The Empire of Gut and Bone (15 page)

It was a dirty plastic bag filled with cosmetics. Brian unzipped it and laid the products on the desk. “A tube of … ‘cover-up’ … and ‘eye definer.’ ”

“Whoa,” said Gregory. “The dude was a lady.”

“Dr. Brundish,” said Gwynyfer, slitting her eyes, “was no lady.” She picked up the tube of cover-up and read the brand name with a sneer.

“No,” said Brian. “The dude wasn’t a lady.”

“Thank goodness,” said Gregory. “Because he would have made the ugliest lady ever.”

“And what’s wrong with ugly ladies?” Gwynyfer asked
him. “Don’t you think men should take their turn dating back hair, nail fungus, and weak chins?”

“Dr. Brundish,” Brian announced, “was a Thusser.”

The other two looked at him, astounded.

“What do you mean?” Gregory said, and Gwynyfer protested, “That’s rot.”

“How can you tell the difference between the Thusser and Norumbegans?”

“They both have pointy ears,” said Gregory.

“Everyone has pointy ears,” said Gwynyfer, “except you. Your race wasn’t invited.”

“What? To the ear-off?”

“The
Thusser,”
said Brian, “have dark rings around their eyes. So if Dr. Brundish wanted to look like the Norumbegans, he would have to hide the dark rings with the cover-up makeup, and then redefine his eyes.”

“Whoa,” said Gregory. He looked at the eye definer and asked, “So what’s most women’s excuse?”

Gwynyfer answered sweetly, “Looking swell for idiots like you.” She batted her lashes.

Brian could not believe they were flirting at a time like this. He said, “Dr. Brundish is a Thusser. He has probably been reporting everything back to the Horde for however long he’s been here. How long has he been here?”

Gwynyfer shrugged. “Since I was a little girl. But that’s outrageous. Everyone knows him. He’s chirurgeon to the Ex-Empress and the Ex-Emperor.”

Brian said, “I’ll bet that walkie-talkie is how he keeps in touch with the Magister of the Thusser Horde.”

“This?” said Gregory, pointing at the thing.

“Try it again,” Brian urged.

They were almost afraid to listen in now, knowing that the radio might be broadcasting the sound of their breath to some alien world, some shuddering, webby home of evil, where Thusser, crouched in pods, whispered through mouths of thick teeth to their operatives in many worlds.

Slowly, Gregory reached out for the on-off toggle. He switched it. The set came on.

And a voice was singing a love song — a dapper little number clearly from the top of some otherworldly pop chart.

“It’s a radio station,” said Gregory. “Just a radio station.”

They listened, perplexed. It sounded like some kind of old-time jazz from a nightclub in one of the black-and-white detective movies Brian loved, but played on weird buzzing instruments and all broken up, so that the melody glinted and reflected through a fugitive spray of alien harmonies. The singer had glue in his voice as he sang of hands and a pretty face and a moth around the street-lamp flitting.

The three kids listened in silence. Then they shut off the radio and sat thinking about the Thusser, about spies, about something far worse than a mannequin army that might soon surround the city.

In a featureless plain of digestive jelly, blown by sour winds from distant bellows, in a ruin unbuilt, lay a portal to another world. It stood at the top of a grand staircase to nowhere.

In previous ages, the citizens of Old Norumbega had marched through it, bringing their birdcages, their bicycles, the portraits of their ancestors standing in gloom.

Now the plain was empty of motion. The veins above glowed a faint blue. Wind blew through columns and past foundations. Blocks of dead, pink tissue lay where they’d fallen when swept along centuries before by brunch in the Season of Meals.

The stairs near the black portal to Earth were stained from a campfire. A piece of a chair lay charred among old coals. Most of the ashes had already blown away.

There was nothing to mark day and night. No light but the somber blue.

At some time, the portal wobbled in its frame. The cavity shuddered. Its surface rippled.

A man came through. His ears were pointed. There were dark circles around his eyes.

He stood, surveying the sticky plains. He held up lightbulbs in his hand. He turned gears. He wrote symbols on a clipboard.

He disappeared back into the portal.

Time passed. Far out in the muck, some toothed and haunched antibodies paddling on round fins closed in on a school of spotted, long-legged trout and there was, for a time, a distant plashing. A quick, spasmodic frenzy, and then the gut was silent once again.

The wind blew. Hours passed.

And then the portal rippled again, and this time, the Thusser came in numbers. They glowered as they stepped through, all wearing long, dark overcoats with wide lapels. They stood upon the stairs, twenty of them, thirty, forty, moving down to make way for more. They looked out at the world they would soon conquer.

And more came through. And more. And more.

W
hile the Thusser spread their dominion across the Earth and into the Great Body, and the Mannequin Resistance waited to firebomb the helpless population of the capital city, the Norumbegan Social Club held another tea dance for the Court.

The Grand Hall was lit with candles that streaked the walls black. A gentle, warm breeze blew in through the smashed windows, stirring the wide leaves of several plastic palms that had been brought in specially for the occasion. The curtains had been pulled aside so the Stub, wild-eyed, could observe from his throne. And the Court, dressed in their grubby finery, danced.

Gregory wondered if maybe he could ask Gwynyfer to take a turn with him around the ballroom. He imagined the weight of her arms on his. He didn’t really know how to do ballroom dancing, but he guessed it had to do with holding on and swaying.

“So,” Brian said to Gwynyfer, “you were going to point out all the members of the Imperial Council to us — everyone who could have used the Imperial seal.”

She patted her forehead in despair. “Are you really — really — going to ask me about that? In the middle of a lovely party?”

“Fourteen people died this morning in an attack,” said Brian. “Gregory’s and my world is under siege. This is no time —”

She wailed, “How could you have come so
far
and still be so
uninteresting?”

“Here’s an idea,” said Gregory. “I was thinking — Bri — Gwynyfer — I was thinking that the best way for you to point out the members of the Council without anyone noticing would be, Gwynyfer, if you and me were to dance, the two of us. As we went around the room, you know, in circles, you could say, ‘Hey, there’s Lord Honeybunny.’ ”

Gwynyfer smiled. “Is that an invitation?”

Gregory bowed. “Gregory Stoffle of the Grand Duchy of Brookline greets Miss Gwarnmore, daughter of the Duke of the Globular Colon, and extends his wish that tulips will spell out her name and the air around her hair will smell like candy canes. He respectfully requests that she joins him so that together, they might demonstrate to the ancient Court of Norumbega how to get down and shake up a jive panic.”

Gwynyfer laughed. “Miss Gwarnmore reservedly accepts Mr. Stoffle’s offer. May the brunch never flood his basement.”

Gregory said, “That was beautiful, sister.” He winked at Brian, put his arm around Gwynyfer, and danced into the crowd with her.

With his small, white face, Brian watched them go.

Gregory couldn’t believe he had one arm kind of around Gwynyfer. His other hand held hers. It was like static electricity along his skin.

He couldn’t believe how complicated her face was. It looked beautiful, every angle he saw it from. When she turned to the side, there was her profile — perfect and poised. When she looked right at him, her eyes were so clever, her eyebrows were so symmetrical, he felt like he had to say something.

He said, “Your dress is a smart little number.”

It was plaid silk.

“Thank you. It’s the perfect frock for murder investigation.”

“Obviously.”

“So there,” she said, bobbing her head, “are the Ex-Empress and the Ex-Emperor. As the Stub’s parents, they’re the two most important members of the Imperial Council.”

“How many members are there in all?”

“Eleven, with the Regent. But he’d dead. So that makes ten. There’s Lord Dainsplint.”

“Of course. Who had two motives to kill the Regent: both because he could try to become Regent himself, and because he wants to make sure that the Court stays in New Norumbega and the Great Body. Because like the wizard says, he owns a lot of land here.”

“And you know the Earl of Munderplast.”

“Who also has a motive: He was from the opposing party, and he also wants to become Regent.”

“And Count Galahad Ffines-Whelter.”

“Gesundheit.”

“Gugs.”

“Do you want to wipe your nose on my sleeve?”

“You know Gugs.”

“Yup. Does he have a motive for killing the Regent?”

She thought about it. Her thinking face, Gregory noticed, was adorable. Finally, she answered, “I don’t think either he or Lord Dainsplint thought that the Regent was acting in the best interests of the Norumbegan Social Club. They thought he’d lost his way. Maybe Chigger and Gugs were in cahoots.”

“What’s cahoots?”

“Chums. Plotting together.”

“So that’s five. There’s five more left.”

“Over there is Lord Attleborough-Stoughton. The financier. He has bags of money.” With a wag of her head, she indicated a man in a fur coat with a bristly mustache. “He made millions on trains. He built the Esophagus Line.”

“Reason for killing the Regent?”

“He hated the Regent. And I bet he would be very angry about any suggestion that we abandon the Great Body and go back to Old Norumbega. His financial empire is here. All his railroads. If the Court ever left the Great Body, he would lose everything.”

“So we should figure out where he was at midnight two nights ago.”

“Sure. Spiffing. Enjoy asking him. He’ll adore that.”

“Next?”

“Next,” she said. “See that stiff with the monocle over there?”

“Monocle,” Gregory said. “I didn’t think anyone still wore monocles.”

“It’s not prescription,” she said. “He just likes the way it looks.”

It was an older gentleman, balding, with a fringe of white hair and a white mustache with ends that pointed straight up. His monocle flashed in the candlelight, runes running continuously across its rim where he could read them. He was dressed in white tie and tails. Looking around the gathering, he pouted, as if he approved of nothing.

“Wow,” said Gregory. “He looks like he has the runs and he’s trying to keep it in.”

Gwynyfer laughed and nodded. “Yes,” she said. “That’s my father. Cheveral Gwarnmore, Duke of the Globular Colon.”

Gregory looked at her, astonished. “Your father is on the Imperial Council?”

Gwynyfer furrowed her brow. “Of course,” she said. “We’re from one of the most ancient Norumbegan families.”

And as Gregory was about to ask a surprised question, a crooner standing in front of the band began singing.

At the sound, across the room, Brian’s eyes grew wide.

It was the voice they’d heard over the Thusser radio.

He rushed, pushing and leaping, through the dancing crowd. Noblemen glared. Brian got to Gregory and Gwynyfer’s side.

“Gregory!” he said. “Gregory! Do you hear that voice? That’s the guy we heard through the radio!”

Gregory looked annoyed. “So go get his autograph,” he said.

“No!” said Brian. “We heard him on the walkie-talkie! All gluey-voiced like that! Right after we heard a bunch of people talking, like the people in this room were all talking, I bet, before the band started playing. That radio — it’s a spying device! There must be a bug in here — a hidden microphone that picks up everything happening in the Grand Hall and the throne room. The radio isn’t just how Dr. Brundish talked to the Thusser — it’s also how he listened in on the Council’s secret business. That must be how the Thusser keep an eye on what’s happening in New Norumbega.”

Gregory stopped dancing. He was shocked, but what Brian said made a lot of sense.

“So much for tripping the light fantastic,” said Gwynyfer. She stepped away from Gregory.

“Somewhere in this room,” Brian insisted, “there’s a microphone that’s broadcasting everything to the Thusser.” He began looking carefully around at the potted palms and the tables and the drones.

Brian was starting to attract the notice of the Court. They were glaring at him.

Gwynyfer’s mother, bedecked with peacock feathers, swept up to them. “The Duchess of the Globular Colon inquires of her daughter what she is doing fraternizing with that human creature.” She pointed at Brian.

“Mother, he says that the Grand Hall has been tapped by the Thusser.”

The woman stared at Brian. Other couples were starting to gather around them now.

“You realize, Gwynyfer, that he’s an unknown. It is he who has been trying to get us to abandon the city.” Her aigrette trembled with disgust.

“Ma’am,” said Brian, “I’m not —”

The man in the beaver fur coat — Lord Attleborough-Stoughton — glowered at Brian’s side. “What’s your angle, kid?” he asked. “Who are you tangled up with? You with the manns?”

“That’s not what I heard,” said Gwynyfer’s mother, the duchess. “I heard the Thusser. He has the pallid, morally exhausted look of a spy for the Horde.”

“Is it the Thusser?” asked Lord Attleborough-Stoughton. “Huh? Fess up, kid. You’re in deep with someone.”

Now Brian was surrounded by frowns. People were drifting over. “I read something in the paper about him.” — “Thusser spy.” — “Thusser.” — “Really? Too, too sad. So young in years, so old in vice.” — “That’s the one? The one people are talking about?” They surrounded him. He looked at their faces. They hated him.

“That’s ridiculous!” he said, but no one was listening. “It’s ridiculous! I specifically said I want you to
defeat
the
Thusser!
Defeat
them! Because North America, where I’m from, is in danger! Why would I want to —”

“If anyone cares to shake on a small wager,” said Gugs, “I’d bet a magnum of champagne it’s the Thusser he’s from.”

The Duchess said, “The boy tried to convince the Regent to abandon our city.”

“I did not!”

“What sort of game are you playing?” asked Lord Attleborough-Stoughton.

Duke Gwarnmore, Gwynyfer’s father, just peered at the boy through his monocle.

Lord Dainsplint appeared at the edge of the crowd. “What’s the ruckus, chaps? Oh, that miserable little blighter.”

Brian protested to him, “You know I’m not in league with the Thusser! I’m the one who tried to convince you to stop them!”

“I know you’re probably dangerous, and you’re certainly no fun,” said Dainsplint. “You’re always piddling in our campfire.”

Brian was about to reply, but Dainsplint held up his hand. “No! No! You’re uninvited. No tea dance for you. Out! Out, I tell you!”

Brian retreated in shame.

Gregory watched him go. He shrank back into the crowd. He felt bad for Brian, but he didn’t want anyone to notice him and throw him out, too.

The dancing had been so much fun.

Now the music had stopped.

Lord Dainsplint looked around. “Ho, ho, ho,” he said without pleasure. “Back to the drollery.” He waved a hand.

The band started up again, and the crooner began to sing.

And far away, through hundreds of miles of tubing and corky organ, in a camp by a ruined city, a Thusser radio operator with a headset leaned close to a console, nudging dials, smiling, hearing — faintly — Norumbega’s song.

Brian walked through the empty palace. Everyone else was up at the dance.

That was fine with him. He was so angry, he didn’t want to run into anyone.

They weren’t wrong, he reflected. He did want them to lose, at this point. He wanted the mannequins to march into the city and demand their independence and get it. The Norumbegans deserved to lose. They were lazy. They couldn’t keep a thought in their heads for more than three minutes. They didn’t care about anything or anyone. They were selfish.

Yes, but not just selfish. They were too giddy and bored to even be good at being selfish.

Part of the palace had apparently not yet been built. The staircase he moped down hung outside the palace, with only badly nailed two-by-fours where a wall should be, like a stitch in the keep’s side.

And Gregory — Brian was angry at Gregory, too. Retreating like that into the crowd so he could keep dancing once Brian was gone. It seemed like Gregory cared more about flirting with Gwynyfer than stopping the Thusser.

Or, Brian admitted, than being friends with him.

Brian had reached a wooden hoarding that led around the curved belly of the palace. He walked along it, peering out the windows at the city and the siege.

The Mannequin Resistance was drawn up into lines, unmoving, in the desert. They were, he figured, waiting for someone from the Imperial Council to go out and hear their terms. Little did they know, no one was being sent.

As Brian leaned out of one of the windows, the plank flooring underneath him began to shake. Someone else was walking along the hoarding.

It didn’t feel very solid. He scurried along to the next arched door that led back through the thick palace wall and stepped through it. Inside was an old reception hall with a black-and-white marble floor. As Brian walked across it, he realized it wasn’t marble, but linoleum.

He heard someone fumbling with the metal latch. He didn’t want to see anyone. He didn’t want to be accused again, so he stepped back and lingered behind a wing-back chair.

It was the Earl of Munderplast, looking nervous. He shut the door and peered around suspiciously in the gloom — failed to see Brian — and rushed past.

Brian watched the old man go. He remembered Lady Munderplast’s hint — that the earl had not been home the night of the murder.

And he decided to follow.

Carefully, he rose up and slipped along the corridor after the retreating nobleman.