Then he rose and bowed. “Paidhi-aiji,” he said, with an unexpected fervor. “The Guild is in receipt of the aiji’s orders.”
“Nadi,” Bren said with gratitude. The shakes wanted to attack him now and he called up reserves, determined not to delay attention to Banichi by falling on his face. He walked back to his aishid and faced the Guildmaster’s desk for a statement of a sort he had done often enough in the aiji’s court.
“The nature of the aiji’s business,” the Guildmaster said, “paidhi-aiji, a summation.”
“Tabini-aiji requests, with these documents, under his seal, an investigation into orders given in the Dojisigin Marid—regarding a situation in which local Guild were disarmed, their units separated, and put into the field without equipment.” Deep breath. “The second document, for the Guild’s attention, from the aiji-dowager, under her seal: the deposition of two Dojisigin Guild whose village was threatened with destruction if they refused to carry out an unFiled assassination of a northern lord.”
“To which these documents pertain, nandi.”
“To which these documents pertain, nadi.”
“The Council will recess for three hours. We will reconvene to hear the documents read. Is there dissent?”
There was silence in the chamber.
“Done!” the Guildmaster said. “The Council enters recess.”
Finished.
Bren bowed slightly, the Guildmaster nodded, and Bren wanted only to get himself and his aishid back to safe ground. But suddenly Tano was supporting all of Banichi’s weight.
He immediately added his own help, for what help it was. Algini did. Banichi was out, dead weight, his skin gone an unhealthy color in the dim lighting of the chamber; and it took Algini and Tano both to hold him up.
“Help him!” Bren said, turning to the Guildmaster, to the chamber at large. “Help him!”
People moved. The Guildmaster called for a medic in a voice that carried, and doors at the side of the well banged open on a lower hallway.
“He thought he’d broken a stitch,” Bren said. “Get a compression on that.”
They let Banichi down on the edge of the first riser. Tano worked to get the jacket off. The handkerchief he’d lent was soaked. Tano put his hand on the wound, pressed hard, maintaining pressure. A call for a medic rang out down the inner hall.
The world was out of balance, sounds going surreal. It couldn’t happen. They couldn’t lose him. Tano and Algini both were doing their best to stop the bleeding, needing room. Shoved aside, Bren could find nothing to do with his hands, nothing to do at all that was not already being done. It seemed forever, a time measured only in the pounding of his own heart; but then a racket at the door on their level brought a new group into the chamber, one of them a gray-haired woman and two men with a bloodstained gurney.
That team moved in, taking over, talking rapid-fire to Tano, Jago standing uncertainly near. Algini shifted next to Bren and said in a low voice, “There is a medical facility. Surgeons are already there. He will get the best they can manage, on a priority.”
When or how he had no inkling. “Yes,” he said. He watched them, with Tano never releasing his hold, lift Banichi up onto the sheeted conveyance, saw them—thank God—hoist a drip bag and clean an area for a transfusion, no waiting about it, even while they were taking him away through the doors. Tano went with Banichi. Algini stayed. Jago did.
And just as that group passed the back-passage doors, Cenedi turned up at the chamber doors, and came hurrying down the steps to reach them.
“One heard the call,” Cenedi said. “Nand’ paidhi, nand’ Siegi started from the Merchants’ Guild before the call went out. He should be here by now.”
Siegi. The dowager’s own physician had attached himself to Cenedi’s mission, and the Merchants’ Guild was right next door. Thank God, Bren thought. Siegi had done the first surgery. He would instantly have an idea what he was dealing with.
“Are you injured, nand’ paidhi?”
“No,” Bren said. He had a damnable headache. He remembered why, but it was nowhere near as serious. He didn’t want to touch it to find out differently. “I shall not put myself in the way, nadiin-ji, but I am not going back to the Bujavid until Banichi goes with us. One is very grateful—very grateful—to the Guild and to nand’ Siegi. Express that for us.”
Cenedi listened solemnly, nodded, and went and spoke to the Guild authorities.
“You speak as the aiji,” Algini cautioned him in a low voice. “They will obey your orders absolutely.”
That shook his confidence. He cast a look at Algini, and at Jago, and felt the warm weight of that gold ring on his hand, a trust and a burden. “I should not,” he said. “I should not become an inconvenience in this business, nor offend the Council. But I want to go down where Banichi is.”
“It is a small room, Bren-ji,” Algini said. “A very small room. Let the surgeons work.”
There was so much blood. It was caked on his hands, sticking his fingers together, beginning to powder as a fine red dust.
And all around the halls outside were sounds of movement, of things happening he no longer understood. The Guild was taking account, dealing with its own wounded, of whom Banichi was only one . . .
But Banichi was his. His team. If anybody deserved to survive this, Banichi, who’d done everything to avoid bloodletting in the halls . . . to open the doors and hold position, distracting the whole Guild for a few critical minutes while the heavy-armed Guild of which they were the vanguard, arrived outside and got through the front doors the hard way . . .
Banichi had held the security doors open all the way to the heart of the Guild with nothing but a little wad of plastic—and a junior guard unit had panicked and damaged that door seconds before Cenedi started another action in the administrative wing.
He drew a deep, shuddering breath as Cenedi came back to them. “The objective,” he said to Cenedi. “How did we fare?”
“Shishogi is dead. The office was firebombed. We are sure we lost some records. But the fire suppression system functioned, incidentally preserving his body, and particularly certain books across which he had fallen. The shelves fell, preserving others. We have sealed that office. Experts will go through the records.”
“One heard of other notebooks . . .”
“. . . which we intercepted. Yes. Perhaps it was intended we intercept it. Or it may be real. We shall look into that item very carefully.” Cenedi acknowledged Algini’s presence with a nod. “Gini-ji, we have secured the entire hall, and we are mapping the last hours of function of that office, going back to yesterday dawn.”
Algini gave a single nod. Yesterday. When they had taken out Haikuti and come back to Shejidan. The hours between had been one long chain of movement and planning.
And now—
Now it had succeeded—
But it wasn’t over. They were far, far from done with the mop-up.
“Where were they?” he asked Jago, when Cenedi had gone. “The returning Guild. Where were they? Over in the Merchants’ Guild?”
“A few were,” Jago said. “We brought the heavy-armed contingent, those that could not move inconspicuously.”
We brought them.
Damn. The baggage cars that always attended the Red Train. They’d not come alone. The moment they’d cleared the doors, that group, observing from the train, had started their own countdown.
He let go a long breath. Two baggage cars. And a wad of plastic. And a team he desperately wanted to get back in one piece. He wanted everything finished, wrapped up, a success—but it wasn’t, yet. It wouldn’t be, until he could take Banichi with him. Banichi himself, he had no doubt, would tell him go, get everybody back to the Bujavid—do not be a fool, Bren-ji—but Banichi wasn’t in charge right now.
That ring, that heavy, heavy ring, said that he could do as he pl
eased. And he was being human, and probably his obstinacy was upsetting his bodyguard, even obstructing the Council—but they’d said, hadn’t they, a three hour recess?
He trusted Algini and Jago not to let him be a total fool. And they stayed by him, tired, bloody, standing, then sitting on the edge of the lowest riser. Any coming or going around that open door through which Banichi had gone drew the same quick, tense glances, two atevi, one human.
It might be different reasons in the nervous systems. But what they fervently wanted right now was unquestionably the same thing.
13
No one had spilled anything—except Artur had bumped his water glass and nearly overset it. Artur had gone bright pink, and murmured, quite correctly, perfectly memorized, “One regrets, nand’ aijiin, nandi.”
“Indeed,” mani had said, and the grown-ups had nodded, and everything had settled again.
So had Cajeiri’s heart—as servants went on setting out the next course. It took Artur quite a while to change colors back to normal. Madam Saidin’s foresight had taught his guests that phrase—with the correct honorific for the circumstance, over which no few atevi might stumble in confusion. Irene had joked somewhat grimly that she had to memorize it perfectly, because she was sure to do something wrong. But it turned out Artur was the one; and Cajeiri caught his eye across the table and signaled approval, once and slightly, more a blink than a nod. Artur made an unhappy face back, just an acknowledgment—one had to know their secret signs to spot it.
There was a fruit ice, to finish. Everyone was happy with that. Throughout, they had hardly spoken a word, except Artur, and except Gene, once, to ask what a dish was: a servant had assured him it was safe, and the servant was right.
The grown-ups had talked about the weather—actually—talked about the weather. It had been that gruesome. Nobody was at ease. Nobody mentioned nand’ Bren, not once. Cenedi and Nawari should have been attending Great-grandmother, to hand her the cane when dinner was done, and to move her chair, and to do all those things. They were all stuck at the dinner table, in that huge room, with nothing to do, as if the air was afire and no one could mention it.
That was why, he thought, there had been no delay in serving dinner. That was why they had no more than gotten to the apartment before they were sent in to table, and why there had not been that long a delay, either, before his father and mother had come in.
The grown-ups knew what was going on; Cajeiri was sure of it. The rest of them knew something was going on. They all were wound tight as springs. Everything was. The servants were walking very quietly. Nobody but poor Artur had even clinked a glass, and that had sounded like a bell.
Now at last his father finished his glass of wine, and signaled the attending servant not to refill it. That was everyone’s signal that dinner was over.
“Shall we go for brandy?” his father asked.
There was quiet agreement, everyone rising, and Cajeiri got up. His guests did—servants moved to assist his guests in moving the chairs, though Gene managed—Cajeiri gave it only a little push to help it move straight back. So they all four gathered, with Antaro and Jegari, who had stood along the wall with the other senior bodyguards, and who now attended their lords: Lucasi and Veijico were out in the hall, where they ought to find out things—but he doubted they were learning any more out there.
What’s going on? Cajeiri wanted to ask Jase-aiji, when they came near, going out into the sitting room. He could ask it in ship-speak, and nobody but his guests would know what he asked.
But he feared to break the peace, such as it was, that kept questions out of the conversation and kept everybody polite. He went in with his guests, and as his mother and his father sat down—his mother, like them, to be served a light fruit juice and his father and everybody else receiving a brandy glass. His father asked politely whether his youngest guests had enjoyed their dinner.
There was crashing silence. It was an unscheduled question, one Madam Saidin had not prepared them to answer.
Then Irene said, in her soft voice, with only a little lisp, “Dinner was very good, nand’ aiji. One is very grateful.”
“Yes,” Gene and Artur said, both nodding deeply.
“Excellent,” his father said, and Cajeiri resumed breathing—there had been no mistake, no infelicity. He was not superstitious. Mani said superstitious folk were fools. But it felt as if any mistake they made could bring everything crashing down, everything balanced like a precarious stack of china. People he relied on were not here. They were about to go far off the polite phrases they had memorized for the occasion, and with nand’ Bren not here to fill up the gaps.
His father went on to ask Lord Tatiseigi about his art exhibit down in the public museum—and they talked about which pieces were there, and then wandered off into talking about Lord Geigi’s collection out in the west, and the effort to retrieve a piece that Lord Geigi’s nephew had sold.
Mani said that she was tracking it—and they went off about that, then stopped to explain the matter to Jase-aiji.
There was not a word about the Dojisigi or Lord Aseida.
There was not a word about what had gone on at Tirnamardi.
They just talked on and on. Jase-aiji had hardly said a word all evening, and he had had hardly a word from his parents, either—not “We were worried,” nor anything of the sort—which, considering they had come in from a situation with Assassins, and had sneaked into the Bujavid, seemed another considerable lack of questions. It was as if nothing had happened at all.
Then, after they had worn that matter out, his mother asked, almost the first word she had uttered, “Your guests, son of mine—they are all older than you, are they not?”
“Yes, honored Mother.”
He waited, wondering whether she was going to make some observation about that point, but she looked elsewhere, and meanwhile Great-grandmother had called one of her bodyguards forward and asked a question he could not hear. The young man seemed to say no, or something like no.
It was more than weird. It was getting scary.
He took a deep, deep breath then and asked, very calmly, very quietly, “Have we had any security alerts tonight, honored Father?”
“Nothing our guests should worry about,” his father said.
And almost as he said it, all the bodyguards twitched at once, and Jegari checked his locator bracelet.
Father’s chief bodyguard moved first, and went to his father, bent close to his ear and said something, no one else moving, everybody else watching.
His father asked a question, and got an answer that Cajeiri could almost hear, it was so quiet.
His father nodded then, and drew a deep breath. “Guild transmission has resumed,” he said. “Cenedi has just reported the mission is a success.”
“Excellent,” mani said, and Lord Tatiseigi and Jase-aiji all breathed at once.
“May one know?” Cajeiri asked, but mani was talking to his father and all he could do was try to overhear, because it was grown-up business, and he had the feeling it was very, very important.
There was something going on with the Assassins’ Guild. He caught that much. Some signal had hit everybody’s ear at once. His father asked whether documents had been filed, and his bodyguard said they had been.
It could be that his father had just Filed Intent on someone, but he heard no names, and his mother just looked upset. His father put his hand on hers and leaned over and talked just into her ear a moment. She nodded and seemed in better spirits then . . . so at least it was not something between them.
It was Assassins’ Guild business, he was absolutely sure of that. Some sort of papers were filed and something had upset his mother until his father reassured her.
He knew far more than his three young guests were supposed to know—that there was a little old man in offices in Guild Headquarters, who was behind a good deal of al
l their troubles, and that man’s name, Shishogi, was a name he was not supposed to mention. Shishogi was another of his relatives, and his mother’s relative, and Shishogi might have been involved in Grandfather being killed.
Had Cenedi possibly done something about Shishogi?
And where was nand’ Bren tonight? Maybe nand’ Bren’s bodyguard was helping Cenedi.
He wondered if his guests were understanding enough to make their own guesses.
And he would have to tell them, once he found out, but he did not expect that his father was going to say anything definite in front of them.
“Is there word from Bren-paidhi, nandiin?” Jase-aiji asked then.
“Well. He is well,” was the answer.
Well was very good news.
But why did his father have to assure Jase-aiji that nand’ Bren was well? Had nand’ Bren anything to do with Shishogi, if that had been what was going on?
Maybe it had been some other problem.
At least the grown-ups were relaxing. Father called for another round of brandy and fruit juice, and the bodyguards, from stiffly watchful, had moved together, opened the door to the hall, and were conferring in their own way, passing information which Cajeiri desperately wished he could hear.
“What’s going on?” came a whisper from Gene.
“The Guild,” he whispered back, in Ragi, and then in ship-speak, quietly, so his mother would not hear: “Our big problem, maybe. Fixed, maybe. Not sure.”
Gene passed that on to Irene and Artur, heads together, and his mother was, at the moment, talking to his father, so they went unnoticed.
Whatever had happened, the Guild meeting at the door broke up, and bodyguards went back on duty, with no different expressions. That was all they could know, because nobody was going to say anything to his guests. Antaro and Jegari had moved over to the door and had not moved back to the far side of the room.
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