Pietro Quijano looked dubious. He was still struggling with his darksuit, trying to get the night holograms on. Maijstral reached across the gap between them and pressed a stud on his belt.
“Thank you,” Pietro said.
Maijstral did not reply. He was already flying toward the mansion, followed by one of his media globes, both of them keeping close to the ground.
*
Old General Gerald, breathing hard from the exertion of putting on his battle armor, crouched once again in the comer of his living room. During siesta his monitors had shown several overflights of his house, any one of which could have been Maijstral scouting his place. He couldn’t be certain, of course, but he had what amounted to a moral certainty that Maijstral would come tonight.
He grinned a tight-lipped grin as he tracked over the data readouts from the various rooms of his house. He could track individual dust motes as they swirled above his bookshelves. Maijstral wouldn’t have a chance.
This was going to be great.
*
Maijstral drifted across the thick, manicured lawn. The manse ahead of him blazed with floodlights; the planks that scarred the single upper window were an eyesore, an obvious sign of something out of place. Maijstral’s sensors reached out, found and dissected the building’s defenses.
He reversed himself, oozed feet first through a network of flaxes, then reached the generator and silently disabled it. His surrounding hologramatic image— his darksuit was more advanced than Tvi’s— began to take on the lighter tones of the spotlighted walls themselves.
He rose effortlessly to the second floor and neutralized a rank of leapers that Gregory’s miniature beacons had pinpointed for him. He drifted to the window, careful not to touch the balcony with his feet, and peered between the cracks of the rough planks that had been nailed over the window. He could see nothing through the curtain beyond. Maijstral deployed his cutter and sliced a neat circle in one of the planks, then another circle in the window behind.
He popped a micro media-globe through the hole, then guided it so that it peeked delicately beneath the lacy hem of the curtains. The globe’s view was fed into Maijstral’s brain.
Amalia Jensen lay on the curtained bed, eating supper from a tray. There was no one else in the room.
Relief eased through Maijstral’s heart. This might be simple after all.
The matte-black media rolled along the bottom of the curtain, skated along the dark paneling of the room, slid up one of the bedposts, then finally drifted to a point within an inch or so of Amalia Jensen’s left ear. Maijstral could see bruises on her cheek and felt a flash of anger. He spoke, subvocalizing into his throat mike, the globe whispering for him.
“Don’t jump, Miss Jensen. This is Drake Maijstral.”
She jumped anyway, but at least avoided tipping the tray. As her head spun toward the globe, Maijstral received a swift, distorted impression of wide eyes, parted lips, a swirling pattern of bruises, pores like meteor strikes.
“Please whisper, Miss Jensen. Are you being monitored in any way?”
The projection of her moving lips in Maijstral’s mind made them seem as large as Fassbinder Gorge on Newton. “No,” she said. “There’s a guard outside, and they warned me not to touch the window because there are alarms on it.”
Maijstral reduced the scale of the unflattering close-up view and considered a moment. “I have fulfilled my half of the commission. I would like to discuss payment.”
Her answering tone was puzzled. “But you came to get me out, didn’t you? Once I’m free, we can complete the transfer.”
“Miss Jensen, I merely came to make arrangements for the delivery of the artifact and the collection of my payment.”
There was growing anger in Amalia’s voice. “How can you expect me to pay you, Mr. Maijstral? I’m being held prisoner.”
“Please lower your voice. Miss Jensen.” Maijstral smiled behind his holographic screen. “I simply wished to confirm that your estimation of the situation is the same as mine.”
“Of course it is! All you have to do is get me out of here, and then I’ll pay you.”
“I was about to mention. Miss Jensen, that I am not normally in the business of rescuing kidnapped persons.”
“You could call the police.”
“I’m afraid they would then discover that you had hired me to steal an invaluable object. I shouldn’t like to get you in trouble, Miss Jensen. And in any case, I make a point of never dealing with the police.”
There was a long silence. Maijstral turned his attention back to the image from his media globe; Amalia was scowling at it. Then, “What do you propose, Mr. Maijstral?”
“I suggest that we agree to cancel our earlier agreement, and reach a new one. For your liberty, I suggest a payment of sixty. After your safe delivery to your friends, we may negotiate for the sale of the Imperial Artifact.”
“You aren’t giving me much choice.”
“On the contrary, the choice is entirely yours. You may accept my offer, or you may arrange for your own deliverance, or you may stay here until such time as your commission expires and I become a free agent.”
“Where will I get the money?”
“You know your own finances best. But you are a member of a star-spanning organization of considerable wealth, and whose interests might well be engaged. I suggest that you contact them.”
Amalia was indignant. “You’re taking advantage!”
Maijstral’s answer was immediate. “Madam, you mistake me. My nature and interest is but to perceive the situation and act upon it. I do not attempt the concealment of facts, for example the value that might attach to the contents of a silver object, or the drastic action some might take to acquire it.”
Her decision, when it came, was quick, and there was steel in her voice. Maijstral suppressed a momentary surge of admiration.
“Done, then. Sixty to get me loose.”
“And our earlier contract voided.”
“Yes.”
“Your obedient servant, ma’am. Please put the tray aside and be ready to move.”
Maijstral made certain that the media globe had recorded the bargain, then shifted to his communications channel and whispered, “Deus vult.”
Behind him, on the bare edge of his darksuit’s perceptions, the rest of the party, clothed in night, began moving purposefully across the lawn. Things hadn’t gone badly at all.
*
The Countess lit her cigarette by tapping it twice on the rear portico pillar and looked at her two henchmen, Chang and Bix. Both were brawny and well-muscled, each carrying a small suitcase and a larger satchel containing their gear. Both had removed their hats in her presence and, because their hands were carrying satchels, the hats ended up crushed in their armpits. “The robots haven’t finished making up your rooms,” she said. She spoke Khosali. “Let me show you to the library. You can wait there.”
“Yes, my lady.” Chang was the more vocal of the two, though neither were precisely fluent in any existing language. “We’re happy we could be of use.”
“This way.” She led them past the back study and the small ballroom, then through the billiard room to the library. Leather volumes gleamed in subdued light. She pivoted and gestured with the cigaret. Neuralgia crackled in her shoulders.
“Please feel free to go anywhere on the lower floors,” she said. “You may order anything you like, and the house will bring it. On the upper floor there is a Very Important Guest”—she tried to inflect the capitals, and saw how their eyes flickered to the upper landing—”and it is urgent that our guest not be disturbed. If anything disturbing should occur, I’m confident you will know how to respond.”
“Yes, my lady.” Chang bowed stiffly, and Bix, after a pause, followed suit.
“I’ll have the robot escort you to your room as soon as it’s ready.”
As the Countess left the room, neuralgia walked with needle toes along her arms and shoulders. She repressed an urge
to stretch, move her arms. An Imperial aristocrat kept her shoulders back at all times.
She’d just have to schedule an extra session with her robot masseuse. The robot lacked the touch of her human one, but all the live servants had been shuttled to Peleng City as soon as she’d decided to go in for kidnapping.
Never mind. Service demanded the occasional sacrifice. This would, she concluded righteously, do her good in the end.
*
Baron Sinn wasn’t certain he wanted to be recognized by the Countess’s goons, so when their flier landed in the back he decided to take a stroll on the front porch. He stood silently by one of the Corinthian columns and pitched his cigaret onto the lawn. A robot would clean it up tomorrow.
A gust of wind ruffled his lace. He would have to shower tonight to get the smell of tobacco out of his fur. Another little price of diplomacy.
*
A few feet above Baron Sinn, Maijstral’s beam cutter quietly sliced the planks blocking Amalia Jensen’s window, then sliced the window itself. Planks and sheets of glass rose into the air above his head, held by a-grav. Gregor, nearly invisible in his chameleon darksuit, floated behind him and began removing the alarms on the next window.
Maijstral detected an alien scent, then froze. It was tobacco. Was someone smoking just under him? His nerves giving odd little leaps, Maijstral turned up his audio reception and, amid the amplified buzz of insects, distinctly heard Sinn’s movements below. Maijstral gnawed his lip. He realized that all the person had to do was step off the porch and look up in order to notice the planks had been sliced from the window.
“Gregor,” he said, subvocalizing, “there’s someone just under us.” The answer came back without pause.
“Khosali geezer. Gun under his jacket. Smokes Silver-tips.”
Maijstral blinked. Gregor quickly cut his window away and floated into the house.
Good idea, Maijstral decided. He drifted through the curtains.
Amalia Jensen looked at him coldly. “My hero,” she said.
*
“Quite a place,” said Bix.
“Only too, partner.” Chang went to the wall service plate and touched the ideograph for “kitchen.” “Send beer,” he said.
“I’ve never seen so many books.”
“My brother has a few.” Bix dropped his suitcase and satchel, then began moving up the stair, looking at titles as he went. “Geographic Survey of Rose Territory, Peleng. Twelve volumes. Who’d want to read that?”
“Phyllis Bertram is from Rose Territory.”
“No, she’s not. She’s from Falkland.”
“That’s in Rose Territory.”
“That’s not true.”
“Is so.”
The pair’s routine, developed over years of close association, was well-honed.
“Counter-Intuitive Approaches to Condensation Psychology. Complete Works of Bulwer-Lytton. Where did they get this stuff?”
Good question. Except for a few showpiece volumes, the books had been picked up as discards from local libraries, then bound in such a way as to look rare and valuable. Woolvinn Leases, Ltd. had a solid appreciation of the way books vanish into the pockets or luggage of tenants and subsequently migrate to places unknown, and so made certain that most of the books in their exquisitely appointed library were of incomparable dullness, the better to discourage theft.
“Who’s Bulwer-Lytton?” Chang asked.
“No idea, partner.”
Bix had advanced to the landing on the second floor. “There’s more stuff here,” he said. “Old videos. King Lear.” He looked at Chang. “Who was that?”
“Tsanvinn Dynasty. He was the grandfather of the emperor that conquered Earth.”
“That far back.” He reached for the door to the southeast drawing room. “Wonder what’s in here?” he asked.
“Don’t. We’re not supposed to— ”
*
Pietro Quijano followed Roman’s lead up the side of the house to the darkened windows of the southeast drawing room. He was beginning to get the hang of the darksuit, and flipped back and forth from his night image-intensifiers to infrared perception, enjoying, for its own sake, the contrast in viewpoints.
Roman worked deftly and quickly, and within a few seconds had a window cleared of alarms and sliced open. Pietro watched as the disconnected pane of glass floated gently skyward, then hung in midair, unaffected by the slight breeze. Then, with a start, he realized Roman had entered the building, and that he should follow,
Pietro’s image-intensified view of the drawing room was devoid of texture— everything looked bright and without perspective. He dropped to the floor, soft carpeting absorbing his weight without a sound. Light was entering under both the door that led into the corridor and the other door that led to the circular library. He could hear voices from somewhere, but wasn’t certain of their origin.
Roman was still floating, hovering by the door to the corridor. Quijano recollected he was supposed to block the library door and began looking for heavy furniture. There were two long couches, several chairs, a desk. He moved toward the desk and began to drag it over the deep pile carpet, tugging it toward the door. Roman’s subvocal came in his ear.
“Don’t. They might hear.” Pietro froze in front of the library door.
“Wonder what’s in here?” a voice said, from right on the other side of the door. Pietro turned toward the door, wondering what in heaven’s name he could do. His heart boomed louder than the sound of the voice. This wasn’t in the plan. He reached out with the idea of physically holding the door shut.
The door opened.
Bix’s face gazed toward him in amiable curiosity. Pietro reacted instantly. He completely forgot the weapons at his belt, forgot that his darksuit made him difficult to see. He simply lashed out with a fist, his whole body behind it.
The fist mashed Bix’s nose and knocked him back against the landing’s metal rail. Bix rebounded and Pietro lashed out again, catching him more by luck than design on the point of his jaw. Bix fell unconscious. Pietro stepped back into the drawing room and slammed the library door. He turned to Roman, who had drawn a weapon and would have used it if Pietro hadn’t been in the way. Severe pain pulsed in Pietro’s knuckles.
“We’re in for it now,” Pietro said. And then he clapped his hands over his mouth. He’d said it out loud.
*
Khotvinn’s ears pricked at the sound of a voice. “We’re in for it now.”
You certainly are, my lad, he thought. He spun, drew his sword with his left hand and his chugger with his right, and charged the door. He roared as he came. Khotvinn the brave! Khotvinn the majestic! He was going to carve the intruders like cheese.
*
Chang watched as Bix was knocked unconscious by a figure only dimly seen. He watched without surprise— Chang did not have enough imagination to possess much in the way of expectation, and therefore was never surprised when his expectations failed to come true.
The Very Important Personage, Chang decided, had a mean punch and a savage regard for his own privacy. He was not going to enjoy apologizing to the Countess for Bix’s intrusion. Then he heard a bellow and the sound of firing, and decided something was wrong.
He went to the service plate and touched the ideograph for “General announcement.”
“This is Chang in the library,” he said. “There’s a fight going on upstairs.”
Then he went for his guns.
*
Roman heard Pietro’s voice and felt at once the onset of dismay. He knew his action would have to be fast. And so he stifled the dismay swiftly and spun to the door that led into the corridor, wrenching it open, his gun ready. He observed a seven-foot-tail, red-haired puppet, a magic wand in his hand and a happy and slightly mischievous grin fixed to his face, leaping toward him, hanging in midair with one foot outthrust.
Roman stepped aside. The puppet was balanced to encounter a door and failed to hit one, and so flailed and came to a cr
ash landing inside the drawing room. Pietro stared at the apparition. Roman fired his stunner and saw a coruscating energy pattern spatter bright colors across both the puppet and Pietro. Roman had known Pietro’s screens could deal with the attack, but apparently the puppet’s could as well.
Hell. Roman slammed the door behind him and looked for something to hit the puppet with.
The puppet leaped to his feet, striking blindly in the unlighted room, unable to see his opponents in their darksuits. His grin was blinding. “Prepare to die, human scum!” he roared. He fired his own gun randomly. Explosive bullets blew furniture apart.
“Ronnie Romper?” said Pietro.
*
Maijstral got the a-grav harness around Amalia Jensen and put the proximity wire around her neck, and then his heart gave a lurch at the sound of Khotvinn’s howl and the subsequent battle. “This way,” he said, and arrowed straight for the window.
Standing on the porch outside. Baron Sinn glanced up in surprise at the ruckus, then drew his gun and sprinted for one of the outside stairways connecting the front porch with the balcony overhead, switching on his shields as he ran. He saw the cutaway boards that surrounded Amalia Jensen’s window, then saw the visual quality of the window shift as Maijstral sliced through it in his darksuit. Sinn fired, his spitfire blowing flaming chunks out of the building.
Maijstral, completely by instinct, reversed himself and flew back through the window. Once inside he cursed himself for an idiot— he could have got clean away— then drew his own spitfire and blew more pieces out of the window, just by way of suggesting Baron Sinn not enter that way.
Amalia Jensen was floating in midroom, looking startled. Without adequate protection, she could not leave via the window. “Beg pardon,” Maijstral said. He opened the door. “This way,” he said.
*
When the fighting started, Gregor was admiring— and mentally pricing— a Basil vase sitting atop an eight-hundred-year-old hand-carved bureau of Couscous marble. He was therefore a little late in wrenching open his door and sticking his nose and gun into the corridor, arriving just in time to see the door to the southeast drawing room slam shut. There was no one in the corridor. Then Baron Sinn’s spitfire began blasting bits out of the wall behind him.
The Crown Jewels Page 13