The Empire of Gut and Bone Read online

  Gregory said, “So you killed Gugs — your own friend — because people would otherwise realize that you were going out with a mannequin?”

  Alice flinched at the word mannequin.

  Lord Dainsplint answered, “If people at Court had found out that Alice and I were mooning over each other, it would have ruined my career. Now, as it is, I guess I’ve bloody well seen to that myself. This shall not be a triumph for the House of Dainsplint and the Norumbegan Social Club.” He frowned miserably.

  “But if you didn’t kill the Regent,” Gregory insisted, “who did?”

  He looked in bewilderment at Gwynyfer.

  Kalgrash and Dantsig had been sent in handcuffs up to the palace to await questioning at a meeting of the Imperial Council. Brian, the Earl of Munderplast, and the Wizard Thoth-Chumley were following guards through the alleys of New Norumbega, seeking Gregory and Gwynyfer before it was too late.

  “There are hundreds of houses to search,” grunted Thoth-Chumley.

  They looked down a dinky track that led into the desert. A half mile away, the Mannequin Resistance watched them.

  “These mannequins really are becoming intolerable,” said the earl.

  “So why don’t you just free the ones you’ve captured,” Brian suggested, “and promise to leave them all alone down in the guts? ”

  “You’ve been talking too much to your eggbeater,” said the earl with distaste. “Your waffle iron. Your apple corer.”

  “It makes no sense!” Brian protested. “There’s no reason to —”

  A page boy was shouting and running toward them. He had a message in his hand. “Message for the Earl of Munderplast! Sir! Sir!”

  It was a note from the Ex-Empress. The earl unsealed it, sliding his finger under the wax blob that held it closed, marked with the insignia of the Imperial Council. He surveyed the letter and then, without a word, swiveled it around and showed it to Thoth-Chumley and Brian.

  The Ex-Empress wrote:

  Malark from the Mannequin Resistance just called on the palace phone. I don’t know when quite I’ve been so insulted and ill used. He says to pass on to any interested parties, this:

  “It has come to the attention of the Mannequin Resistance that Lord Dainsplint, one of the two candidates for Norumbegan Regent, is holed up in a shack on Goibniu Lane with a gun, two hostages, and a mechanical named Alice Nabb. He claims to love Miss Nabb, though he treats her with the condescension common to all breathers. He was hidden away with her at the time of the assassination of the Stub’s late Regent. Given that the governing Council of the Empire of the Innards is clearly unable to select its own leaders competently; given that its leadership is in a shambles; given that the rulers of the Empire are obviously an embarrassment to the ancient, high honor of their race — given this, we, the Mannequin Resistance, humble servants of Norumbega, have no choice but to move in immediately and suspend the Imperial government until such time as kind, benevolent, and fair-minded rulers are chosen to continue the work of your august Empire. Yours with deep respect — General Malark.”

  Have you ever seen a thing so vexing? Never mind the impudence of the rotter. Just the thought of Chigger kissing a machine! The spittly appliance! One pictures the bower of love, and one wants to spew up one’s brekkers.

  Yours,

  Ex-Empress Elspeth Fendritch

  Brian looked up in astonishment. “Lord Dainsplint was there in that shack when the murder was committed?” His mind raced. “Then who killed the Regent?”

  The earl smiled. “It pleases me in a small and humble way,” he said, “to discover that Lord Dainsplint is not the assassin. I’m deeply gratified that, instead, he sought to hide something even shabbier.”

  “How could he not be the assassin?” Brian said. “He’s the only one who doesn’t have an alibi.”

  “True,” said the earl, looking up and down alleys. Brian thought back to Thoth-Chumley’s list. Something stuck out. “Unless …” he said, “unless the Duke of the Globular Colon wasn’t really with his family.”

  “You mean — you suspect the fair burde Gwynyfer of lying?”

  Brian had considered it before. But it was awful to say it to these men.

  “If,” said Brian, and ran out of words. He tried, “She might have. Yeah. She might have lied to protect her father. She might have tried to stop us from finding out. She sometimes acted almost like … you know … like she had something to hide.”

  “Delicious,” said the earl.

  “Which would mean that right now Gregory is with three murderers.”

  “A lamentable plight.”

  “We have to get him out of that shack,” said Brian.

  “Easier said than done,” commented Thoth-Chumley. “Let’s move in.” He nodded his head, and they all — earl, boy, mage, and guards — galloped off toward the hut on Goibniu Lane.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Out in the desert of salt, the Resistance was moving. Mechanical soldiers formed into rows. Whatever they had been trained to do — to cook, to clean — they had put it aside for warcraft. They were prepared to take the city — politely, if possible.

  They wore uniforms woven from fibers peeled off the walls of alien lungs. They wore armor forged of metals extracted from cataracts of blood coursing through the Great Body’s veins. They had come far to confront their former masters — to protect their masters, as they told themselves delicately — and they would not back off now.

  The Mannequin Resistance, banners raised high, began to march on the city of New Norumbega.

  Thoth-Chumley glared down the alley of pastel-painted cabins. “Check all of them,” he said. “Smash down the doors if need be.”

  “No!” Brian protested. “Lord Dainsplint might kill Gregory if — ”

  “Do it!” yelled Thoth-Chumley, swinging his hand.

  There was dust in the air. Thoth-Chumley looked out between the houses at the edge of the city. He saw the first ranks of the Mannequin Resistance approaching.

  “We have to drag Dainsplint back to the palace before they get here,” he said, pointing scornfully at the clockwork infantry making their way over the plain.

  “I,” said the earl, bowing, “shall make my exit. This may be a moment of mickle hardship, and people may wish for a leader. I have a little thought of who might offer himself in that role.” He gathered his robes about him and made off.

  Guards were knocking violently on old doors, demanding to be let in. Brian felt sick with worry.

  Dainsplint, Alice, Gwynyfer, and Gregory could hear the guards approaching from each end of the alley, forcing their way into each hut in turn. At the crunch of every door kicked down, Lord Dainsplint’s mouth quivered. He held his gun carefully.

  “You can’t win,” said Gregory.

  Dainsplint pointed his gun at the boy. “No, old top, you can’t.”

  Gregory lost feeling in his feet and in his face. He stared at the barrel of the gun.

  He kept quiet after that.

  Brian watched the clockwork army approaching.

  “If someone doesn’t release those mannequin-head prisoners from Delge,” said Brian, “those soldiers out there are going to destroy this city. They can blow us all up, if they want to.”

  “We leave these decisions to the heads of state,” said Thoth-Chumley.

  “Who are the heads of state? You don’t have a Regent anymore. One of your candidates is in a hut on this street, holding my friend hostage.” Brian was swept with panic and despair. “There is no one in charge in this city!” he cried.

  A shutter flew open.

  “Blast it!” came Lord Dainsplint’s voice. He screamed, “One more step toward this, my pretty little hovel, and I’ll put holes in both the kids’ heads!”

  Gregory and Gwynyfer stared at each other in horror. Gwynyfer reached out and took Gregory’s hand. They squeezed each other’s fingers tightly.

  The television had been knocked down, but it still was on. Dim lights and shadows wri
ggled out from under it. Alice sat curled on the bed, her knees up against her face, her hair mussed over her eyes. Dainsplint sat with the shutters closed almost all the way — with just a slit so he could see anything that passed on the street. He pointed the gun at Gregory.

  Brian watched the guards creeping closer and closer to the house where Dainsplint was holed up. “You can’t let them!” he said. “He’ll kill Gregory if they get close!”

  “We have to get Lord Dainsplint before the automatons arrive,” the wizard insisted. “They can’t take him prisoner. It would be a disaster.” He shook his head. “Not on my beat.”

  Brian watched the guards slinking toward the little blue cabin. He looked out toward the approaching ranks.

  There was no hope for escape anywhere.

  Inside Alice Nabb’s cabin, they heard footsteps on the dirt.

  “Keep off!” Dainsplint screamed, his eyes rolling toward the window. “I’ll bloody well take their heads off!”

  Gregory held his breath. He could almost feel his own pallor. He felt like he had no blood in him. He wondered if he was going to faint. Gwynyfer’s mouth was open. She clutched Gregory’s hand.

  And then came the first slam into the door. Gregory heard Brian scream, distantly, in warning, in protest.

  Dainsplint leveled the gun at Gregory. The man drew a deep breath, and —

  Gregory watched Chigger whisper the Cantrip of Activation to trigger the gun. The lips moved as if in slow motion. Gregory could almost see the detonation curling out from the muzzle.

  But Alice Nabb had thrown herself at Dainsplint a moment before. She landed on him hard, her metal bones yanking against his pliable elfin grip. The gun was pointed toward the wall when it went off — and the wall whickered with the force of the bullet.

  Sunlight poured in through the hole.

  The door thrashed as guards slammed against it.

  Dainsplint fired the gun again, but Alice had forced it up and away. The ceiling rattled. She squeezed his forearm.

  The gun fell.

  She dragged him backward.

  “Alice!” he yelped. “This isn’t the time for the tender embrace and the cooing of dashed sweet nothings!”

  She didn’t speak to him. She simply held him. He struggled, belting out, “I say! Let me —”

  The guards burst in.

  Brian saw the guards bundle Lord Dainsplint out onto the street, handcuffed. Behind him came a blond woman — and Gwynyfer — and then Gregory, holding Gwynyfer’s hand. Brian couldn’t believe his friend was still alive.

  “Come on!” yelled Thoth-Chumley. “The mannequins!” He pointed.

  The infantry of the automaton army stood only twenty feet away — hundreds of them.

  Brian staggered. There was no way any of them could run. The force ranged against them was overwhelming. They’d never make it back to the palace.

  All he could hope for was that Gregory and he would be singled out by the mannequins and saved.

  The guards cowered in the face of the army. They held Lord Dainsplint, uncertain of what to do.

  Everyone froze.

  They looked out between the houses.

  The mannequins stared back.

  And then a mechanical officer rode up on something armored that might have once been a horse, or a sea horse, or a six-legged industrial stapler. He was yelling a message of hope back to his troops.

  “We are arrived,” he declared through a mother-of-pearl bullhorn, “at the walls of New Norumbega. Though these walls be mighty — though they be the work of our masters — we can surmount them! Look at them in their glory — as they sparkle in the veinlight! We could never build such towers! But we can tear them down! With our masters’ implicit permission!”

  The army roared. They confronted an empty space where they believed a wall to be.

  Thoth-Chumley chuckled, suddenly relaxed. “Such morons,” he said. “They can’t even see we’re undefended.” He shook his head.

  The officer on the mechanical steed raised up a saber and dropped it.

  And cannons began to fire.

  Huge explosions tore apart the ground, the houses, the streets, the chimneys, the stoves, the dirt all around Brian.

  And everyone began pelting, pell-mell, back up toward the palace.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Scrambling through the streets, they felt the great heart rock with cannonades. Walls jumped around them. Gravel fell — who knew from where? People were surging through the streets, screaming. A fiery glow lit tenements and stores and bars.

  Brian was running neck and neck with Gregory and Gwynyfer. As they ran, Brian studied the girl’s face. She looked nothing but stern, glaring back down the slope at the mannequins who stood outside their ring of imaginary stone, waiting for invisible walls to tumble down. She set her eyes on the palace, slid them sideways at Brian, then ran past him, dragging Gregory by the hand.

  Another round of explosions burst the city asunder.

  Houses tore apart. Chunks of balcony hung on electrical lines, swaying, swinging. Wires fell, sparking along the street. Brian threw himself out of the way of one line that went striking past him like some demon worm.

  Panicked wails went up from the citizens. The mannequins, trying to save the people, were destroying them.

  Another shell hit — quite close — the detonation so loud they felt it in all their bodies.

  Brian fell.

  There was darkness — things were falling toward him: rocks, concrete, wood, metal roof.

  He reached up, as if a soft hand could ward off tumbling stone —

  He screamed once.

  And the debris smacked into something invisible and slid to the side. Brian lay completely still — seeing the brick crowd the air, ready to pounce down on him. He didn’t understand. He blinked.

  Gwynyfer and Gregory were lying next to him. The Wizard Thoth-Chumley knelt near them, holding up his arms, quivering.

  “Ski-Jack’s Miraculous Bumbershoot,” the mage explained, nodding toward the glow of his spell in the air. Charred beams slid off a force field above them.

  When the trash had fallen, he dropped his hands. A few final things plunged down around them. He took a deep breath.

  “Let’s go,” he said, and gave Brian a hand up.

  The four of them fled toward the palace.

  The throne room smelled of frightened sweat. The folding doors were pulled aside, and across the Grand Hall, out the broken glass doors, the distant armies could be seen, massed by the city’s edge.

  The Ex-Emperor Randall Fendritch sat near his wife, looking white and weak. His clothes were too large for him and were cuffed and collared with smudges of dirt. The courtiers around him did not speak. They all were too aghast at the flames they saw reflected in the debris of the Grand Hall.

  The Ex-Emperor spoke in a high, anxious voice, though no one listened. He said, “We don’t fear anything. Not really, old top. We’re Norumbegans. Hey-ho, anyone for a round of golf? A gent could exorcise his demons with a few choice chip shots right about now.” A cannonball, trailing smoke, lofted past the windows. There was a loud crash somewhere in the tower. The floor shook. “I say,” said the Ex-Emperor, blinking rapidly. “Speak of the devil. Looks like someone knows his niblick.”

  “Oh, do shut up, Randers,” said his wife, bowing her head. “We none of us can understand a word you’re saying.”

  The Earl of Munderplast cleared his throat. “This might be a moment for us to think solemnly of the past. Sadly recall the happy days of yesteryear. Stare straight forward. And prepare for the end, which shall come in the next few minutes, I wys.”

  Down at the end of Imperial Avenue, where it trailed off into the desert, the mannequins slung a real battering ram into a make-believe portcullis gate, waiting for it to fall.

  And then, as Brian and his comrades jogged across the blasted Imperial Square, the bombing stopped.

  It took them a moment to realize: The air no longer whistle
d. There was no longer a rhythm of detonations. They realized that all they still heard was flame and the calls of people rescuing other people. The Mannequin Resistance had ceased their attack for unknown reasons.

  They looked at each other in amazement.

  They had made it.

  Slowly, they walked through the gates, into the palace.

  They headed up the grand staircase toward the throne room.

  The Court sat gathered around the throne. The floor was covered in fragments of plaster. Everything sparkled with dust. Many of the Court were wounded, and bled on their silks. Hanks of their hair hung out of circlets and cloche hats. Women dressed in sharp pink suits stooped to pick broken glass out of their feet.

  There were the Ex-Emperor and the Ex-Empress, the Stub beside them. There were the Earl of Munderplast and Lord Attleborough-Stoughton and the Duke and Duchess of the Globular Colon. There were Kalgrash, Dantsig, Chigger, and Alice, all of them in handcuffs, standing dutifully by the guards. There were maids-in-waiting, Knights of the Bath, governors from far-flung colonies in distant fringes of the circulatory system.

  Everyone waited for someone else to speak. No one wanted to be first.

  A wind blew in through the broken glass doors. It stirred the plaster dust, and people coughed.

  Brian cleared his throat. He said, “Someone should … someone should organize rescue parties or something. Of guards. Maybe. Because people are looking for help out there.”

  Courtiers looked anxiously at one another. No one stirred.

  “Who?” asked the Ex-Empress Elspeth as if she was wickedly and brilliantly scoring a point. “Who would you like to organize ‘rescue parties'?”

  “The Imperial Council,” said Lord Dainsplint, stepping forward, his hands cuffed behind his back. (It gave him a keen debaters’ kind of look.) “I hereby call the Imperial Council to order.”

  The Earl of Munderplast rolled his eyes. “My good wight, the Council is in shambles and cannot legally rule. We have no Regent and at least one of our Council members is an assassin who dinged down the previous Regent.”