“Daja-ma.”
“You may not call me Damiri. I left that territory when I married, understand. But I am disposed to remember that we are cousins. I am disposed to find out what you intend. We cannot draw on what was. I accept who you were. I want to find out who you are.”
“Daja-ma, I have no fear of the truth.”
“Then let us go to my uncle’s rooms,” she said, in that light tone only Mother could manage, “and let us have a pleasant breakfast.”
• • •
Breakfast was a casual, pleasant affair in Uncle’s rooms, with everyone on their best behavior despite the surprise of Nomari’s arrival. But Uncle was still very sore and tired easily, and Mother wanted time alone with Nomari, and so there was very little after breakfast talk, and nothing of substance said, other than Mother’s assurance to Uncle that she truly believed Nomari to be her cousin.
And then, on their return to the room she had, and Nomari’s place, next door, she asked . . . asked . . . Cajeiri to give her time alone with her cousin, in the same words and tone she might have used to his father.
That had never happened before. If she wanted him out of the room, he was dismissed.
It was respect she offered. Respect to the aiji’s heir . . . and, dared he hope, respect for his own handling of the situation? Was he, then, behaving as his father’s heir should?
Certainly he was trying.
Or was it just because Nomari was there and she was keeping to the proper forms to keep a family quarrel out of Nomari’s sight? Either way, as much as he wanted to be in there, as much as he wanted to hear what Nomari had to say, Father was depending on Mother’s evaluation of Nomari, and his being in there might keep her from asking the very questions she most wanted answers to.
So he left.
But with Uncle in bed, Mother and Nomari in Nomari’s sitting room, with security still tight everywhere both on the grounds and in the house, Cajeiri found himself at a loss for occupation. He could play with Boji, but somehow he found himself just staring at the cage, without an inclination to do anything else. He could remember his younger self and his associates playing with Boji, but it seemed faint and distant, like a memory of watching someone else. He could take Boji out on his leash, could toss things for him to catch . . . could go through all the motions that other Cajeiri had made, but it just . . . no longer appealed. Things had grown much too serious. His senior aishid was downstairs, conferring with security. Antaro was with nand’ Pari, Uncle’s physician, who wanted to see her arm. Jegari was with her—he was limping this morning. Veijico and Lucasi were left, but they had no particular cheer in the situation.
Staff appeared at the door, delivering a message with no cylinder, just a folded paper with no seal. That was uncommon. Maybe it was just kitchen asking where he wanted lunch.
But the address on the folded paper, Cajeiri, was entirely informal, and it was Mother’s handwriting.
Perhaps, he thought, Mother was inviting him to come into the meeting. He unfolded it in anticipation.
Son of mine,
Be patient.
I know you wish to hear your cousin’s answers, and I wish you to hear him. But answers flow more freely considering memories we separately have of Ajiden. Be patient. I have yet to find him in a lie and I am learning things to which you would have no key.
Soon.
That was not what he hoped. But it was extraordinary on its own. He read it several times, trying to find a barb in it, but he failed to find one. It was blunt, to the point, but considerate, just in the fact she had written it and sent it—almost the first time she had ever addressed him so nicely all the way through any exchange, when it was something that could not be overheard.
He thought maybe he should burn it. Letters containing politics often needed to be burned, and burned fairly quickly: in the absence of a fireplace, a small dish would serve. But he was inclined to keep the letter. He read it yet one more time, then decided he could just keep it secret awhile, and folded it, and tucked it into his inner coat pocket, a little treasure—of a peculiar kind. It was certainly to be removed before he surrendered the coat to Eisi and Liedi—little there was that they had not witnessed, in his ongoing difficulties with his mother, but all the same, this was committed to paper, and involved Nomari, and was chancy to keep.
Silly, he thought himself. Mother had been particularly polite. He should be more so.
He sought paper and pen to answer. Honored Mother, he wrote.
Thank you. One understands. I shall be in the library reading this afternoon, or in my rooms. Please send for me if I can be of any help. I shall have my bodyguard with me constantly.
He finished his lunch, and went down to the vast library only with Veijico and Lucasi, but the library was actually closer to Rieni and the seniors.
He read. But it seemed that every book he pulled out was a history of the valley or the memoirs of some important person, which only made him think about Mother and Nomari and what was being said behind that closed door, and wishing he might be called in.
Finally, he chose a book of historic engravings at complete random and headed back upstairs to his room, with Lucasi and Veijico in attendance—Antaro and Jegari had gone back to the suite to rest, so Lucasi said, and would meet them there.
As they passed Mother’s suite, however, a sharp, angry howl erupted from the room, almost the match for Boji when he was upset.
Seimei.
Seimiro.
His sister. The protest was over as quickly as it began, but he stopped, listening for a second outcry, and quite sure that her nurse, Beha, was with her.
Still . . .
He went to that door and rapped softly, for himself, with Veijico and Lucasi behind him.
They were taking no chances. Guild asked, through the door, who he was.
“Cajeiri, aiji-meni, nadiin. Open the door.”
The door opened without hesitation. He walked in with his book, with Veijico and Lucasi, gave a little nod to Beha, who was bending over Seimei, trying to cajole her to better humor.
He gave the book to Veijico.
Seimei was in her crib, waving a fist at a sparkling trinket Beha had just hung above, and just beyond her reach. It was not a reach. It was an attack. Seimei had an opinion of being carried off from her nursery with the beautiful tall windows in the middle of the night and taken on a train, and then a bus, and then put into a strange bed and a strange room. Seimei was having the second adventure of her very young life, the first having happened the very night she was born.
Father probably had not approved her being brought here, all things considered, but Mother had the right. It was in the marriage contract.
Nobody, however, had asked Seimei what she thought.
Nobody had shown her any choices, either. And now, Mother was absent. There was her nurse Beha. Four domestic staff. And, he was sure, a double handful of Guild in the back rooms, watching over the place—but Seimei was not appeased.
Beha bowed to him and quietly retreated to a needlework stand beside the window, settling where she could be available, watching, ready to intervene, but not intruding while Seimei was quiet.
“Hello, Seimei,” he said. “Do you recognize me in this place?” He reached a reasonably clean hand into the crib, intercepting a flailing hand with a fingertip. Tiny fingers curled around his finger and pulled it to a waiting mouth. Everything, according to Antaro, ended up in babies’ mouths, which was why, he supposed, that trinket had been hung out of reach. But it seemed a rather mean trick. And had not satisfied her at all.
She was so very tiny. It was hard to believe he had been this small and unaware himself, nine years ago, having not a clue even for the simplest words, unable to ask for what he wanted, unable to walk or run or remotely understand the twists and turns of ambition and politics.
But last
night and this morning, he had been in charge of . . . everything. So many people had been depending on him for stability and reassurance, when—what did he know, more than others?
Some things. Some things he knew. He had done things others could hardly imagine. Been to deep space and back. Talked to the kyo.
And last night, he realized now, was only the start of his life. For the rest of his years he would have an increasing number of lives depending on his good sense—more than just his aishid, who knew on their own what to do, and whose job was to protect him. He would have innocent people on his hands, people who needed help, and protection, and who knew nothing of the political shots that sailed past them. He was his father’s heir, and nothing would change that course of things. Ever.
Which eventuality he would very much like to avoid for many years to come.
There was so much to learn, yet. There were so many things he could not understand.
And his sister would follow, baby steps at first, right down his track. She could hardly help it. He could hardly warn her at this stage. She would not have all of it. But she would be in the heart of it.
Golden eyes peered in his direction. The color was beginning to clear: it had been an odd dusky brown not too many days ago. Now they looked as if they might go pale gold, more like Father’s than Mother’s.
He might be jealous of that, one day. People said Father’s eyes were an advantage, that they made his opposition uneasy, because they seemed to pierce right through to the truth. His own eyes were more like his mother’s, definite gold with bright strands that caught the light, up very, very close.
Pretty was what everyone said about Mother’s eyes. He didn’t want to be pretty: he had much rather be fierce like Father, and have his enemies at a distance.
But looks did not make the man, he had heard that often enough, too. And he was becoming more like Father, or so people said. Which was not surprising. Mani had reared Father, and Mani had had him more often than his parents had, growing up. Mani and even nand’ Bren had been his teachers, far more than Mother ever had.
Will you be more like Father? he asked his sister in his head. Or like Mother? You have them both to draw from. I would really advise you listen to Father first.
Mother would have the rearing of her, but Mother’s own childhood had been very uncertain. Mother had been reared around . . . there was no other way to say it . . . very nasty, insane people. Her father must have been afraid every day. But Seimei would have Father and all the Guild to keep her safe.
And she would have him. He would not let her grow up scared.
But his sister could not grow up too protected, either. He wondered if Mother would have brought her into this mess, had she known everything that was going on. He hoped she would have. He hoped she wouldn’t protect Seimei too much. Seimei had to grow up strong and able to make decisions.
Not his sort of decisions. Not Father’s—unless something happened to her big brother. But—Seimei had the same inheritance—the very same—that he did. Except what he already held.
Things suddenly came clear to him, why Mother had come, why Mother had brought Seimei to Tirnamardi, to lie in this crib, this very crib that had been gathering dust in a storeroom until last night.
He ran fingers along the carved, polished vines that were the rail, noted the headboard, that was a carving of lilies—Atageini lilies.
No baby had lain in this crib, he thought, since Mother had. Not since Mother had been stolen from it, and the whole history had begun. Mother had come back to Atageini lands once, running from Ajuri and all that was going on there—maybe running from her father, or running because her father had told her to. She had lived here—and gone back again. And left Ajuri on her own. She had not brought Ajuri into the marriage with Father. There had been no agreement with any clan—just—Father had wanted her, married her, and stayed with her, when he knew his grandfather and great-grandfather had had a lot of marriages and all sorts of tangles from them.
Mother had survived, with Father, at the edge of Uncle’s estate, during the Troubles, hiding in hedgerows, possibly even in the great hedge of Tirnamardi from time to time. She had surely known Uncle would welcome them and try to protect them, that soft beds could be had—just that close—when they were sleeping in some leaky shed. But she had not left Father, no matter how hard it got.
Now with Seimei so very tiny, Mother came back yet again, and laid Seimei in the bed she had had once, before Grandmother had been murdered, before Grandfather had fled with her and started the whole awful chain of events.
Mother had brought Seimei to a place under siege, for one thing, because Seimei was hers, as he was not, and that was her right, in her marriage with Father. A child for Father, and a child for her, in her own right.
Not a child for Ajuri. No, not for Ajuri. That was not the place Mother intended for Seimei. This cradle was what the staff had brought, perhaps hopefully, and if Mother had not wanted it, she could have told them to take it away.
She had not said that. She had surely guessed whose it had been and what it was. And she had laid Seimei in it, in a nest of Atageini lilies.
Uncle has no heir, he said to Seimei in his mind, her tiny hand in his. That is where this whole thing began. He has no one. When he lost his sister he became alone, and he has lived that way ever since, except when Mother or Great-grandmother was here.
Mother brought you here, he said in his mind, gazing into eyes only beginning to take on awareness. Mother brought you here, because you are hers, and you are Great-uncle’s heir.
Uncle is old, and he is hurt, and Great-grandmother may be his ally, but an ally is not what Uncle needs most now. He needs to know, in dealing with a lordship in Ajuri, that the lordship of Atageini will not fall vacant after him.
It will not be now. I hope it is not for a long time. But to bring you here, now, in the middle of all this—I think Mother would have waded through an army.
Seimei’s eyes drifted shut. Opened again. She freed her hand and patted his, if a series of blows from a tiny fist could be a fond gesture. He smiled at her. She stared at him. And hit his hand again.
There are people, sister, that you will have to know. Mani, and nand’ Bren. Father, of course. And Uncle. Uncle can seem fierce, but he will never be that toward you.
You already have enemies. You were born with them. So was I. Mother and Father, Uncle and Great-grandmother will stand them off for now. But you have to be smart. Smarter than your enemies are.
And you have to see things and learn things and meet different people. Mother will try to keep you safe, but you cannot learn the things you need, just being safe. You have to do reckless things, and take chances. You just have to be smart enough to survive them. I can help. I will help.
Uncle could have died last night. That was a scary thought. A really scary thought. And without Seimei, the Atageini at that point would be in the same state as Ajuri and Kadagidi, with the whole Padi Valley Association, excepting only the subclans and Taiben, which was a new member, sitting lordless. That was the whole ancient heart of the aishidi’tat, with the Shadow Guild possibly lurking in the corners of Ajiden.
If Seimei was lord too soon, would Mother take over—at least until Seimei was old enough? Mother would. It would upset all their lives, and Father would be more than upset, but Mother would step in.
That had to be what Mother was thinking, next door, asking Nomari questions.
But choosing an heir . . . how could Uncle know how Seimei would grow up? Who could tell whether or not she could draw man’chi to her the way a lord must? Mother could not. That had always been the trouble. Mother on her own could not do what Uncle did.
I will not let you grow up weak, Seimei. That much I can see to. I will see you grow up strong. I am not sure I can teach you to be wise. But I shall teach you books. And maps. And mecheiti. I shall teach you to ride
. You have to learn. You will manage one of the oldest stables in the aishidi’tat, and mine will be the newest.
And if Mother can make good sense of Nomari . . .
If we can possibly rely on him . . .
Nomari had said he had never met a real lord before, and now he had met two, meaning, so he said at the time, Uncle and himself. And he had been a little suspicious Nomari was trying to flatter him.
But was that the case? Had he been truthful? Nomari had met Machigi. He had spied for Machigi. Was that the lord Nomari had meant, and not him at all?
Or was Machigi different from a clan lord? Machigi had ruled like an aiji in the South. He had the ability to draw the man’chi of the southernmost clans, and he had evaded Father’s invitations to come to court—that was nothing unusual for a Marid lord. He had survived the Troubles and the actions of the Shadow Guild in the South, who had wanted to kill him as much as they had wanted to kill Father. After Father had come back to power, Machigi had negotiated an association with Great-grandmother, through nand’ Bren, but he had sent a trade representative to Shejidan instead of coming to the capital himself to deal with Father, and he had not taken his seat in the legislature. The whole Marid went unrepresented there. But Machigi had kept himself surrounded by his own Marid-born bodyguards and safe in his own hall. Machigi dealt with Great-grandmother, and promised to give up his claim on the west coast. But Father never quite trusted him. Nor did anybody else, even Great-grandmother.
Was that who Nomari admired? Machigi was dealing with Great-grandmother, and Great-grandmother might be able to distract him to ambitions in the East, but the whole Marid was still like a bubbling pot, apt to boil over, situations never resolved, and able to bring war to the whole south coast. With ties to the center of the aishidi’tat—he could become a problem to the north. Machigi was a problem, and mani intended to turn him to her own projects in the East, far, far in the other direction. But in the future—mani had no heir, either. Or she did, but it was Father, and him, but they could not rule in the East.