The steady drums and the music of the strings—stopped, leaving an embarrassed mutter of comment that quickly died away.
“Be you still!” the senior kabiutera shouted out from the dais, banging his staff on the floor. “Be you still! Be you still!”
They were going ahead with it.
With the whole city, the whole nation following it on television.
· · ·
* * *
· · ·
Cajeiri’s father laid a hand on his shoulder. “Son of mine.”
Cajeiri looked up. “Honored Father.”
His father maintained that grip. A staff hit the floor another three times, louder than mani’s cane, impossible as that seemed, and a silence descended on the hall, in which the stir of a single foot seemed apt to echo.
“The numbers have been counted,” the oldest kabiutera proclaimed, “and this gathering is felicitous. This time is the right time.”
“Nandiin, nadiin,” his father said, his voice ringing out over the shadowy hall. “This is my son. With you as witnesses, I pronounce him my heir, grandson of my father and mother, great-grandson of my grandfather and grandmother. I call on the tashrid and the hasdrawad, at the appropriate time, to proclaim Cajeiri son of Tabini as aiji of the aishidi’tat, heir of all my titles and rights. I call on my kin and my associates to support my heir’s claim and to give him their man’chi.”
There was a murmur, then the ripple of a shout, so loud it made Cajeiri’s heart jump. He did not flinch. His father’s hand kept him from that.
The staff struck the floor three more times, restoring silence so deep he could hear himself breathing.
His father’s heir. That was odd. He already knew he was that.
But the man’chi of all these people? His mind started scrambling after names, colors, relationships.
He really wanted to give his speech later. After he had remembered the missing line.
“Son of mine,” his father said aloud, and touched his elbow. “Speak loudly,” his father said under his breath, “and keep your head up.”
Keep his head up. He could do that much. But he was not certain he could get enough breath to his lungs to make anybody hear him.
He had the first part. If he just plunged ahead, the connecting word might pop into his head.
“Thank you, all my family, all my associates, all my allies, all my family’s allies . . .”
And there it stalled. The missing bit did not come to him.
The quiet persisted. Someone down in the gathering cleared his throat and it sounded like thunder.
“. . . I am fortunate nine, today, and I thank you for coming.”
The back part was just gone. Not just the back of the sentence. Everything after that. He was facing all these important people and they were going to think he was a fool. Worse, the kabiuteri would be upset with him and they could call the whole evening, his whole year, infelicitous.
He could not just stand there. Keen in memory, his right ear stung as if mani had thwacked him for forgetting. Keep going! she would say as he sat at her feet, aboard the starship. Think, boy! Think faster!
Banichi would say, Practice until your body remembers.
He was supposed to tell people what he had learned since he was infelicitous eight, and he was supposed to talk about his family and thank people, that was what.
And his great-grandmother and his mother and nand’ Tatiseigi and nand’ Bren were all at the foot of the steps waiting for him to get his wits about him and do that. He had to say good things about everybody, especially his mother. He could not make her mad, especially in front of everybody.
He had to say something. He had to do it his way.
“I thank my father, who is not afraid of anybody. I thank my mother, who has done her best to guide me. I thank my great-grandmother, who has defended me. I thank nand’ Bren—” He realized he should have said the paidhi-aiji, and he should have put Great-uncle after his great-grandmother, and worse, it was infelicitous four: he plunged ahead to find five. “—who saved my life. And I thank Great-uncle Tatiseigi who taught me the traditions.” He could not stop there. He could not leave out semi-felicitous six and seven. “I thank Lord Geigi and Jase-aiji, who taught me about things in space.” Unlucky eight. “I thank the Guilds for the things they do.” And nine: nine was the felicity he had to reach to match his years. “And I thank my tutor for teaching me why things work. I know the geography of the world and I know every clan and their colors by heart. I know why it rains and how airplanes fly and I know where comets come from and I know why tides and storms happen. I am learning kabiu.” He said that for the row of kabiuteri, in their patterned robes, who were standing there looking worried. Promise everybody something, his father had told him. And he remembered something mani had once said. “. . . Because the traditions and the harmony make art, and art makes things beautiful, and we all are better and kinder and wiser when we live with beautiful things. We become better when we know why things are beautiful. I want to know everything I can and learn as much as I can and do as much as I can and meet as many people as I can. I shall try very hard in my fortunate ninth year.” He had to get in everybody else, and talk about the aishidi’tat, and not take too much time about it, because people had a right to get restless in long speeches. He wanted to end with a felicity. “I want my father to be aiji for a long, long time. And I wish everybody to have a good time, whether you came for my father or if you came for me or if you came for the aishidi’tat. Most of all the aishidi’tat is important, because the aishidi’tat is our home, and we have to make our home the most beautiful place there is. Thank you, nandiin, nadiin.”
He gave a little bow. It all had sounded good to him when he was saying it, but increasingly toward the end, he had realized he was letting his ideas run over each other, the way mani had told him never to do.
Now there was just silence. He thought he had sounded stupid and his father was going to be upset that he had not given the right speech at all. The kabiuteri were going to find an infelicity. He truly hoped that he had not just done something really, really terrible to his father in that regard.
Then he heard Great-grandmother’s cane strike the floor. Once—twice—three times. “Long life and good fortune!” she shouted out. And then everybody shouted out, almost together. “Long life and good fortune!”
He drew in a whole breath. And felt his father’s hand on his shoulder.
“Did your grandmother write that speech?” his father asked him ominously.
“No, honored Father. I—lost the paper. I had it memorized. Almost. And then I forgot it.”
His father’s fingers tightened. His father looked at him long and hard and seriously, and then laughed a little. “The kabiuteri passed the speech I sent you. Yours will pose them at least a three-candle question. They will be at it all night.”
“Did I do wrong, honored Father?”
“You had the Recorder scrambling, the poor old fellow—he all but overset his ink pot. He will at least have it down in shorthand. And if he fails, there is a recording. There we have innovated. And there can be no future debate of what was said and done.”
The television. He had not even thought about the television once he was talking. But now the lights for the cameras began to wink out, one at a time, so that the room was going darker and darker and their eyes by lamplight could make out people, rows and rows of people.
“The city will have the news now,” his father said quietly. “But nowadays it will not travel by rail to the outer provinces. The whole aishidi’tat will know it at once. You are legally, formally, as of now, and forever, my heir.” His father began to walk him down the steps, carefully, since they had just been in brighter light and everything still looked dim. “Mind your step. Feel your way and make no mistakes. A runner will be going down the Bujavid steps in the traditional way, by torchlight, carrying the proclamation on parchment, with its seals. I signed that this afternoon He will go all the way to the Guilds, ending at the Archives, where he will file the declaration of Investiture.”