Destroyer (38 page)

And if Tatiseigi had made one mistake—who knew but what the Kadigidi might have other allies under this roof at the moment? It was perfectly reasonable for the neighboring Kadigidi to try to infiltrate, and it was perfectly possible for them to have done it for centuries, all with a view to maneuvering the Atageini politically or gaining useful information at critical junctures. It went on all the time, to various degrees. It was simply the atevi way of coexisting with the neighbors and knowing what they were doing—usually not across so bitter a dividing line as Kadigidi and Atageini, but spies did get in, spies got caught, feuds sprang up and died down over time. The Atageini might be doing exactly the same thing over in Kadigidi territory. And, God, if he went on, he would be suspecting Ilisidi herself of fomenting the coup, which was utterly unlikely . . . nothing that would ever put Murini in power.

One could say the same, actually, about her ever putting Tatiseigi in power, when he thought of it that way.

And he, meanwhile, had to go to breakfast with the old scoundrel.

“We had better go,” he said, taking a last look in the mirror.

“We shall watch the room, Bren-ji,” Tano said.

“Should anything happen—”

Banichi cleared his throat and made several rapid handsigns. One of them, Bren knew, meant the team should go fast, probably in prearranged directions, with prearranged priorities. It was not the paidhi’s business to ask.

Tatiseigi was his problem.

So down the hall they went, down the stairs, and to the lower-level balcony, where an Atageini servant directed them to a right turn, down through a dining room. The double doors at the end of the room were open, and Ilisidi and Tatiseigi were already at breakfast out there, with suitable attendance of bodyguards lined up formally along the end of the dining room . . . including, one could not but notice, young Antaro, meaning that Cajeiri was at breakfast, meaning that the younger set had, just like their elders, prudently seen to room security, one of them remaining behind to keep the premises secure . . . and meaning that uncle Tatiseigi was probably annoyed as hell.

Not fools, the two Taibeni youngsters, Bren said to himself. He approved, though he worried about youngsters who might think they could take action in crisis, and who might get themselves in the way of Guild action, trammeling up his bodyguard and Ilisidi’s, who did know what they were doing.

But—in the light of his thoughts of the morning—might one think that uncle Tatiseigi had reasons to think
spies?

He walked out the double doors, onto a terrace under morning sun, a painted railing of—what else?— wrought-brass lilies, and a beautifully laid table, with a large bouquet of seasonal flowers, mostly mauve, with sprigs of evergreen, three in number, which said a wealth of things, if the paidhi had the skill to unravel it—he almost did, if he had had one more level of his brain to spare for wondering. Their host was there, Ilisidi, and Cajeiri, demanding instant attention.

He went to the empty chair, bowed slightly. “Apologies, nandiin, for my tardiness.” Nods. He sat down. Servants moved to offer him eggs—those, he accepted, since they were in the shell, and free of sauces. Toast was perfectly fine, and oh, so good—and steaming tea, which came most welcome of all in the bracing chill.

“My compliments to the staff and the cook,” he said, the proper courtesy, “who have done extravagantly hard work to make a visitor comfortable and safe.”

“Indeed,” Tatiseigi said. “We should hardly wish to poison a guest.”

“We favor nand’ Bren extremely,” Cajeiri said sharply, out of turn, “and if someone poisoned him we would take it very ill.”

Silent attention followed this pointed remark, not exactly what Bren would have chosen as a conversation opener.

“We thank the young gentleman,” Bren said, “but we have no complaint at all. Lord Tatiseigi’s hospitality is flawless.”

Ilisidi snorted, but made no comment.

This was not going at all well. Bren reached for toast for his eggs, wondering what he had walked into, and dared not intervene in the tension between the dowager and her former—one thought, former—lover. If this was something like a domestic dispute in progress, a stray human was by no means welcome.

“The paidhi recognizes our delicate position,” Tatiseigi said, “does he not? We have inconvenience on every border. Delicate alliances are rendered precarious by your arrival. Our very lives are at hazard, not to mention the interests of the central provinces, which we have carefully safeguarded.”

“May one assume our grandson and his consort quitted this place under their host’s invitation?”

“No such thing!” Tatiseigi banged down his spoon, and tea quivered in the cups. “Perverse woman!”

“One deems it an entirely fair question,” Ilisidi said. She trisected a hardboiled egg with surgical precision, speared a portion and popped it into her mouth. “Under the circumstances of such extreme threat as you describe, one considers even the Atageini might tremble, with southern scoundrels in the ascendant, possessed of records and resources in the capital.”

“Piffle,” Tatiseigi snorted.
“You
will give them another half year of unity, ’Sidi-ji. You invigorate them by your presence. If you had frittered away any more time in the heavens they would have been at each others’ throats.”

“And the whole region would collapse in bloody ruin, which would by no means be to your advantage, Tati-ji.”

“The Atageini need nothing from the outside. We never have!”

Another snort. “Nor does Malguri.” Her own holding, which had equally primitive plumbing. “But our walls are ill-prepared for war, this century. One had rather not stand siege from airplanes.”

“There would be no such siege. There would not have been, if you had stayed up in—wherever it is, up there.”

“Oh, say on! Do you think the Kadigidi will go on flattering an old fool?”

“Disagreeable woman!”

“So you say throats will be cut in the capital, once the conspirators fall out. Granted, of course, granted, and they will. But whose throats, say. And where are the knives being sharpened? The southerners are the foreigners in these central regions, here at invitation. And which of the central provinces have bedded down closest with these southern fools? And who will do the throat-cutting when complacency takes hold? The Kadigidi will cry ‘Foreigners on our land!’ and be at them in short order. Will they not, Tati-ji? And
they
will rouse up the central provinces, and
they
will lead, taking an even firmer grip than they have now, while you have no daughter of your house married into
that
line, do you, Tati-ji?”

“Damn your nattering! This is breakfast, no time for business! You insult my table!”

“I merely point out—”

“Oh, point out and point out, do! Do you say we are fools who never saw these matters for ourselves!”

“Absolutely not. We have come under your roof, have we not? We had every confidence that the Atageini would not be swayed by Kadigidi blandishments. These are excellent preserves, Tati-ji.”

Tatiseigi took a mouthful of eggs. “Empty flattery, and you mean not a word of it.”

“Everyone can do with a little flattery, so long as it stays close to truth. You were always too wise for your neighbors. And remain so, we believe, or we would not have come here first and foremost.”

“Not first! You sojourned with the Taibeni!”

“Taiben lies between your land and the coast, Tati-ji, and always has. We received assistance, yes. Would you expect otherwise? But we came to you, having received a report—from the Taibeni—that you held out very bravely.”

“Ha! One doubts those are the words.”

“An approximation. In these times, Taiben respects you, and respects your borders. And joins you in disapprobation of your neighbors to the east.”

“The Kadigidi are fools and troublemakers. And bed down with other fools. That whelp of Direiso’s . . .”

“Murini.”

“. . . had the extreme effrontery to write a letter to this house, under his seal, attempting to enlist us.”

Ilisidi pursed her lips, above the rim of her cup. “Did you pitch his man onto the step, Tati-ji?”

“I was very cordial, and temporized.” Another spoonful of sauce. The paidhi ate very quietly, meanwhile, listening to all this extraordinary flow of confidences and not rattling so much as a cup. Cajeiri sat likewise quiet, those keen ears taking in everything, remarkable patience for a boy. Definitely, Bren thought, Cajeiri showed the qualities that created his father.

“So what was the gist of this impertinent letter?” Ilisidi asked.

“They wanted to use the Atageini name, can you imagine? We explained to these fools that since a daughter of this house is their quarry, we would either take command of the search and the campaign or we would tastefully abstain and make our demands clear if they should find her. For some reason they did not immediately cede the search to us, and seemed confused by our rebuke.”

Ilisidi snorted, short, dark laughter. “Wicked man.”

“This generation has no sense. Do you hear, greatgrandnephew?”

“Sir.” Cajeiri was caught with a mouthful of toast.

“Why are they fools?”

A rapid swallow. “Because the Atageini hate them, and they wrote a stupid letter, grand-uncle.”

“Not the answer, boy. They are out of touch with
kabiu
. Their hearts are dead. They have lost touch with the earth, with the seasons. Like humans. They practice flower-arrangement as if that was the be-all, and conceive that I would help them.”

“Nand’ Bren understands
kabiu
,” Cajeiri said, seizing on the casual slight, ignoring the central issue. “Much better than any Kadigidi.”

“Does he?” Tatiseigi’s pale gold eyes swung toward Bren, questioning, hostile, and Bren, wishing for invisibility, gave a little nod to the old lord. “Do you, paidhi?”

“Enough to know flower-arrangement is a manifestation of respect for the earth and the numbers of life, nandi, and that the mind and the heart surely improve with a deeper understanding of such issues.” He had no wish at all to debate the old man, or to become the centerpiece of argument, but Cajeiri had taken him for a shield . . . hell, for a weapon. “As, for instance, your arrangement, the three sprigs, fortunate in number, honor yourself, the dowager, your young kinsman, the evergreen lasting in all seasons.”

“Ha!” Tatiseigi said, caught out in his little grim humor. “He knows by rote. Like my greatgrandnephew, who has doubtless read all the books. Where does one learn
kabiu
up in the ether of the heavens? Where are flowers, where are stones, where is the sun?”

“One sees the stars,” Cajeiri said firmly. “Which behave together, all connected to each other and to us.”

“Ha,” Tatiseigi said again. A wonder if Tatiseigi knew or cared that the earth went around the sun. “Stars, indeed. Can you say your seasons, youngster? Or do you even remember them?”

“We could say the seasons when we were six!” Cajeiri said, leaning forward, and using that autocratic pronoun. “And we have also seen very many stars, nandi, and have a notebook with their numbers and their motions.”

“And the numbers of the earth, young sir, and the numbers even of this room? Can you declare those?”

“The small wildflower in the arrangement, sir, is surely because of my mother, as if she were at the table, since lilies are not in season. But I see nothing here for my father. My great-grandmother, and nand’ Bren, and I are at this table for him, fortunate three, and since Bren has no representation at all, perhaps the addition of a remembrance for him would have upset the favorable numbers of our breakfast—since you are at the table, and you clearly do not count yourself for my father, sir, which would make it four, without amelioration in the bouquet, which you did not add. Am I right, mani-ma?”

The only trace of the child, that last appeal to his great-grandmother, who arched her brows and pursed her lips.

“Precocious boy!” Tatiseigi was annoyed, and would not have taken such a rebuke from an adult.

“One has noted the arrangment,” Ilisidi said, and no, the paidhi could not have read that much of it, except that lilies were out of season, and that in this
kabiu
household nothing out of season would appear out of a hothouse.

“Damned precocious. Is this disrespect your teaching, or the paidhi’s?”

“I told you I would not neglect the graceful arts, Tati-ji.”

“And courtesy? Where is respect of his elders?”

“I am very respectful, nandi,” Cajeiri said. “And offer regret for the patio.”

The mecheita incident, with the wet cement.

“Precocious, I say!” It was not a compliment. Profile stared at profile across the table, that Atageini jaw set hard—on both sides of the equation.

“Where are my mother and my father, nandi? If you know, we request you say.”

It was the uncle who broke the stare and looked at Ilisidi, whose face was perfectly serene.

“Have we an answer to give the child, nandi?”

“No, we have not an answer. Your grandson offered me none. Likely he failed to tell my niece, either. They kited off into the night without warning or courtesy.”

“Afoot, nandi? In a vehicle?”

“On mecheiti, as they came.”

“Ha.” Ilisidi nodded sagely.

Mecheiti meant an overland route, off the roads, which made them hard to track by ordinary means.

Aircraft, on the other hand . . .

“For all I know,” Tatiseigi said, “they crossed the corner of Kadigidi land and headed for the high hills.”

Not impossible. But dangerous. Deadly dangerous.

“Excuse a question, nandi.” Bren felt he needed to ask. “Have there been planes up?”

“Not over Atageini land, we assure you! Noisy contraptions. Not over our land.”

So they could not track Tabini by that means, not close at hand, and that might have let him get into the hills—or even circle back into Taiben. He might have been there, and the people of Taiben would not have betrayed his presence, not until he had given personal consent, which their hasty passage might not have allowed.