Seeing where they had disposed their critical items, Bren had put his gun there, too, with its ammunition, with his computer, with his personal bag. So there everything sat, sacrosanct, if in danger of water, still muddy, but with that in their control, they knew nothing could be added or subtracted. They felt ever so much safer, collectively.
The laundry and cleaning staff, meanwhile, had a major job on their hands, if they meant to restore ravaged clothes, scratched and rain-spattered leather, lace that had long since lost its starch and its whiteness. He had a change of clothes, but of coats he had only one, a formal one, and his staff owned only the coats they wore, which were in need of treatment they habitually attended to themselves. God knew what he would do if they had to ride with another load of frozen fish, or where he was going to get another pair of trousers his size—not to mention the boots, of which he had only the one pair, and those were in the hands of the servants. He had to muster something sufficiently respectable for this house, if they had to pay the courtesies and join Ilisidi downstairs, and oh, he dreaded that.
He shut his eyes. A shadow bent over him. A servant offered him a cordial glass on a tray.
He cast a brief, questioning look across the tub to Banichi, who blinked placidly, a signal Banichi judged it should be all right. He took it, then, but asked what it was. “Gija, nandi,” the servant said.
Safe. No alkaloids. He nodded and sipped the fruit-tasting item, which had a considerable alcohol content.
This staff had never in their lives had to wonder whether there was an alkaloid in certain foodstuffs, since it provided only a nice tang for them. They might make such a mistake in utter innocence. It became his own concern, to eat and drink only things he could identify and keep to simple foods, if his own cook had not prepared the meal—and Bindanda was up on the station, sleeping peacefully in his own bed at this hour, one hoped.
He sipped the drink, arms on the tiled rim, and felt the slow fire spread down his throat, into his stomach, through his veins. The atevi notion of a small drink was a bit excessive for a human and he left a percentage in the glass, when he abandoned it on the edge.
God, he didn’t want to move again. He didn’t know how long the painkiller would hold out. He had no blisters, at least. He’d wondered, this last few hours.
“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.