Rock of Ages (15 page)

“The Bubber?” Maijstral blinked. “No, I haven’t.”

“I presume he is his brother’s heir, since Joseph Bob has only recently married and hasn’t yet fathered a child. If you kill the Prince, the Bubber gets the title and everything else. He’d be one of the richest people on Earth.”

“And he might be under the impression that I’m quite the dashing blade,” Maijstral said. “Joseph Bob spent the evening talking about that stupid encounter I had in school—he made me sound perfectly heroic. Will might think I could kill his brother with a snap of my fingers.”

“Think about it, Drake. He’s the only person I can think of who would actually benefit from this situation.”

Maijstral did just that, coldly considering the Bubber in the role of blackhearted conspirator. He didn’t quite think that the Will he’d met was entirely up to the role, but then . . . a true blackhearted conspirator would seem perfectly innocent, wouldn’t he?

Perhaps it had been the Bubber who’d suggested the dire staff, the ghastly weapon that, in the Bubber’s judgment, would give Maijstral a good crack at killing Joseph Bob. And probably the Bubber could have opened the display case and removed the revolver simply by giving the proper codes. The only question was whether he had the ability to silently place the revolver in the ventilation shaft, and Maijstral rather suspected the answer was yes.

And if Will was really behind the whole thing, how could Maijstral prove it?

Tempting though it was to hang the Bubber upside down over the Grand Canyon, he suspected that if Will were really blackhearted as all that, not only would the Bubber not confess, but he’d probably end up challenging Maijstral to a second duel following the first.

Of course, Maijstral thought, a bit cheered by the idea, he could always let him
fall
. . . .

Thinking these thoughts, Maijstral followed Nichole into a downward-slanting cave. A wall of bright silver fish flashed on and off ahead, turning to and fro in unison, as if they were a form of living heliograph sending a message.

“I also wonder about the Duchess of Benn, Drake,” Nichole said. “You stole the Shard from her, after all. I wonder if there’s any ill feeling.”

Thoughts of the Bubber fled Maijstral’s mind as paranoia closed, in once again. Roberta—a force for evil! The
Black Widow
—luring a man into her embrace, then
destroying him!

The
dire staff!
his brain yelped. It was all part of her plot! But after a brief, giddy moment in which the ocean did backflips, rationality managed a cautious, delicate return.

“I think not,” he said. “The circumstances of the theft of the Shard were not such as to create a grudge. And besides, her grace has favored me with an offer of marriage.”

Nichole’s perfect blue eyes, the exact shade of the great deep, widened in surprise.

“Congratulations,” she said softly.

“Thank you.”

“It’s a brilliant match.”

“I wish I knew whether my brilliance was sufficient to the occasion.”

Her brows lifted in surprise. “You told her no?”

“I haven’t given her an answer at all.”

When Nichole continued looking at him, he added, “The matter of the duel came up immediately afterward.”

“I see.” She looked away. “Perhaps someone in her family is opposed to the match.”

Maijstral could hardly see Aunt Batty climbing about in ventilators, but then there was also Paavo Kuusinen, a fellow who seemed to have hidden resources.

“Paavo Kuusinen is here,” he said. “You remember him from Peleng. He’s the Duchess’s attorney. And spy.”

“He helped us on Peleng.”

“He may have changed his mind.”

“And the Duchess has a large family. There might be some thwarted suitor hanging about.” She looked thoughtful. “I’ll have the researchers get to work on them.”

“Any other suspects?”

“The researchers have only had a few hours, Drake.”

“
I
may have only a few hours.”

“I will tell them to make haste.”

The profound blue of the great deep beckoned ahead, surrounded by rust-colored coral fronds. Nichole and Maijstral floated from the dark cavern out onto the coral wall, into the light, the blaze of color.

“Perhaps,” Nichole decided, “I shall tell them now. Shall we return to the palace?”

“As you like.”

They floated back along, the wall, each wrapped in thought. The ever-hopeful grouper followed, its own thoughts perfectly visible on its face. The magnificence of the reef, the clarity of the water, the warmth of the sun, made even Maijstral’s predicament seem remote.

Strangely, Maijstral found himself wanting to get wet. Both he and Nichole were cloaked in their own private force fields, which kept air in while screening out both water and pressure. Air was provided through a little bottle, and freshened through a rebreathing unit that clipped to the belt. Propulsion was provided by the same repeller units that powered personal fliers and Maijstral’s darksuit.

This arrangement was convenient, and prevented both the bends and nitrogen narcosis, but it lacked intimacy. The coral castles and darting fish that surrounded them were inspiring Maijstral to attempt a closer acquaintance.

If he lived, he reminded himself. If he lived.

The lights of the Underwater Palace were in sight when two other divers floated toward them.

“Why, hello!” said Laurence.

“What a coincidence!” said Deco.

Maijstral, certain that no coincidence obtained, nevertheless put on a civil face and introduced the two to Nichole.

“We’re just going out to view the reef,” Laurence said. “Shall we join you?”

“Alas,” Maijstral said, “we were just going in. Don’t let us keep you.”

The two could not keep their dismay from reflecting on their faces. Maijstral and Nichole smilingly said their adieux and made their way to the airlock.

“I say,” Laurence called after. “Were you lucky enough to see a toadfish?”

*

After entering through the airlock and turning in their diving gear, Maijstral and Nichole strolled to her suite, and the invincible Diadem security closed softly, silently, and inscrutably behind them,

Maijstral felt a knot of tension ease within himself. It felt, so wonderfully safe here.

“Wine?” Nichole asked. “Coffee? Rink?”

“Rink.”

“Rink for two, Daphne,” Nichole said, speaking to a servant so professionally unobtrusive that Maijstral hadn’t even realized she was present. Daphne poured drinks, served them, and at Nichole’s command vanished into the aether from which Diadem servants came.

The only problem with the discreet, efficient servants that came with the Diadem, Maijstral reflected, was that they were working for the Diadem, not for oneself. One couldn’t have a private little fit of anger, a minor nervous breakdown, or a silent moment of drunken obliteration in the privacy of one’s own salon without everything being reported to the media titans who controlled the Diadem, and whose job it was to exploit any of these perfectly understandable human vagaries for the entertainment of billions.

Maijstral and Nichole sipped and sat beside one another on a small sofa. Nichole kicked off her shoes and held out her feet.

“Do you like my feet, Drake?” she said. “I had them done on Cornish.”

“They are fine feet, Nichole.”

She. frowned at them critically. “I loved them at first, but now . . . well, perhaps the nail area could be slightly reduced, don’t you think?”

“They’re
your
feet. I don’t think it proper to express an opinion other than to say that in their present state they seem perfectly desirable feet to me.”

She laughed. “You see what trivialities I concern myself with.”

“Not entirely trivial, I suspect,” Maijstral said. “Have I been selfish, talking only of my problems?”

Nichole sighed. “My problems are rather less urgent than yours.”

“Nevertheless,” Maijstral said, “you sent me a message when I was on Silverside.”

“I was not happy then.”

“Are you happy now?”

She bit her lip. “Navarre is going to accept Diadem membership. His designs are reaching a huge audience.”

“Please give him my congratulations.”

“And I have decided—I think—to leave the Diadem.”

How many goddesses, Maijstral wondered, have chosen to abdicate?

“Are you certain?” he asked.

“I think so. It was that last play that did it, I think—I have discovered that I would rather be an actress than a celebrity.”

“It has always been my impression that you were nothing less than superb at being both at once.”

She smiled, touched his hand. “Thank you, Drake. But if one is a member of the Three Hundred, one is encouraged to take only those parts that enhance one’s celebrity, that contribute to one’s mystique and glamour. Any touch of the real is discouraged. And I find myself increasingly interested in the real.” She looked thoughtful. “One is always attracted by what one does not possess, and whatever the many attractions of my current existence, reality isn’t numbered among them.”

“You were very fine in that play.”

“The Diadem didn’t like it. Neither did a lot of my fans.”

“They will grow to adore it, given time. They just need to grow accustomed to your range.”

Nichole sipped at her rink, tilted her head, looked at Maijstral. “You were offered Diadem membership,” she said, “and turned it down. I’m afraid I was offended—at the time I interpreted it as a rejection of me . . . and so I rejected you.”

“Things end,” Maijstral said, “and it doesn’t have to be anyone’s fault.”

“That’s generous of you, Drake,” Nichole said, “but it remains that the Diadem came between us. That barrier may soon be removed. And the Diadem may soon become a barrier between me and Navarre.” She sighed. “The fact is, I’m a few days too late. Because if your unforgivably young and attractive Duchess hadn’t beaten me to it, I would have proposed marriage myself.”

Maijstral’s lazy-lidded eyes opened to their widest possible extent. Only through force of will did he manage to keep his jaw from dropping.

Nichole’s divinely blue eyes moistened. “And damn it,” she said, “now that girl could get you
killed
.”

Maijstral’s social antennae might not have been functioning at their best in the last few days, but at least he knew when to take a woman into his arms and kiss her.

He was, he thought to his amazement, perfectly safe here. Not even Colonel-General Vandergilt would be likely to get through the perfect wall of Diadem security.

Only one thought clouded his mind. “Where,” he asked through a haze of kisses, “is Navarre?”

“One of the moons of Jupiter. Designing someone’s yacht.”

At least this spared Maijstral from the possibility of another challenge.

Safe
, he thought.
Safe
,
safe
,
safe
.

It made Nichole all the more desirable.

CHAPTER NINE

A few hours later Maijstral left Nichole’s suite in order to dress for supper. There was to be some manner of spectacle beforehand, in the Shrine Room, with Prince Hunac and his assistants carrying out one of the rites he was permitted to perform in public.

Maijstral stepped into the central reception area and felt a cold hand touch his neck, the uneasy sensation that he was out of Diadem security and anything could happen to him now.

“Sir.”

It was Paavo Kuusinen, wearing a green suit of the latest Constellation cut and looking, as usual, perfectly inscrutable.

“Mr. Kuusinen,” sniffing his ears, “is her grace here?”

“No. She and the Bubber are still making preparations for the encounter tomorrow. It is a surprisingly complex business.”

Maijstral’s blood curdled at this reminder of the following dawn. He continued moving across the reception area toward his own apartments, and Kuusinen followed.

“I am charged,” Kuusinen said, “along with the other reason for being here, with sending you her loving regards.”

“And your other reason?”

“I have brought your dire staff, sir, along with a mock-up weapon should you desire to practice. I would be honored to be your partner in that practice if you should so desire.”

Maijstral could feel sweat popping out on his brow at the thought. “I suppose a little practice would not be amiss,” he said. At least it might give him some idea how to sabotage Joseph Bob’s weapon.

“Perhaps after supper,” Kuusinen suggested.

“Perhaps.”

“I had the weapons delivered to your rooms.”

Where, no doubt, they would stand propped up in the corner like sentinels at the gate of the Beyond, grim reminders of the fate to come.

“Thank you,” Maijstral managed. “I wonder, Mr. Kuusinen, if—”

“Maijstral! Oh, Maijstral!” Laurence approached, smiling, his diamond winking. “I was wondering if—”

“I beg your pardon,” Maijstral said without breaking stride, “but I have no time at present. Perhaps later—?”

“Ah. Oh.” Laurence blinked, left behind in the dust. “Very well.”

“Mr. Kuusinen,” Maijstral continued, “I wonder if you would apply your splendid mind to the matter of the Bubber.”

“Yes?” Kuusinen was all attention.

As they walked down the corridor toward Maijstral’s rooms, Maijstral outlined Nichole’s notion that the whole business of the duel might be the result of a plot by the Bubber to inherit the Princedom of Tejas.

“A provoking theory, sir,” Kuusinen said. “But if it is true, how may it be proved? And proved by tomorrow morning?”

“
Proving
is precisely the matter to which I hope you might turn your mind.”

Kuusinen gave it a few seconds’ thought. “Amateur thieves often make mistakes, I should imagine,” he ventured. “Leaving fingerprints, say. But there would be no surprise should the Bubber’s fingerprints appear on the stolen revolver. He may have handled it frequently.”

A thought—a wonderful, glorious thought!—occurred to Maijstral. “There are other places to leave fingerprints,” he said. “Inside the duct, for example.”

“Ah.” Kuusinen nodded. “But did the police examine the duct for fingerprints? Or gather any other kind of forensic evidence?”