Thaddeus Marik and Otto Mandela held court with a group of Knights, describing a battle they had fought together before either were even Knights. It was a safer topic than politics, and their relaxed listeners laughed easily at their account.

Tyrina Drummond and Meraj Jorgensson were talking together earnestly in one corner, next to a table serving smoked salmon on flat crackers and some kind of transparent liquor in frosted glasses. Jonah made the mistake of reaching for an hors d’oeuvre, putting him in their conversational orbit.

“Victor will try to control us,” Drummond said in dire tones. “He thinks he can play at kingmaker.”

Jorgensson shrugged. “That is okay. Victor has shown that he is on the right side of things often enough. If he wants to use his influence to make sure someone qualified ascends to Exarch, what harm is there in that?”

“Steiner-Davion did not form The Republic. He had his chance; he was far more powerful than Devlin Stone early in his life. But he failed where Stone succeeded—he could never unite the Sphere. He could not do it then, and I do not see why we should trust him to do it now.” Her eyes caught Jonah’s. “Paladin Levin. Surely you will not be subject to Steiner-Davion’s manipulations.”

“Nobody, not even Steiner-Davion, has attempted to manipulate me yet,” Jonah said through a mouthful of fish. Until you, Tyrina, he silently added as he ducked away.

He was buried in a mass of staffers for a time, finally emerging in front of Kaffyd Op Owens and Maya Avellar.

“We are here to preserve Devlin Stone’s vision,” Owens said in insistent tones. “Our borders are being eroded, our weakness is being exposed. We need to restore our strength and restore our borders.” Staffers around Owens murmured their agreement.

“I agree that we must defend against further invasions, but escalating the war is asking for trouble,” Avellar returned. “The more we encourage the Clans to hate us, the stronger their future assaults against us will be. We have to find a way to deal with them besides incessant warfare.”

“We didn’t choose that method! They did! They brought the war to us, we are only responding!”

“The vision of The Republic is one of peace! We are supposed to rise above petty provocation!”

Jonah could see where this discussion was headed, and he wanted no part of it. He stepped backward, bumping squarely into Anders Kessel.

“Neither of them is going to convince the other,” Kessel said with a sad shake of his head, “especially with Owens spouting the lines David McKinnon would use if he were here. Their eloquence is best saved for Paladins who might be swayed.”

Jonah glanced at the sparring partners over his shoulder. “I don’t think they’re considering politics right now,” he said.

Kessel smiled, an expression that always seemed more genuine on him in the vids than it did in real life. “They have that in common with you,” he said.

“I suppose.”

“You know you can’t avoid it, though,” Kessel said, crinkling his gray eyes. “By yourself, you represent nearly six percent of the vote. Did you know that? Have you thought about the power a single vote has in our council?”

Jonah looked Kessel square in the face. “Yes. Honestly, I’ve given it a lot of thought.”

“I knew you would have. While the rest of them are playing games, you’re doing the real spadework.”

Jonah sighed, hoping Kessel noticed. Flattery was the inevitable first step of a political courtship.

“You and Victor, that is,” Kessel added.

“Victor?”

“Rumor is he’s putting in long hours on a secret project. The smart money says whatever it is could determine the outcome of the election. Though I’m sure you’ve heard similar rumors already.”

“I don’t hear many rumors,” Jonah said, applying a light veneer of scorn to the final word.

Kessel ignored it. “Then start listening. I know you think I’m just playing silly games, but the future of The Republic is at stake. There’s nothing silly about getting the right person in place.”

Jonah noticed that Kessel was not yet ready to commit to who that “right person” might be. Just then, a loud burst from Owens and the crowd surrounding him drew Kessel’s attention, and Jonah took advantage of the moment to slip away.

He found a corner free of any other Paladins. He looked over the room, thinking of how all these people were going to be penned up together in Geneva until they agreed upon the next Exarch. The Paladins had originally been a close-knit group, bound together by loyalty to Devlin Stone and to The Republic; but like any small group that needed to work together for a long time, familiarity had produced its own tensions and disagreements. The troubles of recent years, and the void left by Stone’s resignation and disappearance, and the fact that The Republic was large enough to keep the Paladins apart at most times, had only made things worse. Damien Redburn was a good man and Devlin Stone’s chosen successor, but he wasn’t able to inspire an equivalent level of profound emotional commitment. And now the Paladins were expected to choose one of their own number to take over his position.

The situation reminded Jonah Levin of the story he’d once heard about an old hermit in the North American desert who would amuse himself by capturing scorpions and throwing them into a jar, then sealing the lid. He would leave the jar sealed overnight, and by morning all of the creatures inside it would be dead—stung to death by their comrades in misfortune.

A shiver passed down Jonah’s back. The story was not really that amusing… but it was an explanation, perhaps, for why Damien Redburn had chosen to call for elections at the earliest legal moment. The man had been living inside that jar for years.

Residence of Paladin Victor Steiner-Davion,

Santa Fe

Terra, Prefecture X

26 November 3134

Darkness had fallen once again in Santa Fe and Victor Steiner-Davion was back in his office, leaning back in his desk chair, a glass of whisky in his hand. The whisky wasn’t good for him, but he didn’t care. No matter what the medical staff here thought, he’d reached an age when a man was entitled to a few moderate vices. After all, it wasn’t as if he had to worry much about the long-term effects of anything.

Tonight, moreover, was an occasion for at least modest celebration. His report to the Paladins was finished—both the extended version for publication, fully annotated and with transcripts of all the evidence, and the short summary version that he would present tomorrow in his live speech to the assembled Paladins. He would put on his full-dress uniform for the first time in years, he would go down to the tri-vid studio in the headquarters complex, and he would tell the other Paladins in his own voice exactly how bad the problem was.

He would have preferred to make the physical journey to Geneva and deliver his speech in person, but he had known from the start that such an appearance, personally satisfying though it might be, was unlikely to be possible. His energy failed him too easily these days, and the mere mention of so much travel would set his nurses and physicians to shaking their heads and making grave pronouncements.

A real-time hookup, then, would have to do. He had labored over the speech for long enough; anything he did tonight would be mere nervous tinkering. He would finish his whisky, then go to bed and rest for tomorrow and an old Paladin’s last hurrah.

Victor lifted his glass. “Here’s to The Republic and to the dream of Devlin Stone.”

He drained the last of the whisky and set the glass down on his desktop.

All of the lights in the room went out.

In the silence that followed, he realized that all of the electronics in the room had gone quiet as well. Their mostly unheard and forgotten sixty-cycle hum, that on a normal day droned on steadily beneath everything, was dead.