“While you are agonizing, my lady, allow me to show you something.” Maijstral pulled the lace back from his wrist, reached into a pocket, and raised his hand to show two small cryogenic vials in his palm. He rotated his wrist, showed Nichole the back of his hand, then rotated his wrist again. There was only one vial in his hand. Nichole nodded approvingly.
“Very good,” she said. Maijstral made the motions again, and both vials appeared in his palm.
“Do you think, my lady,” he asked, “that you can possibly learn to do this by tonight?”
Nichole looked stem. “I am not participating in any conspiracy, Maijstral, not without knowing what it’s all about. Not even for you, Drake.”
He bowed to her while the vials appeared and vanished between his fingers. “Naturally you must know, my lady,” he said. “But I must caution you not to repeat anything I tell you to Lieutenant Navarre. If he found any of this out, he’d have to challenge half the people at the ball tonight.” He looked at her and smiled, anticipating her reaction, the vials dancing in his fingers. “Nothing less,” he said, “than the Fate of Civilization is at stake.”
*
The ideographs for “happy journey” and “sad leave taking” floated solemnly through the air of the ballroom, oblivious to the dancing media globes. The orchestra, on an a-grav balcony near the ceiling, played music suitable for strolling about and being seen. Below the orchestra two Elvis impersonators cut each other dead. Etienne stood in solemn scarlet, fingered the hilt of his rapier (a reminder of his duel), and yawned politely into the faces of his admirers. Nichole was dressed in a slightly old-fashioned black gown, featuring panniers, that revealed her glorious pale shoulders. She fended off questions about Drake Maijstral with practiced ease. Politicians and local celebrities baked in the strong light; the self-conscious sought alcoves and hovered by the punch bowl; others clustered in knots, their faces to the wall— an Imperialist knot at one end of the room, for example, or a Constellation knot at the other. Each knot frowned, scowled, shuffled its collective feet.
In between, another knot. Maijstral, Gregor, and Roman, facing outward, open to influence. Each smiling, each for reasons entirely his own.
*
“Yes. I don’t need the glass anymore, thank the Virtues. The bruising’s all gone.” Covering a yawn.
“I see you are armed this evening. Are you compelled to another encounter?’’
Scowling. “I’m afraid I can’t stay. I don’t talk about that sort of thing.”
*
“Drake.”
“Nichole.” He sniffed her gently, then kissed her wrist. Globes jostled for the best view. Nichole, smiling, spoke in an undertone. Her lips, to the complete frustration of video lip-readers, barely moved.
“I’ve asked the orchestra to play the Pilgrimage to the Cinnamon Temple for twice the usual number of measures. I trust that will suffice.”
“Thank you. madam. I believe it will suit very well.”
He turned to the others in his entourage. “Nichole, may I present my associate, Roman?”
“Happy to see you again, my dear.” For the benefit of the cameras. “We are old friends, of course.”
Resonant sniffs. “I am honored, madam. You are most lovely tonight.”
“Thank you, Roman. You look well.”
“Very kind of you to notice, madam.”
“Nichole,” said Maijstral, “this is my junior associate, Mr. Gregor Norman.”
“Mr. Norman.”
“Ah. Charmed. Madam.” Gregor, confronted far too suddenly by the appearance of a woman who personified years of adolescent yearning, lunged forth and seized Nichole’s hand in his own damp palm. Nichole, with an assured turn of her arm, carefully avoided the dislocation of her elbow. Her smile remained tranquil. She turned to Roman. Gregor blinked sweat from his eyes and silently cursed himself.
“I hope you will come see me, before I leave. Perhaps tomorrow morning.”
Roman’s tongue lolled. “I would be delighted, should Mr. Maijstral not be needing me.”
Maijstral gave an indulgent smile. He had never ceased to be a little bemused by the mutual attraction between Nichole and his servant. “Of course you may go, Roman,” he said. “That is, assuming that any of us are still alive by morning.”
*
“The Jensen woman is here.”
“I have seen her. Countess.”
“I don’t like this stratagem, Baron. It seems overly complicated to me.”
“Maijstral wished to continue his life here in the Constellation. The Empire has no preference either way.”
“But you trust him.”
“Yes and no.” A hesitation. “He knows what will happen if he disappoints us.”
“Yes.” The Countess’s voice growled with satisfaction. “That is true. If he is afraid, he is our servant. Nothing else matters.”
*
“The Imperials are here, Amalia.”
“Yes, Pietro.” She smiled. “Imperials doomed to disappointment. My favorite sort.”
“You seem in good spirits.”
“Why should I not be? We’ve won. And according to the broadcasts, the Imperial who died turned out to be the one I would have preferred dead.” A moment’s reflection. “Not that I would have wanted anyone dead, of course.”
“Of course. I understood what you meant.”
“And the one who was really . . . sort of nice ... is still alive.” She smiled, and took his hand. “Besides. We have our own plans, once this is over.”
*
“Lieutenant Navarre?”
“Yes, Mr.— I’m afraid my memory, sir . . . ?”
“Kuusinen. Your most obedient servant.”
“Of course. You must forgive me.”
“But certainly. The last few days must have been a strain.”
Navarre looked about uneasily. He was still glancing over his shoulder every so often, looking for threats— mad puppets waving magic wands, that sort of thing.
“Yes,” he said. “True.”
“I wonder if there has been any news of your attacker’s identity?”
“It appears he was a deserter from the Imperial Army. No one seems to have any idea how he got here, or what he thought he was doing. I suspect the creature must have been mad.”
“No doubt. There is no word on his accomplice?”
“Accomplice, sir?”
“If your deserter was one of the Rompers involved in Miss Jensen’s kidnapping, then he had a partner.”
Navarre glanced over his shoulder again. He saw Nichole and smiled, his blood warming. She smiled back. “I have wondered about that,” he said. “Of course, the security here is first-rate.”
“Of course.”
“Still. I’m glad I’m only on this planet for a short while.”
*
“Your obedience, gentlemens.”
“Count Quik. Your servant.”
“Miss Nicholes. Most pleasant is my beseeing you.”
“Thank you, my lord. If you will excuse me?”
“Certainlies.” Turning to Roman and Maijstral. “Should we be about things?”
Nichole reached into her pannier with her right hand, felt the touch of the cryogenic vial. She practiced the switch, once, twice. Nodded to Etienne in passing, and practiced the switch again. Her heart was beating a little faster than usual— she wondered if her nervousness showed.
This wasn’t the type of performance she was used to. Lives depended on this.
She cast a glance across the room to Lieutenant Navarre. He was clearly visible: tall, copper-skinned, cloaked in mourning. She had the feeling that he would do far better in this kind of intrigue than she; he was, after all, a man of action. He was speaking to a man in an Imperial-cut coat who looked slightly familiar. Navarre glanced over his shoulder, saw Nichole, and nodded. At once her heart lifted.
Nichole performed the switch, flawlessly, the best she’d ever done.
She returned Nava
rre’s smile and moved on, surrounded by the floating silver globes. General Gerald loomed above the throng, his massive chest crowded with medals. He looked sternly down at Maijstral and briskly sniffed his neck. Maijstral sniffed back, his ears pinned back, his manner just as crisp. The General turned to Gregor.
“Are we ready, youngster?” Gregor bowed, his lace cuffs swishing the floor.
“At your service. General.” General Gerald frowned. Try as he might to behave otherwise, there was something about Gregor that was definitely Non-U.
“Let’s get about it, then,” he growled.
*
Countess Anastasia stood motionless as a statue and watched Roman with eyes of ammonia ice. Baron Sinn’s tongue lolled with satisfaction. “Definitely of the Imperial line.”
Count Quik’s melodious voice piped up in the small room. “Satisfaction, then?”
“Yes, my lord.” Baron Sinn gave the vial to Roman, who drew a pocket disruptor.
“Please step back. My Lord Baron,” he said, and quickly sterilized the analyzer, killing anything of Nnis CVI that remained in the machine. He bowed to the Baron. “Your servant,” he said.
Baron Sinn hefted his small leather bag of cash. “Yours ever,” he said.
Roman made his congé, “We shall meet again, my lord, as pilgrims to the Cinnamon Temple.”
Roman and Count Quik took their leave. The Countess took the Baron’s arm. “It’s too complicated,” she said.
“We have little choice. Our other options could have endangered the Imperial Relic.”
“Nevertheless,” the Countess said, “I find it difficult to believe in this miraculous switch.”
“It seems well thought out.”
“Simplest plans,” the Countess said in her best High Khosali, “are easiest undertaken.”
“How true,” said the Baron piously, wrinkling his nose in distaste at this exchange of profundities. “But the best stew requires many ingredients.” He felt the Countess’s hand stiffen on his arm. Truly, he thought, he was learning how to deal with this woman.
*
“Paavo Kuusinen, madam. Your servant.”
“Mr. Kuusinen. I believe we have met?”
“Very kind of you to remember, madam.”
“Please walk by me. We shall converse.”
“Delighted, Miss Nichole.” She put her left arm through his right. He cleared his throat. “I wonder, madam, if I might have the honor of the Pilgrimage?”
“I’m afraid that dance is taken, Mr. Kuusinen. Perhaps the Crystal Leaf?”
“Enraptured, madam.” Beat. “Madam, may I inquire if you are a bit nervous? Is there a way I can assist you?”
Nichole stiffened. “Why do you ask, Mr. Kuusinen?”
“Your right hand, madam. If you’ll pardon the observation, you appear to be clutching something in your pannier.”
Nichole’s hand jerked from her pannier as if stung. She shot a look at Kuusinen, then calmed herself. “A gift, Mr. Kuusinen. It was presented to me just before my arrival, and I haven’t had time to open it. I am in some suspense; I must be showing it.”
“I understand, madam. I hope my impertinence is forgiven.”
She gave him another look. His face was entirely too composed for her liking. “Naturally, sir,” she said. And wondered.
*
“Mr. Maijstral?” The question came from a hovering media globe. It was a male Khosali voice.
“Sir?”
“May I inquire, with all delicacy, about your relationship with Miss Nichole?”
“We are old friends, sir.”
“Perhaps more than that. You have spent three nights in her company.”
“Have I?”
“Are you saying that you have not?”
“I suggest— ‘with all delicacy,’ to use your own idiom— that your questions imply far more than ever my answers shall.” He cocked an eye at Lieutenant Navarre. “But now, alas, I must abandon this banquet of delicacy. I see another old friend across the room.”
*
Captain Tartaglia, his rangers by his side, watched the vid with fury. What was the interviewer yammering about?
Why didn’t he ask him a meaningful question, such as where the hell was the Emperor’s jism? If Tartaglia had been there, you could bet Maijstral would have to answer a sharp question or two.
Gnawing his tips in anger, Tartaglia searched the background for sight of Amalia Jensen and Pietro and saw only the erect, massive figure of the traitor General Gerald marching toward the back of the room. The invitations to the ball had been in their name, and neither of them had been willing to surrender their invitations to him. Damn them for insubordination!
Tasting blood, Captain Tartaglia growled at the video. Someone would pay for this if Maijstral’s scheme was only a trick.
*
“Yes.” Amalia Jensen smiled. “Definitely the Imperial culture.”
“With your permission, madam.”
Gregor drew his disruptor and, taking careful aim, fired three shots into the analyzer. The machine fizzled and died. General Gerald, looming behind Gregor, gave a massive chuckle.
Smiles spread across the features of Pietro and Amalia. “Sterilized,” Pietro breathed. He hefted his bag of cash.
Gregor removed the vial from the machine. “The Imperials will receive this sterile vial. You, in return for your cash, will receive the remaining live culture. Until the dance starts you can keep me under observation to confirm that all will be as planned.”
“Fear not, sir,” Amalia said. “We shall.”
“Mr. Maijstral,” Gregor said, “will be on the side of the dance set away from any transfers. The vials won’t go near him.” He cleared his throat. “I suggested that. I thought you might like it better that way.”
Maijstral and Lieutenant Navarre walked arm-in-arm down the length of the ballroom. “Please don’t underestimate the pressures under which you will both live,” Maijstral said. “Being watched all the time. Endless security arrangements. Intrusive questions.”
Navarre cocked his ears in the direction of the hovering media globes. “I could get used to it,” he said. And managed, for once, to stifle the impulse to glance over his shoulder.
“I could not, Lieutenant, and I had a certain amount of practice before I ever met Nichole. But I wish you more success than I.”
“I thank you, sir. You have been more than generous, considering the circumstances.”
*
The orchestra fell silent, and the audience tapped their feet in appreciation. Trumpets rang out. Lines for the Cinnamon Temple began to form.
Maijstral took Nichole’s arm and sensed her nervousness. He squeezed her hand. “Courage, madam,” he said. “I have every confidence.”
“I’m afraid, Maijstral.”
“You will do very well. Your stage fright, I seem to remember, always ends as the orchestra calls the overture.’’
“The overture just ended, and I am still trembling.”
Green fires winked in Maijstral’s lazy eyes. “The dance begins, madam. And with the dance, the comedy. For that is what this is, nothing more. We should laugh at this circumstance, not feel reproach.” He kissed her hand and led her to her place.
*
“Count Quik. Your servant.”
"Sally Elrond, my lord. I saw you at the zoo yesterday."
“You seemed in familiarity.”
“I spend a lot of time there. I speak methanite.”
Pause. “Do you, indeed?”
*
“Paavo Kuusinen, madam. Will you do me the honor?”
“Amalia Jensen, sir. With pleasure.”
“Your very obedient.”
“Yours.”
Kuusinen made a caper. “Allow me to remark, madam, that you seem quite recovered in spirits after your misadventure.”
“Recovered, yes. Thank you.”
“It cannot have been enjoyable, first being held prisoner and then becoming the objec
t of public curiosity.”
“I am the sensation of the moment, Mr. Kuusinen. Other sensations will follow, and I will return to thankful obscurity.”
“You seem to be enjoying your brief encounter with celebrity.”
“I am enjoying myself, sir. But perhaps not for that reason,”
*
“Baron Sinn.”
“Honored, my lord. Althegn Wohl.”
“Mr. Wohl, I just recovered a bag belonging to Mr. Maijstral. Would you mind passing it along in his direction?”
“Ah. Oh. Certainly, my lord.”
“I am obliged to you, sir.”
*
“Pleased to see you, Etienne.”
“Your servant, Maijstral. As always.”
“You have not found Peleng to your taste. My condolences.”
Etienne jigged about dutifully, one hand restraining his sword from lashing the people to either side. “Thank you for your sympathy, Maijstral, Though you might keep some in reserve. I’m scheduled to do Nana after this.” He blinked. “Oh,” he said. “Sorry, Maijstral. I forgot you were born there.”
Maijstral cocked his head to one side and frowned. “You know,” he said, “perhaps the glass suits you after all.”
Etienne twirled one of his mustachios. “Do you really think so?”
*
“Your servant, Miss Jensen.”
“Would you mind doing me a small service, sir?”
“Not at all, madam.”
“I have found a bag belonging to Mr. Drake Maijstral. Would you mind passing it along the line toward him? I am certain he is anxious without it.”
*
“Count Quik.”
“Elvis Presley. Of Graceland.”
“Honored, sir. I hope seeing Memphis soon.”
*
Sergeant Tvi watched the dance as she lounged on her borrowed couch before the vid. The warm, buttery smell of leaf crumpets filled the room; she dusted yellow pigment from her finger as she ate. This life, so far, wasn’t bad at all. She was wearing stolen jewels, and later that night (and before the ball ended) would probably go out and harvest some more.
Her only current problem that she couldn’t get off the planet— she didn’t dare use her Imperial passport and she didn’t know anyone on planet who could get her some new identification. Her training, unfortunately, hadn’t encompassed forgery— as long as she was with the Secret Dragoons, Imperial consulates could give her perfectly authentic documents at any time.
The Crown Jewels Page 20
