Visitor

  And he hoped Bjorn was going to be all right.

  “The Andressen house will go down to the planet,” Jase-aiji said. “They will have to pass the same tests as other people do to go up and work on the station.”

  “Is Andressen-nadi to be respectable?” mani asked. “Shall he be disgraced for his dealings?”

  “Under the circumstances, nand’ dowager, one expects he will gain respectability: his dealings were with property he rescued, the existence of which he declined to reveal to Phoenix command, and to his fellows, but he did preserve the materials. He used them in illicit barter, but he did so in the constraint of the situation, to help his family survive and gain status that might save them being shipped to Maudit—never a good plan. Gin-nandi will protect him—she will certainly protect Bjorn’s interests. I have spoken to her about that.”

  It was good news. It was very good news.

  But it was not news about nand’ Bren and the situation they all were in, even Hakuut and Matuanu.

  The ship-aijiin were growing impatient, asking Jase what was going on and what nand’ Bren might be saying and promising.

  “He will promise only such things as he must promise,” was mani’s judgment, “to secure a safe outcome and a fair relationship. The ship should do nothing.”

  “Ship command is being very cautious,” was Jase’s answer. “They ask. I have told them—when you have information, I shall know it and relay it.”

  “That is the case,” mani said.

  Very possibly, Cajeiri thought, Hakuut and Matuanu were listening to all of it. They were not taking pains to keep it otherwise.

  But Hakuut did ask, once he and Hakuut resumed their session at the dining table, “What Jase-aiji say? Ship-aijiin upset?”

  “Not upset. Worried. Think-this, think-that. Ask when Bren will come back, what kyo ask, what nand’ Bren say.”

  Hakuut said: “Matuanu and me worry same.”

  Oh, there were questions he could ask . . . questions about what Matuanu had told Hakuut. Ever since that day, there were moments Hakuut would fade away from whatever they might be doing and stare across the room.

  Listening? Trying to hear secrets that might pass beyond the walls?

  He wished he could hear all the way into that ship out there. He wished mani would volunteer whatever Tano and Algini had had to say to her and Matuanu, when they made their visit.

  But if mani wanted to say that, she would, and she had not.

  • • •

  We—remained a hard word. We, even I, was problematic—as if whatever we might be was so enmeshed with I, or vice versa, that kyo just felt—intruded upon if someone assumed it.

  Ragi had an impersonal one. And kyo had an impersonal. It finally came clear, dealing with Huunum and Ukess. They were we. One boomed, the other did—it was that simple. But get a mob together . . .

  “Many, many kyo are not a good we,” as Huunum put it. “Crazy. Two, three, good. Kyo choose two, three learn, report, talk to number one kyo. Much more fast decide.”

  Well, it was not the way atevi decided things, unless one counted clans, but it appeared that agreement-groups among the kyo were not by birth, gender, or political rank. They were somewhat by personal affinity. They were, in fact, whatever kyo wanted them to be.

  “I think,” Bren said to Cullen, in the long sessions which, a day ago, had moved to the conference room, “that it expresses what we call affection, and consensus, what atevi call man’chi, and clan, and their decision-making may be something we had rather approach the way they do, in small groups that build into a network of little groups. Quiet that way. Easier on human nerves.”

  “Can they get anything done that way?” Cullen asked.

  “Clearly they do, don’t they? You can work with it. You’re smart. You adapt. Thank God.”

  “You say—tomorrow we’ll start using just kyo. Just kyo.”

  “You have to.”

  Long pause. Bitten lip. Cullen was struggling with something. There’d been more than one such moment.

  “Going to miss human language,” Cullen said in a shaky voice. “Haven’t heard it for so long. Don’t want you not to use it.”

  “And you want to make sure you don’t lose touch with it,” Bren said. “You’re going to need it as much as the kyo language if you’re going to negotiate a peace. Prakuyo can use it. Not easy for him to pronounce the lip sounds. He makes them somewhere inside. But you can talk to him when you have to.” He understood the loneliness. He’d been there, in the early days. And he’d started using Ragi with people all around him—because he couldn’t be like his predecessor, perpetually silent, solitary, withdrawn, communicating only in writing. He had to talk to people. He was that way. It had caused him a lot of trouble, in the Department of Linguistics.

  Cullen wanted to talk. Cullen hadn’t had the skills to learn more than a handful of expressions, and his captors hadn’t helped him—Prakuyo could have, but hadn’t wanted, Bren strongly suspected, to compromise the test he was running: to bring the two of them face-to-face and find out whether they were the same species, the same culture, the same political entity. Prakuyo had needed to know that, and now Prakuyo did have his answer, and Prakuyo, who had spent his own time with nobody to talk to—a very terrible thing for a kyo—definitely wanted to talk to Cullen.

  Prakuyo had set up a meeting—because Prakuyo was not the highest authority on the ship. There were two higher, two from whatever shape Prakuyo’s government took. Their names were Kokrohess an Ye and Heyyen an Crus, and they were, Bren began to suspect, part of an attempted “we” involving Prakuyo, a situation that had yet to work itself out, in kyo terms—and persuading them was important . . . to everybody.

  Understand it all? Learn the kyo mindset? He had two days left of the seven he’d promised—and yes, he very likely could change that. He could volunteer another day—another seven days—but there would never be an end of things to learn, mysteries of behavior, mysteries of concept. There would never be a time in any near future he could unravel anything without uncovering another mystery, in a species so different.

  No. What he discovered along the way, he passed to Cullen. He gave Cullen as much as he could. But the first paidhi among atevi hadn’t been a linguistics expert, only a man who’d fallen into the right place to learn, and who’d understood what atevi wanted and who’d done the best he could, making it all up as he went along.

  Cullen at least had somebody to show him how to make tables, how words built other words, how minds differed, how to show respect and how to show good will—how to utter those important words, whatever they really meant in kyo, to say that one had meant better than had just seemed, and that one was happy with what had just happened. That was where it started.

  Beyond that . . .

  “I’ll talk in human language tomorrow,” he said, ceding the point, because he could. “I wanted to help you as much as I can—but you’ll have long enough to practice in kyo. We’ll do as much of it as seems useful.”

  “And then you’ll leave.”

  No equivocation. “And then I’ll leave.”

  23

  The sixth day. The sixth day, there was the usual message, called in—so Antaro and the others said. And it was the day before the last day.

  Cajeiri had learned words until his head felt stuffed—but he hoped nand’ Bren would be happy with what he and Hakuut had added to the dictionary. He was particularly eager to show him the kyo writing system he was rapidly committing to memory. He wished that he could be cheerful. He tried to be. But he worried. He worried that something might be wrong, aboard that ship, that nand’ Bren and Banichi and the rest might be in trouble. He would not expect Hakuut knew anything about it, but he could believe it of Matuanu, who in all these days had said very little, that only to Hakuut, and spent a great deal of time sitting in a chair near the kyo apartm
ent door, watching.

  Just watching. And maybe listening . . . to absolutely everything that went on in the area.

  “What is Matuanu doing?” he had asked Hakuut once, and Hakuut had just bobbed and hunched his shoulders, which seemed to be a kyo sort of shrug.

  Nand’ Bren had told his aishid, who had told Cenedi, who had told his aishid, that Matuanu might be something like Guild.

  And Guild sitting and watching and watching for hours with his principal absent was not a happy situation.

  Matuanu was watching. And listening. He could probably hear the lifts going up and down and Jase coming and going and all the staff going about and Cenedi having meetings with people who did not talk out loud.

  Matuanu was mapping the patterns of the station, what was normal, what was not, the noise of staff at work, the lack of noise when Guild met Guild. That was how Antaro described what Guild did when they were set to watch a situation—like hunters in Taiben forest, listening, learning from everything that moved and failed to move. Matuanu watched and listened. Cenedi watched and listened through the eyes of staff as well as Guild, and maybe with things that Guild was not supposed to talk about. And meanwhile the Guild Observers sat and watched everybody, mostly inside their own quarters, speaking only to other Guild.

  There were regular things to observe, like clockwork—despite nand’ Bren being gone. Staff had duties. Jase-aiji came and went, but he was absent for most of every day, dealing with Gin-nandi and Lord Geigi: they knew that. Maybe he was talking to Sabin-aiji and Ogun-aiji and station security.

  And when Jase-aiji was out, so that nand’ Bren’s staff had nobody to wait on, they helped mani’s staff, and polished and cleaned things, whatever they could find to do.

  And Bindanda cooked and baked. Teacakes never stopped. Bindanda had sent a great many of them over to the ship with Tano and Algini, and Algini’s call had asked for more, frozen, to be sent down for somebody to deliver to the kyo ship, so somebody over on the kyo ship had to be enjoying them. That seemed a hopeful sign.

  But one still worried. And the sixth day was shaping up to be like the third or the fourth or the fifth day, only with Matuanu grimmer and more silent, saying not a word at breakfast.

  Six was a mixed sort of number—unfortunate two of a fortunate number, or two very infelicitous numbers—and he was down to figuring numbers like the ’counters. He told himself again and again the numbers were only for superstitious people, which he had not been brought up to be, but six was still a chancy sort of day and he wished it were over and that today were the seventh, which was moderately fortunate.

  “Such faces,” mani said at breakfast, at a table which had their two kyo guests, and him and mani—four at table, which was how much great-grandmother made of the numbers. “Such faces. There has been far too much study, too much chess, too little noise.”

  He had never in his life thought mani would complain of too little noise.

  “Let us summon your guests,” mani said with a wave of her hand. “Let us see if there is cheer to be had in their company.”

  “Yes,” he said, but he worried as soon as agreement was out of his mouth, what mani was up to, and whether there was any problem on the ship that mani knew about, because Cenedi was always the one who took the messages from Tano and Algini.

  Mani would not bring his guests into danger. He was sure of that much. So they were safe here.

  And mani wanted noise.

  It was another sort of chess game. Matuanu would sit and listen to everything going on. He was scary, in Cajeiri’s view of things.

  But mani intended to make a little noise.

  • • •

  Prakuyo leaned back in the conference room chair, legs crossed, arms clasping a prosperous belly, issuing a faint thumping sound as his head bobbed. “Six days,” he said. “Six days, Bren-paidhi, great change. Should we-on-this-ship trust him? This is the question.”

  “He-unassociated can go this way, that way,” Bren said honestly, “but Cullen wants to learn. He-unassociated wants association, wants not to be alone. Cullen wants to see the war stop. He-unassociated says—these words—too many dead. He-unassociated understands the loneliness at Reunion. He-unassociated believes you-associated with many understand his loneliness on kyo ships.”

  “True,” Prakuyo said, bobbing his head, his whole upper body. “Is association safe, Bren-paidhi? You know what we-wider-association want.”

  “A paidhi. A translator. A bridge. Cullen wants the same, wants to build from his end of the bridge. Kyo build from the other side. Prakuyo builds from the other side.”

  “One understands. Cullen wants build bridge. We-association trust Cullen use hammers?”

  Prakuyo made a joke, a very little one. They had reached that point of understanding.

  “Someday you-association have to,” Bren said. “Yes.”

  “Tomorrow seven day. Kyo day? Atevi day?”

  “Prakuyo decides.”

  Boom. Thump. “Atevi day is fair,” Prakuyo said.

  “Fair,” Bren said.

  “Atevi ask a treaty,” Prakuyo said. “Tonight Cullen will meet the aijin over this mission, and one will urge—” Thump. “—agreement to Cullen, agreement to treaty. Important that this happen. Important that Cullen speak well. Very important. The authorities will ask his name, will expect him to make a bow, and if he does well, they will give him water and food. He should drink and eat. Then he may sit down. Be welcome. You remember.”

  “I remember.” Kyo had offered them the same, back at Reunion.

  “Good we meet,” Prakuyo said. “Good we meet, Bren-paidhi. Say same to the dowager, to the boy. We shall go tomorrow.”

  “You-Prakuyo will not go to the station to bring Matuanu and Hakuut.”

  Thump. “No. Matuanu will come, bring son.”

  That . . . took a moment to process.

  “Hakuut is Matuanu’s son?”

  Boom. “No, Prakuyo’s son. Fair. Tabini-aiji sends Cajeiri. Hakuut comes wait on the station. Good that Hakuut sees Cajeiri. Good for atevi. Good for kyo . . . some day.” Prakuyo uncrossed his legs, gave a triple click deep in his chest. “Together-we talk to Cullen now,” Prakuyo said. “Be sure Cullen uses the right words for the kyo aijiin.”

  • • •

  It was good to see Jase-aiji arrive in the foyer, and good to see Irene and Gene and Artur, who entered very quietly. The whole day had felt chancy, and Cajeiri had been locked in court expression for so long his face felt numb, all the muscles reluctant to respond as he met his guests.

  There were, of course the courtesies, the bows, the address to mani, with Jase-aiji and mani being polite to each other—but solemnity affected everybody, except Matuanu, who was just—whatever he was.

  Mani had ordered a party, setting lunch with a variety of refreshments, including those Hakuut greatly favored. Hakuut had far more Ragi now, not as much as Irene, but he was willing to use it, and he kept trying until he could be understood. He asked Gene to laugh again. Gene tried, and then did, and then Artur started, and then Irene . . . which made everyone much more relaxed, and a bit silly, and by the time lunch was over, they found themselves trying to explain why people ate things in order, with dessert last.

  He had never even wondered that. He thought now it was peculiar that humans did and atevi did. Maybe one had learned from the other, or maybe it was that, if one ate sweets first, one would fill up on sweets and miss the meat dish.

  It was the first time that day he had wondered about something that silly, as opposed to whether nand’ Bren was all right and why nand’ Bren was taking so long and whether Prakuyo would come back when nand’ Bren did . . .

  Hakuut asked where they lived, and Irene answered that: she said they lived upstairs. And Hakuut asked what they did on the planet when they visited.

  Cajeiri opened his mouth to
divert that question, because he really did not want his guests to explain about Lord Geigi’s neighbor and the Assassins . . .

  But Irene said: “We saw a storm, with lightning.”

  “We rode mecheiti,” Gene said.

  And Artur, from his pocket, pulled a handful of pebbles, one of which he showed. “Water did this,” he said. “Years and years in this rock. Take. You have.”

  Hakuut took the pebble into his gray, large hand, held it, looked at it. “Bone of the planet,” he said, which Cajeiri noted with some interest. It sounded like something he should remember, something nand’ Bren would want to know.

  “You keep,” Artur said.

  Hakuut closed his hand. Then bobbed a little, with a soft set of booms. “Thank,” he said, and got up and took it to Matuanu, who, indeed, took it in his hand and looked at it, then handed it back.

  There should be gifts, at a long parting. Cajeiri excused himself, and went to his room very quickly and found two of his good collar pins, not a well-thought gift, certainly not as good as Artur’s, but he brought them back all the same, and gave one to Matuanu and one to Hakuut. Craftsmen had made them, each.

  Hakuut then, got up and went to his rooms, and brought back a small box, which he opened, and shook out a set of little metal beads. He gave one to Cajeiri, one to Irene, one to Gene, one to Artur. The carved box he gave very solemnly to mani, with a little bob and bow.

  “Thank you,” mani said in kyo.

  Which surprised absolutely everybody.

  • • •

  It was court dress for dinner—atevi style, and kyo. Bren had his best coat, lace that was damned hard to manage at table. Cullen’s robe was a gift, a design like a wire diagram in gold, on a blue fabric. He was clean-shaven, scrubbed, hair braided in a simple queue.

  And tied with a white ribbon. “Atevi gave me this,” Bren said, as Tano was securing Cullen’s braid. “The white is the paidhi’s color, his badge of office. Wear it.”

  “Are you sure I’m ready for this?” Cullen asked, and the anxiety was utterly readable.