The Goblin Emperor (48 page)

Maia had nowhere he could dodge to, trapped as he was in the uncomfortable grandeur of the throne, but even as he was pressing futilely against the back of the chair, his thoughts a jumble of prayer and disbelief, something came between him and Tethimar and there was a crack like lightning, and the sharp reek of ozone. Maia could not see what happened then, a moment of violent confusion, and then he found he was pinned against the throne by the weight of Deret Beshelar, who was lying, bleeding, in his lap. Tethimar was a huddle of velvet and silk at Maia’s feet, and Cala was shaking his hands out as if they hurt.

Belatedly, Csoru Zhasanai screamed.

Maia swallowed down the desire to do the same and said to Beshelar, “Is it very bad?”

Beshelar twitched. “Oh, gods, sorry. Sorry.” He jerked himself to his feet. “We beg pardon, Serenity.”

“For saving our life? Beshelar, you most incomparable idiot—” His voice cracked and he didn’t even care. “Are you all right?”

“I…” Beshelar stared down at Tethimar, who was not moving.

“Let me look,” Cala said firmly, and Beshelar extended his bleeding arm as obediently as a child.

“Serenity!” Csevet scrambled up on the dais, and Maia lost track of Beshelar and Cala in the whirling chaos that ensued, as several women had hysterics; a number of valuable dignitaries were hustled away by their personal guards; the Hezhethora formed a bristling square around the Great Avar; and the Untheileneise Guard had hysterics of its own, as it tried to simultaneously guard the emperor and scour the court for further threats.

What Maia remembered most clearly, later, was his grandfather’s voice raised above the tumult, apostrophizing his soldiers as a bunch of moon-witted ninnies.

It took some time for Csevet and Lord Berenar—each working, as it were, from opposite ends of the problem—to meet in the middle and restore order. Maia was of no use to them and was ashamed of it, but the thing came crashing down on him in stages—first that Dach’osmer Tethimar had actually tried to kill him; then that Dach’osmer Tethimar was dead (“Oh yes,” he heard Cala’s voice in answer to someone’s question, “very dead.”); then that Dach’osmer Tethimar had been killed by
Cala
and that the smell of ozone had come from a death-spell (“revethmaz” was the word, and it jangled unstoppably in his head); and then finally that Dach’osmer Tethimar had to be the person who had been behind his father’s death—and he could do nothing but sit and shake and once make a desperately hasty trip to the nearest lavatory, where he remained afterwards in a huddle, unwilling to trust either his knees or his guts, until someone got alarmed enough to fetch Csevet and Csevet had the sense to send someone else to fetch Kiru, who came and said impatiently, “It’s a perfectly understandable reaction to being very nearly assassinated. We would suggest letting His Serenity go to bed, but if you feel you cannot, then fetch some strong, sweet tea and someone to take charge of this nonsensical jewelry.” She came into the lavatory, and he found he was grateful that she had been a cleric of Csaivo when he was still in leading strings, for she helped him put himself back together without scolding and without making things worse by being shocked or sympathetic. He could tell that she was not as calm as she was trying to seem, but that just made it more like a conspiracy between them, and he appreciated it.

The tea arrived with his edocharei, who were
very
shocked and
very
sympathetic, but he could bear up under it by then and was glad for their deft and much practiced help in shedding the jewels and the ornate and uncomfortable jacket. Avris had brought the fur-lined robe that Maia was normally not allowed to wear beyond the grilles of the Alcethmeret, and he wrapped himself in that while Nemer repinned his hair, and when he emerged again (
like a butterfly from a most unusual chrysalis,
he thought, and had to turn a choke of laughter into a cough), he was able to say, “Let us remove to the Verven’theileian, where we will not all
echo
at each other,” and be obeyed.

The chairs in the Verven’theileian were comfortable, and none of them was a throne. Maia sat and cradled his teacup in both hands and watched Csevet and Lord Berenar use the choke point of the door as a way to reduce the number of persons involved. There was a great deal of arguing, which Maia decided he did not need to listen to, until his attention was caught by a woman’s voice, deep and clear and carrying.

“Let her in,” he said to Csevet.

“Serenity,” Csevet began, turning to face him, and his body no longer blocked Maia’s view of Dach’osmin Ceredin. They stared at each other; then she dropped a curtsy and said, “No, we need not encumber you. We wished merely to see for ourself that you are unharmed. Good night, Serenity.” She took two strides, then turned back to say, sharp and sudden, a sword sliding out of a scabbard, “We would have
gutted
him, if he were not already dead.”

She was absolutely true to her word. She did not linger, and the silence she left behind her lasted only a moment, only long enough for Maia to recognize a feeling almost like warmth at her concern. And then the arguing started again. In the end, it was the three of them—Maia, Csevet, and Berenar—plus all four of Maia’s nohecharei, Captain Orthema, and Captain Vizhenka of the Hezhethora—the Great Avar had allowed himself to be persuaded to bed only on the understanding that he should have a representative in the Verven’theileian, and Maia, seeing both that his obstreperousness came from genuine fury and concern and that arguing with him was doing nothing but taking up time and energy, had agreed. “Would you rather have Gormened?” he had muttered to Lord Berenar, and Berenar had reluctantly agreed. Better a soldier than a courtier in this council.

Captain Vizhenka, who pacified Captain Orthema by saying outright that he was here at the Avar’s request, not in any official capacity as a representative of the Hezhethora or of Barizhan, swiftly proved invaluable. He had been watching the dancers rather than participating, and he had observed Eshevis Tethimar’s progress through the Untheileian. “He attracted the eye,” the captain said, “because he did not dance and because when he stopped to speak to someone, it was always a man. We could tell that his business was very important, but we did not realize it was deadly. We are sorry, Serenity.”

“We didn’t realize either,” Beshelar said gruffly. His arm had been bandaged and he was reluctantly drinking a cup of Kiru’s strong sweet tea; he was glowering at everyone.

“Did you recognize any of the men Dach’osmer Tethimar spoke to?” said Lord Berenar. “At the least, we should ask them what he said.”

Vizhenka said, “We have been at some pains to learn your court, for Maru’var desired it of us. He says that he is old and his memory is failing, but the truth is that he has never had a good memory for names. Dach’osmer Tethimar spoke first to the Count Solichel, then to the Count Nethenel and Mer Reshema, and finally to Dach’osmer Ubezhar.”

Everyone looked increasingly dismal as Vizhenka’s list grew. All of them were lords of Thu-Tetar and Thu-Athamar. “All,” said Csevet, “are related, on the mother’s side or through marriage, to the Tethimada. And we know Dach’osmer Ubezhar went to Amalo to assist in the negotiations surrounding his kinswoman’s marriage.”

Berenar, Orthema, and Vizhenka looked bewildered. “Serenity?” asked Berenar.

“Csevet, will you fetch the letter, please?” Maia said, and while Csevet was gone, he told the others of Mer Celehar’s investigations.

“Why did you not tell us?” Lord Berenar demanded when he had finished; from his fulminating expression, Captain Orthema was wondering the same thing.

“Because we had—and have—no proof. Mer Celehar’s suspicions, although we believe them to be correct, are nothing more than that. Even now, we do not have
proof
that Dach’osmer Tethimar was involved in the murder of our father.”

“But—!” said Telimezh, and subsided. Maia thought Kiru had kicked him.

“We think, however,” Lord Berenar was beginning briskly, when Csevet returned, slightly out of breath and frowning.

“Serenity,” he said, “we have the letter. But we also have an urgent request—if you feel that you can, perhaps while these gentlemen are reading Mer Celehar’s words, your presence is greatly desired in the nursery.”

“The children!” Maia realized he had jolted to his feet. “Are they—”

“They are unharmed,” Csevet said quickly. “No attempt had been made against them. But they have heard of the, ah, disturbance in the Untheileian and they are…” He bit his lip and finally offered, “distraught.”

“Oh.” He could imagine it, losing father, grandfather, uncles, then their mother, and now not knowing what had happened to the person who had taken on the mantle of their protector. “We will come at once,” he said. “Gentlemen, you must excuse us. Please, read Mer Celehar’s letter. We believe Mer Aisava knows as much about this matter as we do. He will stay and answer your questions. If you can come up with a way to proceed from here, we shall be very pleased to hear about it upon our return.”

He started for the door, and all four of his nohecharei sprang up.

Maia stopped, baffled. “We do not need all four of you.”

Beshelar and Kiru both began to speak and subsided, glaring at each other.

“Well?”

“Lieutenant Beshelar is injured,” Kiru said. “He should not be on duty. We have already told him he should be in bed.”

“We are perfectly well,” Beshelar said.

“You’re the color of old cheese,” Cala said, quite audibly. “But
we
are perfectly well, Serenity, and there is no need for Kiru Athmaza to lose any more sleep.”

Cala was not ‘perfectly well’; Maia could see the tremor in his hands, and the way in which it periodically racked his whole body with a shudder.
He killed a man tonight,
Maia thought, and felt oddly as if his heart were breaking.

“There’s no need for Telimezh to lose sleep, either,” Beshelar was saying fiercely. “The second nohecharei must come on duty this evening whether we go to bed now or not, and it seems ill-advised to us for them to go needlessly without rest.”

“As ill-advised as guarding the emperor with a great bloody rent in your arm?” Cala said, and his voice was too sharp, not like him.

“It is no—”

“Stop!” They turned and looked at him, wide-eyed, and he realized he had come very close to yelling.

“Cala, Beshelar, go to bed,” he said firmly. “Kiru and Telimezh may guard us until this evening, when you may pick up the next shift. Unless there is something sacred about the First Nohecharei guarding us on even-numbered midnights?”

All four nohecharei went shades of red; Cala recovered first. “No, Serenity. Come on, Beshelar. You know you’ll feel better for some sleep.” And for all Beshelar’s bravado, he seemed relieved to be able to stop arguing. Maia jerked his head at Kiru and Telimezh and at last made it out of the Verven’theileian.

When he reached the Alcethmeret, he found Leilis Athmaza fidgeting anxiously in the hall outside the nursery grilles. “Serenity. We are … we are very pleased to see that you are unharmed.”

“Thank you. Mer Aisava said the children were alarmed?”

“Yes, Serenity. It was impossible to be unaware of the commotion, you see, and Prince Idra desired us to find out what was going on. Unfortunately, we could get no clear answers, but we all knew you had not returned to the Alcethmeret, and…”

“We understand,” Maia said and added, to the guilt in Leilis Athmaza’s face, “We do not see that you are to blame. It is not your fault that you could not find anyone to give you answers. Now where are the children?”

“This way, Serenity,” Leilis Athmaza said, bowing. He opened the grilles to the nursery, closing them carefully behind them and tucking the key on its long black ribbon back into his robes. He took Maia past the sitting room to a door that stood open, light pooling warmly on the floor.

It was Ino and Mireän’s bedroom, judging by the two small beds, but all three children were there, Idra sitting on one bed holding Ino on his lap with Mireän pressed tightly against his side. They were in their night clothes, hair braided down their backs. Both little girls were crying, and Idra looked blotchy and red-eyed himself. They all looked up as Maia came in, and before he had a chance to say anything, Mireän leaped off the bed and rushed to him, flinging her arms around his waist. Ino pulled free of Idra; Maia, realizing that she was about to join her sister, knelt on the floor so that they would not knock him over.

“Mireän, Ino,” Idra said, trying to be reproving, but his voice wobbled.

“It’s all right,” Maia said. “I’m sorry. I should have thought to have someone tell you—”

“You had more important things to think about,” Idra said, and looked away.

Ino’s hot, damp face was pressed against his neck and Mireän was sobbing exhaustedly somewhere around his armpit. “I’m not sure I did,” Maia said. “But I
am
all right. Truly.”

“What happened?” Idra said.

Maia swallowed hard. It was not getting easier to think about. “Eshevis Tethimar tried to kill me.”

Idra frowned. “The man Aunt Vedero is supposed to marry?”

“Not anymore,” Maia said grimly. “Did you know him?”

“He made a point of being nice to me,” Idra said with an uncomfortable shrug. “But Mama said…”

“It’s all right,” Maia said; Setheris had forbidden him to speak of Chenelo, and he understood Idra’s hesitation. “I don’t expect you to pretend she does not exist.”

That got a bare flicker of a smile. “Mama said Dach’osmer Tethimar wasn’t someone I should wish to be friends with, and indeed I did not like him, even when he was nice.”

“No,” Maia said. “I did not like him, either.”

“But he tried to
kill
you?”

“Yes.”

“Did he want to be emperor?” Mireän asked, lifting her head and relaxing her grip, for which Maia was thankful as it had been getting difficult to breathe.

“I don’t know,” Maia said.

“Is he going to kill Idra?” Ino said.

“No. He’s dead.” He thought how horrible it was to be offering that as reassurance, and then thought that it seemed a suitable epitaph for Eshevis Tethimar.