Agatha H and the Voice of the Castle

“No, no,” Carson said as he stood up. “I said the front door and I meant it. You’ll go in chains, of course, like a normal person.” He saw Agatha’s expression. “Klaus uses convicts to work in the Castle. The troublesome Sparks and monsters that the Empire wants gone for one reason or another. It’s a death sentence for most of them, and considering the people Klaus sends in, I don’t think anyone weeps for them.

“But not everyone dies. Ostensibly they’re there to repair the Castle, and a number of them get interested in the work. There’s a system, with points awarded for dangerous work or good behavior and sometimes someone actually completes their sentence and gets out.”

The old man caught up a lantern and lit it from the coal of his pipe. He waved them all to follow him. He activated another hidden door and they again descended a long winding staircase. Carson continued, his voice echoing back up the stairwell.

“It used to be that the prisoners were sent in every morning and taken out to a barracks every night. The idea was to let people see the Baron’s justice at work or some such nonsense.

“Didn’t work, of course. It just brought a lot of bad characters into town. There was a whole slew of bookies and other low-level trash who’d whoop it up right outside the castle gates—taking bets on who’d come out that day and so on. It made the whole town look bad. We started to lose the higher class of business.

“We were looking into a way to get rid of them that wouldn’t have the Baron sending in the Questers when one day, without warning, the Baron himself suddenly had them all rounded up and marched into the Castle along with the prisoners.”

Carson’s grin could be seen in the darkness. “And none of them ever came out. Klaus never was very good at the subtle.” He fished a large key from his belt and unlocked a small unobtrusive gate. He held it open while they all entered, then locked it carefully behind them. They turned the corner into a wide, relatively well-lit hall that sank into the darkness. Carson started down and continued: “After that, the prisoners were housed inside the Castle. No more coming and going. But they still have to eat, so supplies are sent in twice a week. And whereas the supply crew is thoroughly scrutinized when they leave, nobody really expects anyone to try to get in, or particularly cares if they do.”

Zeetha nodded appreciatively. Agatha frowned. “But then, why are we down here? Surely the supply runs don’t start here in the Crypts?”

The old man’s snort of amusement wafted back. “No, we’re here because you need to be told what to do once you get into the Castle, and believe me, I wouldn’t do this for just anybody.”

A softly glowing mimmoth skittered across Agatha’s foot. She flinched but controlled herself. “You can’t tell us this information anywhere?”

“I don’t know it.”

The implications of this sank into the group. Krosp voiced the obvious conclusion: “And the person who does know, lives down here? That’s kind of creepy.”

Carson reached the bottom of the stairwell and turned to face them. “Not a person,” he said heavily. “Not alive.”

Krosp raised his paw. “Creepy?”

“Hell, yes.” The man grasped an iron escutcheon and gave it a twist. With a groan, a section of brickwork slid back and to the side, revealing another set of stairs, lined with upended crypts adorned with grinning skulls that, to no one’s surprise, turned to watch as they passed by. Carson waved a hand. “Don’t pay them any mind, you’re with me.” He paused. “I wouldn’t dawdle, though.” Everyone obligingly bunched up. Zeetha moved protectively to Agatha’s side.

Wooster cleared his throat nervously. “Um…We’re not going to meet some ancient undead Heterodyne vampyre or…or something. Are we?”

Carson spat. “Oh, and wouldn’t that be the perfect capper to my day.”

Wooster licked his lips. “That…actually that wasn’t a ‘ho ho, don’t be silly, old chap, there’s no such thing as vampyres down here.’”

“I ain’t being paid to lie to you, Brit.”

“You mean…”

“But that’s not who we’re looking for today.”

The spy hunched himself down a bit. “You mean there are days when you do go looking for…them?”

“Didn’t say they were good days.”

“Oh.”

Carson sighed. “Better than this, though.”

Wooster glared at the old man. “I am done talking to you.”

“I appreciate the effort, young fellow, but the day’s already a loss.”

“Aren’t they great, ladies and gentlemen?” Zeetha said brightly, “They’ll be here all week.”

Agatha gave a snort of amusement.

“What are we looking for?” Krosp demanded.

They reached the bottom of the stairs and Carson spun a wheel, which brought the lights up. “This. The throne of Faustus Heterodyne.”²⁵

And indeed, what had at first appeared to be just a nest of dials and gears, was, if you looked at it correctly, a seat at the center of a tangle of cables and pipes that spread outwards every which way before burrowing into the walls, floors and ceiling.

Wooster let out a gust of breath. “There’s no one in it.”