Mani said there was a ghost on the lake near Malguri—one never knew if mani believed in ghosts, but he rather thought she wanted to, in spite of being practical. Maybe it was part of being smart—that one could make things exist that might not exist, because they were useful, because they let people think about things without thinking about today, and understand things without it necessarily being about Ajuri and Atageini, but about something else.
It was about all that accumulation of armor. And cups. People had worn that, and used those, and they were all bones, now, like that creature raging in the glass box. It was not about Ajuri, and yet Ajuri had, like a ghost, life that they imagined it had.
Maybe, between what he imagined, and what Nomari imagined, and what Uncle and the Guild imagined, they could shape it into something more like the cups, and less like the armor.
Uncle had made peace with Taiben, after two hundred years of people saying it was impossible, over a stupid little patch of woods around one of the world’s oldest train stations, and an old lord who now was just an armored shell, with the colors fading. Uncle had imagined something different, because it had become practical to do it.
He found it practical to change some things, too, and to hold fast to others.
And to make associates who thought a pebble, a bare little rock smoothed by centuries in a stream, was a great wonder to hold in the hand.
There were going to be changes in the world. He had to stay alive, and be patient with people who saw things otherwise, and imagine ghosts into existence, just to test the ideas.
He had made associates of humans, and of Hakuut an Ti.
Could he not make one of a young man who called him cousin?
16
It seemed worth a question why, psychologically, dispensers of justice, human and atevi alike, wore black.
In the case of the atevi Assassins’ Guild, Banichi and the rest, it was the occasional need for stealth, one supposed, that and the fact that atevi night vision was far, far keener than human—in an arrangement in which Guild might oppose Guild, given competing Filings of Intent.
In one’s own species, perhaps the black robes were simply intended to convey solemnity and set the justices apart from other citizens. It was, in its own way, imposing. But none of the justices bore weapons . . . unlike the Guild.
Such extraneous thoughts filled a mind left too long during a minute—extremely minute—dissection of the treaty document.
“How,” a justice asked, Justice White, ironically named—“are we to rely on the language of the first section, as interpreted by their authorities, when we cannot be sure of the basic content?”
“I was able to gain some acquaintance with the written language. I cannot claim a full knowledge of the kyo language, but I have worked with their writing, and do see a correspondence between kyo words the meaning of which I know, and words in the Ragi and Mosphei’ sections of the document. The structure and length of the document seems similar.”
“Appointing Reunion as a future meeting place.”
“Yes, Your Honor, a site they do hold, and where they have apparently maintained a presence. May I make a short statement, Your Honor?”
“Do,” White said.
“Initially there was some thought that we might be able to conceal our defenseless state from the kyo, that they might believe there were other ships abroad, and we thought that we could protect ourselves by seeming more advanced than we are. As I began to understand, and as I believe the ship-folk knew from the start, they will learn nothing by their possession of Reunion that denies the truth of what they observed of us at close range—steam trains, a limited access to space, in short, a young civilization, no threat to them at all, incapable of any defense against them. We destroyed the Archive records there, but very many other sources of information would have escaped that erasure. We also had a chance to observe the effect of their attack, on the physical structure of Reunion. It convinces us that the kyo might, at their whim, have laid claim to our entire solar system. Instead, they wanted us to agree not to visit them except at the appointed contact point, and they, reciprocally, will leave us to our own devices—leaving us free to develop in our own path, in our own way, and satisfying our own needs. This is the structural framework of that very simple document. We don’t enter their territory and they don’t enter ours, except by an appointed doorway. It’s simple, but it answers all questions of access, identification, proper and improper behavior for us toward them and them toward us, and definition of our territories in a three-dimensional space. Nothing forbids us traveling in any other direction. And they are, without stating it, our buffer between us and any intrusion from a direction we know to be inhabited. In a very large and dangerous universe, Your Honors, disinvolvement and nonaggression is a valuable declaration. That direction is safeguarded. Simple as it is, it is a good agreement.”
The justices leaned together, conferred at some length. Bren took a sip of water.
Then another justice asked: “Regarding the former inhabitants of Reunion, Mr. Cameron, can you explain why the plan to build a second colony is off the table?”
Change of direction. But a simple one to answer.
“Very simply, Your Honor, the plan never had substance. The materials to build would have to be mined, and the project would take decades, with decades more to show any return. The Reunioners are in the main not construction operators—of the five thousand, only about a hundred have that skill. The rest, including children, including older adults, have to be housed and fed somewhere, and their presence on the station, or on any construction yet to be built, demands, by treaty, an equal influx of atevi, which would send the population level soaring beyond anything the station can possibly support without its own considerable expansion. Five thousand people, including older folk and children, including clericals, scientists, technicians who know Reunioner materials, Reunioner science—are not a burden to a planet. Bringing them down offers them a comfortable life without shortages, and likewise frees the station of supporting them.”
“They can tolerate living here.”
“With medications as the stopgap solution. Some may have to go back. But we think it likely they can adapt. Our ancestors certainly did, after as long a time in space.”
Another conference.
And a question from the third justice. “Mr. Cameron, regarding your own status, do you still claim Mospheiran citizenship?”
“I would not presume to instruct the court, but as I have never renounced it, I would assume I still have it. Whether or not I have it, I am capable under the law of the aishidi’tat of representing the President to the aiji or vice versa, but it was recently useful for me to have that citizenship to represent the President to the kyo.”
“Did you do so?”
“The transcript will show I did. Yes, Your Honor, faithfully so.”
“The aiji has placed three children under his protection.”
“Four, counting a boy named Bjorn Andresson, yes, Your Honor.”
“And designated them to be trained for your office.”
“That is his wish. It is easily possible to have multiple paidhiin at once, from the atevi point of view, and should they not wish to take up the office, that will be their choice. The aiji wishes them to be educated as Mospheiran, so that they may represent Mospheiran interests and explain Mospheiran opinions, but it does not preclude others being appointed at any time, from this side of the strait. What Mospheira may choose to do is, again, within the view of atevi law, up to Mospheira to determine. The aiji, being an ally, will receive any paidhi appointed to speak to him.”
“Under which law are you currently appointed, Mr. Cameron?”
“At the moment, Your Honor, I know I am appointed by atevi law, and sent by the aiji, but I was requested here by the President.”
“Have you been recompensed?”
&
nbsp; Touchy question. “I have not received salary from Mospheira since two months after I returned with the Reunion mission.”
Someone dropped a pen, which echoed in the chamber.
“Peculiar, one would agree,” the justice said. “You no longer maintain an office here.”
“And no longer incur expense here,” he said. “I do still receive interest on the bank account I maintain, and on that interest I do pay Mospheiran taxes.”
“The salary in arrears would be a considerable sum by now.”
“It would be. But no sum of money dictates my loyalty, Your Honor.” He had no wish to go into detail on finance, or a bank account which during the troubles on the mainland had slipped funds to Toby, for reasons the State Department knew—and he suspected that the cessation of his salary since his return to the world had more to do with the State Department’s operations, possibly even a simple clerical glitch. Clandestine operations involving Toby had found the absent paidhi’s bank account a convenience during the recent troubles. It had let Toby get funds to obtain materials and information in various places neither the Mospheiran Foreign Office nor various atevi guilds would want to discuss.
And when Tabini had returned to power, and the flow of those clandestine funds had ceased—possibly some efficient accountant in State had simply closed off the flow of funds.
So, no, he had absolutely no wish to try to explain that situation to Revenue or the Judiciary Committee. It would need intervention by State to work that tangle out—a flow from funds the Foreign Office didn’t itself discuss.
A nod from the justice, one of the older ones, whose views of the goings-on in space could be problematic, but not, he sensed, in this instance.
It was, as hearings went, relatively benign.
“I believe we have had,” the Chief Justice said, “a fair and honest account. We will issue a ruling on your own citizenship and empowerment, but if my colleagues will consent to a finding—my own inclination is to rule it never lapsed. And if the aishidi’tat considers you to be a citizen of the aishidi’tat, that is its affair, and of no concern to Mospheiran law.” The Chief Justice looked left and right, obtaining only nods. “Then we settle that technicality. As to the advisory on the treaty, we would have wished more precise language, but we understand that any language at all was an achievement, and we will create a special framework for it, so that no Mospheiran law creates a roadblock to its implementation or attempts to derive precedent from it in domestic law. It stands, in effect, exactly as written, and with binding effect on Mospheiran citizens. Only one thing needs to be written: a law defining what level of authorization it would take to make contact with the kyo.”
“Or any other species,” Justice White said.
“I would not go that far,” Justice O’Hara said.
“Mr. Cameron?”
“Your Honors, in the venture of the ship to any other territory, it is a sovereign entity, but it has now entered a period of reassessment of its policies and actions. An agreement with the ship, with the aishidi’tat, with Mospheira, might carry that sensible restraint into generations yet to come—by treaty.”
“That would be a decision of the executive.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Be it noted, I would be willing to negotiate such a treaty if it were the President’s decision to seek it.”
“Will you recommend it?”
“I would certainly recommend it.”
Benign, though he had had some concern about the mood of the Justices, and his own freehand treaty-writing. He was relieved . . . except the notion, potentially an issue for him or his successors, that he could not renounce Mospheiran citizenship . . . and evade Mospheiran law. Still . . . he had the power of the aishidi’tat to enforce its claim and get him back. That power would not surrender him to any other government, and in a time of peace, there was no problem.
The meeting on the morrow—he was sure would not be half so pleasant . . . or so cooperative.
• • •
It was a peculiar breakfast arrangement, a little service table set across the threshold of Nomari’s room, with a servant at his shoulder, a serving before him.
Likewise Cajeiri settled into a little hard chair outside Nomari’s confinement, and to a plate a servant provided.
There were no knives, but there were spoons and forks.
And two tureens of a fine order of porridge and jam, and crisp rolls with ama seeds atop.
“I feel I must be in your debt,” Nomari said, after a sip of tea. “I have never eaten so well.”
“I wish more than anything—well, more than anything convenient—that we might go riding,” Cajeiri said. “For my birthday, mani and Uncle gifted me a mecheita, and I have only scarcely gotten to ride her once, and had one lesson.”
“One does not believe your uncle would trust me with a mecheita, much less his nephew. And I confess I cannot ride.”
“You cannot ride?” That seemed a sad situation. And not likely in a country house.
“Now, if you ask me how to switch a train to another track I can do that.”
It seemed a very useful sort of thing to know. “How?” he asked, and by the time they finished the porridge Nomari had told him the difference between a stock rail and a switch rail and shown him, with one of Uncle’s spoons and the berry fork, just how the Red Train could be sure it was going to Sidonin and not to Najida.
“That is,” Cajeiri said, “the shift the train makes just as it goes past the hotels.”
“Exactly,” Nomari said. “That is the Bujavid Hill number three, or the 1113 if one is outside the city system. I have thrown that switch.”
“Have you? Have you ever thrown it for the Red Train?”
“Several times,” Nomari said. “I serve properly on maintenance, but they always have maintenance up if the Red Train is rolling.”
“That is so amazing! I might have been on that train!”
Nomari was amused. “They never tell who is in the Red Car,” Nomari said. “And I never had clearance to be up in the Bujavid tunnels. But I would watch it pass and wonder who was aboard. They never tell us, but sometimes you can guess.”
“How do you guess?”
“Oh, by where it goes, and whether other cars are in the consist.”
“What is a consist?”
“A consist is the number and type of cars that make up a train.”
The Red Train had the Red Car and a baggage car. But sometimes it took a second car, if Father was going, or if mani was moving part of her herd across the high mountains.
“The Guild should think about these things!”
“That they should,” Nomari said with a smile. “And I am sure they do.”
“But you never have ridden?”
“I rode when I was very young,” he said. “At Ajiden. But when I was ten, things changed. They moved the herd out. They moved others in. And I no longer had permission.” Nomari had gotten serious a moment. Then turned more pleasant. “I remember enough to get on from the stable gate. That was how I got on. I was not the best rider.”
“I can get on from the ground,” Cajeiri said. “I hardly remember learning. I think I had to.” That in itself was not the best memory. “Does Sidonin have switches?”
“There will be one a little distance out, that goes up to the northern towns, one that goes down to the south. If you go south, the next is Modigi. Are you testing whether I am Transport?”
“No. I want to know!”
Nomari gave a silent laugh, and helped himself to toast. “Do you?”
“I cannot learn these things in the Bujavid,” he said. “But you know.”
“You want to know everything, do you?”
“If I could,” he said, “I would know everything. Everything is useful. My great-grandmother taught me that.”
“Your great-gran
dmother. The aiji-dowager.”
“Yes. Mani. She knows all sorts of things.”
“You went to space with her.”
“Yes.”
“Did you ask questions all the way there, too?”
“Wherever I could.”
“Then I imagine you already know a lot of things,” Nomari said. “An impressive lot of things. I see why they call you a little scary.”
“Me? Who calls me that?”
“People. Regular people. They say you are one part your great-grandmother and one part your father. I wondered, when I decided to try to talk to you, whether there was anything of your grandfather.”
Now they were not talking about railroad switches. Now they were talking about family, and people he knew, and a grandfather who had been murdered, and he became very much more wary. He planned his questions now, not about such wonderful things as railroad switches.
“Did you know him?”
“No,” Nomari said. “Kadiyi, Komaji—We did not even live at Adijen most of the time. We had a house in Puran. That is what I mostly remember. My father would go to Adijen. We were happy in Puran.” The look on his face was not happy. “I’ve upset you. I was sorry about your grandfather.”
He thought about saying, Be more sorry about my father’s staff, my father’s aishid, and all the people Shishogi killed. But he held that back, and let Uncle’s servant provide another pot of tea.
He thought, watching Nomari lift the pot and pour himself a cup before the servant could provide an after-meal cup, I wonder if he ever knew my mother when she was there.
I wonder if they spoke. He’s about as old as my mother.
She had left Ajuri when she was young, too. She ran away at Winter Festival, when everybody was in Shejidan. She saw the Atageini banner and went to it, and asked Uncle to live with him.