Rock of Ages (22 page)

Once a day for this sort of thing was enough.

Throughout the fight Major Song backed up against the wall and stared at the proceedings with horror. After Roman had finished, Roberta looked at her and nodded.

“I’m pleased we reached an understanding,” she said, then took her caestus and left, fingering the media globe in her pocket through which she’d recorded everything.

The next visit would be to Prince Hunac. Unfortunately she anticipated that, with the Prince of Quintana Roo, she’d have to adopt a different strategy.

*

“Hello?”

Two perfect blue eyes gazed at Maijstral from the video. “Drake. I have some information.”

“Oh yes?”

“Concerning the Baron Sancho Sandoval Cabeza de Vaca.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“He did in fact serve as a junior officer under your grandfather in police actions in Malaysia and on the Indian subcontinent. There is no indication that he and your grandfather ever met.”

“I see.”

“He and your father seem to have crossed paths on several occasions. They had an assortment of political groups in common.”

Maijstral sighed. “No need to go into detail. I can imagine.”

“I expect you can.”

“The point being,” Maijstral said, “
I
never met this man until he walked up to me and started hitting me with his cane. No glory is going to be won by thrashing an elderly nobleman in a fight.”

And even less glory, Maijstral added to himself, if it was the elderly nobleman who happened to be the winner.

“I have been looking through the Imperial Sporting Commission’s
Manual on Approved Formal Combat Systems
,” Maijstral went on, “hoping to discover if there is some way I can avoid fighting Sandoval, but all I’ve discovered is that if I object to Sandoval on account of age, the Baron is then allowed to find some strapping young brute as a substitute, and then I have to fight
him
.”

The blue eyes narrowed in concern. “How long is this manual?”

“Over two thousand pages, not counting all the statistics in the appendix. And, as I’ve discovered, it’s not very well indexed.”

There was nothing in the index, Maijstral had discovered, along the lines of
Fights, weaseling out of
.

“Continue your researches, then. Perhaps I will assign several of the Diadem’s people to it.”

“The Diadem doesn’t mind you using their resources this way?”

“Gracious, no. The research boffins love work that has a real application. They got all these degrees and things, and here the Diadem sets them to research fashion trends, dig out old video star gossip, and find out which exotic fish rates as a ‘must-see’ off Cozumel. They
love
having work out of the normal run.”

Maijstral smiled. “Well. Thank you.”

“And another thing. I’ve arranged things at Graceland. You will be granted use of the Jungle Meditation Room tomorrow afternoon and all night, beginning at sixteen o’clock.”

“Thank you.”

The blue eyes looked at him frankly. “I must confess that I was of two minds concerning this business of sending you on to Memphis instead of keeping you here. I may have thrown you into the arms of your young Duchess.”

“I haven’t forgotten our time together.”

“Well,” grudgingly, “see that you don’t.”

There was a gentle chime. “I have another call,” Maijstral said.

“
Au revoir
, then. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“It’s been tomorrow for a couple hours.”

“Later today, then.”

The blue eyes winked out, were replaced by eyes of violet The eyes looked very weary.

“Good news. I’ve settled with Captain Hay, and there won’t be a fight. I recorded our entire conversation, so that if he tries to recant or make untrue claims, we can release our version and make him look ridiculous.”

Maijstral’s heart warmed. “Splendid!”

“I’m sending Roman back to you. And I’ve just spoken to Prince Hunac. He’s still under the influence, a bit, of the stuff he took last night—and I think that’s fortunate, because it made him quite suggestible. He has agreed to postpone any confrontation until the situation clarifies.”

Maijstral’s already-warm heart sparked to a furnace glow. “My dear, if the phone permitted it, I would kiss you full on the mouth.”

“I’m too tired for kisses right now.” With a yawn. “Prince Hunac has offered me a room here, and I’m going to take it.”

“Sleep well.”

“What you must do is speak to the media tomorrow and let them know that the Hay matter is settled, and that your quarrel with Prince Hunac is on the verge of being composed. That will force our opposition to make another move—they’ve got to try to frame you again, or give up their plan.”

“Nichole just told me that Graceland has become available.”

“Excellent. Then you must tell the media of your plans for a religious retreat.”

“I will. I’m a hereditary prince-bishop after all—I’ll tell the media I’m going to spend a whole night praying for peace.”

Laughter lines formed about the violet eyes. “I keep forgetting you’re a bishop. You’re not very ecclesiastical.”

Maijstral composed his face into an expression of piety. “I prefer to keep my devotions private, thank you.”

“Well, I’m a hereditary abbess, so I suppose I should not criticize.”

“Really? Which order?”

“The Reformed Traditional Hospice Order of the Blessed Spatula.”

“Oh. The Spatulans! I’ve seen their abbeys scattered here and there.”

“Yes. And since I’m an abbess, I’ve got to see the Spatula itself, in a vault in the City of Seven Bright Rings. It’s supposed to be an emanation of Gulakh-XII the Well-Versed, who is alleged to have ascended bodily to heaven after he retired from the throne.”

“An emanation, is it? I wondered why they worshiped a bit of kitchen equipment.”

“They take it out of the vault once a year and make a holy omelette with it, and then the celebrants all swallow a piece. The ceremony is quite moving.”

“I’m sure.”

“My piece was a bit leathery when I tasted it, though.” Another lengthy yawn. “I really should turn in. It’s been a long day.”

“You’ve more than earned your rest.”

“So have you. But you got a nap.” Another yawn. “I’ll think about Baron Sancho tomorrow.”

“I have every confidence in you. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Maijstral sat for a long moment in his darkened room and contemplated the remarkable women, the galactic superstar and the nobly born Spatulan abbess, who seemed to have taken command of his life.

Not, considering the alternative, that he objected. Not exactly. But he found himself yearning for that blessed time when he had been convinced that he was captain of his fate. That time seemed very remote now, though it had only been a few days ago.

This conviction had been an illusion, as the past days had shown. What had happened? Had he ever really been in command of his life, or had he always been the victim of mysterious forces who had, just recently, turned malevolent and mysterious, whereas before they had been content to permit him to live in illusive ignorance?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Media globes winked on high. Maijstral stood beneath the arched gate of Tvar’s estate and smiled benignly at the assembled reporters.

“Furthermore,” he continued, “I wish to announce that I accept the chastisement of my superior. I refer of course to the Baron Sancho Sandoval Cabeza de Vaca. I hope to reform my behavior, and I thank the Baron for calling my error to public attention.”

Take that
, Maijstral thought.

A sea of blank faces gazed at him. “What exactly does this mean?” someone asked.

“It means that I accept the Baron’s assault as justified, and that I choose not to resent it.”

“
So you won’t be fighting?
”

Maijstral detected a tone of outrage in Mangula Arish’s voice.

“No,” Maijstral said.

There wouldn’t be a fight unless Baron Sancho managed another attack, and Roman and Drexler, standing at Maijstral’s side with arms folded in the capacity of bodyguard, were there to prevent just that, as well as keep away any other senile delinquents with violence on their minds.

There was a
very
respectful distance between Roman and any of the crowd of reporters. Just
looking
at him caused any number of people to go pale.

And in the meantime, the Diadem’s publicity people, at Nichole’s behest, would whisper among the media that Maijstral had chosen this humiliating option out of respect for the Baron’s age, and out of concern for his mental health, which—as was plain to observe—was not quite of the best.

But
Maijstral
would say nothing of the sort—nothing for the Baron to object to, nothing that could cause him to issue another challenge.

If Maijstral couldn’t have it both ways, what was the point of being a celebrity?

Another reporter scowled up from the mass. “So with the Hay fight canceled, and the Hunac fight postponed indefinitely, this means you won’t be fighting any more duels in the near future?”

Maijstral managed a smile. “Once a week is enough, don’t you think?”

The reporters’ mood was surly. They’d come for blood—they
depended
on the spilling of blood, and plenty of it—and now it looked as if they were about to be deprived of their feeding frenzy.

“Do you think,” Mangula Arish called, “that your opponents are having second thoughts after your victory over Prince Joseph Bob? Do you think their withdrawal might be a reflection on their courage?”

Maijstral resisted the temptation to bounce a rubber ball off Arish’s hair, and on reflection judged the question an act of desperation. She was trying to reignite the dueling frenzy through name-calling.

“I have absolutely no reason whatever to question the courage of any of these gentlemen,” Maijstral said, “and I hope that if any of my erstwhile opponents chooses to resent the insinuation, they will remember it was you, Mangula Arish, who made it, and not I.”

The other reporters chuckled while Arish turned pale at the thought of three enraged, bloodthirsty duelists stalking her.

“I have only one other announcement,” Maijstral said. “The nearness of death in the last few days has caused me to reevaluate the condition of my spiritual health. It has occurred to me that I have neglected the religious duties implied by my status as the Hereditary Prince-Bishop of Nana, and I have decided to go on a retreat for the purpose of meditation, fasting, and prayer. The administration of Graceland has very kindly made one of their meditation rooms available for the purpose. I will be going on retreat this afternoon, and will remain in seclusion for an indefinite period. Thank you.”

Ignoring shouted questions, Maijstral made his way back to Tvar’s manse. Roman and Drexler followed slowly behind, their purpose plain—to pound like a stake into the rich Tennessee soil anyone who might feel the urge to pursue Maijstral and hit him with a fist.

Maijstral entered the mansion and found Tvar waiting for him.

“How did it go, dear?” she asked.

He gave her a Khosali smile, tongue lolling.

“Very well, I think.”

*

Later that day a tailor appeared for Maijstral’s fitting. Maijstral didn’t travel with his ecclesiastical garments any more than he carried the formal court dress to which he was equally entitled—both were designed for the Khosali physique anyway, and tended to make humans look stunted, aswim in a sea of fabric and ceremonial implements. The tailor managed the complicated ritual garments in jig time, and then Maijstral posed for a long time in his bishop suit, while Drexler thoroughly recorded his image with a holographic video camera..

Later that day one of Tvar’s servants—a second footman—stepped out onto the lawn wearing a hologram of Maijstral’s image, stepped into a flier piloted by Roman, and was carried off to the Jungle Meditation Room in Graceland. The media waiting before the gate duly followed, thereafter to wait like pilgrims outside the gate of Elvis’s city.

The footman would be amply compensated for any fasting, meditation, and prayer he might, in the course of his impersonation, be compelled to undergo.

In the meantime Maijstral, wearing his darksuit and armed to the teeth, sat in ambush in the room next to his suite. Roman, Drexler, Tvar, Kuusinen, and Roberta were arrayed likewise. Tvar’s estate now contained a remarkable number of passive detectors–– nothing that would broadcast an alarm, because they didn’t want any intruder to hear it and run away, they wanted the intruder to come right in and make herself at home.

Alice Manderley, or whoever else was responsible for Maijstral’s dilemma, was going to have a nasty surprise in store.

The hours passed slowly. It was after twenty-six o’clock when Maijstral received a phone call on his shielded lines. “Yes?”

“Mr. Maijstral, this is Conchita.”

“Go ahead.”

“For some reason I’m not receiving a picture—should I call again?”

“I’m not transmitting a picture. I don’t want to activate any pickups.”

“Are you on a
job?
”

“Something like that. What news?”

“I thought I’d let you know that Alice Manderley and her husband have left Quintana Roo, and they’re flying north. I’m on her trail.”

Triumph hummed in Maijstral’s nerves. “Very good. Do nothing to alarm her.”

“Everything’s right as Robbler. She’s not evading or anything.”

“Excellent. Call again when you have an idea of her destination.”

“Right.”

Gleeful, Maijstral relayed this news to his confederates and told them to be ready.

Alice was going to have
such
a surprise.

*

The intruder was delayed only briefly by the screamers on the perimeter of Tvar’s estate—they were neutralized by black boxes deployed by an assistant. The approach across the back lawn was made swiftly—a hint of recklessness there, Maijstral thought, there were potential detection problems flying across an open space wearing a darksuit, and the intruder was ignoring them.

Steal from my friends, will you?
Maijstral thought fiercely.