House of Shards

by Walter Jon Williams

  “I hope I am not included in their number,” Maijstral said. “Being in essence a lazy man, I try to avoid action whenever possible.”

  “There,” Kotani said. “My point exactly. And Maijstral’s not dull.”

  “Surely not.” The Marchioness looked at him through tilted eyes. “I’m pleased to find you taller than I thought, from seeing you only in video. I don’t think Laurence’s impersonation of you on vid does you justice, by the way.”

  “Is it an impersonation? Or is it just Laurence? I’ve never seen him, so I can’t tell.”

  “Maijstral looks shorter because he’s so compact,” Kotani said. “He’s very coordinated, moves well.” He smiled at Maijstral. “It’s a quality we share. People often think I appear shorter than my true height.”

  The Marchioness looked at Maijstral, then at her husband. “I don’t think Maijstral’s like you at all, Kotani.”

  “In that respect, dearest, he is.”

  “Not at all.”

  Kotani frowned minutely. “I think Asperson is heading this way. That woman is relentless.” He held out his arm. “Shall we stroll toward the dining room?”

  “If you like.”

  “Maijstral, we’ll talk another time. When a certain person isn’t eavesdropping.”

  “Sir. Madam.”

  Maijstral’s heart sank. He was alone with Asperson, her next victim.

  ———

  Zoot took three careful breaths and felt his tension begin to ebb. Asperson, apparently disappointed by his noncommittal answers, had gone in search of someone more obliging, or at any rate scandal-ridden or controversial.

  Zoot reached in a pocket, took out a cigaret, licked the filter with his long, red tongue, and stuck the cigaret in his muzzle. He didn’t smoke often in public—he fancied himself an example to others, and didn’t want to encourage bad habits—but Asperson had him rattled.

  Being himself, he had told Asperson, was all he ever intended to do. That was all the Diadem had ever asked of him. What he had never realized was that he would have to do it in public, in a grand, theatrical fashion, and to make it all seem natural and spontaneous and, worse, interesting.

  Back when Zoot was leading his team in the Pioneer Corps, he hadn’t had to worry about being interesting. The perils he faced were all the interest he, or anyone else, needed.

  Zoot patted his pockets, looking for a cigaret lighter. He’d left it in his other jacket, the famous one. He stepped toward the nearest robot, intending to ask it for a light, but saw a tall female Khosalikh standing beneath the giant diamond, smoking a cigaret. He approached.

  “Beg pardon, ma’am, but do you have a light?”

  “Certainly.” Her voice was clipped in a somewhat old-fashioned way. She produced a lighter. “You are Zoot, are you not?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “I am Lady Dosvidern.”

  They sniffed one another. Lady Dosvidern smelled of soap and a strong perfume. There was no hand-clasping, either, ridiculous unsanitary habit that it was.

  “I am pleased,” Lady Dosvidern said, “to see how you look in proper clothes.”

  Zoot kept his mouth from dropping open only by a sheer act of will. He looked at her. “You are?” he asked.

  “Were you surprised to find Geoff Fu George onstation?”

  Maijstral gazed down at Kyoko Asperson’s malevolent silver loupe. “On reflection,” he said, “no.”

  “So you were surprised at first, then?”

  Maijstral considered this. “No,” he said, “I don’t believe I was.”

  “Fu George is rated in first place by the Imperial Sporting Commission. You are rated seventh—”

  “Sixth. Marquess Hottinn has been slipping since his incarceration.”

  “Sixth.” Her remaining eye was bright. “Then my question is even more relevant. With the two of you here onstation, do you anticipate a duel between the two of you?”

  Maijstral gave a brief laugh. “I am here only for the view, and the company.”

  “Fu George said the same thing. In almost the same words.”

  Maijstral smiled thinly. “I don’t believe I’m surprised at that, either.”

  “So you concede any contest to Fu George.”

  “I am not in Fu George’s class, Miss Asperson. A contest, to be any fun at all, must be between equals.” He looked over the heads of the crowd, saw the back of Fu George’s unmistakable blond mane, and next to him, full-face, Vanessa Runciter. She was laughing and gesturing with a cigaret holder. Her emerald earrings winked at him across the room. His ears went back.

  “It’s been a mixed year for you, hasn’t it, Maijstral?”

  The question drew him back to the interview. “How so?” he asked.

  “Professionally, you’ve done well. Though the videos haven’t yet been released, the Sporting Commission has advanced your rating. Your book on card manipulation has been well reviewed. Yet you’ve had a tragedy in the family, and your personal life has suffered a certain well-publicized disappointment.”

  She fell silent. Maijstral gazed at her with noncommital green eyes. “Pardon me, Miss Asperson,” he said. “Was that a question?”

  A grim smile settled into her lips. “If you like, I’ll ask a proper one. Nichole left you for a Lieutenant Navarre, and he is now her personal manager. Have you any comment on her subsequent career?”

  “I wish Nichole every success,” said Maijstral. “She deserves it.”

  “Have you seen her new play?”

  “I have seen recordings. I think she’s magnificent.”

  “That’s very generous of you. Yet here on Silverside, you have encountered another old flame. With Miss Runciter here in the company of Fu George, and Nichole’s success on everyone’s lips, aren’t there a few too many sad reminders present?”

  “Nichole is a dear friend. And Miss Runciter is from a long time ago.”

  As he spoke he heard, from across the room, a woman’s laugh. He looked up, saw Vanessa looking at him. Their eyes met, and she lifted her glass to him. He nodded to her, and reached a mental resolution.

  Damn Kuusinen’s eyes, he thought. And his other parts, too.

  He’d do it.

  ———

  “Lord Qlp is inactive now,” Lady Dosvidern said. “The Drawmii have five brains, you know, each with one eye and one ear. They spend a lot of time not moving, just talking to themselves. Crosstalk, we call it.”

  “I believe I’d heard something of the sort. That their interior life was somewhat complex.”

  “It makes being Lord Qlp’s companion a little easier. I should have dinnertime to myself, and most of the evening, before Lord Qlp grows restless again.”

  “I should be honored, my lady, to take you in to dinner.”

  She smiled, her tongue lolling. “Thank you, sir. It would be my pleasure.”

  ———

  People talked without sound. The orchestra sawed away without any aural effect. Clear privacy screens, Maijstral reflected, are a wonderful device for creating inadvertent comedy.

  “Gregor.”

  “Yes, boss?”

  “Is Roman there? I want you both in the White Room as soon as possible.”

  “Something’s up?”

  “I’m going to do an unassisted crosstouch, and I want it recorded from two angles.” Maijstral held the telephone with both hands, one cupped in front of his mouth, so as to inhibit lipreading.

  The delight was palpable in Gregor’s voice. “Unassisted? Right there in front of everybody? Terrific, boss. Ten points, for sure.”

  “Hurry. I expect the trumpets at any moment.”

  “Only too.” Meaning, only too ready.

  Maijstral put the phone down and told the privacy field to disperse. The sound of conversation returned, nearly drowning the orchestra. Maijstral glanced about and saw Advert huddling against the bar in an orange shell gown that clashed badly with her background, which was of bright closewood and mirrors. Deciding t
hat Advert had failed to notice the clash and was therefore obviously very distraught, Maijstral concluded to rescue her. As he walked toward her, he saw something glitter against the hollow of her throat. Seeing him, she turned away and watched his approach through the mirrored Khanji relief behind the bar. Only when his arrival seemed inevitable did she turn to him. They exchanged two fingers and sniffed.

  “My compliments on your choker, madam,” Maijstral said. “The sapphire is wonderfully set off by the diamonds.”

  Advert raised a hand swiftly to her throat, as if to prevent him from snatching the choker then and there. Then she hesitated.

  “Thank you.” Through clenched teeth.

  Maijstral glanced casually about the room. “Is not Pearl Woman here?” he asked. “There was something I particularly wanted to say to her.”

  “She isn’t feeling well.”

  “I trust she will recover soon. Before the ball, I hope.”

  Sullenly. “I can’t say.”

  “Perhaps my news will cheer her. I believe that she may have lost something, and I believe I know where it is.”

  Advert’s eyes blazed. “So it was you.”

  Maijstral’s lazy eyes widened in feigned surprise. “I said I knew where it was, Miss Advert. I did not say that I had it. I believe it was recovered by someone else, and I can probably get it.”

  Advert looked at him with suspicion. “What do you want?” she asked.

  “May I escort you to your table? I think we may have a number of things to talk about.”

  She put her arm through his. Rings glittered against the dark material of his suit. “I’m not certain whether I should listen to this.”

  “You can always walk away.”

  She bit her lip. Maijstral guided her away from the clashing backdrop. She harmonized much better with white than with close wood and mirrors.

  “I’ll listen,” she decided. “For now.”

  “Will you do me another favor, Miss Advert. Will you order a new deck of cards from one of the robots?”

  Standing up amid the orchestra, trumpeters raised their instruments to their lips.

  ———

  Trumpet calls rang from the giant diamond. A pair of leather-covered doors swung open. Couples began moving toward the dining room.

  “The Waltz twins, definitely,” Geoff Fu George said, wrapping Vanessa’s arm in his. “Have you seen what they’re wearing?”

  “I’ve seen it,” Vanessa said. They were barely moving their lips, wary of lip-readers hiding behind invisible cameras.

  “They can’t possibly wear those heavy pieces at the ball later.”

  “They may go in the hotel safe.”

  “In that case, we’ll take them off the robot.”

  “Not as many points that way.”

  Fu George shrugged. “Risks of the game, Vanessa.”

  “I suppose. Look. There’s Roman.”

  “Yes.” Noncommittally.

  “I always liked him. Perhaps I should say hello.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “He never approved of me, I always thought. He probably thought me a nouveau riche adventuress.” She thought about this judgment for a brief moment. “He was perfectly right, of course.”

  “Oh.” (A brush…)

  “Ah.” (… not a thud.)

  Maijstral offered an excusatory smile. “My apologies. I must not have been looking where I was going.”

  Fu George looked at him and nodded. “Quite all right, Maijstral.” He nodded. “Miss Advert.”

  “Mr. Fu George. Miss Runciter.”

  Maijstral stepped back. “Pray go on ahead of us.”

  Fu George was pleased. “Thank you, Maijstral.”

  The trumpets were still calling. In his formal dinner clothes, Roman watched, imperturbable, from his corner of the room. The trumpets were not, after all, calling for him.

  ———

  “Another alert, Khamiss. Violet Corridor, Level Eight, Panel F22.”

  Sun’s voice grated through Khamiss’s skull. She drew her lips back in a snarl. She was getting tired of that particular voice and the inevitability of its announcements— Sun was fond of bone-conduction receivers, and this one was surgically implanted in the top of Khamiss’s skull, where she couldn’t get rid of it.

  Khamiss turned back to her troopers. Her three uniformed subordinates were as weary as she, and she could see their stricken expressions, recognizing them as reflections of her own.

  “Another one, ma’am?” asked one. “Yes. Violet Corridor, Level Eight.”

  “We’re not going to run all that distance, are we?” Time, Khamiss realized, for a command decision. She knew, and her troops knew, that the alarm was false. Everyone but the guards were at dinner, and no one would be stealing now: their presence would be missed.

  “We’ll walk,” Khamiss said. “At our own pace.”

  “Very good, ma’am.”

  Her upper stomach growled. Things were bad enough that she had to spend her day chasing up and down corridors; now she and her squad had to go without meals. She touched the microphone on her lapel.

  “Mr. Sun,” she said, “could you order a robot with some sandwiches to meet us in Violet Corridor? We’re getting hungry.”

  “Certainly. I shall also send some bottles of rink.”

  Well, Khamiss thought. Things were looking up at least a bit. She began to feel a little more buoyant.

  Her buoyancy fell considerably as she was informed that two more alarms had gone off before she and her weary troopers could quite respond to the first. She opened her bottle of rink with a move that could only be called desperate.

  It was going to be a long night.

  ———

  “If you will watch, madam.” Maijstral fanned the cards on the perfect white of the tablecloth. This wasn’t the deck Maijstral carried in his hidden pocket: this was a deck that Advert had just had delivered by one of the Cygnus robots.

  “I’m watching, Maijstral.” Advert, sitting in the dining room below the massive kaleidoscoping steel doors, was in a much better temper. She actually smiled at him.

  He squared the deck. “Take your table knife and cut the deck at any point. Lift your card, look at the corner, then drop it.”

  “Very well.” She did as he had asked. He squared the deck again (using a little finger break), shifted the deck from left hand to right (thumb holding the break), drank casually from his glass with the left…

  “Is this one in your book, Maijstral?”

  “Actually, no.” He put the glass down and moved the pack back to his left hand. (Maintaining the break, stepping the cards.) “My book is on advanced manipulations. This one’s very elementary. I’m just doing it to warm up.” (Glimpsing the card under the heel of the left hand: eight of crowns.) He squared the deck with his right hand, then offered it to Advert.

  “Shuffle it, cut it. However many times you like.” Riffling.

  “I think the Pearl’s going to be pleased.”

  “I daresay she’ll be proud of you.”

  The lights of the dining room were darkening. Pale tablecloths glowed dimly. “Best hurry,” said Maijstral.

  “How do I know,” casually, handing the pack to him, “you haven’t hidden my card up your sleeve before you gave me the deck?”

  He smiled. That was just the fear he intended to ease. “Let me run slowly through the deck. Take note that your card is there. Don’t tell me when you see it, and I won’t look at your face.” (Spotting the eight of crowns, counting five cards above it. Breaking the deck there.)

  “Did you see it?”

  “Yes. It was in the deck.” (A quick cut at the break.)

  Maijstral put the deck down on the table top. “How many letters in your name?”

  “Six.”

  “Turn over six cards.”

  The lights were almost entirely down. Advert had to squint at the deck. There was another trumpet cry.

  “A-D-V-E-R-T. Oh.” She laughed and
held up the eight of crowns. Maijstral took it, took a pen from his pocket, signed the card, handed it back to her.

  “Why don’t you keep the deck as a souvenir?” Maijstral put the deck back in its box, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and signalled for a robot. “Have the robot take it to your room.”

  Advert smiled in admiration. “Yes,” she said. “I believe I will.”

  ———

  “A great crosstouch. Better than any I’ve seen him do in practice.”

  “I believe,” Roman said, “that the knowledge of his being on camera affects his performance for the better.” He touched the micromedia globe in his pocket as a superstitious person would his Twalle amulet. “Mr. Maijstral always seems to work best under pressure.” He looked up sharply. “Hush, now. Someone we know.”

  “Mr. Roman. Mr. Norman.”

  “Mr. Drexler. Mr. Chalice.”

  Roman and Gregor, walking toward the servants’ dining room, sniffed and offered two comradely fingers to each of Geoff Fu George’s principal assistants.

  “Larmon and Hrang are not with you?” Roman inquired.

  “No,” Drexler said. “They would have loved to come, of course, but space is limited on this station, and Mr. Fu George won only two invitations in his card game with Lord Swann.”

  “Yes, I understand. I hope Miss Runciter’s suite was not likewise restricted.”

  “She has her woman with her. Cooper.”

  “Miss Cooper isn’t here?”

  “She’s getting Miss Runciter’s ball gown ready. It’s got a lot of special effects.”

  Roman gazed down his nose at Drexler. “Miss Cooper has my sympathy.”

  Drexler was a young male Khosalikh, not yet having reached first molt; he was a little shorter man average height but built broadly, as if for durability. He wore a gaudy stud in one ear, and Roman suspected it contained a small camera. He was Geoff Fu George’s technician.

  Mr. Chalice was another one of Fu George’s associates: he was human, thirtyish, and rail-thin. His hair was red, and his gangly movements seemed strangely disconnected, like those of a puppet. Roman had always thought Chalice had missed his true avocation, which was that of clown.

  Roman had considerably more respect for clowns than for thieves. Maijstral’s life’s work, alas, had not been chosen with Roman’s consultation.