Protector

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. Somethingwas 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.

Thatwas how powerful Geigi had become. And Geigi was still the counterbalance to the administration. Geigi didn’t wantpower, but he had it. His own house was down to the questionable genes of a single fool of an embezzling nephew, and Geigi was happier in space than he was on his estate, even with his orchards.

Everyone who knew the situation—was very grateful for Geigi’s presence in the heavens. Nobodycould easily stage another coup, with Tabini on high alert for treachery and Geigi’s finger on the button up on the station. If they a second time contemplated dislodging Tabini from power—they knew now that Geigi was a threat, and capable of unifying the aiji’s supporters no matter what happened to other communications networks.

What else Geigi and the station might be capable of, no ateva knew, and Bren hoped they’d never have reason to find out.

The last of the dissidents who’d staked their lives on Murini’s coup were fighting with their backs to the wall, trying to carve out a territory where they could do things their way. They’d enjoyed a temporary safe haven in the Marid—until they’d gotten greedy and taken on Machigi andLord Geigi.

Now they had lost that security. They had lost a pitched battle. They had lost a clandestine operation.

Unfortunately they still had their underground . . . and they still had a sting.

Even after the business in the Marid, a few fools who’d thought they’d scented weakness in Tabini had pushed to get influence. The most outstanding fool had been Damiri’s father, Komaji, lord of Ajuri.

The man had gotten into power on the death of his brother, and lost all common sense—as witness his public tantrum in the halls of the Bujavid. Komaji had let his rivalry with Tatiseigi blind him, perhaps because Tatiseigi had been included in an honor and he had not, but even that wasn’t clear. He had thrown a tantrum, tried to force his way into Tabini’s home, had terrified the staff and sent Cajeiri into hiding. It had been extremely embarrassing for Damiri, who at that point had a clear choice: leave her marriage—or leave her father’s clan.

The world had suspected, when she had not departed with her staff, and tonight, with that shocking arrival in the dining room, she had laid any lingering doubts firmly to rest.

•   •   •

The second course arrived, and then the third, with the traditional pause for applause for the aiji’s truly excellent personal cook. The old man, reasonably new to the aiji’s service, bowed happily, accepted the praise, and then had his staff bring out the next, the fourth course, a set of imaginatively arranged dishes which filled the ample table to overflowing.

Bren took the vegetables he knew, and did nottrust the seasonal tubers, last of the winter root crop, traditional to use up before the first breaking of the vine-buds.

The traditional recipe, alas, rich in alkaloids atevi thought wonderful, would have a human dead in short order.

“You are missing the traditional dish, paidhi,” Tatiseigi chided him.

“Alas, one must leave it to your enjoyment, nandi. One is very strongly advised against it.”

“Oh, surely, just a sample . . .” Tatiseigi said, not because Tatiseigi wanted him dead, Bren hoped—such an ungracious way to get out of a dinner invitation. The old man’s relaxed, somewhat wine-assisted complacency indicated he was in an unprecedentedly happy mood this evening. It was, Bren decided, actually rather touching, that solicitude about the dish, as if Tatiseigi was certain the paidhi-aiji had become atevi enough now to survive the diet.

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