The Empire of Gut and Bone

by M. T. Anderson

  The captain of the guard thought about it hard. He ate some chips. He looked carefully at the bench and then at the deactivated prisoners lying on the floor of their cell. “Well,” he said finally, “there was some guy down from the palace. He come down yesterday evening during the tea dance, says he has a message from the Imperial Council for the prisoners. We let him in and he came in here, and he could’ve left the uniform, folded it up on the bench, I guess. Say, yeah. He could’ve. But why? That’s what I’m asking. Why?”

  Brian pressed on. “Who sent him exactly?”

  The captain shook his head. “No one exactly. He just says the Imperial Council. I mean, we would’ve needed a signed piece of paper if he wanted to go into the cell, but he just says he wants to talk to the prisoners, and there ain’t no law against that. But I know he’s on the straight and narrow. I know that. He’s been up at the palace for years. I know him.”

  Gregory saw that Brian was distracted by something in the cell. He jumped in and asked the guard, “Do you remember the guy’s name? The servant? Because he could tell us who sent him down. And what his message was.”

  The captain closed one eye. He squinched it up. He ate more potato chips. “Gwestin,” he said, after chewing. “Lambert Gwestin. Nice guy, friendly, serves up at the palace. Been up there for years. Used to be a plantation owner out in the Sixth or Seventh Lung, but his estate deflated. Since then, he’s been working at the Court and hoping for the big chance.”

  Gregory looked over at Brian. His friend was transfixed, as if it were Brian, and not Kalgrash, who’d been shut off. Brian stood at the slat door, looking into the dingy room.

  Gregory went to his side.

  Kalgrash lay there on the hard-packed dirt. He looked dead. In a sense, he was dead. His claws were half uncurled. His mouth sagged open, revealing his jagged, nail-like teeth, which usually stuck out when he gave his big, goofy grins.

  By his side were scrapes where he and Dantsig had dug their fingers into the dry flesh of the floor to make marbles. The marbles themselves lay near Kalgrash, a game disturbed.

  Gregory saw that Brian’s eyes were full of tears, and, staring at Brian’s pale face, he hoped that there wouldn’t be enough water to actually have the eyes overflow and make tracks down the cheeks, because then Brian would actually, literally be crying, and even though Gregory wanted to comfort his friend, crying weirded him out. As long as the tears just welled, Brian was still not crying, and Gregory didn’t have to say anything.

  Brian looked at the marbles. “He’s so playful,” said Brian. “Life’s a big joke to him.” Gregory watched the water tremble. He anxiously calculated: tears or no tears? No tears? Tears?

  Trying to head off the crying, Gregory said, “Don’t worry.”

  He couldn’t say more, with the captain of the guards looking on.

  But he lost his own bet, and as Brian rested his hand on the rough wood of the slats, the tears fell, just a few, into the muck at their feet.

  They could not find Lambert Gwestin in the palace. Almost no one was there — everyone was out enjoying the parade and the requiem mass.

  Having walked the empty chambers and corridors for fifteen minutes or so, they came back out into the harsh light of the piazza. Courtiers were starting to return, chatting comfortably, hailing their neighbors. Three of the blue-painted boys still played soccer with the wooden head, though the parade was over.

  Gregory looked around the square. “What do we do now? Since we can’t find Lambert Gwestin?”

  “I’ve been thinking … we should find out where the guards’ uniforms are stored. And see if anyone from Court asked for one yesterday.”

  “Good idea,” said Gregory, touching his nose.

  The boys talked to the soldiers who stood by the giant front gate, and they were directed toward a guardhouse on the side of the square. As they crossed over to the door, the boys ran into the Earl of Munderplast. He walked arm in arm with his wife, who wore a long lace veil. The earl himself was dressed in black satin robes.

  “Hello, sir,” said Gregory.

  “Ah! The humans,” said the earl. “You have missed a most edifying burial. I do so love a sung requiem. It always calls to mind the sorrowful fact that one day, it shall be I who am laid in the tomb under the stone, when I have reached the end of my years, or when this dear one,” he said, raising his wife’s thin hand to his lips, “succeeds in poisoning my salad.”

  “Nonsense, Mundy,” said his wife. “I won’t hear such talk.” She gazed away at the rooftops, and murmured, “You never eat salad.”

  Gregory said, “Sir, we’re looking for a palace servant named Lambert Gwestin. Do you happen to know where he is?”

  The earl looked at Gregory, astonished. “I certainly do not,” he said. “I don’t keep track of the to-ings and fro-ings of palace servants and housecarls. How do you expect me to know them by name?”

  “Especially,” said his wife, “when they all insist on being called by different ones.”

  “Precisely, my darling. Your Gwestin is doubtless out enjoying some robust and merry fest or funeral barbecue.”

  Gregory was surprised when Brian suddenly asked, “Sir, where were you when the murder happened? At midnight?”

  The earl fixed him with a look. “That,” he said, “is an impertinent question. I was with my darling wife, tucked away in our bed, clipped close in her arms as we slept the sleep of the innocent.”

  “Were you?” mused Lady Munderplast. “Yes, I suppose you must have been.”

  “I didn’t mean …” said Brian awkwardly. “I just meant, where were you when you heard the news?”

  “The news? I heard it not until this morning. Because the tragical corpse was not discovered until dawn. I would dearly love to dally, parleying with you about the high deeds and noble doings of the servant class and standing by while you accuse me of treason in a high, piping voice, but I am afraid we must progress to the funeral dinner and darts.”

  He and Lady Munderplast bowed and walked on.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, Gregory said, “He wasn’t home. You could tell it. She wanted us to know.”

  “I wonder if she really hates him,” said Brian. “Maybe she was just trying to make us suspicious.” Brian wrapped his thumb absently in the hem of his sweatshirt, then unwrapped it. “He talked about the Regent dying last night, when we met him. He could have known about a plot.”

  “Or he might just have hated the Regent like everyone else. Who knows?” Gregory jerked his head in the direction of the guardhouse. “Let’s go check out the uniforms.”

  The assistant quartermaster of the palace guards sat behind a tall desk, reading a copy of the Norumbega Vassal-Tribune.

  Gregory snapped on a winning smile and leaned across the desk. “We’re on a mission. The Imperial Council — someone up there — they’ve asked us to make a few discreet inquiries. Would you mind answering a couple of questions?”

  The man looked up. He did not speak. He was thin, and his pointed ears were tremendous.

  “Great,” said Gregory. “Thanks. Number one: Did anyone requisition a guard’s uniform yesterday?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Okay. Thanks. You’re golden…. Steal?”

  “Steal?”

  “Did anyone? Steal a uniform?”

  The man shook his head. “No,” he answered.

  “Counted?”

  “We’ve counted.”

  “And?”

  The assistant quartermaster shrugged.

  “Thanks,” said Gregory. “You’re —”

  “Two. Not one. They stole two.” He held up two spidery, thick-joined fingers.

  “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “When yesterday?”

  The assistant quartermaster shrugged.

  “Morning? Afternoon? Evening?”

  “Afternoon.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We counted.”

&nbs
p; “When?”

  “This morning. When we heard.”

  “Heard what?”

  “About the mannequin.”

  “Yesterday, did anyone come by?”

  “Anyone?”

  “Courtiers. Did any courtier come by?”

  “No.”

  “No noblemen?”

  “No.”

  “Servants?”

  “Servants?”

  “For example, a servant named Lambert Gwestin.”

  “I know Lambert.”

  “Huzzah.”

  “Lambert Gwestin didn’t come by.”

  “Other servants?”

  “None. Or nobles.”

  “Hmm.”

  “… I think.”

  “You think?”

  “We were betting on a bear race.”

  “All of you?”

  “Out back.”

  Brian said, “There are bears?”

  The assistant quartermaster pointed back into the dark recesses behind him. There was a huge, stuffed grizzly there, its fur falling off with age. It had, presumably, been hauled all the way from Earth.

  “It’s stuffed,” said Gregory.

  The assistant quartermaster nodded.

  “You were all betting on a stuffed bear.”

  “Pulled with rope.”

  “Ah.”

  “Two.”

  “Two stuffed bears.”

  “Correct.”

  “So no one was really watching the guardhouse, at that point.”

  “No.”

  “You were all …”

  “Out back.”

  “For how long?”

  The assistant quartermaster shrugged. “No one really wants to be a guard,” he said. “No glamour. Low pay.”

  “I see.”

  “I want to be on the radio.”

  “That’s a beautiful dream.”

  “So anyone,” said Brian, “could have come in and taken two uniforms yesterday afternoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyone,” said Gregory.

  “Yes.”

  “Lambert Gwestin could have been here?”

  The assistant quartermaster shrugged. “We like to play games and have fun. It lightens up the day.”

  “Thank you for telling us,” said Gregory.

  “You’re going to tell the Council, aren’t you?” said the assistant quartermaster. “And then I’ll be executed.”

  “We won’t,” Brian rushed to reassure him. “We won’t tell anyone.”

  “Why don’t people just do their jobs?” said Gregory. “Then everyone around here wouldn’t be worried about whether they were out back betting on stuffed bears or standing with their arms spread in the prison courtyard, buck naked.”

  “Oh, Talbot.”

  “Talbot?”

  “Buck naked. He dreams of the veldt.”

  “Sure,” said Gregory. “The veldt.”

  He and Brian thanked the assistant quartermaster and left. They didn’t think he would have anything else very useful to tell them.

  “So there were two uniforms stolen,” said Brian. “That proves what I was saying.”

  “What were you saying?” asked Gregory.

  They were sitting in the Grand Hall at a long trestle table. Courtiers sat all around them, talking and laughing. Servants brought small, parched roasts and straggly grilled vegetables on platters.

  “Why would someone steal two?” Brian asked. “Because they want to leave one where Dantsig will find it. They know he’ll put it on so he can slip out of the prison. And then they can bet that someone will see Dantsig and remember him in that uniform. And that he’ll be blamed for the assassination. Meanwhile, the assassin wears the other uniform.”

  “But wouldn’t he or she be recognizable?”

  Brian thought about this. “I guess. Unless somehow the assassin was disguised. With a fake goatee or something.”

  “A fake goatee?” Gregory raised an eyebrow.

  At this point, a servant arrived with two sorry-looking hamburgers on a platter. The buns were huge and there was ketchup everywhere. “Compliments of the Imperial Council,” said the servant. “The cooks have whipped up some delicacies from your homeland.”

  “Thank you!” said Gregory. The servant bowed and walked away.

  “All the killer needs is just enough evidence to raise strong suspicions about Dantsig,” said Brian. “They know that Dantsig won’t get a fair trial, because he’s a mannequin. No one will ever stop to ask if there was someone else sneaking around in a guard’s uniform yesterday at midnight.”

  “How did they know Dantsig would willingly go back to the prison after breaking out?”

  “Maybe they didn’t,” said Brian. “They probably thought he wouldn’t. Maybe they thought he’d escape into the desert. Then it would look even more like he was guilty.” Brian brought his hamburger up to his mouth. He didn’t see the glint of metal or the hint of motion twitching the bun.

  “So both Lord Dainsplint and the Earl of Munderplast threatened the Regent with death last night, or talked about how he was going to die.”

  “But so did Dantsig, when he was captured.”

  Brian nodded, about to bite. He paused, thoughtfully. Something in the burger crawled closer to his mouth.

  “Hey,” said Gregory. “There’s Gwynyfer!” He waved. “Come on over!” he called. “Sit with us!”

  She smiled and waved back. She came over, slipping her purse down from her shoulder into her hand. “Hi ho.”

  “Gregory and Brian,” said Gregory, pointing. “Remember?”

  She laughed. “Of course I remember. You’re celebrities.”

  “We’re humble, though. Movingly humble. Hey, great dance today.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Gwynyfer, rolling her eyes. “Too exhausting. My feet …”

  Brian went to take a bite.

  And his hamburger attacked.

  There was meat — a small disc of meat — but also a kind of a spinning top with blades — a tiny metal octopus — flailing at his lips, trying to hack at his face.

  He screamed and flung the burger.

  It hit the floor, and the razor puck skittered toward him.

  He raised a leg. The puck hacked at the other. It began to crawl up his pants, slicing.

  He screamed. The blades dug deep.

  Gwynyfer made a guttural grunt of disgust and whacked at the device with a ladle. The iron octopus tumbled. Landed on the ground. Slid. Skittered back toward Brian, slicing at the air.

  Brian leaped up onto the bench.

  People were screaming all around.

  The thing bobbed and tried to jump to attack.

  Brian wobbled where he stood. His leg was bleeding through his pants.

  He fell heavily. He had the air knocked out of him. He couldn’t breathe. He struggled to move his arms. He fought to regain his breath.

  The thing was all over him, running toward his face, his head, his ears, his eyes, his screaming mouth.

  And then someone kicked it off his chest — stepped on it.

  The servant who’d served the burger. He ground the deadly toy with his heel until bladed tentacles and springs popped free. Its engines squealed. The servant kept squashing.

  Finally, it was still.

  The servant reached his hand down to help Brian up.

  “The staff extends its apologies, sir,” he said.

  “What … what was that?”

  “It was not on the menu, sir. I have no idea.”

  Brian couldn’t stand on the one leg. It was red with slashes. He held it suspended.

  “Thank you,” he said. “You saved me.”

  The servant nodded. “At your service, sir.” He bowed.

  Brian sat heavily. “Thanks,” he said again. “I’m Brian.”

  “I’m Mr. Gwestin,” the servant said. “Lambert Gwestin.”

  FOURTEEN

  The Norumbega Vassal-Tribune

  SERVING THE INNARD
S SINCE 1282

  IMPERIAL COUNCIL SEEKS NEW REGENT

  WHILE NATION MOURNS

  NEW NORUMBEGA — Even while the citizens of the capital gather in the streets to watch the funeral procession for the late Duke Telliol-Bornwythe, the Imperial Council has met to discuss who shall take his place as Regent to His Imperial Majesty, the Stub.

  The new Regent will rule the nation in the Emperor’s name until the Stub, now almost a year and a half old, is of an age to take up the scepter himself. All Norumbegans of noble birth and noble creation are eligible to vote for one of the nominees.

  There are, at present, two leading candidates for the position of Regent. The late Regent’s own party, the Norumbegan Social Club, has put forward Lord Rafe “Chigger” Dainsplint as their representative.

  “It would be a great honor to serve,” says Dainsplint, “and all that.” His lordship, in a conversation this morning, pledged to return his party to the values that it has held as sacred for centuries: “Frequent galas, some heels-ups, chortling. We all need to worry about less, not more. It’s your duty to celebrate. Put on your red slippers, get into waltz position, and think of the Empire.”

  Lord Dainsplint’s call to celebration is in stark contrast to the announcement of the late Regent last night that the Empire was considering war on two fronts: a war of defense against the Mannequin Resistance and an invasion of Thusser territory on Earth. It appears Lord Dainsplint would reverse this policy and shelve the assault on Thusser positions. “Old Norumbega?” says Dainsplint. “People can hardly remember what the place was like. I wasn’t born yet. Wasn’t it dark? I seem to remember my mother saying it was dark.”

  The Norumbegan Social Club is currently the favored party in the Imperial Council. If Lord Dainsplint is elected, it is expected that the Social Club will hold a seven to four majority in the council chamber.

  The other leading candidate for the Regency will be the Earl of Munderplast, president of the opposition Melancholy Party. In an interview this morning, he pledged to continue his party’s commitment to mourning all that is lost and shattered, to weeping among the ruins. “There is plenty in this terrible time to lament about,” says the earl. “Plenty ghastly and full fell. At our height, in the days of the first Empress Qui, no automaton would have dared raise his hand against his master. In those years, we had never even heard of the Thusser Horde. Doleful, doleful days these are.”