Peacemaker

Tabini had thrown out all Damiri’s staff a number of days ago, so that now all the senior security in Tabini’s apartment were the dowager’s people . . . hence the dowager’s very good grasp of what was going on in the world.

Discuss the imminent assassination of a Guild officer who happened to be Damiri’s relative?

He’d personally rather not have that discussion in Damiri’s hearing, either.

And probably that was exactly Tabini’s reasoning in coming here to talk. He hoped that was all that was going on . . . but there were ungodly many possibilities in the political landscape.

Tano and Algini arrived in the sitting room, with Banichi and Jago following. Banichi was not moving briskly today, and Banichi would not keep the arm rigidly bandaged. The hand stayed tucked inside the jacket. Bren just acknowledged Banichi with a particular nod—not arguing with him, not with life and death matters afoot.

There were, thankfully almost immediately, the quiet set of sounds that heralded an arrival at the front door. Not one man, but maybe two or three, Bren thought, by what he heard. So Tabini had not brought his full security detail with him, maybe not even his own aishid—unprecedented as the visit itself, if that was the case.

Servants hurried about last-moment preparations. Narani opened the door, showing Tabini into the sitting room with Cenedi, and with Cenedi’s frequent partner Nawari in attendance, not on the aiji-dowager, but on Tabini. Again—that had never happened.

Protocol dictated the paidhi rise, bow, offer a seat.

“Aiji-ma. One is honored.”

“Sit,” Tabini said, with an all-inclusive sweep of his hand—Bren, Cenedi, Nawari, Bren’s own bodyguard, everybody but the servants. It was an order, and Tabini was deadly serious.

“Tea,” Tabini said. Nothing of business was appropriate until they had had a cup, ritually delivered; and moods like Tabini’s current one were precisely the reason for the custom.

 · · ·

“Nadiin-ji?” Cajeiri said, and made it a question. His guests looked very uncomfortable.

“I told you,” Irene whispered to Gene and Artur. “We just have to do things. Don’t make a problem.”

Gene and Artur did not even look at her. Or at him. Gene just drew a heavy breath.

“What?” Cajeiri asked. “What?”

But Gene and Artur said nothing, and still looked at the floor.

They were upset. That was clear. And it seemed to be about the clothes. “Children’s clothes look bad?” he asked. It was all that would fit them. “Master Kusha makes them right.”

“That’s not it,” Gene said.

“What?” he repeated, and then thought they might not understand the situation he could only explain in Ragi. “Nadiin-ji, our baggage may come tonight. Maybe not. And those are all country clothes. This is the Bujavid, nadiin-ji. You need better. You were always going to need better.”

“Whose credits?” Gene asked.

Whose credits?

Then he understood. For an instant he saw the ship corridors again, where humans had to have a card to get a sandwich or a drink, where everything in all their lives had been measured so closely, and you were allowed so much and more could not be had, because you had to work on the ship to earn a larger share.

None of the station-folk had been able to work, and all the share they had had even for food was what the ship allotted for them, measured out by how old you were and whether you were a boy or a girl and how tall you were—all of it calculated by a set of numbers atevi never had to calculate. If they were hungry on a particular day, they still could not get more. The station-folk had been really unhappy on the ship, which had been worse than the station. And sometimes people had been hungry.

Not his associates. Never his associates. He had brought them sweets from mani’s kitchen. Sausages. And bread.

He remembered. For an instant they were there in the tu

“What can we say?” Gene said. “It’s your birthday, Jeri-ji. We brought you presents. But nothing like this.”

“Presents.” Reunioners had come onto the ship with almost nothing, and it was painful to think how little they still must have, starting with nothing on a station where very few could earn extra.

But if they were his people, they had every right to match him, well, as far as lords could—because they were his. It was a matter of pride, and the way everybody would look at them. They could not wear their clothing: the old people would be scandalized—but he could not quite tell them they would embarrass him.

If he were a grown-up, he would be sure they could match him in exactly the right degree. But he was just eight. And it was very good of Great-uncle and mani to step in to fix things. It was only right that they did, because he was theirs, and it was their pride involved if his people looked wrong or rude.

But clearly it was not right, in his guests’ opinion. And one part of him hurt, as if they were pushing his gift rudely away, as if they were not wanting to be here today, and were upset and embarrassed.

But he was sure they really did want to be here. They were modest, and grateful, and always polite to him. That would not have changed in a handful of minutes. So he was the one at fault: he had to explain it in a way that would not embarrass them.

He shrugged, gave a second little shrug, and resorted to one of those stupid things they had used to say on the ship, when they were completely out of answers. “Atevi stuff. Atevi stuff.”

“Human stuff,” Gene said, the right answer and gave an answering and unhappy little shrug.

“Here!” he said, pointing at the floor underfoot. “You are here!” He wanted to say so much else to them, so very much else . . . but if there had been words they could understand to make it all work, he would not be atevi and they would not be human. And they just stood there, both unhappy, which was unbearable.

“Gene,” Irene said, trying to calm things down. “Just listen to him.”

But Gene just went on frowning, and it was not right, and nothing could make it right. Gene was the one who always measured shares of the food he brought, so they were exactly right. Exactly right, not a crumb off equal—because it mattered to Gene.

And here they were, measuring again, only there was no way for it ever to come out even.

Fair, Gene would say. And it was one of the strongest things about Gene. He always was . . . fair. But sometimes you had to argue with him. And sometimes it was as if he knew Gene best of all of them.

“Hey,” he said, that word that meant listen, and he laid a hand on his chest, the way he had done when they had first met in the ship corridors, almost the first children he had ever seen. And they’d stared at each other. He said, solemnly, as he’d said then: “Cajeiri. I’m Cajeiri.”

Usually it was Irene that understood language things first, but not this time. “Gene!” Gene said staunchly, with the same solemn gesture. And Gene swept a gesture at Irene and Artur. “Irene. Artur. Human.”

“Ateva,” he said. It was their first meeting all over again. “No change!”

“No change,” Gene said. “No change, us.”

“Friends,” Cajeiri said in ship-speak, right across the room from Madam Saidin and Master Kusha and his own valets and everybody. “And,” he said in Ragi, “I can give you gifts for my birthday, if I want! Adults do. So I can. This is how atevi do. Yes?”

Gene gave a nervous smile. They all did, and touched hands the way ship-humans did, then laughed.