“No.” Redburn cut him off. “I don’t. But I’ve seen the path The Republic’s been on. I know what we’re in for. And I know your investigation could end in some very high places.”
Jonah was still thinking about Redburn’s words as he went back out into the main chamber. The atmosphere there continued for the most part to be one of restrained mourning, though small knots of people had gathered around the two new Paladins. Both Janella Lakewood and Gareth Sinclair looked a bit shell-shocked; no one could ever fully prepare for the event of becoming Paladin, and Sinclair most likely had known of his promotion only a few minutes before his appointment was announced.
Jonah made a point of seeking out Sinclair. The group of Knights and others clustered around Sinclair parted as Jonah approached. That automatic deference had been one of the hardest things for Jonah to get used to after having been himself raised to Paladin status. Sinclair, though, came from a political family on his own world; maybe his settling-in period wouldn’t be as long or as awkward as Jonah’s had been.
Don’t fool yourself, said the voice of reason in Jonah’s head. He’s got a long way to go. Look at you—in some ways, you’re still settling in.
He gave Sinclair a cordial nod. “Gareth. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, si—”
“Jonah.” He met the younger man’s eyes and added, “Paladin Sinclair,” the better to get the point across.
Sinclair blushed and corrected himself. “Jonah.” The man had never been good at dissembling, Jonah recalled, and his fair complexion was as good as a message board for whatever he was feeling at the moment. “Thank you—though I never wanted to advance like this.”
“Victor Steiner-Davion is a hard act for anyone to follow.”
“I feel like I’m expected to follow in the steps of a legend.”
“You are.” Jonah glanced toward Janella Lakewood, and saw that Sinclair followed his gaze. “But it could be worse.”
Sinclair grimaced. “Taking a traitor’s seat? I suppose you’re right. Just the same, I—”
“You’ll do fine, Gareth.” Jonah looked about the chamber. A few reporters and officials still straggled in the empty hall. Some of them were probably waiting for a chance to interview Sinclair. They tried to look nonchalant, but Jonah knew they were straining to hear every word he and Sinclair said.
Jonah made a courteous good-bye to Sinclair, then returned to his seat. With the shortened meeting, his schedule was suddenly clear. He could get to work on his project immediately.
He called up an address on his data screen and sent a message to an old friend. Well, an acquaintance, really, but a valuable one.
Are you at liberty to take on some work for me? If so, come to the Pension Flambard in the Rue Simon-Durand this evening at seven.—Jonah Levin
16
Pension Flambard, Geneva
Terra, Prefecture X
27 November 3134
The early winter darkness pressed against the windows of the sitting room of the pension in the Rue Simon-Durand, and a damp wind blew down the street outside. Jonah Levin sat in front of the burning faux-logs in the fireplace, enjoying the warmth and the yellow-orange glow. The dancing flames were a randomized tri-vid display powered by the fireplace unit’s internal computer, but the illusion they provided was as warming to the soul as the heat given off by the formed and textured ceramic logs was to the body. Jonah had fortified himself with an early dinner and a glass of wine at his favorite neighborhood restaurant, and now he waited.
He heard the sound of the street door opening, followed by the sound of the bell at the front desk. A moment later, Madame Flambard came to the sitting room entrance.
“A person to see you, Monsieur Levin. He says he is expected.”
“He is,” Jonah said. “I’ll talk with him in here.”
“Very well, Monsieur. If you need anything—”
“I’ll ring. Thank you, Madame.”
She ushered in the investigator, Burton Horn, then made herself discreetly absent. Levin gestured his guest to the chair on the other side of the fireplace.
Burton Horn was a medium-sized man with bland, forgettable features. He wore the uniform of the Republic-spanning General Delivery messenger service, for whom he worked when he was not involved as a freelance courier and private investigator. Jonah had first hired the man to do legwork for him during the Ezekiel Crow affair of the previous spring, and knew him to be competent, reliable and, above all, discreet.
“I got your note,” Horn said. “Do you have something for me?”
“First things first,” Jonah told him. “Can you arrange to take some time off from General Delivery?”
“Maybe,” Horn said. “For how long?”
“A month, give or take a few days.”
Horn gazed for a moment at the artificial yellow-orange flames and red coals of the faux-logs. Whatever he was calculating, it didn’t show on his face. Finally he said, “I should be able to swing a leave of absence. Much longer than a month, though, and General Delivery might decide they could do just as well without me. If your project isn’t done by the start of the new year, I’ll have to hand it over to somebody else.”
Jonah thought back to his meeting with the Exarch. Redburn wanted results before the last day of December and the date set for the election. “I think I can safely promise you that, one way or the other, the project will be finished before that.”
Horn gave a decisive nod. “We’re good, then.”
“Good,” said Jonah. “Consider yourself hired at the usual rate, plus expenses.”
“I’m at your disposal, Paladin. What’s the job?”
“I’ve been appointed by the Exarch to investigate the death of Victor Steiner-Davion.”
Horn looked curious. “I hadn’t heard that there was anything suspicious about it. He was an old man, after all, even if he was tougher than boot leather.”
“He certainly appears to have been tougher than somebody expected,” said Jonah. “There are indications—you’ll see what I mean when you read the folder from Santa Fe—that his death needs to be attributed to foul play, rather than to natural causes.”
“And I suppose the Exarch wants to know the who and why to go with the how?”
Jonah nodded. “I’ll be doing most of the political work here in Geneva, but I’ll need you to handle the street-level investigations on-site. And a word of warning—this may become dangerous. It’s not impossible for a Paladin of the Sphere to be murdered by a random housebreaker looking to crack his wall safe and steal the family silver, but it’s unlikely. Extremely unlikely, in this case. You may find yourself drawing the attention of some very powerful people before you’re done. Watch your back.”
“I always do. But if there’re high-ranking people involved, I’d appreciate it if you kept an eye on it, too.”
Red Barn Cafeteria, Petit-Saconnex
Terra, Prefecture X
27 November 3134
The executive core of the Kittery Renaissance Action Committee had met this week at the Red Barn in Petit-Saconnex. The perpetually unpopular table six was waiting for them, and, thankfully, the cook had remembered to wear a hairnet today. Since it was approaching midnight, most of the rest of the tables were empty, and those that were filled contained people in no condition to eavesdrop on nearby conversations.
The meeting tonight had been larger, spilling to a second table, as the pace of planning increased. Now, though, only the core officers remained in what Cullen called “executive session” and Hansel called “dessert.”
At the moment, there was only one thing on Cullen Roi’s mind.
“Victor Steiner-Davion,” he said.
“Dead,” Norah said.
“What about him?” Hansel asked.
“What have you heard about his death?”
“Heart attack,” said Hansel.
“There’s going to be an investigation,” Norah said. “Probably by a Paladin. There’s something
more there, but no one’s saying what yet.”
“Anyone linking us to the death?”
Norah looked at him sharply. “Should they?”
“No.” Cullen paused. “Probably not. We have some skilled people in Santa Fe, and I can never be sure when someone is going to freelance. But for my part, I had nothing to do with it.”
Norah sipped at a daiquiri. “Maybe we should have.”
“Not with a Paladin investigating. We don’t need extra heat on us at the moment.”
“So how do we respond?” Hansel asked.
“We capitalize,” Cullen said. “Everyone on Terra already knows about his death. They know we’re going into an election with two new Paladins and the most influential of their number dead. If we thought there was uncertainty before . . .”
“Uncertainty’s no longer the word,” Norah said, pursing her lips in satisfaction.
“Right. Things have just moved closer to the edge. It’ll be that much easier to push them over when the time comes. We can’t let things settle before the election.” Cullen Roi contemplated the dregs of his coffee for a moment, weighing plans and possibilities in his head and balancing one thing against another until something clicked. “We need a riot.”
“I thought we were saving that for—”
“No, no,” he said impatiently. “Not the riot. We’re still saving that. Just a riot. Small enough that nobody important gets hurt; big enough to keep everyone on edge.”
Hansel said, “Do we want it in Geneva, or somewhere else?”
“Geneva,” said Norah. “Rioting anywhere else won’t even make the evening news in Geneva.”
“And getting on the news is the key,” Cullen said. “I’m turning this over to you, Norah. This is your specialty—do whatever you like so long as it makes the news.”
Norah’s expression brightened. “Casualties?”
“Are acceptable.” He caught the look in her eye. “Remember, I want people on the edge—but not yet over it.”
17
Senator Mallowes’ Penthouse, Geneva
Terra, Prefecture X
27 November 3134
On the evening after the first session of the Electoral Conclave, Gareth Sinclair had dinner with Senator Geoffrey Mallowes of Skye. The invitation to the Senator’s penthouse apartment in downtown Geneva had not come as a surprise, since Mallowes was an old and close friend of the Sinclair family. Gareth had known the Senator since childhood, and had grown up regarding the man as a sort of honorary uncle.
For that reason, he’d always made a point of visiting the Senator’s apartment whenever he happened to pass through Geneva. He would have done so within the next couple of days if Mallowes hadn’t invited him to dinner first.
The Senator lived in an elegant set of rooms near the Hall of Government. His home was luxuriously furnished, floored and paneled in dark natural woods, and curtained and carpeted in earthy greens and browns. It was fully staffed as well, with personnel alert and prepared to serve at any time of day. They could make a cheese soufflé at midnight and set a table for four at three in the morning.
At the moment, one member of the staff stood directly behind Gareth, waiting to serve his every whim. Gareth hated for them to be bored, and tried to come up with a whim that might keep them happily occupied, but creating off-the-cuff orders for servants was not one of his strengths.
By contrast, the servant behind Senator Mallowes had, in the past ten minutes, cracked pepper over the Senator’s salad, fetched a fresh napkin because Mallowes detected a faint stain on the corner of the one he had been given, and retrieved an extra ice cube for his scotch. Mallowes knew how to make sure the people in his employ did not stay idle for long.
Apart from a brief congratulations on Gareth’s promotion at the outset of the meal, the Senator had focused conversation on mutual acquaintances, pressing Gareth for any and all news about his entire family. His features, which looked stern beneath his flowing gray hair on tri-vids, had relaxed into grandfatherly lines—though the type of grandfather still capable of taking a switch to you when necessary.
From the consommé to the roast lamb to the meringue torte, Mallowes’ posture remained straight, his eyes keen and the crease in his pin-striped wool trousers sharp. When he was younger, Gareth had found Mallowes intimidating, though the Senator had always treated him with nothing but kindness. Nonetheless, the dark suits, silk ties and the crested cuff links still brought him to attention as quickly as the dress uniform of a Paladin.
Mallowes did his best to establish a convivial atmosphere, regaling Gareth with stories of the Sinclair family, often delivered with a dry, understated wit. Gareth knew the Senator had more on his mind than family history, but the important conversation would come later. Mallowes never liked to spoil a good meal with talk of politics.
With the clearing away of the dessert plates and the arrival of after-dinner cordials, the talk changed to business like a sailboat responding to the wind.
“Now, Gareth, I hope you will not perceive me as overly blunt, but I need to ask you a question, and I believe the direct approach to it is most appropriate,” Mallowes said.
Gareth simply nodded.
“Good lad. The question is, what is your assessment of your abilities to fill your new position?”
“I have to admit,” Gareth said, “I’m still getting used to the idea.”
“It may take you longer to accept than anyone else in your family.” Mallowes sipped at his cordial. “They will be surprised at the timing of the announcement, but not at its occurrence. You deserved the appointment.”
Gareth shrugged. “I can make a case for elevating any of half a dozen Knights who were just as ready as I was. Maybe readier.”
“I’ve seen the lists. The others may have been brave and well trained, but they lacked your background.” The Senator frowned, and all traces of the grandfather vanished. “Devlin Stone was not always as careful as he should have been about who he decided to raise to Paladin, and look where that got us—Ezekiel Crow! I’m glad to see that Redburn has started looking at things more sensibly.”
Gareth smiled. “Too bad he’s ending his term just as he started to be sensible.”
Mallowes, thankfully, took the remark in its intended spirit. “Of course I mean no criticism of either Exarch. If I am concerned about any of Stone’s later actions, it is only such actions as undermined his own goals. Stone had a clear vision in founding The Republic, and it is a vision to which we must closely hew.”
Vision. Founding. Gareth recognized those words—political code words used often by factions making assorted noises across Terra. He realized, uncomfortably, that he was not sure where Mallowes stood on some of the issues tearing at The Republic, and knew he needed to speak carefully until he did.
“And now we need a third Exarch,” Mallowes said. “A decision in which you suddenly play a crucial role. I realize, of course, that you have just ascended to your new position, but I also realize that the whole Republic, not merely the Paladins, has opinions to offer on this subject. Have you given much thought to the matter?”
“Only as an abstract question,” Gareth said carefully. “And that was based on what I had heard about the Paladins, not on any extensive personal interaction with them. I suppose getting to know the men and women themselves may adjust my thinking.”
“You should be sure to speak with Kelson Sorenson,” Mallowes said. “He is a man of integrity and vision.”
He was also a man with an unpopular family, Gareth thought to himself. The Sorenson name carried a heavy burden dating to Free Rasalhague’s struggle for independence, where the Sorensons were seen as too conciliatory to the Draconis Combine. Once Rasalhague finally achieved independence, the Sorenson name had been dragged through the mud, the family painted as traitors to their own people for supporting the Combine. Whether it was fair or not, Kelson Sorenson still carried the burden of his family’s past. He would not be a popular choice.
�
�He’s capable, so far as I’ve seen,” Gareth said aloud. “Honest, too, which I used to think would be a given among Knights and Paladins.” He paused a moment before continuing. “As for vision . . . I can’t say I’ve ever heard him put forward an original idea.”
“Some people might say we’ve had enough original ideas for a while,” Mallowes returned quickly. “They might believe that it’s time for The Republic of the Sphere to remember why it was founded and live up to those ideas.”
“Perhaps,” Gareth said.
Mallowes gave him a sharp glance. “You don’t agree?”
Gareth began speaking, and surprised himself by how quickly and passionately his words flowed. “I think speaking of The Republic only in terms of planets—who holds what, when and why—is to treat it as a large collection of rocks instead of a body of humanity. We have factions within our borders, we have enemies without, and we must take into account their actions, their armies and their goals when planning future action. We cannot just choose to focus on one rock or another.”
He had said too much. Mallowes’ face was suffused with the anger renowned throughout the Senate. Gareth braced himself against the coming fury.
It didn’t come. Mallowes managed to push away his wrath with a smile. “You are both thoughtful and compassionate. You have been well trained indeed.”
The Senator stood, brushing away loose crumbs with his napkin. “Remember, though, that your education is not yet complete. There will be much to learn, and you do not have the leisure of time. There are many forces at work in this election, and not all respond to reason and kindness as you do. They have other, less attractive methods at their disposal. Be wary.”
“I will,” Gareth said, clasping Mallowes’ hand. He still sees me as a student, a child, Gareth told himself, forgetting the years I have spent as a warrior.
Gareth had seen methods of persuasion that the Senator faced only in nightmares.
18
Pension Flambard, Geneva
The Scorpion Jar Page 8
