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.”

“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.”