16

News from Barizhan

Maia slept well that night, eased by his certainty that he had done the right thing, but in the morning he paid the price: a pile of angry pneumatics from the Count Bazhevel, the Duke Tethimel, Eshevis Tethimar, Dalera Bazhevar, all the Witnesses of the Corazhas, the Lord Chancellor, and a great many other people who Maia thought had no business even knowing the decision he had made, much less giving him their opinion of it. “It is the nature of the Untheileneise Court, Serenity,” Csevet said. “Trying to stop the wind from blowing would be no more useless.”

There was no message from Vedero; Maia had not expected one, but it still stung a little to have no word of thanks amidst the torrent of rebuke. Let it go, he told himself angrily and proceeded to the Michen’theileian, where Chavar appeared to scold him all over again in person.

Maia reiterated everything he had said to Csevet and to Tethimar and to Chavar himself, but he knew full well Chavar wasn’t listening, too focused on his own catalog of grievances. Maia would have let him talk himself out, as he had always done with Setheris, but he happened to look at Csevet and he saw by Csevet’s deepening frown and the mulish set of his ears that he was about to explode at his former master.

Maia, startled, realized that not only did he have no obligation to let Chavar scold him like this, but he actually had an obligation to stop him, for the sake of Csevet and the other secretaries and every other member of his government who would never dream of berating the emperor in public. They have the right not to be ruled by a coward, he thought with a flick of self-contempt, and said sharply, “Lord Chavar, enough!”

Chavar’s mouth shut like a portcullis. Maia kept staring at him until he finally bowed his head and muttered, “Our apologies, Serenity.”

Csevet was swift to seize the opportunity to move on to other business, but the atmosphere continued strained and thunderous. They maintained a respectable degree of efficiency, though, until they reached the investigations into the wreck of the Wisdom of Choharo, which the Lord Chancellor was notably reluctant to discuss. Maia had no difficulty deducing that this meant there had been no immediate and dramatic success, but he persisted in the question—more out of a grim desire not to let Chavar evade him than any wish for the details—and finally Chavar turned and stormed at one of his secretaries for not having brought the correct file, and a page boy was sent running to the Chancellery to retrieve it.

They got through several items of business while he was gone—it was dismally astounding how many townships were in arrears on their taxes—and when the boy returned, panting, with a stack of ledgers and tied quires nearly too high for him to see over, Maia felt it was not unreasonable to say, “We want a full report, Lord Chavar, not merely the items you think suitable for our ears.”

Chavar began an outraged protest, but Maia cut him off. “Also, we want a full copy made and delivered to the Alcethmeret.”

“Serenity, you need not—”

Maia interrupted him again—he was learning that it was easier not to be afraid of the Lord Chancellor if Chavar was never allowed to build up a full oratorical head of steam. “It is the murder of our father.” And after a long silence, in which Chavar acknowledged defeat by not saying any of the true and ugly things he could have, Maia said quietly, “Please tell us what your Witnesses have found.”

They had not found a great deal more than Celehar had, though at much greater length. All the crew members were being investigated, and all the emperor’s servants. They had sent Witnesses north to Amalo to talk to the workers who had readied the Wisdom of Chohalo for what would be her final flight. They had sent a junior Witness to ask the Clocksmiths’ Guild how one would go about building a device to explode an airship and who might have the necessary ability. The Clocksmiths had been volubly helpful, but all their information did not, as far as Maia could tell, bring the investigation one step closer to the truth.

It was a long and depressing confession of no progress, and Maia almost wished he had let Chavar weasel out of giving it. But he would give the copy to Celehar. Maybe it would help.

Everyone was glad to leave the Michen’theileian at noon, and Maia said firmly to Csevet as he sat down to lunch, “Talk to us of something else.”

Csevet understood and obeyed, and they were deep in a discussion of yet another petition from an exiled enemy of Varenechibel’s who hoped Edrehasivar might be more forgiving—they seemed endless, those petitions, like the River of Tears that separated the land of the living from the land of the dead in goblin folklore—when the sound of a considerable commotion in the public space of the Alcethmeret brought both their heads up. Maia nodded to Csevet’s inquiring look, and then waited while Csevet went to investigate. It was not an emperor’s place to find out anything for himself.

The investigation took longer than Maia expected, and when Csevet returned, he was frowning. “Serenity, it is the ambassador of Barizhan without. He asks an audience with you immediately.”

“Immediately?” Maia said, frowning in turn.

“Serenity. He says the matter is of extreme urgency, and for what it is worth, we believe him. He has come himself, and he has apologized for not making an appointment through proper channels.” And to Maia’s raised eyebrows, he added, “Goblins never apologize for anything, especially not in public.”

Maia said, “We had best see him. Does it disrupt our schedule entirely?”

“No, Serenity,” Csevet said, although he sounded dissatisfied.

“Thank you,” Maia said. “We realize it is a shocking nuisance.”

“It is our job,” Csevet said, bowing, and turned neatly to go escort the ambassador into the imperial presence.

As was appropriate, the ambassador came in alone, but Maia heard the stamp and clank of his soldiers on the landing—and the stamp and clank of Maia’s guards in return. His first glance at Ambassador Gormened showed him that Csevet had, if anything, understated the case. Although Gormened’s dark skin would show neither blush nor pallor, his eyes were wide and his face was sheened with sweat. He prostrated himself fully, with a mutter in Barizhin out of which Maia understood only the word “respect.” Ordath. Chenelo had used it in every unanswered letter she had written to her father, and he knew it was part of the proper address to a ruler.

“Please rise, Ambassador,” he said, and added, to make a joke of his anxiety, “We trust our grandfather has not decided to declare war.”

“Almost, that would be easier,” Gormened said, and he did not entirely sound as if he were joking in return. He rose, if not gracefully, then with no evidence of effort. “The Great Avar proposes a state visit.”

“He wishes us to travel to Barizhan?”

“No, no,” said Gormened, looking even more alarmed at the idea. “He intends to come here.”

There were several thousand immediate and burning questions. Maia picked one, almost at random. “When?”

“Winternight. He says he wishes to see how it is celebrated in the Ethuveraz.”

Is there any way to stop him? He did not say it. He did not need to, for he had the answer already in Gormened’s distress. He glanced at Csevet, who interpreted his expression correctly and said, “The court can be ready for him, Serenity, although the orders will have to be given very promptly, as there are less than two months remaining before the solstice.”

And my birthday. He pushed that thought away; he hadn’t celebrated his birthday since Chenelo died, and he did not want to celebrate it as befitted an emperor.

“It is the first time the Avar of Avarsin has left Barizhan since the Archipelagar Wars of his youth,” said Gormened. “In our memory, he has never gone more than twenty miles from the Corat’ Dav Arhos.”

Maia began to understand why Gormened was so very rattled. The Great Avar had been an old man already when Chenelo was born; by now he must be over eighty. And it was the ambassador who would be responsible to the avarsin for his well-being.

“Serenity,” said Gormened with a new access of determination, “we feel that there must be a wise and careful plan made for the Great Avar’s visit, requiring more than the usual—and most commendable—cooperation between your government and our dav.” He used a Barizheise word that meant, to Maia’s best understanding, something midway between “household” and “office.” Goblins did not distinguish between the two. “We would like…” He drew himself up a little straighter. “We would like to invite you, your Lord Chancellor, and your Witness for Foreigners to dine with us in three days’ time, so that we may all come to a better understanding.” Tactfully, he did not specify what was to be better understood, but Maia felt he could make a fairly good guess. He considered the idea with increasing admiration for Gormened, who had come up with an unorthodox but unexceptionable way of asking the emperor to ensure the cooperation of the two men who could most easily make the Great Avar’s visit a disaster. Maia’s experience of Chavar suggested that nothing, in fact, would be more likely.

“We will be most pleased to attend,” he said, and Gormened beamed at him with relief.

Of course, it was not that simple. Schedules had to be juggled; a thousand details of etiquette and security had to be hammered out; Chavar had to be persuaded to agree (Maia carefully did not ask Csevet what that persuasion entailed); and in order that the emperor not be perceived as granting undue favor to Barizhan, Maia had to agree to dine with the Marquess Lanthevel, who presided over the House of Blood in the Parliament. Even worse, the rumor sprang up, faster than seemed possible, that Maia was dining with the goblin ambassador in order to discuss marrying a Barizheise princess. The Alcethmeret was inundated with pneumatic messages, hand-delivered letters, and people seeking personal audiences with the emperor to convince him that he must marry an elvish girl instead. “And there is still the matter, Serenity,” Csevet said one morning, and his apologetic tone warned Maia to brace for a new crisis, “of the Count Bazhevel. We are afraid there is no way around it: you must grant him an audience.”

“Must we?” Maia said unhappily.

“He feels very ill-used, Serenity. And Osmin Bazhevin is Drazhadeise now, and it is both natural and right that her father should wish to know what will become of her.”

“But we do not know what to do with her!” Maia said, and was horrified at himself for sounding so exasperated. It was not Osmin Bazhevin’s fault that she was in an ambiguous position, and she and her father both deserved an answer. She had signed the marriage contract with the Archduke Ciris, so she was no longer considered a daughter of the Bazhevada, but the marriage had been neither sworn nor consummated; she had never become Ciris’s wife, so she was not now his widow.

It was a tricky and unpleasant question whether she could now marry (again, his mind added automatically and he winced), and an even more unpleasant question whether any man would choose to marry her with her ambiguous status. But in the meantime, she was neither a widow, with the right to the income of her husband’s properties, nor a daughter of the Bazhevada to be supported by her father’s estates, and yet she was also not a daughter of the Drazhada.

The easiest solution would be for her to become a votary and join one of the cloisters that dotted the Ethuveraz, principally in the more inaccessible points of topography. Maia knew that many of his imperial ancestors would have made that choice for her whether she felt any calling or not, but he found it too much like relegation, and of all people, Stano Bazhevin had done no wrong.

Maybe, he thought, she would wish to enter a cloister. But he knew it was not something he could—or should—depend upon.

Maia granted an audience to the Count Bazhevel and Osmin Stano Bazhevin on a cold, bleak afternoon when the clouds were nearly the same color as Maia’s skin. Because the Count Bazhevel had annoyed him with his scheming, Maia chose to receive them in the Untheileian, even though Osmin Bazhevin’s status as the dead archduke’s fiancée would have permitted him to use the Michen’theileian or even the receiving room of the Alcethmeret. But he hoped dourly that the frigid expanse of the Untheileian would encourage the Count Bazhevel to be brief.

It was unfortunate that the Count Bazhevel—long-faced and long-nosed—looked so much like a sheep. Maia had heard courtiers drawing the first syllable of Bazhevel out into a mocking bleat, and although it was unkind, it was also horribly unforgettable, and even more horribly so when the Count Bazhevel opened his mouth to begin his litany of complaints and produced a high, slightly quavery voice, as sheeplike as his face. Osmin Bazhevin, standing at her father’s shoulder, kept her head down and did not meet the emperor’s eyes. Maia could see the tension in her shoulders, though, and once her hands started to twist together before she caught herself and brought them to decorous stillness again.

As Csevet had said, the Count Bazhevel felt himself extremely ill-used. Maia chose simply to let him talk himself out rather than either arguing with him or cutting him off, since the essence of his complaint, whether he himself would admit it or not, was that Ciris Drazhar had inconsiderately died before the wedding could take place. Without any imperial response to even the most blatant of his cues, Bazhevel eventually fell silent, although his stance and the set of his ears indicated an obstinate determination to have satisfaction before he left the Untheileian. Maia let the silence stretch long enough that he no longer imagined bleating echoes in the vault of Untheileian, then said, “Osmin Bazhevin, approach us, please.”

Both Bazhevel and his daughter looked alarmed—which heightened the strong resemblance between them, and Maia wondered if courtiers bleated at Osmin Bazhevin now that she was no longer an archduke’s fiancée. She climbed the steps of the dais, and Maia said quietly, “We are sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Serenity,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper.

“Osmin Bazhevin,” Maia said, “what do you want?”

He startled her into a look of honest, almost pained, incredulity, and he winced in agreement. He had put that so badly it was very nearly an insult. “Let us rephrase our question. We understand that you are in a very difficult position and all of your choices are bad. Acknowledging that that is true, what would you choose to do?”

He’d made it worse; she said, still at a whisper, “We would choose to have our fiancé alive again.”

The next moment, eyes wide and ears flat, she was on her knees apologizing while her father bleated at the foot of the dais.

“Please, Osmin Bazhevin, we do not blame you,” Maia said. “Please, stand up.” And when she was finally on her feet again, so rattled that he could see her trembling, he said, “You understand that the simplest solution is for you to enter a cloister, but we will not compel you if it is not what you wish.”

Her doubtful expression made her look even more like a sheep.

“Truly,” Maia said, willing her to believe him.

After what seemed to him a very long silence, she said, “The Princess Sheveän has offered us a place in her household.”

“Has she?” Maia said, empty syllables to buy time while his mind raced. He was fairly sure he knew the reason behind Sheveän’s offer, and it had nothing to do with charity. Stano would be a meek and obliging companion, exactly to Sheveän’s taste. By the same token, Maia wasn’t sure it was a good idea for either Sheveän or Stano, but there were limits beyond which he felt he had no right to interfere, even though he knew he was probably the first emperor in generations to make such a distinction. “Is that what you want?”

“Oh yes,” said Osmin Bazhevin, stopping herself before she glanced at her father, though her ears twitched uneasily.

“Then we have no objections,” Maia said. It was not the truth, but this was, after all, a better solution than the truth could provide and perhaps, he thought—knowing it for callow optimism, but hoping all the same—perhaps having a companion would ease Sheveän’s bitterness.

“Thank you, Serenity,” Osmin Bazhevin said, curtsying and offering him something that was almost a smile.

Maia nodded his permission for her to leave and raised his voice to say, “Your daughter is provided for, Count Bazhevel. You need trouble yourself no longer.” Nor us, he thought, but resisted the temptation to say. It was fashionable to be witty at others’ expense, but Maia did not need to be told that the emperor could not indulge in fashion, no matter how much Bazhevel irritated him.

He was afraid that Bazhevel would stand his ground, but Osmin Bazhevin did not stop at the foot of the dais; she kept walking, as fast as propriety would allow, toward the distant doors of the hall. Bazhevel hesitated, his gaze flicking from Maia to his daughter and back again. Maia was careful to be looking somewhere else, as if he believed Bazhevel were already gone. A further moment’s hesitation, an odd little hopping step of frustration—Bazhevel bowed with a mumbled “Serenity” and hurried after his daughter.

But even with Osmin Bazhevin taken care of, candidates for the honor of becoming Edrehasivar VII’s empress were proposed by the battalion; the eldest was forty-two, the youngest barely six months. And Csevet, the evening before Gormened’s dinner, insisted that each of them had to be accorded the same serious scrutiny.

“Is this truly necessary?” Maia asked, trying not to sound either sulky or terrified.

Csevet said, “We are afraid it is, Serenity. The great public anxiety about Barizhan means that…” He hesitated, twisting the cap of his pen. “Think of it as ritual, perhaps. Or as theater. We must be able to account for every step we take in ways that will seem reasonable and fair.”

Maia noticed that “seem,” which Csevet might or might not have stressed ever so lightly. And he did understand. He could not say, We will not marry Osmin Loran Duchenin because she is the niece of our Lord Chancellor, whom we dislike. And because we dislike her as well. Osmin Duchenin had cornered him—elegantly, unobtrusively—at one of Nurevis’s parties, standing just a fraction too close and laughing too much until her laugh started to sound to Maia like the baying of a hunting hound. He had had no idea how to talk to her, beyond even his habitual tongue-tied shyness; there was nothing in her glittering conversation he recognized, nothing he could respond to. And every time he failed, Loran Duchenin just laughed again and pressed closer, fighting grimly on, as if she could make him want her by sheer persistence. Nurevis had not rescued him this time; Maia supposed he had been ordered not to interfere with his cousin’s plan of attack. It would be very like Chavar to give such an order, and Maia had learned that while Nurevis might subvert his father’s commands in mild and subtle ways, he never disobeyed him directly.

In the end, shamefully, Maia had been rescued by his nohecharei. Telimezh had stepped forward and said, “Serenity, remember that Mer Aisava wishes to speak to you before you retire for the night. And it is growing late.” Maia had leaped at the excuse, even if it did make him seem like a child and his nohecharei his nursemaids, and he had been avoiding Osmin Duchenin ever since.

But that was not a reason. “Very well,” he said. “Then we will tell you plainly that we would choose not to marry an infant—and we remember your example of Belmaliven the Fifth, which tells us also that it would be unwise.”

“Serenity,” murmured Csevet, making a note.

“We suppose,” Maia pursued grimly, “that it would equally be folly to choose a woman so near the end of her childbearing years as Osmin Alchenin.”

“Yes, Serenity.”

“Some of these women must be related to us.”

“Most of them, to a greater or lesser degree. The Drazhada have intermarried with most of the noble houses of the Ethuveraz.” Csevet coughed uncomfortably, his ears dipping. “We understand that to have been one of the arguments made in favor of Varenechibel’s marriage to your mother.”

“Ah. Nevertheless, we would prefer not to marry a cousin.”

“We will exclude any woman closer than the third degree of kinship,” Csevet said, making another note.

“Is there any noble house with which we should not ally ourself?” He had not asked the question before, when the matter of choosing an empress had seemed unpleasant but relatively straightforward, but now he would have to know all the petty, depressing details.

“Serenity.” Csevet thought for a moment. “We would suggest—although it is only a suggestion—that further entanglements with the Rohethada and the Imada might be undesirable. Likewise, the Celehada.” The families of his half siblings’ spouses. And his father’s widow. “On the other hand, choosing a wife from the Ceredada might be construed as a graceful and welcome gesture. Your father did not win friends when he put off Arbelan Zhasan.”

“We imagine he did not. And do we not remember that there was a Dach’osmin Ceredin among the young women you mentioned to us before?”

“Yes, Serenity. The granddaughter of Arbelan Drazharan’s brother. She would be in all ways a fitting match.”

“Is she your choice?”

Csevet dropped his pen. The click of the barrel hitting the marble tabletop was perfectly audible. “Serenity, we do not have a choice. We would not so presume.”

“Chavar would.”

“Chavar is your Lord Chancellor, not your secretary.” Csevet sounded so prim that Maia realized he was genuinely flustered.

“But we trust neither his judgment nor his loyalties. We trust yours.”

Csevet’s pale skin flushed rose. “We are honored, Serenity, but we cannot choose your empress.”

“Nor can we!” He hadn’t meant to shout, and he took no pleasure in the way Csevet and his nohecharei jumped. He lowered his voice again, unclenched cramping fingers. “We cannot … We cannot so much as follow the steps of a dance. We cannot possibly choose an empress.”

“Serenity?”

“It is a poor metaphor,” Maia said, and managed a smile. “It is just as well we never wished to be a poet.” He could not sit here any longer, discussing his own marriage as if it were a matter of which stallion should cover a given mare; he knew he would begin shouting again and that was wretched payment for Csevet’s service. Maia shoved back from the table and stood. “Surely there is somewhere we are supposed to be this evening.”

He saw understanding cross Csevet’s face and looked away before it became impatience or pity. “There is one matter, Serenity,” Csevet said, “although we have wondered if you were serious about it.”

“About what?”

“You asked us to find the lady who was entrusted with your care during the funeral of your mother. We have done so, but we were not sure…”

“We were very serious,” Maia said. “And we mean the lady no ill. Who is she?”

“Her name is Aro Danivaran. Her husband was Drazhadeise through his mother’s line, and your father acknowledged them as cousins. The Danivada are ruinously poor.” Csevet paused, glancing at Maia to see if he understood.

Maia understood perfectly. “Like the Nelada,” he said.

Csevet winced very slightly. “Yes, Serenity. But Osmer Danivar and his wife were more fortunate—or more politic—than Osmer Nelar. Your father gifted them with a small estate on the birth of their first grandson, some five years ago, and there is hope that the Danivada may be able to right themselves.”

“We are pleased at our father’s generosity,” Maia said, and did not let the words twist into bitterness.

“Osmer Danivar died two years ago. His son runs the estate, and Osmerrem Danivaran has been maintaining the family presence at court.” A note of caution, of regret, had entered Csevet’s voice, and Maia was already half expecting it when he said, “Osmerrem Danivaran suffered a brainstorm a few days before your father’s death. She is bedridden and not expected to survive to the solstice.”

The reminder that other lives had tragedies without reference to his own was both salutary and painful. He said, “We would visit her, if it is allowed.”

“Serenity,” said Csevet. “Her daughter said she would be both honored and pleased. And that she tends to be most alert in the evenings.”

The emperor could not go visiting unannounced, so a page boy was sent at a run to Osmerrem Danivaran’s apartments while Maia’s edocharei fussed over his clothes and jewels, as what was suitable for an evening spent in the Alcethmeret, where the polite fiction was maintained that the emperor was “at home,” was not at all suitable for any endeavor that would take the emperor out into the public halls of the Untheileneise Court. Maia bore it with the best patience he could muster, as his jacket was exchanged for one that had plum and green embroidery on white instead of white embroidery on forest green, and as the achingly heavy amethyst and silver rings were replaced with an equally heavy array in gold set with black opals. Nemer and Avris debated about the amethysts and garnets in his hair but mercifully decided they could stay, merely swapping out the teak and emerald tashin sticks for a pair of gold-chased bone sticks set with pearls. Nemer was deft enough to effect the substitution without disordering a single braid of Maia’s hair, and Maia escaped back to the Tortoise Room just as the page boy returned with assurances that the emperor would be both expected and welcome in Osmerrem Danivaran’s chambers. Maia collected Dazhis and Telimezh with a glance and set forth.

It was fortunate that he had the page boy, for Osmerrem Danivaran resided in a section of the Untheileneise Court that Maia had not seen before. The courtiers he passed were all middle-aged or older; most of the women curtsied, rather than following the fashion Csoru had set. He reminded himself that it meant nothing, just that they were older and less likely to be swayed by the fads of an empress the same age as their children.

A page boy wearing what had to be the Danivadeise livery was waiting for them; Maia pretended not to notice his heel swing back sharply into the door to alert those inside that the emperor was approaching. Was it a kindness, he wondered suddenly, thus to descend on a household that could not possibly be prepared to receive him? They had not had time, and they did not have the money they doubtless believed to be necessary to fit a room for an emperor. And he could not tell them the truth, that after Isvaroë and Edonomee, it was lavish furnishing that made him uncomfortable, that he still felt like an interloper among the Alcethmeret’s splendors.

But it was too late now. The page boy was already throwing open the door, already announcing (in a voice that cracked on the third syllable, and Maia hid a wince of sympathy), “His Imperial Serenity, Edrehasivar the Seventh.”

Learn to think before thou actst, mooncalf, Maia told himself in a well-practiced imitation of Setheris, but having chosen this action, he was committed to it. He followed Telimezh through the door, Dazhis bringing up the rear.

The receiving room was not nearly as shabby as he had expected; he wondered if he and Csevet had different definitions of “ruinously poor,” or if the Danivada chose to bankrupt themselves for brocade wallpaper. The woman standing by the stained glass torchière in the center of the room swept a deep curtsy as Maia entered. When she straightened, he saw that she was middle-aged, plump, with the sort of narrow, pointed face that led to the elvish nobility being satirized as weasels in the comic papers. Although not lavish, her clothes and jewels were tasteful—the lapis lazuli beads in her hair brought some much-needed color to her eyes.

“Osmin Danivin?” Maia said.

She gasped and curtsied again.

“Please. We only wish to assure you that we mean your mother no harm. We will not proceed if you think our visit unwise for her.”

“Oh, no,” said Osmin Danivin, and then seemed forcibly to pull herself together. “That is to say, Serenity, our mother is very pleased at your visit and most sincerely wishes to see you. She regrets, as do we, that she cannot greet you properly. The brainstorm, you see, it has—”

“Please,” Maia said hastily, horrified that she felt she had to apologize for the thing that was killing her mother. “It is no matter. May we go to her?”

“Of course, Serenity,” Osmin Danivin said, and led him, nohecharei in tow, down a short hallway to Osmerrem Danivaran’s bedroom.

In the dim light, the bed seemed to rise like a lilac and pale blue mountain, all its lace hangings looped back like clouds. Osmerrem Danivaran, propped up on a great bank of pillows, looked infinitely frail, her face as flawlessly white as her hair, the cheerful pinks and yellows of her bed jacket seeming a cruelly chosen irony, although surely nothing could be further from the truth.

She opened her eyes when she heard their approach: pale green and protuberant, they were the only part of her Maia recognized. She croaked a slur of sound that was probably meant to be “Serenity,” and Maia said, “Hello, Osmerrem Danivaran. We are pleased to meet you again.”

“Pleased,” she echoed, more intelligibly, and held out one clawed and trembling hand.

Maia took it, careful of his rings, and obeyed the faint pressure, coming to stand beside the bed. She did not let go. She squinted, as if to focus on his face, and said, “Nice … boy.”

“She means you were a nice boy, Serenity,” Osmin Danivin said. “She told us about you after the funeral, how polite and quiet you were.”

“We remembered her,” Maia said. He bent his head toward Osmerrem Danivaran and dropped formality; it was ludicrously pointless to play the emperor with a dying woman. He said softly, “I remembered you. But I didn’t know your name. I wanted to thank you.”

She smiled at him, although the expression was twisted on her ravaged features, and tugged feebly until he let her bring his hand to her face. She pressed her lips against the backs of his fingers, then released him, her eyelids fluttering shut and her body going slack.

“She falls asleep like that,” Osmin Danivin said; Maia, who for a dreadful moment had thought that Osmerrem Danivaran had died, saw that her chest was rising and falling. He turned away and allowed Osmin Danivin to lead him back to the receiving room.

He asked her, “Is there anything we can do to make your mother more comfortable? Or to make your task in caring for her easier?”

“Oh! Thank you, Serenity,” Osmin Danivin said, more than a little breathlessly. He suspected the curtsy was to buy herself time to think. “There is one thing, although we hesitate to mention it.”

“Please. Anything. Your mother was kind to us at a time when we needed that most desperately. We would repay her in any way we can.”

He felt more than heard Dazhis’s weight shift—an unspoken protest, and he supposed he was being rash. But Osmin Danivin believed him, for she blurted, “Coal!” and then looked dismayed.

“Coal?”

“It’s been so cold,” she said, half-apologetic and half-despairing. “And the price of coal keeps rising and rising. And Mother is cold all the time, even when the rooms seem comfortable to us. We would take her south, but she cannot travel, and, Serenity, we would not ask it, but we are desperate, and you asked if there was anything, and this truly would make Mother more comfortable—”

“We will see to it,” Maia said, and Osmin Danivin curtsied so deeply and thanked him so repeatedly that he was grateful to be able to leave.

The first thing he did on returning to the Alcethmeret was to tell Csevet to see that the Danivada’s apartments were supplied with coal and not charged, and Csevet said, “Yes, Serenity,” and made a note. Yes, Maia thought, we will “see to it” by telling someone else to see to it. Thus do we put ourself out for our benefactors. But he had no idea how to accomplish the matter himself, and he knew that if he tried, he would succeed only in confusing and frightening a great many people.

On that lowering thought, the Emperor Edrehasivar VII went to bed, where he slept badly.