Agatha H and the Voice of the Castle

A tableful of Jägermonsters was chatting away. A careful observer would have noted that easily three-quarters of them were severely injured. This did not stop them from laughing, shoving, and drinking copiously. One of the few undamaged soldiers was discussing the latest orders and troop movements.

“De Baron haz ordered us all op to de North Border.”

A Jäger missing an arm, with a surprisingly clean bandage wrapped over his eyes, snorted. “Dun tell me dot de Reindeer Boyz iz giffing him trouble?”

The first waved a hand. “He dun tink we’z dot schtupid. He didn’t say nottink, yet. Hit vas just as far as he could send uz.”

They became aware of a ripple of excitement coming towards them. Other tables, also full of Jägers, were exclaiming in awe and astonishment. The crowd parted and Gilgamesh strode past, escorted by Dimo, who was happily basking in the reflected glory. The Jägers stared at the figure clad in ridiculous, ill-fitting, and mismatched armor and their eyes locked upon the space above his head. Their breaths caught—and they rose to their feet and, as one, repeated the cry that was now filling the room.

“HEY! NIZE HAT!!”

The hat was, indeed, very nice. It had spikes and gilded wings, meters of gold lace and frogging. It had a small cheerful flame spouting from a chemical burner mounted at the top, and it had large gold letters that proclaimed that the wearer was “Gilgamesh Wulfenbach: Schmot guy!!”

Gil had had enough. “Everything…is going to go boom,” he growled.

“They’re quite serious, you know.”

The voice that broke Gil’s murderous rage was calm and smooth. A tall young man sat at a nearby table—his elegant dark suit adorned with several discreet medallions of office. The fellow looked at Gil with the open, honest eyes of a born manipulator and continued, “You may think they are mocking you, but I see someone they respect. And that, my dear sir, is very rare. And very useful.” He gestured to an empty chair.

From beside the man, another person leaned forward. It was a dwarf—no, a—a cat. A huge white cat in a uniform jacket that would have shamed a comic-opera Bavarian princeling. “Oh, yeah,” the cat said. “And by the way, nice hat.”

Gil had a feeling that the cat was not impressed. He stared at the two and slowly sat down. “You’re the ones waiting for me?”

The young man fastidiously set down a coffee cup and placed his fingertips together. “Yes. We—”

At this point, the cat hopped up onto the tabletop and, walking on his hind legs, stalked up to Gil. He stuck a clawed finger in his face. “Hold on. First, I want to make this absolutely clear. I don’t trust you. I don’t like you. I think that you are just out to use Agatha as a pawn in some inferior plot to overthrow your father and take over the world. Well I’m on to you, pal, and you’re cutting into my territory!”

The young man sighed and grabbed the back of the cat’s coat—forcibly hauling him back to his seat. “Thank you, Krosp, for getting us started on such a diplomatic footing.”

The cat spat. “I’m serious. Mess with me and your shoes are mine.”

Gil looked at Krosp and nodded slowly. He glanced at the man holding the cat’s coat, “And you are?”

“Vanamonde von Mekkhan. I am the seneschal of Castle Heterodyne.” As he spoke, Van poured Gil a mug of steaming black liquid from a small ceramic pot. “Have some coffee.”

Gil frowned as he picked up his cup. “The seneschal? But that family—” He took a sip, and stared into his cup. “That’s…really good coffee,” he said reverently.

Van hid his head in his arms and sobbed into the tabletop. “YOU SHOULD HAVE TRIED IT BEFORE!” he wept. “It was perfect! Perfect!” He trailed off into further sobs.

Krosp looked at Van with irritation and leaned towards Gil. “Anyway, we’re here to help you.” Then he hissed at him.

Gil looked at the two of them, deliberately set his cup down, and began to stand up. “I’m going now,” he said firmly.

Zeetha, who had been standing behind him, pushed him firmly back into his chair. “Sit down,” she said.

She pointed to Van. “Forget the City Council, he’s the real power here in Mechanicsburg. He drank something Agatha brewed up. She says it’ll probably wear off.”

Van looked up. “But it was—”

“Yes,” Zeetha said gently. “We know.” She gestured to Krosp. “This is Krosp. He’s Agatha’s cat.”

“KING!” Krosp declared.

Zeetha nodded. “And I think that explains that.” She indicated the room at large. “And let’s be honest, they’re probably the sanest people here.”

The room was immense—a great barrel-vaulted cellar, easily one hundred meters long and half that wide. Thick pillars rose among the tables. One end of the room was filled with an expansive bar, behind which several bartenders were constantly busy. The walls behind them were lined with giant casks, each of them capable of storing the yearly output of a small brewery. A squad of waitresses endlessly shuttled back and forth, each carrying an impossible number of festively decorated tankards.