The news channel had continual coverage—repeating. And his own image flashed up. He immediately turned the sound up. His aishid disposed themselves, standing about, watching.
“. . . staying at the Francis House for a visit of indeterminate length. The President’s secretary has issued a statement saying that the President is studying the document and will have a statement tomorrow. Legislators who had just left the capital after the kyo event are again flying in from holiday . . .”
The kyo had arrived during that period when the legislature was on regular rounds in their districts. Their absence from the scene and the subsequent speed with which events moved had helped Shawn push through Gin’s appointment to deal with the kyo crisis. It was a little unkind to have surprised them again. But he was not responsible for the timing.
They were in Port Jackson now, definitely—not in session, but stirring about, conferring, gathering information, scheduling hearings.
Now there was a familiar face. One of the Heritage partisans. “The President has set a questionable precedent, lodging atevi in Francis House. This is just one more dangerous step toward . . .”
“What are they saying?” Jago wanted to know.
“That is Heritage Party. He wants us to stay in a hotel. Well, actually, he wishes we had drowned on the way over, but his speech is actually fairly moderate.”
The scene changed. He was about to mute the sound again, but then the television said something regarding a special report from the mainland, and segued to a very familiar venue for a resident of the Bujavid, but one rarely permitted to be imaged.
The Bujavid train station.
The filigree cage, and a screeching parid’ja, being loaded onto the Red Train baggage car.
“The young gentleman,” Tano said instantly.
“The aiji’s son . . .” the television said, and went on about his traveling by train, and having made a statement, an unprecedented event.
Indeed, the next edit showed Cajeiri with his aishid, and with four of Tabini’s guard, stopping for the cameras.
Jeladi and Narani hovered near. Banichi and the rest sat down. Everybody watched and listened.
There were subtitles.
We met the kyo leader and his son.
The kyo leader. They had no notion at all what rank Prakuyo held, but that was not precisely it.
And Cajeiri’s statement that he was going to Tatiseigi’s estate to ride came out that he was riding to his uncle’s house.
Well, that was a development. They were actually picking up broadcasts from the aishidi’tat and the Linguistics Department was actually permitting the Ragi language to be translated for the Mospheiran public.
It was not the best translation. They had missed the idiom in the first line, correctly gotten the gist of two other statements, if not the wording, left out a great deal, and scrambled the last statement entirely. But Cajeiri had just appeared on Mospheiran television—unprecedented, the news was saying, and then the observation that this was Tabini’s heir, and then speculation that the powers that moved nations were not resting an instant in selling the treaty to the world—
As if they had a choice, Bren thought.
—and that Cajeiri making a public appearance and their coming into Port Jackson were a coordinated effort to allay fears of kyo action . . .
Not that coordinated.
Then the reporter stated that it was the boy’s first solo trip since he had been designated as Tabini’s heir.
Solo trip. To Tatiseigi’s estate. Well, that was about the safest place he could visit outside Malguri and Najida. It indicated Tatiseigi was in residence. Maybe that the dowager was there already.
“Where is the dowager? Ordinarily, going to Tatiseigi, she would travel with him.”
“She had business pending in Malguri,” Banichi said, and added: “The aiji inquired of us and Cenedi about a senior unit, to be assigned, in residence, for the young gentleman. We made a recommendation. It surely must be in place today, if he is traveling alone.”
Communications with the Guild were not available as they were on the mainland. They would not be available, while they were here, unless they wanted to route things to Lord Geigi and down, or use code that itself might become an issue in their attempt to soothe uneasy feelings. He had sensed no crisis in the aiji’s sending him—no advisement to use a more rapid transport than he had used.
“The aiji said nothing about a crisis,” he said. “Maybe it is just a holiday.”
“Shall we inquire?”
There were signals, there were always signals that could indicate a serious need to be in contact. “We have received no signal.”
“None,” Banichi said.
“Then one supposes that matters are under control. And perhaps the young gentleman is simply out to enjoy a holiday.”
“One did understand there were to be two state dinners,” Algini said, “one by the dowager, of well-disposed people, one by the aiji, of the mountain clans. One might surmise something arose from there, but one cannot construe what. The dowager’s company would be far more important.”
“Nothing threatening the aiji.”
“Nothing,” Banichi said, “or we would certainly have had advisement. This does have the aroma of politics in motion, regarding Lord Tatiseigi, and his favor.”
“It does,” Bren agreed. It was a reasonable conclusion—maybe not the whole answer, or the right answer, but Boji and all, the young gentleman was launched on his first diplomatic mission to a man he could wrap around his finger, no question, so success and a favorable omen was assured. A new heir. And a mission taking advantage of the best news the world could have, that the trouble the ship had stirred up was dealt with and that no harm was going to come from the incident.
It would be an auspicious time to have the lad enter public view. A coming-of-age in which his personal participation had meant something, certainly approval from the liberals, and a family visit with his great-uncle, one of the leading conservatives—a homely little visit, in the public spotlight.
And Tabini had very possibly sent that clip to Mospheira for public distribution.
Politics? Undoubtedly. Public relations. No question.
But Cajeiri was the one who’d had to pull it off. And he’d done it well.
Very well, from this perspective.
• • •
They had left the city behind by now. Cajeiri knew every switch-point in this route, and he knew when they had set themselves on the line that led north. They had had tea. They had shared sandwiches. There was wine, but his senior aishid did not take any. There was simply more tea. And minimal conversation.
But there was a need to explain where they were going and what they were going to do. It was the second time through for his aishid—Cajeiri had told them, but for them, he had left out some of the things his father had said and concentrated on the happier prospects, like having nothing to do and several days to ride.
They had had their theories, in anticipation of others coming in, where his father might have found another aishid, and who he might have asked in, and how they would work sleeping arrangements with the new aishid, who were expected to be older, and who might find more comfortable rooms with his father’s bodyguard,—his father’s bodyguard were mostly Easterners, from Great-grandmother, except Father’s own upside-down situation, having four Taibeni as his personal guard . . .
All that depending on this new aishid not being of some incompatible origin, which surely his father would never pick.
But they were not the sort of questions a student would ask of an instructor . . . who they were, where they were from, what clans, what districts—and whether they had ever worked together.
His aishid might hesitate at questions. But he was due the answers.
“Is this,” he asked, trying to find a reasonable
question to start with, amid the discomfort, “is this the first time you have been assigned together, nadiin?”
“Not at all,” Rieni said, amid a little relaxation. “We are a unit. Haniri and I are Suradi clan. Janachi is rogue Kadagidi . . .”
“There is no man’chi there,” Janachi said.
That was good. Kadagidi was appalling news.
“And Onami turned up on the Guild’s doorstep one dark night, in a box.”
Was that a joke? He let himself show shock, at very least. Could these grim people joke?
“So we think he is Shejidani,” Haniri said. “But we are not sure.”
“I was brought up by a Taibeni hunter,” Onami said. “But it is true, I am likely Shejidani.”
One hardly knew what to say. Certainly his aishidi had no help. Unless Antaro and Jegari remembered him. But Onami might have left Taiben before they were even born.
“You know Banichi, of the paidhi-aiji’s aishid. And Cenedi, with my great-grandmother.”
“Both,” Rieni said. “Both.”
The silence was extreme, under the thump of the wheels.
“So—did you ask to come, nadiin?”
Rieni seemed to relax a little at that question, too—drew a deep breath and extended his arm along the back of Haniri’s seat, Rieni having the corner seat on the bench. “We are provisional in this assignment, nandi—provisional within your discretion, and ours. We are retiring from instruction, whatever the outcome.”
That surprised his aishid, he thought. It surprised him. Retiring from instruction. But one never retired from the guilds. The Troubles had proved that saying. He had no idea whether these four had been in the fighting then, or when they had begun teaching. But that was not the question.
“Can you still teach my aishid?”
“Yes,” Rieni said. “And while the Guild does not teach outsiders, there is a traditional exception made—for aijiin. That, also, we might do.”
That was scary. He wanted to learn to protect himself. He had asked his aishid to teach him their lessons, and he could operate equipment he was not supposed to touch . . . a fact which he was not sure he ought to admit.
“It might be good,” Antaro said very faintly.
It was not comfortable, even if it might be good. His aishid was far too quiet. The train was far too quiet. For a long, long while.
And it came to him that he was the center of it all. That he gave the orders.
So it was his fault, that silence.
“We are permitted to laugh,” he said, “and make jokes, even silly ones. My aishid calls me Jeri-ji when we are not official. I have three close human associates, and I greatly favor my great-grandmother and the paidhi-aiji and my great-uncle Tatiseigi, who is very much cleverer than he lets most people know. I speak a little human language and a very little kyo. So can my aishid.”
Rieni nodded slowly. “We are not at odds on any of these points. We have, contrary to our reputation among our students, been known to have a sense of humor. Jeri-ji will wait on our permanent assignment.”
“Agreed,” he said. And wished his aishid would relax. They sat absolutely still.
“So what is the normal tenor of your great-uncle’s household?” Haniri asked. “What do you do when you visit?”
That did draw a little shift of bodies, an exchange of looks. But no one said what had happened the last time they were there.
“Did not my father tell you?”
“No,” Rieni said. “We only received the message, that we were to accompany you. We determined together that this was an assignment to finish our last term in active service—or to extend it, in your service, or your father’s.”
“Well,” Cajeiri said on a deep breath. “What do I do? I hope to get a chance to ride. Even just inside the grounds. I would like to. I have never had a routine there. I hope to sleep late and ride a lot. I almost never get to sleep late.”
• • •
The phone rang in the room in Francis House, an odd jangling sound, an old-fashioned ring that startled his aishid and staff—emanating from a very modern phone. Narani located the instrument on the stripewood desk and picked it up, bringing it to him unanswered.
He thumbed it on. “This is Bren Cameron. Yes?”
“Bren. Shawn. How are you doing?”
“We’re all here, my baggage all made it, and we’re having tea. We’ll be quite comfortable.”
“Did you catch the aiji’s son on television?”
“I did, by pure chance. Do you have any word on that?”
“We had a notice from the network. I caught the tail of it, and replayed. Quite a surprise.”
“Surprise to us, too, but a good time to have the young gentleman make a public show, and I think the aiji is preparing to give him more prominence. The young gentleman’s trip is much the same as mine, perhaps, help the world get together on what we need to do.”
“Infinitely to be hoped. Well, welcome to Francis House.”
“Quite the place. I’m honored.”
“One of the more comfortable capital residences. Listen, I’m having staff send a supper up, with choices. I figure you’ll want to settle in this evening and rest a bit. Tomorrow, if you will I’d like to have the two of us, just a private session in the executive office upstairs. I can send a guide—no recording, no formality, just a sit down and catch up session. I know your bodyguard has to come, my bodyguard has to come, but relaxed. Is that possible?”
“Perfectly possible. Give me a time.”
“Private session at nine, lunch with the cabinet at eleven—they’ll want to ask questions. I’ll have my own news conference at one. If you want one—”
“I’ve made my public statement. I’m not happy to go beyond it.”
“Understood. Committee meetings, if you’re willing. It would help.”
“Are you sure it would help?”
“It would win points. And I trust your eloquence.”
“I hope. All right. I’ll do it. What committees?”
“I can arrange a joint session. State, Science.”
“Whatever you think good.”
“I’ll arrange that. Quiet dinner tonight and tomorrow evening, state dinner, full honors on the third night, same cook, same staff as prepares mine, understand. We’re being extremely careful.”
“Shawn, I have every confidence.”
“We’re intercepting a lot of phone calls, some crackpot, some probably people you might want to hear from. Can you give me a list of people you’d take a call from? If you return it with the house staff, I’ll get it. Stationery in the desk. Or should be.”
“Understood. It’s a short list. I’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“Good. Good. I’m liking everything I read in the treaty, short as it is. Good job, Bren, God, a good job.”
“I’m gratified.”
“You’ve hardly had time to get your feet on the ground. Take tonight, at least. Trust the dinner. Get some rest.”
“Thank you.”
“Hell with the formality. I’m glad to see you. Personally glad. Get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow. Old times, Bren.”
“Old times,” he said, hanging up, but he had no illusions it would be like that. They were neither one what they had been, back at the start.
What they did have was an ability to be utterly frank with one another. Shawn was the best in his office in generations, canny, single—when every prior president had been married—an anomaly in many ways, but efficient. Business loved him because they’d never prospered as well as in the period of cooperation he’d engendered. Regular people loved him because prosperity meant jobs; and he’d led the nation through crises, gotten Mospheira back in space, made peace with the aishidi’tat, and, in the view of many Mospheirans, softened the atevi attitude toward Mospheirans. r />
The Heritage Party, which wanted to roll back the clock to oppose everything non-human, was not fond of him, vehemently opposed to sharing the space station—never mind that humans in space couldn’t fly down and humans on the ground couldn’t fly up: it had taken atevi industry to make that possible. First up to deal with Phoenix’s return had been atevi. But—the Heritage Party was sure they could have done it except for Shawn’s leadership.
The electorate, thank God, was not amnesiac, but electorates aged and changed, and they had, themselves, a narrow window to get done the things that needed to be done so that the Heritage Party couldn’t revise history and roll back the clock. They had to stop the cycles of upheaval in the aishidi’tat and do something to give an island-bound nation a sense of optimism for their children.
There were tall obstacles to both. But the knowledge of a technologically advanced entity on their border might either scare Mospheirans into arming themselves—or persuade them that that was a fairly dangerous course, given the situation, and given their relationship with atevi, whose policy was to keep heavy armament to a minimum in the world, while humans had been understandably unwilling to release that sort of thing from the Archive—a moot point now, since the ship had arrived with that technology in operation.
But if the world wanted to build a massive defense in space, it had a long run to catch up with the kyo—and if they were not recognizably themselves when they got to the kyo’s level, in a non-technician’s studied opinion, they would have lost everything they wanted to protect.
• • •
“What is your thought?” Cajeiri asked Lucasi when he encountered Lucasi and Jegari at the door of the accommodation.
“They are good,” Lucasi said, in a low voice, shoulder turned to the group at the end of the car. “The senior pair teach tactics. Janachi teaches demolitions and disarmament and he has no nerves. Onomi teaches anything that comes in a black box.”
“You would be safer with them, Jeri-ji,” Jegari said. “I have no hesitation to say so.”