And Cenedi checked their pace markedly, the closer they came to that gate. At a certain point something exploded with an electric snap, and Bren jumped, the mechieti all jumped, and he fought to bring his beast under control.
“What happened?” The dark and the misting rain obscured the riders ahead into twilight shadows. He was afraid for Banichi and Algini, foremost; and Cenedi: there might be worse. Or they had set something off.
Jago had drawn closer to him. “A discouragement to approach, Bren-ji, not lethal. One never likes to surprise a guard—unless one intends to remove him.”
“Someone is there?” In the gathering dark, in the rain, at this remote remove, he had not expected it.
“Assuredly,” Jago said. “And Banichi did not care to approach unheard. That watcher will pay close attention now.”
“We shall ride right up to the gate?”
“We shall ride up. He will come out.”
Bren bit his lip. The watcher was coming to them, that was to say.
And of a sudden, atevi eyes being the better in the dusk: “Tell your lord he has visitors!” Cenedi shouted into the night.
“Who are you, nadi?” a distant voice asked, somewhere behind the gate, and by now the fore of their column had stopped, the rest of them drifting to a halt behind. They were all too exposed, in Bren’s anxious calculation. And in a heartbeat and a glance, he was not sure where Banichi had gotten to, or Algini.
“Escort to a lady of the lord’s personal acquaintance. Tell him so, nadi!”
“I shall relay that, nadi, but best if I had a name!”
A two-heartbeat pause, then, from Cenedi: “Say he will remember when lightning hit the boat.”
“Lightning hit the boat.” Bren could hear the disbelieving mutter from here, in the general hush. Mechieti snorted and shifted, his own included, and he kept the rein just short of taut, tapping slightly with his quirt to restrain a sideward motion, while someone up there was making a phone call.
“Should we move off the road, Jago-ji?”
“Best stay in the saddle. Keep the quirt ready, Bren-ji. If we move, we move.”
There was a small pause. The guard was undoubtedly Guild, undoubtedly had communications with a station somewhere inside the Atageini house, and was asking questions. He was likely not alone, either. It was not the atevi habit that he be out here alone, and one rather thought that in all the brush grown up against the wall, and overtopping it, there might be a gun aimed at them, as somewhere out there Banichi and Algini had moved into protective position.
“Nandi,” the other side called back, this time in a tone of astonishment, “Lord Tatiseigi is bringing the car.”
“No need for that,” Cenedi said, “if you open the gates, nadi. We can meet him halfway.”
There was another small delay. Then the gates yielded outward with a sullen creak of iron.
Bren drew a deep, deep breath. He asked, on its outflow: “Is this good, Jago-ji?”
And her amused answer: “Certainly better than the alternatives.”
Chapter 9
It was a well-maintained and level road, probably, Bren thought, the route by which the lord’s vehicles, when used, would make the trip to the rural market or to the much-debated train station. Rain spatted down, windblown, and lightning lit the rain-pocked dirt under the mechieti’s feet.
And far in the distance two headlights gleamed, wending their way toward them.
Cajeiri and his two companions came up the column, taking advantage of the wider road, to reach the dowager.
“Is that my great-uncle, mani-ma?” Great-uncle, in the polite imprecision of ordinary usage, was easier and more intimate. He was great-uncle to Cajeiri’s mother.
“It should be, indeed, young gentleman. Straighten your collar.”
“Mani-ma.” Cajeiri quickly adjusted the wildly-flying lace.
Bren did a little tidying of his own. And he was very conscious of the gun in his pocket. He was sure all their staff was on the alert. They had only the gatekeepers’ word that the oncoming car represented a welcome at all.
And the guards had shut the gate behind them.
Further and further into the estate, as that car wended toward them, its headlights at times aimed off into shrubbery, at other times casting diffuse light down onto the road in front of them, at last close enough to spotlight the slanting rain-drops.
“Should there be any unanticipated trouble for us, great-grandson,” the dowager said, speaking in the fortunate first-three-plural, “ride for the outer gate. Rely on Nawari. He will open it.”
“Yes, mani-ma.”
The motorcar was not the most modern and efficient, but certainly it sounded impressive. It had probably gone into service in Wilson’s tenure as paidhi, and probably it had traveled less than the distance from Jackson to the north shore in all its years of operation: Bren reckoned so, knowing Tatiseigi’s ways.
It blinded them with its lights as it rumbled up to them, and the mechieti were far from happy with its racket. They milled about and the sky took that moment to add thunder to the mix.
The car braked. A door opened, and a guard bailed out and moved quickly, bringing a move of hands to weapons, but indeed, it was only to open the passenger door and to assist an elderly gentleman to exit into the rain.
Tatiseigi himself, grim old man, outlined in the headlights: he advanced a few paces, squinting and shading his eyes.
Ilisidi rode forward, keeping her mechieti under tight rein, its uncapped tusks a hazard to everyone it might encounter, no respecter of elderly lords.
“ ’Sidi-ji,” the old man said, frowning into the rain. “It is you.”
“It certainly is,” Ilisidi said sharply, “and a pretty mess the world is in, when your gates are shut and guarded by lethal devices, nandi. Is my rascal grandson here?”
“No,” Tatiseigi said. “No. He has been, but he is not. But you are back from this gallivanting about the heavens. And is that half-grown boy my nephew?”
“One offers deepest respect, great-uncle.” Cajeiri was doing very well controlling a restive and annoyed mechieti, which detested facing the lights and that rumbling engine. “Has there been news from my mother, great-uncle?”
Very damned precocious, for eight. But then, Cajeiri had had his great-grandmother for a tutor non-stop for two years, and lost no time seizing the moral initiative.
“No news,” Tatiseigi said shortly, and somewhat rudely. One was not strictly obliged to courtesy with a forward child, and the old man was being rained upon. “Come to the hall for questions. Come to the hall. The deluge is coming. You might ride with me, ’Sidi-ji.”
“Too much effort to get down and get in and get out,” Ilisidi said. “These old bones prefer a short, painful ride. But a glass of brandy and supper would come very welcome when we arrive, not to mention a warm bath, Tati-ji.”
“Then come ahead. Both are available. Is that the paidhi with you?”
“It is, nandi,” Bren said for himself.
“Instigator of this mess,” Tatiseigi muttered, like a curse, and turned away, headed for his car.
So. It was certainly clear where he stood, and abundantly clear, too, the paidhi could stand out in the oncoming rain for all Tatiseigi cared, but at least Tatiseigi did not exclude him from the invitation… whatever his next intentions.
“He is old,” Jago said, not that it moderated the old man’s discourtesy. The old had license, and some used that license freely.
“He is justified,” Bren said in a low voice. “He is completely justified, as far as things on the ground go, Jago-ji. One fears there is no remedy for his opinion except our setting things back in place.”