He stopped before an enormous door constructed of wrought iron and blue enamel, and selected a large silver key. Once he’d gone through, he very carefully closed the door again and then stepped up to the little platform. Above said platform was a large raised area, which was cluttered with a bewildering array of devices, several of which meticulously tracked his every movement.
At the center was a large, dark, wooden desk, carved in the Jacobean style. Seated at this desk, in a tall backed leather and gold ornamented chair, with his back to the door, was the master of Sturmhalten, The Gatekeeper of Balan’s Gap, His Royal Highness, Prince Aaronev IV. The Prince waved to acknowledge his seneschal’s presence, but did not look up, as he was engaged with something laid out upon the desk before him. His seneschal could not quite see what it was from this angle, but every now something twitched briefly into view, and he was just as glad.
He waited patiently until there was a thin squeal, which was suddenly cut off. The Prince sighed in annoyance and leaned back in his chair. He began to wipe his hands with a towel. “What is it, Artacz?”
The waiting man pulled out the report and cleared his throat. “It’s today’s report, sir.”
Aaronev paused, reached out and tapped an elaborate chronometer sitting upon his desk. “It’s a bit early, yes?”
Artacz nodded. “Indeed it is, sire. But to start at the beginning; we had an unusually large party of tailors through the Copper Gate—” he paused.
Aaronev drummed his fingers several times. “Hm. Challburg is celebrating the Feast of Saint Finnemede The Overdressed early this year... what else?”
“A fight with rather amusing consequences at the Rusted Swan—”
Aaronev interrupted, “Again? Mph. Tell the landlord that he is to stop trying to make change in base eight, or he’ll be paying his taxes in base twelve.”
Artacz smiled briefly. “Good one, Highness. And finally, a party of the Baron’s Jägers have attached themselves to a traveling Heterodyne show. They have been shunted to the Military road, and are awaiting your clearance.”
Aaronev waved a hand. “Ah. Klaus occasionally foists a few Jägers onto travelers. It lets him assess the safety of the roads while keeping them out of his hair. Well, I certainly don’t want to keep them here, so if that’s all, you may go.”
Artacz bowed and stepped backwards until he reached the doors. Smoothly he opened them and was just about to exit when Aaronev shouted, “Wait!”
The seneschal looked up in surprise. “Your Highness?”
Aaronev had turned about in his chair. A look of keen interest was on his face. He leaned forward. “Did you say—A traveling Heterodyne show?”
Payne crumpled the note in a massive fist and slammed it down upon the table top. “A command performance!” His roar of despair reminded Abner of a dying rhinoceros. He shook his fist with the crumpled note at a cruel, mocking universe. “And he very kindly sent the Jägers on ahead—Just like we asked!”
Marie judged that the main explosion had passed and gently stroked his perpetually tangled hair. “Enough, dear,” she murmured. “It was a good plan. And at least we haven’t been searched. It seems that all he really wants is to see a show.”
Abner dug into the paper bag on his lap with a rustle. A crudely printed label proclaimed that it contained genuine candied fish. This initially loathsome, but surprisingly addictive delicacy was one of the town’s principal items of export. “It’s not your fault that the Prince was bored, sir.” He crunched down a lemony minnow.
After a moment Payne nodded grudgingly. “True enough.” He leaned back and slid an arm around Marie’s waist. “Well, we’ll keep Moxana out of sight, and just give him a good show.”
Abner swallowed a lime guppy and grinned mischievously. Yes sir! I was thinking The Socket Wench of Prague.”
Marie stiffened in disapproval. Payne looked worried. “Um... that one’s a bit risqué, don’t you think?”
Abner sat back and balanced a chocolate carp on his fingertip. “Oh, yessir. They might even run us out of town tonight.”
Master Payne and the countess looked at each other and began to grin. “Now that’s a good plan,” Payne conceded.
A brisk knock at the door announced Professor Moonsock, who carried a rather official looking envelope as if she was afraid it might explode. “This just got delivered, sir. It’s a note from the palace.”
Marie took the envelope and sliced it open with a fingernail. “The Prince wants to see a specific show,” she looked up with tired eyes. “The Socket Wench of Prague.”
Abner’s eyes bugged. Payne shrugged. “Okay—not so good a plan.”
Marie cleared her throat. “P.S.—Tart It Up.”
Payne slumped and rubbed his eyes. “Downright terrible plan.”
“All right! I get it!” Abner leapt to his feet, crammed a last fish in his mouth and stomped towards the door. After but two steps, he gagged and spat it back out into his hand. Payne and Marie looked at him in astonishment. “Sorry,” he said embarrassed, “Somebody slipped in a pollywog.”
The Royal Theatre of Sturmhalten was small, but elegantly appointed. The architect that had been brought out from Paris had understood that the building itself should be part of the theatre-going experience. Red velvet seats and gilded carvings of extremely healthy young people in exceedingly impractical clothing were lavishly spread about. An afternoon rehearsal had revealed excellent acoustics, a Spark-designed-but-probably-not-too-lethal lighting system, and a concession stand serving a variety of drinks and local delicacies, of which candied fish was noticeably absent.
There was also a Royal Box, directly overlooking the stage, equipped with a gleaming machine cannon mounted upon a swivel. The caretaker had helpfully pointed out that it could cover almost any part of the theatre. He also emphasized that the Prince hated a dull show. This had led to a feverish rewriting session.
It was now evening. The show had started. Richly dressed merchants and government officials were drinking and applauding the antics onstage, as uniformed ushers glided through the darkness, escorting patrons with softly glowing crank operated lanterns.
Up in the Royal box, Prince Aaronev had just allowed his servant to pour him another glass of tokay, when the door swung open and a richly dressed young man entered the box.
He was tall and broad at the shoulder. A little stockier than he should have been, but it was obvious that he kept himself in shape by the grace with which he moved. His reddish hair was cut full, and pulled back into a small queue, which was the current fad amongst the dandies in Vienna, and an elegant pince-nez perched upon his nose.
With a small motion, he dismissed the servant, locked the box door, made a small bow of familial respect, and seated himself in the next chair.
Aaronev smiled in genuine pleasure. “Tarvek. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.” He glanced at the box’s empty third chair. “Where is your sister?”
The young man shrugged. “Sorry, father, we had some late guests I had to see to.” The Prince frowned. Tarvek continued, “As for Anevka, you know she isn’t keen on anything that isn’t grand opera. She begs your indulgence and says that she will join us later at supper.” He looked down at the stage, where Dame Ædith was throwing knives with amazing accuracy, especially since she was continually being harassed by what looked like a demented bat. Tarvek wondered how they’d managed to train the creature. “What have I missed?”