brand new colony

It isn't long after Mr. Lloyd visits him on Arden that Mrs. Lloyd sends him a message asking him to come back to Manassah to see her. At first, Saigremort wants to feel resentful; it was her husband who tricked him, after all, her husband who came to his home, his safe beautiful home, just to remind him that he could still be bought and paid for.

But Mrs. Lloyd was always kind to him and to Clarie, sometimes kinder than to her own children, and he can't stop himself from feeling he owes it to her. All her children have grown and left home except Gadriet, who works away for nights at a time (Saigremort doesn't remember much about Gadriet, just that he was strange and quiet and made him nervous). Mr. Lloyd, Saigremort knows, will be on Arden for another month on business.

And it's in this way that he convinces himself that he's got to go; so he does, taking his last opportunity for time off before he begins his second year with the diplomatic service. He can always make a little money in Manassah if he needs to. He shows up on the doorstep of the Temple Bay townhouse, looking neat and sophisticated and much more grown-up than he feels at the moment.

The ship from New Britain docks down in Arden's port city of Amiens around midday, releasing a small crowd of bleary-eyed passengers who've just come out of their artificial sleep. The small shuttle stamped with Arden's diplomatic plates detaches from under her wing and skates into its own dry-dock, and a little while after Saigremort emerges with his smallest piece of luggage; the rest will be forwarded to Clarie's house until he finds a place of his own.

He's spent the last fifteen years living either at the Academy or the diplomatic housing complex. It's his first time with no actual home of his own, and he looks a little lost, holding his suitcase and peering around for his sister.

Saigremort hasn't seen Medraut since he returned to Camallate--hasn't, in fact, seen him since he took his leave quite a few years back. It's not as though he's forgotten, but he doesn't know what to say or do so he hasn't pressed the issue yet.

But the day's an unexpectedly beautiful one and Saigremort can't bear to stay indoors. It's been a long time since he went around the market and the Hall and exploring has always been something of a passion with him, so he dresses up and heads out. The afternoon is a pleasant one, and he wanders around pointlessly for quite a few hours before he meanders back in the direction of docks where his shuttle is settled.

For the first time in a long time he feels perfectly carefree, his hands tucked in the pockets of his trousers as he strolls. It almost wouldn't matter if he were all alone here, he thinks fleetingly.

Almost. But for now it's fine.

It's been a long time since Medraut came to visit him, longer still since the visit was for anything more than slightly awkward conversation. Saigremort spends at least three hours beforehand moving anxiously around his small apartment making sure everything is in its place.

He takes everything that's a little too opulent, the occasional gift from clients or thing from Arden that caught his fancy because it cost the credits of three or four customers, and hides it all out of a sudden fear that Medraut will be made uncomfortable by the display of solvency. This has the effect of leaving the apartment looking very pleasant and welcoming, and he allows himself the indulgence of buying a small flask of some very expensive liquor that he sets on the low table in the sitting room along with his plainest pair of crystal glasses.

His job requires forethought and planning in all aspects of his home, his way of dressing, his manner of speech, but his training at the Academy and years of working in the same profession have left him able to make those decisions with very little difficulty. Now he feels like a novice again, fretting over what to wear and whether or not to offer food.

Eventually Saigremort settles on the couch, dressed in jade green (it's always been his best colour) and sipping economically on a glass of heavily watered cointreau to soothe his nervousness.

Their lives are as complicated as ever, Medraut and Lenomie moving on their separate tracks between the Hall in Camallate, the little ranch house in Til Tomeil, and the temporary lodgings in Bredigan; the presence of a small son is a relatively minor wrench in the works. While they're both busy in the capital they trade off shifts, with Divdan occasionally relieving them.

Today it's Medraut coming down the passageway from the admin offices with a four-year-old streaking ahead of him. "Walk," he says severely, and the boy, to his credit, slows to a trot.

Now that his primary occupation is Bredigan, Medraut doesn't have a great deal to do while he's in the capital. On the other hand he can't leave, at least not with an easy conscience, until he's given a proper report to the King; and what with the extended wrangling with Esmeree as well as the usual daily business, there hasn't been an opportunity. Nor is he inclined to socialize, after what's just happened.

So for the last few days he's been staying in, nursing his black eye, catching up on his mail and trying to ignore the fact that the place doesn't feel like home without Lenomie, all of which occupations he is heartily sick of by now.

After Lanselos leaves, Saigremort sits on his bed for nearly half an hour, looking at his hands and trying not to cry, aware all the time that since he came here he has lost almost all sense of professionalism and it's hurting him badly.

Finally he turns on his comm console and keys in the code for Arden, waiting for Clarie's face to appear on the holo.

When Medraut gets back from Bredigan, Saigremort is waiting for him--in his own rooms, judging that Medraut will prefer to clean up and settle in a little after the journey, but he leaves a note to ask for him.

When Medraut actually comes, Saigremort is just turning off his comm unit, putting away Clarie's face yet again. He misses her badly, but he feels a little like he's starting to fit in here, or at least like he's less of an outcast. His shoulders are relaxed, and he's wearing only a robe, vivid orange satin that looks like the westward sun rising over the low plains of Camlann.

When he sees Medraut, he rises, smiling, holding his hands out palm-up in welcome.

By the fourth evening Medraut has seen to everything that particularly needed his attention, thanks to the day saved by his doubts of Saigremort's fortitude. He comes back to the room late, and with something in his manner that, if it can't be termed bravado, is at least a close relative. "Hey."

Some time later in the evening, after approximately half the bottle, a discreet chime sounds to let Saigremort know he has an incoming message. (The computer console itself, tucked in an alcove near the bed, is small and limited and at least ten years out of date, but unlike the climate control, it works properly.)

Press conferences are horrible.

Even on the space frontier, they're horrible, and Saigremort takes another drink from the bottle of water beside his arm and breathes out, slowly, while the single photographer's shutter clicks and the handful of reporters scribble wildly.

"...and the Alliance Trade Committee of Arden accepts the treaty with New Britain and King LeGuin, and exchange of economic goods will begin immediately. The Trade Committee plans to establish the first import boutique within the next months, starting to-morrow with construction in Camallate's market district. On behalf on the Committee I'd like to extend a warm thank you to King and Queen LeGuin, along with six-thousand Alliance credits. Thank you very much."

With which he stands, trying not to exude relief, and bows, in a swirl of silk and brocade. The conference audience applauds politely, and the reporters start shouting questions, but thankfully he's done here, and he escapes out the side door while the poor king takes the podium to make the follow-up speech.

He's already been invited to stay at the hall instead of going back to his ship for the night, so he heads for the room (one room, he thinks dispiritedly. far cry from his suite on the Senehaut) Queen LeGuin pointed out when he first arrived. He's missing Clarie and her good sense more strongly than usual to-night, not to mention her ability to make the servants appear out of thin air. And the damn planet is so poor. Saigremort is uncomfortably conscious of the richness of his clothes and the way he holds himself, looking, moving, like money. He needs to work on that or he's going to foster distrust, as the diplomatic relations team has pointed out a hundred times.

No, what he needs is a shower--is running water even available on this planet?--and a glass of the wine that New Britain is famous for, and a chance to holo Clarie and complain for a while. He's started to unwrap his sash even before he reaches the door to his room.