“He will grow strong and fat,” the Edi lady said, “and come take the West as well.”
“This supposes you will have done nothing for your own strength in the meanwhile. We have not gone back on our offer of a lordship, a seat in the tashrid, a favored position on this coast, not to mention an alliance with us and an association with Lord Geigi of the Maschi.”
“Add the Parithi,” Geigi said, “who will sit between the Senji and the west coast, presiding over the road that runs to the Taisigin Marid, in which arrangement they will expect the staunch support of the Edi people to keep that territory free of encroachment. We are establishing a strong buffer between your new lands and the Marid.”
The Grandmother looked at Geigi and looked at mani, rearranged her shawls once again and took several deep breaths in the silence of the room. “And what arrangements is the paidhi-aiji making, Grandmother of the Ragi? Tell us that!”
“The paidhi-aiji, who has the insight of a lord of this region, and who also knows our resources in the East, has crafted a broad solution, which will divert Marid shipping from this coast and remove any reason for the Marid to covet a west coast port. We consider the paidhi’s proposal, outrageous though it is, to have a great deal of benefit to all sides—except the northern Marid. It has apparently caught the strong interest of the Taisigi lord, whose position within the Marid right now is under attack by the renegades we have named. Of the five major clans of the Marid, he cannot trust two of them. He would be very wise to negotiate the offer on the table and divert himself from centuries of warfare to a settled agreement that will bring benefit to all sides.”
There was a moment of silence. Another adjustment of the shawls, and now the Grandmother was thinking hard.
“He will attempt to trick us, Grandmother of the Ragi.”
“Oh, one would be surprised if not, Grandmother of the Edi. And we are old, and we are wise, and we have seen a good many youngsters try one thing and another. Have we not?”
There was a lengthy silence.
“We have seen a good many things,” the Grandmother said grimly. “And we will not be taken by surprise.”
“We shall not, Grandmother of the Edi. And once he has gotten to like the taste of Eastern goods, he will have to keep his agreements to go on getting them.”
“I shall inform my people,” the Grandmother said. “We will be watching. And if we are attacked, we will expect assistance from our allies.”
“We shall assuredly provide it,” mani said. “How encouraging to find us in agreement.”
That, and a nod, was a dismissal. The Grandmother of the Edi got up, and Geigi got up, and escorted the lady personally to the hall, with her two young men. There followed a little renewed commotion out there, but not angry shouting. Cenedi left immediately, to get them all out the front door, Cajeiri was sure.
But there was still no loud shouting, and mani called for a cup of tea. The servants rearranged the chairs to what they had been, and they all sat and listened until the outside door opened and shut again.
That had been scary, Cajeiri thought.
But mani had gotten her way and the Grandmother of the Edi had backed down.
He noted that, too.
The day crept on toward evening with no further great to-do. Bren managed to do a little bending and stretching, trying not to overdo it.
And the surreptitious flow of messages went on. His bodyguard variously came and went.
He almost expected a dinner invitation from Machigi tonight, since things seemed to have settled. He didn’t look forward to it. He’d much rather be sure things were settled; but it seemed in Machigi’s character to push things and test the limits.
They had the three tall windows of the sitting room shuttered. The shutters were available inside, and his staff had employed them, making it just that much more difficult for snipers, in this room without a view of much of anything. He went close to one and reached to tip the slats up just to see whether it was dark out yet.
“Bren-ji,” Jago said sternly.
He stopped with his fingers on the slats. He knew better. “One regrets,” he said with a little bow, and resisted the impulse to pace the room.
He had not taken his watch with him on this trip. It was not part of an atevi gentleman’s dress, and he had left it, along with his computer, in Najida. There was no clock in the room.
But it seemed to him that dinner was late. He was getting hungry, and he supposed by now the dinner invitation was not going to come, but he was surprised, in that instance, that supper had not arrived in their room. He hoped Machigi’s servants were going to show up with a cart.
A stir in the hall gave him a certain hope of food.
Until he saw the attitude of his staff . . . grim and on alert. He suddenly thought maybe he shouldn’t be near the door. Maybe he shouldn’t be in the room. He made a quiet move toward the door of his bedroom as whoever it was, and it sounded like several persons, came toward their door.
There was a pause, a few muttered syllables from his bodyguard, their attention all toward what was going on outside. Staff was talking to staff.
Suddenly Tano oriented toward him, while the other three stayed on strict alert, positioned so a shot incoming from the door wouldn’t find them. Tano just quickly herded him into the bedroom, and without a word—which said that they didn’t trust the monitoring—Tano snatched up his duffle, and set it on the bed.
Leaving?
He caught Tano’s eye with a questioning look, and Tano gave him the sign for someone listening, and caution.
Not good. His gun was in the dresser. He went and slipped it into his pocket, brought his linens and put them in the duffle. Tano didn’t object. Tano started hauling out clothes from the closet and packing, not with his usual neatness.
They were leaving and with luggage? It didn’t sound like an on-foot dash for the stairs and the back streets of Tanaja. It sounded as if they were going with transport of some sort. Which argued for official cooperation.
But—damn!
The outside door opened, in the other room. Tano didn’t look surprised. He said two syllables that didn’t make sense and then signaled Bren to come with him as he led the way back into the sitting room.
Machigi was there with his guard. It was Machigi’s second trip to his room today, and it was clearly not to pass the time of day. Machigi was not looking at all happy.
“Aiji-ma,” Bren said with a courteous nod.
“Aiji-ma! If I find you treacherous, paidhi, and a liar, expect not to live safely, not in Sarini, not in Shejidan itself. I will find you, or if I am dead, my successors will find you!”
“Kindly do me the honor of explaining the source of your displeasure, aiji-ma.”
“The source of my displeasure! The incursion of Shejidan Guild into Dojisigi territory, and into the Senjin Marid! Now my guard advises me we are required—required!—to vacate and allow the Ragi Guild to set up operations in my premises! I am told to leave my people to the judgment of Guild from Shejidan. My guard says I should accept this and trust there will not be assassinations at the whim of Shejidan or the guest under my roof! Tell me why, nandi! Tell me why I should not shoot you with my own hand!”
“Nandi,” Banichi said. “This region is temporarily under Guild regulation. Our Guild has moved to protect you, your council, your duly constituted institutions, and your citizens. You are officially and of this hour judged innocent. The lords of Dojisigi and Senji clans are outlawed.”
That was stunning news. The Guild was suddenly cleaning house, and it was calling in every available member, on a priority above all other assignments.
Get its agents wholesale into the Marid?
Hell, yes. He figured it now. For over a year, the Guild had wanted this chance, wanted it badly, and lacked any way in to finesse the situation. And the renegades, in attempting to get Machigi out of their way, had tripped the legal switch—whether they wanted a confrontation or not.
&nbs
p; “Our agreement is unaffected,” Bren said. “The dowager, whether knowledgeable of this event or not, has offered her condition. From here, it is nearly certain you will meet it. You will be the most powerful lord of the Marid.”
There was a space of silence. Machigi stared at him, jaw clenched.
“Who is it you represent now, paidhi?”
“You, still, aiji-ma. Until I am officially returned to the dowager or to Tabini-aiji. I had no more warning than you have had, I assure you. I doubt that Tabini-aiji was fully informed. My immediate concern, aiji-ma, is seeing you live to govern the Marid. And right now, I trust nothing outside this room.”
Machigi stalked off a pace and looked at his own bodyguard.
“Our man’chi,” the senior of that aishid said, “is what it has been. We have taken your orders, aiji-ma. We have stood outside our Guild. We have occupied a difficult position. We have seen these intruders trying to get in. We gave our warnings. We have tried to avoid this . . .”
“Warned me. You have, that.” Machigi was scantly in control of his expressions. He was that overwrought, and one didn’t move. One stood very still while a lord under seige argued with the bodyguard that was the reason he was alive. And there was a long, long silence, Machigi and the men he owed most for the situation.
“We have warned you,” the bodyguard said. “Aiji-ma, we are not securely in control of the premises. Nor are they. We face a number of hours in which, if you remain visible, you will come under concentrated attack, perhaps beyond our collective abilities to hold back. You are placing us in an untenable situation, aiji-ma.”
There was peculiar grammar in that collective. It used the felicitous unitary. It meant as one. It meant emotional sameness.
And Machigi stood there, a muscle working in his jaw and his eyes burning into the man he relied on for his life. Then: “What do you recommend, Tema-ji?”
Banichi gave a tap at his ear, an abrupt sign that disturbed Machigi’s aishid. It meant: who is listening?
“Aiji-ma,” the guard-senior said. “Just come. Now. All of us.”
“Gods unfortunate,” Machigi said. “Paidhi. Come!”
Bren looked at Banichi. Banichi made a slight nod and the rest of his aishid moved, fast, to the back rooms, while Banichi nodded again to the man named Tema.
Positions shifted, to control the door; and it was the lords’ business to get in the center of that formation. Bren did. Machigi arrived beside him as Tano and Algini and Jago came back with, God, their luggage.
“One can part with the clothes, nadiin-ji,” Bren said.
“An inconsequential weight, nandi,” Tano said and set the bag on the floor by the table and swept the notes and notepad into it in an instant. Plus a packet of tea.
“At your direction,” Machigi said to his aishid, and reached into his coat pocket and kept it there—not, one thought, for any inconsequential item—as his aishid opened the door.
Servants stood there, faces grim and worried.
“Get to quarters, nadiin-ji,” Machigi said. “Stay there pending orders.”
The servants moved back, falling behind. Instruction would send them to the back passages, the lower rooms, where, if their doors remained shut, no action would touch them—no legitimate action. One hoped the Guild arrived here first and with minimal incident.
And it was in no good frame of mind that Machigi and his guard led the way to those same back stairs, and down and down, past startled servants who plastered themselves to the walls and heard the same grim order: “Quarters, nadiin-ji, quarters. Leave off all duties.”
It was a terrible situation. Servants devoted to the house would want to protect it—would do what the staff at Najida had done and protect the place, as best they could, moving fragile things. Their lord ordered otherwise.
And if their aishidi had contact with the Guild proper yet, there was no word of it.
Down and down the stairs. Bren struggled with the pace. Jago’s hand arrived at his elbow, trusting him, but there if he should slip.
He was breathing hard by the time they reached a basement passage—basement, by the number of turns they had made—and headed down a bare stone corridor. Old, this passage. Electric wires were a dusty afterthought. And an iron door gave them passage into yet another tunnel.
Lungs ached for air. Ribs hurt. Bren reached a hand to the wall, and Jago’s hand held him up from the other side.
In the dim light, Tema made a sign. Banichi returned another, something about transport, or leaving, Bren wasn’t sure. But they kept moving, now with some shred of a concept where they were going.
Two turns more, another door, and they moved by flashlight, as that door shut with the resistence of age. Locked.
It was only dust in their way, dust, and a few pipes; and finally a stair upward, to yet another, modern door, with a keypad. Tema input a code, and the lock moved, and the door opened onto a short lighted hall. They might not even be in the same building. God knew. Bren didn’t. He found himself dizzy, short of breath, not aware, when they stopped, that there was one more door to unlock, until he heard it click.
It opened on a concrete, utilitarian space with a smell of machines, and exhaust, and oil—garage. Transport. Their steps were quiet, but they disturbed a deeper silence as they went up a ramp. Four vans sat there, showing dim lights.
Outsiders, Bren thought, with a very atevi abhorrence of any help not from inside their operation. But they waited while one of Tema’s men left cover, approached one van, talked to whoever was inside, and signaled a come-ahead.
They moved. The three other vehicles suddenly showed lights. And one didn’t like the number of additional people involved. One didn’t trust the situation. One didn’t like it in the least . . .
Bren moved, however, with Jago, thinking with the scant supply of air he had, God, we don’t know the streets. We don’t know where the hell we’re going. Do we?
They stopped at the first van. The side door opened, and they were supposed to get in with strangers . . .
“Rely on them,” Tema said. “They will get you to Targai by a safe road. As safe as exists.”
Three other vans, all leaving. Diversion. Confuse the enemy. Bren let Jago boost him up the step, to the seat inside. It was as far as he could get. The back door opened, and the rest of his bodyguard got in, Banichi moving forward to take the seat beside him.
And Machigi himself blocked the open side door.
“To Targai,” Machigi said, “to Najida if you insist, paidhi. And one hopes sending you to safety is not the act of a fool.”
“Aiji-ma, I will represent you to the aiji-dowager.”
“Survive, paidhi. I give you that order.”
“Do the same, aiji-ma.”
Machigi gave a heave on the door and slammed it between them. The back door shut. The van started moving—one Taisigi driving, one more occupying the front seat, whether Guild or the garage’s regular drivers one couldn’t tell in the dark, with just the headlights and the reflected light off concrete to make them into silhouettes.
He was sweating, not alone from the haste getting here. This wasn’t going to be a tame bus ride to Najida. In no sense. It wasn’t just the schism in the Guild. It was the Marid itself. The paidhi-aiji was persona non grata with a lot of the Marid: he couldn’t count the number of well-placed people in the region who’d like to see him dead . . . and the two handling the van were faceless, nameless, obedient to God knew what.
But they had no choice. Hunker down and hope the halls were never infiltrated—small chance. Machigi’s orders might be to retreat to neutral position—but that wouldn’t prevent the renegades from looking for hostages. He had to get clear before he blocked the solution—if there was to be a solution.
So did Machigi. Where he was going, whether any of three other vans loosed into the dark were Machigi’s or whether he was going to some deep bunker to wait it out, there was no telling. The regular Guild would take the place, sooner or later, one
hoped, with a minimum of damage, a minimum of bloodshed—the way things were supposed to proceed, with the Guild being the only armed force in the aishidi’tat.
But with a splinter of the Guild taking up position—God knew. God only knew. Lords didn’t get in the middle of it. They had a responsibility to stay out of it, and let the Guild settle it, with the force of law. And to stand up and be assassinated, if it came to that, if one were taking the high ground. Lords had done that, to end an impasse. To protect a house. To protect a family. To save a dynasty.
That wasn’t what would fall out here. The Guild was trying to get their hands on Machigi to keep him alive, but in the early hours there weren’t enough of them, and innocents could get killed in the crossfire if Machigi tried to stay on, contrary to Guild planning. Get out, get out, get out was all they could do: he thought it with every thump of the tires on the drive—felt the sway as the van made the turn onto open street, and Jago moved to pull him aside on the seat, and get between him and the window. It hurt the ribs. Banichi helped from the other side, and the paidhi-aiji, Lord of the Heavens and half a dozen other titles, was obliged to kneel on the carpeted floor and hold onto the edges of the seats, keeping his valuable head lowest of anybody’s.
Damn, he wanted his 20-year-old body back. His body from before his head had hit the damned chair in Pairuti’s parlor would do at the moment. He never got dizzy like this. He hated it, hated the mess he was in, wished for once in a long career he’d told Ilisidi he wasn’t going where she’d taken the notion he should go.
She was tired of him, maybe. Wanted to inherit a place on the west coast.
Wanted to make her grandson deal with the world her way.
He shouldn’t have listened—
Thump. He swore the van had driven over a curb. And floored it. He lost his balance. But Banichi and Jago had him, and if either of the men in front proved traitor, there was firepower enough in his company to make it suicide.
And by the fact nobody opened fire, the pair up front were doing all right, never mind the bump and the scrape of shrubbery along the side.