Explorer by C. J. Cherryh Page B

an adult human’s had put a fair draw on a bow that had grown thicker on this voyage—a bow with added strength, since the boy had tinkered with it. “You have damaged the ship.”
    “It’s only a dent, Jago-ji.”
    Oh, we
are
getting bold, Bren thought, wondering what his staff
was
going to do with this burgeoning personality, if they all lived so long. That sullen look was his father’s. Or—one dreaded to think—his grandfather’s.
    “Dare you say so?” Jago was not daunted. And towered over the boy. “
Dare
you say so? Did you build this ship? Did you place those panels? Do you command those who can?”
    Clearly the answer was no. Cajeiri didn’t command anything about the ship.
    “So?” Jago said. “Do you fancy going to Sabin-aiji and asking someone to repair it?”
    Set of the jaw. “I would go to Sabin-aiji.”
    “That would hardly be as wise as an aiji needs to be,” Banichi said in his deep voice. “Do you know why?”
    Clearly that answer was no, too. But the boy was not a complete fool, and lowered the level of aggression.
    “I was seeing how hard it would hit,” Cajeiri said.
    “And did not intend to dent the ship?”
    “I beg pardon, nadiin.”
    “Wrap the points,” Jago said shortly, “aiji-ma. Be wiser.”
    “Yes, Jago-nadi.” The young wretch set the offending instrument of war butt-down on the deck, its heel in his instep, and unstrung it. He took the arrow from Jago. And bowed to authority, attempting charm. “Good morning, Bren-nandi. Is Jase-aiji coming down?”
    “Little pitchers with big ears,” Bren translated the human proverb, which Cajeiri understood and thought funny. “I have had my meeting with Jase. It was very nice, thank you.”
    “Grandmother wants you to come to breakfast,” Cajeiri said. “But the hour is past breakfast.”
    One could imagine she wanted to hear from him.
    “She has not yet invited me, nadi.”
    “I told Narani. I brought the message.”
    “Staff does these things quite efficiently on their own,” Banichi said dryly. “If you can shoot at lord Bren, you can manage beyond the children’s language, am I correct?”
    “No,” Cajeiri said defensively. He was only seven. Consequently he spoke Ragi without the architecture of courtesies and rank and elaborate numerology of his seniors. He had liberties appropriate to his age—and was bored beyond bearing, being the only seven-year-old aboard. Ship’s crew had left their minor children, considering it was not a safe voyage.
    But the aiji in Shejidan had sent his son on a voyage that should teach him more than bad behavior and dangerous familiarity.
    “I shall see the aiji-dowager,” Bren said. “Go beg Narani-nadi to arrange some graceful hanging on this wall, to save the servants asking each other who could have damaged our residence.”
    “Yes, Bren-aiji.”
    “And regard security’s advice. Aijiin do not defend themselves with bows and arrows—”
    “With guns, Bren-nadi!”
    “Not even with guns, Cajeiri-nadi. Their staffs defend them. The very humblest servant who locks a bedroom window at night defends them. Not to mention the Assassins’ Guild, who do carry guns, and whose reactions are very quick, and not to be trifled with. Please live to grow up, young aiji. Your father and mother would be very disappointed otherwise. So even would your great-grandmother.”
    Cajeiri’s eyes . . . they looked at one another eye to eye . . . grew very large.
    “And by no means forget,” Bren said, “that I am several times your age. So your father would remind you.”
    “Yes, Bren-aiji.”
    He
liked
the boy. And
like
was for salads.
Love
was for flavors of fruit drink. It wasn’t an emotion one could even translate for a species that operated by hierarchies and grouping and emotionally charged associations.
    “You are within my man’chi,” was as close as he could come. “No matter you behave like this. But be careful. The ship is going to move soon. We’re going