The aiji-consort’s clan was as absent as the Kadagidi, the proven traitors. Cajeiri had been the one to acknowledge his own mother—Tabini had not mentioned her; but then, by the lines of inheritance he was reciting, no, he not only had not, he could not have mentioned her. It just was not the way things were done. It was up to her son to acknowledge her.
And he had. Thank God he had. Had Tabini urged him to it?
Likely. Tabini was trying hard to keep Damiri by him, no matter the increasing problems of that relationship. Tatiseigi likewise was doing his best by that relationship, ignoring Damiri’s flirtation with Ajuri.
The Ajuri banner had been prominent at the side of the hall tonight, for anyone who looked for it. The Kadagidi banner was not present. And there was only one person who could have made the decision to allow the Ajuri banner, given Lord Komaji’s banishment.
Tabini.
The banner had been here; but Damiri had not worn its brilliant red and gold this evening, just a pale green pleated satin that accommodated her condition, a color not quite saying Atageini, but suggesting it. Her choice?
Perhaps it had been her choice, on an evening where she had no official part. It was at least—politic. Damiri stood in a circle of lamplight, attended by Ilisidi’s guards, wished well by her husband’s associates, on the evening her son received sole title to her husband’s inheritance. And nowhere in Ragi culture did a lord’s consort, male or female, have any part, where it came to clan rights and inheritable privilege—it was just the way of things.
Tell that to Ilisidi, who had stepped forward twice to claim the regency, and to sue before the legislature simply to take the Ragi inheritance as her own. He had never quite appreciated the audacity of that move.
But then—Damiri had not been running half the continent before her marriage, and was not in charge of the spoiled, immature boy Valasi had reputedly been at his father’s death, a boy who had never, moreover, had an Investiture . . . nor allowed one for Tabini.
One could see . . . a decided difference in situations: Ilisidi, already ruler of half the sole continent, versus Damiri, the inconvenient offspring of a peacemaking interclan marriage gone very wrong—in a marriage some were saying, now, was becoming inconvenient.
Damiri, carrying an inconvenient surplus child, with her father’s clan very close to being dissolved for Shishogi’s treason, was not in an enviable situation, should Tabini divorce her. The only thing that prevented a public furor about another of Ajuri’s misdeeds was the Guild’s deep secrecy: it would swallow the person and the name of Shishogi so very deeply not even Ajuri clan might ever know the extent of his crimes—or even that he had died in disgrace.
Just a very few people inside Ajuri had to be asking themselves what they were to do with what they knew, and where on earth they would be safe.
Tabini didn’t want her taking on that lordship, for very good reasons. And there went her one chance of becoming a lord in her own right, setting herself in any remote sense on an equal footing with Ilisidi.
“Bren-ji,” Jago said, and nodded toward the east corner.
There was the service corridor. And Tatiseigi was positioned nicely by the dowager’s side, not likely to leave her now, and Damiri was fully occupied with well-wishers. The major ceremony was past. It was a good time to go aside and take a break—most of all to let Banichi take a rest, he thought. He yielded and went in that direction: the door was open, the hallway only dimly lit, letting people supplying the buffet and bringing back dishes get in and out of the hall without a disturbing flare of light.
The promised chairs were there. It was, indeed, a relief. He sat down. Banichi dutifully did the same.
“How are you faring?” he asked Banichi.
“Well enough,” Banichi said. “There is, indeed, no need.”
“Of course not,” Jago said.
Bren let go a long, slow breath. “He did very well, did he not?”
“He did excellently well,” Tano said.
“How is the city faring?” he asked, wondering if information was indeed getting through channels.
“Very well,” Tano said. “Very well indeed . . . a little damage here and there, simply the press of people. A bar set a television in a window, and attempted to serve drink on the walkway, and there was a complaint of disorderly conduct—it was nothing. The cards are still being distributed, from several points, and those lines are orderly.”
It was nothing. That was so much better a report than they could have feared. Algini scoured up a carafe of tea, and they kept themselves out of the way of serving staff coming and going.
“The runner has reached the Archive,” Jago remarked, listening to communications. And then: “Attendees in the hall have become curious about Jase’s bodyguard. They have stayed quite still. Cenedi has sent guards to protect them.”
One could only imagine, should Kaplan or Polano grow restless and switch on a light or two. Or move. “Jase says they can rest in there fairly comfortably,” Bren said, “with the armor locked. One cannot imagine it is that comfortable over time.” He drew a deep breath. “And I should get back to the hall, nadiin-ji. Banichi, can you not sit here with Jago a while? There is absolutely no problem out there.”
Banichi drew a deep breath. “Best I move, Bren-ji.” He shoved himself to his feet and drew a second breath.
“We may find an opportunity to quit the hall early,” Bren said, “all the same. We have done what we need to do.”
He walked out into the hall, and indeed, Tabini-aiji and Cajeiri had finished their card-signing and finally had leisure to talk and visit with well-wishers.
“Bren.” Jase overtook them, and Bren turned slightly, nodded a hello to Jase and Cajeiri’s young guests.
“So,” he said in ship-speak, “are you three managing to enjoy yourselves?”
“Really, yes, sir,” Gene said.
“We love the clothes,” Irene said. “And we got our own cards.”
“Treasure them,” he said. “You won’t find their like again in a lifetime. Onworld, they’re quite valuable.”
“Do we call him Cajeiri-aiji now, sir?” Artur asked.
“That is a question,” Bren said, and glanced at Banichi. “What does one call our young gentleman now?”
“‘Young gentleman’ is still appropriate,” Banichi said, “but Cajeiri-aiji, on formal occasions; or nand’ aiji, the same address as to his father.”
“Can we still call him Jeri?” Gene asked.
“Not in public,” Bren said. “Never in public. Never speaking about him. He’ll always be Cajeiri-aiji when you’re talking about him. Or the young aiji. Or the young gentleman. But what he is in private—he’ll define that.”
“Yes, sir,” Gene said. And bowed and changed back to Ragi. “Nandi.”
“Jase-aiji.” Bren gave a little nod and walked on toward the dowager, who had gotten a chair, likely from the other service passage, and who was quite successfully holding court over near the dais, with a cup of tea in her hands and a semicircle of attendance, including Lord Dur and Lord Tatiseigi.
Protected, still. He was satisfied. He turned the other direction, to let that gathering take its course, and to let that pair pursue necessary politics, and saw, at a little remove, Lord Topari.
That was not a meeting he wanted at the moment. He veered further right.
And found himself facing, at a little remove, the aiji-consort and her borrowed bodyguard.
She was looking right at him. Eyes had met. Courtesy dictated that he bow, then turn aside, but when he lifted his head, she was headed right toward him with intent, and etiquette demanded he stand there, bow a bit more deeply as she arrived, and offer a polite greeting.