Free Rock of Ages by Walter Jon Williams Page A

you molting again, Roman?”
    “It has been a year since the last molt, sir.” Roman put the tube on a table and turned to attend Maijstral.
    “That long, eh?”
    Maijstral made a mental note not to overstress Roman in the next week or so, and not to send Roman on one of the errands that sometimes proved necessary in his line of work— breaking the odd leg, say—not, anyway, unless Maijstral wanted the leg well and truly broken. Roman was not a good molter, and during the height of molt his normally moderate temper tended to veer unpredictably toward the savage.
    “Sorry,” Maijstral said. “If you want to just take a week off, I can get along with Drexler and a few robots to handle the lacing and unlacing.”
    Roman’s ears flattened. “I am perfectly capable of discharging my duties, sir,” he said.
    Maijstral recognized the finality in Roman’s tone. “Of course,” Maijstral said. “I never had any doubts on that score whatever, I merely wished to make you as comfortable as possible.”
    He raised his arms to give Roman access to the side-laces. Roman picked at the lace-points expertly. “Was the evening enjoyable, sir?” he said.
    “It was eventful, at least,” Maijstral said, and gave his servant a sly, sidelong look. “Her Grace the Duchess of Benn made me an offer of marriage.”
    Roman’s ears stood straight up, as did the surprised hair on top of his head. “Indeed, sir?” he said.
    Maijstral smiled. He hardly ever saw Roman nonplussed. “She even arranged for my father to come here to Tejas to put his blessing on the union.”
    “His late grace is here?”
    “Yes. You should probably pay your respects tomorrow.”
    “I will not fail to do so, sir.” Roman smoothed down his top-hair, and a swatch of it came away in his fingers. His father had served the late Duke with the same resigned, half-despairing dedication with which Roman served Maijstral, and his grandfather had served Maijstral’s grandfather, and so on back to the first Baron Drago, the Viceroy of Greater Italia in the early days of Imperial conquest.
    Roman looked at the tuft of hair in his fingers with distaste and, rather than let it fall to the carpet, stowed it in his pocket. He returned to picking at Maijstral’s laces.
    “May I inquire as to the nature of the reply with which you favored her grace, sir?” he asked, his feigned casualness so studied that Maijstral was forced to turn away with a smile.
    “Her grace and I,” he said airily, “are still discussing the matter.”
    *
    Well might Roman’s diaphragm pulse in resignation at this answer. Despite the familiarity brought on by years of association, despite all the adventures shared and obstacles overcome, when all was said and done Maijstral was, quite simply, incomprehensible.
    “Very good, sir,” Roman said. Dutiful, as always. Roman was all too familiar with the defects of Maijstral’s situation. They could be summed up as follows:
    Money . For most of his life, Maijstral had been desperately short of money. This situation was not, Roman knew, Maijstral’s doing, but that of his father, who had spent such of the family money as survived the Rebellion in crackpot Imperialist political schemes and who on his death had left Maijstral with nothing but debt.
    Maijstral’s response to his fiscal dilemma was reflected in Defect Number Two, to-wit:
    Profession . What better way to get money than to steal it? Allowed Burglary was legal—though barely, in the Human Constellation—and it was, thanks to its regulation by the Imperial Sporting Commission, a profession that a gentleman could adopt without danger of losing his position in society. But some respectable professions were still more respectable than others. Allowed Burglary was lumped in with various other wayward callings, like drunkenness, banking, and the composition of satires, that were permitted but not precisely overwhelmed by the honors and distinctions given more respectable characters like