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only springs. An optician sold eyes.
    The keyhole could not be seen on all of them, but on many it was planted clearly between their shoulders. Some of the people were simplified, their faces a series of smooth planes with black, crystalline eyeballs. Some were built like harlequins, some like knights, and some had extra arms for heavy lifting. Most were dressed soberly in dark clothes of bygone eras.
    Gregory and Brian were dazzled by all the automatons climbing up staircases and bustling through courtyards. Dantsig smiled. “Pflundt,” he said. “Carved right out of the living phlegm.”
    He led them to the headquarters of the Mannequin Resistance, which was in a tall, gray house that towered above the metallic bustle of the streets and alleys. He told the boys and Kalgrash to sit, and headed off to speak to some official. They waited for a while on a wooden bench.
    A secretary appeared in a black coat and bid them follow him. He took them to a long table, where they were served food. Though no one in the city ate, many had cooked for centuries before they’d left the service of the Norumbegans. They knew how to whip up a dinner. The food — steaks of some three-legged animal — was delicious, seasoned to perfection. The boys took a longtime eating, cramming their mouths with salad and squash.
    “At least,” said Gregory, stopping his gorging long enough to be repelled, “I
hope
it’s squash. And not something carved right out of the living phlegm.”
    They lay down to sleep on the benches. An hour and a half later, they were called into the presence of someone named General Malark.
    The general was upstairs, in a cold, whitewashed chamber high above a courtyard. He waited with Dantsig. The general was a thin, glowering automaton, once built to look like a lined old man — now disfigured by thick slices hacked out of his head in ancient battles. His workings were visible through the cuts. As he spoke, the boys could see the gears within him spin, the spindles reset and retract to pucker his brow or give him dimples.
    Those dimples were friendly as he shook the boys’ hands and bowed to the troll.
    Behind him, on the wall, was a banner with a message in the Norumbegans’ runic language. Beside it, another, smaller, which read: N ON S ERVIAM — I S HALL N OT S ERVE .
    “You came through the portal in the Ruins of Entry,” he said to the boys.
    Neither of the boys knew what to say to that.
    “You came from Old Norumbega. From the City of Gargoyles.”
    “Yes, sir,” said Brian.
    “You wish to see the Emperor.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Regarding the Game.”
    Brian and Gregory nodded.
    “The Emperor has abdicated. He has been replaced by his child.” The general sat behind his desk. “You are strangers.”
    Brian said, “Yes, sir,” as politely as he could.
    “Breathers,” the general said.
    Gregory pinched the skin on the back of his hand and showed it to General Malark. “Look. It’s real.”
    The general said, “You might simply be convincingly designed. We can eat, if designed to eat. We may be pinched. We can even feel pain at pinching.”
    Kalgrash nodded fervently.
    The general asked the troll, “You, sir, are an automaton?”
    “Yes indeedy.”
    “Welcome. I am General Malark of the Mannequin Resistance. I was constructed several hundred years ago during the Third War of Thusserian Aggression. I defended Old Norumbega from the invader. Until,” he said sourly, “my masters decided to give up and flee.”
    Brian asked eagerly, “Was that when they started the Game?”
    Malark grimaced. “The Game. Yes. The Game. We forfeited the kingdom for a Game.” He picked up the stapler from his desk. “You know that we here are now in a state of revolt against our former masters.”
    “The Norumbegans, right?” Gregory clarified. “You’re fighting against the Norumbegans?”
    “The Norumbegans of
flesh.”
The general smiled tightly. “For we are all Norumbegans. Whether organic