Rock of Ages by Walter Jon Williams Page B

researches had encountered a particularly sensitive, point. “What I’m trying to say,” she repeated, “is that I’m not very practiced at this.”
    “I will bear that in mind.”
    “I’m not practiced at all, in fact.”
    “Oh.” Maijstral halted in surprise and looked at Roberta.
    “I have a very good imagination,” she added. “I hope that will help to make up for any lack of genuine experience.”
    “No doubt,” Maijstral said, half to himself. And then, “Your grace, are you absolutely certain you want to do this?”
    “Oh good grief yes,” Roberta said quickly. “It’s about time, don’t you think?” She laughed. “If we’re to be married, it’ll make the long engagement go more quickly. And if we’re not, at least I’ll have had the man of my dreams.”
    Maijstral nodded. A glittering midnight gleam entered his lazy eyes.
    “Well,” he said finally, “I hope I prove worthy of that imagination of yours.”
    *
    Maijstral was awakened by an authoritative knock on his door. The situation—loud banging on door, girl next to him in the bed—awakened a long-standing reflex of many years’ duration. He made a smooth vault from the bed, snatched dressing gown and pistol, and was halfway to the window before he was brought up short by a bolt of pain that seized his nether regions in a grip of iron.
    Staggered, he leaned on a table for support and looked about him. Roberta was blinking at him lazily from her pillow, and the knocking continued.
    He took a step toward the door and the pain clutched him again. What, he pried to remember, had he and Roberta done last night?
    And then he realized that the pain probably had a lot more to do with his first horseback ride than anything he and Roberta had got up to in bed.
    “Just a moment,” Maijstral called, and put on his dressing gown. He found Roberta’s gown and gallantly held it out for her. She rose gracefully from bed and slipped her arms into the silk-lined sleeves.
    “This way,” Maijstral said, and turned to the closet. “Closet,” he said, “open.”
    The closet obliged. Maijstral escorted the Duchess inside, and observed that Conchita Sparrow’s command override, which she had left behind, was still in place, a fortunate accident in that it would allow the closet door to close with someone inside. He kissed Roberta, who looked up at him with amusement glittering in her eyes, and then he told the closet to close.
    The hammering on the door recommenced. Maijstral looked down at the gun in his hand and wondered how it had come there.
    Perhaps, however, it was best to be cautious.
    “Who is it?” he demanded.
    “Joseph Bob,” came the answer.
    There was a knock on the inner door that led to his sitting room, and Drexler stepped in, his ears cocked grimly forward. “Trouble, boss,” he said. “There’s a fleet of police fliers dropping on the lawn.”
    “Ah,” Maijstral said. “I see. Someone must have stolen something, somewhere, and the cops are trying to pin it on us.”
    “Roman’s making sure the rooms are clean,” Drexler said.
    The hammering started again. Maijstral hobbled toward the door and opened it. Joseph Bob, Arlette, and the Bubber were outside, each looking hastily dressed, and each wearing a grim expression.
    “What’s the problem?” Maijstral asked.
    “There’s an item missing,” Joseph Bob said. “And though we’re quite sure you have nothing to do with its disappearance . . .” Words, or perhaps tact, failed him, and he looked around for support.
    “We’re sure you will want to demonstrate your innocence,” Arlette filled in, “and won’t mind if we search your rooms.”
    Behind Maijstral the window darkened as a pair of police in a-grav harness took up position. Maijstral turned to the window and cocked an eyebrow.
    “Did you have to invite the cops?” he asked.
    Joseph Bob frowned. “I didn’t,” he said. “One of the servants must have called them.”
    “Well,” Maijstral said,