CHAPTER THREE
The Elvis was human and dressed in white and sequins. His movements— the way he leaned into the chrome microphone, the pelvic thrusts, even the gesture used in wiping sweat from his forehead with a red silk handkerchief— all were highly stylized, as ritualized as the steps of a Balinese dancer.
A holographic band stood in partial shadow behind. Stacks of obsolete and highly unnecessary amplifiers were placed on the wings of the stage, and the sound was arranged to boom from them as though they were real.
“Hunka hunka burnin’ love” sang the King of Rock and Roll. The screaming of debutantes centuries dead wailed up around the stage in answer to the meaningless pre-Standard lyrics. The Elvis leaned forward, mopped sweat from his brow, and presented the handkerchief to one of his assistants in the audience. The assistant brought it to Nichole, the guest of honor, who bowed and accepted it graciously, momentarily illuminated by spotlights. The audience offered polite applause.
“Now what the hell do I do with it, Maijstral?” Nichole asked, drawing her hand across her mouth so the ever-present media globes could not read her lips. “I’m not going to sit here all night with a wet rag in my hand.”
Maijstral looked at her with sympathy. Her costume, a bluish thing composed of several semitransparent layers of pseudocarapace, did not allow for pockets. “I’ll take it, if you like,” he said. “Or I can tie it around your arm.”
The spotlight on Nichole faded. Her diamond earrings and necklace dimmed. “I’ll send it to Etienne,” she decided. “It suits his coloring better.” She signaled one of her coterie and whispered instructions. Etienne, in the next box, yawned behind his hand. He had decided to be bored by Peleng.
Before the concert Maijstral and Nichole had an enjoyable luncheon, discussing their lives, their times, old friends. He had discovered she had a tendency to assume he knew more about Diadem affairs than he really did, but he managed, he thought, to cover his ignorance fairly well. He really didn’t keep up with gossip.
Maijstral leaned back and felt his chair adjust to his contours. He glanced across the hall and saw Countess Anastasia sharing a box with Baron Sinn. She gazed at him intently with her ice-blue eyes. A brief alarm sang in his nerves. He bowed to her, and she nodded back.
She calls me irregular, he thought. It was the Khosali who made Elvis a part of High Custom and left Shakespeare out. Probably, he reflected, because there were too many successful rebellions against monarchs in Shakespeare. And Elvis was a mock rebel who became, in the end, a pillar of the social order.
Maijstral liked Shakespeare a good deal, having read him in the new translation by Maxwell Aristide. The comedies, he thought, were especially good. This was, he supposed, an indication of his low taste. Most people found them unsubtle.
*
The lobby bar was padded in red leather and featured more polished brass than was strictly tasteful. Media globes bounced uncomfortably along the low ceiling and stared at the intermission crowd. Half the audience, having stayed long enough to make certain they were noticed, took the opportunity to slip away from the incomprehensible performance.
Maijstral sipped his cold rink. His lazy eyes passed slowly over the crowd, taking in clothing, accessories, jewelry. Making mental notes.
“Yes,” he said. “A playwright, a very good one. The Constellation Practices Authority rediscovered him and had Aristide translate him.”
“I shall look for it, sir,” said Pietro Quijano. His brow wrinkled and he tugged at his lower lip. “Do you think it’s political, sir?”
“Nothing overt that I could see. But the Khosali buried him for some reason, so who knows?”
Pietro tugged at his lower lip again. Maijstral followed the direction of his gaze and saw Amalia Jensen talking to Lieutenant Navarre. Navarre nodded and smiled in answer to something Miss Jensen said. Pietro’s frown deepened.
Maijstral finished his rink.
“If you will excuse me, sir,” he said, “I should see if Nichole needs refreshment.”
“Certainly,” Pietro murmured, and then he tore his gaze away from Jensen and brightened a bit. “She was a most stimulating dance partner, sir. Please give her my compliments.”
“Of course.”
Maijstral made his way to where Nichole was giving an exclusive interview to one persistent media globe. “We’re old, dear friends, of course,” she was saying. “I’m afraid it would be inappropriate for me to comment further.”
Said with a hesitation, a little flutter of the eyes. Nuance, Maijstral thought. Once he’d thought her very good at this, but in the last four years she’d become an artist.
After the interview the globe drifted away and Nichole took Maijstral’s arm. Maijstral gave her Pietro’s message. “A dreadful dancer,” she said. “He kept tripping over his own damn boots.”
“You made him look good, I’m sure.”
Her eyes glistened. “I’m sure I did.” She tapped his arm. “Do you see our High Seas Scout friend over yonder?”
Maijstral gazed once again at Lieutenant Navarre, who was still intently listening to Amalia Jensen. “Certainly.”
“Would you do me the favor of asking him to sup with me this evening? I’d do it myself, but the globes are sure to notice, and they’ll never leave off harassing the poor man.”
Nichole, Maijstral reflected, would never have asked a man on this kind of errand four years ago. This was the sort of thing she had an entourage for. He reflected again on his earlier resolution and was thankful it appeared to complement hers.
“Of course,” he said, “What time?”
“Thirty or so.” Nichole smiled. “I’d invite you, but I’m sure you’ll be off on business,”
He answered her smile. “I’m afraid it would be inappropriate for me to comment further.”
“As I thought.” Knowingly. She patted his forearm.
“I’d love to see you tomorrow, though. Luncheon again?”
“Delighted.”
She glanced up and saw more media globes moving in. Her face did not exactly fall, but grew more controlled, less spontaneous. Less delighted. “Please fetch me some champagne, Drake, will you?” she asked. Her voice was silky. Maijstral sniffed her ears— this was a High Custom event, after all— then bowed and withdrew.
“Not much pelvis,” said a high, wonderfully resonant voice. “Troxans cannot Elvis do well.”
Maijstral bowed in Count Quik’s direction as he strolled by the tiny round-headed alien. Amalia Jensen’s laughter hung in the air. She was finding Lieutenant Navarre amusing. Maijstral glided toward them and touched the copper-skinned lieutenant on the arm. “With Miss Jensen’s permission, a word, sir.”
Miss Jensen gave her consent. Maijstral murmured Nichole’s message. Navarre looked confused.
“Oh. I’m flattered. And delighted. But I’m afraid”— he looked toward Amalia, who smiled, more at Maijstral than at Navarre— “I’m committed for this evening. With Miss Jensen. Please give Nichole my sincerest regrets.”
Maijstral glanced up at a clattering noise and saw Pietro, standing about ten feet behind Navarre, trying to extricate himself from the rubble of a spilled drink tray while a purse-lipped hostess looked at him with annoyance.
“I’ll convey your apologies,” Maijstral said. “I’m sure Nichole will understand.”
He walked to the bar and asked for champagne. Receiving his glass, he turned to stare into the intent eyes of the Countess Anastasia. Looming over her was the bulk of Baron Sinn. Maijstral’s blood turned cold— that old reflex again— but he smiled and exchanged sniffs.
“Champagne, Countess?”
“I have sworn not to drink champagne within the boundaries of the Constellation,” she said, “till the Empire be restored.”
“I fear you will have a long wait,” Maijstral said.
“Your father—” she began. Anger surged in Maijstral’s heart.
“Remains dead,” Maijstral said. He sniffed her and excused himself.
The woman had always got to him, damn it. He had to wait some moments before Nichole was sufficiently clear of media globes to convey Navarre’s regrets, and he used that time to calm himself. Nichole, when she heard the message, was astonished.
“He turned me down, Maijstral! What am I to do with myself this evening? It’s one of the few free moments allowed in my schedule.”
“I would offer to keep you company, but . . .” Maijstral’s heavy-lidded eyes gave the impression of slyness. “I really do have other plans, my lady.”
“I don’t suppose I could watch.”
Maijstral kissed her hand. “I’m afraid your presence would attract unwelcome attention.”
Nichole sighed. “I hope you’ll send me the vid, at least.”
“Perhaps I’ll be able to send you something interesting before you leave. My general run of jobs aren’t very enthralling, though.”
She pointed at the white stone on his finger. “I can always recognize your videos by the ring. When I see it, I cheer.”
Maijstral smiled. “The ring is my trademark. They alter my face and body in the vids, but I need something noticeable to keep my place in the standings.”
“Do you like the way Laurence is playing you, by the way? He looks more like you; but I thought Anaya seemed to capture your personality better.”
“Truth to tell, my lady, I never watch them.” Nichole gave a skeptical laugh. Maijstral looked at her. “I’ve lived through it once,” he said, “I have no desire to see an imitation.”
“If you insist, Maijstral.”
Maijstral touched the clusters of diamonds hanging from one of Nichole’s ears. His eyes widened with professional interest. “These are lovely, by the way. Are you certain you should wear them in such dangerous company?”
“They’re not mine— the Landor Company lets me use them in return for a credit. They might even be delighted should they disappear— it could attract attention to their wares.”
“We might discuss that,” Maijstral said. “Luncheon. Tomorrow.” He kissed her hand again. “Of course.” The screams of a holographic audience began to echo from the theater, the signal that the second half of the performance was about to begin.
Nichole linked her arm in his. “I’ll simply have to resign myself to a lonely evening tonight. No one would credit it.”
“Cherish it, my lady,” Maijstral said. “An event of such rarity must be savored.”
“Pah,” Nichole said as they began to stroll toward their box. “It just means I’m getting old. Or passé.” But she seemed pleased.
*
One of the consequences of the odd and complex relationship between humanity and the Khosali is that, deplore us though they may, many Khosali find irreverence and irresponsibility interesting, and the human style of irreverence and irresponsibility of particular fascination. A human will perform what the stodgy Khosalikh only dreams about. Humans dance till five in the morning and show up late at work, suffering from hangovers. Humans write satires about Imperial officials and farces in which scores of people end up hiding in closets or under the bed. Humans engage in passionate relationships with people to whom they are not married, sometimes proclaim these relationships actually improved them, and frequently (and most tellingly) fail to kill themselves afterward in a display of proper atonement. Some even commit the profounder sin of living happily ever after. Though the Diadem was created for human consumption, their joys, scrapes, and follies have a small but devoted following among the Khosali.
Even when the Khosali influence over humanity was at its height, the conquerors often had the unsettling impression that the humans were laughing at them behind their backs. Little did the Khosali know but that when Earth’s children served up the punch line, it was going to be a doozy.
The punch line was, of course, the Great Rebellion, in which humanity rid itself of the Imperial System, the Imperial caste, and the unfortunate Pendjalli Emperor, Nnis CVI, whose luckless person was seized at pistol-point in his very own palace by Scholder’s Death Commandos. As part of the peace treaty, a pledge was extorted from poor Nnis to let the Human Constellation alone, a pledge which thus far he has been scrupulous to honor. This was the only rebellion, let alone the only successful one, to be perpetrated by a subject species once it had got over the trauma of its initial conquest. The whole precedent-breaking affair was such a shock to Nnis that he moulted and retired prematurely to his cryogenic vault, whence he still lies, heirless and alone.
The Emperor’s termination of the war doesn’t keep individuals on both sides of the border from wishing things were different. To the dismay of human ideologues, there is a large human minority in the Empire who live seemingly happy lives under the Imperial System and have no desire to emigrate to the Constellation. And on the human side, a large Khosali minority seem to lead contented and productive lives in the Constellation, expressing no more than a sentimental longing for the Empire.
And of course there are the troublemakers. The Human Constellation is blessed with a small but noisy Imperial party who claim the revolt was a mistake. For the most part they are a despised and ignored group of (largely human) malcontents, but they did win nineteen percent of the vote in the last election on Baroda, a figure so disturbing that the victorious Symbolist-Commonwealth party decided to do away with elections altogether until the Barodans developed a more refined sense of social responsibility.
On the Imperial side of the border there are a number of voices loudly proclaiming the Constellation an insane aberration, proclaiming as well the necessity to reincorporate the Constellation within the borders of the Empire. Thus far the City of Seven Bright Rings can afford to ignore these noises, as they come mostly from the humiliated descendants of those leaders who lost the revolt in the first place— many Imperial military positions are hereditary, a fact which is offered by human partisans as a major reason for the revolt’s success. The Reconquest Party’s constant agitation serves, however, as a continuing pretext for the Human Constellation’s rate of taxation, which is far higher than was the Empire’s due to the necessity of keeping a large fleet in being to prevent an Imperial resurgency.
For the most part, however, the Reconquest Party is ignored. Nnis does not wish another war— the first was shocking enough— and for the most part the rest of the Empire has not yet recovered from the surprise of the human action. New possibilities have been awakened here, and other subject races are beginning to realize it. Odd though it may seem, revolt hadn’t even been considered before.
Despite the revolt and its consequences. High Custom continues on both sides of the border— there is no acceptable alternative, no agreed-upon human standard of behavior. There is, however, a constant search within the Constellation for a true culture based on universal human principles— the report of the Constellation Practices Authority has been widely anticipated for the last generation, and is said to be in the final stages of the preparation. Until the CPA finishes its work, however, Imperial law and custom prevail in most of the human sphere. Even Imperial titles and grants of nobility are used as a matter of courtesy, though they have no official basis in law. The high Imperial caste has been thrown on its own resources for the first time in its history, and its members rise and fall by their own abilities. It is something they’d got out of the habit of doing. Within the aristocracy there is still a prejudice against working in trade, but some have been reduced to it. Many lost souls wander from place to place, living in High Custom as much as possible, looking for a home.
There are a lot of wanderers. After all, if through a fluke of ancestry you were saddled with being Baron Drago, Viscount Sing, Duke of Dornier, Prince-Bishop of Nana, and Hereditary Captain-General of the Green Legion, you could hardly ignore it, and neither, you would discover, would anyone else. It could hardly have escaped your attention that you were the hereditary exemplar of a social system that had no function or even relevance, that existed only because of cultural inertia— and then what would you do? Yearn for the past? Try to reach an accommodation with the present? Try to create a future more agreeable?
You might even decide to steal for a living. Who knows?
*
A new set of holographic representations rotated in the niches. The day art was pleasantly different from the night pieces— brighter, more cheerful.
“Trouble, boss.” Gregor’s eyes twitched as he sucked on a smokeless hi-stick. “We were followed today. Roman and me both.”
Maijstral’s ears were still ringing from the aftereffects of the concert. He frowned as Roman began to work on the complicated knotting of his jacket. “Police?” he asked.
Gregor grimaced. “Can police afford Jefferson-Singh high-performance fliers?”
Maijstral brows lifted. “Indeed?” He looked over his shoulder at Roman.
“Both shadows were Khosali,” Roman reported. “Mine was female, about twenty. I didn’t notice her until after I had begun my inquiries about Miss Jensen. Then I gave her the slip.”
“I spotted mine right away,” Gregor said. He shook his long hair out of his eyes. “He was another Khosalikh, a mate. A big bastard, too, which was how I saw him so quick. He was easy enough to lose, though.”
“Thrill seekers, possibly,” Maijstral said. He shrugged out of his jacket, and Roman took his pistol and began unlacing the side seam of Maijstral’s tight trousers. “Perhaps they want the credit for catching us. Or maybe they just want to watch us work.”
“Mine didn’t look like he was out for fun,” Gregor said. “He looked like he wanted to dismember me with his bare hands.’’
“Maybe police after all.”
“He had that look. But I think he may have something to do with the commission.” He sucked on his hi-stick again. “Tell him what you found out, Roman.”
“Miss Jensen is the local head of Humanity Prime,” Roman said carefully. His ears trembled with the repressed urge to turn downward in disapproval. “Mr. Quijano is the treasurer.’’
“I see,” Maijstral said. Humanity Prime was a group formed to assure human domination of the Constellation, and its membership ran from perfectly respectable citizens to denizens of the gutter. The more respectable among them supported good works such as the Constellation Practices Authority, issued propaganda questioning the absurdities of High Custom, called for larger human families so as to keep the aliens outnumbered on human turf, and promoted expansion toward new worlds. They made a point of keeping up-to-date on the latest advances in Imperial weaponry and tactics, and supported the Constellation military in its never-ending quest for funding and expansion.
The less reputable elements of Humanity Prime were something else again, and included paramilitary groups formed to resist alien attacks and groups that spread scandal about prominent nonhumans— “inhumans” being their preferred term. Their activities included active harassment, the sending of thugs to disrupt Imperialist activities, and sometimes actual violence.
Humanity Prime’s main branch never ceased to deplore such crude tactics, and to explain that they were not representative of their goals or membership. But somehow the parent organization never seemed to withdraw the charters of any of their groups who brought them disrepute.
Maijstral’s own ears almost twitched downward. He’d had his own problems with humanity’s partisans in the past.
“You think a Khosali group is monitoring Jensen and her contacts?” he asked.
“That may be possible, sir,” Roman said.
Maijstral left his trouser laces dangling and went to the front window, holding up his pants with his left hand. He touched the polarizer control and gazed out into the late afternoon. The sun cast blue tones onto the grove across the sward, giving the chrome-yellow leaves a greenish cast. “Are they still out there?” Maijstral asked.
“In the grove, sir? Yes.”
Maijstral indulged his irritation. “Blast them, anyway. What could they want?”
Roman’s voice was hesitant. “If I may offer a suggestion, sir?”
“Certainly.”
“Jensen’s group is almost certainly aware of your family’s history. They may intend to embarrass you, and will have informed the police of your commission. You may be walking into a trap.”
“So the Khosali in the grove may be our friends?”
“That doesn’t make any sense, Roman.” Gregor’s voice was loud in rebuttal. Roman’s nostrils flickered. “If that bastard who followed me around this morning is a friend, I’ll eat my boots. And if they don’t like what Jensen’s up to, why don’t they just warn us instead of keeping us under surveillance?’’ He snapped his used hi-stick in half, then doubled the fragments and snapped them again. He looked around for a place to put them and found none, so he stuck the fragments in his pocket. “They want the damn artifact, if you ask me. They’re going to try to snatch it from us as soon as we’ve got it.”
Maijstral considered the alternatives and found Gregor’s case more convincing. But there were still questions here, unknown factors, unknown quantities. He was not yet at the stage in his career where he could make many mistakes.
“We’ll advance our schedule,” he said, and polarized the window again. He turned to his servant. “Roman, I’ll require you to be very busy tonight. You’re going to pay some calls.”
*
Maijstral hung suspended in tenuous a-grav darkness above the house of the late Admiral Scholder. His own private media globes circled around him, recording everything— Jensen might yet change her mind about media rights. He had neutralized the outside alarm— a simple hemispheric cold-field— and was now contemplating his options for gaining entrance.
Skylights, doors, or windows? If he wanted to be dramatic he could cut right through a roof or wall.
His heartbeat was fast and smooth. His muscles moved easily, without wasted motion. Fortunately all the alarms and guards were automated. Even at the thought of a live guard, his mouth went dry.
“Sentients are unpredictable,” he had always told Gregor. “Always go for the automated systems. You can trust them to act as they’re supposed to.” He was never certain whether Gregor believed him or not. Whatever, it was something he needn’t worry about right now. He decided to go for one of the skylights.
Maijstral dropped weightlessly toward the roof, a wispy opaque night-cloud. He was, even at this moment, perfectly aware of the traditional bulk of High Custom scowling at him from out of the night. For even here he fulfilled one of High Custom’s many roles, that of Allowed Burglar.
High Custom allowed a person to steal for a living, provided he followed certain rules: he must do the job by himself; the person from whom he steals has to be able to afford the loss; there can be no serious violence— bopping the odd guard over the head is allowed, but crushing his skull is not. The object stolen had to be of artistic, sensational, or piquant interest (no large quantities of cash or uncut stones, say, although there was nothing in the rules against pocketing same if they happen to be in the same vault as the Costikyan Emerald). The stolen objects had to remain in the burglar’s possession through the midnight of the day following the crime; and the burglar must never deny what it is he does for a living— if he is going to steal, he must let everyone know it, and carry his card when working.
Most importantly, an Allowed Burglar had to practice his craft with style, with grace, with savoir faire. Style counted a full ten points in the ratings, and no wonder. Allowed Burglars were supposed to be a part of High Custom, and if they didn’t fit well with the rest of the wayward elements, the gentleman drunkards, the glib, subtle charlatans and bright-eyed tricksters, what was the point in allowing them to take other people’s property in the first place?
Maijstral hovered above the skylight without touching it and deployed a pistol-shaped detector, scanning it over the skylight and its frame to make certain there were no electro-magnetic emissions. Amalia and Pietro had done some research on security in the Scholder manse and found nothing troubling, but Maijstral believed in double-checking all research. It was his skin on the line, not Jensen’s.
A trap. All Roman’s hesitations and uncertainties flickered unbidden through Maijstral’s mind. He gnawed his nether lip and replaced the detector on his adhesive darksuit. His hand was shaking slightly as he brought out a miniature a-grav unit and stuck it carefully to the skylight. Before he took out his pencil-sized cutting tool and began slicing, he took a moment to stabilize his breathing and calm his nerves. The room below might, of course, be packed with police.
Most likely, however, it was just a room. Maijstral tried to maintain that thought. Maijstral finished his cut and the skylight floated gently into the air. The a-grav unit would move it toward a preset place on the grounds and set it down. Taking a breath, Maijstral reversed himself and floated headfirst into the mansion.
His head and shoulders thrust through the skylight, he turned his head carefully left and right. The atrium was two stories tall, with a roof access and a balcony around three sides. Slipcovered furniture crouched in darkness. A wide flagstone fireplace yawned against one wall. The view from the back of Maijstral’s head was absorbed by detectors and projected onto the optical center of his brain; his vision was nearly a 360-degree globe, but he turned his head to get the advantage of parallax. IR and UV scanners looked for characteristic police emissions. Audio pickups listened acutely for the fall of dust.
He slid into the room on midnight holographic wings. Starlight shone on his fake diamond. Jensen’s researches suggested that the household’s main defenses were alarms triggered by the minute compression waves caused by a body moving through space. This was a very expensive system— in order for it to work, the signals put out by an entering thief had to be distinguished from those created by heating and cooling units, thermal changes in the structure of the house, and those of family pets and robots.
Maijstral’s darksuit was equipped to deal with such alarms automatically, taking a half step back in time and pulsing out waves that precisely interfered with the waves he made as he moved. This was widely regarded as impossible— both that and a miracle of modern physics. Maijstral’s darksuit was of the best.
Maijstral’s target, the artifact he was after, gleamed in sliver solitude in a niche by the fireplace. Silently, Maijstral made a circuit of the room in search of other items of value. The place seemed to be filled mainly with souvenirs of the Rebellion, weapons, medals in cases, portraits of heroes. A cool shock wave moved through Maijstral. Admiral Scholder, he realized, was the same young Lieutenant Scholder whose Death Commandos had stormed the City of Seven Bright Rings and seized the Emperor in the last battle of the Rebellion.
Well, well, Maijstral thought. He was tampering with History, no less.
The souvenirs had little value except to military history buffs, so he floated to the artifact and gazed at it, his visual scanners magnifying its image. The target was the size of a melon and vaguely saddle-shaped, a pleasant-appearing geometry made of silver and engraved with fine, precise lines. Maijstral saw the Imperial seal— the scrolled N for Nnis CVI interwoven with the skuhl vines of the Pendjalli, ideographs for “good luck” and “happiness,” all encircled by the figure of the Zoot Torque— Maijstral realized that he was looking at something looted from the Imperial precincts themselves.
Interesting.
Maijstral made an electromagnetic scan and found a constant low-wattage background emission characteristic of, among other things, certain alarm systems. He looked more carefully and discovered that the object was itself giving off the radiation, not anything it was connected to. Odd, he thought. He wondered if the thing would scream “Help, help!” if he picked it up, like something in a fairy tale.
It wouldn’t be the first time. Alarm systems had lately begun displaying a regrettable tendency toward twee behavior.
He scanned the pedestal very carefully and found nothing resembling a trap or alarm, and then gave a mental command to his darksuit that opened a collapsed ruck on his back. Time to finish the job and get out.
His gloved hand reached for the object, closed around it, and perceived its considerable weight. He picked it up and in one swift movement dumped it into his rucksack, which automatically closed around it. He began floating past the level of the balconies, toward the skylight. The object was a cold weight between his shoulders.
A door opened to an inner room. Maijstral’s heart crashed in his chest. His inertialess drift ceased immediately. His scanners deployed at the speed of thought.
A small domestic robot entered the room on muffled wheels. It wheeled to a rack of de-energized Rebellion-era weapons and deployed a feather duster.
Maijstral calmed his nerves. The robot didn’t even see him. Cloaked in his darksuit, he began floating gently toward the skylight again.
The robot finished knocking dust off the beam guns, then began roiling toward the niche. It paused and began to shriek in a hysterical feminine voice.
“Help! Help! We’ve been robbed!”
A masculine voice answered from within the house. “What’s that, Denise?”
“Intruders! I think he’s still here! Bring Felicity and your guns!”
A different female voice. “We’re coming, Denise! Any intruders are going to get what’s coming to them!”
This conversation would probably have gone on for some time— the people who wrote security programs for domestic robots really should have been doing soap opera scripts for the Diadem— but Maijstral silenced the robot with a quick blast from his disruptor, something he would have done more quickly had he not somehow missed the pistol on his first grab. A streaming sable cloud, Maijstral arrowed through the skylight and fled across the sward outside, followed by a bouncing trail of media globes.
His darksuit informed him that his black boxes, placed outside the perimeter, were doing a good job of repelling the mansion’s efforts to cry for the police. He passed through the cold-field, his suit neutralizing it automatically, and then fled to where Gregor waited in the flier, manning his own larger black box that was scanning all neighborhood communications wavelengths. Gregor looked up with a grin as Maijstral settled into the driver’s seat.
“What is that you’re always telling me about automatic guards being safer and more predictable?”
Maijstral punched the power button and the flier hissed into the night on its silent repellers. The artifact pressed against his back. Media globes trailed like firecrackers on a puppy dog’s tail.
The recordings of this commission, Maijstral decided, were decidedly not going to be sold to the broadcasters.
*
Maijstral’s character was formed, entirely by accident, when he was sixteen. His character was supposed to be formed by then; he was a senior classman at the Nnoivarl Academy, one of the best-regarded schools in the Empire, which promised to develop character or kill the boy trying. In common with his classmates, he had learned a lot about High Custom, languages, and the Khosali liberal arts, and damn-all about anything else. His acquisition couldn’t really be called character, but rather a surface veneer, handy in many situations, however much lumber it may be in others. Still, many get by with nothing but polish their entire lives, and if their character isn’t tested they’ll never know the difference.
Drake Maijstral’s particular bad luck was to get his character tested before he was ready for it. That’s usually the way with character tests— one never realizes what they are until they’re over, and by then it’s too late to prepare.
As a senior classman preparing for his exams he had been allowed a certain amount of liberty— he could leave the academy without permission, and travel in civilian rig. He took full advantage of his newfound freedom, particularly in the matter of the Honorable Zoe Enderby, the bright-eyed daughter of a local nobleman whose thirteen-year-old brother was at Nnoivarl. She was four years older than Maijstral and her character seemed fully formed. He had met her at a fencing match, and her brother was not on the fencing team. Later in his life this was the sort of contradiction that might make him pause. Not at sixteen.
It was midmorning. The place smelled of paint thinner— the Honorable Zoe was apprenticed to a local artist. Subdued yellow light, filtered by the tropical growth overhead, danced in mottled patterns on the windows. Maijstral was in one of the Honorable Zoe’s dressing gowns, frowning into a magazine and smoking a cigarette. (He was smoking that year.) Zoe was in another room, talking to her mother on the telephone.
“Darling. I’ve brought you something.”
Maijstral hadn’t heard him come in. It occurred to him that he should have locked the door behind him the night before, that he had, with his long hair and Zoe’s dressing gown, had been mistaken for her.
“I’m sorry we fought. Look.”
Poor boy, Maijstral thought. He stood, turned, and saw Marc Julian, the assistant captain of the fencing team, standing in his stiff, grey Nnoivarl uniform, a package in his long arms, Julian was also Count Hitti, but titles weren’t used in the school.
“Beg pardon, Julian,” Maijstral said. “I think it’s Zoe you wanted to speak to, wasn’t it?”
The polish was, as has been noted, already there. Maijstral left the astonished boy standing agape in the front hall and went in search of Zoe. He went into the bedroom, informed her of Julian’s arrival, and began practicing a new card trick. He got whatever distinction he possessed at the academy by doing magic stunts. By the time Zoe said good-bye to her mother and went to the hall, Julian was gone.
Zoe wanted to tell Maijstral about Julian over breakfast, but Maijstral allowed as how everything was clear enough, and she didn’t have to say anything if she didn’t feel like it. He really didn’t want to hear the story anyway. He stayed the morning, dressed, and went back to the academy to study for his philosophy exam.
A later Maijstral would have run and never looked back. But this young Maijstral was trying very hard to convince himself he was in love, and in any case he wanted to make the most of the few weeks before he had to return to Domier and the Human Constellation.
Maijstral was never positive, later, if Julian had help. Maijstral had been leaving his exam cubicle, walking with his friend Asad. Both of them were confident of having done well, were laughing— and suddenly Maijstral’s feet were tangled and he lurched sideways. Something shoved him between the shoulders and he tumbled into the proud back of the boy ahead of him.
“You struck me, Maijstral.” Marc Julian’s eyes gleamed with dull content beneath the tassle of his uniform cap.
“Sorry, Julian,” Maijstral said. “Someone gave me a—”
“You’ll not get away with that.” Coolly. “Zah will act for me.”
Maijstral straightened. “And Asad for me.” Maijstral was equally cool, and he was quick to note that Zah was right there, the captain of the fencing team, and had been behind Maijstral the whole time.
Maijstral felt Asad’s comradely hand on his shoulder. Far from being comforted, the touch startled him, serving to remind him that behind this polished ritual was a deadly reality toward which he was now committed. His reflexes made him turn away and light a cigarette as he walked, as if he had nothing else to do.
Duels were forbidden between students, but they happened anyway. By way of precaution, the practice was for upperclassmen to vet the encounters of the juniors, but if upperclassmen wanted to fight each other, there was no one to interfere. The worst that would happen was expulsion.
“Julian wouldn’t accept any explanation,” Asad said later, in Maijstral’s room. “He insists on the fight.”
Maijstral nodded and blew smoke. “Very well.”
“It will be pistols, of course. He’d cut you to ribbons if you fight with steel. I’m going to talk to Joseph Bob about the loan of his matched set of chuggers.”
“Fine. Would you like some brandy, first?”
Asad shook his head. “No. Best go now. The fight will be tomorrow morning.”
Maijstral was startled. “So soon?”
Asad gave an uneasy laugh. “Best get it over with, eh? Don’t want it to interfere with your studying.”
The door closed behind Asad. Maijstral poured himself brandy, lit another cigarette, and went to his terminal. He accessed Julian’s pistol scores and a coolness brushed his nerves. For some reason he thought of one of the Honorable Zoe’s paintings, a formal piece with a dull-red sun and gleaming nickel-iron asteroids.
Asad was back in a few minutes. He gave an admiring laugh. “You’re a cool one, ain’t you? Studying for your exams like nothing’s happened.” Maijstral turned off the display.
“Hullo, Asad.”
“Joseph Bob is testing the pistols now,” Asad said. “We’ll be using the explosive ammunition. It’s fairer that way— Julian’s the better shot. If you follow my advice, you can take off an arm or leg, and if that happens he may not get his shot off. He’s better, so if he fires at all he’s likely to hit you.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” Pouring brandy.
“Pity we ain’t got access to psych dueling here. You could pick his mind apart. He’s got no defenses at all there.”
“I was just thinking that. Would you like a game of cards or something?”
“Damned cool, Maijstral.” Admiring. “Maybe a short game, then. None of your trick decks, though.”
They played Cheeseup for an hour. Asad won forty marks, then stood and said he had to leave. He had some studying to do for his history exam.
“You’ll take my marker, yes? My father’s damnably late with my allowance.” Over a year, truth be told. Lucky his credit was still good.
“I’ll take it. Thanks.”
“I’m sure my father will redeem it, if . . .” Best leave that unsaid. Asad smiled uneasily.
“I’ll pick you up at six-eighty, then?” He grasped Maijstral’s shoulder. “See you then.” Maijstral didn’t want Asad to leave. He didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts.
Maijstral heard the door close. For a long time he watched the brandy tremble in the decanter. There were only two fingers left, he noticed, and he decided he’d better not drink them.
He could protest all he liked, he decided. He could make any number of declarations about how stupid duels were and how ridiculous High Custom was and mat wouldn’t alter a thing. If he ran away, no one would speak to him.
Explosive bullets. Take off an arm or leg. Or blow his lungs out through his ribs.
He practiced card tricks. His fingers bungled every stunt.
That night he didn’t sleep, just lay sweating in his bed and stared at the ceiling. He ran through his entire supply of cigarettes. Two hours past midnight, he knew for certain that there was no way he was going to face Julian’s pistol. He began wondering what he was going to do about it.
*
Maijstral crouched silently by Joseph Bob’s door and looked at the access plate. He tried to breathe slowly and naturally. To his amazement he seemed cooler than when he’d been writing his exam.
He took one of his playing cards and inserted it between the door and jamb. He’d spent the last forty minutes trying to crack the dormitory’s computer security, and he thought he might have succeeded in unlocking the bolt by remote control. But he still had to move the bolt, and that might make noise.
The bolt clicked. Maijstral’s heart stopped. He waited for several moments, his ears straining. Nothing.
He swung the door in and heard Joseph Bob’s regular breathing. Maijstral crept on bare feet into the room. He was wearing night goggles that he’d borrowed from the gym— runners training at night used them— and he could see the pistol case sitting on Joseph Bob’s desk. Maijstral pushed the door almost shut, then stepped to the desk.
Joseph Bob rolled over and muttered something. Maijstral froze, his pulse crashing in his ears. Joseph Bob sighed and began to breathe heavily. Maijstral relaxed slightly. Clearly the Earthman’s sleep pattern had been disturbed, and Maijstral would have to be careful. Each motion taking eons, he reached out and opened the pistol case.
The antique chuggers lay on red velvet and were seen clearly in his enhanced-night goggles. Maijstral licked his lips and reached for the first one. The front sight was a bead poised atop a delicate piece of silver scrollwork. Maijstral covered the sight with a handkerchief, clamped a small pair of pliers on the sight, gave it a slight wrench to one side. He took off the cloth and inspected his work. There was no obvious tampering. He repeated the procedure with the other gun and closed the case.
He was surprised, now that he had time to think of it, how cool he was. It wasn’t until he left the room that he began to be afraid. What if Julian fired on instinct and didn’t use the sight? Was he that good? Maijstral might only have ruined his own chance.
He didn’t sleep at all that night. It took him both fingers of brandy to get him bathed and dressed for the occasion. He tried to tie his hair back, but his fingers wouldn’t let him. Asad, when he arrived, did it for him.
Maijstral was dressed entirety in dark colors— a bit of white could show as an aiming point. When he arrived at the dueling ground— a spot of turf behind the Chapel Garden— he saw that Julian had dressed similarly.
Maijstral said nothing at all. He jammed his chin down on his high collar so that his jaw wouldn’t tremble.
“Remember,” Asad said, “keep the left arm back and out of the way. Stand with your side toward him to narrow the target. Cover your upper body with your bent right arm. And shoot first if you can.” He squeezed Maijstral’s arm. “Good man.”
The thing went quickly. Zah called out “One, two, three,” and dropped a handkerchief. Julian’s pistol fired before Maijstral’s mind could entirely absorb the meaning of the falling white lace. Behind him, Maijstral heard a crack as the explosive bullet detonated against the garden wall.
Maijstral looked in surprise at the startled figure over his sight. Julian’s face was red; his jaw worked. Maijstral remembered the way Julian had looked when issuing the challenge, and murder entered Maijstral’s heart.
He tried very hard to determine how his front sight was off so that he could kill Julian, but he wasn’t very good with the weapon and his bullet blew a small crater in the stonework of the old chapel. Then Asad was pounding Maijstral on the back, and Julian was wiping blood off his chin where he’d bitten through his lower tip.
Maijstral reversed the pistol and handed it to Asad. “Give Joseph Bob my thanks,” he said. He tried to smile. “Would you like to see a new card trick? I learned one last night.”
“Damned cool,” Asad said, and rushed him away.
Relatively few people have such a firm grasp of their own nature as Maijstral on his seventeenth birthday. He was a coward and knew it. High Custom did not allow for cowards— thieves, yes, and confidence men— but Maijstral had a good idea of how to cope with it. He had to know High Custom inside and out; he had to be able to manipulate it to his own advantage. He had to glide smoothly through the High Custom world, frictionless, wary of traps. “Any fool can die in a duel.” That was the Khosali proverb. Maijstral was determined not to be that kind of fool.