The Goblin Emperor (17 page)

“Yes, Serenity,” Csevet said.

“Thank you, Serenity,” Setheris said. Maia read the unspoken rider in his eyes,
It is good to see thou hast not forgotten
everything
about Edonomee.
Then Setheris turned to Csevet, his polished court mask back in place. Maia had to make a conscious and deliberate action of turning his back on Setheris. It was even harder to walk rather than run away from him.
He cannot hurt me now,
Maia said to himself, but the words had no conviction and scarcely any meaning. His forearm burned, and he forbade himself to rub at it.

He was walking faster than normal, but he could not force himself to slow down. And he was not sorry to get quickly out of the public halls of the Untheileneise Court.

As they approached the doors of the Alcethmeret, Cala said, breaking a long silence, “Serenity, are you well?”

“We are, thank you,” Maia said politely, distantly.

Cala did not try again.

There was a letter waiting for Maia, but this time it was a private one, an invitation from Nurevis Chavar to an entertainment he had arranged for that evening: a soprano from the great Opera House of Zhaö, singing arias from a number of famous operas. Maia had never been to an opera, although he had read about them in the newspapers that from time to time infiltrated Edonomee, and he was too pleased by Nurevis’s overture to dream of rejecting it. As soon as Csevet returned—as bland-faced as ever, although Maia thought he caught an eartip twitching with irritation—Maia directed him to send an acceptance.

There was also a letter from Thara Celehar:

To his Imperial Serenity, Edrehasivar VII, greetings.

In obedience to Your Serenity’s wishes, we went this morning to the Ulimeire of Cetho. As we do not know when Your Serenity will next be able or inclined to grant us an audience, we thought it best to send Your Serenity this report.

We presented your letter to the prelate of the Ulimeire, who was most gratified and eager to be of assistance. He told us everything he knew about the victims—not a great deal, as of course the nature of his prelacy precludes a faithful congregation of the living—and then showed us their graves. Their families, he told us, are pooling their money for a gravestone.

Maia had to set the letter down. He wondered dismally, turning so that Csevet would not notice and be alarmed by the tears in his eyes, how many more moments like this he would have to go through, how many more times the reality of the tragedy would bludgeon him to the floor. Each time he thought,
Surely
this
is enough to bring it home,
but then he would turn some other unexpected corner, and there it would be again, cruel and stark and pitiless. This time, he thought of the crew and captain of the
Radiance of Cairado,
their anxiety and kindness, and wondered who would have mourned them if it had been their airship that had been sabotaged.

“Csevet.”

“Serenity?”

“We wish gifts to be made to the families of those who died with the
Wisdom of Choharo
.”

“Serenity?”

He turned. “Did we not speak clearly enough?”

“But, what sort of gift, Serenity?”

“We do not know. We know not what would be appreciated. Can we give them money?”

“Your Serenity may do anything that pleases you.”

“If we give them money,” Maia said, slowly and distinctly, “will it cause offense? We are tired of causing offense with everything we do.”

“Serenity, we do not understand—”

“Yes or no.”

“Serenity,” Csevet said. He paused, toying unhappily with his pen. “It will be considered more gracious if the gift has some … some
meaning
.”

“Very well.” He picked up the letter again, to gesture with it at Csevet. “Mer Celehar tells us that the families wish to purchase a gravestone. Would that be a gift with suitable meaning?”

“Yes, Serenity.”

“See to it, please.”

“Yes, Serenity.”

Maia returned to the letter.

We have meditated among the graves and, having obtained from the prelate the names of those who survive the crew of the airship, shall interview them as we are able to arrange meetings. These persons, having only the connection of death with the late emperor—what the teachings of our order call “stathan”—are those whose lives and deaths may show most clearly the break in the pattern which we seek. Such is not always the case, but it is true often enough to be worth pursuing.

We would note also that the prelate of the Ulimeire has been warned to hold himself available for the Witnesses of the Lord Chancellor’s investigation, so Your Serenity need not fear that their investigation will be anything but rigorous. But as Your Serenity seems to wish it, we will continue our own search for the truth.

Hoping that Your Serenity approves of our
actions and intentions,
Thara Celehar

I don’t know enough to disapprove,
Maia thought. He was not so naïve that he could not see what Celehar’s strategy of letter-writing was designed to do, but neither was he so naïve that he thought his management of the affair would be in any way an improvement. Celehar was trained for this, and although Maia worried about his disaffection, he did not believe that Celehar would shirk a duty once he had accepted it.

Csevet gave a polite and slightly nervous cough. Maia set Celehar’s letter down and turned toward him, eyebrows raised.

“Serenity. It is the matter of the Archduchess Vedero’s marriage.”

It took a moment for Maia to remember what Csevet meant. “Yes. Has Dach’osmer Tethimar spoken to you yet? We told him he should.”

“No, Serenity. That is, yes, Serenity, there is a letter from Dach’osmer Tethimar asking for an audience, but that is not what we meant. There is … a new complication.”

“Of course there is,” Maia said, biting back a laugh. “Tell us the worst at once.”

“Serenity.” Csevet sounded happier now. “You are aware, of course, that the Archduke Ciris was engaged to be married.”

“It had reached our attention,” Maia said, remembering a slanderous comment or two that Setheris had allowed himself at the breakfast table, remembering Stano Bazhevin, the scared nonentity scurrying in Sheveän’s shadow.

“Count Bazhevel, the father of the intended bride, has written, and the Lord Chancellor’s office has seen fit to pass the matter on to you.”

“Should they not?”

“Serenity.” Csevet made an ambivalent, dissatisfied gesture with his pen. “Essentially, yes, but we would have expected them to do a certain amount of the necessary work first.”

“’Necessary work’?” He felt stupid for asking when Csevet clearly expected him to understand, but he trusted Csevet, unlike the Corazhas, not to hold—or use—his stupidity against him.

“Serenity, what Bazhevel proposes is a marriage to replace the chance for union lost with the archduke.”

“He
can’t
expect our sister to marry his daughter.”

Csevet smiled slightly in acknowledgment of the joke. “No, Serenity. But he seems rather to expect that
you
will.”

Maia stared at him. “But we can’t marry her! She’s Drazhadeise!”

Csevet made a dissatisfied noise. “This is why we are displeased with the Lord Chancellor’s office. The Count Bazhevel argues that since the marriage was neither sworn nor consummated, it ought to be regarded as null and Osmin Bazhevin still Bazhevadeise.”

“They signed the contract,” Maia said—and was a little amused at the outrage plainly audible in his own voice.

“The Count Bazhevel is ingenious,” said Csevet, “but we suspect that he does not intend his argument to be taken very seriously, for he immediately proposes an alternative. Though he has no marriageable sons himself, he says he and the honor of his house would be satisfied if the archduchess were to marry his brother’s eldest son, Osmer Dalera Bazhevar.”

“So his first suggestion is merely a feint,” Maia said, but most of his attention was on something else. He quoted thoughtfully, “’The honor of his house.’ Is he implying that the death of the archduke was intended by the Drazhada as an insult to the Bazhevada?”

“We think, Serenity, that he hopes the threat of such an implication will … encourage you to comply with his scheme, just as the suggestion of your marriage to Osmin Bazhevin will make you regard his second suggestion with relief.”

“Either he is very stupid or he thinks we are.”

“Serenity,” Csevet murmured noncommittally.

Maia sighed. “We must speak with our sister, it seems. In sooth, we find it a little disturbing that she has not attempted to speak to us.”

Beshelar said unexpectedly, “The archduchess is well known not to favor marriage. Perhaps she hoped the matter might be lost in the confusion.”

“Perhaps,” Csevet said dubiously.

Maia looked at the clock. Half past three. “We dine with the court, yes?”

“It is expected, Serenity.”

“At eight, we believe Esha told us?”

“Yes, Serenity.”

“Have we other matters to which we must attend before that?”

“None that cannot be deferred, Serenity. We would not grant Osmer Nelar the satisfaction of an audience this afternoon.”

“We thank you. Will you, then, send a page boy to see if the Archduchess Vedero can attend on us?”

“Yes, Serenity,” Csevet said, and pulled the bell-rope.

The archduchess appeared promptly in response to the summons. She still wore full mourning, and unlike most court ladies, she made no effort at ornamentation. Black on black quilting, black ribbons in her hair, and no jewelry at all, save the unadorned rings in her ears. Maia, whose hands ached from the weight of his rings, envied her that.

She curtsied with a murmured “Serenity,” sat down at his invitation, and once seated seemed almost to transmute to marble. Face impassive, posture perfect, she evinced no curiosity about why he had wished to see her, and offered not so much as a conversational gambit of her own. Maia realized very quickly that she would win any game of waiting, and said, “We must speak to you about your marriage.”

Vedero considered this statement and said, “We do not wish to be married.” Her voice was devoid of passion, or even interest.

“We understand that our late father was negotiating your marriage.”

“Yes.”

He began to wonder if she was goading him deliberately, but if she was or if she wasn’t, nothing would be gained by losing his temper. He said patiently, “With whom?”

At least she did not pretend not to understand him. “With the Duke Tethimel, on behalf of his son Eshevis.” There was nothing in her tone to indicate whether she liked, loathed, or indeed had ever even met Eshevis Tethimar. Such perfect disengagement itself suggested, unhappily, what Vedero’s true opinion might be.

“How far had negotiations proceeded?”

“We do not know, Serenity.”

If she was lying—and he thought she might be—she did it well. Maia thought of Eshevis Tethimar, encroaching every inch he thought he could get away with, trying to bully the negotiations through—thought of the Count Bazhevel trying to swap one marriage for another as if Vedero and his own daughter were no more than dairy cows. He said abruptly, “Were you not to marry, what would you do?”

“Serenity?”

He was perversely pleased to see that it was possible to startle her. “If you did not marry. What would you do instead?”

“We thank you, Serenity, but we do not expect you to be interested in our foolish, daydreaming ambitions.”

It was the most words he’d gotten out of her at one time. Maia smiled gently and, taking a leaf from her book, simply waited in silence.

She gave him a bitter look when she realized he would neither speak until she did nor dismiss her from his presence, then said in a small, defiant voice, a sudden hint of what she would have been like as a child, “We would study the stars.”

“The stars?”

“Yes, Serenity,” she said, and it suddenly struck him as ludicrous and demeaning that a woman of twenty-eight should be subject to the judgment of a half brother ten years younger than herself.

He said, “Then you should.”

From the stricken way they all stared at him—Vedero, Csevet, Cala, Beshelar—he realized that he had said the wrong thing again. There was a painful silence; Maia felt his face heating. It was Vedero who squared her shoulders and said, “Serenity, you need our marriage.”

“But if it is not what you wish…”

“Serenity, you have few enough bargaining chips. Do not throw one away. You cannot afford to wait until Ino and Mireän are of age.”

“But with whom are we bargaining?”

“The world, Serenity,” Vedero said sadly.

By her voice, her bearing, he was reminded that she had been at court since her earliest childhood. He wished that he could ask her advice, but despite her sudden access of honesty, he was afraid she still hated him, and knowing that his ignorance was weakness, he was loath to make it any more explicit to her than it already was.

He stood up, signaling the end of the audience. “We thank you, Vedero. We will think on what you have said.”

“Serenity,” she said, rising and curtsying. “You must not regard us in making your decision. Our late father did not.”

She had given advice without being asked. The trouble was—Maia thought as he watched her leave, her dignity like armor around her—he was not sure it was advice he wanted to follow.

Csevet cleared his throat; Maia turned and found him looking both apprehensive and obstinate. “You wish to say something we will not like,” Maia said.

“We fear it, Serenity. For the archduchess is correct. You must bargain with the world, and you cannot afford to wait until your nieces are of marriageable age.”

“You are talking about
our
marriage again.”

“Yes, Serenity. But perhaps … Your Serenity asked us about signets, and we have had a pneumatic from Dachensol Habrobar to say that he holds himself at Your Serenity’s disposal. It will take us perhaps a quarter of an hour to reach his workshop from here, and we may discuss matters as we go.”