“It is sworn safe, nandi,” Tano said, on best formal behavior.
Bren took a sip, in a momentary lull in the proceedings.
“The Bujavid guards,” Jago said quietly, leaning her hand on the table on Bren’s other side, “have sent Lord Komaji downtown by way of the train and the aiji’s car, and they are at his hotel. Tabini-aiji has ordered him and his entourage to leave the capital. With Damiri-daja’s former staff.”
God. “Damiri-daja.”
“Is still in residence,” Jago said.
That was a relief. And a development. A serious one.
But it was nothing to discuss where they were.
It was nothing to discuss during the long social that followed, a session in a back room of the lower floor, with the dowager, with Machigi, with Geigi, Tatiseigi, Dur elder and younger, and involving more specifics on the first steps in the new agreement, shared over a glass or two of brandy.
It was a happy occasion. It was optimistic.
And the event was of far greater moment than a frustrated power seeker headed for an unwilling train ride to a minor clan holding in the North.
Damiri had stayed by Tabini, rejected her Ajuri staff, swung over to her Atageini heritage—which her father had never favored.
One understood why a contract marriage was a dangerous undertaking in an ateva’s life, and why a lasting marriage was among the greatest. So much changed, over a lifetime.
So much had changed. And the year was still young.
Bren sipped his drink, set it down, and listened to Lord Geigi and Lord Machigi discussing the southern climate and fruit trees.
So very much had changed.