They were old people, most of them, without spouses, and the food was plain, very plain, starting with, of all things, porridge. For supper. For an important dinner. And without sugar.
Cajeiri sampled it. Which was a good thing, because the porridge was better than the boiled vegetables of the next course. He pushed that offering slightly under the bones of the ammidet, which he had never eaten, and was not sure would ever be eaten in the midlands, but his reading had warned him these folk were much on traditional fare, and were intensely observant of kabiumaro, meaning they would never seat four at table and that they would be keenly aware of every flower in the centerpieces, whether it was a fortunate arrangement or whether it carried some hidden and insulting message.
Well, yes, it did. It carried the message that their kabiutera had worked hard to impress, and the flowers were chosen to offend no one’s heraldry. They were expressive of good will, and the aiji’s power. He was not a kabiutera, but it all looked good to him. The service was good china, not extravagant, fine crystal, not the most extravagant in the state collection. And instead of the usual presentation of special utensils and special goblets and all the fuss of a state dinner, the settings were what one would have served on a tray. It was, as state dinners went, austere, with very few sauces, very plain food, and a few dishes—the ammidet and the vegetables—of which he had had enough for a lifetime.
Light talk ran to hunting. Father could talk about hunting and mecheiti for hours, and Mother said nothing at all, just smiled and nodded.
He had his own mecheita. He did. She was resident with Great-uncle, in his herd, out of mani’s breeding, a granddaughter of the great Babsidi. And if they wanted to talk about mecheiti, he would be very happy to discuss that. He almost made a comment.
But very rapidly they were on to trapping, and the proper way to set snares, about which he knew nothing. It was interesting, in a way, but talk about bait was not what he had ever heard at a state dinner.
He managed hardly three words that were not to his mother during dinner, when it was not proper to discuss business. His mother smiled, discussed the weather, decried the heat, and suggested the public gardens might be pleasant. That was all, while his father discussed the merits of high country hunting.
There was, at long last, the brandy session, in which the guests repaired to the sitting room with Mother and Father, and in which Cajeiri, with a fruit juice he judged to look as little like a fruit juice as possible, managed to observe to the elderly lord of Musuri clan that he had seen pictures of the Musuri clan hall, and found it quite interesting.
“Drafty place,” was the old lord’s comment, before he launched a question to Father regarding an appropriation bill.
Frustrating. He made another attempt with the lord of Darbin, asking whether they fished in Darbin Lake, since fishing was something he knew at least a little about. “In winter, yes,” was the unexplained answer—unexplained, since the lord of Darbin immediately entered his own objections to his father regarding the appropriations bill and the shift of policy toward the south, notably the Marid.
“I know something about that,” Cajeiri said, and found himself outright ignored as the lord addressed himself to a fellow lord, and both directed their questions to his father, who Cajeiri hoped would back his assertion.
His father was dealing with two, however, and the numbers would be infelicitous if he put in his own opinion, besides that his father needed no help. He drew a deep breath, then sipped his fruit juice and tried to find another conversation.
Conversations eluded him, one after the other. He was seated out of position to reach others, and simply got up and walked over to introduce himself personally, and to hear and mark names, but one flatly turned his shoulder to him, and that was unbearable.
There was, however, a call for silence, as his father called for attention, and summoned him with a gesture.
“We have heard a question,” his father said, “as to the disposition of these foreign visitors, and whether we may look for peace in the heavens. Son of mine, you were there.”
He walked near, bowed, properly, and faced the company with a placid expression.
“We did meet them,” he said, “and there is a treaty.”
“We have heard,” the lord of Darbin said, “that the paidhi-aiji wrote this document entirely on his own, without reference to the hasdrawad or the tashrid, scarcely even consulting the aiji-dowager.”
“No, nandi,” Cajeiri said. “He did not. We all talked to the kyo, and we all talked with nand’ Bren, and nand’ Bren and Lord Prakuyo an Tep wrote the document.”
“A child, a human, and the Lord of Malguri,” someone said, behind the lord of Darbin. “This is not a consultation with the tashrid.”
“Would you have gone up, nandiin?” Father asked, in that voice that could ring through arguments. “We saw no rush to the port to help deal with this situation. We received no requests to mediate. These three individuals managed to avert war in the first encounter with the kyo, and these were the individuals most reasonable to meet with them a second time.”
“The kyo asked for us to come, nandi,” Cajeiri tried to say, but:
“There is still,” Lord Musuri said, “the necessity to pass on it. Only the dowager could legitimately sign it.”
“The paidhi-aiji representing me could well sign it,” Father said sharply, “as could my invested heir, speaking for the future, nandi, though he did not, and left that decision to my representative. The tashrid may ratify a treaty. The tashrid will ratify this one, at my request. And the fact that we are not, at the moment, standing in smoking ruins . . . is to the credit of our negotiators and our allies. We are not capable, with four shuttles incapable of defense, of standing off these visitors were they less well-disposed.”
“It was folly ever to venture up there, into affairs which do not concern us.”
“Because you decline to defend your valley, nandi, because you do not choose to see the shadows in the woods, do you think this protects you against those shadows should they come with weapons? Whoever looks down from the space station sees everything, and might take everything, were we not the ones in charge. We are in charge, we do have a presence watching over the world. And our people are up there able to deal with such things sensibly. And instantly.”
“So do these folk come from higher in the heavens?”
“Farther, nandi,” Cajeiri said sharply, this time determined to be heard, “and at great speeds. And over great distances. They are at war, far distant from us. They came to be sure we were well-disposed to them, being at their backs, and nand’ Bren has written that treaty so they are a border defending us from whatever lies beyond them. They are polite, they are different from anything ever seen, and they may come back some day, when their war is done, to visit us. That is also in the treaty.”
“Aiji-ma,” the man said, glancing instead at Father, “does a child assure us these foreigners will regard them as binding once they have no war to distract them?”
“For that,” Father said, “we rely on the written and signed word, as we have on treaties throughout our history, treaties negotiated by paidhiin centuries gone. The words live. The words bind the aishidi’tat together. And define our holdings. Gods less fortunate, nandiin, what do you demand of visitors who could light up the world in fire? We have talked reasonably, we have concluded a mutual agreement not to intrude in each other’s affairs, and they pronounce themselves satisfied. That looks like victory to me.”
“Then what is this talk of them coming back?”
“We can initiate a visit,” Cajeiri said, “if we desire, nandi.”
“Well, there is no sensible reason to do so. I can think of none.”
I can, was the retort Cajeiri wanted to give. He hesitated two heartbeats, and Father said, instantly, and sharply, “The point is, nandiin, that there are many more foreign sort
s out there, some of them perhaps near enough to worry about. Do we think that because the heavens have delivered us humans from one star, and kyo from another, while we are born from a third, that there are no more foreign folk out there in a heaven so crowded with stars? The Astronomer Emeritus comes from your district, Lord Heinuri. Ask him how many stars there may be. And does it not suggest to us that any meeting that concludes in a document in three languages makes us more, and not less, apt to survive? We are not in the situation of our ancestors, who sat in fortresses walled about, and fought over wells and fields. We are land-rich. We have every rock and hill in every world that circles our sun, and there are five worlds, nandiin, not to mention the moons. But what we need, nandiin, is not more land. We need allies out there beyond our boundaries, good allies, who have their own lands to manage, and who do not see any advantage in having ours.”
“How are we to know what they think, aiji-ma?”
“Because we have talked with them,” Cajeiri said, out of turn. “Because we have played chess, and exchanged gifts, and because they are sensible people. I have talked with them. I can talk to them, and I intend to do so if they return.”
There were two heartbeats of unpleasant silence. Then his mother said, “We are far too worried about things which will not happen soon, or perhaps at all. Brandy, nandiin, and perhaps a wafer to go with it.”
That was the last sensible conversation, as mani would put it. When a dinner turned out contentious, or particularly happy, either one, the brandy might flow, and the anger would settle. Most of the time.
It worked well, generally with these folk, one of whom had to be helped by his bodyguard. But it was just an upsetting evening.
“You did well,” his father said, after their apartment was their own again, and his father met him in the hall.
“I did not,” he said. He was embarrassed, he was angry, and he was very little from swearing vengeance on the lord of Darbin, futile as it was.
“It is to the good of the aishidi’tat that we hear unpleasant things. That way they are said to us, where the light shines, and sometimes the light shines brightly enough that a thought gets through. You had a good influence.”
“They simply do not see. They think the kyo have a large city somewhere a little more distant than the moon.”
His father laughed. “They think the moon is a ball about the size of Shejidan, and they simply are not clear where humans came into the region. From over some celestial hill, hitherto invisible. I confess my own imagination limps on occasion. Your mother says it makes no difference where they come from so long as they do not want to deal with us, and she is quite content with that. If only all the districts were so sensible.”
“Mani says if we site a space industry in their district they will become great supporters of the ship. Perhaps we should give them a contract.”
“Change, son of mine, should be applied like salt to a dish—best taste it, understand it, and then decide.”
“Is that your saying, honored Father?”
“It is your great-grandfather’s.”
“Well, one has tasted that dish,” he said sullenly, but his father did not deserve the sullenness. “Perhaps a block of salt.”
His father laughed. “Like the ammidet?”
He made a face. “That was awful.”
“Cook calls it an authentic recipe, with ingredients shipped in at some difficulty.”
“Did you like it?”
“If we host this association again, I think we shall have a choice of meats.” His father set a hand on his shoulder. “Well, we have survived it. Well done. We all had rather have been at your great-grandmother’s table.”
“Even Mother?”
“All of us. Porridge for an appetizer. There is a reason no conqueror has ever subdued that association. But we have survived it and they now have an inkling that there are things among the stars a little more complicated than their assumptions. We have sown a seed. There was a time, you know, when your great-uncle thought humans were all barbarians.”
“Great-uncle is easy.”
“Oh, son of mine, if you had seen the distress when I invited nand’ Bren to Taiben. I might as well have set the Bujavid alight.”
“Mani said he came to see her.”
“Mani invited him. I provided him a bodyguard. Two of my best.”
“Banichi and Jago.”
“Yes. And a good choice it was. Nand’ Bren stirred up mani’s neighbors, far, far more than we disturbed our guests this evening. We honored them, we made them slightly inebriate, and we sent them home safely, with no offense against them. So they were at risk, and knew it, the deeper they drank. We dared them, and they did, and now they are obliged to our hospitality—by the custom of their region. So it was a small gain, but it was not a loss. Do not reckon it as such. Recall that I won your great-uncle, who was trying to win your great-grandmother away.”
“Indeed.” That was a large new thought.
“So. Go to bed. Rest. Tomorrow I have another thought for you.”
“What thought?”
“That you have a mecheita you have not ridden but a day or two.”
Two years ago he would have been delighted and distracted. In the present conversation, he had more sober thoughts. “Why?” he asked.
And shocked his father.
“You are your great-grandmother’s.”
“I am yours, too,” he said. “Am I not? What is the problem with Uncle Tatiseigi?”
• • •
There was no sleep, not after the short conversation in his father’s office.
Cajeiri dismissed his staff to sleep, even his aishid, and went to his own office.
The map on his wall had used to be a matter of pride. He had put pins in it with every meeting.
Tonight—definitely there were no pins to add. The mountain districts were still what they had been, unswayed. And the north . . .
Uncle Tatiseigi was going home. Uncle had spent the evening with mani, an association which was very strong, and there was no doubt of Uncle’s loyalty, but the evening had not ended as pleasantly as it might. It had started, Father had said, when some of the guests at mani’s table had shown up determined to see a new lord appointed for Ajuri. Two of Uncle’s staunchest supporters had had words with mani, and more, declared the kyo treaty of less import than the vacancy of two ancient lordships in the midlands, and Uncle, to quiet them and prevent a quarrel that might have involved mani, had agreed to put forward a candidate they approved, and set the weight of his reputation behind it.
It had clearly not been the most pleasant evening over in mani’s apartment. Mani had arranged to fly to Malguri in the morning, to spend a number of days on local issues and brief her own association on a number of issues. Uncle Tatiseigi and all the guests had been well aware of her schedule, but the conservatives, who never liked to consider space at all, had been caught without a policy and without a position on the kyo emergency—they had been preparing to launch a campaign to fill the vacant lordships in Ajuri and Kadagidi, and suddenly the whole world had shifted attention to the heavens.
Suddenly, again, there was no threat, which disturbed them quite as much. So the Ajuri and Kadagidi situation had predictably—his father’s word—blossomed forth at last night’s dinner. The conservatives’ power had been concentrated in the seven oldest western clans, two of the seven original western clans were now lordless and threatened with being broken up, which would utterly change the balance of power—and in a little surcharge of brandy, one old lord had used language that had not been heard about the East, since the East, namely mani, had joined the aishidi’tat.
Uncle had immediately stepped in to cut off the argument. Uncle had named a name, one of his own relatives, with Ajuri ties, and some claim on the succession, and that had let the party end with a plan, instead of mani Fi
ling Intent on the man who had drunk too much, or excusing it, neither of which she would want to do.
“Who is this person?” he had asked.
“The name is Norigi. A scholar, your grandfather’s second cousin. And one cannot expect the problems within Ajuri to yield to a theorist. If I approve the appointment, the man will be dead before fall, or taking all his orders from your aunt Geidaro, which is close to it. I have to say no. Your great-uncle knows it. He knew it when he did it.”
Ajuri had a very unhappy succession of assassinations. If it was a proper Guild Filing against the man, Father could stop that. But that had been the problem. Ajuri just killed people and nobody was sure even yet they had found everybody responsible.
“So your great-uncle Tatiseigi,” Father had said, “is going home for a while to save us both the embarrassment when I reject the appointment. He knows. But he is not happy in his situation. He is particularly not happy that your great-grandmother had already announced her plans to go to Malguri, and now she cannot go to Tirnamardi to support Tatiseigi without lending the situation of the distress in the conservative party far more attention than it already bids to have. So we have this ridiculous nonsense going on with Tatiseigi covering for a drunken fool, at a time when the liberals have scored a victory with the kyo treaty in our hands and the paidhi-aiji negotiating with the Presidenta. The conservatives are very afraid I may let Ajuri and Kadagidi fragment both into several minor parts, take out two of the Seven Ancient Clans, and change the balance of power in the north—I have no such intention, but they feel vulnerable and see their crisis ignored while their opposition prospers—and the very last thing we want is for the news to pick up any rumor of conservative disarray. We need a distraction, a pleasant one, to keep Uncle’s spirits up and to keep him shining in the eyes of the people. So would you like to go see this mecheita your great-uncle gave you? Just go. Smile. Go riding. Your visit will engage the news services, and you will provide images for the news. Your great-uncle will have the favor of your visit, markedly above the honor of these recalcitrant folk we hosted at dinner, and your great-grandmother may spend a few days at Malguri and come back to us with sunlight and flowers all about, your great-uncle’s power intact, and no candidate sitting in Ajuri.”
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