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It had, in effect,
built
the aishidi'tat. But it could only build it so far—among clans of the midlands culture, the Ragi, who spread their power as far as the mountains and the sea.

Beyond that, in the generations since, other associations created their own such forces, and other guilds, paying allegiance, for reasons of politics, to the Shejidani guilds, but always excluded from the highest offices, and from power.

But the oldest of guilds, the Assassins' Guild, retained the notion that it had created the aijinate and the aishidi'tat—and held that it could re-create it, should an aiji lose the Assassins' man'chi.

And when Tabini had allied himself with humans, and began to site industry in some provinces and not in others, when he pressed ambitious building programs, some elements within the Assassins' Guild began to move assets on their own, bent on setting another aiji in power, one who would take their orders, follow their programs, and purge anyone who opposed them.

When it was clear that Tabini-aiji had positioned his heir and the aiji-dowager out of their reach, the shadow elements within the Assassins' Guild moved to kill him and set their own man in office.

Several things saved the aishidi'tat: the move Tabini had made, getting important people out of reach; the loyalty of senior Guild who quickly retired or disappeared, who began to work with the Mospheirans
and
with Geigi, up on the station; and the independence of the stepchild guilds, the regional guilds, whose attachment to clan and region, hitherto viewed as unfitness—held them steady in their opposition to the coup and their refusal to accept the new aiji.

The scattered edges of power had fought to get control of the Guild back into their hands, and to restore Tabini to office.

And now the Guild, restored, looked far more kindly on the regional branches—which served both Geigi
and
Ilisidi, which had just rescued the government. Now a third region asserted itself, the Marid, whose principle reason for rebelling from the aishidi'tat was the matter of regional guilds.

The rules changes the Assassins' Guild were working on would beget a hierarchy of subordinate field offices, still controlled from the capital, but each with a certain local latitude for the unique issues the local office understood.

And they were going, according to Ilisidi, to Cenedi for advice.

Cenedi, notoriously regional, and backing, in the aiji-dowager, the second greatest power in the aishidi'tat.

And the Shadow Guild, that rogue splinter group off the Assassins, which had directed the coup against Tabini, was, one hoped, no longer able to have its way in anything.

If it had leaders still alive.

As for the issue of too much modernity and the space program, the new Guild leadership was, Jago said, computerizing Assignments and records-keeping, so that one clerk could not control a system his superiors could not access. That was a revolution in itself.

Other guilds were making similar changes.

The very air in the capital began to feel freer and safer for the changes underway. The revised Guild systems would be less centered in the capital, but paradoxically, the regional lords—the truly powerful lords of the aishidi'tat, who had maintained these somewhat illegal splinters of the traditional guilds under
their
close supervision, would be drawn
closer to
the aijinate.

It all was proceeding apace, disturbing some guilds and some lords, pleasing others.

Oddest result of that tangled Guild housekeeping, the paidhi's bodyguard, all western, all trained in the Shejidani Guild, ranked next to the dowager's. Banichi's and Jago's assignment to the household of the paidhi-aiji had started back when Tabini had been keeping a suspicious eye on him—and one of the first things Banichi had done was to hand him a very illegal gun.

At whose order? To this day, he had no idea.

Then Tano and Algini had arrived. Bren had no idea what Algini's rank actually was, but he had a definite knowledge of the inner workings of the Shejidani Guild—and Bren held more than a slight suspicion that the Guild had assigned Algini to Tabini originally to keep an eye on Tabini's doings. But Tabini had promptly shunted Algini and his partner Tano over to Banichi's unit, possibly as a way of rebuking the Guild—or even of giving the Guild close access to the paidhi-aiji's doings, and answering questions before they were asked.

Now Guild leadership realized it was in their interests to work directly with Lord Geigi—who had yet another regional-guild situation in his establishment, in a Guild unit that had ended up directing atevi operations on the space station.

And they were asking the paidhi-aiji's aishid for advice on who to send up there.

Oh, yes, things in the aishidi'tat were changing.

Changing too fast for stability? He hoped not.

Now he had to make a decision of his own. He had upcoming committee meetings he was scheduled to attend. He had Lord Tatiseigi coming back to the capital for one of them. He had asked Shawn to fire the current Mospheiran stationmaster. He had to pick an upcoming shuttle launch and make arrangements.

Days had passed, and he had
not
gotten a response from Shawn, not found out whether Shawn was arranging to put the brakes on Tillington, or whether there was something preventing it. He'd hoped for a quick answer. The fact it had not been quick—said there might well be problems.

And he had to decide whether to involve himself in Mospheiran politics, or leave it totally to Shawn. There were sources he could tap . . . but he hesitated to do it and possibly stir things up that might further complicate the situation.

God, he wished he knew. If getting Shawn to move against Tillington was asking too much of Shawn or if it put Shawn in political danger—that worried him almost as much as the situation on the station. And he might need to hasten his own trip up there, to start the matter into motion.

There was a shuttle preparing to launch in a few days. The Guild team wasn't altogether ready to go up on this one; he wasn't ready, either. He only now had time to clear the decks and make plans.

But he did need to send to the Port Director and advise her they would be asking for the smallest of the passenger compartments on the next shuttle after this one. That let the Port Director shift cargo priorities about, to make sure that bulky cargo had room and that critical cargo still moved. There was still time to make adjustments, but he had to make his mind up and set a date.

That meant of all people he had not yet notified—the Port Director was definitely coming into need-to-know. Theoretically he could even launch from Mospheira under extreme emergency, the Mospheiran launch usually coming five days after this particular shuttle's launch, with their single shuttle—but with the politics involved— no, he didn't want to consider that option. He
hoped
Shawn had plans for somebody to be on that shuttle. But maybe the best thing to do was to get up there.

Time to call the Port Director.

Today.

But that was—

They stepped off the lift to a boom so loud he stopped in alarm, instantly thinking of an explosion of some sort in the building.

“Thunder,” Banichi said, amused at him.

He was amazed. Then he laughed and felt foolish They lived sealed so deep inside the Bujavid he could lose all notion of sunrise and sunset. And he'd been buried so deep in work, he'd paid no attention. “One takes it we are having weather out in the world?”

“A strong front,” Jago said cheerfully. “And fast-moving. We had an advisement from Najida last night. They are secure and battened down, and they were able to get the gable end closed and the tiles in place.”

“Excellent, that.” A second thump from the heavens sounded much more like thunder—but loud. It was unusual to hear it inside the Bujavid's central halls, let alone feel it.

“Storms have spread all the way to Tirnamardi,” Jago said, “and reached as far south as Separti Township. The front has blown past the coast now, but the midlands are due a soaking.”

Weather that came across the straits and up from the southwest often came in with truly major force, and the thunder said this was one of those storms. He wished his apartment owned windows to fling open—to smell the rain, watch the lightning, feel the wind.

But he owned no windows to fling open, and it was a quiet afternoon of office work he had planned, letter-writing, mostly.

Cajeiri, he imagined, would have darted for his own apartment's windows, drinking it all in.

 • • • 

Thunder.

Cajeiri's aishid was off having lessons. Boji had been misbehaving all morning, bouncing about his cage, knocking his water askew and making a puddle. Eisi had been putting the water bottle to rights, when the boom hit, and with that boom, Boji—

Boji had flown out past Eisi's arm, up a hanging and up atop the rod of a tapestry.

Now he was perched up there on the rod, above everything but the chandelier, screaming his disapproval of the storm.

“Boji,” Cajeiri said sternly. “Come.” He held out his arm, patted it.

He could get Boji to come to that summons—sometimes.

Second big boom.

Boji flew across the room, wild-eyed, scrambling atop the buffet, his nails endangering the ancient wood.

And the sitting room door opened.

“No!”
Cajeiri shouted.
“Shut the door!”

He could hear his sister screaming in the distance. Boji shrieked and leapt from the buffet to the cage roof.

Eisi caught Boji by the leg, and Boji bit him.

Eisi yelled and Boji escaped, this time running in huge leaps back to the bedroom.

Eisi was bleeding, Boji was still screaming, the door was still open, and
Mother
was standing in the doorway. She stepped into the room and shut the door at her back.

“Honored Mother,” Cajeiri said, appalled. He sketched a little bow. So did Eisi.

A furious shriek sounded from inside the bedroom. Liedi came out, holding Boji by the nape of his neck. Boji struggled, waving his arms and kicking, showing white substantial fangs and the whites of his eyes and hissing like a teakettle.

Eisi held the cage door open. Liedi put Boji in and shut it, fast.

“Your servant is bleeding,” Mother said.

Eisi's hand was dripping and Eisi was trying to contain the drip to keep it off the carpet. “Please go to the kitchen, nadiin-ji,” he said, and Eisi and Liedi quietly bowed and went back into the bedroom, where a servant
's
passage offered a route to bandages that did not lead past Mother.

Boji went on rattling his cage and bouncing and screeching.

“One regrets the noise, honored Mother.”

“Is this the
normal
operation of your household, son of mine?”

“No, honored Mother.”

Thunder continued to rumble.

“Lighting has hit the Bujavid roof. One thought you might be alarmed.”

He made a very deep bow, trying to be a little touched that his mother had thought of him—but suspecting there was a hostile reason in her visit, likely involving his sister. There was always a reason, usually involving his sister. And if the roof were afire from that lightning strike, he was sure he would not be his mother's first concern.

There was one sure distraction for her. He had found that out. “Is Seimiro safe?” he asked.

“Indeed. Beha is with her. And there is no danger. There may have been a little damage to the roof, but nothing that need concern us.”

“One is glad,” he said, ducking his head, still mistrusting the visit. “Thank you, honored Mother, and one regrets the commotion. Boji is not usually like this. He had overset his water when the big boom came. We were working with that, his door was open, and the thunder came again—”

“What are you hiding, son of mine? Did he bite you?”

He had his hands behind his back. He had not even been conscious of it. But he brought them forward reluctantly, showing his right cuff lace sadly ink-stained, and wrapped in a handkerchief, and, he suddenly feared hiding the fact that he had just distributed still-wet ink to the back of his coat.

“The thunder,” he said. “I was doing my lessons, honored Mother. The ink spilled.”

“Commendable, regarding the lessons. But what else was ruined? Let me see your coat. Turn.”

He turned, obediently, and turning full about, saw the answer in his mother's frown.

“That will never come out.”

“One deeply regrets, honored Mother. One thought—”

“One thought?”

He had thought better of saying it, but found nowhere to go from there. “One thought for an instant it was artillery, honored Mother.”

His mother gave him that flat, unexpressive stare that might be disapproval. Or not. “We know,” she said. “Your father and I know. Such times these are, that my son thinks of such a thing! Did any get on the carpet?”

“No. No, honored Mother. It was a puddle on the desk. I mopped it and blocked it off with my handkerchief, but it reached the cuff. Nothing dripped, however.” He carefully unfolded his balled-up handkerchief, showing the limit of the damage, which was not much—except to his cuff lace and his coat.

“And why are your valets not seeing to your shirt?”

“Because my aishid is off at training, honored Mother, and my valets were catching Boji.”

“Such a household!”

“If my aishid were here, indeed they would have helped, honored Mother! But Boji was loose and we had to catch him.”

There was a moment of silence, and slowly, silently, his mother nodded, with just a hint of amusement.

“There
is my son,” she said. “I have not seen him in some time.”

She confused him—except that her jealousy of Great-grandmother was extreme, and constant, and colored everything between them. He took a chance, and answered back, just a little shaken, but what Great-grandmother would call
pert.
“And I also see my mother,” he said with another bow. “One is very glad of it.”