Intruder

  “Lord Geigi wishes you a safe flight, Bren-ji, and will see you in Shejidan.”

  “Thank you, Jago-ji.”

  Guild was talking to Guild, routine exchange of information. The bus had long-range communications that let them do that. He couldn’t use it…not being Guild. For a brief while during the last mess, he’d thought fondly of having modern communications installed on the bus. He’d come out to the west coast to do a little work on a bill to allow cell phones, which were all the rage over on Mospheira—to allow them at least in limited general application on the continent. It was his job, among others, to oversee the surrender of human tech to the aishidi’tat, by terms of the treaty that had settled the War of the Landing—

  But just occasionally, when such a release of technology was proposed, it was his job to say a firm no.

  He had bled over the lack of personal communications on that last mission. And much as he had wanted a phone—he had to admit it would have made matters worse.

  The traditionalists among atevi were all up in arms over the impending bill…which had been scheduled to be a main feature of the upcoming legislature. It was a given in all the reports that the paidhi-aiji was going to support it. Numerous people wanted it, not remotely concerning what it meant but sure it was going to be important and modern. The Messengers’ Guild was interested but dubious. But more to the point, Tabini wanted it.

  Where it regarded introduction of human tech to the mainland, the paidhi-aiji had an absolute, though rarely used, veto, and the aiji would have to dismiss him from office to get past it.

  He had learned, in that recent conflict, the reason for the ban on lords talking to lords in a combat area. He had thought naively that it might serve to straighten things out and stop a fight.

  But God! it could so easily go the other way. Whatever took fine control of a messy situation out of the hands of the Assassins’ Guild, who had their own system of keeping a firefight out of civilian areas, could not benefit reason and order. Not on the mainland.

  And two lords in the field talking back and forth under fire were not likely to improve anything…either understanding or attitude. He only needed think of personalities. Pigheadedness. Party affiliations. Clan loyalties.

  Outright fools giving away their position and getting their own people killed. He only needed think of Lord Tatiseigi’s communications system, which had leaked like a sieve. It had nearly cost them their lives and the country its leadership.

  No, the Assassins’ Guild hadn’t publicly stated their position on the cell phone issue. But he knew now of a certainty what they thought of it. And why.

  So God help him, the paidhi-aiji, whom the conservatives believed was in favor of unbridled excess and the systematic overthrow of all tradition and culture, was about to come down on the same side of an issue as the archest conservatives in the aishidi’tat, the number-counters, people who believed the numbers of a situation dictated the outcome and affected the cosmic harmony. Including people who thought the space station upset the universe.

  The same people were going to have an apoplexy when they considered the Edi and Gan gaining seats in the legislature and a lordship apiece.

  They’d think he’d changed his vote on the cell phone issue to placate them about the other matter. That it was a sign of weakness.

  Hell. Maybe he could offer to vote against the cell phone bill if they’d drop their opposition to the Edi and Gan issue. And then actually do it. That would be underhanded.

  It was reasonably certain that Tabini was going to be upset about his vote. He had to warn Tabini before he did it. And before his veto, if the thing passed.

  Ilisidi had picked a nice time to leave town.

  He already wanted her back. God, he wanted her back.

  The plane was another world after the long drive to reach it. It was no jet, but it was appointed like one.

  And finally, having packed off their far too eager junior Guild escort back to Najida and Separti Township, they all could relax, in an arrangement of five seats and a small table, and be served by the plane’s steward.

  There were no other passengers, no freight or mail on the outbound leg of the flight, and there were no delays in prospect. The plane climbed, westward at first, and made its ascent over Najida peninsula in a red sunset. A steep bank showed them Najida below, and yes, Jago reported, there were trucks outside the house. Workmen.

  The sun speared across the cabin as the plane finished its turn, nosed off to the east, and headed for Shejidan, its altitude giving them a second lease on daylight.

  “When we see Najida again,” Bren said, “it will be about twice as large as it was before. And we shall no longer have to play politics for the bath.”

  That brought a little amusement. And the steward arrived with drinks, a little alcohol for him, plain fruit juice for his bodyguard, who would count themselves on duty until they got where they were going and the door shut behind them.

  A good supper, however—that was perfectly within the rules.

  Homeward bound, this time, really home—or what should be home: he had, after all, spent a significant portion of his life in the Bujavid. But his heart, he discovered, was still within the little villa they were leaving behind.

  And it would, indeed, not be the same quiet little place when he got back. It would be better, more able to accommodate several high-ranking guests with numerous servants. Not to mention there would be no line-up for the bath or, worse, the accommodation.

  And he was going to have windows overlooking the harbor, no longer wasting that beautiful view with a blank wall and a garage. It was a tactical risk…but he was betting on the world he was trying to build—one in which those big windows would be safe, and farmers and hunters would not find dead men in their fields.

  A world where—in his dreams—people would understand that their neighbors were inevitably going to share the planet, and that the planet as a whole was going to have to get along with other people and places it had never bothered itself to imagine.

  Was the world, was the universe, big enough to accommodate everybody in decency and prosperity?

  Maybe it was a crazy dream that people would finally see that it was. But he bet on it. He damned sure meant to try to make it happen.

  He was going to have those windows.

  And—inevitably—Guild protection went with the windows. His own bodyguard was going to have to be have help when they were there, until the world was quieter. And there would be electronic surveillance.

  But he would go on working toward not needing it.

  He would miss the Najida staff. He had gotten used to them in his short visit, and they to him. But they belonged to Najida. They needed to be there, to supervise the construction, to lead their lives close to the land and their clan—in peace.

  A few of Najida village, however, had gone to Shejidan to work for him. They were already in the Bujavid, waiting for him, and more—also of Najida—were coming down from the space station, where they had been stranded for three years apart from family and all the luxuries of planetside living. They were also coming back to serve in the Bujavid, his apartment on the space station going on lowest maintenance until he got back to that residence—and all the problems hanging fire in the heavens.

  Well, but they were his places. Home, each of them, in a different way.

  A handful of weeks ago he’d been living in Lord Tatiseigi’s apartment on Lord Tatiseigi’s charity. Ilisidi had gotten him that favor that and well, nand’ Tatiseigi’s curiosity had probably given a little push, too, since it was certain staff had reported to the old man on a regular basis, and the old man, who detested humans and every variance from tradition, was insatiably curious about what he deplored.

  So his volunteers from Najida had taken the train to Shejidan three days ago, bringing with them furnishings that staff had rescued from the apartment in the coup. What the Farai had brought into the apartment when they had occupied it—security had taken th
at furniture out, and then gone over the place, stripping the walls down to bare stone—even rearranging the division of rooms in the process—so he understood. They’d found bugs—God knew which agency had planted them—the Farai, or the Maladesi, who had preceded him, or Tabini, or Murini. He somewhat doubted the Maladesi, since his own bodyguard would have found those, and probably they would have told him had Tabini been listening. So it was likely one or both of the other two. They’d even x-rayed the furniture, so tables and chairs and small carpets and vases that had been in the apartment when the Farai vacated might be turning up piecemeal. Bujavid Security, in fact, had passed him photos of the items and asked him to declare which were originally his and which the Farai had moved into the place.

  Senji clan treasures—maybe there were a few of those. It was only fair and civilized to return those to the Farai or put them in storage, even though nobody cared particularly what the Farai thought at the moment. They’d betrayed the Senji, their own ruling clan; they’d certainly been ready to betray the Dojisigi. Next they’d be trying to snuggle up to Machigi as long lost relatives—which they were. But that wouldn’t get them far.

  Could things ever go back to what they had been, before the coup?

  His job at the moment, his whole trip to Tanaja, had been to make damned sure they didn’t go back to status quo ante.

  Among the hardest heads he had to deal with in that regard—count his former host, Lord Tatiseigi, who led a formidable collection of conservative interests.

  Everybody in the Bujavid was a close neighbor. It was the snuggest possible collection of people in power on the planet, and most everybody in the Bujavid was going to be asking everybody else—What did the paidhi have to negotiate with that scoundrel Machigi? What is he up to? What is the aiji-dowager up to? Why is Machigi still alive?

  And, most significant to most in the Bujavid:

  Where does Tabini-aiji stand on all this?

  5

  Nand’ Bren was coming back to Shejidan. His plane was in the air. Cajeiri had it from the best source, from his father saying it to his mother, so it was definite.

  They had been moving in all day, into their new apartment—or their remade old one. They had had their last supper in Great-grandmother’s apartment, where they had been staying, because, Mother said, they were still unpacking the kitchen in the new place, and the staff would be working through the night to assure they could cook breakfast in the morning.

  So the official move was after supper, but Father had said emphatically they were going to be in the new apartment today, and today it must be—because now that they had sent the boxes over after lunch, there was nothing they owned left in Great-grandmother’s apartment, and all their clothes and things were being set up in the new apartment.

  So at last they officially moved—simply walking to the new apartment, with their bodyguards and some of their staff, all together like a procession. It seemed to Cajeiri it ought to be sort of an occasion, and in fact when they reached the apartment and Father’s bodyguard opened the door, there stood a gathering of servants Cajeiri did not remember at all, all of them lined up to welcome them to what was now home for the first time since they had fought their way back to Shejidan and his father had taken the government back.

  The door to the sitting room stood open, past the reception line of servants, and the servants brought them immediately inside, offering Mother and Father brandy and him his favorite fruit drink. There were very good little cakes for the occasion, so Cajeiri began to feel it really was a party. There were a lot of flowers, and everyone was smiling. Servants came and bowed to his parents, conversing for a moment, and then came and bowed to him, and introduced themselves, and said embarrassing things about having taken care of him when he was a baby.

  Well, he was not a baby. He had left the Bujavid when he was a baby. He had lived with Uncle Tatiseigi mostly. He had gone to space with Great-grandmother, and when Great-grandmother had decided to go with nand’ Bren into the great void and go get the stranded humans, well, she had decided against sending him back to his father, and he had not wanted to go, either.

  Which was a good thing. Because the rebels had shot up the apartment and killed a lot of the old staff, and then they had shot up the lodge at Taiben and his parents had had to run for it. If he had been a baby and slowing them down, probably none of them would be alive to get back here.

  But they were. And the servant staff, some of them, were old servants, and knew how things needed to be, his mother said.

  He did not remember any of them, try as he might. And he did try. The cakes were especially good, and there were plenty of refills of punch. The only immediate bad thing was that the whole place smelled of paint and new varnish under the flower smells, and that was going to be unpleasant to live with, but it was just the repairs.

  He had gotten a look at the place while they were painting it, and it looked bigger with furniture and carpets. It was bright and new. But it was white. It had white walls and nearly white tile in the foyer, and a lot of white furniture in the sitting room made it worse, in his opinion. He would have preferred dark wood like mani’s apartment. But no one had asked him. He just hoped his furniture had not been painted white.

  After the cakes came a tour through the heart of the apartment, Father’s office, which was very fine, a little darker walls, with polished wood, and beautiful old carpet and porcelains on pedestals…it was not as nice or as cozy as Great-grandmother’s office, in Cajeiri’s opinion. But it was fancy, and he liked it. There was the library, also comfortably dark and full of books.

  His mother’s room was white with pastel greens. And the nursery, which came first, had windows, three of them, and the room was brilliant yellow—the only color in the whole apartment, and the only windows.

  The dining room had been white. The bath was white tile. Even the towels were white.

  It was just—not fair that the baby was going to have all the windows.

  But he was on best behavior. And he had to stand still and bow and say the white bath was beautiful, and he had to listen respectfully while the staff pointed out the phone, which was in a cabinet on which one could raise the lid, and the light switch, as if one were too stupid to find a light switch in the bath, and a button to call staff, which was, of course, beside the light switch…

  Then Father said, unexpectedly, “You may go see your rooms, son, if you wish. One is certain that more interests you.”

  “Yes!” he said and half-turned to go, and then decided it was politic to be quiet and far more grateful. “Thank you, Father. Thank you, Mother. Nadiin-ji.” He bowed, including the staff, then collected his bodyguard, who, like all the rest of Father’s and Mother’s staff, had tagged after them and crowded into every room they were in, and escaped with them.

  He took off into the inner hall that led to the other rooms—that was a new security trick, because you had to go through separate halls to get to Father’s hall and Mother’s hall, and yet another direction to get to his door. It was a security arrangement: there was a foyer past the foyer, and the first pick would get you Father’s security station, which was also—white.

  He and his bodyguard went back up the hall to the first door on the left, just past the servants’ access door, and he pressed ahead and opened the door to his suite himself, he was so excited and hopeful.

  The door opened directly into his sitting room, and the place smelled of paint and it was, yes, white.

  But redeeming that fault, there were plants everywhere: dark green ones, and light green ones and leaves with pale borders, and blue borders and yellow borders, each with bright lights to support them.

  And there was his table, and the chairs with the animals, all polished up like new. With the red tapestries.

  Best of all, nearly hidden behind potted plants, and behind a gnarly tree trunk that was also, cleverly, several shelves for more plants—there stood the big brass cage, dusted off, still with a lot of corroded green,
but clean, and intricate, and old. He went immediately to see it and make sure it was what he remembered.

  And its door worked, and everything.

  There were no windows in his rooms at all: that was the biggest fault with the whole place, so far as he was concerned. But everywhere, on the walls, on stands, in pots on the floor, sat potted plants. Even the air smelled better in here than out there, a lot better.

  And when he went back further into the suite, down a little hallway with two rooms for his bodyguard, there was his little office, with the desk, and everything, and still more plants. His office had shelves, and the books he had packed were on them, two that he had borrowed from nand’ Bren, and his own books, his atlases…and his map, his precious huge map, that he had had hanging in his bedroom in mani’s apartment: his world map, with all the towns and cities and harbors and rivers and mountains, that he had studied until he could draw whole pieces of it, and they had kept all his pins, which marked places he wanted to think about and places he had been.

  There was the west coast, where he had just been. And Malguri, far across the mountains, where mani was. He had a black pin at Malguri, for Great-grandmother. He had a white one at Najida, for nand’ Bren. He put another white one halfway between the west coast and Shejidan. That was nand’ Bren’s plane, coming here to Shejidan, to get his apartment back, which would be just the other side of his father’s office wall.

  The kabiu master had made his map the center of the wall, easily in reach, and there were tall plants on either side, but not in front of it, because it was not an ordinary hanging. The master had understood. His office was right. It felt right.

  And across the little foyer from that, his bedroom was full of plants, each with its light, and there were the red and blue hangings he had picked out, and the wonderful carved bed with the snarling beast-head, and the bureau that matched it. The bed had figured red pillows and a red tapestry bedspread with green leaves winding over it, and a picture of mountains in the middle of it. There was the red and green carpet, all fresh and clean, and another red and gray hanging he did not remember ordering, but it was all of leaves, and the drapes all along the short wall, as if there were windows, even if he had none, with plants at either corner—those were red, wonderful red, so one could drink down the color and be happy.