to teach you. She’s really good.”

“Zulenna doesn’t like me.”

Gil grimaced. “Ah. That stupid ranking game of hers. That girl needs a good smack upside the head.”

“I tried that. It didn’t work.”

Gil stared at her. Agatha’s face reddened, and she concentrated on swinging her sword about. “I’m not proud of it, but she was asking for it. She was insulting my parents.”

Gil nodded. “That sounds like Zulenna, all right. Well, she’s going to do some occasional work for me here, so I’ll expect you to be civil to her, and I’ll expect the same of her. Is that clear?”

Agatha nodded. “Yes, Master Wulfenbach.”

Gil rolled his eyes. “Please, call me Gilgamesh.”

“Yes, Master Gilgamesh.”

“Miss Clay—”

At that moment, Agatha’s sword tip smacked into the small red heart of the fencing clank. With a burst of steam, the device reared up on its multijointed legs. Three slots irised open, and an additional three arms sprang forth. One was equipped with a Japanese sai, one carried a small but lethal-looking hand axe, and the last terminated in a circular sawblade, which began to spin faster and faster until the gleaming teeth faded into invisibility.

Agatha stared entranced until Gil pulled her aside as the axe swept through where she had been standing. “Amusing,” she commented. “How do you shut it off?”

Meanwhile Gil had grabbed a sword and was blocking the clank as it lashed out again with its own weapons. “You hit the

heart again!”

“Oh. Well that seems pretty straight forward.”

Gil moved to block the clank’s sawblade and found his sword trapped within the sai. With a quick twist, the blade was snapped. He dropped the weapon and found Agatha ready with another. He swept it up and deflected the other three arms in a flurry of motion. “Straight forward, yes, but it’s a really good fencing clank.”

A small oilcan flew through the air and smacked onto the heart. The clank froze, and with a hiss, began to relax. Gil turned in surprise and looked at Agatha. “I don’t fence,” she explained. “So how is this thing more realistic?”

“Ever traveled the Wastelands?”

“No, but I’ve heard… oh.”

“Uh-huh. But there are still some problems…”

With a roar, the fencing clank snapped back into action. Gil pushed Agatha back as the sawblade swung through the air in front of them. “There’s a forty-three percent chance of spontaneous restart within thirty seconds,” Gil shouted.

“Okay,” Agatha acknowledged. “That’s a problem.” She scooped up a small wrench and fired it at the heart. Casually, the clank brought up its axe and deflected the missile before it could hit.

“That’s not the problem,” corrected Gil, “that’s a design feature. The problem is that it learns from its previous encounters.”

Agatha looked impressed. “But that’s great.”

Gil pushed her aside and a sword blade ripped through his sleeve. “Thanks. But I’m afraid that with all the test fighting I’ve been doing, I’ve been reaching the limits of my ability.” He leaped back as a pointed leg slammed into the ground where he’d been standing. Agatha studied the fight for a moment and then stepped forward.

“Miss Clay? What are you doing?” Gil lunged towards her, but was beaten back by a flurry of steel. Meanwhile Agatha calmly walked up towards the clank, and gently tapped the device’s heart.

Again it froze and began to power down.

Agatha blew out her breath in relief and turned towards Gil. “No attack, no response,” she explained.

Her grin faltered when she saw the look of fury upon Gil’s face. “You could have been killed!”

“I… It was an experiment—”

“I will not tolerate lax procedures in this lab!”

Agatha flushed. “You’re just mad because I beat it twice.”

“I AM NOT!” Gil froze, and took a deep breath. He held up a hand to forestall any further conversation and looked up at a large clock. Agatha joined him in watching the ticking progression of the second hand. After thirty seconds had passed without any movement from the clank, they both relaxed.

It was then that Othar Tryggvassen crashed backwards through one of the doors in a shower of fragments. Looming within the doorway was Klaus Wulfenbach. His shirt and vest were in tatters, and it was obvious that Othar had managed to get in a few good punches of his own. What struck Agatha was that the expression on the Baron’s face was the closest she’d ever seen to something approaching enjoyment. “Sorry, son. I got a bit carried away.”

Othar slammed into the floor and bounced back up. He looked remarkably unharmed. Taking in his surroundings, he snarled, “Gilgamesh! So—ALL the vipers are now in residence!”

Gil’s shoulder’s slumped. “Get wound, Tryggvassen. I can’t believe you still talk like that.” He turned to Klaus, who was leaning nonchalantly against the doorway. “Father, why is he here?”

Klaus shrugged. “I don’t think we can do any more damage to my labs.”

“No, I mean why is he still on his feet? I know you could—” He stopped and a look of fury crossed his face. “You’ve been sizing him up as a fighter.” He glanced at Othar. “There isn’t a real mark on him. This is another stupid test! I’ll bet you let him loose on purpose!”

Klaus examined his fingernails.

“Nonsense!” Othar boomed. “I escaped using naught but my wits!”

“And a knife or a key or coat hanger my father left within your reach, right?”

“Um…” A brief moue of uncertainty crossed Othar’s face.

Gil nodded. “That’s what I thought. Well, I can’t have you running around.” So saying he jumped and spun in midair, lashing out with his foot so that the heel solidly caught Othar’s jaw. The big man dropped to the ground.

He pushed himself up and found himself looking up at Agatha. “Why, ‘tis the fair maiden! Have no fear! I shall rescue you from this den of evil and—”

Gil stepped up and brutally smacked the back of Othar’s head with a large wrench, sending him face forward to the floor. “In your dreams,” he muttered as he tossed the wrench aside.

Klaus clicked the stem of his stopwatch and looked pleased. “Well done, son.”

Gil visibly kept himself under control as he spoke. “Father, this was very irresponsible. He should be kept locked up. You know what he could do!”

Klaus prodded Othar’s inert form with a booted toe. “And he isn’t even damaged.”

“Believe me, if I had my way, but I don’t want a repeat of that business with Beetle.” As he said this, he seemed to remember Agatha. And glanced towards her. Agatha was in shock. Her face was white at the casual brutality with which Gil had taken Othar down. She had seen numerous fights in Heterodyne Boys shows, and read about them in novels. This had been nothing like that at all.

Klaus nodded at Gil’s words and his face went somber. “Yes, that was a pity.”

Gill appealed to the heavens. “Not that anybody cares, but he did throw a bomb at me.”

“Hold on.” Agatha stepped forward. “Is this really the Othar Tryggvassen?”

Gil nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“But isn’t he a hero? You know… one of the good guys? How could you—”

Gil stepped up to her and cut her off. “Miss Clay, a good assistant is one who trusts her employer. A healthy assistant is one who doesn’t meddle in things she doesn’t understand. Now please go fetch the maintenance staff.”

Agatha looked at him for a moment, and then wordlessly whirled about and dashed off. Gil turned back towards Klaus, but the old man peremptorily held up a hand until the lab door closed behind Agatha. Then he scowled at his son. “Assistant?”

Gil scowled. “She’s a good assistant, Father!”

“Even Glassvitch’s assessment said otherwise, and he liked her.”

“Her work with von Zinzer—” Klaus cut him off.

“Von Zinzer fired her! And she was his—” Klaus stopped. He blinked a few times, and looked at Gil in a peculiar way that made the young man nervous. “Ah.” Klaus nodded. “Of course. I see.”

Gil looked blank. “You do?”

Klaus looked over towards the door. Conflicting emotions flickered behind his eyes. A grudging resignation won. He sighed. “You’re young, and she is quite comely…”

Gil’s face went scarlet. “Father!” he gasped.

Klaus awkwardly tousled his son’s hair. An act so rare that it shut Gil up as his father continued. “These things must run their course.” He caught Gil’s eye. “Discreetly, I trust.” Gil sucked in an outraged lungful of air—

“Obviously,” Klaus mused, “it is time we found you a suitable bride.”

“A what?” Gil squeaked.

“Someone from one of the Great Houses preferably, though we are having some problems with the Southern border states…”

“But… but…”

“Yes. I shall see to it.” He turned towards Gil and spoke seriously. “These sort of negotiations take some time, so I expect you’ll be able to keep her through the summer, which—” a flicker of memory softened Klaus’ features for a moment—”is the best season for that sort of thing.” His usual sternness returned. “But I want her set aside come mid-September at the latest. We can get her a job in a library or some such in one of the northern towns easily enough, and a harsh winter will help persuade her to find someone else to keep her warm, I expect.” Klaus nodded in satisfaction and strode out of the room. Gil realized that his mouth was hanging open and shut it with a snap. He felt a slight tug on his pant leg, and looked down to see Zoing staring at him with concern.

“Ugettagurl?” Zoing inquired.

“You heard that! He thinks I hired Miss Clay because I’m… because she…” Words failed him and he flailed his arms wildly until another memory surfaced. “AND he’s talking about marrying me off! Most of those stupid princesses have trouble remembering their own name!” He slumped in place. “This couldn’t get any worse.”

A brawny arm snaked around Gil’s neck and jerked him back. “Nonsense!” Othar chuckled. “The Baron could find out about your actual taste in women. Now if I were to suggest a side trip to the Island of the Monkey Girls—”

Effortlessly, Gil reached back and Othar found himself being slammed to the floor. Gil stood over him and said conversationally, “I really hate you.” With that he aimed a vicious kick that drove Othar’s head into the floor hard enough to cause the giant man to go limp. A gasp from the doorway caused Gil to spin about. Agatha, flanked by a couple of the Lackya and Mr. Rovainen, stared back at him.

She nervously licked her lips. “They… they’re here for Othar,” she whispered.

Gil felt his rage dissipate. He glanced down at the unconscious man at his feet, noted the bruise which was already coloring the side of his face, and a feeling of embarrassment swept over him. He stepped forward. “Miss Clay, I should—”

Agatha’s expression was wooden, but she flinched slightly as his hand approached. Gil froze. His face darkened and he turned away, gesturing dismissively at Othar. “Clean this up.”

“Yes, ‘Master.’” Agatha intoned.

Again Gil froze, but it was only momentary. Without looking back, he strode from the room and pulled the great metal door closed behind him.

The others released a gust of breath. Wordlessly, the Lackya bent down and seemingly without effort, hoisted the unconscious Othar up and began to haul him away. Agatha stood and stared at the door through which Gil had departed. Mr. Rovainen, having directed the Lackya where to take their charge, turned to the troubled girl.

“He just struck him. Kicked him when he was down,” she whispered. Mr. Rovainen nodded approvingly, but Agatha failed to notice. “I was just starting to like him. But he… he can be so horrible.”

Mr. Rovainen’s voice rasped from beneath the bandages on his face, “Will you… leave his employ?”

“Yes!” Confusion crossed Agatha’s face. “I mean—No. I… I don’t…”A bizarre sound that Agatha realized was Mr. Rovainen’s attempt at a chuckle, filled the air.

The smaller man shook his head. “It is part of the power of the gifted. Those around them wish to aid them. To… serve them. Even when we know them to be monsters.” Within his enormous coat, he suddenly shivered, stopping himself with a jerk.

Agatha nodded slowly. “Must he be a… monster?”

Mr. Rovainen shrugged. “With that one, it is too soon to tell. The best thing we can do is advise them. Try to influence them.” He glanced down and casually patted Agatha’s rump. “You, at least, have methods of persuasion at your disposal that I do not.” Again he chuckled, but it was cut off sharply by Agatha grabbing a fistful of his shirt and hauling him forward.

“You disgusting little man,” she snarled. “Don’t you have something you should be doing? Somewhere else?”

The harmonics in Agatha’s voice caused Mr. Rovainen to flinch, and he gasped out a feeble, “Yes.”

With that, Agatha flung him against the nearest wall and said through clenched teeth, “Then go do it!”

For a moment, Rovainen resisted, then caught Agatha’s eye, and with a whimper, he spun and loped off with a muttered, “Yes, Mistress.”

Agatha stood until he was out of sight, and then stalked back to the dorm to take a shower.

Later, around the dinner table, Agatha regaled the others with the events of the day.

After she was finished, Sleipnir added a few castle-grown strawberries to her dish of rommegrot, and frowned. “Othar Tryggvassen. Are you sure you got the name right?”

Agatha nodded. “I heard both the Baron and Gil say it.”

Sleipnir looked pensive. “I can’t believe it’s the same person. Othar Tryggvassen is a hero. We’ve all heard of him. Theo even has some of the new books about him. He hides them under his bed.”

Theo choked on a cup of tea. “How did you—?”

“I found them when I was looking for my shoes.” Theo blushed. The others looked interested.

The mood was altered by Zulenna standing and declaring, “If the Baron has confined him, he must have just cause, books or no. You shouldn’t believe everything you read. Anyone can say they’re a ‘hero.’”

Nicodeamus raised an eyebrow. “I’d say it has to do with how a person acts, wouldn’t you?”

Zulenna shrugged dismissively. “I suppose some people would allow themselves to be rescued by just anybody.” Nicodeamus rolled his eyes. Agatha also stood up.

“Where are you off to?” Sleipnir asked.

“I have some letters to write. There are people in Beetleburg who might have news of my parents.”

Sleipnir noticed the dish that Agatha was loading up. Agatha shrugged. “Writing letters. Hard work.”

“For some of us,” Zulenna said to no one in particular. Without a word, Agatha straightened up and walked back to her room and very carefully closed the door. She then leaned back against it, closed her eyes, and took a deep, slow breath. “Cat?” she whispered.

“My name is Krosp,” said a voice from atop an armoire. Gracefully, the cat leapt to the floor where Agatha had placed the dish. “What’s for dinner?”

“Fish.”

Krosp sat on his haunches and gave her a thumbs up. He then reached out for the linen napkin, and tied it around his neck. Satisfied it was in place, he buried his nose in the food and began devouring it. Agatha watched this all with fascination.

“So, what are you?” she inquired when Krosp came up for air.

“I’m a construct. A cat with human intelligence. No milk?”

Agatha shook her head. “I didn’t think of it. Sorry.”

Krosp shrugged and again attacked his plate. Within minutes it was clean. He sighed, sat back, and daintily dabbed at his mouth with the napkin. “Anyway, I was declared a failure and was ‘scheduled to be terminated,’ but I escaped.”

“A failure? But you sound pretty intelligent to me.”

“I hid that. Which, in retrospect, might have been a mistake. But the intelligence wasn’t the point.”

Agatha looked confused. “Then what—?”

Krosp held up a paw. “I’m the Emperor of all cats. Think about it. Cats can go anywhere. They’re invisible. Nobody looks at them twice. Imagine if you could order them around. If you could use them as spies, messengers, saboteurs. Well, you tell me what to have them do, and I can give them their orders.”

Agatha nodded, impressed, then she saw Krosp’s slumped shoulders. “It didn’t work,” she guessed.

“Oh, it worked perfectly. I’m the highest-ranking cat there is. They all listen to me.”

“Then why—?”

Krosp whirled, his fur a-bristle, “Because they’re cats! They’re animals! They can’t grasp complex concepts! Their attention span can be measured in microseconds! Even if I can get them to understand what I want, they’re only under my command until they fall asleep, or see something move, or blink! It was a moronic idea!” He collapsed into a small, dejected shape on the bed. “Sometimes I think I was supposed to be killed because I was too embarrassing to live.”

Agatha sat down next to him. “I understand. I feel like that a lot.”

Krosp looked up. “You do?”

Agatha nodded. “I… I want to make things. I see them in my head—but they never work! I got headaches! I can’t concentrate! I feel so useless sometimes. Why am I like this? I must be good for something, but I feel like my head is full of junk! I can’t do anything useful!”

Krosp blinked. “You got me something to eat.”

Agatha looked at him for a moment and then slumped over onto her side. “Oh of course. I see. My destiny is to serve the King of the cats.”

The effect of these words upon Krosp were electric. Thoughts raced through his head, and then a grim resolution filled his face and he nodded once. With great gravitas, he stood and placed his right paw upon Agatha’s forehead. “I accept your fealty,” he said. “Next time, don’t forget the milk.” He straightened and looked at her seriously. “Now we have to figure out how to escape.”

Agatha sat up. “Escape? From what?”

“From the Baron. I can live here, but you couldn’t. Not safely.”

“What are you talking about?”

Krosp looked at her. “You placed yourself in my service. You’re my responsibility now. I can’t guarantee your safety here, so we have to leave.”

“Why would the Baron care about me?”

“The Baron studies the Spark. One of the ways he studies it is by destroying it. He ‘studied’ my creator, Dr. Vapnoople.” Krosp looked away. “I couldn’t save him, but I have vowed to help save his work, and…”Krosp sighed, “and what’s left of him.” He gave Agatha a look she couldn’t interpret. “And now I must try to save you.”

“But I don’t have the Spark. I seem to have the opposite. Nothing I build even works.”

Krosp signed in exasperation. “What do you think you DO at night?”

Agatha looked wary. “I don’t know. I’m asleep. What do I do at night?”

“You build things.”

“But there’s never anything there when I wake up.”

Krosp folded his arms. “They always run away.”

Girl and cat stared at each other for a minute. Finally Agatha said carefully, “Why?” Krosp shifted uncomfortably and looked away. Agatha folded her hands and continued to look at him.

Krosp hunched his shoulders. “I chase them,” he whispered. He looked up at Agatha with lowered ears. “I can’t help it.” Now he looked annoyed. “And I can’t catch them.”

Agatha took a deep breath and a new thought struck her. “Othar Tryggvassen, he’s a Spark. Would the Baron really hurt him?”

Krosp considered this. “He’ll destroy his mind, certainly. It might kill him eventually, but I don’t think he’ll go out of his way to hurt him—”

“But Othar, he’s supposed to be a good person. He’s helped people. Why would the Baron do that?”

“The Baron sees a bigger picture.” With that, Krosp leapt with surprising grace back atop the armoire. “I’ve got to go.” With a deft motion, he hooked the ventilator grill with a claw and popped it from the wall. Agatha snapped her fingers.

“There’s another one of those under the bed.”

Krosp nodded. “Think about what you want to take, if anything, and keep it with you. Opportunity will dictate our schedule.”

“Wait. If you’re going to rescue someone, rescue Othar. I’ll be fine.”

Krosp’s head looked out at her from the depths of the airshaft. “Othar isn’t my responsibility.” With a muffled click, he pulled the cover back into place, and was gone.

Agatha stared at the vent for a moment and then nodded to herself. “Well. Then I guess he’s mine.”