Tracker by C. J. Cherryh Page A

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.”
    â€œDefinite, however, that you’re coming?”
    â€œI’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?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œPay 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.”
    â€œNo 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.”
    â€œYou’ve gotten a taste for the food, have you?”
    â€œKaplan 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.”
    â€œIndeed,” 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.”
    â€œThe 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.”

3
    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