The Goblin Emperor (20 page)

It is a good position,
he said to himself, fighting the queasy awareness that Setheris almost certainly wanted more. If he had had visions of featuring prominently in his cousin’s new government, Maia hoped that the preceding few days had been enough to dispel them—but he had been an unwilling audience for ten years to Setheris’s dreams of glory. Civil liaison would not be what Setheris had in mind.

He cannot harm thee,
Maia reminded himself.
Thou art emperor. Thou hast guards.
He looked at his nohecharei; they stared back at him solemnly. He drank his tea quickly, lest his hands begin to tremble.

He found himself unwillingly remembering the occasion of his sixteenth birthday, his nominal ascent into adulthood. As with the previous seven birthdays spent at Edonomee, there was no celebration, no gifts, not so much as a grudging “Many happy returns,” from Setheris. And, of course, no message from the court. Maia had not expected to be granted his liberty, but it still stung—and led him to the reckless and stupid folly of confronting Setheris.

I am an adult now,
he had said.

An if thou art?
Setheris had said, half-drunk and sneering.

It must change things,
Maia had persisted.

It changes
nothing
, boy. Thou art in my guardianship until the emperor says otherwise—not thee and thy vainglorious prating. Thou art the same moon-witted hobgoblin thou wert yesterday, and if thou desirest me to prove it—
He had backhanded Maia across the face, hard enough that Maia fell to one knee, and as he knelt there, tasting blood and the salt of starting tears, he heard Setheris laugh and leave the room.

Setheris was right. Maia’s birthday had changed nothing. Setheris was still stronger, angrier, more violent; he still had power that Maia did not, and he was not about to relinquish it. His passion for control could be assuaged only by knowing that Maia feared him, and obeyed him out of that fear. They were not equals, and Setheris did not want them to be.

Forsooth, we are not equals now,
Maia thought, gulping the last of his tea.
For I am emperor, and he is … he is a petitioner to Our Imperial Serenity.

The idea was so incongruous as to be almost nonsensical. He could feel the bitter lift at the corner of his mouth and consciously smoothed it away as he stood up. Csevet and his nohecharei swept back as gracefully as dancers to follow him out the door.

I may have power,
he thought,
but in truth I am imprisoned now, laden down with chains that Setheris cannot even imagine. I could dream of escaping Edonomee. There is no escape from the Ethuverazhid Mura, not this side of death.

And yet no one would believe or understand the nature of his prison, least of all Setheris.
Be grateful thou speakst only in metaphor,
he recommended himself grimly, and put all thoughts of prisons out of his mind.

The Michen’theileian seemed as cold and threatening as the clouds, although he admitted that might be the effect of Setheris standing, waiting, as he always used to when Maia was late for a meal, or a lesson, or in coming when called. He did not actually have his pocket watch open in his hand, but the set of his chin was enough.

“Serenity,” he murmured at Maia’s approach, and swept a bow. Reflexively, Maia read Setheris’s gestures, like a man reading a coded message to which he has memorized the key. Cold anger, nervousness, an underlying smugness of certainty. Despairingly he thought,
I shall never know anyone as well as I know Setheris,
and said in reply, “Cousin.”

He let Csevet and his nohecharei take as much time as they liked in settling themselves, although under other circumstances he might have grown impatient with Csevet’s arranging and rearranging of his ubiquitous stacks of paper. Setheris stood and smoldered; Maia sat and thought about posture and breathing, about not giving Setheris any kind of leverage.

Only when Csevet signaled himself ready did Maia look directly at Setheris and say, “Cousin, we have considered your desire for a post, and it has come to our attention that the Lord Chancellor’s office is in need of a civil liaison to mediate between itself and the City of Cetho. We feel that this post would be well served by a man of your talents, if you are pleased to accept it.”

“Liaison,” Setheris said thoughtfully. “In the Lord Chancellor’s office.”

Maia knew that meditative, neutral tone. Setheris used it when someone said something more than usually stupid; it was a chance to retract the stupidity before the consequences erupted in one’s face. Maia’s hands, in his lap where Setheris could not see them, clasped and clenched so tightly he could feel each individual bone, feel his rings biting into his flesh.

“We had thought, Serenity,” Setheris said after a suitable pause, “that we were of more value to you than that.”

“It is an excellent and honorable post,” Csevet said sharply, “and, we assure you, most valued by both His Serenity and the Lord Chancellor.”

He might as well not have spoken for all the attention Setheris paid him. Setheris’s eyes were fixed on Maia, unwaveringly.

Like a lump in his throat, Maia could feel the words,
What dost thou want?
His fear of Setheris’s temper, the deep-worn rut of doing what Setheris wanted because it was easier and because it did not matter—
thou art emperor,
he said to himself, his hands gripped together now tightly enough to bruise.
Thou art Edrehasivar VII, and it
does
matter. Give way once to Setheris, and thou shalt bear him on thy back the rest of thy days, and thy people will perforce bear him, too, though they know it not.

He took a deep breath, almost coughing with the constriction in his throat and chest, and said, “It is the position we offer you. Will you accept it, or decline?” His voice came out thin, and he heard the waver in it. But the words were his words, not the words Setheris wanted him to speak.

The silence in the Michen’theileian held for second after second. Maia could feel the tension in his nohecharei, though surely they knew that Setheris would not attack him. Setheris’s self-love was great, but it was not madness. Relegation was far from the worst fate that could meet a man who displeased an emperor.

Maia could not watch Setheris’s face, although he knew he should; he stared just past Setheris’s shoulder, concentrated on keeping his ears from flattening betrayingly. He turned his fingers so that his nails dug into his palms. The pain counteracted the fear, and he welcomed it.

Then Setheris bowed, a small, stiff gesture barely more than the bending of his head. “Serenity. We will present ourself to the Lord Chancellor at your demand.”

Maia narrowly prevented himself from saying,
Thank you.
Instead, he managed, “You may tell the Lord Chancellor, cousin, that we have every faith in your competence.”

“Serenity,” Setheris said, unmollified, and bowed himself out.

The door closed behind him, and Csevet said, “Serenity? Are you all right?”

“We are fine, thank you,” Maia said, unknotting his hands.

“He should not have spoken to you thus.”

“It matters not,” Maia said. “Come. We have spent too much time on our cousin already. Tell us what today holds.”

“Serenity,” Csevet said, fishing obediently through his stacks of paper. But Maia did not miss the sidelong, thoughtful look Csevet gave him and knew the curiosity it betokened.

He said, his voice harsh and brittle with sudden anger, “We do not wish to speak of our cousin again.”

“Serenity,” his nohecharei said in chorus, and all three men bowed.

Thou art emperor,
Maia said bitterly to himself.
Behold that thou art obeyed and rejoice.

The morning passed in a series of small decisions, petty rulings, things that the secretaries of the Witnesses and the Lord Chancellor had to know before the business of governing the empire could proceed. Maia listened and judged as carefully as he could, resolutely asking questions as the need arose, despite the humiliation of revealing his ignorance.

’Tis better to ask,
he told himself over and over again, gritting his teeth, but all the same he was relieved beyond his ability to express when Csevet said firmly that the emperor’s luncheon awaited and that the secretaries were all dismissed.

But the last of the meek, nervous, indistinguishable chancellery secretaries hadn’t even cleared the doorway when Chavar himself swept in, carrying a new set of secretaries in his wake. “Serenity,” he said, “we must speak to you at once. About the Archduchess Vedero’s marriage.”

Csevet began, “His Serenity is—,” but Maia held up a hand to stop him. Chavar looked crafty, an expression that Maia instantly distrusted, and he wanted to know
now
what was exercising Chavar, rather than postponing it until it might be worse.

“We understand,” said Chavar, “that Your Serenity is not pursuing the late emperor’s negotiations with the Tethimada.”

Maia’s eyebrows shot up despite himself. Someone had been talking, and he was certain it was neither his own household nor Vedero’s. “We are undecided,” he said, bracing himself to be scolded, but Chavar was already sweeping on.

“We would never have advised the late emperor to make such an alliance, and we are pleased Your Serenity is showing more caution. Especially when, as Your Serenity knows, there is another alliance you are in danger of losing.”

Maia, much too bewildered to attempt speech, gestured at him to continue.

“We understand,” said Chavar, looking even more crafty under a veneer of patience, “that Your Serenity has received a proposal from the Count Bazhevel.”

Much became clear. Prompted by some spark of perversity, Maia said, “You mean his suggestion that we should marry his daughter?”

“What? Preposterous!” Chavar nearly shouted. “You can no more marry Osmin Bazhevin than you can marry Csoru Zhasanai.”

Maia looked at Csevet, who raised his eyebrows in return, his ears tilting satirically. The Lord Chancellor’s office could—self-evidently—have done a better job with the Count Bazhevel’s letter. But Chavar, inexorable, continued talking. “We were referring to the proposed marriage between the Archduchess Vedero and Osmer Bazhevar.”

“The Count Bazhevel did make some such suggestion,” Maia said, feeling as wary as a deer who has scented wolves but cannot see them.

“An alliance with the Bazhevada was one of Varenechibel’s dearest wishes,” Chavar said. He had been advancing steadily into the room as he spoke, using his presence, like the power of his voice, as a weapon. Maia became aware that he himself had just as steadily been backing away. And Chavar had not halted.

He knows,
Maia thought.
He knows thou fearest conflict and thus he knows he can bully thee—without ever uttering an unkind word.

Deliberately, he planted his feet. He would give no more ground. “We are considering
both
of the Count Bazhevel’s proposals, just as we are considering the claims of the Duke Tethimel. As we were not in our late father’s confidence, we can rely only on those of his wishes that were put into writing.”

Chavar inflated like a bullfrog, but Maia thought,
He cannot strike thee, and he cannot come to like thee less than he already does. Thou hast nothing to fear from his anger.
He did not entirely believe himself, but he knew he had best pretend he did.

Chavar said, “Do you doubt our word, Serenity?”

It was a dangerous accusation—and a question Maia knew better than to engage with. He said, “We are stating a principle of our government. If Varenechibel the Fourth did not write his intentions with his own hand, then we must make our judgments without having the benefit of his opinion.” He eyed Chavar, who was spluttering but not producing anything coherent, and added, “If you will excuse us, Lord Chancellor, we are late for our luncheon.” He sidestepped Chavar, and although he knew he could not sweep grandly as Chavar did, he left the Michen’theileian with all the dignity he could.

Though the Lord Chancellor had caused a delay, luncheon was not unduly rushed. Maia ate sour beet soup, and venison buns with pickled ginger, while Csevet explained the next ordeal in store. Periodically, the emperor had to give audience to individuals of the court who had favors to request, or grievances or other matters they felt must be brought to the emperor’s attention directly. There would also be a few commoners, but those (said Csevet) were exceptional cases. As he explained the process by which common petitioners were winnowed, Maia observed, but did not say aloud, that the purpose of the government seemed to be to divide the emperor from his subjects. On a personal level, he was grateful, but his mind was running on principles of government, and he could not help wondering if this was a bad one.

Another of Csevet’s lists turned out to be a roster of the afternoon’s appointments. “They will be kept strictly to a schedule, Serenity,” Csevet assured him, having seen something in his expression or the set of his ears that conveyed his apprehension. Maia nodded and tried to feel comforted, but it was a very long list, full of people he did not know and names he could not place—until Csevet came to a name that Maia knew all too well: “Dach’osmer Eshevis Tethimar has begged permission to present his sister, Dach’osmin Paru Tethimin, to the emperor’s notice.”

“No one else is presenting their sisters—or their daughters—to us,” Maia said, thinking of Nurevis Chavar’s almost offhand introduction of Osmin Duchenin.

“It is a very old-fashioned custom, Serenity,” Csevet said. “The Varedeise emperors discouraged it, particularly Your Serenity’s grandfather. As you may imagine, it took up much of the time allotted for audiences.”

“Yes,” Maia said. “Is, therefore, Dach’osmer Tethimar being overly punctilious or deliberately insulting?”

“Or both,” Csevet said, then shook his ears out with a jingle of silver rings. “More likely, Serenity, he merely wishes to ensure that Dach’osmin Tethimin is brought to your attention as a potential empress.”