The Goblin Emperor (46 page)

An hour and a half later, he descended to the dining room to find the table invisible beneath towering, tottering piles of packages and envelopes. There were more piles on the floor. Around the table, Csevet, Esaran, Isheian, and two other servants whose names he couldn’t think of looked up with unmistakable guilt written across their faces.

“What on earth—?”

Csevet shot to his feet. “We hoped to … that is, we weren’t expecting…”

“But what is it?” Maia said, beginning to be alarmed. He had never seen Csevet this flustered.

There was an ominously long silence before Isheian said, her voice barely more than a whisper, “Your birthday gifts, Serenity.”

“Birthday gifts?” He stared at the piles heaping the room. “
Our
birthday … gifts?”

“Yes, Serenity,” Csevet said, pulling himself together. “We—with Merrem Esaran’s gracious help—have been keeping a tally so that letters of thanks can be written. We did not intend you to be bothered with all of these, but the task needs to be completed and were not expecting you to come down so early.”

Maia barely noticed the note of reproach. “But who—who are they all
from
?”

Thy grammar is atrocious,
said that dry, rebarbative voice that was no longer Setheris.

“From everyone, Serenity,” said Isheian.

“We expected the messages from the princes, the Corazhas, Lord Berenar, and the members of Parliament,” said Csevet. “The Marquess Lanthevel has sent you a scholarly book about embroidery. We even expected the emperor-clock from the Clocksmiths’ Guild of Zhaö.” He paused, then corrected himself primly: “We should say, we were not surprised they sent a gift. The clock itself is…”

“Surprising,” Esaran said, and Maia was startled to realize that she and Csevet were friends.

“Yes,” Csevet agreed. “But, Serenity, you have also gifts from a number of Barizheisei merchants in Cetho, and from the Trade Association of the Western Ethuveraz. There are messages from mayors and hierophants in every principality. The people of Nelozho have sent you a letter with nearly five hundred signatures, which must be the entire population. The crew of the
Radiance of Cairado
have sent you a model airship. The families of the crew of the
Wisdom of Choharo
have sent you message after message. And that doesn’t even begin to account for—Serenity?”

“We don’t understand,” Maia said helplessly, sinking into a chair. “What do they want?”

Csevet frowned. “They want you to have a happy birthday.” Csevet looked at him, still frowning, a moment longer, then turned and began issuing brisk orders. Within minutes, the room was clear, and Isheian was presenting Maia with a cup of tea. “Dachensol Ebremis says you may have breakfast whenever you please, Serenity, but as it’s still so early, he wasn’t sure…”

“Just tea is lovely,” Maia said. He took a sip and realized that Csevet was hovering. “What is’t?”

“We thought, Serenity,” Csevet said promptly, “that perhaps you would like to have breakfast with your nieces and nephew this morning.”

By which he meant, of course, that he thought Maia
should
. “Do you think they would like that?” Maia said doubtfully.

“We hear from Leilis Athmaza that they talk about you frequently and that they call you Cousin Maia as you asked them to.”

“All right,” Maia said, accepting defeat. “But let them come here.” He shrugged at Csevet’s inquiring eyebrow, and said, a touch guiltily, “They will find it more exciting.”
And I will not invade their family space.
He doubted the nursery was “home” to them, or that it ever would be.

The emperor sat and drank tea and pretended to be unaware of the various commotions in his household. Csevet appeared occasionally to offer his emperor such updates as he felt suitable and to provide reading material: the birthday felicitations from the five princes, the Corazhas, and Lord Berenar. Maia would have preferred the messages from the families of the
Wisdom of Choharo
’s crew, but that request could be made later.

Dach’osmin Ceredin had sent a sword, a long, thin, shining blade that made Telimezh’s eyes go wide. Maia, who could see that the sword was very old and beautifully made but nothing more, raised his eyebrows invitingly. Telimezh said, “It is a sunblade, Serenity, the weapon of the ancient princes, before Edrevenivar the Conqueror united the Ethuveraz. We did not know the Ceredada still had one.”

“It is a gift of great honor,” Kiru added softly.

“Although a trifle opaque as to meaning,” Csevet said with a frown.

“We trust Dach’osmin Ceredin to mean us nothing but good,” Maia said.

“It signifies loyalty,” Telimezh said almost impatiently. “If the Ceredada have kept this sunblade all these centuries, then to offer it to the emperor
now
—” He broke off and regrouped. “Serenity, she is giving you a gift that Arbelan Zhasan did not give the late emperor your father.”

“No,” Maia said thoughtfully. “She did not.”

The messages from the princes were, he supposed, exactly what they should be from vassals who had met their emperor exactly once: excruciatingly correct and devoid of either warmth or individuality. The messages from the Corazhas were more varied; though most were perfectly formal, Lord Pashavar’s was unapologetically laden with advice and Lord Deshehar’s included a number of quick, clever caricatures, obviously drawn during Corazhas sessions: Lord Pashavar looking superbly waspish; Lord Bromar holding forth; Lord Isthanar obviously on the verge of falling asleep; Maia himself, confused and trying to hide it. He might have been offended or embarrassed or even alarmed, had there not been such obvious affection in all the sketches. And he understood the gift Lord Deshehar was giving him with his trust.

Lord Berenar’s letter, although he remembered to include the appropriate birthday wishes, was actually the shameless exploitation of a chance to tell the emperor about what he had discovered in the Lord Chancellor’s office. To Maia’s great relief, Lord Berenar and his staff had proved that Chavar was honest—

although the same cannot be said, Serenity, of all those who were subject to his oversight. Some of the discrepancies we have found go back a decade or more. We fear that Lord Chavar cared a good deal more for the political aspects of his position than the administrative. And while we do not deny the importance of the Lord Chancellor’s advice to the emperor, we do not understand how he can have presumed to give that advice without the knowledge which he clearly did not bother to gather. Too much of the necessary work of his office had become the burden of his secretaries, and Lord Chavar was not the man to inspire personal loyalty in his underlings: we have not found any secretary of his who has been with him for more than three years. We had some inkling of the state of affairs, of course, as the Chancellery and the Treasury must work very closely together, but we had not known how deeply—and how widely—the rot went. The same can be said of the Courier General’s office, only to an even greater extent, as Osmer Orimar seems to have been actively deceiving Lord Chavar, as well as being shiftless, stupid, and undisciplined. One need look no further than the state of his personal office to understand why he chose to back Chavar—anything to ensure he was left alone to continue his venal and incompetent reign. Mercifully, the couriers themselves seem to be honest and loyal, unaware of the disgraceful behavior of those above them, and we feel that the situation is, with some work, salvageable.

Berenar also reported on the investigation into the wreck of the
Wisdom of Choharo.

The Witnesses are both honest and loyal, Serenity, but we feel there are too many of them—and too few who have ever had to do this kind of work. They could follow a simple logical trail, but when that trail turned out to be false—for we must tell you, Serenity, that the Cetho Workers League is entirely innocent, and their innocence has been clear for several weeks—they were paralyzed by indecision and (we regret to say) petty squabbling. Lord Chavar seems to have exacerbated the problem by refusing to believe the Cetho Workers League was innocent. We understand that he continued to assure you of their guilt long after their innocence was fully attested. Thus, the investigation has stagnated and must now be pushed into motion again. We have no doubt that this can be done, but it seems that today, when we should be offering you gifts, we must ask a gift of you instead: your patience.

Csevet came back in, and Maia interrupted whatever he had been going to say. “Osmer Orimar?”

Csevet winced. “A puppet for Lord Chavar.”

“Lord Berenar says Osmer Orimar was concealing dishonesty of some considerable scope from Chavar.”

“Gracious,” said Csevet. “We would not have thought he had the intelligence.”

“It does not seem to have been very difficult.”

“Ah,” said Csevet.

“Lord Berenar says he believes the couriers to be honest and loyal. Would you agree?”

“Serenity, we do not—”

“Would you?”

“Yes, Serenity.” Csevet gave him an odd look—assessing, Maia realized, when Csevet continued, “Couriers, Serenity, are not like clerks and secretaries. For one thing, a courier does not have to be able to read.”

Maia bit back every one of the questions that sprang to mind, and Csevet gave him an approving nod. “Those who can’t are taught by their fellows, as with any other piece of education they might need. But, for all of us, the courier system gave us a chance, sometimes our
only
chance, at an honest job. And one where we did not have to work on our knees. Or our backs.”

Another infinity of questions not to be asked.

Csevet said, “While couriers are as prone to petty dishonesty as any other group of people, none would think of theft or blackmail or anything he understood as treason. And all couriers have the insatiable and impertinent curiosity of ferrets.”

“That night at Edonomee, had you read Chavar’s letter?”

Csevet hesitated, then said staunchly, “Yes, Serenity.”

Maia nodded. “Thank you. And we do not blame you for it.”

“Thank you, Serenity.” Csevet started to speak again, but Maia stopped him with an upraised hand.

“If not Osmer Orimar, then who is it who commands the couriers? Someone must.”

“Yes, Serenity. He is called Captain Volsharezh, although we know not whether he earned any captaincy in truth. He has been doing Osmer Orimar’s work for years. It is he who keeps the courier system honest.”

“Will you supply Lord Berenar with his name, please? We do not wish the good to be cleared away with the bad. And we suspect that Lord Berenar’s position will be easier if he knows there is someone on whom he can rely.”

“Serenity.” Csevet bowed. This time Maia let him continue with his original purpose: “We must ask what you want done with the gift from the Tethimada.”

“What
is
the gift from the Tethimada?”

“A full set of summer hangings. In white sharadansho silk.”

Someone muttered a curse. Sharadansho silk—so called, with a pun on snow-blindness, because the laborers who made it went blind over its intricacies—was the most diaphanous of the silk weights, taken and worked into a kind of half embroidered, half lace state. It looked like snowflakes, and white was the worst of the colors, said to destroy sight at twice the rate of indigo.

“A full set,” Maia said.

“Bed hangings, canopy, curtains … We brought,” Csevet said, beckoning to a page boy waiting outside the door, “the parasol.”

The boy brought it in and gave it to Csevet, who proffered it with straight-faced formality to Maia.

Maia accepted it reluctantly. The haft was rosewood, the metalwork delicately engraved like tree branches with glass flowers hanging from the end of each spar. The sharadansho was leaf-patterned, and there were tiny mirrors attached in a scrupulously random pattern, so that the parasol’s user would sparkle in the sun.

It was a beautiful object, and by itself it would have been an ostentatious gift. “A full set,” Maia said again.

“We fear the meaning is not at all opaque,” Csevet said.

“No,” Maia agreed, putting the parasol down and resisting the urge to wipe his hands on his trousers. “A little ambiguity from the Tethimada would almost be welcome. We understand that we cannot reject this gift, but must we
use
it?”

“Serenity, the emperor could not use all the gifts he is given even if there were five of him,” Csevet said. “If you approved of this gift, it would be suitable for you to respond with some especial mark of your favor to the Tethimada, but as you do not, you may leave the matter in our hands.”

“The workmanship is beautiful,” Maia said reluctantly. “We would gladly show favor to the craftspersons—and to those who no doubt went blind in the making of the Tethimada’s gift.”

“Serenity?” Csevet said uncertainly.

Maia realized he was on the brink of setting his secretary an impossible task. “Never mind. Please, present us with the next item on the agenda.”

“Serenity,” Csevet said, the dip and flick of his ears showing that he had decided he should let the matter go. He picked up the parasol and handed it to the page, who bowed to Maia and departed. Maia wondered what happened to all the gifts the emperor could not use. He had to shake himself free from visions of storerooms like an ogre’s cavern in a wonder-tale to attend to what Csevet was saying: a listing of the gifts and messages from the other great houses, none of which was as ostentatious or inappropriate as that of the Tethimada.

Idra and his sisters arrived only a few minutes later, all three looking immaculate and very alert. Idra bowed, and Ino and Mireän curtsied, and there was a soft and ragged chorus of, “Happy birthday, Cousin Maia.”

“Thank you,” Maia said, and bade them be seated—then had to ask Isheian to fetch a cushion so that Ino could reach the tabletop. There was no moment of awkward silence, for Mireän said as soon as she was settled, “Cousin Maia, have you seen your
clock
?”

“Clock?” said Maia.