Invitations: A Foreigner Short Story Page 2

  One recalled the shouting in the kitchen, which he was sure had involved vocabulary not in his dictionary.

  In some ways it’s a lot like being in the University. I have my little office, looking exactly like the University...

  She hadn’t seen that cubbyhole either, but she could at least be reassured her son was important enough for an office of his own.

  Nothing for me to do yet, but I’m sure there will be. I’ll write often. Please share my letters with Toby. Stay well. I love you.

  His mother hadn’t been happy with him entering Linguistics. She definitely hadn’t been happy when he entered the pool of eligibles for the paidhi’s office. She’d cried when he’d gotten the appointment, and that had hurt.

  But then she’d never been happy he wasn’t a banker or an accountant.

  “Are they paying you enough?” she’d asked him when he made his last visit home.

  “Quite well, actually,” he’d said. “And the atevi government provides all my food and lodging and transport. And clothing. I’ll just put the pay in the bank. I’ve set up an account. You won’t have to worry about anything.”

  “And what are you going to do when you get a wife?” she’d asked him. “Will those people let her move in? And you can’t bring kids up there. And how often will you be here? I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

  Conversations with his mother usually got to two points, her health and the potential for grandchildren.

  As if his brother Toby weren’t working on that problem.

  But he still got the old question... when are you and that girl getting married?

  He was seeing someone... three someones, as happened, none of them a person his mother approved, naturally... but girls who appreciated a good time, one of the three likely to be free whenever he called and none of the three having any trouble filling the weeks between. Linguistics was like that: you studied until your brain ached, you wrote papers, you wrote proposals, and then when you’d all but given up, they’d pass your paper and give you three whole days of leave from the program.

  He was probably going to feel the same way after a few months of a cubbyhole of an office. Most of his job involved reading the newspapers, reading magazines, collecting a word or two to send off to Linguistics along with a paper explaining the usage as he believed it to be... which might clear it into the official dictionary, and might give some Linguistics student material for a paper. The other part was staying current with atevi society, picking up the gossip and the rumors, and figuring what tech would be a good thing to ease into atevi culture.

  By such steps atevi-human relations advanced.

  He thought about starting his initial report to State. He didn’t think he should leave his office and walk around. Since the paidhi-aiji had an office, probably atevi expected the paidhi-aiji to be in it. Eventually either some letter from State would come in for him, or one from the aiji might come to him on its way to State, simply telling Mospheira he had gotten here. When it did, he would translate it and attach notes.

  That was his job.

  And if State decided it was time to release a technology, he was supposed to write up an impact statement, and translate it for the aiji— and veto it if he didn’t think it was a good idea. That was his one great power in office, and it was absolute— his objection could stop an item being released on the mainland.

  Besides that, he was set up to attend atevi legislative committee meetings where it regarded technology, and write more reports, to go either direction across the straits— one copy in Mosphei’, the human language, and one copy in Ragi, the atevi language.

  He finished the tea. He had no idea what to do with the empty saucer and carafe, the box, or the napkin. He folded the napkin and set the box with the carafe on a vacant shelf, thinking he could take it back to the kitchens.

  Or he could take it when he went out to get lunch: that seemed more sensible.

  Section 4

  Half an hour later, with people passing in the hall outside, and no one stopping— a young person arrived at his door, bowed, and before he could get up, set a small bundle of newspapers on his desk and left. Work had arrived— not unwelcomely so.

  He unrolled the first one to read the headlines— and became aware of another shadow in the doorway.

  Two more individuals arrived and bowed.

  He stood up and bowed, that seeming the appropriate thing to do.

  “My name is Taigi,” one said. “Moni,” said the other, and both bowed. “We are assigned to provide service, paidhi.”

  “Indeed,” he said. His notes from Wilson had contained nothing about them or any staff. “What office sent you?”

  “We are assigned here, paidhi,” Moni said, “to come at whatever time you need, to assist you with whatever you need— care of wardrobe, meals, laundry, any need at all, paidhi.”

  He was surprised. And he had not had an answer. “One is gratified. But on whose order, nadi?”

  “We will of course make charges to the paidhi’s account.”

  He was new, but he was not a fool: he had just tried two routes, accurately pronounced, to get the same information, and had not gotten an answer. That rang alarm bells.

  “Who sent you, nadi?”

  That seemed to get through. “Ah.” Taigi said. “The Director of Bujavid Staff Services, paidhi.”

  “Did Wilson have such helpers from the Office of Bujavid Staff Services?”

  “No, paidhi,” Taigi said, lacing his fingers and looking down. “But Wilson-paidhi was in great disfavor.”

  That— was interesting. Relations had always been shaky. A paidhi spent his entire career trying not to let the world go suddenly to hell over a mistaken verb usage. Wilson, who had served three administrations, had known some very dicey moments.

  So was Wilson’s replacement getting a clean slate, old arguments forgotten?

  “Don’t go in wide-eyed and full of idealism,” Wilson had said.

  So it was his first day, and he’d been assigned servants Wilson hadn’t had, servants whose affiliation he couldn’t determine, in a court full of factions, and whose assignment hadn’t come with any paperwork— the atevi court ran on paper, seals, and ribbon— and with nobody’s seal of approval, servants were going to bring his food and have access to his room.

  The Director of Bujavid Staff Services. An origin he couldn’t probe.

  “Well,” he said, and cast a glance at the dishes on the shelf. “Please be so kind as to return the dishes, nadiin. One assumes they should go back to the kitchen. And might there be more tea?”

  The two repressed gentle smiles. ‘Dishes in a used condition’ sounded a great deal like ‘potsherds’ and he feared he had not quite mastered the d-p distinction. He amused them. But he was apparently going to have their services— if they could get him a cup of tea.

  “Yes, paidhi,” they said, took the dishes, and both left.

  And if they could get him a cup of tea, should he drink it?

  He sat down and glanced at the newspaper he’d been reading, thinking, well, if someone was going to poison him, they would do it, and that would embarrass the atevi government— who, if they were bent on doing him in, need not have gone to all the trouble of inviting him in the first place— need they have? So he probably could rely on them.

  He thought about it. And thought. Their getting a cup of tea didn’t give him that long a time to figure things out.

  He had no desire to start off offending whoever might have tried to start off with better relations.

  But he couldn’t take things at face value, either. He didn’t know if these two knew what humans could and couldn’t drink.

  And most of all— they’d brought no paperwork, no seal, no ribbon to indicate what person or what office was sending them.

  No. It wasn’t right. It was dangerously not right.

  He got up, left his office, and walked down the hall to the office nearest his—a larger office the function of which he
had not yet figured.

  The man at the front desk looked up, eyes widened, and the man rose in haste.

  “Would you be so kind as to call Bujavid Security, nadi?” Bren asked. “Two persons have come to my office. They say they are assigned as my servants, but one does not know how to verify this statement and they brought no paper. One needs to ask Security.”

  “Indeed.” In some consternation the man went back to a small office. A cluster of clerical workers gathered at a doorway to stare at him, pretending to be in conference. He pretended not to notice, and wondered whether he should have just asked to contact the Office of Bujavid Staff Services and ask.

  A woman from an inner office emerged with a very concerned expression, approached him at the counter and said, “Security is on its way, nadi.”

  Indeed they were. He heard a commotion in the hall, and hardly had turned to see before two armed, black-uniformed Assassins’ Guild arrived in the office, fixed him with unflinching looks while towering above him, and asked,

  “Where is the threat, paidhi-nadi?”

  Section 5

  It was something he did not care to write home about— the fact that within hours of officially taking up his office, he had rung down a security alert, locking doors in one entire wing of the Bujavid— and gotten his two innocent servants arrested.

  Yes, the Director of Bujavid Staff Services had indeed sent them, at the request of the Director of Bujavid Personnel, on a request from the Office of Court Operations. One doubted it had gone any higher than that... or that it possibly could go any higher than that. They were servants: they came, apparently, newly attached to the room, as every Bujavid residence had servants assigned to keep public property in good order. Wilson had rejected any assistance. But there they were.

  “One profoundly apologizes, nadiin,” he was obliged to tell his servants, when they were finally released to report to his office, and profoundly embarrassed did not begin to cover it.

  Moni and Taigi were graciously able to laugh about it. And they had, after all that had happened to them, brought the requested tea, and were able to serve it to him. They were, they said, well-informed on human sensitivities to some teas and spices.

  They offered to shop for him, and find him items he needed. They could go down into the city streets, at the foot of the Bujavid, which he could not do. They could run errands, check for mail, advise him of menu items, certainly take dishes to and fro. They could serve him supper in his apartment. They were amply compensated by Bujavid Staff Services: service in the government center was a very good job, and they were delighted he would accept their service: working as personal staff for a court official was even better than serving one of the historic rooms.

  And they could talk to him. They would talk— especially Taigi, who could leap from one topic to the next with very informative chains of thought. And they told him things— what businesses were down in the Hotel District, and what they could get. They were very happy to tell him about their village, and where that was, and how long they had been in Shejidan. They could tell him what was going on in the wing, and in the whole Bujavid, and the city if he had time to hear it.

  And they could tell him how to deal with Accounting and how to deal with Customs, and get things from Mospheira that he might want.

  They were beyond an asset. They were a godsend.

  He did write a personal apology to the Office of the Director of Bujavid Staff Services, to the Office of the Director of Bujavid Personnel, and to the Office of the Director of Court Operations— not forgetting the Office of the Director of Bujavid Security, which was linked to the Assassins’ Guild.

  And he wrote a thank you to the Director of the Office of Procurement, which was the office that had called security for him.

  That meant he had written two more letters than he had message cylinders to contain.

  That was no problem at all, Moni said: they could get plain ones from the mail office.

  But perhaps, Taigi said, he should have several more, white ones, which was the color of his office, or any other person who was trying for some reason to be neutral. They could get those down in the city, very nice ones, because nice cylinders with proper colors got faster attention.

  If he wished, they could order them printed in gold with Office of the Paidhi-aiji blazoned on it.

  And was there anything else they should get for him, while they were about it?

  Section 6

  It was very pleasant to have a real dinner in his quarters. Moni and Taigi assured him the sauces were safe, and they were, and it smelled good: seasonal fish and a grain dish with savory oil. Moni and Taigi didn’t want to join him at dinner— they had ordered their own, and they would pick theirs up when they went home to their own apartment in another wing. They served him his dinner, and stood propped against the wall, chattering away about food from their district he should try.

  And then, in preparation for the coming day, they took inventory in his closet, where he had two coats and three shirts and three pair of trousers.

  They were distressed. “We can of course work late every night to have the paidhi’s wardrobe ready,” Taigi said, “but it would be so much easier if there were more. The paidhi can order anything needful.”

  “One expects to order paper and pens,” Bren said. “But clothing—”

  “A coat, of course. The paidhi must have a coat. Could he possibly bring any sort of a proper coat from Mospheira?” Taigi assumed a pained expression. “These are simply not in fashion, paidhi. They are last year’s, being generous. These clothes, however, fit, do they not, paidhi-nadi?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then let us take them to a tailor. He can take measurements from these.”

  “But this expense? One does not wish to be excessive.”

  “Indeed.” Taigi bowed deeply, seeming pleased. “One has absolutely no doubts. Rely on us, paidhi.”

  One hoped the Accounting office was not about to get a surprise.

  Section 7

  He was unprepared the following evening, as he shed his coat, and as Taigi opened the fairly large closet, to find it full of clothes.

  “Nadiin,” he began, turning to find both of them looking smug.

  “You now have a proper choice,” Taigi said. Taigi had been absent all day, as he said, shopping. He had come back from one shopping expedition in a city where ready-to-wear in adult styles came only in significantly larger sizes... and his purchases had filled the closet.

  Beige and white predominated— the paidhi’s official color was white— with a darker brown in one case, which he was glad to see, for comfort’s sake; but one coat was beige and white brocade, full-on court dress, outdoing by several orders of magnificence the beige coat he had thought would serve, worn with the requisite lace-cuffed shirt—

  It glittered with gold thread.

  What was the form for excessive though of course fortunate and very tasteful, and thank you for the effort?

  God.

  He did not plan to be that conspicuous at court. Ever. Plain beige and brown seemed quite enough, dressed up with a little lace.

  And, was it six?— six completely new three-piece suits?

  How? occurred to him to ask. And he was sure he would eventually get the story. Taigi undoubtedly wanted to tell him.

  But there was more to see.

  The room had acquired, besides, a small side table, a cloisonne bowl for messages, should any come to the residence, a little tea service, a bottle of brandy with three glasses— were they hoping to be asked to share a brandy, he wondered. Or was it simply that glassware on the mainland came in threes?

  He had not even commented on that, yet. He was astounded. Everything on the continent tended to be hand-worked in some fashion. Cloth came from a mill— but furniture stores generally had, Wilson reported, a display window where artists carved and painted and varnished their work for the entertainment of passers-by.

  “How did you do it?”
he asked, and they laughed.

  “We know tailors,” they said, and finally Moni said, “Several tailors. Once one knows the numbers, one can take them anywhere.”

  Section 8

  It was not a restful night. He kept thinking about the sudden invasion of his closet, the sudden widening of his world... and he worried about the bill. He was new in an office he’d worked for years to reach. He’d done it on no patronage. He’d risen through Linguistics on his scores, not his connections. He’d risen so fast, so far that he had constant misgivings about what he might have missed learning.

  When it was clear, a year ago, that Tabini was going to take the aijinate, everybody had thought, well, Wilson’s done.

  And he’d thought, regarding his hopes of getting into the selection pool, well, that’s it for me. Just the wrong timing—

  Because he wasn’t there yet.

  But when Wilson had outlasted Tabini-aiji’s accession to the aijinate— everybody in State had drawn a deep breath and said, Well, we’ve still got Wilson.

  And those in the very small selection pool had drawn an even deeper one and said— not for years yet. Wilson will die in office.

  He’d made it into the pool this winter. He was the juniormost, still scrambling to brief himself.

  Then Wilson was out.

  And he was in. How he was in was a question. Why he was in was a mystery. He’d heard a hint the aiji himself had refused two appointees.

  And taken him... maybe figuring the youngest candidate would be a pushover.

  Certainly several of the other candidates had not too graciously expressed that thought. One political power had objected; but State said the appointment was the appointment, and couldn’t be undone at this point.

  If he had to go back, now, if he got tossed out of the appointment from this end—

  He didn’t know what he’d do. Survive, he supposed. But hell if he wanted to go out in some financial scandal Moni and Taigi had created.