My major domo has provided a list of ranks, titles, colors, and a brief history of the guests—a document which should by no means be carried to the hall. Kindly surrender the list to Madam Saidin once you have committed the necessary information to memory. She will destroy it.
It is also incumbent on you to make a brief speech to the reception guests stating the accomplishments since your last felicitous birthday and complimenting and thanking your guests for their attendance. I shall write it for you, and trust you will have no difficulty learning it. I shall send you that on the day.
Son of mine, your mother and I have every confidence you will carry off this felicitous event, the first state event in which you will stand beside us, with dignity and grace. We are confident you will conduct yourself in a manner that will solidly establish your good reputation before the court.
Bear in mind that your conduct in this event will follow you into adulthood, and that, while your eventual inheritance of the aijinate is presumed, it is an elective office, subject to the approval of the legislature.
Conduct your celebration with due respect to all your guests, old and young, and be aware that among them are individuals in various degrees disapproving of your human associates.
This event does not test your guests. It tests you, and your parents and great-grandmother. Opinions can be reversed, when they are held by honest and intelligent people, and, in your great-grandmother’s words, it is easier to lead a mecheita uphill than to carry him. Keep that in mind, regarding any negative or unpleasant opinions, and be particularly courteous to difficult people.
Be gracious, be pleasant, and if you detect an opinion that seems too obscure to be understood, or should one seem too argumentative or hostile, refer that person to me.
Beyond this event, your personal guests and relations and the ship-aiji and the paidhi-aiji will all return to our apartment for a private reception and, we hope, a far more relaxed end to a successful evening.
Not have his birthday guests with him?
Three hours with lords and legislators and committee people?
A list of old people?
And make a speech?
It was going to be as gruesome as he had thought. Worse. His father had invited all the people he wanted and he had no say at all in it.
That made him mad. It made him very mad. But there was not a thing he could do about it. He had no way to arrange anything. Eisi and Liedi could get things from the kitchen. They could get a platter of teacakes. And they could all dress up and pretend they were having a festivity on the day after, maybe. But he would know it was not official. And his guests would find themselves left out of his real official festivity, and he was supposed to ignore them all evening?
There was a list of names attached, a long one. There must be a hundred of them.
He sank down on the couch and looked at it in despair. Boji, loose, on the chain the staff had found, and with Gene holding it, bounded over and sat on the arm of the couch.
The speech—was not that bad. It was about five lines. He could remember that. But—
“Is it bad news, Jeri-ji?” Artur asked.
What did he say? “My father. One expected something like it.” He looked through the pages again, and there was nothing good to say. “I have to be with them all day. In the evening—a big public party.”
“Then good news!” Irene said.
“Not so good,” he said, holding up the paper with the list. “I have to talk to legislators, hundreds of them. All court dress, all formal court, all evening. You will have to stay with Jase-aiji and nand’ Bren, and I have to stand by my parents and bow to stupid people all evening and smile.” He put on his best court smile, mild, neither happy nor unhappy, just a motion. “I have to smile all evening. And we all have to be proper. All evening. One greatly regrets, nadiin-ji.”
“Well, we can do that,” Gene said. “With Jase-aiji and nand’ Bren, we’re fine, no problem.”
“I shall not let stupid people talk to you,” he said. “If anyone is stupid I will find it out and I shall throw them out of the hall.”
“Are there going to be stupid people?” Irene asked.
He looked at the list, looking for certain names, but he particularly found some pleasant ones. Dur, for one. Young Dur, and his father. “Nobody from Ajuri or Kadagidi,” he said, reassured by what he did see. “Calrunaidi will be there—my cousin on Great-grandmother’s side. I can deal with him. Dur is good. The new lord of the Maschi is good. Lord Machigi’s representative is good—I suppose.” He kept reading, looking for problems. “Nobody really stupid.”
“So we can do it,” Gene said. “We stay with nand’ Bren and stay out of trouble. Is there cake?”
“Cakes?” he asked.
“Birthday cake,” Irene said. “It’s a custom.”
He did remember, from the ship. It was what humans did. Birthday cakes sounded good. “Like teacakes?”
“Big cake,” Artur said, showing him with his hands. “In layers, with sweet stuff between. Fruit drink. We didn’t ever have that at Reunion, not since I was little. But we do, on the station.”
At the Festivity his father would give a speech. Probably the kabiuteri would give a speech. They had things to say on every formal occasion.
And he would give his speech. And stand and bow and probably sign cards.
A big cake sounded like a good idea. It would put everybody in a good mood.
Memorizing the list of guests was going to go faster than he first feared, too, because he already knew a lot of the people who were coming. He could just trust what he knew about them and study the handful he had never met.
Cake with sweet layers between, Artur said. Madam Saidin was handling things, with Great-uncle and Great-grandmother both being busy with the Lord Aseida problem, and nand’ Bren had been involved with the really serious stuff going on with the Guild.
Icing with that delicate tangy-sweet flavor in the best teacakes. His favorite.
Great-uncle’s cook could figure that out, he was sure.
He could ask. He should get some good things on his birthday.
And his guests were being very polite, the way they had been polite and good all the way through the visit, never taking things badly, never sulking—maybe somebody had told them not to. He had had hints they were under orders. But he knew he could not be that good that long if he was bored.
So maybe he had at least kept them from boredom. And maybe they would like seeing all the colors and the Audience Hall. There certainly would be plenty of fancy things and glitter. There was a museum tour beforehand. They would like that. And everything they saw down there would be new to them.
So maybe they would enjoy things more than he thought.
He would be talking to people and bowing and bowing and bowing until his neck ached, smiling just the right way for every rank—while they, he hoped, would be walking around with nand’ Bren and Jase-aiji, looking at things that were new to them. The Audience Hall was fancier than most anything.
He only wished they were all back at Tirnamardi, and that they could go riding again, so they could all have a good time. That would make everything perfect.
Boji climbed up on his shoulder, reached down and tried to grab the papers from his hand. “No,” he said. “Pest.”
Boji climbed down his arm, and when he moved it, took a flying leap for the couch arm, and then back to his shoulder, with a screech that hurt his ear. He reached up and tugged the chain, shortening it considerably. Artur let it go, and he let it run to the end, still holding it, so Boji, who thought he was going to reach the desk, ran along the back of the couch in frustration, and made a dive for the bowl of fruit.