The Goblin Emperor (25 page)

Two more soldiers in the uniform of the Hezhethora were standing at the doors to the ambassador’s section of the Untheileneise Court. They saluted and opened the doors, moving in clockwork-perfect unison. Maia was surprised that the ambassador had so many of the Great Avar’s warriors, but a whispered confidence from Teia explained it: “Aren’t they grand? They came with the courier from Maru’var. Inver and Belu spent all day practicing with the doors and they made Vorzhis send for someone to oil them.”

“Vorzhis says he’ll be glad when they go back to Barizhan,” Esret said, as gleeful as Teia, “but we all know he doesn’t mean it. Maybe you could come watch them drill? They’re
amazing.
”

Maia’s gaze crossed that of the soldier holding the left-hand door; he was so astonished when the man winked that he nearly forgot to keep walking. He had known that relations between Barizheise nobles and their dependents were more familial than formal, but it was inexpressibly startling to be included in that. He wondered if it was because of the empress his mother or his kinship to Osmerrem Gormened or if the ambassador had made a particularly astute judgment of his character.

That thought was not a happy one. Maia was frowning as he entered the receiving room, although he had to pull himself together immediately to respond to Osmerrem Gormened’s magnificent curtsy, and then the ambassador was there, bowing and smiling and so clearly anxious for Maia to be pleased that he could not hold on to his suspicious detachment. There was a whole host of introductions to be made; Gormened must have prevailed on every Barizheise expatriate in Cetho to attend, and the opportunity to meet the emperor was, of course, a new one for them. Varenechibel would hardly have been welcoming to the goblin community.

They were all shades from goblin-black to elvish-white; some of them had red or orange or gold eyes, others blue or green. Their bone structure varied widely, too, some heavy-boned with the underslung goblin jaw, others with the fine pointed features characteristic of elves. It was the first time in his life Maia had been surrounded by people who were like him instead of only snow-white elves with their pale eyes, and he missed several names in the effort not to faint or hyperventilate or burst into tears. He was steadied by the sight of Chavar’s glowering face; it was all too easy to imagine Setheris behind him.

Most of the goblins present were merchants and wealthy. He noticed a distinct divide, though, in that the older goblins seemed to deal primarily in silk, while the younger generation had a diversity of interests: clocks, pens, the machine-woven carpets from Choharo—the goods represented by the Trade Association of the Western Ethuveraz, to put it succinctly. He also noticed that insofar as Chavar could be said to unbend, it was toward the silk merchants. Silk was produced in Thu-Athamar and had been the bedrock of the Ethuverazheise economy for so many centuries that it was practically respectable.

All at once, Maia understood that the conflict over bridging the Istandaärtha was less about either the river or the bridge than it was about trade. The eastern Ethuveraz had always, since Edrevenivar the Conqueror united east and west, been significantly wealthier and more powerful than the western principalities, and their wealth and power were based in large part on the silk trade, which was controlled by a handful of noble families. That had begun to change with the gold rush in Maia’s grandfather’s day, the founding of Ezho, and was continuing to change as the artisans and merchants of the western cities learned to cooperate among themselves, but the power of the silk monopoly would be dreadfully imperiled, possibly destroyed, by a bridge over the Istandaärtha—a cheap, easy, and safe way, not merely for increasing trade, but also for the peasant families who did all the work of silk production simply to leave. And thus the two sides—quite literally, the east and west banks of the Istandaärtha—one longing ardently for the bridge and the other abhorring even the mention of it. And there stood the emperor in the middle.

It was some time before he was able to find a corner of relative quiet to speak to Gormened. “We must thank you,” he said, already embarrassed but determined, “for the nesecho.”

“The nesecho?” Gormened’s eyes were very sharp, but not unkind. “Did you like it, Serenity?”

“We had to get one of our gardeners to explain it,” Maia said, “but we did keep it.” He pulled the nesecho, threaded on its golden chain, out of his inner pocket.

Gormened’s face lit in an astonished smile. “We are honored, Serenity, and very pleased.”

“Thank you,” Maia said, tucking the nesecho away again, “but why did you send it to us?” He hoped he sounded like he was asking,
Why are you seeking our imperial favor?
but he was afraid his real question—
Why are you being nice to me?
—was all too apparent.

Certainly, Gormened seemed puzzled, which he would not have been by a purely political question. “Why should we not have?” he said, watching Maia carefully. “Your Serenity was facing—is, indeed, still facing—a formidable task, and we wished to convey—” He shrugged, a wide and comprehensive gesture. “—if not our support, precisely, for we are loyal to Maru’var, then our sympathy? Our benevolence? We wished you to know that we were not your enemy. Are not your enemy. For it seemed to us all too probable that you would be in need of that reassurance from at least one quarter.”

Involuntarily, Maia’s eyes found Chavar, standing like a pillar of thunder among the guests.

“Exactly,” said Gormened crisply, and turned to introduce Maia to someone else.

Maia escorted Osmerrem Gormened into dinner; he had so much to think about that he forgot to be anxious and instead asked her a number of questions about what goods were considered luxuries in Barizhan and about trade with other countries across the Chadevan Sea. She was puzzled but cooperative, and ended up enlisting the help of the gentleman on her other side, a silk merchant who had been a sea-trader in his youth—possibly a pirate, if Maia understood the nuances of the conversation correctly—and who knew all about spices and gems and lion-girls and other exotic things that rarely made it as far north as the Ethuveraz. He warmed to his topic as he saw that Maia was truly interested, and he progressed from simple information to wilder and wilder stories. By the time the cucumber salad was cleared and the yam and pork curry served, their entire end of the table was listening unabashedly to Mer Zhidelka. A little later, he was sketching maps on the tablecloth in salt and spilled wine, recounting the adventures of the steamship
Benevolence of Marigolds
in the Archipelagar Wars, and people farther down the table were craning to listen. Mer Zhidelka’s fund of stories seemed inexhaustible, and Maia was both enthralled and grateful.

The curry was removed and replaced with tiny, exquisite lemon sorbets, and Ambassador Gormened rose. “We have an announcement to make,” he said, his trained voice cutting easily through Mer Zhidelka’s description of the barbaric practices of the Versheleen Islanders, “both delightful and unprecedented. Maru Sevraseched, the Avar of Avarsin, chooses this year to celebrate Winternight at his grandson’s court.”

Chavar, even though he’d known full well it was coming, looked as though he’d found pith in his sorbet. The Barizheise guests murmured and exclaimed.

“We are pleased,” Gormened continued, “that the emperor and the court have agreed to welcome the Great Avar of Barizhan, and we will be working closely with the Lord Chancellor—” He bowed toward Chavar. “—and the Witness for Foreigners—” He bowed toward Lord Bromar “—to ensure that this Winternight is a splendid and fitting celebration of the close ties between our two countries and the beginning of the reign of Edrehasivar the Seventh, may it be long and prosperous!”

Applause, but Gormened and one by one the guests were turning to look at Maia, and he realized they were expecting him to make some sort of speech. His mouth went instantly dry, and his hands were shaking as he pushed back his chair.
Better thee than Chavar,
he told himself; one look at the Lord Chancellor’s sour face was enough to convince him of that.

He stood, gripping the edge of the table so tightly that his rings bit into his fingers, and said, “Thank you, Ambassador Gormened.” Horribly, his mind had gone blank except for all the things he
shouldn’t
say:
We promise our Lord Chancellor will behave,
for one,
We have always wondered about our grandfather,
for another. Finally, lamely, he said, “We feel this Winternight will be most memorable, and we have utmost faith in you and in Lord Chavar and in Lord Bromar. Thank you.” He hoped it was not obvious that he was sitting down to keep his knees from giving out, but even without that humiliation, it had not been much of a speech. He could see from Chavar’s expression amidst the polite applause that not only would Varenechibel have done better, but so would Maia’s fourteen-year-old nephew Idra. Probably, Idra’s little sisters would have done better.

Setheris punished me for talking too much,
he wanted to protest, but it would do him no good. He reached for his wine goblet.

Osmerrem Gormened said to Mer Zhidelka, “We fear we have become slightly turned around. Where exactly are the Versheleen Islands?” and Ambassador Gormened signaled to the servitors to bring in the rich, peppery hot chocolate with which goblins finished winter meals. It was a kindness he would not have received from the elvish court. Even if they were deliberately seeking his favor, they were doing so with a generosity of spirit for which Maia was deeply grateful.

He looked at Chavar, scowling darkly and ignoring his neighbors, and then looked away quickly and set himself to attend to Mer Zhidelka’s stories. He would take goodwill wherever he could find it.

He found himself brooding, though, about goodwill and political alliances and other things, and later, back in the pretend privacy of the Alcethmeret, he asked “What if Dach’osmin Ceredin does not wish to marry us?”

Csevet looked at him as if he’d run mad. “In the first place, Serenity, what likelihood is there of any young woman of birth and breeding not
wishing
to be empress? In the second place, you may be sure the Ceredada will not let her do anything so foolish as to refuse you.”

In other words,
Maia thought,
her wishes are of no more importance than mine.
“What must we do? Is it all to be handled by secretaries?”

“There will be a formal meeting, Serenity. Other than that, it would be grossly improper for you to have any contact with her before the marriage contract is signed.”

“Oh,” Maia said, disheartened.

“Although,” Csevet said cautiously, “it would not be improper to include a personal letter with the formal offer of marriage. It is not
always
done, but it is not wrong.”

“All right,” he said, although the idea was daunting. Then he thought of something even worse. “Is she
here
? At court?”

Csevet’s cough might have been a strangled laugh. “She attended your coronation, Serenity.” After a moment, he added, his voice carefully noncommittal, “We also understand that she is of the Archduchess Vedero’s circle.”

“You didn’t mention that before,” Maia said, and hated how sulky he sounded.

“We have been making inquiries. And—you did not ask.”

For all that it was very gently said, it was a rebuke, and one Maia knew he deserved. He felt his face heat and bent his head, biting his tongue against the excuses and complaints that crowded it. Instead, he asked, “Is she an astronomer, too?”

“That, Serenity, we do not know. But the archduchess’s circle includes women interested in all branches of learning.”

Maia had another question, one that had been bothering him for some time. “The universities are open to women. We know this. Why do these women not—why did our sister not attend?”

There was an unhappy pause before Csevet said, “To do so, Serenity, she would have needed the permission of her father. And a university education is felt to make a woman unfit to be a wife.”

“And that was all our father cared for,” Maia finished.

“Serenity,” said Csevet, not quite openly agreeing.

“We must write to her,” Maia said, feeling the truth of it, “but what are we to say?”

“We do not know, Serenity. But you have no other obligations tonight.”

Meaning that Csevet thought he should write to Dach’osmin Ceredin now. Maia supposed he was right about that, too.

Although the Untheileneise Court’s gaslights meant that the hours of the court were not ruled by the sun, Ambassador Gormened had chosen to follow the older tradition of ending winter meals, if not at sundown, then substantially earlier than most court functions. Maia suspected he had very sensibly found a graceful and plausible pretext to end his party before anything went wrong. Thus, Maia had an unwontedly lengthy stretch of unclaimed time, and he spent it all in laboring over draft after discarded draft of his letter to Dach’osmin Ceredin. When he went to bed—ironically, much later than usual—he was not so much satisfied with the product of his efforts as despairing of any chance that he might do better:

To Dach’osmin Csethiro Ceredin, greetings:

We fear this must be strange and awkward for you, as it is for us.

We are sorry for that. We wish to be a good husband to you. We ask you to be honest with us, to tell us when we offend or wound you, for we will not do so purposely, but only out of ignorance.

With hopefulness,
Edrehasivar VII Drazhar

He could not write,
We are not our father,
although his fingers cramped on the pen with the desire to do so.

He sealed his pathetically short missive with his signet, trying to take hope from the clear imprint of the cat-serpent on the wax, and wrote Dach’osmin Ceredin’s name on the envelope, then bore it upstairs to his bedroom, for he had realized that he could not let it be sent until he knew for certain that Dach’osmin Ceredin had been informed of the honor which was landing on her shoulders. Nothing could be a worse botch than for his letter to arrive by pneumatic before the courier had even been assigned to bear the formal offer.