“Three,” he said. “The conspirators seem possessed of an undying, obsessive, seemingly irrational hatred toward you yourself, Mr. Maijstral. Who do you know that hates you so much?”
Bewilderment settled about Maijstral. “I can’t think of anyone I’ve offended that badly,” he said. “Fine, I’ve stolen things from people, but still…”
“I still wonder,” Nichole added, “if perhaps the two burglaries are unrelated. Perhaps the first was planned for some perfectly rational reason—by the Bubber, say, as a scheme to get his brother’s property—and the second was planned by someone who had heard about your problem with Joseph Bob and wanted to exploit the situation somehow.”
“Who?” Kuusinen asked.
“Alice Manderley, perhaps?” Nichole ventured. “She is a first-class burglar and is, I presume, capable of breaking into Drake’s room.”
“But why would she do it?” Roberta interrupted. “What could her scheme have been?”
“Who knows? Drake interrupted it. Perhaps she wanted to steal a whole lot of steles, and planted one under Drake’s bed so he’d be the one to bear the blame.”
Kuusinen looked at Nichole levelly. “You pointed out, I believe, that she was in attendance-at Prince Hunac’s ceremony, and therefore unable to break into Mr. Maijstral’s room.”
Nichole’s face fell. “Oh. I did say that, didn’t I? I forgot.”
Maijstral cast his mind back to the ceremony. “I wouldn’t write her off entirely,” he said. “I saw her at the ceremony, but she was wandering in the back of the room, away from everyone. And her husband was not with her.”
“You believe her husband capable of taking the stele?” Kuusinen asked.
“I don’t believe Kenny is capable of tying a bootlace without her help,” Maijstral said. “But Alice might still have planted the stele while Kenny wandered about the ceremony wearing a hologram of Alice. It’s misdirection, a basic element of magic. The fact that Alice wasn’t a part of the crowd, and wasn’t talking to anyone, might serve as evidence.”
“It’s a common tactic burglars use to mislead people,” Nichole added. “Drake used to do it all the time.”
“I still do.”
“I’ll keep my researchers busy regarding Alice Manderley,” Nichole said. “And her husband.”
“You might check again the list of high-rated burglars on Earth,” Maijstral added. “There can’t be many who are capable of leaving something the size of a Mayan stele in my room without setting off at least one of the traps I’d set.”
“We’re also checking everyone at Prince Hunac’s party.”
“And speaking of the party,” Maijstral said, and felt his injured eye give a twitch. “Who was that Milo person?”
“Captain Milo Hay,” Kuusinen said promptly. “He is the fiancé of Major Ruth Song, the Elvis impersonator.”
“I didn’t steal anything from him,” Maijstral said. “Is he a participant in this conspiracy or not?”
The others looked at each other. “We don’t know,” Kuusinen admitted.
“He called me a ‘rat-lover,’” Maijstral said, “and this was the second time I’ve heard about rats, the first being from Kenny Chang, of all people, and in connection with the Security and Sedition Act. What is a rat exactly, and why is loving one supposed to be so bad?”
The others looked at each other uneasily again.
“A rat,” Kuusinen said finally, “is a scavenging Earth animal widely regarded as a destructive pest. On account of a fancied resemblance, certain organizations in the Constellation have applied the term to the Khosali.”
Distaste narrowed Maijstral's heavy-lidded eyes. “The ‘pro-Human’ element, I presume,” he said, deliberately inserting the quotation marks in his tone.
“Indeed,” Kuusinen agreed. “Not coincidentally, the same people who are the most loud in support of the Security and Sedition Act, which will prevent nonhumans from advancing past a certain rank in the military and civil service, and subject the rest to random, intrusive investigation.”
Roberta smiled grimly. “Investigation, one gathers, at the hands of our friend Colonel-General Vandergilt.”
Kuusinen nodded. “Her among others.”
Maijstral fingered his diamond ring. “Is Captain Hay another pillar of the Constellation’s security establishment? I didn’t recognize his uniform.”
“Captain Hay did not in fact receive his rank from the Constellation military,” Kuusinen said. “He is a member of something called the Human Guard, a paramilitary organization devoted to protecting the Constellation from alleged enemies foreign and domestic.”
Maijstral nodded. “And Captain Hay—Milo—perceives me as an enemy of the domestic variety.”
“As we can detect no connection between him and you or your family, we suspect his aggression toward you may have been motivated by ideology, yes.”
“And drink,” added Nichole.
Maijstral ground his teeth. He had encountered this sort of fanatic before—on Peleng they called themselves Humanity Prime—and he had found them a severe and constant trial.
Of course on Peleng he’d also got a lot of money out of them, so the encounter hadn’t been all bad.
Maijstral looked down at his plate and realized that his meal was gone. He didn’t remember eating it.
Perhaps he was beginning to suffer from random outbreaks of amnesia.
He was still hungry. He ordered another dinner identical to the first.
“Do I really have to fight this Milo person?” Maijstral asked. “I’d think ax handles in a dark alley would be more his style than a fair combat.”
“He hasn’t been heard from since his challenge,” Roberta said. “Nor has any second. He may have sobered up and decided not to pursue the matter.”
Nichole’s face settled into a satisfied smile. “Or,” she added, “Prince Hunac’s guards are still pursuing him.”
“Major Song tried her best to excuse Milo’s actions,” Maijstral said. “I take it she is also a member of the Human Guard?”
“No,” Kuusinen said. “She is in fact an officer in the Constellation Marines, though she is on extended leave to prepare for the Memphis Olympiad. Her grandfather, incidentally, was the late Fleet Admiral Song, hero of the Battle of Neerwinden.”
As celebrated a military hero, Maijstral knew, as the Constellation’s brief history offered. Neerwinden had been the first great victory for rebellious humanity.
“You’d think, with a grandfather as famous as all that, she’d know the difference between a genuine military and a false one,” Maijstral said.
“She’s a false Elvis,” Nichole shrugged. “Her purchase on reality may not be of the highest order.”
The discussion of Milo and Major Song had brought Maijstral’s mind back to issues of personal survival. “Has Prince Hunac been heard from?” he asked.
“No,” Nichole said, “though that’s not surprising. Considering what he ingested yesterday, we suspect it will take him a lot longer to sober up than it will Captain Hay.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d appoint me as your second for both fights,” Roberta said. “I’m experienced at it by now, and I have a tack I’d like to try with each of your foes.”
“Yes?” Maijstral asked.
“My plans are different for each. With Hunac, I’ll try reason—all the arguments that didn’t work with Joseph Bob, but might well work with someone less hungry for glory. I will simply offer him the evidence of a conspiracy and ask him to postpone things until we can find out who’s responsible. He may prove amenable, though since his challenge was offered publicly, he may have a difficult time withdrawing entirely.”
Maijstral’s nerves gave a little wail at this conclusion. “Very well,” he managed. “And how do you intend to handle Milo?”
Roberta looked at him levelly. “I plan to frighten the daylights out of him,” she said, matter-of-fact. “And for that, I would like your permission to release to the media th
e video of your encounter with Joseph Bob. Milo may really want to reconsider when he sees it.”
Maijstral showed his teeth. “When he sees my animal nature, you mean.”
“Exactly.”
“Besides,” Nichole pointed out, “there’s an army of media swarming just outside our hotel’s perimeter. It’s like an armed camp out there. We’ll never be able to do anything unless we give them something, and I think the video and perhaps a press conference, with you, Drake, at your most outgoing and genial, if you please.”
“I will try to summon such bonhomie as remains.”
“It’s only after we get rid of most of the press that we can enter into our plan.”
Maijstral’s eyebrows lifted. “Our plan?”
“Quite,” Roberta said. “Since we don’t know as yet who is responsible for your misfortunes, we’ve decided to go on a fishing expedition. Right now there’s a wall of Diadem security around you, and it’s unlikely anyone would try to penetrate it.”
Maijstral felt a warm glow of inner gratification at this sentiment.
“But if you leave,” Nichole added with a smile, “the conspirators, may strike again. And that’s exactly what we want.”
A chill wafted up Maijstral’s spine. “We want what?” he asked.
“We want to lure them into trying to frame you a third time,” Roberta said. “And when they come, we’ll be ready.”
“We will?” Maijstral asked.
“Oh yes. We’ll catch them, force them to confess, and get you off the hook. Nothing easier.”
Maijstral had an intuition it was all going to be more complicated than that.
He looked from Roberta to Nichole and back again.
Taking dead aim, he thought. Magician’s cant, and also what had been happening to him.
The conspirators, whoever they were, had taken dead aim at him in hopes of getting him killed or slammed away in prison.
Roberta had taken dead aim at him for her marriage scheme.
Nichole had done much the same.
Now the two of them together were about to put him in harm’s way once more.
And Maijstral had the horrid, queasy feeling that he had no choice but to let them do it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The meeting with the press was going rather well, Maijstral thought. Media globes winked in the sunlight overhead. The courtyard of the hotel was filled with reporters. Most of the questions concerned his encounter with Joseph Bob—his “strategy” for victory, his “feelings” during the fight.
Since he hadn’t possessed the former, and couldn’t recall the latter, he was free to invent something that cast himself in a suitably noble light.
Because their quarrel was based on a misunderstanding, he said, he didn’t want to kill Joseph Bob, and therefore he resorted to fists.
His feelings, he reported, were such a mixture that it was difficult to define any of them very well. He then let the reporters suggest emotions to him, and he picked the ones he liked best.
Determination to win at all costs?
Yes.
Concern for Joseph Bob’s welfare?
Naturally.
Fear?”
“Well,” he said, laughing, “of course.” And the reporters laughed with him.
One smiling young man waved a hand. “Have you heard of Laurence’s offer to stand as your second for your other two fights?”
“Sorry?” Maijstral said. “Who?”
“Laurence. The video star who—”
“Oh yes! Laurence! Of course.” Maijstral winced inwardly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear—”
Somehow he knew he was going to pay for this. Maijstral was mistaken in reckoning that the payment would not come immediately, however. At that moment an elderly man, white of hair and erect of bearing, strode from the crowd and brought his cane down on Maijstral’s head.
“Dastard!” the old man cried in a passion. “I had the honor to serve under your grandfather, and I counted your father as a friend. How dare you disavow their cause? How dare you disavow your Emperor?”
Maijstral, from his position on the ground, rubbed his head and looked at the old man in amazement.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I am Baron Sancho Sandoval Cabeza de Vaca,” the man said grandly, and pointed at Maijstral with his cane. “And you,” he added, “are a dastard! I challenge you to single combat.”
Rage exploded in Maijstral. He jumped up, snatched the cane from the Baron’s grip, and snapped it over his knee.
The Baron, glared at him. He glared back.
“Perhaps,” cried the voice of Mangula Arish from somewhere in the crowd, “you should again consider apologizing for your controversial remarks the other day. . . .”
Maijstral observed that Arish had her hair firmly lacquered back into place. On the whole, he preferred it limp and covered with purple goo.
“I think,” Maijstral said, blood boiling, “this meeting is over.”
He stalked back to the hotel and made his way to Nichole’s suite. She looked up in surprise as he slammed the door behind him.
“Have we got another plan?” he asked.
*
Well, no, they didn’t. So Maijstral and his suite flew on to Memphis, where they were to stay at the home of Tvar, a well-known art collector, and an old acquaintance for whom Maijstral had performed several commissions. Tvar had been contacted by Nichole ahead of time and, no less immune to certain forms of glamour than the public at large, had been so dazzled by the call from one of the Three Hundred that the warning that she was likely to be burglarized by Maijstral’s unknown enemies had only provoked in her a casual flick of her pointed ears.
“How exciting,” she’d said, her tongue lolling in a Khosali smile. “Perhaps I will have a chance to shoot these conspirators down like dogs.”
When this comment was relayed to Maijstral, the sentiment could not help but, meet with his wholehearted approval.
On the horizon, Maijstral saw the minarets and domes of Graceland as he came in for a landing at Tvar’s estate. He hadn’t realized Tvar’s place was so close. Before he’d stepped from his flier, Tvar emerged from the front door, arms outstretched in welcome.
She was a Khosalikh of medium build—a head taller than Maijstral, who was slightly above average height for a human—and was dressed extravagantly in a gown of rainbow texture that made her seem rather larger than she was. Her pointed ears peeked from a parti-colored turban ornamented with flashing gems. Chiming on her wrists were the bracelets that she’d commissioned Maijstral to acquire for her: they had once belonged to Lady Scarlett, the patroness of the poet who went by the name “Ptarmigan”—the bracelets were not very valuable, but Tvar coveted them for their associations.
She also had Lady Scarlett’s liver in a cryonic reliquary on her mantel. She’d bought it at auction and hadn’t had to use Maijstral as an agent for that one.
Tvar embraced Maijstral and sniffed his ears. “How pleasant to see you again!” she cried, and cocked her ears toward the boundaries of her estate. “I see you brought a flock of birds with you.”
“Carrion crows, I’m afraid,” Maijstral said, and glanced over his shoulder at the media fliers dropping to a landing outside Tvar’s property.
“Hoping to follow you to your next duel, I imagine.”
“And hoping you’ll punch me while the cameras are looking,” Maijstral added.
He turned as another, larger flier settled onto the lawn, and opened to reveal its passengers. “May I present Her Grace Roberta Altunin, the Duchess of Benn? And her aunt, the Honorable Bathsheba sar Altunin. Mr. Paavo Kuusinen.”
There was a formal sniffing of ears. Tvar gestured toward the flier’s roomy storage compartment. “Who’s in the box?”
“My father, the late Duke.”
“Shall we put him in the crypt, or give him a room?”
“A room, please,” said Aunt Batty indulgently. “I’d like to have someone to ta
lk to while the young people are going about their business.”
“Anastasia?” the late Gustav queried. “Is that you, Anastasia?”
“No, Dad,” Maijstral said. “Mother’s not here.”
“Anastasia isn’t here?” The ex-Duke sounded disappointed. “I thought I heard her voice.”
Maijstral maintained a grip on his patience. “You don’t even like her, Dad. Remember?”
Ex-Dornier paused for thought. “Oh. Yes,” he said. “That’s right. I forgot.”
“Isn’t Nichole coming?” Tvar asked.
“Not at present,” Maijstral said. “No.” Tvar’s ears drooped in disappointment.
The cold-coffin was shown to its room, and Roman and Drexler were set to work booby-trapping Maijstral’s suite for the anticipated descent of Maijstral’s unknown enemy. Maijstral, Roberta, and Aunt Batty were given a tour of Tvar’s collection, which featured sensational artifacts mixed with sculptures and canvases that inclined in their subject matter toward the lurid. Probably the best was Mixton’s Baroness Kharniver Eating the Heart of Her Lover, though Maijstral had a sentimental fondness for Actvor’s The Dying Ralph Adverse Gazes on the Shard, which artfully balanced in its composition the glowing face of the dying burglar, the crystal glass of poison, and the fabulous, shining gem whose original, more luminous than any possible representation, Maijstral had first seen about Roberta’s throat, and which he had in short order removed therefrom.
If Maijstral had an appropriate wall to hang the painting on, he might have acquired it for himself. But from his father he’d inherited practically no property at all, no wall, no mantelpiece, no alcove—nothing suitable for displaying anything fine, anyway. His entire domestic establishment consisted of Roman, Drexler, and a large assortment of luggage. If any great artworks came into his hands, they passed out as efficiently as they’d come.
Maijstral looked at Roberta and, with a start, realized that this situation might soon change. Roberta had walls and mantelpieces in abundance. If he married her, he could probably put anything he wanted on them.
Rock of Ages Page 16
