As for himself, he went back to his ghost bells and his headless victims, and the shiploads of sailors lost to the notorious luck of Maidingi, which always fed on the misfortune of others when an aiji was resident in Malguri.
That was what the book said; and atevi, who believed in no omnipotent gods, who saw the universe and its quasi god-forces as ruled by bajiand naji, believed at least that najicould flow through one person to the next—or they had believed so, before they became modern and cynical and enlightened, and realized that superior firepower could redistribute luck to entirely undeserving people.
He had sat about in the dressing-robe all afternoon, developing sore spots in very private areas. He declined to move, much less to dress for dinner, deciding that if Banichi had invited himself, Banichi could certainly tolerate his informality.
Banichi himself showed up in the study merely in black shirt, boots, and trousers, somewhat more formal, but only just, without a coat, and with his braid dripping wet down his back. “Paidhi-ji,” Banichi said, bowing, and, “Have a drink,” Bren said, since he was indulging, cautiously, in a before-dinner drink from his own stock, which he knew was safe. He did have a flask of Dimagi, which he couldn’t drink without a headache, and eventual more serious effects, very excellent Dimagi, he supposed, since Tabini had given it to him, and he poured a generous glass of that for Banichi.
“Nadi,” Banichi said, taking the glass with a sigh, and invited himself to sit by the fire in the chair angled opposite to his.
“So?” The liquor stung his cut lip. “A man’s dead. Was he the same one who invaded my bedroom?”
“We can’t be sure,” Banichi said.
“No strayed tourist.”
“No tourist at all. Professional. We know who he is.”
“And still no filing?”
“A very disturbing aspect of this business. This man was licensed. He had everything to lose by doing what he did. He’ll be stricken from the rolls, he’ll be denied benefits of the profession, his instructors will be disgraced. These are no small matters.”
“Then I feel sorry for his instructors,” Bren said.
“So do I, nadi. They were mine.”
Dead stop, on that point. Banichi—and this unknown man—had a link of some kind? Fellow students?
“You know him?”
“We met frequently, socially.”
“In Shejidan?”
“A son of distinguished family.” Banichi took a sip and stared into the fire. “Jago is escorting the remains and the report to the Guild.”
Not a good day, Bren decided, having lost all appetite for supper. Banichi regarded him with a flat, dark stare that he couldn’t read—not Banichi’s opinion, nor what obligation Banichi had relative to Tabini versus his Guild or this man, nor where the man’chilay, now.
“I’m very sorry,” was all he could think to say.
“You have a right to retaliate.”
“I don’t want to retaliate. I never wanted this quarrel, Banichi.”
“They have one now.”
“With you?” He grew desperate. His stomach was upset. His teeth ached. Sitting was painful. “Banichi, I don’t want you or Jago hurt. I don’t want anybody killed.”
“But they do, nadi. That’s abundantly clear. A professional agreed with them enough to disregard Guild law—for man’chi, nadi. That’s what we have to trace—to whom was his man’chi? That’s all that could motivate him.”
“And if yours is to Tabini?”
Banichi hesitated in his answer. Then, somberly: “That makes them highly unwise.”
“Can’t we arrest them? They’ve broken the law, Banichi. Don’t we have some recourse to stop this through the courts?”
“That,” Banichi said, “would be very dangerous.”
Because it wouldn’t restrain them. He understood that. It couldn’t legally stop them until there wasa judgment in his favor.
“All they need claim is affront,” Banichi said, “or business interests. And how can you defend anything? No one understands your associations. The court hardly has a means to find them out.”
“And my word is worth nothing? My man’chiis to Tabini, the same as yours. They have to know that.”
“But they don’t know that,” Banichi said. “Even Idon’t know that absolutely, nadi. I know only what you tell me.”
He felt quite cold, quite isolated. And angry. “I’m not a liar. I am nota liar, Banichi. I didn’t contest with the best my people have for fifteen years to come here to lie to you.”
“For fifteen years.”
“To be sent to Shejidan. To have the place I have. To interpret to atevi. I don’t lie, Banichi!”
Banichi looked at him a long, silent moment. “Never? I thought that wasthe paidhl’s job.”
“Not in this.”
“How selective dare we be? When do you lie?”
“Just find out who hired him.”
“No contract could compel his action.”
“What could?”
Banichi didn’t answer that question. Banichi only stared into the fire.
“What could, Banichi?”
“We don’t know a dead man’s thoughts. I could only wish Cenedi weren’t so accurate.”
“Cenedi shot him.” So Cenedi and Ilisidi’s loyalties at least were accounted for. He was relieved.
But Banichi didn’t seem wholly pleased with Cenedi. Or, at least, with the outcome. Banichi took a sip of the drink warming in his hands and never looked away from the fire.
“But you’re worried,” Bren said.
“I emphatically disapprove these delivery vehicles. This is an unwarrantable risk. The tourists at least have a person counting heads.”
“You think that’s how he got in?”
“Very possible.”
“They’re not going to continue the tours. Are they?”
“People have had their reservations for months. They’d be quite unhappy.”
Sometimes he ran straight up against atevi mindset in ways he didn’t understand. Or expect.
“Those people were in danger, Banichi!”
“Not from him or us.”
Finesse. Biichi-ji.
“There were children in that crowd. They saw a man shot.”
Banichi looked at him as if waiting for the concluding statement that would make sense. As if they had totally left the subject.
“It’s not right, Banichi. They thought it was a machimi! They thought it was television!”
“Then they were hardly offended. Were they?”
Before he could follow thatline of reasoning, Djinana and Maigi arrived down the inner hall with the dinner cart.
With a selection of dishes, the seasonal and slices from the leftover joint. Banichi’s eyes brightened at the offering, as they seated themselves in the dining room and the covers came off the dishes. State of mourning or murderous intent, Banichi had no hesitation in loading his plate, and no diminution of appetite.
The cook had provided a selection of prepared fruits, very artistically arranged. That appealed. One could have exempted the prepared head of the unseasonal game as a cap for the stewpot, but Banichi lifted it by the ears and set it delicately aside, gratefully out of view behind the stewpot. Other dead animals stared down from the walls.
“This is excellent,” Banichi said.
Bren poked at the sliced meat. His nerves were jangled. The dining chair hurt. He took up his knife and cut a bite, trying to put ghost stories and assassins out of his mind. He found the first taste excellent, and helped himself to the sliced meat and a good deal of the spicy sauce he enjoyed over the vegetables.