Bindanda turned up after supper, when Bren was leaving the dining room, in a moment when no other staff were near—a stout man, their very excellent cook, and possessed of a number of less evident skills.
“One hears you are going up to the station, nandi. That you may need me to go with you. One would be honored if that were the case.”
“The kyo have come calling, Danda-ji. They will be here, shortly. That is the matter at hand.”
“Indeed,” Bindanda said with the lift of a brow and a very sober nod. “Then one is doubly resolved to go with you, nandi.”
“We are leaving in as much secrecy as we can manage.”
“I shall bring everything I need.”
He had to smile. “Your teacakes are an irreplaceable asset, Danda-ji. Official word remains that I am going to Najida to meet my brother, who has come into Najida’s harbor to repair his boat. That is the story for everyone outside this apartment.”
“Yes,” Bindanda said. Rock solid in every good sense, Bindanda was. In point of fact, he was covert Guild—not an uncommon double role in those heading the kitchens of great houses. Bindanda had been in Tatiseigi’s house, serving Tabini, and now served in his—surely a spy from Tatiseigi—or Tabini keeping an eye on Tatiseigi before Tatiseigi had lent Bindanda to him; but Bren had never been so indelicate as to ask anyone which, and if his aishid knew, they had never said.
The mission was shaping up to be for his household, himself, and four plain-clothes Guild in addition to his aishid, covert Guild who might not be up to date on weapons-practice, but who weren’t going to have the naпvetй of Najida-born servants, either. The arrangement would protect his household in a major way.
But he hoped that problems up there never escalated to that point.
· · ·
“We have a conclusive selection from the Guild,” Jago said that night, in the dark, when she came late to bed, “of the persons they will send up to the station.”
One feared the news he was about to receive might not be conducive to sleep. Bren waited as Jago settled into bed and laid her head on the pillow.
“The Guild has designated a unit of four. Guild-senior is Ruheso. Her partner is Deno. They are senior, long service in many difficult areas. Their partners are Hanidi and Sisui, two brothers-of-different-mothers, from the west coast, a little younger but they have been together for many years. They have no man’chi outside the Guild. They served well in great hardship during the Troubles, and Banichi knows Deno personally. His word is that the Guild is not sending fools up there. We can rely on them.”
“Then one is glad to hear. Reasonable people. I can sleep, then.”
“Do you want to sleep?” Jago asked, winding a strand of his hair around her finger.
“Not yet,” he said.
They did sleep, after a time, in each other’s arms.
The house didn’t rest. From time to time, the noise of someone awake somewhere intruded into the bedroom—waked Jago first, certainly, since she was awake whenever a sound waked Bren.
Night staff. Usually there were only the laundry staff awake—but laundry had been going on all day, and now packing was in progress. Staff had nearly emptied the closets this evening.
If there was anything he was going to need on the station that Narani might not think to pack, that would be his problem to think of—because earth to orbit was not like running downtown. They took everything they could possibly need: uncompressed clothing, unlike some of the loads the shuttles carried, was low mass. They brought foodstuffs, and a few gifts for staff; but those were no problem.
So there he was, lying beside Jago, staring at the dark ceiling of the bedroom in the stillness after a small sound from the foyer, thinking and thinking and worrying over details—like needing to advise Geigi about the team from Headquarters, which he had hoped not to be doing in the small hours of the morning. But if he wanted to talk to Geigi before Geigi went to bed, he had to get up early.
Then he heard the front door of the apartment open, and Jago stirred just slightly, enough for him to know she had heard it.
“It may be a courier,” he said.
Jago reached for something, and did not get up. He began to, and found his robe as Jago, in the dark, talked to someone in numbers.
“It is a courier,” she said. “From Najida.”
He belted the robe and heard Jago slide out of bed on the other side. He had no desire for sleep now. He felt the slight raw edge of nerves from an already restless night and he sincerely hoped nothing involving his brother or the mainland had gone wrong. He waited a moment for Jago to find her own robe; and before they could go out, he heard a gentle rap at the door.
Jago turned on the lights just as Jeladi opened the door. Lights were dimmed out in the hall, ordinary for nighttime. But the offering of a message bowl was certainly not ordinary, in the bedroom, and at this hour. It held one cylinder, which proved to have Najida’s blue band.
“Ramaso-nadi sent Sindi and Tocari with the message, nandi,” Jeladi said. “Ramaso told them nothing, except not to delay about it, and not to respect the hour.”
“Indeed. Hospitality of the house for them, Ladi-ji.” He was anxious to read the letter, too anxious to go to the office for its useful tools. He uncapped the cylinder, sat down on the edge of the bed in his nightrobe, and with a practiced snap of his wrist and a little tug, extracted the letter.
It was in Mosphei’, in Toby’s casual hand, which, they had joked, only a brother could read. There was no extensive message—just a few lines.
Called home about Aunt Margaret. Explained everything about Uncle T’s behavior. Papa says he absolutely agrees. He and I talked. He’s working on the problem.
Bravo, Toby. Bravo. And thank God.
So word had gotten to the Presidenta. To Shawn Tyers. And Shawn now knew what was going on up on the station and understood that getting rid of Tillington was now beyond urgent. It was a sudden flood of good news.
But could he go back to sleep after that?
Not likely.
“The message went through,” he translated for Jago. “The Presidenta has gotten my message about the kyo. He is either going to send someone to manage Tillington, or outright replace him, and I hope for the latter.” He felt superstitious even about saying it. “All good news, so far.”
· · ·
It was, a check of his watch proved, an hour before dawn. So, perched on a counter edge in the security station, he had tea and cakes with his aishid, where no protocols held and business was always allowable.
His aishid, having their own breakfasts, sat at their various consoles, chairs more or less facing him.
“I am confident,” he told them, “that we will be rid of Tillington as a problem as soon as a shuttle can get there. A few days with him, we can manage. One hopes.”
“The Presidenta will deal with him,” Algini said. “And will this effort weaken the Presidenta?”
Leave it to Algini to think that thought. “Possibly. The Presidenta has been keeping very quiet about the situation, but one does not believe Tillington will be silent once he gets back to Earth. He will find those to listen to his complaints. But we hope they will be few in number.”
“Heritage Party,” Banichi said. Human words rarely passed Banichi’s lips. But these two words they all knew.
“Indeed. I fear the Heritage Party will seek Tillington’s acquaintance very quickly once he does set foot on Mospheira. But I think the Presidenta can deal with them.”
There were still frowns. Man’chi was an emotional word. It ran in many directions, and there was a chemistry about it, the same as in humans’ associations: at times that word translated. But some human actions remained a complete mystery to them. He doubted even his closest associates really understood Mospheirans’ continuing anger toward the old colonial management. Despite everything the aishidi’tat had been through with the Assassins’ Guild, there had never been a time at which atevi had even conceptualized class warfare. It was all clan advantage.