Tara Campbell took a seat in the overstuffed wing chair on the other side of the small parlor hearth. The faux-logs burned low; winter was drawing to its end. Her hands gripped the wooden ends of the chair arms so hard that her knuckles showed white.

Jonah realized it was going to be up to him to speak first. “I’ve listened to a recording of your initial message to the Exarch.”

“I’m glad that somebody did.”

From the tone of her voice, he suspected that the Countess wasn’t accustomed to having her word dismissed out of hand—or even having it doubted. Jonah was less and less inclined, however, to think that Tara Campbell was lying. There were politicians in The Republic of the Sphere who could feign that kind of righteous indignation, but nothing in Tara Campbell’s record hinted at either the taste or the talent for such high-level duplicity.

He wasn’t quite ready to say that aloud, however. Instead, he looked at her gravely. “As I understand it, you possess evidence that Ezekiel Crow betrayed Northwind and ran out on you, and perhaps that he was even in the pay of the Steel Wolves.”

“Yes,” Tara replied. Jonah sensed powerful emotion behind the curt statement, a hint of pain that was more than merely political. Her self-control became visibly harder to maintain. She stood, her hands clasped behind her back, and began to pace. “We relied on him, and we were betrayed.”

Perhaps more than merely relied? Jonah wondered. If that were the case, any betrayal would carry a double sting. But nobody in The Republic was ever likely to know, except for the two people who might—or might not—have been involved. He continued his questioning.

“And this evidence is… where?”

“I sent it to the Exarch, via courier.”

Her frustration was evident again, this time stronger than before. Maybe the problem was not just a matter of her doubted word. Jonah shook his head.

“The Exarch, I assure you, has not seen any such evidence. Do you have copies?”

“Yes.”

“Then verification should be—”

The Countess’s porcelain cheeks reddened further. She looked down at the carpet. “The copies are on Northwind, in the regimental archives at The Fort.” She raised her head and met Jonah’s eyes as if daring him to comment. “For safekeeping.”

Jonah gave an understanding nod. There was no use in pointing out a mistake that she was, clearly, already well aware of and deeply regretting. “Sending for them would take weeks or even months.”

“Which you—we—don’t have! The Steel Wolves are coming. I’m only surprised that they aren’t yet here. I don’t care what you believe about Ezekiel Crow, so long as you believe me about the danger to Terra.”

“Unfortunately,” Jonah said, “people—even people like the Exarch—will want to believe either both, or neither. And for such strong allegations—treason, on the part of one of The Republic’s most respected Paladins!—most of them will want more than your unsupported word.”

Her chin went up at that, and her blue eyes went hot. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Oddly enough, Countess, I’m not,” he said. “But either you are lying, or Ezekiel Crow is, and a Paladin’s word before the Senate is powerful, indeed. You’ll need to have something a bit more powerful if you want to overcome it.”

“This is maddening.” She began pacing again, hearth to parlor door to street window and back again. Jonah could scarcely remember being that young, and having that much energy. “I have the proof!”

“Had the proof. Let’s think for a bit—tell me exactly what you did with it.”

“I sent it ahead on the first DropShip leaving for Terra, in the hands of Lieutenant Owain Jones, a combat officer of unimpeachable integrity, formerly aide to General Michael Griffin. General Griffin commands Northwind in my absence.”

“When did you send Lieutenant Jones?”

“February fifteenth. The Steel Wolves had left Northwind fewer than twelve hours before.”

Jonah rose and left the parlor for the pension’s front desk. He pushed the button on the antique call bell next to the guest register, and Madame Flambard emerged from the back office.

“Madame, would you locate Monsieur Horn and tell him that he is required in the guest parlor?”

“Of course.”

Jonah returned to his chair by the hearth. A few minutes later—during which Tara Campbell resumed her restless pacing—Burton Horn entered the room. The former GenDel employee was now wearing civilian clothing of a cut and color so ordinary and moderate as to be almost invisible.

“Reporting as ordered,” Horn said. “You’ve got some work for me?”

“Yes. A Northwind officer named Owain Jones arrived on Terra some time after fourteen March of this year,” Jonah said. “Find him.”

“Yes, sir. Once I find him, what do I do with him?”

“Bring him here. I’d like very much to speak with him—and so, unless I’m gravely mistaken, would his Countess.”

“Yes, Paladin.”

Horn gave Jonah a quick nod of respect, gave another nod—somewhat belatedly—to Tara Campbell, and left.

“That’s it?” Tara said.

“That’s as much as I can do right now,” Jonah said. “But if Horn succeeds in locating your missing officer—and the evidence—I should be able to do a good deal more.”

Geneva and Belgorod

Terra

Prefecture X

March 3134; local winter

Burton Horn hit the streets of Geneva as soon as he left the Pension Flambard, intent on the task of finding one man on the entire planet—a tough job, though not impossible for someone who’d learned his trade with GenDel. The most important thing on his side was that the man was a stranger, with a known starting point. Strangers make ripples. Horn was going to find the ripples.

The communications listings didn’t have an entry for an Owain Jones of Northwind—innumerable entries for that name in old Wales, but those could be ruled out, at least for now. Nor did the Office of Social Information carry listings for transient offworlders. Furthermore, the Genevan emergency records showed that nobody answering to the name of Owain Jones had checked in at any hospital or aid booth.

Horn left the communications grid office. So much for official help. His next stop would be his old pals at GenDel.

“Horn!” David Ashe said when he walked in the door. “I heard that you quit.”

“I went on leave, that’s all,” Horn said. “Got a temp gig that pays pretty well. How’ve things been here?”

“Not too bad. Every day gets me one day closer to retirement. What can I do for you?”

“Can you find out for me the names, dates, and locations of any civilian DropShips that arrived on Terra from Northwind, or that arrived having made connections with a vessel from Northwind, since fourteen March of this year?”

“Right into the proprietary data banks, eh?” said Ashe. “Why not just go to the ports and ask the cargo masters? That’s actually legal.”

“Chatting up cargo masters takes time, and time’s what I don’t have. My boss wants results.”

“He’s not my boss. Sounds like a personal problem to me.”

Horn regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. “Want a bit of spare cash?”

“From the temporary gig?”

“Sort of,” Horn said. “The info I’m after isn’t anything that’s illegal to have, and you know I can get it in other ways.”

“You mean we could help each other out?” Ashe’s nondescript GenDel features took on a calculating expression. “Why didn’t I know you were a crook when you worked here?”

“I try to keep my worse impulses in check,” Horn said, straight-faced. “Now how about it?”

“Okay, but you have to make it worth my while. Tell me who your boss is.”

“It’s no secret. Jonah Levin.”

“Okay,” said Ashe. “That and a spot of cash, and we can do business.”