House of Shards (23 page)

Studies by curious anthropologists have shown that the Khosali sex drive is at least as strong as the human; yet it remains a fact that adultery among Khosali is fairly rare, and though many Khosali do not marry till late in life, they manage to remain fairly chaste during bachelorhood. Adultery and fornication are often accompanied by elaborate displays of anguish and torment that, in the words of Mad Julius (a human wit and debauchee), must be at least as much fun as the act itself.

(After making this remark poor Julius was banned from the City of Seven Bright Rings by an emperor who was himself a bit prickly on the subject of adultery, having been tormented throughout his life by a vain and perfectly chaste devotion to the wife of one of his ministers. Khosali emperors are only rarely known for appreciating jokes they suspect might be aimed at them.)

Human sexual attitudes and behaviors have continually proven a scandal (and a fascination) to the Khosali, and have contributed unfortunately to the frivolous stereotype with which the Khosali view humanity. If the humans can’t be serious about sex, the Khosali wonder, what
can
they be serious about?

The fact remains, however, that only rarely does a human caught in adultery have the decency to slaughter himself in rightful atonement. For a Khosalikh caught in the wrong bed, a last regretful note (to be published afterward), a pistol, and a final cry of “Long life to the Emperor!” are often the only proper recourse. Retreating to the cloister, devoting a fortune to charity, or spontaneous enlistment in the Emperor's service are also popular. The point is that atonement should be seen to happen. One is not permitted the social luxury of private regret.

Flouting conventional Khosali taste is the Human Diadem, whose affaires are often broadcast before their audience of billions. That many of these billions consist of fascinated Khosali is, no doubt, a manifestation of Khosali, as well as human, perversity.

A Khosali in love is often a Khosali in torment, anguished and tortured, with High Custom gazing balefully over one shoulder and the Grim Reaper over the other. This is only decent. One cannot help but contrast the unfortunate behavior of Maijstral, who not only enjoyed himself with another's spouse but declined to feel sorry afterward; and who, if caught, wouldn’t have slain himself, but would have done his best to avoid death altogether (or at least made Kotani do it for him); and who (conclusive evidence of his froward nature) had the unmitigated gall to sleep soundly upon returning to his own room. His conscience should at least have made him thrash the mattress a little.

No wonder humanity proved ungovernable. One only wonders how they govern themselves.

*

A Cygnus robot scuttled into the hallway, its dignity upset by a kick that almost knocked it off its repellers.

“Where is it?” Pearl Woman's tone mingled rage with incredulity. There were soft thuds as pillows and bedding hit the wall. Advert, her heart thumping, stepped from her dressing room and, with effort, gave Pearl Woman a soothing smile.

“Perhaps you left it in another room.”

“I remember very distinctly where I left it.” Pearl Woman's voice was edged with menace. She limped across the room—booting the robot had re-strained her leg muscle— and reached for one of her matched cutlasses. She drew it and the cutlass sliced air in accompaniment to her thoughts. “I can’t believe Fu George or Maijstral went after it again,” she said. Slice. “That would be so . . .” Slice. “Redundant.”

“Perhaps it was a different one, this time. I mean the other one, the one who didn’t take it last time. Possibly he did it to show up the other one. Whichever that was.”

The Pearl’s trademark was in one of Advert's inner pockets. She fancied she could feel it against her skin, a burning weight. Her excitement made her giggle.

Pearl Woman fixed her with a look. “What’s so funny?”

Advert laughed again. “I was just thinking. Maybe I could hire the other one to get it back. Like last time.”

The Pearl snarled. “I’ll do it myself, thank you.” The cutlass whirled over her head, cut air as it diced an imaginary enemy. “I’ll do it
my
way.” The cutlass flew through the air, sliced an innocent korni bloom above a rare matched Basil vase, and buried its point in the wall.

“But Pearl.” Advert, to her rising pleasure, was finding this deception easier by the minute. “You can’t leave the room, not without your trademark. Kyoko Asperson might notice it’s gone.”

A growl came from Pearl Woman's throat. The other cutlass snicked from the scabbard and flashed through the air like silver lightning. Pearl Woman lunged, then grimaced and clutched her thigh. The muscle had betrayed her again. She flung the cutlass across the room, and another innocent korni bud died. The second vase trembled but did not fall.

“Very well, Advert,” she growled. “You're right, I can’t risk it. Just go out and make yourself visible. Perhaps someone will approach you.”

Advert’s heart leaped. “You'll get your pearl back,” she said, “if I have anything to say about it.”

She turned and left the room, her feet so light she felt as if she were dancing.

*

Vanessa Runciter put her feet into her semilife boots and felt them roll up her ankles, calves, and thighs. She bent down, smoothed the dark proughskin with her hands, and asked the Cygnus for her matching jacket.

“Geoff,” she said, “shall we find breakfast? We haven’t tried Lebaron’s yet.”

Fu George appeared from the bathroom, still in his dressing gown. Gorged semilife patches surrounded his eyes. “I really don’t feel like appearing in public, Vanessa,” he said. “Let's have Lebaron’s bring our breakfast here.”

The robot began lacing Vanessa into her jacket. She reached for her cigaret holder—ebony with a matching proughskin band—and inserted a Silvertip. “If we're going to steal Maijstral’s treasure trove,” she said, “we shouldn’t do it on an empty stomach.”

Over the years Fu George had grown used to the gratuitous
we.
“There's no hurry. Maijstral won’t be rising early. I doubt he'll make an appearance before sixteen.”

Vanessa flicked her proughskin lighter. “Why sixteen, Geoff?”

“According to the station bulletin, that’s when he’s doing his magic act in the White Room.”

The light hesitated halfway to the Silvertip. “Ah,” she said.

“Quite so. His friends won’t miss his performance, so his loot probably won’t be guarded. That's when we do the job.” He peered at her from between the swollen patches. “I’d like you to be in the lounge for the show. Advance lookout, if you like. I’m sure Maijstral’s laid traps protecting his stash, so I’ll need both Chalice and Drexler.”

“Sixteen. So that's when we do the job?”

Nodding. “That’s when we do it.” That
we,
it appears, was catching.

*

Drake Maijstral, drowsing, rolled over and bunched the pillow under his head. His hand touched the alarmed box wherein he’d hidden the Eltdown Shard. Still half asleep, he smiled, and fell into a dream in which, a mysterious masked figure in black, he appeared before the Dalton Brothers as they rode into Coffeyville, and warned them away, telling them of a fabulous gem in the next town, ready for the picking.

*

“Miss Asperson. You're up early.”

“I’m an early riser, Miss Advert. And I have an interview in a few minutes.” Smiling. “You seem in high spirits. You're practically skipping down the hall.”

“I’m on a secret mission.”

“You don’t say.” The media globes performed a subtle change of position. “May I inquire as to its nature?”

“I doubt I can trust you with secrets.” Advert’s rings glittered as she wrung her hands in make-believe indecision.

“Besides, It’s not my secret. It’s Pearl Woman's.”

“Surely it can’t be all that bad.”

“But it is!” Glee bubbled in Advert like fine champagne.
Let
everyone think her scatterbrained—
she
knew better.

“Pearl Woman had her pearl stolen last night,” Advert said. “She doesn’t dare go out in public without it. I’m supposed to ransom it quietly and get it back before anyone notices.”

Kyoko gave her a surprised look. “If this is such a secret, Miss Advert, why are you telling me?”

“Well, really, Kyoko—why should Pearl
care?
It’s just an earring, after all.”

Advert was beginning to realize how much fun people like Geoff Fu George and Drake Maijstral must have had, what with their opportunities to masquerade so often as someone they weren’t .

“It’s her Diadem trademark,” Kyoko said. “She's never seen without it.”

“I’ve seen her without it. Most of her friends have, I imagine. I think It’s silly to invest so much meaning in a little trinket, don’t you? Just because the public expects it?” She smiled. “That sort of thing can become a trap, can’t it?”

“I suppose so.”

“A trap,” Advert repeated happily. A trap into which she'd just dropped Pearl Woman, and serve her right.

“One shouldn’t become so dependent on the material aspect of existence,” Advert said. “That's what Pearl Woman's always told me.”

“Thanks for the chat, Miss Advert. I wish you luck on your mission.”

“Thanks, Kyoko. I’m sure it’ll go all right.” Right as Robbler, she thought, and went skipping toward the White Room, wondering in whom else to confide.

*

Paavo Kuusinen had risen early. He hadn’t slept much, as his mind, like a tongue unable to leave off prodding the site of a missing tooth, had been unable to cease working on a problem. He ate breakfast in his room and then set off on a private quest of his own. When last observed, he thought, she'd gone this way.

It took him some time, but he knew approximately what he was looking for, and with persistence he found it. A hammock, a cache, a disabled alarm.

Good, he thought as he stepped toward his quarters. Now maybe he could stop worrying about it.

*

Mr. Sun had neither eaten nor slept. He felt completely numb: he had been unable to summon the energy even to leave his control room, the azure, murmuring scene of his martyrdom. Transfixed by the awesome spectacle of his own downfall, he was unable even to rouse himself to Kyoko Asperson's first knock. He opened his door to her second rap.

“Mr. Sun. I hope you are well this morning.” There was a brilliant smile on Kyoko Asperson's round face. Sun couldn’t stop staring at it. She looked, he thought, like a daffle gazing at a prough, preparing herself to spring and rend it limb from limb. He couldn’t remember having seen a more sinister expression in his life.

“Miss Asperson. Please come in.”

He retreated deeper into his whispering blue heaven. Silver globes pursued him, diving gaily into the room's corners, swooping irreverently over the console like a flock of frivolous birds. Kyoko, her horrible smile still brightening her features, stepped into the control room and perched on the edge of the console.

The room was very quiet. Sun had disconnected the alarms: nothing would interrupt this inquisition.

He had been judged and found wanting.

His time of atonement was nigh.

*

Diamond studs winked at collar and jacket front. “I hope you can amuse yourself while I nail down my agreement with the Baron.”

“I expect I’ll visit the White Room and watch Maijstral’s performance.”

A sniff. “Trickery and illusion. One can do anything with holograms these days.” Kotani's ears went back. “Still, dearest, one may attend such an event simply to be seen.”

“I don’t know, my love. From time to time, a little trickery can add spice to life.”

Kotani gave her a look. “You really are turning cryptic, dearest.”

“I assure you,” putting her arm through his, “that in future I’ll be very, very careful.”

*

Zoot, pulling his costume about him, stepped from hiding in Lady Dosvidern's bathroom only after the Cygnus had left. He didn’t want even the robot to know he’d spent the night here. Lady Dosvidern smiled at him from over a stack of waffles. “Honey?” she asked. “Or renbroke?”

“Renbroke. Thank you.” He took his pistol from the table, put it in its holster, and seated himself at the breakfast table. The tablecloth was dark red, setting off the silver jugs filled with coffee, tea, and hot rink. His splendid breakfast lay on Brightring tableware. (“By appt. to His Serenity,” etc.) He was eating as well as the Emperor, he reflected—or at least as well as the Emperor
had
eaten, before he'd lost the Rebellion, molted, and retired to his cold box. In which case, Zoot concluded, he was eating
better
than the Emperor—and in better company.

Lady Dosvidern reached across the table and took his hand. Adorably she licked honey from her nose. He cocked his ears forward and smiled at her. Sunshine filled his heart.

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

Her ears flickered in surprise. She stared at him. “Didn’t you know, dearest?”

“Know what?”

“I’m already married.” She licked a bit of waffle from her fork. “To Lord Qlp, in fact.”

Zoot gazed at her blankly.

“It’s not
much
of a marriage,” Lady Dosvidern said, offhand. “Lord Qlp only has a masculine title for sake of convenience, since it’s married to a female. I’m not sure what sex it is, truth to tell, and I doubt it realizes what marriage is, anyway. So I’m
almost
free. And the title comes with the arrangement, and a nice pension, so I don’t mind, really.”

Zoot reached for a cup of coffee, missed, tried again, and spilled half of it lifting the cup to his muzzle. Inter-species marriages were very rare, almost universally frowned upon, and generally based on motives either mercenary or ... the last, Zoot decided firmly, did not bear thinking about.

“I’m . . . surprised,” Zoot managed to say. Hot coffee burned his tongue.

“'Travelling with
one
Drawmiikh, believe me, is far better than being stuck on a planet absolutely
teeming
with the creatures.” She smiled. Her fingers caressed his arm. “Its lordship is usually very quiet, you know. It travels wherever I suggest. Perhaps you and I can arrange a mutual agenda.”

“Perhaps.” Zoot felt a bit feverish. He put down the coffee cup. Lady Dosvidern laughed.