The Crown Jewels (13 page)

“I’m not hungry.” Pietro was staring into nowhere. “Thank you.”

“I’ll find myself a snack, then.” Maijstral said. He stood and moved toward the kitchen.

What he really intended to do was get on the phone and rent another safe house. This one was hopelessly compromised. Pietro Quijano was on Maijstral’s side for the present, but when and if Amalia Jensen was rescued that was likely to change.

Successful criminal masterminds, one notes, always look ahead.

*

Nichole was lunching on cold chicken, bean salad, and pickles; a humble meal she could eat only in private, but which she much preferred to the elaborate, often eccentric cuisine demanded by her role as a member of the Diadem. Even here, the meal was not entirely her own; since she was supposed to be hiding Maijstral here in her love nest, she’d had to order for two. The sight of the second plate made the meal more lonely than it should have been. Lightly downcast, she sipped her iced tea with lemon and wondered again what had so shaken Maijstral.

The phone rang. Nichole sipped again and waited for the room to tell her who it was.

“The Countess Anastasia, ma’am,” the room said finally. “Asking for Mr. Maijstral.” Nichole turned around in surprise.

Well, she thought. Developments.

She ordered the room to create a holographic mirror image of her by way of making certain she was fit to show herself on the phone, patted her hair, then moved to another chair so that her meal would be out of sight and that her backdrop would suit her complexion. “By all means connect the Countess,” she said.

Countess Anastasia was holographed from a point of view slightly below her chin, giving her a lofty elevation, allowing her to look at Nichole down her nose. Some people carried this to extremes, which made for an upsetting view if they neglected to clip all their nose hairs; but the Countess was more subtle and the effect was slight, but still observable.

“Nichole,” she said coldly. She spoke in Khosali. “I asked for Drake Maijstral.”

“I regret he’s not here, my lady.” Nichole said. “I would be happy to take a message, should I see him.”

The Countess smiled thinly. “Ah. I must have been misinformed. The broadcast media, you understand.”

“I regret to say, my lady, that the media are wont to report as fact all manner of speculation.”

“Yes. That has been my experience as well. I would have given the reports no credence, you understand, save that I have been unable to reach Maijstral at home.”

Nichole, looking at the Countess, wondered why Maijstral was so timorous around this woman. The Countess seemed, despite her breeding and apparent confidence, a pathetically insecure creature who had found salvation in the Imperialist Cause, quite the same way others found salvation in religion, or crank philosophy, or conspiracy theory— against one’s own inner conviction of insignificance, a flailing, defiant, unfocused, but perfectly sincere protest. Nichole, thinking these thoughts, looked at the Countess and smiled helpfully.

“I will take a message, my lady,” she said, “and relay it to Maijstral if I see him.”

The Countess seemed cross. Nichole guessed that the Countess assumed Maijstral was hiding in Nichole’s boudoir, listening in. “Very well,” the Countess said. “Tell him this. He has something that I want, and I believe he will find the price to his liking.”

“Thank you.”

The Countess smiled with a graciousness her hard eyes denied. “I regret having to bother you, ma’am.”

“No bother at all. Countess. I enjoy doing things for my friends.” Nichole was smiling back, a smile that betrayed a slight effort, the effect intending to show she knew the Countess’s civility was a mask. Nuance, nuance. Nichole’s specialty.

The Countess winked away.

Nichole let her smile relax.
Maijstral.
she thought, her alarm growing.
What have you got yourself into
?

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Relieving you,” said Sergeant Tvi. She was carrying Amalia Jensen’s food tray up the stairs. Khotvinn thankfully turned off his Ronnie Romper disguise and handed her the holo projector, gun, and manacle control.

“The prisoner has been quiet,” he rumbled. Then he moved down the stairs, treading heavily, flexing his shoulders. Looking for something to hit.

Guarding prisoners. Pah. Breaking necks was more his style.

This was no work for a Khosalikh such as he. He stood 169ng, and his shoulders were 70ng across. His upper arms were 58ng around and the expanse of his chest was wider than the last tape measure with which he’d tried to measure it. On his home planet— a frontier world, where Khosali power was tempered by scarce resources and the ferocity of native life-forms— he had been regarded with awe and fear. Awe and fear that were, so Khotvinn had always thought, perfectly justified.

Khotvinn stomped to his room, wanting to tread the lilies on his carpet. The room was furnished in the local milksop style: frilly things on the windows and bed, plush carpets, vases with flowers, an oversoft mattress on a bed that would alter its shape on command. It was the sort of thing Khotvinn had to guard against. If he wasn’t careful, this kind of living could make him soft.

He had no intention of becoming soft. He was the imperious offspring of a superior brand of Khosali, the pioneers who had, by dint of their strength and will, driven back the frontiers of the Empire and subjugated entire planets full of alien inferiors. The effete Emperor back in his harem thought his victories had come at his own bidding. Bah! It was the people like Khotvinn who got the job done, and by the best and most effective way— smashing heads.

Khotvinn considered himself a bloody-handed reaver— titanic in his fury, awesome in his mirth, careless of the laws made to protect those weaker than himself. He recognized no custom save his own will, no motive save his own enrichment. He despised Allowed Burglars who took advantage of loopholes in the law and crept into darkened houses at night. Better to proclaim yourself openly.

And Sinn wasn’t any better, using others to do his dirty work. The only one of this crowd he had any use for was the Countess, a woman who clearly worshipped strength, honor, and desperate deeds. Khotvinn was a born plunderer, and if his young career as an armed robber (and army deserter) hadn’t been interrupted by a cowardly, puking little human weakling (who had dropped a brick on his head while hiding on a balcony), he would be plundering still.

Subsequently he had concluded that being a member of the Secret Dragoons could work to his advantage. He could study the stupid fools who surrounded him, learn their ways, and then, when the time was right, strike out on his own, leaving nothing but ruin and broken necks behind him.

Khotvinn reached under his bed and came up with his sword case. He drew out the long steel blade— no light alloys for him!— and raised it two-handed above his head. Carefully he pictured Baron Sum in front of him, and then sliced the image from neck to crotch. The blade danced before him like a whirlwind, chopping Sinn to bits. His heart hammered. His blood raced. He was Khotvinn . . . Khotvinn . . .
KHOTVINN
! Glorious exemplar of his race! Furious brawler with sword of steel! Bloody ravager with a heart of careless majesty!

The antique vase splintered beneath Khotvinn’s backswing and splattered the bedcovers with mangled roses. Khotvinn snarled and threw down his blade. It pierced the lily carpet and stuck in the floor, quivering.

Khotvinn spat. This was not a suitable room. This was not a suitable mission. His companions were not suitable.

With an easy gesture he yanked the sword from the floor. It hung in his hand like a tooth of omen. He considered his situation.

His companions— his so-called superiors— were holding the human, Jensen, for ransom. Holding a woman prisoner wasn’t anything he couldn’t do himself, or anything that required Tvi or Sinn.

His lips drew back, his tongue lolled. A glorious idea had entered his mind. Give Sinn the chop, he thought. Give the chop to Tvi. Then leave with Jensen over his shoulder, the Countess’s ghastly milksop mansion burning behind him. A wonderful picture. What cared Khotvinn for the Fate of the Empire?

The smile began to fade. Who, exactly, was he supposed to sell Jensen
to?
He couldn’t remember.

He’d have to keep his ears open and await his chance. His time, he knew, would come.

Khotvinn’s grin broadened. Saliva dropped to the carpet. This was going to be great.

*

“I’m not advocating discrimination, you understand.”

Amalia Jensen’s split lip had healed under the influence of a semilife patch, her swelling had likewise been reduced, and though the bruises still showed, the swelling and discomfort were down and she was speaking, and eating lunch, without difficulty.

Speaking and eating on the bed, from a tray, with her ankles held together. Tvi wasn’t taking any chances.

“No, not discrimination. Just reasonable precautions. The Rebellion was successful because many of the rebels were highly placed in the Imperial bureaucracy and military, and were in a position to aid in the defection of entire Imperial squadrons. The Constellation should take precautions against just such an event. That’s all I’m suggesting.”

Tvi was still enjoying the role of a sophisticated mercenary, and she relaxed in her chair, a leg dangling over the chair arm, her stunner in one fist. “So nonhumans should never be put in positions of authority?” Tvi asked. “And this is what you call nondiscriminatory. Miss Jensen?”

Amalia frowned into her frappe. “It’s a necessity. A regrettable one, I know. But humanity is simply too delicately placed to take a chance.”

“It would seem to me, speaking strictly as an observer, that you’re almost asking for betrayal. Why should anyone be loyal to a government that will never trust her?”

“Perhaps in a few generations, after the Imperial threat becomes less acute. . . .”

“And I must say, speaking again as an observer, that you seem rather naive about
human
nature.”

A veil of steel seemed to move over Amalia Jensen’s eyes. Tvi realized she may have offended by offering a judgment on Amalia’s species. Oh well, she thought, what was the point of being a languid sophisticate if you couldn’t offer sweeping judgments?

Besides, this wasn’t anything Amalia hadn’t just done with respect to races other than her own. “Yes?” Amalia said. “How so?”

“Because you are underestimating the extent of human corruptibility. Miss Jensen. Why do you assume that an individual will be loyal simply because he is human? Are not humans as susceptible to greed, extortion, and treachery as any other? More so, if the stereotypes are to be believed.” Seeing Amalia’s dark glance, Tvi hastened to add, “Which I don’t for a moment believe, by the way. But d’you see what I mean? If you waste all your resources averting treachery on the part of nonhumans who may not be traitors in the first place, you may be missing the humans who are.”

“I’m not advocating for a minute spending all our resources doing any one thing,” Amalia said. “But still, one may assume a certain species loyalty, yes? Why else would so many well-placed humans support the Rebellion, even though such support was largely against their own interests?”

“Greed and blackmail, for starters.”

Amalia frowned and pushed her tray away. “That’s not true.”

“Probably not. Not in more than a few cases, anyway.” Tvi threw her other leg over the chair arm and snuggled into the cushion. “I’m just offering a pair of motivations you seem not to have considered in the case of your own species, but are all too happy to attribute to others.”

Amalia Jensen winced and turned her eyes away. “I understand the reasons for Ronnie Romper,” she said, “but can’t you get rid of the smile, somehow? It’s just too distracting, having to debate that grin.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Amalia gave a sigh and put her chin on her hand. “I’ll just have to bear up, then.”

“Good advice, I’d say, for a woman in your situation.”

*

Bingo, thought Gregor Norman. Point for me. He looked at the numbers shimmering on his computer screen and leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his neck just above where the proximity wire in his collar interfaced his mind with the computer. A grin spread over his face. The champagne that still sparkled on the frontiers of his consciousness acted to widen the grin. He nodded in time to the Vivaldi he was playing on his Troxan sound deck, enjoyed his triumph for a few moments, then reached to the service plate on the wall and pressed the ideograph for “general announcement.”

“Boss. I think I’ve found something.”

If Gregor hadn’t been anticipating, he never would have heard Maijstral enter. The man moved in such absolute silence that, in the early months of his apprenticeship, Gregor had wondered if there was something uncanny about it. Just good training, he finally decided, and began consciously to imitate him.

Gregor was a good thief, had always been. He’d been living by his wits for most of his life, but he knew he’d never make it to the top of the ratings as an Allowed Burglar.

The problem was those ten points for style. The people at the top of the charts— Alice Manderley, Geoff Fu George, Baron Drago— they fairly oozed style, and moved among their victims with such charm that it almost seemed as if no one in the company resented the way his valuables kept disappearing. Maijstral, for example, had all the advantages— gentle birth, schooling in the Empire, the right social connections. When the teenaged Gregor had heard about Maijstral and Nichole, he’d breathed fiery jealousy for weeks.

Gregor was Non-U, that was the trouble. Should he ever have occasion to meet Nichole, he wouldn’t know how to make an approach, what to talk about. If he was to be a successful Allowed Burglar, he’d have to know how to move among these people, how they spoke, thought, interacted. He’d learned a lot just watching Maijstral. He was taking diction lessons. He’d learned that the hair style he’d favored on his home world would have got him challenges on half the planets in the Empire. He’d learned not to paint his face in the pastel colors he had favored in his youth, and to say “perhaps” instead of “maybe,” and “vetch” instead of “clinker.” But he still had a long way to go.