Comfortable, finally. Truly home, truly safe. Even his bodyguard let these people come and go in confidence, and let this staff arrange his wardrobe in the rooms allotted to them. Banichi and Jago, Tano and Algini officially shared quarters just down the hall—though Jago would likely not sleep there.
And with the arrival of the various cases, it was a massive unpacking . . . an absolute fire brigade of clothing going from cases to closets, hand to hand, a steadily increasing staff all cheerful and quick about their jobs, and not a step out of order. They were excellent at their jobs, as fine a staff as any house could have; and Bren couldn’t but catch their mood. A man could work in this environment; a man could concentrate on his job in absolute confidence that everything was taken care of, impeccably managed, all in order. He’d be fed like a prince, he’d be dressed and taken care of, nobody would ever mess with his papers and his computer—he could rely on that. He could look out the windows and watch the sun set with no worries beyond the research he had to do.
And maybe he would have ample time for the boat, and a little fishing, and a visit with his brother—he put the thought of Barb completely aside—before Toby headed back out to sea.
Oh, it was a good set of circumstances that had brought him back. He’d held it off for months as both a promised reward and a necessary burden—and now that he was here—it was going to work. He could reward himself with a little time and it wasn’t going to put him off his duties at all. He could rest. His bodyguard could sleep decent hours and lean back and relax in real security, remote from the political angst that went with living in the Bujavid—and in the borrowed apartment and with the staff of a politically interested and very conservative lord.
And what was more, they could enjoy dinner with absolute confidence a borrowed chef on one of the Bujavid’s frequent dinner engagements wasn’t going to make a lethal mistake and poison the visiting human. This was Suba in charge of the kitchen. Suba absolutely understood what humans could and couldn’t eat: he was not the finest cook on the planet—but he cooked excellent regional dishes. And that was one more stage of relaxation . . . which Mospheira itself couldn’t afford him nowadays: too many crazy people there, too many agendas, too much controversy. Here, after a hellish year, he heaved a deep sigh as Supani made a final tweak at his collar and Koharu straightened the lace cuffs from the sleeves, and was just well content with himself and current company.
Even Barb’s presence under the same roof—if Toby wanted her, if she did good for Toby, that was all fine. He’d be pleasant. She could be. They could have some family time, do a little fishing—settle some personal business he didn’t exactly look forward to, but Toby probably wanted to say some things to him about the missed years, and clear the air, and he was obliged at least to listen and apologize. That needed doing . . . if Toby wanted to do it.
Banichi and Jago turned up ready for formal duty in their best black leather, gleaming with polished silver rings and fastenings—and they’d stand by while he ate and socialized, come hell or high water, since it was an official estate dinner, while Tano and Algini, on room duty and not obliged to formal dress, had their supper with staff, put their feet up, and watched the house servants unpack everything they were allowed to touch.
No arguing with the Guild’s sense of propriety, however. He headed out with Banichi and Jago, not, as it would be in the Bujavid, through the main hall of his quarters, out the foyer, and so on into the halls, but directly down the warm, wood-paneled hall of the main building . . . this wasn’t a building he shared with other lords, or even guests, ordinarily. Unlike the arrangement in other places he lived, this was his house, and when he went out his bedroom door he was immediately in the larger house, and when he walked down to the dining room, it was the dining room for himself and everybody who wasn’t staff.
He loved this hallway. It had something quite rare in atevi architecture, a technique perhaps borrowed, centuries ago, from Mospheirans. The wing ended in a stained-glass window, a huge affair: staff had lit the outside lanterns, which only hinted at its colors. He looked forward to morning, when its smoldering reds and blues and golds would bloom into pastels and light, a rare representation of an actual object—atevi art was given to patterns completely overwhelming any hint of a person or a tree or a landscape. This was indisputably a tree, with branches more natural than patterned, and he loved the piece. He’d almost, of all things, forgotten it; and the little he could see of it was precious to him, the final touch on his homecoming. He loved this whole place—small, as lordly houses went, cozy. He found himself completely at peace as he entered the dining room, smelled the savory aromas wafting in from the service hall, and met three familiar faces—serving staff he and Banichi and Jago had known and trusted for years.
“Nadiin-ji,” he said warmly. “So very good to see you.”
“Nandi.” Bows. Equally warm greetings. “Will a before-dinner drink be in order?”
He named it, an old favorite, perfectly safe.
And saw those three calm expressions change to shock, as Toby entered—with Barb clinging to his arm and with her blonde curly head pressed against his shoulder. Laughing.
His face must have registered almost the same shock as his servants. Toby stopped, taking the cue. Barb left Toby and came and hooked her arm into his, tugging at him as he stood fast.
“Bren. This place is so marvelous.”
“Thank you,” he said, and disengaged his arm enough to bow slightly, to Toby, then, in complete disengagement, to her. He said, then, soberly: “Customs are different here. People don’t touch. Forgive me.”
“Well, but we’re family,” Toby said, trying to cover it all.
“So are my staff,” Bren said shortly. It was an unhappy moment. He saw resentment in his brother, beyond just a natural embarrassment . . . old, old issue, the matter of atevi culture, which, the more he had taken it on, had separated him further and further from Toby . . . and their mother. And that was the sore point. “Sorry, Toby. Sit down. What will you drink? No beer, I’m afraid. We have vodka and some import wine. Vodka and shebai is good. I recommend it.” He was talking too much, too urgently. He was on the verge of embarrassing his staff as well as himself, doing their job instead of translating. And he resented the situation Barb had put him in. “Take the shebai.”
“Sure,” Toby said. “Barb?”
“White wine.”
He turned and translated for the staff. “Nand’ Toby will enjoy shebai. Barb-daja will have the pale wine, nadiin-ji. Forgive them.” He saw, in the tail of his eye, Barb reattaching herself to Toby, and he didn’t know what to do about it.
Neither did his staff, who would have seated them.
“Toby. Barb. Take those endmost seats, if you please. Toby. Please.”
“I think he means no touching,” Toby said to Barb, attempting humor. Barb actually blushed vivid pink, and shot him a look.
Jago shot a look back, Bren caught that from the tail of his eye as he turned to sit down, and as he took his seat at the head of the table, Banichi simply walked to Toby’s end of the dining room, in the ample space the reduced table size allowed, and stood there, looming over the couple while a very embarrassed servant moved to seat first Toby, who had started to seat Barb himself. It was a thoroughly bollixed set of social signals . . . and dammit, Toby had guested here. Toby knew better.
“Toby always sits first,” Bren said in Mosphei’, to Barb. He didn’t add that Toby, as his brother, outranked Barb—and that the staff’s opinion of Barb’s social standing was surely sinking faster by the minute. He could imagine the talk in the kitchen . . . questions as to whether Toby had brought an entertainer—and a stupid one, at that—to a formal dinner under his brother’s very proper roof.
It was a social disaster and he was furious at Barb:Toby clearly knew better; and Barb was not that unread—but no, Barb decided she could push the whole atevi social system, here, under his roof, to assert herself—which Toby might or might not r
ead the same way; and there was no way on earth he was going to convince Toby what her game really was. There was no way he could bring it up at the dinner table, for damned sure.
There was one way to defuse it gracefully: diplomacy, the art of saying what one didn’t believe, in order to swing the behavior toward what one wanted: guidance, more than lying. So he needed to have had a special talk with them. He clearly needed to have a talk with them, but not now, with personal embarrassment in the mix. It was likely Banichi and Jago would have that talk—by now, he was sure they intended to have it in Mosphei’ the minute they had the chance; and logically they would have had it immediately with Toby’s personal guard, if Toby had arrived with one . . . which, of course, he hadn’t—unless one counted Barb. It was the sort of social glitch-up and attitude that had led to the War of the Landing. Humans were sure atevi would adapt to their very friendly way with just enough encouragement. Atevi—who didn’t even have a word for friendship—assumed humans, who seemed so intelligent, would eventually learn civilized manners. Atevi assumed since they owned the planet, humans were in their house, while humans considered that they could just naturally get atevi to relax the rules, since their motives were the best . . . or for mutual profit.
“Drinks will arrive momentarily,” Bren said quietly. “I do owe you both a profound apology for not mentioning certain things beforehand. This is a formal occasion. It’s my fault.”
“You’ve been here too long,” Toby said, and it came out like a retort.
“I live here,” Bren said, just a trifle unwisely: he knew that once he’d said it, and added, the truth: “I won’t likely live on Mospheira again. So yes, I’ve changed.” That, for Barb, just a trifle pointedly, and for Toby, with gentler intent: “I’ve done things a certain way so long I’m afraid I’ve lost part of my function as a translator, because I truly should have translated the situation. An atevi house is never informal—but tonight is official. Barb, forgive me, you have to keep a respectful distance from each other except in the bedroom. If someone does something for you in your quarters, bow your head just slightly and say mayei-ta. About the seating: Toby takes precedence because he’s my relative and this is my house; gender has no part at all in the etiquette.”
“You mean we just shocked them,” Barb said.
“Profoundly,” Bren said mercilessly. “The same as if they’d surprised you in bed.” He actually succeeded in shocking her—not in what he said; but where he said it. And the drinks were arriving. He smiled at Barb with edged politesse, and wiped the hardness off his face in a nod to his staff. “Mayei-tami, nadiin-ji. Sa heigieta so witai so kantai.”
Which was to say, “Thank you, esteemed people. Your service is timely and very considerate.”
“Mayei-ta,” Barb said with a little nod, on getting her drink. “Mayei-ta,” Toby muttered, “nadiin-ji.”
“A amei, nandi.” This from the young server, who did not accord Barb a notice, except to use the dual-plusone, to make the number fortunate, and who paid a second, parting bow to Bren, a unity of one. He left via the serving door, and Jago turned smartly and tracked the young person straight out of the dining room, probably to deliver a certain explanation to the staff . . .
What, that the lord’s brother-of-the-same-house was attempting to civilize the human he had brought under the lord’s roof? That Toby was likely equally embarrassed, put on the spot by the lady, and was trying not to make an issue of it?
Probably not. Jago was not a diplomat. The talk probably ran something like: “Bren-nandi tolerates this woman because his brother and this woman recently risked their lives in the aiji’s service. The lord will deal with his brother, who will, one hopes, deal forcefully with this woman.”
Certainly Jago was back in just about that amount of time, and took up her position on the other side of the serving door, stiffly formal.
“Good,” Toby had said, meanwhile, regarding the drink, and Barb had agreed.
“How is the aiji’s household?” Toby asked. “Is that all right to ask?”
“Perfectly in order,” Bren said in some relief, and relaxed a little, with a sip of his drink. “Everyone is in good health. Nand’ Cajeiri is back with his father and mother, the relatives have mostly gone back to the country—I have nowhere to live, since I’ve been using Lord Tatiseigi’s apartment while he was patching up the damage to his estate, and he’s on his way back to the capital.”
“Well, I’d think you’d be a priority,” Barb said. “I don’t know why you’re shunted out to the coast.”
“I’m a very high priority,” he said equably, “but it’s his apartment. The aiji himself is still living in his grandmother’s apartment, since his residence was shot up; and mine just happens to be full of Southerners at the moment. It’s tangled. A defunct clan, the Maladesi, owned both this estate and the Bujavid apartment, both of which came to me; but they have remote relatives, the Farai, who claim to have opened the upper doors to the aiji on his return—someone did, for certain—never mind that Tabini was actually coming up from the basement; but the doors did open to a small force that was coming up the hill. It’s the thought that counts, so to say, and therefore there’s a debt. The Farai had taken over my apartment, in my absence, and they’re still in there, politely failing to hear any polite suggestion they move out.”
“And the aiji can’t move them?” Toby said. “I’d think he could at least offer them a trade. Or you some other apartment.”
“Well, that’s easier said than done. Apartments in the Bujavid can’t be had: it’s on a hill, there’s no convenient way to build on, though some have suggested doing away with legislative offices as a possibility—The point is, there’s not only no place to put me, there’s no room for half a dozen other clans that had rather have that honor—some of them really deserving it. There’s a certain natural resentment among the conservatives that I stand as high as I do, so that’s a touchy point that publicity just doesn’t help. And the Farai are Southern, which is its own problem.”
“Aren’t they the batch that just rebelled?”
“Related to them. Neighboring district. Their opening the doors to the aiji was a clear double cross of Southern interests, but since Murini’s Southern allies suffered a rash of assassinations, and since clans have changed leadership, the whole political geography down there has shifted—somewhat. Understand: Tabini-aiji is Ragi atevi. North central district. The South is Marid atevi, different dialect, different manners, four different ethnic groups, and historically independent. They were dragged kicking and screaming into the aishidi’tat by Tabini’s grandfather; they’ve rebelled three times, generally been on the other side of every issue the aiji supports, but they are economically important to the continent—major fishing industry, southern shipping routes: fishing is important.”
“Nonseasonal.” Toby knew that: certain foods could only be eaten in certain seasons, but most fishes had no season, and were an important mainstay in the diet—one of the few foods that could be legitimately preserved.
“Nonseasonal, and essential. If it weren’t for the fishing industry, the seasonal economy would be difficult, to say the least. So the aishidi’tat needs the South, the Marid. Needs all that association, as it needs the western coast. All very important. And by promoting the Farai in importance—however inconvenient to me—the aiji can make important inroads into the Southern political mindset. You always handle the South with tongs, because, however annoying the Marid leadership has been to the aishidi’tat, the people are loyal to their own aijiin. The Farai are Senjin Marid, as opposed to the Tasaigin Marid and the Dojisigin Marid. They’re northernmost of the four Southern Associations, and they appear to have switched sides.”
“Four Associations,” Toby said. “Isn’t that an infelicity?”
“Extremely,” Bren said. “In all senses. It’s unstable as hell. Double crosses abound in that relationship. One clan or the other is always playing for power—lately mostly the Tasaigi, which swallo
wed up the fifth Association, the islands, which has no living clan, and has the most territory. The Tasaigi argue that one strong aiji in their Association, dominating the other clans, makes a felicitous arrangement. The Senji, the Dojisigi, the Dausigi—all have their own opinions, but the Tasaigi usually lead. Except lately. Since the Tasaigi’s puppet Murini fell from power, the Farai of the Senji district seem to be bidding to control the South.”
“The ones in your apartment.”
“Exactly. The Tasaigin Marid has produced three serious conspiracies to take power . . . all failing. If Tabini-aiji should actually give Farai that apartment permanently—that nice little honor of residing in the halls of power—Well, the theory is that the Farai, and thus the Senjin Marid, might become a Southern power that can actually be dealt with, which would calm down the South. I personally don’t think it’s going to work. But in one sense, my apartment could end up being a small sacrifice to a general peace—until the Farai revert to Southern politics as usual; or until someone in the South takes out a Contract on them. Which could happen next week, as the wind blows. What’s a current security nightmare is the fact that my old apartment shares a small section of wall with Tabini’s proper apartment. So that’s being fixed—in case the Farai presence there becomes permanent. Who knows? It could. At least they didn’t make a claim on this estate. I’d be very upset if that happened.”
“It’s very beautiful,” Barb said.
“Palatial,” Toby said. “I can only imagine what your place in the Bujavid must have looked like.”
Conspirator Page 6
