Pretender

Home.

But changed, there. Attack had come down on Tabini’s people.

Edi was no longer in charge there, that wonderful old man.

For that among other things, Murini deserved no mercy—if they were in the position of dispensing judgments.

The bus bounced and pitched its way along toward the train, and Tatiseigi’s borrowed automobile was there among the trucks and several other cars: He could not see the dowager or Tatiseigi, but he at last caught sight of Cenedi standing on the bottom step of a passenger car, and at that welcome sight his heart skipped.

A body leaned against him, hard, and tried to worm past him, which in all this bus full of tall adults could only be Cajeiri, intent on a view out the window.

“Cenedi!” the boy cried, having gotten his face near the glass.

“Great-grandmother must be in that train car!”

“That she will be, I am sure,” Bren said, moving his foot out of danger, the boy was so intent on leaning as much of him as possible against the passenger railing. The bus gave a final lurch, then an abrupt, brake-hissing halt cast Antaro against him. The girl murmured, “One regrets it deeply, nand’ paidhi.”

“One hears,” he answered absently, seeing the bus door opening, and himself caught in that press at the doorway with his computer and his baggage stranded back at his seat. There was no way to reach it. “Jago-nadi! My baggage!”

“We have it, nandi,” Tano said from the aisle, and that was that.

The door was open, the way led out, and Bren managed to negotiate travel-numbed legs down the high steps. The last had to be a jump, down onto the graveled slope beside Jago, Banichi just ahead of them and Cajeiri and the Taibeni pair hard behind.

“Hurry out of the open,” Banichi urged them and the youngsters alike, and Bren asked no questions. They had stopped by Tatiseigi’s car, which was bullet-punctured all along its side, and they made all haste toward the nearest open door, that of the third car behind the engine.

Up the steps, then, and face to face with an old and ridiculous problem, that human legs just did not find train steps easy. He hauled himself up to the first step at Cajeiri’s back, and, Cajeiri having struggled up on his own comparatively short legs, the boy turned and irreverently seized his arm, to haul him after.

And then straightway forgot about him, as they reached the aisle. The car, furnished in small chair-and-table groupings, was crowded with atevi in formal dress and Guild black, along with a scattering of Taibeni in woodland brown, most of them armed.

“Mani-ma!” Cajeiri cried out, and zigzagged his way through his elders to reach his great-grandmother, who sat— God knew how—sipping a cup of tea beside Lord Tatiseigi, who had his right arm in a bloodstained sling and a teacup in the other hand.

The crowd cut off the view for a moment, until Bren had maneuvered his own way through. Just as he did come near, the train began to chug into motion.

“Sit!” Ilisidi said, teacup in one hand, cane in the other. She tapped the nearest vacant bench, and Bren cautiously came forward, bowed, and took the seat. Cajeiri sat down. So did the lord of Dur, and one of Ilisidi’s young men brought the tea service.

Bren took a cup. It was hot, strong, and warmed all the way down to a meeting with his rattled nerves, no matter that his heavily armed staff was still standing watchfully by, like most others in the car, and that he still hadn’t seen his computer. Tano turned up through the press, carrying it, made sure he saw it, and he nodded gratefully, yes, he had noted that. He could let go that concern.

Another sip. He felt moderately guilty, drinking tea when his staff had none, but there were moments when being a lord meant setting an example of calm and dignity, and he did his staff as proud as he could, reasonably well-put-together, shaven, thank God, and clean despite his sitting on the bus steps. Of the several of those of rank, Tatiseigi looked the worst.

“We are very well, mani-ma,” Cajeiri piped up, in response to his great-grandmother’s question. And: “Where is my mother, great-uncle?”

“With your father, nephew.”

“In the plane?”

The plane seated three people, and she could be with Tabini—if Tabini was in the plane. Bren’s ears pricked up, and Ilisidi stamped the ferule of her cane on the deck. “Silliness,” she said. “She will be perfectly well, great-grandson. Trust in that. One is,” she added, looking directly at Bren, “grateful to the paidhi for taking care of this difficult boy.”

“A pleasure and an honor, aiji-ma.” It had been both, relatively speaking; but meanwhile he had an impression of many moving pieces in this operation, actions screening actions, and the casually revealed chance that Tabini, if Damiri was with him, was not in that airplane. “One is extremely glad to see you in good health, aiji-ma, and one is most concerned for nand’ Tatiseigi’s injury—”

“Gallantly gained,” Ilisidi said, the shameless woman, reaching out to pat the old curmudgeon’s good arm. “Protecting us, very bravely, too.”

Tatiseigi cleared his throat. “A piece of folly,” he pronounced, “an outrage, a thorough inconvenience, this upstart and all his relatives. And the car was not sprung as well as it might have been.”

Likely he had been in great discomfort. Bren gave a little nod, a bow.

“One is ever so glad to find you safe, nandi.”

“Glad!” A snort.

“For the sake of the stability of the center, nandi. You are the rock, the foundation on which all reason rests. One has always said so, in every plan.”

Tatiseigi fixed him with a very suspicious glare under tufted brows, and had a sip of his tea. Another snort.

“The paidhi has said so, indeed,” Ilisidi said, “and has understood your trepidation at receiving him under present circumstances. He expressed this sentiment to us, did you not, paidhi-aiji?”

“Very much so,” he said. He was entirely unable to remember exactly when this was, but Ilisidi was on the attack, headed for a point, and one never argued.

“It was by no means trepidation,” Tatiseigi said. “We are not trepidatious in the least. Cautious. Cautious, we say! Caution has kept this particular rock dry and steady all these years. Caution will carry us to the capital!”

“A wise and prudent lord,” Bren said, steadying the cup in his hand, and noting that the lord of the Atageini had happily adopted his metaphor. Lord Adigan of Dur presented compliments, received the dowager’s appreciation of his attendance. The wheels of the car had by now assumed a thump as regular as a heartbeat, a rocking sway that made the liquid tea shimmer under the light from the windows. The staff had filled a vase with hothouse flowers, red ones, to honor a Ragi lady, dared one say, and quietly set it on the table, inserting it into a little securing depression in the center.

It was all quite, quite mad.

But infinitely better than the bus. One hoped the walls of the car were better armored.

And that the effort to secure the switchpoints and stations ahead had succeeded.

“Another, nadi,” Cajeiri suggested, hopefully offering his empty cup to the steward’s view. “With sugar!”

And where is Tabini at the moment? Bren wondered, wondering, too, what the plane was up to. Nothing more than distracting the Kadagidi? Or just what had young Rejiri agreed to do with those bottles of petrol?

Where was Tabini, where were the Ajuri, the rest of the Atageini, whose lord, injured, would likely have wanted his personal physician? Had they gotten into the other cars? And what of the rest of the convoy, speeding across Ragi territory, presumably continuing on toward the city of Shejidan?

Faster and faster, surely to the train’s limits of safety. The stewards found small paper cups from another car and managed to serve everyone a deluge of hot tea, gratefully received. Under a barrage of youthful questions, Ilisidi sat primly upright, her cane against her knee, her hooded eyes scanning the passing scenery as she answered what she chose to answer, frequently flattering Tatiseigi, who drank it down like medicinec the old man who had been late to every battle of a long life now rolled along, decorously wounded, in the vanguard of a desperately dangerous attack on the capital.

The train was going to get there ahead of the buses, one had no question: The rails were the primary mode of transport in the land, vulnerable to stoppage and switching, but if security had put them on the train, that must have been solved. The question was what bloody business was going on out across the district. If part of the Guild, all the security staffs of all the houses backing the aiji’s return, had drawn other sections of the Guild into it—bloody indeed. The Guild did not take half measures.

The steward offered a refill of tea. He took it. Ordinarily tea did not include sugar, but Cajeiri’s request had brought a small dish of sugar rounds to the service, and he wanted the energy: He used the delicate little scoop to slip several little balls into the tea, and drank it down, wishing there were something more substantial in the way of food: The youngsters’ sugary snack was wearing thin even for him.

Cenedi came into the car from the forward door, arrived in a deal of hurry, and went straight to Banichi and Jago, who in turn roused up Tano and Algini, while Cenedi went after Nawari and two others of his teamc something was going on outside this tea party, Bren thought. It wasn’t proper for a lord to get up and go inquire when such things happened, but he did cast a look at Banichi, which missed its mark, or the emergency was acute. Banichi headed for that forward door, and so did a number of others.

Trouble forward, Bren thought. “Aiji-ma,” he said calmly, “one observes there may be trouble on the tracks. One might well brace for that eventuality.”

“We have observed it,” Ilisidi said calmly, passing her teacup to a steward. And sharply: “Andi-ji!” This, to one of her youngest men, who had moved quietly into her vicinity. “What is Cenedi about?”

“Someone is reported to have pulled a bus across the tracks, aiji-ma.” The young man came and dropped to one knee. “And to be defending its position with arms. But this is a distance away, and others in the district are working to clear it. One doubts there will be any great inconvenience to us.”

One of the points against using the rails, Bren said to himself, resolved not to disgrace his staff by showing alarm. Lord Tatiseigi, meanwhile, had called his own chief bodyguard over for a running discussion, and Antaro hovered anxiously, while Jegari went to the left-side windows and attempted to get a look forward—useless, Bren said to himself. There was nothing to do but sit and wait and hope they did get the bus off the tracks.

Something thumped across the roof, going forward—instinctively the stewards’ looks went aloft, to see nothing, to be sure, and none of the lords looked, but it was clear enough, all the same, that someone was moving along the roof of the cars, and moving fairly briskly.

Their own security, one hoped.

A sudden second noise, then, above the steady racket of the wheels on the track, that of a low-flying plane, passing overhead.

“Well,” Tatiseigi said, addressing himself to the lord of Dur.

“Well! Do we surmise the origin of that racket, Lord Adigan?”

“We would surmise,” the lord of Dur began, but just at that moment small arms fire popped from somewhere outside, and Antaro and Jegari flung themselves between Cajeiri and the nearest window, pulled him down as tea went flying. Security all around moved, and two young men seized Ilisidi to move her safely out of her chair. Bren slipped down to floor level with not a thought to dignity, except to avoid spilling his cup— one could grow quicker in that operation, over the years. The only one sitting upright at the moment was, God save them, Tatiseigi, who was waving instructions to security and demanding they take action.

“They are acting, great-uncle!” This from Cajeiri, from floor level above his crossed arms, as Jegari tried to get over to the side of the car. “You should get down!”

A window shattered. A red flower in the bouquet exploded in a sudden burst of petals. It was entirely astonishingc for the split second it took for fire to rattle out from along their roof. Hope to God, Bren said to himself, that it was their own security up there, that they still controlled the train, and that no one would manage a roadblock.

“A car!” Jegari, from his knees, risking a glance out the window.

“Get down!” Cajeiri shouted at him, a high, young, outraged voice, and Jegari immediately squatted down as fire laced across the windows.

Something exploded then. Jegari popped his head up and stared out the window.

“It blew up!” Jegari cried.

“Down!” Bren yelled at him, and Jegari ducked.

More fire from their roof, then. A dull, distant boom which there was no way to attribute.

Silence, for the space of a few moments after.

“We shall sit, now,” Ilisidi declared, her aged bones surely protesting this undignified business, and her young men assisted her to sit up on the tiles. Tatiseigi sat in his chair, meanwhile, with his security bodily shielding him; the more agile lord of Dur had taken to the floor with the rest of them.

A thump forward, at the juncture of the car with the one forward, and Banichi came in, a little windblown, and carrying his rifle in his hand. Attention swung to him, and he gave a little bow.

“The attempt has fallen by the wayside, nandiin,” he said. “There was a bus on the tracks, briefly, but the village of Cadidi has moved it, at some great risk to themselves and their property.”

“To be noted, indeed,” Ilisidi said, and, “Get me up, get me up!”

Cajeiri scrambled to join the effort—the aiji-dowager was a wisp of a weight to her young men, and Cajeiri was only able to turn the chair to receive her, and to assist her to smooth a wisp of hair.

“Will someone shut that cursed window?” Ilisidi requested peevishly. Wind whipped through the gap, disturbing their hair.

“One fears it is broken, nand’ dowager,” the head steward said, the stewards moving to sweep up glass and recover the flowers. The steward gallantly proffered one surviving blossom, and Ilisidi took it, smelled it, and remarked, with a small smile, “They tried to shoot us, nand’ paidhi.”

“Indeed,” Bren said, on his feet, and knowing he ought to stay out of the way, but Banichi was on his way back to the forward door, and curiosity burned in him. “Banichi-ji. Are we all right?”

“We have agents at the junctions and the way is clear,” Banichi said, delaying. “But it must stay clear, Bren-ji. This far, we are all well. The opposition is not.”

“Well done,” he said fervently. “Well done, Banichi-ji.”

“Our lord should not come up above to assist,” Banichi said, not without humor, and not without truth. Banichi knew his ways, and was reading him the law of the universe.

“Go,” he said in a low voice, “go, Banichi-ji. And be careful! Trust that I shall be.”

Banichi ducked out in a momentary gale of wind and racket, and was gone, leaving him to walk back to his seat and pretend the world was in order.

“What did Banichi say, nand’ Bren?”

“He reports they have cleared the tracks, young gentleman.”

“That would have been that boom we heard,” Cajeiri said.

“Do you think so, young sir?” Ilisidi said, grim and thin-lipped. “It may not be the last such we hear.”

“We are still a target,” Tatiseigi said, “a large target, and damnably predictable in our course.”

“Very much so, nandi,” Bren said, “as you made yourself on the way here, did you not?”

“And paid dearly!” Tatiseigi declared, his face drawn with pain as he moved the injured arm in its sling. “This was a Kadagidi assault!

They knew that I personally would travel by automobile. First they destroy my own vehicle, and now they have shot my neighbor’s full of holes!”

“Shocking,” Ilisidi said dryly. “But more than the Kadagidi are involved.”

“They knew, I say! They had every reason to know that their neighbor was in that vehicle, and ignoring all past neighborliness and good will, they opened fire!”

“Perhaps it was the Guild instead, nandi,” Bren interposed, seeing his only window of opportunity, perhaps, to avoid a very messy feud between the Atageini and the Kadagidi—the burned stable, even the fatalities out on the grounds and the damage to the house might be accepted as the result of high politics, in which bloodshed was not unknown, but to think the Kadagidi, his neighbors, with whom he had such a checkered history of dangerous cooperation, had made a particular target of a vehicle they had every reason to think carried the lord of the Atageini—that, that had clearly offended the old man on a deeply personal level. “We might not have cleared all of them in the—incident.”

Tatiseigi gave a noisy cough, a clearing of his throat, and one could see that new thought passing through his head: Tatiseigi was above all else a political creature. He had likely had a dose of painkiller, not to mention the discomfort, and he might not be at his sharpest at the moment. It looked very much as if he had given Tatiseigi a thought worth weighing: Not the Kadagidi, but an ambitious would-be Guildmaster who had made one overconfident move, brought Assassins into his lands, and failed. There was a situation of national scope, from which he could mine far more than from a local border feud.

“The paidhi is not a fool, is he?” Tatiseigi asked Ilisidi.

“Never to our observation,” Ilisidi said. “Why else do we favor him?”

“We have the means to claim that it was Guild,” Tatiseigi observed, “when we appear in the tashrid. That has value.”

“Indeed,” Ilisidi said, “granted we can proceed that far down this track.”

Cenedi had arrived back in the car, looking satisfied, his graying hair blowing a little loose from its queue in the chill gust from the window.

“Report,” the dowager said, and Cenedi, still looking uncommonly pleased, gave a little bow.

“The way is clear, aiji-ma. Towns have turned out patrols on their own, to guard the switch-points at Modigi and Cadai-Hadigin.

The enemy has made another assault on the convoy, but to no great effect. Two vehicles have had their tires shot out, but those responsible did not linger in the area, and appear to have taken damage as they left.”

“Hurrah!” That human word, from Cajeiri, drew the dowager’s cold look.

“More,” Cenedi said, with a glance at the lord of Dur, “the young gentleman from Dur has landed safely, refueled, and taken off, after dropping his petrol bombs in assistance of the village of Cadidi.”

“Excellent news,” the dowager said. The lord of Dur simply inclined his head, relieved and proud, beyond a doubt.

“The best is last,” Cenedi said. “Shejidan has turned out in the streets, and word suggests that Murini has gone to the airport to seize buses and fuel.”

Dared one hope? Dared one possibly hope that Murini was going to leave the capital without a fight?

“Sit down,” Ilisidi said. “Sit down, ’Nedi-ji, and have a cup of tea.”

“Aiji-ma.” In days previous, Cenedi might have demurred, disliking to inject himself into a privileged gathering of lords; but days previous had worn on him very hard. He sank into a chair and waited while the staff brewed up the requisite tea.

Bren got up for a quiet word of his own with the staff. “Our bodyguards have been working without cease for over twelve hours, nadiin. Might one request any foodstuffs you have directed to those assuring our safety?”

There were bows, assurances of earnest compliance that he did not doubt. He returned to his seat and sat, unease churning in his stomach, despite the good news from Shejidan. All they had been through was preface to trying to sneak an entire train into the city, up the line that led to the Bu-javidc and all the population in Sheijidan turned out in their support could not deflect a well-aimed bullet.

If he were Murini, attempting to defend the city, he would bend every effort to stopping that train, knowing damned well where it was going.

If he were Murini, he would bring all force, all ingenuity to that effort. He would blow up track.

That said something of what the young man from Dur was doing up there in his airplane, flying ahead, tracing the track, making certain of their route and communicating with their security as best he could. There were no bridges between here and Shejidan: there was that to be thankful for—he by no means wanted to imagine explosives waiting for them.

Gone to the airport, however. Within reach of airplanes. And buses. Buses might have a dozen uses—perhaps to make a blockade. Perhaps to be sure the populace of Shejidan was limited in their resources.

Perhaps, please God, to board a plane and get out of townc Kadagidi territory had nothing but a dirt strip to receive him, and possibly—just possibly—the Kadagidi themselves had their doubts about Murini, whose rise within his own clan had been checkered with double-dealing and a far greater affinity for the politics of the south coast than those of the Padi Valley.

The south coast was where Murini would have most of his support, and there were city aiports down there that would receive him, no matter if Sheijidan was in revolt.

Sandwiches were going around. Cajeiri took three, but his grandmother made him put two back. They were not that well-supplied.

Bren took a sandwich and a precious bottle of fruit drink, more welcome than tea. And iced. Folly to eat any sandwich without knowing the contents, but a cursory investigation between the layers turned up none of those garnishes he should fear for toxinsc he took small bites, savoring them, enjoying the fruit drink that had been so far from the menu during their voyage—and, being modern, not on Tatiseigi’s very proper menu, either. Sugar insinuated itself into his bloodstream, and unhappily produced nothing but the jitters: He was that tired.

The plane roared over their heads and came back. Cajeiri’s young bodyguard, near the windows, got a look and exclaimed: “There he is! The plane is rocking from side to side!”

A visual signal. Just what it signaled, one had no idea.

Cenedi had excused himself and left the car by the connecting door, in a gust of wind and rush of noise from the rails. As the forward door shut, a sandwich wrapper escaped Cajeiri’s lap and swirled about madly. It fell among the seats, disregarded, as Cajeiri got up to go to the windows himself.

Bang! went the cane. Cajeiri stopped as if shot, and came back to his seat, never a word said.

Meanwhile his two surrogates continued to peer out the broken window, windblown and intent on something in the sky.

“There is another plane!” Antaro cried. “They are flying side by side.”

“That,” said the lord of Dur, “might be young Aigino, from the coast. My son’s fiancée.”

Fiancée, was it? And a second plane, coming to their support?

That gave them much broader vision over the countryside.

“They have flown off,” Jegari said, kneeling on the seat by the window, and putting his head out. He quickly drew it back.

”Toward the south.”

Toward the capital.

“Keep your head inside, nadi,” Jago said to the young man, and to Bren himself: “Your staff would be easier in their minds, nandi, if you would also move slightly to the interior.”

“Indeed.” He gathered himself up and settled again in a more protected position, next to the dowager, with an apologetic and deferential bow. “Aiji-ma.”

“Sit, sit. We should be extremely angry should some chance shot carry away the paidhi-aiji.”

“One is greatly flattered, aiji-ma.” The change of seats put him equivalent to, notably, Dur, who looked unaffected, and the Atageini, who looked at him with disapproval, but he bowed especially to Tatiseigi, who seemed a little mollified.

Another boom, somewhere near them, and in a little time Antaro called out that there was a plume of black smoke on the right of the tracks.

More, a report came from forward that persons had attempted to blow up the tracks between Esien and Naiein, and that this attempt had been thwarted, no agency specified— which argued that Guild was involvedc on their side.

Sweets went around, little fruit pastries, and another round of tea, while the train ran full-out, blasting its whistle on two occasions, once when it passed through the outskirts of Esien.

People there lined the trackside, waving handkerchiefs at them.

Then—then they puffed up a rise and began to gather speed on the downhill. Bren could not resist getting up from his seat and taking a look out the window beside Jegari, as the track made a slight curve, one he so well remembered.

A city lay in the heart of that valley, a sprawling city of red tile roofs—Sheijidan. The red tile was all grays and blues at this distance, but his heart knew the color, and the wandering pattern of the streets, and the rise of the hill in the center of the city, on which sat the Bu-javid itself, the center of government.

Jago interposed her shoulder, getting him away from the windows, but others had stolen a look, too, and the word Shejidan was in the air.

“We may meet opposition here, Bren-ji,” Jago said. “Or we may not. Word is that Murini has taken nine buses from the airport and headed south. But one is not certain Murini is with that group.”

Buses, was it? Not toward Kadagidi territory, not toward his own clan, definitively, but toward the Taisigin, his allies on the coast?

“Presumably,” Jago said to him, “we are to believe the Kadagidi have some internal dispute.”

“Dares one hope it might be true?”

“One has no idea one way or another,” Jago said. “But the action, the buses going toward the coast, is not what one would expect if the Kadagidi were firmly supporting him. He might have taken a plane. He may yet. We believe nothing until we have better confirmation.”

He took his seat. He saw Tano and Algini with their heads together, and Algini talking on a pocket com to someone. Shortly after, Cenedi, who had been absent for perhaps a quarter of an hour, came back from forward, and consulted with them and with Banichi, while Jago talked with one of the Atageini bodyguards, with a grave and interested look.

Lords derived none of this information, to be sure. Bren sat and watched the passing of trees and hillsides, familiar places, a route he had used numerous times in his tenure in Shejidan. He held the memory of the city in his inner visionc his own apartment, and most of all its people, his staff, who might or might not still hold their posts—he could not imagine they were still there. He hoped they were all still alive.

“Nandi.” Tano came close, and squatted down to eye level. “The rest of our number, in the buses, are somewhat behind us. The rail has taken us by a more direct route, and attempts to sabotage the rail have not succeeded—the Guild itself has acknowledged the restoration of authority.”

“Extremely good news, Tano-ji.” It was. He burned with curiosity to ask whether Algini’s return from space might have precipitated something on the ground within the Guild and he longed to know precisely where Tabini was. But the one he would never know, and the other he would learn in due time; he would not corner Tano with demands for information on operations. “One is gratified.”

“Indeed,” Tano said. “Now the word is, from Cenedi, that the dowager’s intent is to invade the Bu-javid itself. Those who do not wish to take this risk may take the opportunity to leave the train.

It will stop at Leposti to let any such persons off, if there is a request.”

“Will she take the young gentleman into this venture?” He was appalled to think so, but he very much thought, by all he knew of custom and the demands of leadership, that for the boy to back away now might be something he would have to explain forever.

“It is a service the paidhi might do,” Tano said, “to take charge of the young gentleman in whatever comes. My partner and I—we would ask leave to go with the dowager, if matters were in that state. Banichi and Jago would go with you, and Nawari would go with the young gentleman, to assist.”

“You would assist the dowager.”

“As much as we can, Bren-ji. We must.”

Curious, curious choice at this crux of all events—Banichi and Jago, whose man’chi was with Tabini, departing with him; Tano and Algini, whose man’chi was much shadier, going on with the push inside. “I shall never hold any of my staff against their better judgment,” he murmured. “But what shall we do, if that is a choice?”

“There will be a car,” Tano said, “at Leposti.”

Which could not be far, if his reckoning of position was at all accurate. Leposti was a suburb of Shejidan, almost absorbed in the growth of the capital, but outrageously independent; oh, he knew Leposti and its delegates, who had been violently insistent on a troublesome separate postal designationc a world and a way of life ago.

“We shall do what seems wisest, Tano-ji, with all hopes for the dowager’s success.”

“Baji-naji,” Tano said. “I shall tell Banichi to prepare.”

He was on the verge of losing Tano and Algini both to a danger where his staff, against all his wishes, couldn’t stand together, couldn’t work together. He felt desolate—didn’t want to withdraw his small force, didn’t want to leave the train.

But he didn’t want an innocent boy in the direct line of fire, either; and he understood the thinking that had brought Cajeiri this far—the inexorable demands of the office he might hold, the appearance of having come as far into the fray, for his future, as a boy could; and having done so, to lay back just a little and stay alive, while others took the risks.

He understood that. He understood what his own job was, and what the dowager was asking of him—survive. Report. Support Tabini and Tabini’s heir.

He sat there, the computer’s carrying strap hitched high on his shoulder, and Banichi came to him, leaned over him, a shadow between him and any view of the countryside.

“Tano has spoken to you, has he?” Banichi asked.

“If my staff thinks this move wise,” he said, “I understand the reasons.”

“Excellent,” Banichi said, and gave a little bow of his head.

“We are approaching the meeting point. The train will stop briefly. Come with us.”

“The boy—” he began, but Banichi was already walking away, leaving him to wonder whether to make a formal withdrawal, and say good-bye to the dowager, or just to get up and leave.

It was a Guild operation. He decided on the latter course, and got up and quietly followed Banichi to the front of the car.

Jago had drawn Cajeiri and his young staff with her, Nawari had joined them—no question now that the dowager was aware of the operation, and that her whole staff was.

“We do not wish to leave mani-ma,” Cajeiri said, as firmly as any adult. “We refuse.”

“The dowager’s orders, young sir,” Nawari said. By now the train was perceptibly slowing, the wheels squealing on the iron tracks.

“Move quickly, nandiin,” Jago said, and hurried them out the door and into the wind, the ties moving below their feet, under the iron grid that was the platform between the cars. A ladder led off this open-air platform. The coupling that tied them to the car ahead flexed and banged under their feet as the train squealed to a halt.

“Now,” Banichi said, seizing young Antaro by the arm, “change your coat, nadi, and your ribbon. Change with the young gentleman and be down those steps—stay low, be wise, and keep your gun out of sight. Trust to the staff with you. They are all Guild, and one is the dowager’s.”

“But,” Cajeiri said, as Jago whisked the ribbon first off his pigtail and then off Antaro’s, exchanging red for green.

“Stand still, young sir.” As the wheels were still squealing, she tied the red ribbon onto Antaro’s pigtail, straightened the too-tight coat, which would not button, and spun the girl about for a few quick words. “Straighten your shoulders, keep your head up. Be the young lord.”

“Yes,” came the teenager’s staunch answer.

“By this you both protect him,” Jago said, “as any Guildsman would do, and better than any of us. Go, nadiin!”

The train had scarcely stopped, but the two youngsters took off down the steps as quickly as possible, hit the gravel with Nawari behind them, rushing them along.

“I should be with them!” Cajeiri protested.

“Hush and take the ribbon,” Banichi said. “You will need it. And put on Antaro’s coat, young sir. This is the dowager’s order. Move!”

“But,” Cajeiri said, to no avail, struggling with the slightly oversized jacket.

“Come,” Jago said, “and you will ride in the engine.”

The engine, was it? Bren hitched up his computer strap, negotiated the passage between cars, and opened the door from the platform into the next car.

They entered with a gust of wind into a car the windows of which were defended by Guild of various houses, Atageini, mostly, Taibeni and Dur, not to mention Cenedi and the dowager’s young men, plus a few more whose faces Bren did not see. Their passage through the car drew only cursory looks, a nod or two toward Cajeiri, but these people had their attention fixed on the passing landscape, the open fields and occasional hedgerows.

They were drawing close enough to the capital to pass through more towns such as Leposti at any moment, where they might meet help—or opposition. Jago kept a fast pace through the car, Banichi bringing up the rear, but pausing a moment for a word with Cenedi, who nodded to something. Banichi cast a look back, as if in thought of the dowager.

So much Bren saw in his passing the door. In the next moment the wind hit him, the racket and rush of the unprotected platform, next to the thunder of the engine, an area where watching one’s step was life-and-death. A ladder confronted them, a straight-up ladder, atevi-scale, and the whole platform vibrated with the joints in the tracks, with the deafening noise of the locomotive over all and under all.

“Nandi,” Jago shouted into his ear. She took the computer strap from his shoulder, indicated he should climb first, and he did, hauling himself up the widely-spaced rungs as fast as he could, aware by the vibration in the rungs that someone was on the ladder behind him, likeliest Cajeiric he heard the boy shout something to someone, but he didn’t stop or look down. He came up at nose-level with a catwalk, exposed to the raw wind, and hauled himself up onto that gridwork, kneeling on the metal surface and holding to the railing—thank God there was a railing. The train was passing through empty countryside at the moment, with a town in the distance.

And a swing of his head forward, into the wind, brought him the unexpected sight of a banner aloft, streaming flat out in the wind, atevi figures atop the train, sitting or lying, weapons braced. That banner was the red and black of the Ragi, of Tabini’s house.

That was how the towns and villages turned out to mark their progress. That was the declaration they flew, unmistakable defiance of the authority claiming Shejidan.

Wind battered him as the train began a long curve. He felt Cajeiri’s presence behind him. He summoned strength to wind-chilled muscles, hauled himself up off his knees, holding to the catwalk rail, and moved as briskly as he could along the outside of the generator and engine. The engine gave off the breath of hell itself, heat and fumes stinging and making his eyes run. Above all was the racket, and the rumble and the power of the machine, shaking his fingers to numbness on the railing.

The Ragi banner—outrageous and uncompromising: Know us, know this is the moment, if Ragi will stand up and be counted. This is the moment, if man’chi will draw you.

Why send off Antaro in the heir’s coat? Why send Cajeiri up to the engine? Diversion, to be surec but should anyone think the young lord would leave this train, this banner?

Except if security feared a traitor in their midst, in contact, somehow, with Murini’s forces.

One of Tatiseigi’s men such a traitor might be, or one they had no way to know among their other allies.

But would the heir desert his father’s cause, under such circumstances? Would he leave his great-grandmother?

Murini would, in a heartbeat. It was the recipient of the information that counted: Murini might believe the boy would go.

Murini always had, changing sides with every breezec a long, long history of fast footwork.

Quivering iron railing slid constantly under his hands. Wind battered him as the train’s turn smoothed out, gathered speed, and carried the exhaust away in favor of cold, rushing air. His catwalk ended in another ladder. This one brought him down to a small, sheltered platform with a door into the cab, while another ladder offered steps downward. The driving wheels thundered under the small gridwork platform where he stood, making it impossible to hear.

Light footsteps shook the ladder above him. Cajeiri came down, and the gridwork platform was too small to gather company, with Jago and Banichi coming after. He reached high for the latch of the metal door and with his utmost one-handed effort, wrenched it open and shoved it wide. Guild in black leather met him as he shouldered his way past the metal edge, men holding heavy weapons angled up in the narrow corridor. Hands reached down, helped him climb up the last high steps, pulled him safely up into the short cab corridor.

Detail overwhelmed him, doors, guns, banks of switches, levers, gauges whose purpose he understood but had no idea how to read.

He had to trust the armed men at his back. He was concerned with the whereabouts of his staff, seeing Cajeiri had climbed in after him.

Then Jago arrived up the short steps, exchanged a few words with the Guildsmen on duty, and indicated with a shove at Bren’s shoulder that he should keep on moving down the short corridor into the cab itself.

He cast a second look back, unsatisfied until he saw that Banichi had gotten inside and the door was shut.

Switches, gauges, and levers. He made the passage along beside the power plant itself. Ahead of him, around a slight dogleg for the engine bank, a white light glared through the engine’s broad windshield, offering a hazy view of the sky. It silhouetted a handful of armed personnel and others who must be the engineer and his crew. He walked forward, seeing too little detail in the unexpected light.

One man in that crew turned his head, and he recognized a familiar, light-edged face.

“Aiji-ma,” he exclaimed, utterly confounded.

“Paidhi-ji.” Tabini seized his arm and pulled him forward, into a nook between operators’ seats, moving him into a safe, warm place.

And made a second reach. “Son.”

“Tai-ji,” Cajeiri said, completely amazed at being likewise hauled into Bren’s nook. The heir presented an unlikely figure, overwhelmed in a Taiben ranger’s green jacket, small hands exiting the sleeves to grasp hold of the seat nearest. The driving mechanism under their feet thumped like an overexcited heart as Tabini reached and took his son by the shoulder.

And in that moment, in the forward windows at Tabini’s back, the city itself appeared, a sprawl of red-tiled roofs serpentining this way and that. High above it all rose the hill of the Bu-javid, where they were going, if any information still held true.

“How is your great-grandmother?” Tabini shouted at his son.

“She is very well, tai-ji, but Uncle Tatiseigi has a bullet in his arm and they sent my bodyguard away disguised as me, which I did not want! Where is ami?”

Mama, that was.

“She is with the buses, with her father and the Ajuri,” Tabini said, and spared a hand for Bren’s shoulder, on a level with his son’s. “And you, paidhi-aiji. Are you well?”

“Perfectly,” Bren answered, finding his breath short and his whole grasp of the situation tottering. “Perfectly well, aiji-ma.”

A faint buzz penetrated the thunder of the locomotive and a shadow of wings spread over the windshield and diminished: A plane sped low overhead, streaking low along the track in front of them, then rose as it reached a hill, skimming like the wi’i-tikin in flight.

Scouting the track ahead, Rejiri was, and in utter hubris, letting them know he was up there—up there, all along their way, watching the track, advising them, making their hazardous course possible, an airborne presence elusive as quicksilver, there when they needed him. The boy that had set the nation’s air traffic control in an uproar had redeemed himself today, no question, and they saw him rise, with a waggle of his wings, off on a course toward the distant heights of the city.

An explosion puffed smoke beside the plane. Another. Rejiri waggled his wings as if to chide the agent of this reckless attack, and flew on undaunted.

8

The little plane made a brazen, lazy circle all about the heights of the Bu-javid, reconnoitering—and clearly challenging the opposition to take a shot at it. Bren watched it from a relatively armored position in the engine cab, sure that this time, after days of being shunted aside, deprived of vital information, and relegated to a marginal existence by the Atageini, he could no longer complain he lacked a firsthand view of events. He had his computer slung on his shoulder, resolved to protect the machine from all accidents. He had Banichi and Jago standing near him, which he would have chosen above all things. He also had Cajeiri marginally in his charge—someone had to have the boy in hand, since Tabini, who was near him, was conferring not with Ismini, his own head of staff, who was nowhere to be seen, but with Cenedi and Banichi, the three of them laying plans the rest of them would follow.

This train was not only aimed at the center of the city, but about to force its way into the very heart of the hill on which the Bu-javid sat, that was increasingly clear: Tabini was determined to drive it as deeply as it could penetrate into the tunnels that led to the rail station inside the Bu-javid.

And, Bren thought, if he were in charge of Murini’s defenses, and only pretending to have fled, the very first thing he would do was park a locomotive in those tunnels—the only obstacle available that could possibly stop this iron juggernaut. Stop it, and jam the tunnel with the resulting wreckage.

It was not a comforting thought. Presumably Tabini had thought of it. Presumably Guild in Tabini’s man’chi were running ahead of them, making sure this did not happen. One had no way of knowing if Ismini and the team that had guarded Tabini during his exile were part of that effort, or were serving as decoy, or if there was some other reason for Tabini’s reliance on older, better-known Guild help.

And where were the buses and the trucks at this point? Where was the majority of their strength? Gathering more supporters, they might be, but the buses were traveling a circuitous webwork of roads leading toward the city—still out in the country, news of their coming stirring others to join—or resist—the passage into the suburbs of Sheijidan, doubtless, but not making the kind of time they made.

Tabini’s advance had met no great resistence, however—not yet.

And Sheijidan itself was a strongly Ragi city, not strongly affiliated with their varied Padi Valley cousins, who were Ragi only in part, and in part not, and married into this and that other ethnicity—the hills, the coast, the south. The city itself would surely have borne Kadagidi rule very uneasily.

The boy standing beside him, their young vessel of all key lineages, brought in the Padi Valley’s confused bloodties—and profited more from that heritage than Murini ever could or would, if the day went their way. It was demonstrable in that caravan of buses and trucks that the whole Padi Valley, Murini’s birthplace, had fallen in with Tabini’s advance on the capital. No question this boy’s return from space would ring the death knell of Murini’s hopesc unless this boy should die, or be proven to have fallen under unacceptable influences— The paidhi’s, notably, which state of affairs he himself had vehemently denied to all listeners, all the way from the coast.

So why in hell did Tabini insisting on bringing him with the boy, in the engine cab, in this most public of gestures?

Because Tabini, stubborn as they came, didn’t intend to fail in this attempt, that was what, and he intended to make Murini a dead issue, incapable of protest or politics. The paidhi-aiji, one could only think, was still part and parcel of all Tabini’s decisions, the adviser, the arbiter of his more outrageous opinions—and, though the paidhi himself had doubted it at times, it seemed demonstrable now that Tabini would not step back from that position. Some might see the paidhi as a liability. But others, diehard supporters of the aiji, might see the paidhi as the single binding-point of everything, every choice, every controversial step Tabini had made on the way to this upheaval: Take me back, accept me intact, accept my decisions, and keep your objections behind your teeth, his challenge seemed to be. Admit I am right, and then have my son after me, this ultimate uniter of all clans, or bring me down, and lose my son, and lose his promise, and let a feeble union of the south coast and the small clans rule over nothing but chaos—choose that instead, and be damned to you all.

Maybe it wasn’t quite that harsh an ultimatim in Tabini’s mind.

Maybe he was sweeping the paidhi along out of some sense of policy he meant to maintain. But nothing in Tabini’s past had ever suggested completely idealistic reasons, nothing except the aiji’s absolute conviction that without him, and ultimately without his heir—there was no way to hold the aishidi’tat together, and without the aishidi’tat, there was no way for atevi to compete with humans and rule their own planet.

The scariest matter was—adding it all up—Tabini happened to be right.

Lurch. Jolt. The train passed by the airport, swung onto a familiar track, hitting a bump Bren remembered in his very bones, from his very first days on the mainland. Men in Guild black stood by the side of the track, lifted solemn hands as the train passed their position—hands empty of weapons, some, and others lifting rifles aloft in salute.

Guild had left their official neutrality. Guild had moved. The airport was at their left.

Was Murini still there, or might these Guildsmen have taken action to dislodge him? Had signals passed to Guild among them?

“Is there any word,” he asked Jago, “nadi-ji, is there any word yet of conditions inside the hill itself?”

“There is dispute in the train station,” Banichi said, clear understatement, “so the report is, nandi.”

“And Murini? Has he been proven to have left the airport?”

“There is no word,” Jago said. “Certain persons are looking for him.”

Looking for him, was it? No one knew? Could the Guild itself have completely mislaid the self-proclaimed aiji of the aishidi’tati He didn’t think so. The Guild knew where he was. There was a firefight or a standoff going on somewhere, that was his guess, and the side of the Guild they were communicating with had not been able to verify who was on the other side, so they had gotten no information they were willing to bet on.

“Can you talk to my grandmother?” Cajeiri asked, pressing up beside him in the apparent hope that communications were active.

“One is in communication with Cenedi, young sir,” Jago said, “who is in communication with her.”

“Tell her I am with my father,” Cajeiri said plaintively. “Tell her and Uncle.”

“She knows and approves this move, young sir,” Jago said.

“Indeed she does.”

A deep breath from the boy, who leaned on the metal console and peered out the bright windows ahead of them. “Good,” he said. They passed scattered buildings, the outliers of the airport. Streets were deserted, windows ominously shuttered along the way.

So had the airport train ordinarily been, when they had traveled in Tabini’s personal car, that with the red velvet cushions, the thick, doubtless bulletproof blinds.

The door opened, a rush of wind and noise, and shut: Tano arrived, went straight to the aiji’s conference, delivered a few words and left, acknowledging Bren’s glance only with a slight bow of his head.

Another turn, and the train, at fair speed, rumbled through the commercial edge of the airport. Here, in this unlikely district, ordinary people had come alongside the track, near the road. People waved as they passed, and Cajeiri, leaning toward the side window of the cab, waved back.

“Dangerous, young sir,” Jago said, setting herself between him and that window, and Bren put out his hand and moved her back as well, not disposed to let her make herself a living shield. She gave him one of those down-the-nose looks she could so easily achieve, touched his hand gently, then removed it.

“Bren-ji,” she chided him. “You do not protect us. You do not protect us. Shall I say it, fortunate three?”

He was obliged to say, however reluctantly: “I shall rely on you, Jago-ji.”

“I wish Antaro and Jegari were here, now,” Cajeiri said. “I wish Antaro had not taken my coat.” And then an apparent thought: “Can you contact them, too, nadiin-ji?”

A deep frown, on Jago’s light-touched face. “We do not attempt it, young sir, for their safety, in order for the ruse to work. They may contact Cenedi, if they can.”

“But there is no word from them?” Cajeiri was distressed. “There is no word at all, nadiin-ji?”

“Being wise, they will not chatter back and forth, young sir,”

Banichi said. “They will move quickly, and they will move unpredictably, as if you were in their care. We cannot answer your questions.”

“They should not have gone at all,” Cajeiri muttered, head ducked, his mouth set in a grim line. “They should not have done it.”

Jago said sternly: “Jegari and Antaro are not your human associates, young sir. Never mistake it. They are not Gene and Artur.”

A scowl. And a young man left to sit on a jump seat, head bowed, not so much sulking, one hoped, as thinking about what she meant, in all its ramifications.

A human was totally out of place in that transaction: Man’chi pulled and pushed, and it was an emotion as extravagant and sharp and painful as anything humans felt—no reason he could offer could make it better for the boy, to be told, indeed, they were not Gene and Artur. What they did was exactly comprehensible to the boy’s instincts, if he would give way and listen to them. The paidhi had absolutely nothing to contribute in that understanding.

But in the next moment, while the engine gathered speed after the curve, Tabini crossed the claustrophobic aisle to lay a hand on his son’s shoulder and point out the ways one should exit the engine if they should crash inside the tunnelsc how ladders led to traps in the ceiling, and how he should, if worst came to worst in the tunnels or before that, find a small dark place inside the tunnels and wait until dark to get back down the hill.

“Yes,” Cajeiri said, paying close attention, and Tabini found occasion to touch his son’s cheek, approving— Push and pull of emotions, curious combination of harsh and soft treatment to Bren’s eyes, but the emotional tide in the boy at losing his companions had shifted back again, become a bright-eyed, active observation of his surroundings, his assets, the proper course to follow to gain his father’s approval—one could all but see the wheels turning.

And one knew this boy. He aspired to be a hero. If he got the chance he would do extravagantly brave things, if security or the paidhi didn’t quickly sit on him and keep him out of the line of firec God, how did a human reason with the new spark in those gold eyes, that combination of empowering sacrifice for his own welfare and the heady draft of fatherly approval?

The train slowed for another curve in that moment, as the sun came between buildings. It cast their shadow against a grassy hummock beside the tracks, and showed the shadow of their train, the fluttering transparency of the banner spread above it, the low shapes of persons on the roofs of the cars. People all along could have no doubt who they were, and where they were going.

And still they turned out as the train passed the edge of residential districts with the tunnel looming ahead, men, women, children waving at them, one group with a stick with red and black streamers attached.

A short transit through a parkland. Then a tunnel appeared in the windows, a tunnel, a dual fortification, a gateway that could be closed.

It was not.

Here we go, Bren said to himself, as if preparing for a dive down a snowy mountainside. Here we go. They were remote yet from the Bu-javid: It was the entry to the underground, the common train system that ran through the heart of the city. It would not be the greatest point of danger, unless their opposition cared nothing for casualties.

The tunnel widened to embrace them. They were swallowed up in darkness with only a row of lights in the ceiling to show their way, and those widely spaced. The lights of the engine itself illumined rock and masonry, and the double ribbon of steel that carried them.

The noise changed to an echoing thunder that obscured chance remarks inside the cab.

One hoped the people on the roof were safe. It was certainly not where he would have chosen to ride out this journey.

But if there was to be an obstacle, they and he would be among the first to see it: The engineers would have at least as much warning as the headlamps and radio contact providedc not that there was damned much they could do about it. They were moving much too fast now for his liking, fast enough, he feared, to compact the cab into tinfoil if they met another train on their track.

Whisk—through an urban station, with lights on either side and other tracks, a strangely deserted station, where only a scattered few stood on the platforms watching the train pass. Two other city trains were parked there, and those were dark and eerily empty of passengers.

Whisk—into the dark again. The engineer, underlit by the control panel under his hands, was talking to someone on his headset. One hoped it was good information and good news.

Whisk—through another station, likewise deserted, only this one held a freight train, and a handful of shadows, one of whom waved a lantern, and the train slowed.

Back into the dark, then, more slowly still, swerving—if memory served—exactly where the airport train always swerved, where it switched to the Bu-javid track. In a moment they hit the switch-point, a noisy crash.

Faster and faster, then. They were headed for the Bu-javid depot, now, right up into the restricted track.

Ought we not to proceed with more circumspection? He wanted to ask Jago that, but he had dissuaded Cajeiri from such questions, and found himself biting his lower lip as they began, yes, definitely to climb and then to turn.

“How is the track ahead, nadi?” He finally couldn’t help himself.

“Clear, as far as our report runs, Bren-ji.” Because she knew him, because she knew he was trying to think ahead, she added: “The floors above are at present another matter.”

Murini hadn’t pulled out all his supporters. Perhaps Murini had gone, and left them to take the heat—but it would not be easy.

Granted one could believe the reports of where Murini was any more than one could rely on those about Tabini.

Whisk. Another lighted space, with no trains at all, only deserted platforms, amber-lit in the gloom, empty rails gleaming. He remembered it as the station that carried government employees to the foot of the hill.

And still the train climbed, its speed necessarily reduced by the bends in the track. It was inside the hill.

“The paidhi and the young gentleman should go to the aisle aft now,” Banichi came to them to say. Bren perfectly understood: They were getting close to the main station, that station which served the higher levels of the Bu-javid. If anywhere, this was the place that would be defended. Nobody had thrown a train at them yet, but he would lay no bets now.

“Come, young sir,” Bren said, collecting the boy with an arm about his back. “Let our security do its job.”

“I have a gun,” Cajeiri announced, this boy scantly eight.

“Keep it in your pocket,” Bren said, “as I do mine. If you draw it, you will immediately strike an enemy eye as a threat, and you will attract bullets to both of us, vastly annoying our bodyguards.”

“I want to fight!”

“Not even your father wants to fight, young sir, nor do I. Let us stand here at the start of the hallway, and not be in the way of those whose business it is to protect us. That is our best service.”

“My father is up there!”

That he was, right up near the windows, which security would not like, but there was damned little arguing with Tabini at this moment. The headlights of the train picked out rough-hewn rock in their distant view of the windshield.

Then smooth concrete, and always that row of lights along the top of the tunnel—lights dimmed to insignificance in the blaze of fire that burst ahead of them. The whole train shook, and kept going through a sheet of fire, right on to the white flare of artificial light that dawned in the windshield.

Multiple tracks, the broad platforms for freight and passengers, cars on the siding and another train engine apparently moving, but on another track, headed out.

Home, the station from which he’d left on every journeyc and seen now through the windshield of an engine cab bristling with firearms, a vantage on the place he’d never in his life imagined to have. The whole Bu-javid was above their heads now, the hill, the capital, the center of Sheijidan and the aishidi’tat.

The train slowed, hissed, squealed to a halt, and suddenly a fracture appeared in the windshield glass, silent, compared to the scream of the brakes. No one even ducked—only one of Tabini’s guard stepped between him and the window, and at Bren’s elbow, Cajeiri moved forward.

“Do not have the gun out, young sir,” Bren said, grabbing a coat sleeve and wishing he could confiscate that deadly item from immature hands. “Keep your head down.”

“But—” from Cajeiri, and at that moment Jago stepped near and seized Bren’s arm. He seized Cajeiri’s in turn, and took him where Jago led, which was back into the short corridor, and, bending low under the window, toward the door and the ladder down to the outside.

Out the door then, into the echoing cavern of the terminal and the reek of smoke and explosives in the station.

Jago stopped them half a breath—they were not the first out on that short steel platform: Banichi was. Banichi went down the ladder to the track itself.

“I shall follow you very closely, Jago-ji,” Bren said at her back.

“Use both hands for yourself, if you please.”

“Yes,” Jago said shortly, and dived down after Banichi.

It was relatively quiet, given the noise from the idling engine right at their backs, given, Bren thought, the pounding of his own heart, which he swore was keeping time with the train and just as loud. Two deep breaths on that little nook of a platform. Banichi’s whistled signal pierced the ambient noise.

“We shall go down and to the right,” Jago said, “along by the wheels, then up onto the platform. Follow.”

She moved, instantly, and Banichi was out of sight. “Stay with me,” he said to Cajeiri, and scrambled after Jago, down the atevi-scale ladder, down beside the massive driving wheels. Jago moved ahead of them, staying low, below the concrete lip of the platform, and Bren saw Banichi was up ahead, where a straight steel maintenance ladder led up to the main level. Banichi set a foot on it, reversed his rifle, and put the butt up above his head.

Fire spattered back, missing entirely.

“They are not Guild,” was Jago’s acid comment.

Not Guild. Banichi had ducked down and moved down the trackside, evidently on the hunt. Fire was echoing out from the top of the train.

“Stay here,” Jago said, about to backtrack, and about that time fire broke out from behind them, from up on car level, about where Ilisidi’s car was. Fire came from the windows as well as the top of the cars, directed at what, Bren had no idea. His mind supplied the broad panorama of the Bu-javid terminal, where a loading dock and broad passenger platform ran side by side in the large artificial cavern, with its pillars and buttresses. About fifty meters from the passenger terminal, a handful of freight and business offices, their very walls part of a massive pillar that went up several stories, and about twenty meters beyond that, a rock wall and the inset of a bank of lifts that went straight up into the offices and residences of the Bu-javid itself, doors tastefully enameled in muted tones, themselves an artwork—not to mention the several tapestries and the vases, designed to provide passengers tranquility and pleasant views, before the bustle and hurry of the trains.

Fire rattled out and richocheted off the train engine over their heads. More fire came from right above them, out the windows of the cab, and presumably their people on the roofs of the train had not stayed any longer to be targets—were likely either down within the train or had gotten off onto the platform immediately as they came in and moved out. The whole cavern resounded with gunfire, first in one direction and then another, and he had lost sight of Banichi in one direction and suddenly missed Jago in the other.

They had left him—left him altogether, which they rarely did. She was off down the trackside.

His job was to stay low and stay out of trouble, and this he was resolved to do. “Come,” he said to Cajeiri, spotting a nook beside the massive drive wheels, a nook that led right down under the engine itself, a place grimy and black with grease, but a veritable fortress against most anything that might come.

“What if the train should move, nandi?” Cajeiri asked.

“Then lie flat,” he said. But the train had gotten itself into a position at the end of the line, only the roundtable could face it about, and that only after the cars were detached. Their train was not moving, and could not be moved, no matter a deafening explosion that filled the track area with stinging smoke.

Cajeiri moved to get out. Bren grabbed the coat and hauled him back.

“Great-grandmother,” the boy said.

“The aiji-dowager can take care of herself, young sir. Stay with me. Guild is positioning itself out there, and that thick smoke is part of it. This is not the time for us to be wandering loose.”

He could not read the boy’s face in a dark now compounded by thick smoke. Next, Bren thought, the lights might go. But he heard distant shouts, people calling out for someone to move south.

They were certainly not Guild, he said to himself. He maintained one arm about the boy, the other snugging his computer close. The only flaw in his plan that he could see was that his own staff might not realize he had gone to cover, but he had no means to tell them except to use a pocket com, and that might not be prudent—even if they had time to answer a phone call. He heard little short whistles, low and varied in tone—difficult to get a fix where they were, but those were Guild, likely their own Assassins moving and advising one another of their movements in a code that seemed to shift by agreementc much as he had heard it, he recognized only those signals his staff made with the intent he understand.

Boom. And rattle. The ground itself shook. The lights dimmed significantly, not that there was a thing to see from their vantage between the wheels, and meanwhile the smoke had sunk even to low places, stinging the eyes and making his nose run. He blotted at it, and found his calves cramping as he squatted there, not a good thing if they had to run for it.

Someone moved near them. He saw legs, out between the wheels, but the smoke and the shadow obscured identity.

“Bren-ji.”

Jago’s voice.

“Here,” he said, and let go of Cajeiri’s coat. The boy crawled out ahead of him, and he exited on eye level with Jago, who leaned on a rifle, kneeling on the end of a wooden tie beside the rail.

“We are making progress,” Jago said. “We have secured the platform. Forces are moving up inside the Bu-javid itself, level by level. The Guild has concentrated its efforts.”

“On which side?” he was constrained to ask.

“Tabini-aiji has taken possession of the Bu-javid,” was Jago’s answer, wrapped in the obscurity the Guild favored. “And Murini is confirmed to have left the airport, by air.”

No damned specific information about the Guild, not even from Jago, not so the human mind could gather it.

“We are winning,” he paraphrased her.

“Baji-naji,” she answered him, that atevi shrug, and said then, “we have to move.”

Something else blew up, shaking the concrete walls of the trackside. Jago pushed him into motion, and Bren grabbed Cajeiri’s sleeve and shoved him ahead in the stinging smoke.

Where are we going? it occurred to him to ask. But they reached the short upward ladder, and Jago shoved them aside to go first, taking it in three moves, a rifle swinging from her shoulder.

Bren shoved Cajeiri up next, and followed right up against him, pushing the boy over the rim as Jago seized first Cajeiri and then him, dragging them into motion. Smoke was thicker above, stinging their eyes. Shapes—support columns, pieces of equipment, baggage trucks, moving figures—appeared like shadows and vanished again in haze. They crossed the broad platform, running toward the central lifts, from which the whole space of the station fanned out.

There were shouts, whistles, and they dodged around a column.

Are we going upstairs? Going up into the heart of the Bu-javid seemed to Bren a dangerous proposition, to put themselves into the fragile mechanism of the lift system, the towering shafts an easy target for sabotage. He was not anxious to do that, but he was not about to protest anything Jago thought necessary.

The wall and the bank of lifts came up at them, a darker gray in the smoke, and several shadows by it—these were surely allies: Jago had her rifle in hand, and did not raise it. Whistles sounded.

Jago answered in kind, short and sharp, and they reached the carpeted vicinity of the lifts themselves.

“Nandi.” Tano was there. So, for that matter, was Tabini-aiji, with his guard. Tabini snatched his son into his care, welcome event. Bren bent over, catching his breath, wiping his eyes. Lights were at half. Such lights as there were lit blazed in the high overhead like multiple suns in fog, contributing a milky glow aloft, but no distinction to the shadowy figures out across the terminal platform.

“We are going up,” he heard. It was Tabini’s voice, leaving no doubt that was exactly what they would be doing.

No one protested, not even the aiji’s security. A door opened in the wall, a clearer light shining within, where there was no smoke—and it was not the lifts Tabini proposed to take, but the emergency stairs, Bren sawc emergency stairs, atevi-scale, and the highest climb in all of Shejidan.

Guildsmen pressed their way into the stairwell slightly ahead of Tabini, and the rest of them were clearly going with Tabini, affording no time for questions, no time, either, to ask where Banichi was, or Tano or Algini, none of whom were immediately in sight. Jago pushed Bren and the boy up metal stairs that resounded with the thunder of climbers above them.

Up and up the steps, three landings that had no exit, a space occupied only by the height of the station roof, a fourth landing, where several Assassins stood waiting to wave them on up and up.

Bren found his legs burning, his heart pounding—Jago had the weight of the rifle, a sidearm, and ammunition, and he could only manage the computer and his pistol, himself, with the atevi-scale steps and a body that had spent the last couple of years sitting far, far too much. The rest of their force climbed behind them—he dared not slow them down, so he sweated and climbed, while his vision went hazy and his breath tore through his throat.

He bumped Jago hard when, at a landing, they reached an abrupt stop. He couldn’t see, couldn’t catch his breath, everything gone to tunnel vision. He heard Cajeiri ask him was he all right, and he couldn’t get breath enough to answer, only bent, leaning on a safety rail, the computer a leaden weight on his shoulder, but he had it, he had the heavy pistol in his pocket—that had not fallen out; and Cajeiri patted his back, exhorting him to breathe.

Then Jago’s free arm came around him, warm leather, great strength, absolute concern. He managed to straighten his back, then to get the edges of a real breath and center his haze of vision on an open door.

Tabini and his guard occupied that doorway. There were figured carpets in clear light. Paneled walls. He didn’t know precisely what floor it was, but maybe the first of the residential levels, above that of the courts and the legislature. He heard shots, somewhere down that hall, thought incongruously, hazily, of that fragile paneling.

“We are in, Bren-ji,” Jago said, heaving at him. “One is sure the aiji’s forces are ahead of us.”

Beat and beat and beat. The heart had survived it. Cajeiri was safe. Bren flung his other arm around Cajeiri’s shoulders, and Cajeiri’s came about his heaving ribcage, and there was nothing for it but to walk, Jago with her rifle at the ready.

They passed the door. And there, blessed sight, Banichi stood, rifle in hand, and Algini next to him, giving directions, waving them down what was, yes, the first level corridor, a place of priceless handwoven runners, carved plinths supporting ancient porcelains.

“We are clearing the upper floors, nandi,” Banichi said. “The adherents of the Kadagidi have not generally stayed to meet us.”

Bren wanted to sit down on the spot. His legs all but tried to do so on their own, but he locked his knees and kept his feet under him. “Very good,” he managed to say, the first thing he had gotten out of his throat. He had no sight of Tabini or his guard at the moment. Jago drew him on down the hall, with Cajeiri, until they reached a small conversational area, with an incongruous bouquet of flowers in a low vase on a table, everything kabiu, everything in meticulous order, as a rattle of shots went off somewhere down the hall.

He didn’t sit down. He thought if he should sit down, he wouldn’t get up. He stood leaning against the paneled wall, his eyes darting in the direction of the gunfire, which had ceased.

Jago watched that direction, too, and all others, until a Guild Assassin trotted down the corridor toward them, with no hostile intent evident.

“We have the lifts,” that woman said, and Jago made a move with her rifle, signaling they should go now.

They jogged back the way the woman had come, down past the door they had used, and on around the corner. The majority of their party was there, Tabini in the lead.

And shots exploded off the wall in a shower of plaster and stone fragments. Bren began to reach for his gun, but a body hit him and Cajeiri at once, a black leather jacket up against his face, his back against the wall, Cajeiri next to him: Jago had covered them both, and he felt her body jolt hard, heard an intake of breath.

“Jago-ji!”

She spun about against them and let off a burst of fire, her muscles jumping to the recoil of the gun she held one-handed. Then the pressure of her weight let up. She stood rock-solid, facing back down the corridor, and now, Bren was able to see, other Guildsmen had taken off back the way they had come, to secure it against any advance.

“Jago, you were hit.”

“Bruised, nandi.” She swung about and herded them both into a position sheltered from the corners. Tabini had moved to cover them. The armor inside the jackets, Bren thought. Thank God.

Then Tano showed up in the hall from which they had come, waving an all-clear, and stances relaxed all around. Tabini came back to see to his son, to offer Jago a nod of appreciation which she received tight-lipped, with a bow.

“The Kadagidi staff has asked to remain in their premises, aiji-ma,” one of the Guild reported. “They will admit our personnel as far as the foyer, and plead they have had no contact with their authority and cannot withdraw.”

An unenviable position. Bren feared for his own people.

But there were conventions exempting domestic staff—if there was any staff in that establishment that wasn’t Guild.

“Granted,” Tabini said. “Set a guard on their door and outside their windows.”

And monitor all communications. That went without saying.

Even a human from the Island knew that would happen. He drew two relieved, shaky breaths in succession, knowing where Jago and Tano were, wishing he had a notion where Banichi and Algini had gotten to, or what was going on downstairs.

Then a report came in—he heard half of it—that the buses had reached the heart of the city, and that they were coming toward the hill.

“Mother is coming,” Cajeiri said confidently, in his higher voice.

Mother, and perhaps, if the business downstairs had gone well, great-grandmother and great-uncle would come upstairs and help Tabini restore order. The Guild around them was taking a more relaxed stance, as if what was flowing in electronic communications was reassuring. Bren took the leisure to cast a worried look at Jago, to be sure she had told him the truth: Her face showed a little pain, but she occupied herself entirely with reloading, her dark face utterly concentrating on that, and perhaps on what reached her by the communications unit she had in her ear.

The lift worked. The racket in the shafts near them reported the cars in motion, and Bren had thought they had shut that down.

Bren cast a worried glance in that direction, and at Tabini, who had spared no glance at all for the noise and the sporadic gunfire somewhere downstairs, as if he knew very well what was going on.

The lift passed them, stopped somewhere on the floors above.

“Secure the audience hall,” Tabini said, and that hall was on this floor, the main floor, which communicated with the outside via broad, public stairs, down to the U-shaped road—the road by which the arriving buses might most logically attempt to come in and discharge their passengers.

A pair of Guildsmen moved off in that direction, and vanished around the corner.

Silence then. For several whole breaths there was no racket, no sound of combat. Bren counted off his heartbeats, about the time it would take the Guildsmen—a man and a woman—to reach the public areas.

A door boomed open in a great vacancy, in the empty audience hall, a place ordinarily crowded with petitioners and favor-seekers, and noisy as a train station. It sounded lonely and hopeful now, the beginning of a new authority, the civil government opening its doors again for businessc And doubtless, in the prudent atevi way, any domestic staff or clericals still in the building had taken cover in their own areas, shut doors, locked them, and sat waiting for the Guild to sort out the business of statec sat waiting to be summoned by whoever won the contest and opened such doors.

Tabini gave a wave of his hand. Forward, that gesture said; and it was no time to lag behind. They moved on quickly around the next corner, into the broad public corridor.

The outer doors of the Bu-javid were still shut—the doors that at all hours and in every weather stood open for any citizen to visit the lower halls, to deliver petitions to the offices, to visit bureaus and secretaries, and most of all to deal face to face with their aiji in the public sessions.

“Open the doors,” Tabini said, first of all orders after the opening of the audience hall, and security moved at a run to go unlock those huge doors and shove them open wide—not without a certain readiness of weapons and a cautious look outside.

What came in was the dark of night, and a breeze came with it, a breeze that would clear away the stench of gunfire and smoke, a breeze that stirred the priceless hangings and ran away into the farthest reaches of the floor.

The audience hall stood open and safe. Tabini sent Guildsmen in to join the others, and then walked in himself, the rest of them trailing after. The place was in decent order, give or take a stack of petition documents, heavy with seals and ribbons, that had scattered across the steps of the dais.

“Those will be collected,” Tabini declared, treading a path among them, up the few steps to his proper seat. He would by no means ask Guild staff to do that secretarial business. Petitions were the province of the clerks, who had not yet appeared.

Tabini took his accustomed place. Beckoned, then.

“Go, young sir,” Bren said, urging Cajeiri with a little push, and Cajeiri drew up his shoulders, straightened his rumpled, borrowed coat, and walked the same path as his father, to stand by his chair.

A second time Tabini beckoned, and Bren had the overwhelming urge to look behind him, to see if Tabini meant some other person of note—Tabini would not be so foolish or so downright defiant of criticism as to want him to mount those stairs. He should not. He had to find a way to advise Tabini against it, but could think of none.

Tabini said, definitively, “Nand’ paidhi. Join us.”

There was nothing for it. Bren walked forward, as far as the steps, and there sat down, as he had, oh, so many years ago, when he was only Bren-paidhi, and had represented Mospheira, not the aiji, in Sheijidan. A divorce case, Tabini had been hearing then; and he had been a different man, in that quiet perspective— A man who had had to defend his bedroom against assassins. Or rather, Banichi had had to, that night.

Banichi was not with him now. Jago hung back near the door. He had never felt so publicly exposed and entirely vulnerable.

And he hoped to have done the right thing—not to stand by Tabini on the dais, but to resume his former post. He hoped people reported that. He hoped Tabini would understand what he advised, a restoration of the paidhi’s former status—most of all that he would take that advice, and not shipwreck himself on old policy.

There was a little murmur in the hall. It fell away into a hush.

He could not see Tabini’s face, not at all; but he could see the faces of the crowd. He could see Jago and Tano, and saw that Algini had slipped in by the door to join Tano. He began to worry about Banichi—began to be desperately worried about him. Banichi had never left him so long, in such a moment of danger. He tried to catch a hint from Jago’s face, whether she knew where Banichi was, or whether she was in contact, and he couldn’t read a thing.

Her impassivity far from settled his sense of dread.

“Let them come,” Tabini said. Someone had just said that the bus caravan had passed onto the grand processional way, and that crowds were in the streets, welcoming them and joining them on their route. “The hall will be open, no exceptions.”

It was an incredibly dangerous gesture. It exposed the aiji and his son to potential attack, not necessarily from Guild Assassins, but from some mentally unbalanced person, some furiously angry person who had lost fortune or family. The Presidenta of Mospheira would never dare do such a thing, despite all the Mospheiran tradition of democracy and access to institutions. But that the aiji of Shejidan made that gesture— He was not on the ship, or the station. One thing overrode all questions of security, among atevi, and that was the sense of choice in man’chi. It was the absolute necessity for stable power, that rule not be imposed. There had to be that moment of equilibrium, that choice, baji-naji, life or death; and in that realization of how things must be, Bren felt a certain chill.

People began to trickle into the hall, lords of the aishidi’tat, heads of clan, officials, clericals who had kept the state running while Murini claimed to rule. In each case, they came and bowed and proclaimed their man’chi, and in each case Tabini nodded, asking a secretary, who had quietly appeared among the others, and another diffidently come forward to gather the scattered documents from the steps, to write down the names.

A paper of formal size and thickness was found, a desk was drawn up to its position near the dais, and the second young man, a junior clerical, placed there the petitions that he had gathered from the steps, a formidable stack of parchment, heavy with the ribbons and metal seals that proclaimed the house or district of origin.

There were too many for the single desk. A second table was found, sufficient to hold the rest of them; and in all of this, the first secretary, writing furiously to catch up, made records of the names and house of everyone who had come to the audience, the hour, the date, the vital numbers.

An old man presented himself, a senior servant of the Bu-javid itself, who offered his devotion to the aiji and wished to restore a sense of kabiu to the place, and wished to move the skewed carpet in the middle of the hall, of all things, its pattern again to run toward the steps, as it had tended.

“No, nadi, with all appreciation,” Tabini said from above. It was as if the old servant had wanted to build a wall at the base of the steps. “But place it about. Full about, if you will.”

Not keeping the presence that had come in from departing, nor yet lying as a barrier, but reversing the flow of the room, allowing what came in from the door to flow up to the dais, the reverse of what had always existed there. Even the paidhi had no trouble understanding that gesture. The crowd moved back and even lordly hands applied themselves to straightening that ancient, priceless runner, aiming its knotted-silk patterns from the door toward the dais.

In a moment more, a handful of other servants had brought in bare branches of the season, and vases of seasonal pattern, and tables stolen from the halls. Two more servants, from some deep and untouched storeroom, had found Ragi banners, red and black, and brought them to stand in their places, while others took down the Kadagidi colors.

“Unstaff and fold them,” was the aiji’s declaration. “They are the Kadagidi’s banners, not Murini’s. Send them to the Kadagidi. They may bring them back to this hall again.”

A little stunned silence followed that quiet statement, like the shock after an explosion, and Bren did not so much as blink, though his mind raced, and he wondered if the Kadagidi would accept that gift—their banners returned to them without remark and undamaged. That not Murini’s declared, seemingly, that if the Kadagidi could free themselves of Murini’s leadership, they would find their way back to the grace of the Ragi aiji.

No reprisals. No general purge of clan leadership.

Nothing, either, so gracious or politically convenient for the Kadagidi as the aiji himself executing the culprit and taking on the onus of a feud. The Kadagidi clan itself had a choice: To take measures, or find itself at extreme disadvantage in the restored aijinate—even at war with the aiji’s growing authority, which looked to be more solid than before the trouble.

No, it was not as gentle as it sounded at first blush. It forced a very, very uncomfortable decision on the Kadagidi.

Would they kill their own kinsman? Exile him? Break man’chi?

The little silence that had followed that remark had perhaps understood that situation at gut level, a good deal faster than a human brain could reason its way through the matter, but likely enough, Bren thought, even atevi had had to think about it a heartbeat or two.

And the reaction among the Kadagidi would be split—split right down the dividing line of factions that surrounded any provincial power, those favoring this and that policy, this and that way of managing clan affairs. There was always another side to any clan-aiji’s rule, and this little statement reached right in with a scalpel and cut certain taut threads within the Kadagidi clan itself.

Not gentle, no. Likely to have bloodshed, not all over the country, but specifically right within the very halls to which Murini’s flight might now be taking him. Let that statement go out over the airwaves, as it surely had gone through Guildsmen present, to the Guild authority, whatever it was at the moment—Tabini-aiji, reputed for sharp decisions, was back in business.

And something had clearly happened inside the Guild, among all those delicate threads of man’chi held in precise tension, among Guild of various houses and districts. Guild black was prominent here, weapons in hands, weapons supporting Tabini-aiji.

From general paralysis of the Guild, change had happened catastrophically, from the moment Guild authority had moved in on Tatiseigi’s estate—drawing a lethal reaction from high-up Assassins in Tabini’s company, possibly in Ilisidi’s guard, and—a fact which still stunned him, but which was very logical—possibly a very high one inserted into the paidhi’s household. Assassins continually in the field, his, and Tabini’s, and Ilisidi’s—met a company of Guild officers who must have thought themselves the best, the most elite, likely equipped with the latest in surveillance and weaponry on the planet, arrived to carry out a very surgical strike—and they just hadn’t moved as outrageously, as fast, as the field agents.

Arrogance had expected Tatiseigi was underequipped, and hadn’t reckoned on the heavy weapons and explosives Tatiseigi’s house had accumulated over the years, in its proximity to Kadagidi provocations. Tatiseigi’s antique equipage and old-fashioned notions had doubtless occasioned scorn and derision in the Guild, and despair in his own staff. But a shed full of explosives, as one could easily imagine existed in a rural, forest-edge estate, where the occasional stump had to be removed. (Had the aiji not wanted such caches registered, in those early, innocent years, when they were blasting roadway for the rail? And had not the lords turned very secretive about what they had, what they insisted they needed for themselves?) Lord Tatiseigi’s store, had been, perhaps, just a little excessive for stumpsc One could certainly imagine that train of events, at least, creating a very shockingly effective resource to deploy in general defense—God knew, Tatiseigi could understand blunt-force explosives. And his own staff had brought in items the planet-bound Guild had never seen. Arrogance met spaceborn technology, was what.

And met Guild members who hadn’t been present for whatever underhanded maneuver had set Gegini in a position of authority.

A woman in Guild black came from the door, bowed. “The buses are coming up the drive now, aiji-ma. A crowd is following afoot and in vehicles.”

“Let them in,” Tabini said, and Cajeiri, who stood at his father’s arm, said, in a slightly elevated voice: “That will be mama.”

“That it will,” Tabini said, and in a few more minutes there was a general gasping and squeal of brakes outside, audible even in this thick-walled hall.

And if only, Bren thought, finding his hard-used legs were going quite numb and tending to shiver on the cold stone, if only this arrival didn’t rattle a sniper or two out of the woodwork, they were home. Home, and Tabini was solidly back in power.

His own apartment was upstairs, in whatever condition. As Tabini’s was. The halls of the legislative branch were just down the corridor. His imagination painted them dark, the lamps of democracy and debate momentarily gone out.

He imagined a plane in flight, Murini’s people trying to decide where to go, if they had not picked out a landing site already. There was an airport at Mei, in the Kadagidi holdings, and that was the most logical, a pleasant enough town at the edge of the foothillsc if he dared bring his growing trouble home.

A hubbub came up the outer steps, came into the outer hall, stressed voices, voices calling out directions, but none raised in alarm. A clot of people pressed as far as the doors, demanding to be let in, and yet hanging back in fear or diffidence.

Then, “We shall all see the aiji,” a feminine voice said in no uncertain tones, and guards at the door gave way to Damiri herself, entraining her young cousin, her sister, and her uncle and aunt and the lord of the Ajuri, all of whom swept into the hall in a wave of heraldic color and dynastic determination. Damiri walked ahead of them, left her uncle and grandfather to reach the steps, and to climb right past Bren to stand by her husband and her son.

That reunion Bren turned his head to see from the corner of his eye, a restrained exchange of slight, sedate bows, a little touch of the hand, wife to husband, son to mother. There was no wild outward demonstration, nothing of the sort; but he knew beyond a doubt one young heart was fluttering hard, and youthful nerves were at their limits. Ilisidi would be ever so proud of her handiwork, Bren thought. Everyone in the hall had a view of the lad’s comportment, and it was formal and atevi to the last degree, even while other contingents from the buses were crowding and jostling their way into the hall.

“Tabini-aiji!” someone called out, and other voices joined in, “Tabini-aiji!” It became a chant, an echo in the high hall, and it went on, and went on until Tabini shouted out, “We are here, nadiin-ji!”

Which raised more cheers, rousing complete, aggressive chaos in the hall. Baji-naji, Bren thought, looking out over the tight-pressed crowd, in which black Guild uniforms mingled indiscriminately with the travel-worn colors of civilians from the central provinces.

A happy event. A Ragi event dominated by Padi Valley ambitions, the return not only of the Ragi aiji, but the heir of their own blood, in a tumult that went on and on and on, became a contest, a rivalry precarious and dangerous.

Bren felt the strength drain from his bones—was anxious for his own people, and most of all anxious for the impression he created for Tabini, this close to power. He was not popular in the Padi Valley, there was no question. He sat still, tried to look decorous, wishing he could just creep down the steps and see if he could gather his staff and get away to his estate. He presented a disheveled appearance, not to mention a sweaty and grease-stained one, black streaking his hands, smudging his coat, probably his face, God only knew. Pale colors meant he collected dirt.

And if he lived to get out of this hall, if some Assassin didn’t take him out before the night was over, upstairs was his dearest ambition. He wondered if his own apartment still existed, if there could possibly be a bath, and his own favorite chair, and above all his staff, safe and intact.

He didn’t let himself settle too deeply into that hope. Most of all he was worried for his bodyguard’s safety—knew that they were committed to the aiji’s survival at the moment, in which his own safety came second if not third, and he desperately wanted to get Jago within range to ask her about Banichi, whether he was safe.

He saw her. But she stayed out of his reach, and spent her attention on the crowd, scanning faces, it might be.

Then he spotted a conspicuous coat near the doorway, an ornate, too-small coat, and a second teenager with a handful of green-and-brown-clad Taibeni.

So did Cajeiri. “Taro! Gari!” the heir cried out, startling the assemblage to silence, and a boy who had learned some of his manners in the back corridors of the Phoenix starship went plunging down the steps to reach his young staffc Who had the planet-bred good manners to bow very deeply and bring the rush of enthusiasm to a quick halt. They bowed, Cajeiri bowed. The room—and startled security—let out a quiet exhalation and settled.

Bren did not look back to see Tabini’s reaction, or Lady Damiri’s.

The moment passed. The young rascal wanted to bring his staff right up onto the dais with him, as security staff had assumed positions near his parents, but the young people had more sense.

Antaro shed the too-small coat, exchanged it on the spot for her own, outsized on Cajeiri, and if there was a witness present who didn’t realize what that exchange was about, his instincts needed sharpening.

“Son,” Tabini said gravely, and with a single backward look, Cajeiri climbed back up the steps to stand with his parents.

The youngsters were safe, Bren said to himself, feeling his legs gone numb. That business had gone right. The youngsters had gotten through, the decoy, if it had worked, hadn’t been fatal, and everyone had come through on that side. Was that Ismini, back there near the door? Was it Ismini and his team Tabini had sent with the decoy?

For his own safety, howeverc there was no such easy answer.

Then he saw one large and very welcome presence loom in the doorway—a little frayed, it might be, his uniform jacket cut and showing its protective lining, and even his hair stringing a bit about his ears, but Banichi had come in, and with him, Nali, one of Ilisidi’s young men, in no better form. They spoke a word or two to Jago, gave a little nod.

A little shiver started, absolute chill setting into Bren’s bones, as if the final reaction had waited all this time to get a hold on him.

He tried to keep his muscles warm. He heard Tabini’s voice above him, thanking his suporters, declaring Intent on anyone who aided Murini henceforth—documents would be filed; the Guild would function as it legally was supposed to function, a force for order, atevi order and law.

“At a certain time, and before the hasdrawad and the tashrid, we shall have an accounting,” Tabini said. “The Bu-javid is in our hands again. Where is the master of the premises?”

There was a little confusion. But a tall old woman, her hair completely white with age, came forward to the foot of the steps and bowed deeply.

“I am here, aiji-ma, in my father’s place.”

“Madam,” Tabini said, “take account of the staff, those in our man’chi and those unreliable.”

“I have such an accounting,” the head of staff said, “and have kept it daily, in my head; and chiefly unreliable, aiji-ma, the head of house security and his immediate staff, who are no longer on the premises.”

“We know where he has gone,” Tabini said. “There will be amnesty for minor faults. Do not mistake, madam, the names or the man’chi of those remaining.”

A deep, deep bow. “To the best of my knowledge, aiji-ma, I have my list, and will give it.”

“Do so,” Tabini said, with that curtness only allowable in lords.

“Assume your father’s post, madam. Arrange the house, with immediate attention to our residency. My security will move in, immediately, expecting good order.”

“Aiji-ma.” A third, and deepest bow, and the old woman turned and walked away—one sure power within the house. Bren knew her, long her father’s right hand, doing all those administrative tasks that kept the halls clean and the priceless heirlooms of the people’s hall safe and maintained, down to the polish on the doors and the cleanliness of the carpets underfoot—not to mention the credentials of the lowliest sweeper and the most elegant arbiter of kabiu. Those eyes, however old, were very keen for minutiae, and that mind was sharp.

And upstairs, doubtless at this very moment, whatever Murini might have left in the aiji’s apartment was being searched out, dismantled, rearranged. Very soon she would have domestic staff going through it.

“Those of you who have residence within the halls,” Tabini said, “see to it. Those who have residency in the city, see to your own man’chi. Those of you who will house in hostels, we shall stand all charges: Apply to the master of accounts, with appropriate records, within prudent bounds. The aishidi’tat is intact and safe tonight.

Go to your residences!”

A cheer broke out, happier than the last, minatory expression—a cheer for being home, for being back in command of things—for the world being set right, dared one hope?

Bren ventured to get to his feet, to find his legs again, sore and weary as they were, and after a few tries, made it up. Tabini had gathered his staff about him, Ismini and his men with them. The lord of the Ajuri pressed forward, asserting his presence and his influence; the Taibeni, Keimi himself, with Deiso, moved in, asserting the rights and presence of their clan. Several others that had been marginally involved pressed close, including the head of (Bren recognized the woman, but the name escaped him) a major shipping company, in one of Shejidan’s notable houses, vying for her share of attention. No few of Shejidan’s powers had come in, and pushed their way into the approaches to power.

Reshuffling of the deck. People who had supported Tabini and those who had hedged their bets on both sides, all pressed hard to make sure they had the aiji’s ear at the earliest, and offered their support, now that the balance had tilted so strongly toward a resumption of Ragi clan rule.

Bren took a careful step down, onto the floor, child-sized and not seeing over the crowd. But Tano was there, quickly, and immediately after came Algini, who gave a little bow, his face as grave and sober as ever.

“One apologizes, nandi, for actions taken without consultation.”

Algini, who so rarely spoke, who never had admitted that he might have a man’chi higher than the paidhi, higher, even, than that to Tabini-aiji. And if he did hold such a man’chi, then, presumably, his partner Tano might hold the same. But there was no graceful way to ask. Dignity consisted in accepting what Algini offered, and doing it with good will.

“One has never doubted your duty, Gini-ji, or your goodness.”

That last addition seemed to startle Algini, whose eyebrows lifted just a little, whose mouth took on a rueful—was it humor? Or something else, from this man of many man’chiin?

“One has never doubted the paidhi’s qualities,” Algini said, and bowed deeply. “In any event. Excuse us, nandi. One fears Lord Tatiseigi has taken residence. There are arrangements made.”

Taken residence. Taken his residence, that was.

Well, damn! The old lord had survived, for which the paidhi could be very grateful; but he had also, always the double-edged good news, taken his apartment back, reclaimed the premises that Lady Damiri had graciously alloted to the paidhi-aiji, along with its staff, and he had nowhere to go, tonight.

“The dowager is well?” he asked Algini.

“Well, indeed, and she asks the paidhi and his staff take residency in her quarters.”

That was a shock. He was ever so relieved to know Ilisidi had made it through—but the invitation was another double-edged item. “One would be very grateful,” he murmured.

“We should go there, nandi,” Algini said, and he obediently went with Algini, as far as Banichi and Jago, who stood near the door.

The lot of them were relieved of all responsibility, one supposed, for the heir and his staff.

So they were home, and relatively safe. Concern for his secretarial staff occurred to him, but his security staff already had its hands full, just seeing to him, and the domestic staff that would have seen to domestic details and relayed messages for him had just been reappropriated by Lord Tatiseigi. He might call in staff from his coastal estate—assuming it was still standing—but he had no residence to call them to; he needed urgently to inquire after the safety of those people as well. Ten thousand domestic things needed attention, and the staff he did have was exhausted, likely as distressed as he was to learn that they were to be dispossessed of their place in the Bu-javid, that familiar beds and baths were not going to be available.

“It seems we are to lodge with the dowager, nadiin-ji,” he said to Banichi and Jago, finding his voice unexpectedly hoarse. “One hopes we can have a few hours’ rest tonight.”

“Those premises will be secure, at least,” Jago said—that was a plus, no question, the premises in question being those of a district no other lord would want to offend. The place was a veritable museum of fine carpets and heirlooms of Eastern origin, and those had surely stayed intact, whatever the troubles.

In the meanwhile, one could guess where Lord Tatiseigi would choose to lodge for a number of months, certain damages having occurred to his estate.

God, he had so wanted his own bed tonight, his own bath— his own staff. But they had never been truly his. And unwelcome as the news was, it had come in advance of any awkwardness, since the principals never had to negotiate the situation. No need, therefore, to be told at his own door that he could not come in, no need to sit miserably in a hallway until someone noticed his plight. Algini had arranged things. Ilisidi had.

“So, well,” he said, hoping that external demands on his staff now were satisfied, and that he might get a message or two through to various people, not to forget a phone call to the Island, if he could manage it. “Nadiin-ji, one hopes that we all may go upstairs.”

9

A bath, at last—a deep, soaking bath. And if nothing else, Madam Saidin, chief of staff in what had been his apartment, had sent his personal belongings to Ilisidi’s premises— coats now surely out of style, clean shirts, clean linens— trousers that were not the snug fit they had been. He had dropped weight, not an unwelcome notion.

The shirts and coats might fit, but strained the shoulders a little.

And there were Ilisidi’s servants to help, servants expert at putting a wardrobe in order, in dealing with ragged, grimy nails and bodily cuts and bruises—not to mention providing an array of unguents and salves, providing a good shave, and, thanks to Jago, a deep massage on the broad dressing bench. He might outright have gone to sleep in the course of that process, but he fought the urge, and gathered himself up dutifully to be dressed and combed and fussed over, all in deference to the dowager, who, it turned out when he presented himself in the library about two hours before midnight, had made the other decision, and taken a lengthy nap.

For once staff information had failed him. It certainly would not be proper for a guest to be found asleep in the dowager’s library, and he had no wish to crush his clothes, this first time a borrowed staff had dressed him. He thought of going to sleep, then decided someone in the household should stay awake a little longer to see if any emergency turned up.

So he called for tea and sat and shut his eyes between sips, in the selfsame library, swilling cup after cup of fairly strong tea, while he hoped his own security had found the chance for a little sleep, leaving matters to people Cenedi could call on.

Not so. Banichi turned up, washed, newly uniformed, but looking unaccustomedly tired. “Nandi,” he said, in that formal way which indicated business.

“Sit down, Banichi-ji,” he said, indicating a substantial chair, wishing not to have to strain his neck to see Banichi’s face, and Banichi, unaccustomedly, sat down to give a report.

“Your staff and the dowager’s have been gathering information,”

Banichi began, “and we have a list of unreliable persons, none of whom reside here, but Madam Saidin has undertaken to remove two maids to the country.”

“Indeed.” Removal, with the redoubtable Madam Saidin, could be more extreme than that, if she were entirely convinced of treasonous acts.

“More,” Banichi said, “we have a reasonably accurate tally of Bu-javid general staff, and are acquiring others.”

“One regrets the necessity of such measures,” Bren murmured.

“Regrets, but your staff does not hesitate, Bren-ji. Nor shall we permit any of these persons to come into your vicinity or the aiji’s, or the dowager’s.” A breath. “One regrets to say, too, that certain lords have retreated to their estates, there to reconsider their man’chi and perhaps work their way back into favor.”

“Word of Murini, Nichi-ji?”

“His plane has indeed landed in the south, in the Taisigin Marid, but he has disappeared from view—only to be expected, nandi. He may already be dead. It would be prudent of that clan. But he may also have decided to go into hiding until the wind settles.”

“That man,” Bren said, considering every syllable, “has deserved no pity.”

“He has not,” Banichi agreed. “Nor is he likely to obtain it from Tabini-aiji. There is too much bloodshed. The Filing has been made.

Any Guild member can carry it out.”

“Our staff on the coast,” he began, in the curt manner of ship-speak, and decided, weary as he was, he had to amend that two-year-old habit.

“We have attempted to contact the coast,” Banichi said before he could draw his next breath, “and have spoken to Saidaro-nadi, who says that they have suffered some attacks, but no losses. A number of persons attempted to steal your boat, but were frustrated to find a chain across the inlet. They abandoned it against the shore and fled, after doing internal damage and attempting to set it afire.”

One could only imagine the scene. And damn it, he loved that boat. “Brave Saidaro.”

“The boat is completely repaired,” Banichi reported. “The house dared not venture as far as market, and has sustained itself by fishing and by digging shellfish, and by frequent gifts from Lord Geigi’s staff, which fared very well in the crisis. Your staff would take the boat up the coast at night and load on supplies from Lord Geigi’s estate—Lord Geigi’s estate remained unassailable, since it is an Edi estate on an Edi shore, in an Edi district. One understands there was some shooting between the Edi and their neighbors to the southwest, and there were some Guild movements, all privately directed, nothing of Guild orders for the duration.”

“Indeed.” An appalling notion, the whole coast at odds, and with Lord Geigi up on the station, Murini’s folk had still had to handle the Edi district very carefully. Though Maschi clan, he was a very popular lord over the Edi. “One wonders that Murini could restrain the Taisigin from running afoul of the west coast.” The Taisigin occupied the southern coast, long at odds with the Edi; but one could see, too, that the Edi had long had a network of connections of marriage and history that ran all along the coast northward, into districts on which the center of the aishidi’tat relied for food—notably fish, a staple of the diet, in quantities the south alone could not supply. “But one believes Murini may have run up against certain economic facts of his existence.”

That drew a little smile. “Certain economic facts of the world as it has become, not the world as the Kadagidi would like to pretend it might again become. Shejidan has come to appreciate its frozen fish, indeed, nandi.”

“Bren-ji.” It nettled him when his staff withdrew into formality with him in private, where Bren-ji would do ever so well. “One is very tired, Banichi-ji. One is ever so tired, and Bren-ji is an ever so much warmer blanket.”

“Is it?” Banichi was amused. An eyebrow moved.

“Than nandi, yes, it is.” He managed a smile. “One appreciates a warm blanket, now and again, Nichi-ji.”

“That one may,” Banichi said, and added: “Salads,” which made him laugh despite sore ribs.

“Are we safe here?” he asked.

“One believes, yes, we are safe.”

“It would be a good thing if one could make a phone call to Mosphiera.”

“No, it would not be good,” Banichi said, “for the paidhi to do that so soon.”

“Indiscreet,” he said.

“Exactly.”

“Then the paidhi will be entirely circumspect, as long as need be.”

“Certainly until the paidhi has reported, officially, to the legislature.”

He understood that was coming, and only in the weakness of exhaustion had he voiced the thought of contacting Mosphiera, which would get their reports the way they had gotten other information, via the coastal settlements, and by rumor and radio.

He, on the other hand, had to be concerned how such contact would look. Not so much substance, as perception of substance, people watching the wind to see which way it would blow in what was, potentially, a new regime. “Will the legislature come?” he asked. “Is it convening?”

“It has been called,” Banichi said. “One has no knowledge as yet, but yes, certain ones are on their way.”

“My office staff.” The thought had gnawed at him ever since he had heard the situation on the ground. “One hopes they reached safety. That they may be induced to come back.”

“Shall we make inquiries in that matter?”

“Among other things that must be urgent for my staff, nadi-ji.

Perhaps if we only issued a public appeal.”

“Such things are always accomplished down appropriate and secretive waterways, one believes your expression is.”

Through appropriate channels. He had to smile. “Indeed. Indeed, Banichi. But let the word loose, down those ways, however it has to be done. I shall need them before long—if I stay in office.” And a darker thought. “And if they have lost by being loyal to me, Banichi-ji, would I insult them by offering compensation?”

“It would by no means insult them, nandi,” Banichi said.

“Bren-ji.”

“Warm blankets,” Banichi said, leaning forward, arms on knees.

“One understands, Bren-ji. Warm blankets and a safe bed tonight.”

“You should see to your own, Banichi-ji, you and all the staff. We are under the dowager’s roof. One trusts that Cenedi is well. And Nawari. And the rest.”

“A few nicks and bruises. But Cenedi—” Banichi made a little hesitation. “Cenedi-nadi is quite done in, and will not sit down, not for a moment, except the dowager has given him a firm order, which he is contriving not to obey.”

“He is a brave man,” Bren said, and added, relentlessly and with deliberation: “So are you, Banichi-ji.”

Banichi glanced at the floor. It might be the only time he had ever taken Banichi so far aback.

“Very brave,” Bren said doggedly. “And one will never forget it.”

Atevi could blush. One had to be looking closely.

“One had better see to duty,” Banichi said, making a move toward the chair arm.

“One should accept praise, Banichi-ji, where it is due,” Bren said.

“We are a quiet Guild,” Banichi said.

“All the same,” Bren said. And added: “Very well done. One will not inquire regarding the Guild. One is very grateful to all the staff.”

That seemed to be a poser. In another moment, Banichi lifted a shoulder. “Algini and Tano have a strong man’chi within this house.

Your bringing them back to the continent was a great favor to them. They express deep gratitude.”

Murdi. That gratitude word, different than man’chi.

“And man’chi?” Another small silence. In earlier years, he might have hesitated to inquire into that silence. Now he was relatively sure of the facts. And of Tano and Algini. “Will they be ours in future?” he did ask.

“They have never ceased to be of this household,” Banichi said, and folded his hands across his middle. “The Guild never discusses its internal matters. But Murini’s ally is dead, the old master has reasserted his authority. Algini is bound not to discuss it, but, Bren-ji, he and Tano are now free to continue assignment here.

They wish to do so. They are not able to answer questions.” A shrug. “But one doubts that the paidhi has many questions to ask.”

It was a shock, even so, to hear it stated. Bren cleared his throat of obstruction. “No,” he said. “No questions. They are welcome, very welcome.”

Banichi listened to that, seemed to turn it over in his mind, perhaps trying to parse what he knew of humans and one particular human, and the faintest look of satisfaction touched his face. “Algini is required to be here. Technically, he cannot have man’chi within our household, but he holds it to Tano. And we may discuss this in this house because Cenedi is very well aware of the situation. That the paidhi guessed—one is not utterly surprised. It will not likely surprise Algini.”

“You will tell him I know—at least I suspect—he has other ties.”

“One is constrained to tell him,” Banichi said. Guild law, one could guess, constraints of what he, too, was.

“One has no great concern for honesty. Tell him I have the greatest confidence in him.”

“Indeed,” Banichi said.

“But—” he began, had second thoughts, then decided to plunge ahead into what was not legitimately his business. “Tano. Man’chi to Tano, you say.”

That required some consideration on Banichi’s part, deep consideration. Finally: “Tano has become his partner.”

“Become.”

“They are old acquaintances, different in man’chi. They have acquired one, through Tano, to this house. They have become what they are, quite firmly so. One may have more than one man’chi, Bren-ji.”

Banichi had never spoken so directly about Guild business, about the household, about the extent to which the Guild held man’chi within the great houses. He wondered why this confidence now, except that perhaps it was only what another ateva would have known, or guessed, more easily. He had a slight reluctance to ask any more questions on the topic, fearing, for reasons he could not define, that he might learn more than he wanted.

“These are dangerous times,” Banichi said then, as if he had read his mind. “If Jago and I were ever lost, the paidhi should know these things. Consultation with the aiji’s staff or the dowager’s would produce good recommendations, but what surrounds you now has been very carefully chosen, and can be relied upon.”

The aiji’s selection, and the Guild’s, and, up on the station, he had Lord Tatiseigi’s man, Bindanda. Not to mention others presently out of reach. He had, Mospheiran that he was, failed deeply to analyze the politics of early recommendations to his staff, at first.

He had realized certain things on his own about later ones, sometimes having to be told—bluntly so, as Banichi had chosen to inform him now.

“One should rely on them, then.”

“Jago and I would recommend it.”

“Baji-naji.”

“Baji-naji.”

But it was not a pleasant thought, not at all. “You are not to take reckless chances, Banichi-ji. One earnestly asks you not take reckless chances.”

“This is our duty, paidhi-ji.”

“I am most profoundly disturbed even to contemplate it.”

“Nevertheless,” Banichi said calmly. “One must.”

It was like feeling his way through the dark. “Do you recommend taking on additional staff? Ought I to do that, to provide you assistance?”

“There is none I would rely on, except Taibeni, who would be willing, but quite lost and unhappy in the city. Best keep the staff small as it is. One is much more content inside the dowager’s establishment. Lord Tatiseigi’s is much more vulnerable to outside man’chi, even Kadagidi man’chi.”

“Not Madam Saidin.” Madam Saidin had been their own chief of domestic staff, when they lived in that apartment. Now she would surely manage for Lord Tatiseigi.

“Not that one. And one may trust she has looked very carefully into the associations of all persons on staff, and she will attempt to learn everything. But they are still a midlands staff. The dowager’s is all eastern, most from her own estate at Malguri, or thereabouts.

They would not be influenced by Kadagidi interests, or by southern, not in the least, no more than Jago or myself. If you ever must make a choice, listen to the dowager.”

It struck him he had no idea where Banichi’s home district was, or what his familial connections might be, and he had never asked.

He was not about to begin now to inquire into what Banichi had never deemed his business. Banichi he took on trust, absolutely, in a human way—having no other way to be, not really, not even after all these years. It remained a humanly emotional decision, not based on reasons Banichi himself could exactly feel.

It worked, however, Banichi being what he was. And he felt secure in that human judgment, for the satisfaction it gave his human instincts. Trust. Man’chi. Not the same, but close enough, however complex.

“One understands.” He picked up his teacup, discovered the tea gone ice cold and his hand incapable of holding the cup steady—fatigue compounded with far too many emotional confidences. He drank it to the lees and set it down before he spilled anything.

“The paidhi should take the chance to rest,” Banichi observed.

“The paidhi is dressed. The paidhi will by no means put the dowager’s staff to another change of clothes.”

“The dowager’s staff is accustomed to meticulous duty. Your own security staff believes you should rest, Bren-ji. Your staff insists, for all our welfare. Come. Into your suite.”

He had already begun to listen: It was curious how the very effort of getting out of the chair suddenly seemed all but insurmountable, and the legs he had taxed running the stairs had gone very sore. But he stood up. He went with Banichi back into his borrowed quarters, and there Banichi himself took his coat and summoned staff.

He let himself be undressed—made no protest, as he would have done with his own staff, that a once-worn coat need not be pressed.

The standards here were the dowager’s, and he offered no opinions, only sought the smooth, soft depths of a feather bed, soft pillows—utter trust that Banichi and Jago and his own people were somewhere near.

He missed Jago. He wished she would rest, but he was already so far gone toward sleep that he had no idea where the others were.

The rest was dark, and a handful of dreams, one that lingered near to waking, that someone was rattling dishes, stirring a vat of priceless porcelain cups with a stick, and saying that they had to make tea because the ship was running out of that commodity, and that they had to grow flowers, because flowers were getting scarce, not to mention carpets being turned the wrong way.

It was not the sanest of dreams. He thought that he was on a boat, on Toby’s boat, since the surface under him seemed to be heaving like that. He thought that Jago had come to bed, since he felt a warmth near him.

Or perhaps he remembered it, because when he waked he was alone in the large bed, in a very soft place, and he had no great desire to move for, oh, another century.

But duties came slithering back into his forebrain, not that he knew what, precisely, he had to do, but he was sure he ought to be ready to do it, whatever came. He lay there a luxurious ten minutes more, then dragged himself toward the edge, stuck a foot out into cool air, drew it back, nerving himself and rewarming the foot—then flung the covers off and braved the chill of an ordinary autumn day.

In Shejidan. That was the miracle.

They were in Shejidan. In the Bu-javid.

Home alive.

In the dowager’s suite.

He found a robe on the clothes-tree and flung it on, on his way to the accommodation that pertained to the guest room.

A servant intercepted him. “Will m’lord wish a bath?”

He was chilled to the bone. “Yes,” he said. He wanted it, very much.

It did take the chill from his bones. It afforded him another chance to nap, his head against the rim of a huge, steaming tub, until he had quite warmed himself from outside to in. A small cup of hot tea, offered while he sat steaming in the tub, brought his body temperature up inside, making it necessary to get out and cool off—in fact, his very skin steamed as he toweled himself dry.

Breakfast—breakfast might become luncheon, perhaps one of the dowager’s luncheons, but at least in a dining room, not out on the freezing balcony, with the current chance of snipersc He came out of the bath to dress, at no point seeing one of his own security staff, and hoping that they had taken to bed themselves. Security present at the door was a pair of Ilisidi’s young men, in whom he had the greatest confidence, and the domestic staff absolutely insisted he have more tea and a couple of delicately fruit-flavored cakes, the paidhi having missed breakfast.

A third?

“The paidhi is quite full,” he assured the young lady who offered the dish. “These are quite large cakes, on the paidhi’s scale of things.”

“Indeed, forgive the forwardness, nandi.”

“Indeed, nadi, there is no point on which to fault anything. The hospitality is flawless.”

“Nandi.” A deep bow, and every sign of astonishment and pleasure: One had to wonder how often the staff heard the word flawless from the aiji-dowager; and one, again, had to remember whose household this was.

But he sat dressed, finally, rested, if sore, warm and full of sweets, and simply enjoying the play of live fire in the grate, that very earthly pleasure, when a servant brought in a silver bowl with a message cylinder.

The Lord of the Heavens’ chief clerk, it said, begs to offer respects and esteem on the occasion of the lord’s safe return to Shejidan, and hopes that his services will again be required. The staff has preserved papers, correspondence, and records in various places of safety and is prepared to return to duty immediately at the lord’s request, beginning with the acquisition of our old offices and equipment within the Bu-javid, if this can be accomplished, with the lord’s authority. One will assure the lord of the unfaltering man’chi of the entire staff, without exception.

God. The records, the correspondence, the mountains of paper, the translations of manuals and technical specifications, all kept safe?

And the staff, all loyal, with all that had gone on? Amazement was the first reaction—never doubt of the majority of the staff, but all of them?

And ready to return to work before the smoke had even cleared?

He was deeply, deeply touched.

“Did this come by messenger, nadi?” he asked the servant, who stood waiting for an answer.

“One believes this to be the case, nandi.”

“Paper and a cylinder, if possible, nadi, for a reply. My own kit is on the station.”

The requested items arrived. He sat down. He wrote: The paidhi-aiji is profoundly grateful for the devotion of the staff and of the chief clerk in particular. One can offer no assurances of proper quarters at this hour, but if you will provide a means and address for reliable contact, the paidhi will place this matter among his highest priorities. One leaves all other details of timely summoning and fit lodging of staff to your capable management— Dared one assume the paidhi would even survive in office the next few days?

Or survive at all, for that matter?

—and urges you closely observe current events for the safety of yourself and the staff, with profound appreciation for your honesty and service.

He dispatched the letter, trusting staff would be able to find the gentleman who had delivered the note. He wished he could rush out to the halls, embrace the old man, assure him of his job, all those humanly satisfying things—but in the very moment of thinking of it, he heard the distant pop of gunfire, and paused a moment, asking himself how safe the Bu-javid was, or who might just have been shot.

Guild business? Mop-up?

He was far from confident, and had no wish to make the elderly gentleman more of a target than he had been, by bringing civilian staff prematurely into the building.

Besides, the answering of general correspondence, which that staff handled, had to take a back seat to more urgent business, such as finding a place to live that did not impose his presence on the dowager’s generosity, such as getting some indirect word to Mospheira, to let Toby know he was alive and to let Shawn know Tabini was back in power. Banichi was quite right: Pursuing contact across the straits was a potential for trouble, something he dared not have misinterpreted or noised about as evidence of his reattachment to human interests.

The presentation to the hasdrawad and the tashrid came before everythingc granted that Tabini really meant to let him speak freely.

Most of all—he had simply to stay alive for the nonce, and keep his head down, and not take walks in the hall, even escorted, until the dust settled.

He settled down to a little rest after the late breakfast, a little quiet time with his notes, a little time for his long-suffering staff to go on sleeping, if only they would do that. What had been a very small staff in the dowager’s employ would, he hoped, begin to accrete old members of their own, filling out the numbers, but by the time they increased to any degree at all, he had to settle the apartment problem. He did think perhaps he should send a personal note to Madam Saidin, who had served him very kindly, and who now was back in the service of the Atageini. He might send flowers to her and the staff there, perhaps, if he had any funds at his disposal, though accessing such funds was usually a staff jobc and staff was what he lackedc and then there was the matter of kabiu, in choosing what to sendc Everything ran in a circle, and right back to the necessity of finding quarters somewhere in the Bu-javid, this ancient building wherein apartments were inherited over centuries, and where the contents of said apartments tended to resemble cultural museums, priceless art and antiques, each carefully arranged according to the numerical rules of kabiu, adjusted to the presence of a particular family. The Atageini had afforded him the old apartment, since Tatiseigi had been in the country and Lady Damiri, who had been using it, had moved in with Tabini. One might say the Kadagidi residence within the Bu-javid might be up for a new occupant, and very likely Murini had governed from those premises rather than set up in Tabini’s apartment—but it would hardly be appropriate for a court official to set up there against the will of the Kadagidi.

Murini might be a fugitive and his demise foreordained, but the Kadagidi themselves were an ancient clan, and to insult them would only slow the process of peacemaking and create a problem.

No, the Kadagidi would be back, once man’chi had been settled.

They would claim their valuables and their treasures, and their premises and precedences within the network of residencies, and to imply anything else would create a problem of lasting resentments, a cause that simply would not be allowed to rest.

So, well, he might find himself lodging down in the garden apartments againc opposite the aiji’s cook, without a staff, as he had started. In a certain measure he wished he could take that option, go back to his pleasant little ground-floor rooms, in which he had availed himself of general services, rather than having a personal staff: But that was not the case, now—he had managed to lodge Banichi and Jago in those early days, but his life was far more complex, and his duties had gotten to be such that he hardly knew how to proceed about anything without extended staff, with specialists among them. He had staff up on the station who might well come down from his apartment there once the shuttles were flying again—granted that Tatiseigi would surely reclaim Bindanda’s services. He would very much regret that, not alone because the man was an excellent cook, a good tailor, and a very clever observer; but there was Narani, that worthy old gentleman, and the others—and if they did get the shuttle fleet flying, that was certainly a staff long due a chance for blue sky and a little rest.

Well, well, he said to himself, it was a case of having far more problems than power to solve them, where it regarded housing and offices: He did not dispose of Bu-javid residences, and there was no sense battering himself against the situation. And until he did have staff he could not set up to provide for staff: circular problem. What had taken him years to build and Murini days to demolish had to be restored, but there was not a single move he could make until his problems reached Tabini’s desk—and there was likely a pile of those waiting, all with far higher priority.

Jago turned up, looking wearier than she had seemed last night, all the energy of combat and hazard ebbed out of her. She accepted a cup of tea and some small cakes, which she had no trouble disposing of. She sat in the other chair, informally so, ankles crossed, and reported Banichi, Tano, and Algini all still asleep.

“As they should be,” Bren said. “Rest as much as you can, Jago-ji.”

“We shall certainly do so,” she said. “We have a notion of bringing staff in from the coastal estate, but as yet we have nowhere to lodge them.”

“True. Not to mention one has great concern for their safety, to make such a trip.”

“Regarding such affairs,” Jago said with a deep sigh, “the dowager’s staff has arranged a formal dinner this evening. A message will arrive.”

God. Already. He had no energy left for verbal fencing. But Ilisidi wished to have her fingers deep into whatever was going on, one could imagine. She had been unable to be everywhere at once in the fighting and now wanted all the details, while the irons were still hot. “Will the aiji attend?”

“One understands so,” Jago said. “So will the Astronomer, the Ajuri, the Taibeni, and the Atageini lords. Not to mention the young gentleman.”

Familiar company—give or take the Ajuri. “Everyone, then.”

“Everyone,” Jago said, and added, before he could even think of it: “The staff has sent for certain items of current fashion, and the paidhi will not be inglorious in his appearance.”

He wanted to go fling himself face down into the very soft bed and stay there for days.

Instead he took notes until he could no longer postpone preparation—making sure he remembered all the details of recent days. He took a very long soaking bath, until his fingers wrinkled, had a leisurely second shave, a long encounter with thick towels, and finally gathered the fortitude to face formal dress.

Jago’s “current fashion” turned out to be velvet lapels, easily applied by a clever staff. Fashion seemed to have recovered sensible moderation in the lace—in fact returning to an earlier style, which made the shirts from his oldest wardrobe, so the servant said, quite adequate, and very fine quality. The latest cross-belted shoes he absolutely could not come by, to the staff’s distress, but footgear was always a problem on the mainland. He went with a comfortable pair of old ones, ineffable luxury of comfort, and kept the traditional queue for his hair and the paidhi’s white ribbon, though the staff suggested that the Lord of the Heavens might possibly go with bluec so little this staff understood of what lay beyond the visible sky.

He stayed doggedly by the white, relying on the one modest title that he knew how to defend, and the modest position of a court officer with real and historic basis—although the dowager’s major domo, who looked in on the proceedings, was certain that they should send for the dowager’s tailor and go down into the city to exert some special effort in the matter of the boots, at least for the following day.

The paidhi was only glad to see his staff had had the same luck with wardrobe, recovering comfortable uniforms from the apartment that was now the Atageini premises. They turned up only slightly scraped and burned, as far as showed below cuffs and above collars—Banichi had a bit of a cut on his chin and several on his hands, but looked otherwise unruffled. Clearly Banichi had survived and there was no statement on the health of the persons who had caused the damage.

And meanwhile the sun had declined and one could actually muster an appetite.

He’d ever so quietly hoped, at least in the depths of his heart, that it would be a relatively homey, simple meal, nothing fussy and many-coursed.

It was evident from the formal reception, Ilisidi seated in the eastern manner, and the bustle of the servants over seven different offerings of drink—fortunate seven—plus the arrival of two southern members of the tashrid, anxious for their safety and redemption, and six from the north, perfectly triumphant in the action the north had taken—that it was no simple family affair.

It was the grand dining hall in Ilisidi’s suite, a room, oh, about the size of a train station, and Tabini was unfashionably late, arriving barely ahead of the stated serving time, with a great cloud of attending secretaries, and with Damiri, with Lord Tatiseigi.

Almost invisible in the flood of adults, was a very starched and proper Cajeiri, his two young bodyguards looking exceedingly uncomfortable in court dress—they being no Assassins, they looked more like young city gentlemen than Taibeni foresters.

“Nand’ Bren,” Cajeiri exclaimed, much too loudly, darted through a screen of adult bodies, and chattered on about how he had moved into his parents’ residence, but how he was very soon to have his own rooms, and his own staff (how they were to manage this in a general shortage of apartments, one had no idea) and how he was already writing a letter to Gene and Artur and all the rest of his young human associates.

“Young sir,” Bren said, “one is ever so glad to hear such news.

But recall that the names of your associates aboard the ship are foreign to present company. These elderly gentlemen are often extremely alarmed by foreign names, particularly when it suggests your father’s son has been influenced by humans.”

A small sulk. The eight-year-old was back. “Then one will not be pleased with them. One will never be pleased with them.”

“They have excellent qualities, the paidhi-aiji assures the young gentleman, and they have served the young gentleman’s interests ever so well, at great personal risk and loss of property. Be patient and persuade them cleverly and slowly.”

The scowl persisted through patient, but at cleverly and slowly gave way to a deep frown, a thinking kind of frown, then a dark glance aside at adult company and back again. “Are these people your enemies, nand’ Bren?”

“Some of them certainly believe the paidhi has not served their interests. They have lost property and suffered greatly from the upheaval. One is certain, young sir, that the dowager can much better explain—”

“She calls them fools. She calls them very short-sighted. She says they have no good grasp of the numbers.” This last in a whisper not quite adequate, but at least the boy tried to keep his voice down.

Bren looked for escape, managed only: “It is a very delicate situation, young sir. One begs you watch and listen—and by no means use any word of Mosphei’ in these people’s hearing.”

“Not even ‘damn fools’?”

Wicked boy. It was not the best acquisition he had ever made, and not the paidhi’s best moment that had let him pick that up, in the depths of space.

“Especially not that,” Bren said fervently, and the young rascal swaggered off, smug and victorious, to talk to his great-grandmother, who was engaged with the volatile lord of the Ajuri.

Bren kept quiet and drew over to the side, pretended to sip the offered wine, wanting to keep all his wits about him and earnestly hoping the youngster was not going to follow days of extraordinarily good behavior with a catastrophic letdown.

The Astronomer had arrived with Tabini, and while he had been talking to Cajeiri, the court mathematician had shown up, the two old gentlemen now involved in an ongoing debate and very little noticed the summons to table. They were still in the anteroom, passionately flinging numbers about, when the rest went in to dinner.

“Well, well,” Ilisidi said, immediately seated—the privilege of age and rank—in her position at the head of the immensely expanded table. Tabini and Damiri occupied the places beside her, with Cajeiri—not to mention Tatiseigi and the Ajuri at either hand of that family group. Bren wanted a seat much removed from the high table, but servants directed him to a seat uncomfortably high and on Tatiseigi’s left hand, in fact, but there was no objecting. One sat where one’s host’s staff indicated and made the best of it. The Astronomer was seated just next, and that chair was vacant, the old man still engaged outside the hall.

“Here we are,” Ilisidi said as the buzz of movement diminished, “family and guests. One is ever so gratified. Do sit.”

One sat, even the aiji and his family.

Appropriate expressions of appreciation followed, a general murmur, and then the host’s recommendation of the first course, in all of which there was, thank God, a moratorium on politics. The Astronomer and the mathematician strayed in and found their places, fortunately not near one another, and the Astronomer began asking Bren questions which, again fortunately, pertained to the abstract character of space and travel through it, not the details of their trip itself, and distracted him from any conversation with Tatiseigi, who, having Damiri next to him, was interested in talk up the table, not down.

It was an extravagant and otherwise very kabiu dinner, security standing formally behind each participant, everything in season, wonderfully prepared—with due indication from the dowager’s attentive staff and a graceful and quick substitution for every dish that might have proved inconvenient for a human guest. Bren sampled the dinner ever so slightly, finding his stomach, having had chancy fare for days, was not amenable to a surfeit of rich food.

There were seven courses to get through, again, fortunate seven, forecast by the number of the varieties of drink offered at the outset, and the portions were atevi-scale.

A massive effort. There were seasonal flowers on the tables all about. A whole beast appeared, offered as the main course— it was the season for game, and there it sat in the middle of the table, horns, hooves and all, done up in glaze that, fortunately, in Bren’s opinion, contained a fair amount of alkaloid. The paidhi took fish as an always correct alternative, quite happily so, while the beast was diminished to bone—the cook must have started that dish the moment Ilisidi arrived at the apartment, or optimistically before that.

There were fruits of the season, there were grain cakes, which were, if not the ones with black seeds, perfectly safe, and very good with spiced oil; there were eggs with sauce, one of Ilisidi’s favorites.

There was a secondary offering of fish, and shellfish, with black bread—never eat that one, Bren knew. And last of all came a sweet course, a dessert, a huge confection, more architecture than food, the presentation of which drew great appreciation—Bren nibbled at a very small slice of cake with sweet sauce, sure it at least was safe, but it was absolutely beyond his power to swallow more than two bites. Endless rounds of tea, and the absolutely mandatory compliments to the chief cook and his staffc Then Ilisidi, host and mistress of the table, invited her grandson the aiji to speak. A silence ensued, a deepening silence, as Tabini stared fixedly at his wine glass, and turned it a full revolution on the table.

“Nandiin,” Tabini said then, in that deep voice, and Bren expected a lengthy speech, full of plans. “Nandiin, there was bloodshed in the Kadagidi house, when the traitor’s plane announced its intention to land. One believes that preceded his decision to turn south. There, he was allowed to land.”

Chilling, both in implications of an in-family bloodletting, a purge within the house—and in implications the southerners had been very unwise to allow that plane to land. One remembered that Tabini had twice offered amnesty to that clan. One suspected it would not happen the third time. An infelicity of two leaped into Bren’s mind, in Banichi’s voice.

Another silence. Another revolution of the wine glass.

“We are informed the tashrid will have a quorum by dawn, the hasdrawad by midafternoon,” Tabini said further, while the wine glass turned in his fingers.

Then those unsettlingly pale eyes flashed up, squarely at Bren.

“The paidhi will deliver a report to the joint body before sunset.”

Bren’s heart sped. Thank God he had put in the time to have it ready, edited down from two years of notes to Tabini. Thank God, thank God. A final polish. That was what it needed.

“Aiji-ma,” he said with a little nod of his head.

“We have received reports,” Tabini said, still in that deathly, biding silence, “from the coast, from the north, from the east—”

With a nod toward his grandmother. “We have asked that the people keep shops and shutters closed until the legislature has ruled. This is for public safety, and for public attention to the radio, so that they will know what is done. This is our decision. Those of the two houses who have come foremost, those on their way at our first summons, their names we know.”

Another revolution, in silence.

“We have been immoderately generous throughout our administration,” Tabini said, “in our treatment of those who have offended us. Those who have offended twice, and those who have offended the people, however, will find no such generosity. We do not admit that Murini has ever been aiji. None of his decrees has legal force. Such administrative matters as he signed must be presented again, or allowed to fall, from the greatest to the smallest act. We look for a list of these matters to appear on my desk, sorted into public and private categories, within two days. Any matter, however small, which does not appear on that list will not be considered for confirmation. Any omitted matter must be submitted as a new action.”

It could be done. Clerks would have the lights on all night, but surely it could be done, given the court penchant for record-keeping and lists. It would be every grant of title, every court judgment, even divorce decrees which had found their way through the lower court system to the aiji’s audience hall, every Filing of Deed or Intent, every adjudication, every assassination or fine: In short, every act public and private that Murini might have signed during his tenure. Most, purely administrative, would get a glance and a stamp; some would receive much more attention. It was, in effect, an audit of legal grants and confiscations, of awards and contracts, of alliances between houses, everything that might affect man’chi or empower one clan over another.

A mammoth job. One wondered whether, as with his old staff, the aiji’s surviving staff had begun to come out of concealment, and whether, as with the university students making off with the vital books and papers from their library, the aiji’s old staff had been able to preserve certain record books. It would be ever so helpful if they had.

The faces of those legislators present were very solemn.

“Yes,” they said, almost in unison. “Yes, aiji-ma.”

“Be it absolutely clear,” Tabini said, in that same low tone. And then: “This is my grandmother’s table. I will have no more to say.”

“Indeed,” Ilisidi said, and gave a slight move of her hand. “We are weary. We are quite weary, nandiin. We shall present the traditional brandy in the parlor, but one is quite certain there will be no notice taken should certain of our guests depart to urgent duties.”

Dared one assume it was time to go? It was a delicate decision—a political decision, whether to take his human presence into the parlor and mix his controversial self into very fragile atevi business, or to consider himself dismissed to quarters, bring up his computer, and hope to God he could find a viable printer in the household.

He decided on the latter course. The company rose, some to the parlor with their security, some to the foyer for a good-bye to their host, and he managed to slip aside and to get a glance at Banichi, whose sense of these things was usually much more reliable.

“One thinks we should go to our rooms,” he said under his breath.

“We have papers to prepare.”

“Yes,” Banichi said simply, confirming it was a proper thing to do—whether the other would have been proper, Bren had no idea.

But he was glad to get back to his own small refuge in Ilisidi’s suite, and to shed the formal clothes, and to put on a dressing gown for a late session over the computer, a hunt, a final hunt for exactly the right words.

He was aware of movement about the apartment, was aware of some sort of consultation between Banichi and Jago, and some sort of communication flowing to the outside. A crisis didn’t take the night off. People were moving, he was quite sure—planes were flying, trains were rolling, legislators were spending a night on the move, huddled in small groups, discussing in advance of more specific information. And worrying how the measures they had taken to survive Murini’s seizure of power might look now—there were bound to be very worried men and women on their way to the capital at this hour, and a certain number trying to figure out whether they should run to the farthest ends of the continent or still back Murini, or whether it was indeed, all up for the revolution.

Blood had already flowed within the Kadagidi house. There were bound to be other realignments in progress.

He worked until the letters blurred. He refined. He memorized.

And a request to Ilisidi’s staff brought a small plug-in printer, a machine capable of taking a format his computer could deliver, and a great stack of packaged paper. He loaded it, he set it to work, he informed the knowledgeable servant of his requirements and, with paranoid misgivings, left it to print and several servants to collate and convey it to a copy machine which would, they assured him, run much more rapidly than the printer.

He was, at that point, exhausted, and realized he had only taken the first sip of the brandy staff had poured hours ago. His hands and feet were like ice. His eyes blurred on ordinary objects. He sat in his bedroom, warming the brandy and his hands together against his middle, and studying his feet, seeing whether concentration could send blood down to warm them, or whether that would have to await his going to bed.

And he was very, very far from sleep at the moment. Far from sleep and needing every minute of it he could manage. Perhaps a second brandy. He didn’t want to take one of his few pills—they lingered, and he couldn’t afford to be fuzzy-brained facing— He didn’t want to imagine it.

Jago dropped in, not on her way to bed, clearly: She was in uniform and armed—she was only looking after him. “Will you not sleep, Bren-ji? Staff is asking.”

Staff had been too wary of his glum mood to enter the door, he read that.

“Sleep does not come, Jago-ji. The mind will not sleep.” At the moment the mind was half elsewhere, mistaking the shadow of a dim bedroom for the deep dark of space, nights that went on forever and ever, measured only in the deep folds of a ship’s progress. He was there. He was here. He wandered between, trying to assemble his arguments for a planet that viewed him as a traitor—on both sides of the strait: Humans because he served the atevi aiji, atevi because he had set burdens on them and left them. A thick mist seemed to settle about him, and then to give way to an atevi room with Jago in it. “How is the staff faring?”

Jago hesitated a moment. Then: “I am the staff, at moment. Tano and Algini are in a special meeting at the Guild. They have asked for Banichi to attend. We would not both leave you.”

“If he needs you—”

“One believes they are arguing for cancellation of certain Filings once accepted.”

“Against me?”

“Against you, among others, nandi.”

“Not nandi.” He felt uncharacteristically fragile at the moment.

“If they come to any harm, Jago-ji, if they come to any harm over there—” What did he say, what threat was enough, against the Guild itself? “I will go after them.”

The slightest of smiles. “We believe Tano and Algini will return after the meeting. This is a duty they owe. But it is very likely they are in the act of reporting facts they have observed, and resigning any man’chi but that to this house.”

That, he thought, might not be the wisest thing. “Perhaps they should wait until tomorrow for that,” he said.

“Then it would hardly matter, would it?” She settled on the substantial footboard of the bed. “I have remained to protect you from any untoward business in the dowager’s house, which we know will not happen, and Cenedi is annoyed with us, but he understands the form, and I understand it. Banichi would not leave you to anyone else, not even Cenedi. And I trust that if the Guild fails to be reasonable, Banichi will be back, all the same, and we shall simply await the damages to be filed.”

It was humor, as Jago saw it. He managed a faint smile for her effort. And felt better for it.

“So,” he said, “we are in no acute danger. Nor is the house.”

“If there is danger, at this point, it would come from the Guild, or from individual members acting within their man’chiin.”

“So, but Murini is in the south. Perhaps on a fishing boat headed for the remote islands. Anyone acting for him must surely consider that acting for the Kadagidi would be better, and they would not let him land.”

“True.”

“So have a brandy. Come to bed. Banichi will surely not disapprove.”

A quirk of a smile, a downcast look, and she shrugged out of her jacket and its armor.

It was not exactly lovemaking, but she was warm, warm enough to take the chill out. He drifted off to sleep, waking only when Jago, who had never taken the earpiece off, slipped out of bed and left the room.

He got up, put on his dressing gown, shivering with chill, and got as far as the door before she came back again and put a warm arm about him.

“Banichi is back,” she said, a shadow above his head, “and says Tano and Algini will be here before morning. They have a matter to attend.”

“What?” He was half asleep and too chilled and worried for indirection. His mind pictured Guild business, a shadowy and bloody business, but Jago’s powerful arm folded him close and held fast, while her breath stirred his hair.

“Back to bed, Bren-ji.” The old way of speaking, that Bren-ji: Our so-easily-shocked paidhi, that tone said. Don’t ask, don’t wonder, don’t be concerned. This is not your business.

“Tell me when they get back,” he insisted. “Wake me and tell me, if you have to.”

Sometime before dawn she did.

Then he burrowed his face into the pillow, murmured an appreciation, and truly went to sleep.

10

Tano and Algini were there by morning, Tano with a slash across the hand, and with just a little stiffness about his movements. And not a word said, nor ever would be said, if it had been a matter within the Guild itself. One dared not ask. Bren only caught Tano’s eye, nodded, Tano nodded, looked satisified, and Jago, while the house staff served a light breakfast, said that there was nothing that should immediately concern the paidhi.

Had they set aside the Filing on the paidhi’s life? One had no idea. And there was that troublesome immediately concern.

Hell, Bren thought, and had an egg with sauce, and a half a piece of toast, thinking about his notes, the points he had to make, and wondering whether the printing would be done, on a primitively slow printer and copy machine.

Banichi came into the little sitting room/office at that point. “The legislature, Bren-nandi, has a potential quorum. They will assemble at midmorning.”

That, on the traditional atevi clock, was fairly precise, about ten in the morning, which was about two hours, and the egg and toast suddenly weighed like lead. “Excellent,” Bren said, numb. “How is the printing?”

“It will be done,” Banichi said.

“Is there any possibility, nadi-ji, that we can employ a screen?”

Banichi’s face, rarely expressive on a problem, showed sudden doubt.

“We would not wish to be controversial on that matter. Have we bound the copies?”

“Not yet.”

“Printed images, then. Can we insert them?”

God knew no innovations, particularly not in the tashrid, even if the likely venue was the hasdrawad.

“We can manage,” Banichi said, and added: “Unfortunately the images will be in monochrome, Bren-ji.”

Banichi and the rest of them had gotten spoiled by the conveniences of the ship. They would have to make do on a very critical point, in images which would not look as real, or perhaps as reasonable, to the suspicious eye.

“I had better dress,” Bren said.

“Staff will assist,” Banichi told him, and he got up from the small portable table, walked back to his bedroom. He had not even time to look into his closet before the dowager’s staff arrived to take over the selection and preparation of garments, the meticulous details of a court appearancec which freed a lord’s mind to do more useful things.

Like worry.

His security staff was nowhere within reach at the moment: That argued they were backstairs in consultation, or seeing to something useful to the occasion. They had left him to the dowager’s staff, rare as it was for at least one of them not to be with him. He had put his computer away for safety. He trusted it was still in the desk, and that he was with allied staff, but all the same he worried, and felt exposed, and very, very lonely for the duration of the process. He wondered was the computer safe, and whether some new threat had taken his staff off to deal with itc No information was hell. And he tried to remain pleasant with the dowager’s servants, and to express gratitude, and to approve the extraordinary efforts that had transformed a several-years-old coat into something he trusted would be suitable. He was numb to aesthetics, felt the silken slide of fine cloth on his skin, felt the expert fingers arranging his hair, the snug comfort of a meticulously tailored coat, all these things, while his mind was racing in panic between the safety of his own staff and the order in which he had his data.

The dowager’s major domo came in to survey the work, looked him over, bowed, and reported the printing was done, the last-moment insertion complete, the binding in progress.

“Excellent, nadi,” he murmured, and tried to haul up enough adrenaline to get his mind working on last- moment details. He did not ask the embarrassing question, Where is my staff? He simply trusted they were there, spread too thin, doing all they could with limited resources, and the one thing they could not manufacture was time to do all they had to. Tabini-aiji was calling the shots, Tabini-aiji was setting the time of their appearance, be it straight up ten o’clock by Mospheiran time or farther along. “One expresses utmost gratitude.”

Likely the domestic staff was attempting to handle his needs and the dowager’s all at the same time, not to mention the printing and paper procurement—enough to fill a small truck, when all was done—not to mention very critical things Cenedi might lay on them. It was a heroic effort of the staff, from kitchen to doorkeeper, he was very sure, not only for duties ordinarily in their line, but for a clerical effort that ought to have engaged a full-fledged office.

Other staff had come in, not in the dowager’s colors, domestics in modest, house-neutral beige, and for a moment they were no different to his eyes than any of the domestic staff, perfect strangers.

And then not.

“Moni? Taigi?” They were a little thinner than he rememberedc from downstairs staff, and then moved to his service, to his estate on the coast, and then to retirement, by all he remembered.

Deep bows, and scarcely repressed delight. “We are back, nandi,”

Taigi said—Taigi ever the talkative one. “We are ever so glad to see you safe, may we say?”

“A welcome sight, a very welcome sight.” He was thrown back years, completely derailed from his current concentration, and utterly puzzled. “Have you come from the coast?”

“Your staff sends their utmost regard,” Taigi said.

“And wishes to send representatives to the capital to assist, nandi,” Moni said, “in whatever way possible.”

They were Guild, he ever so strongly suspected it. And given the recent—hell, current!—upheaval in that body, he was just ever so slightly nervous about their appearance here— scared, was more the point, but he put on his best manners, and collected himself.

When had he ever been afraid of Moni and Taigi? How could he be?

“One has very many needs,” he said, “and first of all with the printing. Please, nadiin-ji—in ever so great a stricture of time—consult the dowager’s major domo and inquire if the printing will be finished within the hour? And ask how are we transporting it all to the legislature?”

“Indeed, nandi,” Taigi said, and the pair turned and left, leaving him— Shaking, dammit. Two old acquaintances, two former staffers turned up, and he could manage no decent gratitude, only a moment of panic, a feeling of utter nakedness. He had been safe within the cocoon of the dowager’s residence, safe, for the only moment in years that Banichi and Jago had actually left him—and then two people from his past showed up, and he outright panicked and invented a job for them to do, a job that wasn’t particularly polite to the dowager’s staff, and entirely unnecessary: The printing would be done—it would be done, and if it looked otherwise, the dowager would press other facilities into service to see that it was done. He feared the pair had come expecting to resume their old intimate relation with him in this crisis, perhaps simply to help him dress for court, with the earnest good will of all his staff on the coast.

He was already dressed, thank God, and had no need to let them touch him. He felt guilty for his suspicions, and his panic, and the state of mind he’d gotten into, but he couldn’t find any confidence in the situation. He stood alone in the room for one cold moment, every organized thought flown out of his head, all his preparation for the legislature completely lost from memory—he didn’t know which loose end to grab first, or at what point to recover himself.

Concentrate on the speech, he told himself, but staying alive was his foremost responsibility—his utmost responsibility to everyone involved.

He took three strides to the door, found one of the dowager’s staff out in the hall, her arms full of printed, bound books, doubtless his.

“Forgive me, nadi,” he said in a low, urgent tone. “Set those aside and take me to Banichi or Jago or Cenedi. Immediately.”

“Nandi,” she said, bowing, and searching desperately in the baroque hallway for somewhere safe to set her burden. “Please follow.” Her conclusion was simply to clutch the heavy stack to her bosom and go, and he followed after her, back the way she had come, back to a door only staff would use, and a corridor as plain and severe as the ordinary corridors were ornate. Thick carpet-deadened steps here, minimal lighting cast the place in shadow as well as silence, and she led him quickly along one corridor and another until they reached a small, close room, a place of thickly-baffled walls and a little brighter lighting.

Banichi was there, with Cenedi, with Jago as well, and Tano. All eyes looked in his direction, fixed in absolute startlement.

“Nandi.” From Banichi, quietly and respectfully.

And he suddenly felt the fool. Felt like bowing, being out of his proper territory and with no good reason behind his flight from his own premises.

“Moni and Taigi just came in, nadiin-ji. One could not entirely account for their provenance. They claimed relation to the estate. I set them to query the major domo, regarding the printing.” He found himself a little out of breath, and Jago had already moved, past him, back down the corridor, on an investigative track. He added, inanely attempting to keep the conversational tone: “I came here.”

“Curious,” Banichi said. “They would know better. And staff let them in.”

“We were watching,” his young guide said.

“Unacceptable,” Cenedi said, and left on Jago’s track, with his own man on his heels and the young woman with the bound texts hard pressed to keep up.

“One hardly knew,” Bren began awkwardly, left alone with Banichi. “I held them in good regard.”

“Their reputation and their clearance was once impeccable for their assignment,” Banichi said. “Their current behavior is not.

They have used accesses they no longer own to get in here. Bren-ji, go down that corridor to your right and exit the door.”

He didn’t question, except to say: “I left my computer on my desk.”

“Yes,” Banichi said, and Bren delayed no second longer, only went quickly where Banichi told him to go, to an unfamiliar plain door at the end of a service corridor.

That door opened into an ornate room behind a partial curtain—and led to the dowager herself, who, seated by a high window, looked up as he walked out from behind that curtain and into her presence.

“Aiji-ma,” he said with a deep bow.

“There is an alert,” Ilisidi said straight off, her mouth set in a hard network of disapproving lines.

“These were staffers of the lower court residency, aiji-ma,” Bren said, “and once part of the staff on my estate on the coast, but retired from service. Now they claim to represent the estate staff.

Many people have fled to safe venues. It is possible they are telling the truth, aiji-ma, and protective of me.”

“My doorkeeper is grievously at fault,” Ilisidi said, “for attempting to finesse this situation uninstructed, if nothing more.”

Attempting to observe and protect, without interfering between him and former servants. The young woman with the printing had been right by the door, give the staff that. There might have been others hovering near and ready.

But if the two had been Guild, they very likely would have been too late.

“They may indeed be innocent staffers of mine, aiji-ma. And there was one of your staff by the door.”

“As certainly should have been!” Ilisidi said, and the cane hit the floor.“My major domo is himself questionable, at this point. These two persons should never have been allowed inside the residency, and the paidhi’s life is not a disposable resource!”

“Cenedi is investigating, aiji-ma. One has every confidence—”

“One has no idea how this staff of ours has ever survived our absence,” Ilisidi snapped, the head of the cane tucked against her chest. “Damned fools! Two years of managing for themselves and they develop their own channels, excluding all higher authority!

Delusions. Delusions of competency. This will not be acceptable.”

“One has no wish to blame—”

“The person at the door was overawed by credentials,” Ilisidi said grimly. “By paper, and seals, not by weapons. A junior staffer was set at the door. Here was the error, and my staff will answer for it.

An investigation will be undertaken, now.”

They had overtaxed the meager staff since their arrival. Most of Ilisidi’s staff had gone east to Malguri, at the other end of the continent, during their absence. The remaining few had stayed up all night trying to cope with the speed of events, and knowledgeable people had to sleep sometime.

But some head would roll, figuratively at least; and Banichi was right. Moni and Taigi, old employees of the Bu-javid, should damned sure know the hazard of subterfuge with any high lord’s staffc let alone the aiji-dowager’s. Whatever became of them, they surely, surely knew the dowager’s staff was not to trifle with.

“One cannot defend these two,” he said regretfully. “Except that the habits of the lower courtyard and my estate have neither one been stringent. One asks an investigation, before any extreme measures.”

“Ha!” Ilisidi snorted. “Sit down, paidhi-aiji, and let staff mend these bad habits.”

“One has no plausible excuse for these persons,” he said despairingly, and subsided into a gilt chair, by a window that looked past a balcony rail onto the crazy-quilt tiled rooftops of the city under a blue, crisp sky.

“Appalling,” Ilisidi said sharply. “Are we prepared for this address?”

“As prepared as one may be, aiji-ma,” he said, trying to recapture the loose ends of his reasoning, the pieces of attempted logic that rocketed through his mind. A loud thump resounded through the walls, another distraction shocking his nerves. He tried to ignore the situation.

“We shall be at hand to corroborate the paidhi’s account,” the dowager said without missing a beat. “But we look to the paidhi to exhibit his ordinary eloquence.”

“One only hopes to oblige, aiji-ma,” he said, and at that moment Nawari, who had his arm in a sling this morning, quietly opened the door and said, “The intruders are both contained, nandi.”

“Well,” Ilisidi said, as if this disposed merely of the lunch menu, not his former staff, for whom he had a deep and wounded sympathy. “We are ready. We are quite ready, nand’ paidhi.”

“Whenever the aiji-dowager chooses,” he murmured, hoping that thump had not involved his computer.

But Ilisidi tapped her cane, told Nawari, “We shall go downstairs,” gathered herself to her feet, and that was that.

Scarcely seated, he got up, straightened his coat, earnestly hoping for his own staff to turn up.

Jago did, with the computer slung over her shoulder. She entered by the same door, gave a little bow, stood waiting.

There was no way to ask, with the dowager in charge, exactly what had happened. He was no longer master of the situation, not while the dowager directed her staff, not while Cenedi had taken charge, and had links, surely, to Tabini-aiji’s staff—whom they failed to trust, quite. It was all disquieting. But whatever the state of confidence in the other staff, one had a notion that persons were moving throughout the lower floors of the building, that the legislature, both houses of it, were moving into session.

Where is Banichi? he wanted to ask Jago. What happened? What about Tano and Algini? Are we taking our direction from the aiji’s staff? But the only source of information was Jago’s strictly formal deportment, her quiet competency. Everything was as right as it could be: His staff was doing all that could be done, and his questions were no help at all. He was going downstairs in close company with the aiji-dowager, in more security than Tabini himself could muster, and that was that.

A little tug at his coat cuffs, lace straightened. He hoped his face didn’t show the sense of panic he felt.

And he was very glad to pick up Tano and Algini in the hallway, the two not conspicuously armed, but very likely quite well-equipped beneath their leather jackets. Cajeiri turned up with his two young bodyguards in court dress, not, as would perhaps have roused regional hackles, in Taibeni green and brown. Tasteful, quiet, a little lace at collar and cuffs, hair done back in green ribbon. Cajeiri’s queue, more disciplined than ever in his young life, was tied up in complex red and black, the Ragi colors, and his coat was deep Ragi red, with black vines stitched subtly across the fabric—quite, quite splendid, with black lace. The dowager was in ordinary splendor, black and gold with just a hint of red. The paidhi felt quite overwhelmed in comparison, a lack of conspicuousness he judged his best and safest statement. Lord of the Heavens, Tabini had named him; but it was the paidhi-aiji, the aiji’s interpreter, who had to render his account.

The doors of the dowager’s residence opened, with an immediate unfolding of security outward, and about them, and behind. Bren fell in behind the dowager and the heir, with Jago beside him, and Tano and Algini behind. He was content to be deeply buried in the entourage of a legitimate lord of the Association. Underfoot were the priceless hand-knotted silk runners, the ornate inlay work of the floors—overhead, the lamps that time had changed from live fire to electric, but the panels that softened the electric glare were carved onyx that had originally shielded live fire from drafts. On either hand, rare hardwood panels and tapestries and niches and ornately carved tables holding ancient porcelains, vases, and statues worked in rare blues and reds and greens, centuries old and untouched by the violence that had run these halls.

Of Murini, they had no further word, but the danger was not past—would not be past, if this meeting failed to achieve reunification, or if Tabini failed to pull a coalition together. The whole thing could break down again with a new claimant, or three or four, fracturing the Association into districts, with no single voice clear enough to prevail. If that happenedc He tried not to let his thoughts scatter. They had just passed the lift, the dowager choosing to take the stairs down, stairs which had their own security provisions, and which provided solid footing all the way down. They were in no great hurry. The dowager proceeded at her own pace, the ferule of her cane tapping the steps at measured intervals, and only once Cajeiri lifted his voice to ask if the lift was broken.

“No,” was the dowager’s clear response, and no further information. But it was utterly in character for the holder of Malguri to disdain the lift, to choose her own way down— And to have her security fling the doors open onto the main floor hallway, secure themselves a standing place in a place thronged with legislators, mostly gathered down by the lifts— gentlemen and ladies with their own entourages, who, by this maneuver, were set at a distance from the dowager’s arrival, and set off-balance.

Bang! went the dowager’s cane when a hubbub rose and a few started to surge forward to take possession of the dowager. “We need no assistance!” she declared, her voice echoing hard on the impact. “We are here for the joint assembly. Where is my grandson?”

“Not here yet, nandi.” It was Tatiseigi who turned up among the legislators, with the Ajuri close at hand, and the lord of Dur with his son. The Atageini lord gave a stiff and slight bow, but when Ilisidi extended her hand, the old man’s expression changed, and the second bow was deep and gracious, before he took that offered hand—took it and joined their processional, the Ajuri and Dur sweeping in with them, the point of an advance that split the crowd of senators and representatives— The more so, since certain lords of the tashrid, not to be outdone, swept in beside the Atageini and Ajuri and Dur, in the vanguard as they headed down the hall to the legislative chambers. Advance, hell, Bren thought. It was a processional, a rivalry to be as close to the dowager as possible, a sweeping of the hall of every damned member of the house of lords, who were not going to linger to politic around Tabini. The dowager, notorious for her conservation of the east, not even a member of the Western Association, which was the clear majority here, had swept up the west in a rush to claim precedence, and likely—Bren did not gawk about to see—no few of the hasdrawad might press after.

The door wardens opened the double doors of the hasdrawad assembly, and the dowager and her security and her allies marched in, and down the sloping aisle toward the dais, climbing the steps. A number of seats had been brought in, old and ornate chairs set on either side of the dais, in the well, in rows of fortunate seven, and the lords nearest Ilisidi claimed the foremost, the hindmost having the back seats, and, indeed, Bren saw, a sizable number of the hasdrawad had flooded in after them, with more arriving by the moment. There was a growing buzz in the chamber as the dowager mounted the steps and took a seat arranged for her, with cushions of Malguri’s colors, and Bren hesitated, wanting to take his seat on the steps, if he had had his way, but on the dowager’s left was a seat with white cushions, a white that glared unmistakably in the muted light of a hundred ancient lamps. The paidhi’s colors. The aiji’s orders—no damned way those colors had been set there in any misunderstanding; and he had no choice but climb the steps and take his place.

“We have the computer,” Jago said at the last instant. “We will be at the right.”

“Yes,” he said, finding oxygen in short supply, and climbed up and sat down, for the first time having a view of the entire assembly—the tashrid with very few vacant seats, the hasdrawad’s own desks rapidly acquiring occupants, though clots of consultation lingered in the aisles. The chairs reserved for the aiji and his consort were dead center, still vacant; but a small commotion had arisen in the hall outside, and he was by no means surprised when a second wave swept in, this incursion headed by Guild security, a great deal of security. Members of the hasdrawad cleared the aisles.

Members seated rose, and the seated members of the tashrid rose, and suddenly Tabini and Damiri were present, walking down the right-hand aisle toward the dais.

11

Bren rose and stood. Cajeiri did. The dowager gathered herself up last with a slow and apparently effortless move not using the cane, painful as it might have been, and they all stood as Tabini and Damiri moved down the aisle, and up the steps, and took their places in the speaker’s circle, all this in an undertone of comment, voices blurred and mixed in the vast echoes of the chamber. For the first time since their encounter in Tirnamardi, Tabini stood arrayed in court splendor, a black coat glistening with black woven patterns, not quite animal nor quite pure design, with black lace at his cuffs, and a spray of rubies glittering on his lapel—a shadowy eminence with those pale, pale gold eyes raking the assembly.

Bren felt lightheaded, grateful when first Tabini-aiji and then Damiri and Cajeiri and the dowager sat down. He took his seat simultaneously with the rest on the dais, and saw at that moment a commotion near the doors, as, yes, amid the milling about of members seeking their seats, the dowager’s household staff arrived, carrying stacks of papers.

The report. His report.

He let out a breath, seeing at least a part of his duty discharged.

The treaty with the kyo was in those pages, no matter what happened hereafter. Photographs were there to convince the skeptical, everything to make the report credible, if even the dowager’s word failed to persuade the diehards to reasonc But these in attendance were not the rebels, he told himself.

These were the legislators who had stood up to Murini and the Kadagidi claim. These were, among others, canny men and women who would already have conceived their own plans, protecting their own interests, ready to assert their power the moment the fragile convocation so much as shivered, let alone fell into discord. One could still hope these powerful lords conceived the aishidi’tat itself of vital interest to their constituents.

The documents spread across the chamber with ordinary dispatch. The legislators were accustomed to receiving printed materials at ordinary sessions, and few broke the seals or delved deeply into them. Most present found greater interest in small, hurried conversations with neighbors and allies, interspersed with speculative dais-watching, darting looks toward the aiji and his household—how the boy has grown, they might observe; or the dowager looks in fair health; or note that the consort is beside the aiji, and the Atageini lord has come in person, in the first row of the tashrid. And is that the lord of the Taibeni in the hall? Does anyone know him by sight?

Slow breathing, Bren chided himself, and slow the heart rate.

This would take time. There had to be a certain amount of maneuvering and posturing, and he was a veteran of the legislature, if not of joint sessions. He did some surveying of his own from his position on the dais, picking out this and that lord, even spotting a few who had been on the Transportation Committee, scene of his last battles before his personal world had undergone upheaval—before a shadow on his bedroom curtains had announced his life was going to become something completely different.

Years ago. They all had changed. The world had changed.

And changed again. At the moment he had nowhere to live, and his staff was farther from him than they liked to be, in very chancy circumstances.

Deep breath. He heard the bone-deep sound of the eis, that man-high tubular bell that called the hasdrawad to take their seats.

At that sound, the movement in the chamber became a definitive slow drift toward places, the buzz of conversation fading. Lords found their temporary seats down in the well. Representatives of the populace, many of them mayors or sub-mayors, eased into their desksc among them, perhaps a few who had supported Murini before or after his attack on Tabini, and now, seeing the tide going the other way, they took the risk of showing up here—maybe to have their contrary opinions heard, maybe to pretend they had never faltered in their man’chi to the Ragi lord, or maybe just to find out what decisions might be taken here, and decide where they wanted to jump next.

A second deep hum of the bell stilled the air. Closer and closer to the moment. Bren moved his fingers and feet slightly, to prove to himself that they would move, that, when he had to stand up, he could. Otherwise he felt numb, dislocated in time and space, and tried not to entertain either foolishly generous or uncharitable thoughts toward certain faces he spotted in the general assembly.

Third stroke of the bell. The senior of the hasdrawad ought to get up and bring the assembly to order, on any ordinary day, but it was Tabini who stood up instead, that sleek, dark presence, tall even among his kind. He appeared grim but not accusatory. He was precise and confident. And in that distinctive deep voice: “Nandiin, nadiin, all points of the north and west and center are secured. We have firm assurances of the east. The Kadagidi have not permitted the traitor to reenter their house. It remains to see whether any houses of the south will prove hospitable to him and his adherents.”

“Nand’ aiji!” someone shouted out, from the middle of the tiers of desks, and others took up the shout: “Aiji! Aiji!” Legislators rose more or less in a body, all shouting and shouting, and Tabini stood still, letting it go on for what approached five minutes, before he lifted his hand and returned the salutation.

“Representatives of the peoplec lords of the ancient houses.” The hand dropped, and there was fervent silence. “We accept your declarations. We will resume the ordinary business of the aishidi’tat, foremost of which—”

The representatives were sinking into their seats. But one figure was starkly different, hand lifting, and of a sudden footsteps thundered on the hollow dais, security moving like lightning as that hand moved upward.

Bren leaped to his feet, seeing only one thing—the man on whom the whole world depended, his dignity making it impossible for him to dive for cover. Bren hit Tabini waist-high with all the force he owned, chairs going over with their fall, security swarming over both of them, just a half-heartbeat later.

He and Tabini and a third and fourth body had hit the platform together, very solid ancient timbers, and as soon as he knew the other bodies were the dowager’s security, Bren clambered off Tabini’s person and scrambled aside, lying on the floor as shots deafened his ears. They were exposed to everything: The dowager and the boy were up here in danger—but Jago had reached him, and Jago’s body cut off his view as she crouched by him, gun in hand.

Tabini got to one knee, and stood up forthwith, to a thunderous cheer from the chamber. A second cheer: Tabini had pulled his son protectively to his side, and Damiri had stood up with them.

The dowager, Bren thought in alarm, and on hands and knees edged a little past Jago to get a view of the dowager sitting quite untroubled in her seat, her cane planted before her, and Cenedi standing between her and the general chamber.

He found himself winded, bruised, and shaken beyond good sense.

He tried to imitate the aiji and get up, but Jago laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. In the next instant another shot went off, and he jumped, pure reaction.

“Banichi,” he said.

“Banichi is attending the problem, nandi,” Jago said quietly, rising and facing the hall. “We did not have confidence in the aiji’s security.”

“But if they would have assassinated him—” he asked from below.

“Not him,” Jago said, beneath the rising buzz in the chamber, the racket of chairs being moved or set back up. “You, nandi. The Guild has no inclination to strike at the aiji: They knew Murini would go down soon. But we have not let the aiji’s security near you. Or the young gentleman, for that matter. One requests you stay down a moment more.”

To make a move that fatal, that absolutely fatal to the shooter, just to get himc He was not surprised that someone wanted to kill him; but the aiji’s own guard, and to do so in such a wild, fanatic way, so at odds with the ordinary way the Guild worked— What Jago said made no damned sense. The shooter had risen from among the legislators, from the hasdrawad, had he not? He had had a seat there? Did a person of such stature pay that high a price, all to shoot down a court functionary?

One did, if such a move struck caution into the aiji, if it robbed the aiji of the aiji’s fiercely held human contact. One did it, if it took power out of Tabini’s hands and put it in others’; and if the aiji’s own guard knew what was going to happen—and let it— His brain raced wildly. He recognized a high-speed fugue for what it was, and tried to gather his wits into the useful present. He felt bruises atop other bruises—hitting Tabini was like hitting a brick wall and it dawned on him that he’d brought the aiji down publicly, a human embarrassment at the most critical of junctures.

Tabini was back in command of the situation, though tumult was still racketing and echoing in the chamber. Tabini ordered something or someone removed and of all things— Of all things, another voice ordered men detained who happened to be the aiji’s own guard—shocking enough; but the voice echoing so loudly through the chamber was Banichi’s.

That did it. He had to see what was going on. He started to his feet. Jago quickly thrust him back down.

“What are they doing?” he asked.

“The Guild is attending its business,” Jago answered him in a low voice, while he kept his head down. “Banichi has taken down the target. Now they take the collaborators.”

Cenedi and his men meanwhile had formed a living wall of body armor before the aiji-dowager and Cajeiri, standing there, hands on weapons. Cajeiri’s young guards were right with them, armorless and unarmed, but putting their bodies between the young gentleman and harm.

Tabini, meanwhile, had set himself in front of Damiri, who was also on her feet, and several voices from the chamber had lifted in indignation, Tatiseigi’s among them, decrying the action of fools and traitors to their own houses, and cursing damage to historic premises.

The eis thrummed, three insistent strokes. The vibrations overran their own echoes, and hurt human ears.

It hurt atevi hearing, too, perhaps far worse than that. He saw Jago’s grimace, and when the sound cleared, the chamber seemed hushed and stunned.

“Nadiin, nandiin,” Tabini resumed, as if nothing at all had happened, and there was a last moment movement of chairs and bodies, a diminishing buzz of conversation as the legislature tried to get itself back to order and decide whether it was safe to sit down.

Time, clearly, for the paidhi-aiji to get up off the floor before he became an object of complete embarrassment. Bren gathered himself up with Jago assisting, her body still between him and the chamber, which more or less shielded him from view as he regained his chair.

“That was grand, nandi!” Cajeiri leaned forward, whispering much too loudly, and the dowager’s cane thwacked the boy’s shin.

Grand. Hell, Bren said to himself. He had affronted Tabini’s dignity in front of the whole legislature. He’d maybe saved the aiji’s life in the process, but he doubted it: It turned out the shooter had likely missed because the attack was aimed at removing him and not Tabini, and he had plunged straight in front of Tabini. Security in the chamber had immediately pounced on the shooter, and the aiji of the aishidi’tat had been flattened by the very human who was the target—it was a damned comedy, not a rescue.

A second disturbance, this one to the rear of the dais. Heads turned, bodies poised for another dive to the floor. But whoever had just hit the ground stayed there, and Tabini-aiji elected not to give it more than a passing glance.

“We accept the support of the quorum,” Tabini said calmly. “All officials in office at the time of this interlude resume their offices as if there were never disruption; those who have accepted office from the false regime have never had authority, and their acts—excepting the ordinary civic business of marriage and divorce, are subject to careful review, with prejudice. If there are office vacancies thereby created, let a local vote fill those positions within five days, in public meeting, and report the outcome to us. All rights abrogated by the false regime are restored, all possession given by the false regime is reverted subject to review, and all other acts under that regime’s seal are subject to review. The man’chi of some may have wavered in the face of outright falsehoods and deceptions, but we accept its return, as we accept that certain houses may have acted under constraint and entirely without choice: Their actions will be given benefit of the doubt.”

The exhalation in the room was almost audible, along with a little settling of very anxious people.

“The Guild leadership will support the aishidi’tat, and untoward action will be dealt with summarily.”

There was still blood on the floor, the paidhi had no doubt whatsoever, and the smell of gunpowder permeated the chamber.

“The actions of the false regime constituted a self-serving seizure of power, allied to a sentiment of dissatisfaction among certain individuals of certain houses, not even of general benefit to clan or province. Let the hasdrawad and the tashrid judge the validity of whatever complaints have been lodged, and if inequities have hitherto existed, let them come to light, and let the whole aishidi’tat examine them and correct them. If they have existed, we maintain they are the gift of nature, baji-naji, which bestowed mineral riches here and fishing there: Such gifts as one province may bring to the aishidi’tat are to its profit, but not to extortionate profit. We have attempted to distribute public works equitably among the provinces, based on three criteria: the least damage to the environment; the greatest economic need of the citizens, and the most efficient transport of resources. Wherein we have erred, we will hear such matters: Be it known that the location of such facilities was our choice, not the paidhi-aiji’s, who neither administrated nor settled the choices. Hear me clearly: Those who have laid all discontent at the feet of the paidhi-aiji and the humans have taken a simple and incorrect answer to flaws that the aishidi’tat must address. The faults are in ourselves, nadiin, nandiin, and human presence has only shone a light on the matters we need to mend within our own institutions. Were we wrong to build a presence on the station? Were we wrong to hasten every effort to secure atevi participation in the human mission to this far station? Were we wrong to elevate the paidhi-aiji to lordly rank, to enable him to represent us with authority in these far regions? And were we fools to send our heir out to this far place, to see with his own eyes what truth there is out there? We think not. Now we have reports that the mission succeeded. We have waited to hear the results, in confidence that they could be presented in this chamber, under these circumstances, and that the legislature would sit in judgment of the facts. Here we have come, at personal risk to many of you. And here is my heir, here is the aiji-dowager, and here is Lord Bren, with a report the gist of which is in your hands.