Authors: Walter Jon Williams
“Miss Advert.”
Turning away. “Maijstral.” He saw that she was weeping, her mouth rammed into a clenched fist. He reached into a pocket for a handkerchief.
“May I be of assistance?”
She took the handkerchief and said no. Maijstral waited for her to finish dabbing her eyes, then proffered his champagne. Advert returned his handkerchief, took the glass, gulped, returned the glass, took the handkerchief again.
“It’s the Pearl, of course,” Advert said.
“I thought so.”
Her words were spaced by sobs and gasps for breath, but Maijstral was able to follow it. “She insulted me. (Gasp.) In front of Kyoko Asperson. (Gasp.) Several (gasp) times. Called me brainless (gasp). With Kyoko and her globes hearing (gasp) everything. She was so
cutting!
(Gasp.) Making witty jokes at my .expense.
And I couldn’t think of anything to do! I just stood there!”
“I’m sorry,” Maijstral said, as she exchanged handkerchief for champagne again.
“Why did she
do
it? I thought we were
friends!”
Advert tossed off the champagne and handed Maijstral the empty glass. He gave her his handkerchief again and Advert began wringing it.
“Pearl Woman is a member of the Diadem,” Maijstral said. “There's that to consider.”
“It puts her under pressure, of course, and perhaps she needs—”
“The Diadem do nothing in public without reason,” Maijstral said. “That is another consideration.”
Advert paused in surprise, handkerchief halfway to her eyes. “You think so? You think it was calculated?”
“Pearl Woman has had many protegées, Advert. She is very sophisticated and very talented, and because of who she is, she can trust very few people. Among the Three Hundred, people use other people, and often use them badly.”
Advert looked at him. “You were offered Diadem membership, weren’t you?”
“Not formally. But yes, I knew I'd be accepted.”
“With Nichole sponsoring you. And you turned it down.”
“Yes.”
“Was it because you'd have to be ... cruel?”
“No. I simply didn’t want to live in the public eye for the rest of my life.”
“Have you regretted your decision?”
“From time to time. But, to be honest, my regret is halfhearted, and never very serious. When I remember what it was like living with Nichole, with billions of people interested in my every move, I’m quite thankful I don’t have to deal with those pressures.” He gave a brief smile. “Made it hard to earn my living, for one thing.”
Advert looked at her rings. Her voice was subdued. “I thought Pearl Woman and I were special friends. I suppose that was silly of me.”
“I can’t say. But I know that Pearl Woman doesn’t adopt just anybody. She did see
something
in you, Advert.”
Advert swallowed hard. She gave a brave smile and handed Maijstral his handkerchief. “She used me. Spent my money, let me support her. And I ransomed her pearl.”
“But she gave you access to the Diadem in return, let you live the kind of life you thought you wanted. Perhaps she considers this a fair exchange.”
“It’s not.” Her expression hardened. “Not at all.”
“Perhaps this is her way of educating you. The Three Hundred use people, and in return are used by the institution of the Diadem. Not everyone is cut out for a life like that. It may be better that you know what it’s really like.”
“Still.” Advert's look was cold. “She ought not to be allowed to get away with it. Not in front of Kyoko and everybody.”
Maijstral thought about this for a moment. “You don’t want to call her out, of course.”
“No!” Advert seemed shocked. Her expression, after consideration, turned calculating. “No,” she repeated. “For a start, she'd win, and even though she'd be upset by being made to fight twice in a year, it wouldn’t be worth it to me. I just think—maybe she should have a taste of her own medicine, that's all.”
“There's her pearl.” Tentatively. “She could ... lose it again.”
Advert seemed surprised, then she thought for a moment. “And people could find out, this time,” she said slowly. There was a certain enthusiasm in her look, but she frowned and shook her head. “I’ll have to think about that, Mr. Maijstral.”
“Call me Drake. And let me know what you decide.”
“Certainly.” Advert gave a tentative smile. “Thank you.”
He sniffed her ears. The Pilgrimage was coming to an end, and he headed back to the buffet to refill his champagne glass before the dancers began to crowd around.
*
“Fu George.” Slipping her arm through his.
“Yes?”
“You'll never guess who I just danced with.”
“A big Khosalikh built like a pom boxer and wearing a funny overcoat.”
Laughing. “Yes. He is a pom boxer, too. But the pom boxer is Roman.”
Fu George’s eyes widened. “Roman? Here?”
“He may well have the Shard on him.”
Fu George looked at Roman and frowned. “I think this is worth a recce.”
“I'd say so.”
“If you'll excuse me, my dear . . . ?”
“Of course. But get some semilife patches on that eye soon, won’t you? It’s really starting to look ugly.”
*
The Duchess of Benn stalked through the room, breathing fire. Maijstral was on his third glass of champagne, and in a sunny mood. “A setback, your grace?” Maijstral asked. Beneath the Khosali head, Roberta’s violet eyes flashed anger.
“Those fools are going to search everyone on leaving. My guests!”
Maijstral held his glass to the light, admiring the golden rise of bubbles. “Shocking.”
She glared at him. “Treating my guests as if they were . . .”
“Thieves, my lady?”
Roberta froze for a moment, then laughed. “Thieves, yes.” She looked at him. “I take it you are pleased with the results of the evening.”
“I have no reason to be unhappy.”
“And you’ve anticipated the searches, I suppose?”
Maijstral’s heavy lids rose to reveal amused green eyes. “I have laid my plans.”
Suddenly cheered, Roberta gave another laugh. “So all my guests are going to be searched for nothing.”
“That seems likely. If the guards find any secrets, none will be mine.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t have time to think when the lights went out. I just reacted. Lucky I hit Fu George and not you.”
“You wouldn’t have caught me.”
Roberta looked at him. “You're very sure of yourself.”
“In some things. As sure as you are on a racecourse.”
She thought about this, then turned to look at Baron Silverside. Anger entered her voice again. “That pompous idiot. I hope you get to keep his damned collection.”
“I hope so, too.”
She gave a laugh. “That was you? Interesting.”
Maijstral’s lazy eyes turned cautious. “Perhaps we should not speak any longer. You're supposed to be the one who's just lost your greatest treasure, and I’m supposed to be the one who may have taken it. People may hope for at least a small display of bad temper.”
She nodded. “You're right. I forgot for a moment.”
“Your grace.” He sniffed her farewell. She stiffened, as if offended.
Both turned at the sound of a smack, and neither could help laughing once they did.
Roman had just felt Fu George’s fingers in his pocket, and without thought had driven his elbow into Fu George’s uninjured eye and knocked him to the floor.
CHAPTER 8
Drexler's ears were cocked at an indignant angle. His lips drew back from his muzzle in a snarl. “Roman struck you, sir?” Geoff Fu George had changed from his Ralph Adverse costume into his evening jacket with the built-in darksuit. He applied a semilife patch to one of his blackened eyes. The little creature, happy in its purpose, awoke from its stasis and began to set its taproots into the swollen tissue.
“It was involuntary, I suspect,” Fu George said. “He's a trained fighter, and I must have been more careless than usual. I triggered his reflexes.” He sighed. “Anyway, he didn’t have the Shard.”
“With all respect, sir, Roman is also good enough to know when to use his reflexes and when not to. Perhaps,” flexing his muscles, “I should have a chat with our Mr. Roman concerning this promiscuous use of ‘reflexes.’”
Fu George looked at him sharply. “None of that, Drexler. Ten points for style, remember. Grudge matches aren’t good ton.”
Drexler snarled again, but didn’t insist.
“What I need you to do, Drexler,” Fu George said, “is follow him. Pick Roman up outside the ballroom and don’t let him go. If we can find Maijstral’s blind, we find the Eltdown Shard.”
“And then what?”
Fu George looked at him in surprise. “I steal it, of course. If he can steal the Pearl’s trinket from me, I can do it back to him.”
“What about Gregor?”
“I’ve got Chalice waiting outside Maijstral’s suite. If Gregor appears, Chalice will follow him.”
“And Maijstral himself?”
Fu George trimmed a dormant semilife patch with a pair of pocket scissors. “Vanessa will do the shadowing there.”
“And you, sir?”
“I’ll be working. Have you noticed that the Marchioness changed her jewelry since this afternoon? I doubt she bothered to send her afternoon jewels to the hotel safe, do you?”
Drexler grinned. “I doubt it, sir.”
The phone chimed once for attention. “Mr. Gregor Norman,” it reported, “wishes to speak to Mr. Chalice or Mr. Drexler.”
Interest flared in Fu George’s wounded eyes. “Answer,” he told Drexler. “Examine the background in the holo figure. Try and work out where he is.”
Gregor’s location was clear enough once his hologram appeared, obvious from the resonant quality of his voice, a quality that could only have arisen from his standing in the White Room, near the giant impact diamond.
“Mr. Drexler?” he said, grinning. “I think it’s time you and Chalice began raising your ten novae.”
“That's a little premature, don’t you think?”
“The bet concerned who had his hands on it first, and that's already been decided. I won’t show you the vids till tomorrow, of course, but I thought I'd give you a day's notice so you could start raising the money.”
Drexler bit back the impulse to make a further bet con cerning who would get to keep the stone—but that would give things away.
“Thank you, Gregor,” he said. “I appreciate the consideration.”
“Only too.” Meaning, only too very, very pleased.
Fu George was on his feet the instant the hologram was replaced by the “at your service” ideogram. “Get to Chalice,” Fu George said. “Tell him Gregor’s in the White Room. I’ll head to the White Room directly.”
“Sir!”
Fu George took two fast steps toward the door, then hesitated. He returned, seized his box of semilife patches, and then ran like hell.
He met no one in the halls save a pair of robots and the security man Kingston, who had been following him all day. The both of them had been engaged in a daylong pretence that Fu George didn’t know he was being followed, a pretence that was strained to the limits as Kingston was forced to sprint after his suspect. Fu George slowed as he entered the White Room, hearing as he walked the peculiar, resonant quality of the diamond as it reflected the orchestra and Kingston’s hurried footsteps behind.
He straightened his jacket, shot his lace, and entered the room. Save for the bartender and a pair of serving robots, the orchestra was playing to an empty room.
Fu George turned and left frowning, passing Kingston once again, much to the latter's exasperation. Since the pearl business, all Fu George had done was to react to Maijstral—he had let Maijstral panic him into advancing his attempt to steal the Shard, and now all Fu George could do was follow Maijstral and his people in hopes of finding out something useful. Somehow Fu George had lost all initiative to Maijstral, and that was bad. He had to do something, he decided, something that might serve to define the situation and compel events to start moving his way once again.
He'd give Kingston the slip, he decided, then go out and steal something. At least it would make him feel better.
His tread was lighter as he stepped down the hallway. Pity he hadn’t been able to intercept Gregor in the White Room.
The White Room. The place hung humming in his memory, resonating like the giant diamond. He realized that it hadn’t occurred to him to wonder what Maijstral’s chief technician was
doing
in the White Room.
He hesitated, then began to retrace his steps. As he crossed paths with Kingston again, he heard his tail mutter something about why didn’t he make up his mind, for heaven's sake? Fu George walked to the bartender and ordered a brightcrisp.
“What time,” he asked casually, “do you close tonight?”
The bartender told him. And there was his answer.
*
Mortification, it seemed, knew no end. Not only was Khamiss, still dressed as a waiter, following Maijstral again, it now appeared that someone was following
her.
She
thought
her tail was Vanessa Runciter, but the woman was still wearing her feathery orange ball costume and Khamiss couldn’t be certain.
Maijstral, having been searched once more on leaving the Duchess's ball, was now walking, apparently at random, through the residential quarters of the station, twirling his gun as he moved. Maijstral was obviously up to
something,
but Khamiss couldn’t believe the man didn’t know he was being shadowed. She hadn’t been able to believe in her role for some time, and she couldn’t put any feeling into her skulking at all.
She craned around a corner, not bothering to just peek with one eye or try to hide, instead resignedly leaning out in plain view as she watched Maijstral walking up the soft carpet. Maijstral came to a four-way intersection, looked both ways, stepped to his right, hesitated, then abruptly jumped to his left.
Excitement burned in Khamiss. She swept around the corner and accelerated, moving at a run down the corridor, then stopped to peek around the next corner. Maijstral’s figure dashed past another intersection, running flat out. Khamiss followed at a dead run.
The collision came too quickly for Khamiss to react. Without warning, a brilliantly costumed figure appeared in her path. The collision flung them to the floor in a tangle of flailing arms and thrashing legs. Khamiss’s pistol spilled out of its holster and flew across the carpet.