Peacemaker (31 page)

“Kaplan and Polano are back there,” Bren said to Jase—the atevi crowd cut off all view of the back of the hall. And to the children: “Quite the show, isn't it?”

“What's next, sir?” Gene asked.

“Quite a lot of speeches, likely. Be patient.”

“They will be,” Jase said, his hand on Gene's shoulder. Atevi etiquette was the order of the evening, however, and Jase let his hand fall. “Are we all right to be where we are?”

The youngsters were the only children in the hall: at the front was the only place they could stand, and be able to see.

“You're fine,” Bren said. “They're with you. There's a service door right over to the left. If I disappear for a while, that's where I'll be. If there should be any problem—that's where to go.”

“Understood,” Jase said, and that was one problem he could put from his mind.

Damiri was clearly
not
in good sorts this evening, arms crossed and locked, face set in a scowl. God only knew what sort of exchange she had had with Tabini to prompt Tabini to ask
him
to intervene—but it could not be good. The crowd in the museum had not been the sort of crowd to cause problems of a rowdy sort in a place like that. But in the Audience Hall, after a certain time, with alcohol involved . . .

With the political surprise the aiji intended . . .

With the Guild running dark and most of the members unable to communicate . . .

God, he wanted this evening over with.

 • • • 

Mother was
not
happy. She gave Great-uncle a sharp answer when he asked her if anything was the matter, and Cajeiri had said, very quietly, “Honored Uncle, I shall stay with her.” It was not what he wanted to do. He had far rather get a moment to go over to his guests, but he was on best manners, and he was afraid even to look at them right now, because they would likely wave, and he could not answer them, and then they would think they had done something wrong.

Maybe it was the television cameras his mother disapproved. His mother had sworn when the lights had gone on in their faces. She had said a word he had never heard her say. And she had had words with his father in the museum, too—he had not heard what they had said, but his mother had been upset about something.

Nobody had told
him
there would be television cameras, either, or if someone had—he had not been paying enough attention. But he was more worried than angry.

He had gotten through meeting people in the museum. He had leaned heavily on the system of clan colors—which were also the relationships and the history, the way new clans built off old ones.

But sometime before midnight he was supposed to make that speech.

He had to remember that missing line, that was what. And there were television cameras, and he had to get it right. It was one word. One
word
, and if he could remember that, he could remember the whole rest of it.

He thought he could, at least.

They were using the old-fashioned oil lamps, besides the electrics, the way they did for evening parties, and probably once everybody was in place they might dim the lights again and leave only spots of light. The place smelled of food: there was a buffet set up, and his stomach noticed that, too. He had only pretended to eat lunch. If they did dim the lights, he thought wildly, if nobody was paying attention, he might get away for a few moments to find Gene and Artur and Irene at the buffet. Usually buffets were not that formal. But—

With television cameras on them—how could they? If he so much as moved, television cameras were likely to go right to him.

He could not think about those things. He just had to concentrate on remembering the speech. If he embarrassed his father by being a fool with the speech, it was not just his mother who was going to be in a bad mood.

The first line was—

The first line started, all speeches did, with
Nandiin, nadiin . . .

No. It did
not
start that way. That was what confused him. It started with
I thank my family . . .

He could just not get beyond that.

Why did it have to start differently? Why did he have to forget one word right in the middle of the beginning? He could remember everything after that, if he could just remember the first part.

He would not say anything infelicitous. That was the main thing. He would say something polite, and he would avoid infelicity. There were seven kabiuteri on the landing of the dais, just a little below where his father was sitting. You could never mistake them, with their square, brimless white hats and their white robes. And they were there to keep the felicitous gods happy and the infelicitous ones out of the hall. Even if his father called it nonsense.

The lights dimmed down, and one of his father's bodyguards came down the steps, a moving shadow, coming for him, he began to realize. The camera swung toward that man, and that man came down to the third step and bowed to
him.

The television lights were on him, white, like giant eyes.

“Young gentleman,” his father's bodyguard said, and wanted him to come up. He started that way. His bodyguard did, on either side of him.

Then the lights left him and swung up to where his father was coming down the steps. He could hardly see in the sudden dark. He could
not
stumble. He took the steps very carefully, felt Antaro's hand at his elbow, ready to help him, but he managed on his own, and climbed to the place where his father stopped, up in the light, where his father's black brocade glistened like Guild leather; his own coat blazed with metallic red.

Drummers and string-players started up from somewhere in the dark edge of the buffet, and the kabiuteri banged their staffs.

At the foot of the dais, where the light barely reached, his mother stood watching; and he saw Great-grandmother, Lord Tatiseigi, and nand' Bren. They were right at the steps, his mother and Lord Tatiseigi and nand' Bren all a spot of brightness, and mani's black lace drinking up the light.

There were far more people than had been in the museum. The whole hall was full, and just people moving created a noise.

A horn sounded. One was not supposed to gawk, but every head turned. He supposed he was permitted.

A kabiutera's assistant on the steps had the horn, and blew it three times in all, until the voices and the echoes died away.

Then the senior kabiutera lifted his hands and intoned something in a language that hardly even seemed Ragi. He had heard it before, he very dimly recalled, when he was very small, maybe five. Maybe six. It was spooky-sounding, the whole thing. But when he looked past the kabiutera, in the television lights, he finally spotted nand' Jase, and where nand' Jase was, Gene and Irene and Artur would be—just there, right beside nand' Bren.

He saw something else, too, far, far back near the doors—two hazy whitish shadows, like massive marble statues in the reflection of the floodlights: Kaplan and Polano were on guard, as tall as Banichi when they were in armor, and he was amazed. Ordinarily there were little flashing lights and sometimes light inside the masks so you could see their faces, but nothing showed right now. They could really
be
statues. People might think they
were
statues.

But they were safe, were they not? Everybody had to be safer since nand' Bren and Banichi had straightened out the Guild.

He wondered whether his mother had refused to come up here with them. Or what his parents had been fighting about.

His mind was going in every direction, with the noise, and the people, and the sights. He needed to be thinking. He needed to remember . . . because he was sure his father was going to make
his
speech, and then he would have to.

He was out of time. The missing words might come back to him if he was less scared. He had not planned on being scared. But right now his mouth was dry and his heart was pounding faster than the drums.

 • • • 

The boy looked, somehow, taller tonight—shining black and red brocade, which as the light hit it, blazed glints of fire, the smaller image to Tabini's own solemn, shining black. Bren took in a breath, watching the boy become what he had always been intended to be—about to watch the boy he knew become . . . something he hadn't expected him to become yet.

A heavy load was about to land on very young shoulders. It was going to be one more burden on a boy who already had had his childhood curtailed . . . whose dearest possessions had been, oddly enough, a world map and a little notebook of drawings of a spaceship, a boy who had wanted to be a musketeer, and hoped to see dinosaurs.

Cajeiri had grown tall, for nine. His shoulders were getting broader, a fact that coat made evident. He would look a lot like his father when he was grown, Bren thought, and that would be no bad thing at all.

Their Cajeiri.

His. His aishid's. They
had
helped get him here. He felt more than a little possessive, though he was very far from saying so.

Ilisidi would not hesitate to state her claim, not in the least. But she had not said a word tonight. She had been uncharacteristically quiet, apparently content to watch, with a certain—was it a smile?—on her countenance at the moment. He had rarely seen her in such a sustained good mood.

The vacancy of the dais, instead of all the family together, the appearance of father and son together, alone, on the most fortunate of birthdays, with the television focused on them—

People throughout the hall took in the sight, and there was an undertone of comment—how the boy had grown; how much like his father he looked; and then the horn blew again, and kabiuteri moved out to various posts in the room, clashing their staffs on the floor, a racket echoing throughout the still assembly.

The steady drums and the music of the strings—stopped, leaving an embarrassed mutter of comment that quickly died away.

“Be you still!” the senior kabiutera shouted out from the dais, banging his staff on the floor. “Be you still! Be you still!”

They were going ahead with it.

With the whole city, the whole nation following it on television.

 • • • 

* * *

 • • • 

Cajeiri's father laid a hand on his shoulder. “Son of mine.”

Cajeiri looked up. “Honored Father.”

His father maintained that grip. A staff hit the floor another three times, louder than mani's cane, impossible as that seemed, and a silence descended on the hall, in which the stir of a single foot seemed apt to echo.

“The numbers have been counted,” the oldest kabiutera proclaimed, “and this gathering is felicitous. This time is the right time.”

“Nandiin, nadiin,” his father said, his voice ringing out over the shadowy hall. “This is my son. With you as witnesses, I pronounce him my heir, grandson of my father and mother, great-grandson of my grandfather and grandmother. I call on the tashrid and the hasdrawad, at the appropriate time, to proclaim Cajeiri son of Tabini as aiji of the aishidi'tat, heir of all my titles and rights. I call on my kin and my associates to support my heir's claim and to give him their man'chi.”

There was a murmur, then the ripple of a shout, so loud it made Cajeiri's heart jump. He did not flinch. His father's hand kept him from that.

The staff struck the floor three more times, restoring silence so deep he could hear himself breathing.

His father's heir. That was odd. He already knew he was that.

But the man'chi of all these people? His mind started scrambling after names, colors, relationships.

He really wanted to give his speech later. After he had remembered the missing line.

“Son of mine,” his father said aloud, and touched his elbow. “Speak loudly,” his father said under his breath, “and keep your head up.”

Keep his head up. He could do that much. But he was not certain he could get enough breath to his lungs to make anybody hear him.

He had the first part. If he just plunged ahead, the connecting word might pop into his head.

“
Thank you, all my family, all my associates, all my allies, all my family's allies . . .”

And there it stalled. The missing bit did not come to him.

The quiet persisted. Someone down in the gathering cleared his throat and it sounded like thunder.

“. . . I am fortunate nine, today, and I thank you for coming.”

The back part was just gone. Not just the back of the sentence.
Everything
after that. He was facing all these important people and they were going to think he was a fool. Worse, the kabiuteri would be upset with him and they could call the whole evening, his whole
year,
infelicitous.

He could not just stand there. Keen in memory, his right ear stung as if mani had thwacked him for forgetting. Keep going! she would say as he sat at her feet, aboard the starship. Think, boy! Think
faster!

Banichi would say, Practice until your
body
remembers.

He was supposed to tell people what he had learned since he was infelicitous eight, and he was supposed to talk about his family and thank people, that was what.

And his great-grandmother and his mother and nand' Tatiseigi and nand' Bren were all at the foot of the steps waiting for him to get his wits about him and do that. He had to say good things about everybody, especially his mother. He could not make her mad, especially in front of everybody.

He had to say something. He had to do it his way.

“I thank my father, who is not afraid of anybody. I thank my mother, who has done her best to guide me. I thank my great-grandmother, who has defended me. I thank nand' Bren—” He realized he should have said
the paidhi-aiji,
and he should have put Great-uncle after his great-grandmother, and worse, it was infelicitous four: he plunged ahead to find five. “—who saved my life. And I thank Great-uncle Tatiseigi who taught me the traditions.” He could not stop there. He could not leave out semi-felicitous six and seven. “I thank Lord Geigi and Jase-aiji, who taught me about things in space.” Unlucky eight. “I thank the Guilds for the things they do.” And nine: nine was the felicity he had to reach to match his years. “And I thank my tutor for teaching me why things work. I know the geography of the world and I know every clan and their colors by heart. I know why it rains and how airplanes fly and I know where comets come from and I know why tides and storms happen. I am learning kabiu.” He said that for the row of kabiuteri, in their patterned robes, who were standing there looking worried. Promise everybody something, his father had told him. And he remembered something mani had once said. “. . . Because the traditions and the harmony make art, and art makes things beautiful, and we all are better and kinder and wiser when we live with beautiful things. We become better when we know
why
things are beautiful. I want to know everything I can and learn as much as I can and do as much as I can and meet as many people as I can. I shall try very hard in my fortunate ninth year.” He had to get in everybody else, and talk about the aishidi'tat, and not take too much time about it, because people had a right to get restless in long speeches. He wanted to end with a felicity. “I want my father to be aiji for a long, long time. And I wish everybody to have a good time, whether you came for my father or if you came for me or if you came for the aishidi'tat. Most of all the aishidi'tat is important, because the aishidi'tat is our home, and we have to make our home the most beautiful place there is. Thank you, nandiin, nadiin.”