The Goblin Emperor (37 page)

“Serenity?” It was Cala, and of course the Adremaza was right. A new nohecharis had to be found so that Cala and Beshelar could go off duty.

“Yes, Cala?”

“We vouch for Kiru Athmaza,” Cala said, though he was even pinker than the Adremaza.

“Thank you,” Maia said. He carefully avoided looking at Beshelar and looked instead, searchingly, at Kiru Athmaza.

She returned his gaze steadily; he could see now that she was older than he had thought. She had to be a good ten years older than Cala or Dazhis, if not more.
We were passed over,
she had said, and
we dared to hope.

“You desire this? Truly?”

“Yes, Serenity. Most truly.”

“We must find out if Lieutenant Telimezh objects,” Maia said.

“Of course,” said the Adremaza.

“Serenity!” Beshelar said explosively. Maia winced, but he noticed Kiru Athmaza did not. “You cannot! What of…” For a moment he seemed in danger of strangling. “What of your
bedchamber
? You cannot appear before a woman in only your
nightshirt
!”

“We appeared so before the Princess Sheveän,” Maia said, a reminder pointed enough to silence Beshelar.

His objection, though, was not without merit. Maia looked uneasily at Kiru Athmaza, who was fighting a smile. “We should perhaps mention,” she said, “that we are a cleric of Csaivo and have been since before Your Serenity was out of leading strings.”

Make that fifteen years older than Cala
—and clerics of Csaivo practiced strict celibacy; they worked in the great charity hospitals, tending men and women impartially. He wondered, though he knew it immediately for a question that could never be asked, whether that had been her desire, or whether it had been the only way she had to counterbalance the obstacle of her sex. Certainly, she would be far better trained than any court doctor. “And yet you wish to be nohecharis,” Maia said. “Why?”

“It is not a matter of one or the other, Serenity. Although we must give up our work at the hospital, there are many here at your court who are in need of our services—even if only in odd hours.” Those who could not afford the court doctors, Maia thought; if he had not ordered a doctor to tend to Nemer, Nemer might have had no doctor at all.

Kiru Athmaza was frowning at him. “Do you truly find it so incredible that we should wish to serve you?” She scanned his face, her eyebrows going up. “We see that you do.”

“Forgive us,” Maia said, breaking eye contact hastily. “We do not mean to doubt either your honesty or your loyalty. If Lieutenant Telimezh does not object to being partnered with you, we will be pleased to accept your service.”

Beshelar snorted and muttered something, doubtless uncomplimentary; Maia, summoning up the remains of his dignity, pretended not to hear. Kiru Athmaza’s face lit, and she said, “We promise you will not regret your decision, Serenity.”

Maia found himself smiling back. “No, we do not think we will.”

A clatter on the staircase heralded Telimezh, sufficiently out of breath to make Maia suspect that he, too, had only belatedly remembered that if he did not go on duty, Beshelar could not go off. “Serenity,” said Telimezh, bowing, “we hope that you have not changed your mind since yesterday? About continuing to accept our service?” He looked at Maia with mingled anxiety and hope. If Maia found it incredible that anyone should wish so desperately to serve him, Telimezh clearly found it nearly as incredible that Maia should wish for his service.

“Of course we have not changed our mind,” he said with as much warmth as he dared show. “But you must tell us if you are willing to be partnered with Kiru Athmaza. The Adremaza assures us she is entirely to be trusted.”

Telimezh looked from Kiru Athmaza to the Adremaza to Maia, and Maia sympathized with his bewilderment. He could see that Telimezh wanted to turn and check with Beshelar; although he wouldn’t have blamed him, he was glad Telimezh didn’t, and not only because Beshelar’s scowl would have provided unambiguous guidance.

Finally, Telimezh said, “If you do not object, Serenity, it is not for us to be obstructive. We will be pleased to work with Kiru Athmaza.” He turned and bowed to Kiru, and she bowed back.

“Then it is settled!” the Adremaza said, a shade too heartily. “Serenity, we know we are keeping you from your breakfast, but there is one other matter.”

“Dazhis,” Maia said, his stomach a miserable lead knot. His nohecharei, of one tactful accord, stepped away and began a low voiced conversation about schedules.

“Yes, Serenity,” said the Adremaza. “His revethvoran is tonight, and—we do not know if Cala Athmaza told you—it is customary for the revethvoris to speak to those he has wronged.”

“To make peace, Cala said.”

“Yes. Properly, Dazhis should come to you, but the, ah, particular circumstances have led Captain Orthema to ask if in this instance Your Serenity might go to the Mazan’theileian instead. There are certain restrictions placed on Dazhis’s actions which we cannot assure him will be maintained outside the Mazan’theileian.”

“He cannot believe Dazhis would hurt us.”

“Serenity,” said the Adremaza, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “He prefers not to take that chance.”

Maia wanted to protest—but he realized before he opened his mouth that he would never have believed Dazhis could conspire to oust him from the throne, either. “When should we come to the Mazan’theileian?”

“Thank you, Serenity,” murmured the Adremaza; Maia knew perfectly well that he was being thanked more for not making that futile protest than for his cooperation. “A revethvoran is always performed at moonset. If you come after you have dined, that will be plenty of time for Dazhis to speak to you and to Lieutenant Telimezh—if you will permit it.”

“Of course,” Maia said, and wondered how the Adremaza thought he was going to be able to eat after spending the day in miserable anticipation of the night.

By the time his dinner was set before him, however, Maia was ravenously hungry, and for much of the day, he had not thought about Dazhis at all. There were too many other matters demanding his attention. Dates had to be set for the trials of Chavar and Sheveän; Captain Orthema had to be prevented from turning the Untheileneise Court into a military encampment; the Chavada and the Rohethada had to be heard and reassured that their loyalty was not in doubt. There were astonishing quantities of letters, delivered by pneumatic, by page boy, by courtiers presenting themselves in person at the grilles of the Alcethmeret.

Out of the tremendous stack of letters, Csevet chose one and handed it to Maia. “We thought Your Serenity might wish to respond to this one personally.” It was from Dach’osmin Ceredin, who wrote, this time using the barzhad:

T
O
THE
E
MPEROR
E
DREHASIVAR
VII D
RAZHAR
,
GREETINGS
&
WISHES
FOR
Y
OUR
S
ERENITY
’
S
CONTINUED
HEALTH
&
SAFETY
&
THE
ENDURANCE
OF
YOUR
REIGN
. W
E
KNEW
S
HEVEÄN
WAS
AN
IDIOT
,
BUT
WE
HAD
NO
IDEA
SHE
WOULD
GO
SO
FAR
IN
HER
IDIOCY
. W
E
REGRET
EXTREMELY
THAT
WE
CANNOT
CHALLENGE
HER
TO
A
DUEL
&
PROVE
HER
WORTHLESSNESS
UPON
HER
CARCASE
,
BUT
WE
ARE
TOLD
THAT
DUELING
IS
BARBARIC
&
UNBEFITTING
A
LADY
&
IN
ANY
EVENT
S
HEVEÄN
WOULD
NOT
KNOW
HOW
.

N
EVERTHELESS
, S
ERENITY
,
IF
THERE
IS
ANY
SERVICE
WE
CAN
ACCOMPLISH
FOR
YOU
—
BEYOND
OUR
LOYALTY
AND
FIDELITY
,
WHICH
YOU
HAVE
ALREADY
—
YOU
HAVE
ONLY
TO
SAY
THE
WORD
.

And she signed with an elaborate interlocked monogram such as—Maia knew from the yellow-backed novels smuggled into Edonomee by the cook and her daughters—the cavaliers of Edrevenivar the Conqueror had used. He did not miss the implication that Dach’osmin Ceredin, unlike the Princess Sheveän,
did
know how to fight a duel. The art of dueling was no longer much practiced among the elves—the Varedeise emperors had disapproved of it wholeheartedly as something fit only for goblins—and it had never been taught to women at all. Maia wondered whom Dach’osmin Ceredin had found to teach her and if her father had the least idea. It occurred to him that there was nothing even remotely dutiful about fighting a duel, and he found himself smiling. He did want to make a personal reply, although he had no hope of matching her tone, and he was in the middle of trying to compose a letter that would be merely stiff rather than embarrassingly awkward when Csevet jerked back from the pile of correspondence as if he’d found it to contain a coiled viper.

“Csevet?” Maia said, more than a little alarmed. There could be no actual snake, but Csevet’s ears were flat and his expression too carefully blank. “We beg pardon, Serenity,” Csevet said, his voice cool and remote, revealing nothing. But his ears had yet to rise. “We were merely startled.”

“Startled?” Maia said with as much polite skepticism as he could muster. “By our correspondence?”

Csevet made a face and conceded, “Perhaps ‘repulsed’ would be a better word. We are overtired, Serenity. Please disregard our megrims.”

For once, Maia ignored Csevet’s graceful deflection. “What is it that has repulsed you about our correspondence?”

Csevet hesitated, but he was boxed in and knew it. “It is this letter from Dach’osmer Tethimar, Serenity. We found it…”

“Repulsive,” Maia finished, when it was clear that Csevet was not going to find an adjective that suited him. Csevet winced.

Maia held out his hand. Csevet said, “Serenity, you need not. It is the job of your secretaries to deal with…” He trailed off again, recognizing that Maia was not going to be swayed, and handed over the letter. His reluctance was visible, as if, Maia thought, to Csevet the letter
was
a viper.

Maia scanned it quickly. Like most of Tethimar’s other letters, it was verbose and overly intricate, full of hints and insinuations. It also proposed that Maia should allow the House Tethimada to protect him and should retreat to their estate—or fortress, as Dach’osmer Tethimar described it—at Eshoravee until the Untheileneise Court was purged and could again be considered safe. Tethimar also offered to oversee the purging.

It was a remarkable performance, both in its effrontery and in its obvious belief that the emperor lacked enough common sense to open an umbrella against the rain. Maia personally found it more amusing than anything else, but when he looked up, he saw that Csevet’s ears were still low, and although he was trying to mask it, the expression in his eyes looked like fear.

“We take it that you would advise us against accepting Dach’osmer Tethimar’s kind invitation,” Maia said.

He saw the explosion building, but at the last possible second, Csevet realized that he was being baited and said merely, “We would advise against it, yes, Serenity.”

“We were not inclined to accept,” Maia said as mildly as he could. “We have no reason either to love or to trust Dach’osmer Tethimar.”

Csevet assembled his face into something that could almost pass muster as a smile. “Truly, Serenity, we trust your judgment. We are merely overexcitable—it happens when we do not get enough sleep.”

Again, Maia disregarded the deflection. “Will you tell us,” he said gently, “why you fear Dach’osmer Tethimar?”

Csevet was on the verge of trying to deny the conclusion Maia had drawn, but then his shoulders dropped an almost imperceptible amount. He said, “Serenity, it is not a pleasant story.”

“We do not ask for the sake of amusement,” Maia said.

“No, Serenity, we know that.” Csevet took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Our memories of Eshoravee are … evil. We were sent there, nearly ten years ago now, with a message for the Duke Tethimel. There were ferocious storms and Dach’osmer Tethimar speaks truly when he describes Eshoravee as a fortress. It stands alone on a high hill, and the only road up is narrow and switchbacked and steep. So steep that in some places there are stairs carved out of the rock. Horses cannot climb it. Anyone who wishes to go to Eshoravee goes on foot.”

He glanced at Maia, quickly and then away. “We arrived long after nightfall, soaked to the skin and carrying our saddlebags over our shoulder. We had fallen three times on the ascent, and once would have fallen off the road entirely, and doubtless broken our neck, save for the dubious mercy of a thornbush. It is safe to say we hated Eshoravee long before we reached its gates.”

“With good reason,” Maia murmured, more as encouragement than anything else.

“The Duke Tethimel was drunk but hospitable,” Csevet said. “He thanked us for our service and directed the steward to make us comfortable—and then forgot about our existence entirely. The steward despised us—couriers are often accused of promiscuity and wantonness and the worst kind of depravity—but he brought us to the servants’ hall and showed us where we could sleep, and then told the scullery boy to show us to the servants’ bathhouse.