Can Gene and Artur go with me? Not just a boyish question. Desperation. Attachment, in a bond even the human paidhi had to think was unhealthy. The right social nerves just hadn’t gotten the right trigger at the right times, and the boy was more than a little lost, getting instruction, but missing any emotional connection. He knew all the right social moves the way he memorized the provincial capitals and their lords, but not why those moves had to be made.
Dared one think… a sociopath, if one let one’s thoughts wander far, far down an unpleasant track?
Impossible. A good and willing kid. Angry. Hurt. Exhausted. The dowager shoved lectures at him, and he argued, he defended his ground, he increasingly annoyed his grandmother, who probably had a better sense of what was going on with the child than he possibly could. His own advice certainly couldn’t help the boy.
The fish—God, the fish had been a moment. He afforded himself a wan laugh, in silence. But having to fish, having to have an activity, that was the frenetic energy the boy had, that explored things and then sent him dashing back to great-grandmama when the world threatened him…
That flocking instinct? Man’chi in its early expression? Maybe dashing back to adults was the normal part and the brash, aggressive exploration was what he’d picked up from his human associates.
Maybe a human just didn’t know how to judge the boy, and ought not to say a thing.
While Jago, who knew less about children than she knew about field-stripping her guns, had expressed concern during their voyage, but seemed to indicate there was not much to do about Cajeiri’s isolation, except to keep him happy and to discourage him from the human Archive. Banichi had said, what was it? That the boy was going to have to stand still long enough to be aiji in Shejidan, and that was by no means a given.
The brakes began a prolonged squeal.
“Keep utterly still,” he heard Cenedi say, doubtless aiming that at the boy, and the truck bumped and heaved to a stop.
Conversation reached them from outside the tarp, questions about their use of the truck, from someone who definitely didn’t recognize their right to have it, or to be here. Bren held his breath, held utterly still.
“Picking up driftwood, nadi,” he heard Jago said, in a country accent he’d never heard her use, “to make lamps.”
“Lamps, is it?” he heard from that strange voice.
“Driftwood lamps, nadi,” she said, “which sell quite well in Shejidan.”
“Who authorized you to have this truck?”
The wrong answer could damn the man and the whole village who’d helped them. Could cost lives.
“The council, nadi,” Jago said, “for a consideration. A fee for the wood and for the hire of the truck.”
“Papers,” the man said.
“Here,” Banichi said, and got out, a creaking of springs and the opening of the door.
Thump. That was the truck door on Jago’s side, and a second thump, as something hit the ground.
“Good move,” Banichi said, and one formed a picture of that truck door opening and bashing right into a man, perhaps a local security patrol, who’d gotten too inquisitive.
There was some to-do outside, a series of small movements.
“Best take him along,” Banichi said. “He may be local.”
The logic in that was clear, that they wanted no blood on their ally’s hands, and the man who’d come afoul of two Assassins was still, courteously enough, alive.
Banichi came around to lower the tailgate, letting in daylight and a welcome waft of cool air.
“One regrets to report an inquisitive nuisance,” Banichi said, “and a problem. We propose, nand’ dowager, to put the local constable aboard, and leave him where we leave the truck, for our ally’s sake, for peace in the district. We believe he is not Desigien village, but perhaps a neighbor from Cobo.”
“Do so,” Ilisidi said. “How far are we from the rail?”
“Not far, nand’ dowager. The train comes into the station just after dark, and will pick up the local railcar, which is our best hope. We are to leave the truck in its ordinary spot, which is by the depot north wall, where we can move safely after dark. After that the ride may be much cooler, nandiin, one regrets to say.”
One formed a picture. The local car would carry fish. And ice.
Their unwanted passenger came to in the dark, blindfolded and gagged, and thumped around, kicking and protesting, until Cenedi’s men got hold of him.
“You will live, nadi,” Nawari’s voice said pleasantly in the dark. “Be patient. We mean no particular harm to you and we shall return the truck, the use of which we took.”
A deal of muffled outcry, then. And a quick subsidence after.
Everyone had to be quiet. Cenedi had said that while their passenger was still unconscious. Particularly the dowager, the heir, and the stray human had to keep quiet, their voices being far too remarkable.
“The drug has taken effect,” Nawari said, “but we should not rely on it. It has its hazard, nandiin-ji.”
There was silence. So on they rolled, with one bound, gagged constable heavily sedated, from that store of small nastinesses the Assassins’ Guild sometimes used. Finesse, Banichi called it.
They maintained particular silence, as the truck rolled slowly over smooth, and therefore well-maintained, road, which indicated a populated, frequently-traveled region. It was probably a picturesque village they had come to. They were probably not in Desigien, but at Adaran, at the railhead, and the Desigien truck sitting still and waiting for the train was probably not that unlikely an evening event.
Banichi got out of the truck, and asked, near the side: “How are things?”
“Our guest is sedated,” Cenedi said. “We shall renew the dose every half hour. We are monitoring him carefully.”
“We are at the station, parked at the appropriate place. There is no shade, one regrets to say. How is the dowager?”
“Hot and cross, nadi,” Ilisidi snapped. “But it seems we all are hot and cross, and will freeze tonight. Cease talking. Take no chances.”
“Yes,” Banichi said simply, and got back into the truck cab, for a long, long wait.
It was a very long, uncomfortable silence, in the stifling, oil-smelling heat of the sun on the canvas above their heads. Once and twice again someone administered another dose of sedative, and reported they still had a steady pulse.
Someone approached the truck, a slow scuff of gravel. That someone, a female person, went as far as the door of the truck and spoke quietly and respectfully to Banichi and Jago. She said something about having walked here, and being the driver, and taking the truck back.
“When the train leaves,” Banichi answered that person. “Come back then. Do not associate yourself with us, for your own safety.”
“What of the fish?” Jago asked.
“We have everything on yesterday’s ice, nadi,” the female person said. “Some days the truck breaks down. We will bring the catch in tomorrow night. We shall make up for it. Thank you for asking.”
“We have an unexpected problem,” Banichi said. “The constable met us on the road and questioned us. He is sedated. Back there. Would you know who would properly be on the road above Cobo village, asking us questions?”
“I by no means know, nadi,” was the answer. “But the Cobo constable would not be wandering around up on the ridge.”
Banichi said, “Come have a look at him.”
The truck rocked. Steps moved around to the tailgate, and Banichi lifted the tarp. Sunlight came in, and a young girl stood with Banichi and Jago, a pretty young girl with astonished eyes.
“Aiji-ma?” she said reverently.
“Nandiin,” Banichi said, “this is Ruso, our associate’s daughter. And the driver. We would not let her drive it here.”