Banichi nodded graciously. And was amused.
“He believes, however,” Jago said, “that he will be in the escort at the young gentleman’s Festivity.”
“The young gentleman,” Banichi said, “would be disappointed otherwise.”
One entirely understood that point: the youngster had regarded Banichi as a second father, during the ship voyage—not to say Banichi had declined the attachment. Banichi would be sorely disappointed to be kept from that event.
“That will be a considerable time standing,” Bren said, not happily; and looked to the others. It could not be the first time a Guild member had been on duty while injured. “Is there a way he can sit down?”
“The service hall,” Algini said. “We can arrange a chair to be there . . . granted his sincere undertaking to use it from time to time.”
“You will use it,” Bren said to Banichi. “Are we agreed?”
“Two chairs,” Banichi said.
He and Banichi were, in fact, a matched set; and an available chair during three hours of standing about, in the case the room started to go around, sounded more than sensible.
“One agrees,” he said, wondering whether his entire aishid had just collectively put one over on him.
• • •
“We are,” the dowager said after dinner, “hearing good things within the Guild. They are finding the things we fully expected them to find, and perhaps one or two things that surprise us. They are sifting records. They are interviewing reliable people and looking for other people they should be looking for. My grandson may complain about the individuals now in charge there, but they are setting things to rights.”
It was good news.
“In the matter of Lord Aseida’s future,” Ilisidi continued, swirling brandy gently in her glass, “we have a reasonable situation in mind, a small house under the supervision of the very strong-willed lady of Corhenda, a subclan of Cie, a very practical-minded place. It has electricity, but phones are scarce. Its mills and tanneries are a blight, but then it always was barren. His artistic skills—we are told he paints—might enliven the house—perhaps the mills, who knows the limits of his talent? As for who should succeed him in the Kadagidi lordship, nand’ Tatiseigi has a proposal.”
“A modest one,” Tatiseigi said. “He is a Kadagidi gentleman, a third cousin of mine, from the old union of our house with Kadagidi clan. He is ten years my senior, fifteen years retired—he ran the largest Kadagidi granary and the northern plains operations. He is a respectable fellow, never politically active, and what one might call a dedicated administrator. He has, besides, three daughters, and the eldest is a member of the Scholars’ Guild. One believes he would only reluctantly undertake the burden of the lordship—but in order to put his eldest daughter in the line of that succession, he might; her husband is a quiet fellow, affable, whose skill is hunting management: he would not be a bad neighbor.”
“If ever asked,” Bren said with a little nod, “which one hardly expects to be—one would certainly support your opinion, nandi.”
“Pish,” the dowager said. “Nand’ Siegi says we should not keep the paidhi too late tonight. You should go straight to bed, paidhi.”
“Aiji-ma.” Another careful nod.
“Go. You are entirely void of entertainment tonight, paidhi, and you need your sleep.”
One had somewhat suspected it was not his somewhat cheerless and aching company the dowager had desired this evening, but that her aishid and his and Lord Tatiseigi’s should all be in close contact for an hour or so.
And indeed, once he had left the sitting room and gathered up Jago and Algini, there was a somberness about his bodyguard that said he was right in that guess.
They left the apartment, the three of them. They walked down the main hall to their own door, and, once inside:
“Is there news, nadiin-ji?” he asked.
“There is news we should share with Banichi and Tano,” Algini said. “Do not worry about it, Bren-ji.”
“That is hardly going to allow me to rest,” he protested. Narani had let them in; Narani waited to receive his coat, and he unbuttoned the coat and let it slip from his arms. “I shall worry all night.”
“If we do tell you,” Jago said, “you will not rest, either.”
He looked at her. “Tell me, nadiin-ji. I request it.”
“This is a security concern,” Jago said, “but, Bren-ji, this is a Guild matter, and now we have Guild Headquarters operating as it has not, not even in our lifetimes. Have confidence in us.”
He had not gotten that sort of answer from them, he thought, in some time—not since they had come back from space. It was a little off-putting—like the firm closing of a door. And then he thought—that was the way it was, before.
That’s the way it’s always supposed to be.
In that light—he felt perhaps he could oblige Jago and just let it go, as he had not, for some time, been able to let go anything in their realm. They hadn’t known about the Guild’s forty-year-old problem, simmering at a very low level, before the coup had changed things. The people they had just put in charge of the Guild hadn’t known it was going on, either—or they’d have done something to prevent it.
But now the people who should be in charge had finally done something, and his aishid evidently thought the Guild was functioning again.
It wasn’t the paidhi-aiji’s job to second-guess that process. Maybe, knowing what he knew, he should still be alert, and a little on his guard, but even that—
No, if anyone could pick up a problem within the Guild as it reconstituted itself, figure it to be his aishid, and the dowager’s aishid, and if they wanted to close that door on outsiders to their Guild and handle things by their rules, it was not the paidhi’s job to put himself in the middle of it.
“Thank you,” he said with a little bow. “Thank you very much, nadiin-ji. One actually understands. I think I shall be able to sleep, if you are confident.”
“Rely on us,” Jago said, and Algini just said, “Go to bed, Bren-ji.”
• • •
Traffic in the city had suffered a major disruption with the blockage of the central city freight. Everyone’s mail had been late yesterday.
But despite all confusion and difficulties, the crates from Tirnamardi had made it up to the Bujavid yesterday late, passed security, and finally poured forth wardrobe . . . doubly welcome, Bren thought: he had been hard on his clothes this last few days, and court dress had borne the worst of it.
But nothing that came out of a shipping crate was fit to hang in the paidhi’s closet, or their guest’s, oh, no. The laundry backstairs had been in a frenzy of activity, receiving the contents of the crate and spilling forth freshly cleaned and pressed shirts and trousers and coats in rapid succession, filling two racks in the hall last evening. Now, this morning, when he returned from the bath, his valets opened his closet to show its racks filled with choices.
“One is extremely glad,” he said to his valets, “and pleased, nadiin-ji. Have my casual boots possibly turned up?” He was down to his best and only pair, which had suffered bloodstains, and one lightweight pair of house boots he had never liked and hadn’t packed for Tirnamardi in the first place.
“Indeed, nandi,” Koharu said happily, and from the bottom of the closet, produced, indeed, the newly-returned boots.
But Supani, from the same source, and with a slyly expectant look, brought up a cardboard box done up in tape and string. Supani proffered the box, a wonderful box with a customs tag that said, even before he took it in his hands: apparel: Bren Cameron, paidhi-aiji, the Bujavid, Shejidan. The return address was a tag he well knew: his bootmaker’s.
“It arrived with the crates, nandi.”
His pocket-knife was in the tray atop the bureau. He opened the box in delight, expecting, since it was a largish box for one pai
r, perhaps two pairs of boots—that worthy gentleman maintained the special forms on a shelf in his workshop, and he had made several orders. But there were three pair, one gray dress, one black casual, and one stout brown pair of laced, high-topped and heavy boots with a note from his bootmaker: If you can destroy these, Mr. Cameron, I’ll replace them at no charge.
He had to laugh, even if his head hurt. He sat down on the dressing bench and tried them on, with his valets’ help. Even the pair with the reinforced tops fit beautifully, and the laces to the toe, not a common style on the mainland, made the heavy ones unexpectedly comfortable. “One is delighted,” he said. “And relieved, considering tomorrow. But I shall prefer the old comfortable house pair today, baji-naji. One has no intention of stirring outside the apartment.”
He went to the little breakfast room, had a lengthy and informal breakfast with Jase—who wanted to be kept abreast of events. He could not be briefed on all of it: there were details he could not divulge—but there were events in the Marid, the entire situation in the south, the situation that was sure to arise over the rail connections, the necessary cooperation of the station aloft where it came to shipping—and completely idle gossip from the station, and from the world—who was where, what the real story was on half a dozen topics, and what the inside story was on Toby’s relationship with Barb.
“True love,” he said with a shrug. “They’re happy. Amazes me, but I’m far from objecting. If my brother ever does inherit this job—Barb’s going to provide some interesting moments. She certainly puzzled Machigi, but we all survived it.”
Jase laughed at the right places. And regaled him with a few Polano anecdotes. It was, all in all, a pleasant afternoon—and they spent an hour of it with his valets, putting Jase in all-out court dress. Jase had brought wardrobe down with him, but not in the newest mode, and the occasion demanded extravagance.
So with a little tuck here and there, and a good shirt, one of his newer coats would do. They settled from that to lunch, including Polano and Kaplan, on a day become remarkably sedate and restful. Algini came back and quietly reported his mission to the Guild accomplished. Measures were being taken. It was the one worrisome spot in the afternoon, the one thing that had him gazing down the hall at Algini’s retreating back, and wondering, in this new resolve of no information, whether there was anything going on that would worry him if he knew. There had been something in Algini’s face, a little tension that said business, but the paidhi-aiji was in the midst of outfitting and entertaining his guest, and Algini had only paid a passing courtesy.
Well, and the youngsters would, so one heard through the servant network, go back with a complete wardrobe of clothes—to model for parents and friends in private, perhaps, and the wardrobe would help them keep the memories—good memories, one hoped, in spite of all the goings-on. God, in spite of all their elders’ machinations current and future, he hoped Cajeiri’s guests could hold on to that bond.
They would get their private birthday party. He swore they would.
When they’d gone out to Tirnamardi, he’d envisioned a modest, low-key celebration, with just one preceding day for the youngsters to arrive from their retreat at Tirnamardi, tour the Bujavid, go to the museum, maybe an art gallery, or some other place the young gentleman and his guests could be assured of protection, then have a little human-style party after the family one. He’d been prepared to offer his dining room for such an event.
They’d come back under entirely different circumstances, and had more time here, and it wasn’t a private party, far from it.
Well, whatever it had mutated into, Tabini willing, they might still go back to the relative privacy and security of Tirnamardi until the shuttle was prepared to fly.
But how that was going to work was becoming increasingly cloudy. The dowager and Lord Tatiseigi’s presence was absolutely required in the day or so after, if the tribal peoples bill was going to be up for debate—not even to mention the succession question in Kadagidi and Ajuri.
He needed to be available for the legislature. None of them were likely to have time to deal with a handful of increasingly restive youngsters.
Jase, however—
Jase could escort the youngsters. Jase was still known onworld as the ship-paidhi. He wasn’t fluent, but he could manage. It was a great deal to ask of Lord Tatiseigi, to turn his estate over to humans . . . so to speak.
But he could send them to his own estate of Najida, maybe. Or Taiben, Taiben, which detested roads, and distrusted outsiders . . .
Taiben would be safer . . . and it had mecheiti . . .
But the young gentleman’s dearly treasured birthday present was resident with a herd in Tirnamardi’s stables, and one did not put a child aboard a mecheita newly introduced to another herd.
Not to mention the politics of putting Tatiseigi’s gift into a Taibeni herd.
He sighed. It was just not going to be easy.
They couldn’t postpone the tribal peoples bill. Too much rode on it. He couldn’t get free. They couldn’t do without Tatiseigi. The dowager had to be there to push the bill.
“Deep thoughts,” Jase said.
“How much ground time do you expect for the shuttle?”
“What? Do you need us out of here faster—or slower?”
“Is there any chance the kids could wait for the next shuttle?”
“No logistical problem with Phoenix or station authorities. We just load cargo instead. Next rotation we load the passenger module and leave six cans of dried fruit and fish paste. The parents, however . . . Shall I ask?”
“Tomorrow will tell,” he said. “Let’s just get the lad through the actual birthday.”
“Not to mention your other operations.”
“I haven’t been a good host.”
“I have no complaints. I really should leave you to your work. I came down here to assist, not to be entertained. And I can see you’re up to your ears.”
“You know, if you could delay the kids to another shuttle, we could actually get that fishing trip.”
“You’re threatening to take me out in a shell with no attitude controls to float on a hundred meter depth of turbulent water. This is the reward.”
He laughed. “I wish I could absolutely promise it. But if you could shake yourself loose for another rotation, we’d have a better chance.”
“This hasn’t been the most opportune timing for us.”
“It’s no accident it hasn’t. But you know that. Past tomorrow, things should be a lot less tense, and there’ll be no public exposure. Can you manage it? These kids . . .”
“I know. Let me have a go at it. Gene’s mother likely won’t object. Irene’s—” Jase shrugged. “Maybe. She’ll run to ask her problematic friends, and they won’t decline a chance that makes the kid more useful. Artur’s parents—they’ll want him back. They’re just parents. But for the sake of an education—”
“He’s certainly getting one.”
“He is, that. Let me give it a try. Pending tomorrow.”
“Yourself?”
“Oh, I’ll be persuasive. If the kids stay, I can’t leave them here alone, can I?” Jase made to get up. “I should leave you to your work, however. I’ve heard the staff coming and going. Things are in progress, and I’m in the way.”
“Never,” Bren said, but it was true, and he’d caught a sign from Narani in the hall that there was important mail in-house. “I had better cross-check with staff, however, and stay up on the details. Supper tonight if we’re lucky.”
“Formal?”
“Informal as hell, I hope. Are you running out of entertainment in there?”
Jase grinned. “We’re amply supplied. My office doesn’t let me alone. And Kaplan and Polano are on the longest leave of their lives, so I’m hearing no complaints. I don’t know where their poker tab stands, but neither one gets more than tw
enty credits ahead of the other and it’s been ongoing for days.”
“Good.” He laughed. “Good for them.”
He saw Jase to the door, went to his office and settled to look through his mail—was not surprised when Narani arrived with the mail, and prominent in the batch was a message cylinder of the heraldic sort that usually circulated within the upper floors of the Bujavid.
Red and black.
The dowager, he thought, telling himself he needed to ask his staff how the preparations for the event were going.
“Thank you,” he said. “Wait just a moment. There may be a reply.” He opened the cylinder. The seal on the message itself was not the dowager’s, however: it was Tabini’s.
The numbers of the Festivity have officially come in as favorable for the event . . .
Rarely did official ’counters produce anything contrary, for something the aiji firmly decided to schedule. It was a bit of a non-announcement for most long-scheduled events, particularly those naturally containing fortunate numbers.
We have waited for these numbers, considering recent events. We are, as of a few moments ago, absolutely certain of them. Expect, at the Festivity, investment of my son as my heir.
Investment. Nine was a fortunate year, extraordinarily felicitous. But it was also extremely young to be officially set into a will. The traditional number for a child to be invested as heir was . . . he recalled . . . fifteen, the next entirely felicitous number after nine, and offering the greater maturity of that year as well as a fortunate numerology.
A formal investment, however, fended off inheritance disputes, or at least let them happen during the lifetime of the parent, when they could be quashed with authority.
Tabini’s legacy wasn’t a set of fishing or hunting rights.
But it was a little unexpected, this. For various reasons, Tabini himself hadn’t had it. He was not sure it had actually been done for the aijinate since Tabini’s grandfather’s investment. Certainly it wasn’t in Wilson’s notes.
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