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Drake Maijstral walked on soft leather buskins down the
center of the Peleng City ballroom and never made a
noise. He was light-footed by trade.

Above him, ideographs for "long life" and "welcome,
travelers" floated below the high ceiling- The glowing
holos lit the room more brightly than usual, mainly to
provide sufficient light for the large number of media
globes that also floated over the assembly. Individuals,
human and not, found themselves reacting to the unex-
pected brightness in accordance with their character and
purpose. Some did not wish their business to be known,
and these shrank into the shadows and mumbled with their
faces turned to the wall. Those wanting to be seen prome-
naded beneath the hovering globes or floated on a-grav
fields toward the ceiling in hopes a globe might conde-
scend to interview them. Some promenaded in the light,
but being self-conscious, blushed. Others tried their best to
behave normally and ended up asking themselves what
normal was, particularly under these conditions.

Maijstral did none of these things. He had been schooled
in ways of maintaining assurance under unusual condi-
tions, was used to a certain amount of media attention, and

2 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

though his business was not entirely legitimate, he felt no
urge to hide in comers and mumble.

The formal stance adopted by most of the guests fea-
tured the shoulders pulled back and hips tucked under a
slightly curved but nevertheless rigid spine. The pose was
natural to a Khosalikh but required training in a human.
That Maijstral managed to add a supple grace to this
posture was to his credit. He was only a few inches above
the human average, but he looked taller. Also to his credit
was his dress, which managed to make the most of the
monochrome scheme demanded by High Custom—black
being the mourning color of most of humanity, and white
of the Khosali. He wore little jewelry save the silver pins
used to hold back his long brown hair, and the large
diamond on one finger. His eyes were a pleasant and
unassuming green, and half-closed lids gave the impres-
sion of laziness. He appeared to be in his midtwenties.

Maijstrat approached a tall, elegant, somewhat older
man, who walked the ballroom unaccompanied. The man
had a glass stuck in one eye, and was one of three hundred
humans who bore only a single name. His skin was black,
his ruffles and boots scarlet.

"Etienne," said Maijstral.

"Maijstral. How delightful."

Formally they sniffed each other's ears. A waxed musta-
chio point jabbed Maijstral's cheek. "Still in mourning, I
see," said Etienne.

"My father's still dead," said Maijstral.




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They spoke in High Khosali. Most humans managed the
strange intonation and nasal vowels easily enough, but it
took training to make proper use of the shifting syntax
wherein the structure of each sentence makes a comment
on the previous sentence, paragraph, or idea, and in one

THE CROWN JEWELS / 3

difficult parsing even makes a relation of the subject of the
conversation to the state of the universe as a whole.

"I remember hearing the news about your father a year
or so ago. There's no hope of recovery, I assume?"

"I'm afraid not. He sends me frequent letters complain-
ing about his condition.'*

"The dead can be a burden, I'm sure. But mourning
suits your figure well, Maijstral."

"Thank you. You look elegant, as always. Though I'm
not sure the eyeglass suits you. 1 don't think you're old
enough for such a major affectation."

Etienne lowered his voice. "It's cosmetic, I'm afraid.
Pearl Woman challenged me on Heath Minor and ran me
through the eye. My boot slipped, damn it. There are still
a few bruises around the implant." He paused a moment,
as if troubled. "You hadn't heard?"

"I'm afraid not. I've just ended a long passage, and I
haven't caught up on the news."

"Ah." Etienne seemed comforted. "Take my arm and
walk with me. The citizens seem a bit shy."

Maijstral fell into step with the other man. Locals parted
before them in a certain awe. "I am not surprised,"
Maijstral said, "How long has it been since members of
the Diadem visited here?"

"Forty standard. And from the looks of this burgh, I
can see why."

Maijstral was diplomatically silent. It is a credit to his
teachers that he did not so much as glance upward to see if
one of the media globes had overheard this remark. Etienne
went on, his parsing indicating irritation.

"It's not so much the reception as the degree of eager-
ness, if you know what I mean. Too much reverence."

"They will soon leam to relax in your company, I'm
sure."

4 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"My dear Maijstral, I don't want them to relax. I'm not
supposed to be a neighbor, I'm supposed to be a god."

Anyone, Maijstral reflected, who has got a rapier through
the eye and then discovered that an old acquaintance hasn't
even heard about it might be forgiven a certain amount of



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peevishness, even inconsistent peevishness. Maijstral
shrugged.

"In that case reverence is only your due," he said.
"Relish it, it is the coinage of godhood." Spoken in the
difficult parsing relating the subject matter to the condition
of existence.

Etienne wasn't so peeved he didn't know when someone
had scored a point, but his recovery was graceful. He
bowed to a tall blond woman who was approaching them
at a lazy walk. She was elegantly dressed in blue and
silver, and looked younger than her thirty-two years.

"Ah. Nichole. Maijstral was just asking about you."

Her scent was familiar and struck him like a silken
glove. "My lady. I am ravished." Maijstral brushed her
knuckles with his lips before sniffing her ears. She was
taller than Maijstral, and pale. She, like Etienne, bore only
a forename. She smiled at Maijstrai whitely.

"Drake. Such a joy to see you after all this time.
Mourning looks well on you." She spoke Human Standard.

"Thank you. And thanks again for the kind note on the
death of my father.''

"How is he, by the way?"

The media globes were beginning to jostle one another
above Nichole's head. Etienne made his excuses, sniffed
ears, and departed. Nichole took Maijstral's arm. Her
nearness to him conveyed old intimacies, suggested new
hopes. Linked, they strolled the length of the ballroom. At
least fifty men turned red and mentally assassinated Maijstrat
on the spot.

THE CROWN JEWELS I 5

"Etienne seemed disturbed I hadn't heard of his duel."

"His share was going down, you know. This mandated
an affaire de coeur with a protege of Pearl Woman, an
affaire d'honneur with the Pearl herself, and then the new
eye. A silly business. The second duel among the Diadem
in a twelvemonth. Pearl Woman was furious."

"He told me his boot slipped."

"Perhaps it did. One hopes it will cure him of martial
ambition. Dueling is habit-forming, though luckily suicide

is not."

Even the Khosali, who had reintroduced to humanity the
twin fashions of dueling and suicide, had mixed feelings
about this part of High Custom- There is a Khosali saying,
"Any fool can die in a duel." (They have a similar saying
about suicide.) The tone of Nichole's comments (though
spoken in Human Standard, which does not have the con-
textual modes of High Khosali) somehow managed to
convey the essence of the Khosali expression without actu-


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ally saying it.

Nuance, nuance. The globes, such as heard, loved it.

"How is Roman? Is he well?"

Maijstral smiled. "Roman is Roman. He'll be pleased
you asked after him, but he will be secretly pleased."

As they spoke they watched each other, listened, touched.
Explored, in their minds, possibilities. Each in search of a
conclusion, a resolution.

"He's much the same, then. And yourself?"

Maijstral cocked his head while considering the ques-
tion. "Well enough, 1 suppose."

"You're too young for ennui. That's more my line."

"Did that sound like ennui? I intended rather a becom-
ing modesty."

"You're not a modest man, Drake. Don't assume vir-

6 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

tues you don't possess." Said lightly, but still with a touch
of vinegar. She had changed in four years-

"1 have to assume at least a few," Maijstral said, "else
I'll have none at all."

She put her free hand on his arm. "Now that's more
like the Drake Maijstral 1 remember."

The second hand on his arm was an external sign of an
inner process. She had come to a resolution regarding
Maijstral, a resolution similar to that which he had reached
himself some moments before. It was perhaps impolite,
and certainly assumed much, for him to reach such a
resolution so soon.

She looked at a group of Khosali standing a short dis-
tance away. "Are those Imperials snubbing us? They stand
facing the wall."

"That is Baron Sinn and his friends. He was always
deep in conspiracy with my father. I suspect he is a spy.
He probably regrets being here at all, considering the
media attention this is getting."

"What is there here worth spying on? A provincial
planet, sufficiently far from the border to have little mili-
tary value."

"He must earn his wages somehow."

Trumpets sounded from the a-grav orchestra suspended
near me arched ceiling. People began sorting themselves
out into couples and lines. "Ah," said Maijstral, "the
Pilgrimage to the Cinnamon Temple. Will you partner
me?"'



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"Delighted, sir."

The Pilgrimage was originally a sprightly dance called
Going to Market, but eight hundred years before, during
the reign of an elderly, arthritic Emperor, the pace had
been slowed down and a more stately name applied. The
change proved to have unexpected benefits. Because the

THE CROWN JEWELS / 7

dancers changed partners frequently, the slower tread gave
everyone in the line the chance to sniff ears and exchange
introductions and witticisms—and if you were short of
witticisms, you could repeat the same one over and over
without fear of being a bore. Cinnamon Temple was,
therefore, the perfect get-acquainted dance.

The trumpet call repeated, and the dance began. Maijstral
advanced toward his partner and sniffed.

"Will you come see me tomorrow?" Nichole asked.

"I'd be delighted," he answered. She was circling him,
stately, her arm crooked to hold an imaginary market
basket.

"Can you come at sixteen? I have to witness an Elvis
impersonation at eighteen, and you can be my escort."

Maijstral did a caper. "I'll dress formally, then."

"God knows what it will be like." Nichole sighed- "He
probably won't even be able to get 'Heartbreak Hotel'
right."

Maijstral faced the man on his right and introduced
himself. The dance spoke on.

"I don't like it, Pietro. Baron Sinn being here."

Pietro was a young man, gangly, of medium height. His
partner was a few years older, with dark, short-clipped
hair and a serious mien. Pietro was the taller, but only by
virtue of high-heeled boots.

"I don't like it, either. Miss Jensen," Pietro said. "Per-
haps he intends to interfere in the auction."

"Damn it. We can't outbid him. If only Tartaglia were
here. I sent him a message, but no reply as yet."

"Oops. Sorry."

"You shouldn't dance in heels unless . . . Oh, hell.
Later, Pietro."

8 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"Baron, a word." Sinn was a Khosalikh; tall, with a
pointed face and ebony skin beneath his dark fur. His
interrogator was a human; short, fair, with intense blue
eyes that glittered like diamond-bearing sand. She was in
her fifties but looked ten years younger.



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The Baron touched his warm nose to her cheek.
"Countess."

Her ears pricked downward. "There may be a complica-
tion. I noticed that Maijstral is here."

"He has the contents of a planet to choose from, ma'am.
I would not be concerned. The chances of our interests
being similar are not great."

"Perhaps the simplest way is just to ask."

"I don't wish to betray our intentions to such an uncer-
tain character. We shall simply watch, and wait."

Her mouth hung open, her tongue lolled. A Khosali
smile- "Still. I haven't seen him in years. Will you join
me, Baron, at the bottom of the set?"

"With pleasure. Countess. Take my arm."

"Drake Maijstral, sir." Mutual sniffs.

"Lieutenant Navarre, sir. 1 see we're both in mourn-
ing." He was a tall man, copper-skinned, about thirty, in
uniform with a mourning cloak.

"I'm afraid I don't recognize the uniform. A local
unit?"

A dismissive laugh. "No. I'm from Pompey. I just
inherited some property here, and 1 have to inspect it."

"Substantial property, I hope."

"Oh, no. Just a house and some land. A lot of bric-a-
brac—my uncle had eccentric tastes, but he wasn't rich.
I'm selling it all."

"I hope you don't think me impertinent for asking."

THE CROWN JEWELS / 9

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 1 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?"



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"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. . . ."

"Now who's filled with ennui?"

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. Truth-
fully, so was I." He craned his head down the set. "Possi-
bly she won't notice me."

"I wouldn't count on it, Drake. I would guess that
woman notices everything."

10 WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"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? 1 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 think-
ing. ... 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 tuck. My boot slipped."


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"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 purpose. Maijstral had
to make approximations during the get'acquainted sniff.

"On unbusiness I am inning this system," the Count

THE CROWN JEWELS I 11

explained. "Humanity is me interested. I big tour taking
am. Am on Earth big finishing, acquaintance making."

Maijstral wondered if teaching implants for Human Stan-
dard had never been developed for Troxans. "That sounds
, delightful," he said. "I have never been to Earth."
"You touring should. Home ofElvis 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 me uniform? I'm astonished at your
breadth of knowledge, ma'am. Have you been to Pompey?"
"Alas, no. 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 1
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."

12 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"Maijstral, sir."

"Paavo Kuusinen." He was a slight, cool man, entering
middle age-


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"That coat is cut Empire-fashion. Are you with the Sinn
party?"

"1 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 ctear-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 expres-
sion 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 1 just met? Drake Maijstral. You know, the Khovenburg
Glacier. The Swiss Cheese Incident."

"Maijstral? Here? Where?"

"There. In mourning."

THE CROWN JEWELS I 13

"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 shouid have
that coat altered."



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"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 any-
thing of mine and I'll kill you."

Astonishment. A caper terminated at the halfway point.
"1 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."

14 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"Do you doubt my information?11
"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."

"Siri"

"Don't play the outraged man of action with me. 1 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 resolu-
tion. 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.

"Allow me to express my thanks for the kind note on

my father's death."


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"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.)

THE CROWN JEWELS I 15

"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. 1 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 rather was a steady man."

"He moved steadily into debt."

"I could find you employment, if that's what you want."

"1 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."

16 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"You are mistaken, sir." Coldly. Drawn up to his full
height, which was not quite that of the General's.


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"You are a military officer, traveling under commercial
cover, with two Khosali as military in appearance as your-
self. If that ain't a spy, 1 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, particolored 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 mak-
ing soft whirs as they focused on the two faces. Some-
where 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.

THE CROWN JEWELS I 17

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 resolu-
tion 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.



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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 ear-
lier 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 recog-
nized, and a bearer of facts.

"Lieutenant Navarre."

18 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"I wonder, sir, if 1 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 Pilgrim-
age."

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 Peteng night. A media globe asked for an interview
but was refused. He had all the publicity he needed.

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.

There wasn't much of a fight when the Khosali con-
.quered Earth. Humanity had barely got off its little rock in
space, and when a hundred thousand alien warships sud-
denly appeared around the planet, their missiles and beams


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trained on the inhabitants, only a few hundred humans, crew-
ing military battle stations, chose to resist, and once these
were disposed of, the sensible majority sensibly surrendered.

Most Khosali conquests work that way. They've en-
countered only a few alien races that weren't as sensible as
humanity, and these were, with regret, extinguished down
to the last individual, and sincerely mourned afterward.
The Khosaii, admirable as they may be in other respects,
do not see the humor in other species' independence. The
whole point of the Imperial System is universal allegiance
to the Emperor, and without that everything goes down the
drain.

19

20

WALTER JON WILLIAMS

The Khosali, as conquerors go, are fairly enlightened.
They don't interfere with local institutions or religions if
they can help it; their taxation is, on the whole, light; they
import tens of thousands of teachers and missionaries to
elevate the subject race to a useful near-equality and an
appreciation of High Custom. When a race is sufficiently
advanced, members will begin appearing on the Imperial
Council and in positions of importance throughout the

Empire,

There will, of course, be a few changes. There are
garrisons; the news gets censored—Khosali are stuffy, but
not stupid. High Custom defines what the Khosali consider
best about themselves: their formality, their elegance, their
rigid idealism. The Khosali consider High Custom a uni-
versal, but the reality of High Custom is that it's a test. If
an alien can master the intricacies of High Custom, she
proves herself someone the Khosali can talk to and deal
with. That's what the missionaries and teachers are really
about; they're fishers of men, dipping their hooks into the
oceans of alien races, searching for those capable of stand-
ing as intermediaries between the Khosali and their own
race, capable of communicating with both, interpreting

one to the other.-

Such lucky individuals often find themselves ennobled.
Silly, really, but the Khosali insist. What's an Imperial
System without a hereditary aristocracy? Earth had gone
through one convulsion after another trying to get rid of its
own hereditary nobility, and now they were back, counts
and barons and dukes and all the rest, and to make it even
more ridiculous, most of them turned out to be aliens.

High Custom might not be a universal, but the behavior
of aristocrats certainly is. Earth's new aristocracy proved
itself capable of grandness, enlightenment, inspired rule,
the cultivation of worthwhile art and talent. Witness the

THE CROWN JEWELS / 21

achievements of Viscount Cheng or Solomon the Incor-


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ruptibie. The aristocrats also proved capable of brutality,
shortsightedness, dissipation, avarice, and gay folly—witness
Robert the Butcher or Mad Julius. Humanity rejoiced or
suffered under conditions created and maintained by its
new nobility; much. that was grand was contemplated,
much that was ignoble was suffered. It was all quite
predictable.

What was less predictable was the volatile mixture of
human and Khosali. Each race bore traits the other consid-
ered admirable; each found the other frustrating.

Humanity, once it got to know them. found the Khosali
high-minded but dull. The black-furred, long-nosed, square-
shouldered conquerors revered the Emperor, practiced mod-
eration, were fond of parades and military music, raised
their offspring to be courteous, well-behaved, and produc-
tive citizens. They tended toward stuffiness and fussiness
and were masters of niggling detail and Imperial regula-
tion. There was nothing really objectionable in any of
this—everyone has an uncle who behaves just that way,
and he's a fine enough fellow at heart. But you don't
invite your stuffy uncle to your good parties, now, do you?
The Khosali in general do not find irreverence amusing;

neither are they inclined to trust frivolity, irresponsibility,
freakishness, overt creativity, or individuals born with the
gift of laughter and the sense that the world is mad. They
don't trust people who whistle in public or make bawdy
jokes or get drunk at sporting events. High-minded Khosali
believe such individuals would be mightily improved by
putting their shoulders to the wheel and taking the Em-
peror Principle seriously for a change.

Their sense of humanity, sad to say, is that they're all
like that. Frivolous and amusing, possibly, but not to be
taken seriously. Their stereotype of humanity is unjust—

22 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

there are of course zillions of individuals who would fulfill
every Khosali idea of a responsible citizen, and a lot of
them found their way into Imperial service and won com-
mendations from dutiful and exacting superiors. Some
were more fanatical Imperialists than most K-hosati—look
at the excesses of Robert the Butcher, who indiscrimin-
ately slaughtered hundreds of thousands of humans in the
name of the Emperor, something no Khosali governor ever

contemplated.

Our own stereotype is likewise incomplete. There are
Khosali who behave with frivolity and irreverence, and a
lot more who would be frivolous and irreverent if they
ever got the chance. In their secret souls, the Khosali
dance drunkenly in the moonlight and sport with wet-
muzzled damosels. They just don't talk about it much.

For the Khosali are not without their own secret depravi-
ties. They have a large popular literature involving rebels
and tricksters, and possess a sneaking admiration for those
who can flout convention and actually get away with it.


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They are kinder to their wayward cousins than the cousins
probably deserve, and are no less vulnerable to charisma
than humanity.

There is a place for waywardness in High Custom, and
anyone who has ever seen a Khosalikh do an Elvis imper-
sonation can scarcely disagree. There are places in High
Custom for drunkards and charlatans and fools, provided
that their behavior is suitably outrageous and performed
with sufficient style- Style is largely the point—no one
enjoys a drunkard who is not witty or a charlatan whose
schemes do not entertain. There's a lot more to High
Custom than ear-sniffing and stately dances.

If you can do it with adequate style, the law will even
let you steal for a living.

THE CROWN JEWELS I 23

Maijstral left his flier on the lawn of his rented villa and
walked through the sonic screen that served for a front
door. On his way he unlaced his jacket as far as the design
would permit—an unwritten rule of High Custom insisted
that clothing should not allow itself to be put on or re-
moved without the help of a servant. Most used robots
these days, at least in the Human Constellation.

Maijstral, however, had a servant, a Khosalikh named
Roman. Roman was large, even for a Khosalikh, and very
strong. The annual rings around his muzzle showed his age
to be forty-five. His ancestors had served Maijstral's for
fifteen generations, and Maijstral had inherited Roman
from his father. He used Roman on errands of a physical
and sometimes sinister nature, the character of which Ro-
man often disapproved. Roman's disapproval, like much
else, was kept to himself. He prided himself on being a
loyal and incorruptible family retainer, even though the
family in question was sometimes the despair of him.

Roman appeared from the hallway and glided toward
Maijstral, moving with a silence and stately ease that Maijstral
admired for reasons both professional and aesthetic.

"Is Gregor back?"

They spoke in Standard. Roman's voice had a sugges-
tion of still waters about it. "Not yet, sir."

"No problems, 1 trust."

"I wouldn't expect any."

Roman unlaced Maijstral's jacket, helped him off with
his buskins, and collected his gun, his knife, his collar and
cuffs, doing it all with a supreme competence and econ-
omy of gesture that were as familiar as an old sofa.
Maijstral felt his tension ease. Roman was the sole fixture
in his scattered, uncertain life, less a servant than a sign of
home, and home was a place where he could unbend. He

24 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

dropped onto a sofa and put one foot up, wiggling his toes


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gratefully in fuzzy gray socks.

Holographic works of art rotated slowly on pedestals set
into the walls, casting gentle light on Maijstrai as he
stretched on the couch. He looked at Roman.
"Nichole was there. She asked after you."
"I trust she is well." Maijstrai looked at him. Roman's
eyes were glittering, his nostrils a little dilated, Secret
pleasure, Maijstrai thought, happy in Roman's predictabil-
ity. No doubt about it.

Nichole had always been one of Roman's favorites.
"Yes, she's very well. A little . . . jaded, perhaps. I'm
escorting her to an Elvis recital tomorrow. That'll put me
in the public eye again. Good for business."
"A letter has arrived, sir. From your father."
Maijstral's heart felt a touch of resigned despair. His
father's communications had two themes, and both of
them were sad.
"1 will read it."

Roman brought it on a tray           from the sideboard. It had,
been sent VPL, which meant           it was written on paper,
sealed in an envelope, and           delivered by hand. All at great
cost. Maijstrat opened the           letter and read it.

"I do not understand your migration toward the bor-
der- Surely you will spend the season on Nana, in
connection with your eleemosynary duties. If you are on
the border before the season begins, you must pay re-
spects to the Countess Anastasia. Perhaps you will be
able to assist her in some endeavor relating to the Cause,
If necessary, the Kapodistrias plots might be sold.

"1 have been approached by Lord Giddon, from whom
some years ago I borrowed the sum of 450n. I must
have told you about the obligation, and am dismayed

THE CROWN JEWELS I 25

that you have not met it. If you had not frozen my
access to family funds I would not have mentioned this,
but the situation demands that you uphold the family
honor and redeem the debt. If you are temporarily short,
the parcels on Kapodistrias might be sold.

tt! hope you will attend to this forthwith.

"Your reproachful father,

"Ex-Domier, etc.

"P.S.: The maintenance on my coffin will be due in
two months. I hope I will not once again suffer the
embarrassment of its not being met in time."

There it was, both themes at once, and in detail: the
Cause, and old debt. Both interlinked for as long as Maijstrai
could remember.

He replaced the Very Private Letter in its envelope and
held it out to Roman. "Bum it, please," he said. Roman
moved silently toward the disposal. Maijstrai frowned and


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lapped his teeth with his diamond ring.

The debt to Lord Giddon was new to Maijstrai, but not
unexpected—old lenders turned up with fair frequency
these days. The parcels on Kapodistrias were hopelessly
mortgaged; Maijstral's father had done it himself years ago
and forgotten it since. His memory for money matters had
never been good; death had worsened his recollection-
There was no money for Maijstral's eleemosynary duties,
none for Lord Giddon, none for Maijstrai himself.

Maijstral's mode of life was expensive; his household
was small, but moving in the highest circles cost. He
-looked at his ring, held the stone up to the light. It was a
very good forgery; he'd pawned the real diamond two
months before in order to finance this journey. Not even
Roman knew the original stone was gone-

Perhaps he should take the Countess Anastasia's offer.

26 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

He considered himself in that light: a pensioned dupe in a
hopeless cause, uttering sentiments in which he did not
believe. Someone, in short, very like his father.

No. Not that.

Roman returned with a glass of cold rink. Maijstral took
it and sipped thoughtfully.

Roman's ears flicked back at the sound of another flier
humming to a stop on the front lawn. He turned, looked
through the polarized windows, and announced, "Gregor."
He stiffened slightly as he spoke. Roman disapproved of
Maijstral's irregularities, and considered Gregor one of
them-

"Good." Maijstral wiggled his toes again, thoughtfully,
"I can tell him about our commission."

Gregor Norman entered, pulling a dark blue cap off a
mass of bright red hair. He was twenty, lanky, and in-
tense. He was dressed entirely in dark colors and his coat
had a lot of pockets, most of them filled with electronic
gadgets- He smiled. His words came rapidly, and he spoke
with a cheeky accent. Definitely Non-U.

"Mission accomplished, boss. Only too."

"Only too" was a form of slang of which Gregor was
fond. It was shorthand for "only too easy" or "only too
likely" or "only too happy" or any other handy phrase
beginning with that versatile pair of words.

"Good. The media globes broadcast me with Nichole
tonight, and the panic should start first thing tomorrow."

Gregor laughed. He was feeling pleased with himself.
He had committed four acts of breaking-and-entering in
the last four hours, and he'd done each seamlessly and
without a hitch, leaving scores of little electronic gadgets
behind in each case.


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Roman looked from one to the other- His nostrils flick-
ered. "You mentioned, sir, a commission."

THE CROWN JEWELS I 27

"Yes." Maijstral rose, put his feet on the floor, and
leaned toward the others- "Sit down, Gregor. I'll tell you
about it." He knew better than to offer a seat to Roman—it
was not a servant's place to sit in the presence of his
employer. He waited for Gregor to seat himself and then
went on.

"A woman named Amatia Jensen wants us to locate an
artifact within the estate of one Admiral Scholder, HCN,
retired, deceased. There's going to be an estate auction in
a few weeks and Miss Jensen fears she might be outbid."

Roman's ears pricked up. "The current owner, sir?"

"Scholder's heir is his nephew, a Lieutenant Navarre. I
met him tonight. I don't think he's very interested in his
uncle's estate—certainly not in its security. He seemed to
find the whole situation fraught with personal inconve-
nience."

Gregor grinned again. "They might not notice for weeks
that the thing's missing." His fingers were tapping his
thighs in some private rhythm. Usually some part of him
or another was in motion.

"That's a good point. We should continue with our
other plans. But tomorrow, Roman, I'd like you to initiate
some inquiries about Miss Jensen. I doubt she's an agent
or a provocateur, but one never knows. And she declined
to give us media rights, which I suspect means there are
undercurrents here we don't know about."

"Yes, sir."

"She also had a companion, a young man named Pietro
Quijano. He might be a part of this and he might not. At
any rate he might be worth an inquiry."

"First thing tomorrow, sir."

Maijstral turned to Gregor. "I'd like you to fly over to
the Scholder estate and take a look at it. Check for—well,
you know."

28 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

Gregor gave a breezy, two-fingered salute. "Only too,

boss."

Maijstral thought for a brief moment. "Oh. Yes. Our
other business. If any of your surveys turn out to be of
property owned by a General Gerald of the marines, disre-
gard it. He's filled with unnecessary complications."

Roman gazed at him levelly. "May I inquire their na-
ture, sir?"



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Maijstral took a breath while he considered what manner
of lie to offer. "Security matters relating to the defense of
the planet," he said. "1 would prefer not to be involved
with counterspies. It would be contrary to the image I wish

to present here."

"Certainly, sir. I understand."

Maijstral put his feet up on the couch and pillowed his
head on his hands. "And while you're off having fun, I'll
be laboring at the El vis recital."

"It must be hell, boss."

Roman's diaphragm spasmed once, then again, the
Khosali equivalent of a deep, heartfelt sigh. Definitely

Non-U.

Maijstral's irregularities were sometimes completely
incomprehensible.

CHAPTER 3

The Elvis was human and dressed in white and sequins.
His movements—the way he leaned into the chrome mi-
crophone, the pelvic thrusts, even the gesture
used in wiping sweat from his forehead with a red silk
handkerchief—all were highly stylized, as ritualized as the
steps of a Balinese dancer.

A holographic band stood in partial shadow behind.
Stacks of obsolete and highly unnecessary amplifiers were
placed on the wings of the stage, and the sound was
arranged to boom from them as though they were real.

"Hunka hunka bumin love" sang the King of Rock and
Roll. The screaming of debutantes centuries dead wailed
up around the stage in answer to the meaningless pre-
Standard lyrics. The Elvis leaned forward, mopped sweat
from his brow, and presented the handkerchief to one of
his assistants in the audience. The assistant brought it to
Nichole, the guest of honor, who bowed and accepted it
graciously, momentarily illuminated by spotlights. The au-
dience offered polite applause.

"Now what the hell do I do with it, Maijstral?" Nichoie
asked, drawing her hand across her mouth so the ever-
present media globes could not read her lips. "I'm

29

30 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

not going to sit here all night with a wet rag in my
hand."

Maijstral looked at her with sympathy. Her costume, a
bluish thing composed of several semitransparent layers of
pseudocarapace, did not allow for pockets. "I'll take it, if
you like," he said. "Or I can tie it around your arm."



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The spotlight on Nichole faded. Her diamond earrings
and necklace dimmed. "I'll send it to Etienne," she de-
cided. "It suits his coloring better." She signaled one of
her coterie and whispered instructions. Etienne, in the next
box, yawned behind his hand- He had decided to be bored
by Peleng.

Before the concert Maijstral and Nichole had an enjoya-
ble luncheon, discussing their lives, their times, old friends.
He had discovered she had a tendency to assume he knew
more about Diadem affairs than he really did, but he
managed, he thought, to cover his ignorance fairly well.
He really didn't keep up with gossip.

Maijstral leaned back and felt his chair adjust to his
contours. He glanced across the hall and saw Countess
Anastasia sharing a box with Baron Sinn. She gazed at
him intently with her ice-blue eyes. A brief alarm sang in
his nerves. He bowed to her, and she nodded back.

She calls me irregular, he thought. It was the Khosali
who made Elvis a part of High Custom and left Shakes-
peare out. Probably, he reflected, because there were too
many successful rebellions against monarchs in Shakes-
peare. And Elvis was a mock rebel who became, in the
end, a pillar of the social order.

Maijstral liked Shakespeare a good deal, having read
him in the new translation by Maxwell Aristide. The com-
edies, he thought, were especially good. This was, he
supposed, an indication of his low taste. Most people
found them unsubtle.

THE CROWN JEWELS I 31

The lobby bar was padded in red leather and featured
more polished brass than was necessary even for ornamen-
tation. Media globes bounced uncomfortably along the low
ceiling and stared at the intermission crowd. Half the
audience, having stayed long enough to make certain they
were noticed, took the opportunity to slip away from the
incomprehensible performance.

Maijstral sipped his cold rink. His lazy eyes passed
slowly over the crowd, taking in clothing, accessories,
jewelry. Making mental notes.

"Yes," he said. "A playwright, a very good one. The
Constellation Practices Authority rediscovered him and had
Aristide translate him."

"I shall look for it, sir," said Pietro Quijano. His brow
wrinkled and he tugged at his lower lip. "Do you think it's
political, sir?"

"Nothing overt that I could see- But the Khosali buried
him for some reason, so who knows?"

Pietro tugged at his lower lip again. Maijstral followed
the direction of his gaze and saw Amalia Jensen talking to
Lieutenant Navarre. Navarre nodded and smiled in answer
to something Miss Jensen said. Pietro's frown deepened.


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Maijstral finished his rink.

"If you will excuse me, sir," he said, "I should see if
Nichole need refreshment."

"Certainly," Pietro murmured, and then he tore his
gaze away from Jensen and brightened a bit. "She was a
most stimulating dance partner, sir. Please give her my
compliments."

"Of course."

Maijstral made his way to where Nichole was giving an
exclusive interview to one persistent media globe. "We're
old, dear friends, of course," she was saying. "I'm afraid

32 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

it would be inappropriate for me to comment further."
Said with a hesitation, a little flutter of the eyes. Nuance,
Maijstral thought. Once he'd thought her very good at this,
but in the last four years she'd become an artist.

After the interview the globe drifted away and Nichole
took Maijstral's arm. Maijstral gave her Pietro's message.
"A dreadful dancer," she said. "He kept tripping over his
own damn boots."

"You made him look good, I'm sure."

Her eyes glistened. "I'm sure I did." She tapped his
arm. "Do you see our High Seas Scout friend over yonder?"

Maijstral gazed once again at Lieutenant Navarre, who
was still intently listening to Amalia Jensen. "Certainly."

' 'Would you do me the favor of asking him to sup with me
this evening? I'd do it myself, but the globes are sure to
notice, and they' 11 never leave off harassing the poor man.''

Nichole, Maijstral reflected, would never have asked a
man on this kind of errand four years ago. This was the
sort of thing she had an entourage for. He reflected again
on his eariier resolution and was thankful it appeared to
complement hers.

"Of course," he said, "What time?"

"Thirty or so." Nichole smiled. "I'd invite you, but
I'm sure you'll be off on business,"

He answered her smile. "I'm afraid it would be inap-
propriate for me to comment further."

"As I thought." Knowingly. She patted his forearm.
"I'd love to see you tomorrow, though. Luncheon again?"

"Delighted."

She glanced up and saw more media globes moving in.
Her face did not exactly fall, but grew more controlled,
less spontaneous. Less delighted. "Please fetch me some
champagne, Drake, will you?" she asked. Her voice was



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silky. Maijstral sniffed her ears—this was a High Custom
event, after all—then bowed and withdrew.

THE CROWN JEWELS f 33

"Not much pelvis," said a high, wonderfully resonant
voice. "Troxans cannot Elvis do well."

Maijstral bowed in Count Quik's direction as he strolled
by the tiny round-headed alien- Amalia Jensen's laughter
hung in the air. She was finding Lieutenant Navarre amus-
ing. Maijstral glided toward them and touched the copper-
skinned lieutenant on the arm. "With Miss Jensen's
permission, a word, sir."

Miss Jensen gave her consent. Maijstral gave Nichole's
message. Navarre looked confused.

"Oh. I'm flattered. And delighted. But I'm afraid"—he
looked toward Amalia, who smiled, more at Maijstral than
at Navarre—"I'm committed for this evening. With Miss
Jensen. Please give Nichole my sincerest regrets."

Maijstral glanced up at a clattering noise and saw Pietro,
standing about ten feet behind Navarre, trying to extricate
himself from the rubble of a spilled drink tray while a
hostess looked at him with purse-lipped annoyance,

"I'll convey your apologies," Maijstral said. "I'm sure
Nichole will understand."

He walked to the bar and asked for champagne. Receiv-
ing his glass, he turned to stare into the intent eyes of the
Countess Anastasia. Looming over her was the bulk of
Baron Sinn. MaijstraTs blood turned cold—-that old reflex
again—but he smiled and exchanged sniffs.

"Champagne, Countess?"

"I have sworn not to drink champagne within the bound-
aries of the Constellation," she said, "till the Empire be
restored."

"I fear you will have a long wait," Maijstral said.

"Your father—" she began. Anger surged in Maijstral's

heart.

"Remains dead," Maijstral said. He sniffed her and
excused himself.

The woman had always got to him, damn it. He had to

34 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

wait some moments before Nichole was sufficiently clear
of media globes to convey Navarre's regrets, and he used
that time to calm himself. Nichole, when she heard the
message, was astonished-

"He turned me down, Maijstral! What am I to do with
myself this evening? It's one of the few free moments
allowed in my schedule."


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"I would offer to keep you company, but . , ."
Maijstral's heavy-lidded eyes gave the impression of sly-
ness. "1 really do have other plans, my lady."
"I don't suppose I could watch."
Maijstral kissed her hand. "I'm afraid your presence
would attract unwelcome attention."
Nichole sighed. "I hope you'll send me the vid, at least."
"Perhaps I'll be able to send you something interesting
before you leave. My general run of jobs aren't very
enthralling, though."

She pointed at the white stone on his finger. "I can always
recognize your videos by the ring. When 1 see it, I cheer."

Maijstral smiled. "The ring is my trademark. They alter
my face and body in the vids, but I need something
noticeable to keep my place in the standings."

"Do you like the way Laurence is playing you, by the
way? He looks more like you; but I thought Anaya seemed
to capture your personality better."

"Truth to tell, my lady, I never watch them." Nichole
gave a skeptical laugh. Maijstral looked at her. "I've lived
through it once," he said, "I have no desire to see an
imitation."
"If you insist, Maijstral."

Maijstral touched the clusters of diamonds hanging from
one of Nichole's ears. His eyes widened with professional
interest. "These are lovely, by the way. Are you certain
you should wear them in such dangerous company?"
"If 1 can't trust you, Drake, who can I trust? Besides,

THE CROWN JEWELS I 35

they're not mine—the Landor Company lets me use them
in return for a credit. They might even be delighted should
they disappear—it could attract attention to their wares."

"We might discuss that," Maijstral said.

"Luncheon. Tomorrow."

He kissed her hand again. "Of course." The screams of
a holographic audience began to echo from the theater, the
signal that the second half of the performance was about to

begin.

Nichole linked her arm in his. "I'll simply have to
resign myself to a lonely evening tonight. No one would
credit it."

"Cherish it, my lady," Maijstral said. "An event of
such rarity must be savored."

"Pah," Nichole said as they began to stroll toward their
box. "It just means I'm getting old. Or passe." But she
seemed pleased.

One of the consequences of the odd and complex rela-


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tionship between humanity and the Khosali is that, deplore
us though they may, many Khosali find irreverence and
irresponsibility interesting, and the human style of irrever-
ence and irresponsibility of particular fascination. A hu-
man will perform what the stodgy Khosalikh only dreams
about. Humans dance till five in the morning and show up
late at work, suffering from hangovers. Humans write
satires about Imperial officials and farces in which scores
of people end up hiding in closets or under the bed.
Humans engage in passionate relationships with people to
whom they are not married, sometimes proclaim these
relationships actually improved them, and frequently (and
most tellingly) fail to kill themselves afterward in a display
of proper social atonement. Some even commit the
profounder sin of living happily ever after. Though the

36 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

Diadem was created for human consumption, their joys,
scrapes, and follies have a small but devoted following
among the Khosali.

Even when the Khosali influence over humanity was at
its height, the conquerors often had the unsettling impres-
sion that the humans were laughing at them behind their
backs. Little did the Khosali know but that when Earth's
children served up the punch line, it was going to be a doozy.

The punch line was, of course, the Great Rebellion, in
which we got rid of the Imperial System, the Imperial
caste, and the unfortunate Pendjalli Emperor, Nnis CV1,
whose luckless person was seized at pistol-point in his
very own palace by Scholder's Death Commandos. As part
of the peace treaty, a pledge was extorted from poor Nnis
to let the Human Constellation alone, a pledge which thus
far he has been scrupulous to honor. This was the only
rebellion, let alone the only successful one, to be perpe-
trated by a subject species once it had got over the trauma
of its initial conquest. The whole precedent-breaking affair
was such a shock to Nnis that he moulted and retired
prematurely to his cryogenic vault, whence he still lies,
heirless and alone.

The Emperor's termination of the war doesn't keep
individuals on both sides of the border from wishing things
were different. To the dismay of human ideologues, there
is a large human minority in the Empire who live seem-
ingly happy lives under the Imperial system and have no
desire to emigrate to the Constellation. And on the human
side, a large Khosali minority seem to lead contented and
productive lives in the Constellation, expressing no more
than a sentimental longing for the Imperial System.

And of course there are the troublemakers. The Human
Constellation is blessed with a small but noisy Imperial
party who claim the revolt was a mistake. For the most
part they are a despised and ignored group of (largely

THE CFtOWN JEWELS I 37

human) malcontents, but they did win nineteen percent of
the vole in the last election on Baroda, a figure so disturb-


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ing that the victorious Symbolist-Commonwealth party de-
cided to do away with elections altogether until the Barodans
developed a more refined sense of social repsonsibility.

On the Imperial side of the border there are a number of
voices loudly proclaiming the Constellation an insane aber-
ration, proclaiming as well the necessity to reincorporate
the Constellation within the borders of the Empire. Thus
far the City of Seven Bright Rings can afford to ignore
these noises, as they come mostly from the humiliated
descendants of those leaders who lost the revolt in the first
place—many Imperial military positions are hereditary,
which is offered by human partisans as a major reason for
the revolt's success. The Reconquest Party's constant agi-
tation serves, however, as a continuing pretext for the
Human Constellation's rate of taxation, which is far higher
than was the Empire's due to the necessity of keeping a
large fleet in being to prevent an Imperial resurgency.

For the most part, however, the Reconquest Party is
ignored. Nnis does not wish another war—the first was shock-
ing enough—and for the most part the rest of the Empire
has not yet recovered from the surprise of the human
action. New possibilities have been awakened here, and
other subject races are beginning to realize it. Odd though
it may seem, revolt hadn't even been considered before.

Despite the revolt and its consequences. High Custom
continues on both sides of the border—there is no accept-
able alternative, no agreed-upon human standard of behav-
ior. There is, however, a constant search within the
Constellation for a true culture based on universal human
principles—the report of the Constellation Practices Au-
thority has been widely anticipated for the last generation,
and is said to be in the final stages of the preparation.

38 / WALTER JON WIUJAMS

Until the CPA finishes its work, however, Imperial law
and custom prevail in most of the human sphere. Even
Imperial titles and grants of nobility are used as a matter of
courtesy, though they have no official basis in law. The
high Imperial caste has been thrown on its own resources
for the first time in its history, and its members rise and
fall by their own abilities. It is something they'd got out of
the habit of doing. Within the aristocracy there is still a
prejudice against working in trade, but some have been
reduced to it. Many lost souls wander from place to place,
living in High Custom as much as possible, looking for a
home.

There are a lot of wanderers- After all, if through a
fluke of ancestry you were saddled with being Baron
Drago, Viscount Sing, Duke of Dornier, Prince-Bishop of
Nana, and Hereditary Captain-General of the Green Le-
gion, you could hardly ignore it, and neither, you would
discover, would anyone else. It could hardly have escaped
your attention that you were the hereditary exemplar of a
social system that had no function or even relevance, that
existed only because of cultural inertia—and then what
would you do? Yeam for the past? Try to reach an accom-
modation with the present? Try to create a future more


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agreeable?

You might even decide to steal for a living. Who knows?

A new set of holographic representations rotated in the
niches. The day art was pleasantly different from the night
pieces—brighter, more cheerful.

"Trouble, boss." Gregor's eyes twitched as he sucked
on a smokeless hi-stick. "We were followed today. Ro-
man and me both."

MaijstraFs ears were still ringing from the aftereffects of

THE CROWN JEWELS / 39

the concert. He frowned as Roman began to work on the
complicated knotting of his jacket. "Police?" he asked.

Gregor grimaced. "Can police afford Jefferson-Singh
high-performance fliers?"

Maijstral brows lifted. "Indeed?" He looked over his
shoulder at Roman.

"Both shadows were Khosali," Roman reported. "Mine
was female, about twenty. I didn't notice her until after I
had begun my inquiries about Miss Jensen. Then I gave her
the slip."

"I spotted mine right away," Gregor said. He shook his
long hair out of his eyes. "He was another Khosalikh, a
mate. A big bastard, too, which was how 1 saw him so
quick. He was easy enough to lose, though."

"Thrill seekers, possibly," Maijstral said. He shrugged
out of his jacket, and Roman took his pistol and began
unlacing the side seam of Maijstral's tight trousers. "Per-
haps they want the credit for catching us. Or maybe they
just want to watch us work."

"Mine didn't look like he was out for fun," Gregor
said. "He looked like he wanted to dismember me with his
bare hands.''

"Maybe police after all."

"He had that look. But I think he may have something to
do with the commission." He sucked on his hi-stick again.
"Tell him what you found out, Roman."

"Miss Jensen is the local head of Humanity Prime,"
Roman said carefully. His ears trembled with the repressed
urge to turn downward in disapproval. "Mr. Quijano is the
treasurer.''

"I see," Maijstral said. Humanity Prime was a group
formed to assure human domination of the Constellation,
and its membership ran from perfectly respectable citizens
to denizens of the gutter. The more respectable among

40 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS




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them supported good works such as the Constellation Prac-
tices Authority, issued propaganda questioning the absurdi-
ties of High Custom, called for larger human families so as
to keep the aliens outnumbered on human turf, and pro-
moted expansion toward new worlds. They made a point
of keeping up-to-date on the latest advances in Imperial
weaponry and tactics, and supported the Constellation mil-
itary in its never-ending quest for funding and expansion.

The less reputable elements of Humanity Prime were
something else again, and included paramilitary groups
formed to resist alien attacks and groups that spread scan-
dal about prominent nonhumans—"inhumans" being their
preferred term. Their activities included active harassment,
the sending of thugs to disrupt Imperialist activities, and
sometimes actual violence.

Humanity Prime's main branch never ceased to deplore
such crude tactics, and to explain that they were not
representative of their goals or membership. But somehow
the parent organization never seemed to withdraw the char-
ters of any of their groups who brought them disrepute.

Maijstral's own ears almost twitched downward. He'd had
his own problems with humanity's partisans in the past.

"You think a Khosali group is monitoring Jensen and
her contacts?" he asked.

"That may be possible, sir," Roman said.
Maijstral left his trouser laces dangling and went to the
front window, holding up his pants with his left hand. He
touched the polarizer control and gazed out into the late
afternoon. The sun cast blue tones onto the grove across
the sward, giving the chrome-yellow leaves a greenish
cast. "Are they still out there?" Maijstral asked.
"In the grove, sir? Yes."

Maijstral indulged his irritation. "Blast them, anyway.
What could they want?"

THE CROWN JEWELS I 41

Roman's voice was hesitant. "If I may offer a sugges-
tion, sir?"

"Certainly."

"Jensen's group is almost certainly aware of your fami-
ly's history. They may intend to embarrass you, and will
have informed the police of your commission. You may be
walking into a trap."

"So the Khosali in the grove may be our friends?"

"That doesn't make any sense, Roman." Gregor's voice
was loud in rebuttal. Roman's nostrils flickered. "If that
bastard who followed me around this morning is a friend,
I'll eat my boots. And if they don't like what Jensen's up
to, why don't they just warn us instead of keeping us
under surveillance?'' He snapped his used hi-stick in half,
then doubled the fragments and snapped them again. He
looked around for a place to put them and found none, so


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he stuck the fragments in his pocket. "They want the
damn artifact, if you ask me. They're going to try to
snatch it from us as soon as we've got it."

Maijstral considered the alternatives and found Gregor's
case more convincing. But there were still questions here,
unknown factors, unknown quantities. He was not yet at
the stage in his career where he could make many mistakes.

"We'll advance our schedule," he said, and polarized
the window again. He turned to his servant. "Roman, I'll
require you to be very busy tonight. You're going to pay
some calls."

Maijstral hung suspended in tenuous a-grav darkness above
the house of the late Admiral Scholder. His own private
media globes circled around him, recording everything—
Jensen might change her mind about media rights. He had
neutralized the outside alarm—a simple hemispheric cold-

42 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

field—and was now contemplating his options for gaining
entrance.

Skylights, doors, or windows? If he wanted to be dra-
matic he could cut right through a roof or wall.

His heartbeat was fast and smooth. His muscles moved
easily, without wasted motion. Fortunately all the alarms
and guards were automated. Even at the thought of a live
guard, his mouth went dry.

"Sentients are unpredictable," he had always told Gregor.
"Always go for the automated systems. You can. trust
them to act as they're supposed to." He was never certain
whether Gregor believed him or not. Whatever, it was
something he needn't worry about right now.
He decided to go for one of the skylights.
Maijstral dropped weightlessly toward the roof, a wispy
opaque night-cloud. He was, even at this moment, per-
fectly aware of the traditional bulk of High Custom scowl-
ing at him from out of the night. For even here he fulfilled
one of High Custom's many roles, that of Allowed Burglar.

High Custom allowed a person to steal for a living,
provided he followed certain rules: he must do the job by
himself; the person from whom he steals has to be able to
afford the loss; there can be no serious violence—bopping
the odd guard over the head is allowed, but crushing his
skull is not. The object stolen had to be of artistic, sensa-
tional, or piquant interest (no large quantities of cash or
uncut stones, say, although there was nothing in the rules
against pocketing same if they happen to be in the same
vault as the Costikyan Emerald); the stolen objects had to
remain in the burglar's possession through the midnight of
the day following the crime; and the burglar must never
deny what it is he does for a living—if he is going to steal,
he must let everyone know it, and carry his card when
working.

THE CROWN JEWELS I 43


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Most importantly, an Allowed Burglar had to practice
his craft with style, with grace, with savoir faire. Style
counted a full ten points in the ratings, and no wonder.
Allowed Burglars were supposed to be a part of High
Custom, and if they didn't fit well with the rest of the
wayward elements, the gentleman drunkards, the glib,
subtle charlatans and bright-eyed tricksters, what was the
point in allowing them to take other people's property in

the first place?

Maijstral hovered above the skylight without touching it
and deployed a pistol-shaped detector, scanning it over the
skylight and its frame to make certain there were no electro-
magnetic emissions. Amalia and Pietro had done some
research on security in the Scholder manse and found
nothing troubling, but Maijstral believed in double-checking
all research. It was his skin on me line, not Jensen's.

A trap. All Roman's hesitations and uncertainties flick-
ered unbidden through Maijstral's mind. He gnawed his
nether lip and replaced the detector on his adhesive darksuit.
His hand was shaking slightly as he brought out a minia-
ture a-grav unit and stuck it carefully to the skylight.
Before he took out his pencil-sized cutting tool and began
slicing, he took a moment to stabilize his breathing and
calm his nerves. The room below might, of course, be
packed with police.

Most likely, however, it was just a room. Maijstral tried

to maintain that thought.

Maijstrat finished his cut and the skylight floated gently
into the air. The a-grav unit would move it toward a
preset place on the grounds and set it down. Taking a
breath, Maijstral reversed himself and floated headfirst
into the room.

His head and shoulders thrust through the skylight, he
turned his head carefully left and right. The atrium was

44 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

two stories tall, with a roof access and a balcony around
three sides. Slipcovered furniture crouched in darkness. A
wide flagstone fireplace yawned against one wa!l. The
view from the back of MaiJstral's head was absorbed by
detectors and projected onto the optical center of his brain;

his vision was nearly a 360-degree globe, but he turned his
head to get the advantage of parallax. IR and UV scanners
looked for characteristic police emissions. Audio pickups
listened acutely for the fall of dust.

He slid into the room on midnight holographic wings.
Starlight shone on his fake diamond. Jensen's researches
suggested that the household's main defenses were alarms
triggered by the minute compression waves caused by a
body moving through space. This was a very expensive
system—in order for it to work, the signals put out by an
entering thief had to be distinguished from those created


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by heating and cooling units, thermal changes in the struc-
ture of the house, and those of family pets and robots.

MaiJstral's darksuit was equipped to deal with such
alarms automatically, taking a half step back in time and
pulsing out waves that precisely interfered with the waves
he made as he moved. This was widely regarded as impos-
sible, both that and a miracle of modem physics.
MaiJstral's darksuit was of the best.
MaiJstral's target, the artifact he was after, gleamed in
sliver solitude in a niche by the fireplace. Silently, Maijstral
made a circuit of the room in search of other items of
value. The place seemed to be filled mainly with souvenirs
of the Rebellion, weapons, medals in cases, portraits of
heroes. A cool shock wave moved through Maijstral. Ad-
miral Scholder, he realized, was the same young Lieuten-
ant Scholder whose Death Commandos had stormed the
City of Seven Bright Rings and seized the Emperor in the
last battle of the Rebellion.

THE CROWN JEWELS I 45

Welt, well, Maijstral thought. He was tampering with
History, no less.

The souvenirs had little value except to military history
buffs, so he floated to the artifact and gazed at it, his
visual scanners magnifying its image. The target was the
size of a melon and vaguely saddle-shaped, a pleasant-
appearing geometry made of silver and engraved with fine,
precise lines. Maijstral saw the Imperial seal—the scrolled
N for Nnis CV1 interwoven with the skuhl vines of the
Pendjalli, ideographs for "good luck" and "happiness."
all encircled by the figure of the Zoot Torque—Maijstral
realized that he was looking at something looted from the
Imperial precincts themselves.

Interesting.

Maijstral made an electromagnetic scan and found a
constant low-wattage background emission characteristic
of, among other things, certain alarm systems. He looked
more carefully and discovered that the object was itself
giving off the radiation, not anything it was connected to.
Odd, he thought. He wondered if the thing would scream
"Help, help" if he picked it up, like something in a fairy
tale.

It wouldn't be the first time. Alarm systems had lately
begun displaying a regrettable tendency toward cuteness.

He scanned the      pedestal very carefully and found noth-
ing resembling      a trap or alarm, and then gave a mental
command to his      darksuit that opened a collapsed ruck on
his back. Time      to finish the job and get out.

His gloved hand reached for the object, closed around
it, and perceived its considerable weight. He picked it up
and in one swift movement dumped it into his rucksack,
which automatically closed around it. He began floating
past the level of the balconies, toward the skylight. The
object was a cold weight between his shoulders.


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46 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

A door opened to an inner room. Maijstral's heart crashed
in his chest. His inertialess drift ceased immediately. His
scanners deployed at the speed of thought.

A small domestic robot entered the room on muffled
wheels. It wheeled to a rack of de-energized Rebellion-era
weapons and deployed a feather duster.

Maijstra! calmed his nerves- The robot didn't even see
him- Cloaked in his darksuit, he began floating gently
toward the skylight again.

The robot finished knocking dust off the beam guns,
then began roiling toward the niche. It paused and began
to shriek in a hysterical feminine voice.

"Help! Help! We've been robbed."

A masculine voice answered from within the house.
"What's that, Denise?"

"Intruders! I think he's still here! Bring Felicity and
your guns!"

A different female voice. "We're coming, Denise! Any
intruders are going to get what's coming to them!"

This conversation would probably have gone on for
some time—the people who wrote security programs for
domestic robots really should have been doing soap opera
scripts for the Diadem—but Maijstra! silenced the robot
with a quick blast from his disruptor, something he would
have done more quickly had he not somehow missed the
pistol on his first grab. A streaming sable cloud, Maijstral
arrowed through the skylight and fled across the sward
outside, followed by a bouncing trail of media globes.

His darksuit informed him that his black boxes, placed
outside the perimeter, were doing a good job of repelling
the mansion's efforts to cry for the police. He passed
through the cold-field, his suit neutralizing it automati-
cally, and then fled to where Gregor waited in the flier,
manning his own larger black box that was scanning all

THE CROWN JEWELS / 47

neighborhood communications wavelengths. Gregor looked
up with a grin as Maijstral settled into the driver's seat.

"What is that you're always telling me about automatic
guards being safer and more predictable?"

Maijstral punched the power button and the flier hissed
into the night on its silent repellers. The artifact pressed
against his back. Media globes trailed like firecrackers on
a puppy dog's tail.

The recordings of this commission, Maijstral decided,
were decidedly not going to be sold to the broadcasters.




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Maijstral's character was formed, entirely by accident,
when he was sixteen. His character was supposed to be
formed by then; he was a senior classman at the Nnoivarl
Academy, one of the best-regarded schools in the Empire,
which promised to develop character or kill the boy trying—
but, in common with his classmates, he had learned a lot
about High Custom, languages, and the Khosali liberal
arts, and damn-all about anything else. His acquisition
couldn't really be called character, but rather a surface
veneer, handy in many situations, however much lumber it
may be in others. Still, many get by with nothing but
polish their entire lives, and if their character isn't tested
they'll never know the difference.

Drake Maijstral's particular bad luck was to get his
character tested before he was ready for it. That's usually
the way with character tests—one never realizes what
they are until they're over, and by then it's too late to
prepare.

As a senior classman preparing for his exams he had
been allowed a certain amount of liberty—he could leave
the academy without permission, and travel in civilian rig.
He took full advantage of his newfound freedom, particu-
larly in the matter of the Honorable Zoe Enderby, the

48 / WALTER JON WtLUAMS

bright-eyed daughter of a local nobleman whose thirteen-
year-old brother was at Nnoivarl. She was four years older
than Maijstral and her character seemed fully formed. He
had met her at a fencing match, and her brother was not on
the fencing team. Later in his life this was the sort of
contradiction that might make him pause. Not at sixteen.

It was midmoming. The place smelled of paint thinner—
the Honorable Zoe was apprenticed to a local artist. Sub-
dued yellow light, filtered by the tropical growth overhead,
danced in mottled patterns on the windows. Maijstral was
in one of the Honorable Zoe's dressing gowns, frowning
into a magazine and smoking a cigarette. (He was smoking
that year.) Zoe was in another room, talking to her mother
on the telephone.

"Darling. I've brought you something."

Maijstral hadn't heard him come in. It occurred to him
that he should have locked the door behind him the night
before, that he had, with his long hair and Zoe's dressing
gown, had been mistaken for her.

"I'm sorry we fought. Look."

Poor boy, Maijstral thought. He stood, turned, and saw
Marc Julian, the assistant captain of the fencing team,
standing in his stiff, grey Nnoivarl uniform, a package in
his long arms, Julian was also Count Hitti, but titles
weren't used in the school.

"Beg pardon, Julian," Maijstral said. "I think it's Zoe
you wanted to speak to, wasn't it?"




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The polish was, as has been noted, already there. Maijstral
left the astonished boy standing agape in the front hall and
went in search of Zoe. He went into the bedroom, in-
formed her of Julian's arrival, and began practicing a new
card trick (he got whatever distinction he possessed at the
academy by doing magic stunts). By the time Zoe said good-
bye to her mother and-went to the hall, Julian was gone.

THE CROWN JEWELS I 49

Zoe wanted to tell Maijstral about Julian over breakfast,
but Maijstral allowed as how everything was clear enough,
and she didn't have to say anything if she didn't feel like
it. He really didn't want to hear the story anyway. He
stayed the morning, dressed, and went back to the acad-
emy to study for his philosophy exam.

A later Maijstral would have never looked back. But
this young Maijstral was trying very hard to convince
himself he was in love, and in any case he wanted to make
the most of the few weeks before he had to return to
Domier and the Human Constellation.

Maijstral was never positive, later, if Julian had help.
Maijstral had been leaving his exam cubicle, walking with
his friend Asad. Both of them were confident of having
done well, were laughing—and suddenly Maijstral's feet
were tangled and he lurched sideways. Something shoved
him between the shoulders and he tumbled into the proud
back of the boy ahead of him.

"You struck me, Maijstral." Marc Julian's eyes gleamed
with dull content beneath the lassie of his uniform cap-

"Sorry, Julian," Maijstral said. "Someone gave me
a—"

"You'll not get away with that." Coolly. "Zah will act
for me."

Maijstral straightened. "And Asad for me." Maijstral
was equally cool, and he was quick to note that Zah was
right there, the captain of the fencing team, and had been
behind Maijstral the whole time.

Maijstral felt Asad's comradely hand on his shoulder.
Far from being comforted, the touch startled him, serving
: to remind him that behind this polished ritual was a deadly
I reality toward which he was now committed. His reflexes

50 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

made him turn away and light a cigarette as he walked, as
if he had nothing else to do.

Duels were forbidden between students, but they hap-
pened anyway. By way of precaution, the practice was for
upperclassmen to vet the encounters of the juniors, but if
upperclassmen wanted to fight each other, there was no one
to interfere. The worst that would happen was expulsion.

"Julian wouldn't accept any explanation," Asad said
later, in Maijstral's room. "He insists on the fight."


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Maijstral nodded and blew smoke. "Very well."
"It will be pistols, of course. He'd cut you to ribbons if
you fight with steel. I'm going to talk to Joseph Bob about
the loan of his matched set of chuggers."
"Fine. Would you like some brandy, first?"
Asad shook his head. "No. Best go now. The fight will
be tomorrow morning."
Maijstral was startled. "So soon?"
Asad gave an uneasy laugh. "Best get it over with, eh?
Don't want it to interfere with your studying."

The door closed behind Asad. Maijstral poured himself
brandy, lit another cigarette, and went to his terminal. He
accessed Julian's pistol scores and a coolness brushed his
nerves. For some reason he thought of one of the Honor-
able Zoe's paintings, a formal piece with a dull-red sun
and gleaming nickel-iron asteroids.

Asad was back in a few minutes. He gave an admiring
laugh. "You're a cool one, ain't you? Studying for your
exams like nothing's happened." Maijstral turned off the
display.

"Hullo, Asad."

"Joseph Bob is testing the pistols now," Asad said.
"We'll be using the explosive ammunition. It's fairer that
way—Julian's the better shot. If you follow my advice,
you'll fire as soon as I give the signal. If you hit him first,

THE CROWN JEWELS I 51

you can take off an arm or leg, and he may not get a shot
off. He's better, so if he fires at all he's likely to hit you."

"I'll bear that in mind." Pouring brandy.

"Pity we ain't got access to psych dueling here. You
could pick his mind apart. He's got no defenses at all
there."

"I was just thinking that. Would you like a game of
cards or something?"

"Damned coot, Maijstral." Admiring. "Maybe a short
game, then. None of your trick decks, though."

They played Cheeseup for an hour. Asad won forty
marks, then stood and said he had to leave. He had some
studying to do for his history exam.

"You'll take my marker, yes? My father's damnably
late with my allowance." Over a year, truth be told.
Lucky his credit was still good.

"I'll take it. Thanks."

"I'm sure my father will redeem it, if . . ." Best leave
that unsaid. Asad smiled uneasily.

"I'll pick you up at six-eighty, then?" He grasped
Maijstral's shoulder. "See you then." Maijstral didn't
want Asad to leave. He didn't want to be alone with his


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thoughts.

Maijstral heard the door close. For a long time he
watched the brandy tremble in the decanter. There were
only two fingers left, he noticed, and he decided he'd better
not drink them.

He could protest all he liked, he decided. He could
make any number of declarations about how stupid duels
were and how ridiculous High Custom was and mat wouldn't
alter a thing. If he ran away, no one would speak to him.

Explosive bullets. Take off an arm or leg. Or blow his
lungs out through his ribs.

He practiced card tricks. His fingers bungled every stunt.

52 / WALTER JON WILUAMS

That night he didn't sleep, just lay sweating in his bed
and stared at the ceiling. He ran through his entire supply
of cigarettes. Two hours past midnight, he knew for cer-
tain that there was no way he was going to face Julian's
pistol.

He began wondering what he was going (o do about it.

Maijstral crouched silently by Joseph Bob's door and
looked at the access plate. He tried to breathe slowly and
naturally. To his amazement he seemed cooler than when
he'd been writing his exam.

He took one of his playing cards and inserted it between
the door and jamb. He'd spent the last forty minutes trying
to crack the dormitory's computer security, and he thought
he might have succeeded in unlocking the bolt by remote

control. But he still had to move the bolt, and that might
make noise.

The bolt clicked. Maijstral's heart stopped. He waited
for several moments, his ears straining. Nothing.

He swung the door in and heard Joseph Bob's breathing.
Maijstral crept on bare feet into the room. He was wearing
night goggles that he'd borrowed from the gym—runners
training at night used them—and he could see the pistol
case sitting on Joseph Bob's desk. Maijstral pushed the
door almost shut, then stepped to the desk.

Joseph Bob rolled over and muttered something. Maijstral
froze, his pulse crashing in his ears. Joseph Bob sighed
and began to breathe heavily. Maijstral relaxed slightly.
Clearly the Earthman's sleep pattern had been disturbed,
and Maijstral would have to be careful. Each motion tak-
ing eons, he reached out and opened the pistol case.

The antique chuggers lay on red velvet and were seen
clearly in his enhanced-! ight goggies. Maijstral licked his
lips and reached for the first one. The front sight was a

THE CROWN JEWELS I 53


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bead poised atop a delicate piece of silver scrollwork.
Maijstral covered the sight with a handkerchief, damped a
small pair of pliers on the sight, gave it a slight wrench to
one side. He took off the cloth and inspected his work.
There was no obvious tampering- He repeated the proce-
dure with the other gun and closed the case.

He was surprised, now that he had time to think of it,
how cool he was. It wasn't until he left the room that he
began to be afraid. What if Julian fired on instinct and
didn't use the sight? Was he that good? Maijstral might
only have ruined his own chance.

He didn't sleep at all that night. It took him both fingers
of brandy to get him bathed and dressed for the occasion.
He tried to tie his hair back, but his fingers wouldn't let
him. Asad, when he arrived, did it for him.

Maijstral was dressed entirety in dark colors—a bit of
white could show as an aiming point. When he arrived at
the dueling ground—a spot of turf behind the Chapel
Garden—he saw that Julian had dressed similarly.

Maijstral said nothing at all. He jammed his chin down
on his high collar so that his jaw wouldn't tremble.

"Remember," Asad said, "keep the left arm back and
out of the way. Stand with your side toward him to narrow
the target. Cover your upper body with your bent right
arm. And shoot first if you can." He squeezed Maijstral's
arm. "Good man."

The thing went quickly. Zah called out "One, two,
three," and dropped a handkerchief. Julian's pistol fired
before Maijstral's mind could entirely absorb the meaning
of the falling white lace. Behind him, Maijstral heard a
crack as the explosive bullet detonated against the garden
wall.

Maijstral looked in surprise at the startled figure over his
sight. Julian's face was red; his jaw worked. Maijstral

54 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

remembered the way Julian had looked when issuing the
challenge, and murder entered Maijstrafs heart.

He tried very hard to determine how his front sight was
off so that he could kill Julian, but he wasn't very good
with the weapon and his bullet blew a small crater in the
stonework of the old chapel. Then Asad was pounding
Maijstral on the back, and Julian was wiping blood off his
chin where he'd bitten through his lower tip.

Maijstral reversed the pistol and handed it to Asad.
"Give Joseph Bob my thanks," he said. He tried to smile.

"Would you like to see a new card trick? I learned one last
night."

"Damned cool," Asad said, and rushed him away.



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Relatively few people have such a firm grasp of their
own nature as Maijstral on his seventeenth birthday. He
was a coward and knew it. High Custom did not allow for
cowards—thieves, yes, and confidence men—but Maijstral
had a good idea of how to cope with it. He had to know
High Custom inside and out; he had to be able to manipu-
late it to his own advantage. He had to glide smoothly
through the High Custom world, frictionless, wary of traps.
"Any fool can die in a duel." That was the Khosali

proverb. Maijstral was determined not to be that kind of
fool.

CI^ACTEK 4

Genera! Gerald was prepared to repel boarders. Crouched
in battle armor in the comer of his living room, he smiled
at his own strategy, his own cunning. Remote sensors in
various parts of the house fed data through his armor and
into his optical centers. He scanned them with chill, happy
obsession. Maijstral might win—the General was willing
to concede that possibility—but he would know he'd been
in a fight. Maijstral was going to be in for the battle of his
life.

He knew that no thief of Maijstral's caliber could possi-
bly resist the gauntlet the General had flung in his face. He
had threatened Maijstral with death knowing that Maijstral
couldn't possibly pass up that kind of challenge. Hah,
Maijstral would think, this old fogey thinks he can tell me
what to do. And then Maijstral would decide to teach the
old man a lesson and sneak into his house to steal something.

Little did Maijstral know that Gerald was ready for him.
He had anticipated his enemy's reaction and was going to
spring an ambush.

It was General Gerald's misfortune to have spent forty
years as a warrior without a war. He had never once been
in combat. For decades he had practiced for the inevitable

55

56 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

Imperial resurgency, honed his skills, studied enemy tac-
tics, waged endless campaigns for funding and battled the
Empire only in simulation and exercises . . . and over-
night, it seemed. General Gerald found himself facing
retirement without the cowardly Imperial fleet having once
shown up for the long-awaited Armageddon. It was more
than a patriot could stand.

So now the General waited in his old armor, surrounded
by weapons laid out in a semicircle, smiling as he scanned
the remotes and felt the suit blowing cool air on his brow.
He pictured Maijstral's entry in his mind, the thief moving
in through windows or doors or even through the chimney,
unaware that the General had just spent a fortune on
detection apparatus and confident that his darksuit would
hide him from the avenging ex-marine crouched in the
comer. General Gerald would open the conflict with a


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snare rifle, try to catch me thief in its coils. Maijstral's
darksuit could probably make itself frictionless and thus
slip the bonds, after which the thief might well strike
out with a chugger or a stunner, which the General's armor
would, of course, repel . . . and then the battle would
broaden, higher and higher energies brought into play,
disruptors and mappers and spitfires, and then maybe it
would even come down to hand-to-hand at the end. Gen-
eral Gerald with his trusty cutlass against Maijstral and his
stiletto.

The General pictured his victory, Maijstral prostrate, the
General triumphant, the room flaming (what the hell—the
house was insured). The first time Maijstral had ever been
caught and apprehended, a first-class thief brought down
by the General's foresight and cunning.

Maijstral, the General thought. The Allowed Burglar
wasn't quite the Imperial Admiral of the Fleet, but in the
latter's absence he would just have to do-

THE CROWN JEWELS I 57

Peleng wasn't any fun at all.

Sergeant Tvi of His Imperial Majesty's Secret Dragoons
looked at her communications display in speechless de-
spair. The Scholder manse was calling for help. Unmistak-
ably. The Imperial Relic would not be reclaimed tonight.

Tvi's diaphragm gave a spasm of irritation. She banked
her Jefferson-Singh speedster and rose high into the traffic
lanes, imitating an ordinary commuter. She glanced over
her shoulder at her darksuit and equipment and considered
tossing them.

No, she decided. She might yet get a chance to show
what she could do.

Sergeant Tvi was, to be blunt, a scapegrace. Her parents
had been stodgy Imperial servants, existing in perfect de-
scent from long lines of other Imperial servants, each prid-
ing himself on his exemplary dullness. Tvi's childhood
had been a tedious one. full of boredom and fantasy. If she
hadn't had a good imagination she might well have died of
ennui. Trapped in one Imperial backwater or another, her
horizons limited by the acidic atmosphere of Vanngrian or
the endless bleak deserts of Zynzlyp, Tvi had followed the
burglar standings, the confidence-racket broadcasts, the
exploits of me Human Diadem, biographies of Elvis ... if
only, she'd thought, if only she had the- chance, she'd
show Geoff Fu George or Baron Drago a thing or two.

Her career as a burglar,          unfortunately, had not been
graced with success. Two          standards ago, she'd- had the
misfortune to get caught          on her first job, and her only
refuge from Imperial law          had been the Secret Dragoons.

As she had contemplated the service from her prison cell
on Letharb and listened to the reproaches of her parents,
the new work had sounded interesting, even attractive—
the chance to visit far-flung worlds, participate in intrigue


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58 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

intended to further the designs of the Empire, find Ro-
mance, Excitement, Danger. Instead, however, she'd been
assigned as a junior security officer at various consulates
in the Human Constellation, a job that consisted for the
most part in dealing with various human cranks. Imperial-
ists mainly, who insisted they knew of plots against the
Empire and exactly what she should do about them. Count-
ess Anastasia was yet another in a long line of maladjusted
human contacts, and Tvi had begun to despair of the whole
race. Were these the same people who had produced Mad
Julius and the incomparable Soderberg Vampire?

After Baron Sinn had claimed her for a special mission,
her chances had seemed a bit brighter. The situation had
been promising. She would be engaged in a race against
the clock with the Fate of the Empire at stake, and her
competition was none other than Maijstral—he was in the
top half of the standings, and furthermore had style and
promise. And now it appeared that Tvi had arrived too late.

Damnation, Now things would most likely be turned
over to that unspeakable mug Khotvinn, and she'd find
herself playing second fiddle in some sordid job of skull-
tapping or breaking-and-bashing.

Drat. Peleng was no fun at all.

Behind Sergeant Tvi, Paavo Kuusinen's matte-black
speedster rose into the sky. The Khosati commando's flier
was a clear blip on his screens.

Kuusinen had followed Nichole's advice and got a new
jacket cut in the local style, the better to blend in. He was,
as he had told Nichole, a student of human nature; he was
also, as he told Maijstral, visiting Peleng on business.

That afternoon he had been combining both occupa-
tions—he was trying to follow Maijstral. To his surprise
he'd discovered that Maijstral was being followed by some-

THE CROWN JEWELS I 59

one else, the Khosali female. Maijstral had dutifully given
her the slip earlier that evening, losing Kuusinen at the
same time, and Kuusinen had since been following the
Khosali in hopes she'd locate Maijstral again. Instead, the
small female had gone off on a pointless excursion into me
outback only to turn around abruptly and head back to

Peleng City.

Did these people have any idea what they were doing?
Kuusinen was beginning to suspect not.

The whole situation was quite bewildering. Ail he wanted
to do was keep an eye on Maijstral, and to his amazement
half the Imperial Diplomatic Service seemed to be engaged

in the same errand.



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There was clearly a mystery here. And, Kuusinen de-
cided, he was just the man to unravel it-
Countess Anastasia contemplated her stiff-shouldered im-
age in the reflection of her apartment window. She was
dressed in a soft black dress that left her shoulders bare,
and billowed around her ankles in a cascading wave of
darkness. She touched me skirt, picked at an imaginary bit
of lint—how dare common detritus adhere to her clothing,

Neuralgia danced in her spine, and consequent irritation
whispered in her mind. Maijstral. the whisper said, and
her ears flicked downward. She really did disapprove of

me man.

"That Gregor person was asking about Jensen and her
cohort. Maijstral's given us the slip. Your burglar Tvi
reports that alarms are going off all over the Scholder
house. How much more do you need in order to act?"

Baron Sinn's sharp-faced silhouette appeared next to
hers in the reflective surface. He, too, was smoking, the
cigaret hanging from the end of his muzzle. It was a vice
he normally avoided, but which he indulged in for Anasta-

60 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

sia's sake, an old-fashioned courtesy she seemed to ap-
preciate. "1 have only two personnel," he said. "Maijstral
has servants here, and connections. If he has the Imperial
Relic he's probably gone to ground."

"Damn him, anyway. Why didn't he take the bribe?"

"Perhaps he does not share his father's convictions."

Anastasia sneered. Smoke streamed from her nostrils in
elegant little white traceries, and she admired the effect in
the glass. "He simply takes pleasure in being wayward,"
she said. "That's why he took up burglary and that un-
speakable Nichole woman, just to annoy the family. I
always told his father to be firm with the boy."

"Too late now, my lady."

Her lip curled. A bit of tobacco, she noticed, was
adhering to one bright tooth- "It's never too late for
firmness, my lord Baron." It was one of the rules by
which she lived, but the maxim was spoiled by her having
to pick the tobacco fleck off her smile-

Sinn remained silent.

"That Nichole," Anastasia told the glass. "Nichole and
the Diadem. The height of Constellation culture. People
whose sole profession is to be gossiped about. Can you
imagine it?"

Sinn moved the cigarel to the comer of his mouth with
his lolling tongue. "We were speaking, Countess, about
Maijstral and this Jensen woman."

"Firmness," she said, remembering her earlier tack.


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Neuralgia stabbed her neck. "If Maijstral is in the
public eye, and might be missed, Jensen is not. If Maijstral
has no one to deliver the Imperial Relic to, then . . ."

"Quite so."

Baron Sinn looked at the human woman and restrained
his diaphragm from an irritated spasm. She was an ally, he
reminded himself, and even if she was a grotesque crank

THE CROWN JEWELS t 61

she was a rich grotesque crank who had personally fi-
nanced Imperial Party activities here in the Constella-
tion. . . .

He dropped his cigaret into an ashtray. "Very well," he
said. "I'll have to call Khotvinn into it. We'll pick up
Jensen as soon as she's alone. She seems to be entertaining
someone named Navarre right now—he's in the service
and we don't want complications."

Anastasia stalked to him and put her arm through his,
her palm stroking the smooth dark hair on his upper arm.

"Lovely," she said. Her mouth open, her tongue lolled:

Khosali good humor. The glitter in her eyes was appalling.
"Firmness at last."

Politics, the Baron quoted to himself, oft consists in
ignoring facts.

He considered himself a practical person and rarely
resorted to maxims. It was a measure of how she strained
his nerves that he was thinking in cliches at all.

Lieutenant Navarre thought of Amalia Jensen as his flier
arched across the night sky. An interesting woman, he
decided. Dedicated to preserving the Constellation in her
own chosen fashion, and with the facts and intelligence to
back up her opinions, she'd proved a most stimulating
companion for the evening. Head of a political organiza-
tion, a third degree black sash in pom boxing, an expert
conversationalist, , . Odd, given all that, she'd turn out to
be a garden person. Her house was filled with plants and
flowers, all lovingly tended.

Still he was a bit uneasy about turning down an invita-
tion from Nichole. How often did a man, particularly an
officer from Pompey, get a chance to be photographed
with a member of the Human Diadem? Unfortunate that

62 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

he'd not been in a situation in which he could escape the
commitment with grace.

The communicator on his flier gave a discreet chirp, and
he frowned. Who would be calling at this hour? He pressed
a button and answered.

"Navarre."


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"Sir? This is Officer Pankat of the Peleng Police. Ap-
parently your late uncle's house was broken into tonight."

Navarre was astonished. "Really?" he asked. And then,
"But why?"

"Upon the success of your actions in the next few
hours," Baron Sinn declared, "may depend the Fate of the
Empire."

Well, thought Sergeant Tvi, how much better than this
can it ever get? The Fate of the Empire—her heart beat
faster as the words rang in her mind like bells. This was a
definite improvement on spending one's life in the civil
service, gazing out the window at the endless deserts and
intractable inhabitants of Zynzlyp. Even Khotvinn's dark,
looming presence—he was a head taller even than Sinn—
seemed less than its usual sinister self.

"Khotvinn will be under your orders," Sinn went on.
"If there is trouble, he is trained to get you out of it."

"I don't anticipate trouble, my lord." In what Tvi
hoped was a tone of quiet confidence.

Sinn looked at her, his gaze commanding. "Anticipate
every possible trouble, Tvi. Then you will be able to cope
with each problem as it arises."

Why did officers always talk like this? Tvi wondered.
Nothing a subordinate said was ever quite right. Even
expressions of confidence triggered a lecture. Her reply
was dutiful.

"Yes, my lord."

THE CROWN JEWELS I 63

Countess Anastasia stepped from the back of the room
and laid a hand on Baron Sinn's arm. The Baron stiffened.

"Let no one get in your way," the Countess said-
Unlike the Baron, she spoke High Khosati. "This is no
time for hesitation or foolish regard for life. There must be
no witnesses. You must be prepared to take harsh action."
She held up a clenched fist.

Tvi remained silent. She didn't have to take orders from
the Countess, but the Baron's group was dependent on the
Countess for support on this planet, so there was every
reason to treat her with courtesy.

The Fate of the Empire! Tvi thought again. Now there
was something worth listening to boring speeches for. She
wondered if, in future generations, there would be video
programs about Tvi of the Secret Dragoons.

The Countess went on about firmness and the necessity
for action. Tvi knew that when her superiors shifted into
High Khosali they were trying to inspire her, and she
could successfully drowse through it with her eyes open.
She therefore stood in a respectful attitude, her ears cocked


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forward as if she were listening, and in her mind pictured
Video Tvi and watched with cool pleasure as me heroine
stole documents, battled spies, saved me Emperor's coffin
from sabotage. . . . Then she looked at Khotvinn.

The big Khosalikh was standing with his eyes gleaming,
the fur on his shoulders standing. The monster was absorb-
ing the Countess's words with evident pleasure and antici-
pation, just waiting for the moment when he could crack
bones, snap necks, bruise flesh. In their few days' ac-
quaintance, Khotvinn had always given Tvi the impression
of something that might choose to live in a cave. Now that
impression was enhanced. Tvi's mind snapped to atten-
tion. Someone like Khotvinn wasn't in her mental script.
The Khotvinns of the videos always sought employment in

64 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

the service of villains, and were usually massacred by the
heroine just before intermission.

Khotvinn was going to take watching. Tvi knew that
now, and knew it for certain.

In her darksuit, Tvi flowed like black glass over the
rolling yellow hills on the outskirts of Peleng City. Her
sense of smell, enhanced by her darksuit attachments,
brought her the scent of night-blooming bellseed flowers.

Khotvinn stood by the flier like a monument. Tvi had
decided not to use him on her reconnaissance—she consid-
ered him clumsy, and was certain mat he had let himself
be seen tailing Maijstral's assistant the day before. Tvi
lighted and switched off the suit's holograph projectors.
Khotvinn gave no sign he noticed her presence.

"Navarre's flier is gone. There are no security arrange-
ments on me house that I can detect."

Khotvinn was matter-of-fact. "Then let's go." His ac-
cent was provincial and hard to understand. He flexed his
shoulders in a stiff, businesslike way, and Tvi wondered
where Sinn had found this one. Half the Secret Dragoons
joined the military from jail, and Khotvinn might well be
some murderer recruited from the prison planets for the
impenitent, one of those who hadn't had the decency to
commit suicide when caught.

She wondered how he could possibly have understood
the Countess's speech. Tvi doubted he could speak High
Khosali if it were put to him.

"Not yet," Tvi said. "Wait for light."

Khotvinn flexed again, impatient, but said nothing at all
through the long purple dawn. He didn't seem to be much
good at conversation.

She sighed. In the vids featuring Allowed Burglars,
assistants were polite, amoral technophiles who followed

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orders with clear-eyed efficiency, always ready to pull
some new black box out of a hat. Disappointingly, Khotvinn
was out of me wrong mold.

Tvi waited till she saw a few early fliers carrying people
about their business. Then she put on a battered jacket
over her darksuit and motioned for Khotvinn to join her in
the flier. It rose into the morning sky.

"I've got a plan," Tvi said, "Just follow my lead."

Khotvinn gave no sign mat he had heard. Tvi chose to
assume he had.

She didn't bother explaining her plan to him. She had
tried to picture this discussion to herself, and the picture
hadn't scanned. "We're going to pretend to be broadcast
repair personnel, Khotvinn." Then, tactfully, "Do you
know what broadcast repair personnel are?" No, best let
her do the talking. Khotvinn was supposed to be strictly
backup, in case of emergencies.

She'd do it all herself. She was Tvi of the Secret
Dragoons, on her first real mission, and the Fate of the
Empire - . . oops.

She had overshot Amalia Jensen's house. She turned the
flier in a long loop, making it seem as if the oversight had
been a deliberate attempt at reconnaissance. Khotvinn said
nothing, assuming he'd even noticed. She dropped the flier
onto Jensen's flat roof.

The edge of the roof was decorated with long planters
and bright blossoms. A robot was moving from flower to
flower with a watering can-

The robot was an ordinary all-purpose               domestic, com-
bining the functions of maid, butler,               doorman, telephone
answering machine, and cup-bearer. It               rolled toward the
flier. The watering can, Tvi noticed,               was painted with
little yellow daisies.

"May I help you, lady and sir?" the robot asked.

66 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

What Tvi planned to say was this: "We're from Peteng
Independent Broadcasting. We've had reports of interfer-
ence in your neighborhood, and we'd like to check out
your sets." What she said instead was: "Khotvinn! What
in hell are you doing?"

For the giant had leaped from the flier, not even bother-
ing to open the door, and felled the robot with a single
kick. It went sprawling, its arms flung out, the water can
clattering across the roof. Khotvinn leaped into the air,
then landed on the robot with both feet. More clattering.

Tvi was jumping too, for the black boxes in the back
seat. She triggered them—just in rime, she suspected—and
saw the little gauges flicker as they began intercepting
communications. The robot was alerting the household
even as Khotvinn picked it up and began smashing it


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against one of the planters.

"Sir!" the robot chirped. "Can't we just talk about it
like reasonable beings?" Tvi knew exactly how the robot
felt. Khotvinn tore one of its arms off.

Panic thudded beneath Tvi's ribs. The Fate of the Em-
pire, she recited to herself. Et cetera. Do something.

She jumped out of the flier and dashed to the roof
entrance, then pressed the down button. "ACCESS DE-
NIED," the door reported in four commonly-used scripts.

"Thagger," Tvi swore. She was going to have to get in
me house some other way.

Khotvinn tore off the robot's remaining arm and began
beating the machine with it.

Tvi snapped on her darksuit and pulled its hood over her
head, giving her mental control of its devices. She trig-
gered the hologram and, a miniature black cloud, floated
away from the mayhem on the roof and dived over the
edge of the building- She reached for a microcutter on her
belt and began slicing at the first window she came to. As

THE CROWN JEWELS I 67

she popped the window out and began to drift through it,
she realized she was entering Amalia Jensen's bedroom.

Darksuits are useless camouflage during the day. The
black holographic cloud obscures the figure, of course, but
it may be argued that a black cloud floating through some-
one's window may call more attention to itself than a
person doing the same thing- And of course if you happen
to be halfway through a window, your darksuit could be
projecting the chorus from Aida and you'd still be an easy
target.

The first glimpse Tvi caught of Amalia Jensen was as
the human female popped out from behind her waterbed
and lobbed overarm a heavy vase that caught Tvi squarely
between the ears. Stars exploded in Tvi's vision. She
decided to get out of the window as fast as possible, and
accelerated straight across the room. Unfortunately her
depth perception was still numb and she smashed headfirst
into a closet door-

Jensen, seen by Tvi through her rear projectors, contin-
ued to hurl weighty household objects into the darksuit
screen. A heavy ashtray caught Tvi between her shoulders.
A vase detonated over her head.

Enough was enough. This was Khotvinn's department.

Tvi flew down the hallway to the living room and
unlocked the roof entrance. The amplified scent of flowers
warred with pain in her skull—the place was full of plants.
Khotvinn came slowly down the a-grav elevator, a robot
arm in one hand.

"What took you so long?" he snarled.


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Tvi willed her hologram projectors off and pointed numbly
toward Jensen's bedroom. "That way," she said. Khotvinn
flung the robot arm into a comer—there was a crash that
echoed endlessly in Tvi's skull as the arm destroyed a

68 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

porcelain planter—and then the giant began to lope at a
ground-shattering trot toward the bedroom.

Unfortunately Jensen had changed position. She came
flying out of a connecting bathroom, a green-and-white-
striped towel blossoming from one hand. The towel draped
nearly over Khotvinn's head just as Jensen's foot planted
itself in his midsection. The air went out of Khotvinn in a
rush.

There followed a good deal of confused thumping and
thrashing. Jensen was aided by another small household
robot that clung to Khotvinn's knees and tried in a fairly
incompetent way to harm him. Tvi wasn't certain what she
was watching, not being an aficionado of the martial arts—a
proper burglar disdained violence—but it seemed as if
honors were about even. Both fighters were breathless and
bloody before Jensen broke off the combat and retreated
back into the bathroom. Khotvinn, ignoring the clawing
robot and a bottle of shampoo that bounced off his chest,
marched in pursuit.

Tvi leaned against an overstuffed chair, holding her
head. "Hey," she said as the thrashing started again, "use
your stunner, why don't you?"

The household robot came flying out of the bedroom
door and smashed to bits on the opposite wall. Amalia
Jensen, crouched low, followed the robot out of the door—
apparently she'd just ducked from the bathroom into the
bedroom—and began backing toward Tvi. Tvi reached for
her stunner.

Then Khotvinn appeared, brandishing a towel rack. Jen-
sen reached for a flowerpot and let fly. Tvi lowered her
weapon. The wide-beam stunner would get them both if
she fired it.

The combat demolished most of the living room. Tvi

THE CROWN JEWELS I 69

floated up near the roof in her a-grav harness, trying to get
in a clear shot, but Khotvinn kept blocking the way.

"Earth slime'" Khotvinn bellowed.

"Inhuman scum!" Amalia Jensen retorted through bloody
lips.

Fate of the Empire, Tvi thought resignedly, and won-
dered how well her black boxes were doing without
supervision.

Do something.


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She floated over Khotvinn, grabbed his scruff with one
hand, and yanked back, turning her a-grav up to max.
Khotvinn flew backward, his arms windmilling, and landed
on a glass table that shattered with a sound that rattled in
Tvi's head like snapping thunder. Jensen cackled trium-
phantly and prepared her coup de grace. Tvi, now having a
clear shot, fired and dropped Jensen in her tracks.

"No!" Khotvinn roared. He was having trouble disen-
tangling himself from the table frame. "She was mine!"

"Idiot," Tvi said. Her skull was splitting. "You were
just supposed to stun her. Pick her up and let's go."

"No fair," Khotvinn muttered sulkily.

Fate of the Empire, Tvi thought. Next time the Empire
offered her its fate, it could jolly well go hang.

CHAPTER A

Roman flew alone in Peleng's ruby morning sky. He found
it encouraging that he hadn't been followed today—perhaps
the two Khosali tags were thrill seekers after all, and had
got bored.

He had spent the previous evening being a decoy, trying
to give the impression mat he and Maijstral were having an
ordinary evening. He had taken a bouquet of flowers to
Nichole at her residence. It had been delightful seeing her
again, as she was one of Maijstral's friends of whom he
could actually approve- At Nichole's, Roman had left
word with the household robots to expect Maijstral later
that night, laying a false trail just in case the small female
Khosalikh who had been following Roman all evening
should ask. ... Roman had then ordered a meal for three
from Chef Tso's Exquisite Mesa Catering, and picked up
the laundry. At some point during these more mundane
errands, Roman's tail had vanished, just dropped from
sight.

This morning Roman had performed various evasions
and escapes just in case, but he'd become certain before
very long there was no one after him. Buoyed by the
knowledge, he finished his evasions anyway, for form's

70

THE CROWN JEWELS I

sake. He hoped the rest of the day would be as free from
aggravation.

Seen through the viewscreen of his flier, Peieng City's
low pastel buildings, all surrounded by bright ornamental
trees and blossoms, resolved from an early morning mist.
Roman's heart gladdened. He put the flier on a landing
spiral that would place it on the flat roof of Amalia Jen-
sen's small white house. His ears turned down as he
thought of Humanity Prime, and then his diaphragm spasmed
once in resignation. If Maijstral was going to engage in an
irregular occupation, he would inevitably deal with irregu-


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lar people—Roman could only wish there were more like
Nichole and fewer like Jensen and her friends.

The flier settled on the roof like a leaf on a spotless
green lawn. The edge of the roof was decorated with
planters and bright blossoms. Roman felt buoyed; he liked
having living things around him. Enjoying the plants in
spite of himself, Roman got out of the flier and headed
toward the roof entrance. The first thing he saw was a
dead robot-
Suspicion hummed in his nerves. He checked that his
gun was loose in its holster and wished he had brought
some of his darksuit attachments that would allow him to
see behind his back.

Carefully Roman examined the robot. The machine had
been torn apart—arms and legs ripped off, command unit
excavated and thrown across the roof. The destruction was
wanton, far more than would have been necessary to dis-
able the machine. And whoever had done it had been very
strong.

Indignation began to gather. There was an offense here,
and not to Amalia Jensen, but rather to the honor of
Maijstral's employer.
Roman drew his gun and clicked its setting to "Lethal."

72 / WALTER JON WfLUAMS

The green light on the roof elevator showed it wasn't
locked- He stepped to the elevator and pressed the down
button.

The living room was a mess- Furniture was overturned,
papers scattered about, planters were smashed. Bright blos-
soms lay dying on me carpet. Roman's nostrils flickered in
disapproval.

In the hallway another robot lay in pieces. One of
Jensen's shoes lay in a comer, its mate nowhere to be
seen. There was some blood on a heavy vase, evidence
it might have been used as a club. Roman looked closely.
There was short, dark hair on the vase that seemed consis-
tent with Khosali fur.

Roman stood for a moment in the midst of the devasta-
tion and pondered events. He had come to tell Miss Jensen
that her commission had been successful, if a bit messy,
and to make arrangements for the sale and the delivery of
the artifact. Getting involved in vandalism and violence
was not a part of his job.

But something had happened here, something that possi-
bly was related to Maijstral's commission. He decided he
should try to find evidence of this, one way or another.

He had barely commenced his search when he heard the
sound of a flier dropping to the roof. His gun at the ready,
Roman slipped into the kitchen, where he could get a view
of the elevator -

The elevator went to work silently, its a-grav field



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bringing the passenger down. Roman, his ears pricked,
heard Pietro Quijano's voice.

"Miss Jensen? What happened to Howard? Oh."

Howard, Roman presumed, was the name of the robot
on the roof. He clicked his pistol to "Stun," then put it
back in its holster.

"Miss Jensen?"

THE CROWN JEWELS I 73

Quijano almost jumped out of his skin when Roman
glided silently out of the kitchen. Hoping to ease his mind,
Roman smiled at him, tongue lolling from his long muz-
zle. Quijano glanced anxiously to the elevator and door,
looking for a place to run.

Quijano spoke Human Standard through clenched teeth.
"Who are you? What happened here?"

"I was hoping," Roman said, moving closer, "you
would be able to tell me the answer to that last question."

Quijano looked relieved. "Are you police? Is Amalia—
Miss Jensen—is she all right?"

"I don't know." Roman glided closer to Quijano, his
feet moving noiselessly across the rubble. "It looks as if
she has been abducted. Would you have any idea why?"

Several complex expressions passed through Pietro
Quijano's face. From these, Roman gathered, Quijano
had, first, a very good idea what might have happened,
and secondly, that he had no intention of conveying this
information to anyone he didn't know and trust, even
someone he assumed to be a policeman. Perhaps especially
a policeman.

"No," Quijano said. His eyes were darting toward the
exits again. "1—I don't think—I don't know at all."

"Are you sure?" Roman said.

Quijano looked at Roman sidelong. He took a breath
and braced himself, apparently taking heart from the fact
that Roman hadn't actually attacked him. He stood with
his arms akimbo and looked belligerent. "Say. I don't
believe I know you. And if you're from the police, shouldn't
you show me your identification?"

Roman gave a passable imitation of a human sigh as he
tried to put the young man at ease- "You're right, sir. I've
been neglecting the formalities."

He might as well admit he had run out of ideas.

74 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

Roman reached inside his jacket, brought out his gun,
and shot Quijano at close range, terribly overstimulating
his nerves. Roman caught the unlucky man before he fell,



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then slung him over his shoulder and carried him to the
elevator. Once on the roof, Roman told Quijano's flier to
head home on autopilot, then dropped Quijano into the
back seat of his own machine.

Quijano looked up at him glassily. He seemed terribly
disappointed at the way the cops were behaving.

Roman had decided to let Maijstral handle this. That's
what criminal masterminds were for—to deal with the big
picture.

"They stole what?" Lieutenant Navarre gazed in be-
mused surprise at the insurer and the man from the
auctioneers'.

The auctioneer flipped through his catalog. "Here it is,
sir. 'Engraved silver cryonics container, with power source,
Imperial seal, functional, c9, wt losm, 18xl7ng.' "

Navarre still felt bemused. He took another few steps
into the large room. ignoring the trophies and battleflags,
his gaze moving from one object of interest to the other—
open skylight, stunned robot, empty niche. Skylight, ro-
bot, niche. Again, looking for some reason behind the
thing. Skylight, robot, niche. Fixing everything in his
mind.

"What was it worth?" he asked.

"We were, hm, going to start the bidding at twelve
novae and hope to get, mm, sixteen or eighteen."

"It wasn't worth much, then."

The auctioneer's voice was defensive. "Sir. It was prob-
ably the most valuable, mm, single object in the house.
The militaria is worth more as a collection, which is why
we're selling it in large lots, but none of the single items

THE CROWN JEWELS t 75

are remarkable. The fact of the container's being loot from
the imperial quarters might have increased its value to
some collectors."

"It's not exactly beyond the reach of collectors, ei-
ther," Navarre said. "Sixteen or eighteen novae—the
disruptor that was used to knock out the robot probably
cost at least five, and the black boxes we found were
worth more, maybe even eight or nine."

"They had an, hm, a homemade look, sir. They may
have cost nothing if they were made from scratch."

The Khosalikh from the insurance company glanced
over the room, taking in the racked weapons, the decora-
tions, the flags. "It may have been stolen by a traditional
Imperialist," she pointed out. "The artifact came from the
sacred precincts—selling it at auction would pollute it."

"Really?" Navarre was vaguely annoyed at himself for
not perceiving mis on his own—he liked having things in


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order. He fixed the fact firmly in his mind. Then he
glanced up at the overhanging banners. "They why didn't
they steal the Imperial battleflags? They're loot from me
sacred precincts as well."

"Perhaps, sir," said the Khosalikh, "the thief did not
have time. The alarm seems to have been given fairly
early."

"Perhaps."

"Drake Maijstral is on planet, sir." The auctioneer's
tone seemed to hang the fact in the air, like one of the
flags, without bothering to interpret it.

Navarre frowned. "This hardly seems in his class."

"True, sir. True. It had occurred to me that you might
know him- I conceived it might be personal."

"It shouldn't be. I just met him the other night."

"Yes, but there is also . . . well, his family history, and
yours."

76 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

Navarre frowned. "1 shouldn't think so. He didn't seem
to be the sort to hold a grudge that way."

The insurer sighed. "I'm sure you, hm, know best,
sir."

Navarre walked to the skylight and squinted out into the
bright yellow sky. Then he turned to look at the niche
again, then the robot. Perhaps a different perspective would
serve to clarify matters. Skylight, niche, robot. No help.

He realized he was standing between two portraits of his
uncle: the young hostage-taker over the mantel facing the
older Admiral Uncle Jack in his decorations and frown.
Both looked fierce and determined, each in his own way.
Navarre had always hoped his look of concentrated energy
was as ferocious as Admiral Uncle Jack's.

A thought struck him. He turned his energetic scowl on
the auctioneer. "By the way," he said, "was there any-
thing in this container?''

The auctioneer hesitated. "We, uh, didn't, don't know.
We didn't know how to open it." Navarre looked at him.
"That's what the, hm, 'c9' in the description meant, sir.
It's our code. It means there was a complicated lock on it,
and it didn't come with a key, so we didn't open it for fear
of damaging it."

Navarre intensified his scowl. "Suppose someone knew
what was in it? That it was valuable, I mean."

"A cryonics container? What could there be in it?"

"Genetic material? Drugs? A piece of supercooled pro-
cessing hardware?"



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"Old wine."

"An antique, or perhaps a memento," the Khosalikh
offered. "Something perishable that the Imperial family
wished to preserve for sentimental reasons."

Navarre looked at her. "Such as?"

THE CROWN JEWELS I 77

"The heart or other organ of one of the deceased house-
hold pets."

"Oh."

"The clever little foreclaws of a clacklo, for example,"
the Khosalikh went on. "t often wished I could preserve
the claws of my little Peejee when she died, but I was
young and my parents were afraid of the expense."

"You have my sympathies, ma'am," Navarre said.

The insurance investigator's eyes glowed. "You should
have seen the little ways Peejee would invent to steal food.
She would lay brilliant little ambushes around the refriger-
ator. She was so smart you could swear she was almost
Khosali." Her nostrils dilated with emotion. "How 1 wish,"
she sighed, "I could have preserved at least some of
her parts."

"I'm sure that would have been a consolation," Navarre
said. He looked back at the empty niche. "But somehow I
have a hard time believing that there are very many Impe-
rialist animal lovers with the wherewithal to steal my
uncle's silver jug."

"Quite, sir." The auctioneer frowned around him. "Per-
haps we should increase security here, in case the thief or
thieves return. It might be that the perpetrators were after
something else, and only picked up the container on the
way."

"Perhaps we should." Navarre did not like ambiguities,
and the thought that there was still something here that
someone might want made him uneasy. He glanced at the
portrait of his uncle, the young man in tattered uniform
holding a businesslike spitfire rifle on a startled-looking
Emperor, the latter hiding in the harem and dressed as one
of his wives. (That was the human version of the story.
The Khosali version had the Emperor stunned and over-

78 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

come while leading the defense in the uniform of an
Honorary Life Guard colonel).

"Blast it all," Navarre said. "What could have been in
the thing?"

Roman's nerves sang of anger as he flittered through the
sky. Wrongs done, insults given, actions demanded.




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Maijstral, he knew, was careless in matters of honor,
But he could scarcely ignore this. Roman's blood boiled
on behalf of the Maijstral family.

This was an insult not to be borne.

As it drifted through the window of the small country
cottage, the cool country air stirred Maijstral's unbound
hair. The place was safe: Roman had rented it under a
false name, and Maijstral felt free to relax and spend his
morning in bed watching an old Western. He nibbled a bit
of fleth and allowed the household robot to refill his
champagne glass. "Thank you," he said, and began his
third champagne of the morning.

Lying on the bed were a number of computer faxes that
Gregor had given him. He really should have been work-
ing on them, planning his next job.

The next series of thefts would be easy. Two nights ago,
Maijstral's presence had been splattered across every me-
dia broadcast in Peleng. Nervous owners of famous art
treasures and gems, knowing his name, would naturally
want to increase security while he remained on the planet.

That was why Gregor had been on a breaking-and-
entering mission that same night—he had been planting
microtracers on the equipment of Peleng's major security
consultants. When the householders increased their secu-
rity, the tracers would now lead Maijstral straight to then-
valuables. They would also make the job easier, since

THE CPOWN JEWELS I 79

Maijstral would know in advance what manner of gadgets
had been installed. Gregor had spent much of the previous
day following his microtracers around Peleng and making
note of their locations.

For a thief, knowing where to go was at least as impor-
tant as knowing how to get mere.

But instead of plotting his next job, Maijstral sipped
champagne and watched his Western. Perhaps he was
lazy. But he had been working late the night before.

The vid was one of his favorites. Riders of the Plains.
He'd had a sentimental liking for it ever since he'd seen it
for the first time at the age of seven.

Maijstral let the robot pour more champagne while he
watched Elvis ride across the western prairie with his old
friend, Jesse James. While playing idly on his electric
guitar, Elvis tried to talk Jesse into going straight and
giving up his life of crime. Elvis knew that Bat Masterson
had sworn to bring Jesse in dead or alive, but had prom-
ised Bat not to tell Jesse. It was a terrible moral dilemma.

What Elvis didn't know was that Jesse had chosen the
outlaw trail because of his passionate affaire with Priscilla,
Elvis's wife. Jesse knew that if he stayed around the
ranch, Elvis would find out, and the knowledge would
destroy him. The climax of the drama featured a violent


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multiple tragedy that ended with Jesse and Priscilla dying
in one another's arms, and the truth finally revealed to a
grieving King of Rock and Roll. At the very end, Elvis
walked down a lonely trail, strumming despairing chords
on his guitar, his own ultimate tragedy foreshadowed. It
was a beautiful mythic moment.

Maijstral liked Westerns better than other forms of genre
entertainment. He wondered why Shakespeare hadn't writ-
ten any.

80 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

The robot chimed gently. "Visiting flier in our airspace,
sir," it reported.

Maijstral frowned. No one knew his location but Gregor
and Roman. Gregor was here, and Roman was supposed to
be staying at Maijstral's other house, giving police, press,
or other undesirables the impression that Maijstral was in
residence. He told the robot to tell the house to give him
an exterior view and a picture of whoever was in the flier.

The intruder was Roman. Maijstral's frown deepened.
He knew that Roman wouldn't put in an appearance unless
there was something seriously wrong.

He turned back to the vid. Elvis was talking about how
much Priscilla missed Jesse, telling the outlaw that there
would always be a place for him around the ranch. Jesse
was turning away with tears in his eyes. It was one of
MaijscraTs favorite scenes, but there was no choice but to
postpone the film's climax- He told the vid to turn itself
off, then sprang out of bed and put on a silk robe. He
brushed his hair back out of his eyes and went to meet
Roman.

The Khosalikh was carrying Pietro Quijano over one
broad shoulder. Maijstral told the house to ask Gregor to
join them. This was going to be serious.

Roman's nostrils flickered as he saw Maijstral in his
robe. He didn't approve of people who spent their mom-
ings lounging in bed- Maijstral had probably been watch-
ing low entertainments, to boot. Hardly suitable in the
light of the present affront to his honor.

Roman really knew Maijstral very well.

Maijstral helped Roman put Pietro gently on a plush
couch—the Khosali difficulty in unbending is not due to
temperament, but anatomy—and then stood while Roman
explained what had just happened. Gregor entered in the
middle of the story, and Roman had to begin again.

THE CROWN JEWELS I 81

Pietro looked up at Maijstral. Rotating holograms—the
day art—reflected in his eyes. He seemed desperate to say
something. Maijstral leaned close. "Flig," Quijano said
through thick lips. "Gleep."

Maijstral nodded as if he understood. "You pose a


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definite problem, Mr. Quijano."

"Neegle. Thrib."

"I'll have the robot bring you some champagne. It
might make you feel better."

"Gri. Thagyou."

Maijstral sighed as he moved off on his errand. "You're
welcome, Mr. Quijano," he said.

No fun at all. Sergeant Tvi lay on her bed in Countess
Anastasia's house, held a semilife patch to the bruise on
her head, and closed her eyes. The indomitable chimes in
her skull refused to stop clanging.

The Fate of the Empire. Romance, Excitement, Danger.
She repeated the phrases to herself as she pressed another
patch to her head. The point was, the danger wasn't
supposed to come from your own side.

She'd reported Khotvinn's behavior to the Baron. Not
that this had done any good—the Baron had just read her a
lecture about how she had to explain things to subordinates
in order for them to know their jobs property, and how this
was all a part of being prepared and anticipating difficulty.

Tvi concluded that the Baron had never actually worked
with Khotvinn. or tried to explain anything to him. Offi-
cers, in her estimation, always had the perfect command of
things they had never experienced.

The communicator in her room beeped. Echoes flooded
her skull like a lunatic carillon. She touched the ideograph
for "answer" and snarled.

82 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

The Baron's voice cut the air. "Time to relieve Khotvinn
and bring Miss Jensen her second breakfast."

"Yes, my lord." Tvi covered her head with a pillow
and whimpered to herself silently, a martyr of the Empire.
Then obeyed.

She picked up Jensen's tray from the kitchen—the robot
staff couldn't be involved in this, since their memories
could be impounded as evidence if things went wrong—
and men trudged up the stone stair to the attic room where
Jensen was being held. The tray smelted of roast amette.
Tvi's mouth began to water.

A very popular children's puppet, a little over seven feet
tall, waited at the top of the stair. It was human, with red
hair and freckles and a perpetual grin. Its name was Ron-
nie Romper.

"Relieving you," Tvi said.

"About time," snarled Ronnie Romper. It snapped off
the holographic device and became Khotvinn. Purple bmises
showed through his dark fur, which was also mottled with


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semilife patches. He took off the holo projector and an-
other gadget from his belt and handed them to Tvi.

"Your disguise," he said. "The restraint control."

"Thank you," Tvi snaried back. "So much." She clipped
the projector to her belt, snapped it on, and put me mana-
cle control on her tray. Khotvinn stomped down the stairs.

The door was secured by a heavy bolt that had been
installed the previous night. Its alloy screws had chipped
the dark wood of the door. Tvi shot the bolt back and
entered.

The guest bedroom had been hastily filled with miscella-
neous furniture brought from storage in me attic: a cano-
pied bed with plump pillows and blue ruffles, a pair of
chairs covered in peach brocade, a deep carpet of violet
dewkin fur, a crystal lamp in the shape of a Khosali ballet

THE CROWN JEWELS I 83

dancer with a stained-glass shade on his head. The clash of
colors and cultures made Tvi's headache worse.

Amalia Jensen produced another contrast with the frilly
furniture. Her face was covered by semilife patches that
were feeding her painkillers and sapping her bruises. She
was lying on the ruffled bed in the black pajamas in which
she'd been taken, her ankles locked together by restraints,
and she glared at Tvi while sneering through a split lip.
"Another Ronnie Romper," she said. She was speaking
KhosaU. "Why do you bother trying to look human? I can
identify you both."

"Go ahead," Tvi said, answering in the same language.
"What's my name, then?"

"Look. I suppose I can understand the need for dis-
guises. But why did you have to pick something that
smiles all the time?"

Tvi put the tray on an antique inlaid Troxan table and
moved the table to the brocade-covered chair. She strolled
to the comer of the room and sat on the other chair. "I'm
going to close your wrists and release your ankles," she
said, and picked up the control to Jensen's restraints.
"Then you can move to the chair, sit in it, then I'll close
your ankles and release your hands. Right?"

Jensen's eyes flickered over the room, taking in the bed,
the chairs, the table. Measuring things. "Very well," she
said.

Tvi knew someone preparing a desperate move when
she saw one, and her diaphragm spasmed in resignation.
She took her stunner out of its holster. "Right," she said.
"Here we go."

She pressed the restraint controls. The snug bracelets on
Jensen's wrists moved toward one another, as of their own
volition, until they touched. Jensen swung her legs off the
bed and walked stiffly toward the table. Her bruises were


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84 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

bothering her. She kept her eyes on Tvi's stunner. Stand-
ing by the table, she seemed to hesitate, then looked at the
stunner again and sat down where she'd been told.

Tvi touched another button. Jensen's ankles came inevi-
tably together. Her hands were freed, Jensen removed the
food tray's lid and began to eat.

Tvi's upper stomach rumbled. No one had said anything
about feeding her.

Jensen took a mouthful of roast amette, winced, and
concentrated instead on the softer vegetables. Tvi settled
back in her chair.

"You must have got the wrong person, you know,"
Jensen said. "I'm not worth much ransom."

"You're not being held for ransom," Tvi said.

Jensen didn't seem terribly surprised. The human took
another shaky forkful.

"Why then?" she asked.

"1 daresay you would know best, ma'am," Tvi said.
On me vid. Allowed Burglars were always polite. Style
counted a full ten points, after all.

"Why am I still alive?" Jensen asked.

This wasn't bad, really, Tvi thought. A civilized con-
versation between a kidnapper and her victim. An occasion
for her to play the suave mastermind. "No need for any-
thing so extreme as murder, ma'am. You'll just be our
guest for a few days."

"Until what?"

Tvi decided to feign a knowing silence. Much as she
might enjoy playing the part of a cultured kidnapper, she
hadn't actually been told the reasons for Jensen's abduc-
tion. She knew Maijstral was involved in it somehow, and
that the Fate of the Empire was at stake, but other than that
she'd been kept in the dark.

THE CROWN JEWELS t 85

Amalia Jensen just shrugged. She swallowed her coffee.
"Well," she said, "they probably haven't told you."

Tvi ground her teeth. This human was sharp. She de-
cided to take another tack, another brand of sophistication.
Elegant mercenaries were at least as much fun as elegant
masterminds.

"That hardly matters," Tvi said. "I was paid well."

Jensen looked at her and put her forkful of pureed
manna back down on her plate. "I could arrange that you
be paid more."


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"Miss Jensen. I seem to recall, not a moment ago, you
said you weren't worth much ransom." Tvi's upper stom-
ach rumbled. The roast arnette, she observed, was under a
white sauce.

Jensen smiled thinly, then winced and dabbed her split
lip with a napkin. "Things can be arranged. What would
you say to forty novae?"

Tvi's ears pricked forward. That wasn't bad money, not
really, assuming that Jensen could actually deliver and Tvi
collect. But against the Fate of the Empire, she concluded,
it was nothing. She waved a languid hand. "You do me a
disservice. Miss Jensen, if you believe that a mercenary of
my standing will change sides after already embarking on
an adventure. I take pride in seeing my contracts through,
you see."

"I apologize," Jensen said, smiling again. "I did not
mean to impugn your professionalism."

"Apology accepted. After meeting Kho—my colleague,
1 can understand that you might mistake me. He is none of
mine, I assure you. A creature of my employers."

"I understand." Tvi's lower stomach had joined her
upper in a distressed chorus. She snarled beneath her
human holographic smile.

Amalia Jensen seemed to perceive Tvi's rumbtings. She

86 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

held up the plate of amette. "Would you like the roast?"
she asked. "I'm afraid my mouth's a little . . . tender, this
morning."

"1 am peckish. If you wouldn't mind."

"Not at all." Jensen tottered to her feet, holding out the
roast. Tvi rose to a half crouch, one arm extended. Jensen
flung her plate at Ronnie Romper's grinning head and
sprang, her hands clawed, her ankles still tethered together.

Tvi had been half expecting this—the Baron's lecture
about preparedness hadn't fallen entirely on deaf ears, and
Miss Jensen had turned far too pleasant all of a sudden.
Tvi fired her stunner in the middle of Jensen's arc, and the
captive's leap ended in a soft muddle on the plush dewkin
carpet. Tvi's diaphragm pulsed with regret. White sauce
ran down her neck.

Blast, she thought. Just when she was beginning to
enjoy herself.

Pietro Quijano had spilled most of his first glass of
champagne on his shirt, but managed to get down the
second. His color and bearing had improved considerably.
He was now able to sit up without danger of toppling over.

Gregor watched him from a straight-backed chair in the
corner, his fingers tapping tittle rhythms on his knees.


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Roman stood silently in a corner, looming. Maijstral could
tell he was seriously upset.

Maijstral walked into his room, and there tied his hair in
a knot and pinned it on the back of his head. He changed
into soft suede pants, pumps, a loose grey silk shirt, and
an earring. If he was to have guests, he might as well look
presentable.

He entered the parlor room and offered Pietro a piece of
fleth from his plate. Pietro accepted. Maijstral chose a soft
chair opposite Pietro's sofa and settled into it. Above him,

THE CROWN JEWELS I 87

a holographic representation of the Bartlett Head rotated
slowly in its niche. Maijstral drew taut the drawstrings on
his sleeves.

"Well, Mr. Quijano," he said carefully, "perhaps you
can enlighten us as to recent events."

Pietro Quijano looked nervously toward Roman, then
glanced at Gregor. "No idea," he mumbled, and held out
his glass for more champagne. The robot purred from the
comer and began to pour.

Maijstral began itemizing on his fingers. "Amalia Jen-
sen appears to have been kidnapped," he said. "This
kidnapping occurred less than two days after she commis-
sioned me and my associates to acquire an artifact. My
researches have noted the fact mat Miss Jensen was quite
visibly involved in politics here on Peleng, a ranking
member of an organization that has branches throughout
the Constellation. You are the treasurer for that organiza-
tion."

Pietro was beginning to look uncomfortable. He bit a
piece of fleth and chewed nervously. Maijstral rose from
his chair, turned, and reached into the Bartlett Head. He
drew out the silver artifact and, with the device in his
hands, settled into his chair. Pietro's look turned to one of
burning, undisguised eagerness.

"You recognize it, I see," Maijstral said. "Miss Jensen
was kidnapped within hours of my acquiring this object.
Since the object itself is not valuable, I assume it has some
political or symbolic significance of which I am unaware."

He frowned down at the heavy silver container. He had
examined it carefully after appropriating it, and knew that
besides the Imperial seal, the container featured an engrav-
ing of Qwelm I, the first Pendjalli Emperor, receiving the
submission of the first ambassador-delegate from Zynzlyp.
It hadn't been much of a conquest—the sea-slug shaped

88 / WALTER JO/V WILLIAMS

Drawmii were so incomprehensible and unpredictable that
it had never quite been determined whether they actually
understood they had been "conquered," and therefore
become members of a "Khosali Protectorate." But it had
been the first Pendjalli conquest and the mythographers


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had, perforce, to make the most of it.

The other side of the saddle-shaped container showed
the retiring Nnis CVI among his College, a group of
renowned scholars he had gathered in the City of Seven
Bright Rings to assist him in the abstract inquiries for
which he was rather more famed than for his skill at
governing the Empire. Maijstral looked closely. He recog-
nized the face of Professor Gantemur, a human philologist
who had passed plans of the Imperial Residence to agents
of the Rebellion and subsequently been awarded the hold-
ings of a number of prominent human Imperialists,
Maijstral's grandfather among them.

Maijstral looked at Pietro. The young man's eagerness
was almost palpable.

"Mr. Quijano, 1 must know what has occurred," he
said. "My client has been abducted. It is possible that
I—that we—are in danger from me same source. Within a
matter of hours, this container will be legally mine, and I
may dispose of it- Naturally, I would prefer to give it to
Miss Jensen—that is my contract. But—" He held up a
hand, and Pietro's face darkened. "If this object will bring
me unwanted attention, I may have to get rid of it quickly,"

"But," Pietro said, "you can't." He looked for support
to Gregor. "He can't," Pietro asked. "Can he?" Gregor
only grinned.

"On the contrary, sir." Maijstral was firm. "If Miss
Jensen is not available, she cannot fulfill her part in the
contract. I assume that whoever abducted her knows that,
and will keep her incommunicado until such time as I have

THE CPOWN JEWELS I 89

either left Peleng or disposed of the object in some other
way. It is likely, if they find me, they will make an offer
of their own. I may be compelled by circumstances to
accept."

Pietro goggled at him. "Look," he said, "I'm the
treasurer. I can pay you in Amalia's place."

"It may be," Maijstral said, "that I could place your
bid among others in any auction taking place after Miss
Jensen fails to reappear. But you will be bidding against
others, Mr. Quijano."

Pietro appeared to cave in. He glanced toward Gregor
again, then at Roman.

"I'll tell you," he said. "But your Khosalikh will have
to leave."

Irritation snapped into Maijstral. A display of racism at
this point was more than annoying. He glanced up at
Roman's stolid, unmoving countenance. "Roman may
stay," Maijstral said. "He is my oldest associate, and
perfectly in my confidence."

Pietro shook his head. "This issue transcends mere


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personal loyalties, Mr. Maijstral." He leaned closer and
lowered his voice, as if trying to keep Roman from over-
hearing. His tone was earnest. "The Fate of the Human
Constellation," he said, "is in the balance."

Maijstral raised an eyebrow. "You don't say." This
puppy was getting more annoying by the minute.

"Please," Pietro said.

Maijstral tossed the relic from one hand to the next.
"And here I am asking a mere sixty. For the Fate of the
Constellation."

Pietro was indignant. "You agreed to sixty!" Then he
seemed to recover himself. "Trust me on this, Mr.
Maijstral."

Maijstral sighed. There was a short silence, relieved

90 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

only by Gregor*s tapping on his knees. Finally Pietro
spoke.

"Very well, sir. If you vouch for him. But I wish you
would reconsider."

Maijstrai glanced at Roman. "I will not." Another bout
of irritation gripped Maijstrai at the sight of Roman's
stolid countenance. Roman was concealing some great
anger, that was clear, and Maijstrai assumed it was on
account of this tactless young man. He leaned back in his
chair and crossed one leg over the other. "What's in the
jug, Mr. Quijano? The truth, now."

Pietro bit his lip. When he spoke it was a whisper.

"That container," he said, "is a cryonic reliquary con-
taining the sperm of the heirless Pendjalli Emperor, Nnis
CVI."

Maijstrai looked at the object in his hands. He perceived
Gregor's stunned look, Roman's jaw dropping, and he
wished he had sent them both away, far out of earshot, far
off the planet even.

The thing hummed in Maijstral's hand, a cold, impossi-
ble weight.

"Oh," Maijstrai said. "The Fate of the Constellation
really is at stake, then."

CHAPTER C

The cryonic reliquary sat on the table. It gleamed in the
soft light of the room. Maijstrai reached out his glass and
accepted another fill of champagne. The group was on its
second bottle. Maijstrai told the robot to chill a third. He
was going to need it.

He wanted nothing so much as to get rid of the reliquary
without further delay. Drop it off a speeding flier into the


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nearest bottomless lake. Toss it into the heart of the first
fusion furnace he stumbled across. Fire it into the heart of
Peleng's sun.

It had come true, he thought. The worst nightmare of
every thief. To have stolen something so valuable, so
fabulous, mat it would be desired by every soldier, every
politician, every criminal, every diplomat, every murder-
ous fanatic.

Poor Maijstrai, thought Maijstrai. And drank his cham-
pagne without pleasure.

Maijstrai would not have been cheered by the idea that
some people were in worse situations. Consider poor Nnis.

The current Pendjalli Emperor had spent his youth in the
Imperial harem, a withdrawn, scholarly child, out of place

91

92 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

in the competitive, none-too-gentle atmosphere of the place,
He preferred catching insects and scrutinizing their genita-
lia under a microscope to the usual harem activities, which
consisted largely of children engaging in intrigues that
were imitations of those indulged in by their mothers, each
child being pushed along in a typhoon of plotting and
scheming and maneuvering, a miniature storm reflective of
those external stresses created by the endless struggles of
the best-bom Khosali houses to make one of their off-
spring the favored child, the next heir. The Khosali Impe-
rium had no rule of primogeniture, no regular system for
determining the heir save the Imperial wilt itself.

If one were not a natural intriguer, childhood in the
harem could be ghastly. Nnis was not an intriguer. He
was, however, very good at bugs.

It was with considerable relief that Nnis learned he had
lost the contest to a younger half brother. His bitterly
disappointed mother, the beautiful and high-strung daugh-
ter of the Duke of Moth (pronounced Myth), lectured him
for hours about his inadequacies. Nnis didn't care. He
sniffed her ears good-bye and flew to Gosat on happy
libelulla wings, where he spent the happiest three years of
his life studying desert entomology. His studies were inter-
rupted by the terrifying news that the Prince Royal had
died in a freak ballooning accident, and that, as the result
of a particularly successful bit of intrigue on the part of his
mother and the Moth (pronounced Myth) clan, he had been
anointed the next heir. Panicked by the prospect, Nnis
dashed back to the City of Seven Bright Rings in order to
inaugurate a counterconspiracy aimed at getting himself
removed, only to find on his arrival that the Emperor had
moulted and lapsed into coma. All was lost.

The Moths were smiling in the coronation holographs, a
row of red, tolling tongues. Nnis CV1, in the green bro-

THE CROWN JEWELS I 93



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cade cloth of state, looked as if he were attending a
funeral.

The Moths' smiles were, in the event, short-lived. Em-
perors are restricted in many areas of their lives, but Nnis
concluded that he could arrange his family life, at least, to
suit himself. The City of Seven Bright Rings subsequently
announced that the Dowager Mother would be built a new
palace on Gosat, where she would become Custodian-
Pensioner of the Imperial Entomological Collection. The
Duke of Moth returned to Mothholm minus the cost of a
lot of expensive coronation presents.

Nnis must have concluded that there was some point to
being Emperor after all.

Nnis subsequently married about a dozen times. His
harem was small—there was a certain resentment over
that, particularly on the part of the Moths' hereditary
enemies, who had been looking to get their own back—but
what really got the traditionalists wailing was the fact that
Nnis declined to sire any offspring.

There had never been an Empress; tradition decreed that
the crown go to a male. The tradition had been founded
before the days of widespread genetic technology, when a
male heir could sire many more offspring than could any
Empress. Gene technology made this requirement obso-
lete, but the necessity of a male Emperor was continued
simply because it was tradition, and tradition was some-
thing a Khosalikh could never question.

Nnis, however, wanted to postpone the intrigue over the
heir for as long as he could. As he liked his insects best
when they were pinned to a mat, he liked his household
quiet, quiet and unexciting. Predictable, calm, scholarly.
His first inquiry, on being proposed a new wife, was
whether or not she had a soft voice; the second was
whether or not she had published.

94 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

Quiet he got. Forty years worth. And when excitement
came at last, it more than made up for the previous two
score years.

It has been a matter of historical debate concerning
whether effective and spirited leadership from the Imperial
City would have prevented, or altered the course of, the
Human Rebellion. Probably not—prior to Nnis's accession
the course of Imperial policy had been set, the ministers
were in place, the humans already agitating. If Nnis had
looked up from his collection long enough to notice there
were problems, he might have brought them to his minis-
ters' attention and they might have been compelled to look
more closely ... but it was not the Emperor's job to
consider the inconceivable, and a successful revolt was
simply that.

Nnis was the first Khosali Emperor to lose a war. Ever.
Imagine that.


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Had he suicided, no one would have blamed him, and
most would have applauded. At least it would have shown
an appreciation of his position. But his presence was nec-
essary to maintain both the Emperor Principle and the
peace. And, of course, there was no one to follow—he had
seen to that.

But the shock was too much. His health collapsed and
he went into his cold coffin. From there he kept a tenuous
grip on affairs and on ritual. Kept soldiering on for two
generations as the medical procedures used to keep the
final darkness at bay grew ever more elaborate and ex-
treme, and his hands upon the reins of Empire grew ever
weaker, ever colder,

He never had an heir. His ministers had, years before,
impressed upon him to contribute the royal seed to cryonic
storage. Three containers were prepared—the donation was
eventually made. But the war wrecked it all. Two contain-

THE CROWN JEWELS I 95

ers were destroyed, another was missing and presumed
tost. By the end of the war, his fertility had declined to the
point where future contributions were pointless. Nontradi-
tional means of succession, such as cloning, were denied
the tradition-bound Emperor.

And there he sat for years, dreaming in his box, await-
ing release, the last comforting silence. Wondering where
things went wrong, what he could have done differently.

Wondering if they will ever let him die.

Lieutenant Navarre swung from side to side in his ham-
mock and frowned into his receiver. While searching the
house for further sign of theft, he had found the hammock
in his uncle's storage closet and promptly strung it be-
tween two trees on the lawn. His telephone he always
carried with him, on his belt. The Pompey High Seas
Scouts are always prepared. On proper communications
often depend lives.

He'd had a two hour nap, interrupted when a pair of
plum-colored birds decided to play follow-the-leader through
the leaves overhead. Then he decided to call Amalia Jen-
sen and tell her about the theft at his uncle's place; and
incidentally repay her dinner last night with an offer of one
of his own. But there was no answer, and that was odd.
Not even a robot or an answering device. And Jensen had
told him she would be in all day.

It was as if communications had simply gone down.

He put his receiver down, swung his              legs out of the
hammock and reached for his uniform              jacket and mourning
cloak. He would deliver the message              in person. He smiled
as he thought of Amalia Jensen amid              her scented bower.

So intent was he on this vision that, as he strode across
the lawn adjusting his jacket and calling for the robot to
lace him up, he forgot that he left his telephone sitting on


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96 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

the hammock. It glittered silver in the sun, rocking two
and fro with the wind.

One of the plum-colored birds fluttered down onto the
hammock. The telephone winked at her. She picked it up
in her forepaws and flew into the sky.

The press found out that Maijstral had been expected at
Nichole's hotel late last evening—a rumor Nichole had
agreed with Roman to plant, a false trail laid by Roman for
the benefit of his shadow. The media globes hadn't seen
Maijstral enter, but then again he was known to be elusive.
Nichole had declined to discuss the matter further, which
only enhanced speculation.

Nichole knew how to prime the pump of rumor- It was
her profession, after all.

And now came the phone call.

"Drake Maijstral, ma'am."

Nichole had programmed her bedroom with a deep mas-
culine Khosali voice, deferent and respectful. This was in
deliberate contrast to the brassier, female tones of her
dermatology robot, which was carefully applying her cos-
metics. She ordered the dermatologist to withdraw its ap-
paratus and told the room to accept (he call. MaijstraTs
life-size holographic head appeared on a level with her
eyes. His hair was escaping the knot into which he'd tied
it. He seemed not to have slept well.

"Hello, Maijstral. Did you have a profitable evening?"

"It was ... an interesting night, Nichole." Something
in his voice made her sit up.

"Are you all right, Drake?"

He hesitated. "Yes. But I must beg off luncheon today.
You know I wouldn't leave you without escort were there
not compelling reasons."

A challenge? she wondered. Arrest? Some kind of trap?

THE CROWN JEWELS i 97

She hadn't heard Maijstral's name on the vid save in
connection with her own. Whatever the problem was, it
wasn't public.

"Can I help?"

Maijstral's smile was strained. "It's very kind of you to
ask, but no."

"Anything you need, Maijstral- We're friends. You
know that."

He paused a moment before answering, then shook his
head. "Your offer is very kind, but I think not. You


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should stay clear of this."

She rested her chin on her hand. "It's serious, then."

"Yes, milady. It is."

"Is Roman looking after you?"

He smiled. "Very well. Thank you."

"Take good care of yourself, Drake. Don't do anything
foolish."

"1 won't." He raised a glass of champagne into the
holo field. "Thank you for understanding. I'll make it up
to you when next we meet."

Nichole smiled. Maijstral always did have ten points for
style. "I'll hold you to that," she said. She watched him
sip from his glass, and she realized there was something
about his manner that still bothered her. He was, she
realized suddenly, shaken. Truly shaken. The champagne
was a careful attempt at regaining savoir faire. She had
never seen him in this state before, and if she hadn't
known him very well for a brief interval she would never
have noticed it. "Drake," she said suddenly, "call me
tomorrow. 1 want to know how you are."

,          He moved the glass out of the holo field. His look was
^        neutral. "Thank you," he said. "I'm flattered by your

concern."
^      It was a typical Maijstral remark, but he'd spoken High

98 / WALTER JON WILUAMS

Khosali, in the conjugation relating to the state of the
universe. Ten points for style again, but there was still
something seriously wrong.

Not the least of which was, Nichole now had no escort
for a public luncheon. After MaijstraTs head vanished
from her room, she thought for a minute and told the room
to dial the residence of Lieutenant Navarre.

He wasn't home. Navarre's telephone asked for a mes-
sage, but Nichole declined to leave one. Members of the
Diadem spoke face-to-face or not at all.

She thought for a moment, then decided to plead fatigue
and beg off the lunch. The press, she knew, would assume
Maijstral was still with her.

Good. Whatever was going on, Maijstral wouldn't be
hurt if everyone assumed he was someplace he wasn't.

The plum-colored bird had flown her nest in alarm from
the chirping sound made by Lieutenant Navarre's tele-
phone. But the phone fell silent, and after a moment of
contemplation the bird decided to make a cautious recce.
She perched on a limb just out of reach and looked down
at its home, one forepaw scratching her beak in puzzlement.



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The telephone sat among the bird's treasures, bits of
tinsel, a shiny candy wrapper, a fountain pen, several
bright-colored rocks, a child's ring. The bird hated to
concede its trove to the interloper. The damn thing had
only been playing at being inanimate.

When the phone chirped again the bird raised her wings
in alarm, but only retreated a few paces along the branch.
The chirping sound continued. The bird's alarm decreased
and she moved closer, a slow sense of delight beginning to
trickle into her mind.

The thing talked! The bird had never had a treasure that
talked before. The bird ruffled its feathers and said "Coo!"

THE CROWN JEWELS I 99

The phone chirped on. The bird answered. Finally, in
Peleng City, the insurance investigator hung up, and the
phone was silent.

The plum-colored bird returned to its nest, happy in her
new friend.

The materialist approach to life, as the plum-colored
bird will attest, is not always compelled by the philistinism
its detractors often allege. Consider the joys of surround-
ing oneself with the objects mat bring comfort and pleasure—
the good wines, the fine art, the leather-covered volume,
the well-made conveyance—and one may very well bid the
rest of the world go hang. There are worse ways to arrange
one's life, and it is only when the materialist impulse
moves from comfort to compulsion that it becomes obnox-
ious. No one needs more than one colander per residence,
and when one makes a point of collecting platinum colan-
ders with diamond-studded rims and allegorical reliefs on
the base, and all for the purpose of showing up one's
neighbors, then the observer can safely assume the materi-
alist impulse has got out of hand.

Allowed thievery is based on-materialism, but without
philistinism. One searches for the perfect object, the best
of its class, the rarest, the most astonishing—and then,
through one's own efforts, one ventures to possess it.
What might be a vulgar case of breaking-and-taking be-
comes instead a venture in aesthetic romanticism. A cen-
tury ago Ralph Adverse saw the Eitdown Shard and knew
he had to have it, that he could not rest until he held it in
the palm of his hand and watched its dark splendors dance in
the light of his homefire. No wonder he spent half his life
trying to steal it—not to sell it, but to possess it for
himself, for its own glorious sake—and in the end, having
spent all the money he'd made over a lifetime of thievery
in its pursuit, having at last clasped his hands and known it

100 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

was gloriously his, he committed suicide with the Shard
clutched to his bosom rather than have it auctioned by the
Imperial Revenue Authority for back taxes. Who can blame
him? He was a romantic first, a materialist second.



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But one can be a materialist without having to go over-
board. Consider the philosophy of the plum-colored bird:

find something nice, take it home, sit on it and make
friends.

The homely comforts arc always the best.

Lieutenant Navarre gazed at the wreckage in Amalia
Jensen's house. He had called the police as soon as he
found Howard scattered over the roof. I'm being persecuted,
he thought. Someone's following me around and doing
this to me.

He followed Officer Pankat through the litter in the
living room. Mortally wounded blossoms gave off their
dying fragrance.

"I had dinner. We talked. I flew home." What else
could he say?

"No, I didn't see anyone. I barely knew the woman."

Officer Pankat looked at him through level almond eyes.
"Do you think, sir, in view of the other incident last night,
that someone might be persecuting you?"

Navarre started. He was just thinking that. But all he
could think of saying was, "But why?"

Paavo Kuusinen stepped out of his flier and examined
the yellow grass. Leaves rustled overhead in the gentle
breeze. Amalia Jensen's pastel house stood half a mile
away. Here, Kuusinen found, was where the two Khosali
had waited out the night; he easily found the marks of the
flier on the ground and two sets of prints, one small, one

THE CFtOWN JEWELS i 101

large, both identified, from the shape of the boot, as
Khosali.

He had followed Sergeant Tvi for a while, from Navarre's
manse to an estate which, on inquiry, he discovered was
rented by the Imperialist Countess Anastasia. From there
he followed Tvi to Amalia Jensen's, whence he had heard
smashing noises and witnessed Tvi and her big associate
carry out a limp body, which they transported to the
Countess's. Kuusinen had then gone to Maijstral's place,
but no one seemed to be home. He had checked the early
reports on his scanner, heard there had been a robbery at
Navarre's, and returned there in time to see Navarre take
off in the direction of town. Kuusinen had followed, to
discover Navarre lighting on Jensen's roof.

Kuusinen scoured the ground carefully and found a pair
of empty hi-sticks that had probably been used by the big
Khosalikh while the smaller one scouted Jensen's house.
There was nothing else of interest.

He returned to his flier and told his scanner to seek the
robbery report for Navarre's house. The report had added a
description of the one object missing, a silver cryonic


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container. To the official description was added the de-
scription from the auctioneers' catalog: "with power source,
Imperial seal. c9, functional, wt 16sm, 18xl7ng." To this
was appended: "value approx 18n."

Odd, Kuusinen thought. The container scarcely seemed
valuable enough to justify all this fuss. He wondered what
was in it, and considered for a moment all the activity he'd
witnessed, the two Khosali consorting with the Imperialist
Countess and a baron from the Imperium, and he won-
dered what all of this had to do with the silver container,
Amalia Jensen. and the copper-skinned lieutenant from
Pompey.

102 / WALTER JON WILUAMS

He had no idea at all- But he was fairly certain this
puzzle had to do, in some inexplicable way, with Maijstral.

Kuusinen observed Lieutenant Navarre's flier rising from
Amalia Jensen's roof and decided, for lack of any further
ideas, to follow it. As he rose into the sky, he decided to
hang on to Navarre for another few hours, then return to
the Countess's place. Maybe one of them would lead him
to Maijstral.

This was the most interesting diversion he'd had in a
long time.

The silver container still sat on MaijstraTs table, refus-
ing to go away. Maijstral returned from his conversation
with Nichoie to find that, like a magnetic object, the
Emperor's sperm receptacle had drawn the other three
nearer to it. Gregor and Pietro had hitched their seats
closer and were bent forward, barely glancing at each
other even though they were in conversation. Roman, still
standing, still trembling with some unspoken emotion,
hovered over Gregor's shoulder, rising to tiptoe from time
to time to gain a better view. It was a living demonstration
of Imperial Presence.

"If the situation in the Empire remains unchanged/*
Pietro Quijano was saying, "Nnis may drag on for another
few generations. When he finally shuffles off, the Blood
Royal will have to assemble to choose another Emperor. It
will take years for the family to make up its mind, and by
the end of their deliberations we in the Constellation should
have a good idea of who will come to power. The Human
Constellation will have a long breathing space, and if the
new Emperor's supporters are committed to reconquest,
we'll have time to prepare."

"For the correct price, sir," said Maijstral as he slid
into his chair, "the future of the Constellation may be

THE CROWN JEWELS I 103

yours to command." He leaned back, resisting the magne-
tism of the silver reliquary.

Pietro looked up at him, trying in vain to gaze through
Maijstral's hooded eyes. "We only have sixty in the trea-



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sury, and we only got that because Miss Jensen took out a
personal loan."

"Perhaps you should take out a loan yourself, Mr.
Quijano."

"I'm a student. I'm doing postgraduate work in mathe-
matics, and I'm not worth any money. But I'll give you the
sixty right now."

"You are not Miss Jensen. My contract was with her."

Pietro's eyes showed desperation. "The Fate of the
Constellation is at stake," he said. "Surely you can—"

"Mr. Quijano," said Maijstral. "perhaps in your enthu-
siasm something has slipped your mind."

"Sir? What is that?"

"I am, by profession, a thief. It is not my job to care
about the Fate of the Constellation."

Gregor snickered, but Pietro was undeterred. "Surely
there must be some human decency to which I can appeal."

"Human decency?" Maijstral appeared to consider the
words- He shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Quijano.
Such decency as I possess is almost certainly Khosali."
He gave Pietro a thin smile. "The indecent part, how-
ever, is entirely human."

Pietro Quijano looked at him for a long, cold moment.
"Then, since Miss Jensen's the only person you'll deal
with, let's find her."

Maijstral was about to point out that neither was it his
job to rescue maidens in distress, but Gregor cleared his

throat-

"Boss," he said, "it's bad form to let people go around

104 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

stealing your clients. It lets them think they can push you
around."

Maijstral frowned. "I'm not in the habit of exerting
myself for nothing," he said.

"You want your client back, right, boss? Only too you
do. There's a way to do it. Find her and get her loose."

"May I speak with you privately, sir?" The voice was
Roman's, speaking in Khosali. Maijstral nodded.

He let Roman take him aside into Maijstral's bedroom.
When Roman spoke, it was in High Khosali, and his voice
trembled with suppressed emotion.

"Your client was stolen, sir," he said. "And with your
business unconcluded. The kidnappers knew of your inter-
est, but have not acted to preserve that interest or consult


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you- That is insult given, and considering their likely
identity, an offense to honor. The insult must be answered."

Surprise rose in Maijstral as the High Khosati sentences
followed one another in perfect form and rhythm, like the
elements of some complex mathematics. Given Khosali
premises, the conclusions were absolute. Maijstral tried to
find a gap in the reasoning and failed.

So that's what Roman had been seething about. If
Maijstral hadn't been so distracted by events, he would
have realized it long since. He gave a reassuring nod.

"I give you thanks for your concern," he said, answer-
ing in High Khosali. "Your interest does you credit, Ro-
man." Roman's eyes gleamed at the compliment. "I need
no reminders to know that honor was offended," Maijstral
went on, "but first I must decide with whom the offense
lies, and how best to act, and I must also find out how
much Mr. Quijano knows. An outright challenge might
give these people more credit than they deserve."

Roman's ears pricked forward. "That is true, sir."

Maijstral raised a hand to Roman's shoulder. He dropped

THE CROWN JEWELS I 105

to standard Khosali. "1 think we should return to Mr.
Quijano."

"Yes, sir. Very good."

Maijstral gestured for Roman to precede him. He took
his hand back from Roman's shoulder and observed that it
trembled lightly. He clenched the hand into a fist and
followed Roman into me living room. By a conscious
effort of will, he did not grind his teeth.

"Very well," he said. "We should, at least, investigate
me possibility of rescuing Miss Jensen. But where would
they be holding her?"

Gregor frowned. "A safe house, maybe. Possibly."

"Perhaps not. The kidnapping showed every sign of
being arranged in haste, within a few hours of my acquisi-
tion of the jug. They may not have had time to arrange for
a safe house, though they may be arranging for one now.
We should run a check for consular personnel, then for
any residences they may possess outside the consulate."

"There is also the Countess," Roman said.

"Right," Gregor said, "I should cross-check the refer-
ences for rented security. They may have laid on some
extra."

Maijstral smiled. That was a good thought.

"Fine. If we get any cross-references, we'll go for aerial
reconnaissance and perhaps check further by darksuit. Get
about it, then."


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Roman and Gregor glided away to their tasks. Maijstral
settled back into his chair with a piece of fleth. Pietro
Quijano was, he realized, looking at him in an expectant
way.

"Yes, Mr. Quijano?"

"You're going to find Miss Jensen and then rescue her?"

"1 said we would investigate the possibility, Mr. Quijano.
Not quite the same thing."

106 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"But you'll at least call the police?"

"No. I think not. The whole purpose of the kidnapping
would have to come out. The law protects me after a few
hours, but that doesn't apply to any of my patrons. 1
presume you would not wish it established that Miss Jen-
sen hired me with criminal intent?"

Pietro looked a little pale. "No- I guess not." Maijstral
nibbled his fleth. Gregor, from the hallway, spoke up.

"Perhaps we could get Lieutenant Navarre to help us."

Pietro scowled at the idea. Maijstral answered. "1 scarcely
think so. He would discover that Miss Jensen only enter-
tained him last night for the purpose of getting him away
from his house so that I could rob him."

"Oh."

Pietro brightened, then frowned again. "What if we
can't rescue her, sir?"

Maijstral looked at the piece of fleth in his fingers. The
hand no longer trembled. "In that event, Mr. Quijano,"
he said, "I shall have to challenge her kidnappers one by
one. And kill them, one hopes. Family honor, alas, won't
have it any other way—and challenging them is prefera-
ble, in my mind at least, to committing suicide and
hoping it shames them into letting Miss Jensen go." He
looked at Pietro with his lazy green eyes. "Unless, of
course, you'd like to issue the challenges yourself?"

Pietro grew paler. "No. sir. I don't—it's not my prov-
ince, you see."

"I understand. One can scarcely hope to vanquish an
enemy in single combat through the use of higher mathe-
matics alone." He finished his fleth and dusted his fingers,
then stood. "Luncheon, Mr. Quijano?" he asked. "I think
we're stocked with food."

"I'm not hungry." Pietro was staring into nowhere.
"Thank you."

THE CROWN JEWELS / 107

"I'll find myself a snack, then." Maijstral said. He
stood and moved toward the kitchen.


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What he really intended to do was get on the phone and
rent another safe house. This one was hopelessly compro-
mised. 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 Maijstral was involved with.

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

"The Countess Anastasia, ma'arn," the room said fi-
nally. "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, men moved to
another chair so mat 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,

108 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

allowing her to took at Nichole down her nose. Some
people camed this to extremes, which made for an upset-
ting 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. "1
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."


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Nichole, looking at me Countess, wondered why Maijstral
was so timorous around this woman. The Countess seemed,
despite her breeding and apparent confidence, a patheti-
cally insecure creature who had found salvation in the
Imperialist Cause, quite the same way others found salva-
tion 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 bou-
doir, 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."

"I will report the message faithfully, my lady."

THE CROWN JEWELS I 109

"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. 1 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?

"Relieving you," said Sergeant Tvi. She was carrying
Amalia Jensen's food tray up the stairs. Khotvinn thank-
fully turned off his Ronnie Romper disguise and handed
her the hole projector, gun, and manacle control.

"The prisoner has been quiet," he rumbled. Then he
moved down the stairs, treading heavily, flexing his shoul-
ders. 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 his chest was wider around
than the last tape measure he'd tried to measure it with. 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.



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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

110

THE CROWN JEWELS I 111

that would alter its shape on command. It was die 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 me 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 recog-
nized no custom save his own will, no motive save his
own enrichment. He despised Allowed Burglars, taking
advantage of loopholes in the law, sneaking 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 bom 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, leam
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

112 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

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 . . . KHOTV!NN! 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


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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 sup-
posed 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 car-
pet. This was going to be great.

THE CROWN JEWELS / 113

*         *        *

"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 me Imperial bureaucracy and mili-
tary, and were in a position to aid in the defection of entire
Imperial squadrons. The Constellation should take precau-
tions against just such an event. That's all I'm suggesting."

Tvi was still enjoying the role of a sophisticated merce-
nary, 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 deli-
cately placed to take a chance."

"It would seem to me, speaking strictly as an observer,


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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

i

114 / WALTER JON WlUJAMS

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 treach-
ery 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 re-
sources 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. Miss Jensen."

THE CROWN JEWELS I 115

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


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"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 me 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
"genera! announcement."

"Boss. I think I've found something."

"One moment."

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

116 / WALTER JON WfLUAMS

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.

Anticipating, Gregor looked up just as Maijstral ap-
peared, in his silence, behind Gregor's right shoulder. "1
think I found it,'' he said. ' '1 broke into the phone compa-



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ny's computers and got Countess Anastasia's numbers,
including her address. I cross-checked the address with my
security file and found out that Anastasia added multiple
security to her residence just yesterday, which might mean
she was anticipating having to put the snatch on Jensen."

"What sort of security?" Maijstral asked.

"Leapers, screamers, and flaxes."

"Go on."

"No hoppers. So it might not be individual objects she's
guarding, but an area. Like an area holding a prisoner."

"Can you get a map of the building?"

"Maybe. Perhaps. I'll check the planning authority.
That will give me a chance to use the peeler program
Poston sold us."

"Can you find out whom the building belongs to?"

THE CROWN JEWELS I 117

"Coming up."

Still leaning back in his chair, Gregor gave a mental
command to his computer and supervised as it phoned the
planning authority, then crashed through its defenses like
an Imperial cruiser through an insect screen. Poston's
peeler was brute force, no mistake, not a bit of elegance.
No style points here. Gregor smiled as the data read across
the visual centers of his brain.

"Woolvinn Leases, Ltd," he said. "Shall 1 took at the
Countess's household computer, boss? If we can check her
food shipments we might be able to find out how many
people she has in there."

Maijstral considered mis. "If you're certain it won't give
us away. ..."

"Not with Poston's peeler. I can always just ring off
and say it was a mistake."

"Very well. Go ahead."

"Only too."

Gregor started the program on its merry way, his head
bobbing to the sound of Vivaldi. He looked up at Maijstral,
seeing the man withdrawn behind his hooded eyes. He
thought about Maijstral's conversation with Pietro Quijano
that morning, and a troubling thought entered his mind.
He'd assumed that Maijstral had merely been playing with
me man, but with Maijstral it was hard to tell.

"Boss?" he asked. "About the reliquary?"

Maijstral's expression was abstracted. "Yes, Gregor?"

"You were just pretending to consider selling the thing
to the Imperials, correct? I mean, we really wouldn't do it,


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right?"

Maijstral's eyes turned to him. There was a hint of
intensity behind the lidded eyes- "Would it bother you if
we did?"

Gregor shifted uneasily in his chair. "Well, boss, I

118 / WALTER JON WILUAMS

don't think much of the Constellation or the hacks that run
it, but that doesn't mean I want to have aliens over us
again. Let alone an Emperor. Not only that, but my grand-
dad fought in the Rebellion, and he used to tell me a story
about what it was like under the Empire. It wasn't good
for a lot of people, boss."

Maijstral's smile was slight. Vivaldi was reaching a
climax, and he seemed abstracted, his mind somewhere off
in the music. "The possibility of the Empire returning,"
he said, "seems remote."

"Besides. Those people stole our client."

"That has not escaped my attention, Gregor."

Gregor frowned. He was not comforted.

MaijstraTs hand reached for Gregor's sound deck, popped
me trapdoor, removed Vivaldi. "What next?" he asked.

"The Snail."

Maijstral's hand flourished another recording. "Snail
shall it be. I always like the D Minor." He dropped the
recording into the trapdoor and pushed the play button. He
turned to Gregor with a smile.

"Anything from the Countess's?"

"Right." Gregor turned his attention to the data that
had been winking in his mind for some moments. "Looks
like the Countess had visitors last night. A lot of wine and
dinner for four." He laughed. "The comp prepared break-
fast for five mis morning. Luncheon for five, too. Where'd
number five come from?"

"I'm sure we can guess."

"And—let's see—she's ordered some tools, timber,
plywood. . . ."

"It seems as if her ladyship might be nailing shut a
window or two."

"It seems like. And she's also ordered a heavy-duty
bolt, some tools for installation, and a Ronnie Romper

THE CROWN JEWELS I 119

disguise from a costume shop." He looked up at Maijstral.
"Ronnie Romper?" he asked.



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Music wafted into the room. Maijstral shrugged. "Per-
haps Ronnie is her favorite. 1 always liked him when I was
young."

"I never cared for him. It was the smile, I think. Never
went away."

Maijstral nodded to the sound of violas. His eyes were
dreamy. "The D Minor. I always liked those first four
bars."

"Me, too, boss." Gregor looked at Maijstrat, disquiet
humming in his mind- He knew he'd been diverted from
his question about the reliquary's ultimate fate—and ex-
pertly diverted, too—but his admiration for Maijstral's
style had not obscured his disquiet. He had no objection to
looking after profit, but neither did he enjoy the idea of the
Imperium coming back.

All this, he concluded, was going to take some thinking
about.

Woolvinn Leases had a small office in the center of
Peleng City. Beside the door was a copper plate that was
probably polished daily. The door was opaque from the
outside but transparent from the inside, so that the func-
tionary therein could observe the customer on his approach
and decide on the proper attitude. Roman stepped through
the door and gazed at the functionary through rose-colored
spectacles. "Mr. Woolvinn, please."

"Mr. Woolvinn has been deceased for eighty years,"
the functionary reported. He was a Tanquer and looked up
at Roman through slitted, supercilious nictitating mem-
branes. "I will show you to Mr. Clive. Who may I tell
him is calling?"

"My name is Castor. I am personal assistant to Lord

120 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

Graves." Roman handed the Tanquer a card. The real
Graves was a distant relation of Maijstral's who lived in
the Imperium, a spare and miserly young gentleman who
would have been mortally offended by the uses to which
Roman put his name, but too parsimonious to send a
message complaining about it.

"Sir." The Tanquer bowed, his striped tail swishing,
and led Roman to an office paneled in light, varnished
wood. "Please wait here, sir." The functionary indicated
a chair, then a bar set into the wall. "May I offer you
coffee, tea, rink, kit infusion? Wine, perhaps?"

"A kif infusion. Thank you."

Roman sipped his drink and felt a warm and secret joy.
In addition to his ornamental spectacles he wore a soft
grey jacket with a dark braided collar and black laces, an
antique gorget of darkened Wilkinson steel, and handmade
boots of brown leather. It was anything but what a servant
should wear, and that was what gave Roman pleasure. He
had always thought, in his heart of hearts, he would make


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a first-rate lord. He was secretly pleased that Woolvinn's
had proven sufficiently old-fashioned not to have con-
nected their computer files to the telephone, and that he'd
have to do his reconnaissance the old-fashioned way.

Mr. Clive proved to be human, a middle-aged man of
pleasant aspect and Empire-tailored coat. Roman sniffed
ears and declined an offer of pastry.

"Is that a Jasper?" he asked, indicating a smooth silver-
alloy construction rising gracefully in the comer. A lesser
impersonator would have said "genuine Jasper."

"Indeed, yes," said Mr. Clive. "Our founder, Woolvinn
the Elder, was a collector."

Roman sat, and Clive followed suit. "I congratulate Mr.
Woolvinn on his tastes," Roman said. "My own taste runs
more to Torfelks, but I understand that Jaspers are not easy

THE CROWN JEWELS I 121

to find nowadays. Lord Graves had a small collection to
which he is always hoping to add, but alas, Jaspers are
much harder to acquire these days than in the late Mr.
Wootvinn's time."

"Indeed, yes," Mr. Clive murmured.

"Lord Graves wishes to make a tour of the Constella-
tion," Roman said. "He hopes to spend a month on
Peleng, beginning eighteen months from now. He wishes
to have suitable accommodation."

"His lordship will doubtless want a house in town."

"In the country, methinks." The Countess Anastasia's
residence had a rural address, and Maijstral had primed
Roman with a description of her tastes- "A sizable place,
suitable for entertaining his lordship's large acquaintance.
Elegantly appointed, with an arbor for preference, perhaps
a croquet court. Would mis be possible?"

"indeed, yes," Mr. Clive said, now for the third time.
"We have several properties that might suit. In eighteen
months, you say?"

"Indeed," said Roman, "Yes."

Roman viewed holographic representations of a number
of residences, any of which might suit the given descrip-
tion. He knew that, in view of the amount of money they
charged for a monthly rental, Woolvinn Ltd. would damn
well install a croquet court if necessary. He looked at the
address of each hologram, and when the fifth residence
appeared, he leaned back and tilted his muzzle up to look
through his spectacles at the neo-Georgian pile with its
veined porcelain roof.

"Sink me," he said. "That's his lordship's taste, if ever
I've seen it!"

Mr. dive's ears pricked forward. A subtle light, far too


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tenuous to be called a gleam, crept into his eyes. "Let me
show you the entry hall. Marble imported from Couscous."

122 / WALTER JON WILUAMS

Roman purred his joy over the Couscous marble, the
furnishings, the exquisite taste and the care with which the
house was assembled. Since Lord Graves traveled sur-
rounded by numerous objets d'art, Roman inquired about
security, and received a careful briefing concerning the
mansion's protective systems. He asked for a copy of the
company's hologram so mat he could send it to Lord
Graves and his lordship could view the furnishings and
appointments himself. This was happily provided. He asked
if he could see the place. Mr. Clive said that the house was
currently occupied by me Countess Anastasia and her suite,
but that she had only rented the place for a month, and mat
he would call to see if a visit would be convenient for her,
If he could have the number of Mr. Castor's telephone . . . ?

Roman gave him the number of the cottage where
Maijstral was hiding and rose to give his conge. Mr. Clive
showed him to the door and sniffed his ears.

Roman noticed that the functionary had completely
unslitted his eyes (a compliment he assumed), and he gave
the Tanquer a nod as he left. As he walked down me blue
brick sidewalk, his private joy rekindled. For me brief
moments of the two-hundred-yard walk between Woolvinn's
and his flier, he abandoned himself entirely to the concept
of Mr. Castor, associate of an Imperial lord, confidante of
the aristocracy, dancing an elegant and graceful ballet
amid the highest circles of Empire, - . .

Amazing, come to think of it, what a braided coat and a
pair of rose-colored spectacles can do for a person. Here
was Roman, the controlled and very muscular associate of
a known thief, strolling down the street awarding benign
and gracious nods to those he passed, a living embodiment
of noblesse oblige and a glorious example of what a
Khosalikh can be, given the removal of a few minor
inhibitions. His secret joy seemed to communicate to those

THE CROWN JEWELS I 123

he met, and they went on their way with their hearts
lightened, a spring growing in their step, smelling the
fresher-seeming air, all pleased that the tall, dark Khosali
lord seemed so happy merely to encounter them on the
street. It was a small miracle, this two-hundred-yard stretch
of shared bliss, but a miracle nonetheless.

Roman, still glowing with the inner conviction of being
Mr. Castor, climbed graciously into his flier and took his
miraculous way into the sky.

The Countess Anastasia heard Maijstral's household ro-
bot answer the telephone and dropped her phone into its
cradle. Maijstral hadn't answered all day. He was probably
in Nichole's suite, spending himself in some appalling
sensual indulgence, when instead he could be here fighting
for the Empire as his father and grandfather had done. . . .


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It made me Countess want to spit.

"Maijstral is probably hiding out until the statue of
limitations passes," said Baron Sinn. "We'll be able to
get in touch with him tomorrow morning."

The Countess was still white about the nose. "This is
frustrating. 1 want the Imperial Artifact, and I want that
Jensen creature out of my house.''1

"There is no need to fear. There is no way she can
know where she is being kept. She has not seen either of
us."

The Countess frowned. "That isn't what I was worried
about. Maijstral is ... he's a lazy man. But he is not
without his pride.'*

Sinn's ears turned thoughtfully downward. "You mean
he may turn awkward."

"That is my fear. And he is very effective at what he
actually puts his mind to. Perhaps we ought to increase the
number of guards around the place." She put her hand on

124 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

his arm, stroking the dense velvet. "There are two men I
know. We've used them as security for Imperialist meet-
ings, in case people try to disrupt us.'*

Sinn was thoughtful. "The fewer people who know, the
better it will be for us."

"Oh, I wouldn't      mention the real reason why they were
here. Just that      1 had reason to suspect some trouble. We
could give them      rooms downstairs, that way they'd be
within call but      out of our way."

The Baron's diaphragm throbbed. "Very well, Count-
ess," he said. "Make your call."

Smiling, Countess Anastasia reached again for the phone.
She felt unaccountably buoyed- Even though the presence
of the two men would probably not make any difference, it
was still a comfort to be doing something.

"Perhaps later," she said, "you would join me for
some croquet."

"Happily, my lady."

As she told the telephone whose number to call, the
Countess pictured in her mind the smooth yellow sward,
me click of mallets and balls, the brisk, fresh air. Baron
Sinn searching for his ball amid a pile of kibble fruit.
Lovely, lovely. And while she enjoyed herself, the plan
would be moving forward. That was all she asked.

"I'm going to think for a while." Maijstral had just
assembled his late luncheon/a pair of sandwiches on a
tray. "Please don't disturb me unless you're positive it's



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very important."

Maijstral was good enough at being an aristocrat that
neither Gregor nor Pietro Quijano thought to ask what he
intended to think about, or how long it was going to take.
Only Roman knew Maijstral well enough to detect a slight

THE CROWN JEWELS I 125

falsehood in his bearing, and Roman was off on an errand
at Woolvinn Leases, Ltd.

The truth was that Maijstral had nothing better to do
until Roman returned from his errand, and he didn't want
to hang around gazing at the reliquary while Quijano
continued his fretting, Maijstral, who actually planned to
finish watching his Western while he ate his sandwiches,
and afterward take a nap, knew that maintaining a certain
level of mystery was an important factor in sustaining his
position as leader, and that the admission of how he
intended to spend the rest of the afternoon would not serve
to enhance his mystique.

Maijstral sat cross-legged on his bed, while the Western
played out to its cathartic end, Jesse and Priscilla dead,
Bat wounded, the King alone ... a lump rose in Maijstral's
throat at the last lonely guitar chords from the man walk-
ing companionless into the bloody sunset. The tragedy was
awesome and gorgeous, and Maijstral felt better instantly.
He stifled his longing for a third sandwich—he would have
longed for something different, but the kitchen was Ro-
man's province and Maijstral didn't know how to fix
anything else—and then Maijstral stretched out on his bed
and tried to sleep.

Withal, this was perhaps an odd reaction for a man
whose honor had just been mortally insulted. He should,
perhaps, have been stamping and fuming and plotting
bloody-handed deeds of revenge. No doubt that's what
Robert the Butcher would have done. But Maijstral was
more careless in these matters—in fact, he had no intention
whatever of challenging Baron Sinn or anyone else, or
indeed of risking his skin more than it had been risked
already. He had just said that to impress Quijano, and
because Roman expected it to be said. He knew how to
play a part as well as anyone.

126 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

He knew that he was terribly deficient in his moral sense,
but this knowledge seemed not to bother him. No doubt he
was deficient in conscience as well.

Conscienceless, his nerves soothed by sandwiches and
safe video tragedy, he slept well.

Roman changed into proper modest clothing before wak-
ing Maijstral, and bade a regretful farewell to Mr. Castor
as he hung the braided jacket in his closet. Maijstral, used
to being awakened at odd hours, snapped fully awake as
soon as Roman scratched softly at the door.




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Roman knew, as soon as he saw Maijstral stretched on
the bed, that he had been secretly enjoying low entertain-
ments again. Stifling a spasm of resignation, he reported
his findings to Maijstral and watched as Maijstral ran
through the hologram of Anastasia's residence. Maijstral
ran through it twice, nervously twisting the diamond on his
finger, then looked up.

"We shall have to make a plan," he said. "Do you
think Mr. Quijano can handle a pistol?"

CHADTCC 8

Paavo Kuusinen drowsed most of the afternoon away,
stretched out full length beneath a yellow-leaved cricket
tree. He was on a knoll about half a mile from Countess
Anastasia's residence; by cracking open one eye he could
look down across the back of the manse and the rear
portico with its double row of pillars that overlooked the
smooth expanse of the croquet court, a court surrounded
by a grove of low, red-fruited kibble trees. Through the
longfinders he carried, Kuusinen could see the back win-
dows and occasional dim figures, usually robots, moving
behind them. (From his comfortable position he couldn't
see the boarded-up front window behind which Amalia
Jensen languished in her well-fed exile, but then he was
new at this sort of thing.) His flier was parked out of sight
on the reverse slope of his knoll.

There hadn't been much to see since morning; only the
Countess playing croquet with Baron Sinn. By putting his
longfinders on maximum amplification, Kuusinen could
see they both carried pistols as well as mallets. He watched
long enough to note that the Countess was a furious and
competitive player. She had given the Baron a ball of a
peculiar shade of red, and when, with cracks that reverber-

127

128 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

ated all the way to Kusinen's knoll, she whacked Sinn's
ball off beneath the kibble groves, Sinn was compelled to
son his ball out from fallen kibble fruit of an identical size
and shade. Kuusioen concluded the color of the ball could
not be anything other than deliberate psychological warfare
on the part of the Countess. It worked. She won both
games.

At siesta the games ended. Kuusinen drowsed. On wak-
ing he yawned, stretched, and searched the windows again
with his longfmders. Nothing of interest. He went to the
picnic basket he'd had a restaurant deliver, ate a cold
salmon salad, and drank a bottle of rink. Perhaps, he
thought, he should call Maijstral and tell him anonymously
where Amalia Jensen was being held prisoner. He decided
to wait until the morning before calling.

Stars appeared. A cool wind began to gust through the
cricket tree. Kuusinen shivered and put on a cloak. In a
moment, when the breeze fell silent, he heard the delicate
whisper of a flier somewhere in the night sky. He trained


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his longfmders upward and saw the unmistakable silhou-
ette of a Gustafson SC-700 moving against the Milky
Way. He smiled. Maijstral's flier was a Gustafson.

The flier settled over a mile away, onto the far side of a
tree-crowned ridge with a view of the front of the building.
Kuusinen couldn't see them from his position; that didn't
bother him. He got some system-assists from his flier and
dry-swallowed them, intending to keep alert. Something
was going to happen, and he was sure that when Maijstral
made his move, he could get a view of it somehow.

Another flier whistled overhead, skimming Kuusinen's
knoll. Kuusinen looked up and waved. Another Gustafson
SC, close enough so that Kuusinen could see two people in
it. It circled and landed by the first. In a few minutes, both
fliers rose and sped off over the horizon.

THE CROWN JEWELS I 129

Kuusinen frowned. Maijstral's behavior—if this was
Maijstral—seemed odd. But then he realized that the fliers
had probably been sent somewhere on autopilot, just in
case anyone had seen them land.

Paavo Kuusinen smiled as the first wave of system-
assists began to dance along his nerves. This was going to
be fun.

"Hey. Do you know what you get when you cross a
range-drover with a dithennoon? A baby who vetches in
purple."

Amalia Jensen convulsed with laughter. She raised her
bound ankles and kicked her legs as she cackled. Tvi
grinned. It hadn't been a half-bad idea to leave Amalia
efficiently tied up after siesta and slip downstairs for a
bottle of wine. In order to avoid detection, she'd had to
sneak down the circular stairs in the round library on the
east side, but this was no problem for a practiced thief.
She snuggled deeper into her overstuffed chair.

"My grandfather worked as a dithennoon for a sea-
son," Amalia said. "He had all sorts of stories. That was
before the Rebellion. He commanded a cruiser at Khom,
but didn't meet Admiral Scholder till after the war." She
sighed. "My father was in the Navy, too. I lived at sixteen
bases before I was twelve. That's when my father died in
the Hotspur accident and my mother came here. We lived
with my grandfather till he died."

"My childhood was similar," Tvi said. "But my par-
ents were both civil service." She supposed she wasn't
giving too much away by that admission—Imperial civil
servants numbered in the hundreds of millions.

"Most of the places were all right. The border's fairly
close to Earth, so most of the bases were near or on
planets that had been inhabited for a long time. It wasn't

130 / WALTER JON WILUAMS

as if my dad was a member of the Pioneer Corps or


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anything."

"But it was still military. I can imagine."

"It was, well, disciplined. But that was all right. The
part I didn't like was my father going away all the time."

"But you didn't join the Navy yourself."

Amalia Jensen shrugged. Her face was drained of ex-
pression. "I have got a mild form of epilepsy. It's control-
lable with medication, but it still disqualified me. It's not
curable without great expense, and the Navy would prefer
to spend the money training someone else."

"Sorry." Tvi wondered what epilepsy was. Something
peculiar to humans, apparently.

"I could have got into Planetary Services. But for me it
was the Navy or nothing." Tvi's stomachs rumbled. She
looked at her watch and saw that Khotvinn would be
bringing supper fairly soon. Better finish the bottle. "More
wine?" she asked.

"Thank you. So I got into politics instead. It seemed the
best way to serve. Outside the military, anyway." Tvi
brought Amalia's wrists and ankles together, poured wine,
stepped back across the room, and then sat in her chair
again, all while Amalia went on talking.

"Your father would approve, you think?" Tvi asked.

"I think he would," Amalia said. "He and my grandfa-
ther were always strong prohumans."

Tvi lapped at her wine meditatively. "Mine doesn't
approve of me at all," she said. "We were in constant
combat when I was growing up. But I wonder. If my
father had died when I was twelve, would I be in Imperial
uniform, trying to be the best timeserver on fifty planets?"

Amalia Jensen seemed lost in thought. There was a
knock on the door that made them jump, and then Khotvinn's
voice.

THE CROWN JEWELS I 131

"Relieving you."

Tvi lapped up the rest of her wine in a hurry, then hid
the glass in a drawer. The little left in the bottle she poured
into AmaUa's cup.

"See you later," she said.

"Au revoir, Mr. Romper." With a drunken giggle.

Tvi was surprised to see a long sword strapped to
Khotvinn's waist and a strange defiant gleam in his eye.
Tvi wondered what notion had crossed the troglodyte's
brain this time, then decided he'd probably spent the after-
noon being fired up by a recording of Ten Greatest Milita-
rist Speeches or something equally exciting. "The prisoner's


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in good spirits," she reported.

Khotvinn grunted. "What was the name of that person
who was visiting her last night?"

Tvi was surprised by this evidence of interest. "Him?
Lieutenant Navarre, I think."

"Hm. Good." Tvi could almost watch the slow tum-
blers of Khotvinn's mind clicking over. The fur on her
shoulders rose slightly—the cave-dweller was perfectly
eerie, with his sword and intent expression—then she con-
sciously smoothed her fur and handed over the Ronnie
Romper hologram. She was, on reflection, almost glad she
didn't know what Khotvinn was thinking. It showed, she
thought, that her ancestors, unlike his, had probably ad-
vanced somewhat in the last million or so years-

Tvi moved down the servants' stair, careful not to sway
too drunkenly. Odd, she thought, that the captive was the
only person in this place she could talk to. Amalia Jensen
might be something of a political crank, but her opinions
weren't vicious and at least she seemed a more balanced
sort than the other cranks around here.

"There's some geezer on a knoll off to the northeast,"
Gregor said. He was in his darksuit, soft, loose crepe

132 / WALTER JON WILUAMS

covering everything except the pale oval of his face, but
hadn't yet turned on the camouflage holograms. "He's got
a flier parked out of sight. He waved at us as we flew
overhead. No effort made to conceal himself. There was
nothing to hide behind but a tree that isn't even as thick
around as he is."

"Do you think he's a lookout?" asked Pietro. He was
wearing a spare darksuit, and weapons hung from his belt.
He had proved a quick study at their use, but Maijstral and
his assistants hadn't any idea of how he'd act when the
real thing came, and decided to equip him only with
nonlethal weapons against which their own darksuits had
built-in protection.

"A lookout?" Maijstral asked. His voice came eerily
from the cloudy blackness of a hologram. "Possibly, al-
though I'd think it more likely he's police, or one of Miss
Jensen's political contacts."

Pietro shook his head briefly. "No. Not one of us."

Maijstral went on. "He can't see half the approaches to
the house from where he is—if he is a lookout he'd do
better on the roof—but we may not be dealing with profes-
sionals here." He had just come down from a short flight
above the trees, searching the front view of the house with
longfmders. "There's a window boarded up on the second
floor, near the southeast comer. Fairly obvious, but then
me Countess was never subtle."

Gregor had a hologram projector in his hand. He touched
a button and suddenly, glowing in the dark night air, the


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white expanse of the house appeared. Maijstral turned off
his darksuit and pointed with a soft-gloved hand. "There,"

Gregor altered the perspective of the hologram, moving
through the second floor of the building.

The front of the building was shaped like a broad,
shallow U, a covered veranda held within the U's gentle

THE CROWN JEWELS t 133

arms. On the southeast comer, second floor, was a draw-
ing room that occupied the arm of the U on that story. Just
to the north of the drawing room was a circular library,
two stories in height, with an ornate, wrought-iron spiral
stair and a large crystal chandelier. The western-facing
windows of the drawing room looked out over the roof of
the veranda, and in the drawing room's northwest corner
was a door that led into the upper front hall. Moving down
the hall, one door to the west, was the room with the
boarded-up window.

Maijstral found the situation testing his temper-
"There's just too much access to the second floor," he
muttered. "Look here. Inside the house, within a few
paces of Miss Jensen's door, there's a servants' stairway,
and just around the corner from that is the grand stairway
to me ground floor. We've got the spiral staircase coming
up the round library on the east side, and that stair has
access to the southeast drawing room, and from the draw-
ing room it's two paces to where they're keeping Miss
Jensen. There are two stairs from the front porch to the
balcony on the front portico, and they lead to Miss Jen-
sen's window. And then elsewhere there are—let's see—
four other stairways and two elevators."

"That gives us more ways out." Gregor offered.
"It also means that we can run into trouble on any
route," Maijstral said. "We're going to have to assume
that Miss Jensen is guarded, and we may not be able to
deal with the guard in silence. Therefore we must plan
against an alarm being given."

"A diversion, sir," suggested Pietro. "Some of us
could try charging in the back way. ..."

Maijstral turned his ears down in disapproval, and Pietro
fell silent. "I think not." he said. "Splitting our forces
invites chaos, and the diversion would accomplish little if

134 / WALTER JON WILUAMS

they ignored you and instead concentrated on defending
Miss Jensen." He frowned, twisting the ring on his finger.
"What we need to do is seal off Miss Jensen's room for
the time it takes to break her free. AH we have to do is get
an a-grav harness around her and a proximity wire around
her neck. Then even if she's tied up, she can manage her
own escape while we cover her withdrawal."

He gave his ring a final twist, as if in decision. "Very
well. Roman, you and Mr. Quijano enter through the


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second story drawing room on the southeast comer. Ro-
man, you wilt move to the hall door and stand by ready to
deal with any guards in the corridor. Mr. Quijano, your
particular job will be to block the door to the library
staircase. Don't just lock it, put a piece of furniture in
front of it, as heavy as you can carry. And then help
Roman if he needs it. Gregor, you'll go in the unblocked
window next to Miss Jensen's. Any guards in the corridor
will be caught between you and Roman."

"And you, boss?"

"I will fly first to Miss Jensen's window. I want to
make certain she's actually being held there before any of
the rest of us make a move."

Pietro Quijano gave Maijstral an admiring look. The
others accepted his plan without a word. Maijstral had                      his
own reasons for wanting to go first, and wanting to be                      on
me second floor balcony where there were no guards and                      a
clear field for escape, and his reasons had nothing to                      do
with a hope that Pietro might admire his bravery.

"We'll approach from the southeast to avoid detection
from that fellow on the knoll, whatever he's doing there.
Keep in cover till I give the signal—"

"Deus vult, sir?" offered Roman.

Maijstral smiled. Roman was ever prepared to trace
Maijstral's ancestors far beyond the point that Maijstral

THE CROWN JEWELS I 135

found creditable. Jean Parisot de La Valette was, in any
case, supposed to be a celibate, and furthermore would
almost certainty not approve of his alleged descendant.

"Deus vult. Very well. Thank you, Roman."

Maijstral asked each of his companions to repeat his
instructions aloud, making certain he knew what he was
supposed to do, and then led them on a brisk hike along
the bottom of the ridge, staying out of sight of the man-
sion, and then through the first tripwire alarm, the hemi-
spheric cold-field that surrounded the building like an
invisible bubble. Roman, controlling Pietro Quijano's
darksuit through a proximity wire, showed the young man
how to slip through the net.

A brightly lit flier appeared over the western horizon.
Maijstral froze, snapping on his darksuit, his heart ham-
mering in a perfectly absurd way. He was glad no one
could see the way his hands had begun to tremble. Ro-
man's darksuit was also turned on, but apparently he had
raised his longfinders. "Dewayne Seven," he said.

An old model, not very fast. Visitors? Maijstral won-
dered. The flier circled, then landed out back. Not visitors,
Maijstral concluded, if they were using the servants' en-
trance. Plumbers, cooks, maybe people installing new se-
curity gadgets. If the latter, it was time to move quickly.



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"This may work to our advantage," he said. "They
will be less likely to do violence if there are outsiders in
the house."

Pietro Quijano looked dubious. He was still struggling
with his darksuit, trying to get the night holograms on.
Maijstral reached across the gap between them and pressed
a stud on his belt.

"Thank you," Pietro said.

Maijstral did not reply. He was already flying toward

136 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

the mansion, followed by one of his media globes, both of
them keeping close to the ground.

Old General Gerald, breathing hard from the exertion of
putting on his battle armor, crouched once again in the
comer of his living room. During siesta his monitors had
shown several overflights of his house, any one of which
could have been Maijstral scouting his place in a flier. He
couldn't be certain, of course, but he had what amounted
to a moral certainty that Maijstral would come tonight.

He grinned a tight-lipped grin as he               tracked over the
data readouts from the various rooms               of his house. He
could track individual dust motes as               they swirled above his
bookshelves. Maijstral wouldn't have               a chance.

This was going to be great.

Maijstral drifted across the thick, manicured lawn. The
manse ahead of him blazed with floodlights; the planks
that scarred the single upper window were an eyesore, an
obvious sign of something out of place. MaijstraPs sensors
reached out, found and dissected me building's defenses.
He reversed himself, oozed feet first through a network of
flaxes, then reached the generator and silently disabled it.
His surrounding hologramatic image—his darksuit was more
advanced than Tvi's—began to take on the lighter tones of
the spotlighted walls themselves.

He rose effortlessly to the second floor and neutralized a
rank of leapers that Gregorys miniature beacons had pin-
pointed for him. He drifted to the window, carefully not
touching the balcony with his feet, and peered between the
cracks of the rough planks that had been nailed over the
window. He could see nothing through the curtain beyond.
Maijstral deployed his cutter and sliced a neat circle in one
of the planks, then another circle in the window behind.

THE CROWN JEWELS I 137

He popped a micro media-globe through the hole, then
guided it so that it peeked delicately beneath the lacy hem
of the curtains. The globe's view was fed into Maijstral's
brain.

Amalia Jensen lay on the curtained bed, eating supper
from a tray. There was no one else in the room.



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Relief eased through Maijstral's heart. This might be
simple after all.

The matte-black media rolled along the bottom of the
curtain, skated along the dark paneling of the room, slid
up one of the bedposts, then finally drifted to a point
within an inch or so of Amalia Jensen's left ear. Maijstral
could see bruises on her cheek and felt a flash of anger. He
spoke, subvocalizing into his throat mike, the globe whis-
pering for him.

"Don't jump. Miss Jensen. This is Drake Maijstral."

She jumped anyway, but at least avoided tipping the tray-
As her head spun toward the globe, Maijstral received a
swift, distorted impression of wide eyes, parted lips, a
swirling pattern of bruises, pores like meteor strikes.

"Please whisper, Miss Jensen. Are you being monitored
in any way?"

The projection of her moving lips in Maijstral's mind
made them seem as large as Fassbinder Gorge on Newton.
"No," she said. "There's a guard outside, and they warned
me not to touch the window because there are alarms on
it."

Maijstral reduced the scale of the unflattering close-up
view and considered a moment. "I have fulfilled my half
of the commission. I would like to discuss payment."

Her answering tone was puzzled. "But you came to gel
me out, didn't you? Once I'm free, we can complete the
transfer."

"Miss Jensen, I merely came to make arrangements for

138 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

the delivery of the artifact and the collection of my
payment."

There was growing anger in Amalia's voice. "How can
you expect me to pay you, Mr. Maijstral? I'm being held
prisoner."

"Please lower your voice. Miss Jensen." Maijstral smiled
behind his holographic screen. "I simply wished to con-
firm that your estimation of the situation is the same as
mine."

"Of course it is! All you have to do is get me out of
here, and then I'll pay you."

"I was about to mention. Miss Jensen, that I am not
normally in the business of rescuing kidnapped persons."

"You could call the police."

"I'm afraid they would then discover that you had hired
me to steal an invaluable object. 1 shouldn't like to get you
in trouble, Miss Jensen. And in any case, I make a point
of never dealing with the police."


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There was a long silence. Maijstral turned his attention
back to the image from his media globe; Amalia
was scowling at it. Then, "What do you propose, Mr.
Maijstral?"

"1 suggest mat we agree to cancel our earlier agree-
ment, and reach a new one. For your liberty, I suggest a
payment of sixty. After your safe delivery to your friends,
we may negotiate for the sale of the Imperial Artifact."

"You aren't giving me much choice."

"On the contrary, me choice is entirely yours. You may
accept my offer, or you may arrange for your own deliver-
ance, or you may stay here until such time as your com-
mission expires and 1 become a free agent."

"Where will I get the money?"

"You know your own finances best. But you are a
member of a star-spanning political organization of consid-

THE CROWN JEWELS I 139

erable wealth, and whose interests might well be engaged.
I suggest that you contact them."

"You're taking advantage."

Maijstral's answer was immediate. "Madam, you mis-
take me. My nature and interest is but to perceive the
situation and act upon it. I do not attempt the concealment
of facts, for example the value that might attach to the
contents of a silver object, or the drastic action some might
take to acquire it."

Her decision, when it came, was quick, and there was
steel in her voice. Maijstral suppressed a momentary surge
of admiration.

"Done, then. Sixty to get me loose."

"And our earlier contract voided."

"Yes."

"Your obedient servant, ma'am. Please put the tray
aside and be ready to move."

Maijstral made certain that the media globe had re-
corded the bargain, then shifted to his communications
channel and whispered, "Deus vult."

Behind him, on the bare edge of his darksuit's percep-
tions, the rest of the party, clothed in night, began moving
purposefully across the lawn. Things hadn't gone badly at
all.

The Countess lit her cigarette by tapping it twice on the
rear portico pillar and looked at her two henchmen, Chang
and Bix. Both were brawny and well-muscled, each carry-
ing a small suitcase and a larger satchel containing their
gear. Both had removed their hats in her presence and,


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because their hands were carrying satchels, the hats ended
up crushed in their armpits. "The robots haven't finished
making up your rooms," she said. She spoke Khosali.
"Let me show you to the library. You can wait there."

140 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"Yes, my lady." Chang was the more vocal of the two,
though neither were precisely fluent in any known lan-
guage. "We're happy we could be of use."

"This way." She led them past the back study and the
small ballroom, then through the billiard room to the
library. Leather volumes gleamed in subdued light. She
pivoted and gestured with the cigaret. Neuralgia crackled
in her shoulders.

"Please feel free to go anywhere on the lower floors,"
she said. "You may order anything you like, and the
house will bring it. On the upper floor there is a Very
Important Guest"—she tried to inflect the capitals, and
saw how their eyes flickered to the upper landing—"and it
is urgent that our guest not be disturbed. If anything
disturbing should occur, I'm confident you will know how
to respond."

"Yes, my lady." Chang bowed stiffly, and Bix, after a
pause, followed suit.

"I'll have the robot escort you to your room as soon as
it's done readying it-"

As the Countess left the room, neuralgia walked with
needle toes along her arms and shoulders. She repressed an
urge to stretch, move her arms. An Imperial aristocrat kept
her shoulders back at all times.

She'd just have to schedule an extra session with her
robot masseuse. The robot lacked the touch of her human
one, but all the live servants had been shuttled to Peleng
City as soon as she'd decided to go in for kidnapping.

Never mind. Service demanded the occasional sacrifice.
This would, she concluded righteously, do her good in the
end.

Baron Sinn wasn't certain he wanted to be recognized
by the Countess's goons, so when their flier landed in the

THE CROWN JEWELS i 141

back he decided to take a stroll on the front porch. He
stood silently by one of the Corinthian columns and pitched
his cigaret onto the lawn. A robot would clean it up
tomorrow.

A gust of wind ruffled his lace. He would have to
shower tonight to get the smell of tobacco out of his fur.
Another little price of diplomacy.

A few feet above Baron Sinn, Maijstral's beam cutter
quietly sliced the planks blocking Amalia Jensen's win-
dow, then sliced the window itself. Planks and sheets of


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glass rose into the air above his head, held by a-grav.
Gregor, nearly invisible in his chameleon darksuit, floated
behind him and began moving the alarms on the next
window.

Maijstral detected an alien scent, then froze. It was
tobacco. Was someone smoking just under him? His nerves
giving odd little leaps, Maijstral turned up his audio recep-
tion and, amid the amplified buzz of insects, distinctly
heard Sinn's movements below. Maijstral gnawed his lip.
He realized that all the person had to do was step off the
porch and look up in order to notice the planks had been
sliced from the window.

"Gregor," he said, subvocalizing, "there's someone
just under us." The answer came back without pause.

"Khosali geezer. Gun under his jacket. Smokes Silver-
tips."

Maijstral blinked. Gregor quickly cut his window away
and floated into the house.

Good idea, Maijstral decided. He drifted through the
curtains.

Amalia Jensen looked at him coldly. "My hero," she

said.

*         *         *

142 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"Quite a place," said Bix.

"Only too, partner." Chang went to the wall service
plate and touched the ideograph for "kitchen." "Send
beer," he said.

"I've never seen so many books."

"My brother has a few."

Bix dropped his suitcase and satchel, then began moving
up the stair, looking at titles as he went. "Geographic
Survey of Rose Territory, Peleng. Twelve volumes. Who'd
want to read that?"

"Phyllis Bertram's from Rose Territory."

"No, she's not. She's from Falkland."

"That's in Rose Territory."

"That's not true."

"Is so."

The pair's routine, developed over years of close associ-
ation, was well-honed.

* *Counter-Intuitive Approaches to Condensation Psychol-
ogy. Complete Works of Bulwer-Lytton. Where did they


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get this stuff?"

Good question. Except for a few showpiece volumes, the
books had been picked up as discards from local libraries,
then bound in such a way as to look rare and valuable.
Woolvinn Leases, Ltd. had a solid appreciation of the way
books vanish into the pockets or tuggage of tenants and sub-
sequently migrate to places unknown, and so made certain
that most of the books in their exquisitely appointed library
were of incomparable dullness, the better to discourage theft.

"Who's Bulwer-Lytton?" Chang asked.

"No idea, partner."

Bix had advanced to the landing on the second floor.
"There's more stuff here," he said. "Old videos. King
Lear." He looked at Chang. "Who was that?"

THE CROWN JEWELS I 143

"Tsanvinn Dynasty. He was the grandfather of the em-
peror that conquered Earth."

"That far back." He reached for the door to the south-
east drawing room. "Wonder what's in here?" he asked.

"Don't. We're not supposed to - , ."

Pietro Quijano followed Roman's lead up the side of the
house to the darkened windows of the southeast drawing
room. He was beginning to get the hang of the darksuit,
and flipped back and forth from his night image-intensifiers
to infrared perception, enjoying, for its own sake, the
contrast in viewpoints.

Roman worked deftly and quickly, and within a few
seconds had a window cleared of alarms and sliced open.
Pietro watched as the disconnected pane of glass floated
gently skyward, then hung in midair, unaffected by the
slight breeze. Then, with a start, he realized Roman had
entered the building, and that he should follow,

Pietro's image-intensified view of the drawing room was
devoid of texture—everything looked bright and without
perspective. He dropped to the floor, soft carpeting ab-
sorbing his weight without a sound. Light was entering
under both the door that led into the corridor and the other
door that led to the circular library. He could hear voices
from somewhere, but wasn't certain of their origin.

Roman was still floating, hovering by the door to the
corridor. Quijano recollected he was supposed to block the
library door and began looking for heavy furniture. There
were two long couches, several chairs, a desk. He moved
toward the desk and began to drag it over the deep pile
carpet, tugging it toward the door. Roman's subvocal came
in his ear.

"Don't. They might hear." Pietro froze in front of the
library door.

"Wonder what's in here?" a voice said, from right on


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144 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

the other side of the door. Pietro turned toward the door,
wondering what in heaven's name he could do. His heart
boomed louder than the sound of the voice. This wasn't in
the plan. He reached out with the idea of physically hold-
ing the door shut.

The door opened.

Bix's face gazed toward him in amiable curiosity. Pietro
reacted instantly. He completely forgot the weapons at his
belt, forgot that his darksuit made him difficult to see. He
simply lashed out with a fist, his whole body behind it.
The fist mashed Bix's nose and knocked him back against
the landing's metal rail. Bix rebounded and Pietro lashed
out again, catching him more by luck than design on the
point of his jaw. Bix fell unconscious. Pietro stepped back
into the drawing room and slammed the library door. He
turned to Roman, who had drawn a weapon and would
have used it if Pietro hadn't been in the way. Severe pain
pulsed in Pietro's knuckles.

"We're in for it now," Pietro said. And then he clapped
his hands over his mouth. He'd said it out loud.

Khotvinn's ears pricked at the sound of a voice.
"We're in for it now." You certainly are, my lad, he
thought; he spun, drew his sword with his left hand and
his chugger with his right, and charged the door. He
roared as he came.
Khotvinn the brave! Khotvinn the majestic!
He was going to carve the intruders like cheese.

Chang watched as Bix was knocked unconscious by a
figure only dimly seen- He watched without surprise—Chang
did not have enough imagination to possess much in the
way of expectation, and therefore was never surprised
when his expectations failed to come true-

THE CROWN JEWELS I 145

The Very Important Personage, Chang decided, had a
mean punch and a savage regard for his own privacy. He
was not going to enjoy apologizing to the Countess for
Bix's intrusion. Then he heard a bellow and the sound of
firing, and decided something was wrong.

He went to the service plate and touched the ideograph
for "General announcement."

"This is Chang in the library," he said. "There's a
fight going on upstairs."

Then he went for his guns.

Roman heard Pietro's voice and felt at once the onset of
dismay. He knew his action would have to be fast. and so
he stifled the dismay swiftly and spun to the door that led
into the corridor, wrenching it open, his gun ready. He
observed a seven-foot-talt, red-haired puppet, a magic wand
in his hand and a happy and slightly mischievous grin


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fixed to his face, leaping toward him, hanging in midair
with one foot outmrust.

Roman stepped aside. The puppet was balanced to en-
counter a door and failed to hit one, and so flailed and
came to a crash landing inside the drawing room. Pietro
stared at the apparition. Roman fired his stunner and saw a
coruscating energy pattern spatter bright colors across both
the puppet and Pietro. Roman had known Pietro's screens
could deal with the attack, but apparently the puppet's
could as well. Hell. Roman slammed the door behind him
and looked for something to hit the puppet with.

The puppet leaped to his feet, striking blindly in the
unlighted room, unable to see his opponents in their
darksuits. His grin was blinding. "Prepare to die, human
scum!" he roared. He fired his own gun randomly. Explo-
sive bullets blew furniture apart.

"Ronnie RomperT' said Pietro.

146 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

Maijstral got the a-grav harness around Amalia Jensen
and put the proximity wire around her neck, and then his
heart gave a lurch at the sound of Khotvinn's howl and the
subsequent battle. "This way," he said, and arrowed straight
for the window.

Standing on the porch outside. Baron Sinn glanced up in
surprise at the ruckus, then drew his gun and sprinted for
one of the outside stairways connecting the front porch
with the balcony overhead, switching on his shields as he
ran. He saw the cutaway boards that surrounded Amalia
Jensen's window, then saw the visual quality of the win-
dow shift as Maijstral sliced through it in his darksuit.
Sinn fired, his spitfire blowing flaming chunks out of the
building.

Maijstral, completely by instinct, reversed himself and
flew back through the window. Once inside he cursed
himself for an idiot—he could have got clean away—then
drew his own spitfire and blew more pieces out of the
window, just by way of suggesting Baron Sinn not enter
that way.

Amalia Jensen was floating in midroom, looking star-
tled. Clearly without adequate protection, she could not
leave via the window. "Beg pardon," Maijstral said. He
opened me door. "This way," he said.

When the fighting started, Gregor was admiring—and
mentally pricing—a Basil vase sitting atop an eight-hundred-
year-old hand-carved bureau of Couscous marble. He
was therefore a little late in wrenching open his door and
sticking his nose and gun into the corridor, arriving just in
time to see the door to the southeast drawing room slam
shut. There was no one in the corridor. Then Baron Sinn's
spitfire began blasting bits out of the wall behind him.

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Gregor concluded his stunner was a little inadequate to the
occasion, put it away, and drew his disruptor.

The door to Amalia Jensen's room opened. "This way,"
said Maijstral's voice. A woman unfamiliar to Gregor
floated out in an a-grav harness, followed by Maijstral,
who was backing out, firing behind him.

"What's happening, boss?" Gregor asked.

Maijstral nearly jumped out of his skin.

Sergeant Tvi was eating dinner atone in the servants'
kitchen when Chang's voice on the house intercom alerted
her to fighting on the top floor-

Tvi to the rescue! she thought brightly. Her heart lifted
at a mental picture of herself in the fight, charging to the
last-minute salvation of the Impenum in a swell of dra-
matic music.

She switched on her darksuit, drew her gun, and flew at
top speed up the servants' stair.

Savage joy filled Countess Anastasia as she heard
Chang's announcement. She stepped to the nearest ser-
vice plate and thumbed the ideograph for "general
announcement."

"Kill them!" she shrieked, and then prepared to run for
the sporting rifles in her private study. Then, as an after-
thought, she touched the ideograph again.

"Be firm now," she added. Firmly.

The Countess's action may serve as an interesting com-
ment on human nature. It is sometimes odd how, in times
of stress, training takes hold. The Countess could have
made her announcement simply by telling the house to do
it for her, but in High Custom it is simply not done to turn
and start yelling at inanimate objects, particularly when

148 / WALTER JON WILUAMS

there are other sentients present. A graceful stroll to the
nearest service plate, followed by a tow-voiced command,
is considered apropos for alt but the most dire situations,

The Countess Anastasia, even when urging her friends
to battle, remained a lady. Even if she found it necessary to
involve herself personally in the slaughter, one may be
certain she would somehow stay above it all, and do her
best to avoid getting too much blood on her gown.

Noblesse is not inborn; it is learned, and it takes a long
time. But once learned, it is hard to unlearn—it's fully as
good as instinct. Thus does training triumph over circum-
stance.

Allowed Burglary furnishes another illustration. One
steals—very well. But one steals with style and grace, and
people forgive you, sometimes even hold the door for you
as you step into the night with swag in hand. Training in


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politesse can hold up under the most amazing provoca-
tions, theft among them.

All one can hope for is that thief and victim will be
playing by the same rules,

Things were well and truly afire in Amalia Jensen's
former room. The closet door opened and a simpleton
robot, whose usual job was to make certain clothing was
hanging properly, extruded a long mechanical arm and
began spraying fire retardant.

"Ronnie Romper?" Pietro asked, then clapped his hands
over his mouth again as the giant red-haired pixie spun
toward the sound of his voice and raised his magic wand.
Pietro concluded the wand wasn't about to transport him to
the Magic Planet of Adventure, where kindly Auntie June
and crusty-but-softhearted Uncle Amos would offer him
sage advice between bouts with prehistoric beasts or rene"

THE CROWN JEWELS I 149

gade aliens, but instead would probably cut him in half.
He gave a yelp and dove at top speed behind the couch.
The sword whistled as it sliced cushions.

Roman, standing behind Khotvinn, raised a metal chair
and smashed it precisely into the side of Ronnie Romper's
head. Ronnie yowled and spun, the magic wand scattering
fairy dust in a glittering arc. A woman's voice on the
household intercom promised death and firmness. Ronnie
swung again, and Roman raised the chair to intercept. The
sword cut halfway through the chair, then stuck, quiver-
ing. Roman gave the chair a wrench, tore the sword from
Ronnie Romper's hand, and flung it into a comer.

"Flower lover!" Ronnie Romper roared. His fixed smile
never moved.

Roman realized that Ronnie Romper was the one who
had uprooted Amalia Jensen's flowers. Rage filled him.

"Barbarian," he said, and gave Ronnie Romper a solid
punch in the nose. Ronnie swung wildly in retaliation, not
coming close. Roman punched again, connected, kicked
Ronnie in the midsection, then spun and kicked Ronnie
square on the forehead. Khotvinn collapsed, stunned.

"Lout. That'll teach you," said Roman firmly, and he
dusted his hands and reached for the hallway door. (Poli-
tesse, politesse. Here's training again.) On opening the
door, Roman saw Gregor, Maijstral, and Amalia Jensen in
the hall.

"This way, sirs and madam," he said, and bowed with
a flourish.

Tvi reached the top of the servants' stair. Through her
sensory enhancements and the triumphant mental music
she was playing as accompaniment to the video in her
mind, she heard a strange Khosali voice, "This way, sirs
and madam," and then the sound of people moving. There



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150 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

seemed to be a lot of them. She recollected suddenly that
she had only a stunner and that real thieves disdain vio-
lence. She also realized that if she moved out of the door
she would be unable to avoid any unfortunate consequences,
just as she had when she had been halfway through Jen-
sen's window.

She decided to wait awhile-

Baron Sinn realized his spitfire was running low on
energy, that he had no reloads on him, and that he'd have
to do something fast. He commended his soul to the
Emperor and to the Sixteen Active and Twelve Passive
Virtues, then sprinted forward and dove headfirst through
the torn window into Amalia Jensen's room, hitting the
floor and rolling, his gun ready.

The room was lit by flame, clouded by smoke. His eyes
smarted. Vaguely, he saw a hand and a gun protruding
from the closet, and with three wild shots of his spitfire he
blew into fragments the simpleton robot that had been
trying to put out the fire.

"Thagger," he said, realizing his error. And began to
wheeze. The room was filling with smoke.

Pietro rose from his hiding place behind the cushions,
Amalia Jensen was floating through the door after Maijstral.
"Miss Jensen!" he said, delighted. He stepped out from
his hiding place, tripped over Khotvinn's sword, which
was still jammed halfway through an overturned chair, and
crashed to the floor.

Amalia Jensen, hearing the crash, glanced in his direc-
tion. "Oh, Hullo, Pietro," she said.

Chang listened to the crashing and thumping from up-
stairs as he struggled into his shield bell and reached for

THE CROWN JEWELS / 151

his disruptor rifle. He looked up, frowned as he contem-
plated Bix's unconscious body, and decided that the direct
approach, up me spiral staircase, was fraught with danger.
He opened the French door onto the smalt east porch and
glanced up at the windows of the southeast parlor. One of
them seemed to have a neat hole in it. This was clearly the
escape route for the wicked.

He smiled. He had them trapped, bigod!

He batted fems out of his vision as he crouched behind a
metal planter, then sighted in on the window. A more
imaginative individual might have actually waited for the
enemy to try to leave, then picked them off as they came
out, one by one. Chang, as has already been observed,
possessed no imagination.

The air sizzled as he fired.

Roman picked up Khotvinn's chugger, checked it for


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loads, and readied it for action. "This way," said Maijstral,
pointing to the open window, and just as he was about to
fling himself over the sill, warning lights began to blaze on
his darksuit displays, indicating invisible disruptor bolts
crackling through the window. Maijstral checked, glanced
around, and saw the library door. He realized he was
growing tired of being the first through an exit. He pointed.

"That way!" he said.

Tvi took a micro media-globe from her belt and let it
look around the corner for her. She had to look carefully in
order to see a single person, his presence marked only by
the odd shimmery distortion of his darksuit- He stood in
the drawing room door, apparently the rear guard. The rest
had filed into the drawing room.

Tvi considered this. Dramatic music began welling in
her mind. Tvi the Silent, Tvi the Thief, would creep up on

152 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

this bunch from behind and bat them one by one! If she
played this right, they wouldn't even know she was behind
them.

Roman charged through the library door, saw motion
below him, and, with three well-placed shots of Khotvinn's
chugger, utterly demolished the robot that, per Chang's
earlier request, had just arrived with a large selection of
beer. Foam flooded the carpet. Roman felt a pang of
regret.

"This way," he said, and flung himself over the railing,
gliding to the first floor on a-grav. Maijstrai, Amalia
Jensen, and Pietro followed.

Tvi crouched, readied herself, then flung herself at top
speed toward the shimmering figure in the door. Gregor's
first bolt went wild and there wasn't time for a second. Tvi
crashed into Gregor, driving him into the doorframe. The
breath went out of him and he sagged to the ground. Tvi,
seeing stars herself, groped for Gregor inside the darksuit
screen, located his neck, reasoned there was a head above
it somewhere, and lashed out with the bun of her stunner.
The weapon connected and Gregor flopped to the floor.

Tvi grinned invisibly behind her holographic shroud.
Things were looking up for the Fate of the Empire.

Khotvinn groped his way toward consciousness through
a blaze of stars. A dozen puny humans hiding behind their
darksuit screens must have set about him with clubs. But
Khotvinn wasn't finished yet—he was sure he must have
chopped five or six at least, and the rest couldn't have
much fight in them. He climbed to his feet, groped for his
sword, then dragged it out of the metal chair. He felt better
immediately. Where were the stinking redbellies?

THE CROWN JEWELS I 153

There was someone in a darksuit apparently engaged in a
wrestling act in the corridor, and in the clear light of the


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library Khotvinn could see Amalia Jensen, her ankles stilt
bound, beginning her descent to the first floor.

Light! Once he could see his foe, nothing could stop
him! If the traitors hadn't turned out the tights, he would
never have been overcome.

Roaring, Khotvinn raised his blade and charged.

Action at last! Death to traitors!

Warbling, Countess Anastasia raced down the corridor
for the library, cradling her new Nana-Coulville custom
mapper with the folding para-assault stock and Trotvinn
XVII sights. Her little song was simple: "Kill, kill, kill
. . . firmness, firmness, firmness . . ." But it was in High
Khosali, in which each word made a comment on the
word before, and it was heartfelt. She was singing with all
her soul. Not even the great Sebastiana would have put
more feeling into a lyric.

The simple pleasures, one is constantly reminded, are
oft the best.

"Say," Pietro Quijano said, remembering to subvocalize
for once, "shouldn't we wait for Gregor?" He was stand-
ing on the second-floor library landing to one side of (he
door, watching Amalia Jensen as she dropped down the
center of the room toward the splatter of smoking robot
and streaming beer that stained me costly carpet. And then
Pietro heard a howl to freeze his blood. Ronnie Romper,
he realized, was coming to chop Miss Jensen to bits!

Pietro's mind seemed to work, in that instant, with
amazing clarity. He dropped to the landing and stuck his
foot into the doorway.

Roaring, Ronnie Romper charged through the doorway,

154 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

tripped over the foot (roaring), made an architecturally
perfect arc (roaring) as he soared over Bix's unconscious
form and the wrought-iron rail, and fell twenty feet (still
roaring) to the library floor.

Ronnie landed and the mansion trembled. Beer foun-
tained as high as the crystal chandelier. Amalia Jensen,
who had been missed by inches, looked up in surprise.

Feeling a bit squeamish, Pietro gazed delicately over the
rail. Ronnie was sprawled in an X below him, his never-
altered grin beaming mischievously upward. Pietro felt his
stomach turn over.

"Well. So much for /Mm/" Amalia said. She looked
from Pietro to Ronnie and back. "Thank you, Pietro," she
said.

"You're welcome. Miss Jensen." In that bleak instant
Pietro realized, sick at heart, that he would visit the Magic
Planet of Adventure nevermore.



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Tvi crouched in the doorway and watched in stunned
amazement as the giant Ronnie Romper charged across the
drawing room, a hoarse bellow issuing from behind the
perpetual smile. There followed a crash, one mat shook
the entire house, but no shots, no sound of struggle.

it was time to do some more sneaking up, she decided.

Baron Sinn, commending his soul, etcetera, half over-
come by smoke, charged into the corridor amid a gush of
fire-generated camouflage. He could barely see, and he
staggered as he lunged toward the southeast drawing room.

What he did see through his streaming eyes was a figure
in an darksuit in the drawing room door. Obviously a
miscreant. Sinn raised his spitfire and fired.

Tvi yelped as the spitfire blew away the wall just over
her head. Her darksuit had given her a view of the corridor

THE CROWN JEWELS I 155

behind her, and she'd been thankful Sinn was there to back
her up. Instead of offering to assist, her boss, without even
a declaration of enmity, had gone and shot at her.

This, she concluded, was totally unfair. She did not
mink to wonder why the Baron had opened fire. The
point uppermost in her mind was the doubt that her darksuit
screens could handle spitfires.

Tvi flew like hell for the servants' stair. Another spitfire
round blasted the wall as she ran.

Baron Sinn, gasping for breath, staggered in pursuit-
Here was one he wasn't about to let get away

Maijstral considered the French door onto the east ter-
race long enough to realize that whoever was firing disruptor
bolts into the second story could as easily cover the east
terrace from his position. He pointed at the door into the
interior of the house.

"Thai way," he said. "Then north."

Roman flung open the door and lunged through it,
colliding with the Countess Anastasia and knocking her
sprawling, "Beg pardon, my lady," he said promptly,
and, after relieving the Countess of her Nana-Coulville,
gallantly offered to help her stand.

A deep X of anger marred Countess Anastasia's brow.
"Die, redbellied wretch!" she barked, and batted Roman's
hand aside.

Even well-trained politesse has its limits.

Roman stiffened. He bit back the comment that came to
mind at this churlish display of unladylike behavior. "Good
evening, my lady," he said in sepulchral, indignant tones,
"Your obedient servant." He strode in high dudgeon to-
ward the back of the house.



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"Hey," said Pietro Quijano, "what about Gregor?"
He was still on the landing, listening to the spitfire

156 / WALTER JON WILUAMS

bursts from the corridor where, so far as he knew, Gregor
was standing alone against the Imperial hordes.

Maijstral did not, apparently, hear, since he was on his
way into the corridor. The spitfire bursts came to an end.

"Gregor?" Pietro subvocalized, and heard a groan in
reply.

He peered into the drawing room and saw Gregor's form
sprawled in the doorway, a smoking spitfire hole in the
wall over his head.

There seemed to be no enemies about. Pietro slipped
back into the drawing room, got Gregor in a
fireman's carry—easy, since Gregor on a-grav was virtu-
ally weightless—and hastened after the others-

Maijstral, on hearing Pietro's plaintive inquiries about
Gregor, reflected on first thought that henchmen were,
after all, expendable, and on second thought that Pietro
was too. It wasn't as if they hadn't volunteered.
Thus cheered, he floated near the ceiling to avoid the
Countess—he was tempted to say something savage in
passing, but decided to stay well to windward—and in-
stead increased his speed, heading for the back of the
house.

The party encountered nothing but a robot rushing for
the servants' stair with a fire extinguisher, and then burst
out of the back door and accelerated over the smooth
croquet lawn. On the way they passed Tvi, who had jumped
into Bix's flier and was trying to peel the lock and get it
moving before the Baron drew another bead on her.

Maijstral called for his fliers to meet him at a rendez-
vous a mite ahead. Tvi got her Dewayne Seven started and
raced away.

Baron Sinn burst out the back, waving his spitfire.
Blinded by tears, he put a foot down on his kibble-colored

THE CROWN JEWELS I 157

croquet ball and crashed to the sward. Through his stream-
ing eyes he could see nothing but a scatter of empty stars.

The first thing Bix smelled was beer. He put a hand to
his wounded jaw and staggered to his feet. Stars flooded
his vision. He swayed and clutched the wrought-iron rail.
As his eyes focused, he saw Ronnie Romper sprawled
amid a massive puddle below, surrounded by robot parts.

"Hey," he said. "Did I miss something?"

The Countess entered, back rigid, fists clenched. Furi-
ously she kicked a robot part across the room.



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"Swine!" she remarked.

Bix decided to keep out of sight. He had obviously done
something wrong by opening the drawing room door.

In careful silence, he drew back into the drawing room
and shut the door behind him.

CHAPTEC 9

Mr. Paavo Kuusinen was on the wrong side of the building
to see much of what occurred at the Countess's mansion.
He was resting under his tree, his arms pillowing his head,
when suddenly he heard the sound of spitfires barking
back and forth, accompanied by bright explosions from the
front of the building. Kuusinen sprinted across the knoll to
his flier and jumped in without bothering to open the door.
He rolled back the canopy to get a better view and set the
flier on a long banking curve to the south so that he could
watch the building from a safe distance. He saw that the
upper right front of the mansion was definitely on fire, but
could see nothing else of interest. He continued to orbit,
swinging wide around the back, and saw a figure leaving
the back of the building. Kuusinen focused his longfinders
and saw Amalia Jensen floating at great speed over the
lawns and ornamental gardens behind the estate- If there
was anyone with her, Kuusinen didn't spot him, but what-
ever the case, this looked like a clean getaway.

Kuusinen told his flier to circle and kept AmaUa Jensen
under observation. Presently two Gustafsons appeared over
the horizon, Jensen floated into one of them, and darksuit
screens appeared over each. Kuusinen swore. He tried to

158

THE CROWN JEWELS I 159

keep them on his detectors as they rose into the sky and
sped off on two separate paths, but the disguise technology
on each was too good, and they seemed to have special
terrain-avoidance computers that kept them closer to the
ground than Kuusinen dared fly.

Police and firelighters would soon be coming. It was
time for Kuusinen to leave.

He decided to take up his surveillance again in the
morning.

General Gerald snored gently in his battle armor, dream-
ing of glory. Maijstral had not come, would not be com-
ing, but in his dreams the General fought a greater foe, the
vast might of the Khosati Empire, the armada he had trained
all his life to fight, now come at last.

"Next thing I knew," Gregor said, "Pietro was carry-
ing me out."

There was an ever-darkening lump on his temple, which
Roman now approached with a semilife patch. Gregor
flinched from Roman's touch, took the patch himself,
pulled his long hair out of the way, and gingerly applied


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the creature to his head- Happily released from suspended
animation, the patch began to attach taproots to his skin
and exchange healing drugs for nutrients.

Gregor could not recall being knocked out. The last
thing he remembered was floating in the room next to
Amalia's, admiring the Basil vase.

The others were in a much more ebullient mood. They
hadn't ceased talking, laughing at their exploits, and ex-
changing stories since the fliers had parked at MaijstraTs
house.

Maijstral raised a glass of champagne. "Mr. Quijano,"
he said, "you have been a glorious asset to our cause. You

160 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

disposed of two enemies, including the ferocious Romper,
and rescued Gregor from the hostiles. I salute you, sir."

Pietro blushed and looked at his feet. "Wasn't much,"
he said.

"Quite the contrary," said Amalia. "Beating that Romper
creature was more than I could accomplish, and I've been
studying pom boxing for years." Pietro's blush deepened.
Amalia was still hovering in midair until such time as
Roman could locate a tool capable of getting the manacles
off her ankles,

Roman refilled everyone's glass, then bowed and went
in search of the appropriate cutter. Now that the rescue
was over he had reverted to the role of impassive servant,
changing from the one-piece darksuit to more formal ap-
parel. Maijstral had changed clothing as well, into a lace-
edged shirt and dark, embroidered housejacket—meaning
one he didn't have to be laced into—which was tailored
not to show the pistol he still wore in a hidden pocket.

"By the way," Maijstral said, "I believe our hero is
still wearing our screens and weapons."
"Oh. Right."

Pietro handed Maijstral a pistol, which vanished into
another hidden pocket, and peeled himself out of me
darksuit, which Maijstral dropped on a table. Gregor gave
an unusually (for him) mellow smile as his healing patch
fed him soothing chemicals-

"Do you think any of them were hurt?" Amalia asked.
"Aside from Romper, I mean."

"I don't believe so," Maijstral said. "Were there any
you particularly wanted injured?"

Amalia gnawed a lower lip. "No. Romper was the only
one who went out of his way to be unpleasant. The rest
were only doing their jobs. But you didn't see a small
Khosalikh in any of the fighting?"

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The others looked at each other. "I don't believe so,"
Maijstral said. "The only other Khosalikh I saw was the
Baron." To Maijstral's surprise, Amalia seemed relieved.
Maijstral decided not to offer comment.

Roman returned with the cutter and a microvision hood,
which would enable him to perform the delicate task of
removing the skin-thin manacles from Amalia's ankles.
"Please come over to the sofa, miss," Roman said, "and
put your feet up on the table." The others watched with
bated breath, sipping champagne, as Roman pulled the
hood over his head and carefully sliced the manacles away
from her ankles and wrists.

Amalia stretched her legs. "That's much better. And not
a scratch. Thank you, Roman."

"I'll bring another bottle," Roman said, and took his
tools and the manacles away.

"Say," said Pietro, "why don't we show Miss Jensen
the reliquary?" He reached into the rotating Bartlett Head.
The hand groped, encountering nothing.

Maijstral sighed. It was unfortunate that a celebration as
nice as this one was going to end so soon. Good thing, he
thought, he'd just disarmed Pietro. He seemed pleasant
enough, but with these impetuous young men of action one
never really knew.

"Oh," Maijstral said as if he'd just remembered, "I
moved the Imperial Artifact to another location. Just in
case our enemies followed us back, or managed to capture
one of us and gain the location of this place."

Pietro looked at him blankly. "When?"

"When we were flying toward the Countess's. You
were in the other flier. I made just a short detour."

Pietro frowned. "Should we go fetch it? Then we can
conclude the purchase."

162 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

Amalia Jensen put a hand on Pietro's arm. "Maijstral
and I made other arrangements, Pietro," she said.

Pietro was bewildered. "When? You've been—"

"This reminds me ... ," she said, standing and putting
down her champagne. There was a growing coldness in
her voice as she recalled facts which, in her joy at release,
had been temporarily obscured. "We should leave, Pietro.
We have many arrangements to make."

"We do? About what?"

Maijstral straightened his shoulders and put down his
own glass. "Roman will take you where you wish to go,"
he said. High Custom smoothness had entered his voice.

"I thought the party was just starting," Pietro protested.


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Roman entered with another bottle and perceived the
change in atmosphere. He looked at Maijstral. "Sir?" he
said.

"Please take our guests home."

Roman bowed. "Certainly, sir. Would you like a cloak,
madam?"

"No. Thank you, Roman. I think we should just leave."

"As you wish, madam."

Towing Pietro by the arm, Amalia Jensen left through a
door that Roman held for her. Maijstral picked up his glass
again and sipped. The champagne tasted a little flat.

Gregor looked up at him in anesthetized joy. "Short
party, boss," he said.

"Best we pack," Maijstral said. "We'll have to leave
before Miss Jensen brings reinforcements."

"Say again, boss?"

"It is possible, Gregor, our friends may come back with
guns and kill us," Maijstral explained,

Gregor absorbed this with a certain glassy-eyed effort.
"Short party," he said again.

THE CROWN JEWELS I 163

Maijstral decided that the situation was best summed up
by recourse to Gregor's idiom. He put down his glass.
"Only too, Gregor. Time to pack."

It was still four hours before sunrise. The nightwind was
up, scudding leaves along the yellowgrass borders of Amalia
Jensen's lawn. She and Pietro watched from the roof as
Roman's Gustafson soared out of sight. Amalia was poorer
by sixty novae; her rescue having put her in debt for the
next twelve years. Pietro turned to her in bafflement.
"What's the problem. Miss Jensen?" he said.

She idly kicked at a piece of the dismembered Howard.
It scuttered across the roof. "Come downstairs with me. 1
want to start cleaning up the mess, and I can explain while
I do it."

Cleaning house is good therapy for anger, and though
Amalia Jensen wasn't terribly good at it—Howard and his
ilk normally handled mis sort of thing—physical labor
worked wonders for Amalia's mood as she explained how
Maijstral had added conditions to her release. Pietro, who
wasn't working as hard, found his anger growing as hers
declined.

"Damn the man! If I'd known, I would have whacked
him!"

"The point is, Pietro, I had no idea you were a member
of the party," she said. "If I'd known you were pres-


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ent, I would have been able to refuse him, and then he
couldn't just call off everything with you in his company—
you would have known something was up."

"If he'd let me live," he said darkly.

"I could have handled it, though, if I'd thought it
through. Just now I realized that I should have pointed out
mat his honor had been insulted when I was kidnapped,

164 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

and if he didn't rescue me he'd have to start challenging
people or else find another line of work."

"I'm tempted to challenge him." Pietro pointed a finger
at an imaginary Maijstral. "Bang. Send him off and take
the artifact."

"If you challenged Maijstral you could be certain he
wouldn't bring the artifact with him," Amalia said sensi-
bly. "Besides, Pietro, you might lose." She put her hand
on his arm. "You're going to be needed for other work,
Pietro. We're going to have to locate the artifact and steal
it, or if not steal it, destroy it."

Pietro felt a glorious confidence blazing in his soul. He
had done rather well tonight, now that he thought about it,
and he found himself longing for further action. His hands
fairly ached to close around Maijstral's neck. He patted
Amalia's hand.

"Right," he said. "I'll take care of it. We know where
they're staying."

"We won't have guns," Amalia pointed out. "They
do."

Pietro gave a bold smile. "We'll use strategy instead,"
he said.

"Good. Have you got one in mind?"

Beat. "No." Another beat. "Have you?"

"It's almost time for first breakfast. Let's have some-
thing to eat and give it a think, shall we?"

"Yes, Miss Jensen."

Her arm still in his, she steered Pietro toward the kitchen.
"I think," she said, "in view of your rescuing me, you
might call me Amalia."

"My pleasure." Pietro smiled. "Amalia." The name
came to his lips like a lyric in a song.

A physician, assisted by numerous robots, was resetting

THE CROWN JEWELS I 165

Khotvinn's bones. The giant Khosalikh's howls echoed
through the halls of the smoke-damaged manse.



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Baron Sinn flicked fire-retardant foam from his sleeve.
Ash rose in puffs from the velvet. Sinn's nose twitched. He
smelled more tike smoke than ever.

The firefighters and police had just left, puzzled by a
wholly unconvincing tale of housebreaking and violence
by persons unknown, and Sinn was going to have to brace
the Countess for a session with the estate agents on the
morrow. Chang and Bix had been sent home before the
authorities arrived—Sinn distrusted their ability to remem-
ber any story that he and the Countess might concoct in
order to explain their presence.

Another of Khotvinn's yells reverberated through the
corridors. Sinn knocked on the door of the lower drawing
room and heard the Countess's voice bid him enter.

"My lady."

The Countess was dressed in black silk lounging paja-
mas and a cheerful brocade dressing gown, the effect of
which was somewhat marred by the addition of a pistol
belt. She'd told the police that she was awakened from a
sound sleep by the sudden flurry of shots, and she'd had to
dress the part. Despite her clothes and the hour, the Count-
ess didn't look at all sleepy; she sniffed the Baron's ears,
lit a cigaret, and resumed her pacing, her shoulders
square, her back unmoving.

"Tvi has still not reported in," the Baron said. "1 hope
she's following Maijstral."

"You're assuming she wasn't working for Maijstral,"
the Countess said.

"I don't see how she could have been corrupted. She
doesn't know a soul on this planet—she came here with
me when the consulate discovered the existence of the
Imperial Relic."

166 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

Countess Anastasia turned toward him, pivoting her
entire torso like a Khosalikh, her spine unbent. "Maijstral
got to her somehow, I'm sure. Or that Jensen woman
did."

"She might be a prisoner."

"She might be gathering mushrooms in the forest, my
dear Baron. Or visiting an all-night boutique for some new
apparel. We're going to have to face realities."

Sinn seated himself in a chair and watched the Countess
pace. He was at low ebb, the situation had run clean out of
his control, and he didn't like it. "Realities? Which reali-
ties do you mean, my lady?"

The Countess pivoted toward him again, her posture
alternately more and less strained as she remained facing
him while she paced back and forth. "Your Secret Dra-
goons have failed you. Baron," she said. "Tvi's missing,
and Khotvinn's out of action for at least the next few days.


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We're going to have to mobilize my people for this, my
lord."

Sinn shifted uncomfortably.

"Are you certain, my lady? Carrying out appropriate
covert action, with its necessity of discretion, is an art
form. The fewer people who know ..."

The Countess stabbed the air with her cigaret. "We
don't have to tell them anything. Just have everyone on the
lookout for Maijstral, and have some here at the house,
people like Chang and Bix, who can handle the rough stuff
if—when—it's necessary."

Sinn rose from his chair. There was no choice anymore;

the situation was dictating events. "No one must know the
reason for this. Not your people, not mine."

The Countess took this rightly, as assent. She bowed
toward him. "No one shall know. We shall invent a story
that will satisfy inquiries. Perhaps over first breakfast."

THE CROWN JEWELS I 167

She walked to the service plate and touched the ideograph
for "kitchen." "Will you join me, my lord?"

"With pleasure. Countess. But give me leave to wash
first. I fear I'm a bit smoky."

"Thank you, sir."

"Only too, boss."

Gregor raised his cash counter to his mouth and bit it for
luck. The gold ideograph for "money" gleamed against an
eyetooth. The semilife patch on his temple looked like a
strawberry birthmark.

Maijstral put his own cash counter in a pocket- He had
just transfered to his henchmen their share of Amalia
Jensen's sixty novae. The household robot finished clear-
ing the breakfast plates from the table.

He had moved into a rented safe house in Peleng City
after deciding that the city was where he was least likely to
be looked for. The country house, in the meantime, had
been programmed to look lively, keep window shades
moving up and down, lights switching on and off.

The new town place was about forty years old and had
been built during the period of architectural adventurism
that followed the success of the Rebellion, when all the old
boundaries were down and human horizons seemed unlim-
ited. The house looked rather like a blue matte flying
saucer crashed at a forty-degree angle into the corn-colored
sward of a small ridge. At night its rim coruscated to
alternating strobe lights and colored beams of coherent
light. Gravity stabilizers kept everyone comfortably verti-
cal with regard to the floors, though looking out the win-
dow and seeing the horizon tilted on edge could be unsettling


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until one got used to it.

The style seemed a bit quaint now, particularly the

168 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

household fixtures, which were designed to look too much
like what they were. Sinks and toilets featured gleaming
pipes and spigots that wove in intricate, elaborate patterns
above the taps. Service plates had metal studs, buttons,
and flashing lights rather than simple ideographs.
The household robots were designed to actually look
mechanical—their arms and legs were driven by gears and
hydraulic pistons and small electric motors, and they made
rattling, clattering, and hissing noises when they were in
action, as if they were somehow powered by steam. Their
voices were obviously artificial and their cogitation was
accompanied by blinking lights. Maijstral, who hated the
very idea of cute robots, realized early on that if he stayed
here very long he was going to have to take a heavy
wrench to everything mechanical before the clattering and
buzzing drove him mad.

Maijstral stood up from the breakfast table, stretched,
and yawned. "Later today," he said, "we'll contact Miss
Jensen and the Countess." He patted the pocket where his
cash-piece rested. "A bidding war between them will
serve us well, I think."

Gregor, Maijstral noticed, seemed not to be as cheered
by the thought of money as was his usual wont. Maijstral
wondered if the semilife patch had exhausted its resources
of painkillers so quickly, then remembered Gregor's pro-
fessed concern for the Fate of the Constellation. He nod-
ded toward Gregor.

"Don't despair," he said. "I believe the result wilt be
to your satisfaction." Gregor seemed to take cheer imme-
diately. The robot, still clearing dishes, rattled the silver-
ware in a calculated, programmed way. It did this every
few seconds.

"I'm going to get some rest,'* Maijstral continued.

THE CROWN JEWELS i 169

"Wake me by thirteen if I'm not up. And have second
breakfast ready by then."

Roman rose from the table. "Sir. A word."

"Of course, Roman. Come with me."

The dishes rattled again. Maijstral clenched his teeth.

He led Roman toward the saucer's living quarters. He
put his gun on his bedside table and tossed his jacket over
a chair. He looked up and noticed that Roman had one ear
cocked toward the door, as if concerned about being
overheard.

"Close the door if you like, Roman."



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Roman's ear flickered, but stayed trained toward the
door. "No need, sir," he said. His voice was low. Maijstral
sat on the bed and began unlacing his cuffs. Roman moved
toward him and automatically assumed the task. "1 won-
der if I may inquire," Roman said, "what you plan as the
ultimate fate of the Imperial Artifact?"

Maijstral didn't even look up. "Sell it, of course," he
said. "As soon as possible. It will only bring us trouble if
we keep it."

Roman's shoulder fur rose under his clothes, a few
strands escaping his collar. Silently he put Maijstral's cuffs
in a drawer. "I think we may safely say," he said, "that
honor was satisfied by Miss Jensen's rescue."

Maijstral tossed his shirt on top of his jacket and rotated
his arm in its socket, wincing at a slight pain. He must
have strained his shoulder at some point during the night's
adventure. He spoke offhandedly. "Truly. I thank you,
both for the observation and for your participation on my
behalf."

"It would be a shame," Roman said, "to penalize the
Imperial line in order to punish the rudeness of some of
their adherents- But I suppose the Empire can command
greater financial resources than Miss Jensen and her friends.''

170 / WALTER JON WIUJAMS

"Possibly." Maijstral had considered this. "But we
must judge our demands carefully. At some point it would
be cheaper simply to have us eliminated.''

"Would they risk that?"

"Countess Anastasia would. Perhaps Baron Sinn would
not.''

"Still," said Roman, "I would not like to see a dynasty
destroyed as a result of anyone's actions on Peleng."

Maijstral looked up at him. His smile was casual. "In
that case, Roman, we must take care."

"As you say, sir."

"Was that all?"

"Yes, sir- Thank you."

"Close the door behind you, please."

As me door swung shut, Maijstral kicked his legs out
and settled onto the bed, his mind humming. Any impulse
to sleep had vanished. Roman, he had always known, was
a traditionalist—insofar as Roman thought it proper to
possess opinions, he probably regretted the existence of
the Constellation and had a sentimental regard for the
Empire in which he had never lived. Gregor, contrariwise,
hated any aristrocracy and wished death to the Empire.
Maijstral had it in his power to serve one of these ends,
but not both.


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The problem was that Maijstral counted on both his
assistants for much. Gregor wanted money and instruction
in ton, and could be kept content so long as he was paid in
both. Roman was loyal to me Maijstral family—Maijstral
knew Roman would never do anything underhanded, or
betray any trust—but still Maijstral's future depended not
simply on cooperation, but on willing cooperation. Their
jobs were too critical—their hearts had to be in it, or
mistake could be made. If an alarm was overlooked, a tool
left on a windowsill, a trap remained unsprung—who could

THE CROWN JEWELS I 171

say that it was an honest oversight, or the unconscious
sabotage that could spring from a troubled mind?

He had to keep both his henchmen happy, and willing to
continue insulating him from the menace represented by
Humanity Prime and the Anastasia mob.

Maijstral nestled back against the pillows and closed his
eyes- This was going to take some thought-

CHACTEC 1C

Nichole, stretched comfortably on a couch, contemplated
her feet and thought about how ugly they had become. Her
profession required her to spend hours on her feet, and
though she'd had them reshaped five years before, they
had already splayed a good deal and it was time for
another rebuild. She'd have to arrange for a week or ten
days away from people so mat she could have the job done
and get used to the results before she'd have to appear in
public again.

She could see her minute reflection in each of her
toenails. By way of good-moming she waved at her reflec-
tion, then wriggled her toes in answer. There was a chim-
ing at her door.

"Second breakfast, madam."

"Bring it in, room."

A robot table floated in on a silent a-grav field, lowered
its legs, planted itself. Room furniture readjusted to the
new arrangement. A chair rolled to the table, then pulled
back invitingly.

"Your breakfast, madam." An Emanuel Bach wood-
wind concerto sprang into existence around her.

"Thank you, room." She moved to the chair and seated

172

THE CROWN JEWELS I 173

herself. Covers rose from the plate, releasing steam. Sec-
ond breakfast in Peleng was a lot heavier than first. She
wasn't certain if Maijstral still wanted her to keep up the
pretense he was staying with her, but she'd ordered only


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one breakfast, not being able to face two. She declined the
table's offer and poured her own coffee.

There was another gentle chime. "Drake Maijstral,
madam."

"Oh." She put down the cream jug. "Put him on
directly."

Maijstral seemed in much better spirits. The old assur-
ance gleamed in his green eyes, an Nichole's heart lifted to
see it. Otherwise he was difficult to recognize—his face
had been sprayed a pastel blue color, he was wearing
ghastly earrings that winked on and off like mechanical
toys, and behind him was a view of a game arcade.

Nichole, having got used to these little dodges four
years ago, concluded that since he was using disguises and
a public phone, he wasn't yet out of danger.

Nichole raised her cup and smiled, "Delighted to see
you, Maijstral. You seem in good spirits."

"You look lovely. As ever, Nichole."

"I see your alarming taste in disguises hasn't altered."

He bowed toward the holo camera. "I plead the necessi-
ties of the service, madam." His eyes flickered to the
boundaries of the holo image, as if trying to glance out of
it. He touched a tentative finger to one of his earrings.
"Pardon my boldness, but might I inquire whether you are
breakfasting alone?"

"That depends, I daresay, on whether or not you're stilt
supposed to be living here."

He smiled. "Unfortunately for our deception, its in-
tended victims are all too well aware of where I was last
night."

174 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"I thought your address seemed buoyed by success. Did
it go well, whatever it was?"

"Well enough. Villainy was thwarted, at any rate."

"Had the villainy in question anything to do with the
Countess Anastasia?" Nichole smiled as she saw his eye-
lids twitch. "She called here yesterday and asked me to
give a message to you. But the message may well be out
of date by now."

Maijstral gave a lazy shrug. "Tell me. It might amuse."

"She said you had something she wanted, and dial she
was willing to pay for it. Sounds like a proper villain's
message, I'd say."

He grinned. "That's indeed what it was. I'm pleased to
hear she's willing to pay for my object. That's precisely
what I had in mind."



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Nichole laughed. "You seem to have things fairly well
in hand."

"For the present." He glanced over his shoulder in a
conspiratorial way-

"You are about to ask me for another favor," Nichole
said.

Maijstral seemed a trifle embarrassed. "You're right, of
course."

tt! know you too well, Drake. Out with it."

"I observed that in your announced schedule, you have
no appearances planned after meeting the methane crea-
tures at the zoo, which interview should end at noon."

"That's true. It's my afternoon and evening off." Nichole
wiggled her toes in the carpet in Joyful anticipation of time
to herself. She propped her chin on her hands and gave the
Maijstral-image her girlish, ingenuous look. "You're not
planning on interrupting my beauty rest, are you?"

"Only in a pleasant way, I hope. I was hoping you
might invite the Maijstral of your choice to dinner."

THE CROWN JEWELS I 175

Nichole laughed. "With your permission, Drake, I'll eat
my breakfast while you explain what you meant by that."

"Please go ahead. I've eaten."

Merriment bubbled to the surface of her mind as Nichole
listened to his scheme. She laughed.

"Very well, Maijstral, I'll do it. I've got a holo of you
somewhere." She took a bite, then thoughtfully waved her
fork at him. "Truth to tell, Drake, I'm grateful for this
diversion of yours. Life in the Diadem has been uncom-
mon tedious of late."

"My sympathies, lady."

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "1 don't need facetious
commiseration, Maijstral. Not from old friends."

"Apologies, Nichole." Promptly.

"Accepted." She took another bite, chewed thought-
fully, swallowed. "Do you not find, Drake, that your
occupation, however well suited, begins to tire?"

Maijstral's expression was hooded. "It contents me well
enough, my lady. Travel, new sights, new acquaintances,
adventures when I wish them, relaxation when I need it
... My celebrity is not sufficient to be obnoxious, but it
is great enough that I am treated well where I go. I am
rarely bored, my lady. If one has to have an occupation at
all, mine seems a good sort to have."

"Your profession grants you more freedom than mine


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does me, Drake."

"That is true. You know why I—"

"I am beginning to wonder, Drake, whether or not you
were right, four years ago."

Comprehension entered his eyes. "Ah."

"I travel more than you, but the new sights are always
hidden behind a screen of hangers-on and gushing inter-
viewers and a swarm of people eager to make an acquaint-
ance . . . it's all the same, and it's all become unreal in

176 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

quite the same way. My celebrity gets in the way of my
work—it has become my work."

"You knew that, Nichole. You knew what the Diadem
was about when you became a member."

"It's not the same as living it. I'm supposed to be an
actress—my god, 1 haven't acted in two years!"

"Find a new play."

"There are only certain roles suitable for members of
the Diadem. And they're unreal in the same way my life is
unreal. And worse—they're dull, Drake. Impossibly dull."

Maijstral absorbed this. "Are you considering leaving
the Diadem?"

"Considering. I haven't decided." Nichole wiggled her
toes again. Maybe she wouldn't need to have her feet done
after all.

Maijstral was looking at her intently. "Would you be
happy, Nicole? Once you were outside?"

She shrugged. "I have a hard time remembering what it
was like."

"I think you would not. I know you, Nichole."

Nichole stirred the food on her plate. "I'm two points
down," she said.

"Ah."

"That's what this tour is about. I'm supposed to intro-
duce my audience to new marvels. My writers are giving
me mots for each of eight planets. Each guaranteed sponta-
neous, witty, and quotable."

"I think, if you don't mind my observation, that Nichole
ushering tours of the Peleng City Zoo is not what your
ratings need, no matter how glorious the collection."

She glanced up. "I know that. What else do you
suggest?"

"Find a new play, Nichole. Something outside of what


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THE CROWN JEWELS I 177

they've been giving you. Stretch the concept of a Diadem
play- Stretch yourself."

Nichole's lips twisted in a wry smile. "And that's what
I need? Just a new play? And . - . stretching?''

"Perhaps something else, my lady."

"Yes?"

There was amusement in his glance. "A new passion?"
he suggested.

Nichole barked a laugh and flung a teaspoon through
Maijstral's image. The coffee in her cup trembled in alarm.
"Damn you, Maijstral. You know me too well. Won't you
let me get away with anything?" Her laugh turned rueful.
"All right. I'll tell my people to look for something."

"My lady, if you want a thing badly, you should look
for it yourself."

Nichole sat for a moment, then slowly nodded. "Yes,
Drake, I will. Thank you."

"It's the least I can do, considering how much you have
helped me. We make light of it, but your assistance may
yet save my life. These people I'm involved with . . .
they're serious people, Nichole."

"1 must take care to preserve your health, Maijstral.
Your advice may prove invaluable to my career."

Maijstral glanced over his shoulder again. "1 should end
this, my lady. We have gone on too long for this line to be
secure,'*

"Well. As usual, it's been refreshing. Give my love to
Roman."

"I will."

"I hope 1 will see you in person before I leave."

Maijstral smiled. "You forget. I am seeing you tonight."

"Yes. Of course. AM revoir, then."

"Your most obedient, Nichole."

His blue-faced image vanished. Nichole thought for a

178 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

moment, looking down at her toes, and tried to think of
who she should call to have her feet done.

Khotvinn felt charged with energy. The semilife cara-
pace that supported his crushed back and ribs had fed him
enough drugs to obliterate the pain and infuse him with
vigor. When the doctor added some patches to his legs that


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would make him relax and go to sleep, he waited till the
human creature left, peeled off the disappointed creatures
before they could take effect, and dropped them in the
trash.

He hoisted himself out of his bed, reeled, then steadied.
He bared his teeth and growled. The puny human redbellies
were going to get what was coming to them.

His mind brooded darkly on revenge. He got his weap-
ons out of the closet and donned them.

Khotvinn the Avenger! He needed to demolish some-
thing, and fast. He opened the window and got one leg
over, then hesitated.

He realized he didn't know where he was going.

Khotvinn pulled the leg back in and thought for a long
moment. He knew where Amalia Jensen lived—but the
house was a wreck, the Jensen creature probably wouldn't
be living there, and the place might well be monitored by
police. Tvi could have got him in, but she had disap-
peared. He could try MaijstraTs residence, but he had no
idea where Maijstral was.

The sound of voices filtered over the morning breezes.
Khotvinn's ears cocked in their direction.

Time, he decided, to do a bit of skulking.

He slid over the windowsill, overbalanced, and grabbed
a climbing vine to keep himself steady. The morning air
still smelled of burning. Chuckling to himself, Khotvinn

THE CROWN JEWELS I 179

loped along the back porch until he stood beside the open
window of the dining nook.

". . . and another to Lieutenant Navarre," Sinn's voice
was saying. "Miss Jensen may stay with him." Khotvinn's
ears pricked. This was the second time he'd heard the
name of Navarre.

"And that odious Nichole woman." Countess Anasta-
sia's voice.

A clatter of tableware obscured the Baron's next obser-
vation. "Far better to let the media do that for us," he
then remarked. "The security around the Diadem is strict.
Anyone lacking proper credentials and observed in Nichole's
vicinity would be jailed, at least for inquiry."

"Perhaps you, yourself. Baron, might—"

"I'll do what I can, my lady." The next part of me
conversation was dull, and consisted mainly of the Count-
ess proposing names for various tasks, and Baron Sinn
asking about their capabilities and credentials.

Khotvinn grinned. Navarre it would be, then! He smelled
food and his stomachs growled.


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He turned and began to lope toward the back kitchen
door. He'd steal enough food for several days, find Jensen
through her pal Navarre, and hold her for ransom to both
sides. And while he was at it, he'd carve her companions
like kidneys.

It was great to be alive.

The police left at last, unhappy with a tale of Ronnie
Romper-garbed abductors who had held Amalia Jensen
inexplicably for a day, neither asked for ransom nor com-
mitted any assault, then let her go- There was more to it,
or so they clearly thought, but Amalia Jensen wasn't giv-
ing it to them. It was her kidnapping, she thought, and she
could say what she liked.

180 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

Pietro was back in his own apartment—Amatia had
decided there was no point in involving him in any police
business. New household robots were moving silently about
the place, wiping dust from comers, gorging themselves
on debris she had missed on her first sweep. Amalia badly
needed a rest, but duty demanded she supervise Pietro's
mobilization of the local members of Humanity Prime,
who were to be sent out to look for Maijstral and to keep
an eye on Baron Sinn, the Countess, and the Khosali
consulate. She sucked on a hi-stick and walked to her
communications control plate. It had been replaced in the
last few hours by technicians working overtime. Time to
call Pietro.

The telephone chimed before she could touch the service
plate. "Receive," she said, and looked at the holo image
in surprise.

"Captain Tartaglia. This is a—"

"Surprise. I know." The captain was a short, broad-
shouldered man, going bald in front. He had resigned from
the military in order to devote himself to the good work of
Humanity Prime, and prided himself on his "human"
mannerisms—bluntness and belligerence to name two.
Through dint of hard work and devotion to the cause,
Tartaglia had worked his way up to Local Deputy Director—
Amalia Jensen's immediate superior, in fact. Amalia had
only met the man twice, and hid her instinctive dislike
behind a screen of brisk politesse.

It had been Tartaglia who, in a coded message, had
alerted her to the existence of the Imperial icon—apparently
Humanity Prime discovered its existence from a double
agent within the Imperial ranks. When she saw the thing in
the auction catalog, she'd sent a message to him with a
note of her intention to bid for it. She'd expected a con-

THE CROWN JEWELS I 181

gratulatory message in reply- Apparently, by return mail
she'd got Tartaglia himself.

Tartaglia looked at Amalia Jensen with small, dark


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intelligent eyes. "What's the status of Artifact One?" he
asked.

Amaiia had never heard this term used before, but had
no doubt what it meant.

"Not good, sir. It's been stolen by Drake Maijstral."
Tartaglia's expression barely changed. "Imperialist
family."

"I don't think Maijstral himself is an Imperialist, sir. I
think he intends to set up a bidding war between the
Imperialists and ourselves."

The captain's eyes flashed contempt. "Rogue. Immoral.
We'll deal with it."

"They're playing rough. The Imperialists, I mean. I
was kidnapped, and Maijstral, with one of our people
here, Pietro Quijano, set me at liberty."

"Oho." Tartaglia's eyebrows rose. "Why did Maijstral
involve himself? Is there an attachment between the two of
you?"

Amalia flushed. "Indeed not, sir. I think he set me free
because he needed someone to conduct the bidding from
our side."

"Good. I've brought a line of credit with me, and some
of our best people. We'll get the thing from Maijstral one
way or another."

Fear brushed lightly along Amalia Jensen's nerves. It
occurred to her that Captain Tartaglia was not a nice
person. She looked at his grim, amused countenance. "I'm
sure we will," she said.

Lieutenant Navarre had intended to replace his missing
portable telephone but hadn't got around to it, so it was

182 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

largely a matter of luck that the call from Nichole came
when he happened to be in his house. He thought he
handled his end badly—he hemmed and hawed, flushed,
yammered like a schoolboy—but then, after all, he was
taken unawares, and one didn't receive a call from a
member of the Human Diadem every day. Yes, he under-
stood perfectly why he would have to be chauffeured. No,
he didn't mind the element of intrigue—it would be amus-
ing, haw haw.

He hung up and felt a rare sensation of surprise and
anticipation. Nichole had always been one of his favorites.
Though his vanity was not such as to think he would make
an instant conquest, still he was pleased that out of all the
men Nichole had met on Peleng, she had chosen to spend
her few free hours with him. And the element of intrigue
added, frankly, a touch of the bizarre. At the very least
this was going to make an interesting story back home.

He decided to ask his vid to check its memory for the


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broadcasts it had received about Nichole's visit to Peleng.
Maybe he'd be able to remember some of the best lines
and compliment her on them.

Someone was home. The cold-field around the Scholder/
Navarre place was down and this allowed Khotvinn to
sneak right up to the windows without setting off alarms.
A copper-skinned human stood in his atrium, trying on a
series of shirts and jackets with the help of a robot,
preening himself in the mirror while keeping one eye on
the vid, which featured a blond woman talking about
methane life-forms. Khotvinn couldn't be certain, but he
thought the human was alone. No Jensen. Well—he'd get
the information somehow,

Khotvinn opened a door—it wasn't locked—and slipped
into the house. He padded down the short hallway that led

THE CROWN JEWELS I 183

to the atrium. "Unfortunately," the blond woman was
saying, "few people speak methanile."

Khotvinn flicked on his Ronnie Romper hologram, drew
his sword, then charged into the room, roaring. A single
sweep of the sword sliced the robot in half. Lieutenant
Navarre turned, only to be picked up by the neck and
slammed against the wall.

"Where's Amalia Jensen?" Khotvinn roared. Navarre's
eyes popped. He gave no answer. Khotvinn drove him into
the wall again. "Where's Amalia Jensen?" There was
only silence, except from the vid, which was going on
about admirable communications at near absolute-zero tem-
peratures. Navarre was turning purple. Khotvinn smashed
him into the vid, which went silent.

"Where?" Slam. "Where?" Slam. "Where?" Slam.

Lieutenant Navarre, who was giving no answer for the
very good reason that Khotvinn was strangling him, made
a gurgling noise and passed out. Khotvinn growled his
annoyance, held the dangling lieutenant for a moment,
then dropped him. Lieutenant Navarre crumpled to the
floor.

Not one to waste an opportunity, Khotvinn began ran-
sacking the room. There had to be a clue in here somewhere.

Captain Tartaglia had taken charge so fast that Amalia
Jensen had no clear recollection of how it had all come
about. It seemed that an instant after Tartaglia had called
her, she and Pietro were here, outside MaijstraFs country
cottage, with seven armed men that Tartaglia had brought
with him from Pompey.

"This is Wade. In position."

Tartaglia smiled. "Acknowledge your transmission."

Amalia Jensen looked at him. "What about alarms,
sir?"



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184 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"Fast in, fast out. That's the trick."

"What if the object isn't there?"

"Maijstral or his crew will be. Once we get them, we
can make 'em talk." He shaded his small eyes. "Got
plenty of experience at thai. You don't maintain an empire
without learning how to be persuasive."

Amalia was startled. "I thought," she said, "that we
weren't the Empire."

Tartaglia was abrupt. "Call it            what   you will. Point is,
we've got a lot of alien races            that   have to be kept in line.
Otherwise we won't stay on top            very   long. Let 'em know
who's boss, that's the ticket.            Once   they know that, we
won't have any trouble."

Amalia glanced at Pietro and saw a queasy look on his
face, which mirrored the sensation in her own heart.
Maijstral had not used her well, but she wasn't altogether
certain that he deserved what Tartaglia seemed ready to do
to him.

"This is Royo. In position."

"Right. That's the last. Prepare to move."

Tartaglia turned to Amalia and Pietro. "Just stay out of
the line of fire and you'll be all right. Leave everything up
to us."

She nodded, secretly thankful. "Fine, sir."

"You've done your job just bringing us here. I'll see you
get a commendation."

"Thank you, sir."

Hologram camouflage blossomed around Tartaglia's face.
"Ready?" He was speaking to his troops. "Let's move
out."

Then there was nothing but silent flickering in the air as
Tartaglia and his people charged the house, then crashing
noises as doors and windows went down before the as-
sault. Amalia watched in silence, chewing her lip.

THE CROWN JEWELS I 185

"Amalia," said Pietro, "I don't like these people."

She looked stolidly toward Maijstral's house. "I under-
stand," she said, trying to be strong. This was a necessity.
The Constellation's fate depended on this.

"We could have bought the damn thing back." He was
silent for a moment. Then, "You know, I kind of liked
Maijstral."

She gave him a look, and he flushed and looked at his
feet. But she knew how he felt.


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Whooping and smashing noises were coming from
Maijstral's house. Amalia heard a robot protest, followed
by a final-sounding crash. There weren't any sounds of
battle. She wondered if Maijstral and his friends had been
caught with their defenses down.

Gradually the noises died away. Then there was swift
flickering across the grounds, followed by Tartaglia and
his party appearing in front of Amalia, disappointment on
their faces.

"No one there," Tartaglia said. "Artifact One is stil! at
large."

Amalia Jensen tried very hard to control her feeling of
relief. "They anticipated this," she said.

"We'll find 'em."

"They'll find us." Pietro surprised everyone by speak-
ing up. "They want to sell us the artifact."

"Artifact One, you mean. Right." Tartaglia nodded.
"We'll find 'em. That's what I said." He spoke to his
troops. "Better get in our fliers. The police will be coming
soon."

"Where?" Thud. "Where?" Thud. '"Where?" Thud.
The man's name was Calvin. He was very good at his job
and took pride in it. Silent, anonymous, efficient, discreet.
What else was a security man for the Diadem to be?

186 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"Where?" Thud. "Where?" Thud. "Where?" Thud.

Calvin was here to prep Lieutenant Navarre for his visit
to Nichole—this visit in particular, with its unusual ele-
ments, seemed in need of advance work. But no sooner
had he landed on the roof than he heard hoarse Khosali
shouting and smashing noises.

It didn't sound like the sort of thing the Diadem wanted
their members getting mixed up in. Calvin got quietly out
of his flier, took his emergency kit out of die back, put on
his shield and gun. He stepped through an upper door,
gazed down off the atrium balcony, and saw Lieutenant
Navarre below in the hands of a giant Ronnie Romper, the
lieutenant being slammed doll-like into walls and furniture
while the puppet snarled his question over and over.

"Where's Amalia Jensen?" Slam.

Calvin didn't hesitate. He'd seen stranger things in his
career. Nor did he waste time wondering who Amalia
Jensen might be. The important fact was that if this contin-
ued, Nichole's dinner date was liable to be ruined.

The security man glanced left and right, saw a dwarf
zen tree in a heavy lead planter, and moved to pick it up.
He looked over the balcony again, saw Ronnie Romper
directly below him, aimed with care, and let the planter


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fall.

There was a horrid squelching noise. Ronnie Romper
dropped to the carpet. Lieutenant Navarre fell onto a cush-
ion, made a gasping sound, and grabbed his throat.

"Calvin, sir. Diadem security- Are you injured?"

Lieutenant Navarre looked with bulging eyes at the
sprawled puppet. "Ronnie Romper?" he asked.

The security man drew his gun, reached carefully into
the hologram, and snapped off the disguise. Khotvinn gazed
lifelessly at the ceiling.

"Who's he?" Navarre demanded.

THE CROWN JEWELS I 187

"Don't you know, sir?"

"Never seen him      before. He was asking after Am—
after someone I      know. But I don't know where she is, and
I couldn't tell      him because he kept grabbing me by the
throat. And who      he is I have no idea."

Calvin examined Khotvinn with care. "He's dead now.
We won't be able to question him."

Lieutenant Navarre's breathing was returning to normal.
He stood and looked down at Khotvinn's body, then at
Calvin. He smoothed his ruffled silks. "Thank you, sir,"
he said. "I'm grateful for your intervention."

"Just part of the job. sir."

"I am in your debt." An idea came to him. "I'm
beginning to wonder," he said. "Strange things have been
happening to me. A robbery, a friend of mine abducted
. . . now this. I wonder if this is the person that's been
doing it." He shrugged. "Best call the police, 1 suppose."
He reached for the wall service plate.

Calvin put out a hand. "Sir," he said, "if you deal with
the police now, you'll be late for your meeting with
Nichole."

Lieutenant Navarre looked blank. "Yes, I daresay. But
it can't be helped, can it?"

Calvin was smooth. "Sir, if! might recommend . . . ?"

"By all means."

"The Diadem has an understanding with the local police.
I'm certain that, should Nichole ask, the police would be
happy to forgo any interviews till a more convenient time."

Lieutenant Navarre seemed startled. "You can do that?"

"I'm positive, sir."

Navarre rubbed his back. "I seem to be pretty well
bruised."


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"Fortunately not on the face, sir. I can take you to a

188 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

doctor and a masseur on the way if you like, sir. But we'd
have to leave now."

Navarre looked at the sprawled body and hesitated.
"Should we leave this behind?"

"No one will disturb it, I'm sure.'*

The lieutenant seemed to make his mind up. "Very
well," he said, "I'll do as you advise."

Calvin gave a graceful, assenting bow. "Very good,
sir."

Lieutenant Navarre removed his torn shirt and donned
another. He looked at the selection of jackets he'd placed
on his couch and paused.

Calvin spoke up. "If I may suggest, sir?"

"By all means."

"The white mourning jacket. Very suitable."

"Thank you, Calvin." Lieutenant Navarre drew on the
jacket. Calvin helped lace him in, checking the jacket for
weapons or hidden cameras as he did so.

"Shall we leave then, Calvin?"

"As you like, sir."

Lieutenant Navarre picked up his mourning cloak and
carried it up the stair. Calvin followed on silent cat feet.
Navarre activated the house security systems as he left and
stepped out onto the roof.

"Thank you, Calvin. For everything."

Calvin opened the door of the heavy Jefferson-Singh
limo. "It was nothing, sir. All in a day's work."

CHAPTER 11

Countess Anastasia watched on vid as Drake Maijstral
stepped out of the Jefferson-Singh flier and into Nichole's
arms. She noticed he was carrying a small bag. "Damn!"
Her fist thudded into the arm of her stiff-backed wooden
chair. The cigaret she was holding flung ashes onto a
six-hundred-year-oid carpet. A robot hastened to clean
them up.

"We'll never get him out of there!" Her High Khosali
parsing indicated near-apocalyptic frustration. "He's prob-
ably carrying the Imperial Relic in that bag."

Baron Sinn nodded philosophically. "The next move
seems to be Maijstral's, my lady."



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The Countess ground her teeth. "I like it not. Baron."

Baron Sinn liked it less. This meant he was going to be
trapped in this house with an angry, restless Countess for a
very long time. Perhaps he should give her a chance to
work off her anger.

"Croquet, my lady?" he suggested, dooming himself to
a day of chasing his ball beneath the kibble trees.

Her answer, tongue lolling, seemed the smile of a fiend.

Safely in Nichole's suite with Calvin and his associates
on guard, Lieutenant Navarre toggled off the hologram of

189

190 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

Drake Maijstral. Nichole laughed and offered her hand.
Navarre gallantly sniffed her wrist, ignoring a persistent
twinge of his bruised back.

"You looked very like Maijstral, dressed in mourning,"
she said. "I'm pleased to see you. Lieutenant."

"The pleasure," said Navarre, "is all mine." He was
speaking the truth- He was thoroughly gratified to discover
that he felt very safe here.

Maijstra! turned off the vid and realaxed in his chair,
happy. Nichole knew how to carry off a deception, and her
foil, whoever he was, had played his part well, even to the
duplicate of the diamond Maijstral wore on his finger.

A robot rattled past on an errand, making its usual
bleeping noises. Maijstral clenched his teeth, then calmed
himself. He was learning to hate the robots, but now was
not the time for irritation. It was time to put forward his
plan.

Tvi watched the vid with interest. She turned to the
robot. "Bring up another bottle of the cabemet. The forty-
four, if you please."

"Yes, madam."

Since her flight from the Anastasia residence she'd done
fairly well. The first thing was to dump the Dewayne
Seven and steal a new Jefferson-Singh Hi-Sport. Since she'd
arrived on Peleng, she'd got used to them.

Then she'd found a place to hide out. It was a comfort-
able house of twelve room, apparently inhabited by a
family whose interests took them to Nana for half the year.
The household security was ancient and it had been child's
play to reprogram it to treat her as a member of the family.

Now she'd have to find a way to earn a living. She
sipped cabemet and thought about it.

THE CROWN JEWELS I 191

Stealing seemed like a good idea.


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She smiled. Life on Peleng was looking up.

"My name is Roman, my lord. At your service."

"Count Quik. Yours. Please sit."

Roman settled on a padded bench next to the Troxan. "I
see you have returned to the methane environment exhibit."

"Not got look before properly. Nichole in way with
globes. Many many crowdings."

"To be sure."

"I methane speak," said the Count.

Roman was inclined to wonder if he spoke methane in
as singular a manner as he seemed to speak everything
else, but the Count proceeded to demonstrate, leaning his
pumpkin-sized head toward a microphone that remained as
a relic of Nichole's visit. As the Count's voice pulsed
through the supercool environment, the methane creatures
blushed a delicate violet and began to cluster gelatinousty
toward the speakers. At their current rate it would take
them about half an hour.

"Congratulations, my lord," Roman said. "You seem
to have stimulated them admirably."

An answering communication moaned from hidden speak-
ers. The Count listened and made his reply.

"I told them you are with- Interested they were." His
head lolled in a peculiar Troxan manner. "Badly these
speakers do. Troxans better makes speakers."

"Undoubtedly the best, sir," Roman said. The Troxan
head was such a superb conductor of sound that they
tended as a species to be very particular about audio
equipment.

"Tell yourself," Count Quik suggested. "I tell will
then the methane critters."

*'! am a member of Drake Maijstral's entourage."

192 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"Interesting. Translation problems many indeed. No
word for 'thief in methane world."

"Perhaps a better world than ours, my lord."

"But boring-er."

"Duller. Yes, my lord. No doubt."

The Count chatted with the methane creatures. They
groaned in reply. Roman waited for a lapse in the
conversation.

"Mr. Maijstral," he interjected, "asked me to find
you."



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Count Quik's deep goggle eyes swiveled to Roman.
"Yes? Wherefore, Mr. Roman?"

"He hopes, sir, that you will consent to do him a
service. He realizes this is an unusual request, but he
hopes that once you understand the circumstances, you
will do him the honor of acting for him in a matter of
importance, in brief a matter concerning the Fate of the
Empire. He hopes that the matter may be resolved quickly
and satisfactorily, and in fine to your, and the Empire's,
advantage."

Count Quik's expression did not—in fact could not—
change, but it seemed to Roman that his gaze seemed to
intensify.

"You intrigue, Mr. Roman. Please speak on. I am all
ears."

Roman, as he prepared to unfold Maijstral's plot, re-
flected that, of all the times he had heard that last turn of
phrase, this was the only time it might be, quite literally,
true.

General Gerald gazed blearily at the young man on his
doorstep. Since waking from his inutterably pleasant, thor-
oughly violent dreams at the first touch of dawn, he had
climbed out of his armor and gone to bed, swearing to get

THE CROWN JEWELS I 193

enough sleep this time so that he wouldn't be caught
nodding if Maijstral appeared tonight. The young man's
appearance caught him by surprise. He didn't have visitors
very often. Sometimes he wondered if he intimidated people.

The General could see the young man through the door
without being observed himself. The visitor was dressed
formally, but in a bright radical style that pushed at once
the bounds of convention and the General's sense of the
harmonic possibilities of color. Cheeky, the General thought,
looking at him. Impudent. Needs discipline. Just look at
the way his hands are stuck in his pockets, the hi-stick
just hanging in his mouth. A tour in the service would do
him good.

A tour in the service was the General's automatic pre-
scription for many social ills. He opened the door.

"General Gerald?"

"Marines." Automatically. "Retired."

"My name is Gregor Norman. I am an associate of
Drake Maijstral-"

Surprised boiled in General Gerald's sleepy mind.
"What's that to me?" he barked, his voice still on auto-
matic pilot while he wondered what hell Maijstral was
playing at. Some attempt to get him out of his house so
that it could be rifled?

"Mr. Maijstral," Gregor said, "has come across some-


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thing which may interest you. Something relating, believe
it or don't, to nothing less than the Fate of the Constella-
tion."

If this was a ploy, the General thought, it was a bold
one.

General Gerald admired boldness.

He stepped back into his hallway. "Come in, young-
ster," he said.

"Thank you. General."

194 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"Leave the damned hi-stick outside. Don't you know
they're bad for you?"

Gregor hesitated a moment, then snapped the offending
stimulant in half and put it in his pocket.

At least, the General thought with satisfaction, Maijstral
had an assistant who knew how to obey orders.

The robot wove silently through the kibble arbor on its
way toward Baron Sinn. Sinn was using his mallet to
knock bits of fruit about, looking for his croquet ball. Thus
far he hadn't achieved success.

The robot proffered a telephone. "My lord. A call from
His Excellency Count Quik."

The Baron straightened. "He knows I'm here?" The
robot, not possessing a sense of irony, offered no answer.

Sinn glanced out onto the croquet lawn and saw Count-
ess Anastasia smoking a cigaret and gazing with malevo-
lent satisfaction at him—and at the scatter of red beneath
the kibble trees. "Very well," he said. 'Til take it."

The Baron, still kicking idly at fruit, took the telephone
from the robot's manipulator. The robot hovered over
fallen kibbles. Baron Sinn hesitated for a moment, glanc-
ing at the Countess and then at the robot, and then an idea
struck him. His tongue lolled in a smile.

"Robot," he ordered, "pick up all the fruit and put it
into piles." He held out a hand. "About this high. If you
find a croquet ball, let it lie."

"Yes, my lord."

Sinn's grin broadened as the robot went on its way, then
he touched the answer ideograph and the phone promptly
projected a miniature hologram of Count Quik's round
head before Sinn's snout.

"Good afternoon. Baron. Your most obedient."

THE CROWN JEWELS I 195

"Your ever faithful, my lord. It is a pleasant surprise to
hear from you."


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"Is day for surpnsings. Am myself surprised earlier."

"Pleasantly, I hope."

"I with friend spoke of Mr. Maijstral."

A rush   of frantic energy sped through the Baron's nerves
at the   sound of Maijstral's name, but it was a few seconds
before   he was able to decipher the Count's syntax and
make a   guess at what Count Quik had actually intended.

"You spoke with a fnend of Maijstral's, my lord?"
Wanting to be absolutely certain.

"Correct is. Requested assistance mine as neutral third
party, yet citizen of Empire. I gave."

Maijstral's insulating himself well. Baron Sinn thought
with a certain amount of admiration. And he moves fast.

He kept his expression amiable. "That was very gener-
ous of you my lord," he said.

"Offered compensation. Twenty percent. Declined."

"Of course, my lord."

"Disinteresting seemed best."

The robot was piling fruit into a small pyramid. No
croquet ball yet.

Sinn, as if on cue, affected disinterest as he gazed at
Count Quik. "What manner of assistance did Maijstral
believe he needed from Your Excellency?"

"I bids transmit, my Baron."

"I understand." Sinn considered this for a moment. "Is
there a place where you can be reached?"

"Yes. At Peieng Hotel now."

Behind his facade, Sinn cursed heartily. That was where
Etienne, Nichole, and (presumably) Maijstral were staying,
covered by Diadem security.

Delay, Baron Sinn thought. The longer the delay, the

196 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

better chance of catching Maijstral outside of his par-
amour's protection. He peered benignly into the hologram.

"I have no bid at present. Excellency. But I have no
doubt that I shall receive instructions from my consulate to
offer one,"

"Understandings, my lord. But dealings must be con-
cluded in one local day. Thirty-eight hours."

Sinn cursed again. Maijstral seemed to have thought, of
everything. "I have no concrete assurance of what His



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Majesty's government will or will nor offer," he said,
*'but I am certain they are willing to offer a fair price for
return of the Imperial Artifact." Baron Sinn's ears pricked
forward intently. "However, should the Imperial Artifact
not be returned at the end of this adventure, I trust that
your principal will take care to understand the conse-
quences of such an unfriendly act. When great empires
play for great stakes, the counters are oft at hazard."

"Understandmgs, Baron Sinn. Your servant, sir."

"Yours." Nuance, the Baron thought, nuance.

The Count's hologram faded. Baron Sinn noticed that
the robot seemed to have left a single round, red object
alone during the course of its pile-making. The Baron
walked over to it and prodded it with his mallet. It was
definitely his croquet ball.

He lit a cigarel and addressed the robot. "Continue
piling the fruit."

"Yes, sir."

Baron Sinn drove his ball back into play and strolled
back onto the lawn. The Countess tossed her cigaret off
the playing field and walked to her bail.

"I set the robot to clearing the kibbles away. I hope you
don't mind "

The Countess betrayed no sign of chagrin. "Not at all,
Baron." She stood above her ball and readied her mallet.

THE CROWN JEWELS I 197

"I should have thought of that myself, when I handed you
my special ball. Please forgive my lack of foresight."

"Of course, my lady."

Countess Anastasia squinted as she took aim. "Was the
call anything of importance. Baron?" she asked.

The Baron timed his comment perfectly. "MaijstraPs
agent, my lady."

The stroke hit off-center and the ball spun of on a
tangent. "Bad luck. Countess," said Baron Sinn, and
prepared to roquet and drive the Countess's ball off the
court, beneath her kibble trees.

He was beginning to enjoy the game.

"Of course I'll take the twenty percent, youngster!
D'you take me for a fool?"

Paavo Kuusinen watched the game of croquet in mount-
ing frustration. Nothing had developed at Amatia Jensen's
place since the Humanity Prime goon squad had returned
to its roost. Drake Maijstral was, it appeared, safely under
Nichole's protection. Kuusinen had flown to the Count-
ess's place in hope of seeing something dramatic, and found



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only a game of croquet and a robot piling kibble fruit.

Kuusinen sighed. He decided to fly to Lieutenant
Navarre's in hope of viewing some new developments.

Since he'd been in on the beginning, he'd hate to miss
the finish.

Amalia Jensen had spent the afternoon getting acquainted
with the discouraging fact of her house being used as a
barracks for a host of armed and belligerent men, and her
response had finally been to throw up her hands in despair
and retreat to her room. There she had been watching the
video news, hoping to discover some news of MaijstraPs

198 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

current whereabouts, and listened instead to a report about
the current wave of odd crimes affecting Peleng City and
vicinity: one theft from Lieutenant Navarre's house that
involved an object of small value taken by highly expen-
sive means; one violent kidnapping followed a short time
later by inexplicable release; one equally inexplicable
armed attack on Countess Anastasia's mansion; a violent
intrusion at a country house, where robots were shot and
the house torn apart; and now—a late development—a
violent attack on Lieutenant Navarre by a Khosalikh in a
Ronnie Romper disguise.

Amalia Jensen straightened in her chair. The newscaster,
a supercilious Khosalikh, pointed out that Ronnie Romper
disguises had been used by the perpetrators of the Jensen
kidnapping. Facts seemed scanty at the moment, but this
didn't stop the news writers from speculating.

Cold fingers touched Amalia Jensen's neck at the report
that Ronnie Romper had been killed during the attempt,
apparently by a visitor who happened onto the scene. The
newscast hadn't identified the Khosatikh even as to sex,
and she couldn't be certain that it wasn't Tvi. In fact it
very likely was, since the tall Khosalikh had probably been
too badly injured in the attack on the Countess's mansion
to participate in further devilment.

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 identi-
fication at ail."

"Something's going on."

"Damn right there is." This last was a comment from

THE CROWN JEWELS / 199



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Captain Tartaglia, who had appeared in the doorway. Amalia
quickly composed her features and tried to hide her reac-
tive 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."

Amaiia 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."

200 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"Perhaps he wants to be careful. 1 am given to under-
stand 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 your-
self 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 broad-
ened, conveying pure, malevolent joy. "Maijstral wishes
the bidding concluded in the next thirty-eight hours—one



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day. I'm getting twenty percent as middleman. Do I hear
any bids?"

TartagHa pushed Amatia 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. Some-
one 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 Constella-
tion 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!
1 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 altogether. I suggest,

THE CROWN JEWELS I 201

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 adominishing finger. "Money
speaks louder than sarcasm, puppy."

Amalia could see Tartaglia's hands trembling with sup-
pressed 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. "1*11 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 Maijslral."

"1*11 do it and be back in touch. I expect the bidding
will go higher." His eyes seemed to search out of the holo


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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 Constella-
tion, 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.

202 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"We'll get MaijstraTs 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 ail."

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 arras 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 CROWN JEWELS I 203

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,


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but decided that hearing the Eroica unhindered was worth
the cost. Maijstral called up Peleng City's Personal No-
tices bulletin board, where General Gerald had posted
Humanity Prime's bid. A smile crossed his face. A hun-
dred 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 trans-
mitted 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 flash-
ing lights. Maijstral suppressed a spasm of irritation.

Both factions promised violence unless he sold the arti-
fact to their side. If worse came to worse, 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, particu-
larly in reference to his thoughts last evening, when Ro-
man 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 pro-
vided 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.

204 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

Two down! Maijstral thought cheerily.

Gregor put his toots 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


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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 . . ." Maijstrai feigned hesita-
tion. "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?"

Maijstra! 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-

THE CROWN JEWELS I 205

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."

Maijstrai 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.



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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 ptace, and kept
asking after Miss Jensen."

206 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"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 1
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 *hink 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 ac-
tresses." 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. Lieuten-
ant. 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 move-
ments with admiration.

Time, obviously enough, for a conspiracy.

"Your salad, sir."

THE CROWN JEWELS I 207

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

"It is, sir. An small conceit of mine."

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


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"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."

Maijstra! spoke in Khosali. The logic seemed to express
itself better. "We have it in our power to effect the course
of history."

"Sir."

"It is not a responsibility I have ever desired. My
lifelong interests, I'm afraid, have been rather more pedes-
trian. These elements of galactic intrigue have caught me
entirely by surprise."

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

Maijstral smiled. This was Khosali proverb, and Roman
to the bone.

"Very true," Maijstral assented. "Circumstance com-
pelled me into this situation, and I could, if I desired, let
circumstance compel me out of it."

Roman's interest was obviously piqued. "By allowing
the bidding to proceed as it will, and delivering the reli-
quary to the highest bidder?"

Maijstrai put down his fork. "Just so."

Roman's ears pricked forward. "You wish not to be
compelled in such a way, sir?"

Maijstral drew his ear back into a pose of cautious
reflection. He contemplated his cooling salad and won-

208 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

dered exactly how he was going to bring this off- He could
tell Roman that Sinn and Amalia Jensen had threatened
him, but that would just drive Roman into a righteous fury
and before long Roman would start prodding Maijstral into
challenging everyone in sight. Maijstral would have to find
another way. "Roman," he said, "I have no desire to be
responsible for the destruction of me Imperial line. It is the
symbol of a civilization older than humanity. Regardless
of politics, I do not feel that I have a right to say whether
the Pendjalli should live or die."

"But honor compels you to maintain the honesty of the
bidding."

"Yes." Maijstral picked up his fork and poked aim-
lessly at his salad. "You see me caught up in a dilemma,
Roman."


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"Sir, I hardly feel myself qualified to advise—"

Maijstral threw up his hands. "If not you, Roman,
who?"

Roman's nostrils flickered in agitation. Maijstral was
pleased with his own performance, but he knew that the
cry of desperation was not entirely feigned. If he couldn't
persuade Roman to a certain course of action, Peleng—
and, for that matter, everywhere else—would become a far
more dangerous place for all of them.

"Sir," Roman said, "pray allow me to think for a
moment."

"Of course." Maijstral feigned a renewed interest in his
salad and watched Roman through hooded eyes. The
Khosalikh's nose twitched; his ears inclined back, left,
right; his hands played over the cooking gear. Roman was
clearly fighting something out in his mind.

"Sir," Roman said, "could it not be said that some
duties transcend honor, and that the preservation of life is

THE CROWN JEWELS I 209

one of them? Could it not furthermore be said that the
preservation of innocent life is in itself an honorable duty?"

Relief and joy bubbled into Maijstral. Carefully he sup-
pressed all signs of it. "Well . . . ," he said.

"The Imperials, of course, consider the royal family
itself the expression of a transcendent ideal, whatever the
opinion on this side of the political boundary."

"Roman," Maijstral said, "it would mean deceiving
our clients."

"That it would, sir."

"It would mean deceiving Gregor. Someone with his
background would never understand our appreciation of
the Pendjalli ideal."

Roman thought for a moment. "That would be difficult,
sir.''

Maijstral raised his napkin to his lips. "That is why we
should plan now. While Gregor is away."

"Three hundred."
"Four-fifty."
"Seven hundred."
"A thousand."

"I didn't expect to see you until the swap, youngster. It
might be dangerous for you if you're seen here."

"I took precautions. My boss has sent me with a propo-
sition, General."

"Yes? You interest me."


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"Mr. Maijstral isn't totally without sympathies in this
job. General. He would prefer that one side—the human
side—comes out on top."

210 / WALTER JON WiLUAMS

The General's eyes twinkled. "He does? Tell me."
"Only too."

"Fifteen hundred."

"He wants it how?"

"Cash, Captain."

"Cash? Not a credit counter?" Pause. "There may not
be that much cash on the planet."

"I am assured there is- There is always a demand for
untraceable funds in even the most ordered society."

"Mr. Romans. Am pleased."

"You're too kind, my lord."

"Please share brandy."

"Your servant."

"Surprised you to see. After threatenings I thought you
would stay close."

"Mr. Maijstral has sent me with a proposition. He is not
entirely without conviction in this matter. He has a senti-
mental affection for the Imperial household, and wishes
them long life and success."

"Very interesting- Please say more and continue."

"Wait a minute, youngster."

"Sir?"

"This sounds more complicated than necessary. How do
I know you're not going to pull a switch?"

"The cryo container will be in plain sight the entire
time. You'll be able to observe it, and Mr. Maijstrat won't
touch it. If we pull a switch, you'll know."

"But Mr. Romans, forgive me. How certains can we be
of Imperial spunk?"

THE CROWN JEWELS f 211

"Large areas of the Imperial genetics have been mapped,
my lord. Certainly a comparison can be run just before the
exchange."

"Gregor."
"Yes, boss."

"I shall have to run an errand tonight. Please don't



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mention my absence to Roman."
A smirk. "Right, boss. Like you say."

"Twenty-one hundred."

"Roman?"

"Sir?"

"I shall be away from the house tonight. I'm sure you
can guess why."

Pause. "Yes, sir. Will you need my assistance?"

"I suspect the Peleng City sperm bank has only rudi-
mentary security."

"As you like, sir."

"Please do not mention to Gregor that anything out of
the ordinary has occurred."

"Indeed not, sir."

"Twenty-five."
"Twenty-eight fifty."

The Imperial Artifact sat gleaming on Maijstral's desk.
He had just returned from his raid on the sperm bank and
was stilt dressed in his darksuit. His bound hair was piled
on the top of his head. He was wearing image-intensifiers
over his eyes; his hands were sheathed in gloves that
detected the flow of energy. The house was silent save for

212 / MMLTEfl JO/V WILLIAMS

a bleeping robot—the last—bumbling about in the outside

hallway.

Before him was equipment for the storage and preserva-
tion of Khosali sperm. He had stolen no sperm himself—he
had to use the Emperor's genuine article with the mapped
Pendjalli genes, otherwise the deals he'd made would fall
through.

Carefully he traced the patterns of the reliquary's de-
sign. The pulse of electrons beat against his temples.

He thought about his plan, and part of his mind quailed.
He was needlessly complicating things. He was adding
appreciably to his own danger.

Patterns formed in Maijstral's mind. Toots moved effi-
ciently in his hands.

There was a click. A part of the artifact rotated, then
slid aside. Frost formed in delicate patterns along the
engraving as cryogenic chill touched the air.

The artifact was open, and at his mercy.

CHAPTER 12



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Confident in their dreams, the methane creatures in the
Peleng City Zoo pursued their slow life as they slid through
their frozen ammonia sea. Though they surely possessed
language and limited understanding, their watchers were not
certain whether or not to credit them with genuine intelli-
gence. Insulated from an outside that would have vapor-
ized them in an instant, the creatures crawled at glacial
speed through their habitat, absorbing nutrition and each
other, casting off waste and new individuals. Their percep-
tion limited to sound and touch, they were happy in their
enclosure, safe from overly disturbing contact with the
amusing delusions outside.

Those watching through the zoo monitors would have
been surprised to discover that the methane creatures did
not credit the watchers' reality. Instead the methanites
were convinced that the odd pulsings directed toward them
from the speakers were a form of consensual hallucination,
an unintended by-product of their own vibrant fantasies.
The methanites, for much of their history, had been con-
structing a long dramatic work—an elevated, intricate mo-
saic, abstract as an opera, torrid as a romance, filled with
gods and devils, humor and philosophy, wonder and strange-

213

214 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

ness, the whole of which commented upon and criticized
itself as it went. The endless work had taken on a complex
life of it own, novel plot twists appearing unforeseen out
of what had seemed to be simple dramatic devices, new
insights into character blossoming with astonishing regu-
larity even in characters so old their birth was coterminous
with that of the species that had created them.

Attempts to communicate with the methanites had seemed,
in the ammonia sea, to take on aspects of these spontane-
ously generated insights. This was, the creatures con-
cluded, a new, intense form of hallucination, and they
began a long discussion into the nature of their own sub-
conscious, wondering whence such thoughts derived, a
debate that (to date) has not been resolved. Count Quik's
explanation of Maijstral's mode of living had sent a shock
wave through the small methanite community; perhaps the
concept of "thief* could be integrated with the Great
Work, perhaps not. The concept presupposed material pos'
sessions, which the methanites did not have, and which
they could not manipulate if they had. The notion of
possession seemed, at the very least, a radical exercise in
speculative philosophy. The methanite subconscious, me
creatures concluded, was proving more inventive than had
previously been suspected.

We should not feel too superior. The methanites' physi-
cal horizons may be limited, but their mental life is lively.
Consider also how the methanite experience may be taken
as a paradigm of our own. We, like the near-zero crea-
tures, live bounded by conceptual walls of our own mak-
ing, and they go by many names: religion skepticism,
ideology, propriety. High Custom—indeed, High Custom
is a deliberate exclusion of some modes of experience in


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favor of those considered more elevated or worthwhile.
High Custom at least admits to its limitations. The totality

THE CROWN JEWELS / 215

of experience, the agon of corporal existence and the
universe ... no cultural or ideological construct seems to
deal with the macrocosm at all well. The methanites have
chosen their illusions, and seem happy with them. That is
more than many of us can claim.

Paavo Kuusinen was feeling very much like a creature
surrounded by walls not of his own making and was
beginning to wonder if the events of the last few days
might not, in fact, be some odd product of his fevered
mind. He was frustrated with a day of watching people go
about what seemed to be very ordinary lives—how could,
after the last few days, everyone behave so normally?
Kuusinen finally gave up his watch and went to his hotel
for the evening. At least it would give him a chance to
bathe and change clothes. His room seemed faintly sur-
prised to see him—he hadn't been home for almost two
days.

On rising, he ordered first breakfast and scanned the
room's computers for any recent developments. The police
remained baffled, Maijstral remained in Nichole's suite,
and—Kuusinen's ears pricked forward—Nichole had an-
nounced Maijstral as her escort for this evening's farewell
ball in honor of the Diadem's departure.

He paged through his messages, found his invitation
waiting in computer storage, and ordered it (and the mag-
netic code strip that would get him past Diadem security)
printed out.

At least tonight he'd be able to get a took at everybody.
Maybe their behavior would tell him something.

"You'll excuse us. Lieutenant, I hope."

"Certainly, madam."

Lieutenant Navarre bowed, sniffed Nichole's ears and

216 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

Maijstral's, and stepped from Nichoie's parlor into her
withdrawing room. The door slid shut behind him. Nichole
looked at Maijstral with bright eyes. He smiled.

"A new passion, my lady?"

Nichole made a face. "I said, did I not, that you knew
me too well?"

"He has been here two nights. There was no need for
him to stay—he could have left wearing his own face- And
now I find the two of you finishing breakfast."

She took his arm and sighed. "He is a startling man. He
has a trick memory—can't forget anything. It's astonish-
ing, the clarity of his recollections. And he's done things,


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Drake. Saved lives, risked his own. He's been doing all
this while I've been taking tours in front of the cameras.
With him, it's all been real."

"I wish you joy, Nichole."

She laughed. "Thank you, Drake. You know, I'm very
glad to see you in one piece."

He smiled and kissed her. "Happy to be in one piece,
my lady."

"Shall I order second breakfast?"

"Thank you, no. I've already eaten."

"Here. Sit beside me."

Maijstral removed some fax from his place and idly
scanned the lines as he handed them to a robot. "A play,
Nichole?"

She gave him a coven smile. "Indeed. Lieutenant Navarre
suggested I would be good in it."

He looked at her. "Is he correct?"

"It's a marvelous part. The character is a manipulator
and she plays half a dozen strong roles just in maneuvering
the other characters into behaving as she wishes."

"Will you do it?"

THE CROWN JEWELS I 217

"The character isn't exactly young. Once one starts doing
mature parts, one can't exactly go back to playing ingenues."

"But you will do it, yes?"

'*! think so." She bit her lower Hp. "I wonder if I'm up
to it. It calls for such range."

Maijstra! took her hand and squeezed it. "Courage."

She smiled wanly. "Yes. I'll do it. I know I'll do it. But
I'd just as soon agonize a little more over the decision if
it's all the same to you. I'd hate to think I was taking it
lightly."

"While you are agonizing, my lady, allow me to show
you something." Maijstral pulled the lace back from his
wrist, reached into a pocket, and raised his hand to show
two small cryogenic vials in his palm. He rotated his wrist,
showed Nichole the back of his hand, then rotated his
wrist again. There was only one vial in his hand. Nichole
nodded approvingly.

"Very good," she said. Maijstral made the motions
again, and both vials appeared in his palm.

"Do you think, my lady," he asked, "that you can
possibly leam to do this by tonight?"



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Nichole looked stem. "1 am not participating in any
conspiracy, Maijstral, not without knowing what it's all
about. Not even for you, Drake."

He bowed to her while the vials appeared and vanished
between his fingers. "Naturally you must know, my lady,"
he said. "But I must caution you not to repeat anything I
tell you to Lieutenant Navarre. If he found any of this out,
he'd have to challenge half the people at the ball tonight."
He looked at her and smiled, anticipating her reaction, the
vials dancing in his fingers. "Nothing less," he said,
"then the Fate of Civilization is at stake."

218 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

The ideographs for "happy journey" and "sad leave
taking" floated solemnly through the air of the ballroom,
oblivious to the dancing media globes. The orchestra,
on an a-grav balcony near the ceiling, played music
suitable for strolling about and being seen. Below the
orchestra two Elvis impersonators cut each other dead.
Etienne stood in solemn scarlet, fingered the hilt of
his rapier (a reminder of his duel), and yawned politely
into the faces of his admirers- Nichole was dressed in
a slightly old-fashioned black gown that revealed her
glorious pale shoulders and which featured panniers.
She fended off questions about Drake Maijstral with
practiced ease. Politicians and local celebrities baked in
the strong light; the self-conscious sought alcoves and
hovered by the punch bow!; others clustered in knots,
their faces to the wall—an Imperialist knot at one end
of the room, for example, or a Constellation knot at the
other. Each knot frowned, scowled, shuffled its collective
feet.

In between, another knot. Maijstral, Gregor, and Ro-
man, facing outward, open to influence. Each smiling,
each for reasons entirely his own.

"Yes. I don't need the glass anymore, thank the Vir-
tues. The bruising's all gone." Covering a yawn-

*'l notice you are armed this evening. Are you com-
pelled to another encounter?''

Scowling- "I'm afraid I can't stay. I don't talk about
that son of thing."

"Drake."

"Nichole." He sniffed her gently, then kissed her wrist.
Globes jostled for the best view. Nichole, smiling, spoke

THE CROWN JEWELS ! 219

in an undertone. Her lips, lo the complete frustration of
video lip-readers, barely moved.

"I've asked the orchestra to play the Pilgrimage to the
Cinnamon Temple for twice the usual number of mea-
sures. I trust that will suffice."

"Thank you. madam. I believe it will suit very well."


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He turned to the others in his entourage. "Nichole, may I
present my associate, Roman?"

"Happy to see you again, my dear." For the benefit of
the cameras. "We are old friends, of course."

Resonant sniffs. "I am honored, madam. You are most
lovely tonight."

"Thank you, Roman. You look well."

"Very kind of you to notice, madam."

"Nichole," said Maijstral, "this is my junior associate,
Mr. Gregor Norman."

"Mr. Norman."

"Ah. Charmed. Madam." Gregor, confronted far too
suddenly by the appearance of a woman who personified
years of adolescent yearning, lunged forth and seized
Nichole's hand in his own damp palm. Nichole, with an
assured turn of her arm, carefully avoided the dislocation
of her elbow. Her smile remained tranquil. She turned to
Roman. Gregor blinked sweat from his eyes and silently

cursed himself.

"I hope you will come see me, before I leave. Perhaps

tomorrow morning."

Roman's tongue lolled. "I would be delighted, should
Mr. Maijstral not be needing me."

Maijstral gave an indulgent smile. He had never ceased
to be a iittle bemused by the mutual attraction between
Nichole and his servant. "Of course you may go, Ro-
man," he said. "That is, assuming that any of us are still
alive by morning."

220 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"The Jensen woman is here."

"I have seen her. Countess."

"I don't like this Fast stratagem, Baron. It seems overly
complicated to me."

"Maijstral wished to continue his life here in the Con-
stellation. The Empire has no preference either way."

"But you trust him."

"Yes and no." A hesitation. "He knows what will
happen if he disappoints us."

"Yes." The Countess's voice growled with satisfaction.
"That is true. If he is afraid, he is our servant. Nothing
else matters."

"The Imperials are here, Amalia."



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"Yes, Pietro." She smiled. "Imperials doomed to dis-
appointment. My favorite sort."

"You seem in good spirits."

"Why should I not be? We've won. And according to
the broadcasts, the Imperial who died turned out to be the
one I would have preferred dead." A moment's reflection.
"Not that I would have wanted anyone dead, of course."

"Of course. I understood what you meant."

"And the one who was really . . . sort of nice ... is
still alive." She smiled, and took his hand. "Besides.
After this is all over. we have our own plans."

"Lieutenant Navarre?"

"Yes, Mr.—I'm afraid my memory, sir ... ?"
"Kuusinen. Your most obedient servant."
"Of course. You must forgive me."
"But certainly. The last few days must have been a
strain."
Navarre looked about uneasily. He was still glancing

THE CROWN JEWELS I 221

over his shoulder every so often, looking for threats—mad
puppets waving magic wands, that sort of thing.

"Yes," he said. "True."

"1 wonder if there has been any news of your attacker's
identity?"

"It appears he was a deserter from the Imperial Army.
No one seems to have any idea how he got here, or what
he thought he was doing. I suspect the creature must have
been mad."

"No doubt. There is no word on his accompiice?"

"Accomplice, sir?"

"If your deserter was one of the Rompers involved in
Miss Jensen's kidnapping, then he had a partner."

Navarre glanced over his shoulder again. He saw Nichole
and smiled, his blood warming- She smiled back- "I have
wondered about that," he said. "Of course, the security
here is first-rate."

"Of course."

"Still. I'm giad I'm only on this planet for a short
while."

"Your obedience, gentlemens."
"Count Quik. Your servant."
"Miss Nicholes. Most pleasant is my beseeing you."
"Thank you, my lord. If you will excuse me?"
"Certainlies." Turning to Roman and Maijstral. "Should
we be about things?"



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Nichole reached into her pannier with her right hand,
felt the touch of the cryogenic viai. She practiced the
switch, once, twice. Nodded to Etienne in passing, and
practiced the switch again. Her heart was beating a little
faster than usual—she wondered if her nervousness showed.

222 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

This wasn't the type of performance she was used to.
Lives depended on this.

She cast a glance across the room to Lieutenant Navarre.
He was clearly visible: tall, copper-skinned, cloaked in
mourning. She had the feeling that he would do far better
in this kind of intrigue than she; he was, after all, a man of
action- He was speaking to man in an Imperial-cut coat
who looked slightly familiar. Navarre glanced over his
shoulder, saw Nichole, and nodded. At once her heart
lifted.

Nichole performed the switch, flawlessly, the best she'd
ever done.

She returned Navarre's smile and moved on, surrounded
by the floating silver globes-
General Gerald loomed above the throng, his massive
chest crowded with medals. He looked sternly down at
Maijstral and briskly sniffed his neck. Maijstral sniffed
back, his ears pinned back, his manner just as crisp. The
General turned to Gregor.

"Are we ready, youngster?" Gregor bowed, his lace
cuffs swishing the floor.

"At your service. General.*' General Gerald frowned.
Try as he might to behave otherwise, there was something
about Gregor that was definitely Non-U.

"Let's gel about it, then," he growled.

Countess Anastasia stood motionless as a statue and
watched Roman with eyes of ammonia ice. Baron Sinn's
tongue lolled with satisfaction. "Definitely of the Imperial
line."

Count Quik's melodious voice piped up in the small
room- "Satisfaction, then?"

THE CROWN JEWELS / 223

"Yes, my lord." Baron Sinn gave the vial to Roman,
who drew a pocket disruptor.

"Please step back. My Lord Baron," he said, and
quickly sterilized the analyzer, killing anything of Nnis
CVI that remained in the machine. He bowed to the Baron.
"Your servant," he said.

Baron Sinn hefted his small leather bag of cash. "Yours
ever," he said.

Roman made his conge, "We shall meet again, my
lord, as pilgrims to the Cinnamon Temple."


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Roman and Count Quik took their leave. The Countess
took the Baron's arm. "It's too complicated," she said.

"We have little choice. Our other options could have
endangered the Imperial Relic."

"Nevertheless," the Countess said, "1 find it difficult to
believe in this miraculous switch."

"It seems well thought out."

"Simplest plans," the Countess said in her best High
Khosali, "are easiest undertaken."

"How true," said the Baron piously, wrinkling his nose
in distaste at this exchange of profundities. "But the best
stew requires many ingredients." He felt the Countess's
hand stiffen on his arm. Truly, he thought, he was learning
how to dea! with this woman.

"Paavo Kuusinen, madam. Your servant."
"Mr. Kuusinen. 1 believe we have met?"
"Very kind of you to remember, madam."
"Please walk by me. We shall converse."
"Delighted, Miss Nichoie." She put her left arm through

his right. He cleared his throat. "I wonder, madam, if I

might have the honor of the Pilgrimage?"

"I'm afraid that dance is taken, Mr. Kuusinen. Perhaps

the Crystal Leaf?"

224 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"Enraptured, madam." Beat. "Madam, may I inquire
if you are a bit nervous? Is there a way I can assist you?"

Nichole stiffened. "Why do you ask, Mr. Kuusinen?"

"Your right hand, madam. If you'll pardon the observa-
tion, you appear to be clutching something in your pannier."

Nichole's hand jerked from her pannier as if stung. She
shot a look at Kuusinen, then calmed herself. "A gift, Mr.
Kuusinen. It was presented to me just before my arrival,
and I haven't had time to open it. I am in some suspense; I
must be showing it."

"I understand, madam. I hope my impertinence is
forgiven."

She gave him another look. His face was entirely too
composed for her liking. "Naturally, sir," she said. And
wondered.

"Mr. Maijstral?" The question came from a hovering
media giobe. It was a male Khosali voice.

"Sir?"

"May I inquire, with all delicacy, about your relation-


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ship with Miss Nichole?"

"We are old friends, sir."

"Perhaps more than that. You have spent three nights in
her company."

"Have I?"

"Are you saying that you have not?"

"I suggest—'with all delicacy,' to use your own idiom—
that your questions imply far more than ever my answers
shall." He cocked an eye at Lieutenant Navarre. "But
now, if you will excuse me, I must abandon this banquet
of delicacy. I see another old friend across the room."

Captain Tartaglia, his rangers by his side, watched the
vid with fury. What was the interviewer yammering about?

THE CROWN JEWELS I 225

Why didn't he ask him a meaningful question, such as
where the hell was the Emperor's jism? If Tartaglia had
been there, you could bet Maijstral would have to answer a
sharp question or two.

Gnawing his tips in anger, Tartaglia searched the back-
ground for sight of Amalia Jensen and Pietro and saw only
the erect, massive figure of the traitor General Gerald
marching toward the back of the room. The invitations to
the ball had been in their name, and neither of them had
been willing to surrender their invitations to him. Damn
them for insubordination!

Tasting blood, Captain Tartaglia growled at the video.
Someone would pay for this if Maijstral's scheme was
only a trick-

"Yes." Amalia Jensen smiled. "Definitely the Imperial
culture."

"With your permission, madam."

Gregor drew his disruptor and, taking careful aim, fired
three shots into the analyzer. The machine fizzled and
died. General Gerald, looming behind Gregor, gave a
massive chuckle.

Smiles spread across the features of Pietro and Amalia.
"Sterilized," Pietro breathed. He hefted his bag of cash.

Gregor removed the vial from the machine. "The Impe-
rials will receive this sterile vial. You, in return for your
cash, will receive the remaining live culture. Until the
dance starts you can keep me under observation to confirm
that all will be as planned."

"Fear not, sir," Amalia said. "We shall."

"Mr. Maijstral," Gregor said, "will be on the side of
the dance set away from any transfers. The vials won't go
near him." He cleared his throat. "I suggested that. I



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thought you might like it better that way."

226 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

Maijstral and Lieutenant Navarre walked arm-in-arm
down the length of the ballroom. "Please don't underesti-
mate the pressures under which you will both live," Maijstra!
said. "Being watched all the time. Endless security ar-
rangements. Intrusive questions."

Navarre cocked his ears in the direction of the hovering
media globes. "I could get used to it," he said. And
managed, for once, to stifle the impulse to glance over his
shoulder.

"I could not. Lieutenant, and I had a certain amount of
practice before I ever met Nichole. But I wish you more
success than I."

"I thank you, sir. You have been more-than generous,
considering the circumstances."

The orchestra fell silent, and the audience tapped their
feet m appreciation. Trumpets rang out. Lines for the
Cinnamon Temple began to form.

Maijstral took Nichole's arm and sensed her nervous-
ness. He squeezed her hand. "Courage, madam," he said.
"1 have every confidence."

"I'm afraid, Maijstral."

"You will do very well. Your stage fright, I seem to
remember, always ends as the orchestra calls the overture.''

"The overture just ended, and I am still trembling."

Green fires winked in Maijstral's lazy eyes. "The dance
begins, madam. And with the dance, the comedy. For that
is what this is, nothing more. We should laugh at this
circumstance, not feel reproach." He kissed her hand and
led her to her place.

"Count Quik. Your servants."
"Sallie Eirond, my lord. 1 saw you at the zoo yesterday."

THE CROWN JEWELS I 227

"You seemed in familiarity."

"I spend a lot of time mere. I speak methanile."

Pause. "Do you, indeed?"

"Paavo Kuusmen, madam. Wilt you do me the honor?"

"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 misad-


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venture."

"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 direc-
tion?"

"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 condo-
lences."

228 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

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, Maijslral. 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
alt."

Etienne twirled one of his mustachios. "Do you realiy
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 Presiey. OfGraceland."



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"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 pig-
ment 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 encom-

THE CROWN JEWELS I 229

passed forgery—as long as she was with the Secret Dra-
goons, 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 Amaiia Jensen moving up the set, part-
nered 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 Maijstrai's eye.

"General Gerald."
"Countess Anastasia."
A frigid silence prevailed.

"Gregor Norman, madam."

"Your servant, sir. 1 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 fer-

230 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS



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reted 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 aristo-
cratic 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's face 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, young-
ster. 1 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.

"Oh. Thank you, sir. I'm sure we'll be very happy."

THE CROWN JEWELS I 231

"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 contra-
dict that interpretation."

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




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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.

A bit startled, Maijstral almost missed a step. He recov-
ered 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

232 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

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 leam it.

Now, at last, it was his turn to stay still while the third
couples made a passage. Mentally counting out eight mea-
sures, 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 uncov-
ered 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, "1 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


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that way.

He thought a few figures ahead, made a rapid calcula-
tion. 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."

THE CROWN JEWELS I 233

"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 noble-
man, 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'li 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

234 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

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


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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, 1 will bum every copy."

Maijstral smiled. *'I shall consider the recording's ar-
rival 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. May 1 offer you my congratulations?

THE CROWN JEWELS t 235

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 Amaiia's features. "Gen-
eral," 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



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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, ^or 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.

236 / WALTER JON WfLUAMS

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 tum-
bling from Nichole's fingers, perceived the look of horror
on her face. Time seemed to stop.

Maijstral caught the movement out of the comer 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?

THE CROWN JEWELS I 237

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 Count-


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ess 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 flaw-
lessly, and passed the switched vial to her left. "For Baron
Sinn," she said.

The Imperial Marines started to fade from MaijstraFs
mind.

Nichole looked at the old gentleman, who was still
gazing at his outstretched vial. She took his hand in hers,
helped him tum 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. Grad-
ually the lines sorted themselves out.

238 / WALTER JON WILUAMS

*'I believe, sir," said Gregor, "that this is where you

reverse."

"Oh. 1 don't doubt you arc 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 mis wasn't going to work."

Lights flickered on the scanner. Baron Smn 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."


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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."
[n 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, Maijstrat 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 Impe-

THE CROWN JEWELS I 239

rial 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 couid
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 han-
dled 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 ro-
mance. The unknown heir, raised as a foster child far
away, would become the next Pendjalli, to his own sur-
prise 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."



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240 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

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

Maijstral recollected that he should be suffering intima-
tions 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 Peteng, he decided, had been quite satisfac-
tory.

He would have a lot to tell his employer.

He knew he would see Maijstral again.

CHADTEC13

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 Tartagtia, and looked at the small
vial propped on a chair.

It seemed unchanged. Tartagha 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

241

242 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

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.


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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, Cap-
tain. It's what we should have done in the first place."

Tartaglia told himself he didn't much care, and to con-
centrate 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 would be satisfied,
the diamond ring would be redeemed, there would be
enough left for some long-term investments. Always as-
suming, 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."

Maijstral frowned. "I'd like to thank him personally,

THE CROWN JEWELS I 243

but 1 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



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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 ob-
served 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."

244 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

"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. "Pos-
sibly you don't recognize me. My name is Tvi." Joy filled
Amalia's heart.

"I recognize the voice perfectly well."

Tvi's tongue lolted as AmaHa gave her a hug.

"1 was uncertain of my reception."

"I think we can put politics aside for the nonce. 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


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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 glori-
ous battle he had anticipated would never take place.

He had no reason to feel disappointed, he thought. He
had performed a singlar service to the Constellation, and
though his role would never become public, he could lake
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.

THE CROWN JEWELS I 245

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 hap-
pened 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 1 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, "1 found
being held hostage a broadening experience. In any case,


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246 / WALTER JON WILLIAMS

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 fiance
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. "Ar-
rangements." 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.

Maijstrat 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

THE CROWN JEWELS / 247

aim that remark at you, Maijstral. 1 understood your deci-
sion entirely, much as I regretted your making it."

"I did not take offense."

There was a moment's silence- "So what will you do,
Drake, to assuage your broken heart?"

There was a quiet glow deep within his lazy eyes.
"Loot Peleng of everything I can carry off. It's the least


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this planet can do considering the trouble I've had here.
Some of my targets are days overdue."

"Sounds as if you'll compensate for romantic disap-
pointment well enough."

"I'll manage, my lady."

She smiled, squeezed his hand. "Are you pleased, then,
Drake? With your part in this?"

"I cannot say i welcomed this, or am thankful I was
involved. But it seems to have come out well enough,
especially considering the potential for mayhem. I may
even say that, for most of us anyway, 1 have achieved
something of a happy ending."

Nichole's laughter rang in the room. "1 suppose you
have! Tell me—was it the ending you intended?"

His eyes were completely hidden. "Near enough, my
lady," he said- And with that she had to be content-




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