“I’ll have to. I can only hope our investigations will subdue some of the more dangerous groups before things get out of hand.”

“You have someone on it?”

Redburn nodded. “GioAvanti. But I’m afraid the insurgents may be multiplying too fast even for her.”

“She’s a good choice,” the Ghost Paladin affirmed. “I’ll make sure any information I get makes its way to her somehow.”

Redburn ran his finger around the lip of his glass. “She might make a good Exarch,” he said.

The Ghost Paladin’s expression didn’t waver.

“No response, eh? Don’t tell me you have no feelings on who should succeed me.”

“Devlin Stone did a wise thing when he set up the office of Ghost Paladin to be apart from politics. There would be too much temptation to play kingmaker, otherwise.”

Redburn nodded agreement. He was not one of those faithful who believed Devlin Stone never had a bad idea. In fact, he had a long list of “what in God’s name were you thinking?” questions that he was planning to ask The Republic’s vanished founder if the man ever turned up again. This time, however, Stone had been right.

“That being the case,” Redburn said, “I won’t bother asking who would get your vote if you could cast one. On the other hand, I can certainly ask you if there’s any Paladin out of the current lot whom you think shouldn’t be made Exarch.”

The Ghost Paladin took another thoughtful sip of the amber drink. “I think it’s fair to say that either Tyrina Drummond or Thaddeus Marik would be a howling disaster in the role. Even if Drummond weren’t a Clan warrior—which would alienate all of those worlds where the Clans have lately taken to causing trouble—she’s also one of those ‘Devlin Stone can do no wrong!’ people. And Marik… well, you know what he’s like.”

Redburn nodded. He knew Marik: a self-exiled scion of the deposed ruling family of the defunct Free Worlds League, prominent in the Founder’s Movement… and tainted, inescapably, by his family’s rumored involvement in the Word of Blake Jihad. Marik could be as honest and capable as any other Paladin, yet he would never have the people’s wholehearted trust.

“Unless we have a run of spectacularly bad luck, however,” the Ghost Paladin continued, “neither Tyrina Drummond nor Thaddeus Marik is likely to get elected. Their fellow Paladins are not stupid, after all.”

“Leaving aside the obvious ones, then,” Redburn said, “have we got any Paladins who could get elected, but who really shouldn’t be?”

The Ghost Paladin’s answer was prompt. “Anders Kessel wants it too much, for either himself or Sorenson. And David McKinnon—he’s honest and brave and loyal, but he’s not flexible enough to deal with the world as we must live in it now.”

“I see your point,” Redburn said. “He’s one of the old guard, though—Devlin Stone’s man since the Kittery Prefecture days—and that’s bound to carry weight with archloyalists like Drummond. Add in his reputation as a Mech Warrior and his personal charisma… nine votes out of seventeen is all it takes, remember. If the mood of the electors were to swing in the right direction, he could do it.”

The Ghost Paladin smiled grimly over the rim of the glass of whisky. “Then we’ll have to make certain that the mood doesn’t swing. It looks like choosing the right replacement for Ezekiel Crow is going to be fairly vital.”

“We’ve got a number of up-and-coming young Knights to consider, even eliminating the obvious nonstarters.” Redburn paused a moment to contemplate with regret the fact that Tara Campbell, Countess of Northwind, had turned down his offer of Crow’s position. The Countess would have made a triple-threat Paladin, as courageous as Drummond and as loyal as McKinnon, but considerably more intelligent than either.

There was no use in mourning what would not be. The thought of Tara Campbell, however, brought up the image of yet another young Knight who had also proven herself both loyal and intelligent.

“What do you say to Lady Janella Lakewood?” Redburn asked.

“Lakewood?” There was a long pause, during which Redburn imagined Lady Janella’s dossier unfolding in the Ghost Paladin’s mind, from her first day in preschool up through her present rank as a Knight of the Sphere. At last the Paladin’s gaze returned from the middle distance and focused again on Redburn. “Yes. Lady Janella is an excellent choice.”

Restarante Del Sol, Santa Fe

Terra, Prefecture X

25 October 3134

Everyone agreed that Henrik Morten was an up-and-coming young man. He was a diplomat on the rise, a man whose problem-solving abilities had made him valuable to more than one politician. He came from a noble family; the Mortens had been among the original settlers on Mallory’s World, and had grown and maintained the family fortune over the intervening centuries. At one point or another, members of the Morten family had held most of their world’s important planetary offices. They had also thrown in their lot with Devlin Stone early enough that they retained most of their political and economic clout even after Stone established The Republic of the Sphere.

Henrik’s only shortcoming, as an inheritor of the family’s political power, was that while he had been abundantly gifted with golden hair, azure eyes and a pair of cheekbones that could draw attention a full city block away, he had failed to receive from his illustrious ancestors the physical stamina and aptitude necessary to become a MechWarrior. And while being a MechWarrior was not absolutely required by law in order to become a Knight or, subsequently, a Paladin of the Sphere, the hard truth was that custom decreed otherwise. No one was going to ascend to the second-highest rank in The Republic of the Sphere who had not first climbed into the cockpit of a ’Mech and made ready to do battle.

But if the path to the Exarch’s throne was closed to him—since the Exarch was elected by the Paladins from among their own number, and the Paladins were, with rare exceptions, elevated from the ranks of the Knights—Henrik could still aspire to a position of influence. Diplomatic and ambassadorial posts did not require MechWarriors to fill them, and neither did the ranks of the Senate. A capable man, with the right backing and blood, could go far in The Republic of the Sphere, even in these troubled times.

Henrik Morten had that backing, and he was grateful for it. He also had a strong sense of what was owed to his patron. He considered it part of his duty—as well as in his plain self-interest—to keep his ears open for anything that might be of use. Scraps and tidbits of information from odd sources, properly organized, often proved to be of value if they were given to the right person at the right time.

Tonight he was dining at the Restarante Del Sol in Santa Fe with his local girlfriend, Elena Ruiz. The restaurant was furnished and decorated in the old Southwestern style, all stucco, dark wood and hand-painted tile. His companion’s delighted reaction to being there told him that this was the first time she had ever been to so elegant—and understatedly expensive—a place.

Elena worked as a nurse in the residential wing of the Knights’ Santa Fe headquarters complex, though she often complained that she functioned more as a housekeeper. Her complaints held an element of truth, though Henrik was not so foolish as to tell her so. She was, in his private assessment, essentially an overeducated maid, and certainly not nobility. She could fish all she wanted for a proposal of marriage and the chance to be, someday, Mrs. Ambassador (and, subsequently, Mrs. Senator) Henrik Morten, but it wasn’t going to happen.

Henrik didn’t try to dissuade her from her illusions, however, at least not yet. She was too good in bed to lose for no reason; and she was a talker, too, at the dining table as much as between the sheets. Henrik, ever on the alert for news and information that might have escaped the general notice, was good at listening.