And that was where everybody stopped except Tabini and his bodyguard, who kept going up the steps. Bren stopped. So had the dowager, and Lord Tatiseigi, and Damiri, and their bodyguards. The doors behind them were opening—he heard the thump, and the muted noise of the crowd suddenly louder, and when he turned to look he saw someone—likely Tano and Algini—had gotten Jase and the children to the fore, so they were first through those doors, at a sensible pace: it was not the inclination of atevi lords to push and shove. The cameras were on them, all the doors were open, and a great number of notables and their bodyguards came into the hall from all four doors . . . more, he realized, than had been at the museum event: they had acquired a larger crowd, a much larger crowd.
Security was wound tight . . . and only a few of the Guild were getting much in the way of communication—he had no idea what kind of information had passed: information that the system would be down, perhaps, perhaps an urging to report anything worrisome, perhaps the assurance a few of the senior Guild were getting information steadily, and that more would be brought online as the evening progressed.
Hell of a situation they had. In this case—it wasn’t the lords’ rank that determined when that would happen—it was the seniority and reputation of their bodyguards, a team at a time, and it would, one guessed, be ongoing.
Out in the city, in crowds, most of the Guild keeping order out there were running dark, with no communication even with each other.
The crowds wouldn’t know it. The news service wouldn’t know it.
The young gentleman’s bodyguard was among those not informed. The boy was being very quiet, very proper—standing with a frowning Damiri at the foot of the steps; and Lord Tatiseigi was, one was glad to see, between them and the dowager’s part.
Tano and Algini arrived, with Jase and the youngsters, and by now Jase and the youngsters had other guards—Bren had seen them, too, as he turned, right by the doors, one on a side, two white-armored figures that had attracted a little curiosity from the attendees at the back of the room. They might be statues. They intended to be. They had gotten into position before anybody, even the news crew. And they were not going to move, not a light, not a twitch, until the room was deserted again.
“Kaplan and Polano are back there,” Bren said to Jase—the atevi crowd cut off all view of the back of the hall. And to the children: “Quite the show, isn’t it?”
“What’s next, sir?” Gene asked.
“Quite a lot of speeches, likely. Be patient.”
“They will be,” Jase said, his hand on Gene’s shoulder. Atevi etiquette was the order of the evening, however, and Jase let his hand fall. “Are we all right to be where we are?”
The youngsters were the only children in the halclass="underline" at the front was the only place they could stand, and be able to see.
“You’re fine,” Bren said. “They’re with you. There’s a service door right over to the left. If I disappear for a while, that’s where I’ll be. If there should be any problem—that’s where to go.”
“Understood,” Jase said, and that was one problem he could put from his mind.
Damiri was clearly not in good sorts this evening, arms crossed and locked, face set in a scowl. God only knew what sort of exchange she had had with Tabini to prompt Tabini to ask him to intervene—but it could not be good. The crowd in the museum had not been the sort of crowd to cause problems of a rowdy sort in a place like that. But in the Audience Hall, after a certain time, with alcohol involved . . .
With the political surprise the aiji intended . . .
With the Guild running dark and most of the members unable to communicate . . .
God, he wanted this evening over with.
· · ·
Mother was not happy. She gave Great-uncle a sharp answer when he asked her if anything was the matter, and Cajeiri had said, very quietly, “Honored Uncle, I shall stay with her.” It was not what he wanted to do. He had far rather get a moment to go over to his guests, but he was on best manners, and he was afraid even to look at them right now, because they would likely wave, and he could not answer them, and then they would think they had done something wrong.
Maybe it was the television cameras his mother disapproved. His mother had sworn when the lights had gone on in their faces. She had said a word he had never heard her say. And she had had words with his father in the museum, too—he had not heard what they had said, but his mother had been upset about something.
Nobody had told him there would be television cameras, either, or if someone had—he had not been paying enough attention. But he was more worried than angry.
He had gotten through meeting people in the museum. He had leaned heavily on the system of clan colors—which were also the relationships and the history, the way new clans built off old ones.
But sometime before midnight he was supposed to make that speech.
He had to remember that missing line, that was what. And there were television cameras, and he had to get it right. It was one word. One word, and if he could remember that, he could remember the whole rest of it.
He thought he could, at least.
They were using the old-fashioned oil lamps, besides the electrics, the way they did for evening parties, and probably once everybody was in place they might dim the lights again and leave only spots of light. The place smelled of food: there was a buffet set up, and his stomach noticed that, too. He had only pretended to eat lunch. If they did dim the lights, he thought wildly, if nobody was paying attention, he might get away for a few moments to find Gene and Artur and Irene at the buffet. Usually buffets were not that formal. But—
With television cameras on them—how could they? If he so much as moved, television cameras were likely to go right to him.
He could not think about those things. He just had to concentrate on remembering the speech. If he embarrassed his father by being a fool with the speech, it was not just his mother who was going to be in a bad mood.
The first line was—
The first line started, all speeches did, with Nandiin, nadiin . . .
No. It did not start that way. That was what confused him. It started with I thank my family . . .
He could just not get beyond that.
Why did it have to start differently? Why did he have to forget one word right in the middle of the beginning? He could remember everything after that, if he could just remember the first part.
He would not say anything infelicitous. That was the main thing. He would say something polite, and he would avoid infelicity. There were seven kabiuteri on the landing of the dais, just a little below where his father was sitting. You could never mistake them, with their square, brimless white hats and their white robes. And they were there to keep the felicitous gods happy and the infelicitous ones out of the hall. Even if his father called it nonsense.
The lights dimmed down, and one of his father’s bodyguards came down the steps, a moving shadow, coming for him, he began to realize. The camera swung toward that man, and that man came down to the third step and bowed to him.
The television lights were on him, white, like giant eyes.
“Young gentleman,” his father’s bodyguard said, and wanted him to come up. He started that way. His bodyguard did, on either side of him.