servant.”
Reasonably pleased with himself, Fu George moved away. A man in a green coat approached him. The man had a hand over one eye, and was blinking furiously with the other.
“Beg pardon, sir,” the man said, “but may I borrow your handkerchief for a moment? I have something in my eye.”
Fu George touched his breast pocket, felt the pearl still secure in the handkerchief, and hesitated. “My apologies, sir, I neglected to bring one.”
“Sorry to bother you. I think the thing may be out, anyway.” He stumbled away.
So, Paavo Kuusinen thought as he removed the hand from his eye. Fu George still has the pearl.
Interesting.
*
Maijstral could feel his deck of cards riding comfortably above his right hip in a pocket tailored just for them. The feeling was a pleasant one, far more pleasant than the gun under one arm, the knife up his sleeve, the other gun up the other sleeve. The cards were a reminder of pleasure; the hardware, of necessity.
A Cygnus approached. “Pardon me, robot,” Maijstral said. “Can you direct me to the main lounge?”
The robot's voice was unusually resonant. Troxan engineering, Maijstral assumed as he reached into his pocket and palmed the programming needle.
“Pardon me,” he said. “I think there is something on your carapace.”
“Hullo, Maijstral.” A familiar voice. “Nice of you to dust the robots.”
Maijstral almost lost his grip on the needle. He straightened and returned it to his pocket.
“Hello, Vanessa.”
Miss Runciter sniffed him, offered him three fingers. He gave her two in return. Her eyebrows rose.
“I thought we were old friends, Maijstral.”
“I don’t know what we are, Vanessa. I haven’t seen you in almost three years. You left a bit suddenly, as I recall.” He offered his arm, and then wondered how reluctant the offer was. “Going to dinner?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
She was wearing a jet gown covered with dark red brocade that was shot with silver thread. She wore emerald earrings, a gold chain on one wrist. She looked very well indeed. “I keep thinking, Maijstral,” she said, “we left some things unsaid.”
“I doubt, Vanessa, that any of them need saying now.”
She looked at him. “It’s that way, is it?”
Smoothly. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“As you like.” Her voice became reflective. “I don’t like the way Laurence is playing you in the vids, Drake. Anaya was far smoother.”
“I don’t watch them.”
“Still?”
“Still.”
A brief silence, broken by Vanessa. “I lost a small fortune at markers this afternoon. I hope to win it back tonight.”
“I lost at tiles.”
“More than you could afford? Or is that still a problem?”
“It’s not a problem,” Maijstral said. “I’ve come into money recently. But it was more than I planned to lose.”
“You should only play cards. If you lose you can start to cheat.”
Maijstral smiled. “I could have cheated with the tiles. It’s not as easy, but it can be done.”
Her eyes were knowing. “But you wanted the Duchess to win. Do you think you can get closer to the Shard that way?”
“Perhaps,” he said, “I merely wanted to get closer to the Duchess.”
Vanessa was silent for a moment. Maijstral wondered at her peculiar vanity, that she was offended when men she had discarded were not faithful to her.
Ideograms announced the White Room. The orchestra was playing the same Snail concerto that Gregor had played in Maijstral’s suite.
“I see Fu George. I’ll see you later, Maijstral.”
“Your servant.”
They clasped hands, two fingers each. Maijstral repressed a shudder. He reflected that in a lifetime of dealing with thieves, fences, and other people little to be admired, Vanessa Runciter was the first and only sociopath he had ever met.
He watched her move away, then scanned the room and saw a man in a green coat walking toward him. He looked at the man in surprised recognition.
“Mr. Maijstral.”
“Mr.
Reasonably pleased with himself, Fu George moved away. A man in a green coat approached him. The man had a hand over one eye, and was blinking furiously with the other.
“Beg pardon, sir,” the man said, “but may I borrow your handkerchief for a moment? I have something in my eye.”
Fu George touched his breast pocket, felt the pearl still secure in the handkerchief, and hesitated. “My apologies, sir, I neglected to bring one.”
“Sorry to bother you. I think the thing may be out, anyway.” He stumbled away.
So, Paavo Kuusinen thought as he removed the hand from his eye. Fu George still has the pearl.
Interesting.
*
Maijstral could feel his deck of cards riding comfortably above his right hip in a pocket tailored just for them. The feeling was a pleasant one, far more pleasant than the gun under one arm, the knife up his sleeve, the other gun up the other sleeve. The cards were a reminder of pleasure; the hardware, of necessity.
A Cygnus approached. “Pardon me, robot,” Maijstral said. “Can you direct me to the main lounge?”
The robot's voice was unusually resonant. Troxan engineering, Maijstral assumed as he reached into his pocket and palmed the programming needle.
“Pardon me,” he said. “I think there is something on your carapace.”
“Hullo, Maijstral.” A familiar voice. “Nice of you to dust the robots.”
Maijstral almost lost his grip on the needle. He straightened and returned it to his pocket.
“Hello, Vanessa.”
Miss Runciter sniffed him, offered him three fingers. He gave her two in return. Her eyebrows rose.
“I thought we were old friends, Maijstral.”
“I don’t know what we are, Vanessa. I haven’t seen you in almost three years. You left a bit suddenly, as I recall.” He offered his arm, and then wondered how reluctant the offer was. “Going to dinner?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
She was wearing a jet gown covered with dark red brocade that was shot with silver thread. She wore emerald earrings, a gold chain on one wrist. She looked very well indeed. “I keep thinking, Maijstral,” she said, “we left some things unsaid.”
“I doubt, Vanessa, that any of them need saying now.”
She looked at him. “It’s that way, is it?”
Smoothly. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“As you like.” Her voice became reflective. “I don’t like the way Laurence is playing you in the vids, Drake. Anaya was far smoother.”
“I don’t watch them.”
“Still?”
“Still.”
A brief silence, broken by Vanessa. “I lost a small fortune at markers this afternoon. I hope to win it back tonight.”
“I lost at tiles.”
“More than you could afford? Or is that still a problem?”
“It’s not a problem,” Maijstral said. “I’ve come into money recently. But it was more than I planned to lose.”
“You should only play cards. If you lose you can start to cheat.”
Maijstral smiled. “I could have cheated with the tiles. It’s not as easy, but it can be done.”
Her eyes were knowing. “But you wanted the Duchess to win. Do you think you can get closer to the Shard that way?”
“Perhaps,” he said, “I merely wanted to get closer to the Duchess.”
Vanessa was silent for a moment. Maijstral wondered at her peculiar vanity, that she was offended when men she had discarded were not faithful to her.
Ideograms announced the White Room. The orchestra was playing the same Snail concerto that Gregor had played in Maijstral’s suite.
“I see Fu George. I’ll see you later, Maijstral.”
“Your servant.”
They clasped hands, two fingers each. Maijstral repressed a shudder. He reflected that in a lifetime of dealing with thieves, fences, and other people little to be admired, Vanessa Runciter was the first and only sociopath he had ever met.
He watched her move away, then scanned the room and saw a man in a green coat walking toward him. He looked at the man in surprised recognition.
“Mr. Maijstral.”
“Mr.
Similar Books
