“You seem to much affect the daughter of the Duke of the Globular Colon,” said the Earl of Munderplast. “One does so like to see young love. It reminds one faintly of when one had hope.” He scratched his chin. “Faintly,” he repeated.
“She’s a grand gal,” said Gregory. He could barely keep the giddiness out of his voice. He told Brian proudly, “Did you know her father is on the Imperial Council?”
Brian shook his head — then froze — and stared.
Gwynyfer Gwarnmore danced away, her hair shifting around her shoulders. Behind her came the young men of the Court, painted in blue woad, dancing on the mud of the road with their bare feet.
Brian felt tremendous alarm. “Her father?” he repeated.
“Yeah,” said Gregory. “She told me yesterday. They’re a really important family.”
The Earl of Munderplast explained, “A decayed branch of the ancient royal line. Descended from King Durnwyth Gwarnmore the Navigator.”
“Good blood, that,” added Gugs. “Runs golden as honey. Clots when necessary.”
“Clots?” said Gregory.
“Scabs,” Gugs explained.
“Gregory,” Brian interrupted, “her father is a suspect.”
Gregory thought about it. “Well, yeah, okay, technically.”
“Not technically!” Brian protested. “He really could have done it! And we’ve been telling Gwynyfer everything.”
The rusted old automaton built to represent the Norumbegan Empire Herself, Grieving, rattled along the street, painted eyes blind, squirting tears. She threw flower petals. The petals were ground in the dirt of the avenue as the crowd surged forward and fell back.
Brian and Gregory weren’t paying attention. Gregory challenged, “What are you saying?”
“That Gwynyfer could have been spying on us.”
Gregory rolled his eyes. “Oh, sure.”
“Yes, sure. And what about all those times she tried to convince us to stop investigating? Why do you think she did that?”
“She’s one of these people,” Gregory said, throwing his hand out toward the earl and Gugs with disgust. “You know they can’t keep a thought in their heads for more than five minutes.”
“I say,” Gugs interjected. “That’s a bit cheeky, old thing.”
“Oh, come on.” Gregory turned to Gugs. “You got to admit it. You people have the emotional lives of gnats.”
Gugs shrugged. “Not entirely off the mark,” he agreed. He looked anxiously over the shoulders of the mourners to see if the ice-cream man was out of banana gelato.
“Wasn’t always like that,” the Earl of Munderplast complained. “Once we wrote epic poems that made us cry for weeks.” He pointed. “I say, look at this.”
Brian didn’t want to look at anything. He wanted to run after Gwynyfer and question her. She had disappeared, however, and clanking by was a set of three drones, all draped in black silk. Brian didn’t care.
The Earl of Munderplast explained, “They’ll be buried with Sir Pleckory Dither — in his tomb — to serve him in the afterlife. Time was, a member of the Norumbegan Court would have had ten or fifteen fully conscious mannequin servants entombed to accompany him to the next world. But, alas, if we had any mannequins now, we couldn’t spare them. And imagine — now they’re surrounding us. They’re entombing us.”
“Outrageous,” said Gugs.
And Munderplast sighed. “Sad times. Sad times.”
“You would entomb mannequins?” Brian said. “When they were alive?”
“They’re never alive,” replied Gugs.
“They think they’re alive,” Brian said.
“You’re getting very emphatic,” said Gugs.
“You would just force conscious automatons to walk into the tomb? And you’d seal them up in there?” Gugs nodded, bewildered. Brian asked, “What happened to them?”
Gugs shrugged. “’Spect they wound down. Unless someone left a key so they could wind each other up. Then maybe they’d last for a few years, keeping the tomb clean, till they decided the game was up, and they’d let themselves slow down and stop.” He looked sadly at the disappearing drones. “When I was just a little lad, I was frightfully keen on being buried with a bevy of clockwork dancing girls. Thought they could do a little mourning polka.”
Brian couldn’t believe what he was hearing. No wonder, he thought, the mannequins have formed the Resistance!
“We’re not finished with the Gwynyfer subject,” Gregory said. “You’re just paranoid.”
“Her father is a suspect.”
“You just don’t like her.”
“Why should I like her? She’s —”
And Brian was just about to scream about everything that had been bothering him for days — all the snotty comments, the confusing talk, the mean lies, the cruel pronouncements, the insane evasions —
But then the screeching horn blew to announce the arrival of the dancer portraying Death.
“Look away! Look ye away!” the Earl of Munderplast demanded.
Brian and Gregory turned, along with the others. A great drum beat. Its sound thudded through the stone and sand. Brian could feel it in his skull, in the pads of his fingers.
There was a loud bang.
No one stirred, for fear of Death.
Except Gugs. He twisted his head to look.
Brian wondered what the bang had been. He thought it didn’t sound much like the drum.
The crowd huddled in the square, facing away from the parade. They waited for the all clear.
But the all clear didn’t come.
Gugs said something strange. It didn’t sound like language. He bent down, looking for something on the ground.
Brian wondered if they were supposed to say a prayer or touch the dirt.
Then Gugs collapsed.
Brian yelped.
“Slungs,” exclaimed the Earl of Munderplast.
Brian squatted at Gugs’s side. The nobleman was lying facedown. “Help me flip him!” he said.
They heard the crowd exclaim — people were wondering what was going on. As he and Gregory heaved, Gregory gasped. “He’s — it’s a hole.”
“Shot!” Brian said.
Gregory put his hand in front of Gugs’s mouth. He held it there, feeling for breath. Brian watched Gregory’s face. Gregory had gone white with terror.
Slowly, Gregory shook his head.
Brian stood up and, shielding his eyes so he wouldn’t see Death, called out, “Count Galahad Ffines-Whelter has been shot in the back! Gugs is dead!”
The crowd roared. People pushed and shoved. Screaming. Panic.
And in the middle of it, the dancer costumed as Death scampered on its route, flinging out its arms — seen by many.
“We can see Death,” said Gregory, delighted.
“Don’t!” Brian called, grabbing his arm. “Don’t forget these people are magic. Death might be fatal.”
“Indeed,” said the Earl of Munderplast. “ ‘Death might be fatal.’ Such wisdom in one so young.” The old man watched the Wizard Thoth-Chumley elbowing his way through the crowd. “Thoth-Chumley!” called Munderplast. He curled his hands around his mouth. “Seek Lord Dainsplint! Lord Dainsplint!”
Gregory asked, “You think Lord Dainsplint shot Gugs?”
“Of course. The late Gugs was living proof that Lord Dainsplint was lying about where he was at the time of the murder.”
Brian didn’t agree. He said, “But Gugs was Lord Dainsplint’s best friend.”
“Which is precisely why the fool Gugs doubtless told Dainsplint that I’d be questioning them about their alibi. And that is what sealed Gugs’s doom. Dainsplint had to kill him once he knew that.” The earl was waving again to Thoth-Chumley. He informed Gregory and Brian, “There is nothing more deadly than a best friend. Who else do you let come so close? Who else may wield the dagger against you better?”
Gregory and Brian looked at each other.
Brian was thinking of Gwynyfer.
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He wondered who Gregory was thinking of.
Far above, slim birdlike things lifted off the palace battlements and swarmed the air.
TWENTY-NINE
The crowds were clearing. The procession, interrupted, would not begin again. The dancers and bands who had been on parade were milling around, carrying their horns and trumpets and golden pikes. They inspected each other, suspicious, confused.
Down the avenue, the figurehead of the Norumbegan Empire Herself, Grieving, stood stupidly, grabbing handfuls of petals and hurling them mechanically at nothing as people walked past. Lurking in the gate of the palace was the ceremonial chair to which the corpse of Sir Pleckory Dither was bound. There had not been enough of him left together to sit upon the chair, so they had baked the pieces into a pastry that resembled him. It sat on the throne of death, garlanded with flowers. The egg-brushed pastry eyes goggled. His remains had been abandoned in the panic.
“I’m going to see how Gwynyfer’s doing,” said Gregory.
“Why?” Brian asked sharply. “Why?”
“Because she might be frightened.”
“You know she might be our enemy. She might be working with the assassin.”
Gregory grimaced. Waving his hands around in frustration, he said, “You are so — you are so, so paranoid.”
Hotly, Brian said, “She’s a suspect. Isn’t that right? Don’t you think so?”
“No. You think so.”
“I know so.”
“Oh. How does Sherlock know she’s guilty?”
“I don’t. I know she’s a suspect.”
“She has been nothing but cool with us from the beginning. She helped us. She risked her life for us.”
“Maybe she knew she wasn’t really risking her life,” said Brian. “Maybe she knew Dr. Brundish wouldn’t actually kill her. Maybe she knew whoever that was in the guard uniform with the smoke gun wouldn’t actually kill her.”
“ ‘Maybe she knew.’ Is that all you can say?”
“She certainly didn’t look very worried when we were attacked last night.”
“You are such a jerk.”
“I’m a jerk?” Brian protested. “What about you? You’re a jerk! You’re more worried about — about going on dates with the next Duchess of the Bulbous Colon than you’re worried about saving millions of people from the Thusser!”
“Not ‘Bulbous,’ “ said Gregory icily, his hands flexing at his sides. “ ‘Globular.’ “
“I don’t — I don’t care what kind of colon she’s from! I’m saying you’re more interested in trying to make out with her than you are in trying to save your parents and my parents and all those kids stuck in the walls and all those families and —”
“You just can’t handle that girls like me.”
“I can’t handle that all of New England is in danger and all you’re doing is —” Brian couldn’t come up with a mean enough thing to say. He wasn’t used to arguing with Gregory. He wasn’t used to speaking out — didn’t like to argue — couldn’t bear to see someone hurt.
“We’re not talking about New England,” Gregory said. “We’re talking about Gwynyfer.”
“Well? I’m right about her, aren’t I? She didn’t look very worried last night.”
“You mean, when I saved you? When I saved your life?”
“That doesn’t have anything to do with whether she’s guilty.”
“It has to do with whether you’re a jerk.”
“I’m trying to figure out what’s going on here — who’s probably a Thusser spy — so we can get someone at the Court to tell us how to activate the Rules. You — I don’t know what you’re doing. Waltzing in the grand ballroom. You love it! You love all these stupid jokes they make, and all the mean things they say, and —”
Gregory laughed. “You really hate that I’m popular, don’t you? “ he said. “I mean, ever since you won the Game, you’ve thought you were God’s big, golden thumb sticking straight up. You think you’re some genius, and I’m just your sidekick. Your funny sidekick. Look, Bri. I’m not going to be your comic talking horse. I let you win the Game.”
“And ever since I won,” Brian said — hardly knowing what he said, “ever since I won, you’ve been angry because for once, everything isn’t all about you. I actually was doing something where people paid attention.”
“And you’ve become a jerk as a result.”
Brian just stared at him. He looked pale and sick. He said, “I don’t believe you’re saying this.”
“Well, I don’t believe you’re saying Gwynyfer might be working with the murderer.”
“Well, she might be!”
“Get lost,” said Gregory. He turned and began to walk away.
The choristers who were going to sing the requiem mass were wandering past like a weird herd, their sheet music under their arms.
“Gregory!” Brian shouted. “Gregory!”
His friend didn’t turn around.
Brian yelled, “Everything you’re saying is probably being broadcast to the Mannequin Resistance! Through the bug you found! Gregory! It’s a bug for the Mannequins!”
Gregory waved a hand angrily and kept on walking.
“Ah, friendship,” said the Earl of Munderplast, his hands clasped in front of him. “Brightest bud of affection’s rood.”
Brian didn’t feel good. He didn’t know where to go. He looked around the square. The pastry corpse sat stiffly in its throne. The Wizard Thoth-Chumley was yelling orders to guards.
The Earl of Munderplast had turned away, and was speaking with reporters. “It is deeply shocking. Deeply, deeply. And galling,” he declared, shaking his head. “What is particularly awful to consider is that it seems that the most likely perpetrator of this attack — this blasphemous and barbarous attack — is my worthy brother in the Council, Lord Dainsplint. I am told by the Wizard Thoth-Chumley that Lord Dainsplint has been sighted running through the lower city, as if trying to elude the dint and mickle might of justice. A sad, weepsome day it is, my friends. Of course, we must remain fair and never doubt my honorable colleague until he is proven guilty. I would not wish this incident to prejudice the Court as the election approaches. I am sure there is a perfectly, perfectly excellent explanation for why Lord Dainsplint should flee from the palace guards, as if guilty; and when he is dragged back to the palace keep in chains, I shall be the first to welcome him and clip him to my bosom and ask him many questions — many, many questions. Surely all of this proves what degenerate times we live in. Seek ye the past, my friends. Things shall only get worse. Here: a smile for the cameras.” He put on a jaunty grin. They snapped photos. He bowed and walked toward Brian.
“My boy, by the wounds of the Dagda, it is a fine day for dolor.”
Brian nodded. He felt more desolate than the leader of the Melancholy Party, who seemed positively chirpy.
The earl rubbed his dry hands together. “Let’s along and watch Thoth-Chumley bring his man to bay. Lord Dainsplint cannot escape forever. The mannequins guard us all too closely.”
Brian said nothing, but followed the earl sadly down the avenue.
A troupe of animal dancers walked past, their masks dangling in their hands. “Love some coffee,” said a reindeer. A fox nodded, wiping the sweat from his cheeks.
Brian craned his neck to see if he could catch a glimpse of Gregory greeting Gwynyfer. He couldn’t see the girls’ dance troupe through all the clog of people.
The Earl of Munderplast was waving happily at palace guards who rushed past. “Godspeed!” he called to them. “May you find the killer! Whoever, of course, he may be!”
Brian had an idea. He ran forward a few steps so that he’d be next to the earl. “Sir,” he said. “Sir?”
“Yes, child?”
“Do you think … is there any chance …” Brian thought again. He decided he should sound more forceful. Gregory clearly thought he sounded plenty forceful these days. He said, “You know what you should do? To really tie down t
he case against Lord Dainsplint?”
“Isn’t it fascinating, the directions from which advice may come?”
Brian continued, “This is when you should order the two mannequins who were captured to be revived. Before the guards capture Lord Dainsplint. Because the mannequins are the main suspects, but we know now what they were doing in the palace. They were planting a bug in the throne room — the one that Gregory has now. If you’ll just wake them up, they’ll tell you that truthfully. That’s what they were doing at the time of the murder. So they’ll just make the case against Lord Dainsplint even worse.”
“Better, you mean.”
Brian thought about it. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I meant better. They didn’t do it. Someone just arranged the uniform for Dantsig so he’d be framed. Maybe it was Lord Dainsplint.”
The Earl of Munderplast thought about this. He grew so deep in thought he stopped in his tracks. “So,” said the earl, “it is possible that Lord Dainsplint is guilty not only of murder and of assassination, but also of freeing mannequins from where they were bound in prison?”
Brian nodded. “It’s possible. If he wanted to kill the Regent, he could have gotten the two guard uniforms, kept one for himself, and given the other one to a servant anonymously, with a sealed note that said the Imperial Council wanted the uniform delivered to the prison. The servant went down and delivered the uniform, leaving it where Dantsig could easily find it. So Dantsig and Kalgrash got out. Dantsig put on the uniform and decided he would slip into the palace and stick the bug in the throne room. He must have had it concealed in a secret drawer in his body or something.”
“Let us move swiftly over to the secret location,” murmured the earl.
“Probably one of the things he expected to do when he was here exchanging us for the prisoners from Delge is stick it on the wall. So he headed into the palace with Kalgrash to do that. So the assassin —”
“’Twould be awful if it were Lord Dainsplint — though that, of course, is not out of the question.”
“The assassin knew that Dantsig would be seen and would be suspected. So while he figured Dantsig was creeping around somewhere else, the assassin went into the Regent’s room and killed him.”