If this was a ploy, the General thought, it was a bold one.
General Gerald admired boldness.
He stepped back into his hallway. “Come in, youngster,” he said.
“Thank you. General.”
“Leave the damned hi-stick outside. Don’t you know they’re bad for you?”
Gregor hesitated a moment, then snapped the offending stimulant in half and put it in his pocket.
At least, the General thought with satisfaction, Maijstral had an assistant who knew how to obey orders.
*
The robot wove silently through the kibble arbor on its way toward Baron Sinn. Sinn was using his mallet to knock bits of fruit about, looking for his croquet ball. Thus far he hadn’t achieved success.
The robot proffered a telephone. “My lord. A call from His Excellency Count Quik.”
The Baron straightened. “He knows I’m here?” The robot, not possessing a sense of irony, offered no answer.
Sinn glanced out onto the croquet lawn and saw Countess Anastasia smoking a cigaret and gazing with malevolent satisfaction at him— and at the scatter of red beneath the kibble trees. “Very well,” he said. I’ll take it.”
The Baron, still kicking idly at fruit, took the telephone from the robot’s manipulator. The robot hovered over fallen kibbles. Baron Sinn hesitated for a moment, glancing at the Countess and then at the robot, and then an idea struck him. His tongue lolled in a smile.
“Robot,” he ordered, “pick up all the fruit and put it into piles.” He held out a hand. “About this high. If you find a croquet ball, let it lie.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Sinn’s grin broadened as the robot went on its way, then he touched the answer ideograph and the phone promptly projected a miniature hologram of Count Quik’s round head before Sinn’s snout.
“Your ever faithful, my lord. It is a pleasant surprise to hear from you.”
“Is day for surprisings. Am myself surprised earlier.”
“Pleasantly, I hope.”
“I with friend spoke of Mr. Maijstral.”
A rush of frantic energy sped through the Baron’s nerves at the sound of Maijstral’s name, but it was a few seconds before he was able to decipher the Count’s syntax and make a guess at what Count Quik had actually intended.
“You spoke with a friend of Maijstral’s, my lord?” Wanting to be absolutely certain.
“Correct is. Requested assistance mine as neutral third party, yet citizen of Empire. I gave.”
Maijstral’s insulating himself well. Baron Sinn thought with a certain amount of admiration. And he moves fast.
He kept his expression amiable. “That was very generous of you my lord,” he said.
“Offered compensation. Twenty percent. Declined.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“Disinteresting seemed best.”
The robot was piling fruit into a small pyramid. No croquet ball yet.
Sinn, as if on cue, affected disinterest as he gazed at Count Quik. “What manner of assistance did Maijstral believe he needed from Your Excellency?”
“I bids transmit, my Baron.”
“I understand.” Sinn considered this for a moment. “Is there a place where you can be reached?”
“Yes. At Peleng Hotel now.”
Behind his facade, Sinn cursed heartily. That was where Etienne, Nichole, and (presumably) Maijstral were staying, covered by Diadem security.
Delay, Baron Sinn thought. The longer the delay, the better chance of catching Maijstral outside of his paramour’s protection. He peered benignly into the hologram.
“I have no bid at present. Excellency. But I have no doubt that I shall receive instructions from my consulate to offer one,”
“Understandings, my lord. But dealings must be concluded in one local day. Thirty-eight hours.”
Sinn cursed again. Maijstral seemed to have thought, of everything.
“I have no concrete assurance of what His Majesty’s government will or will nor offer,” Sinn said, “but I am certain they are willing to offer a fair price for return of the Imperial Artifact.” His ears pricked forward intently. “However, should the Imperial Artifact not be returned at the end of this adventure, I trust that your principal will take care to understand the consequences of such an unfriendly act. When great empires play for great stakes, the counters are oft at hazard.”
“Understandings, Baron Sinn. Your servant, sir.”
“Yours.” Nuance, the Baron thought, nuance.
The Count’s hologram faded. Baron Sinn noticed that the robot seemed to have left a single round, red object alone during the course of its pile-making. The Baron walked over to it and prodded it with his mallet. It was definitely his croquet ball.
He lit a cigaret and addressed the robot. “Continue piling the fruit.”
“Yes, sir.”
Baron Sinn drove his ball back into play and strolled back onto the lawn. The Countess tossed her cigaret off the playing field and walked to her bail.
“I set the robot to clearing the kibbles away. I hope you don’t mind “
The Countess betrayed no sign of chagrin. “Not at all, Baron.” She stood above her ball and readied her mallet.
“I should have thought of that myself, when I handed you my special ball. Please forgive my lack of foresight.”
“Of course, my lady.”
Countess Anastasia squinted as she took aim. “Was the call anything of importance. Baron?” she asked.
The Baron timed his comment perfectly. “Maijstral’s agent, my lady.”
The stroke hit off-center and the ball spun of on a tangent. “Bad luck. Countess,” said Baron Sinn, and prepared to roquet and drive the Countess’s ball off the court, beneath her kibble trees.
He was beginning to enjoy the game.
*
“Of course I’ll take the twenty percent, youngster! D’you take me for a fool?”
*
Paavo Kuusinen watched the game of croquet in mounting frustration. Nothing had developed at Amalia Jensen’s place since the Humanity Prime goon squad had returned to its roost. Drake Maijstral was, it appeared, safely under Nichole’s protection. Kuusinen had flown to the Countess’s place in hope of seeing something dramatic, and found only a game of croquet and a robot piling kibble fruit. Kuusinen sighed. He decided to fly to Lieutenant Navarre’s in hope of viewing some new developments.
Since he’d been in on the beginning, he’d hate to miss the finish.
*
Amalia Jensen had spent the afternoon getting acquainted with the discouraging fact of her house being used as a barracks for a host of armed and belligerent men, and her response had finally been to throw up her hands in despair and retreat to her room. There she had been watching the video news, hoping to discover some news of Maijstral’s current whereabouts, and listened instead to a report about the current wave of odd crimes affecting Peleng City and vicinity, to-wit: one theft from Lieutenant Navarre’s house that involved an object of small value taken by highly expensive means; one violent kidnapping followed a short time later by inexplicable release; one equally inexplicable armed attack on Countess Anastasia’s mansion; a violent intrusion at a country house, where robots were shot and the house torn apart; and now— a late development— a violent attack on Lieutenant Navarre by a Khosalikh in a Ronnie Romper disguise.
Amalia Jensen straightened in her chair. The newscaster, a supercilious Khosalikh, pointed out that Ronnie Romper disguises had been used by the perpetrators of the Jensen kidnapping. Facts seemed scanty at the moment, but this didn’t stop the news writers from speculating.
Cold fingers touched Amalia Jensen’s neck at the report that Ronnie Romper had been killed during the attempt, apparently by a visitor who happened onto the scene. The newscast hadn’t identified the Khosalikh even as to sex, and she couldn’t be certain that it wasn’t Tvi. In fact it very likely was, since the tall Khosalikh had probably been too badly injured in t
he attack on the Countess’s mansion to participate in further mischief.
The door opened. Pietro burst in. “Have you seen the vid?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Why Navarre?”
She thought for a moment. “Good question,” she said. “Perhaps they thought to find me there.”
“And who was it that killed Ronnie? There’s no identification at ail.”
“Something’s going on.”
“Damn right there is.” This last was a comment from Captain Tartaglia, who had appeared in the doorway. Amalia quickly composed her features and tried to hide her reactive distaste at the sight of the man. Tartaglia scratched his chin and looked at the vid. “Maybe we should pick up this Navarre. Ask him some questions.”
Amalia’s heart thumped in alarm. “He seems to be well protected,” she said.
“Take a look at his place, anyway.”
“Police will be everywhere.”
Tartaglia shrugged. “That’s worth considering. Let me think about it.”
The vid unit chimed. “Telephone call from General Gerald, madam. Marines. Retired.”
Amalia felt a slow wave of surprise. She barely knew the man. “Now what?” she said. She turned to Tartaglia. “If you’ll excuse me. Captain?”
Tartaglia shrugged again and turned to leave. Amalia accepted the call. Gerald’s red face appeared on the vid. Amalia tried to seem politely interested.
“General Gerald. This is a surprise.”
The General was grinning. “Drake Maijstral asked me to call you.”
Behind her, Amalia heard Pietro’s gasp of surprise, followed instantly by the sound of Captain Tartaglia’s abrupt about-face in the hall and return to the room.
Amalia Jensen controlled her astonishment, and was mildly surprised at the coolness of her reply. Perhaps she was becoming accustomed to intrigue. “You are welcome to call at any time, General. I am surprised that Mr. Maijstral did not call with his own message.”
“Perhaps he didn’t want to get killed.”
“Whatever our disagreements, we have not equipped every telephone on Peleng with an explosive device just on the chance that Maijstral might use it.”
“Perhaps he wants to be careful. I am given to understand that some of your people broke into his house this morning.”
There was an annoyed grunt from Tartaglia.
“Let’s get to cases, shall we?” The General appeared to be enjoying himself, “You haven’t exactly covered yourself with glory in this business so far, and I think Maijstral’s being quite reasonable in offering you a chance to buy your way out of this situation.” The General’s smile broadened, conveying pure, malevolent joy. “Maijstral wishes the bidding concluded in the next thirty-eight hours— one day. I’m getting twenty percent as middleman. Do I hear any bids?”
Tartaglia pushed Amalia Jensen aside and squatted in front of the vid, inside range of the holo pickup. Amalia prickled.
“General. I’m Captain Tartaglia.”
The General appeared to consult his memory. “I don’t recall any captain by that name. An ex-captain, yes. Someone who left the service of the Constellation in order to join a crank paramilitary organization with delusions of grandeur.”
Tartaglia’s mouth was a grim line. “I’m surprised to see you involved in this. General. The Fate of the Constellation is at stake. Seems like all you seem to care about is your twenty percent.”
The General turned red. Amalia winced at the volume of his reply. “I cared enough about the Constellation to have served six hitches in the marines, puppy! Marines, I will remind you, who are ready to fight against the Empire whether or not they’ve got an Emperor or his blasted jism! I care enough about the Constellation to have made this call! If I hadn’t agreed to act as middleman here, you might have been left out of the deal entirely. I suggest, therefore, you care enough to come up with a reasonable bid!”
“If that’s the way you want it. General.”
“That’s the way Maijstral wants it, puppy! If I had any resources to call on I’d bid for the thing myself, but I know how long it takes for the military to process an unorthodox requisition for funds. So it seems as if the Fate of the Constellation is in your hands. Heaven and the Virtues help us.”
“Amateurs have their uses, then.”
The General raised an admonishing finger. “Money speaks louder than sarcasm, puppy.”
Amalia could see Tartaglia’s hands trembling with suppressed rage. “Very well. A hundred and fifty. But tell Maijstral this. If he favors the Empire, he’d better get ready to spend the rest of his life across the border. And even then the Empire might not be healthy for him.”
General Gerald was visibly unimpressed. “I’ll transmit that message, puppy, but were I you, I wouldn’t make threats you’re not competent enough to carry out.”
Tartaglia’s answer was short. “A hundred and fifty. Tell Maijstral.”
“I’ll do it and be back in touch. I expect the bidding will go higher.” His eyes seemed to search out of the holo projection, looking for Amalia. “Miss Jensen,” he said, “I’m very disappointed at the company you keep.”
The General’s image faded, Tartaglia began to curse, and Amalia Jensen was left with a growing admiration for Maijstral’s technique. He had chosen the perfect foil— someone whose sympathies would lie with the Constellation, but who was nevertheless perfectly honorable, and who would consider any interference with Maijstral a breach of that honor.
“We’ll pick up the General!” Tartaglia was saying. “We’ll get Maijstral’s location out of him! And then— then—”
“He probably doesn’t have that information,” Amalia snapped. “Give Maijstral the credit for knowing his job. He’s obviously running this through cutouts, and he wouldn’t tell the cutouts his hiding place.” She stood up and gazed into Captain Tartaglia’s surprised eyes. “General Gerald has won any number of duels in the past, and I think if you sent your people after him, they’d come back damaged, you’d end up with a challenge you probably wouldn’t win, and the Empire would get the artifact.”
Tartaglia sneered, “Perhaps you think you should be running things.”
“Perhaps Amalia should,” Pietro said. His voice caught them both by surprise. “She seems to have a better idea of how to deal with this situation.”
“Damn that Maijstral!” Tartaglia beat the wall in fury. Amalia could hear the surprised reactions of his followers to the violence and noise. “Damn the man!”
“Damn him, indeed,” Amalia said. She was, as before, surprised at her coolness. “Damn him all you like. But stop threatening him, or we’ll lose it all.”
Tartaglia fell silent, red-faced and baffled. “Exactly,” Pietro said. “Let us deal with it from now on.”
He stepped across the room to link arms with Amalia. They had been through too much together for Tartaglia to throw it all away.
*
The sounds of the Eroica, perfectly rendered by Gregor’s Troxan speakers, boomed from Maijstral’s walls. A robot, bumbling about some task, gave a low whistle followed by a series of bleeps.
The last straw. Maijstral turned in his chair and shot the robot with his disruptor. The robot froze. Maijstral knew he would probably have to pay damages, but decided that hearing the Eroica unhindered was worth the cost. Maijstral called up Peleng City’s Personal Notices bulletin board, where General Gerald had posted Humanity Prime’s bid. A smile crossed his face. A hundred and fifty. That wasn’t bad, for a start. The Imperials hadn’t tendered an offer yet.
Both sides had, however, made threats— the codes transmitted by both General Gerald and Count Quik made that clear.
This required thinking about. He told the vid to turn off, and the unit answered him with bleeping noises and flashing lights. Maijstral suppressed a spasm of irritation.
Both factions promised violence unless he sold the artifact to their side. If worst came to worst, the Empire could probably guard Maijstral b
etter, but he preferred not to spend the rest of his life in hiding. And he didn’t want to spend it in the Empire, either.
He thought about the situation for a moment, particularly in reference to his thoughts last evening, when Roman had mentioned his own bias toward the Empire. Then Maijstral smiled and nodded to himself. This called for a conspiracy.
Roman, who never trusted others to select Maijstral’s food, was off on a provisioning errand. His absence provided a fine opportunity to inaugurate a small Romanless plot. Maijstral followed the crashing Eroica to Gregor’s door and knocked softly.
“Gregor? May I speak with you?”
“Sure boss. Come in.”
Gregor had taken one of the household robots apart and was examining its contents.
Two down! Maijstral thought cheerily.
Gregor put his tools on his desk and turned down the fourth movement with a sharp command directed at his audio deck.
Maijstral padded to a chair and coiled in it. “Feeling well?” he asked.
“Sure, boss.” There was the merest trace of a bruise on Gregor’s temple, but otherwise the semilife patch had done its work: reduced swelling, promoted healing, drawn up most of the bruise, and then expired in ultimate semilife bliss and dropped off.
“Gregor, both sides are making threats. I’m anticipating a certain level of danger here.”
Gregor shrugged. “What else is new?”
“I’m afraid that neither of our clients may be happy without possession of the artifact.”
“I’ll be careful. Don’t worry, boss, I want to keep my skin as well as anyone.”
“It’s not that. It’s that . . .” Maijstral feigned hesitation. “I would prefer our Imperial friends to suffer disappointment.”
Gregor grinned. He leaned forward. “So would I. How do we want to work it?”
There was a smile somewhere deep behind Maijstral’s lazy eyes. This was going to be easier than he expected. “It occurred to me that the artifact must have survived some serious fighting. It would be a great shame if the Empire, on obtaining the artifact, discovered that it had been hit by a disruptor bolt or two.”
“And sterilized?”
Maijstral raised his hands, palms-up. “They could hardly blame us.”
The Crown Jewels Page 18