Empire of Gut and Bone

by M. T. Anderson

  The election of one of the candidates will be held on Tuesday the 36th, the day before the annual Fest of St. Diancecht.

  The Court has already begun planning the Inauguration Ball. Speaking recently at a press conference, the Dancemaster General has proclaimed

  MANNEQUIN RESISTANCE ADVANCES ON CAPITAL,

  CAPTURES OUTPOSTS IN UPPER GUT

  OUTER THROATS — Word has reached the capital that the Mannequin Resistance may be making significant gains in their march on New Norumbega. Emergency telegrams received this morning reveal that several fortresses, estates, and townships in the Upper Gut have been taken by automaton forces.

  The first telegram arrived shortly after 6:00 A.M. this morning from the parish of Windham-on-Gag, located low in one of the Outer Throats. ”OVERWHELMED BY FORCE OF MANNS,“ reads the telegram. ”ALL HANDS IMPRISONED. GENERAL MALARK SENDS GREETINGS.”

  It appears that the automaton army must have originated in Three-Gut, most likely at the mannequin fortress of Pflundt. Late last night they apparently forced their way from Three-Gut into Bronson’s Gullet by way of a hiatal hernia, pausing there to fight and defeat a small force of knights in the region before continuing toward St. Eustace and the Duchy of Burnborough. It is estimated that they could reach New Norumbega within two or three days.

  In the absence of a regent, no precautions are being taken to repel the invaders.

  FIFTEEN

  Lambert Gwestin,” said Brian. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  “I express the deepest regret that I wasn’t available when you sought me, sir,” said Mr. Gwestin. “I was at a mourning barbecue down in the city.”

  The courtiers in the room were aghast. Many had risen in horror as the gadget attacked. They were whispering in small groups, expressing sympathy for the Earth child. Gugs was expressing his disappointment that he hadn’t known about the attempt to assassinate the child beforehand, since by all rights, someone should have taken bets as to whether the little machine or the boy would survive.

  Lambert Gwestin ordered one of the other servants to fetch Brian water.

  Gregory said to him, “We have about a thousand questions for you.”

  “I will be most delighted to prove of service, sir, once your friend has been fully revived.”

  Brian took a deep gulp of water. He sat himself carefully on the bench. With the toe of his sneaker, he prodded the wreckage of the little infernal device.

  Gwynyfer said, “You’re bleeding badly.”

  “I know,” said Brian.

  “All over the floor.” She made a face. She was exchanging glances with some girls across the dining hall.

  Others by the long tables were sitting again. Many, however, didn’t seem to have much appetite.

  Lambert Gwestin asked Brian, “Now, sir, that you have caught your breath: How may I be of use?”

  “First of all,” said Brian, “who gave you these hamburgers?”

  “A drone. They bring the platters up from the kitchen.”

  “Did you notice anything strange about my burger?”

  “No, sir. I am sorry, but I didn’t inspect them. I simply read the note from the cook and delivered them.”

  Gregory said, “So we have to figure out who gave the order to the cooks.”

  “I doubt, sir, if I may be so bold, that you will find any record of a request to insert a bladed engine in your food. None of our cooks would have included such an item in your dinner without question, unless it were specifically called for in the recipe. Am I right to understand that the hamburger does not, in its native land, come with a small, murderous machine?”

  “No,” said Brian.

  “Except when you buy a Happy Meal,” said Gregory.

  Brian speculated, “Could someone have stopped the drone on the way from the kitchen to the Grand Hall and slipped that thing into the burger then?”

  Lambert Gwestin thought this over. “That would be possible, sir. The machine may have been introduced into your dinner at that point.”

  “Can we check with the drones?”

  “I regret that is an impossibility, sir. The drones are equipped neither with memory nor with the power of communication. Furthermore, they do not distinguish between people. Even if we could identify which drone carried the supper, it would not be able to recognize who stopped it to deliver the device.”

  “So all we can say is that someone tried to kill me, and probably was between the kitchen and this room about four or five minutes ago.”

  “That is correct, sir. On behalf of the palace staff, may I express my utmost mortification at the incident. It is our most ardent wish that this incident should not reflect poorly upon the generosity and magnanimity of our noble leader” — here Gwestin bowed reverently — “the Emperor, the divine Stub, may the saints protect him always; may he taper ever longer.” Gwestin folded his hands in front of him. “The oversight was ours, and it is we who should be flogged, if flogging is required.”

  “Thanks,” said Gregory, “but we’ll pass on flogging. But there’s something else you can help us with.”

  “Whatever way I may be of assistance, sir.”

  “Yesterday,” said Brian, “you received orders to take a uniform down to the prison and —”

  “Hello, chaps,” said Chigger Dainsplint, appearing at their side. “Heard you had a bit of a row with your supper, Bri-Bri. None the worse for wear, I hope? I say, you do look a little perforated.”

  “There was something in my food,” said Brian. “It cut me.”

  “Well, man versus supper. I suppose the tables had to turn sometime.” Dainsplint snapped his fingers and another servant ran over. “Take young Master Thatz up to the chirurgeon. See that his leg is fixed up. And you,” he said to Lambert Gwestin, “I want to hear everything that happened.”

  “Could we,” said Brian, who was being pried away from the bench, “could we ask Mr. Gwestin one more question? ”

  “Certainly not. You’ve been carved up like a Christmas roast. Hobble on, Earth boy. Go see the apothecary.”

  “It’s quick,” said Brian.

  “Away with you.”

  “I can ask the question,” said Gregory. “Mr. Gwestin, we were wondering —”

  Lord Dainsplint said, “The children can speak to you later, Mr. Gwestin. For the moment, the Imperial Council will want a full report. These children have ambassadorial status in the capital, and we need to find out who is responsible for this outrage. Come, come. Walk.”

  With that, Brian, Gregory, and Gwynyfer watched the servant and the lord walk off together.

  Gwestin was saying, “I am most heartily sorry, my lord, and I trust that this will not reflect poorly on his Imperial Majesty, the Stub, our hope and hero, long may he —”

  Then a door slammed behind them.

  “Too bad,” said Gregory. “Just when we were all getting along so well.”

  The “chirurgeon,” as it turned out, was a doctor. His name was Dr. Brundish. He lived up in a wooden turret, surrounded by gadgetry and jars of leeches in different sizes and colors. He himself was a large, lumpy sort of man in goggles and a skullcap. It was a little hard to figure out his body, which seemed, beneath its robes, to have foothills and ranges leading back from his shoulders and down from his neck.

  “A scrape,” he said, looking at Brian’s leg. “A scrape, a scrape. You were in a scrape. With a miserable little device.”

  Gregory and Gwynyfer hung back, smirking at each other.

  “The leeches,” said Dr. Brundish, “will clean the wounds.” He pulled some out of a pickling jar and applied them to Brian’s ankle. “They’ll suck out poisons.”

  Brian looked away from the leg as he felt the creatures hunch along toward his cuts, seeking gore.

  “Then we’ll put on some bandages and you will be right as rain.” Dr. Brundish smiled with huge, yellow teeth. “Please,” he said to Gregory, “do not play with that. It is not a toy.”

  Gregory
had on a stethoscope, and was snaking it toward Gwynyfer. “I can’t hear you,” he said to the doctor. And to her: “So do Norumbegans have hearts?”

  “Put that down,” said the doctor.

  Gregory protested, “I’m asking a scientific question.”

  Gwynyfer thwacked the chest piece with her finger. Gregory jumped — she laughed.

  Gregory pulled the ear tips out and put the stethoscope down on the desk. Rubbing his ears, he concluded, “Ouch. Heartless.”

  “Oh?” said Gwynyfer. “Better than brainless.”

  There was a knock on the door. Dr. Brundish grunted, “In,” and the door opened. Lady Munderplast, wife of the earl, stood there. She still wore her black suit, but she’d pulled her veil back and settled it around her shoulders.

  When she saw who was there, she first inclined her head to Gwynyfer. “Miss Gwarnmore,” she said. “Lady Munderplast extends her greetings.”

  Gwynyfer made a formal curtsy back. “The daughter of Duke Gwarnmore greets Lady Munderplast and wishes her many dawns.”

  “Mr. Thatz. Mr. Stoffle. We met before dinner. I am Lady Munderplast.” To Brian, she said without any hint of compassion, pity, or interest, “I was so sorry to see you attacked just now. Impudent, impudent supper.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Brian.

  “You needn’t take it personally. Better men have eaten worse.” She looked around the dark, yellowish chamber, at its syringes and devices. “I have no wish to delay you, but a word …”

  The doctor rose from his stool. “Do you wish, milady, for me to absent myself from the chamber so you may speak to the little ape?”

  “It is but three sentences. If you would stand outside the door, I would be gratified.”

  The doctor shambled out of the room, bowing. Lady Munderplast waited by the open door, staring at Gwynyfer.

  Eventually, the girl said, “The daughter of Duke Gwarnmore inquires if it is Lady Munderplast’s wish that I also should remain in the chamber for this communication, so that I may assist the noble Lady Munderplast, who is dear to my heart and a constant model for a young lady just entering the vexing labyrinth of the Court.”

  Lady Munderplast fixed Gwynyfer with a glare. “Lady Munderplast thanks the daughter of Duke Gwarnmore for her solicitous care for our aged person, but we do not require that Miss Gwarnmore should stay behind and listen in. Nonetheless, we thank her for her kind offer to drink in our gossip and spew it right back out to her gaggle of knock-kneed, stick-legged debutantes.”

  Gwynyfer, looking irritated, bowed and stepped out.

  Lady Munderplast closed the door behind her, waited a moment, and in a move not unlike Gwynyfer’s of a few minutes before, thumped hard enough on the door-panel that the girl and the doctor, who were both listening on the other side, dimly apologized and stepped away.

  Lady Munderplast faced Brian. “What I have to say is this: My husband, the earl, lied to you. He was not at home last night. I left him at the dance at around ten, when I could no longer abide his dismal pronouncements on the calisthenics and gyrations of the young. My maids undressed me and laid me in my tube shortly thereafter. I was awakened at about one o’clock by the return of my dear spouse from locations unknown. That is roughly three hours unaccounted for. I clarify that because I have no idea whether you creatures are capable of doing sums.”

  “Where do you think he went?” Brian asked.

  “I do not know. It is not the first time he has lurked abroad in the night. Perhaps he wishes to frequent cheap saloons or shoot skeet in the dark. The ways of my husband are mysterious, yet dull. Never has the unknown provoked so little interest.”

  Brian asked, “Do you know whether the earl was angry at what the Regent announced last night he was going to do? Going to war against the Thusser and reclaiming Norumbega? And starting a war with the Mannequin Resistance by arresting Dantsig and the rest?”

  “My husband thought all of it was foolishness. But he also told me he did not know whether the Regent meant what he said in the throne room. Munderplast suspects that the Regent was simply announcing those things because he knew they’d be passed on to others unknown. Perhaps the Regent merely wished the mannequins or the Thusser to believe he had determined to return to Earth and seize Old Norumbega. Do you see? He spoke of warfare because he knew such a threat would reach the ears of his enemies. Both the late Regent and my husband have long presumed that there is a spy on the Imperial Council, and, of course, most people suspect that the two of you are spies as well.”

  “Us?” said Brian, shocked.

  “You, indeed.”

  Gregory said, “Do you think I’d be standing here, ma’am, if I had a submarine car?”

  “Well, the rumor at the Court is that you are spies for the Mannequin Resistance. One simply can’t know. One would read your thoughts, but as one attempts it, one cannot penetrate particularly deeply. I wonder why. Have you thrown up some kind of impenetrable mind-shield? No, I suspect not. It is (probably) like trying to dive for pearls in a mud puddle.” She frowned. “At all events, I thought you would wish to know that Munderplast was not accounted for last night. And if my husband is involved in any skulduggery, I have no objection to you making it public. It will enliven our domestic life.”

  She swung the infirmary door open.

  Dr. Brundish was sitting in a chair on his landing — which he used as a waiting room — reading a Norumbegan magazine called Glamour (UNHAPPY WITH YOUR SKIN? GET RID OF IT! BELINDY DRUNCHFYST SPILLS THE BEANS ON LIFE, LOVE, AND HER NEW INVISIBLE BEAU! 25 PLACES IN THE GLANDS YOU’VE NEVER BEEN — BUT NEED TO Go!). Gwynyfer Gwarnmore was leaning against the far wall with her arms crossed, frowning. The doctor closed his magazine.

  “Milady Munderplast has finished with her revelations?” he snarfled, bobbing his head low.

  “Your Lady Munderplast,” said Lady Munderplast, “will not finish with her revelations until long after she is laid in the tomb.” She pulled her veil back over her face, nodded to Gwynyfer — who curtsied back — and strode off.

  The doctor bustled back into his office, followed by Gwynyfer, who walked in with an air of gorgeous fury. Dr. Brundish closed the door behind them. “What a fine lady, Lady Munderplast,” he said. “A fine, fine figure of a woman.” He paused and looked romantically at the eaves.

  It took him some time before he recalled that Brian was being sucked dry by leeches.

  SIXTEEN

  That evening, Brian lay in bed, miserable and scared.

  As he had hobbled back to his room, supported on one side by Gregory and on the other by Gwynyfer, they had wandered through a vague kind of game in the Grand Hall: The members of the Norumbegan Social Club, dressed in black tie, were squealing with pleasure and rolling an old truck tire across the room, trying to not hit two ranks of robotic drones, which had been instructed to trudge slowly back and forth in opposite directions, holding out their arms like Egyptians.

  The tire came soaring toward the three kids, and Gregory had chuckled, whooped, and jumped out of the way. But Brian, of course, couldn’t jump. It had hit him and he’d fallen down.

  He was not hurt. His glasses had fallen off. He could tell the men of the Social Club were laughing secretly.

  “All clear, old thing?” said Lord Dainsplint. “Terribly sorry.”

  “No problem,” said Gregory. “Good shot.”

  Gwynyfer helped Brian to his feet. Brian carefully replaced his glasses on his nose. He was ashamed. He winced as he stood.

  They began to roll the tire between the drones again.

  A farmer in a tunic was standing at the end of the room, pleading, “Can I have my tire back now, your lordships? Yes, very funny. Very funny, my lord. Now can I have my tire back? Please?”

  “I don’t have it, old thing,” said Lord Dainsplint, rolling it to the next man. “The Chancellor of the Exchequer has it.”

  The Chancellor of the Exchequer rolled it to the next man. “I don’t have it, either, my good
sir,” he said. “I believe it’s in the possession of His Excellency the Lord High Castellan.”

  “My cart,” said the man, “can’t go with only the one wheel.”

  Brian felt a rush of hatred for them all — the whole Court of New Norumbega — all of them playing their stupid games that decided the fates of families and nations.

  “You okay?” Gregory asked.

  Brian nodded. “Just — let’s go back to our room. You can leave me there. I don’t want to walk around any more tonight.”

  “If that’s okay,” said Gregory. “I mean, me just leaving you.”

  And Brian had been even more upset to notice how eager Gregory was to get rid of him. He could tell that Gregory was embarrassed for Brian, that Gregory wanted to get Brian out of the way so that he, too, could try to be as witty and as playful as these men in their tuxedos, with servants at their command.

  And so Brian lay in bed in their room, exhausted almost to the point of tears, thinking of Kalgrash — kind, friendly Kalgrash — lying there inert, shut off, in the prison down the hill, his claws half unfurled. Brian thought of all the times people had insulted him that day, called him stupid or ape, and it just made him tired. He didn’t want to have to make deals with these people and beg for information. He thought of his parents, round and cracking jokes, sitting down at dinner (spaghetti), how horrified they would be to hear what was said about him, how they’d put an arm around him and tell him he was wonderful, not to give up. They’d tell him how much they loved him.

  It meant nothing, Brian felt with a hollow ache. What did it matter what his parents thought of him or said? They were in another world, and he was stranded here. He couldn’t see them. He couldn’t protect them. They wouldn’t know what hit them when the Thusser appeared. Who knew how much time had passed back in Boston? Months, maybe. They could already be part of a Thusser settlement. They might be protruding out of their walls, eyes empty, while Thusser men planned further horrors at their table, or some young Thusser couple, back from the kill, kissed on their bed in front of them.