But they had two dead, a loss that the dowager would not forget. Nor could he.
Settled, Banichi had said. But he was very, very dubious that it was at all settled. Geigi’s estate had taken damage—in several senses. The Korisul Coastal Association might have had an attack come into its midst: but the Marid Association, the four-clan aggregation that lay at the heart of the Southern Coastal Association, had both flexed its muscle and committed a critical error of timing.
That was good, in the sense that the situation had gone no further.
But where were Geigi’s people? All quiet, the Edi, while outsiders had prepared to assassinate the paidhi-aiji and while Baiji had made extraordinary gestures—extraordinary effort from such an unenterprising man; but on which side he had exerted such effort, and with what intent was not in the least clear.
Likely nobody they could trust for information yet knew all the things he wanted to know . . . but pieces of that information might be had, here and there, and he meant to have them.
He had a unique responsibility now as a regional lord, in Geigi’s absence, in the situation with Kajiminda. He’d never had to exercise it. Still, he knew what that responsibility was, and that was to defend his people and assert their rights; and to extend a stabilizing influence throughout the Korisul Association. He had to represent his people with the aiji, had to secure what was good for the district, and the occupation by Tabini, a Ragi lord, was not, ultimately, going to be acceptable with the Edi . . . who, for one thing, had to be approached, and asked what the hell had happened here. They were not likely to talk to Tabini, on general principles.
They might talk to him. He couldn’t swear to that. They might not, given the situation, even talk to Lord Geigi himself.
That had to be dealt with.
They had the Farai in his apartment; they had the Marid trying to disrupt the aishidi’tat; they had the Edi coast in disarray, for starters, and they had the aiji having had to move Guild into action in the Korisul, where Ragi-directed Guild historically had never been welcome.
He was, when he added it all up, mad. He had been mad last night. He was damned mad this morning.
And no little worried about the future.
Not least of which was a matter that had been nagging the back of his mind since last night on the bus.
The Edi. Edi—who constituted part of the population of Najida village. Who were partially the reason Kajiminda estate and Najida estate had enjoyed such a steady, reliable flow of information.
Ramaso hadn’t warned him. Ramaso hadn’t said a damned thing about the mowing, just about the debt. Had said there was a lapse in contact. But absent the critical information about Edi leaving Kajiminda—it hadn’t conveyed the real situation there.
And Ramaso hadn’t known that fact?
He wasn’t mad at Ramaso—yet. But that question was forming in his mind.
Edi. And total silence. Not unlike them. They pursued their own business. They were not a government, officially, within the aishidi’tat . . . but they settled their own affairs, handled their own disputes, and generally didn’t make outsiders aware of their business. A silent, self-directing lot—they frowned on their secrets being discovered. They’d run illicit trade. There was a tacit sort of agreement with the aishidi’tat: the aiji’s law didn’t investigate things in the Edi community and the Edi didn’t do things to annoy outsiders.
So there was at least a situation behind the silence about the neighboring estate—and he understood Ramaso had one foot in the village community and one foot in the estate, so to speak.
But not warning him? Worse, letting him take the aiji’s son over there with him?
There were questions.
There were a lot of questions—some of which he was prepared to ask, and some of which he was prepared to investigate.
But theirs was an old relationship. And Edi reticence and the Edi reputation for piracy and assassination had managed to keep the coup from touching Najida in his absence.
So it was worth a little second thought—his frustration with Ramaso’s silence.
It was worth a careful approach, and a due respect for what services the man had given him. Maybe, he thought, he ought to talk to Banichi about the matter—doubtless Banichi had also added up certain missing pieces of information; but Banichi was not from the district; Banichi and Jago came from further inland, part of the aiji’s household, once upon a time, and that—
That could be an issue that might complicate any investigation his bodyguard tried to make.
Diplomacy, besides, was his expertise.
He found Ramaso in the servants’ hall, supervising a temporary repair on the ceiling paneling—one of the young men was on a ladder taking measurements—and approached him quietly. “Rama-ji,” he said, and before all other business, inquired about their driver. “How is Iscarti this morning? One is distressed not yet to have gotten down to see him—my guard does not want to be parted from me—or from their monitoring equipment.”
“He certainly will understand. He is much improved, nandi. Awake and talking, with diminishing doses of painkiller. His mother has come up from the village.”
A piece of good news. “Brave woman. One is very glad. Tell him not to worry in the least about his family. Tell him we will see his salary paid, and his family protected, not even a question about the medical bills. And we will get down there, among first things when my guard lets me leave this hall.”
“One will do so, nandi. Though he asks us what did happen. He says he cannot remember.”
“Then I shall personally tell him what he did. With all gratitude.”
“That will so greatly please him, nandi.”
“One thing more you can do for me, Rama-ji.”
“What would this be, nandi?”
The question.
And the wider question.
“We have had a dearth of information, Rama-ji—information coming to us, and information coming from us. It seems perhaps the village has felt abandoned in my absence.”
“No such thing, nandi. They have known you were about important business.”
“Nevertheless—it seems I should be more concerned with Najida’s business. One hopes to speak to the village councillors about the general situation—about Kajiminda. About what has gone on in my absence, and during the Troubles. One wishes to address the council courteously and ask its advice.”
The young man on the ladder had had his head up above the ceiling. He had looked down, and now descended the ladder, casting a look at Ramaso and giving a little bow.
“This is Osi, nandi,” Ramaso said. “He is from the village, the council senior’s grandson.”
A bow to Bren. “One would be glad to carry a message, nandi.”
Council senior was a woman. That was generally the case in the countryside, in any village. Council senior was everybody’s grandmother; but this was a blood relationship.
“Tell your honored grandmother, tell all the council, Osi-nadi, that Najida will not accept Kajiminda falling into the hands of the Marid; it will not accept Marid presence on this coast. The lord of Najida estate wishes to meet with the council, in the council’s premises, and asks to be invited to speak, at a time not to interfere with their session.”
“Nandi!” A deep bow from the dusty young man. “Certainly they will be honored.”
“Nevertheless,” Bren said, “Osi-nadi, make the request for me. One wishes to listen to advice as much as to give it. One requests, Osi-nadi. And advice. Please say that, exactly.”
“Nandi.” Another bow.
“Go, Osi-ji,” Ramaso said. “The lord’s commission outweighs mine.”
“I have my measurements,” the young man said, tapping his head, and made a third bow. “Ramaso-nadi. Bren-nandi. I shall, one shall, as fast as I can.”
The young man was off like a shot, back toward the main doors, not the nearest, which were probably still secured. His footsteps echoed on the retreat.
“It is a great risk to go down to the village, nandi,” Ramaso said, “a risk for you to leave these premises.”
“Not from them.”
“No, nandi! Of course not!”
Honest distress. They let him run into danger. They didn’t know how to stop him without unraveling everything. He began to see that. No danger from the village. But the village couldn’t feel safe. Nobody could, as things stood.
“My guard will keep me safe, I have no doubt. My worry is my attracting attack into the village, Rama-ji, and I know what I ask. Guide me in this. If one asks protection from the aiji in Shejidan, it will be counter to all I hope to achieve. One does not wish to see Najida village dragged into politics with the South.”
“With the South, nandi?”
“The Marid will seek to divide Maschi from Edi, Edi from Korali—wherever they can find a weakness. One believes—one sincerely believes, Rama-ji, that in the aishidi’tat is the best association for all the Western clans. But this needs to be proved—to the Western clans. And it cannot be proved by bringing central clan Guild in here to settle things by force. It was never the power of the aiji in Shejidan that protected this coast. It was the people.”
Ramaso himself was Korali. And Ramaso nodded solemnly and slowly. “The absence of both the paidhi-aiji and the Lord Geigi has been a weakness on this coast. Our isolation from politics protected us. But Najida welcomes your return, nandi. I am, at least by birth, an outsider, though my wife is from Najida. But I believe the village will heartily welcome your close involvement.”
“One regrets extremely the necessity of my service in space. Najida has deserved better.”
“Najida could not find better than you, nandi. That is your staff’s sentiment. You are—if the paidhi will forgive a political opinion—outside the regional rivalries. You are not Edi. But you are not Ragi. There was a reason your Bujavid staff fled here; there was a reason Najida welcomed them and hoped for your return; there was a reason the Marid found it inconvenient to attempt to take this coast, and the reason was exactly as you say. The resistance in Dalaigi relied on this house to reach Dur; and so we did; and Dur reached the Island, and from Dur we acquired direction and advice at need; and we gave each other assurances that there would be a rising against the new regime. We were not idle in your absence, nandi, even though we counted on no help from Kajiminda—and less from the center of the continent. One must ask the paidhi’s forgiveness—his great forgiveness—for not warning the paidhi about the situation with Kajiminda, which we did not know. We did not know Guild had come from the South. We were unwarned.”
“The grass was not mown on the road, Rama-ji. There were so many signs. One laid them all to a decline in trade.”
Ramaso bowed his head, shaking it slowly. “We thought it irresponsibility. We thought it—perhaps—that the house could not pay its debts. We thought perhaps the presence of the Lord of the Heavens would bring Lord Geigi’s nephew to a better frame of mind. One feels personally at fault, nandi. Should you wish it—one is prepared to be dismissed from this post of responsibility.”
“Do not consider it. The aiji’s own information failed.”
Ramaso’s face showed rare emotion, a soul greatly disturbed. “This I can say, nandi. I have been in touch with—with the activities of the village council, in matters here and—those things I spoke of—the contacts with the North. And if my knowledge will serve you, nandi, I shall answer to you. Not to the aiji, nor even the paidhi’s distinguished guests. I answer to you.”
He was stunned. He had corresponded with Ramaso before and after his return. He had exchanged observations with Ramaso, and trusted this man, in happier days, to bear with his family, at a close range that would have worried him—were it not level-headed Ramaso. He had not had the least inkling what this man had been, or done, during the Troubles.
“Rama-ji. What can one say?”
The impassive mask resumed, and, with a little quirk of the lips: “Say little, to the aiji, nandi. And little to any of your staff who might report to him. But our records—will be open to you.”
His bodyguard. Who were extremely closely tied to the aiji’s house.
And it was Najidama Bay he was dealing with, which had had a local tradition of smuggling, and even of wrecking; and there had historically been business enterprises Najida village might not want to have told to the aiji, and there was a time a light up by the Sisters had lured the aiji’s shipping to ruin—
But . . . not to tell his bodyguard . . .
“One even asks, nandi, did the aiji send his son here, so conveniently?”
“No, Rama-ji. On that point, one is relatively certain, there was no planning in that.”
“No desire, nandi, forgive me, for an excuse to send Guild to the coast?”
“No, Rama-ji. The young gentleman is entirely what he seems. Fluent—in Mosphei’, at least as the ship-folk speak it. He is many things, but not—not orthodox Ragi, nor ever will be. He has associates among human folk. He has a great attachment to the aiji-dowager.”
“One detected that attachment,” Ramaso said, and nodded slowly. “One has readily detected that.” And then Ramaso added: “This coast, up and down, has always respected the grandmothers.”
The same little chill ran through that statement, a chill of antiquity, ancient belief, ancient connections. The people of the coast had owned Mospheira once—the Edi, and the Gan, up in the Northern Isles, were the aboriginal peoples of the island. The treaty that separated humans onto the island enclave, and atevi to the mainland, where the Ragi ruled . . . had made those two peoples homeless, refugees on this coast. It had been expedient. It had saved thousands of lives—assured the survival of the human species on the planet.
But it had left the former Mospheirans separated from their sacred sites. Their monuments had gone to museums. Their traditions had been swallowed up.
There had been two particular reasons that Tabini-aiji had appointed the paidhi as lord of Najida, when the clan that had had it went extinct. One reason: that a Marid clan, the Farai, had claimed to succeed the Maladesi, and Tabini didn’t want a Marid clan to get its fingers on Najida—and the other . . .
The other reason had been that no central lord could have been accepted on this coast, no more than this coast would accept anyone from the Marid.
“Ramaso-nadi,” he said, “I will not discuss inappropriate things with the aiji; you have my word on that. My aishid may be Ragi—but they are in my man’chi, Rama-ji, and as they will not betray me, I will not betray them. I find myself connected here. I had no notion of the indebtedness I would come to feel toward this place. I am far more foreign. I do not feel in the same way, but I feel deeply. I shall become, at whatever time I speak for you, partisan for this region . . . and I shall keep its secrets, whatever of them I learn. And so, if you will forgive me, will that young man under this roof. He is not one who forgets a kindness. And he learns. Enlist him by means of your good qualities; enlist the aiji-dowager, who remembers favors done her great-grandson. These are not inconsequential allies, Ramaso. Tell that to the village, if you will speak for me. I shall always be a foreigner. But not so much so here, one hopes. One earnestly hopes so.”
“You are also an exile from Mospheira, nandi. In that sense, you are one of us.”
True—if not in the same bitter sense as the Old Ones.
“Nadi-ji,” he said to Ramaso, with a little bow. Ramaso bowed. And he walked away, disturbed to the core.
Homeless on this earth. Except—here. Except one warm spot that—of all cold things it could possibly do to him—questioned Banichi’s man’chi, of all people.
He didn’t question it. True that Banichi still reported to Tabini, and came and went more easily with Tabini-aiji than some of Tabini’s own new bodyguard. But it never meant that Banichi or Jago would betray him.
It occurred to him to ask himself—if he took a stance for the people of the coast—did he, in fact, betray Banichi’s man’chi,
in a way that would put Banichi in an untenable position?
He didn’t feel that. He had no such intention. If he found a limit he could not cross in that regard—he thought—he would stop at it. Banichi would never betray him; he would never betray Banichi, nor Jago, nor Tano, nor Algini.
He was what he was. Maybe Tabini had understood enough about him when he’d given him Najida, and maybe Tabini hadn’t.
He hoped Tabini had.
But he couldn’t turn his back on these people. Couldn’t go back to Shejidan, in the legislature, and sell out these people’s lands, or be in Tabini’s inner councils, and have the consideration of peace or war come down to the edge, and sell out these people’s interests. Last week—he might not have felt it that personally.
Since dodging bullets under his neighbor’s portico, it had become just a little—
The front door opened, making the dowager’s guards, who were stationed there, react. But it was just one of the youngest staff, out of breath and windblown.
Whose eyes darted to the leveled guns in alarm, and then went to him, large and desperate.
“Nandi! Nand’ Toby is coming in!”
“Sailing into dock?”
A bow, and the young man caught his breath, hands on knees. “Forgive me, nandi. Yes. Sailing in. The boat—nand’ Toby’s boat—is damaged, low in the water, and pumping hard . . .”
Damn, he thought, in a cold chill. “Come,” he said, and led the way into the study.
There he sat down while the servant waited, and wrote a quick note.
“Toby—I’m delighted you’re all right but concerned you’re back here, which is not safe. We came under attack last night, we lost two on the dowager’s staff and have one man shot. We got what we went in after, all of them, and I hope you and Barb are both all right and will forgive me for not coming down there. My staff is getting medical treatment and we’re shorthanded. The way up and down the hill is exposed and snipers are a possibility, so be extremely quick and careful if you decide to make the run up here. Leave the baggage. You may be safer just to stay on the boat offshore. If you do come up here, you will have the safety of the house, but we’re in fortress mode at the moment and we can’t say this will be the last shooting that goes on. Staff will give you every possible assistance and get you up here if you choose to come. Stay well.