Agatha H and the Voice of the Castle

⁵⁴ This sort of rigmarole is actually fairly standard when talking about “lost laboratories.” Sparks are a secretive lot, and they keep their blasphemous secrets held close to their vests. On average, a good Spark will invest anywhere from one-half to two-thirds of his or her time and energy on the design and hiding of an elaborate lair, as they seem to have an instinctual understanding that people work best in an environment where the controls to all the deathtraps are right at their fingertips. This is a good thing, overall, as time spent digging an elaborate “Maze of Madness” is less time spent trying to find a way to turn the nearest city into a beautiful volcanic moonscape. Thus, it should come as no surprise to those who knows his modus operandi that it was Baron Wulfenbach who lavishly bankrolled a very effective advertising campaign that let people know that “You Can Judge A Spark’s Strength By His Lair!”

⁵⁵ An interesting sociological phenomenon, usually found near colleges. Essentially, people who like to think that they are nascent Sparks. It was a conceit with varying degrees of dedication. At one end, you have those who play at what they think a Spark might be like, as an excuse to indulge in various recreational excesses, all the way up to those who desperately hope that they really are Sparks, usually because they didn’t do the studying and hope to be able to turn their professors into weevils before finals. As seasoned professors, we can assure you that this hardly ever happens, so get back to your books.

⁵⁶ The Baron’s Weapon Designers had demonstrated that the sound of a gun being cocked could instantly silence an entire room full of people yelling at each other. They had subsequently designed the Empire’s guns so that this sound was amplified and engineered to convey even more menace. Klaus deemed the project a success when, in a field experiment, a single trooper was able to silence a stadium full of enraged football fans who had just watched a goalie obviously throw a game. To be fair, he then had the goalie executed. Klaus liked clean sports.

CHAPTER 7

The smooth concrete walkways that wound through the Gardens of Mechanicsburg’s Great Hospital were designed for the comfort of perambulating patients. Tonight, instead of patients, they were thronged with Wulfenbach military forces—taking advantage of the superior view that the hospital’s elevated grounds afforded of the rest of Mechanicsburg.

Some were camped around impromptu fires, brewing mugs of something or other—or having a smoke and a rest. Others were gathered around long tables borrowed from the hospital, studying maps and lists by the light of field lamps. But most of them were leaning against the ornate concrete balustrades that encircled the area, looking down upon the rest of the town.

The hospital was constructed in an area of the town that is, by design, intended to shut down at night so that its patients can sleep in peace. The local businesses tend to be medical supply shops, hotels that cater to visiting families (who probably won’t much feel like painting the town red), pharmacies, and the better class of resurrectionist.

That had all been overturned today. Every building in sight had been hung with the ornate, decorative trilobite lanterns that the townspeople haul out for festive occasions. Every courtyard and wide space in the road had been turned into an impromptu beer garden and dance hall.

One of the old Heterodynes had decreed that every Mechanicsburg child must learn to play a musical instrument.⁵⁷ The tradition has continued to this day, and the results filled the night with the distinctive Mechanicsburg stutter-step baseline that can be heard in the more bohemian cafes of Paris and Prague,⁵⁸ blending together into an infectious wave of music that had the far off watchers absentmindedly tapping their toes.

A tall, grey-haired Captain of the Medical Corps smiled as he saw a portly little man instructing a mixed set of the younger ranks in a complicated pattern dance he himself fondly remembered from his days as a young rake in Plovdiv. He riffled through his brain until the correct name surfaced.

“Sergeant Scorp,” he called out. At once the aergeant turned about, fired off a crisp salute, and then winced slightly as he trotted over.

The captain nodded, as he returned the salute. “How’s the arm, Sergeant?”

“Good as new, sir.” Scorp then realized that he was still rubbing it and gave a wan smile. “Well, good enough for the Baron’s work, anyway. This hospital is a marvel, and no mistake.”

Indeed it was. When the sergeant had been brought in two days ago, his arm had been dislocated with two bullets lodged in it. Balan’s Gap had seen heavy fighting and, if the reports were to be believed, it was not yet pacified completely.

The captain prodded the sergeant’s arm and nodded in satisfaction. “Excellent. We’ll need every man we can get.”