Bren actually understood Southern blues: the beautiful glassy aqua color that could no longer be made in the old way, since the Great Wave had wiped out the Southern Island culture. Tatiseigi did indeed have a collection that rivaled that in Lord Machigi’s district, and one could only surmise what had been lost in that long-ago cataclysm.
“. . . in the peripheral cases, and beyond the western archway, you will discover an interesting sequence of massive figured ware, then the freestanding figures of the Age of the First Northern Rulers, which followed the collapse of the Southern Island . . .”
That was suddenly interesting. The theory that the elaborate figured porcelains of the current age were an outgrowth of the pillar-like Reverence Statues of the northern lands, as the north met porcelain techniques from the survivors of the Southern Island culture . . . that was a notion he had heard, and he was familiar, too, with the theory that there was possibly a relationship to the Grandmother Stones of the tribal peoples, with which every museum-goer on Mospheira was familiar. Those were all but unknown on the mainland . . . except where the Edi and the Gan had settled.
But that theory, their guide said, was mired in controversy involving the origin of the tribal peoples themselves, who refused to accept the notion that they were part of the northern culture. They maintained they were descended from former lords of the Southern Island, and that the Grandmother Stones of the Southern Island had been swept away in the flood.
There was some support for the southern origin: they were a matriarchal people, unlike the patriarchal north.
But there was political heat behind the question, and the Director immediately veered off the topic, beginning to acknowledge the various notables present, a long, long list that was going to take the next quarter hour at least.
Bren bowed a little as his name was mentioned, fairly early in the list. The youngsters, who had showed a very human tendency to flit this way and that, took Jase’s cue to stand respectfully and bow, as Jase and the three of them were mentioned . . .
Then, inevitably drawn by what glittered, and by objects they readily recognized—they were off to peer through the glass at a tall vase covered in parid’ja figures.
The youngsters had drawn attention of their own, admirers of the artworks glancing aside and moving back from the children and whispering discreetly behind hands or printed exhibit guides.
But the fact that the children bowed properly when cued amazed and mollified the onlookers, much as if a trio of parid’ji had shown evidence of civilization. And despite their somewhat excessive energy, they were not misbehaving. Algini and Tano and Jase together availed to keep three youngsters under relatively close management. And onlookers began to relax and smile, even laughing, watching them as much as the exhibit.
Cajeiri likely ached to go through the exhibit with just as much energy—but of course he didn’t leave his parents’ side. Nor could the youngsters go to him or even so much as wave at him, no. It was just not done.
That was the sad part of the affair, one he would mend if he possibly could . . . but there was no help for it. Tabini, and therefore Cajeiri and Damiri, were constantly engaged with important guests this evening, constantly besieged with introductions and well-wishes—a state affair in full spate, and leading to an announcement that would set the boy further apart from ordinary life. What could one say against it? It was the boy’s rank. It was what he did. It was what he was born for and would always have to do.
Maybe, Bren thought, it was the boy’s years on the starship that had sharply defined him—years like his father’s at Malguri, in the dowager’s care. Tabini had sent the boy up to the station with the dowager—and now Tabini had brought three human kids down here, for reasons that a human fenced off very carefully, saying he still didn’t understand the motive. He had to be careful of thinking he understood the motive . . . it was a potentially dangerous step across the interface, the very thing he had been supposed to prevent.
But maybe the motive wasn’t alien from atevi politics. Damiri hadn’t been happy with the dowager from before her son had been taken up to the space station and put in the dowager’s care—while Tabini had drawn the dowager closer and closer, from far back.
He should know. He’d been the initial lure, to get Ilisidi out of Malguri.
He’d had no idea, at that point, how very deeply Ilisidi had detested his predecessor in the paidhi’s office.
Tabini had given him a gun, taken him target-shooting quite illegally, in terms of treaty law—and sent him off to visit his grandmother.
How did a sane man interpret that move? Did the elements add as straightforwardly as they might in a human situation?
Maybe was the same with Tabini’s inviting the kids down now. Experience us. Know us. Make up your own minds. Show us who you are.
They were so damned young.
But could a boy brought up in the heart of court intrigue be that young, or that innocent?
The boy stood, elegant and conspicuous, in a light that made that black coat spark red fire, his darkness and that brightness as ornate as the exhibits, beside a father of which he was the smaller image, beside a smiling mother who, despite her condition, looked as perfect, as iconic, as any cloisonnй image in the cases.
What do I do, he asked himself, to protect this boy? What can I do?
Keep those kids out of trouble. That’s one.
The museum was crowded with the elite—typical of such events, Guild presence had diminished down to two bodyguards for the lesser guests, in the interest of saving space, and the other half of those units would be occupying the hall outside, reinforcing Guild presence on the lower floor. The echoing buzz of voices took on a surreal quality, and he began to realize his thinking had grown just a bit distracted. It was too warm in the room. There were very few benches, and he longed for one . . . but there were none vacant.
“How are you?” he asked Banichi.
“I am not in difficulty,” Banichi said. “Are you?”
“No,” he said, an outright lie. Then, on a breath: “I have a painkiller. Do you need it?”
“No, Bren-ji. Do you?”
“I have had one.” He cast a meaningful glance at Jago—watch him, he wanted to say. Don’t let him push it. But Jago said, “You are quite pale, Bren-ji.”
“Am I?” He drew several deep breaths. “It seems warm in here.”
“It is,” Jago said. “Bren-ji, you will sit down.”
There was a bench, as a lady rose to talk to an associate. Jago deftly moved to the area, the lady moved off, and what could one do?
Bren walked over and quietly sat down, exhaled, did not rest his head against the wall. It was near an air vent. That was a considerable help. The bulletproof vest was hot, and stiff, and a very good idea, he was sure. But he wished he could shed it.
· · ·
It was dull. It was very dull, with the museum committee head making yet another speech.
And Cajeiri remembered the speech he had to give.
One had a chance certainly, with all the other speeches going on, to memorize it.
Except—
Except he had changed coats.
There was still time. There was plenty of time. He was good at memorizing.
“Taro-ji,” Cajeiri whispered, leaning close to his aishid. “The paper. My speech. I left it upstairs, in the other coat. Can you possibly go up and get it, nadi?”
“I shall try,” Antaro promised him, and backed out of the group and left quickly, down the side of the room.
The others had heard. “I should have realized it,” Jegari said. “This is my fault, nandi.”
“I am the one who changed coats,” Cajeiri said and drew a careful, quiet breath, not wishing to have his parents notice the exchange.