Authors: Walter Jon Williams
“Maijstral,” said the Baron again. His eyes were red, his voice rasping. Perhaps, Maijstral thought, he has been forsaking sleep in order to yell at subordinates.
“They rummaged through my bags and confiscated a large amount of my personal property on my arrival—”
“Maijstral.” The Baron's color was rising through the purple end of the spectrum.
“—and last night a gang of them appeared in my rooms and disturbed me and my associates at our rest. As the officious Mr. Kingston had already deprived me of any means of practicing my profession, I consider their visit both a badgering and an impertinence. I’m certain this is not the reputation that Silverside Station wishes to acquire in relation to its guests. I wanted to bring this to your personal attention, Baron. Your reputation is such that I know you will want to see to the matter personally.”
“If it was you, Maijstral ...”
Maijstral looked surprised. “It can’t be me, Baron, not unless your police are incompetent or somehow corruptible, and I’m sure they’re not. They’re merely officious and heavy-handed.” He smiled. “In any case, I’m sure your agents will be approached quite soon by someone who will offer a most reasonable price for your lady’s collection. And you will have gained sensational publicity for your station that may, in the end, prove priceless. Good day to you, my lord.”
The Baron said nothing in reply. His voice appeared to have failed him. Maijstral sniffed his ears and went on his way.
Silverside wasn’t feeling conversational today, anyway.
*
Roman sat in his room and busied himself with sewing. He normally depended on tailors and robots for this sort of thing, but he didn’t wish to explain to a tailor just exactly what he would need this precise object
for
. Therefore Roman plied the needle, stitching the hem of a drawstring bag.
Before him, on a table, was another project. Roman was charting Drake Maijstral’s genealogy.
Roman had always been bothered by the fact that he could trace his own lineage back over ten thousand years, connecting it to outposts of the Empire and conquests from the Khosali's very first leap into space, whereas Maijstral’s ancestry could barely be traced past Earth's conquest.
Roman’s sense of fitness was disturbed by this. It had not seemed
right,
somehow, that the servant should have a longer ancestry than the master.
Therefore he had commenced genealogical researches. Long ago he'd come across a dubious connection to Jean Parisot de la Valette; but that connection, via the wrong side of the blanket, seemed unsatisfactory for any number of reasons, less because of the element of bastardy than because Roman couldn’t prove it. Roman dug deeper. He discovered, in another branch of Maijstral’s family tree entirely, the name of Altan Khan, who if not as admirable a character as Valette seemed at least a bit more solidly within the family tree.
Roman kept persevering, but after years of searching, the Maijstral family tree proved barren of fruit. To Roman’s unvoiced dismay, his employer looked to be merely the descendant of a ruthless, opportunistic Maltese nobody who managed, by dint of oppression of his own species, to worm himself into the Imperial favor and get himself a patent of nobility.
But now, it seemed, Roman’s perseverence might have paid off. Was the Matilda, born in Karlskrona as the daughter of Rudolf von Steinberg, the same Matilda, daughter of Rudolphus the Dane, who after a brief visit to England contracted a morganatic marriage to the elderly fourth son of Edmund Beaufort I, Earl and Marquess of Dorset? Matilda daughter-of-Rudolf was a proven descendent of Henry the Lion, and was thus crossed with the Welfs, Frederick Barbarossa, and the Plantagenets. The Beauforts crossed both the Plantagenets and the Tudors, and through them to the ruling houses of all Europe.
Through all those ruling families, Roman could make use of their own family trees that traced their ancestry back any number of directions, usually ending up at either Noah or Wotan. Neither of these two figures were as old as Roman’s own confirmed ancestors, but Roman supposed they would have to do—it would be hard to trace genealogy back past the alleged creation of the Earth.
But still there was no confirmation. Were the two Matildas the same?
Roman had queried genealogical libraries on Earth. An answer had not yet come. He was in a fever of anticipation. He expected it at the arrival of each transmission of mail.
For the moment, however, he had naught to do but sew his drawstring bag.
A subtle shadow seemed to cross his perceptions. Roman’s ears pricked forward. He suspected, without knowing how, that something was amiss in the front room. He rose from his seat, made certain his gun was loose in its holster, and glided silently forward.
In the front room the holographic waterfall splashed silently into its basin. Roman saw nothing else. He reached into a pocket, drew out a pair of goggles, pulled them over his eyes. Even with enhanced vision, he could see nothing.
His nose twitched. He could
smell
something wrong. Someone had been here, perceived Roman’s presence, and left again.
The police, he thought, might be trying to gather intelligence. Or the intruder might be a rival.
He returned to his room, collected his sewing, and returned to the front room, where he settled on the couch with his gun in his lap. If anyone tried to break in, he'd be ready for them.
Behind him, the waterfall continued its silent descent.
*
“Roman was there, boss,” Drexler said. “I barely got out in time.”
“No sign of the art collection, I suppose?”
“Afraid not, boss.”
Geoff Fu George shrugged. “I really didn’t think Maijstral would stow the swag in his suite, but it seemed worth a look.”
“He’s got to be living in a blind.”
Fu George sighed. “I daresay. It’ll be hard to find.”
“Shall I follow him tonight?”
“We’ve got other things to do this evening. The Duchess's ball will prove perfect cover for any number of activities.”
“In my spare time, I mean.”
“If you can find any spare time, Drexler, you may use it to pursue Maijstral all you like.”
“Only too.”
Meaning, only too ready. Fu George gave a cold smile.
“I’m going to pursue him myself, Drexler,” he said. “At the race, this afternoon. I know a few things about the Pearl, and I think tomorrow may find Maijstral a humbler man.” His smile broadened. “Very much humbler, I suspect.”
*
“Mr. Sun.” At the sound of Baron Silverside's voice, Sun hastily buttoned up his tunic, brushed his hair out of his eyes, and leaned forward over his humming console. At least a dozen alarm lights winked at him.
The day, he concluded sadly, wasn’t going to get any better.
After breakfast the Baron Silverside had finished his raving, and Mr. Sun entrusted the command center to a subordinate in order to collect a few hours' sleep, but now the pressure of his responsibilities had driven him back to the job. He had been appalled at the wholesale thievery that had gone on last night. All indulgence and license had, in the end, to be paid for, if not by the indulgees then by someone else. And now his security systems had failed utterly, his promises to the Baron were all naught, and for this his body and mind should atone.
He was not alone in his atonement. As of noon, all his crews were now working double shifts.
“Sir,” he said, and touched an ideogram.
The Baron's burnsides were showing evidence of hard handling. “Sun,” he said. “I trust you have made progress?”
“I am trying to prioritize the alarms, my lord,” Sun said. “We will be responding only to—”
The Baron turned red. “
I
meant progress in finding my wife's collection!”
he barked. His fists closed on his burn-sides and made tearing movements.
Mr. Sun felt his scalp prickle with sweat. “Sir. We’re hoping for clues.”
The Baron’s glare was that of a demon. Sun could almost see the flames of perdition behind the dark pupils, lapping from the Baron’s mouth. “You designed the gallery, Sun, and its security system. You gave me certain guarantees . . .”
“No system is foolproof, sir. But—”
“This was not,” acidly, “what you said at the time.”
“Sir.” Sun could feel hopeless despair welling up in him. Last night the Baron had shouted at him for
hours—
Sun's ears were still ringing. Now Silverside showed every sign of beginning again. “This is the first test of new equipment under field conditions. I think certain allowances should be made—”
“No allowances where my wife's collection is concerned! None!”
“No, sir. Of course not. But—”
“Find it, Sun.” The Baron's lips drew back in a snarl.
“Find it, or you'll have the pleasure of explaining to Kyoko Asperson and billions of her interested viewers exactly what went wrong.”
Horror crept coldly along the back of Sun's neck. “My lord!” he protested.
“Find it, Sun. Or else.”
“Sir.”
“And another thing, Sun.” Abruptly. “Maijstral just came by to speak to me. He was gloating.”
“I’m most sorry to hear that, sir.”
“He as much said that he's bought someone in my police service. Is it
you
he's bought, Sun?”
Indignation gave Sun's chin an assertive tug upward. “Sir. He was lying, trying to lead us astray. I’ll stake my reputation on it.”
The Baron's look was cold. “That's precisely what you
are
doing, Sun.”
The hologram disappeared, replaced by the service ideogram. Sun banished it and mopped sweat from his forehead.
Slowly, as he sat alone in his blue heaven, resolve began to fill him. Very well, he thought. If the Baron insists on
results.
He touched the ideogram for general announcement. “Watsons,” he said. “We are now at Degree Absolute!”
*
“Marchioness. Perhaps you would oblige me.”
“Only too happily, Maijstral.”
“Please sit on my left.” Smiling, the Marchioness joined him on the white settee. He scooped up cards from the surface of the low table before him and squared the deck, then offered it to her. “Please glance through the deck and remove all the rovers.”
Music and conversation vibrated from the diamond above their heads. The Marchioness was dressed in a light grey that complemented her coloring wonderfully. She took the pack and gave him a glance. “Your metaphors are appropriate, Maijstral.”
“How so?”
Her fingers sorted nimbly through the deck. “The rovers are elusive cards, elusive as conjurers when they perform their tricks. Rovers are therefore my favorite. I suppose they are about to make me jump through hoops.”
“Not unwillingly, I hope.”
She laughed. “I have always found rovers irresistible, sir. Now what must I do?”
“Put the rovers on top, my lady.”
“That will please them.” Archly.
Maijstral took the deck from her hand and dealt the four top cards facedown onto the table.
“Now the rovers are on the table. Correct, my lady?”
“If you insist, Maijstral.”
He dropped the deck to the table again. “Prove it if you like. Turn them over.”
The Marchioness did so. “So. The rovers have been exposed.” She looked at him. “Is that the trick, sir? I expected something a little more . . . intricate.”
“The rovers have a few surprises left, my lady.” The rovers were placed atop the deck again. Careful of his sight lines, Maijstral picked up the pack with his right hand. He dealt the top four cards down in one pile, turning the last over to assure her it was still a rover, then put the four cards on top and handed her the deck. He put his hand on hers. Her hand was warm.
“If you will allow me to guide you, my lady,” he said. “Put the top rover here, then the others so.” Making four cards arranged in a neat rectangle. “Now deal three cards on top of each.”
“The rovers shall be resurrected, I hope.”
“They shall roam, as is their nature.” He guided her hand as she created four piles. He took the deck from her hand. “Indicate two of the piles, if you please.” She pointed to two of the piles, the second and third, and he took them from the table and put them atop the deck. “Point to another pile.” She pointed to the first. “That pile shall be spared,” Maijstral said; he took the fourth and added it to the deck. He took her hand again, placed it on the remaining pile.
“Will you cover the rover, my lady?”
“It would give me nothing but satisfaction to do so, Maijstral.”
He took his hand away. “We now have one rover buried under three other cards, all held prisoner beneath your hand.”
“That seems to be the case.”
“Firstly, I would like to remove the three other cards,
so . .
.” He made a swift movement of his left hand, which held the deck. With the sound of riffling, three cards appeared inside the crook of the Marchioness's elbow, held in Maijstral’s right hand. She gave a laugh of surprise.
“A minor effect,” Maijstral said. “I couldn’t resist. But now, something a little more interesting. I intend to transfer the three rovers in the deck to the pile beneath your ladyship's hand.”
Her pouting lips drew into a smile. “Rovers beneath my hand. My hand shall be envied.”
Maijstral drew the deck down the inside of her forearm, moving gently but quite deliberately along the ulnar nerve. The Marchioness shivered.
“Look in the pile, madam,” he said. She turned the cards over one by one, revealing the four rovers.
“Your rovers are thieves, Maijstral,” she said. “They have stolen into my hand.”
“You must be wary of rovers, my lady. They are liable to steal into any number of private places.”
She looked at him. “Few but rovers are so bold.”
There was an amused light in his hidden eyes as he drew the deck along her forearm again. “Not so. Look in your left sleeve pocket, and there you will find the three cards that were formerly under your hand.”
The Marchioness looked, found them, and looked at him sternly. “Your commoner cards have been a little free with my person, Maijstral.”
“Apologies, my lady. I seek only to amuse.”
She laughed. “Fortunately your cards have a light touch.” She tapped her foot on the floor in the pattern meant to applaud something surprising, yet delightful. A robot moved by, and the Marchioness signalled it and asked it to bring drinks. She leaned back in her chair.