Peacemaker (29 page)

Then, inevitably drawn by what glittered, and by objects they readily recognized—they were off to peer through the glass at a tall vase covered in parid'ja figures.

The youngsters had drawn attention of their own, admirers of the artworks glancing aside and moving back from the children and whispering discreetly behind hands or printed exhibit guides.

But the fact that the children bowed properly when cued amazed and mollified the onlookers, much as if a trio of parid'ji had shown evidence of civilization. And despite their somewhat excessive energy, they were not misbehaving. Algini and Tano and Jase together availed to keep three youngsters under relatively close management. And onlookers began to relax and smile, even laughing, watching them as much as the exhibit.

Cajeiri likely ached to go through the exhibit with just as much energy—but of course he didn't leave his parents' side. Nor could the youngsters go to him or even so much as wave at him, no. It was just not done.

That was the sad part of the affair, one he would mend if he possibly could . . . but there was no help for it. Tabini, and therefore Cajeiri and Damiri, were constantly engaged with important guests this evening, constantly besieged with introductions and well-wishes—a state affair in full spate, and leading to an announcement that would set the boy further apart from ordinary life. What could one say against it? It was the boy's rank. It was what he did. It was what he was born for and would always have to do.

Maybe, Bren thought, it was the boy's years on the starship that had sharply defined him—years like his father's at Malguri, in the dowager's care. Tabini had
sent
the boy up to the station
with
the dowager—and now Tabini had brought three human kids down here, for reasons that a human fenced off very carefully, saying he still didn't understand the motive. He had to be careful of
thinking
he understood the motive . . . it was a potentially dangerous step across the interface, the very thing he had been supposed to prevent.

But maybe the motive wasn't alien from atevi politics. Damiri hadn't been happy with the dowager from before her son had been taken up to the space station and put in the dowager's care—while Tabini had drawn the dowager closer and closer, from far back.

He should know.
He'd
been the initial lure, to get Ilisidi out of Malguri.

He'd had no idea, at that point, how very deeply Ilisidi had detested his predecessor in the paidhi's office.

Tabini had given him a gun, taken him target-shooting quite illegally, in terms of treaty law—and sent him off to visit his grandmother.

How did a sane man interpret
that
move? Did the elements add as straightforwardly as they might in a human situation?

Maybe was the same with Tabini's inviting the kids down now. Experience us. Know us. Make up your own minds. Show us who you are.

They were so damned
young.

But could a boy brought up in the heart of court intrigue be that young, or that innocent?

The boy stood, elegant and conspicuous, in a light that made that black coat spark red fire, his darkness and that brightness as ornate as the exhibits, beside a father of which he was the smaller image, beside a smiling mother who, despite her condition, looked as perfect, as iconic, as any cloisonné image in the cases.

What do I do,
he asked himself,
to protect this boy? What can I do?

Keep those kids out of trouble. That's one.

The museum was crowded with the elite—typical of such events, Guild presence had diminished down to two bodyguards for the lesser guests, in the interest of saving space, and the other half of those units would be occupying the hall outside, reinforcing Guild presence on the lower floor. The echoing buzz of voices took on a surreal quality, and he began to realize his thinking had grown just a bit distracted. It was too warm in the room. There were very few benches, and he longed for one . . . but there were none vacant.

“How are you?” he asked Banichi.

“I am not in difficulty,” Banichi said. “Are you?”

“No,” he said, an outright lie. Then, on a breath: “I have a painkiller. Do you need it?”

“No, Bren-ji. Do you?”

“I have had one.” He cast a meaningful glance at Jago—watch him, he wanted to say. Don't let him push it. But Jago said, “You are quite pale, Bren-ji.”

“Am I?” He drew several deep breaths. “It seems warm in here.”

“It is,” Jago said. “Bren-ji, you
will
sit down.”

There was a bench, as a lady rose to talk to an associate. Jago deftly moved to the area, the lady moved off, and what could one do?

Bren walked over and quietly sat down, exhaled, did
not
rest his head against the wall. It was near an air vent. That was a considerable help. The bulletproof vest was hot, and stiff, and a very good idea, he was sure. But he wished he could shed it.

 • • • 

It was dull. It was very dull, with the museum committee head making yet another speech.

And Cajeiri remembered the speech he had to give.

One had a chance certainly, with all the other speeches going on, to memorize it.

Except—

Except he had changed coats.

There was still time. There was plenty of time. He was good at memorizing.

“Taro-ji,” Cajeiri whispered, leaning close to his aishid. “The paper. My speech. I left it upstairs, in the other coat. Can you possibly go up and get it, nadi?”

“I shall try,” Antaro promised him, and backed out of the group and left quickly, down the side of the room.

The others had heard. “I should have realized it,” Jegari said. “This is my fault, nandi.”

“I am the one who changed coats,” Cajeiri said and drew a careful, quiet breath, not wishing to have his parents notice the exchange.

“It will not be easy for Taro to get up there,” Veijico said. “They have refused us clearance. They are being very stubborn on that.”

“They.” If it was any of his father's guard, or his great-grandmother's, he could deal with that.

“The Guild itself,” Veijico said. “Even Cenedi tried. But they will not clear us to have the codes.”

“Well, but Antaro is clever,” he said. Antaro could very often talk her way through things none of the rest of his aishid could manage.

And it was, after all,
his
room,
his
residence she was asking access for. If she could just get upstairs, even if his father's major domo had sworn on his life not to unlock the apartment door, surely he could just get the paper from his pocket in the closet and slide it out to her.

Surely
the rules were not that tight.

Once the major d' talked to his father, he might have to admit to his father he had lost the paper, but his father would at least have to admit that he and his aishid had solved the problem.

And he would be perfect in his speech. So his father could not fault him.

 • • • 

Sitting helped. Bren drew far easier breaths. The cool air from the vent helped even more. Banichi, however, would not take his seat and sit down. And he himself could not stay there. He nerved himself for a rise to his feet.

“Nandi,” Jago warned him just as he came upright, on his feet, and he saw, edging up on him—

Topari and two of his guard.

“Nand' paidhi,” Topari said, reaching him, and sketched a bow.

How did
he
get an invitation? was Bren's initial thought, but he put a smile on his face.

“Nandi. One hopes the evening finds you well.”

“Well enough,” Topari said without a bow. “Nand' paidhi, you said there would be a meeting. Your office has not answered my letter.”

He had not instructed his secretarial office, not expecting Topari would take that route, and a single day did not put any ordinary message to the top of the stack in his secretarial office. He gave a small, automatic bow, not needing to feign mild surprise. “One rather expected you would simply send to
me,
nandi, directly, as indeed I invited you to do. What did this letter regard?”

“A meeting,” Topari said—the man had the manners of a mecheita in a mob run. “A meeting with the aiji-dowager.”

“Regarding?”

“I have exchanged messages with several of my neighbors. We have questions. We need to be consulted, more than that—
considered—
in this rail matter. We
insist.”

“Indeed, nandi, there will certainly be a consideration of your interests.”

“Freight is one thing. Passengers are another. We maintain our sovereignty. We shall have
no outsiders
setting up business in our station.”

“I think it extremely likely we can do business, nandi.” Bren said to him, and thank God young Dur, out of nowhere, moved in with, “May one be introduced, nand' paidhi?”

It was a rescue, an absolute, self-sacrificing rescue. “Ah! Nandi, nand' Topari of Hasurjan, up in the southern mountains. His district maintains a rail station which could be quite important in the southern route, and he has concerns that Transport will certainly want to consider.—Nand' Topari, nand' Reijiri, whose father is lord of Dur, in the Coastal Association, and who
is
on the Transport Committee.”

“The father, that, is.”

“Indeed, nandi,” young Dur said, and Bren took the practiced shift of balance and step backward and away, disengagement, with deep gratitude, and without his bodyguard having to remind him of a fictitious other meeting. He extricated himself from the little cul-de-sac and made it all the way to the next aisle of displays. No telling to whom Reijiri might pass the man next, someone worthy, he hoped. He worked his way closer to the front of the hall, and out of convenient view.

There was, one was grateful to see, another air vent.

Then there was a massive waft of cooler air, as two of the four shut doors opened—security had had
all
the doors shut—and now evidently had relented. No few of the crowd murmured relief.

Antaro arrived inside, one noted, by one of those doors. One had no idea where she had been.

 • • • 

“One cannot get through,” Antaro reported, in a tone under the general buzz of conversation in the hall. “I have tried the lifts, the stairs, and the servant passages, and they are all shut down. No one is allowed to operate the lifts and communications are not working. I succeeded in phoning your father's apartment, and Eisi has retrieved the paper, but he cannot leave the apartment. Even the major domo cannot get clearance to come downstairs, and the guards on the stairs will not even talk to me, nandi. Veijico might. She has more seniority on the books. Or one could go to Cenedi.”

“He would tell mani,” Cajeiri said. “No. No, Taro-ji. It is almost too late as is. They have opened all the doors. Likely we will be going to the Audience Hall almost any moment.”

“One regrets, nandi, one greatly regrets this!”

“By no means,” he said. “I am the one who left the paper. I remember enough of it. I have almost all the pieces. My father will hardly notice. Certainly no one else will. It is by no means your fault.”

“One is very certain,” Antaro said, still breathing hard, “one is very certain it was composed to be felicitous. Be careful of numbers, nandi. Think through the numbers. Your father will have been very careful of that.”

“I shall. I can. It will be all right, Taro-ji. No one will notice it at all.”

“One earnestly hopes,” Antaro said. She had never seemed to be that distressed, even when people were shooting at them.

“It is stupid anyway,” he said, “that they do not recognize us. It is certainly not your fault. And I have it memorized. I just need to recall it.”

He did remember a lot of the speech. There was one line in the first statement he was not sure of, but he could get it back, if only people would let him alone for just a few moments, and if his aishid could protect him from more people wanting to congratulate him on his birthday. There was
no
way to get off in a corner for quiet. His father insisted he stand nearby, and most of the people who congratulated him he was sure just wanted an excuse to talk to his father.

He gained a few moments of quiet, however. He stood and tried to think of the missing words. He tried—

Then his father called him to meet an elderly lady from the northern coast, up where the world froze, and she asked him questions, and all the while the minutes were ticking down toward their shift to the Audience Hall.

 • • • 

A nine-year-old's birthday party, Bren thought. And the majority of attendees were over sixty. The three young guests flitted fairly sedately under Jase's control, in quest of interesting things in the cases and trying very properly to keep their hands off the glass. The honoree of the day, meanwhile, remained bravely proper, still meeting and talking with elder guests, while his parents and great-grandmother did the same, while his great-uncle sat signing ribboned cards and likely discussing pottery glazes.

There were all these wonderful things to explore and Cajeiri could not even come near his own three guests, who did not rank high enough to stand by him, nor even
see
the exhibit. He'd
become
one, along with the rest of his family.

Poor kid.

“And these guests,” one elderly lady asked of Bren. “What will
they
report in the heavens? What will the ship-aiji say, with all these terrible goings-on at Tirnamardi?”

“Jase-aiji is a strong ally of the aiji, and he and his bodyguards have reassured the children—not forgetting at all that these children are very strongly loyal to the young gentleman.”

“To the young gentleman himself, more than the ship-aiji?” another lady objected.