Intruder

Bindanda, now—Bindanda sniffed air redolent of fresh-baked pizza and said, with extraordinary charity and good humor, “The paidhi seems very ably served in the kitchen.”

Which was not to say Bindanda did not immediately head down the hall to the kitchen in his shirt sleeves, having handed off his outdoor coat and not even having changed to kitchen whites, bent on inspecting the kitchen operation.

Tano and Algini had made it back to the apartment not long before them. “Go rescue Pai-nadi, nadiin-ji,” Bren said to them under his breath, for fear their young cook would simply wilt at the sight of Bindanda, and those two headed toward that venue on a mission of mercy, right on Bindanda’s heels.

Supani and Koharu having gotten back to their own assignment, however, the hated vest could now come off, and Bren slipped on a light coat for house wear, while the staff settled into their rooms backstairs. It was suddenly a completely staffed household, a lively household and a happy one, even in the kitchen.

And within the half hour, pizza began to pour from the kitchen to the dining room in an extremely informal service. It was the atevi recipe—green, laced with alkaloid, all except one special one. It was a dish that newly established custom declared proper to eat standing, with drink in hand, even while touring the premises on a festive occasion. Even Narani put away three pieces and Jeladi certainly more than that—not to mention Bindanda, who must have accounted for one entire pizza himself, to Pai’s great delight.

Then staff, having toured the revisions to the apartment, settled on available chairs in the sitting room—and long past supper and an offering of brandy, they all traded stories, stories of life on the station during the Troubles and stories from the Najida folk of how they had stolen the paidhi’s furniture from the Bujavid—details that Bren had not himself heard, and he had to laugh at Koharu’s account of getting a room-sized carpet past two guards.

It was a splendid evening. Everybody got along famously, and everyone drank a bit more wine and brandy than proper; there was laughter, and good humor, and in due time—bed and quiet.

“Such a day,” Bren said into Jago’s ear when they were both abed. “Such a good day.”

“In every respect,” Jago said, and sighed.

10

  Morning. And in Father’s household, unlike mani’s, they all almost never had breakfast together. Or lunch. Sometimes they had supper. Every few days they had supper.

But it was a surprise to be asked to breakfast with Father and Mother. At first one feared one’s parents had found out about Boji.

Cajeiri scrubbed and dressed and turned out in his best, all the while asking himself what other bad thing could happen or how he would handle it if his worst fears came true.

But once he entered into the dining room, he was perfectly cheerful. He had learned from Great-grandmother never to let worry show on his face, because then there would surely be questions about one’s bad mood, and then one would be obliged to tell much more than one wished and end up defending oneself before ever being challenged.

If the two servants he had tending to his apartment had taken a report about Boji to his father, he was going to be more than put out.

But again, one dared not let worry show. One just appreciated the breakfast, which was very traditional and actually quite good, and thanked the cook. And tried to be smart.

Since nothing came up after service was done, he decided it could even be one of those times when his parents had decided to notice him and have breakfast with their son the way other families did.

If that was the case, that was nice. Or it would have been nice if he had anything entertaining to say. Mother and Father had talked about the legislative session and the Communications Guild, while he tried to keep a pleasant expression throughout that dull stuff, and when after-breakfast talk was done, he decided he might be able to just slip out quietly and go about his own business.

“Son of mine,” his father said, stopping him halfway to rising.

He settled. “Honored Father.”

“Come to my office.”

This was not good. Not at all good. It could be about lessons. But he and his tutor had gotten along.

Maybe that was all Father wanted to ask him: how the tutor was doing. He would say, I want this tutor, and his father would say that was fine and let him go.

His father and mother went their separate ways in the hall; his mother remarked on his coat and cautioned him not to wear it except on special occasions.

“One thought this wasa special occasion this morning, honored Mother,” he said, which brought a little frown to his mother’s face.

“Well, we shall have to do it far more often,” she said, which was not what he wanted to hear. And she patted his shoulder and then went her way to her suite, while his father had already walked on into the main hall with two of his bodyguard in tow.

Cajeiri had not brought his own guard to stand duty at breakfast, it being inside the apartment. But when he got to the office, his father’s guard took up their posts outside, and one opened the door for them, and shut it when they were inside. It gave the visit an uncomfortably formal feeling, as if he were some kind of offender being brought to court.

“Well,” Father said, settling into his chair at his desk, with stacks of papers and books everywhere about that were mostly classified, and with the important business of the whole world spread about them. “You do look very fine this morning, son of mine.”

“Thank you, honored Father.” It called for a bow. He made it, hoping hard that this really was only about the tutor and his lessons.

“You are still content with your tutor.”

“Very muchso, honored Father.”

“A wonder. One has also a good report from him.”

“One is gratified, honored Father.”

His father turned to his desk and took up a small, fat envelope. It was a curious envelope. It had that glassy kind of look that did not belong on earth. It was so transparent one could see writing on it. His father laid it in the midst of his other papers. He wished he could read what it said at this distance, but it was impossible.

“The shuttle has landed,” his father said, “and brought with it a letter.”

His heart had already picked up its beats. Now it beat faster still, but he was not sure whether he was in trouble or not.

“A letter, honored Father.”

“You sent a message, this time by Lord Geigi.”

Faster and faster, and with suddenly far less hope of possessing that letter. He was definitely in trouble, maybe Lord Geigi was, thanks to him, and quibbling would not help matters. “Yes, honored Father.”

“You are determined, are you not, to keep up relations with your associates on the ship.”

“These are valuable associates, honored Father.”

“You think so. They are not the sons and daughters of aijiin. They have no co

He had never heard that objection to his associations. He had never even considered that objection. And he pounced on the only logic he could think of.

“The ship-aijiin have no children, honored Father.”

“You know that, do you?”

“None my age, at least, honored Father. But—”

“Continue your thought. One wishes to hear your reasoning.”

He had never reasoned any logic for his choice of companions, except that they were accessible. There had been more kids, but a handful—a handful were the best ones.

“They have good qualities,” he said. His head had gone spi

“He is not,” his father said. “Humans form their associations differently. Yet one might suggest that you are a more valuable associate for them than they to you.”