Visitor

  “Yes,” Algini said. It was a given that Algini and Tano, second pair in the aishid, would be the ones to go, leaving the two primary, Banichi and Jago, in attendance on him.

  “I shall ask clearance for you,” he said, and looking up, he said loudly to the walls of the corridor, “Prakuyo, please come talk. Want send Tano and Algini back to Alpha.”

  • • •

  Prakuyo was not long in returning to the small conference room, and he brought two others with him. One was Huunum an Hus, whose mouth was a little undershot, and whose eyes were murky green; the other was Ukess an Am, whose face and arms were extremely freckled in brown and gray-green. What their authority was, or whatever their involvement in the question of Guy Cullen, one had no clue—they might even be there simply because Prakuyo was obliging the atevi sense of numbers.

  “Hear,” Prakuyo said in Ragi, as they stood in the small conference room. “Hear all talk. Bren stay. Teach Cullen kyo words. Good.”

  “Three days,” Bren said. It was pure bargaining, pure assumption that he was going to leave when he wished. “Three days stay on ship. Tano and Algini go station now, bring clothes for three days. Give Cullen kyo words. Make Cullen peace.”

  “Ten day,” Prakuyo said.

  That was so much better than Prakuyo might have asked. But in a first bargaining session, surely one should resist a little, and test how and if the kyo dealt with it.

  “Seven is fortunate number.”

  Boom. “Seven. Yes. Tano and Algini go station. Prakuyo send writing to Hakuut and Matuanu, say all good, not say human on kyo ship.”

  “Yes.” He gave a little bow, inexpressibly relieved at that statement, and changed immediately to Ragi. “Clothes for seven days, nadiin-ji. Prakuyo-nandi also requests you tell our two guests that everything is going well over here, and that we are reaching agreement. He will send a written message.”

  “Nandi,” Algini said, order accepted.

  Prakuyo delayed to pass a hand over the lighted tablet, tap what might have been a keyboard on the screen for an extended message, and then extract a card. He held it out to Algini. “Give to Matuanu. Not Hakuut. Yes?”

  “Yes,” Bren said quietly and quickly. Algini politely, with a bow, took the card, tucked it in his pocket, and Prakuyo then instructed his own aide Ukess in a rapid and cheerful patter of instructions.

  “Yes,” Ukess said then, bobbed and bowed and motioned with both hands to Algini and Tano. “Come, come.”

  The station had indeed figured somewhere in the set of instructions Prakuyo had just given. Tano and Algini could speak to ops from kyo communications, at which point Phoenix would give orders, Central would give orders, and they would get Tano and Algini to the station and back without a problem . . . or, one hoped, too much inquisitiveness from ship command. Jase was the only officer who could talk to Tano and Algini. And Tano and Algini had their instructions, and the message to Matuanu.

  Their departure brought their company down, now, to himself, Banichi and Jago, and Prakuyo and his two. Six, Ragi-honed instinct said, was an untrustworthy number, infelicitous two of felicitous threes, a number foreboding a division of interests—without mitigation.

  There was usefulness in that stray superstitious thought.

  “Atevi say six is not all felicitous,” Bren said in Ragi. “But Cullen is our seven, which is a number of much greater happiness. Will you talk to Cullen now, Prakuyo-ji?”

  “Yes,” Prakuyo said with a deep thump, and added what seemed an entirely sensible request, considering the nerves on both sides: “Not open door.”

  • • •

  Bren walked down the hall with Banichi and Jago alone, no kyo in sight, given the curve of the hall, and within his cell, Cullen stood up to meet them.

  “Cullen talk?” Bren asked in kyo, the promised test. And for a moment Cullen looked frozen. “All good, Cullen?”

  “Talk,” Cullen managed to say, likewise in kyo, a minor triumph. Then Cullen went further. “Tano? Algini?”

  Say they were off to visit the space station? Absolutely not. For all Cullen was to know, this was a meeting in deep space. “Tano and Algini sit, rest. Hear?”

  “Rest, yes,” Cullen said, then looked past him in alarm. “Kyo.”

  “This is that person I mentioned,” Bren said in ship-speak. “This is Prakuyo. The one who wishes to talk. Be calm. Be polite. Talk to him. He actually understands a little of our language . . . and he is interested in you, which is good. Can you be calm?”

  Cullen drew a deep breath. His lips made a thin line.

  “He’s been here before. With you. And before.”

  “I don’t doubt. Has he ever hurt you?”

  “No. He gives orders.”

  “Face,” Bren said. “Just tell yourself that every time you deal with them. I’ve agreed to spend seven days here, teaching you, helping you. It’s his idea. I think he might get you out of that cell, if you make a good impression. And if we can get you this far in three hours, think what we can do in seven days. Face. Face.”

  “Got it,” Cullen said, and managed his expression, as Prakuyo came close to the transparent door.

  “Face same Bren,” Prakuyo said, looking Cullen up and down. “Yes.” A wave of his hand about his own hairless head. “Good.”

  “Cullen,” Bren said, “this is Prakuyo, Prakuyo an Tep. Prakuyo an Tep, this is Cullen.”

  “Cullen,” Prakuyo said. With a little boom. “Good. Good see face.”

  “Talk,” Cullen said in kyo. “Talk. Want talk kyo.”

  “Yes,” Prakuyo said. “Understand. Prakuyo understand human talk. Not say good. Hear good.”

  “He’s saying,” Bren said, “that he understands far more of our language than he can speak. Our language has sounds kyo can’t make and certainly the other way around. Pick words you can say. Say it in human language, then say the same thing in kyo. Prakuyo understands that way of working.”

  “What does he want?” Cullen asked.

  “Ask him,” Bren said.

  Uncertainty. Panic. Cullen brought his face under control. “Want?” he asked. “Prakuyo want?”

  “Peace,” Prakuyo said, that simply. It was not a word they’d gotten to with Cullen.

  “Peace,” Bren translated it, and Cullen sucked in a deep, deep breath, then carefully, consciously pressed his open hand to the barrier between them.

  Prakuyo did the same, hand to hand, on either side of the barrier. Stood that way a moment, two beings staring at each other, two open hands that didn’t match, two faces each seeking answers.

  • • •

  Tano and Algini had returned—but without nand’ Bren.

  Nand’ Bren, they said, wanted to stay seven days talking to Prakuyo, just talking. And they said they needed to talk to mani, in mani’s rooms, with Matuanu.

  How could they talk to Matuanu? And why should they talk to Matuanu and mani at once?

  Cajeiri tried to concentrate on the board in front of him, the game mani had deserted to disappear into her room with nand’ Bren’s aishid—and Matuanu—leaving him and Hakuut to continue on their own.

  It was Hakuut’s move. Hakuut was probably asking himself exactly the same questions. Hakuut was much better at Ragi. Matuanu hardly talked at all. In either language.

  It was secrets Tano and Algini brought back. Cenedi and Nawari were in that room. They would learn.

  Secrets. Something important enough to go to the one place in the suite that was free of recording devices, but maybe not of Hakuut’s hearing.

  On the far side of the board, Hakuut’s eyes flickered to the door, to the game, and back again. After that first game, Matuanu and mani, watching, had let the two of them make their own moves. Cajeiri had planned to let Hakuut win, being diplomatic . . . and discovered there’d been no charity involved. Hakuut had been winning w
ithout any help.

  Suddenly, Hakuut reached out, moved his aiji-dowager recklessly close, then sat back, looking again to that closed door.

  Cajeiri saw it. Hakuut had not. He had just lost the game.

  Cajeiri said nothing, just reached silently to counter the move and check Hakuut’s aiji . . . and discovered the board was trembling. His hand was trembling. He set down the piece, and as he did, it chattered against the board.

  He pulled the hand back, and clenched his fingers together as that trembling reached deep into his gut. His ears began to make strange buzzing sounds, and underneath the buzz, a deep, deep hum, a rumbling that he felt more than heard.

  “Haku-ji!” he gasped. “Face!” And as quickly as it had started, the strange hum ended.

  “One regrets, Jeri-ji.”

  Hakuut’s face slowly came back into focus.

  He drew a deep breath. “Hakuut upset?”

  “Many upset. Tano and Algini come. No Bren. Good. Not good.”

  He drew another breath, and gestured toward the board. “Draw?”

  “Draw.”

  Silently, they began putting the pieces in their little case. Before they could finish, mani emerged from her room. Nand’ Bren’s two bodyguards bowed and took their leave toward nand’ Bren’s rooms, without so much as a glance his way. Cajeiri stood up in respect, Hakuut set the game box on the side table and stood up as well. Matuanu, with a bow to mani, told Hakuut to come with him, and the two of them disappeared into the kyo section of the suite.

  The door shut. It never had until now.

  Cajeiri stood, waiting for mani to sit and for the tea to be poured, neither of which happened.

  “Young gentleman,” she said, which she almost never called him. “I shall be in my suite for a while, with Cenedi. I trust you and Hakuut did not come to disagreement.”

  “No, mani. He was worried. One believes he was worried. He might have been listening.”

  Mani ignored the hint, pointedly. “You will be pleased to know our guests will be remaining with us for a felicitous seven more days.”

  “Nand’ Bren?” he asked, worried. “Will he stay there seven days?”

  “The paidhi-aiji reports good progress. He sees the need for these seven days. His aishid is here to obtain more clothing and make the arrangements for his absence. I suggest you continue to work with Hakuut on the dictionary. These seven days should not be wasted in these premises, either.”

  “Mani,” he said, uninformed, and dipped his head respectfully as she returned to her rooms.

  And shut the door.

  Seven days. He glanced at his aishid, standing silently beside the door. Seven days, with secrets passing behind closed doors all around him. He wished he had ears like the kyo, whose ears were hardly visible at all.

  He wanted to know. He very much wanted to know . . . but when mani said it was secret, it was secret.

  The door to the kyo suite slid open and two very sober kyo came out.

  Not just Matuanu. Hakuut, as well. So Matuanu, having heard whatever it was, had told Hakuut not to tell whatever Hakuut might have heard, and probably whatever he might hear. And he did not think Hakuut would disobey that instruction.

  Tano and Algini never even came back into the sitting room. They sat down with the tablets again, he and Hakuut, and at a certain point Hakuut looked up, toward nand’ Bren’s apartment.

  “Door open?” he asked Hakuut.

  “Open and close,” Hakuut said. “Two.”

  So Tano and Algini were leaving by the servant passage, going back to the lift, and not going through the sitting room and foyer at all.

  It seemed quite clear he would not learn anything from anybody, not for at least seven days.

  • • •

  Prakuyo sent gifts down, a plate of food, including sweets, and a new robe, a geometric pattern, blue and gold, and a very large tufted pillow, brown and gold. Ukess and Huunum brought them, and, the cell door being open, cautiously ventured in to set them on the floor.

  “Stand,” Bren prompted Cullen, and did that, himself. “Bow. These are for you.”

  Both kyo bobbed slightly, hands folded.

  “Thank you,” Cullen managed to say as they left.

  Second bob, facing him, before they left.

  “Furniture,” Bren said. “Food. A sampler of kyo food, by the look of it. Generally—taste a very little of something new. If your tongue feels odd in a few minutes, don’t swallow it. Let them know, not just what tastes wrong, but what you like. —They do have alcohol, by the way.”

  That drew interest.

  “Be careful of it,” Bren said. “Strict limit, when they do give it to you. Know your limit, and stay well inside it. One lapse can turn a conversation into a disaster. You can’t afford that, especially now, no matter what the pressure. I hope, I sincerely hope, that you’ll find them as tolerant and reasonable as atevi have been with my early mistakes. But don’t make that one. You can’t ignore their customs or their sense of limits. Boundaries, both personal and cultural. Accept them. If you can work them into your own thinking, you may find they’re not barriers; if you look at them right, they’re keys to the things you need the most.”

  Cullen looked at him the same desperate way he’d looked at Prakuyo. “How long have you done this?”

  “Years. I was younger than you when I started, and I’d studied the atevi language and customs since I was a child, preparing for the job. And I’ll tell you something. I wouldn’t trade what I do. I’ve had the chance to quit, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything, more so as the years pass. I wish you that kind of luck. I truly do.”

  “I’m scared,” Cullen said. “I’m scared as hell.”

  “Better than over-confidence. Much better. Right now you can only anticipate. I’ve been in that situation—lately, with the kyo themselves. But once you’re in a situation, you have a job to do. Do your best to prepare yourself, keep reminding yourself that both sides believe they’re in the right, and when in doubt, bow. Be immaculately polite, and listen to what they’re saying. Never, ever assume; if in doubt ask for clarification. Stay out of angry groups. The subsonics you know can hurt, if they’re upset. I’m not sure how bad it can get, but I suspect it can be a weapon, even among their own kind, and very likely there are some individuals particularly good at it.”

  “There are.” There was a slight tremble in his voice. “There’s one real scary one.”

  “On the other side of the coin—be polite to him. Remember to control your face and your voice. Intimidation needs response, bait needs biting. If you do neither, the attacker has nothing to build on. Point of interest: the kyo say that connections once formed are permanent. Exactly what they mean by that I’m not sure, but possibly it’s just that they stand by their relationships once they do make them, and consequently don’t commit to them instantly or lightly. Do things their way. Respect them, take them as they are. There’s only one of you, and it’s their ship.”

  It was scary, how much a person yanked out of human culture unwarned, unschooled, and unprepared to deal with non-human instincts—wouldn’t know. It had taken the War of the Landing and a lot of good intentions on both sides for Mospheirans and atevi to internalize it.

  “Let me explain how atevi are, and how we adapt to each other, how we deal with the differences. It won’t have a thing to do with how kyo are . . . but it’s the best working example I have.”

  A deep breath. “I’m ready.”

  “All right. Let’s talk about salads.”

  22

  There was no letup. Tano and Algini came back with the clothes, with paper writing materials, which were a major asset with Cullen, and with a very large container of frozen teacakes which Bindanda had sent over for Prakuyo. Banichi left Cullen’s cell to confer with Tano and Algini, then came back with a tiny hand signal to
say everything was in order—meaning Tano and Algini had delivered the message to the dowager and given Prakuyo’s written note to Matuanu.

  So everything was stable over on the station, and secrets were locked down.

  That was, Bren thought, a mortal relief.

  He sat in the cell with Cullen, and, once given the resource of paper and pen, he wrote words and created a dictionary on the spot: no tablets, none of the elaborate work he had made to bridge the gap to the kyo . . . no pictures that betrayed the planet, or the relationship.

  “Tablet has Mospheirans, Reunioners,” he said to Prakuyo, during one of their periodic conferences. “Not give Cullen tablet. Pictures speak many, many word. Mospheirans. Reunioners. Atevi world. Not good give Cullen.”

  Prakuyo gave a series of little thumps and said, “Not give. Understand.”

  “Kyo write words. Show.”

  That had been an undertaking, a test of eyes and brain. It was, thank God, not word-dedicated characters, but a sort of alphabet with a few combination symbols, and interspersed with glyphs which—a strange revelation—represented the booms and thumps. There was a happiness glyph, as best one could figure it, and an unhappiness glyph. There was a warning glyph, an encouragement glyph—fourteen of them, and possibly more that Prakuyo didn’t consider as basic.

  He took notes for himself.

  And he presented the system to Cullen, who just dropped his head against his knees and stayed that way for a time, before he sat up, rubbed his face, and propped his head in his hands.

  “It’s not easy,” Bren said. “I’m not saying it’s easy. You have time.”

  “I have a lot of time.” Cullen laughed, a thready, desperate sort of laugh, rubbed his face hard, and then said, “I’ll work on this. I don’t know if my brain can handle it, but I’ll try.”

  “Don’t expect to learn it all at once. But writing is another key to dealing with the kyo. Literacy is also a way for you to take notes that don’t fit in our writing. You’ll rapidly reach a point you’ll think thoughts you can’t think in our language. You’ll know names of things you can’t think of except in kyo. That’s when you’ll start living in the language. But before that—let me warn you—you may reach a whiteout. Total panic. Inability to think of any word in any language. You may break down in tears. That’s all right. Many do. I have. It’ll pass, usually in less than an hour. Think of it as a gateway, one you’ll learn to pass, back and forth—and the better you do it, the faster you get out of that no-words moment.” He didn’t want to linger on the problems of that gateway, the possibility that Cullen might fall far out of practice with his own language, his native thought patterns—a loneliness more extreme than he’d ever had to deal with. What Cullen had ahead of him was—total.