The Crown Jewels

by Walter Jon Williams

  “Is Gregor back?”

  They spoke in Standard. Roman’s voice had a suggestion of still waters about it. “Not yet, sir.”

  “No problems, I trust.”

  “I wouldn’t expect any.”

  Roman unlaced Maijstral’s jacket, helped him off with his buskins, and collected his gun, his knife, his collar and cuffs, doing it all with a supreme competence and economy of gesture that were as familiar as an old sofa. Maijstral felt his tension ease. Roman was the sole fixture in his scattered, uncertain life, less a servant than a sign of home, and home was a place where he could unbend. He dropped onto a sofa and put one foot up, wiggling his toes gratefully in fuzzy gray socks.

  Holographic works of art rotated slowly on pedestals set into the walls, casting gentle light on Maijstral as he stretched on the couch. He looked at Roman.

  “Nichole was there. She asked after you.”

  “I trust she is well.” Maijstral looked at him. Roman’s eyes were glittering, his nostrils a little dilated, Secret pleasure, Maijstral thought, happy in Roman’s predictability. No doubt about it.

  Nichole had always been one of Roman’s favorites.

  “Yes, she’s very well. A little . . . jaded, perhaps. I’m escorting her to an Elvis recital tomorrow. That’ll put me in the public eye again. Good for business.”

  “A letter has arrived, sir. From your father.” Maijstral’s heart felt a touch of resigned despair. His father’s communications had two themes, and both of them were sad.

  “I will read it.”

  Roman brought it on a tray from the sideboard. It had, been sent VPL, which meant it was written on paper, sealed in an envelope, and delivered by hand. All at great cost. Maijstral opened the letter and read it.

  “I do not understand your migration toward the border. Surely you will spend the season on Nana, in connection with your eleemosynary duties. If you are on the border before the season begins, you must pay respects to the Countess Anastasia. Perhaps you will be able to assist her in some endeavor relating to the Cause, If necessary, the Kapodistrias plots might be sold.

  “I have been approached by Lord Giddon, from whom some years ago I borrowed the sum of 450n. I must have told you about the obligation, and am dismayed that you have not met it. If you had not frozen my access to family funds I would not have mentioned this, but the situation demands that you uphold the family honor and redeem the debt. If you are temporarily short, the parcels on Kapodistrias might be sold.

  “I hope you will attend to this forthwith.

  “Your reproachful father,

  “Ex-Dornier, etc.

  “P.S.: The maintenance on my coffin will be due in two months. I hope I will not once again suffer the embarrassment of its not being met in time.”

  There it was, both themes at once, and in detail: the Cause, and old debt. Both interlinked for as long as Maijstral could remember.

  He replaced the Very Private Letter in its envelope and held it out to Roman. “Burn it, please,” he said. Roman moved silently toward the disposal. Maijstral frowned and lapped his teeth with his diamond ring.

  The debt to Lord Giddon was new to Maijstral, but not unexpected— old lenders turned up with fair frequency these days. The parcels on Kapodistrias were hopelessly mortgaged; Maijstral’s father had done it himself and forgotten it in the years since. His memory for money matters had never been good; death had worsened his recollection. There was no money for Maijstral’s eleemosynary duties, none for Lord Giddon, none for Maijstral himself.

  Maijstral’s mode of life was expensive; his household was small, but moving in the highest circles cost. He looked at his ring, held the stone up to the light. It was a very good forgery; he’d pawned the real diamond two months before in order to finance this journey. Not even Roman knew the original stone was gone.

  Perhaps he should take the Countess Anastasia’s offer.

  He considered himself in that light: a pensioned dupe in a hopeless cause, uttering sentiments in which he did not believe. Someone, in short, very like his father.

  No. Not that.

  Roman returned with a glass of cold rink. Maijstral took it and sipped thoughtfully.

  Roman’s ears flicked back at the sound of another flier humming to a stop on the front lawn. He turned, looked through the polarized windows, and announced, “Gregor.” He stiffened slightly as he spoke. Roman disapproved of Maijstral’s irregularities, and considered Gregor one of them.

  “Good.” Maijstral wiggled his toes again, thoughtfully, “I can tell him about our commission.”

  Gregor Norman entered, pulling a dark blue cap off a mass of bright red hair. He was twenty, lanky, and intense. He was dressed entirely in dark colors and his coat had a lot of pockets, most of them filled with electronic gadgets. He smiled. His words came rapidly, and he spoke with a cheeky accent. Definitely Non-U.

  “Mission accomplished, boss. Only too.”

  “Only too” was a form of slang of which Gregor was fond. It was shorthand for “only too easy” or “only too likely” or “only too happy” or any other handy phrase beginning with that versatile pair of words.

  “Good. The media globes broadcast me with Nichole tonight, and the panic should start first thing tomorrow.”

  Gregor laughed. He was feeling pleased with himself. He had committed four acts of breaking-and-entering in the last four hours, and he’d done each seamlessly and without a hitch, leaving scores of little electronic gadgets behind in each case.

  Roman looked from one to the other. His nostrils flickered. “You mentioned, sir, a commission.”

  “Yes.” Maijstral rose, put his feet on the floor, and leaned toward the others. “Sit down, Gregor. I’ll tell you about it.” He knew better than to offer a seat to Roman— it was not a servant’s place to sit in the presence of his employer. He waited for Gregor to seat himself and then went on.

  “A woman named Amalia Jensen wants us to locate an artifact within the estate of one Admiral Scholder, HCN, retired, deceased. There’s going to be an estate auction in a few weeks and Miss Jensen fears she might be outbid.”

  Roman’s ears pricked up. “The current owner, sir?”

  “Scholder’s heir is his nephew, a Lieutenant Navarre. I met him tonight. I don’t think he’s very interested in his uncle’s estate— certainly not in its security. He seemed to find the whole situation fraught with personal inconvenience.”

  Gregor grinned again. “They might not notice for weeks that the thing’s missing.” His fingers were tapping his thighs in some private rhythm. Usually some part of him or another was in motion.

  “That’s a good point. We should continue with our other plans. But tomorrow, Roman, I’d like you to initiate some inquiries about Miss Jensen. I doubt she’s an agent or a provocateur, but one never knows. And she declined to give us media rights, which I suspect means there are undercurrents here we don’t know about.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She also had a companion, a young man named Pietro Quijano. He might be a part of this and he might not. At any rate he might be worth an inquiry.”

  “First thing tomorrow, sir.”

  Maijstral turned to Gregor. “I’d like you to fly over to the Scholder estate and take a look at it. Check for— well, you know.”

  Gregor gave a breezy, two-fingered salute. “Only too, boss.”

  Maijstral thought for a brief moment. “Oh. Yes. Our other business. If any of your surveys turn out to be of property owned by a General Gerald of the marines, disregard it. He’s filled with unnecessary complications.”

  Roman gazed at him levelly. “May I inquire their nature, sir?”

  Maijstral took a breath while he considered what manner of lie to offer. “Security matters relating to the defense of the planet,” he said. “I would prefer not to be involved with counterspies. It would be contrary to the image I wish to present here.”

  “Certainly, sir. I understand.”

  Maijstral put his fee
t up on the couch and pillowed his head on his hands. “And while you’re off having fun, I’ll be laboring at the Elvis recital.”

  “It must be hell, boss.”

  Roman’s diaphragm spasmed once, then again, the Khosali equivalent of a deep, heartfelt sigh. Definitely Non-U.

  Maijstral’s irregularities were sometimes completely incomprehensible.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Elvis was human and dressed in white and sequins. His movements— the way he leaned into the chrome microphone, the pelvic thrusts, even the gesture used in wiping sweat from his forehead with a red silk handkerchief— all were highly stylized, as ritualized as the steps of a Balinese dancer.

  A holographic band stood in partial shadow behind. Stacks of obsolete and highly unnecessary amplifiers were placed on the wings of the stage, and the sound was arranged to boom from them as though they were real.

  “Hunka hunka burnin’ love” sang the King of Rock and Roll. The screaming of debutantes centuries dead wailed up around the stage in answer to the meaningless pre-Standard lyrics. The Elvis leaned forward, mopped sweat from his brow, and presented the handkerchief to one of his assistants in the audience. The assistant brought it to Nichole, the guest of honor, who bowed and accepted it graciously, momentarily illuminated by spotlights. The audience offered polite applause.

  “Now what the hell do I do with it, Maijstral?” Nichole asked, drawing her hand across her mouth so the ever-present media globes could not read her lips. “I’m not going to sit here all night with a wet rag in my hand.”

  Maijstral looked at her with sympathy. Her costume, a bluish thing composed of several semitransparent layers of pseudocarapace, did not allow for pockets. “I’ll take it, if you like,” he said. “Or I can tie it around your arm.”

  The spotlight on Nichole faded. Her diamond earrings and necklace dimmed. “I’ll send it to Etienne,” she decided. “It suits his coloring better.” She signaled one of her coterie and whispered instructions. Etienne, in the next box, yawned behind his hand. He had decided to be bored by Peleng.

  Before the concert Maijstral and Nichole had an enjoyable luncheon, discussing their lives, their times, old friends. He had discovered she had a tendency to assume he knew more about Diadem affairs than he really did, but he managed, he thought, to cover his ignorance fairly well. He really didn’t keep up with gossip.

  Maijstral leaned back and felt his chair adjust to his contours. He glanced across the hall and saw Countess Anastasia sharing a box with Baron Sinn. She gazed at him intently with her ice-blue eyes. A brief alarm sang in his nerves. He bowed to her, and she nodded back.

  She calls me irregular, he thought. It was the Khosali who made Elvis a part of High Custom and left Shakespeare out. Probably, he reflected, because there were too many successful rebellions against monarchs in Shakespeare. And Elvis was a mock rebel who became, in the end, a pillar of the social order.

  Maijstral liked Shakespeare a good deal, having read him in the new translation by Maxwell Aristide. The comedies, he thought, were especially good. This was, he supposed, an indication of his low taste. Most people found them unsubtle.

  *

  The lobby bar was padded in red leather and featured more polished brass than was strictly tasteful. Media globes bounced uncomfortably along the low ceiling and stared at the intermission crowd. Half the audience, having stayed long enough to make certain they were noticed, took the opportunity to slip away from the incomprehensible performance.

  Maijstral sipped his cold rink. His lazy eyes passed slowly over the crowd, taking in clothing, accessories, jewelry. Making mental notes.

  “Yes,” he said. “A playwright, a very good one. The Constellation Practices Authority rediscovered him and had Aristide translate him.”

  “I shall look for it, sir,” said Pietro Quijano. His brow wrinkled and he tugged at his lower lip. “Do you think it’s political, sir?”

  “Nothing overt that I could see. But the Khosali buried him for some reason, so who knows?”

  Pietro tugged at his lower lip again. Maijstral followed the direction of his gaze and saw Amalia Jensen talking to Lieutenant Navarre. Navarre nodded and smiled in answer to something Miss Jensen said. Pietro’s frown deepened.

  Maijstral finished his rink.

  “If you will excuse me, sir,” he said, “I should see if Nichole needs refreshment.”

  “Certainly,” Pietro murmured, and then he tore his gaze away from Jensen and brightened a bit. “She was a most stimulating dance partner, sir. Please give her my compliments.”

  “Of course.”

  Maijstral made his way to where Nichole was giving an exclusive interview to one persistent media globe. “We’re old, dear friends, of course,” she was saying. “I’m afraid it would be inappropriate for me to comment further.”

  Said with a hesitation, a little flutter of the eyes. Nuance, Maijstral thought. Once he’d thought her very good at this, but in the last four years she’d become an artist.

  After the interview the globe drifted away and Nichole took Maijstral’s arm. Maijstral gave her Pietro’s message. “A dreadful dancer,” she said. “He kept tripping over his own damn boots.”

  “You made him look good, I’m sure.”

  Her eyes glistened. “I’m sure I did.” She tapped his arm. “Do you see our High Seas Scout friend over yonder?”

  Maijstral gazed once again at Lieutenant Navarre, who was still intently listening to Amalia Jensen. “Certainly.”

  “Would you do me the favor of asking him to sup with me this evening? I’d do it myself, but the globes are sure to notice, and they’ll never leave off harassing the poor man.”

  Nichole, Maijstral reflected, would never have asked a man on this kind of errand four years ago. This was the sort of thing she had an entourage for. He reflected again on his earlier resolution and was thankful it appeared to complement hers.

  “Of course,” he said, “What time?”

  “Thirty or so.” Nichole smiled. “I’d invite you, but I’m sure you’ll be off on business,”

  He answered her smile. “I’m afraid it would be inappropriate for me to comment further.”

  “As I thought.” Knowingly. She patted his forearm.

  “I’d love to see you tomorrow, though. Luncheon again?”

  “Delighted.”

  She glanced up and saw more media globes moving in. Her face did not exactly fall, but grew more controlled, less spontaneous. Less delighted. “Please fetch me some champagne, Drake, will you?” she asked. Her voice was silky. Maijstral sniffed her ears— this was a High Custom event, after all— then bowed and withdrew.

  “Not much pelvis,” said a high, wonderfully resonant voice. “Troxans cannot Elvis do well.”

  Maijstral bowed in Count Quik’s direction as he strolled by the tiny round-headed alien. Amalia Jensen’s laughter hung in the air. She was finding Lieutenant Navarre amusing. Maijstral glided toward them and touched the copper-skinned lieutenant on the arm. “With Miss Jensen’s permission, a word, sir.”

  Miss Jensen gave her consent. Maijstral murmured Nichole’s message. Navarre looked confused.

  “Oh. I’m flattered. And delighted. But I’m afraid”— he looked toward Amalia, who smiled, more at Maijstral than at Navarre— “I’m committed for this evening. With Miss Jensen. Please give Nichole my sincerest regrets.”

  Maijstral glanced up at a clattering noise and saw Pietro, standing about ten feet behind Navarre, trying to extricate himself from the rubble of a spilled drink tray while a purse-lipped hostess looked at him with annoyance.

  “I’ll convey your apologies,” Maijstral said. “I’m sure Nichole will understand.”

  He walked to the bar and asked for champagne. Receiving his glass, he turned to stare into the intent eyes of the Countess Anastasia. Looming over her was the bulk of Baron Sinn. Maijstral’s blood turned cold— that old reflex again— but he smiled and exchanged sniffs.

  “Champagne, Cou
ntess?”

  “I have sworn not to drink champagne within the boundaries of the Constellation,” she said, “till the Empire be restored.”

  “I fear you will have a long wait,” Maijstral said.

  “Your father—” she began. Anger surged in Maijstral’s heart.

  “Remains dead,” Maijstral said. He sniffed her and excused himself.

  The woman had always got to him, damn it. He had to wait some moments before Nichole was sufficiently clear of media globes to convey Navarre’s regrets, and he used that time to calm himself. Nichole, when she heard the message, was astonished.

  “He turned me down, Maijstral! What am I to do with myself this evening? It’s one of the few free moments allowed in my schedule.”

  “I would offer to keep you company, but . . .” Maijstral’s heavy-lidded eyes gave the impression of slyness. “I really do have other plans, my lady.”

  “I don’t suppose I could watch.”

  Maijstral kissed her hand. “I’m afraid your presence would attract unwelcome attention.”

  Nichole sighed. “I hope you’ll send me the vid, at least.”

  “Perhaps I’ll be able to send you something interesting before you leave. My general run of jobs aren’t very enthralling, though.”

  She pointed at the white stone on his finger. “I can always recognize your videos by the ring. When I see it, I cheer.”

  Maijstral smiled. “The ring is my trademark. They alter my face and body in the vids, but I need something noticeable to keep my place in the standings.”

  “Do you like the way Laurence is playing you, by the way? He looks more like you; but I thought Anaya seemed to capture your personality better.”

  “Truth to tell, my lady, I never watch them.” Nichole gave a skeptical laugh. Maijstral looked at her. “I’ve lived through it once,” he said, “I have no desire to see an imitation.”

  “If you insist, Maijstral.”

  Maijstral touched the clusters of diamonds hanging from one of Nichole’s ears. His eyes widened with professional interest. “These are lovely, by the way. Are you certain you should wear them in such dangerous company?”