Rock of Ages (3 page)

Maijstral made an effort to move his thrashing heart from his throat to a more conventional location. “You’ve shown it to me,” Maijstral said. “Now please leave.”

The woman held out her hand. “Conchita Sparrow,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”

Her accent was uncouth and her hair was arranged in a kind of informal, outlandish dorsal fin on top of her head, perhaps in hope of making her seem taller. Her face was bright-eyed and pleasant, though not beautiful. Maijstral hesitantly reached out a hand, offered her a cautious one-fingered handclasp. She gave him two fingers in return, a presumption of a greater intimacy than Maijstral was willing, given the circumstances, to contemplate.

“Actually,” she said, “I was looking for a tech designer job. I thought you might be more interested in looking at my recordings if I showed you how useful I could be.”

Maijstral’s eyes—wide open for once—moved to the Titian. “You may have proved far more useful to the police than to me,” he said. “They were just here looking for that painting.”

“I know,” she grinned. “I saw them leave. Don’t worry—they didn’t see me. Especially not those two clots out in the thorn bushes—they couldn’t skulk their way out of a dead people’s convention. The only person who saw me was one of your people, the one in the darksuit, and he took off.”

A cold finger touched Maijstral on the neck. “A darksuit?” he asked.

“Yeah. A good one—most detectors wouldn’t have spotted it, but mine did. He flew in just after the cops left—he stopped at your window, looked in for a moment, then flew on. That’s when he saw me and flew off.”

“A moment, Miss Sparrow,” Maijstral said. He reached to the wall by the door and touched the service plate. “Roman? Drexler? Were either of you just out on the grounds?”

The answers were negative. Maijstral turned to Conchita Sparrow.

“I’ll look at your recordings if you like,” he said, “but that person lurking around outside was probably a member of the Special Services Corps, and will be very happy to send me to prison for possession of that painting. So if you would oblige me by taking it
very far away
, I’ll be in your debt.”

“Only too,” Conchita said, meaning
Only too happy
. Maijstral raised an eyebrow at this cheeky piece of cant.

Conchita stepped toward the paintings, took a bag out of her darksuit,. and slipped it over the painting. Once bagged, the painting levitated as of its own free will, then followed Conchita to the window. Before she slipped through the drape she turned on the holo projectors of her darksuit, and blended almost indistinguishably with the background.

“The recordings are in your upper right drawer,” she said. “Happy to’ve met you!”

The drapes parted, the window opened, and out she flew.

Maijstral went to his, bureau drawer, saw a recording sphere lying there, and then marched to the service plate to summon Roman and Drexler.

They searched Maijstral’s. room for the nest hour, but found no more surprises.

*

Next morning. Maijstral bade farewell to Lord and Lady Huyghe and set off for North America. Once airborne, Maijstral put his car on autopilot and reviewed Conchita’s recordings with Roman and Drexler. He understood why she was seeking employment as a tech. Though her equipment was first-rate—her black boxes always worked, and her darksuit’s equipment wove an elegant path through a wide assortment of alarms—she was nevertheless a very poor thief. She was nervous: she dropped things, or performed operations in the wrong order and had to start over, and once she forgot to tell her darksuit to neutralize a set of flaxes and had to fly in disarray when the alarms began to ring.

“She’s a disaster,” Drexler snickered, as he watched Conchita head for the horizon.

“Still,” Roman said, “she would not be employed for-her abilities as a thief. Her gear really is her strong point—it works flawlessly.”

“When she remembers to use it,” Drexler grinned, his tongue lolling. “She hasn’t done anything I can’t do. And besides, what happens if you need her to pinch something for you?”

“Quite,” Maijstral said.

Drexler might lack a certain bonhomie, he reflected, but at least he didn’t show up uninvited in one’s bedroom with a stolen art treasure moments after irksomely fanatic police decided to search the place.

“Roman,” he said, “put Sparrow in the file. We might hand her some contract work if Drexler is ever overburdened.”

“I won’t be overburdened at the rate we’re going, Mr. Maijstral,” Drexler said. “When are we going to steal something really big?”

“After vacation,” Maijstral said, and was aware of Drexler’s diaphragm pulsing in resignation.

Let it pulse, he thought. Drexler hadn’t met Colonel-General Vandergilt.

*

“Maijstral,” said Prince Joseph Bob, “I don’t believe you’ve met my family.”

“Haven’t had the pleasure.”

The young Lord Joseph Bob had been one of Maijstral’s school friends at the Nnoivarl Academy. He hadn’t changed much in the last twelve years—he was still tall and rangy and blond, and he still looked every bit the champion athlete he had been in school. The best pistol shot in the Academy, a top sabre man on the fencing team, a first-class swimmer, an excellent jumper and runner, first prize for debate . . . the list of accomplishments went on and on.

His huge house south of Fort Worth was situated on an estate that stretched as far as the hill country west of Austin. The drawing room, where Maijstral was meeting the Prince’s family, seemed to range at least half that distance.

“This is my wife, Arlette,” Joseph Bob said.

“Charmed.”

The marriage was less than a year old, and it was clear to Maijstral that they would have beautiful children. Princess Arlette—the media called her “Lady Bob”—was almost as tall as her husband, with honey-colored hair and large dark eyes. Maijstral gave her two fingers in handclasp and sniffed her wrist and ears.

“Joe’s told me a lot about you,” Arlette said.

“Oh dear.”

“He was
very
complimentary.”

Maijstral smiled. “Of course, he never knew me well.”

“And
this
,” said Joseph Bob, “is my brother Will.”

“Ah,” Maijstral said, “the Bubber.”

Just as the brother of King Louis always assumed the title Monsieur, the brother of the Prince of Tejas was always the Bubber (the
r
, with genteel courtesy, is almost silent). Maijstral, acquainted only through his brother, sniffed his ears, offered him a modest two fingers, and received three informal digits in return.

“Do you still do card tricks?” the Bubber asked. He was neither as tall nor as rangy nor as blond as his brother, though his expression was more genial. He had come into the Nnoivarl Academy the year Maijstral left, and Maijstral had never really known him.

“Of course,” Maijstral said.

“Joe always said you were good.”

“After supper, if you like.”

“That would be delightful. Thank you.”

Maijstral made a mental note to tell Roman to lay out the dinner jacket with the trick pockets. He turned to the Prince.

“I was wondering if I might ask a favor,” he said.

“Of course.”

“While I’m here, I’d like to learn to ride a horse.”

“Really?” The Prince seemed faintly surprised. “Very well, if you like. Will can set you up—he’s in charge of the stables.”

“Sir.” Joseph Bob’s butler appeared in the doorway. “There is a slight disturbance at the front gate. Newton has apprehended a pair of interlopers who claim to be lost. They also claim to be police.”

“
Lost?
” the Prince said. “On
my
property?”

Maijstral gave a sigh. “J.B.,” he said, “I suppose I had better tell you about Colonel-General Vandergilt.”

*

Later, as Maijstral went to his quarters to dress for supper, he turned a corner in the hallway and received a start. Coming toward him was a short, nondescript man in a green jacket.

“Mr. Kuusinen,” Maijstral said, and offered two fingers.

“Your servant, sir. I’m pleased you remembered my name.” Kuusinen gave two fingers in return and sniffed Maijstral’s ears.

Maijstral was not likely to forget the name of Paavo Kuusinen anytime soon. The man had a habit of turning up. Twice now, on Peleng and again on Silverside Station, Kuusinen had been a part of adventures Maijstral would just as soon forget.

On those occasions Kuusinen had actually been of great assistance to Maijstral, but the very sight of the man made Maijstral uneasy. Call it ingratitude if you will.

“What brings you to Earth?” Maijstral asked.

“I’m still her grace’s attorney, of course,” Kuusinen said, “and she is here, as a guest.”

“Roberta?” Maijstral said. “Here?”

“Indeed.”

Roberta Altunin, the Duchess of Benn, was a famous amateur racer and the former owner of the Eltdown Shard, the fabulous gem which Maijstral had once had the pleasure and glory of stealing.

“Curious,” Maijstral said, “that the Prince never mentioned she was here.”

“You’ll meet at supper at any case.”

“Yes. I will. Your servant.”

“And yours.”

They sniffed ears again and parted, Maijstral frowning. He’d come to think of Kuusinen as a creature of omen—not necessarily
ill
omen, since after all the man had been of service—but at least a harbinger of unsettling times.

Once in his suite, Maijstral settled his unease by watching a Western till it was time to dress. This one,
The Long Night of Billy the Kid
, was an old-fashioned tragedy featuring the legendary rivalry between Billy and Elvis Presley for the affections of Katie Elder. Katie’s heart belonged to Billy, but despite her tearful pleadings Billy rode the outlaw trail; and finally, brokenhearted Katie left Billy to go on tour with Elvis as a backup singer, while Billy rode on to his long-foreshadowed death at the hands of the greenhorn inventor-turned-lawman Nikola Tesla.

It was wonderful. Maijstral, transfixed by the ancient, fateful myth being brought to life, watched with an aching heart as the awesome story unfolded in its somber, tragic perfection.

And while he watched, he paid particular attention to the horses.

He was really looking forward to lessons.

*

Paavo Kuusinen, after leaving Maijstral in the hall, turned a corner and began counting doors. He counted the light fixtures and power outlets as well, but only because he was compulsive that way—counting the doors really had purpose.

When he came to the eighth door, he knocked. A servant opened the door and he entered.

“Your grace,” he said.

The Duchess of Benn was a tall, graceful woman, eighteen years old, with short red hair and intense violet eyes. She held out a hand and Kuusinen took it, sniffed the wrist.

“Maijstral’s arrived?” she asked.

“An hour ago or thereabouts.”

“Good. And the, ah—the package?”

“It will be in place by tomorrow evening.”

“Splendid. The Special Event goes forward.” She smiled. “I will look forward to enjoying Maijstral’s surprise.”

Kuusinen bowed again. “As shall I, your grace. To be sure.

CHAPTER THREE

His heart still brimming with the glory and tragedy of his Western, Maijstral glided down the balcony to join the others in the drawing room. Before making his entrance, he absently patted one of the hidden pockets in his jacket to make certain the stacked deck of cards was in its nesting place.

He had also prepared his ground by having Roman bribe one of the footmen serving dinner tonight. It was nothing, he reflected, that Houdini hadn’t done.

Maijstral stepped into the drawing room. The Prince’s string quartet played Haydn in one corner—among them Maijstral recognized Will, the Bubber, who puffed out his cheeks as he sawed away on his cello and stared intently at the music. The regular cellist, he observed, was standing out, absently fingering his own instrument in a corner of the room.

Standing with her back toward Maijstral was Roberta, the Duchess of Benn. She was speaking to an elderly Khosalikh female who stood shorter than Maijstral, which made her a miniature by Khosalikh standards. Roberta’s gown was cut quite low in back and Maijstral approached slowly, the better able to appreciate the curve of Roberta’s supple spine, the play of shadows beneath her scapulae.

“Your grace,” he said, speaking in Khosali Standard.

Roberta gave a start, a larger one than Maijstral’s usual silent approaches generally warranted. Maijstral confirmed an old suspicion that her grace of Benn was perhaps a bit too tightly wound.

“You startled me,” she gasped, which was, Maijstral reflected, not only a fairly redundant remark for someone who’s just jumped half a foot, but was what people
always
said in these situations.

“My apologies,” Maijstral said. “I’m light-footed by profession, and sometimes I forget that I should shuffle a bit or clear my throat.” Which is, more or less, what
he
always said in these situations.

Maijstral offered three fingers in handclasp—having once stolen her jewelry permitted him a certain intimacy—and was given three in return. They approached one another and sniffed one another’s ears, and then Maijstral sniffed Roberta’s wrist. The odor of Roberta’s perfume sent a shimmer of pleasure up Maijstral’s spine, something that caused him to reflect that the custom of shaking hands—recently revived by the Constellation Practices Authority as a “natural, human custom” to replace the refined ear-sniffing of the Khosali Empire—had a long way to travel before it could replace the voluptuous pleasure of approaching a beautiful woman’s pulsing throat and taking a glorious whiff.

“It’s an unexpected pleasure to see you,” Maijstral said. “I ran into your Mr. Kuusinen, who informed me you were here.”

“Allow me to introduce my Aunt Bathsheba,” Roberta said. “She’s my favorite member of the family. We call her Batty.”

“Your servant,” Maijstral said. Aunt Batty’s soft dark fur was thinned with age, and she’d perched a pair of spectacles on her muzzle. Lace hung from her pointed ears.

Maijstral was too familiar with the genealogies of aristocratic Imperial families, with their sibs-by-adoption and cousins-german and morganatic marriages and fostering-patterns, to wonder how a human duchess managed to have a Khosali aunt. He sniffed Aunt Batty’s ears and offered her two fingers in handclasp, and she returned him three.