Kerensky, on the other hand, needed close watching, not least because he had absolutely no idea what she was planning to do next. He’d tried tempting her with the poisoned apple of mercenary assistance, and she’d refused it outright. Perhaps it was time to throw BUU’s support behind Northwind instead. If he played this game right, Bannson thought, he might even come out of this as one of the Countess’s friends.

As for Ezekiel Crow… the man had served his purpose on Northwind, making Kerensky’s victory there possible through his betrayal. He’d shown his true colors then. In Bannson’s experience, a man who’d sold out once could usually be persuaded to do it again, and a man who’d sold out twice could be relied upon to do it a third time.

But Crow was also a clever, dangerous bastard. Bannson knew that the Paladin wouldn’t have abandoned his own plans and ambitions because of a single setback, and the threat of exposure wasn’t going to work forever. Records could be erased, witnesses could be suborned or killed—and without records and witnesses, all you had was mere gossip.

Crow, then, remained the real threat. Bannson was going to have to take further measures to deal with Ezekiel Crow.

He flipped a switch on the nearest communications console. “I want a JumpShip kept on hot standby at the Tybalt station,” he said, “and advance arrangements made at all Terra-bound intermediate stops for priority recharging of the K–F drive. Hire DropShip couriers if necessary to get out the word. I may have to relocate to Terra unexpectedly, at some point in the near future, and I don’t want to waste time getting ready if I do.”

Belgorod DropPort

Terra

Prefecture X

February 3134; local winter

Even with the HPG net down and interstellar travel diminished, everything of importance passed through Terra. The Belgorod DropPort, located on the steppe of old Russia, dealt mostly in heavy cargo rather than passenger traffic, and it was at Belgorod that the DropShip Quicksilver, out of Northwind, touched down and let off one man and a BattleMech.

Ezekiel Crow could remember when Belgorod and the other Terran DropPorts had seen DropShips landing and lifting in a constant stream. Tonight, he had no time to indulge in nostalgia. He had a great deal of business to take care of, and he had to take care of it before the Countess of Northwind—who was, he thought with some bitterness, most certainly no longer his friend—managed to get a messenger out with her side of the story. If he did not have all of his countermoves in place by that time, he would be, for all intents and purposes, dead.

First and most important, he needed to see to the care of his ’Mech. The fast and hard-hitting Blade was technically the property of The Republic of the Sphere, but it had been his and his alone ever since he first became a Knight of the Sphere. Even if the worst happened—especially if the worst happened—he could not afford to lose such an asset. While any of The Republic’s military or diplomatic facilities on Terra could supply him with access to a ’Mech hangar free of charge, such a facility could always be closed against him by orders from above, and using one would betray his location to anyone who might be interested.

Commercial storage was safer. The Belgorod DropPort maintained storage facilities for hire, including—as part of its heavy cargo focus—a limited number of hangars for corporations moving IndustrialMechs back and forth. Crow’s luck was in; one such hangar was currently free. He handed over an exorbitant deposit to the Portmaster and received the hangar lock’s cipher code with an inward sigh of relief.

Someone still might shut him out and keep him from his ’Mech, but now the job would be considerably harder. The safeguards placed by The Republic on civilian property meant that the legal process would take longer, and would require more evidence and justification. Furthermore, his rank as Paladin should suffice to overawe the facility operators into complying with his requests. Barring a direct order from the Exarch himself, the Blade was now as safe and as easy to retrieve as Crow could make it.

The next item on his agenda was tricky, but vitally important. Crow had thought about it during the long DropShip transit, and had arrived, eventually, at a conclusion. This was not something he could trust to official Republic channels. Other channels existed, however, and as a Paladin he knew where to find them and how to gain access. He’d never counted on using his knowledge in this fashion, but life, as he had come to know well, was full of unexpected developments.

Not more than two hours after securing the BattleMech, midnight found Ezekiel Crow in Belgorod DropPort’s uptown strip. The establishments there were elegant lounges and high-rolling casinos, rather than the low dives and gaming hells of the streets closer to the port, but the same people ran both.

He moved through the crowd, a quiet man in dark clothing, taking advantage of the fact that outside of the panoply of his office he was an essentially unremarkable figure. The only striking detail about his appearance was the unexpected combination of blue eyes with dark brown hair and olive skin, and he knew better than to draw attention to it by gazing directly at the people on the street.

He looked instead at the signs on the doors and windows and walls of the local buildings. Most of them were in English, here in the up-scale part of town:THE SILVER SLIPPER, CARDINI’S, THE TAJ MAHAL, THE GARDEN OF EARTHLY DELIGHTS .

Ah, yes, he thought. That’s the one.

He entered the lounge. The large room was dim and crowded; the floor show featured a single singer under a blue spotlight. Well-dressed men and women sat drinking and talking at small tables. The scene was sophisticated, if relatively tame. Crow knew that other, more dangerous stuff was available in other parts of the building—none of it quite illegal, but most of it definitely on the far side of unwise.

Crow wasn’t interested in delights, licit or otherwise. He was looking for the manager on duty. He spotted the man a few tables over and approached him politely.

“Good evening,” he said.

“Good evening,” said the manager. “Is there anything that you require to make your visit to the Garden a more pleasurable experience?”

“As it happens,” said Crow, “yes. I need to speak with Suvorov.”

Recognition flickered over the manager’s features for an instant, then vanished. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe we have anyone by that name working here.”

“You’re right,” Crow said. “He doesn’t work here. I need to speak with him anyway.”

“Sir, I’m afraid that—”

“Tell him that he got away clean from the Footfall investigation because he was clever enough to have other people dirty their hands for him instead of touching anything himself. That doesn’t mean someone didn’t know exactly what was going on.”

The manager stared at him. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Just tell Suvorov what I said. Then come back.”

The manager departed. Crow took his abandoned seat at the table and waited. Even listening with only half an ear to the floor show, he recognized the blue-spotlit singer as a Sphere-famous recording artist. Alexei Suvorov didn’t stint on appearances.

The manager returned, accompanied this time by an expressionless security guard of a type Crow pegged as muscle paid to be intelligent, but not thoughtful. “Mr. Suvorov will see you in the Eden Room.”

“This way,” said the security guard. Crow followed him through the press of crowd and tables and out into a carpeted hall leading deeper into the recesses of the Garden. As soon as the door closed between the hall and the outer room, the guard stepped aside and gestured Crow forward.