Peacemaker

Cajeiri had only once ever been in Great-uncle’s apartment—really he was twice-great-uncle, but it was too long to say, and even Mother said just “uncle.” And it was no great surprise that Uncle’s Bujavid apartment was so much like Tirnamardi, full of fancy vases and hangings and antiques of which one had to be very, very careful, from the chandeliers overhead to the carpets underfoot, and the lighting was gold and so dim it always looked like oil lamps. Great-uncle had invited them there in spite of his antiques, and they were all on their best ma

He was so glad he was not being shunted off to his parents’ apartment tonight.

The one who had to handle the surprise of their arrival and find room for them was Madam Saidin, who was the major domo for the apartment staff. Cajeiri knew her. She was a very kind, very good, very proper lady. She had taken care of nand’ Bren when Great-uncle had lent his apartment to nand’ Bren.

And she was just exactly the way he remembered her—graying and tall and thin and very solemn, with a little quirk of a smile when one least expected it. She was very good at ru

“One promises that we shall never, ever leave Boji out with just his harness,” Cajeiri told her. “He got out, at Tirnamardi. That was our mistake. He chewed right through his leash and we never even saw him do it. And there was a window open.”

“A light chain would prevent that happening, one would think, young gentleman,” was Madam Saidin’s quiet reply. “We shall see if one can be found.”

A chain made ever so much more sense than that thin leather leash, once he thought of it. It was brilliant. If Madam Saidin had been in charge at Tirnamardi, Boji never would have gotten away from them . . .

But then, if Boji had not escaped, then people might have gotten killed.

Baji-naji, they had been very fortunate in the way that had turned out.

Only a fool would expect, however—mani had always said it—to be fortunate twice.

“A chain would be excellent, Saidin-daja. Thank you.” He gave an appreciative little bow, and off went Madam Saidin to pass a word to one of the servants who might even find such a thing somewhere in the Bujavid.

And meanwhile there began to be little sandwiches—safe little sandwiches, the servants assured him, because the staff had served nand’ Bren and knew all about alkaloids and humans and what things humans liked.

Everything was ru

One thing did worry him: that right down the hall, mani, so the servants whispered, had the two Dojisigi Assassins and the Kadagidi lord lodging right in her apartment. That was no good thing for Lord Aseida: that was sure. Mani was not in a good mood with him.

But mani was not worried enough about the two Assassins, in his opinion. He was so worried he went to ask Madam Saidin what she thought, because Madam was Guild, herself, and very sneaky if she had to be.

Madam said: “One is quite certain your great-grandmother and our lord are taking proper precautions. Cease to worry, and trust your great-grandmother. If you do not worry about these things, you ca

That was still a worrisome answer. He gave another little bow.

“Saidin-daja, I am almost nine. Please inform me. We were together on the train. We were at Tirnamardi. We understand that we must keep Boji very carefully and that we must stay in the apartment, but we also understand there is danger to my father with these people, and my great-grandmother has them in her apartment just down the hall, and one wishes she would just send them to the Bujavid guard.”

Madam’s face showed just a little frown. “Well, trust that they will not quite be lodged in her apartment, young gentleman. You may recall she does have servant passages, and a number of storerooms, some of which can be made comfortable—and quite secure. Lord Aseida is reputed only for indolence and self-indulgence: one doubts he will pose any personal threat. The two Assassins are, one understands, indebted to your great-grandmother, but one is certain they are just as securely guarded.”

“Please do not keep secrets from us, nadi—my guests knew about the Assassins and the Kadagidi when everything was going on. Mecheiti ran past our windows and they had to clean up the bus before they would let us board.”

“A distressing situation, indeed, young gentleman. One hopes to spare your guests more such sights.”

She was very old. And very smart. And a bad person to lie to.

“We are not stupid, Saidin-daja, and we will not do things if we know they are dangerous to the household. Please warn us when threats are going on! My guests’ man’chi is to me. They will not tell their parents.”

She gazed down at him a moment, wise, and very senior, and nodded slowly. “Then you should know the security alert continues, young gentleman. The lord has gone to talk to your great-grandmother, and they will compose a report for your father on the matters you mention. Guards are posted at various places on this floor, including servant corridors below, and we are informed that, should any attack within the Bujavid aim at this floor, we are to bar the servant accesses and contain you and your guests in this apartment. And should any outside threat reach this floor, young gentleman, staff is instructed to gather you and your guests in the sitting room and take certain actions. In any alarm, please make that possible as quickly as possible. You may omit your parid’ja from the plan—he would be in no particular danger from Assassins. Only see you and your guests come immediately to the sitting room. That is what you can do. Now I have entirely violated my lord’s instruction to keep this information from you. And I have given you a plan to follow. You are indeed a wise young gentleman. Please honor my confidence.”

A grown-up said such a thing. It required a bow, a deep one.

“And put on a calm and pleasant face, young gentleman. You know how to do that, if your great-grandmother has been your teacher.”

“Yes,” he said, and managed it. “One will. One can do that.”

“Excellent. You have asked for the burden, young gentleman. Now bear it. And make your great-uncle and your great-grandmother proud of you.”

“Saidin-daja.” One more bow, this one the formal dismissal, and he stood and watched Madam walk away, thinking . . .

But what about mani, and nand’ Bren? What about my mother? And my sister that my mother has? And my father?

It was his birthday. It was his birthday, and they were talking about going to war again. The ’counters said everything happened because of the numbers.

But what were the numbers of his birthday that made these things always happen on that day?

He stood there, thinking that, and his face was not at all the face his great-grandmother would approve. He put the pleasant look back on, the way mani could, in the blink of an eye.