“Do you intend to go down to dinner, nandi?” Banichi asked him.
“I heard no invitation,” he said. And it was a question, now that he considered it, whether to let Ilisidi work her charm solo—she had it in abundance if she wished to use it—on her old flame, Tatiseigi. But food—food was one thing this house could provide them.
“One can easily plead indisposition,” Banichi said. “Your staff is certainly ready to plead indisposition.”
This from a man who could still lift him with one hand and fight his way out of the house unaided. But it was also the justified complaint of a staff who’d run long and hard. And a reminder that he, like the rest of them, might not be at his sharpest, going into an encounter where sharp wits would be everything.
“Nadi,” he said to the seniormost servant, who had drifted into the bath to retrieve the glass, “one has the suspicion that we would intrude on the reunion of old association in the lower hall. One hesitates to place greater burdens on an already accommodating host, and we are, when all else is said, exhausted. Might we impose on the generosity of our host to request a small, private dinner here in our rooms, for me and my staff?”
“Certainly, nand’ paidhi. One is warned the paidhi has special requirements.”
“My staff will certainly appreciate the full range of offerings of the season,” he said, “with profound thanks and compliments to the chef, for whatever courtesy he may extend to such an uninvited arrival, and one is certainly appreciative if he will consider my not inconsiderable difficulties of diet. One only asks modest accommodation, simple bread without seasonings for me, a simply grilled and salted meat of the season—such would be extraordinarily appreciated, nadi. A bottle of common brandy, nothing at all extraordinary. We shall all stand in debt of your lord. And there may be one other person sharing this meal, if she should come back.”
A bow from the servant. He had kept his requests very limited, his instruction clear and easily handled, consideration for a chef already discommoded by an unexpected arrival—even Bindanda had his limits of endurance, and a lordly request from a human guest for particular favors and special cooking instructions would not meet with favor under this roof, he was quite sure.
He wished the servant staff, at least, to report the house guests as well-behaved.
There were robes provided—his reached the floor, and had to have the sleeves rolled up threefold, so that he looked like a child playing dress-up. His staff helped him with the sleeves, laughing the while, then wiped down their muddy baggage, using a pile of soft white towels, wiped down their coats, as well, and broke out the small store of leather treatment they carried in their gear, a comfortingly domestic task, the air filled with the sharp, oily smell of the bottle. Servants only gingerly offered to assist and provide cleaning cloths—the Guild rarely permitted another staff to touch their personal gear, which had an amazing array of small pockets and reinforced seams, not to mention outright weaponry and wires. Damp hair went up into queues, a stubbled human face benefited by a shave and lotion, and over all, they presented a more civilized appearance by the time dinner arrived, borne by a procession of servants.
And the offering evidenced a chef in decent temper, or one severely instructed to maintain the dignity of the house. His requested meat of the season turned out to be a massive grilled fish, perfectly prepared, with a domed loaf of crusty hot bread, in a warm clay container to conserve the heat, with a very nice southern fruit wine in a sealed and sweating bottle. The meal for Banichi, Tano, and Algini was a savory game roast with gravy, with spiced vegetables, fresh greens of the season, and a lovely iced fruit dessert, which happily they all could share. Not to mention a very nice bottle of brandy, as if the great lord would possess anything less.
“I had thought Jago would join us by now, nadi,” he said to Banichi.
“She likely will attend the dowager to dinner,” Banichi said. “She will attempt to manage it, Cenedi permitting.”
Jago would stand formal guard so their separate staff might have a report of the doings down there, Bren thought. A very good idea. The pocket coms were useless except as walkie-talkies, in a place where there was no supporting network. They were obliged to sit ignorant, this rainy evening, of all that was happening elsewhere. The world which had been so tightly knit around them, themselves aware of every tic and twitch on any deck, around the clock, in every circumstance, was far away, floating in space and out of reach. Here, separated for an hour from Jago and the dowager, their world began to develop dark pockets of delayed or no information.
But it was also a kabiu house, and, on the side of Jago’s continued attendance on the dowager, it was not particularly graceful for Jago to show up in their male society to sleep—he realized that the moment he thought of it. The old lord would not have male-female teams on his staff. That Jago slept with a human—the old lord would have a conniption, a whole litter of them, if what was likely common gossip in the capital turned out to be reality under his roof.
Prickly old man, devotedly maintaining a life in the previous century, a dragging anchor on change in the aishidi’tat—but not, evidently, following the Kadigidi, who only put on a show of old-fashioned attitudes. It was not so much that Tatiseigi had ever been deeply loyal to Tabini. It was that this old man would insist, if there was no Tabini, he, not his upstart neighbors the Kadigidi, had the right to govern the mainland, at least the central part of it, where people of his own opinion lived. It was centuries-old ambition, he had the picture quite clear—ancient ambition, and a grand-nephew who, in his day, might bring absolute power to the Atageini bloodline.
One could only hope Cajeiri did not regale his uncle at supper, downstairs tonight, with his opinions on humans and racing-cars.
But that was trouble Ilisidi would be there to handle—quite deftly, giving up nothing, the paidhi was sure.
And a delicate, wonderful fish, with bread dipped in salted oil, the light, iced wine, the like of which he had not tasted literally in years—all these things combined to persuade the paidhi that it was a very, very good thing he had stayed in his room. He was by no means qualified for diplomacy, tonight. If he had sat at the table downstairs he might have fallen asleep in the soup course, and a drink of wine would have completely finished him. As it was, he only tasted the wonderful dessert, and apologetically took to his bed, face down. Banichi, Tano, and Algini were, except for the dessert, of the same mind, and Tano and Algini bedded down together in the adjacent bedroom, while Banichi was about to take the guard post aside from the small foyer, where a cot could be let down.
“Share the bed,” he said to Banichi. “I rattle around in it anyway, Banichi-ji.” It was a very large mattress, even by atevi standards, and he probably could have fitted Tano and Algini in for good measure, if they had not already settled.
The fact was, it made him feel safe. Safe, and watched over, when the circumstances of the house were not as safe as they could wish. His head was reeling from the wine and the half glass of brandy. He wasn’t up to conversation, or questions, and too stupid to judge reassurances. It was enough to know that Banichi was there, and he wished Jago were, too. Having her out of his sight and elsewhere in this place made him marginally anxious, but if trouble was to come tonight, he relied on Jago to make it heard from one end of the house to the other, and on Banichi and the rest to handle it, no matter the odds.
“I hope we have clothes tomorrow,” he murmured.
The bed shook to Banichi’s silent, short laugh. “One would expect they will have attended the laundry, Bren-ji. We have told the staff you would perhaps attend breakfast. With enough bleach, staff may even be able to restore the lace.”
“Very good,” he murmured. “Ever so good, Banichi-ji.” And he went straight to sleep.