Rock of Ages

by Walter Jon Williams

  Position. Though he preferred not to use his title, Maijstral’s theoretical social position was perfectly on a par with the Duchess of Benn’s, if not slightly better: he was descended from one of the oldest human families ennobled by the Imperium—which wasn’t much compared with an old Khosali title that might go back tens of thousands of years, but was pretty good as humans go.

  But, due to the misfortunes of his recent ancestors, the titles were empty of anything save honor and debt. Someone of the exalted rank of the Duke of Dornier should move effortlessly in the highest society (without, needless to say, having to steal), should grace government ministries with his talents, should endow foundations and pioneer planets—and, if the political situation should call for his employment as the Hereditary Captain-General of the Green Legion, he should occasionally go out and conquer something.

  But none of this was possible without money. It cost a lot to live in the highest reaches of society, and Maijstral had no sources of income not connected with burglary—even the Green Legion was mothballed, its existence memorialized only by a few ancient battle flags hung in a side chapel in the City of Seven Bright Rings. Thanks to a devoted attention to his profession and the fame this had brought him, Maijstral was only now beginning to enjoy the pleasant and civilized mode of life which should have been his from the beginning. But Allowed Burglary was a precarious existence at best, with arrest always a possibility, and though Maijstral’s income was now a comfortable one, it wasn’t anywhere near the state that would have permitted him to live as effortlessly and gloriously as the Duke of Dornier, in Roman’s estimation, ought.

  Marriage with the Duchess of Benn solved every single one of Maijstral’s problems. He would have access to as much money as anyone would desire. He would no longer have to earn a living as a burglar. And he would be able to live fully up to his position.

  It was, in Roman’s view, nothing less than Maijstral’s duty to marry the Duchess. Personalities and the complications of human character didn’t enter into it—as far as Roman could tell, they were unintelligible anyway, even to humans.

  Roman finished Maijstral’s side-laces and deftly pulled off Maijstral’s jacket and put it in the closet. Maijstral began working at the side-laces of his trousers.

  “I would like, on this auspicious occasion, to make a small presentation,” Roman said. He shifted his shoulders in his jacket. That itch between his shoulder blades was back.

  Maijstral’s ears, pricked back in surprise. He looked at the leather tube, then back to Roman.

  “Pray go ahead,” he said.

  Roman retrieved the tube, uncapped it, and drew forth a scroll. The scroll had been made of grookh hide of the finest quality, thinner than paper and more resilient than steel, suitable in fact for a Memorial to the Throne.

  But whereas a Memorial would be written with a jade- tipped pen in large, florid handwriting—emperors and their advisors have to read a lot of documents, and they appreciate large print—the writing on Roman’s scroll was quite literally, microscopic. There was a device in the lid of the scroll case that enabled one to read it.

  Roman felt his heart swelling with pride as he laid the scroll out on a table. “This is the culmination of years of research,” he said. “A kind of hobby of mine.”

  This was Roman’s Special Project. Many long hours in the composition, he hoped it would prove decisive in this business of marriage. Reminding of the awesome weight and majesty of his ancestors might inspire Maijstral to prove worthy of them.

  The itch burned in the center of Roman’s back. Inwardly he snarled in annoyance.

  Maijstral looked at the endless lines of tiny print in bewilderment. His trousers were unlaced and he had to hold them up with one hand. “There’s certainly a lot here,” he said.

  “I have taken the liberty of tracing the history of the Maijstral family,” Roman said.

  Maijstral’s ears cocked forward. “Really? My family?”

  “Indeed, sir. You will observe—”

  “Why not your own family?” Maijstral asked. Roman’s ears flicked in annoyance. The itch brought a growl to his lips. “My family’s history has already been very well documented, sir,” he said. Like most Khosali, his ancestry could be traced many thousands of years past the Khosali conquest of Earth . . . though, also like most Khosali, he was too polite to mention it.

  “If you will observe, sir,” Roman began, and deployed the reading mechanism, “I have made some rather interesting discoveries. Your ancestors are far more distinguished than either of us had any reason to suspect.”

  “Yes? That Crusader fellow you always talk about—you confirmed him?”

  “Jean Parisot de La Valette,” Roman said. “Indisputably. My library researches took me, last night, to Rome, where I had the honor of personally inspecting the records of the Knights of St. John. I found undisputable confirmation, which you will observe . . .” He placed the reader. “Here.”

  “Most interesting.” Maijstral manipulated the reader with one hand and hitched up his pants with the other. “The wrong side of the blanket, of course,” he noted. “Typical of my family, I suppose.”

  Roman’s diaphragm throbbed. He wished Maijstral wouldn’t disparage his ancestors in that fashion.

  One of Roman’s hands crept around behind his back and covertly began to scratch. No good—Khosali spines are somewhat less flexible than those of humans, and he didn’t come anywhere near the itch.

  “You will also observe Edmund Beaufort I, Earl and Marquess of Dorset,” Roman said. “His fourth son married a Matilda of Denmark, who was descended from Henry the Lion. You are thus a descendant not only of the Welfs, but Frederick Barbarossa, the Plantagenets, the Tudors, and all the ruling houses of Europe.”

  “You don’t say,” Maijstral murmured.

  “And on the Asian side,” scratching furiously, “there is Altan Khan and the Vietnamese emperor Gia-Long, not to mention—”

  Maijstral was peering at the top of the list. “Who’s this Wotan person?” he asked. “He seems to be right at the head of the list, but he doesn’t have any dates.”

  “Ah.” Roman’s diaphragm pulsed again, and he gave up the scratching. “Allow me to explain, sir.”

  *

  “Thank you, Roman,” Maijstral said. “It is a wonderful treasure.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “It must have taken you many hours. I’m impressed, as always, by your dedication.”

  Roman’s black fur rippled with pride. A few little tufts drifted toward the floor. “Thank you,” he said. “It was a privilege to work on such a project.”

  “My trousers,” Maijstral said, and handed over his pants. Roman hung them in the closet and retrieved Maijstral’s dressing gown. Maijstral shrugged into the gown and sealed it.

  “That will be all, Roman, I think,” Maijstral said.

  “Very good, sir. Shall I leave the genealogy on the table?”

  “Please do. I may wish to look at it.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Thank you very much for the gift,” Maijstral said.

  “It was entirely my pleasure, sir.”

  Roman bowed and left the room. Maijstral walked to the table and sighed as he looked at the scroll.

  As if he didn’t have enough to do with ancestors today, he thought. Not only was his father here to urge him to do the right thing, but now Roman had brought in the kinfolk all the way back to Wotan.

  Maijstral had really done his best to ignore the fact that he was heir to a dynasty, and now the whole business had dropped right on his head like a sandbag flung from Heaven.

  It wasn’t that he disliked the Duchess. It wasn’t that he disliked the thought of marriage. But somehow it was all too pat, all too . . . foreordained.

  Oh well, he thought glumly, maybe it was time to marry and settle down and produce more Maijstrals. Though why the universe needed more Maijstrals was beyond his capacity to explain.

  Idly, he glanced
at the genealogy—there was a complicated bit of business involving a Prince Boris of Gleb, who apparently married his aunt, and Maijstral couldn’t help but wonder what the family had said about that.

  He very carefully rolled up the scroll and stowed it away in its tube. There was all too much to think about without worrying about Prince Boris’s problems.

  He took a casual stroll about the room, making certain that neither Conchita Sparrow, nor Colonel-General Vandergilt was hiding in the closet or under the bed, and then climbed into bed and told the lights to extinguish themselves.

  The situation revolved slowly in his mind. He would probably not sleep tonight.

  There was a gentle knock at the door. Now what? Maijstral thought.

  He put on his dressing gown and approached the door. Wary force of habit made him keep well to one side as he said, “Who is it?”

  “Roberta. May I come in?”

  Maijstral opened the door and revealed Roberta silhouetted in the hall light. She wore a dressing gown and a somewhat furtive expression. She stepped in, and Maijstral closed the door behind her.

  “Well,” she said.

  Maijstral regarded her in the dim light. She was standing very close, and he could feel her body’s warmth.

  “Well,” he echoed.

  “I was just in my room thinking—” she began, and then stopped. “Look, Drake,” she finally said, “would you mind kissing me again?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  Maijstral put his arms around her and performed as requested. The kiss was a pleasantly lengthy one.

  “Oh good,” the Duchess murmured. “That helps.”

  “I am happy to oblige.”

  Her eyes, dark in the unlit room, looked up at his. “Do you remember earlier this evening,” she said, “when we were alone, and you asked if I could just be your mistress for a while?”

  Maijstral smiled. “I believe I recall that remark, yes.”

  “Well . . .” she drawled, and gave a little laugh. “Here’s your chance.”

  Maijstral’s ears flickered in surprise. “I see,” he said.

  “This one’s free, you know,” Roberta added. “It has nothing to do with whether you should to marry me or not.”

  “You are . . .” Maijstral searched for words, “remarkably direct, your grace.”

  “Roberta.”

  “Roberta.”

  “Bobbie, if you like,” she said. “But only Aunt Batty calls me that anymore.”

  “I think I prefer Roberta.”

  “So do I.”

  Maijstral contemplated the woman in his arms. Roberta kissed his chin.

  “Can we go to bed now?” she asked.

  “Certainly.”

  Well, Maijstral thought, no doubt Prince Boris and Altan Khan would approve.

  He drew her bedward. “I’ve had a very active life, you know,” she remarked. “Going to school, and racing, and running all the planets I’ve inherited . . .”

  “No doubt,” Maijstral murmured. He kissed the juncture between clavicle and neck, and Roberta shivered.

  “And of course I’ve been very thoroughly chaperoned,” she went on.

  “How frustrating.”

  “Yes. So what I’m trying to say is—Wow!” Maijstral’s researches had encountered a particularly sensitive, point. “What I’m trying to say,” she repeated, “is that I’m not very practiced at this.”

  “I will bear that in mind.”

  “I’m not practiced at all, in fact.”

  “Oh.” Maijstral halted in surprise and looked at Roberta.

  “I have a very good imagination,” she added. “I hope that will help to make up for any lack of genuine experience.”

  “No doubt,” Maijstral said, half to himself. And then, “Your grace, are you absolutely certain you want to do this?”

  “Oh good grief yes,” Roberta said quickly. “It’s about time, don’t you think?” She laughed. “If we’re to be married, it’ll make the long engagement go more quickly. And if we’re not, at least I’ll have had the man of my dreams.”

  Maijstral nodded. A glittering midnight gleam entered his lazy eyes.

  “Well,” he said finally, “I hope I prove worthy of that imagination of yours.”

  *

  Maijstral was awakened by an authoritative knock on his door. The situation—loud banging on door, girl next to him in the bed—awakened a long-standing reflex of many years’ duration. He made a smooth vault from the bed, snatched dressing gown and pistol, and was halfway to the window before he was brought up short by a bolt of pain that seized his nether regions in a grip of iron.

  Staggered, he leaned on a table for support and looked about him. Roberta was blinking at him lazily from her pillow, and the knocking continued.

  He took a step toward the door and the pain clutched him again. What, he pried to remember, had he and Roberta done last night?

  And then he realized that the pain probably had a lot more to do with his first horseback ride than anything he and Roberta had got up to in bed.

  “Just a moment,” Maijstral called, and put on his dressing gown. He found Roberta’s gown and gallantly held it out for her. She rose gracefully from bed and slipped her arms into the silk-lined sleeves.

  “This way,” Maijstral said, and turned to the closet. “Closet,” he said, “open.”

  The closet obliged. Maijstral escorted the Duchess inside, and observed that Conchita Sparrow’s command override, which she had left behind, was still in place, a fortunate accident in that it would allow the closet door to close with someone inside. He kissed Roberta, who looked up at him with amusement glittering in her eyes, and then he told the closet to close.

  The hammering on the door recommenced. Maijstral looked down at the gun in his hand and wondered how it had come there.

  Perhaps, however, it was best to be cautious.

  “Who is it?” he demanded.

  “Joseph Bob,” came the answer.

  There was a knock on the inner door that led to his sitting room, and Drexler stepped in, his ears cocked grimly forward. “Trouble, boss,” he said. “There’s a fleet of police fliers dropping on the lawn.”

  “Ah,” Maijstral said. “I see. Someone must have stolen something, somewhere, and the cops are trying to pin it on us.”

  “Roman’s making sure the rooms are clean,” Drexler said.

  The hammering started again. Maijstral hobbled toward the door and opened it. Joseph Bob, Arlette, and the Bubber were outside, each looking hastily dressed, and each wearing a grim expression.

  “What’s the problem?” Maijstral asked.

  “There’s an item missing,” Joseph Bob said. “And though we’re quite sure you have nothing to do with its disappearance . . .” Words, or perhaps tact, failed him, and he looked around for support.

  “We’re sure you will want to demonstrate your innocence,” Arlette filled in, “and won’t mind if we search your rooms.”

  Behind Maijstral the window darkened as a pair of police in a-grav harness took up position. Maijstral turned to the window and cocked an eyebrow.

  “Did you have to invite the cops?” he asked.

  Joseph Bob frowned. “I didn’t,” he said. “One of the servants must have called them.”

  “Well,” Maijstral said, “I’m sorry, but neither you nor they can search my rooms. I stand on my rights as a citizen of the Human Constellation. Good morning.”

  He shut the door in Joseph Bob’s surprised face, then hobbled toward a chair and sat down. Pain shot through his thighs.

  “Maijstral,” came a muffled voice. “Be reasonable, now. Open the blasted door.”

  “Citizens of the Human Constellation can be unreasonable if they want,” Maijstral said, and adjusted his position to. an attitude that only caused pain if he happened to move or breathe. He turned to Drexler. “I don’t suppose you can produce some coffee?” he asked.

  Drexler look at him in surprise. “I’ll see what I can
do.”

  Drexler headed for the sitting room. There was a pounding on the door, followed by Joseph Bob’s voice. “Maijstral!” he said. “Open the door! Damn it, I own this door!”

  “I’d advise you not to dent it, then,” Maijstral said.

  He could hear the tramp of boots out in the corridor, and then a muffled conversation. “We’re getting a warrant!” Joseph Bob called.

  “I hardly think you’ve got grounds,” Maijstral said. “Somebody stole something. You’ve got no reason to think it was me.”

  “We’ll find grounds,” promised another voice, and Maijstral was not surprised to recognize that of Colonel-General Vandergilt.

  “If you can get a warrant on these grounds,” Maijstral said, “it won’t stand up in court, and you know it.”

  Pure bluff of course, but he hoped it was true.

  Maijstral had dressed—a painful operation—moved to the sitting room, and finished half his coffee by the time the warrant arrived. Drexler and Roman had joined him. Roman wasn’t looking his best, with patches of grey skin where his fur had fallen out and a dangerous red-rimmed-look to his eyes.

  Those in the corridor, pushed the warrant under the door. Maijstral nodded to Roman, who picked the warrant up and looked at it. He looked at Maijstral and snarled.

  Maijstral was not accustomed to seeing his servant snarl—Roman was fairly mild-mannered, and broke legs and arms only with reluctance. It took Maijstral a half second or so to overcome his surprise, and then he shrugged. He’d done his best to preserve decorum.

  “May as well open the door,” he said.

  Joseph Bob and his family entered on a flood of uniformed constabulary. The Prince of Tejas looked apoplectic as he stalked toward Maijstral’s chair. The police deployed weapons and detectors. “Blast it, Maijstral!” he said.

  “You might have given me time for coffee,” Maijstral said. He put down his cup and managed to rise to his feet without more than a wince of pain crossing his features.

  There was a crash as a policewoman knocked over a small table and dropped a six-hundred-year-old Pendjalli vase to the floor.