“The coastal estate at Najida, nandi?” Those golden eyes sparked. “One had intended to suggest that.”
So she had thought about his welfare. It was a warm notion, considering their long though intermittent history.
“An excellent notion,” he said, “and in that case, I shall count it your good advice. Thank you for the thought, nadi-ji.”
“The staff’s very earnest wishes, nandi,” she said. “We shall miss you.”
“Nadi-ji.” It was worth a bow, as that worthy lady left on her mission.
Tatiseigi’s staff would miss him, that was to say. His own staff, many of them on more or less permanent loan from Tatiseigi or the dowager, or from Tabini himself, were scattered from the space station to the coast, surviving, in the disarrangement of his housec so in going to Najida, he simply exchanged one set of observing eyes for another. Spying was just a method of keeping informed about one’s allies—in the thinking of the great houses. One knew—and accepted such loans. And his own staff’s knowledge of him was consequently disruptedc and the persons they reported to—notably Tabini, or the dowager—might be less well informed on his business than, say, at the moment, the Atageini—
Except for one thing. His four bodyguards, his aishid—who knew most everything that went on, and who never left him— they kept information flowing properly, right up the lines of man’chi, of personal attachment, to the aiji himself; and they took care, too, that certain things stayed outsideAtageini knowledge, or anyone else’s, for that matter.
His bodyguard, his caretakers, his advisors—Banichi and Jago were the seniors, Tano and Algini his second-senior, and nobody on earth stood closer to him.
Nobody else had shared as many of his various disasters.
He located them, all of them, in the security station down the main hall—his four best friends, although “friend” was one of those words officially forbidden in the human-atevi interface. Sometimes he thought that way. Sometimes he was sane, and considerate of them, and didn’t.
This morning he just leaned into the doorway, sighed massively, and said, “A letter has come from Tatiseigi, nadiin-ji.”
“We are aware of it, Bren-ji,” Banichi said. Little reached the staff that his security didn’t learn fast.
“The coast, nadiin-ji,” he said. “Granted we get permission from Tabini.”
“The only solution,” Jago said with a shrug. His lover, Jago— lover: another of those forbidden words, and a word the deeper implications of which would just confuse everyone, including Jago. They’d tried now and again to parse it, and only ended up with Jago concluding “association” was quite sensibly adequate to describe them, and that the human sense of involved attachment was very odd.
Tano and Algini didn’t say anything, but didn’t look overly disturbed about the prospect of a fast move. The aishid was all together again, in a number of senses, and if “love” didn’t describe it, it was close enough to it to warm a human heart.
Not enough to make him foolish enough to hug anyone in appreciation, however.
His security team, all of them members of the Assassins’ Guild, wore the uniform, the black leather and silver, had the look, had the armament generally in evidence, and traveled with enough gear to outfit a small army: if he moved, they would. They had kept him safe—and his safety having required quite a lot of keeping in the last number of years, he owed them all extravagantly.
He owed them, among other things, a stable household, not a moving target.
He owed them a staff that could support not only his needs in comfort, but theirs. Saidin and her staff had certainly done very well for them—Saidin ran a tight ship; but because she wasn’t theirs, she was Tatiseigi’s, her attentions were always just a little worrisome. Tatiseigi, that conniving old gentleman had political ambitions that hadn’t stopped with getting a niece married to Tabini and a grand-nephew within a heartbeat of the aiji himself. There was that. Tatiseigi didn’ttrust human influence near his grand-nephew: Tatiseigi didn’t favor human gadgets, human ideas, or human newfangled inventions, and said grand-nephew had been much too infatuated with humans. And bet that Tatiseigi would want to know every detail of the paidhi-aiji’s residence here and all his dealings with Tabini’s household.
His going to the coast would cut off that source of information—and put Tatiseigi in immediate reach of Tabini’s household. Tatiseigi became Tabini’s problem, not his.
“Shall we assume, Bren-ji,” Jago said, “and pack?”
“One hardly sees what Tabini can do, else, but agree I should go. Take everything, nadiin-ji: we clearly must go somewhere. My belongings can easily go into storage, in favor of your gearc”
“No such thing,” Jago said. “All of it will move.”
Probably it was wise, after all, not to leave any remnant of his belongings exposed to tampering in storage—or subject to further controversy, should any clerk go nosing about into his bits of gear and his books.
“One assumes,” Tano said, “that the aiji will at least advantage himself of the time before the legislature meetsc to find a solution to the Farai.”
“If not, nadiin-ji,” Bren said, “one fears we may end up taking a house in the town.”
“The paidhi could File on this Southerner,” Banichi said, meaning the head of the Farai clan, and as long as Bren had heard Banichi’s humor and his serious suggestions, he wasn’t sure if that was dry humor at the moment.
“The paidhi has had cause,” Algini added, which made him think Banichi might have just offered a sensible and workable suggestion. Filing Intent: serving legal notice of application to the Assassins’ Guild, official Intent to assassinate the person in question—well, he supposed appropriating a lord’s apartment would be a legal grievance, if he were an atevi lord with historic standing.
Continuing the insult by continuing to occupy said apartment affected not just his pride, but his staff’s honor. There was that.
And for a heartbeat he asked himself if perhaps, just perhaps, that suggestion didn’t originate with Banichi—if perhaps it had come from Tabini himself, to whose staff Banichi and Jago still retained some minor ties.
A hint? Relieve me of this troublesome Southerner? The aiji himself had absolute right to remove an obstacle to the association, but politically speaking, had some obligation to prove the Farai were in fact an obstacle. The aiji could decree that they were—but since the aiji had to rule on a Filing, it was somewhat of a case of judge, jury, and executionerc an unpopular sort of situation.
The paidhi, however, actually had a legitimate grievance, an exacerbated grievance. The way it worked, in practicality—he could File Intent with the Assassins’ Guild, and once the Filing was accepted, it freed his staff to go after the head of that family. The Farai clan would simultaneously counterfile, freeing Assassins in their association to go after him. Both sides had legal right, both sides agreed to exempt noninvolved persons from personal harm, and it would all work itself out, probably in his favor, since he’d personally trust his bodyguard to take out the head of the Farai clan with considerable speed and efficiency. It would all be according to law.
Which would end the counterfiling; and a re-Filing would not be viewed with favor in the aiji’s court, meaning the Farai’s wider associations could not then all take after the paidhi’s life.
It didn’t mean they wouldn’t, however, in all practicality. They’d politic left and right with the aiji to allow a Filing, and of course he’d politic with the aiji not to allow it.
And at that point it would all devolve down to who was of more value, the entire southern coast of the aishidi’tat, or the human the aiji had listened to when he’d done some of the more controversial things he had to his credit.