Conspirator

He was already seeing certain things he thought he should report to Lord Geigi, once they drove onto Kajiminda: the condition of a low wooden bridge, blocked with brush and ready to become a major problem of local flooding—erosion across the road, a hard bump for a bus or a truck: points against the young caretaker lord. Those inroads of erosion were going to become a gully at that low spot. And he noted loose boards on the second low bridge they crossed. The road definitely should be an issue in their eventual conversation, when they had done their fill of thank you and what a storm that had been.

The outlying signage was yet another matter: it generally needed painting. And the sign that pointed to Kajiminda, where the main market road went on down the coast toward the greater township in the region, and the lesser one went on toward the estate—that was lying on its face in the grass.

Certainly, the factory further down the main road in Lord Geigi’s district should be generating traffic clear to Dalaigi, and up to Kajiminda—but it looked no better on the track they did not take. Lack of maintenance up in this direction might have discouraged it, that, or habits and patterns of travel had shifted during the years of the Troubles—granted, this was not a main road, and possibly some change in rail service had encouraged them to use the rails for something that local. But it didn’t change the fact that the road needed to be fixed.

He remarked to Banichi and Jago, “We shall want to visit the factory, on some day before we leave the district. There is a certain lack of maintenance. But despite other circumstances, one has no wish to enter upon a neighborly exchange with an excessively critical view. There may be reasons.”

“Yes,” Banichi said, but Banichi’s gaze was otherwise out the window, observing details, marking this, marking that. So was Jago’s attention.

The youngsters clearly thought the jolts and ruts were exciting. The road had, to the paidhi’s eye, a certain spookiness about itc and still he told himself that it was no good going into a negotiation with preconceptions based on road maintenance.

In that view, as they had turned onto the unmarked and overgrown track that led to Lord Geigi’s estate, Bren said to himself that he might reasonably extend the gesture at least of mowing, if not patching allthe road up to Geigi’s private road—he should offer that, for an old ally’s sake, and for the help Baiji himself had rendered in a desperate situation. If there was any dearth of proper equipment in this estate, there was not in Najida: he had a grader, and a truck, and he could get repairs moving. This young man might have felt somewhat isolated and lacking direction in his situation during the Troubles. Perhaps he had simply not been up to the job he was given—the Maschi line was ru

Bump! The passage of truck tires—at least more frequent here—had created massive potholes, where the native sandstone, not far beneath the layer of dirt and grass had shattered or eroded into sand.

Well, however, his own two-year departure from the region, almost three years until this visit, had removed the last experienced authority from the district and left everything to Baiji. Could he greatly blame the man, who had at least avoided invasion on this coast? Baiji might be due some credit in areas other than road construction.

And the villa did, when it appeared in the distance, appear much as it had a decade and more ago, red tile roofs above a sprawling structure of the harder, coastside limestone, plastered and painted white.

Well-painted and orderly, still, within its surrounding garden walls, with the little false garden watchtowers, and the villa’s general L-shaped roof reflecting the bright sun in a cheerful way. That view entirely lightened his mood. The orchards were still well kept. The stucco wall and towers—built mostly to keep pests out of the orchard—were immaculate.The natural woodland that ran down to the shore was still what it had been. Geigi’s dock and yacht were not visible from this vantage: the wooded coast curved somewhat, making a neat little cove where Geigi kept his boats, and from which Geigi’s extended household did a little fishing. And when they turned through the gates of the low, white-plastered outer wall, the road became a broad gravel track, leading up to a portico not unlike that at Najida.

The youngsters had moved forward in the bus as they passed within the gates, and now they clustered close behind Bren’s seat as the bus pulled into the little courtyard that faced the front doors.

The driver drew to a sedate halt and opened the door. Banichi and Jago exited first, and now the house doors opened and the staff came out to meet them.

In the center of the doors, hindmost, arrived a well-dressed young man, a little plump—could one at all doubt that he was related to Lord Geigi? He looked like every Maschi lord in the lineage. And he seemed quite fond of gold thread—he positively glittered, the whole expanse of him glittered. But that was no great sin, that the young man should have gotten himself up in his absolute best for the meeting. He shone in gold. A shadow attended him, four men in Guild black, his bodyguard, also in their most formal black and silver for the occasion.

Well, discourtesy to the aiji had ruffled some who noticed such things, and true, the young lord hadn’t phoned first, seeing a neighbor returning after long absence; but one could not fault the turnout now.

Banichi and Jago got out, and took their position, opposite. Bren quietly descended the steps and gave a little bow, as Cajeiri and his pair came clattering down the steps behind, and landed on the aged cobblestones just behind him with a little crunch of sand.

Lord Baiji was of moderate height, taller than his ample figure immediately suggested; a solid young man, and he had a pleasant expression, a little softness about the mouth, but over all distinctly like Lord Geigi.

“Nandiin,” Baiji said, and bowed to him first, and bowed to Cajeiri. “My house is honored. One hopes you find yourselves well, nand’ Bren, after the events of last night.”

“Entirely, nandi,” Bren said. “Thank you.”

“We wish to express our gratitude, nandi,” Cajeiri piped up, coming up at Bren’s side, and bowing, which occasioned a second bow from Baiji. “We were in great distress last night, and very glad to be found.”

That was, Bren said to himself, two sentences. And before he had had a chance properly to introduce the boy.

And simultaneously a peculiarity struck him: nandiin, Baiji had said—the plural my lords. The presence of young, civilian-dressed attendants with Cajeiri was some indication of higher rank, as was the fairly elegant coat Cajeiri was wearing. The Taibeni youngsters were certainly too young to be attending the paidhi-aiji himself. Village child, they had said. And this morning Baiji met them with nandiin.

And came out onto the porch to do it. He had not the ma

“The house of Lord Geigi,” Baiji said, “is more than pleased to have been of assistance. We beg you come inside, nandiin, and take tea in the solar.”

Well, well, the man lacked the ma

So they took the invitation, leaving the driver to park the bus and wait.

Now, in the i