The Crown Jewels
Walter Jon Williams
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
eISBN: 978-1-62579-162-7
Copyright © 1987, 2011 by Walter Jon Williams.
Cover photo by: Gaetan Leprince
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
Electronic version by Baen Books
Originally published in 1987
To John and Beth. And about time, too!
Special thanks to Kathleen Hedges for her help in preparing this manuscript
“No crime is vulgar, but all vulgarity is crime.”
Oscar Wilde
CHAPTER ONE
Drake Maijstral walked on soft leather buskins down the center of the Peleng City ballroom and never made a noise. He was light-footed by trade.
Above him, ideographs for “long life” and “welcome, travelers” floated below the high ceiling. The glowing holos lit the room more brightly than usual, mainly to provide sufficient light for the large number of media globes that also floated over the assembly.
Individuals, human and not, found themselves reacting to the unexpected brightness in accordance with their character and purpose. Some did not wish their business to be known, and these shrank into the shadows and mumbled with their faces turned to the wall. Those wanting to be seen promenaded beneath the hovering globes or floated on a-grav fields toward the ceiling in hopes a globe might condescend to interview them. Some promenaded in the light, but being self-conscious, blushed. Others tried their best to behave normally and ended up asking themselves what normal was, particularly under these conditions.
Maijstral did none of these things. He had been schooled in ways of maintaining assurance under unusual conditions, was used to a certain amount of media attention; and though his business was not entirely legitimate, he felt no urge to hide in corners and mumble.
The formal stance adopted by most of the guests featured the shoulders pulled back and hips tucked under a slightly curved but nevertheless rigid spine. The pose was natural to a Khosalikh but required training in a human. That Maijstral managed to add a supple grace to this posture was to his credit. He was only a few inches above the human average, but he looked taller. Also to his credit was his dress, which managed to make the most of the monochrome scheme demanded by High Custom— black being the mourning color of most of humanity, and white of the Khosali. He wore little jewelry save the silver pins used to hold back his long brown hair, and the large diamond on one finger. His eyes were a pleasant and unassuming green, and half-closed lids gave the impression of laziness. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties.
Maijstral approached a tall, elegant, somewhat older man, who walked the ballroom unaccompanied. The man had a glass stuck in one eye, and was one of three hundred humans who bore only a single name. His skin was black, his ruffles and boots scarlet.
“Etienne,” said Maijstral. “Maijstral. How delightful.”
Formally they sniffed each other’s ears. A waxed mustachio point jabbed Maijstral’s cheek. “Still in mourning, I see,” said Etienne.
“My father’s still dead,” said Maijstral.
They spoke in High Khosali. Most humans managed the strange intonation and nasal vowels easily enough, but it took training to make proper use of the shifting syntax wherein the structure of each sentence makes a comment on the previous sentence, paragraph, or idea, and in one difficult parsing relates the subject of the conversation to the state of the universe as a whole.
“I remember hearing the news about your father a year or so ago. There’s no hope of recovery, I assume?”
“I’m afraid not. He sends me frequent letters complaining about his condition.”
“The dead can be a burden, I’m sure. But mourning suits your figure well, Maijstral.”
“Thank you. You look elegant, as always. Though I’m not sure the eyeglass is a complete success. I don’t think you’re old enough for such a major affectation.”
Etienne lowered his voice. “It’s cosmetic, I’m afraid. Pearl Woman challenged me on Heath Minor and ran me through the eye. My boot slipped, damn it. There are still a few bruises around the implant.” He paused a moment, as if troubled. “You hadn’t heard?”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve just ended a long passage, and I haven’t caught up on the news.”
“Ah.” Etienne seemed comforted. “Take my arm and walk with me. The citizens seem a bit shy.”
Maijstral fell into step with the other man. Locals parted before them in a certain awe. “I am not surprised,” Maijstral said, “How long has it been since members of the Diadem visited here?”
“Forty standard. And from the looks of this burgh, I can see why.”
Maijstral was diplomatically silent. It is a credit to his teachers that he did not so much as glance upward to see if one of the media globes had overheard this remark. Etienne went on, his parsing indicating irritation. “It’s not so much the reception as the degree of eagerness, if you know what I mean. Too much reverence.”
“They will soon learn to relax in your company, I’m sure.”
“My dear Maijstral, I don’t want them to relax. I’m not supposed to be a neighbor, I’m supposed to be a god.”
Anyone, Maijstral reflected, who has got a rapier through the eye and then discovered that an old acquaintance hasn’t even heard about it might be forgiven a certain amount of peevishness, even inconsistent peevishness. Maijstral shrugged.
“In that case reverence is only your due,” he said. “Relish it, it is the coinage of godhood.” Spoken in the difficult parsing relating the subject matter to the condition of existence.
Etienne wasn’t so peeved he didn’t know when someone had scored a point, but his recovery was graceful. He bowed to a tall blond woman who was approaching them at a lazy walk. She was elegantly dressed in blue and silver, and looked younger than her thirty-two years.
“Ah. Nichole. Maijstral was just asking about you.”
Her scent was familiar and struck him like a silken glove. “My lady. I am ravished.” Maijstral brushed her knuckles with his lips before sniffing her ears. She was taller than Maijstral, and pale. She, like Etienne, bore only a forename. She smiled at Maijstral whitely.
“Drake. Such a joy to see you after all this time. Mourning looks well on you.” She spoke Human Standard.
“Thank you. And thanks again for the kind note on the death of my father.”
“How is he, by the way?”
The media globes were beginning to jostle one another above Nichole’s head. Etienne made his excuses, sniffed ears, and departed. Nichole took Maijstral’s arm. Her nearness to him conveyed old intimacies, suggested new hopes. Linked, they strolled the length of the ballroom. At least fifty men turned red and mentally assassinated Maijstral on the spot.
*
“Etienne seemed disturbed I hadn’t heard of his duel.”
“His share was going down, you know. This mandated an affaire de coeur with a protégée of Pearl Woman, an affaire d’honneur with the Pearl herself, and then the new eye. A silly business. The second duel among the Diadem in a twelvemonth. Pearl Woman was furious.”
“He told me his boot slipped.”
“Perhaps it did. One hopes it will cure him of martial ambition. Dueling is habit-forming, though luckily suicide is not.”
Even the Khosali, who had reintroduced to humanity the twin fashions of dueling and suicide, had mixed feelings about this part of High Custom. There is a Khosali saying, “Any fool can die in a duel.” (They have a similar saying about suicide.) T
he tone of Nichole’s comments (though spoken in Human Standard, which does not have the contextual modes of High Khosali) somehow managed to convey the essence of the Khosali expression without actually saying it.
Nuance, nuance. The globes, such as heard, loved it. “How is Roman? Is he well?”
Maijstral smiled. “Roman is Roman. He’ll be pleased you asked after him, but he will be secretly pleased.”
As they spoke they watched each other, listened, touched. Explored, in their minds, possibilities. Each in search of a conclusion, a resolution.
“He’s much the same, then. And yourself?”
Maijstral cocked his head while considering the question. “Well enough, I suppose.”
“You’re too young for ennui. That’s more my line.”
“Did that sound like ennui? I intended a becoming modesty.”
“You’re not a modest man, Drake. Don’t assume virtues you don’t possess.” Said lightly, but still with a touch of vinegar. She had changed in four years.
“I have to assume at least a few,” Maijstral said, “else I’ll have none at all.”
She put her free hand on his arm. “Now that’s more like the Drake Maijstral I remember.”
The second hand on his arm was an external sign of an inner process. She had come to a resolution regarding Maijstral, a resolution similar to that which he had reached himself some moments before. It was perhaps impolite, and certainly assumed much, for him to reach such a resolution so soon.
She looked at a group of Khosali standing a short distance away. “Are those Imperials snubbing us? They stand facing the wall.”
“That is Baron Sinn and his friends. He was always deep in conspiracy with my father. I suspect he is a spy. He probably regrets being here at all, considering the media attention this is getting.”
“What is there here worth spying on? A provincial planet, sufficiently far from the border to have little military value.”
“He must earn his wages somehow.”
Trumpets sounded from the a-grav orchestra suspended near the arched ceiling. People began sorting themselves out into couples and lines. “Ah,” said Maijstral, “the Pilgrimage to the Cinnamon Temple. Will you partner me?”‘
“Delighted, sir.”
The Pilgrimage was originally a sprightly dance called Going to Market, but eight hundred years before, during the reign of an elderly, arthritic Emperor, the pace had been slowed down and a more stately name applied. The change proved to have unexpected benefits. Because the dancers changed partners frequently, the slower tread gave everyone in the line the chance to sniff ears and exchange introductions and witticisms—and if you were short of witticisms, you could repeat the same one over and over without fear of being a bore.
Cinnamon Temple was, therefore, the perfect get-acquainted dance.
The trumpet call repeated, and the dance began. Maijstral advanced toward his partner and sniffed. “Will you come see me tomorrow?” Nichole asked.
“I’d be delighted,” he answered. She was circling him, stately, her arm crooked to hold an imaginary market basket.
“Can you come at sixteen? I have to witness an Elvis impersonation at eighteen, and you can be my escort.”
Maijstral did a caper. “I’ll dress formally, then.”
“God knows what it will be like.” Nichole sighed. “He probably won’t even be able to get ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ right.”
*
“I don’t like it, Pietro. Baron Sinn being here.”
Pietro was a young man, gangly, of medium height. His partner was a few years older, with dark, short-clipped hair and a serious mien. Pietro was the taller, but only by virtue of high-heeled boots.
“I don’t like it, either. Miss Jensen,” Pietro said. “Perhaps he intends to interfere in the auction.”
“Damn it. We can’t outbid him. If only Tartaglia were here. I sent him a message, but no reply as yet.”
“Oops. Sorry.”
“You shouldn’t dance in heels unless . . . Oh, hell. Later, Pietro.”
*
“Baron, a word.” Sinn was a Khosalikh; tall, with a pointed face and ebony skin beneath his dark fur. His interrogator was a human; short, fair, with intense blue eyes that glittered like diamond-bearing sand. She was in her fifties but looked ten years younger.
The Baron touched his warm nose to her cheek. “Countess.”
Her ears pricked downward. “There may be a complication. I see that Maijstral is here.”
“He has the contents of a planet to choose from, ma’am. I would not be concerned. The chances of our interests being similar are not great.”
“Perhaps the simplest way is just to ask.”
“I don’t wish to betray our intentions to such an uncertain character. We shall simply watch, and wait.”
Her mouth hung open, her tongue lolled. A Khosali smile. “Still. I haven’t seen him in years. Will you join me, Baron, at the bottom of the set?”
“With pleasure. Countess. Take my arm.”
*
“Drake Maijstral, sir.” Mutual sniffs.
“Lieutenant Navarre. I see we’re both in mourning.” He was a tall man, copper-skinned, about thirty, in uniform with a mourning cloak.
“I’m afraid I don’t recognize the uniform. A local unit?”
A dismissive laugh. “No. I’m from Pompey. I just inherited some property here, and I have to inspect it.”
“Substantial property, I hope.”
“Oh, no. Just a house and some land. A lot of bric-a-brac— my uncle had eccentric tastes, but he wasn’t rich. I’m selling it all.”
"I hope you don't think me impertinent for asking."
A shrug. “Not at all. What else is there to talk about, between strangers?”
*
“. . . Yes. My boot slipped, damn it.”
“It was such a beautiful eye. I think it was your eyes that made me fall in love with you, years ago when I was a child.”
“Er. Yes. To be sure.”
*
“Drake Maijstral, sir.”
“Pietro Quijano, sir. Say, are you the Drake Maijstral?”
“Ah . . .”
“Oh. I’m terribly sorry, sir. These are new shoes.”
“Think nothing of it, sir. The answer to your question, I’m afraid, is yes.”
A pause. “Sir? What question was that?”
*
“Hello again, Nichole. That was a lovely turn you just did.”
“I had to try something new. I’ve done this dance so many times. . . .”
“Who’s filled with ennui now?”
A wry laugh. “I just danced a measure with the most appalling woman. Countess Anastasia. You blanch, Drake.”
“She must have arrived late, else I would have seen her.” Maijstral’s hooded eyes could not entirety conceal his disquiet. “A spectre from my youth.”
“She must have found out that Baron Sinn was here. I don’t suppose she came to see you.”
“My father was terrified of her. and with reason. Truthfully, so was I.” He craned his head down the set. “Possibly she won’t notice me.”
“I wouldn’t count on it, Drake. I would guess that woman notices everything.”
*
“Hullo, Pietro.”
“I’m having a good time. Miss Jensen.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Here we are, involved in a serious intrigue, and with all these famous people around . . . it’s just like the Magic Planet of Adventure.”
“The what?”
“Didn’t you watch Ronnie Romper as a child? I did.”
“Of course. I’d forgotten.”
“Do you know who’s here. Miss Jensen? Drake Maijstral. The Drake Maijstral.”
“I’m sorry to be dense, Pietro, but I’m not sure who you mean.”
“Don’t you follow sports? The Khovenburg Glacier? The Inside Straight Affaire?”
“Ah. I remember now. Which one is
he?”
“Over there. Talking to the onion-head. I was thinking. . . . He might help us with our, uh, problem.”
“Oh. “A tone of surprise. “That’s a good idea, Pietro.” Two beats’ pause. “Is it really?”
*
“Yes. Bad luck. My boot slipped.”
*
“Drake Maijstral, sir.”
A high-pitched voice composed of glorious harmonies. “Count Quik.” The Count was a Troxan, less than four feet tall, with a large, round head composed of translucent layers of alternating brain tissue and cartilage. There were no external ears, as the structure of the head produced a resonance that had much the same function. Maijstral had to make approximations during the get-acquainted sniff.
“On unbusiness I am inning this system,” the Count explained. “Humanity is me interested. I big tour taking am. Am on Earth big finishing, acquaintance making.”
Maijstral wondered if teaching implants for Human Standard had never been developed for Troxans. “That sounds delightful,” he said. “I have never been to Earth.”
“You touring should. Home of Elvis and ancient Greeks.”
“It’s near the border, too, and I’m heading that way. I should make plans. Yes. Definitely.”
*
“Lieutenant Navarre, ma’am.”
“Nichole. The Pompey High Seas Scouts, I see.”
“You recognized my uniform? I’m astonished at your breadth of knowledge, ma’am. Have you been to Pompey?”
“Alas, no.” A smile. “But I’ve always liked a man in uniform.”
*
“Drake Maijstral, madam.”
“Amalia Jensen, sir. Are you the Maijstral of the Mirrorglass BellBox?”
“I’m afraid that was Geoff Fu George, madam.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Think nothing of it. The comparison flatters me.”
Briskly, “I was wondering, though . . . perhaps we could discuss business.”
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