Rock of Ages (9 page)

“You don’t say,” Maijstral murmured.

“And on the Asian side,” scratching furiously, “there is Altan Khan and the Vietnamese emperor Gia-Long, not to mention—”

Maijstral was peering at the top of the list. “Who’s this Wotan person?” he asked. “He seems to be right at the head of the list, but he doesn’t have any dates.”

“Ah.” Roman’s diaphragm pulsed again, and he gave up the scratching. “Allow me to explain, sir.”

*

“Thank you, Roman,” Maijstral said. “It is a wonderful treasure.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It must have taken you many hours. I’m impressed, as always, by your dedication.”

Roman’s black fur rippled with pride. A few little tufts drifted toward the floor. “Thank you,” he said. “It was a privilege to work on such a project.”

“My trousers,” Maijstral said, and handed over his pants. Roman hung them in the closet and retrieved Maijstral’s dressing gown. Maijstral shrugged into the gown and sealed it.

“That will be all, Roman, I think,” Maijstral said.

“Very good, sir. Shall I leave the genealogy on the table?”

“Please do. I may wish to look at it.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Thank you very much for the gift,” Maijstral said.

“It was entirely my pleasure, sir.”

Roman bowed and left the room. Maijstral walked to the table and sighed as he looked at the scroll.

As if he didn’t have enough to do with ancestors today, he thought. Not only was his father here to urge him to do the right thing, but now Roman had brought in the kinfolk all the way back to Wotan.

Maijstral had really done his best to ignore the fact that he was heir to a dynasty, and now the whole business had dropped right on his head like a sandbag flung from Heaven.

It wasn’t that he disliked the Duchess. It wasn’t that he disliked the thought of marriage. But somehow it was all too pat, all too . . . foreordained.

Oh well, he thought glumly, maybe it
was
time to marry and settle down and produce more Maijstrals. Though why the universe needed more Maijstrals was beyond his capacity to explain.

Idly, he glanced at the genealogy—there was a complicated bit of business involving a Prince Boris of Gleb, who apparently married his aunt, and Maijstral couldn’t help but wonder what the family had said about
that
.

He very carefully rolled up the scroll and stowed it away in its tube. There was all too much to think about without worrying about Prince Boris’s problems.

He took a casual stroll about the room, making certain that neither Conchita Sparrow, nor Colonel-General Vandergilt was hiding in the closet or under the bed, and then climbed into bed and told the lights to extinguish themselves.

The situation revolved slowly in his mind. He would probably not sleep tonight.

There was a gentle knock at the door.
Now
what? Maijstral thought.

He put on his dressing gown and approached the door. Wary force of habit made him keep well to one side as he said, “Who is it?”

“Roberta. May I come in?”

Maijstral opened the door and revealed Roberta silhouetted in the hall light. She wore a dressing gown and a somewhat furtive expression. She stepped in, and Maijstral closed the door behind her.

“Well,” she said.

Maijstral regarded her in the dim light. She was standing very close, and he could feel her body’s warmth.

“Well,” he echoed.

“I was just in my room thinking—” she began, and then stopped. “Look, Drake,” she finally said, “would you mind kissing me again?”

“No. Not at all.”

Maijstral put his arms around her and performed as requested. The kiss was a pleasantly lengthy one.

“Oh good,” the Duchess murmured. “That helps.”

“I am happy to oblige.”

Her eyes, dark in the unlit room, looked up at his. “Do you remember earlier this evening,” she said, “when we were alone, and you asked if I could just be your mistress for a while?”

Maijstral smiled. “I believe I recall that remark, yes.”

“Well . . .” she drawled, and gave a little laugh. “Here’s your chance.”

Maijstral’s ears flickered in surprise. “I see,” he said.

“This one’s free, you know,” Roberta added. “It has nothing to do with whether you should to marry me or not.”

“You are . . .” Maijstral searched for words, “remarkably direct, your grace.”

“Roberta.”

“Roberta.”

“Bobbie, if you like,” she said. “But only Aunt Batty calls me that anymore.”

“I think I prefer Roberta.”

“So do I.”

Maijstral contemplated the woman in his arms. Roberta kissed his chin.

“Can we go to bed now?” she asked.

“Certainly.”

Well, Maijstral thought, no doubt Prince Boris and Altan Khan would approve.

He drew her bedward. “I’ve had a very active life, you know,” she remarked. “Going to school, and racing, and running all the planets I’ve inherited . . .”

“No doubt,” Maijstral murmured. He kissed the juncture between clavicle and neck, and Roberta shivered.

“And of course I’ve been very thoroughly chaperoned,” she went on.

“How frustrating.”

“Yes. So what I’m trying to say is—
Wow!
” Maijstral’s researches had encountered a particularly sensitive, point. “What I’m trying to say,” she repeated, “is that I’m not very practiced at this.”

“I will bear that in mind.”

“I’m not practiced at all, in fact.”

“Oh.” Maijstral halted in surprise and looked at Roberta.

“I have a very good imagination,” she added. “I hope that will help to make up for any lack of genuine experience.”

“No doubt,” Maijstral said, half to himself. And then, “Your grace, are you absolutely certain you want to do this?”

“Oh good grief yes,” Roberta said quickly. “It’s about time, don’t you think?” She laughed. “If we’re to be married, it’ll make the long engagement go more quickly. And if we’re not, at least I’ll have had the man of my dreams.”

Maijstral nodded. A glittering midnight gleam entered his lazy eyes.

“Well,” he said finally, “I hope I prove worthy of that imagination of yours.”

*

Maijstral was awakened by an authoritative knock on his door. The situation—loud banging on door, girl next to him in the bed—awakened a long-standing reflex of many years’ duration. He made a smooth vault from the bed, snatched dressing gown and pistol, and was halfway to the window before he was brought up short by a bolt of pain that seized his nether regions in a grip of iron.

Staggered, he leaned on a table for support and looked about him. Roberta was blinking at him lazily from her pillow, and the knocking continued.

He took a step toward the door and the pain clutched him again. What, he pried to remember, had he and Roberta
done
last night?

And then he realized that the pain probably had a lot more to do with his first horseback ride than anything he and Roberta had got up to in bed.

“Just a moment,” Maijstral called, and put on his dressing gown. He found Roberta’s gown and gallantly held it out for her. She rose gracefully from bed and slipped her arms into the silk-lined sleeves.

“This way,” Maijstral said, and turned to the closet. “Closet,” he said, “open.”

The closet obliged. Maijstral escorted the Duchess inside, and observed that Conchita Sparrow’s command override, which she had left behind, was still in place, a fortunate accident in that it would allow the closet door to close with someone inside. He kissed Roberta, who looked up at him with amusement glittering in her eyes, and then he told the closet to close.

The hammering on the door recommenced. Maijstral looked down at the gun in his hand and wondered how it had come there.

Perhaps, however, it was best to be cautious.

“Who is it?” he demanded.

“Joseph Bob,” came the answer.

There was a knock on the inner door that led to his sitting room, and Drexler stepped in, his ears cocked grimly forward. “Trouble, boss,” he said. “There’s a fleet of police fliers dropping on the lawn.”

“Ah,” Maijstral said. “I see. Someone must have stolen something, somewhere, and the cops are trying to pin it on us.”

“Roman’s making sure the rooms are clean,” Drexler said.

The hammering started again. Maijstral hobbled toward the door and opened it. Joseph Bob, Arlette, and the Bubber were outside, each looking hastily dressed, and each wearing a grim expression.

“What’s the problem?” Maijstral asked.

“There’s an item missing,” Joseph Bob said. “And though we’re quite sure you have nothing to do with its disappearance . . .” Words, or perhaps tact, failed him, and he looked around for support.

“We’re sure you will want to demonstrate your innocence,” Arlette filled in, “and won’t mind if we search your rooms.”

Behind Maijstral the window darkened as a pair of police in a-grav harness took up position. Maijstral turned to the window and cocked an eyebrow.

“Did you
have
to invite the cops?” he asked.

Joseph Bob frowned. “I didn’t,” he said. “One of the servants must have called them.”

“Well,” Maijstral said, “I’m sorry, but neither you nor they can search my rooms. I stand on my rights as a citizen of the Human Constellation. Good morning.”

He shut the door in Joseph Bob’s surprised face, then hobbled toward a chair and sat down. Pain shot through his thighs.

“Maijstral,” came a muffled voice. “Be reasonable, now. Open the blasted door.”

“Citizens of the Human Constellation can be unreasonable if they want,” Maijstral said, and adjusted his position to. an attitude that only caused pain if he happened to move or breathe. He turned to Drexler. “I don’t suppose you can produce some coffee?” he asked.

Drexler look at him in surprise. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Drexler headed for the sitting room. There was a pounding on the door, followed by Joseph Bob’s voice. “Maijstral!” he said. “Open the door! Damn it, I
own
this door!”

“I’d advise you not to dent it, then,” Maijstral said.

He could hear the tramp of boots out in the corridor, and then a muffled conversation. “We’re getting a warrant!” Joseph Bob called.

“I hardly think you’ve got grounds,” Maijstral said. “Somebody stole something. You’ve got no reason to think it was me.”

“We’ll
find
grounds,” promised another voice, and Maijstral was not surprised to recognize that of Colonel-General Vandergilt.

“If you can get a warrant on these grounds,” Maijstral said, “it won’t stand up in court, and you know it.”

Pure bluff of course, but he
hoped
it was true.

Maijstral had dressed—a painful operation—moved to the sitting room, and finished half his coffee by the time the warrant arrived. Drexler and Roman had joined him. Roman wasn’t looking his best, with patches of grey skin where his fur had fallen out and a dangerous red-rimmed-look to his eyes.

Those in the corridor, pushed the warrant under the door. Maijstral nodded to Roman, who picked the warrant up and looked at it. He looked at Maijstral and snarled.

Maijstral was not accustomed to seeing his servant snarl—Roman was fairly mild-mannered, and broke legs and arms only with reluctance. It took Maijstral a half second or so to overcome his surprise, and then he shrugged. He’d done his best to preserve decorum.

“May as well open the door,” he said.

Joseph Bob and his family entered on a flood of uniformed constabulary. The Prince of Tejas looked apoplectic as he stalked toward Maijstral’s chair. The police deployed weapons and detectors. “Blast it, Maijstral!” he said.

“You might have given me time for coffee,” Maijstral said. He put down his cup and managed to rise to his feet without more than a wince of pain crossing his features.

There was a crash as a policewoman knocked over a small table and dropped a six-hundred-year-old Pendjalli vase to the floor.

“I’ll assume responsibility for the damage, sir,” said Colonel-General Vandergilt as she marched into the room. “My department will pay.”

“I didn’t know your department had
that much money
,” Maijstral snarled. Vandergilt looked doubtful for a moment. Maijstral began to lurch toward the bedroom. He wished to be present when Roberta was discovered, and offer such moral support as was possible.

“Not so fast, Maijstral,” said Colonel-General Vandergilt. She stepped forward in her black uniform, silver buttons shining. “You’ll have to be searched.” So eager was she to get about the searching that no less than three separate strands of hair had escaped her helmet and were dangling in her eyes.

“You can search me in the bedroom as well as anywhere,” Maijstral said, and kept moving.

“
Life-form in the closet!
” called a policeman from the bedroom, and suddenly there was the businesslike clacking of weapons being readied, and the cops began to deploy into attack formations.

Alarm flashed through Maijstral. “Put the guns down!” he said hastily. He had arrived in the bedroom door and was acutely, aware that anyone firing would probably have to shoot right-through him. He gingerly stepped to one side.

“Closet,” he said. “Open.”

Roberta looked quite cool as she stepped into full view, wearing her dressing gown as if she were making her grand entrance at a ball, and if Maijstral hadn’t been quite so concerned about all the guns leveled at his spleen, he might have spared a moment or two for admiration.

No guns crackled, and Maijstral breathed a fervent sigh of relief. “Ah,” he said, and stepped into the bedroom. “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce my alibi, Her Grace the Duchess of Benn. Your grace, this is Colonel-General Denise Vandergilt, Constellation Special Services.”

Colonel-General Vandergilt stuffed stray hair into her helmet and stalked into the center of the room, followed by Joseph Bob and his family. Vandergilt looked coldly at the Duchess while the Prince and his family looked in surprise at each other.

“What’s your real name?” Vandergilt said. “I don’t use titles.”

“No titles?” Roberta said. Her eyebrows rose. “Fine with me—
Denise
. My name is Roberta Altunin.”