Authors: Walter Jon Williams
Her grace was dressed as the Countess Ankh, with a black-furred artificial Khosali head encompassing her own. Its brown eyes, made of dark glowstones, gleamed with a diabolical inner light. Her clothing was a dull red that, in the light of Rathbon's Star, brightened to the color of fresh blood. A thousand gemstones were sewn into the blouse and long coat; at her every gesture they flashed fire. Her loose trousers were tucked into ruby-heeled boots made of diresnake skin. At her waist she carried a curved sword identical to that with which the luckless Collinen had met his end.
Roberta stalked into the ballroom, her false ears cocked forward in defiance, the artificial muzzle set in a snarl of scorn. The costume was fully as sensational as the gem that pulsed in the dark hollow of her throat, and Roberta knew it. Ralph Adverse walked toward her and bowed. “Your grace,” he said. “My fervent congratulations on your debut, and on your sensational costume. I’m sure the Countess Ankh herself never looked better.”
“Thank you, Fu George.” Roberta had to give the man credit—he was keeping his eyes on her face and off the Eltdown Shard. The gem's dark fires, however, shone in his eyes.
“Will you take my arm, milady?”
“Certainly, sir.” They sniffed hello and began walking down the length of the ballroom. Guests parted before them, some with awe, but most because there was a general movement toward the telephones—people were placing bets.
“Now I can understand your disinclination to accept my offer of this afternoon,” Fu George said. “Any sensation planned by me would pale beside your own.”
“You do yourself injury, sir. Anyone arriving at a ball of mine dressed as Ralph Adverse cannot claim to be a stranger to sensation.”
“I wonder, your grace, if you have given my idea any further thought.”
“I have scarcely had time to think at all.” Her costume head cocked an ear toward him. “But I will give your offer my best reflection, once I have a free moment. Tomorrow I should have several free moments—at least three or four.”
“You do me honor to consider the proposal. I wonder if you would also give me the honor of a dance.”
“The first I must give to Baron Silverside. The second I’ve already promised. Would the third suit? I believe it’s the Pilgrimage.”
“Appropriate, your grace. For a pilgrim I surely am, come to worship at your shrine.”
*
Maijstral, hoping not to think of the figure from his past as an omen, was trying not to notice Ronnie Romper. He was about to commit the crime of the century, and he preferred not to have to think of anything at all.
He danced the first dance with the Marchioness Kotani, the second, as promised, with the Duchess. Roberta moved superbly in the heavy costume, her assured athlete's balance coping well with the weight of the jewels and head. Maijstral found himself admiring her, her self-reliance, her intelligence, her determination. Birth had given her advantages; but Roberta had made careful use of them—a calculated use, but Maijstral couldn’t fault her there. In Roberta’s social stratum, one either calculated or one drowned. There was no other choice.
The dance was a slow one, and the measured rhythms served to calm Maijstral’s nerves. As the dance ended and Maijstral escorted Roberta to the buffet, he felt ready, his limbs tingling with anticipation, his touch sure. “I hope your grace will give me another dance,” Maijstral said.
“I’m afraid not. As official hostess, I should circulate.”
“I’m desolated, madam. Will your grace take champagne?”
“Just fruit juice, I think. The brightcrisp.”
Maijstral handed the Duchess her drink, then took champagne for himself. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Roman was in position, standing just outside the door leading to the lobby of the Casino. Maijstral noticed Geoff Fu George moving through the crowd, heading toward Roberta.
The moment seemed ripe. The crime of the century, he thought. Readiness warmed his veins. He was faintly surprised that he didn’t feel the least nervous.
“You will excuse me, your grace. I must congratulate Miss Advert on her costume.”
“Certainly, Maijstral.” She raised her glass. “We'll speak later.”
Maijstral sniffed her, turned, and took four careful, measured paces. The champagne glass was three-quarters full in his left hand. The orchestra was tuning; the crowd was milling; the volume of conversation rose.
Maijstral’s empty right hand dropped to his pocket and palmed two micromedia globes. Balancing the champagne glass carefully, Maijstral raised his left hand casually to his lapel and hooked the little finger over the loop of a drawstring bag that was folded carefully in an inner pocket of his coat. He seized mental control of the micromedia globes with the proximity wire in his Stetson, then his right hand emerged from his pocket, reached across his body to his rapier, and pressed a button on the hilt.
With a sudden crash of metal the room was plunged into total darkness. Someone screamed. Thanks to Gregor’s tinkering in the ballroom that afternoon, Maijstral had been able to override the command circuits on the steel crash shutters, which were supposed to slam shut overhead in the event that Silverside Station was in danger of colliding with a runaway yacht or a careless meteor.
In one smooth gesture, Maijstral dropped the palmed micromedia globes, turned, and drew the hilt of his rapier —the hilt came away in his hand, revealing sonic cutters hidden in the swordblade.
The Eltdown Shard was the only source of light in the room, marking Maijstral’s target. Countess Ankh's ghostly head, back to Maijstral, loomed above the precious glow. The micromedia globes rose to hover overhead, recording everything with ultrasensitive scanners. Maijstral took four measured steps toward the Duchess, cut the chain of the necklace, snagged it between his fingers, and dropped it into the drawstring bag that he had pulled from his jacket with the little finger of his left hand.
The orchestra, seeking to assuage panic, began a shaky rendition of “When the Moonlight is Mellow.”
Maijstral turned again and took four measured paces to his starting point. Behind him he was aware of a disturbance. He pulled taut the drawstrings and flung the bag and the Shard high into the air. One micromedia globe followed it; the other dropped into his pocket. He slipped the sonic cutters back into the false blade of his rapier, an act that automatically sent out a signal that cancelled Gregor’s interrupt signal on the emergency lighting.
When light first returned to the ballroom, Maijstral was observed standing where he had been when the lights went out, a puzzled expression on his face, a fizzing glass of champagne undisturbed in his hand…
Four paces behind him, Geoff Fu George lay sprawled on the floor, rubbing his eye. The Duchess of Benn, reacting belatedly to the theft of her gem, had struck out blindly into the darkness and flattened him with a single punch.
“Seal the doors!” Baron Silverside's voice rose above the sudden turmoil. “Security to the doors!” And then, his finger pointing toward Fu George like the Hand of Doom,
“Seize that man!”
The Shard, meanwhile, was closer to Baron Silverside than the latter suspected. The drawstring bag, containing an a-grav homing device and attracted by a transmitter planted in Roman’s signet ring, had flown straight across the room and thunked solidly into Roman’s hand, where he stood in the lobby to the Casino. The micromedia globe following had been taken under command by the proximity wire in Roman’s collar and dropped down the front of his carrick, whence it peeked out from beneath one of the capes and witnessed the next maneuver.
The assistants of an Allowed Burglar were not allowed to be in the room with the burglar when he performed his theft. Roman had been two paces inside the Casino lobby, had been of no assistance in the robbery itself, and by the rules was now permitted to handle the bag and its contents.
While the Baron shouted, Roman quietly approached the Baroness from behind. The drawstring bag, weightless with its a-grav repellers, was quickly attached by a small adhesive to the inside of one of the Baroness Silverside's elaborate pleated skirts.
Smiling, Roman ordered the micromedia globe to roll into his pocket. Humming “When the Moonlight turns Mellow,” Lord Graves quietly walked away into the crowd, his walking stick touching the floor at every third step, clearly someone too refined to have anything to do with thieves.
*
There was a palpable air of excitement in Sun's blue heaven. “Right. Watsons!” Sun barked. “Take Fu George behind a privacy screen and search him. Search any of his associates who may be present. Then search Maijstral and any of
his
assistants. And meanwhile
don’t let anybody out of the ballroom!”
*
“It looks as if Fu George may have beaten you to it,” Kyoko Asperson remarked. Her media globes were circling the opaque privacy screen within which Fu George was being searched.
The privacy screen dropped and Fu George stepped into the crowd. His confident grin seemed a little strained. His eye was beginning to swell and turn purple.
Maijstral smiled. “It looks to me as if Fu George is the one that got beat,” he said, and drained the last of his champagne.
*
“Search Vanessa Runciter!” Sun barked. “Then get Maijstral in there!”
*
“My condolences, your grace,” Zoot offered. “I trust the stone will be recovered.”
“One way or another,” Roberta said. She was worried. She didn’t know
who
had her necklace.
“I’m sure they'll get it back,” Pearl Woman said. Unconsciously, she tilted her head to feel the reassuring weight of her pearl against her neck.
“I hope this won’t delay the ball fatally,” Roberta said. She managed a brave grin. “I realize they have to search people, but can’t the rest of us go on dancing?”
Zoot's foot tapped the floor in an admiring pattern of applause. “Well said, your grace,” he offered.
“Well, let's!” Roberta declared. She tried to signal the orchestra leader, but failed. “You'll pardon me,” she said, and began to walk toward the floating gallery where the orchestra perched.
“May I have the honor of this dance, madam?” Zoot asked, turning to Pearl Woman.
“Certainly.” Taking his arm.
“My compliments on your pirate costume, by the way. It looks very authentic.”
Pearl Woman was surprised. “I didn’t think anyone would notice.”
“Old Earth costume is a hobby of mine. There's such a variety, you know.”
“No, I didn’t .”
“Oh, yes. Why, in the age of piracy alone there was quite an amazing diversity of costume. Between the Barbary Corsairs and the Ladronese of Ms. Ching Yih there was a prodigious difference.”
“Really? Tell me about it.”
She could use this, Pearl Woman thought as Zoot launched into a lecture concerning Pierre le Grand and the dread Bartholemew Roberts. She'd have someone write her a play about Earth pirates—this Ms. Ching Yih sounded promising—with lots of costumes, action, sword rights, armed ships zooming about the atmosphere on scalloped wings . . .
It was time she appeared in a romance. It had been a few years.
*
“No luck, sir.”
“Damnation.” Sun scowled. Blinking alarm lights filled his console. “Very well. We'll search everybody as they leave the ball.”
Khamiss looked startled. “Can we do that, sir?”
“Ask the Baron his permission, but I’m sure he'll give it. This is the Eltdown Shard we're talking about, not some damned chunk of asteroid.”
“Mr. Sun!” The Baron's scowling visage appeared over Sun's console. Alarm lights shone through his holographic image. “Have you found the Shard?”
Sun touched an ideogram and ended the conversation with Khamiss. “I was just about to speak with you, my lord,” he said. “We haven’t turned up the Shard yet, but it’s probably in the ballroom somewhere. If I could have your permission to search each guest upon leaving . . . ?”
The Baron seemed a little taken aback, but once he got used to the idea, he seemed to grow more cheerful.
“Ye-es,” he said, stroking his burnsides thoughtfully “Yes, I believe that would be justified under the circumstances.”
“And if by some mischance we fail to recover the stone, then my people can continue following the suspects. They may lead us to their treasure troves.”
Baron Silverside brightened again at the thought of recovering his wife's collection. “Yes,” he said again. “Good man, Sun. That’s the ticket.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Remember what’s at stake, Sun.” Somehow, with Baron Silverside looking pleased, the threat seemed all the worse. Sun commended his soul to the Eternal.
“I remember, sir.”
“See that you do, Sun.”
Another alarm blinked on.
“Yes, sir. I know very well.”
The Baron disappeared. Sun looked sullenly at the control board and its winking lights. Finally his temper snapped.
“Cancel all alarms!” he roared.
The console obeyed. For a few minutes anyway, there was peace.
*
“Roman? Is that you?”
“Yes, Miss Runciter.”
Vanessa looked at him in astonishment. She had just danced three figures with the Khosalikh in the carrick and tall hat, thinking only there was something familiar about him, and only now realized she had known him for years.
“Roman,” she said, “you are an absolute treasure. You make a wonderful good Montiyy.”
“Thank you, madam.”
“Surprisingly good,” she said, her eyes narrowing.
Roman could read her like a book.
*
The Pilgrimage to the Cinnamon Temple was under way by the time Maijstral stepped from the privacy screen. He had been searched by a female Khosalikh in a waiter's uniform, the same who had been following him the last two days, and she had clearly been embarrassed by having to face him again. She wouldn’t even look at his face. Were it not for the fact that a number of her confederates were watching, he could probably have kept the Shard on his person the entire time, moving it from pocket to pocket while she turned her eyes away and patted at him.
Maijstral decided not to join the dance. The urge to glibber and gambol, he reflected, might get the better of him. He refreshed his champagne glass and noticed a figure in layered silks standing by one of the barred doors. He approached her.