by Foul-ball
Proton, Cormack and Bernard dressed variously, picking uniforms that might suit. There was such a strange assortment of individuals dead in the hut that Cormack wondered how they had all come to be together at one time, but the costumes to wear were obvious.
Proton intended to be rubberized again, because he was dressing as the Praetorian Guard he had once legitimately been, but he was still handcuffed to Cormack and it required many complicated contortions from the both of them to get him clothed.
At last, it was done and Cormack put on his pageboy costume. It was rather fey and his pants were too tight, but Proton allowed it because the sleeves were florid, flared, and hid the handcuffs.
Bernard had found a hassock, which consumed him baggily.
There were quiet goodbyes to the Guards. Then they opened the door to the small corridor that led into the Palace and Proton led them across to the side entrance that would take them to the Reception Rooms and beyond.
Chapter Seventy-Four
The Archbishop of Kantleberry had quarters in the West Wing.
He had taken to going to bed early because he had gout and needed to keep his left leg raised. His bed had been specially engineered for the task: it had an appurtenance like a pier that ran off from the main frame to be jacked up with a little handle by the comforter. He had been meaning to get it oiled for quite some time because it was stiff, but hadn’t remembered to call maintenance so he was stuck, prone, with the leg raised too high, caught in a horizontal goosestep.
He was a tall man, a little stout, bloated by the ecumenical wine and the conviviality of the succession of meetings, receptions, and assemblies of which his office seemed largely to consist. He wore his long brown hair tied at the back with elaborate ruffles, and his pyjamas were scarlet, like his vesture, and stuffed with his greying long johns. On three fingers of each hand, he wore rings like scarabs, and his nails were long and manicured and painted a Tyrian purple.
He summoned the chambermaid by pushing a button near the bed head.
She knocked on the door and he called her to enter.
‘Yes, Your Grace,’ she said. She stood by the door boldly. He was such a dreadful frump. It would be the first of many such summonses tonight and she had only just clocked on.
‘The contraption has gone up too high. Could you try to adjust it? And I would like Horlicks.’
‘Of course, Your Grace.’
She had to bend low to get at the gearing and he had a good view of her for a while, but there was little she could do about the pier and she said, rising, that she would have to call the mechanic, which he didn’t want so he waved her away and she left to get his drink.
When she had gone, storming down the corridor and muttering under her breath, Bernard stepped out of the darkness and knocked quietly on the Archbishop’s door. They had found the room at once. Proton, knowing the Palace like the back of his hand, had led them there through the dimly lit passages that seemed to run everywhere within.
‘Come in!’ cried the Archbishop, pleased that the chambermaid had returned so quickly.
Bernard poked his head round the door.
‘Please excuse me,’ he said.
‘Oh!’ said the Archbishop who wasn’t expecting to hear a male voice. ‘Who are you?’
Bernard strode forward purposefully and shut the door behind him.
‘Bernard,’ he said. ‘Formerly Australised Sibyl to the Shamanic Throat. Pleased to meet you.’ He reached out to shake the Archbishop’s hand, which was quickly withdrawn beneath the bedspread. ‘I mean, formerly Australised,’ Bernard added, anxious to make a good impression with such an elevated theologian and thinking the Archbishop had misunderstood him. ‘I’m still the Sibyl really, until the Throat would have it otherwise, but I’ve been doing a bit more travelling lately.’
‘Get out of my bedroom!’ said the Archbishop and he pressed the button by the bed head.
‘Well, I would love to,’ said Bernard. ‘This is really most uncomfortable for me too. But I’m under orders to sound you out over a small matter that you might be able to help me with.’
The Archbishop had the bedclothes drawn up tight and was squirming under them like a landed fish.
‘I have some friends with me. They’re waiting outside,’ continued Bernard. ‘Do you mind if I invite them in?’
Proton, who had been listening at the door, didn’t wait for an answer and came quietly in, dragging Cormack with him.
‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Captain Proton, formerly of the Praetorian Guard.’
‘And Cormack.’
‘The Negus,’ added Proton.
‘Guard, arrest these intruders,’ said the Archbishop. ‘I summoned you with my bell.’
‘Is he cooperating, Bernard?’
‘I haven’t actually asked him if he would do it yet.’
‘Bernard, we don’t have much time.’
‘I am aware, Captain.’
‘Bernard is a man steeped in mystery, Archbishop. I suggested he talk to you first because you must have many similar interests and I thought you two would get along very well. He wants a favour. I don’t suppose you caught our broadcast, just released to the uniSwarm. But we have the Negus. We want you to crown him.’
The Archbishop mustn’t have heard correctly, or he was distracted by the knocking that was now coming from the door, because he drew the bedclothes right up over him so that he was hidden from view and quivered beneath them silently.
It was the chambermaid at the door and Proton let her in.
Seeing that the Archbishop was not alone, she gave a little gasp and dropped the Horlicks.
The Archbishop heard her from under the bedclothes and called out, ‘Madam! These gentlemen are intruders! Summon the Guards!’ But Proton had the door shut tight the moment she was inside and waved his laser gun at her. He made her sit on the bed by the Archbishop.
‘We want you to dress and come with us,’ he said to the Archbishop. ‘We need you in the throne room.’
‘I will do no such thing.’
‘He’s not going to cooperate,’ said Proton. He turned to the chambermaid.
‘Help him with his clothes,’ he said.
‘Don’t you move from my side, Madam.’
‘Get him out of the bed, Bernard.’
‘Why me? Couldn’t the boy help?’
‘I’m chained to Proton. We can’t keep the gun on the chambermaid and the Archbishop and get him dressed as well.’
‘Oh very well,’ said Bernard resignedly. ‘Come, come now, Archbishop.’
In the end, they had to leave the Archbishop in his pyjamas and restrain him within a blanket. He was very strong for an eminent churchman and Bernard’s feeble efforts to have him dressed were limited to the kind of desperate instructions and gentle prods one might employ with a reluctant toddler. The Archbishop was of course having none of it. In the end, the chambermaid got involved out of sheer exasperation.
They carried him between them and lifted him outside.
The chambermaid was instructed to remain within the bedroom on pain of death. They left her bound with curtain cords.
Chapter Seventy-Five
The cow was to be greased, disguised as a cut of beef, and offered as food to the Palace kitchens.
Stanton Bosch had smeared her with corn syrup mixed with a crimson food colouring, primarily on her stumps, so that she looked newly harvested. He found a hook in a hardware shop that he split in two, inserting both ends in her mouth to make her look skewered. Then he hung her from the roof of a cold storage van, suspending her in a trapeze harness that was strung on wires of a very fine thread.
The Palace kitchen was not expecting a delivery, but their records were imperfect and they received her all the same. She was placed on a table in the cold storage.
After dislodging the hook from her mouth with a flick of her tongue, it was a simple matter for her to communicate her position to Stanton Bosch. He had scaled the fifteen foot fence at the b
ack of the grounds with the minimum of fuss, and was hiding in the topiary. Traction was left outside as back-up, communicating the position of the Guards as they patrolled through the grounds.
Stanton Bosch had assumed a variety of disguises in his time on Foul Ball, none of them particularly convincing, and the cow was concerned how he would appear this time.
In the end, when the doors to the deep freeze were finally blasted open, she realized she needn’t have worried. He stood before her in lederhosen, as he had climbed the SplatterHorn, with a diplomat’s tag that he wore on a lapel.
‘Come with me, my friend, the cow,’ he said to her, and he led her to a catering trolley and laid her out on a silver platter next to a plate of salad, amidst gasps from the kitchen staff. She took an apple and held it in her mouth as though the Chef, as a final effect, had lodged it there.
‘To the throne room,’ she gurgled.
‘I know where we goin’,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘But I ain’t know how to get there.’
He ran with his charge down the long corridors searching for a sign that would lead them to Cormack.
Chapter Seventy-Six
The throne room was empty and easily accessed when Cormack, Proton, Bernard, and the Archbishop came upon it. The Archbishop was still not cooperating, so they kept him wrapped in the blanket from which he seemed unwilling to escape. It appeared to have an anaesthetizing effect, like swaddling clothes on a baby, or perhaps he had suffocated. Proton pulled the gag around his mouth down a little to check for sure, but he couldn’t be certain. He thought he felt breath when he held out his hand, but it could have been a movement of air from the heat inside the bindings to the colder air outside.
‘Well, I suppose we would want him over there,’ said Bernard, pointing above the throne.
‘Archbishop,’ he said loudly, as though he were speaking to somebody quite deaf. ‘We will place you above the throne, in your accustomed position.’
The Archbishop did not respond and Bernard turned to Proton.
‘He will have to come out of the blanket. He’s not going to be able to perform the ceremony with it wrapped around him.’
‘Archbishop,’ said Proton. ‘You must cooperate. This is the Negus. The real Negus. Bernard, the Sibyl, has the papers for you. Show him the scroll, Bernard.’
The scroll was produced from the Sibyl’s habit and held in front of the Archbishop.
Bernard moved it up and down so he could read it from top to bottom.
‘Are you satisfied, Archbishop? Will you cooperate?’
Once again, they could detect no signs of life from within the blanket, so Bernard insisted he be released.
Proton did the honours and it was almost exactly the opposite of a mummification, the body being unbound bit by bit to reveal something lifeless. The Archbishop was given a poke with Proton’s laser gun and he reanimated, as though he had awakened from a trance, with a burbling sound in the back of his throat.
‘I wish to return to my room,’ he said in a whisper.
‘Yes, but first things first, Archbishop,’ said Proton. ‘The Negus is here. Cormack, come forward.’
Cormack had been skulking in the back of the room, wondering whether to make a break for it. The idea of making a break for it had been continuously occurring to him since the day of his abduction, but it had always occurred to him with an associated idea, that of being from Rochdale, and adrift, so that he had never quite felt able to act on it. Now with the cow dead, or so he thought, he had even fewer options.
He moved to stand next to Proton.
‘Cormack, sit on the throne!’
‘The throne is not for anyone to sit on except the Emperor!’ said the Archbishop, who had gained volume and become declamatory.
‘Cormack, do as I say! Sit on the throne!’
It was a large, stone construction, in the manner of the golden throne of King Tutankhamen, but lined with a velvet fabric that gave a silvery sheen as though it was rubbed through with cobwebs. The back was studded with hundreds of glistening gems of all different colours, and there was a place to put one’s feet. Cormack tried it for size, chiefly because Proton was waving his gun at him, and thought it quite comfortable.
‘Good,’ said Proton. ‘Let us begin.’
He looked towards the Archbishop who was unmoved.
‘Where is the hive-mind?’ said Proton.
The Archbishop spoke slowly and carefully.
‘Guard, where have you been these last few weeks? Are you not aware that the hive-mind was destroyed in the terrorist attack that killed the Emperor?’
‘Is that true?’ said Bernard.
‘Oh my Lord!’ said Proton. ‘I think it might be.’ He was ducting furiously, trying to access the archived news feed of the Emperor’s death.
‘Bit of a bugger then,’ said Bernard.
‘There must have been something planned for the new Emperor’s coronation. Don’t you have a replacement?’
‘The new hive-mind is being prepared in the nursery,’ said the Archbishop. ‘But progress is slow and it is not ready. Some of the science has been lost, I’m afraid. The previous hive-mind was used for both the Emperor and his father, if you remember, over three hundred years in all, and we’re missing information that would help in the construction of a replacement.’
‘Cormack, get off the throne!’ said Proton. ‘A little respect, mate!’
‘In any case, to attach the hive-mind to a Negus through a throat cable requires surgery.’
‘I thought that’s what you did. I thought that was your role.’
‘Certainly, it is. But as I said, the new hive-mind is not completed. In any case, a coronation is not a straightforward affair. The attachment of the throat cable requires tools. I fear whatever plans you might have had were misconceived.’
‘Look,’ said Proton. ‘Archbishop, please. We come to you in good faith.’
‘May I remind you that you are under religious obligation, Archbishop?’ said Bernard. ‘I am the Sibyl and he bears the scroll.’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Will you accompany us to the nursery?’ said Proton and waggled his laser gun.
‘I fear I have little choice,’ said the Archbishop.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
When Stanton Bosch and the cow arrived at the throne room, they found it unexpectedly empty.
‘He does want the mock Negus crowned, don’t he?’ said Stanton Bosch.
‘I thought that was the whole purpose of bringing him to the Palace,’ said the cow.
‘So why ain’t he in the throne room then?’
‘Perhaps they’ve finished.’
‘And nothing on the uniSwarm? They ain’t get here yet, that’s all. See.’ Stanton Bosch was fiddling with the throne that Cormack had sat in just a little while before. ‘The new hive-mind still sits in its compartment, ready for application.’
He had found a small notch in the seat back, and by turning one of the jewels on the front, it had come loose, and a door had opened up. A black box was within, attached to a long thin cable. It buzzed ominously.
‘Ooooo,’ said the cow. ‘You could try it on. You are the real Negus and the rightful Emperor after all.’
‘Aye, but now ain’t the time. You need an Archbishop to fit one of those. And I don’t see one around here.’
‘Maybe that’s where they went.’
‘Where?’
‘To fetch the Archbishop.’
‘Aye, you’re right cow. They would have to get an Archbishop to perform the surgery.’
‘The Archbishop of Kantleberry lives within the Palace.’
‘We should check his quarters. But one of us will need to stay here in the throne room. In case they come here.’
‘I will stay,’ said the cow.
‘All right,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘I ain’t planning to be long anyhow. I’ll just check out his room and come right back.’
When Stanton Bosch had gone, the cow approached the
throne.
She had seen how he had opened the compartment to get at the hive-mind, but it was tricky for her without her full limbs. After much effort, she had a purchase on the notch with the fist of her right fore-stump and she pushed the jewel with her tongue. It came away nicely in one movement.
Carefully, she slid the new hive-mind from its resting place, so that it fell to the seat of the throne, and she bent herself double to pull out the screwdriver that she had kept hidden, tight in her secret place, ready for this moment.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Proton was getting very annoyed with the Archbishop.
He had an idea where the nursery was, but the Archbishop seemed to be leading them in the opposite direction.
‘Are you sure this is the way?’ he said.
‘Of course,’ said the Archbishop.
They were using the servants’ corridors as before, and Proton wondered how they could be in the least bit familiar to an Archbishop.
‘One makes nocturnal visits from time to time,’ was all he would volunteer.
‘This is the way to the Guardroom,’ said Proton.
‘Is it now?’
‘Are you playing games with us, Archbishop?’
‘Of course not,’ he said, but he seemed to have developed a tic that was at its most pronounced whenever they encountered a servant girl or pageboy, of which there were a few, carrying plates and laundry and linen to the various parts of the Palace.
Bernard was the first to announce he had had enough.
‘I don’t think you have a clue where you are going,’ he said.
‘How dare you!’ said the Archbishop. But when they reached the end of another long corridor, he made a bolt for a double door that was flush to one side, and would have been through it, except that Proton got a hand to the elastic in his pyjamas and pulled him back hard so that he had him sprawled on the floor.
‘Naughty, naughty Archbishop,’ said Proton. ‘What were you thinking?’
