Free House of Shards by Walter Jon Williams Page B

cry.
    “A-D-V-E-R-T. Oh.” She laughed and held up the eight of crowns. Maijstral took it, took a pen from his pocket, signed the card, handed it back to her.
    “Why don’t you keep the deck as a souvenir?” Maijstral put the deck back in its box, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and signaled for a robot. “Have the robot take it to your room.”
    Advert smiled in admiration. “Yes,” she said. “I believe I will.”
    *
    “A great crosstouch. Better than any I’ve seen him do in practice.”
    “I believe,” Roman said, “that the knowledge of his being on camera affects his performance for the better.” He touched the micromedia globe in his pocket as a superstitious person would his Twalle amulet. “Mr. Maijstral always seems to work best under pressure.” He looked up sharply. “Hush, now. Someone we know.”
    “Mr. Roman. Mr. Norman.”
    “Mr. Drexler. Mr. Chalice.”
    Roman and Gregor, walking toward the servants' dining room, sniffed and offered two comradely fingers to each of Geoff Fu George’s principal assistants.
    “Larmon and Hrang are not with you?” Roman inquired.
    “No,” Drexler said. “They would have loved to come, of course, but space is limited on this station, and Mr. Fu George won only two invitations in his card game with Lord Swann.”
    “Yes, I understand. I hope Miss Runciter's suite was not likewise restricted.”
    “She has her woman with her. Cooper.”
    “Miss Cooper isn’t here?”
    “She's getting Miss Runciter's ball gown ready. It’s got a lot of special effects.”
    Roman gazed down his nose at Drexler. “Miss Cooper has my sympathy.”
    Drexler was a young male Khosalikh, not yet having reached first molt; he was a little shorter man average height but built broadly, as if for durability. He wore a gaudy stud in one ear, and Roman suspected it contained a small camera. He was Geoff Fu George’s technician.
    Mr. Chalice was another one of Fu George’s associates: he was human, thirtyish, and rail-thin. His hair was red, and his gangly movements seemed strangely disconnected, like those of a puppet. Roman had always thought Chalice had missed his true avocation, which was that of clown.
    Roman had considerably more respect for clowns than for thieves. Maijstral’s life's work, alas, had not been chosen with Roman’s consultation.
    Roman was forty-six and had begun to despair of ever living a regular life.
    “Shall we dine together, gentlemen?” Chalice asked.
    “Certainly.”
    “Why not?”
    A robot guided them to a table for four. (The servants’ restaurant had only nonliving maitre d’s.) When the next robot came by, they ordered a bottle of wine for the table.
    Drexler looked at his guests, tongue lolling in a smile. His ears pricked forward. “I hope you weren’t overly inconvenienced by the customs people here.”
    “They confiscated a case of equipment,” Gregor said. “But I expect we'll survive.”
    “That's good.” Chalice seemed buoyant. “We'd hate to be the only thieves operating on this rock. If they don’t know which of us did what job, we'll be able to use the confusion to our advantage.”
    “There's one job I’m really interested in,” said Drexler. He tapped his wine glass meditatively. “The Shard.”
    Roman carefully avoided exchanging a glance with Gregor. “It may not be here,” he said.
    “Personally,” Drexler said, “I think it is. Why else would the station vid run a documentary of its history? It’s too much to expect that sort of thing to be a coincidence.”
    “If it’s here,” Roman said, “her grace the Duchess will wear it. She won’t have brought it all this way not to wear it.”
    “Her grace the Duchess,” Drexler said, “has a very large staff. Including six people of no apparent function, who have not been seen since their arrival.” He glanced around the room. “And who are not here.”
    “Perhaps they are readying her gown.”
    “All six of them?”
    Chalice laughed. “Some