Authors: Walter Jon Williams
The officer looked up from his portable scanner. “Are there any instructions, sir?” he asked.
Maijstral’s thoughts brightened. “Why, yes,” he said. “Some false Elvii have just disturbed the concert. Take your men to the stage and put them in custody.”
The man saluted. “It is my constant joy to serve the Elvii!” he proclaimed.
Maijstral’s stunned party left the amphitheater, trailing purple ooze, and the guards filed in to do their duty.
“
Are we having a good time, Drake?
” ex-Dornier asked. “
I can’t really tell
.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Colonel-General Vandergilt walked into Tvar’s northwest drawing room, and Maijstral observed that she looked different from those occasions on which she was swooping down on miscreants, her eyes alight with fanaticism and hatred for all that was unEarthly. At the moment, having made her way past the pack of reporters at the gates of Tvar’s estate, and having had to request admittance from the servants instead of stalking through the door with a uniformed group of bullyboys at her back, she seemed quite altered.
Even her hair was less threatening, with more disobedient strands than usual sabotaging her dignity.
Maijstral couldn’t help but be pleased with the change.
“General Vandergilt,” he said, “the butler told me you had news?”
Vandergilt’s voice was a carefully pitched-monotone, concerned only with the facts. “Major Song has confessed her part in the plot to have you killed by provoking a series of duels, and she has also confessed her scheme to steal your father’s coffin.”
Maijstral nodded. “I should congratulate you on your interrogative technique,” he said. “I had thought she would prove sterner stuff.”
Vandergilt reached a hand up to twine a strand of hair around her finger, then realized what she was doing and disciplined the hand promptly. “I had little to do with it,” she said. “The Elvii ordered her to confess.”
“Ah. Very good of them.”
“The Elvis involved in the plot—Elvis XIV, by the way—has also confessed. I gather the other Elvii will formally expel him.”
“The Elvii,” Maijstral smiled, “are surely the reservoir of wisdom.”
Vandergilt flushed slightly. “As for the instigator of the plot—” she began.
Maijstral’s smile, like Vandergilt’s flush, expanded. “You mean Fleet Admiral Song?” he asked. “The Nelson of Neerwinden? The Hero of the Human Constellation? Vigilant defender of the human race from all wickedness and alien contamination?”
Vandergilt cleared her throat. “Yes,” she mumbled. “Admiral Song. As someone already declared legally dead, he is immune from any legal penalty, but it appears the matter is moot. There was some damage to his coffin, apparently due either to collision or to stray gunfire, and when he fell into the water he, ah, short-circuited.”
Maijstral had wondered what that flare of energy implied. “Admiral Song is no more?” he said.
“Such existence as remained to him has been terminated, yes.”
“Such a shameful end for a great man,” Maijstral smiled. “Involved in a mean, sordid little conspiracy of theft and murder.” He successfully resisted an impulse to snap his fingers and laugh out loud.
Maijstral directed her attention toward her boots. She cleared her throat again. “It appears that Captain Hay had no part in the conspiracy,” she said, “and was acting in order to defend his fiancée from assault. He was severely damaged by the discharge of energy from Admiral Song’s coffin, and is currently in hospital.”
“What a shame,” Maijstral grinned.
“Of course,” Vandergilt said, and a bit of steel entered her glance once more, “there remains the problem of who it was who entered Graceland illegally in order to liberate your father, and engaged in illegal gunplay within the sacred precincts.” She looked hopeful. “These people, if discovered, could almost certainly be arrested.”
“I’d love to help you, General,” Maijstral said, “but I’m afraid I have no idea who these individuals might be. All I know is that my father reappeared in his room. If I were you,” he suggested, “I might inquire among the Elvii. Perhaps they discovered the plot and acted to quell it on their own.”
Vandergilt’s look darkened. She tossed her head to get hair out of her eyes. “I will investigate the possibility,” she said.
“Of course,” Maijstral lied, “my information suggests that the Elvii were so appalled by the goings-on within their sacred precincts that they would never prosecute anyone who acted to expose malfeasance within their ranks.”
Vandergilt’s expression was sour. “Your information suggests that, does it?”
“Alas for justice,” Maijstral said, “it does.”
“The question remains,” Vandergilt said, “of your intent to prosecute. If Major Song is to undergo a trial, of course it would require you to alter your schedule and remain on Earth for an indefinite period, with enormous inconvenience to yourself and your career.” There was a subdued but hopeful glint in her eye as she spoke.
“And there would be such enormous publicity,” Maijstral said.
“Yes.” Leaping at her chance. “Very troublesome for you, I’m sure.”
“And of course much of the publicity would be aimed at exposing the moral bankruptcy of the pro-Human movement, with unforeseen consequence for the Security and Sedition Act, which would legalize forms of discrimination against nonhumans and vastly increase the power of among others, the Special Services Corps, to which you belong.”
Vandergilt’s face was a mask. “I’m sure I couldn’t make those judgments, sir.”
Amusement glowed behind Maijstral’s lazy eyes. “I don’t see why I should be inconvenienced by a trial at all,” he said. “My presence probably won’t even be required, not with Major Song’s confession. And, of course,” smiling thinly, “an abstract consideration for justice requires me to prosecute.”
“As you say, sir.” Stonily.
“Do I have to sign anything?”
“Right here, sir.”
Maijstral signed with a flourish. “Very well, then, General Vandergilt,” he said. “I leave you to your job.”
“Yes, sir.”
Maijstral waved a hand commandingly. “Go forth and arrest the miscreants, officer!”
“Yes, sir.”
Colonel-General Vandergilt marched out, furiously stuffing loose strands of hair back under her cap.
Maijstral, pleased with this little scene, made his way from the northwest drawing room into the southwest drawing room adjacent.
Nichole looked up from the documents she was reading—information concerning the very best place to eat Fleth à la Normandie at Luna City, her next destination.
“Did it go well, Drake?” she asked.
“I believe it did, yes.”
He sat next to her on the sofa. “It is in large part thanks to your researches that everything has gone as well as it has,” he said.
“It was my pleasure. Those people were absolute poison.”
“Indeed they were. And now they’ve not only been thwarted, they’ve been exposed and humiliated.”
She looked at him with her famous blue eyes. “You lead a surprisingly dangerous life, Drake.”
“Perhaps. But at least I’m lucky.” He took her hand. “Most of all, I am lucky in my friends,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“I will always be grateful for our friendship.”
She cocked her head and regarded him. “I sense a
but
somewhere in this stretch of conversation.”
“I regret it, Nichole.”
“So do I.” She blinked and looked thoughtful. “You are the only man ever to turn me down, Drake, do you know that? And now you’ve done it twice.”
“Even with these disappointments factored in, I think your percentage of conquests remains admirably high.”
She gave a smile. “Perhaps so.”
“I hope this won’t stop you from asking at regular intervals. I may yet change my mind.”
“Well.” She disengaged her hand and rose from the sofa. “Perhaps it was a foolish notion, anyway.”
“I trust not, my lady.” He stood, escorted her to the door, sniffed her ears.
“Next time you’re in mortal danger,” Nichole said, “I hope you won’t forget to call.”
“I won’t. Thank you for everything.”
“Give my love to Roman.”
“I will. Thank you again.”
A pang of regret touched his heart as he watched her leave. If only, he considered, there were two of him, or perhaps three, so that he could explore all the choices available to him.
He’d managed to duplicate himself in his magic act, he thought. Pity it had been a trick, and hadn’t lasted.
*
Prince Hunac’s unblinking dark eyes were still a bit unsettling. Maijstral was brought to mind of obsidian knives and bloody altars.
“I called as soon as I heard,” Hunac said.
“That is very good of you.”
Hunac blinked. Finally. “It is my part to apologize, isn’t it? I misinterpreted events.”
“Some highly intelligent people took very good care that you should.”
“It is good of you to say so. Still, I should have seen that there was something wrong.”
“You allowed Her Grace of Benn to persuade you to delay, and that enabled me to deal with the situation. For that delay I should thank you.”
The obsidian knives flashed again in Hunac’s eyes. “It strikes me that those responsible for the situation should be compelled to atone for their crimes. I have sent out emissaries in quest of Major Song and Alice Manderley, who so abused my hospitality.”
Alice Manderley, Kenny Chang, and Drexler had been released as soon as Maijstral and his party returned from Graceland. Maijstral suspected that Alice and Kenny would book passage on the first liner leaving Earth.
Drexler, deprived of funds, would have to steal something in order to make an escape, a task made difficult by the fact that Maijstral had kept all Drexler’s burglar equipment in his own possession. Maijstral was certain that Drexler would never be employed by any high-ranking burglar again, not once his treachery had been thoroughly aired by the media.
“Would you happen to know,” Hunac inquired, “where Miss Manderley might be?”
“If she’s not at home, I’m afraid I have no idea.” Thoughtfully, Maijstral fingered his diamond ring. “I would appreciate it, by the way, if you postponed any encounter with Major Song until after her trial. I would very much like to make certain that her cause is publicly and thoroughly discredited.”
Hunac nodded. “I will take your request under serious consideration.”
“Thank you.”
“My emissaries have had no luck with Mangula Arish—she keeps running away the second they appear.”
Maijstral repressed a smile. “That is unfortunate indeed, Your Highness.”
“Now I learn that she has resigned her post and fled out-system.”
“Perhaps this is a victory in itself.”
“I will have to consider it so—after I give her flight the maximum possible publicity.”
“I hope other journalists will bear it in mind.”
Hunac permitted himself a flintlike smile, “So do I.” The smile warmed a bit. “I hope you will accept my hospitality in the Underwater Palace again. I think I can promise you that you will have a much better time.”
Maijstral nodded. “I will accept, if I can. My plans are a bit uncertain at present.”
“Good-bye, then. Thank you for being so understanding.”
“Farewell. Give my best to the toadfish.”
“I will.”
The Prince’s image faded, leaving Maijstral with an aftertaste of pure satisfaction.
Things had worked out well.
*
“Dad?”
“Drake? Is that you, Drake?”
“Yes, it is.”
Maijstral sat on a chair and signaled to his father’s guards to leave the room.
He wasn’t about to let his father become the hostage of yet another-political lunatic. He had hired a squad of well-armed, well-equipped bodyguards—well,
coffin
guards—simply to sit in the room with him and keep him safe from any further adventures until ex-Dornier could be shipped back to the family crypt on Nana.
If the guards had to spend their time listening to the corpse’s prattle, at least they were well compensated for their efforts.
“How are you doing, Dad?” Maijstral asked.
“Well,” the late Duke remarked, “I seem to be dead.”
“Yes.” Trying not to smile. “I had noticed. I meant, you’re not suffering any ill effects from your adventure?”
“With Bertie? Oh no. I had a
splendid
time!”
“Bertie?”
“Oh yes, my old school chum. He had this most elaborate
prank
worked out. It had to do with, oh, metaphysics and things.”
Maijstral worked for a moment at understanding, then gave up.
“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” he said. “Is there anything you’d like now.”
“A cup of cocoa and a biscuit would be nice.”
Maijstral sighed. “Well,” he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
*
“Nichole sends her love.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Is there anything you need?”
“Thank you, sir, no. I am provided with all the necessities.”
Maijstral smiled as he left Roman’s hospital room. Roman, was recovering swiftly. His flesh had lost its alarming scarlet color and was approaching the normal, healthy grey. Black stubble covered his skin, where his fur was growing back. The new age-ring had healed.
Roman’s molt, thank the Twelve Passive Virtues, was over.
It wasn’t the molt that had put Roman in the hospital, however. When he raised Admiral Song’s coffin above his head and flung it down on Milo Hay, Roman had strained his back.
It was the part of a lord, Maijstral thought, to retire to bed when his back pained him. Roman might as well get used to such privileges while he could.
He walked down the hall to Roberta’s room, knocked, and entered. Roberta was propped up in bed, smiling and chatting with Will, the Bubber, who had come to pay a visit.
Roberta had broken some ribs in the fight at Graceland. She had committed herself to the hospital less because her medical condition required it than because the rest of her household, Batty and Paavo Kuusinen, were already inmates, and she thought she might as well make a party of it.
“Hello, Roberta. Hello, Will.”
The Bubber rose from his chair. “Hello, Drake.”