The Goblin Emperor (28 page)

And he wished for it more and more as the weeks passed, and to the murmurs that Idra Drazhar had a right to the throne were added new murmurs, rumors, evil things that grew like weeds: the idea that somehow Maia himself had been responsible for the wreck of the
Wisdom of Choharo
.

It was nonsense—but such utter nonsense that it could not even be dealt with. It was not as if the truth of the matter—Maia’s confinement at Edonomee, his lack of experience with intrigue and politics, the fact that he had not the slightest idea of how one would go about hiring someone to sabotage an airship—was not well known. It simply did not have enough force against another truth: that Maia, youngest and despised of Varenechibel’s children, was now emperor. Even if he could have said, to those who whispered, that he did not wish to be emperor—and he could say no such thing, trapped as he was behind Edrehasivar’s mask—he would not have been believed. No one in the Untheileneise Court would ever believe that one could wish
not
to be emperor. It was unthinkable.

The investigation into the Cetho Workers League continued (the Lord Chancellor assured the emperor), but was seemingly no nearer finding the murderer or murderers. He called Thara Celehar before him, demanded to know what progress he was making and why it was not more. He frightened Celehar, and was ashamed, later, of having done so, realizing in what a monstrous guise he must have presented himself to make any impression against Mer Celehar’s apathy. But for all his browbeating, Celehar could tell him only that he was seeking, questioning the living and, to the best of his ability, the dead. “It is not a matter of machines, Serenity,” he said, white-faced but not apologizing, merely explaining. “It does not happen to schedule.”

Csevet gave a small, meaningful cough then, and Maia recollected himself. He said, as gently and as quietly as he could, “Is there anything we can do, Mer Celehar, to help you in your search?”

“We are sorry, Serenity, but there is not. We can only work to the best of our abilities.”

“We know. We…” Emperors did not apologize, and he remembered Idra saying that the one thing Varenechibel could not forgive was a witness to his mistakes. “We are sorry for implying that you were not so doing.”

Celehar’s eyes widened, and then he bowed his head, masking his reaction. “Serenity. We shall report to you as soon as we have
any
information.”

“We thank you, Mer Celehar,” Maia said, and sank wearily back in his chair as Celehar bowed and left the Michen’theileian. Maia had been emperor, had been Edrehasivar Zhas instead of simply Maia Drazhar, for over a month now. The business of ruling the Ethuveraz had become easier, though no less tedious. He knew the names of most, if not all of his courtiers, was beginning to have a sense of their factions, their allegiances and enmities. Whatever remarks Setheris might be making—and Maia could imagine their tenor only too well—he had not intruded his person on Maia’s notice, and for that, Maia was (pathetically, he told himself) grateful. His nohecharei and edocharei did their duties; Csevet organized his emperor as if he had been born to the task. There was discontent, uneasy muttering, but indeed it would have been remarkable if there had not been—and Maia would have had to have the charisma he knew he lacked.

Chavar continued intractable, hostile, but he had not been openly insolent or so egregiously incompetent that Maia was forced to take notice. He still wanted to replace Chavar as Lord Chancellor, but he could not do it until he had a candidate in view, and he had none. Csevet and Chavar’s secretaries had worked out an elaborate system to ensure that the emperor and the Lord Chancellor spoke to each other directly as little as possible, and that made it if not comfortable, then at least bearable for the two of them to work together.

Nurevis Chavar was vastly more obliging than his father. Although his circle of friends barely overlapped with that of Csethiro Ceredin, Nurevis did his best not only to invite Dach’osmin Ceredin to his parties, but also to make the gesture look more neutral by inviting those friends they had in common as well. Maia was grateful, but he also secretly wished Nurevis wouldn’t bother. The Chavadeise public rooms had become a divided camp, with Dach’osmin Ceredin on one side and Osmin Duchenin on the other, and Maia felt miserably sure that he was welcome to neither. Osmin Duchenin made no secret of her anger at being passed over, and Dach’osmin Ceredin was cold and formal and possibly angry as well. When he was not near her, the laughter from her side of the room was uproarious, and he wondered if she, like Osmin Duchenin, was mocking him.

Maia tried to stick to neutral territory: Nurevis, and Nurevis’s friends who had not two political thoughts to strike together among the lot of them. They ignored Maia benevolently, and he listened to their incomprehensible conversations about hunting and horses and clothes and felt at least a little safer. Nurevis talked to him around his duties as host, but Maia was more and more grateful to Min Vechin, who was careful not to be seen to monopolize the emperor but who stopped by him periodically—frequently rescuing him from one or another of the courtiers determined to gain the emperor’s favor by sheer force of verbiage—and talked lightly and without expecting more response than yes or no. It was restful and she was beautiful, and he thought she was flirting with him, although he had no idea of how to respond. She made him feel almost normal, almost as if he belonged.

And then one evening, after Min Vechin had drifted gracefully away for the third or fourth time, Dach’osmin Ceredin approached him. She curtsied in a sweep of bronze and red-purple, but she was frowning, and Maia was not entirely surprised that she opened on the attack.

But he
was
surprised when she said bluntly, “Serenity, Min Vechin is using you.”

“Of course she is,” Maia agreed.

Dach’osmin Ceredin’s eyebrows shot upward, and Maia was unable to keep his bitterness pent decently behind his teeth. “How stupid you must believe us to be, to think we are unable to discern that for ourself. We thank you.”

She looked as if she’d just been bitten by a cushion. “Serenity, we did not mean—” She stopped herself, and he watched as her colorless skin flushed a hard, painful red. “We beg your pardon. You are correct, and we ought not to have spoken so.” He thought she would turn on her heel and flee—it was what he would have done—but she stood her ground, though she bowed her head for some moments. Maia let her be, his own anger having subsided as quickly as it had risen.

When Dach’osmin Ceredin raised her head, there was a light in her vivid eyes that hadn’t been there before, and when she spoke, her speech was faster, more clipped, and rich in the animation it had previously lacked: “Since we have disgraced ourself already, we may as well ask: if you know she is using you, Serenity, why do you accept it?” She did not sound judgmental now, merely curious.

But Maia had no answer—at least, none that he could articulate. He said lamely, “She is very beautiful.”

“And she has the sense not to frighten you,” Dach’osmin Ceredin said, and Maia took a step back, wanting to protest her deduction, but unable to deny its truth.

“We should take lessons from her, we see,” Dach’osmin Ceredin said more than a little sourly, and Maia felt his shoulders hunch, his ears flatten. That tone of voice from Setheris had frequently preceded a blow or a vicious insult. But Dach’osmin Ceredin swept another curtsy—not as graceful as some of the other court ladies, but as precise and sharp as a swordmaster’s salute—and said, “Serenity, we do not wish you to be frightened of us.” And perhaps to prove the truth of her words, she turned and went back to her friends.

Maia did not stay long after that.

19

Thara Celehar’s Grief

The morning began inauspiciously with a letter from Csoru Zhasanai, which was delivered during breakfast.

Csoru, Maia had discovered, throve on the writing of letters, whether because she could take up infinitely more of the emperor’s time that way, or for some other reason. Maia did not allow himself to sigh; he opened the letter, ran a practiced eye down its contents—then, frowning, read it again more slowly.

“Serenity?” said Csevet, ever alert for signs of trouble.

“The widow empress,” Maia said, “demands to know by what right we have seconded her kinsman to our service as our chaplain, why we have not, therefore, added him to the rolls of our household, and especially why we did not have the common courtesy—that word underlined heavily and, we suspect, in the widow empress’s own hand—to inform her of our intentions.” He raised his head, not entirely able to smooth out his frown, although Csevet did not deserve it. “We must speak to Mer Celehar before we reply to the widow empress’s letter. Can an audience be fit in today?”

Csevet sorted among his papers. “Yes, Serenity, although it will mean curtailing your luncheon.”

“So be it,” Maia said, and gave Beshelar and Cala a flat glare, daring them to say anything. They did not, although they both looked as if they wished to.

The afternoon would belong to the Corazhas; Maia spent the morning giving audiences, considering petitions, trying to be the emperor although it still felt like a sham. He was glad to escape the Michen’theileian, although he did not find the Alcethmeret much more comfortable, and it was no refuge, for the emperor’s business followed him there, with a page coming into the dining room to announce that Thara Celehar awaited his Serenity’s pleasure.

“Pleasure” was so far from being the correct word that Maia was hard-pressed not to laugh in the poor child’s earnest and uncomprehending face. “We shall receive him in the Tortoise Room,” he said, gratefully abandoning food he had not tasted and had barely touched.

Celehar prostrated himself on the floor of the Tortoise Room when Maia came in.

“Rise, please, Mer Celehar,” Maia said, at first astonished, and then remembering with unwelcome distinctness his interview with the Witness for the Dead earlier that week. “We have not brought you here to browbeat you.”

“Serenity,” Celehar said, getting to his feet, but not lifting his chin to look Maia in the face. And that was not like him.

“We wished to speak to you because we have received a rather peculiar letter from your kinswoman the widow empress—”

“And you wish to know why we lied to her.”

Maia felt both Beshelar and Cala become transfixed with alertness. One did not interrupt an emperor, and especially not in that impatient tone of voice. Maia, though he cared nothing for the interruption, was also watching Celehar closely, warily.

But he did not let that show in his voice when he said, “We have not accused you of lying.”

“You should, Serenity. For we did lie to Csoru Zhasanai.” Celehar still had not looked up, and his graveled, broken voice was unsteady, his ears flat.

There were many things Maia supposed he might have done or said, but only one that was not cruel or callous. He said, very quietly, “Why?”

“Because we hoped that if we told Csoru Zhasanai that we were your chaplain, it would keep her from revealing to you the truth, which she holds over our head like a poisoned sword.”

“Which truth?”

“The truth…” His voice cracked rawly. “The truth of why we renounced our prelacy.”

Maia considered briefly, said, “Beshelar, will you ask of Mer Aisava, please, how long we may be before the Corazhas will not forgive us?” He met Beshelar’s eyes as he said it, saw his meaning received and understood.

“Serenity,” Beshelar said, bowed, and departed.

Celehar had the knuckles of one hand pressed hard against his mouth.

Maia said, “We understand that you do not wish to tell this truth to us, but…” A deep breath, and a conscious, almost painful shedding of formality: “Wouldst thou tell me?”

The silence held in the Tortoise Room for five thunderous beats of Maia’s heart. Celehar’s head came up, finally, and he said, “Serenity, we do not deserve the honor you would do us.”

“I do not speak of honor,” Maia said with something that was almost exasperation. “I speak of compassion. Thou hast shown great compassion, to both living and dead, and I would show compassion to thee, to the best of my perhaps small ability. If thou wilt tell me, I shall neither tell anyone nor use it against thee.”

Celehar looked at Cala, who said, “I, too, shall tell no one. I do swear it.”

“The story is not so great as the gift you give me,” Celehar said, looking from Cala to Maia. “It is simply told: I convicted the man I loved of the murder of the woman I hated.”

Silence again. Maia did not know what to say, and from the look on his face, neither did Cala. But into their silence, Celehar said, “His name was Evru Dalar. The woman was his wife, Oseian Dalaran. She was … When I say that I hated her, I do not say it lightly, and I do not say it because I loved Evru. Although watching someone I loved being treated as she treated him—” His voice thickened into nothing. This time Maia did not even search for words, understanding that Celehar needed to speak.

“We were lovers, Evru and I,” Celehar said. “The Archprelate has given me forgiveness, and I am still sanctified. But I am not … How can I call myself a prelate when I could not help him?”

Cala said, “Ulis is not a—”

“I know that.”
Celehar stopped himself. “But I could not help him. And the hierophant of the town, knowing that we were lovers and considering it an abomination, would not help him. And so, in fear and hatred and utmost despair, he killed his wife and flung her body in a dry well, hoping it would not be found, and no questions would be asked. But Oseian Dalaran’s family was strong in that town, and they did not rest until they had found her, with hunting cats and mongooses following her scent, and then they brought her body to the Ulimeire. To me.

“I was the Witness for the Dead. I could not lie. And the answer was so clear. She had seen her murderer’s face, and she had known it well. They asked, and I answered, and Evru was beheaded. He did not even curse me when he died. He had never expected me to value him more than my calling.”