Read Online Deceiver: Foreigner #11 by C. J. Cherryh - Free Book Online
Authors: C. J. Cherryh
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attempting to maneuver across Sarini Province, which had very few fueling stations. He had fared well in the past by relying on agility. So, no, he would not prefer the armor-sided version, which was more apt for city use.
But the blackout shields would certainly be nice.
It was an expensive vehicle, far exceeding the ancient rattletrap of a bus they had wrecked. And an extravagance—but the old bus had been the same vintage as the village truck, the same as the grading and mowing and harvest equipment, warehoused and maintained down in Najida village—along with a firetruck, a pumper, for anyone in the district who needed it—all of these antiques inherited from the previous lord of Najida, now deceased. The village constabulary and its deputies were the usual mechanics, drivers, and operators of all these vehicles in Najida . . . and they would have to urgently read up on the manual for this one, one supposed. The new bus would be larger, air-conditioned, modern at every turn: and God knew there would be a learning curve—but they were adept mechanics, no fools at all, and at least the learning would be on country roads, not in winding city lanes.
Outside of the local market traffic between Najida and Najida estate, or either of those places and Kajiminda, or on down to Separti and Dalaigi, there were, in fact, very few roads in all the province, except those that went to the railhead or airport—and those were mostly mowed strips in the grass, with a few persistently bad spots graveled and the local streams bridged. You wanted to go to Separti? You went to Kajiminda, and took the road on from there. You wanted to go to the Maschi estate inland? You went to the train station, then took the train station road to the airport, and then drove across the end of the airstrip to pick up the Maschi Road.
Any people and baggage that had to go long distances on the continent moved by air or by train. And today, as it happened, the morning, crack-of-dawn train originating in the capital was bringing them that fancy new bus, specially loaded onto a flatcar, to arrive a few hours before the airport would bring them Geigi.
That was about as tight scheduling as one could imagine, but just in time. There was a small fuel depot at the train station. That would get the bus rolling. Painting the Najida emblem on the new bus door? That would just have to wait, since it had its first job immediately after arrival, and had to pick up the welcoming committee and U-turn back up the road to the airport.
So everyone was up early as the new acquisition came purring nicely down the road and onto the drive. It pulled up under the portico with—Bren winced, watching it skin just under the portico roof—barely enough clearance—which he was sure staff had checked. There was not, thank goodness, a central light fixture under the portico: light came from fixtures on the five stonework pillars. And it missed them, too.
It stopped with much less fuss than the old bus, no wheeze or cough, and when it opened its doors, it exuded a new smell, an impressive sense of prosperity. It was a rich red and black—Tabini’s colors, not what one would have wished in this province, but there it was. It was red, it was shiny, it was—staff reported happily—very elegant inside.
Bren stood at the house door with Banichi and Jago and watched the proceedings in lordly dignity. The dowager had entirely declined to come outside, saying she trusted the bus would be everything it was promised to be, and that she would felicitate the acquisition from her warm fireside.
Cajeiri, however, with his whole bodyguard, was outside. Cajeiri managed to get right up to the bus doors, trying for a peek inside, obviously itching to go aboard and look it over.
The young lord did, however, defer to the owner, and came back to ask. “May one go aboard?” Cajeiri made a diffident, proper request, all but vibrating with restraint, and Bren indulged him with a laugh and a
But the blackout shields would certainly be nice.
It was an expensive vehicle, far exceeding the ancient rattletrap of a bus they had wrecked. And an extravagance—but the old bus had been the same vintage as the village truck, the same as the grading and mowing and harvest equipment, warehoused and maintained down in Najida village—along with a firetruck, a pumper, for anyone in the district who needed it—all of these antiques inherited from the previous lord of Najida, now deceased. The village constabulary and its deputies were the usual mechanics, drivers, and operators of all these vehicles in Najida . . . and they would have to urgently read up on the manual for this one, one supposed. The new bus would be larger, air-conditioned, modern at every turn: and God knew there would be a learning curve—but they were adept mechanics, no fools at all, and at least the learning would be on country roads, not in winding city lanes.
Outside of the local market traffic between Najida and Najida estate, or either of those places and Kajiminda, or on down to Separti and Dalaigi, there were, in fact, very few roads in all the province, except those that went to the railhead or airport—and those were mostly mowed strips in the grass, with a few persistently bad spots graveled and the local streams bridged. You wanted to go to Separti? You went to Kajiminda, and took the road on from there. You wanted to go to the Maschi estate inland? You went to the train station, then took the train station road to the airport, and then drove across the end of the airstrip to pick up the Maschi Road.
Any people and baggage that had to go long distances on the continent moved by air or by train. And today, as it happened, the morning, crack-of-dawn train originating in the capital was bringing them that fancy new bus, specially loaded onto a flatcar, to arrive a few hours before the airport would bring them Geigi.
That was about as tight scheduling as one could imagine, but just in time. There was a small fuel depot at the train station. That would get the bus rolling. Painting the Najida emblem on the new bus door? That would just have to wait, since it had its first job immediately after arrival, and had to pick up the welcoming committee and U-turn back up the road to the airport.
So everyone was up early as the new acquisition came purring nicely down the road and onto the drive. It pulled up under the portico with—Bren winced, watching it skin just under the portico roof—barely enough clearance—which he was sure staff had checked. There was not, thank goodness, a central light fixture under the portico: light came from fixtures on the five stonework pillars. And it missed them, too.
It stopped with much less fuss than the old bus, no wheeze or cough, and when it opened its doors, it exuded a new smell, an impressive sense of prosperity. It was a rich red and black—Tabini’s colors, not what one would have wished in this province, but there it was. It was red, it was shiny, it was—staff reported happily—very elegant inside.
Bren stood at the house door with Banichi and Jago and watched the proceedings in lordly dignity. The dowager had entirely declined to come outside, saying she trusted the bus would be everything it was promised to be, and that she would felicitate the acquisition from her warm fireside.
Cajeiri, however, with his whole bodyguard, was outside. Cajeiri managed to get right up to the bus doors, trying for a peek inside, obviously itching to go aboard and look it over.
The young lord did, however, defer to the owner, and came back to ask. “May one go aboard?” Cajeiri made a diffident, proper request, all but vibrating with restraint, and Bren indulged him with a laugh and a
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