House of Shards

by Walter Jon Williams

  “Very good, sir. Sleep well.”

  “And you.”

  Dolfuss took himself and his bag down the corridor, where he would spend the night on Maijstral’s mattress.

  Maijstral, for his part, undressed and happily reposed himself on Dolfuss’s bed, beneath which were elements of one of the finest private collections in the Human Constellation, that of the Baroness Silverside.

  CHAPTER 4

  Silver media globes orbited Baron Silverside like Indians in one of Maijstral’s Westerns circling a beleaguered wagon train. The Baron looked at the globes through red-rimmed, weary eyes. “Miss Asperson,” he said.

  “Baron,” said Kyoko. This morning she was dressed in yellow with a silver-wire pattern. It stood out against the subdued decor of the White Room like an explosion in a paint factory. “My condolences on your loss.”

  “There is yet time. We may see the objects recovered.”

  “That’s not likely, is it?” Kyoko Asperson’s question appeared all innocence. “You haven’t found the loot after the first few hours, and I wonder how you can expect to find it now that you’ve exhausted all the likely places to look. After all, an entire art collection can’t be hidden very easily. You built this station, Baron—where is left to look? Where would you suggest the police go?”

  The Baron looked away, found himself looking straight into a media globe, then looked up. He scowled. “I leave that to Mr. Sun, my head of security.”

  “Understandable, sir. It is his area of expertise.” Kyoko smiled. “Would it be possible for me to speak to Mr. Sun?”

  “He is very busy. You understand, I’m sure.”

  “Still, sir, it would be fascinating for my viewers to see such a man at his craft. His job must be an intricate one, and he is charged with considerable responsibility. After all, you must have spent a small fortune altering the design of the station so as to accommodate his security schemes. I’m sure my audience would like to discover whether it is well spent.”

  Baron Silverside began to stroke his burnsides. “Matters of finance are of little importance beside the comfort of my guests, madam,” he said. “But if you wish to see Mr. Sun at work, I will try to arrange it. I only trust you will not reveal any of his secrets to your public.”

  “I will be discreet, my lord. Thank you.”

  The media globes ceased their rotation and arranged themselves in formation above Kyoko’s head. Bidding the Baron adieu, she felt entirely satisfied with the interview.

  Kyoko wanted to see this policeman, this Mr. Sun. Events were beginning to form a pattern in her mind, and Mr. Sun was part of the pattern, an important one. She had begun to see him as one element of a triptych, Maijstral and Fu George and Sun, each orbiting Silverside Station as Rath-bon’s Star was being orbited by its devouring companion, each held in place by the tension of mutual antagonism.

  Kyoko Asperson was not just an interviewer: she fancied herself a dramatist, a dramatist who worked with living, unknowing subjects. Seeing a pattern in life, and making it come to the fore fully realized, flowing before the enraptured eyes of her audience.

  There were dramatic possibilities here. One had only to make certain the possibilities were realized.

  ———

  A Cygnus robot hummed past Gregor as he reached for the lock with his left hand and performed a quick snap-off. Pleased with having done the job one-handed, Gregor opened the door and stepped into the ballroom. The huge oval room was empty of people. Robots polished the floor, unimpressed by the awesome light of Rath-bon’s Star. Gregor smiled.

  Reviewing wiring diagrams in his head, Gregor turned on his harness repellers and rose toward the ceiling. He’d spent the morning assembling devices patched together from harmless objects purchased in the Electronic Boutique and Gadget Faire, and now he intended to give them a field test.

  ———

  “Pearl Woman. You’re looking dashing.”

  “Kotani.” She sniffed Kotani’s ears and offered three fingers. “How are your schemes prospering?”

  Kotani drew himself up. “Schemes?” He put a hand to his heart. “I, my dear? Schemes?”

  She took his arm. “I observed you in consultation with Baron Silverside last night, Kotani. I know you wouldn’t be devoting so much time to a self-important dullard unless you had something in mind.”

  Kotani gave a graceful smile. “Oh, very well,” he said, “I have projects, certainly. But I would never scheme.” He sniffed. “I’m not Drake Maijstral, after all.”

  Pearl Woman smiled. “How do your… projects… fare, then?”

  “Things are going forward. Some details remain.” He looked at her. “I missed you at luncheon.”

  “I had some fruit in my room. I’m racing this afternoon, remember.”

  “The Baron’s oddsmakers are giving you five to three against.”

  “And the odds on the Duchess?”

  “Even.”

  “Perhaps I should affect a limp. That would change the odds a bit.” Pearl Woman stretched one leg behind her and massaged her thigh thoughtfully.

  “You’re planning on winning, then?”

  “Of course. You know me, Kotani. I don’t toss competitions. Besides,” she gave a private smile, “I’ve just come back from the racetrack. I was doing a little practicing while everyone else was having lunch. I know a few tricks that her grace has probably not encountered in her amateur league.” She started to walk again, limping slightly, then frowned. She adjusted the limp, making it a bit more subtle.

  Kotani smiled at her performance. “My bets will be on you, of course.”

  “Thank you, Kotani. Your confidence bolsters me. You always had a good head for money.”

  ———

  “Baron Silverside.”

  The Baron’s color rose at the sound of Maijstral’s voice, and his burnsides seemed to prickle aloft like the nape hair of a growling animal. Maijstral did not offer him a handclasp, nor (so far as Maijstral could discern) did Baron Silverside take note of that fact.

  “Maijstral,” said the Baron.

  “Baron, I really must complain about your police. I know they have their duty to perform, but their activities amount to nothing short of harassment.”

  “Maijstral,” said the Baron again. His eyes were red, his voice rasping. Perhaps, Maijstral thought, he has been forsaking sleep in order to yell at subordinates.

  “They rummaged through my bags and confiscated a large amount of my personal property on my arrival—”

  “Maijstral.” The Baron’s color was rising through the purple end of the spectrum.

  “—and last night a gang of them appeared in my rooms and disturbed me and my associates at our rest. As the officious Mr. Kingston had already deprived me of any means of practicing my profession, I consider their visit both a badgering and an impertinence. I’m certain this is not the reputation that Silverside Station wishes to acquire in relation to its guests. I wanted to bring this to your personal attention, Baron. Your reputation is such that I know you will want to see to the matter personally.”

  “If it was you, Maijstral…” Maijstral looked surprised. “It can’t be me, Baron, not unless your police are incompetent or somehow corruptible, and I’m sure they’re not. They’re merely officious and heavy-handed.” He smiled. “In any case, I’m sure your agents will be approached quite soon by someone who will offer a most reasonable price for your lady’s collection. And you will have gained sensational publicity for your station that may, in the end, prove priceless. Good day to you, my lord.”

  The Baron said nothing in reply. His voice appeared to have failed him. Maijstral sniffed his ears and went on his way. Silverside wasn’t feeling conversational today, anyway.

  ———

  Roman sat in his room and busied himself with sewing. He normally depended on tailors and robots for this sort of thing, but he didn’t wish to explain to a tailor just exactly what he would need this precise object for. Therefore Roman plie
d the needle, stitching the hem of a drawstring bag.

  Before him, on a table, was another project. Roman was charting Drake Maijstral’s genealogy.

  Roman had always been bothered by the fact that he could trace his own lineage back over ten thousand years, connecting it to outposts of the Empire, conquests from the Khosali’s very first leap into space, whereas Maijstral’s ancestry could barely be traced past Earth’s conquest.

  Roman’s sense of fitness was disturbed by this. It had not seemed right, somehow, that the servant should have a longer ancestry than the master.

  Therefore he had commenced genealogical researches. Long ago he’d come across a dubious connection to Jean Parisot de la Valette; but that connection, via the wrong side of the blanket, seemed unsatisfactory for any number of reasons, less because of the element of bastardy than because Roman couldn’t prove it. Roman dug deeper. He discovered, in another branch of Maijstral’s family tree entirely, the name of Altan Khan, who if not as admirable a character as Valette seemed at least a bit more solidly within the family tree.

  Roman kept persevering, but after years of searching, the Maijstral family tree proved barren of fruit. To Roman’s unvoiced dismay, his employer looked to be merely the descendant of a ruthless, opportunistic Maltese nobody who managed, by dint of oppression of his own species, to worm himself into the Imperial favor and get himself a patent of nobility.

  But now, it seemed, Roman’s perseverence might have paid off. Was the Matilda, born in Karlskrona as the daughter of Rudolf von Steinberg, the same Matilda, daughter of Rudolphus the Dane, who after a brief visit to England contracted a morganatic marriage to the elderly fourth son of Edmund Beaufort I, Earl and Marquess of Dorset? Matilda daughter-of-Rudolf was a proven descendent of Henry the Lion, and was thus crossed with the Welfs, Frederick Barbarossa, and the Plantagenets. The Beauforts crossed both the Plantagenets and the Tudors, and through them to the ruling houses of all Europe.

  Through all those ruling families, Roman could make use of their own family trees that traced their ancestry back any number of directions, usually ending up at either Noah or Wotan. Neither of these two figures were as old as Roman’s own confirmed ancestors, but Roman supposed they would have to do—it would be hard to trace genealogy back past the alleged creation of the Earth.

  But still there was no confirmation. Were the two Matildas the same?

  Roman had queried genealogical libraries on Earth. An answer had not yet come. He was in a fever of anticipation. He expected it at the arrival of each transmission of mail.

  For the moment, however, he had naught to do but sew his drawstring bag.

  A subtle shadow seemed to cross his perceptions. Roman’s ears pricked forward. He suspected, without knowing how, that something was amiss in the front room. He rose from his seat, made certain his gun was loose in its holster, and glided silently forward.

  In the front room the holographic waterfall splashed silently into its basin. Roman saw nothing else. He reached into a pocket, drew out a pair of goggles, pulled them over his eyes. Even with enhanced vision, he could see nothing.

  His nose twitched. He could smell something wrong. Someone had been here, perceived Roman’s presence, and left again.

  The police, he thought, might be trying to gather intelligence. Or the intruder might be a rival.

  He returned to his room, collected his sewing, and returned to the front room, where he settled on the couch with his gun in his lap. If anyone tried to break in, he’d be ready for them.

  Behind him, the waterfall continued its silent descent.

  “Roman was there, boss,” Drexler said. “I barely got out in time.”

  “No sign of the art collection, I suppose?”

  “Afraid not, boss.”

  Geoff Fu George shrugged. “I really didn’t think Maijstral would stow the stuff in his suite, but it seemed worth a look.”

  “He’s got to be living in a blind.” ‘

  Fu George sighed. “I daresay. It’ll be hard to find.”

  “Shall I follow him tonight?”

  “We’ve got other things to do this evening. The Duchess’s ball will prove perfect cover for any number of activities.”

  “In my spare time, I mean.”

  “If you can find any spare time, Drexler, you may use it to pursue Maijstral all you like.”

  “Only too.”

  Meaning, only too ready. Fu George gave a cold smile.

  “I’m going to pursue him myself, Drexler,” he said. “At the race, this afternoon. I know a few things about the Pearl, and I think tomorrow may find Maijstral a humbler man.” His smile broadened. “Very much humbler, I suspect.”

  ———

  “Mr. Sun.” At the sound of Baron Silverside’s voice, Sun hastily buttoned up his tunic, brushed his hair out of his eyes, and leaned forward over his humming console. At least a dozen alarm lights winked at him.

  The day, he concluded sadly, wasn’t going to get any better.

  After breakfast the Baron Silverside had finished his raving, and Mr. Sun entrusted the command center to a subordinate in order to collect a few hours’ sleep, but now the pressure of his responsibilities had driven him back to the job. He had been appalled at the wholesale thievery that had gone on last night. All indulgence and license had, in the end, to be paid for, if not by the indulgees then by someone else. And now his security systems had failed utterly, his promises to the Baron were all naught, and for this his body and mind should atone.

  He was not alone in his atonement. As of noon, all his crews were now working double shifts.

  “Sir,” he said, and touched an ideogram.

  The Baron’s burnsides were showing evidence of hard handling. “Sun,” he said. “I trust you have made progress?”

  “I am trying to prioritize the alarms, my lord,” Sun said. “We will be responding only to—”

  The Baron turned red. “I meant progress in finding my wife’s collection!” he barked. His fists closed on his burn-sides and made tearing movements.

  Mr. Sun felt his scalp prickle with sweat. “Sir. We’re hoping for clues.”

  The Baron’s glare was that of a demon. Sun could almost see the flames of perdition behind the dark pupils, lapping from the Baron’s mouth. “You designed the gallery, Sun, and its security system. You gave me certain guarantees…”

  “No system is foolproof, sir. But—”

  “This was not,” acidly, “what you said at the time.”

  “Sir.” Sun could feel hopeless despair welling up in him. Last night the Baron had shouted at him for hours—Sun’s ears were still ringing. Now Silverside showed every sign of beginning again. “This is the first test of new equipment under field conditions. I think certain allowances should be made—”

  “No allowances where my wife’s collection is concerned! None!”

  “No, sir. Of course not. But—”

  “Find it, Sun.” The Baron’s lips drew back in a snarl.

  “Find it, or you’ll have the pleasure of explaining to Kyoko Asperson and billions of her interested viewers exactly what went wrong.”

  Horror crept coldly along the back of Sun’s neck. “My lord!” he protested.

  “Find it, Sun. Or else.”

  “Sir.”

  “And another thing, Sun.” Abruptly. “Maijstral just came by to speak to me. He was gloating.”

  “I’m most sorry to hear that, sir.”

  “He as much said that he’s bought someone in my police service. Is it you he’s bought, Sun?”

  Indignation gave Sun’s chin an assertive tug upward. “Sir. He was lying, trying to lead us astray. I’ll stake my reputation on it.”

  The Baron’s look was cold. “That’s precisely what you are doing, Sun.”

  The hologram disappeared, replaced by the service ideogram. Sun banished it and mopped sweat from his forehead.

  Slowly, as he sat alone in his blue heaven, resolve began to fill him. Very well, he thoug
ht. If the Baron insists on results.

  He touched the ideogram for general announcement. “Watsons,” he said. “We are now at Degree Absolute!”

  ———

  “Marchioness. Perhaps you would oblige me.”

  “Only too happily, Maijstral.”

  “Please sit on my left.” Smiling, the Marchioness joined him on the white settee. He scooped up cards from the surface of the low table before him and squared the deck, then offered it to her. “Please glance through the deck and remove all the rovers.”

  Music and conversation vibrated from the diamond above their heads. The Marchioness was dressed in a light grey that complemented her coloring wonderfully. She took the pack and gave him a glance. “Your metaphors are appropriate, Maijstral.”

  “How so?”

  Her fingers sorted nimbly through the deck. “The rovers are elusive cards, elusive as conjurers when they perform their tricks. Rovers are therefore my favorite. I suppose they are about to make me jump through hoops.”

  “Not unwillingly, I hope.”

  She laughed. “I have always found rovers irresistible, sir. Now what must I do?”

  “Put the rovers on top, my lady.”

  “That will please them.” Archly.

  Maijstral took the deck from her hand and dealt the four top cards facedown onto the table.

  “Now the rovers are on the table. Correct, my lady?”

  “If you insist, Maijstral.”

  He dropped the deck to the table again. “Prove it if you like. Turn them over.”

  The Marchioness did so. “So. The rovers have been exposed.” She looked at him. “Is that the trick, sir? I expected something a little more… intricate.”

  “The rovers have a few surprises left, my lady.” The rovers were placed atop the deck again. Careful of his sight lines, Maijstral picked up the pack with his right hand. He dealt the top four cards down in one pile, turning the last over to assure her it was still a rover, then put the four cards on top and handed her the deck. He put his hand on hers. Her hand was warm.

  “If you will allow me to guide you, my lady,” he said. “Put the top rover here, then the others so.” Making four cards arranged in a neat rectangle. “Now deal three cards on top of each.”