The boy stood, elegant and conspicuous, in a light that made that black coat spark red fire, his darkness and that brightness as ornate as the exhibits, beside a father of which he was the smaller image, beside a smiling mother who, despite her condition, looked as perfect, as iconic, as any cloisonnй image in the cases.
What do I do, he asked himself, to protect this boy? What can I do?
Keep those kids out of trouble. That’s one.
The museum was crowded with the elite—typical of such events, Guild presence had diminished down to two bodyguards for the lesser guests, in the interest of saving space, and the other half of those units would be occupying the hall outside, reinforcing Guild presence on the lower floor. The echoing buzz of voices took on a surreal quality, and he began to realize his thinking had grown just a bit distracted. It was too warm in the room. There were very few benches, and he longed for one . . . but there were none vacant.
“How are you?” he asked Banichi.
“I am not in difficulty,” Banichi said. “Are you?”
“No,” he said, an outright lie. Then, on a breath: “I have a painkiller. Do you need it?”
“No, Bren-ji. Do you?”
“I have had one.” He cast a meaningful glance at Jago—watch him, he wanted to say. Don’t let him push it. But Jago said, “You are quite pale, Bren-ji.”
“Am I?” He drew several deep breaths. “It seems warm in here.”
“It is,” Jago said. “Bren-ji, you will sit down.”
There was a bench, as a lady rose to talk to an associate. Jago deftly moved to the area, the lady moved off, and what could one do?
Bren walked over and quietly sat down, exhaled, did not rest his head against the wall. It was near an air vent. That was a considerable help. The bulletproof vest was hot, and stiff, and a very good idea, he was sure. But he wished he could shed it.
· · ·
It was dull. It was very dull, with the museum committee head making yet another speech.
And Cajeiri remembered the speech he had to give.
One had a chance certainly, with all the other speeches going on, to memorize it.
Except—
Except he had changed coats.
There was still time. There was plenty of time. He was good at memorizing.
“Taro-ji,” Cajeiri whispered, leaning close to his aishid. “The paper. My speech. I left it upstairs, in the other coat. Can you possibly go up and get it, nadi?”
“I shall try,” Antaro promised him, and backed out of the group and left quickly, down the side of the room.
The others had heard. “I should have realized it,” Jegari said. “This is my fault, nandi.”
“I am the one who changed coats,” Cajeiri said and drew a careful, quiet breath, not wishing to have his parents notice the exchange.
“It will not be easy for Taro to get up there,” Veijico said. “They have refused us clearance. They are being very stubborn on that.”
“They.” If it was any of his father’s guard, or his great-grandmother’s, he could deal with that.
“The Guild itself,” Veijico said. “Even Cenedi tried. But they will not clear us to have the codes.”
“Well, but Antaro is clever,” he said. Antaro could very often talk her way through things none of the rest of his aishid could manage.
And it was, after all, his room, his residence she was asking access for. If she could just get upstairs, even if his father’s major domo had sworn on his life not to unlock the apartment door, surely he could just get the paper from his pocket in the closet and slide it out to her.
Surely the rules were not that tight.
Once the major d’ talked to his father, he might have to admit to his father he had lost the paper, but his father would at least have to admit that he and his aishid had solved the problem.
And he would be perfect in his speech. So his father could not fault him.
· · ·
Sitting helped. Bren drew far easier breaths. The cool air from the vent helped even more. Banichi, however, would not take his seat and sit down. And he himself could not stay there. He nerved himself for a rise to his feet.
“Nandi,” Jago warned him just as he came upright, on his feet, and he saw, edging up on him—
Topari and two of his guard.
“Nand’ paidhi,” Topari said, reaching him, and sketched a bow.
How did he get an invitation? was Bren’s initial thought, but he put a smile on his face.
“Nandi. One hopes the evening finds you well.”
“Well enough,” Topari said without a bow. “Nand’ paidhi, you said there would be a meeting. Your office has not answered my letter.”
He had not instructed his secretarial office, not expecting Topari would take that route, and a single day did not put any ordinary message to the top of the stack in his secretarial office. He gave a small, automatic bow, not needing to feign mild surprise. “One rather expected you would simply send to me, nandi, directly, as indeed I invited you to do. What did this letter regard?”
“A meeting,” Topari said—the man had the manners of a mecheita in a mob run. “A meeting with the aiji-dowager.”
“Regarding?”
“I have exchanged messages with several of my neighbors. We have questions. We need to be consulted, more than that—considered—in this rail matter. We insist.”
“Indeed, nandi, there will certainly be a consideration of your interests.”
“Freight is one thing. Passengers are another. We maintain our sovereignty. We shall have no outsiders setting up business in our station.”
“I think it extremely likely we can do business, nandi.” Bren said to him, and thank God young Dur, out of nowhere, moved in with, “May one be introduced, nand’ paidhi?”
It was a rescue, an absolute, self-sacrificing rescue. “Ah! Nandi, nand’ Topari of Hasurjan, up in the southern mountains. His district maintains a rail station which could be quite important in the southern route, and he has concerns that Transport will certainly want to consider.—Nand’ Topari, nand’ Reijiri, whose father is lord of Dur, in the Coastal Association, and who is on the Transport Committee.”
“The father, that, is.”
“Indeed, nandi,” young Dur said, and Bren took the practiced shift of balance and step backward and away, disengagement, with deep gratitude, and without his bodyguard having to remind him of a fictitious other meeting. He extricated himself from the little cul-de-sac and made it all the way to the next aisle of displays. No telling to whom Reijiri might pass the man next, someone worthy, he hoped. He worked his way closer to the front of the hall, and out of convenient view.
There was, one was grateful to see, another air vent.
Then there was a massive waft of cooler air, as two of the four shut doors opened—security had had all the doors shut—and now evidently had relented. No few of the crowd murmured relief.
Antaro arrived inside, one noted, by one of those doors. One had no idea where she had been.
· · ·
“One cannot get through,” Antaro reported, in a tone under the general buzz of conversation in the hall. “I have tried the lifts, the stairs, and the servant passages, and they are all shut down. No one is allowed to operate the lifts and communications are not working. I succeeded in phoning your father’s apartment, and Eisi has retrieved the paper, but he cannot leave the apartment. Even the major domo cannot get clearance to come downstairs, and the guards on the stairs will not even talk to me, nandi. Veijico might. She has more seniority on the books. Or one could go to Cenedi.”