The Goblin Emperor (35 page)

It was some ten or fifteen minutes before the Prince of the Untheileneise Court appeared, wrapped in a dressing gown that must have belonged to his father. “Mother, what’s toward? Why do—” And then he recognized Maia, and he became very still, his gray eyes going wide.

Maia said, “Greetings, cousin.”

“Serenity,” Idra said, and managed a passable bow. “Mother, what is the meaning of this?”

She did not answer immediately, and Maia wondered when—and what—she had been planning to tell him. Would she have woken him in the morning with the news that he was emperor? Idra waited, and finally Sheveän said, “It is what your grandfather would have wanted. You know he regarded you as his heir as much as your father.”

“You are deposing our uncle,” Idra said flatly.

“He isn’t
fit,
” Sheveän said. “A half-breed upstart with neither wits nor manners—he is no emperor, Idra!”

“He will ruin the Ethuveraz,” Chavar struck in. “He has no notion of business or statecraft.”

Idra was frowning. “Surely that is the purpose for which an emperor has advisers.”

“You do not understand,” Chavar said.

“No one expects you to,” Sheveän added. “You are a child still.”

“We are only four years younger than our uncle,” Idra said. “And if we do not understand, as he does not understand, how is it that we will be a better emperor than he?” Setheris had taught Maia a smattering of rhetoric and logic, enough that he could see Idra had been much more carefully taught.

“You will have regents, Idra,” Sheveän said.

Idra’s eyes met Maia’s. Alarm was visible in his face and ears; and Maia wondered if he, too, had been taught the histories of Beltanthiar V and Edrethelma VIII and all those other wretched boys entombed in the Untheileneise’meire. Idra said, “And what will become of our uncle, Mother? Will you … will you have him murdered?”

“Of
course
not,” Sheveän said much too warmly.

“He will go to a monastery in northern Thu-Cethor,” said Chavar. “The monks will treat him kindly.”

Idra was silent for some moments, still frowning. Then he said, “No.”

“What?” said Chavar and Sheveän in ragged chorus.

“No,” Idra said again. “We will not usurp our uncle’s throne.”

“Idra!” Sheveän said, but Idra let her get no further.

“We do not think this is what our grandfather would wish.”

“Idra, you
know
how he felt about—”

“He was an emperor,” Idra said, glaring at his mother. “He would not wish for the laws to be broken in this manner, and merely for personal
preferences
. And our father would be ashamed of you.”

It was an oddly childish note against his very adult reasoning, and that made it a particularly vicious blow. It was the first time Maia had seen Sheveän discomfited by anything. She did not answer; Chavar said, “You do not understand the larger reasons—”

“You dislike his policies,” Idra said. “The entire court knows that, Lord Chavar. But our tutor, Leilis Athmaza, says that that does not mean the policies are bad. And we do not see how you can know that the policies are bad when Edrehasivar has been emperor less than a quarter of a year.”

“You know nothing of—”

“Which is why we cannot feel we would be a better emperor than our uncle,” Idra said. “We will not do it.”

Chavar was beginning to look panicked. “Do you know what you are doing to your mother, boy? Do you know what will happen to her?”

The same thing that will happen to you,
Maia thought unkindly. But he did not speak. He had to know if Idra could hold to his decision.

Idra said unhappily, “We cannot change what she has done. And surely, Lord Chavar, that is an even worse reason to usurp our uncle than those you have already put forward.”

Sheveän said, “Idra, we have come too far to stop now. It is already too late for your qualms.”

“Mother,” Idra said, and Maia was startled to realize Idra was every bit as furious as Sheveän, “it is useless to say
we
have done anything.
We
knew nothing of this. If we
had
known,
you
would not have ‘come too far to stop,’ for we would never have agreed to what you have done. We cannot believe you would do this to us.”

“To you? Idra, we did this
for
you!”

Idra stepped jerkily back, like a cat discovering it has put its paw in something sticky. “Mother,” he said softly, “that is a terrible lie.”

Sheveän’s face went bone-white, and she snarled, “Enough of this. Talar, take the archduke away.”

It was obviously a euphemism, and Maia suspected it was a prearranged one. If she’d had the sense, or ruthlessness, to use it instead of allowing Idra to be brought into the room, it might have worked, but the armsmen had been listening, and they were uncertain now, looking from Sheveän to Idra in obvious expectation of having the order countermanded.

“Talar,” Idra said, “we regret to be forced to ask you not to take orders from our mother any longer.”

“Idra!” Sheveän looked as much shocked as angry—as if it had never occurred to her that Idra would actively defy her. Idra looked back at her without any outward sign of distress, but Maia could see that he was starting to tremble.

I never meant to make thee choose,
he thought miserably, and the captain of the armsmen said, “We didn’t know, Your Highness.”

“We will speak of that later,” Idra said. “Serenity, what are your commands?”

At that moment, perhaps anticlimactically and perhaps not, the Untheileneise Guard kicked the door down.

Later, Maia was told the story of how Nemer, struck down by Sheveän’s men, had roused himself from the cold marble floor. He had crawled to Telimezh; finding that Telimezh could not be woken, Nemer had managed, despite a severe concussion, to crawl or stagger or fall down three flights of stairs to the pneumatic station, where there was always a girl on duty. The girl had first sent an urgent message to the Untheileneise Guards’ pneumatic station, then roused her relief, who woke the Alcethmeret. Not surprisingly, it had been Csevet who had thought to wonder where Sheveän Drazharan was and what company she was keeping, and from there the rest was inevitable. Maia had only to keep the guardsmen from arresting Idra along with Chavar and Sheveän and Sheveän’s armsmen.

It was not yet dawn, although Maia would not have been surprised to find the sun setting. He gave orders for Idra and his sisters to be moved into the Alcethmeret; had guards sent to watch, though not to arrest without good reason, the Chavada and lesser Drazhada who lived in the Untheileneise Court—and what was he supposed to do about Nurevis?; directed a doctor to be fetched to Nemer; and then said defiantly to Csevet, “Everything else can wait another four hours,” and went back to his cold, disordered bed.

Where he did not sleep, but lay and made miserable lists of all the things he would have to deal with, starting with the appointment of a new Lord Chancellor and ending with Dazhis.

The thought of Dazhis propelled him out of bed again. Beshelar said, “Serenity?” sounding more than a little startled.

It had barely even registered on him that Beshelar and Cala had been, along with Csevet, the first of his household to reach him in the warren of cellars under the apartments of the Prince of the Untheileneise Court. That was how accustomed to his nohecharei he had become: he didn’t even see them. He certainly hadn’t seen Dazhis’s discontent, and it must have been obvious if Sheveän and Chavar had been able to exploit it.

Perhaps he merely thought thee unfit to rule
—but he shoved that thought away and demanded of Beshelar, “What will happen to Dazhis?”

Beshelar now looked both startled and unhappy. “Serenity, that is a matter for the Athmaz’are, not—”

Maia stalked across to the bedroom door and flung it open. Cala, alone in the outer room, jerked to his feet. “Serenity, are you—” He had been crying.

“What will happen to Dazhis?”

Cala’s color went from bad to worse, but he made no attempt to evade the question. “Serenity, he will commit revethvoran.”

Revethvoran. Suicide according to the strict rituals of Ulis. The world wavered distressingly before Maia’s eyes, but Cala grabbed his arm and all but forced him to sit. “Put your head down,” Cala said, and he did not sound at all like he was talking to an emperor. “Deep breaths. That’s it.”

“We beg pardon,” Maia said, aware of Beshelar looming in the doorway. “We did not mean to.”

“Of course not,” Cala said, and Maia was weakly grateful for the kindness in his voice. “It was a shock, Serenity. We are to blame.”

“No. For we did ask. Is there anything we can do? Can we petition the Adremaza for clemency?”

“Serenity.” Cala stopped, and when Maia dared to straighten up, he saw that Cala was struggling for words.

“It was a foolish question,” he said, wishing to free Cala from the necessity of answering.

“No, Serenity, not foolish. But … Dazhis broke his oath as a nohecharis, and he did so not merely by carelessness, but by choice. He
chose
to betray you, and that is not something—it is not the Adremaza’s decision, Serenity, nor is it yours. Nor anyone’s. It is the oath itself.” He paused, swallowed hard, and added, “If you had died, we”—the plural, and with a flick of a gesture to include Beshelar and the absent Telimezh—“would be committing revethvoran with him.”

“It is his deserving,” Beshelar growled.

“Oh,” Maia said.

Cala said gently, “Dazhis is not the only one who broke an oath last night.”

“No,” Maia said, but Dazhis was the only one he had liked.
Childish nonsense, this prattle of “liking.”
He shook his head. “May we see him? Before—” He had to stop, swallowing hard against the knot in his throat.

“He must come to beg your pardon, Serenity,” Cala said, “to make what peace with you he can.”

“We hope he will beg Telimezh’s pardon as well,” Beshelar said.

“Yes,” Cala said. “That is another broken oath.”

“Why?”
The question burst out with such force that it left Maia’s throat raw. “Why did he do it?”

“Truthfully, Serenity,” said Cala, “we cannot imagine. We would—” He stopped quite dead, then lifted his chin and said, “
I
would never do such a thing. I cannot imagine hurting you in that way. Even if it were not a matter of an oath.”

“Nor can I,” Beshelar said, although he sounded like the words were being dragged from him by main force, and he was quick to change the subject. “Serenity, you need to sleep. We can summon Doctor Ushenar to prescribe a sleeping draft, if you think it would help.”

“No,” Maia said. “We cannot sleep now. We should not have abandoned our duties as we did.”

“Serenity,” Cala protested, “you have abandoned nothing.”

“And fainting will not accomplish anything,” Beshelar said roughly. “We will have Doctor Ushenar sent for.”

“No!” Maia said. “We wish no doctor.”

“Then at least lie down again,” Cala said. “If you wish, you may tell us of the plans you need to make and we will act as your secretary.”

It was so obviously a sop to a tantrumy child that Maia flushed and pulled away. “No, we thank you. Summon our edocharei, please.”

Avris and Esha were as disapproving as Beshelar and Cala. Maia asked pointedly after Nemer. “He is resting, Serenity,” Avris said, and added, every bit as pointedly, “As you should be.”

“We are entirely unharmed,” Maia said, “and we are not so frail that one night’s interrupted sleep will send us into a decline.”

“You should look more carefully into your mirror, Serenity,” Esha said tartly.

“We do not recall soliciting
anyone
’s opinion,” Maia said, knowing his anger was disproportionate but unable to banish it. “There is much to be done, and we feel it ill behooves us to coddle ourself.”

His edocharei did not attempt to argue further, and Maia descended to the Tortoise Room in a state of cold banked fury he could never remember feeling before in his life. Csevet either observed it or had been warned, for he made no remonstration, but was entirely businesslike. “Serenity, we regret that there is clear evidence Osmin Bazhevin knew of the Princess Sheveän’s plot.”

“Osmin Bazhevin?” Maia said blankly. “What does … oh.”

“She confessed as soon as the Untheileneise Guard entered the princess’s apartments. She knew the whole, but was too afraid of the princess to speak.”

“The woman is an idiot,” Maia said before he could stop himself.

Csevet’s ears twitched, but he merely said, “Yes, Serenity,” and waited.

“Put her in the Esthoramire with Sheveän,” Maia said, and closed his teeth sharply on the words that wanted to follow. It was unfair to call Osmin Bazhevin ungrateful when all he had done was allow her to pick the least repellent of the unattractive options before her. But he
had
given her a choice; he
had
permitted her to live with Sheveän even though he had doubted the wisdom of it. And he was so very tired of betrayal this morning.

Csevet cleared his throat. “Also, Serenity, it has been necessary to detain most of the Lord Chancellor’s staff, including your cousin, Osmer Nelar.”

“We only wish we were surprised,” Maia said. “How much of our government is complicit, do you think?”

“The Witness for the Prelacy,” Csevet said promptly. “The monastery seems to have been his idea.”

“We must thank him,” Maia said bitterly. His discontent had been easier to ignore when he had been unable to imagine an alternative.

“The other Witnesses of the Corazhas are uncompromised, Serenity. They send you messages of support, as do the members of the Parliament—most particularly the Marquess Lanthevel.
Our
staff is pursuing every tendril of this plot.” He hesitated, and Maia made a conscious effort to stop scowling.

“What is it, Csevet?”

“We wish only to assure Your Serenity that we have no doubts of the loyalty of your household and secretaries.”

“Except for Dazhis.”

“Serenity,” Csevet agreed unhappily. “And we … we would like to assure you, Serenity, of our faithfulness. If you have any doubts, we will resign our post. We would not—”