House of Shards

by Walter Jon Williams

  “It puts her under pressure, of course, and perhaps she needs—”

  “The Diadem do nothing in public without reason,” Maijstral said. “That is another consideration.”

  Advert paused in surprise, handkerchief halfway to her eyes. “You think so? You think it was calculated?”

  “Pearl Woman has had many proteges, Advert. She is very sophisticated and very talented, and because of who she is, she can trust very few people. Among the Three Hundred, people use other people, and often use them badly.”

  Advert looked at him. “You were offered Diadem membership, weren’t you?”

  “Not formally. But yes, I knew I’d be accepted.”

  “With Nichole sponsoring you. And you turned it down.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it because you’d have to be… cruel?”

  “No. I simply didn’t want to live in the public eye for the rest of my life.”

  “Have you regretted your decision?”

  “From time to time. But, to be honest, my regret is halfhearted, and never very serious. When I remember what it was like living with Nichole, with billions of people interested in my every move, I’m quite thankful I don’t have to deal with those pressures.” He gave a brief smile. “Made it hard to earn my living, for one thing.”

  Advert looked at her rings. Her voice was subdued. “I thought Pearl Woman and I were special friends. I suppose that was silly of me.”

  “I can’t say. But I know that Pearl Woman doesn’t adopt just anybody. She did see something in you, Advert.”

  Advert swallowed hard. She gave a brave smile and handed Maijstral his handkerchief. “She used me. Spent my money, let me support her. And I ransomed her pearl.”

  “But she gave you access to the Diadem in return, let you live the kind of life you thought you wanted. Perhaps she considers this a fair exchange.”

  “It’s not.” Her expression hardened. “Not at all.”

  “Perhaps this is her way of educating you. The Three Hundred use people, and in return are used by the institution of the Diadem. Not everyone is cut out for a life like that. It may be better that you know what it’s really like.”

  “Still.” Advert’s look was cold. “She ought not to be allowed to get away with it entirely. Not in front of Kyoko and everybody.”

  Maijstral thought about this for a moment. “You don’t want to call her out, of course.”

  “No!” Advert seemed shocked. Her expression, after consideration, turned calculating. “No,” she repeated. “For a start, she’d win, and even though she’d be upset by being made to fight twice in a year, it wouldn’t be worth it to me. I just think—maybe she should have a taste of her own medicine, that’s all.”

  “There’s her pearl.” Tentatively. “She could… lose it again.”

  Advert seemed surprised, then she thought for a moment. “And people could find out, this time,” she said slowly. There was a certain enthusiasm in her look, but she frowned and shook her head. “I’ll have to think about that, Mr. Maijstral.”

  “Call me Drake. And let me know what you decide.”

  “Certainly.” Advert gave a tentative smile. “Thank you.”

  He sniffed her ears. The Pilgrimage was coming to an end, and he headed back to the buffet to refill his champagne glass before the dancers began to crowd around.

  ———

  “Fu George.” Slipping her arm through his.

  “Yes?”

  “You’ll never guess who I just danced with.”

  “A big Khosalikh built like a pom boxer and wearing a funny overcoat.”

  Laughing. “Yes. He is a pom boxer, too. But the pom boxer is Roman.”

  Fu George’s eyes widened. “Roman? Here?”

  “He may well have the Shard on him.”

  Fu George looked at Roman and frowned. “I think this is worth a recce.”

  “I’d say so.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, my dear… ?”

  “Of course. But get some semilife patches on that eye soon, won’t you? It’s really starting to look ugly.”

  ———

  The Duchess of Benn stalked through the room, breathing fire. Maijstral was on his third glass of champagne, and in a sunny mood. “A setback, your grace?” Maijstral asked. Beneath the Khosali head, Roberta’s violet eyes flashed anger. ‘ “Those fools are going to search everyone on leaving. My guests!”

  Maijstral held his glass to the light, admiring the golden rise of bubbles. “Shocking.”

  She glared at him. “Treating my guests as if they were…”

  “Thieves, my lady?”

  Roberta froze for a moment, then laughed. “Thieves, yes.” She looked at him. “I take it you are pleased with the results of the evening.”

  “I have no reason to be unhappy.”

  “And you’ve anticipated the searches, I suppose?”

  Maijstral’s heavy lids rose to reveal amused green eyes. “I have laid my plans.”

  Suddenly cheered, Roberta gave another laugh. “So all my guests are going to be searched for nothing.”

  “That seems likely. If the guards find any secrets, none will be mine.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t have time to think when the lights went out. I just reacted. Lucky I hit Fu George and not you.”

  “You wouldn’t have caught me.”

  Roberta looked at him. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

  “In some things. As sure as you are on a racecourse.”

  She thought about this, then turned to look at Baron Silverside. Anger entered her voice again. “That pompous idiot. I hope you get to keep his damned collection.”

  “I hope so, too.”

  She gave a laugh. “That was you? Interesting.”

  Maijstral’s lazy eyes turned cautious. “Perhaps we should not speak any longer. You’re supposed to be the one who’s just lost your greatest treasure, and I’m supposed to be the one who may have taken it. People may hope for at least a small display of bad temper.”

  She nodded. “You’re right. I forgot for a moment.”

  “Your grace.” He sniffed her farewell. She stiffened, as if offended.

  Both turned at the sound of a smack, and neither could help laughing once they did.

  Roman had just felt Fu George’s fingers in his pocket, and without thought had driven his elbow into Fu George’s uninjured eye and knocked him to the floor.

  CHAPTER 8

  Drexler’s ears were cocked at an indignant angle. His lips drew back from his muzzle in a snarl. “Roman struck you, sir?” Geoff Fu George had changed from his Ralph Adverse costume into his evening jacket with the built-in darksuit. He applied a semilife patch to one of his blackened eyes. The little creature, happy in its purpose, awoke from its stasis and began to set its taproots into the swollen tissue.

  “It was involuntary, I suspect,” Fu George said. “He’s a trained fighter, and I must have been more careless than usual. I triggered his reflexes.” He sighed. “Anyway, he didn’t have the Shard.”

  “With all respect, sir, Roman is also good enough to know when to use his reflexes and when not to. Perhaps,” flexing his muscles, “I should have a chat with our Mr. Roman concerning this promiscuous use of ‘reflexes.’ “

  Fu George looked at him sharply. “None of that, Drexler. Ten points for style, remember. Grudge matches aren’t good ton.”

  Drexler snarled again, but didn’t insist.

  “What I need you to do, Drexler,” Fu George said, “is follow him. Pick Roman up outside the ballroom and don’t let him go. If we can find Maijstral’s blind, we find the Eltdown Shard.”

  “And then what?”

  Fu George looked at him in surprise. “I steal it, of course. If he can steal the Pearl’s trinket from me, I can do it back to him.”

  “What about Gregor?”

  “I’ve got Chalice waiting outside Maijstral’s suite. If Gregor appears, Chalice will follow him.”

&n
bsp; “And Maijstral himself?”

  Fu George trimmed a dormant semilife patch with a pair of pocket scissors. “Vanessa will do the shadowing there.”

  “And you, sir?”

  “I’ll be working. Have you noticed that the Marchioness changed her jewelry since this afternoon? I doubt she bothered to send her afternoon jewels to the hotel safe, do you?”

  Drexler grinned. “I doubt it, sir.”

  The phone chimed once for attention. “Mr. Gregor Norman,” it reported, “wishes to speak to Mr. Chalice or Mr. Drexler.”

  Interest flared in Fu George’s wounded eyes. “Answer,” he told Drexler. “Examine the background in the holo figure. Try and work out where he is.”

  Gregor’s location was clear enough once his hologram appeared, obvious from the resonant quality of his voice, a quality that could only have arisen from his standing in the White Room, near the giant impact diamond.

  “Mr. Drexler?” he said, grinning. “I think it’s time you and Chalice began raising your ten novae.”

  “That’s a little premature, don’t you think?”

  “The bet concerned who had his hands on it first, and that’s already been decided. I won’t show you the vids till tomorrow, of course, but I thought I’d give you a day’s notice so you could start raising the money.”

  Drexler bit back the impulse to make a further bet con cerning who would get to keep the stone—but that would give things away.

  “Thank you, Gregor,” he said. “I appreciate the consideration.”

  “Only too.” Meaning, only too very, very pleased.

  Fu George was on his feet the instant the hologram was replaced by the “at your service” ideogram. “Get to Chalice,” Fu George said. “Tell him Gregor’s in the White Room. I’ll head to the White Room directly.”

  “Sir!”

  Fu George took two fast steps toward the door, then hesitated. He returned, seized his box of semilife patches, and then ran like hell.

  He met no one in the halls save a pair of robots and the security man Kingston, who had been following him all day. The both of them had been engaged in a daylong pretence that Fu George didn’t know he was being followed, a pretence that was strained to the limits as Kingston was forced to sprint after his suspect. Fu George slowed as he entered the White Room, hearing as he walked the peculiar, resonant quality of the diamond as it reflected the orchestra and Kingston’s hurried footsteps behind.

  He straightened his jacket, shot his lace, and entered the room. Save for the bartender and a pair of serving robots, the orchestra was playing to an empty room.

  Fu George turned and left frowning, passing Kingston once again, much to the latter’s exasperation. Since the pearl business, all Fu George had done was to react to Maijstral—he had let Maijstral panic him into advancing his attempt to steal the Shard, and now all Fu George could do was follow Maijstral and his people in hopes of finding out something useful. Somehow Fu George had lost all initiative to Maijstral, and that was bad. He had to do something, he decided, something that might serve to define the situation and compel events to start moving his way once again.

  He’d give Kingston the slip, he decided, then go out and steal something. At least it would make him feel better.

  His tread was lighter as he stepped down the hallway. Pity he hadn’t been able to intercept Gregor in the White Room.

  The White Room. The place hung humming in his memory, resonating like the giant diamond. He realized that it hadn’t occurred to him to wonder what Maijstral’s chief technician was doing in the White Room.

  He hesitated, then began to retrace his steps. As he crossed paths with Kingston again, he heard his tail mutter something about why didn’t he make up his mind, for heaven’s sake? Fu George walked to the bartender and ordered a brightcrisp.

  “What time,” he asked casually, “do you close tonight?”

  The bartender told him. And there was his answer.

  ———

  Mortification, it seemed, knew no end. Not only was Kham-iss, still dressed as a waiter, following Maijstral again, it now appeared that someone was following her. She thought her tail was Vanessa Runciter, but the woman was still wearing her feathery orange ball costume and Khamiss couldn’t be certain.

  Maijstral, having been searched once more on leaving the Duchess’s ball, was now walking, apparently at random, through the residential quarters of the station, twirling his gun as he moved. Maijstral was obviously up to something, but Khamiss couldn’t believe the man didn’t know he was being shadowed. She hadn’t been able to believe in her role for some time, and she couldn’t put any feeling into her skulking at all.

  She craned around a corner, not bothering to just peek with one eye or try to hide, instead resignedly leaning out in plain view as she watched Maijstral walking up the soft carpet. Maijstral came to a four-way intersection, looked both ways, stepped to his right, hesitated, then abruptly jumped to his left.

  Excitement burned in Khamiss. She swept around the corner and accelerated, moving at a run down the corridor, then stopped to peek around the next corner. Maijstral’s figure dashed past another intersection, running flat out. Khamiss followed at a dead run.

  The collision came too quickly for Khamiss to react. Without warning, a brilliantly costumed figure appeared in her path. The collision flung them to the floor in a tangle of flailing arms and thrashing legs. Khamiss’s pistol spilled out of its holster and flew across the carpet.

  Khamiss sat up, her head ringing, and looked up into the blazing eyes of Vanessa Runciter. “Idiot!” Vanessa spat. There was a bright scarlet abrasion on her pale cheek. “Can’t you do a simple tail job right?”

  Rage flared in Khamiss. “I’m not the one who’s tailing someone while dressed like a big orange bird.” Maijstral had intended this to happen, Khamiss realized: he’d seen his shadows from the start and doubled back to force them to collide. Khamiss and Vanessa had fallen into a trap.

  Khamiss floundered after her pistol. “Didn’t your nan-nybot ever tell you to look both ways?”

  “I had a live nanny, you imbecile.” Vanessa rose to her feet and flung her cape back over her shoulder. She hobbled after one of her shoes, which was lying near Khamiss’s pistol.

  “Even more reason to listen to her.” Khamiss’s hand closed on the pistol, and she rammed the bulky object back into her armpit. She picked up Vanessa’s shoe and handed it to her.

  “Thank you.” Said without thought. Vanessa put a tentative hand to her cheek, came away with blood. “I could kill you for this,” she said, enraged again.

  “Just try it.” Khamiss stood and drew herself to her full height, a head taller than the human. “Just try it,” she repeated, rather liking the sound of the words.

  Vanessa glared at her but said nothing. Did these High Custom people fight duels with waiters? Khamiss wondered. She decided to keep the initiative now that she seemed to have it.

  “Why were you following Maijstral, anyway?” she said. And then, “Or was it me you were following?”

  Vanessa decided on a belligerent response. “Who says I was following Maijstral? And who the hell would followj you?”

  “You would. It was obvious. You were clumsy enough.”

  It was wonderful, Khamiss was finding, being belligerent to a guest. She should abuse her station more often.

  Something caught Khamiss’s attention, a movement out of the comer of her eye. She turned and saw a tiny black marble rolling along the ceiling, a little sphere that stayed in the shadows and tried to be inconspicuous.

  With a practiced movement, Khamiss drew her service pistol. Vanessa gave a gasp and, assuming she was about to be turned to toasted cheese, clawed for the tiny chugger she carried under her cape. Khamiss lined up the micromedia globe over the sights and squeezed the trigger. Flame burst from the ceiling. The globe ran for cover. More fire leaped out, and the globe fell, rolled, and died.

  Fire alarms wailed. Robot arms appeared from the
service corridor and began spraying foam. Khamiss rather enjoyed the spectacle.

  Being aggressive was so satisfying, she thought.

  Vanessa finally got her gun out. She pointed it in at least three directions before she realized she was in no danger.

  Khamiss ignored the foam that spattered her waiter’s costume. She holstered her spitfire, and walked to the charred jnicromedia globe. She picked up the globe and let it roll in her hand. She turned to Vanessa.

  “Yours?”

  Vanessa, clutching her pistol, shook her head. Foam speckled her hair. She put her pistol back in its holster. She reached for her cigaret holder and a pack of Silvertips.

  “Who was the operator trying to follow?” Khamiss wondered. “Maijstral? You? Me?”

  “Who cares? We’ve lost him, that’s the main point.” Vanessa lit a Silvertip.

  A robot fire fighter promptly covered her face with foam.

  ———

  Five… Four… Three…

  Baroness Silverside was growing larger in the view of Gregor’s skulking micromedia marble.

  Two… One… Now.

  Gregor stepped briskly around the corner and walked deliberately into the Baroness.

  “Beg pardon, madam.”

  The Baroness looked at him with irritation. “Be careful, young man,” she said.

  As Gregor walked away, he whistled his micromedia globe from the ceiling. He ordered it into his inside coat pocket, next to the glory that was the Eltdown Shard.

  ———

  “It’s after midnight, Sun.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “You have not recovered my wife’s collection.” Sun gazed bleakly into a future that held no place for him. A sinner, he thought, in the hands of an angry god.

  Dangling over the candle flame like a spider, all for his own unperceived fault.

  “Alas, my lord,” he said.

  Baron Silverside looked upon him with the face of the Angel of Judgement. “You will pay for this, Sun.”

  Sun acceded to the inevitable. “I know, my lord,” he said. He suspected he would never cease paying.

  ———

  The Duchess of Benn exchanged condolences with Baron Silverside, then let Kotani drag the Baron away for another conference. The orchestra members, instruments dangling from their hands, were making their way out by another entrance. Roberta looked at her last remaining guest, Paavo Kuusinen. He bowed over her hand as he clasped it: one finger, as was proper.