Free The Crown Jewels by Walter Jon Williams Page A

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 orders with clear-eyed efficiency, always ready to pull some new black box out of a hat. Disappointingly, Khotvinn was out of the 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 that 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, combining 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.
    What Tvi planned to say was this: “We’re from Peleng Independent Broadcasting. We’ve had reports of interference 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 bothering 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 time, 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 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 the robot’s arms off.
    Panic thudded beneath Tvi’s ribs. The Fate of the Empire, 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 DENIED,” the door reported in four commonly-used scripts.
    “Thagger,” Tvi swore. She was going to have to get in the 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