Protector

Baiji, fool that he was, had been targeted by the Marid, the five southern states, who wanted—badly—to take control of the west coast, and who had hoped to bring the sprawling, sparsely populated Sarini Province under Marid control. Baiji had dealt with fire and gotten burned—badly—when the Marid plans had failed—badly. The Marid had lost leadership of their own plot a year ago, when Tabini, out for two years as the result of a coup, retook his capital. The usurper, Murini, had fled to the Marid, unwelcomely so. Murini had died—which removed him from the scene.

Seeking a power base in the destabilized south, the group that had supported Murini had made their own try at the Marid, creating the mess which the Assassins’ Guild was currently mopping up. The Marid had gotten a new overlord in the process, Machigi, one of the five lords of the Marid, who had managed to keep three of the five districts under his control, and who had notlet Murini’s people displace him.

Machigi was now back in his capital of Tanaja, presumably keeping the agreement of alliance that he had just signed with the aiji-dowager. Geigi’s west coast estate at Kajiminda, freed of threat from the Marid, thanks to that alliance, was given to the servants to keep in good order until there shouldbe a young Maschi heir resident . . . and Geigi’s essential belongings were standing in crates in Bren’s front hallway, ready to be freighted out to the spaceport tomorrow morning.

So, as Tabini said, all Geigi’s onworld affairs were wrapped up, nailed down, and triumphantly settled. The world was in better shape than it had been, with an actual prospect of peace and development in the southern states for the first time in centuries.

“We have notified the rail office,” Tabini added as a postscript, “so the red car will be at your disposal tomorrow morning, nandi.”

“One is very honored,” Geigi murmured with a bow of his head.

That arrangement made things easier. The red car was the aiji’s own transport, not only the personal rail car, but the baggage car that went with it, and the engine that pulled it—occasionally complicated with freight attachments on long treks, for economy’s sake, but rarely allowing passenger cars, for security reasons. The aiji’s train ran rigidly on time, since it had universal priority on the tracks, and Bren had schemed to escort Geigi out to the spaceport personally, hoping to use that car, knowing he was pushing matters of personal privilege just a bit.

“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— notfirst 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.