Intruder

“Yet please accept it on their behalf. Mail may stand in stacks, but these things must be done, and you must stand ready to sleep and eat in this office for days on end until we have gotten through the worst of this, and you may have to deal with unpleasantness. My thanks. My respects to all,” he said, raising his voice, and making a little bow, as work stopped in the room. “You will be working on extended projects, nadiin-ji, starting tomorrow. Order food in, as much and from whatever source you wish. Director Daisibi will inform you of the details, and know that matters critical to the future of the aishidi’tat rest on your work. One values you all extremely, and when this is done, Director Daisibi will inform you, one has a compensation in mind that one hopes will ease the burden of these next days. One thanks you, most earnestly. You merit my trust, my confidence, and my deep gratitude, nadiin-ji. There will be cards, with my ribbon; with others if this goes well. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

He bowed. Everyone stood up solemnly and bowed twice.

It would not be the first time this office had gotten memorial cards, those prized items, which a family kept in special reverence for hundreds of years. But on these, the ribbons would be of every house he could possibly organize, and he would deliver the holiday he had promised—and a bonus atop it. They would amply earn it.

He made his exit, having left the clerical office preparing for a paper storm. And the news services knew they weren’t going to get anything until the paidhi was damned good and ready to release that information, but they would try.

Details. Every detail down to the flower arrangements in the Bujavid committee rooms.

“Back to the stairs, nadiin-ji,” he said to his bodyguard. They had used a back way getting down here, past the third floor, and they used the same route on the way up—enough stairs for a workout, but one more route the news services could not access—

Back up to the privacy and security of the hall he shared with Tabini-aiji.

And news of a different kind.

“Bren-ji,” Banichi said as they were halfway down the hall to their own door, “a message from Lord Tatiseigi.”

“The nature of it, Nichi-ji?” Damn, so much rested on that.

“Sealed, Bren-ji. Haru reports it arrived just moments ago.”

He didn’t quicken his step. It wasn’t that far. “One hopes,” he said simply, and let Algini go ahead of him to open the door.

It was unbecoming to snatch up the message-bowl and immediately rifle through the messages; a lord’s life was centered around discipline. Patience. The forms. Koharu waited in the foyer to bow, to welcome him, and to take his coat. One smiled, one handed over one’s coat, officially heard that there was a message from Tatiseigi and another missive from Trade.

“One will read the message from Tatiseigi,” he said. One shouldgo to one’s office and have Koharu bring the messages there, possibly with a pot of tea, but he was, admittedly, on pins and needles to hear it, and the forms could bend for once, considering he wanted his whole household staff to know what was going on. Koharu proffered a green enameled cylinder decorated with white lilies, and within, sealed with the lily seal of the Atageini, was a letter in a beautiful old-fashioned hand.

“Tatiseigi Lord of the Atageini to Bren Lord of Najidac”

Interesting choice of titlesc nothis highest rank, and verging on damned snobbish discourtesy.

“One appreciates the sentiment of the exquisite gift, and one would be delighted to receive you tomorrow at morning tea.”

  Receive him.

Tomorrow.

And not at lunch, but at a casual tea.

Well, it was aristocratic snobbery from one of the oldest clans extant. It was a calculated slap. And it left it up to him whether to accept it in the interest of achieving his goals, or to reject it and gain the leverage of being offended. Give the old man credit, he did notmake errors of protocol, and Madam Saidin must have winced—tastefully, silently, but winced at the rebuff.

But was he surprised?

His bodyguard and his major domo stood waiting while he scowled at the message.

“Lord Tatiseigi,” he said equably, “has sent an invitation to morning tea.”

“Will you decline it, nandi?” Koharu asked. Even a country lad from Najida could parse that situation.

Oh, he couldeasily decline it—lie, claim prior engagement, and pointedly invite Tatiseigi to supper tomorrow evening. Breakfasts were for intimatescwhich God knew they weren’t. The old man might have taken some offense at a luncheon invitation instead of a formal supper—and—God! the social dance got weirder. Tatiseigi above all people knew he had no head cook. He did have one, in orbit—and Bindanda was indeed coming.

But Bindanda having been Tatiseigi’s former cook, who had defected from Tatiseigi’s service, for various reasons—the old man would be interested in his arrival. When Bindanda finally got here, he would beyond any doubt elect to serve the paidhi-aiji and notgo back to Tatiseigi, which was Bindanda’s choice to makecup to a point.

And this morning Tabini had told him Bindanda didn’t belong to either of them, but to himc

One needed aspirin. Several.

And best hold the first and conciliatory meeting before the Bindanda situation truly hit the fan. He hadn’t even thought of the fuss over Bindanda entering the picture. He’d just presumed on the status between him and Tatiseigi at their lastinteraction. He’d tried to save the old man a serving of Najida country fare that was far too spicy for the old man’s taste, and he could hardly operate like Cajeiri and invite himselfto Tatiseigi’s di

But one didn’tdecline a luncheon and then offer a tea. That was pure Tatiseigi pique, with nothing left to the imagination.

If he wanted to play the social game, then the exchange of elegantly written invitations, each triggering another, could go on for days, until Bindanda was on the planet and on duty. Then the social politics would assuredly get crazier, which was exactly what he didn’t want.

Well, he’d clearly taken a step too far too fast with the old man, and Tatiseigi had come back at him with a mild slap in the face, as if he were still some junior court official.

Which he probably was, somewhere in Tatiseigi’s thinking—the old man could drag up arguments from fifty years ago as passionately as if they were current.

Damn, damn, and damn.

Tatiseigi’s attachment to the aiji-dowager on this issue was a must. He played politics like a master, he wielded a unifying influence on the otherwise fragmented and eccentric conservative side, he was mad about the cell phone issue, he was probably mostly mad at Ilisidi, who had run off to Malguri on her own agenda, instead of conferring with him. And he was mad because he wanted the world rolled back several hundred years, before telephones, television, computers, and humans falling out of the heavens.

No. The paidhi-aiji had started this, naively assuming Tatiseigi’s curiosity would overwhelm his temper, and while things hadn’t gone as badly as they could, they were not going that well. He was going to have to see it through himself without calling in reinforcements. And he was going to have to fix it before Ilisidi had to deal with it.

He went to his office and wrote, humbly:

Bren-paidhi Lord of Najida to Tatiseigi Lord of the Ata geini,

One is delighted and honored to accept your invitation to morning tea.

  And he sohoped Tatiseigi might spend an hour wondering if he had somehow erred and given the paidhi-aiji exactly what he wanted.

7

  It was pleasant to see Madam Saidin again, and the apartment staff which now served Lord Tatiseigi. Only a few weeks ago the paidhi had lived here. He had known every curlicue of the baroque furnishings, enjoyed the fine cuisine, and adopted the old-fashioned ma