There was a disconcerting surprise.
Yolanda—who stood to inherit his job, his place—everything he valued—everything Jase wanted… who wasn’t the most skilled, where she was assigned, and where she had been operating…
God—he was jealous.
Where had thatcome from? When had thathappened?
Jealous that she was staying.
Angry that she’d deceived him and Jase.
Furiously jealous. Bitterly, painfully resentful. He’d kept the lid on his personal wishes so tightly and so automatically he rarely brought them out to look at, and therewas a small, nasty surprise. He didn’t want her under his roof—so to speak.
Not profitable to carry on a feud. No.
He got up, put on his jacket for manners’ sake—atevi custom—and walked out to deal civilly with an unwelcome guest who’d arrived—unthinkable among atevi—uninvited, at dinnertime.
Chapter 13
“Staff was about to serve,” Bren said, meeting Yolanda in the foyer, intending to issue the polite invitation.
“I’m very sorry,” she said fervently, in Ragi—which went a long way toward patching things with him.
“Do join me.”
“Forgive me,” Banichi said, having escorted Yolanda here. “Nand’ paidhi, Mercheson-paidhi expressed concerns. One took the initiative to accept.”
Yolanda’s instigation, this visit, then… but not the way he’d expected.
“Mercheson-paidhi is an absent household member.” He chose to regard it that way, which Yolanda Mercheson never had quite been, in his cold estimation. She’d been in the household for a time, on the planet, Jase’s lover for a while, until that hadn’t worked. Then back to Mospheira. Then back to the ship where she’d far rather live. “Staff will manage another setting. One trusts you have an appetite, Mercheson-paidhi.”
“One is grateful,” Yolanda said meekly, not quite meeting his eye—but then, an atevi caught in social inconvenience wouldn’t meet his eye, either. Already there was a small flurry of service in the dining room, staff shifting chairs, not yet knowing how to arrange the numbers, or whether Banichi would join them.
“Banichi, will you join us?” Banichi’s presence at least eased the unlucky numerology of two at table. You brought her; you patch the numberswas implicit in the invitation, and Banichi accepted, commitment of his own very valuable time—but there they were, Jago still absent—one supposed if something were wrong, someone would say so. Tano and Algini doubtless had their heads together, possibly assuring Jago’s safety, or good records, wherever she was. That left Banichi.
He entered the dining room with Yolanda and Banichi, sat down, went through the formalities due any guest. They duly appreciated a fine, if informal dinner, the tone much as if Yolanda still were a member of the household.
And formal or informal, one didn’t talk business—rather the quality of the food, the skill of the chef—the arrival of the aiji-dowager might have been a good topic, if the implications of it were business-free, but they weren’t and it wasn’t. The departure of the ship would have been a fine topic, if it were guilt-free and casual; but it was neither guilt-free nor casual.
So talk ran to the weather on the continent, the launch, the situation at the new spaceport, and the lack of news from Yolanda’s former domicile on the island, which did actually skirt business topics.
Dinner came down to a delicate cream dessert—which Yolanda had always very much favored.
“One grew so accustomed to luxuries,” was her only expression of regret.
He let that remark fall. That wistfulness, too, led to inappropriate seriousness. And Yolanda very clearly savored the dessert, and pleased Bindanda and the staff.
“Will you join me in the study?” Bren said at the end. “A glass or two?”
Thoroughly courteous. All business, now.
He had no cause to resent Yolanda—so he assured himself. Of course he and Yolanda should consult, and of course Banichi was absolutely right to have brought her.
“Jago’s about business?” he asked in passing.
“One believes she’s with Cenedi, nandi.”
“Ah.” A briefing. Information. One could only hope.
“Shall I attend you?”
“One might look in on that meeting.” There was no reason to take up more of Banichi’s time. Yolanda clearly had not come on a hostile mission. There were, among other things, pieces of ongoing business and certain addresses and numbers he had to hunt out of files and give to her before he left, and before he forgot to do it.
“Yes,” Banichi said, and left them to the study and the brandy, the servants caring for the service and the numerology alike, quite deftly and silently. Brandies arrived, and chairs configured for three immediately found another fortunate configuration, ameliorated by a small table and a small porcelain vase empty of flowers.
“I have things for you,” Bren said, for starters, and to let the brandy and a necessary task take the edge off his resentment before they reached any discussion.
So with a glass of brandy beside him and the computer in his lap, he did that, a few seconds’ work, and handed her the file personally.
“This is a matter of trust,” he said, “nadi-ji.” It was the work of several moments to manage that intimate salutation, that particular tone.
She took it soberly and slipped it into a shirt pocket.
“I’ve given you the addresses of persons who will assist you, on the island,” he said further, in ship language, “and I’d advise you to use those channels far more than the ones that tried to get close to you when you were down there. I can assure they doanswer their phones. I’ve also included Shawn Tyers’ private number, if you didn’t have it.” He wasn’t utterly sure she didn’t. “Several others.” Barb’s number was on the list. Toby’s. People he didn’t want remotely involved in any mess Yolanda might make of things, but he tried to have faith in her good sense, and they were resources she ought to know. “I’ve also given you contacts with my staff on the mainland, and you can rely on their advice. Some individuals aren’t official. It’s my personal list. Treat them gently.”
“I understand,” she said.
“You did surprise me,” he said then.
“Coming tonight?”
“Dealing with Ramirez.” He hit her with the question head-on, wondering what she would say for herself, whether her counter would be smug, justified satisfaction—in which case he meant to keep a good grip on his temper.
Smugness wasn’t her response. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell Jase. I couldn’t.”
On evidence of the tone and the expression—he might believe that, but belief still didn’t muster the personal feeling he wished he had for her. “Secrets are hell on a relationship, aren’t they?”
He wished he hadn’t said that. Instantly Yolanda’s lower lip compressed, eyes showed wounding. Deep hurt, quickly held in.
“No question,” she said in ship-speak. And she sat back and seemed to set the armor that covered all her soul, dealing with him, dealing with Jase.
He talked frankly to her after that, warnings, bits of advice about individuals and matters she did know to watch out for. Armor stayed. In a certain measure it made frankness easier. It always had.
Regarding Tabini himself: “I know you have a good relationship with him,” he said, on that delicate topic. “I know you do, or he wouldn’t deal with you. But take two warnings—infelicitous two. Don’t back down from his baiting you. If he thinks you fold rather than argue with him, you’ll be out of his confidence in a heartbeat.”