“We shall at least stretch our enemies’ resources thin,” Tano said, “and of all things, Lord Tatiseigi receiving these young guests is an idea most will not readily believe.”
What the news services might note was the red car, once it moved out of the Bujavid.
That would attract attention.
And the Transportation Guild that managed the rails was far from leakproof.
The general flurry of conflicting reports, however, was likely to be livelier than the actual event. If they reported the car moving toward Tirnamardi, well, was it the diversion?
Or was the dowager going to Tatiseigi’s ancestral enemy, their neighbor in the west, Taiben? That was Tabini’s home district, the old Ragi stronghold, deep in forest and extremely difficult for any outsider to penetrate. It was historically the place where the aijiin in Shejidan went for safety, in times of crisis. It had existed in at least a nominal state of war, never having signed a treaty with the rest of the Padi Valley.
Likeliest spot on the continent for secret goings‑on, or high security.
Of course, the thinkers among the theorists would say. The rest was a ruse. It was Taiben.
Wrong again.
Though Taiben was involved.
The dowager asked, and Tatiseigi agreed, not only because the dowager asked–but because the stakes were now, for him, the ultimate.
Tatiseigi had no heir.
Except Damiri, and her son, and her soon‑to‑be‑born daughter.
The children were, through their mother, Atageini and Ajuri. And Ajuri was in extreme disfavor.
Lord Tatiseigi had absolutely no difficulties seeing the possibilities in that situation.
Finally make peace with the Taibeni, the other clan closely related to the aiji and to those children? Oh, yes. It hadn’t been politic for any lord of the Atageini to do it for two hundred years, through various administrations in Shejidan, and even though the Atageini were intermittently at war with the other powerful clan in the Padi Valley.
But since the incident that had barred Ajuri from the capital, Lord Tatiseigi discovered himself willing to settle an old territorial claim, and thus the ancient feud, in Taiben’s favor. Correspondence flowed. There was, mediated by the dowager and Tabini, a positive effusion of good will.
He began to realize that the man who had a reputation for living in the last century could do whatever it took in this one, whether that meant sitting right next to the Kadagidi during the coup and the Troubles, while maintaining his reputation of being no threat at all, standing with Ilisidi on the tribal bill–or hosting human children at a birthday party.
He definitely had a new perspective on the man . . . and knew why Ilisidi favored him.
· · ·
Supper, with Cajeiri, who was for once short of appetite, was one question after another, accompanied by what neither of them quite acknowledged: the constant coming and going in the hall, and at the front door.
Baggage was being readied.
And there was the matter of Boji. Of all conspicuous things to try to slip past the news services–
Tano was working on that one.
“One knows you very much wish Boji to go,” Bren said, when they were having the brandy hour–a little soothing tea for Cajeiri, and a stiff brandy for Bren. “Please hear me on this. Getting him to the red car poses a difficulty and could attract attention. We have spoken with your servants. They have agreed to ride in baggage and take good care of him. You understand. Security.”
Cajeiri had opened his mouth to argue. And shut it. “One understands, nandi.”
“I think you will owe your two servants a night out in Shejidan when all this is done. They are very good young men.” It was true. They were Tabini’s own staff, and very conscious of their prospects in having seniority in the heir’s new household.
“I shall, nandi.”
“They will see that Boji rides comfortably, and they will see, too, that he stays quiet in your great‑uncle’s house. Understand, your great‑uncle is trying very hard to make you happy, but he is not at all used to young people, and has seen very few humans in his whole life.”
“One understands, nandi.”
“Well, well,” he said, “best you retire early. We are going to be up before dawn, and you will want to wear, one believes, fairly casual clothing, for comfort on the trip. We shall have breakfast here, in the apartment, lunch on the train, and a snack in mid‑afternoon, after we have picked up your young associates.”
“One is excited, nand’ Bren. One is very excited.”
“I know. Do try to sleep. You need to be at your best tomorrow, not short of temper, not falling asleep on the train.”
“Oh, I never shall!”
“Then off to bed with you,” Bren said. “And think of good things.”
Cajeiri put down his teacup. And gave a very deep bow, and another at the door, as he was leaving.
It was one very happy, very excited boy, and it was not very likely that he would sleep that well tonight, and probably not that well the night after. They were kids. And they had all had a lot of adult anxieties riding on their very young shoulders.
A habitual offender with station security, a girl whose mother had political forces nudging at her–and two about whom he had heard absolutely no complaints. One wondered how they had fared up on the station, given the politics that swirled around the visit.
Narani appeared, silent, in the doorway. “Your aishid is in conference, nandi. Will there be any other need this evening, or shall I call your valets?”
“Call them, Rani‑ji.” And on an afterthought: “There would not be any package arrived in all this confusion, from Mospheira.”
“No,” Narani said. “No, nandi. I am quite sure of it.”
He sighed, thinking of the boots. But he did not intend to end this visit hiking cross‑country through gunfire.
· · ·
Breakfast–and Cajeiri seemed a little wilted. The boy had probably not slept a wink. But with strong tea, sugared juice, and a sweet roll, spirits began to rise.
Bren just had nut‑buttered toast and salt fish, figuring substance would serve better than sugar, but he took two cups of strong tea, letting staff hurry about doing those things staff did best, and most of all staying out of the way, and letting his bodyguard instruct Cajeiri’s servants, and especially his bodyguard. The car would be secure, he had word–gone over and all monitoring disconnected–discretion on this trip would not be on the shoulders of a boy not yet nine. The aiji’s staff would have no report, and no record, of what was said.
“When we go down to the train, young gentleman,” Bren said, and got sharp attention from the other side of the table, “should we run into any difficulty, and one has the news services in mind–do not speak a word. We believe we shall evade them entirely. If there should be any other kind of trouble, do not give a second thought to your great‑grandmother or anyone else. Obey your bodyguards.” A thought struck him. “You have the slingshota.”
Cajeiri nodded and moved a hand to his pocket.
“One does not object to your carrying it,” Bren said–he wore the detested vest, and had his gun in his own pocket. “But do not attempt to use it should there be a crisis. Do not think of your guests, either. We cannot teach them what we know, and we cannot argue. Just let your bodyguard protect you. Are we agreed, young gentleman? Do you understand? We do not think it might happen. But we can never act as if it could not. Be safe. You are important.”