The Goblin Emperor (51 page)

Berenar, Csevet, Beshelar, Cala, Lieutenant Echana, and indeed every other member of Maia’s household had done their best to dissuade him. And he had no rational arguments to put against them, merely a feeling so strong that he could not disregard it. These were the people most directly responsible for making him emperor; he needed to see them, as if their reality might prove his own.

Between his staff’s reluctance and his obligations—another banquet for the Avar, this one followed by a performance of the Municipal Choir of Cetho and a seemingly endless procession of people who had to be reassured that he was all right—it was past midnight by the time he could descend to the ancient prison of the Untheileneise Court, the Nevennamire. It was older, in fact, than the court that Edrethelema III had designed, and Maia found in its narrow halls and strange rounded rooms a disconcerting suggestion of what the palace had once looked like.

The Nevennamire was the place where a great many different jurisdictions converged: the Untheileneise Guard, the Vigilant Brotherhood of Cetho, and of Thu-Cethor, and then the Judiciate Guard, a small but honorable body which guarded its autonomy as ferociously as its prisoners. The guardroom was rather crowded, since the officers from Amalo had also to be accommodated, and all of them leaped to their feet in consternation when Beshelar said loudly, “His Imperial Serenity, Edrehasivar the Seventh.”

Maia had refused to have the prisoners brought to the Alcethmeret, or even to the Michen’theileian. Here he received unexpected support from Lieutenant Echana, who said that it would be far easier to contain the prisoners in the Nevennamire than in the wide halls of the court.

“If His Serenity would be sensible,” Beshelar said, “there would be no need to contain them.”

Echana had smiled suddenly. “Yes, but it is clear that we cannot have that, so let us work with what we do have.” And so the emperor came to the Nevennamire, which Cala said he was fairly sure hadn’t happened since the Empress Valestho had been wrongly imprisoned by the brother of the Emperor Belthelema IX, and the emperor himself came to unlock her chains.

“We will set another precedent,” Maia said grimly. “It may go in the history books next to our two attempted coups in less than a month.”

“Serenity—”

“Never mind. We apologize.”

“Don’t,” Cala said unhappily.

Maia shrugged, just as unhappily—
we cannot be your friend
—and kept walking.

And now, in the Nevennamire, the guards seemed very nearly panicked by his presence, which did not make him feel better. Fortunately, the duty officer, one Corporal Ishilar, managed to keep his head, and even if he did not understand why the emperor was here or what he hoped to accomplish, he was willing to cooperate. He refused to allow Maia past the guardroom into the prison itself, but he had no hesitation in rearranging the guardroom into an impromptu audience chamber—which, while not exactly what Maia wanted, he recognized as the best he was likely to get. He sat in the chair Corporal Ishilar had placed for him, with Cala on his right and Beshelar on his left, and the eight guards like pilasters along the walls, and waited while Ishilar fetched the prisoners.

Ishilar had also flatly refused to bring more than one at a time—and had been vehemently supported by Beshelar—so Maia had asked to see Min Narchanezhen first, then Mer Bralchenar, and finally Mer Shulivar. He felt that he would need practice before he could speak to the person who had actually constructed the device, who must, better than anyone else, have known what it would do.

Min Narchanezhen had the full-blood elf’s ferret face and wore her white hair in a worker’s crop. He could tell that she was determined not to be impressed by him; he didn’t care. She had been the courier between Ubezhar and Shulivar—the two men had apparently agreed on their plan of destruction and murder without ever meeting face-to-face. He looked at her for a long time, while she found it progressively harder to meet his eyes; finally he asked, “Did you know what it would do?” It was the only question that seemed to matter.

“Yes, and I would do it again,” she spat at him. “It is the only way to force you vile parasites to relinquish your power.”

Corporal Ishilar cuffed her. “You speak to your emperor, Narchanezhen.”

“
My
emperor?” She laughed, and it was a horrible noise, jagged as the scars on Maia’s arm. “This is no emperor of mine. What cares he for me—or I for him? He would never know my name if it were not for the glorious strike we made against the stagnant power he represents.”

“Is that what you think it?” Maia said. “Glorious?”

“Glorious,” she said with defiant emphasis.

He thought of the congregation of the Ulimeire of Cetho and felt sick. “Then there is nothing further to be said.”

She shouted at him as Ishilar and one of the officers from Amalo dragged her out, her voice rising and rising until it was a shriek as terrible as the wind.

“Serenity,” Cala said, “you do not have to do this. No one requires it of you.”

“I do,” Maia said tiredly, and Cala retreated again.

Bralchenar was almost worse than Narchanezhen; groveling and terrified, he was all too clearly prepared to say anything that might save his life. There was no point in asking him anything, for he would say only what he thought Maia wanted to hear. Maia listened for a few minutes, feeling that he owed it, if not to Bralchenar, then to all the people Bralchenar had killed. Finally, he said, “Your choices were your own, Mer Bralchenar,” and nodded to Ishilar.

Mer Shulivar was not what Maia had been expecting—although, in truth, he couldn’t have said what that was. Shulivar was tall, a little gawky, with short-cropped black hair and vividly blue eyes; his skin was the same slate gray color as Maia’s. They looked at each other; Shulivar was neither frightened nor hostile, and Maia found it strangely easy to say, “Why did you do it?”

“Because it had to be done,” Shulivar said. Maia saw that he was absolutely certain, that his calm came not merely from courage, but from conviction.

“
Had
to?”

“It is the nature of all persons to hold on to power when they have it,” Shulivar said. “Thus it stagnates and becomes clouded, poisonous. Radical action is necessary to free it. And if you look, you will see that it is already working. If I had not done what I did, a half-goblin such as yourself would never have gained the throne of the Ethuveraz.”

Maia opened his mouth, then closed it again. On that point, Shulivar was right.

“I can already see the changes,” Shulivar said. “You do not hold on to power as your father and grandfather did. You are not afraid to let it go. And you have new ideas, ideas that no emperor before you has ever had.”

“No,” Maia protested.

“Yes,” Shulivar said. “No other emperor would ever have attended the funeral of his father’s servants. No other emperor would have accepted a woman as his nohecharis. You bring change, Edrehasivar, and you bring it because I opened the way for you.”

“No. It is not worth the price.”

“Twenty-three lives,” Shulivar said. “Do you know how many people the factories of Choharo and Rosiro and Sevezho kill in a year? In a month?”

“But I haven’t—”

“You will,” said Shulivar, and his eyes were blue, serene, and utterly mad. And yet, dear blessed goddesses, he was right. Maia knew he
would.

“Our father was working to improve conditions in the west,” he said.

“Against the stiff opposition of the east,” said Shulivar, “which he would always have had to compromise with. And yet, that opposition is
already
dismantled by your rule.”

“That’s not—” Maia almost bit his tongue. “It wasn’t a miscommunication, was it? You betrayed Tethimar on purpose.”

“Does it matter?” said Shulivar. “I regret all the deaths, but I repeat. It had to be done.” He bowed his head, the first gesture toward conventional etiquette which he had made. “There is nothing more to say, Serenity. Truly.”

It was a dismissal, and Maia was too horrified to argue with it. He nodded to Ishilar, and Shulivar was taken away.

“
Now
will you leave?” Beshelar muttered.

Maia stood up, and he did not miss the expressions of relief on the faces of all the guards. When Corporal Ishilar returned, Maia said, “Thank you for your help. And your patience.”

Ishilar went pink. “It is our honor to serve you, Serenity,” he said, and all the guards saluted. Maia went back to the Alcethmeret and tried not to think about Shulivar. Tried not to think about Shulivar’s terrible philosophy and his father’s lace-veiled corpse. For the first time, he understood why Setheris had spent so much time drunk. If it would stop the clamor in his head, it would be worth it.

But not worth having to ask Isheian or Nemer or someone to bring him a decanter of metheglin. Not worth the way Beshelar would look at him. Instead, he let his edocharei prepare him for bed, although he was almost certain he would be unable to sleep.

He lay on the bed and closed his eyes so he wouldn’t look at Beshelar, and the next thing he knew was Avris saying, “Serenity, it is a beautiful morning and the Great Avar has sent you three messages already about meeting him in the east stables.”

That’s right,
Maia thought,
I have a horse now.

He sat up. “Do we have time?”

“Yes, Serenity,” Avris said. “The Great Avar has made that very plain.”

“Avris?”

Avris said, “The Great Avar, Serenity, has spoken very firmly on the subject to Lord Berenar and Mer Aisava and we know not whom else. He says that you must be allowed time to do things that are for yourself or you will go mad.”

“Oh.” Maia felt his face heating.

“So you have the entire morning, Serenity,” Avris said encouragingly. “And the Great Avar is waiting.”

Maia was aware of the irony, but he was too grateful for his grandfather interference to resent it.

And he pushed the memory of Shulivar’s blue eyes, of his father’s ragged face beneath the funeral veil, as far from himself as he could.

33

The Great Avar Departs

The Great Avar did not himself ride, being, as he said, far too fat and far too old, but he seemed happy to spend mornings in the east stables while Maia was taught the rudiments of staying on a horse. Maia heard snatches of his conversation with Dachensol Rosharis, the head groom of the Untheileneise Court; as best he could tell, both men were enjoying themselves, although he understood no more than one word in five. Certainly, the Great Avar seemed very smug on the last day of his stay when he and Dachensol Rosharis presented the elaborate plan of buying and selling and borrowing and gifting between the stables of the Untheileneise Court and the stables of the Corat’ Dav Arhos that they had worked out. If Rosharis hadn’t seemed equally smug, Maia would have been worried.

The Great Avar chose to leave after luncheon; he could make Uvezho easily, he said, and he had approved greatly of the hotel there. The luncheon was, predictably, magnificent; once again in Gormened’s
dav
and surrounded by Barizheise cuisine, Maia found himself bewildered by the options offered and had to stick to the mushroom and venison pie, which was the first thing Gormened mentioned that he felt relatively confident about. And he did
not
accept a cup of sorcho.

Luncheon was perhaps two-thirds over (as Maia judged—he still had no idea how the goblins reckoned the length of a meal) when the Great Avar settled himself in the chair next to Maia’s.

Maia became instantly tense.

“We shan’t eat you, boy,” the Great Avar said, but his expression was forbidding. Maia said nothing, waiting, and the Great Avar finally sighed and said, “We have no sons.”

“Yes,” Maia said cautiously.

“When we die, the avarsin will have to fight among themselves to choose the next Great Avar, for such is the custom when the Great Avar has no son and sometimes even when he has.”

“Yes,” Maia said even more cautiously.

The Great Avar gave him a hard look. “We would be more pleased an we could name you our heir.”

“Me?”
His voice was shrill and almost soundless with the shock.

“Half-elvish though thou art,” the Great Avar agreed, seeming to take Maia’s inadvertent use of the first-familiar as a cue to change his own level of formality. “Thou wouldst be a sword plunged into the anthill of the avarsin, truly, and I should take the thought most happily to my grave. But it cannot be done without destroying Barizhan, and that I do not want.”

“No,” Maia agreed—perhaps too hastily, for it made the Avar smirk.

“However, I am not pleased at leaving thee here among these elves. We have always thought them a cold people, but I tell you, any goblin would be ashamed to behave as hotly to his avar as they have behaved to thee. Attempts to usurp thee! Attempts to murder thee! Among the avarsin, it is at least an honest fight.”

“It is not typical,” Maia offered.

The Avar snorted. “That is what they say, but I must tell you I am not so sure.” His fierce orange eyes pinned Maia. “I wish you to know that, if you need it, Gormened will give you sanctuary. And I am leaving a half eshpekh stationed here, with Vizhenka as their captain.”

“Vizhenka?” Maia said.

“If I have trusted him with myself, and with my daughter, I think I can trust him with my grandson.”

“But—”

“And I think Nadeian will be happier out of the Corat’ Dav Arhos.”

That stopped Maia’s next protest. The Great Avar was glowering at him, as if daring him to draw any conclusion at all, but Maia remembered Nadeian’s passionate disregard for political decisions, and thought he understood.

The Great Avar nodded sharply. “If thou needst them, know that they are here,” he said, and hauled himself to his feet again. “Gormened! You promised us khevaral!”

Maia was rather abstracted for several minutes; when he pulled his attention back to his surroundings, he found Captain Vizhenka standing in front of him, looking as uncertain as it was possible for a man of his physique and temperament to look.