Destroyer (27 page)

Circles. Interlocking circles. And no one went far by truck or bus. If they took their little truck out of district, it would look increasingly out of place, the farther it went from its origin. It could by no means serve them all the way to Shejidan. The train was where they were going. And how they were going to get aboard that without a fuss . . .

“Will we ride the train?” Cajeiri asked, as they bounced painfully about in potholes and what might be ruts, or simply an abundance of rocks amid the gravel. “Are we going to drive all the way to Shejidan?”

“We will take the train, young sir,” Cenedi’s voice said in the darkness. And because there was an obvious next question, for which Cajeiri could be heard drawing breath: “As far as Taiben.”

Taiben, it was. The aiji’s estate. If there was one place they might find trouble, nearly as efficiently as at Shejidan, Taiben was a likely place.

But it was a sprawling estate, almost a province unto itself, a maze of hunting paths and woods in which they might even lose this truck—if they could get fuel enough to get them there. He wished they could do without the train.

“Listen to me,” Ilisidi said, sternly, “listen, great-grandson, and remember a name. Desari. Remember this name, and be in debt to this village. Lord Geigi once rescued this man Desari and his daughter at sea when their boat engine failed, and when they had drifted for days, likely to die. Geigi recommended Desari of Desigien as a name to rely on, since every year that he could, on the anniversary of the rescue, this Desari has sent Lord Geigi a gift, so I have it from Geigi. So the debt remains, until Geigi might call on him. This will discharge the debt to Geigi, and place it on us in his place.”

“On the Ragi.”

“On all the Ragi,” Ilisidi said. “And you must remember it, boy, for another generation, a debt to him, and his whole association. The risk we have asked of them is considerable.”

“Our enemies could see the name on the truck.”

“Exactly so, if we make a mistake, and they will be in grave danger. What is the name, boy?”

“Desari,” Cajeiri said. “Desari. From this coast. From Desigien. But, mani-ma, will this Desari come with us on the train?”

“No,” Cenedi said. “He would be little help.”

“But,” said Cajeiri.

“Give us rest, great-grandson. An honest truck does not jabber as it proceeds along the road. We should be an ordinary truck, full of fish. Who knows who might hear, along the road?”

“Who would be listening, mani-ma?”

“
Hush
, I say!”

There was silence, then, none of them brooking the dowager’s exhausted annoyance for a very long, bumpy ride. Bren felt himself bruised, his own baggage having gone to cushion Ilisidi, and protected his computer in his arms, which somewhat kept him stable.

There was a whole world of things which, he thought suddenly, no, the boy didn’t automatically know, simply by being born atevi. He’d been very young when he’d been shunted off to Taiben, and then again sent off to his great-great-uncle Tatiseigi’s estate at age five, scarcely informed about the world at large, scarcely philosophical when, scarcely six, he’d gotten a little freedom of the grounds and learned to ride.

That had been a disaster, involving wet concrete and a very large patio, and uncle Tatiseigi’s great indignation.

Then the lad had been whisked off to space to get an education. To get an education, his father had said.

In what? Hacking the ship’s computer? Talking to hostile foreigners? Cajeiri was quite precocious in those regards . . . but what had they taught him? A fondness for dinosaurs?

They might, if they had been wiser, spent a little more time on the ordinary arts of going unseen, on natural history and most of all on atevi classics, which might have taught him that badgering his great-grandmother was not productive of harmony.

Not to mention the boy’s lack of knowledge about the world itself. How could he know how this truck fit into a village on the coast? How could he know how the roads lay, or how they all went to rail lines?

The boy had, literally, dropped in out of space onto his own planet, naïve regarding the weather, regarding the geography, naïve in many ways regarding Ragi rural society, and, the paidhi supposed, ignorant of the fabric of traditional atevi life which ought to trigger appropriate atevi twitches in young atevi nerves—if those nerves hadn’t been jangled by too much sugar and too many humans and no contact at all with the planet. He’d done his most critical growing in a linear human corridor only partially jury-rigged into a dwelling of atevi pattern. He’d entertained himself with movies and cultivated human children. The atevi world—it had its rhythms, its seasonally proper foods, its rules of etiquette and ethics, all the social graces that appeased volatile tempers and stiff regional pride. The boy had had the dowager to hammer the traditional courtesies and social conventions into his head, but had the nerves ever gotten triggered in the right ways, at the right times, in the very basic sense?

One could have a very deep unease, given what Cajeiri didn’t know, what they’d robbed him of, in taking him to space. The boy had no ingrained concept of how profound the bond had been between Geigi and that fisherman, the situation that allowed this debt to be passed up the lines of man’chi, from Lord Geigi to Geigi’s lords. Up, in the direction of wealth and ability—but never down, onto the shoulders of a poor man, who could discharge his debt by convincing his village to lend a truck.

But obligating the lord forever. And thence never to be discharged. That had been what Ilisidi had been trying to be sure of—that the young lord would know that name, remember the debt in his own generation, if hers failed that man. That was what the paidhi dimly grasped.

But had the boy? Cajeiri had sunk into quiet, and probably, in such silent times—Bren feared—was remembering the ship, not his uncle Tatiseigi’s estate, not the Bujavid, or Taiben. He was, one very much suspected, thinking about the human company he’d left behind, since he had few enough memories of any other associations.

Can Gene and Artur go with me? Not just a boyish question. Desperation. Attachment, in a bond even the human paidhi had to think was unhealthy. The right social nerves just hadn’t gotten the right trigger at the right times, and the boy was more than a little lost, getting instruction, but missing any emotional connection. He knew all the right social moves the way he memorized the provincial capitals and their lords, but not why those moves had to be made.

Dared one think . . . a sociopath, if one let one’s thoughts wander far, far down an unpleasant track?

Impossible. A good and willing kid. Angry. Hurt. Exhausted. The dowager shoved lectures at him, and he argued, he defended his ground, he increasingly annoyed his grandmother, who probably had a better sense of what was going on with the child than he possibly could. His own advice certainly couldn’t help the boy.

The fish—God, the fish had been a moment. He afforded himself a wan laugh, in silence. But having to fish, having to have an activity, that was the frenetic energy the boy had, that explored things and then sent him dashing back to great-grandmama when the world threatened him . . .

That flocking instinct? Man’chi in its early expression? Maybe dashing back to adults was the normal part and the brash, aggressive exploration was what he’d picked up from his human associates.

Maybe a human just didn’t know how to judge the boy, and ought not to say a thing.

While Jago, who knew less about children than she knew about field-stripping her guns, had expressed concern during their voyage, but seemed to indicate there was not much to do about Cajeiri’s isolation, except to keep him happy and to discourage him from the human Archive. Banichi had said, what was it? That the boy was going to have to stand still long enough to be aiji in Shejidan, and that was by no means a given.

The brakes began a prolonged squeal.

“Keep utterly still,” he heard Cenedi say, doubtless aiming that at the boy, and the truck bumped and heaved to a stop.

Conversation reached them from outside the tarp, questions about their use of the truck, from someone who definitely didn’t recognize their right to have it, or to be here. Bren held his breath, held utterly still.

“Picking up driftwood, nadi,” he heard Jago said, in a country accent he’d never heard her use, “to make lamps.”

“Lamps, is it?” he heard from that strange voice.

“Driftwood lamps, nadi,” she said, “which sell quite well in Shejidan.”

“Who authorized you to have this truck?”

The wrong answer could damn the man and the whole village who’d helped them. Could cost lives.

“The council, nadi,” Jago said, “for a consideration. A fee for the wood and for the hire of the truck.”

“Papers,” the man said.

“Here,” Banichi said, and got out, a creaking of springs and the opening of the door.

Thump.
That
was the truck door on Jago’s side, and a second thump, as something hit the ground.

“Good move,” Banichi said, and one formed a picture of that truck door opening and bashing right into a man, perhaps a local security patrol, who’d gotten too inquisitive.

There was some to-do outside, a series of small movements.

“Best take him along,” Banichi said. “He may be local.”

The logic in that was clear, that they wanted no blood on their ally’s hands, and the man who’d come afoul of two Assassins was still, courteously enough, alive.

Banichi came around to lower the tailgate, letting in daylight and a welcome waft of cool air.

“One regrets to report an inquisitive nuisance,” Banichi said, “and a problem. We propose, nand’ dowager, to put the local constable aboard, and leave him where we leave the truck, for our ally’s sake, for peace in the district. We believe he is not Desigien village, but perhaps a neighbor from Cobo.”

“Do so,” Ilisidi said. “How far are we from the rail?”

“Not far, nand’ dowager. The train comes into the station just after dark, and will pick up the local railcar, which is our best hope. We are to leave the truck in its ordinary spot, which is by the depot north wall, where we can move safely after dark. After that the ride may be much cooler, nandiin, one regrets to say.”

One formed a picture. The local car would carry fish. And ice.

 

Their unwanted passenger came to in the dark, blindfolded and gagged, and thumped around, kicking and protesting, until Cenedi’s men got hold of him.

“You will live, nadi,” Nawari’s voice said pleasantly in the dark. “Be patient. We mean no particular harm to you and we shall return the truck, the use of which we took.”

A deal of muffled outcry, then. And a quick subsidence after.

Everyone had to be quiet. Cenedi had said that while their passenger was still unconscious. Particularly the dowager, the heir, and the stray human had to keep quiet, their voices being far too remarkable.

“The drug has taken effect,” Nawari said, “but we should not rely on it. It has its hazard, nandiin-ji.”

There was silence. So on they rolled, with one bound, gagged constable heavily sedated, from that store of small nastinesses the Assassins’ Guild sometimes used. Finesse, Banichi called it.

They maintained particular silence, as the truck rolled slowly over smooth, and therefore well-maintained, road, which indicated a populated, frequently-traveled region. It was probably a picturesque village they had come to. They were probably not in Desigien, but at Adaran, at the railhead, and the Desigien truck sitting still and waiting for the train was probably not that unlikely an evening event.

Banichi got out of the truck, and asked, near the side: “How are things?”

“Our guest is sedated,” Cenedi said. “We shall renew the dose every half hour. We are monitoring him carefully.”

“We are at the station, parked at the appropriate place. There is no shade, one regrets to say. How is the dowager?”

“Hot and cross, nadi,” Ilisidi snapped. “But it seems we all are hot and cross, and will freeze tonight. Cease talking. Take no chances.”

“Yes,” Banichi said simply, and got back into the truck cab, for a long, long wait.

It was a very long, uncomfortable silence, in the stifling, oil-smelling heat of the sun on the canvas above their heads. Once and twice again someone administered another dose of sedative, and reported they still had a steady pulse.

Someone approached the truck, a slow scuff of gravel. That someone, a female person, went as far as the door of the truck and spoke quietly and respectfully to Banichi and Jago. She said something about having walked here, and being the driver, and taking the truck back.

“When the train leaves,” Banichi answered that person. “Come back then. Do not associate yourself with us, for your own safety.”

“What of the fish?” Jago asked.

“We have everything on yesterday’s ice, nadi,” the female person said. “Some days the truck breaks down. We will bring the catch in tomorrow night. We shall make up for it. Thank you for asking.”

“We have an unexpected problem,” Banichi said. “The constable met us on the road and questioned us. He is sedated. Back there. Would you know who would properly be on the road above Cobo village, asking us questions?”

“I by no means know, nadi,” was the answer. “But the Cobo constable would not be wandering around up on the ridge.”

Banichi said, “Come have a look at him.”

The truck rocked. Steps moved around to the tailgate, and Banichi lifted the tarp. Sunlight came in, and a young girl stood with Banichi and Jago, a pretty young girl with astonished eyes.

“Aiji-ma?” she said reverently.

“Nandiin,” Banichi said, “this is Ruso, our associate’s daughter. And the driver. We would not let her drive it here.”

“We are grateful,” Ilisidi said, from the deep recesses, where the angled light glimmered off atevi eyes. “We regret the inconvenience. Show her this man.”