The Crown Jewels (12 page)

Good. Whatever was going on, Maijstral wouldn’t be hurt if everyone assumed he was someplace he wasn’t.

*

The plum-colored bird had flown her nest in alarm from the chirping sound made by Lieutenant Navarre’s telephone. But the phone fell silent, and after a moment of contemplation the bird decided to make a cautious recce. She perched on a limb just out of reach and looked down at its home, one forepaw scratching her beak in puzzlement.

The telephone sat among the bird’s treasures, bits of tinsel, a shiny candy wrapper, a fountain pen, several bright-colored rocks, a child’s ring. The bird hated to concede its trove to the interloper. The damn thing had only been playing at being inanimate.

When the phone chirped again the bird raised her wings in alarm, but only retreated a few paces along the branch. The chirping sound continued. The bird’s alarm decreased and she moved closer, a slow sense of delight beginning to trickle into her mind.

The thing talked! The bird had never had a treasure that talked before. The bird ruffled its feathers and said “Coo!”

The phone chirped on. The bird answered. Finally, in Peleng City, the insurance investigator hung up, and the phone was silent.

The plum-colored bird returned to its nest, happy in her new friend.

The materialist approach to life, as the plum-colored bird will attest, is not always marred by the philistinism alleged by its detractors. Consider the joys of surrounding oneself with the objects that bring comfort and pleasure— the good wines, the fine art, the leather-covered volume, the well-made conveyance— and one may very well bid the rest of the world go hang. There are worse ways to arrange one’s life, and it is only when the materialist impulse moves from comfort to compulsion that it becomes obnoxious. No one needs more than one colander per residence, and when one makes a point of collecting platinum colanders with diamond-studded rims and allegorical reliefs on the base, and all for the purpose of showing up one’s neighbors, then the observer can safely assume the materialist impulse has got out of hand.

Allowed thievery is based on-materialism, but without philistinism. One searches for the perfect object, the best of its class, the rarest, the most astonishing— and then, through one’s own efforts, one ventures to possess it. What might be a vulgar case of breaking-and-taking becomes instead a venture in aesthetic romanticism. A century ago Ralph Adverse saw the Eitdown Shard and knew he had to have it, that he could not rest until he held it in the palm of his hand and watched its dark splendors dance in the light of his homefire. No wonder he spent half his life trying to steal it— not to sell it, but to possess it for himself, for its own glorious sake— and in the end, having spent all the money he’d made over a lifetime of thievery in its pursuit, having at last clasped his hands and known it was gloriously his, he committed suicide with the Shard clutched to his bosom rather than have it auctioned by the Imperial Revenue Authority for back taxes. Who can blame him? He was a romantic first, a materialist second.

But one can be a materialist without having to go overboard. Consider the philosophy of the plum-colored bird: find something nice, take it home, sit on it and make friends.

The homely comforts are always the best.

*

Lieutenant Navarre gazed at the wreckage in Amalia Jensen’s house. He had called the police as soon as he found Howard scattered over the roof. I’m being
persecuted
, he thought. Someone’s following me around and
doing
this to me.

He followed Officer Pankat through the litter in the living room. Mortally wounded blossoms gave off their dying fragrance.

“I had dinner. We talked. I flew home.” What else could he say?

“No, I didn’t see anyone. I barely knew the woman.” Officer Pankat looked at him through level almond eyes.

“Do you think, sir, in view of the other incident last night, that someone might be persecuting you?”

Navarre started. He was just thinking that. But all he could think of saying was, “But why?”

*

Paavo Kuusinen stepped out of his flier and examined the yellow grass. Leaves rustled overhead in the gentle breeze. Amalia Jensen’s pastel house stood half a mile away. Here, Kuusinen found, was where the two lurkers had waited out the night; he easily found the marks of the flier on the ground and two sets of prints, one small, one large, both identified, from the shape of the boot, as Khosali.

He had followed Sergeant Tvi for a while, from Navarre’s manse to an estate which, on inquiry, he discovered was rented by the Imperialist Countess Anastasia. From there he followed Tvi to Amalia Jensen’s, whence he had heard smashing noises and witnessed Tvi and her big associate carry out a limp body, which they transported to the Countess’s. Kuusinen had then gone to Maijstral’s place, but no one seemed to be home. He had checked the early reports on his scanner, heard there had been a robbery at Navarre’s, and returned there in time to see Navarre take off in the direction of town. Kuusinen had followed, to discover Navarre lighting on Jensen’s roof.

Kuusinen scoured the ground carefully and found a pair of empty hi-sticks that had probably been used by the big Khosalikh while the smaller one scouted Jensen’s house. There was nothing else of interest.

He returned to his flier and told his scanner to seek the robbery report for Navarre’s house. The report had added a description of the one object missing, a silver cryonic container. To the official description was added the description from the auctioneers’ catalog: “with power source, Imperial seal. c9, functional, wt 16sm, 18xl7ng.” To this was appended: “value approx 18n.”

Odd, Kuusinen thought. The container scarcely seemed valuable enough to justify all this fuss. He wondered what was in it, and considered for a moment all the activity he’d witnessed, the two Khosali consorting with the Imperialist Countess and a baron from the Imperium, and he wondered what all of this had to do with the silver container, Amalia Jensen. and the copper-skinned lieutenant from Pompey.

He had no idea at all. But he was fairly certain this puzzle had to do, in some inexplicable way, with Maijstral.

Kuusinen observed Lieutenant Navarre’s flier rising from Amalia Jensen’s roof and decided, for lack of any further ideas, to follow it. As he rose into the sky, he decided to hang on to Navarre for another few hours, then return to the Countess’s place. Maybe one of them would lead him to Maijstral.

This was the most interesting diversion he’d had in a long time.

*

The silver container sat on Maijstral’s table and refused to go away. Maijstral returned from his conversation with Nichole to find that, like a magnetic object, the Emperor’s sperm receptacle had drawn the other three nearer to it. Gregor and Pietro had hitched their seats closer and were bent forward, barely glancing at each other even though they were in conversation. Roman, still standing, still trembling with some unspoken emotion, hovered over Gregor’s shoulder, rising to tiptoe from time to time to gain a better view. It was a living demonstration of Imperial Presence.

“If the situation in the Empire remains unchanged,” Pietro Quijano was saying, “Nnis may drag on for another few generations. When he finally shuffles off, the Blood Royal will have to assemble to choose another Emperor. It will take years for the family to make up its mind, and by the end of their deliberations we in the Constellation should have a good idea of who will come to power. The Human Constellation will have a long breathing space, and if the new Emperor’s supporters are committed to reconquest, we’ll have time to prepare.”

“For the correct price, sir,” said Maijstral as he slid into his chair, “the future of the Constellation may be yours to command.” He leaned back, resisting the magnetism of the silver reliquary.

Pietro looked up at him, trying in vain to gaze through Maijstral’s hooded eyes. “We only have sixty in the treasury, and we only got that because Miss Jensen took out a personal loan.”

“Perhaps you should take out a loan yourself, Mr. Quijano.”

“I’m a student. I’m doing postgraduate work in mathematics, and I’m not worth any money. But I’ll give you the sixty right now.”

“You are not Miss Jensen. My contract was with her.”

Pietro’s eyes showed desperation. “The Fate of the Constellation is at stake,” he said. “Surely you can—”

“Mr. Quijano,” said Maijstral. “perhaps in your enthusiasm something has slipped your mind.”

“Sir? What is that?”

“I am, by profession, a thief. It is not my
job
to care about the Fate of the Constellation.”

Gregor snickered, but Pietro was undeterred. “Surely there must be some human decency to which I can appeal.”

“
Human
decency?” Maijstral appeared to consider the words. He shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Quijano. Such decency as I possess is almost certainly Khosali.” He gave Pietro a thin smile. “The indecent part, however, is entirely human.”

Pietro Quijano looked at him for a long, cold moment. “Then, since Miss Jensen’s the only person you’ll deal with, let’s find her.”

Maijstral was about to point out that neither was it his job to rescue maidens in distress, but Gregor cleared his throat.

“Boss,” he said, “it’s bad form to let people go around stealing your clients. It lets them think they can push you around.”

Maijstral frowned. “I’m not in the habit of exerting myself for nothing,” he said.

“You want your client back, right, boss? Only too you do. There’s a way to do it. Find her and get her loose.”

“May I speak with you privately, sir?” The voice was Roman’s, speaking in Khosali. Maijstral nodded.

He let Roman take him aside into Maijstral’s bedroom. When Roman spoke, it was in High Khosali, and his voice trembled with suppressed emotion.

“Your client was stolen, sir,” he said. “And with your business unconcluded. The kidnappers knew of your interest, but have not acted to preserve that interest or consult you. That is insult given, and considering their likely identity, an offense to honor. The insult must be answered.”

Surprise rose in Maijstral as the High Khosali sentences followed one another in perfect form and rhythm, like the elements of some complex mathematics. Given Khosali premises, the conclusions were absolute. Maijstral tried to find a gap in the reasoning and failed.

So that’s what Roman had been seething about. If Maijstral hadn’t been so distracted by events, he would have realized it long since. He gave a reassuring nod.

“I give you thanks for your concern,” he said, answering in High Khosali. “Your interest does you credit, Roman.” Roman’s eyes gleamed at the compliment. “I need no reminders to know that honor was offended,” Maijstral went on, “but first I must decide with whom the offense lies, and how best to act, and I must also find out how much Mr. Quijano knows. An outright challenge might give these people more credit than they deserve.”

Roman’s ears pricked forward. “That’s true, sir.”

Maijstral put a hand on Roman’s shoulder. He dropped to standard Khosali. “I think we should return to Mr. Quijano.”

“Yes, sir. Very good.”

Maijstral gestured for Roman to precede him. He took his hand back from Roman’s shoulder and observed that it trembled lightly. He clenched the hand into a fist and followed Roman into the living room. By a conscious effort of will, he did not grind his teeth.

“Very well,” he said. “We should, at least, investigate the possibility of rescuing Miss Jensen. But where would they be holding her?”

Gregor frowned. “A safe house, maybe. Possibly.”

“Perhaps not. The kidnapping showed every sign of being arranged in haste, within a few hours of my acquisition of the jug. They may not have had time to arrange for a safe house, though they may be arranging for one now. We should run a check for consular personnel, then for any residences they may possess outside the consulate.”

“There is also the Countess,” Roman said.

“Right,” Gregor said, “I should cross-check the references for rented security. They may have laid on some extra.”

Maijstral smiled. That was a good thought.

“Fine. If we get any cross-references, we’ll go for aerial reconnaissance and perhaps check further by darksuit. Get about it, then.”

Roman and Gregor glided away to their tasks. Maijstral settled back into his chair with a piece of fleth. Pietro Quijano was, he realized, looking at him in an expectant way.

“Yes, Mr. Quijano?”

“You’re going to find Miss Jensen and then rescue her?”

“I said we would
investigate
the
possibility
, Mr. Quijano. Not quite the same thing.”

“But you’ll at least call the police?”

“No. I think not. The whole purpose of the kidnapping would have to come out. The law protects me after a few hours, but that doesn’t apply to any of my patrons. I presume you would not wish it established that Miss Jensen hired me with criminal intent?”

Pietro looked a little pale. “No, I guess not.” Maijstral nibbled his fleth. Gregor, from the hallway, spoke up.

“Perhaps we could get Lieutenant Navarre to help us.”

Pietro scowled at the idea. Maijstral answered. “I scarcely think so. He would discover that Miss Jensen only entertained him last night for the purpose of getting him away from his house so that I could rob him.”

“Oh.”

Pietro brightened, then frowned again. “What if we can’t rescue her, sir?”

Maijstral looked at the piece of fleth in his fingers. The hand no longer trembled. “In that event, Mr. Quijano,” he said, “I shall have to challenge her kidnappers one by one. And kill them, one hopes. Family honor, alas, won’t have it any other way— and challenging them is preferable, in my mind at least, to committing suicide and hoping it shames them into letting Miss Jensen go.” He looked at Pietro with his lazy green eyes. “Unless, of course, you’d like to issue the challenges yourself?”

Pietro grew paler. “No. sir. I don’t— it’s not my province, you see.”

“I understand. One can scarcely hope to vanquish an enemy in single combat through the use of higher mathematics alone.” He finished his fleth and dusted his fingers, then stood. “Luncheon, Mr. Quijano?” he asked. “I think we’re stocked with food.”