Free Peacemaker by C. J. Cherryh Page A

come close to a scary moment of that sort.
    And he was supposed to keep all that sort of thing quiet. His guests were going back to the space station when his party was over, and he was not supposed to tell them anything detailed about the fighting, or the politics, or about the troubles grown-ups were trying to solve, or too much about which clans in the aishidi’tat were problems. Great-grandmother had said to him, privately, looking him right in the eye in a way she rarely did: “It is much more than keeping your young guests happy, Great-grandson. It is that, while we trust Jase-aiji and
his
bodyguard, and have confidence in his discretion—we are given to understand that the
parents
of your young guests represent a faction aboard the space station.
Politics
are in it. Understand that—and do
not
tell your young guests things that might upset their parents. Remember that humans do not really have man’chi, and that while you may believe you understand your guests, it is very doubtful you understand them as deeply as you may wish. We are not born equipped to understand them, and you should not bestow
any
information that may frighten them or be useful to our enemies. Let nand’ Bren communicate such things to nand’ Jase, where it may regard the nature of threats or danger to your father. And if your guests become distressed, refer them to nand’ Bren. Do you understand me, Great-grandson? This is extremely important.”
    â€œYes,” he had said. “Yes, mani.”
    Politics
was not his favorite word. It was, in fact, one of his most unfavorite words. Politics had his mother mad at his father, because
politics
had made his grandfather act like a fool and try to break into the apartment—and now his grandfather was dead.
Politics
had meant those scary moments in Najida’s basement, with Shadow Guild bent on killing him and mani and Great-uncle.
    And
politics
meant they could not raise the window shades and see the city.
    Deep inside, facing the necessity of lying to his guests, he longed to throw a tantrum the like of which he had not thrown since he was, well, much younger. Doing that, however, would definitely upset his guests and raise the very questions he was not supposed to answer.
    It would also annoy his great-grandmother, and draw one of those troubled looks from nand’ Bren—which were
almost
as hard to face as Great-grandmother’s temper—and it would upset his great-uncle besides, who would just frown at him as if he were a stain on the carpet.
    The thump of the wheels came slower and slower as the train began to climb that track he had sketched for his guests. Definitely they were entering the Bujavid tunnel now.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    Bren came aware with a stiff neck, realizing he’d nodded off finally with his computer braced open in his lap, and the teacup beside his hand mostly empty—not, unfortunately, without contributing a stain to his coat, his lace cuff, and his trouser leg. Most all the Guild and the personal servants were on their feet getting hand-luggage and equipment. The train was climbing slowly, a familiar sound and motion that meant they were now in the Bujavid tunnel—and his bodyguard—including Banichi—were all on their feet, arming, preparing for arrival at the station.
    He was tired and dull-witted. God, he hadn’t been able to sleep at all on the train, except at the last, and now he wanted nothing more than just to shut his eyes and wake up in his own bed—but that wasn’t going to happen. The next half hour or so might present more hellish problems than where they’d been, if their linking into Bujavid communications turned up trouble in the capital: they had had no word of such, but then, successful conspiracy didn’t advertise its moves. They just had to hope the situation in the Bujavid was business as usual.
    He put his computer away. It was a question how