Permission to leave the capital, however, was not certain until Tabini had answered his letter and agreed that he might take that temporary solution and go out to the coast. If Tabini was differently minded, there would be no visit, and he had no idea what he would do: he and his security would have to show up at the hotel tomorrow afternoon with baggage in hand, he supposed . . . but Tabini might think of something he hadn’t thought of. There was that possibility, too. So he would call Toby only after he had spoken to Tabini.
He drank the last of the tea, sealed and cylindered the letter to Tabini, then stood up and rang for Madam Saidin, major domo of this extravagant apartment. He gave instructions for both messages to be delivered, the one by courier, within the halls, the other . . .
One of the staff would run the lily cylinder down to the mail center . . . which would fax the content to the post office in the township neighboring Tatiseigi’s estate, and have it run up the hill, express, by local truck, to reach the old gentleman . . . while the lily cylinder, itself ancient and precious, came back upstairs to Saidin’s keeping, to wait for Tatiseigi’s arrival. Proprieties, proprieties, and the motions they went through, to preserve the appearance of the old ways.
Tatiseigi have his own fax? Hell would freeze solid before that modern contraption found a place in Tatiseigi’s house. Or here.
“Lord Tatiseigi is coming back, nadi-ji,” he told Saidin, in giving her the message.
He looked up to do it. That esteemed lady stood a head taller than he did: skin the color of ink, eyes of molten amber, black hair well-salted with her years—he had no idea how many years. She was, like many of the great houses’ highest staff, a member of the Assassins’ Guild . . . but she bowed with such graceful sweetness, as she said, “He has sent also to us, nandi. We so regret the short notice.”
He would very much miss Saidin. He had stayed here before, never expected to do so again, and fate had surprised him. He laid no bets now, when he departed, whether he would ever be back under her care. “We by no means question it,” he said quietly. “My first message felicitates his arrival and the other advises the aiji of the situation. One has requested to take a short vacation in the country.”
“The coastal estate at Najida, nandi?” Those golden eyes sparked. “One had intended to suggest that.”
So she had thought about his welfare. It was a warm notion, considering their long though intermittent history.
“An excellent notion,” he said, “and in that case, I shall count it your good advice. Thank you for the thought, nadi-ji.”
“The staff’s very earnest wishes, nandi,” she said. “We shall miss you.”
“Nadi-ji.” It was worth a bow, as that worthy lady left on her mission.
Tatiseigi’s staff would miss him, that was to say. His own staff, many of them on more or less permanent loan from Tatiseigi or the dowager, or from Tabini himself, were scattered from the space station to the coast, surviving, in the disarrangement of his house . . . so in going to Najida, he simply exchanged one set of observing eyes for another. Spying was just a method of keeping informed about one’s allies—in the thinking of the great houses. One knew—and accepted such loans. And his own staff’s knowledge of him was consequently disrupted . . . and the persons they reported to—notably Tabini, or the dowager—might be less well informed on his business than, say, at the moment, the Atageini—
Except for one thing. His four bodyguards, his aishid—who knew most everything that went on, and who never left him—they kept information flowing properly, right up the lines of man’chi, of personal attachment, to the aiji himself; and they took care, too, that certain things stayed outside Atageini knowledge, or anyone else’s, for that matter.
His bodyguard, his caretakers, his advisors—Banichi and Jago were the seniors, Tano and Algini his second-senior, and nobody on earth stood closer to him.
Nobody else had shared as many of his various disasters.
He located them, all of them, in the security station down the main hall—his four best friends, although “friend” was one of those words officially forbidden in the human-atevi interface. Sometimes he thought that way. Sometimes he was sane, and considerate of them, and didn’t.
This morning he just leaned into the doorway, sighed massively, and said, “A letter has come from Tatiseigi, nadiin-ji.”
“We are aware of it, Bren-ji,” Banichi said. Little reached the staff that his security didn’t learn fast.
“The coast, nadiin-ji,” he said. “Granted we get permission from Tabini.”
“The only solution,” Jago said with a shrug. His lover, Jago—lover: another of those forbidden words, and a word the deeper implications of which would just confuse everyone, including Jago. They’d tried now and again to parse it, and only ended up with Jago concluding “association” was quite sensibly adequate to describe them, and that the human sense of involved attachment was very odd.
Tano and Algini didn’t say anything, but didn’t look overly disturbed about the prospect of a fast move. The aishid was all together again, in a number of senses, and if “love” didn’t describe it, it was close enough to it to warm a human heart.
Not enough to make him foolish enough to hug anyone in appreciation, however.
His security team, all of them members of the Assassins’ Guild, wore the uniform, the black leather and silver, had the look, had the armament generally in evidence, and traveled with enough gear to outfit a small army: if he moved, they would. They had kept him safe—and his safety having required quite a lot of keeping in the last number of years, he owed them all extravagantly.
He owed them, among other things, a stable household, not a moving target.
He owed them a staff that could support not only his needs in comfort, but theirs. Saidin and her staff had certainly done very well for them—Saidin ran a tight ship; but because she wasn’t theirs, she was Tatiseigi’s, her attentions were always just a little worrisome. Tatiseigi, that conniving old gentleman had political ambitions that hadn’t stopped with getting a niece married to Tabini and a grand-nephew within a heartbeat of the aiji himself. There was that. Tatiseigi didn’t trust human influence near his grand-nephew: Tatiseigi didn’t favor human gadgets, human ideas, or human newfangled inventions, and said grand-nephew had been much too infatuated with humans. And bet that Tatiseigi would want to know every detail of the paidhi-aiji’s residence here and all his dealings with Tabini’s household.
His going to the coast would cut off that source of information—and put Tatiseigi in immediate reach of Tabini’s household. Tatiseigi became Tabini’s problem, not his.
“Shall we assume, Bren-ji,” Jago said, “and pack?”
“One hardly sees what Tabini can do, else, but agree I should go. Take everything, nadiin-ji: we clearly must go somewhere. My belongings can easily go into storage, in favor of your gear . . .”
“No such thing,” Jago said. “All of it will move.”
Probably it was wise, after all, not to leave any remnant of his belongings exposed to tampering in storage—or subject to further controversy, should any clerk go nosing about into his bits of gear and his books.
“One assumes,” Tano said, “that the aiji will at least advantage himself of the time before the legislature meets . . . to find a solution to the Farai.”
“If not, nadiin-ji,” Bren said, “one fears we may end up taking a house in the town.”
“The paidhi could File on this Southerner,” Banichi said, meaning the head of the Farai clan, and as long as Bren had heard Banichi’s humor and his serious suggestions, he wasn’t sure if that was dry humor at the moment.
“The paidhi has had cause,” Algini added, which made him think Banichi might have just offered a sensible and workable suggestion. Filing Intent: serving legal notice of application to the Assassins’ Guild, official Intent to assassinate the person in question—well, he supposed appropriating a lord’s apartment would be a legal grievance, if he were an a
tevi lord with historic standing.
Continuing the insult by continuing to occupy said apartment affected not just his pride, but his staff’s honor. There was that.
And for a heartbeat he asked himself if perhaps, just perhaps, that suggestion didn’t originate with Banichi—if perhaps it had come from Tabini himself, to whose staff Banichi and Jago still retained some minor ties.
A hint? Relieve me of this troublesome Southerner? The aiji himself had absolute right to remove an obstacle to the association, but politically speaking, had some obligation to prove the Farai were in fact an obstacle. The aiji could decree that they were—but since the aiji had to rule on a Filing, it was somewhat of a case of judge, jury, and executioner . . . an unpopular sort of situation.
The paidhi, however, actually had a legitimate grievance, an exacerbated grievance. The way it worked, in practicality—he could File Intent with the Assassins’ Guild, and once the Filing was accepted, it freed his staff to go after the head of that family. The Farai clan would simultaneously counterfile, freeing Assassins in their association to go after him. Both sides had legal right, both sides agreed to exempt noninvolved persons from personal harm, and it would all work itself out, probably in his favor, since he’d personally trust his bodyguard to take out the head of the Farai clan with considerable speed and efficiency. It would all be according to law.
Which would end the counterfiling; and a re-Filing would not be viewed with favor in the aiji’s court, meaning the Farai’s wider associations could not then all take after the paidhi’s life.
It didn’t mean they wouldn’t, however, in all practicality. They’d politic left and right with the aiji to allow a Filing, and of course he’d politic with the aiji not to allow it.
And at that point it would all devolve down to who was of more value, the entire southern coast of the aishidi’tat, or the human the aiji had listened to when he’d done some of the more controversial things he had to his credit.
Space travel.
Upsetting the balance of power in the aishidi’tat.
Contact with aliens that could still come down on them . . .
The aiji had been staunchly supportive of his human advisor in his return to power; but time—time and politics—could reorder all sorts of priorities.
“The paidhi could File,” Jago said with a sigh, “but then we would all be busy for years.”
“The paidhi’s generosity in withdrawing to the country,” Tano said, “if backed by adequate strength, can only trouble the troublemakers.”
“Backed by strength,” Banichi said. “And the aiji. One month. Let the Farai hear that, and take another thought about inconveniencing the paidhi-aiji.”
Inconveniencing was one way to put it.
“Do you, nadiin-ji,” Bren asked very quietly, “do you think the aiji does wish the paidhi to take a moderate course, or am I putting you in danger by my reluctance to File on this clan?”
A small silence. Opaque stares. Yes-no. Maybe. Then Jago, whose stare was generally the most direct, glanced down. No answer.
“See what the aiji will do,” Algini said, then, “whether he will permit this trip—or not.”
Scary enough advice. Tabini could decide out of pure pique to throw the Farai out of his apartment, the hell with the South, collectively known as the Marid, which had caused the aiji so much trouble.
That would toss the oil-pot in the fire, for sure.
Or Tabini could use the month to manuever . . . and temporize further with the Marid.
And the paidhi could come back and conspicuously set up in the hotel at the foot of the hill, posing a security nightmare for his staff, inconveniencing all the legislators who did not have apartments in the Bujavid, and who relied on that hotel during the upcoming session—
And waiting for the Farai to feel the heat enough to do something overt, either against him, or against Tabini himself. That would put Tabini in the right.
He’d personally bet the Farai would do neither, counting on all the paidhi’s other enemies to take him out of the way.
And there were certainly sufficient of those. As Jago said, they could become very, very busy, just keeping him alive, if they had to move into exposed circumstances. It was a risk to them, as much as him.
“It is a very uncomfortable position to be in, nadiin-ji,” he said. “Likeliest the aiji will give me at least my month, however—whatever we have to do for the session. And in any case, we know we have to pack. We can hardly share the premises with Uncle Tatiseigi.”
That produced a little laugh all around.
“Where will the dowager lodge?” Tano wondered then, the second good question of the situation: the aiji was lodging in her apartment, part of the whole chain of inconvenience. And while it had been mildly titillating to have the aiji-dowager staying under Tatiseigi’s roof at Tirnamardi, in that very large estate, it escalated to salacious rumor to consider the dowager sharing the Atageini lord’s apartment in the Bujavid, at a very slight remove from her grandson the aiji.
Not that salacious rumor ever displeased the aiji-dowager.
“I suppose she will stay with the aiji and his household,” Bren said. That would set the nuclear fuse ticking: give that about a week before the dowager and the aiji were ready to File on each other. “But let us hope we shall be on the coast, safe from all events. For at least the next month.”
Nand’ Bren was leaving. Cajeiri heard it from Great-grandmother’s major domo, Madiri, who had heard it from Cajeiri’s father the aiji. Great-uncle Tatiseigi was coming back, Great-grandmother was also coming back, but Great-uncle was pushing nand’ Bren out of Great-uncle’s apartment, and nand’ Bren was going off to live on the coast, which was entirely unreasonable. And even worse, even worse, Great-uncle was going to be living down the hall.
That was what Cajeiri heard; and being a year short of fortunate nine, and already as bored with his existence in the Bujavid as a young lord could be—his father and mother let him do nothing except his studies, and his chosen aishi was up on the station probably forgetting all about him and growing up without him—he saw nothing brighter ahead. He had been back to ordinary, boring life in his father’s household for three whole months since the set-to with Great-grandmother’s neighbors in Malguri.
He had so looked forward to spring, and summer, and maybe, maybe being able to go visit the wilderness of Taiben, or even go out to Great-uncle’s estate at Tirnamardi, where he would mostly have to behave (but Great-grandmother never watched him as closely as his parents, and out there, she would be running his life, so there had been some hope.)
But now—
Now Great-grandmother was going away, and Great-uncle was coming here and throwing nand’ Bren out.
It was just unfair.
And he had nobody left to talk to. Antaro and Jegari, even, his two companions from Taiben, who were almost his bodyguard, were off enlisting in the Assassins’ Guild and training most every day. They did at least show him what they learned that day, or every so-many days, when they were held at the Guild house for overnight. That was where they were today, so he couldn’t even tell them the bad news.
If Jegari and Antaro had their Guild status, Cajeiri said to himself, he might set them on the nasty Farai and scare them right out of nand’ Bren’s apartment and solve everything.
But they had no such license, and the Farai had their own Assassins, and besides, his father would find out about it and that would stop that.
He should suggest it to Banichi and Jago. They could do it. They could scare the Farai all the way back to the Marid, and show them up for the scoundrels they were.
But you had to File Intent to be legal to go after someone. And that took time.
And probably Bren’s guard would never listen to him. Even Banichi. Banichi had used to build cars with him, but no longer. He’d had Casimi and Seimaji, that Great-grandmother had set to guard him; but he had not even had them now for days, because they’d both gone back t
o Great-grandmother. So besides that, he had those two old sticks, Kaidin and Temein, that Great-uncle Tatiseigi had sent to watch over him and spy on his father; and Kaidin and Temein had never been happy at all with him, since they had gotten in trouble for losing him once—
And for the rest of his resources, he just had his father and his mother’s guard standing around, and they were never under his orders. If he asked them to do something, it was always, “Ask your own guard, young gentleman.”
Even worse, mother’s sister was visiting for the last three days; her two servants were flirting with his father’s guards, hanging about the kitchen and being obnoxious. The guards were distracted, being stupid, and nobody even cared what he thought.
There was an advantage, however, to nobody caring what he thought, and to his aunt’s maids acting like fools, which was that people grew busy and forgot to pay attention to him. He had not gotten in trouble in at least half a month, which meant that he was not under active restriction at the moment.
So he went down the hall and searched up boring old Kaidin and Temein. They were finishing the day’s reports when he found them; and he said:
“Nand’ Bren has a book I need for my studies.”
A sour look. “We can get it, young lord.”
He thought fast. “This is a very old book, and I have to convince nand’ Bren I can take care of it. No farther than just down the hall. I need to talk to him. I can go by myself or you can take me there.”
“We should ask the aiji’s staff,” Temein said. He was not the most enterprising of men; and Kaiden thought they should clear the order, too—to Cajeiri’s disgust.
“My father’s staff by no means cares if I am only in the hall,” he said. “Or if you go with me at all or not. But one needs to go now, nadiin. I have to meet my tutor before lunch. If you go to asking questions and going through procedures, I shall not get the book read in time, I shall not finish my lessons, my tutor will give a bad report, my father will be upset with me, and I shall be put out with you. Extremely. Come with me. We need to go now. It will hardly take a moment.”