The Goblin Emperor (40 page)

She nodded and then by force of will dragged her gaze back to his face. “Will you see him?”

Maia resumed the armor of formality. “We suppose we must.”

“He is innocent of treason,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “He does not deserve…” She stopped, and he could see her composure was as fragile as a soap bubble. “Whatever he may have done, he is our husband. Please, we beg you, if you will condemn him, at least do it yourself.”

He did not understand her, but then, he could not imagine loving Setheris that much. He supposed many things would be different if he could. “We will grant him an audience,” he said. “Now.” His glance at Csevet was not a question, and Csevet’s drawn-down mouth and dipped ears acknowledged it.

After considerable and careful thought, Maia had Setheris brought to the Tortoise Room. It did not provide him the shield of impersonal public grandeur that the Untheileian or even the Michen’theileian would have, but he decided it was worth sacrificing that shield for a greater feeling of comfort and security and therefore confidence.

Setheris, when he arrived, escorted by a pair of guardsmen, looked tired and shabby and … it took Maia several seconds to identify what he was seeing in Setheris’s posture and the carriage of his ears, and several more to believe it: Setheris Nelar was afraid.

It wasn’t that Setheris
shouldn’t
be afraid, Maia thought; it was that Maia had never seen Setheris afraid, never
imagined
Setheris afraid, and now that it was in front of him, he did not know what to do.

Setheris knelt and stayed there. For once, Maia felt no qualms about leaving a petitioner on his knees.

“We have spoken to thy wife,” Maia said.

Setheris flinched as if he’d been burned, and Maia realized that that must have been the one thing he had most wanted to prevent. Maia wondered if he should feel somehow victorious; he didn’t.

“She tells us,” he pursued grimly, “that thou art loyal to us.”

“I am, Serenity,” Setheris said, his voice as flat as his ears, as if he did not expect to be believed. “I swear it.”

“Why?”

Maia’s guards and nohecharei stared at him like stunned carp. Setheris did not—Setheris did not even look up. He knew why Maia was asking.

Maia waited; he had never seen Setheris at a loss for words before. Finally, Setheris said, something between a plea and a snarl, “Because Uleris Chavar is an idiot. And I believe in the law. I believe that
you
believe in the law.” Which was a shocking admission from Setheris, as close to a compliment as Maia had ever had from him. Setheris looked up then, and his eyes were wild. “I am many things, Serenity, but I am not a traitor.”

And Maia understood: Setheris had been here before, accused of treason, on his knees before the emperor. But that confrontation had gone very differently. Maia asked, for the question burned him like a live coal, “Why wert thou relegated to Edonomee?”

Setheris’s laugh was as bitter as Maia remembered it. “I told the late emperor your father that if he believed I had committed treason, he should put me on trial, not lock me up in the Esthoramire like a misbehaving dog. I thought he was going to kill me. For I had
not
committed treason, and he knew it. But I had tried to manipulate him, and he could not forsake his anger. Could
never
forsake his anger. And thus I was sent to Edonomee. With you.”

The history between them made the air thick. Slowly, thoughtfully, Maia said, “We could send thee back there.”

“Serenity, I have done nothing wrong!” The protest was anguished, clearly ripped from him despite his own better judgment.

“I know that,” Maia said. “But I hate thee, as thou well knowst, and if thou art at court, I will always have to wonder what thou art saying, and to whom.”

Setheris’s face was bloodless to the lips. He said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “I swear I will say nothing—I
have
said nothing, even to my wife. It is the past and it will stay there. I am loyal, Serenity, and I understand the danger of words—as
thou
knowst.”

Maia thought of all the things Setheris had called him, from “moon-witted hobgoblin” to “misbegotten blot,” and had to admire his cousin’s courage—if not outright insanity—in invoking those memories. “I will not send thee to Edonomee, but I cannot have thee here.” He held Setheris’s gaze steadily, for the first time in his life not flinching away from his cousin’s cold eyes. And it was Setheris who looked down. Who muttered grudgingly, unhappily, “I suppose I have earned this from you.”

Maia said, “We suppose so also.” He saw Cala’s wince out of the corner of his eye.

“Just—Serenity, please. We are—I am loyal and competent. Give me a job, a responsibility,
something.
Do not leave me to rot as Varenechibel did.”

“We cannot punish thee for
not
conspiring against us,” Maia said, and watched some of the fear bleed out of Setheris’s body. He deliberately looked away from Setheris to find Csevet, noticing distantly how difficult it was. Csevet was blank-faced, but his ears were ever-so-slightly flattened with disapproval. Maia glared at him, and Csevet, coming back to himself with a jump, bowed his head in acquiescence and slipped silently out of the room.

“Something will be found for you,” Maia said to Setheris, “and we do not think you need stay in the Esthoramire any longer.”

Setheris’s head had jerked up when Maia granted him the second-person formal, and by the end of the sentence, his eyes were shining in a way that Maia found disconcerting and embarrassing. It was no part of their relationship for Setheris to be grateful to him—he did not, he realized, even
want
Setheris’s gratitude.

He looked at Hesero Nelaran, standing against the wall, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. “You have your husband back, Cousin Hesero.”

She said, “We thank you, Serenity,” and Maia thought she meant it. Or, at least, she was trying to. Her curtsy was still exquisite, and she left, beside her husband, with her head up, as if she bore no burdens on her shoulders at all.

In the silence, Maia gripped his courage together as best he could and turned to face his nohecharei. Beshelar was scarlet in the face. Maia looked hastily past him at Cala, who said, “How old were you when—?” and he nodded toward Maia’s arm.

“This? Oh, fourteen or so.” He added, still not sure in his own mind if it made things better or worse, “He was drunk.”

Beshelar said, grinding the words viciously between his teeth, “He should be flogged through the streets. He should be flogged to the river and thrown in.” He fixed Maia with a furious glare and demanded, “Did the emperor know?”

“We have no idea,” Maia said; this was not the reaction he had expected from Beshelar. “If he was told, he did not care.”

“Monstrous!” Beshelar shouted, very nearly at the top of his lungs. Csevet, coming into the room at that moment, startled back and almost dropped the sheaf of papers he was carrying. There was a moment of supreme awkwardness, and then Maia was simply unable to keep from laughing. He sat down, still laughing, and waved Csevet into the other chair. Csevet sat, still looking bewildered and a little alarmed. Beshelar said, very stiffly, “Serenity, we will await you on the landing,” and stalked out.

Csevet looked from Beshelar’s retreating form to Cala to Maia, who had managed to calm himself. “Serenity, should we—?”

“No, it’s fine,” Maia said. “Beshelar was talking about something else. And you have a matter to lay before us?”

“Serenity,” Csevet said, agreeing and accepting. “This first order of business before the Corazhas must be the selection of a new Lord Chancellor, and we thought—unless you have a candidate of your own to put forward?”

“We would choose you in a heartbeat,” Maia said, “except that we would be lost without you.”

Csevet blushed a delicate, pleased pink and said, “We are far too young, Serenity.”

As am I,
Maia thought, but he bit the words back as unprofitable. Instead, he thought carefully about the men he had encountered in the government of the Ethuveraz, those who supported Chavar’s policies (and who now might be backtracking in haste), those who did not, those who balanced carefully and noncommittally between, and he thought that, out of all of them, only one had both seen that the emperor was out of his depth and had chosen to do something about it. And had continued to offer help without asking anything in return. And that man, he thought, was the man he wanted in charge of his government. “Our choice would be Lord Berenar,” he said.

“Serenity,” Csevet said, making a note. “Do you wish to announce it to the Corazhas? You are unlikely to meet with opposition, and it would certainly expedite matters.”

“Will we seem to be biased if we do? It is not always clear to us.”

“No, Serenity. You have every right to propose a candidate to the Corazhas, just as you have the power to refuse any candidate
they
propose. Lord Berenar is universally respected, and indeed we think him an excellent choice. They
may
refuse him, as is
their
right, but they, too, are anxious to see this matter dealt with, and we do not think they will be, ah, fractious.”

“Thank you. Then, yes, we will recommend Lord Berenar to the Corazhas.”

And an hour later, he got up and did so, feeling awkward and inarticulate and much too young, particularly as the Archprelate had taken the place of the Witness for the Prelacy until such time as the Prelates’ Council should be able to meet to choose a new one, and the Archprelate made Maia unsettled—not guilty, exactly, but too aware of his failure to meditate, to worship as his mother had taught him. But the Witnesses heard him respectfully, and when he had sat down again, Lord Berenar murmured, “Thank you, Serenity,” before rising to announce that he was willing, if the Corazhas agreed.

The Corazhas
did
agree. Maia was amazed at the lack of squabbling. The concerns raised were legitimate and dealt with responsibly, and in only slightly more than an hour the Ethuveraz had a new Lord Chancellor. The formal investiture would have to be scheduled and suffered through, but Lord Berenar knelt and swore a personal oath then and there in the Verven’theileian, and said he did not wish to wait as things were already in a terrible snarl and only getting worse with delay.

“Proceed with our blessing,” Maia said, and now the Corazhas was down two members, a state of affairs that, however inconvenient and deplorable, provided an unexceptionable reason for ending this meeting. Maia did so thankfully and turned toward Csevet to be told the next item in his never-ending agenda, only to discover Csevet had been buttonholed by Lord Berenar’s personal secretary.

Maia knew perfectly well that he could interrupt, but if he didn’t, he might have as much as five minutes of peace before Csevet extricated himself. He leaned back a little in his chair, refraining with difficulty from a sigh—and realized that Archprelate Tethimar was watching him closely.

Maia straightened again, feeling guilty even though he knew it was ridiculous. “Did you wish to speak to us, Archprelate?”

The Archprelate considered him, head cocked a little to one side, like a bird. “Are you well, Serenity?”

Bewildered, Maia said, “Why would we not be?”

“Forgive us,” the Archprelate said. “We do not wish to pry. But we know that the strain you are under must be considerable.”

Maia supposed that it was, but there was nothing to be done about it. “We thank you for your concern.”

The Archprelate smiled at him, as sudden and dazzling as sun on snow. “A gracefully noncommittal answer, Serenity. You have learned quickly the arts of being politic.”

Maia saw Lord Berenar’s secretary bow to Csevet and hurry out of the room. “Forgive us,” he said, hoping his relief did not show. “We fear we may already be late for our next obligation.”

“Of course, Serenity,” the Archprelate said—although Maia had the feeling that those bright eyes saw right through his feeble excuse—and he, too, bowed and left.

Maia turned to Csevet and said, “What now?”

“Luncheon,” Csevet said firmly. “And this afternoon must be given to the Witness for the Emperor, who is preparing for the trial of Lord Chavar and the Princess Sheveän.”

“Of course,” Maia said, and tried not to feel the great hollow coldness opening inside him. But he had no appetite for luncheon.

Again, Maia chose the Tortoise Room for this audience that he expected to be uncomfortable. Csevet had assured him it was his choice, and although he feared he was betraying weakness by not choosing the Michen’theileian, the Tortoise Room was the only place in all of the Untheileneise Court that felt in the least homelike to him.

The Witness for the Emperor was a small, neat man, very precise in all his movements. His name was Tanet Csovar. In face and voice he was entirely unremarkable; his clothes were sober and unostentatious, and his hair was obviously a wig, for although it was dressed very plainly, with only a single pair of tashin sticks, it was sleek and lustrous, unlike his sparse eyebrows. He was a judicial Witness of more than twenty years’ experience, and there could be no doubt he knew his job very well. He asked his questions respectfully, but remorselessly, and if the answer he got was not adequate, he asked another question. He showed neither impatience nor disappointment; it was simply that he could not be deterred. The most disconcerting thing, though, was that he did not take notes. He simply
listened,
his cold eyes watching Maia’s face intently, and his questions quickly revealed that he forgot nothing of what he heard.

He first had Maia tell him the events of the attempted coup, asking him to be as accurate as he could, particularly in recounting what each person had said. That was not so bad, but then the Witness began to ask about previous encounters with Lord Chavar, with the Princess Sheveän, about what Maia thought their reasons might be; then, even worse, he asked about how Maia had felt.

“We do not see that our emotions have any relevance,” Maia said, trying to sound annoyed rather than trapped.