middle of Jensen’s arc, and the captive’s leap ended in a soft muddle on the plush dewkin carpet. Tvi’s diaphragm pulsed with regret. White sauce ran down her neck.
Blast, she thought. Just when she was beginning to enjoy herself.
*
Pietro Quijano had spilled most of his first glass of champagne on his shirt, but managed to get down the second. His color and bearing had improved considerably. He was now able to sit up without danger of toppling over.
Gregor watched him from a straight-backed chair in the corner, his fingers tapping little rhythms on his knees. Roman stood silently in a corner, looming. Maijstral could tell he was seriously upset.
Maijstral walked into his room, and there tied his hair in a knot and pinned it on the back of his head. He changed into soft suede pants, pumps, a loose grey silk shirt, and an earring. If he was to have guests, he might as well look presentable.
He entered the parlor room and offered Pietro a piece of fleth from his plate. Pietro accepted. Maijstral chose a soft chair opposite Pietro’s sofa and settled into it. Above him, a holographic representation of the Bartlett Head rotated slowly in its niche. Maijstral drew taut the drawstrings on his sleeves.
“Well, Mr. Quijano,” he said carefully, “perhaps you can enlighten us as to recent events.”
Pietro Quijano looked nervously toward Roman, then glanced at Gregor. “No idea,” he mumbled, and held out his glass for more champagne. The robot purred from the comer and began to pour.
Maijstral began itemizing on his fingers. “Amalia Jensen appears to have been kidnapped,” he said. “This kidnapping occurred less than two days after she commissioned me and my associates to acquire an artifact. My researches have noted the fact that Miss Jensen was quite visibly involved in politics here on Peleng, a ranking member of an organization that has branches throughout the Constellation. You are the treasurer for that organization.”
Pietro was beginning to look uncomfortable. He bit a piece of fleth and chewed nervously. Maijstral rose from his chair, turned, and reached into the Bartlett Head. He drew out the silver artifact and, with the device in his hands, settled into his chair. Pietro’s look turned to one of burning, undisguised eagerness.
“You recognize it, I see,” Maijstral said. “Miss Jensen was kidnapped within hours of my acquiring this object. Since the object itself is not valuable, I assume it has some political or symbolic significance of which I am unaware.”
He frowned down at the heavy silver container. He had examined it carefully after appropriating it, and knew that besides the Imperial seal, the container featured an engraving of Qwelm I, the first Pendjalli Emperor, receiving the submission of the first ambassador-delegate from Zynzlyp. It hadn’t been much of a conquest— the sea-slug shaped Drawmii were so incomprehensible and unpredictable that it had never quite been determined whether they actually understood they had been “conquered,” and therefore become members of a “Khosali Protectorate.” But it had been the first Pendjalli conquest and the mythographers had, perforce, to make the most of it.
The other side of the saddle-shaped container showed the retiring Nnis CVI among his College, a group of renowned scholars he had gathered in the City of Seven Bright Rings to assist him in the abstract inquiries for which he was rather more famed than for his skill at governing the Empire. Maijstral looked closely. He recognized the face of Professor Gantemur, a human philologist who had passed plans of the Imperial Residence to agents of the Rebellion and subsequently been awarded the holdings of a number of prominent human Imperialists, Maijstral’s grandfather among them.
Maijstral looked at Pietro. The young man’s eagerness was almost palpable.
“Mr. Quijano, I must know what has occurred,” he said. “My client has been abducted. It is possible that I— that
Blast, she thought. Just when she was beginning to enjoy herself.
*
Pietro Quijano had spilled most of his first glass of champagne on his shirt, but managed to get down the second. His color and bearing had improved considerably. He was now able to sit up without danger of toppling over.
Gregor watched him from a straight-backed chair in the corner, his fingers tapping little rhythms on his knees. Roman stood silently in a corner, looming. Maijstral could tell he was seriously upset.
Maijstral walked into his room, and there tied his hair in a knot and pinned it on the back of his head. He changed into soft suede pants, pumps, a loose grey silk shirt, and an earring. If he was to have guests, he might as well look presentable.
He entered the parlor room and offered Pietro a piece of fleth from his plate. Pietro accepted. Maijstral chose a soft chair opposite Pietro’s sofa and settled into it. Above him, a holographic representation of the Bartlett Head rotated slowly in its niche. Maijstral drew taut the drawstrings on his sleeves.
“Well, Mr. Quijano,” he said carefully, “perhaps you can enlighten us as to recent events.”
Pietro Quijano looked nervously toward Roman, then glanced at Gregor. “No idea,” he mumbled, and held out his glass for more champagne. The robot purred from the comer and began to pour.
Maijstral began itemizing on his fingers. “Amalia Jensen appears to have been kidnapped,” he said. “This kidnapping occurred less than two days after she commissioned me and my associates to acquire an artifact. My researches have noted the fact that Miss Jensen was quite visibly involved in politics here on Peleng, a ranking member of an organization that has branches throughout the Constellation. You are the treasurer for that organization.”
Pietro was beginning to look uncomfortable. He bit a piece of fleth and chewed nervously. Maijstral rose from his chair, turned, and reached into the Bartlett Head. He drew out the silver artifact and, with the device in his hands, settled into his chair. Pietro’s look turned to one of burning, undisguised eagerness.
“You recognize it, I see,” Maijstral said. “Miss Jensen was kidnapped within hours of my acquiring this object. Since the object itself is not valuable, I assume it has some political or symbolic significance of which I am unaware.”
He frowned down at the heavy silver container. He had examined it carefully after appropriating it, and knew that besides the Imperial seal, the container featured an engraving of Qwelm I, the first Pendjalli Emperor, receiving the submission of the first ambassador-delegate from Zynzlyp. It hadn’t been much of a conquest— the sea-slug shaped Drawmii were so incomprehensible and unpredictable that it had never quite been determined whether they actually understood they had been “conquered,” and therefore become members of a “Khosali Protectorate.” But it had been the first Pendjalli conquest and the mythographers had, perforce, to make the most of it.
The other side of the saddle-shaped container showed the retiring Nnis CVI among his College, a group of renowned scholars he had gathered in the City of Seven Bright Rings to assist him in the abstract inquiries for which he was rather more famed than for his skill at governing the Empire. Maijstral looked closely. He recognized the face of Professor Gantemur, a human philologist who had passed plans of the Imperial Residence to agents of the Rebellion and subsequently been awarded the holdings of a number of prominent human Imperialists, Maijstral’s grandfather among them.
Maijstral looked at Pietro. The young man’s eagerness was almost palpable.
“Mr. Quijano, I must know what has occurred,” he said. “My client has been abducted. It is possible that I— that
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