"Yes. An Ambassador, by the name of G'Kael. A quiet fellow, for a Narn."
"Which would put him just a little louder than the entire Centarum put together," Londo observed. "I would like a meeting arranged with him, and with G'Kar. We need peace.... and badly."
"I agree. Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar has been informed that you are here. Allow me to escort you to your quarters, and the chambers we have set aside for you and your entourage. You may if you wish make a presentation before the Council at any time today. We have...." He smiled ruefully. "We have much to talk about these days, but little actually to do."
"Good. I would like to talk with G'Kar, and with this.... G'Kael. Then.... discussions regarding an Ambassador to be posted here. I have.... a few candidates. Mostly people I want to be rid of and burden onto you, but we need not tell the others that, need we? Trade pacts, treaties of neutrality.... all those things I will be happy to discuss.
"But we will not join your war, Lethke. The Centauri have suffered enough already."
Lethke bowed. "I accept your wishes, Londo. But if G'Kar and Delenn and the Vorlons are right.... then there can be no staying out of this war. It will come to you, if you do not go to it."
"He speaks right," said a new voice, one Londo had not heard before. A voice filled with the timbre of authority, a voice used to leading, a voice that could rattle buildings, and stir souls, and instil the fear of all things dark into a craven heart.
A Minbari was standing at the entrance to this small audience chamber. The area should of course have been cordoned off and well-protected by the security forces, but Londo would not have been surprised if they had just stepped aside and let him past.
He was tall and standing proud, in black warrior garb with a strange badge on his chest. A compacted pike hung from his belt, and traces of silver shone from the black tops of his boots. It was his eyes that caught Londo most of all — dark and piercing, they seemed to be studying him intently, seeing through the flesh to his very soul. Which, given who this man was, did not seem impossible.
"Londo Mollari," Londo said, introducing himself and stepping forward. He held his hands out, palms raised upwards in the traditional greeting of Centauri nobles. "Emperor of the Centauri Republic, Guardian of Centauri Prime, Light of the Fourth Something and various other pointless titles."
The Minbari stepped forward and clasped Londo's wrists. He knew the greeting, then. Londo was impressed. "I am Sinoval." That was it. That was all he needed, really.
Londo stepped back and glanced at Lethke. "This is an impressive gathering you have here, Lethke. Several of the most powerful people in the galaxy." He looked back to Sinoval. "Why have you come here? Treaties and pacts and all the other rigmarole of diplomacy?"
"No," came a simple response. "There are things I need to say to the Council.... to others. Warnings, prophecies even."
A chill gripped Londo's chest at the mention of the word 'prophecy'. "Ah. How well were your warnings received?"
"I have not spoken to them yet. I was waiting."
"Waiting? What for?" Londo had an uncomfortable feeling that he knew the answer.
"You." Londo cursed inwardly. Perhaps Timov was right. He was turning into a prophet. He hadn't thought he had the figure to be a Seeress.
"Well. Now, I am here."
Sinoval smiled, a strange gesture that looked unnatural on him. "You and Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar are invited to visit Cathedral at your convenience. There is someone there you must meet, and something you must see. Then I think you will understand more."
Sinoval inclined his head in a slight bow, then turned and left.
"There," Londo said after a short pause, "is a very scary person."
"He has changed since last I saw him," Lethke observed. "I cannot explain it, but.... No, it is nothing. These times.... cast a gloom over me. Come, Londo. I will show you and your staff and your bodyguards and our bodyguards to your chambers, and you can regale me with all the goings-on at the Royal Court these days."
"You may regret that offer," Londo replied in jest, but his hearts were not really up for jokes. Neither was Lethke's.
"Lemme guess," drawled Sector 301's Security Chief Zack Allan in his I-really-could-be-doing-something-so-much-more-interesting-than-this tone of voice. "Cause of death: knife wound to the neck."
"Well, the forensic guys are going to take a while to get back to us," replied Jack, his second. "But it looks like it."
"Yeah. I could tell that, you see.... thanks to all the various subtle hints and clues and intuitions you get when you've been doing this job long enough. You see, I spot things that some other people might miss. For example, the stiff had a big, sharp knife stuck in his neck, and he was dead. Therefore, cause of death."
"Dunno how you do it, Chief," replied Jack. "Puts the rest of us to shame."
"Well, gotta be good at something." Zack looked up and made a cursory visual inspection of the bar. He was bored. Very bored. Time was when a murder would at least have piqued his interest for a while, but there was no real detective work to do here. There rarely was, at least not in the Pit. Maybe in some of the upper sectors you could get those interesting locked room mysteries with a million suspects and some brilliant amateur sleuth who'd step in and lend a hand, but down here in 301, there usually wasn't a lot of doubt. When one drunk person sliced open another drunk person in broad daylight in front of like six zillion witnesses, there was only so much you could do to drag the case out until teatime.
Which looked like the case here. Well, there were two witnesses, rather than a zillion, and Zack had a feeling neither suspect nor stiff had been especially drunk, but it was pretty damned obvious who was guilty.
If he didn't know better, he'd assume Mr. Trace had either set this up, or sent his man to kill Smith and it had simply gone wrong, but Zack did know better. As a result he was buying the 'unprovoked attack' theory put across by the barman.
"He just.... he just went mad," the barman was saying, for the umpteenth time. What was his name? Zack had forgotten. Oh, it couldn't have been important. The Ombuds down here didn't worry so much about evidence or due process or reliable testimony or whatever. They just did what Mr. Trace said and then went home early to watch the vids.
Zack could relate.
"He just started punching him, punching and punching. He broke a chair on Mr. Drake's back. And then.... oh, my God.... he got out a knife, and...."
Zack stopped listening. Yeah, yeah. They got the picture already. Sheesh. Someone just take a statement and get on with it. The body had been removed by the forensics guys, who had then proceeded to check for.... whatever stuff it was they checked for. They had spent the whole time arguing about who was sexier: some blonde woman on some soap opera, or some other blonde woman on some other soap opera. Finally, the guys had amicably agreed to differ.
Real co-operation. Understanding each other's differences. Maybe there was hope for the Pit yet.
Yeah, right.
"What do you think, Allan?"
Zack turned and saw Mr. Trace standing next to him. His hands were in his trouser pockets, and he was looking around with an expression that might have been sadness, or might have been disgust. Probably both.
"Well, the story is, the suspect.... this Dexter Smith guy.... just snapped, and attacked Drake. Beat him up, slapped him a couple of times, at least once with a chair, and then drove a knife into his neck."
Trace nodded, knowing as well as Zack did that that was all rubbish. Sure, Smith looked a fairly hard guy, but Drake was big, and very mean. No way would he have gone down that easily. Besides, judging from the position the body had been in....