The Crown Jewels (23 page)

The door opened. Pietro burst in. “Have you seen the vid?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why Navarre?”

She thought for a moment. “Good question,” she said. “Perhaps they thought to find me there.”

“And who was it that killed Ronnie? There’s no identification at ail.”

“Something’s going on.”

“Damn right there is.” This last was a comment from Captain Tartaglia, who had appeared in the doorway. Amalia quickly composed her features and tried to hide her reactive distaste at the sight of the man. Tartaglia scratched his chin and looked at the vid. “Maybe we should pick up this Navarre. Ask him some questions.”

Amalia’s heart thumped in alarm. “He seems to be well protected,” she said.

“Take a look at his place, anyway.”

“Police will be everywhere.”

Tartaglia shrugged. “That’s worth considering. Let me think about it.”

The vid unit chimed. “Telephone call from General Gerald, madam. Marines. Retired.”

Amalia felt a slow wave of surprise. She barely knew the man. “Now what?” she said. She turned to Tartaglia. “If you’ll excuse me. Captain?”

Tartaglia shrugged again and turned to leave. Amalia accepted the call. Gerald’s red face appeared on the vid. Amalia tried to seem politely interested.

“General Gerald. This is a surprise.”

The General was grinning. “Drake Maijstral asked me to call you.”

Behind her, Amalia heard Pietro’s gasp of surprise, followed instantly by the sound of Captain Tartaglia’s abrupt about-face in the hall and return to the room.

Amalia Jensen controlled her astonishment, and was mildly surprised at the coolness of her reply. Perhaps she was becoming accustomed to intrigue. “You are welcome to call at any time, General. I am surprised that Mr. Maijstral did not call with his own message.”

“Perhaps he didn’t want to get killed.”

“Whatever our disagreements, we have not equipped every telephone on Peleng with an explosive device just on the chance that Maijstral might use it.”

“Perhaps he wants to be careful. I am given to understand that some of your people broke into his house this morning.”

There was an annoyed grunt from Tartaglia.

“Let’s get to cases, shall we?” The General appeared to be enjoying himself, “You haven’t exactly covered yourself with glory in this business so far, and I think Maijstral’s being quite reasonable in offering you a chance to buy your way out of this situation.” The General’s smile broadened, conveying pure, malevolent joy. “Maijstral wishes the bidding concluded in the next thirty-eight hours— one day. I’m getting twenty percent as middleman. Do I hear any bids?”

Tartaglia pushed Amalia Jensen aside and squatted in front of the vid, inside range of the holo pickup. Amalia prickled.

“General. I’m Captain Tartaglia.”

The General appeared to consult his memory. “I don’t recall any captain by that name. An ex-captain, yes. Someone who left the service of the Constellation in order to join a crank paramilitary organization with delusions of grandeur.”

Tartaglia’s mouth was a grim line. “I’m surprised to see you involved in this. General. The Fate of the Constellation is at stake. Seems like all you seem to care about is your twenty percent.”

The General turned red. Amalia winced at the volume of his reply. “I
cared
enough about the Constellation to have served six hitches in the marines, puppy! Marines, I will remind you, who are ready to fight against the Empire whether or not they’ve got an Emperor
or
his blasted jism! I
care
enough about the Constellation to have made this call! If I hadn’t agreed to act as middleman here, you might have been left out of the deal entirely. I suggest, therefore, you care enough to come up with a reasonable bid!”

“If that’s the way you want it. General.”

“That’s the way
Maijstral
wants it, puppy! If I had any resources to call on I’d bid for the thing myself, but I know how long it takes for the military to process an unorthodox requisition for funds. So it seems as if the Fate of the Constellation is in your hands. Heaven and the Virtues help us.”

“Amateurs have their uses, then.”

The General raised an admonishing finger. “Money speaks louder than sarcasm, puppy.”

Amalia could see Tartaglia’s hands trembling with suppressed rage. “Very well. A hundred and fifty. But tell Maijstral this. If he favors the Empire, he’d better get ready to spend the rest of his life across the border. And even then the Empire might not be healthy for him.”

General Gerald was visibly unimpressed. “I’ll transmit that message, puppy, but were I you, I wouldn’t make threats you’re not competent enough to carry out.”

Tartaglia’s answer was short. “A hundred and fifty. Tell Maijstral.”

“I’ll do it and be back in touch. I expect the bidding will go higher.” His eyes seemed to search out of the holo projection, looking for Amalia. “Miss Jensen,” he said, “I’m very disappointed at the company you keep.”

The General’s image faded, Tartaglia began to curse, and Amalia Jensen was left with a growing admiration for Maijstral’s technique. He had chosen the perfect foil— someone whose sympathies would lie with the Constellation, but who was nevertheless perfectly honorable, and who would consider any interference with Maijstral a breach of that honor.

“We’ll pick up the General!” Tartaglia was saying. “We’ll get Maijstral’s location out of him! And then— then—”

“He probably doesn’t have that information,” Amalia snapped. “Give Maijstral the credit for knowing his job. He’s obviously running this through cutouts, and he wouldn’t tell the cutouts his hiding place.” She stood up and gazed into Captain Tartaglia’s surprised eyes. “General Gerald has won any number of duels in the past, and I think if you sent your people after him, they’d come back damaged, you’d end up with a challenge you probably wouldn’t win, and the Empire would get the artifact.”

Tartaglia sneered, “Perhaps you think you should be running things.”

“Perhaps Amalia
should
,” Pietro said. His voice caught them both by surprise. “She seems to have a better idea of how to deal with this situation.”

“Damn that Maijstral!” Tartaglia beat the wall in fury. Amalia could hear the surprised reactions of his followers to the violence and noise. “Damn the man!”

“Damn him, indeed,” Amalia said. She was, as before, surprised at her coolness. “Damn him all you like. But stop threatening him, or we’ll lose it all.”

Tartaglia fell silent, red-faced and baffled. “Exactly,” Pietro said. “Let
us
deal with it from now on.”

He stepped across the room to link arms with Amalia. They had been through too much together for Tartaglia to throw it all away.

*

The sounds of the
Eroica
, perfectly rendered by Gregor’s Troxan speakers, boomed from Maijstral’s walls. A robot, bumbling about some task, gave a low whistle followed by a series of bleeps.

The last straw. Maijstral turned in his chair and shot the robot with his disruptor. The robot froze. Maijstral knew he would probably have to pay damages, but decided that hearing the
Eroica
unhindered was worth the cost. Maijstral called up Peleng City’s Personal Notices bulletin board, where General Gerald had posted Humanity Prime’s bid. A smile crossed his face. A hundred and fifty. That wasn’t bad, for a start. The Imperials hadn’t tendered an offer yet.

Both sides had, however, made threats— the codes transmitted by both General Gerald and Count Quik made that clear.

This required thinking about. He told the vid to turn off, and the unit answered him with bleeping noises and flashing lights. Maijstral suppressed a spasm of irritation.

Both factions promised violence unless he sold the artifact to their side. If worst came to worst, the Empire could probably guard Maijstral better, but he preferred not to spend the rest of his life in hiding. And he didn’t want to spend it in the Empire, either.

He thought about the situation for a moment, particularly in reference to his thoughts last evening, when Roman had mentioned his own bias toward the Empire. Then Maijstral smiled and nodded to himself. This called for a conspiracy.

Roman, who never trusted others to select Maijstral’s food, was off on a provisioning errand. His absence provided a fine opportunity to inaugurate a small Romanless plot. Maijstral followed the crashing
Eroica
to Gregor’s door and knocked softly.

“Gregor? May I speak with you?”

“Sure boss. Come in.”

Gregor had taken one of the household robots apart and was examining its contents.

Two down! Maijstral thought cheerily.

Gregor put his tools on his desk and turned down the fourth movement with a sharp command directed at his audio deck.

Maijstral padded to a chair and coiled in it. “Feeling well?” he asked.

“Sure, boss.” There was the merest trace of a bruise on Gregor’s temple, but otherwise the semilife patch had done its work: reduced swelling, promoted healing, drawn up most of the bruise, and then expired in ultimate semilife bliss and dropped off.

“Gregor, both sides are making threats. I’m anticipating a certain level of danger here.”

Gregor shrugged. “What else is new?”

“I’m afraid that neither of our clients may be happy without possession of the artifact.”

“I’ll be careful. Don’t worry, boss, I want to keep my skin as well as anyone.”

“It’s not that. It’s that . . .” Maijstral feigned hesitation. “I would prefer our Imperial friends to suffer disappointment.”

Gregor grinned. He leaned forward. “So would I. How do we want to work it?”

There was a smile somewhere deep behind Maijstral’s lazy eyes. This was going to be easier than he expected. “It occurred to me that the artifact must have survived some serious fighting. It would be a great shame if the Empire, on obtaining the artifact, discovered that it had been hit by a disruptor bolt or two.”

“And sterilized?”

Maijstral raised his hands, palms-up. “They could hardly blame
us
.”

Gregor cackled with laughter. “That’s pretty good, boss.”

“Roman can’t know, of course. It isn’t that he’s pro-Imperial, just that he would so disapprove of cheating a client.”

Gregor gave a conspiratorial wink. “No problem. My eyes are sealed.”

“But if we were to sell the Empire any of His Majesty’s sperm, presumably our Constellation friends would want assurances that it was sterilized.”

Gregor frowned. “I follow. Somehow we’d have to let Jensen and her friends see the sample’s been sterilized before passing it to the Imperials.” He shook his head in bafflement. “That’s a tough one, boss.”

Maijstral raised a hand. “I have an idea, Gregor,” he said. “I believe it will work. Let’s see if you agree.”

*

“Baron Sinn. Your servant, sir.”

“Count Quik. Ever yours.”

“My consulate has authorized a bid of two hundred.” This was a lie. Sinn was using his own line of credit— he, like General Gerald, understood this would take too long for the request to go through official channels.

“Will transmit, my Baron. My thanks.”

Baron Sinn returned the phone to the robot and glanced from beneath the shade of the kibble trees toward where Countess Anastasia waited on the croquet court. She did not appear happy. Unfortunate for her, Sinn thought as he returned to the game, swinging his mallet in a jaunty way. For some reason her play was off. The Baron was well on his way toward winning his second game.

*

“And then this giant creature jumped out of ambush. Wearing a puppet disguise, no less. He must have been insane. He seized me, threw me about the place, and kept asking after Miss Jensen.”

“That must have been terrible.”

“He kept strangling me. He wouldn’t let me talk. Even if he took his hands off my throat, there was nothing I could have told him. I barely knew the woman. Until you told me, I had no idea she’d been released. If it wasn’t for your man, I don’t doubt I’d be lying dead in my uncle’s house.”

“Do you think it was the same person who broke into your uncle’s house?”

“It’s occurred to me. But that would mean the burglary is connected with the attack on Miss Jensen, and I can’t think how that could be.”

Nichole smiled, her mind bubbling with her own inward speculation. “Yes,” she said. “Totally baffling.”

Lieutenant Navarre propped his chin on his hand. He spoke thoughtfully. “Reminds me of a play I saw on Pompey. A strange complicated piece, written by one of our local playwrights. Drama, comedy, even a song or two. It had a glorious part for one of my favorite actresses.” Pause. “She rather reminds me of you, my lady.”

“Does she indeed?” Nichole put her hand on his arm. Her voice was a quiet purr. “Tell me all about it. Lieutenant. I’d love to hear everything you can remember.”

*

It was almost time for siesta. Gregor was off on a brief errand to the nearest public phone in order to transmit the Imperial counterbid to General Gerald, leaving Roman to fix Maijstral’s presiesta luncheon with equipment he had brought to the table on a cart. The hot dressing flamed in Roman’s pan. Maijstral watched Roman’s expert movements with admiration.

Time, obviously enough, for a conspiracy. “Your salad, sir.”

“Thank you, Roman. Is that kava-kivi I taste?”

“It is, sir. A small conceit of mine.”

“A splendid idea, Roman. Let it occur to you in future, by all means.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Maijstral tasted the salad again. Roman busied himself with putting away his cooking implements. Maijstral put his fork down and tapped his fake diamond against a front tooth.

“Roman,” he said. “May I ask your advice?”

Roman put down his spatula. “Sir. I would be honored.” Maijstral spoke in Khosali. The logic seemed to express itself better. “We have it in our power to affect the course of history.”

“Sir.”

“It is not a responsibility I have ever desired. My lifelong interests, I’m afraid, have been rather more pedestrian. These elements of galactic intrigue have caught me entirely by surprise.”

“The circumstances of life do not ask permission, but compel as they will.”