House of Shards

by Walter Jon Williams

  ———

  “Don’t alter your arrangements in any way,” Maijstral said. “Just keep me informed of what they are.”

  “At present,” said Roberta Altunin, the Duchess of Benn, “my arrangements consist of six very large Khosali with guns.”

  “Presumably they will not be on duty tomorrow night.”

  “No. They won’t,” She looked at him with a smile and clicked a pair of tiles together. “This is fun, you know.”

  Maijstral’s expression was opaque. “Sixteen, your grace,” he said, and placed a tile.

  Roberta’s smile broadened. “I was waiting for that.” She turned over tiles. “There’s thirty-two, and forty-eight, and sixty-four. And here’s the Pierrot, so that’s doubled to a hundred twenty-eight.”

  Maijstral surveyed the table and let out a long breath.

  “I’m afraid that’s consummation.” He turned over his remaining tiles. Resigned to his loss, he picked up a polychip from its rack, then touched to its smooth black surface a stylus that permanently rearranged its molecules. He wrote the amount, an ideogram that stood for “I.O.U.,” then pressed his thumbprint to the back.

  “Your grace,” he said, offering it.

  She accepted it. “I’m very good at things I care about,” she said. “One of them is winning.”

  “I am beginning to understand that.”

  “Another game?”

  Maijstral smiled thinly. “I think not, your grace. People in my profession shouldn’t use up their quota of luck in games of chance.”

  She laughed. “I suppose not. Good lord. What’s that smell?”

  People in the Casino began exclaiming and pointing. Maijstral leaned back in surprise at what he saw over Roberta’s right shoulder. Roberta turned around to observe the astonishing sight of Lord Qlp oozing toward her, accompanied by two Khosali, a tall, expressionless female with a translation stud and a small female in the uniform of station security. The smaller of the pair was craning her head, turning left and right. An expression of relief entered her face. “Robot!” she called, and waved a hand.

  Lord Qlp undulated to Roberta’s side and made a squelching noise. She tried not to shrink back from the appalling smell.

  “Your grace,” said the tall Khosalikh, “allow me to present Lord Qlp.” She was speaking High Khosali.

  “Your servant,” returned Roberta, denasal. She looked for ears to sniff and found none. She made an approximation and dipped her head twice. To inhale at all required a steely act of will that excited Maijstral’s admiration.

  The tall Khosalikh spoke. “I am Lady Dosvidern, Lord Qlp’s translator and companion.”

  “My lady.”

  Lord Qlp lifted its forward half and burbled briefly. Lady Dosvidern folded her hands and translated. “The Protocols are in accord. Movement is propitious. The time of delivery has arrived.”

  Roberta looked at Maijstral for help. His ears flicked back and forth, indicating his own bafflement. “How nice,” Roberta finally said.

  Lord Qlp lowered its end to the floor and made loud, moist noises. Roberta felt warm breath on her ankles and drew them back. The Khosalikh in the security uniform, thankfully standing away, was lighting a cigar with a relieved expression.

  Something thudded onto the carpet. “Oh,” said Roberta.

  Lord Qlp had just disgorged a hard, moist, glistening lump, about the size of two fists placed side-by-side.

  Roberta stared at it. Lord Qlp reared up again and made a loud bellowing noise which Lady Dosvidern declined to translate.

  There was a long pause. Maijstral observed a general movement toward the Casino’s exits. He longed to join the crowd, but knew it would seem impolite to leave Roberta in the lurch.

  It apparently occurred to Roberta that Lord Qlp was waiting for something. She looked up at it.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Without saying anything further, Lord Qlp turned and began to move toward the exit. It was followed by Lady Dosvidern and the security guard, puffing smoke.

  Roberta called to a robot. “Please have this… object… delivered to my room,” she said. The robot lifted the thing in its beams and moved toward an exit.

  Maijstral stood and offered an arm. “Perhaps,” he said, “we might look for some fresh air.”

  Roberta rose. “Thank you,” she said.

  “You handled that very well, your grace.”

  Roberta was surprised. “You think so? I just… reacted.”

  “Your instincts, if you don’t mind my saying so, were impeccable.”

  “Well,” she said, putting her arm through his, “let’s hope this sort of thing doesn’t go on all the rest of my stay.”

  ———

  The Cygnus delivered its burden into the reluctant hands of Roberta’s lady’s maid, and then began its return to the Casino.

  On the way, it suddenly stopped, turned toward the wall, and used its beams to manipulate several hidden catches. The wall swung open, revealing a passage. The robot entered.

  ———

  Alarms called urgently from Mr. Sun’s console. He scanned his board and noticed that both Maijstral and Geoff Fu George had left the areas covered by his monitors. A tight smile moved across Mr. Sun’s countenance. He pressed the ideogram for “general announcement.” It was time for the Almighty to get a little of His own back.

  “Strawberry Section, Access Tunnel Twelve.” His voice was triumphant. “Watsons,” he said, “the game’s afoot!”

  CHAPTER 2

  Khosali High Custom allows people, within certain well-defined limits, to steal for a living; and the societies of the Human Constellation, for lack of anything better after several thousand years of Khosali rule, follow High Custom. The Constellation Practices Authority exists for the purpose of altering High Custom in the image of redefined humanity, and the reason the Authority is necessary is that the Human Constellation lacks the self-generating regulatory apparatus possessed by Khosali custom.

  The Empire’s regulatory apparatus is, in fact, the Imperial family. Whatever is done by the Pendjalli, and in particular by the Pendjalli Emperor, exists de jure and exclusively within the context of High Custom. The Emperor himself can do no other: his behavior dictates High Custom. ‘

  The accepted reason for Allowed Burglary is that High Custom, besides reflecting the Khosali reverence for tradition, high-mindedness, and idealism, should also reflect another, more occult aspect of Khosali character, namely their (largely unacknowledged) admiration for individuals of low repute: thieves, charlatans, murderers, adulterers, self-slaughterers, drunks. Social xenologists have noted that High Custom not only allows these individuals to exist within the context of accepted society, but regulates their behavior, thus minimizing its negative effect upon society at large. Thus is a killer transformed into a duellist, a depressive into an idealistic suicide, an adulterer into an adventurer, a charlatan into an entertainer, and a burglar into a sportsman.

  The regrettable truth is that these acknowledged reasons for Allowed Burglary are either window dressing or post facto rationalization. The real reason for this one particular aspect of High Custom is that Differs XXIII, the last Mon-tiyy Emperor, was a kleptomaniac, driven by some inner compulsion to lift small, valuable objects from the apartments of his friends and ministers. Once this was observed, kleptomania and the Imperial ideal had to somehow be reconciled in the minds of his subjects: somehow Montiyy honor had to be preserved. The result was Allowed Burglary, permitted and regulated through the Imperial Sporting Commission under the benevolent sponsorship of His Imperial Majesty. Differs graciously withdrew his name from consideration in the rankings; and after knowledge of his thievery became semipublic (though never officially acknowledged), the negative effects of a breach of Imperial honor were buffered. In another victory for High Custom and the Imperial bureaucracy, an Imperial embarrassment had become, instead, a new fashion, and in time an industry.

  One wonders if Differs’ functionaries
could have anticipated the results of their little effort at damage control: burglars recording their crimes so as to sell the recordings to the media; thieves making endorsements of alarm systems, shoes, jewelry, and nightwear; the rise of theft as a popular entertainment comparable to portball or hand volleys.

  But that is a fact of existence: minor actions can have major consequences. An offhand remark at a party can end in two people facing each other with pistols, Imperial idio-syncracy can result in the expansion of bureaucracy and the rise of a minor industry, the abstraction of a bit of nacre dangling from a chain can change the lives of everyone involved. Just watch.

  “Mr. Maijstral.”

  “Mr. Dolfuss.”

  Dolfuss straightened, adjusted his appalling jacket. In spite of the jacket he now seemed dignified, poised, almost elegant. He even gave an impression of being thinner. “Thus far it’s been a delight, sir,” he said. “I’ve no idea when I’ve enjoyed myself more. Oh.” He reached into a pocket. “My room key,” he said. “The doorplate’s keyed to my prints, but I suppose you won’t want it to register your own.”

  “No. I rather suppose not.” Maijstral pocketed the key. “Thank you, sir.”

  “See you later, Mr. Maijstral.”

  “Mr. Dolfuss.”

  Maijstral walked to Dolfuss’s room, picked up the sample case that waited in the closet, then continued down the corridor to his own room. He declined to thumb-print open the lock—such things could be used by station security to keep track of people—and instead used his own key.

  Maijstral’s four-room suite was decorated in shades of brown. A holographic waterfall, silver and gold and bright diamond, cascaded down the center of the front room. Gre-gor Norman sat behind it, his feet on a small table, a hi-stick in his mouth. His hands beat a complex rhythm on his thighs. He straightened as Maijstral came in, looked at the case in Maijstral’s hand, and grinned.

  Maijstral put the case on the table. “I hope you won’t mind opening this,” he said.

  “Only too.” Meaning, only too pleased. Gregor touched the locks, then opened the case. He began unloading black boxes, alarm disrupters, dark suits, communication equipment, holographic projectors.

  Gregor told the room to play a Vivaldi woodwind concerto adapted for Khosali instruments. Though baroque music was a passion with him, and he listened to it whenever possible, the concerto now had another function: Gregor wanted a lot of background noise in case Maijstral wanted to talk business. Sometimes, he had discovered, people were crude enough to put listening devices in their rooms.

  Roman, Maijstral’s Khosali servant, appeared on silent feet. He was tall for a Khosali—had he been human, he would have been a giant. He was forty-six years old, and his family had served Maijstral’s for generations.

  Maijstral looked happily at Roman. Roman was the only constant in his inconstant life. Roman combined the benevolent functions of parent, cook, valet, and (when necessary) leg breaker. In short, Roman was home. Life without Roman was unthinkable.

  Roman took Maijstral’s guns and knife, then unlaced his jacket and trousers. High Custom insisted on clothing that was difficult of access: it demonstrated the need for servants, or at least for cleverly programmed robots. Roman took the jacket and placed it on a hanger. Maijstral flexed his arms, rotated them, then stripped off his empty shoulder holster, sat down on a chair, and held up his feet. Roman drew off his buskins and trousers.

  “We shall have to alter our schedule, gentlemen,” Maijstral said. He planted his feet on the floor, dug his toes into the carpet. “Tonight’s plan may proceed, but we should postpone our plans for tomorrow.”

  Gregor had strapped on goggles that allowed him to perceive energy field formations. He looked up at Maijstral with silver insect eyes. “Something has come up, sir?” The hi-stick bobbled in his mouth as he spoke.

  Maijstral paused, enjoying the suspense. “The Eltdown Shard is onstation,” he said. “Tomorrow night we’re going to steal it.”

  There was a moment of silence, filled only by the whisper of air through the vents.

  Roman folded Maijstral’s trousers, the creases sharp as a knife. He put the trousers on a hanger.

  “Very good, sir,” he said. Which was Roman all over.

  ———

  “With both of them in this small a place, what do you think of the possibility of a duel?”

  “Miss Asperson, I hope they blow their brains out.”

  Paavo Kuusinen, pursuing the scent of mystery, followed Geoff Fu George and Vanessa Runciter to their suite. He walked past their door, stepped down a side corridor, and paused a moment, frowning. His cane tapped in time to his thoughts.

  The period immediately following a theft by a registered burglar was the most dangerous for the thief: if he could hang onto his loot past midnight of the second day, it became his legal property; but in the interim he could be arrested for stealing. Furthermore, he had to keep the take in his possession, at his residence or on his person.

  What would Fu George do with the pearl? Kuusinen wondered. Keep it in his room, or on his body?

  A Cygnus Advanced Object, its black carapace reflecting each overhead spotlight as it glided down the hallway, lowered a covered tray before Fu George’s door, politely knocked with its force fields, then moved on down the hall. Kuusinen ducked down his side corridor and sensed, rather than saw, the robot cross the corridor behind him. He heard Fu George’s door open, then close.

  Kuusinen hesitated, tapping his cane on the carpet. The robot had gone into a dead-end corridor, and he wondered why. Then he turned and retraced his steps.

  He couldn’t help himself. He was in the grip of a compulsion.

  Paavo Kuusinen was the sort of man who was nagged at by irregularities. It wasn’t that he disapproved of them, precisely: he didn’t care whether or not things were irregular; he just wanted to know why. In this regard he was unlike, for example, Mr. Sun, who would in the same circumstances have done his best to make things regular again. But making discoveries was a compulsion for Kuusinen. Sometimes his compulsion aided him in his work; sometimes—as now— it was purely an interference.

  He looked around the corner. An access panel was open in the wall of the dead-end corridor. The robot had obviously gone inside on some errand. Perhaps the access tunnel connected to another corridor somewhere.

  Mystery solved. Kuusinen shrugged and began walking toward his own room. It was time to change for dinner.

  It wasn’t until he saw three uniformed security guards rushing up the corridor, each with hand on gun, that Kuusinen began to wonder.

  Robot, he thought. Guards. Secret doors in the walls. Fu George and a covered tray.

  Kuusinen sighed. He was beginning to get that nagging feeling again.

  ———

  The soft sounds of a Snail concerto hung suspended from soft aural bands, filling the room. Another yellow light blinked on one of Gregor’s boxes. He smirked. “Another Advanced Object in the walls,” he said. This was the third light blinking on the box, the third in a row of twelve.

  Roman was lacing Maijstral into a pair of trousers. The trousers were soft black; the laces were yellow. Roman’s fingers moved deftly.

  “I spoke briefly with Dolfuss,” Maijstral said. He spoke Khosali Standard. “He’s enjoying himself.”

  “I spent the voyage with him, in second class,” Roman said, “and he never broke character once.”

  “I only hope no one recognizes him.”

  “It’s been years since Fin de Siecle. He was a young man then; he’s changed a great deal since. And the play toured only in the Empire.”

  “Until it was banned.” Gregor, still bent over his equipment, spoke without looking up.

  “Dolfuss shouldn’t have been quite so ambiguous about the Emperor Principle. If the Empire had won the Rebellion the play might have been taken as constructive social criticism. But the Empire was touchy about the defeat, and the play merely rubbed salt in the wound.” Maijst
ral stretched a leg, tried a tentative dance step. “A little tight over the left hip, Roman,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.” Roman began to rethread.

  “Dolfuss has learned to make his points more subtly since, but still no one performs his work. A pity. I think this venture will enable him to mount his own production.”

  Maijstral looked up at the holographic waterfall. The liquid was unwaterlike, a quicksilver thing, falling like a slow, magic fantasy. “I wonder what Fu George is planning,” he said.

  Gregor, still wearing his goggles, seemed a particularly disreputable insect as he looked up. “He’ll have to go for the Shard, won’t he?” he said. “I mean, Ralph Adverse died for it years ago, and so did Sinn Junior, and that made it priceless. And no one’s stolen it for forty years. Fu George’s name would live forever if he got it.”

  “And survived,” said Roman.

  Maijstral watched insubstantial liquid tumbling over an insubstantial rim. “If it were me, I’d try for it,” he said.

  Gregor grinned. “It is you, boss.”

  Maijstral’s head tilted as he considered this. The waterfall spilled in slow accompaniment to the Snail. “So it is,” he decided. He tested his trousers again. “Good. Thank you, Roman.”

  Roman brought a jacket out. Maijstral put his arms in it. Roman began working with laces again.

  Maijstral reached into the jacket pocket, took out a deck of cards with his right hand. He fanned them one-handed, The deuce of crowns jumped from the fan to his left hand. Then the throne of bells. Duchess of hearts.

  “Vanessa Runciter is here,” he said.

  “So I understand, sir.”

  “It’s a small world.”

  “Could you raise your left arm, please? I’m having trouble fitting the holster.”

  Maijstral lifted his arm. Cards spilled upward from right hand to left, defying gravity.

  “I wonder,” he said, “if Zoot’s jacket would be worth a try?”

  “I think not, sir. Our own darksuits are doubtless more advanced.”

  Maijstral sighed. “I suppose you’re right. He’ll probably be wearing it, anyway.”