Bren took his briefcase under the cloak and got a firm grip on the cloak edges as his bodyguard talked to someone not present. It was, of course, blowing a gale out there, just for their arrival.
Black-uniformed Guild came out to meet them, themselves getting wet, and with no great desire to linger long, it was sure. The bus doors opened. Banichi and Jago descended first, rifles in hand, and Bren followed, with Tano and Algini at his back. Guild-signs flew one side to the other, indecipherable, generally, as they headed directly for the doors. His aishid was fully armed. Not so the Guild who met them, as he noted. But he was the traveler, so that was allowed.
Like the rain cloak, with its hood. The lord was not supposed to be armed. And he wasn’t—this time.
He kept himself as dry as possible on the way into the building, as contained as possible within the living wall of his bodyguard. Servants were waiting, one to take the dripping cloak, others hastening to mop the water off the marble entry. A lightning flash illumined the foyer from the open door as servants hastened to shut those heavy doors.
Then they stood safe from the wind and the tail end of the thunderclap—just a little clatter of rifles being shifted and the busy noise of mops.
“Welcome, nandi,” the receiving Guild-senior said, dripping water. “Lord Machigi is expecting you.”
It was a few steps up from the entry, through other doors and onto the dry, polished main floor. His bodyguard still shed rain as he walked among them, dry now, and clad in court finery, brocade and lace.
And he was very glad to see the historic hall had not suffered in the recent upheaval. The two great pillars of porcelain sea-creatures towered serene as if nothing had ever happened here.
More uniformed Guild opened the doors between the pillars and let them into the gilt-furnished audience hall. Guildsmen across the room immediately opened the polished burlwood doors on the far side, those to the map room.
That was a good omen. Machigi had chosen the more intimate setting for the meeting.
Bren walked on through. Tano and Algini stayed outside, within the audience hall. Banichi and Jago went with him.
The far walls of the map room were massive gilt-arched windows with a view of the storm, the dark clouds, the rain-battered harbor below the heights. The opposing walls supported huge framed maps, and shelves and pigeonholes were full of map cylinders, many of evident antiquity.
Machigi rose from a chair before the massive windows. Near those windows, Machigi’s personal bodyguard stood in attendance on him, men they knew. Thatwas a great relief to see.
Bren bowed on arriving in that area. Machigi bowed slightly. He was a handsome young man. The scar of an old injury crossed his chin and ran under it. He wore a subdued elegance—dark green brocade and a sufficiency, but not an excess, of lace. By such things, one measured a man and his circumstances. Machigi was a lord. A ruler in an occupied house.
And he did not look delighted.
“So,” Machigi said, doubtless taking Bren’s measure, too, the attitude he struck, the degree of humility—or lack of it—in the bow. “Whose are you thistime, paidhi?”
“In this venture,” Bren said quietly, “I now represent the aiji-dowager.”
Not the aiji. The aiji-dowager. That was perhaps the answer Machigi had hoped to hear. The nod of his head revised suspicion into acceptance, and he waved a hand at the opposite chair, offering Bren a seat, and sat down himself. Bren set his briefcase on the floor and took the chair, a practiced effort that placed him somewhat gracefully in furniture crafted to atevi stature.
“Tea,” Machigi said to the servants, and beyond that, there could only be polite talk, a ritual settling of minds, before serious conversation.
“Your old rooms are prepared, nand’ paidhi,” Machigi said. “One trusts you came with luggage.”
“One did not presume to bring it in from the bus without direction, nandi, but it is ready.”
“Have it brought to the rooms,” Machigi said, and Bren said, quietly, “Nadiin-ji.”
Banichi, in the edge of his vision, nodded, and it was a certainty it would be done.
“You will share dinner tonight, of course,” Machigi added. “One rejoices to see you fully recovered, nandi.”
“Indeed,” Bren said. “And the same, nandi, one rejoices to see you safely recovered, as well.”
“As fully recovered as we may be, with a foreign occupation in our streets.” That verged uncomfortably on business, before tea was done. “And how does Najida fare?”
“In less happy state than this house,” he said, “but repairs are in progress.”
“And Kajiminda?”
“Has its porch now restored and is busy inventorying its collections.” A sip of tea, a slight shift of topics. “One is certain Lord Geigi’s nephew sold certain things.”
A shift Lord Machigi declined, with: “And Lord Geigi himself? How does he fare?”
That was no easy interface: Geigi and the Taisigin Marid were old allies turned enemies, now turned allies again.
“Well. Quite well, nandi.”
“And does he approve your venture here?”
“He needs not, but in fact he views it quite favorably, nandi. He has, one assures you, no wish to continue hostilities which were largely fomented by others.”
The fact that Machigi had actually been in charge of the agents who had fatally poisoned Geigi’s sister—it was questionable, since those agents had betrayed Machigi, as to which authority had ordered it. It was one of those sorts of questions which, for the peace, had to be set aside, no matter Lord Geigi’s personal feelings. Or Machigi’s innocence, or lack of it.
Thank God tea was about to be served.
The servants had brought a tray, offering a beautiful tea service of the historic, irreplaceable blue porcelain. Courtesy dictated silence while tea was poured and served, and Bren received the atevi-sized cup in both hands, finding the warmth comforting after the rainchill and a conversation that had veered toward a dangerous, dangerous edge.
“One is extremely honored,” he said. “One is honored even to seethis beautiful service.”
Machigi saluted him with his cup and took a sip, as Bren did, from a porcelain that could no longer be made. “One was glad to find it intact,” Machigi said, in the former vein, and then, in wry irony, as lightning from the windows cast everything in white, “Lovely weather for a visit, is it not? Do we take it for an omen?”
“Spring in the west,” Bren said with calculated lightness. “But one enjoys the storms.”
“And did you seriously propose to take the bus back to Najida tonight in such weather? One would hope not.”
“Worse,” Bren said, “my destination is the airport, and one would be glad to have better weather.”
“You will go to Shejidan? Or Malguri?”
“Indeed, Shejidan. For the legislative session. One hopes the weather will have blown past by tomorrow and that we will not be delayed by weather.”
“You mean to leave from Separti?”
“No, no, once we are on the road, we will call for the plane, and it should be there long before we are. We shall be in Shejidan faster by small plane than going from Separti. It is enough.”
Sip of tea. “Then one wonders the more at your determination to visit today, in a deluge.”
“The legislative session, nandi. Not to mention our own business. And the necessity to move residence. I shall have my old apartment back this session. They inform me it is ready.”