Deceiver

by C. J. Cherryh

  A little steel flicked through that glance. “It is blocking the drive, nand’ paidhi. Our suggestion is simple expediency.”

  “If you request the bus moved somewhat, I am sure we can comply with that very quickly, nandi.”

  “Let it stay,” Machigi said with a wave of his hand. “But where is this trust, nand’ paidhi? This offer of association?”

  “I have yet to convey your reply to the dowager, nandi. Everything comes from her. When she wishes my company to stand down and leave the bus, it will stand down. But as for myself and my aishid, we are extremely appreciative of the hospitality of your household.”

  Machigi gave a dark little laugh and stood up. “Follow my servants, and join us in the dining room in an hour. Your aishid may attend your baggage.”

  “Delighted,” Bren said, stood, and bowed in turn. In fact he was delighted—delighted there hadn’t been a shootout. Delighted Machigi hadn’t pulled that trigger. Delighted Machigi had sounded as intelligent—though also as dangerous—as reports said he was.

  And that bit about attending the baggage—no lord in his right mind would have his belongings taken off that bus, put into the hands of servants of a hostile house, and taken into his room. Two of his staff would handle it all the way from the bus to the rooms, while Machigi’s staff watched with equal care to be sure that clothes were all that came into the house.

  The servants gestured the way to the side door. Banichi and Jago went with him, Tano and Algini split themselves off to attend the matter of the baggage, and Bren walked just behind the two servants who led the way—a short distance, he was glad to see, and up only a single flight of stairs. He knew where the front door and the bus were from here, at least.

  But that was not the knowledge that was going to get them out of this.

  The servants opened the doors to a magnificent suite, mostly in sea-green and gold, with pale furniture, and led the way through to a fine bedroom, even with its own bath, an uncommon amenity.

  “Very fine, nadiin,” he pronounced it.

  “Would you care for a fire lit in the sitting-room, nandi?” one asked. “It will grow chill before morning.”

  “Please do,” he said, and looked at Banichi and Jago, just a questioning glance to know their opinion of the arrangements.

  Banichi simply nodded. No question every room was bugged to more and less degrees, right down to the bath. He didn’t need a word on that score. He simply sat down in a comfortable chair, rested his booted feet carefully on the footstool, and waited, while Banichi and Jago went into that statuelike quiet of their profession, just watching the servants at work.

  The fire came to life. And other servants came in, carrying a modest amount of luggage, with Tano and Algini in close attendance.

  “Set it in the bedroom, nadiin,” Jago said, “with thanks. That will do.”

  There were bows, very inexpressive faces gave them a last lookover, and the servants retreated out the door.

  At which point they would of course be fools to say everything they were thinking.

  “How are things outside, nadiin-ji?” he asked Tano and Algini.

  “Well enough, nandi,” Algini said, and that little formality said he was likewise thinking of bugs. “We have passed word where we are and wished them a quiet night.”

  “One hopes it will be,” Bren said, and cast a look up at Banichi and Jago. “Well done?” he asked in the alien kyo language.

  “Yes,” Banichi said, and Jago echoed the same.

  Tano and Algini had gained a little of the language. They had made earnest efforts at it. And of all means of communication they had, that was the only one no codecracker could manage.

  But one had no desire to frustrate their hosts. It was only a confirmation: he had done what he could, gotten them this far, and God, he wished he could discuss Machigi frankly with his aishid, but their vocabulary in kyo didn’t extend that far, nor did it bear on the intricacies of atevi psychology. All he had for comfort was that one yes: they were alive, they were not too likely to be poisoned at dinner—which his aishid would not share—and, disturbingly enough, he had some indication Machigi held some answer to the other matter he had come out here to pursue, namely what had happened to Barb.

  He couldn’t ask. Ethically and in terms of simple common sense, he couldn’t make Barb an issue in this.

  “One had best dress for the occasion,” he said, and got up and went to the bedroom. The packed clothes had been layered with fine silk, which kept them from being too disreputable on being shaken out. The court coat, being heavily figured brocade, had not suffered much. The shirt was a little the worse for its trip in baggage, but with the coat on, the wrinkles would not show; and a fresh ribbon for the queue always improved a gentleman’s appearance: those came carefully wound on a paper spool.

  Beyond that—the boots could use a dusting. Tano saw to that, and to everyone else’s; and ribbons were renewed, Guild leathers dusted with a prepared cloth. They all went from slightly traveled to ready for dinner in a quarter hour, with no conversation to speak of, except a light discussion of the recently dry weather and the quantity of dust, plus the likelihood of rain, since there had been clouds in the west . . . all disappointing material for eavesdroppers, but far from surprising. Guild could convey information by the pressure of fingers on a shoulder, and Bren had no doubt information and instruction was passing that he did not receive. He knew the all-well signal, and got it from Jago as she helped him adjust his shirt-cuffs.

  It was even possible that short-range communication was working, in a set of prearranged signals going to and from the bus. It was remarkable if the Taisigi had allowed it. It was certain, if it was going on, that the Taisigi were monitoring it and attempting to decipher it. But evidently the bus was still all right, as far as any of his staff could tell.

  “One hopes,” Bren said cheerfully, actually hoping it would be reported, “that their cook knows about human sensitivities. One would hate to have negotiations fail with the paidhi-aiji accidentally poisoned.”

  “This is a worry to us, as well, Bren-ji,” Jago said.

  “Well, well, I shall have to avoid the sauces and stay to what I can identify,” he said. “Wine is safe. I am safe with what I can recognize. Things cooked together in sauce—well, one hopes there are alternatives, or we stay to the bread.”

  That might send an honest majordomo scurrying to the kitchen to be sure his lord’s guest had alternatives—or send him to the references to find out what human sensitivities actually were. He thought worriedly of Barb, somewhere unknown, and hoped she was safe and that whoever was feeding her knew humans didn’t find a moderate level of alkaloids a pleasant addition to a dish.

  “A quarter hour,” Banichi said aloud, reminding them all of the time.

  His bodyguard would eat and drink either before or after him—after, in this instance, clearly. One could only hope for safety in simple practicality—the fact that things could have blown up before now, and had not. And that there was a busload of Guild out there prepared to do damage if things did blow up.

  Machigi was not an easy man to read. He had seemed to turn receptive. He had showed, if nothing else, curiosity. Keep satisfying it bit by bit, enticing him further and it might be enough . . . but that game ran both directions.

  He and his aishid talked about the room, the porcelains, the fine hospitality. And about the magnificent tower-porcelains outside the reception hall, and whether they were all one piece or an assembly of pieces.

  They kept the conversation as esoteric and blithely innocent as they could manage, not without a certain grim sense of humor. Tano had quite a fund of knowledge regarding the historic methods of firing of large porcelains that easily filled a quarter hour and enlightened the lot of them on the subject, though it probably disappointed any listeners. “My birth-mother’s brother-of-the-same-father was a collector,” Tano said, “of books on porcelains. I used to entertain myself with the pictures for hour upon hour.
One can even venture a guess that those were made in the same tradition as Lord Tatiseigi’s lilies.”

  Victim of more than one disaster, those porcelain lilies.

  And Tano went on into detail.

  “One hopes these beautiful things will stand untroubled,” Bren ventured to say, charitably, and as an advancement of policy. “One can only think, if tourism ever does extend here, they will certainly be greatly admired.”

  A knock came at the door. They had timed it admirably. Algini answered the door and allowed the entry of one of a pair of Machigi’s Guild guards. “Nand’ paidhi.” A bow. With use of the honorific that acknowledged the paidhi’s rank in the aishidi’tat: significant, courteous, and reflecting Lord Machigi’s usage, almost certainly—accompanying a gesture toward the door.

  “One is honored.” Bren acknowledged the courtesy with a nod, and gathered up only Banichi and Jago, precisely the arrangement when one guested under uncertain circumstances, and exactly what Machigi ought to expect—two of his aishid staying to protect the room, two to protect him and raise hell in the house if there were any untoward event. They would likewise eat by turns—him first, then Banichi and Jago, then Tano and Algini, who might have to wait quite late for it.

  It was what it was: chancy.

  But they walked downstairs with their escort, through the elegant hall and on to a brightly lit, quite open dining room.

  They walked in, and a waiting servant appeared to indicate a seat, of three, one other place besides Machigi’s. An intimate supper, then, with a long table and four servants, besides the obligatory bodyguard. And some third person, of Machigi’s choice.

  “Bren-ji,” Jago whispered urgently, brushing close to him. “Veijico has just arrived at the room, under guard.”

  Veijico. The other of Cajeiri’s bodyguard, who’d been tracking the kidnappers.

  Oh, give Machigi that: he knew damned well the news would get to him: they were not interfering with short-range communications.

  Veijico, whose brother he had personally set off the bus as an insupportable risk on this mission.

  Uncharitably, he could not think of a less stable individual to have in the middle of their operations. Or a more unanswerable puzzle to have land in the middle of negotiations.

  Where in hell was Barb?

  And he could not afford to have his thinking distracted by any personal question.

  Machigi showed up in the doorway, with an older man of some presence. Bren gave the correct bow, noting that the standard attendance of two bodyguards per notable provided Machigi and his guest with four, collectively . . . not as if they weren’t in the middle of an armed camp and a hostile city to boot.

  “My minister of affairs,” Machigi said pleasantly. “Lord Gediri.”

  “Lord Gediri.” A second bow, just before they sat down.

  And thereafter they had the rules of a formal dinner, which confined conversation to the weather—“One noted a large mass of cloud off the west coast . . . .”—and the surroundings—“We are all quite amazed by those notable porcelains in the outer hall, nandiin. Are they local?”—and the dinner—“One is exceedingly grateful for the special fish offering, nandi. One finds it excellent.”

  To which: “If we poison our guests we prefer it to be deliberate, nand’ paidhi.” Machigi and the minister were having sauce with theirs, but the simple, grilled preparation was a pleasant surprise.

  There was simple brandied fruit, besides, a safe item. Bread, which was safe if one dodged the pickle. Ilisidi would have taken to that dish in a moment.

  It was still best to eat slowly and be alert for effects. But there were none.

  Machigi maintained, over all, a pleasant tone to the affair. There was absolutely no mention of business . . . and they came down to the traditional after-dinner brandy, in the adjacent sitting-room, across the hall from the marvelous porcelains . . . still with bodyguards in attendance.

  “Thank you, nadi,” Bren said to the servant, and saluted Machigi and his minister with a slightly lifted glass. “A very pleasant evening, on very short notice. One is quite grateful for such a kind reception.” He had said not a word about a missing Guildswoman delivered to his quarters. Now he did. “Thank you, too, for returning the young woman. Might one ask a further favor?”

  Machigi lifted a brow ever so slightly. Perhaps he was expecting a request involving Barb.

  “There is a young man,” Bren said, “who may be making his way into your district, injured though he is. This is the young woman’s partner. If your forces do happen to encounter him, one would be very grateful for his safe return.”

  “How many people do you have wandering Taisigi land at present, nand’ paidhi?”

  He smiled. “Only those two.” And turned sober. “One apologizes for their intrusion. It is embarrassing, under the circumstances.”

  “Not at the dowager’s orders?”

  “No, nandi. They have been tracking Barb-daja. Whose whereabouts is a side issue, and not in my orders from the dowager.”

  “Orders which originated after you took down the Maschi lord.”

  “Temporally, yes, nandi. But not stemming from that action. My orders originated after actions at Najida brought down a Guild investigation. Hence her surmise, and her proposal.” A nod of respect. “And whether or not she is correct in her assignment of blame elsewhere in the Marid, I have seen enough to suggest she is absolutely correct in her assessment of your worth as an ally, nandi. If some of your subordinates, like mine, have exceeded orders, that is, so far as my judgment, irrelevant to the central point of the matter. You are a man of consequence. It would be to her detriment and yours to let fall so convenient an alliance.”

  Machigi looked at his minister, and looked back again, head tilted. “Convenient.”

  “Convenient, nandi. Your rule over the Marid becomes an asset to all associated powers. And the advantages available in that alliance are far more than any you would cede in the process.”

  “Allowing Edi piracy to operate unchecked.”

  “No. That will be another consequence of negotiations now underway. A strong Marid and a strong association on the coast can be better neighbors than that, considering the dowager’s potential influence with both. Even the aiji in Shejidan will be behind you in your rights on the shipping lanes, I can state that. Realistically, there may be some resistence to this on both sides. We both know that. But less and less, as both districts become sure of their benefits.”

  “We are naval powers. We do not accept armed ships in our waters.”

  “The dowager has no interest in the whereabouts of your ships. Your interests in that matter have no possible point of contact. Nor does she have a navy. I would be beyond my instructions to recall that there is one decent harbor in the East, never more than a fishing village. But it is a broad bay. A far sail, for the Marid. But who knows, for the future?”

  Machigi was silent for a moment, then looked briefly at his minister, and back to Bren, saying nothing, but thinking. Clearly thinking.

  It was the way atevi association worked. A network of alliances, each dictating the relationship to other networks. Alliance to a power so remote, so generally landlocked, so tied to a neighbor’s network—

  Could it be of advantage to Machigi?

  Would it provoke others in Machigi’s local associations?

  “We have reason to talk,” Machigi said, “nand’ paidhi. I do not say paidhi-aiji. You are speaking for another power at present.”

  “Yes. In this, I am. I am not in conflict, in doing so. If I am mistaken, I may end up resident at Malguri with the aiji-dowager. But I do not think I am mistaken in this, nandi.”

  “You have a certain reputation,” Machigi said, “as dispassionate. I see it is justified.”

  Dispassionate. That was an odd assessment. But, he supposed, being immune to certain atevi emotions, or picking them up only in theory, intellectually—he could seem dispassionate, by some standards. Certainly he had
no territorial history.

  “I am fascinated,” Machigi said further, “by your accent. Less Padi Valley, more of the classic South.”

  Southern. It could be analyzed that way . . . recalling that the South had been preeminent in the classic period, and that that was the origin of the South’s refusal to bow to the Padi Valley-based Ragi as leaders of the aishidi’tat. He bowed in acknowledgment of what was actually a compliment, with the southern conservatives. “My aishid’s accent,” he said, “is more southern. One is certainly aware of the ancient and honorable traditions of this region.”

  “I find myself continually amazed that that accent comes out of your mouth. And you do not stumble over kabiu.”

  “One is gratified by your notice, nandi.” Yet another bow.

  “We shall speak in the morning, nand’ paidhi. Sleep soundly tonight, upon the thought that the dowager is a very wise woman.”

  Did Machigi mean the dowager was right? That Machigi was being challenged?

  “Nandi.” He rose, and despite the brandy, despite the fact the pain of bruised ribs had settled to a certain level and stayed there—it didn’t stay there when he got up. It was with the utmost effort he kept his breathing even and his voice level—he feared his face had gone pale. “One is very grateful for your hospitality.”

  One of Machigi’s guards received Machigi’s signal and opened the door. He left, with Banichi and Jago close by him, and the first of Machigi’s men, and another, proceeding outward, escorted them to the stairs.

  He wasn’t sure he could climb those steps. It wasn’t poisoning, he was relatively sure of that. It wasn’t the brandy. He’d been moderate with that. He set his hand on the bannister and paused at the bottom.

  “Your patience, nadiin,” he said to the guards in the lead. “One had a minor mishap this morning.” Deep breath. He’d at least alerted Banichi and Jago to the likelihood the paidhi-aiji was apt to fall. But if he did—

  If he did he could alarm the two in front, who were armed and hair-triggered. “I am feeling quite short of breath, nadiin. Be it understood it was in no wise the fault of the dinner or the brandy. It has just been a very long day. A moment to catch my breath. A bruised rib.”