Authors: Walter Jon Williams
Advert looked at Pearl Woman and considered for a long moment. “I’d like a clearer idea of the nature of the part before I give a definite answer.”
Pearl Woman laughed. She squeezed Advert's arm. “There
has
been a change, Advert. A very interesting one.”
Advert’s ears perked forward in a gesture meant to be modest. Pleasure welled into her. “I hope so,” she said.
*
“It’s been an interesting few days,” said the Duchess of Benn. “I hope the rest of my journey will offer something to equal it.”
“Personally,” said Drake Maijstral, “I could do with a rest.” He paused. “I thank you both again, your grace, Mr. Kuusinen, for your assistance here. I might not have survived without you.”
“You're very welcome, Drake. I’ve had fun.” Her violet eyes sparkled. “Perhaps I’ll see you later. I’m taking the grand tour, after all, and we may encounter one another.”
Maijstral inclined his head. “I desire nothing else, your grace.”
Fun,
he thought.
Roberta turned to Roman. “I also hope I see you again, Roman. Take care of Maijstral, will you?”
Roman stifled his surprise. “I’ll do my best, your grace.” More surprise was stifled as she stood on tiptoe to sniff his ears. She turned to sniff Maijstral, giving him three fingers to his cautious two, and then headed for her berth on the
Count Boston.
Paavo Kuusinen clasped Maijstral’s hand—one finger each—and they sniffed farewell. Maijstral looked at him, his shuttered green eyes betraying a gleam of interest. “Mr. Kuusinen,” he said. “You’ve rendered me considerable assistance on two separate occasions, and I regret that I know so little of you. For instance, I have no idea of your occupation.”
“I am an attorney, sir. I work for her grace.”
“Ah. Very interesting.”
Kuusinen gave an offhand flick of his ears. “Not very, sir. I find the practice of law too predictable. The labyrinths of sentient nature are more of interest to me.”
Maijstral paused a moment while wondering, precisely, how to reply to this strange remark. “As they are to us all,” he said finally.
“Your servant.”
“Your obedient.”
Maijstral suppressed a minor tremor as he watched Paavo Kuusinen follow the Duchess across the concourse to the
Boston’s
dock. Despite the man's assistance, Maijstral was happy to be rid of him.
“Sir?” A diffident voice intruded upon Maijstral’s meditations. He turned to see a tidy human in a nondescript brown jacket.
“Ah. Mr. Mencken.”
“I am pleased you remember my name, sir. Your Very Private Letter.”
Maijstral took the envelope and looked at the VPL seal. “Thank you.”
“Your servant.”
Mencken disappeared into the crowd. Maijstral glanced at the seal again, then broke it. The scented paper told him of its source before he unfolded the note. The message was curt, the calligraphy hastily-formed but recognizable. Maijstral had an image of her bent over a desk, Mencken or someone like him standing behind her, waiting for the letter.
Drake,
Troubled in spirit, alas. Navarre has blossomed, been offered Diadem membership. Myself have rediscovered the stage, find the whole D. business distracting. I’d like to go on, but a meeting would be better. Is possible?
Sorry about this, Drake. Honest. N.
Maijstral read the message twice, first hastily, then not. He put it back in its envelope and handed both to Roman.
“Destroy, please.”
“Yes, sir. I hope she is well.”
Maijstral frowned. “Entering a depressed phase, I think.”
“She recovers quickly, sir. I wouldn’t be overly concerned.”
“Still. I wish she had someone around her she could trust.”
“So do I, sir.”
“Someone like you, Roman.”
Roman bowed. “Thank you, sir.” Carrying the envelope, he headed toward the nearest disposal. Maijstral looked after him and considered how much better a place the universe would be if
everyone
had someone like Roman to look after them.
“Drake.” Vanessa Runciter's voice, hovering just over one shoulder.
He turned toward her, brushing her gently with his arm. He stepped back, putting distance between them. A translucent veil, Maijstral was pleased to note, was drawn across her face to hide the damage.
“Hello, Vanessa.”
“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry I shot at you. I thought you'd just done in Fu George, you see.”
“It’s forgotten, Vanessa.” Politely.
She cocked her head and looked at him. “You're going to do very well out of this last few days, you know.”
“That seems likely.”
Her voice was harsh. “Fu George is thinking about retirement. It all sounds pretty ghastly.”
“He has earned his retirement, to be sure.”
“I never said he hadn’t. Just that it wasn’t for me.” She paused for a long moment, staring at him, then finally spoke. “Perhaps we ought to meet, Drake.”
Maijstral was surprised at the cool firmness of his reply. “I think not, Vanessa.”
She took a few seconds to absorb this, still looking at him, then nodded briskly. “If that’s how you want it.”
“I’m afraid it is.” Even more firmly.
She turned abruptly and was gone. Maijstral let out a slow, relieved breath. A few years ago, he reflected, he might well have given a different answer.
He was suddenly aware of Roman’s presence. He glanced at Roman, then back at Vanessa. “You know, Roman,” he said, as he handed Roman her gun and bracelet—not being foolish, he’d taken the gun first. “I hadn’t perceived until now the resemblance in character between Vanessa Runciter and my mother.”
“Really, sir? It was the first thing I noted about her.”
Maijstral looked at him in surprise as the gun and bracelet vanished. Roman’s expression was carefully opaque. Maijstral sighed and turned away.
“We should escort our baggage to the
Cheng,”
he said. “I think we’ve said all our necessary goodbyes to anyone leaving on the
Boston.”
He turned and began to walk back to the residential quarters, where Dolfuss, with his pistol, was still standing over the baggage like Marshall Wild Bill Hickock guarding a gold shipment.
“Maijstral! A moment!”
Kyoko Asperson, dressed in yellow and violet motley, was leaping up and down, waving her arms, media globes dancing over her head. Maijstral patiently awaited her arrival. She gave him a wide grin and, while sniffing him, bussed him on both cheeks.
Maijstral’s hand dipped into her pocket, returned with something small.
“Gregor told me how nice you were about his leaving,” she said. “I'd like to thank you.”
“We'll be sorry to lose him, but—” He dropped the stolen object in a pocket and threw up his hands. “I'd hate to stand in his way. Or in the way of true love, for that matter.”
Kyoko colored prettily. One of her media globes moved closer to him. “Any final comments for the record, Mr. Maijstral?” she asked. “Any last thoughts on the subject of Silverside Station and what happened here?”
Maijstral considered this for a long moment. His lazy eyes glittered.
“I'd say that events came perilously close to farce,” he said, “but that fortunately farce was averted.”
Kyoko was surprised. “Thank you,” she said.
“Your servant.”
Maijstral stepped toward his room, Roman moving silently behind. He reached into his pocket and came up with the object he'd removed from Kyoko’s pocket: a pearl dangling from a broken chain. He’d seen Kyoko’s altered media globe, with its force cutters and grapplers, hovering near Pearl Woman's ear during the last interview, and guessed the rest. He handed the pearl to Roman. Roman cleared his throat.
“Yes, Roman?”
Roman’s voice was carefully articulated. “Farce, sir?” he said.
A memory of terror gusted through Maijstral’s mind, followed by that of an argumentative closet door, a dark, glowing gem, a vanishing diamond, a playing card glowing with brilliants. . . .
“For example, Roman,” he said. “Had I said yes to Vanessa just now, that would have turned this comedy to farce. As I said no, farce was avoided.”
Roman digested this for a moment. “I understand, sir,” he said. “Quite perfectly.”
The End
BONUS
What happens when the galaxy’s most celebrated burglar becomes the victim of a series of inexplicable crimes?
Find out in the third Drake Maijstral adventure,
ROCK OF AGES
(Following excerpt copyright (c) 1995, 2011 by Walter Jon Williams)
Maijstral was awakened by an authoritative knock on his door. The situation—loud banging on door, girl next to him in the bed—awakened a long-standing reflex of many years’ duration. He made a smooth vault from the bed, snatched dressing gown and pistol, and was halfway to the window before he was brought up short by a bolt of pain that seized his nether regions in a grip of iron.
Staggered, he leaned on a table for support and looked about him. Roberta was blinking at him lazily from her pillow, and the knocking continued.
He took a step toward the door and the pain clutched him again. What, he pried to remember, had he and Roberta
done
last night?
And then he realized that the pain probably had a lot more to do with his first horseback ride than anything he and Roberta had got up to in bed.
“Just a moment,” Maijstral called, and put on his dressing gown. He found Roberta’s gown and gallantly held it out for her. She rose gracefully from bed and slipped her arms into the silk-lined sleeves.
“This way,” Maijstral said, and turned to the closet. “Closet,” he said, “open.”
The closet obliged. Maijstral escorted the Duchess inside, and observed that Conchita Sparrow’s command override, which she had left behind, was still in place, a fortunate accident in that it would allow the door to close with someone inside. He kissed Roberta, who looked up at him with amusement glittering in her eyes, and then he told the closet to close.
The hammering on the door recommenced. Maijstral looked down at the gun in his hand and wondered how it had come there.
Perhaps, however, it was best to be cautious.
“Who is it?” he demanded.
“Joseph Bob,” came the answer.
There was a knock on the inner door that led to his sitting room, and Drexler stepped in, his ears cocked grimly forward. “Trouble, boss,” he said. “There’s a fleet of police fliers dropping on the lawn.”
“Ah,” Maijstral said. “I see. Someone must have stolen something, somewhere, and the cops are trying to pin it on us.”
“Roman’s making sure the rooms are clean,” Drexler said.
The hammering started again. Maijstral hobbled toward the door and opened it. Joseph Bob, Arlette, and the Bubber were outside, each looking hastily dressed, and each wearing a grim expression.
“What’s the problem?” Maijstral asked.
“There’s an item missing,” Joseph Bob said. “And though we’re quite sure you have nothing to do with its disappearance…” Words, or perhaps tact, failed him, and he looked around for support.
“We’re sure you will want to demonstrate your innocence,” Arlette filled in, “and won’t mind if we search your rooms.”
Behind Maijstral the window darkened as a pair of police in a-grav harness took up position. Maijstral turned to the window and cocked an eyebrow.
“Did you have to invite the cops?” he asked.
Joseph Bob frowned. “I didn’t,” he said. “One of the servants must have called them.”
“Well,” Maijstral said, “I’m sorry, but neither you nor they can search my rooms. I stand on my rights as a citizen of the Human Constellation. Good morning.”
He shut the door in Joseph Bob’s surprised face, then hobbled toward a chair and sat down. Pain shot through his thighs.
“Maijstral,” came a muffled voice. “Be reasonable, now. Open the blasted door.”
“Citizens of the Human Constellation can be unreasonable if they want,” Maijstral said, and adjusted his position to an attitude that only caused pain if he happened to move or breathe. He turned to Drexler. “I don’t suppose you can produce some coffee?” he asked.
Drexler look at him in surprise. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Drexler headed for the sitting room. There was a pounding on the door, followed by Joseph Bob’s voice. “Maijstral!” he said. “Open the door! Damn it, I
own
this door!”
“I’d advise you not to dent it, then,” Maijstral said.
He could hear the tramp of boots out in the corridor, and then a muffled conversation. “We’re getting a warrant!” Joseph Bob called.
“I hardly think you’ve got grounds,” Maijstral said. “Somebody stole something. You’ve got no reason to think it was me.”
“We’ll
find
grounds,” promised another voice, and Maijstral was not surprised to recognize that of Colonel-General Vandergilt.
“If you can get a warrant on these grounds,” Maijstral said, “it won’t stand up in court, and you know it.”
Pure bluff of course, but he hoped it was true.
Maijstral had dressed—a painful operation—moved to the sitting room, and finished half his coffee by the time the warrant arrived. Drexler and Roman had joined him. Roman wasn’t looking his best, with patches of grey skin where his fur had fallen out and a dangerous red-rimmed-look to his eyes.
Those in the corridor, pushed the warrant under the door. Maijstral nodded to Roman, who picked the warrant up and looked at it. He looked at Maijstral and snarled.
Maijstral was not accustomed to seeing his servant snarl—Roman was fairly mild-mannered, and broke legs and arms only with reluctance. It took Maijstral a half second or so to overcome his surprise, and then he shrugged. He’d done his best to preserve decorum.
“May as well open the door,” he said.
Joseph Bob and his family entered on a flood of uniformed constabulary. The Prince of Tejas looked apoplectic as he stalked toward Maijstral’s chair. The police deployed weapons and detectors. “Blast it, Maijstral!” he said.
“You might have given me time for coffee,” Maijstral said. He put down his cup and managed to rise to his feet without more than a wince of pain crossing his features.