Deliberations: A Foreigner Short Story (2 page)

There was now a concrete airport at Shejidan. Jets plied the transcontinental routes, and the corridor between Shejidan and Port Jackson. Television images crossed clan borders— receivers sat in public halls, so that everyone could
see
how someone said a thing as well as hear it. There was a proposal under consideration to broadcast a series of the classic machimi plays, so that great performances of the masters could be preserved, and so that one excellent performance could be shown across the nation. The machimi unified the clans. They transmitted the old stories. Even his grandmother had to admit that was a benefit.

But what unified, also divided. Television conveyed other things, too, and sometimes news got out that was not well-considered. Sometimes it started rumors, and let controversies erupt that needed not have happened. The traditionalists wanted no more of Wilson-paidhi’s world-shaking gifts— or they wanted weapons of the sort prior generations had cast into the sea. The liberals wanted as much technology as they could possibly get— whatever goods Wilson had available to trade, they wanted in general distribution, and many of the loudest proponents evinced no fear of social consequences.

As for the aiji-regent, she regarded Wilson-paidhi as far more than the coward most people believed he was— not a timid man who had caved in to Valasi-aiji’s threats and demands— but a devious and clever foreigner who, far from being terrified of Valasi-aiji, had retaliated to the aiji’s threats by giving atevi the very gifts that would destroy the traditions, corrupt what was kabiu, and put more and more profit into the hands of politicians on the
other
side of the dividing straits.

Which view of Wilson-paidhi was true? His grandmother would not deal with Wilson-paidhi at all, would scarcely even look at him on ceremonial occasions, when their paths did cross.

Tabini personally distrusted Wilson-paidhi. Deeply.

But give up what Wilson had given them? Give up flight, and television? No. They were useful. Even his grandmother had not pushed those gifts into the sea. Flight had gotten them back to Shejidan in time to stop certain clans from seizing power. Flight let atevi reconnoiter the Isle of Mospheira from above, and
see
what humans were up to, in their isolation. They could see the cities lit up like festivals, all night long, and they had a good view of the broad streets with the railless vehicles Mospheirans had once advised atevi would ruin the world.

Flight and television had exposed Mospheira’s duplicity and shown it to the whole continent.

But perhaps, too, there had been some sense in the humans’ advice. Humans were clanless. They loved squares and grids and had no apparent concept of associations. Roads with people free to stop where they liked would have brought clans into disputes, with intrusions and disturbance and some clans wanting to bar passage to others, whereas trains running on fixed schedules to a regulated set of depots kept the peace among neighbors.

Ilisidi, as aiji-regent, had not complained about the issue of the vehicles and the roads. She had not wanted to hear more technology proposed. She wanted nothing more from Wilson-paidhi, and she would not bring up the issue of what they had seen from the air, even in reproach.

And what would
he
do with Wilson-paidhi, in his day?

He had a great deal yet to learn about the world, and particularly about Wilson, who had been silent the last eight years.

And
when
would he do it?

He sat and sipped tea, thinking that his aishid most of all deserved a warning of his intentions, and he had to give it, if not tonight, tomorrow.

As well it be sooner. He was confident he had enough backing. The Taibeni, his mother’s clan, were particularly upset at his grandmother’s long intrigue with their neighbor, Lord Tatiseigi, of Atageini clan— the Taibeni more than mistrusted Lord Tatiseigi’s ambitions. Taiben and the Atageini had been technically at war for nearly two hundred years...ever since the War of the Landing, when atevi had pushed humans to the sea.

He had the liberals, all of them, in his hand. They had chafed under his grandmother’s rule.

He had the backing of the Northern Association, which also distrusted Lord Tatiseigi and his influence— that association had a very lively feud with Lord Tatiseigi, which his father had patched up in recent months, but it took very little nudging to have it break loose again.

His grandmother had all the East, which was half the continent, but it was a mountainous, empty half: there was little population, except in three broad valleys, and on the coast.

She had a massive Guild presence— few other lords of the East had allowed the guilds within their territories, when they had applied to come in, but his grandmother had more than allowed them. She had declared her large bodyguard was for regional stability, in a land still clinging to feudal ways. And the East, for years, had trained its own.

She had gained the good opinion of the traditionalists...but she had alienated the south, the Marid, itself intensely traditional. The Marid was upset over her campaign to settle old political debts on the west coast, which the
Marid
had had ambitions to own from before humans ever landed.

It was a delicate balance the aiji-regent had maintained all along: allies deeply uneasy with each other, upset at the contradictions they saw in her actions. There were rumors— matters more of man’chi and passion and fears of what she might do next, than of any substantive action that she had actually taken. Her own allies feared her, making a wispy set of connections that amounted to nothing anyone could name— except she was Eastern, not western, and she had a massive personal guard.

Ilisidi had been aiji-consort before her two administrations as aiji-regent. The aishidi’tat had been under her governance longer than any single aiji had ever served. She was showing her age, and even some of the conservatives began to talk of what came next.

Ilisidi swore her health was fragile. She still rode, she still hunted, she was a dead shot, but now and again she walked with a cane. She suffered from myalgia and she had palpitations.

Of course she had palpitations and myalgias— every time a minister had a presentation she disapproved. She had headaches. She had indispositions. When she did listen— she listened to what already pleased her, and those who confronted her often found their prepared speeches dwinding away in confusion in the face of her interruptions and her questions. Anyone who brought a proposal with which Ilisidi did not already agree had better have his facts and arguments in good order.

She was the canniest, the most dangerous politician ever to hold the aijinate, and a gambler would not lay odds even her grandson knew every stew she had had a finger in, or what she had promised this and that supporter under what conditions.

Popular? Still wildly so in some quarters. And the traditionalist number-counters who tracked horoscopes and the numerology of the world maintained that she would have a long, long rule.

He had added his
own
numbers, in his own way, putting no more real credence in the ‘counters than Ilisidi did. His personal numbers now completely excluded Wilson-paidhi, who had refused to meet with him. He would remember that. The moment he took the aishidi’tat, Wilson would be on his way back to Mospheira— if Wilson was lucky. Let the Mospheirans worry how they were to talk to the aiji in Shejidan, since their last man had become offensive and untrustworthy.

He saw before him an opportunity resting primarily on the promises of allies who thought they could control him— old lords and ministers who might
suspect
he meant to wield the power they would pretend to give him— but confident he was too young to get the better of them.

He meant to show them differently: to wield power firmly, and wield it with exactly what his grandmother had— an understanding of the
real
numbers of the world, unobfuscated by the self-important ‘counters and the kabiuteri— numbers about trade, and industry, numbers about the clans, and finance, numbers about clan lords who had always known they would someday have to decide in his favor or his grandmother’s—

But over time, youth won. Youth ultimately won.

What he had not made entirely evident to the world was his attention to his grandmother’s lessons. He was, in every minute detail, his grandmother’s student, and he did not forget. Believe the ‘counters prophecies and plan things by their numbers? He was no more superstitious than she was.

Believe the promises of political allies? She had taught him history
she
had witnessed.

Make black be white and day be night in the same speech, dependant on the hearer? She had taught him that art, too.

“I shall make my claim tomorrow,” he said at last, “nadiin-ji. Tell my grandmother’s aishid so.”

#

“He says, aiji-ma,” Cenedi reported, “that he will announce for the aijinate tomorrow.”

Interesting, Ilisidi thought. As early as tomorrow.

And she smiled.

Cenedi stood waiting, hands folded behind him, black-clad, all impassivity. Cenedi would do whatever she ordered. Cenedi would bend the Guild itself, if he had to. He waited, in formal stance, not looking at her. She said, still in her formal dress at this hour, sitting in the upright square lines of a chair that predated the War of the Landing— “We are not surprised.”

He waited, still. And she said, “Taiben will support him.”

“So will the north,” Cenedi said.
“And
the Marid,
and
the lesser lords of the coast.”

It was a strange alliance that backed her grandson, an alliance of lords who would not occupy the same room in peace. It was the old issue, the tribal peoples, displaced from the island of Mospheira when the aishidi’tat had had to find somewhere to settle the humans. It was a two-hundred-year legacy of trouble, having moved two culturally distinct populations onto the mainland, settling them in areas where they could make a living from the sea and preserve their ancient ways. It had sounded wise. The aishidi’tat had found a solution to humans having dropped from the heavens— and it had only cost backward tribesmen a relocation to very rich fishing grounds. Tribal peoples could practice whatever they pleased in their new home. They were not part of the aishidi’tat. They would be represented by lords who were.

She had insisted that the settlement had been a bad idea, and that the arrangement should be altered. She insisted on assimilation— a vain insistence, since it had never happened; but her insistence had stirred up the tribal peoples, the Edi and the Gan, who had no vote in the aijinate— and their vexation, carried to the extreme, had managed to vex the coastal lords, who had never wanted the tribal peoples settled next to
them.
And the fact that the Edi people had taken to wrecking shipping had simultaneously vexed not just the west coast, but the central south, the Marid, who had always wanted to slaughter the coastal lords and take the whole territory. Now Marid ships, too, were being wrecked by people deliberately tampering with warning buoys.

Alienating all three of those districts at once was a rare accomplishment. Unifying them on a single point was unprecedented. It was a question whether she had done it— or her grandson had— but unified, yes, they were, and entirely upset with her.

And the Northern Association had now apparently defected to her grandson on the very eve of his majority— because they hated Tatiseigi. Personally. Ajuri clan was central to the Northern Association, and an Atageini-Ajuri marriage had gone very bad indeed.

Valasi had patched up that feud a few years ago. Shejidan’s Winter Festival had offered him a chance, when an angry young daughter of the Northern Association had stormed off from their tents, lost herself in the crowds, and a banner had caught her eye— the white lilies of Atageini clan, her deceased
mother’s
relatives, powerful in the Padi Valley Association.

That
had been a moment. A minor child had planted herself in Lord Tatiseigi’s camp, taking refuge under the lily banner. Ajuri clan had called a meeting of the Northern Association right in mid-festival— and things could have gone very bad indeed, if Valasi had not sent the Guild in to negotiate on both sides. Valasi had gotten the two sides calmed down, and the unhappy daughter had amicably settled in Lord Tatiseigi’s house for a few seasons.

But one heard she had now gone back to her father’s clan, being equally upset with Tatiseigi.

Well, it had been an agreement just waiting an excuse to unravel. And the Ajuri now thought they would fare better with her grandson. That was amusing.

“My grandson gains the north,” she said.
“There
is an uneasy bargain for him. Reasonable, given he
is
half Taibeni— but that association will undoubtedly rise up to trouble him. Will he make a try at us tonight, do you think, ‘Nedi-ji?”

Cenedi turned his head, looked down at her, asked, with deadly implications: “What do you
wish
done, aiji-ma?”

What did she wish done?

What was more important— the aishidi’tat, or her grandson?

She could, without Tabini’s flirtations with the liberals, settle the fractious lords. If her grandson died tonight, there would be a few weeks of upset and shouting, and then, lacking any other credible claimant to the aijinate, the liberal and the conservative lords would come to the sane realization that nothing done in haste would last. Choosing one of them to rule the others would dissolve the aishidi’tat in civil war, which could even bring in the humans on Mospheira. Disorder gathered more disorder, from snowball to snowslide to avalanche.

And no one wanted that. The Guild would stop it their own way, start eliminating key lords, defusing any action— unless some lord was so intemperate as to assassinate
her.

Then—

Then she had to fear for the aishidi’tat. For all civilization. The Ragi atevi, that little center of the west, including her husband’s clan, and Valasi’s, and Tabini’s, had become necessary to the peace. They had always ruled, since there had been an aishidi’tat. If they ceased to rule...and power were left to the strongest...