Tabini-aiji hadn’t had to organize the city event: city officials, guilds, vendors and licensed purveyors of this and that knew exactly what to do, since they did it several times a year. The aiji only needed issue one phrase in his decree: a day of public Festivity . . . and the restaurants would be preparing to fire up their mobile carts, the vendors would pick their wares, the district officials would prepare banners to be hung, and the whole nation would start looking for train and plane tickets before the echoes died . . .

That would have begun on the very morning they’d been out riding at Tirnamardi, enjoying life.

Well, it was positive politics, this time, a happy event, a chance for people to enjoy themselves.

The numbers had turned out, and the aiji was ready to state that there would be no consideration of a second child as heir. Whatever numbers had prevailed in Cajeiri’s life were taken into account, accepted as favorable, apparently with no more argument.

With human guests to witness it.

With the whole nation to witness it.

Tabini had made his move, one could guess, in some apprehension his own existence was at risk.

Tabini had had no advisement the aiji-dowager was going to make hers in her own fashion, double or nothing, and take on the Guild. They’d surprised each other.

He was not too surprised when a message arrived from the dowager’s apartment, under the dowager’s personal seal.

It said: We trust you have heard from our grandson. Of course the numbers are felicitous. We have seen to that.

Jase-aiji and the young guests will not forget this event. And their attendance will stamp them forever, if they are wise.

Jase-aiji often speaks to the ship and to Lord Geigi. They should not, in decency, be informed yet. Advise him.

The aiji-consort may have her child. We can now be sure of ours.

We are very pleased.

Damn, he thought. But there was nothing in the letter or the conclusion his aishid did not know. It only remained to slip the hint to Jase—without himself being certain quite what the dowager meant by stamp them forever.

“I have a notion,” he said in that conversation with Jase alone in the sitting room, “that the ship-captains and the human authorities are getting a strong signal from Tabini-aiji and the dowager. One only wishes one understood it.” He spoke in Ragi, naturally as breathing, and switched languages, to enter another referent. “A signal about the status of those kids.”

“Does she know about the pressure—to send the Reunioners off to Maudit?”

“She may,” he said. “Between you and me, it’s at least a signal her personal plans don’t include Maudit.”

“I’m not sure I get the nuance. Am I included in this idea?”

“Three kids. One of you. It’s an infelicity if combined. The verb governs all preceding.”

“So I’m included.”

“I think definitely. She’s handed you responsibility for those kids. And they’re not going to Maudit.”

Jase had a troubled look in his eyes. “I had both figured on different grounds, actually, before the message. Tell her, since I figure you’re the designated channel, and I shouldn’t write to her unless she writes to me—”

“That would be true.”

“Tell her I’ll protect the kids. Personally. And officially. And no, if she asks, I’ll keep this from the ship until she agrees I can say something. I answer to Sabin on this, but her word to me was—you make the judgment call.”

Sabin, senior captain, was no fool. Let the one of the four fluent in the language and adept in the culture assess what was going on on the planet. And with the four captains in agreement, and with Lord Geigi, head of the atevi space authority, backing them—the Mospheiran station authorities would be fools to back the emigration of the Reunioner refugees, badly as the Mospheirans wanted to shed the Reunioners . . . who were, never to forget it, actually under the four captains, not the Mospheiran government.

Politics, politics. The aiji-dowager had just, in the atevi proverb, taken hold of the strongest stick to stir the stew, not attempting to use her fingers.

“So the kids aren’t going to Maudit,” Bren said.

“No,” Jase said, a breath of an answer. “Given how things have turned out down here, not any time this century, if I have anything to say about it.”

17

It was the day. It was finally the day. Cajeiri was out of bed at the very first urging, dressed in the better-than-usual shirt and trousers his valets presented, and was slipping on a day-coat when Gene and Artur came rolling out to say, somewhat confusingly, “Please enjoy the day you are born!” And then in ship-speak: “Happy birthday, Jeri-ji!”

He grinned. It was impolite, but he was so happy he could hardly help it. He bowed and said, “Thank you, nadiin-ji,” just as the other lump in the bed sat up and became Irene, with her pale hair every which way. “Oh!” she said, and grabbed her nightrobe in embarrassment, with Eisi and Liedi standing there, and herself where it was not quite proper for her to be.

“We layered the bedclothes, nadiin-ji,” Cajeiri said with a calm little bow, “and we are all very proper, all of us.”

“Indeed, nandi,” Eisi said, unperturbed, and about that time Veijico and Antaro turned up out of their room, in proper dress uniform.

“Happy birthday,” Irene said, from her seat deep in bedclothes. “Happy birthday, Jeri-ji!”

“A felicitous ninth!” Antaro called out. “Our young gentleman has reached his fortunate year!”

The other door opened. Lucasi and Jegari were there, half in uniform. “Felicitations, Jeri-ji!”

“Felicitations, nandi,” Eisi said with a solemn bow, and “Felicitations!” Liedi said.

Boji just shrieked and rattled his cage in excitement.

“Your honored uncle bids you and your guests to breakfast,” Eisi said. “As you please, nandi.”

It was the best morning ever. It truly was.

It was the best breakfast ever, because Uncle’s cook had been asking him ever since they arrived what his favorite things were for every meal, and it was everything he liked in one huge breakfast, just himself and his guests, because staff said Great-uncle was having breakfast with Great-grandmother, and they would all meet for a state lunch at his father’s apartment. Nand’ Jase was to come for him half an hour before noon, but the state lunch was for mid-afternoon because there would be no supper, only the Festivity buffet in the Audience Hall.

That was the gruesome part. He could not have his aishid with him at the moment—Jegari had told him before he and the others had left—because they had to go ahead to nand’ Bren’s apartment and talk to Tano and Algini about codes, which was why they were missing breakfast, and they would meet him there when Jase-aiji brought them all there.

That was one thing he wished somebody had asked him. He would have had cook send a special breakfast for everybody.

Then Madam Saidin stopped him as he left the breakfast room and handed him a rolled paper.

“This is from your father the aiji, young gentleman, your speech to memorize for the Festivity tonight.”

“A long one?” he asked anxiously.

“Only a few lines,” she assured him. “Very short.”

Well, that was not too bad. And Madam would not lie to him. So they all trooped back to the guest quarters, his guests all in good humor, to sit and let breakfast settle for two hours. He got to change to court dress, at least all of the suit except the coat, and his guests got to sit about in comfortable clothes. He was envious of that.

He had to suffer a scratchy flood of lace and memorize a stupid speech.

He unrolled the paper to find out what he had to deal with. And it was not three lines, it was three whole paragraphs.