The Quantum Thief

planets and stars, and, of course, prominently displayed Watches.

‘I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,’ Raymonde says. A humanoid Quiet servant in dazzling livery, sculpted face covered by a mask, checks our invitation co-memories and guides us along with the flow of the crowd that is slowly filling the sundial garden, pooling into small groups. The tinkle of glasses, aching ares nova music and the voices of the guests all merge into an intoxicating symphony of its own.

I smile at Raymonde. She is a seductive Phobos, in a deep-cut dress that includes white gloves and a glowing sphere of light in her abdomen, bright enough to cover strategic areas with luminescence. I am content to be a modest peacock next to her, in white tie, with several ornamental Watch replicas and a flower in my lapel.

‘I assure you, this is one of the least immoral jobs I’ve ever been involved in,’ I say. ‘Robbing from the rich and giving to the poor. After a fashion.’

‘Still.’ She nods to a passing couple dressed as Venus and Mars whose gevulot reveals just enough to ensure that they are seen. ‘This is not what we do. Quite the opposite of what we do, in fact.’ The glow of the little Phobos in her belly highlights the elegant bone structure of her face: she reminds me of a sculpture of some Greek goddess.

‘Your masked friends need proof. We’ll give them proof.’ I pick up a champagne glass from a passing Quiet servant. I brush a dust particle away from the front of its coat, giving it an invisible dose of Part A of the plan from my flower. Potent stuff, but it is good to release it early: it will take some time for it to do its work. ‘Don’t worry. Provided that your friend can get us an introduction, everything will be as smooth as silk.’

How are we doing on security? I whisper to Mieli. She is our backup in the hotel, coordinating things with Perhonen. Minimal, she says. Still, more than you expected. War Quiet concern me: they actually have pretty decent sensors.

‘Do me a favour,’ Raymonde says. ‘Don’t try to put me at ease. Come on, let’s mingle.’

Raymonde got us invitations with surprising ease. Apparently, Christian Unruh is a patron of the arts and a Kingdom enthusiast, so a friend of Raymonde’s at the Academy of Music thought it would be an excellent idea if she could discuss her opera concept with him. Of course, the party is full of would-be artists seeking patronage, but her contact promised to get us a personal introduction. And that’s all I need.

‘Raymonde!’ A short older woman waves at us. She is wearing a smartmatter dress that is like an hourglass without the glass: there is no fabric, just red Martian sand that runs down her generous figure. The effect is hypnotic. ‘How wonderful to see you here! And who is this handsome gentleman?’

I bow and open my gevulot a little as common courtesy dictates, but take care not to allow her any permanent memories of my appearance. ‘Raoul d’Andrezy, at your service.’ Raymonde introduces my cover identity, the emigre from Ceres. The hourglass lady’s gevulot reveals that she is Sofia dell’Angelo, a lecturer in the Academy of Music and Drama.

‘Oh, I’m sure we can think of something,’ Sofia says. ‘Now, what happened to poor Anthony? I loved his hair.’

Raymonde blushes a little, but does not reply. Sofia winks at me. ‘You should watch out, young man. She is going to steal your heart and keep it.’

‘Hush, I don’t want you to scare him away. It took a lot of effort to catch him,’ Raymonde says. ‘Any sign of our host yet?’

Sofia looks crestfallen, plump cheeks flushed. ‘No, I’m afraid not. I have spent almost an hour trying to find him. I absolutely think he should hear about your new piece. But apparently he is only going to show himself to a close circle of friends tonight. Do you know, I think he is actually afraid of that le Flambeur character? Terrible,’ she says in a hushed tone.

‘Le what?’ Raymonde asks.

‘Haven’t you heard?’ Sofia says. ‘The rumour has it that some sort of offworld criminal invited himself here – even sent a letter announcing himself. It is all terribly exciting. Christian actually hired a detective, you know, the young boy who was in all the papers.’

Raymonde’s eyes widen. Announced himself? hisses Mieli in my mind. Announced?

I have no idea what she is talking about, I protest. That would be terribly unprofessional. It’s true: the preparations over the past few days have kept me too busy to incorporate additional flourishes. I feel a sudden twinge of regret: sending a RSVP would have played exactly the right note. I’m innocent, I swear. It is the same thing as with the gogol pirates. Somebody knows too much.

We are going to abort, Mieli says. If they are expecting you, the risk is too great.

Don’t be ridiculous. We are not going to get an opportunity like this anytime soon. It’s just going to make this a little more exciting. Besides, I have an idea.

We are not going to argue about this, Mieli says.

Are you telling me that we are going to run away with our tails between our legs? What kind of warrior are you? I trust you to deal with the violence, all right? Let me make this call. This is what I do. Any sign of trouble, and we are gone.

Mieli hesitates. Fine. But I’ll be watching you, she says.

I know you will be.

Raymonde thanks Sofia for the attempt and we excuse ourselves, finding a little pavilion near the clearing where a group of acrobats perform with a pair of gracile elephants – trunks weaving intricate patterns with torches – and a flock of trained megaparrots, a riot of screeching colour.

‘I knew this was a bad idea,’ Raymonde says. ‘We are not going to get close to Unruh. And – why does he have to be here?’ She stares at a young man across the clearing, tall and lanky with tousled hair, dressed in an ill-fitting black and silver outfit. He is wandering through the crowd with a distracted, daydreaming look on his face.

‘Is that the detective?’

‘Isidore Beautrelet, yes.’

‘Interesting. Close to Unruh, apparently.’

Raymonde gives me a flinty look. ‘Don’t get him involved.’

‘Why not?’ I feel the gogol pirate tools in my mind. The identity theft engine is something I have not tried yet, but it is there, waiting to be used. ‘You know him, right? Any gevulot access you could share?’

She takes a deep breath.

‘Come on, don’t be such a goody-two-shoes,’ I say.

‘We are trying to commit a crime here. We have to use all the tools we have.’

‘Yes, I have a lot of his gevulot,’ she says. ‘So what?’

‘Oh? Is he a former lover? Another one whose heart you stole?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Help me out. Give me his gevulot, and we can do what we came here for.’

‘No.’

I fold my arms. ‘All right, then. Let’s go home, and let your hidden puppeteers continue pulling your strings. Their strings. His strings.’ I gesture at the detective and the crowd. ‘This is exactly what I was talking about. You have to compromise to win.’

She turns away from me. Her face is hard. I try to take her hand, but she does not open her fingers. ‘Look at me. Let me do this. So you won’t have to.’

‘Damn you.’ She grabs my wrist. ‘But whatever I give you, you’ll give back, after it’s over. Swear it.’

‘I swear.’

‘And I swear too,’ she says. ‘If you hurt him, you’ll wish you were still in your Prison.’

I look at the young man. He is leaning on a tree, eyes half-closed, almost as if asleep.

‘Raymonde, I’m not planning on hurting him. Well, perhaps his ego, a little bit. It’ll do him good.’

‘You were never much good at doing good,’ she says.

I spread my hands, give her a small bow and go to meet the detective.

*

Isidore is alert, walking around, observing, deducing; it is not hard to see social patterns below the flow of