CHAPTER ONE
Drake Maijstral walked on soft leather buskins down the center of the Peleng City ballroom and never made a noise. He was light-footed by trade.
Above him, ideographs for “long life” and “welcome, travelers” floated below the high ceiling. The glowing holos lit the room more brightly than usual, mainly to provide sufficient light for the large number of media globes that also floated over the assembly.
Individuals, human and not, found themselves reacting to the unexpected brightness in accordance with their character and purpose. Some did not wish their business to be known, and these shrank into the shadows and mumbled with their faces turned to the wall. Those wanting to be seen promenaded beneath the hovering globes or floated on a-grav fields toward the ceiling in hopes a globe might condescend to interview them. Some promenaded in the light, but being self-conscious, blushed. Others tried their best to behave normally and ended up asking themselves what normal was, particularly under these conditions.
Maijstral did none of these things. He had been schooled in ways of maintaining assurance under unusual conditions, was used to a certain amount of media attention; and though his business was not entirely legitimate, he felt no urge to hide in corners and mumble.
The formal stance adopted by most of the guests featured the shoulders pulled back and hips tucked under a slightly curved but nevertheless rigid spine. The pose was natural to a Khosalikh but required training in a human. That Maijstral managed to add a supple grace to this posture was to his credit. He was only a few inches above the human average, but he looked taller. Also to his credit was his dress, which managed to make the most of the monochrome scheme demanded by High Custom— black being the mourning color of most of humanity, and white of the Khosali. He wore little jewelry save the silver pins used to hold back his long brown hair, and the large diamond on one finger. His eyes were a pleasant and unassuming green, and half-closed lids gave the impression of laziness. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties.
Maijstral approached a tall, elegant, somewhat older man, who walked the ballroom unaccompanied. The man had a glass stuck in one eye, and was one of three hundred humans who bore only a single name. His skin was black, his ruffles and boots scarlet.
“Etienne,” said Maijstral. “Maijstral. How delightful.”
Formally they sniffed each other’s ears. A waxed mustachio point jabbed Maijstral’s cheek. “Still in mourning, I see,” said Etienne.
“My father’s still dead,” said Maijstral.
They spoke in High Khosali. Most humans managed the strange intonation and nasal vowels easily enough, but it took training to make proper use of the shifting syntax wherein the structure of each sentence makes a comment on the previous sentence, paragraph, or idea, and in one difficult parsing relates the subject of the conversation to the state of the universe as a whole.
“I remember hearing the news about your father a year or so ago. There’s no hope of recovery, I assume?”
“I’m afraid not. He sends me frequent letters complaining about his condition.”
“The dead can be a burden, I’m sure. But mourning suits your figure well, Maijstral.”
“Thank you. You look elegant, as always. Though I’m not sure the eyeglass is a complete success. I don’t think you’re old enough for such a major affectation.”
Etienne lowered his voice. “It’s cosmetic, I’m afraid. Pearl Woman challenged me on Heath Minor and ran me through the eye. My boot slipped, damn it. There are still a few bruises around the implant.” He paused a moment, as if troubled. “You hadn’t heard?”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve just ended a long passage, and I haven’t caught up on the news.”
“Ah.” Etienne seemed comforted. “Take my arm and walk with me. The citizens seem a bit shy.”
Maijstral fell into step with the other man. Locals parted before them in a certain awe. “I am not surprised,” Maijstral said, “How long has it been since members of the Diadem visited here?”
“Forty standard. And from the looks of this burgh, I can see why.”
Maijstral was diplomatically silent. It is a credit to his teachers that he did not so much as glance upward to see if one of the media globes had overheard this remark. Etienne went on, his parsing indicating irritation. “It’s not so much the reception as the degree of eagerness, if you know what I mean. Too much reverence.”
“They will soon learn to relax in your company, I’m sure.”
“My dear Maijstral, I don’t want them to relax. I’m not supposed to be a neighbor, I’m supposed to be a god.”
Anyone, Maijstral reflected, who has got a rapier through the eye and then discovered that an old acquaintance hasn’t even heard about it might be forgiven a certain amount of peevishness, even inconsistent peevishness. Maijstral shrugged.
“In that case reverence is only your due,” he said. “Relish it, it is the coinage of godhood.” Spoken in the difficult parsing relating the subject matter to the condition of existence.
Etienne wasn’t so peeved he didn’t know when someone had scored a point, but his recovery was graceful. He bowed to a tall blond woman who was approaching them at a lazy walk. She was elegantly dressed in blue and silver, and looked younger than her thirty-two years.
“Ah. Nichole. Maijstral was just asking about you.”
Her scent was familiar and struck him like a silken glove. “My lady. I am ravished.” Maijstral brushed her knuckles with his lips before sniffing her ears. She was taller than Maijstral, and pale. She, like Etienne, bore only a forename. She smiled at Maijstral whitely.
“Drake. Such a joy to see you after all this time. Mourning looks well on you.” She spoke Human Standard.
“Thank you. And thanks again for the kind note on the death of my father.”
“How is he, by the way?”
The media globes were beginning to jostle one another above Nichole’s head. Etienne made his excuses, sniffed ears, and departed. Nichole took Maijstral’s arm. Her nearness to him conveyed old intimacies, suggested new hopes. Linked, they strolled the length of the ballroom. At least fifty men turned red and mentally assassinated Maijstral on the spot.
*
“Etienne seemed disturbed I hadn’t heard of his duel.”
“His share was going down, you know. This mandated an affaire de coeur with a protégée of Pearl Woman, an affaire d’honneur with the Pearl herself, and then the new eye. A silly business. The second duel among the Diadem in a twelvemonth. Pearl Woman was furious.”
“He told me his boot slipped.”
“Perhaps it did. One hopes it will cure him of martial ambition. Dueling is habit-forming, though luckily suicide is not.”
Even the Khosali, who had reintroduced to humanity the twin fashions of dueling and suicide, had mixed feelings about this part of High Custom. There is a Khosali saying, “Any fool can die in a duel.” (They have a similar saying about suicide.) The tone of Nichole’s comments (though spoken in Human Standard, which does not have the contextual modes of High Khosali) somehow managed to convey the essence of the Khosali expression without actually saying it.
Nuance, nuance. The globes, such as heard, loved it. “How is Roman? Is he well?”
Maijstral smiled. “Roman is Roman. He’ll be pleased you asked after him, but he will be secretly pleased.”
As they spoke they watched each other, listened, touched. Explored, in their minds, possibilities. Each in search of a conclusion, a resolution.
“He’s much the same, then. And yourself?”
Maijstral cocked his head while considering the question. “Well enough, I suppose.”
“You’re too young for ennui. That’s more my line.”
“Did that sound like ennui? I intended a becoming modesty.”
“You’re not a modest man, Drake. Don’t assume virtues you don’t possess.” Said lightly, but still with a touch of vinegar. She had changed in four years.
“I have to assume at least a few,” Maijstral said, “else I’ll have none at all.”
She put her free hand on his arm. “Now that’s more like the Drake Maijstral I remember.”
The second hand on his arm was an external sign of an inner process. She had come to a resolution regarding Maijstral, a resolution similar to that which he had reached himself some moments before. It was perhaps impolite, and certainly assumed much, for him to reach such a resolution so soon.
She looked at a group of Khosali standing a short distance away. “Are those Imperials snubbing us? They stand facing the wall.”
“That is Baron Sinn and his friends. He was always deep in conspiracy with my father. I suspect he is a spy. He probably regrets being here at all, considering the media attention this is getting.”
“What is there here worth spying on? A provincial planet, sufficiently far from the border to have little military value.”
“He must earn his wages somehow.”
Trumpets sounded from the a-grav orchestra suspended near the arched ceiling. People began sorting themselves out into couples and lines. “Ah,” said Maijstral, “the Pilgrimage to the Cinnamon Temple. Will you partner me?”‘
“Delighted, sir.”
The Pilgrimage was originally a sprightly dance called Going to Market, but eight hundred years before, during the reign of an elderly, arthritic Emperor, the pace had been slowed down and a more stately name applied. The change proved to have unexpected benefits. Because the dancers changed partners frequently, the slower tread gave everyone in the line the chance to sniff ears and exchange introductions and witticisms—and if you were short of witticisms, you could repeat the same one over and over without fear of being a bore.
Cinnamon Temple was, therefore, the perfect get-acquainted dance.
The trumpet call repeated, and the dance began. Maijstral advanced toward his partner and sniffed. “Will you come see me tomorrow?” Nichole asked.
“I’d be delighted,” he answered. She was circling him, stately, her arm crooked to hold an imaginary market basket.
“Can you come at sixteen? I have to witness an Elvis impersonation at eighteen, and you can be my escort.”
Maijstral did a caper. “I’ll dress formally, then.”
“God knows what it will be like.” Nichole sighed. “He probably won’t even be able to get ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ right.”
*
“I don’t like it, Pietro. Baron Sinn being here.”
Pietro was a young man, gangly, of medium height. His partner was a few years older, with dark, short-clipped hair and a serious mien. Pietro was the taller, but only by virtue of high-heeled boots.
“I don’t like it, either. Miss Jensen,” Pietro said. “Perhaps he intends to interfere in the auction.”
“Damn it. We can’t outbid him. If only Tartaglia were here. I sent him a message, but no reply as yet.”
“Oops. Sorry.”
“You shouldn’t dance in heels unless . . . Oh, hell. Later, Pietro.”
*
“Baron, a word.” Sinn was a Khosalikh; tall, with a pointed face and ebony skin beneath his dark fur. His interrogator was a human; short, fair, with intense blue eyes that glittered like diamond-bearing sand. She was in her fifties but looked ten years younger.
The Baron touched his warm nose to her cheek. “Countess.”
Her ears pricked downward. “There may be a complication. I see that Maijstral is here.”
“He has the contents of a planet to choose from, ma’am. I would not be concerned. The chances of our interests being similar are not great.”
“Perhaps the simplest way is just to ask.”
“I don’t wish to betray our intentions to such an uncertain character. We shall simply watch, and wait.”
Her mouth hung open, her tongue lolled. A Khosali smile. “Still. I haven’t seen him in years. Will you join me, Baron, at the bottom of the set?”
“With pleasure. Countess. Take my arm.”
*
“Drake Maijstral, sir.” Mutual sniffs.
“Lieutenant Navarre. I see we’re both in mourning.” He was a tall man, copper-skinned, about thirty, in uniform with a mourning cloak.
“I’m afraid I don’t recognize the uniform. A local unit?”
A dismissive laugh. “No. I’m from Pompey. I just inherited some property here, and I have to inspect it.”
“Substantial property, I hope.”
“Oh, no. Just a house and some land. A lot of bric-a-brac— my uncle had eccentric tastes, but he wasn’t rich. I’m selling it all.”
"I hope you don't think me impertinent for asking."
A shrug. “Not at all. What else is there to talk about, between strangers?”
*
“. . . Yes. My boot slipped, damn it.”
“It was such a beautiful eye. I think it was your eyes that made me fall in love with you, years ago when I was a child.”
“Er. Yes. To be sure.”
*
“Drake Maijstral, sir.”
“Pietro Quijano, sir. Say, are you the Drake Maijstral?”
“Ah . . .”
“Oh. I’m terribly sorry, sir. These are new shoes.”
“Think nothing of it, sir. The answer to your question, I’m afraid, is yes.”
A pause. “Sir? What question was that?”
*
“Hello again, Nichole. That was a lovely turn you just did.”
“I had to try something new. I’ve done this dance so many times. . . .”
“Who’s filled with ennui now?”
A wry laugh. “I just danced a measure with the most appalling woman. Countess Anastasia. You blanch, Drake.”
“She must have arrived late, else I would have seen her.” Maijstral’s hooded eyes could not entirety conceal his disquiet. “A spectre from my youth.”
“She must have found out that Baron Sinn was here. I don’t suppose she came to see you.”
“My father was terrified of her. and with reason. Truthfully, so was I.” He craned his head down the set. “Possibly she won’t notice me.”
“I wouldn’t count on it, Drake. I would guess that woman notices everything.”
*
“Hullo, Pietro.”
“I’m having a good time. Miss Jensen.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Here we are, involved in a serious intrigue, and with all these famous people around . . . it’s just like the Magic Planet of Adventure.”
“The what?”
“Didn’t you watch Ronnie Romper as a child? I did.”
“Of course. I’d forgotten.”
“Do you know who’s here. Miss Jensen? Drake Maijstral. The Drake Maijstral.”
“I’m sorry to be dense, Pietro, but I’m not sure who you mean.”
“Don’t you follow sports? The Khovenburg Glacier? The Inside Straight Affaire?”
“Ah. I remember now. Which one is he?”
“Over there. Talking to the onion-head. I was thinking. . . . He might help us with our, uh, problem.”
“Oh. “A tone of surprise. “That’s a good idea, Pietro.” Two beats’ pause. “Is it really?”
*
“Yes. Bad luck. My boot slipped.”
*
“Drake Maijstral, sir.”
A high-pitched voice composed of glorious harmonies. “Count Quik.” The Count was a Troxan, less than four feet tall, with a large, round head composed of translucent layers of alternating brain tissue and cartilage. There were no external ears, as the structure of the head produced a resonance that had much the same function. Maijstral had to make approximations during the get-acquainted sniff.
“On unbusiness I am inning this system,” the Count explained. “Humanity is me interested. I big tour taking am. Am on Earth big finishing, acquaintance making.”
Maijstral wondered if teaching implants for Human Standard had never been developed for Troxans. “That sounds delightful,” he said. “I have never been to Earth.”
“You touring should. Home of Elvis and ancient Greeks.”
“It’s near the border, too, and I’m heading that way. I should make plans. Yes. Definitely.”
*
“Lieutenant Navarre, ma’am.”
“Nichole. The Pompey High Seas Scouts, I see.”
“You recognized my uniform? I’m astonished at your breadth of knowledge, ma’am. Have you been to Pompey?”
“Alas, no.” A smile. “But I’ve always liked a man in uniform.”
*
“Drake Maijstral, madam.”
“Amalia Jensen, sir. Are you the Maijstral of the Mirrorglass BellBox?”
“I’m afraid that was Geoff Fu George, madam.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Think nothing of it. The comparison flatters me.”
Briskly, “I was wondering, though . . . perhaps we could discuss business.”
“I am rapt attention, madam.”
“An antiquity. About to be sold at auction. I’m afraid I might be outbid.”
“I shall be happy to hear you. Please continue when next we share a measure.”
“Delighted.”
*
“Such a shame. I hope you’ve acquired a new pair to go with the new eye.”
*
“Maijstral, sir.”
“Paavo Kuusinen.” He was a slight, cool man, entering middle age.
“That coat is cut Empire-fashion. Are you with the Sinn party?”
“I travel alone, sir. On business.”
Maijstral could think of no reply to that, and the man’s manner discouraged intimacy. He danced on.
*
“Drake.”
“Nichole.”
“Do you know that four hundred lives are lost annually on Pompey, in accidents relating to the sea?”
“Ah. I see you have been talking to the man in uniform.”
“He is full of facts, Maijstral. How long has it been since I’ve actually heard a fact? Not a supposition, or a rumor, or a piece of gossip, but an actual clear-cut fact? Four hundred lives. A fact.”
“It is a fact that you are beautiful.”
“It is a fact with which I am distressingly familiar.”
*
“Pietro Quijano.”
“General Gerald. Marines. Retired.” The General was a broad-shouldered man, erect, his face set in an expression of permanent fury.
“Your servant, sir.”
“Ridiculous business, this dance. I’ve sniffed so many dirty necks tonight it’s scandalous. Yours could use a little wash, by the way.”
“Ah— I’ll attend to it straight away. I say, do you know who I just met? Drake Maijstral. You know, the Khovenburg Glacier. The Swiss Cheese Incident.”
“Maijstral? Here? Where?”
“There. In mourning.”
“Hah! An outrage. And here, in this company.”
“Oh. Sorry, sir.”
“You shouldn’t be wearing heels, young man. you don’t need the extra height.”
“Oh.” Beat. “Do you really think so?”
*
“Nichole.”
“Paavo Kuusinen. Your servant, ma’am.”
“Are you traveling from the Empire?”
“Yes, ma’am. Is it that obvious?”
“If you wish to remain anonymous, you should have that coat altered.”
“I am chagrined. I am a student of human nature, and I had hoped to blend in, the better simply to watch the rest of humanity at their games. My tailor assured me this was the latest style.”
“Our fashions no longer come from the Empire. There are some here who would count that a loss.”
*
“Drake Maijstral.”
“General Gerald. Marines. Retired. Come after anything of mine and I’ll kill you.”
Astonishment. A caper terminated at the halfway point. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I have no intention—”
“I don’t give a damn about your intentions. It’s results that I’m after. Move in my direction and I’ll kill you, or have it done. That’s fair warning.”
“Fair enough, sir.”
“I don’t need your judgments as to my fairness either, damn you. Go sniff that lady’s neck and get the hell out of my sight.”
*
“Miss Jensen, if all is as you say, my fee would be at least sixty. More if the job is difficult.”
“Do you doubt my information?”
“Your information may not be up to date.”
“Your price is . . . high, Maijstral.”
“You aren’t allowing me media rights. If you change your mind, the price will go down.”
“Sorry. I’m firm on that point.”
“Then I’m firm on my price. My apologies, miss.”
*
“I saw that fight of yours. Damn bad business.”
“Yes, General. Unfortunately my boot slipped.”
“Hah. You’re a liar, or perhaps an idiot. She dropped a foot on your instep, you lost your concentration, she caught your blade in forte and you were done for. A midshipman could have done better.”
“Sir!”
“Don’t play the outraged man of action with me. I may be past retirement, but I know better than to fall for tricks like that. I’d cut you to ribbons.”
*
“Maijstral.”
“Countess.” There was a distressing wail in his nerves, a tendency in his limbs to tremble and betray his resolution. It is not pleasant to discover that a childhood ogre still has teeth, still possesses the ability to quicken the pulse, tighten the diaphragm, weaken the knees.
Extreme formality, he hoped, would keep the ogre at bay. “Allow me to express my thanks for the kind note on my father’s death.”
“He was the worthy son of a great man. You could do no better than to emulate him.” She spoke in High Khosali, her pronunciation impeccable.
Maijstral drew his ears back into the High Custom expression of qualified agreement. (High Custom demands mobile ears. Pity Count Quik, deprived of such a valued means of expression.)
“Given the nature of the times,” he said, “that is impossible.” He answered in Khosali Standard, which he suspected might throw her off balance somewhat.
Her eyes glittered like chips of polished blue stone. “Given your nature, you mean.”
Maijstral shrugged. “Perhaps. If you like.”
“You are here on business connected with your . . . occupation, then?”
He smiled. “Of course not. Countess. I am here to visit the zoo and see the methanites.”
“The zoo.” Countess Anastasia’s face never seemed to change expression; she regarded him with an intensity he found not only frightening but somewhat embarrassing.
“Your father was a steady man," she said.
“He moved steadily into debt.”
“I could find you employment, if that’s what you want.”
“I prefer not to impose on old connections. Countess.” Longing for the measure to end.
Ears turned downward, the Khosali mark of disdain. “Pride. Pride and unsteadiness. It is not a fortunate combination.”
“It is not a fortunate time. Countess. To our mutual regret, I’m sure.”
The measure ended, and Maijstral faced the man on his right. His nerves were still singing. Honors, he thought, were about even. Not bad for a man forced to relive the tenors of childhood.
*
“Baron Sinn.”
“Ah. The spy.”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“General Gerald. Marines. Retired. You’re the Khosali spy.”
“You are mistaken, sir.” Coldly. Drawn up to his full height, which was not quite that of the General’s.
“You are a military officer, traveling under commercial cover, with two Khosali as military in appearance as yourself. If that ain’t a spy, I don’t know what is.”
“I do not believe, sir, we have anything further to say to one another.”
“You mistake me. I have plenty to say. But I’m willing to defer it, if you like.”
*
“Ah. The last measure. I trust the room is brimming with new acquaintances.”
Nichole looked at him with an amused smile. “You seem pleased with yourself, Drake. Did you conduct some piece of business?”
“I managed to hold off the awful Countess, and without being any more offensive than she.”
“Ah. True cause for rejoicing.” The dance ended and the set tapped their toes in a pattern of approval. (High Custom again. At least they didn’t have to rotate their ears.) Nichole put her arm in Maijstral’s and they began strolling through a dispersing, parti-colored cloud of couples.
“Etienne looks out of sorts,” she said. “I wonder why?”
“Perhaps he’s promised Countess Anastasia the next dance. May I offer you refreshment?”
“Thank you.”
Media globes hovered nearer, their close-up lenses making soft whirs as they focused on the two faces. Somewhere in their controllers’ headquarters, expert lip-readers leaned closer to their video screens. Their concentration on this single inconsequential conversation caused them to miss three choice syllables from General Gerald, who was looking after Maijstral with an expression of disgust on his high-colored face.
Maijstral fetched Nichole a sorbet and took a glass of rink for himself. He glanced over the crowd again, seeing the Countess in intent conversation with Baron Sinn. Both of them looked abruptly in his direction, then away. He wondered whether he had it in him to face the Countess again tonight, decided not.
“I think I shall retire, Nichole,” he said. “I just arrived on Peleng this morning, and it was a long trip. I’ve missed siesta entirely. I came only to see you.”
If Nichole was piqued, she didn’t show it. In light of Maijstral’s last remark, she mentally reviewed the resolution she had made earlier, then confirmed it.
“I will see you, then, tomorrow morning,” she said. They exchanged sniffs.
“I’m delighted you’re here, Drake. Old friends always increase one’s pleasure in new scenery.”
“At your service, Nichole. As always.”
The orchestra began to tune again. Floating holograms announced the Pathfinder. An eager young man tottered on high heels toward Nichole and bowed.
“Pietro Quijano, miss. Perhaps you remember. May I have the honor of the dance?”
If Nichole felt dismay at this apparition, she concealed it well. She smiled. “But of course.” Media globes floated after them.
Maijstral finished his rink, abandoned by the media and feeling better for it. He strolled along the wall toward the exit, spoke briefly to Amalia Jensen, confirmed their earlier conversation, and promised he would be in touch. He strolled for the exit, and was about to walk through the cool hologram-patterned door when he was intercepted.
“Pardon me, sir.” A man in uniform, Maijstral recognized, and a bearer of facts.
“Lieutenant Navarre.”
“I wonder, sir, if I might beg your indulgence in the answering of . . . well, an insolent question.”
Maijstral regarded him with his lazy green eyes. “Speak on, sir.”
“The young lady you were just speaking to? An old friend, perhaps?”
“You mean Miss Jensen. We just met, on the Pilgrimage.”
Navarre seemed relieved. “There is no attachment, then?”
“None. sir. The field is clear.”
The man grinned. “Thank you, sir. Please forgive the impertinence.”
“Your servant.” Maijstral bowed and walked into the warm Peleng night. A media globe asked for an interview but was refused. He had all the publicity he needed.