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And the letters waiting for him in his Bujavid residence were surely overflowing the message bowl by now, business postponed as long as it could be.

Aiji-ma,
Bren wrote to Tabini,
the guests have gone home with many expressions of gratitude for their visit. The young gentleman is exhausted, and sleeping as I write. His comportment was exemplary in these last days. I am very glad to have had him as my guest at Najida and he is welcome at any time to return. He is a great favorite of my staff.

I had opportunity to speak with Jase-aiji at some length. Last night he conveyed a request that I visit the station in the near future, to become acquainted with the station's current situation and more specifically with the performance of Tillington, the human station-aiji, Lord Geigi's counterpart. Lord Geigi himself has not, in my hearing, complained of Tillington, but I am alarmed at recent statements, which are problematic for our political allies on the station.

The difficulty springs from an ancient disagreement, in which the Reunioners, who were the aijiin of the station in past times, lost the man'chi of the population, and then left the world to pursue settlement elsewhere.

During the two years of the recent Troubles, Mospheirans on the station, in anticipation of a much smaller number of Reunioners returning, worked hard to enlarge the living space and also to repair damages done to the food production factory by a stray piece of rock, this during our mission to Reunion, and during the two years when Murini, of unfortunate memory, had grounded the shuttles.

The arrival of a much larger than expected number of Reunioners has crowded the human section of the station and shortened supply. The station is divided into two territories. And the Reunioners came with families. Mospheiran workers, for whom families are forbidden, have been crowded into less space, and have a very limited ability to return to Earth for family visits. For various reasons, including scarcity of employment, the ancient antipathy of Mospheirans toward Reunioners has resurfaced, creating tensions.

The Mospheiran folk wish to be rid of the Reunioners who have disrupted their lives, and indeed, the population of the station is oversupplied with humans so long as the Reunioners remain. But any plan to have the Reunioners go apart and build another station risks the eventual rise of an opposition group of humans. I most strongly discourage that as a solution, aiji-ma. First of all, there is the treaty requirement of numerical parity, which would require atevi presence in equal numbers. It is likely that if the Reunioners stay on the station under current conditions of shortage and overcrowding, there will be conflict. It seems clear that if they cannot stay where they are and we cannot send them elsewhere, the Mospheiran government has it incumbent on them to bring the Reunioners down to Earth. In the general population of Mospheira, five thousand Reunioners will become a minority population and they can be integrated into Mospheiran society.

Unfortunately two human aijiin have risen in opposition to each other, station-aiji Tillington, appointed by the Presidenta of Mospheira; and Braddock, about whom I have previously reported, who has appointed himself aiji of the Reunioners, though currently unrecognized by the Mospheirans.

Tillington's activities in promoting a new station for the Reunioners have produced a division of policy even among the ship-aijiin, with Ogun-aiji favoring Tillington and Sabin opposed to his proposals.

Lately, however, Tillington has made false statements regarding Sabin-aiji, which are destructive of the peace and which cannot be tolerated.

Jase-aiji has asked me first to contact the Presidenta by letter regarding Tillington's behavior and seek his dismissal and replacement. He has also asked me to come up to the station to acquaint myself with the current situation. I shall contact the Presidenta. I hope to see the appointment of a new official who will work toward a settlement of the Reunioners and a relief of pressures on the station. Of course I cannot go aloft without your permission, aiji-ma, but it seems to me that peace in the heavens does well serve your administration, and I hope you will grant me leave to do this, so I may bring back useful information.

I have several urgent Earthly matters before me in the meanwhile, and I shall be working on those with a view to settling all issues in the current legislative session before I undertake anything else.

I look forward to a meeting and discussion at your leisure, aiji-ma. I am happy to report I bring you no other crises whatever, and that our guests are now safely in space again.

To Ilisidi he wrote:

Aiji-ma, the guests are safely in space and by the time this letter reaches you, your great-grandson will be safely home with his parents as well.

I was greatly surprised to see the magnificent windows at Najida, and to see the first one in its permanent place in the main hall. They are extraordinary, and I by no means expected such an extravagant honor. They will be treasured not only by myself, but also treasured by the people of the region.

I remain indebted to you as well for your continued support, and notably to Lord Tatiseigi for his gracious hospitality on his estate.

I shall immediately address myself to the matter of the railroad, and hope for an early conclusion favoring all your plans.

I look forward to giving a more detailed report at your convenience, but I can safely report there is no urgency involved on any matter involving our guests or your grandson, whose deportment was impeccable throughout.

He is now at home with his parents and new sister and I hope will enjoy the memories of an extraordinary visit.

He was, he began to realize, exhausted. And he had just kept silent, in the dowager's letter, about a very dangerous situation, and glossed it over in his report to Tabini. He didn't like the position he was in.

He sat there, staring at nothing at all, and hoped for an early night, his own bed, maybe the chance to sleep in tomorrow.

It wasn't altogether likely, but one could hope.

C
ajeiri drew a breath, waking. The train was making that strange sound it did, slowly puffing up the incline in the tunnel under the Bujavid, a sound he had heard, oh, many times before in his life, on good occasions and bad.

His bodyguard was near him.

But his guests were not.

He knew it just in the air, before moving. His guests had a kind of perfume about them that was not atevi, and that was gone. They were gone and their belongings were gone, as if they had never been here at all.

He had had so strong an impression in his sleep that everything was all right and they were with him—that he had thought things should be that way when he waked.

And he knew now they were not.

He did not lift his head immediately. He composed himself, carefully settled his expression, decided how he should behave—as if nothing in the world were wrong—and began to do that, waking, and stretching, and saying, conversationally, to his aishid:

“I believe we are about two turns from the platform, nadiin-ji. Are we ready?”

“Yes, nandi,” Jegari said, and added: “Nand' Bren says the shuttle is now safely in space.”

That was good. He was glad to know it. But the sympathetic look his aishid gave him nearly unraveled him.

They knew how upset and how sad he was. They absolutely knew it.

He gave his head that little jerk his father used when he was giving a silent order to behave, and kept his face expressionless. They knew that gesture, too. He meant to give no acknowledgment of his distress, no outward admission, not even for nand' Bren.

And he desperately hoped nand' Bren would not shake his composure with any expression of regret.

He could not avoid nand' Bren's company, however. He just said, when the train had stopped, and nand' Bren came down the aisle— “I am doing quite well, nandi.”

“You are indeed, young aiji,” nand' Bren said, giving his greater title, very courteously, and, to his relief, not treating him at all as a child.

“Mind,” nand' Bren added, “that your parents will be anxious about your impressions of your guests, and their influence on you. They will be forming their opinions about the effects of their visit. Trust that I shall be giving them a very favorable report, as Jase-aiji will give to his associates.”

Practicalities. Politics. That was a relief. That was what he had to think about. Nand' Bren was very sensibly warning him to think clearly.

“And well done, young aiji.”

That—jarred him a little.

“Nandi.” He gave a little bow. He already knew his parents would be judging him, and listening to those reports—and to some reports less favorable, probably, by busybodies he could not control. Any bad report worried him. But there could not be too many of those. “I shall be very careful,” he managed to say. “Thank you, nandi.”

He was to leave the train first, these days, being his father's heir.

Being no longer
just
a child.

Tano and Algini went forward and opened the door, and stepped down to the platform first—senior Guild, as his aishid was not. Cajeiri followed, disembarked under their guard.

And everything was ordinary. The train was at its ordinary spot. Some of his father's household staff were on the platform to meet them and handle baggage, and likewise some of nand' Bren's staff stood by as the baggage car began to open up. He heard Boji give a shriek. It echoed eerily and lost itself in the high darkness of the station.

But his valets, and nand' Bren's, would be taking care of all that detail, so they need not be delayed by that.

Should not be. Dared not be. He had learned that from infancy, that he was not safe standing anywhere in a public place for too long, because
some
people, probably including, at the moment, his mother's own clan, wanted to kill him.

They crossed the platform, he, and nand' Bren and their bodyguards, a much smaller party on their return. They reached the lift in company with nand' Bren, and Tano keyed them in.

The familiar ride up was not an easy few moments. Cajeiri stood and looked at the lights on the panel, and tried to clear the lump in his throat as the car rose up, up, up through all the levels of the Bujavid's sub-basements.

When the car reached the third floor above ground, and the doors opened on their own hallway, he exited the car with his bodyguard, turned and bowed to nand' Bren, and said, with good control: “Nandi, thank you
very
much. One is very grateful.”

“One thanks
you
, young aiji. Well done.
Well
done, today.”

Oh, if that
today
were not there, he might have held it better.
Today
was not a happy word.

But nand' Bren simply bowed and said not another word, just headed off toward his apartment, regardless of precedent.

Cajeiri was grateful for that. Nand' Bren's was a door that he must pass to reach his own, one apartment farther down the hall. But he could concentrate now on gathering his dignity.

He would not, at least, have to face his father immediately; he could say hello to the servants, change coats, get to his own suite,
then
report to his father. He could do that.

He stood there a breath or two, then quietly nodded to his aishid, and Jegari and Antaro, each with letters to carry, departed in the opposite direction.

He and Veijico and Lucasi walked on, as nand' Bren reached his own apartment door.

Antaro was carrying a letter he had written to his great-grandmother; and Jegari carried a similar letter to his great-uncle Tatiseigi—both resident just up the broad, ornate hallway, with its plinths, its vases, its antique silk carpets.

His guests had thought it very beautiful. He had never noticed so many things until they had marveled at them.

He did not want to talk to his great-grandmother or his great-uncle yet. He had no wish to talk to his parents, either—but they were a duty he could find no way to escape.

I am well,
he had written in those notes to mani and to Great-uncle.
Thank you very much for entertaining us. My guests were very happy and they thank you very much. I thank you for the wonderful things we enjoyed and also thank you very much for my presents. I look forward to the next time I can ride.

I am going back into my parents' apartment now. I understand that I have new responsibilities to my father and I am very grateful that I have had more time with my guests than I expected.

Thank you very much.

And to both letters he had added another line, in hope that there would be an interruption in his boredom—or a safe place, should his mother and father be having one of their arguments.

Should you wish to invite me to dinner or lunch or breakfast soon, I would be very honored.

 • • • 

Narani was waiting at Bren's door to open it as they arrived—of course Narani was waiting, alerted long since to their arrival at the train station, and having been in contact with Banichi or Jago all the way up.

And, standing now in his own apartment foyer, with household staff crowding the inner hall and the smell of fresh baking and festive pizza in the air, Bren gladly handed off his outdoor coat and the bulletproof vest—Jago had insisted he wear the heavy, hot garment today, just in case.

Now he could wear a comfortable light coat; his bodyguard could shed their own armored duty jackets for more comfortable light leather, likewise offered in staff hands.

Here was safety and very familiar faces. Narani was beaming. So was Narani's assistant and understudy Jeladi, while the staff farther back in the hall was all but standing on tiptoe to get a view and their share in the homecoming. They had a personal stake in recent events, after so many weeks of upset and absence, and their personal efforts in caring for young humans.

“Everything went well with the young visitors, nandi?”

“Very well, Rani-ji. Nand' Jase and the young people are now safely up in space, and it will be an easy journey home for them now. The young gentleman is bound for his own door, at the moment, safe and well. We have finished our mission with honor.”

“Excellent,” Narani said. “Truly excellent, nandi. There is pizza. There is every delicacy. And chilled wine.”

Home. He was definitely home, and safe, with all obligations discharged.

It had been a while since he had been home with no guests, no emergencies, no crisis. The staff had justly declared itself a party in celebration of the event, and there in the doorway, like a barge making its way through crowded waters, came stout Bindanda, the master of the kitchen, his dark arms dusted with flour, clearly fresh from work, very dignified and very happy.

There stood, on the table beside Bindanda, a less welcome sight—the overflowing message bowl, a sight almost obscured by the press of bodies in the hall. Message cylinders not only filled the figured porcelain bowl; a second, less elegant brass bowl held the unprecedented overflow.

Oh, not everything therein could possibly be felicitous—or simple. Simple letters his secretarial staff handled. They sent up the problems, the puzzles, the security threats, and the high-ranking ones. And all those were waiting for him.

It was, however, a homecoming party, Bindanda and Narani could not be denied, and his staff, who had coped with their comings and goings and their emergencies and communications throughout a chain of problems, certainly had earned it. His valets, still laboring with the baggage downstairs; and most of all his bodyguard, who had been more than once under fire and on duty with only scant letup—they certainly deserved it.

The mail could wait.

 • • • 

It was expected and ordinary that the major domo should meet Cajeiri at the door.

It was not expected
or
ordinary that his father and mother did.

That was entirely disconcerting. He was not ready for them. He was not ready to be questioned or required to report. He froze in place, too tired, too confused to know what to say or do first.

Then Great-grandmother's teaching took over. Manners. Manners gained a person time. Manners let one gather one's wits, decide what to do, and above all, calm down.

“Honored Father,” he said, bowing once and again. “Honored Mother. Thank you.”

“Welcome back, son of ours,” his father said. “I trust it was an enjoyable trip.”

“It was.” He was being examined for signs of distress: he knew he was. “The train was on time. Thank you very much for sending it.”

“Was it a pleasant stay at Najida?”

“Very pleasant, honored Father.” That was entirely true. “We went out on the boat three times.”

“One would think,” his mother said, “that your guests would be missing their families by now.”

That was a test, too. His
mother
had not been one to miss her family. She had run away from her father, then run away from Great-uncle, then had another feud with her father and run away again, and lately she had had another feud with Great-uncle and Father both—but she had not run away.

She was still difficult and quick-tempered, and she challenged him with that question. What she was really wanting to know right now was whether his guests were traditional, proper people who had proper respect for their parents.

Or whether they were foreigners with, as she was already sure, defective upbringing and no proper respect.

Nobody could win, with his mother.

“We were busy,” he said. “We were all busy all the time. We went out on the boat and we walked down to the village, and everything—” He was running off his train of thought, going nowhere useful. He was exhausted, and control was difficult, especially dealing with his mother. A servant stood behind him. He slipped his coat buttons and slid it off his arms. The waiting servant took it, and the major domo slipped another on, the bronze brocade, one of his three better ones that he had not taken with him. “Thank you, nadi.”

It was a better coat than someone ought to choose, who was simply going to go to his room, take it off again, and take off his boots and rest. So the major d' knew something.

“Staff has made a special supper,” his mother said.

He could hardly bear the thought of food. His stomach was empty, except for breakfast. He had wanted to throw up, all the way from the lift to the apartment.

But he was suddenly on the edge of mad, now. He was not entirely sure what he was mad at. His father seemed to be on his side, and stood there to defend him. His mother was being nice, at least on the surface. Everybody was being nice. But his temper surged up, the instant his mother said supper—not that there was a thing he could do about it, because everybody had made their plans, Cook had made dinner, and that was the way it would be. He hoped there were no invited guests he had to please—but there usually were when there was any formal supper.

“A private supper,” his father said. “Just the three of us.”

Well, that was better.

And maybe the bronze brocade coat just meant they were treating it as a sort of occasion: himself, his mother, his father—

He belatedly remembered there were
four
of them now, and suddenly guessed what would be very politic to ask his mother on his homecoming.

“How is my
sister,
honored Mother?”

“Very well,” his mother said, and looked pleased, as if he had guessed right and finally done the right thing.

“Go wash,” his father said. “Supper is about to be served.”

“Yes,” he said. He
thought
about saying that his servants were coming upstairs with crates—but they were also coming with Boji, who was going to be upset and probably loud about it, and he really hoped Eisi and Liedi could get Boji quietly into his room before dinner started.

Boji, however, was definitely not a happy topic with his mother, and he had no wish to forecast trouble before it happened. “I shall wash and be right back,” he said, and bowed again: bowing was always a way to change the subject without having to look at anyone.