The Crown Jewels

by Walter Jon Williams

  Tartaglia conceded. “If you insist.” He reflected that he’d still be able to make a terrific report to his superiors, and expect commendations and a promotion. The Strong Hand, he thought, would be nearer the top.

  Amalia produced an envelope and handed it to Tartaglia. “My resignation from Humanity Prime,” she said. “And Mr. Quijano’s.”

  “Hm. What I might have expected from the fainthearts.”

  “Fainthearted? We’re joining the Pioneer Corps, Captain. It’s what we should have done in the first place.”

  Tartaglia told himself he didn’t much care, and to concentrate instead on the commendations and promotions he could expect. For some reason he couldn’t get excited about either.

  He began giving orders for his troops to pack and head toward the shuttle.

  *

  The strains of “Farewell, Comrades, Farewell” floated over the terrace. Maijstral took a breath of cool air and contemplated his profits. Lord Giddon, his father’s creditor, would be satisfied, the diamond ring would be redeemed, there would be enough left for some long-term investments. Always assuming, of course, that no new Lord Giddons showed up.

  “Have you seen Gregor, Roman?”

  “I believe he made a friend. One of Countess Tank’s young ladies.”

  “That’s the last we’ll see of him tonight, I suppose.” Maijstral looked at his servant with cheerful regard. Everything had come out all right.

  “Roman, I think we have done very well this evening.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I suppose that for our ultimate success we should thank Mr. Kuu— Kuusinen, was it?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  “I’d like to thank him personally, but I suppose I should continue to stay out of it. There’s no reason he should connect me with this.”

  “None whatever, sir.”

  Maijstral turned at the sound of footsteps behind him. Etienne stepped out onto the terrace with a young lady on his arm. Gold winked around one eye. Maijstral bowed.

  “I see you have restored the glass, sir.”

  “I have, Maijstral. I think it suits me well.”

  “So it does.”

  Etienne turned to his lady. “The glass came about as a result of the Pearl Woman business. I suppose you’ve heard about it?”

  “Yes, sir. I must have watched the record a dozen times. My heart was in my throat the whole time. I was so afraid for you I thought I would die.”

  Etienne smiled. Maijstral stepped forward. “You will excuse us, I hope?”

  “Certainly, Maijstral. Wish me luck on Nana.”

  Maijstral sniffed Etienne’s cheek and received a poke from his starboard mustachio. Roman followed as he stepped back into the ballroom, seeing a few last dancers whirling to the last song, the rest slowly filing out. Maijstral observed Nichole walking arm-in-arm with Lieutenant Navarre and remembered to sigh.

  It was time for him to work on his broken heart.

  *

  “Who is it?” Amalia called from the kitchen, where she was supervising the new robot as it stowed away the guest dishes and crystal that Tartaglia’s rangers had used during their stay.

  Pietro asked the room to give a holoview of the person on the roof. He squinted at the brightness of the daytime image. “I don’t recognize her. A small Khosalikh in a Jefferson-Singh. Wearing a lot of jewelry.”

  “You don’t say!” said Amalia. Pietro was surprised at the delight in her voice. She stuck her head out of the kitchen and looked at the holo. She frowned as she studied the image, then nodded. “I’ll go meet her,” she decided.

  “Is it someone I should know?”

  “I’ll tell you later. It’s a long story.”

  Amalia stepped onto the a-grav and rose to the roof. She shaded her eyes in the bright morning sun. She couldn’t be entirely certain. “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Perhaps.” The Khosalikh also seemed uncertain. “Possibly you don’t recognize me. My name is Tvi.” Joy filled Amalia’s heart.

  “I recognize the voice perfectly well.”

  Tvi’s tongue lolled as Amalia gave her a hug. “I was uncertain of my reception.”

  “I think we can put politics aside for now. May I offer you first breakfast?”

  “Delighted, Miss Jensen.” She held up a paper bag. “I brought some leaf crumpets.”

  “After all we’ve been through, I should think you could call me Amalia.”

  *

  The smell of harness webbing and lubricant rose in General Gerald’s nostrils. Mild regret filled his mind. He had disassembled his battle armor and was now crating it for storage.

  Maijstral wouldn’t come now, he was certain. The glorious battle he had anticipated would never take place.

  He had no reason to feel disappointed, he thought. He had performed a singular service to the Constellation, and though his role would never become public, he could take satisfaction in a job well done, a long career crowned by one last glorious intrigue.

  It was just a pity there wasn’t more violence.

  *

  Pietro had just realized who, precisely, Tvi was. “This is one of your kidnappers?”

  “Yes.” Amalia grinned. “The nice one.”

  “The nice one!” Pietro’s hands turned to fists. “She held you hostage!”

  “Just doing my job, Mr. Quijano.” Tvi licked jam from her fingers. “Normally I disdain violence, but it so happened I needed the work.”

  “Needed the work.” Pietro repeated the words without seeming to grasp their meaning. He shook his head. “And now”—he pointed a breakfast fork at Tvi— “and now you propose to make Miss Jensen”— the fork swung toward Amalia— “Miss Jensen, your former victim, your agent for further crimes.”

  Tvi considered this summation. “That is correct, Mr. Quijano.”

  “And her former victim”— Amalia smiled—“proposes to accept.”

  “Amalia!”

  “Well, why not? Tvi is going to be an Allowed Burglar whether we say so or not. Since she’s going to steal, why not act as an agent in negotiating with the insurance companies and collect ten percent when she sells the stuff back? Particularly since I seem to have had some recent experience at these sorts of negotiations.”

  “Why not?” Pietro’s mind floundered. “Why not?” His fingers began to crumble a leaf crumpet. “As I recall, your former position was that Allowed Burglary was a shameful remnant of a decadent Imperial culture, and that theft ought not to be allowed under any circumstances, and punished with imprisonment when it occurred.”

  Amalia looked at Tvi. “Perhaps,” she said, “I found being held hostage a broadening experience. In any case, I’ll only be working for Tvi until she can steal some appropriate identification and leave Peleng. Besides,” she added sensibly, “it isn’t as if I’m making her steal.”

  “Sophistry, Amalia.”

  “Plus, if I’m to join the Pioneers I’ll have to have my epilepsy dealt with, and Tvi’s theft might as well pay for that as anything.”

  “I don’t suppose,” Pietro said, “the word of a fiancé stands for much in all of this.”

  Amalia put her hand on his. “I’m afraid not, love. My friendship with Tvi predates our latest, ah, arrangement.”

  Pietro sighed. “Friendship,” he said, resigned. “Arrangements.” He concluded there was little more to say on the subject. Domestic bliss, he thought, was largely a matter of compromise.

  Sensibly, he reached for another crumpet and ate it. It dissolved on his tongue like the taste of a new world.

  *

  Maijstral kissed Nichole’s hand. “This, I take it, is where my heart gets broken for good and all.”

  Nichole smiled. “I’m afraid so, Maijstral.” She patted the settee. “Come sit by me.”

  Maijstral glanced in the direction of her parlor as he sat. Morning light was flooding in the windows. “Lieutenant Navarre?” he asked.

  “Giving his first press conference
.”

  Maijstral raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t that flinging him to the ravens a little early, my lady?”

  She gave him a look. “He may as well get used to it. If he’s going to get frightened off, it’s best to know now rather than later.”

  He sighed. “That’s true. Paying court to a member of the Diadem is not for the faint of heart.”

  She looked at him and put her hand on his. “I didn’t aim that remark at you, Maijstral. I understood your decision entirely, much as I regretted your making it.”

  “I did not take offense.”

  There was a moment’s silence. “So what will you do, Drake, to assuage your broken heart?”

  There was a quiet glow deep within his lazy eyes.

  “Loot Peleng of everything I can carry off. It’s the least this planet can do considering the trouble I’ve had here. Some of my targets are days overdue.”

  “Sounds as if you’ll compensate for romantic disappointment well enough.”

  “I’ll manage, my lady.”

  She smiled, squeezed his hand. “Are you pleased, then, Drake? With your part in this?”

  “I cannot say I welcomed this, or am thankful I was involved. But it seems to have come out well enough, especially considering the potential for mayhem. I may even say that, for most of us anyway, I have achieved something of a happy ending.”

  Nichole’s laughter rang in the room. “I suppose you have! Tell me— was it the ending you intended?”

  His eyes were completely hidden. “Near enough, my lady,” he said.

  And with that she had to be content.

  the end

  BONUS

  Two master thieves . . .

  One obsessed cop . . .

  A very small island in space . . .

  And THE GREATEST TREASURE IN THE EMPIRE

  All to be found in the second Drake Maijstral adventure,

  House of Shards

  The following excerpt copyright 1988, 2011 by Walter Jon Williams.

  “It’s been a mixed year for you, hasn’t it, Maijstral?”

  The question drew him back to the interview. “How so?” he asked.

  “Professionally, you’ve done well. Though the videos haven’t yet been released, the Sporting Commission has advanced your rating. Your book on card manipulation has been well reviewed. Yet you’ve had a tragedy in the family, and your personal life has suffered a certain well-publicized disappointment.”

  She fell silent. Maijstral gazed at her with noncommittal green eyes. “Pardon me, Miss Asperson,” he said. “Was that a question?”

  A grim smile settled into her lips. “If you like, I’ll ask a proper one. Nichole left you for a Lieutenant Navarre, and he is now her personal manager. Have you any comment on her subsequent career?”

  “I wish Nichole every success,” said Maijstral. “She deserves it.”

  “Have you seen her new play?”

  “I have seen recordings. I think she's magnificent.”

  “That's very generous of you. Yet here on Silverside, you have encountered another old flame. With Miss Runciter here in the company of Fu George, and Nichole's success on everyone's lips, aren’t there a few too many sad reminders present?”

  “Nichole is a dear friend. And Miss Runciter is from a long time ago.”

  As he spoke he heard, from across the room, a woman's laugh. He looked up, saw Vanessa looking at him. Their eyes met, and she lifted her glass to him. He nodded to her, and reached a mental resolution.

  Damn Kuusinen’s eyes, he thought. And his other parts, too.

  He'd do it.

  *

  Trumpet calls rang from the giant diamond. A pair of leather-covered doors swung open. Couples began moving toward the dining room.

  “The Waltz twins, definitely,” Geoff Fu George said, wrapping Vanessa’s arm in his. “Have you seen what they're wearing?”

  “I’ve seen it,” Vanessa said. They were barely moving their lips, wary of lip-readers hiding behind invisible cameras.

  “They can’t possibly wear those heavy pieces at the ball later.”

  “They may go in the hotel safe.”

  “In that case, we'll take them off the robot.”

  “Not as many points that way.”

  Fu George shrugged. “Risks of the game, Vanessa.”

  “I suppose. Look. There's Roman.”

  “Yes.” Noncommittally.

  “I always liked him. Perhaps I should say hello.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “He never approved of me, I always thought. He probably thought me a nouveau riche adventuress.” She thought about this judgment for a brief moment. “He was perfectly right, of course.”

  “Oh.” (A brush . . .)

  “Ah.” (. . . not a thud.)

  Maijstral offered an excusatory smile. “My apologies. I must not have been looking where I was going.”

  Fu George looked at him and nodded. “Quite all right, Maijstral.” He nodded. “Miss Advert.”

  “Mr. Fu George. Miss Runciter.”

  Maijstral stepped back. “Pray go on ahead of us.”

  Fu George was pleased. “Thank you, Maijstral.”

  The trumpets were still calling. In his formal dinner clothes, Roman watched, imperturbable, from his corner of the room. The trumpets were not, after all, calling for him…

  …Baron Silverside spoke. “My lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” he said. “I am flattered by your reception. When I first conceived the idea of this resort, I knew that, if it were to be a success, every detail would have to be accounted for...”

  The Baron droned on, his burnsides flaring against the darkness. Behind him, fidgeting with her tableware, was his Baroness, a short, driven woman who Fu George knew was a middling-successful painter and owner of one of the most prestigious small collections in the Constellation. The Baroness was painfully shy, and almost never appeared in public—when seen, she usually wore an elaborate, pleated skirt of a type she'd introduced a decade ago, and which everyone else had long since ceased to wear. Roberta watched with apparent interest as the Baron wandered into minutiae concerning the process of selecting the absolutely right asteroid. Fu George watched Roberta and wondered why she had played tiles with Maijstral.

  “Milords, ladies, gentlemen, I shall digress no longer .”

  The pearl. Fu George smiled. His hand strayed to his breast pocket.

  “... may I present the raison d'etre of Silverside Station . . .”

  Fu George’s smile froze on his face. His hand plunged into his pocket. There was nothing there.

  “. . . one of Creation's own wonders . . .”

  Fu George remembered the brush with Maijstral, the man's uncommon civility. Vanessa perceived his agitation. She put a hand on his arm. “What's wrong, Geoff?”

  “Rathbon's Star and its companion!”

  Soundlessly, the steel doors irised open. The room was bathed in the light of one star devouring another.

  There was no applause. The company was too stricken by the awesome sight to make any noise at all.

  Fu George glared across the room at Maijstral. He was sitting next to Advert, and both were smiling as they tilted their heads back to watch Rathbon's Star being eaten.

  Maijstral, Fu George thought. This means war.