So he had another glass of fruit juice himself, and distracted his guests with a little running side conversation about how the conspirators during the coup had shot up his father’s apartment and how, when they had come back to Shejidan, they had had to live with mani until workmen could completely redo the apartment—cutting off any access to the servants’ passages on the floor below, and moving walls around, swallowing up one apartment that had been across the hall and shortening the hallway outside . . .
It was a stupid topic, but it was the only distraction he could think of with examples he had at hand. His guests were polite, and listened politely, while their attention kept flicking off toward the adults, who were having their own discussion, once bringing mani’s and father’s bodyguards back in for another conference.
The old man in the little office.
That was in Guild Headquarters.
· · ·
They sat in the well of the Council Chamber while the whole building echoed with movement, and now and again to heavy thumps, possibly the clearing of barricades, or dealing with one of the ruined doors.
Bren and Jago and Algini sat, shared a cold drink of water that one of Cenedi’s men had provided—and waited. Nand’ Siegi had long since arrived with his own medical team. They had that comforting word. And very likely there would be triage. Banichi would get care—but there would be some sort of priorities established. And questions would only add to the problems.
At very long last Tano came in from the lower corridor, and immediately nodded reassurance as he shut that door. Tano joined them—cleaner than they were, wearing just his uniform tee, and with face and hands well-scrubbed. “He’s done well,” Tano said. “The bleeding is stopped. Nand’ Siegi found the source, which was exactly what Banichi himself said. He is out of danger, nand’ Siegi assures us, granted he stays quiet. His color is improving. It is up to us to assure he follows nand’ Siegi’s orders, takes his medicine—and he is to have no more of the stimulant he was taking.”
The knot in Bren’s stomach had begun to unwind itself. When Jago asked, “Impairment?” and Tano answered, “If he follows orders, no impairment that exercise cannot mend,” then all the tension went, so that he leaned against the railing behind him.
That was a mistake. His head hit the rail above and sent a flash of light and pain through his skull. But it didn’t matter. “He will follow orders,” he said calmly. “He will. God. What a night.”
All around him were locator bracelets functioning normally. The halls reverberated with confident strides . . .
And the aiji’s personal train was sitting out there mid-tracks, blocking the normal mail train and all the freight deliveries that should be going uptown.
He had washed his own hands and face in a small lavatory adjacent. But his coat and his trousers were caked with blood that was drying at the edges, making it necessary to watch where he sat. His head throbbed. He didn’t care. Now it was all right. Everything was entirely all right. He found his hands shaking.
“Sit down, Tano-ji. Rest for a bit.”
“I have been sitting, nandi. I have to go back down to restrain my unreasonable unit-senior when he wakes up.”
“We probably should move that train,” Bren said. “If it would be all right to move him onto it.”
“I believe it should be,” Tano said. “We can likely move him aboard, as he is, with very little problem.”
“We should not have the paidhi-aiji outside the building without sufficient guard,” Algini said. “Jago-ji, go up and advise Cenedi we shall need escort, at this point, to return us to the Bujavid.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Pending approval from nand’ Siegi,” Bren said. “We will do nothing against Banichi’s health.”
“Yes,” Tano said, and left again.
· · ·
Father set down his brandy glass, which was the signal for everyone to take notice. “We have had a very good evening,” Father said, “and the aiji-consort needs her rest. Certainly our son and his guests need theirs.” A nod, to which Cajeiri nodded politely, sitting on the edge of his seat—and hoping for a word with Jase-aiji once they got to the hall.
“We have had a very great success,” Father said, “an excellent dinner, excellent guests—” More nods. “Nod,” Cajeiri said, and his guests took the cue and bowed.
“So,” his father said, “let us bid our guests good night and good rest, and to our son, a special good night. We are very glad you are back safely in the Bujavid, and we welcome your guests.”
“Honored Father.” A second, half-bow, as best one could, while seated.
His parents got up. Everyone did. His father’s bodyguards opened the doors, and the senior guests went out into the foyer. So did his mother and father, which they ordinarily would not do, but his father was in an extraordinarily good mood, one could tell it, and exchanged a word of thanks to Jase-aiji, who had had one of his two bodyguards evidently standing in the foyer all evening. Cajeiri gave a little signal to his guests and led them out quietly, so they all stood in a row, waiting to go out with everybody else.
“Nand’ aijiin, nandi,” Irene said, then, in a breath of a space, and he suddenly knew Irene was going to say something—Cajeiri held his breath as all the grown-ups looked at his guests as if the hall table had just spoken. “We wish to thank the aiji and his household for his hospitality. We are greatly honored.”
There was a little astonished silence. Then his father nodded politely, and his mother—Cajeiri took in a breath—asked: “What is your name, child?”
“Irene, nandi. My name is Irene.”
“Come.” His mother beckoned Irene closer, and closer, and closer. “You are also older than my son, are you not, nadi?”
“Yes, nandi.” Again, and properly, a little bow. His mother reached out toward Irene—not to touch, but her hand lingered close.
“Oldest of all your associates, in fact.”
“Yes, nandi.”
“So small. You are so very small.” His mother drew her hand and rested it above the baby, and it was a curiously gentle move, as if his mother were on the verge of deep distress. “I shall have a daughter soon. I look forward to it. Have you enjoyed your stay, Irene-nadi?”
“Have you enjoyed your visit?” Cajeiri rephrased it, feeling as if the whole business could explode at any minute. But his mother seemed quite gentle in her manner, very restrained, looking for something.
“Yes, nandi. Very much, thank you.”
“A mannerly child. And your associates? Gene? And Artur?”
“Yes,” Gene said, and bowed. “Yes, nandi.”
“Artur, nandi,” Artur said, doing the same.
“So.” His mother nodded, and looked at him, and looked at Irene. “Your family approves your being here?”
“The aiji-consort asks,” Jase-aiji translated to ship-speak, while Cajeiri was trying to think of the words. “—Does your mother approve your being here?”
Irene looked at him, and hesitated, and it was not a simple answer. Nothing about Irene’s mother was a simple answer.
“Yes, nandi,” Irene said cheerfully, with no hint of a shadow in the answer.
“Good,” his mother said. “Good that your mother was consulted.”
“Honored wife,” Tabini said, “we should let our guests go to their beds, should we not?”
“Indeed.” She turned a slow glance toward mani, toward Great-uncle, and lastly toward Cajeiri. “Well done,” she said to him, “well done, son of mine.”
Well done? He could not recall ever hearing that from her. Scarcely even from his father.
“Good night, honored Grandmother, nandi,” his father said. Great-uncle and mani took their leave, sweeping Cajeiri and his guests toward the hall. Cajeiri looked back, from the hall, and nand’ Jase was still talking to his father. Jase’s single bodyguard walked out into the hall and stopped again, like a statue. Two of his father’s guard came and stood there, too.