Authors: Walter Jon Williams
“Another trick, my lady?”
“I think not.” Feigning pique, she took the pack from his hands. “I’m confiscating the deck for its impertinence.”
“The cards only strayed in sport, my lady.”
She tilted her head, looked at him sidelong. “Perhaps you and your cards can stray later, Maijstral. But not now.”
“I am at your service, madam.”
“So one may hope.”
The Marchioness looked up sharply at the shadow of media globes and saw Kyoko Asperson advancing toward them. Kyoko made a token bob toward them in lieu of bending over the table to sniff ears.
“Up to your old tricks, Maijstral?” she asked.
“Only exercising my hands, Miss Asperson.”
“So I perceived. Will you do a trick for me?”
“I’m afraid my lady has forbidden me any further sleights.” He glanced up at the hovering globes. “Besides, you'd record them and expose my manipulations.”
“I’ll turn the globes off if you like.” Kyoko dropped into a seat near them. “Or record them from one angle only. Whichever you prefer. I like magic tricks, and I don’t think It’s clever to spoil them.”
Maijstral bowed to her. “Thank you, madam. I wish all audiences preferred the delights of wonder to the inevitable disenchantment that comes with disclosure.”
“That being your attitude, I don’t suppose you'd like to disclose who took the Waltz twins’ jewels, or the choicest
objets
in the Baroness's collection, or Madame la Riviere's necklace.”
Maijstral’s heavy-lidded eyes glowed with hidden amusement. “I’m afraid, once again, I prefer wonderment to disclosure,” he said.
“I figured that.” Kyoko leaned across the table, forcing an intimacy that compelled Maijstral to tilt back in his chair. She pursued her advantage. “How do you suppose the duel will end? Between Geoff Fu George and another thief who shall remain nameless?”
Maijstral smiled. “I would say, madam, that it’s far too early to venture a guess.”
“Would you give me your thoughts on another contest? The race this afternoon.”
He steepled his fingers. “Difficult. I have not studied the field.”
“Be a sport, Maijstral. No one's going to shoot you for being wrong.”
Maijstral gave the matter some thought, then conceded. “Very well. I would venture to guess that the Duchess of Benn will be the victor.”
“Why so?”
“I don’t believe there is anyone present who matches her in expertise or training.”
“Not Pearl Woman? She's raced professionally.”
“Her last race was a few years ago, I believe. Though of course she is a master tactician.”
The Marchioness fidgeted with the deck of cards. She made an impatient swipe at her hair, brushing it behind her ear, then stood. Maijstral, perceiving the movement, rose with her. “I ordered drinks a while ago,” she said. “I’m going to go look for them.”
“Marchioness. Your servant.”
“Maijstral.” She offered him three fingers as they parted. “Perhaps we shall meet again. At one or another sporting event, perhaps.”
“Looking forward, my lady.”
Maijstral returned to his seat. Kyoko was glancing left and right.
“Do you know where Gregor is?” she asked.
Maijstral was surprised. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “He’s off on his own somewhere.”
Kyoko gave a shrug. “In that case, can you do a card trick?”
“Happily. We should signal a robot for a deck.”
Kyoko did so. When the pack arrived, her eight media globes paused in their orbits, then dropped one by one to the white carpet. She took the cards from the pack.
“Right,” she said, grinning. “What am I supposed to do?”
*
Khamiss was a mass of pain, from her head (too much hross in the lounge) to her feet (chasing down too many corridors). Her blistered feet had by now been cared for, decorated with semilife patches that promoted anaesthesia and healing; but regardless of what she did for the headache, it pounded on. The headache, in fact, had seemed to multiply its force the instant she was informed she'd be working a double shift, and multiply again since she'd been told about Degree Absolute. At least on her current assignment she'd get to wear her own footwear. She replaced the uniform boots with comfortable sneedskin pumps, threw off the uniform trousers and jacket, and called for a robot to lace her into correct lounging attire.
She called for a holograph-mirror and looked at it anxiously. Her dress was correct, but was it sublime enough to pass in this company? Khamiss turned left and right, patted the coat, the pockets. There was something
not right
about it, but she couldn’t say what. Perhaps it was not a current cut. To make matters worse, there was an unsightly bulge over her gun, and no matter how she tugged the jacket, the bulge would not disappear. Perhaps she should go to Essenden's Armory on Level Nine and buy a smaller pistol.
The hell with it. If Sun wanted her to look more inconspicuous, let
him
buy the damn gun.
Her duties under Degree Absolute were to follow Drake Maijstral and never let him out of her sight. She was not optimistic about the outcome. Maijstral was intelligent— wouldn’t he
notice
a strange Khosali female following him around the lonely corridors with a bulky service pistol jammed in her armpit?
Well. Hers was not to reason why. She dismissed the robot and stepped out of her quarters. She'd look for Maijstral in the Shadow Room and the main lounge.
As she approached the White Room, she heard music, the sounds projected along the carpeted corridors by the peculiar resonance of the giant diamond. A Khosalikh taller than she, wearing a peculiar jacket, appeared from a side corridor and almost walked into her. She looked at him in surprise and, just as she was about to step aside to let him pass, remembered that she was now a guest and not a functionary. She drew her ears back in assumed hauteur.
“Oh,” said Zoot. “I beg your pardon.”
“I beg yours.”
“I am Zoot, madam.”
“I am Khamiss.” They exchanged sniffs.
Zoot was, she observed, wearing his famous jacket. She realized, a bit despondently, that it was very likely cut so as to hold any number of weapons.
Zoot offered his arm. “If I may escort you, madam.”
Surprise washed over her. “Ah. Certainly, sir.”
She took his arm and they began walking in the direction of the music. Pleasure warmed Khamiss at the thought of entering the White Room on the arm of the celebrated pioneer.
Undercover work, she realized, had a lot to recommend it.
*
“Maijstral.” Kotani's ears pricked forward. “Fortuitous to meet you.”
Maijstral sniffed him. “A pleasure to see you, sir, at any time. But why fortuitous?”
“I am seeking a wager.”
“For the race, you mean? The house is accepting bets, is it not?”
Maijstral stepped onto the conveyer that was moving toward the station's racetrack. Kotani followed him and waved a languid hand.
“The house is accepting bets, yes. But there's no sport in that.”
“Or good odds for your favorite?”
Kotani smiled and acknowledged the hit. “I don’t think the house knows that Pearl Woman has pulled a muscle in her thigh. It would be foolish to back her at house odds.”
Green amusement flickered in Maijstral’s shuttered eyes. “Indeed? Why not bet on someone else, then?”
“Because I can’t resist good odds, Maijstral. Offer me some!”
“Five to three, then. In favor of her grace the Duchess.”
Kotani scowled. “Those are the odds the house has been offering. Give me three to one, at least.”
“
I
don’t know that the Pearl has injured herself.”
“Look at her yourself, when you get the chance. it’s plain to see, she's favoring one leg.”
Maijstral gave a casual glance over his shoulder and observed, thirty feet behind, a female Khosalikh in a mass-produced lounge jacket. A bulky pistol was crammed in her armpit, straining the laces. He recognized her from the customs dock, turned back to Kotani, and smiled.
“The question is,” he said, “has she really injured herself? Or is it sham? A sham injury would be quite like her, you know.” Kotani rolled his eyes with impatience. Maijstral shrugged. “Very well, Kotani,” he said. “I’ll give you two to one, if you like.”
“Damnation,” said Kotani. He gnawed his lip. “Very well. Twenty novae?”
“To my forty, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s say my twenty, your ten.”
Kotani looked at him. “You ain’t as poverty-stricken as you pretend, Maijstral. You can afford a real wager.”
“You’re not as strapped as you pretend, either. But I’ve already made some bets: this one is just to oblige you.”
Kotani gave a jerk of his head, indicating reluctant consent. “Very well, Maijstral. If it’s all you can afford.”
Laughter bubbled silently in Maijstral’s mind. Kotani was subtle about everything but money—where cash was concerned, Kotani was a blunt instrument. His boyhood home had been noble, like Maijstral’s own, but notoriously poor, also like Maijstral’s. Through boyhood circumstance, Maijstral had learned fecklessness; but Kotani had learned parsimony.
He glanced ahead down the panelled corridor and thought about what Kotani's insistence on a bet might mean. Kotani thought Pearl Woman a certainty; and that meant the injury was feigned; and probably also meant that Pearl thought she was certain to win.
Maijstral stepped out of the conveyer and glanced over the gallery. The racecourse, which looked like a simple hedge-maze tilted on edge, waited behind a glass wall. Spectator tables were stacked steeply before the course, some of them occupied. At the far end of the gallery, near the entrance that led to the starting gate, Maijstral saw Roberta standing amid a crowd of well-wishers. She was dressed in burnt-orange silks, and her helmet dangled from her hand.
“Maijstral. Pleased to see you.” Maijstral turned abruptly at the sound of Fu George’s voice.
“Fu George,” he said, and exchanged sniffs. “Miss Runciter.”
“Drake.”
Vanessa was dressed in a chitin-gown studded with pearls. A matching cigaret holder, all complicated filters and laminated layers, was propped in her hand. In her other hand was a tote ticket. Maijstral observed she'd put a hundred on the Pearl to win.
“You're just the person I wanted to see,” Fu George said.
Maijstral’s green eyes seemed unusually intense. “You aren’t by any chance looking for someone to give you odds on the Pearl?”
Vanessa cast Fu George a quick, disturbed glance, which was all Maijstral needed to know that, somehow, the fix was in.
“The Pearl’s injured, you know,” Fu George said. “She was trying to hide it earlier, but she couldn’t conceal it entirely. Still,” he sighed heavily, “I feel I ought to support her.”
“That's kind of you, Fu George. It’s the least I can do to oblige such a devoted friend.” Maijstral frowned as he considered. “Two to one, Fu George? A quiller on her grace?”
Fu George seemed surprised. “Uncommonly generous of you, Maijstral.” Then he smiled. “Still, after last night, I suppose you can afford it. I accept. Half a quiller on the Pearl against a quiller on the Duchess.” They clasped hands, two fingers each. Maijstral was not surprised at the sudden elevation in his status: suckers are ever the friends of those who bilk them. Maijstral glanced over his shoulder at the Duchess.
“I should offer my best wishes to the woman on whose shoulders my quiller is riding,” he said. “I hope you will excuse me.”
“Certainly, Maijstral.” They sniffed each other's ears. Maijstral turned to Vanessa.
“Congratulations on your performance last night, by the way,” she said. “That was fast work.”
“Thank you, Vanessa. Very kind.”
Maijstral sniffed her and moved away. As he passed in front of the gallery he saw Kingston, the policeman, sitting alone at one of the tables, his glance fixed unhappily on Geoff Fu George. Kingston was dressed in mufti and appeared to have something bulky under his left arm. Maijstral smiled and walked on.
The knot around the Duchess had thinned. Maijstral stepped toward her. He noticed that she was wearing the traditional stripes of bright paint on her cheeks: they were burnt orange, to match her silks. She looked up and saw him; she smiled.
“Maijstral. I’m pleased to see you here.”
“Your grace, I wouldn’t have missed it. I was surprised not to see you earlier.”
Roberta waved a hand. “All the preparations for the debut tonight. There's still so much to be seen to.”
“I wouldn’t be too concerned. These things have a habit of looking after themselves.”
Roberta’s answer was tart. “Not around me, they don’t. I see to them myself, or they don’t get done.”
“Perhaps. It’s best you’ve been keeping busy, then.”
She began strapping on her helmet. “Wish me luck, Maijstral.”
“With all my heart, your grace. And my pocketbook.”
Roberta seemed pleasantly surprised. “You can’t have got good odds. All the betting seems to be on second or third place. Have you heard that Pearl Woman's been hurt?”
Maijstral looked at her. “I wouldn’t have too much confidence in that, your grace. I seem to be finding a lot of takers for my bets.”
She frowned and gazed at him for the space of half a moment. “Do you truly? Who, may I ask?”
“Kotani. Fu George. And Miss Runciter held a tote ticket for the Pearl.”
Roberta’s violet eyes glittered. “Interesting.” She reached out a hand. “Thank you, Maijstral.”
“Your obedient servant.”
He kissed the hand and stepped away, and behind him there was a sudden loud murmuring, as of a crowd experiencing surprise. Maijstral turned and saw Lord Qlp undulating along the gallery toward him, its five eyes peering in his direction. Lady Dosvidern, demurely avoiding the slime trail, followed the Drawmiikh. Maijstral braced himself for the odor. When it arrived the smell almost knocked him down. The volume of conversation from the audience increased radically as a wave of the Drawmiikh’s scent rolled over them. Khosali, with noses more sensitive than those of humans, seemed particularly affected.
Maijstral bowed, summoned his resolve, and made approximate sniffs toward Lord Qlp’s head. To inhale at all required considerable willpower. The Drawmiikh ignored Maijstral and continued its motion, forcing Maijstral to move fast to keep from being knocked aside.