Conspirator

by C. J. Cherryh

  Bren himself went to the door, opened it, and signaled the major domo. “Kindly provide tea, a service for three.” He added: “Not the historic set, if you please, Rama-ji. I think that would be best.”

  “Nandi.” A bow, and Ramaso was off like a shot, giving orders to two staffers on the way. Four of Ilisidi’s young men were out there. Tano and Algini were.

  “Come in,” Bren said to them, increasing the coverage of black in the room, black uniforms wall to wall. He had assumed a tea service for three. He assumed he would sit with the dowager, and indeed, the dowager had taken a seat, and Baiji had, and, indeed, the dowager gestured to him that he should also take a chair, fortunate three.

  “So,” the dowager said with sweet-voiced patience, while her great-grandson was at hazard of his life, while, very probably, hostile Southern interests had taken possession of Lord Baiji’s estate, while Assassins from the Marid were, very probably, moving against her as well. “How is the spring planting shaping up?”

  As if they were preparing to take tea with the traditional discussion of small topics, peaceful topics, pending service of the refreshment. Baiji stammered answers, sweat standing on his brow.

  “And the dawi festival? How was it this year?”

  “One did not attend, aiji-ma.”

  “Did not attend?” the dowager asked with sudden sharpness. “Or do you fear to travel, Lord Baiji? Can it be fear that kept you from, for instance, other festivities—such as, say, my grandson’s resumption of the aijinate? Or were you not celebrating that event?”

  “Aiji-ma,” Baiji began to answer. But Ilisidi had a flawless sense of timing. The tea service arrived, when conversation ceased for a moment and Baiji could not answer.

  The service went around, one, two, and three. When Baiji picked up his cup, he had to steady it in both hands.

  “Now,” the dowager said. “We were speaking of your attendance at court. Collect your thoughts, nand’ Baiji, and make your accounting as thorough as possible.”

  Baiji shut his eyes—thinking, it was likely, possibly thinking harder than Baiji had ever thought in his life.

  “Do not,” the dowager said sharply, “waste any moment of this contemplative time on a lie, an equivocation, or appeasement. We desire information on a political scale, and a full accounting of your dealings with the Kadagidi, with the Tasaigin Marid, with others that may be pertinent. Do not omit any detail and any person from this accounting. Name names. Cenedi-ji.”

  “Aiji-ma.”

  “Record this session.”

  “Yes,” Cenedi said.

  “So. Baiji.”

  “Aiji-ma.”

  “If we later discover an omission or a gap in your account, you will most profoundly regret it.”

  Tea went down all in one gulp. The servant, standing by, moved to fill that cup, and yet again as Baiji swallowed—a certain dryness of the mouth, perhaps.

  Bren himself swallowed small sips, as did the dowager. They both emptied their cups, and had another. It was late afternoon, now. His mind raced, trying to find logic in the situation, and one thing occurred to him—that if the Edi in Kajiminda were unconstrained and knew they had the boy in their keeping, they would have sent a courier, or at very least made a phone call.

  So either they dared not or could not make such a call. They were constrained. He did not believe they had turned.

  And no one had called to ask for ransom.

  My God. The airport. The train station. He was asleep.

  “Nand’ dowager,” he asked, ever so quietly, “has anyone been stationed at the airport?”

  “Flights are grounded as of your return here, nand’ paidhi. Trains are stopped.”

  The whole district was cut off, then. That left movement by car. The dowager had made that one phone call to Tabini. Of course. He was a fool. He’d been rattled. It was a Guild matter.

  “Nand’ Baiji,” the dowager said, and set down her cup on the little side table. “Speak to us now. Never mind an apology. State the facts.”

  “The facts, aiji-ma . . .”

  “Aiji-ma! Am I your aiji? Have you man’chi to us? Or where, precisely, does it reside?”

  “With my uncle, nand’ dowager, one knows that . . . one is so confused . . .”

  “Focus, man! Where is your man’chi at this moment?”

  “To my uncle, aiji-ma, and his is to the Ragi aiji, which has always been . . .”

  “You do not have to defend your uncle, boy. Your man’chi is the one in question, gravely in question. Has it lately wavered?”

  “Nand’ dowager, it—I—one has—one has been beseiged. One has been alone . . . one has hardly known where to turn. . . .”

  “Go on. Now you have your pieces in order. Where did you first question it?”

  “When—when the aiji your grandson was rumored dead, when Murini had taken Shejidan and all the midlands.”

  “Go on.”

  “Districts were going down one after the other, so fast, so fast, aiji-ma, and the South had made an association with the Kadagidi: the Atageini were threatened; Taiben—Murini had struck there first, and one had no notion any resistance remained there or whether the aiji was alive. All the coast, aiji-ma, all the Marid was Murini’s ally, and all the southern islands, and we on the southwestern coast—we knew the Northern Isles had gone to the humans—but the Northern Isles are difficult to take. The southwestern coast, with its deep bays—we were vulnerable. The Marid would roll over us on their way to attack the Isles—it was—it was a matter of time, aiji-ma.”

  “Keep going.”

  “Except—except the South knows how serious it is if the Edi should get stirred up. The Edi hate the Marid; and my uncle being up on the station where, if the Edi were attacked, my uncle might have human weapons to use . . . the Southerners had to think of that. They feared me.”

  “Let us proceed at least with that assumption,” Ilisidi said dryly. “It was a great inconvenience that they could not reach your uncle; and a great relief that your uncle could not reach them. Nor had your uncle Geigi ordered the Edi to war against them.”

  “Nor me. He gave me no such order, aiji-ma.”

  “The dish at Mogari-nai being down, and other communications going only through the north—one wonders what he would have told you if he could have gotten in contact.”

  “I had no word, aiji-ma, none!”

  “Not even a message relayed from Mospheira, where he did have contact?”

  “None, aiji-ma! None, ever!”

  “I wonder. But no matter, now. Go on, nand’ Baiji. We are enthralled.”

  “Please, aiji-ma! Nand’ Bren’s estate, here, and mine—we made common cause. We—that is—I sent a messenger to Ramaso-nadi here asking advice, and they said they would not surrender to the Usurper; and I agreed I would not.”

  “Easily confirmed, aye or nay. Let us assume aye. And we omit who sent first to whom. Go on.”

  “But—one knew it was a matter of time. At first—at first there was a rumor your grandson might have fled to Najida, and we feared the worst would come. And then it was rumored Najida had smuggled out state records and treasures. And we feared that would bring trouble down on us. But it was our strategy to keep quiet. The whole peninsula kept quiet. We knew how they installed certain people in power in Dalaigi Township the way they did elsewhere, but the Edi assassinated them; and we—we stayed quiet.”

  “And then?”

  “Then—one told Lord Bren—then they sent to me proposing a marriage, myself with a daughter of the Marid. One had no better advice, nor any communication with my uncle. One could stall it off—one could make requests: they wanted this badly. They might agree. It would all be meaningless once my uncle came back from the heavens, but in the meanwhile if I agreed to marry this girl, and then I kept asking for things and got the best bargain I could—it seemed the best thing to do.”

  “A very dangerous bed.”

  “It would be. One knew it. And then you came ba
ck, aiji-ma, and the paidhi-aiji, and Tabini-aiji, may he live long, drove Murini out, and Murini’s own clan repudiated him . . . and then—and then the Marid began to make new approaches to your grandson, and they were going to make peace with him. So I thought—see, even the aiji is hearing them . . . so when they also came to me, and said they were still interested in this marriage—I thought—this might not be a bad thing for the peace . . .”

  “And you never presented yourself at court. You never consulted with my grandson about this daring maneuver. Do go on.” The dowager had not supported Tabini’s hearing the South. If not for the aiji’s playing Southern politics, Bren thought, he might be in his own apartment in the Bujavid, the Farai would be out, and none of this would have happened at all.

  “One had missed court. I was sick, aiji-ma. I was truly sick.”

  “But you had visitors.”

  “I had word from them. A message. A letter. And then—then I thought—now I shall be ashamed, aiji-ma, I thought to myself how things are not settled yet, and I should see how stable the aijinate is and how stable the South is before I commit to them or say no. One is profoundly ashamed.”

  “The brightest thought you had had yet,” Ilisidi muttered. “The most honest you have yet expressed. Say on. Be precise, now. When did you acquire these guards?”

  “The Guild of my house had gone to the fight in Shejidan, and never came back, so I had had members of my staff pretend to be Guild . . .” Baiji cast a nervous glance about at the Guild in black, grim attendance. “I had no choice but that, nadiin!”

  “You were not the only one to do so, nandi,” Algini said quietly.

  “Then—” Baiji said, looking back at Ilisidi, “then when the Usurper was going down, and it was clear my own guard would not come back, these Guildsmen came saying they had served in the Guild itself, but that there was a new regime coming in, there was a great deal of bloodshed, they had lost relatives, and they wished the peace of serving in a country house, remote from troubles. They had credentials!”

  “Did you write to the Guild to confirm them, nandi?” Cenedi asked.

  “I asked them to write.”

  “You did not confirm what they said,” Banichi said grimly, “by writing to the Guild yourself, and by a Guild representative officially confirming their man’chi.”

  “I had no idea of the procedure, nadi! Kajiminda has never been without Guild until now. One had no idea what to do—one knows—one knows now this was not the thing to do!”

  That, in itself, was possible. There had always been such a closely-woven network—and it was true that Baiji had been isolated from advice, out of society, getting his advisements in protocol mainly from the Tasaigin Marid, to be honest, while the neighbor at Najida, whose security might properly have advised a young neighbor what he should do, was light-years off in space, leaving no Guild at all behind on his estate. His apartment in Shejidan—the place was rife with Guild in and out of uniform, active and retired; but in the fall of the regime, indeed, Guild had gathered to the Guild headquarters, and dispersed on this side and that of the action.

  And, as Algini had said, certain desperate houses had put up a facade of Guild protection where it did not exist.

  “Do you believe him, paidhi-aiji?” the dowager asked.

  “Logically, I follow what he says,” Bren said. “But myself being human, and this being a question of man’chi, I would not venture to have an opinion about his loyalty.”

  “Cenedi?”

  “Hadjaijid, aiji-ma.”

  A mental condition. Isolation from the networks of society. Aiji-like, in having no upward or lateral man’chi—no connection to which he emotionally responded; but pathologically isolated, in that he had no real leadership—and no man’chi downward, either. Isolated. Delusional. Disconnected.

  Sociopath.

  “I am not,” Baiji cried, and flung himself out of the chair—a dozen guns flashed out—and onto his knees and onto his face on the carpet.

  And there went the teacup, Bren noted, in surreal detachment. It shattered in an unfortunate four pieces.

  Bad omen.

  Baiji lay on his face on the floor, crying, “Aiji-ma, I am not disconnected. I have man’chi to my uncle, to my people, to this place, to the aiji in Shejidan and to you, aiji-ma! I have never broken it!”

  “And man’chi to my great-grandson?”

  There was a moment of heavy silence.

  “And association with your neighbor nand’ Bren?” Ilisidi pursued him.

  “I have only met nand’ Bren once before,” Baiji said into the carpet, and lifted his head and sat up and bowed again. “I beg pardon. I beg pardon. I had no idea my security was disconnected!”

  And had been a spoiled brat at that one meeting, when his mother had had to beg him to come down to dinner. There was a problem, in establishing man’chi with that person. A serious problem.

  “Then why,” Bren said, divorcing himself from all mercy, “did you not visit me? Why did you not, knowing I am connected to the regime, come here to consult Ramaso, knowing that your estate has had problems in security? Why did you not propose coming here instead, when you knew I proposed to visit you with the young lord?”

  “Because—because they would never agree!”

  “They,” the dowager snapped. “They would not agree and you knew it!”

  “Aiji-ma!”

  “Your aishid would not come here,” Bren said sharply. “And you are quite sure they would not have approved the visit. Do you or do you not lead the house?”

  “Where are the Edi?” Ilisidi asked from the other side. “Is your staff still alive, or did they leave you?”

  “Some—some are there, aiji-ma. Some stayed!”

  “While you assure one side and the other of your good intentions,” Bren shot at him, “all the while courting the Marid? Explain this to a simple human. One fails to understand this complexity. But one very well understands your motives in rushing to find our lost boat!”

  “No!” Baiji cried. “Nand’ dowager, one had no idea you were here! One had no idea the heir was here at all, or that you were! A village child, he said. He said it was a simple accident—”

  “Really?” she asked. “You have no source of gossip, considering we arrived at the public airport in quite a large plane? You have no news from Dalaigi Township? None from the market? We are quite astounded, nandi!”

  “No, no, no, we had no idea.”

  “Then your aishid failed to inform you of a critical event, one touching on your welfare. What a remarkable thing!”

  “We saved your great-grandson, aiji-ma! We had no advisement of the dowager’s presence! We had no warning of any such incident! The Tasaigi had contacted me days ago—one had no idea they were advised—”

  “By your own staff. You are not the aiji on this peninsula,” Ilisidi said. “You are not even aiji over your estate. You are the major domo for your uncle, who does not make mistakes like this. You will not remain lord of Kajiminda, let alone of Sarini province!”

  “Aiji-ma!”

  “We will choose one of the Edi, with adequate guard of our choosing, to manage the estate in your uncle’s name, granted we can correct these matters short of regional war. And thank me that you are not awaiting your funeral, boy, nandi no longer! Nand’ Bren.”

  “Aiji-ma.”

  “This person will lodge here until we have exhausted the information we may draw from him. Keep him comfortably situated, for the sake of his uncle. But do not give him freedom of the grounds.”

  “Yes, aiji-ma.” Bren caught the eye of the servant, who had cautiously rescued the fragments of the teacup. “Advise Ramaso-nadi.”

  A silent bow, a quiet departure. Baiji, having gathered himself onto his knees, continued to rock to and fro in distress.

  “We are appalled,” Ilisidi said, and, leaning on her cane, and with Cenedi’s hand, rose. “Cenedi. Get my great-grandson back.”

  “Banichi,” Bren said. “With
the dowager’s permission, my bodyguard will assist. And I shall. Personally.”

  “Nandi,” Banichi said, with a small nod.

  Ilisidi’s men gathered up Baiji, who made no protest to being taken away from Ilisidi’s vicinity, and escorted him out.

  “We shall both be involved, nand’ paidhi,” Ilisidi said. “Is the bus damaged?”

  “Not significantly,” he said, “granted a hole in the back roof and the resources we have to replace a rear tire—if not a wheel.”

  “Be ready,” Ilisidi said.

  That was a dismissal. Bren bowed, gathered his aishid, and went out into the hall, where Ramaso waited.

  “We have disposed nand’ Baiji in staff quarters downstairs,” Ramaso said, and with a distressed look. “It is the only place we can secure.”

  It had no windows. His brother and Barb, Cajeiri, the aiji-dowager, Cenedi, her physician, and her young men—guests had collectively taken the last suites left in the house. He could draw his own aishid into his suite and gain that room, but better Baiji have just a little less lordly accommodation. No windows was a good idea, not only considering Baiji trying to go out a window—he could not imagine it—but considering someone trying to come in.

  “Are the storm shutters in order?” he asked. “I want them ready, if you get the word.”

  “They are, nandi.”

  “And Iscarti,” he said. “Is there news regarding Iscarti?”

  “Awake, nandi. Very weak, but the dowager’s physician is encouraging.”

  “I will see him as soon as I possibly can,” he said. “He saved us, Rama-ji. If he had not gotten the bus to us despite being shot, we might all be dead. He deserves the best we can do. The very best. One will never forget it.”

  “One will convey that to him,” Ramaso said, “nandi.”

  His bodyguard had gathered around him. “Nadiin-ji,” he said to them as Ramaso left, “the paidhi-aiji owes you the greatest of apologies. My foolishness divided the aishid, sending you to Barb and Toby. It was even numerically infelicitous.” None of them believed in the superstitions, not in the least, but there were reasons, with the Guild, that they worked in odd numbers—counting the one they protected. He had slipped that far from ordinary, and basic, considerations. “One cannot say enough—this was very much my fault.”