His officialniche in the court, a unique position, with Tabini’s—and Tabini’s grandmother’s—backing, was still that of paidhi-aiji, but in gatherings such as this, he preferred to style himself lord, not of the ill-defined Heavens, but of Najida peninsula, a quaint little rural section of Sarini Province, out on the western coast, not all that far from the island on which he’d been born. Lord of Najida gave him social cachet in terms ordinary atevi more easily understood, not too high nor ancient a title, but a respectable title over a little peninsula whose ruling family had died out, a title granted for services rendered the aiji, and to all of the aishidi’tat.

Accordingly, he chose to wear beige, a no-color, amid the colorful rivalry of atevi clan heraldry, and he persistently tied his queue notwith the starry black ribbon of the Province of the Heavens or even the more approachable blue of Najida, but with the paidhi’s neutral white . . . I am not part of regional matters. My standing is through the aiji.

It was a language every atevi understood without a moment’s conscious thought.

“Nandi,” his senior bodyguard said, by way of parting as they reached the door. The four tall atevi who were as close to him as family—closer, in point of fact—were not given a place in the gathering of lords and ladies milling about beyond the foyer, not this evening. The only bodyguards allowed in the gathering tonight (and indeed a veritable wall of black Assassins’ Guild uniforms guarded that door) were the aiji’s security. There was, for one thing, limited space—and for another—

For another, all security anywhere belonged to the Assassins’ Guild, and the fact that the only armed guards present were the aiji’s own bodyguard freed the restof the members of that secretive Guild to disappear the same way Bren’s did, down that inner corridor toward the deeper recesses of the aiji’s apartment—and into a meeting far more important and more critical than the state dinner going on in the front rooms.

It was a state dinner being held in honor of one Lord Geigi, Bren’s sometime neighbor on the coast and current house guest, here in the Bujavid. Bren entered the packed room alone: Geigi had been invited here early, and was doubtless still with the aiji, back in the private part of the apartment.

Lord Geigi, provincial lord of Sarini, having helped straighten out a significant mess in that province, was headed back to his preferred post in the heavens, that of stationmaster on the atevi side of operations. Sarini was quiet, even improved in security, and the prospect of peace and trade and profits sparkled in Geigi’s wake. It was a happy occasion, this departure, a triumph, and the lords and their consorts—and the paidhi-aiji—had assembled to wish Lord Geigi a good flight and a safe trip back to the station.

Unfortunately, where power and profit bloomed, power brokers had a way of getting into the game. That was precisely why the not-so-clandestine Guild meeting in the back rooms was so critical, and why, while the lords and ladies were smiling and sipping drinks and offering politenesses to each other, most were likely wondering how muchtheir own bodyguards were going to be told about the recent events and current situation in the south and the west coast, and how far they themselves, consequently, would be drawn into the loop . . . or deliberately excluded from it.

His own bodyguard would definitely be in the loop. The aiji’s bodyguard, most of whom were on duty out here, ironically would notbe. And that uncomfortable situation—

Was politics. Pure and simple. Or rather neither pure norsimple. And that exclusion was one additional matter that might well be a topic in that meeting, at least among the most senior bodyguards.

“Nand’ paidhi.” As he passed into the crowd, a servant offered a selection of drinks on a silver tray. Bren took the white wine, a safe choice for a human, and walked among the tall black-skinned lords and ladies, with a nod here, a word there. He was comparatively comfortable tonight, despite the stiff new coat and stiffer lace, since—in present company, and with his own residence just next door in the ornate halls of the Bujavid—he could go without the damned bulletproof vest that had been mandatory since the Marid affair . . . but he had to navigate, as did everyone, on his own.

Of course for him it was slightly more challenging a feat than for most of the others assembled here. He was a tall human, but that was still a head and shoulders shorter than the average atevi. It meant looking up to talk to anyone he met, and it meant looking between shoulders to spot someone he was looking for. It meant being able to turn up at someone’s elbow relatively unnoticed, but it also meant watching out for people taking a step backward in crowded conditions. Dark-skinned and golden-eyed, wearing generally bright colors, they all towered above a fair-haired, light-skinned, quietly dressed human, who walked in a canyon of taller bodies.

His aishid would normally weave him comfortably through such a crowd. But he managed. He smiled, he talked, he kept his eyes open, and noted who was talking to whom . . . so far as he could see, until, finally, he did spot two others who did not tower. One was the aiji’s son Cajeiri—who at eight was already as tall as the paidhi-aiji—and who was holding a stemware glass of, one trusted, plain fruit juice. The other, the ancient lady with him and only a little taller, was the aiji-dowager herself, Ilisidi.

Notably absent was Ilisidi’s chief bodyguard, Cenedi. If there had been any exception to the rule of no-attendance tonight, it would have been Ilisidi, because of her size and her age. But then Cenedi was likely the main source of information backstairs. Along with Banichi and Algini—of Bren’s own bodyguard.

“Nand’ Bren!” Cajeiri waved at him, and several lords looked and spotted him, while the aiji-dowager gave her great-grandson a sharp word and resettled that cane of hers with a thump Cajeiri would feel even if he couldn’t hear it in the general festivity.

And indeed, Cajeiri immediately resumed official propriety. He’d grown so mature in so many ways, had Cajeiri, though his enthusiasm still overwhelmed him from time to time.

And there, the tall old man in green and white, was Lord Tatiseigi—right beside the dowager, depend on it. He was Cajeiri’s great-grand uncle, or however many greats one had to work into it: atevi were extremely loose about such niceties, even in the same sentence, so he was uncle as often as he was great-uncle. Lord Tatiseigi was Atageini clan—a member of the family on Cajeiri’s mother’s side— anda sometime lover of the aiji-dowager, grandmother to Cajeiri’s father.

Cajeiri’s little exclamation had turned Tatiseigi’s attention in Bren’s direction—no problem there—but it had also let a lord he had notparticularly wanted to have corner him on a particular issue—notably his vote on the cell phone issue—draw dead aim on him.

A light bell rang. The dining hall doorway opened on salvation in the form of Lord Geigi. The attention of the lord in question turned immediately away from Bren in favor of Lord Geigi, who embodied a far rarer opportunity.

Geigi, rotund sun around which half a dozen such lesser lords immediately orbited, reached past them all to snag the new proxy lord of Maschi clan—and so of all Sarini Province—a proxy Geigi himself had appointed during this visit. He headed for Bren with the new man in tow—and his little planetary cluster following in his wake.

The new lord of the Maschi, a lean, elderly fellow, was a little countrified and old-fashioned in dress—which by veriest chance was halfway infashion, in the latest trend. The man seemed very overawed by the attention, and engagingly delighted to see Bren, whom at least he recognized in the crowd—how could he not, even had they not met before.