She had stayed a few years. Then went back to Grandfather, when Kadiyi was lord.
Why did she leave Uncle? Uncle hated Grandfather, that was one thing. And Mother had tried to live with both of them. But maybe the pieces would not fit.
“Did you know my mother?” he asked, adding two lumps of sugar to an after-meal cup of his own, and maybe it skirted propriety, asking serious questions at table. But they were sitting at a table that blocked Nomari into a room and blocked him out, with security hovering behind the servants.
“Not well,” he said. “Her father was very protective of her. He did not want us to spend time together. We did meet. But my father did not get on with that side of the family, and I understood I was not wanted in her immediate vicinity. That was how it was.”
“Do you think she would know you?” he asked, taking a sip.
“Tell her—tell her when she fell in the garden, I was that boy. She might remember.”
“Why did she fall?”
“She was trying to climb the statue, out in the garden. I said stop, she slipped, and she probably never has forgiven me.”
“I shall tell her,” he said, thinking that, if his mother was Nomari’s only hope for a recommendation, it was a thin hope.
He sipped his tea. Nomari sipped his. He was not used to thinking of his mother as a little girl. But that his mother had broken rules—that sounded possible. His mother had never liked to be told no.
“My mother has a daughter, now,” he said.
“I have heard,” Nomari said.
Of course he would have heard. The whole world had heard that. He had no tidbits of family news to give, nothing that he ought to say. The little table they shared barriered them from each other. But a lot more than that did.
He asked: “What else do you remember about my mother? Do you know why she ran away to Tirnamardi?”
Nomari shook his head. “Not exactly.”
“Do you have any idea?”
“Benedi had died. Kadiyi became lord.” Nomari turned the little cup on the table-top, looking at it, not at him. “I was gone from the house by then. My family was dead.”
The conversation had gone to a horrible place. “Why?” he asked. It was his job to ask, with the Guild taking up every word; and he asked because it was his family, too. “Was it all the same reason?”
“I have no idea why she left,” Nomari said, and now his face had closed down and become still. “I know my reason for leaving. I came to the guilds. I came to the one that would let me travel. That was my thinking. I was shut in for a few years, learning the basics, but it led outside. And that is where Ajuri have tended to go, to the guilds. Your mother had another place to go, and she went there.”
Secrets. Things his mother never talked about. Questions she never answered. Maybe she had answered him for his father. Maybe when his father heard these things, a lot about Nomari would fall into place. Maybe Uncle knew.
But he was still without the answers. It was not an uncommon situation, that secrets flew about him, and none were within reach.
“Are any of your associates in the Assassins’ Guild?” he asked.
“No. None of mine. That is the one place my associates would not go.”
“But some did.”
“No few did, from Ajuri.” Nomari covered the cup with his hand when the servant attempted to take it, to replace with another. “I thank you for the breakfast, cousin.”
He was not in a position to be dismissed. He was not of a rank to be dismissed, even if their relative ages could let Nomari assume the privilege.
“Please,” Nomari said.
That was the right word. He accepted that and turned his cup so the key design faced him, ending matters. “My uncle is not angry with you,” he said. “But he is careful.”
Nomari nodded. “One understands that entirely.”
Cajeiri got up. Nomari got up. On opposite sides of a doorway they each gave a little bow.
Only one of them could walk away.
17
“We shall go see the Committee on Linguistics,” Bren said to his aishid, on the morning, as Narani was bringing his coat, “and we must expect certain people to be loud and improper. Do not react in the least.”
“This seems frequent here,” Algini remarked dryly.
“All too frequent,” he said, amused, and thrust his arm into the offered coat, retaining a practiced and careful grip on the lace. It was dress to the maximum, court regalia, his second-best, however—he went no further than that for the Committee. “Wilson-nandi is not our only problem, but his seniority lies heavy on committee decisions—at least regarding the Foreign Office selections. And he will not be happy to be told he will not have absolute governance of the Reunioner children, and that their selection is settled.”
“Will he know it by now?” Jago asked.
“He may.” Second arm, and a shrug that settled the coat on his shoulders, atop the detested vest. “I truly wish I did have the good will of my predecessor. His detestation of me is emotional and deep, capable of overwhelming his common sense, and very unfortunately, he occasionally has a similar effect on me. I shall try to restrain it.” He stood while Narani attended the details, the adjustment of his queue and ribbon. “Nadiin-ji, I have had my arm broken and I have been shot, and I do not bear those who did it any particular animosity. I cannot say the same of Wilson. Nor, certainly, will Tabini-aiji, in his dealings with the man. Yet television and its images led to aviation, both designs dropped on an unprepared public. Wilson maintains to this day that his notes were stolen. Others hold that Wilson surrendered the notes in fear for his life. But we should always remember that without Wilson’s gifts, we would not have been prepared for Phoenix to return, and certainly we would not have been prepared for space. Wilson calls me reckless.” He managed a smile. “I intend to give him all possible respect. Will he receive it graciously? He has not, in the past. But bear with him, even if he throws a water glass at me. He did, once.”
• • •
The meeting with the Committee on Linguistics was not in Francis House. It was in Obert Hall, on University grounds, which required a car and driver—not that they couldn’t drive on their own, but they were guests, and Francis House provided transport—a van, more elegant transport having too low an overhead.
It was, however, a comfortable van, more like a small bus, with ample seats. And in addition to the driver, it came with Francis House security, an earnest young man in a dark blue suit, with no visible armament. The young man might feel a little superfluous in the company of Banichi and the rest, armed as they were with visible sidearms, but he was polite, and zealous about watching around about as they all piled in and settled comfortably. Their young security agent sat up front next to the driver, and there was, they found, sparkling water and glasses, a healthy breeze from the air conditioning, and a fair view from the windows.
It was a chance to see the town—which had changed very little in the vicinity of Francis House, but past the iron fence, and beyond the boulevard of aged trees, they emerged into a district of fairly new buildings. “Offices,” he said, “likely legislative offices and hotels. Restaurants.” He saw several of those as they went. “The legislature is in session here for a third of the term. This is all similar to the gathering at the foot of the Bujavid. But without the antiquity.” That area in Shejidan was quite old, dating, some of it, from before the aishidi’tat itself. “We should be turning to the right, soon. The University sits a little higher than this, in an older district.”
The van did make the turn onto a boulevard. Older buildings swung into view, a well-manicured central parkway.
“There is a public park in that direction,” Bren said, indicating the right hand, where an intersecting road descended toward the harbor. Water was scarcely visible from here, among the luxury homes, but the road did le
ad that way. “Quite popular for the view. There was an observatory on the ridge, but it has long since moved to the hills, because of the city lights . . .”
Familiar places, not a familiar circumstance. He had used to take the bus from an area far to the east, from a far humbler residence. He had an impulse to ask the driver, on their return, to pass that apartment, and see how it was, now.
But that time was past, there were no monuments, and the passing years probably would have worn on the building, which was definitely not on the historic list. He had a memory of it, vivid as it needed to be. He didn’t need to complicate it with its current condition. There’d be no plaque on the corner saying Cameron House, not likely.
As it was, he saw they’d cut down a row of trees on University Drive that probably had gotten too large and heaved up the pavement, but, damn, they’d been good trees. And that godawful modern building on the corner, God only knew what that housed, but it had been the fairly comfortable student center. At the moment it looked as if a pile of construction sheets had gotten caught in a high wind. Modern? He’d seen modern, upstairs, on the space station. He’d seen a kyo ship look more familiar.
“You seem displeased,” Jago said.
“We used to have a restaurant there, a sort of tea room that sold confections. They’ve cut down the old trees that used to shade the open-air tables. One assumes there is still a sort of tea room, but likely twice the price. With no outdoor tables.”
“A sort of a park, then.”
“On the edge of the district. It was a sort of park.” The driver turned them toward the broad end of the oval, where trees did remain. Obert Hall still stood, a many-windowed fortress at the end of the oval of the oldest buildings, which he was glad to see remained, though Topp Hall had a too-modern portico leading to Mostander, for what particular reason one could not guess.
Instructions were coming to their security person, one guessed: he was holding an earpiece close to his ear and talking to the driver—and it was not surprising to have the van head onto a small drive that led around to parking and to a freight area. Celebrity and notoriety alike never got the front of a building: it was very commonly the loading dock and the underbelly of the grand building or the event.
In this case it was into a garage, and a place of concrete and old plaster, more historic, at least, than the portico at Topp, cracked and many times painted. The van stopped.
“I know this place,” he said to his aishid, before their security person had time to turn in his seat and inform them they would use the freight access.
“I know it well,” he said. There’d been the day, early on, when he had come in the front door to Obert, unremarked and unrecognized. That day was not this day, and when the driver and security got out and came back to open the van door, it was in Guild order they exited, Banichi and Jago first, then himself, then Tano and Algini, and that was the way it would be, sidearms and all.
“They are sending someone down,” their security said—Burns, his name was.
“That’s all right,” Bren said. “I know my way. Will you stay with the van? If they want the space, the driver can move it, but on no account are you to leave the van, either of you.”
“Yes, sir,” Burns said, with a slightly uneasy look at atevi towering about them. “We’ll watch it.”
Burns was Presidential security, scant though the presence was, in the Mospheiran concept of a secure guard. Shawn himself wasn’t accustomed to having more. And one hoped it stayed sufficient.
The antique freight lift opened, let out a young man with a clipboard, who looked completely shocked. Confused. But who did manage to identify the one blond man in atevi court dress among the towering Guild security.
“Mr. Cameron?”
“You are?”
“Stockton. Aden Stockton. Secretary to Mr. Koman.”
“I take it the Committee is on schedule.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I take it that lift will deliver us to third level, where we’ll transfer to a regular lift.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s go up.”
“They—” A glance about, at four very tall people.
“They go where I go, Mr. Stockton. Always.”
“They can’t . . .”
“Regulations forbid them to be without weapons when abroad with me, Mr. Stockton, and if their presence doesn’t alarm the President of Mospheira, it shouldn’t worry the Committee on Linguistics. You can share the lift with us. I assure you you’ll be perfectly safe.”
“Yes, sir.” Stockton didn’t stir to do anything. Bren went to the freight lift himself and waited until Banichi and Jago had boarded. Then Stockton joined them, squeezed into the corner as Tano and Algini came in. Stockton started the lift moving, staying as close to the control panel as possible all the way to third, where the lift let them out in a dingy back hallway. From there, a doorway to the public corridor and the regular lift system gave them a quick ride to the fourth floor.
Oh, indeed he’d been here.
Mr. Stockton led the way—he needn’t have. The end of the hall was a pair of doors, wood and hammered glass, and Mr. Stockton opened one door of the pair. Banichi and Jago arrived and opened the other, before taking up guard positions inside.
Mr. Koman, Mr. Wilson, and assorted members of the committee at the half-circle table sat and stared in shock. Ogilvie, Beecham, de la Forte, Lundgren, Capu, and, old as Wilson, former chair Wagner.
Bren walked in, as Mr. Stockton worked his way along the wall, halfway up the edge of the room and Tano and Algini took up their posts outside the open doors.
“Mr. Cameron,” Koman said. “This entourage is a little extravagant, if you please.”
“It’s actually the ordinary state to which your predecessor appointed me, Mr. Chairman. Thank you for today’s invitation.” He walked forward of Banichi and Jago and took up a posture he was prepared to keep for the duration, having no wish to sit. “I have owed you the courtesy of a formal statement for more than a year, but circumstances made leaving the mainland not only difficult, but irresponsible to my position. It did seem possible that I might still be useful, and I was very glad to resume my service to Mospheira in the recent emergency.”
“With the same arrogance. With the same reckless procedures,” Wilson said. “Your dress, your armed guard—you’ve fairly well gotten above your responsibilities to this government.”
“I understand your views, Mr. Wilson. I won’t debate you until you’ve had your say.”
“That is exactly the issue, Mr. Cameron. You don’t debate. You don’t report. You engaged another species on your own, without consultation with this Department, you guessed your way through an encounter, gathered, we suppose, some pittance of information . . .”
He simply let Wilson run. He was not about to try to outshout a man with a microphone, quite the reverse of his situation with Woodenhouse. He simply took a non-committal stance, one hand at his side, one at his lapel, the sort of pose one could hold for quite lengthy public appearances, when hands in the pockets was simply not a pose one ever took and arms folded was not something one did unless one wanted a war. He listened, took mental notes, expression bland, and let Wilson wind down to:
“Now you wish to meddle with the composition of the Department. I can assure you, Mr. Cameron, that your design will not prevail, you will not simply appoint a set of juveniles, and foreign juveniles at that, as representatives of Mospheira, and as for their transfer to State, at their age, that is open to debate. You may manage to move the University to make a material grant and to squander funds on the Heyden mansion, with special staff and servants and whatever state you seem to have gotten far too used to, but this Committee still makes the rules, this Committee still governs language education, and this Committee makes the appointments.”
He waited. There was silence.
Wilson sought a glass of water. He was an elderly man, and working himself into a rage sent him an alarming shade of red.
“I will wait, if my predecessor is not yet finished, or if others wish to speak.”
Wilson, addressed by Koman, said something under his breath and shook his head. Then he said, “I know your tactic, Cameron. You will then say you should not be interrupted.”
Nandi, he almost said, mentally translating the respect he tried his best to accord the man. But diplomatically it worked out to, “Mr. Wilson, you may interrupt me as you wish and I will deal with it. May I begin to answer your points?”
“You may attempt to answer. We will not surrender the prerogatives of this Committee. That is our position.”
“The appointment of the paidhi, sir, is one-sided, by whichever side sends him.”
“And if the appointed paidhi is rejected by the other side, there must be another. In the case of these three children, Mr. Cameron, . . .”
“If the Linguistics Department rejects them, that is not a rejection by the government of Mospheira, Mr. Wilson, so we have that clear.”
There was a moment of stark silence.
“Let me clarify my position. During my tenure, which is current with the aishidi’tat, and with the government of Mospheira, the nature of the office has shifted. I do communicate freely and verbally in Ragi, and in Mosphei’, as appropriate to the situation. I am frequently employed by the aiji to represent him to atevi, and I am currently employed by him to represent the aishidi’tat to the kyo visitors, and to the Mospheiran government, which I have done. During the meetings with the kyo, I did, in consideration of the skills of the Linguistics Department, produce certain materials which can be translated into Mosphei’, a task in which I am willing to assist, but not while in residence here. Indeed, I would think the Linguistics Department would have little trouble rendering them.”
“Irony is unwelcome, Mr. Cameron,” Koman said.