Authors: Walter Jon Williams
Drake Maijstral was perfectly recognizable through his domino mask. He was costumed as Grat Dalton, a six-gun on one hip and an elegant rapier on the other. Maijstral’s brown hair had been darkened for the occasion, drawn back to a knot behind; glittering gemstones dangled from his ears. The red light of Rathbon's Star, reflecting from his white ruff, darkened his complexion to that of an outdoorsman gunslinger—the effect had been carefully calculated. He spun his six-shooter on his fingers as he padded through the ballroom.
People were talking about him. He gave no sign of knowing.
*
Baron Silverside's expression was stony. “You have instructed your people, Mr. Sun?”
“I have, my lord.” Dutifully.
“Everyone is on alert?”
“Yes, my lord.” Another alarm blinked on Sun's control board. He ignored it.
“Maijstral and Fu George will be followed wherever they go?”
“They will, my lord.” Another alarm blinked. Against his will, a muscle in Sun's cheek twitched.
“Because they're sure to try something tonight, and if we can find out where they've been concealing the loot, we'll be able to find my lady's collection.”
Sun chose his words carefully. “We have every reason to hope, my lord.”
The Baron's reaction was icy. “
You
have every reason to hope, Sun. Hope that you find the collection, and hope that you toss these thieves in the calabozo. Because Kyoko Asperson is hoping to crucify you in an interview, and if we don’t find the collection, I hope to hand her the nails and hammer.”
More alarms winked. Sun swallowed hard. “I understand, my lord.”
“I hope so, Mr. Sun. I hope so.”
*
Khamiss was dressed as a waiter, in severe black with yellow collar tabs and cuffs. The waiter's uniform had been drawn from central supply and was not tailored for the service pistol that was still jammed in her armpit.
In something close to despair, she followed Maijstral through the crowd. People kept asking her for drinks, and she kept having to turn slightly away from them, concealing the bulge in her armpit, and then apologize for not being able to bring refreshments.
The night could only get worse.
*
“Mr. Maijstral?”
Kyoko Asperson was dressed as Ronnie Romper, a popular red-haired puppet whose visits to the Magic Planet of Adventure had entranced generations of children.
The last individual Maijstral encountered who dressed as Ronnie Romper had been a seven-foot-tall homicidal maniac who had tried to dissect Maijstral with a broadsword. The experience had been a particularly unhappy one, since the maniac, like a creature out of nightmare, had to be killed repeatedly before he finally snuffed the candle at last. The memory unsettled Maijstral’s nerves.
Getting a grip on himself, he doffed his Stetson and sniffed this shorter Ronnie's ears, an act that took a certain effort. “Miss Asperson,” he said.
“A fine costume, sir. Very appropriate.”
“Thank you.” The gleaming six-shooter spun as it marched down Maijstral’s fingers. “Yours seems appropriately magical.”
Kyoko sighed, a sound that seemed odd in a puppet. She gestured with her wand, scattering holographic fairy dust. “Tonight's magic belongs to the Shard, alas.”
“If it’s here.”
The puppet cocked its head. “Do you really believe it isn’t?”
Maijstral regarded the crowd. “If it isn’t, there's been a criminal waste of anticipation.”
“And preparation?”
Maijstral smiled.” On the part of
some
people, perhaps.”
“Not yourself.”
“Of course not.” He glanced over his shoulder at Khamiss. “I’m being followed by armed police. I'd have to be mad to attempt anything here.”
“So in the matter of your duel with Fu George ...”
Maijstral’s nerves, which he had been making a deliberate effort to soothe, promptly unstrung once again at the word
duel,
which reminded him of yet another unhappy experience in his past. He stiffened.
“I’m not in his class, as I believe I’ve said,” Maijstral said. “To challenge Mr. Fu George to a duel, or to anything else, would be an act of presumption.”
Kyoko lowered her voice. “I’ll presume for you,” she said confidentially. “I’m betting on you, Maijstral. The odds on the tote were too great to resist.”
Maijstral wasn’t entirely surprised by this. “They've posted odds in the Casino, then?”
“Yes. Two and a half to one in favor of Fu George.”
Maijstral’s eyes glittered in amusement. “Perhaps I’ll lay a wager myself. The odds
do
seem a little excessive.” He bowed and doffed the Stetson again. “Your servant, madam.”
*
“The Casino odds are encouraging. They have every confidence in you. And,” hand tightening on his arm, “so do I.”
“Thank you, Vanessa dearest. But this situation
is
a bit unfair, you'll admit. If I outpoint Maijstral, it’s only what's expected of me. If Maijstral’s luck is in and he outpoints
me,
it’s an upset and everyone starts speculating whether or not I’m slipping.”
“This should put you on your mettle.”
“My dear.” An offended tone. “I’m never
off
it.”
Vanessa’s eyes glittered. “Personally, I’m quite excited by the competition.”
“Should I believe the Duchess or not? That's the question.”
“You were going to try for the Shard sooner or later anyway. You’ve always told me.”
“Yes. But on grounds of my own choosing.
This
business . . . I’ll be getting no points for style, that's certain.”
“I think the costume will add points in that department, don’t you?”
“I hope so.” Approaching the door to the ballroom. “Well, here we go.”
Geoff Fu George presented his pair of invitations. Seeing his name and coupling it with the costume, the majordomo's jaw dropped in a perfect attitude of astonishment.
Vanessa, who was dressed spectacularly in feathery orange, resigned herself to letting Fu George outshine her.
*
Roman strolled into the ballroom on the heels of Vanessa and Fu George. His invitation proclaimed him to be Lord Graves, who was, as it happens, a real person—a human in fact, a distant relative of Maijstral’s who lived in the Empire. The door security, still goggling after Fu George’s costume, passed him without a glance.
Roman was dressed as a Montiyy noble in the distinctive flounced overcoat and tall tapering hat. He carried a walking stick and wore a signet ring on one finger. From his considerable height, he peered down the length of his muzzle at the other guests and graciously inclined his head toward anyone who looked at him.
He
was
Lord Graves. No one who saw Roman doubted it for an instant. Even Maijstral, who had been looking for him, had to look twice to make sure.
Roman, Maijstral had to admit, was magnificent. His large, heavily muscled frame had somehow become suffused with nobility, elegance, courtesy. Noblesse oblige dripped like honey from his fingertips. People were warmed by his very presence.
If there were any justice, Maijstral thought, Roman would have been born a lord, and Maijstral something else. Roman was so
good
at it—he embodied the noble virtues and graces, and did so with an elegance that Maijstral knew perfectly well he himself did not possess. Maijstral knew how to act a lord; Roman knew how to
be
one.
Maijstral, standing across the room from the false Lord Graves, spared a few moments for the pure enjoyment of watching Roman live the life he deserved.
*
“A splendid costume. Countess Riefers, is it not?”
“Thank you, Zoot.” Lady Dosvidern smiled. “Will you take my arm?”
“Gladly, my lady. Its lordship is in crosstalk?”
“Yes. It’s been in a trance with itself since the, ah, incident this afternoon, and will be for many hours yet. I know the signs. The eyestalks have almost entirely withdrawn.”
“Have you derived any notion of why its lordship is behaving this way?”
“Not yet, no.
Protocols? Time of Exchange?
The terms and context are new to me.”
“But you have a clue?”
“No, not really. It’s all very hard to sort out.” Her diaphragm pulsed in despair. “Each of the Drawmiikh's brains has a different social function and personality, and when Drawmii meet one another each brain has its own say, and each has a different relationship with each of the
other
Drawmiikh's brains.”
“A simple conversation must take a long time.”
“There
is
no such thing as a simple conversation on Zynzlyp. The brains have their own quirks, and even with Qlp I have a hard time knowing who's talking at any one time. Sometimes I think even the Drawmii don’t keep things straight. I know I can’t.” She looked up at Zoot and patted his arm. “Well,” she said, “at least
now
I know whom I’m talking to.”
*
“Pardon me, but can you bring us a pair of rink and sodas?” “I’m afraid not, sir. I’m on an errand already.”
*
“You’ll forgive me, dear. I should speak to Silverside.”
“He seems in something of a temper. Perhaps you shouldn’t .”
“Darling, you misunderstand my intention. I will catch him at a disadvantage. He may be inclined to make concessions.”
Languidly. “If you insist, dearest.” The Marchioness’s eyes widened. “Good grief!
Look,
at Fu George!”
Kotani gave a glance. His languor vanished at once. “Sink me!
That
should put the fat in the fire!”
Excitedly. “Is the Duchess here? Has she seen him?” Pause. “I can’t believe he actually altered his hairstyle.”
*
Spinning, winking silver . . .
“Casino? I was wondering what odds are offered on the score between Maijstral and Geoff Fu George.”
“Three to one, sir. On Fu George. Three-point spread.”
“The odds have changed.”
“Yes. Have you seen Fu George’s costume for the ball?”
“I understand.” Spinning. “I would like to place a bet. Four quillers on Maijstral. Bill it to the Coronet Suite.”
“Yes, sir.”
The six-gun spun again, and dropped into its holster. Maijstral turned off the privacy screen, adjusted his hat, and returned to the ball.
*
“Perhaps,” said Vanessa Runciter, “
I
should speak to her.” “We don’t have time to arrange anything. Our plans are set.”
“But still, Fu George ...”
“I’ve got to beat Maijstral to this one. You know that.”
“Yes.”
“And here I am dressed as Ralph Adverse. I’m as good as shouting my intention to go after the Shard.”
“Yes.” Petulant by now. “Do what you wish, Geoff I’m just trying to
help.”
*
“Imagine, Pearl. We may be witnesses to the crime of the century!”
“I am agog with anticipation,” Pearl Woman said, her voice without enthusiasm. She was dressed as an Earth pirate in tall boots, headscarf, and eyepatch; her matched cutlasses gleamed. She had made an attempt to look authentic, not that anyone here would notice.
Advert was dressed as a dithermoon in bright silks, her swept-brim hat pinned at a jaunty angle. “Have you seen Fu George’s costume?” she asked.
“Ralph Adverse. Yes. I’ve seen it.” Pearl Woman winced at the pain in her thigh. Life had, unfortunately, imitated art: she had strained a leg muscle in a futile but heroic attempt to catch the Duchess in the last stages of the race.
“Fu George may steal the Shard right in front of our eyes!”
Pearl Woman winced again at the sight of someone approaching. “Just what I need. Kyoko Asperson.”
“Who? Oh. The Ronnie Romper?”
“Yes. The Ronnie Romper with the media globes. Who else might he be?”
“I
love
Ronnie Romper. Being here is just like being on the Magic Planet of Adventure.”
Pearl Woman smiled for the cameras. “You and Ronnie Romper have so much in common,” she said, just in time for Kyoko to hear. “Hollow heads, for one.”
*
“My Lady.”
Happily. “I hope you have some diversion planned. Kotani has abandoned me again.”
“That was callous of him.” Sniffing her. “But do not despair. The evening promises excitement.”
“I hope that means you're going to kidnap the Shard.”
Maijstral smiled. “Ah. That, too.”
*
Paavo Kuusinen, dressed as a red rover in hat, ruffles, and boots, walked observant among the crowd and counted media globes.
He couldn’t help himself. He also was beginning to think it was important.
He counted, nodded, stepped to a telephone. Activating the privacy screen, he bet fifty novae on Drake Maijstral. He then made another bet on someone else.
*
“Yes, Kyoko. Advert's costume is lovely, isn’t it? The dithermoon was my idea. The finger rings, of course, are Advert's own unmistakable contribution.”
*
“Bring me some more brandy, will you?”
“I’m afraid I can’t, ma’am.”
“Why not?” Belligerently.
“I am already on an errand, ma’am.”
“You're just
standing
there, staring at the cowboy. You're a waiter, aren’t you?”
“Brandy. Right. Coming up.”
“Get on with it.”
Khamiss’s mortification knew no bounds.
*
“You have no idea how relieved I am to be here, Zoot.” Her fingers dug into his arm. “It’s been so long since I was able to talk to anyone who wasn’t — “
“Lord Qlp?”
“Lord Qlp. Yes. All five of it.”
“Yes. The dithermoon
is
appropriate, isn’t it. Dear Advert is in such a dither most of the time.”
*
“Yes, Maijstral. I can give you the first dance. I can give you the last, as well. I only hope it’s a slow one.”
*
The entrance was timed perfectly, just as anticipation had built as far as possible. Right at the moment when people were about to forget they were in suspense and get on with enjoying themselves, the cymbals crashed, trumpets blared, and the Duchess of Benn made her entrance. With the Eltdown Shard gleaming at her throat.
CHAPTER 7
The Eltdown Shard was still in the two-century-old Orkhor setting, which made the Shard the centerpiece of an elaborate necklace first worn by the Fourteenth Duchess. The setting featured twenty smaller glowstones. The dark Shard was teardrop-shaped, the narrow end downward, elaborately cut and faceted. Gleaming in the heart of the Shard, multiplied by the facets, a dying star was captured.