Tracker (6 page)

“Understood. I know how you work.”

“But I'll get there. Soon as I can get the decks cleared down here. A few weeks.”

“You take care of yourself doing it. No more taking on the Guild bare-handed. None of that sort of thing.”

“No more,” Bren agreed fervently. Stitches notwithstanding, the back of his head still gave a phantom ache when he thought about it, and his valets feared he would have a lasting scar. “I'm confining my near-term activities to the legislature. Paper cuts will be my only hazard. And committee meetings. Not my favorite thing, but they'll be the limit of my travels for the next few weeks.”

“Definite, however, that you're coming?”

“I'll be there. Don't break the news yet. But tell Sabin I'll get Tillington out of there, one way or the other. And in that matter—do me a personal favor, will you?”

“Sure.”

“Pay a visit to Lord Geigi for me, would you, among first priorities? Tell him I didn't have time to get over to his estate, this trip, but I do have his staff reports. I could computerize them. Or you could hand-deliver them. And polish the contact. Just in case other routes get political.”

“No problem with that. I happen to like Geigi—I know, I know, not a word to use. But I
like
the man. He's good company. I like his cook, too.”

“You've gotten a taste for the food, have you?”

“Kaplan and Polano even like the eggs. We don't get enough
flavors
in our diet. Nicely balanced, all the right vitamins. But,
God,
send us up some pepper sauce.”

Bren laughed. “I can manage that tonight. Personal stock. If we expand the shuttle fleet—we can consider exporting some. Tell Geigi, too, that the Edi manor now has walls. They're racing to finish the roof before the autumn rains. Same here at Najida.” The servant, long statue-still, offered another round of spice cakes. “Thank you, nadi-ji,” Bren said, declining. “One has had sufficient of the teacakes.”

“Indeed,” Jase said in Ragi, likewise declining. “One more glass, however.” And in ship-speak. “I'm not constrained to be responsible tonight. My head's stuffed with agendas I don't want to sleep with.”

“The same,” Bren asked the servant, to match his guest. “Thank you, nadi-ji.”

The servant poured, one and the other.

Jase gazed at him, and lifted the refilled glass. “To fixing this.”

T
he bus was coming. Standing in the foyer, with staff and baggage all about them, Cajeiri could hear the tires rumbling down the gravel road, and all too soon he could hear the bus turning onto the cobbles of the portico.

There was no way to stop it and no way to gain another hour at Najida. Nand' Bren and Jase-aiji and their bodyguards were saying their good-byes to the major domo, Ramaso; and the house staff who had come to see the guests off had now started to move their baggage out into the dark, at the edge of the cobbled drive. That included, with both the big house doors now open, Boji's rolling cage. That cage, ancient brass bars and filigree, made an enormous racket on the stone, which set Boji to jumping about and screaming. A truck would be coming behind the bus to take the big items, like the wardrobe crates, and Boji. And his valets were going to ride the truck and the baggage car both to keep Boji calm.

Cajeiri had no personal luggage to carry. House staff did that, and would not let his bodyguard or his guests carry luggage, either. The bus, the very same red and black bus that had served them up north in Tirnamardi, at Great-uncle's estate, entered the drive and pulled up under the lights—a beautiful huge bus, red and black, his father's clan colors, though it belonged to nand' Bren; and they had patched the bullet holes before they had shipped it to Najida.

He was usually very glad to see it.

But not this morning. He wished he and his guests could run away to the hills, or out to the forest, or most anywhere they could gain another day down here. But that was not the way things were going to be. The baggage truck pulled up under the portico light, right behind the huge bus, and the servants rolled Boji's cage out to it as the lift-gate lowered with a racket of its own. One attempted conversation with one's guests. One tried to keep conversation light and happy.

Meanwhile servants loaded Boji and his cage onto the lift-gate and got him aboard. Their big clothing crates trundled out on their carts. Behind those, nearer the door, smaller bags piled up. Most of that size belonged to their guests, and staff would stow those in the luggage compartment under the bus.

Their belongings went aboard far too fast.

Then it was their turn.

“Thank you very much, nadi,” Cajeiri said, correctly bowing a good-bye to Ramaso as they filed toward the bus. “Thank you for taking care of my guests.”

Gene and Irene and Artur likewise made little bows, and thanked Ramaso, as they should.

Then while nand' Bren and Jase-aiji waited, they boarded the bus, Irene and Artur being helped a little up the tall steps.

He and his guests and his own bodyguard had the whole back of the bus to themselves, and nand' Bren's two valets followed them back a moment later, immediately asking whether they wanted cold drinks or hot tea this morning.

Nand' Bren had said there was going to be breakfast on the train. Cajeiri was not sure he could eat breakfast, and he had no desire for hot tea at the moment. They had all stayed up late, since no one had come to ask them to go to bed, and it had been their last night together. So late into the night they had laid all their plans and made all their arrangements to get together again. And his stomach was upset now.

He wished that Gene, hindmost in boarding the bus, and who had the most initiative of all his friends, had just bolted for the open land, dashed off across the fields and lost himself in the woods for a few days. In his wildest imagination he told himself if Gene just decided he was not going, then they might all miss the shuttle and have to stay and find him.

Or if Artur and Irene absolutely had to go back to their parents and only Gene ran and missed the shuttle, the staff would just have to send Gene to Shejidan once he turned up. And maybe Gene's mother would just say it was all right and Gene could just stay for a while. Gene said his mother never cared what he did, and anything he did was all right.

Gene could survive in the woods until he was found—Gene knew how to dodge searches.

But even before they had landed on the planet, Artur had said, Jase-aiji had warned them all that he and his bodyguards had the means to track them, and that if they broke one little rule or got into trouble—he would have to report it officially.

So if Gene ran now—they might never get permission to come down again.

It was a little mean, to tell them they could not make a move without the ship tracking them.

But he understood. His own situation had begun to be exactly like that. He knew his aishid would have to find him. He knew their lives could be at risk if he misbehaved.

So the notion of any one of them running now was just an empty dream. His guests all
had
to go back to the station when they promised, to prove they could, and would.

And once they got home, they had to tell the right story to everyone who asked, assuring them that everything on Earth was perfectly safe, and never admitting there had been a danger of any sort.

So they all settled, obedient and quiet on the bus; and Cajeiri's bodyguard sat in the seats across the aisle.

They waited, with no choice now, no wild escape possible. They had been lucky once: they had had one extension of their visit, which was probably because of technical stuff with the shuttle, though grown-ups could claim it was a favor to them.

He hoped he was going to get his guests back, next year at least, because they
had
done well.

Let them come every year until they were all just about grown—Irene being the oldest. He and his guests would behave so well, and they would not do anything against the rules next year, or the one after that—

But when it was the right year, if Irene could just wait until they all were of age, they could
all
just refuse to go back. And if he supported them in their request to stay, they could win. Three humans would never be welcome living in the Bujavid: there was too much jealousy over those apartments. But they could very easily live here at Najida. Najida had hosted nand' Bren's brother when he was here; and he was sure nand' Bren would agree if he asked.

They might do that—when they were grown.

It seemed a very long time of behaving.

But his guests were a favor that he could always lose, to politics, or to his father's displeasure.

When you get back to the world,
Great-grandmother had told him, just last year,
when you are back among atevi, among people who act properly, you will find atevi feelings in yourself, and you will have a much surer compass than you do right now.

That meant a needle would swing to the world's north, no matter how one tried to turn it somewhere else. That was what mani had meant when she said that.

And sometimes his feelings really were like that: he did feel an attraction. He felt it toward mani, of course, and toward his parents. But he did not think mani had ever expected he would have such a strong swing of that compass toward three humans, who, as mani had explained it, had compasses of their own, which might eventually swing to a very different place.

Mani had said his internal compass would get stronger and surer as he grew.

Well, it had done that.

It had done it, even during this visit of his three guests. He had gotten far more determined about his own future, and he had thought matters through. He had no question at all that his internal compass swung to his father, and to mani, and to nand' Bren and even to Great-uncle Tatiseigi, who had really surprised him; but there was no question either that Gene and Irene and Artur had a very necessary place in that arrangement, and he was not going to lose them.

Humans can change loyalty, nand' Bren had told him once.

“Will
you
change, nandi?” he had asked nand' Bren right back, and nand' Bren had looked a little distressed.

“I could not,” nand' Bren had said. “No. I would not.”

He thought about that, as the bus began to roll.

If nand' Bren could be so absolutely certain of himself, could not these three?

And if it was a feeling nand' Bren had, could not these three have it?

Gene wanted to come back. Artur worried about his parents, and tried to find what made everybody happy—which was why Artur was so quiet, and thought so much; but at some time in the future Artur had to make
himself
happy, and Artur was going to find that out. He was sure Artur could be happy here, with things to investigate, like rocks, and thunderstorms—

Irene, now—

Irene was the one who was not going into a happy situation, back on the station.

Irene and her mother—like Gene, Irene had no father—did not agree. He certainly understood not agreeing with parental rules, but Irene followed them only because she had to. That was what Irene said.

Gene had gotten arrested by security and gotten a bad mark on station. He did not so much defy the rules as ignore the ones that inconvenienced him. Cajeiri understood that.

Artur would ask permission and then try to reason his way through the rules. Artur was fairly timid-acting, but that was because Artur was thinking how to get past the problem and still not break any rules.

But if Artur ran out of time, Artur would do what he felt he had to.

Irene, however—he feared Irene would just explode someday. That was what he always felt, dealing with her. Irene would reach a point she would just explode. She had changed her hair before she came down, gone from dark as atevi to fair as Bren, and her frown when they asked said they were not to ask about it. She had cut up most of her station clothes with scissors the second morning in Tirnamardi, and thrown the pieces away, very upset with them, saying only that she needed room in her baggage. She had been collecting writing paper, even scraps, and he had given her whole fresh packets of it, so there was a lot of stationery in her personal luggage right now, along with two picture books he had given her, and her prettiest clothes from his birthday festivity. She was going to wear her riding clothes to go to the spaceport. Irene was very, very smart, smarter than any of them, he suspected. She was certainly the best at languages, and she was, of all of them, a little scary, possibly because Irene herself was always a little scared. What she was scared of, Cajeiri was not sure—maybe she was scared of her own questions. She was a little unlike the others. Her skin was brown. Her eyes were dark. Her frown was like a sky clouding over. And she was so scared of flying she got sick and probably would again.

He so wished he could help her.

He'd said that to Gene, last night, about Irene needing the rest of them, about Irene just exploding someday, and Gene had understood him.

“We can't always get to her apartment,” Gene said, and tried to explain, saying, “Like the Bujavid. Like the third floor. Not everybody comes there. Security zone, where Irene is.”

So Irene's mother had to be somebody more important than Gene's mother and Artur's parents. And if Irene lived in a security zone, then
he
was worried for her. Irene's mother had been against her coming down until the very last moment. And then Irene's mother had changed her mind for no reason they really understood. If Irene herself knew why, she had not told them; but at least she had gotten to come.

There could be a problem, a very big problem with Irene, on the next visit.

If her mother was important, then politics was involved.

And he
knew
what that meant.

 • • • 

It was a fair long road from Najida to the train station, one Bren had traveled more often than most roads—and it was a faster trip these days, thanks to peace in the district. Najida cooperated nowadays in road maintenance with the township to the south, with Geigi's estate, and with the township to the north, so Bren had found himself the unlikely owner of, to date, a fire truck, a yacht, an ambulance, a road grader, a large truck, a dump truck, and a formidable earthmover that could variously hammer a large rock or pick it up in a bin. Combined with other districts, Najida could do substantial jobs for the district, like road repair, employing no few locals in the process.

So he was somewhat proud of the local road. Not so fine as some, but good enough for market traffic, all the way to the township in the south, and again to Geigi's estate.

Najida district was his home, in a sense. It had become that. He cared about the people. He cared
for
them. Whenever he was here, he heard their problems and solved them if he could, whether with application of his personal income or by hearing both sides of an argument and sorting it out as fairly and sensibly as he knew how. He maintained the few roads, he lent transport at need. He paid medical bills. And when he was not here, the Najidi could write to him in the capital, and he would do what he could for the district from the Bujavid—which very often was enough to handle the difficulty. It made him extraordinarily happy, being able to do that.

But now he was traveling back to a different existence, to do a wider job, while Najida disappeared behind them in a cloud of dust. In that other job, there was far less thanks, but it mattered far more to the outside world.

And now Jase wanted him to expand that endeavor.

He and Jase sat and talked while the sun rose and the dawn landscape ripped past the unshielded windows of the bus.

They weren't using the window shades this morning. The youngsters and Jase had so little time left to see the world, and it was an hour void of other traffic. Trucks might come later today, picking up or delivering goods or, rarely, passengers. But now the road was vacant and they had an unobstructed view of grasslands and small groves of trees.

It was a special train they were meeting, at a very early hour, and indeed that old-fashioned train was waiting as the bus climbed the barely perceptible rise. The engine sat steaming a plume into the pink morning light, ready to roll.

The station where it waited was a modest and rustic place. There was a newly painted little office, next to a small plank-sided warehouse, a wooden loading platform and the requisite water and sand towers of more modern vintage. The venerable and elegant steam engine had only two cars at the moment—one a standard baggage car, the other an old-fashioned passenger car with windows that only looked like windows.