Protector
by C. J. Cherryh
To Jane and Lynn–above and beyond.
1
Lace was back in fashion this spring–starched and delicate at once, layers of it flowing from cuffs and neck. It was a damned bother at a formal dinner, but there it was: the Lord of the Heavens had to be in fashion, and a state dinner in the court of Tabini‑aiji meant a new coat, no question about that. So Bren Cameron arrived at Tabini‑aiji’s door, accompanied by his four black‑clad bodyguards, in a mode quietly equal to any of the lords present.
This new coat was a subdued beige‑and‑gold brocade, able, in this sparkling crowd, to fade into the background, and Bren Cameron–paidhi‑aiji to that same Tabini‑aiji, the ruler of the aishidi’tat, the Western Association of the atevi–liked it that way.
Paidhi‑aiji. Official human‑language translator–at least as he’d signed up for the job years ago. Back then he’d been the interface between the human enclave, restricted by treaty to the island of Mospheira, across the straits–and the atevi, native to the planet, who ruled the rest of the world.
Things had changed since then. Humans were in space, now. So were atevi.
And the paidhi’s office? The paidhi‑aiji had become both diplomat and courier–become, in fact, paidhi in the sense in which atevi had always interpreted the office, long before the word human entered their vocabulary. Translator had ceased to be much of his job at all, since humans and atevi interfaced daily on the space station, with free access to the once‑forbidden dictionary. Mospheira now worried far more about the space station orbiting overhead than they did the vast continent immediately across the water from them.
There had been a profound psychological shift in the attitudes on both sides of the strait. The earthly power that had threatened Mospheira in the past had ceased, at least in Mospheiran minds, to threaten them in any direct sense. The current worry of the human population on earth was the power of the human population in space versus their own insular ways and aims, most of which involved their comforts, their economy, and their sense of self‑government.
Atevi were a presence onworld and off, had always been there, would always be there . . . and would always be different from them. Politically ambitious Mospheirans had little to gain these days by pointing out that obvious fact. Much more to the point, the meager trade that had gone back and forth between Mospheira and the continent for two hundred years had suddenly become a large and important commerce, linked to space in a triangular relationship. Business was now interested in what happened on the continent–deeply interested.
But Mospheiran businessmen knew they had no control over it. They could only watch the ebb and flow of the market and adjust accordingly. Production once based on the direct advice of the paidhi must now flux according to a true supply and demand market.
The island government was also on its own these days. They no longer controlled the paidhi‑aiji–who remained conspicuously human, in any gathering here on the continent, but who had all but ceased to represent Mospheiran interests. Translate at need, yes. Advise, yes. But circumstances . . . and ultimately his own inclinations . . . had made him an intrinsic part of the atevi world.
He’d gained property on the atevi side of the straits. A title. A seat in the legislature, too, if he wanted to press the point. He didn’t. He had more power, in terms of influence with the most powerful people in the atevi world, than that seat could ever wield . . . something he found it wisest not to advertise: those to whom it mattered–knew.
His official niche in the court, a unique position, with Tabini’s–and Tabini’s grandmother’s–backing, was still that of paidhi‑aiji, but in gatherings such as this, he preferred to style himself lord, not of the ill‑defined Heavens, but of Najida peninsula, a quaint little rural section of Sarini Province, out on the western coast, not all that far from the island on which he’d been born. Lord of Najida gave him social cachet in terms ordinary atevi more easily understood, not too high nor ancient a title, but a respectable title over a little peninsula whose ruling family had died out, a title granted for services rendered the aiji, and to all of the aishidi’tat.
Accordingly, he chose to wear beige, a no‑color, amid the colorful rivalry of atevi clan heraldry, and he persistently tied his queue not with the starry black ribbon of the Province of the Heavens or even the more approachable blue of Najida, but with the paidhi’s neutral white . . . I am not part of regional matters. My standing is through the aiji.
It was a language every atevi understood without a moment’s conscious thought.
“Nandi,” his senior bodyguard said, by way of parting as they reached the door. The four tall atevi who were as close to him as family–closer, in point of fact–were not given a place in the gathering of lords and ladies milling about beyond the foyer, not this evening. The only bodyguards allowed in the gathering tonight (and indeed a veritable wall of black Assassins’ Guild uniforms guarded that door) were the aiji’s security. There was, for one thing, limited space–and for another–
For another, all security anywhere belonged to the Assassins’ Guild, and the fact that the only armed guards present were the aiji’s own bodyguard freed the rest of the members of that secretive Guild to disappear the same way Bren’s did, down that inner corridor toward the deeper recesses of the aiji’s apartment–and into a meeting far more important and more critical than the state dinner going on in the front rooms.
It was a state dinner being held in honor of one Lord Geigi, Bren’s sometime neighbor on the coast and current house guest, here in the Bujavid. Bren entered the packed room alone: Geigi had been invited here early, and was doubtless still with the aiji, back in the private part of the apartment.
Lord Geigi, provincial lord of Sarini, having helped straighten out a significant mess in that province, was headed back to his preferred post in the heavens, that of stationmaster on the atevi side of operations. Sarini was quiet, even improved in security, and the prospect of peace and trade and profits sparkled in Geigi’s wake. It was a happy occasion, this departure, a triumph, and the lords and their consorts–and the paidhi‑aiji–had assembled to wish Lord Geigi a good flight and a safe trip back to the station.
Unfortunately, where power and profit bloomed, power brokers had a way of getting into the game. That was precisely why the not‑so‑clandestine Guild meeting in the back rooms was so critical, and why, while the lords and ladies were smiling and sipping drinks and offering politenesses to each other, most were likely wondering how much their own bodyguards were going to be told about the recent events and current situation in the south and the west coast, and how far they themselves, consequently, would be drawn into the loop . . . or deliberately excluded from it.
His own bodyguard would definitely be in the loop. The aiji’s bodyguard, most of whom were on duty out here, ironically would not be. And that uncomfortable situation–
Was politics. Pure and simple. Or rather neither pure nor simple. And that exclusion was one additional matter that might well be a topic in that meeting, at least among the most senior bodyguards.
“Nand’ paidhi.” As he passed into the crowd, a servant offered a selection of drinks on a silver tray. Bren took the white wine, a safe choice for a human, and walked among the tall black‑skinned lords and ladies, with a nod here, a word there. He was comparatively comfortable tonight, despite the stiff new coat and stiffer lace, since–in present company, and with his own residence just next door in the ornate halls of the Bujavid–he could go without the damned bulletproof vest that had been mandatory since the Marid affair . . . but he had to navigate, as did everyone, on his own.