Intruder (29 page)

His father and mother went their separate ways in the hall; his mother remarked on his coat and cautioned him not to wear it except on special occasions.

“One thought this
was
a special occasion this morning, honored Mother,” he said, which brought a little frown to his mother’s face.

“Well, we shall have to do it far more often,” she said, which was not what he wanted to hear. And she patted his shoulder and then went her way to her suite, while his father had already walked on into the main hall with two of his bodyguard in tow.

Cajeiri had not brought his own guard to stand duty at breakfast, it being inside the apartment. But when he got to the office, his father’s guard took up their posts outside, and one opened the door for them, and shut it when they were inside. It gave the visit an uncomfortably formal feeling, as if he were some kind of offender being brought to court.

“Well,” Father said, settling into his chair at his desk, with stacks of papers and books everywhere about that were mostly classified, and with the important business of the whole world spread
about them. “You do look very fine this morning, son of mine.”

“Thank you, honored Father.” It called for a bow. He made it, hoping hard that this really was only about the tutor and his lessons.

“You are still content with your tutor.”

“Very
much
so, honored Father.”

“A wonder. One has also a good report from him.”

“One is gratified, honored Father.”

His father turned to his desk and took up a small, fat envelope. It was a curious envelope. It had that glassy kind of look that did not belong on earth. It was so transparent one could see writing on it. His father laid it in the midst of his other papers. He wished he could read what it said at this distance, but it was impossible.

“The shuttle has landed,” his father said, “and brought with it a letter.”

His heart had already picked up its beats. Now it beat faster still, but he was not sure whether he was in trouble or not.

“A letter, honored Father.”

“You sent a message, this time by Lord Geigi.”

Faster and faster, and with suddenly far less hope of possessing that letter. He was definitely in trouble, maybe Lord Geigi was, thanks to him, and quibbling would not help matters. “Yes, honored Father.”

“You are determined, are you not, to keep up relations with your associates on the ship.”

“These are valuable associates, honored Father.”

“You think so. They are not the sons and daughters of aijiin. They have no connections.”

He had never heard that objection to his associations. He had never even considered that objection. And he pounced on the only logic he could think of.

“The ship-aijiin have no children, honored Father.”

“You know that, do you?”

“None my age, at least, honored Father. But—”

“Continue your thought. One wishes to hear your reasoning.”

He had never reasoned any logic for his choice of companions, except that they were accessible. There had been more kids, but a handful—a handful were the best ones.

“They have good qualities,” he said. His head had gone spinning off into ship-speak, and it was hard to find words in Ragi to describe these associates. “And they are valuable.” A thought struck him. “Nand’ Bren is not the son of an aiji, is he, honored Father?”

“He is not,” his father said. “Humans form their associations differently. Yet one might suggest that you are a more valuable associate for them than they to you.”

That envelope was
about
Gene and Artur and Irene and Bjorn. It could be
from
them. But if he asked for it, his father would probably say no, and that would be the end of the discussion for years. So he fought to think straight, and not to panic, and not to lose his words. (Lose your words, his great-grandmother would say, after thwacking him on the ear, and you lose your argument. Lose your argument, and you lose what you dearly want.
Think
, boy!
What
are your words?)

“Humans form their associations differently.” He answered his father with his father’s own words. “They do not have to be the sons and daughters of aijiin. I
make
them important.”

His father blinked, at least a sign that he was impressed. “And they have good qualities, you say. What are these qualities?”

“They are clever. They are forward. They know things.”

“And their man’chi?”

He saw that trap and stepped right across it. “Their man’chi is like nand’ Bren’s.”

“One doubts it is that extraordinary,” Father said. “But it has impressed you.”

“They are strong,” he said. “They are quick. They have protected me.”

“Protected you.”

“They have taken the blame for me, honored Father, when I was stupid.”

“An impressive gift. So.” Father was quiet for a moment. “And you were ordered, strictly, to forego this association.”

“I was ordered. But I have learned it would be improper for me, honored Father, to disrespect their man’chi.”

“That is how you read them, in particular. All of them.”

Another trap. It was a test.

“Gene, and Artur, and Irene, honored Father. And Bjorn. Bjorn is a year older. One does not believe the rest have such man’chi, but these four. These four.”

“A fortunate number for an aishid. Was that your thought?”

“I have an aishid, honored Father, and they shall be. But Gene, and Artur, and Irene—they are the three I would most rely on. Bjorn I would rely on to help me and to fight for me. But Gene, and Artur, and Irene, honored Father, these three would be with me through anything. Bjorn has man’chi to them most. But to me, too. I am older, now, and much wiser.”

Father nodded. “And you think it unjust that we have severed you from these persons.”

He could get angry if he let himself. Anger, mani would say, is your enemy’s servant.

“I know why you have ordered it, honored Father. I need to be with atevi. I shall live here and not in space. I shall need to know things I could not learn in space. I need to know atevi and not to be confused about what I am. I need to learn man’chi. I need to learn from atevi.” It was a recital, of things all the adults around him had said, over and over. “Now I know what everybody was telling me about grown-up feelings. Now I know what you and mani wanted to teach me about that. Now I am ready.”

His father leaned back in his chair, as he would do when he was taking a view of something, and ending a conversation. “You
are almost fortunate nine. And extraordinarily precocious.”

“One hopes to be respectful.” He had learned to say that under the threat of a thwack on the ear. “Honored Father.”

“Are you? Respectful?”

His heart ticked up. “One wishes always to be respectful, honored Father.”

“Yet you send secret messages by a lord who may in the future wish your favor.”

“Nand’ Bren says Lord Geigi is honest and I should rely on him. But nand’ Bren has man’chi to you, and so does Lord Geigi. So I know he would have told you. But I suppose he might have forgotten to tell you. Things were very confused at Najida.”

“Oh, do not be elusive, son of mine. It hardly becomes an aiji. Speak your mind.”

“Then you should not be angry at Lord Geigi for sending my message. I am the one. I was not proper to him, to ask him to carry a message you would not approve. I did not expect him to send it. He may not have known you disapproved.”

His father’s face was quite grim. “He is no fool. Do you think he is?”

“Not at all. But he may be busy.”

“It was quite clever. He did come to me. I told him to send the message. And all the rest.”

“All my other letters?”

“I saved them.”

He drew a deep, slow breath. Bowed, which was always a good idea when the conversation was getting tense.

“Honored Father.”

“So here is your answer,” Father said, nudging the glassy envelope closer. “A letter carried down on the shuttle. One inquired of Jase-aiji as to the propriety of the exchange.”

“Jase-aiji.” Jase-aiji was one of nand’ Bren’s associates. Jase-aiji had been good to him, on the ship.

“I asked him, through the ship-paidhi, how your association with
these persons stands. He responded that they often ask about you and often wish their good will sent to you. You are right. The association has not broken, though strongly encouraged to break.”

A second deep breath. A second bow. He did not trust his voice. His heart was beating for all he was worth.

“These three,” his father said, “and the fourth, are an inconvenient symmetry in ages. There will be comment on that, among the ’counters. And much as we belittle the ’counters for folly, there is reason in this. There is something missing. One does not think it is this Bjorn person, who wrote only briefly and formally and has entered technical preparation on the ship. He will not come.”

“One—has no idea, honored Father.”

“There will be someone,” his father said. “A fourth. Everyone will say so. But you are approaching your ninth and felicitous year, and one has asked oneself what sort of celebration there should be. Your grandfather and your great-uncle will of course have their plans,
and
their regional ambitions, about which you know something.”

“I know, honored Father. But—”

“Do not interrupt me.”

“Forgive me.”

“I am having a generous moment. I am having an extremely generous moment—and perhaps a moment of far less charity toward these pestilential regional ambitions. I shall not have a civil war breaking out between your grandfather and your great-uncle, or between your mother and me, or between me and my grandmother. Each will deplore the other’s influence. Half will deplore the association with nand’ Bren, half will support it. And it is in my mind to give everyone something else to deplore, if I can prevail upon Jase-aiji to move the parents of these three young people to permit them to attend you on your birthday—down and back up to the station again on the same shuttle cycle. Would that please you, son of mine?”

“Honored Father.” He found himself all but speechless. “Indeed.” He remembered to bow. “One would be extremely pleased.”

“One had little doubt of that. Your mother is anxious. I am not. One will expect extraordinarily good behavior before, during, and after this event. You understand the word ‘incident,’ do you not?”

“Yes, honored Father. One does understand it.”

“Do you understand my desire not to have one surrounding this event?”

“One understands very, very well, honored Father. One will be on absolutely the best behavior. And likewise my associates.”

“This entails the consent of their parents. Jase-aiji can strongly suggest they give it. He cannot order them to permit this, nor is it certain that your young associates will wish to come here. But you may invite them, and Jase-aiji will support your request, as will I. As will your mother.”

He bowed, and bowed again for good measure. “One would be ever so grateful, ever so well-behaved, ever so polite—”

His father lifted a hand for silence.

“Go,” his father said. “Go begin behaving well, today. Let us have another good report from your tutor.”

“You shall have, honored Father! Thank you!”

“Out.”

He left. He left with a look back at the doorway to see whether his father was still serious. He was. He ducked out and shut the door and went straight down the hall to his own door, and inside.

“Nadiin-ji!” he said when he had come in, and he scared Boji, who hopped from perch to perch in his cage and chattered at him.

But he had such good news, such absolutely unexpectedly wonderful news he could hardly hold it.

He had to start reading and writing in ship-speak again. He would teach his aishid. They needed to know it, being his bodyguards.

The whole heavens had opened up.

And when all his bodyguards appeared in the doorway, Antaro in only her underwear, he hardly even noticed that, he was so excited.

“I have news,” he said. “Nadiin-ji, I am going to have the best birthday there could ever be! My ship-associates are coming!”

“Indeed?” Antaro asked.

“For my birthday! Father sent the message, and I have letters!”

It was very little time until his birthday happened and until he could see his shipboard-associates, and they could meet his aishid, and they would all get together and talk until all hours.

Oh, and then he could show
them
how clever he had taught Boji to be. They would never have seen a parid’ja, or a mechieta, or anything of the kind. That would be wonderful to them.

He would show them the Bujavid and mecheiti. He would take them on the train, and they could go to Uncle Tatiseigi’s estate, and he would show them all how to ride.

And he would have Boji travel with them, because by then he would have trained Boji. Boji would amaze them. They all told stories about dogs and cats and horses, and he had seen them in the human archive, but he was sure nobody alive had ever seen one. And
he
had Boji, who would do wonderful things by then, and everybody would have a grand time, and
maybe
he could get permission to take his associates from the ship out to nand’ Bren’s estate at Najida, too, and they could see the ocean from right on the boat dock, and maybe even sail on nand’ Bren’s boat. Even if nand’ Bren could not be there, there were people who knew how to sail the boat, and with nand’ Bren’s permission, they could do it.

There would be so many wonderful things. So incredibly many things to do.

He had the envelope in his hand.
Words
from them.
Shipspeaka.
He had drawn his pictures to remember the ship and remember
the words. And he had taught a few of the words and the alphabet to his aishid, but now it was urgent, and they were all going to learn and practice every single day.

Oh, it was so good!

Bindanda insisted he needed no day off to recuperate, and the result was a splendid and elaborate breakfast, the junior cook having had the foresight to have made a very large and extended food order, not just the staples for feeding twice the number as before, but the full array of ingredients, as the junior cook put it, that a master chef might expect to find in the best of kitchens.