House of Shards Page 9

  “If you like, my lady.”

  Zoot was, after all, used to this by now.

  ———

  “Fu George.” Grinning. “Perhaps you’ll give me this dance.”

  “Honored, Pearl Woman.” Careful not to look at what dangled from her ear. “You look very stylish this evening.”

  “Thank you.” Her grin broadened. “You look a bit out of sorts, yourself.”

  “Really? I can’t think why.”

  He sniffed her carefully and offered her two fingers. She gave him three in return. No doubt his theft of her property had made them, in Pearl’s estimation at least, intimates.

  Fu George noticed that she tossed her head after the sniff, to know whether the pearl was still present. Intrigued, he stepped onto the dance floor.

  Perhaps, he thought, he could hold a substitute pearl under his tongue. Make the bite, and somehow switch pearls on her. She might not notice the absence of the real one for hours, even days. And he’d arrange for his own, substitute pearl to dissolve after a day or so, just so she’d know it was gone.

  But how to make the switch? And how to fuse the new pearl to the old chain? And would this all require new dentistry?

  Perhaps the long months he’d spent practicing this stunt weren’t lost, after all.

  Fu George began the dance, his mind abuzz with speculation.

  Pearl Woman, for her part, was disappointed in his lack of reaction to the reappearance of her trademark. She’d hoped for at least a little jolt of surprise, perhaps even a double take. Instead, the only difference in his usual manner was that he seemed a little abstracted.

  Oh well, at least she had her coup planned for the morrow.

  That was going to be fun.

  ———

  A cheeping noise began to sound somewhere in Lady Dos-vidern’s pocket. Her nostrils flickered, and she halted her dance in midcaper.

  “You will excuse me, I hope,” she said. “Lord Qlp has come out of his crosstalk, and my attendance is required.”

  Zoot offered his arm. “Will you allow me to take you to your suite?”

  “That won’t be necessary, but I thank you. You’d best keep our place in the set, otherwise our neighbors will be put out.”

  “I hope I shall see you again.”

  “I will be looking forward, sir. Your servant.” She sniffed him and walked quickly toward the exit.

  There was nothing to do but continue the dance. Zoot, feeling foolish, raised his arm and tried very hard to pretend Lady Dosvidern was turning under it. He was surprised when a hand took his, and he looked down to see a woman dressed in a patchwork motley of green and purple.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” said Kyoko Asperson. “But I’m tired of standing on the sidelines and waiting for someone to do something exciting.”

  “The night is young, Miss Asperson. Excitement may yet manifest.” He looked down at her. The loupe was off her eye: apparently she had put her media globes on autopilot.

  “Only too.” Meaning, only too right. She glanced at him and brightened. “I hope you and Lady Dosvidern haven’t quarreled. She left in a hurry.” She and Zoot circled the couple on their right in stately fashion.

  “Not at all, Miss Asperson,” Zoot said. “Her attendance was required on Lord Qlp.”

  “Odd, don’t you think?”

  “How so? It is her duty.”

  “Not that, Zoot. Just that a Drawmiikh is here at all.”

  “The Drawmii are not given to explaining themselves. I’m sure its lordship has a reason.”

  “I’m sure it does. I’d just like to know what it is.”

  “I suppose that will become clear later.”

  “Maybe.”

  He gave her a sharp glance. The word maybe was bad ton. Perhaps was far more suitable.

  These humans, he thought. One never knew what they’d say next.

  ———

  The orchestra was finishing the dance when Gregor Norman, hi-stick in his mouth, was observed to return to the ballroom. He stepped behind the screen that cut off the private salon from the main room and gave a cheery wave to the figure of Drake Maijstral that waited for him on a severe, straight-backed Louis Quinze chair.

  The hologram of Maijstral dissolved and became Gregor. “You’re late, boss,” he said. “Run into any trouble?”

  The hologram of Gregor dissolved and became Maijstral. “Geoff Fu George was already in the Waltz twins’ room when I arrived,” he said. “I went on to the next target.”

  Gregor looked dubious. “That was a risk. Roman wasn’t covering you in that direction. You should have got at least one of us to help you carry the swag. There must have been a lot of it.”

  “There was. But I wanted to get to it before Fu George showed up, and I was able to hustle it down the corridor on a-grav.”

  “You’ve been gone for two dances. You’ll have been missed.”

  “I’ll stay for the rest of the ball and make up for it.”

  Maijstral pressed the proper ideograph on the service plate and asked the room to give him a holograph-mirror, and a perfect three-dimensional image of himself appeared in the middle of the salon. He removed the silver pins that held back his hair, let it fall to his shoulders, and straightened his jacket. Gregor rose from his chair and looked in his pocket for a hi-stick.

  “So now we just have fun, eh, boss?”

  Maijstral smiled. “We have good reason to feel pleased with ourselves.” He told the room to remove the opaque screen. Sights and sounds of the dance filled the doorway.

  Maijstral noticed one figure standing apart from the others and frowned.

  “D’you see that man, Gregor?”

  “You mean Kuusinen? He helped us out on Peleng.”

  “He spoke to me earlier. I found his converse alarming, in a quiet sort of way. I think he’s some kind of policeman.”

  “Really?” Gregor looked interested. “Are you sure?”

  “No, but let’s not take chances. Be careful around him. Don’t give anything away.”

  “Right, boss.” Gregor peered past Maijstral toward the dancers. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

  ———

  There was a moment of mutual embarrassment as Khamiss and her squad entered the employees’ kitchen and encountered Kingston and his squad returning from the buffet with laden trays. But then grins and bottles broke out, and beneath the spectacle of one sun devouring another a spontaneous party began. Sore feet were elevated on cushions, groaning bellies were silenced by first-rate food, palates soothed by drink.

  Every so often, Khamiss and Kingston would leave the party and report that they’d just scouted another corridor and found nothing out of the ordinary. Each time they did this, the false report seemed more and more hilarious. Sun, as was his wont, seemed not to notice anything amiss.

  Khamiss raised her glass. “To leadership,” she said.

  “Leadership,” Kingston echoed, and touched his rim to hers.

  Another few hours and their shift would be over.

  ———

  “My lord Silverside.”

  “Fu George. I hope you are finding your accommodations to your taste.”

  “The rooms and much else, my lord. I have been inconvenienced by one thing only.”

  Baron Silverside raised his brows. “Yes? Pray tell me, sir.”

  “Your security service, my lord. They seem… excessively zealous.”

  “They are zealous on my express instructions.”

  Fu George feigned shock. “I am dismayed, sir.”

  Silverside fluffed his burnsides. “This is my station, sir. I intend that it be run by my custom.”

  “No one disputes your right, my lord.”

  “I intend that my guests should be entirely at their ease, and the prospect of one’s property vanishing can make one uneasy. I feel it my duty as host to relieve any source of perturbation.”

  “But, with all respect, my lord, my profession is sanctioned by High Custom
and by both Imperial and Constellation law.”

  “They can sanction it all they wish, sir. There is nothing in law or custom, however, that says your profession must be made easy.”

  “Sir!”

  “There are many professions difficult to practice on Silverside. Range-drover, say, or quellsider.’ Yours is simply among them.”

  “Come, sir. Can you compare a quellsider with a profession sanctioned by High Custom?”

  Fu George, truth to tell, was enjoying this. He knew one fatuous nobleman who was going to pay for this, and soon.

  Silverside fluffed his whiskers again and gazed self-im-portantly at the orchestra. “Merely an instance, Fu George. If you will pardon me for a moment… ?”

  “Your servant, sir.”

  As Fu George stepped toward the buffet, Vanessa Run-citer took his arm. “I’ve been watching Maijstral,” he said. “I think he and Gregor pulled a Lugar switch.”

  “Yes, so I discovered. I encountered him a short while ago, in the Waltz twins’ room. I got there first.”

  A pleased smile drifted across Vanessa’s features. “Very good, Geoff.”

  “The least I can do to him, considering his behavior this afternoon.”

  She gave him a look. Vanessa had not been at all happy when Fu George informed her that she’d lost an earlobe for nothing.

  “I’ve been thinking about that, Geoff. Where do you suppose he’s going to hide his take?”

  “I don’t suppose he could have hit upon the same device we’re using, do you?”

  “It might be worthy of investigation. If we could preempt him everywhere…”

  Geoff Fu George began to smile. “It would only be what he deserved.”

  She patted his arm. “My thoughts exactly.”

  ———

  “Hello. You’re Gregor Norman, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Your servant, Miss Asperson.”

  “Likewise. Had a good and profitable evening?” Gregor grinned. “Had a nice dinner. I’m not much good at dancing, though.”

  “I think the next is a slow one. Silent Equations, according to my card. Will you join me?”

  “Only too.” Meaning, only too happy. “I hope you don’t mind me stepping all over you.”

  “I’ll look out for your feet, you look out for mine. Right?”

  “Right.” Gregor looked down at her. “Aren’t you supposed to be on the job?”

  “I’ve got all the globes dispersed and on autopilot. Nothing much exciting happens at grand balls, anyway.”

  Gregor, who could recall at least one hair-raising grand ball on Peleng, jauntily agreed.

  “By the way,” he said, looking at her costume. “I think green and purple suit you very well.”

  ———

  “Maijstral.”

  “Marchioness.” Sniffs. “Will you join me for the Silent Equations?”

  “Happily, my lady.”

  They clasped hands, faced one another, then turned their heads toward the orchestra, awaiting the first throb of music. They observed, standing by the orchestra, the Marquess speaking with Baron and Baroness Silverside. They seemed quite intent on their conversation.

  “Kotani,” said the Marchioness, “has a plan. He wants to do his next play here, and set its action on Silverside Station. He conceives that this will enhance the station’s reputation as a place for society to meet, and will provide a perfect backdrop for his own work.”

  “The Silversides seem interested.”

  She glanced at Maijstral from the corners of her slanted eyes. “I think it will be a difficult sale. We’ve heard that Silverside has had other offers.”

  “Not from anyone of his lordship’s stature, I’m sure.”

  “Very likely. But no doubt Silverside has been approached by people offering him a greater share of the profits. Kotani keeps his money close. I’ve always thought it his greatest failing as a lord.”

  Maijstral glanced at her ladyship’s matched bracelets and choker: blue corundum, silver, and diamond, with tiny implanted glowstones hidden in the settings to make them gleam with a subtle inner light. She caught his look, and her sullen mouth turned upward in a smile.

  “He is generous, yes, with some things, particularly if it might touch on his own reputation. He is not generous with his time, however. I daresay he’ll be in conference with the Silversides all week.”

  “I hope your ladyship will not be too much alone.”

  She looked into his lidded eyes. “I share your hope, sir,” she said, and then laughed. “But speaking of profits, I hope this evening has been profitable for you.”

  Maijstral gave a lazy shrug. “I thought talk of business bored you, my lady.”

  “Most business, yes.”

  The orchestra began to play. The couples, holding hands and still maintaining their strict line fore-and-aft, began to revolve around mutual centers of gravity, moving in an unconscious imitation of the singularity above their heads, which, in its predatory orbit, circled the equator of its hapless primary every twelve minutes.

  The dancers below, their appetites somewhat less all-embracing than that of the singularity, continued moving in their orbits.

  All save one.

  ———

  Geoff Fu George met with Drexler and Chalice in the corridor leading to Baron Silverside’s private residence. Drexler’s eyes were closed; he was communicating with the proximity wire in his collar and making mystic passes in the air with his hands. (His sleeves contained detectors.) “A rank of flaxes under the carpet,” he concluded. “There are leapers set the door. Pulse alarms inside, and tremblers on the floor, ceiling, and walls. More leapers on the picture frames.”

  “Right,” said Fu George. One could learn a lot by using the right detectors, and also by burglarizing the offices of Silverside’s contractors. He buttoned his jacket tight and pulsed a mental command to his flight harness, which raised him several inches from the floor. With practiced ease, Fu George threaded his way through the net of flaxes, then paused by the door, scouting it carefully with his energy detectors before stopping to neutralize the leapers. His assistants followed him, as did a pair of micromedia globes. By the rules of Allowed Burglary, assistants were permitted only as far as the door: Fu George had to do the rest himself. Fu George opened the door and coasted inside.

  He glanced over Baroness Silverside’s famous art gallery, seeing barren picture frames and pedestals that held only empty air.

  Maijstral, he thought. You’re going to pay for this.

  ———

  When the police made their unmistakable arrival, Maijstral was sitting cross-legged on his bed, massaging his feet and watching a video Western. Rendezvous at Coffeyville was one of his favorites. The Western featured Marcus Ruthven as Grat Dalton, and had been directed by the great Fastinn, whose training with the Imperial Theatre had, no doubt, contributed to the tangible, forbidding sense of inevitability that engulfed the main characters as they assembled, plotted, and began the raid that would result in their destruction.

  The Daltons, wearing identical grey dusters and moving in line abreast on matched black chargers, trotted toward the twin banks that represented the summit of their criminal ambitions. The town was ominously quiet. Somewhere a dog was barking. Crouching in attics, citizens sighted over buffalo guns. Maijstral gnawed a thumbnail, his nerves humming with suspense.

  Someone knocked on Maijstral’s door. It was an authoritative knock: one could not mistake it, and Maijstral had heard it on many worlds, in many rented rooms. The police.

  The knock brought Maijstral reluctantly back to the present. He uncrossed his legs and told the room to hold the Coffeyville massacre till later.

  Roman entered. His ears turned back in disapproval as he observed the frozen figures of men wearing Stetsons: he was ever dismayed by Maijstral’s low taste in entertainment. “Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but the police are here. Mr. Kingston is with them.”

  “Ah. Our comic.” He rose
from the bed, smoothed his dressing gown, and pushed his long hair back from his face. “Very well,” he said. “I shall speak to the gentlemen.”

  Maijstral found Kingston in the front room, his troopers arrayed in a flying wedge behind him. Gregor surveyed them, his mien hostile.

  “Just making sure they won’t take anything, boss,” he said.

  “Beg pardon,” Kingston said. His face was set in a fuddled smile. “Regrettably, sir, I must search your room. Some objects of value have been missed.”

  “Really?” Maijstral said. “Why search my room, of all rooms on the station?”

  Kingston gave an elaborate bow. “Sir, your worship can guess why, I’m sure.”

  “It is my humor to hear you say it.”

  “Very well then, sir. I search your room because there has been stealing going on, and because you have been known to steal.”

  “This seems like persecution, Mr. Kingston. Has any witness connected me with the missing objects? I spent my entire evening in public. When were these nameless crimes committed?”

  “I know nothing of your evening, sir, but searched you and yours shall surely be.” Kingston swayed as he spoke.

  The man is drunk, Maijstral thought in surprise. “I take it, then,” he said, “you have no confidence in your own handiwork. You took care—very personal care—to make certain I had no way to practice my profession on Silverside Station. If you really think I’ve been taking things I’ve no right to, it would seem you confess yourself incompetent.”

  Kingston’s good humor snapped like a twig. “Search ‘em,” he growled, and his troopers spread out over the suite, deploying their detectors.

  And found, of course, nothing.

  Maijstral returned to his room and participated, while dressing, in the vicarious catharsis of the Coffeyville massacre. He then left his room and, after making certain he was not being followed, walked down deserted corridors to the room of Mr. Dolfuss, where he gave a knock.

  Dolfuss opened in a few seconds. He was carrying an overnight bag. “Mr. Maijstral. I’ve been waiting up.”

  “The police took a little longer than expected. Perhaps they were a little behind in making their calls.”