The Goblin Emperor (24 page)

“Coal?”

“It’s been so cold,” she said, half-apologetic and half-despairing. “And the price of coal keeps rising and rising. And Mother is cold all the time, even when the rooms seem comfortable to us. We would take her south, but she cannot travel, and, Serenity, we would not ask it, but we are desperate, and you asked if there was anything, and this truly would make Mother more comfortable—”

“We will see to it,” Maia said, and Osmin Danivin curtsied so deeply and thanked him so repeatedly that he was grateful to be able to leave.

The first thing he did on returning to the Alcethmeret was to tell Csevet to see that the Danivada’s apartments were supplied with coal and not charged, and Csevet said, “Yes, Serenity,” and made a note.
Yes,
Maia thought,
we will “see to it” by telling someone else to see to it. Thus do we put ourself out for our benefactors.
But he had no idea how to accomplish the matter himself, and he knew that if he tried, he would succeed only in confusing and frightening a great many people.

On that lowering thought, the Emperor Edrehasivar VII went to bed, where he slept badly.

17

Dinner with the Goblin Ambassador

The day of the goblin ambassador’s dinner party dawned clear and viciously cold. The frost on the inside of Maia’s bedroom windows was too thick to see through, and his edocharei fussed and fretted over whether he would be warm enough or ought they to provide him another layer of silk beneath the wool?

“We beg you not to,” Maia said earnestly. He already felt like a Barchakh’kaladim, the Barizheise nesting doll with its series of progressively smaller, fiercer, and more hideous warriors. One more layer could not make him significantly warmer, but it might make it impossible to move.

“If you become chilled, Serenity,” Esha said sternly, “you must come back. We will keep the silks by the fire just in case.”

“You are very kind,” Maia said, and meant it. He had been eight years old the last time anyone had cared whether he was warm enough.

“It is our job, Serenity,” Esha said, as Csevet always said, but he thought the three of them were pleased nevertheless.

Breakfast was oatmeal with dried apricots and honey, and the kitchen staff had unearthed a giant, claw-footed gilt and green enamel samovar that had to be two hundred years old at least. The tea was very strong and very hot, and Maia insisted that Csevet take a cup.

And to Maia’s delight, before he was finished eating, and before Csevet was finished explaining the hazards of the upcoming day, his signet was delivered. The messenger was a courier—Dachensol Habrobar was part of the government and thus rated a courier’s service, even though the transit was confined to the Untheileneise Court. The courier was goblin-dark and wore scarlet ribbons like defiance in his hair. He was also, unmistakably, a friend of Csevet’s; Maia asked him to wait in case there was any problem with the ring, and nodded to Csevet to escort him out of the dining room. He heard one of them laugh as the door closed behind them, and bent his head over the little quilted silk pouch so that neither Beshelar nor Cala could see his face.

The ring was a heavy circle of platinum, unadorned except for the emblem carved into its face with precise and delicate lines. The cat-serpent, with its coiling tail and dramatic whiskers, was perfect, and Maia took an uncomfortable, savage pleasure, as he slid the signet on his right ring finger, in knowing his father had disapproved of the design. The signet was heavy, but no heavier than his other rings (gold today, set with topaz and tiger’s-eye), and the weight seemed less cruel, although he knew that was only imagination. But the signet was
his
, and childish fancy or not, it rested more easily on his hand.

Thus fortified, he embarked upon a most wearing morning. Chavar had not had the temerity to refuse Ambassador Gormened’s invitation, but Maia almost wished he had. At least everyone would have been spared his unspoken but obvious displeasure, which made itself known in fault-finding and petty obstructionism.

Worse, from Maia’s point of view, at midmorning, the Corazhas convened—with the Lord Chancellor in thunderous attendance—for the purpose of selecting the next empress.

The Corazhas were unusually amiable, and he gathered that they approved of his doing something so appropriately emperor-like as securing the succession. The Witness for the Judiciate even smiled at him. Once seated, they all looked at Maia expectantly; his mind a horrified blank, he said, “Mer Aisava has done a great deal of the preliminary work in this matter,” and turned pointedly to Csevet.

Csevet, as calm, polite, and ferociously organized as ever, responded without either hesitation or discernible chagrin. He bowed slightly to the assembled Witnesses and said, “It is true that we have been assisting the emperor, to the best of our poor ability, to make a wise decision. His Serenity feels that there are three candidates worthy of your consideration: Dach’osmin Paru Tethimin, Dach’osmin Csethiro Ceredin, and Osmin Loran Duchenin.”

Maia was more than a little startled to learn that this was his opinion, but he trusted Csevet and held his tongue, and within five minutes, Csevet’s strategy was clear. Chavar, inevitably, supported Osmin Duchenin, and ordinarily he would have had the support of Lord Bromar, the Witness for Foreigners, but the Bromadeise estates were in Thu-Athamar, and Bromar—it was plain—knew better than to cross the Tethimada. Maia watched as the Corazhas split into camps. The Witness for the Prelacy supported Chavar, and the Witness for the Universities supported Bromar. Lord Deshehar, the Witness for the Parliament, and Lord Pashavar, the Witness for the Judiciate, found themselves in agreement for the first time that Maia had ever seen, supporting Dach’osmin Ceredin, and they were joined by the Witness for the Treasury and the Witness for the Athmaz’are. Maia remembered what Csevet had said about Varenechibel creating ill-feeling when he cast off the Empress Arbelan. Csevet stood and waited, not even smiling, until Chavar and Bromar had argued each other to a standstill, and then said, “We think there can be no objections to Dach’osmin Ceredin.”

Lord Pashavar was quick to pick up the cue, and within a very few minutes, the Corazhas had reached consensus in support of Dach’osmin Ceredin; Chavar, glaring more furiously by the second—although now at Csevet—had no choice but to agree.

And then, just like that, it was decided. Edrehasivar VII had chosen his empress. Maia found himself confused and sad and somehow empty-feeling, and he had no appetite for lunch.

Matters did not improve in the afternoon, when Maia gave an audience to the Trade Association of the Western Ethuveraz, which seemed to offend Chavar by its very existence. Maia thought its representatives, including a cousin of the Prince of Thu-Istandaär, seemed very sensible, their goals likely to improve their cities in more ways than just the economic, but Chavar barely let them finish before he was rejecting their ideas, with special scorn being heaped upon their wish for a bridge over the Istandaärtha.

But Maia had listened to their reasons and been impressed, having had no idea that the imperial government charged such exorbitant fees for the use of its airships. “Lord Chavar,” he said.

“Serenity?” said Chavar impatiently.

“Whether a bridge over the Istandaärtha is possible or not, these gentlemen should not be censured for desiring one. We see that it would be a great benefit to them.”

“We think it
is
possible, Serenity,” one of the delegates said eagerly. “We have spoken to—”

“This is not an appropriate matter for you to bring before the emperor!” Chavar sounded sincerely shocked, and glancing at Csevet, Maia saw that he agreed. He himself couldn’t understand what was so appalling about it, but he would merely shock Chavar more if he said so. And, the darker thought occurred, it would be one more example of how Edrehasivar was a barbarian, unfit to rule or to go out in polite society. Maia let Chavar and the secretaries resume control of the audience, though he was pleased to note that Chavar did moderate his language. It was the only satisfaction he got that afternoon.

Maia extracted another report on the investigation into the wreck of the
Wisdom of Choharo.
This time, along with all the dead ends (and the pun was so morbidly appropriate he had to hide a wince), there was an encouraging sign as well. The Witnesses had determined that the incendiary device must have been brought on board by one of the crew members; thus, they had begun investigating the crew of the
Wisdom of Choharo
with greater rigor, and they had discovered that three crew members had had ties of varying closeness with a dissident group in Cetho. The Witnesses were confident that the answers—and the people responsible for the murder of the emperor—were to be found among the Cetho Workers League.

“That doesn’t sound terribly dissident,” Maia observed, and got a blistering lecture from Chavar on the danger the league represented, the harm it had done, and the certainty that, given the opportunity, its members would gleefully have conspired to murder the emperor. Maia thought of the mourners in the Ceth’ulimeire and was unconvinced.

When he returned to the Alcethmeret, there was a pneumatic waiting for him, which Csevet took only a glance at before handing over. It was from Lord Berenar, the Witness for the Treasury, a request for a private audience at the emperor’s earliest pleasure.

Maia looked helplessly at Csevet. “What can he want with us?”

Csevet said, “Lord Berenar is not a frivolous man, Serenity.”

“No,” Maia agreed. The Witness for the Treasury did not speak often in the Corazhas, but when he did, he was decisive and to the point. “When can we see him?”

“A formal audience might take several days, but you could speak to him tomorrow morning, if you are willing to meet over breakfast.”

“We have no objections,” Maia said. The Corazhas politely tolerated his presence during their meetings, but this was the first sign any of them had offered that they were even aware that Maia existed as more than a peculiar decoration in the Verven’theileian. Whatever Berenar wanted, Maia was unwilling to discourage him with delays.

“We will answer his pneumatic,” Csevet said. “Your Serenity should dress for dinner.”

Between the cold and the occasion, dressing for dinner was something of a carnival. Maia’s edocharei had clearly agonized over how he should be dressed, and there were several last-minute flurries of indecisiveness; Avris told him that no emperor had accepted a dinner invitation from a foreign ambassador since the first Varenechibel took the throne.

“Not even when our mother…”

“No, Serenity.” Maia supposed wearily that he shouldn’t be surprised. But even in his grief, Varenechibel should have done better, either entering with good faith into the marriage and the closer relationship with Barizhan it suggested or refusing it altogether—though it was strange to think that if Varenechibel had simply refused that marriage he did not want, he, Maia, would never have existed, and his nephew Idra would now be emperor. A child emperor, controlled by his regents: however inadequate Maia felt himself to be, the long and frequently bloody history of the Ethuveraz suggested he was still better than that alternative.

Nevertheless, he thought it shameful that it had been over 150 years since an emperor had accepted the hospitality of a foreign emissary, so he did not object to the elaborate preparations his edocharei had made. He might wish that less of his clothing were white, but that was a futile wish for an emperor, and he could only hope that the ambassador’s kitchens had chosen to prepare something not prone to dripping. At least the velvet brocades were warm. Nemer dressed his hair with frosted glass tashin sticks and strands of pearls, and his rings were white opals set in platinum. Opals in his ears, and he tried not to remember a warm summer morning in Isvaroë and his mother piercing his ears with a needle.

He was pleased to see Beshelar looking as polished as a toy soldier, and even Cala had made an effort, although he must have borrowed the robe from someone else, for while it was a bright, even blue, it was an inch too short in the sleeves. He would have to ask Csevet, he thought, if the emperor’s nohecharei didn’t get some sort of stipend, or if this was something else Chavar was obstructing. He would not embarrass Cala by asking now.

At precisely seven o’clock, two goblin page boys appeared at the doors of the Alcethmeret, flanked by two enormous warriors, the largest goblins Maia had ever seen, wearing (Csevet told him in a hasty whisper) the full ceremonial regalia of the Hezhethoreise Guard. It seemed Ambassador Gormened was also thinking about those 150 years. The warriors saluted in perfect unison at Maia’s approach. He wondered what they thought of all this, in their gleaming spiky armor and elaborately crested helmets, but of course he could not ask. Truly, he thought wryly, curiosity was a useless trait in an emperor.

The page boys he judged to be ten or eleven years old, both of them gray-skinned rather than the true goblin black. One of them, like Maia himself, was slate gray; the other was more the color of winter clouds, but he would never be taken for an elf, not with those vividly orange eyes. The boys were respectful but not at all shy; they talked to him freely on the long trek from the Alcethmeret to the ambassador’s
dav.

The darker of the two was named Esret; his companion was Teia. They were both from northern Barizhan, where intermarriage between elves and goblins was becoming more and more common. They were the sons of minor avarsin, fostered to the Great Avar’s household as a sign of fealty. And, Maia thought, insurance against betrayal. Esret had been at the Untheileneise Court for two years, Teia barely six months. They both preferred it to the Corat’ Dav Arhos, the Great Avar’s sprawling, half-underground palace, as there was much more to do, and Maia gained a picture of Gormened’s efforts to improve his country’s standing. Esret knew all about the Lord Chancellor’s offices and those of the Witness for Foreigners, while Teia knew all the merchants, both goblin and elvish, who traded between Barizhan and the Ethuveraz and kept an office in Cetho, “and many of them do, Serenity, because it makes it easier to get customs forms approved and visas for travel, and, oh, all sorts of other things that they can only do here.” Maia suspected Esret and Teia knew more about trade between Barizhan and the Ethuveraz than he did.