“I am rapt attention, madam.”
“An antiquity. About to be sold at auction. I’m afraid I might be outbid.”
“I shall be happy to hear you. Please continue when next we share a measure.”
“Delighted.”
*
“Such a shame. I hope you’ve acquired a new pair to go with the new eye.”
*
“Maijstral, sir.”
“Paavo Kuusinen.” He was a slight, cool man, entering middle age.
“That coat is cut Empire-fashion. Are you with the Sinn party?”
“I travel alone, sir. On business.”
Maijstral could think of no reply to that, and the man’s manner discouraged intimacy. He danced on.
*
“Drake.”
“Nichole.”
“Do you know that four hundred lives are lost annually on Pompey, in accidents relating to the sea?”
“Ah. I see you have been talking to the man in uniform.”
“He is full of facts, Maijstral. How long has it been since I’ve actually heard a fact? Not a supposition, or a rumor, or a piece of gossip, but an actual clear-cut fact? Four hundred lives. A fact.”
“It is a fact that you are beautiful.”
“It is a fact with which I am distressingly familiar.”
*
“Pietro Quijano.”
“General Gerald. Marines. Retired.” The General was a broad-shouldered man, erect, his face set in an expression of permanent fury.
“Your servant, sir.”
“Ridiculous business, this dance. I’ve sniffed so many dirty necks tonight it’s scandalous. Yours could use a little wash, by the way.”
“Ah— I’ll attend to it straight away. I say, do you know who I just met? Drake Maijstral. You know, the Khovenburg Glacier. The Swiss Cheese Incident.”
“Maijstral? Here? Where?”
“There. In mourning.”
“Hah! An outrage. And here, in this company.”
“Oh. Sorry, sir.”
“You shouldn’t be wearing heels, young man. you don’t need the extra height.”
“Oh.” Beat. “Do you really think so?”
*
“Nichole.”
“Paavo Kuusinen. Your servant, ma’am.”
“Are you traveling from the Empire?”
“Yes, ma’am. Is it that obvious?”
“If you wish to remain anonymous, you should have that coat altered.”
“I am chagrined. I am a student of human nature, and I had hoped to blend in, the better simply to watch the rest of humanity at their games. My tailor assured me this was the latest style.”
“Our fashions no longer come from the Empire. There are some here who would count that a loss.”
*
“Drake Maijstral.”
“General Gerald. Marines. Retired. Come after anything of mine and I’ll kill you.”
Astonishment. A caper terminated at the halfway point. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I have no intention—”
“I don’t give a damn about your intentions. It’s results that I’m after. Move in my direction and I’ll kill you, or have it done. That’s fair warning.”
“Fair enough, sir.”
“I don’t need your judgments as to my fairness either, damn you. Go sniff that lady’s neck and get the hell out of my sight.”
*
“Miss Jensen, if all is as you say, my fee would be at least sixty. More if the job is difficult.”
“Do you doubt my information?”
“Your information may not be up to date.”
“Your price is . . . high, Maijstral.”
“You aren’t allowing me media rights. If you change your mind, the price will go down.”
“Sorry. I’m firm on that point.”
“Then I’m firm on my price. My apologies, miss.”
*
“I saw that fight of yours. Damn bad business.”
“Yes, General. Unfortunately my boot slipped.”
“Hah. You’re a liar, or perhaps an idiot. She dropped a foot on your instep, you lost your concentration, she caught your blade in forte and you were done for. A midshipman could have done better.”
“Sir!”
“Don’t play the outraged man of action with me. I may be past retirement, but I know better than to fall for tricks like that. I’d cut you to ribbons.”
*
“Maijstral.”
“Countess.” There was a distressing wail in his nerves, a tendency in his limbs to tremble and betray his resolution. It is not pleasant to discover that a childhood ogre still has teeth, still possesses the ability to quicken the pulse, tighten the diaphragm, weaken the knees.
Extreme formality, he hoped, would keep the ogre at bay. “Allow me to express my thanks for the kind note on my father’s death.”
“He was the worthy son of a great man. You could do no better than to emulate him.” She spoke in High Khosali, her pronunciation impeccable.
Maijstral drew his ears back into the High Custom expression of qualified agreement. (High Custom demands mobile ears. Pity Count Quik, deprived of such a valued means of expression.)
“Given the nature of the times,” he said, “that is impossible.” He answered in Khosali Standard, which he suspected might throw her off balance somewhat.
Her eyes glittered like chips of polished blue stone. “Given your nature, you mean.”
Maijstral shrugged. “Perhaps. If you like.”
“You are here on business connected with your . . . occupation, then?”
He smiled. “Of course not. Countess. I am here to visit the zoo and see the methanites.”
“The zoo.” Countess Anastasia’s face never seemed to change expression; she regarded him with an intensity he found not only frightening but somewhat embarrassing.
“Your father was a steady man," she said.
“He moved steadily into debt.”
“I could find you employment, if that’s what you want.”
“I prefer not to impose on old connections. Countess.” Longing for the measure to end.
Ears turned downward, the Khosali mark of disdain. “Pride. Pride and unsteadiness. It is not a fortunate combination.”
“It is not a fortunate time. Countess. To our mutual regret, I’m sure.”
The measure ended, and Maijstral faced the man on his right. His nerves were still singing. Honors, he thought, were about even. Not bad for a man forced to relive the tenors of childhood.
*
“Baron Sinn.”
“Ah. The spy.”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“General Gerald. Marines. Retired. You’re the Khosali spy.”
“You are mistaken, sir.” Coldly. Drawn up to his full height, which was not quite that of the General’s.
“You are a military officer, traveling under commercial cover, with two Khosali as military in appearance as yourself. If that ain’t a spy, I don’t know what is.”
“I do not believe, sir, we have anything further to say to one another.”
“You mistake me. I have plenty to say. But I’m willing to defer it, if you like.”
*
“Ah. The last measure. I trust the room is brimming with new acquaintances.”
Nichole looked at him with an amused smile. “You seem pleased with yourself, Drake. Did you conduct some piece of business?”
“I managed to hold off the awful Countess, and without being any more offensive than she.”
“Ah. True cause for rejoicing.” The dance ended and the set tapped their toes in a pattern of approval. (High Custom again. At least they didn’t have to rotate their ears.) Nichole put her arm in Maijstral’s and they began strolling through a dispersing, parti-colored cloud of couples.
“Etienne looks out of sorts,” she said. “I wonder why?”
“Perhaps he’s promised Countess Anastasia the next dance. May I offer you refreshment?”
/>
“Thank you.”
Media globes hovered nearer, their close-up lenses making soft whirs as they focused on the two faces. Somewhere in their controllers’ headquarters, expert lip-readers leaned closer to their video screens. Their concentration on this single inconsequential conversation caused them to miss three choice syllables from General Gerald, who was looking after Maijstral with an expression of disgust on his high-colored face.
Maijstral fetched Nichole a sorbet and took a glass of rink for himself. He glanced over the crowd again, seeing the Countess in intent conversation with Baron Sinn. Both of them looked abruptly in his direction, then away. He wondered whether he had it in him to face the Countess again tonight, decided not.
“I think I shall retire, Nichole,” he said. “I just arrived on Peleng this morning, and it was a long trip. I’ve missed siesta entirely. I came only to see you.”
If Nichole was piqued, she didn’t show it. In light of Maijstral’s last remark, she mentally reviewed the resolution she had made earlier, then confirmed it.
“I will see you, then, tomorrow morning,” she said. They exchanged sniffs.
“I’m delighted you’re here, Drake. Old friends always increase one’s pleasure in new scenery.”
“At your service, Nichole. As always.”
The orchestra began to tune again. Floating holograms announced the Pathfinder. An eager young man tottered on high heels toward Nichole and bowed.
“Pietro Quijano, miss. Perhaps you remember. May I have the honor of the dance?”
If Nichole felt dismay at this apparition, she concealed it well. She smiled. “But of course.” Media globes floated after them.
Maijstral finished his rink, abandoned by the media and feeling better for it. He strolled along the wall toward the exit, spoke briefly to Amalia Jensen, confirmed their earlier conversation, and promised he would be in touch. He strolled for the exit, and was about to walk through the cool hologram-patterned door when he was intercepted.
“Pardon me, sir.” A man in uniform, Maijstral recognized, and a bearer of facts.
“Lieutenant Navarre.”
“I wonder, sir, if I might beg your indulgence in the answering of . . . well, an insolent question.”
Maijstral regarded him with his lazy green eyes. “Speak on, sir.”
“The young lady you were just speaking to? An old friend, perhaps?”
“You mean Miss Jensen. We just met, on the Pilgrimage.”
Navarre seemed relieved. “There is no attachment, then?”
“None. sir. The field is clear.”
The man grinned. “Thank you, sir. Please forgive the impertinence.”
“Your servant.” Maijstral bowed and walked into the warm Peleng night. A media globe asked for an interview but was refused. He had all the publicity he needed.
CHAPTER TWO
If you have to be conquered by aliens from outer space, you could do worse than be conquered by the Khosali. The Khosali have conquered dozens of species and have had lots of practice at it, and this ensures that a minimum number of lives will be lost during the conquest and that the readjustment can begin right away.
There wasn’t much of a fight when the Khosali conquered Earth. Humanity had barely got off its little rock in space, and when a hundred thousand alien warships suddenly appeared around the planet, their missiles and beams trained on the inhabitants, only a few hundred humans, crewing military battle stations, chose to resist, and once these were disposed of, the sensible majority sensibly surrendered.
Most Khosali conquests work that way. They’ve encountered only a few alien races that weren’t as sensible as humanity, and these were, with regret, extinguished down to the last individual, and sincerely mourned afterward. The Khosali, admirable as they may be in other respects, do not see the humor in other species’ independence. The whole point of the Imperial System is universal allegiance to the Emperor, and without that everything goes down the drain.
The Khosali, as conquerors go, are fairly enlightened. They don’t interfere with local institutions or religions if they can help it; their taxation is, on the whole, light; they import tens of thousands of teachers and missionaries to elevate the subject race to a useful near-equality and an appreciation of High Custom. When a race is sufficiently advanced, members will begin appearing on the Imperial Council and in positions of importance throughout the Empire.
There will, of course, be a few changes. There are garrisons; the news gets censored— Khosali are stuffy, but not stupid. High Custom defines what the Khosali consider best about themselves: their formality, their elegance, their rigid idealism. The Khosali consider High Custom a universal, but the reality of High Custom is that it’s a test. If an alien can master the intricacies of High Custom, she proves herself someone the Khosali can talk to and deal with. That’s what the missionaries and teachers are really about: they’re fishers of men, dipping their hooks into the oceans of alien races, searching for those capable of standing as intermediaries between the Khosali and their own race, capable of communicating with both, interpreting one to the other.
Such lucky individuals often find themselves ennobled. Silly, really, but the Khosali insist. What’s an Imperial System without a hereditary aristocracy? Earth had gone through one convulsion after another trying to get rid of its own hereditary nobility, and now they were back, counts and barons and dukes and all the rest— and to make it even more ridiculous, most of them turned out to be aliens.
High Custom might not be a universal, but the behavior of aristocrats certainly is. Earth’s new aristocracy proved itself capable of grandness, enlightenment, inspired rule, the cultivation of worthwhile art and talent. Witness the achievements of Viscount Cheng or Solomon the Incorruptible. The aristocrats also proved capable of brutality, shortsightedness, dissipation, avarice, and gay folly— witness Robert the Butcher or Mad Julius. Humanity rejoiced or suffered under conditions created and maintained by its new nobility; much that was grand was contemplated, much that was ignoble was suffered. It was all quite predictable.
What was less predictable was the volatile mixture of human and Khosali. Each race bore traits the other considered admirable; each found the other frustrating.
Humanity, once it got to know them, found the Khosali high-minded but dull. The black-furred, long-nosed, square-shouldered conquerors revered the Emperor, practiced moderation, were fond of parades and military music, raised their offspring to be courteous, well-behaved, and productive citizens. They tended toward stuffiness and fussiness and were masters of niggling detail and Imperial regulation. There was nothing really objectionable in any of this— everyone has an uncle who behaves just that way, and he’s a fine enough fellow at heart. But you don’t invite your stuffy uncle to your good parties, now, do you? The Khosali in general do not find irreverence amusing; neither are they inclined to trust frivolity, irresponsibility, freakishness, overt creativity, or individuals born with the gift of laughter and the sense that the world is mad. They don’t trust people who whistle in public or make bawdy jokes or get drunk at sporting events. High-minded Khosali believe such individuals would be mightily improved by putting their shoulders to the wheel and taking the Emperor Principle seriously for a change.
Their sense of humanity, sad to say, is that they’re all like that. Frivolous and amusing, possibly, but not to be taken seriously. Their stereotype of humanity is unjust— there are of course zillions of individuals who would fulfill every Khosali idea of a responsible citizen, and a lot of them found their way into Imperial service and won commendations from dutiful and exacting superiors. Some were more fanatical Imperialists than most Khosali— look at the excesses of Robert the Butcher, who indiscriminately slaughtered hundreds of thousands of humans in the name of the Emperor, something no Khosali governor ever contemplated.
Our own stereotype is likewise incomplete. There are Khosali who behave with frivolity and irreverence, and a lot more who would be frivolous and irrevere
nt if they ever got the chance. In their secret souls, the Khosali dance drunkenly in the moonlight and sport with wet-muzzled damosels. They just don’t talk about it much.
For the Khosali are not without their own secret depravities. They have a large popular literature involving rebels and tricksters, and possess a sneaking admiration for those who can flout convention and actually get away with it.
They are kinder to their wayward cousins than the cousins probably deserve, and are no less vulnerable to charisma than humanity.
There is a place for waywardness in High Custom, and anyone who has ever seen a Khosalikh do an Elvis impersonation can scarcely disagree. There are places in High Custom for drunkards and charlatans and fools, provided that their behavior is suitably outrageous and performed with sufficient style. Style is largely the point— no one enjoys a drunkard who is not witty or a charlatan whose schemes do not entertain. There’s a lot more to High Custom than ear-sniffing and stately dances.
If you can do it with adequate style, the law will even let you steal for a living.
*
Maijstral left his flier on the lawn of his rented villa and walked through the sonic screen that served for a front door. On his way he unlaced his jacket as far as the design would permit— an unwritten rule of High Custom insisted that clothing should not allow itself to be put on or removed without the help of a servant. Most used robots these days, at least in the Human Constellation.
Maijstral, however, had a servant, a Khosalikh named Roman. Roman was large, even for a Khosalikh, and very strong. The annual rings around his muzzle showed his age to be forty-five. His ancestors had served Maijstral’s for fifteen generations, and Maijstral had inherited Roman from his father. He used Roman on errands of a physical and sometimes sinister nature, the character of which Roman often disapproved. Roman’s disapproval, like much else, was kept to himself. He prided himself on being a loyal and incorruptible family retainer, even though the family in question was sometimes the despair of him.
Roman appeared from the hallway and glided toward Maijstral, moving with a silence and stately ease that Maijstral admired for reasons both professional and aesthetic.
The Crown Jewels Page 2
