The Crown Jewels (26 page)

“Amalia Jensen, sir. With pleasure.”

“Your very obedient.”

“Yours.”

Kuusinen made a caper. “Allow me to remark, madam, that you seem quite recovered in spirits after your misadventure.”

“Recovered, yes. Thank you.”

“It cannot have been enjoyable, first being held prisoner and then becoming the object of public curiosity.”

“I am the sensation of the moment, Mr. Kuusinen. Other sensations will follow, and I will return to thankful obscurity.”

“You seem to be enjoying your brief encounter with celebrity.”

“I am enjoying myself, sir. But perhaps not for that reason,”

*

“Baron Sinn.”

“Honored, my lord. Althegn Wohl.”

“Mr. Wohl, I just recovered a bag belonging to Mr. Maijstral. Would you mind passing it along in his direction?”

“Ah. Oh. Certainly, my lord.”

“I am obliged to you, sir.”

*

“Pleased to see you, Etienne.”

“Your servant, Maijstral. As always.”

“You have not found Peleng to your taste. My condolences.”

Etienne jigged about dutifully, one hand restraining his sword from lashing the people to either side. “Thank you for your sympathy, Maijstral, Though you might keep some in reserve. I’m scheduled to do Nana after this.” He blinked. “Oh,” he said. “Sorry, Maijstral. I forgot you were born there.”

Maijstral cocked his head to one side and frowned. “You know,” he said, “perhaps the glass suits you after all.”

Etienne twirled one of his mustachios. “Do you really think so?”

*

“Your servant, Miss Jensen.”

“Would you mind doing me a small service, sir?”

“Not at all, madam.”

“I have found a bag belonging to Mr. Drake Maijstral. Would you mind passing it along the line toward him? I am certain he is anxious without it.”

*

“Count Quik.”

“Elvis Presley. Of Graceland.”

“Honored, sir. I hope seeing Memphis soon.”

*

Sergeant Tvi watched the dance as she lounged on her borrowed couch before the vid. The warm, buttery smell of leaf crumpets filled the room; she dusted yellow pigment from her finger as she ate. This life, so far, wasn’t bad at all. She was wearing stolen jewels, and later that night (and before the ball ended) would probably go out and harvest some more.

Her only current problem that she couldn’t get off the planet— she didn’t dare use her Imperial passport and she didn’t know anyone on planet who could get her some new identification. Her training, unfortunately, hadn’t encompassed forgery— as long as she was with the Secret Dragoons, Imperial consulates could give her perfectly authentic documents at any time.

Tvi saw Baron Sinn moving down the set with Countess Anastasia as his partner, and her ears flattened. She pointed an imaginary spitfire at them both. “Boom,” she said. Right between the Countess’s stiffened shoulders.

The media globe panned down the set past where Nichole and Maijstral were dancing more or less in the center, and then Tvi noticed Amalia Jensen moving up the set, partnered with a slight man in an Imperial-cut coat.

Her ears ticked forward. Perhaps, she thought, there was a solution here.

*

“I am told this bag belongs to Mr. Maijstral. Could you please send it along toward him?”

“I am Mr. Maijstral’s associate, madam. Let me make certain it is the bag he lost.”

Roman opened the bag and saw a substantial bundle of cash. He closed the bag.

“This is indeed what we missed, madam. Our thanks for its return.”

He looked down the set and caught Maijstral’s eye.

*

“General Gerald.”

“Countess Anastasia.”

A frigid silence prevailed.

*

“Gregor Norman, madam.”

“Your servant, sir. I say— I have just received this bag, which I am told belongs to Mr. Maijstral. Would you mind propelling it in his direction?”

“Why not? Give it here.”

Gregor’s temporary partner was appalled as Gregor ferreted through the bag and swiftly determined that it did, indeed, contain something approximating the correct amount of cash. He looked down the set, caught Maijstral’s eye, and waved.

The ears of Gregor’s partner went back, and she bared her teeth. This was more than Non-U. It was sordid.

*

Paavo Kuusinen received a bag and felt of it before passing it on. A smile began to cross his features.

*

“They certainly have very active imaginations.”

“To be sure.”

“I have a theory. Perhaps it is the sort only an aristocratic dilettante could arrive at, but let me give you an idea. . . “

*

“Your servant, Mr. Quijano.”

“I thank you. General. Yours.”

“Things should be over soon, youngster.”

“Yes. Miss Jensen will be relieved when Captain Tartaglia moves out of her house.”

“She should have thrown him out.”

“It was easier for her to seek shelter at my house.”

The General raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Pietro flushed. “We’ve been planning our future.”

General Gerald smiled. His face was not accustomed to it and the result was somewhat more horrific than if he had turned red and yelled.

“I hope it is a happy one, youngster. I think you’re very well suited.”

Pietro, mildly paralyzed by the General’s appearance, took some time to react to what the General had actually said.

*

“Sir. I have come upon this . . . object . . . which I believe fell from the pocket of Baron Sinn yonder. Would you mind terribly passing it up the set toward him?”

*

“They won’t believe that we exist?”

“We are figments, if you will, of their subconscious. That is what I suspect.”

“I can’t . . . think . . . of anything that would contradict that interpretation.”

“If true, it would prove a most illuminating view into their psychology.”

*

Maijstral, preoccupied with dancing about Nichole and watching sidelong as the bags and vials progressed in the dance, had been listening to the high, resonant voice for some time before its familiarity caused him to glance toward the short, globe-headed figure on his left. Count Quik.

Count Quik, speaking Human Standard with absolute coherence. The Count’s usual manner of speech, Maijstral realized, was purely an aristocratic affectation.

Startled, Maijstral almost missed a step. He recovered and danced on.

*

Tartaglia was in a rage. “Can you see it? What the hell is going on?”

“Maybe we should change the channel, Captain.”

“Mind your own damned business.”

*

“Sir. I believe you reverse here.”

“Oh. Thank you, ah, madam.”

Gregor clenched his teeth, jammed the leather bag in his armpit, and ducked beneath his partner’s arm to his correct place. His line took two steps back without him, and just as he caught up they surged forward again. Gregor wiped sweat away and smeared cosmetic on his sleeve.

Damn this dance, anyway. He hadn’t had enough time to learn it.

Now, at last, it was his turn to stay still while the third couples made a passage. Mentally counting out eight measures, Gregor reached into a pocket arm and came up with the sterile vial. He turned right on the eighth measure and did a back-to-back with his new temporary partner, a Tanquer in a pince-nez with smoked lenses. This uncovered a view of the pretty girl who would be his temporary partner in about forty-eight measures, and Gregor winked at her. She seemed surprised. Gregor and the Tanquer finished their back-to-back and commenced eight measures of siding.

“Sir,” he said, producing the vial, “I have just picked up something belonging to Miss Amalia Jensen. Maybe we should give it back. Would you do me the favor of passing it down the line?”

The Tanquer’s nictitating membranes slid shut, which, together with the smoked glass, produced an odd effect. “Very well, strange young person,” he said, and took the vial.

Gregor capered back to his permanent partner and blinked sweat from his eyes. Thank God that was over.

*

Paavo Kuusinen looked down the set, saw something moving toward him. Looked up, saw something coming that way.

He thought a few figures ahead, made a rapid calculation. He hooked his arm through the arm of the Khosalikh next to him. swung the man around.

“Wait. Sir. This is next figure.”

“No, sir. Now.”

“Sir.” The voice was pained. Kuusinen had just altered their progression. He and Kuusinen had just changed partners.

Amalia Jensen gave him a surprised look as the dance swept her away.

*

“Baron Sinn.”

“General Gerald.”

Gloating. “Try denying now that you’re a spy.”

The Baron was imperturbable. “I am a private nobleman, trying to do my Empire a service.”

Hah, thought the General. You think we’re going to get the real artifact, and that you’re deceiving us by letting us think yours is going to be sterilized when it’s not. But I saw your spunk get sterilized, and know all you’re getting is small meaningless coils of dead protein. So there. Hah.

The plot made the General’s head hurt, but one thing he knew. This was better than whipping the Imperial fleet. More personally satisfying.

*

“Navarre will be finishing his business here. The estate auction is in five days.”

“I see.”

“I’ve got one more stop on my tour, and then I’m going off to have my feet done. We’ll meet on Fantome, and start making arrangements for the play.”

“Perhaps”— dancing about her— “I’ll manage to attend the premiere.”

“The pickings would be good, Drake, but can you do a good imitation of a broken heart? You’d have to, you know.”

Thoughtfully. “I suppose I could summon a tear or two.”

“It would have to be more than that. After all, you’re supposed to have engaged in a passionate and desperate romance with me here, all while I was falling in love with the handsome lieutenant. Going to the premiere might be more than your heart could bear.”

Maijstral considered this while Nichole circled him. “Perhaps you are right. A mere display of manly grief wouldn’t be enough.”

“Pity we can’t tell the truth. The public would be enraged to discover that you and I were faking a romance in order to pursue our various intrigues— the Diadem’s followers insist on the authenticity of their illusions, and they’d want to pay us back for fooling them.”

Maijstral reflected on his decision, four years ago, not to seek membership in the Diadem. He had no reason, he concluded, to regret it.

“I shall have to console myself with a recording,” he said.

“I will send you one, but only if my performance is good. If I’m awful, I will burn every copy.”

Maijstral smiled. “I shall consider the recording’s arrival inevitable, madam.” He turned left, Nichole faced the other way. He and Nichole would be separated for a while. This was the marching bit.

*

“Mr. Kuusinen, we meet again.”

“Nichole, ever your servant.” Kuusinen was her new temporary partner. She didn’t trust the man at all. And there was something about his smile she didn’t like.

*

“Your servant, Miss Jensen.”

“General Gerald.”

“Your Mr. Quijano tells me you are going to join the Pioneers together. Not many people are willing to do the hard work of colonization these days.”

“Thank you, General.”

“Your father would have been proud of you, miss.”

A slow smile spread across Amalia’s features. “General,” she said, “I do believe you’re right.”

*

Maijstral was anticipating another attack of his residual childhood terror, but was pleasantly surprised to discover that his heart no longer quaked at the appearance of the Countess Anastasia. Instead it was the Countess who looked uncomfortable, standing stiffly, her shoulders thrown back unyielding as a yoke.

She looked at him with diamond-chip eyes. “How could you?” she asked.

How could I what? Maijstral wondered. Wreck her house, shoot at her servants, free her victim, deceive everyone in sight?

“Sorry, Mother,” he said. “Force of circumstance, you know.”

*

The accident wasn’t Nichole’s fault. Maijstral’s plan called for three vials, as he was unwilling to trust to the coincidence of Nichole receiving both vials at the same time. He was being cautious, but he was also wrong.

The live culture, moving down the set toward Amalia Jensen, arrived first. Nichole smiled, accepted it with her left hand. Her right hand touched her pannier, where the other culture waited, for luck; but this wasn’t the switch yet— she had to reach out with her right hand for Kuusinen, touch fingers, and walk around him. Then caper, then repeat.

At the end of the repetition, she turned to her right, ready to ask her new temporary partner to pass the vial on.

But the new partner, a bewildered, elderly Khosalikh with more than his share of muzzle rings, had just received the sterile culture, and was holding it out to her.

Hands swung together. The vials clattered. The Khosalikh humbled and banged them together again. Terror clutched Nichole as the vials clattered to the floor.

*

Paavo Kuusinen watched carefully at the objects tumbling from Nichole’s fingers, perceived the look of horror on her face. Time seemed to stop.

*

Maijstral caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and froze in midmovement. The Countess thudded into him and drove her heel onto his instep. He didn’t feel the pain.

*

Pietro Quijano stared in surprise as he danced across the set. He could have sworn he’d seen a vial clatter across the floor.

*

Baron Sinn saw the accident clearly and bared his teeth. His partner was frightened and took a step back.

*

Up and down the line, a sense of catastrophe began to spread. Few knew precisely what had gone wrong, but everyone realized that something had gone awry, and the rhythm of the dance was lost as heads began to crane left and right. Media globes swooped left and right, looking for the source of the turbulence.

*

The elderly Khosalikh murmured an apology, bowed, and picked up a vial. He looked at it in puzzlement. It looked identical to the one he’d just held. But was it?