The Goblin Emperor (47 page)

“The emperor-clock from the Clocksmiths’ Guild, Serenity,” said Csevet.

“It’s …
magnificent,
” Mireän said.

“I haven’t seen it yet,” Maia said. “Tell me about it?”

Mireän began describing the wonders of the clock, but it wasn’t long before Ino interrupted her, and by the time breakfast was served, Idra had entered the discussion, too, and there was no need for Maia to worry about keeping the conversation going, for the three children did that effortlessly. Idra tried once to initiate a more adult conversation, asking Maia how the Great Avar’s visit was faring, but Mireän intervened immediately. “He’s the biggest goblin I’ve ever seen! Cousin Maia, are you going to be that big?”

“No,” Maia said. “I shall probably grow no taller than I am now.”

“He’s your grandpapa,” Ino said. “Does that mean your mama was a goblin?”

“Yes,” Maia said.

“Dinan says goblins are going to invade and eat us. Is that why your grandpapa’s here?”

“Ino!” Idra said. “Cousin Maia, I beg your pardon.”

“No, it seems like a very reasonable question,” Maia said. “Who is Dinan?”

Idra looked at Mireän, who said, “Dinan Cambeshin, Idra.
You
remember.”

“Oh,” said Idra. “The daughter of one of Mama’s bosom bows. She’s Ino’s age, and I guess they play together?”

“I don’t like Dinan,” Ino said. “She’s mean. But Mama says we have to be friends.”

Maia was reminded of Csethiro Ceredin being forced into “friendship” with Csoru, and he was glad that Idra said firmly, “You don’t have to be friends with anyone you don’t want to, Ino. But why did she say that about goblins? It’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? But Mama said the goblins were going to take over now that Cousin Maia was on the throne, so I thought Dinan was right.”

Idra looked so horrified that Maia was hard-pressed not to laugh. He took a sip of tea and said, “No, the goblins aren’t going to take over. They’re certainly not going to eat anyone. And my grandfather is just here to celebrate Winternight.”

“Oh!” Mireän said. “Like when we went to stay with our
other
grandpapa
last
Winternight. Remember, Ino? Grandmama Zharo gave us oranges?”

“Yes,” Ino said, a little doubtfully.

“Oh, you
must
remember,” Idra said. “Grandpapa Idra showed us his dogs—one of them had a litter of puppies.”

“I remember the puppies!” Ino said. “And the mama dog licked my fingers. Grandpapa said she liked me.”

“That’s right,” Idra said. “And Grandmama Zharo took us to see the puppet theater.”

“What is a puppet theater?” Maia asked, and the rest of breakfast was occupied with explanations, Idra as bright-eyed and breathless as his sisters, all adulthood forgotten. Maia was sorry when Csevet appeared to enforce the emperor’s unforgiving schedule—but at least in leaving the Alcethmeret, he had to pass the emperor-clock, and even Csevet did not chide him for pausing. Mireän and Esaran were both right, Maia decided: it was magnificent
and
surprising.

The short hours of daylight passed quickly; Maia’s schedule was crammed with dedications and performances—one by Min Vechin that was so damnably beautiful that he forgot to feel resentful and embarrassed at the sight of her—and then the Great Avar insisted on visiting the Horsemarket of Cetho, regardless alike of the weather and of the disruptions it caused. Maia had never been to a horse market before, much less
the
Horsemarket, and he trailed, fascinated, in his grandfather’s wake until the Avar turned from inspecting a horse and boomed a question at him.

It made no sense, and Maia apologetically said so. “We know nothing of horses.”

“Nothing?” The Great Avar choked and spluttered and then erupted, demanding to know how any grandson of his could stand there and say he knew nothing of horses.

“We were never taught to ride,” Maia said, doing his best not to flinch. “Our mother was much too ill, and there were no saddle horses at Edonomee. Even an there were, our guardian would never have permitted us to learn.”

The Avar looked very grim. “And your father permitted this?”

“Our father did not—”
Care.
He caught himself just in time, remembering that they were in a very public place. “Our father did not concern himself with our education,” he said, and met the Avar’s eyes steadily, lowering his voice: “Nor did you.”

The Avar looked even grimmer. “It is surely neither the first nor the last time that we have been a fool,” he said. “Come. Let us buy you a horse.”

And that, despite Maia’s protests, was exactly what he proceeded to do, giving Maia a rapidly comprehensive lesson in horses and horsemanship along the way. The part Maia liked best was being taught how to make friends with the horses the Avar considered: how to hold his hand, how to offer bits of apple. He loved their soft noses and clever lips and the whuffle of their breath as they investigated.

The Avar was splendid in his refusal to be rushed; Maia watched and took mental notes. Finally, as the lamps of the Horsemarket were being lit against the drawing down of the day, he chose a white horse—which he immediately taught Maia to call a gray—a ten-year-old gelding replete with mysterious but apparently important traits. His name was Velvet, and Maia was bemused and bewildered at the thought of owning a horse.

There was no time for more; even the Avar could not hold out any longer against the combined efforts of secretaries, nohecharei, and Hezhethoreisei. They were returned to the Untheileneise Court at a speed Maia thought was not permitted on the streets of Cetho—and thought certainly should
not
have been permitted with the snow and the wind—and Maia spent a frantic hour being stripped and bathed and perfumed and dressed in white robes stiff with lace and silver embroidery. Instead of combs and tashin sticks, his hair was caught in an elaborate silver webbing with tiny diamonds at every node, and a veil over it so fine it almost wasn’t there. Diamonds on his fingers, in his ears, around his neck, and he understood when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror: he was white and cold and sparkling, like a snowfield under moonlight. The only flaw in the resemblance was his skin, and even that might be but cloud shadows over the moon.

His nohecharei—Cala and Beshelar, and he couldn’t remember when their shift had changed—whisked him away to the Untheileian and deposited the emperor on his throne just as the musicians began to tune their instruments. Beshelar was muttering darkly about haste and disrespect to the gods, but Cala said, “If that’s the worst the gods have to contend with tonight, we may all count ourselves holy men,” and Beshelar fell silent.

The musicians signaled their readiness with a brief flourish of a tune called “The Snow Queen,” and Maia rose. He had been taught the ritual words and he spoke them carefully, words that were both invitation and request that the old year should be seen out with dancing and music, that no one should lack a partner, that anyone who wished to dance should be welcomed. He sat again, exerting himself to be sure it was controlled and graceful and not the emperor collapsing like a suit of armor knocked off its stand. But he was grateful to be able to sit and watch, rather than having to participate.

He saw immediately that what Csevet had said was true; the glittering courtiers were being joined by people in plainer clothes, people who wore no jewels, whose hair was dressed only with pins. The dark faces did not belong only the Great Avar and his retinue. He saw the blue robes of the mazei at several points around the room, and young men in couriers’ leathers, and he recognized at least one of the girls from the Alcethmeret’s pneumatic station. She was dancing with Lord Pashavar, and Maia was delighted.

After three hours, the dancing was interrupted for a banquet and a magnificent fireworks display in the Emperor’s honor. Maia sat with Ambassador Gormened on one side and Osmerrem Berenaran on the other. He had been unfairly surprised to discover that Lord Berenar was married; he was even more surprised by the lady, who was stout and rather plain and made no effort to conceal either. She did not demand conversation from him, but provided a brightly funny monologue about moving the Berenadeise household from the apartments they had occupied for thirty years to the apartments which came with the Lord Chancellor’s office. Chavar had never used them. “Our husband says that’s part of the problem,” Osmerrem Berenaran said, “but we do not pretend to understand his reasoning.”

“It must be very uncomfortable,” Maia said, “moving after so many years.”

She snorted, an unladylike but unmistakably good-humored sound. “‘Uncomfortable’ is one word. ‘Welcome’ is another. We have no love for the Berenadeise apartments, and we have not seen Eiru so happy in his work since our children were small.”

“Happy? From what we understand, we have landed Lord Berenar in a bramble bush—if no worse than that.”

“He thrives on brambles. The thornier a problem is, the happier he seems to be in the solving of it.” Her smile made her lovely. “Our thanks is worth little, to be sure, but nevertheless, we thank you, Serenity. For landing him in the brambles.”

Maia smiled back. “We believe your thanks to be worth a great deal, Osmerrem Berenaran. And we are glad of them.”

They smiled at each other a moment longer; then Gormened attracted Maia’s attention to ask about the Great Avar’s trip to the Horsemarket. Maia wished for Lady Berenaran’s ability to make a funny story out of trifles, but he could at least assure Gormened that the Avar had neither taken nor caused offense.

Gormened let out a gusty sigh of relief, and Maia said, “Surely we are not your only source of information.”

“No, Serenity, but we can trust you to tell us the truth, for you need fear neither our anger nor the Avar’s.”

“Would he be angry?”

Gormened made an expressive face. “He did not gain his power—nor hold it for so many years—by being amiable and obliging.” He visibly shook off the mood. “But a horse! This is splendid, Serenity. Tell me about him.”

Maia was not able to comply as fully as he knew he ought to, but Gormened nobly took the burden on his own shoulders and filled the rest of the time before the procession from the banqueting hall to the Untheileneise’meire in telling Maia stories of his childhood pony, to which Maia listened raptly.

The ceremony bidding farewell to the old year and welcoming the new was simple, and Archprelate Tethimar kept it short, knowing that his congregation was eager to return to the Untheileian and dance till dawn. Maia felt as if he was spending the night being herded from one uncomfortable vantage to another, but at least in the Untheileian he could sit down. And the dancing was very beautiful to watch. He saw the Great Avar dancing with Nadeian Vizhenka; Csevet dancing with Arbelan; the Marquess Lanthevel dancing with Csoru—and he was surprised at how attractive Csoru looked when she forgot herself.

Csethiro Ceredin came out of the dance to join him on the dais for a time, and he misused his nohecharei to the extent of sending Beshelar to fetch the nearest chair. Dach’osmin Ceredin was pleased and told him stories of the Winternight celebrations of her childhood, giving such a vivid picture of her affectionate relationship with her sisters that he found himself envious.

She broke off in the middle of telling him about her eldest sister’s first grown-up Winternight Ball and what the younger sisters had done to, as she said, “even the score,” and he saw that his half sister Vedero was standing patiently at the foot of the dais. Dach’osmin Ceredin stood up, smoothing her skirts with an expert flick of her wrists, and said, “You must learn to take care, Serenity, lest we wear your ears out with our endless talking.” She departed with an elegant curtsy; he noticed that she and Vedero pressed hands as she passed, as friends did, and the archduchess climbed the stairs. Vedero’s curtsy was deeper than it had to be, and she took the chair beside the throne without hesitation when Maia offered it.

She said, “We need to thank you, Serenity, and we do not know how.”

“You needn’t—”

“Yes, we do. For all that you should not have done it, we are grateful. Especially as we know we gave you no reason to be kind to us.”

Deeply uncomfortable, Maia said, “We would not wish
anyone
to be as ill-treated and unhappy as our mother was.”

“We know,” said Vedero, “and that is why we must thank you.”

He looked at her so blankly that her mouth twitched into a smile. “You did not do it for us, and you would have done the same for Sheveän, would you not?”

“Yes,” Maia said, “we suppose we would have.”

“And so we thank you,” Vedero said briskly, as if everything should now make sense. She rose again. “There will be an eclipse of the moon in a fortnight’s time, Serenity. If you would care to come watch with us, we would be very pleased.”

“Yes,” Maia said, startled and delighted. “We would like that very much.”

Vedero’s smile looked stiff and unpracticed, but he thought that she meant it. She curtsied and descended from the dais, where her hand was promptly claimed by a young man in courier’s leathers. Maia sat and watched and tried to keep from smiling foolishly.

It was much later, and he had had conversations with a number of other people, when Eshevis Tethimar went down on one knee at the foot of the dais.

Maia thought,
I am too tired for this,
and knew it was true. But he had no choice. “You may approach, Dach’osmer Tethimar,” he said, retreating into careful formality.

Dach’osmer Tethimar came up the stairs and knelt again, to Maia’s irritation. “What is your concern, Dach’osmer Tethimar?” Csevet had taken him very stringently to task only a week ago for saying
What may we do for you?
with its implications that the emperor was at the command of the suppliant, and Maia was working diligently to find more acceptable alternatives.

“Our concern?” Dach’osmer Tethimar raised his head. Whereas everyone else Maia had spoken with had been flushed with dancing, Dach’osmer Tethimar was white as snow. “Our concern does not interest you,
Serenity
.” He spat the honorific as if it were a curse. “But this will.” And he leaped forward like a hunting beast, a thin dagger glinting in his hand.