Authors: Walter Jon Williams
“So how did you get accepted, then?”
“I conducted Saxony Weil's first interview in twenty years. The first since the scandal.”
“And how'd you manage that?”
Kyoko smiled thinly. “I was very young, and I pretended more naivete than I possessed. She wanted to get her version of events on the record, and thought she could use me. She assumed I'd be so awed that I wouldn’t ask hard questions, and sufficiently inexperienced that I wouldn’t check the record about what actually happened all those years ago. She spun a web of lies, and I called her down on each one.”
“I sort of remember hearing about that that. Never saw the interview, though. Didn’t know anything about Saxony What's-'er-name.”
“One critic called it 'the definitive demolition.' I liked that.” She frowned and sipped her drink. “She wanted to use me, and I used her instead, and now I’m famous and she's still in exile. All I did was know my job, and my audience, and be myself.” She stood and put her loupe in her eye. “I’ve got to talk to Pearl Woman before she leaves. If she thinks she can try to break the Duchess's knees in front of
me
, she'd better think again. See you later, I hope.”
Gregor grinned at her. “Only too.”
“Bye.” Gregor watched, his mind buzzing, as Kyoko’s marshalled media globes began to arrow toward Pearl Woman like a squadron of warships stooping on a target.
The Marquess Kotani was strolling rather rapidly from the arena when Maijstral intercepted him. Kotani wasn’t precisely running away: he was merely giving the Fates a chance to intervene between himself and his debt. Once caught, Kotani handed over the money with a flourish and congratulations, then made a much more leisurely exit. Maijstral collected his half-quiller from Fu George, who wrote his marker in an offhand way while conducting a conversation with the Marchioness Kotani and Vanessa Runciter, and who then offered Maijstral a single finger in his handclasp. Smiling for his own reasons, Maijstral put his winnings in his pocket and strolled toward the knot of well-wishers that surrounded Roberta.
“Great race,” Mr. Dolfuss was remarking. “Never seen a better.”
“Thank you, sir,” Roberta said. She pulled off her helmet and shook her bobbed hair.
“But what were the Priests singing afterward?” Dolfuss asked. “I couldn’t make it out.” He was using his actor's voice that boomed loud in the enclosed space. Those nearby were falling silent, partly because they'd been outshouted and partly out of embarrassment for the man.
“They were thanking the Virtues and the Emperor for a race well run,” Roberta said. Her voice was softer than usual: perhaps she was trying to lead by example.
“What's the Emperor got to do with it?” Dolfuss demanded. “We don’t even
have
an Emperor any more. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“If you'll forgive my interruption, sir, it has never been a requirement of religion to make sense,” Maijstral said.
“Of
course
it’s supposed to make sense!” Dolfuss barked. “What's the point of a religion that don’t explain things?” But Maijstral had turned to Roberta and offered her two fingers.
“Congratulations, your grace,” he said. “You came close to mishap, but you avoided it splendidly.”
There was a secret gleam in Maijstral’s eyes, one answered in the eyes of the Duchess. “I had warning, sir. Perhaps I’m intuitive that way.”
“That would explain it. It’s lucky
I
was intuitive enough to bet on your success.”
“I’m pleased to be the author of your good fortune.”
Dolfuss, in the meantime, had spotted someone over the heads of the crowd. With roaring apologies, to which no one listened, he made his way toward Pearl Woman. Maijstral, pleased by his confederate's performance, smiled as he watched the actor leave, a smile entirely misunderstood by those present.
“You'll pardon me, I hope,” Roberta said. “I have to make preparations for the ball.”
“Your grace.” Maijstral sniffed her and watched her leave. From somewhere he could hear Dolfuss's voice on high, offering his sympathy to Pearl Woman on her damned bad luck. Maijstral remembered he had a bet on the tote and walked toward the stair. Climbing, he passed by Khamiss, who, cursing under her breath, was compelled to jump aside to make way for him. Maijstral bowed and brushed past, nudging Khamiss’s gun with his elbow. Khamiss’s ears drew down in mortification, and she wearily reversed course and trudged up the stairs after Maijstral.
Standing by the cashier were the Marchioness and Mr. Paavo Kuusinen. The Marchioness smiled and waved.
“Collecting your winnings, Maijstral?” she asked.
“I was lucky.”
“My husband was not. Despite his other splendid qualities, he is simply not the sort of man who should gamble.”
“How unfortunate.”
She gave an easy laugh and brandished her winnings. “I always win by betting contrary to his instructions. I’m afraid it puts him in a temper.”
Maijstral turned to Kuusinen. “Did you win yourself, sir?”
Kuusinen smiled politely. “I did indeed. I’ve seen her grace race before, and I was confident there was no one in this field she couldn’t cope with.”
“An astute observation,” Maijstral said, wondering.
Cope
he thought, was an odd word to choose.
Defeat
might have been more obvious.
Kuusinen, therefore, had seen Pearl Woman's stratagem and recognized it for what it was. The man was disturbingly acute.
“Cash your marker, Maijstral,” the Marchioness said gaily. “Then we can stroll to the White Room.”
“I'd be honored, my lady,” Maijstral said, and stepped to the cashier's desk.
As he deposited his winnings into his hotel account, he could feel Kuusinen’s unsettling gaze on the back of his neck. The man sees too much, he thought, and whether he's police or not, this bodes ill.
“A moment, your grace, if you please.”
Roberta cast a look over her shoulder at Geoff Fu George. “If you don’t mind walking with me. I’m in something of a hurry.”
“You're walking in my direction anyway.” Smoothly. Fu George matched his stride to hers and offered his congratulations.
“It was noble of you,” Roberta said, “to bet on Pearl Woman, despite her injury.”
Fu George stiffened in surprise. “I wonder,” he asked, “how your grace knew of my wager?”
Roberta shrugged. “Drake Maijstral mentioned you and he had made a wager.”
“Indeed.” His face darkened. Now he knew how he'd lost: Maijstral had put her on her guard somehow.
Drake Maijstral, he thought, has a lot to answer for.
“Your debut tonight,” he said, “is certain to be a success.”
“Thank you. Success is something I’m counting on.”
“Success becomes you well,” Fu George said. “But I wonder if you have ever considered your debut being marked not only by success, but by sensation?”
She gave him a look. “Sensation? How so, sir?”
Fu George gave a deprecating laugh. “I don’t mean anything vulgar. No arguments, no duels, no scandalous fashion ...”
“Ah. I perceive your intenttion.”
Fu George smiled. “Your grace is quick.”
Roberta laughed. “I’m afraid the family would not approve of such a major sensation, Mr. Fu George. But perhaps a minor one could be arranged afterward. Why don’t you speak to me after the ball?”
“I would be most happy.”
“Here's my door. Your servant, sir.”
“Yours, madam.”
Geoff Fu George stood outside the door for a moment and gnawed his lip. Was Roberta just putting him off, or was she serious about the minor sensation? Should he proceed with the lift tonight, or not?
He'd go ahead, he decided. With Maijstral on station, he had no choice; he couldn’t afford to give Maijstral a chance at the Shard.
Confident in his assessment, Fu George turned and stepped toward his room. He and his assistants would have to choreograph their movements perfectly, and that would require careful preparation and rehearsal.
He wasn’t going to let Maijstral show him up again.
*
“Pleased to see you again. May I join you?”
Khamiss looked up and smiled. “Of course. You're very welcome.”
Zoot drew the next chair closer, then dropped into it. “I see you're still keeping Maijstral in sight.”
“And vice versa.” Dourly. “He knows I’m here.”
Zoot’s magnifier appeared briefly in the air as he gazed across the White Room toward where Maijstral was seated with the Marchioness. The magnifier disappeared, and Zoot turned to Khamiss. “I thought you might be interested in a physiognomy lesson. I’ve nothing else planned for the afternoon.”
Khamiss brightened. “I'd like nothing better.”
“The theory is based on using geometry to divide the body and the head into zones, and then finding something in one of the zones that is unique and can compel recall. For instance, the human head can be divided evenly along a lateral line running left to right across the eyes. . . .”
Khamiss was surprised. “The eyes are in the horizontal centerline of the human head? I thought they were . . . rather lower down.”
“That's an optical illusion. Because we're taller. Let me show you.” Zoot took a notebook from his pocket and drew an oval on it with a pen. He bisected it, added eyes, a button nose, a mouth, and hair. A recognizable human, withal.
“I see.”
“The upper attachment of the human's ears to the head are also on a line with the eyes. So . . .” Still drawing.
“Right. So if the ears are placed higher or lower than the corners of the eyes, then that's a distinguishing mark.”
Zoot's tongue lolled in approval. “Quite. That's not a common one, however.” He sketched idly. “I use a human head as an illustration because their ovoid shape makes for a simpler geometry. Khosali heads are formed along the lines of an oblate hexagon, the upper half larger than the lower.”
Zoot continued adding lines to his pad. Khamiss watched and made comments, but her observations dwindled off after a few moments. Zoot's head, she noticed, was quite an admirable hexagon in its way.
“Damn!” Khamiss jumped up. Zoot glanced at her in alarm.
“Something wrong, miss?”
“Maijstral’s leaving. I’ve got to run. Thank you.”
“We can continue later.”
“Thanks. Bye.”
Heart pounding, Khamiss sped across the White Room as Maijstral sniffed the Marchioness's ears and moved toward an exit. She was aware of people looking at her.
She slowed, her ears turning down in embarrassment. Maijstral was waiting for her anyway, arms folded, standing in the doorway.
CHAPTER 6
Some objects have a way of becoming magic. They need not be the biggest or even the best of their type; yet somehow they gather romance unto themselves, and become legend. The Felkhorvinn Tapestry is one such object; and a sect of ascetic carpetmarkers on Pessch has even gone so far as to deify its architect, Pers the Younger. The Felkhorvinn is a little unusual to fit into the category of Magic Objects, in that it’s very large: in fact it’s so big that it’s only been stolen once, by that romantic collector of objects-not-his-own, Ralph Adverse.
For usually it’s theft that deifies an object, imbues it with the proper aura of romance. Would La Giaconda's smile seem quite so intriguing had it not been coveted, stolen, and cherished by so many? Would the Hope Diamond have shone quite so brilliantly had its origins not been so mysterious, and had all its owners, beginning with Louis XVI and Antoinette, died in such fateful, inexorable ways? Would Prince Orloff have paid quite so much for his blue-white stone had it not been pried from the eye of an Indian idol? Would the Zoot Torque have become the most celebrated piece of Imperial regalia had not Ralph Adverse managed to worm his way into the City of Seven Bright Rings and get his hands on it?
Most of the Magic Objects moving about the universe are, in fact, gems of one sort or another. The fact is that gems are portable and therefore more easily stolen; and when stolen in the right circumstance, by the right people, an object can be invested with the necessary aura of enchantment. Nothing could make it more romantic than the right theft, lest it be the right death. Blood, it seems, is more effective in creating romance than mere larceny.
Of the glowstones, those rare and lambent objects hurled at relativistic velocities from the cores of dying stars, none is more famous than the Eltdown Shard, which has seen more than its share of death and peculation. When the Countess Ankh was informed by her lover, the financier Collinen, that they must part, she saw no alternative but to disembowel the man and place his organs in cryogenic containers intended originally for selected parts of his pet Farq shepherds. She committed this crime not because she was sorry at losing Collinen, but rather because Collinen owned the Shard, and upon losing her lover she lost her access to its glorious fires, its cool and subtle majesty. (But perhaps she cared for Collinen after all: when the police finally blasted their way into Castle Sumador, they found the Shard in the same cryogenic container as the dead man's heart. Moved by this evidence of sentiment, the Emperor permitted his cousin her choice of deaths.)
Two Allowed Burglars later tried for the Shard and died; Ralph Adverse tried and succeeded, then later, when his lifestrand frayed at last, killed himself with the Shard clutched to his bosom, thus confirming his own legend and the Shard's. Other glowstones are larger, and others display the light of long-dead stars more beautifully; but none has as much romance as the Shard, none has its magic.
And none has its fatal attraction. Its relativistic flames have attracted many a moth, and few have escaped without burning. That's the problem with magic: it can exalt, or destroy, or do both at once; and few can honestly claim to predict which course a Magic Object will take once it has admirers in its spell.
*
The spell of the Shard had clearly been cast on the Silverside Ballroom. The air of expectancy was tangible: beneath the flares of Rathbon's Star the atmosphere was hushed, almost reverent. Costumes glittered; crystal goblets rang; people conversed; but still all this small world waited, knowing something was going to happen.