Pretender

by C. J. Cherryh

  “Yes,” Jegari said breathlessly.

  “We will stay close,” Cajeiri declared, at the likely limit of his understanding. “And if we had guns we could fight.”

  “Your guard will have a weapon, young sir,” Banichi said. “As should be. And you will keep your head down.”

  “Yes,” Cajeiri said, no lordly tone, just the quiet yes of a subordinate taking an order.

  “Good,” Bren said.

  “But we could tell my father’s men to rely on Cenedi!”

  “They will defend your father and your mother,” Cenedi said sternly, “but they may not even extend that defense to your own valuable person, young sir. They take no chances on anyone they do not know, and you have surrounded yourself with your own security—including us.”

  Paranoia meant trusting no one but themselves, and atevi paranoia meant knowing, though Cenedi did not say so, that a live aiji could produce another son; but a dead one’s policies would fall, taking institutions down in the process. One did understand. “Dangerous,” Bren said. Trust the staff. Always trust the staff, or things fell apart. “They suspect us?”

  “They will speak frankly to a few on Tatiseigi’s staff, nandi,” Jago said. “And of all the ones we would rely on—Tatiseigi’s staff is certainly not foremost in our choice. One wonders if there is some suspicion of all of us who have been on the ship.”

  Young ears were still absorbing the situation, young eyes very attentive. A sudden glance caught the wheels turning in Cajeiri’s eyes—turning in silence, which was decidedly the most dangerous situation of all.

  “Young gentleman,” Bren said, “rely on Cenedi, who has surely spoken to your great-grandmother.”

  “I could talk to my mother,” Cajeiri said, jaw jutting. “She would talk sense.”

  And the aiji-consort was Ajuri, not Ragi, and possibly expendable, if push came to shove, if there was purely Ragi aristocracy trying to preserve Tabini at all costs—and maybe not as happy with the Ajuri connection Damiri represented. If Tabini heard that set of priorities, a human guess said Tabini would skin his security alive.

  The boy’s idea about talking to Lady Damiri wasn’t entirely foolish.

  “Discreetly, young sir,” Bren said, one precarious step into defying the aiji’s orders and footing it around a cadre of persons who had established their own channels to the aiji’s authority, channels purposely excluding him…and possibly inclined to wish the aiji didn’t have a wife or an heir of Ajuri-Atageini blood.

  But in that case, expending one human was negligible.

  “Speak with extreme discretion,” he said, “counting that your father’s guard are not incompetent men—only very tired, and among strangers, and extremely concerned for your father’s safety for a very long time. They may care very little about us.”

  “Well, we can speak to them and inform them,” Cajeiri said, and started off in that direction, but Bren gently snagged the boy’s arm and gained his momentarily startled attention.

  “Young sir, no. Report what you have heard to your great-grandmother. That is your best avenue. You know your great-grandmother will find your father’s ear, and advise him far more cleverly than any of us.”

  A series of thoughts floated through those young eyes, from astonishment to gratifyingly deeper and more shadowy things. It was not a shallow boy he dealt with: He staked his life on that.

  “I shall,” Cajeiri said in great solemnity, recovered his arm, and straightened his coat. He stood straight and still, a credit to his great-grandmother.

  “Be ever so careful who hears you,” Bren said. Standing on eye level with a precocious eight-year-old, it was frighteningly easy to make the mental slip into thinking Cajeiri older and wiser than he was; and maybe, he thought, his own size made Cajeiri more apt to confide in him. “But never assume, young sir, that your father has ever shown his true thoughts to us, not when he is in conference and not when so many important maneuvers are going on. He may have had good reason to wish me to leave the room, so he can talk with Ajuri without my hearing their opinion of me, which may be very harsh.”

  “Why?” That eternal question, but indignant, and backed this time by comprehension of the situation.

  “Because people blame me, young sir, for advising your father to build a space program, and to send atevi into space at all. It is less going to space that is the question, but the modernization—does one know that word?”

  “One knows it very well, nandi. My great-grandmother detests it.”

  “Well, people think the paidhi’s job was to prevent modernization happening too fast for people’s good, and they blame me for a great many things that resulted from it.”

  “Mani-ma says if you had not translated the space books we would have the ship-aijiin in charge and the aiji could throw rocks at them for all the good it could do.”

  He was astonished. And gratified. It terrified him that he had fallen into a discussion of politics with an eight-year-old. But Cajeiri had just spent two years discussing politics with Ilisidi, and that why of his was an extremely loaded question.

  The paidhi inclined his head in respect. “It may be true, young sir. I think it is. But many good and honest people only see the disturbance and the change in their neighborhoods. One would not say your father’s guards are bad men—unless they oppose you, young gentleman. In that case, one opposes them. And I may be completely wrong. They may be thoroughly honest men and in favor of you as your father’s son. But if you can catch your great-grandmother’s ear—in particular hers—be guided by her, not by me.”

  For a moment those young eyes bored straight into him, his father’s very look—then a darted look aside at Cenedi, and back to him, dead-on. “Mani-ma says you are smarter than any other human, nandi, and I should pay close attention to you, except a few things. That one should understand why you say things.”

  “One is flattered beyond all measure, young lord, by your great-grandmother’s good opinion. One hopes never to fail it. Particularly in this. Be ever so careful, young sir. Rely on Cenedi. Rely on him, and on your great-grandmother.”

  It was a worried look. And a boy had confronted the edge of a political breach he was born to span.

  “A Ragi father, a Malguri great-grandmother, an Atageini mother, young sir, along with an Ajuri great-grandfather and Kadagidi relatives with ties to the south coast—these are considerable advantages, once you reach your majority. Your heredity spans the whole continent, have you considered that? It is a great advantage for you someday, but it requires a certain patience at the moment. It requires living to be a man, and aiji in your father’s place. Cenedi is the one who will protect you.”

  “Do I have to rely on the Ajuri? And my great-uncle?”

  “One must not offend these relatives. Leave that to your great-grandmother.”

  Golden eyes flickered—a swing between suspicion of humor and grim determination. From inside the door, a moment ago, the sharp crack of Ilisidi’s cane, a family fight in full spate.

  “Cenedi-ji,” the boy said then, ever so quietly, and with a shift of his eyes past Bren’s shoulder, “is this good advice?”

  “It is extremely good advice,” Cenedi said.

  “Then I shall talk to my great-grandmother,” Cajeiri said. “Tell her so, Cenedi-ji.”

  “Not in there, young sir,” Cenedi said, “but one will pass this word.”

  “We should all go upstairs,” Jago said in a low voice, as a clot of other security passed them in the hall, not within earshot, one thought, but there were electronics, despite the hammering that echoed throughout, from two independent sources. “There are situations in progress, and one does not count this hallway secure.”

  Never disregard staff’s warning. “Yes,” Bren said. He longed for the peace and quiet of his own quarters, removed from this gathering horde of strange guards and potentially deadly tension in the household. “Young sir, you may come up with us.”

  “What shall we do up there?” The e
ight-year-old was immediately back in the ascendant, and strode along with them as they turned toward the stairs and climbed up to the next, the residential floor, catching a step as he tried to match Banichi. But no one answered the heir’s question in the echoing stairway, not past Ilisidi’s quarters and not past Cajeiri’s, where, presumably, Jegari’s sister Antaro was still watching the premises.

  Banichi knocked at their own door, tested the handle, received some sort of signal, or gave one, via the pocket com, and opened the unlocked latch.

  Algini sat at a small table near the window. He had a curious black box deployed and plugged into house circuits. He had not locked the door or secured the entry corridor against adventurous house staff on their proper and innocent business, but Algini was very much on alert, had a com-plug in one ear, and a pistol laid beside him on the little table.

  Astonishing, Bren said to himelf. An operations center had materialized out of their luggage.

  Banichi was not astonished. “Any news?” Banichi asked matter-of-factly, and Algini shrugged.

  “Too much radio traffic for our safety,” Algini said. “The house itself no longer chatters freely, and we have our new guarded communications, besides the aiji’s staff and their network, but these newly arrived staffs are a liability. Every bus out there has a common-channel radio, and the citizens are by no means cautious in calling their relatives in the far reaches of the province.”

  “The Kadagidi know by now there is a large component of common citizenry to this gathering,” Jago said, with a glance at Bren and at Cajeiri. “This is to our good, nandiin. They cannot press ahead with an attack and claim ignorance of the situation.”

  “They will not attack, Jago-ji?” Cajeiri asked.

  “One did not say so, young sir. But the Kadagidi will have to be much more cautious, not to proceed without finesse.”

  “Finesse,” Cajeiri echoed.

  “Indeed,” Jago said.

  Assassins, Bren thought. The only way to get in a deft strike, and such a strike would aim at the house and the high-value targets.

  Meanwhile Cajeiri had restrained himself from a look out the windows and instead sidled close to Algini’s black box device—had gained the sense not to reach out an inquisitive hand, but pointed at it. “Is it a com?”

  “One might say so, young sir.” Algini flipped a switch and took out the earplug, with a look toward Bren. “Nandi.”

  Offering his full attention, that was to say, and implying a question regarding their return to the room.

  “It seems safer up here,” Bren said. “The aiji is having a family discussion downstairs. The plane is off and about to reconnoiter and Ajuri clan has come in, with its junior and senior members.”

  A wry turn of Algini’s mouth. That situation needed little amplification.

  “So what is funny?” Cajeiri asked.

  “Very little, young sir.”

  “The other installations?” Jago asked.

  “Done,” Algini answered her. “Tano has been busy. One would recommend the young gentleman and his staff relocate to these premises or to the dowager’s for safety tonight.”

  “My great-grandmother,” Cajeiri said with no hesitation. “We have to—” Talk to her was the probable next statement, but Jago cut that off with a sharp move and a finger uplifted to the ceiling, their code for possible listeners.

  “Probably wise,” Bren said.

  “So Jegari will bring Antaro here until then, shall he not, nand’ Bren?”

  Pert. Entirely too pert, Ilisidi would say, but the boy was thinking, clearly.

  “Excellent,” Bren said, and Jegari made a dart for the door.

  “Halt!” From all his bodyguard at once. Jegari skidded to a stop and faced them, shock writ across his young face.

  “Now the door is disarmed,” Algini said. “Make deliberate speed, young man, and inform your sister. And when you come back, knock. Always knock for admittance where Guild is involved and pray do not dart at doors. This is not Taiben Lodge.”

  “Nadi.” A very chastened bow, and Jegari made a quieter departure from the premises.

  “One assumes that vital instruction need not be repeated for others,” Bren said in a low voice, “young sir.”

  “By no means, nand’ paidhi.” Oh, so quietly. Cajeiri’s eyes were wide and alert. Two reprimands in a handful of minutes, after his very adult response downstairs, and he was clearly off his balance.

  “Come,” Jago said, “and one will instruct the young gentleman in other needful precautions.”

  “Yes,” the lad said respectfully, and just then a distant hum obtruded, even to human ears. “The plane!” Cajeiri cried, and made one abortive move toward the window.

  “Boy!” Banichi, in that tone, but Cajeiri had already frozen in midstep.

  “I would not have touched—” Cajeiri began, and then the aircraft roared across the roof from east to west, distracting him.

  “Keep your mind on business, young sir. Consider your staff, and restrain them from such moves. This is no game. This is never a game.”

  “Yes, Banichi-nadi.” Meekly. Very softly. The plane buzzed in the distance, meanwhile, coming about for a landing, and Cajeiri did not even look toward that window to see.

  “Excellent that you stopped,” Bren said, deciding such contrition deserved a little praise, ever so little, since a small dose was often overdose with this lad—but Banichi’s tone of voice would have chilled the dead. “House defenses are up, young gentleman, but more, defenses are up which you never saw used on the ship, things which might take a hand or a foot off. Jago will explain them for you and your staff, if you will attend her. In the meanwhile, one assumes the young gentleman from Dur is landing safely, if prematurely, and might have news for us. Tano-ji,” Tano had just come into the room, from the bath. “Will you inquire? And ask nand’ Rejiri to accept our hospitality in these premises immediately, if he cannot penetrate the family discussion below.”

  “Nandi,” Tano said, and went off on his own errand, with—one hoped the boy noted the fact—a signaled coordination with his partner, who threw switches on a pocket remote.

  “How shall I warn my bodyguard, nandi? Might I please go down the hall to advise them?”

  Clearly thinking farther than himself and farther than the moment, now, twice in one half hour. And oh, so polite.

  “Jago herself will go and advise them. It is an excellent idea, young sir, but security should handle security.”

  The boy was getting the picture, and had a good head on his shoulders, which might ensure it lastingly stayed on his shoulders. He stayed still, touching nothing, going nowhere, watching while Banichi did a walkaround tour of the windows and their precautions.

  Meanwhile, switches had to be flicked off and reset again as Jago went out, then came back with Jegari, Antaro, and the all young company’s meager luggage—Jago settled that burden into the front cubby of a room—bringing with them, one noted, a bowl of seasonal fruit tucked into Antaro’s open carry-bag, a welcome little amenity which the forest bred youngsters did not leave behind in their transfer of residence.

  The incoming luggage—saddlebags, in the case of the Taibeni youngsters—settled with their bags, the fruit bowl went onto the hall table, and the young trio followed Jago’s quick and thorough lecture, this time with embellishments from Cajeiri, who was a very quick study, in the dire things he had heard from Banichi.

  There was, however, no Rejiri. The young man had not even entered the house to report, but had quickly gone off in a bus, so Tano said on his return from scouting. The contingent from Dur was about to reach the train station, the train coming in full bore, and they needed transport and guidance immediately—if not outright defense.

  “The folk from the coast are coming in with Dur,” Tano reported, “by the same train, and with that group, notably, nandi, Adaran and Desigien.”

  The fishing village where they had made their landing on the continent and the railhead village fr
om which they had continued their journey, villages which had already risked a great deal in the dowager’s support.

  “One should remember them,” Cajeiri said solemnly, with no one prompting.

  “Indeed,” Bren said.

  Two more contingents added to the vulnerable lot already sitting here, a target for Kadagidi mayhem as the sun declined in the sky. Brave folk, as they had already proved. He was far from easy in his mind. Finesse, Jago had said. But there might be gunfire at the train station in very short order, and there might be ambush on the way—God knew where it would end up. Rejiri had apparently scouted things out, including, perhaps, the position of forces trying to control access to the Atageini train station, and then opted to ground the plane and go back by bus—a good move, Bren thought. If he had appeared over Kadagidi forces, they might have claimed illicit attack, and that could escalate what was already in progress.

  So while Jago instructed three eager youngsters in the meticulous details of avoiding disaster—and specifically cautioned them against trying to bypass Algini’s black box device, which involved skills the Guild did not divulge to novice security and an inquisitive princeling—Bren found no further use for himself at all, except to get out his computer and attempt to condense a report, paring thousands of pages down to essentials, in the hopes that if they did have a quiet night, and if Cajeiri did get his great-grandmother’s ear, Tabini might have time to look at it this evening.

  No phone connnections to Mosphiera, not from this house. He had his modem, but without the landlines, it was no use to him; he mortally regretted that the communication network had never gotten beyond Mogari-nai’s solitary dish. He wondered how good the informal network was, the illicit radio traffic across the straits, whether that had maintained any mainland contacts, and consequently whether President Shawn Tyers knew what kind of a mess he was in, and that Tabini had knowingly put himself in a target zone? Yolanda Mercheson, his liaison with the spacefarers, was sitting over there on the island, in a hotel beside the landed shuttle, perhaps having been clever enough during his absence to have tried to create such links, but she had not made contact with him if they existed. At the moment, she was still waiting to relay information to the station, and he couldn’t tell her what was going on, either—though the increasingly massive traffic jam out there might by now be seen in orbit, who knew? The station had been on the verge of deploying observation satellites with very good optics, but that project, once certain hidebound humans and atevi had gotten wind of it, had bogged it down in security concerns on both mainland and island. Had it ever happened? One assumed if it had gotten into operation the captains up there would have given him suitable equipment, knowing the situation on the mainland. One assumed—