The Crown Jewels (27 page)

*

Maijstral stood stock-still, picturing the Countess with a gun, Amalia Jensen with a gun. Imperial Marines and Constellation Death Commandos, all with guns. The Countess breathed insults at him, calling him an ungrateful wretch, a scoundrel, an incompetent, and no son of hers.

*

He wished the latter, at least, was true.

*

Paavo Kuusinen stepped forward. “Pardon me, madam,” he said, and bent to pick up a vial at Nichole’s feet. “This, sir, was yours,” he said.

The elderly Khosalikh looked from one to the other. “It was?”

Nichole looked from one vial to the other and realized that her call had come. She made her decision; her hand dipped into her pannier and came up with the hidden vial. She took the vial from Kuusinen, made the switch flawlessly, and passed the switched vial to her left. “For Baron Sinn,” she said.

*

The Imperial Marines started to fade from Maijstral’s mind.

*

Nichole looked at the old gentleman, who was still gazing at his outstretched vial. She took his hand in hers, helped him turn around. “That is Miss Jensen’s,” she said. “Please send it down the set.”

*

The Death Commandos began to turn transparent.

*

People began to remember their part in the dance. Gradually the lines sorted themselves out.

*

“I believe, sir,” said Gregor, “that this is where you reverse.”

“Oh. I don’t doubt you are correct. Thank you, sir.” Gregor smiled in satisfaction. At least he remembered this part.

*

Pietro gnawed his lip as he operated his second scanner. He could hear the murmur of the crowd as, following the dance, they crowded toward the refreshment buffet.

His scanner rang. Relief flooded his mind. He looked at Amalia and grinned.

“It’s the live culture. Now we know for certain the sterilized culture went the other way.”

*

“Too complicated. I knew this wasn’t going to work.” Lights flickered on the scanner. Baron Sinn rotated the display so that Countess Anastasia could see it.

“It’s the Imperial Artifact, my lady. Unquestionably.” A certain dismay clamored in the Countess’s mind.

“Maijstral pulled off his switch, then.”

“Apparently.”

She conceded defeat. She squared her shoulders. “Long live the Pendjalh,” she said. Her vice was like a trumpet call. Muted, perhaps, but sincere.

Baron Sinn echoed her. “Long live the Imperial line.” In reverent tones.

He put the vial in his pocket and offered the Countess his arm. “Perhaps, my lady, it is time for us to depart.”

*

Because, Maijstral thought, he found he could not act any other way. Somewhat to his surprise, there had proven more scruples in his makeup than ever he suspected. Even though he did not want to live in the Empire, or desire an Emperor over him, he could not coldly condemn the Imperial line to death, not when it meant so much to so many billions. If a threat to the Human Constellation resulted— and that was by no means certain— then that threat would have to be dealt with when it occurred. Maijstral could not assume the right to disrupt a millennia-old civilization on the half-chance there might be a conflict years down the line.

Besides. It was the Emperor’s to begin with.

Baron Sinn had assured him the matter would be handled delicately. Concubines of good family would be found in the farther reaches. None would be impregnated for several years. None of the heirs would be revealed for decades. When they were placed before the public, rumors would be started; one of the other two artifacts had been discovered, or the Pendjalli had simply cloned poor Nnis in secrecy, against all tradition, and refused to admit it.

The resolution would be satisfyingly like an old romance. The unknown heir, raised as a foster child far away, would become the next Pendjalli, to his own surprise and the surprise of everyone else. And all because of an odd scruple in a thief. It warmed Maijstral’s heart to think about it.

Was he being sentimental? he wondered. He could not tell.

“Sir?”

Maijstral turned to the globe hovering at chest height. It offered a human voice.

“Madam?” he replied.

“There seemed to be some manner of intrigue going on during the Pilgrimage, involving people passing things back and forth. Are you aware of the nature of these events?”

Maijstral shrugged. “No one passed anything to me,” he said. “Perhaps you should ask someone else.”

“Are you going to be accompanying Nichole for the rest of her tour?”

Maijstral recollected that he should be suffering intimations of a broken heart by now.

“That has not been decided,” he said. “Events have rather taken us by surprise.”

And on that ambiguous note, Maijstral ended the interview.

*

Paavo Kuusinen, unnoticed, slipped from the hall. His face bore a smile.

His stay on Peleng, he decided, had been quite satisfactory.

He would have a lot to tell his employer. He knew he would see Maijstral again.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Captain Tartaglia took careful aim with his disruptor. “Ready,” he called. “Aim. Fire.”

Fingers tightened on triggers. Silent, invisible energies flooded the darkness of Amalia Jensen’s backyard.

Somewhere in the darkness, a nightbird called.

“Cease fire,” said Tartaglia, and looked at the small vial propped on a chair.

It seemed unchanged. Tartaglia felt vaguely disappointed.
I have destroyed you, inhuman scum
, he thought, but the thought failed to comfort him.

Amalia Jensen put her pistol in its holster. She patted the pocket where Tartaglia’s credit counter rested. She’d be able to pay her debts tomorrow. “There’s a shuttle heading to the launching station in two hours,” she said. “You and your people have ample time to book passage.”

“Two hours?”

“Time enough, don’t you think?” Amalia took the vial from the chair and held it up to the starlight. “I think I’ll keep this. A souvenir.” She put it in her pocket, then saw his frown and laughed. “I’ve earned it,” she pointed out. “I was the one who was kidnapped.”

Tartaglia conceded. “If you insist.” He reflected that he’d still be able to make a terrific report to his superiors, and expect commendations and a promotion. The Strong Hand, he thought, would be nearer the top.

Amalia produced an envelope and handed it to Tartaglia. “My resignation from Humanity Prime,” she said. “And Mr. Quijano’s.”

“Hm. What I might have expected from the fainthearts.”

“Fainthearted? We’re joining the Pioneer Corps, Captain. It’s what we should have done in the first place.”

Tartaglia told himself he didn’t much care, and to concentrate instead on the commendations and promotions he could expect. For some reason he couldn’t get excited about either.

He began giving orders for his troops to pack and head toward the shuttle.

*

The strains of “Farewell, Comrades, Farewell” floated over the terrace. Maijstral took a breath of cool air and contemplated his profits. Lord Giddon, his father’s creditor, would be satisfied, the diamond ring would be redeemed, there would be enough left for some long-term investments. Always assuming, of course, that no new Lord Giddons showed up.

“Have you seen Gregor, Roman?”

“I believe he made a friend. One of Countess Tank’s young ladies.”

“That’s the last we’ll see of him tonight, I suppose.” Maijstral looked at his servant with cheerful regard. Everything had come out all right.

“Roman, I think we have done very well this evening.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I suppose that for our ultimate success we should thank Mr. Kuu— Kuusinen, was it?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“I’d like to thank him personally, but I suppose I should continue to stay out of it. There’s no reason he should connect me with this.”

“None whatever, sir.”

Maijstral turned at the sound of footsteps behind him. Etienne stepped out onto the terrace with a young lady on his arm. Gold winked around one eye. Maijstral bowed.

“I see you have restored the glass, sir.”

“I have, Maijstral. I think it suits me well.”

“So it does.”

Etienne turned to his lady. “The glass came about as a result of the Pearl Woman business. I suppose you’ve heard about it?”

“Yes, sir. I must have watched the record a dozen times. My heart was in my throat the whole time. I was so afraid for you I thought I would die.”

Etienne smiled. Maijstral stepped forward. “You will excuse us, I hope?”

“Certainly, Maijstral. Wish me luck on Nana.”

Maijstral sniffed Etienne’s cheek and received a poke from his starboard mustachio. Roman followed as he stepped back into the ballroom, seeing a few last dancers whirling to the last song, the rest slowly filing out. Maijstral observed Nichole walking arm-in-arm with Lieutenant Navarre and remembered to sigh.

It was time for him to work on his broken heart.

*

“Who is it?” Amalia called from the kitchen, where she was supervising the new robot as it stowed away the guest dishes and crystal that Tartaglia’s rangers had used during their stay.

Pietro asked the room to give a holoview of the person on the roof. He squinted at the brightness of the daytime image. “I don’t recognize her. A small Khosalikh in a Jefferson-Singh. Wearing a lot of jewelry.”

“You don’t say!” said Amalia. Pietro was surprised at the delight in her voice. She stuck her head out of the kitchen and looked at the holo. She frowned as she studied the image, then nodded. “I’ll go meet her,” she decided.

“Is it someone I should know?”

“I’ll tell you later. It’s a long story.”

Amalia stepped onto the a-grav and rose to the roof. She shaded her eyes in the bright morning sun. She couldn’t be entirely certain. “May I help you?” she asked.

“Perhaps.” The Khosalikh also seemed uncertain. “Possibly you don’t recognize me. My name is Tvi.” Joy filled Amalia’s heart.

“I recognize the voice perfectly well.”

Tvi’s tongue lolled as Amalia gave her a hug. “I was uncertain of my reception.”

“I think we can put politics aside for now. May I offer you first breakfast?”

“Delighted, Miss Jensen.” She held up a paper bag. “I brought some leaf crumpets.”

“After all we’ve been through, I should think you could call me Amalia.”

*

The smell of harness webbing and lubricant rose in General Gerald’s nostrils. Mild regret filled his mind. He had disassembled his battle armor and was now crating it for storage.

Maijstral wouldn’t come now, he was certain. The glorious battle he had anticipated would never take place.

He had no reason to feel disappointed, he thought. He had performed a singular service to the Constellation, and though his role would never become public, he could take satisfaction in a job well done, a long career crowned by one last glorious intrigue.

It was just a pity there wasn’t more violence.

*

Pietro had just realized who, precisely, Tvi was. “This is one of your kidnappers?”

“Yes.” Amalia grinned. “The nice one.”

“The nice one!” Pietro’s hands turned to fists. “She held you hostage!”

“Just doing my job, Mr. Quijano.” Tvi licked jam from her fingers. “Normally I disdain violence, but it so happened I needed the work.”

“Needed the work.” Pietro repeated the words without seeming to grasp their meaning. He shook his head. “And now”—he pointed a breakfast fork at Tvi— “and now you propose to make Miss Jensen”— the fork swung toward Amalia— “Miss Jensen, your former victim, your agent for further crimes.”

Tvi considered this summation. “That is correct, Mr. Quijano.”

“And her former victim”— Amalia smiled—“proposes to accept.”

“Amalia!”

“Well, why not? Tvi is going to be an Allowed Burglar whether we say so or not. Since she’s going to steal, why not act as an agent in negotiating with the insurance companies and collect ten percent when she sells the stuff back? Particularly since I seem to have had some recent experience at these sorts of negotiations.”

“Why not?” Pietro’s mind floundered. “Why not?” His fingers began to crumble a leaf crumpet. “As I recall, your former position was that Allowed Burglary was a shameful remnant of a decadent Imperial culture, and that theft ought not to be allowed under any circumstances, and punished with imprisonment when it occurred.”

Amalia looked at Tvi. “Perhaps,” she said, “I found being held hostage a broadening experience. In any case, I’ll only be working for Tvi until she can steal some appropriate identification and leave Peleng. Besides,” she added sensibly, “it isn’t as if I’m
making
her steal.”

“Sophistry, Amalia.”

“Plus, if I’m to join the Pioneers I’ll have to have my epilepsy dealt with, and Tvi’s theft might as well pay for that as anything.”

“I don’t suppose,” Pietro said, “the word of a fiancé stands for much in all of this.”

Amalia put her hand on his. “I’m afraid not, love. My friendship with Tvi predates our latest, ah, arrangement.”

Pietro sighed. “Friendship,” he said, resigned. “Arrangements.” He concluded there was little more to say on the subject. Domestic bliss, he thought, was largely a matter of compromise.

Sensibly, he reached for another crumpet and ate it. It dissolved on his tongue like the taste of a new world.

*

Maijstral kissed Nichole’s hand. “This, I take it, is where my heart gets broken for good and all.”

Nichole smiled. “I’m afraid so, Maijstral.” She patted the settee. “Come sit by me.”

Maijstral glanced in the direction of her parlor as he sat. Morning light was flooding in the windows. “Lieutenant Navarre?” he asked.

“Giving his first press conference.”

Maijstral raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t that flinging him to the ravens a little early, my lady?”

She gave him a look. “He may as well get used to it. If he’s going to get frightened off, it’s best to know now rather than later.”

He sighed. “That’s true. Paying court to a member of the Diadem is not for the faint of heart.”

She looked at him and put her hand on his. “I didn’t aim that remark at you, Maijstral. I understood your decision entirely, much as I regretted your making it.”