Protector: Foreigner #14 (2 page)

There followed the usual sorting out by place markers at the long table. The highest lords were relatively sure of their seats—alert, of course, for any untoward significance in the positioning they might discover in those markers. The lowest at the table, conversely, had to do a little searching.

Bren found his own place with no more than a glance at the card and white ribbon. His seat was very close to the head of the table, with the honoree, Lord Geigi on his left, closer to Tabini-aiji’s seat. Lord Geigi and Lord Tatiseigi were
very
diplomatically seated across from each other, at
exactly
the same level . . . particularly well done on the part of the major domo. Young Cajeiri was sandwiched between Lord Tatiseigi, his mother’s uncle on his left and his as-yet-to-arrive mother on the right. That seated the boy across the table from his great-grandmother, Ilisidi being seated on Lord Geigi’s left . . .

More significantly, Ilisidi’s seat would be directly opposite her granddaughter-in-law, Lady Damiri.
That
was a scary balancing act. The two were famously
not
getting along at the moment . . . not that they ever had, but it had become bitter.

Tabini was the only chess piece capable of blocking those two—and that was exactly where his seat was—between them. Bren was relieved to find Lord Haijdin on his own right, a pleasant positioning, with Maidin almost opposite, next to Tatiseigi. Haidiri’s important but new status kept him midway down the table, next to, one was glad to see, a set of affable and reasonable people. The lord who had had Bren in his sights was safely down among the lower seats.

Bren slipped into his chair, white-lacquered ironwood, massive, ancient, and so heavy that a human, momentarily unattended by servants and bodyguard, had rather slip sideways into it than wrestle it further in any direction. The linen-covered table sparkled end to end with crystal and silver. Candles contributed a warmer glow as servants dimmed the room lights. Flowers of fortunate number, color, and type were arranged in banks not quite high enough to pose a wall to a human guest, or to Ilisidi or Cajeiri.

And with guests in their places, the whole gracious machinery of the aiji’s personal dining hall clicked into operation, drinks being renewed, the servants ascertaining special needs of the diners—and assuring the paidhi-aiji quietly that there were certain dishes to avoid, but that those were few. By ironclad tradition, there could only be light, pleasant talk in this room, no business done, no serious matters discussed, except the routine warning to the paidhi about alkaloids in the sauce.

Chatter resumed briefly. Then Tabini-aiji arrived with Damiri at his side, and everyone had to rise—excepting the aiji-dowager, who simply nodded. The aiji was conservatively resplendent in the black and red of the Ragi atevi. Damiri arrived in, yes,
white and green
this evening. She was pregnant—imminently due, in fact—and she had been through personal hell in recent days: her father, head of Ajuri clan, had recently quitted the capital in scandal, which might well have justified a less cheerful expression. But instead she appeared smiling, relaxed and gracious beside her somber husband, and—for the first time in years—wearing her uncle Tatiseigi’s colors,

That
was a statement. One wondered if she had chosen to do it—or if she had been ordered to do it, a question undoubtedly on the minds of every guest present.

Everyone settled again. Polite chatter resumed at the lower seats. The upper ones, where lords were in the know about the intimate politics, remained in stunned silence, at a public shift of the consort’s allegiance that no one had quite expected.

Damiri’s color choice had definitely surprised and pleased Lord Tatiseigi. The old conservative had already been in a good mood this evening, rejoicing in his rising importance in court—and in the imminent departure of his chief rival, Lord Geigi.

And now Damiri, mother of the eight-year-old heir, and of a baby soon to be born, was wearing her uncle’s white and green. Granted she had not been likely to appear in her Ajuri father’s colors this evening, but she had not taken the neutral option, either. She was sending a clear signal, taking sides, and Ajuri clan, when they heard of it, would not be happy, no.

Bren had a sip of wine and smiled politely at Lord Tatiseigi—and at Lord Haijdin, who remarked, in a moderate degree of innocence, “Well. One is very pleased to see that.”

The servants meanwhile moved about like an attacking squadron, pouring liquids, arranging napkins. Geigi carried on a conversation directly with Tabini-aiji, while Ilisidi sipped her wine and watched a major shift in allegiances play out.

A move to her advantage? Ilisidi could work with the situation.

And meanwhile Tabini—who had spent his
own
youth in the aiji-dowager’s household—was not letting his wife’s shockwave take its own course down the table.

“We wish to honor our old ally Geigi of Kajiminda tonight,” Tabini said, and his rising brought a quick hush to the dining room. “We shall regret his departure for his post of duty in the heavens, but despite the efforts of our enemies, he is leaving his affairs here in good order. Sarini Province is again at peace. He has amply provided for administration of his clan, in the appointment of Lord Haidiri, whom we welcome to our table for the first time tonight.”

“Aiji-ma,” Haidiri murmured, half-rising, with a deep bow of his head to Tabini, and to Lord Geigi as he settled awkwardly back into his chair.

“Should Sarini Province or Maschi clan ever need our intervention,” Tabini said, “we shall of course respond to such a request; but we have great confidence in you, Lord Haidiri, to manage the district.”

That
covered the recent shooting match in as diplomatic a fashion as one could bring to bear. Assassins’ Guild enforcement teams were all over the region Haidiri would govern, mopping up pockets of their own splinter group, pockets established in the failed administration of Haidiri’s predecessor, Geigi’s young scoundrel of a nephew, Baiji.

Baiji had been forcibly wedded, bedded, and was bound for well-deserved obscurity in the relatively rural districts of the East, deep in Ilisidi’s domain. Baiji would quickly produce an heir, if he wanted to continue a reasonably comfortable lifestyle; and that heir would be brought up by the mother alone, a girl with familial ties to Ilisidi. Only if Geigi approved would the offspring become the new Maschi lord, succeeding Haidiri.

Baiji, fool that he was, had been targeted by the Marid, the five southern states, who wanted—badly—to take control of the west coast, and who had hoped to bring the sprawling, sparsely populated Sarini Province under Marid control. Baiji had dealt with fire and gotten burned—badly—when the Marid plans had failed—badly. The Marid had lost leadership of their own plot a year ago, when Tabini, out for two years as the result of a coup, retook his capital. The usurper, Murini, had fled to the Marid, unwelcomely so. Murini had died—which removed him from the scene.

Seeking a power base in the destabilized south, the group that had supported Murini had made their own try at the Marid, creating the mess which the Assassins’ Guild was currently mopping up. The Marid had gotten a new overlord in the process, Machigi, one of the five lords of the Marid, who had managed to keep three of the five districts under his control, and who had
not
let Murini’s people displace him.

Machigi was now back in his capital of Tanaja, presumably keeping the agreement of alliance that he had just signed with the aiji-dowager. Geigi’s west coast estate at Kajiminda, freed of threat from the Marid, thanks to that alliance, was given to the servants to keep in good order until there
should
be a young Maschi heir resident . . . and Geigi’s essential belongings were standing in crates in Bren’s front hallway, ready to be freighted out to the spaceport tomorrow morning.

So, as Tabini said, all Geigi’s onworld affairs were wrapped up, nailed down, and triumphantly settled. The world was in better shape than it had been, with an actual prospect of peace and development in the southern states for the first time in centuries.

“We have notified the rail office,” Tabini added as a postscript, “so the red car will be at your disposal tomorrow morning, nandi.”

“One is very honored,” Geigi murmured with a bow of his head.

That arrangement made things easier. The red car was the aiji’s own transport, not only the personal rail car, but the baggage car that went with it, and the engine that pulled it—occasionally complicated with freight attachments on long treks, for economy’s sake, but rarely allowing passenger cars, for security reasons. The aiji’s train ran rigidly on time, since it had universal priority on the tracks, and Bren had schemed to escort Geigi out to the spaceport personally, hoping to use that car, knowing he was pushing matters of personal privilege just a bit.

“Well, well-deserved, nandi,” Tabini said. And with that, Tabini gave a little signal to the serving staff lined up in the corridor to the kitchen, and appetizers began to flow out, along with spectacular soup tureens and meticulous arrangements of small sausages.

“We shall indeed miss you, nandi,” Lady Damiri said graciously, over the soft clatter of service. “We regret we have had so little personal chance to enjoy your company this visit.”

“A mutual regret, nandi,” Geigi said.

Ilisidi ladled out spicy black soup, an amazing quantity for a diminutive lady. “We hope for a very safe flight for you, Geigi-ji, and do note that we are sending up some preserves of that sort you like. Do not let some rascal make off with that box or misplace it.”

There was not a flicker of a glance between the two ladies.

“One is very grateful,” Geigi murmured.

“How is your office aloft holding out?” Bren asked, into that half-breath of silence, forcing a complete change of topics. “Have they coped with your absence, nandi?”

“One has heard of no crises up there,” Geigi said, “but one always suspects one’s staff of reserving all the worrisome news.”

“Well, they will surely be arranging a party for your arrival there,” Ilisidi said. “I tell you, there has been a significant dearth of parties in Shejidan lately. We are sorely disappointed this season.”

Never mind the last festivity she had attended had erupted in inter-clan warfare and cost Damiri her relationship with her father.

Tatiseigi said, immediately, “One would very gladly oblige with a dinner invitation, if the dowager would find pleasure in so modest a table as mine.”

Cajeiri shot a questioning look at his father and mother—
not
first at his great-grandmother. The boy was learning: the boy indeed had a party of his to offer—a desperately longed-for party. Bren knew it. And the boy clearly wanted to say something gracious to his great-grandmother. Then wisely didn’t.

“We shall indeed be pleased,” Ilisidi said in the meanwhile. “Gallantly offered, nandi.”

Cajeiri’s lips had gone to a thin line, clamped shut, hard, on the matter of his own impending birthday, that postponed and still very fragile arrangement. Bren well knew the politics of that situation: Damiri did not look with favor on the guest list—which involved human youngsters, and the space station, and the ship where her son had spent two very formative years of his life, in his great-grandmother’s hands.

Bren said, flinging himself into the breach, a conversation pitched only to the upper table: “Even
I
shall oblige you, aiji-ma. I have never dared offer a social event. But I have my staff back now. And one has been extremely honored with a small dining room—” A modest nod toward Tabini and Damiri, referencing the recent remodeling of this end of the floor, “—and one is consequently willing to risk one’s reputation with an invitation.”

“Well you should be willing, nandi!” Tatiseigi exclaimed, “since you have stolen my cook! And a very fine cook he is! You should be
amply
prepared!”

It might be a slightly barbed joke. One could absolutely take it for one—if lordly Tatiseigi had ever in his life joked with the paidhi-aiji.

“One is about to be extremely bold,” Bren said, “and offer the lord of the Atageini an invitation to the same dinner, in honor of your generosity, which one can never forget.”

“Ha!” Tatiseigi said. And one
still
had no idea whether he was joking.

“Please do consider it, nandi.”

“We shall look at our calendar.”

That was no answer. But he had not expected ready agreement.

“Lord Geigi,” Tabini said, covering the moment. “Lord Haidiri of the Pasithi Maschi. —Lord Geigi, would you care to make a more formal introduction of this gentleman to all the company?”

“Delightedly,” Geigi said, and rescued them into far safer topics: the formal presentation of his proxy to the lower end of the table.

On that topic, and in meeting a completely innocent bystander with no history and an uncertain party affiliation, the company could safely enjoy their soup.

Ilisidi said, slyly, under the whisper of compliments to Haidiri, “One believes Lord Tatiseigi would be delighted to accept your invitation, nand’ paidhi, given a more certain date. And
we
shall be quite flexible.”

Cajeiri, who ordinarily would be beside himself with desire for an invitation, was still being extraordinarily quiet this evening. The boy read what was going on, with the back halls of his residence swarming with Guild in a not-quite-secret meeting, and his mother and father and great-grandmother and Uncle Tatiseigi all sitting within earshot of each other.

The newcomer lords lower down the guest list had no guidebook to the goings-on at the upper end of the table. It was not public knowledge that Damiri was only just speaking to Ilisidi. It was not officially admitted that Tabini was currently asking himself what his grandmother was up to, making a peace between her own clan and his former enemy, Machigi of the Taisigin Marid.

And it was not yet public knowledge that Cajeiri was trying to arrange a birthday party with young human guests coming down from the space station, who were very inconvenient associates of his, and
not
approved by his mother.