The Goblin Emperor (7 page)

He had known of the concordat—half cease-fire, half alliance—maintained between Parliament, Corazhas, and Judiciate, supporting the emperor between them like the legs of a fragile and argumentative tripod, but he had never had more than the narrowest crack of a view of them. Now, suddenly, he was surrounded by—almost drowning in—a brilliantly colored panorama: the clamoring House of Commons, the disdainful House of Blood, still resentful all these centuries later that they had to negotiate with men who were merely
elected;
the delicate internecine feuds of the judiciars, no fewer than eleven of whom had sent letters by the pneumatic, each with language more impenetrable than the last; the seven Witnesses of the Corazhas, the advisers of the emperor, none of whom had sent anything in his own person except the most correct and restrained of condolences and good wishes, but whose secretaries had created a deluge of vellum and paper. Then there were the lesser lords and courtiers and merchants and civil servants.… And on top of this madness, the emperor was supposed to keep his balance?

The worst was a letter from someone named Eshevis Tethimar, a letter so dense with hints, obscurities, and circumlocutions that Maia could make no sense of it at all, even after Csevet had explained that Eshevis Tethimar was the heir of the Duke Tethimel, one of the wealthiest landowners in southern Thu-Athamar.

“But what does he want?”

“Although we cannot say for certain…”

“Please. We beg of you. Guess.”

Csevet flicked his ears. “We would guess that Dach’osmer Tethimar is a suitor for the hand of the Archduchess Vedero.”

Maia looked doubtfully at the letter, which he still held. “He does not mention our sister.”

“Well, he can’t,” said Cala.

“Beg pardon?”

“Serenity,” Csevet said. “After the furor about the Archduchess Nemriän’s marriage…?”

“Yes,” said Maia. The tempests surrounding the marriage of the elder archduchess, Nemriän, had penetrated even to Isvaroë. He had only been five, but he remembered the breathless gossip of his mother’s maid and the housekeeper and the cook, his mother smiling as she pretended not to listen.

“The emperor swore that there would be no public discussion of his second daughter’s marriage until the ceremony of signing.”

“And?” Maia said.

“And there hasn’t been,” Csevet said with a helpless shrug. “And everyone who would know was on board the
Wisdom of Choharo.
Except, of course, the archduchess.”

“Has our sister written?”

“No, Serenity.”

Maia shut his eyes in a wince. He had not expected that someone who had
not
written a letter could be a problem. “And so Dach’osmer Tethimar?”

“Is fishing, Serenity,” Csevet said.

“He wants to know how much you know. And he wants to know what you may be willing to concede to him.”

“Concede?”

“The Tethimada have been a thorn in the emperor’s paw for decades,” Csevet said. “They are powerful in their own holdings, and they lead the faction of the eastern lords who are most opposed to the expansion of industry in the west. We know that Varenechibel was most desirous of finding a compromise with them.”

“Indeed,” Maia said. He felt a bolt of nauseous panic, as if he were a mouse who had stepped on the trigger-plate of a mousetrap and saw his doom in the instant before it broke his neck. He was
emperor
now. Factions and industry and compromises and the war against the barbarians in the north: they were all
his
responsibility, and if he made the wrong choice, hundreds of thousands of people might suffer. People might even die, and all because their emperor was too young and stupid to know how to save them.

“Serenity,” Csevet said, sounding cautious. “It is very encroaching of Dach’osmer Tethimar to write you such a letter at this time. We can write back, at just as great a length as he, and give him no information at all.”

In his own ears, Maia’s laugh sounded like the choke of a dying mouse, but it was a laugh and not a scream, so he supposed he should count it a victory. “Yes, please, Csevet. We should appreciate it.”

And then, when at last they had reached the bottom of the stack, Esaran returned with three nervous young men in tow. One of them was about Csevet’s age, the other two about Beshelar’s age—four or five years older—and Maia felt oppressed by the irony of being the youngest person in the room, and yet the person to whom all the others were bowing.

The three young men were Esha, Nemer, and Avris. Esha and Nemer were goblin-dark, like Maia himself; Avris was pale. Esaran did not think their surnames worthy of mention. They were to be Maia’s edocharei, “unless Your Serenity is pleased to indicate otherwise,” Esaran said with her eyebrows lifted, and Maia had to disclaim hastily before Nemer, the youngest, burst into tears. On her way out, Esaran delivered a vicious parting shot: “Tomorrow, of course, Your Serenity, you will wish to discuss with the kitchen master the meals for the coming week, but for tonight we thought it right to tell him he could prepare something simple.”

One more duty landed across Maia’s shoulders. He said, “Thank you, Esaran,” because he had to.

Csevet suggested firmly to the edocharei that they should go up and familiarize themselves with the emperor’s private chambers and that moreover they could make themselves useful by preparing the rooms for use. Maia could only watch in hopeless admiration as this tactic cleared the room of his newest anxious dependents, and then Csevet turned back and said, “Serenity, there is one other matter.”

“There is?”

“We do not like to bring it up, but we cannot…”

Back straight, hands folded in lap, face controlled. “Tell us,” Maia said.

“It is the letter from Dach’osmer Tethimar that made us think of it,” Csevet said. “Serenity, you must begin to consider your own marriage.”

“
Marriage?
But I’m not even emperor yet! I mean—” And then he realized he had broken formality into seventy embarrassing pieces and bit his tongue.

“It will be the first thing on the minds of many of the court,” Csevet said.

“All of those with marriageable daughters,” Beshelar put in cynically.

“But we don’t wish to marry anyone,” Maia protested, and at least it was the correct level of formality, even if the tone was perilously near whining.

“You will have to sooner or later, unless you intend to let Idra Drazhar succeed you, which we would not recommend.”

“Know you something to the discredit of our nephew?”

“How could we? He is a child still. We were thinking, Serenity, of the example of Belmaliven the Fifth.”

Maia took his point. Belmaliven V, coming to the throne after the sudden death of his brother Belmaliven IV, had felt the succession amply secured by his two nephews, so he had not divorced his beloved but barren wife. In the second year of his reign, he was deposed and murdered by “supporters” of his elder nephew, who was crowned as Belvesena XI and survived as a sickly puppet for six years before he in turn was ousted by his brother, Belmaliven VI. The exact manner and date of Belvesena’s death were not known, but it was generally assumed that he had not long survived his brother’s coronation and that his death had not been an accident.

“You think it necessary for us to move this quickly?” Maia asked unhappily.

“Serenity,” said Csevet, “we think that you should be prepared for the matter to arise. And we think that you should be well enough informed to make a decision, rather than being pushed into marriage as the late emperor was on more than one occasion.”

Maia winced.

Csevet’s eyes widened. “Serenity, we beg your pardon. We did not mean—”

“No, we understand. And you are perfectly correct.” Panic was back, knocking against his ribs, tightening clammy fingers around his throat. He swallowed hard. “How would you suggest we proceed?”

“Let us gather information for you,” Csevet said. “That is, if you will trust us to do so?”

I must trust someone,
Maia thought. “Yes, please.”

“We will see to it.”

The headache was getting worse; Maia was cravenly grateful that one of Esaran’s underlings appeared at that moment to announce dinner, before Csevet could come up with another “one other matter.”

Csevet excused himself gracefully, sparing Maia the necessity of determining how many people Esaran had told the kitchen master to prepare for. The emperor ate in solitary splendor, with his nohecharei again seated one to either side of the dining room door.

Egg-and-broth soup, an eel casserole, seared colewort: Maia ate without tasting any of it, from some unknown reserve dredging up a smile for the timid server—another one with goblin blood—and praise to be relayed to the kitchen master and chefs. Dessert was a sorbet; it tasted like winter, and Maia only wished he could transfer the blissful cold to his throbbing temples. The server presented him with a cordial before he could tell her not to, and after the first sip, he said abruptly to his nohecharei, “When will you eat?”

“Serenity?” said Beshelar, startled. Cala seemed to focus his eyes as if from a very great distance away.

“You must eat,” Maia said. “When?”

“When you are in bed, Serenity,” Cala said. “We will trade off, one to guard while the other eats. You must not worry about us.”

“Could you not—after tonight—eat with us?”

Beshelar’s expression was, predictably, scandalized. Cala smiled. “After tonight, Your Serenity, you will not be eating alone.”

“Oh, yes,” Maia said, and drained the rest of the cordial in one swallow. “How stupid of us to forget.”

Cala coughed discreetly. “We understand from Mer Aisava that Your Serenity got no sleep last night.”

“Very little,” Maia said, resisting the urge to rub his blurred and aching eyes.

“Then we suggest Your Serenity retire to bed. Your edocharei will be waiting to care for you, and you may with good conscience and peaceful soul imagine us dining as well as you just have.”

“Serenity,” said Beshelar, “Cala Athmaza is frivolous, but his suggestion is a wise one.”

The effort not to laugh was almost too much for him. Maia bit his lip and got to his feet. His bones ached and his muscles seemed made of lead, but he was satisfied that his legs would hold him. “We thank you,” he said to both of them.

It was embarrassing how close they stayed to him, one to either side, on the way up the stairs. Two full turns around the Alcethmeret to the doors of the emperor’s bedchambers, where Esha and Avris were waiting. They paused there, nohecharei and edocharei eyeing each other uncertainly. Maia, too tired to be politic, said, “Cala, will you stay?”

“Yes, Serenity,” Cala said; Beshelar offered a stiff salute and stalked back down the stairs.

Young and nervous they might be, but his edocharei knew their job. They unpinned his hair, unfastened his clothing, so smooth and swift and silent about their work that he was naked in front of them before he remembered to be self-conscious about his skinny frame or the ugly color of his skin. In mere moments more they had him clad again, this time in a nightshirt as soft as a cloud, and were braiding his hair for the night.

One of them—Esha, he thought, although he was no longer sure of anything—assured him that they had changed all the bedding and it was clean and well aired, and he was aware of lying down, of gentle hands helping with the covers, and then he remembered nothing more.

He woke once in the night, from a confused nightmare of Setheris telling him that his mother was in the burning wreckage of the
Wisdom of Choharo,
and a voice said softly in the darkness, “Serenity?”

“Who?” Maia said thickly.

“It’s I, Cala. You had a bad dream, it sounds like. It’s all right.”

“Cala,” Maia said, remembering kind blue eyes. “Thank you.” And then he fell into sleep again, as helplessly heavy as the
Wisdom of Choharo
crashing to the earth.

PART TWO

The Coronation of Edrehasivar VII

6

The Widow Empress

Maia opened his eyes to glowing sunlight and lay blinking in puzzlement. This was not his room in Edonomee; it was not his barely remembered room in Isvaroë. The bed-hangings were far too sumptuous for either, and the wrestling cats of the Drazhada worked into the brocade suggested he must be in one of his father’s households, but …

When he remembered where he was and what had happened, he was convinced that he was dreaming.

The thought was a tremendous relief.

Soon he would awaken in his own narrow, sagging bed in Edonomee, and he might not even remember having had such a ridiculous dream. An he did, it would remind him to be satisfied with what he had rather than pining after what he did not.

A sound and valuable moral lesson,
Maia thought with sleepy satisfaction, and then the sound of a door opening brought him up on one elbow, confusedly fearing that it would be Setheris coming to tell him a messenger had arrived from his father.

But it was a skinny, dark boy in Drazhadeise livery—Nemer, Maia remembered—who seemed slightly alarmed to find Maia awake, but blinked and said timidly that he had been sent to discover what kind of tea His Imperial Serenity favored with breakfast.

Merciful goddesses,
let
this be a dream
—but it was not.

“Chamomile,” which his mother had loved and Setheris hated. “Thank you.”

“Serenity,” Nemer answered, bowing. “Do you wish to breakfast in bed or…”

“No,” Maia said. He felt vulnerable in this enormous expanse of bed, dressed only in a nightshirt. “We will rise, thank you.”

“Serenity,” Nemer said, bowing again, and effaced himself.

“Serenity,” another voice said from the opposite corner of the room, startling Maia into a yelp and very nearly into falling off the bed.

It was Beshelar. He had clearly chosen his position so that he could watch every corner of the oddly shaped room, and of course it was Beshelar, whose great talent seemed to be for making his emperor feel like a gauche and grubby boy.