“Mad? Who gave you authority to sell us out, Mr. Cameron? A president who takes his orders from Shejidan?”
“My authority, sir, comes from the aiji in Shejidan, but I am still, in sentiment of origin, Mospheiran. My ancestors, the same as yours, made the trip down from the station to escape administrators who claimed we could never deal with the people native to this planet. That we were doomed to conflict.”
“Sell-out!”
“People willing to risk that encounter left the station in droves, relying on makeshift capsules some of which failed and burned. They left that administration in such numbers that the station began to fail—”
“It was sabotaged.”
“Sabotage was not what forced the last to come down. The last-down came down because they had no choice left, Mr. Woodenhouse, because the station had lost so many technicians it was failing, and they couldn’t keep it going. Some few stayed, and died there in the last viable sections. The ship, when it came back, did find their remains.” It had found other things, too, and God, there were things not in the stories they fed to primer-school students, and not the sanitized version they celebrated in Foundation Day. “But the last that did come down, bringing weapons the world had not seen before then, Mr. Woodenhouse, were not the ones who had found a way to communicate with atevi, they were not the ones who made the agreements that let humans settle down and live. Give credit to the first-down, Mr. Woodenhouse. They did not come down here to insist that humans are somehow the universe’s wisest and brightest, with rights that trump all agreements. The first-down just wanted a place to live. And bring up families. And here we are, living on land granted us by atevi, native to this world. And now when sent a treaty of peace from a neighboring species that could, if it were hostile, turn the surface of this world to volcanic glass in a handful of strikes—with what otherwise are likely its tools—who in their right mind now stands up to question the integrity of the negotiations?”
He paused for breath. Woodenhouse was silent for a second. The whole committee room was, for a second, quiet. He took advantage of it, saying quietly: “There is knowledge out there in the universe, Mr. Woodenhouse, there is new science which we will be privileged to share with other species.”
“Share!” Woodenhouse shouted. “Who determines that?”
“—Righteous lords of the universe, no, Mr. Woodenhouse, we are not that, not nearly. We are one species of three in the immediate vicinity. Mospheirans have just been, in negotiations conducted by an atevi mission, honored by the kyo with a separate document agreeing to peace, and the atevi negotiators never questioned Mospheira’s interests being important. We are respected equally in this document. Yes, as a world, we still have a lot to learn. But we have learned to respect intelligence and civility, no matter the physical package in which it comes. With that start, and this relationship with our neighbors, we have a good chance to become wise—if we learn what the other two species know and let them know us. And once we are wise, I doubt very much if we will ever despise good quiet neighbors. I am an optimist, Mr. Woodenhouse. I insist humans can not only survive, they can become a relevant participant in a multispecies universe, and that calling each other foreigners on the same planet will lead nowhere good.”
Woodenhouse was still shouting, the gavel was still banging as he finished, and Woodenhouse finished with, “Damned traitor!”
“Mr. Woodenhouse,” Chair said. “Mr. Woodenhouse, you are warned.” And when Woodenhouse continued to pound his desk with his fists: “Sergeant-at-arms, remove the delegate from Hamptonsville.”
“Our liberty is done for!” Woodenhouse screamed. “We are delivered over to aliens and foreigners! Tyers has sold us out! We are selling out the human dream!”
Bren stood up, abandoning the advantage of the microphone, but claiming his own share of visual attention, and showed a calm face to the committee members as the sergeant-at-arms took charge of Woodenhouse and escorted him toward the door. He had not gained place in the aiji’s court by engaging in parting arguments, figurative or literal. He simply put on a slightly regretful expression, folded his arms, and watched, as no few watched from their seats, until the irate representative was set outside the door and the door was shut.
His own aishid was outside, under strict orders to defer to the sergeant-at-arms and to disregard any uproar short of bloodletting. They understood. They had stood by him in meetings of the atevi legislature.
He sat down—speaking no word until he had control of the microphone again. “Mr. Chairman,” he said equably, “thank you. Should the delegate from Hamptonsville wish to revise and amend his remarks, I shall ask the same privilege.”
“The gentleman from Hamptonsville was not accorded the floor,” Chair said, a member of State. Bang went the gavel. “Recorder will strike his remarks.”
“Mr. Chairman,” Bren said quietly, reasonably—and immensely satisfied to have linked the words station administrators to the Heritage Party program, publicly and on record. “I ask that the remarks of the gentleman from Hamptonsville be appended into the record as preceding my own, so as not to lose the context of my reply, which I would ask be included.”
“Granted.”
“I conclude my remarks and rest, open to questions of whatever nature.”
• • •
Getting back into the saddle—required a strong, quick move. Which, predictably, hurt, as rump met leather, and hurt again as Jeichido straightened from her mounting stance, and rose up the height of a tall man at the shoulders, not counting the neck and head, peace-caps glinting as she turned a bright gold eye to look askance at Uncle’s herd-leader.
Herd-leader was having none of it. He snorted and sauntered past, daring a young fool to rake a tusk across his rump.
Cajeiri took in the single rein and tapped Jeichido’s rump gently to swing her about and follow, as his aishid, the four seniors and Veijico and Lucasi, with two of Uncle’s own, single-filed out of the stableyard—the latter two riding the mecheiti from their last visit, and the seniors riding the ones from their own first day, which might become a permanent selection. They took two with them, since they were picking Antaro and Jegari up at the gate. They would change mounts, so those two went under saddle. Others including the pushy two-year-old male Uncle proposed to send off to Diegi with Jeichido, went bareback and without restraint, attached to the herd-leader in fairly reasonable order. When the herd went out, everybody went, and the more of them that were ridden, the better, so three of the grooms went along, including the young woman Uncle proposed to run the Diegi stables . . .
It was a plot Uncle had put together during his last visit. He began to be sure of it. Uncle had a lot of yearlings and two-year-olds, and it probably was a good idea to split the herd . . . but if the other herd-leader was going to be Jeichido, he had to learn a good deal more than just how to stay on and stay out of trouble. He had to do a lot more practicing, and Uncle and mani could teach him, but he had to learn, given Uncle thought they were going to shift another herd-leader in periodically and not have a fight.
Politics. Even among the mecheiti. Habituation. Respect. He saw that one thing was not the other, but neither were they entirely separate. Like people. Like mecheiti.
Like his aishid, and the new one. It was his fault if things went wrong, because he could find no ill will in any of them, none at all. The seniors could still leave if they wished—but he had begun, as of yesterday, to hope that they would not. That would mean, for one thing, that he had failed, and he would not do that.
He paid attention to Uncle’s lessons, very tiny lessons, just the most minute things about where his feet were, and where his hands were, and how he sat—the most minute twitches of the rein, and the smallest twitch of the foot resting in the bow of Jeichido’s neck. It occupied her attention, for one thing, so completely that she moved easily within reach of Uncle’s herd-leader, not fighting, not tryi
ng to nip or slash.
“You know so much,” he said to Uncle. “One hardly knows how many things you know.”
Uncle laughed—one almost never heard Uncle laugh. “This thing I know, and your great-grandmother knows. Mecheiti detest boredom. Your touch, your voice, your balance is a conversation that engages them. Mospheira can teach your human companions to be Mospheiran. The mecheiti have lessons for us, many, many lessons.”
It was true, he thought. He was learning. He had never been so conscious of his own self as giving signals, constantly, or withholding them. It was a deep thing, an important thing, he felt it—something mani practiced better than anyone. One could read her displeasure—yet again, read nothing, or read just what mani wanted read. One could be scared, but Jeichido should never know it—one could be interested in a thing, and Jeichido’s head would turn, and she would look, and estimate it for herself, but he could feel her mood—interested, but not excited enough to go there.
There was so, so much to learn before he could have a seat like mani, or Uncle. He could still be caught by surprise, and earnestly hoped not to be made a fool in front of everybody.
They were on their way to meet Antaro and Jegari at the gate. He had thought yesterday he would like to go all the way to the Taibeni camp to meet them, but this morning, sore as he was, yielding to his senior aishid’s request to meet at the gate had great merit.
So they had agreed.
It was still a long roundabout ride, coming around again to the tall iron gates and their deep stone pillars, overgrown until the hedges had to be pruned to clear the hinges.
There they stopped, and there Rieni said, quietly, “Be aware, nandiin, the caution from yesterday persists.”
“They have not dismissed it,” Uncle asked.
“No, nandi. They have not seen a repetition, but they have not discovered the cause. They have filed a report with the Guild, not a complaint, but a request for an explanation of the intrusion, and thus far Ajuri has not answered.”
“No one there,” Uncle said, “is able to take responsibility. Nor can.” By now it was sure Ajuri still had no lord. Father would have vetoed the nomination, Uncle’s associates were likely unhappy, and the situation in Ajuri continued unsettled. It was not, Cajeiri thought, a good time for Ajuri to be making incursions well into another Clan’s area. They might be a little over their limits, in the borders, among settlements and villages and farms that were a little of this clan, a little of the other, a status respected by both, but to go beyond that—if the one region was unsettled, with nobody in charge—that was enough to upset Taiben.
But Rieni and Antaro began using communications halfway through the ride, and affirmed that there was no problem, nothing further, just nothing explained. And when they did come near the gate, and opened it, it was no long wait at all before Antaro and Jegari turned up, having come some little distance afoot.
“Up, up,” Uncle said, and with Uncle and his aishid making a living screen, keeping order, Uncle’s aishid quickly moved the two reserve mecheiti into position for Antaro and Jegari, who were into the saddles with no fuss. Cajeiri felt Jeichido’s unease, right through her body into his, and he administered the lightest little touch of the quirt, just a distraction from her fixation on the unusual activity. Jeichido swayed her tall neck and swung her hindquarters still to have a look at the two, and she sucked in wind to utter an opinion: another tap, two more, and she let the breath go with a grunt.
Manners. Not just staying on. Manners, and listening to each other. That was what Uncle said. He was just mildly proud that two of his aishid could manage that slightly dangerous move that smoothly.
“Was it a good visit?” he asked, as Antaro and Jegari rode near.
“Very good, nandi,” Antaro said. “Everyone is well. Everyone is very well.” The gate was shutting, controlled from the house, and Uncle was turning the herd back the way they had come, sedately, no matter the mecheiti were anxious to go. “We have been in contact with Lord Keimi at Taiben. There has been no further trouble.”
Uncle was near them, in a position to hear it, too. “Excellent,” Uncle said, and they rode on their way.
Uncle gave another exercise, which was having the herd quicken pace—and then slow down, not what they wanted to do, with the prospect of stable and food in their heads. Speed up. Slow down to a walk, all disciplined.
He was amazed at himself. Not a year ago he would have let Jeichido go as fast as she could, just for the joy of it. But the notion that he could get control with just so very little a touch—that, he thought, that was how Uncle sat that way, and managed the herd-leader, whose behavior dictated all the rest. If Uncle were not keeping the leader in hand, he would not have such an easy time with Jeichido, and what Uncle did with the herd-leader—that was a kind of communication that had not happened all in one try. He wanted that kind of control. His herd, his stable, with Jeichido . . . he understood, finally, it was not just a building and a handful of mecheiti Uncle and mani picked. It shaped the people who rode in a company. It taught them things. Even the seniors were paying attention to Uncle, even Antaro and Jegari were, right along with Lucasi and Veijico, because there were a thousand ways to do a thing wrong, mani would say, but there were many fewer to do it right.
He was glad he had come here. He was glad to have taken Uncle’s mind off the veto and glad he had finally had this chance with Uncle, just the two of them—well, officially just the two of them, with Uncle’s full attention, after all the association in his nine years. Finally he began to know his great-uncle, and to feel a connection of his own, not through anybody else.
Hardest, when they had gotten very near the stable. Then he made a mistake in attention, or twitched a foot, or something. Jeichido made a move forward, which, if she broke past Uncle and the herd-leader, would bring the herd-leader onto the move, a danger to Uncle and him if a fight broke out.
Quirt, gently; rein, gentle, body-shift, slight—his heart was pounding, but he applied pressure to turn, just matter-of-factly, the same as he had in other orders, and Jeichido turned, quite easily, shaking her head and taking a swipe at Antaro’s mecheita as she circled back. He had her listening, however: he gave a little tap, a little pressure, and kept Jeichido moving, long strides, spring-loaded as if she could explode at any instant. Move, move, move, and turn, as he reached the stragglers—their passage crosswise disorganized them, and one confused youngster followed Jeichido a moment, but fell back.
Another turn, to make a small circle, to give Jeichido another focus beyond the stable, and as he swung about he felt her every muscle tense, neck no longer lax, head forward, sharp focus, not on the herd-leader or the stable, but the orchard a good distance beyond the stableyard rails.
Movement. His eye caught it. For a cold, clear moment he saw a man in the orchard, moving among the trees, and he felt Jeichido move.
No. He reined in, settled her, thinking, Fool, and rode Jeichido back toward the fore, with a little space to make it back in the order. The gate was opening. Herd-leader was going in. Jeichido was not far behind, scraping the gate-post with her shoulder, still on the alert. She made a sound that the herd-leader echoed, a low moan, and Cajeiri was, for the moment, glad to settle her down, glad that the herd-leader was making his bow to let Uncle dismount, and glad to be safe in the yard.
He could dismount with a swing on the mounting-straps, and just get down, but today was for care and training, and making rules. He made Jeichido extend a leg and lower a shoulder, so he could swing down and set his feet on the earth. He began to work at her harness strap himself, but Jegari came over to help him, and took over.
“I saw someone,” he said. “Someone was in the orchard. Jeichido saw him.”
“Where did he go?”
“He vanished. He may have climbed a tree.”
“I would, if I were out and saw the herd coming in.”
That was a thought, if it was staff taking a chance despite the warning that always went out when the herd was abroad. On the one hand somebody could get killed, but on the other, it was bad for the herd, too, to kill someone who smelled like the household, and Uncle would be twice upset, really upset.
Granted that was what the person was.
“Tell the seniors,” Cajeiri said. “Uncle might fire whoever it was. But we had better ask who it was.”
Jegari moved. Fast.
Cajeiri finished the job, a little anxious taking the bridle off, and hoping Jeichido did not pick up his nervousness. He managed to get her head down—and she tried to rake the bridle off, but when he did drag it free, she moved away, not toward the grain, as the inner doors opened, but out into the yard. There she stood staring toward the orchard, nostrils wide and sides heaving with deep breaths.
Uncle was looking in that direction, too, for a moment, before they all, Guild and himself and Uncle, went out the gate a groom opened for them.
“She smells something,” Uncle said.
“I saw something,” Cajeiri said quietly. “I saw someone, Uncle.”
By then the seniors had headed through the rails and over toward the orchard. Jegari came and joined them.
“The seniors want us to go inside, nandiin,” Jegari said.
“Go. Assist them,” Uncle said, and his two Guild headed off to join the seniors, who were headed toward the orchard.
They went inside, into the lower sitting room, a place with leather chairs, and dim lighting, old, and rough enough for people who had come in from riding. Uncle ordered tea, and they waited, while Cajeiri sat and recalled that once before that orchard had been a route for assassins.
“You rode very well today,” Uncle said to him. “Very well. One noted Jeichido’s little move.”