Mother took on a strange, bewildered expression, and for a moment Cajeiri tensed, thinking she would say something hurtful, and throw him out. But she walked over and sat down, looking as if someone had struck her.
“I am sorry,” he said.
“No,” Mother said. “No, son of mine. You are no fool. Adsi was close as a sister to me, from far back. Would Ajuri clan dare steal another child? And your father’s child, at that? And would Adsi do such a thing, with me? When Murini went down, with his regime in ruins—Ajuri rose on my favor as high as they possibly could. They had gotten to the Bujavid. They were asking for a permanent apartment there. What more could it gain by stealing my daughter? Nothing.”
“Very bad things, honored Mother.”
Mother gazed at him, eye to eye. And they were back there, then. In the time just after they had gotten the Bujavid back, when they were still hunting Murini down.
Ajuri had been invited into the Bujavid in those days. Had come in, as allies.
“I think back now,” Mother said, “and I was so upset when you claimed my father frightened you. I was more than upset when your father banished him and sent all my staff away. Furious when your great-grandmother installed her own people. But you know things, son of mine. At times you do know things.”
“I cannot claim I understood anything then. But I came in from outside. From years with mani. And I had a bad feeling. I think, honored Mother—I think it was not so much that Grandfather frightened me—personally—well, he did. But it was more than him. Fear went all around him. All the time. All the time. Even when he was laughing.”
He struggled to make sense. But Mother gazed at him as if she had gotten something of what he meant.
“Your father,” she said, “felt exactly that. Did he say so?”
“Not to me, honored Mother, but I felt—I felt it in a lot of them and I felt it most in Grandfather, even while he was scaring me. I think—I felt sorry for him. And scared of him at the same time. Terribly scared.”
“You are different, son of mine.” She lifted her hand, held it out to him. He walked close and took it. Her hand closed gently, warmly, on his. “I felt so deep a connection to you before you were born. I was scared, too, sometimes. I had dreams. But I knew—I have read—there really was something in you that never let me rest, or really sleep, the whole while. I felt I fought for my sanity and my life, bringing you into the world; and after I had you, I was so protective of you. I was so upset with you. I was so proud of you. And of being alive and sane. And all the matter of my father killing my mother, and what I was, or was not, was tangled in it.”
It was scary to hear. His hand was trapped. He wanted to pull away and not hear more of it. But her hold grew stronger.
“When your father took you away from me and sent you up to space, to be with your great-grandmother, I was so angry. When she took you away even from there, and things went so wrong—”
When he and Great-grandmother were off at the far side of space, rescuing the Reunioners, and Mother and Father were hiding in sheds and hedgerows, with people hunting them . . .
“—then something of that feeling of anger and fighting for breath did come back to me. And it was not just in my head, but I knew what it was. I knew that there would be a baby. But with Seimei, it never became what I felt with you. Your father and I laid plans, and we sat in the cold rain and we plotted against the plotters. We stung them, from time to time, when we could. We held our anger and we did not attack head-on—for each other’s sake. And we won. Ultimately, we won, and I saw you named your father’s heir, aiji-apparent, the night your sister was born.”
He would never forget that night. Ever.
“Your sister is not like you, son of mine. Take care of her.”
“Honored Mother, I will.”
“She may take after me.”
“That would be all right.”
Mother gave a faint smile. And let go of his hand.
“We will never lose to Great-aunt Geidaro,” he said. He believed that, even if he was worried for Antaro and Jegari and everybody on the bus. “We just will not lose. We are smarter than that.”
“I know we are.”
“What do you think of Nomari-nadi?” he asked.
“Nomari-abi.” That was to say, cousin.
“He is, then. I am glad.”
“Are you? He was my ally, a long time ago. What he is now—I am less sure.”
A question occurred to him. “Why did he go to Machigi?”
“He said it was because Machigi was holding out against the Troubles. I asked him whether Machigi knew who he was. He said he gave his clan and said his family was gone, but whether Machigi investigated beyond that, or ever intended to use that connection—he claims not to know. He says he would not betray Ajuri’s traditional associations. Which may be the truth. I asked him where his man’chi resided. He said he would give it to you.”
“To me.” That was a surprise. “Why?”
“Is there ever absolute reason? It was an odd thing to say. Not quite political. So it may be honest. A way of deflecting current questions. Or right now you have offered a fixed point in his world. An anchor, while other things are in motion. And so, son of mine, who holds this man’s man’chi. What shall we do with Nomari?”
He drew in a breath, thinking it a test. “He is certainly better than Great-aunt Geidaro.”
“With southern connections,” Mother said somberly. “But then—”
“Nandiin,” Onami said. “We have information arriving.”
“Is Uncle awake?” Mother asked. “Advise him. Go. Find out.”
“Nandi?” Onami looked at him, and he nodded, quietly.
Onami went . . . but no further than the door. Haniri arrived, with, “We are bringing the Ajuri back into the lower hall. The Taibeni are aware and taking position. The bus is in difficulty.”
“Advise Uncle,” Mother said, and Cajeiri quickly said, “Yes.”
People moved. Cajeiri stood still. So did Mother. Seimei fretted at the activity and Beha moved to take her up.
“There is trouble with the bus,” Haniri said. “We are receiving word from the driver that they have again come under fire, and they are considering fording the Riesa stream rather than take the bridge, which they distrust. The driver is Najidi. Staff knows the area and they are advising to use the ford, but the bank is steep and that is a long bus.”
Bogged helplessly in mud would be a bad situation, Cajeiri thought, wishing there were something he could do.
“Taibeni are moving out to escort, and to take control of the bridge,” Haniri said.
“This is a main public road,” Mother said.
“Indeed,” Haniri said. It was illegal to interfere with any public road, and it was Mother’s bus, temporarily, if it came to that, which was even worse. Cajeiri did not know that crossing. He knew the maps. He had known the maps for years. But he could not call up the appearance of the bridge, or its situation.
Geidaro had not had warning enough to stop the bus on its way to Diegi. But she had had ample time to arrange most anything for the bus coming back.
He wanted to pace. To move. To do something. But all he could do was draw a deep breath and wait.
And wait. Beha took Seimei back to the servants hall to tend her needs, since she was continuing to fret.
The guarded door opened. It was Onami. “Lord Tatiseigi invites your presence, nandiin. He is holding to his own suite. He has contacted Shejidan.”
“We shall go there,” Mother said, and looked at Cajeiri. “Shall we not?”
He was unprepared to be asked his opinion, now that things were going wrong. But Mother was signaling him to observe protocols, and he gave a little nod. “Yes. Yes, honored Mother.”
“Stay,” she ordered her own guard. “Watch here. Guard my daughter.”
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So only with his patched-together guard, senior and junior, they went out into the hall together, and down to Uncle’s room.
16
They found Uncle sitting by the tall windows, in his dressing-gown with the injured arm in a sling. In front of him was a moveable writing-desk, and a small glass of brandy despite the hour. Most uncommon, there was a telephone on the desk.
“Do not get up, Uncle,” Mother said, and Cajeiri added: “Please.”
“You have informed yourselves,” Uncle said, “of the attack.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Cajeiri said.
“The bus has stopped short of the bridge, for fear of a mine. Some fool shot at it, apparently thinking to hit the driver, but the glass held. There is a ford, but it is chancy with that size vehicle, and there is some thought they hope to panic the bus to attempt that instead of the bridge. I am in contact with Shejidan.”
Meaning Father, one hoped. Or Guild Headquarters. Cajeiri pictured the place, or tried to. The bus was a fortress. But if there were a lot of attackers moving in . . .
“So. Do sit. This Nomari. I am informed, Niece, you met cordially.”
Uncle was completely changing the subject. Why? Cajeiri wondered. Why were they talking about Nomari, when the bus was under attack?
“We did,” Mother said, taking a chair. “Cordially, and at length.”
“He did not deny his ties to the Marid.”
“He did not,” Mother said.
Cajeiri found a chair. He sat down on the edge of it, to have his feet on the floor, and leaned on the arm, to have something his hand could clench.
“We have delayed dinner tonight, for ourselves. For the camp—we are pulling the camp inside again and feeding them an early supper to keep them busy and allay their anxiety. Out again this morning and in again this evening. If this goes on, we may have to declare these people regular guests, one and all.”
“Uncle,” Cajeiri said. “Forgive me. The bus.”
“The question of our guest’s associations is indeed germane, Nephew. We have a Filing in play. And we have your mother’s cousin and a large number of that clan under this roof, with an active attack on our personnel and with the Taibeni lord’s niece and nephew on that bus.”
Antaro and Jegari were that. Three clans involved in what could become a second Filing. The pattern spread out like tiles on a gameboard. The whole Padi Valley association in upheaval, because the Taibeni were the one clan that traditionally settled its own quarrels, never asking in outside Guild, though no few of them, like Antaro and Jegari, and many of Father’s bodyguard, were Guild. Father was Taibeni, at least on his mother’s side.
War, he thought, with unease at the pit of his stomach. To involve the whole Padi Valley Association, it only wanted Kadagidi, who could not bring any force to bear, whose house was occupied by Guild at the moment, the claimants all barred—or dead.
Kadagidi was not organized. But if elements of it wanted to cause trouble . . .
If they were causing trouble and if it was not even Great-aunt Geidaro at all . . .
“Kadagidi might try us,” he said aloud. “But that would be stupid.”
“That is, however,” Uncle said, “one reason we cannot assume who has moved against us. Nor can we call on the Guild occupying Kadagidi: there is a public trust there, of art and history, and they cannot leave it unprotected, particularly since their leaving it would upset the Kadagidi townships. This is why I have called on Headquarters, and on your father.”
“Dur,” Cajeiri said, thinking of the yellow plane that had more than once flown over their troubles. “They are at least borderland associates. And they would come. Nand’ Reijiri would bring the airplane.”
“That,” Uncle said, “would give us eyes on the bus. And on the whole situation.”
“He always said he could be in the air in minutes, if ever I needed him. And he could tell the Taibeni where the attack is coming from. If the bus can just hold on. I can call nand’ Reijiri.”
“They have more than an airplane,” Mother said. “They have tributary clans bordering the subclans of Ajuri. Calls to them could warn the subclans it would be very unwise to contribute to whatever Geidaro may be doing.”
It was getting scarily large, the situation of a bus and a bridge. Father had to know. He was sure Father knew. He had been in scary spots, a lot of them, but he had always had mani and her young men, and nand’ Bren, and Banichi and all—not Mother and Uncle and his little sister. He wanted today over with. He wanted to be having tea and cakes with all his aishid and everybody all right. Right now it was spreading to five clans and the whole midlands, and clear over to the coast.
• • •
There was absolutely nothing on the news feed from the continent. The atevi feed from the mainland was occupied with the usual nature documentaries and occasional reports on agriculture and exports. Which was not necessarily, in Bren’s experience, good news. The silence from his major domo in the Bujavid could be reassuring that nothing disastrous had happened; but knowing the situation regarding Lord Tatiseigi and the nomination, it was worrisome, especially given the Machigi connection, and Tabini’s couriered message to be ready to move. He had obligations here. And something was definitely going on over there.
Concentrate, he told himself, on the job at hand. A few more days. That was what Tabini wanted from him right now.
Easier said than done. Gin’s documentary on the station crisis was going to air.
There was considerable advance publicity on the Mospheiran news about it, with advisements the program would contain images of the kyo, which as yet had been limited to images of the ship and discussion of its unprecedented speed. There was a lot of public interest in that.
There was advisement too, that it would include the dowager and the boy who had, also unprecedented, been the first atevi of rank to touch down on Mospheiran soil, however briefly—when they had come back from their long voyage. Mospheirans tended to feel proprietary about their own famous events. There was no other way to put it. However peripheral it was to far larger things, they had seen something extraordinary happen in their lifetimes, in their neighborhood, so to speak, and forever after that topic could fire up their interest to a passionate degree.
Well, the boy Mospheira had caught one glimpse of had grown half a foot since then, was maturing, was carrying himself with a different bearing—Mospheira would see that. Mospheira would react to that. The boy—their boy—was taller, older, becoming somebody important on his own. They, residents on a world they didn’t at all control, had seen history happen. All but touched it. And owned it.
He understood it. To that degree, he was still Mospheiran. What sped through their lives and their public notice had made an indelible impression, something that touched that was in that documentary, and would be talked about tomorrow—one hoped—favorably. And the boy—might well overshadow any messy details about Tillington’s tangled dealing and all the legal questions that stemmed from it. Gin had her own good sense of how the public mind worked. Tillington would be safely yesterday’s news, if the Heritage lot, funded by the Aslunds, was about to take a new tack.
One could only hope. Best if Tillington could just retire and cease to be a problem.
Bren worked on his own notes for Heyden Court. His aishid played a round of chess—watching Algini and Banichi was interesting, even with their long pauses. There were flurries of moves. Then a pause. Algini won.
Banichi demanded a rematch.
• • •
Uncle sent word down to the Ajuri folk, and to Nomari, what was happening, and what they were doing. Uncle let the Ajuri have access to a storeroom, where there were places to sit, and they were able to bring in chairs, and a samovar, and a very limited supply of brandy. Haniri went down to speak to Nomari and to tell him, in front of everyone, what was going on, and to assure them tha
t they were not blaming Ajuri, and that they were getting help from Dur and Taiben and support from the Guild in Shejidan.
That was all true. There was shooting, and the bus had occasionally fired back; they were not reporting their condition either good or bad, and in Uncle’s sitting room, Guild wore frowns, wishing, Lucasi said, that they were out there. There was a Guild presence on the bus, besides Antaro and Jegari, but they had their duty to everybody on the bus, and though they had armament, they were not going to leave the bus, which was what needed to be done to get at the attackers. It was late. At dark, the situation might get worse. The driver needed to know whether the bridge was safe, or whether their enemies, who had already done enough to be charged, would have gone the final step to outlawry and put explosives under the bridge.
And the Guild that supported Great-aunt Geidaro was not that strong on law and honor.
“We want them,” Veijico muttered. “And we are sure Onami and Janachi also want them beyond words, not to mention what those on the bus feel. This is an affront against you, against your mother, against Lord Tatiseigi, and against the Guild.”
Uncle’s Filing had set things up. Great-aunt’s own actions were setting things in motion.
Why? he asked himself. She was very old. She might still be able to beg off and retire, if Uncle allowed, in a place remote enough. But maybe she was going to throw her people at the Guild and do damage, just because she could.
She could not think she could win.
If she called on her Guild to negotiate a way out, even now, there was a chance, a small one, true, but some chance, especially for the people who belonged to her.