“What?” The amazement choked in her throat like bile.
“The surrender terms are alleged to include handing over both Northwind and the Highlander regiments to the Steel Wolves.”
Amazement gave way to anger, rising up in an incredulous, adrenaline-fueled wave. She understood now the kind of rage that might cause someone to order a whole city burnt.
She swallowed the anger, pushed it down, and forced herself to keep her voice low and steady.
“Exarch Redburn, Ezekiel Crow lied to you.”
Redburn’s face revealed nothing. “Someone, certainly, is lying.”
“At least authorize me to take steps to resist the Wolves when they attack.” She knew that she was pleading; she was made even angrier by the realization. “I did not bring my Highlanders all the way from Northwind to Terra in order to stand idly by and watch while Anastasia Kerensky brings the Steel Wolves down on the lot of you!”
“Perhaps not,” said Redburn implacably. “But I can’t take the risk that you may have come not to resist the Steel Wolves, but to help open the door for them. Not without something to go on besides your unsupported word.”
Tara stood abruptly, pushing her chair back so hard that it toppled over. She let it lie on the carpet where it fell.
“Very well, Exarch. I will go back to the place you have assigned to us, and wait there for time to give you the proof you need.”
She stalked over to the office door, then paused. “And don’t come crying to me then that I didn’t warn you.”
She turned and left, closing the inner door with careful precision on her way out. She was almost to the door of the outer office when Redburn’s administrative assistant stopped her and handed her a card.
“I was asked to give this to you,” the assistant said. “While you were with the Exarch.”
Tara looked at it. It was a plain white business card, no ID codes or anything fancy like that, just a few lines of black type in a restrained, old-fashioned font:
JONAHLEVIN
PENSIONFLAMBARD
14 RUESIMON-DURAND
GENEVA
Underneath the printing was an additional, handwritten note:
Please call on me at this address as soon as you can.—J.L.
21
Pension Flambard, 14 Rue Simon-Durand
Geneva, Terra
Prefecture X
March 3134; local winter
Jonah Levin had not been waiting for long in the guest parlor of the Pension Flambard before he heard the street door open and close, followed by the sound of Tara Campbell’s quick, light steps in the foyer. Madame Flambard’s eyes widened when she recognized the visitor—the Countess of Northwind was too well known to The Republic’s media even to think of going anywhere incognito—but her discretion remained as absolute as ever. There had been more than one reason why a much younger Jonah Levin had preferred his lodgings at the Pension to other, more fashionable or luxurious quarters.
Madame ushered the Countess into the parlor, then vanished into the back recesses of the pension. Jonah suspected that she was planning to pump the newly hired and on-call Burton Horn for gossip—and that Horn would be doing the same in reverse. Neither one of them was likely to succeed, in Jonah’s opinion, but the effort would keep both of them amused.
Tara Campbell, on other hand, was not amused at all. Her interview with Damien Redburn clearly had not gone well. The Countess’s face was pale except for a betraying flush of red along her cheekbones, her full lips were pressed thin, and all her motions were tight and controlled, as though she had to hold herself back from physical reaction by main force.
So, Jonah reflected, the Countess of Northwind has a temper—not surprising, considering that she’s a born aristocrat with a hereditary claim on the loyalty of a whole planet. She knows how to control it, though, and that is surprising.
Tara Campbell took a seat in the overstuffed wing chair on the other side of the small parlor hearth. The faux-logs burned low; winter was drawing to its end. Her hands gripped the wooden ends of the chair arms so hard that her knuckles showed white.
Jonah realized it was going to be up to him to speak first. “I’ve listened to a recording of your initial message to the Exarch.”
“I’m glad that somebody did.”
From the tone of her voice, he suspected that the Countess wasn’t accustomed to having her word dismissed out of hand—or even having it doubted. Jonah was less and less inclined, however, to think that Tara Campbell was lying. There were politicians in The Republic of the Sphere who could feign that kind of righteous indignation, but nothing in Tara Campbell’s record hinted at either the taste or the talent for such high-level duplicity.
He wasn’t quite ready to say that aloud, however. Instead, he looked at her gravely. “As I understand it, you possess evidence that Ezekiel Crow betrayed Northwind and ran out on you, and perhaps that he was even in the pay of the Steel Wolves.”
“Yes,” Tara replied. Jonah sensed powerful emotion behind the curt statement, a hint of pain that was more than merely political. Her self-control became visibly harder to maintain. She stood, her hands clasped behind her back, and began to pace. “We relied on him, and we were betrayed.”
Perhaps more than merely relied? Jonah wondered. If that were the case, any betrayal would carry a double sting. But nobody in The Republic was ever likely to know, except for the two people who might—or might not—have been involved. He continued his questioning.
“And this evidence is… where?”
“I sent it to the Exarch, via courier.”
Her frustration was evident again, this time stronger than before. Maybe the problem was not just a matter of her doubted word. Jonah shook his head.
“The Exarch, I assure you, has not seen any such evidence. Do you have copies?”
“Yes.”
“Then verification should be—”
The Countess’s porcelain cheeks reddened further. She looked down at the carpet. “The copies are on Northwind, in the regimental archives at The Fort.” She raised her head and met Jonah’s eyes as if daring him to comment. “For safekeeping.”
Jonah gave an understanding nod. There was no use in pointing out a mistake that she was, clearly, already well aware of and deeply regretting. “Sending for them would take weeks or even months.”
“Which you—we—don’t have! The Steel Wolves are coming. I’m only surprised that they aren’t yet here. I don’t care what you believe about Ezekiel Crow, so long as you believe me about the danger to Terra.”
“Unfortunately,” Jonah said, “people—even people like the Exarch—will want to believe either both, or neither. And for such strong allegations—treason, on the part of one of The Republic’s most respected Paladins!—most of them will want more than your unsupported word.”
Her chin went up at that, and her blue eyes went hot. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“Oddly enough, Countess, I’m not,” he said. “But either you are lying, or Ezekiel Crow is, and a Paladin’s word before the Senate is powerful, indeed. You’ll need to have something a bit more powerful if you want to overcome it.”
“This is maddening.” She began pacing again, hearth to parlor door to street window and back again. Jonah could scarcely remember being that young, and having that much energy. “I have the proof!”
“Had the proof. Let’s think for a bit—tell me exactly what you did with it.”