30

The Nineteenth Birthday of Edrehasivar VII and the Winternight Ball

On Maia’s nineteenth birthday, he was woken before dawn by the wind howling around the spires of the Alcethmeret. The noise was mournful and furious at the same time, and he realized after only a few minutes that he had no hope of going back to sleep. He sat up and lit the candle beside his bed, and Telimezh said, “Serenity?” from his post by the window.

“The wind,” Maia said apologetically.

“It is terrible, isn’t it?” Telimezh said, and then looked taken aback at his own daring.

“And lying here listening to it only makes it worse. There was a ballad one of the maids at Edonomee used to sing, about a woman who let her lover murder her husband and then went mad and murdered him—”

“And after the townspeople put her to death, her ghost walked the streets screaming first for one man, then the other,” Telimezh finished. “Our sisters sang it together with a descant that sounded just like this wind.”

“Are you from Thu-Evresar?”

“Yes, Serenity. We were born in Calestho.”

Twenty miles from Edonomee. “We did not hear it in your voice,” Maia said, half question, half apology. The accent of western Thu-Evresar was distinctive.

“No, Serenity,” Telimezh said, apologetic in turn. “We were schooled most carefully when we were accepted into the Untheileneise Guard.”

“Of course,” Maia said, feeling foolish. He slid out of bed; the coldness of the floor struck instantly through his socks, making him wince. “What’s the clock?”

“Half past five, Serenity. Shall we summon your edocharei?”

“Yes, please.” Not so much as a dressing gown was ever left out where an unattended emperor could find it; although it fretted Maia to be waited on in this way, as if he were as helpless as a toddling child, he knew what would be said if he expressed the desire to dress himself. And he knew how hurt his edocharei would be.

An hour and a half later, he descended to the dining room to find the table invisible beneath towering, tottering piles of packages and envelopes. There were more piles on the floor. Around the table, Csevet, Esaran, Isheian, and two other servants whose names he couldn’t think of looked up with unmistakable guilt written across their faces.

“What on earth—?”

Csevet shot to his feet. “We hoped to … that is, we weren’t expecting…”

“But what is it?” Maia said, beginning to be alarmed. He had never seen Csevet this flustered.

There was an ominously long silence before Isheian said, her voice barely more than a whisper, “Your birthday gifts, Serenity.”

“Birthday gifts?” He stared at the piles heaping the room. “Our birthday … gifts?”

“Yes, Serenity,” Csevet said, pulling himself together. “We—with Merrem Esaran’s gracious help—have been keeping a tally so that letters of thanks can be written. We did not intend you to be bothered with all of these, but the task needs to be completed and were not expecting you to come down so early.”

Maia barely noticed the note of reproach. “But who—who are they all from?”

Thy grammar is atrocious, said that dry, rebarbative voice that was no longer Setheris.

“From everyone, Serenity,” said Isheian.

“We expected the messages from the princes, the Corazhas, Lord Berenar, and the members of Parliament,” said Csevet. “The Marquess Lanthevel has sent you a scholarly book about embroidery. We even expected the emperor-clock from the Clocksmiths’ Guild of Zhaö.” He paused, then corrected himself primly: “We should say, we were not surprised they sent a gift. The clock itself is…”

“Surprising,” Esaran said, and Maia was startled to realize that she and Csevet were friends.

“Yes,” Csevet agreed. “But, Serenity, you have also gifts from a number of Barizheisei merchants in Cetho, and from the Trade Association of the Western Ethuveraz. There are messages from mayors and hierophants in every principality. The people of Nelozho have sent you a letter with nearly five hundred signatures, which must be the entire population. The crew of the Radiance of Cairado have sent you a model airship. The families of the crew of the Wisdom of Choharo have sent you message after message. And that doesn’t even begin to account for—Serenity?”

“We don’t understand,” Maia said helplessly, sinking into a chair. “What do they want?”

Csevet frowned. “They want you to have a happy birthday.” Csevet looked at him, still frowning, a moment longer, then turned and began issuing brisk orders. Within minutes, the room was clear, and Isheian was presenting Maia with a cup of tea. “Dachensol Ebremis says you may have breakfast whenever you please, Serenity, but as it’s still so early, he wasn’t sure…”

“Just tea is lovely,” Maia said. He took a sip and realized that Csevet was hovering. “What is’t?”

“We thought, Serenity,” Csevet said promptly, “that perhaps you would like to have breakfast with your nieces and nephew this morning.”

By which he meant, of course, that he thought Maia should. “Do you think they would like that?” Maia said doubtfully.

“We hear from Leilis Athmaza that they talk about you frequently and that they call you Cousin Maia as you asked them to.”

“All right,” Maia said, accepting defeat. “But let them come here.” He shrugged at Csevet’s inquiring eyebrow, and said, a touch guiltily, “They will find it more exciting.” And I will not invade their family space. He doubted the nursery was “home” to them, or that it ever would be.

The emperor sat and drank tea and pretended to be unaware of the various commotions in his household. Csevet appeared occasionally to offer his emperor such updates as he felt suitable and to provide reading material: the birthday felicitations from the five princes, the Corazhas, and Lord Berenar. Maia would have preferred the messages from the families of the Wisdom of Choharo’s crew, but that request could be made later.

Dach’osmin Ceredin had sent a sword, a long, thin, shining blade that made Telimezh’s eyes go wide. Maia, who could see that the sword was very old and beautifully made but nothing more, raised his eyebrows invitingly. Telimezh said, “It is a sunblade, Serenity, the weapon of the ancient princes, before Edrevenivar the Conqueror united the Ethuveraz. We did not know the Ceredada still had one.”

“It is a gift of great honor,” Kiru added softly.

“Although a trifle opaque as to meaning,” Csevet said with a frown.

“We trust Dach’osmin Ceredin to mean us nothing but good,” Maia said.

“It signifies loyalty,” Telimezh said almost impatiently. “If the Ceredada have kept this sunblade all these centuries, then to offer it to the emperor now—” He broke off and regrouped. “Serenity, she is giving you a gift that Arbelan Zhasan did not give the late emperor your father.”

“No,” Maia said thoughtfully. “She did not.”

The messages from the princes were, he supposed, exactly what they should be from vassals who had met their emperor exactly once: excruciatingly correct and devoid of either warmth or individuality. The messages from the Corazhas were more varied; though most were perfectly formal, Lord Pashavar’s was unapologetically laden with advice and Lord Deshehar’s included a number of quick, clever caricatures, obviously drawn during Corazhas sessions: Lord Pashavar looking superbly waspish; Lord Bromar holding forth; Lord Isthanar obviously on the verge of falling asleep; Maia himself, confused and trying to hide it. He might have been offended or embarrassed or even alarmed, had there not been such obvious affection in all the sketches. And he understood the gift Lord Deshehar was giving him with his trust.

Lord Berenar’s letter, although he remembered to include the appropriate birthday wishes, was actually the shameless exploitation of a chance to tell the emperor about what he had discovered in the Lord Chancellor’s office. To Maia’s great relief, Lord Berenar and his staff had proved that Chavar was honest—

although the same cannot be said, Serenity, of all those who were subject to his oversight. Some of the discrepancies we have found go back a decade or more. We fear that Lord Chavar cared a good deal more for the political aspects of his position than the administrative. And while we do not deny the importance of the Lord Chancellor’s advice to the emperor, we do not understand how he can have presumed to give that advice without the knowledge which he clearly did not bother to gather. Too much of the necessary work of his office had become the burden of his secretaries, and Lord Chavar was not the man to inspire personal loyalty in his underlings: we have not found any secretary of his who has been with him for more than three years. We had some inkling of the state of affairs, of course, as the Chancellery and the Treasury must work very closely together, but we had not known how deeply—and how widely—the rot went. The same can be said of the Courier General’s office, only to an even greater extent, as Osmer Orimar seems to have been actively deceiving Lord Chavar, as well as being shiftless, stupid, and undisciplined. One need look no further than the state of his personal office to understand why he chose to back Chavar—anything to ensure he was left alone to continue his venal and incompetent reign. Mercifully, the couriers themselves seem to be honest and loyal, unaware of the disgraceful behavior of those above them, and we feel that the situation is, with some work, salvageable.

Berenar also reported on the investigation into the wreck of the Wisdom of Choharo.

The Witnesses are both honest and loyal, Serenity, but we feel there are too many of them—and too few who have ever had to do this kind of work. They could follow a simple logical trail, but when that trail turned out to be false—for we must tell you, Serenity, that the Cetho Workers League is entirely innocent, and their innocence has been clear for several weeks—they were paralyzed by indecision and (we regret to say) petty squabbling. Lord Chavar seems to have exacerbated the problem by refusing to believe the Cetho Workers League was innocent. We understand that he continued to assure you of their guilt long after their innocence was fully attested. Thus, the investigation has stagnated and must now be pushed into motion again. We have no doubt that this can be done, but it seems that today, when we should be offering you gifts, we must ask a gift of you instead: your patience.

Csevet came back in, and Maia interrupted whatever he had been going to say. “Osmer Orimar?”

Csevet winced. “A puppet for Lord Chavar.”

“Lord Berenar says Osmer Orimar was concealing dishonesty of some considerable scope from Chavar.”

“Gracious,” said Csevet. “We would not have thought he had the intelligence.”

“It does not seem to have been very difficult.”

“Ah,” said Csevet.

“Lord Berenar says he believes the couriers to be honest and loyal. Would you agree?”

“Serenity, we do not—”

“Would you?”

“Yes, Serenity.” Csevet gave him an odd look—assessing, Maia realized, when Csevet continued, “Couriers, Serenity, are not like clerks and secretaries. For one thing, a courier does not have to be able to read.”

Maia bit back every one of the questions that sprang to mind, and Csevet gave him an approving nod. “Those who can’t are taught by their fellows, as with any other piece of education they might need. But, for all of us, the courier system gave us a chance, sometimes our only chance, at an honest job. And one where we did not have to work on our knees. Or our backs.”

Another infinity of questions not to be asked.

Csevet said, “While couriers are as prone to petty dishonesty as any other group of people, none would think of theft or blackmail or anything he understood as treason. And all couriers have the insatiable and impertinent curiosity of ferrets.”

“That night at Edonomee, had you read Chavar’s letter?”

Csevet hesitated, then said staunchly, “Yes, Serenity.”

Maia nodded. “Thank you. And we do not blame you for it.”

“Thank you, Serenity.” Csevet started to speak again, but Maia stopped him with an upraised hand.

“If not Osmer Orimar, then who is it who commands the couriers? Someone must.”

“Yes, Serenity. He is called Captain Volsharezh, although we know not whether he earned any captaincy in truth. He has been doing Osmer Orimar’s work for years. It is he who keeps the courier system honest.”

“Will you supply Lord Berenar with his name, please? We do not wish the good to be cleared away with the bad. And we suspect that Lord Berenar’s position will be easier if he knows there is someone on whom he can rely.”

“Serenity.” Csevet bowed. This time Maia let him continue with his original purpose: “We must ask what you want done with the gift from the Tethimada.”

“What is the gift from the Tethimada?”

“A full set of summer hangings. In white sharadansho silk.”

Someone muttered a curse. Sharadansho silk—so called, with a pun on snow-blindness, because the laborers who made it went blind over its intricacies—was the most diaphanous of the silk weights, taken and worked into a kind of half embroidered, half lace state. It looked like snowflakes, and white was the worst of the colors, said to destroy sight at twice the rate of indigo.

“A full set,” Maia said.

“Bed hangings, canopy, curtains … We brought,” Csevet said, beckoning to a page boy waiting outside the door, “the parasol.”

The boy brought it in and gave it to Csevet, who proffered it with straight-faced formality to Maia.

Maia accepted it reluctantly. The haft was rosewood, the metalwork delicately engraved like tree branches with glass flowers hanging from the end of each spar. The sharadansho was leaf-patterned, and there were tiny mirrors attached in a scrupulously random pattern, so that the parasol’s user would sparkle in the sun.

It was a beautiful object, and by itself it would have been an ostentatious gift. “A full set,” Maia said again.

“We fear the meaning is not at all opaque,” Csevet said.

“No,” Maia agreed, putting the parasol down and resisting the urge to wipe his hands on his trousers. “A little ambiguity from the Tethimada would almost be welcome. We understand that we cannot reject this gift, but must we use it?”

“Serenity, the emperor could not use all the gifts he is given even if there were five of him,” Csevet said. “If you approved of this gift, it would be suitable for you to respond with some especial mark of your favor to the Tethimada, but as you do not, you may leave the matter in our hands.”

“The workmanship is beautiful,” Maia said reluctantly. “We would gladly show favor to the craftspersons—and to those who no doubt went blind in the making of the Tethimada’s gift.”

“Serenity?” Csevet said uncertainly.

Maia realized he was on the brink of setting his secretary an impossible task. “Never mind. Please, present us with the next item on the agenda.”

“Serenity,” Csevet said, the dip and flick of his ears showing that he had decided he should let the matter go. He picked up the parasol and handed it to the page, who bowed to Maia and departed. Maia wondered what happened to all the gifts the emperor could not use. He had to shake himself free from visions of storerooms like an ogre’s cavern in a wonder-tale to attend to what Csevet was saying: a listing of the gifts and messages from the other great houses, none of which was as ostentatious or inappropriate as that of the Tethimada.

Idra and his sisters arrived only a few minutes later, all three looking immaculate and very alert. Idra bowed, and Ino and Mireän curtsied, and there was a soft and ragged chorus of, “Happy birthday, Cousin Maia.”

“Thank you,” Maia said, and bade them be seated—then had to ask Isheian to fetch a cushion so that Ino could reach the tabletop. There was no moment of awkward silence, for Mireän said as soon as she was settled, “Cousin Maia, have you seen your clock?”

“Clock?” said Maia.

“The emperor-clock from the Clocksmiths’ Guild, Serenity,” said Csevet.

“It’s … magnificent,” Mireän said.

“I haven’t seen it yet,” Maia said. “Tell me about it?”

Mireän began describing the wonders of the clock, but it wasn’t long before Ino interrupted her, and by the time breakfast was served, Idra had entered the discussion, too, and there was no need for Maia to worry about keeping the conversation going, for the three children did that effortlessly. Idra tried once to initiate a more adult conversation, asking Maia how the Great Avar’s visit was faring, but Mireän intervened immediately. “He’s the biggest goblin I’ve ever seen! Cousin Maia, are you going to be that big?”

“No,” Maia said. “I shall probably grow no taller than I am now.”

“He’s your grandpapa,” Ino said. “Does that mean your mama was a goblin?”

“Yes,” Maia said.

“Dinan says goblins are going to invade and eat us. Is that why your grandpapa’s here?”

“Ino!” Idra said. “Cousin Maia, I beg your pardon.”

“No, it seems like a very reasonable question,” Maia said. “Who is Dinan?”

Idra looked at Mireän, who said, “Dinan Cambeshin, Idra. You remember.”

“Oh,” said Idra. “The daughter of one of Mama’s bosom bows. She’s Ino’s age, and I guess they play together?”

“I don’t like Dinan,” Ino said. “She’s mean. But Mama says we have to be friends.”

Maia was reminded of Csethiro Ceredin being forced into “friendship” with Csoru, and he was glad that Idra said firmly, “You don’t have to be friends with anyone you don’t want to, Ino. But why did she say that about goblins? It’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? But Mama said the goblins were going to take over now that Cousin Maia was on the throne, so I thought Dinan was right.”

Idra looked so horrified that Maia was hard-pressed not to laugh. He took a sip of tea and said, “No, the goblins aren’t going to take over. They’re certainly not going to eat anyone. And my grandfather is just here to celebrate Winternight.”

“Oh!” Mireän said. “Like when we went to stay with our other grandpapa last Winternight. Remember, Ino? Grandmama Zharo gave us oranges?”

“Yes,” Ino said, a little doubtfully.

“Oh, you must remember,” Idra said. “Grandpapa Idra showed us his dogs—one of them had a litter of puppies.”

“I remember the puppies!” Ino said. “And the mama dog licked my fingers. Grandpapa said she liked me.”

“That’s right,” Idra said. “And Grandmama Zharo took us to see the puppet theater.”

“What is a puppet theater?” Maia asked, and the rest of breakfast was occupied with explanations, Idra as bright-eyed and breathless as his sisters, all adulthood forgotten. Maia was sorry when Csevet appeared to enforce the emperor’s unforgiving schedule—but at least in leaving the Alcethmeret, he had to pass the emperor-clock, and even Csevet did not chide him for pausing. Mireän and Esaran were both right, Maia decided: it was magnificent and surprising.

The short hours of daylight passed quickly; Maia’s schedule was crammed with dedications and performances—one by Min Vechin that was so damnably beautiful that he forgot to feel resentful and embarrassed at the sight of her—and then the Great Avar insisted on visiting the Horsemarket of Cetho, regardless alike of the weather and of the disruptions it caused. Maia had never been to a horse market before, much less the Horsemarket, and he trailed, fascinated, in his grandfather’s wake until the Avar turned from inspecting a horse and boomed a question at him.

It made no sense, and Maia apologetically said so. “We know nothing of horses.”

“Nothing?” The Great Avar choked and spluttered and then erupted, demanding to know how any grandson of his could stand there and say he knew nothing of horses.

“We were never taught to ride,” Maia said, doing his best not to flinch. “Our mother was much too ill, and there were no saddle horses at Edonomee. Even an there were, our guardian would never have permitted us to learn.”

The Avar looked very grim. “And your father permitted this?”

“Our father did not—” Care. He caught himself just in time, remembering that they were in a very public place. “Our father did not concern himself with our education,” he said, and met the Avar’s eyes steadily, lowering his voice: “Nor did you.”

The Avar looked even grimmer. “It is surely neither the first nor the last time that we have been a fool,” he said. “Come. Let us buy you a horse.”

And that, despite Maia’s protests, was exactly what he proceeded to do, giving Maia a rapidly comprehensive lesson in horses and horsemanship along the way. The part Maia liked best was being taught how to make friends with the horses the Avar considered: how to hold his hand, how to offer bits of apple. He loved their soft noses and clever lips and the whuffle of their breath as they investigated.

The Avar was splendid in his refusal to be rushed; Maia watched and took mental notes. Finally, as the lamps of the Horsemarket were being lit against the drawing down of the day, he chose a white horse—which he immediately taught Maia to call a gray—a ten-year-old gelding replete with mysterious but apparently important traits. His name was Velvet, and Maia was bemused and bewildered at the thought of owning a horse.

There was no time for more; even the Avar could not hold out any longer against the combined efforts of secretaries, nohecharei, and Hezhethoreisei. They were returned to the Untheileneise Court at a speed Maia thought was not permitted on the streets of Cetho—and thought certainly should not have been permitted with the snow and the wind—and Maia spent a frantic hour being stripped and bathed and perfumed and dressed in white robes stiff with lace and silver embroidery. Instead of combs and tashin sticks, his hair was caught in an elaborate silver webbing with tiny diamonds at every node, and a veil over it so fine it almost wasn’t there. Diamonds on his fingers, in his ears, around his neck, and he understood when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror: he was white and cold and sparkling, like a snowfield under moonlight. The only flaw in the resemblance was his skin, and even that might be but cloud shadows over the moon.

His nohecharei—Cala and Beshelar, and he couldn’t remember when their shift had changed—whisked him away to the Untheileian and deposited the emperor on his throne just as the musicians began to tune their instruments. Beshelar was muttering darkly about haste and disrespect to the gods, but Cala said, “If that’s the worst the gods have to contend with tonight, we may all count ourselves holy men,” and Beshelar fell silent.

The musicians signaled their readiness with a brief flourish of a tune called “The Snow Queen,” and Maia rose. He had been taught the ritual words and he spoke them carefully, words that were both invitation and request that the old year should be seen out with dancing and music, that no one should lack a partner, that anyone who wished to dance should be welcomed. He sat again, exerting himself to be sure it was controlled and graceful and not the emperor collapsing like a suit of armor knocked off its stand. But he was grateful to be able to sit and watch, rather than having to participate.

He saw immediately that what Csevet had said was true; the glittering courtiers were being joined by people in plainer clothes, people who wore no jewels, whose hair was dressed only with pins. The dark faces did not belong only the Great Avar and his retinue. He saw the blue robes of the mazei at several points around the room, and young men in couriers’ leathers, and he recognized at least one of the girls from the Alcethmeret’s pneumatic station. She was dancing with Lord Pashavar, and Maia was delighted.

After three hours, the dancing was interrupted for a banquet and a magnificent fireworks display in the Emperor’s honor. Maia sat with Ambassador Gormened on one side and Osmerrem Berenaran on the other. He had been unfairly surprised to discover that Lord Berenar was married; he was even more surprised by the lady, who was stout and rather plain and made no effort to conceal either. She did not demand conversation from him, but provided a brightly funny monologue about moving the Berenadeise household from the apartments they had occupied for thirty years to the apartments which came with the Lord Chancellor’s office. Chavar had never used them. “Our husband says that’s part of the problem,” Osmerrem Berenaran said, “but we do not pretend to understand his reasoning.”

“It must be very uncomfortable,” Maia said, “moving after so many years.”

She snorted, an unladylike but unmistakably good-humored sound. “‘Uncomfortable’ is one word. ‘Welcome’ is another. We have no love for the Berenadeise apartments, and we have not seen Eiru so happy in his work since our children were small.”

“Happy? From what we understand, we have landed Lord Berenar in a bramble bush—if no worse than that.”

“He thrives on brambles. The thornier a problem is, the happier he seems to be in the solving of it.” Her smile made her lovely. “Our thanks is worth little, to be sure, but nevertheless, we thank you, Serenity. For landing him in the brambles.”

Maia smiled back. “We believe your thanks to be worth a great deal, Osmerrem Berenaran. And we are glad of them.”

They smiled at each other a moment longer; then Gormened attracted Maia’s attention to ask about the Great Avar’s trip to the Horsemarket. Maia wished for Lady Berenaran’s ability to make a funny story out of trifles, but he could at least assure Gormened that the Avar had neither taken nor caused offense.

Gormened let out a gusty sigh of relief, and Maia said, “Surely we are not your only source of information.”

“No, Serenity, but we can trust you to tell us the truth, for you need fear neither our anger nor the Avar’s.”

“Would he be angry?”

Gormened made an expressive face. “He did not gain his power—nor hold it for so many years—by being amiable and obliging.” He visibly shook off the mood. “But a horse! This is splendid, Serenity. Tell me about him.”

Maia was not able to comply as fully as he knew he ought to, but Gormened nobly took the burden on his own shoulders and filled the rest of the time before the procession from the banqueting hall to the Untheileneise’meire in telling Maia stories of his childhood pony, to which Maia listened raptly.

The ceremony bidding farewell to the old year and welcoming the new was simple, and Archprelate Tethimar kept it short, knowing that his congregation was eager to return to the Untheileian and dance till dawn. Maia felt as if he was spending the night being herded from one uncomfortable vantage to another, but at least in the Untheileian he could sit down. And the dancing was very beautiful to watch. He saw the Great Avar dancing with Nadeian Vizhenka; Csevet dancing with Arbelan; the Marquess Lanthevel dancing with Csoru—and he was surprised at how attractive Csoru looked when she forgot herself.

Csethiro Ceredin came out of the dance to join him on the dais for a time, and he misused his nohecharei to the extent of sending Beshelar to fetch the nearest chair. Dach’osmin Ceredin was pleased and told him stories of the Winternight celebrations of her childhood, giving such a vivid picture of her affectionate relationship with her sisters that he found himself envious.

She broke off in the middle of telling him about her eldest sister’s first grown-up Winternight Ball and what the younger sisters had done to, as she said, “even the score,” and he saw that his half sister Vedero was standing patiently at the foot of the dais. Dach’osmin Ceredin stood up, smoothing her skirts with an expert flick of her wrists, and said, “You must learn to take care, Serenity, lest we wear your ears out with our endless talking.” She departed with an elegant curtsy; he noticed that she and Vedero pressed hands as she passed, as friends did, and the archduchess climbed the stairs. Vedero’s curtsy was deeper than it had to be, and she took the chair beside the throne without hesitation when Maia offered it.

She said, “We need to thank you, Serenity, and we do not know how.”

“You needn’t—”

“Yes, we do. For all that you should not have done it, we are grateful. Especially as we know we gave you no reason to be kind to us.”

Deeply uncomfortable, Maia said, “We would not wish anyone to be as ill-treated and unhappy as our mother was.”

“We know,” said Vedero, “and that is why we must thank you.”

He looked at her so blankly that her mouth twitched into a smile. “You did not do it for us, and you would have done the same for Sheveän, would you not?”

“Yes,” Maia said, “we suppose we would have.”

“And so we thank you,” Vedero said briskly, as if everything should now make sense. She rose again. “There will be an eclipse of the moon in a fortnight’s time, Serenity. If you would care to come watch with us, we would be very pleased.”

“Yes,” Maia said, startled and delighted. “We would like that very much.”

Vedero’s smile looked stiff and unpracticed, but he thought that she meant it. She curtsied and descended from the dais, where her hand was promptly claimed by a young man in courier’s leathers. Maia sat and watched and tried to keep from smiling foolishly.

It was much later, and he had had conversations with a number of other people, when Eshevis Tethimar went down on one knee at the foot of the dais.

Maia thought, I am too tired for this, and knew it was true. But he had no choice. “You may approach, Dach’osmer Tethimar,” he said, retreating into careful formality.

Dach’osmer Tethimar came up the stairs and knelt again, to Maia’s irritation. “What is your concern, Dach’osmer Tethimar?” Csevet had taken him very stringently to task only a week ago for saying What may we do for you? with its implications that the emperor was at the command of the suppliant, and Maia was working diligently to find more acceptable alternatives.

“Our concern?” Dach’osmer Tethimar raised his head. Whereas everyone else Maia had spoken with had been flushed with dancing, Dach’osmer Tethimar was white as snow. “Our concern does not interest you, Serenity.” He spat the honorific as if it were a curse. “But this will.” And he leaped forward like a hunting beast, a thin dagger glinting in his hand.

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.

Idra said, “There must be a great deal to—I mean, you must be busy.”

“Somewhat,” Maia admitted. “I should not stay.”

“Thank you for coming,” Idra said. “We were … concerned.”

“I don’t wonder at it,” Maia said gently; he met Idra’s eyes over Ino’s head and let Idra see that he knew “concerned” was a euphemism. “I was concerned, too.”

That got a guilty crack of laughter out of Idra, and he got off the bed to come kneel by Maia. “Ino, Cousin Maia has to go.”

Ino clung tighter for a moment, then let go. She looked up at Maia, swollen eyed and sniffling. “Wilt come back?”

“Yes, I will, I promise thee,” Maia said. “Although it may not be soon.”

“May we come visit thee again?” Mireän asked, and added with hasty conscientiousness, “Sometime. Not while thou’rt busy.”

“I would like that,” Maia said. He got up, and Idra rose with him, looking at him as anxiously as Ino.

“I’m all right,” Maia said to Idra. “Thou needst not fear for me. I am well guarded.”

“Of course,” Idra said, and did not add, So was my grandfather.

“It is different when one knows to be careful,” Maia said, mindful of the little girls now clinging to Idra’s hands.

Idra’s eyes lightened a little. “I suppose it is. Thank you.”

Maia touched his shoulder gently, recognizing it as he did so for a strange muted echo of the Barizheise gesture he’d gotten used to seeing in the past few days, and said, “Try to get some sleep. Somebody ought to.”

And Idra actually smiled and said, “I’ll try.”