Intruder

by C. J. Cherryh

  And Jeladi! Jeladi, his sometime valet, who had been their man-of-all-work aboard ship, who now would assist Narani at the door and with the accounts.

  Then came Kandara, and Palaidi, and Junari…all, all welcome and happy faces, men who had been on a grand adventure and now might have—finally—a chance to visit their homes in Najida village.

  Bren descended a step. But Jago put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Narani will need assistance, nadiin-ji,” he protested.

  “Then you must stay here, nand’ paidhi,” Jago said firmly and primly, “freeing your bodyguard to do that service.”

  Wherewith, she easily skipped to the ground as the senior company from the bus made their way toward the train. The younger members of the company had started offloading their bulkier stored baggage, a great deal of it, from the bus.

  There would be gifts for family, all manner of mementoes of their service on the station—one could by no means handle such things roughly or without consideration. Banichi got down and headed for them to assist.

  Narani reached the bus. And with these people, hang back as he must, Bren had no solemn formality at all. He offered Narani his hand for assistance up the last step, took a good grip on the door frame and assisted Bindanda—who had not lost any of his girth—and one after the other of the others. Banichi and Jago arrived hindmost, shepherding the baggage handling, and they and the younger folk heaved their loads up into the car in a happy and noisy chaos. Atevi on public occasions showed very little emotion, all stiff formality, but there was none of that reserve in this moment: everyone fairly beamed with happiness, even Bindanda, and most of all gentle Narani. Hugs were out of the question. There were simply deep bows, repeated deep bows, and very, very happy staff, while baggage was shifted and people found seats.

  “Nandi,” Narani said more than once, “you do us very great honor. One by no means expected the paidhi-aiji to come in person.”

  “I would have walked here barefoot to see you, Rani-ji, and you, Danda-ji, and all of you, and you know it! Welcome back! Welcome home! We have made our best efforts to put things in order in the apartment, as best we could, with the help of some young folk from Najida, and a young cook, Danda-ji, who is terrified of meeting you and so much hopes to have your good opinion. And by no means shall any of you delay meeting family. If any of you—any of you—have urgent need to visit your own houses for any reason, nadiin-ji, we shall make every effort to get you there and back again; and you all, in precedence of service, may have a week in Najida, at your pleasure and my expense. Nadiin-ji! One is so very, very glad to see your faces again!”

  There were more bows. Protestations that none of them, not one! would leave until the household was in good order.

  “You all resume your rank and your duties,” he said, “except, Jeladi—”

  “Nandi!”

  “You know your circumstances, that you will assist Narani-nadi!”

  “Yes, nandi!”

  “One has the greatest confidence, nadi! Sit, be at ease. We have every sort of beverage and fruit juice. But mind, mind, we shall have pizza on our return to the Bujavid, and you must arrive in good appetite!”

  That roused a cheer. Fruit juice was the overwhelming favorite choice, and the youngest took over service. They had at least two rounds before the train began the careful climb up to the Bujavid train station.

  From there it became a traveling celebration, a laughable effort trying to get all the baggage into the baggage office, and arranging to transport it themselves.

  Upstairs, then, in more than one elevator load, their advance guard reached the front door—where Supani and Koharu met them. Koharu with some little ceremony turned over the keys to Narani right from the start. “An honor to do so, nadi,” Koharu said graciously, and with that, Narani resumed the post that was his.

  Bindanda, now—Bindanda sniffed air redolent of fresh-baked pizza and said, with extraordinary charity and good humor, “The paidhi seems very ably served in the kitchen.”

  Which was not to say Bindanda did not immediately head down the hall to the kitchen in his shirt sleeves, having handed off his outdoor coat and not even having changed to kitchen whites, bent on inspecting the kitchen operation.

  Tano and Algini had made it back to the apartment not long before them. “Go rescue Pai-nadi, nadiin-ji,” Bren said to them under his breath, for fear their young cook would simply wilt at the sight of Bindanda, and those two headed toward that venue on a mission of mercy, right on Bindanda’s heels.

  Supani and Koharu having gotten back to their own assignment, however, the hated vest could now come off, and Bren slipped on a light coat for house wear, while the staff settled into their rooms backstairs. It was suddenly a completely staffed household, a lively household and a happy one, even in the kitchen.

  And within the half hour, pizza began to pour from the kitchen to the dining room in an extremely informal service. It was the atevi recipe—green, laced with alkaloid, all except one special one. It was a dish that newly established custom declared proper to eat standing, with drink in hand, even while touring the premises on a festive occasion. Even Narani put away three pieces and Jeladi certainly more than that—not to mention Bindanda, who must have accounted for one entire pizza himself, to Pai’s great delight.

  Then staff, having toured the revisions to the apartment, settled on available chairs in the sitting room—and long past supper and an offering of brandy, they all traded stories, stories of life on the station during the Troubles and stories from the Najida folk of how they had stolen the paidhi’s furniture from the Bujavid—details that Bren had not himself heard, and he had to laugh at Koharu’s account of getting a room-sized carpet past two guards.

  It was a splendid evening. Everybody got along famously, and everyone drank a bit more wine and brandy than proper; there was laughter, and good humor, and in due time—bed and quiet.

  “Such a day,” Bren said into Jago’s ear when they were both abed. “Such a good day.”

  “In every respect,” Jago said, and sighed.

  10

  Morning. And in Father’s household, unlike mani’s, they all almost never had breakfast together. Or lunch. Sometimes they had supper. Every few days they had supper.

  But it was a surprise to be asked to breakfast with Father and Mother. At first one feared one’s parents had found out about Boji.

  Cajeiri scrubbed and dressed and turned out in his best, all the while asking himself what other bad thing could happen or how he would handle it if his worst fears came true.

  But once he entered into the dining room, he was perfectly cheerful. He had learned from Great-grandmother never to let worry show on his face, because then there would surely be questions about one’s bad mood, and then one would be obliged to tell much more than one wished and end up defending oneself before ever being challenged.

  If the two servants he had tending to his apartment had taken a report about Boji to his father, he was going to be more than put out.

  But again, one dared not let worry show. One just appreciated the breakfast, which was very traditional and actually quite good, and thanked the cook. And tried to be smart.

  Since nothing came up after service was done, he decided it could even be one of those times when his parents had decided to notice him and have breakfast with their son the way other families did.

  If that was the case, that was nice. Or it would have been nice if he had anything entertaining to say. Mother and Father had talked about the legislative session and the Communications Guild, while he tried to keep a pleasant expression throughout that dull stuff, and when after-breakfast talk was done, he decided he might be able to just slip out quietly and go about his own business.

  “Son of mine,” his father said, stopping him halfway to rising.

  He settled. “Honored Father.”

  “Come to my office.”

  This was not good. Not at all good. It could be about lessons. But he a
nd his tutor had gotten along.

  Maybe that was all Father wanted to ask him: how the tutor was doing. He would say, I want this tutor, and his father would say that was fine and let him go.

  His father and mother went their separate ways in the hall; his mother remarked on his coat and cautioned him not to wear it except on special occasions.

  “One thought this was a special occasion this morning, honored Mother,” he said, which brought a little frown to his mother’s face.

  “Well, we shall have to do it far more often,” she said, which was not what he wanted to hear. And she patted his shoulder and then went her way to her suite, while his father had already walked on into the main hall with two of his bodyguard in tow.

  Cajeiri had not brought his own guard to stand duty at breakfast, it being inside the apartment. But when he got to the office, his father’s guard took up their posts outside, and one opened the door for them, and shut it when they were inside. It gave the visit an uncomfortably formal feeling, as if he were some kind of offender being brought to court.

  “Well,” Father said, settling into his chair at his desk, with stacks of papers and books everywhere about that were mostly classified, and with the important business of the whole world spread about them. “You do look very fine this morning, son of mine.”

  “Thank you, honored Father.” It called for a bow. He made it, hoping hard that this really was only about the tutor and his lessons.

  “You are still content with your tutor.”

  “Very much so, honored Father.”

  “A wonder. One has also a good report from him.”

  “One is gratified, honored Father.”

  His father turned to his desk and took up a small, fat envelope. It was a curious envelope. It had that glassy kind of look that did not belong on earth. It was so transparent one could see writing on it. His father laid it in the midst of his other papers. He wished he could read what it said at this distance, but it was impossible.

  “The shuttle has landed,” his father said, “and brought with it a letter.”

  His heart had already picked up its beats. Now it beat faster still, but he was not sure whether he was in trouble or not.

  “A letter, honored Father.”

  “You sent a message, this time by Lord Geigi.”

  Faster and faster, and with suddenly far less hope of possessing that letter. He was definitely in trouble, maybe Lord Geigi was, thanks to him, and quibbling would not help matters. “Yes, honored Father.”

  “You are determined, are you not, to keep up relations with your associates on the ship.”

  “These are valuable associates, honored Father.”

  “You think so. They are not the sons and daughters of aijiin. They have no connections.”

  He had never heard that objection to his associations. He had never even considered that objection. And he pounced on the only logic he could think of.

  “The ship-aijiin have no children, honored Father.”

  “You know that, do you?”

  “None my age, at least, honored Father. But—”

  “Continue your thought. One wishes to hear your reasoning.”

  He had never reasoned any logic for his choice of companions, except that they were accessible. There had been more kids, but a handful—a handful were the best ones.

  “They have good qualities,” he said. His head had gone spinning off into ship-speak, and it was hard to find words in Ragi to describe these associates. “And they are valuable.” A thought struck him. “Nand’ Bren is not the son of an aiji, is he, honored Father?”

  “He is not,” his father said. “Humans form their associations differently. Yet one might suggest that you are a more valuable associate for them than they to you.”

  That envelope was about Gene and Artur and Irene and Bjorn. It could be from them. But if he asked for it, his father would probably say no, and that would be the end of the discussion for years. So he fought to think straight, and not to panic, and not to lose his words. (Lose your words, his great-grandmother would say, after thwacking him on the ear, and you lose your argument. Lose your argument, and you lose what you dearly want. Think, boy! What are your words?)

  “Humans form their associations differently.” He answered his father with his father’s own words. “They do not have to be the sons and daughters of aijiin. I make them important.”

  His father blinked, at least a sign that he was impressed. “And they have good qualities, you say. What are these qualities?”

  “They are clever. They are forward. They know things.”

  “And their man’chi?”

  He saw that trap and stepped right across it. “Their man’chi is like nand’ Bren’s.”

  “One doubts it is that extraordinary,” Father said. “But it has impressed you.”

  “They are strong,” he said. “They are quick. They have protected me.”

  “Protected you.”

  “They have taken the blame for me, honored Father, when I was stupid.”

  “An impressive gift. So.” Father was quiet for a moment. “And you were ordered, strictly, to forego this association.”

  “I was ordered. But I have learned it would be improper for me, honored Father, to disrespect their man’chi.”

  “That is how you read them, in particular. All of them.”

  Another trap. It was a test.

  “Gene, and Artur, and Irene, honored Father. And Bjorn. Bjorn is a year older. One does not believe the rest have such man’chi, but these four. These four.”

  “A fortunate number for an aishid. Was that your thought?”

  “I have an aishid, honored Father, and they shall be. But Gene, and Artur, and Irene—they are the three I would most rely on. Bjorn I would rely on to help me and to fight for me. But Gene, and Artur, and Irene, honored Father, these three would be with me through anything. Bjorn has man’chi to them most. But to me, too. I am older, now, and much wiser.”

  Father nodded. “And you think it unjust that we have severed you from these persons.”

  He could get angry if he let himself. Anger, mani would say, is your enemy’s servant.

  “I know why you have ordered it, honored Father. I need to be with atevi. I shall live here and not in space. I shall need to know things I could not learn in space. I need to know atevi and not to be confused about what I am. I need to learn man’chi. I need to learn from atevi.” It was a recital, of things all the adults around him had said, over and over. “Now I know what everybody was telling me about grown-up feelings. Now I know what you and mani wanted to teach me about that. Now I am ready.”

  His father leaned back in his chair, as he would do when he was taking a view of something, and ending a conversation. “You are almost fortunate nine. And extraordinarily precocious.”

  “One hopes to be respectful.” He had learned to say that under the threat of a thwack on the ear. “Honored Father.”

  “Are you? Respectful?”

  His heart ticked up. “One wishes always to be respectful, honored Father.”

  “Yet you send secret messages by a lord who may in the future wish your favor.”

  “Nand’ Bren says Lord Geigi is honest and I should rely on him. But nand’ Bren has man’chi to you, and so does Lord Geigi. So I know he would have told you. But I suppose he might have forgotten to tell you. Things were very confused at Najida.”

  “Oh, do not be elusive, son of mine. It hardly becomes an aiji. Speak your mind.”

  “Then you should not be angry at Lord Geigi for sending my message. I am the one. I was not proper to him, to ask him to carry a message you would not approve. I did not expect him to send it. He may not have known you disapproved.”

  His father’s face was quite grim. “He is no fool. Do you think he is?”

  “Not at all. But he may be busy.”

  “It was quite clever. He did come to me. I told him to send the message. And all the rest.”

  �
�All my other letters?”

  “I saved them.”

  He drew a deep, slow breath. Bowed, which was always a good idea when the conversation was getting tense.

  “Honored Father.”

  “So here is your answer,” Father said, nudging the glassy envelope closer. “A letter carried down on the shuttle. One inquired of Jase-aiji as to the propriety of the exchange.”

  “Jase-aiji.” Jase-aiji was one of nand’ Bren’s associates. Jase-aiji had been good to him, on the ship.

  “I asked him, through the ship-paidhi, how your association with these persons stands. He responded that they often ask about you and often wish their good will sent to you. You are right. The association has not broken, though strongly encouraged to break.”

  A second deep breath. A second bow. He did not trust his voice. His heart was beating for all he was worth.

  “These three,” his father said, “and the fourth, are an inconvenient symmetry in ages. There will be comment on that, among the ’counters. And much as we belittle the ’counters for folly, there is reason in this. There is something missing. One does not think it is this Bjorn person, who wrote only briefly and formally and has entered technical preparation on the ship. He will not come.”

  “One—has no idea, honored Father.”

  “There will be someone,” his father said. “A fourth. Everyone will say so. But you are approaching your ninth and felicitous year, and one has asked oneself what sort of celebration there should be. Your grandfather and your great-uncle will of course have their plans, and their regional ambitions, about which you know something.”

  “I know, honored Father. But—”

  “Do not interrupt me.”

  “Forgive me.”

  “I am having a generous moment. I am having an extremely generous moment—and perhaps a moment of far less charity toward these pestilential regional ambitions. I shall not have a civil war breaking out between your grandfather and your great-uncle, or between your mother and me, or between me and my grandmother. Each will deplore the other’s influence. Half will deplore the association with nand’ Bren, half will support it. And it is in my mind to give everyone something else to deplore, if I can prevail upon Jase-aiji to move the parents of these three young people to permit them to attend you on your birthday—down and back up to the station again on the same shuttle cycle. Would that please you, son of mine?”