He should, he thought, call for tea. If he were his father.
Or if they were atevi.
But neither thing was true. So he just drew them over to the farthest side of the room, and turned his back to Madam Saidin and Master Kusha and all of it, trying to muster up his ship-speak, which had gotten a little thinner than it had once been . . . that, or human words were not as suited to things on the Earth, and were just not as clear to him as they had been.
• • •
It always took a while for the lord of most of the world to do anything simple, what with staff to advise of his movements and arrangements to make. If Cenedi had blazed over here, leaving a conference with Tabini, it might have been Cenedi’s briefing Tabini on the Padi Valley business yesterday that had prompted the personal visit—but given the dowager’s notions of invading the Guild herself, it was much more likely this evening’s business under discussion.
This evening’s business—and maybe the document he had requested.
One did guess that if Tabini was coming here to discuss whatever matter Tabini wished to discuss, Tabini had certain specifics he didn’t want to discuss in his own quarters—quarters which he shared with his wife, Cajeiri’s mother, whose clan, Ajuri, was deeply at issue in the Padi Valley action—not to mention directly involved in their upcoming business with the Assassins’ Guild.
God, he hoped Tabini had found no reason to doubt the aiji-consort at this point. Tabini had maintained his association with Damiri when common sense might have dictated he divorce his wife as a political and security-based precaution—an action which, with Damiri no more than a week from giving birth, had its own problems. Tabini couldn’t divorce Damiri at this point. He surely wouldn’t set up a conflict with her.
Tabini had thrown out all Damiri’s staff a number of days ago, so that now all the senior security in Tabini’s apartment were the dowager’s people . . . hence the dowager’s very good grasp of what was going on in the world.
Discuss the imminent assassination of a Guild officer who happened to be Damiri’s relative?
He’d personally rather not have that discussion in Damiri’s hearing, either.
And probably that was exactly Tabini’s reasoning in coming here to talk. He hoped that was all that was going on . . . but there were ungodly many possibilities in the political landscape.
Tano and Algini arrived in the sitting room, with Banichi and Jago following. Banichi was not moving briskly today, and Banichi would not keep the arm rigidly bandaged. The hand stayed tucked inside the jacket. Bren just acknowledged Banichi with a particular nod—not arguing with him, not with life and death matters afoot.
There were, thankfully almost immediately, the quiet set of sounds that heralded an arrival at the front door. Not one man, but maybe two or three, Bren thought, by what he heard. So Tabini had not brought his full security detail with him, maybe not even his own aishid—unprecedented as the visit itself, if that was the case.
Servants hurried about last-moment preparations. Narani opened the door, showing Tabini into the sitting room with Cenedi, and with Cenedi’s frequent partner Nawari in attendance, not on the aiji-dowager, but on Tabini. Again—that had never happened.
Protocol dictated the paidhi rise, bow, offer a seat.
“Aiji-ma. One is honored.”
“Sit,” Tabini said, with an all-inclusive sweep of his hand—Bren, Cenedi, Nawari, Bren’s own bodyguard, everybody but the servants. It was an order, and Tabini was deadly serious.
“Tea,” Tabini said. Nothing of business was appropriate until they had had a cup, ritually delivered; and moods like Tabini’s current one were precisely the reason for the custom.
• • •
“Nadiin-ji?” Cajeiri said, and made it a question. His guests looked very uncomfortable.
“I told you,” Irene whispered to Gene and Artur. “We just have to do things. Don’t make a problem.”
Gene and Artur did not even look at her. Or at him. Gene just drew a heavy breath.
“What?” Cajeiri asked. “What?”
But Gene and Artur said nothing, and still looked at the floor.
They were upset. That was clear. And it seemed to be about the clothes. “Children’s clothes look bad?” he asked. It was all that would fit them. “Master Kusha makes them right.”
“That’s not it,” Gene said.
“What?” he repeated, and then thought they might not understand the situation he could only explain in Ragi. “Nadiin-ji, our baggage may come tonight. Maybe not. And those are all country clothes. This is the Bujavid, nadiin-ji. You need better. You were always going to need better.”
“Whose credits?” Gene asked.
Whose credits?
Then he understood. For an instant he saw the ship corridors again, where humans had to have a card to get a sandwich or a drink, where everything in all their lives had been measured so closely, and you were allowed so much and more could not be had, because you had to work on the ship to earn a larger share.
None of the station-folk had been able to work, and all the share they had had even for food was what the ship allotted for them, measured out by how old you were and whether you were a boy or a girl and how tall you were—all of it calculated by a set of numbers atevi never had to calculate. If they were hungry on a particular day, they still could not get more. The station-folk had been really unhappy on the ship, which had been worse than the station. And sometimes people had been hungry.
Not his associates. Never his associates. He had brought them sweets from mani’s kitchen. Sausages. And bread.
He remembered. For an instant they were there in the tunnels again. “This is not the ship,” he said to his guests, and made a wide gesture at everything, the sitting room, the whole world, if he could have thought of the ship-speak words. “My uncle. My guests. No numbers here. You need the clothes.”
“What can we say?” Gene said. “It’s your birthday, Jeri-ji. We brought you presents. But nothing like this.”
“Presents.” Reunioners had come onto the ship with almost nothing, and it was painful to think how little they still must have, starting with nothing on a station where very few could earn extra.
But if they were his people, they had every right to match him, well, as far as lords could—because they were his. It was a matter of pride, and the way everybody would look at them. They could not wear their clothing: the old people would be scandalized—but he could not quite tell them they would embarrass him.
If he were a grown-up, he would be sure they could match him in exactly the right degree. But he was just eight. And it was very good of Great-uncle and mani to step in to fix things. It was only right that they did, because he was theirs, and it was their pride involved if his people looked wrong or rude.
But clearly it was not right, in his guests’ opinion. And one part of him hurt, as if they were pushing his gift rudely away, as if they were not wanting to be here today, and were upset and embarrassed.
But he was sure they really did want to be here. They were modest, and grateful, and always polite to him. That would not have changed in a handful of minutes. So he was the one at fault: he had to explain it in a way that would not embarrass them.
He shrugged, gave a second little shrug, and resorted to one of those stupid things they had used to say on the ship, when they were completely out of answers. “Atevi stuff. Atevi stuff.”
“Human stuff,” Gene said, the right answer and gave an answering and unhappy little shrug.
“Here!” he said, pointing at the floor underfoot. “You are here!” He wanted to say so much else to them, so very much else . . . but if there had been words they could understand to make it all work, he would not be atevi and they would not be human. And they just stood there, both unhappy, which was unbearable.
“Gene,” Irene said, trying
to calm things down. “Just listen to him.”
But Gene just went on frowning, and it was not right, and nothing could make it right. Gene was the one who always measured shares of the food he brought, so they were exactly right. Exactly right, not a crumb off equal—because it mattered to Gene.
And here they were, measuring again, only there was no way for it ever to come out even.
Fair, Gene would say. And it was one of the strongest things about Gene. He always was . . . fair. But sometimes you had to argue with him. And sometimes it was as if he knew Gene best of all of them.
“Hey,” he said, that word that meant listen, and he laid a hand on his chest, the way he had done when they had first met in the ship corridors, almost the first children he had ever seen. And they’d stared at each other. He said, solemnly, as he’d said then: “Cajeiri. I’m Cajeiri.”
Usually it was Irene that understood language things first, but not this time. “Gene!” Gene said staunchly, with the same solemn gesture. And Gene swept a gesture at Irene and Artur. “Irene. Artur. Human.”
“Ateva,” he said. It was their first meeting all over again. “No change!”
“No change,” Gene said. “No change, us.”
“Friends,” Cajeiri said in ship-speak, right across the room from Madam Saidin and Master Kusha and his own valets and everybody. “And,” he said in Ragi, “I can give you gifts for my birthday, if I want! Adults do. So I can. This is how atevi do. Yes?”
Gene gave a nervous smile. They all did, and touched hands the way ship-humans did, then laughed.
“Friends,” Artur said, and Irene, who followed the rules most of the time, said, “We’re not supposed to say that, you know.”
“We still can,” Cajeiri said, and added somberly, because it was always true: “until we grow up.”
11
The tea service went around at its own deliberate pace, deliberately drunk, during which the mind had ample opportunity to race, and there was no light conversation, only a meditative pause.
“How is my son,” was Tabini’s belated question, “in your view, paidhi?”
“Very well, aiji-ma,” Bren said. “I have inquired. He continues as unaffected and as uninvolved as we can manage.”
“A wonder in itself,” Tabini said darkly. He set his teacup down quietly on the side table. Bren set his down scarcely touched. So with all of them, immediately.
“You and your aishid intend to enter Assassins’ Guild Headquarters,” Tabini said, “bearing an order of mine, with the intent to enter it in Council records. You intend to provide access for an assassination of the consort’s elder kinsman and the forcible seizure of Guild records.”
“Yes, aiji-ma. One hopes you will lend your seal to such a document.”
“One understands that this is not conceived as a suicide mission.”
“One hopes it will not be, aiji-ma.”
“We have also had it suggested,” Tabini said grimly, “that this document—with many and conspicuous seals—be an official inquiry into the Dojisigi situation—for official purposes.”
Bren gave a single nod. “The Guild Council will likely be dealing with the Kadagidi matter, aiji-ma. One believes the Dojisigi matter will be unexpected.”
“To throw the Assassins’ Guild off its balance?” Tabini asked with the arch of a brow, and just then Cenedi put a finger to his left ear, atop that discreet earpiece, frowning as he did so.
“The aiji-dowager,” Cenedi said, “is on her way.”
“Gods less fortunate!” Tabini hissed, and cast a look at Cenedi, but Cenedi’s face remained impassive. One doubted that Cenedi or Nawari, apparently having been in conference with Tabini, had yet had time to break the news to Ilisidi that the paidhi-aiji was going on this venture and she was not. But there were a number of the dowager’s staff serving in Tabini’s apartment, who might have found a way to know about the request for the document, and who might have relayed the information. There was a broad choice.
“I declined the aiji-dowager’s request to come to her for a conference not half an hour ago,” Bren said quietly, not going so far as a complete denial of responsibility, “since I was about to come to speak to you, aiji-ma. Then Cenedi intervened with the news that you were coming to visit me.”
“Oh, we have no question,” Tabini said. “We do not ask. We do not need to ask how my grandmother keeps herself informed, granted her staff is our staff.” A deep breath. “Nand’ paidhi, this mission is your request?”
“One certainly cannot permit the aiji-dowager to undertake it herself, aiji-ma.”
Tabini gave a short, sharp laugh. “One cannot permit! If you are able to deny my grandmother anything she has set her mind to do, paidhi-ji, you surpass my skills.” And soberly: “I am not willing to lose you, paidhi. Bear that in mind. Do not decide to protect your aishid. I know you. Do not do it!”
He could feel his bodyguard seconding that order.
“One will be cautious, aiji-ma.”
“Cautious! Caution has nothing to do with your decision to take this on.” A deep breath. “But you are right: you are the logical one to undertake this. There is no combination of Guild force more effective that we can bring within those doors, than the combination in this room. And I do understand your strategy—having this document regard the Dojisigi matter. Clever. I shall write your document—it will take me far less than an hour—and set the seals of various departments on it. But I hope the cleverness of your choice of documents will not have to come into play. To that end, and in that spirit— Take this.” He pulled off the massive seal ring he wore on his third finger, and proffered it.
No human in history had ever borne that object.
Bren rose. One did not ask even Banichi to handle that seal. He took it personally, and bowed, deeply. “Aiji-ma.”
“This seal I need not affix. I send it with you. If they refuse that at the doors, they will be in violation of their own charter, and on that refusal alone, I can bring the legislature against them—but one fears any delay will give them time to destroy documents, and one does not even mention the threat to you. One hopes this will get you all out unscathed.”
“One is grateful, aiji-ma.” Bren settled back into his chair, and slipped the ring on. It was too large even for his index finger. He had to close his hand on it. “But should something happen—you will have every legal grounds the legislature could ask.” He held up the fist with the ring. “This will not see disrespect.”
“We assure the aiji,” Banichi said, “if they disrespect your authority, those doors still will open tonight.”
“Besides the Office of Assignments,” Cenedi said quietly, “be it known, aiji-ma, nand’ paidhi, that we have two problems within the Guild Council, and one more presiding whose qualifications to preside over Council are questionable. Those three will need to resign. We shall make that clear.” Cenedi, standing near the door, walked closer and into Tabini’s convenient view. “The names of the problems, aiji-ma: the one you know. Ditema of the Paigeni.”
“Him. Good riddance.”
“Add Segita of the Remiandi.”
“We do not know him.”
“They are both senior. They came in after the coup. They have conservative views which are, themselves, not in question; but their support of the Office of Assignments has repeatedly, since your return, blunted all attempts to insist that Assignments should operate under normal rules and create an orderly and modern filing system. One interpretation is that they have felt a certain sympathy for a long-lived institution of the Guild, and they have innocently made it easier for Assignments to misbehave. Another interpretation is less forgiving. Their age and rank have completely overawed the less qualified members that currently fill out the rest of the body, and no one stands up to these two voices. They have pressed the matter of non-returning Guild. We, on the other hand have app
ealed to certain retired members to come back to active duty, and they have agreed to do so. This would include eight of the old Council . . .”
“Not Daimano,” Tabini said.
“She would be in that number,” Cenedi said. “She is, in fact, critical to the plan, aiji-ma. If you support her return, three others will come, among them two other very elder Guild members that we most need in the governing seats. You know who.”
“Gods less fortunate,” Tabini muttered.
“Daimano is an able administrator. And whatever else she ever was, she is no ally of Murini.”
Tabini gave a wave of his hand. “We do not interfere in Guild politics. If the Guild elects her—may she live long and do as she pleases. Not that I offer any speculation at all on the Council’s composition, nor shall ever officially remember these names.”
“I shall relay that, aiji-ma,” Cenedi said.
“Key to the old Guild, you say.”
“She stood by you during Murini’s regime, aiji-ma. She, in fact, directed the entire eastern network, when Prijado died.”
“Then we owe her gratitude for that, though one is certain it was reluctant. We shall owe her for this, if she can bring order.”
“Order,” Cenedi said dryly, “is certainly one thing that will result from her administration.”
“Not to mention needing a decade of hearings to get a simple document issued. Forests are in danger, considering the paper consumption with this woman in office.”
“We shall argue for computers in Assignments and Records, aiji-ma. We have had ample example of pen and ink filing systems. She wants to take the Assignments post for a year, at least, to supervise its operation, and to have the records under her hand.”
“Gods less fortunate. So be—”
There was a distant sharp report, the impact of brass on ancient stone, right outside the apartment. And a subsequent rap at the outer door.
“She is here,” Cenedi said, not regarding the woman under current discussion. Cenedi drew a deep breath, and added: “Aiji-ma, regarding the Guild Council, and Daimano, we shall deal with the difficulties.”
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