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.