The paidhi was tired. Damned tired. He lowered himself gingerly into the chair nearest the balcony doors—there were nicer chairs in the room, this one being unexpectedly small and uncomfortable, compared to most of the atevi furniture he was used to dealing with, but it was doubtless a priceless chair. Priceless and no doubt historic, as it seemed nearly everything in this apartment was. Not pleasant to sit in, though, and if he had been the least bit less tired or in better shape, physically speaking, he would have chosen another chair, brought it closer to the doors where a pleasant breeze was cooling the air. He could feel it now, worth the discomfort of sitting in the chair, and discomfort was a relative thing when one’s arm was sprained, when one’s leg was broken in two places, when an itch under the cast was driving one all but mad. He’d had no sleep the night before, meetings all day, barely even time to catch his breath—damn straight he sat in the first chair he came to.

The Minister of Finance had actually laughed aloud when he’d hobbled into the Blue Room on crutches this morning. He felt his face grow hot at the memory of it--he had met the minister’s amusement as impassively as he could, but he didn’t know, couldn’t know, what conclusions Atevi might draw from the previous night’s events, and damn, it was disturbing to think that it might be common gossip, that this staff, his own staff, here in his own apartment, might be reporting his every move to someone besides Tabini. And then, of course, it wasn’t exactly something he wanted the whole Bu-javid to know about. Maybe it was just harmlessly amusing, maybe if it hadn’t happened to you, it was funny, but from where he sat it was embarrassing. And painful and itchy.

"Would the paidhi like tea?" It was his chief of staff, hovering--concerned.

"No, thank you, Rani-ji. The paidhi would like some vodka." He trusted he managed to suppress his irritation. It was Narani’s efforts, Narani’s supervision, that first established and then maintained the harmony and felicity of the household, and Bren truly appreciated that, appreciated all the efforts of the staff whose priority was his own comfort and convenience, whose hard and tireless work made his own possible. But Bren had had enough of servants. He had had enough this morning, when, the arm hurting whenever he moved it, the leg casted into motionlessness, he couldn’t put on his trousers, let alone bathe himself. It had been a long time since he had been so helpless. And then the cook had sent his breakfast already cut into small pieces, "To make it easier for nand’ paidhi to eat," she had explained, as though he were a complete invalid. He tried to tell himself she wasn’t laughing at him. Tried to regain his objectivity, to analyze the situation instead of react emotionally, but it was hard, and he needed a rest. He needed the staff to leave him alone for more than thirty seconds at a time. He needed, really and truly needed, some way to scratch his leg underneath the cast.

He heaved a long sigh, wishing the drink would take the edge off his distress so he could think rationally about the day’s events. The phone call from Mospheira, coming on top of everything else, was not calculated to calm him. What was wrong with Barb, anyway? She’d married someone else, made her choice, now she had to live with it. And instead of settling down to the life she’d chosen for herself, she continued to pursue him. As though he were available. As though she hadn’t been the one to call their relationship off. As though her husband didn’t matter in the least. As though she were some kind of psychotic stalker. He tried to remind himself that he’d been involved with Barb as long as he had for a reason, that she was kind, and gracious, that she’d made him laugh, that he’d been genuinely hurt when he’d learned about her marriage to Paul. But lately he just wished she’d get run over by a bus or something.

The paidhi needed to get a grip on himself, was what. It had been a difficult, exhausting day, and he needed a rest. Maybe, he thought, he could take a few days, visit the estate, maybe even go to Malguri and go riding, if one could ride with a broken leg. It would be nice to be out in the mountains with Nokhada, who never demanded more of him than the chance to pick a fight with anyone between her and Babs. But Malguri would mean Ilisidi, and the Dowager—would let no advantage pass her by.

And what were his personal problems, when he considered his responsibilities? Absolutely, any miscalculation on his part had the potential to destroy everything generations of Atevi and humans had worked for. And the whole process had accelerated so much, with the arrival of the ship—the potential for disaster had increased unimaginably. More and faster technological change, more exposure to human ideas, human technology, at unprecedented speed. More and more Atevi, he’d discovered, were learning Mosphei’ with greater and lesser degrees of success, completely out of the paidhi’s control, increasing the chances of tragic misunderstanding. And he’d severe misgivings lately about what prolonged contact with human culture was doing to the Atevi. Last month one of the clericals in his office had brought in a souvenir T-shirt, of all things, that she’d bought at Onondisi Bay. Along with a cartoonish drawing of a crustacean, the shirt bore the legend, in Mosphei’, "HAPPY SHELLFISH How harmonious the air and surroundingly more sunlight. Liquid is warm but wet. We will fortunate life smiling and so are you." And yesterday Nand’ Dasibi had advised that, given the popularity of Happy Shellfish, whose cartooned image was appearing on everything from serving platters to message cylinders, perhaps the paidhi’s office ought to consider joining in, in the hope that "Happy Shellfish always files a flight plan" might have some influence. God help him, he honestly didn’t know what to do about that.

He began to regret his choice of seating. The chair was less and less comfortable, and it gave alarmingly when he shifted. He wondered why a piece of furniture so useless was in the apartment at all, and concluded that it must be an antique no one had sat in for years. He ought to get up, call a servant to move some more suitable seating near the balcony doors, apologize for risking the historic furniture, but it was his apartment, his furniture. Theoretically, he could break the thing up for firewood if he wanted. He took another sip, swallowed, feeling the sting of the vodka, the chill of the ice—unseasonable luxury. His staff catered to his every need. Should he wish anything, it would appear, like magic. He had everything he could possibly want, except solitude—and the answers to some suddenly pertinent questions. Chief among them, what was the relationship between Jago and her partner? One just didn’t ask such questions. He never knew if Banichi was in any way offended by his and Jago’s activities, or if, indeed, he had any grounds for taking offense. Banichi and Jago were partners, that was obvious. What wasn’t so obvious was whether they were something else to each other, something more personal. He wouldn’t, couldn’t ever, be jealous if they were—he owed them both too much. He only wanted to be sure he wasn’t crossing some line he couldn’t see, wasn’t wired to understand.

He certainly didn’t understand the appeal of Happy Shellfish. When he’d arrived home this evening, accompanied by Jago, flowers had been waiting in the foyer, not for him, but for her. And with the flowers--a card with the now familiar shellfish on it, holding something in its claws. Bren had to look twice before he realized it was a cartoonish little shellfish larva. "The hell," he’d said, and Jago had told him it was her birthday, and the thing must be from Banichi. Bren had read the text inside the card, well, not over Jago’s shoulder—sort of under her elbow. It had said:

A daughter is a special gift
Who, everyone can see,
Brings fortune and felicity
To those in her man'chi.

And if her house should file intent
Against some miscreant's life
She'll do the job with poison
Or a bullet or a knife.

There’s no one better at finesse
With deadly force, that’s true
That’s why I’m awfully proud to have
A daughter just like you.

Banichi, bring Happy Shellfish here, to his own apartment in the very kabiu Bu-javid? And Jago seemed pleased—she actually slapped Banichi on the shoulder and said, "Thanks, Dad." He didn’t understand what about the thing had so pleased her, likely he wasn’t hardwired for it, and he couldn’t ask. He just couldn’t know, that was all. And it was one more tantalizing hint of something more between Banichi and Jago than just professional attachment.

He sensed movement in the doorway, didn’t want to look up. "Bren-ji."

Jago. He really, truly didn’t want to talk to Jago right now. "Bren-ji, are you angry?"

He had to amend his behavior. Had to patch the interface. One had no desire to offend Jago, whatever might have happened last night. "No, Jago-ji, not angry. Only embarrassed. It wasn’t your fault."

"One had no idea the bed was so poorly constructed."

"Nadi, one suspects the bed was the least of the difficulties. Perhaps we should be more cautious when we try something new."

Jago considered this. "It would certainly be more prudent." And then, when he heaved a long sigh, "Does something trouble you, nadi?"

"I just wish I had more confidence in the doctor, nadi-ji. The arm does hurt, and I wonder if it is just a sprain. He was laughing so hard, I’m not sure he was really able to read the X-ray properly."

"Would Nand’ Paidhi like me to take his mind off his sprained arm?" Jago asked, having come closer, suddenly looming over him--well inside his personal space.

They couldn’t—not right here in the sitting room. "Jago-ji--" Words were his job, and suddenly he was unable to find a single one. "Jago-ji." Her hands were on him, his mind was already clouded from the vodka, and he was finding it harder and harder to think clearly. Somehow physical discomfort receded into the distance, became a minor annoyance. "Jago-ji," he said again, not making any headway. And finally, "What about the staff?"

"One assures the paidhi that the staff have their own amusements." He couldn’t even laugh at that—because right at that moment, he was forcibly reminded of precisely why this was a bad idea.