House of Shards by Walter Jon Williams Read Free Book Online

friends and ministers. Once this was observed, kleptomania and the Imperial ideal had to somehow be reconciled in the minds of his subjects: somehow Montiyy honor had to be preserved. The result was Allowed Burglary, permitted and regulated through the Imperial Sporting Commission under the benevolent sponsorship of His Imperial Majesty. Differs graciously withdrew his name from consideration in the rankings; and after knowledge of his thievery became semipublic (though never officially acknowledged), the negative effects of a breach of Imperial honor were buffered. In another victory for High Custom and the Imperial bureaucracy, an Imperial embarrassment had become, instead, a new fashion, and in time an industry.
    One wonders if Differs' functionaries could have anticipated the results of their little effort at damage control: burglars recording their crimes so as to sell the recordings to the media; thieves making endorsements of alarm systems, shoes, jewelry, and nightwear; the rise of theft as a popular entertainment comparable to portball or hand volleys.
    But that is a fact of existence: minor actions can have major consequences. An offhand remark at a party can end in two people facing each other with pistols, Imperial idiosyncrasy can result in the expansion of bureaucracy and the rise of a minor industry, the abstraction of a bit of nacre dangling from a chain can change the lives of everyone involved. Just watch.
    *
    “Mr. Maijstral.”
    “Mr. Dolfuss.”
    Dolfuss straightened, adjusted his appalling jacket. In spite of the jacket he now seemed dignified, poised, almost elegant. He even gave an impression of being thinner. “Thus far It’s been a delight, sir,” he said. “I’ve no idea when I’ve enjoyed myself more. Oh.” He reached into a pocket. “My room key,” he said. “The doorplate's keyed to my prints, but I suppose you won’t want it to register your own.”
    “No. I rather suppose not.” Maijstral pocketed the key. “Thank you, sir.”
    “See you later, Mr. Maijstral.”
    “Mr. Dolfuss.”
    Maijstral walked to Dolfuss's room, picked up the sample case that waited in the closet, then continued down the corridor to his own room. He declined to thumb-print open the lock—such things could be used by station security to keep track of people—and instead used his own key.
    Maijstral’s four-room suite was decorated in shades of brown. A holographic waterfall, silver and gold and bright diamond, cascaded down the center of the front room. Gregor Norman sat behind it, his feet on a small table, a hi-stick in his mouth. His hands beat a complex rhythm on his thighs. He straightened as Maijstral came in, looked at the case in Maijstral’s hand, and grinned.
    Maijstral put the case on the table. “I hope you won’t mind opening this,” he said.
    “Only too.” Meaning, only too pleased. Gregor touched the locks, then opened the case. He began unloading black boxes, alarm disrupters, dark suits, communication equipment, holographic projectors.
    Gregor told the room to play a Vivaldi woodwind concerto adapted for Khosali instruments. Though baroque music was a passion with him, and he listened to it whenever possible, the concerto now had another function: Gregor wanted a lot of background noise in case Maijstral wanted to talk business. Sometimes, he had discovered, people were crude enough to put listening devices in their rooms.
    Roman, Maijstral’s Khosali servant, appeared on silent feet. He was tall for a Khosali—had he been human, he would have been a giant. He was forty-six years old, and his family had served Maijstral’s for generations.
    Maijstral looked happily at Roman. Roman was the only constant in his inconstant life. Roman combined the benevolent functions of parent, cook, valet, and (when necessary) leg breaker. In short, Roman was home. Life without Roman was unthinkable.
    Roman took Maijstral’s guns and knife, then unlaced his jacket and trousers. High Custom