Jago was at his elbow instantly, prim Jago, not so tall as the atevi around her, but purposeful, deliberate, dangerous in a degree that had to make everyone around him reassess the position he held and the resources he had.
Resources the aiji had, more to the point, if, a moment ago, they had entertained any uneasiness about him.
There was another turn of atevi thinking—that said that if a person had power like that, and hadn’t used it, he wouldn’t do so as long as the status quo maintained itself intact.
“Any findings?” he asked Jago, when they had a space of the hall to themselves.
“We’re watching,” Jago said. “That’s all. The trail’s cold.”
“Mospheira would be safer for me.”
“But Tabini needs you.”
“Banichi said so. For what? I’ve no advisements to give him. I’ve been handed no inquiry that I’ve heard of, unless something turns up in the energy transcript. I’m sorry. My mind hasn’t been on business.”
“Get some sleep tonight.”
With death-traps at both doors. He had nothing to say to that suggestion. He took the turn toward the post office to pick up his mail, hoping for something pleasant. A letter from home. Magazines, pictures to look at that had human faces, articles that depended on human language and human logic, for a few hours after supper to let go of thoughts that were going to haunt his sleep a second night. It was one of those days he wanted to tell Barb to get on the plane, fly in here, just twenty-four human hours…
With lethal wires on his bedroom doors?
He took out his mail-slot key, he reached for the door, and Jago caught his arm. “The attendant can get it.”
From behind the wall, she meant—because someone was trying to kill him, and Jago didn’t want him reaching into the box after the mail.
“That’s extreme,” he said.
“So might your enemies be.”
“I thought the word was finesse. Blowing up a mail slot?”
“Or inserting a needle in a piece of mail.” She took his key and pocketed it. “The paidhi’s mail, nadi-ji.”
The attendant went. And came back.
“Nothing,” the attendant said.
“There’s always something,” Bren said. “Forgive my persistence, nadi, but my mailbox is never empty. It’s never in my tenure here been empty. Please be sure.”
“I couldn’t mistake you, nand’ paidhi.” The attendant spread his hands. “I’ve never seen the box empty either. Perhaps there’s holiday.”
“Not on any recent date.”
“Perhaps someone picked it up for you.”
“Not by my authorization.”
“I’m sorry, nand’ paidhi. There’s just nothing there.”
“Thank you.” He bowed, there being nothing else to say, and nowhere else to look. “Thank you for your trouble.” And quietly to Jago, in perplexity and distress: “Someone’s been at my mail.”
“Banichi probably picked it up.”
“It’s very kind of him to take the trouble, Jago, but I can pick up my mail.”
“Perhaps he thought to save you bother.”
He sighed and shook his head, and walked away, Jago right with him, from the first step down the hall. “His office, do you think?”
“I don’t think he’s there. He said something about a meeting.”
“He’s taken my mail to a meeting.”
“Possibly, nadi Bren.”
Maybe Banichi would bring it to the room. Then he could read himself to sleep, or write letters, before he forgot human language. Failing that, maybe there’d be a machimi play on television. A little revenge, a little humor, light entertainment.
They took the back halls to reach the main lower corridor, walked to his room. He used his key—opened the door and saw his bed relocated to the other end of the room. The television was sitting where his bed had been. Everything felt wrong-handed.
He avoided the downed wire, dead though it was supposed to be. Jago stepped over it too, and went into his bathroom without a please or may I? and went all around the room with a bug-finder.
He picked up the remote and turned on the television. Changed channels. The news channel was off the air. All the general channels were off the air. The weather channel worked. One entertainment channel did.