The Goblin Emperor (23 page)

He was afraid that Bazhevel would stand his ground, but Osmin Bazhevin did not stop at the foot of the dais; she kept walking, as fast as propriety would allow, toward the distant doors of the hall. Bazhevel hesitated, his gaze flicking from Maia to his daughter and back again. Maia was careful to be looking somewhere else, as if he believed Bazhevel were already gone. A further moment’s hesitation, an odd little hopping step of frustration—Bazhevel bowed with a mumbled “Serenity” and hurried after his daughter.

But even with Osmin Bazhevin taken care of, candidates for the honor of becoming Edrehasivar VII’s empress were proposed by the battalion; the eldest was forty-two, the youngest barely six months. And Csevet, the evening before Gormened’s dinner, insisted that each of them had to be accorded the same serious scrutiny.

“Is this truly necessary?” Maia asked, trying not to sound either sulky or terrified.

Csevet said, “We are afraid it is, Serenity. The great public anxiety about Barizhan means that…” He hesitated, twisting the cap of his pen. “Think of it as ritual, perhaps. Or as theater. We must be able to account for every step we take in ways that will seem reasonable and fair.”

Maia noticed that “seem,” which Csevet might or might not have stressed ever so lightly. And he did understand. He could not say,
We will not marry Osmin Loran Duchenin because she is the niece of our Lord Chancellor, whom we dislike. And because we dislike her as well.
Osmin Duchenin had cornered him—elegantly, unobtrusively—at one of Nurevis’s parties, standing just a fraction too close and laughing too much until her laugh started to sound to Maia like the baying of a hunting hound. He had had no idea how to talk to her, beyond even his habitual tongue-tied shyness; there was nothing in her glittering conversation he recognized, nothing he could respond to. And every time he failed, Loran Duchenin just laughed again and pressed closer, fighting grimly on, as if she could make him want her by sheer persistence. Nurevis had not rescued him this time; Maia supposed he had been ordered not to interfere with his cousin’s plan of attack. It would be very like Chavar to give such an order, and Maia had learned that while Nurevis might subvert his father’s commands in mild and subtle ways, he never disobeyed him directly.

In the end, shamefully, Maia had been rescued by his nohecharei. Telimezh had stepped forward and said, “Serenity, remember that Mer Aisava wishes to speak to you before you retire for the night. And it is growing late.” Maia had leaped at the excuse, even if it did make him seem like a child and his nohecharei his nursemaids, and he had been avoiding Osmin Duchenin ever since.

But that was not a
reason.
“Very well,” he said. “Then we will tell you plainly that we would choose
not
to marry an infant—and we remember your example of Belmaliven the Fifth, which tells us also that it would be unwise.”

“Serenity,” murmured Csevet, making a note.

“We suppose,” Maia pursued grimly, “that it would equally be folly to choose a woman so near the end of her childbearing years as Osmin Alchenin.”

“Yes, Serenity.”

“Some of these women must be related to us.”

“Most of them, to a greater or lesser degree. The Drazhada have intermarried with most of the noble houses of the Ethuveraz.” Csevet coughed uncomfortably, his ears dipping. “We understand that to have been one of the arguments made in favor of Varenechibel’s marriage to your mother.”

“Ah. Nevertheless, we would prefer not to marry a cousin.”

“We will exclude any woman closer than the third degree of kinship,” Csevet said, making another note.

“Is there any noble house with which we should
not
ally ourself?” He had not asked the question before, when the matter of choosing an empress had seemed unpleasant but relatively straightforward, but now he would have to know all the petty, depressing details.

“Serenity.” Csevet thought for a moment. “We would suggest—although it is only a suggestion—that further entanglements with the Rohethada and the Imada might be undesirable. Likewise, the Celehada.” The families of his half siblings’ spouses. And his father’s widow. “On the other hand, choosing a wife from the Ceredada might be construed as a graceful and welcome gesture. Your father did not win friends when he put off Arbelan Zhasan.”

“We imagine he did not. And do we not remember that there was a Dach’osmin Ceredin among the young women you mentioned to us before?”

“Yes, Serenity. The granddaughter of Arbelan Drazharan’s brother. She would be in all ways a fitting match.”

“Is she your choice?”

Csevet dropped his pen. The click of the barrel hitting the marble tabletop was perfectly audible. “Serenity, we do not
have
a choice. We would not so presume.”

“Chavar would.”

“Chavar is your Lord Chancellor, not your secretary.” Csevet sounded so prim that Maia realized he was genuinely flustered.

“But we trust neither his judgment nor his loyalties. We trust yours.”

Csevet’s pale skin flushed rose. “We are honored, Serenity, but we cannot choose your empress.”

“Nor can we!” He hadn’t meant to shout, and he took no pleasure in the way Csevet and his nohecharei jumped. He lowered his voice again, unclenched cramping fingers. “We cannot … We cannot so much as follow the steps of a dance. We cannot possibly choose an empress.”

“Serenity?”

“It is a poor metaphor,” Maia said, and managed a smile. “It is just as well we never wished to be a poet.” He could not sit here any longer, discussing his own marriage as if it were a matter of which stallion should cover a given mare; he knew he would begin shouting again and that was wretched payment for Csevet’s service. Maia shoved back from the table and stood. “Surely there is somewhere we are supposed to be this evening.”

He saw understanding cross Csevet’s face and looked away before it became impatience or pity. “There is one matter, Serenity,” Csevet said, “although we have wondered if you were serious about it.”

“About what?”

“You asked us to find the lady who was entrusted with your care during the funeral of your mother. We have done so, but we were not sure…”

“We were very serious,” Maia said. “And we mean the lady no ill. Who is she?”

“Her name is Aro Danivaran. Her husband was Drazhadeise through his mother’s line, and your father acknowledged them as cousins. The Danivada are ruinously poor.” Csevet paused, glancing at Maia to see if he understood.

Maia understood perfectly. “Like the Nelada,” he said.

Csevet winced very slightly. “Yes, Serenity. But Osmer Danivar and his wife were more fortunate—or more politic—than Osmer Nelar. Your father gifted them with a small estate on the birth of their first grandson, some five years ago, and there is hope that the Danivada may be able to right themselves.”

“We are pleased at our father’s generosity,” Maia said, and did not let the words twist into bitterness.

“Osmer Danivar died two years ago. His son runs the estate, and Osmerrem Danivaran has been maintaining the family presence at court.” A note of caution, of regret, had entered Csevet’s voice, and Maia was already half expecting it when he said, “Osmerrem Danivaran suffered a brainstorm a few days before your father’s death. She is bedridden and not expected to survive to the solstice.”

The reminder that other lives had tragedies without reference to his own was both salutary and painful. He said, “We would visit her, if it is allowed.”

“Serenity,” said Csevet. “Her daughter said she would be both honored and pleased. And that she tends to be most alert in the evenings.”

The emperor could not go visiting unannounced, so a page boy was sent at a run to Osmerrem Danivaran’s apartments while Maia’s edocharei fussed over his clothes and jewels, as what was suitable for an evening spent in the Alcethmeret, where the polite fiction was maintained that the emperor was “at home,” was not at all suitable for any endeavor that would take the emperor out into the public halls of the Untheileneise Court. Maia bore it with the best patience he could muster, as his jacket was exchanged for one that had plum and green embroidery on white instead of white embroidery on forest green, and as the achingly heavy amethyst and silver rings were replaced with an equally heavy array in gold set with black opals. Nemer and Avris debated about the amethysts and garnets in his hair but mercifully decided they could stay, merely swapping out the teak and emerald tashin sticks for a pair of gold-chased bone sticks set with pearls. Nemer was deft enough to effect the substitution without disordering a single braid of Maia’s hair, and Maia escaped back to the Tortoise Room just as the page boy returned with assurances that the emperor would be both expected and welcome in Osmerrem Danivaran’s chambers. Maia collected Dazhis and Telimezh with a glance and set forth.

It was fortunate that he had the page boy, for Osmerrem Danivaran resided in a section of the Untheileneise Court that Maia had not seen before. The courtiers he passed were all middle-aged or older; most of the women curtsied, rather than following the fashion Csoru had set. He reminded himself that it meant nothing, just that they were older and less likely to be swayed by the fads of an empress the same age as their children.

A page boy wearing what had to be the Danivadeise livery was waiting for them; Maia pretended not to notice his heel swing back sharply into the door to alert those inside that the emperor was approaching. Was it a kindness, he wondered suddenly, thus to descend on a household that could not possibly be prepared to receive him? They had not had time, and they did not have the money they doubtless believed to be necessary to fit a room for an emperor. And he could not tell them the truth, that after Isvaroë and Edonomee, it was lavish furnishing that made him uncomfortable, that he still felt like an interloper among the Alcethmeret’s splendors.

But it was too late now. The page boy was already throwing open the door, already announcing (in a voice that cracked on the third syllable, and Maia hid a wince of sympathy), “His Imperial Serenity, Edrehasivar the Seventh.”

Learn to think before thou actst, mooncalf,
Maia told himself in a well-practiced imitation of Setheris, but having chosen this action, he was committed to it. He followed Telimezh through the door, Dazhis bringing up the rear.

The receiving room was not nearly as shabby as he had expected; he wondered if he and Csevet had different definitions of “ruinously poor,” or if the Danivada chose to bankrupt themselves for brocade wallpaper. The woman standing by the stained glass torchière in the center of the room swept a deep curtsy as Maia entered. When she straightened, he saw that she was middle-aged, plump, with the sort of narrow, pointed face that led to the elvish nobility being satirized as weasels in the comic papers. Although not lavish, her clothes and jewels were tasteful—the lapis lazuli beads in her hair brought some much-needed color to her eyes.

“Osmin Danivin?” Maia said.

She gasped and curtsied again.

“Please. We only wish to assure you that we mean your mother no harm. We will not proceed if you think our visit unwise for her.”

“Oh, no,” said Osmin Danivin, and then seemed forcibly to pull herself together. “That is to say, Serenity, our mother is very pleased at your visit and most sincerely wishes to see you. She regrets, as do we, that she cannot greet you properly. The brainstorm, you see, it has—”

“Please,” Maia said hastily, horrified that she felt she had to apologize for the thing that was killing her mother. “It is no matter. May we go to her?”

“Of course, Serenity,” Osmin Danivin said, and led him, nohecharei in tow, down a short hallway to Osmerrem Danivaran’s bedroom.

In the dim light, the bed seemed to rise like a lilac and pale blue mountain, all its lace hangings looped back like clouds. Osmerrem Danivaran, propped up on a great bank of pillows, looked infinitely frail, her face as flawlessly white as her hair, the cheerful pinks and yellows of her bed jacket seeming a cruelly chosen irony, although surely nothing could be further from the truth.

She opened her eyes when she heard their approach: pale green and protuberant, they were the only part of her Maia recognized. She croaked a slur of sound that was probably meant to be “Serenity,” and Maia said, “Hello, Osmerrem Danivaran. We are pleased to meet you again.”

“Pleased,” she echoed, more intelligibly, and held out one clawed and trembling hand.

Maia took it, careful of his rings, and obeyed the faint pressure, coming to stand beside the bed. She did not let go. She squinted, as if to focus on his face, and said, “Nice … boy.”

“She means you were a nice boy, Serenity,” Osmin Danivin said. “She told us about you after the funeral, how polite and quiet you were.”

“We remembered her,” Maia said. He bent his head toward Osmerrem Danivaran and dropped formality; it was ludicrously pointless to play the emperor with a dying woman. He said softly, “I remembered you. But I didn’t know your name. I wanted to thank you.”

She smiled at him, although the expression was twisted on her ravaged features, and tugged feebly until he let her bring his hand to her face. She pressed her lips against the backs of his fingers, then released him, her eyelids fluttering shut and her body going slack.

“She falls asleep like that,” Osmin Danivin said; Maia, who for a dreadful moment had thought that Osmerrem Danivaran had died, saw that her chest was rising and falling. He turned away and allowed Osmin Danivin to lead him back to the receiving room.

He asked her, “Is there anything we can do to make your mother more comfortable? Or to make your task in caring for her easier?”

“Oh! Thank you, Serenity,” Osmin Danivin said, more than a little breathlessly. He suspected the curtsy was to buy herself time to think. “There is one thing, although we hesitate to mention it.”

“Please. Anything. Your mother was kind to us at a time when we needed that most desperately. We would repay her in any way we can.”

He felt more than heard Dazhis’s weight shift—an unspoken protest, and he supposed he was being rash. But Osmin Danivin believed him, for she blurted, “Coal!” and then looked dismayed.