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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 ru
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, begi
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.