Tracker by C. J. Cherryh Page B

determined not to look around. “Everyone was well. Nand’ Bren is well.”
    The baby’s crying came clear for a moment. A door had opened and closed. Likely his mother was going back to see to his sister. It was hard to think of anything but that.
    â€œOne very much regrets the racket, honored Father.”
    â€œOne trusts Boji will settle soon,” his father said. “And were your guests glad to go home?”
    He thought about politely lying, and decided on the actual truth. “No, honored Father. We were all sad.”
    â€œIndeed,” his father said, but offered not a clue what he thought about it. His father picked up his spoon. “We may as well have the soup.”
    The polite thing was to ask all the courteous questions. And he should want to ask. But he was afraid of the answers. Two more sips of a tasteless soup and he gathered up his courage and did ask: “And are you and Mother well? And the baby?”
    â€œWe have all been very well,” his father said, as if they were at some official function with hundreds of witnesses, and they were obliged to give only felicitous answers.
    But unlike his human guests’ habit of saying absolutely everything and anything at dinner—manners insisted there be no unpleasant talk and no business discussed at his parents’ proper table. He pretended to eat. He wished he just could go to his suite and go to bed.
    His father laid his spoon down with his soup half-finished, and servants hastened to remove that dish, and hovered over Cajeiri’s. Cajeiri carefully laid his spoon down on the spoon-rest, and his soup likewise went away, replaced by a dish of pickle.
    His father made no move. He made none.
    The servants left the room.
    â€œDid your guests enjoy their visit?” his father asked.
    â€œVery much,” he managed to say.
“Truly
very much, honored Father. Thank you.”
    â€œYou will want them to visit again, I suppose.”
    â€œYes,” he said. There was a knot in his throat so extreme he could hardly keep his voice steady.
“Yes,
honored Father. I do.”
    His father nodded.
    â€œOne promises,” he said desperately, and then thought that tying one thing to another immediately might not be the best idea, and maybe the subject was too close to discussing business at the table. “One wishes.”
    His father said, wryly, “We shall make a judgment closer to the time, and for reasons
of
the time, son of mine. Please make your mother happy, and do
not
let Boji escape near the baby.”
    â€œHe—”—would not hurt her, was instant to his lips, but Great-grandmother would say, Never stand surety for a scoundrel, and Boji was, admittedly, a scoundrel when it came to escapes. “I shall be very careful.”
    â€œExcellently done, on your part, these last days,” his father said. “And your mother also says so. Eat your pickle. Or had you rather have the meat course?”
    His stomach was beyond uneasy. The knot would not go away. “I think I had rather the meat course, honored Father. We were up all night. No one could sleep.”
    â€œIn such distress?”
    â€œIt was the last time we would be sure to have, honored Father. We wanted to talk.”
    â€œOne understands,” his father said, and tapped his bowl with his knife, summoning the servants. “We shall have the meat course,” he said, “and a little carbonated juice with it.”
    Fruit juice was all that sounded good. He was glad to see the strong-smelling pickle go away. He never wanted to smell it again. The seasonal meat arrived: fish, and bland. The fruit juice was the best thing.
    â€œVery good,” his father said, and just then Mother came back in. It was, one was glad to note, quiet in the hall, from the direction of his own suite, and quiet from the farther hall, where his sister was.
    Mother settled quietly into place, saying nothing about the two