Mother was his father’s deepest problem. He knew things had not gotten better. And he had the feeling that his father was taking fire for him on the matter of his guests. He did not know how to say that in words.
“Shall I go tell her about them coming early, honored Father? And about me going to Great‑grandmother?” he asked. “I think she should know it before the servants happen to mention it.”
His father thought about it a moment with that look he used deciding serious, serious things. Then he nodded. “Go, son of mine. If you have learned anything of nand’ Bren’s art, use it.”
“Yes,” he said respectfully, and bowed, and left, back out into the hallway, where his aishid waited.
“I am to see my mother, nadiin‑ji,” he said, feeling all the while he was not going to have any good reception, and walked down the hall as far as his mother’s door.
His mother did not like surprises. And he knew for certain that his great‑grandmother having his birthday was the kind of thing that would have his mother and his father shouting at each other, the sort of thing that just tied his stomach in knots and scared the servants into whispers.
But he had said it: it would be far worse if his mother was surprised by a servant talking about plans she had no idea about. He gave a tug at his shirt cuffs and at the lace at his collar, took a deep breath and had Antaro knock before he tried the door–it was unlocked–and just went on in.
His mother’s suite, with that beautiful row of windows, and white lace curtains, and the crib where the baby would sleep, seemed an unhappy, lonely place at the moment.
It was one of Cook’s staff who came out to see who had come into in the nursery. That woman, and two of the girls who ordinarily washed the dishes and did sewing, were the only staff his mother had at the moment. His mother was not happy about it, and by their habitual faces, neither were the girls.
“Young gentleman,” the woman said.
“Please tell my mother I am here,” he said in as matter‑of‑fact a tone as he could manage, and waited to be let into his mother’s sitting room.
The door opened wide to admit him. His mother, wearing a pretty white lace gown, was sitting, reading by the light of a flower‑shaped lamp. She folded the book, and looked at him, expressionless as if he were some servant on business.
He bowed. “One wished to tell you without delay, honored Mother. The shuttle schedule is changed. My associates are coming down early, three of them. One is not certain how much early, but very soon.”
“Indeed.”
“One knows you are not happy to have my guests here. Father says I am to go to Great‑grandmother and let her and nand’ Bren take care of things and not be a bother to you.” The last part was his invention, which he thought was a good thing to say.
“Sit down,” his mother said, with no hint of expression, and he found a seat on her footstool, and sat quietly. “Are you pleased with this arrangement, son of mine?”
“Yes, honored Mother.” He sat on the very edge of the footstool. Mother was not as good as Great‑grandmother about leading one into traps, but one had to be very wary. Great‑grandmother just thumped his ear when she was angry. But his mother went on being mad for hours. Days. He really had rather Great‑grandmother.
“You think your great‑grandmother will be more patient than I am?”
That was a trap. “I think Great‑grandmother is not having headaches.”
“One supposes the paidhi will be involved.”
“One thinks, yes.”
His mother frowned. “Could you ever even talk to these people, son of mine? How do you speak to them?”
She had never asked him that. He did not want to admit he was fairly good at ship‑speak, though he supposed she was going to find out. “We use signs. They know a little Ragi. I know a little ship‑speak.”
“You know it was illegal for them even to speak to you not so many years ago. It was illegal for them to know Ragi at all. And very illegal to speak it.”
He was amazed. “Why?”
She laughed, shortly and not very happily. And he had no idea why. “You are still young. Ask nand’ Bren someday. He can tell you.”
“I am almost felicitous nine. And I shall be much smarter and not get into trouble this next year.”
“Do you promise?” She reached out and he steadied himself, not to flinch. He had a stray wisp of hair that never grew long enough to go back. She smoothed it back even if it did no good. “I hope your sister’s hair grows to an even length.”
“I put a little goo on it.”
A laugh. Actually a laugh. “I know you do. I am glad you have two servants now.”
He wanted to say, One is very sorry about yours, but he did not want to get his mother off onto that topic. A little silence hung in the air, uncomfortably so.
“So,” she said. “Your great‑grandmother will house these foreign children. That should be interesting, amid her antiques. And her staff will plan the events.”
He saw where this was going. Right then. The piece of hair had fallen down again. He felt it. And his mother reached a second time and put it in order.
“What did you do on your last felicitous year, son of mine? How did you celebrate, aboard the ship?”
“I do not remember that I did at all,” he said, and that was the truth. “Time on the ship gets confused.”
“Your great‑grandmother forgot your birthday?”
“Sometimes the ship does strange things. And you lose days. Day is only when the clock says, anyway.”
“So you have had no festivity since your fifth. Do you remember that one?”
“No, honored Mother.”
“We had a very nice party. Flowers. Toys. Very many toys.”
He shook his head. He had a good memory, but sometimes he thought his life had begun with the ship. The memories from years before it were patchy, tied to places he had never been. They told him about his riding a mecheita across wet concrete at Uncle Tatiseigi’s place. And he almost could remember that. At least he had pictures in his head about it, but he could not remember much about the house the way it had been then–only the house when they had all been there, with shells falling on the meadow around it. Most of his memories were like that. They were things that had happened, but he had no recollection of where and nothing to pin them to. It seemed they had been on the train once. He remembered the train. He remembered woods that might have been Taiben on a different trip than when he had met Antaro and Jegari. But he had no idea.
“What would you like for your birthday?” his mother asked him. “Is there any gift you would like?”
He was beyond toys, really. Most of what he liked were books. And he wished he could get the human archive back. There were his memories, of horses, and dinosaurs, and humans, all of which would appall his mother.
So he thought of something that would not come in a box. But he did want it. “I want you and Father to be there.”
“Son of mine.” His mother sat looking at him, and did not finish that.
“I wish you and Great‑grandmother would not fight.”
“Try wishing that of her.”
He knew nothing to say, to that, because mani was mani and that would never change.
“Well,” his mother said, “you shall have your party here, in the Bujavid. In our sitting room. Your great‑grandmother may come. I shall invite her. And the paidhi‑aiji. Are there others?”
“My tutor.”
“Not the Calrunaidi girl.”
“My cousin. She would not know anyone. Everybody will mostly be adults. And she could not talk to my guests. And besides, I really do not know her.”
She nodded, not disapproving that information. “Well. A very modest request.”
“I have everything I need. I have my aishid. I have a good tutor. I have my own rooms. I have Boji.”