Time to move. He got up, moved briskly to the exit, debarked with a quiet assist from Jago, and the four of them went quickly down the four steps to the street level, where the van waited, all very nearly handled. He boarded. They all did, Banichi hindmost, settling for the short drive through the streets, in a van with comfortable padding, but no windows.
It wasn’t as if he got to seethe hotel district.
He sat with his briefcase at his feet and his bodyguard a comfortable presence around him.
Far different than the early days, before so much neon had blossomed at the foot of the Bujavid hill. There was a new public tram, he knew, an improvement on the old uphill funicular, a conveyance for those for some reason unable to make the ancient long stairs of the Bujavid. The tram, which essentially ran forward and back, up and down the hill, would have had him on the street in front of the main hotel in ten minutes.
But no. A secure van. No windows.
They turned corners, several of them. Old Shejidan was a maze of red-tiled roofs, twisting streets, neighborhoods defined by man’chi, by association, from antiquity, and the heart of Old Shejidan was right here, clustered around the Bujavid and beyond the thin shell of neon. Far more people wantedto live in Shejidan than couldlive in ShejidancThere had been talk about emulating Port Jackson and building massive apartments over on the eastern hill, but, thank God, the traditionalists had won on that one. So increasingly there were suburbs and a busy rail traffic to the main train station.
Tabini had come down hard on wealthy influence-seekers buying up the maze of little shops and red-tiled houses that made up the heart of the city to turn them into office and lodging space. There was a Preservation Association, and Tabini had given it teeth, unfortunately just after the explosion of neon light around the two chief hotels. By the covenant, a shopkeeper could sell his shop only to another similar shopkeeper, and a house could not take in boarders without approval, no matter how legislators’ aides cried out for rental space. There were some islands of modernity farther out in the city—the neon in the hotel district was the greatest unfortunate exception—but those had not spread, thanks to that measure. The little shops prospered more than ever in the influx of visitors who wanted to see that antiquity and quaintness, and the householders continued to pass down their greatly envied old houses to their descendants.
So the heart of the largest city on the continent was going through a phase, as residents began to suspect that preservation was a good thing, not a vile plot to deny current residents a great deal of money.
In Murini’s brief tenure, however, there hadbeen renewed pressure to sell in those red-tiled neighborhoods—to some of Murini’s supporters. Some owners had signed, and then regretted it, which was why there was now one modern office block stalled under construction next to the hotel.
But at least that one half-built construction was all Murini had gotten away with. The residents of the Old City, as they called themselves, had stuck together, and mysterious roof tiles had fallen very near speculators in the neighborhood, even in those scary days. There was talk, now, of tearing the half-finished building down, or allowing one more hotel, or refinishing it as a set of shops more in tune with the neighborhood. There was even a proposal to rebuild what had been there, but that was mired in controversy about authenticity.
He approved of the struggle to preserve the central city. And he leaned forward, elbows on knees, to get the best view of its winding streets through the front window, once they passed the busy commercial area. The way ahead was gray and brown, old buildings, those traditional red-tiled roofs, and there was a logic to the street layout that stemmed not from geometry, or convenience, or even topography—but from interfamilial associations that had lived and operated there for centuries.
The Guild had lodged Siodi-daja in a little aosi, that was to say a property without heirs, which happened now and again, a status always met by a frenzy of offers to buy. In this case, the Guild had used its influence, and the aiji’s funds, and had bought the property after the decease of the last of the family, one understood, some seventy-eight years ago.
A residence and an office this close to the Bujavid, when there were important lords like Geigi who did not have a residency inside the Bujavid—was amazing; and if ever the Guild released the property in which they had installed Siodi-daja, there would be another furious bidding war.
It somewhat answered the question what in hell they were going to do with Machigi when hearrived, not so long from now. Move Siodi out and Machigi in, maybe, except that the chief lord of a whole district could not lodge outside the Bujavid without some inconvenience, not to mention loss of dignity, unless in his own premises.
Machigi’s arrangement was going to be a headache from the outset; and hope to God the promised aosi was large enough to decently accommodate Siodi-daja andLord Machigi in sufficient propriety. If not—
If not, there had to be some sort of arrangement for Machigi aside from that.
The van pulled up on bumpy old brick cobbles at the front of an ordinary looking house of the district, in a lane only scarcely wide enough to admit one such vehicle—ordinary-looking, except that uniformed Guild instantly came down the steps to the curb, and Tano and Algini got out and exchanged signs with the guards, looking up and down the block.
Banichi and Jago got out, and he did, with dispatch. Their driver would wait in the van, and any other vehicle that needed to come down the street was simply out of luck. The restaurant catty-angled across the street would get a fair amount of foot traffic in another couple of hourscbut distinguishing an alley from a thoroughfare in the Old City was sometimes difficult, and most deliveries came by hand truck. So they would just have to walk the extra block, that was all, cursing the while, perhaps, but there that van would sit.
The local guard led the way. He and his aishid climbed a modest flight of stairs, up to a modest old-fashioned hallway with elaborately carved doors and two Guildsmen standing waiting for them.
Up two more steps to the main hall. A young woman in civilian dress waited to open the first side door, and within the room, with two more bodyguards, the Maridi lady was evident by her seniority and her manner. One immediately thought: this is a respectable lady, old enough to be Lord Machigi’s mother. Machigi could guest here without scandal. That solved one important matter.
“Siodi-daja,” Bren said, pleased, and bowed. She bowed in turn.
“Nand’ paidhi. One is astonished to receive so distinguished a personal visit.”
“One again represents the aiji-dowager, Siodi-daja. One trusts you have found the premises acceptable. It is beyond difficult to find lodging in Shejidan in any season, but in the spring—”
“Very fine,” she said and added, with a little wry humor, “and we find it extremely safe.”
He rather liked the woman, for that little spark. At the invitation, he appointed himself a seat in the obvious place, in a little sitting group with a little low table and a dry arrangement, aside from her desk.
The windows on this second story were all old-style, with white lace curtains, and admitting an uncertain light. The furnishings had seen at least a century and had come with the house. The lady’s coat sparkled with silver thread in the light of two dim lamps—antique, and quiet, like the rest of the lighting. It might have been gloomy, but it seemed genteel and pleasantly old-fashioned instead.
Quickly then, there was tea, as they faced each other in a house mostly occupied by the Assassins’ Guild and poised on a hair trigger against any threat. One imagined a basement full of armament and surveillance gear; and one began to get the entire picture, that this house, with all its other rooms, was as safe as a bank. Machigi could truly lodge here in safety, give or take the exposure of a van ride to the train.