“Yes,” he said. One always had to say yes to Father. But he did understand. Business was business when things got scary, and things could get really scary with the kyo. He was older, now, and he knew that in ways he had never understood when he was meeting the kyo the first time. It was amazing how much older he had gotten, in just two years. He did know what could go wrong, and it was terribly scary.
But he was going to be with mani, and nand’ Bren, and they would settle things.
And then maybe he would get to see Gene and Artur and Irene.
“You also know,” Father added, “that your mother is not happy about your going up there.”
“Yes,” he said. “I know. But I was there, honored Father. I can talk to the kyo. I was the first one who really did.”
“So one understands. One does not easily imagine it, but it seems nand’ Bren believes you have a useful and pacifying influence, and he advised us a year ago that should this day come, he would call on you, and on your great-grandmother. Your association with this foreign person may put you in some danger, and as much experience as I have had of negotiations with difficult people, I cannot imagine what these people want that will agree with us. Please do exactly as nand’ Bren instructs you to do. Do not draw nand’ Bren or your great-grandmother from their jobs. Do not distract them with requests for personal favors. Smile, bow, be pleasant to this individual you know, assuming he will be aboard. But do not be pert with this stranger. Do not assume you know anything at all without talking to nand’ Bren. And do not under any circumstances leave the area of the station or the ship where you are supposed to be.”
He had gotten in trouble on that score. More than once. “I am older, honored Father. I shall be very careful. And I shall obey mani and obey nand’ Bren. Absolutely, I shall.”
“These visitors overwhelmed and destroyed Reunion Station. The humans there could not stop them.”
“I know, honored Father. But nand’ Bren can talk to them. And I can. And if it is dangerous, so are places I have been, and I learn, honored Father. I have learned from everything since we came back. Even nand’ Bren’s bodyguard trusts me.”
His father nodded slowly. After a moment he said: “You have indeed learned. I am proud of my son.”
Cajeiri drew in a breath. A deep one, and bowed his head, not knowing what to say, except, “Thank you, honored Father.”
“You must not tell anyone what is going on. Not even your servants. Your aishid may know about the kyo and about going up there but they are to tell no one else, even on my staff. The very fact that these foreigners have arrived is secret. Your leaving will be secret. Nand’ Bren has called your great-grandmother back to Shejidan, but the reason is secret. He is arranging transport, but only the people who are involved in the planning are being told at this point. Do you understand all this? Can you keep it secret?”
“Yes, honored Father. I can.”
“Just so. You will naturally take your aishid with you. The seating on the shuttle is very limited and your great-grandmother and nand’ Bren will necessarily have a large bodyguard and staff all of whom have bearing on this matter. I only insist you take your aishid. If you can take your valets, that might relieve the duties of other staff who will be attending your great-grandmother and nand’ Bren. But that may not be possible: you will have to ask nand’ Bren how many seats you are allowed and with whom you will be staying once you are up there. Understand, you must make yourself and your comfort the very last consideration, where it comes to staff.”
“Yes, honored Father,” he said.
He suddenly thought of Boji. Boji was a silly creature. But Boji depended on him for everything. He had no trouble at all figuring how much trouble Boji could be with no gravity in the shuttle, and with all that racket, and goings-on—and getting loose on the station—
No. Boji had no place up there. Certainly not on the station. It would smell strange. Boji would not be happy.
“Eisi and Liedi could stay here and take care of Boji,” he said. “I know how to take care of myself, mostly. Except the laundry. And my aishid can help.”
“I assure you—Boji will be safe and cared for here. And we shall not let him escape or annoy your mother.”
He felt embarrassed. “He is such a silly creature,” he said. “And he wants his eggs, and he misbehaves if he has to wait, and that is when he bothers Mother. So he is very much better if someone can talk to him during the day and brush him and see he has his eggs.”
“Indeed,” his father said solemnly. Father was such an important man, and Boji was so small and silly he was embarrassed to be talking about Boji as any consideration at all in his father’s business. But Father was also far more patient with silly things than Mother was. “Rely on us,” Father said. “Boji will have his eggs on a silver plate if he needs them. Free your mind of him.”
“Yes, honored Father,” he said quietly.
“Good. I already have broken the news of this trip to your mother. You may understand she is upset. One would recommend you go see her. You may choose your time. But let me tell you something you may not have observed: your mother is as touchy about her prerogatives as your great-grandmother is. Do not just agree with her. And do not delay telling her. Understand and pay attention. She finds herself in a difficult situation in your going.”
“She is jealous of great-grandmother.”
“She is rightfully jealous.”
It is not rightful, he thought. He held himself from saying that, but he realized he had let his expression slip.
“Son of mine, you left her. It was not your fault and it was not your great-grandmother’s, but it certainly was not hers. I sent you away.”
“You had to,” he said.
“Indeed. You were in danger. You were inquisitive, you were elusive even at that age, and you were a vulnerability someone could exploit. I could have sent you to Malguri—indeed, I considered it. But your great-grandmother chose to go up to the station. She could keep you safe. And as it turned out—none too soon.”
“One has thought, honored Father, if you had been taking care of me, you and Mother might not have gotten away.”
His father had a grim look, a very grim look—and nodded. “Very likely not. And during the years we were in hiding, it was often enough worse. We were in places, your mother and I, where a small boy could not have kept up, or climbed, or fared well in the cold. Understand, son of mine, at times your mother feared the ship was lost and you were dead. And at the worst times, she still held out hope that if we both were lost, you would grow up and come back and set things right. But all of it was hard. Every day was hard. She never let you go. And of course once you did come back, you had attached to your great-grandmother. You were that age. Your mind was waking. And neither you nor we can reach back and change that. No more can your great-grandmother mend you by unraveling what that time caused to happen. Nor—likely—would she. Man’chi goes both ways, son of mine. So nothing can change what happened, and your mother and I are not children. We understood what we were doing when we sent you, and when your great-grandmother made the decision to go out on the human ship—we knew what she was doing. But things were less and less stable on the Earth. I felt—and this is difficult, son of mine. I felt that the world was changing. That I had let something loose that was changing the world, and I knew no better answer—for you—than to put you into the tutelage of the woman who taught me, the woman who twice ruled the aishidi’tat—and who remembers more of how things came to be than most still alive. I knew that you would see foreign things your mother and I would never understand. I knew you would not be ours when you came back, I knew, and I gave you to her. But give your mother what honor you can, son of mine.”