House of Shards (15 page)

Lord Qlp halted in front of Roberta. “Lord Qlp,” she said, and sniffed it. It reared back, its foremost eye looking directly in her face, and made a series of sucking sounds.

“Are not the Protocols correct?” Lady Dosvidern translated. “Is it not the Time of Exchange? Is not the Exchange correct in its commodity?”

Roberta gazed at the Drawmiikh for a long moment. It seemed to be expecting an answer. She looked at Lady Dosvidern for help. Lady Dosvidern’s ears flicked back and forth, signalling her own bewilderment.

Roberta turned her eyes back to Lord Qlp. “I cannot say, my lord,” she said.

Lord Qlp’s reply was loud and violent. Its whole body trembled with the force of its ejaculation. “Interference!” Lady Dosvidern said. Her expression was bewildered, but her voice was calm and firm. “Your grace must guard the Protocols!”

Roberta considered this for half a second. “I have every intention,” she said firmly, “of doing just that.”

The answer seemed to please Lord Qlp. It bent its head and began to make gagging sounds. Many in the audience turned away or covered their eyes.

There was a thump. Lord Qlp had disgorged another object. There was a moment of silence.

“Thank you, my lord,” said Roberta. Lord Qlp, after reversing its rearmost eye, began to undulate the way it had come without bothering to turn around.

“Allow me, your grace.” Maijstral moved quickly. He unfolded his handkerchief and bent to retrieve the object. He wrapped the thing neatly in his handkerchief and rose. It was wet and implastic. Roberta had already signalled a robot.

Lord Qlp moved quickly to the exit and disappeared. Relieved, the audience began to chatter and wave handkerchiefs to disperse the stench.

“Thank you, Maijstral,” Roberta said. Maijstral gave the object to the robot, and Roberta gave instructions for the thing to be delivered to her rooms.

“I wonder,” Maijstral said, “how Lady Dosvidern deals with its lordship's odor.”

“She's probably had surgery on her nasal centers.”

“I should have thought of that.” He looked at her. “Do you suppose that Lady Dosvidern could offer enlightenment on this . . . excrescence, your grace?”

“I’ve already asked. She’s as puzzled as I.” She looked over Maijstral’s shoulder, and her face turned cold.' 'Here's that Asperson person,” she said. “I suppose her media globes got an eyeful of what just happened.”

“My condolences, your grace. I’m sure you'll handle any awkward questions.”

“How can I answer questions when I don’t know what just happened?” Her ears turned down in annoyance, and then she shrugged. “Well, I’ll just have to pretend omniscience.” She brightened a bit. “That could be fun, I suppose.”

“Enjoy, your grace.”

“Thanks for your assistance, Maijstral. I’ll have the handkerchief returned.” She began strapping on her helmet.

Maijstral turned, bowed toward Kyoko Asperson as the journalist advanced toward Roberta, and wondered where to sit. Kotani, the Marchioness, Fu George, and Vanessa were standing in a knot, and appeared to be taking care not to look in his direction. Maijstral saw Zoot talking to the armed female Khosalikh who had been his tail, and he considered for a moment the temptation to drop by Zoot's table and see how she handled it.

Pearl Woman, dressed in white silks, was poised by one entrance. An expression of annoyance was visible through the white stripes on her face, and Maijstral guessed she had made her grand entrance only to be upstaged by the arrival of Lord Qlp. Advert, looking uncertain, was fluttering by her elbow. Maijstral strolled toward them.

“Luck, Pearl,” he offered, and sniffed her. “Good afternoon, Advert.” He couldn’t help but notice that if Pearl Woman was still wearing her pearl, it was hidden under her helmet strap.

“Thanks, Maijstral. I daresay I’ll need it.” She flexed one leg carefully. “I should warm up for a few moments. Pardon me.”

“Certainly.” She moved off. Maijstral admired the subtlety of her limp for a brief moment, then he turned to Advert.

“Will you join me at my table?”

“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Maijstral.”

“My pleasure.” He escorted her into the gallery. Advert bit her lip and clutched at something in her pocket.

“Are you anxious for Pearl Woman?” Maijstral asked. “She'll be all right, you know. That leg injury won’t incapacitate her.”

“She asked me to bet.” She raised her hand from her pocket and mutely displayed two credit chips. Maijstral could clearly see the imprints of her nails on her palm.

“She gave you money to bet on her?”

She swallowed and gave a quick nod. “Fifty novae. I don’t know where she got it. She hasn’t any money herself.”

“Borrowed it from someone, I suppose.”

“She wants you to bet her to win.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t think she'll come in first.”

Advert shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

“I see,” said Maijstral. He signalled a waiter for drinks and considered the situation. He had known Pearl Woman long enough to be perfectly certain that the money was the Pearl’s and that Pearl Woman's poverty was a pose. He knew that Advert had ransomed the Pearl’s trademark with her own money, and that Pearl Woman had probably not covered the expense.

Maijstral also knew that he could not say so, particularly to Advert, without running a risk of Pearl Woman jamming one of her cutlasses between his ribs.

He wondered briefly why Pearl Woman hadn’t let Advert know about her injury being feigned. Probably, he decided, the Pearl was afraid Advert would somehow give the trick away.

“I wanted to make a bet on my own,” Advert said miserably. “Bet on her grace, but making a bet on someone else feels so ...
disloyal.”

Maijstral looked at her. “Miss Advert, I’ve had a bit more experience in these matters. Will you follow my advice?”

Advert thought for a moment, then gave a hesitant nod.

“Very well. You must bet Pearl Woman's money as she asked you. You are not the custodian of her pocketbook, and she may have had reasons for making the bet of which you are unaware.”

Advert heaved a sigh. “I suppose so.”

“But make your own bet,” Maijstral went on, “according to your own judgement. It’s not disloyal of you to think that the Duchess may win: she is clearly the favorite. Money has no loyalty, and neither have wagers. Money is far too serious a thing to owe sentimental allegiance to one person's friendship or another's.”

Advert did not seem comforted. “Very well,” she said. She looked over the company. “Who shall I bet with, 1 wonder?”

“Very little time remains. You'll have to bet on the tote, I’m afraid, and you won’t get as good odds as you might on a private bet. I’ll make the bets for you, if you like.”

“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Maijstral.”

Maijstral took the money and stepped to the tote, made Advert's bets, made a bet on the Duchess for himself, and returned to the table. The drinks had arrived in the meantime, and Advert had finished half of her own. Maijstral handed her the coded betting tokens and sipped his drink.

Advert was looking at Roberta, who was going through a careful warm-up after having finished her interview with Kyoko Asperson.

“I envy her,” she said. “She's had so many advantages.”

Maijstral gazed at the Duchess. “You find her an object of envy? I do not.”

Advert was surprised. “Why? She's got money, talent, looks, intelligence. A title. She's even got the Eltdown Shard, for heaven's sake.” She sighed. “And assurance, too.”

Maijstral smiled. “And assurance. All that, yes.” Maijstral steepled his fingertips and contemplated the Duchess. “She is the head of an old and very regal Imperial family, and they raise their heirs very carefully. From her earliest days her grace has been strictly schooled in what was expected of her. The training is severe and uncompromising, begun before she was even aware of being trained, not entirely ending until the day of her death. She has been allowed no distractions and very few pleasures—the family will have seen to that. The training is intended to do one of three things: make her a duchess, break her, or force her into rebellion. She's too strong to be broken, and too responsible to rebel. She probably has a half-dozen brothers and sisters, and it was Roberta who was chosen as heir, not the others. Her grace is a successful product of a very difficult school, but that doesn’t make her an object of envy.” Maijstral twisted the diamond on his finger. “I’m sorry for her, I’m afraid.”

Advert gazed at him hi cool fascination. “You’ve got an old title, too, don’t you?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yes, I do. But I escaped my fate. There was no money left, you see, and no property to speak of. Nothing to be responsible
to.”
He gave a lazy shrug and smiled. “There are still restrictions, even in the Constellation. Certain occupations I cannot put my hand to, not if I expect to retain the regard of my peers. It’s lucky I’m allowed to steal: otherwise I'd have to be a drunkard or a fortune hunter, and those alternatives would be,” offering a slight smile, “tedious, as well as unsuited to my temperament. Any of those alternatives, however—” he nodded toward Roberta “—is preferable to what her grace will be compelled to undergo fairly shortly.”

Advert's glance trailed toward Roberta. “How so?”

“I expect she'll be made to give up the racing. It’s allowed here because it puts her name forward and makes for a splashier debut— but after this, the racing will have no more practical use.” He frowned, settling into his chair and his lecture. “The point of a debut, you see, is to advertise the fact that you're ready for marriage. In a year or two the family will arrange a husband for her, and then she'll spend the next ten years or so giving birth to a series of minor nobles, one of whom will, after going through the conditioning, doubtless make a suitable heir to the title and the fortune and the Shard and all the rest of it. Hers will be real pregnancies, too—artificial wombs aren’t customary in the old families. So then she'll spend years supervising the children’s education and such, and after they're all safely grown she can relax a bit. She'll be allowed to be a cynical old lady and make cutting remarks at parties. By then she'll be a family character, and her remarks won’t matter. Some people in her situation drink or tyrannize their children, but I think her grace is probably too honest for that.”

Advert, gazing soberly at the Duchess, raised a hand to her throat. Light glittered from her many rings. “You make it seem so sad,” she said.

“I suppose it is. She'll never know what it is to choose her own course. She's not Pearl Woman, who runs her life exactly as she wants it.”

“But she's a duchess. She's got the money and so on in her own right. Can’t she just break away from it all?”

“The path of rebellion. That's possible, of course,” Maijstral conceded. “That's where the training comes in, though. The chorus of Duty, Duty, Duty that she's been hearing since before she could remember. It’s hard not to listen to that song, not when she's never listened to anything else. She
could
break away, I suppose. It takes a certain strength of will, and her grace has will in abundance.” He gave Roberta a careful look. “I don’t think It’s likely, though. The tendencies would have been visible before now.”

Advert looked at her lap. “I'd no idea,” she said.

“Why should you? You're lucky enough not to have been born to it. You're allowed to make choices.”

“Yes.” She gave a brave grin. “Like the bet, yes?”

“Yes. The bet. No matter how the race turns out, you have reason to rejoice. On your own behalf, or the Pearl’s.”

Trumpets began to sound. The Priests of the Game appeared in their brocaded robes, incense rising from jewelled censers. The six racers, standing in their bright colors, assumed the Posture of Respect and Submission. Thankfully, the incense drowned Lord Qlp’s remaining stench.

Maijstral leaned forward across the table, chin on his fist. The race was going to be very interesting: he wanted very much to know whether his judgement in this matter was sound.

His judgement of Roberta in particular.

CHAPTER 5

T
he scent of incense still stung Maijstral’s nostrils. The Priests, having invoked the Active and Passive Virtues, finished their High Khosali chant and took their positions as referees. The race, its religious character now established, was ready to begin. Three pairs of racers, each in their bright silks, crouched in the chute leading to the racecourse. Pearl Woman and Roberta, the favorites, formed the last pair of the three. Crowd sounds died away as the five-second gong sounded. The first pair of racers flexed their feet and ankles, making sure of their traction.

Floating holograms counted the seconds. Three. Two. One. Begin.

The first tone sounded. The first pair of racers flung themselves into the racecourse as the Priests moaned.

*

“Hello, Kyoko. Can I join you?”

“Gregor! Please sit down.”

“I’m not interrupting your work, am I?”

“Not at all. I’m recording the race for later. I haven’t seen you today.”

Gregor touched his stomach. “A touch of the steggo— I think it was the roast fleth.”

“Sorry to hear that. You're all right now, aren’t you?”

“Right as Robbler.” Grinning. “So who's going to win, then?”

*

Gravity channels had been cut off in the racecourse, and the racers flew like mapper charges on the first straight.

Each tucked, rolled, came out feetfirst as they hit the initial turn.

The second tone sounded. The next pair of racers hurled themselves into weightlessness.

*

“Dear. Who's the one in red?”

Consulting the tote board. “Allekh.”

“He's got a good turn. He won at least half a second on that first corner.” Kotani leaned forward and smiled. “Pearl Woman will catch him, though, I’m certain.”

“I’ve bet the Pearl for second. Her grace for first.”

“You should follow my advice on betting matters, dear. I happen to know Pearl Women will win.”

“Think you so?” The Marchioness was amused. “I disagree.”

A sharp look. “Have you heard something?”