Banichi would say, Practice until your body remembers.
He was supposed to tell people what he had learned since he was infelicitous eight, and he was supposed to talk about his family and thank people, that was what.
And his great-grandmother and his mother and nand’ Tatiseigi and nand’ Bren were all at the foot of the steps waiting for him to get his wits about him and do that. He had to say good things about everybody, especially his mother. He could not make her mad, especially in front of everybody.
He had to say something. He had to do it his way.
“I thank my father, who is not afraid of anybody. I thank my mother, who has done her best to guide me. I thank my great-grandmother, who has defended me. I thank nand’ Bren—” He realized he should have said the paidhi-aiji, and he should have put Great-uncle after his great-grandmother, and worse, it was infelicitous four: he plunged ahead to find five. “—who saved my life. And I thank Great-uncle Tatiseigi who taught me the traditions.” He could not stop there. He could not leave out semi-felicitous six and seven. “I thank Lord Geigi and Jase-aiji, who taught me about things in space.” Unlucky eight. “I thank the Guilds for the things they do.” And nine: nine was the felicity he had to reach to match his years. “And I thank my tutor for teaching me why things work. I know the geography of the world and I know every clan and their colors by heart. I know why it rains and how airplanes fly and I know where comets come from and I know why tides and storms happen. I am learning kabiu.” He said that for the row of kabiuteri, in their patterned robes, who were standing there looking worried. Promise everybody something, his father had told him. And he remembered something mani had once said. “. . . Because the traditions and the harmony make art, and art makes things beautiful, and we all are better and kinder and wiser when we live with beautiful things. We become better when we know why things are beautiful. I want to know everything I can and learn as much as I can and do as much as I can and meet as many people as I can. I shall try very hard in my fortunate ninth year.” He had to get in everybody else, and talk about the aishidi’tat, and not take too much time about it, because people had a right to get restless in long speeches. He wanted to end with a felicity. “I want my father to be aiji for a long, long time. And I wish everybody to have a good time, whether you came for my father or if you came for me or if you came for the aishidi’tat. Most of all the aishidi’tat is important, because the aishidi’tat is our home, and we have to make our home the most beautiful place there is. Thank you, nandiin, nadiin.”
He gave a little bow. It all had sounded good to him when he was saying it, but increasingly toward the end, he had realized he was letting his ideas run over each other, the way mani had told him never to do.
Now there was just silence. He thought he had sounded stupid and his father was going to be upset that he had not given the right speech at all. The kabiuteri were going to find an infelicity. He truly hoped that he had not just done something really, really terrible to his father in that regard.
Then he heard Great-grandmother’s cane strike the floor. Once—twice—three times. “Long life and good fortune!” she shouted out. And then everybody shouted out, almost together. “Long life and good fortune!”
He drew in a whole breath. And felt his father’s hand on his shoulder.
“Did your grandmother write that speech?” his father asked him ominously.
“No, honored Father. I—lost the paper. I had it memorized. Almost. And then I forgot it.”
His father’s fingers tightened. His father looked at him long and hard and seriously, and then laughed a little. “The kabiuteri passed the speech I sent you. Yours will pose them at least a three-candle question. They will be at it all night.”
“Did I do wrong, honored Father?”
“You had the Recorder scrambling, the poor old fellow—he all but overset his ink pot. He will at least have it down in shorthand. And if he fails, there is a recording. There we have innovated. And there can be no future debate of what was said and done.”
The television. He had not even thought about the television once he was talking. But now the lights for the cameras began to wink out, one at a time, so that the room was going darker and darker and their eyes by lamplight could make out people, rows and rows of people.
“The city will have the news now,” his father said quietly. “But nowadays it will not travel by rail to the outer provinces. The whole aishidi’tat will know it at once. You are legally, formally, as of now, and forever, my heir.” His father began to walk him down the steps, carefully, since they had just been in brighter light and everything still looked dim. “Mind your step. Feel your way and make no mistakes. A runner will be going down the Bujavid steps in the traditional way, by torchlight, carrying the proclamation on parchment, with its seals. I signed that this afternoon He will go all the way to the Guilds, ending at the Archives, where he will file the declaration of Investiture.”
“Nobody told me!”
“This was done for your benefit, son of mine. It is now done for the first time since your great-grandfather’s Investiture, from before the East joined the aishidi’tat. The kabiuteri are extremely pleased to have the custom renewed—ecstatic, to put it plainly—and they will find felicity in every syllable of your speech. Between us, the longer the speech, the more adorned with fortunate words and well-wishes, the more easily kabiuteri can find good omens in it. We have just resurrected a tradition one hopes you will maintain in your own day. And you may be quite proud of the distinction. Your great-grandmother is delighted.”
He supposed it was a great honor. He was glad if he had done welclass="underline" he had tried to name nine people and give something good to everybody, the way his father had advised him, but he could hardly remember anything he had said except in generalities. Ever since Assassins had turned up at Great-uncle’s house, he had felt as if he was being shoved from every side in turn, scattering every thought he had—
Mani would not have forgotten everything she had just said. Mani never grew scattered. Mani always knew what mani wanted. She never forgot a thing.
So what had he said? He mostly wanted everybody to live for a long time, he wanted no more wars, and he wanted the world to be beautiful and peaceful . . . it was stupid that some people wanted the world neither beautiful nor peaceful.
He thought it was likely the same people his father and his great-grandmother wanted to be rid of.
So he supposed his mother was right, that he really was his great-grandmother’s, more than anybody’s.
“There will be cards to sign,” his father said, steering him off the last step and, yes, toward a long table set with flowers, where there were candles, one of which belonged to a waxjack: it was now lit; and there were rolls of ribbon and stacks of cards, and they were not going to get to eat.
“Shall I be signing, honored Father?”
“That you shall, a card for every person here. The ones given out in the city, some twenty-seven thousand of them, will lack a signature, but they will have a stamp and ribbon . . . you may sit beside me and sign your name first.”
He wished he had practiced his signature. He was still not satisfied with his signature and he was not used to doing it. He wanted a chance to change it someday. And maybe now he never could. And he had no seal ring, nothing like his father’s, which could make a seal officiaclass="underline" he always used just a little wi’itikin stamp he had gotten, but it was a trinket, not a real seal, and he did not even have it with him. His pockets were empty. Just empty. It was a condition he was not at all used to.