Chamber of Paladins, Geneva

Terra, Prefecture X

27 November 3134

“In the name of everything, Damien—why me?”

As soon as the brief opening session of the Electoral Conclave had ended, Jonah had cornered Damien Redburn in the small office just off the chamber. The room was little more than a nook for transacting private business, with its interior and exterior doors separated by a desk-and-chairs setup that had plainly come out of the same design box as the Paladins’ seats in the larger room. The main purpose of the space was to connect the Exarch’s side entrance to the Chamber of Paladins with the rest of the Hall of Government. Only the presence of a single narrow window overlooking the street outside kept it from being a well-lit, carpeted closet.

At the moment, neither Jonah nor the Exarch was sitting down. Redburn stood by the window, looking defensive; Jonah faced him from a point barely inside the closed door.

“It’s necessary,” Redburn said.

And again, Jonah demanded, “Why me?”

“I need to assign a Paladin to handle the investigation, and I need to do it immediately.” Redburn’s expression was grave and sincere. “Anything less, and no one will believe that The Republic is taking Victor’s death seriously.”

“I have to question your judgment on this,” Jonah said. “I’m not a political man, and Victor Steiner-Davion’s death, natural or otherwise, can’t possibly be anything except political.”

“That’s exactly why I want you to do it.”

“I must be growing stupid in my old age, Damien. Explain.”

The Exarch sighed. “It’s because you’re not political; or at any rate, you’re about as apolitical as it’s possible for someone in your position to get. Which isn’t very, so you can stop playing the I’m-not-worthy card. It isn’t going to help.”

Jonah ignored the Exarch’s last comment. There was enough truth in the accusation that replying to it was probably not a good idea. Instead he asked, “What advantage will my supposedly being apolitical bring to the investigation?”

“For one thing,” Redburn said, “you don’t have any ties or obligations to Victor Steiner-Davion beyond the absolute minimum. Given the man’s longevity and his history of involvement in factional struggles, that makes you a rare bird.”

“I’m beginning to think it’s made me a sitting duck.”

Redburn smiled. “No, your personal integrity did that.”

“I’m flattered,” Jonah said dourly.

“You’re also the Exarch’s Special Investigator for this death. I need a preliminary report from you no later than the end of December—before the election.”

Jonah resigned himself to the inevitable. “What resources do I have?”

“Whatever you want, within reason. You can call upon the office of the Exarch to make good any expenditures, or to handle any research and paperwork. And, of course, to back any action that you need to take.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” Now that he had what he wanted, the Exarch favored Jonah with a wry smile. “I’m handing you a hot potato, and it’s undoubtedly going to burn your fingers. I don’t know who is involved in this and I don’t want to guess, but I have my ideas. Follow this however high it may go, even if it leads you to one of your peers.”

“One of my peers? You have a reason to think—”

“No.” Redburn cut him off. “I don’t. But I’ve seen the path The Republic’s been on. I know what we’re in for. And I know your investigation could end in some very high places.”

Jonah was still thinking about Redburn’s words as he went back out into the main chamber. The atmosphere there continued for the most part to be one of restrained mourning, though small knots of people had gathered around the two new Paladins. Both Janella Lakewood and Gareth Sinclair looked a bit shell-shocked; no one could ever fully prepare for the event of becoming Paladin, and Sinclair most likely had known of his promotion only a few minutes before his appointment was announced.

Jonah made a point of seeking out Sinclair. The group of Knights and others clustered around Sinclair parted as Jonah approached. That automatic deference had been one of the hardest things for Jonah to get used to after having been himself raised to Paladin status. Sinclair, though, came from a political family on his own world; maybe his settling-in period wouldn’t be as long or as awkward as Jonah’s had been.

Don’t fool yourself, said the voice of reason in Jonah’s head. He’s got a long way to go. Look at you—in some ways, you’re still settling in.

He gave Sinclair a cordial nod. “Gareth. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, si—”

“Jonah.” He met the younger man’s eyes and added, “Paladin Sinclair,” the better to get the point across.

Sinclair blushed and corrected himself. “Jonah.” The man had never been good at dissembling, Jonah recalled, and his fair complexion was as good as a message board for whatever he was feeling at the moment. “Thank you—though I never wanted to advance like this.”

“Victor Steiner-Davion is a hard act for anyone to follow.”

“I feel like I’m expected to follow in the steps of a legend.”

“You are.” Jonah glanced toward Janella Lakewood, and saw that Sinclair followed his gaze. “But it could be worse.”

Sinclair grimaced. “Taking a traitor’s seat? I suppose you’re right. Just the same, I—”

“You’ll do fine, Gareth.” Jonah looked about the chamber. A few reporters and officials still straggled in the empty hall. Some of them were probably waiting for a chance to interview Sinclair. They tried to look nonchalant, but Jonah knew they were straining to hear every word he and Sinclair said.

Jonah made a courteous good-bye to Sinclair, then returned to his seat. With the shortened meeting, his schedule was suddenly clear. He could get to work on his project immediately.

He called up an address on his data screen and sent a message to an old friend. Well, an acquaintance, really, but a valuable one.

Are you at liberty to take on some work for me? If so, come to the Pension Flambard in the Rue Simon-Durand this evening at seven.—Jonah Levin

Pension Flambard, Geneva

Terra, Prefecture X

27 November 3134

The early winter darkness pressed against the windows of the sitting room of the pension in the Rue Simon-Durand, and a damp wind blew down the street outside. Jonah Levin sat in front of the burning faux-logs in the fireplace, enjoying the warmth and the yellow-orange glow. The dancing flames were a randomized tri-vid display powered by the fireplace unit’s internal computer, but the illusion they provided was as warming to the soul as the heat given off by the formed and textured ceramic logs was to the body. Jonah had fortified himself with an early dinner and a glass of wine at his favorite neighborhood restaurant, and now he waited.

He heard the sound of the street door opening, followed by the sound of the bell at the front desk. A moment later, Madame Flambard came to the sitting room entrance.

“A person to see you, Monsieur Levin. He says he is expected.”

“He is,” Jonah said. “I’ll talk with him in here.”

“Very well, Monsieur. If you need anything—”

“I’ll ring. Thank you, Madame.”

She ushered in the investigator, Burton Horn, then made herself discreetly absent. Levin gestured his guest to the chair on the other side of the fireplace.

Burton Horn was a medium-sized man with bland, forgettable features. He wore the uniform of the Republic-spanning General Delivery messenger service, for whom he worked when he was not involved as a freelance courier and private investigator. Jonah had first hired the man to do legwork for him during the Ezekiel Crow affair of the previous spring, and knew him to be competent, reliable and, above all, discreet.