Tracker by C. J. Cherryh

cylinders not only filled the figured porcelain bowl; a second, less elegant brass bowl held the unprecedented overflow.
    Oh, not everything therein could possibly be felicitous—or simple. Simple letters his secretarial staff handled. They sent up the problems, the puzzles, the security threats, and the high-ranking ones. And all those were waiting for him.
    It was, however, a homecoming party, Bindanda and Narani could not be denied, and his staff, who had coped with their comings and goings and their emergencies and communications throughout a chain of problems, certainly had earned it. His valets, still laboring with the baggage downstairs; and most of all his bodyguard, who had been more than once under fire and on duty with only scant letup—they certainly deserved it.
    The mail could wait.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    It was expected and ordinary that the major domo should meet Cajeiri at the door.
    It was not expected
or
ordinary that his father and mother did.
    That was entirely disconcerting. He was not ready for them. He was not ready to be questioned or required to report. He froze in place, too tired, too confused to know what to say or do first.
    Then Great-grandmother’s teaching took over. Manners. Manners gained a person time. Manners let one gather one’s wits, decide what to do, and above all, calm down.
    â€œHonored Father,” he said, bowing once and again. “Honored Mother. Thank you.”
    â€œWelcome back, son of ours,” his father said. “I trust it was an enjoyable trip.”
    â€œIt was.” He was being examined for signs of distress: he knew he was. “The train was on time. Thank you very much for sending it.”
    â€œWas it a pleasant stay at Najida?”
    â€œVery pleasant, honored Father.” That was entirely true. “We went out on the boat three times.”
    â€œOne would think,” his mother said, “that your guests would be missing their families by now.”
    That was a test, too. His
mother
had not been one to miss her family. She had run away from her father, then run away from Great-uncle, then had another feud with her father and run away again, and lately she had had another feud with Great-uncle and Father both—but she had not run away.
    She was still difficult and quick-tempered, and she challenged him with that question. What she was really wanting to know right now was whether his guests were traditional, proper people who had proper respect for their parents.
    Or whether they were foreigners with, as she was already sure, defective upbringing and no proper respect.
    Nobody could win, with his mother.
    â€œWe were busy,” he said. “We were all busy all the time. We went out on the boat and we walked down to the village, and everything—” He was running off his train of thought, going nowhere useful. He was exhausted, and control was difficult, especially dealing with his mother. A servant stood behind him. He slipped his coat buttons and slid it off his arms. The waiting servant took it, and the major domo slipped another on, the bronze brocade, one of his three better ones that he had not taken with him. “Thank you, nadi.”
    It was a better coat than someone ought to choose, who was simply going to go to his room, take it off again, and take off his boots and rest. So the major d’ knew something.
    â€œStaff has made a special supper,” his mother said.
    He could hardly bear the thought of food. His stomach was empty, except for breakfast. He had wanted to throw up, all the way from the lift to the apartment.
    But he was suddenly on the edge of mad, now. He was not entirely sure what he was mad at. His father seemed to be on his side, and stood there to defend him. His mother was being nice, at least on the surface. Everybody was being nice. But his temper surged up, the instant his mother said supper—not that there was a thing he could do about it, because