“One agrees,” he said, wondering whether his entire aishid had just collectively put one over on him.
· · ·
“We are,” the dowager said after dinner, “hearing good things within the Guild. They are finding the things we fully expected them to find, and perhaps one or two things that surprise us. They are sifting records. They are interviewing reliable people and looking for other people they should be looking for. My grandson may complain about the individuals now in charge there, but they are setting things to rights.”
It was good news.
“In the matter of Lord Aseida’s future,” Ilisidi continued, swirling brandy gently in her glass, “we have a reasonable situation in mind, a small house under the supervision of the very strong-willed lady of Corhenda, a subclan of Cie, a very practical-minded place. It has electricity, but phones are scarce. Its mills and tanneries are a blight, but then it always was barren. His artistic skills—we are told he paints—might enliven the house—perhaps the mills, who knows the limits of his talent? As for who should succeed him in the Kadagidi lordship, nand’ Tatiseigi has a proposal.”
“A modest one,” Tatiseigi said. “He is a Kadagidi gentleman, a third cousin of mine, from the old union of our house with Kadagidi clan. He is ten years my senior, fifteen years retired—he ran the largest Kadagidi granary and the northern plains operations. He is a respectable fellow, never politically active, and what one might call a dedicated administrator. He has, besides, three daughters, and the eldest is a member of the Scholars’ Guild. One believes he would only reluctantly undertake the burden of the lordship—but in order to put his eldest daughter in the line of that succession, he might; her husband is a quiet fellow, affable, whose skill is hunting management: he would not be a bad neighbor.”
“If ever asked,” Bren said with a little nod, “which one hardly expects to be—one would certainly support your opinion, nandi.”
“Pish,” the dowager said. “Nand’ Siegi says we should not keep the paidhi too late tonight. You should go straight to bed, paidhi.”
“Aiji-ma.” Another careful nod.
“Go. You are entirely void of entertainment tonight, paidhi, and you need your sleep.”
One had somewhat suspected it was not his somewhat cheerless and aching company the dowager had desired this evening, but that her aishid and his and Lord Tatiseigi’s should all be in close contact for an hour or so.
And indeed, once he had left the sitting room and gathered up Jago and Algini, there was a somberness about his bodyguard that said he was right in that guess.
They left the apartment, the three of them. They walked down the main hall to their own door, and, once inside:
“Is there news, nadiin-ji?” he asked.
“There is news we should share with Banichi and Tano,” Algini said. “Do not worry about it, Bren-ji.”
“That is hardly going to allow me to rest,” he protested. Narani had let them in; Narani waited to receive his coat, and he unbuttoned the coat and let it slip from his arms. “I shall worry all night.”
“If we do tell you,” Jago said, “you will not rest, either.”
He looked at her. “Tell me, nadiin-ji. I request it.”
“This is a security concern,” Jago said, “but, Bren-ji, this is a Guild matter, and now we have Guild Headquarters operating as it has not, not even in our lifetimes. Have confidence in us.”
He had not gotten that sort of answer from them, he thought, in some time—not since they had come back from space. It was a little off-putting—like the firm closing of a door. And then he thought—that was the way it was, before.
That’s the way it’s always supposed to be.
In that light—he felt perhaps he could oblige Jago and just let it go, as he had not, for some time, been able to let go anything in their realm. They hadn’t known about the Guild’s forty-year-old problem, simmering at a very low level, before the coup had changed things. The people they had just put in charge of the Guild hadn’t known it was going on, either—or they’d have done something to prevent it.
But now the people who should be in charge had finally done something, and his aishid evidently thought the Guild was functioning again.
It wasn’t the paidhi-aiji’s job to second-guess that process. Maybe, knowing what he knew, he should still be alert, and a little on his guard, but even that—
No, if anyone could pick up a problem within the Guild as it reconstituted itself, figure it to be his aishid, and the dowager’s aishid, and if they wanted to close that door on outsiders to their Guild and handle things by their rules, it was not the paidhi’s job to put himself in the middle of it.
“Thank you,” he said with a little bow. “Thank you very much, nadiin-ji. One actually understands. I think I shall be able to sleep, if you are confident.”
“Rely on us,” Jago said, and Algini just said, “Go to bed, Bren-ji.”
· · ·
Traffic in the city had suffered a major disruption with the blockage of the central city freight. Everyone’s mail had been late yesterday.
But despite all confusion and difficulties, the crates from Tirnamardi had made it up to the Bujavid yesterday late, passed security, and finally poured forth wardrobe . . . doubly welcome, Bren thought: he had been hard on his clothes this last few days, and court dress had borne the worst of it.
But nothing that came out of a shipping crate was fit to hang in the paidhi’s closet, or their guest’s, oh, no. The laundry backstairs had been in a frenzy of activity, receiving the contents of the crate and spilling forth freshly cleaned and pressed shirts and trousers and coats in rapid succession, filling two racks in the hall last evening. Now, this morning, when he returned from the bath, his valets opened his closet to show its racks filled with choices.
“One is extremely glad,” he said to his valets, “and pleased, nadiin-ji. Have my casual boots possibly turned up?” He was down to his best and only pair, which had suffered bloodstains, and one lightweight pair of house boots he had never liked and hadn’t packed for Tirnamardi in the first place.
“Indeed, nandi,” Koharu said happily, and from the bottom of the closet, produced, indeed, the newly-returned boots.
But Supani, from the same source, and with a slyly expectant look, brought up a cardboard box done up in tape and string. Supani proffered the box, a wonderful box with a customs tag that said, even before he took it in his hands: appareclass="underline" Bren Cameron, paidhi-aiji, the Bujavid, Shejidan. The return address was a tag he well knew: his bootmaker’s.
“It arrived with the crates, nandi.”
His pocket-knife was in the tray atop the bureau. He opened the box in delight, expecting, since it was a largish box for one pair, perhaps two pairs of boots—that worthy gentleman maintained the special forms on a shelf in his workshop, and he had made several orders. But there were three pair, one gray dress, one black casual, and one stout brown pair of laced, high-topped and heavy boots with a note from his bootmaker: If you can destroy these, Mr. Cameron, I’ll replace them at no charge.
He had to laugh, even if his head hurt. He sat down on the dressing bench and tried them on, with his valets’ help. Even the pair with the reinforced tops fit beautifully, and the laces to the toe, not a common style on the mainland, made the heavy ones unexpectedly comfortable. “One is delighted,” he said. “And relieved, considering tomorrow. But I shall prefer the old comfortable house pair today, baji-naji. One has no intention of stirring outside the apartment.”
He went to the little breakfast room, had a lengthy and informal breakfast with Jase—who wanted to be kept abreast of events. He could not be briefed on all of it: there were details he could not divulge—but there were events in the Marid, the entire situation in the south, the situation that was sure to arise over the rail connections, the necessary cooperation of the station aloft where it came to shipping—and completely idle gossip from the station, and from the world—who was where, what the real story was on half a dozen topics, and what the inside story was on Toby’s relationship with Barb.