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He passed through the doors and entered the pocket-size lobby and guest parlor, made warm by efficient central heating and by the psychological effect of the briskly burning faux logs on the small hearth. The crackling fire was only molded ceramic heating elements and a specialized tri-vid display—preserving clean air above the city was too important to allow for the real thing—but it made an effective imitation. Jonah resisted the urge to go stand in front of it and toast his extremities back to normal, and went straight to the front desk instead.

  Madame Flambard herself was at the desk. The plump, gray-haired woman broke into a smile at the sight of him.

  “Monsieur Jonah—I mean, Paladin Levin! It’s an honor to have you back with us.”

  Jonah could not help smiling in return. “You have a room, then? I sent word from Belgorod—”

  “Yes, yes. We were all so surprised—we hadn’t thought we’d see you here again, now that you’re not just a Knight anymore.”

  He shook his head reprovingly. “Nobody is just a Knight.”

  “Of course not. But Paladins—”

  “Should give up staying in places where they’re known and comfortable, and go stay somewhere big and impressive instead? No, Madame, the Pension Flambard suits me very well.”

  He took the key-card and ascended to the small room up under the eaves, which had been his favorite ever since he first came to Geneva as a new-made—and far from wealthy—Knight. The garments he had bought from the tailor in Belgorod would arrive later by van from the transit hub. Anything important or private had come with him in his single small bag.

  He secured the bag and its contents in the wall safe, then turned to the combination desk, communications console, and entertainment center that took up most of the space in the room not occupied by the bed.

  Madam Flambard’s grasp of the priorities was yet another thing that Jonah approved of. Most of the Pension Flambard’s furnishings were either genuinely old or deliberately retro, but its communications consoles were always kept current with the state of the art. Jonah connected to the government’s secure network and entered the password that gave him access to the Paladin-level files and private areas. He needed to get an idea of the general state of affairs—and not just the commonly available information, either—before he talked to anybody.

  Genevan politics at the Knight level had been full of old feuds and secret alliances, private antipathies and conflicting agendas, and he had no reason to believe that things would be different now that his rank was higher. So far as he knew, being named a Paladin had never made a man—or a woman—any more righteous than he or she was before, and even people of goodwill and good intentions could be bitterly divided on what course of action was best for The Republic.

  He went to the situation updates on the Prefectures first. With regret, he noted the changes in the format there. Updates were no longer available in as close to real time as to make no difference. Instead, entries were tagged with the date of their first report and the date of their confirmation, and sorted by provenance and reliability—direct transmission, official government data disc or other storage medium, commercial or personal data medium, verbal report from official source, verbal report from outside source, and so on.

  Scanning the entries, he found himself missing Anna with a real and sudden pang. She had always been much better than he was at disentangling complex webs of hearsay and pulling loose the threads of truth and relevance.

  Intelligence analysts do this sort of thing all the time, he told himself sternly. So can you.

  The hot spots of the moment appeared to be Prefectures II and III. Former Prefect Katana Tormark and her supporters in the Dragon’s Fury were making serious inroads there. Katana made as formidable an enemy of The Republic as she had made a supporter, and her defection—nobody wanted to use the painful word “betrayal”—had shocked a number of people who’d thought that her loyalty was absolute.

  And maybe it still was, Jonah thought. Perhaps Katana’s loyalty had always been given to something whose true nature only she knew, and which she didn’t see as embodied in The Republic anymore.

  He turned from the Dragon’s Fury to Clan Wolf. The Steel Wolf faction had been active recently, but at the moment appeared quiescent. Reports had come into Kervil several Terran months back that Prefect Kal Radick, the Wolves’ de facto leader in The Republic, was dead in a challenge, and that his successor had led the Steel Wolf forces in a strike at Northwind. But if the Wolves had thought to profit from the relative inexperience of Katana Tormark’s replacement as Prefect, they were sadly mistaken. Countess Tara Campbell—with the aid of Paladin Ezekiel Crow—had repulsed them handily.

  A far bigger threat, in Jonah Levin’s mind, came at the moment from Jacob Bannson. The business tycoon, thwarted once already in his desire to set up operations in Prefecture III, was rumored to be moving again in that direction.

  Jonah frowned. Bannson was dangerous. Richer in his own right than some planetary governments, the man hungered now for things other than money: power, high office, and a voice in the running of The Republic. Some informants claimed that he even had his eyes on Paladin status. More than one person, in fact, had confided in Jonah that his own elevation had enraged Bannson, who had thought of the vacant seat as owed to him.

  Jonah could not imagine Bannson wanting the title of Paladin for its own sake, or even for the sake of what a Paladin could accomplish. But for the sake of a shot at the highest prize of all, though . . . yes.

  Jacob Bannson doesn’t want to be a Paladin, Jonah thought. Jacob Bannson wants to be Exarch.

  PART TWO

  Bearing Witness

  15

  Belgorod DropPort

  Terra

  Prefecture X

  March 3134; local winter

  Lieutenant Owain Jones of the Northwind Highlanders had not been on Terra for more than two hours before he knew that they planned to kill him. He was not completely clear on who “they” might be—although he had a strong opinion about who had sent them—but he had no doubts whatsoever concerning their intent. He was a combat soldier who had been entrusted with a vital mission, and he knew that he was going to die.

  The leather portfolio in his right hand, heavy with data discs and papers containing the testimony and the pictures concerning the battles of Tara, the attacks across the northern hemisphere, and the destruction of Castle Northwind—and concerning the part that a certain Paladin of the Sphere had played in all those events—was slippery with the sweat from his palm, in spite of the chilly winter air. He drew his other hand across his forehead, brushing back his hair.

  He had felt for some time now that he was being shadowed. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, but he could feel eyes watching him. He would need to deliver the material in the portfolio to someone—to a Knight, perhaps, or to a member of the Senate. If, that is, his shadowy pursuers allowed him to approach anyone remotely like that.

  His arrival at the Belgorod DropPort had been unremarkable, and his clearance through the checkpoints had been swift and easy. The feeling of being watched came upon him when he left the port building and reached the sidewalk outside, just beyond the edge of the field. The feeling didn’t lead him to anything that he could put his finger on, any more than his nervous glances found a skulker in the shadows or a hovercar with tinted windows parked across the way. Nevertheless, his jumpiness increased.

  Lieutenant Jones took the first hovercab that presented itself under the awning at the DropPort transit stop, and directed it to take him downtown to the transportation hub. Buildings flashed by him outside the windows on either side of the cab, causing him to think uneasily that he couldn’t tell whether the driver was going to the location he had specified.

  He pointed to a restaurant on the side of the road, up by the next corner. “Stop here.”

  “But we aren’t anywhere near city center,” the driver protested. “I thought you wanted—”

  “I want to go here,” Jones said. “
Pull over.”

  “All right, all right,” said the driver. “But you still have to pay the full fare to center city.”

  “I’ll pay it,” Jones said. “Now pull over.”

  Maybe this would throw off pursuit, he thought. Maybe no one was pursuing him. Maybe . . . maybe he was about to pay the price for carrying evidence that would damn a popular and powerful man.

  The cab came to a stop. Lieutenant Jones stepped out, clutching the portfolio, and handed the cabbie a substantial amount of cash. He’d been issued travel funds before departing Northwind, but he hadn’t found an opportunity to break up the large bills into smaller ones before becoming aware of the pursuit. The cab driver started to put the money away, then looked at it again and glared at him angrily.

  “Hey, I can’t use this!”

  “You can change it at the nearest bank,” Jones said. “There’s a lot more in there than what I owe. Keep all of it.”

  He backed off, turned, and ducked hastily into the restaurant on the corner. Only the pride of Northwind kept him from breaking into a run.

  At this hour, the establishment was deserted except for a barman who was doubling as a waiter. The lunch hour was over, and the dinner hour had not yet started. The waiter bustled up as soon as Lieutenant Jones walked in.

  “One, please,” Jones said. “And do you have a communications console?”

  “Yes, sir. May I suggest the fillet of sturgeon?”

  “Sure. Give me whatever is good. But right now I need to make a call.”

  The waiter pointed. “Over there, beside the washroom.”

  Lieutenant Jones walked back to the public communications console and punched in the code for the Northwind Interests Section in Belgorod. Whoever answered, however, was unimpressed with the call.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the disembodied voice said. “I cannot put you through directly to the chargé at this time. The current wait for a voice connection to a representative of the Northwind Interests Section is a minimum of twenty minutes. Alternatively, you may present yourself in person tomorrow morning at 0817.”

  “Listen to me,” Jones said. “I have important papers here. Northwind has been attacked! There’s a chance that Terra will be next. I have evidence with me that needs to go to the Senate as soon as possible.”

  “Press one to wait for a connection; press two if you prefer to conduct your business in person,” the voice said. Lieutenant Jones couldn’t tell whether it belonged to a live human or to a synthesized recording. He pressed one. The voice said, “You have chosen to wait for a connection. If you wish to conduct other business during the waiting period, and have a signal sent to your receiving unit when a representative of the Northwind Interests Section is able to speak with you, press three.”

  They’ve all gone out to lunch, Jones thought. They’re sitting at a table somewhere eating caviar and drinking vodka while the world is falling apart. He pressed three.

  “You have chosen to have a signal sent to your receiving unit. Please be aware that the Northwind Interests Section is not responsible for any calls missed due to the caller’s absence from the receiving unit. Good day.”

  The connection broke.

  “And a good day to you, too,” Jones said to the silent console.

  He walked back to the table that the waiter had indicated for him, and took his seat as the greens and a drink were brought out. The grilled fillet of sturgeon had just been set before him when the door of the restaurant opened. The little bell attached to the door frame jingled cheerfully as two men entered. They wore long coats, and they scanned the nearly empty room with humorless eyes.

  The man closest to the door pulled a slug-pistol from his coat pocket. The two men walked toward Lieutenant Jones, arriving one to either side of him before he could stand.

  “Come with us,” said the man with the slug-pistol.

  “Don’t make a scene,” the other one said. “We’re here to take you to the Northwind Interests Section.”

  Lieutenant Jones looked around. The dining room was empty, and the waiter had vanished. He stood up, reaching for the leather portfolio.

  “We’ll take that,” the man to his left said, and picked up the portfolio. The man with the slug-pistol remained alert, his hands otherwise free. “Can’t be too careful.”

  “Of course not,” Jones said.

  He walked a little ahead of the two men as the three of them left the room together. Behind them, the bell over the outside door jingled again as they left.

  Ivan Gorky was the waiter and afternoon barman at the Pescadore Rus. It had been a slow afternoon with just one customer, a stranger who spoke only in English, and that with a strong off-Terran accent. Ivan had gone to the kitchen for sauce to go with the man’s grilled sturgeon and, upon his return, was surprised to see that his solitary customer had fled, leaving the bill unpaid.

  Ivan frowned, puzzled—you never could tell about people, it was true, but nevertheless the man hadn’t seemed the type to defraud a restaurant. Upon closer inspection of the abandoned table, Ivan had another surprise. Customers who ran out on a bill seldom did so before finishing their meals, yet this fellow hadn’t so much as taken a bite of his main course. One corner of the fish had been cut away with the edge of a fork, but not eaten; it still lay untasted on the plate.

  Another surprise came when he removed the white linen tablecloth and he found underneath it a data disc lying near the edge of the table, sparkling silver against the polished wood.

  “That’s certainly odd,” he said to himself, and put the data disc away behind the bar. Maybe the man would come back later to look for it. If he did, he wasn’t getting it until he paid his bill.

  Some ten minutes later, the communications console buzzed with the signal for an incoming call. Ivan shuffled over and picked up the handset.

  “No,” he said in response to the voice on the other end. “No one here is waiting to speak with a person at the Northwind Interests Section. I’m sorry. Good-bye.”

  16

  Pension Flambard, 14 Rue Simon-Durand

  Geneva, Terra

  Prefecture X

  March 3134; local winter

  Jonah Levin ate his dinner in the small family-owned restaurant where he took most of his meals during his visits to Geneva, then returned to the pension and a night’s sleep untroubled by dreams. In the morning, after bathing and putting on the change of clothing he’d brought with him in the small bag, he settled down to a light breakfast of sweet rolls and coffee—brought to his room on a silver tray by Madame Flambard herself—and the early-edition tri-vid news.

  Halfway through the economic report—heavy manufactured goods up, especially in the ’ Mech-production sectors, tourism down, interplanetary stock and bond markets uncertain—a knock sounded at the door of Jonah’s room. He switched off the tri-vid and got up to check the door. A quick glance through the security peephole showed him the GenDel messenger from Belgorod standing outside in the narrow hallway.

  Jonah opened the door and gestured the man inside. “Come on in,” he said. “I’m glad to see that you didn’t have any trouble finding this place.”

  The messenger looked, Jonah thought, a bit smug. “A street address in Geneva isn’t particularly challenging,” he said. “Not like a shack in the Amazon rain forest, or a DropShip somewhere in transit between Terra and the Rasal-hague Dominion.”

  “I suppose you’ve done both of those,” Jonah said. “Do you have any news for me?”

  “I have,” the messenger said. “Paladin Ezekiel Crow says, ‘Let’s get together, somewhere private. We have a lot to talk about.’ He also provides a private number to make contact.”

  The messenger handed across a folded piece of paper. Jonah tucked it into his shirt pocket for later.

  “Thank you,” he said to the messenger. “And my offer of employment is still open. Are you interested?”

  “I am,” the messenger said.

  “Excellent,” Jonah said. “Now—
because we’re going to be working together for several weeks at least, you should probably tell me your name.”

  “Burton Horn,” the messenger said. “But most people just call me Horn.”

  “Well, then, Horn,” Jonah said. “Welcome to employment with The Republic of the Sphere.”

  Jonah took out a sheet of the pension’s stationery from the communications console and began writing. He signed the note with his name and the pension’s address.

  “Go to the nearest shopping arcade,” he said, “and buy yourself some plain business clothes. Give them this and tell them to put the cost onto my account. You can send your General Delivery uniform back to your former employer COD.”

  Horn took the note. “Yes, Paladin.”

  “Call me Jonah,” Jonah said. “We’re going to get to know each other too well for greater formality.”

  “Jonah.” Horn nodded. “With your permission?”

  Jonah made a shooing motion with his hand. “Go, go. But don’t take too long. We have a lot of work to do.”

  As soon as Horn had left, Jonah turned back to the communications console and punched in the number that the messenger had given him. The ring at the other end trilled softly in his ear for a few seconds, then broke off.

  “Yes? Who is this?” The voice on the other end of the connection had no planetary accent that Jonah could identify—not in the way that his own spoken English still carried traces of both Hesperus and Kervil—but the pitch and timbre of it were nevertheless familiar to him from previous dealings with Ezekiel Crow.

  “Paladin Crow,” Jonah said. “This is Paladin Levin. You suggested that we should get together for a private conference, and I agree. The sooner the better, in fact. Where would be a good place for you?”

  “Where are you now?” Crow asked.

  “In Geneva,” Jonah said. “At the Pension Flambard.”

  “I’m in Geneva as well—at the Hotel Duquesne,” Crow replied. “Shall we meet here?”

  “That would work,” Jonah replied. He recognized the name as belonging to one of several grand establishments in which The Republic maintained suites of rooms for the convenience of Paladins and other visiting dignitaries. It was for such a place as the Hotel Duquesne, he suspected, that Madame Flambard had expected him to abandon the familiar comforts of her pension. “When would be a good time? I have no pressing appointments so far—I’ve only just arrived from Kervil—and my day is entirely at your disposal.”