Authors: Walter Jon Williams
Maijstral hadn’t seen any so far, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.
“Please have a drink,” Hunac said hospitably, “and meet some people. If you want, to go out and tour the reefs, we can equip you with a submarine or diving gear—whichever is to your taste.”
Maijstral gazed out at the reefs surrounding him. “Thank you,” he said. “I’d like that.”
Celebrated though Prince Hunac was, the majesty of his person was somewhat overwhelmed by the aquatic glory of his surroundings. Cozumel’s reefs—huge coral castles, honeycombed with tunnels and alive with blazing color—loomed on either side, visible through the reception room’s transparent dome. Mayan steles from the Prince’s collection stood in a circle around the reception area, looking like an underwater homage to Stonehenge. Ideograms for “ocean world” and “palace of the lord” floated holographically in the air.
Hunac took Maijstral’s arm and began strolling toward the bar. “I was wondering if you might give me some advice regarding security matters,” he said. “I have so many rare and valuable things, and it’s only a matter of time before a real first-rate burglar takes a crack at them.”
“Your palace is secure by its very nature,” Maijstral said. “It’s accessible only through the tunnel from the mainland or by submarine. I would hate to try to steal anything here— getting away would be a challenge.”
“It’s a complication, admittedly—have some of this Rhenish, it’s splendid—but for someone as inventive as yourself, surely it’s only a matter of false credentials, or flummoxing an airlock. Child’s play, I’m sure.”
Maijstral sipped his wine. “Hardly that.” He gave the matter thought. “A place like this would be a major operation. One would need many assistants, which multiplies the number of misunderstandings or mistakes that could occur. If one went in by submarine, one would have to take immense trouble to keep your underwater sensors from seeing it—I take it you
have
underwater sensors?”
“Oh yes.”
“Well, the cost of preparing the submarine would be high, which would necessitate stealing a whole submarineful of artifacts in order to make a profit, and the sheer size of the operation would make it dangerous.”
“Profit isn’t always the motive for Allowed Burglary, is it?” Hunac said. “Sometimes you steal for the sheer glory of it, or to publicly surmount an obstacle, or because there’s simply something you want to possess. Ralph Adverse, for example—he stole the most beautiful objects, but he died bankrupt, because he wanted them for their beauty alone, and not for the wealth they could bring him.”
“You won’t find many Ralph Adverses in the burglary business these days,” Maijstral said.
“You disappoint me, Maijstral.”
Maijstral thoughtfully sipped at his drink. “I would say,” he said, “that your chief danger comes, as you say, from someone entering under false credentials, stealing something valuable but fairly portable, and then just riding the train to the surface through the tunnel.”
“Or,” Hunac smiled, “I could invite someone into my home who is a burglar, simply because I thought he would make an interesting guest. And he could take something, thinking that my hospitality would extend to such a thing. In this assumption, of course, he would be wrong.”
He had shifted to High Khosali, unmatched for both difficulty of parsing and precision of communication, as each word commented on the word before it, thus adding cumulative impact to the entire statement.
A cold current wafted up Maijstral’s spine at the whiteness of Hunac’s smile.
“Naturally the burglar would be wrong,” Maijstral said, responding after a moment’s, hesitation in the same difficult parsing. He added a commonplace aphorism of the sort that was frequently found in High Khosali, because it saved the trouble of constructing something original.
“Hospitality should at all points be respected,” he said.
Hunac’s smile whitened. “I have heard something of your problem with Joseph Bob.”
Maijstral felt himself stiffening. “It is a misunderstanding,” he said.
“I am pleased to hear it. I mention the matter only to make certain that no such misunderstandings ever plague our friendship.”
“I am certain they will not.”
Hunac shifted back to Khosali Standard. “Very good.” He patted Maijstral’s arm, then turned to an approaching guest. The guest looked remarkably like Elvis Presley, white suit, jeweled wrestler’s belt, and all.
“Maijstral, have you met Major Ruth Song?”
“I have not had the pleasure. Charmed.”
Maijstral offered Major Song two fingers in the handclasp—everyone knows Elvis, after all—and received a single formal finger in reply. She stiffened a bit as he sniffed her ears. Perhaps, he thought, she did not wish him to inspect her cosmetic job at such close range. No need to be so nervous, Maijstral thought: the work was very good, and had turned her into a remarkably successful facsimile Elvis.
“I hope to persuade Major Song to perform tonight,” Hunac remarked.
“I will look forward with pleasure,” Maijstral said.
“Thank you,” Song said. “I need to stay in practice, with the Memphis Olympiad coming up.”
She replied, oddly, in Human Standard, not Khosali, and Maijstral and Hunac obliged her by switching languages.
“Major Song is ranked very high by the cognoscenti,” Hunac said. “She stands a very good chance of winning.”
“I hope to attend the Olympiad myself,” Maijstral said. “I wish you the very best of luck in the competition.”
“Thank you. If you’ll excuse me?” Major Song made her congé, swirled her cape, and left. Hunac frowned. “How odd.”
“Sir?” Maijstral said.
“She obviously intended to order a drink. But now she’s left without one.”
Maijstral flicked his ears. “Perhaps she forgot. Or remembered an errand.”
“Perhaps.”
“I see the riding lights of a new submarine arriving at the port—red, white, green, I’m afraid I don’t know it offhand. Still, whoever’s inside, I should offer my greetings—Maijstral, I hope you will have a pleasant stay.”
Hunac made his way toward the airlock. Maijstral resisted the impulse to gulp his drink—the reminder of his trouble with Joseph Bob had not been pleasant—and then drifted through the reception area, looking for someone, he knew. A lot of the faces looked familiar, and he knew he’d seen them on video, but he couldn’t remember precisely where, and he couldn’t remember their names.
There was one young man, unfamiliar to Maijstral and dressed rather dramatically in black, who was looking at him as if he were undecided whether to approach and introduce himself. Maijstral assumed he was some sort of burglary fan, and, as he didn’t feel like talking to fans at the moment, he turned away and wandered on, and then recognized someone and approached to sniff her ears.
“Hello, Alice. Congratulations on obtaining your freedom.”
Each gave the other two fingers: they were professional acquaintances, but not intimates.
Alice Manderley was a woman of middle years, dark-haired and slender. She was also one of the best burglars in the galaxy, a consistent high performer who had always outpointed Maijstral in the ratings. She had been rated third, and was a contender to succeed Geoff Fu George as first in the ratings until she encountered ill luck while attempting to steal the famous Zenith Blue.
“I hope prison was not too bad,” Maijstral said.
“It was
prison
,” Alice said. “Of course it was bad. Even the
nicest conceivable
prison is bad.” Her brow furrowed and her voice grew harsh. “And to think I was put there by an
amateur
. She was on her way to school, saw the shimmer of my darksuit, and hit me with a briefcase full of study materials. Knocked me unconscious. I can’t believe my luck.” She scowled. “They gave her the Qwarism Order of Public Service (Second Class).
Second class!
What kind of insult was
that
, I ask you!”
Alice seemed likely to continue in this vein for some time, and Maijstral thought it a good idea to change the subject. “It is a surprise to see you here among the actors,” he said, “though of course a delightful one.”
“I’m with Kenny. There’s a producer here he wants to talk to.”
“Oh. Of course.”
Kenny Chang was Alice’s husband, a notably unsuccessful actor whose personal charm seemed unable to translate properly to video or the stage.
Maijstral was nearly as disinclined to talk about Kenny’s career as he was to chat about the features of Alice’s prison.
“Are you going to get your ticket renewed?” he asked.
Alice sighed. “I already have. I must admit that burglary has lost much of its appeal, but while I was in stir Kenny took a flier on Forthright bonds, and now I need to get us out of debt.”
Maijstral had been offered the same bonds less than a year ago, and had walked away with a loathly shudder. The Forthright Company had been such an obvious swindle (the company’s chairman, Xovalkh, was ranked near the top of the Imperial Sporting Commission’s ratings for confidence men) that the only investors likely to actually turn over their funds were either the brain-damaged or those who purchased bonds solely for their entertainment value—Xovalkh was quite a performer, for those who appreciated that sort of thing.
Maijstral suspected that Kenny did not, however, belong to this latter category of investor.
“Well,” he said, “if you have any plans for the near future, I could offer you logistical support. I’m on vacation, and I don’t want my crew to get rusty.”
Alice looked at him with a peculiar expression. “That’s kind of you, Maijstral,” she said.
“Drexler in particular has been complaining I don’t give him enough to do.”
“I have my people already picked out. But thank you.”
“Ah well. If I can give help of that sort, let me know.”
“Thanks.” She looked over Maijstral’s shoulder. “There’s a young man who keeps staring at us.”
“Dressed in black? I noticed him earlier.”
“He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.”
“I hope he is not a connoisseur of burglary statistics.”
Alice made a face. “I will make a point of avoiding him.”
Maijstral glanced to his right, and was surprised to see Aunt Batty making her way toward him. He sniffed her lace-covered ears and touched his tongue to his lips in a subdued Khosali smile.
“That was your submarine that just arrived?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Is her grace with you?”
“No, I’m afraid she’s still in negotiation with the Bubber. It’s just me and your father.”
“Your father is here?” Alice asked. “Didn’t I hear he’d died?”
“Yes, on both counts,” Maijstral said. “We’re having a sort of a family conference. Alice Manderley, may I present—” He looked at Aunt Batty and blinked. “I’m afraid I only know you as Bathsheba.”
Batty took Alice’s hand and sniffed, her ears. “I’m the Honorable Bathsheba sar Altunin,” she said, the name indicating the fact of her adoption by the Altunin family, “but you can call me Batty.”
“How do you do?”
“I am sorry to have saddled you with my father,” Maijstral said. “But I’m afraid my life has been more disorganized than usual—”
“No need to apologize. Gustav and I have been having a perfectly fine time, just chatting away.”
Maijstral’s ears pricked forward in surprise. “Indeed? And what do you chat about?”
“You, mostly.”
“Ah. For your work.”
Batty lapped daintily at her drink. “Yes. I think the third volume is shaping up in a most interesting fashion.”
When all this was over, Maijstral thought, he
would
steal those manuscripts.
“I’m not certain I would trust this particular source overmuch,” Maijstral said, “given the state of his memory. He keeps forgetting he’s dead, for one thing.”
Aunt Batty’s tongue lolled in a smile. “I
have
noticed that, dear, yes. But I do try in my best historian’s fashion to confirm everything with another source.”
“Very good.”
“For example, was your stuffed bear’s name really Peter Pajamas?”
Maijstral blinked. “Do you know, I believe it was. This is the first time I’ve thought of that in—well, decades, I suppose.”
Alice had been watching this dialogue with little indication of interest, but smiled at this last. “I perceive my own stuffed bear approaching,” she said. “Batty, may I present my husband, Kenny.”
“Hi,” Kenny said.
He was a handsome man with long, fashionably careless hair. He had, to a discerning eye, rather overdone the fashionable carelessness, with his falling bands partially undone, his collar turned up, his day’s growth of beard,
and
his hands in his pockets, but perhaps this was a matter of taste.
Maijstral, considering for a moment Kenny as stuffed bear, concluded that Peter Pajamas had a decided advantage in brains.
“I talked to Winky,” Kenny informed Alice, “and he said I’d fit the part hand in glove, but it’s not up to him, it’s up to the people with the money, so who knows? He says he’ll call.”
“Perhaps he will,” Alice said.
Probably, Maijstral thought, he wouldn’t, even though Kenny seemed to be on nickname terms with him five minutes after acquaintance.
He really didn’t know anyone who’d call Kenny voluntarily.
“There’s such a lot of deal-making going on here,” Kenny said. “I’ve really got to stay on the jump. Have you met that Elvis? Major Song?”
Alice’s ears flattened. “Yes,” she said shortly.
“Loathsome little weasel, but there’s money there. Maybe if I just sing the praises of the Security and Sedition Act, and pretend to hate the rats long enough—”
Alice put a hand on his arm. “Stay away from her, dear. She’s not an association that would do you any good. Not in the long run.”
Kenny considered this, scratching his day’s beard. “Well, if you say so. Plenty of other mammals in this terrarium.” He grinned. “Hey, that was pretty good, wasn’t it? ’Cause we’re in a kind of a reverse fishbowl here, right? And it’s the fish that are looking in. Get it?”
“Very good, Ken,” Alice said.
“Well, I’m off to corner myself a—” He started to leave, then seemed to notice Maijstral for the first time! “Say, Drake,” he said, “you know Nichole’s going to be here?”