The Goblin Emperor (41 page)

“We cannot witness if we do not know the truth,” said Csovar, “and emotions are part of the truth of any person.”

“But surely it isn’t necessary.”

“Serenity, we will not think less of you for your feelings, if that is what troubles you.”

“No, we are sure you will not.” Defeat. It was not Mer Csovar’s bad opinion he dreaded, but he wasn’t supposed to care for his nohecharei’s opinions, either. “We were afraid,” he said finally, determined to get the words out and be done with them, “for we know enough history to predict the fate of an emperor once dethroned.”

Mer Csovar frowned. “We understood from what you told us that there was no intent to harm you.”

“Not then, no. But our person, if alive, would always be inconvenient and potentially dangerous, would it not? And we could see that the Princess Sheveän would not hesitate. Would perhaps even be pleased. She seems to hate us very much.”

He was grateful that Mer Csovar did not attempt to convince him he was mistaken, merely nodding and saying, “You feared, very naturally, for your life.”

“Yes. We feared also for our nephew Idra and for the Ethuveraz. It is not a secret, now, that we and Lord Chavar disagree most fundamentally about the needs of our empire, and it did not seem to us that the Princess Sheveän was interested in the needs of the
empire
at all.”

“Do you feel she cared only for her son? Or only for her own access to power?”

It was a good question—a better question than most of the fruitless ones Maia had been asking himself. He stopped and thought, and Mer Csovar made no attempt to hurry him. At length, he said, “We do not know. We do not know what plans she and Lord Chavar had made about governance. We believe that she was acting in what she saw as her son’s best interests—and to honor her husband’s memory, for we have always felt that it is that for which she most hates us, that we are alive when her husband is not. We do not think her motives were … were
political.
”

“It is a subtle distinction, Serenity,” Mer Csovar said.

“We know. We do not understand the Princess Sheveän, so truly, it is only a guess. But,” he said slowly, as it became clear to him, “either she was acting out of a desire for power which left no room to consider the welfare of her son—or her daughters—or she was acting out of a blind idealism which would make her easily manipulated—or indeed disposed of—by those who called themselves her allies. We did not see any chance of a beneficial outcome.”

“And so you demanded to see Prince Idra. Did you expect him to support you?”

Maia stared at Mer Csovar. “The question did not occur to us. We could not…”

“There is no hurry, Serenity,” Mer Csovar murmured.

Maia pressed his hands together before his chest, palm to palm and fingertip to fingertip. It was a Barizheise meditation technique, and if any of them cared, he was betraying all sorts of things, but it steadied him enough that he could say, “We thought only that if we were not fit to be emperor, it was not for our Lord Chancellor to decide, nor for our sister-in-law. It was Idra who would live—or die—with the consequences, and we felt we had to speak to him. We expected…” What had he expected? He wasn’t even sure now, that cold cellar seeming as far away and improbable as something dreamed. He let his hands fall, and his shoulders sagged with them. “We expected to die.”

He thought there was a noise behind him, but did not turn to look. “We wished to ensure, whatever happened, that Idra
knew.
We did not expect him to defy his mother.”

“Would you have signed the abdication papers?”

“Yes,” Maia said bleakly. “If it had come to that, we would have. We could not subject our people to a civil war, not when we are unsure—” He stopped himself, but it was already too late.

“Unsure, Serenity?”

“We believe that our rule is better for the Ethuveraz than a regency government led by Lord Chavar, but what if we are wrong? What if we
are
leading our people into chaos and disaster? What right have we to impose our rule on those who do not wish it?”

“You are the only surviving son of Varenechibel the Fourth,” said Csovar. “If nothing else, Serenity, it is the law.”

“We did not think we could be sure of anyone’s support,” Maia said. That was definitely a noise, Beshelar biting back an intemperate comment, no doubt. Maia kept his attention on Csovar. “The coup was led by the most important official of our government and a member of our family, and they were assisted by one of our nohecharei.”

“Yes. We understand.” Csovar considered him for an uncomfortable moment. “Serenity, were you angry?”

“We were furious,” Maia said, and was ashamed at how quickly the words came to his tongue. “And sick with betrayal, although perhaps that was foolish of us.”

Csovar’s eyebrows went up. “If Lord Chavar did not wish to serve you, the appropriate thing to do was resign.” He coughed, looking a little embarrassed. “Many members of your government also feel betrayed, Serenity.”

“Do they? Thank you.” He was weak and foolish, but it
did
help to know that. “We were—we
are
—very angry. We are trying to forgive, but we find it very difficult.”

“What would you wish to be done with those who have wronged you in this matter?”

“We know not,” Maia said wearily. “It will be our decision in the end, regardless.”

“Yes, Serenity, but we did not ask what you
will
do with them.”

“You ask dangerous questions, Mer Csovar.”

“Serenity,” Csovar said with a briskness that was as near to impatience as he seemed likely ever to come, “it is our task to witness for you precisely
because
there are things that you, as the Emperor Edrehasivar the Seventh, cannot say. It is the calling of Witnesses, to speak for those who cannot speak for themselves.”

“You are a Witness
vel ama,
” Maia said. The idea was bitterly amusing.

“Yes, Serenity.”

“And if we say we want them dead? As slowly and painfully as possible?”

Csovar did not look away. “Is it the truth?”

“No,” Maia said.
Weak. Foolish.
He folded his hands in his lap against the urge to rub his eyes. “We did not even wish Dazhis Athmaza dead, and it was he who betrayed us most … most nearly.”

“Would you spare them all punishment?”

“No,” Maia said, and struggled with it. Csovar waited. “In our inmost and secret heart, which you ask us to bare to you, we wish to banish them as we were banished, to a cold and lonely house, in the charge of a man who hated us. And we wish them trapped there as we were trapped.”

“You consider that unjust, Serenity?”

“We consider it cruel,” Maia said. “And we do not think that cruelty is ever just. Are we finished, Mer Csovar?”

Csovar gave him a long, dry, thoughtful look. “Unless there is something Your Serenity wishes to add?”

“No, we thank you,” Maia said, and Csovar bowed and unhurriedly made his way out, neat and precise and impartial, witnessing Maia’s weakness without judging it, carrying that burden of darkness beneath his shining wig without being weighed down by it. Maia only wished he could do the same.

26

The Clocksmiths and the Corazhas

The one thing which Maia had been determined to achieve before the celebration of Winternight began was the presentation of the Clocksmiths’ Guild of Zhaö before the Corazhas. Most of the things hanging over his head were things he could not control (and there had been no word from Thara Celehar since his precipitous departure for the north), but this thing at least could happen, and the Corazhas could have two weeks or more to think about it before there would be time for a discussion and a vote. His control was mostly an illusion, especially as he did nothing himself but merely told Csevet what he wished done, but it was better than throwing temper tantrums or going into a decline or any of the other more ostentatious responses to being emperor which occurred to him.

In fact, the Corazhas did not grant an audience to the Clocksmiths’ Guild until the day before the Avar of Barizhan’s scheduled arrival, and even that, Maia was given to understand, was the result of a vast quantity of pushing and prodding. The Prelates’ Council still had not chosen a new Witness for the Prelacy. The new Witness for the Treasury was a very young man, by Corazheise standards, and it looked as if it might be three or four years before he found the confidence to open his mouth. Maia almost regretted Lord Berenar, who had yet to emerge from his first plunge into the depths of the Lord Chancellor’s office, but he reminded himself of just how much more he wanted Berenar
there
than
here
and did not repine.

The Clocksmiths’ Guild was represented again by Mer Halezh and Merrem Halezho, this time supported by (or supporting—Maia couldn’t quite tell from their demeanor) another man, older than Mer Halezh and showing a clocksmith’s crouch: even when he straightened from his bow to the emperor, his shoulders stayed hunched. He was introduced as Dachensol Evet Polchina; Maia did not know what precisely that title betokened in the guild, but several of the Corazhas were looking impressed, as if Dachensol Polchina’s presence reassured them that they were not wasting time on a mere cloud-fancy of the emperor’s, as Lord Pashavar had so eloquently put it.

And when the emperor formally invited the Clocksmiths of Zhaö to speak to the Corazhas, it was Dachensol Polchina who stepped forward. He made a deep formal bow to Maia and then bowed, less deeply, to each of the Corazhas in turn. Then he beckoned, and Mer Halezh and Merrem Halezho carried forward a massive draped shape and set it on the table in front of Maia’s chair.

“What is this?” Csevet said, with a cold glance at one of the junior secretaries, who apparently should have known better than to allow any such object in the room without Csevet’s approval. Telimezh moved forward as if he were preparing to fling himself on it.

Dachensol Polchina’s face creased into a beatific smile. “That is the bridge.” Another gesture, and Mer Halezh and Merrem Halezho carefully lifted the linen drape.

Maia’s breath caught.

Beneath the drape was a model of a section of a river—of the Istandaärtha. There were tiny houses on one side and pasture on the other, with little black-and-white dairy cows grazing on green velvet. The road on each side was paved with tiny quartz pebbles, smooth and gleaming like cobbles after rain. The river banks were rocky, with twisted verashme trees showing defiant golden-red blossoms. The river itself was brown and roiling, rendered, he thought, with silk and clusters of fish scales. At one point, a tree trunk surged angrily out of the water; he was amazed at the impression of movement and ferocity, at how deftly the model-maker had conveyed the power of the Istandaärtha.

And in the center of this marvel, the focus and anchor, was the bridge. To Maia’s eye, instantly adapted to the delicacy of the world the model showed, it was a massive thing, a brass and iron monster, four great square towers, two on each bank, throwing out arm after arm toward each other until they met and clasped claws in the middle. He saw, with a jolt that was not surprise, that the spars of the bridge had been engraved to suggest the claws he had fancied. He leaned closer and saw the ugly, benevolent faces of four tangrishi at the top of each tower.

“What better protectors for a steam-powered bridge?” Dachensol Polchina murmured, only loud enough for Maia to hear—although that was partly because the Corazhas’ muttering was growing louder, from the initial gasps of astonishment and admiration on one side and angry disbelief on the other.

“The thing’s ridiculous,” snapped Lord Pashavar.

“It will break under its own weight,” Lord Deshehar protested.

“No boat could possibly get past this monstrosity,” said Lord Isthanar, the Witness for the Universities, and that was apparently the opening Dachensol Polchina wanted.

“Aha!” he said, and nodded to Merrem Halezho. She touched something beneath the model cow pasture, and she must have had a touch of the maza’s gift, for there was a spark and the smell of burning.

“It will take a few minutes to generate enough steam,” Dachensol Polchina said, “though for the real bridge, there would of course be employment for stokers to be sure the river traffic doesn’t have to wait. In the meantime, we will be happy to answer your questions.”

Maia barely heard the ensuing discussion, vehement though it was. He was too entranced by the model. As he looked closer, he could see that there were tiny people among the houses: a woman hanging laundry, a man weeding his vegetable garden, two children playing hider and seeker. There was even a tiny tabby cat sunning itself in a window. On the road toward the bridge, a wagon pulled by two dappled horses had stopped while the driver rummaged for something beneath his seat. Looking to the other side of the river, Maia suddenly spotted the cowherd among the cows, and he barely restrained a crow of delight. The cowherd, goblin-dark, was sitting cross-legged beneath the only tree in the pasture and playing a flute, so carefully rendered that each fingerhole was distinctly visible.

Maia straightened up and said decisively, cutting through the increasingly acrimonious discussion between Corazhas and clocksmiths, “We wish to see the bridge work.”

Lord Pashavar glared at him. “Your Serenity is determined to go ahead with this foolishness?”

“We do not find it foolish,” Maia said, and was surprised at the calmness of his own voice, “and we do not believe that Dachensol Polchina finds it foolish, either.”

“It is not foolish,” Dachensol Polchina agreed. “It is new, which is not the same thing.”

“It is hardly a clock,” said Isthanar, sneering. “Are you quite sure you understand what you are doing?”

“If you find our understanding flawed, you are welcome to explain it to us,” Dachensol Polchina said mildly, with a gesture toward the model.

Isthanar’s stricken silence was covered by the Archprelate saying, “How can you possibly know that when you come to build the real thing, it will support its own weight?”