“One has, indeed,” Lord Geigi said, and laughed as if he had thought of some funny secret. “One owes him. One owes him, and one owes your great-grandmother and your father, who made such a judgment of me, in years gone by. Old adversaries, finding they have interests in common, can make agreements, young lord.”
“You were never an enemy.”
“Oh, if I had stayed married to my Marid wife, who knows. I could have had a Dojisigi son. All in intrigue against the Taisigi. One wonders if Lord Machigi has any inkling of it. Perhaps one should broach the matter.”
One was confused. One was lost again in the tangles of adult politics.
“But you are nand’ Bren’s ally.”
“That I am, young gentleman. And yours. ”
He was not sure Lord Geigi was not teasing him, talking to him as if he was a child. But then he thought, no, he means it.
He gave a very serious bow, thinking about his father and the new baby and suddenly thinking it was not the baby that threatened him. It was his connections, his mother’s quarreling family and uncle Tatiseigi, that made him important in the central regions; and he had mani to the east, and she might even get the Marid for an ally. And Dur was a connection, too, at least the young lord was.
But Lord Geigi was the space station. And the West. And the Edi.
He decided to take it very seriously and bowed quite properly. “I shall remember that, nandi. And you may count on me, someday when it matters. Remember it.”
“I shall, young lord,” Lord Geigi said. “I shall, indeed.”
There was no salvaging the clothes, least of all the bullet-frayed vest, which had gone mud colored and sweat stained; they had gone off with his valets, and Bren had strictly instructed them not even to attempt to resurrect them. He sat in the depth of the bath, up to his chin in hot water, which had stung the blisters and the cuts and scrapes, but he ignored that. He had Toby opposite him and another guest of the house, the gallant young lord of Dur, who was quite pleased to be invited along. An off-schedule snack had arrived—Cook was feeding anyone who was interested, and his aishid, he was sure, was beyond interested. He couldn’t eat but a few bites; he had a little tea, a little fruit juice, and made slow work of half an atevi-scale sandwich, while Toby put down a whole one and young Dur had two.
Toby had a broken rib along with the other damage—the latter in waterproof bandage. “We’re twins,” Toby declared, a bad joke. “But thank God they had you wear that vest.”
“If they hadn’t I wouldn’t be here,” he said, and changed to Ragi for young Dur’s benefit. “My brother says we match.”
Dur politely laughed. “One is very glad you wore the vest,” he said, the identical remark.
“My bodyguard is going to insist, one fears. One at least hopes for one made to my size.”
“One hopes for days in which one need not take such precautions,” young Dur said.
“Have you phoned your father? One is extremely grateful he has troubled himself, and one would not wish him to make undue haste.”
“One has, indeed, nand’ paidhi. But he has a dinner invitation, and he looks forward to it. The Gan leaders, likewise.”
“Dur’s father,” Bren translated, for Toby, “is still coming. Dinner with the aiji and the aiji-dowager and Lord Geigi. The kitchen is probably beside itself. The Gan. And the Edi. We’re going to have to put up tables in the garden, if there’s anything left of it.”
“It’s a little messy out there.”
“We’ll manage,” he said. He was vastly content.
Dinner—he wasn’t sure he could stay awake through. He’d try. Having a tableful of Ragi trying to maintain decorum with a tableful of Edi and Gan folk intent on having a discussion—and a visiting northern lord—was going to be interesting. A good thing Machigi had taken the prudent course and pulled back to the hunting station, where he was not going to be part of the immediate negotiations. Machigi had his own mess to clean up. Interesting if he could manage it.
He had his notes. From that bag Algini had swept up off the truck.
And Machigi wanted him back.
Tabini did.
Ilisidi did.
It was a good thing to be wanted.
Even in mutually incompatible directions.
He had another sip of orangelle. Still without alcohol. No painkiller, not yet. He wanted his brain in good order when he sat down at the table, wherever they found to put it.
He wasn’t going to be able to move in the morning. That was guaranteed.
But tonight—given a nap in his own bed in the meanwhile—he’d manage.
Betrayer: Foreigner #12 Page 32