House of Shards

by Walter Jon Williams

  He wasn’t going to let Maijstral show him up again.

  ———

  “Pleased to see you again. May I join you?” Khamiss looked up and smiled. “Of course. You’re very welcome.” Zoot drew the next chair closer, then dropped into it. “I see you’re still keeping Maijstral in sight.”

  “And vice versa.” Dourly. “He knows I’m here.” Zoot’s magnifier appeared briefly in the air as he gazed across the White Room toward where Maijstral was seated with the Marchioness. The magnifier disappeared, and Zoot turned to Khamiss. “I thought you might be interested in a physiognomy lesson. I’ve nothing else planned for the afternoon.”

  Khamiss brightened. “I’d like nothing better.”

  “The theory is based on using geometry to divide the body and the head into zones, and then finding something in one of the zones that is unique and can compel recall. For instance, the human head can be divided evenly along a lateral line running left to right across the eyes…”

  Khamiss was surprised. “The eyes are in the horizontal centerline of the human head? I thought they were… rather lower down.”

  “That’s an optical illusion. Because we’re taller. Let me show you.” Zoot took a notebook from his pocket and drew an oval on it with a pen. He bisected it, added eyes, a button nose, a mouth, and hair. A recognizable human, withal. “I see.”

  “The upper attachment of the human’s ears to the head are also on a line with the eyes. So…” Still drawing.

  “Right. So if the ears are placed higher or lower than the corners of the eyes, then that’s a distinguishing mark.” Zoot’s tongue lolled in approval. “Quite. That’s not a common one, however.” He sketched idly. “I use a human head as an illustration because their ovoid shape makes for a simpler geometry. Khosali heads are formed along the lines of an oblate hexagon, the upper half larger than the lower.”

  Zoot continued adding lines to his pad. Khamiss watched and made comments, but her observations dwindled off after a few moments. Zoot’s head, she noticed, was quite an admirable hexagon in its way.

  “Damn!” Khamiss jumped up. Zoot glanced at her in alarm.

  “Something wrong, miss?”

  “Maijstral’s leaving. I’ve got to run. Thank you.”

  “We can continue later.”

  “Thanks. Bye.”

  Heart pounding, Khamiss sped across the White Room as Maijstral sniffed the Marchioness’s ears and moved toward an exit. She was aware of people looking at her.

  She slowed, her ears turning down in embarrassment. Maijstral was waiting for her anyway, arms folded, standing in the doorway.

  CHAPTER 6

  Some objects have a way of becoming magic. They need not be the biggest or even the best of their type; yet somehow they gather romance unto themselves, and become legend. The Felkhorvinn Tapestry is one such object; and a sect of ascetic carpetmarkers on Pessch has even gone so far as to deify its architect, Pers the Younger. The Felkhorvinn is a little unusual to fit into the category of Magic Objects, in that it’s very large: in fact it’s so big that it’s only been stolen once, by that romantic collector of objects-not-his-own, Ralph Adverse.

  For usually it’s theft that deifies an object, imbues it with the proper aura of romance. Would La Giaconda’s smile seem quite so intriguing had it not been coveted, stolen, and cherished by so many? Would the Hope Diamond have shone quite so brilliantly had its origins not been so mysterious, and had all its owners, beginning with Louis XVI and Antoinette, died in such fateful, inexorable ways? Would Prince Orloff have paid quite so much for his blue-white stone had it not been pried from the eye of an Indian idol? Would the Zoot Torque have become the most celebrated piece of Imperial regalia had not Ralph Adverse managed to worm his way into the City of Seven Bright Rings and get his hands on it?

  Most of the Magic Objects moving about the universe are, in fact, gems of one sort or another. The fact is that gems are portable and therefore more easily stolen; and when stolen in the right circumstance, by the right people, an object can be invested with the necessary aura of enchantment. Nothing could make it more romantic than the right theft, lest it be the right death. Blood, it seems, is more effective in creating romance than mere larceny.

  Of the glowstones, those rare and lambent objects hurled at relativistic velocities from the cores of dying stars, none is more famous than the Eltdown Shard, which has seen more than its share of death and peculation. When the Countess Ankh was informed by her lover, the financier Collinen, that they must part, she saw no alternative but to disembowel the man and place his organs in cryogenic containers intended originally for selected parts of his pet Farq shepherds. She committed this crime not because she was sorry at losing Collinen, but rather because Collinen owned the Shard, and upon losing her lover she lost her access to its glorious fires, its cool and subtle majesty. (But perhaps she cared for Collinen after all: when the police finally blasted their way into Castle Sumador, they found the Shard in the same cryogenic container as the dead man’s heart. Moved by this evidence of sentiment, the Emperor permitted his cousin her choice of deaths.)

  Two Allowed Burglars later tried for the Shard and died; Ralph Adverse tried and succeeded, then later, when his lifestrand frayed at last, killed himself with the Shard clutched to his bosom, thus confirming his own legend and the Shard’s. Other glowstones are larger, and others display the light of long-dead stars more beautifully; but none has as much romance as the Shard, none has its magic.

  And none has its fatal attraction. Its relativistic flames have attracted many a moth, and few have escaped without burning. That’s the problem with magic: it can exalt, or destroy, or do both at once; and few can honestly claim to predict which course a Magic Object will take once it has admirers in its spell.

  ———

  The spell of the Shard had clearly been cast on the Silverside Ballroom. The air of expectancy was tangible: beneath the flares of Rathbon’s Star the atmosphere was hushed, almost reverent. Costumes glittered; crystal goblets rang; people conversed; but still all this small world waited, knowing something was going to happen.

  Drake Maijstral was perfectly recognizable through his domino mask. He was costumed as Grat Dalton, a six-gun on one hip and an elegant rapier on the other. Maijstral’s brown hair had been darkened for the occasion, drawn back to a knot behind; glittering gemstones dangled from his ears. The red light of Rathbon’s Star, reflecting from his white ruff, darkened his complexion to that of an outdoorsman gunslinger—the effect had been carefully calculated. He spun his six-shooter on his fingers as he padded through the ballroom.

  People were talking about him. He gave no sign of knowing.

  ———

  Baron Silverside’s expression was stony. “You have instructed your people, Mr. Sun?”

  “I have, my lord.” Dutifully.

  “Everyone is on alert?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Another alarm blinked on Sun’s control board. He ignored it.

  “Maijstral and Fu George will be followed wherever they go?”

  “They will, my lord.” Another alarm blinked. Against his will, a muscle in Sun’s cheek twitched.

  “Because they’re sure to try something tonight, and if we can find out where they’ve been concealing the loot, we’ll be able to find my lady’s collection.”

  Sun chose his words carefully. “We have every reason to hope, my lord.”

  The Baron’s reaction was icy. “You have every reason to hope, Sun. Hope that you find the collection, and hope that you toss these thieves in the calabozo. Because Kyoko Asperson is hoping to crucify you in an interview, and if we don’t find the collection, I hope to hand her the nails and hammer.”

  More alarms winked. Sun swallowed hard. “I understand, my lord.”

  “I hope so, Mr. Sun. I hope so.”

  ———

  Khamiss was dressed as a waiter, in severe black with yellow collar tabs and cuffs. The waiter’s uniform had been drawn from centra
l supply and was not tailored for the service pistol that was still jammed in her armpit.

  In something close to despair, she followed Maijstral through the crowd. People kept asking her for drinks, and she kept having to turn slightly away from them, concealing the bulge in her armpit, and then apologize for not being able to bring refreshments.

  The night could only get worse.

  ———

  “Mr. Maijstral?”

  Kyoko Asperson was dressed as Ronnie Romper, a popular red-haired puppet whose visits to the Magic Planet of Adventure had entranced generations of children.

  The last individual Maijstral encountered who dressed as Ronnie Romper had been a seven-foot-tall homicidal maniac who had tried to dissect Maijstral with a broadsword. The experience had been a particularly unhappy one, since the maniac, like a creature out of nightmare, had to be killed repeatedly before he finally snuffed the candle at last. The memory unsettled Maijstral’s nerves.

  Getting a grip on himself, he doffed his Stetson and sniffed this shorter Ronnie’s ears, an act that took a certain effort. “Miss Asperson,” he said.

  “A fine costume, sir. Very appropriate.”

  “Thank you.” The gleaming six-shooter spun as it marched down Maijstral’s fingers. “Yours seems appropriately magical.”

  Kyoko sighed, a sound that seemed odd in a puppet. She gestured with her wand, scattering holographic fairy dust. “Tonight’s magic belongs to the Shard, alas.”

  “If it’s here.”

  The puppet cocked its head. “Do you really believe it isn’t?”

  Maijstral regarded the crowd. “If it isn’t, there’s been a criminal waste of anticipation.”

  “And preparation?”

  Maijstral smiled.” On the part of some people, perhaps.”

  “Not yourself.”

  “Of course not.” He glanced over his shoulder at Kham-iss. “I’m being followed by armed police. I’d have to be mad to attempt anything here.”

  “So in the matter of your duel with Fu George…”

  Maijstral’s nerves, which he had been making a deliberate effort to soothe, promptly unstrung once again at the word duel, which reminded him of yet another unhappy experience in his past. He stiffened.

  “I’m not in his class, as I believe I’ve said,” Maijstral said. “To challenge Mr. Fu George to a duel, or to anything else, would be an act of presumption.”

  Kyoko lowered her voice. “I’ll presume for you,” she said confidentially. “I’m betting on you, Maijstral. The odds on the tote were too great to resist.”

  Maijstral wasn’t entirely surprised by this. “They’ve posted odds in the Casino, then?”

  “Yes. Two and a half to one in favor of Fu George.”

  Maijstral’s eyes glittered in amusement. “Perhaps I’ll lay a wager myself. The odds do seem a little excessive.” He bowed and doffed the Stetson again. “Your servant, madam.”

  ———

  “The Casino odds are encouraging. They have every confidence in you. And,” hand tightening on his arm, “so do I.”

  “Thank you, Vanessa dearest. But this situation is a bit unfair, you’ll admit. If I outpoint Maijstral, it’s only what’s expected of me. If Maijstral’s luck is in and he outpoints me, it’s an upset and everyone starts speculating whether or not I’m slipping.”

  “This should put you on your mettle.”

  “My dear.” An offended tone. “I’m never off it.”

  Vanessa’s eyes glittered. “Personally, I’m quite excited by the competition.”

  “Should I believe the Duchess or not? That’s the question.”

  “You were going to try for the Shard sooner or later anyway. You’ve always told me.”

  “Yes. But on grounds of my own choosing. This business… I’ll be getting no points for style, that’s certain.”

  “I think the costume will add points in that department, don’t you?”

  “I hope so.” Approaching the door to the ballroom. “Well, here we go.”

  Geoff Fu George presented his pair of invitations. Seeing his name and coupling it with the costume, the majordomo’s jaw dropped in a perfect attitude of astonishment.

  Vanessa, who was dressed spectacularly in feathery orange, resigned herself to letting Fu George outshine her.

  Roman strolled into the ballroom on the heels of Vanessa and Fu George. His invitation proclaimed him to be Lord Graves, who was, as it happens, a real person—a human in fact, a distant relative of Maijstral’s who lived in the Empire. The door security, still goggling after Fu George’s costume, passed him without a glance.

  Roman was dressed as a Montiyy noble in the distinctive flounced overcoat and tall tapering hat. He carried a walking stick and wore a signet ring on one finger. From his considerable height, he peered down the length of his muzzle at the other guests and graciously inclined his head toward anyone who looked at him.

  He was Lord Graves. No one who saw Roman doubted it for an instant. Even Maijstral, who had been looking for him, had to look twice to make sure.

  Roman, Maijstral had to admit, was magnificent. His large, heavily muscled frame had somehow become suffused with nobility, elegance, courtesy. Noblesse oblige dripped like honey from his fingertips. People were warmed by his very presence.

  If there were any justice, Maijstral thought, Roman would have been born a lord, and Maijstral something else. Roman was so good at it—he embodied the noble virtues and graces, and did so with an elegance that Maijstral knew perfectly well he himself did not possess. Maijstral knew how to act a lord; Roman knew how to be one.

  Maijstral, standing across the room from the false Lord Graves, spared a few moments for the pure enjoyment of watching Roman live the life he deserved.

  ———

  “A splendid costume. Countess Riefers, is it not?”

  “Thank you, Zoot.” Lady Dosvidern smiled. “Will you take my arm?”

  “Gladly, my lady. Its lordship is in crosstalk?”

  “Yes. It’s been in a trance with itself since the, ah, incident this afternoon, and will be for many hours yet. I know the signs. The eyestalks have almost entirely withdrawn.”

  “Have you derived any notion of why its lordship is behaving this way?”

  “Not yet, no. Protocols? Time of Exchange? The terms and context are new to me.”

  “But you have a clue?”

  “No, not really. It’s all very hard to sort out.” Her diaphragm pulsed in despair. “Each of the Drawmiikh’s brains has a different social function and personality, and when Drawmii meet one another each brain has its own say, and each has a different relationship with each of the other Drawmiikh’s brains.”

  “A simple conversation must take a long time.”

  “There is no such thing as a simple conversation on Zynzlyp. The brains have their own quirks, and even with Qlp I have a hard time knowing who’s talking at any one time. Sometimes I think even the Drawmii don’t keep things straight. I know I can’t.” She looked up at Zoot and patted his arm. “Well,” she said, “at least now I know whom I’m talking to.”

  ———

  “Pardon me, but can you bring us a pair of rink and sodas?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. I’m on an errand already.”

  ———

  “You’ll forgive me, dear. I should speak to Silverside.”

  “He seems in something of a temper. Perhaps you shouldn’t.”

  “Darling, you misunderstand my intention. I will catch him at a disadvantage. He may be inclined to make concessions.”

  Languidly. “If you insist, dearest.” The Marchioness’s eyes widened. “Good grief! Look, at Fu George!”

  Kotani gave a glance. His languor vanished at once. “Sink me! That should put the fat in the fire!”

  Excitedly. “Is the Duchess here? Has she seen him?” Pause. “I can’t believe he actually altered his hairstyle.”

  ———

  Spinning, winking silver…
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  “Casino? I was wondering what odds are offered on the score between Maijstral and Geoff Fu George.”

  “Three to one, sir. On Fu George. Three-point spread.”

  “The odds have changed.”

  “Yes. Have you seen Fu George’s costume for the ball?”

  “I understand.” Spinning. “I would like to place a bet. Four quillers on Maijstral. Bill it to the Coronet Suite.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The six-gun spun again, and dropped into its holster. Maijstral turned off the privacy screen, adjusted his hat, and returned to the ball.

  ———

  “Perhaps,” said Vanessa Runciter, “I should speak to her.”

  “We don’t have time to arrange anything. Our plans are set.”

  “But still, Fu George…”

  “I’ve got to beat Maijstral to this one. You know that.”

  “Yes.”

  “And here I am dressed as Ralph Adverse. I’m as good as shouting my intention to go after the Shard.”

  “Yes.” Petulant by now. “Do what you wish, Geoff I’m just trying to help.”

  ———

  “Imagine, Pearl. We may be witnesses to the crime of the century!”

  “I am agog with anticipation,” Pearl Woman said, her voice without enthusiasm. She was dressed as an Earth pirate in tall boots, headscarf, and eyepatch; her matched cutlasses gleamed. She had made an attempt to look authentic, not that anyone here would notice.

  Advert was dressed as a dithermoon in bright silks, her swept-brim hat pinned at a jaunty angle. “Have you seen Fu George’s costume?” she asked.

  “Ralph Adverse. Yes. I’ve seen it.” Pearl Woman winced at the pain in her thigh. Life had, unfortunately, imitated art: she had genuinely strained a leg muscle in a futile but heroic attempt to catch the Duchess in the last stages of the race.

  “Fu George may steal the Shard right in front of our eyes!”

  Pearl Woman winced again at the sight of someone approaching. “Just what I need. Kyoko Asperson.”

  “Who? Oh. The Ronnie Romper?”

  “Yes. The Ronnie Romper with the media globes. Who else might he be?”

  “I love Ronnie Romper. Being here is just like being on the Magic Planet of Adventure.”