Rock of Ages (27 page)

Maijstral bowed. “Thank you.”

A door banged open. Roberta jumped.

“Boss!”

“Conchita. You have met Her Grace of Benn, have you not?”

Conchita barely spared Roberta a glance. “Last night, yeah. I just wanted to tell you that I’ve broken the code and we can get into Graceland anytime. How many coded badges will you need?”

“One for me, one for Roman, one for yourself . . .”

“And for me.”

“Thank you, Roberta. It’s not necessary, of course.”

“I think I would enjoy being in on the kill, so to speak. And Kuusinen will come, too.”

“Five copies, then, Conchita.”

“Right, boss.”

“And then go into Memphis and purchase five holographic Elvis disguises.”

“You bet, boss. Is that all you need?”

“For the present, yes.”

“Right, then. Bye.”

The door banged again. Roberta frowned. “Roberta. You seem puzzled.”

“I am marveling at the breadth of your acquaintance, Drake. I was barely aware of the existence of people such as Miss Sparrow, and now it would seem I am involved in an adventure with her.”

“You should broaden your circle, Roberta. After all, there are far many more of Conchita’s sort than of yours, or mine. I hope you will consider the experience an enriching one.”

“I am dubious as to the nutritive value of this brand of enrichment. Why are you smiling?”

“A private thought, regarding enrichment. Nothing with which to concern yourself.”

*

An image flickered to life. A shifting image, difficult of aspect. “Miss Manderley?”

“Who’s that? I can’t see. Are you wearing a darksuit?”

“Let me adjust the angle of the camera. There. Is that better?”

“
Ahh!
No! What is he doing to Kenny?”

“Dangling him upside down over the Grand Canyon, Miss Manderley.”

“Tell him to stop! I’ll pay anything!”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell him to stop just yet, Miss Manderley.”

Alice Manderley shrank back into her seat. “Why is that Khosalikh bald? Why has he painted himself all red like that? He must be mad!”

“He’s just a bad molter, Miss Manderley.”

“
Nobody
is that bad a molter!”

“Kenny will not be harmed if you agree to our demands.”

“Anything!”

“Within the next minute, I want you to step into the flier that just landed on your front lawn. You will not carry any arms, communications equipment, or locator beacons.”

“Yes! Yes! Just don’t hurt him!”

*

“Miss Arish?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Copac. The Prince of Quintana Roo has sent me to—wait! Come back!”

* * *

The flier’s door hissed closed. Earth spiraled below as the machine took flight.

“Take me to Kenny!” Alice demanded.

“Not just yet.”

“Drake!”

“Now, now, Alice,” Maijstral pointed out from behind the controls. “I am wearing a darksuit and am camouflaged. You don’t know who I am, nor do you know my companion, likewise disguised, who is pointing a pistol at you.”

“Who was that freak who was dangling Kenny off the canyon wall?”

“An acquaintance of mine who can be trusted to fling Kenny to the gravitational constant if you should disobey my instructions in the least iota.”

“Well.” Muttering. “You’ve obviously got the goods on me.”

“Exactly. And what I require is the absolute, perfect truth.”

“Fine. Just don’t hurt Kenny!”

Behind his camouflage, Maijstral smiled. “Firstly, how long have you been engaged in this conspiracy?”

“With those fanatics? Virtues, it seems forever—but they first contacted me a few days ago, after I got off the liner from Qwarism. By that point Kenny had acquainted me with the results of his financial speculation, and I desperately needed the money they were offering.”

“Who contacted you?”

“Major Song. What an
unpleasant
woman.”

“That has been my impression.”

“She just ranted on about the Empire and some conspiracy of which you were supposed to be a part. I didn’t take any of that seriously, of course, but her money was good, and—well, I didn’t have any choice. I was desperate. I tried to keep Kenny away from her, though, when he suggested having her finance one of his productions.”

“I recall that.”

“Her fiancé, that Captain Whatsisname, isn’t a part of the plot, by the way. I was told never to mention it in front of him.”

“So when he challenged me, he was doing it all on his own?”

“Absolutely. Song was appalled.”

“Where did you take my father?”

“They ordered me to take him to Graceland.”

“What did they do with him then?”

“I have no idea. They paid me off, took possession of the coffin, and then I called for a flier and left.”

Maijstral thoughtfully twisted his diamond ring. “So you didn’t even try to keep the coffin in your possession until midnight tonight? It will never be yours legally, and you can be prosecuted for the theft at any time?”

“Well—yes.”

“That’s awfully careless of you.”

“You weren’t supposed to find out I’d done it.”

“Ah. Sorry not to have been killed in a duel as planned.”

“I apologize, Drake; I truly found this job distasteful, and my employers appalling. I’ve been motivated by fiscal desperation, not by any personal animus toward you.”

“Ah. And I suppose it never occurred to you that once I’m out of the way, you’ll have a better shot at being rated number one?”

Silence.

“Do you have any idea what they intend to do with my father?”

“No, not really. Major Song babbled about a vengeance that would last an eternity, but she talks like that all the time, so it’s hard to say whether or not it was hyperbole. She’s truly insane, you know. It’s lucky for her that someone else was planning all this, I don’t think she’s capable.”

“Wait a minute.
This wasn’t all Major Song’s idea?
”

“No. Not at all. She’s following someone else’s orders. She has it all written down for her—otherwise she’d forget something.” Alice shuddered. “She’s not a very rational person, Drake.”

“
Who’s behind this?
”

“I don’t know. I didn’t
want
to know. But whoever it is, he hates you with the most perfect hate of all time.”

*

“Mr. Maijstral.”

Maijstral looked up from the table where he’d placed his gear. Pistols, knives, restraints . . . .

“Mr. Kuusinen,” he said. “Please sit down.”

Kuusinen did so. “I’ve been thinking. I think your father is still, ah, intact, and still at Graceland.”

“I’m pleased to hear you say so. May I ask your reasons?”

“If Major Song and her cohorts intended to destroy the coffin and its contents, there was no need to take it to Graceland in the first place. They could much more easily have built a bonfire out in the countryside somewhere, and destroyed the coffin in perfect privacy. I imagine it would be difficult to find a place even in such a large place as Graceland where a burning coffin would not go remarked.”

“Yes. I follow.”

“So they took your father to Graceland for a
reason
. I must admit I have not discerned what that reason may be, but possibly it is related to the upcoming Memphis Olympiad. Perhaps Major Song wishes to use the coffin in her act—I’ve never known Elvis impersonators to use anything so eccentric as a coffin in a performance, but I gather she is an eccentric person.”

“An understatement if ever I’ve heard one. Do you have any further thoughts?”

“Somewhat, sir. Though we cannot know the reason the coffin was taken to Graceland, we can know that whatever it was that Major Song intended to do with it, she may have done it by now. In which case the coffin and your father may be shipped out and destroyed.”

“Time is of the essence, then.”

“I fear so, sir. With this in mind, then, I have called up from computer files all the available architectural plans of Graceland, and I have asked my computer to perform an analysis of the data in order to determine all the places in Graceland where something the size of your father’s coffin may have been hidden.”

“I imagine there must have been a very great many.”

“The resultant number was dismayingly large. Somewhere in excess of fifty thousand. But the
probability
of a coffin being hidden in many of these places was not very large—one could hardly put it anywhere public—and so I have further analyzed the data and come up with something in the neighborhood of three thousand possible—sir?”

“Yes?”

“You look startled.”

Maijstral’s green eyes glittered, and he smiled thinly. “An inspiration, Mr. Kuusinen. I just realized where the coffin is hidden. I believe we may go ahead and rescue my father now.”

“Ah—very good, Mr. Maijstral.”

“But keep your architectural plans in reserve. I may be wrong. And—do you have a few moments?”

“Yes.”

“I wish to employ you in your legal capacity, if I may. Would you mind accompanying me to my room?”

*

“Mangula Arish, I’ve tracked you down!
Stop! Come back!
”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Torment, Dornier! Eternal torment!

Eh? Eh? You were saying?

Long have I planned my vengeance, Dornier! Years have passed while my plans grew to fruition!

What are you going on about?

And now our minds have been wired together. You can’t escape me—you’re at my mercy! My mercy, Dornier!

Are you . . . Quigley?

Who is Quigley? Is Quigley a spy?

A spy? Oh, Virtues, no. Quigley is an old school chum.

Enough of your school chums, Dornier! You’re in Hell now!

Hell. Oh, yes. I remember now.

Contemplate your sins, Dornier. . . .

Quigley’s cook used to make the most perfect little omelettes. You couldn’t have her make me one now, could you, Quigley?

I’m not Quigley!

You’re not?

Get this through your head, Dornier! You’re dead, you’re in Hell, and
I am not Quigley!
Can’t you get it straight?

Oh, of course. I’m being so silly. Of course you’re not Quigley.

Just remember that, Dornier!

You’re Jacko. I remember now.

I’m not Jacko!

Of course you are. You’re Jacko and this is one of your jolly little pranks.

I’m not Jacko!

Hahaha! I’ve found you out at last!

Aaaaah! I give up! I can’t stand it!

Most amusing, Jacko. Your best yet, as far as I’m concerned.

Your brainlessness! Your endless driveling! I refuse to spend eternity with the likes of you! I’m canceling Hell and I’m canceling it now!

No need to get upset, old man. After all, I was bound to guess your identity sooner or later.

It’s over! I’m going to call Major Song and have you disconnected!

Oh . . . I say, tell the Major to bring tea and cakes. I’ve worked up quite an appetite.

*

“Roman?”

“Sir? You called?”

“Please sit down. I have something to say.”

The red-eyed, fiery-skinned giant seemed uncomfortable as he sat in Maijstral’s presence. In addition to the obvious reason for his discomfort, Roman wasn’t used to being seated in the presence of his social betters.

Maijstral frowned down at the table before him, where his genealogy, so carefully assembled by Roman, had been unrolled. He looked at his ancestors running back thousands of years, and thought of Roman’s own genealogy, which went back even farther.

He cleared his throat. He wanted to be able to pick the right words for this.

“Roman,” he said, “before we go off to rescue my father, I thought I would acquaint you with some of the contents of my will.”

“Sir!” Roman barked. “Not necessary!”

This was hardly Roman’s usual form, Maijstral knew, but then he reminded himself that this was hardly the usual Roman.

“I am certain,” Roman added, more in his usual style, “that any dispensation which you have chosen to make is more than adequate.”

“Well. There’s a little more to it than endowments and so forth. Something special.”

“Sir?”

“Your family has been in service to mine for hundreds of years. Never in all that time has there been a single instance in which your family has failed to give its utmost for mine.”

Maijstral was startled as Roman gave a brief roar, but it proved not to be anger, but rather something more in the nature of clearing the throat.

What Roman said, finally, was, “We endeavor to gratify, sir.”

“And you have. You have. And in recognition of that, I placed in my will the intention that, on my death, the City of Seven Bright Rings be petitioned that one of my titles—that of Baron Drago—be given to you, or your heir. I also made provision for the transfer of sufficient funds to support any reasonable pretensions to which a member of the nobility might aspire.”

“Sir!” The arm of the chair came loose in Roman’s hand.

His reddened eyes almost leaped from his head. “But
then
,” Maijstral added, “I reconsidered.”

A twitch danced across Roman’s countenance. “I understand, sir,” he said. “It is hardly fitting that I—”

Maijstral tried to repress a smile. “Roman,” he said, “please let me finish.”

“Very good, sir.”

Roman observed the chair arm in his hand, and looked at it in surprise, not knowing how it got there.

Maijstral cleared his throats “I reconsidered,” he repeated. “I thought, why should all this wait till I’m dead, when by all rights you should have your reward now. So I have just now instructed Mr. Kuusinen to draft a petition to the City of Seven Bright Rings; and as soon as the Imperial Recorder in the next room copies it with his jade pen, and I sign it, the petition will be sent by the Very Private Letter service to the Emperor. And since we did the Empire that service on Peleng, as I’m sure you remember, I have every reason to believe that my petition will be granted…”

His voice trailed off as he saw that Roman was simply staring off into space, the chair arm in his hand, his mouth fallen open and his tongue lolling.