promised it—but that wasn’t entirely what Machigi meant.
The shift of man’chi Machigi invoked was the old way. There’d been an institution among atevi a long time ago, before the aishidi’tat . . . a way of settling things, a specialized negotiator. The white ribbon had gotten to mean the paidhi-aiji, the human interpreter’s unique badge of office, over the last couple of centuries. And he’d represented both sides of the human-atevi divide . . . until it just wasn’t that divided, nowadays.
But he did wear the white ribbon. He’d been sent into the house of an enemy—and Machigi, out of a district that hadn’t, over all, ever adopted Ragi ways, any more than Ilisidi’s East had ever done, had just called him on it.
He’d probably, he thought, turned a shade of white.
“One is honored by your suggestion,” he said, trying to appear unruffled, and told himself it was actually encouraging that Machigi was willing to consider him in the mediator’s role . . . a role in which he had some protection—as long as Machigi was willing to play by the ancient book, and so long as the negotiations didn’t collapse.
Mortality among ancient negotiators had been tolerably high as one party or other decided to terminate the negotiations—and terminate the negotiator, who now knew too much—all in one stroke. Ancient rulers had used to saddle spare relatives and very old courtiers with that duty.
And of all lords he could ever represent, Machigi of the Taisigin Marid was not at the top of his preferences.
“It is not a forgotten custom in the Marid.”
“So—yes. If you have that confidence in me, nandi, send me to Najida, and I shall state your positions to the dowager and come back again with precise offers.”
Machigi pursed his lips slightly. “Not yet. Not yet, nand’ paidhi. Your continued presence is, one trusts, no great inconvenience to anyone at this moment.”
Well, he was still stuck. But they were still being polite. He assumed a pleasant expression and inclined his head in calm acceptance. “I am willing,” he said, and decided to go for all else he could get. “And in no hurry. Though continued phone contact with Najida would be a decided convenience. Most particularly, I would wish to send the bus back to Targai. It is very cramped quarters for them and cannot be pleasant.”
“We have offered local accommodation for those aboard.”
Of course Machigi had. “Indeed,” Bren said, “but they are the aiji’s and not directly under my command while I am separate from them. I am, quite frankly, interested in preventing any misunderstanding out there. I would like to send everyone back except myself and my personal guard. One has utmost confidence in your hospitality—and I hope not to wreck these negotiations on a missed communication. Let us clear the area of all persons who might make a mistake.”
Machigi smiled, and this time a little of it did reach the eyes. “We both understand.”
“Understand me, nandi, that I am quite serious in my representations to you. You have an opportunity that has not existed for the last two hundred years.”
“Since we were robbed of the west coast, in fact.”
“What advantage, nandi, to hold the west coast at continual warfare with the center and the West and the station aloft—when you have a fair offer of access to the East, the untrammeled freedom of the seas, and a presence on the station? There is every advantage in that agreement. There is nothing held back from you.”
“Except the west coast.”
“It is small compared to the scope you can have elsewhere.”
“Little profit to me in exposing myself to assassination by your allies.”
“We can, nandi, get past the infelicitous history of relations, even recent ones, even the matter between you and Lord Geigi, if we may be specific. We have his nephew Baiji in custody. You have no further use for him, one assumes, but the dowager has—in terms of the bloodline he carries
The shift of man’chi Machigi invoked was the old way. There’d been an institution among atevi a long time ago, before the aishidi’tat . . . a way of settling things, a specialized negotiator. The white ribbon had gotten to mean the paidhi-aiji, the human interpreter’s unique badge of office, over the last couple of centuries. And he’d represented both sides of the human-atevi divide . . . until it just wasn’t that divided, nowadays.
But he did wear the white ribbon. He’d been sent into the house of an enemy—and Machigi, out of a district that hadn’t, over all, ever adopted Ragi ways, any more than Ilisidi’s East had ever done, had just called him on it.
He’d probably, he thought, turned a shade of white.
“One is honored by your suggestion,” he said, trying to appear unruffled, and told himself it was actually encouraging that Machigi was willing to consider him in the mediator’s role . . . a role in which he had some protection—as long as Machigi was willing to play by the ancient book, and so long as the negotiations didn’t collapse.
Mortality among ancient negotiators had been tolerably high as one party or other decided to terminate the negotiations—and terminate the negotiator, who now knew too much—all in one stroke. Ancient rulers had used to saddle spare relatives and very old courtiers with that duty.
And of all lords he could ever represent, Machigi of the Taisigin Marid was not at the top of his preferences.
“It is not a forgotten custom in the Marid.”
“So—yes. If you have that confidence in me, nandi, send me to Najida, and I shall state your positions to the dowager and come back again with precise offers.”
Machigi pursed his lips slightly. “Not yet. Not yet, nand’ paidhi. Your continued presence is, one trusts, no great inconvenience to anyone at this moment.”
Well, he was still stuck. But they were still being polite. He assumed a pleasant expression and inclined his head in calm acceptance. “I am willing,” he said, and decided to go for all else he could get. “And in no hurry. Though continued phone contact with Najida would be a decided convenience. Most particularly, I would wish to send the bus back to Targai. It is very cramped quarters for them and cannot be pleasant.”
“We have offered local accommodation for those aboard.”
Of course Machigi had. “Indeed,” Bren said, “but they are the aiji’s and not directly under my command while I am separate from them. I am, quite frankly, interested in preventing any misunderstanding out there. I would like to send everyone back except myself and my personal guard. One has utmost confidence in your hospitality—and I hope not to wreck these negotiations on a missed communication. Let us clear the area of all persons who might make a mistake.”
Machigi smiled, and this time a little of it did reach the eyes. “We both understand.”
“Understand me, nandi, that I am quite serious in my representations to you. You have an opportunity that has not existed for the last two hundred years.”
“Since we were robbed of the west coast, in fact.”
“What advantage, nandi, to hold the west coast at continual warfare with the center and the West and the station aloft—when you have a fair offer of access to the East, the untrammeled freedom of the seas, and a presence on the station? There is every advantage in that agreement. There is nothing held back from you.”
“Except the west coast.”
“It is small compared to the scope you can have elsewhere.”
“Little profit to me in exposing myself to assassination by your allies.”
“We can, nandi, get past the infelicitous history of relations, even recent ones, even the matter between you and Lord Geigi, if we may be specific. We have his nephew Baiji in custody. You have no further use for him, one assumes, but the dowager has—in terms of the bloodline he carries
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