He scanned the pedestal very carefully and found nothing resembling a trap or alarm, and then gave a mental command to his darksuit that opened a collapsed ruck on his back. Time to finish the job and get out.
His gloved hand reached for the object, closed around it, and perceived its considerable weight. He picked it up and in one swift movement dumped it into his rucksack, which automatically closed around it. He began floating past the level of the balconies, toward the skylight. The object was a cold weight between his shoulders.
A door opened to an inner room. Maijstral’s heart crashed in his chest. His inertialess drift ceased immediately. His scanners deployed at the speed of thought.
A small domestic robot entered the room on muffled wheels. It wheeled to a rack of de-energized Rebellion-era weapons and deployed a feather duster.
Maijstral calmed his nerves. The robot didn’t even see him. Cloaked in his darksuit, he began floating gently toward the skylight again.
The robot finished knocking dust off the beam guns, then began roiling toward the niche. It paused and began to shriek in a hysterical feminine voice.
“Help! Help! We’ve been robbed!”
A masculine voice answered from within the house. “What’s that, Denise?”
“Intruders! I think he’s still here! Bring Felicity and your guns!”
A different female voice. “We’re coming, Denise! Any intruders are going to get what’s coming to them!”
This conversation would probably have gone on for some time— the people who wrote security programs for domestic robots really should have been doing soap opera scripts for the Diadem— but Maijstral silenced the robot with a quick blast from his disruptor, something he would have done more quickly had he not somehow missed the pistol on his first grab. A streaming sable cloud, Maijstral arrowed through the skylight and fled across the sward outside, followed by a bouncing trail of media globes.
His darksuit informed him that his black boxes, placed outside the perimeter, were doing a good job of repelling the mansion’s efforts to cry for the police. He passed through the cold-field, his suit neutralizing it automatically, and then fled to where Gregor waited in the flier, manning his own larger black box that was scanning all neighborhood communications wavelengths. Gregor looked up with a grin as Maijstral settled into the driver’s seat.
“What is that you’re always telling me about automatic guards being safer and more predictable?”
Maijstral punched the power button and the flier hissed into the night on its silent repellers. The artifact pressed against his back. Media globes trailed like firecrackers on a puppy dog’s tail.
The recordings of this commission, Maijstral decided, were decidedly not going to be sold to the broadcasters.
*
Maijstral’s character was formed, entirely by accident, when he was sixteen. His character was supposed to be formed by then; he was a senior classman at the Nnoivarl Academy, one of the best-regarded schools in the Empire, which promised to develop character or kill the boy trying. In common with his classmates, he had learned a lot about High Custom, languages, and the Khosali liberal arts, and damn-all about anything else. His acquisition couldn’t really be called character, but rather a surface veneer, handy in many situations, however much lumber it may be in others. Still, many get by with nothing but polish their entire lives, and if their character isn’t tested they’ll never know the difference.
Drake Maijstral’s particular bad luck was to get his character tested before he was ready for it. That’s usually the way with character tests— one never realizes what they are until they’re over, and by then it’s too late to prepare.
As a senior classman preparing for his exams he had been allowed a certain amount of liberty— he could leave the academy without permission, and travel in civilian rig. He took full advantage of his newfound freedom, particularly in the matter of the Honorable Zoe Enderby, the bright-eyed daughter of a local nobleman whose thirteen-year-old brother was at Nnoivarl. She was four years older than Maijstral and her character seemed fully formed. He had met her at a fencing match, and her brother was not on the fencing team. Later in his life this was the sort of contradiction that might make him pause. Not at sixteen.
It was midmorning. The place smelled of paint thinner— the Honorable Zoe was apprenticed to a local artist. Subdued yellow light, filtered by the tropical growth overhead, danced in mottled patterns on the windows. Maijstral was in one of the Honorable Zoe’s dressing gowns, frowning into a magazine and smoking a cigarette. (He was smoking that year.) Zoe was in another room, talking to her mother on the telephone.
“Darling. I’ve brought you something.”
Maijstral hadn’t heard him come in. It occurred to him that he should have locked the door behind him the night before, that he had, with his long hair and Zoe’s dressing gown, had been mistaken for her.
“I’m sorry we fought. Look.”
Poor boy, Maijstral thought. He stood, turned, and saw Marc Julian, the assistant captain of the fencing team, standing in his stiff, grey Nnoivarl uniform, a package in his long arms, Julian was also Count Hitti, but titles weren’t used in the school.
“Beg pardon, Julian,” Maijstral said. “I think it’s Zoe you wanted to speak to, wasn’t it?”
The polish was, as has been noted, already there. Maijstral left the astonished boy standing agape in the front hall and went in search of Zoe. He went into the bedroom, informed her of Julian’s arrival, and began practicing a new card trick. He got whatever distinction he possessed at the academy by doing magic stunts. By the time Zoe said good-bye to her mother and went to the hall, Julian was gone.
Zoe wanted to tell Maijstral about Julian over breakfast, but Maijstral allowed as how everything was clear enough, and she didn’t have to say anything if she didn’t feel like it. He really didn’t want to hear the story anyway. He stayed the morning, dressed, and went back to the academy to study for his philosophy exam.
A later Maijstral would have run and never looked back. But this young Maijstral was trying very hard to convince himself he was in love, and in any case he wanted to make the most of the few weeks before he had to return to Domier and the Human Constellation.
Maijstral was never positive, later, if Julian had help. Maijstral had been leaving his exam cubicle, walking with his friend Asad. Both of them were confident of having done well, were laughing— and suddenly Maijstral’s feet were tangled and he lurched sideways. Something shoved him between the shoulders and he tumbled into the proud back of the boy ahead of him.
“You struck me, Maijstral.” Marc Julian’s eyes gleamed with dull content beneath the tassle of his uniform cap.
“Sorry, Julian,” Maijstral said. “Someone gave me a—”
“You’ll not get away with that.” Coolly. “Zah will act for me.”
Maijstral straightened. “And Asad for me.” Maijstral was equally cool, and he was quick to note that Zah was right there, the captain of the fencing team, and had been behind Maijstral the whole time.
Maijstral felt Asad’s comradely hand on his shoulder. Far from being comforted, the touch startled him, serving to remind him that behind this polished ritual was a deadly reality toward which he was now committed. His reflexes made him turn away and light a cigarette as he walked, as if he had nothing else to do.
Duels were forbidden between students, but they happened anyway. By way of precaution, the practice was for upperclassmen to vet the encounters of the juniors, but if upperclassmen wanted to fight each other, there was no one to interfere. The worst that would happen was expulsion.
“Julian wouldn’t accept any explanation,” Asad said later, in Maijstral’s room. “He insists on the fight.”
Maijstral nodded and blew smoke. “Very well.”
“It will be pistols, of course. He’d cut you to ribbons if you fight with steel. I’m going to talk to Joseph Bob about the loan of his matched set of chuggers.”
“Fine.
Would you like some brandy, first?”
Asad shook his head. “No. Best go now. The fight will be tomorrow morning.”
Maijstral was startled. “So soon?”
Asad gave an uneasy laugh. “Best get it over with, eh? Don’t want it to interfere with your studying.”
The door closed behind Asad. Maijstral poured himself brandy, lit another cigarette, and went to his terminal. He accessed Julian’s pistol scores and a coolness brushed his nerves. For some reason he thought of one of the Honorable Zoe’s paintings, a formal piece with a dull-red sun and gleaming nickel-iron asteroids.
Asad was back in a few minutes. He gave an admiring laugh. “You’re a cool one, ain’t you? Studying for your exams like nothing’s happened.” Maijstral turned off the display.
“Hullo, Asad.”
“Joseph Bob is testing the pistols now,” Asad said. “We’ll be using the explosive ammunition. It’s fairer that way— Julian’s the better shot. If you follow my advice, you can take off an arm or leg, and if that happens he may not get his shot off. He’s better, so if he fires at all he’s likely to hit you.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” Pouring brandy.
“Pity we ain’t got access to psych dueling here. You could pick his mind apart. He’s got no defenses at all there.”
“I was just thinking that. Would you like a game of cards or something?”
“Damned cool, Maijstral.” Admiring. “Maybe a short game, then. None of your trick decks, though.”
They played Cheeseup for an hour. Asad won forty marks, then stood and said he had to leave. He had some studying to do for his history exam.
“You’ll take my marker, yes? My father’s damnably late with my allowance.” Over a year, truth be told. Lucky his credit was still good.
“I’ll take it. Thanks.”
“I’m sure my father will redeem it, if . . .” Best leave that unsaid. Asad smiled uneasily.
“I’ll pick you up at six-eighty, then?” He grasped Maijstral’s shoulder. “See you then.” Maijstral didn’t want Asad to leave. He didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts.
Maijstral heard the door close. For a long time he watched the brandy tremble in the decanter. There were only two fingers left, he noticed, and he decided he’d better not drink them.
He could protest all he liked, he decided. He could make any number of declarations about how stupid duels were and how ridiculous High Custom was and mat wouldn’t alter a thing. If he ran away, no one would speak to him.
Explosive bullets. Take off an arm or leg. Or blow his lungs out through his ribs.
He practiced card tricks. His fingers bungled every stunt.
That night he didn’t sleep, just lay sweating in his bed and stared at the ceiling. He ran through his entire supply of cigarettes. Two hours past midnight, he knew for certain that there was no way he was going to face Julian’s pistol. He began wondering what he was going to do about it.
*
Maijstral crouched silently by Joseph Bob’s door and looked at the access plate. He tried to breathe slowly and naturally. To his amazement he seemed cooler than when he’d been writing his exam.
He took one of his playing cards and inserted it between the door and jamb. He’d spent the last forty minutes trying to crack the dormitory’s computer security, and he thought he might have succeeded in unlocking the bolt by remote control. But he still had to move the bolt, and that might make noise.
The bolt clicked. Maijstral’s heart stopped. He waited for several moments, his ears straining. Nothing.
He swung the door in and heard Joseph Bob’s regular breathing. Maijstral crept on bare feet into the room. He was wearing night goggles that he’d borrowed from the gym— runners training at night used them— and he could see the pistol case sitting on Joseph Bob’s desk. Maijstral pushed the door almost shut, then stepped to the desk.
Joseph Bob rolled over and muttered something. Maijstral froze, his pulse crashing in his ears. Joseph Bob sighed and began to breathe heavily. Maijstral relaxed slightly. Clearly the Earthman’s sleep pattern had been disturbed, and Maijstral would have to be careful. Each motion taking eons, he reached out and opened the pistol case.
The antique chuggers lay on red velvet and were seen clearly in his enhanced-night goggles. Maijstral licked his lips and reached for the first one. The front sight was a bead poised atop a delicate piece of silver scrollwork. Maijstral covered the sight with a handkerchief, clamped a small pair of pliers on the sight, gave it a slight wrench to one side. He took off the cloth and inspected his work. There was no obvious tampering. He repeated the procedure with the other gun and closed the case.
He was surprised, now that he had time to think of it, how cool he was. It wasn’t until he left the room that he began to be afraid. What if Julian fired on instinct and didn’t use the sight? Was he that good? Maijstral might only have ruined his own chance.
He didn’t sleep at all that night. It took him both fingers of brandy to get him bathed and dressed for the occasion. He tried to tie his hair back, but his fingers wouldn’t let him. Asad, when he arrived, did it for him.
Maijstral was dressed entirety in dark colors— a bit of white could show as an aiming point. When he arrived at the dueling ground— a spot of turf behind the Chapel Garden— he saw that Julian had dressed similarly.
Maijstral said nothing at all. He jammed his chin down on his high collar so that his jaw wouldn’t tremble.
“Remember,” Asad said, “keep the left arm back and out of the way. Stand with your side toward him to narrow the target. Cover your upper body with your bent right arm. And shoot first if you can.” He squeezed Maijstral’s arm. “Good man.”
The thing went quickly. Zah called out “One, two, three,” and dropped a handkerchief. Julian’s pistol fired before Maijstral’s mind could entirely absorb the meaning of the falling white lace. Behind him, Maijstral heard a crack as the explosive bullet detonated against the garden wall.
Maijstral looked in surprise at the startled figure over his sight. Julian’s face was red; his jaw worked. Maijstral remembered the way Julian had looked when issuing the challenge, and murder entered Maijstral’s heart.
He tried very hard to determine how his front sight was off so that he could kill Julian, but he wasn’t very good with the weapon and his bullet blew a small crater in the stonework of the old chapel. Then Asad was pounding Maijstral on the back, and Julian was wiping blood off his chin where he’d bitten through his lower tip.
Maijstral reversed the pistol and handed it to Asad. “Give Joseph Bob my thanks,” he said. He tried to smile. “Would you like to see a new card trick? I learned one last night.”
“Damned cool,” Asad said, and rushed him away.
Relatively few people have such a firm grasp of their own nature as Maijstral on his seventeenth birthday. He was a coward and knew it. High Custom did not allow for cowards— thieves, yes, and confidence men— but Maijstral had a good idea of how to cope with it. He had to know High Custom inside and out; he had to be able to manipulate it to his own advantage. He had to glide smoothly through the High Custom world, frictionless, wary of traps. “Any fool can die in a duel.” That was the Khosali proverb. Maijstral was determined not to be that kind of fool.
CHAPTER FOUR
General Gerald was prepared to repel boarders. Crouched in battle armor in the comer of his living room, he smiled at his own strategy, his own cunning. Remote sensors in various parts of the house fed data through his armor and into his optical centers. He scanned them with chill, happy obsession. Maijstral might win— the General was willing to concede that possibility— but he would know he’d been in a fight. Maijstral was going to be in for the battle of his life.
He knew that no thief of Maijstral’s caliber could possibly resist the gauntlet the General had flung in his face. He had threatened Maijstral with death knowing that Maijstral couldn’t possibly pass up that kind of challenge. Hah, Maijstral would thi
nk, this old fogey thinks he can tell me what to do. And then Maijstral would decide to teach the old man a lesson and sneak into his house to steal something.
Little did Maijstral know that Gerald was ready for him. He had anticipated his enemy’s reaction and was going to spring an ambush.
It was General Gerald’s misfortune to have spent forty years as a warrior without a war. He had never once been in combat. For decades he had practiced for the inevitable Imperial resurgency, honed his skills, studied enemy tactics, waged endless campaigns for funding and battled the Empire only in simulation and exercises . . . and overnight, it seemed, General Gerald found himself facing retirement without the cowardly Imperial fleet having once shown up for the long-awaited Armageddon. It was more than a patriot could stand.
So now the General waited in his old armor, surrounded by weapons laid out in a semicircle, smiling as he scanned the remotes and felt the suit blowing cool air on his brow. He pictured Maijstral’s entry in his mind, the thief moving in through windows or doors or even through the chimney, unaware that the General had just spent a fortune on detection apparatus and confident that his darksuit would hide him from the avenging ex-marine crouched in the corner. General Gerald would open the conflict with a snare rifle, try to catch the thief in its coils. Maijstral’s darksuit could probably make itself frictionless and thus slip the bonds, after which the thief might well strike out with a chugger or a stunner, which the General’s armor would, of course, repel . . . and then the battle would broaden, higher and higher energies brought into play, disruptors and mappers and spitfires, and then maybe it would even come down to hand-to-hand at the end. General Gerald with his trusty cutlass against Maijstral and his stiletto.
The General pictured his victory, Maijstral prostrate, the General triumphant, the room flaming (what the hell— the house was insured). The first time Maijstral had ever been caught and apprehended, a first-class thief brought down by the General’s foresight and cunning.
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