Or, I could do the right thing and do it for her before she has to.
Damn the right thing, anyway.
I can get this measure passed tomorrow, even without Negel and his supporters, without the spotters, even without England. Kurgan had great success with the Argentines, even made headway with the Brazilians, and there was some movement from the Australians that they might come on board.
But Ken’s refusal stung, as did Dalton’s. Neither of them were fools, and they certainly weren’t part of the problem. They had to be part of the support network for this, because each of them represented a different kind of Marketplace professional. Each of them had their followers.
And dammit, each of them has my respect,
Chris thought.
But Anderson wants this done.
How to satisfy honor and instinct? How best to bring in the doubters and placate the eventual losers? And how to do this all while maintaining the integrity of the original plan?
He turned to the wall and assumed a meditation position again, this time with his legs crossed, hands cupped upward.
Be like a willow
, he thought, smiling slightly to keep back the nerves that were threatening to erupt.
Bend, damn you
, he thought, closing his eyes.
It’s time to bend.
By the time he went to sleep, he knew what he had to do the next day.
“Michael.”
He heard his name and his eyes shot open. He shifted and turned, and felt the aches all along his hip as he rolled over and onto his knees, the light sheets falling over him. “Yes, sir?” he croaked.
Chris was in his yukata, seated at the table, a pile of papers in front of him, some folded into messages. “Get dressed. I need you to take these around before breakfast.”
Michael groped his way out of the bedding and opened the cabinet with his clothing and silently began to dress. When he slipped his watch on, he suppressed a groan—it was six in the morning, dammit. He’d had—what—four hours sleep? But he drew on his trousers and a clean shirt and was knotting his tie as he knelt next to the table to await instructions.
The folded stack was topped with one that said “Ninon” in Chris’s neat, spare handwriting. “Take these, and don’t wait for an answer,” Chris said, waving at them. “Then, arrange a private meeting room for me, anywhere will be fine, get a coffee and tea set-up and at least two slaves to serve. I want it for about an hour before the opening sessions. After that, bring me some coffee.”
“How about it if I just have some sent to you right away?” Michael asked, scooping up the messages.
Chris looked up and nodded. “Yes, that will be fine, as long as you make the messages your priority.”
“You got it, sir.” Michael padded out the door into his light sandals, knowing exactly where to find the small group of slaves who serviced this building. He went straight to the central organizing suite to arrange for the meeting room and check over the registration list. He jogged through the rest of his errand, feeling more alert with every passing minute. Of the people who he visited, only Walther Kurgan was also awake—everyone else had a quiet, sleepy-looking slave politely take the message and promise to deliver as soon as it was appropriate. Walther had a naked woman answer his door, and looked up from a tangle of limbs on his bed with a look of half annoyance and half pleasure at being discovered. Michael fought the urge to grin and wink, only nodded a slight bow and delivered the written message and heard giggling before the door was closed behind him.
Well
, he thought,
at least someone is having good old-fashioned orgies
.
Chris looked pleased when he returned. “Thank you, Michael,” he said with a nod. There was a pot of coffee on the table and remarkably, two cups. Chris indicated the empty one, and this time Michael allowed himself to grin as he sat down—somewhat gingerly—to pour himself some.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, adding cream.
“I need you on your toes today,” Chris said directly, stacking his notes together. “If anyone sends me a message through you, I trust you to find some way to get it to me as soon as possible, no matter what I’m doing.”
“I will,” Michael promised. He wondered what this was all about, but he kept his face neutrally eager, and wrestled down his curiosity.
“Good,” Chris said. “Lay out a suit for me, please, I’ll be back soon.” He left the room and Michael got up, stretching. But as he brought out Chris’s clothing, he paused and thought about the morning. Chris had done nothing but give him instructions—he had done very little but take them. In fact, he had barely said a dozen words to his trainer.
So why did he feel so good? Why did he feel like whistling, even dancing a little? His ass felt like a motorcycle drove over it, but it also felt a little sexy brushing against his clothing. His morning hard-on had subsided comfortably, no aching from desire or frustration, and that was nice. It was earlier than he liked, but he felt awake enough to function, and the coffee tasted great in his mouth, felt soothing to his throat...Is this what it feels like to just be happy—being useful?
He said nothing about his thoughts when Chris returned from his shower, only played valet and then ran down to the bathrooms to take a quick shower and change and then followed his trainer down to breakfast in the eastern wing. He wanted desperately to talk about it, to ask questions and try to get a handle on these new feelings, but Chris had asked him to be attentive today, and that had to come first.
Perhaps not surprisingly, messages did come to Chris as he had his second cup of coffee and sat in the morning sunlight, slightly apart from the tables where most of the early risers were dining and socializing. There were slaves who knelt to deliver notes and whisper messages, and then Walther came striding in, wearing a white shirt open to his waist, his broad chest dotted with iron gray hair.
“I think I understand what you are doing,” he said without preamble, beckoning to a slave carrying a tray of pastries. He mused over the selection, chose one, and brushed her away, taking a bite. “‘And I also think it is not a good decision. But I will wait and hear what the others say.”
“Thank you, Herr Kurgen,” Chris said with a nod. “In about half an hour then?”
“Yes, I shall be there.” With a slight nod, he turned on his heel and made his way back through the room. He passed a middle-aged Japanese man in a household yukata, insignia over each collarbone, and when Chris saw the man, he shifted from leaning back against the window frame into a more formal seated posture. Michael saw this and frowned; to come to an attentive mode at the approach of a slave? Because the man was clearly wearing a collar, one with two glittering cylindrical beads set into it, but no visible lock or identity tag.
The man walked up to Chris and knelt formally, and Michael could see several other eyes in the room watching. He glanced at the slave again for any clue as to what was so different about the man, but as he rose up and presented a folded piece of paper to Chris with both hands, Michael still couldn’t see anything special. Well, no—as he looked into what he thought was a typical stoic Japanese face, he caught a glimpse of something else—a range of things, actually. A sense of self-confidence and pleasure—this was a slave who was proud of himself, or proud of where he came from. And expectation—he definitely expected Chris to be impressed, and he was glad that Chris took the paper with both hands and nodded gravely before unfolding it. It took a lot to display all those things while still looking properly humble. It was like something...an Anderson slave might know how to do.
Michael took a deep breath as Chris opened the message, read the brief contents, and refolded it. Then, amazingly, Chris said a few words in Japanese to the slave, who bowed again, deeper this time, and swiftly rose and took two steps backward before gradually turning to leave.
“I didn’t know you spoke Japanese!” Michael said.
“I don’t, not well,” Chris responded. “I have the vocabulary of a child, I think, and probably a... dull child at that. And my grammar is rudimentary at best, I have very little understanding of the multiple levels of respect you can convey in different forms of speech. But that’s all right; Noguchi-sama speaks perfect English. Michael, please stay here and receive any further communication; I’ve been summoned. I will be at the meeting room you arranged as soon as possible.”
And Michael knew enough not to say anything but, “Yes, sir.” But as Chris left the room, he suddenly realized that he had not delivered any message to Noguchi—so why did the old man need to see Chris so early?
He ended up collecting two more written messages and then Ninon came in person. She was not surprised to find out that Chris was engaged somewhere else, and he directed her to the meeting room. And wished desperately that he knew what on earth they were meeting about. They had practically won the debates, that was for sure. It probably wouldn’t even be close. So what was there to say?
* * * *
Chris executed a formal, low bow, his head brushing the stones, and straightened his back slowly.
“Good morning, Mr. Parker,” Noguchi Shigeo said. He was seated on a bench, the warm sun at his back, his arm resting on a cushion. A slave waited behind him, in the gray yukata that was a summer house livery, and the messenger slave was kneeling nearby, impassive and at rest. Also in attendance was Tetsuo, who was standing politely to Noguchi’s right, closer to him than Chris, his hands behind his back. Only the slaves were in Japanese dress; Tetsuo wore another stylish Tokyo businessman’s suit and Noguchi looked like he had just stepped off of Saville Row. The garden enclosure, with the tiny teahouse at the rear, made it all seem like a surreal meeting of East and West.
It seemed only natural to pay honor to the setting, and since there was no seat for him, Chris had gone to his knees, placed his hands about five inches apart in front of him and bowed once, and then two more times, fully rising into a comfortable kneeling position only when greeted verbally.
“Good morning and thank you for allowing me to pay my respects to you, Noguchi-sama. I do not deserve this singular honor.”
“Much has been said about you, Mr. Parker, but no one has ever faulted you for your manners,” the elderly man said. Properly, Chris could have bowed from the waist, since his host was seated, but Tetsuo was standing—it would have been improper for Chris to remain at the same level as his teacher. A test, to be sure. Noguchi showed no surprise at Chris’s over-formality. His dark eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s, and he made no move to signal Chris up from his knees, either to sit cross-legged or to take another bench. Instead, he stroked the silk covering of his cushion slowly and breathed in deeply. Tetsuo and then Chris followed his example, taking in the light breezes of the morning air, feeling the mists rise.
“A most remarkable morning,” he finally said.
“Yes,” Chris said easily, not stirring. Tetsuo only nodded, and they all stayed relatively still, listening to the bird calls.
Noguchi slowly turned his attention away from the breezes. “Mr. Parker. Are you familiar with the nine qualities of a gentleman?” he asked, his eyes somewhere above Chris’s head.
Chris considered his answer carefully. “I have had the honor of studying Koshi-sama, sir. But my scholarship is poor; I have no real understanding of his principles.” In fact, he recalled that there were several lists that could be called the qualities of a gentleman—but he had only been taught one which had nine elements, and it was no guess to know that Noguchi was referring to the writings of Confucius. Sakai-san had been somewhat of a devotee.
“Do any of us understand Koshi-sama as we should? Tell me what you recall of his wisdom, if you please. In the matter of the nine principles.”
Chris drew in a breath, felt Tetsuo’s eyes on him. But he faced Noguchi-sama and recited, “When observing, to see clearly. When listening, to hear distinctly. In his expression, to be—open to knowledge and understanding. In his attitude, to be deferential. In his speech, to be loyal. In his duty, to be respectful. When in doubt, to be questioning. When angered, to deliberate on the consequences of anger—and—” He looked up into Noguchi’s face, into his eyes. Now the old man was looking back at him, still stern, still distant, but at last engaged. He drew another breath, and said carefully, “And when having gained an advantage, to consider whether it is appropriate and fair.”
Noguchi-sama nodded, turning away to admire the hanging branches of a nearby flowering tree. “You seem to have an adequate grasp,” he said idly. “I am pleased to see that you have remembered them all, particularly that one. Thank you for coming, Parker-san.”
Chris bowed again, deeply to Noguchi, slightly less deeply to Tetsuo, and left with only slightly less deference than a slave would, and when he got back into the coolness of the building, he bent over and leaned against his knees with a heavy sigh. The back of his shirt was damp, and under the collar, and his legs were stiff from not moving, but he had to struggle not to laugh out loud.
Yes
, he thought.
He agrees. They will agree, they will all agree.
He waited until his heart beat at a normal rate again and then calmly headed to his meeting. With the Japanese trainers behind him, he had no doubt that Walther, Ninon, and the rest would be satisfied. Even Dalton wouldn’t be able to find a way not to support this.
I did it,
he thought.
She didn’t bother to come, but I did it
.
* * * *
“We recognize the author of the proposal,” sighed William Longet, who looked ready to take a riding crop to anyone who spoke out of turn today.
“Honored trainers and spotters, I have asked to speak first this morning in order to offer my deep apologies for the difficulties my proposal has caused this week. It is an honor to be counted at the Academy, and although it was not my intention to create such discord, I must take responsibility for it and humbly beg your pardon.” Chris spoke strongly, despite the humbling words, and frowns followed him as he swept his gaze around the room. At the same time, though, the words and his attitude hit many of them like a genetically programmed signal, and they blinked in open confusion.