The Crown Jewels (5 page)

On the Imperial side of the border there are a number of voices loudly proclaiming the Constellation an insane aberration, 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, a fact which is offered by human partisans as a major reason for the revolt’s success. The Reconquest Party’s constant agitation 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 shocking 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 acceptable alternative, no agreed-upon human standard of behavior. There is, however, a constant search within the Constellation for a true culture based on universal human principles— the report of the Constellation Practices Authority has been widely anticipated for the last generation, and is said to be in the final stages of the preparation. 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 Legion, 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? Yearn for the past? Try to reach an accommodation with the present? Try to create a future more 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. Roman and me both.”

Maijstral’s ears were still ringing from the aftereffects of 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 I 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. “Perhaps 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 them supported good works such as the Constellation Practices Authority, issued propaganda questioning the absurdities of High Custom, called for larger human families so as to keep the aliens outnumbered on human turf, and promoted 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 military 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 scandal 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 charters 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?”

Roman’s voice was hesitant. “If I may offer a suggestion, sir?”

“Certainly.”

“Jensen’s group is almost certainly aware of your family’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 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 yet change her mind about media rights. He had neutralized the outside alarm— a simple hemispheric cold-field— and was now contemplating his options for gaining entrance.

Skylights, doors, or windows? If he wanted to be dramatic 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, perfectly aware of the traditional bulk of High Custom scowling 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, sensational, 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.

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 the line, not Jensen’s.

A trap.
All Roman’s hesitations and uncertainties flickered 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 miniature 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. Maijstral 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 mansion.

His head and shoulders thrust through the skylight, he turned his head carefully left and right. The atrium was 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 wall. 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 by heating and cooling units, thermal changes in the structure 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 impossible— both that and a miracle of modern 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. Admiral Scholder, he realized, was the same young Lieutenant Scholder whose Death Commandos had stormed the City of Seven Bright Rings and seized the Emperor in the last battle of the Rebellion.

Well, 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 CVI 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.