Defiance, page 5
Damn, damn, and . . . damn. Surely, surely she would enlighten him, once they reached Najida. Najida was rural, it was sane and quiet, it had, despite being a century and more old, modern plumbing, and soft beds, and heat and cooling as one pleased. She enjoyed the place. She had gifted him the beautiful stained glass for the dining room. It was a good place for her to rest and heal.
And himself being her host—she could not entirely ignore him there.
His eyes were blurring and he rubbed them. In shadows beyond his area of light, Narani slept. So did Jeladi. At the far end, in deeper shadow, his aishid slept. Rare that Guild took that luxury all at the same time, on a mission, but there was, in a moving train, very little to be done about the world’s problems.
Or his. And their decision to sleep said that now was a safe time, an appropriate time to rest. The world outside was perilous. But here . . . there was nothing to be done.
He laid the book aside and rested his arms on the table, head on arms, just for a moment. He wanted to think. But all the lights were dimmed. The racket of the train persisted, steady as a heartbeat. They seemed to have hit, God save them, a prolonged smooth patch of rail.
He wanted to think. His body wanted to sleep. The brain struggled to keep going.
Sleep won.
3
Boji wanted another egg. Cajeiri took a second from the bowl and slipped it into the ancient filigree cage. This egg was boiled, but Boji was not to be fooled. He turned his prize this way and that in black skinny fingers, testing its balance—hunched little black-furred body, quick gold eyes, thin toes clutching the branch as he reached his conclusion. Then, holding the egg in both hands, he expertly sank an impressive fang into it.
From that beginning, Boji set about to peel the leathery shell with atevi-like purpose and dexterity, casting the pieces—in very unatevi-like behavior—in every direction. Nothing ever amended his untidy ways. He had used to play with his prize, hide it, find it and chitter to it, but now he was larger, wiser, less inclined to play, and more set on his privileges . . . more inclined to rattle the cage and shriek if his supper were in any way delayed. Cajeiri had taken on the feeding himself since Eisi and Liedi had acquired a more elevated status: there were new servants, now, under them, and the new staff were a little afraid of Boji, who, indeed, was strong, fast, and very clever.
All manner of circumstances in the apartment had changed in recent days. Boji would be leaving soon, going to a new home with large spaces and trees and others of his kind. One wondered if he would just be a bully . . . or if he would care for them. One wondered if Boji had man’chi to anyone. Boji had warned them, once, of intruders, but Cajeiri suspected that was his complaining of strangers intruding into his territory. He rather suspected that if Boji were ateva, he would be aiji. Either way, he would be happier not spending his days in a small cage.
Boji’s future seemed clear and his outlook happier. But changes in Cajeiri’s own future—seemed less productive of personal happiness. His patient personal staff, Eisi and Liedi, had become his senior staff in the apartment. Two new domestics, Dimaji and Tariko, a husband and wife, had moved into the new annex. Their fear of Boji was risky, apt to provoke bad behavior, and there was no point in making his care an issue—it was not fair to either side, Boji’s departure now being set, certainly unmourned by those two. Eisi and Liedi confessed they would miss the little rascal, and he knew that he would in some senses, but not all.
Changes had poured down on Cajeiri’s little domain. His apartment, really part of his parents’ apartment, had always had its own living room and dining, had a study, an accommodation, a servants’ quarters near the front door, and a bedroom suite at the back, which comprised his room and two rooms for his four bodyguards.
But in an amazingly short number of days, the number of his bodyguards had doubled, and the backstairs of his parents’ apartment had surrendered a set of storerooms, available in the mazy convolutions of the Bujavid with the mere insertion of a doorway at the back of his bedroom, giving him a stub of a hall and space—with a great deal of pounding and dust—for a laundry, a bath, a room for the two married domestics, with potential space for more to come—given another wall taken. So he was informed. Right now the end of the hall was full of construction supplies and a spare sink. In the mostly finished section, too, across from his servants’ apartment, were two sleeping rooms and a separate lounge for the new bodyguards, making his aishid not four, which was ordinary for a lord, but a full eight, the same as Father had.
All because Father had declared him the official heir to the aijinate.
They had all gotten along so well, just the seven of them . . . and Boji. So trusted. . . . And now there were six more people in his household and all of them, well, adult.
Boji wanted yet another egg. The last.
“Behave,” Cajeiri said, this time opening the larger door in the cage to pass it in as far as the perch. Boji wanted to snatch it—fairly trembled with the idea—but restrained himself, furry arms about furry knees, mannerly so long as the egg was in sight.
Cajeiri held it still. Boji reached out and took the egg so delicately, so nicely that one could think that maybe the plan to send him off to the animal park was entirely unnecessary, and a parid’ja could after all be civilized.
Numerous scars about the apartment denied that. One antique and precious spoon, one of a set of nine, remained missing to this day. There were scratches on the walls and on the antique chest, a relic carved with hunting figures, damage that one day would have to be explained to the Department of Antiquities, which managed the household furnishings of the Bujavid. One doubted the scratches would be called history of the piece unless he retained it in his apartment until he was older than Uncle Tatiseigi.
No, Boji clearly had to go to the zoo, for reasons beyond the furniture. The little rascal, who was not quite so light or little as he had been, and was developing a bit of a belly from far too much confinement, bit. And his adult teeth were formidable. He might be a treasure and an entertainment, but he could truly hurt someone.
The zoo would be a big change for Boji. He would have to work for his eggs from now on, digging them out of the sand where his handlers would bury them. Alas for Boji, having the layers of the eggs in reach of those fangs would not be a long-term proposition. The eggs would be brought in from farms, as many as were good for Boji.
He hoped they would boil at least some of them: Boji liked peeling things.
But there would be no more cages and no more leash. Boji would have real trees to climb instead of the china cabinet. Someday soon he would have other parid’ji to chase. Female parid’ji. A family. And no predators. It would not be a bad life at all. Children could come and watch him and he could show off to his heart’s content.
Boji liked being the center of attention. And perhaps, if he became a celebrity, if the name Boji became known throughout the aishidi’tat . . . formerly a valued pet in the Bujavid . . . at least some of those scars on the dining table might be forgiven.
The spot against the wall where the cage had stood for all this time might need some repair. Staff would see to that, the way staff had obligingly seen to all the inconveniences of one notion and the other that had entertained his childhood. He knew he ought to feel remorse for that. But like Boji, he was still a little selfish.
His childhood, though he did not feel he had had enough of it, was indeed coming to an end, and might already be there, for what he could tell. He was pressing hard on his tenth year—the chancy tenth, composed of a dangerous two of risk-fraught fives, comprised of fortunate and unfortunate numbers, no matter which way one figured it. He was old enough to know that, being a child, he had been beyond unreasonable, and wild, and he had done various things dangerous to his family and the aishidi’tat. He had been kidnapped. He had been shot at. And, a fact which disturbed him the more as he grew older, though at the time he had seen it more matter-of-factly, he had, yes, killed a man. It had been necessary, even commendable that he had done it.
But there it was. He had ended someone’s life. He never liked to remember it when he was lying abed at night, but he had to. It was part of him. It was part of what he knew he could do, in necessity . . . what he might one day have to do again, in defense of the aishidi’tat.
He had, with mani and nand’ Bren, traveled on the starship farther than even humans could imagine. He had talked with the kyo, who were much stranger than humans, and he had understood them, well, as much as anyone did. He knew them by name, and they knew his.
He had done all those things. Though he had not thought it remarkable at the time, most importantly, he had gained human associates, only recently landed safely on Earth—near him, though as good as on the moon. He wanted them to visit; and he wanted to visit them, but while meeting on the starship and on the space station had been easy, meeting here was not: by law, humans, with one exception, had to remain on the island of Mospheira.
Rules were different on the space station, where humans and atevi worked together all the time. But down here—well, the world had reasons. So he plotted, and he looked for ways that would not shock the aishidi’tat, or break laws.
He and his human associates might meet on a boat . . . that had been a hope. It still was. There had just been no chance for it yet. They had to get used to their new home and living on a planet instead of inside a ship, and he . . . he had to finish remodeling his household, catch up on his studies . . . and get Boji established safely in his new and lifelong home.
But they would find a way, a way which would not break rules or cause unnecessary worry to his parents . . . or his household. He had to consider such things now more than ever. Father had recently declared him officially heir, and that meant he was more a target of people with bad intentions than he had been before. It was because of that increased danger that Father had doubled the size of his aishid—which had meant more rooms, more staff, more people to think of. . . .
And Father had trusted him to make those arrangements, for all he was only fortunate nine. But it had come to him while making those arrangements, that the increased guard Father had felt he needed were not just Guild, but senior Guild instructors, meant to keep them all safe—and safe, among other things, from his less fortunate ideas.
They were all four good men. Rieni and Haniri, cousins, of the ancient Suradi clan. They had taught tactics in the Guild academy, and had impeccable court polish; Janachi was another aristocrat, but he was, of all things, Kadagidi. Kadagidi clan was outlawed for having tried to assassinate Uncle Tatiseigi, and for being linked to the Shadow Guild, but it was not Janachi’s doing, any of it, and Father said not to mention it.
Janachi had taught hand-to-hand combat at Guild Headquarters.
And the fourth instructor in the unit, Onami, who really was his favorite, had no remote idea what his birth-clan even was. Onami understood explosives and traps and deviosity.
Together, the four, grey-haired and usually frowning, were beyond a sobering presence in the household, which made things less fun—but he also appreciated that they were a special gift, and protective of him and his younger aishid—who had spent so much time protecting him that they had had no time in the Guild to learn how best to do it. Now, after decades spent teaching the highest-level Guild how to stay alive, his four grey-haired bodyguards were teaching him and his young aishid and even the domestics how to defeat all sorts of trouble.
They had brought a certain sobriety to the household, which made for a little less laughter. But only a fool would challenge them in doing the things they could do. And they would keep his younger aishid alive until they could keep themselves alive. That function, above all others, convinced him.
Father, of course, had assigned them here. Personally. Being Father’s son, he had been in danger of one sort or another all his life: that was just who he was. But he had done some truly foolish, reckless things in his life, trusting that he knew more than he did. Mani had said once, on the starship, that that was who he was as well, which had confused him, but when he had asked her what she meant, she had said to ask his father . . . the implication of which he had not thought of until now.
But adventures were all in the past. The older he grew, and especially now, being officially Father’s heir, the worse the consequences to the aishidi’tat from the mistakes he could make. He knew that, too, and he would try, really try not to do foolish things anymore.
Father would not be at all pleased if his heir got himself assassinated.
Not so long ago, maternal Grandfather had gotten himself assassinated—not Father’s doing, he was sure, though he hesitated to ask, for his mother’s sake. But he truly believed it was the Shadow Guild’s doing. Grandfather had betrayed Father and Mother, and mani, and him and all of Ajuri clan, and entirely deserved what had happened, on principle. He had changed sides one too many times, that was what, and might have been killed by finally doing something right, so he might deserve some respect for that. . . .
But whatever the cause, Grandfather was dead and Father and Mother and Uncle . . . and even mani . . . were all searching up the answers for what had gone on in Ajuri and how to fix things—in which cause, mani had kidnapped new-found cousin Nomari to go on this train ride with her, a train ride which had turned out to be about far more than just Grandfather’s doings.
He knew he had done reckless, foolish things, but mani was running all sorts of risks going on this trip, and scariest of all, she was doing it without him, which meant she would take even more risks because when he was along, she thought of his safety, if not her own. He was very glad to hear the Red Train had crossed into safe territory, that Great-grandmother and nand’ Bren were well out of Senjin province and nearly out of Maschi territory: halfway home. They were still with cousin Nomari, a good thing; and without Lord Machigi, which was also a good thing so far as he was concerned. . . .
If only he was certain they were leaving all their danger behind.
Father was extremely worried about Great-grandmother. The Red Train had left Koperna even before the fighting was done, headed west, but for days now, she had not wanted to communicate. Cenedi had said only, She is resting. She is resting. She is resting. No, she has given orders. I cannot wake her.
Cajeiri had heard all this himself, just this last hour. He had been in Father’s office hoping to speak to Great-grandmother, too. But Cenedi had refused, after which Father had used language he did not ordinarily use, but not to Cenedi. Just to mani in her absence, after Father had closed the connection and put down the phone.
“Is she ill, do you think?” Cajeiri had ventured to ask, not because he could not guess for himself that she had exerted herself too much and made herself ill, but because he wanted Father to say something sensible and wise and tell him it was all better than that.
“I think she is too old to be doing this sort of thing,” Father had said. “She has been a pillar of the sky for so long she makes no plan that involves me, let alone another generation. She will never retire from this life, never facilitate a smooth transition of power. She will drop out of the sky like a thunderbolt, damn the wreckage it generates!”
“She cannot die!” The words came out unplanned, unguarded, unwise, the worst of all his fears. And the unluckiest.
“She will give us no fair notice of it, if she is wobbling on the brink,” Father had said, and then reached out and laid a hard hand on his shoulder. “Do not say any of this to staff, do you understand, son of mine? We cannot afford uncertainty, least of all about the situation in the south. It is not just the problems there. The space station is in absolute crisis. Lord Geigi cannot stave panic off much longer. Five thousand humans must be gotten down from the station as soon as that can be managed, or systems up there will begin to collapse, thanks to the disorder among that population. They have to come down now, they have to come down in some orderly fashion, and they have to be made orderly here, because the peace cannot bear a governmental crisis on Mospheira. War in the Marid? That was coming—that has been coming for the last hundred years, though gods less fortunate! your great-grandmother could have waited ’til spring for this.”
“Father,—”
“Listen to me. We have the unknown dimensions of your great-grandmother’s new-made agreements with Hasjuran, Senjin, and the Taisigin, not to mention her promised railroad to Machigi’s capital, and all he will try to wring out of it. These agreements have been signed, but not yet filed. We have not even seen them. The official archive documents will be sent down from Hasjuran, as soon as we can get a train up there and back—when they ought to have been brought down in the Red Train, directly after they were signed. All these will have to be managed, with or without your great-grandmother. Listen to me and stop objecting. This you do not know. The lord of the Dojisigin, Lord Tiajo, has deserted her people. She has escaped, with the chief officers of the Shadow Guild, has gotten out of the Marid. Days ago—by ship, along a route Dojisigin traders ordinarily take. Her destination is beyond a doubt where that route ends, Jorida Isle, in Ashidama Bay.”
Cajeiri knew about Jorida. Jorida Isle dominated Ashidama Bay. Jorida Isle had two main trade connections: one to the Marid in general, and the other with Cobo, the main port of the northern aishidi’tat.
It was one of those dull old geography lessons turned significant, no longer a matter of memorizing answers like what products Ashidama Bay produced or imported. This situation was real, imminent and serious. The Marid’s most profitable shipping all ran to Jorida, and Ashidama Bay, on which the aishidi’tat relied for grain and game and fiber and a long list of commodities very boring to memorize—
But it was suddenly a very critical problem, if the Shadow Guild began operating on Jorida Isle and took over that supply line.
It was a problem only hours away from Najida . . . where the Red Train was now headed.
“Then Najida is in danger, honored Father. So is Kajiminda. And if the train is going through Najida—if they know Great-grandmother is aboard, and nand’ Bren—”
