Peacemaker

There were, in the stack, two questions arising from the opposite point of the compass, the always-volatile Marid—questions involving the Scholars’ Guild, and the controversy over how the Marid apprenticeship system was going to combine with a proposed northern-style classroom education—neither of which were pertinent to the mess they had on their hands.

There was a letter requesting Jase-aiji’s appearance before the Transportation Committee, something to do with the port, one supposed, and about as remote from current business as it was possible to be. The committee had realized, through its own sources at the shuttle port, that a ship-captain was on the planet, and they wanted to talk to him directly, probably about technical issues and regulations . . . a set of technical concerns that also seemed from another universe, at the moment.

He finished the pile. He made a few notes about the birthday festivity, requesting advisement directly to him should anything unusual on that topic reach his clerical office.

And there was, yes, a query from his tailor, requesting a fitting.

God. Maybe he should see to that today, before anything blew up. Granted his wardrobe was stalled in transit . . . it could be a good idea.

At least the tailor and the looming birthday festivity posed a distraction from darker thoughts.

But then he caught, in the tailor’s note, that slight change from festivity to Festivity, the elaborate form of the word, that set his heart to beating just a little faster.

Festivity as in . . . national holiday.

Was that an error? National holiday?

He rang for Narani, and when that gentleman arrived:

“Close the door. Rani-ji. Has there been a change in the aiji’s plans for the birthday?”

The old man’s mouth opened slightly, an expression of consternation. A deep breath. “Yes, nandi. Yesterday.”

Amid all the confusion.

“One apologizes. One apologizes profoundly.”

“Well, hardly a consequence to our plans,” he said, but thought then— “Did the a

“Before, nandi. Just after breakfast.”

Which meant the aiji had thought about it and changed his plans somewhat before yesterday morning and before the Kadagidi manor house had lost its local guard, its front porch and a corner window.

One last little message lay on the desk, one of those Bujavid a

Ru

Now he understood Lord Dur’s advisement about the suspension of the vote until after the boy’s birthday celebration, which had seemed an odd sort of thing to send the legislature into recess. It wasn’t just a birthday celebration. It was a Festivity that was going to shut down the city and cause a business holiday across the continent.

The memo, arrived from the Bujavid events office just this morning, said that the change in scope of the aiji’s event required them to move the reception out of the Green Hall and into the larger Audience Hall. Now the event was to be preceded, during the day, by a private di

Crowd pressure wasn’t the half of the reason.

“This came yesterday?” he asked.

“Yesterday, nandi.” Narani gave a mortified little bow. “One is so very sorry not to have mentioned it.”

“I suppose the decree was on the news. There is a public celebration.”

“Yes, nandi.”

“We were somewhat preoccupied,” he said, with irony. “The matter could hardly have sat at the top of your report, Rani-ji, when we arrived as we did last night.”

“You did mention the birthday, nandi. And one thought you knew,” Narani said. “One very deeply regrets the omission.”

“One is a little startled to hear it,” he said. A national celebration was the sort of thing one did, besides the four seasonal festivals of the year, for a felicitous event, such as the launch of an important national program. There were lesser, city functions—the appointment of a lord to high office, the opening of a new public facility. These were minor, an excuse for some businesses taking a holiday, bars and restaurants doing good business . . . but nationwide?

The timing was infelicitous . . . right over the assassination of the boy’s grandfather . . .

Or it was to cover an infelicity.

“One suspects,” he said to Narani, “this is not unrelated to the assassination. Is there any word who was behind that?”

Narani answered very quietly: “Absolutely none, nandi.”

He would not have said what he had just said about the timing to anyone on domestic staff but Narani.

“Incredible to me that the aiji would have done it,” he murmured, “so close to the boy’s birthday.”

“One concurs, nandi.”

The shift from private to public event, however—likely did relate to the grandfather’s assassination . . . a determination not to have that infelicitous event overshadowing his son’s fortunate ninth birthday. It was a fast decision, if that was the motive.

And depending on where one placed responsibility for the assassination, paving over it with a national festivity was either deprecating the importance of Ajuri clan, or it was fiercely deploring the event, the person that had done it, and supporting Ajuri clan. There was a word for it. Bajio kabisu. Overturning the odds. For the traditional-minded, for the marginally superstitious, it met adversity with a tidal wave of good omen. It overpowered a setback, in effect—wiping it out, as only a very powerful lord could do. It said: we are more than that. We ca

This time it said, my son is more than this.

It put the boy in the political spotlight. In a political context.

And a slap in the face of whoever had assassinated Komaji became, by sheer chance, a slap in the face of the Kadagidi, since there was no way Tabini was going to cancel his gesture in the face of fate . . . to mourn the downfall of a much more impotant clan . . . that had happened to birth a traitor and house a problem.

Omens?

They had a boatload of omens. And there was going to be a real political to-do over the Kadagidi matter, especially with a boy’s birthday used to plaster over it.

But Tabini was solid in public opinion since the success in the west. Unshakeable. And he was acting like it.

Well, it just took a moment to readjust one’s plans.

“It requires some change,” he said. “One sincerely hopes our crates from Tirnamardi arrive in good order. Whether I shall have time for the tailor—no, no, I had better not take the time. If the crates do not arrive, I shall wear the pale green—” It was a shade off from Tatiseigi’s heraldry—“and lend Jase my blue suit. Those will do.” A thought came to him. “One has no idea, however, how the young gentleman’s guests may manage wardrobe, with or without the crates. One fully expects they will attend, in some capacity.”