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it?”
    “Brains,” said Antrobus unheeding, the drool dripping into a dark stain on his robes. “Must eat … brains …” He finally noticed Karstetz and decided to start with a light snack.
    The crowd gasped and gagged, and some of them fainted as their Imperial Majesty fell upon a surprised cavalry officer. Karstetz may have started to scream before Antrobus smashed his head open on the marble balcony rail, threw him to the floor, and began to feed. It was so hard to tell amidst all the other screams.
    Marechal’s mind worked quickly. He needed a ploy, and he needed it now. The French gambit, it had to be. “We are betrayed!” he shouted, and signalled to the captain of the guards. Sporadically at first and then with increasing discipline, rifle fire started to pour into the crowd. Marechal signalled three volleys and ran into the room. The door at the far end burst open and guardsmen rushed in. “Get that thing in here,” he bellowed at them.
    “The emperor?” asked the sergeant at their head.
    “Emperor? That’s not our emperor! We are betrayed! Drag it in here and kill it!”
    He left them grappling with the foul thing that screeched and whooped at them. The situation was still controllable. The massacre in the square could easily be put at the door of enemy agents. The sudden panic he had caused would drive those last few moments into a strange world of uncertain memory. Had the emperor really turned into a monstrous cannibal before their eyes? Of course not. He’d been attacked by … by … a traitor! Karstetz had attacked the emperor. A life-and-death struggle—the heroic efforts of the emperor killing his own assassin even as he breathed his last. Yes, yes! It could work!
    It was a shame about Karstetz, though. He’d owed Marechal money.
    He ran through the palace unheeding of the precise course he was taking, uncertain even what he was looking for. He swung two doors open and found himself in the great banquet hall of the palace. It was one of the more medieval parts of the place, a long table running down its centre, a balcony running around from the end of the great staircase on the northern wall, a minstrels’ gallery. At the far end, unsuccessfully trying the doors there, it also had Johannes Cabal.
    Marechal smiled bitterly, closed the doors behind him, and loosened his revolver in its holster. This was what his subconscious mind had been up to, hunting this man, this hated man. Sometimes he got a great sense of job satisfaction.
    Cabal had heard the sound and already turned to face him. He drew his pocket watch and studied the face. “Have the emperor’s dietary mores changed already?” he asked in a tone of polite enquiry. “Test batch 295 always was unreliable.”
    “You knew this would happen?” Now the Count Marechal could relax a little. What was occurring outside could wait for a few minutes. He had time to pause a moment, take stock, kill Cabal.
    “Two ninety-five yields remarkable results. Right up to the moment the subject becomes a maniacal cannibal. I had hoped for a few more minutes’ grace, though. Any casualties?”
    “Lieutenant Karstetz.”
    “No loss there, then.”
    “None at all.” Marechal drew his gun. “What am I to do with you, Herr Cabal?”
    “It would seem that you’ve already made up your mind on that point.” Johannes Cabal placed his bag and cane on the end of the long banquet table, took off his jacket, folded it, and put it down, too. Then he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves.
    Marechal watched him with curiosity. “You seem to be taking this very well.”
    “Not at all,” replied Cabal. He picked up the cane, twisted the head, and drew three feet of razor-sharp steel from it. Before Marechal’s bemused eyes, he placed the cane body on top of his jacket, presented himself to Marechal as a fencer, and saluted him with the sword cane.
    Marechal laughed. “You simply cannot be serious, Cabal! Are you challenging