House of Shards by Walter Jon Williams

gown.”
    “Perhaps,” Drexler said, “a wager is in order.” Roman’s ears perked forward.
    “How so?”
    “Perhaps we should make a wager concerning who will hold the Shard in his hands first. Someone on your side of the table, or someone on ours.”
    “It’s a bet.” Gregor’s reply was instant.
    “It may not,” Roman insisted, “be here.”
    “If it’s not,” Drexler said, “or if no one gets it at all— which I doubt—then the wager will be void.”
    Roman considered this. Gregor nudged him under the table. Roman’s diaphragm throbbed. “Very well,” he said.
    “Five novae?”
    “Let's make it ten,” offered Drexler.
    “Five is sufficient.”
    “Ten,” said Gregor quickly. “We'll bet ten.”
    Roman’s ears went back. “Ten,” he sighed, feigning reluctance. “Very well.” Drexler grinned and raised his glass.
    “Gentlemen,” he said, “I give you success.”
    “Success,” Roman echoed, and lapped his wine.
    Next to him, Roman could hear Gregor’s fingers tap, tap, tapping on his knees. Success, they seemed to be tapping. Success, success.
    *
    Baron Silverside, good will welling in his broad frame, entered the dining room with the Duchess of Benn on one arm and the Baroness on the other. Roberta was taller than both by several inches. The Baron showed Roberta to his table, then turned to his guests. The lights dimmed, the trumpets called. A few tables away, Maijstral finished his card trick and called for a robot. Baron Silverside, beneficence waxing in his veins, caressed his burnsides and waited for his moment. He could see a red light that meant he was being projected, in hologram form, into the servants' and the employees' dining rooms.
    A bright light came on to his right, a back light behind him (which illuminated his whiskers splendidly), a fill light to his left—he was going to do this properly. A trumpet called again. The room burst into applause.
    “My lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” began the Baron. His words were buried beneath the torrent of applause. The Baron was surprised. He hadn’t even unleashed the good stuff yet.
    He shuffled. He turned crimson. He yanked on his whiskers. He was having the time of his life.
    *
    Geoff Fu George sipped his wine and enjoyed seeing, without really looking at him, the Baron go through his agonies of pleasure. His eyes were not directed toward the Baron, but next to him, where Roberta was illuminated in stray light from the Baron's spots. She was not wearing the Shard—in fact her jewelry was modest, possibly to contrast, later, with the Shard when she finally chose to wear it— but he watched her nonetheless.
    He wasn’t certain why he watched. Perhaps he was looking for clues. Perhaps he just wanted some idea of her character. Perhaps he was hoping for an indication why she would have a game of tiles with Maijstral—something like a covert glance, a secret signal. (He saw none.) Perhaps he simply enjoyed looking at her—with her deep green gown complementing her strong, pale shoulders and dark red hair, she was worth looking at.
    The applause finally died away. The Baron essayed again. “My lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” he said. “I am flattered by your reception. When I first conceived the idea of this resort, I knew that, if it were to be a success, every detail would have to be accounted for. . . .”
    The Baron droned on, his burnsides flaring against the darkness. Behind him, fidgeting with her tableware, was his Baroness, a short, driven woman who Fu George knew was a middling-successful painter and owner of one of the most prestigious small collections in the Constellation. The Baroness was painfully shy, and almost never appeared in public—when seen, she usually wore an elaborate, pleated skirt of a type she'd introduced a decade ago, and which everyone else had long since ceased to wear. Roberta watched with apparent interest as the Baron wandered into minutiae concerning the process of selecting the