The Crown Jewels (2 page)

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.

CHAPTER TWO

If you have to be conquered by aliens from outer space, you could do worse than be conquered by the Khosali. The Khosali have conquered dozens of species and have had lots of practice at it, and this ensures that a minimum number of lives will be lost during the conquest and that the readjustment can begin right away.