Authors: Walter Jon Williams
Khamiss sat up, her head ringing, and looked up into the blazing eyes of Vanessa Runciter. “Idiot!” Vanessa spat. There was a bright scarlet abrasion on her pale cheek. “Can’t you do a simple tail job right?”
Rage flared in Khamiss.
“I’m
not the one who’s tailing someone while dressed like a big orange bird.” Maijstral had
intended
this to happen, Khamiss realized: he’d seen his shadows from the start and doubled back to force them to collide. Khamiss and Vanessa had fallen into a trap.
Khamiss floundered after her pistol. “Didn’t your nannybot ever tell you to look both ways?”
“I had a
live
nanny, you imbecile.” Vanessa rose to her feet and flung her cape back over her shoulder. She hobbled after one of her shoes, which was lying near Khamiss’s pistol.
“Even more reason to listen to her.” Khamiss’s hand closed on the pistol, and she rammed the bulky object back into her armpit. She picked up Vanessa’s shoe and handed it to her.
“Thank you.” Said without thought. Vanessa put a tentative hand to her cheek, came away with blood. “I could
kill
you for this,” she said, enraged again.
“Just try it.” Khamiss stood and drew herself to her full height, a head taller than the human. “Just try it,” she repeated, rather liking the sound of the words.
Vanessa glared at her but said nothing. Did these High Custom people fight duels with waiters? Khamiss wondered. She decided to keep the initiative now that she seemed to have it.
“Why were you following Maijstral, anyway?” she said. And then, “Or was it
me
you were following?”
Vanessa decided on a belligerent response. “Who says I was following Maijstral? And who the hell would follow you?”
“You
would. It was obvious. You were clumsy enough.”
It was
wonderful,
Khamiss was finding, being belligerent to a guest. She should abuse her station more often.
Something caught Khamiss’s attention, a movement out of the comer of her eye. She turned and saw a tiny black marble rolling along the ceiling, a little sphere that stayed in the shadows and tried to be inconspicuous.
With a practiced movement, Khamiss drew her service pistol. Vanessa gave a gasp and, assuming she was about to be turned to toasted cheese, clawed for the tiny chugger she carried under her cape. Khamiss lined up the micromedia globe over the sights and squeezed the trigger. Flame burst from the ceiling. The globe ran for cover. More fire leaped out, and the globe fell, rolled, and died.
Fire alarms wailed. Robot arms appeared from the service corridor and began spraying foam. Khamiss rather enjoyed the spectacle.
Being aggressive was so
satisfying,
she thought.
Vanessa finally got her gun out. She pointed it in at least three directions before she realized she was in no danger.
Khamiss ignored the foam that spattered her waiter’s costume. She holstered her spitfire, and walked to the charred micromedia globe. She picked up the globe and let it roll in her hand. She turned to Vanessa.
“Yours?”
Vanessa, clutching her pistol, shook her head. Foam speckled her hair. She put her pistol back in its holster. She reached for her cigaret holder and a pack of Silvertips.
“Who was the operator trying to follow?” Khamiss wondered. “Maijstral? You? Me?”
“Who cares?
We've
lost him, that's the main point.” Vanessa flicked her lighter, and a flame leapt into being.
A robot fire fighter promptly covered her face with foam.
*
Five . . . Four . . . Three . . .
Baroness Silverside was growing larger in the view of Gregor’s skulking micromedia marble.
Two . . . One . . . Now.
Gregor stepped briskly around the corner and walked deliberately into the Baroness.
“Beg pardon, madam.”
The Baroness looked at him with irritation. “Be careful, young man,” she said.
As Gregor walked away, he whistled his micromedia globe from the ceiling. He ordered it into his inside coat pocket, next to the glory that was the Eltdown Shard.
*
“It’s after midnight, Sun.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You have not recovered my wife's collection.” Sun gazed bleakly into a future that held no place for him. A sinner, he thought, in the hands of an angry god.
Dangling over the candle flame like a spider, all for his own unperceived fault.
“Alas, my lord,” he said.
Baron Silverside looked upon him with the face of the Angel of Judgement. “You will pay for this, Sun.”
Sun acceded to the inevitable. “I know, my lord,” he said. He suspected he would never cease paying.
*
The Duchess of Benn exchanged condolences with Baron Silverside, then let Kotani drag the Baron away for another conference. The orchestra members, instruments dangling from their hands, were making their way out by another entrance. Roberta looked at her last remaining guest, Paavo Kuusinen. He bowed over her hand as he clasped it: one finger, as was proper.
“Congratulations, your grace,” he said. “You’ve achieved your object. A sensational debut.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kuusinen. I couldn’t have done it without your help.”
“You are far too gracious.” He glanced at the last of the musicians as they filed out to the waiting security watsons, who were frisking them in a final hope of locating the Shard. “I wonder how he got it out?” he asked.
“We'll have to wait for the videos to come out. Six months or so.”
“Yes, your grace. I suppose we'll have to contain our curiosity till then.” He frowned as he glanced up at Rathbon's Star, its astonishing display revealed once again now that Silverside personnel had removed Gregor’s overrides.
“I hope the second part of your grace's plan goes as smoothly as the first,” he said.
“Do you think it might not?”
“I suspect complications. There are ... undercurrents.”
Countess Ankh's artificial ears tilted forward in curiosity. “Do you think Geoff Fu George might interfere?”
“He might, particularly if he thought his position as top-ranked thief was in danger. He lost a number of style points when your grace knocked him down; that might even put his rating in danger.” He glanced over the empty ballroom. “But I think there's something else going on. I don’t know whether it concerns us or not; but it would be well to be cautious.”
“You pique my curiosity, Kuusinen.”
“I would prefer not to speculate until I have further information.” He glanced over the ballroom. “Shall I escort you to your room?”
“That would be pleasant. Please take my arm.”
“Ever your servant, your grace.”
*
Drake Maijstral, still clothed as a bank robber, folded the Marchioness Kotani in his arms and kissed her. His pulse sped; his knees grew weak. His mind was racing.
Maijstral was trying to calculate his chances of getting killed. The Marquess, he knew, was a very good shot. But the Marchioness had assured him Kotani would be spending the night harassing Baron Silverside; in any case the two had separate rooms, and the chance of discovery was therefore slight.
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t earned this, after all. How often did one commit the crime of the century right in the middle of a public function and get away with it? Maybe, for a single night at least, one could get away with anything.
He decided to take the risk.
Still, it was not passion for the Marchioness that made his heart throb and turned his knees watery—rather, the thought of a pistol with Kotani at one end of it and himself at the other.
The kiss ended. The Marchioness gazed up at him with glowing eyes. “I’ll call a robot for you,” she said, and brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. She touched the service plate and cast a look over her shoulder. “My rover,” she said, and stepped into her dressing room. The dressing room door closed. The robot bustled out of a closet and unlaced Maijstral’s jacket and trousers.
Maijstral dismissed the robot, sat on the bed, and pulled off his boots. “Fu George,” he said, “I think this is your moment to leave.”
An annoyed grunt came from beneath the bed.
“And kindly replace anything you stole,” Maijstral went on. “Otherwise her ladyship will think I took it.”
“Damn it, Maijstral,” Fu George said as he rolled out of hiding. “You owe me something for this.”
“Something, agreed,” Maijstral said. “Not the Shard. The Shard is more than just something.”
“Did I
ask
for the blasted Shard?”
Fu George’s darksuit made his outlines uncertain, but the Marchioness's jewels, falling from the vagueness of Fu George’s hand into the open jewel case, were clear. Maijstral rose from the bed to let Fu George out. Fu George turned.
“You're going to stay here for the night, are you?” he asked. “I wouldn’t want to run into you again.”
“I’m not planning on breaking into any rooms tonight, if that's what you want to know.” Which was true to the letter, Maijstral reflected, if not quite to the spirit of Fu George’s question.
“Your servant.”
“Thank you, Fu George. You’ve been very decent. I hope you get style points out of this, at least.”
“Your very obedient. And hasty.” The shape rose on a-grav repellers and fled down the corridor.
Maijstral closed the door and stepped into the bedroom again just as the Marchioness entered from her dressing room. She wore a mothwing nightgown. Dark gemstones dangled from her ears and brushed against her neck. Her pouting mouth was drawn in a smile.
“Was someone here?” she asked.
“No one of consequence,” Maijstral said, and dismissed Fu George, like her husband, from his mind.
*
“Thank you, Zoot. It’s been the most delightful evening I’ve spent since ...” Her ears fluttered helplessly. “Since I was condemned to Zynzlyp.” She and Zoot stopped at her door.
“It has been entirely my pleasure, my lady. It’s the greatest pity the evening must come to an end.”
Lady Dosvidern looked at him with burning eyes. “It need not, you know,” she said.
Zoot's heart boomed like a gong.
“Oh,” he said. “Do you think so?”
“Yes. I think so,” she confirmed, and lovingly closed her canines on one of his ears.
*
Eight silver media globes circled in a perfect halo over Kyoko Asperson's bed. Gregor kissed her and reached for his trousers.
“Time for bed check, lover,” he said.
Kyoko sat up. “I didn’t realize Maijstral ran such a tight ship.”
“Sorry. Burglar's hours and all that. The boss might need me for something or other.” Pulling on his trousers.
“Can you come by later?”
“It would have to be
very
later.”
She cocked her head. “I’ll be here all morning. I can’t sleep
too
late, because Baron Silverside gave me an interview with the head of security here—” She laughed at Gregor’s sudden tigerish grin. “An interview about all the chaos you’ve been causing.”
“What time is the interview?”
“Noonish. Why do you ask?”
A knowing smile. “Nothing.”
“Come on.” Coaxing.
“Forget I said anything.”
“You can tell
me.”
“Not yet I can’t. I'd like to see the man sweat, though.”
“Speaking of
sweating
...” She reached to the bedside table for her loupe and stuck it in her eye. One of the media globes detached itself from its circuit and hovered in front of Gregor.
“Tell me, Mr. Norman,” she said, “what's a noted burglar like yourself doing in this shocking state of undress, here in someone else’s room?”
Gregor looked wide-eyed at the media globe and gasped in feigned surprise. “I’m afraid I’ve been the victim of a crime, Miss Asperson. A terrible crime.”
“Yes?” Kyoko leaned forward intently. “And what might that be?”
Gregor leaned forward himself till their noses were almost touching. “Someone robbed me of my affections, that's what.”
Kyoko grinned and kissed him. “G'night, sad victim that you are.”
“Goodnight, thief.”
He reached for his boots.
*
The White Room burned red in the nighttime, illuminated only by Rathbon's Star. Stark black shadows lay with precise knife edges on the soft blood-red carpet. Above, the impact diamond rang faintly with echoes of distant life.
Ghosts moved in the ruddy light. Nearly invisible, their shadows danced on the carpet, flickered on the walls, played tag with the rainbows cast by the giant diamond.
The ghost dance was witnessed by two people, each viewing the action via separate media globes set high in a place of vantage.
At the sight of the ghosts and their purposeful dance, the onlookers smiled.
*
Advert looked at the treasure in her hand and her fingers trembled as a wave of terror passed through her. Panic churned in her mind. Her ringers clamped shut. Moving as silently as she could, she stepped from Pearl Woman's bedroom into the front room of their suite.
Once in the front room she whispered for a spotlight and opened her hand. Her treasure seemed insignificant in her pink palm: a pearl, a length of minute chain, an ear-clasp.
She looked at the thing and experienced a wave of giddiness. She felt as she had when she was ten years old, and successfully evaded her nannybot to meet with her friends at midnight in the Haunted Pavilion.
She realized she was enjoying herself. She closed her fist around the treasure and performed a brief, giddy dance.
Serve her
right,
she thought.
*
“Did you really get the Eltdown Shard?”
“Perhaps.” Maijstral reached for the bottle of champagne that a Cygnus robot had just delivered to the room.
“I'd like to see it.”
“That might be possible. After tomorrow midnight, of course.”
Her fingers lazily brushed the skin of her throat. Her tilted eyes challenged him. “I'd like to
wear
it.”
He smiled as he poured the champagne. “I think it could be arranged. Assuming I’ve got it, of course.”
“Of course.” Crystal rang as the glasses touched. Maijstral raised his glass to his lips. A knock thundered on the door.
There was a practiced blur of motion. Moving swiftly and in perfect silence, Maijstral left the bed, scooped up his clothes, flung them through the open closet door, picked up his riding boots, sword, and gunbelt, and then loped for the closet, the champagne glass still in his hand. The Marchioness watched him through laughing eyes.