Trouble Runs in this Family

Colette bowed with all due propriety but silently fumed. At the first available opportunity, she intended to grab Asmodeus by the ear and give him a real piece of her mind. And maybe of her fist. And maybe the butt end of her pistol. Or the business end of her pistol.

Her malicious musings were cut short by the impending formalities of introducing the Cirque. Drawing herself together, she straightened her spine and lifted her chin, tucking a thick curl of black hair behind her ear. Her usual upsweep had fallen during her rather involuntarily travels, and it tumbled in thick waves down her back, much to her disapproval. She looked well enough, all things considered, but it was nowhere near how she chose to professionally present herself; her hair and clothes were travel-mussed and instead of sleek and imposing, she felt rather disheveled on the whole. She smartened herself up as best as possible, reminding herself of Auréle’s advice in the back of her mind. “It’s not how you look, Lottie, and it’s not what you’ve got. It’s how you sell it.”

“Your majesty,” Colette intoned as gracefully as she could manage. “I am known as Auréle le Conquerant, and this is my Cirque—the Cirque de la Vapeur. We were most pleased by your invitation—“

Apparently, she thought to herself scathingly, making a mental note to cut Asmodeus down a notch at the first chance she got. She fell easily into her introductory patter, the Cirque members waving and nodding quietly as she introduced each group sparingly, touching on the many countries of origin from which the Cirque drew its talents and the skill of the artists involved. She saved the grandiose language for later, giving a general overview of the Cirque and its pursuits without ruining too much of the show.

A few pleasurable minutes passed in which the King and his attendants questioned several of the performers as to their individual acts, and then with a final round of bows, they were dismissed to take their ease before breakfast.

After exiting the hall, Colette made her way to Asmodeus’s side, a task made more difficult by the fact that he kept sidling slyly away, going so far once as to place Marie gently between himself and the irate ringmaster. She eventually took him by the elbow, wrapping her hand around his arm so that it appeared to all the world that he was escorting a lady to her quarters, when in reality she had his arm in a vice and was quite willing to toss him to the ground if he got mouthy. She smiled up at him dearly, her eyes glinting with suppressed rage. “So. How do you know the king of Bavaria?”

“Ah,” Asmodeus hesitated. “It’s a long story.”

Colette grinned like a shark. “Speak. Quickly.”

And quickly he spoke, his voice lilting and tripping to the point in a manner most unlike Asmodeus’s usually flowery storytelling. It was as if his words were unaccustomed to being so rigidly structured; they sounded almost foreign coming from his mouth. “I was still doing shows in London, and Didi—ah, Deiter, attended one of my performances. He liked it so much he came backstage, introduced himself, and we’ve been keeping in touch all this time. I found out he’s Baron of Fußen and aide to the king.”

“And now here we at the king’s invitation. How thrilling.” Colette sounded anything but thrilled. “How did this happen?”

Asmodeus shuffled. “Well, you know how it goes. He asked us to perform. For money, even!” Asmodeus grinned brightly, as if this new development ought to be enough to exonerate him of any perceived wrongdoings. Colette looked less than impressed, and with a cough, he trailed off. "For his son's birthday, actually."

“For his son’s birthday," Colette repeated, musing almost to herself, "Which is not for quite some time, I imagine, seeing as Deiter— Didi, as you so affectionately called him— didn’t expect us for, oh, what did he say? Quite some time. That's right.”

“Right,” repeated Asmodeus slowly, wondering where she was going with this particular train of thought, and whom she intended to run over with it.

“Funny that he expected us at all, you know. Since I had made no arrangements to visit Germany in... well, ever. And I just don't seem to recall receiving an invitation to perform from any king, let alone that of Bavaria. Then again, my staff seems to see it fit to take all sorts of action without informing me, whether it's setting off stink bombs or meeting with the chief of police? When exactly where you going to tell me about that little incident, Asmodeus?”

Asmodeus replied unhappily, "You found out about that."

"It did come up while I was tied to an armchair!" Colette hissed. "And now you've placed us in the hospitality of a king who sees fit to contract us to perform without so much as confirmation of the invitation from THE RINGMASTER."

“Well, Colette, you see, ah. I accepted it. On your behalf.”

Colette fumed. “And this was when, exactly?”

“While you were… incapacitated.”

Colette half-roared. “I was drugged.”

Asmodeus stopped walking, snapping at her, "Quiet." While Colette gaped at being ordered to silence, he was glancing around to make sure Colette’s voice hadn’t carried too far. He spied a door ajar slightly farther down the hall and tugged her over to it, pushing the door open with the flat of his hand and poking his head inside. It appeared to be a small parlour, lined with elegantly carved bookcases and furnished with little chairs and tables. He drew Colette inside, shutting the door behind them and pulling a chair from the table.

Colette sat, looking angered by this condescending treatment. “Asmodeus, you will not keep secrets from me. Especially not of this magnitude—performing for a king? Can you imagine the repercussions should we do badly? Should a royal decry our cirque, we are finished. Finished, Asmodeus! How dare you risk our reputation—“

“And you killing Jacque would have done wonders for our reputation. Really, Colette, come to your senses already. For god’s sake—“

Colette rose from her chair, slamming her hands on the table. “I will not be spoken to like this, Asmodeus! I am not a child. I am your employer and you will treat me as such. You have gone too far, you have taken liberties I never suspected you capable of—you—you—“ She stuttered, at a loss for words.

Asmodeus crossed his arms, staring her down. “I did what I had to do—for the good of the cirque. We had to skip town or we all would have faced the law. I did you a favour, Colette, try to remember that, would you?”

“Fine, we left town—ignoring the fact that you drugged me, which is a hell of a thing for me to try and ignore—we could have laid low. Waited it out for a few days, gathered and reorganized—“

“With what funds, Colette? Our stay in Orleans was cut violently short, we drew in barely a tenth of what we needed to hold us over until our next stop. Which, by the by, you never did get around to telling us. Where, exactly, did you plan us to go next?”

Colette bit her lip, and Asmodeus scowled. “I see.”

“I was distracted.”

Asmodeus put a hand on her shoulder. “I know. And that’s why I took over. It’s understandable, Colette—after all that happened…”

Colette shoved at his arm half-heartedly. “Don’t. Don’t try and make me feel better. I never should have lost control. Not of my Cirque, not of myself…”

Asmodeus nudged her gently to her chair, and Colette sat with a sigh. “Colette, this is why you have a staff. A loyal staff—a family. We know you’d go to jail for us. We know you nearly did. But we also have the right—and the responsibility—to act as we see fit to keep that from happening. You know the Cirque is yours, and so are we. Why can’t you let us help you?”

“I should be able to…”

“To what, run it by yourself?”

Colette drew a figure eight on the table with her fingertip. “I am ringmaster, aren’t I?”

“Most ringmasters have a support staff, Colette, far larger than yours, and better dressed, and well paid…”

Colette frowned. “Hey.”

Asmodeus smiled. “There’s a lot of weight on your shoulders. Can you forgive us for stepping in when we saw you caving under it?”

Colette’s frown deepened. “I was doing no such thing.”

“Right. Because only people in utter control of the circumstances fly into rages and try to murder rival cirque members…”

Colette was not quite ready to let that particular sore spot be soothed. “It was my choice to make! Drugging me and slamming the Cirque into the royal gardens of Bavaria might not have been the wisest choice you’ve ever made; don’t lecture me about my decisions!”

“So instead of doing the friend thing—the right thing and getting out of France, we were supposed to let you kill a man in cold blood?”

“You didn’t have to get out of France by going to Bavaria.”

Asmodeus’s control finally slipped, and he raised his voice, drowning her out. “We needed the money!”

The door creaked open, and both parties immediately ceased arguing, looking to the door with equal parts shame and ire at being interrupted. Marguerite stood there, hand on the knob, shoulders squared, and a look on her face that could have melted steel. She spoke softly, but every word rang in the sudden silence. “We have a staff to get settled and fed, a show to put on, and of all people, a king to entertain. If you expect me to perform at all, I expect you to GET ME A SHIP.”

There was a scuffle at the door, and suddenly Marguerite was being pushed out of the way by an angrily rustling pile of fabric. “And I want my tent back!” Alexandra fumed from behind the scrap heap, dumping the cloth into the lap of the stunned ringmaster and flinging her hands to her hips in anger. “The things this scientist has done to my fabric! It’s obscene!” Colette delicately picked through the pile of fabric squares, some of which were spattered with strange looking stains, and others of which appeared to have been burned through with some kind of acid. Colette gingerly removed her hands from the pile, hoping that whatever had caused the damage wouldn’t eat through her clothes.

There was a bit of shoving at the door, and suddenly Marie was poking her head through the doorway. “What’s going on? Where is everyone? People are starting to ask for you, Colette, Tom especially. What happened—what on earth is wrong with that scarf?”

Colette looked down, and saw to her mild interest that one of the pieces of fabric was smoking gently. She plucked it up with two fingers, plunking it without any semblance of ceremony into the silver pitcher of water on the table, where it hissed angrily for a moment before bubbling out with a sad little plop.

Colette massaged her temples, shooting dark looks Asmodeus. “Alright, I am officially back in control. NOT that I ever lost it, I’ll have you know.” She barked commands rapidly. “Asmodeus. Find this woman a ship. Alexandra, Tom will help you arrange your affairs to your liking. Marie… stay out of trouble.” Marie stuck out her tongue, and crossed her arms, pouting. “I mean it,” continued the ringmaster. “I don’t need a spurned princeling driving us out of Bavaria with a price on my head.” She laughed slightly at her own joke; the idea of the princeling falling for little Marie was a ludicrous one.

Though now that she said it… Colette’s brow wrinkled with worry, and she rapped her knuckles against the wooden table.

Alexandra tipped her head with an unhappy “tuh!”

Colette arched her eyebrow at the woman, “Something you want to add?”

Alexandra shrugged with a flourish of her hands. “Oh, nothing at all, just that you seem rather fond of having us run out of town with the law fast behind us, no reason there shouldn’t be a ransom attached.”

Colette glared and opened her mouth to speak, but Asmodeus smoothly glided between the women, disrupting the tension and laying a friendly hand on Marguerite’s arm. “About your ship, Madame. Would it be alright if it was shaped like a swan and it’s decorated like Wagner?”

“I think I could work with that.”

The Swan King

The sun had not yet risen, leaving the world cloaked in a pre-dawn grey that swallowed all sounds and sights in the ever-changing swirl of fog. A chain of dark shapes marked the airship train as they coasted above the mist-shrouded landscape; specters drifting in a dream, lantern eyes peering into the abyss. Pine tree peaks thrust up from the gloom at odd intervals, marking a steady incline in the ground hidden far below.

A chill wind murmured in Asmodeus’ ears, clawed at his cheeks, and sent cold shivers through his body, making him draw the collar of his dark traveling coat up around his neck. He gazed around at the world surrounding the caravan, as woolly as the coat on his shoulders, and then returned his attention to the cracked and crinkled paper that was the map spread out on the wheel before him. Tom Sry stood to his right, lantern in hand and cloak about his shoulders, indicating a certain spot on the map between somewhere in the middle and nowhere. “I’m tellin’ you, Asmodeus…” Asmodeus cleared his throat with a narrowing of his eyes, and Tom corrected himself, “alright, Captain, but it still stands that we’re somewhere around here.”

Asmodeus cocked an eyebrow and chuckled to himself. “Is that so? Then that puts us somewhere in the vicinity of Milan!”

Tom took a closer look at his proposition, and shook his head. “But that’s way off course. Bavaria’s northeast of here.”

“Obviously, so we should be on the right course. Tom, we’ve been following an easterly heading all night. That should place us here,” Asmodeus took his turn to jab an elegant finger at the map, “outside Augsburg. If you don’t trust the compass, ask the heavens.”

It was Tom’s turn to turn a quizzical eyebrow. “You want me to pray?”

“No, boy; check the stars and the rising of the sun.”

Tom spread his arms wide, lantern swinging. “What stars have you seen in this soupy mess? And what sun?! It’s not even up yet!”

Asmodeus glanced skyward to either side of the great balloon keeping him and his crew from plummeting through the clouds. Tom spoke truly; there were no stars to track their course, nor sun to guide their journey. Asmodeus’ brow furrowed in doubt, but asserted, “So it would seem, yet I still hold that we’ve been heading east. That glow a few hours ago must have been Augsburg, which means we’re almost there. We’ll know better after sunrise.”

As if on cue, a thin jagged line of light appeared ahead of the cirque, marking a ridge of mountains in stark contrast to the half-light around them. In mere minutes, an orb of flame crested those peaks, forcing the fog down to the earth below. A single spire seemed to burst from the swirling eddies, white stone gleaming in the morning light, followed by high walls surmounting a granite pillar perched above a wooded valley. An alpine city sat huddled at its feet, straddling an ice blue river, chimneys and smokestacks lending their contribution to the morning mists. Asmodeus smiled, throwing the map to Tom and grabbing the controls. “Ah, here we are. Hang on to something,” he yelled back to Tom, who clutched at the railing moments before Asmodeus sent the airship plunging down over the rust-red rooftops, aiming for a clearing on the far side of town, twigs and branches of the nearby trees bending and snapping at his passing. Shouts of surprise and pain sounded from below decks as the stagehands, unaware of Asmodeus’ snap decision, reeled and tumbled across the hold.

Asmodeus circled once and touched down in the ring of pines, the other ships following in a much less reckless descent. The castle’s inhabitants had been eyeing them since their descent, and a few were making their way up the mountain path to intercept. Hopping down from the deck, Asmodeus spied a large blonde woman in traditional Bavarian dress, the first native in the long procession, mumbling ominously with every step, blue eyes narrowed to slits. Asmodeus sauntered up to meet her, arms wide. “Meine Gutte! Ist das meine Hilda? Du siehst heute so schon aus!”

Hilda glowered down at Asmdoeus, and responded in German, her accent lending a musical cadence to her words. “I thought I recognized your ship’s colors, you sly fox. Don’t think you can talk your way out of this one. I remember your last magic trick. Where’s my necklace?” She punctuated this accusation with a meaningful wave of the sturdy wooden spoon gripped tightly in her hand.

Asmodeus took Hilda by the shoulders and said with a smile, “But I thought you had such a wonderful time that night. And I did say I’d make it disappear, didn’t I?” With a wink, leaving Hilda fuming and grasping for words as one would grasp at dragonflies, Asmodeus swiftly stepped past her to greet an elderly man still in his nightgown and slippers, but with a youthful light in his eyes and a spring in his step, amplified at the sight of the newly arrived company. “Ah, Didi,” Asmodeus exclaimed.

“Asmodeus,” the gentlman cried, giving him a warm embrace and then holding him at arm’s length, looking him over. “Welcome, welcome. I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” he spoke in French as he glanced around, addressing the whole company.

Asmodeus turned to his circus companions and introduced his old friend. Hand on the man’s shoulder, Asmodeus performed a flourish in front of him, bowing low as he intoned, “May I introduce Baron Dieter Geltmacher.” The slumber-clad man bowed in acknowledgment to the assembled crowd and exchanged pleasantries with those closest. Asmodeus, meanwhile, had turned his attention to the smartly dressed youth at Dieter’s elbow, still attired for his morning ride. “Ah, and who is this fine lad?”

As if remembering the boy for the first time, Dieter’s eyes went wide, and he turned his gaze to his side. “Oh, yes, well,” he began as he cleared his throat, obviously flustered at this breach in etiquette. “May I, in turn, introduce his majesty’s son, Prince Maximilian Ludwig Joseph Wilhelm of Bavaria.”

The prince, wearing a dark morning coat and soft leather riding breeches, doffed his bowler as he bowed, dark hair tumbling around his face, his blue eyes surveying the assembly, lingering a few beats longer on Marie’s blushing features. In flawless French, he said, “I am very pleased that you could arrive for my father’s birthday. He should be finished with his toilet by now, and would have an audience. As I have finished my morning riding lessons, I shall accompany you and Dieter to the throne room.”

The troop began to descend the sloping path towards the castle, a clear sky above scattering the ground with the shadows of old oaks and maples. The stagehands, under the watchful eyes of Tom Sry, busied themselves with unloading the circus’ equipment from the scattered and assorted airships tethered in a ring. After grabbing an elegant shawl from just within her cabin, Alexandra bustled her way to the front of the column to take Asmodeus’ arm. “That was some course you took us on last night. Drinking and flying not a good combination?”

Asmodeus held himself straight and dignified, saying with overwhelming poise and a curious grin, “I assure you I was completely sober. Tom and I had a disagreement in directions. It would appear we use different compasses.”

Meanwhile, just behind them, Marie had falling into step with the prince. “I should enjoy a tour of your circus, once you are all settled in. I am a fan of modern technology, and cannot wait to see you all in action, Fraulein…?” The prince gave her a questioning look, waiting.

Marie looked puzzled for a moment, trying to figure out what kind of a name Froy Line was, but quickly inserted, “Actually, my name is Mary, pleased to meet you, and I’d be happy to show you around backstage.”

Some minutes later, they arrived at the large red brick gatehouse, and passed through into the grey stone outer courtyard. Dieter led them through the labyrinthine halls of the castle, down corridors, up spiraling staircases, to a grand audience chamber, the marble walls covered in frescoes depicting some local folk legend, great pillars forming an ring in the center. A fanfare of trumpets sounded, drawing everyone’s attention to a giant white object descending from the ceiling. With a squeak of wheels and pulleys, a metal swan gleamed as it glided past tall windows, cutting through shafts of brilliant light with slow flaps of its forged wings. With a soft thump, the clockwork avian came to rest in the center of the room, the great wings unfolding to reveal a carriage interior, occupied by a single rider. He was a tall man in a great blue robe fringed in white sable, a large silver chain of office hung about his shoulders. Like Prince Maximilian, the king had dark hair, cut short but left to wander, and eyes as blue as the clear streams that splashed through the mountains, cold and piercing. He gracefully glided from the swan’s compartment and took two steps to stand before his visitors. Dieter bowed low in reverence, the rest of those assembled following his example, Marie requiring a little coercion from Colette before she stood as the others did. After several seconds of uncertain silence, the Bavarian lord turned and strode to a large gilded throne set on a dais against the far wall. Seating himself in a leisurely pose, he spoke, his voice echoing in the vast chamber. “I am Ludwig Otto Friedrich Wilhelm, King of Bavaria. Welcome, guests, to my fairy castle!”