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HOUSE OF SHARDS | 153
with the Marchioness. The magnifier disappeared, and Zoot turned to Khamiss.
"I thought you might be interested in a physiognomy lesson. I've nothing else
planned for the afternoon."
Khamiss brightened. "I'd like nothing better." "The theory is based on using
geometry to divide the body and the head into zones, and then finding
something in one of the zones that is unique and can compel recall. For
instance, the human head can be divided evenly along a lateral line running
left to right across the eyes. ..."
Khamiss was surprised. "The eyes are in the horizontal centerline of the human
head? I thought they were . . . rather lower down."
"That's an optical illusion. Because we're taller. Let me show you.'' Zoot
took a notebook from his pocket and drew an oval on it with a pen. He bisected
it, added eyes, a button nose, a mouth, and hair. A recognizable human,
withal. "I
see."
"The upper attachment of the human's ears to the head are also on a line with
the eyes. So . . ." Still drawing.
"Right. So if the ears are placed higher or lower than the corners of the
eyes, then that's a distinguishing mark."
Zoot's tongue lolled in approval. "Quite. That's not a common one, however."
He sketched idly. "I use a human head as an illustration because their ovoid
shape makes for a simpler geometry. Khosali heads are formed along the lines
of an oblate hexagon, the upper half larger than the lower."
Zoot continued adding lines to his pad. Khamiss watched and made comments, but
her observations dwindled off after a few moments. Zoot's head, she noticed,
was quite an admirable hexagon in its way.
"Damn!" Khamiss jumped up. Zoot glanced at her in alarm.
154 | WALTER JON WILLIAMS
"Something wrong, miss?"
"Maijstral's leaving. I've got to run. Thank you."
"We can continue later."
"Thanks. Bye."
Heart pounding, Khamiss sped across the White Room as Maijstral sniffed the
Marchioness's ears and moved to-
ward an exit. She was aware of people looking at her.
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She slowed, her ears turning down in embarrassment.
Maijstral was waiting for her anyway, arms folded, standing in the doorway.
CHAPTER 6
ome objects have a way of becoming magic. They need not be the biggest or even
the best of their type; yet somehow they gather romance unto themselves, and
become legend. The Felkhorvinn Tapestry is one such object; and a sect of
ascetic carpetmarkers on Pessch has even gone so far as to deify its
architect, Pers the Younger. The
Felkhorvinn is a little unusual to fit into the category of Magic
Objects, in that it's very large: in fact it's so big that it's only been
stolen once, by that romantic collector of objects-not-his-
own, Ralph Adverse.
For usually it's theft that deifies an object, imbues it with the proper aura
of romance. Would La Giaconda's smile seem quite so intriguing had it not been
coveted, stolen, and cherished by so many? Would the Hope Diamond have shone
quite so brilliantly had its origins not been so mysterious, and had all its
owners, beginning with Louis XVI and Antoinette, died in such fateful,
inexorable ways? Would Prince Orloff have paid quite so much for his
blue-white stone had it not been pried from the eye of an Indian idol? Would
the Zoot
Torque have become the most celebrated piece of Imperial regalia had not Ralph
Adverse managed to worm his way into the City of Seven Bright Rings and get
his hands on it?
Most of the Magic Objects moving about the universe are, in fact, gems of one
sort or another. The fact is that
S
156 | WALTER JON WILLIAMS
gems are portable and therefore more easily stolen; and when stolen in the
right circumstance, by the right people, an object can be invested with the
necessary aura of enchant-
ment. Nothing could make it more romantic than the right theft, lest it be the
right death. Blood, it seems, is more effective in creating romance than mere
larceny.
Of the glowstones, those rare and lambent objects hurled at relativistic
velocities from the cores of dying stars, none is more famous than the Eltdown
Shard, which has seen more than its share of death and peculation. When the
Countess Ankh was informed by her lover, the financier Collinen, that they
must part, she saw no alternative but to disembowel the man and place his
organs in cryogenic containers intended originally for selected parts of his
pet Farq shepherds. She committed this crime not because she was sorry at
losing
Collinen, but rather because Collinen owned the Shard, and upon losing her
lover she lost her access to its glorious fires, its cool and subtle majesty.
(But perhaps she cared for Collinen after all: when the police finally blasted
their way into Castle
Sumador, they found the Shard in the same cryogenic container as the dead
man's heart. Moved by this evidence of sentiment, the Emperor permitted his
cousin her choice of deaths.)
Two Allowed Burglars later tried for the Shard and died;
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Ralph Adverse tried and succeeded, then later, when his lifestrand frayed at
last, killed himself with the Shard clutched to his bosom, thus confirming his
own legend and the Shard's.
Other glowstones are larger, and others display the light of long-dead stars
more beautifully; but none has as much romance as the Shard, none has its
magic.
And none has its fatal attraction. Its relativistic flames have attracted many
a moth, and few have escaped without burning. That's the problem with magic:
it can exalt, or
HOUSE OF SHARDS | 157
destroy, or do both at once; and few can honestly claim to predict which
course a Magic Object will take once it has admirers in its spell.
The spell of the Shard had clearly been cast on the Silverside
Ballroom. The air of expectancy was tangible: beneath the flares of Rathbon's
Star the atmosphere was hushed, almost reverent. Costumes glittered; crystal
goblets rang; people conversed; but still all this small world waited, knowing
something was going to happen.
Drake Maijstral was perfectly recognizable through his domino mask. He was
costumed as Grat Dalton, a six-gun on one hip and an elegant rapier on the
other. Maijstral's brown hair had been darkened for the occasion, drawn back
to a knot behind; glittering gemstones dangled from his ears. The red light of
Rathbon's Star, reflecting from his white ruff, darkened his complexion to
that of an outdoorsman gunslinger the effect had been carefully calculated. He
spun his six-shooter on his fingers as he padded through the ballroom.
People were talking about him. He gave no sign of knowing.
Baron Silverside's expression was stony. "You have in-
structed your people, Mr. Sun?"
"I have, my lord." Dutifully.
"Everyone is on alert?"
"Yes, my lord." Another alarm blinked on Sun's control board. He ignored it.
"Maijstral and Fu George will be followed wherever they go?"
"They will, my lord." Another alarm blinked. Against his will, a muscle in
Sun's cheek twitched.
158 | WALTER JON WILLIAMS
"Because they're sure to try something tonight, and if we can find out where
they've been concealing the loot, we'll be able to find my lady's collection."
Sun chose his words carefully. "We have every reason to hope, my lord."
The Baron's reaction was icy.
"You have every reason to hope, Sun.
Hope that you find the collection, and hope that you toss these thieves in the
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calabozo. Because Kyoko
Asperson is hoping to crucify you in an interview, and if we don't find the
collection, I
hope to hand her the nails and hammer."
More alarms winked. Sun swallowed hard. "I under-
stand, my lord."
"I
hope so, Mr. Sun. I
hope so."
Khamiss was dressed as a waiter, in severe black with yellow collar tabs and
cuffs. The waiter's uniform had been drawn from central supply and was not
tailored for the service pistol that was still jammed in her armpit.
In something close to despair, she followed Maijstral through the crowd.
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