It was the day. It was finally the day. Cajeiri was out of bed at the very first urging, dressed in the better-than-usual shirt and trousers his valets presented, and was slipping on a day-coat when Gene and Artur came rolling out to say, somewhat confusingly, “Please enjoy the day you are born!” And then in ship-speak: “Happy birthday, Jeri-ji!”
He grinned. It was impolite, but he was so happy he could hardly help it. He bowed and said, “Thank you, nadiin-ji,” just as the other lump in the bed sat up and became Irene, with her pale hair every which way. “Oh!” she said, and grabbed her nightrobe in embarrassment, with Eisi and Liedi standing there, and herself where it was not quite proper for her to be.
“We layered the bedclothes, nadiin-ji,” Cajeiri said with a calm little bow, “and we are all very proper, all of us.”
“Indeed, nandi,” Eisi said, unperturbed, and about that time Veijico and Antaro turned up out of their room, in proper dress uniform.
“Happy birthday,” Irene said, from her seat deep in bedclothes. “Happy birthday, Jeri-ji!”
“A felicitous ninth!” Antaro called out. “Our young gentleman has reached his fortunate year!”
The other door opened. Lucasi and Jegari were there, half in uniform. “Felicitations, Jeri-ji!”
“Felicitations, nandi,” Eisi said with a solemn bow, and “Felicitations!” Liedi said.
Boji just shrieked and rattled his cage in excitement.
“Your honored uncle bids you and your guests to breakfast,” Eisi said. “As you please, nandi.”
It was the best morning ever. It truly was.
It was the best breakfast ever, because Uncle’s cook had been asking him ever since they arrived what his favorite things were for every meal, and it was everything he liked in one huge breakfast, just himself and his guests, because staff said Great-uncle was having breakfast with Great-grandmother, and they would all meet for a state lunch at his father’s apartment. Nand’ Jase was to come for him half an hour before noon, but the state lunch was for mid-afternoon because there would be no supper, only the Festivity buffet in the Audience Hall.
That was the gruesome part. He could not have his aishid with him at the moment—Jegari had told him before he and the others had left—because they had to go ahead to nand’ Bren’s apartment and talk to Tano and Algini about codes, which was why they were missing breakfast, and they would meet him there when Jase-aiji brought them all there.
That was one thing he wished somebody had asked him. He would have had cook send a special breakfast for everybody.
Then Madam Saidin stopped him as he left the breakfast room and handed him a rolled paper.
“This is from your father the aiji, young gentleman, your speech to memorize for the Festivity tonight.”
“A long one?” he asked anxiously.
“Only a few lines,” she assured him. “Very short.”
Well, that was not too bad. And Madam would not lie to him. So they all trooped back to the guest quarters, his guests all in good humor, to sit and let breakfast settle for two hours. He got to change to court dress, at least all of the suit except the coat, and his guests got to sit about in comfortable clothes. He was envious of that.
He had to suffer a scratchy flood of lace and memorize a stupid speech.
He unrolled the paper to find out what he had to deal with. And it was not three lines, it was three whole paragraphs.
It started:
I thank all my family, all my associates, all my allies, all my family’s allies, all you good people. I am fortunate nine, today, and I thank you for coming. I thank my mother, who has done her best to guide me, and my great-grandmother . . .
And it went on to say things like:
...lords of the associations, lords of the districts, lords of the provinces, thank you.
...urging cooperation toward a prosperous and felicitous year . . .
He dropped into a chair and went on staring at it. It was a horrid lot of categories to remember in order, and his mind was every which way today.
But he could do it. He had memorized all the districts and the capitals and the imports and exports and the lords and their heirs and their families. He had memorized the names of the treaties, in order, that had built the aishidi’tat. He saw them, and he kept thinking of heraldry and emblems and imports and treaties, when he needed to be thinking about the words.
He had memorized the descent of his family from the War of the Landing.
He had memorized . . .
With a prodigious shriek, Boji streaked to the chair, seized the paper and, trailing his chain, carried it off to the top of the bureau.
“One is extremely sorry, nandi!” Liedi exclaimed.
“Let us not startle him,” he said calmly. “Close all the doors.”
They would not make that mistake.
But all of them stalking Boji made Boji nervous, and with the paper in his teeth, Boji leapt for a tapestry railing, then for the crystal chandelier, setting it rocking and jingling, but trailing the chain.
Eisi snagged it, and tugged. Boji jumped for Eisi’s shoulder, sending the chandelier swinging wildly. Snagged, Boji threw a screaming tantrum and bared his teeth, crumpling the paper in his bony little fist when Eisi tried to get it away from him.
“Boji!” Cajeiri said sharply, and Boji looked his way, wide-eyed above the mangled paper in his paws. “Come here! Come!”
Boji fixed on him. That was a good sign. He held out his hand, and Boji nipped the paper in his teeth and took a flying leap for his arm, where he wrapped himself with all four limbs, Eisi still holding the chain.
“Give it to me, Boji,” Cajeiri said. “Give it to me.” To his surprise, a little tug freed the mangled paper from Boji’s hands. He took the chain from Eisi and, since he was still in vest and shirt, he let Boji run up to his shoulder and perch there, even if his feet hurt. He had the chain. He had the paper. His guests were all amazed and amused and impressed.
He gave the paper a little snap and casually handed Boji off to Liedi, feeling very grown-up, very dignified. Even Great-grandmother could not have called Boji to good behavior. But he had.
“That’s pretty good!” Gene said.
“He’s adding it up,” Irene said. “He knows who to salute, doesn’t he?”
“Smart,” Artur agreed.
He tried not to seem surprised at all. He uncrumpled Father’s letter, which had gotten chewed a bit, and had holes here and there, but it was good enough. He glanced at it enough to know all the words were there.
“Are parid’ji relatives to atevi?” Artur asked, which was a question that upset some people, mani said, but Cenedi had said probably, and his tutor had said . . .
“Maybe,” he said. “There were bigger. There still could be in the mountains on the Southern Island, maybe even this far north. The parid’ji used to live as far south as Shejidan, but all that forest went away. There used to be forest all the way across the Atageini ridge and clear on to the mountains, a long, long time ago. And there was forest all over the Southern Island, except the coast. But that was before the three islands blew up.”
“Volcanoes?” Artur asked in ship-speak. “Mountains and fire?”
“Big explosion!” he said. “Volcanoes.” He wanted to remember that word. “The big map in my office.” That sounded so important. “I can show you where.”
Their eyes lit up. They were excited.
So had he been excited when his new tutor had told him one of the isles was reportedly reappearing above the waves and smoking—and he had immediately had a wicked thought that nand’ Bren’s boat might be able to go to the Southern Island and even down to the Southern Ocean . . .
But then his tutor had talked about the weather in the Southern Ocean, which was why ships did not sail any further south than from the Marid up the west coast, and why the seas between Mospheira and the mainland were far calmer than the open seas where the winds blew all the way around the world without any land to stop them. When the three islands had blown up, that had been the barrier to the Southern Island’s east coast, so even going there now was dangerous.