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Chapter Text

The imperial bell tolled.

Across the Untheileneise Court, courtiers and servants alike looked up from what they were doing. Couriers gathered their things, preparing to be sent out to convey whatever matter of import the bell signified. Those who were sharp counted the tolls and noted the rhythm, and their expressions became grim. The imperial bell tolled seldom, and only for a handful of reasons: an heir to the imperial throne had been born; the emperor was married; a member of the imperial family was dead. There was a different pattern for each ring, and those who recognised the pattern for a death reached for something black to take with them as they made their hurried way through the corridors.

The nobility gathered in the Untheileian in well-disciplined rows, exchanging quiet words with one another. Those who had not recognised the sound of the bells soon saw the black that the others were carrying. At the back of the hall, senior servants and administrators and a handful of couriers gathered.

The Lord Chancellor entered with his usual self-importance but, visible to those closest, trembling hands. The attention of the room was on him in a moment. He cleared his throat.

‘At some point this morning, the airship Wisdom of Choharo crashed in the fields of Thu-Cethor. His Imperial Serenity Varenechibal the Fourth, Prince Nemolis, and the Archdukes Nazhra and Ciris were all on board. There were no survivors.’

The hall was absolutely silent. For a moment, no one seemed to breathe.

Chavar went on, his voice heavy.

‘A message has been sent to Edonomee to the Archduke Maia Drazhar, and we anticipate his arrival. In the meantime, arrangements for the funeral are being made, and will be made public at the earliest convenience. We turn our thoughts, and restate our allegiance, to the Drazhada, as they deal with aftermath of this tragedy.’

That concluded the announcement, and as Chavar left the room the collected courtiers dissolved their neat rows into little huddles, speaking in low voices. Lord Pashavar caught Lantheval’s eye, and the two of them fell into step as they headed out of the Unthelieian.

‘Archduke Maia Drazhar?’ Pashavar said quietly as they gained distance from their fellow courtiers. ‘Uleris best hope that isn’t remembered.’

‘Mm. Then again, he could claim shock.’

An uncrowned emperor was still an emperor, from the very moment of the death of his father, and should be referred to as such. Pashavar knew that this was a trivial point in the circumstances, but the true weight of what had happened was still eluding him. He could not seem to parse it. Varenechibal’s death alone… Pashavar had never been friendly with the emperor (the former emperor, he reminded himself with an odd hollowness), and indeed was of the opinion that no member of the Corazhas should be on general principle, but they had worked in proximity of one another for more than thirty years. He had known the prince and the archdukes from young ages; attended the prince’s wedding; and now they were gone, dashed against the ground in some damnable field in the middle of nowhere.

Pashavar realised he was moving faster than entirely appropriate and forced himself to slow down. He glanced at Lantheval, who seemed to have been experiencing a similar train of thought. Neither of them felt any desire to voice it aloud, however; and so it was not a surprise when Lantheval’s next words were a slight change of subject.

‘So our new emperor will be rather novel,’ he said quietly. ‘Half-goblin, raised away from court, and nothing known about him for said court to gossip over.’

Pashavar snorted.

‘The court will gossip regardless,’ he said gruffly. ‘Varenechibal had more than a few nasty things to say about his youngest, true or not. He’ll have a fight on his hands when he gets here, if only for his reputation.’

~

The news turned the organised group into a shaken huddle, and Echelo Esaran allowed them a few minutes. Two of the maids were comforting another – the lover of one of Varenechibal’s edocharei, now a widow before marriage. But time would not wait for them, and she could not give them long. She gathered their attention again, doing her best to balance gentle with firm.

‘Mourning befits all of us,’ she said. ‘And we know that this news is overwhelming. But we are not the only people in grief, and House Drazhar will not finding us wanting in this time of loss. We are never without an emperor. The heir to Varenechibal will be on his way from Edonomee soon, and the Alcethmeret must be ready for him.’ She saw some of them straighten their backs and lift their chins, and nodded, adding, ‘This will of course include readying the servants’ quarters for new edocharei, and the nohecharei quarters likewise.’

She sorted the tasks and handed them out, holding onto her calmness and trying to pass it around. Only when everyone had dissipated did she make her way, business-like as though on some errand, up and into the servants’ corridors and then into her own quarters, locking the door behind her as the tears came.

~

As the news spilled out like water overflowing a glass, couriers travelling by airship and horse and foot, the Ethuveraz fell into mourning. Flags were flown lower; silences were observed; and the people dug for black clothes or ribbons or prepared to outface the disapproval of at least the older folks of their community.

And when the conversation had moved through the formulaic expressions of sorrow and concern, sometimes genuine, sometimes flat, the talk turned to the new emperor.

Maia Drazhar, fourth son of Varenechibal IV and Chenelo Drazharan.

Half-goblin.

They say he’s been locked away for years.

They say he’s mad.

They say he’s not really Varenechibal’s son.

They say, they say, they say…

And in an imperial airship above Thu-Evresar, a courier sat quietly with his satchel between his feet, listening to the whispered conversation between two of his fellows, and thinking.

Chapter Text

The concordia was a hasty one, with only the mazei of the Mazan’theileian and a handful from Cetho present. Information would be sent out to the others, but this discussion had to happen now.

After holding a brief silence in respect of those lost in the crash of the Wisdom of Choharo, the Adremaza spoke the words of the formal calling.

‘If there are two here who would rise and place their service into the hands of the new emperor, we ask that they step forward now.’

A long pause. The Adremaza nodded.

‘You have time to consider. Please take that time, and reflect. Those who would like to offer their service should come to us in our office.’

He closed the concordia swiftly after that, and retreated to his office.

With the loss of Teru and Pezhia Athmaza on the Wisdom of Choharo, the complement of dachenmazei was reduced to eleven. Three were away from the Athmaz’are, pursuing their fields of interest in appropriate locales, and Sehelis privately thought there was not much point in summoning them back to hear the formal calling. He knew what their answer would be. But then, he thought much the same of the entire complement. Mazei had a good life in the Athmaz’are – some emperor a long time ago had realised that discontented mazei were the most dangerous of discontented citizens, and the Athmaz’are had been organised in such a way as to ease discontent. Mazei had a permanent home the Mazan’theileian, and generous support was available if they wished to travel elsewhere. Much was provided to encourage them into academic pursuits, from the ordinary to the truly obscure, and within the Athmaz’are a considerable amount of society’s stricter rules were allowed to loosen.

Sehelis couldn’t think of a single dachenmaza he genuinely expected to step forward for the role of nohecharei. All of them were dedicated to their own preoccupations, and that did not seem likely to change. But then, he considered with all-too-faint hope, perhaps the previous Adremaza thought this when Teru and Pezhia volunteered.

It was only a few minutes before there was a knock on his office door, and he brightened a little. Hope, after all?

‘Come,’ he called.

Kiru Athmaza entered. She must have had to almost run to make it to the concordia in time, Sehelis thought; her hospital was right across the city. He stifled a sigh at the dashing of his hopes, and settled his face into what he intended to be a welcoming expression.

Kiru Athmaza gave a smile in response. For the first time in all that Sehelis had known her, she seemed almost nervous. He watched her gather herself.

‘Adremaza, we would like to be considered for one of the nohecharei positions,’ she said.

Sehelis, who had been expecting some request for beneficence to the hospital or similar, took several seconds to make sense of the sentence. Then his brow creased.

‘Kiru, we do not –’

‘Adremaza, we are a senior dachenmaza, we work with eighth mark spells; we fulfil the requirements. We also believe that healing work is considered a valuable speciality for a nohecharis. We would like to be considered.’

‘Kiru,’ Sehelis said firmly, clasping his hands together on the desk. ‘We are sorry, but the nohecharei have always been male. You do fulfil the other requirements, it is true – but it is doubtful that the new emperor will accept such a thing, or indeed his government. It would be improper.’

‘We are a cleric of Csaivo and are sworn to –’

‘Nevertheless.’

She looked at him a moment longer, and Sehelis did not quite know how to interpret her expression. There was certainly no surprise in it, but some frustration, quickly swallowed back.

‘Regardless, we have a right to be noted as a volunteer,’ she said. ‘We understand that any men who step forward will be given priority, but our name should be recorded as having been offered.’

Sehelis sighed. But she was correct.

‘Very well, consider it noted.’

‘Thank you, Adremaza.’

‘Kiru.’

She left, and Sehelis stared at the closed door for a long minute.

Unexpected. Ridiculous, of course. Though he would bear her in mind if the new nohecharei set took a temporary injury at any point – she might be able to be offered to substitute during the day, at least.

Sehelis did not doubt that Kiru was capable of the work. Did not, even, have any thought that Kiru, cleric of Csaivo, would behave inappropriately if required to guard the emperor in his bedchamber. She was a noted physician and a talented dachenmaza, and in most matters the Athmaz’are made nothing of the distinction of gender. Magical talent took priority.

But the outside world was not like that, and Sehelis had responsibilities towards the Athmaz’are – their oddness was permitted, provided they understood the rules that applied outside. And Sehelis knew well enough how strict those rules were. A female nohecharis was not even thinkable, even if she would be better at the job than a man.

Trying to distract himself, Sehelis turned to the work half-finished on his desk. Of course. Letters of condolence, to the families of Teru and Pezhia.

~

Cala was still in the main hall of the Mazan’theileian for some time after the concordia was over, lying along one of the benches and following the patterns of the ceiling art as he thought.

He was in the middle of that project about warning colours on Barizheise fish; and the one about the impact of first mark fulcrum spells on ninth mark holding patterns; oh, and that little one about ancient Chadevaneise shielding rituals. And he’d been considering a project about the use of glass in spells of minor distinction… but none of them were holding his attention at the moment, which usually meant it was time to let them slip. He’d do that anyway, whether he meant to or not – something else would come up and be so fascinating he’d be half-way to an expert on the new subject before he remembered to tidy away the old one, if he remembered at all. So he tried to see the loss of interest coming, so that he could at least not jar the people around him quite so much. People got so grumpy when you had no more need for the twenty three specimens of tadpole you had asked for, even if they had gone to Hesho who was delighted with them and gave them all names.

Nohecharei.

It wasn’t a position he had considered before in the slightest – too consistent, too straight-laced, too dull. And above all, not likely to be an option in the near future, Varenechibal being reportedly in robust health. But the idea of being able to see all the ins and outs of the imperial household was intriguing, especially with the due arrival of Varenichebal’s mysterious and much-maligned fourth son as a mystery factor.

Nohecharei were allowed to resign, weren’t they? Cala had looked that up once. For all the propaganda that nohecharei served the emperor faithfully and persistently until death, they were encouraged to resign if they were not content in their positions. No one wants a resentful nohecharis – consider, after all, the damage they could do.

So he didn’t have to stay in the position. He could try it out, getting a front row seat to the new emperor of the Ethuveraz as he did so, and it would additionally serve to give the other dachenmaza some time to consider whether or not they wanted the position. Surely one of them would come around, and regardless, his resignation would be his to make.

His fingers itched at the thought of a new thing to do. Peripatetic as he was, no one would expect him to last in the position, and he always had his work at the Athmaz’are to fall back on.

Suddenly energised, he rolled over and got to his feet, and then strode through the corridors to the Adremaza’s office.

On his way there, he saw Kiru coming the other way, and smiled. She gave him a faint smile back, but it didn’t seem right for her; he stopped.

‘Everything alright, Kiru?’ he asked.

She shrugged.

‘Fine, fine,’ she said. ‘The everyday frustrations of the world just… particularly grating, today.’

‘Ah, bad luck.’

‘Mm. Where art thou heading?’

Cala recalled his previous energy. Kiru would be a good first person to tell. She always took him seriously, even when other people used his ever-shifting interests as evidence that he didn’t take anything else seriously. Which was very unfair. Cala always took what he was doing seriously, every time.

‘Going to see the Adremaza,’ he said. ‘For the nohecharei position.’

If he had not been so caught up in the joy of a new direction, he might have caught the flicker of pain in her expression before she smiled.

‘I’m certain thou wilt do well,’ she said, and Cala smiled back. ‘And I’m sure Sehelis will be glad to see thee. Let me know how it goes, mm?’

‘Of course. I hope thy day improves.’

Kiru patted him on the shoulder and passed him, and Cala went the rest of the way to the Adremaza’s office without looking back.

~

By later that evening, Sehelis could not entirely contain his anxiety. The position of First Nohecharis had gone to Cala Athmaza, which was all very well for the time being but couldn’t possibly last; no one else had stepped forward, and if this state of affairs continued then at midday tomorrow he would have to explain to the new emperor that his only option was to be the first emperor with a nohecharo. Aforesaid new emperor was still relatively secluded, and had been seen by no senior members of government save the Lord Chancellor. Rumours were swirling, and Sehelis felt beset. What would happen if he had to nominate Kiru and she was declined? The emperor had a right to do that; he was, despite strong policy, permitted to order a dachenmaza to attend, and that could never end well. Perhaps Sehelis could pitch Kiru as a temporary solution while they waited for the more distant dachenmazei to return from their postings?

He chewed the matter over incessantly as he readied himself for bed, and it was quite some time before he slept.

~

Dazhis Athmaza, twenty-eight years old, dachenmaza of the eighth mark, did not look up from his book when he heard the others enter. But he did listen.

‘No one’s got the second nohecharei position yet, then.’

‘Depends on what you mean by got. Saw Sehelis about my funding this morning and he was practically tearing his hair out – Kiru’s volunteered, so he’s got two people, but he doesn’t want to put her forward because there’s no way she’ll be accepted.’

Dazhis put some effort into not letting his ears twitch. Kiru Athmaza had volunteered? Preposterous. Nohecharei were men. It was all very well in the Athmaz’are – a certain amount of freedom and exploration was understandably necessary for some of the michenmaza to, well, get it out of their systems, though personally Dazhis did not see why they had to take it quite so far. And cleric of Csaivo was of course a very respectable position, and Kiru reputedly excelling at it. But outside the Athmaz’are, which frankly could do with some tightening up, it was certainly not appropriate to mar more than a thousand years of tradition simply because Sehelis was not patient enough to wait for an appropriate candidate.

‘Well, what choice will he have?’

The voices were a little closer now. Dazhis hunched over his book and drew back into the corner he had been sitting in, but no one came around the corner.

‘The emperor can command someone to serve as one of the nohecharei. It’s just not done. Maybe he’ll have to.’

‘Or he’ll give her a chance and find out she’s good at it – she’ll at least be committed, which is more than you can say for Cala. I’m amazed Sehelis let him take the position at all, we all know he’ll resign out of boredom in a month.’

‘I suppose.’

Dazhis had barely concealed a snort at the compliment to Kiru, but now he frowned. The potential scandal of appointing a female nohecharis was one thing, and it at least was largely hypothetical – for all his worrying, Sehelis likely wouldn’t dare. But the point about Cala Athmaza was a good one. Cala was twenty-six and had the attention span of a drunken puppy. He had never managed to pursue any of his myriad, ever-changing interests for more than a few weeks, and when he inevitably resigned from his position – or was removed, for surely he did not have the required patience and fortitude – the Athmaz’are would be shamed.

The speakers’ topic had changed, moving on to some gossip or other that Dazhis had no interest in. He sat quietly, thinking.

Twenty minutes later, he had made his decision. It was important that someone step forward to prevent bringing shame to the Athmaz’are. Sehelis would be grateful, and after all the position was a highly prestigious one. It was foolish of him to cling to his studies when this was clearly the higher path. He would be able to observe the intricacies of government, and the new emperor was young and inexperienced – surely he would need someone sensible at his side. And while taking Second to Cala’s First galled somewhat, Cala would barely be a footnote on the records after he had resigned, and surely then they would move the more experienced maza to the First position. The timing was perfect, really.

Decisively, he put his book away, and headed down the corridors to the Adremaza’s office.

Chapter Text

When Merrem Ivaren entered the dining room and clapped her hands once for attention, she had it immediately. Merrem Ivaren did not like people speaking when she was speaking, and everyone knew better than to cross Merrem Ivaren. She ran the Veshtis School – one of the two best schools for edocharei and personal servants in Cetho, if not the entire Ethuveraz – with what might be kindly called a firm hand.

‘Naturally we have all heard the terrible news of the loss of His Imperial Serenity and his three sons,’ she began, her gaze moving around the room. ‘And while it is right and proper that these events be afforded a certain gravity, it is always the case that matters below must continue to move, for the sake of good order.’

Matters below meant the servant classes. A few of the sharper students sat up a little straighter, realising where this was going.

‘Properly, new additions to the imperial household would be chosen over several weeks,’ she continued, ‘under the strict scrutiny of Merrem Esaran. However, due to the nature of recent events, alternate arrangements have been made in order to maintain efficiency.’

You could have heard a pin drop in that room, though in that moment no one would have dared to drop anything.

‘Avris Falcar; Esha Odremar; Nemer Antora,’ she called, and raised an eyebrow as the three young men stood promptly in answer. ‘You have been granted probationary positions as imperial edocharei, on our advice. You will remain on probation for one month, and if anything is not to Merrem Esaran’s liking, you will be summarily dismissed. Do you have any questions?’

‘May we know when His Imperial Serenity is expected to arrive at court?’ Avris said instantly, and Nemer was glad that at least one of them had a mind that wasn’t spinning in shocked circles.

Merrem Ivaren gave a grim smile.

‘He is already here,’ she said. ‘So you are already late. You have ten minutes in which to gather your things and make your way downstairs; there is a carriage waiting. At once, gentlemen.’

And with that, she swept back out. The chosen three didn’t exchange so much as a glance before they moved, abandoning their food and heading at just under a run towards the dormitories.

Avris and Esha shared the same four-person room, but Nemer's was at the other end of the corridor. As he packed his small collection of belongings with professional speed and precision, he started to sort through the information he determined he was most likely to need immediately. Court etiquette of course he knew, and the specific variations for the emperor; the order of rank for servants in the Alcethmeret he knew in the general but not in the specific, he would need to check; the proper forms of court mourning he knew; the forms and requirements of a coronation –

That thought hit him like a sunburst, and he almost dropped the shirt he was folding. Regardless of his success with probation, unless he was so terrible as to be dismissed within the next few days he was going to attend upon the emperor for his coronation. Handle the Dachen Mura; prepare him for the rites… Nemer thought about his parents receiving his next letter home, and had to hold back what probably would have been a slightly worrying grin.

Within minutes he was in the corridor again, and met up with the other two on their way past his door.

‘What do you think he’ll be like?’ Avris murmured as they walked. ‘There are all sorts of rumours, but I can’t see how they’d be based on anything.’

Esha shrugged. ‘We find out, I suppose. And hope he’s not the type to be angry that we weren’t waiting for him when he arrived.’

‘Mm.’

‘Did you see Lumis’ face?’ Nemer kept his tone carefully free of smugness. ‘Thought he was going to turn green.’

‘Everyone wants the imperial position,’ Esha said mildly, but there was a certain amount of amusement in his tone.

‘Of course. But Lumis can’t believe it isn’t him.’

‘Perhaps it’ll do him good.’

Their words were light, but Nemer knew that beneath their calm expressions Esha and Avris were every bit as nervous as he was.

When they climbed into the carriage, Merrem Ivaren was waiting for them. She eyed them carefully as they sat, taking in every detail of their dress and decorum, and eventually gave a nod and rapped on the wall of the carriage. It set off down the street.

‘Merrem Esaran is strict but fair,’ she began. ‘Ask questions if you are uncertain; some of the imperial procedures are different from the standard form. Questions will be forgiven; mistakes will not. Nemer, you should speak to Merrem Esaran about your condition at the earliest opportunity, it will not count against you.’

‘Yes, Merrem Ivaren,’ Nemer said. He had suffered from a lung condition since he was a child, and his family had worked hard to fund him into so-called soft work so that he would not have to keep struggling on the family farm. In the city it was easier to get treatment, too. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to dream that he would get through the probationary period. Aside from the obvious prestige, the main reason that everyone wanted a position in the imperial household was that the Alcethmeret would pay off your apprenticeship fees, no strings attached. It was a security measure – those who worked so closely with the emperor should not be beholden to anyone who might take advantage of their privileged access.

Theirs, Nemer supposed, would not be paid off unless they passed probation. But if he did… he would be that much closer to paying for his family to come and visit him, for the first time since he had left home at ten. They wrote, of course, but that was hardly the same.

‘Our new emperor arrived early this morning by airship,’ Merrem Ivaren said. ‘So he has been without edocharei for most of the day. There has already been some comment about his behaviour; he reportedly attended the common funeral for the servants and crew lost in the crash this afternoon.’

None of the new edocharei reacted aside from continuing to look attentive. They knew she was testing them, making sure they knew not to show any opinion on their faces. A good edocharis did not have opinions, not in front of his master, not without being asked for them. But Nemer was intrigued by the idea of an emperor who attended a common funeral – was it kindness? Some kind of political motive? Or did he simply not understand how things were done?

‘We have heard very little from Merrem Esaran, only that you are expected at the earliest moment possible. We will deliver you to the Alcethmeret, and we assume you will be given a briefing before you are presented to His Imperial Serenity. You will take your guidance from Merrem Esaran or whosoever she directs you to, as there will be no one to directly train you into your new positions.’

She did not say, because you are stepping into dead men’s shoes. She did not need to.

The rest of the journey through Cetho and then, on foot through the corridors of the Untheileneise Court, Nemer returned to working through his well-trained knowledge, trying to keep a hold on the nervousness that was beginning to overwhelm him. Edocharei were usually selected slowly, which meant time for them to be assessed but also time for them to prepare for their new position – to listen to rumours about the master of the house, to find out what the house steward was like, to get a sketch of what to expect. Going from a day at the school to being abruptly before the emperor made him feel almost nauseous with nerves. He forced himself to keep his breathing steady.

It was made all the more mysterious by the infamous secrecy of the Alcethmeret household. They were notoriously strict, with the slightest indiscretion treated as the highest crime. Merrem Ivaren’s words were the most Nemer had ever heard anyone say about Merrem Esaran, the house steward, and it was hard to predict what kind of environment they would be walking into.

Merrem Ivaren wants all three of you to succeed, he reminded himself. She’d not have chosen thee if she thought thou would shame the school.

But Merrem Ivaren does not know much about the Alcethmeret household, either, came his own worried response. He tried to ignore it.

Merrem Esaran was standing just outside the Alcethmeret doors when they arrived. Nemer wondered how she had got the timing right, but did not like to ask. Merrem Ivaren gave her a respectful nod that was not quite a bow as the three edocharei lined up behind her.

‘Merrem Esaran, thank you for trusting our judgement,’ she said. ‘These are Nemer Antora, Avris Falcar, and Esha Odremar; we believe they will meet your standards.’

‘We will be certain to inform you in either case,’ Merrem Esaran said, her voice firm. ‘Thank you, Merrem Ivaren. Gentlemen, if you’ll follow us.’

She did not wait to see if they did, only turned and walked away. And then they entered into the Alcethmeret itself, and Nemer had to work desperately hard not to gawp like a farmer come to the city. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t used to court decadence – Cetho made most of it, after all, and he’d grown up seeing it in all its pieces, strewn across the city – but this truly was the best of it. And it was sparklingly, terrifyingly clean and unforgiving to look at, and so beautiful it made his eyes ache.

Merrem Esaran led them up a graceful open staircase until they reached a set of grilles, open for the moment, with a member of the Untheileneise Guard standing smartly beside them. Then she stopped, and turned to them.

‘The Alcethmeret does not typically take on probationary staff, for a number of reasons. However, at this point in time we have little choice. Therefore we will make this very clear: while we are willing to allow some time for you to adjust to your duties and we would rather you ask questions than make mistakes, any breach of discretion will gain you an instant dismissal with no reference. Breach of discretion, for your purposes, consists of any discussion of anything you see, hear, or discover beyond these grilles, no matter how insignificant. Do you all understand?’

‘Yes, Merrem Esaran,’ the three of them said in unison. Nemer felt his heart speed up.

She eyed them for a long moment, her expression distinctly displeased; but then she led them through the grilles and sharply to the left, turning so that they could see the part of the wall she pressed to open an almost invisible door into the servants’ corridors.

As they climbed a much narrower and shabbier staircase, Merrem Esaran went through the rules for the staff and the hierarchy, as well as what was expected of the three of them. Nemer tried desperately to take it all in. And then they were stepping out into the beautiful main stairwell again, somehow only half a floor higher than they had started. The servants’ corridors must coil around the tower, Nemer thought, but he hardly had time to pursue it before Merrem Esaran was knocking on an ornate door and then stepping inside.

The new emperor was not what Nemer had expected. He took in the clothes first as he bowed and rose: black and plum with white embroidery. Not strict court mourning, but appropriate to having attended an external funeral. Then the shock of seeing slate-grey skin as opposed to the typical elvish white – Nemer and Esha had been among less than a dozen half-goblin students at the edocharei school, for though goblins and half-goblins were common enough among the lower and middle classes of Cetho, edocharei were expected to advertise their skills by their appearance. And the ideal appearance at the Untheileneise Court was, of course, elvish.

He had known the new emperor would be half-goblin, like Nemer himself was, but it took seeing him for it to really sink in. But in all this, Esaran had been speaking. He caught the tail-end of her words.

‘…unless Your Serenity is pleased to indicate otherwise?’

Nemer could not help it; he trembled slightly. They could be sent straight out, he realised. If the emperor took issue with their appearance or their manner or some detail of their, their anything –

‘Thank you, Merrem Esaran, we are certain they will be fine.’

The emperor’s voice was tinged with worry, and Nemer wondered what that was for even as he felt his heart slow back down again. Esaran left them in the room and Nemer nearly panicked again – they did not know all their tasks yet, what if he asked for something and they did not understand, what if –

But the man in couriers’ leathers, who had been sitting quietly near the emperor, spoke up, and Nemer nearly sagged with relief.

‘Perhaps, Serenity, the new edocharei should familiarise themselves with the imperial chambers and prepare the rooms for use?’ He spoke with a perfect court accent and no trace of an opinion, and Nemer wondered how a courier came to be sitting in the upper Alcethmeret, advising the emperor. He did not, however, dwell on it. Time enough to work that out later.

Esaran was waiting for them outside the door, having seemingly predicted their instructions, and led them swiftly back into the servants’ corridors which seemed to twist and turn in every direction as they rose alongside the tower. She stopped several levels up.

‘Right. This is the room you’ll share. One of you, taking it turns, will spend the night in as close to fully-dressed as reasonable in order to be prepared for any summons. For now, this cupboard contains the Alcethmeret livery, as well as the servants’ mourning that you’ll need today; find something close enough and pin it to fit, you can stitch it properly after the emperor is in bed. Stow your things and get changed, and we will meet you at the top of the main stairwell in ten minutes.’

She left, and Nemer leaned to see the way she went so he would know how to get back to the main stairwell.

‘Psst.’

Nemer glanced around and saw a young girl wearing servants’ mourning looking at them from the other end of the corridor. She pointed at the cupboard.

‘Top to bottom is big to small,’ she said. ‘If you need pins ask Dachensol Atterezh, he’s master of the wardrobe and his workroom is just around the corner.’

‘Thanks –’

‘Isheian.’

‘Isheian. I’m Nemer – this is Avris, this is Esha.’

Isheian nodded.

‘Welcome to the nest,’ she said, but the smile she gave them was uncertain.

‘The nest?’ Avris asked as the three of them found clothes in their approximate sizes.

‘That’s what this is called,’ Isheian said, gesturing around herself. ‘The servants’ areas around the upper Alcethmeret. It’s the servants’ quarters, the kitchen, the nohecharei quarters, and all the storage spaces. We’re not supposed to call it that in front of the gentry, but it’s what it’s called.’

The nest. From what little they’d seen of it so far, Nemer thought it sounded just about right. Grasping the central tower, it was a series of twisting corridors and odd corners. He turned the new word around in his head, delighting in even this small bit of imperial knowledge.

‘Hurry up, Nemer,’ Avris said, and Nemer followed him into their new room to change.

The room was surprisingly spacious, and very well-kept. Instead of a dormitory row of beds, they each had a corner blocked off by a moveable screen. The fourth corner, upon investigation, contained an actual bath, evidently for their personal use.

‘Generous,’ Avris said as they hurriedly tidied their things away.

‘Or a hint about the standards.’

‘Both?’

They turned to exit, and all three of them came to a stop as they realised what was beside the door.

The boxes were not large or many in number, but neither were they all closed; and their contents must have belonged to the former edocharei, buried this afternoon in the Ceth’ulimeire.

‘They would have been home by now,’ Esha said softly.

The three of them stood in silence for a moment; and then remembrance of the time jarred them into motion again. But though the little collection was gone when next they returned to their quarters, the image of them stayed with Nemer a long time after.

Chapter Text

Esaran stared at him. She seemed to be trying to decide if he was joking or not. Csevet waited. After a long moment, she pursed her lips and looked him up and down disapprovingly.

‘Well, you can’t be acting Imperial Secretary wearing those. Go to Atterezh and get him to run you something up; servants’ mourning first, and then Drazhada blue, but not the livery. Secretaries don’t wear the livery. Go on, hurry up. And you’ll need to sleep here now, so once you’ve spoken to him go and fetch your things from the courier barracks and we’ll find you a room. Go.’

Csevet went without a word, not daring to comment. His mind spun as he trotted up the stairs and jogged through the servants’ corridor – he probably had enough time to walk, he thought semi-hysterically, but he didn’t dare risk it, and he’d need to be back from the couriers’ barracks before His Serenity was finished with dinner, in case he was called upon.

His Serenity. It was an understatement to say that he had not been what Csevet had expected. He had anticipated a spoilt, barely-grown archduke, the highest rank for miles, accustomed to being the centre of everything. And then, when he had met Osmer Nelar and recognised the bully with instincts he’d had almost since birth, he had instead expected a mouse – some quavering, nervous little thing, barely conscious of his rank. Someone like Nelar would create someone like that, whether they started that way or not.

But Maia Drazhar had been neither of those things. Oh, there was a little quavering, certainly; but even in the early hours of the morning, faced with what had to be the most startling information of his life, he had remembered both his manners and to ensure that the courier had some care after his journey. Csevet had been quietly surprised, and spent half an hour plying the house servant with stories of court in exchange for information about the household at Edonomee and its abruptly imperial occupant. Pelchara was protective of the household’s privacy, of course, and so he should be; but Csevet was good at reading between the lines, and he picked out enough to work out that his initial assessment of Nelar was entirely correct. A bully – a drinker – a petty, mean-minded little snob. Information about the former archduke was harder to obtain; Pelchara was obstinately reticent, and would say nothing more than, ‘he’s a good lad, always polite, doesn’t deserve to be stuck out here’. To which Csevet had been amused to inform him that this would no longer be the case.

When Csevet reached the Master of the Wardrobe, Atterezh was surprised, but helpful – he and his two assistants were drowning in the work of bringing the new emperor’s wardrobe up to standard, not to mention preparations for the upcoming coronation and the state funeral, but he pulled together a rough combination of things that would be suitable and took a moment to pin them to size.

‘Can you sew at all?’ he said. ‘We know the couriers do a lot for themselves.’

Csevet winced.

‘We can mend a hole or a seam, or raise a hem, but not smartly,’ he said honestly. Atterezh nodded.

‘Stay in the pinned clothes for now, and when you get a moment come through here – we’ll talk you through stitching the adjustments while we work.’

‘Thank you, Dachensol Atterezh,’ Csevet said gratefully, and made his escape.

And then there had been the airship journey.

Far from his rabbit-like nerves of a few hours earlier, the new emperor now moved like a man who had made a decision. A quiet one, but a decision nonetheless. Csevet had found his words to the airship captain somewhat telling, and had been delighted to assist, however obliquely, in preventing Nelar from joining them both to watch the sunrise from the cockpit of the airship. And then – and then – and then, His Imperial Serenity had caught Csevet after they exited the airship and asked him for his name. Informally, and also somewhat apologetically, as if he had done Csevet a discourtesy by not already knowing.

It wasn’t exactly that he’d asked at all – it happened, occasionally, and it usually meant that either you were in trouble or the noble in question was about to suggest something entirely improper – it was how he had asked. As though he was stepping out from behind the rank of emperor and asking earnestly, man to man. As though he cared. And Csevet thought, despite himself: this court could eat thee alive, and I am not sure that I would forgive it.

From that point on, it wasn’t difficult to volunteer information, to run errands, to badger Chavar about attending his new emperor until the Lord Chancellor snapped that if Csevet was so fond of him then you can damn well go and work for him, because you certainly have no position here any longer…

Fortunately the courier barracks were deserted – unsurprising, really, given how many people had to be notified of the death of one emperor and his heir, and the ascension of another – so Csevet was undisturbed as he found his locker, emptied the contents he wanted into his message satchel, and then stopped in indecision.

There was absolutely no way that this was a permanent position. He would only be acting secretary for a week or two at most; just until the new emperor had a chance to settle in, get past the coronation and the funeral, and hire someone with the proper experience and expertise. He forced himself to think about that. Of course, he had been thrown out of the courier fleet, but that wasn’t truly a problem. All he had to do was be careful, stay away of the Lord Chancellor’s office for a few months, and Chavar would have forgotten who he was and he would be in the clear. Other couriers had done it before. If Captain Volsharezh fired you, you were done; if Lord Chavar did, usually for not moving impossibly fast or having a facial expression he disliked, you just stayed out of sight for a while.

Csevet thought back to his last confrontation with the Lord Chancellor. Possibly quite a long while, in my case. Though perhaps Edrehasivar would, as Csevet suspected he wanted to, replace his Lord Chancellor promptly, and then… well.

In any case, it would be imprudent to give up his staked claim to his locker (there were slightly fewer of them than there were couriers, and not all were in as good condition as Csevet’s). So he left enough belongings in it to indicate he was still using it, and locked it carefully. A bed was less of a problem – if his preferred spot was taken by the time he got back he’d gamble his way back to it, and while he did that he had plenty of friends who wouldn’t mind him as a temporary bunkmate.

He nodded to himself once, decisively, and then hurried back out and through the court to the Alcethmeret.

Chapter Text

Cala entered the nohecharei quarters with some ceremony, letting the door swing wide open to the point that it would have slammed into the wall – had Lieutenant Beshelar, radiating disapproval, not caught it and closed it quietly behind them.

‘Well then,’ Cala said, taking in their new living quarters. ‘Very pleasant.’

The nohecharei quarters were not anywhere near the luxurious heights of the emperor’s – but they would well befit lower-rank nobility, Cala thought. Good carpets, comfortable-looking furniture of respectable quality, a series of intriguingly full bookcases, a smart and trim little room for cleanliness, and four separate bedrooms.

‘Plenty of wardrobe space,’ Cala called from his explorations. ‘Not sure how many outfits we’re expected to own, given that we’re both wearing the same thing every day. Perhaps we’re supposed to have endless blue robes and uniforms, just in case one or six of them gets a spot?’

He returned to the main room and saw that Beshelar had found a small pile of belongings marked with their names – of course, they would have been sent over by now. They had not brought them themselves, for promptness’ sake. Cala joined him, sitting on the arm of a chair and taking a more informal look at his new other half.

The Lieutenant was very smartly dressed, he had noticed that earlier – but then the Untheileneise Guard always were, and this one had come to meet the emperor, so it made sense that he’d be even more spick and span than usual. Tall, not as tall as Cala himself but more muscled, with broader shoulders. Absently, Cala wondered if Beshelar’s military topknot ever made his head ache.

‘So, I didn’t actually catch your full name,’ he said lightly.

‘Lieutenant Deret Beshelar.’

The words were brusque, and Cala raised his eyebrows. He knew he had perhaps not made a perfect impression, but he had thought it would be different once they were off duty. He tried again.

‘Cala,’ he offered. ‘Which you know, but it still feels rude not to say. Good quarters, don’t you think?’

Beshelar finished rummaging through the little pile and stood, hoisting everything that wasn’t Cala’s onto his shoulders. It wasn’t much. Cala’s books alone took up more space.

‘We will see you for our next shift at six o’clock tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘Goodnight, Athmaza.’

And then he crossed the room, selected the bedroom next to the one Cala had been exploring, and shut the door firmly behind him.

‘Well,’ said Cala to the now-empty room.

He supposed he should go to sleep, and he knew he would within the hour – but the tiredness of the end of the shift had turned on its edge and he was in that fizzy, restless state of sorting through too many new things at once.

Letting himself slide over the arm of the chair he was sitting on and into the chair itself with a soft thump, he tried to make a list.

One. The Alcethmeret itself. Something of an architectural marvel, certainly, but that was not a field Cala currently had an interest in. What he had noticed with the edge of his nerves in the Tortoise Room, however, intrigued him – the whole tower was wreathed in protective maz, installed when it was built and renewed by nohecharei over the years, and it kept tugging at his attention. Something in the Tortoise Room was particularly interesting, something around the window, but he had been on duty and had no time to solve it.

Well, he would not be sleeping for all of his off-shift, so perhaps he could investigate after he had rested.

Two. The baldrics. A simple if incongruous addition to a maza’s blue robe, Cala took his off with a little undignified wiggling to avoid having to get up, and then turned it over in his hands. Maz work, again, though subtle. Probably something to prevent anyone wearing it without permission, though its precise mechanism was yet to be discovered. Admittedly he could probably just look it up somewhere, but puzzling it out would be more interesting.

Three. The nohecharei quarters. Even now he had spotted one or two doors that were not bedrooms and he had not noticed initially. Interesting. What other facilities would be provided to the emperor’s nohecharei? A training space for the soldiers, perhaps? An anchored room for maz work? A broom cupboard that he was going to be very disappointed by?

Four. The curious little mystery of the man who would, very shortly, be crowned Edrehasivar VII Zhas. Cala had, frankly, been expecting the emperor himself to be the least interesting part of the job. Certainly there was an excitement in getting to see him not just in person but in privacy, to be able to be one of the first to get the measure of him; but other than that… Cala knew nobility. Before he had been a maza he had been nobility, though admittedly not of any particularly high rank. One dropped all rank and inheritance when one entered the Athmaz’are, and he had been glad to. But he knew nobility, and Maia Drazhar… had not been what he had expected.

Five. Lieutenant Deret Beshelar, and the precise size of the stick up his – oh, very well, perhaps that wasn’t entirely fair. Cala glanced at the closed door hiding his new fellow nohecharei. They had just had an extremely long shift, after all. And Deret had gone to bed without even bothering to wash… no, that was wrong again. Soldiers were in the morning wash-group, weren’t they? Well, that made sharing the facilities easier.

The abilities of a maza did not discriminate by class or background, and so there was a good mix of both in the Athmaz’are – though, strictly speaking, no one was allowed to share theirs until they’d been there three years, a rule designed to prevent class distinctions being carried in. It was moderately successful, at least in making such things less important, but people usually worked yours out after a while.

The wash-group rule was something Cala had come up with. There were not many dachenmaza, which made him stand out, and even without that he suspected he would have struggled to make friends. Everyone else seemed to function within a slightly different framework to him. He was always just that little bit out of step.

He tried not to mind too much, and by twenty-one he had mostly succeeded. He was interested in other people, however, and had spent quite some time picking through information in attempts to build the friendships that everyone else seemed to gain without effort. One of these little observations was the wash-group rule, which was one way that you could tell what someone’s background was without needing to ask, and therefore get a better guess on a potential conversational subject.

People whose background was independent – nobility, of course, but also artists, craftspeople, and farm families who answered to no one but Orshan – they washed in the evening, for they washed for their own comfort and to ease their own rest. People whose background was in the service to others, however – servants and couriers, but also soldiers, shop workers, and the like – they washed in the morning, for they had to appeal to view of those they depended on, those above them or buying from them. The rule had its exceptions, of course, but it was usually a good place to start. Though it would not tell him much in the Alcethmeret, where he already knew everyone’s position.

Groaning at the ache in his muscles, Cala twisted around and pushed himself to his feet. On the subject of washing…

He eyed the pile of the things by the door, yawning, and decided he was far too tired to deal with them now. He would wash quickly and get some sleep, and maybe when he woke the tangle of thoughts would be a little easier to tease apart. Funerals and Lord Chancellors and soldiers and emperors... his thoughts flitted briefly back to Edrehasivar, skinny and eighteen, worried and riddled with good intention, facing a court that did not want him. Might even, in some quarters, be actively opposed to him. For the first time it occurred to Cala that in the circumstances, the role of nohecharei might be less than entirely decorative, and a small frown creased his brow. How did he feel about that? He prodded himself mentally, in the manner of a man who is used to using that as a tactic to investigate virtually everything up to and including the flammable or easily provoked. Mm. Not sure. Too tired to tell.

He shook the thoughts off and went to wash, resisting the temptation to thump around loudly and disturb his grumpy counterpart in the next room. Perhaps they would end up getting along fine. Early to know, after all.

Chapter Text

Life below stairs in the Upper Alcethmeret, it turned out, was surprisingly social.

After they had risen, eaten breakfast, and readied Himself (an Alcethmeret affectation that Nemer had taken to immediately) for the day, most of their work took place in the kitchen. The Upper Alcethmeret kitchen was oddly shaped, almost like a mushroom – the half-circle of the main area where the food was prepared and the servants ate, and the longer stem containing the worktables for the edocharei. Nemer did not know the logic behind it, but he liked the result – he and Esha and Avris did their daily jewellery clean and had their meetings with Atterezh there, talking back and forth with the kitchen staff and enjoying the company as people passed in and out. Esaran was often elsewhere, but she had a little desk in the corner where she would sit and go through the household expenses, and she did not object to the conversation. Dachensol Ebremis, the kitchen master, was a good listener and inclined to “test” whatever he was making on anyone who happened to be in the kitchen. Ashu and Petzha, the scullions, were full of chatter, and Isheian the serving maid was subdued but showed glimpses of a sharp sense of humour in odd moments.

Nemer had been a little worried it would be uncomfortable – their predecessors were sorely missed, and half the household was still in mourning after the court-wide three days had passed. But while the new staff were careful to give the old a degree of breathing room for their grief, everyone seemed to be rubbing along reasonably well. After conferring with each other and then making a very respectful enquiry of Merrem Esaran, the three edocharei had ceased to wear servants’ mourning after the traditional three days, and settled into the smart navy-blue livery of the Drazhada. The Upper Alcethmeret jackets had a small white cat embroidered on the shoulder, marking out their higher rank, access to the tower, and privileges.

The flurry of the coronation and funeral having eased, the servants were settling back into their more normal routine, and that included the weekly household meeting. It wasn’t held on a specifically regular day – rather it was arranged as close as possible to a week from the last one, on a morning or evening wherein one pair of nohecharei would be able to be present. Nemer scooted a little further left, nudging into Esha in order to let Ishean join them on the bench. Across from them, the first nohecharei were eating their breakfast.

Nemer had met all four of the nohecharei now – Coris Telimezh was a little shy off duty but cheery when he warmed up, Dazhis Athmaza was reserved but a good listener, Cala Athmaza had a mind that went in twenty directions at once. Deret Beshelar, Nemer and Avris had quietly agreed, would probably be quite nice once he loosened up a bit, but for now he was so proper it was painful. Right now, the lieutenant was eating his scrambled eggs like the gods were watching and judging his manners, his back ramrod-straight, a distinct contrast to his counterpart. Off-duty, Cala embodied the word lounge more than anyone Nemer had met before. He probably only had his feet off the table because it might prompt Ebremis to cut off his supply of blackberry jam – which he seemed to think went on the toast under the scrambled eggs.

Esaran called the attention of the group and nodded immediately to Csevet Aisava, acting-Imperial Secretary. Csevet cleared his throat, and begun to talk everyone through what was known of the week’s schedule.

Nemer hadn’t quite figured Csevet out yet, but he had a few theories. The former courier was scrupulously well-mannered, his clothes and hair always perfect, his court accent flawless. Which to Nemer’s mind meant that all three of those things had been learnt later in life. People who were born to it – like Cala, who he suspected of being from nobility, though it was terribly rude to ask a maza their origins – exuded not just confidence, but ease. Errors were handled gracefully, and therefore did not need to be feared. People like Csevet, both of the soldier-nohecharei, and Nemer himself – they adhered much more rigidly to the rules and forms, for fear that a single error would take away what they had been so fortunate to gain.

Still, he himself was not as nervous as he had been. Though there were imperial protocols that differed from what he had been taught, he felt confident in his work – and Himself had been nothing but polite, if understandably preoccupied and almost permanently disoriented. Nemer felt a great deal of sympathy for him; he remembered coming to Cetho for the first time, how strange and overwhelming everything had been, from the clothes to the food to the buildings to the people… it had to be a hundred times worse for the emperor, he thought, with every eye on him, just waiting for him to make a mistake.

‘Edocharei?’ Esaran said, and Nemer straightened slightly before turning to Esha. They’d been warned about this, and had nominated Esha to speak for them.

‘No signs of illness, though he’s thinner than we’d like for someone of his build. That might be the tail-end of a growth-spurt but it might also be poor keeping; we’ll have to see how it changes as he settles in here.’

Edocharei responsibilities included not just the dressing of their employer and the maintenance of the bedchamber but also, typically, the monitoring of his or her health – watching for changes in weight, skin damage, or other signs of illness. Not to mention that in the tightly regimented circles of nobility, they were often the only people any unmarried lord or lady could ask questions of a sexual nature. Many members of the nobility, Nemer knew, would have gone to their wedding night completely ignorant if it were not for the quiet intervention of their edocharei, and he made a mental note to discuss that with the other two when they knew if and when Himself was going to marry. As part of this task, edocharei were also taught the care of the more embarrassing illnesses, how to recognise a rash for what it meant, which treatments for impotence were legitimate and which were so much nonsense, and all the other little things that no one liked to admit they needed to know.

In this way the edocharei typically acted as resources on the subject for the below-stairs household, too, which cemented their reputation as holders of valuable and yet distasteful knowledge. Edocharei were infamously incapable of being embarrassed, and privy to all sorts of little secrets. Sometimes, this meant that there was a faint but distinct line between them and the rest of the servants. And in the rarefied, exclusive air of the Upper Alcethmeret, Nemer had anticipated that said line would be drawn even more firmly, especially with the emphasis on discretion. He had been glad to have been wrong.

There was a well-known phrase among the court servants that went: there is no gossip in the Alcethmeret. Nemer had been quietly delighted to discover the variation on this phrase that was Esaran’s word of law in the Upper Alcethmeret: There is no gossip in the Alcethmeret, only truth. While discussing anything outside the Alcethmeret was strictly prohibited, the staff inside discussed their various specialties in some detail, allowing more precise coordination between the elements. If the edocharei noticed the emperor was losing weight, the kitchen master would adjust the menu; if the nohecharei noticed the emperor had slept poorly, the imperial secretary would adjust the schedule to allow him more time to rest. Everything interlocked like clockwork.

The meeting cleared up and everyone vanished off to their various tasks. The edocharei were left behind – there was another quarter of an hour before they were expecting the bell to summon them to the imperial bedroom, and they could not begin any longer tasks while they waited. Instead, Nemer and Avris started to get out the jewellery-cleaning equipment – the jewels Himself wore yesterday would be retrieved from the imperial store upstairs and checked for any damage before being carefully cleaned and stored again – while Esha went to wash his hands. Nemer was already beginning to enjoy the routine.

Their most interesting meeting so far had been the afternoon of the day after the funeral: the three of them had sat down with Dachensol Atterezh to discuss the new imperial wardrobe going forward.

Of course, Atterezh had already made a handful of things, building up the standards of a nobleman’s wardrobe to begin. But it was the edocharei who were responsible for the emperor’s style.

White was the staple, naturally, and probably it looked straightforward from the outside. But in actuality, it was incredibly complex. Court fashion existed in a constant state of flux as everyone vied for the best fabrics, the best patterns, the best styles; and on top of that, your fashion told the rest of court a great deal about you. Dress to tradition, you were assumed to be resistant to change, or perhaps you would be considered reliable and solid. Dress extravagantly and you might be assumed to be wealthy or to lack taste or to not care for people’s opinions – or, conversely, to care too much. It was all in the fine detail. How much embroidery, and where? What fabrics, what cuts; what colours? Even the emperor could not escape this – white predominated, but other colours were acceptable in small amounts. Different colours, used differently, had different meanings. And then you had house colours – an unmarried lady might, for example, add to her outfit a touch of the house colour of the man she hoped to attract. Nobility used clothing to indicate allegiances, histories, opinions, and character. And the emperor resided at the centre of the web, every strand of it leading back to him.

For the moment, Edrehasivar needed a traditional appearance. A half-goblin fourth son, abruptly on the throne and at odds with his Lord Chancellor? He needed all the security he could get, and that meant something Esha had lightly referred to as ‘emperor’s neutral’: traditional, conservative, eye-catching for being the imperial white and as ornamented as was appropriate, but going no further. The way he presented himself to court had to emphasise his position without being crass; to remind the looker that he was the rightful continuation of the imperial line, without seeming as though he was indistinguishable his father. It was a balance that required a great deal of thought.

And when you broke it all the way down, even the choice of white could keep you occupied for hours. Edrehasivar was currently wearing the imperial standard, though all three edocharei agreed that he shouldn’t stay in it forever. There were so many different kinds of white – what fabric, what weight, what ornamentation? Pearlescent, matt, silken? Embroidered or beaded? The white that Himself wore at the moment might be the “standard” but really all that meant was it was what his father had worn most – in order to quickly put together an appropriate wardrobe Atterezh had done the sensible thing, and built from the material he had on hand.

‘But it isn’t the right one,’ Esha had said. ‘The Varenechibal white was selected with white skin in mind – he needs something that will flatter him more. Something a little more pearlescent, something that picks up a little bit of colour. Less flat.’

‘We can’t change it quickly,’ Avris had countered. ‘But if we find something that works we can start to ease things over. Add it as a component in some pieces, gently increase how much it’s used until it becomes the default.’

After they had readied the emperor this morning, Esha and Avris were going down into the town to look at some fabric options, and then to the jeweller to discuss the commissioning of the replacement Michen Mura. Nemer was happy to take the bulk of the mundane tasks for now – cleaning the jewellery, changing the sheets, checking all of their supplies were at the right level, and monitoring the cleaning of the bedroom. It was good to gain familiarity with everything, and even if he did not make it out of the probationary period, he thought he would be glad to have had the chance to work here, even for a little while.

The bell chimed under the neat little brass plaque that read ‘Edocharei: Bedchamber’. The three of them put down what they were doing, exchanged glances to check that they were all still neat and professional in appearance, and made their way upstairs.

Chapter Text

Deret Beshelar had been raised on a farm approximately equidistant between Rosiro and Cetho, on the western side of the Istandaärtha. He had left home at eleven with his family’s blessing to start the pre-training for the Untheileneise Guard, and aside from yearly leave had been in Cetho ever since. Aged sixteen he had joined the guard with merit; three days after turning twenty-two he had become their youngest lieutenant in eighty years. And six months later he had been assigned the role of First Nohecharis, serving the emperor in one of the most highly-thought-of positions that a soldier could achieve. He was proud of himself, and honoured to serve the emperor, and that was the end of that.

Settling into neutral position in the small training room attached to the nohecharei quarters, Deret focused on bringing his breathing into the correct rhythm, and then flicked his eyes up to check his posture was aligned properly in the mirror. It was better to have someone else checking your position, but in the absence of appropriate company the mirror would do. He intended to train in the Untheileneise Guard’s area once a week, which would allow him to have his work checked.

It is traditional for the emperor to choose two close friends to accompany him on the journey to and from the chapel.

Deret moved through the basic set, shifting his weight in the prescribed pattern, making sure to feel each stretch and visually check the angles for any impreciseness. The movements he was trained in had been developed and fine-tuned over hundreds of years. They had seen almost every conceivable circumstance a soldier might face. They could be relied upon. Cala Athmaza did not, of course, train; Deret had been wondering whether or not to offer to teach him a little. Maza did not need strength of the body to be strong, of course, but Deret had noticed that Cala was struggling with standing still all day. This was unsurprising, as his posture was appalling. Deret was as yet uncertain how to approach his maza counterpart; they were very different. The Athmaz’are was a thing of mystery, and appeared to run on very different mechanics to those of the Untheileneise Guard. Nevertheless, he would learn to understand those mechanics, and then they would work together more effectively.

Since you have no friends at court, you will of course choose your nearest male relatives who are of age.

Nohecharei rules were similar. Deret had been given the behavioural guidelines by Captain Orthema upon his selection, and, not knowing the emperor had already arrived at court, had dedicated an hour to going through and memorising them. It was good to know the rules. It prevented you from making mistakes. And these rules came down from previous nohecharei, fine-tuned and adjusted and improved and made more and more precise. They made sense, and he had been pleased to have his own copy for reference. He would not forget them; he had a good memory. But the copy was reassuring. It could reside in his room and he could refer to it if he felt uncertain. Not that there was anything to feel uncertain about.

Cala Athmaza and Deret Beshelar.

Serenity, you cannot -!

You will not tell us what we can and cannot do, Chavar.

The copy, however, was not the extent of the rules – merely the surface. The rest were more complex. Cala had spent every waking off-duty hour that week neck-deep in reading – the nohecharei quarters contained a small library of records, for their access alone, created over the years by previous nohecharei. Hundreds of pages, organised by a system that Deret struggled to make sense of but that Cala seemed to understand instinctively. Still, he would work until he understood it. He knew how to work.

I trust them.

Deret finished the basic set, returned to neutral position, and then crossed the room to fetch his sword for the more complex set. He hefted the familiar weight of it, checking his grip first in his dominant hand and then in the other. He would do the sets once in each hand. It was good training for accommodating an injury, should he receive one. Returning to the centre of the room, he resumed the neutral position and checked his posture again.

We are concerned that you do not well understand your positions.

The role of nohecharei was deceptively simple: guard the emperor. But as Cala had pointed out, the more that you picked at that task, the more it unravelled. Most emperors came to their positions in their fifties or sixties, well-established at court, with their own allies and their own agendas. The nohecharei were viewed as largely ceremonial positions, though the records indicated that most nohecharei prevented injury to their emperor on multiple occasions and the majority countered a deadly threat at least once in their career.

Our new emperor is young, and unfamiliar with the ways of court.

Edrehasivar VII was eighteen. He had no friends at court, and no one he knew except Osmer Nelar, who made Deret grind his teeth. He did not like that man’s manner. Guarding the emperor was a much vaguer statement than it seemed: from whom? How much? They had spent an entire afternoon assisting Mer Aisava in educating the emperor on his court, something that surely Lord Chavar should be seeing to. Was that their task? An educated emperor was a safer emperor. There were threats that nohecharei could not tackle, at least not directly.

Deret had flicked randomly through the nohecharei records the day before, trying to make sense of the system, and found those of a maza-nohecharis to Edrethelema VIII. The boy emperor had not lived to adulthood, and the writing from his brief time on the throne was chilling. The maza-nohecharis was committed to his charge, but with the Lord Chancellor and the Corazhas in support of the regent… what could be done? You could save your emperor from a dagger or a maz or a poison, but from the machinations of an entire court…

Deret shuddered slightly, and turned his thoughts away from it. That was not the situation they were in, and he should not dwell on it as though it was.

You have a responsibility, both, to enforce the limits of your positions.

He had liked helping on the farm as a boy – liked helping his father and his mother, his siblings. Liked the routine of it, the security. Soldiering had been even better. In the strict environment, he thrived, taking on each task, finding its parameters, and excelling without crossing them. The training was hard and he learned to be rigid. What people needed was solidity. Certainty. At age fourteen, the soldiers-to-be were each assigned an ex-soldier. Someone who had served and fought, and now resided in the retired barracks at the edge of the compound. Partly this was to allow them to be mentored, but it was also to teach them about damage. The old soldiers were battle-worn; many had nightmares or jumped at a touch, or retreated into themselves. The soldiers-in-training were responsible for taking care of them, and Beshelar had struggled at first – the first time he had struggled at anything. But he had learned. He had learned a new side to the value of being reliable, being unmoving, a pillar of support. Then, as ever, he had excelled.

You are not his equals. You are not servants, no, but you serve, and it reflects ill upon your emperor if lines are crossed.

His breathing was heavier now as he pushed his energy into the exercise, moving faster with each repetition. The sword caught the gaslight in the windowless room, flashing soft gold in the mirror. Complex motion, nevertheless ironclad in certainty. The rules for nohecharei might seem complicated, but there was an elegance to them. A singular goal – guard the emperor – that he would put all his energy into, and excel, as was expected of him.

You have obligations to him which you must fulfil, and in the fulfilment of those obligations must lie the extent of your relationship.

He planted his feet and moved into the final set, sweat running down his back. Mistakes occurred – rarely, but they did. And when they did, someone corrected you. Your captain, perhaps, or another figure of authority. The emperor. The Adremaza. You took the correction, you adapted, you continued, you excelled. There was no need to feel abashed; no need to contest it. The expertise of the corrector could be trusted, and now you were more able to fulfil your duty. If some distress came with it, well, that was natural enough. It was simply the desire to do the best you could do. There was nothing more to it.

You are there to guard him. You are his nohecharei. You cannot and may not be aught else. You cannot be his friend.

He brought the exercise to a perfect conclusion, this time keeping his eyes firmly away from the mirror. He did not want to see his reflection.

Chapter Text

The trouble with working for the emperor was that everyone assumed that you knew what you were doing.

Not that Csevet did not know what he was doing; of course he did. He was working for the emperor. That was what he was doing.

If that sounded a little recursive, then, well, that was why he did not say it like that out loud.

Csevet squinted in the poor light of the lamp, trying to glare the words on the page into better sense. It worked just well enough, and he kept reading.

Forms and procedures for diplomatic visits…

One had not yet been announced, but with a new emperor on the throne it was only a matter of time. Csevet made notes for several minutes, and then ticked ‘diplomatic visits’ off his hastily scribbled list and shuffled the notes into the correct part of the folder. What else was there… yes, yes… imperial property, rules thereof; imperial weddings, procedures thereof; laws of inheritance, details thereof; the lord chancellor’s office, requirements thereof; rights of appeal for relegated nobility; rights of princes during a change of imperial policy; and on, and on, and on. Jumping from courier to Imperial Secretary was one matter in words, and another in practice, and entirely another when one’s emperor had never been granted a proper education either.

Csevet glanced up at the clock, winced, and shook his head slightly as he leaned back over the paperwork. He could manage another half an hour if he got his focus lined up; and then he could sleep. Thank the goddesses the Imperial Secretary was entitled to rooms in the Upper Alcethmeret, that he might be available to the emperor and more easily navigate his schedule with the other staff. And thank Esaran for mentioning that Alcethmeret staff were entitled to use the Imperial Library under certain constraints, without which he would never be managing to stay on top of everything.

Stay on top of… oh, yes, damn. Undersecretaries. He would need them. Where did one get them from? He added it to the list.

Three quarters of an hour later, feeling dishevelled and thoroughly exhausted, he padded softly back up shadowy, gaslit stairs and through darkened corridors to his little room in the nest. With the experience of someone well-used to travel, he went from immaculately dressed to sleep-ready in only a little over a minute, and was quickly curled up on his side, his eyes closed, trying to slow down his thoughts enough to sleep.

As was becoming usual, he dreamt of a dawn – an airship – and the sharp grey eyes that grew more familiar with every passing day…

~

There were other people awake, of course. The Alcethmeret never slept, at least not all at once. Even as Csevet turned over in his sleep, frowning to himself, one of the scullions tended the fire in the kitchen and started work on the bread for the morning. Esha, whose turn it was to spend the night dressed in anticipation of any imperial requirements, lay half-awake in the corridor bunk by the bell, trying not to fidget too much in order to keep his clothes neat. And at the top of the stairwell, on the discreet bench that pulled down out of the wall besides the door to the imperial bedchamber, Lieutenant Coris Telimezh sat and worried.

It had been both an honour and a shock to have been offered the position of nohecharei. He had hardly expected it – when Captain Orthema had summoned Beshelar and him to his office, Coris had assumed it was for questions about the status of the new recruits that they were overseeing. It had been only an hour since the news of the airship crash had broken, and it had not yet entirely sunk in. But Captain Orthema was always prompt.

‘Lieutenant Beshelar, we are pleased to suggest you for the position of First Nohecharis to the new emperor. Lieutenant Telimezh, we are likewise pleased to suggest you for the position of Second Nohecharis. You may decline if you wish to, without need of explanation or fear of censure.’

Decline? Coris had indicated his acceptance a bare second after Beshelar had. He had worked hard since coming to the Untheileneise Guard, but had never dreamed of achieving so honoured a position. And now he was here, he could not help but worry.

Knowing he was two years older than Beshelar hardly helped. Though they weren’t on first-name terms, Coris liked Beshelar well enough – he was fair, worked hard, and wasn’t as much of a stick in the mud as his manner suggested. But Deret Beshelar was the golden child of the Untheileneise Guard, the youngest lieutenant in eighty years when he was promoted at twenty-two, and an intimating person with whom to compare oneself.

Coris had made lieutenant at the young but not as startling age of twenty-four, only a month ago. Nohecharei were always chosen young, of course – especially soldier-nohecharei, whose ability to defend the emperor would falter and fail long before a similarly-aged maza lost theirs. Soldier-nohecharei underwent physical tests every year; once they reached forty, it became every six months. And barring disaster or some kind of scandal, unlike many of their predecessors he and Beshelar would likely retire before the end of their emperor’s reign, assisting in the selection of their successors and then… what? Retired nohecharei, whether they outlived their emperor or were no longer capable of their work through no fault of their own, were well treated. A generous pension was provided, and they could step into any number of appropriate positions should they wish still to work. Coris would be able to visit his remaining family, or move to live with them if he pleased; he would be permitted to marry, and to father children, both things disallowed to nohecharei in service.

But that seemed incredibly far away, and so it was – vanishingly so. In the meantime, he had to work hard to keep up with the demands of his position. Nohecharei were not just, as some of the more cynical guardsmen put it, on permanent gate-duty, trailing after the emperor and waiting for something to happen. It seemed like gate duty, but gate duty was repetitive. You could almost – you shouldn’t, but you could – do it without thinking, relaxing into the routine and waiting for something to break it to alert you to trouble. But as a nohecharei you were escorting a – well, to put it bluntly, a walking target, to different locations that many other people had access to, full of elements you could not control and possibilities you had to account for – and you must do it all without drawing attention or breaking form or disrupting whatever work or pleasant activity the emperor was partaking in.

It was not enough to react to danger; nohecharei must attempt to see it coming. They must pay sharp attention to the currents of court, to the flow of power, to who spoke to His Serenity and why and in what manner. They must see the threats as they move beneath the surface, and prepare for them.

Part of this took the form of the steady exchange of notes, left in the nohecharei quarters in a maz-sealed box that protected them from prying eyes. The Firsts left notes for the Seconds and the Seconds for the Firsts, and eventually they would be shuffled through and compressed down until they began to look like the nohecharei records of their predecessors that packed the little library room in the quarters. This was an exhausting level of vigilance, a new form of attention and retention – as one could not make notes while on duty, one had to remember pertinent details for later recording – and Coris worried that he was missing things. But he trusted Captain Orthema’s judgment – he had to, surely – and Captain Orthema had selected him for this position. So surely, if he just kept working, he would improve…

Coris had been glad, at least, to find some common ground with his maza counterpart. Dazhis was reserved, but pleasant. He and Coris were from opposite sides of the country, he from the east and Coris from the west, but they had already had several good conversations about moving from the country to the city. Dazhis was not close to his family, which Coris privately felt relieved by – he was an orphan, himself, both parents and an older brother lost in a wave of Sarroll Fever that went through the marshlands when he was ten. Coris and his two sisters had been taken in by an uncle before Coris had gone to train as a soldier. He did not mind others discussing their families, as many soldiers did cheerfully, but he tired of the jarring of the conversation when he gave an answer about his. There was a discomfort that people had with tragedy, and it wore on him. A small thing – but Dazhis largely avoided the discussion of family at all, which was restful, and gave the two of them a shared frustration with the inconsiderate nature of other people.

So he was well-paired. And the First Nohecharei were undoubtedly excellent; Dazhis grumbled about Cala sometimes, but Coris took it that the two of them just had contrasting personalities. And the emperor himself seemed like a good person, and an earnest one – if sometimes one with a startling disregard for convention. But then, an emperor dictated convention, did he not? Likely things would settle down, anyway.

Coris stood, shaking himself out of his thoughts, and decided to go through some basic stretches to stop himself from stiffening up.

~

On the other side of the door, back ramrod straight and eyes scanning the room at very regular intervals, Dazhis Athmaza was also considering his position.

The lieutenant he had been partnered with was acceptable, though a little nervier than Dazhis would have liked; he would have preferred to work with Lieutenant Beshelar, but it couldn’t be helped.

Cala was still in position after a week; Dazhis thought this state of affairs was likely to last perhaps two more at most. He had been doing his best, in the meantime, to make a good impression on both of the soldier-nohecharei and on the emperor.

The emperor. Mm.

He was indeed, young; ignorant; supremely inexperienced, and stubborn beyond all reason on certain subjects – possibly out of fear, or a kind of clutching after what were undoubtedly his mother’s Barizheise teachings. He was certainly sentimental enough to insist on visiting the tomb of the woman ten years after her death. Dazhis did not disapprove of familial fondness – particularly in nobility, the family line was extremely important, and merited respect – but it was unfortunate that Edrehasivar’s particular fondness fell in such an un-Ethuverazheise direction.

But it was a comparatively small matter; and it did have one small blessing hidden within it. The emperor had already asked for advice from the Firsts, and listened well. Certainly he would also be interested in Dazhis’ thoughts at some point, and that was promising. Yes. He was an ignorant, ill-formed young man at this time, still shifting into the emperor he would become. Dazhis knew that Lord Chavar was displeased, but he thought the Lord Chancellor should simply be patient. Edrehasivar would adjust to the requirements of his position soon enough, and everything would be smoother.

And the sooner Cala left and allowed Dazhis to move into the position of First, the better.

Glancing at the clock, Dazhis rolled his shoulders a little and then slipped out of his shoes and socks to circulate the room and check the security, as he did every hour. Going barefoot was the most sensible tactic, provided the emperor was fully asleep – it made his step silent on the marble floor, but the bare skin contact also allowed him to feel the maz-work woven into the stones of the tower more precisely and check that nothing had been compromised.

He could feel the curiously watery sensation of maz, cool and fluid and running in lines across the floor and up into the walls and roof like a great net. It had been added to the tower as it was built, and it was a truly impressive feature, albeit one that most people would never be aware of. The whole thing was at its most dense here in the tower bedchamber, but it also spread through the Upper Alcethmeret. Maza-nohecharei used it to monitor for various things – breaches in the security, unfamiliar persons in the space, sudden panic or violence that would set the cords of the web into shaking and spilling. It was a work of art second in quality only to that of the Mazan’theileian itself.

And here he was, at the centre of it all.

He completed his circuit and returned to his position, pulling his socks and shoes back on in satisfied silence. He would check again in an hour.

Chapter Text

The rain hadn’t stopped, but it was very light, so she didn’t mind. She had a good thick coat and a warm hood and her nearly-new tall boots, and she made her way purposefully through the wet yellowing grass. The sky was grey and smooth with cloud, and the gravestone seemed like a piece of it that had been taken down and planted in the earth.

When she reached the first of the graves, with its small wooden marker, she stopped.

Isheian had only been working there for six months, but already she felt at home in the upper Alcethmeret. She liked the people and the work – even the scrubby, nasty bits had a sense of satisfaction to them when you knew how they fitted into the beautiful whole – and she loved her little dorm room that she shared with the other maids. She had a bed near the corner, and she had wound the little flowers she made out of scrap cloth around the metal of the frame. In wonder tales princesses had bowers, lovely beds covered in flowers. When she had enough, hers would look lovely. And nobody minded, as long as she kept it neat and clean.

She glanced up at the gravestone, with its neatly engraved names. She hadn’t known all of them, of course – not the crew of the airship, nor the households of the prince and the archdukes. And the nohecharei who had died were not buried here – they were in the Untheileneise’meire with their emperor and all but one of his sons. But that did not matter. They would always be together, these people, in an odd way. They had gone to Ulis together.

She took out the bag of flower seed from her pocket. She had spoken to Oshet in the garden to ask what she could use in the autumn – not all of it would grow, he said, as the frosts had come early this year, but some of it would. And regardless, it was what you did. She untied the strings of the bag, and reached in to scatter them across each of the graves, one at a time.

The first grave was unknown to her, as was the second. But the next name was Helleru Melcha, and she knew it well.

The former imperial secretary had been portly, in his sixties, and very mellow-tempered. Isheian had liked him, though she had been shy of him at first – the imperial secretary was one of the most senior members of staff in the Upper Alcethmeret. But he had been friendly, and sensible, and she missed his chuckles in the kitchen of an evening, when the emperor was at supper and the servants ate together.

‘I don’t know if you’d approve of a courier getting your position,’ she said quietly to the earth as she spread the seeds across it. ‘But, Mer Melcha, I think you would like Mer Aisava. He’s very clever and he works hard.’

She quite liked Csevet herself. He was lively and quick-witted, and he seemed to already have won Esaran over, though she wouldn’t admit it.

Next there was another unknown name, and then three familiar names all in a row. Ranet, Fintu, Moravet. Imperial edocharei, former. All well-groomed men in their forties, skilled at their work. Ranet had been courting one of the maids in the Lower Alcethmeret, and had been talking to Esaran about marrying her for years – they would have thought they had time, she thought to herself, and reached into the seed bag again. Fintu had had a fear of dogs, hated the way they barked and jumped. Moravet had the most amazingly deft hands, and could flick and spin coins from finger to finger like a magician.

The new edocharei were alright. Isheian knew she would like them well enough once she got used to them. But for now it was difficult – it was with Csevet, too, however nice he was – and the new nohecharei – because… well, they jarred. She kept walking into the kitchen expecting to see Lieutenant Istona making dry little comments or Fintu debating something from the newspapers with Ebremis, and then… there were all these other faces. Settling in, finding their place, just like she had been six months ago. But she had been stepping up as someone else left to get married, and not into the… the wreckage that twenty-three deaths had left behind them.

That didn’t seem fair, sometimes. Not just to the old, but to the new. Esaran was keeping the household together well, but there was a fracture where the two parts met – one side still with black-banded arms, one with respect but no true understanding, politely tucking away their delight at their own success. Oh, perhaps that was a little harsh. But it couldn’t be helped.

Nor did she blame them, in truth. It was an honour to work so close to the emperor. And Isheian liked Edrehasivar as she had not liked his father – not that she had disliked Varenechibel, but he had been this… force, in the Alcethmeret. A power, an imperial person, a hub around which she and the other servants spun and moved like cogwheels. She saw him most days, of course, bringing food and taking away plates, but he never seemed to exist in the same world as she did.

His son, on the other hand… Edrehasivar was young, to start with. He was the second-youngest person living in the Upper Alcethmeret, with Isheian herself being the only one younger. Even the youngest scullion was nineteen. You didn’t give up a scullion’s position for a better one if it was in the Upper Alcethmeret.

And he always looked so nervous. Not when he spoke to visitors, or people outside the tower. But when he took his lunch or shuffled through papers or waited for something, he always looked as though he was waiting for bad news. He had gone around and met everyone on only his second day, and taken all of their names, and he’d looked so determined to remember that she’d smiled at him when he had remembered hers, later.

He was strange, and sort of sweet. Not at all the sort of thing you expected from an emperor. But that didn’t have to be a bad thing. She thought it must be difficult for him, to be suddenly in a different place, with all these different people.

Isheian had reached the end of the line of graves. She paused there for a moment, taking them in, and began to walk slowly back along the row.

Edrehasivar hadn’t worn black beyond the three days of court mourning. Isheian had heard some of the Lower Alcethmeret staff comment on it, disapproving. But Isheian couldn’t see why they would expect anything else. She didn’t mourn the airship crew, or wear her black band for them, though she was sorry they were gone. You mourned the people you knew, the people who were home for you. And Edrehasivar had only just got here; he’d never met his family, so it was silly to expect him to feel the way other people did. Isheian liked that he was honest about it.

She wondered what they would think of him – Ranet, Fintu, Moravet, Helleru. And the nohecharei, so solid and reliable – Teru and Istona, Pezhia and Vechet. Would they like the new emperor? Or would they think him too different from his father, as some of the court liked to complain? As though two people were meant to be alike. Ebremis had said they were just afraid of change, and there had been a number of agreements in the kitchen.

She’d heard that some of the courtiers were saying that Edrehasivar was too Barizheise to be on the throne, not Drazhadeise enough, which Isheian thought was ridiculous. He was just as Drazhadeise as his older brother had been, and his father, which was to say exactly half. What the other half was didn’t matter, and now that he was on the throne he was all Drazhadeise. Isheian’s grandmother had taught her that. The emperor, once on the throne, was the definition of Drazhadeise, and everyone else was redefined by their closeness to him.

Perhaps that was what they were so upset about.

What was certain was that Edrehasivar was here now, was emperor now, and the court as well as the Alcethmeret household was his. His home, for the rest of his life. Isheian took a last look at the row of graves, and then she turned away. Time to get back; there was work to be done.

Her boots made soft little noises against the ground as it grew muddier. The rain fell softly on.

Chapter Text

Beshelar was the faster eater of the two nohecharei, and after he was gone Csevet and Cala ended up finished at around the same time. Cala held the door for Csevet and followed him along the corridor, and it was several seconds before Csevet realised that Cala had no reason to be going this way. He frowned and turned to ask, but didn’t get the words out before Cala tipped his head towards one of the storerooms.

‘Can we talk? In private.’

It was only Csevet’s years of experience that enabled him not to visibly react. He just froze internally, instead. Externally, after a second’s consideration that seemed to take at least an hour, he raised an eyebrow.

‘No one’s in the corridor,’ he pointed out, trying to sound casual rather than defensive.

In answer, Cala gave him a look, and then opened the door and went in.

In the corridor, Csevet swallowed. Make a decision, Aisava. It might be nothing. And if it isn’t, how long do you think you can avoid him? Better to get it over with. Find out now.

He forced himself to walk in casually, and even closed the door behind him without shaking when Cala gestured. He was leaning against the wall, lanky in his scruffy blue robe, his eyes on Csevet through the owlish glasses. The room wasn’t big, mostly consisting of wooden shelving units full of long-span food supplies – the Alcethmeret had its own siege supplies, in the unlikely event that they had to hold off an attacker who had breached the court itself. Csevet, affecting nonchalance, leaned against the wall right next to the door, to be fastest through it if he needed to be. Not that that would make much of a difference to a maza. Not that running often works out, in the end. No roof to hide on here.

‘Well?’ he said, folding his arms and letting a little of his tiredness leak into his voice. ‘It’s late.’

He waited for the response, almost too obvious, that every man seemed to use, loaded with dull implication: it is, isn’t it? Very late…

But Cala just shifted his weight uncomfortably.

‘I know, sorry,’ he said. ‘But I wanted to talk to you alone, and it’s been so hectic.’

Csevet didn’t respond; he made himself wait, lest he himself tip things one way or another. Cala frowned slightly.

‘Look, I don’t…’ he stopped, and then, seemingly finding his resolve, started again. ‘I know there are reasonable odds I’m about to offend you, but firstly: if I’m right, then it’s important that I say this, and if I’m wrong you should know anyway. And secondly, it shouldn’t be – it’s only offensive if you think… well.’

Here we go. But at least he seemed like he was going to ask, which was something. Csevet considered it. Cala wasn’t unattractive, and he might just be the type to be comfortable with a one-off. Csevet could live with that. A problem would arise if any kind of permanence was expected.

Would I take that to keep this position?

Csevet pushed the question to the back of his mind, knowing the answer already and not liking it. Stupid and soft to be so attached to the food and the comfort up here, this was how so many of the other couriers got drawn into dalliances they should have known better than to touch. He told himself that was all it was – the comfort and luxury of living in the best-paid household in the Ethuveraz, in contrast to courier hardships – and firmly put all thoughts of a certain sweet-faced, half-goblin emperor out of his mind. Eyes on the trouble before thee, Aisava.

Cala, who seemed to have been deciding how he was going to say this, appeared to finally be ready. Csevet braced himself.

‘One marnis to another,’ Cala said quietly, ‘I know what it’s like for people to… try to leverage that. And I want you to understand that if anyone tries that with you, you can come to me, and I will handle it.’

Csevet blinked.

‘…handle it?’ he managed.

Cala tipped his head to one side with a wry smile.

‘Our priority is the safety of the emperor,’ he said. ‘But we’re also responsible for the general security of the Alcethmeret and its staff. Any attempt to threaten you, or… or hold anything over you, it’s considered a potential threat to imperial security, and that’s our jurisdiction. I just wanted to make sure you understood that I wasn’t the type to… well. To think you deserved it. I know what people can be like.’

Csevet processed this, trying not to bolt. It wasn’t as though it was a terribly difficult thing to guess. Couriers were not all marnei, but it was probably around six in every ten. They were drawn to the job for the relative freedom, at least from prying neighbours asking nasty questions about when you were getting married and family members demanding you explain yourself, or worse. And Cala had said one marnis to another, which… well, it was easier to spot if you personally knew what to look for. But Csevet had been so damn careful…

Something of his thoughts must have showed on his face. Cala stepped forward, looking concerned, and Csevet was so caught in disconcertion that he actually jumped a little backwards, away from him. Cala froze. And then, with almost comical slowness, he sat down on the ground. Csevet watched him put his palms on the ground behind him, and bow his head. He knew what that meant.

Eyes, tongue, hands – they were the necessary tools for performing a maz, though Csevet had never been clear on whether they needed all three or just one would do. This was the position a maza adopted to indicate they were not going to cast anything – hands down and away, mouth closed, eyes on the floor. Raising one’s hands, after all, hardly indicated peace from a maza.

The two of them stayed like that, quite still, for a few long seconds. Then, just as slowly as he had put it down, Cala raised his head and made tentative eye contact. He was looking extremely worried, and Csevet felt his breathing begin to steady out.

‘It’s alright,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I – you don’t need to…’

Cala relaxed a little, leaning back onto his hands, but keeping his palms on the floor.

‘Csevet…’ he said slowly. ‘You don’t have to – I’ll understand if you don’t want to tell me, but if anyone has tried anything – even, goddesses, even if it was Beshelar – I will make it stop, you understand? I wouldn’t do that, I swear, and if I find out someone else has they will be in shreds before they realise what happened.’

He means it.

Bizarrely, Csevet had to suppress a sudden urge to burst into tears. Keep it together, Aisava. He forced his posture to relax, and shook his head.

‘No one’s – no one’s done anything. Or tried to do anything.’ Well. Not since I got this position, anyway.

Cala stared at him for another moment or so, and then seemed to accept this.

‘Well, good,’ he said. Then what was all that about floated in the air, but to his credit Cala didn’t actually say it. Csevet answered it anyway.

‘Not here… it’s just… look, I’ve been a courier since I was thirteen, and you learn to… well, expect certain things, when someone more powerful than you wants to “talk” to you in private.’ He tried to keep the bitterness in his voice to a minimum. ‘Some people seem to think that the reputation of the courier fleet means that they don’t have to ask first.’

He saw the understanding dawn in Cala’s eyes, followed quickly by sheepishness. The maza ran an embarrassed hand through his hair, half-disrupting the already messy queue.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Sorry. Didn’t intend to give the wrong impression.’

Csevet, who felt that at this point he deserved a small medal for maintaining any equilibrium at all, shrugged.

‘Apology accepted,’ he said. ‘And… thank you. You’re right, it’s good to know… what you said.’

Cala nodded. Then he hesitated, fidgeting with the cuff of his robe.

‘Csevet?’

‘Yes?’

‘Was it just me inviting you in here that gave you that impression? Or have I… on other occasions… because I didn’t intend…’

Csevet let out a huff of breath that might have been a laugh. Make that a large medal.

‘No, nothing else,’ he said. ‘The invitation was enough.’ Seeing Cala’s puzzled frown and knowing what was behind it, he added, ‘look, Cala, people who do that… it isn’t written on their faces. It’d be easier if it was. And a lot of them are just normal. Nice. To start with, anyway. It means you can’t tell until something happens. And if you can’t tell, then you… then it’s better to be prepared.’

A second dawn of understanding occurred for the first nohecharei, and Csevet bit back a sigh. But Cala only stood, and gave Csevet another sheepish smile.

‘Got it. And will remember it. Um. After you?’

Csevet opened the door gratefully, checking the corridor before stepping out and heading down the towards the library, leaving Cala behind him.

Chapter Text

Mer Hallettar had worked at the treasury – forever, it seemed. In actuality it had been twenty-seven years, the last thirteen of which had been in the same position. He had hoped to move up; had courted vague thoughts of moving on, shifting to a more interesting position; but he hadn’t the knack for seeing opportunities that some of the others had. And he was steady, and reliable, and unexceptional, which he supposed had made him a little invisible.

He had not expected the opportunity he was given – had not seen it at all until it landed in front of him. And it had taken him a little while to believe it, and even longer to work out why it had come to him in the first place. A position as an undersecretary, well, that was pleasing and something his talents were well-suited for. Undersecretary to the imperial secretary, and therefore technically undersecretary to the emperor? …unexpected, to say the least. It required roughly the same skills, so he knew he was not unsuited to it, but the position had so much added prestige…

Mer Aisava had been flattering yet professional in making his offer, and if he had any desperation he had hidden it well. That was impressive in itself, Mer Hallettar realised later.

As it turned out, after the previous Imperial Secretary had died in that dreadful crash, the Lord Chancellor had – well, Mer Hallettar did not like to be unkind, but really, it was the most accurate word – poached the previous undersecretaries. Most of them worked for the Lord Chancellor’s office now, or had gone elsewhere. That had left Mer Aisava in a little bit of a fix; he was acting Imperial Secretary, and he certainly could not manage that workload alone for long.

Undersecretaries were supposed to be provided by the Lord Chancellor’s office, through a careful process of vetting and interviewing to ensure the quality of their work and the strength of their probity.

Mer Aisava had that route closed to him – oh, not officially, that would be dereliction of duty and a refusal to perform a required task; but unofficially, through obfuscation and delay and claims of lost paperwork. And the work, of course, could not wait. So Mer Aisava, a man with an agile mind and knack for making friends, had ferreted about the other departments, looking for people of good repute and solid work ethics who he could tempt to change positions.

In the end, four people were brought in. Mer Hallettar was the only one from the treasury – the others, he believed, came from the offices of the Judiciate and the parliamentary administration.

The work was… interesting. Frantic, to begin with, but it seemed they were starting to get on top of it, or at least to understand its rhythm. Mer Hallettar suspected they were supposed to be a larger team, but perhaps that would happen with time. He liked his colleagues well enough, and he liked Mer Aisava. At first glance, the man was all wrong for the position he held, especially now it looked as though it might be permanent. He was far too young, for one thing. Mer Hallettar had not asked, but had guessed his age to be around twenty-five at the most. He had not been through any sort of rigorous process in order to gain the position, having rather fallen into by merit of being in the right place at the right time. And he quite clearly did not have a great deal of secretarial experience, which Mer Hallettar had deduced not from the quality of his work (which was fine) but the effort he took to achieve it (more than he would expect from an experienced secretary). And yet, despite all that, he was damnably good at his job – quick to learn and very sharp at picking up on errors or potential problems, and likeable, which was a rare thing in the people Mer Hallettar had worked under previously.

On one occasion, speaking to some old colleagues in the treasury while waiting for some paperwork, Mer Hallettar ran into something both troubling and revealing.

‘What’s Aisava like, then? Does he actually do any work, or is it all “delegated” to keep his time free?’

There were a few sniggers at that. Mer Hallettar frowned. He had never been good at keeping up with rumour, so it wasn’t surprising that he had missed something, but it was nevertheless frustrating.

‘Mer Aisava works as hard as the rest of us, if not harder,’ he said, trying to keep his voice light but failing to entirely conceal his disapproval. ‘We have yet to see him take a single lunch to himself, let alone a day.’

Orvu, who ran the repair accounts, put his hands up defensively.

‘Easy, Hallettar,’ he said. ‘You like him, then? There’s been a few whispers going around, is all.’

‘Whispers of what?’ Mer Hallettar said. It was always more sensible to be straightforward, and he disliked and distrusted people who were not.

The others exchanged a few glances, and there were one or two smirks.

‘Well. He started in the courier service, right? And even you know what they say about couriers…’

Mer Hallettar did know. He had not known that that was Mer Aisava’s previous experience, and felt a little embarrassed about his ignorance, but, well, everyone had to start somewhere, did they not? And so what if the couriers had a – an unsavoury reputation? He had seen nothing even remotely sordid in Mer Aisava, who was quite possibly one of the most proper and formal people he had ever encountered.

He did not say this to Orvu or the others; he knew better than to respond too emphatically, lest it be considered tellingly defensive and only enhance the rumour. Instead, he shrugged.

‘We’ve been working with him for some time now, and he has always been a credit to his position,’ he said quietly but firmly.

‘Yes, but how did he get his position is the question,’ Kalo said from his desk, and Mer Hallettar felt his ears twitch in irritation despite himself.

‘He was in the right place at the right time, Kalo,’ he responded, keeping his tone mild, ‘as you, apparently, were not.’

This got a round of chuckles, at least. Kalo wasn’t exactly popular. Kalo himself scowled, his ears flattening slightly, but he didn’t say anything in response.

‘Look, we’re sure everyone is swapping rumours – we need something to liven up the day, don’t we?’ Mer Hallettar said, spreading his hands. ‘But as far as we can see, this one is… what’s the expression? All mouth, no trousers.’

This got a second laugh, this time with a few nods. People always liked it when he threw out a phrase or two from his origins in western Thu-Istandaär. He made his excuses, and headed around the corner to see if the papers he needed had been finished. They very nearly were, and he waited only a minute more before taking them, thanking the clerk, and heading back along the servants’ corridors towards the Alcethmeret.

On the way, he considered this new information. Courier. It made sense of the rough outline of Mer Aisava he had gotten from the other undersecretaries – right place, right time, was all Mer Aisava himself said about gaining his position, and couriers were good at that sort of thing. Knowing that, Mer Hallettar mentally revised his estimate of Csevet’s age down a few years. Twenty-one, perhaps? Couriers always acted older than they were, perhaps partly because so many of them lied about their age to get into the fleet. It became a habit, and one that Mer Hallettar thought was quite prudent. He certainly remembered how dismissive people had been when he had started work at sixteen, all because of his youth.

And as for the more, ah, tawdry reputation of the courier fleet… well, Mer Hallettar was familiar enough with the ways of court not to doubt that some of it was true. Perhaps some of them were marnei. Perhaps some of them did pick up a little extra coin by way of, well, let’s say what his aunt had always darkly referred to as the pleasurable arts, with a twist to her mouth as if to say they were nothing of the sort. Perhaps that was indeed the case. But Mer Hallettar knew also that they were paid incredibly little, so perhaps they felt they had little choice; and as for the former accusation, why, he had known the two gentlemen who ran the cobblers across the street from his house growing up quite well, and they were known to be more fond of each other than of anything else. They had never married or shown any interest in ladies, but they had made perfectly good shoes, so what did it matter?

He felt steadily more indignant with every step he took. He liked Mer Aisava. A more upright and sensible young man you couldn’t find. And, additionally, rumours of that nature also inevitably reflected poorly on His Serenity, who had quite enough on his plate what with a murder investigation and his Lord Chancellor being obstructive and the visit from the Great Avar on the horizon. His Serenity was a well-mannered young man too, and Mer Hallettar was confident he was not the sort to tolerate the kind of underhanded and corrupt behaviour implied by that sort of rumour. Really, some people could do with a lot less time on their hands.

He was approaching the Lord Chancellor’s offices, a half-way mark of his journey back to the Alcethmeret. The servants’ corridors here had room for two abreast, and the locations that you passed were written above the doors so that one could step out into the main corridor as close to one’s destination as possible and avoid intruding on the nobility unnecessarily.

One of the doors just ahead of him opened, and a familiar figure stepped into the servants’ corridor. Mer Hallettar smiled.

‘Good afternoon, Athmaza,’ he said cheerfully.

Dazhis seemed briefly startled by his greeting, frowning as though he did not recognise him – but then his expression cleared.

‘Good afternoon, Mer Hallettar,’ he said smoothly. ‘On your way back to the Alcethmeret?’

‘Mm. Papers for Mer Aisava to look over. Treasury confirmations and the suchlike. Are you doing anything interesting with your off-shift today?’ Maza were a mysterious bunch, and nohecharei even more so. Mer Hallettar took a not insubstantial amount of pleasure in being able to enquire into the business of one, however politely.

‘We have been reading,’ answered the maza slowly, ‘and we have… a friend – a cousin of a cousin – who works in the Lord Chancellor’s offices. We stopped by to enquire if he would join us for lunch at some point, but it seems difficult to coincide our schedules.’

‘That’s a shame,’ Mer Hallettar said. ‘We’re sure you’ll find a way to make it work.’

‘One hopes.’

Mer Hallettar thought of nudging the conversation further, but Dazhis seemed preoccupied and Mer Hallettar was a great proponent of comfortable silences, so they spoke no further until they parted at the Alcethmeret.

‘We will see you tomorrow, undoubtedly,’ Mer Hallettar said.

‘We will. Good afternoon, Mer Hallettar.’

Mer Hallettar headed purposefully through the corridors to the little offices that the undersecretaries used, and left the paperwork where Mer Aisava would see it when he returned. No doubt when he did he would stop, look through it, and exchange a few words with Mer Hallettar before pushing on with the work as he always did. Just proved how ridiculous that sort of rumour was, truly. Everyone Mer Hallettar had met working in the Alcethmeret was polite, decent, and sensible, from the serving girls to the nohecharei – and even the emperor.

Sitting down at his desk and pulling a sheaf of unchecked reports towards him, he got back to work.

Chapter Text

Dear Rethiro,

It feels like it’s been an age since I last wrote – so much has happened here, as I’m sure thou hast heard. I’ll leave out the big news, as thou hast undoubtedly seen it in the newspaper.

Ebremis drummed his fingers on his knee, thinking. The kitchen was quiet this morning. Esha and Avris had gone down into the town for some fabric samples, as well as to pick up some of the newly commissioned Michen Mura. Nemer had vanished upstairs to check the supplies of the various oils and unguents and perfumes stored in the imperial bedroom. Esaran was handling some sort of staff argument downstairs in the Lower Alcethmeret. The serving girls were doing their cleaning, and the scullions were down supervising the food delivery.

Ebremis liked the Alcethmeret kitchen in all of its different states – he thought of them as weathers, particular but not limited to their seasons, shifting in response to the emperor and the world outside. Like many of the rooms in the nest, the kitchen had no windows; a clever system of vents allowed the room to be aired, but generally it smelled of baking and whatever else had been cooking. In here, the weather was the people. And this morning, the quiet suited him just fine.

Writing to his sister was usually easy – they talked about families, about recipes, about her children, and a hundred other things that seemed to fill the sheets of paper to bursting. But occasionally, he struggled. Alcethmeret discretion was almost sacred, and he would never even consider breeching it. Certainly not in a letter that could so easily go astray. And yet when so much had happened, it was hard to find a way to talk to her that did not break the rules, but also did not shut her out of his life.

It was one of the downsides to his position; but working in the imperial household was worth it, and it was usually navigable, with a little thought.

To say that things have changed is an understatement, and obviously the household is grieving. Me, I go long stretches where everything feels almost normal – and then it creeps up on me, snatches my breath, and I have to go and sit down for a little while. I promise I’m not unwell – it’s just grief, thou needst not worry – and I know it will pass with time.

The new faces in the household – quite a number – are all good ones, thankfully. It’s been good to meet them all, and to get to know them, even if it comes with an edge of pain. I could not be more grateful that we’re all getting along smoothly. And of course, it is particularly important that we work smoothly together, at the moment.

He sighed quietly. A coronation and a funeral – well, like as not, they always came in pairs. That was manageable. But then for the new emperor to be saddled with a murder investigation and then a state visit, on top of having to learn his entire court from scratch… it was important that the household be running perfectly, so as to best support him.

Ebremis imagined telling Rethiro about Edrehasivar. She would like him, he thought. She always liked someone to look after, his sister did. Well, he could write some things – anything that was public knowledge at court was fair game, after all.

Thinking carefully, he continued.

Our new emperor is very unfamiliar with court, but he works hard, and some are beginning to like him. It is interesting to learn a new person’s preferences, too, thou knowest I’ve always found that an enjoyable part of my work. We say so much with food, and it is an honour to be able to welcome a new emperor, even in such upsetting circumstances.

He read the words over. Yes, that was fine, if a little stilted. Well, Rethiro knew him well enough not to need flowing prose.

It wasn’t a lie, either, though it did elude the truth slightly. Edrehasivar’s preferences were… almost non-existent. Ebremis felt himself frown a little, thinking about that. Edrehasivar’s hesitancy over the small decisions of the household was at odds with his demonstrated backbone on other subjects. Standing up to the Lord Chancellor, for one. But the edocharei said he showed no interest in clothing, except for a sort of worried uncertainty if asked for his opinion. Ebremis had noticed the same when he had had the opportunity to ask for his dietary preferences. They all talked about him, of course – they were the Upper Alcethmeret household, their lives revolved around him. Csevet had told the others of his impression of Edonomee, and neither the place nor Osmer Nelar had been well received. A dreadful environment for an eight-year-old, Ebremis thought, and hardly any better for an eighteen-year-old either.

The thought of young children reminded him, and he put pen to paper again.

I was delighted to hear in thy last letter that my eldest niece is faring well – I am counting down the days to hear from thee about her child, and to send my congratulations on thee being a grandmother! I’m sure thou art fussing over her terribly, I can just picture it.

At least Edrehasivar was eating well enough, he considered. A month or two more and he’d get some meat on his bones. Eighteen-year-old boys – young men, he corrected himself, though sometimes boys felt more truthful – should have a bit more substance to them. Edrehasivar wasn’t skeletal, but he was skinny enough that Ebremis sometimes had to stamp down on the urge to go upstairs and mother him into eating another portion or two. The trouble was that there was no one who could really fuss over him. Servants and courtiers alike had to keep behind the formality line; one did not mother the emperor. Usually there would be family to do that – but Edrehasivar had no older brothers anymore, no father or mother, and his older sisters were distant, his father’s widow barely older than him and disliking him besides. Ebremis approved of the dinners with Arbelan Zhasanai; she seemed a sensible lady, and Edrehasivar could do with the support. Perhaps more would come with time.

I’ve enclosed a little parcel – a small sample of the dry herbs we get from the south, more than we can use. Try making a tea with them, with a little lemon – I’ve found it very soothing. I’ve also enclosed the makings of camomile tea – I think thou wouldst like it, similarly.

Ebremis hadn’t had camomile tea for years; Edrehasivar’s preference for it made a nice change. It added pleasingly to the welcoming scents of a good kitchen, and he had been looking into more tea variations to offer the emperor. Fruit teas, come the spring and summer, might go down very well. Though there was a great deal to attend to before then – some of which, he realised, he could definitely share with Rethiro.

Court is all a-flurry with the upcoming visit of the Great Avar. There seems to be a hundred arrangements all being made at once, and a great variety of reactions. Some are intrigued; some are determined to project disinterest and disdain only; and some of the excitement borders on the hysterical. I trust that everything will go well, but at the moment it’s a bubbling pot, close to overflowing.

I am particularly interested, as I am sure thou couldst not possibly have guessed, by the plans for various dinners and feasts. Barizheise cuisine is not something I have much expertise in, and I hope to take the opportunity to learn from some of the staff that must surely be travelling with the Great Avar.

He also hoped that this experience would give him some more options to present to Edrehasivar. Ebremis had been looking into the typical produce of south-eastern Thu-Istandaär, trying to guess at what Edrehasivar might think of as comfort food from a childhood in Isvaroë, but perhaps the late Chenelo Zhasan had shared more Barizheise preferences with her son. The relegated household had not been terribly far from the Barizheise border, after all. Ebremis could not quite decide whether that had been a kindness or a cruelty on Varenechibal’s part.

He dedicated another paragraph to the little he already knew of Barizheise cuisine, knowing that Rethiro would read it with interest. Then, he realised she might be able to help herself.

Speaking of new food, hast thou any friends from nearer the southern border who might send local recipes my way? Via thee, if that’s alright.

That might bear fruit. He would not bother with investigating potential foods from the area around Edonomee – it was clear that it had not been a happy time in Edrehasivar’s life. Besides, if he ever needed information on that front he could speak to Coris Telimezh, who had grown up not far away.

Sitting back in his chair, Ebremis read the letter again from the start. When he had finished, he put it back down, contemplative. There would be more to write – it took too long to send a message for it to be worth sending something short – but there was no rush. It would be time to start the preparations for lunch soon, and he could think.

There was a clattering in the corridor, and Ashu and Petzha came in with the first load of the week’s delivery, arguing cheerfully about some rumour or other; Nemer came in after them and went over to the edocharei cupboards, rummaging one-handed and frowning at a list in his other hand.

Weather’s changed, Ebremis thought with a small smile. Perhaps he’d get started on lunch early; he could try two different variations on soup and see which one came out better.

He got to his feet, tucked the letter safely away in a deep pocket, and started to gather what he needed to begin.

Chapter Text

When their shift was over, Dazhis was still fuming. He fought to keep it from his expression as he and Lieutenant Telimezh switched with the First Nohecharei and left the dining room, the emperor calmly eating breakfast as though he had not shattered every rule of propriety the night before.

‘All well, Dazhis?’

Dazhis jerked his head around irritably. The lieutenant looked concerned, and Dazhis realised that his haste had given something of his temper away.

‘A headache,’ he said shortly. ‘I need to rest.’

This seemed enough to put off further questions, and it wasn’t entirely untrue; a low throbbing had started in his temple last night and had yet to desist. His jaw ached from clenching it.

Only a few feet from the door to the nohecharei quarters he stopped, and gritted his teeth as Telimezh nearly walked into him.

‘On second thoughts, we think we will take some air before we rest,’ he said. He barely heard Telimezh’s answering platitudes, nodding along by force of habit; and then he stalked off again, exiting the main tower and then the Lower Alcethmeret before plunging into the servants’ corridors towards the Mazan’theileian. No, not the Mazan’theileian – too many people he knew. The gardens? The Untheileneise’meire?

He stood in the corridor, paralysed with indecision. A servant, hurrying along on some inconsequential errand, turned the corner and nearly ran into him, jumping back and exclaiming apologies when he scowled.

The Untheileneise’meire would do. Dazhis had no interest in deities of any kind, but no one would ask and he would be granted the privacy of his own thoughts without interruption.

It was a relatively short walk, but he got angrier still as he passed each turning and made his way through the court. He stepped out of the servants’ corridors at the correct point, gave the canons on the door a brusque nod and entered.  

The early hour and the unfashionable nature of faith at court meant that it was quiet; Dazhis picked a direction at random and found himself a quiet corner, sitting on one of the benches and bending forward so that his face was not visible.

He could feel his breathing coming fast; his fists were clenched. That little idiot. Thousands of years of tradition and protocol behind him, every resource in the world at his fingertips, and he threw it all to one side to kneel on the floor beside tradesmen over that damn ridiculous bridge.

He had thought it amusing to start with – Min Vechin was hardly an appropriate dalliance, but other emperors had done worse if history was to be believed, and at least little entanglements with young ladies was a… well, it was far from atypical in the sphere of court. Yes, he was to get married, and yes, it was technically inappropriate, but it was normal for an eighteen-year-old boy to be distracted by a pretty face. If anything, it improved his reputation at court in that it stood as a counter to all the swirling rumours about his abnormalities that grew from his isolation at Edenomee: here he was, eighteen and easily drawn to beauty, just like every other boy his age at court. As long as he either did not take it too far or was suitably discreet, it was harmless.

Dazhis had been surprised and affronted by the revelation that Min Vechin’s ambitions were not satisfied with the emperor’s attention. No, she wished to use this attention, not just for the distasteful but perhaps understandable gain of jewellery or prestige or patronage, but to push forward this absurd plan of the clockmakers’ that Edrehasivar was already far too interested in.

And the emperor had gone along with it, and not even held her to her side of the implied bargain.

Dazhis paused at this thought, his anger abating slightly. Perhaps that was an intelligent decision on Edrehasivar’s part – the only one from last night. Best not to get further entangled. But it hardly balanced out the negatives.

All in all, Edrehasivar was far too sentimental – dangerously so. An attachment to his mother – understandable. His interest in Arbelan Drazharan – incomprehensible, but politically irrelevant. His actions on behalf of his sister… Dazhis gritted his teeth. Study the stars, indeed. He had thrown away two perfectly acceptable potential alliances for no sensible reason and, moreover, without having a replacement planned. At least that had been public enough that he had truly felt the backlash, but he did not seemed to be suitably cowed by it. Little fool.

And now, sneaking away from parties and behind the backs of the Corazhas for this absurd idea…

Dazhis did not, unlike some members of the Corazhas, doubt it was possible to bridge the Istandaärtha. Of course it was possible. But it would be an absurd expense, a vanity project that benefited nothing and no one save the emperor’s ego, and moreover had the risk of destabilising the industry in the eastern principates.

But what can be done about it?

He focused on his breathing, resorting to the exercises in mental control he had been taught in the Mazan’theilian. Focus on what is possible, what can be done; put aside should and may, and centre the practical.

He would have to speak to Lord Chavar.

Yes, the appropriate response was to go to the Firsts. But that would have no impact, and might even make getting other assistance more difficult. Both Firsts were still sulking over getting that (entirely appropriate, to Dazhis’ mind) slap on the wrist from the Adremaza about over-familiarity. If he went to them over this, Lieutenant Beshelar would refuse to have an opinion – soldiers followed orders, they weren’t there to think – and Cala, the dreamer, probably approved of the whole thing. No, the Firsts would not help him. Telimezh would do whatever Beshelar did, the man did not seem to have an inch of independent thought. So that left the Lord Chancellor.

Contrary to popular belief, the nohecharei’s strict discretion did in fact have limits. If the emperor was a danger to himself – and to be a danger to one’s people was to be a danger to himself, after all – the Lord Chancellor could be spoken to. It was right there in the rules. Discretion was one matter, but honour was far more important. Dazhis had a duty, a standard to adhere to, but he was helpless to act directly from his position. Lord Chavar was not. And he had already been so helpful, when Dazhis had gone to him about his Serenity’s letter to the Archduchess Vedero, and later about Lord Berenar’s underhanded proposal to act as the emperor’s tutor – nohecharei were supposed to be alert to attempts to influence the emperor, and Dazhis had been shocked that none of the other three had considered Berenar’s approach to be inappropriate. Chavar had been the only person he could speak to.

Yes. Yes.

He felt his anger cool further into certainty. He was making the correct decision. Perhaps Lord Chavar – no, certainly Lord Chavar would not reveal his sources when he spoke to the emperor. Dazhis’s position would be undamaged.

He watched his own hands, forcing them to relinquish their grip on the edge of the bench and allowing little threads of maz to play softly over them as he gathered himself. The fine streams of blue were soothing, as always. Steadying.

When he was ready, he stood, and made his way out of the Untheileneise’meire. He was already working out how to approach Lord Chavar with the most discretion. He would do his duty, whether Edrehasivar liked it or not.

Chapter Text

It had always been made clear to Tirizan Hulzhin that she had been exceedingly lucky. The daughter of a shop-owner, she had learned her sewing skills on her grandmother’s knee – said grandmother having been a skilled seamstress herself. She had worked hard; her father had too, in order to be able to pay for her to take an apprenticeship with Dachensol Antara.

For a women to work as a seamstress was common. It was generally agreed that while a woman could not become a true master of the art, they were predisposed to the fine fingers and sharp eyes that the task required, and it was a suitable occupation for a young woman until she was married.

Of course, many married women worked too – but that was misfortune. That was a mark of poverty, not something one should admire; as you rose through the classes of Ethuverazheise society, women did less and less work, becoming more and more like the ornaments they were supposed to be.

Tirizan was not married yet, however, and as part of the merchant class it was appropriate that she work in some suitable field. And she had taken an interest in sewing, and by the age of ten she had the graceful stitching of someone twice her age. Her father had sought out someone to teach her further.

Dachensol Antara’s apprenticeships were few and far between. Most young women learnt from their mothers or grandmothers, or gained an apprenticeship at a clothier’s, or perhaps took classes at the relatively new seamstress school. Apprenticeships with a master were rare, and usually reserved for men – after all, it was the men who would go on to become the next masters.

But Tirizan had taken a chance – she had done some of her best work and sent it off, without stopping for her father’s permission. She had received a letter in return, requesting a meeting.

Her father had escorted her. Dachensol Antara had been sombre when he spoke, and asked her to show him her work there and then. When he had seen it, he offered her a place, if they could afford it.

She had been bold; she had been lucky; and then more fortunate still, when Dachensol Atterezh, the emperor’s Master of Wardrobe, had asked his fellow master for help to replace one of his assistants. Suddenly, Tirizan was working in the Alcethmeret.

She never saw the emperor, of course; she wasn’t a visible servant, and she had always been content with that. She had never had a desire to be a more accessible part of the Alcethmeret staff, or goddess forbid one of the court staff – the court staff wore Drazhada blue and maintained the public areas of court, but did not have access to the Alcethmeret. They took the brunt of entitlement and misbehaviour from the nobility, and Tirizan did not envy them.

There was less pressure when the nobility couldn’t see you – no need to look spotless, speak perfectly, behave flawlessly, only the need to do the best work you were capable of, and that she could do. She was in the highest position she could ever expect to reach in her field – assistant to a master, creating clothes for the emperor.

Things had been strange, though, since the airship crash. Never having met Varenechibal or his sons, she did not mourn them; but she mourned the edocharei and the other servants that had been lost. And then Edrehasivar came, and he was interested in everyone. He had had Merrem Esaran arrange to introduce every servant in the Upper Alcethmeret and the Lower, had been given all of their names and nodded as though he intended to remember them.

Tirizan had found that disconcerting. She had been neat and tidy in her Alcethmeret uniform, of course, and it had certainly been an interesting novelty to see the emperor in person (she had had to bite back a frown at the state of the First Maza-Nohecharei’s robe, though, honestly). But she could not fathom the reason for such an action.

In the kitchens there had been considerable discussion of Barizheise influences and what made a dav different from a household, which had been moderately interesting and went some way to explaining it. Nevertheless, it was strange.

Tirizan did not pay a great deal of attention to gossip, though she enjoyed talking to the edocharei about the ebb and flow of fashion. And every now and then, there was something that piqued her interest.

The emperor has refused all offers of marriage to the archduchess.

The emperor allowed Stano Bazhevin to choose what would happen to her.

The emperor has invited Arbelan Drazharan back to court, and dines with her every week.

He calls her Zhasanai.

And perhaps most salaciously, the confirmation from Coris Telimezh that the emperor had declined the attentions of Min Vechin, prioritising his interest in the potential bridge and refusing to take the opportunity that any other young nobleman at court would have leapt at.

Tirizan had little free time – creating an entire imperial wardrobe from scratch meant longer days and more work to just build up the basics, let alone the additional work around the coronation, the funeral, the state visit, and in anticipation of Winternight. But just occasionally she had the chance to get out of the tower for an hour or so – Atterezh had a knack for spotting when one of them was wound up too much to focus, and would send them off to “walk out their tangles”. When this happened, Tirizan tended to make a circuit of the servants corridors, looping the court at a steady pace until she felt as though she had cleared her head.

On this particular morning she was about two-thirds of the way around when a group of three other servants joined the corridor behind her. And it was only a minute or so later that the whistles started.

The first one she almost didn’t hear; she did not look around, waiting for more. Sure enough…

They weren’t wolf-whistles; and it wasn’t, at least not entirely, because she was a woman. Though that was definitely contributing. No, it was the white cat on the shoulder of her uniform that they had spotted, she knew. She also knew, as the little bird imitations continued, that if she turned around she’d see that the servants were not in Drazhada blue but belonged to one of the noble families. Probably a household that was at odds with the throne in some way, though possibly not – servants’ opinions did not always align with their masters’.

Gritting her teeth and refusing to allow the stiffness to reach her shoulders, she walked briskly on. The main servants’ hall was nearby, but it meant a detour; sighing quietly, she headed directly for the Alcethmeret. The white cat was decent protection from most things – everyone knew that if you upset an Upper Alcethmeret servant too severely they were likely to go to one of the nohecharei and complain, and that could get you dismissed. Besides, if she put up with the childishness a little longer there were other ways to handle it.

When she reached the door to the main corridor by the entrance to the Alcethmeret, she turned quickly. Three servants, two men and one younger woman, abruptly stopped their whispering and giggling, and she got a good look at their faces and their livery. She didn’t recognise it, but someone else would. She gave them an entirely insincere smile, and left the servants’ corridors. As she had predicted, they didn’t dare follow her into the Alcethmeret itself.

Upstairs in the kitchen, she told Merrem Esaran what had happened. Cala Athmaza was lingering at the table with a book and Nemer and Avris were cleaning Michen Mura; all three of them looked up and listened as she spoke.

‘Bird noises?’ Cala said, confused. Merrem Esaran made a disapproving noise.

‘It’s an old joke, if joke it can really be called when it isn’t even faintly amusing,’ she said. ‘Alcethmeret staff are birds, and court staff are mice.’

‘Why?’ Nemer asked as he picked up another ring. Tirizan realised that the newer household members probably hadn’t encountered those descriptions before.

‘Because the Drazhada are cats,’ she said. Enlightenment dawned on three faces, and so did offence.

‘Evidently not all emperors have been as kind or reasonable to their servants as Himself is, and that’s where it originated,’ Merrem Esaran continued. ‘It seems it’s being passed around again.’

‘Why now, though?’ Cala again, scowling.

‘Because people aren’t happy about him, are they? They don’t like that he’s on the throne, and with all the rumours that were going around about him at Edonomee it’s an easy leap for the servants to make. And none of us can exactly counter it, because of the discretion rules.’ That was Avris – he was always quick to catch on. Nemer shook his head in irritation.

Merrem Esaran made a few more notes on the page she had been writing on. Tirizan had given her a thorough description of the livery, she had no doubt that Merrem Esaran had recognised it.

‘Alright, thank you Tirizan – why don’t you head back up to Atterezh?’ Merrem Esaran said. ‘We’ll take care of this after lunch.’

Tirizan nodded and thanked her, and then went back to Atterezh’s workroom.

Bent over the embroidery on a jacket, picking out fine detail, she settled once more into the easy rhythm of working at one thing and thinking about another.

The house steward responsible for the whistlers would be spoken to by Merrem Esaran today, and that should be enough to dissuade at least those three. No house steward at court liked to be in Merrem Esaran’s bad graces. She had the power to give instructions to Mer Holtar, who ran the court staff and could make any individual household’s operations much more difficult.

No, the whistlers were as good as solved, from her point of view.

Instead, she found her thoughts drifting back to Merrem Esaran, and the power she held at court. Common-class power, of course – the nobility were an altogether different matter. But Merrem Esaran was, like Tirizan, in the highest position in her field. House stewards were typically men – women could hold the position but gained it infrequently unless the household had a mistress and no master, and even that was no guarantee.

Women could be house stewards, but they could not be masters of their craft in any way except the practical. Tirizan’s aunt cooked as well as Dachensol Ebremis, she thought, but no one would pay so highly for it. Women took work before they were married, or if they had to, but to live one’s life for a career made one… unusual. Rumours, regardless of how careful one was, would swirl. As they did for the Archduchess Vedero. Tirizan sympathised with her; she herself was receiving regular messages from her parents now, asking when she would pass the assistant position on to another, when she would find a husband, when she would move on. She was twenty-six and not getting any younger, after all.

She readjusted her grip on the needle, carefully relaxing her muscles a little. She would not be bullied out of her position. Her parents were just worried about her; they couldn’t see that this was exactly where she wanted to be. She could work here forever. How could she be lonely? The Upper Alcethmeret was like a little family, albeit an odd one. Why give all this up, the pay and the prestige and the work that she loved, for a man that she – that she – well – wouldn’t?

She was still shy about admitting that, even to herself, but she was growing accustomed to the idea. The other women her age who worked here were became fluttery every time they saw a handsome face, but Tirizan had never fully understood the attraction. After listening closely to some of the rumours about the Archduchess Vedero, she had taken some time to consider and decided she was not interested in women, either.

Her parents could write all they liked. She wasn’t going anywhere. She might not be able to become a master in title, but her skills would improve for as long as she worked. She was lucky.

And perhaps…

Many were unhappy with Edrehasivar – he was not the person anyone had expected to take the throne, and the court hated change almost as much as it craved variety and entertainment. But there were things about him – Vedero, Stano, Arbelan – that gave her the beginnings of hope.

Perhaps times were changing.

Chapter Text

Nemer never slept particularly well when it was his turn to stay dressed, lying in the bunk in the corridor under the bell – but he’d finally got the knack of not being tense anymore. He could just doze, still and quiet, and it was good enough that he wasn’t unreasonably tired the next day. There were periods when he was more awake than others, however, and during one of them the sound of movement drew him further awake until he opened his eyes and stared upwards at the ceiling, frowning.

Footsteps, and quiet voices. Perfectly reasonable – after all, there was always someone awake in the Alcethmeret – but something about it wasn’t right. After a moment, he realised what it was: the sound wasn’t coming from the servants’ corridors, but the main stairwell. Odd.

He might have let it slide had he not recognised the particular tone of one of the voices – Dazhis. Dazhis was on duty tonight, and if he was halfway down the stairwell then the emperor must be too – the emperor must have called for the edocharei and they’d not come –

Thinking confusedly of broken bells and too-heavy sleepers and underdressed emperors, Nemer threw himself out of bed and all but burst into the stairwell, preparing a flurry of apologies –

He saw the soldiers in the wrong uniforms, and Dazhis, standing alone amongst them, staring at him with a look on his face that was half-way between disdain and disappointment. Then something collided with the back of his head, and everything went black.

~

When he came to, the world was sideways. Something was digging into his back and his legs. Ears ringing, he tried to sit up, but the dizziness forced him back down. After a minute, he managed to gingerly roll himself onto one side, and vomited.

Stairs, he thought muddily, trying not to breathe in the smell of his own sick. I’m on the staircase. That’s why it’s sideways. Come on, get up. Get up. Intruders in the Alcethmeret.

That last thought took a few seconds to have any kind of meaning, and then panic flooded him. Unfamiliar soldiers on the stairwell in the middle of the night – Dazhis without his charge – the emperor – the emperor –

Forcing himself to concentrate on anything other than spinning nausea and throbbing headache, Nemer managed to get to his hands and knees. Then he got a grip on the banister, and used it to drag himself up the stairs.

When he reached the final landing, the door to the bedroom was open. Leaning against the wall, eyes darting everywhere and squinting against the pain, he entered.

The sheets were a mess, the bed was empty. Nothing was broken, no signs of a struggle, but Coris Telimezh was collapsed on the floor, motionless.

Nemer went to him, heart racing, and almost fell to the floor beside him. He checked Coris’ pulse – steady – and then tried to shake him awake.

‘Coris! Coris, come on, I need you, they took the emperor, wake up, lieutenant…’

No response.

Sat on the floor like a child, his vision blurring over intermittently, Nemer tried not to throw up again. What now? The first nohecharei – the Untheileneise Guard –

Getting to hands and knees was safer than standing. He went back to the stairwell, trying to hold himself together, and half-clambered-half-slid down the marble staircase. Three floors down. The pneumatics room, not the main one for the Alcethmeret but the smaller one, just for the tower. There’d be a girl on duty. Meran, or Litto. Closer than the nohecharei quarters. There was a bell in the bedchamber to ring for urgent help, he remembered, but by then he was most of the way down.

He clung to the wall, the world around him continuing to shift, and shuffled along the corridor before finally collapsing against the door to the pneumatics room. The door opened, and Meran was looking down at him with concern, and he could barely hear himself explaining before the darkness took him again, ringing.

~

‘Nemer – Nemer – Nemer, wake up, I’m sorry, but you need to wake up.’

Nemer blinked the blackness away, fuzzily. Lieutenant Beshelar was crouched in front of him, his face ashen. It was his voice that Nemer had heard. Nemer swallowed and licked his dry lips, wincing at the taste of his own mouth. Oh, right. I threw up.

There was suddenly a hand on his shoulder, and then it moved, surprisingly gently, to his head.

‘Easy, Nemer. Drink some water.’

The soldier-nohecharis was calmer than Nemer would have expected, but then he saw the look in Deret’s eyes. He drank from the glass that Deret was holding, wondering if it was just him or if both of them were shaking.

‘Nemer, I’m sorry, I know you’re hurt, but I need you to tell me everything you know about what happened.’

Nemer nodded and then regretted it instantly. Clutching his own head and screwing up his eyes, he explained. Waking up to the sound of voices – going to the stairwell – seeing Dazhis – blacking out – the bedchamber, and Coris – coming down here to sound the alarm. Deret listened without speaking, but when Nemer mentioned seeing Dazhis his face seemed to pale even further. When he was finished, Deret helped him drink some more water. Then there was a bang of a door that made Nemer flinch, and Cala came in like a storm. Coris was behind him, looking shaken.

‘Dazhis,’ Deret said instantly. ‘Nemer saw him with soldiers, without the emperor. The wrong soldiers.’

Cala nodded jerkily.

‘Recognised his maz-work – a cantrip, on Coris.’ And Nemer couldn’t help but notice something was different about Cala, friendly Cala, gentle Cala – something was coming off him in waves that made Nemer’s skin crawl, something he couldn’t identify. He felt wrong. He felt… dangerous.

There was a pause, the nohecharei staring at each other, Nemer resisting the urge to back into a corner. Then Cala spoke again, his words low and sharp and jagged.

‘I’m going to pull his eyes out through the back of his head.’

Deret nodded, and he looked dangerous too, but it was nothing on the uncanniness that seemed to be pouring out of Cala with every breath. It was almost impossible to connect this Cala with the man who joked in the kitchen and forgot to mend holes in his robes – this Cala, Nemer did not know. Maza, he thought, his vision wavering.

Nemer lost track a little during the next few minutes as Deret briefly tried to help him stand before giving up and just carrying him down to the kitchen. The rest of the household was gathered there, called by the bells, half of them still in their night things. Deret had a few quiet words with Esha and Avris, and then Nemer was helped onto a hastily-made bed of blankets and clothes on the floor. He closed his eyes.

~

‘Dazhis Athmaza is a traitor, and the emperor is missing,’ Deret said to the kitchen at large. ‘The Untheileneise Guard will be here at any moment. Anyone with any information – however uncertain – speak now.’

Not Athmaza. Not anymore.

Cala forced himself to hold his position and not pace. He needed to get himself under control; the maz around him was a roiling blue sea, and he knew it was unnerving the people around him, but pure fury was driving it and he could not let it go. Ordinary people couldn’t see or perceive maz, but if there was enough of it present they would sense it – as a threat, even if it was benign. It was like catching a glimpse of something in the corner of your eye but not seeing it when you turned; your mind knew something was there, but couldn’t get a grip on it. Ordinary maza did not draw enough power to cause a problem unless they did so on purpose, but dachenmaza had to maintain a steady constant balance to avoid it.

Cala did not have the temper for balance tonight.

The kitchen was quiet. Everyone looked drawn, and frightened, and Cala wished he could feel sympathetic. Instead he was making it worse. But it couldn’t be helped. Every second they were here was another chance to lose Edrehasivar permanently, and that was unacceptable. Maz swirled around him again, begging to be used, and he forced himself to breathe out. Easy. Not yet. Soon, but not yet.

Csevet cleared his throat. He was one of the few people other than the nohecharei who had managed to throw on day clothes, Cala noticed – courier speed – but his body language was all wrong, his certainty in pieces.

‘I don’t know anything anyone else doesn’t,’ he said, ‘but Himself has distinct enemies at court. The Lord Chancellor, for one – and Princess Sheveän, for another. Sheveän would become the mother of the emperor if he were deposed – and she has the resource of guardsmen to do this, not to mention she would be more familiar with security of the Alcethmeret.’

Deret nodded and glanced at Cala. Cala gave a single nod in return, his jaw aching with the effort of not shouting.

‘Csevet, take some guards with you and go to the Lord Chancellor’s apartments. He’d need to be told anyway, and I want to know where he is. We’ll go down to meet the Guard and see what we can track from there. Everyone is to stay in here until we come back, do you understand?’

‘I’ll see to it.’ Esaran. Good.

The two of them turned to leave, and Coris moved to follow them. Deret stopped, looking at him, and then at Cala.

‘Is he fit for duty?’ Deret asked, ignoring Coris’ flinch.

Cala frowned.

‘Just,’ he said. The cantrip had been a powerful one, but Cala had undone it without much difficulty. Coris would feel like hell for a day or so, but he should still be able to do his job.

‘Fine. Let’s go.’

~

On the approach to Princess Sheveän’s apartments – Prince Idra’s, technically, but the prince was not yet sixteen, and where would he fit into all of this? Did he know? – Cala got a handle on his maz, wrapping it around himself and silencing it. If Dazhis was there, he wanted to take him by surprise. Dazhis was clever, and good at what he did, but his knowledge wasn’t as broad as Cala’s, and Cala knew what tactic to take to deal with him. They’d already sent a message through to the Mazan’theileian – Sehelis would send support enough to contain a dachenmaza. Cala just needed to buy a little time.

The guards kicked the door open and there was shouting; Cala, Deret, and Coris swept in behind them, the latter with their swords drawn.

‘Where is the Princess? Bring her out, in the name of the emperor.’ Lieutenant Echana’s voice rang through the apartments. A fussy man who Cala took to be the house steward shook his head.

‘Lieutenant, the princess is not here – she and Lord Chavar – ’

Chavar. Both of them, then.

‘– and they summoned Prince Idra, he left just minutes ago –’

‘Where to, man?’

The house steward swallowed.

‘We don’t know, Lieutenant, on our life, we were not told –’

Another door swung open, and there was Dazhis. Cala saw blue. He pulled maz out of the air and let it flare out at the traitor, a burst of energy with no clear intent, disorganised and furious, throwing anything Dazhis had been preparing to the wind. Then containment spells, spat in one direction or another, trying to circumvent Dazhis’s defences. He was within his rights to use the revethmaz, he knew, Dazhis was a dangerous opponent and his life was forfeit now besides, but if he repelled it the death-spell might rebound upon someone else, and there were too many innocents here.

Cala ignored the way the servants and soldiers ran for cover, through doors and behind furniture, ignored the shouts. He had a task, and it would take all of his focus. Dazhis was well-defended but he had not been expecting this, why had he not been expecting this, did he not know that Cala would not tolerate his betrayal?

Maz rippled out from both of them and Cala sent another containment-maz tearing through the air, this time going through Dazhis’s wards and making him flinch back. He was so focused on the shift and pull of magic that he barely registered the arrival of other maza – Sehelis, and two dachenmazei, Solis and Kiru. Between the three of them they managed to pull Dazhis, writhing and casting counter-spells, into control. He was curled on the floor, overlain with the watery blue of the maz, breathing in jerky motions, and Cala checked that Kiru and Solis had clear holds before he got closer.

Kneeling on the floor, he bent over Dazhis.

‘Where is he.’

It came out flat, with no sound of a question, but it was clear enough. Beneath the faint blue sheen, Dazhis glared at him. Cala raised a hand – what he would do, he did not know. But he was saved from finding out by Kiru, who had moved closer on quiet feet.

‘You’re a fool, Dazhis,’ she said, her voice quiet and cold. ‘Will you be a murderer too? If the emperor dies, his blood and the blood of your fellow nohecharei is on your hands.’

‘They won’t hurt him,’ Dazhis ground out, his voice distorted by the maz. ‘They only want his abdication. He should never have been on the throne in the first place. He was a mistake.’

Cala burned with the urge to do something – something – to twist the certainty out of Dazhis, even if it hurt, especially if it hurt, but once again Kiru stepped in.

‘And what will they do if he refuses to give it? If he will not risk Prince Idra’s life in a stewardship? And if he does give it, do you not realise that he will be a loose end? We do not think Princess Sheveän is the sort to tolerate loose ends. He will disappear somewhere, or have an unfortunate accident, and perhaps you think you can live with that – but you will not be permitted to, as you must already know. Cala certainly won’t allow it, and neither will we.’

There it was. Uncertainty in Dazhis’ eyes, and fear. Cala let the restless maz coil in his raised hand – unformed, as of yet, but let Dazhis guess at his purpose. Cala did not know it himself.

There was a long, long moment. And then –

‘Downstairs. The cellars beneath the apartments.’

Coward.

Cala dropped his hand and Dazhis flinched under the binding, but he had cast nothing. Dazhis was no longer important – Cala knew where the emperor was. Deret and Coris had been listening and without a word they made their way down, a few of the guard behind them.

Cala let maz flow out in front of him in ribbons, searching for patterns, for movement, for voices – nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing – there!

‘Next left,’ he said quietly and Deret gave a sharp nod.

Abruptly, behind them, there was a low whistle. Cala turned. Csevet, accompanied by two more of the Guard.

‘Lord Chavar isn’t where he should be,’ he said in a low voice as he caught them up. ‘Lieutenant Echana said you’d come this way.’

Cala gritted his teeth at the delay and turned to look forward again, letting Deret handle it.

‘You’re not a soldier or a maza, Csevet – follow in case you’re needed, but stay well clear of any fighting.’

‘Understood.’

Deret turned forward again.

‘Keep moving.’

Finally.

The next left, one more stretch of corridor, then a turn – then voices.

‘Idra!’

The mutter of an older male voice, then someone else speaking as they reached the door, and then guards forced it open. Cala had his hands raised, maz at the tipping point – but there was no need. The guards in the room surrendered immediately. Cala’s attention spiralled in to Edrehasivar, skinny and shaken in his nightshirt, his feet bare on the floor, his expression both shocked and relieved. Deret, evidently satisfied that the guardsmen were under control, removed his jacket and put it around the emperor’s shoulders, and Cala moved closer.

There were words flying in all directions – Edrehasivar was vouching for Prince Idra, Sheveän was shrieking, Lord Chavar arguing back – but Cala ignored them, allowing himself a slight breach of form to put a reassuring hand on the emperor’s shoulder. The emperor was safe. It was over.

Chapter Text

They had arrived earlier than necessary, partly out of a desire to be prompt, and partly out of a desperation to get out of the Prince and Princess’s apartments, where even the air felt cracked and sour. When they arrived at the Alcethmeret, they were ushered into a small waiting area and told they would be summoned at the appropriate time.

Suler straightened a sleeve self-consciously. She wished there was a mirror in here. She glanced nervously at Leilis Athmaza, stood across the room and apparently inspecting the floor. He glanced up, and gave a reassuring nod despite his lowered ears. She nodded back, and looked away.

She kept seeing the little archduchesses, as they had been last night. Ino in her usual bundle of blankets, with only the very top of her head visible amongst the swirl of sheets. Mireän clutching her doll – she had decided that she was too old for it during the day the month before, but after a few bad nights had admitted that maybe it would still help her sleep. Suler had been careful to put it in the bag for her when they went.

The guardsmen had been firm, but kind. Suler and Leilis had been awake – the ruckus in the entrance hall had been more than enough to do that, and they had both gone to their charges immediately. Most servants, in the event of an attack on a court household, were expected to leave – to clear house for the guardsmen to work without having additional people to protect. But if you were responsible for children, you went to them. She had found both Ino and Mireän already awake and wide-eyed at the noise, sitting together in Mireän’s bed. Leilis had come in a moment later, his expression drawn, and murmured in Suler’s ear that the prince was missing from his room.

They had not been left in suspense for long.

The knock on the door had startled Ino, and Suler had wrapped her in an embrace. But when the door opened, it was Prince Idra who had entered, shaken and pale and wrapped in his father’s dressing gown – and accompanied by four of the Untheileneise Guard.

‘Idra!’

Mireän had ran to him and Ino had started to follow but paused, eyeing the guardsmen warily. Idra had reached out an arm to her, though, and that had been enough.

‘We’re to move into the Alcethmeret,’ the prince had said, not quite succeeding at cheerfulness.

Suler’s eyes had met Leilis’.

‘Why? We live here,’ Mireän had said, frowning.

‘Because mother… mother and the Lord Chancellor didn’t think our uncle should be on the throne, so they tried… to have him sent away, so that I would be emperor instead. But I said no, and now they’re both in a lot of trouble.’

Prince Idra’s tone had been calm but there had been a faint waver in it.

‘How much trouble?’ Ino had asked.

Too much to survive, Suler had thought, and seen her reaction mirrored in Leilis’ face too.

‘An awful lot, Ino,’ Prince Idra had said carefully. ‘But we need to go now, because we’re going to live in the Alcethmeret nursery. Min Zhavanin will pack what you need for the night, and the rest can be sent over in the morning. Why don’t you help her?’

Suler had given the archduchesses the most reassuring smile she could manage, and started to organise a few things for each of them. Mireän had helped, but Ino had clung to her skirts, worrying at her lip and watching the guardsmen again.

She had not had time to think it through, so it had been a bit of a shock when she went to gather a quick bag for herself and a guardsman had put up a hand to stop her.

‘Just the children, Min Zhavanin,’ he had said gently. ‘Household staff are to remain here until the investigation is complete.’

Oh.

‘Oh – of, of course,’ Suler managed, trying to ensure that the archduchesses at least did not see her shock.

‘We’re leaving Suler behind? We can’t –’ Ino started, but Prince Idra intervened.

‘I’m sure things will get sorted out,’ he had said.

And now she was here, in this quiet corner of the Alcethmeret, waiting for an audience with an emperor she knew hardly anything of. He likely would not want any of the previous staff to stay with the children, she thought, trying to swallow back her distress at the thought. But surely – Prince Idra had told Leilis that he seemed kind – surely he would take care of them. He was responsible for all three of them now. She could only hope he took that duty seriously.

~

Leilis Athmaza had been moving in a sort of muffled numbness since the night before. He had known that the Lord Chancellor was at odds with Edrehasivar and that Princess Sheveän misliked him, of course he had – the entire court knew that. But he had not reckoned on how far they would dare to take it.

Idra had held himself together well, but Leilis had only seen him briefly before the guards had escorted all three children out of their home and over to the Alcethmeret nursery. Growing up as a member of the ruling family was complicated to begin with – Prince Idra had always been under a great deal of pressure to achieve the perfect behaviour expected of a Drazhada child – but it had become a struggle since the airship crash. Princess Sheveän had never been particularly involved in the lives of her children; the girls had had Min Zhavanin and her predecessors, and Idra had idolised his father. Well, perhaps idolised was extreme. But he had looked up to him, and his loss had been devastating.

Leilis had done his best to support the prince in the aftermath and all its consequences – Idra was now the Prince of the Untheileneise Court, with all that entailed, although some aspects would wait until he turned sixteen. Moreover, he had suddenly been more keenly aware of his responsibility for his younger sisters, which Leilis felt he was too young for yet despite how well he carried it.

He fought the urge to pace in the little waiting room. No sense in making Suler more nervous than she was. No sense in spreading his own anxiety about the place.

He had not slept. He kept going over the events of the night – unlike Suler and the girls, who would have heard shouting and known nothing else until Prince Idra had arrived to explain, he had been able to sense the fight between the two nohecharei from across the apartments. It would have been hard to tune out even if he had wanted to. Dachenmazei operated at a level of power orders of magnitude greater than an ordinary maza like Leilis. All he had been able to do was stay quiet, wait for answers, and look over his meagre knowledge of defensive spells in case the worst should happen.

And worry, always worry, about Idra.

Idra would feel even more responsible for his sisters now, Leilis knew. And he, Leilis, felt responsible for Idra in turn. To manage anyone’s education was a significant responsibility – to manage the education of someone who would one day have so much power over others, even if he did not inherit the throne, could be overwhelming. Leilis fought to keep matters simple, to focus on one detail at a time. To take responsibility for what he could control.

He tried to do that now, but that was the problem, wasn’t it? Everything was out of his control. It was in the hands of the emperor, now. Edrehasivar had moved the children to the Alcethmeret nursery, which Leilis thought wise; but there was nothing else known about what would happen to them. Would they be given new staff, a new tutor? Would he and Suler be able to work with them or continue their work elsewhere, or would they be forever tainted by having worked in the household of a traitor?

Leilis closed his eyes briefly and steadied his breathing.

What mattered was Idra’s wellbeing. If he could gain assurance of that, then he could manage other challenges, he decided. That was where his responsibility lay.

‘Leilis Athmaza? His Serenity will see you now.’

Leilis straightened his spine, steeled himself, and went to learn his fate.

~

By the time they finally went off-duty, they had been watching over the emperor for almost thirty hours straight. Both Cala and Deret forbore dinner in order to go swifter to their beds; exhaustion was more urgent than hunger, for the moment.

Deret barely spared the time to pull off his uniform, and only folded it because it was easier to obey the habit than to push against it. Then he crawled into bed, grateful for having no windows to let in the betraying daylight, and shut his eyes.

He woke after an hour, alerting to the quiet sound of the door.

‘Deret, are you awake?’ Cala’s voice was soft, barely audible.

Deret struggled against exhaustion to make sense of the sentence, and Cala had already begun to retreat when he opened his eyes a little in answer.

‘Cala?’

Cala started.

‘Oh, sorry,’ he said. ‘I was just seeing if you were still up, I didn’t mean to wake you.’

Deret, frowning, looked more closely at his counterpart. Cala’s hair was out of his maza’s queue, his eyes were red, and he looked thoroughly lost. His hand on the door handle was trembling slightly.

‘Have you slept yet?’ Deret asked.

Cala shook his head.

‘Do you want to sleep here?’

Cala was too tired react strongly, but he looked startled nonetheless. Something in his expression told Deret he hadn’t been expecting the offer; something else told Deret he had been right to make it.

‘Oh – I – we shouldn’t presume –’ he said, sounding completely disoriented.

‘It isn’t presuming, it’s practical,’ Deret said. ‘If you’d sleep better beside someone, then sleep here.’

There was a pause.

‘You don’t mind?’ Cala asked, chewing his lip.

‘Wouldn’t have offered if I did. Come on.’

Shifting around to accommodate all of Cala’s bony height – Deret wondered vaguely how many elbows one person was allowed – took a minute or so, but finally they were settled. Deret put an arm over Cala, and Cala seemed to finally relax.

‘Is this what soldiers do, then?’ he asked softly.

‘Soldiers are practical,’ Deret answered, not opening his eyes. ‘Like I said. And we’re responsible for each other, aren’t we?’

Like Dazhis should have been for Coris.

The words did not need to be spoken.

‘Yes,’ Cala said quietly, already nearly asleep. ‘Duty, then.’

‘Duty,’ Deret agreed.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

Ten years ago? Congratulations Aisava, really, well done.

Csevet sighed in frustration and let himself fall back on the bed, closing his eyes. He knew why he had said it, at least. He had thought about telling His Serenity this story, in the midst of little daydreams of an imagined familiarity with the man. He had imagined having worked together for some time they’d grow close… he’d share the story, revealing a previously well-hidden vulnerability, and the emperor would take it as motivation to reform the courier system, with a lot of advice from Csevet. He would be pleased with their work, and they’d be somehow talking alone, and… and they would have reached a new level of trust. That was all Csevet wanted, all he worked for.

But the point was, he had a way of telling that story, about Eshoravee. A rehearsed way. And he had not expected His Serenity to push for it that early. So he had panicked, used the template that was half-finished in his mind, and now someday the emperor was going to hear his age in passing and realise that Csevet could not have been fifteen ten years ago and must have lied to his emperor.

He had not meant to. He had been fifteen at Eshoravee, that was true, just barely fifteen, which meant it was less than six years ago. Perhaps His Serenity would recall the former and forget the ten years ago part? No. No, there was no chance of his being so lucky. Edrehasivar was an observant man. Sooner or later…

Csevet was aware that His Serenity thought of him as older and more experienced than he actually was, and that he himself had not only encouraged this but worked hard to make sure that it left no… no gap, you might call it. Working late into the night, researching, asking questions, gaining every piece of knowledge as quickly as possible so that he would have it to hand if and when the emperor asked. To make up for his inexperience. To make up for his age. To make up for being a jumped-up courier. And he’d done so well he’d gotten cocky, then panicked, and now Edrehasivar definitely thought he was four years older than he actually was and it was just the kind of detail the man was likely to remember at an inopportune time.

He had not meant to lie. Surely that counted for something? At least Cala had gone off duty by then. Cala would definitely have noticed, he thought glumly. That was another person good at putting little details together. Would Kiru? The new nohecharis – nohecharo – was an unknown quantity, but the nohecharei tended to tell each other everything. And she and Cala were friends, it seemed.

Cala and Dazhis had seemed to be friends.

Csevet pushed the thought away but it kept coming back, and a bubbling anger with it. He felt as though his thoughts were tossing and turning, throwing him from shame at his error to anger at the coup to fear of what might have been its consequences to… everything else. His mind was too full of upset to settle on any one matter for long.

He had understood His Serenity’s need to act, to work, after the coup. Had understood his inability to sleep or rest until he had burned out that need. He still felt it now, tired as he was. Tired enough to make the edges of his thoughts blur, to pass some of his own paperwork onto Mer Hallettar because he was worried he would make mistakes with it and he could not afford mistakes, tired enough to inadvertently miscount his own age… but not tired enough to sleep. Not yet.

He let out a quiet little groan. So much for consummate professionalism. There was no fixing it now. What could he fix now? His exhaustion, perhaps. He had the better part of an hour to himself while His Serenity ate dinner, and by all rights he should eat and try to catnap for at least half an hour, but the thought was… simply unbearable.

He opened his eyes, staring up at the low wooden ceiling but not really seeing it, going over his earlier exchange with the emperor in bits and pieces.

Were you part of Lord Chavar’s plot, it would have been much better executed.

He huffed out a breath of air. The joke had surprised him. His Serenity didn’t really make jokes much. Csevet suspected that he found the constant formality not only wearying but worrying – he was not truly comfortable enough with the manner and bearing of an emperor to be able to relax into humour. So he didn’t. A wise decision, albeit a slightly sad one.

He wondered how much good humour was locked in behind that reserved façade. How much of himself did Edrehasivar suppress, for fear of how it might be received?

As much as thee, perhaps, he said wryly to himself. Such was the nature of court. Everyone wore a mask of some kind, and you seldom saw beneath them. Though Csevet had felt his slip a little during his recounting of Eshoravee. How much had Edrehasivar seen?

He pushed away his uneasiness at the thought, turning back to his memory of the earlier conversation.

We could not ask for a better secretary, and it has never once occurred to us to doubt your loyalty. Nor do we do so now.

He felt his pride warm him, just for a moment, over that. His hard work meant something, at least. He could not prevent other people’s betrayal, but he could be reliable. He could be dependable. Loyal.

There was a quiet, cynical side to him that pointed out that Edrehasivar hardly had the grounds for comparison – how was he to judge the quality of a secretary, when the only one he had ever worked with was Csevet? Was not that deceptive? Or did it matter at all? Csevet scrunched up his eyes, trying to sort out his thoughts. Regardless of whether or not the compliment was justified, he thought, it had been good to hear, and he should be honoured by it, not picking over it like an ungrateful child.

All this was distraction, though, wasn’t it? Because real jewel of the exchange had come just before the compliment. He let himself return to it.

Csevet, stop! Why on earth would you think we doubted you?

Csevet heard the words in his mind again, going over the memory, trying to recall the intonation precisely, to bring it as vividly to life as he could. That little bit of indignance. The upset and shock, which he was not glad to have caused; the sheer earnestness of the surprise, which he treasured. Not a recitation of an appropriate response, or the considered words that came after – a genuine reaction, horrified by the idea that Csevet would believe himself to be less than entirely trusted. It felt like a lit match in his heart, and he breathed out slowly, as though to do otherwise would somehow extinguish it.

He may not have been the most conventional choice for imperial secretary – may not have been much of a choice at all, next to Setheris Nelar – but he could be true. And maybe that was enough. It was easy, too, surrounded by people whose loyalty to the emperor was unbending.

Except for Dazhis.

And there it was again. Csevet could not decide what was more painful – that a man he had eaten breakfast with, made jokes with, trusted delicate information to had turned on that trust and spat on it; or the wound that he had delivered to Edrehasivar in doing so.

The more Csevet dwelt on it, the angrier he became, and the less he could stand to lie there doing absolutely nothing.

He rolled over in bed and sat up.

Dazhis’ revethvoran was tonight. His Serenity would be exhausted in the morning. Csevet could not prevent that; he could not ease that; he could not undo the cause. But he could start work on the paperwork for the trials; for next week’s Corazhas meeting; for the potential candidates for the empty Lord Chancellor's position. No more flinching at correspondence and wasting the emperor’s time with stories about himself. He had a task to be getting on with, and that should be where his priorities lay.

Adjusting his appearance briefly in the mirror to conceal his discomposure, he smoothed out his facial expression and slipped back out into the tangle of corridors.

Chapter Text

‘We will step outside with Kiru Athmaza, for what is between them is no business of ours.’

The door swung shut behind the emperor, and Coris faced Dazhis across the Visitors’ Room.

It was a small, scrupulously clean space, a surreal place for such a meeting. The words exchanged between the traitor and the emperor seemed to echo against the stone.

I should become Adremaza… I should be Prince Idra’s First Nohecharis… his government would not…

Coris clung to years of training and kept his back straight, his nausea under control, his eyes on Dazhis. Tears were streaking from the maza’s eyes, unheeded and unremarked. He seemed to sway where he knelt, and absently Coris thought of what Cala had muttered about keeping Dazhis contained – what workings had been performed to bring a dachenmaza to this state?

Coris kept remembering Cala’s bone-white face, bringing him out of the cantrip that had laid him out cold on the marble floor of the bedchamber – kept reliving the dreadful thump of his heart as he realised what had happened – the emperor gone – Dazhis, Dazhis, who he had trusted, who he had respected, who he had laughed with –

‘Revethvoris, thou must speak.’

The canon’s voice was low, but unyielding. Coris watched Dazhis, unmoving.

‘I am… sorry for my actions.’ The words were barely audible, but they were there. And Coris didn’t believe a single one of them.

‘Thou art sorry for getting caught. Tis hardly the same thing. To be sorry to die for failing a duty the rest of us would have gladly died to complete.’ Coris barely recognised the sound of his own voice as the words came out, jagged and ugly and true.

Dazhis was staring at the ground. Nothing Coris said would make any difference now, but he could not bring himself to stop.

‘Thou art sorry to be dying, Dazhis. And we – we are not sorry for you at all.’ It wasn’t quite true; Coris was sorry, he was sorrowful to lose a friend, but that friend had turned on him and had more than earned his fate.

Dazhis looked up.

‘Wilt be,’ he said, sullen as a child, and finally, Coris thought, here is something true. He raised his eyebrows in response.

‘Wilt be sorry,’ Dazhis said again. ‘He should never have been crowned; he will ruin us, Coris.’

‘Revethvoris.’

The canon’s tone was warning, and Dazhis flinched.

‘Lieutenant,’ he corrected himself reluctantly.

‘Thou hast ruined thyself,’ Coris said quietly, his anger white hot but held tight inside him. ‘We will remain for your revethvoran, but we do so to support His Serenity. Not for the sake of thee.’ He looked at one of the canons. ‘We have nothing more to say. Or hear.’

It wasn’t strictly to form, but the canon nodded. One canon took Dazhis by the arm and half-led, half-carried him away; the other went to the door and opened it for Coris.

The emperor waited outside, with Kiru Athmaza. A brief exchange occurred, and they were led to the Ulimeire of the Mazan’theileian, and then to a quiet prayer bench to one side. Coris exchanged a look with Kiru, and then sunk gratefully to his knees next to the bench. He could not sit next to His Serenity; but in this place, under the watchful eyes of his new counterpart, he could take the time to pray on his own terms.

Soldiers of the Untheileneise Guard directed their worship to Anmura, god of the sun, god of war, of anger, of rage, of – of certainty, he reminded himself. Of decisiveness. Of honour.

Counting his breathing to bring it to steadiness, he tipped his head forward and closed his eyes.

Anmura, grant me sureness in my actions.

Coris was often uncertain; he envied the certainty and confidence of people like Deret, and Cala, and… well. Dazhis. But Dazhis’ certainty was his undoing, was it not? He was so certain that he knew the right course that he had led himself to his own death. For what would have happened, had they succeeded?

Coris forced himself to think about it. With Edrehasivar vanished, there would have been three nohecharei left to swear his absence was not of his own doing. Three nohecharei to ask questions and demand answers, and track down their missing emperor. An abdication had to be witnessed by a representative from each of the three cornerstones of government – Judiciate, Parliament, Corazhas. Those would have been missing, unless Chavar had forged signatures, and that would have brought its own troubles.

The more he thought about it, the more it fell apart. How could they have thought it would work? They would have had a court in uproar, and even with Edrehasivar dead – he swallowed back against a twist of nausea at the thought – even with Edrehasivar dead, the court would have torn in two over the mess.

They had been so certain that they were right, he realised. So certain that Edrehasivar should not be on the throne, so certain that it should be Prince Idra instead, that they believed everyone else would just… accept it. Perhaps even be grateful to them, for setting things back the way they were supposed to be. But it never would have worked.

Certainty, sureness; it could work against you. But Coris still craved it.

Perhaps that was the way it was supposed to be. Perhaps it was a goal to aim towards, rather than a goal to achieve. Sureness was important, but like any other attribute it needed to be tempered; balanced. Coris did not know; but he hoped.

Anmura, grant me a harness for my fury.

He felt as though he was being thrown between rage and devastation; he could settle on neither, and both of them ached. There was nothing to do with the anger; there seemed to be no way out of the grief. He knew what was coming – knew that in a short time he would stand with the emperor and Kiru Athmaza and witness the revethvoran. Would that be vengeance enough? Coris had never been a vengeful man but part of him, he realised, a part of him that felt helpless and betrayed and stupid, wanted to be the one to kill Dazhis. Wished it had not, in Sheveän’s apartments, come to maza against maza but that he had been able to draw his sword and just –

He leant forward slowly, forcing his fists to uncurl so he could press his palms to the cold stone floor.

He had spent years learning how to fight. How to do battle with a sword, with a crossbow, with a shield, with his bare hands. But what was drilled into them, over and over, was the need for necessity. The mandate that what you did was only what needed to be done, no more, no less. No justifications, no wishes, no exceptions. You fought necessarily, or you ceased to fight.

He knew that particular aspect wasn’t something much taught outside of the Untheileneise Guard. A lot of the city guards, and even the vigilant brotherhood, ignored it as a soft approach, a paternalistic leash to be shed as quickly as possible. But the Untheileneise Guard still held to it, and Coris knew its value.

Dazhis had failed.

Dazhis was no longer a threat.

Dazhis did not require his rage, or his aggression.

Dazhis would no longer exist in a few short hours, and there was nothing more to be done.

It left an ache in Coris’ chest, and he would not pretend that the anger had dissipated – or the grief. But he repeated it to himself – fight necessarily, or cease to fight – and he could feel it ease the burning in his chest. The anger was understandable, but it was not necessary. This fight was over, and as time passed the anger would too.

Anmura, grant me honour in my heart.

Coris had been expecting dismissal from his position at best, and to go down with Dazhis at worst. Nohecharei pairs were treated, typically, as one – historically, they were even often punished together if one committed wrongdoing. It was a serious partnership, one where you were dependent upon each other and held one another in check.

Dazhis must have been plotting for some time – he had certainly had time enough to speak with the Lord Chancellor, perhaps Princess Sheveän herself, and to work out all the little details of the coup. He had brought in Sheveän’s guardsmen simply by telling the usual Alcethmeret guards there was to be a security exercise conducted that night, and that when the other guardsmen arrived they were to leave the gate duty to them in order to conduct a sweep of the lower Alcethmeret. When they had walked the emperor out through the main gate, there had been no one to see.

How had Coris not seen?

He had not seen because he had trusted. Because he had given Dazhis the gift of his trust, something he had thought Dazhis had returned. Something Dazhis should have returned.

Captain Orthema had taken Coris to one side during the aftermath of the previous night, and listened to him explain what had happened. Coris had done everything correctly, he had said. It did not feel like that. But Deret agreed, and Coris thought Cala did too, and the emperor – the emperor –

Coris swallowed and steadied back his breathing again, determined not to burst into tears on duty. Without turning his head too much, he stole a glance at the emperor. The younger man was bent over his hands, palms against one another, lips moving silently. Someone had taught him some kind of prayer, once. Coris was glad that he had it to hold onto. The emperor had not forgiven him; on the contrary, he had not blamed him in the first place, leaving nothing to forgive. The emperor was willing to permit him to leave, but hoped his service would continue.

Did he want to stay? Yes.

The answer came quickly, certainly. There was sureness, of the good kind. The sureness and certainty of his own mind and heart in concert.

Did he think he deserved to?

That was harder to answer. He was still too sore with grief and anger to see it clearly, that was what Captain Orthema had said. Perhaps he was right.

Did it matter?

He had sworn an oath to Edrehasivar VII; sworn he would stay. His emperor had given him the freedom of choice, and hoped he would stay. How could he disappoint that hope? How could it be wrong to concede to his own wishes when they fell in line with those of his emperor?

He had been dishonoured, yes; however, he had been dishonoured not by his own actions, but by Dazhis. They were sworn to each other as well as to the emperor. And the way forward was not to run, to disappear, to hide from it like a child; the way forward was to earn that honour back.

Honour, not mistrust. Anger, but leashed. Certainty, tempered with caution.

He glanced over at the emperor again. Edrehasivar set a good example of all of those things, he realised. He served a good man.

Bringing his breathing under control again, Coris returned to the familiar words, turning them over and over, steadying himself by inches.

Anmura, grant me sureness in my actions.

Anmura, grant me a harness for my fury.

Anmura, grant me honour in my heart.

He would find a way forward from this.

Chapter Text

At the end of her first shift, Kiru could see that Lieutenant Telimezh was exhausted. So was she, truthfully, but you couldn’t work twenty years in a hospital without getting a handle on that sort of thing. She gave him a cautious smile as they stepped into the servants’ corridors of the Upper Alcethmeret.

‘We didn’t get a chance to properly introduce ourselves,’ she said. The young soldier started and stared at her, but his confusion cleared quickly.

‘Oh, of course. Um.’

‘Kiru,’ Kiru said, putting a hand out as a prompt. ‘Cleric of Csaivo, collector of houseplants, appreciator of almost any kind of jam.’

A smile flickered across the lieutenant’s face, and Kiru counted that as a success. He took her hand and shook it briefly.

‘Coris,’ he answered. ‘Soldier, still a nohecharis, somehow.’ He was clearly trying to match her own light-hearted tone, but it fell short, and he looked away. It did not take any kind of genius to know what that was about.

Kiru took a moment to re-centre herself and shelve her own feelings - time for those later - and then pushed onwards.

‘Well, Coris, what do we do now?’ she asked lightly. Brisk, friendly, practical. Use the tone you wish to encourage.

She saw Coris gather himself a little, too.

‘Um, well, there’ll be dinner waiting for us in the kitchen. Or breakfast, if you prefer. Ebremis knows you’re new, he’ll have a couple of options out.’

‘That’s the kitchen master? What’s he like?’

‘Oh, he’s nice. He’s been here a long time, I think.’

‘What about the rest of the staff?’

With some effort from Kiru, the conversation kept up as they wound through the twisting corridors of what she was informed was called the nest. The kitchen, when they reached it, was a brightly lit and warm space, alive with the kind of steady activity that she always found so comforting. The perfect space to try to shed thoughts of the night before – Dazhis; the blood pooling on the stone; the emperor, pacing the Upper Alcethmeret in silence until the sun rose. She gave herself a little mental shake, and drew her focus back to the present. 

Coris managed to introduce Kiru to the rest of the staff as they dug in to their meals – much better fare than anything Kiru had ever had at the hospital, but then, everything up here was imperial standard.

‘Athmaza –’

‘Kiru, please,’ Kiru said, giving the house steward – Esaran, wasn’t it, Echelo Esaran? – a faint smile. The other woman softened slightly in response.

‘Kiru,’ she amended. ‘I understand you’re a cleric of Csaivo – will you be continuing any of your typical work while not on duty?’

Kiru stifled a yawn and briefly assessed her own tiredness. She could manage to see someone before she slept, she thought, if it wasn’t too complicated.

‘I intend to,’ she said, ‘though it might take me a little while to work out the most efficient way to work. I’m quite happy to help wherever I can.’

Esaran nodded.

‘Would you be able to check on one of the edocharei?’

Kiru listened to the explanation of Nemer’s head injury, the fact that a doctor had been called in the night before at his Serenity’s request and that Esaran was quite happy to call him in again to check that Nemer was progressing but that where at all possible the Upper Alcethmeret ‘preferred to keep matters in-house.’

‘Of course,’ Kiru said. ‘If someone can direct me, I’ll finish eating and drop by.’

‘Thank you. Isheian can show you up.’

No slow starts in this position, she thought wryly to herself. But she always had been one to get stuck in straight away, so she couldn’t complain.

~

Kiru had asked Coris about the first nohecharis-soldier when they were on their way to breakfast, so she was not entirely surprised when Lieutenant Deret Beshelar wanted to speak to her at the next shift-change.

‘Athmaza, we want to apologise for our reaction to you on your arrival. Regardless of our concerns, which were evidently unnecessary, we had no right to voice them in such a way.’

Don’t laugh. Don’t, he’s trying so hard…

Kiru put on her most professional expression, though it was hard. Lieutenant Beshelar was in earnest, but he was just so earnest. And so young. Surely he wasn’t much older than His Serenity? What had Coris said, twenty-two? Practically the same age. Half the staff here seemed to be barely grown, between the soldier-nohecharei and the edocharei and the secretary. New shoots growing out from where a branch was cut, and the emperor the newest of all…

Out loud, she kept her tone mild and sensible.

‘Apology accepted, Lieutenant,’ she said. ‘But we do understand – it’s been quite the ordeal, and everyone is overwrought. I know Coris is struggling with it.’

That last line was something of a test; Kiru knew from experience that one of the most useful things to learn about any new role was the way each of your colleagues felt about each other. Group balance was everything. Lieutenant Beshelar sighed a little, and nodded.

‘We know that Captain Orthema has spoken with him, and we have as well. He is not at fault, but we… I think it will take him a long time to believe that.’

Both considerate and perceptive. Well, that’ll teach thee to make assumptions, Kiru.

‘Agreed. Well. It’s nice to meet you properly, Lieutenant.’

The young soldier looked faintly uncomfortable, but he said it anyway:

‘Deret is fine, when we’re not speaking publicly.’

‘Deret, then. I hope your off-shift is peaceful.’

‘Thank you, Athmaza.’

‘Kiru, please.’

‘Kiru.’

Kiru decided she’d better stop torturing him, so she gave him a final nod; she thought he looked distinctly grateful to be walking away.

~

At the end of her second shift, she was outside the door to the bedchamber. It was early – and so was Cala, striding up the last few steps alone. She tipped her head to one side in curiosity, not wanting to make noise enough to disturb His Serenity. Cala gave a faint smile.

‘The door’s heavy enough if we talk quietly,’ he said in a low voice, and Kiru smiled back gratefully.

‘Good to know.’

‘So. I, um. Wanted to talk to thee about… about what happened with the nohecharei positions.’

Kiru bit back a sigh.

‘Cala…’

‘No, please. I owe thee an apology. Thou stepped forward first. Really, our positions should have been reversed.’

He’d been worrying about this, she could tell. She wasn’t sure if she should be surprised or not. Cala often gave the impression of existing perfectly contentedly in his secure little bubble – a classic demonstration of the mildly eccentric maza-scholar stereotype, floating through the world without touching it. He passed through most things without taking damage. But Kiru knew that he had had a hard time in the Mazan’theileian – he was a little too distant, not good at falling in with his peers, standing out not just by virtue of being a dachenmaza but by an unfortunate knack of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

There had never been more than thirty dachenmaza at once in recorded history – usually the number was under twenty. They all knew each other, and so Cala had had some support from that corner. But at fourteen you needed friends your own age, and Cala had never found that easy.

He had come through it, though, and he seemed to be doing better in his twenties. But that worry about social missteps persisted. He was smart enough to recognise that sometimes he missed things, and he worried.

Meet worry with confidence. What he wants is to know that thou art not angry with him.

‘Sehelis made the decision, Cala,’ she said firmly. ‘No one knew anything about Edrehasivar at the time, and Sehelis made the decision he thought was right. And who can blame Sehelis?’ she added blandly, keeping her face absolutely straight. ‘After all, we all know that the womanly figure is a terrible limiter in one’s capability with maz.’

Cala looked immediately angry.

‘It most certainly is not – that’s nonsense! Anyone in the Mazan’theileian who believes that is…’ Cala’s voice faded as something clicked in his expression. Then he looked abruptly sheepish.

‘…thou art being sarcastic,’ he said ruefully.

‘Mm-hm. Though I appreciate the fierceness of thy defence,’ Kiru said, grinning as Cala blushed.

‘Look,’ she continued. ‘I know it wasn’t fair. But it’s how things worked out, and I for one don’t have any problem with our positions. Thou hast seniority here, after all.’

‘By a bare month.’

Kiru gave a one-shouldered shrug. Then she reached out to put a hand on Cala’s shoulder.

‘Thou hast nothing to feel guilty about. So stop carrying it around like a sulking lap-dog.’ Along with the rest of your guilt, she thought, but it was too soon for that.

Cala gave a faint laugh.

‘I’ll try, Kiru,’ he said, sounding very like the fourteen-year-old he'd been when she had first met him.

She smiled, and turned the conversation, so that when Deret arrived a little later for the shift change Cala was visibly calmer and more centred. Deret surprised her by giving her a grateful nod behind Cala’s back.

Well, she thought, as she and Coris made their way down to the kitchen. Three decent sorts. I’ve had worse colleagues.

Smiling softly to herself, she turned her attention back to her counterpart and his explanation of nohecharei procedures. Coris had clearly decided that it was important she be well-informed, and had taken it upon himself to make sure she had everything she needed. He was hurt, but he fell back on practicality.

Yes, she could fit in quite well here.

Chapter Text

The minareted dome of the Alcethmeret was the crowning jewel of the Untheileneise Court. It was best viewed from a distance – from one of the hills on the approach to Cetho, perhaps, or from the air – and it was easy to spot. Nestled in amongst the smart grey and black stone of the court, the white marble dome shone like silk, with the imperial tower rising out it to reach the greatest height in Cetho.

Growing up in Cetho town, encircling Untheileneise the Court like a wedding band, Echelo Esin had never seen it.

Oh, she saw glimpses, occasionally. The top of the tower could just about be seen if you found the right angle, piercing the sky between the roofs of other buildings; and sometimes, in some places, you could catch a flash of the white of the dome in the same way, gone as soon as you passed it. But Cetho town was both too close and too low to show you all of it.

It wasn’t until she had got her position as a halls maid – privileged enough to wear the Drazhada blue but in reality the lowest rank of court servant, responsible for cleaning the common corridors of court and answerable to all and sundry – that she realised most of the court could not see it either.

It was a puzzle that she slowly unpicked, chatting to her friends and listening to the servants above her. The Untheileneise Court – most of it – had been built according to the plan of Edrethelema III, and though it had taken three emperors after him to complete the work, the result was marvellously consistent. Even the servants’ corridors were accounted for, weaving through the walls so they would not disturb the beauty of the place by hauling mop-buckets or waving dusters where courtiers could see them. And Edrethelema had evidently put some considerable thought into more things than beauty.

There was no angle at court from which one could see the entire Alcethmeret. No single window gave you more than a small slice of it, and in fact the whole south quarter of it had no overlook at all. That was for the gardens, she deduced after a while. The emperor’s privacy in the Alcethmeret gardens. It wouldn’t do to have any passing person peering down at him while he walked the paths.

Echelo had worked hard as a halls maid, running and fetching, sending the money to her family, and ignoring their increasingly insistent hints about marriage. If she married, she wouldn’t stay at court. And she loved it. Oh, the nobility could be insufferable, looks and hands alike, but she rarely dealt with them face to face. She liked the satisfaction of a job smartly done, she liked her friends, she liked her tidy uniform and her place in the cogs of the great clock of court. And she loved the beauty of it – the clothes, the furniture, even the floors, and the delight in being able to see what was behind it all, making it work.

Her hard work was noted. And when they needed a new under-housemaid for the Lower Alcethemert, Merrem Lotharan had picked her.

That meant a new uniform – Drazhada blue, again, but this time with the little white circle on the shoulder that gave her admittance through the great bronze gates of the Lower Alcethmeret. The Lower Alcethmeret household consisted of gardeners, the secretarial staff, the librarian, the Drazhada house guard, cooks, and a small army of servants whose primary task was keeping the lower area immaculate. They ate in the lower kitchen hall, beneath the ground floor, served by the lower kitchens. The main area led to the nursery, which had its own staff but not its own kitchens, as well as the small chapel that had been largely unused in the last century. And of course there were any number of halls and ballrooms and drawing rooms and music rooms, all kept open to one another to form one barely interrupted space and decorated luxuriously.

Echelo thrived. It did not matter that she was overworked; it did not matter that she went to bed only a few scant hours before she rose; it did not matter that her friends dropped away and she did not make many more. She pushed past the snobbery, perfected her court accent, dodged the swift and intruding hand of the cook that drove one or two other maids away for good, and ignored the crass comments from the male servants that did likewise. It did not matter; she knew who to avoid; she would do well. She learnt every little corner of the lower Alcethmeret, worked diligently, and when the Upper Alcethmeret needed a new maid, there she was.

Finally, the last and most guarded mysteries of the Untheileneise Court could be unwrapped.

She had felt giddy as she walked up the wide, open staircase of the Lower Alcethmeret to the grilles that let to the private upper area for the first time. Merrem Lotharan was stringent and unforgiving, and she knew the work up here would only be harder, but it was everything she had ever wanted and she would take hold of it in both fists.

People never thought about the Alcethmeret properly. If they thought at all, they stood in the open area and looked up at the inside of the dome, marvelling at the beauty, and fancying (as Echelo had done so many times before) that beyond the tower grilles stood the emperor’s private chambers, the heart of the Untheileneise Court.

That was… partially correct.

Once you got to the grilles, the spaces became smaller, more contained. To a noble visitor, the stairwell led to the Tortoise Room, and then to the Rose Room; to a member of the family who was permitted further, there was an elegant dining room, a private drawing room, and a small study. To the emperor or empress, permitted all the way to the top of the tower, there was a small but lavishly appointed second bedroom to prevent the empress needing to leave the Alcethmeret in the night if she and her husband wished to sleep apart; a very discreet third bedroom so that the empress would not suffer the indignity of using the same space as a mistress, should the emperor obtain one; and then, finally, the imperial bedroom.

To servants of the upper household, there was considerably more.

Welcome to the nest.

The upper household consisted of up to twenty members of staff – the nohecharei (four) and the imperial edocharei (three); the upper kitchen master, the house steward, and the imperial secretary (one of each); the master of the wardrobe and his two assistants (three); scullions (two), and housemaids (five). People – particularly nobility – never thought about the Alcethmeret properly, really thought. If they did, they would wonder how on earth everyone could possibly fit.

The trick was a simple one, and it was this: without blueprints, no one would not realise that the difference between the outside dome of the Alcethmeret and the inside was considerable.

The ceiling that could be seen from the inside of the Lower Alcethmeret was not, in fact, the full height of the dome – and the grilles were not the start of the tower. The tower itself started much higher: it started at the turn around to the zhasan’s room, just a floor below the double-height imperial bedroom. And the space between that and the grilles bulged gently, and around it spread the servants’ corridors and quarters and the upper kitchen, and the storage of enough long-term supplies to fend off a siege of the Upper Alcethmeret alone for months.

The gem in the deception, and Echelo’s favourite part of the Upper Alcethmeret, was the Tortoise Room. The first room you would come to, it contained a beautifully framed window that looked out across the roof of the dome. It was also a lie. The view that it showed was from four floors up, an ancient and – according to Pezhia Athmaza – incredibly complex piece of maz-work that had been installed during the construction of the tower. Echelo went and looked out of it at every chance she got, delighting in the illusion.

Echelo was one of the housemaids now, responsible for cleaning the imperial areas. Everything had to be done when rooms were not in use, often at night or at carefully timed points in the day, burning the gaslights when there wasn’t light enough in the sky or the rooms had no outside windows (real or not).

Then she became senior housemaid. Then Merrem Lotharan had her brainstorm, and it appeared she had Echelo listed as her recommended replacement.

The letters from her family had long since stopped coming, around the same time her sisters had married; it seemed she had been given up as a lost cause. She did not mind. The position of house steward, for which she had to submit to an interview with His Imperial Serenity, was the pinnacle of her achievements.

Varenechibel IV was an intimidating figure. It helped a little that the two nohecharei on duty were, of course, familiar to her – as she approached the Tortoise Room she remembered that Teru Athmaza could name every bird in the Alcethmeret gardens, and Lieutenant Istona had a very dry sense of humour. But they weren’t chatting idly in the kitchen now; they were on duty, stiff and as unyielding as the marble floors. Echelo entered, and went to her knees with practised dignity.

‘What’s your name, girl?’

‘Min Echelo Esin, Serenity.’

‘And your experience?’

She had rehearsed her answers, and gave them confidently but respectfully. His Serenity listened closely, and followed up on her words. He took her measure without turning it into an interrogation, and she appreciated that. When he had heard enough he gave a considering expression, and then nodded.

‘Very well. We will accept you in the position on Merrem Lotharan’s recommendation and your own answers. Will you be taking the appropriate title?’

Her mind had, for one terrifying moment, gone entirely blank before she realised what he meant. House steward was one of the few ranks that came with the honorary merrem and its accompanying -aran, even if one was not married.

‘Yes, Serenity.’

‘Speak to Mer Melcha, then. That will be all, Merrem Esaran.’

‘Thank you, Serenity.’

She had curtseyed, and left, and everything was hers.   

Echelo had a quiet word with the imperial secretary, a cheerful and portly man more than happy to give advice, and completed the correct papers to change her name. She took time to settle in, making sure she was fully accepted and respected by the staff. Then she went to work.

She could not protect the maidservants from the nobility – there she had no control. But she could time the cleaning shifts differently, making sure the maids were kept away from the worst offenders. She found the cook who couldn’t keep his hands to himself, and made it clear that he could leave or be sent away in disgrace. He went. She dismissed the male servants who spoke so disrespectfully outright – it wasn’t hard to catch them in the act. That sort of thing was all so terribly predictable. Merrem Lotharan had been very good, undoubtedly; but she had not been perfect.

Echelo Esaran would be perfect.

At thirty-one she was young for the position, but she did not allow that to matter; and the merrem worked wonders, as did the emperor’s implicit approval that hovered over everything she did.

The emperor had no empress in residence when she began, Chenelo Drazharan having left for Isvaroë some three years previously. Esaran held no particular opinion on the subject. She respected Varenechibel, and in the decision saw nothing drastically amiss. Isvaroë was by all accounts a pleasant estate, and surely things would be better for the young lady there than in the midst of the poisoned hornets’ nest of rumour that was the Untheileneise Court.

When Chenelo Drazharan died and the emperor’s youngest son was sent away again barely moments after her funeral, Esaran was in the midst of settling a nasty little dispute amongst the Lower Alcethmeret staff as well as assisting with the arrangements for court mourning, and had quite enough to think about.

It was a terrible shame that his father had no fondness for him, but given that that was indeed the case, was it not better that he did not have to bear that here? Away in that place in the western marshes, he’d have freedoms he could not be permitted here. Peace and quiet. She felt a twinge of unease when Prince Nemolis argued for his youngest brother’s return – Varenechibel’s response had been furious. Esaran had shook her head when she had heard. Nemolis knew better than that. Varenechibel was a perfectly reasonable man, a good man to work for, you just had to leave some things alone.

The airship crash had rocked the court to its foundations. Esaran had eight staff to mourn, all of whom had been friends – edocharei, nohecharei, and imperial secretary. A prince and two archdukes. And of course she mourned Varenechibel, who had entrusted her with his household and the keys to his wellbeing, who had always been courteous when occasion demanded they interact, who had never bothered the maids and frowned on those who did.

And then, before she had a moment to pull breath back into her lungs, came Edrehasivar VII. His father’s eyes, Drazhadeise grey, looked out at her from a face that he and his elder brother Ciris shared – had shared – with their paternal grandmother. The expression on his face, she did not recognise. Perhaps it was his mother’s.

He did not mourn his father, of course. How could he? She supposed it was absurd to expect that of him. But he was proper in his observances, if odd in a few other ways (she forbore to take his insistence on being introduced to every member of the household as a calculated insult; he hardly knew one end of the Alcethmeret from the other, it was unlikely that he would already be that subtle). And the new staff liked him immediately, the old staff joining them quickly.

Esaran held back. She wasn’t sure why. Externally, she kept her manner perfect, and made certain not to dampen the enthusiasm of the rest of the staff. Internally, she came up with reason after reason. She was not used to youthful naivety and ignorance, albeit understandable. She found his Barizheise attitude to servants jarring. She did not like his reserved nature, finding him subtle and difficult to read. She could not be expected to become accustomed to a new master so quickly after the loss of the previous one. It hardly mattered, after all. Regardless of the emperor, her role was the same.

And then the first nohecharei came thundering into the kitchen at the shift change, Deret keeping a running growl of fury laced with threats, Cala tight-lipped and sad, and suddenly too many things made sense. The scar on his arm – hates his cousin – the edocharei were right when they thought – the man should be flogged – physical harm to a member of the imperial family – and regardless of that the kind of scum that hurts a child deserves –

She slipped out of the kitchen as though on some errand, bolting for her room like a child, getting inside and almost slamming the door and gasping for breath she could not quite seem to catch, the years she had worked here piling up upon one another in her mind. He’d have happiness. Peace and quiet. A childhood free from the rigours of court. That’s what it was supposed to be. That’s what Varenechibal thought –

She pulled herself up short. Varenechibal had thought nothing of the sort. She knew that, didn’t she? He had been angry and unwilling to confront what he believed to be mistakes, and it had led him to abandoning one of them in a house in the middle of nowhere with a man who thought a beating was something you did whenever you felt like it. He had seen his son, his eight-year-old child, as only a problem to be solved.

And she had said nothing. Done, nothing.

Oh, there had not been anything she could have said or done. She had never had that kind of power. But that almost was not the point – she hadn’t even thought about it. She, who had expunged the malingerers and the gropers and the bullies; she, who had refused to tolerate poor behaviour or shoddy morals anywhere in the entire household; she, who had… who had done all that in service of a man who had thrown away a child like a torn page.

She felt as though the bright, gleaming clockwork she had thrived in all her working life had been drenched in glue.

What to do. What to do, what to do…

Horribly, she realised that the problem was already solved. Varenechibal was gone. Edrehasivar was safe. But it shouldn’t have happened like that. None of it should have happened like that. How did I not see?

‘Because I did not want to,’ she said aloud to herself, taking in her own words as she heard them.

When people walked into the Lower Alcethmeret, they saw the beauty. They saw the open rooms, the lovely gardens, the graceful staircase leading to the tower. Perhaps they walked up them, perhaps they looked through the window in the Tortoise Room and saw exactly what they had expected to see – the curve of the dome, the openness of the sky.

She had seen what she had wanted to see, too.

Chapter Text

A plot exposed; an emperor protected; the perpetrators captured and facing punishment. A perfect conclusion.

The Alcethmeret is secure.

Lieutenant Deret Beshelar sat in the small, windowless training room attached the nohecharei quarters. He sat with his back straight but with his head bent, his eyes closed, his sword across his knees. An observer might have mistaken him for a statue, but for the barely perceptible motion of his lungs.

He had come to train. It was the time he usually trained at; or, at least, it had been half an hour ago. He always trained when he needed to resettle himself. Anger, grief, worry, confusion, sorrow, frustration – he could pour all of them into the familiar motions, working through the stances until the sheer mechanics of it evened everything out. It was how he kept his balance.

It had worked all through his training, whenever he had encountered a setback or a difficulty.

It had worked on his homesickness.

It had worked when a friend left the guard to look after his family.

It had worked when he had received news of his grandmother’s death too late to attend the funeral.

It didn’t wipe away the feelings – he would not have trusted it if it had. It just… helped. It helped to put things in proportion. Helped him remember his own capability, his own strength. And so naturally, when starting a new position, he had relied upon it.

After he had mistakenly entered the Tortoise Room without permission and intruded on Edrehasivar’s shock and upset, the very first time they had met. All overwhelmed with the need to do everything perfectly, to make the best first impression, he had knocked and assumed the sound he had heard was admittance. Instead, he had gotten halfway into the room before realising that Edrehasivar was – calling it laughing wasn’t fair, because there had been no humour in it, just a kind of jagged, juddering shock that made Deret wince – and had not even seen him. He had been wondering frantically whether or not to inch back out of the room and knock again when His Serenity had looked up. He had been humiliated and ashamed – his first shift, and he had demonstrated a lack of regard for basic etiquette. But he had worked through it, worked into perspective, worked himself into balance again.

After hearing Csevet’s weary reports of the Lord Chancellor’s constant, barely-legal obstructions and obfuscations, which had worked Deret into a righteous fury that Cala joked could be seen coming out of his ears like steam. Deret had not found that particularly funny. Disloyalty was only one step away from betrayal, and he did not trust either. But he had gone to train afterwards, and settled himself back into acceptance of what he could not control.

After the nasty rumours grew about Edrehasivar’s supposed peculiarities, after Edrehasivar Half-Tongue had been passed around by gossips all week, after Coris had reported that Edrehasivar had heard the sobriquet in passing and had done well not to react – he trained, he levelled out.

The attempted coup was different only in scale.

The Lord Chancellor, Princess Sheveän, Dazhis; the Witness for the Prelacy, Osmin Bazhevin. The guards of the Princess Sheveän’s household, who in obeying her orders had knowingly committed treason. They were not all enemies that Deret had anticipated – at least one had been a terrible shock. But their deeds were clear, the consequences were straightforward, and most importantly Deret had finally known exactly what to do.

He had not said this to Cala or to anyone else, because he did not want them to misunderstand. He was not glad it had happened; he hated that it had happened. But after weeks of rumour and hidden malice and suspicious intentions, none of which he could do anything about but glare, finally someone had moved into the open. And a boil had been lanced.

Something had always been going to happen. And now it was over.

He hadn’t really rebalanced from it yet, but he could feel that he would. The steady routine of shifts, off-shifts, training… it would work, as it had every time before. He was sure of it.

But then they had found out about Nelar, and Deret knew he had been wrong to react the way he had, but it had just been unbearable, that that smug, entitled, worm of a man – that anyone – would treat any child like that, but Edrehasivar – Edrehasivar who, though an adult, was still so young and still in many ways in Deret’s charge –

And before he had gotten a hold on those feelings, there had come His Serenity’s meeting with the Witness for the Emperor.

A Witness vel ama, Edrehasivar had called him, a dry and hollow little joke. The man who spoke what the emperor could not. And what words those had been…

We could not subject our people to a civil war, not when we are unsure –

We were afraid, for we know enough history to predict the fate of an emperor once dethroned.

We believe that our rule is better for the Ethuveraz than a regency government led by Lord Chavar, but what if we are wrong? What if we are leading our people into chaos and disaster? What right have we to impose our rule on those who do not wish it?

We did not think we could be sure of anyone’s support.

We expected… we expected to die.

Deret was aware that his breathing had once more grown ragged, but he could not seem to help it. His eyes were wet. And the tears that hit the blade of the sword were hot.

‘It isn’t right,’ he muttered to himself, and immediately felt like a child. Many things were not right. The world was not, on balance, a particularly just place.

Which is why it is our duty to make it more so. His mother’s voice, firm and practical. It isn’t fair, it isn’t right, so what dost thou do? Thou workest hard, and thou makest it fair. Thou makest it right.

But this was… this was an old wrong. This was something with its roots in deep. This was something that had made a good man – a clever, kind, moral man – think things of himself that had no grounding in truth or kindness –

Deret breathed in suddenly, tipping his head back, staring at the wood-panelled ceiling, trying to find that balance in stillness that usually came so easily in motion.

Of all the things that had happened in the last few days, why was it this? After the barely-conscious Nemer, the tension in the kitchen, the fight in the princess’s apartments, the shaken emperor asking what would happen to Dazhis, the anger, the burn scar on his arm, the confrontation with Nelar – after all of that, why was it this one conversation that had made Deret feel as though someone had carved him out and let him fall?

Because this isn’t something I can fight.

Traitors he could fight.

Soldiers, he could fight.

Men who thought that taking their temper out on a child was acceptable, he could tear to pieces if need be.

But he could not protect Edrehasivar from himself.

We were furious. And sick with betrayal, although perhaps that was foolish of us.

We were – we are – very angry. We are trying to forgive, but we find it very difficult.

We did not even wish Dazhis Athmaza dead, and it was he who betrayed us most… most nearly.

‘Thou hast no need to forgive,’ Deret said quietly, listening to how soft his words sounded in the empty room. ‘Thou art not a fool.’

But those were not words that a nohecharis could say to an emperor. Cala could come close, perhaps – the maza had a talent for dancing perilously close to the line that divided them from His Serenity, even since the rebuke from the Adremaza. But Deret had only plain words, and he knew enough of people, knew enough of Edrehasivar, to know that they were not enough.

He should go through with training, he knew. It would not solve anything, but it would help. And he had sat here long enough. One must be practical.

It was another hour before Deret left the room, and he had not tried a single stance.

Chapter Text

‘Alright, guess this one.’

Csevet and Merrem Esaran looked up from their respective piles and squinted at the elegantly-wrapped parcel in Isheian’s hands. It was just past six in the morning, and the three of them were making temporary use of the dining room in the Upper Alcethmeret to sort through the many, many gifts and letters delivered to His Serenity for his birthday.

‘Definitely a book,’ Esaran said firmly.

‘Deshehar?’ Csevet guessed.

Isheian shook her head.

‘Berenar?’

‘Marquess Lanthevel,’ Isheian said. ‘Should I open it?’

‘Yes; put it on that pile there next to the messages and such from the Corazhas, that’s Parliament.’

Isheian started to do so before Csevet had even finished speaking. The silk covering was in a deep scarlet, and the book beneath it was A Brief History of Barizheise Embroidery Styles. Isheian turned the cover to let Csevet see before she manoeuvred around the various piles to put it down, and he nodded.

‘An academic book on the history of embroidery?’ Esaran said, one eyebrow raised. ‘The Lanthevada are always subtle, but that one is beyond me.’

‘I think it was a topic of discussion when Himself dined with them,’ Csevet said absently, writing a careful note on the bottom of his lengthy list. ‘Someone mentioned something like that after he came back.’

Someone meant Dazhis, and they all knew it, but no one was particularly inclined to bring this up out loud. Cala outright refused to say his name these days, and most of the household had followed his lead. Isheian moved on to the next item in the pile, and began to untangle the strings holding it together.

Everyone sent messages or gifts to the emperor on his birthday. Government did, at minimum as a courtesy; any courtier who wanted even a faint shot at currying favour, or who was worried about being misconstrued as a political opponent; the same went for the merchants, at least the wealthy ones; and then there was the plethora of regular folk, who enjoyed the extra holiday granted by the emperor’s birthday. A lot of those messages were from children, some of whom drew pictures – Isheian knew that sometimes a teacher would have their whole class write birthday greetings to the emperor as an exercise in formal writing. She’d done it herself as a child. The bundles of letters were very sweet, and had their own pile somewhere behind Esaran.

The extra holiday was a bit moot this time, she knew. Edrehasivar’s birthday was Winternight, which was already a holiday, and a day of bitter cold besides. Varenechibal’s had been early autumn, and Prince Nemolis near high summer. She’d heard no grumbling about that, though she expected some people would.

She shook herself a little, trying to move away from the thought, and picked up the next parcel, which turned out to be a very lovely set of cufflinks from some minor noble evidently hoping to have his name noticed in the deluge.

Everyone sent something for the emperor on his birthday. Except, of course, the largest group of people at court – the staff. Servants and secretaries and soldiers already served the emperor; Isheian had been taught firmly that their service was their gift, and anything more than that was inappropriate. Though…

Picking through the gifts in front of her, she eyed Csevet and Merrem Esaran. The former was concentrating ferociously on his list, looking somewhat harried, and she wondered how much sleep he’d gotten. The latter seemed uncharacteristically lost in thought, though she worked on methodically.

Considering her moment, and not stopping sorting for an instant, Isheian waited for a minute or so before speaking.

‘If we were allowed to give Himself a gift for his birthday, what do you think everyone would pick?’

She was pleased to see both of their expressions lighten in interest, and then thought. To her surprise, Esaran answered first.

‘Ebremis would make him a hamper, like the merchant families do. Lots of food. And probably a card for each dish with a little rating system on it for him to fill in, so Ebremis can finally work out what he should be feeding him.’

Csevet and Isheian exchanged smirks. The kitchen master was a kind man who was nevertheless mildly exasperated with his master’s lack of preference in food – and consistently expressed the opinion that Edrehasivar was far too skinny for a young man of eighteen, and needed feeding up.

‘I feel as though the edocharei would lean towards clothes or jewellery – it’s their expertise, and people do that – but it’s hard to imagine them coming up with anything His Serenity wouldn’t already have in the normal course of things,’ Csevet said thoughtfully, as he rummaged through a pile on his left.

‘Kiru said yesterday that she liked how the edocharei make conversation with him while they work,’ Isheian said, remembering. She liked Kiru already. ‘She said that Himself asks about where they’re from, and what it’s like there, and what their families do. Maybe they’d give him…’ She trailed off, not quite sure where to take the idea that had struck her.

‘A token of that, or some such?’ Esaran’s tone was a little odd. ‘He’s not been out in the world much, that’s true. Perhaps he’d like that. Something from somewhere else…’

‘A painting, perhaps?’ Csevet suggested. Isheian brightened.

‘Maybe! Paintings of the places they’re from, so he can see what they look like.’

One of the piles to Isheian’s right had started to teeter – all of a sudden it slid apart, colliding with the ones beside it. The three of them immediately went to work re-ordering it, so it was several minutes before the conversation resumed.

‘What about the nohecharei?’ Csevet said idly.

Isheian bit back a giggle. There was something very funny about the idea of stern Deret carefully handing His Serenity a very properly-wrapped gift.

‘Cala would give him a book, that’s easy,’ she decided. ‘Not sure about Kiru or the soldiers.’

‘Deret and Coris would go for something traditional… a very formal letter with good wishes in it, to begin…’

‘Whatever Deret picked would be perfectly wrapped, we’re sure of that at least,’ Esaran said, picking apart a clumsily-wrapped box of what appeared to be handkerchiefs with a disapproving expression.

‘Without a doubt,’ Csevet agreed. ‘Maybe a book on military tactics, as His Serenity has shown some interest in the Evressai Wars.’

Csevet almost never said Himself, Isheian had noticed. Or even Edrehasivar, which the staff used if talking about him alongside his father. It was almost always His Serenity from Csevet, even when he dropped other elements of his formality. He shifted context as easily as his former colleagues in the courier fleet did, cheerfully teasing Isheian or gently ribbing the nohecharei or the edocharei in the kitchen. But he was always, always, scrupulously proper when speaking of the emperor.

‘What about thee, Isheian?’ Esaran asked, shifting to reach a new pile.

Isheian scrunched her face up thoughtfully.

‘He’s always so worried all the time,’ she said. ‘If he wasn’t the emperor I’d want to give him… something soft. Like a warm woollen jacket, or a nice cushion. Something comforting.’

The other two made noises of agreement, Esaran’s somewhat amused.

‘Esaran, what about you?’ Csevet asked.

‘A book on Ethuverazheise household etiquette,’ she said drily, and then conceded at Csevet’s raised eyebrows. ‘Oh, alright, that’s unfair. He is improving.’

‘Didst not know he was bothering you so much,’ Csevet said quietly.

Esaran made a discontented noise.

‘It’s a problem of mine, truly, not of his,’ she said. ‘Tis our duty to adapt to our emperor. He’s just so starkly different from his father, and so reluctant to make direct requests. Hard to puzzle out.’

‘He’s so new,’ Isheian ventured. Esaran was not often this revealing. ‘Maybe as he settles in, he will become easier to understand.’

Esaran sighed.

‘One can only hope.’ She bundled a few letters together, and Isheian turned to Csevet.

‘Csevet?’

‘Mm?’

‘What about thee? What wouldst thou give the emperor?’

Isheian thought Csevet froze minutely, but he covered it well. She wondered what that was about. He seemed deep in thought, frowning as he picked through his latest pile of bundles and added to the list. Eventually, he blew out a long breath.

‘I’d like… I can’t think of anything I’d give him,’ he said, in an odd tone that Isheian could not identify. ‘All I can think of are things he’d like to have, but they wouldn’t be appropriate presents.’

‘Like what?’

He shrugged, and it seemed to Isheian that he was a little uneasy. ‘Oh, he should have… something of his mother, for example. Or some more confidence.’

That last was said lightly, and the other two chuckled. But Csevet was not quite finished.

‘Maybe… just something small. Like a pack of cards, or a pocket watch, or something else small.’

‘How you’d come up with something like that he doesn’t already have, I don’t know,’ Esaran said, hefting another pile to a better position.

‘I don’t… it’s more that, you know when he came here he didn’t bring anything? He has everything because he’s the emperor, but they’re… the emperor’s things. Does that make sense? It wouldn’t have to be new. It would just have to be… his, I suppose.’

This was uncharacteristic rambling from Csevet, and Isheian looked at him with some surprise. He busied himself immediately in his work again, faintly pink about the ears, and she glanced over to see the house steward’s reaction. Esaran, however, seemed lost in her own thoughts.

There was the sound of footsteps in the corridor, and when the door swung open it was Istu and Lezhivo, bearing even more parcels and letters. Esaran, Csevet, and Isheian rose and helped them carry the newest arrivals in, and the conversation turned to the latest court gossip that had filtered through to the Alcethmeret. Before long, Isheian had forgotten their earlier exchange almost completely. After all, it was simply a trivial bit of speculation. Staff and servants did not give gifts to the emperor.

Chapter Text

Consider the Untheileneise Court. Ensconced in the ring of Cetho, the combination does not make for the most densely populated city of the Ethuveraz; that dubious honour belongs to Amalo, with its closely-packed factories and even closer slums. It is certainly, however, the most precisely populated, with all people neatly allotted their proper places, and boundaries fiercely maintained.

The same can be said of many of the animals.

Oh, vermin cannot ever be entirely avoided; wherever people gather, rats will make homes nearby, along with the common dove and other scavenging birds; insects, likewise, are incorrigible. But there are more animals than that in Cetho and the court it contains.

- An Introduction to the Animals of the Ethuverazheise Upper Nobility, by Altoret Ethmura

~

The stables of the Untheileneise Court were not one unified mass – the court itself was far too large for that. Instead, there were smaller stables spread all around the edges of the court, some wealthier than others, some better managed. The best of them all were, of course, the Imperial Stables – an elegant group of several buildings, gathered only a short walk from the Alcethmeret, further into the court than any other stables for the convenience of His Imperial Serenity.

At the end of the reign of Varenechibel IV, there were some two hundred horses stabled there; the number had once been much higher, as befitted an emperor, but as times passed and the airships began to fly, horses became less significant – at least, to those who owned the air. Still an important status symbol, certainly; it would not do for an emperor to have less than anyone else. Of anything. But he no longer needed them for distant travel; that was for those too poor for airships.

The head groom and master of the Imperial Stables, Dachensol Rosharis, was by extension in charge of all stables at court, though he was mostly able to let them alone to work. He spent much of his time in with the horses, and Khever found him a surprisingly down-to-earth and agreeable man.

Khever had grown up on the outskirts of Cetho, helping his blacksmith father and watching him make indescribable little twists of metal, components for bigger machines that were put together somewhere on the other side of the city. Whenever he had even half an hour of spare time he would bolt off into the countryside to watch the birds, or down to the Horsemarket to watch the fine creatures pass from one stable to another. Getting position as a groom had been a wonder; every day with the horses, knowing all of them by name, exercising and cleaning and caring.

Of course, he missed the country birds; but Cetho had its birds too, rock doves and pigeons and magpies and the little gutter sparrows. Many fluttered about over the stables, happy to dart down and pick at the dropped remains of a lunch. At one end of the stables there was even a pigeon loft, a hangover from when the birds had been used as messengers. They had dropped out of use, Khever learned, partly due to airship development, but more due to a disease that had swept through them some two hundred years ago, decimating the population. The world had learned to rely more heavily on couriers again, and with the advent of airships the interest in the birds had waned somewhat.

Khever was fond of them, and also knew that the Imperial Stables in particular were a little bit of a haven for them – because the Imperial Stables had no cats.

In the Ethuveraz, white cats were often colloquially known as “imperials” or “emperor-cats”, given that the white cat of the Drazhada was a well-known symbol across the country. They were regarded fairly neutrally in most places, but in the court itself they were seen as unlucky – and they, along with other cats, were very firmly banned.

Khever had been surprised to find out that this had not always been the case. Some generations ago, it had been the Alcethmeret’s habit to keep white cats in residence. This had stopped abruptly when one or other of the Edrevechelars had banned all animals from the dome and tower. As a consequence, animals in general had become unfashionable at court, and eventually the ban was quietly extended. Animals were permitted in the stables, and in certain designated places, but not elsewhere. And cats in particular were disapproved of.

Dachensol Rosharis, when asked, had said that it was due to an impatience with animals, or possibly some kind of reaction to the fur. Khever was more inclined to believe Altinar, an old ostler who seemed to have worked there forever, and Altinar said that it was more likely that one of the cats had pissed on the emperor.

‘Can’t have the animal on your family crest pissing on the master of the household,’ he had said, chuckling. ‘Doesn’t bode well. And for all they talk fancy, courtiers are a superstitious lot. Best keep the unpredictable to a minimum, and that means no walking family emblems wandering around the place and biting people regardless of political allegiance.’

Khever had laughed too; it was a mental image all too easy to summon. He liked cats well enough – there were some in the outer stables, none of them white, there to keep down the rats – but they did have minds of their own, and tended to do as they pleased. And there was a certain type of nobility who were not fond of anyone but themselves having their own way.

~

Just as the darkness of the longest night of the year had settled firmly in around the court, Dachensol Rosharis and several grooms arrived back at the stables. Rosharis was leading a grey gelding, and he beckoned Khever over to him.

‘This is Velvet. He was bought for His Imperial Serenity by the Great Avar today.’

‘In person?’

Rosharis nodded. Khever held back a whistle. A personal gift meant personal interest.

‘Will that mean we’re to expect to see His Serenity down here, sir?’ he asked.

Rosharis tipped his head to either side.

‘Could be,’ he said. ‘From what I overheard at the Horsemarket, His Serenity never learnt to ride. And he seemed very pleased to meet Velvet. So perhaps he’ll be learning with us.’

That meant learning with Rosharis and Elther, Rosharis’ assistant and a patient soul who often helped teach young nobility their horse sense. Or tried to, in any case. There was just no helping some people.

Khever stroked Velvet gently, trying to find the words to ask. Then, knowing that Rosharis always preferred frankness, decided to just strike out for it and take the rebuke if it came.

‘What’s the emperor like, sir?’

Rosharis raised his eyebrows thoughtfully, but did not seem to think that Khever’s question was untoward.

‘Didn’t see much of him, close-to,’ he said slowly. ‘Was just tailing around after the party, for the most part. But he seemed interested, and he was certainly very careful with the beasts he was introduced to.’

Khever nodded. A good sign. But then, nobility were tricky – they’d be one way in front of their peers, and entirely another around the staff.

‘We’ll just have to see how it goes,’ Rosharis said, his expression piercing, and Khever looked down. He’d never got the knack of being difficult to read, and he knew his thoughts would have shown on his face.

‘Yes, sir.’

Rosharis nodded, and then handed Khever the lead rope.

‘You go and get Velvet settled in; make sure he’s neat and presentable, and comfortable for the morrow, in case His Serenity decides to come by. And then head yourself over to the south stables for the night – Renevar’s “sick” and they’re short of hands.’

“Sick” on Winternight was either a great pity or a remarkably unconvincing lie; by Rosharis’ tone, he believed it to be the latter. Khever did not envy Renevar on the morrow. But this time, he kept his face blank enough.

‘Yes, sir.’

Parting from Rosharis, Khever walked Velvet across the stone to an empty stall and began the business of getting him settled – and getting to know him, a little. Horses might be ridden by the nobility, and they might be owned by the nobility, but the grooms were the people they saw all day, and grew to know. Khever had a fondness for many of the horses in the Imperial Stables, and he intended to make a firm friend of this one.

Chapter Text

Winternight had always been Csevet’s favourite holiday.

The headiness of Summernight was fun, certainly – but it was an open kind of fun, the kind that everyone shared, the kind they brought their children to. Every family is perfect on Summernight, ran the saying, and it was true. And Csevet, having walked away from his at thirteen, knowing they would never take him back even if he wanted them to, knowing that people like him did not have the normal kind of family or the normal kind of love – Csevet had always felt a little uneasy on Summernight. Exposed, maybe, for being on the edges, even though he was happy enough there.

But Winternight? Festival of masks, of broken boundaries, of grand ladies dancing with kitchen boys and scullery maids with lords, when the Cetho streets became a tumble of chaos and fierce defiance of the cold, when two men embracing was cheered and whistled and two women waltzing were applauded… oh yes, Winternight was the diamond of the year.

And this year…

He looked around at the Untheileian, unable to hold back a smile. The court seemed uninterested in masks this year, which he suspected was due to the ongoing state visit. No one wanted to risk a personal confusion becoming a diplomatic incident. Quiet words had probably been had. But nevertheless, the dancing was as close to riotous as the upper nobility could get, and a number of the servants and staff had already joined in. Csevet had been lucky to be here – the Alcethmeret staff had a draw, with half of them permitted to join the festivities and the other half required to celebrate quietly in the kitchen. It would be his turn to do the latter next year.  

He could see the Great Avar in the midst of the crowd, dancing merrily. Watching, he allowed himself a moment of pure satisfaction. He had done that, or at least large parts of it. Arranged a state visit, at short notice no less, and without any one of his opposite numbers realising that they were dealing with someone who, not weeks ago, had been a mere courier. Negotiated the schedule, liaised with the security on both sides of the equation, arranged the quarters, timed everything. There had been an attempted coup in the middle of arrangements, which by all rights should have thrown everything to wreck; and yet it was going perfectly.

Perhaps – just perhaps – he could hold on to this position. Perhaps he would be able to stay.

He tried not to indulge in this sort of daydreaming often; hope was dangerous, it cut into you if you weren’t careful. But hang it all, was it not Winternight? Festival of the inverted and the upside down? Imagine staying Imperial Secretary permanently. Being by the emperor’s side as he grew older, as he learned and as the people around him grew to respect him in the way that he deserved – he would pass laws, and solve troubles, and… and get married, and have children…

The Archduchess Vedero passed close by him, and he startled from his thoughts with something not unlike guilt. He saw her exchanging places on the dais with Dach’osmin Ceredin, who looked pleased. He looked away.

The decorations in the Untheileian were truly wonderful – Barizheise crimson and deep Drazhadeise blue, flecks of gold and the ice-white of Winternight. He could see one or two of his old friends from the courier fleet slipping in through the crowd, their leathers clean and their hair decorated with wooden beads and plain tashin sticks that nevertheless caught the gaslight beautifully.

Not many of them were here – they would be having their own festivities. With this many couriers at court, it was almost certainly a feather night. Csevet felt a twinge of sadness at not being able to join them.

Tattooing was considered base and low-class by the Ethuveraz, which naturally meant that certain types of people were drawn to it for that reason alone. When the world pushed you out, you tended to look around to see what had been thrown out alongside you and take possession of it. And in the courier fleet, that meant wings.

For each full run you did – a full run being a message errand that took you outside of Cetho – you earnt a feather. You kept track, and when enough couriers were free at once, they held a feather night. Your feathers were done by all different people with many different skill levels, but it was never about how the tattoo looked. It was about carrying your family with you when you were out in the world. A courier on a run was alone and isolated, but they had their wings.

Csevet flexed his shoulders a little, trying to picture how his wings had looked last. It had been some time since he’d had a slow enough morning to stop and get a proper look at them, and it had been more than six months since his last feather night. That meant he was owed a few. But… he tried to imagine it. Tried to imagine slipping away from these high-class festivities and through the more chaotic revelry below-stairs; entering the courier barracks and greeting his friends – goddesses, how long had it been since he’d seen them in anything other than a brief, official capacity? – and then flitting amongst them, adding feathers to others’ wings and taking his turn to sit still and hold steady while he gained his own. He’d done it before – so many times. It would be easy.

Except things were different now, weren’t they? He’d not seen his friends in weeks, except to give them orders. He didn’t live down there anymore. His life revolved around the emperor, not in the way that all of court did in a slow dance, but in every decision he made and every thought he had.

Was he even a courier anymore?

He moved through the crowd, keeping his thoughts carefully hidden behind an expression of pleasure as he watched the dancing.

Was he even a courier anymore?

He pushed down the rise of panic that the thought had engendered, determined to apply logic and reasonable thought to the question. He thought of His Serenity, clearly overwhelmed and afraid of everything he had to learn, and the way that he would stop, and start from the beginning, and get to grip with it a piece at a time until he had the whole of it. Csevet admired that. Csevet could do that.

The answer in the simplest terms was no, of course. He was the Imperial Secretary, he was paid from the imperial account, he was no longer officially a member of the courier fleet and had not been since the day that Edrehasivar had arrived at court. He had, in fact, been sacked.

But couriers were sacked all the time, and no one had ever paid that much attention to Chavar on such matters before. He’d kept his locker, hadn’t he? He could slip back into the ranks even now and no one would…

…they would notice, now. Of course they would. How could they not? He wasn’t a faceless courier anymore, he was Csevet Aisava, Imperial Secretary to His Imperial Serenity Edrehasivar VII. Most of the senior government knew him, at least by face, many by name. All the secretaries knew him. What would it be, to return to courier work?

Inappropriate.

He swallowed, and turned, walking almost blindly to find an excuse to keep his face hidden. He found a discreet corner amongst the drapes that blessedly did not contain any young courtiers enjoying themselves a little more than they were supposed to, and leant against the cool marble.

If he had to, it would work, he reassured himself. It would just take longer to become unremarkable. And it would all hang on why he left.

Why would he leave?

He had offered to leave, in the aftermath of the coup and in a desperate urge to ensure that His Serenity felt safe. But the emperor had made clear – Csevet, stop! Why on earth would you think we doubted you? – that he did not – that he did not want Csevet to leave. That he preferred, in fact, that Csevet stay.

At no point, that Csevet could recall, in the last few weeks, had His Serenity actually stated that Csevet was only a temporary measure. He had, in fact, never said that. Csevet had just offered to help, and been asked to organise His Serenity’s household, and had… never stopped.

He was officially an inhabitant of the Upper Alcethmeret. He was paid from the imperial pocket. He wore the Drazhadeise colours, even now. What was left, aside from the formality of hearing it from the emperor? If indeed, one did not count his refusal to dismiss him?

Csevet felt as though he’d gone chasing for something – a shiny paper caught on the wind – and in catching it he had looked around and found himself lost. He could not be a courier anymore. He had been a courier for seven years, more than a third of his life. The courier fleet was his family; they had taught him his letters, his figuring, his secretary’s hand; and while there were dangers that they could not protect him from, they had been somewhere to heal afterwards, and whispers and warnings to help the next time. The courier fleet was home.

But he had run too far now, because so was the nest. The edocharei laughing around the kitchen table as they cleaned jewellery; Esaran, strict but fair; Ebremis, offering tastes of a new soup and encouraging the scullions; the nohecharei, dedicated but always grateful for a chance to relax; Isheian and the other serving girls, always in a hurry; the pneumatics girls and their fierce concentration. Even the under-secretaries, who lived in the Lower Alcethmeret, and the other staff with them.

And of course, Edrehasivar.

Knowing it was a bad idea, and careful not to look as though he was staring, he shifted position so that he could see the throne.

His Imperial Serenity was speaking with his sister on the dais. The archduchess was always hard to read, but Csevet thought she looked pleased. The emperor certainly did. Good.

Csevet looked away again.

He had been so caught by the whirlwind that he had not stopped to think what he would leave behind. And now he was here, he did not think he would ever go back by his own choice.

Perhaps it was time that he came to terms with that.

He took a breath.

Regardless, it wasn’t appropriate for him to skulk in this corner any longer. It would be noticed. He fixed an appropriate expression on his face, and stepped out. As he crossed the back of the hall, he glanced over at the dais again. The archduchess had left, but His Serenity was watching someone –

Csevet frowned. That was Dach’osmer Tethimar at the foot of the dais, was it not? The man had damnable cheek trying to make appeals to His Imperial Serenity in the midst of the Winternight Celebrations, even if he didn’t turn out to be behind the crash of the Wisdom of Choharo.

That thought made Csevet frown even further, though he was reassured to see that both Cala and Beshelar had taken subtle steps forward as Tethimar climbed the steps; perhaps in the midst of Winternight was the best time for Tethimar to speak to the emperor, after all – with so many people watching, nothing could –

What happened next seemed to happen fast and slow all at once. Tethimar lunged forward – Cala’s hand flew up in a strange, patterned movement – and at the same time Deret threw himself across the throne, not stopping to reach for a sword, just throwing his arms and body between Tethimar and the emperor. In the same moment that he landed and red streaked across his arm, there was a sudden blue flash and a crack that echoed across the hall and Csevet felt as though all the air had left the room – then Tethimar crumpled into a heap. Deret got up, and he was bleeding freely from one arm; Cala shook his hands out; someone screamed, but Csevet barely noticed, because there was blood on the imperial white, the emperor, is the emperor hale –

He bolted across the Untheileian, dodging around courtiers, every thought of feathers and couriers and futures forgotten.

Chapter Text

They hadn’t stopped for breath when the message came through, charging through the servants’ corridors with barely a thought for propriety.

Nohecharei prevented assassination attempt. Edocharei attend Untheileian immediately.

It had been Csevet’s hand, but uncharacteristically slap-dash, on the slip that had arrived through the pneumatics. Avris had felt his stomach drop, but he had bolted upstairs with the others to fetch what they might need – a change of clothes, a warm wrap, cases for any jewellery that had to be removed – and then dashed out and across to the Untheileian.

The walk back, slow and quiet and more fully informed, seemed oddly anticlimactic.

By unspoken agreement, the three of them did not return to the kitchens to be questioned endlessly about the events of the night. Esha caught Isheian, who was hovering around the grilles, and gave her a brief outline to take back to the others; then all three edocharei retreated up to their shared quarters in silence.

In the quarters they sat on their own beds. Nemer pulled his shoes off and tucked his feet under himself.

‘We’ll be called for again soon, I expect,’ Avris said, with an attempt at normalcy. Nemer did not react, but Esha nodded.

‘Probably,’ he said. ‘Himself surely won’t stay up the rest of the night. The whole of the celebration is over for this year.’

His words, while said in the tone of someone reaching for practicality, made the mood in the room worse. Instead of just shocked, it was now sour, too.

‘It was going so well,’ he added, and Avris felt his jaw clench. ‘Himself actually seemed pleased with his reflection –’

‘Only because the amount of veiling for Winternight made him all but disappear,’ Avris cut in bitterly. He felt as though there was an angry buzzing in the base of his skull.

Esha sighed.

‘It’s a start, Avris,’ he said quietly. Avris shook his head.

‘A start would be him giving more of a damn about himself,’ he said. ‘A start would be not staring away from the glass at every change, would be him not being so tense that I’m half afraid he’s going to wrench his own shoulders every time he moves –’

‘Avris!’

Avris stopped, looking away. Silence bloomed.

‘It’s not as though he can help it,’ Esha said softly, after a minute or so.

Avris nodded jerkily.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know. I’m not angry with him, thou knowest that. I just… this shouldn’t be so hard. I hate that everything’s so hard for him.’

It was absurd, perhaps, to have this conversation now – to be worried about the emperor’s self-regard when his life had been endangered less than an hour before. But everything bad seemed to be in one big, awful pile, and as soon as he looked away from one thing he found another. And he did not want to think about the great tear in Deret’s arm or the way that Cala had been shaking, or any of the other facts that went with those ones. Did not want to think about what could have happened.

Esha was looking down at the floor. Avris swallowed.

‘Maybe thou art right,’ he offered, awkward. ‘Maybe he is improving.’

Esha looked up.

‘I think so,’ he said. ‘I hope so.’

If he’s given the chance to.

Neither of them said it, but they did not need to. Two attempts against the throne in as many months. Would this be the end of it? Or was this just the beginning?

Avris felt the bitterness rise in his throat again. It wasn’t fair. None of this was how it should be, and Edrehasivar certainly didn’t deserve to have to deal with it…

Fighting back a scowl, he blew a slow breath out through his nose and shifted to curl up on his side on the bed, staring at the screen that provided privacy in the bathing corner of the room. It must have been bought plain, he thought – plain deep blue, appropriate and unremarkable. But over the years it had been embellished by different hands, edocharei experimenting or testing their skills or just passing a little time while they waited to be summoned. There were cats embroidered everywhere – strolling across the bottom, climbing up the sides, leaping in the middle. Flowers, sometimes, and geometric patterns. Suns and moons and stars. Thread and scraps of ribbon and lace and the odd bead, scavenged from somewhere unknown. You could tell that it wasn’t a planned endeavour – some things had been left unfinished, and there was no pattern or balance to the arrangement. But it was a lovely thing, nonetheless. A piecemeal testament to patience.

Esha, Avris knew, had grown up in the city. His whole family had lived in Cetho for generations, many of them servants themselves and the others working in amongst the myriad ways in which the city served the court. Esha’s noted merit at the Veshtis School for Edocharei and his new position as an imperial edocharis were sources of great pride for them; the highest anyone before him had reached was the great uncle he had who worked in the court kitchens. Edocharei was only a slight twist on a theme that the whole family followed.

Nemer was from some distant corner of the Ethuveraz, right out in the middle of the farming country near the border. He had, as far as Avris could tell, several hundred siblings and cousins and uncles and aunts and nieces and nephews, and they all worked on the land. He stood out from his family by working in the city, but they had wanted that for him – easier on his lungs, easier to get medicine. They knew he would have a better life here. They wrote frequently, and Nemer was saving up to pay for them to come and visit someday.

Avris was from somewhere in between: a small town twenty miles outside of Cetho. His parents were shop-owners, independently minded and mistrustful of nobility. They wanted him to do well – saved up enough to help him into any apprenticeship he might have wanted, offered to teach him the running of the shop – and when he had asked to attend the edocharei school, to their credit, they had not turned him down. They had been confused, though. Why would a person – any person – serve when they did not need to? Why tie yourself to the whims of some arrogant wastrel or scheming politician when you could own your own shop, or excel at your own trade, beholden to no one?

His father had been gruff: ‘Well, thou wilt learn the beginnings of a few different trades. Give thee a chance to work out what thou wantest to stick with.’

His mother had been worried: ‘Thou canst always come home. Cetho isn’t far. Thou canst always change thy mind, thou knowest we’ll support thee.’

But the school had been wonderful. Edocharei spent most of their training moving between a dozen or more mini-apprenticeships – they would do two months with the jewellers, the blacksmiths, the clothiers, the dyers, the cobblers, the wigmakers, and more, learning enough about all the little pieces of their field so that they could bring them together, intelligently, in their professional position. An edocharis might not be able to create a garment suitable for an emperor; but he knew how it was done, how to maintain it and how to clean it, when the cost was reasonable and when it was not, when a repair could be done in-house and when an expert must be consulted and when it was pointless to try. A member of the upper nobility might have as many as two dozen fabrics in his wardrobe, and endless variations of ornamentation upon them in endless combinations; all had to be understood. Edocharei cared for the jewellery as well as the clothes, and the shoes too; hairpieces if needs be, and of course they were the ones to care for the master if he became unwell.

It was a thousand and one skills to learn, all to turn a person into not a master of one trade but an overseer of dozens. On his visits home he learnt that it was best to stick to discussing the more hands-on types of lessons; talking about the other skills, the endless training in etiquette and form and court politics, tended to leave his father quiet and his mother worrying at her lip.

Well. A small price to pay.

Avris had excelled at the school, learning quickly and working hard. And he had been excited to finally complete his education and move on to do what he had been trained for.

We are very glad to hear thou art so happy with thy new position, his mother had written. We can’t wait to see thee when next thou hast the time – do let us know if there’s anything thou needst, and thy father and I will do everything we can.

Happy, and still completely bewildered. But Avris had let it go – he was working in the Alcethmeret now, in the highest-ranked edocharei role possible, and everything was perfect –

And then the coup.

And now this.

Avris closed his eyes and tried to settle. His duty now wasn’t to do anything, or solve anything, or even fret, he reminded himself. His duty was to wait. And when the emperor returned to the tower, they would take care of him.

That was the heart of it – ironically, for how well they had raised their son, this was what his parents had yet to grasp. Being an edocharis wasn’t about wanting to never have thy own life. It was about care.

He didn’t think he could bear the life-or-death pressure of a doctor; he was willing to admit to himself that he did not have the nerve. But edocharis? To be ready in the morning and help someone prepare for their day, knowing that everything they did would be that small piece easier because of his efforts? To be there in the evening, also, to ease someone out of the fretting of their work and into a good night’s sleep? It was all care. And it was all he wanted to do.

He traced over the embroidery on the screen with his eyes, following the carefully needled lines. One of the cats was curled up, its head bowed, downcast.

Seeing Edrehasivar like that had been hard, even though Kiru had clearly improved matters before they had arrived. After the failed coup he had been angry, furious even; sitting on the floor in the little side-room after the assassination attempt he had been… crumpled, somehow. A trembling shadow of himself, a man who was never too bold to begin with. But Kiru had been helping – and the edocharei could help too. A change of jacket, a warm wrap, removal of the more extravagant jewellery, and gentle chatter, and Himself had slowly looked steadier. Steady enough to go to the Verven’theileian for a while, anyway. They had helped him put himself back together; and now, they waited, and when he returned to the Alcethmeret they would help him to rest.

Avris’s parents might not understand what it was to twine your life around someone else’s, to live in waiting for them, but they cared enough about Avris that it did not matter. And Avris cared about Edrehasivar, just as the rest of the household did. And he was fortunate – they were all fortunate – because Edrehasivar cared about everything. He treated the role of emperor as a responsibility rather than a luxury, he learnt everyone’s names, and he seemed to want so desperately just to make things a little better.

Pulling himself together a little, Avris realised that the bundle they’d brought back with them was still on the floor. Himself’s bloodied jacket, and the extraneous jewellery. It needed dealing with, and that could keep the three of them occupied until the emperor returned to the tower.

He sat up.

‘Best we get to work on that,’ he said, nodding to it.

Nemer moved at last, with a sigh.

‘Mm,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the jewellery down and prep it for cleaning, you two tackle the blood on the jacket?’

Esha made a noise of agreement, and they went to work.

Chapter Text

His training finished, Deret went to clean himself, and came out of the shared washroom to be reminded once again that mazei had individual living spaces and were not accustomed to sharing. It looked as though a whirlwind had swept through – Cala had taken over all of the chairs and a good chunk of the floor by the fire without a single heed for anyone else.

Deret eyed the resulting mass of books and papers, half of them open midway and some not even within Cala’s reach from his position on the settee. Usually when Cala did this the subjects were (to Deret, at least) an incoherent hodgepodge, but this time he thought he could see the theme.

Curses and Countercurses

The Permanence of Lightning: A Study on the Revethmaz and its Structure

Developments in Maz-Combat Beginning in the Reign of Beltanthiar III

Nohecharei: A History of Loyalty

Deciding that any order that there was to them would be in Cala’s head and therefore their physical position was probably irrelevant, Deret moved a few things and sat down next to Cala before the maza could complain. But Cala was uncharacteristically quiet, and only frowned slightly and turned a page. Deret let the silence remain for a minute or so, contemplating his approach. Then he spoke.

‘How art thou feeling?’

Cala froze minutely, and then relaxed a little. He did not look up from the book; neither did he ask for clarification. They both knew what Deret referred to.

‘I don’t… regret it,’ he said slowly. ‘I don’t feel guilty. I don’t like that it was necessary, but it was necessary. And I made the right choice.’

Deret nodded. Good. That was better than he had thought.

Cala, however, was not quite finished.

‘I didn’t… I didn’t like it.’ He spoke in fragments, as though he was having to construct every word carefully before he said it. ‘That would be… awful. It wasn’t a good thing, just a needed thing. It was distasteful, but I didn’t struggle to do it.’

‘So…’ Deret said, knowing he was leading to something. Cala let out a huff of air.

‘So what does that mean about me? That I can – that I can kill someone and not feel even an ounce of guilt?’

Deret raised his eyebrows.

‘Thou hast just said that thou believest it was the right thing to do. And I agree. So why shouldst thou feel guilty?’

Cala shut the book and turned away; Deret waited. He had gotten to know Cala over the weeks, and he knew that Cala would pick at a problem until he solved it. Deret only had to give him time, and perhaps the occasional nudge.

‘It’s… I would say the same thing to thee, if it was thee.’ Cala’s tone was frustrated. ‘If it had been thee, or Kiru, or Coris; I’d tell them that they’d be right not to feel guilty. But that doesn’t… one is sort of supposed to, see’st? People are supposed to struggle with this sort of thing. Killing someone isn’t supposed to be easy or simple, even if it was the right decision.’

Deret looked around at the flood of papers.

‘Dost not look to me as though thou art finding it easy,’ he said quietly.

Another huff of air, almost a laugh, but Cala did not turn back to look at him. Deret wondered what it was Cala feared he would see in his expression; he decided not to ask.

Instead, he picked up the nearest book and flicked through it idly. It was full of the strange-looking, indecipherable diagrams that appeared to be a key component of maz-study. He turned pages slowly until he found a particularly complex one – he didn’t have much of a gift for cheering people, but he knew Cala liked to explain things and that perhaps it would suit as a distraction. Let him walk away from the problem and come back to it later.

However, Cala’s thoughts had evidently wandered in a different direction. He spoke before Deret could conjure some inane question about maz.

‘Didst thou think about it, much?’

Not following, Deret frowned.

‘About what?’ he asked.

‘About what happens… what would have happened if we had failed. What we would have had to do.’

Revethvoran. The word seemed to float in the air between them, unspoken. Deret’s tensing had been instinctive; gathering himself, he let out a slow breath, adjusting his posture and relaxing his muscles. In truth, they had never spoken of it. And it would be a stranger and harder thing for a maza than a soldier.

‘Thou meanst, when I was given the position?’ he asked, buying a little time as he thought.

Cala nodded. He had turned back a little way, so that Deret could see part of his face in profile, and there was tension in every line.

‘I… some, I suppose,’ Deret said, brow creased. ‘But I’ve been a soldier most of my life, and I’ve had a lot of time to get used to the idea of giving my life for something. I don’t think I would hesitate. Not for him.’

That was the whole of it, really, he knew. Some things were complex and bewildering; others were straightforward, clean and simple. This, for him, was the latter. But for Cala…

‘What about thee?’ he asked, trying to sound non-judgemental.

‘I…’ Cala began and then stopped. He licked his lips and swallowed, as though his throat was dry. Then he tried again.

‘I thought so little about all of this,’ he confessed. ‘I thought, oh, nohecharei, that sounds like it’ll be an interesting experience, and none of the other mazei were volunteering but I thought they’d come around, and I’d resign after a month or two anyway –’ He looked down at the book on his knees, obviously not truly seeing it, his hands clenched. ‘I’m not like thee, Deret, see, I’ve never been like that. I lose interest in one thing, and pick up a dozen others, I’ve never stuck to one single thing in my life for more than a few months; even when I got this, everyone – the others at the Mazan’theileian, they’re all waiting for me to resign, they know me – I didn’t think. I thought things like this were… history, coups and assassination attempts and… I thought…’

Deret had held his tongue as Cala spoke, recognising the need to spill thoughts and feelings and making room for it. When his words faded, Deret bit his lip and tried a gentle nudge.

‘What dost thou think now?’ he asked.

Cala opened his mouth and gestured at nothing, then closed his mouth and screwed up his eyes before trying again.

‘I…’

Deret waited again while Cala tried to find the words.

‘I’ve killed for him,’ he said, his tone almost disbelieving. ‘And I… when I looked around and saw thy blood on his jacket, for a moment I thought I’d been too late, and I was ready to cut my own throat for it. I… not a moment’s hesitation, not a moment.’

‘Is that bad?’

Cala thought about this, and Deret could see he was trying very hard not to cry. Eventually he shook his head.

‘I don’t know,’ he said honestly. ‘I don’t think so. I just… I don’t know where it came from. I’m, I’m Cala, I… I request fish for research and then change topics before they arrive, I forget I haven’t eaten lunch, I get teased for being the archetypal absent-minded scholar and not living in the real world, and… and I would die for Edrehasivar, apparently. For Maia Drazhar, who I’ve known less than half a year. Who I’m not even allowed to be friends with.’

Cala’s shoulders shook, and Deret gingerly put an arm around him. They sat that way, quietly, the only noise Cala’s uneven breathing, for several minutes. As a lieutenant, Deret had done two stints of being responsible for junior recruits. He didn’t have the gift for making them like him that some of the other lieutenants had – he would always be a little too unyielding, he knew, a little too distant. Nor did he have the knack that some had, to find out the root of another’s troubles and help them to settle. Coris was good at that, he knew, but Deret was not. But Cala was his counterpart, and that meant something. And Deret did know a little of feeling lost. Usually, what a person needed was a compass – and a point to call north.

‘He’s a good man,’ Deret said quietly. ‘And thou art also. The way Kiru speaks of thee, thou hast always been passionate. Just not so fixed. Perhaps this isn’t as much of a change as thou thinkst.’

Cala sniffed, his ragged breathing coming somewhat under control.

‘Perhaps,’ he said.

‘Art thou – how feelst thou about it?’ Deret ventured, hesitant. ‘That’s the heart of it, I think.’

Cala took a steadying breath.

‘I’m… frightened,’ he said. ‘And overwhelmed. But I feel as though… as though I’m somewhere I’m meant to be. As though I’ve spent my life out of joint, which is true enough, but now I’ve settled in place, and the heavens themselves could not move me.’

‘Good,’ Deret said, know his voice came out a little gruff in his relief. ‘I’d hate to have to learn a whole new set of bizarre idiosyncrasies to accommodate for thy replacement.’

Cala finally turned to look at him, giving a watery smile that turned into a chuckle at his expression.

‘Oh don’t worry,’ he said, sounding much more like himself. ‘I shall be sure to keep producing idiosyncrasies – otherwise thou wouldst become complacent.’

Deret rolled his eyes.

‘Goddesses save me,’ he muttered. ‘But first, spare us from this mess, maza? I could eat, and I’d not come back to a paper flurry if canst avoid it.’

‘A fair request.’

They tidied the papers and books together – or rather, Cala ordered things endlessly and got intermittently side-tracked while Deret piled things in size order and ignored the judgemental expression he got for it.

‘Dinner?’ Deret said, when they were finished.

Cala nodded, and Deret went to the door, only looking back when he realised Cala had not followed him.

‘Well?’

‘Just wanted… my thanks, Deret,’ Cala said, a little hesitantly.

Deret shrugged, awkward and wishing he had more social grace. But he supposed they would manage without it.

‘Thou art welcome.’

And they headed out through the corridors of the nest together.

Chapter Text

The trouble with working for the emperor was that everyone assumed that you knew what you were doing. The perk was that they allowed you to go anywhere you wanted in order to do it.

Well, he was working on the former, so perhaps it was not unreasonable to take minor advantage of the latter.

Csevet rounded the last corner, breathing in the cold winter air with something like pleasure. Kiru had been right about this being a good idea. She had cornered Csevet a few days ago on the subject of His Serenity’s tendency to overwork.

‘Himself is still learning what it is to be at court, to be working nobility,’ she had said, brisk and business-like. ‘He needs examples of good habits, and he does not see the other lords at work – only in meetings. He looks to thee.’

Csevet had stammered out a deflection, but Kiru had just rolled her eyes.

‘Csevet, I’m not saying thou shouldst neglect thy duties,’ she had said. ‘Only… he makes small talk with thee, sometimes. And the imperial secretary is entitled to free time, despite thee never using it. Make a little use of it, and remark of it to him, he’ll take note and feel less guilty taking rest when he needs it. Besides, thou art run ragged and need the rest thyself. Doctor’s orders.’

Csevet had been reluctant, but he knew she was right about His Serenity’s work ethic, and if something he could do would help… well, he could hardly not try. Besides, Kiru was decidedly hard to argue with, and he knew her well enough by now to know that she never let anything drop.

So, in concession, while His Serenity was at his riding lesson this morning, Csevet had delegated his paperwork to the undersecretaries and walked out into Cetho.

The city was big enough that he had not made a complete circuit; he thought, however, that if one untangled his wandering route he had managed about a third of one. The air was sharp and unforgiving, a welcome contrast to the perpetual indoors he had been living in since the coronation; his quarters in the Upper Alcethmeret were the best he had ever had, but they lacked windows, and he was so busy elsewise he had barely managed to escape outside.

He approached the staff entrance with what might almost have been reluctance, for it had been a good walk. But the emperor would be awaiting him soon. That was enough.

‘Morrow, corporal,’ he called as he climbed the steps to the door. The staff entrance, like all the entrances to court, had guards, these checking each person’s paperwork or uniform as they trickled in. It was quiet – most of the staff that slept out would have arrived more than an hour ago. The corporal on duty smiled at Csevet.

‘Mer Aisava,’ he said. ‘Igna said you’d gone out early. Good day for it, ‘spite the season.’

Csevet nodded his agreement and reached towards his pocket for his paperwork – but as he had half-expected, the corporal waved it away.

‘We know who you are,’ he said, amused. ‘More’n our job’s worth not to. Go through.’

Csevet thanked him, and headed into the little courtyard beyond. From this point one could branch off in almost any direction, with a dozen doors into different threads of the servants’ corridors that wove through the court. Csevet paused briefly to take one more lungful of clear air, and then made his way inside.

It was a choice, every time. As a senior (ha!) secretary, and certainly as Imperial Secretary, Csevet could take either the main corridor or the servants’. Strictly speaking he should not this morning – he was on his own business, not that of the emperor, and it was the latter that permitted him to walk the corridors of the nobility. But no one would check.

He kept to the servants’ corridors regardless, as most of those with a choice did – servants might gossip, but nobility were much more likely to find fault with you, and if you took the servants’ route you did not have to worry about showing proper acknowledgement of your place. Besides, it was… homier, the wooden floors softer on the step and more comfortable to the eye than the hard stone and shining surfaces of the Untheileneise Court proper. Csevet remembered arriving at court and feeling privileged to be allowed to run the servants’ corridors, to know every nook and cranny, to feel as though he belonged – and he still did now, he thought, even if his position in the hierarchy had changed.

When he finally stepped out into the main corridor, it was just before the Alcethmeret gates – the Alcethmeret had only one entrance, used by the staff and nobility alike. As at the court entrance, he was nodded through by the guards on duty without trouble. Across the Lower Alcethmeret and to the graceful turning staircase that led to the tower; and then through the open grilles to the Upper Alcethmeret, passing more brief pleasantries with the guards there. Csevet took out his pocket watch as he made the sharp left through the discreet door into the nest, and realised he was a few minutes earlier than anticipated. Good.

He went to his room, put his coat away, checked his appearance in the mirror, and then retraced his steps back down.

His Serenity would have had breakfast, attended his riding lesson, and then, what was it… ah, yes, Dach’osmin Ceredin was here for a brief dancing lesson. That was usually on a different day from horse riding, but there had been some trouble with coordinating their schedules and it had been squeezed in here. Then Csevet had several reports for His Serenity in advance of the Corazhas meeting this afternoon, as well as the correspondence. He checked his pocket watch again. Just enough time to go down to the pneumatics station and collect any messages.

A few minutes later and he was crossing the Lower Alcethmeret to the ballroom in the north-most corner, having spotted Kiru stood on duty outside the door. He nodded to her and got a smile in return, then slipped through the half-open doors to the ballroom without knocking.

‘You already have the step, it is just a matter of timing, which will come.’ The dach'osmin’s voice was firm, but pleased.

Csevet stopped just inside the door. He was early, so he would wait and let them finish. And knowing that His Serenity was prone to bending to the convenience of his staff, and that this was something that he should not be encouraged to do, Csevet took two deliberate steps to his left, where he was not as clearly in the emperor’s line of sight. He would wait to step forward until they had finished.

His Imperial Serenity was stiff and awkward as he moved across the floor, hesitant to touch his wife-to-be, and often watching his feet. But he did seem to be getting better.

The dance was a simple one, classic and repetitive, gentle and straightforward, and as they moved in slow half-circles across the marble floor he began to relax a little. Then, glancing up to smile at the dach’osmin, he tripped on his own feet.

She laughed, but not unkindly, and to Csevet’s surprise the emperor laughed a little too.

‘Our apologies, Csethiro,’ he said sheepishly. She waved that away, and took position again.

‘You nearly had it that time, once more,’ she said.

Csevet held back a smile, and turned to observe the rest of the room. The zhasan-to-be, like most young women, was not permitted in the private company of her fiancé without the company of a chaperone… and yes, there she was. Arbelan Zhasanai was sat in a sunlit corner, her attention on her book. The dach’osmin’s great aunt had been happy to volunteer to oversee the dancing lessons, and Csevet thought it as much in spite to Lord Ceredar as it was in support of the emperor. No one was crass enough to say so, of course. The zhasanai’s glances up from her book were very much intermittent; her role, in the eyes of many of the court, was a formality only. On two counts, Csevet thought to himself. One because no one is likely to object to the emperor dallying with his fiancée in any case; and the second because no one who knows this emperor would believe he would do so.

The imperial couple made an interesting pair as they moved across the floor, taking steps in and out of the morning light streaming through the windows. The dach’osmin was elegant and graceful in the way of all courtiers, her movements precise and habitual; the only thing un-courtier-like about her was the soft, tentative smile that graced her face as she watched her husband-to-be frown in concentration.

She likes him well enough, then, Csevet thought. Good.

His Serenity, by contrast, was taller and more ungainly, but he had more grace now than he had had the day he arrived. He had steadied, somehow, over the last few months; he fumbled through parts of the dance but in other parts Csevet could see the poise that was coming to him. It was like the sunlight they moved in and out of: glimpses of something brighter to come.

Csevet realised he was staring and turned his gaze politely away. Still and ready, that was the way of it. Hold position and await instruction. Courtiers danced; couriers waited. A single letter and whole worlds apart. Even though he was a courier no longer, some things would remain the same. And that was how it should be, and that was right and true, and he was content with it.

Liar.

He had struggled with his shift in position, that was true, and was still in the process of adjusting to it – but that was true for many people since the airship crash, the emperor included. And part of Csevet’s role was assisting him in doing so – he was proud of this, proud of everything he had helped to achieve. There was nothing else he wanted.

Liar.

‘You’re getting better, keep the rhythm.’

It would be the wedding soon, and for all His Serenity’s disquiet with the concept initially, Csevet thought he stood a reasonable chance of being happy with Csethiro Ceredin. And he was happy for him – he was, that was truth, because he could not bear the thought of anything that made Edrehasivar unhappy. Because that would be – because that would be counter to his aim as Imperial Secretary. That was all.

Liar.

Csevet swallowed and held himself steady, his eyes politely away from the dancing couple, but hardly seeing the pattern on the marble floor or the paperwork in his own hands.

Please see that he has everything he requires.

And, if you would – tell me your name?

Then we would be very grateful if you could… if you could organise our household?

We should not have disparaged your service, for which we are so truly grateful. We are sorry.

We did not mean for you to be disturbed so late.

Please. You have done nothing wrong.

We are sorry to have upset you.

Why on earth would you think we doubted you?

We could not ask for a better secretary, and it has never once occurred to us to doubt your loyalty.

We would choose you in a heartbeat, except that we would be lost without you.

A hundred small kindnesses swirled in his mind, a hundred moments of having to pause and take a breath lest his feelings show in his expression, a hundred or more nights falling asleep to thoughts of that soft, rarely-seen true-smile and the way it lit every part of his face.

Csevet breathed out, long and slow. Very well. Very well, then. It wasn’t a surprise, really, was it? He had been taken with him from the start, right from his kindness at Edonomee and the way he had stepped out of that house like a sunrise. The dawn they had watched from the airship had been mundane in comparison. But he had thought… he had tried to convince himself it was only physical, only loneliness and sudden proximity and a little kindness, that it was a petty infatuation and that it would pass…

He bit back a hopeless laugh. Well. All things pass. He could hope for that, he supposed.

He heard the change in the movement, the approaching footsteps, and raised his head, a perfect court mask in place.

Edrehasivar’s smile was sunlight.

‘Csevet, thank you for your patience,’ he said. ‘We’ll look over matters in the Tortoise Room, please.’

Csevet bowed.

Leaving the dach’osmin and the zhasanai behind them, Csevet took his place three steps behind the emperor, His Imperial Serenity, Edrehasivar VII, and folded his thoughts away into his heart, sealing them like a letter.

Except this seal was one that he did not ever intend to break.

Chapter Text

The Alcethmeret was the beating heart of the Untheileneise Court. Flowing out from it, threading through the walls and between floors and ceilings like veins and arteries, was the pneumatic tube system – more than thirty miles of tube, and carrying more than three-quarters of all messages sent within or outwards from court, it almost never fell silent. Even in the early hours of the morning there would be messages in motion; late night personal messages from nobility, perhaps, but also the more functional kind, as servants, secretaries, and soldiers not granted the privileges of peak access passed around low-priority requests and information.

As the number of messages from the nobility eased off, the official secretarial paperwork having largely ceased a few hours before, the nature of the messages shifted. A hierarchy remained, however, and so first in line, of course, were the messages from the tower – the Upper Alcethmeret.

Highest priority, running from the tower directly to the office of Captain Orthema, was the nohecharei report, numbering any issues with the Alcethmeret security as well as the more mundane details: guards on duty, guards on leave, spot check results, advanced notice of any planned excursions that required the greater presence of the Untheileneise Guard.

Then the weekly household order, signed and sealed by Merrem Esaran, for supplies received and anticipated. Three copies, one to Mer Holtar the court steward for him to arrange, one to the treasury to account for payment, one to the guard station at the supply gate for their records.

Also to the treasury, the monthly sign-off on staff wages, confirming all the same staff were in position and what their entitlement was – docked or advanced or raised, organised by Mer Hallettar on behalf of Mer Aisava, signed off by the latter and Merrem Esaran in concert.

Next came the working requests. A list of books from Leilis Athmaza, sent to the Mazan’theileian in request to supplement the education of Prince Idra. A speculative offer on a new type of silk, written out by Tirizan Hulzhin on behalf of Dachensol Atterezh, pending further information from the merchant – this went to the external-bound courier’s hub, to be run down into Cetho the next morning. Similarly, from the edocharei, an advanced notice of a need for repair work on an older piece of Michen Mura, written in a series of euphemisms so as not to alert the casual reader to the journey of the priceless jewellery later in the week. A scheduling missive from Mer Aisava to the Imperial Stables, noting that His Serenity’s riding lessons would be a day displaced the following week to account for preparations for the wedding.

Finally, the personal correspondence, a class of its own. The Cetho-bound would make its way in the morning; those pieces to more distant reaches would be held, waiting for an appropriately high-level message they could accompany, allowing them to take advantage of airship travel.

From Cala Athmaza to Erevis Athmaza, chief librarian of the Mazan’theileian:

Erevis! Much appreciated thy recommendations last week, am a little short shifted to come so is it any trouble if I hold onto them a little longer than expected? Haven’t quite had time to finish, but will get them back to thee if another is in need of them. Also, thou didst ask for my thoughts on the Merust Paper, and I…

From Isheian Fentin to Merrem Ishu Fentaran, Grocer:

Ma, I have wonderful news! Though as expected I will not be able to join you all for dinner next week, there being far too much work here, Merrem Esaran has confirmed that I am on the list to have Summernight free!! I cannot wait to see thee, and Pa, and little Brema and everyone, and I hope that…

From Suler Zhavanin to Mer Obratis Elada, Schoolteacher:

…I am adjusting well and hope thy students are not causing thee too much strife – I am very happy thou hast been granted such an opportunity as to teach in so intriguing a locale, though I must confess it seems an agonising age until the autumn when I may see thee again…

From Kiru Athmaza to Boru Athmaza at the Cetho Hospital:

…when I tell thee I may have taken a fair number of young souls under my wing here, thou must promise not to say ‘I told thee so’ – at least, not more than once! But I am merry with it; of course I must keep much to myself, but I look forward to catching thee to talk at some near time, and will keep a careful eye on the schedule in that purpose…

The Upper Alcethmeret complete, the priority moved to the Lower Alcethmeret and the court staff, then to the Households who operated with their own idiosyncrasies, and the messages sped through the tubes under the floorboards of the servants’ corridors and past sleeping households and out. And in the morning, carried back on the wind, there was a breath of spring on the air.

The emperor, his eyes tired, walking in the Alcethmeret gardens, looked up with a faint smile.

‘Not long until spring begins,’ he observed.

The nohecharei, one step behind him, gave a quiet agreement.

The wind, unhearing, flew on.