So out they went, himself, his guests, his two valets, out and down the hall to the sitting room, falling in behind Madam Saidin.
The sitting room door was open. A tall, thin man, the tailor, by his moderately more elegant dress, presided over a changed sitting room—with sample books, piles of folded clothes on several chairs; and two assistants, one male, one female, with notebooks and other such things as tailors used. There was even a sewing machine set up on its own little stand, which usually came only at a final fitting.
“Master Kusha, young gentleman,” Madam Saidin said, and there were bows and courtesies—no tea. One never asked a tailor or a tutor to take tea.
“Nadi,” Cajeiri said, with a proper nod. “One is grateful. Thank you.”
“Honored, young gentleman, and very pleased to serve—one understands these excellent young guests and yourself have arrived without baggage, some misfortune in transport? But the major domo at the lord’s estate has relayed the numbers, and we have brought a selection of the highest quality, which we can readily adjust for general wardrobe; and we shall, of course with your permission, take our own measurements for court dress. One never has too extensive a wardrobe, and we are honored to provide for yourself, and your guests.”
Master Kusha had a long and somewhat sorrowful face, and he was not young. Rather like many of Great-uncle’s staff, he was an old man, but likely, too, he was a very good tailor.
“We shall ask your guests to try on these for fit. We shall make just a few little changes—understand, nandi, simplicity, simplicity of design that needs the slightest touch of sophisticated alteration, a tuck here, a little velvet, and lace: floods of lace can make all the difference. One will be amazed, nandi, one will be amazed at the transformation we can work in these on short notice. Let us show what we can do.” He waved his hand, and the assistants swept up the stacks on the chairs, ready-made clothes, coats and shirts apt for Gene, who was broad-shouldered and strong and tall, and for Artur, whose arms were almost Irene’s size around; and clothes for Irene, who was tiny and the oldest at once.
“Put these on, young gentlemen and lady,” Master Kusha said, “and then we shall do alterations, and I shall get my numbers for court dress, the very finest for all—will they understand at all, nandi?”
“Put them on, nadiin-ji,” Cajeiri said, with a little wave of his hand. “Try. This all is yours.”
They were not happy at that. Not at all. He saw it.
“Something wrong?” he asked in ship-speak.
“Talk,” Gene said, setting down his stack of clothes. “A moment. Talk. Please.”
He was puzzled. Distressed. He gave a nod to Master Kusha, another to Madam Saidin. “A moment, nadiin,” he said. “Translation. One needs to translate for them.”
“Young gentleman,” Madam Saidin said, and quietly signed to Master Kusha to step back.
So they were left as alone as they could arrange. And something was direly wrong.
He should, he thought, call for tea. If he were his father.
Or if they were atevi.
But neither thing was true. So he just drew them over to the farthest side of the room, and turned his back to Madam Saidin and Master Kusha and all of it, trying to muster up his ship-speak, which had gotten a little thinner than it had once been . . . that, or human words were not as suited to things on the Earth, and were just not as clear to him as they had been.
· · ·
It always took a while for the lord of most of the world to do anything simple, what with staff to advise of his movements and arrangements to make. If Cenedi had blazed over here, leaving a conference with Tabini, it might have been Cenedi’s briefing Tabini on the Padi Valley business yesterday that had prompted the personal visit—but given the dowager’s notions of invading the Guild herself, it was much more likely this evening’s business under discussion.
This evening’s business—and maybe the document he had requested.
One did guess that if Tabini was coming here to discuss whatever matter Tabini wished to discuss, Tabini had certain specifics he didn’t want to discuss in his own quarters—quarters which he shared with his wife, Cajeiri’s mother, whose clan, Ajuri, was deeply at issue in the Padi Valley action—not to mention directly involved in their upcoming business with the Assassins’ Guild.
God, he hoped Tabini had found no reason to doubt the aiji-consort at this point. Tabini had maintained his association with Damiri when common sense might have dictated he divorce his wife as a political and security-based precaution—an action which, with Damiri no more than a week from giving birth, had its own problems. Tabini couldn’t divorce Damiri at this point. He surely wouldn’t set up a conflict with her.
Tabini had thrown out all Damiri’s staff a number of days ago, so that now all the senior security in Tabini’s apartment were the dowager’s people . . . hence the dowager’s very good grasp of what was going on in the world.
Discuss the imminent assassination of a Guild officer who happened to be Damiri’s relative?
He’d personally rather not have that discussion in Damiri’s hearing, either.
And probably that was exactly Tabini’s reasoning in coming here to talk. He hoped that was all that was going on . . . but there were ungodly many possibilities in the political landscape.
Tano and Algini arrived in the sitting room, with Banichi and Jago following. Banichi was not moving briskly today, and Banichi would not keep the arm rigidly bandaged. The hand stayed tucked inside the jacket. Bren just acknowledged Banichi with a particular nod—not arguing with him, not with life and death matters afoot.
There were, thankfully almost immediately, the quiet set of sounds that heralded an arrival at the front door. Not one man, but maybe two or three, Bren thought, by what he heard. So Tabini had not brought his full security detail with him, maybe not even his own aishid—unprecedented as the visit itself, if that was the case.
Servants hurried about last-moment preparations. Narani opened the door, showing Tabini into the sitting room with Cenedi, and with Cenedi’s frequent partner Nawari in attendance, not on the aiji-dowager, but on Tabini. Again—that had never happened.
Protocol dictated the paidhi rise, bow, offer a seat.
“Aiji-ma. One is honored.”
“Sit,” Tabini said, with an all-inclusive sweep of his hand—Bren, Cenedi, Nawari, Bren’s own bodyguard, everybody but the servants. It was an order, and Tabini was deadly serious.
“Tea,” Tabini said. Nothing of business was appropriate until they had had a cup, ritually delivered; and moods like Tabini’s current one were precisely the reason for the custom.
· · ·
“Nadiin-ji?” Cajeiri said, and made it a question. His guests looked very uncomfortable.
“I told you,” Irene whispered to Gene and Artur. “We just have to do things. Don’t make a problem.”
Gene and Artur did not even look at her. Or at him. Gene just drew a heavy breath.
“What?” Cajeiri asked. “What?”
But Gene and Artur said nothing, and still looked at the floor.
They were upset. That was clear. And it seemed to be about the clothes. “Children’s clothes look bad?” he asked. It was all that would fit them. “Master Kusha makes them right.”