Authors: Walter Jon Williams
Tvar embraced Maijstral and sniffed his ears. “How pleasant to see you again!” she cried, and cocked her ears toward the boundaries of her estate. “I see you brought a flock of birds with you.”
“Carrion crows, I’m afraid,” Maijstral said, and glanced over his shoulder at the media fliers dropping to a landing outside Tvar’s property.
“Hoping to follow you to your next duel, I imagine.”
“And hoping you’ll punch me while the cameras are looking,” Maijstral added.
He turned as another, larger flier settled onto the lawn, and opened to reveal its passengers. “May I present Her Grace Roberta Altunin, the Duchess of Benn? And her aunt, the Honorable Bathsheba sar Altunin. Mr. Paavo Kuusinen.”
There was a formal sniffing of ears. Tvar gestured toward the flier’s roomy storage compartment. “Who’s in the box?”
“My father, the late Duke.”
“Shall we put him in the crypt, or give him a room?”
“A room, please,” said Aunt Batty indulgently. “I’d like to have someone to talk to while the young people are going about their business.”
“Anastasia?” the late Gustav queried. “Is that you, Anastasia?”
“No, Dad,” Maijstral said. “Mother’s not here.”
“Anastasia isn’t here?” The ex-Duke sounded disappointed. “I thought I heard her voice.”
Maijstral maintained a grip on his patience. “You don’t even
like
her, Dad. Remember?”
Ex-Dornier paused for thought. “Oh. Yes,” he said. “That’s right. I forgot.”
“Isn’t Nichole coming?” Tvar asked.
“Not at present,” Maijstral said. “No.” Tvar’s ears drooped in disappointment.
The cold-coffin was shown to its room, and Roman and Drexler were set to work booby-trapping Maijstral’s suite for the anticipated descent of Maijstral’s unknown enemy. Maijstral, Roberta, and Aunt Batty were given a tour of Tvar’s collection, which featured sensational artifacts mixed with sculptures and canvases that inclined in their subject matter toward the lurid. Probably the best was Mixton’s
Baroness
Kharniver Eating the Heart of Her Lover
, though Maijstral had a sentimental fondness for Actvor’s
The Dying Ralph Adverse Gazes on the Shard
, which artfully balanced in its composition the glowing face of the dying burglar, the crystal glass of poison, and the fabulous, shining gem whose original, more luminous than any possible representation, Maijstral had first seen about Roberta’s throat, and which he had in short order removed therefrom.
If Maijstral had an appropriate wall to hang the painting on, he might have acquired it for himself. But from his father he’d inherited practically no property at all, no wall, no mantelpiece, no alcove—nothing suitable for displaying anything fine, anyway. His entire domestic establishment consisted of Roman, Drexler, and a large assortment of luggage. If any great artworks came into his hands, they passed out as efficiently as they’d come.
Maijstral looked at Roberta and, with a start, realized that this situation might soon change. Roberta had walls and mantelpieces in abundance. If he married her, he could probably put anything he wanted on them.
What
would
he want on his walls? he wondered. And what steps would he have to take to make certain that none of his colleagues removed what he put there?
“And here,” Tvar said, pointing to an instrument glittering, in a case, “is the spoon that the Marquess of Tharkar used to remove his heir’s eyes during an argument over dessert.” Her tongue lolled in amusement.
“What was the argument about?” Batty asked.
“Dessert, as I said.”
“I thought you said it was during dessert.”
“The argument was
over
dessert, not
during
dessert. They fought over what flavor of sherbet to serve, I think.” Tvar’s eyes glittered with amusement. “You know, it is generally believed that the Khosali are a lot more steady, reliable, and law-abiding than humans . . . but I must say that when we go bad, we
really go bad
.” She cocked one ear toward Maijstral. “You know, Drake, you might consider spoons as weapons in your next combat.”
Maijstral grinned with forced jocularity.
“I will if the other fellow will.”
Roberta gave him a superior look. “Oh,” she said. “And as to weapons, I have a much better idea than
that
. And by the way, if Captain Hay ever calls, may I borrow Roman for the meeting?”
*
“Hello?”
Roberta smiled as she saw who had telephoned her. “Will!” she said. “I hadn’t expected to hear from you.”
“I just called to let you know that J.B.’s been released from the hospital. He broke a cheekbone, and rebroke the nose and lost-some teeth, and there are bruises and some nasty cuts—I think from that diamond of Maijstral’s—but it’s nothing that can’t be repaired.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Yes. He’ll soon be good, as new—better, once the teeth are replaced with implants.” Pause. “You and I are still friends, aren’t we? I mean, we can still speak to each other and everything?”
“Of course we can.”
“Good. I’m relieved. Because I’d like to express my thanks for your part in forming Maijstral’s strategy and keeping everything nonlethal.”
“Well,” a smile, “I’m afraid I can’t claim credit for that. It was all Drake’s doing.”
“Oh. Well. I suppose I can’t exactly call him and thank him, can I?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Really?” Brightening. “Do you think it would be good form?”
“Certainly. It wasn’t your fight, it wasn’t your grudge. If we can all be friends again, so much the better.”
“Wonderful. But I don’t suppose . . .” A long pause.
“Yes?”
“I don’t suppose I can resume my magic lessons.”
“Well,” laughing, “I think Drake is rather busy now.”
“Yes. Of course. But still, it would be very nice to see you—to see you all again.”
“I will look forward.”
There was the sound of a chime. “I’ve got to go, Will. I’ve got another call.”
“Well. Talk to you later, then.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Roberta switched to the other call and found herself gazing into the shaded eyes of someone who looked remarkably like Elvis Presley.
“Your grace?” the Elvis said. “I am Major Song. Captain Hay has asked me to act for him in the matter of his fight with Drake Maijstral.”
“Ah,” Roberta said. “I see.”
She took a breath and steeled herself.
She knew exactly what she wanted to do.
*
Conchita Sparrow blinked in surprise when she saw who had phoned her.
“Miss Sparrow,” Maijstral said, “are you busy?”
“I’d imagine that
you’d
be,” she said. “What is it, three duels left?”
“I have no intention of keeping track,” Maijstral said.
The score would be too depressing in any case.
“The media are full of the story,” Conchita said. “Several of the broadcasters seem to have converted to twenty-four-hour Maijstral channels.”
That, Maijstral reflected, was too depressing all by itself.
“I was wondering if I could hire you for a few days,” he said.
Conchita looked puzzled. “You need me to build some gear?”
“No,” Maijstral said. “Not really.”
She grinned. “I can’t imagine you want to hire me for my burglarizing skills.”
“No. Not that, either. I want you to do a tail job.”
“It’s not really my line of work,” she said, ears cocked forward with interest, “but I’m willing to give it a try. Who do you want me to follow?”
“Alice Manderley.”
Conchita pursed her lips and whistled. “Well, now
that’s
an interesting assignment.”
“I thought another burglar would be more likely to understand any countermeasures she’d use. Are you willing?”
“Only too! Where do I find her?”
“The Underwater Palace for the moment, though I expect she’ll be leaving in the next day or so. There’s only one exit, not counting submarines, so I imagine she’ll be easy enough to pick up.”
“Sounds right as Robbler.”
They spoke about fees and communication protocols for a while, then said their adieux. Maijstral turned away from his suite’s phone pickups, a subdued green glow in his lazy eyes, and smiled.
Nichole had provided Diadem security’s watch a list of all known burglars in the vicinity of Earth. Of those named, Maijstral judged that only Alice Manderley possessed the skills necessary to have neutralized all the alarms and traps in Maijstral’s booby-trapped room at the Underwater Palace.
Which in itself wasn’t conclusive, but it was something like a large pointing finger floating in the sky over Alice’s head, inscribed with the ideogram for “inquire within.”
If in the next few days, Alice took a little detour in the direction of Memphis, then Maijstral fancied he’d know what to do.
*
Captain Milo Hay looked as if he were battling a hangover in addition to his numerous contusions and bruises. His face was dotted with semilife patches and he moved uneasily, as if it hurt to exert himself.
Or perhaps he was made uneasy by Roman, whom Roberta had brought with her. Hay was apparently a professional xenophobe, and might therefore be expected to be wary of Khosali—but he might be indulged in this instance, as Roman was a sight guaranteed to produce unease in anyone with even the faintest grasp of sanity: skin wrinkled and gone from normal grey to bright pink, nose cracked and bleeding where the new age-ring was coming in, eyes starting from their sockets in a barely repressed psychotic glare.
He was the worst molter Roberta had ever
seen
. But apt, she concluded, to her purpose.
Captain Hay, despite his injuries and the effects of alcohol on his tender system, had nevertheless made an effort and donned the full dress uniform of the Human Guard, as splendid in its way as the white bejeweled outfit, of Major Song, who—as ever—was dressed as Elvis.
“A
what?
” Major Song asked.
“Caestus,” Roberta said, and fingered the studded leather straps she’d dropped on the table in front of Captain Hay. “It’s an ancient Earth weapon, dating, I believe, from the time of the Romans. You strap one on each hand. I was surprised to find the caestus in the Khosali weapons lists, but there you go. They’re a very inclusive sort of people.” Unlike others, her tone implied.
Hay picked up the straps and looked at the metal studs designed to crush bone, the hooks meant to tear flesh. He swallowed hard.
Immediately after Major Song’s call, Roberta had flown to Alaska to meet with her in person. She wanted to handle this face-to-face.
Major Song hiked up her wide wrestler’s belt. “Let me understand this,” she said. “You
insist
on using this weapon.”
Roberta straightened her spine and flashed a cold look at Captain Hay. “Your principal chose to strike mine with his fist. My principal insists he be allowed the chance to reciprocate.”
“But this isn’t according to form,” Song protested. “You can’t just dictate which weapons are to be used. It’s up to both seconds to decide.”
“Hitting someone without warning isn’t according to form either,” Roberta pointed out. She flicked her ears carelessly. “Of course, if your principal is afraid of facing the consequences of his behavior . . .”
Hay looked up sharply. “Hey. We never said that.”
“We want to follow form,” Major Song insisted.
“Let me point out that my principal has already fought one duel—just this morning, in fact. I assume you’ve seen it on video. He won a complete victory, of course, and with his bare hands.” Roberta permitted herself to smile. “Of course, his antagonist was a friend whose continued existence my principal wished to preserve.” She looked at Hay. “He doesn’t know
you
at all.”
A growling noise filled the room. Song and Hay looked in alarm here and there to find the source, and then seemed even more alarmed when they discovered the source was Roman.
Hay turned pale. “Say;” he said; “Now, about these weapons . . .”
“That’s why we insist on the caestus,” Roberta went on. “It might be said that Captain Hay chose fists himself, when he struck my principal, and my principal chose the, ah,
intensity level
of the combat. If it’s a formal duel, of course there has to be a chance of death. I’m informed that quite a few ancient Romans died in fights with the caestus, though of course there’s a decent chance that, with those heavy studs and hooks, the loser will just be
mutilated
so severely they will be unable to continue . . .”
“
Wait a minute!
” Hay said.
“We
insist
on another weapon!” Major Song said, turning as red as her principal had turned pale.
Roberta looked at her. “Do you have another weapon in mind, or will just any other weapon do?”
Major Song opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again.
“I remind you,” Roberta said, “that my principal has
nothing to prove
in the matter of his courage, while
your
principal, whose introduction to my principal was by way of a cowardly attack, has everything at stake—either he is a polite individual, fit to be seen in society, or he is not, and so far the evidence is not in his favor.”
“Hold on here,” Hay said. “All I did was
hit
the man. After what he said the other day, I couldn’t help myself once I saw him. It was just . . .” He groped for words.
“A form of political protest,” Major Song concluded.
“That’s right,” Hay said. “I don’t see why it really
needs
to go any farther.”
Roberta frowned, straightened herself, and looked at Hay. “Is it your contention that striking people is an acceptable form of political protest? And that there is no need for a fair combat as a consequence?”
“Well,” Hay said, “yes, I suppose.”
Roberta frowned, then shrugged. “If you insist.” She turned to Roman and smiled. “I believe, Roman,” she said, “that you have several political points to make with Captain Hay?”
Hay’s eyes widened. He got out one word—”
Wait!
”—before Roman reached him.
Roberta closed her eyes during the worst of it. The meaty sounds of fists on flesh, the grinding of cartilage and the crack of bone, were quite graphic enough without her having actually to watch it.