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.
There were, indeed, clothes in the morning. The staff had even darned a small rip and drawn in the pulled threads where thorns and brush had snagged his coat. The shirt was bleached white, the modest lace was immaculately starched, his boots were polished, and even the white ribbon for his queue was washed and pressed despite its frays and snags, not to mention there were clean stockings and linen. Bren dressed himself as far as the shirt, but getting the hair braided properly and ribboned was a difficult operation even if he were less stiff.
“Here,” Tano said. “Let me do it, nandi.”
“Bren,” he said decisively. “One wishes the staff would always call me more familiarly, in private, Tano-ji, if it would not distress you.”
“It would by no means distress us,” Tano said. And quick, deft plaiting secured the braid, with its ribbon. With a pat on his shoulder, Tano pronounced him fit for public appearance.
Staff’s uniforms were fit, everything done to perfection, everyone feeling very much better, it was certain, after a night’s sleep and clean clothing. Even the stiffness was somewhat abated this morning—it still warranted sitting a little gingerly, but not so much as before.
A servant appeared, with a formal message scroll, an invitation to breakfast on the terrace.
“I have no means to reply in kind,” Bren answered the servant, “but advise your lord I shall be there, and I thank him for his gracious invitation.”
Message cylinder. One small item he had neglected to pack. He’d left it—the mind jolted between worlds—in the bowl on the table in his quarters aboard Phoenix. Staff had packed it. It must be in his apartment on station. He was very loath to lose it.
And if he was taking up brain cells mourning lost personal items, he knew he was dodging thinking about what he was going to do downstairs. Nervous about the meeting? Oh, not a little. He had had no report yet from Jago. He caught himself pacing while Banichi restored a number of arcane items to his jacket’s inner pockets and then to the hollow seam of his right boot.
Odd, he thought, as the small pile of strange objects diminished. As long as they’d been together, he’d never seen the whole array. It was curious, some of the pieces, though the uses for almost invisible wire were disturbing to think of.
A rap at the door. Jago’s signal. Thank God. Algini let her in, and she had fared as well, clean and polished, as immaculate as she might walk the halls of the Bu-javid.
“Nandi.” A bow. “Nadiin.”
“How did it go, Jago-ji?”
A slight glance at the ceiling, warning they might be overheard, far from surprising in a modern great house, and not, reasonably, in this one. “The conference last night was interesting,” Jago said, her eyes sparkling. “Lord Tatiseigi, nadiin-ji, firmly believes the aiji is alive.”
Indeed astonishing that Tatiseigi should say so, when he had everything to gain by hiding that belief—if he entertained personal ambitions of supplanting Tabini with a young and pliant Cajeiri. Maybe the old reprobate was in fact on the up and up. Maybe Ilisidi had gotten good behavior out of him.
Maybe there were motives he hadn’t thought of.
Damn, it was altogether what he’d tried to avoid doing, immersing himself in possibilities before listening to what might be going on at the breakfast table.
“What did the dowager say to that supposition, Jago-ji?”
“That she would not tell Cajeiri until there is something certain.”
“Cajeiri did not attend last night?”
“No. He dined in, with his staff, and Nawari.”
He approved of Ilisidi’s caution. Atevi or human, the boy had feelings for his father and mother, and sending them soaring and then crashing on every tidbit of news was not good, not at all good for an adult, let alone an eight-year-old.
“Does our host say where Tabini-aiji is?” Banichi asked.
Jago put her hands in her jacket pockets, with another cautionary glance at the ceiling. “Nand’ Tatiseigi maintains that the aiji sent Mercheson-paidhi ahead of him to Mogari-nai. He followed her route as far as the coast, then when it was attacked, returned to Taiben, then here.”
Exactly as the Taibeni had said—except the detail about Tabini coming back to Tirnamardi.
“He and Damiri-daja stayed here three days, with certain staff, and then two staffers left, and all the rest of them left shortly after. There has been no word since. The aiji did not say where he was going, nadiin.”