The Crown Jewels

by Walter Jon Williams

  He had no idea at all. But he was fairly certain this puzzle had to do, in some inexplicable way, with Maijstral.

  Kuusinen observed Lieutenant Navarre’s flier rising from Amalia Jensen’s roof and decided, for lack of any further ideas, to follow it. As he rose into the sky, he decided to hang on to Navarre for another few hours, then return to the Countess’s place. Maybe one of them would lead him to Maijstral.

  This was the most interesting diversion he’d had in a long time.

  *

  The silver container sat on Maijstral’s table and refused to go away. Maijstral returned from his conversation with Nichole to find that, like a magnetic object, the Emperor’s sperm receptacle had drawn the other three nearer to it. Gregor and Pietro had hitched their seats closer and were bent forward, barely glancing at each other even though they were in conversation. Roman, still standing, still trembling with some unspoken emotion, hovered over Gregor’s shoulder, rising to tiptoe from time to time to gain a better view. It was a living demonstration of Imperial Presence.

  “If the situation in the Empire remains unchanged,” Pietro Quijano was saying, “Nnis may drag on for another few generations. When he finally shuffles off, the Blood Royal will have to assemble to choose another Emperor. It will take years for the family to make up its mind, and by the end of their deliberations we in the Constellation should have a good idea of who will come to power. The Human Constellation will have a long breathing space, and if the new Emperor’s supporters are committed to reconquest, we’ll have time to prepare.”

  “For the correct price, sir,” said Maijstral as he slid into his chair, “the future of the Constellation may be yours to command.” He leaned back, resisting the magnetism of the silver reliquary.

  Pietro looked up at him, trying in vain to gaze through Maijstral’s hooded eyes. “We only have sixty in the treasury, and we only got that because Miss Jensen took out a personal loan.”

  “Perhaps you should take out a loan yourself, Mr. Quijano.”

  “I’m a student. I’m doing postgraduate work in mathematics, and I’m not worth any money. But I’ll give you the sixty right now.”

  “You are not Miss Jensen. My contract was with her.”

  Pietro’s eyes showed desperation. “The Fate of the Constellation is at stake,” he said. “Surely you can—”

  “Mr. Quijano,” said Maijstral. “perhaps in your enthusiasm something has slipped your mind.”

  “Sir? What is that?”

  “I am, by profession, a thief. It is not my job to care about the Fate of the Constellation.”

  Gregor snickered, but Pietro was undeterred. “Surely there must be some human decency to which I can appeal.”

  “Human decency?” Maijstral appeared to consider the words. He shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Quijano. Such decency as I possess is almost certainly Khosali.” He gave Pietro a thin smile. “The indecent part, however, is entirely human.”

  Pietro Quijano looked at him for a long, cold moment. “Then, since Miss Jensen’s the only person you’ll deal with, let’s find her.”

  Maijstral was about to point out that neither was it his job to rescue maidens in distress, but Gregor cleared his throat.

  “Boss,” he said, “it’s bad form to let people go around stealing your clients. It lets them think they can push you around.”

  Maijstral frowned. “I’m not in the habit of exerting myself for nothing,” he said.

  “You want your client back, right, boss? Only too you do. There’s a way to do it. Find her and get her loose.”

  “May I speak with you privately, sir?” The voice was Roman’s, speaking in Khosali. Maijstral nodded.

  He let Roman take him aside into Maijstral’s bedroom. When Roman spoke, it was in High Khosali, and his voice trembled with suppressed emotion.

  “Your client was stolen, sir,” he said. “And with your business unconcluded. The kidnappers knew of your interest, but have not acted to preserve that interest or consult you. That is insult given, and considering their likely identity, an offense to honor. The insult must be answered.”

  Surprise rose in Maijstral as the High Khosali sentences followed one another in perfect form and rhythm, like the elements of some complex mathematics. Given Khosali premises, the conclusions were absolute. Maijstral tried to find a gap in the reasoning and failed.

  So that’s what Roman had been seething about. If Maijstral hadn’t been so distracted by events, he would have realized it long since. He gave a reassuring nod.

  “I give you thanks for your concern,” he said, answering in High Khosali. “Your interest does you credit, Roman.” Roman’s eyes gleamed at the compliment. “I need no reminders to know that honor was offended,” Maijstral went on, “but first I must decide with whom the offense lies, and how best to act, and I must also find out how much Mr. Quijano knows. An outright challenge might give these people more credit than they deserve.”

  Roman’s ears pricked forward. “That’s true, sir.”

  Maijstral put a hand on Roman’s shoulder. He dropped to standard Khosali. “I think we should return to Mr. Quijano.”

  “Yes, sir. Very good.”

  Maijstral gestured for Roman to precede him. He took his hand back from Roman’s shoulder and observed that it trembled lightly. He clenched the hand into a fist and followed Roman into the living room. By a conscious effort of will, he did not grind his teeth.

  “Very well,” he said. “We should, at least, investigate the possibility of rescuing Miss Jensen. But where would they be holding her?”

  Gregor frowned. “A safe house, maybe. Possibly.”

  “Perhaps not. The kidnapping showed every sign of being arranged in haste, within a few hours of my acquisition of the jug. They may not have had time to arrange for a safe house, though they may be arranging for one now. We should run a check for consular personnel, then for any residences they may possess outside the consulate.”

  “There is also the Countess,” Roman said.

  “Right,” Gregor said, “I should cross-check the references for rented security. They may have laid on some extra.”

  Maijstral smiled. That was a good thought.

  “Fine. If we get any cross-references, we’ll go for aerial reconnaissance and perhaps check further by darksuit. Get about it, then.”

  Roman and Gregor glided away to their tasks. Maijstral settled back into his chair with a piece of fleth. Pietro Quijano was, he realized, looking at him in an expectant way.

  “Yes, Mr. Quijano?”

  “You’re going to find Miss Jensen and then rescue her?”

  “I said we would investigate the possibility, Mr. Quijano. Not quite the same thing.”

  “But you’ll at least call the police?”

  “No. I think not. The whole purpose of the kidnapping would have to come out. The law protects me after a few hours, but that doesn’t apply to any of my patrons. I presume you would not wish it established that Miss Jensen hired me with criminal intent?”

  Pietro looked a little pale. “No, I guess not.” Maijstral nibbled his fleth. Gregor, from the hallway, spoke up.

  “Perhaps we could get Lieutenant Navarre to help us.”

  Pietro scowled at the idea. Maijstral answered. “I scarcely think so. He would discover that Miss Jensen only entertained him last night for the purpose of getting him away from his house so that I could rob him.”

  “Oh.”

  Pietro brightened, then frowned again. “What if we can’t rescue her, sir?”

  Maijstral looked at the piece of fleth in his fingers. The hand no longer trembled. “In that event, Mr. Quijano,” he said, “I shall have to challenge her kidnappers one by one. And kill them, one hopes. Family honor, alas, won’t have it any other way— and challenging them is preferable, in my mind at least, to committing suicide and hoping it shames them into letting Miss Jensen go.” He looked at Pietro with his lazy green eyes. “Unless, of course, you’d like to issue the c
hallenges yourself?”

  Pietro grew paler. “No. sir. I don’t— it’s not my province, you see.”

  “I understand. One can scarcely hope to vanquish an enemy in single combat through the use of higher mathematics alone.” He finished his fleth and dusted his fingers, then stood. “Luncheon, Mr. Quijano?” he asked. “I think we’re stocked with food.”

  “I’m not hungry.” Pietro was staring into nowhere. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll find myself a snack, then.” Maijstral said. He stood and moved toward the kitchen.

  What he really intended to do was get on the phone and rent another safe house. This one was hopelessly compromised. Pietro Quijano was on Maijstral’s side for the present, but when and if Amalia Jensen was rescued that was likely to change.

  Successful criminal masterminds, one notes, always look ahead.

  *

  Nichole was lunching on cold chicken, bean salad, and pickles; a humble meal she could eat only in private, but which she much preferred to the elaborate, often eccentric cuisine demanded by her role as a member of the Diadem. Even here, the meal was not entirely her own; since she was supposed to be hiding Maijstral here in her love nest, she’d had to order for two. The sight of the second plate made the meal more lonely than it should have been. Lightly downcast, she sipped her iced tea with lemon and wondered again what had so shaken Maijstral.

  The phone rang. Nichole sipped again and waited for the room to tell her who it was.

  “The Countess Anastasia, ma’am,” the room said finally. “Asking for Mr. Maijstral.” Nichole turned around in surprise.

  Well, she thought. Developments.

  She ordered the room to create a holographic mirror image of her by way of making certain she was fit to show herself on the phone, patted her hair, then moved to another chair so that her meal would be out of sight and that her backdrop would suit her complexion. “By all means connect the Countess,” she said.

  Countess Anastasia was holographed from a point of view slightly below her chin, giving her a lofty elevation, allowing her to look at Nichole down her nose. Some people carried this to extremes, which made for an upsetting view if they neglected to clip all their nose hairs; but the Countess was more subtle and the effect was slight, but still observable.

  “Nichole,” she said coldly. She spoke in Khosali. “I asked for Drake Maijstral.”

  “I regret he’s not here, my lady.” Nichole said. “I would be happy to take a message, should I see him.”

  The Countess smiled thinly. “Ah. I must have been misinformed. The broadcast media, you understand.”

  “I regret to say, my lady, that the media are wont to report as fact all manner of speculation.”

  “Yes. That has been my experience as well. I would have given the reports no credence, you understand, save that I have been unable to reach Maijstral at home.”

  Nichole, looking at the Countess, wondered why Maijstral was so timorous around this woman. The Countess seemed, despite her breeding and apparent confidence, a pathetically insecure creature who had found salvation in the Imperialist Cause, quite the same way others found salvation in religion, or crank philosophy, or conspiracy theory— against one’s own inner conviction of insignificance, a flailing, defiant, unfocused, but perfectly sincere protest. Nichole, thinking these thoughts, looked at the Countess and smiled helpfully.

  “I will take a message, my lady,” she said, “and relay it to Maijstral if I see him.”

  The Countess seemed cross. Nichole guessed that the Countess assumed Maijstral was hiding in Nichole’s boudoir, listening in. “Very well,” the Countess said. “Tell him this. He has something that I want, and I believe he will find the price to his liking.”

  “Thank you.”

  The Countess smiled with a graciousness her hard eyes denied. “I regret having to bother you, ma’am.”

  “No bother at all. Countess. I enjoy doing things for my friends.” Nichole was smiling back, a smile that betrayed a slight effort, the effect intending to show she knew the Countess’s civility was a mask. Nuance, nuance. Nichole’s specialty.

  The Countess winked away.

  Nichole let her smile relax. Maijstral. she thought, her alarm growing. What have you got yourself into?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Relieving you,” said Sergeant Tvi. She was carrying Amalia Jensen’s food tray up the stairs. Khotvinn thankfully turned off his Ronnie Romper disguise and handed her the holo projector, gun, and manacle control.

  “The prisoner has been quiet,” he rumbled. Then he moved down the stairs, treading heavily, flexing his shoulders. Looking for something to hit.

  Guarding prisoners. Pah. Breaking necks was more his style.

  This was no work for a Khosalikh such as he. He stood 169ng, and his shoulders were 70ng across. His upper arms were 58ng around and the expanse of his chest was wider than the last tape measure with which he’d tried to measure it. On his home planet— a frontier world, where Khosali power was tempered by scarce resources and the ferocity of native life-forms— he had been regarded with awe and fear. Awe and fear that were, so Khotvinn had always thought, perfectly justified.

  Khotvinn stomped to his room, wanting to tread the lilies on his carpet. The room was furnished in the local milksop style: frilly things on the windows and bed, plush carpets, vases with flowers, an oversoft mattress on a bed that would alter its shape on command. It was the sort of thing Khotvinn had to guard against. If he wasn’t careful, this kind of living could make him soft.

  He had no intention of becoming soft. He was the imperious offspring of a superior brand of Khosali, the pioneers who had, by dint of their strength and will, driven back the frontiers of the Empire and subjugated entire planets full of alien inferiors. The effete Emperor back in his harem thought his victories had come at his own bidding. Bah! It was the people like Khotvinn who got the job done, and by the best and most effective way— smashing heads.

  Khotvinn considered himself a bloody-handed reaver— titanic in his fury, awesome in his mirth, careless of the laws made to protect those weaker than himself. He recognized no custom save his own will, no motive save his own enrichment. He despised Allowed Burglars who took advantage of loopholes in the law and crept into darkened houses at night. Better to proclaim yourself openly.

  And Sinn wasn’t any better, using others to do his dirty work. The only one of this crowd he had any use for was the Countess, a woman who clearly worshipped strength, honor, and desperate deeds. Khotvinn was a born plunderer, and if his young career as an armed robber (and army deserter) hadn’t been interrupted by a cowardly, puking little human weakling (who had dropped a brick on his head while hiding on a balcony), he would be plundering still.

  Subsequently he had concluded that being a member of the Secret Dragoons could work to his advantage. He could study the stupid fools who surrounded him, learn their ways, and then, when the time was right, strike out on his own, leaving nothing but ruin and broken necks behind him.

  Khotvinn reached under his bed and came up with his sword case. He drew out the long steel blade— no light alloys for him!— and raised it two-handed above his head. Carefully he pictured Baron Sum in front of him, and then sliced the image from neck to crotch. The blade danced before him like a whirlwind, chopping Sinn to bits. His heart hammered. His blood raced. He was Khotvinn . . . Khotvinn . . . KHOTVINN! Glorious exemplar of his race! Furious brawler with sword of steel! Bloody ravager with a heart of careless majesty!

  The antique vase splintered beneath Khotvinn’s backswing and splattered the bedcovers with mangled roses. Khotvinn snarled and threw down his blade. It pierced the lily carpet and stuck in the floor, quivering.

  Khotvinn spat. This was not a suitable room. This was not a suitable mission. His companions were not suitable.

  With an easy gesture he yanked the sword from the floor. It hung in his hand like a tooth of omen. He considered his situation.

  His companions— his so-c
alled superiors— were holding the human, Jensen, for ransom. Holding a woman prisoner wasn’t anything he couldn’t do himself, or anything that required Tvi or Sinn.

  His lips drew back, his tongue lolled. A glorious idea had entered his mind. Give Sinn the chop, he thought. Give the chop to Tvi. Then leave with Jensen over his shoulder, the Countess’s ghastly milksop mansion burning behind him. A wonderful picture. What cared Khotvinn for the Fate of the Empire?

  The smile began to fade. Who, exactly, was he supposed to sell Jensen to? He couldn’t remember.

  He’d have to keep his ears open and await his chance. His time, he knew, would come.

  Khotvinn’s grin broadened. Saliva dropped to the carpet. This was going to be great.

  *

  “I’m not advocating discrimination, you understand.”

  Amalia Jensen’s split lip had healed under the influence of a semilife patch, her swelling had likewise been reduced, and though the bruises still showed, the swelling and discomfort were down and she was speaking, and eating lunch, without difficulty.

  Speaking and eating on the bed, from a tray, with her ankles held together. Tvi wasn’t taking any chances.

  “No, not discrimination. Just reasonable precautions. The Rebellion was successful because many of the rebels were highly placed in the Imperial bureaucracy and military, and were in a position to aid in the defection of entire Imperial squadrons. The Constellation should take precautions against just such an event. That’s all I’m suggesting.”

  Tvi was still enjoying the role of a sophisticated mercenary, and she relaxed in her chair, a leg dangling over the chair arm, her stunner in one fist. “So nonhumans should never be put in positions of authority?” Tvi asked. “And this is what you call nondiscriminatory. Miss Jensen?”

  Amalia frowned into her frappe. “It’s a necessity. A regrettable one, I know. But humanity is simply too delicately placed to take a chance.”