Mild amusement.
“I did ask my aishid—” At the moment Banichi and the rest were in their own bedroom, likely enjoying a rare relaxation of their own, in this doubly secure place, with trusted allies behind closed doors. The conversation was all Mosphei’, and they had satisfied courtesies at a shared dinner. “I asked their opinion about the three lads from Linguistics. They’re like me, amused, a little worried, a little touched. If there’s to be change, I think—let it come from the station. Leave the cultural hearts of the island and the continent untouched. We need to be what we are, at home. And there needs to be a home, to satisfy our instincts. I think that wisdom will win out.”
“I’ll caution them,” Ben Feldman said. “But the background check—I started running that when Tom told me about them—they’re clean. One’s an honor student; one—Lyle—is on academic probation, a downturn in marks after a series of perfect scores. Evan’s hopped from bio to languages. Family background’s ordinary, not affluent, no criminal records in any generation. Parental occupations are grocer, small-business bookkeeper, child care, farmer, fireman, and artist. Varied. But nothing stands out as a problem.”
Ben never dropped a stitch. No matter what the job of the moment. At the moment he had Presidential security on tap, and he’d clearly used it.
“Have you talked to Kate?”
“Mmm, yes,” Tom said. “Kate’s running her own background checks—on the construction crew at Heyden Court. She’s had a little problem, a little graffiti, and she’s spitting fire.”
“That isn’t good.” Graffiti under the circumstances might betoken something far more serious. “I take it this had implications.”
“A hand imprint,” Tom said. “The hand is something that turned up during the coup on the mainland. It’s been connected to the Heritage Party, but they insist it’s not theirs, that it’s a different group. When you preach opposition to working with the aishidi’tat, odd thing, all sorts of creatures get into bed with you. It is disturbing. They haven’t found any sabotage. Possibly it’s someone opposed to the Reunioners, with no disposition to actually do anything, but it’s certainly no joke and Kate’s not amused.”
“I’m not terribly surprised,” Bren said, “but it’s sad it turned up so early.”
“Sad isn’t Kate’s word for it,” Ben said.
“I’m sure I’ll hear about it. She was supposed to be here for dinner. Called to beg off until late. Now I know the reason.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“So when did this graffiti happen? Why didn’t she say?”
“Turned up this morning. I think she’s figuring you’ve got enough on your list and it needs Mospheiran resources. She’s called the President, had his people on it, the same ones that’ll be running security once the project’s on the ground. They’re interviewing everybody that was on site, and they’re making it clear that licenses are at stake. Information is tentative, but they know what shift was where. They’re developing a timeline to confirm it, and, odd thing that bit these characters in the rear back during the Troubles, hands are pretty uniquely identifiable. I’m sure they’ll get the one responsible and follow leads under whatever door it takes.”
Opposition hadn’t wasted time. “I hadn’t heard of these people. Shows how long I’ve been away from the island. Why a hand?”
“It started out as a labor protest,” Tom said, “when we were using non-union workers on the docks, dealing with shipments during the coup. It spread to opposition to us aiding the Guild on the mainland at all. It doesn’t even seem to represent a specific group—more like upset individuals, random acts of dissatisfaction with atevi contact.”
“Possibly the same sentiment,” Ben said. “Possibly expanded now to mean opposition to the Reunioner landing. It’s at least not friendly to the project at Heyden Court, and the workmen do know the guts of that building, so it’s a security issue, even if it’s just some sort of labor discontent. It could be just that. But considering the project—”
“To say the least,” Bren said. “It’s worrisome.”
“The project’s bound to be a magnet for troubles,” Tom said. “But we’ll handle it. I understand you’re going to be talking to the security team, setting up a system. Something about new equipment.”
“My bodyguard will talk to them. I’ll translate. The Guild doesn’t usually discuss its methods. But there is going to be at least this small exception. They’re handing security a plan and a set of principles for perimeter control that I think they’ll understand fairly readily. And thank you, incidentally, for the blueprints.”
“Easy to do. We’ll be receptive to any advice.”
“There will be some,” he said. “We’re moving fast. We’re moving blindingly fast. That alone is going to put Heritage on edge. It’s my sincere hope to have the publicity around the kids die back quickly, as nothing happens. But I’m sure there are those who are working in other directions.”
“We can be very sure of that,” Ben said. “The hate messages have started. Ironically, the head of Linguistics seems to be getting them, as, in the beliefs of some who haven’t listened well for years, the person in charge of your actions. Some are just irate. A few include threats of harm.”
He actually felt sorry for the unpleasant chairman of Linguistics, who would not be used to such things. It was also, considering the personalities involved, complete irony. “He should hand them all to the new security team,” he said. “Preferably unopened.” It was a matter of evidence on the envelopes, tracing problems, determining their severity. “Tell him that—and don’t say the suggestion came from me, or he’ll never listen. He should definitely let security handle it.”
• • •
Cajeiri had very carefully not told Nomari that Mother was coming.
Neither did Uncle mention it at dinner, or after, when they took brandy by, this evening, a small fire in the hearth, given the slight damp chill. It was warm and cheerful in the great room. But the storm that had threatened was coming in, and the wind was driving rain against the windows so hard one might fear for the glass.
“That may be hail,” Nomari remarked.
“I should not be surprised,” Uncle said. “But then you do know the local weather.”
“I remember storms, yes, nandi. One when I was six, I think, that took a number of the tiles off Ajiden’s roof.”
“Ah, yes, that one. We lost tiles as well.” Uncle’s humor improved with the shared recollection. He had been a little preoccupied, perhaps, Cajeiri thought, worrying about the other sort of storm to come, when Mother arrived in the morning. Uncle nodded, remembering, and began to say something when the lights went out, putting them into total blackness except for the candles.
Everything was suddenly antique, gilt, and carved lilies atop the pillars, lit solely by the two candelabras in the sitting area.
“Oh, pish,” Uncle said. “The transformer has just gone. Staff should start the generator in a moment. Country living has its inconveniences.”
“It is such a magnificent hall,” Nomari said, “from this vantage.”
“One is gratified,” Uncle began to say, but then a distant mecheita squalling sounded, and all about the space, black-uniformed Guild reacted subtly, hearing that, reading signals on the bracelets Guild wore, small sparks of light in the flickering shadows. Thunder rumbled and cracked.
And Guild shifted suddenly, entirely on guard, some headed for the stairs.
Cajeiri’s bodyguard moved up and simultaneously Rieni touched Cajeiri’s arm, a signal to get up, quickly. Cajeiri did that, seeing bodyguards similarly moving about Uncle, and others around Nomari.
“We are quite peaceful here,” Uncle said sharply. “Forget us! What is going on with the stable?”
“The stable gate, nandi,” someone said, and Cajeiri caught his breath, seeing all the possibilities of dis
aster unrolling in the peals of thunder. “The grooms have retained three. They are trying to saddle.”
“Gods unfortunate!” Uncle swore as Cajeiri had never heard the old man swear. “Fetch my riding crop! Why is that cursed generator not going? Boy! Nephew!”
“Nandi!” Cajeiri said.
“Stay here.”
“My people,” Nomari said.
“Stay here, stay safe, nadi, and do not trouble my staff!” Uncle headed out into the dark, Guild attending, going toward the broad stairs.
“Are they loose?” Cajeiri asked his own bodyguard what seemed obvious, but the information was scant. “Are they loose on the grounds?”
“Yes,” the answer came from Antaro.
“Go, you and Jegari. I have enough protection. Go! Help my uncle!”
“Yes,” Antaro said, and she and her brother separated themselves into the dark, joining the shadows that were Uncle with his bodyguard going down the central stairs by flashlight.
Three mecheiti retained. The rest of the mecheiti had escaped the gate onto the grounds, and one dreaded to hear any worse disaster. The stables were at the rear of the house—the Ajuri tents were in front, and there was no barrier, none, but a small modern hedge and a flimsy gate that let onto a garden path beside the house. The greater grounds had no fence but the massive ancient hedges.
“I am going to the windows,” Nomari said, getting up, and Cajeiri did likewise, but Guild bodies separated them at that broad expanse. There was nothing to see. The beveled panes reflected candlelight, and outside was a rain-spattered sparkle of lighted canvas, with the whiter flash of lightning.
“I have to go out there,” Nomari said.
“No,” Cajeiri said, shivering in the urge to go with Uncle, to do everything he could—which was to do nothing. “No, we should stay here.”
“Cousin, . . .”
“Cousin, I would be out there, too. My mecheita is surely with the herd. But I do not ride the herd-leader. We cannot help. Two of my aishid are Taibeni. I have sent them, and that is all I can do. We can do nothing running out there in the dark but attract the mecheiti’s notice and lead them to the tents.”
“Or lead them in another direction,” Nomari said, and turned from the window, headed away.
“No,” Cajeiri said. “Nadiin, stop him!”
Guild moved, not with firearms, but moved. Nomari dodged and made it nine steps into the great hall, toward the stairs, but Veijico and Lucasi, among the foremost, were equally quick. Uncle’s guards, who were assigned to Nomari were there, too, and seized on Nomari, who fought to get free.
Cajeiri drew a deep breath, afraid, afraid things were going to go terribly wrong, but they would not be helped if Nomari tried to draw off the mecheiti—it was something the grooms might try. Those out there would be bending every effort to keep the mecheiti from reaching the tents in front of the house, but mounted, it was risky enough to do. He was scared for Uncle, who stood the best chance of getting the herd-leader in hand, but there were few places anybody afoot could climb up out of reach, and one slip on muddy ground out there could be the end. It was a terrible way to die.
Thunder crashed, time—time dragged by, and now there were voices in the lower hall, distinctly voices, he was sure of it. A gust of wind flattened the candle flames. Doors had opened.
“Staff has run out to warn the people,” one of Uncle’s guard said from near the windows. “Nandi, one cannot see, but there is a light—they may be at the tents.”
“Gods,” Nomari said.
Moments passed, terrible moments. There was no repetition of the gust. There was only the occasional coded communication. And they were still in the dark. In the chaos, nobody was attending the generator.
It seemed quiet, however. It was still quiet, when a splintering crash sounded from the side of the house, far and faint, but that was, Cajeiri thought, the garden gate.
“They are not holding them,” Nomari said in distress.
“Nadi,” one of the Guild said, “our lord is in charge out there. He has mounted up, he has ridden out with the grooms. The herd has broken through. Our lord is attempting to get to the fore of it.”
Likely riding one of the habitual hindmost, Cajeiri thought distressedly, trying to make a lower rank mecheita run between the herd-leader and the vulnerable tents, trying with voice and quirt to get the herd-leader to turn. The leader would have been the first out an open gate, and Jeichido and the other leaders right with him.
“He is risking everything,” Cajeiri said, trying to satisfy Nomari. “He knows the mecheiti. They know his voice. He will try to distract the herd-leader and turn him back. Staff will have the stable gate open.” He could see in his head everything that would be going on out there. He knew how Uncle had to get a lesser mecheita to cross the herd-leader’s path and, if possible, physically turn him. He had read how it was done. He had never seen it done, and it was a wild chance. Uncle was too old to take a fall. And he was risking it, risking the tusks—even peace-capped, dangerous. “He is good, Cousin. He is a very good rider. And Antaro and Jegari are out there—if anything can be done on the ground, they can do it.”
“Gods,” Nomari said, hands clenched together.
Lightning flash overwhelmed the candles, casting darting shadows. Thunder shook the ancient window, assaulted the ears. The glass was awash with water.
Uncle, Cajeiri thought, Uncle, be safe! Be careful!
Just then the lights came on full in the area, and in the great hall beyond. It was no relief. It reflected back off the windows, making it impossible to see out.
“Let me go down,” Nomari said, “only as far as the main doors.”
“It is not safe, nadi,” Uncle’s guard said. All about were grim faces, Veijico and Lucasi with their two companions at risk, Uncle’s guard desperately concerned and on edge.
A downstairs door opened, a gust of wind that stirred draperies and extinguished candles. There came shouts from outside, muffled by storm and stone, more than one voice.
Cajeiri looked to the man by the windows, who had turned to try to see. That man exchanged words with someone on Guild communications, then turned to them. Veijico and Lucasi stayed close by, never leaving him. Rieni and his unit were there, communicating with someone, but not saying what they heard.
“They have turned them, nandi, nadi, they are moving across to the north side. Our lord has turned them. They are going around to the orchard, and through that to the stable. The gate is open, the staff has put up a barrier to close off the way beyond. There are two tents down, but others stand. They did not go through the camp.”
Nomari folded his arms and bowed his head, never having budged from where he stood.
It was too soon to ask who was hurt. It was very likely, with two tents down, that someone was.
It was also too soon to ask how the mecheiti had gotten out a gate that was built to frustrate mecheita cleverness and mecheita strength. It was a heavy latch, a deep and solid socket, and the latch was on the outside with no way out of the pen except to climb the rails once that gate was shut. Mecheiti were not built to climb rails, but they could reach high.
“Is Uncle’s physician prepared, nadiin?” Cajeiri asked the guards. “One thinks he should be. Someone should bring the Ajuri into the lower hall in case the herd goes around the stable.”
The guard hesitated, looking at him, estimating, doubtless, his nine-year-old self and whether anyone ought to listen to him.
“One asks,” Nomari said. “One asks that.”
“We do not know the nature of what happened, young gentleman, or who may be out there.”
“Nevertheless,” Rieni said. “The young gentleman is right. Bring them into the foyer. Establish the inside doors as a perimeter.”
There was still hesitation, a glance exchanged, but seniority won. Uncle’s guard, including
those with Nomari, moved then, with some speed.
That left himself, his senior and half his younger aishid, alone with Nomari.
“One is grateful, nandi,” Nomari said. “One is beyond grateful. Let me go down there.”
“No, nadi,” Rieni said. “We are spread too thin for the circumstances. We do not know that this was an accident.” Thunder cracked, and lightning whitened the window. Cajeiri flinched, nerves on edge. “We are in a compromised condition as the main doors open, and as we have people scattered outside. Our concern is the young aiji’s safety. That is paramount, nadi. Let us do what we can do.”
“Nadi,” Nomari said on an exhaled breath, and with a slight bow. He sank into a chair, and Cajeiri settled into his own—across from Nomari, if nothing else, to free his bodyguard of worrying about him or Nomari. Rieni set to making calls and giving orders.
The front doors opened: one could hear them. The secondary doors, at the landing below, remained closed. There would be people, likely Guild, running out to the tents to advise people to come to the steps, which themselves would afford protection. The foyer below, with the beautiful porcelain lilies, would hold everybody. He hoped they all made it. He hoped the haste down there would all be in vain, as Uncle and the grooms got the mecheiti back into their pen, and had the gate latched.
Worst of all would be if the herd went all the way around the stables and came full around the house again, escaping back toward the tents, with people out running for safety. He found himself shivering, knowing he had given the order, knowing Guild had backed it. It had been smart to do: that was Great-grandmother’s question, always—figure it, what could go wrong, what could go right; and what could go wrong was the herd coming around again and seeing unprotected people running . . . that was the most terrible thing, and the herd could cross the back of the house so fast . . .
It seemed forever. But he heard voices down below, heard people there, frightened voices, no word distinct.
Nomari was listening to it, lips pressed tight, hands working, his eyes focused on nothing in particular. He was there in that place, at least in mind, maybe listening for voices he knew.