C. J. Cherryh - Foreigner 9 - Deliverer

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Deliverer
C J Cherryh
Foreigner 09
A 3S digital back-up edition 1.0
click for scan notes and proofing history
Contents
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DAW BOOKS, INC.
DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, FOUNDER
375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
ELIZABETH R. WOLLHEIM
SHEILA E. GILBERT
PUBLISHERS
http://www.dawbooks.com
Copyright © 2007 by C.J. Cherryh All rights reserved.
Jacket art by Donate DAW Books Collectors No. 1391.
DAW Books are distributed by the Penguin Group
(USA) Inc. Book designed by Stanley S. Drate/Folio
Graphics Co., Inc.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. All
resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book
via the Internet or any other means without the
permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by
law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions,
and do not participate in or encourage the electronic
piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the
author’s rights is appreciated.
First Printing, February 2007. 123456789 10
DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
DAW Titles by C. J. CHERRYH
THE FOREIGNER UNIVERSE
FOREIGNER INVADER INHERITOR
PRECURSOR DEFENDER EXPLORER
DESTROYER PRETENDER DELIVERER
THE ALLIANCE-UNION UNIVERSE
DOWNBELOW STATION
MERCHANTER’S LUCK
FORTY THOUSAND IN GEHENNA
SERPENT’S REACH
AT THE EDGE OF SPACE Omnibus:
Brothers of Earth | Hunter of Worlds
THE FADED SUN Omnibus:
Kesrith | Shon’jir | Kutath
THE CHANUR NOVELS THE CHANUR SAGA
Omnibus:
The Pride of Chanur | Chanur’s Venture | The Kif
Strike Back
CHANUR’S HOMECOMING
CHANUR’S LEGACY
THE MORGAINE CYCLE THE MORGAINE SAGA
Omnibus:
Gate of Ivrel | Well of Shiuan | Fires of Azeroth
EXILE’S GATE
OTHER WORKS
THE DREAMING TREE:
The Tree of Swords and Jewels | The Dreamstone
ALTERNATE REALITIES Omnibus:
Port Eternity | Wave Without a Shore | Voyager in
Night
THE COLLECTED SHORT FICTION OF CJ.
CHERRYH
ANGEL WITH THE SWORD
CUCKOO’S EGG
DELIVERER
1
^ »
Morning—a very early morning, with the red-tiled roofs of Shejidan
hazed in fog, presenting a mazy sprawl in the distance beyond the
balcony rail. A definite nip of autumn edged the wind that swept
across the table and flared the damask cloth.
Ilisidi, aiji-dowager, diminutive of her kind, and very frail,
seemed little affected by the chill. Bren Cameron, opposite her at
the small breakfast table, swallowed cup after cup of hot tea and
tried to still his shivers.
The dowager, seemingly oblivious to the slight breeze, slid
several more eggs onto her plate and cheerfully ladled on a sauce
Bren would never dare touch.
They were without bodyguards for the moment, or, rather, their
respective bodyguards were sensibly standing just inside, out of the
wind. The balcony was high enough and faced away from likely
sniper sites, so that here, at least, one had no reason to fear bullets,
assassins, or remnants of the recent coup and counterrevolution.
“Lord Tatiseigi will go home soon,” Ilisidi said
conversationally—one never discussed business over meals. This
was a social remark, ostensibly, at least.
“Indeed, aiji-ma?” They had come here from Lord Tatiseigi’s
estate, which had suffered extensive damage in the fighting,
damage ranging from its mangled hedges to an upstairs bedroom
missing its floor. It would not be a happy homecoming for the old
man… though it was a triumphant one.
“He has so many things to arrange,” Ilisidi said. “Carpenters,
plasterers—stonemasons.” An egg vanished, and Ilisidi rapped the
dish with her spoon. “Do trust the white sauce, nand’ paidhi. Have
the fish. You look peaked.”
Frozen was nearer the truth, and sauces were a minefield of
alkaloids delectable to atevi, and potentially fatal to humans, but
Bren obediently slid a little of the fish offering onto his plate, and
spooned white sauce atop it, a sauce kept hot, despite the bitter
gale, by a lid and a shielded candle.
The breakfast service was silver lined with hand-painted
porcelain, hunting scenes, each piece exquisite and historic.
Everything was historic in Ilisidi’s apartment, which no rebel hand
had dared touch, even when everyone had believed that Tabini-aiji
was dead and Ilisidi was unlikely to return from space. Tabini had
lived, and she had returned, and those who had thought differently
were, at the moment, running for their lives.
Bren himself had a small guest quarters within Ilisidi’s domain,
inside the Bu-javid, that massive city-girt fortress which housed no
few of the lords of the Association. Herein, inside a building that
loomed above the city of Shejidan, resided the aiji himself, the
lords, the officials, besides their offices, the legislature and their
offices—the complex sat atop its hill in the ancient heart of the city.
The fortress and the city, not to mention the continent that
spanned half the world, were newly back in the aiji’s hands, and
they, Bren Cameron and Ilisidi and their respective bodyguards,
were newly returned from their two-year voyage, dropped down to
the world in support of Tabini-aiji. The two of them had come down
from the sterile security of a steel world, where the only breezes
came from the vents, to this balcony, where nature determined the
temperature and the breeze, and Bren found the change of
realities—and the intervening few days of revolution—both
exhilarating and a little unreal, even yet. The paidhi might freeze
and shiver, but this morning he enjoyed the sensations, the sight,
the tastes— the very randomness of things.
Not too much randomness, thank you. The random shooting had
died down in the city. The Assassins’ Guild had sorted out its
internal affairs and begun to function politically, which meant more
stability, enforcement of laws and, indeed, elimination of certain
individuals bent on civil unrest. As a result, they two, and the rest
of the country, could draw an easier breath, and sleep at night in
relative confidence of waking up the next morning: Bren personally
welcomed that sort of scheduled regularity, even bloodily achieved.
“Tatiseigi will go home,” Ilisidi reiterated across the rim of her
teacup, “and I shall go with him. He will need our advice.”
Significance penetrated the shivers. “One understands, then,
aiji-ma,” Bren said. “One will make other arrangements
immediately.”
“Arrangements are already made for the paidhi-aiji’s residence.”
Ilisidi’s cup touched the cloth and a servant appeared, to pour more
tea. “Nand’paidhi?”
Tea, she meant. Bren set down his ice-cold cup and the servant
whisked another, steaming hot, into its place, before pouring.
“Thank you, nand’ dowager. May one ask—?”
“Tatiseigi will inform you of the details himself, doubtless, or at
least leave a message, but he intends to make his own apartment
available for the paidhi’s use… under current circumstances.”
“One is honored.” Thunderstruck by the old man’s action was
more to the point. Tatiseigi’s apartment was, indeed, where he had
once resided, in Tatiseigi’s long absence from the capital, and he
had once thought of it as home; but a good many things had
intervened—a very great many advancements, and a great many
violent things. He had dealt with Lord Tatiseigi, who did not
approve of humans, or televisions, or any other human-brought
plague on his traditions, and who had housed him in the meanest
rooms in his great house on his return from space.
And Tatiseigi was willing to invite him back? One would be very
glad to believe that the old man had suddenly suffered a complete
change of perspective about humans, had determined that he was
an admirable and acceptable being.
Or the sun might rise in the west. The old man had something up
his sleeve, surely. “One is extremely honored, nandi, and I shall
express it to him.”
“Understand, this residence would remain available in my
absence…” Ilisidi ladled sauce onto fish. “… except, one regrets to
say, my grandson, who finds his personal residence greatly
disturbed, has set eyes on it.”
Disturbed was an understatement: Tabini-aiji’s personal
apartment had been a battleground during the coup: certain of his
servants had died there, blood stained the carpets, there had been a
fire set, and certain priceless artworks had been damaged or stolen.
The premises was under thorough restoration and examination for
security problems.
Meanwhile the paidhi’s own apartment, on loan from the
Maladesi, had been a case of don’t-ask on his arrival: a clan of
difficult man’chi, claiming to be distant relatives of the Maladesi,
had occupied it, had been instrumental in getting access to that
floor during the aiji’s entry into the Bu-javid—since they had taken
out political rivals, supporters of the other regime, in the
process—and in point of fact—the aiji had not found it politic to toss
them out of the residence, never mind the fact they had jumped
themselves to the head of a very long waiting list for Bu-javid
residency… it was a mess, it was an absolute mess, and the end
result was—the paidhi had no apartment until the aiji finessed the
Farai out of it. And the aiji was too busy finessing his own living
quarters to worry about the paidhi-aiji.
“So Tabini will lodge here,” Ilisidi said, “while the aiji’s official
residence is restored and renewed. Tatiseigi, for his part, is very
anxious to get back to Tirnamardi and assess damages there. It
seems a convenient arrangement, that the paidhi should lodge in
the Atageini apartments.”
Which meant that the Farai were either persons that Tatiseigi of
the Atageini would not invite—possible: they were southern, not
high in Tatiseigi’s favor at the moment—or the Farai were still
barricaded into his apartment in hopes of getting concessions out of
Tabini.
He was still amazed at Tatiseigi’s hospitality toward him. “Dare
one ask,” he began cautiously, “whether this gracious gesture was
his lordship’s idea, aiji-ma?”
Ilisidi chuckled and lifted an eyebrow. “We did suggest it…
considering my grandson’s impending residency here, and
considering our assistance in the Atageini defense, which has
indebted Tatiseigi, when he will acknowledge the fact. In very fact,
our attendance out at Tirnamardi will prevent another sort of
disaster. Tatiseigi will bully the artisans. The artist he most wants
will certainly quit if not kept in good humor, we well know. So we
will be there to prevent the old fool from threatening the man’s
life.”
One could only imagine. Ilisidi was in for a lively stay under
Tatiseigi’s roof.
But to have something like his own quarters again: that was
glorious news. He was delighted. But on a second thought, he was
not the dowager’s only guest, and that other individual’s security
was a matter of deep concern to him. “And is Cajeiri going to
Tirnamardi, too?”
“No.” A sip of tea, and a thoughtful frown. “No, my
great-grandson will stay here, with his parents. That will be safest.
Far too many things in Tirnamardi invite his ingenuity. And best
he have time with his parents in exclusivity, to allow bonds to
form…”
He ventured no comment at all, nor deemed it proper. Hundreds
of years humans had been on this world, and as long as there had
been paidhiin—interpreters and intercessors between atevi and
humans—and as close as he had gotten to the culture, atevi had
still kept certain things unsaid—as was their custom, to be sure.
Certain things were either never commented upon, a matter of good
manners, or remained entirely outside the realm of the paidhi’s
dealings, and the bringing up of their children was a major zone of
silence: neither Banichi nor Jago volunteered information in that
regard, and when he had asked, Jago had professed ignorance and
indifference on her own part… a clear enough signal it was not a
topic she favored.
But he wanted to know—not only professionally: since he had
taken up dealing with the boy, for two significant years of his
life—since he had acquired an entirely unprofessional fondness for a
boy he in no wise wanted to damage or misdirect, he wanted to
know.
The dowager only added, “We have cared for him too long. His
sense of association needs time to form naturally, and in
appropriate directions. This is his chance, in a field of diminishing
chances, and best take it.”
Sense of association: that emotion atevi felt that wasn’t
friendship, or love, those two most dangerous human words. What
Ilisidi referred to as diminishing was the opportunity for Cajeiri’s
forming his own sense of attachments, which constituted an ateva’s
internal compass in relationships, a feeling central to a healthy
personality. A human could only ask himself how wide a window of
opportunity a child had, to begin to form those necessary—and
reciprocal—bonds, and if there was a point at which that window
shut, after which they were left with one very confused young boy.
Certainly the ship where Cajeiri had just spent the last two years
had held no youngsters of his own species: more, it had contained
far too many opportunities to form ties to the human population,
youngsters who used the terms friend and birthday party…
“Should I seek residence entirely elsewhere, then, aiji-ma?” he
asked. He was through eating. The portions were far too much for
his frame. The warmth the food and the tea provided was fast
fading, especially in the contemplation of a separation from the
household. “Should I take myself and my staff down the hill to the
hotel—or perhaps all the way to my estate for a time? I could
conduct certain business there quite handily, aiji-ma, if more
distance would—”
“Our compliments to your sensitivity and grace, nand’ paidhi. No,
that will not be necessary. We are confident that a removal down
the hall will suffice. My great-grandson still needs your
advisements, and your good sense. We should not all desert him at
once, and doubtless—I have absolutely no doubt at all—he will
attempt to contact you, whatever the difficulties. One also foresees
he will attempt to politic with you and his father, playing one
against the other: you know his tricks far, far better than my
grandson. A surrogate for his father—oh, indeed, you have been
that, paidhi-aiji, over the last two years. One rather assumes that
you have formed some sort of bond to my great-grandchild as well.”
“One must confess it, aiji-ma, one does feel such a sentiment.”
“Well, well, one must necessarily let that association grow
somewhat fainter, particularly for public view. I have spoken to my
great-grandson regarding this. And to my grandson. One trusts the
paidhi absolutely understands.”
Indeed. He was saddened to have it confirmed it had to be.
But Cajeiri had had far too much to do with humans, the last two
formative years, between six and eight—and now he well
understood that if the dowager needed to back away and let the boy
form ties to his parents, then he had to back away and let Cajeiri
become what he had to be, to be adult, sane, and healthy—not to
mention heir to his father’s power, ruler of the atevi world… aiji of
the aishidi’tat, with all that meant. Aijiin didn’t form upward
attachments, or they abandoned them increasingly as they grew up:
the boy he saw as just a boy was, if he was ever going to rule, going
to have to change—would have to drink in other people’s manchiin
like water, and attach himself only to his inferiors.
Would have to become cold enough, calculating enough—to rule,
to judge, to administer. To be impartial in decisions, reasoned in
debate, and ruthless with his enemies, as enemies not only of
himself, but of the people he represented… it was not a mindset a
Mospheiran wanted to encourage in a child, but it was what Cajeiri
was supposed to become.
So they had come back to earth in various senses. The change
had to come, and for the boy’s own psychological health, the right
signals needed to run down the boy’s nerves, and that set of
instincts needed to find answers that a human just couldn’t give
him… not and produce a sane ateva.
At least, he thought, this time someone had warned the boy
ahead of time that his life was about to be jerked sideways. Cajeiri
wasn’t going to like it. That was also part of his mental makeup: he
defended himself, oh, quite well.
And for good or for ill, he told himself, waiting for the dowager to
finish her last cup of tea, he wouldn’t be totally out of reach, when,
not if, the boy needed him.
Great-grandmother, a Stability of One, was having breakfast
with the Lord of the Heavens. That was marginally more fortunate
to say than to remark that Great-grandmother and the Lord of the
Heavens were having breakfast, an Infelicity of Two. There was, of
course, a compensatory flower arrangement on that table on the
drafty balcony, and the bodyguards, five in number—only Jago had
come with nand’ Bren, which was odd—made a Felicity of Seven…
All of which was to say that Cajeiri was not invited to that table,
but he was sure it was not just the numbers. He was sure it meant
the grownups were discussing him, because it would have been a
great deal less fuss over all to have provided him a chair at the
same table and made felicitous three, would it not?
As it was, he had a quiet breakfast with his bodyguards, Antaro
and Jegari, who were brother and sister, and only a little older than
he was. They were Taibeni, from the deep forests of the slopes of
the Padi Valley, and they were not at all accustomed to city
manners, so it was a relief to them, he supposed, not to have to
stand in the hall and try to talk to the likes of Cenedi,
Great-grandmother’s chief bodyguard, or Banichi or Jago, who were
Bren’s, and terribly imposing—Banichi was actually a very obliging
fellow, but Jegari was quite scared of him: that was the truth.
His guard liked the informal ways of Taiben. He, on the other
hand, was accustomed to servants at his elbow, oh, indeed he was.
He had grown up first with his mother and father, in the most
servant-ridden place in the world, and then with great-uncle
Tatiseigi, who was a stickler for propriety, and finally with
Great-grandmother, traveling in space with nand’ Bren, in a vast
ship far too small to hide him from proper manners. It was first
from Uncle Tatiseigi and then from Great-grandmother he had
learned his courtesies: they were very old-fashioned, and insisted on
the forms even if they secretly didn’t believe in the superstitions.
He had been locked up in Great-grandmother’s apartment for two
years on the ship, and she had made sure he would be fit to come
back as his father’s son and her great-grandson—his left ear had
gotten positively tender from all the thwacking.
He had left the world when he was six. He was now in that
awkward year before nine, that year so infelicitous one could not
摘要：

DelivererCJCherryhForeigner09A3Sdigitalback-upedition1.0clickforscannotesandproofinghistoryContents|1|2|3|4|5|6|7|8|9|10|11|12|13|14|15|16|17|DAWBOOKS,INC.DONALDA.WOLLHEIM,FOUNDER375HudsonStreet,NewYork,NY10014ELIZABETHR.WOLLHEIMSHEILAE.GILBERTPUBLISHERShttp://www.dawbooks.comCopyright©2007byC.J.Che...

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