Destroyer

  “Then you believe, nandi, that she has come on this voyage to support him as well as to maintain her hold.”

  “She would. She has courage, Jago-ji. She always had. She wanted the glamorous life, when I was coming and going often from the mainland, with a great deal of my resources to spend. Then when I grew more involved with the aiji’s affairs and my coming and going grew more irregular, and sometimes fraught with public controversy, even assassination attempts—she wanted quiet and safety. You know she married once, a man who could provide that comfort. That contract was brief. Now, it seems she has chosen Toby, and the boat. I think it the best choice she ever made. Toby is an excellent man.”

  “We all think extremely well of nand’ Toby,” she said, undoubtedly speaking for the staff, and added with a slight lift of the brow: “I shall accept her presence if she behaves well.”

  “Do,” he said, laying his hand on hers, and then, thinking that, above all else, Jago had some reason to wonder what she would never ask: “But, Jago-ji, my regard is entirely for you. You need never wonder. You have no equal, in that regard.”

  She cleared her throat quietly, both hands on the rail. Dared one believe she had wondered where Barb stood with him? Dared one think, dared one believe—possibly—Jago might be just a little jealous?

  “Shall I protect this person?” Jago asked, out of her generous heart.

  “As you would Toby, Jago-ji. But only as you would Toby.”

  “Yes,” she said, that absolute agreement, and seemed peculiarly satisfied with that equation he established, Barb with Toby, a set, an established set she could indeed figure. He looked at her—the wind fluttering the ends of her braid, her dark face now completely calm and satisfied as she gazed out at the onrushing sea, and his heart warmed. Jago could by no means imagine what he felt; no more than he could quite grasp what she felt, that attachment that settled her whole universe into order around him and her duty more surely than love had a right to order his. He wished he could feel what she felt, for just ten minutes. His universe was so often chaotic, his certainties far fewer, his loyalties pulled in so many conflicting directions, always had been, until he felt habitually stretched to the breaking point.

  But he’d known, when he became—romantically, on his side, at least—involved with Jago, whose sole statement, relayed through Banichi, was that she was attracted to his hair—he’d known that he’d gotten into territory with her he never would entirely understand. It involved a constant element of experimentation on her side, along with a kind of commitment fiercer and more lasting, he suspected, than a human could find outside parental love . . . sex having apparently nothing to do with it. He brought his badly-battered sense of human romantic involvement; she brought her own healthy and solid atevi attachment to her appointed leader; and they patched together an arrangement that he at least hoped satisfied both of them in all the healthy ways. He had never wanted to hold her to him if their arrangement ever became a burden to her, emotionally or otherwise . . . including if she wanted children, an impossibility between them—though one supposed two years with Cajeiri might have altered that, if the notion had ever taken root. He never wanted to hold her longer than entertained them both, but he knew, looking at her now, that she’d made herself ever so comfortable a spot in his heart—a comfort he never wanted to give up, not for any human connection that might explode into his chemical awareness.

  He thought her notion toward him might be the same, that atevi fondness for well-worn places, comfortable associations, ancestral items, everything forever in place, hers, with every sense of permanency.

  So now she had met her rival, and had heard the hierarchy of man’chi laid out in his own words.

  So in her atevi universe, maybe—maybe it had reassured her and made her content. She looked to be. But what could he know? He was the translator, but certain things forever baffled him.

  They talked about inconsequential things as the water rushed past the bow. They constantly meant something else. He wanted her, now that they had talked about their relationship—it had put him in mind of certain things and there was absolutely no place of privacy to be had, unless one counted the cabins below, which were exceedingly small for an ateva’s comfort, and everybody would know why they went below. He didn’t want to see his brother’s amused look. Or the dowager’s.

  Or worst of all, Barb’s. And that realization almost made him inclined to do it anyway, but he would not embarrass Jago, not run the risk, however remote.

  He contented himself with being next to her, with feeling her warmth in the chill wind.

  In that state of affairs, Toby came up to them.

  “I figure to put us into Naigi Shoals,” Toby said, “if that suits. The wind will hold fair long enough. It’s likely to come up a real blow by tomorrow, and I’d rather be away from the shore. That area is pretty deserted, except for fishermen. And I’d rather run by sail, conserving fuel.”

  “He proposes a landing in the Naigi shallows,” Bren translated. “Near Cobo. And says the wind alone will carry us there.”

  “One will propose it to the others,” Jago said.

  “She says they’ll discuss it,” Bren said, and was not surprised when Jago left to do just that, Banichi and Cenedi alike being very familiar with all that coast, and Tano even more so.

  “Damn, it’s good to see your face,” Toby said, for no reason, except they’d had only yesterday evening to talk, and so much to say, and no time, and topics—

  God, so many topics they’d skirted round, that had to be said sometime.

  “Good to see yours—I wrote you a letter. It’s—it’s way too long to print out, unless you just happen to have a couple of reams of paper aboard. I’m not kidding. It’s about a thousand pages. But I have the file. I wrote you every day I was gone. You and Tabini, each a letter, just my thoughts, day to day, what I was doing, where I was, as much as I knew at the time . . .”

  “I’d like to have it.”

  “I’ll give it to you before I leave. I imagine parts of it might better be classified. And I’ll leave it to you whether you want to take on that burden. If you want me to edit it and give it to you later, I will. But I’d like you to have the whole copy. So you understand.”

  “I’d like the whole copy, too,” Toby said. “If there’s stuff to know—I want to know, if you can trust me with it. I’d rather know, and then maybe I can be some help.”

  “I trust you. I just know what it can mean to your life to carry that kind of information. It could mean watching over your shoulder until everything in that letter ceases to be secret, and maybe after that, if you’ve gotten involved in my business. I’m not sure it’s worth it. I’m not sure it’s worth it for Barb, and don’t just drop it on her. She knows how to keep a secret.” The sinking thought came to him that he might, in giving Toby that letter, be driving an unintended wedge between them. “Use your own discretion, but if you tell her it exists, she’ll want to see it.”

  “Do I want her to see it?”

  “There’s nothing in there about her, nothing bad, nothing good, either. It’s about us. Where we were. And that’s plenty dangerous.When I wrote it, I didn’t know what they’d classify and what not, and now that this has blown up on the mainland—I don’t know. I think I’m going to blow it wide and see where the pieces fall. But I have to think about that. And if you don’t want it, if you don’t want the whole question, in consideration of Barb—I’ll understand. I should have given a copy to Shawn, for the information in it. I’d intended to clean the private stuff out and do that, and now there’s not going to be time.”

  “I know what to edit.”

  “And that means getting into it. And getting Barb into it. The more I think about it—hell, Toby, I’m risking your boat, I’m risking your neck and hers—I never meant to risk your peace of mind and your private life.”

  Toby’s hand landed on his shoulder, squeezed hard. “You worry too much.”

  “I worry for a li
ving. I have to think of these things. And they’re real considerations.”

  “I know they are. So what’s the classified part?”

  “Aliens.”

  “That they’re a threat?”

  “The ones we met, nothing imminent. Not to be trifled with, but probably manageable. But there’s more than the kyo out there. A much wider universe than we ever imagined existed. A new referent. A new way of thinking. Hazards we may already be involved in.”

  “So what’s a letter between brothers more or less? Is the news out there that bad?”

  “It may be good, or bad, or the usual scary mix of things. It’ll still touch off the crazies.”

  “Oh, God, everything touches off the crazies. That’s why they’re crazy. Give me your letter, silly brother. I don’t have that much paper, but I’ve got a computer aboard, for my charts.”

  He opened his coat and took out a disc from an inner pocket of his coat, where he carried that, and Tabini’s letter. He gave the right one to Toby. He was extremely careful about that transaction.

  “This little thing,” Toby said. “Doesn’t look dangerous to me.”

  “Don’t let anybody see it until you’ve read it end to end. That’s all I ask. You’ve had a rough enough time being related to me, brother. I really, really don’t want to make it worse.”

  Toby pocketed the disk and patted the pocket. “I secretly enjoy it.”

  “God, I don’t know how you could.”

  “Oh, look at us, now. Good excuse for a fishing trip, good view of a forbidden coast, breaking the law with a naval escort off beyond that horizon . . . and knowing there’s something useful I can do about the current messed-up state of the world. What more could I ask?”

  “A brother who shows up when it’s really important.”

  Toby grabbed his arm, hauled him around, never mind the boatful of atevi that went from relaxed to high alert. “Don’t you ever say that, Bren.”

  “A discussion of brothers, nadiin-ji,” Bren said over the rush of the water, and more quietly, to Toby, who had let him go. “I won’t say it, but I still think it. Don’t meddle with my load of guilt, Toby. It looks like hell, but I’ve got it pretty well balanced by now.”

  “Don’t joke.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “The hell. What happened with mum was what had to happen, sooner or later, the course of nature, happens to us all, and no, as happened, you couldn’t possibly have been there, or you couldn’t have gone and done whatever you’ve done out there. What happened between me and Jill was my doing, my business, our business—Jill undertook a warfare the same as mum, to have me disavow everybody but her own circle. I must have picked her out of my subconscious, a familiar style of dealing with people, something I understood by upbringing. God only knows. But she and mum were a real bad match.”

  “I won’t argue with you.”

  “And Barb’s not like that. She’s not Jill.”

  Oh, God, he most of all didn’t want to tread that territory. He didn’t want to claim to know her the way he did. But he did know her. “The reason we didn’t get along was the job, brother, just the job.”

  “She’s not possessive.”

  Not possessive yet, he thought, Toby was wrong about that: Barb was exactly like Jill, exactly like their mother. At least—he said to himself—she had been of that stamp. She’d gotten along perfectly with their mother, understood exactly what grief their mother had, at war with Jill.

  But he carefully, determinedly, gave Barb credit for improvement over the years, most of it a matter of growing up, dealing with the consequences of her choices, after he’d gotten as far from Barb as he could get. She was entirely agreeable, if she was getting what she wanted, exactly like their mother. She was adept at making the environment constantly tense if she wasn’t getting what she wanted, exactly like Jill, and on one level his conscience told him he was a coward not to say exactly that to Toby, right now, while he had the chance and before Toby got himself into another bad relationship. But half of all that had been wrong in his relationship with Barb . . . was him, and his being constantly on the mainland; and constantly resenting the demands their mother put on him, and recognizing that game all too well—he knew that, too. If Toby and Barb shared a boat and were never apart—they might be happy. They could be happy. Could he help, by breaking that up with what he thought he knew?

  “Is there a problem?” Toby asked, going defensive, and worried.

  “She’s Barb, that’s all you can say. The fire’s completely cold between us, not even an ember left alight. That’s no problem of that sort; but we never got a chance to make a decent friendship after we broke up. I’ll do my level best to do that now. For your sake. You can tell her that, if you like.”

  Toby let go a breath, so wonderfully open, so transparent and honest, all the way to the depths, his brother, two things which he wasn’t, and couldn’t be for two minutes running.

  “I’ll do better than my level best,” he said. “We’ll work it out. Don’t worry about it.”

  But he worried about it. There was one more thing Barb liked, different than their mother, and Jill. She liked the spice of drama in her life. She couldn’t pass up the opportunity for a little excitement. And if Barb pulled one of her shifts of attraction from Toby to him, just to see the sparks fly, he didn’t know what he’d do. The stability Barb demanded in her partners had never had to apply to Barb.

  A thought which he shut down, except the determination to have a talk with Barb and lay down the rules of engagement—or non-engagement, as the case might be.

  “Tell you what,” he said to Toby, “if you have any lingering doubt, believe this: Jago will keep us honest. I have an attachment. You know that.” Half humorously: “And believe me, Jago’s not to cross.”

  Toby shifted a glance aft. Jago was not in view. But his shoulders relaxed as he leaned against the rail. “I hope you’re happy, Bren. And I’m not criticizing. Jago is special. She’s very special. And I really hope you’re happy. Contented, in the human sense.”

  “Mutual,” he said, glad to escape the topic, and leaned there beside his brother, while Barb steered the boat and Jago—did whatever Jago did. Rested, perhaps. Perhaps just watched Barb like a predator watching prey. One never forgot, either, that Jago’s hearing was far more acute than humans were used to reckoning, and she understood Mosphei’ much better than humans were used to being understood.

  Had she overheard? The rush of the water was very loud. Probably she hadn’t. He let it go. There was honesty between him and Jago, such that he could outright ask her, and they could discuss what Toby had said—remarkable, wonderful in relationships he’d had. He let go the tension.

  Peace, for about half a minute.

  A commotion, Cajeiri’s exclamation, and a sharp word from Ilisidi, involving venom, and cutting a line.

  “Stingfish,” Bren cried, without even seeing the situation, and shoved away from the rail to get back past the deck house, which blocked their view. Toby was right behind him.

  Cenedi had snagged the fishing line, it seemed, and with a flash of a knife sent Cajeiri’s orange-spotted, finny prize back into the sea, hook and all, to the relief of all aboard.

  “But I had no chance to see it!” Cajeiri protested.

  “Fortunate,” Ilisidi said dryly, from her seat against the cabin wall. “Foolish boy.”

  “But, mani-ma, Cenedi cut my line!”

  “Nand’ Toby can show you how to rig another hook to the line, young sir,” Bren said, “a valuable skill for a fisherman.” Water was scattered over the white deck, right across Ilisidi’s sitting-area, from what must have been a considerable inboard swing of the snaky animal in question, with lethal side spines and an equally lethal bite of needlelike teeth, had the boy attempted to disengage the hook. “And when we have an opportunity, I shall show you a detailed picture of the creature—which, if it had bitten your great-grandmother, would have grieved us all.”

&nb
sp; A stamp of the formidable cane on the deck. “We would not be so foolish as to be bitten. One does not say the same for a willful boy.”

  “Mani-ma.” A bow. A very measured bow. Oh, we are not behaving well today, Bren thought. The boy was as tired as the rest of them, and desperately trying, after the frantic habit of youth, to be entertained, but patience and good humor was in very short supply.

  Ilisidi had noticed this sluggishness of respect, too, and arched a brow, and stared at the young rebel, her lips a thin line.

  “Where are you, boy?”

  The jutting lip faltered. Tucked in.

  “Answer.”

  “On a boat, mani-ma.”

  “As if to say, a ship. And that is the ship-aiji, more, the owner of this boat, which we are not. We are guests of a person placing himself at great risk in transporting us. Does this fact suggest anything?”

  A moment of silence, in which Cajeiri shrank half a handspan and drew a deep breath.

  “Need we suggest it?” Ilisidi said sharply.

  “One apologizes, nandiin.” Delivered very quietly, with a bow of the head, from a boy who looked, now the energy had gone out of him, frayed, running on nervous energy, and, yes, terribly scared, when the whole ship had reacted to a creature he had flailing on the end of a line he had had no particular skill to manage. “I did not intend disrespect.”

  “Bow,” Bren said, nudging Toby, who managed it, and Cajeiri bowed to Toby, and the dowager nodded, and matters were patched.

  “This boy is tired,” Ilisidi said. “Nawari-ji. See him to a bed and tuck him in.”

  Indignation. “I do not need to be tucked in, mani-ma!”

  “He does not need to be tucked in,” Ilisidi said serenely, “but will benefit from a little rest.”

  “Nandiin.” With a bow and a great deal of dignity the young rebel laid aside his pole and departed to the companionway, one of Ilisidi’s young men at his heels.