Prakuyo indicated his own glass.
“Maybe safe, maybe not safe,” Bren cautioned.
“Safe,” Prakuyo declared, quite definitely, though he smelled it and tasted it carefully when served, then gave a rapid series of soft booms that drew interest from the others.
So it was vodka all around, except Cajeiri’s glass. “Moderately for our guests, very moderately,” Bren said to staff, none of whom were fools.
The courses were a great success, all round, food, drink—even conversation, limited as it was, in the dual mode, kyo, then Ragi and Ragi, then kyo, expressions which, without the little screen handy at the table, Bren struggled to remember. Yet. There was a little reminiscence of dinner at Reunion, which triggered a lengthy spate of Prakuyo talking to his companions.
And there was discussion, too, involving the centerpiece, two bits of driftwood, arranged artfully with a bit of water-smoothed stone.
“Come away planet?”
“It came from the planet, yes,” Bren said in Ragi, then in his best kyo effort. “Wood. The wood comes from trees.”
“Wood. Trees,” Prakuyo repeated, carefully, and appeared to translate, to nods and bobs from his companions. “Alive? Now dead?”
Bren nodded, and with an upward gesture. “Tall.”
“Not food.”
Bren nodded. They’d had fruit on the kyo ship, and bread. Grains. Prakuyo had lived on fish and synthetics for six years on Reunion, which had not sufficed for him, though whether quantity or substance was at issue remained a question.
“Does your world have trees, Prakuyo-nandi?” Ilisidi asked, a step into what might be more sensitive territory—but reciprocal. Bren translated it.
From the exchanged looks, there was a little consideration on that point. Then the smallest said something, and Prakuyo nodded.
“Trees,” Prakuyo said, and indicated something very wide rather than tall. He offered a kyo word, which Bren repeated, then, indicating the stone, another word, also repeated. Then . . . with a lift of his water glass, Prakuyo made a gesture, as if holding something in one hand, smoothing it with the palm of the other, and offered two more words, similar, but with an added sound, ka. Perhaps stone and wood altered from its original form? By water? A third mimed gesture. This time, he held something in his hand, and seemed to carve it with his dinner knife. Another pair of words, same core, with ba attached.
Stone and wood . . . altered by intent? Words altered by suffix, denoting by nature and worked by hand?
No conclusion. Yet. But an interesting possibility—all from a simple centerpiece.
No atevi art existed without purpose. And no centerpiece landed on this table without careful consideration. Kabiu dictated a dining table should have something at its heart, and the usual flowers were not easily to be had here. Atevi might read meaning into the choice and color and number of blooms . . . but Ilisidi and her major d’ had chosen items so basic, so important—
So very basic to the planet.
It was not casual, that choice. Ba and ka might be a tricky way of describing materials. Or artwork. But atevi talked in presentation pieces and table arrangement. There was more to the statement, in atevi terms. It was about basics, and foundations, the beginning of a relationship.
But it was also, under these circumstances, planetary geology on a plate, for the discerning eye. The action of water and gravity and time on two things very durable. Physics.
More, it was a gesture of openness, that arrangement, revealing aspects of the planet below them. Three species from three worlds sitting together at a table and the object in the middle of it all, a representation of one of the most fundamental aspects of nature—atevi kabiu, at its finest.
And the kyo had taken the bait. Chance had nothing to do with an atevi arrangement settling kabiu. He had been occupied with his pictures. Ilisidi had laid the traditional opening statement on the table, and asked—Does your world have trees? Do trees find their way to moving water, to weather like this? Is this sedimentary rock, smoothed by ages, recognizable in process?
This is our world.
Do you recognize it?
We find both beauty and symbol in these items.
Do you?
Prakuyo touched his eye, and pointed to the object. Laid a hand on his midriff. “Good,” he said.
“Indeed,” Ilisidi said, and gave a little nod. “One is gratified.”
Triumph. At least in setting a tone, and making a statement—and discovering that, first, kyo recognized natural from manmade in that item, and that they were sensitive to symbology.
That invited questions, at an appropriate time, about those kyo colors, and patterns.
Wide trees? Low-lying woody vegetation? There was surely water in some abundance.
And what ceremony had kyo offered their arrival on the kyo ship?
Pure water. Among other things edible. And Prakuyo’s water consumption, while a guest aboard the ship, had been considerable.
They preferred dimmer light, cloyingly thick, to a human, air, so it was possible Prakuyo’s gesture had described not the width of trees, but the wide expanse of forests—
Bren made a mental note for one of the first images to bring up, when they got down to business.
Prakuyo’s skin seemed sensitive, thin, about the face—lack of protection from the sun’s ultraviolet rays? Their colors seemed muted, browned to human senses. Might kyo see ranges of color neither humans nor atevi saw? The booming and thumping that was so much a part of their communication had the power to make the very table vibrate. Might they feel those vibrations through, not just ears, but other internal organs that were, so far, not even guessed at? To his recollection, sounds carried better through water, through water-laden air—would they change in greater barometric pressure? He was a linguist, not a physicist.
The arrival of the main course, a pasta with green sauce, met with great approval, and drew its own conversation.
It was sparse, very slow conversation, more eating than talking at most times. Servants came and went. Bren had asked for no more than a taste of the vodka, and ate lightly. As the meal drew to an end, and before the dessert course, Bindanda, as was Ragi custom, put in his appearance and gave a little bow, to receive his due for the meal.
Prakuyo recognized him at once. Perhaps it was Bindanda’s size. Geigi himself didn’t equal Bindanda’s prosperity.
“Is this Danda-ji?” Prakuyo exclaimed, and rose, making a strange little hum.
“Indeed,” Bren said, “indeed it is.”
“Teacakes!” Prakuyo said. “Good! Good food!”
“Prakuyo-nandi,” Bindanda said, bowing, and replied, with satisfaction, “Teacakes there shall be, nandiin, immediately!”
Bindanda vanished, and shortly after, staff brought out a plate, yes, of orangelle teacakes, fresh from the oven.
It was a crowning success. There was more than one plate of teacakes, and not a one left by the time they were through.
“Good,” another of the kyo remarked. “Good. Good.”
“Excellently done,” Ilisidi said, and made a move of her hand, summoning Cenedi, who stood behind her chair. Cenedi handed her her cane, turned her chair from the table, and Ilisidi rose. They all must. The kyo likewise rose.
“We shall sleep now,” Ilisidi declared. “We wish our guests a good night.”
No brandy. It was not Ilisidi’s habit to retire without it. And leave a potentially good conversation? She was the soul of curiosity.
No. It was not weariness. It was a maneuver.
“May I stay, mani?” Cajeiri asked.
“Young people should have their sleep,” Ilisidi declared, at which Cajeiri let his own surprise show, but he dutifully bowed to the company and attended his great-grandmother in her retreat.
Their door closed. Bren said, first in Ragi, then in kyo. “We may sit and talk, Prakuyo-ji, if you wish. Sleep or talk?”
“Talk,” was Prakuyo’s answer.
“Banic
hi-ji. Jago-ji. Go tell Narani we shall need him.”
Silent bows, Guild-style. His aishid left, into his suite, and shut the door, not only to bring Narani, but ready to exchange with Tano and Algini what they had observed, and to hear what they had perceived—a quick analysis of what had happened and where things stood, which could flow by back passages to the Observers, to Jase if he was present, and from Jase to Geigi, to Gin, to Sabin and Ogun.
Advise the kyo formally that they were welcome to contact their ship? Of course. He wanted them to do that. He wanted neither side to grow nervous.
• • •
And there could be more teacakes. With tea very slightly laced with brandy. Narani served, with Bindanda—who had shed his kitchen apron and turned up in a servant’s modest coat: an elderly man and a middle-aged and portly one, both Guild themselves, keen observers, and quick to take a cue. Banichi and Jago came back to stand watch.
Bren settled at the table in the kyo’s outer room, and the kyo sat down, one human and three kyo, a company of eight. Asicho saved the felicity, coming and going by turns, listening, cleaning up.
“These kyo?” Bren asked, unwilling to assign rank, or to use that touchy word associate.
“Matuanu an Matu. Hakuut an Ti.”
Well, that gained nothing.
“Association?”
Prakuyo waved a hand, boomed softly, said something involving the names in kyo, then in Ragi:. “Matuanu an Matu Banichi. Hakuut an Ti computer.”
A bodyguard. And a computer tech?
“Bodyguard. Aishid?”
“Yes. Aishid.”
“I understand.” Gesture to eye and head. Booming and nodding from the kyo.
Bodyguard. Or something very close. Someone who protected. But weapons and body armor were not in evidence, unless they wore them beneath the robes. Matuanu, largest of the three in girth, had a distinctive double wrinkling at the corners of his mouth that gave him a perpetually amused look. But it was not, one had always to remind oneself, a smile: it was the set of the folds.
Hakuut was the shortest and slightest of the three, with a mouth quite lacking in folds and a shadowing beneath the eyes that might be cosmetic—or natural. It made the eyes very distinct, pale by comparison, and the movement of those eyes was attention-getting, quick and lively. If cosmetics, did it indicate rank? Gender? Personal preference? One had no idea. And were the darting glances apprehension, or just curiosity about everything around him?
Those eyes sparkled when Bindanda, on request, brought in four tablet computers—that had been a mild emergency, procurement of two more of those, with Geigi’s off-site help, but the devices had arrived before dinner, exactly the same as the others, and instantly loading themselves with all the information the moment they located their assigned group, clever little machines.
Bren turned his on, demonstrating the button, then wished Narani to hand their guests the others. There were styli to hand about—Bren had thought of that item, recalling similar tools on the kyo ship; and the kyo had no question at all how to use them. Hakuut did a mouth-gape and uttered a little set of clicks as a button-push brought the screen up with the same image as Bren’s, a world in space.
Programming had dealt with that. Bren had the master code, which brought all the screens into sync, and displayed whatever image he chose.
He called up a picture of a star and touched the star with his stylus. The area glowed. Then he touched the right side of the screen, and from the machine’s speakers came, in Ragi, “Star.” He lifted his stylus. Touched the left side of the screen. It said the word in kyo. “Pak.”
“Star,” and lifted his finger. A second touch and his own voice played back, naming the object.
Hakuut’s eyes widened. Fingers twitched, the stylus tapped. “Star,” his machine said. And if a kyo could show a childlike delight in a toy, that was the body language, even the momentary expression, mouth open, stylus poised. Tap. “Star.” Then: “Pak.” Tap. Tap again. The machine said, “Pak.”
The others figured it. “Excellent!” Prakuyo proclaimed it. “Good!”
It took a little sorting out, especially the demonstration of how to add a word in either language. That evoked a great deal of chatter from Hakuut to the others.
Then, from Hakuut, a gesture to the units and a question involving, apparently, the ceiling and walls—a question, Bren surmised, as to whether the devices were linked only to each other or linked through another unit.
So there, first off, was a question of trust.
Should he admit what any person used to such systems might suspect as a matter of course: that they were under observation, they were being recorded?
In fact they were not only being recorded, every individual word was being computer-captured and linked to context—because nobody since the first human settlement on the planet had had to deal with a completely strange language. Ragi at least was within human ability to pronounce, but neither human nor atevi could figure the booms and thumps that ranged into the bottom range of hearing. Yes, the devices all linked to a master system.
Tell them that Tano—whose specialty was demolitions, about as far from linguistics as one could get—was in the sitting room of the paidhi’s apartment making the best real-time analysis he could manage? Tano was following the conversations, looking at the situational use and helping the computer build a sort of dictionary, flagging repetitions in other contexts, and, if Tano thought of one, even assigning a best-guess definition.
It certainly wasn’t Tano’s field of Guild expertise—but Jago, who was their best at languages, was part of the security team Prakuyo knew, and Jago and Banichi needed to be present with him. Tano and Algini, whom the kyo did not know, and who had more expertise with computers, were behind the scenes, taking notes, making decisions, communicating offsite. Waveform analysis was also part of that record, and Geigi was involved with that, with techs who again weren’t going to get regular shifts or sleep. Bren ached to get a look at the record, whether the sounds were individual, freeform, or whether they were regular, specific and precise. He wanted hours to sit and go over that record.
He didn’t have hours. He had to steer the conversation that provided the data into areas they wanted to talk about, and he had to make the decision to tell Hakuut the truth or withhold it.
“More computer,” he said in kyo, with an encompassing wave at the surrounds, as Hakuut had done. “We want to hear.” He tapped his ear. “Humans, atevi do not hear all kyo sound. The atevi ear is better. But not hear. Machine hears.”
A little animated kyo discussion followed that, rife with those frustrating booms and thumps and hums that neither human nor atevi throats could duplicate. Back at Reunion, when Prakuyo had expressed distress on one occasion, tea had quivered in a cup. The sound when Prakuyo was really agitated, as he had been in the struggle to rescue him, made itself felt, quite scarily so. Waveform analysis could reveal what they could not hear. But it didn’t tell them what it meant. It didn’t tell kyo, either, what it meant when a human tensed a small muscle near the mouth.
The kyo were discussing something, maybe the monitoring, maybe the limitations of human hearing—there was no knowing. But he didn’t intend to have the conversation spiraling off into speculation neither side could answer.
He keyed the next word, deliberate distraction. Solar system. A generic star system. A touch on each object generated not just his voice and the word, but the path of the planet or moon around the star, the moons taking that distinctive sine wave pattern of a body caught in a moving gravitational well.
Hakuut was with him immediately, and repeated the words, then, with screen taps, put in the kyo words for planet, and for moon, orbit and year. Lifted the stylus and touched again, obviously delighted to hear it play back, first the kyo word, then, a third touch, the atevi word again, going on to make some observation that contained the words atevi solar system and planet.
Prakuyo made a thump, somewhere in his chest. Hakuut glance
d at him, then closed his mouth and was silent.
Was that a caution, from Prakuyo? A warning not to push too far, a little wish not to go into whatever that statement had been?
Prakuyo made a triple boom, then took over. Using his own screen, Prakuyo repeated the words quietly, slowly, in a way now, Bren noted, that carried far less of the resonance of normal kyo speech.
Curious. Was it to accommodate him, when he had said he didn’t hear everything?
Was it some simplification, the same way Ragi—which leaned heavily on numbers, with complex substitutions to make an infelicity felicitous—had what they called the children’s language, which used far simpler forms and notably lacked those particles?
Hakuut and Matuanu immediately followed suit, and when they next spoke, their speech was higher, more in the front of the mouth, lacking those deep sounds.
Baby talk, God help him. It was a little embarrassing—and possibly psychologically affecting how they heard him. But when he repeated those words in that simplified form, he drew hums and booms of approval.
Prakuyo was, all things considered, no fool. If there was a way, Prakuyo tended to find it, from survival—to dealing with foreigners.
Bren called another graphic, assembled photos with no size reference: the atevi solar system, the Earth, and Alpha Station, a tiny Phoenix orbiting nearby, and the kyo ship a white shape docked at the mast.
“Here,” Bren said, and pointed to the Earth. “Atevi planet,” he said, and touching the planet, he said, “Earth. My name is Bren. The planet’s name is Earth.”
The kyo carefully repeated the word, touching the image for a playback until they agreed each had said it correctly.
He touched the station in the image.
“Alpha Station,” he recorded, and: “Ship. The ship’s name is Phoenix. Kyo ship. The kyo ship’s name is . . .”
Visitor: A Foreigner Novel Page 24