Tracker by C. J. Cherryh Page A

everybody had made their plans, Cook had made dinner, and that was the way it would be. He hoped there were no invited guests he had to please—but there usually were when there was any formal supper.
    â€œA private supper,” his father said. “Just the three of us.”
    Well, that was better.
    And maybe the bronze brocade coat just meant they were treating it as a sort of occasion: himself, his mother, his father—
    He belatedly remembered there were
four
of them now, and suddenly guessed what would be very politic to ask his mother on his homecoming.
    â€œHow is my
sister,
honored Mother?”
    â€œVery well,” his mother said, and looked pleased, as if he had guessed right and finally done the right thing.
    â€œGo wash,” his father said. “Supper is about to be served.”
    â€œYes,” he said. He
thought
about saying that his servants were coming upstairs with crates—but they were also coming with Boji, who was going to be upset and probably loud about it, and he really hoped Eisi and Liedi could get Boji quietly into his room before dinner started.
    Boji, however, was definitely not a happy topic with his mother, and he had no wish to forecast trouble before it happened. “I shall wash and be right back,” he said, and bowed again: bowing was always a way to change the subject without having to look at anyone.
    And washing gave him a chance to give private orders to his aishid.
    He escaped down the hall with them in attendance. He was so tired, so very tired he was shaking. But he had told himself all the way home that his best way to get his guests back next year was to make his parents happy, and the best way to do that was to go back into the household and follow all the rules.
    And he was doing that, so far.
    But before he even could reach the bath, there was a rattle and rumble down the outside hall that would be his valets bringing the baggage to the door, and bringing Boji back. One of Boji’s earsplitting shrieks echoed in the huge hall outside. He looked back toward the door.
    His mother had come back into the foyer, looking upset.
    â€œNadiin-ji.” He appealed to his bodyguard, who were right behind him. “Help them. Please keep Boji quiet.
Hurry!”
    Antaro and Jegari were best with Boji. They headed back to the foyer and Veijico headed down the side hall—to the kitchen, he could guess, urgently looking for an egg, boiled or otherwise, in case his valets should have run out.
    That left just Lucasi to attend him, and they went down the hall to wash, both of them. He reached the washroom, heard the outer door open as Boji’s cage came rattling in.
    Lucasi properly should not leave him alone right now, but he said, “Go be sure,” and Lucasi went to have a look and be sure Boji got to his suite.
    Cajeiri washed his hands, splashed water into his face, wiped back the stray wisps of hair about his face, and headed for the dining room as Veijico passed him, headed out to the foyer, carrying an egg. Boji was setting up a loud fuss out there despite all his staff’s efforts, and they were still bringing in baggage, which involved noisy crate trolleys.
    He let all that happen as it had to, trusting his bodyguard and his valets, who knew as well as he did how to handle Boji. He slipped into the dining room alone, sat down, as his father was seated, and listened, worried.
    A closed door did not entirely muffle the sound of Boji’s cage rolling across the mosaic floor of the foyer.
    And it did not at all muffle the sound of Boji shrieking out— or of a baby crying far back in the apartment, where his mother had her rooms.
    The racket of Boji’s arrival reached a high pitch, then quieted.
    â€œOne is very sorry,” he said. His stomach was upset. He heard his mother chiding staff in the hall outside.
    â€œAre you well?” his father asked, a clear diversion of topic.
    â€œYes,” he said, doggedly