Peace was the least likely outcome once the five clans of the Marid spiraled into a power struggle.
As it had recently, reaching even into the midlands of the aishidi’tat and causing death and upset right into the capital.
So here he sat, Bren Cameron, paidhi-aiji, up to his neck in hot water again . . . on a diplomatic mission without precise instructions, in a spur-of-the-moment move . . . because the aiji-dowager had seen things about to go to hell and proposed to save Machigi, of all people on the planet, from imminent outlawry and assassination.
Would Machigi be grateful if she succeeded?
Machigi was suspicious of gifts from outside. Who wouldn’t be?
But Machigi was curious. Curiosity drove the young warlord, perhaps even more than ambition. And he had never seen a human. Those were two things Bren had on his side.
And besides the company of an unofficial sister-in-law ex-lover, a stray junior Guildswoman with a death wish, and a busload of much more senior Guild armed with explosives out in the driveway—none of which he counted as assets—he had his own aishid with him, his four-person senior Guild bodyguard, experienced in delicate situations, and that was the best asset he held. His bodyguard were still armed and still in contact with that busload of the aiji’s finest outside; and both those facts were reassuring about Machigi’s mood of the moment.
His bodyguard had gotten him in here safely. They had made all the right moves. They had talked their way in. They had kept the situation from blowing up, despite a Filing of Intent by Tabini-aiji against Machigi personally.
He hoped that everybody was getting a little deserved rest at this hour.
Not quite so, however. He heard a footstep in the hall, in this back end of the suite where no stray household servant of Machigi’s should come at this early hour. He froze. Listened.
It cost him a few seconds of doubt, wondering if perhaps he should get out of the tub or, conversely, sink under the surface and pretend not to be here.
A glimmer of gold eyes appeared with a substantial shadow in that doorway, in just the hint of features: Banichi, senior of his bodyguards, wearing his black uniform pants and nothing more. Black-skinned, gold-eyed like all atevi, and head and shoulders taller than a tall human, he filled whatever space he was in.
“One is very sorry to have waked you, ’Nichi-ji,” Bren said. “Go back to bed. One is just soaking in the heat.”
“Breakfast will arrive within the hour,” Banichi said. “We have just had a notification from staff. One might advise you eat last night’s bread this morning, Bren-ji, if you have any concern for its safety.”
“One takes it then that Lord Machigi does not expect me for breakfast?”
Banichi walked entirely into the bath and stopped, arms folded, a looming shadow. “One rather believes the lord may be consulting with his advisors this morning,” Banichi said quietly. It was a dead certainty the place was bugged and that every word they spoke was being listened to and parsed for hidden meaning. He had been too long in atevi politics to have any doubt of that at all.
Would their host take offense about his staff’s caution with the breakfast? Hardly an uncommon worry in an atevi household—and it was no secret at all that humans reacted adversely to the alkaloids atevi quite relished in a sauce. Thus far the local kitchen had been quite careful not to poison him, and one was certain staff had talked to staff and reminded Machigi’s people of the problem.
But who knew which cook was on duty at this hour?
Still—a hot breakfast—tea. He really wanted hot tea.
And, alas, no meeting. Machigi was, as Banichi surmised, very likely doing business of some kind this morning. One only hoped his host was not preparing to eliminate the bus from the driveway.
But that, like all other aggressive acts, such as doing in his guest, would have been safer done last night, in the dark.
“We do need to make our several phone calls,” Bren said. “As soon as it is some decent hour, and when I have contact, I shall hope to get clearance from Lord Machigi.”
“Yes,” Banichi said, and that was all. Excluding any meeting with Machigi himself, there were two very urgent items of business on their day’s agenda.
First on the list was calling someone who could get those Guild deliberations officially suspended before the Assassins’ Guild laid down a formal declaration of outlawry on paper; that would require another meeting to rescind, and meanwhile Machigi would be in imminent danger.
Second was calling on Tabini-aiji, head of the aishidi’tat, the Western Association, to rescind his own Filing of Intent with the same Guild, and table the current assassination order he had out against Lord Machigi, binding on any one of the men on that bus in the driveway. The two items were unrelated. The Guild Council action was because of infractions of Guild rules, of which Machigi might actually be innocent. Tabini’s Filing was in general annoyance with Machigi’s existence and a reasonable conviction that Machigi had been behind various assassinations and attempted assassinations, of which he probably was not innocent.
As far as communication with Tabini’s local agents to be patient—the Guild on the bus had been under Banichi’s orders, as senior of the paidhi-aiji’s bodyguard. The need to restrain those very dangerous agents from upsetting the situation was why the paidhi-aiji had set out on the bus in the first place. His presence had put Banichi in command of the aiji’s men, the paidhi-aiji being a court official—yesterday.
Now, however, with him and his bodyguard off that bus and up here, command had reverted to the seniormost of Tabini’s people, and that could be no secret. Tabini’s officer was a sensible man, but the situation out there in the driveway remained a very delicate one. The wrong move, the wrong information, somebody’s assumption, or just some suspicious movement of, say, the gardener or a delivery truck near that bus—and the whole district could blow up.
District, hell. They could have a continent-wide war on their hands if he didn’t get those two phone calls through fairly soon, and he had counted on being able to talk directly to Machigi about that problem this morning.
So Machigi’s failure to invite him to breakfast had become a complication in his day. They had to get permission via Machigi’s staff and hope somebody was willing to go high enough to get a yes.
Beyond that—beyond that—the paidhi had some urgent thinking to do . . . involving how far to go with Machigi and how much to promise to keep Machigi interested in talking.
He had had Machigi’s attention yesterday. But Machigi was a young man. His interest could collapse without notice. Advisors could get to him and persuade him the dowager’s proposals were not in his interest.
And then they all were in trouble.
“Help, here, ’Nichi-ji, before you go.” Getting into the sunken bath was easy with bruised ribs. Getting out . . .
He lifted a hand, and Banichi came over to the tub and gave him the leverage he needed. Against atevi stature, he was only the size of an eight-year-old, a light and easy lift up to footing on the seat of the tub, and safely back up onto the ridged tiles that gave sure footing around the edge of the bath. There was a large towel on the rack; Banichi offered it, and Bren gratefully wrapped himself in it, trying not to shiver, since shivering hurt.
“One has to shave,” he said to Banichi, rubbing his chin. Atevi didn’t have that problem, and he had always felt he did that operation with a surer hand than his valets. “And I can dress myself, Nichi-ji. I can manage quite well with everything except the queue.”
“I shall be back to assist, Bren-ji, in about that time.”
Banichi left him, to go see about their business. Bren shaved, using the sink, then walked back to his room and dressed, slowly and carefully, in clothes that could, indeed, have used the services of a valet . . . but they were all right, under difficult circumstances.
He found his pain pills in his personal kit and popped two, dry. He was in less pain than yesterday evening, but that had been a high-water
mark of discomfort.
Dressed to the waist, he wrapped the compression tape around his chest, which afforded a curious combination of pain and relief, protecting him against shocks or an injudicious stretch. He was just trying to fasten the bandage when Banichi showed up and quietly finished the job.
“Boots,”’ he said, “ ’Nichi-ji, if you will help me with that. Bending hurts.”
“Yes,” Banichi said, and helped him sit down on the bench, then knelt down and helped him on with the boots. Banichi, big, broad-shouldered even for an ateva, went on playing valet and brought him the shirt hanging foremost of the three he had. Banichi helped him on with that while protecting it from his damp hair with a towel about the shoulders.
“I am worse than a child,” Bren said. “I take far more tending.”
“Your bodyguard has great and personal sympathy,” Banichi said, running a comb through his damp hair, preparatory to braiding it. “The ribs, one expects, will be sore for a number of days.”
“It was a stupid act,” he said, “on my part. One can only apologize for it.”
Banichi deftly parted his hair for the queue and began the braid tactfully without comment. Banichi finished it in a matter of moments, and tied it with the ribbon waiting on the bureau, a fresh one, the white of neutrality, the paidhi’s color. That white ribbon, more than guns, more than reinforcements, was the major protection they had—for what it was worth in this place, where he clearly represented the hated north to a lot of citizens of the Marid.
Banichi helped him stand up, then provided the bulletproof vest, brocade on the outside, and with one notable breach in its integrity. It looked to close from the front, but it didn’t; it overlapped at the side. It was stiff, it was hot, and while it did not weigh much, it got heavier, over the hours.
At least, once fastened, its close embrace provided support for abused muscles—or would, until the muscles grew tired of being supported and restricted. The pain wasn’t as bad as it had been last night. No misery could be as bad as it had been last night.
He put on his lighter coat with Banichi’s help. And Jago came in—Banichi’s partner, only a little shorter than Banichi—in black tee and uniform pants.
“We are all awake, Bren-ji,” she said, meaning Tano and Algini as well. “Breakfast will arrive soon.”
“Excellent,” he said. “I shall do very well, now, for myself, Nichi-ji. Thank you.”
Jago was Bren’s lover, when they were not under hostile observation. She had slept last night in Banichi’s room, and she appeared immaculate as usual despite the lack of her uniform jacket. Armed? Yes. Always.
Even the paidhi carried a pistol at times. At the moment it still resided in his dresser drawer, where one of his bodyguard had placed it. Weapons about the person of Guild were universally expected—but a concealed pistol in the pocket of a member of Tabini-aiji’s court—that could make Machigi’s security justifiably nervous.
So he left it there today and trusted his staff—little good he could do anyway in his condition. He took the left-hand door of his bedroom, which opened onto the sitting room, an elegant room of light greens and pale furniture. It was a very comfortable arrangement, with a fireplace, chairs, a table, a couch—
And two sleeping figures occupied that couch, one black-on-black, Guild-uniformed, leaning on the left arm of the couch; on the right arm, another, pale-skinned, with a mop of blonde curls, sleeping in a russet gown.
Young Veijico, to her credit, was not that far asleep. She lifted her head immediately as the door opened and got up fast, despite a rough couple of days.
Not as hard a couple of days as Barb had had. Barb was asleep, a matter of some worry as she had taken that nasty crack on the head last night.
“Nandi,” Veijico said in a low voice—caught, in plain fact, drowsing, when she had been assigned to keep Barb awake as long as seemed needful. “One has not been negligent. The lady stayed awake into the early morning.”
Veijico was in a difficult position with him and with his bodyguard. True, she had doggedly tracked Barb and a handful of kidnappers—kidnappers who now were dead, thanks to her. It would have been extremely significant to world peace had Veijico had the least clue for him as to what clan the men belonged to. But she hadn’t.
Had she recognized their accents? No, she hadn’t heard them. Barb had. Unfortunately, Barb couldn’t tell a Padi Valley aristocrat’s accent from a Marid fisherman’s.
Had Veijico any clue as to whether the men she had shot were Guild at all?
Yes, but she didn’t recognize any of them. Had she seen them up close? Well, no. They’d fallen, and pretty soon after that, they’d been captured by more Guild.
There were a lot of points in which Veijico had performed both extraordinarily bravely and a great number in which she had created some serious problems. Veijico was on very thin ice with Jago in particular—who did not approve much of Barb, either.
But the latter was on personal issues.
Barb had stirred at the sound of voices and muzzily opened her eyes and sat up, raking a hand through her curls. She looked scared for a second, and then her eyes lit on Bren. There were little sun lines around those eyes—there hadn’t been when Barb had fancied herself his fiancee. She had married someone else. Then divorced. Now she was his brother’s sailing partner—grown wind-worn and tanned; and Bren felt an uncommon tenderness toward her, considering the predicament, which was not wholly her fault, and the sore skull, which was. But Barb seemed to accept it was her fault, and she hadn’t complained.
“How’s the head?” Bren asked her in Mosphei’, the human language.
Barb felt her skull, and winced. “Miserable headache,” she said.
“I’m not surprised at that.” He came and perched aslant on the farther arm of the couch, the one Veijico had left. “There’s a bath down the hall, all our own. A little tub. I recommend it.”
Barb was always slow waking up. Suddenly she blinked, and looked at Veijico, across the room, and at Banichi and Jago, and at him. “Are we all right?” she asked.
“Still all right. I promise you. Go wash up. Are you all right to walk?”
She nodded, winced, and levered herself stiffly to her feet. Veijico looked uncertain what to do at that point, whether to go with her.
“You may wait here, nadi,” Bren said. “The lady will manage.”
Barb walked toward the door, managed, in passing, to lay a hand on his arm, which he was sure nobody—particularly Jago—missed. A human gesture. But human gesture that it was, Barb wasn’t just any human, and Jago’s view of that little gesture was not benevolent: Jago knew Barb, oh, too well. There was past history. A lot of it.
He didn’t forget that history, either, though he viewed Barb with more tolerance than previously—so much so that he could interpret that touch as a thank you, not possessive, not even consciously done. She’d been brave, she’d been sensible throughout—
Well, except when the shooting had started back at Najida. She’d run up the sidewalk, by all reports, probably screaming at the top of her lungs, which had landed her very conspicuous blonde self in the hands of atevi kidnappers . . .
. . . who might or might not have been Taisigi clan—the clan of their current host.
God, he wished Veijico, who’d been tracking them, had some knowledge of Marid clans, enough to know the origins of the men she’d shot.
At least she’d had the sense to surrender Barb on the spot and wait for negotiations.
Which was his job. The sun was up, beginning to shine beyond the heavy curtains of windows that didn’t overlook anything close or useful—and after the miracle of their surviving getting in here, and recovering Barb and Veijico, now came his business: actually getting them all out of here alive.
He very much wanted his morning tea, a hot drink, a space of quiet contemplation. He wanted a place to sit and not have to be in charge of things for at least an hour while he got his wits together and imagined what on earth he
could scrape up to negotiate a meaningful cease-fire with this young lord.
“Might we have tea while we wait for breakfast?” he asked Banichi and Jago. “Did we drink it all last night?”
“There is a supply, nandi,” Veijico piped up. “And a heating plate.”
A tea caddy and service for nine stood on the buffet. So they had a heating plate somewhere. That was, among amenities their host had provided, a very welcome one.
“Then a pot of tea, if you please, nadi.” Veijico, for her past sins, had not yet ascended to “nadi-ji” in his book. But with Barb safe and ambulatory this morning, and in spite of her answering out of turn, Veijico was rising a bit in his esteem.
Veijico rose still further in his good graces when she brought him the hot tea and several pieces of toast without saying a word. Bren had found a seat in a straight chair at a small side table, and Jago had brought him an occasional pillow for his back, which, with the tea and momentary quiet in the room, set him up very well.
He had time for serious thoughts over one entire cup before Barb came back from the bath, scrubbed and with her hair a little damp and wearing the russet gown—the clothing she had worn the night she was kidnapped.
“Cup of tea?” he asked politely, and Barb sat down in the opposite chair, across the little table, moving slowly and carefully.
“So when are we going home?” Barb asked.
Home. That was a curious way to put it. But, then, Barb and Toby’s only home, their boat, was in harbor at his estate.
He poured her a cup of tea himself and offered it, with a saucer and a piece of dry toast. “It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. I’ve been assigned a diplomatic job to do here that is going to take a few days. If I can get you sent home, I will, but otherwise, just settle in, stay inside the suite, and be patient. The dowager has given me a problem to solve.”
Barb held the cup in both hands to drink. It was large and it was warm, and she sat in the atevi-scale chair with her feet off the ground. She had two sips, eyes downcast. Then: “I haven’t even a change of clothes.”