Resurgence

by C. J. Cherryh

  What is she feeling?

  One thing she will not do is melt.

  She will not give up her grandson, her great-grandson, or her allies. Most of all she will not give up her plans for the aishidi’tat.

  How do I advise her? What do I say to her that will make sense?

  In a word . . . nothing.

  Let her think. This is no territory for a human.

  * * *

  • • •

  The Red Train offered unblemished comfort, and they could sit and sip tea in red velvet luxury while things loaded. The bus went fairly smoothly back onto the flatcar that had brought it, to be dropped off for repair. And simultaneously, with local workers to help, crates went into the baggage car.

  In short order, they were ready to move.

  There was, besides the Red Car’s usual amenities, the dowager’s serving staff and a galley which gave forth all manner of light delicacies for a formal tea—no few of a sort poisonous to humans, but delicious spice to atevi tastes, clear as the arrangement of red flowers and black stones in the center that it was a meal mostly aimed at Ilisidi—her favorite things, set up by Bujavid staff. The paidhi-aiji who had arrived in the center of the controversy had an auspicious trio of white flowers and a pale branch in the mix, vastly overcome by red, and he did not need Jago’s warning to avoid the sauces.

  One was very glad to stay understated at the moment, while the dowager worked on improving her own mood.

  “Well,” was Ilisidi’s comment, seeing the extravagant display. A somewhat mollified: “Well.”

  They settled on the comfortable bench seat, with small tables placed; staff, both bodyguards and attending servants, were likewise made comfortable for the trip.

  Then the dowager said quite calmly, as if she had settled her mind and come to terms with the issue: “Clearly my grandson will need to focus on the changing situation in the north. Clearly then we may dispose the issues in the south.”

  She even smiled when she said it.

  That, Bren thought, was potentially worrisome, but it was better than confrontation with Damiri. She was coming to a decision on Machigi, and on a quarter of the continent for which she had had plans and seen them frustrated for decades.

  She had made some sort of decision.

  “Trust your great-grandson, aiji-ma,” he said, perhaps completely off-topic regarding the dowager’s intended discussion, but direct to a major point. “One does not believe your teaching can produce anything in him but good sense, and I have no doubt he will gain his sister’s man’chi. A human can hardly judge, but he will always be fortunate nine years older than she. He will advise her by principles you have taught him, aiji-ma. And if I understand anything at all, he will be extremely anxious now to hear your opinion of his reasoning.”

  “The aiji-consort lost no time. She has planned this from before that child was born.”

  “It may be. But was not Lord Tatiseigi’s original plan decades ago to tie Ajuri to him, to stand off Kadagidi?”

  “That woman has her own agenda.”

  “And cannot it be fulfilled, and still serve Lord Tatiseigi’s interests? The aiji-consort’s daughter will be important, certainly, but your grandson is aiji and your great-grandson will be, one day. He is the one who will deal with the future. And he is far more like his father.”

  “Inconveniently independent,” Ilisidi muttered. But the expression was softer.

  “And if his sister should likewise take after her father, aiji-ma, who will understand her more than her brother? And if she does take after her mother, do you think her brother cannot understand that, too?”

  “My grandson to this day does not read that woman well.”

  “Perhaps, aiji-ma, Damiri-daja is changing. Does not time and experience have some effect? She has gotten past her feud with her uncle. That has changed.”

  “Ha! That has changed one way and the other for decades.”

  “Now, however, she has a daughter who is also your great-granddaughter.”

  There was a silence after that. “That should worry everyone,” Ilisidi said, but seemed in slightly better humor. “Well, well, there are years to prove, are there not? How much will you tell my grandson of my interview with Machigi?”

  God. What a question. Tabini needed to know all of it. “I am bound to tell him, aiji-ma.”

  “But you can cast it favorably or unfavorably, can you not?”

  “I shall give both facts and opinion, aiji-ma, as I always do. I know only one thing for fact. You have never harmed the aishidi’tat. I am certain your grandson will ask what you intend to do with Machigi’s idea. May one then ask—what do you intend?”

  A slow, wicked, absolutely pleased smile spread on Ilisidi’s face. Even the eyes participated, hooded and golden. “My favorite human. You are predictably unpredictable in your own actions. I also hold the opinion you would never harm the aishidi’tat.”

  “I would not, aiji-ma.”

  “Well,” Ilisidi said, smiled, asked for more tea, and that was the end of discussion on that matter, all the way to Shejidan. Ilisidi remained quiet and thoughtful through a very, very long train ride.

  One was glad to nap, finally, and not to anticipate what one was going to say to Tabini—but it assuredly had to be something.

  * * *

  • • •

  Arrival in the Bujavid station was late. Ilisidi was stiff and out of sorts about it, which was actually a good sign—she was not actively planning anything except a late supper, and early bed.

  Bren delayed on the train platform with a staff matter—deliberately delayed regarding the disposition of his personal wardrobe crate, a maneuver which let Ilisidi have the lift to herself and Cenedi and her bodyguard, leaving her staff behind to manage her baggage, and not dividing up the Guild presence.

  One could feel a little sorry for Cenedi—Cenedi would get the benefit of the dowager’s bluntly honest and probably peeved discussion tonight: that, one was certain would happen as soon as they were off the lift and safely enclosed again in their own apartment upstairs. Cenedi was the dowager’s longest-present and closest confidant, her first advisor, having her ear before anyone, be it her grandson or the paidhi-aiji, and Cenedi would quietly talk her into a reasonable course and better frame of mind. Bren believed it, as he believed Cenedi would relay any alteration of her already-stated views over to Banichi, and Banichi would tell him how things were really going.

  No, things were not always smooth with the dowager when she was crossed. He had his own introduction to her to teach him that. But he was, so far as she was concerned, one of hers, and that was that. She would reach a conclusion. With luck, she would tell him what she would do before she did it, and she would certainly want to know what he had said to Tabini and how Tabini viewed it.

  Would she ask Tabini? Oh, that awarded far too many points to Tabini. That would not happen until she already knew the answer.

  He was ever so glad to reach his own door, and to be welcomed in by staff—the same, he was sure, for all of them. Hands took their traveling coats, and there was the aroma of pizza in the air, a household tradition—despite their sojourn on Mospheira and a lengthy exposure to that cuisine. It was home. It was perfect. The bowl of correspondence on the foyer table had been reduced to three ribbon-tied bundles of cylinders, neatly arranged, examined as to urgency, and in a number far, far better than he had expected.

  His valets, Koharu and Supani, had filled Narani and Jeladi’s posts in his absence. Those four were all smiles and happy to have things back to normal. Bindanda was there, Cook, come out from his kitchen to see them arrive. The domestics were there, who saw to the details, who kept everyone’s laundry and the kitchen linens and service pieces in good order. There was so much work in a household—he was only the public face of it; there was correspondence and accounting, purchasing and prepari
ng and keeping records. His was not even an establishment that held regular dinners and large meetings, but he received reports, stacks and bundles of reports, which had to be sifted for significance. All the machinery of the paidhi’s office closed about him with the comfort of home, familiar faces, absolute trust and safety.

  And a quick scan proved the message-cylinders, thank God, were not worrisome.

  He could go into his own sitting room, cast himself into his favorite chair and draw a truly easy breath for the first time since he’d come ashore. Banichi and the rest could go shed the armament, hang up their gear and truly rest, which they had not done since they had left this apartment. Narani would take up his post as major domo, but tonight was holiday, the buffet was being laid out in the dining room, the pizzas in the oven filled the place with the scent of baking bread, and all of them who had made the trip were to do nothing but let others serve.

  The dowager was likely receiving the same sort of welcome. Lord Tatiseigi was, staff reported to him, in his residence down the hall; Damiri-daja, Cajeiri and the baby were safely home in Tabini’s apartments next door; the claimant for Ajuri was lodged in diplomatic splendor downstairs, and the Bujavid had not broken out in armed conflict.

  He had arrived prepared to be summoned over to Tabini’s apartment to debrief tonight, but no summons came, for which he was deeply grateful. He had the supper Bindanda had laid out, and after that there was his own bed, exactly as he liked it, and Jago came to share it. The both of them were tired, but not that tired, and the fire, after so many days of caution, was in full force. The Bujavid was always cold—Shejidan had the winds off the mountain ridge; and there was a spot in the middle of an atevi-scale bed where shared warmth made a common refuge.

  Home. Finally.

  9

  The summons from Tabini did come, for a meeting after breakfast, and breakfast was, after all the extravagance of supper, a small one—a little toast, an egg, a cup of tea—anticipating there would be tea before the meeting, as well.

  And it was to be not the downstairs office, but the intimacy and informality of Tabini’s sitting room, for which Bren was also grateful. It was just a walk next door, with only Tano and Algini in attendance, turn about in shifts, as Banichi and Jago enjoyed a leisurely morning and a late breakfast.

  They knocked at the door, were admitted to the foyer.

  And ambushed from the adjacent apartment—Cajeiri, in shirt sleeves and barefoot, no less, in the foyer.

  “Nand’ Bren!” An enthusiastic, child’s deep bow. And a beaming face. “One is glad you are safe!”

  “Was there a doubt?” Bren answered.

  “Never!” the rascal said. “Not with your aishid!” As two of Cajeiri’s own arrived from the apartment, clearly taken by surprise. “And my associates?”

  “All very well,” Bren said, “and settled in—you remember Kate-aiji. She is with them. And Sandra-daja, whom you have not met. But she is there, taking care of all of them.”

  “I so want a phone call!”

  “Be patient, young gentleman. But I do have—” He reached inside his coat, and extracted a thick packet of densely-printed paper, folded in the island way.

  “Letters!”

  “They are letters from your associates, young sir. I was handed them before I left, and they are clearly printed. I have asked your father, so thank him for the permission. There is a slight difficulty—they are part in Ragi, part in ship-speak, all in human characters. But I think you have been able to work it out in the past.”

  “I can do it!” Cajeiri said, receiving them into his hands, and gave another bow. “Thank you, nand’ Bren! Thank you!”

  “Ask me if you have any questions. They wrote them before landing, so they have no information on their new lodgings, but I can say it is a handsome old building, historic and very comfortable. They will be learning to write in Ragi, so I dare say they will be more informative in their next letters, which will come now with the regular mail.”

  “Thank you, thank you!” Cajeiri fairly beamed. “Thank you ever so much. And one is very glad you are home!”

  “That I am,” Bren said, and meant it.

  “Is everything all right with mani?”

  “Your great-grandmother is naturally concerned about your welfare and Lord Tatiseigi’s, and she has a great deal to think about, but she is indeed considering the changes, young gentleman. She is quite tired from the trip, so take that into account, but it would be good for you to talk to her.”

  A very sober face. “Yes,” Cajeiri said. “She is not at all pleased, is she?”

  “She is concerned for you and for your sister. It would be best for you to talk to her without too much information from me.”

  “One understands,” Cajeiri said solemnly. “I shall.”

  Brave lad, Bren thought, but a boy who understood his great-grandmother. He would go. And he would find his own way to Ilisidi’s good graces.

  Himself, he received a nod from Tabini’s Guild-senior. Tabini was waiting, and he had to go.

  “I shall give your father my report,” Bren said.

  “Nand’ Bren.” Cajeiri gave a polite little bow, and stayed as Bren went down the hall to the meeting.

  * * *

  • • •

  Barefoot and shirt sleeves was not the form in which to meet mani on any day. But, too, full court dress represented Father’s heir, and all the changes; and Cajeiri had a sense that his country wardrobe, comfortable and junior-like, plain leather and a dark red shirt—was the best way to pay the needful visit.

  Nothing puffed up and ceremonial. Mani might be all prickly and insist on cups and cups of tea, but he was going to come in quietly and just sit there and listen if he had to. He really, truly did not want to be caught between Mother and mani in a quarrel about Great-uncle.

  Mani was up, and had just had breakfast. His seniormost Guild found that out from Nawari, messaging up and down the hall. Mani was willing to see him.

  That had not been a given.

  * * *

  • • •

  “One does not believe this is the best day to introduce everybody,” Cajeiri said to Rieni, and Rieni wisely agreed—Great-grandmother’s disposition was no secret at all, and that her mood was not going to be the best . . . they were all keenly aware that the absence of the bus had inconvenienced her significantly.

  So their understanding was one problem solved. Veijico and Lucasi were happy to stay behind—going just down the hall in the Bujavid, on an informal visit, did not take an entire Guild unit. So it was only Antaro and Jegari, whom mani had known longest, and who also were capable of being very still and attracting no attention. Hunting skills were very useful when Great-grandmother was in a bad mood.

  As for himself, he knew what he was walking into, and he was resolved to accept anything that came. He took his precious letters with him, because, well, if mani decided he could wait a while, he would have something to do; and if mani decided to bring down storm and thunder, they were a comfort just being there. His country coat had ample pockets, and he put them in one, and headed out of the foyer and down the hall, seeing nobody on duty outside, which meant it would be a very bad idea to knock without an invitation. He had Antaro do that, and it was a very quiet knock, three soft raps.

  Nawari let them in, advised them mani was in her sitting room, and that was probably the best news he could ask for. Tea. There would certainly be tea and a moment to sit and take stock of mani’s mood. He hoped for it, and just to let mani look at him and maybe find herself a little less upset.

  He entered the sitting room: Antaro and Jegari quietly took stations in the usual places, with Cenedi in sole attendance on mani. Cajeiri took the appropriately placed chair and sat down very quietly, very properly.

  Mani was reading letters. She did not look at him. She signaled a servant, who busied himsel
f at the sideboard and offered tea—mani first, and then a cup for him.

  Mani took a sip. He took a sip.

  “Well,” mani said, finally looking at him, head to toe. “Well. You are very informal today.”

  Mani was not. Mani was in court dress, black, with rubies at her collar.

  “Yes, mani-ma,” he said.

  “Is there a reason?”

  “I am home, mani-ma,” he said.

  Mani nodded. “One can appreciate that. Home. So.” She set down her cup. He set down his. “So. I am told you have news.”

  “I have letters,” he said. It was not the brightest thing he had ever said, there being so much else—but mani already knew those things, and was stalking certain other subjects. He put a hand on his pocket, embarrassed now that he had said it, but it was the only news that was a surprise and a diversion.

  Mani did look a little surprised. Even a little amused, perhaps because she saw right through him. “Nand’ Bren brought them?”

  “He did. He is meeting with Father right now.”

  “So what do these letters say?”

  “One has no idea, mani. I only just now got them. And they are written in human characters and part Ragi and part ship, and it will take me time to work them out. But I wanted to come see you.”

  Great-grandmother nodded slowly. “Well. We are glad to rate so highly with someone in the family.”

  “Everyone is afraid of you, mani.”

  He did not expect to say that particular thing. Mani could do that to people—make them make mistakes they were not even thinking of. And when mani was already angry it was not a good idea to put her off with compliments.