I must never allow myself to forget, Crow thought, that Alexei Suvorov is not my business partner, and he is not my friend. He is a bad man, and a menace to the health of The Republic, and at the first opportunity I will need to strike him down.
At the first opportunity… but not just yet. Crow pushed his darker thoughts aside and composed his face into a smile of welcome as the Duquesne’s maitre d’hotel escorted Paladin Jonah Levin into the dining room.
The Paladin from Kervil approached the table with hand extended. “It’s been a while,” he said. “And The Republic has changed since then.”
“That it has,” Crow said, rising and meeting Levin’s handclasp with his own. He waved the other man into the opposite chair, then sat back down himself. “And not for the better. Would you care for something to drink? Tea or coffee?”
“Tea, please,” Levin said.
Crow summoned a waiter with a nod of his head, and gave the order. Then he continued, “You must have had a long journey. And with things so unsettled—”
“The unsettled nature of The Republic of the Sphere is in fact my primary concern,” Levin said. The Paladin from Kervil looked about him at the heavy silver table service, the fine antique furniture, and the deep carpets that filled the dining rooms of the Hotel Duquesne. “But I have to admit that the lap of luxury isn’t the sort of place I’ve usually run into you. The barracks yard suits both of us better than this, I think.”
“It’s a different world here,” Crow said.
“I’d noticed,” Levin agreed. He paused. “Have you heard from Jacob Bannson lately?”
“Not for some months,” Crow said. He allowed himself a brief moment of amusement. “In fact, not since you and he crossed swords over whether he should be allowed to expand further into Prefecture III. You won, I believe.”
“Ah. That,” Levin said. “I was scarcely alone in my opposition. If Bannson isn’t active at the moment, what’s your assessment of the other major threats to The Republic?”
“Disorder,” Crow replied promptly. “We’re seeing it already on worlds that lack a strong central authority, and so far the Senate has been remarkably lax in addressing the problem. And after disorder, the Clans.”
“The Clans aren’t likely to agree with that,” Jonah observed. “Or to appreciate being ranked second at anything.”
The tea arrived, followed at once by a tray of excellent pastries. Crow poured cups of tea for himself and Jonah Levin, then returned to leaning back in his chair, cup and saucer balanced on its wide, upholstered arm.
“No, I suppose not,” he said. “But I tell you, the Clans are important. Even if they do have an exaggerated idea of their own worth.” He sipped at his tea; it was still too hot to drink more than a sip at a time. “Leaving the Clans aside for now—do you have you any theories on what became of the ’Net?”
“Nothing rational,” Levin admitted. “Sabotage, bad luck, the wrath of God—either none of them seems likely, or all of them, depending on the mood I’m in when I think about it.”
“I don’t believe in bad luck,” Crow said. “At least not on this scale, and not simultaneously from one side of the galaxy to the other. But I do believe in treachery.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Jacob Bannson.”
“That’s a strong accusation,” Levin said. “Particularly if there’s no proof.”
“Given how smooth an operator the man is, I’d say that the very lack of proof is significant.”
“I don’t like that logic,” Levin said. “But there isn’t much that can be done about Bannson until he becomes active again. The Clans, though… you’ve been on Northwind recently, and so have they. What’s the situation there?”
“The Steel Wolves hold the planet,” Crow said. “When I left, the Highlanders had been defeated and their Countess was in the process of negotiating their surrender.”
Levin frowned slightly. “But you came to Terra instead of staying to put some spine into them—if spine is what was needed.”
“I became separated from the main Northwind force during the fighting in the capital,” he said. “When I saw that there was still a civilian DropShip remaining on the field, I realized that somebody had to get away and warn Terra that Northwind was no longer reliable and that the Wolves were on the move.”
“I see your point,” Levin said. “What do you suppose are the Wolves’ long-term intentions?”
Crow shrugged. “With the Clans, who can ever tell? But Terra has come under threat from that quarter in the past—and if the Steel Wolves are as in love with their own history as some of the other breakaway factions operating in The Republic are, it would be foolish to think that such a threat will never come again.”
18
Bannson Headquarters
Tybalt
Prefecture II
March 3134; local autumn
One-Eyed Jack Farrell lounged at his ease in the upper-level waiting room at Jacob Bannson’s Tybalt headquarters, his long legs stretched out before him and his head leaning against the back of the leather couch. Anyone looking at him would have assumed that he was half asleep, rather than working hard—and succeeding—at not appearing impressed. Luckily for Farrell, his usual method still worked: imagining what his surroundings would look like when they were broken up for plunder, and pricing the result in his head.
Is that tabletop solid jade, or just a high-grade synthetic? This is Bannson we’re dealing with. Call it real. Add in the gold-leaf trim on the cabinetwork… hell, the solid gold trim on the cabinetwork… and that brings the total up to…
The game worked as well for him in Bannson’s office as it did anywhere else. The only difficulty was adding up numbers that big without a data pad.
It kept Farrell from getting bored while he waited, though, which was the important thing. Like most self-made men, Jacob Bannson was all about keeping the hired help cooling their heels and building up a nervous sweat. Farrell might take Bannson’s money, but he’d be damned if he was going to give him or anyone else the pleasure of seeing him twitch. A man who’d taken a Jupiter BattleMech and made it his own didn’t have to stand in awe of anyone.
Bannson’s administrative assistant—a weedy man who looked like his palms sweated at the thought of driving an electric runabout in light traffic—finally showed up. He looked down his pointed nose at the mercenary leader. “Mr. Bannson will see you now.”
Farrell yawned and slouched easily to his feet. Standing, he was a full head taller than Bannson’s assistant. “High time.”
“This way, please.”
Farrell allowed Weedy to lead the way into the inner office. He knew enough to understand at once that this wasn’t Bannson’s real center of power, only a room for conferring with mercs and other unsavory types—as with the outer waiting room, everything in it was designed to scream, I have more money than you ever will, so don’t even think about selling me out. Stick with me and stay honest, and you’ll make more than enough money to buy anything you ever wanted.
Money talked, and Jacob Bannson spoke its language fluently. So, as it happened, did One-Eyed Jack Farrell.
“You can go now,” Bannson said to Weedy. “Mr. Farrell and I have business to discuss.”
Weedy departed, looking miffed. By the time the door closed again, his employer had to all appearances already forgotten him.