The piece they knew they needed to watch—that was the Consort. And if they were not stupid, they would know that.
Which was why they had to have everything shuttered up, and why everybody was so grim. If they were stupid, they would try to go straight for the Consort, that was mani. And mani knew it.
Mani had taught him that game on the ship. She said it was a human game, but atevi were generally better at it. And he had thought—he had been just six, then—that it was funny that mani ever played games. But she and Cenedi played, sometimes, and early on he had thought all that sitting and staring was just boring.
Sit down, she had said when he said so. And she had proceeded to teach him. He played it with Gene and Artur, the both of them against him, and then they had gotten Irene to join in, so it was him against all of them. Just occasionally they had won, and when they did, he would have learned something.
And once he knew what was going on, watching Cenedi and mani play was not boring. It was hard work. It was very hard work.
It was like that, now. Things were going on, and he was handicapped by having two fools for bodyguards, and he sat and stared at the homework he was trying to do and kept seeing nand’ Geigi and the Grandmother of Najida and mani all building something, and nand’ Bren, who for a human, gave away very, very little with his expressions . . .
If he went to nand’ Bren and asked, he probably would not get all the truth. Nand’ Bren would tell him just about what he could guess for himself, and that was that his father was sitting back in Shejidan being safe, which was what the Aiji usually did in the game; and one could lay a bet that his father was going to act as if he had no information from mani at all.
He did bet he knew who mani’s phone calls were to.
He knew who, besides Bren, was very good at not telling all the truth.
He bet, too, that, the way both nand’ Bren and mani talked about Lord Geigi and swept him right into their plans, Lord Geigi was a lot more than he seemed, too, and probably not as easygoing and jolly and defenseless as he looked.
That meant he would be a good ally to have on his side.
He had never, personally, dealt with Lord Geigi. He wondered how to make an approach to him. The brat kid pose was not the way. The curious kid pose was probably not the way, either. Geigi liked to eat. But Geigi would suspect a bribe if he brought him cakes or the like.
Geigi was interested in his estate, in his clan, in the Edi, in the station, and in business. That was what he knew about Geigi. And Jago had told him once upon a time, about getting information out of somebody, Some people like you to do them favors. Some people like you to ask them favors. The one wants things. The other wants power. You can read people by that.
He thought, Geigi certainly enjoys food. But he expects that. He always does things for nand’ Bren and for mani and for my father. That could make him the second sort.
What favor can I ask him that he can do? Is that the way to get to him?
He thought about that for several whole minutes. Then he sat down at his desk and took pen and paper and wrote.
Cajeiri to Gene and Artur and Irene and all.
I have written a lot of letters but I never get one, so I have become suspicious. I am sending this one a different way so maybe it will get to you. If you write to me by the same route and I get it I will send you a long letter because I have been doing a lot of things you will like. We are all fine but people are still shooting at us for now. I hope it will be safe for you to come down to the world before long. It would be good if you could come to my next birthday. I have very many things I could show you if you could.
He folded it twice, having no proper seal, nor a waxjack. He put it in his pocket, then walked down the hall, knocked on Lord Geigi’s door and met Lord Geigi’s junior servant.
“I am Cajeiri. I wish to speak to nand’ Geigi, nadi.”
“Nandi,” the servant said respectfully: even the new servants knew who he was. And the servant did not go to announce him, but took him directly into the sitting room, where Lord Geigi was busy at his desk.
“Nandi. Nand’ Cajeiri wishes to speak to you.”
“Indeed?” Lord Geigi asked, pausing in his writing, and turning his chair. “May I help you, young lord?”
He had chosen exactly right. He put on a pleasant and hopeful face and took the letter from his pocket. “Nand’ Geigi, one has had a very great difficulty sending letters to the station or getting them back. Someone is stopping them, and one has no idea whether it is someone here, or there. This letter is to Gene of the Parker house, who came on the ship, and he will be living on the station with his family. We are very close associates. And probably you will ask my father if you should take it for me. If you do ask and he says no, please at least tell me.”
Lord Geigi was a very big man, and sat fairly well back in his chair; his dark gold eyes, deepset, holding a lot of secrets, Cajeiri thought. On the surface he was not a scary man. But for just a second he was standing there with Lord Geigi looking at him very seriously and thinking.
“Is this a conspiracy, young gentleman?”
“Only I have written very many letters and gotten no answer, and if my father is stopping them, sometimes he wants me to find things out. One does not at all ask you to go against my father, or to do anything at all risky, nandi, only to tell me the truth. And if he tells you not to tell me, of course you will not. You can read the letter yourself if you like. I have no seal. But if you can figure out what happens to my letters and tell me, one would be very grateful.”
A very, very serious look. Geigi took the letter from him and laid it carefully on his desk. “A reasonable request, young lord. I shall ask him, and I shall inform you of his answer, unless instructed otherwise. Naturally—if I do not inform you—” A slow and wicked smile came to Geigi’s face. “You will naturally assume correctly.”
He flushed a little and bowed, caught out. “Thank you, nandi.”
“You are clearly your father’s son, young gentleman. One would not willingly stand in your way.”
He was not sure what that meant. A compliment, he decided, and bowed a second time. “One will leave you to your work, then, nandi, with great thanks.”
“No, no, stay and have tea, young gentleman. Perhaps a teacake or two?”
His interest perked up. It was something to do, and it was even safe, to have tea with lord Geigi. Even Great-grandmother would approve.
“One would be delighted, nandi.”
“So.” Geigi signaled the servant, who had stood by. “Tea, nadi-ji.” With which, he got up from his desk and walked over to a sitting area, where he lowered his bulk into a sturdy chair and waved an invitation at another, less substantial.
“One understands you took a tour of my gardens at Kajiminda,” Geigi said for openers.
“One did, yes, nandi.”
“Tell me what you saw. Tell me everything. One understands it was a very clever escape.”
He did that. Geigi interrupted him with questions about what the staff had done, how they looked, how old the servants had been, and how things looked inside the house and in the orchard. Geigi was after information, was what, and with any other person, he would have been very much on his guard, but Geigi had a perfect right to ask, so he poured out everything he could think of, between the tea service and the cakes, which ran on to a second helping.
“I think we broke the surveillance machinery,” Cajeiri said at one point, “and I think the roof lost some tiles.”
“Cheap at the price, one is sure,” Geigi said cheerfully, “and roof tiles are replaceable. One congratulates you, young gentleman! You did very well!”
“Nandi.” He inclined his head politely, and popped a quarter of a last teacake into his mouth.
“And about this slingshota,” Geigi said.
“Oh.” He gulped tea down in a fashion Great-grandmother would never approve, wiped the crumbs from his fingers with the other hand and reached into his other co
at pocket, holding up his treasure. “Nand’ Toby made it for me.” He got up and offered it to nand’ Geigi’s inspection. Nand’ Geigi put aside his own teacup, and he showed nand’ Geigi how to hold it and aim it.
And that was how they ended up out in the garden, under the shade of the portico, defying all the security precautions, with four of Geigi’s men sitting, two on the roof and the others where a tree overhung the old stone wall, and Antaro and Jegari helping them keep watch.
It was the best time he had had in days. They broke already-broken pots, and chased pot-chips across the garden flagstones. The Edi workmen who were repairing the portico began to lay bets, and some of the servants came out and watched.
He won the contest. “But I have used it longer, nandi!” he said. Great-grandmother had taught him always to salve feelings when he won.
“Pish,” Geigi said, which was Great-grandmother’s word. “You are indeed your father’s son. You have a talent for hunting. I, alas, have a talent simply for consuming good dinners after someone has done the hunting.”
He laughed, seeing Lord Geigi was joking with him, and maybe saying something deeper: Geigi was that kind of man. This is a very, very smart man, he thought to himself, and then: Geigi sits and watches and just collects power when people give it to him. Besides my father and my great-grandmother and nand’ Bren, this is the most powerful man there is. And people want to give it to him, because Geigi has no ambitions for his own clan. He is disconnected from the Maschi.
The Maschi clan lord is a fool. Geigi does not want to be clan lord.
The grownups talked about the Maschi and the Marid, and how Geigi had a Marid wife until he got the idea she was plotting against him. And he made a fast move to my father’s side.
Geigi is not a stupid man. Whatever he does, puts more things in Geigi’s hands. And me being who I am, he is very glad to do me a favor. He is storing that away for when I am grown up. When Geigi does you a favor, Geigi will always be very smart how he uses it.
One has never met a man like Geigi. He is different. He moves slowly on his feet, but is way ahead in his mind. And he would put up with a lot before he would want to be the lord of the Maschi.
He runs Sarini Province. How does he do that, from orbit?
A lot of phone calls. And when the phones were all shut down during the Troubles, Sarini Province had no lord and things got in a real mess. The Marid moved right in. And the Edi stopped them. So the Marid got to Baiji.
“You are thinking, young lord,” Geigi said.
He was caught with his solemnity-face. He put a smile on it, the sociable face. And still kept his thoughts inside. He gave a polite bow. “Nand’ Bren says you are very smart, nandi. I think you are.”
He somewhat surprised Geigi. Or Geigi put that kind of face on, and gave a little nod of his own. “You flatter me, nandi.”
“You had rather not be clan lord, had you, nandi?”
That did surprise Geigi. He was fairly sure of it.
“Far from it, young lord.”
Cajeiri raised the slingshota, put a stone in it, and further pulverized a potsherd. He handed it to Geigi, who made a creditable shot himself, and handed it back.
“And you want to go back to the station, nandi,” Cajeiri said. “You like living there.”
Now it was a very sober face Geigi offered him. “The station is my domain, young lord. I have business there.”
“You really like it, however,” Cajeiri said.
A heavy sigh. And Geigi looked at him in a curious way. It was the way adults looked at adults. “The world has its pleasures,” Geigi said. “But I—quite honestly, young gentleman, I have a certain peace in my station post. A certain confidence in waking up in the morning. And a certain skill in getting atevi on the station to stop squabbling over clans and prerogatives and do their jobs in a sensible, civilized way. I derive a certain pleasure out of seeing Maschi and Edi, Taibeni and Atageini and all the rest sitting at my table and behaving themselves in a way they would not do on the planet.”
He had seen it, in his time on the ship. He had seen it with his human associates. “Like myself, and Gene, and Artur. They are my associates, nandi! Nobody will say they should be, but they are, the same as Jegari and Antaro, who are Taibeni, and people think they belong back in Taiben, but they are my associates, and Gene and Artur and Irene would get along with them very well. I know what you mean.”
Geigi smiled at him. “So you do, young lord, so you do.”
“One wishes one could just make everybody do that down here!”
The smile became a gentle laugh. “One does indeed. One only wishes one had fruit trees up there.”
He saw something else about Geigi. “I bet you could have one in a pot.”
Geigi laughed, and then looked thoughtful, and very thoughtful. “Young lord, that is a very interesting idea!”
He passed the slingshota to Geigi, who scored on a potsherd, before Geigi passed it back and said that probably they had defied the precautions too long as was, and that they should go back in so his bodyguard could get down off the roof.
So they did.
He understood a lot more about Geigi, then. He had things to think about when they went back inside and Geigi went back to his work.
One of the first things he thought was that, within his aishid, two would understand perfectly everything he and Geigi had said; and two, who had come out at the last to stand and look worried about it all, would be completely appalled.
He was less bored now. But no less frustrated with what he had. He had a crystal-clear idea of the way his own aishid could work—that one-table idea Geigi had talked about. The thing that did not work on the planet.
Except that Geigi and Lord Bren and Great-grandmother were doing something of the like, inviting the Edi in, so maybe it was not a stupid idea for the world.
The boy had been exemplary for days. The worst he had done lately was entice sensible Lord Geigi to violate security precautions. The whole house had stood to attention while Lord Geigi and Cajeiri had destroyed pottery in the garden; but with security all about, on the roof, on the wall, and about the premises—at least it had let young Cajeiri—and their visitor from space—blow off a little steam.
Toby and Barb had taken their own little turn at freedom, coming upstairs to the sitting room, which was, if only psychologically, far more comfortable than the basement. They had procured a deck of Mospheiran-style playing cards, so staff reported, and were pleasantly engaged.
The dowager was doing a little reading, after a spate of phone calls and coded requests. Her staff was resting.
The paidhi’s bodyguard was resting again, too, since the two escapees to the garden were safely back inside—while the paidhi was still sifting through names, names, names and whereabouts and histories and genealogies and business arrangements . . . and reading through the first pages of Baiji’s sorry account of the last few years. Baiji’s writing—God! Every line was I, I-this, I-that, and I-thought and I-felt, and damned little information. There were asides, in which Baiji described, to his own credit, one was sure he thought, that he had planted fruit trees in the back of the orchard. That he had enlarged the dining patio. That he had built a new stairs on the dockside. He had built an elaborate gazebo in his mother’s memory. He seemed bound to list all his credits, never mind the information they were really after.
The account finally got to a visit from a representative of a trade office from Separti Township, and the proposal, convolutely related, for a further meeting.
That had been the foot in the door. The trade organization in question had Marid ties. They had talked finance—clear that Baiji had a very weak grasp of that subject—and cited references from various south coast companies, which Baiji claimed not to remember, except for one vintner. God! Hardly a nest of espionage there. But there was, buried deep within the account, mostly implied, the notion that Baiji had been scared the world was ending when Tabini had been replaced by Murini, an
d had been very relieved to receive this contact with people who represented money.
Money. Something which Baiji had been spending wildly in his first few months in his stewardship. One had not seen the monument to his mother, but there was talk of marble columns and siting the thing up on a scenic cliff with a permanent light. One could only imagine.
And who had built it? He had not hired the Edi. He had called in a company from Separti, who ended up presenting him with more bills than he had planned, and said that supplies were short because of interruptions in shipping—there was a deal more about Edi engaged in piracy and sabotage, but not, of course, the servants, who were grateful to him for his good management and his looking after their interests.
Amazing. Baiji had the cheek to say he had thought his staff was being infiltrated by spies. And he had secured a loan “at advantageous interest” to support the estate and keep it “in the style my uncle would approve” despite the downturn in the general economy during the Troubles. He had arranged to buy fish from a company in Separti, when Kajiminda had not been paying its debts to Najida for that commodity—a detail which he had somehow not written down—did he think the lord of Najida would miss that little detail?
Baiji had made all these brilliant moves and secured money which he put on interest “at the bank,” while paying interest to the trading company which had lent it to him—“to encourage good relations” because the trading company had “very advantageous ties” to “people in power.”
Of course they did. The account mentioned names, none of which meant anything to him, but which his staff would be looking up in a different database.
He was building up a good head of blood pressure when Ramaso came knocking at the office door to report there were nineteen people at the train station wishing to see Lord Geigi.
Two blinks. Three.
When one’s mind had been deep in Baiji’s illogical account, one found just a little difficulty focusing on that statement.
“Staff, nandi,” Ramaso said in uncharacteristic excitement. “Kajiminda staff. They are coming back!”
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