Hart was already there when he arrived, sitting on the balcony over the river, but he seemed unimpressed by the view. His gaze was on the interior of the house, with the look of one whose judgment is in some manner suspended. Will was shown onto the balcony by a small boy in an embroidered red vest, who said, like an adult, that he would be happy to bring refreshment should the cyrs wish it. The cyrs declined, and when the boy left Will said, “Maybe someday I’ll be that self-possessed.”
“Umm,” said Hart, still looking toward the house. “Did you have any trouble over the last couple of days?”
“No, why should I have trouble?”
Hart didn’t answer that. A moment later two men and a woman came out to join them. One was the Minister of Truth, a man on the edge of old age, wearing the jewels and colors of his rank as though they were a slightly tedious set of business clothes. He sat down at once at the antique wooden table beside Hart’s chair. “Complete,” he said briefly to Hart, and squinted up at Will. “This your man?”
“More or less,” said Hart. “Can I see?”
The man and woman who’d remained standing wore the trousers and jacket of Baret noncivilians; the thorny rose on their jacket pockets showed them to be members of state security. The woman, Will noticed, was one of the most beautiful he’d ever seen, with a face that could come from one of the frescoes in church. She was young, and she wore a gold earring in one ear in the shape of a rose.
She carried a malachite box, which she placed on the table before Hart. He opened it.
“God,” said Will, and he moved closer for a better view. Hart lifted the object gently from the box and held it in the sun. It was a crown of gold, worked in a complex pattern that rose in three places to the Symbol of eternal life. Bending closer, he saw that occasional bits of the pattern formed actual representations—here was a small open book, The Book of Sawyer, and there was a cross, and further on an ancient syringe. Will crossed himself. “Is it—Hart, is this it?”
“It looks like it, doesn’t it?”
He became aware that Hart was watching him. They all were, in fact.
Hart placed the crown back in the box and closed the lid. “Very believable,” he said, and Will felt a lump of disappointment. Nothing so beautiful should be false.
The minister crossed his legs and leaned back. “You were going to discuss possible approaches with me.”
“Yes,” said Hart. “The agent who’s Adrian’s main negotiator for the Crown has been called uphill for a few days; so much the better. He’s left a couple of assistants here, and it will be more credible if we approach through them. Also, I suggest that Miranda make the first contact—let them do the work of bringing it up to your level.”
The minister turned to the Madonna-like beauty in the security uniform. She said, “I see no difficulty.”
Her voice was cool and sweet, like running a string of pearls over your skin. Will pulled himself together. “I’ll take that drink now,” he said. The minister touched a bell to summon his boy again, and Hart pulled out the chair beside his in invitation. Will sat down.
Hart leaned over. “You have a young lady at home,” he said softly.
“I know,” Will replied, irritated. “What did I do?”
Hart raised his voice. “Forgive me for verging on the vulgarity, Lord Minister, but my time is short. Would you mind terribly much if we discussed money?”
“Cyr,” said the minister, “I bow always to the energies of the young. — I believe we mentioned a lower figure of four hundred thousand? — Miranda, could you bring me my scarf? It grows chilly.”
Hours later, when the sun had passed to the other side of the mountains, Will accompanied Hart to the aircar on the upper terrace. Hart put up a hand when he reached for the door.
“You’re staying here for a while, Willie,” he said.
“What do you mean, here?”
“At the villa. As a guest. I have to go uphill myself for a few days, and I want somebody on the spot to watch over the operation.”
“I don’t think the minister wants anybody watching what he does. And it’s his operation, not mine.”
Hart said briefly, “He invited you.” And he opened the door and got inside.
“As a hostage? To guarantee payment, or secrecy about the crown?”
“Stop worrying, Willie, it kills you when you’re still young. Enjoy the company of Miranda—she can end a man’s life in eight different ways, and only four of them are taught in state security.”
Will looked at the driver, who waited impassively. He lowered his voice. “Are you really going to have the minister give that thing to Adrian as the Crown?”
“Of course not, Willie, I’m going to have him sell it to Adrian. It wouldn’t be believable if we gave it to him.”
Will saw the lights of Everun far below, the strip of the Flat as it curved north and south. “I’d rather stay at the Residence.”
“Look, I don’t have time to go over everything with you, I’m going straight to the port. You’ll be perfectly safe here, probably safer than if you were down there.” Hart closed the door with finality. Faintly, Will heard him shout, “Don’t worry, if Lysette asks for you, I’ll say you were delayed.”
The terrace vibrated gently as the car powered up. Bastard. Still, that parting shot was reassuring in a way. Hart would never leave him here to die when there were so many awful things he could still do to him.
The stars were blotted out for a moment by the car shape. Then they winked on again, as though from a universal power surge. There was a silence on the mountain, a silence made of quiet sounds—the river, the wind in the trees, insects
