“Well, well‑deserved, nandi,” Tabini said. And with that, Tabini gave a little signal to the serving staff lined up in the corridor to the kitchen, and appetizers began to flow out, along with spectacular soup tureens and meticulous arrangements of small sausages.
“We shall indeed miss you, nandi,” Lady Damiri said graciously, over the soft clatter of service. “We regret we have had so little personal chance to enjoy your company this visit.”
“A mutual regret, nandi,” Geigi said.
Ilisidi ladled out spicy black soup, an amazing quantity for a diminutive lady. “We hope for a very safe flight for you, Geigi‑ji, and do note that we are sending up some preserves of that sort you like. Do not let some rascal make off with that box or misplace it.”
There was not a flicker of a glance between the two ladies.
“One is very grateful,” Geigi murmured.
“How is your office aloft holding out?” Bren asked, into that half‑breath of silence, forcing a complete change of topics. “Have they coped with your absence, nandi?”
“One has heard of no crises up there,” Geigi said, “but one always suspects one’s staff of reserving all the worrisome news.”
“Well, they will surely be arranging a party for your arrival there,” Ilisidi said. “I tell you, there has been a significant dearth of parties in Shejidan lately. We are sorely disappointed this season.”
Never mind the last festivity she had attended had erupted in inter‑clan warfare and cost Damiri her relationship with her father.
Tatiseigi said, immediately, “One would very gladly oblige with a dinner invitation, if the dowager would find pleasure in so modest a table as mine.”
Cajeiri shot a questioning look at his father and mother– not first at his great‑grandmother. The boy was learning: the boy indeed had a party of his to offer–a desperately longed‑for party. Bren knew it. And the boy clearly wanted to say something gracious to his great‑grandmother. Then wisely didn’t.
“We shall indeed be pleased,” Ilisidi said in the meanwhile. “Gallantly offered, nandi.”
Cajeiri’s lips had gone to a thin line, clamped shut, hard, on the matter of his own impending birthday, that postponed and still very fragile arrangement. Bren well knew the politics of that situation: Damiri did not look with favor on the guest list–which involved human youngsters, and the space station, and the ship where her son had spent two very formative years of his life, in his great‑grandmother’s hands.
Bren said, flinging himself into the breach, a conversation pitched only to the upper table: “Even I shall oblige you, aiji‑ma. I have never dared offer a social event. But I have my staff back now. And one has been extremely honored with a small dining room–” A modest nod toward Tabini and Damiri, referencing the recent remodeling of this end of the floor, “–and one is consequently willing to risk one’s reputation with an invitation.”
“Well you should be willing, nandi!” Tatiseigi exclaimed, “since you have stolen my cook! And a very fine cook he is! You should be amply prepared!”
It might be a slightly barbed joke. One could absolutely take it for one–if lordly Tatiseigi had ever in his life joked with the paidhi‑aiji.
“One is about to be extremely bold,” Bren said, “and offer the lord of the Atageini an invitation to the same dinner, in honor of your generosity, which one can never forget.”
“Ha!” Tatiseigi said. And one still had no idea whether he was joking.
“Please do consider it, nandi.”
“We shall look at our calendar.”
That was no answer. But he had not expected ready agreement.
“Lord Geigi,” Tabini said, covering the moment. “Lord Haidiri of the Pasithi Maschi. –Lord Geigi, would you care to make a more formal introduction of this gentleman to all the company?”
“Delightedly,” Geigi said, and rescued them into far safer topics: the formal presentation of his proxy to the lower end of the table.
On that topic, and in meeting a completely innocent bystander with no history and an uncertain party affiliation, the company could safely enjoy their soup.
Ilisidi said, slyly, under the whisper of compliments to Haidiri, “One believes Lord Tatiseigi would be delighted to accept your invitation, nand’ paidhi, given a more certain date. And we shall be quite flexible.”
Cajeiri, who ordinarily would be beside himself with desire for an invitation, was still being extraordinarily quiet this evening. The boy read what was going on, with the back halls of his residence swarming with Guild in a not‑quite‑secret meeting, and his mother and father and great‑grandmother and Uncle Tatiseigi all sitting within earshot of each other.
The newcomer lords lower down the guest list had no guidebook to the goings‑on at the upper end of the table. It was not public knowledge that Damiri was only just speaking to Ilisidi. It was not officially admitted that Tabini was currently asking himself what his grandmother was up to, making a peace between her own clan and his former enemy, Machigi of the Taisigin Marid.
And it was not yet public knowledge that Cajeiri was trying to arrange a birthday party with young human guests coming down from the space station, who were very inconvenient associates of his, and not approved by his mother.
What everyone at table did know was that not only had Damiri’s father just been banned from court, her servants and her bodyguard had been sent packing that same stormy evening. Everyone could see the shift to Atageini colors and the sudden importance of Lord Tatiseigi in the family, and they would be looking for clues about new alignments. Bet on it: Damiri’s choice of colors would be national headlines the moment any attendee got within range of the news services.
Meanwhile the paidhi‑aiji, who’d negotiated the Marid agreement and hosted Geigi as a guest in his apartment, and gotten Tatiseigi’s support for Ilisidi’s Marid venture–just wanted to have his soup in peace and not have Ilisidi launch another issue with Damiri.
Truth was, he felt very uncomfortable in this gathering, without the company of his bodyguard. They more than protected his life, more than steered him through crowded rooms–they signaled him. They read connections and body language of people around him far more accurately than any human could, even one with years of experience . . . and where he was now needed deep reading.
Damned mess. Yes. It was. And an ongoing mess. The Guild in the back halls would be doing their own assessments of the security situation in the Bujavid, talking about the dismissal of the Ajuri lord and the disaffection of the Northern Association; and about the security crisis in the aiji’s household, the fact that the aiji had ignored recommendations from the Guild and chosen his own bodyguard–all young men without adequate Guild rank–to replace those lost in the coup.
It had been a highly controversial decision on Tabini’s part, but since those bodyguards appointed through normal Guild channels following his return to power had immediately tried to assassinate him . . . it was not exactly an unreasonable one.
As for those backroom discussions, some would hear all of it, and others would hear part. The seniormost would, within their Guild, pass information where they chose, selecting some households to brief, and excluding others. Hence a certain amount of the tension in the gathering of lords. Something was going on, regarding power, and who held it; and who was in favor; and who was not. Who came out of those meetings knowing what might well change the political landscape.
Geigi’s aishid would be at the top of the need to know list. When Geigi went back to space tomorrow, his bodyguards would leave the earth completely up to speed on matters they needed to discuss with the station security structure. While the shuttle was en route, likely the bodyguard would be putting Geigi current with whatever went on tonight–and providing a high‑level assessment of Tabini’s situation. Geigi, once back on the space station, had his finger on weaponry that most of the current gathering didn’t even imagine existed. When Tabini had nearly gone down to defeat in Murini’s takeover, Geigi had made moves to reconstitute the government on the mainland, and had scared hell out of the rebels, dropping robotic communication relay stations on their land–preparatory to sending those mobile stations into action. Those stations were still out there. Still armed. Still dangerous.