The Crown Jewels by Walter Jon Williams Read Free Book Online

rebuttal. Roman’s nostrils flickered. “If that bastard who followed me around this morning is a friend, I’ll eat my boots. And if they don’t like what Jensen’s up to, why don’t they just warn us instead of keeping us under surveillance?’’ He snapped his used hi-stick in half, then doubled the fragments and snapped them again. He looked around for a place to put them and found none, so he stuck the fragments in his pocket. “They want the damn artifact, if you ask me. They’re going to try to snatch it from us as soon as we’ve got it.”
    Maijstral considered the alternatives and found Gregor’s case more convincing. But there were still questions here, unknown factors, unknown quantities. He was not yet at the stage in his career where he could make many mistakes.
    “We’ll advance our schedule,” he said, and polarized the window again. He turned to his servant. “Roman, I’ll require you to be very busy tonight. You’re going to pay some calls.”
    *
    Maijstral hung suspended in tenuous a-grav darkness above the house of the late Admiral Scholder. His own private media globes circled around him, recording everything— Jensen might yet change her mind about media rights. He had neutralized the outside alarm— a simple hemispheric cold-field— and was now contemplating his options for gaining entrance.
    Skylights, doors, or windows? If he wanted to be dramatic he could cut right through a roof or wall.
    His heartbeat was fast and smooth. His muscles moved easily, without wasted motion. Fortunately all the alarms and guards were automated. Even at the thought of a live guard, his mouth went dry.
    “Sentients are unpredictable,” he had always told Gregor. “Always go for the automated systems. You can trust them to act as they’re supposed to.” He was never certain whether Gregor believed him or not. Whatever, it was something he needn’t worry about right now. He decided to go for one of the skylights.
    Maijstral dropped weightlessly toward the roof, a wispy opaque night-cloud. He was, even at this moment, perfectly aware of the traditional bulk of High Custom scowling at him from out of the night. For even here he fulfilled one of High Custom’s many roles, that of Allowed Burglar.
    High Custom allowed a person to steal for a living, provided he followed certain rules: he must do the job by himself; the person from whom he steals has to be able to afford the loss; there can be no serious violence— bopping the odd guard over the head is allowed, but crushing his skull is not. The object stolen had to be of artistic, sensational, or piquant interest (no large quantities of cash or uncut stones, say, although there was nothing in the rules against pocketing same if they happen to be in the same vault as the Costikyan Emerald). The stolen objects had to remain in the burglar’s possession through the midnight of the day following the crime; and the burglar must never deny what it is he does for a living— if he is going to steal, he must let everyone know it, and carry his card when working.
    Most importantly, an Allowed Burglar had to practice his craft with style, with grace, with savoir faire . Style counted a full ten points in the ratings, and no wonder. Allowed Burglars were supposed to be a part of High Custom, and if they didn’t fit well with the rest of the wayward elements, the gentleman drunkards, the glib, subtle charlatans and bright-eyed tricksters, what was the point in allowing them to take other people’s property in the first place?
    Maijstral hovered above the skylight without touching it and deployed a pistol-shaped detector, scanning it over the skylight and its frame to make certain there were no electro-magnetic emissions. Amalia and Pietro had done some research on security in the Scholder manse and found nothing troubling, but Maijstral believed in double-checking all research. It was his skin on the line, not Jensen’s.
    A trap. All Roman’s hesitations and