And it would, indeed, not be the same quiet little place when he got back. It would be better, more able to accommodate several high-ranking guests with numerous servants. Not to mention there would be no line-up for the bath or, worse, the accommodation.
And he was going to have windows overlooking the harbor, no longer wasting that beautiful view with a blank wall and a garage. It was a tactical riskcbut he was betting on the world he was trying to build—one in which those big windows would be safe, and farmers and hunters would not find dead men in their fields.
A world where—in his dreams—people would understand that their neighbors were inevitably going to share the planet, and that the planet as a whole was going to have to get along with other people and places it had never bothered itself to imagine.
Was the world, was the universe, big enough to accommodate everybody in decency and prosperity?
Maybe it was a crazy dream that people would finally see that it was. But he bet on it. He damned sure meant to try to make it happen.
He was going to have those windows.
And—inevitably—Guild protection went with the windows. His own bodyguard was going to have to be have help when they were there, until the world was quieter. And there would be electronic surveillance.
But he would go on working toward not needing it.
He would miss the Najida staff. He had gotten used to them in his short visit, and they to him. But they belonged to Najida. They needed to be there, to supervise the construction, to lead their lives close to the land and their clan—in peace.
A few of Najida village, however, had gone to Shejidan to work for him. They were already in the Bujavid, waiting for him, and more—also of Najida—were coming down from the space station, where they had been stranded for three years apart from family and all the luxuries of planetside living. They were also coming back to serve in the Bujavid, his apartment on the space station going on lowest maintenance until he got back to that residence—and all the problems hanging fire in the heavens.
Well, but they were hisplaces. Home, each of them, in a different way.
A handful of weeks ago he’d been living in Lord Tatiseigi’s apartment on Lord Tatiseigi’s charity. Ilisidi had gotten him that favor that and well, nand’ Tatiseigi’s curiosity had probably given a little push, too, since it was certain staff had reported to the old man on a regular basis, and the old man, who detested humans and every variance from tradition, was insatiably curious about what he deplored.
So his volunteers from Najida had taken the train to Shejidan three days ago, bringing with them furnishings that staff had rescued from the apartment in the coup. What the Farai had brought into the apartment when they had occupied it—security had taken that furniture out, and then gone over the place, stripping the walls down to bare stone—even rearranging the division of rooms in the process—so he understood. They’d found bugs—God knew which agency had planted them—the Farai, or the Maladesi, who had preceded him, or Tabini, or Murini. He somewhat doubted the Maladesi, since his own bodyguard would have found those, and probably they would have told him had Tabini been listening. So it was likely one or both of the other two. They’d even x-rayed the furniture, so tables and chairs and small carpets and vases that had been in the apartment when the Farai vacated might be turning up piecemeal. Bujavid Security, in fact, had passed him photos of the items and asked him to declare which were originally his and which the Farai had moved into the place.
Senji clan treasures—maybe there were a few of those. It was only fair and civilized to return those to the Farai or put them in storage, even though nobody cared particularly what the Farai thought at the moment. They’d betrayed the Senji, their own ruling clan; they’d certainly been ready to betray the Dojisigi. Next they’d be trying to snuggle up to Machigi as long lost relatives—which they were. But thatwouldn’t get them far.
Couldthings ever go back to what they had been, before the coup?
His job at the moment, his whole trip to Tanaja, had been to make damned sure they didn’t go back to status quo ante.
Among the hardest heads he had to deal with in that regard—count his former host, Lord Tatiseigi, who led a formidable collection of conservative interests.
Everybodyin the Bujavid was a close neighbor. It was the snuggest possible collection of people in power on the planet, and most everybody in the Bujavid was going to be asking everybody else—What did the paidhi have to negotiate with that scoundrel Machigi? What is he up to? What is the aiji-dowager up to? Why is Machigi still alive?
And, most significant to most in the Bujavid:
Where does Tabini-aiji stand on all this?
5
Nand’ Bren was coming back to Shejidan. His plane was in the air. Cajeiri had it from the best source, from his father saying it to his mother, so it was definite.
They had been moving in all day, into their new apartment—or their remade old one. They had had their last supper in Great-grandmother’s apartment, where they had been staying, because, Mother said, they were still unpacking the kitchen in the new place, and the staff would be working through the night to assure they could cook breakfast in the morning.
So the official move was after supper, but Father had said emphatically they were going to be in the new apartment today, and today it must be—because now that they had sent the boxes over after lunch, there was nothing they owned left in Great-grandmother’s apartment, and all their clothes and things were being set up in the new apartment.
So at last they officially moved—simply walking to the new apartment, with their bodyguards and some of their staff, all together like a procession. It seemed to Cajeiri it ought to be sort of an occasion, and in fact when they reached the apartment and Father’s bodyguard opened the door, there stood a gathering of servants Cajeiri did not remember at all, all of them lined up to welcome them to what was now home for the first time since they had fought their way back to Shejidan and his father had taken the government back.
The door to the sitting room stood open, past the reception line of servants, and the servants brought them immediately inside, offering Mother and Father brandy and him his favorite fruit drink. There were very good little cakes for the occasion, so Cajeiri began to feel it really was a party. There were a lot of flowers, and everyone was smiling. Servants came and bowed to his parents, conversing for a moment, and then came and bowed to him, and introduced themselves, and said embarrassing things about having taken care of him when he was a baby.
Well, he was not a baby. He had left the Bujavid when he was a baby. He had lived with Uncle Tatiseigi mostly. He had gone to space with Great-grandmother, and when Great-grandmother had decided to go with nand’ Bren into the great void and go get the stranded humans, well, she had decided against sending him back to his father, and he had not wanted to go, either.
Which was a good thing. Because the rebels had shot up the apartment and killed a lot of the old staff, and then they had shot up the lodge at Taiben and his parents had had to run for it. If he had been a baby and slowing them down, probably none of them would be alive to get back here.
But they were. And the servant staff, some of them, were old servants, and knew how things needed to be, his mother said.
He did not remember any of them, try as he might. And he did try. The cakes were especially good, and there were plenty of refills of punch. The only immediate bad thing was that the whole place smelled of paint and new varnish under the flower smells, and that was going to be unpleasant to live with, but it was just the repairs.
He had gotten a look at the place while they were painting it, and it looked bigger with furniture and carpets. It was bright and new. But it was white. It had white walls and nearly white tile in the foyer, and a lot of white furniture in the sitting room made it worse, in his opinion. He would have preferred dark wood like mani’s apartment. But no one had asked him. He just hoped his furniture had not been painted white.