Authors: C. J. Cherryh

Deceiver: Foreigner #11 (46 page)

BOOK: Deceiver: Foreigner #11

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The road wended upward slightly, and the avenue became a tightly wound spiral uphill, through gardens and hedges, and this, too, was not that foreign a notion. The citadel of a town was its seat of government, and it was most commonly on a hill—though that hill was most commonly built up and paved over.

This hill was simply gardens, formal gardens, until they reached a lighted building, and a cobblestone drive, and a major doorway.

They were in. They were at the heart of what was not that large a city—Tanaja had a population, one recalled, of about a hundred thousand in itself . . . more of the Transportation and Commerce statistics. Fish. Spices. Game. Roof tiles and limestone. Those were its major exports.

The mind leapt from fact to fact. It was not time to panic. The bus was coming to a stop now, as the truck stopped ahead of them, and more people came toward the bus from the lighted portico.

Banichi got up. So did Jago. “Open the door, nadi,” Banichi said, and Bren got up, feeling a little panicked, his collected thoughts scattering. He had no information to process. Just things to absorb, the number of those about the bus that they could see—about twenty, he thought, which probably meant at least that many again that they did not see.

The door opened. Another Guildsman, an older man, came up into the bus and looked at Banichi and Jago, at him, and back over the bus as a whole. It was a scowling, intent face, deliberate, Bren thought, betrayal of hostility, in a culture that avoided display. But no weapon was drawn.

Banichi’s face, in profile, was completely serene. So was Jago’s.

“The paidhi will come with us,” that man said.

Unvarnished, but not impolite, skirting the edge of courtesy. And here it was. Bren moved a step. Banichi and Jago, who were in front of him, moved. And a hand went up.

“Only the paidhi’s aishid,” the man said, and gave way.

A better requirement than might have been, evidencing a certain willingness to follow the courtesies—or seeking to remove leadership and direction from the rest of the Guildsmen on the bus:
that
was not the case. Damadi was perfectly capable of acting on his own.

Bren descended the bus steps behind Banichi and Jago, and heard Tano and Algini behind him. His bodyguard had their sidearms and their hosts had not objected. That was another courtesy. At this point one took any encouragement one could get.

They reached the cobbled drive, and Machigi’s Guildsmen offered them a path up the steps to the lighted portico of the building, and the open doors above.

Golden light, carved doorposts, big double doors: it was at least a formal entrance to the place, not necessarily the main one, but it might be. Banichi and Jago walked ahead of him, just behind the primary two of the local Guild, Tano and Algini behind, with the other half of the local team bringing up the rear. Matched, force for force: a good sign, that. But one didn’t take anything for granted. It was, minimally, good behavior in full view of the bus, which now had to be self-contained, a virtual security cell, for many, many hours, at the very best outcome.

And figure that Machigi’s forces would be out there arranging themselves around that little kernel of foreign power, to neutralize it fast in any confrontation. If the paidhi-aiji could figure that out, damned sure every Guildsman out there was planning and counterplanning.

They reached the top of the steps. More security stood about the door. The odds were decidedly tilting in favor of the local Guild. But no one moved to interfere with them, and they kept walking, into a hallway smaller than the foyer at Shejidan, to be sure, but certainly ornate, with gilt scrollwork, marble columns, and displayed porcelains of subtle colors—two, astonishingly intricate, columns of sea creatures, flanking another double door on the right.

Fragile. Precious. This was surely not a back entry.

The pale doors between those porcelain towers opened, pushed outward by attendants in brocades and silk. That was their destination, evidently, and their escort led them inside, onto a russet carpet, with a pattern of waves and weeds in muted greens. Precious things were all about them. The furnishings, small groups of chairs, were all inlaid, and a long marble-topped table held a tall arrangement of shell and water-worked stone.

Their escort stopped here. Other Guild entered from a side door and took their places. And still others arrived. Heavy weapons were in evidence.

Bren drew a slow, deep breath and mentally took possession of the room, these people, not least his own escort, calming himself.

A man entered from a side door, a young man in the muted blue and green of Taisigi clan, brocades with the spark of gold thread, ample lace. He matched the description: an athletic young man with a scar on his chin—not an unhandsome young man, with a countenance flawed by a very unpleasant scowl, and carrying an object in his hand, a rather large Guild-issue pistol.

Bren walked toward him, Banichi and Jago one on a side of him, and stopped, then took a step beyond that, and bowed, slightly and politely, the degree for a court official, himself, to a provincial lord. He gave Machigi that, at least, face to face with him.

Machigi did not reciprocate. Bren straightened, and Machigi raised the pistol to aim it point blank at his face.

Well. That was a first.

A gentleman didn’t flinch, or change expression. Which left the rude act just as it was. Rude. And in the possession of the other party.

“Nandi,” Bren said moderately. “One appreciates your caution, and your reserve. There are matters underway, however, which my principal does not believe do you justice, and we are not here in hostility.”

“Your principal being?”

“The aiji-dowager.”

“The aiji-dowager, who has stirred up the Edi pirates and promised them what she has no right to promise?”

“The aiji-dowager, who has heard that the Assassins’ Guild council is now meeting on charges that may or may not be justified. I have in my possession a message, an instruction and a question. Did you in fact order the mining of the public north-south road in Najida district, and did you order the kidnapping of a child?”

The gun barrel did not waver. It was no less nor more lethal than the intent in this young man’s mind, and he was not stupid, nor cowardly. All the guns round about would not prevent the paidhi-aiji’s aishid from taking him out if that gun went off.

“No,” Machiji said. “We did not.”

“Then I am here to gather information which may change the Guild council debate.”

“I have told you all you need know.”

“You have not heard, however all you will find of mutual benefit for us to discuss, discreetly, nandi. One gathers that you have confidence in your aishid. I do, in mine. My principal suggests that the attacks near Najida were aimed more at you than at us. She suggests that destabilization of the Marid, while temporarily beneficial to us, would not be beneficial, in the long view, and she is prepared to take the long view.”

“Who is your principal?” Second asking of that question.

“So far as I am aware, nandi,
only
the aiji-dowager at this point. The Guild with me, outside, are Tabini-aiji’s, but attached to his grandmother in this instance, and under her orders.”

“You are fast-moving, paidhi. This morning in Najida. This afternoon in Targai. This evening meddling in the Marid.”

“Circumstances have been changing rapidly. It is far from my principal’s intent to contribute to instability in this region. If that were her intent, she need only sit back and let appearances carry the debate forward in the Guild.”

“Perhaps she intends to tempt me to an incident here and now.”

“I am not lightly sacrificed, nandi.”

The gun clicked. Dropped to Machigi’s side. “You have nerve, paidhi.”

Now the pulse rate skipped. One could not afford the least expression. This was not the point to waver, not in the smallest point of decorum—never mind that Machigi was tall, and he was inevitably looking up. “The things I hear of you, nandi, encourage me to believe the same of you. Clearly, with my principal, you have accomplished things in the Marid that have suggested a reconsideration of associations.”

“Your principal has no power to negotiate.”

“Shejidan has said nothing to prevent her current action. This is, in my own experience of this lifelong association, more than significant.”

A moment of silence followed that statement. Machigi’s hand lifted. He snapped his fingers. His guard, round about, opened side doors. Bren stood his ground. So did his bodyguard.

“Tea,” Machigi said, and with the left hand, without the gun, made an elegant gesture toward a grouping of chairs.

Bren gave a slight nod and went, as directed, to stand by the chairs; his bodyguard moved with him, perfectly in order, as did four of Machigi’s. Machigi sat down, he sat down, and servants appeared from the side doors, bearing a beautiful antique tea service, of the regional style.

There was, by courtesy, no discussion of the issues. Which somewhat limited one to the weather.

And necessitated Machigi, as host, defining the topic.

“So how have you found the region, nand’ paidhi?”

One had to avoid politics. “One enjoys the sea air, nandi,” he said. “And the uplands are quite scenic.”

“You are alleged, paidhi-aiji, to have voyaged to very strange places.”

“I have, nandi,” he said.

“One is naturally curious,” Machigi said. “Were there
places
out there?”

“Where we were, nandi, was a place much like the space station.”

“A metal place.”

“Very much so. Indistinguishable from the ship itself, except in scale.”

“And do you take pleasure in such places?”

He thought a moment, over a sip of tea. “Mountaintops, nandi, are similar in some respect: one may be uncomfortable in some regards getting there, but the view from the top is astonishing.”

“And what did you see from that vantage, nand’ paidhi?”

“Farther worlds, farther suns, nandi, people more different from both of us than we are from each other—but people with whom we have found some understanding.”

“What use are they?”

“As much as we are to them—occupying a place in a very large darkness. As Tanaja sits at the edge of a very large sea, with all its benefits. Space does have shores, in a sense, and people do live there.”

“The world has had enough foreignness.”

“There will be no second Landing. The space station will see to that.”

“How?”

“Because outside visitors will be limited to that contact, as much as we find beneficial, and no further, nandi. But we are verging on business, now, one of those matters in which one would very much like to see the Marid have its share.”

“Why should you think so? And why should your principal think so?”

“Because the opportunity is that wide. There is no point to hoarding it. If the Marid prospers, it is no grief at all to the world at large. It will
not
disturb the trade of the south coast. The unique items which the Marid produces and in which it trades are
not
duplicated by manufacturing or found in space.”

Machigi emptied his teacup and held it up to be refilled. “Another round, nand’ paidhi.”

That was good. Bren held up his own cup, and they settled back to discussion of more polite nature.

“An extraordinarily beautiful service, nandi,” Bren said.

“Three hundred years old,” Machigi said, “one of the treasures of the aijinate of Tanaja. The island which produced it was devastated by a sea wave. This service happened to be on a ship which survived, being at sea at the time.”

“Extraordinary,” Bren said.

“There are a few other items surviving of that isle. But increasingly few. They have suffered somewhat in the centuries since. We have attempted to discover the source of the glaze, but the isle is gone, submerged. We suspect it came from a plant which may now be extinct.”

“A loss. A great loss, nandi. The blue is quite deep, quite a remarkable color.”

“Greatly valued, to be sure.”

“One is honored even to see it.”

Machigi made a wry salute with his cup. “And you a human. You are the second human I have ever seen.”

Thump went the heart. “The second, nandi.”

“There is a woman,” Machigi said. “A member of your household, so I understand.”

“Barb-daja.”
That
took no far leap. But it called into question the dowager’s theory, on which they had come here, and the safety of themselves and everyone on that bus. “You have indeed seen her, nandi?”

“Indeed.” Machigi said.

“Is she well, nandi?”

Machigi shrugged, and this time set his cup down. “Who is this lady, nand’ paidhi?”

BOOK: Deceiver: Foreigner #11

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