Inheritor

Machimi.

Whose man’chi came first? Which man’chi had become clear to the servants, when they met their human guest—or dealt with Jase, who was having trouble with the earth and dirt and stone aspect of things, and who really, now in a family tragedy, had a profound justification for his winter-long distress.

He’d long since gotten beyond embarrassment in this lady’s household, about this servantly insistence a man couldn’t undress himself or deal with his own laundry. Tano had been stand-in for the staff during the last number of days, Tano and he taking the opportunity to exchange information in that little space of privacy: what they’d done for the day, what they expected on the morrow. And he’d felt more comfortable in that arrangement, and closer to Tano than he’d ever otherwise been.

But they were definitely back in Shejidan, and Tano was no longer accessible. Give or take the one nightcap too many, he found his nerves still buzzing with the information he’d gotten, buzzing so he wasn’t sure he’d sleep easily at all.

Still, bed was calling to him with a promise of satin sheets and soft pillows. The television was over in the corner, his panacea for sleeplessness on the road, and a concession, in this antique bedroom, to the paidhi’s necessity to keep up with the news; and occasionally just to have entertainment or noise to fill the silence.

But he had his staffback with him. He had Banichi and Jago. He had them again.

It was Sasi into whose hands he shed the clothes: she was an older servant with, Sasi had informed him proudly, along with the requisite photos, four grandchildren.

An apostate, far-from-his-culture human chose to believe that made Sasi absolutely professional at seeing people into bed and tucked in, and that she was a decent and sobering influence on the two young maids who stood by and offered and received the exchange of garments, the lounging robe for the sleeping robe, in which one didn’t ordinarily sleep, but there it was, nonetheless, the requisite robe. One just did wear appropriate garments, that was the explanation, even if said robe was immediately, fifteen paces away, to be taken off to go to bed.

It was polite. It was expected. It was what was done. The paidhi had rank in the court, therefore the paidhi’s closet overflowed with appropriate garments which were the pride and the care of his staff on display.

And the paidhi couldn’t, God, no, dress or undress himself, without showing lack of confidence in his Atageini staff.

The paidhi hadgotten the message of the staff over the last year of his life, and had ceased to frustrate the servants in their zeal to please him.

“How arethe repairs?” he asked as Sasi applied a cursory brush to his hair, towering over him the while. The faint aroma of paint and new plaster had been constant. But it seemed fainter this evening. “Nadi Sasi? One heard the painting might be over.”

“All the work is most nearly complete, nand’ paidhi. The tiles are all in place, so we hear. The painters have been at work almost constantly, and now they seem finished.”

And the young servant by the door: “The artisans think—perhaps in a day, nand’ paidhi. So nand’ Saidin says.”

“I believe, nand’ paidhi,” Sasi said, “that they have told the lady so.”

Damiri, in other words. The crews that had been scraping and pounding away down the hall were Atageini workmen, or at least workmen intensely scrutinized by the Atageini lord.

In the thoughts of a few moments ago, one worried.

“Nadi.” One maid produced a scroll from his robe’s pocket, and offered it to Sasi, who gave it to him.

Toby’s telegram. Damn. He hadn’t gotten to answering it.

But he couldn’t do anything about answering it, or about his mother’s condition. She had medical care. He couldn’t help. When they talked on the phone, she grew upset and got onto topics that upset her, like his job, her getting hate calls. It was better he didn’t call.

He laid the scroll on the night table. Then he took off the satin robe and surrendered it to Sasi before he lay down on the sheets of the historic Atageini bed—in which an Atageini had been murdered, oh, some centuries ago, under a coverlet which was a duplicate of that coverlet.

As the lilies down the hall would be exact duplicates of the lilies destroyed by whatever agency.

The Atageini were stubborn about their decor. Their power. Their autonomy. The hospitality shown their guests.

Damiri had had resources to check out the workmen. He’d told himself so for months. That special steel expansion barrier, an ingenious affair with screw-braces that extended and bolted with lock bolts in all directions, had occasioned a fuss over the woodwork; but the security barrier had gone in; and that meant workmen and artisans had to come and go by a scaffolding let down from the roof, under the supervision of Tabini’s guards. So the nearby residents had sealed theirwindows with similar precautions.

“Shall I leave the windows open, nand’ paidhi? Or open the vents?”

“I think just the vents, thank you, Sasi-ji.” He trusted no one was going to make a foray into the apartments from the construction. But the scraping and hammering and the smell of paint and plaster had gone on all winter; and now that it was spring, when neighboring apartments as well as his own had the desire to take advantage of their lofty estate well above the city and the general safety that let these apartments open their windows to the breezes, it had certainly put a matter of haste into the repair job—a need to get the smelly part done, before, as Tabini said, someone declared feud on the Atageini over the repairs.

They were nearing an end of that situation, as it seemed—an end of bumps and thumps that made the guards get up in haste and go investigate, and an end of a major eyesore in the apartment. ‘A few more days’ had gotten to be the household joke, long predating ‘rain clouds,’ but it did sound encouraging.

So they were going to be rid of the barrier, the workmen, the casting and solvent smells wafting in through the balcony windows, and he would have back a room of exquisite beauty, which happened to be hisfavorite place in the apartments, whether for study or breakfast or just sitting and relaxing.

God. Oh, God. The date.

He was supposed to do a television interview on the 14th. Tomorrow. Was it tomorrow? The 14th?

It wasthe 14th. He hadn’t even thought about it since he’d left. He hadn’t remotely considered it when he’d thought about extending his visit with Geigi.

He had no wish whatsoever to tie the business of the space program to the assassination of lord Saigimi in the public mind; he didn’t want to answer questions regarding lord Saigimi, which might possibly come up—the news services, generally well behaved, still occasionally blundered into something in a live interview—live, because some atevi believed that television that regarded politics had to be live for the numbers not to be deliberately misleading.

But he couldn’t, at this date and at this hour, even by coming down with an attack of poisoning, cancelthe news conference, not without having people draw the very conclusion he didn’t want.

He had to get his wits together and face it tomorrow—do it with dispatch and in full control of his faculties. He’d set the interview up fifteen days ago when it had sounded perfectly fine and within his control. He’d had it on his calendar as just after the factory tour. He’d made sure it missed the trip dates. They’d added two days and three labs onto his tour at the last moment and he’d totally forgotten about the damn interview as significant, just one of those myriad things his staff steered him to and out of and on to the next thing on the list, and that Tano would have advised him of the very moment he proposed to them accepting lord Geigi’s offered day on the boat. They’d have been able to do it: they’d have just shunted the event to Sarini Province and set up in Geigi’s front hall, cameras, lights, and baggage, and hewouldn’t have been put out by it except as it affected the fishing schedule.