Henrik thought that a veteran MechWarrior and politician who’d survived as many years of battle and intrigue as Victor Steiner-Davion was not likely to care too much about the dangers of an untidy room. Aloud, however, he only echoed, “You’d think.”
She said, “But he’s taken it into his head that he has to present whatever he’s working on to the Paladins when they meet for the election, and he isn’t going to stop before he makes his speech.”
Henrik felt the tingle in the back of his neck that meant he was in the presence of potentially useful information. He chose his next words carefully. If Elena thought that she was being pumped for information, the flow of chatter would dry up, and he would learn nothing more.
“Did he say it has to be the Paladins?” he asked. “Telling the Senate won’t work? They’re in Geneva all the time; he wouldn’t have to push himself so hard to get everything done before the end of the year.”
“I told him so, the one time he mentioned it. He just mumbled something about needing to put the problem in front of the right people, and ignored me after that.”
“His loss.” Henrik’s mind was engaging with the problem, seeing the potential in it, and the interest to his patron. Carefully casual, he went on, “It might be something my department could help him with. If you could get a look at some of his work sometime, just enough to give me an idea . . .”
She gave him a shrewd look. “And then you could be all helpful, and he’d be grateful, and you’d add Victor Steiner-Davion to your legion of supporters.”
Well, he thought, not exactly. “Clever girl. What do you say? Can you do it?”
“He sometimes leaves his data terminal running when he falls asleep at his desk,” she said. “I couldn’t do anything with his files—that would be wrong, and besides, he’d know it if I touched anything—but there’s nothing to stop me from remembering something that I accidentally happen to see, is there?”
“No,” he said. “There isn’t. You could even take notes.”
10
Pension Flambard, Geneva
Terra, Prefecture X
26 November 3134
The small residential hotel known as the Pension Flambard had been Jonah Levin’s customary place to stay in Geneva ever since his initial visit as a newly elevated Knight of the Sphere. That first time, he had picked the Pension randomly from the hotel listings provided at the DropPort because he couldn’t afford to stay at an expensive place like the Hotel Duquesne, and it wasn’t his type of place anyway. At the Pension Flambard, he had found lodgings that were not only within his budget, but soothing to his nerves.
At the time he had just finished a long and difficult convalescence, a fact which caused him to feel simultaneously old before his time and—when confronted with the glittering activity of diplomatic Geneva—painfully young and provincial. The Pension’s small size and unfashionable appearance reassured him that his new life still had room in it for things that were neither pretentious nor intimidating.
For that reason, even after Jonah had more money, and after he had learned that the Hotel Duquesne traditionally provided complimentary accommodations for Knights and Paladins of The Republic, he continued to stay at the Pension on his visits to Terra. The old building and the cozy decor suited his tastes, and Madame Flambard—in addition to being the soul of discretion and offering a profound respect for his privacy—knew his requirements without being told. He had no reason to change his quarters.
Today Madame herself was waiting for him at the front desk. In keeping with the rest of the pension’s decor, the desk’s outward appearance was carefully antique, with a brass bell resting on the polished wood of the counter next to a handwritten registry book and an arrangement of dried flowers in a porcelain vase. Appearances could, and in this case did, deceive; as Jonah had good reason to know, the Pension Flambard maintained sophisticated voice communications and a powerful data connection. But Madame preferred to keep such things tucked away, and Jonah—who enjoyed having at least the illusion of being hard to find by the curious and by the general public—considered her taste in these matters to be part of the Pension’s charm.
“It’s good to see you again, Monsieur Levin,” Madame said. “Will you want your usual room?”
“If it isn’t occupied,” Jonah said. The situation with the still-patchy HPG network made getting an advance reservation difficult. One could never be certain that a message had reached its recipient intact and in a timely fashion.
Madame smiled. “When I heard on the news that Exarch Redburn had called for the election, I said to myself, ‘Monsieur Levin will be returning to us for this,’ and I put down your name for your customary accommodations.”
“Thank you,” said Jonah. “Believe me, I appreciate your consideration.”
She gave an expressive shrug that said more with silence than most people say in a handful of sentences. “You are a quiet man, Monsieur, and you do not leave your rooms in wreckage. I would be a fool to lose you to the likes of the Hotel Duquesne.” She produced a plastic card from one of the many pigeonholes behind the desk and handed it to Jonah. “Your key. Will you be staying with us for very long this time?”
“Longer than last time, I’m afraid,” said Jonah regretfully. “These things take a great deal of preparation. Not even Damien Redburn can hold an election on almost no notice.”
“Very true, Monsieur.”
Jonah looked at Madame’s courteous but noncommittal face and wondered which of the candidates for Exarch she might favor. Not that Devlin Stone had trusted such a decision to the masses; he had chosen instead to put it into the hands of the Paladins.
Still, Jonah thought, a wise man should consider the wishes of those who would be living with his choice. He thought about asking Madame about her preference directly, then abandoned the idea. Madame Flambard never discussed politics or personal matters with her guests. It would not be right to ask her to abandon her business principles purely to gratify his curiosity.
He accepted his key and went up the stairs to his usual room. He had carried a single bag from the DropPort; the rest of his luggage would arrive by taxi later today.
After locking the door behind him, he allowed himself to relax into the room’s comforting familiarity. Madame Flambard replaced items as they broke or showed signs of wear, but she had not changed the pension’s decor during all the time Jonah had known her. The room’s crisply ironed floral print curtains, its varnished floor scattered with rugs, its antique wooden bedstead, desk, chair—all of these were the same as when he had checked into the Pension for the first time.
Jonah liked that. Too many things changed too fast in life; it was good to have a few things remain the same.
He went to the room’s data terminal, which was concealed within the rolltop desk. After a moment’s thought, he began composing a letter to his wife Anna, back home on Kervil:
Dear Anna,
I have arrived safely in Geneva. The journey was uneventful, which made for a dull time of it, but some things don’t improve by being made more interesting. Space travel, in my opinion, is one of them.
All of the Paladins have been recalled, although one or two have yet to arrive. It is clear from what I read on the journey here, and from what I have seen myself, that our presence here is causing a great deal of political uneasiness. Demonstrators fill the streets, and everyone I meet seems to have a platform to stand on and a candidate for Exarch to favor, even though this election is one in which none of them can vote. All that means is that they need to find other ways to exert their influence. Some opt for marching through the streets with placards, others for creating disturbances damaging or violent enough to get them on the news vids, while still others—mostly rumors, at this point—seem to be set on getting what they want by intimidating the Paladins.
They don’t know my fellow Paladins very well.
There are splinter groups of all varieties. Some of them believe that The Republic should not only
defend its current boundaries in the present crisis, but should expand them. Others believe that The Republic should pull back from the areas where it’s been hurt the most and is spread too thin; save the core in exchange for losing some of the worlds on the edge.
And those are the relatively sane ones. I don’t even want to think about the people who believe that Devlin Stone is asleep under a mountain someplace along with Charlemagne, King Arthur, Frederick Barbarossa, and the Hidden Imam, waiting to come back and save us in his people’s hour of greatest need. Or even sillier things.
This is going to be a long election. I wish that it could be quickly over and done with so that I could return home to you . . . but I don’t think I’m going to get my wish.
11
Hotel Duquesne, Geneva
Terra, Prefecture X
26 November 3134
Night was drawing on toward morning when Gareth Sinclair exited his taxi at the main entrance to the Hotel Duquesne. To be honest, he preferred the Clermont, where his family customarily stayed, or any number of other hotels that were not the target of the glaring light of Geneva’s politics. But his DropShip had made planetfall later than scheduled, it was a wet, foggy two a.m., and Gareth lacked the energy to trek all over Geneva in search of a bed. If ever there was a time to take advantage of The Republic’s standing arrangement with the Hotel Duquesne to hold a block of rooms on a permanent basis for Knights and Paladins traveling to Geneva on business, this was it.
The rain that had been falling when Gareth arrived in Geneva was still falling as he stood at the door of the taxi and paid the fare. Warm golden light, made hazy by the falling rain, spilled out through the open doors of the hotel lobby and onto the pavement, and onto Gareth’s suitcases—standing in the puddle where the taxi driver had dumped them.
Gareth wondered if dumping the suitcases just there had been a political statement, or if the driver had merely been moved to unpleasantness by the combination of foul weather and the late hour. He suspected the latter but tipped the driver properly all the same. The taxi departed in a spray of water, soaking both Gareth and his luggage.
Definitely a political statement, Gareth concluded. There goes a man who blames The Republic of the Sphere for something, and who will take it out on The Republic’s visible representatives whenever he gets the chance.
The phenomenon, unfortunately, was not an uncommon one in these unsettled times. With a faint sigh, Gareth picked up his suitcases and, squelching only a little, entered the hotel lobby.
Somewhat to his surprise, even the working uniform of a Knight of the Sphere turned out to be enough to bring the hotel’s concierge out from his office behind the main desk. Gareth suspected that the man must have hidden surveillance cameras monitoring the hotel entrance; there certainly wasn’t a direct line of sight between his office and the front door.
“Welcome to Geneva, Sir Knight!” The concierge was a short man whose crimson jacket was ornamented with enough gold braid and gold buttons to cast even a Paladin’s full-dress uniform into the shade. The lack of hair atop his rounded skull was made up for by the luxuriant abundance of his impeccably groomed and waxed mustache. “Will you be requiring accommodation just for this evening, or for a longer stay?”
“I’ll be staying in Geneva through the election, at least,” Gareth said.
The concierge smiled broadly. “Yes, sir. Simply present this to the clerk at the desk, and all the proper arrangements will be made.”
Gareth knew of The Republic’s arrangement with the hotel, but that never stopped him from attempting to pay his own way. “I have an account at the Bank du Nord. I can draw on that to cover—”
The concierge waved his hand. “No, no. The Duquesne is always honored to serve The Republic, and what favors we extend to one of The Republic’s servants, policy requires us to extend to all.”
“Yes, yes,” said Gareth, sighing. Maybe if he carried his own luggage that would make him feel less uncomfortable at the accommodations being thrust upon him. “Thank you. I’ll just—”
“Emil!”
The word blew in on an exhalation of cold air from the closing doors of the front entrance, followed by light, sharp footsteps crossing the lobby at a quick stride. Before Gareth could turn, Heather GioAvanti swept past him to envelope the concierge in a quick hug before stepping back and looking the man up and down.
“Good lord, Emil, it’s past midnight. Doesn’t this hotel ever let you sleep?”
The concierge’s answering smile was one of friendly recognition and genuine personal regard. “Not when all the Sphere is coming to Geneva for the election, Paladin GioAvanti.”
Heather GioAvanti noticed Gareth for the first time and turned to include him in the conversation. “Lord Gareth. I should have realized you’d be staying here as well; we could have shared a taxi from the DropPort. Has Emil—”
“Provided me with a room?” He knew that he sounded a bit stiff and awkward, but he couldn’t help it. “Yes.”
She gave him a smile warmer than the concierge’s. Gareth had trouble believing she was the same woman he’d last seen putting the government of Woodstock and the Eridani Light Horse in their place. Her loosened hair and friendly smile made her seem much younger, and he wondered which face belonged to the real Heather GioAvanti.
“I would have been completely lost my first time in Geneva if it hadn’t been for Emil,” Heather was saying. “Before that, I’d never even been to Terra.”
Gareth recalled what he knew of Heather GioAvanti’s personal history, specifically, the rumor that she had broken with her family after her elevation to Paladin, so that no one could reproach her for conflict of interest. He wondered if the change had come as shock to her, moving in one leap from a life spent among mercenaries to a position as one of the seventeen most powerful men and women in The Republic of the Sphere.
“It must have been quite an experience,” he said aloud. “I remember how impressed I was by everything, the first time I came here.” He didn’t add that he had been scarcely an adolescent at the time.
“Oh, it was,” she said. “But Emil took good care of me, and I’ve stayed at the Duquesne on my visits ever since.”
She bade a polite farewell to the concierge, then headed for the front desk. Gareth followed. They both registered and were given room numbers: she on the fifteenth floor, he on the twenty-second.
In the elevator, Gareth asked, “Do most of the Paladins stay here at the Duquesne?”
“Some,” she said. “Most? I don’t think so. Tyrina Drummond stays here, I know, and so does Otto Mandela. I don’t know about the others. One or two have places they keep year-round—flats in the city, chalets up near the mountains, that sort of thing. Anders Kessel has rooms practically on top of the Paladins’ meeting chamber; I believe he’d sleep in the chamber itself if that was a possibility.”
“Have you ever thought of buying a place of your own?” He might, he thought, if he were ever made a Paladin. The family’s money would certainly extend to it.
“Not really. For a long time I couldn’t have afforded it, and now that I can, it still seems like a waste. A room is a room. Besides—” she smiled again “—the Duquesne is optimally suited for people watching and rumormongering. If I stay here, I can see everyone else in Geneva come and go.”
12
Grand Ballroom of the Hotel Duquesne, Geneva
Terra, Prefecture X
26 November 3134
The Exarch’s reception took place in the grand ballroom of the Hotel Duquesne, on the eve of the opening of the Electoral Conclave. Tri-vid reporters and videographers prowled the streets outside, capturing images of the Sphere’s most important men and women for the benefit of the masses. Emil the concierge was in his element, greeting each new arrival by name as he or she passed through the Duquesne’s lobby on the way to the reception.
Everyone, from reporters to hotel workers to government staffers, complained about the timing of the elections. Was
n’t the last week of November supposed to be a long holiday? But this was the timing the Exarch had chosen, for reasons he wasn’t explaining. And since the Exarch said people must work, they would work.
The Republic’s Hall of Government most assuredly had spaces in it big enough to hold the reception, but Jonah wondered if its catering resources matched the Duquesne’s five-star kitchen. The tables in the hotel’s grand ballroom were spread with exotic foodstuffs from a score of different worlds, accompanied by drinks of all kinds, from throat-clawing Northwind whiskies to pure water from springs deep in Terra’s own granite mountain ranges. Presumably, the Exarch believed that an abundance of food and drink would work toward easing the inevitable tension.
Jonah hoped that Damien Redburn was right. It was difficult to get the seventeen Paladins—along with their aides, support staff, and the inevitable hangers-on—to agree on anything, including what appetizers to serve, and the high stakes of the upcoming election only heightened the tension. If drink were going to ease this tension, it would have to be plenty strong.
Jonah, as usual, had brought no staff members with him. He maintained an office and employed several staffers back on Kervil, but he had left them all behind to keep an eye on local affairs in his absence. He didn’t want the Knight who’d taken over for him pro tempore to make too big a hash of things before he could return. Any support personnel that Jonah required on Terra he would engage on a temporary basis, per his long-standing habit.
“Paladin Levin?”
The speaker was a youngish man in the dress uniform of a Knight of the Sphere. There were a fair number of those uniforms scattered throughout the ballroom; Jonah supposed that all of the Knights currently on Terra had received courtesy invitations to the reception. This particular Knight was tall for a MechWarrior, with light brown hair and a pleasant if rather long and angular face. Jonah found the man’s appearance vaguely familiar—another moment, and his memory supplied him with a matching name and context.
The Scorpion Jar Page 5
