‘The aiji—“
“Needs me. But no one knows why. You wouldn’t mislead me, would you, Jago?”
“It’s my profession, nadi Bren.”
“To lie to me.”
There was an awkward silence at the table. He’d intended his bluntness as bitter humor. It had come out at the wrong moment, into the wrong mood, into their honest and probably frustrated efforts to find answers. Of all humans, he was educated not to make mistakes with them.
“Forgive me,” he said,
“His culture will lie,” Banichi said plainly to Jago. “But admitting one has done so insults the victim.”
Jago took on a puzzled look.
“Forgive me,” Bren said again. “It was a joke, nadi Jago.”
Jago still looked puzzled, and frowned, but not angrily. “We take this threat very seriously.”
“I didn’t. I’m beginning to.” He thought: Where’s my mail, Banichi? But he had a mouthful of soup instead. Making too much haste with atevi was not, not productive. “I’m grateful. I’m sure you had other plans this evening.”
“No,” said Jago.
“Still,” he said, wondering if they’d fixed the television outage yet, and what he was going to say to Banichi and Jago for small talk for the rest of the evening. Maybe there was a play on the entertainment channel. It seemed they might stay the night.
And in whose bed would they sleep, he asked himself.—Or would they sleep? They didn’t show the effects of last night at all.
“Do you play cards?”
“Cards?” Jago asked, and Banichi shoved his chair back and said he should teach her.
“What are cards?” Jago asked, when what Bren wanted to ask Banichi involved his mail. But Banichi probably had far more important things on his mind—like checking with security, and being sure surveillance items were working.
“It’s a numerical game,” Bren said, wishing Banichi wasn’t deserting him to Jago—he hoped not for the night. When are you leaving? wasn’t a politic question. He was still trying to figure how to ask it of Banichi, or what he should say if Banichi said Jago was staying… when Banichi went out the door, with, “Mind the wire, nadi Bren.”
“Gin,” Jago said.
Bren sighed, laid his cards down, glad there wasn’t money involved.
“Forgive me,” Jago said. “You said I should say that. Unseemly gloating was far from—”
“No, no, no. It’s entirely the custom.”
“One isn’t sure,” Jago said. “Am I to be sure?”
He had embarrassed Jago. He had been mishidi—awkward. He held out his palm, the gesture of conciliation. “You’re to be sure.” God, one couldn’t walk without tripping over sensitivities. “It’s actually courteous to tell me you’ve won.”
“You don’t count the cards?”
Atevi memory was, especially regarding numbers, hard to shake, no matter that Jago was not the fanatic number-adder you found in the surrounding city. And no, he hadn’t adequately counted the cards. Never play numbers with an atevi.
“I would perhaps have done better, nadi Jago, if I weren’t distracted by the situation. I’m afraid it’s a little more personal to me.”
“I assure you we’ve staked our personal reputations on your safety. We’d never be less than committed to our effort.”
He had the impulse to rest his head on his hand and resign the whole conversation. Jago would take that as evidence of offense, too.
“I wouldn’t expect otherwise, nadi Jago, and it’s not your capacity I doubt, not in the least. I could only wish my own faculties were operating at their fullest, or I should not have embarrassed myself just now, by seeming to doubt you.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“I’ll be far brighter when I’ve slept. Please regard my mistakes as confusion.”
Jago’s flat black face and vivid yellow eyes held more intense expression than they were wont—not offense, he thought, but curiosity.
“I confess myself uneasy,” she said, brow furrowed. “You declare absolutely you aren’t offended.”
“No.” One rarely touched atevi. But her manner invited it. He patted her hand where it rested on the table. “I understand you.” It seemed not quite to carry the point, and, looking her in the eyes, he flung his honest thoughts after it. “I wish you understood me on this. It’s a human thought.”
“Are you able to explain?”