A radio show on the far side of the island, on which George Barrulin was a frequent guest, still maintained that atevi were going to pour across the straits and murder them all; but tell that, this summer, to the traders who saw their markets opening up, tell that to the companies which were making across-the-straits deals. The Foreign Office and the State Department were beginning to issue trade permits and companies would cut throats to be in early on the market—even if the aiji would not issue patent protection beyond three years for any product. The aiji wasprotecting certain Mospheiran patents, where it served the interests of atevi or where the paidhiin recommended exceptions. Everything among atevi was both patronage andmerit. It always had been. And Gaylord Hanks wasn’t on the aiji’s list.
Tides ebbed and flowed in that blue water, and the one that had carried Deana Hanks to the heights of influence was ebbing. Her father still had money; and the old money still gathered at the Society meetings and talked about the unfairness of it all, but money meant less when the ideas it bought and backed were on the ebb of their fortunes, gotten down to the tide-pools and creatures that skipped away for deeper, safer water.
The aiji was in Shejidan, the heir of Dur was attending University, grandmother was riding mechieti at Malguri on the lake, and uncle Tatiseigi was in Shejidan politicking with the fragments of the association which had revolved around Direiso and now wanted very much to be seen with Uncle andwith lord Geigi, who was the guest of the season in social circles.
As for the bad neighbors out in space, those who needed to know were warned. They were working on it. Nobody mentioned it. Yet.
Bren picked up the lunch basket that had rested on the terrace and joined Jago on the way down the steps.
They had gotten fairly good at certain things. Practice, Jago called it.
The aiji-dowager had invited the paidhiin and their staff for a season at summer’s end—the aiji-dowager had promised themboating, too, and a bedchamber guaranteed to be as haunted as the lake.
The ghost bell has been heard this summer, Ilisidi had written them, in that careful, delicate hand Jago said was the old school of penmanship. I propose to spend the night in the old watchman’s tower on the island in the lake. If we find no ghosts the view of the stars will still be extraordinary, and if it rains, the fireplace is intact.
I assure you of the safety of the old tower and the caution of our cuisine as well as the security of our boundaries. The shell holes are patched. The banners fly. There’s a nest of wi’itikiin on the roof this summer.
The damned creatures have taken advantage of the repairs and are getting entirely too impertinent.
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