House of Shards

by Walter Jon Williams

  Another display lit on Gregor’s machine. Two blinked off. “Two burrowers,” he reported, “still in their holes.”

  ———

  “It was awful. Pearl. Just awful.”

  Pearl Woman gazed at a rotating hologram of herself. She had one of Advert’s cloche hats pulled down over her ears, and the effect was hideous. She pulled the hat off and snarled.

  “She asked me about the Diadem.” Advert rattling on. “I don’t know what I said. I just babbled on. I know I’m going to embarrass everyone.”

  “I’ll have to plead illness for tonight,” Pearl Woman said. “It’s going to cause comment, but I’ll have to do it.”

  “She asked me about your duel with Etienne. I didn’t even know you then. But I did say I thought his eyeglass looked silly. And that the Diadem already had a duel that year, and that his timing lacked finesse.” Advert laughed. “And then I said that Nichole’s new play was unsuitable for her, that a Diadem role should have more grandeur. So maybe Asperson will quote me there. That would be lucky.”

  “I’ll need you to go to the jewelry shops on Red Level,” Pearl Woman said. “Find a substitute stone. It might fool them for a while. If I’m cornered, I can say the real one has been hidden, so it won’t be stolen.” She pounded a fist into her palm. “But then it would seem as if I were afraid of them.”

  “But I know I said something embarrassing about Rip and his friend—what’s her name? Something about the way she laughs all the time.”

  “Are you listening, Advert?”

  “Oh. Yes. I’m sorry. What did you want?”

  Pearl Woman’s eyes narrowed. “You should learn not to ask that sort of question, Advert. The answer might not be to your taste.”

  ———

  Another light glowed on Mr. Sun’s console. Sun’s nerves tautened. His blue heaven was beginning to smell of sweat and annoyance.

  Sun touched an ideogram. “My lord,” he said.

  “Mr. Sun.” Baron Silverside’s anger translated very well to hologram. He was a compact, broad-shouldered man, a former amateur wrestler. Burnsides flared on either side of his face, a pale brown halo. One hand was visible, stroking the whiskers.

  “What,” the Baron demanded, “is the meaning of all these alerts? Have your people gone mad?”

  Sun feigned surprise. “Sir?” he asked.

  “They are running about the halls carrying guns while my guests are walking to dinner. I have been receiving complaints.”

  Both hands were stroking the whiskers now. Sun calmed his nerves. He was still the spider in its lair, ready to pounce. There had been a few problems: nothing he could not deal with. “Beg pardon, your lordship,” Sun said. “We seem to have been receiving false alarms from the utility tunnels.”

  “You assured me,” the Baron said, “the security system was infallible. And that your guards would be inconspicuous.”

  Sun could feel sweat prickling his forehead. “Sir,” he said. “Begging your pardon, but I said almost . . .”

  The Baron froze him with a look. He was twisting little lovelocks around his forefingers. “Sun,” he said, “I will have no more of this. You have caught no burglars, and you have terrified my guests.”

  “My people are eager, of course,” Sun said. “We have been drilling for a very long time. But I shall order them to be more… relaxed.”

  “Kyoko Asperson is here, Sun,” the Baron said. “She would dearly love to report that I have a fool for head of security.” His eyes turned to fire. “Do not give her that opportunity, Sun.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “That’s all.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The ideogram for “may I be of assistance?” replaced the Baron’s features. Sun snarled and told his console to turn it off.

  Another alarm cried out. Sun’s finger hovered over the ideogram for “general announcement,” hesitated, then stabbed down.

  “Another alarm,” he said. “Watsons, let’s walk to this one, shall we?”

  ———

  “Ah. Zoot. We were wondering if you were indisposed.”

  “Marquess. Marchioness.”

  The Marchioness Kotani was a young, dark-haired woman with wide, tilted eyes, a full, pouting lower lip, and a distinctive expression that was quite sullen yet in some inexpressible way attractive. Before her marriage, she’d been Lady Janetha Gorman, the daughter of an old and quite penniless Imperialist family; she had earned a living as a model and made periodic, if unsuccessful, forays into acting. Now that she was married, she had given up both modeling and acting. Even Kotani knew better than to use her in one of his plays.

  “I expected to see you in your jacket,” she said as she sniffed Zoot’s ears. A choker of matched glowstones shone at her throat.

  “Not for dinner, I think,” Zoot said. He smiled, tongue lolling from his muzzle.

  “One would have thought the Diadem would have insisted,” said the Marchioness.

  “There are still a few things,” Zoot said stiffly, “in which I have a say.”

  “Bravo, Zoot,” said the Marquess. His foot tapped the white carpet in brief applause. “Don’t let ‘em push you around. I speak from experience.”

  “I’m still disappointed,” the Marchioness said. “You shall have to model the jacket for me.”

  Zoot inclined his head. “I should be most happy, milady.”

  Kotani cocked an eye in the direction of one of the entrances. “Here is Fu George. Take care with that necklace, my dear. I should hate to have to shoot the man over it. And I’d hate even more to have him shoot me.”

  Geoff Fu George gave everyone a bow, sniffs, two fingers. From Kotani and Zoot he received one finger apiece; from the Marchioness, three.

  “My compliments, my lady,” he said, concealing his surprise. “The glowstones suit your eyes perfectly.”

  “Thank you, sir. The compliment means all the more coming from someone of your undoubted expertise.”

  “Perhaps, sir,” said Zoot, “you might enlighten us as to the alarms that seem to have sent the security people into an uproar.”

  Fu George’s ears twitched in bafflement. “I am as surprised as you are, sir,” he said. “It’s nothing to do with me. Ah,” he said, addressing a Cygnus. “Bring me a cold rink, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Possibly it’s Maijstral tripping a few alarms,” Fu George said. His voice turned dubious. “But even he’s not quite that clumsy, surely.” He smiled at the Marchioness.

  “D’you know there’s a Drawmiikh onstation?” Kotani said. “A Drawmii lord, no less.”

  “I believe,” Zoot said, “that any Drawmii sufficiently adventurous to leave its planet of origin and participate in the life of the Empire is almost always ennobled. It’s a way of encouraging the others.”

  Kotani smiled. “Unsuccessful, I suppose.”

  “I believe so, Marquess. There are only a handful at any time.”

  The Marchioness turned her bored eyes on Zoot. “I wonder if we’ll see the creature at dinner.”

  “I hope not, dearest,” said Kotani. “It created quite a sensation in the Casino a few hours ago. Its lordship was quite noisy and, I am given to understand, it stank.”

  “The Drawmii have a very distinctive odor, or so I’m told,” Zoot said. “I gather it takes getting used to.”

  “Media alert,” Kotani said, seeing a pointed cap surrounded by floating silver balls. “I’ve been through it already; I beg your leave. Dearest,” offering his arm.

  “Milord.”

  Kyoko Asperson had changed for dinner: she wore baggy yellow trousers, a white shirt, a scarlet jacket, soft boots with gold tassels. If she weren’t so short she could have been used as a beacon.

  “Zoot. Mr. Fu George.” Zoot, who like all Khosali had a very rigid spine, had to bend an uncomfortable distance to sniff her ears.

  “I reckoned you would be wearing your jacket.”

  Zoot’s diaphragm pounded in a
nnoyance. How often was he going to have to go through this? “Madam,” he said, “surely not for dinner.”

  “Meals, in some restaurants,” said Fu George, “may be considered unexplored territory. In that case, Zoot’s jacket would be perfectly appropriate.”

  Media globes rotated, pointed in Fu George’s direction. “I wonder,” Kyoko said, “if you were surprised to hear that Drake Maijstral would be here?”

  Geoff Fu George smiled. “I don’t believe I’ve given it much thought.”

  “You’re both in the first rank of your profession.”

  Fu George’s head tipped; his eyes sparkled. The message was clear, though unvoiced: If you say so.

  “Do you anticipate a duel between the two of you?”

  A laugh. “We are speaking of a metaphorical duel, I take it?”

  “Whatever kind of duel you like.”

  The famous Fu George smile became a little forced. “I am here only for the view, and to see my friends. What Maijstral’s plans may be, I cannot say.”

  “So you concede any contest to Maijstral.”

  The smile was back, and genuine. “My dear Miss As-person,” he said, “I concede nothing at all.” He sniffed her. “Your servant.”

  Reasonably pleased with himself, Fu George moved away. A man in a green coat approached him. The man had a hand over one eye, and was blinking furiously with the other.

  “Beg pardon, sir,” the man said, “but may I borrow your handkerchief for a moment? I have something in my eye.”

  Fu George touched his breast pocket, felt the pearl still secure in the handkerchief, and hesitated. “My apologies, sir, I neglected to bring one.”

  “Sorry to bother you. I think the thing may be out, anyway.” He stumbled away.

  So, Paavo Kuusinen thought as he removed the hand from his eye. Fu George still has the pearl.

  Interesting.

  ———

  Maijstral could feel his deck of cards riding comfortably above his right hip in a pocket tailored just for them. The feeling was a pleasant one, far more pleasant than the gun under one arm, the knife up his sleeve, the other gun up the other sleeve. The cards were a reminder of pleasure; the hardware, of necessity.

  A Cygnus approached. “Pardon me, robot,” Maijstral said. “Can you direct me to the main lounge?”

  The robot’s voice was unusually resonant. Troxan engineering, Maijstral assumed as he reached into his pocket and palmed the programming needle.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “I think there is something on your carapace.”

  “Hullo, Maijstral.” A familiar voice. “Nice of you to dust the robots.”

  Maijstral almost lost his grip on the needle. He straightened and returned it to his pocket.

  “Hello, Vanessa.”

  Miss Runciter sniffed him, offered him three fingers. He gave her two in return. Her eyebrows rose.

  “I thought we were old friends, Maijstral.”

  “I confess that I don’t know what we are, Vanessa. I haven’t seen you in almost three years. You left a bit suddenly, as I recall.” He offered his arm, and then wondered how reluctant the offer was. “Going to dinner?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  She was wearing a jet gown covered with dark red brocade that was shot with silver thread. She wore emerald earrings, a gold chain on one wrist. She looked very well indeed. “I keep thinking, Maijstral,” she said, “we left some things unsaid.”

  “I doubt, Vanessa, that any of them need saying now.”

  She looked at him. “It’s that way, is it?”

  Smoothly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “As you like.” Her voice became reflective. “I don’t like the way Laurence is playing you in the vids, Drake. Anaya was far smoother.”

  “I don’t watch them.”

  “Still?”

  “Still.”

  A brief silence, broken by Vanessa.”I lost a small fortune at markers this afternoon. I hope to win it back tonight.”

  “I lost at tiles.”

  “More than you could afford? Or is that still a problem?”

  “It’s not a problem,” Maijstral said. “I’ve come into money recently. But it was more than I planned to lose.”

  “You should only play cards. If you lose you can start to cheat.”

  Maijstral smiled. “I could have cheated with the tiles. It’s not as easy, but it can be done.”

  Her eyes were knowing. “But you wanted the Duchess to win. Do you think you can get closer to the Shard that way?”

  “Perhaps,” he said, “I merely wanted to get closer to the Duchess.”

  Vanessa was silent for a moment. Maijstral wondered at her peculiar vanity, that she was offended when men she had discarded were not faithful to her.

  Ideograms announced the White Room. The orchestra was playing the same Snail concerto that Gregor had played in Maijstral’s suite.

  “I see Fu George. I’ll see you later, Maijstral.”

  “Your servant.”

  They clasped hands, two fingers each. Maijstral repressed a shudder. He reflected that in a lifetime of dealing with thieves, fences, and other people little to be admired, Vanessa Runciter was the first and only sociopath he had ever met.

  He watched her move away, then scanned the room and saw a man in a green coat walking toward him. He looked at the man in surprised recognition.

  “Mr. Maijstral.”

  “Mr. Kuu—”

  “Kuusinen, sir.” Exchanging sniffs. “We met only briefly. I’m flattered you remember me.”

  “I have been meaning to thank you, sir,” Maijstral said. “You were of some assistance, back on Peleng, to certain friends of mine.”

  Kuusinen smiled pleasantly. “That, sir? I was simply on hand at the right time. Think nothing of it.”

  “Nevertheless, sir, you are a keen observer.”

  “Yes, I confess that,” Kuusinen said. “I have a… facility. My eyes are always detecting little puzzles for my brain to solve.”

  “That is a lucky talent.”

  “There seem to be puzzles here,” Kuusinen said. “In this room.”

  “Has your mind solved them?”

  Kuusinen’s tone was light. “Possibly. We will know for certain if Pearl Woman fails to appear for dinner.”

  Maijstral looked at the other man.

  “Have you heard that she won’t?”

  “No. But if she were not to appear, that would be a puzzle, would it not?”

  Maijstral’s heavy-lidded eyes narrowed. “Yes,” he said softly. “It would.”

  “Mr. Fu George seems very conscious of something in his breast pocket. A small something, I think. He keeps putting his hand there, then withdrawing it. Another mystery. Perhaps the two are connected.”

  There was a tingling in Maijstral’s nerves. He was not certain whether this was a warning or the voice of opportunity. “Have you observed any other puzzles, Mr. Kuusinen?” he asked.

  Kuusinen was ordering a drink from a robot. When he turned back to Maijstral, he smiled and said, “Something odd about the robots. I haven’t decided what, just yet.”

  Maijstral’s tingling turned cold. “No doubt the solution will come to you, sir.”

  “Or to my brain.”

  “Your brain. Yes.” Maijstral’s eyes, as if on cue, scanned the room again, fastened on Kotani and his wife. “I hope you will excuse me, Mr. Kuusinen,” he said. “I see some old friends.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Maijstral.”

  “Your servant.”

  “Your very obedient.”

  Maijstral was very glad to get away. He felt Kuusinen’s abnormally observant eyes on him all the way across the room.

  ———

  “What do you think of the duel between Drake Maijstral and Geoff Fu George?”

  Zoot gazed fixedly into the silver loupe over Kyoko As-person’s eye. “I don’t think of it at all, I’m afraid.”

  “You don’t follow the burglar standin
gs?”

  “It is not my preferred sport.”

  He was hoping, a bit wistfully, to lead the discussion toward portball; then he could lay down a smoke screen of chatter about portfires, snookerbacks, ridge plays, and the like. Kyoko Asperson refused to be distracted.

  “Would you support the rumored action of the Constellation Practices Authority in trying to do away with Allowed Burglary altogether?”

  “I am not familiar with that body’s deliberations.”

  The journalist frowned for a moment. Zoot, for lack of anything else to do, continued gazing into her loupe.

  “You are the only Khosali member of the Human Diadem,” she said. Zoot readied himself: this was the prelude to the sorts of questions he got asked all the time. “Do you have any consciousness of being something of an experiment?”

  “None,” he said. “I am conscious primarily of the honor.”

  “Doesn’t it handicap you? Don’t you find your behavior constrained by your knowing that you are the only representative of your species in the Three Hundred?”

  A palpable hit, but Zoot managed to avoid wincing. “Members of the Diadem excel at being themselves,” he said. “Being myself is all I ever intended to do from the start.”

  “An admirable goal,” Kyoko said. “If you can pull it off.”

  ———

  The Marquess Kotani cast a sympathetic glance in Zoot’s direction. “Asperson will have to work damn hard to make that interview interesting,” he said. “Zoot’s share is slipping badly.”

  “I confess I don’t find him interesting,” said the Marchioness.

  Kotani touched his mustache, then lifted his chin, gazing toward a nonexistent horizon and giving the Marchioness the benefit of his profile. “Men of action are so often dull in person, don’t you think?” he said. “It’s the ability to deal with things in a straightforward way. Admirable in its fashion, but hardly suitable for the Diadem.”

  “Here’s Drake Maijstral.” Her tilted eyes betrayed a glimmer of interest.

  “My lord.”

  “Maijstral. Have you met my wife?”

  “Honored, madam.” Maijstral offered a finger in the handclasp and got three in return. He covered his surprise and smiled at Kotani.

  “Mr. Maijstral,” the Marchioness said. “We were just discussing men of action.”