House of Shards (7 page)

“Beg pardon, sir,” the man said, “but may I borrow your handkerchief for a moment? I have something in my eye.”

Fu George touched his breast pocket, felt the pearl still secure in the handkerchief, and hesitated. “My apologies, sir, I neglected to bring one.”

“Sorry to bother you. I think the thing may be out, anyway.” He stumbled away.

So, Paavo Kuusinen thought as he removed the hand from his eye. Fu George still has the pearl.

Interesting.

*

Maijstral could feel his deck of cards riding comfortably above his right hip in a pocket tailored just for them. The feeling was a pleasant one, far more pleasant than the gun under one arm, the knife up his sleeve, the other gun up the other sleeve. The cards were a reminder of pleasure; the hardware, of necessity.

A Cygnus approached. “Pardon me, robot,” Maijstral said. “Can you direct me to the main lounge?”

The robot's voice was unusually resonant. Troxan engineering, Maijstral assumed as he reached into his pocket and palmed the programming needle.

“Pardon me,” he said. “I think there is something on your carapace.”

“Hullo, Maijstral.” A familiar voice. “Nice of you to dust the robots.”

Maijstral almost lost his grip on the needle. He straightened and returned it to his pocket.

“Hello, Vanessa.”

Miss Runciter sniffed him, offered him three fingers. He gave her two in return. Her eyebrows rose.

“I thought we were old friends, Maijstral.”

“I don’t know what we are, Vanessa. I haven’t seen you in almost three years. You left a bit suddenly, as I recall.” He offered his arm, and then wondered how reluctant the offer was. “Going to dinner?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

She was wearing a jet gown covered with dark red brocade that was shot with silver thread. She wore emerald earrings, a gold chain on one wrist. She looked very well indeed. “I keep thinking, Maijstral,” she said, “we left some things unsaid.”

“I doubt, Vanessa, that any of them need saying now.”

She looked at him. “It’s that way, is it?”

Smoothly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“As you like.” Her voice became reflective. “I don’t like the way Laurence is playing you in the vids, Drake. Anaya was far smoother.”

“I don’t watch them.”

“Still?”

“Still.”

A brief silence, broken by Vanessa. “I lost a small fortune at markers this afternoon. I hope to win it back tonight.”

“I lost at tiles.”

“More than you could afford? Or is that still a problem?”

“It’s not a problem,” Maijstral said. “I’ve come into money recently. But it was more than I planned to lose.”

“You should only play cards. If you lose you can start to cheat.”

Maijstral smiled. “I could have cheated with the tiles. It’s not as easy, but it can be done.”

Her eyes were knowing. “But you wanted the Duchess to win. Do you think you can get closer to the Shard that way?”

“Perhaps,” he said, “I merely wanted to get closer to the Duchess.”

Vanessa was silent for a moment. Maijstral wondered at her peculiar vanity, that she was offended when men she had discarded were not faithful to her.

Ideograms announced the White Room. The orchestra was playing the same Snail concerto that Gregor had played in Maijstral’s suite.

“I see Fu George. I’ll see you later, Maijstral.”

“Your servant.”

They clasped hands, two fingers each. Maijstral repressed a shudder. He reflected that in a lifetime of dealing with thieves, fences, and other people little to be admired, Vanessa Runciter was the first and only sociopath he had ever met.

He watched her move away, then scanned the room and saw a man in a green coat walking toward him. He looked at the man in surprised recognition.

“Mr. Maijstral.”

“Mr. Kuu—”

“Kuusinen, sir.” Exchanging sniffs. “We met only briefly. I’m flattered you remember me.”

“I have been meaning to thank you, sir,” Maijstral said. “You were of some assistance, back on Peleng, to certain friends of mine.”

Kuusinen smiled pleasantly. “That, sir? I was simply on hand at the right time. Think nothing of it.”

“Nevertheless, sir, you are a keen observer.”

“Yes, I confess that,” Kuusinen said. “I have a ... facility. My eyes are always detecting little puzzles for my brain to solve.”

“That is a lucky talent.”

“There seem to be puzzles here,” Kuusinen said. “In this room.”

“Has your mind solved them?”

Kuusinen’s tone was light. “Possibly. We will know for certain if Pearl Woman fails to appear for dinner.”

Maijstral looked at the other man.

“Have you heard that she won’t?”

“No. But if she were not to appear, that would be a puzzle, would it not?”

Maijstral’s heavy-lidded eyes narrowed. “Yes,” he said softly. “It would.”

“Mr. Fu George seems very conscious of something in his breast pocket. A small something, I think. He keeps putting his hand there, then withdrawing it. Another mystery. Perhaps the two are connected.”

There was a tingling in Maijstral’s nerves. He was not certain whether this was a warning or the voice of opportunity. “Have you observed any other puzzles, Mr. Kuusinen?” he asked.

Kuusinen was ordering a drink from a robot. When he turned back to Maijstral, he smiled and said, “Something odd about the robots. I haven’t decided what, just yet.”

Maijstral’s tingling turned cold. “No doubt the solution will come to you, sir.”

“Or to my brain.”

“Your brain. Yes.” Maijstral’s eyes, as if on cue, scanned the room again, fastened on Kotani and his wife. “I hope you will excuse me, Mr. Kuusinen,” he said. “I see some old friends.”

“Certainly, Mr. Maijstral.”

“Your servant.”

“Your very obedient.”

Maijstral was very glad to get away. He felt Kuusinen’s abnormally observant eyes on him all the way across the room.

*

“What do you think of the duel between Drake Maijstral and Geoff Fu George?”

Zoot gazed fixedly into the silver loupe over Kyoko As-person's eye. “I don’t think of it at all, I’m afraid.”

“You don’t follow the burglar standings?”

“It is not my preferred sport.”

He was hoping, a bit wistfully, to lead the discussion toward portball; then he could lay down a smoke screen of chatter about portfires, snookerbacks, ridge plays, and the like. Kyoko Asperson refused to be distracted.

“Would you support the rumored action of the Constellation Practices Authority in trying to do away with Allowed Burglary altogether?”

“I am not familiar with that body's deliberations.”

The journalist frowned for a moment. Zoot, for lack of anything else to do, continued gazing into her loupe.

“You are the only Khosali member of the Human Diadem,” she said. Zoot readied himself: this was the prelude to the sorts of questions he got asked all the time. “Do you have any consciousness of being something of an experiment?”

“None,” he said. “I am conscious primarily of the honor.”

“Doesn’t it handicap you? Don’t you find your behavior constrained by your knowing that you are the only representative of your species in the Three Hundred?”

A palpable hit, but Zoot managed to avoid wincing. “Members of the Diadem excel at being themselves,” he said. “Being myself is all I ever intended to do.”

“An admirable goal,” Kyoko said. “If you can pull it off.”

*

The Marquess Kotani cast a sympathetic glance in Zoot's direction. “Asperson will have to work damn hard to make that interview interesting,” he said. “Zoot's share is slipping badly.”

“I confess
I
don’t find him interesting,” said the Marchioness.

Kotani touched his mustache, then lifted his chin. He gazed toward a nonexistent horizon and gave the Marchioness the benefit of his profile. “Men of action are so often dull in person, don’t you think?” he said. “It’s the ability to deal with things in a straightforward way. Admirable in its fashion, but hardly suitable for the Diadem.”

“Here's Drake Maijstral.” Her tilted eyes betrayed a glimmer of interest.

“My lord,” Maijstral said.

“Maijstral. Have you met my wife?”

“Honored, madam.” Maijstral offered a finger in the handclasp and got three in return. He covered his surprise and smiled at Kotani.

“Mr. Maijstral,” the Marchioness said. “We were just discussing men of action.”

“I hope I am not included in their number,” Maijstral said. “Being in essence a lazy man, I try to avoid action whenever possible.”

“There,” Kotani said. “My point exactly. And Maijstral’s not dull.”

“Surely not.” The Marchioness looked at him through tilted eyes. “I’m pleased to find you taller than I thought, from seeing you only in video. I don’t think Laurence's impersonation of you on vid does you justice, by the way.”

“Is it an impersonation? Or is it just Laurence? I’ve never seen him, so I can’t tell.”

“Maijstral looks shorter because he's so compact,” Kotani said. “He's very coordinated, moves well.” He smiled at Maijstral. “It’s a quality we share. People often think I appear shorter than my true height.”

The Marchioness looked at Maijstral, then at her husband. “I don’t think Maijstral’s like you at all, Kotani.”

“In that respect, dearest, he is.”

“Not at all.”

Kotani frowned minutely. “I think Asperson is heading this way. That woman is relentless.” He held out his arm. “Shall we stroll toward the dining room?”

“If you like.”

“Maijstral, we'll talk another time. When a certain person isn’t eavesdropping.”

“Sir. Madam.”

Maijstral’s heart sank. He was alone with Asperson, her next victim.

*

Zoot took three careful breaths and felt his tension begin to ebb. Asperson, apparently disappointed by his noncommittal answers, had gone in search of someone more obliging, or at any rate scandal-ridden or controversial.

Zoot reached in a pocket, took out a cigaret, licked the filter with his long, red tongue, and stuck the cigaret in his muzzle. He didn’t smoke often in public—he fancied himself an example to others, and didn’t want to encourage bad habits—but Asperson had him rattled.

Being himself, he had told Asperson, was all he ever intended to do. That was all the Diadem had ever asked of him. What he had never realized was that he would have to do it in public, in a grand, theatrical fashion, and to make it all seem natural and spontaneous and, worse,
interesting.

Back when Zoot was leading his team in the Pioneer Corps, he hadn’t had to worry about being interesting. The perils he faced were all the interest he, or anyone else, needed.

Zoot patted his pockets, looking for a cigaret lighter. He'd left it in his other jacket, the famous one. He stepped toward the nearest robot, intending to ask it for a light, but saw a tall female Khosalikh standing beneath the giant diamond, smoking a cigaret. He approached.

“Beg pardon, ma’am, but do you have a light?”

“Certainly.” Her voice was clipped in a somewhat old-fashioned way. She produced a lighter. “You are Zoot, are you not?”

“Yes, madam.”

“I am Lady Dosvidern.”

They sniffed one another. Lady Dosvidern smelled of soap and a strong perfume. There was no hand-clasping, either, ridiculous unsanitary habit that it was.

“I am pleased,” Lady Dosvidern said, “to see how you look in proper clothes.”

Zoot kept his mouth from dropping open only by a sheer act of will. He looked at her. “You are?” he asked.

*

“Were you surprised to find Geoff Fu George onstation?”

Maijstral gazed down at Kyoko Asperson's malevolent silver loupe. “On reflection,” he said, “no.”

“So you were surprised at first, then?”

Maijstral considered this. “No,” he said, “I don’t believe I was.”

“Fu George is rated in first place by the Imperial Sporting Commission. You are rated seventh—”

“Sixth. Marquess Hottinn has been slipping since his incarceration.”

“Sixth.” Her remaining eye was bright. “Then my question is even more relevant. With the two of you here onstation, do you anticipate a duel between the two of you?”

Maijstral gave a brief laugh. “I am here only for the view, and the company.”

“Fu George said the same thing. In almost the same words.”

Maijstral smiled thinly. “I don’t believe I’m surprised at that, either.”

“So you concede any contest to Fu George?”

“I am not in Fu George’s class, Miss Asperson. A contest, to be any fun at all, must be between equals.” He looked over the heads of the crowd, saw the back of Fu George’s unmistakable blond mane, and next to him, full-face, Vanessa Runciter. She was laughing and gesturing with a cigaret holder. Her emerald earrings winked at him across the room. His ears went back.

“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.