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  “Let’s see . . . would two in the afternoon be convenient? The Duquesne serves excellent tea and pastries.”

  “That would be fine,” Jonah said. He doubted if the pastries would be as good as Madame Flambard’s, but if every Paladin and Senator in The Republic knew about those, his own quiet refuge would surely be overrun.

  “Then we will meet at that hour,” Crow said. “Until then, Paladin Levin.”

  17

  Hotel Duquesne

  Geneva, Terra

  Prefecture X

  March 3134; local winter

  Ezekiel Crow sat at the table in a windowed alcove of the dining room at the Hotel Duquesne, watching the vehicles and pedestrians on the busy street outside while he waited for the arrival of Jonah Levin. All things considered, he was not displeased with the way matters were progressing. Suvorov had come through with news of Lieutenant Owain Jones of Northwind, and the crime lord’s people had dealt with the man efficiently, as directed.

  Now the evidence of what had happened on Northwind, like the evidence of what had happened on Liao, was gone. It had ceased to exist. Lieutenant Jones, who had carried the information to Terra, had likewise ceased to exist. The portfolio and its documents came to Ezekiel Crow; the courier, he never saw.

  The documents in the case—Crow had looked them over briefly—appeared to be originals: orders, tapes, photographs. Taken all together, damning. Now they were ash. Suvorov did good work.

  Not that Crow deluded himself for an instant that Suvorov was in any way trustworthy. The man was scum—he lived off the vices of others for no other purpose than his own enrichment—and the necessity of dealing with such a person only served to increase Crow’s resentment of his current plight. It was even possible that Suvorov had made copies of the material in the Northwind files. If so, then the crime lord was in a position to do serious harm at a later date.

  I must never allow myself to forget, Crow thought, that Alexei Suvorov is not my business partner, and he is not my friend. He is a bad man, and a menace to the health of The Republic, and at the first opportunity I will need to strike him down.

  At the first opportunity . . . but not just yet. Crow pushed his darker thoughts aside and composed his face into a smile of welcome as the Duquesne’s maitre d’hotel escorted Paladin Jonah Levin into the dining room.

  The Paladin from Kervil approached the table with hand extended. “It’s been a while,” he said. “And The Republic has changed since then.”

  “That it has,” Crow said, rising and meeting Levin’s handclasp with his own. He waved the other man into the opposite chair, then sat back down himself. “And not for the better. Would you care for something to drink? Tea or coffee?”

  “Tea, please,” Levin said.

  Crow summoned a waiter with a nod of his head, and gave the order. Then he continued, “You must have had a long journey. And with things so unsettled—”

  “The unsettled nature of The Republic of the Sphere is in fact my primary concern,” Levin said. The Paladin from Kervil looked about him at the heavy silver table service, the fine antique furniture, and the deep carpets that filled the dining rooms of the Hotel Duquesne. “But I have to admit that the lap of luxury isn’t the sort of place I’ve usually run into you. The barracks yard suits both of us better than this, I think.”

  “It’s a different world here,” Crow said.

  “I’d noticed,” Levin agreed. He paused. “Have you heard from Jacob Bannson lately?”

  “Not for some months,” Crow said. He allowed himself a brief moment of amusement. “In fact, not since you and he crossed swords over whether he should be allowed to expand further into Prefecture III. You won, I believe.”

  “Ah. That,” Levin said. “I was scarcely alone in my opposition. If Bannson isn’t active at the moment, what’s your assessment of the other major threats to The Republic?”

  “Disorder,” Crow replied promptly. “We’re seeing it already on worlds that lack a strong central authority, and so far the Senate has been remarkably lax in addressing the problem. And after disorder, the Clans.”

  “The Clans aren’t likely to agree with that,” Jonah observed. “Or to appreciate being ranked second at anything.”

  The tea arrived, followed at once by a tray of excellent pastries. Crow poured cups of tea for himself and Jonah Levin, then returned to leaning back in his chair, cup and saucer balanced on its wide, upholstered arm.

  “No, I suppose not,” he said. “But I tell you, the Clans are important. Even if they do have an exaggerated idea of their own worth.” He sipped at his tea; it was still too hot to drink more than a sip at a time. “Leaving the Clans aside for now—do you have you any theories on what became of the ’Net?”

  “Nothing rational,” Levin admitted. “Sabotage, bad luck, the wrath of God—either none of them seems likely, or all of them, depending on the mood I’m in when I think about it.”

  “I don’t believe in bad luck,” Crow said. “At least not on this scale, and not simultaneously from one side of the galaxy to the other. But I do believe in treachery.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Jacob Bannson.”

  “That’s a strong accusation,” Levin said. “Particularly if there’s no proof.”

  “Given how smooth an operator the man is, I’d say that the very lack of proof is significant.”

  “I don’t like that logic,” Levin said. “But there isn’t much that can be done about Bannson until he becomes active again. The Clans, though . . . you’ve been on Northwind recently, and so have they. What’s the situation there?”

  “The Steel Wolves hold the planet,” Crow said. “When I left, the Highlanders had been defeated and their Countess was in the process of negotiating their surrender.”

  Levin frowned slightly. “But you came to Terra instead of staying to put some spine into them—if spine is what was needed.”

  “I became separated from the main Northwind force during the fighting in the capital,” he said. “When I saw that there was still a civilian DropShip remaining on the field, I realized that somebody had to get away and warn Terra that Northwind was no longer reliable and that the Wolves were on the move.”

  “I see your point,” Levin said. “What do you suppose are the Wolves’ long-term intentions?”

  Crow shrugged. “With the Clans, who can ever tell? But Terra has come under threat from that quarter in the past—and if the Steel Wolves are as in love with their own history as some of the other breakaway factions operating in The Republic are, it would be foolish to think that such a threat will never come again.”

  18

  Bannson Headquarters

  Tybalt

  Prefecture II

  March 3134; local autumn

  One-Eyed Jack Farrell lounged at his ease in the upper-level waiting room at Jacob Bannson’s Tybalt headquarters, his long legs stretched out before him and his head leaning against the back of the leather couch. Anyone looking at him would have assumed that he was half asleep, rather than working hard—and succeeding—at not appearing impressed. Luckily for Farrell, his usual method still worked: imagining what his surroundings would look like when they were broken up for plunder, and pricing the result in his head.

  Is that tabletop solid jade, or just a high-grade synthetic? This is Bannson we’re dealing with. Call it real. Add in the gold-leaf trim on the cabinetwork . . . hell, the solid gold trim on the cabinetwork . . . and that brings the total up to . . . .

  The game worked as well for him in Bannson’s office as it did anywhere else. The only difficulty was adding up numbers that big without a data pad.

  It kept Farrell from getting bored while he waited, though, which was the important thing. Like most self-made men, Jacob Bannson was all about keeping the hired help cooling their heels and building up a nervous sweat. Farrell might take Bannson’s money, but he’d be damned if he was going to give him or anyone else the pleasure of seeing him twitch. A man
who’d taken a Jupiter BattleMech and made it his own didn’t have to stand in awe of anyone.

  Bannson’s administrative assistant—a weedy man who looked like his palms sweated at the thought of driving an electric runabout in light traffic—finally showed up. He looked down his pointed nose at the mercenary leader. “Mr. Bannson will see you now.”

  Farrell yawned and slouched easily to his feet. Standing, he was a full head taller than Bannson’s assistant. “High time.”

  “This way, please.”

  Farrell allowed Weedy to lead the way into the inner office. He knew enough to understand at once that this wasn’t Bannson’s real center of power, only a room for conferring with mercs and other unsavory types—as with the outer waiting room, everything in it was designed to scream, I have more money than you ever will, so don’t even think about selling me out. Stick with me and stay honest, and you’ll make more than enough money to buy anything you ever wanted.

  Money talked, and Jacob Bannson spoke its language fluently. So, as it happened, did One-Eyed Jack Farrell.

  “You can go now,” Bannson said to Weedy. “Mr. Farrell and I have business to discuss.”

  Weedy departed, looking miffed. By the time the door closed again, his employer had to all appearances already forgotten him.

  “Have a seat,” Bannson said to Farrell, and gestured at a side table. “Brandy? Cigar?”

  “Thanks for the offer,” Farrell said. “But not while I’m working.” He took the offered chair. “I’ve still got my report to make.”

  Bannson sat also. “I read the written version this morning.”

  “Thought you might have.” Farrell considered his employer. Bannson wasn’t the type to offer a man a drink and a smoke before giving him his walking papers. “Good enough for you?”

  “More than good enough, Mr. Farrell.” Bannson poured himself a brandy and raised the glass to Farrell in a toast. “You’ve put the screws on Ezekiel Crow, you’ve helped to weaken Northwind enough that it won’t get in the way of my expansion into Prefecture III, and you’ve managed to put both Anastasia Kerensky and the Countess of Northwind in your debt. And you accomplished all of that with minimal loss of equipment and personnel—which may not impress the polished-buttons-and-military-medals set, but it sure as hell impresses me. War is a business, and I like a man who understands business.”

  “I’m honored.”

  “You’re getting paid a good bonus,” Bannson said, “which is better.”

  “Damn straight,” agreed Farrell. “You want the verbal report now?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “All right. Crow you know about already—holier-than-thou son-of-a-bitch and proud as Lucifer. Brains and guts, though. And if I had to make a bet on it, I’d say that he’s already managed to convince himself he did the right thing by cutting and running on Northwind.”

  “He’s that type,” Bannson said. “Go on.”

  “Tara Campbell. Still a bit green, but getting over it fast. Good fighter, and not too proud to take help when it’s offered. Knows how to pick her subordinates.” Farrell paused, considering. “Maybe a bit too trusting, at least until our friend Ezekiel showed her the error of her ways. I don’t believe she’s going to thank him for the lesson, though.”

  “You’re probably right.” Bannson contemplated his brandy for a moment. “What are the odds of her going the Katana Tormark route?”

  “Setting herself up as a faction leader and saying the hell with the memory of Devlin Stone?” Farrell shook his head. “No way. She really is as loyal as all the posters and magazine articles make her out to be. And where the Countess goes, all of Northwind follows.”

  “Moral authority’s a wonderful thing,” said Bannson. “Stupid, but wonderful.”

  He swallowed a healthy slug of his brandy. Not the sip-and-savor type, after all, Farrell thought, recognizing the betraying mark of a man who’d learned to drink on rough spirits. He goes right for the burn.

  “How about the leader of the Steel Wolves?” Bannson asked.

  “Anastasia Kerensky”—Farrell spoke slowly, choosing his words with care—“is crazy. Vicious fighter, not afraid of anything, sees what she wants and takes it without asking. None of it matters, though, because it’s the kind of crazy that makes all the Clan Warrior types want to follow her around with their tongues hanging out.”

  “How good is she?”

  “Almost as good as she thinks she is. Growing better all the time, if she doesn’t get herself killed first. She and the Countess of Northwind are quite a pair. Probably hate each other’s guts by now.” Farrell chuckled, thinking about it. “Now that’s a ’Mech fight you could sell tickets to and clean up on the simulation rights afterward.”

  Bannson looked at him over the rim of his brandy. “Would you like a chance at a front-row seat?”

  Farrell straightened, coming alert like a warhorse hearing the distant sound of bugles. “You have another job for me and my people, then?”

  “Yes,” Bannson said. “The next world a Clan Warrior like Anastasia Kerensky is going to think about, after securing Northwind, is Terra. And the Countess of Northwind, Republic loyalist that she is, will almost certainly follow and attempt to stop her. I’m going to Terra, Mr. Farrell—a matter of looking after my investments—and I’d like you and your people to go there also. I won’t ask if you know the pirate jump points—”

  “Never heard of ’em,” said Farrell, with a straight face.

  “But a commander who did know of them would be well-advised to get himself into position there and wait for my signal to land and hit his target.”

  “Where and who?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “If I’m getting paid for it—nope.”

  “Good enough,” said Bannson. “When I decide on the answer, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Farrell gave him a slow grin. “Who’ll be the second?”

  “The person I tell you to attack.”

  19

  Belgorod and Vicinity

  Terra

  Prefecture X

  March 3134; local winter

  The Northwind Highlanders had landed their DropShips at Belgorod DropPort, and the DropShips had spilled out their cargo of soldiers and equipment onto the expanse of rolling fields outside the city. A garrison suburb of tents and vehicles grew up on the frozen ground as if by spontaneous generation, and there the soldiers of the Highlander Regiments drilled, and tended their gear, and waited.

  The hour was late afternoon, and the sun was already sinking toward the western horizon. The work of the day was done, and Sergeants Will Elliot, Jock Gordon, and Lexa McIntosh sat drinking mugs of strong black tea in the large, open-sided tent currently serving as the Sergeants’ Mess. The smells of mutton stew simmering on the stove, and of baking bread, drifted past on the breeze from the field kitchen not far away. For a little while, at least, they and their troopers would have a chance at better food than ship’s cooking or battle rations.

  Will Elliot was still not happy. He turned his heavy ceramic mug around in his hands, added more sugar, stirred, and turned the mug around again. Then he shoved it away. Finally, he said, “I don’t like this place.”

  “It could be worse,” said Lexa. “At least we have cold-weather uniforms again.”

  Jock for his part gave Will a curious look. “I thought you were the one who was used to snow. Guiding winter tourists in the mountains and all.”

  “I am,” said Will. “That’s the problem.” He frowned out through the open front of the mess tent at the slate gray sky. “This is March. Eventually, it’s going to be April. And do you know what happens in April?”

  Lexa said, “The snow melts?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You make it sound like a bad thing.”

  “The snow melts,” said Will. “And the ground thaws.”

  “Thaws?”

  “All the water down in the dirt that turned to ice during the winter turns
back to water down in the dirt again,” Will explained patiently, reminding himself as he did so that Lexa had grown up in the blistering-hot Kearney outback. She hadn’t even seen snow until she joined the regiment and found herself fighting in it. “Sometimes the frozen layer goes down for two or three meters. Then all the water that used to be snow soaks into the ground and joins up with the melted ice that’s already there. Which gives you—”

  Farm-raised Jock Gordon knew the answer to that one, at least: “Mud.”

  “Mud,” confirmed Will.

  Lexa looked down at her feet, then out at the field of tanks and men and ’Mechs, with a dawning comprehension. “Damn.”

  “And there aren’t enough hovercrafts to carry all of us,” Will said. “Just marching out of here is going to be nasty, if we have to wait long enough. As for combat—trust me when I say that you’ll be better off tying your bootlaces together, slinging them around your neck, and fighting barefoot. That way you’ll still have a pair of boots left at the end of the day.”

  There was a gloomy, extended silence. Finally, Lexa said, “Maybe we won’t have to fight.”

  “Do you really think that?” Will asked.

  Lexa shook her head. “No. Just because we got lucky and beat the Wolf-Bitch to Terra doesn’t mean that she isn’t coming.”

  “Maybe she won’t show up until after the ground’s dried out again,” Jock said.

  “Forget it,” Lexa told him. “Nobody ever gets that lucky. Will’s right. We’re going to end up fighting for honor, glory, and the dream of Devlin Stone in mud that comes up to our armpits.”