It was a rescue, an absolute, self-sacrificing rescue. “Ah! Nandi, nand’ Topari of Hasurjan, up in the southern mountains. His district maintains a rail station which could be quite important in the southern route, and he has concerns that Transport will certainly want to consider.—Nand’ Topari, nand’ Reijiri, whose father is lord of Dur, in the Coastal Association, and who is on the Transport Committee.”
“The father, that, is.”
“Indeed, nandi,” young Dur said, and Bren took the practiced shift of balance and step backward and away, disengagement, with deep gratitude, and without his bodyguard having to remind him of a fictitious other meeting. He extricated himself from the little cul-de-sac and made it all the way to the next aisle of displays. No telling to whom Reijiri might pass the man next, someone worthy, he hoped. He worked his way closer to the front of the hall, and out of convenient view.
There was, one was grateful to see, another air vent.
Then there was a massive waft of cooler air, as two of the four shut doors opened—security had had all the doors shut—and now evidently had relented. No few of the crowd murmured relief.
Antaro arrived inside, one noted, by one of those doors. One had no idea where she had been.
• • •
“One cannot get through,” Antaro reported, in a tone under the general buzz of conversation in the hall. “I have tried the lifts, the stairs, and the servant passages, and they are all shut down. No one is allowed to operate the lifts and communications are not working. I succeeded in phoning your father’s apartment, and Eisi has retrieved the paper, but he cannot leave the apartment. Even the major domo cannot get clearance to come downstairs, and the guards on the stairs will not even talk to me, nandi. Veijico might. She has more seniority on the books. Or one could go to Cenedi.”
“He would tell mani,” Cajeiri said. “No. No, Taro-ji. It is almost too late as is. They have opened all the doors. Likely we will be going to the Audience Hall almost any moment.”
“One regrets, nandi, one greatly regrets this!”
“By no means,” he said. “I am the one who left the paper. I remember enough of it. I have almost all the pieces. My father will hardly notice. Certainly no one else will. It is by no means your fault.”
“One is very certain,” Antaro said, still breathing hard, “one is very certain it was composed to be felicitous. Be careful of numbers, nandi. Think through the numbers. Your father will have been very careful of that.”
“I shall. I can. It will be all right, Taro-ji. No one will notice it at all.”
“One earnestly hopes,” Antaro said. She had never seemed to be that distressed, even when people were shooting at them.
“It is stupid anyway,” he said, “that they do not recognize us. It is certainly not your fault. And I have it memorized. I just need to recall it.”
He did remember a lot of the speech. There was one line in the first statement he was not sure of, but he could get it back, if only people would let him alone for just a few moments, and if his aishid could protect him from more people wanting to congratulate him on his birthday. There was no way to get off in a corner for quiet. His father insisted he stand nearby, and most of the people who congratulated him he was sure just wanted an excuse to talk to his father.
He gained a few moments of quiet, however. He stood and tried to think of the missing words. He tried—
Then his father called him to meet an elderly lady from the northern coast, up where the world froze, and she asked him questions, and all the while the minutes were ticking down toward their shift to the Audience Hall.
• • •
A nine-year-old’s birthday party, Bren thought. And the majority of attendees were over sixty. The three young guests flitted fairly sedately under Jase’s control, in quest of interesting things in the cases and trying very properly to keep their hands off the glass. The honoree of the day, meanwhile, remained bravely proper, still meeting and talking with elder guests, while his parents and great-grandmother did the same, while his great-uncle sat signing ribboned cards and likely discussing pottery glazes.
There were all these wonderful things to explore and Cajeiri could not even come near his own three guests, who did not rank high enough to stand by him, nor even see the exhibit. He’d become one, along with the rest of his family.
Poor kid.
“And these guests,” one elderly lady asked of Bren. “What will they report in the heavens? What will the ship-aiji say, with all these terrible goings-on at Tirnamardi?”
“Jase-aiji is a strong ally of the aiji, and he and his bodyguards have reassured the children—not forgetting at all that these children are very strongly loyal to the young gentleman.”
“To the young gentleman himself, more than the ship-aiji?” another lady objected.
“To the ship-aiji, yes, they are obedient; but the young gentleman has their loyalty.”
“Yet humans do not, do they,” an old man objected, “truly have man’chi. How can they feel?”
“Yet I feel, nandi,” Bren said patiently, finding himself back in an old, old role. “And one hopes my loyalty to the aiji is not in doubt.”
“By no means, nand’ paidhi. One hardly meant—but they are so young!”
“Indeed, nandi, one takes no offense at all: you are right to question. For us, a childhood association is not a trifle. These children are part of a population rescued from great danger, taken from their home and moved to the station above us. On that voyage, they met the young gentleman. He was their only comfort in a strange and harsh existence, and they attached to him in the strongest possible way. His generosity, his curiosity, and his kindness attached them to him, clearly in a way a year’s absence has not dimmed, and though they are all, despite their size, older than he is, he leads. He always has. Do accept my assurance that these three have, just as atevi youngsters do, many caretakers, atevi and human, all of whom have the strongest possible concern for their good character.”
“Wise,” an old lord said, nodding. “Wise proceedings.”
Flattery? Politics? The old man had six grandchildren. There was a warmth about his expression.
“They seem interested in the exhibits,” a woman said.
“Nandi, they are. The color, the images, the representations are all very exciting to them.”
“Commendable,” the old man said. The conversation dwindled to courtesies, and the old gentleman meandered off among the lighted displays, talking to his bodyguard.
“Well done,” young Dur said, who had turned up by his elbow.
“One hopes so,” he said. Adrenaline was absolutely on the ebb. He had put out too many fires this evening, already, in what was supposed to be a relaxed social event, and had three hours of a far more important court function yet to go.
Two of the Liberal Caucus lay in wait near a red figured vase, with questions about the tribal bill. “Your vote will secure the west,” Bren assured them, “and prevent another dispute with the Marid. That will remove the need for a strong naval presence, and direct the funding toward merchant shipping.”
“It will work,” he assured another such inquirer, at the next turn. “The Southern Ocean is not impassable. We have vastly improved weather reports, vastly improved technology, vastly improved navigation and stabilization in heavy weather. I have a report upcoming in the Transportation Committee this session, on the ship technology.”
“Assistance from the ship humans. What, nandi, can ships in the great ether understand of ships at sea?”
“Ah. It is not the ship technology we are borrowing, nandi, but their vantage point. They can see the storms coming. They can declare a safe route.”
“Even through the Southern Ocean?”
“They have an excellent view, nandi, and are learning from us, as well. They can steer ships around hazards. But first the trib
al bill. The tribal bill is key to everything.”
Another lord, a Conservative, approached and asked: “One has heard a rumor, nand’ paidhi. What is the truth on the upheaval in the Guild? And why this damnable malfunction in Guild equipment tonight?”
He was intensely conscious of Banichi and Jago, right at his shoulders, and of the lord’s own aishid, considerably lower in Guild rank, right behind him.
“It is a technical matter,” he said, “about which one has very little information. But the Guild has promised extensive reform of the system, which has created confusion, especially in recent weeks. The aiji is extremely optimistic.”
“Indeed, nand’ paidhi?”
“Very much so. He entirely supports this change, and I do not doubt he will say so in coming days.”
“You are still backing the tribal bill, one hears.”
“Definitely, nandi, with complete enthusiasm.”
He escaped, half a step, when another accosted him with: “Nand’ paidhi. You are backing the bill.”
“As is Lord Tatiseigi, nandi, as is the aiji-dowager.”
“That she will is no news. But Lord Tatiseigi—”
“He stands with the aiji-dowager.”
“One imagines there might be agreement,” the second said dryly. And the first:
“What of the removal of Lord Kadagidi? One would hesitate to believe the rumor, that this attack was arranged by the Liberals, and that this concession is the price of the tribal bill.”
“One would call that removal not a concession, but a correction long overdue, nandi,” he said firmly, then lowered his voice conspiratorially. “One vital to the security of the aishidi’tat. Lord Aseida, nandiin, was not ignorant of circumstances behind the coup. The Guild will be investigating.”
“Indeed, nandi!”
He knew these two. He knew their tactics . . . the two worst gossips in the midlands. “There will be abundant proof of the entire exchange at Asien’dalun, nandi. The aiji is in possession of evidence, and I shall be pleased to show you and anyone else who asks all the proof they could wish, both of what happened and what almost happened, which is far worse; it involves the arrest of several hidden agents. You are unaware, no doubt, that Lord Aseida in recent days threatened the aiji-dowager, the young gentleman and his guests. Lord Aseida claims ignorance of the plot, but the intention behind it was clearly to harm the administration.”
“That can be proven, nand’ paidhi?”
“To the satisfaction of any who wish to see the photographic evidence. Minor children, nandiin. Foreigners who, as guests, have now witnessed an illegal act on the part of a lord of the aishidi’tat. This was assuredly not the way the young gentleman hoped to impress his guests.”
“So the young gentleman was not at Malguri,” a newcomer observed.
“No. He was not. He was at no time at Malguri. For security reasons, he was a guest of his great-uncle at Tirnamardi.” Again he lowered his voice, so the second lord had to lean forward to hear. “The Kadagidi lord’s own bodyguard received orders from a remnant of the Murini faction to help Assassins from the south eliminate Lord Tatiseigi. Possibly they neglected to tell their lord about their illegal actions, or the purpose of southern Guild arriving in the household. There is a little doubt. That is why Lord Aseida will likely be asked to resign the lordship. As the aiji inquires more deeply, there may be more evidence tying Lord Aseida himself to some of these decisions—and he would be very wise to take that offer while it is available, especially since this all unfolded to the annoyance of the aiji-dowager, whose patience is very short, and whose influence is considerable. The Guild will be going through papers recovered from Lord Aseida’s own office.”
“Indeed,” that lord said quietly. And that ended that line of questioning.
“One regrets,” Banichi said with a deep sigh, “that that problem reached you.”
“We are neither one as agile as we might be. How are you faring, Nichi-ji?”
“Not too badly,” Banichi said.
The doors were all open, now, and some attendees had found their way back out into the cool hallway. Lord Tatiseigi had passed out all the cards, and joined Ilisidi in a walk about the cases, Lord Tatiseigi personally commenting on his treasures to a number of interested attendees. Tabini, Damiri, and Cajeiri were still conversing with elderly guests, while Jase and the youngsters were off in a side hall, with the Reverence Statues.
It was almost time. Tabini was, at the moment, a bit apart from Damiri, who was listening to an older woman who was casting disapproving glances back at Cajeiri’s guests—who were doing absolutely nothing amiss at the moment. Cajeiri was not frowning—Cajeiri was too well-brought-up for that; but Cajeiri’s shoulders were stiff and his hands were mangling a program sheet behind him.
Tabini cast one of those glances that was as good as a summons.
Bren moved closer, gave a little bow. “My wife,” Tabini said in a low voice, “is pursuing her own course this evening, pressing her own notions of the Kadagidi succession. She will not have her way.”
Damiri trying to interfere in politics could not please Tatiseigi. And had he heard right? What had Damiri to do with the Kadagidi succession? The Ajuri one made perfect sense. But had she notions about both?
“I have advised my grandmother not to vex my wife on this occasion,” Tabini said curtly. “Stay with the family. Please attend my grandmother in the assembly, and assist Lord Tatiseigi to keep those two apart.”
“Yes,” he said, wondering how, precisely, he was going to do that.
A soft horn sounded, out in the hall, a strange rising and falling note, audible from the open doors. The kabiuteri had cleared and opened the ceremonial hall, and the premises were arranged for the start of the evening. The Audience Hall was opening: non-participant guests and the public—of which there were none, this evening—were to take their place behind either of two red satin ropes in the main hall.
The red ropes ordinarily marshaled the attendees into a small stream entering an event. In this case, it would let the aiji and his guests enter the premises through the central door of the five, walk along a clear aisle between the ropes, and take their places in the Audience Hall ahead of the crowd. One had not planned to be in that elite group—one had planned to join Jase and the youngsters and reunite his aishid.
Tabini, Damiri and Cajeiri passed him at a sedate pace, with their bodyguards; Ilisidi and Lord Tatiseigi followed, with theirs; and Bren dutifully fell in after, with Banichi and Jago, leaving Tano and Algini to assist Jase getting into the hall.
His job was, he gathered, to engage the aiji-dowager and keep her apart from Damiri; and possibly to try to divert Damiri, if it came to that.
Four of the museum’s doors were open, and people were exiting, a brisk movement into the two areas roped off. The central door remained shut until Tabini’s approach, at which point it opened, affording the family that easy crossing past the observing crowd toward the center door of the Audience Hall.
All but one of its doors were shut. The centermost, between the ropes, was open, welcoming the family into what, compared to the hall, was lamplit darkness.
They reached the doorway, their eyes just beginning to adjust—and suddenly a bank of lights blazed at them, painting them all in white glare, as much as one could see at the moment.
Television cameras. The lights were near the dais, cameras focused, at the moment, toward the open doors and the incoming notables. They blinded security: that was a problem. But Kaplan and Polano were somewhere in this room, and after the initial rush of adrenaline, Bren reassured himself with that thought.
They were safer than usual in the Audience Hall: they had not the general public, just the museum event attendees lined up at the red ropes outside, and they went at a sedate pace, with knots of Guild black separating the glitter of the notables, and there was a graciou
s atmosphere about their progress, nods from the family—excepting Damiri, who walked in her own world—to the family’s particular supporters and associates the other side of the rope.
There was a buffet set up—the smells were in the air; there was Bujavid staff, shadows over on the right. There was a long table, likely for the cards.
There was, at the end of the room, the dais, and the chair Tabini used for audiences in this room. The cameras were set up right at the corner of those steps.
And that was where everybody stopped except Tabini and his bodyguard, who kept going up the steps. Bren stopped. So had the dowager, and Lord Tatiseigi, and Damiri, and their bodyguards. The doors behind them were opening—he heard the thump, and the muted noise of the crowd suddenly louder, and when he turned to look he saw someone—likely Tano and Algini—had gotten Jase and the children to the fore, so they were first through those doors, at a sensible pace: it was not the inclination of atevi lords to push and shove. The cameras were on them, all the doors were open, and a great number of notables and their bodyguards came into the hall from all four doors . . . more, he realized, than had been at the museum event: they had acquired a larger crowd, a much larger crowd.
Security was wound tight . . . and only a few of the Guild were getting much in the way of communication—he had no idea what kind of information had passed: information that the system would be down, perhaps, perhaps an urging to report anything worrisome, perhaps the assurance a few of the senior Guild were getting information steadily, and that more would be brought online as the evening progressed.
Hell of a situation they had. In this case—it wasn’t the lords’ rank that determined when that would happen—it was the seniority and reputation of their bodyguards, a team at a time, and it would, one guessed, be ongoing.
Out in the city, in crowds, most of the Guild keeping order out there were running dark, with no communication even with each other.
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