The Goblin Emperor (30 page)

“Yes, we see,” Maia said, thinking of the Witness for the Judiciate shouting down the Witness for the Parliament. “We cannot guarantee anything.”

“No,” said Mer Halezh, “but you have listened, and we thank you for that.” He bowed and Merrem Halezho bowed and Min Vechin rose to sweep a flawless curtsy. She approached him and murmured, “If Your Serenity wishes, we could return to the Alcethmeret with you.”

Maia locked up like sabotaged clockwork, as if Min Vechin’s words were a handful of sand. He understood exactly what she meant, understood that there had been an implied bargain that he, in his foolish romantic dreaming, would never have thought of pursuing. But Min Vechin was offering.

She was offering, but Maia had no idea how to take. He cringed from the thought of his own awkwardness and knew he would never be able to go through with it—and that would be far more humiliating than simply turning her down now.

The silence had grown long enough to be uncomfortable, but he managed to say, “No, thank you,” in a steady, unbothered voice.

Her ears flattened, in surprise and maybe a little offense. “Serenity? You do not wish—?”

“No,” Maia said. “Thank you, Min Vechin.” He turned away from her with what he hoped was decisiveness rather than petulance. He gave Telimezh the armful of diagrams to carry and returned to the Alcethmeret to sleep alone, except for those who guarded his sleep.

21

Mer Celehar Goes North

Maia’s dreams were unpleasant, and they lingered about him all morning, although he did his best to attend to the business of the court. Over luncheon, which he pushed around his plate and ate very little of, his dreams like a bad taste in his mouth, he gathered his courage and said, “Csevet, had our father any friends?”

Csevet’s teacup clinked against the saucer when he set it down. “Friends, Serenity?”

Maia had nerved himself to ask because Dazhis and Telimezh were still on duty, which they would not be by dinnertime. He could not have raised the subject in front of Cala and Beshelar, who would know so precisely why he was asking. “You must have heard the word before,” he said, Setheris to the life. He winced, but Csevet was already answering.

“We beg pardon, Serenity. We were not expecting the question.” He cleared his throat. “The Emperor Varenechibel did not generally seek close relationships outside the immediate family circle, so we cannot think of anyone who would fit that description. Perhaps before he came to the throne?” Csevet was frowning, clearly baffled by the question but anxious to help.

“No, we meant when he was emperor. Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Serenity,” Csevet said, still watching him with some concern, and Maia forced a smile he did not feel.

“We were merely curious. It is no matter.”

“The Emperor Varevesena your grandfather had many friends,” Csevet offered. “Indeed, he was known for his kindness and generosity to those close to him.”

As opposed to the mass of his subjects,
Maia finished mentally. Setheris had had stories about Varevesena. But he did not want to rebuff Csevet’s attempt to help by saying so, which made him perversely grateful that they were interrupted.

The interruption was a page boy in the livery of the Drazhadeise; Maia recognized him: the boy Csoru Zhasanai had sent that first day, the boy Maia had embarrassed. He looked no happier now, and he knelt as if he wished he could simply keep going straight through the floor.

And he was carrying a letter.

Maia did not sigh in exasperation, but said as gently as he could, “You have a letter for us?”

“Yes, Serenity.” The boy stood and offered it, carefully not looking any higher than the tabletop. “Csoru Zhasanai dem—that is, she requests the favor of an immediate reply.”

Maia appreciated the improvised emendation, although he doubted Csoru would have approved in the slightest. He opened the letter and scanned the contents—and was not feigning bewilderment when he said, “We do not understand. What exactly has occurred in Csoru Zhasanai’s household?”

“Serenity.” The boy gulped. “Mer Celehar is gone, and the zhasanai says it must be your doing.”

“Mer Celehar is
gone
? As in vanished? Does Csoru Zhasanai suspect us of having murdered him?” Maia despaired of himself; what was it about this boy that brought out Setheris in him?

“N-no, Serenity. He had Neraiis, who waits on him, pack a bag, and he said he was going to Thu-Athamar. But he did not seek permission of the zhasanai before he left and…”

There, Maia thought uncharitably, was the actual cause of Csoru’s distress—not that her kinsman was missing but that he had not asked her permission first. He himself was more interested in another part of the puzzle. “Thu-Athamar? Why would he…” But the boy could not possibly know, and Maia was learning that it did not behoove an emperor to ask rhetorical questions. “Csevet, would you check our correspondence, please? It occurs to us that, although he did not inform the zhasanai, Mer Celehar may possibly have sent us a pneumatic.”

Csevet murmured, “Serenity,” and slipped out of the room, leaving Maia faced with the nervous and unhappy page boy.

It is no more than thy deserving,
he said to himself mockingly.
Thou wert glad of the interruption.
He considered a moment, but there was really only one thing to do. “What is your name?”

“
My
—I mean—
our
name, Serenity?”

We know everyone else in the room.
It was exactly what Setheris would have said; Maia could hear the bite in his voice. “Yes, please.”

“Oh!” The boy made a visible effort to pull himself together. “Cora, Serenity. Cora Drazhar.”

“We are kinsmen, then,” Maia said, and Cora flushed an alarming red.

“Only very distantly, Serenity.”

“Yes?”

A bare flicker of a glance—pale blue eyes, not the Drazhadeise gray. “Our great-great-grandfather was the youngest son of Edrevechelar the sixteenth.”

Making them third cousins in the Drazhada—Cora was closer kin to him than Setheris, who was a second cousin but of another house. “Have you served Csoru Zhasanai long?”

Cora’s chin came up. “We served the late emperor,” he said with unmistakable defiance, as if he thought Maia would have him beheaded for it. “But he was … he was displeased with us when he went to Amalo and bid us stay with the empress. We would gladly have died with him.”

Here was another who felt more grief for Varenechibel than Maia could imagine. He hesitated, knowing his next question could all too easily be misconstrued, but he had to ask: “Are you happy in the service of Csoru Zhasanai?”

Another pale blue flicker of a glance, but Cora seemed to discern that Maia was not trying to lay claim to his service. “We are well enough, Serenity, though we thank you for asking. It is only until the spring equinox, for we have been accepted as a novice in the Athmaz’are.”

“Good,” Maia said with quite sincere approval, for if Cora
had
been unhappy, he would have had to do something about it, although he had not the faintest idea what.

Cora actually smiled back, and then Csevet returned, bearing one of the long narrow envelopes used especially for the pneumatic system. “The operators tell us, Serenity, that this came from the widow empress’s station just after you left the Alcethmeret this morning.”

Maia took the envelope. “We recognize Mer Celehar’s handwriting.” He broke the seal and extracted the single sheet, reading it far more carefully than he had read Csoru’s.

It had clearly been written in haste and some considerable disturbance of spirit:

Serenity—

We have been granted a dream of Ulis, which has shown us that which we should already have known: answers are in Amalo, not Cetho. We leave at once, for the airship to Thu-Athamar unmoors in less than an hour.

Yours obediently,
Thara Celehar

“Mer Celehar’s notions of obedience are most individual,” Maia said wryly.

“Serenity,” said Csevet, “we understand that this is most important, and we do not in any way wish to rush you, but—”

The warning note in his voice had made Maia look quite automatically at the clock. “Merciful goddesses, the
time
! Cora, we cannot write the zhasanai now. Will you tell her, please, that … oh dear.”

His dismay and bafflement were real, but they were also offered to Cora, as much as to Csevet, as both apology and a sign of trust. Cora said, “We could tell her, Serenity, that Mer Celehar wrote to you and said he was very sorry to leave without speaking to Csoru Zhasanai, but he did not wish to wake her. All the zhasanai’s household know she never rises before noon unless she must.”

“He seems to have been in a terrible hurry,” Maia said hopefully.

“Neraiis said so, too.”

“And he says he had a dream of Ulis, so really, it
could
not wait.”

“No, Serenity,” Cora said, sounding shocked.

“You do not mind?”

This time, Cora’s smile lit his face. “Serenity, we would not deceive Csoru Zhasanai about anything that would harm her, but this harms no one. And perhaps she will not be so very angry at Mer Celehar when he returns.”

“Thank you, Cora,” Maia said.

Cora bowed, and finally his movements had the grace that Maia expected from someone raised at court. “We are pleased to serve you, Serenity,” he said, and Maia thought maybe he meant it.

22

The Bridge over the Upazhera

Maia had fully intended to bring the matter of the Clocksmiths’ bridge up with Csevet, but it was Csevet who spoke first. He approached Maia in the gardens, saying directly, “Serenity, in the Tortoise Room there are papers relating to the bridge proposed by the Clocksmiths’ Guild of Zhaö, papers which we do not remember being given to us. Do you know how they came there?”

It was ridiculous to feel like a child detected in wrongdoing; Csevet wasn’t going to cane him. Maia straightened his shoulders out of their automatic guilty hunch and said, “They were given us by a Mer Halezh of the guild.”

“When?”
said Csevet, not in anger but in pure astonishment.

I have done nothing wrong,
Maia said firmly to himself. “The night of Nurevis Chavar’s last dancing party. We, ah, have been meaning to speak to you about it.”

But Csevet was not to be distracted. “How did a clocksmith gain an invitation to one of Osmer Chavar’s parties?”

“He didn’t. Min Vechin’s sister is his sister-in-law, and a guild apprentice herself.”

“And Min Vechin got them into the party?”

“No,” Maia said, feeling guiltier and guiltier, although he was still sure he had done nothing wrong. “We went to meet them. In a public receiving room—there was no impropriety.”

Csevet probably hadn’t even heard that anxious rider. He was staring at Maia in undisguised horror. “You
went
to
meet
them? Have you run
mad
?”

Maia retreated a step, but in the same instant Csevet began apologizing, almost frantically; he prostrated himself on the path before Maia could stop him.

“Please get up,” Maia said. “Please. You have done nothing wrong.”

Csevet did stand up again, but he was red with mortification. “Your Serenity is very kind, but we should not have raised our voice to you. You would be entirely justified in dismissing us from our post.”

“Now it’s you who have run mad. We shall do no such thing. And we are sorry to have upset you, but we thought it the right thing to do.”

“Serenity…” Csevet stopped, took a breath, started again. “Serenity, we do not doubt either your ethics or your concern, but there are
reasons
it is difficult to gain an audience with the emperor. And it does no one any good for you to decide those reasons do not matter.”

“We know that,” Maia said, but continued obstinately, “The Corazhas refused to hear them, so they could not even petition for a formal audience with us. How else were we to gain the information we needed to decide if the Corazhas was correct?”

Csevet did not bother with arguing for the wisdom and infallibility of the Corazhas. “Serenity, that is what secretaries are
for.
”

“Yes, but we dislike being dependent on another person’s judgment of what information we need.” He held up a hand to forestall Csevet’s protest. “Yes, we know it is necessary lest the government of the Ethuveraz come to a standstill. But this bridge—the idea is so important, so
new,
and withal, so exceedingly contentious, that we would have felt ourself to be most culpably remiss if we had not taken this opportunity.”

Csevet, unpersuaded, said, “You must promise us not to do so again.”

“We cannot promise that.”

“At least—Serenity,
please
—promise you will come to us first. Give us a chance to do our job.”

Put like that, Csevet’s position was entirely reasonable. “Yes,” Maia said. “We promise.”

“Thank you,”
said Csevet. “Serenity, you have a dispute to hear in ten minutes.” He bowed and went back inside the Alcethmeret, leaving Maia to follow more slowly, trying to gather the armor of Edrehasivar VII about himself again.

The dispute was tedious in the extreme, a matter of rents and water rights and commonholding between the town of Nelozho; the estate of a minor noble house, the Dorashada; and the Prince of Thu-Cethor, the involvement of this last being the reason the emperor had to arbitrate. The representatives for all three sides had detailed maps and histories; while Maia found many instances where two of the three agreed, he found no instances where all three agreed, and when two agreed, it was never the same two from point to point. What was worse was that this ultimately rather petty difference had been festering for so long that it had become a cause for considerable and serious hostility; the Witness for Nelozho Township and the representative of the Dorashada did not make eye contact with each other at all, each speaking past the other as if their enemy were not there, and the representative of Thu-Cethor seemed to feel that the entire issue was an insult to the Cethoreise prince and infuriated everyone—including, after a remarkably short span of time, the emperor—whenever he opened his mouth. By the time each representative had spoken and the history of the judicial proceedings had been summarized, Maia had a splitting headache and wanted nothing more than to tell them all to stop wasting his time, their time, and the time of innumerable secretaries and judges, and settle their damnable petty squabble like adults.