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Chapter Text

Edrehasivar VI, 182^nd Emperor of the Ethuveraz

A lesser-known emperor to the average elf, Edrehasivar VI’s reign was both peaceful and largely prosperous. He oversaw a number of diplomatic successes, none dramatic, but all laying the foundations for the security that would empower many of his successors in their various ventures. Notably, his quiet political overtures to the Hasperin nobles in the south of Barizhan were fundamental in acquiring the prodigious amount of stone, marble and otherwise, that were needed to build the current Untheileneise Court several generations later.

He died at the age of ninety-seven, after a reign of thirty-one years, and was peacefully succeeded by his eldest son. He is, as of yet, the last Edrehasivar to rule, and with the recent change to varen- as an imperial prefix this is likely to remain the case.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

Csethiro Ceredin closed the book, being sure to leave the ribbon in the correct place so that she could find the entry again. She kept returning to it, feeling as though there must be some kind of answer in the brief summary. Helcoru’s Guide was an old standard, found in almost every classroom, listing every emperor and his achievements in a short entry. Some shorter than others. Perhaps she should look in the library for a more thorough account of Edrehasivar VI’s reign? But perhaps that was a little much; perhaps there was nothing more to the current emperor’s choice of cognomen than a rejection of his father, perhaps it had been a random selection, an ‘anything but that’.

Frustrated, she sat down on the settee with rather less dignity than her father would approve of, her brows furrowed.  

Csethiro Ceredin had never been prone to either doubt or surprise. But that had been before the crash of the Wisdom of Choharo and the death of Varenechibel IV and his three eldest sons - and more to the point, before the ascension to the throne of Edrehasivar VII and his subsequent selection of her as his Empress-to-be.

The selection itself hadn't been particularly surprising. She knew the court inside out and was well aware that there were only two truly suitable options, and she was one of them. It was possible that the new emperor, unstable as he reputedly was, would select a less appropriate wife – but did he not have advisors? And would they not, faced with any lack of suitability in their emperor, steer him towards a compensating force in the form of a court-experienced wife?

Therefore, events had proceeded in, if not an entirely predictable fashion, then certainly an unsurprising one.

She had resolved herself quite quickly to the circumstances. She had known for her entire life that her marriage was both inevitable and entirely out of her hands. And after all, “empress” was hardly a title to complain about, and had the added advantage of being a title that Csoru no longer held. The rumours of the emperor’s instability and inappropriate attitudes caused her to tighten her jaw whenever she heard them, but what was she but entirely capable? She would handle the situation, whatever it was.

As a matter of fact, she had so inured herself to the idea of being married to a fool or a madman that she received her first true shock in realising that her future husband might, perhaps, be nothing of the sort.

The personal letter from him had told her nothing, being a short missive with little to recommend to it saving the clear penmanship. She could not make head nor tale of his intentions, and so composed a suitably neutral reply and tried to put it out of her mind. And there was the formal meeting, and the exchange of oath-rings, both briskly efficient as expected. Only Edrehasivar’s obvious unease jarred, and Csethiro turned it over and over in her mind afterwards, wondering where that came from. He had selected the match apparently with little fuss; perhaps he already had a lover, tucked away somewhere, and was afraid she would find out? She knew she could be practical about that – in a court full of political marriages it was relatively acceptable for either party to find love or sate lust elsewhere, provided one was suitably discreet. But Edrehasivar had not been at court long, and hardly seemed socially at ease enough to seek out such a thing.

She toyed with the idea that he was marnis, and nervous to be wed to a woman. In that case she could, at least partially, sympathise – she had never been one to see why people had such strong preferences between men and women, and had found herself attracted to both. And certainly any woman at court knew what it was to consider marriage to someone she felt no draw to. But there was not enough information to be sure.

Lurking in the back of her mind, at all times, was the idea that there was something… wrong… with him. Rumour never expressed precisely what this something might be, but his exile in combination with people wishing to evade being caught speaking ill of the dead had led to a great deal of speculation as to Varenechibal’s reasons for keeping his youngest son far away from court. His time in the south was understandable – one would not separate a child so young from his mother – but after Chenelo Drazharan’s funeral, to pack the boy up and send him to the back of beyond before anyone could do more than glimpse him? It was very suggestive, and not in a positive way. But the trouble was that no one was certain of anything.

In any case, her first encounter in any real sense with the emperor was at one of Nurevis Chavar’s ubiquitous parties. They were fairly unobjectionable affairs, as it was relatively easy for her to find her own circle of like-minded ladies and the occasional gentleman, and avoid everyone else. But that did not mean that she was not watching the rest of the room carefully – she was, in all things, a courtier. And she noticed Min Vechin’s persistent attention to the emperor. Predictable, of course – many people wanted things of the emperor, and she found nothing particularly against Min Vechin in her behaviour. Rather, the more she saw, the more frustrated with Edrehasivar she grew. He had no idea, clearly. He looked relieved whenever Min Vechin returned to him, and was far too attentive to her words. Perhaps he thought she loved him. In which case, the lady really did have an unfair advantage. Edrehasivar was obviously out of his depth, and the courtiers around him were more interested in watching with amusement than going to his aid – and without aid, he would undoubtedly make a fool of himself (and by extension, Csethiro herself) in short order.

The thought was too much to bear. If I am to have a fool for a husband, I shall start as I mean to proceed. And so, after the fourth little conversation between the Min Vechin and Edrehasivar had concluded, Csethiro allowed the irritation to draw to a hot point inside her chest, did her best not to stalk as she approached the emperor, curtsied, and made her stand.

The moment came back to her in the night for days afterwards, hot and pink and radiating embarrassment.

‘How stupid you must believe us to be, to think we are unable to discern that for ourself. We thank you.’

It was the tone as much as the words – not disdainful, nor dismissive, but restrained anger masking genuine hurt. In a single line, her understanding of him and the situation inverted. She should have known better than to listen to rumours and treat them as truth – had she not been at court for her entire life? That was not the voice of a fool, nor of a madman. ‘Twas bitter, in truth, but had she not just treated him like a child for no good reason? If she were newly come to court and all that spread about her was gossip that had her as unstable and stupid, would she not be bitter herself? If no one reached out to her in any substantial way, would she not make the most of the company of a woman who made an effort, even if it was for some secondary intent?

She had handled the matter as gracefully as she could in the moment, she felt, and hence after stewed for some time on the way to make it up to him. Her first action was to return to the rumours, turning a critical eye on them now, seeing where they came from and how they lacked any real substance to them. All one hears that and it can only be supposed – and half of them, she suspected after some investigation, came from either Csoru Zhasanai or Sheveän Drazharan. So that cleared that up.

What did she know, then, that wasn’t malicious gossip and unsubstantiated guesses? Very little.

She considered their exchange from all angles. The emperor had sounded tired, as well he might, considering recent events; but it was not simple weariness. He was withdrawn, too, and unsurprised by her rebuke of him. He was unhappy, then.

He had lost much of his family, it was true. He had worn full mourning at the funeral, and behaved respectfully – but one of the rumours that Csethiro suspected had a grain of truth in was that he felt no grief for the loss of his father and brothers. Given that he could not have met them more than… perhaps once?... and that his father was responsible for the relegation of himself and his mother, she felt that was entirely reasonable. She too, was not particularly fond of her father, though she held no particular grievance against him – he was simply at too formal a distance for her to have become close to. And that was the way of it.

Isolated, and unhappy, and not as much of a fool as everyone was inclined to believe. Already, she was considerably more inclined to take his side in matters. And so as events proceeded, she paid rapt attention.

She listened to rumours, maintaining a careful vagueness in response which indicated that she in fact, as the empress-to-be, knew more than she was letting on. She began to play more of the dutiful daughter to her father, knowing he could be long-winded but informative about politics if he had a captive audience. In quiet moments she perused the family library for information on Barizheise culture, in the thought that Edrehasivar’s mother’s influence on him might be substantial.

In all of this, she gathered little that was substantial, but much that she considered intriguing.

The emperor had had his nohecharei perform the role of guides during the pre-coronation rituals, as opposed to members of his family. This seemed to have been interpreted by many as primarily a terrible sign of the emperor's lack of propriety. Csethiro looked up the ceremony, which specified the persons in question should be ‘those men held in greatest trust’ by the ascending emperor. It did not take much consideration for her to conclude that “most trusted” would be a lie if applied to members of one's family whom one had never met, evidently did not apply to Setheris Nelar, and certainly should apply to nohecharei who performed their duties correctly. So, scandalous in that it appeared to break with tradition; upon closer inspection, eminently sensible.

The emperor was not sociable; his dinner partners in the evening noted he had no gift for conversation, and anyone who had been at one of Nurevis Chavar's parties could attest to the same. Edrehasivar Half-Tongue was the sobriquet that went around those less sympathetic, referring not only to his lack of conversational art but also to the intermittent slips in formality and manner that he was prone to. However, the more sympathetic voices noted the emperor's kindness - he was said to be forgiving of others' slips, an earnest listener, and not known for harsh words. Although she herself had been the recipient of some sharpness, Csethiro was inclined to be more interested in the sympathetic, if only because they were less dismissive and therefore more likely to provide more information. Besides, she felt she had earned that sharp retort from Edrehasivar under the circumstances, and did not begrudge him.

The details of the attempted coup took some time to solidify, exaggerated as they were by alarm and speculation (as well as the not inconsiderable fear that the emperor’s retribution might reach innocent parties, a fear that seemed so far to be unfounded). And the trial was yet to take place, postponed until after the state visit. But Csethiro gleaned that the Prince of the Untheileneise Court, Idra Drazhar, had refused to accept his uncle’s usurpation, and in doing so had caused enough of a delay to allow the intervention of the Untheileneise Guard. Whether that was due to any affection towards his uncle or simply an awareness of the survival rate of child-emperors was unknown. More would undoubtedly be revealed at trial, but that would be some time yet. Csethiro, growing more attached to “her” emperor the more she investigated, dashed off a hasty letter in her indignation at the behaviour of Chavar and Shevean, and then spent the hours after sending it worrying that it was a mistake. Edrehasivar’s response seemed positive, but stilted, and once more she struggled to read his mood.  

The Alcethmeret staff were as tight-lipped as they ever had been in Varenechibal's reign, so that was a no-go. However, there was at least one newcomer with a less salubrious and therefore more accessible past.

Csevet Aisava, the imperial secretary.

The Ceredada kept a courier in pay, of course, as all of the higher houses did. Csethiro and her sisters knew who he was – their father would never tell them, but as the four of them were insatiably curious and familiar with every nook and cranny of their family quarters, very little could be kept from them for long. Accessing the sort of information she wanted without alerting her father, however, was a little tricky. In the end, she involved two sisters in the endeavour, and they gently and indirectly manoeuvred their father into enquiring himself. The results came back within a day or so and yielded a flood of trivia, the significance of which was uncertain. The usual rumour about couriers appeared to be true, Mer Aisava having had one or two dalliances with other male couriers. Unremarkable, and inoffensive at court. He came from some unnamed village in the north of Thu-Athamar, towards the eastern edge of the Osreialhalan, and he was a year younger than Csethiro herself. He did not make any regular contact with any family, but a portion of his pay was sent back there, presumably to a relative. He did not appear to have any current lovers. He had been employed by Edrehasivar upon the new emperor's arrival at court, and since then had by all accounts kept an impeccable reputation and performed his duties flawlessly, becoming well-liked by his undersecretaries.

And there the trail ended. Save for sending out investigators to Edrehasivar’s two previous residences, which she did not have the means to do and besides would be immediately noticed and thought inappropriate, there was nothing else she could think of. Sat in the corner of the library, she nearly reached for Helcoru’s Guide again, but prevented herself. The Great Avar was expected to arrive in two days, and there would be enough social occasions to dizzy even the most experienced courtier. She would find another opportunity to speak to Edrehasivar. She just wished she could be more prepared.

~

Several weeks passed, not without remark. An assassination attempt was hardly the normal order of business, but it took out a swathe of unpleasant nobles and appeared to solve the puzzle of the airship crash, so at least it marked some sort of resolution. Csethiro tried to take heart from that, but it was difficult.

Brighter, however, was her blossoming relationship with Edrehasivar.

Conversation while others danced had bloomed into dancing lessons, and the shared intent of the latter seemed to lend Edrehasivar a new, if small, confidence. And it grew; sometimes they spoke for some time before recalling their purpose, standing absurdly in the middle of the near-empty ballroom, Csethiro animate and Edrehasivar – Maia – beginning to be more so. He listened well, and remembered, and inquired again at later dates, and despite her natural caution, she was growing fond of him.

A degree of reserve persisted, however – the self-preservation of a woman who had been raised watching the many faces of courtiers change with the wind. Edrehasivar certainly seemed to be honest, and kind, and considerate; but by all accounts marriage changed a man, who without the need for pursuit had fewer cares for the well-being of his wife. Best to keep a little guard around her heart for now, then; just for now. Just in case.

And so she found herself, once again, in her preferred corner seat in the library, Helcoru’s Guide open on her lap to the entry for Edrehasivar VI, staring contemplatively at the fire and trying to reckon with what her life was soon to be. And, of necessity, who she would have to become.

Chapter Text

Edrethelema IV, 186^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

One of the four emperors whose reign saw the construction of the current Untheileneise Court, Edrethelema IV had aided his father in its design. Among his contributions were the design of the Alcethmeret nursery, the concept of preventing any overlook of the Alcethmeret gardens, and the style of the floor of the Untheileian. He is also credited with supporting the growth and development of the Mazan’theileian.

He was noted, during his reign, for his dislike of public appearances, as well as a stronger than typical disdain for the common people. Alongside policies which rewarded the wealthy and often caused disproportionate consequence to the poor, this made him a widely disliked emperor. He reigned for twenty-four years and passed the throne to his son.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

The Alcethmeret tower was a marvel to look at, but one of its downsides was that it was so regrettably exposed to the weather. In the summer, gauze had to be drawn across the windows at all times to mitigate the heat of the sun; in the winter, it was near-impossible to heat properly, the beautiful marble floors aching with cold no matter what was done. And when the thunderstorms came…

Maia did not doubt that Cala’s eyes would have adjusted well enough by now to make out his outline on the bed, and so he forced himself to lie still and not put his head under the covers like a frightened child. Thunderstorms were harmless – at least to him, in the tower. They couldn’t hurt him. He had loved them as a child, loved how wild they were, loved how his mother’s eyes had lit as she sat beside him and watched the flashes of lightning and taught him to count for the thunder. But ten years in Edonomee and they were just another too-loud noise, jerking him to wakefulness, pulling at something in his gut. If they had been exciting when his mother was there, they were terrifying without her. Besides, loud noises attracted attention. It was safer to be quiet. Loudness meant trouble, and pain, and tears, and –

Another crack and roll of thunder. He forced himself to focus on his breathing, trying to count it in and out, trying to find some kind of centre. Stupid and childish to be afraid, to be lying here in the dark with eyes wide open and muscles tense, sweating with suppressing the desire to ask Cala to turn on the lamp. He was better than that. He had control. Stupid, ignorant hobgoblin, crying at the storm. Thou art emperor. Shouldst do better.

A flash of lightning, throwing just enough light around the edges of the curtains and into the room that Maia could see it hit the curve of the opposite wall. The thunder that followed was almost immediate.

Tis right on top of thee.

Like everything else.

He clenched his jaw. Shamefully, he realised he was gripping his left arm in his right like a talisman, his fingers digging into the burn scar. But the sensation helped, a little, and so he did not ease his grip. The storm would pass, and he would sleep, and in the morning things would seem better.

If thou wert not such a coward, they would be better now.

He ignored the thought as the thunder rolled again, and went back to trying to count his breathing, in and out, in and out, in and out…

~

The next day dawned bright and clear, and he tried to take heart from it, as tired as he was. He was quiet as the edocharei dressed him for the day, and hoped it came across as contemplative rather than exhausted; he hated the thought of worrying them. While they were moving through their routine he turned over current affairs in his mind, trying to get his thoughts into some semblance of order.

Preparations for the Wisdom Bridge were in progress and everything seemed to have to pass before the emperor’s eyes – he suspected Pashavar’s hand in that, the Witness for the Judiciate continuing to be displeased with the decision and wishing to ensure the emperor feel every possible consequence of it personally. Truthfully, he was glad of the knowledge, though combined with everything else it was beginning to feel more like drowning than swimming. Still.

There were half a dozen other minor matters, all equally complex and some more mystifying than others. Maia had given up wondering when he would learn to solve them easily and sufficed with gritted teeth and an increasing ability to work through a headache.

Lurking beneath all of it, though, like the great salt sharks from the Barizheise wonder-tale, was the upcoming marriage.

He felt foolish to dread it so much. Dach’osmin Ceredin – Csethiro, occasionally, now – and he were getting along reasonably well. She was a good teacher and good company, and did not seem too distressed about the whole situation. But then, she had had her whole life to prepare for marrying without a choice in the matter. Dutiful, as thou ought to be.

He pushed the thought away as the edocharei finished their work, then thanked them before heading downstairs to breakfast. Perhaps the company of Idra and his sisters would help him cast off the shuttered terror of the night before.

He had breakfast with Idra, Mireän, and Ino about once a week now, and enjoyed it every time. This time, however, as Mireän told him about what she was learning and Ino made surreptitious silly faces at Beshelar whenever no one else was looking, Maia could not help but notice that Idra was uncharacteristically withdrawn.

When the time came for them to leave, he sent the two girls on their way with Min Zhavanin but not Idra.

‘Cousin Idra, will you walk with me?’ he asked gently, and when Idra agreed led him out into the gardens of the Alcethmeret.

It was a temperate spring morning, and though Maia knew that a mound of paperwork awaited him inside and would only grow larger for the delay, he did not press Idra. He waited a little while, letting the sun ease his tension as they walked. Finally, he spoke.

‘You do not seem yourself today,’ he remarked.

Idra, perfectly mannered as always, held back a sigh.

‘We...’ he began, and then made a small discontented noise. After a long moment, he tried again, his tone firm.

‘I do not miss mother,’ he said. His expression was hard to read.

Maia waited, unspeaking, and they had proceeded past a few more flowerbeds before Idra continued.

‘We were not... she was not...’ He seemed uncomfortable, and finally settled on, ‘we were not close. Truth be told she did not spend time with any of us when not necessary, and so to be without her is… not so different than when she was here.’

Maia nodded.

‘I felt similarly about my father’s death,’ he said quietly, and it was a release even now to be able to speak frankly of it. He and Idra had had several conversations along these lines now, each one careful things, but valuable. Maia tried to find a way through the way he felt to words that would suit it, and continued hesitantly.

‘Though I felt… less than kindly disposed towards him, due to his… decisions about my mother. So perhaps a better comparison would be to my brothers, to whom I was never introduced and knew nothing of. I miss, to a degree, the idea of them – what they could have been to me. But it is hard to miss what one has never experienced, no matter that one feels one ought to.’

Idra nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

‘Twas unfair of him to send you away,’ he said, quietly but with the indignant certainty of youth. ‘And Empress Chenelo.’

Maia gave a one-shouldered shrug, very un-emperor like, and saw Idra suppress a smile at the informality.

‘But it was what he did,’ Maia said quietly. ‘An he hadn’t, perhaps I would also have been aboard the Wisdom of Choharo.’

It was a strange, dark little thought that he had never spoken aloud before, and he heard Cala’s subtle intake of breath from behind him.

‘Then I would have been on the throne,’ Idra said, and he did not need to say anything beyond that for the two of them to wince. Maia, they both knew, was all that stood between Idra and the life – and likely, if history was anything to go by, early death – of a boy emperor.

‘Life twists and turns like the wind,’ Maia said, knowing it to be a trite saying but having no other words.

‘Yes.’

They walked a little further on.

‘I do not miss her, but I miss… I miss the way we were when she was here. She and father.’

Maia nodded. And then, because he was curious even though it stung, and because it seemed the appropriate moment, he said, ‘What was your father like?’

Idra gave a small smile.

‘He was… a good father,’ he said. ‘He was very direct, and he didn’t like nonsense or people who changed their position to the most advantageous all the time. But he thought people were important – he would ask what we had learned, and he would listen. I think… I think he would have liked you.’

Maia took a moment to focus on his breathing, allowing the feelings that had risen to flow in and out with each breath. Once he felt steadier, he spoke.

‘I wish I had had a chance to meet him,’ he said softly.

There was silence between them for a few minutes, but it felt peaceful.

‘Edonomee must have been… it is very isolated, is it not?’

Another swell of feelings, but these were quite different. Maia took his time and picked his words carefully, hoping the tension in his jaw was not visible.

‘Very much so,’ he said.

‘Did you have friends there? I thought –’ Idra silenced himself abruptly, and Maia raised an eyebrow at him.

‘Go on?’

Idra looked a little uncertain, but he seemed to trust that Maia was not likely to rebuke him too harshly.

‘I thought – it is known that you are very courteous to your household here, and that is a Barizheise tradition, yes? To treat the household as an extension of your family.’

‘It is,’ Maia agreed.

‘I thought perhaps you might have been friends with members of the household in Edonomee, also.’

Maia understood why Idra had hesitated – another courtier might have been offended by the implication of such a breach of social class. But there was no sense in being untruthful, and he saw no reason to be offended by Idra’s logic.

‘That is well-deduced,’ he said, ‘though in this case untrue. I was not close to anyone at Edonomee.’

‘How many were there in the household?’

‘Oh, very few. The groundsman and house servant, then the cook and her two daughters who came in each day from the nearest village. And myself and my guardian, of course.’

He knew that Cala and Beshelar were paying very close attention, and fought a shiver of shame that they knew exactly what he was so carefully concealing from Idra.

‘Tis not a matter to be concerned with. ‘Tis over and done with now.

‘So few.’

Maia, in searching for a way to turn the subject without being too obvious, suddenly thought he might know the shape of Idra’s troubles. Best to approach it obliquely, perhaps...

‘It is very different here, of course,’ he ventured. ‘I am snowed under by people. Some of whom I enjoy very good conversation with,’ he added, catching Idra’s eye to ensure his meaning was clear.

Idra’s smile was of pleased surprise, and it made him briefly look younger than fourteen. Fifteen come the autumn, Maia thought to himself, and made a mental note to check with Csevet for Idra’s birthday so as to mark it properly. And what of Csethiro? Thy wife’s birthday, it will be before then. He pushed the thought away.

‘I am glad, cousin,’ Idra returned, and Maia smiled a little.

‘What of you?’ he said, looking forwards again to give Idra a little privacy in which to think. ‘I confess I know little of what it is to be raised at court – do you see friends, when you are not at lessons?’

They had performed two gentle circuits of the garden, and Maia allowed them to come to a halt in the centre, watching the fountain.

‘We used to,’ Idra said, using the plural to include his sisters. ‘But… mother arranged matters. Min Zhavanin tries, but she does not have as many connections, and some of the families are… uncertain of us.’

‘Because of your mother,’ Maia said, the guilt waylaying him like a thunderous cloud. Yes, Sheveän had brought matters upon herself, but it was he who was left holding the cut threads, and he had responsibilities that he evidently had not been meeting.

‘Yes,’ Idra answered softly.

Maia sighed. He had not intended for his meetings with Idra and his sisters to be a secret, but evidently they had not been gossiped about in any great manner – easy to be so, he realised, when all that was required for a visit was movement within the Alcethmeret. Which meant most of the court would be uncertain of the terms that the three of them were on with the emperor. Well. Perhaps that could be remedied in a similarly indirect manner.

‘I am sorry that I did not realise this earlier,’ Maia offered, and Idra looked startled.

‘Tis not your fault, cousin,’ he said earnestly. ‘I… I did not really notice it so much to begin, and in truth it was…’ he hesitated, and Maia watched him straighten his spine before continuing. ‘It was a relief to be hidden away in the midst of… the trial, and the aftermath. I was glad to be spared that, and doubly so for Ino and Mireän. It is only in the last week or so…’

Maia thought this might be understating the time a little, but he was grateful for Idra’s words nonetheless.

‘Nevertheless, I think it is something that is overdue mending,’ he said. ‘I suspect the easiest way to assure the court that is safe to spend time with you is for the emperor’s approval to be confirmed; what do you think would be the best way to go about such a thing?’

He knew he could ask Csevet, but he wanted to hear what Idra thought.

Idra considered this carefully, and Maia could tell that he was taking the opportunity to advise the emperor very seriously.

‘You might simply make a statement,’ he said, after a little while. ‘But it is unsubtle, and our tutor says that in a court full of subtleties a direct statement is often taken as the implication of a hidden agenda.’

Maia nodded thoughtfully.

‘A wise comment, and one I would agree with,’ he said, and then allowed Idra to continue to think, watching the water in the fountain as it flowed. It must have been designed to be soothing, but its endless motion only reminded Maia of the endless flow of work, waiting for him inside.

Listen to Idra. Stop sinking into distractions.

‘More subtle would be for us to be seen together, but none of us are of age to be presented to court,’ Idra continued slowly. ‘Ino and Mireän are far too young for the most part, but I – there are some events that those my age may attend, an we are invited.’

Maia had wondered about this; he had not encountered anyone Idra’s age or younger save the unfortunate Dach’osmin Tethimin, but he knew they could not be entirely hidden away at all times.

‘What kind of events would those be?’ he asked curiously.

‘If one holds a small, personal party – with only a few guests – hosted in one’s family quarters. Then it is expected that any children will make at least a brief appearance, and those old enough to know their forms and manners may join the conversation for a short while.’

For the hundredth time, Maia wished he had the comfort of the knowledge that even Idra had – this was among the endless number of details that he knew he was missing, even with Csevet’s dedicated help, dinners with Arbelan Zhasanai, and Lord Berenar’s careful teaching.

‘Then I shall speak to Csevet and consider something of that nature,’ he said, pushing past the dread of not just having to attend a social event but to host it, with all the weight of its success on his own ability to… whatever it was that effortlessly sociable people did. He could manage such a thing for the sake of Idra and his sisters. And perhaps it would even be enjoyable, if he could control who was to attend… though undoubtedly he would have to be carefully impartial in such a selection, lest he seem to favour some over others in an unfair way.

Idra was perceptive enough to realise that this was not exactly Maia’s area of expertise, and it showed in the gratitude in his voice.

‘I am sure it would be delightful – and on behalf of my sisters as well as myself, I thank you. It is most kind of you, Cousin Maia.’

~

Later that evening, it was warm and snug in the Upper Alcethmeret kitchen.

Cala listened to the household meeting with half an ear, the rest of his attention flicking through the week’s events, assembling his own summary. Household meetings took place in the upper kitchen, once a week. Led by Esaran, they were a chance to catch up on any changes, major or minor, to the household’s operations; to liaise about any problems; and to make sure everyone was coordinated for the coming week. These days, aside from the fast-approaching wedding, things were relatively quiet – and the meetings reflected that, as they had the urgency of multiple counts of treason and the visit of the Great Avar in the months before. Cala knew the others were glad that life seemed to be settling down again, though he and the other nohecharei remained a little concerned about Himself’s increasing anxiousness. It seemed to come and go, though there was hope that the wedding being done with would help by marking a new stage of his life. A fresh start in the spring, after the madness of the winter. Perhaps that was what they all needed.

Esaran closed the meeting, and everyone started about their business; but Avris caught Cala’s eye.

‘Can we talk to you two, for a minute?’ Avris asked. Cala nodded, and tugged Deret over. They ended up sat in the edocharei’s usual spot, the five of them bunched around one end of the table. The kitchen was shaped like the hilt of a sword – one long space running across where the main kitchen was, and another protruding out from the middle of it. The latter had a secondary kitchen table and was where the edocharei kept cleaning supplies and all manner of bits and pieces that they needed. With the cheerful conversation between the scullions and the noises of cleaning, they could talk relatively privately.

‘What is it?’ Deret asked. Avris hummed thoughtfully.

‘Well, it’s a little delicate,’ he said. ‘It’s just… occurred to the three of us that… well. Himself… well, he’s spent all the time since he was eight at Edonomee.’

There was a pause; Avris seemed to be weighing up different ways of expressing something; Esha cut in.

‘We were wondering just how much – or, more likely in our opinion, how little – His Serenity actually knows about what’s supposed to happen on his wedding night.’

Cala sat up, his eyebrows raised.

‘Damn,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s a good point. I can’t imagine Nelar was particularly informative.’

This got a snort from Deret.

‘I almost hope, for Himself’s sake, that he wasn’t,’ he said.

‘Mm.’

‘But what do we do?’ Esha persisted. ‘Someone should talk to him, but should it be us? We don’t mind at all; ‘tis a normal part of our purview, and we don’t mind discussing it with a nohecharis present…’

‘…but Himself probably will, whoever it is,’ Nemer finished. ‘I mean, I know I wouldn’t want to be approached at nineteen by people I’ve known less than six months to ask me how much I know about the facts of life, especially in front of someone else, and with respect, I am much less easily embarrassed than he is.’

That was an understatement, Cala knew – edocharei were famously shameless – but it was also a good point.

‘Might be worth asking Kiru,’ he said slowly.

Deret looked askance at him from across the table.

‘He’s nineteen years old and you think he’ll be less embarrassed to have that explained to him by a woman?’

‘What, sex?’ Cala said innocently, just to watch Beshelar’s ears redden. It worked, as it always did. Really, the man was too proper for his own good. ‘And that wasn’t my point. Kiru’s treated people for years, and doctors run into all sorts of things. I’d wonder if she had any suggestions about how to bring the topic up. I wasn’t suggesting she do the actual talking. Though she is pretty capable of making matters… practical, rather than personal.’

This met with a general agreement. No one in the close household got along badly, but Kiru was particularly well-liked among the staff for her no-nonsense approach to her work, as both nohecharo and cleric.

‘Well, we should have time on the next shift-change to speak to her,’ Deret said gruffly, and Cala resisted the urge to tease him further for his still-red ears. Save that for later.

‘The turn is around when His Serenity will be getting ready for bed,’ he said instead. ‘Though if you’d rather, one of you three can speak to her when she’s off shift.’

‘Why don’t you see how the shift change goes,’ Nemer said.

Cala, shifting position, noted that Csevet was sat at the other table, not quite concealing his attention. He looked away, and nodded at Nemer. ‘If we don’t have time, I’ll ask her to speak to you three when she comes down. Best to get this dealt with in plenty of time, the wedding isn’t far off.’

Csevet had a near-perfect mask, but it was quite late at night, and Cala thought he saw a subtle flinch pass over his face. He had a suspicion as to why the subject of Himself’s wedding night might be something of an uncomfortable one for Csevet, but he kept that to himself. He liked Csevet, and even if that hadn’t been the case, it was best to show your discretion around this sort of thing.

Chapter Text

Edrevechelar IV, the 176^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Edrevechelar IV is the quintessential example of an emperor who was much loved by his court, and detested by his government. He was known for his elaborate and near-constant parties and celebrations as prince, and many hoped his father would displace him from the line of inheritance in favour of his younger brother. He did not; Edrevechelar IV reigned for twenty years in a style of excess, extravagance and recklessness that has yet to be met in another Ethuverazheise emperor. His imperial policies changed on a whim, he was often facetious and contrary in correspondence with his Lord Chancellor, and he was eventually removed from his position by a formal and impressively unified motion of government.

He was succeeded by his younger brother, and is one of the few emperors to have outlived his own reign by any substantial amount of time.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

The afternoon of the next day, having been distracted by a scuffle between the Prince of Thu-Tetar and some Thu-Athamar lord the day before, Maia conveyed the nature of his conversation with Idra to Csevet between minor audiences. Csevet listened attentively.

‘Prince Idra has made an excellent suggestion,’ he said. ‘Would Your Serenity like for us to consider some possibilities and a suggested guest list?’

‘Please,’ Maia said, trying to hold back his discomfort at the entire idea. ‘If we may – we do not intend to push the event in any particular direction, save that it be as small as can be sensibly managed, but we assume that certain invitations will need to be issued in order to… ah, for the sake of tact?’

Csevet’s little twitch of an ear was as good as a smile, and Maia ignored the small pleased feeling at being responsible for it.

‘There will need to be some tactical inclusions,’ Csevet conceded, ‘especially as we presume Your Serenity will not be likely to host such occasions with particular frequency, and therefore any initial omissions will not be able to be made up for at a later date. But by keeping the guest list small, we think such inclusions will be minimal.’

‘We thank you.’

‘Was there anyone particularly Your Serenity was hoping to invite?’

Csevet’s voice was carefully neutral, and Maia knew that he could, if he wished, leave the entire matter to his secretary. But also that he should not. Thou canst not push away any court skill for long, and ‘tis past time thou knew of these things. He bit back a sigh, and tried to think.

‘Dach’osmin Ceredin, of course,’ he said slowly, starting with the easy answers. ‘Arbelan Zhasanai; our sister Vedero; and we suppose Csoru Zhasanai will expect an invitation, as it is a family event.’

Csevet nodded, making a note. Maia tried to think. His sister Nemriän and her husband were home in Thu-Athamar, and therefore too far away; that was the limit on immediate family.

‘We know who we enjoy the company of more,’ Maia said carefully. ‘That would be Lord Berenar and his wife, perhaps Lord Deshehar. And perhaps,’ he added, thinking back to the dinner with the Lanthevada that had caused him so much apprehension, ‘the Marquess Lantheval, his niece, and Captain Orthema.’ He paused. ‘But that seems altogether too political a gathering, and we would be concerned that inviting the marquess and the captain and not the Pashavada so soon after our dinner there would be considered… pointed.’

Csevet gave a small, approving smile at this logic and Maia felt unreasonably pleased with himself. Then, abruptly, felt absurd for such a reaction. It was a perfectly simple logical leap, hardly meriting comment. And Csevet was merely being polite.

‘The Berenada are a relatively neutral choice, for an emperor is expected to be on good terms with his Lord Chancellor,’ Csevet said. ‘And Lord Deshehar might be a good addition, bringing in both the Corazhas and the Parliament – but only the House of Commons –’

‘And so the marquess might be a reasonable addition?’

‘Quite so, Serenity. He will likely come alone; and Captain Orthema will not be offended by a lack of invitation, and in that case neither will the Pashavada.’

Maia nodded, pleased.

‘It might also be appropriate to invite one or two courtiers whose children are of age with Prince Idra, and perhaps his sisters. They will be peers, and it does well to encourage a connection and allow them to see that the prince and his sisters have imperial approval. An it please you, Serenity, we shall prepare a short list of suggestions for you.’

‘Thank you, Csevet. We shall leave the matter in your capable hands for the moment.’

‘Serenity.’

Your capable, ringless hands, Maia thought as Csevet leafed through the paperwork. He fought the urge not to twist his own heavily adorned fingers together. The weight on them had been merely emotional to begin with, but in the last few weeks they had begun to ache intermittently. Maia had been putting off asking the edocharei if they thought the rings could be altered to fit better - he strongly suspected the answer was no, that they already fit him as well as they ever had, and he knew it would be harder to bear once he knew for certain it was forever. Instead he continued to allow the possibility of ease dangle in his mind, knowing it was childish but considering it a relatively harmless way in which to vent his wilfulness.

His thoughts had wandered, and he had the beginnings of a headache in his temples. It took a considerable amount of willpower to drag his attention back to the various matters at hand, but as usual this was made easier by Csevet's bright-eyed efficiency.

‘Serenity, we have here a missive from Merrem Esaran.’

‘Oh?’

‘She wishes to enquire if you have decided whether or not Dach’osmin Ceredin will be residing in the Alcethmeret after the wedding, and if not, where she should be placed. Merrem Esaran will be responsible for making such arrangements.’

Maia went briefly blank but took a steadying breath. Csevet’s tone was very precisely formal and a little cautious; clearly he was concerned that the emperor might fall back into childish resistance, as he had to discussions of any marriage at all some months ago.

Fortunately, as the immediate panic cleared, Maia already had an answer to this one.

‘Csethiro will not be living in the Alcethmeret,’ he said quietly. ‘We have been discussing the matter with her, and both of us feel it is the best decision. We believe that the apartments formerly belonging to one of our brothers might be… appropriate?’

It had been a difficult conversation, and a somewhat uncomfortable one, and Maia was painfully aware of the risks of the decision – that the court would read a lack of affection into it, a lack of interest, and that it might even go so far as to undermine their belief in any child’s legitimacy, especially if that child appeared very Elvish. As well they might, with only a quarter Goblin in their parentage. Despite all of this, however, he felt that living separately was the right decision in the longer term.

We barely know each other, and we must be the perfect imperial couple before a hundred eyes, he reiterated to himself. Having our own privacies to retreat to will allow us both appropriate respite.

The reasoning was good, and Csethiro had firmly agreed, looking – if Maia had not been mistaken – a little relieved.

Though of course such respite will of necessity be limited, and we will have to be seen to be affectionate in public so as to convince…

He jumped slightly as he realised he had drifted into thought again and entirely missed Csevet’s words.

‘We apologise, Csevet, what were you saying?’

Something like sympathy might have flashed across Csevet’s face, but it vanished too swiftly for Maia to be sure. Instead Csevet merely inclined his head politely.

‘The apartments formerly belonging to Prince Nemolis are the most well-appointed, Serenity,’ he said carefully. ‘But those of the Archdukes Nazhra and Ciris would also be appropriate, if your Serenity prefers.’

‘We wish… we wish her to have every luxury she may, and for the court to understand that we… hold her in esteem,’ Maia said, very glad that the greyness of his skin prevented too much in the way of a visible blush. ‘But we wonder if it would be considered inappropriate or disrespectful for us to…’

As always, Csevet understood immediately what his emperor was too awkward to express.

‘We do not believe it would be taken badly,’ he said. ‘The apartments of the Drazhada, particularly those close to the emperor, are frequently subject to changes in occupants based on changes in rank. It might in fact be an improvement on the apartments remaining empty.’

Maia nodded.

‘Prince Idra will also be moving into his own apartments in a year and a half,’ he ventured, mostly to hear Csevet’s thoughts.

‘That is, of course, the case, and it would perhaps be courteous to speak to His Highness about the soon-to-be-Zhasan’s apartments before the knowledge becomes public,’ Csevet said, nodding. ‘But that is not yet to come, and it is possible that before then his rank will have changed. If there is a… new family composition.’

Maia appreciated how delicately Csevet had phrased it, but the thought was still enough to increase the weight of dread in the pit of his stomach. If he and Csethiro had a son, that child would become Prince of the Untheileneise Court, reducing Idra back down to Archduke.

Forcing himself once more to focus, he nodded.

‘Then we will speak to Idra, and as soon as we have done so, Merrem Esaran may make arrangements.’

‘Yes, Serenity.’

‘What do we attend to next?’

Csevet handed him another sheet of paper. The work dragged on, inexorable.

~

The suggested guest list for the party was handed to Maia a day later, and Maia was pleased to see that it contained a reassuringly small number of people, and even fewer that he was not familiar with. There were about twenty names; a small number of heads of noble families made up those he was not familiar with, and they were well balanced by those that he was. Maia was particularly pleased to see his aunt’s name appear there, also.

The date was set for two weeks’ time, a courteous gap which allowed for the fact that invitations from the emperor were not to be turned down without excellent reason and thus any other engagements would need to be rearranged. When Maia visited Idra, Mireän and Ino to tell them the news and give them their own invitations (technically unnecessary, as they were considered part of the host family, but they were lovely little documents and Maia had guessed that the two young girls would be particularly delighted by them), he was gratified by how pleased they were. He also spoke to Idra about the arrangements for the zhasan-to-be’s apartments, and was gratified when Idra was unhesitatingly in support of the idea. Finally, he took the opportunity to invite Idra to his weekly dinner with Arbelan Zhasanai a few days before the party, knowing how much easier it was to manage any social occasion when one was more familiar with those present – and also wary that he himself would not be able to shepherd Idra if he felt he needed the support.

In the meantime, Maia seemed to ricochet between endless specifications for the Wisdom Bridge and equally endless wedding preparations. He was trying to view the latter in the abstract as much as possible, as though Edrehasivar and Dach’osmin Ceredin could marry without involving Maia or Csethiro, who were not at all ready. Csethiro is ready, fool, ‘tis only thee who hesitates.

The wedding talk seemed to infiltrate every possible aspect of court, taking over conversation every night after dinner. Maia tried to seem only reserved and private, but worried that instead he came across as reluctant and fearful. One evening, however, after he had retired, the subject was raised in a more personal manner.

Once the edocharei had left for the night, Maia expected Kiru to turn the lamps down as always – and she did, but only a little. He turned onto his side to look at her in the half-light.

‘Kiru?’ he asked. ‘What is’t?’

She had settled herself in her usual position and was gazing out from it in a contemplative way without looking at him directly.

‘We wish to raise a matter with you, Serenity,’ she said quietly. ‘It is not a concerning one, merely a… delicate subject.’

Maia frowned, and pulled himself more upright in bed, keeping the sheets over him as much as possible to hold onto the warmth. An odd moment to choose, so late at night. What would it be that she could not have raised it in the normal hours?

‘Of course, Kiru. What can we help you with?’ He knew he was not supposed to phrase it like that, but he trusted the nohecharei, and Csevet was not here to look pained. To his surprise, Kiru smiled a little, her gaze still wandering the rest of the room.

‘On the contrary, we seek to help you, Serenity.’ She paused, and he sensed that she was choosing her words carefully. ‘Your wedding approaches soon, and we are aware you may have some… logistical questions. About our requirements.’

Oh.

Maia took his cue from Kiru and shifted position, letting his eyes wander away from her, determined not to sound embarrassed. He opened his mouth and closed it again, trying to summon up a proper response – but Kiru went on without it, gently.

‘It is, regretfully, a requirement that a nohecharis be present in the room when the emperor has a guest. However, you will be glad to know there are some considerable mitigations.’

Maia was staring fixedly at one of the bedposts. He tried for a neutral tone.

‘Ah – mitigations?’ he managed, throat dry. He had known something like this was coming, had he not? He had simply refused to think about it.

‘Yes, Serenity. Firstly, when the emperor has a guest, the nohecharis in the room will always be the maza.’

No need to fear Beshelar’s judging eyes on thee then – that’s something, he thought, semi-hysterically. He swallowed. Kiru spoke again.

‘The bed curtains are, of course, drawn closed,’ she said. ‘And the maza-nohecharis uses a particular maz – it is called a theiliamaz.’

The curtains being closed had helped some of the fear ease. Maia licked dry lips and asked the natural next question.

‘What is a – a theiliamaz, what does it do?’

‘It was developed to – well, certain types of incantations can be very delicate. The way one says something, the movements one makes, they can be very particular. The theiliamaz is a way of maintaining focus and preventing unnecessary distractions, while still allowing some communication. The caster – for example Cala, or ourself – is rendered unable to hear anything but a few chosen words or phrases, or another signal.’

With tentative relief, Maia thought he understood.

‘So you – or Cala,’ he managed, ‘would use this spell so that… well…’

‘To grant you some privacy, yes Serenity,’ Kiru finished for him. ‘The spell lasts about an hour, but it can be renewed if necessary. Typically a maza-nohecharis would be required to include the names of all four nohecharei and the word help in the spell-break terms. Your serenity can of course suggest other words, should you wish to.’

Maia thought this through for a minute or so. The relief had blossomed fully now. There would be a nohecharis, but they would not be able to see or hear anything – well – private. It was a clever compromise, if a little complex. But he would have privacy. For once. Well, in a way – it wasn’t as if he would be alone, after all…

Kiru cleared her throat slightly, indicating she was not quite finished.

‘If it is acceptable to your serenity, Cala and ourself would like the opportunity to practice the theiliamaz before the wedding,’ she said. ‘So some evenings, when it is ourself or Cala in here with you, we may ask to use the maz for an hour or so. It would help us adjust to monitoring the room under those limitations – the curtains drawn and the maz in progress.’

Maia was not quite so naïve that he could not work out what was being implied, and he fought hard against the rising heat in his cheeks.

‘That would be acceptable, Kiru,’ he said, with a carefully level voice.

‘Serenity.’

A pause, and then Kiru’s voice came again.

‘Serenity, there is one more matter, and we are afraid it is the most delicate.’

Maia braced himself. It helped, at least, that there was no hint of embarrassment in Kiru’s voice.

‘…go on, Kiru.’

‘It is very common, in noble families – particularly in the upper nobility – for a person to have a very limited amount of knowledge about the details of the wedding night.’

Maia’s gaze returned to the bedpost. Mayhap if thou art lucky, the blankets will come to life and swallow thee whole?

‘Oh?’ he managed.

‘On that subject, you will find a very informative book, bookmarked at the correct chapter, in the drawer to the right of the bed,’ Kiru continued, calm and matter of fact. ‘If you do have any questions, please feel free to speak to either ourself or to any of the edocharei, who typically are responsible for amending this gap in their master’s education if need be. But we think the book will likely cover everything.’

 Pushing the suffocation of his embarrassment just far away enough to enable him to speak, Maia thanked Kiru and wished her goodnight; upon his request, she turned the lamps all the way down, covering him in the relief of darkness. Time enough to read the book another night, when he might actually be able to concentrate.

He lay there a while, torn between relief, embarrassment, and dread, before he managed to sleep.

~

‘Is Kiru speaking to him tonight?’

‘Mm. She knew about this book – it’s a physician’s guide, really. Common Aspects of the Physician’s Care. I had a look while we were tidying – it’s got chapters on most common things, and chapter eight is on marital relations. It seemed like a good solution – he doesn’t have to endure being spoken to, at least, and it covers everything.’

‘Mm, good.’

Csevet kept his eyes on his paperwork, staring holes into the treasury’s winter overview report. He preferred working in the kitchen to in his room (much smaller desk) or in the secretarial spaces in the Lower Alcethmeret (which made him feel as though he was somehow imposing). Usually, the constant trickle of talk and gossip was comforting, and easier to work in than silence. But sometimes…

Fortunately, the conversation shifted quickly; when Csevet glanced up, he thought Cala had been watching him, but then the maza was often lost in thought. It was probably nothing.

Chapter Text

Edresomivar II, 197^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

While the imperial family has always had the highest standards of education, Edresomivar II is known for being one of the few Ethuverazheise emperors to have become a notable scholar in his own right. He was permitted by his father to attend university, where he studied the natural sciences for a time before broadening his field. By the time of his death he had written fourteen books on a variety of subjects including natural science, philology, architecture, and history. He was reputed to host lectures at court, where attendance often impacted a courtier’s political standing.

While apparently a doting husband with a devoted wife, he produced no heirs. He was succeeded by his nephew, and this shift marks the beginning of a series of extreme swings in imperial politics (see following entry).

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

For the kitchen and serving staff, a dinner party in the Alcethmeret was a busy affair. Upper and Lower Alcethmeret alike buzzed with activity as they wove back and forth with task after task. For the edocharei, however, once they had dressed the emperor, it was an occasion to sit at their worktable at the far end of the kitchen and enjoy the chaos. Officially they were polishing Michen Mura, but all three of them could do that with their eyes closed by now, and so the talk was considerably more casual.

Additionally, the nohecharei shift change was due after the party ended – and Cala had turned up in the kitchen to enjoy the company and the excitable atmosphere, Deret pulled along in his wake. Downstairs, the guests were just arriving; and in the kitchen, Nemer and Cala had drawn Esha, Avris, and Deret into an animated discussion about the places that various staff members hailed from. Central to this, and provoking the greatest disagreement, was Csevet, currently somewhere in the Lower Alcethmeret ears-deep in paperwork, and more importantly of unknown origin.

‘He’s from the south, I could have sworn he was from the south,’ Esha said.

‘And I’m not saying he isn’t, but thou hast no proof either way,’ Avris returned.

‘I can’t imagine him being from the north, that’s all.’ Esha shrugged.

‘Why not?’

‘Because thou art too fond of him and thou detestest northerners,’ Nemer cut in, pointing at Avris, who looked offended. Cala chuckled into his tea.

‘That is a vile slander.’

‘Didst thou not say to me just the other day that the north-west in particular breeds only malcontents and –’

‘Only because Petzha took the last fruit bun before I had a chance! It was a very specific generalisation, and besides, he thought it funny!’ Avris flicked a few drops of clean water at Nemer, who was laughing and did not both to dodge.

‘It has occurred to you all that you could just ask Csevet?’ Deret said.

Nemer waved a cleaning cloth at him.

‘No fun. And besides, we’ve tried that, he gives a different answer every time someone asks him.’

‘He told Nemer he was Cetho born and bred, and then he told Ebremis he was from out in the eastern countryside,’ Esha said, raising a finger for each point of his list, ‘and Isheian says he told her he’s familiar with the colder winters up north from growing up there.’

‘Ha.’

Nemer leant in conspiratorially.

‘Alright, see, what we do is wait for his day off, take him to the inn, have a few drinks with him, and see what accent comes out.’ He sat back and spread his hands. ‘Simple.’

‘Truly?’ Avris said. ‘Believest a former courier is going to slip out of his court accent after a few drinks? Hast thou ever met a courier? Thou couldst drain the inn and it still wouldn’t be enough.’

‘Besides, it’s always hard to tell with couriers, they’ve been so many places they can sound however they like,’ Cala pointed out, and Nemer shrugged.

‘Csevet doesn’t really drink, though.’ Esha’s tone was vague; he was preoccupied measuring out the components for more cleaning fluid. Avris responded regardless.

‘Well no, not now he’s imperial secretary, he’s not got the time. But I’d put money on him being able to drink anyone here under the table.’

‘I don’t doubt that –’

They were interrupted by a sudden bang from the other end of the kitchen – one of the scullions had mishandled a pot and it had hit the floor loud enough to stop conversation, sending soapy water skidding across the tiles. Ashu raced for a mop, and the others turned back to what they were doing.

‘What inn would you pick?’ Avris said suddenly.

‘I thought thou said –’

‘Oh, no, not for Csevet, just I’ve a friend coming through Cetho next month and I’m trying to decide what to suggest as a meeting place.’

‘Oh, for that thou wantest the Cloth and Key,’ Esha said.

‘Really? It’ll be filled with, well –’

‘Edocharei?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Well, thy friend is friends with thee, isn’t he? And besides, the food is good.’

‘Is that an edocharei spot, then?’ Cala asked, sounding curious. ‘I always thought the inns in Cetho were largely the same as one another.’

Deret let out a snort.

‘Why, Cala, it’s almost as if thou hast barely left the Mazan’theileian,’ Nemer teased.

Cala laughed.

‘True enough. Mazei aren’t encouraged to drink to begin with, and dachenmazei are actively discouraged. And everything one would need is in the Mazan’theileian. Once there, why leave?’

‘To see a fraction of the world around thee?’ Deret suggested. ‘Even, perhaps, the part of it on thy front doorstep?’

‘Ah, but our Cala has been ensconced there since he was a little pupil of maz, and would suffer terrible conniptions upon leaving,’ Nemer said solemnly.

‘The proper term is novice of the Athmaz’are,’ Avris said loftily, wagging a teasing finger at Nemer.

Cala shook his head and waved a hand.

‘No no no no,’ he said. ‘The official term is novice of the Athmaz’are. The proper term is michenmaza. Because they’re the youngest! Like how Deret is the youngest of the four of us, so he’s a michen-nohecharei.’

Esha nearly spat his drink, and Nemer all but collapsed in laughter. Deret turned a rather impressive scowl on Cala; Cala affected an innocent expression which was, admittedly, somewhat spoiled by the fact that he was struggling not to laugh. Deret shook his head and rolled his eyes, turning back to his tea.

‘Thou dost not have one singular respectful bone in thy unnaturally lanky body,’ he said grumpily, but Cala thought he could see amusement in his expression.

‘I can’t have any, they get in the way of maz-work,’ he said haughtily, and at this Deret really did laugh a little.

‘Incorrigible.’

Nemer, recovered from laughter, changed the subject back again.

‘Cala! Thou must learn of the world,’ he said mock-sternly, and Cala turned to him obligingly.

‘Teach me, oh wise scholar.’

More laughter at that, but Nemer pushed through.

‘Cloth and Key is where the edocharei go, largely – the soldiers and the brotherhood go to the –’

‘Here, thou canst not lump all of us together –’ Deret interrupted, but Nemer cut straight over him in response.

‘I can if all of you end up at the same inn, and if thou dost not like it, take it up with thy fellows.’

‘…point taken,’ Deret conceded, ‘though I will have it said that the Vigilant Brotherhood drink at the Cetho Arms.’

‘Because they have no taste.’

‘Because they have no taste.’

‘Well said. But as I was saying, the soldiers go to the Sword and Mail, the servants generally drink in the Five Candles, new people with money who don’t know where they’re going end up in the Crown, and the regular Cetho folk have their own preferences according to their trade or family business – the Three Hammers, the Farrier’s Arms, so on.’

‘Hold up, hold up, how is it that all the inn names match their clientele?’ Cala asked, frowning.

‘Because Cetho, while appearing to the outside as the font of all things new and exciting in the Ethuveraz, is at its heart both stubborn and predictable,’ Nemer pronounced with the air of a historian, and then laughed at Cala’s raised eyebrow. ‘Usually the innkeep will change the name if it’s got a very specific type of customer, they get proud of it,’ he explained. ‘And then most folk go to the places they match, because they feel catered too.’

‘Ah, understood.’

The arrival of Csevet, over-burdened with paperwork, interrupted the flow of conversation again for a few minutes. When he finally had the piles arranged in some kind of order and Esha had saved some of them from a near miss with Cala’s tea, he sat down with a sigh.

‘Weighed down as usual, Csevet?’

Csevet made a noise of faint distress.

‘The Ceredada are still returning adjustments for the wedding – the rehearsal is next week, it’s supposed to be finalised by now.’

‘I thought the Marquess wanted this done with,’ Esha said with a frown. ‘Rumour has it that he’s worried about holding the emperor’s approval, he wants everything completed as quickly as possible.’

‘I think he’s torn between wanting it all over and trying to make the perfect impression,’ Csevet said, hunting through the papers for something particular. ‘His Serenity is not the most public of personalities, so he’s having to guess at what might please him. I’ve half a mind to let the Ceredada secretary find out that the emperor has no idea what all these little arrangements are, so there’s no chance of his being either appeased or offended.’

Deret gave a snort of laughter.

‘Mm, I’m sure that would reassure him.’

‘Himself still hasn’t shown any interest in the wedding arrangements, then?’ Esha asked.

‘Be fair, he’s snowed under by about a thousand other things,’ Avris said with a yawn.

‘Mm.’

‘Pashavar seems determined to drown him in bridge administration, and that would almost be enough on its own,’ Cala volunteered. ‘Though at least there’s a lot of excitement about it – I hear they’re already planning the completion ceremony, even though it’ll be years away yet.’

This launched them all into a lengthy discussion of the Wisdom Bridge and the myriad components and people that had to be brought into coordination in order to achieve it. That conversation then spiralled off in all sorts of directions, and the time passed quickly. The activity in the kitchen kicked up a notch as the party ended, with what seemed like an endless amount of cutlery and crockery to retrieve, wash, dry, and store; not to mention a dozen other tasks. The edocharei were called up to attend the emperor, but Cala barely noticed; he was so caught up in an exchange with Csevet about the clockmaker’s guild that had it not been for the bell on the kitchen clock he might have been late for the shift change.

‘Come on, he’ll be almost abed, we need to relieve the Seconds,’ he said when it the hour struck, only to realise that Deret was already on his feet and waiting for him.

‘Possibly,’ Deret agreed with a hint of smugness, and Cala made a face at him.

~

As they reached the top turn of the stairwell, the edocharei were just departing.

‘You were swift,’ Deret said curiously.

‘He was tired,’ Esha said. ‘Keen to get to bed. And perhaps to be left alone, after all the fuss.’

‘Sounds like him.’

‘He was well otherwise?’ Cala asked.

Avris tipped his hand one way and then the other.

‘So-so,’ he said. ‘Quiet, mostly. Hard to read tonight. Coris said he wanted to talk to you about something, though.’

Cala nodded, and they parted ways as the nohecharei made their way up to the final landing, where Coris was waiting. Handovers were easier to do at night, when they could talk more privately in the corridor. Cala reached out and put a hand on the wall, tuning into the wards to make sure there was no one in earshot, and then nodded at the two soldiers.

‘How was the party?’

Coris shrugged.

‘It went very well,’ he said. ‘Prince Idra did well, the archduchesses got to greet everyone, it wasn’t too chaotic. Not bad for Himself’s first hosting.’

‘Good. He’s well?’

Coris made a face.

‘He’s… well. You know he’s been quiet lately. He did well through the party, but when he came out it was like he… folded in on himself, in a way.’

‘He always has a hard time with social events.’

‘True enough, but it’s part of a pattern – his mood seems to get lower the closer we get…’

‘To the wedding.’

The three of them were quiet a moment.

‘Mayhap he’s only anxious that it go well,’ Cala offered, trying for optimism. ‘He and the zhasan seem to be getting along well enough, but he does tend towards worry.’

The other two nodded. And then, after a moment, his expression uneasy, Coris spoke.

‘Do you think it’s… about Csevet?’

Cala raised his eyebrows, and Coris shrugged uncertainly.

‘I can’t have been the only one of us who’s noticed,’ he said quietly. ‘Csevet… Csevet clearly has feelings for him, but I can’t tell if it’s mutual. Mostly Himself is far too proper for anything to show, but sometimes there are moments…’

‘When one of them glances at the other unobserved,’ Deret said gruffly, nodding. ‘Well, unobserved by anyone but us.’ He looked at Cala. ‘Well, there’s no need to look like that, maza, it’s natural enough.’

‘No, no, I was just –’ shocked that you’d noticed, because I thought soldiers would be insensitive to that sort of thing? Cala kept the rest of that sentence behind his teeth. It said more about his own biases than it did about Coris or Deret, evidently. He tried again. ‘I was just – I’d noticed the way they are with each other, but not thought about it being related to Himself’s low mood.’ True enough.

Coris seemed to accept this, but Deret gave Cala another frown before he continued, and Cala knew he’d be hearing about this later.

‘I agree, Himself’s feelings are an unknown quantity,’ Deret said. ‘But it’s not impossible.’

‘He clearly holds Csevet in regard,’ Cala put in. ‘More so than he does anyone else on the staff. But what nature that regard is, I don’t know.’

Coris nodded.

‘Csevet, on the other hand…’ he said softly.

‘Do you think we should speak to him about it?’ Deret asked. ‘I don’t like to make him uncomfortable, and it isn’t as though he’s been unprofessional. But I worry about him dealing with it alone.’

Hitherto unforeseen depths, Deret. But Cala knew he was being unfair. He just felt foolish, to have assumed Deret’s opinion with no evidence.

‘Perhaps I should,’ Cala said, and then persisted in face of Deret’s raised eyebrow. ‘Look, I already spoke with him about… I spoke to him alone, early on, to make sure that he knew if anyone tried to use the reputation of the courier fleet against him he could come to me. Tis a lever some would try to pull, and I know reactions to marnei are not always positive.’

Deret was still looking at him as though he was trying to work something out, and Cala rolled his eyes.

‘Merciful goddesses,’ he muttered, heat rising in his cheeks. ‘I’m marnis, Deret, yes. The Mazan’theileian is a good place to be for that, and people don’t like to upset a dachenmaza, so I’ve never truly had any trouble, but I know enough of what it’s like for others. So I spoke to him.’

‘Why didst thou keep it from me?’ Deret asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Extremely aware of how visible his blush was, Cala sighed and tried to phrase it as delicately as possible.

‘I did not know – what thou might have thought,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘I did not know thee well, that early. I thought to raise it with thee at a later point, and I suppose this is it.’

Deret looked at him a moment longer, and Cala could not read his expression. Then he turned back to Coris, who had been watching them both with wide eyes.

‘Coris, we should let Kiru know we’re ready to change over,’ he said.

‘Of course.’

Coris slipped into the bedchamber, and when the door shut behind him Deret looked back at Cala.

‘I am sorry thou didst not feel thou couldst trust me with this,’ he said. ‘But for what it’s worth, thou art not the odd one out of the four of us. I think that’s Coris.’

Wait, I knew about Kiru, but does he mean that he…

Without another word or giving Cala a chance to reply, Deret followed Coris into the bedchamber. Cala was left to stand there, blinking in shock, and nod a mute goodnight at Kiru and Coris as they exited and made their way down the stairwell. He had a great deal to think about.

Chapter Text

Edrevenitar I, the 161^st Emperor of the Ethuveraz

By all accounts a mild and well-mannered child, Edrevenitar I shocked both the Drazhada and the court as a whole by refusing marriage entirely and declining to give a reason. When he eventually ascended to the throne, he formally adopted the child of a distant cousin as his heir, with a mixed response from the Ethuveraz. This singular eccentricity aside, Edrevenitar I was an otherwise unremarkable emperor whose reign did not contain any particularly dramatic achievements or failures.

He was succeeded successfully by his adopted heir. However, this success was temporary; see entry for Edrevenitar II.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

The morning of the wedding came early for the edocharei, who were up at five o’clock to check everything was in place. The ceremony itself would take place at ten, with a court luncheon to follow, and then celebrations that lasted through the afternoon, dinner, and dancing. The three of them took an early breakfast with the rest of the staff, and then walked to the Untheileian with Csevet and the First Nohecharei to confirm every detail for the final time.

The Untheileian looked beautiful, draped with so much deep Drazhada blue that it almost felt as though you were surrounded by night sky, the little details in white picked out like stars. Avris watched Cala and Deret walk through their positions – a step behind the emperor on arrival, then stepping back to flank the throne as the vows took place before it. Deret was clearly checking lines of sight, occasionally confirming the position of various courtiers with Csevet; Cala was staring up at the ceiling, twisting the fingers of one hand the way he did when he was concentrating on something.

‘Sometimes I wonder if he’s doing some kind of spell when he does that,’ Nemer murmured from next to Avris. ‘Or if he just gets a cramp in his hands.’

Avris held back a laugh.

‘Perhaps thou shouldst offer him a hand massage for the pain and see what he says?’ he suggested innocently. Edocharei were taught such skills at the school for the express purpose of easing discomfort and pain, but many people made less salubrious assumptions about their intentions. From the small snort next to him, Nemer had conjured the same image of Cala’s slightly alarmed expression as Avris had.

‘Everything is paced out and ready, as it should be,’ Esha said, joining them. ‘We’re just waiting on Cala and Deret, and then we’re back up to the tower.’

The nohecharei were only a few more minutes, and the walk back to the Alcethmeret was a fairly cheerful one to the casual onlooker. Underneath it all, however, was a current of tension.

It had been impossible not to notice Edrehasivar’s mood. It grew lower and lower as the wedding approached; he was withdrawn and listless when readying for the day or for bed, and Csevet had noted that he had bursts of checking and rechecking his work and asking for Csevet to check again. Some anxiousness in a bridegroom was understandable, of course – any marriage was a significant venture, and the politically-charged nature of a court marriage multiplied that by ten. But this was more than nervous fretting, and nothing seemed to ease it.

No one spoke of it, however, not even as they passed into the Alcethmeret and made their way up through the nest.

‘Well, I will see you later,’ Csevet said, nodding to the others.

‘What art thou doing today, when they’re all dancing the day and night away?’ Nemer asked curiously. Avris saw Cala wince and shot him a querying glance; in answer Cala shook out his hand as though he had pulled something. Maybe it was a cramp.

‘Keeping abreast of the correspondence, mostly,’ Csevet said. ‘I’ll come with the others to see the imperial couple greet the crowd, of course, but other than that it’ll be a quiet day. Hopefully I can make it so he doesn’t have too much to do tomorrow.’

‘Enjoy.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

Csevet turned a different way to the other five, presumably to his quarters to pick up paperwork. Avris frowned after him.

‘Someone should really tell that man to work less,’ he muttered. Csevet’s work ethic was, frankly, frightening. He hardly seemed to sleep. It was working for him so far, but Avris was sceptical that it could last.

Ahead of him, Deret gave a snort of amusement.

‘Kiru tried,’ he said dryly. ‘Lasted all of two weeks.’

‘He’ll learn,’ Cala said. ‘Everyone’s still catching up from the winter. It’ll pass.’

‘Hm.’

After quickly refreshing themselves, the three edocharei waited impatiently in their quarters while the nohecharei changed shifts; then the bell came, and it was time to go.

~

Deret always worked hard to be unnoticed, but it was easiest when His Serenity was being attended by the edocharei. He knew that Edrehasivar struggled with the lack of privacy an emperor had, and had yet to learn how to fully ignore the presence of the nohecharei. During his preparations, the carefully placed frosted-glass screens allowed him to keep some privacy while still allowing the nohecharis in the room to be alert to a stumble or fall.

This morning was slower than most. His Serenity had risen at eight, looking so fragile that Deret had had to hold back the urge to keep even the edocharei away from him. He had been encouraged to breakfast before dressing, an unusual occurrence, but a traditional wedding day indulgence. He had picked at the food, taking little. Then he had bathed, the smell of roses drifting through the tower room; and now he was in the final stages of dressing.

The wedding clothes were, as Deret understood from the chattering of the edocharei, only marginally less complex and beautiful than His Serenity’s coronation robes. They were donned slowly, the edocharei talking happy nothings as they worked.

There was, suddenly, a pause in their speech. Then Esha.

‘Serenity?’

He sounded concerned, and Deret fought with himself for a moment before taking several quiet steps to the left. He still could not quite see His Serenity, but he could change that if he needed to by taking a single step further. In the meantime, he could see Esha and Nemer.

There was the soft noise of someone trying to steady their breathing, and then a cleared throat.

He’s crying.

‘’Tis nothing. A little sleeplessness, a mild headache. Please, continue.’

Edrehasivar’s voice was not quite steady enough to convince, but the edocharei obeyed nonetheless, returning to motion.

‘Is there anything that would help, Serenity?’ Avris asked gently. ‘Heat or cold, or fresh air? Perhaps some tea? There is a little time.’

Another shaky breath.

‘Could we have the window open a little?’

‘Of course, Serenity.’

Deret watched Nemer cross the room and open the window a few inches, choosing the one that would cause the air to be felt where His Serenity sat. He exchanged a brief, worried look with Deret, and Deret nodded back.

‘Thank you, Nemer.’

‘Serenity.’

The preparations continued. Deret could hear each murmured request for a raised arm or a turn of the head, and wondered what he would say to Edrehasivar if he had the freedom to say anything. But he couldn’t come up with much of anything at all, so perhaps it hardly mattered.

‘And now the jacket – just so.’ Avris. ‘Does Your Serenity know anything about the tradition of the jacket?’

‘No, we do not.’

A little steadier. That’s something.

‘The imperial white, of course, for the emperor; but if Your Serenity cares to look at the cuffs…’

‘That’s – it’s our signet, our cat-serpent? The embroidery is lovely.’

Deret smiled a little to himself. His Serenity was not incapable of imperial gravitas, but there were occasions when he sounded much younger.

‘It is your signet, Serenity, worked into the embroidery here, and into the lining of the jacket – and on each of the buttons. You take yourself and your own symbols to the ceremony, rather than the family emblem of the Drazhada. And tomorrow morning, we have a lovely jacket with similar buttons for you.’

What ever you do, you do it as yourself. And when this is over, we will still be here to help you. Deret hoped that Edrehasivar had understood Avris’ meaning.

There was a short pause; a steadying breath; and then Edrehasivar spoke.

‘Thank you, Avris. That is… a good thing to know.’

Well done.

Cala entered then, and a minute or so later they were departing.

~

The edocharo were quiet, though their eyes shone; Csethiro kept a pleasant-thoughts-elsewhere expression carefully on her face as they helped her get ready, not wanting any rumour of discontent to spread. And it was not as though she was discontented, in any case. She had married well, she had made her family proud; the man she had married seemed mild, and kind, and not a bully. And beyond that, the way he spoke to and about his sister, and Arbelan Zhasanai… and he had a woman in his nohecharei… few new wives were half as fortunate.

Csethiro was not as enraptured with the trappings of femininity as some of her sisters or friends, but even she had been charmed by the beauty of an imperial wedding. She had worn her first white, and found that it made her a stranger in the mirror; but she was intrigued rather than distressed. The day had passed in a blur, and now it was night; it was night, and she was being readied to go to her new husband and…

She swallowed. She was prepared for this; she was willing to do her duty, and she quite liked the idea of having children besides. But that did not entirely ease the fluttering of wings in her stomach, the echoes in her mind of a hundred whispered little stories about wedding nights that were passed around the ladies of court like stolen jewels, growing grubbier with every hand they passed through.

She had extracted a reasonable amount of what seemed likely to be sensible information from her eldest sister, who had been married five years and had three children and could be expected to know what she spoke of. It still varied with the man, though. She could not imagine His Serenity – Edrehasivar – Maia – being cruel, she knew by now not to fear that, but beyond that…

‘Zhasan,’ the edocharo murmured, and Csethiro looked at her reflection. She was ethereal, the white nightgown and silver-white robe around it, her hair braided as though for sleep.

One of the edocharo was ready at the door, and so Csethiro nodded and allowed herself to be led out and up the winding stairwell a final turn. On the landing, the soldier of the second nohecharei pair – Csethiro could not recall his name, though she was sure she had heard it said. He gave a bow, and knocked softly on the door. In response to something Csethiro could not hear, he opened it and held it for her, and she left both him and her edocharo on the landing.

The imperial bedchamber was a curious affair – circular, of course, taking up almost the entirety of this floor of the tower. Across from the doors were frosted panels at angles, and she guessed that behind there would be a bath and other arrangements for cleanliness and such. To the left, and not in ready sight from the doorway, was the bed – a tremendous four-poster, with all the curtains drawn except for the side nearest her. And on the edge of the bed sat her husband, also wrapped in a silver-white robe. He gave her a slightly nervous smile when she entered, and she returned it.

‘We – ah, I believe Kiru has spoken to thee about… how this is to work?’ he said. He had wavered on the thee, and she noticed, but she made sure it did not show on her face. She nodded.

‘I understand,’ she said, and tried another small smile. This time his eyes slid away from hers.

‘Very well,’ he said softly. ‘Will – wilt thou join me?’

Csethiro nodded again; she couldn’t quite bring forth words. Something in his tone, his body language… it felt sad, somehow. Lost. As though he had conceded to something. She crossed the room and, after a moment’s hesitation that she hoped he did not see, climbed onto the bed. The curtains had already been pulled most of the way around them, so there was only one side left to close. Kiru Athmaza was stood near the window, her face carefully neutral, and Csethiro wondered what she thought of all this. At least ‘tis the woman this time, she thought, trying to dispel some of her unease.

‘Thank you Kiru, that will be all.’

‘Serenity.’

Kiru Athmaza bowed again to both of them, then stepped back into the position she presumably intended to occupy for the rest of the night, or however long these nohecharei remained on duty. At least she would not be able to hear them for the next hour. Csethiro and – Maia, she must get used to thinking Maia – moved in tandem to close the remaining curtain.

The bed enclosed, they sat across from each other, finally alone.

Within the curtains, one of the posts of the bed supported a little gaslight, and so the space was softly lit without casting any worryingly obvious shadows on the drawn curtains.

They ended up sitting just out of arms reach of each other, both cross-legged and uncertain. Csethiro looked at him. He seemed younger, like this – she had seen little glimpses of how he might be in private at moments during their dancing lessons, but not fully appreciated it. She knew she was three years older than him, but in this moment she did not feel it.

After a long pause in which Csethiro thought of a hundred things – should she say something? Reach for him? What would she say in the morning if it did not go well? – he spoke.

‘Thou lookst lovely,’ he said. She did not think he was lying, but there was a kind of hopelessness to his tone that almost made her flinch. She frowned.

‘Maia, art thou… art thou well?’

A mute nod; then a one-shouldered shrug.

‘I… I am nervous. And, being that nervousness makes things less, um, effectual, I am more nervous still.’ His smile was humourless. ‘Which doesn’t help.’

She blew out a breath. Nerves were understandable. Suddenly she did feel older than him. Certainly she had had more time to prepare for this night. Had he ever thought about it, in that isolated marshlands house? He had told her once that he had never expected to be freed from relegation.

‘Nerves are normal, I hear,’ she offered. ‘And others seem to manage. We needn’t… we needn’t rush.’

He gave her a weak smile. She watched him steady himself, curious; he straightened his posture a little, and though it clearly took him effort, met her eyes.

‘Csethiro,’ he said, in a tone that sounded rehearsed, and her attention sharpened. ‘I want thee to know… I have responsibilities, as an emperor, I must have an heir. But I will not… if thou dost not want to, then we will not. If thou never wishes to, then we will not, and I will formally acknowledge Idra as my heir and deal with any contestation to that as I may. Likewise if thou wishes to but cannot – if we do not succeed in, in conceiving a child, I wish thee to know I will not hold it against thee.’ He did not add as my father did his first wife, but he did not need to.

Csethiro reeled internally. If thou dost not want to… the duty of the emperor and the empress was to ensure succession, it was not that simple, he could not seriously be saying that he would… that he would not expect…

He was watching her, and his expression contained so much – worry and determination and fear, jumbled all together.

‘There are lines that cannot be crossed, not for anything,’ he said quietly. ‘And there are always alternatives. Idra is the most obvious, but Drazhada have adopted heirs from outside the line before. I do not wish thee to feel obligated, for thou art not.’ A pause; a breath; and then he forged on, his voice even quieter than before. ‘And if thou shouldst – political matches are things of the mind, not of the heart. If thou shouldst fall for another, I… I would not keep thee from him, though there would need to be measures to protect the imperial line and absolute discretion.’

She stopped breathing. Had he been any other man, she would have immediately suspected him of having a lover, and seeking to excuse it by granting her the same; but this was not of that nature, she could tell that without a thought. He looked away from her, then looked back.

‘I want thee to be happy.’

He speaks true.

Such arrangements were less common these days, but not unheard of, particularly for political marriages that were under a great deal of pressure to succeed. And was not this the greatest amount of pressure? The eyes of the Ethuveraz were on them; he was yet a new emperor; her response to him would hold a great deal of sway, and any discontent between them would impact how he was viewed by both the court and the populace. But that bore more thinking about at another moment. For now…

Underneath the carefully chosen words – he had practiced them, she thought, picked them out and smoothed them over, it had been important to him that he get them right – he sounded… desperate, almost. Desperate for what? It wasn’t the pleading tone that so often led to a …but. He was committed to what he had said, he believed in it. It was desperation that she believe him. And perhaps fear that she would not.

Csethiro did something then that she almost never did, and certainly had never expected to do on her wedding night.

She let her courtier’s façade drop entirely.

‘Maia, what art thou afraid of?’ she asked.

He gave another uncomfortable, one-shouldered shrug.

‘Becoming my father, I suppose,’ he said softly, looking down at the sheets. ‘Treating thee as… thou art my wife, but I do not own thee. Thou hadst no choice in this match, and that is – that is wrong, it is not how things should be. But I could not find a way out of it, everyone was so insistent and I needed to…’

He gestured vaguely, but she knew. She had been following the politics of court for more than half her life, after all. He had needed to solidify his position at court, becoming a married emperor with potential heirs as soon as possible. It had been a chess move, and she did not begrudge him for it.

‘Why didst thou pick me?’ she asked curiously. ‘I assume just politics…’

‘Politically, yes,’ he said softly, looking distressed. ‘And partly because everyone else was far from me in age or rank, and Osmin Duchenin is…’ he trailed off, pulling a face, and Csethiro bit back the unexpected urge to giggle. Isn’t she just.

‘Mm,’ she said, sympathetic.

He looked up at her, nervous.

‘I am sorry. ‘Tis hardly… romantic, or kind.’

‘Tis honest,’ she corrected. ‘And I have never minded that.’ She paused, steeled her nerve, and went on. ‘It seems we’re both in… a similar position, then. Neither of us chose this, precisely.’

Maia nodded – and he was becoming Maia to her rather rapidly, she realised. And it was easy to see why. She had been so determined to weasel out his political strategy, his hidden intentions, that she had entirely missed that he had been telling her who he was the whole time. She recalled his first note to her, tucked in with the formal offer of marriage. We fear this must be strange and awkward for you, as it is to us. She breathed out.

It was peculiar how a brief conversation could completely change her feelings on the subject. Moments ago she had been willing to do her duty – but it had been a duty, and one she was not at all sure she would like. A task to be ticked off. Now… now that was not there, she was free to consider the feelings that lay beneath it. She looked at him, tense and wrapped in the robe, and sorted through her feelings for him.

She liked him, well enough. He was earnest and known as a hard worker and more than a little stubborn. He had a sense of humour that she had seen glimpses of, usually kept muffled under the form and manner of an emperor. He was polite and kind to servants and seemed always to know their names. He listened when she spoke; he did not dismiss her thoughts as idle fancies, and had welcomed her opinion on any number of matters brought up idly in conversation. He had granted his sister freedom; he intended, as she knew from her conversations with him, to support his nieces in attending university if they wished to when they were old enough.

Very well then; someone she liked, and intended to go on to build more of a friendship with. And it was not as though he wasn’t handsome in his own way. She liked his smile, the way it lit his whole expression. He was turning into a good dancer, and she had certainly considered him once or twice in a light that was definitely inappropriate for an unmarried woman to think about. She wanted to try this with someone, someday. And here he was, beautiful in the half-darkness and concerned for her well-being. She swallowed, about to speak, and then hesitated as a thought struck her.

All this fuss about whether she was willing, when she had not asked if he was.

It wasn’t the way these things were usually spoken about, she knew. Men pursued, women either evaded or didn’t. But looking at him there, politely looking away from her to leave her to her own thoughts, tension in every line of his body…

‘Maia? Dost thou want to do this?’ she asked.

He looked up at her, startled. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again, and she could see him thinking over his words. Then he spoke, slowly.

‘In… in the abstract, yes, of course. I’m not made of stone, and thou art lovely,’ he added, with a nervous smile that made her smile in return. ‘In the particular… I do not know. It would be simpler in many ways if we did. But I wish… I wish we could take our time more. Learn each other better, first.’

She nodded, thinking.

‘Perhaps,’ she tried, ‘if thou wouldst like; we could, tonight. And then we’ve done our duty and no one can say we did not; but then we can take our time, and mayhap return to it when we know each other a little better?’

She watched his face, still not quite familiar enough with him to read it with ease. She thought there might be a little hope there, somewhere.

‘Thou… wouldst like to?’ he said, hesitantly. Csethiro took a breath, and then moved across the bed to sit next to him. He stiffened, but when she reached out her hand, he took it, and he met her eyes.

‘Maia, if we’re to do this – whatever this is, marriage, or friendship, or love, or sex – then I need thou to do one thing for me,’ she said.

‘Of course.’ The resolve was clear. Drazhadeise stubbornness, she thought to herself, oddly fond.

‘When I tell thee I am content with something, I need thee to trust me,’ she said, feeling as though she was speaking her wedding vows once more – but different this time. ‘I need thee to trust me. I promise I will not lie to thee, and that I will tell thee when I am unhappy, but thou must trust when I tell thee the good as well as the bad.’

He looked as though he was barely holding back a smile, albeit a watery one.

‘I – I can do that,’ he said, nodding.

‘Good. And wilt thou be honest in return? Tell me if thou art unhappy or thou wishest not to do something?’

‘I will.’

‘Well, then.’

They sat there quietly, for a minute or so, content in the silence. Csethiro could feel him next to her, a warm presence, and wondered what would happen now.

Suddenly, out of the blue, he spoke.

‘Dost thou ever think it strange, that this one thing is so forbidden and unspoken of at all other times and then on this night is supposed to suddenly be perfect? Even the wedding day had a rehearsal.’

He looked up and met her eyes, and there was nervousness there but also a wry smile.

It wasn’t terribly funny, but Csethiro couldn’t help it; her initial snort burst into full laughter. She was briefly horrified with herself before she realised that he was laughing too; it was some minutes before they subsided, and when they did, some of the discomfort seemed to have eased.

‘Very strange,’ she agreed belatedly. ‘Goddesses, but some social rules are so very stupid.’

He nodded, looking both sheepish and amused.

Csethiro turned in place so that she could look at him properly. He seemed to have lost a little of his fear, now.

‘Maia, thou promised that I would not need to, if I did not want to,’ she said.

He nodded. She took a breath.

‘And if I would quite like to see what it is like? With no expectation or need for it to be perfect,’ she added softly, and watched his eyes widen slightly.

He considered his answer carefully; she could see him turning his thoughts over in his mind the way she had a few minutes ago. What was left now that the apprehension had gone?

‘Then I, too, would quite like to,’ he said after a minute or so, and she saw the way he walked over his nervousness to say it and felt her fondness for him grow. She smiled.

‘From what I know about how this works,’ she confessed, ‘it’s probably still going to be a bit… awkward, the first time.’

He looked relieved.

‘Likewise,’ he said. ‘I mean, it would probably be silly to expect anything else.’

‘Have to start somewhere, though,’ she said, her voice softening. Then she steeled her nerve just enough to move closer. He went very still, and she watched him deliberately relax again. She leaned in, slowly, and after a moment he leaned forward too, and their lips met in a kiss.

~

‘Good morning, Zhasan,’ murmured the edocharei, curtsying. Csethiro paused, knowing the warmth of her smile was quite unlike her.

‘Yes, it very much is, isn’t it?’ she said in answer.

Chapter Text

Belthelema I, the 71^st Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Ruling more than three-quarters of what is now East Ethuveraz, from the Osreialhalan in the north to Puzhvarno in the south, Belthelema established a number of structures that still persist in today’s Ethuveraz. He was the first emperor to locate the ruling seat in Cetho, instead of the various more central locations that previous emperors had chosen, usually based upon political expediency. In doing so he has been painted as the forerunner of the Conqueror, as Cetho is central to unified Ethuveraz; however, this is revisionist, as it is exceedingly unlikely that a unification was considered even possible at the time.

Belthelema I is also noted for the establishment of the Nevennamire, and his support of the construction of the Mazan’theileian in close proximity to his court.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

Considerate.

Fair-minded.

A true gentleman.

Those six words seemed to be everywhere at court, accompanied by many expressive eyes and delighted expressions, and then swift changes of subject as though the speaker did not wish to be caught. The young men who heard them noted the tone of approval, assumed instantly that the compliment was generic and would by default apply to themselves, and thought no more on it. The older men who heard them chuckled to each other about young men. And the men who listened to their wives kept their thoughts to themselves, but eyed the young emperor with renewed respect.

The young ladies who spoke on the subject most fervently knew exactly what those words implied, and a small but significant portion of them shifted from pity for the poor Dach’osmin Ceredin to surprise and a certain amount of jealousy at the luck of Csethiro Zhasan.

To the household’s relief, His Serenity seemed to pick up in mood in the aftermath of the wedding. He was still quiet, contained, but something seemed to have eased. The zhasan did not stay the night again for several days, but the two of them were often together – she joined Himself for lunch twice, and they took walks around the court gardens, arm in arm. They spoke well of one another, with private smiles and glances away enough to leave the senior nobility full of fond remembrances of youthful affection. The edocharei coordinated with the edocharo to ensure that the zhas and zhasan wore tokens of one another; and if the emperor himself remained reserved and hard to interpret, the new empress had enough courtier’s skill to ensure their relationship was shown in its best light.

It was the sixth day after the wedding; the zhasan was due to visit again that evening for a private dinner and perhaps to stay the night for only the second time; and the emperor was just closing the yearly court-management meeting, a complicated affair involving an overview of the relation between the court, the Cetho administration, the prelacy, the Athmaz’are, and various other bodies and functionaries.

The meeting had been long indeed. Csevet fought against the urge to roll his shoulders and flex his hands. Time enough to settle himself soon, he knew; the meeting was done, all that remained was to gather up the papers and follow His Serenity back to the Alcethmeret. His Serenity would then be changing for dinner, and Csevet could take half an hour to relax.

‘Adremaza, we were wondering if you could assist us in a small matter,’ His Serenity said lightly as the various functionaries made their way out. Csevet stopped himself from frowning; this was not a matter that had been mentioned to him. He hastened his reorganisation of the paperwork, and moved to the top a few matters that seemed most likely to be relevant, listening carefully as His Serenity and the Adremaza exchanged pleasantries.

When the last of the others had left the room, the Adremaza gave a polite cough.

‘What was the matter with which we may assist you, Serenity?’

His Serenity gave a faint smile.

‘We wish to be certain that you know that we… greatly respect your opinion. Your advice, as the advice of your fellows, is invaluable to us in our work.’

The Adremaza looked puzzled, but flattered. He would have been looking for a trap from someone else, but no one yet expected sharpness from Edrehasivar VII. Csevet, however, was learning to see when it was approaching.

‘Thank you, your Serenity. It is our honour.’

‘And you will, of course, understand that we expect all such advice, whether it be in matters of government or matters of household, to come directly to ourself, as opposed to being directed behind our back.’

There it is. A long time coming; would the Adremaza recall his words to the First Nohecharei well enough to realise what the emperor referred to? The Seconds, on duty on either side of His Serenity, were as blank-faced as ever; it would be interesting to hear what they thought of this later. Csevet continued his neatening of the paperwork, projecting the image of a preoccupied clerk, and watching both His Serenity and the Adremaza without quite appearing to do so. The Adremaza had opened his mouth and closed it once or twice, but his voice quickly returned to him.

‘Serenity, we sincerely apologise if you feel that we have handled a matter inappropriately –’ he managed, with a good attempt at grace, but Csevet saw the sharpness in the emperor’s eyes and knew that the false apology had been noted. Bad choice, Adremaza.

‘It is not a matter of our feelings, Adremaza. It is proper form.’ His Serenity left a moment’s pause for the rebuke – not harsh, never harsh, but not quite soft either – to sink in before continuing. ‘Our household is our responsibility, and in future, we expect you to come directly to us if you have any concerns regarding any member of it. Even if you do hold some degree of overlapping jurisdiction. Is that quite clear?’

The Adremaza bowed, and Csevet saw him lick his lips nervously when he did so. Csevet had been keeping a mental note of tells in senior members of government, and he added this one to the list as a possibility with interest.

‘Of course, Serenity. We apologise.’

‘Thank you.’ Well done. Csevet had spent several minutes in a rather painful conversation with His Serenity the month before, explaining that the emperor should not dismiss an apology as unnecessary without very good reason, for it trivialised the offence.

There was a pause, and then His Serenity spoke again.

‘While the matter is raised, Adremaza, do you have any concerns you wish to raise with us? We are, as we said, quite willing to listen to your view.’

His Serenity was yet new to politics and so very, very young – but Csevet could already see, in the careful phrasing of moments like this, that he would one day outclass those around him with ease.

After a long pause, the Adremaza gave a somewhat unsettled smile.

‘Not at this time, Serenity.’

‘Very well then. Thank you for speaking with us.’

The Adremaza took the dismissal with relief and left after the proper forms. Csevet slipped the papers that he had been sorting into a file and followed the emperor out into the corridor.

~

Later, while the emperor was at that evening’s after-dinner entertainment and the nohecharei shift had changed, Kiru made her way over to the Mazan’theileian. A few minutes’ walk through the corridors, and then she was at the office she wanted. She knocked, entered, shut the door behind her, and turned to look at the man behind the desk.

‘Sehelis.’

The Adremaza heaved a sigh.

‘Kiru,’ he said shortly.

‘I hope you know I’ve had to rearrange my prepared speech – beaten to at least part of the task by the emperor, and that seemed to sink in quite well.’

Sehelis’s brow creased further.

‘His Serenity was quite correct to ask that I follow the proper channels in future,’ he said stiffly. ‘I don’t see that you could have anything appropriate to add.’

‘Which is, of course, precisely the problem and exactly why I need to come over here and give you a good ticking off, as I meant to more than a month ago when I found out about this.’

Sehelis spread his hands.

‘This is how you speak to your Adremaza?’

Kiru considered this.

‘Yes. When he’s being a pillock.’ She knew not to push further than that, but it was enough. Sehelis could be pompous – all that time working with nobility will do that to a man – but he had still grown in the informality of the Athmaz’are, and so a little reminder was easy to provide.

‘What point did you wish to make.’ A sentence, not really a question at all, but she would take what she could get.

‘You’re picking on Cala because you got one impression of him when he was fourteen and you’ve never let go of it despite how much he’s grown.’

‘I don’t think that’s entirely fair –’

‘No, neither do I, which again is rather the problem.’ She softened. ‘Sehelis, he’s twenty-seven. He was fourteen. And more than half the problem was the other michenmaza and you know it. We’re all awkward for a while at that age.’

Sehelis conceded to this with a shrug, but by the look on his face it was with bad grace.

‘What evidence do you have that the behaviour of the First Nohecharei requires correction?’ she asked, trying to keep a lid on her exasperation but only barely succeeding.

‘I’m fairly certain I’m supposed to take that to His Serenity and nowhere else.’

‘Sehelis, how long have we known each other? And besides, I’m asking about the correction you have already given. The horse is already loose, don’t stand there holding the gate shut now.’

Sehelis sighed.

‘The emperor selected the two of them for the coronation rites,’ he said. ‘When it was meant to be two close members of his family.’

‘If I remember the rules correctly it’s meant to be two men he can trust with his life,’ Kiru said, sitting down in the chair opposite Sehelis. ‘That’s an accurate description of the nohecharei, if they’re doing their jobs correctly.’ And the fact that he had no one else in his family that he felt that applied to is a less a comment on the first nohecharei than it is a scathing indictment of the way we was treated by the rest of the Drazhada. She kept that last thought to herself, though, considering it too personal to pass on.

Sehelis considered her words, his mouth twisted slightly, but gave no answer. Kiru rolled her eyes.

‘What else, then? Perhaps I can clear it up? Or is it just rumours, the sort that start with Csoru Zhasanai and only get more offensive the more they travel?’

Sehelis put his hands up defensively.

‘All right, Kiru, all right,’ he said wearily. ‘Perhaps I have been less than rigorous in my assessment of the information. But it does seem to be true that he does not… treat his household in the way one might expect. For an emperor.’

Kiru raised her eyebrows.

‘We have not noticed any lapse in formality between His Serenity and any of the staff, least of all the nohecharei,’ she said. ‘He has a different manner to the norm, is all. There’s been no breach of form, and if there were you can be certain Merrem Esaran would be on it in an instant. She has no tolerance for nonsense. Is that all?’

Sehelis looked at her a while longer before conceding.

‘That’s all,’ he said grudgingly. ‘I’ll trust your word on this, and leave the matter alone.’

‘And?’

‘…fine. Please pass on our apologies to Cala Athmaza and Lieutenant Beshelar.’

It was the best she was going to get.

‘Thank you, Adremaza,’ she said politely, matching his renewed formality.

‘Hm.’

She left, and felt quietly pleased with herself as she headed back to the Alcethmeret. That ought to do it. She had been uncertain as to whether to go forward with it before, not wanting to undermine His Serenity. But Edrehasivar had handled the formal end with grace and an appropriate measure of sternness, enabling her to cover the aspect of it more internal to the Athmaz’are, of which he would not be aware.

Cala’s reputation in the Athmaz’are was a tricky one – he was known for his proficiency with maz, of course, but also for his ever-skittering interests and lack of friends his own age. As someone who had always been the odd one out herself, Kiru empathised – but Sehelis and some of the others seemed to think that all Cala had to do was try a little harder. She knew better. Some things were baked in, and there was nothing wrong with that.

Still, that little conversation might quiet the grumbling down for a while. And Cala, at least, would appreciate the apology.

~

Two hours later, upstairs in the tower bedroom, Maia and Csethiro sat across from one another on the bed once more – this time, however, Maia felt considerably less weighed-down. The wedding night had been… he fought back a blush just thinking about it, but it had been nice. Awkward, and unpractised, but… nice. To share the awkwardness, to have their newness be mutual…

He wasn’t opposed to trying again, he thought, but he was glad they had agreed to take some time to get to know each other first. It put less pressure on this evening, certainly, for they could talk and feel no other obligation.

Csethiro, who had been toying with the inside of the bed curtain, straightened her posture somewhat and looked up at him.

‘Maia, I need to talk to thee,’ she said. ‘About – about what thou said on the wedding night. About… if I fell for another.’

Maia was suddenly, desperately grateful that he had long since learned to keep his face unmoving, his ears neutral. Thou knewst this might happen. Thou madest a promise. Now thou must follow through. He forced himself to nod and try for an attentive expression.

Perhaps his attempted blankness was not quite as good as he thought, for Csethiro looked worried.

‘I haven’t – that is to say, I have no lover, that I can promise thee,’ she said. ‘I just. Well…’

He could see her steeling herself.

‘I meant what I said,’ he said softly. ‘I do not own thee. All I ask is for thy discretion, and for us to protect the imperial line.’

She nodded, her teeth worrying her lower lip slightly. Maia found the mannerism rather endearing – it was not often he saw other courtiers without their perfect court-faces, but Csethiro seemed to relax a little when they were alone together. Thou art growing fond of her. Presumptuous, when she has little choice.

He pushed the thought to one side, concentrating on Csethiro, who seemed to have found her voice again.

‘There is a… relatively simple solution to the latter,’ she said carefully. ‘To protecting the imperial line. I would, if I chose a lover –’ the tips of her ears were faintly pink, Maia noticed, and then wished he hadn’t ‘– I might choose a woman.’

~

Maia nodded slowly, and Csethiro tried to relax a little, but it was difficult. He still had not said anything, though he did not look angry. Then again, she did still find him hard to read.

‘It is not…’ she tried, and then restarted. ‘I am fond of thee, and I do find men appealing. But I also… women also appeal to me, and I would very much be content to keep any… any occurrences – if indeed I had any, which I may not – to women. Then there is no risk of confusion over a child’s father.’

There was a very long silence, stretching out until Csethiro was almost ready to start tearing the pillows apart in her nerves. And then Maia, looking distinctly as though he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, said hesitantly,

‘Is not… is not that normal?’

Whatever she had been expecting him to say, it was not that. She blinked. Opened her mouth, then closed it again.  

‘Maia, what dost thou mean?’ she said slowly, a realisation dawning but not one she was willing to trust just yet. Surely not. Though he did grow up in comparative isolation…

Maia fidgeted, his fingers tugging at the sheet, and she had to suppress the urge to hurry him. Let him think.

‘Well – I know of, um, of marnei, men who only… to whom only other men appeal, and I know that is considered, at the very least, unusual. And some people disapprove, though others seem not to, and I –’ he shrugged uncomfortably ‘- well, I do not know enough about it to have an opinion, I think. And I know that marriage is only for a man and a woman, so that they may have children and so that the law knows which of them has left their own family and, and joined another. But, surely… I thought…’ He trailed off, biting his lower lip.

Csethiro nodded slowly, keeping her thoughts to herself.

‘Maia,’ she said carefully, ‘do you find people… appealing? Regardless of gender.’

Maia looked rather uncertain.

‘Well, of course,’ he said. ‘That’s just – I thought – well, I assumed it wasn’t proper to speak of at court. Nobility must have a family line, and suchlike. But… thou speakest as though – as though to do so isn’t…’

‘We feel much the same as thee,’ she said quickly, wanting to reassure him. ‘Truly, it seems normal to us – and it’s certainly more common than is typically spoken of. But… most folks are only drawn to the opposite sex. Um. Everyone else is considered marnei.’

‘…oh.’

‘And as for some people disapproving, well,’ Csethiro continued, not liking how small Maia had made himself across from her, nor the way he was staring down at the bedsheets, ‘that is because they are either very ignorant, or because they are simply seeking an excuse to be cruel. Those people would find something wrong with their identical twin if they wished to, and no one should pay them any heed.’

Maia was still not looking at her. Csethiro huffed a little, and then moved across the bed to sit next to him. She took care to make sure he noticed her approach – he would flinch slightly if she touched him unexpectedly, she had noticed, and had stored that piece of information away for careful consideration in the future. For now she simply made a little more of a production of changing position than was necessary, and then making sure to put her hand in his eyeline before she placed it on his knee. He looked up at that, and gave her a faint smile.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I have… learnt something? At least. Um. I thank thee.’ He took a breath and then let it out slowly. ‘I suppose it must be just… one of the hazards of living away from, well, people. To not know this sort of thing.’

Csethiro moved again, this time sitting beside him. Gently, she wrapped an arm around his shoulders and got both of them leaning against the headboard. After a little hesitation, and Csethiro’s encouragement, Maia rested his head on her shoulder and sighed.

‘Comfortable?’

‘Yes – art thou?’

‘Mm-hm.’

There was a pause, and then a thought occurred to Csethiro.

‘Maia – I meant it when I said that ‘tis more common that often thought,’ she said. ‘There are plenty of people at court – and most here think of it as simply a private matter rather than a particularly scandalous one.’

From what she could see of his expression at this angle, she had piqued his interest.

‘…who – ah, no, ‘tis an inappropriate question,’ he said. ‘Not my business.’

‘The facts are not thy business, agreed,’ said Csethiro, shifting her hand to toy with the end of his sleep braid. ‘But rumour is the blood of the Untheileneise Court, and ‘tis an emperor’s responsibility to be aware of it.’

The calculated innocence in her voice was enough to provoke a small laugh out of him.

‘Very well then,’ he said. ‘What are these rumours?’

Csethiro considered her approach. People she actually knew about, popular targets of rumours that were likely accurate, popular targets of rumours that were likely inaccurate, and people no one gossiped about but she herself suspected… the first category was off limits, at least in terms of confirmation. Those were confidences that Csethiro would not betray and that Maia would have to earn. But common knowledge or reputation? Those were fair game.

‘Probably the highest rank of the men to be rumoured about is the Marquess Lantheval,’ she said, and laughed when Maia made a shocked exclamation.

‘Truly?’

‘Well, he has spent his whole life unmarried, without a hint of an affair, and has elected not to hasten his niece to marriage either. ‘Tis enough for many to conclude his interest lies solely in men.’

‘And no one minds?’

‘He is a little too wealthy and powerful to be concerned as to whether or not anyone else minds. Besides, with the Lord Pashavar as a rather defensive friend, he is doubly protected.’

‘Pashavar knows?’

Csethiro tipped a hand from side to side. ‘Could go either way, though my guess is he does. Pashavar is extremely traditional, but that only means he likely thinks it inappropriate to discuss rather than inappropriate to be.’

‘Hm.’

They were quiet for a few moments, and then Maia spoke.

‘Sorry, Csethiro,’ he said. ‘Thou wert working up to something, and I have… derailed the subject.’

Csethiro laughed.

‘I was working up to telling thee I liked women,’ she said. ‘That was all. And, I suppose…’ the other thought wasn’t properly formulated, really, more a memory of various books on court history tied to what she thought she knew of Maia, but perhaps it was worth discussing…

‘Thou supposest...?’ Maia asked gently. She liked him like this – relaxed and smiling, the weight of the world off his shoulders for a handful of minutes. She took a breath, and pressed forward.

‘Maia, dost thou know what a kerich agreement is?’

~

Across the court, in respectable but less ornate rooms, a very different conversation was occurring.

‘How can I trust thee again? That thou wouldst raise thy hand is enough to cause me to despair of thee, do not be mistaken, but that thou wouldst lie to me also – what more wouldst thou lie about?’

‘Nothing – never –’

‘Nothing! Never! Why shouldst I believe thee? No, Setheris. I have thought, and thought – I have wracked my heart in trying to forgive thee, trying to understand – and I come to this. I cannot trust thee; I cannot trust thy word; I cannot trust thy oath, and so it means nothing. I leave to stay with my sister in the morning. When I have my affairs in order, I will put in the petition for divorce, and I expect thee to grant it.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘Then I will beg audience with thy misused cousin, our emperor, and ask his sympathy and permission. I would be very surprised if he did not grant it; I avoid it only to save myself the shame. But if thou wilt not –’

‘No, Hesero, I – I will. In the morning, or... whatever thou wishest. Please. I was – I was so alone, and so afraid; I am sorry.’

‘The beating of a child is not a broken plate, Setheris. Thou art proven as the kind of man who will harm another on a whim, and being alone and afraid does not excuse that. Thou madest a choice, each time, and now here are the consequences. Less than thou deservest.’

‘But – but – Hesero –’

‘All that time, swearing to me that thou hadst not committed treason. That thou wert ambitious, but never treacherous.’

‘I was not. I committed no treason, thou knowest –’

‘You betrayed us. You betrayed your charge, the child in your care. And in doing so you betrayed your emperor.’

‘Varenechibel never gave a damn about –’

‘Don’t you dare bring that man’s failures to your defence. Another man’s wrongdoing is not your redemption.’

Silence, long and pained. Then a sigh.

‘Go to bed. We both need sleep.’

‘Hesero –’

‘No. No more, now.’ A hitch of breath. ‘Goodnight, Setheris.’

 ‘…Goodnight, Hesero.’

Chapter Text

Edrethelema VI, 188^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Edrethelema VI was the last emperor of the four who contributed to the construction of the current Untheileneise Court; it was completed in the twelfth year of his reign. By his coronation it was, therefore, largely complete, but Edrethelema nevertheless had significant input: the development of pneumatic messaging systems had attracted his interest, and he delayed the construction in order to add more than twenty miles of tube for the purposes of efficient court communication. This remains in use today. Edrethelema additionally pushed for additions to the staff areas that encouraged more staff to lodge at the court itself, rather than in Cetho.

Edrethelema VI was also noted for a number of mistresses and affairs that shocked even besides the lax standards of his court. He was succeeded by his second son after disinheriting the first for reasons never made public.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

It was a late spring evening, after a very long day of work, on which the nohecharei were updated on the nature of the imperial relationship.

The three edocharei had just left and Cala was absently considering his current field of research (migratory birds of the Osreialhalan) while checking the wards around the tower, when the emperor spoke into the darkness.

‘Cala, um.’ His tone seemed nervous but not frightened. Cala looked in the direction of the bed, though he could not see much more than an outline.

‘Serenity?’

A pause.

‘Cala, do you know what a kerich agreement is?’ The words came out in a rush, as though it had taken him some effort to get them out – and Cala could guess why.

A kerich agreement was the term for a marriage that… well, there were variations, but it meant an agreement had been formed around having relations with people outside the marriage. Permission, but conditions. Keeping his tone even and free of judgement, Cala responded.

‘Yes, Serenity. They are not as common as they once were, but they’re certainly still in use at court.’

Not that Cala knew exactly who, but he would be very surprised if the practice had died out. Most of the nobility still married for political or financial reasons, and those marriages had to work – sometimes the easiest way to ensure that they would was to make sure that people had a degree of freedom. Albeit under certain constraints.

‘We, ah. Cseth- the zhasan and ourself have decided that – we will have one.’

Cala chose his words carefully.

‘We understand, Serenity,’ he said. ‘We are glad that yourself and the zhasan are able to trust one another in such a way.’

Another pause, and Cala thought he could almost hear Edrehasivar chewing that one over. If he’d thought Cala would be judgemental about it, he had been mistaken. Cala had no objection to this sort of thing – it seemed to him a perfectly sensible solution to being unable to pursue one’s desires directly. But did that mean…

‘Thank you, Cala,’ the emperor said eventually. ‘We felt that the nohecharei should be informed. Not that we intend – there is no one that – it seems unlikely we would –’

One was not supposed to interrupt an emperor, but sometimes it was more important to be merciful than to be proper.

‘It is useful for us to be aware of it, Serenity,’ Cala said, ‘and we assume it is something you would prefer we keep between the four of us?’ In other words, shall I pass this on to the other three to save you the trouble?

‘Ah, yes, please, if you would.’

Cala hesitated, and then decided it was probably kinder to have the entire matter done with in one conversation rather than to drag it out.

‘Serenity, may we ask what the rules of the agreement are, if they are decided?’ he asked. ‘While we very much doubt that the zhasan would ever behave improperly, we are supposed to report anything we notice on the subject to yourself, and we would hate to embarrass either of you by picking up on something that had already been agreed to.’

Edrehasivar made a distinctly un-imperial sound of uncertainty; Cala reached for reassurance.

‘Serenity, it is a fairly unremarkable arrangement by court standards, and it is neither our place nor our inclination to judge your decision to use it,’ he said.

Edrehasivar let out a long breath.

‘We know,’ he said quietly. ‘And we thank you.’

Cala inclined his head instinctively, even though the emperor could not see him.

‘Very well,’ Edrehasivar said, after several moments’ thought. ‘The conditions of our agreement – either one of us may engage in a – in a relationship, with another person, provided that we maintain absolute discretion, and that we do not in so doing… endanger the imperial line. This may mean… confining the nature of the relationship… or confining relationships to those, ah, of the – of the same gender.’

Well, now. That answers that question. Or, at least, it opens some possibilities…

‘We understand, Serenity; thank you for keeping us informed,’ he said.

‘You are welcome,’ the emperor said, tone teetering between excess formality and sheepishness. ‘Goodnight, Cala.’

‘Goodnight, Serenity.’

The minutes ticked softly past, and Cala turned his thoughts over in his mind between ward-checks and sight-checks of the room. It was possible it was only the zhasan who was marno – but it was equally possible that His Serenity…

He would speak to Kiru, Deret, and Coris when he could do so discreetly. In the meantime, what was important? That His Serenity was content with the arrangement. He had sounded so, underneath the discomfort of speaking about it. It bore keeping an eye on, but there was every chance that nothing much would come of it. And even if it did, they were two sensible people; Cala felt confident that this was something the imperial couple could navigate as it suited them.

Shifting his weight, he carefully set the matter to one side in his mind, trying to ignore the thought that was inevitably making itself heard anyway.

What might this mean for Csevet?

~

While the imperial marriage, privately and publicly, seemed to be both comfortable and affectionate, not everything in the imperial life was proceeding as smoothly.

It had been a quiet day of steady work – Esaran’s favourite kind. She had just gotten comfortable at her little desk in the corner of the kitchen and was going over the accounts when Kiru and Coris arrived, having just finished their shift.

Ebremis greeted them, still in the process of finishing their meals. Staff ate at set times designed to avoid the kitchen having to prepare their food simultaneously with the emperor’s, but nohecharei were entitled to a meal whenever was convenient to them.

‘I’m a few minutes delayed,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Won’t be long though.’

‘No rush, Ebremis – our thanks, as always.’ Kiru all but fell into a chair and then let her head fall onto her folded arms. Coris sat down next to her, looking glum. Esaran raised her eyebrows at them.

‘Trouble?’ she asked.

Coris pulled a face.

‘Just the usual, though I wish it wasn’t,’ Kiru said, her voice muffled. Then she pulled herself upright and sighed. ‘With all due respect to the people in this room, what is it about young men that makes them so determined to forge through their problems and never let anyone help them?’

There was a little laughter at that, but given that ‘the people in this room’ included four men under twenty-five it had a sheepish edge.

‘Himself?’ Avris asked from his place at the sink, where he was rinsing some cleaning cloths. ‘He didn’t seem right again this morning.’

‘He seemed sad before the wedding,’ Nemer said. ‘Closed-off. Now it’s got more of an edge to it. Though he said he was well when I asked.’

‘He was off all day,’ Coris said, leaning back in the chair and stretching his back. ‘He was masking it well, for the most part – I don’t think it was publicly obvious. But when you’re with him the whole time… he snapped at Csevet twice. Apologised immediately, of course, and his version of a snap isn’t exactly harsh, but still. And he’s back to over-checking his work again.’

‘If I’m counting right, that makes every day this week he’s been like that,’ Avris said. ‘It’s not as though it hurts us. I don’t mind him being in a poor temper – everyone is, sometimes. But…’

‘But it’s not like him, and I don’t like that he won’t talk about the cause,’ Nemer finished for him, and Avris nodded in agreement.

‘So do we know what’s given his mood a kicking?’ Ebremis asked, bringing the nohecharei their food. ‘I thought he’d picked up after the wedding.’

‘He did,’ Kiru agreed, digging in. ‘At least… their marriage seems to be going well. They’re clearly fond of each other, new though it is.’

‘So it’s not her, thankfully,’ Esha said. ‘That’s a blessing. It gives him one more person to turn to.’

‘Mm.’

Esaran still had the accounts open in front of her, but all her attention was on the conversation. The priority of the staff was the emperor’s wellbeing, but it could be a challenging matter. And for all he had been at court more than half a year now, Edrehasivar was in many ways still a mystery.

Avris sighed.

‘I don’t know what we can do for him. If it’s luxury or comforts, he must know he can have anything he asks for.’

‘Maybe it’s the asking for that’s the problem,’ Nemer piped up. ‘He’s always so reluctant to put anyone out. But he knows he can, so I don’t know what else we can do to encourage him.’

‘He needs rest, but we also need to work out why this is happening and how to make it stop,’ Kiru said, waving her fork in frustration.

‘He needs to eat more, and sleep better,’ added Ebremis from the stove. ‘And neither of those things are as easy as people think they are.’

‘Is it just overwork?’ Esaran said, with a slightly questioning tone. She was the house steward, but she did not see His Serenity with the frequency that some of the other staff did, and trusted their judgement. ‘Perhaps speaking to Ushenar might help? Or Berenar, to help adjust the workload?’

‘We’ve suggested both,’ Coris said. ‘He brushed us off. We can press the matter a little, but if he’s not willing to try...’

The kitchen subsided into quiet. Esaran frowned, her eyes wandering over the figures in the accounts book without taking them in.

‘I’m sure he’ll work it out,’ Esha said quietly. ‘We just need to keep our standards, and keep watching for opportunities to help. The zhasan’s staying over tomorrow night – perhaps he’ll talk to her.’

‘We can only hope,’ Kiru said.

~

The mood of the emperor, which seemed to decline further as the days passed, made the following incident all the more unexpected. It was a clear day in late spring, the last before the first days of summer, and it was Csevet’s birthday. The emperor, having somehow obtained knowledge of this (from Esha, Cala knew), had passed a message (via Cala) to the undersecretaries as to whether or not they could, with preparation, manage without Mer Aisava for one day. Having been given to understand that they could, on that morning the emperor wished his secretary a happy birthday, and informed him that in thanks for all of his hard work he was to take the day for his own leisure.

Cala, who had just finished his shift as Csevet was granted his freedom, caught up with him in the east gardens. He slowed down to fall in step beside him.

‘Csevet,’ he said. ‘Damn, thought I’d lost thee for a minute there. Hopefully no one saw me – a running maza tends to unsettle people.’

He gave a little laugh at this, but Csevet did not respond. Cala glanced around, flicking out a touch of maz to be sure no one was watching, picked a spot, and then took Csevet firmly by the arm and led him there. It was a discreet place amongst the hedgerows, not in clear view from any direction, where they should be able to talk for a little while in private. Though he did make a mental note to be careful about the timing of their exit, for anyone seeing them would be certain they had had a tryst, and no one needed that gossip passed about – let alone reaching Himself’s ears.

‘Sit down, come on. It’s dry.’

Csevet obeyed in silence, and then the two of them were sat there in the shade. Cala leaned back on his hands and blew out a long sigh, wondering where to start.

‘Thou shouldst be resting,’ Csevet said quietly.

Cala shrugged.

‘And thou shouldst be delighting in thy surprise day of freedom,’ he said. ‘But I think we both know why thou art not.’

Cala had expected shock, or denial, but Csevet gave no sign of either, only staring intently at the ground as though there was something there he very much wanted to crush.

‘It was a kind thing for him to do,’ he said after a minute. His voice was sharp and he did not look at Cala, who nodded slowly.

‘It was,’ he said. ‘But kind things don’t always have kind results.’

‘That isn’t his fault.’

‘Mm.’

Cala wondered what percentage of fault it was if a person didn’t ask to see what someone would like and just gave it to them anyway, but knew better than to make that point aloud. There were, however, other things that might merit simply being blunt.

‘Have you considered just… telling him?’ he said.

Csevet turned on him immediately.

‘Art thou mad?’ he said, spluttering but still keeping his voice low. ‘He’s happily married, and that’s – that’s only the most prominent of the many reasons why not.’

He said it as though there could be no possible argument. Cala conceded to this with a tilt of the head.

‘Tis true, he’s happily married. But…’

‘There is no “but” in that sentence,’ Csevet said firmly.

‘There is, I’ve been in the imperial bedchamber.’

Now that was enough to shock him.

‘Cala Athmaza!’ Csevet hissed, before shaking his head in reluctant laughter. ‘Thou art a disgrace.’

Cala smirked.

‘I’ve never denied that.’

They lapsed into silence. After a few minutes, Cala tried again.

‘Why canst thou not tell him? I know ‘tis obvious to thee, and I’m not a fool either, but tell me anyway.’

Csevet let out a long, slow breath.

‘Because the best-case scenario is that he nods, we agree to never discuss the matter again, and I have to do my work every day with it hanging between us,’ he said. ‘And the worst-case scenario…’ he trailed off, his fingers toying with a blade of grass.

‘I cannot think that Himself would be insensitive,’ Cala ventured. ‘He is a kind man; he is fond of thee. I would not judge thee for keeping the matter private, I only thought that thou shouldst not live in fear of –’

When Csevet interrupted him, it was in a hard, brittle voice that did not seem as though it belonged to him.

‘Himself would be mortified. We do not even know what his opinion of such things is, and we suspect he barely comprehends that such people as ourself exist. We would have to confess and then immediately remove ourself from employment, from the best position we have ever had.’ There was a beat, and then Csevet added, with a small humourless smile, ‘And after that, Herself would probably skewer us at the first opportunity.’

Cala held back on the urge to shake him, or at least use a maz to douse him in cold water. He does not have thy knowledge, hasty maza. And ‘tis only a hunch to thee, besides. Instead, he rubbed his face with hands, and bit back quite a few things he knew he shouldn’t say.

‘You do both of them discredit,’ he said eventually, and saw Csevet wilt, fractionally, in response to the disapproving tone.

‘I will not do that,’ said Csevet quietly, with a shake of his head, ‘which is why I will say nothing. And thee – thou wilt say nothing either?’ There was a slight hesitance in this, and Cala regretted having been so harsh.

‘Of course not,’ he said, willing Csevet to trust him. ‘Thou hast my word. As I said, I have no objection to thee keeping it to thyself – I would, an ‘twere me. I just don’t think thou shouldst live in fear over it.’ He paused. ‘And you can trust that no one else will say anything either, if they guess; no one wants to risk thee doing something stupid. Such as leaving. Where would any of us be without thee, Csevet?’

Csevet waved him off.

‘Hush, you’d all manage,’ he said.

‘Himself would be devastated if thou left,’ Cala said softly, and watched it land.

‘…Yes. I know.’

Another silence, while Cala tried to sort through what he could and could not share. Ah, there was something.

‘Himself does know that people like thee exist,’ Cala said. ‘It has come up – after the assassination attempt, at Winternight.’

Csevet’s face was unreadable, but something in his posture tensed.

‘I recall,’ he said quietly.

‘He didn’t seem to think much of it – that is, he didn’t seem to think it was remarkable, or a reason to condemn someone.’

‘He wouldn’t have said anything if he had, he’s too polite. And besides, even without that, ‘tis not reciprocated. Perhaps I would be lucky and he would not think less of me; but then he would pity me, which is worse.’

Cala threw his hands up in in exasperation.

‘Csevet, I’m not suggesting thou shouldst proposition the man – I’m not even saying thou shouldst tell him at all. But thou shouldst talk to someone about how thou feelest, and shouldst stop dwelling in it as a misery. If thou art unhappy –’

Csevet stood abruptly and Cala fell silent, worried that he had gone too far.

‘We thank you for your advice, Cala Athmaza, but we have been granted a day of freedom in which to celebrate our birthday, and it would be wasteful and ungrateful to not make the most of it. We shall undoubtedly encounter you at a later point. Good day.’

…he had definitely gone too far, he thought glumly as he watched Csevet stride off without a single glance back. But then, it needed to be said. Well, something had needed to be said. Maybe he should have left it to Deret. Or Kiru. Or Coris. Or left the matter entirely. He sighed, and got to his feet. He needed sleep, that at least was certain. Perhaps the problem would be clearer when he woke.

Chapter Text

Beltanthiar IV, the 114^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Known as a nervous child and an anxious young man, Beltanthiar IV was very sheltered by his father after his older brother was killed by Orava the Usurper during the latter’s attempt on the throne. This undoubtedly contributed to his focus on safety throughout his reign – a focus some historians have labelled paranoia, though that is perhaps unfair. Beltanthiar IV was responsible for great increases in the security of the imperial family, expanding the size of the Untheileneise Guard threefold, and adding both rules and laws limiting access to the imperial person.

He had a relatively quiet reign, and produced nine children – the highest number of legitimate children of any emperor to date.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

The day had been a slog. The week had been a slog. But that was normal. Thinking back, Maia could not to recall the last time that he hadn’t pushed through the day on the edge of exhaustion. But this was his role now, he reminded himself. He had responsibilities to attend to. Endless responsibilities.

He dragged his attention back to the matter at hand: Lord Berenar, sitting across from him in the Tortoise Room. Maia put down the paper he had finished looking over (a report on the progress of Berenar’s changes to the chancellery), and tried to find a grateful expression.

‘We thank you, Lord Berenar; this is excellent work.’

‘Thank you, Serenity.’

And that’s all, so at least this meeting’s over. Then he would ask Csevet what else needed squeezing in before dinner, then he would need to dress for dinner and attend, then there was some social event to endure afterwards, and then, finally, he would be able to sleep.

If he could sleep, which was hardly a guarantee these days. Bad dreams and nightmares seemed to be the way of things most nights now. But it would be dark, and quiet, and perhaps that would be just enough before he rose to handle tomorrow’s troubles.

Maia gave Berenar a polite smile.

‘If that is all, Lord Berenar, then we shall not keep you.’

Berenar hesitated.

‘If you will forgive us, Serenity, there is in fact one further matter we wish to discuss with you. And it is a somewhat delicate one.’

Wonderful. One more matter. Just one more. Always one more.

‘Of course, Lord Berenar. What is the matter in question?’ he said, pushing the weariness back and down, keeping his back straight and his ears up.

‘Serenity…’ Berenar said, and then halted himself and began again. ‘It has been a… difficult year for many at court, but perhaps for Your Serenity most of all.’

Maia nodded, and then abruptly remembered it was inappropriate of him to respond wordlessly – but Berenar continued before he could amend it.

‘We believe you have achieved a great deal over the last ten months, Serenity, and we hope that you take pride in that – we are honoured to be your Lord Chancellor, and we know the senior government is both pleased and impressed by your dedication to the responsibilities of your position.’

‘Tis not like Berenar to fill the air with meaningless flattery. What sting is he attempting to sweeten? Maia fought the urge to grit his teeth, but knew that his jaw had tensed. He carefully did not look at Csevet, though he knew the secretary’s expression might give him a hint of what was coming.

‘However,’ Berenar continued. ‘We must express our concern. You have been under a great deal of pressure, and it has been noted by one or two of your government that you seem… weary, and perhaps over-stressed. Your well-being is of the utmost importance, and we wish to confirm that all is…well.’

Maia thought he had never come so close to losing his temper. Weary. Over-stressed. Noted by one or two of your government. Relying heavily on every hard-learned manner he had, he raised his chin slightly and tilted his head a little. Back straight. Ears up. Neutral expression.

‘Have we completed any of our work to an unacceptable standard?’ he asked, grateful to be able to keep his tone steady. Berenar frowned.

‘Serenity, your work is not the issue – were there flaws in it, we would have addressed them as we saw them. What concerns us is the more personal matter of your own well-being.’

Every time Maia thought he had adjusted to the emperor’s lack of privacy, some other aspect of it would rise up. This was one such matter – the emperor’s personal feelings were, apparently, the subject of government discussion. And could therefore be brought up and corrected, if they were not suitable.

Part of Maia knew he was being a little unfair, but a greater part of him was too busy feeling exposed and defensive.

‘If our work is not impeded, we do not see that it is a subject relevant to our government,’ he said. Berenar raised his eyebrows, and leant back slightly in his chair. Csevet, whom Maia had been attempting to ignore, was almost completely motionless to Maia’s right, watching both of them.

‘The task you do is a challenging one,’ Berenar said, after a few moments’ consideration. ‘It is not unreasonable to be worn down by it. But we would urge caution – while your dedication is appreciated, now that the aftermath of the winter events has largely passed there is little that cannot occasionally be delayed. Your Serenity must have a care for your health. We do not offer this as an intrusion; merely as advice, in our position as one of your many advisors.’

Maia felt as though his head was thrumming with a low buzz of anger. Don’t. Do not, hobgoblin. Keep thy tongue. Keep thy temper. How does Edrehasivar respond? Not Maia, not the angry child, how does the emperor respond?

But it was almost impossible to reign in. He worked so hard, and now he was failing –

He had been silent for too long. Berenar was watching him with concern.

‘What do you suggest?’ Maia asked, barely managing to prevent it from being a snap. Perhaps he did not quite succeed, for he saw Csevet stiffen in the corner of his eye.

‘Your Serenity should take some time for yourself,’ Berenar said bluntly, unperturbed. ‘Take this evening, dine here and rest. Take tomorrow off.’

No. ‘We have matters to attend to –’

‘Serenity, they will wait one day,’ Berenar cut in, insistent. ‘Your health may not be so patient.’

Maia said nothing, because all he could think to say he knew he would later regret. Instead he folded all of the shame and embarrassment and anger into a tight little ball in his chest, and managed an approximation of a polite nod.

‘We shall consider your advice, Lord Chancellor,’ he said, and knew he sounded far colder than Berenar deserved. Csevet, between the two of them, kept his face impeccably neutral, but Maia thought he detected a slight lowering of his ears in disappointment.

‘We hope so, Serenity,’ Berenar said stiffly. ‘It does you and those around you no good to force yourself forward with no rest. Your example is followed by many at court; we know much of your time here has been consumed with urgent matters, and we hope now that those are largely concluded you will see fit to take the rest appropriate to your station as well as to your workload.’

Before Maia could even begin to work out a response, his thoughts a tangled mess, Berenar rose and bowed.

‘We will, with your permission, leave you to your work, Serenity,’ he said. ‘And we urge you to consider the matter and take at least this evening and tomorrow to rest.’

Maia could see the concern in his eyes again, and could not bear it. Instead he looked away, at the early evening sky visible through the window of the Tortoise Room.

‘Thank you, Lord Chancellor,’ he said. When Berenar had left, he turned stubbornly back to his paperwork, his whole body daring Csevet or the nohecharei to comment. They did not, though when he glanced up he thought they might have been exchanging looks on the subject. This did not improve his mood.

Berenar had been the last appointment of the day, though there was an hour before dinner. Maia worked defiantly for half of it before rising to get ready – and then something happened, he was not entirely sure what, and suddenly he was only half-upright, held firmly from falling further by Beshelar.

‘Serenity, are you well?’

He got his feet under himself and pulled away.

‘Fine, fine,’ he muttered, looking away. There was an awkward moment of silence.

‘Serenity,’ Beshelar said, his tone indicating his lack of hope for success, ‘the Lord Chancellor is correct. You are exhausted, and it would be entirely appropriate for you to dine privately tonight, that you can rest earlier.’

‘There is no error in it,’ Cala put in worriedly. ‘No one is perfectly well at all times. And if –’ a minute little pause ‘– if you intend to work tomorrow, despite – if you intend to work tomorrow, then perhaps it would help to have a restful evening, at least.’

It was Cala’s hesitancy that got to him. Maia could not, for a moment, work out what would cause his First Nohecharis to sound so nervous in voicing an opinion – and then it came back to him, a flood of little moments of dismissal or slightly too-sharp rebukes. He had been pushing them off for weeks. No wonder Cala was nervous of speaking up.

Thou hast forgotten everything thy mother taught thee, arrogant hobgoblin. See how those around thee begin to fear thee?

Maia stood there for a long moment and let himself feel. His hands ached, the rings heavy on his fingers. His back and legs were sore from sitting all day, he was hungrier than he had realised, and the way his head felt light and his bones felt hollow – when had that become normal? This is what it is to be emperor. But he was distressing his nohecharei, and surely he was not meant to do that either…

No, thou art meant to be competent. Then thou wouldst not be so overwrought by such a workload. Thy father handled this every day of his life for years.

Maia shook his head a little. That dry internal voice seemed to have grown crueller over the last few weeks, and harder to ignore. I am not my father, he thought, but it did not help. He glanced down, and closed his fists against the trembling of his hands. Berenar was at least right about one thing; he was not fit to dine with the court tonight. He would more likely fall over. And that felt awful, but there was nothing to be done but bear it and work to compensate for it tomorrow.

Carefully not meeting anyone’s eyes, he raised his head.

‘We will dine in the Alcethmeret tonight,’ he said. ‘Csevet, if you could see to any appropriate arrangements, we would appreciate it.’

Without waiting for a response, shame burning in the back of his throat, he left the room to be made ready for his newly solitary evening.

~

The dining room felt distinctly unfriendly, Cala thought, and then shook the thought off. He was letting Himself’s mood catch, and that did no good for anyone. He settled himself about four feet back from the emperor’s chair, standing against the wall; Beshelar took one of the seats to the side of the door. Cala could have joined him, but he had been sitting all afternoon and he had tired of it. Besides, were not nohecharei supposed to be unpredictable? Ha.

He watched Isheian bring the starter, and Himself get through it with his usual neutrality. He hadn’t often seemed enthusiastic about food previously, Cala thought – only really when he came back from riding lessons, which did something to provoke an appetite – but these days it really seemed as though he wasn’t present. He could have been sat motionless staring at the wall, for all the interest he showed in the meal. But he finished it in an orderly manner, and thanked Isheian politely when she took it away and then again when she returned with the main course. Then he picked up the knife and fork – and lost his grip, somehow. Cala couldn’t quite see what had happened, but the knife clattered to the ground. Cala stepped forward first on instinct, and then continued out of helpfulness. He picked up the knife and put it back onto the table, to one side, and retrieved a spare from the discreet little cabinet in the corner. When he set it down carefully next to the plate, he had expected the usual quiet little thank you. He didn’t get it. Instead, a shudder seemed to run through Himself’s body; his hands, folded in his lap, didn’t move; and his breathing was odd, stuttering, uncertain.

‘Serenity?’ Cala said quietly, concerned, seeing Beshelar lean slightly forward in his chair. They had learned that Himself preferred not to be crowded, which was probably the only thing holding Beshelar back. And then another shudder, and Cala went to go to move around to see Himself better but stopped because Beshelar had left his seat. Within moments, the soldier was kneeling by the emperor’s chair, looking up at him.

‘Serenity?’ he said, more insistently than Cala had. ‘Serenity, please look at us. Here. Watch our hand.’ He held it up, at just above knee-height for Himself, and Cala watched in confusion as he began to open and close it in a slow rhythm.

‘Breathe out when it opens, in when it closes,’ Beshelar said, and if his tone was still formal it was also – almost brotherly, perhaps. Older brotherly. Cala moved around and saw that Himself had tears streaking down his cheeks; he was watching Beshelar’s hand, clearly struggling to do as he was asked but trying nonetheless.

‘We know what this is, Serenity,’ said Beshelar gently. ‘It will pass, it is hard, but it will pass, keep following the breathing.’ He glanced up at Cala, pointedly, but Cala was not sure what he had meant to indicate.

Clearly he looked confused, because Beshelar allowed the minutest look of annoyance to pass over his expression before staring pointedly at Himself’s left shoulder. Oh. Cala swallowed his surprise – the touch rules were important and Beshelar particularly, well, touchy, about them – and put his hand on the emperor’s shoulder. They stayed like that for several long minutes, the only sound in the room the emperor’s ragged breathing and Beshelar’s intermittent, quiet reassurance. Cala picked up on Isheian’s approach, and gave Himself’s shoulder a gentle squeeze of comfort before darting to the door and slipping out just in time to prevent Isheian from slipping in.

‘Wait here,’ he said softly to her, and she nodded. He returned to the dining room.

Himself’s breathing seemed steadier, less panicked; but the tears were still there and he had hunched forward into them, rocking gently as he sobbed. Cala had a moment’s indecision but reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder again.

‘Serenity,’ he murmured softly. The touch rules flicked through his mind, and the pages of the nohecharei records – where was the line, for this? The nohecharei were not responsible for the emperor’s feelings, but his well-being was their focus. What did rules about distance and form mean when the emperor of the Ethuveraz was a sobbing nineteen-year-old boy with no one else to turn to?

Cala swallowed, and then switched sides. He carefully moved a chair around, and then sat down so that he could reach an arm around Himself’s shoulders, and if Himself leaned into the comfort then… well, he had made the right decision. And damn anyone who thought otherwise.

~

The sharp little ting of the kitchen bell brought everyone to silence, and they turned. Isheian had rung it.

‘Meal change!’ she called as she crossed the kitchen with the plate. Ebremis turned on the spot, hands raised like a man ready to tackle something.

‘What to?’

‘Soup and soft bread.’

‘Any particular kind of soup?’

‘Didn’t say.’

‘Alright, onion it is.’ Ebremis started work immediately and the scullions all but danced out of the way – but he paused to peer at the plate Isheian was passing over to the sink.

‘He’s had none of that,’ he said. ‘An objection?’

Isheian shook her head.

‘He said to say it was lovely, though.’

Ebremis raised his eyebrows and went back to what he was doing. He was not the type to take offence, Coris knew, but Himself never sent back meals. Oh, there had been a few occasions of him skipping them or, more often, not finishing them, but not an outright sending back.

‘What happened, Ish? You were gone for a while,’ Coris said, looking over at her. She was stood at one end of the kitchen table, waiting patiently for instructions, and at his words she bit her lip.

‘I was going to the door and Cala stopped me outside and told me to wait so I stood there for almost a quarter hour. And then when I got called in, Deret and Cala were either side of Himself instead of by the door. And Himself… he looked like he’d been crying. I don’t think he’s feeling very well.’

The kitchen stilled, briefly, as everyone took this in. Coris and Kiru looked at one another, and Coris saw his own worry reflected in his partner’s expression. After a moment, Ebremis spoke up.

‘This may sound odd, but I can’t help but think this might actually be a good thing. In a way,’ he said.

‘The emperor bursting into tears at dinner?’ Avris said, his tone a mixture of distress and scepticism. Ebremis pulled a face as he worked on the soup.

‘I don’t mean that it’s good that he got to this point,’ he said. ‘I mean… he’s been holding back for weeks. He never wants to admit something’s wrong, never wants to talk to anyone about it. That sort of thing only lasts so long. Maybe now the tension is broken, he’ll be able to open up a little.’

‘Maybe,’ Nemer said quietly.

~

It was all Maia could do not to slump in his chair and let his head rest on the table. He felt hollow; when he lifted his hand, he could feel the tremble in it. When Isheian came in with the soup he managed to hold himself together well enough, but once she left he felt the tears begin again.

Cala’s hand on his shoulder was like an anchor, and he felt pathetic to value it so much. Such a small thing, and Cala was probably breaking some kind of rule to do it, a rule he should not have felt obliged to break because the Emperor of the Ethuveraz was not meant to be breaking down like a damn child –

But he was. He was, and Beshelar and Cala had seen, had stayed with him through that horrible few minutes where a whole world’s worth of fear and panic had seemed to pour through him, they had seen –

They cannot tell anyone, and they are not permitted to judge thee, he told himself, but it barely helped. Perhaps this was why one was not supposed to grow fond of staff and servants, he thought bitterly. So that it didn’t hurt so much to think their opinion of you might lower.

His breathing sped up again, and his heart lurched; and there, again, was Beshelar, dropping down to one knee beside him, looking up into his tear-streaked face with not a speck of disapproval in his expression.

‘Breath out, Serenity,’ he said quietly, making the open-close gesture with his hand again. Maia focused on it, followed the pattern until he felt himself settle again.

‘Serenity?’ Cala said cautiously. ‘Can you tell us what’s wrong?’

A thousand possibilities tumbled through Maia’s mind, none of them sayable, and perhaps if he had not been so tired he would have pulled himself together and brushed them both off. But as it was, he slipped, and the words that came out felt as though they were carved into his ribs.

‘I can’t do this.’

‘Serenity,’ Beshelar said softly, and something broke inside of Maia.

‘I can’t – it wasn’t supposed to be me, it was never supposed to be me, and it’s too much and I can’t do this –’ Too late, he managed to stop the words coming out in a choking flood, turning them into shaking gasps as he did so. Cala’s hand on his shoulder squeezed again, gently, and he tried to calm down, but that was it, wasn’t it? It had never been meant for him, none of this had, and that was why he was falling apart, crumbling to powder under a weight he was never meant to bear – a weight thou hast never deserved, never earnt, and art thou really so surprised? Thinkest thou any of those around thee will be surprised? They see thee, hobgoblin, they see thee and they know –

‘Serenity? Serenity, please look at us.’

Maia turned his head again, though he did not want to. Beshelar had not moved, and was watching Maia with a very unfamiliar expression.

‘Serenity, may we tell you about something? It might – it might help,’ Beshelar said. Maia swallowed, then he nodded. It won’t. But thou certainly owest them something, for all the snipes and poor behaviour they have tolerated from thee of late.

‘When we are training, in the guard,’ Beshelar said, ‘one of the tasks we are set is to take care of an old soldier. Someone who has been through many years of service, and is… they call it battle-worn. ‘Tis like an illness – nightmares, and flinches, instincts that kept them alive on the field turning against them in peacetime.’ He paused, seemed to organise his thoughts before continuing. ‘Partly we did this because it needed doing; partly to teach us of the risks of our profession, to make sure we understood what we in turn would be risking. But also, partly, to teach us than pain and fear are not to be ashamed of, or mocked.’

Maia blinked. He had expected… he had expected something about strength, about maintaining a formidable exterior, about overcoming the urge to cry until you – until you no longer –

No shame in tears, michen-Maia. Tears are truthful, and they mean that thou carest. And thou must care, Maia.

His mother’s voice, with its soft Barizhin accent leaning into every vowel. When had he stopped listening to her?

Beshelar was still watching him, and Maia jerked his attention back and nodded that he should continue.

‘We are not a courtier, Serenity, nor a politician; we make no claim to have such knowledge. But we are with you for half your days; and we see how hard you work. It is not that you are weak, it is that your burden is heavy. And perhaps, if you would allow someone – the zhasan, perhaps, or Arbelan Zhasanai, or the Archduchess or Lord Berenar or even us – to see what you are struggling with, that burden could be made lighter.’

‘Emperors have almost always managed,’ Cala put in, his voice gentle. ‘So it must be doable.’

‘Not by everyone,’ Maia said, his voice barely a whisper. ‘Not by me.’ He took a shuddering breath. ‘I can’t do this.’ He felt half-drowned in exhaustion and anger and fear. And shame. What art thou ashamed of? What value has it? Shouldst thou listen to it, when it sounds so very like thy cousin?

Beshelar’s forehead creased slightly.

‘Perhaps,’ he said quietly. ‘But, Serenity, do you recall when Telimezh offered his resignation? After the attempted coup?’

‘We recall,’ Maia said, trying to work out where Beshelar was going with this.

‘You told him it was his decision, but that you would be remiss if you accepted any decision he made that day.’

Maia nodded.

‘We know you are in pain; and that things are difficult, perhaps they feel impossible. We don’t… we do not wish you to feel that we do not believe you. But, Serenity, we do not believe you have always felt thus. Might things not change, again, with time and care?’

The flood that Maia had been drowning in was draining away, and he was not quite sure what was left in its wake. Perhaps only him, alone.

Perhaps Beshelar was right. He was lost. Perhaps the only thing to do for now was sleep – perhaps – perhaps –

His wandering attention, reaching near-desperately for something to latch onto that didn’t hurt, had him look up suddenly.

‘Oh, the soup,’ he said softly, distressed. Bad enough that he had made Ebremis do twice the work when the first meal had gone cold, now he had forgotten the second –

‘It is still warm, Serenity,’ said Cala, a hint of a smile in his voice. ‘And we believe it can be reheated, if need be.’

Maia nodded, relieved.

‘We are – we are sure it will be fine,’ he managed, and saw the slightest twitch of Beshelar’s ears at his steadier voice.

‘Serenity, we know you must tire of hearing this,’ Beshelar said, and the determination in his voice nearly brought Maia’s tears out again, ‘but we think you should rest. Not just tonight, but tomorrow as the Lord Chancellor recommended.’

A moment’s pause, where Maia very nearly leaned on the habit of the last few weeks and refused; but he thought of his mother, and of the worried expression of Lord Berenar, and of the little looks Csethiro had been giving him in quiet moments, and he gave in.

‘Very well,’ he said softly.

Chapter Text

Belsomivar VI, the 156^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

The last of the ‘Bel’ emperors and the father of Edrevenivar the Conqueror (see following entry), Belsomivar is often passed by unremarked by historians and scholars. It is true that his reign held little of the dramas and dangers that draw interest to other emperors, but this lack of surface-level glamour obscures the relevance Belsomivar’s reign has to the modern-day Ethuveraz.

Belsomivar VI was deeply preoccupied with the function of Parliament, and his writings on its purpose and regulation were key to the establishment of the House of Commons by his grandson, amidst considerable controversy. He also introduced many laws around the silk trade that still strengthen it today.

While his quiet manipulation of relationships with nobles in the Western Ethuveraz was a part of what enabled his son’s unification, he was noted for having a horror of warfare and opposing violence as a solution.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

Maia woke the next morning feeling utterly lost.

Habit drove him out of bed and allowed him to nod when Telimezh asked if he should summon the edocharei. He needed to dress, he supposed, but when the edocharei enquired as to what he wished to wear that day he just looked at them blankly.

‘We do not believe we will be leaving the Alcethmeret,’ he said after the silence had stretched to an uncomfortable length. It seemed to be enough, for the three of them helped him into a relatively modest outfit and did not protest when he forbore to wear any jewellery. Or, at least, did not protest aloud. He kept his eyes averted so as not to see their expressions; he did not think he could stand to see any pity today.

Then he walked down the stairs to the dining room and ate breakfast, trying not to think about his breakdown in that very same chair the night before. Kiru and Telimezh were on duty now, but he was certain that Cala and Beshelar would have kept them updated. The thought was not cheering.

When he was finished, he rose from his seat and then stopped.

What now?

No paperwork. No correspondence. No meetings. Everything had been suspended. So what happened instead?

He stood there at the head of the table, trying to work it out.

‘Serenity?’ Telimezh asked. ‘Are you well?’

How tired I am of that question, Maia thought. Out loud, he said:

‘What… do we do?’

Telimezh frowned slightly in confusion.

‘Serenity?’

Maia gestured vaguely.

‘We have no… no duties. No tasks. What do we do?’

He was not truly expecting Telimezh to have an answer, but the lieutenant did the best he could.

‘Your Serenity may do as you please, of course,’ he said slowly, and then brightened a little. ‘What did Your Serenity do for leisure before you lived at court?’

Maia supposed that was a fair question, even though the answer was ultimately unhelpful.

‘Very little,’ he said quietly. ‘There wasn’t anything to do. Relegation is… mostly dullness. If we were not at lessons we would be wandering the grounds with our thoughts, or sitting in the house somewhere with our thoughts.’ That wasn’t quite everything he had done to occupy himself growing up, he supposed, but tree-climbing was almost certainly not emperor-appropriate.

Telimezh, blessedly, managed not to look shocked at the idea that his emperor did not know how to spend his own free time. Instead, he nodded gravely.

‘How about a book, Serenity?’ he suggested. ‘You have not had opportunity to peruse the Alcethmeret library since you arrived.’

Ignorant hobgoblin.

Maia took a breath; remembered the rhythm of Beshelar’s hand, opening and closing; then breathed out, and gave Telimezh a nod.

‘Very well; would you please show us the way?’

~

Cala and Beshelar had changed shifts with the Seconds in the early hours of the morning and gone straight to bed. Upon rising, they fell into conversation about the emperor as though no time had been missed.

‘We should have helped him earlier,’ Cala said the moment he entered the shared space, leaving his bedroom door half-open behind him.

‘But we didn’t,’ Deret answered grimly, ‘and we will need to improve.’

‘He didn’t want us to help him,’ Cala countered, perfectly willing to be contrary and absolutely not in the mood to have Deret agree with him.

Deret said nothing.

‘I don’t know how’s best to strike a balance here,’ Cala said, throwing himself down on the nearest armchair, his legs over the arms in the way that he knew Deret disapproved of. ‘He’s the emperor. He’s allowed to make his own decisions. And I will be the first one to say they’re usually good decisions, if sometimes unconventional.’ He considered this, and then corrected himself. ‘They’re often best when they are unconventional. But there are certain things on which he has blind spots, and they damn well worry me.’

This at least provoked a noise of agreement from Deret, who had walked over to stand by the fire and was warming his hands. Cala sighed in frustration.

‘At least he’s taking the day.’

‘Mm.’

The conversation reignited when they ate their breakfast in the Alcethmeret kitchen, expanding out to include Ebremis, Esaran, Csevet, and the edocharei.

‘It’s hard to give him what he needs when no one – including him himself – has any idea what that is,’ Avris said. Ebremis, across the kitchen, made a dismissive noise.

‘He’s nineteen years old and on the throne, what he needs is a parent,’ he said. ‘Someone older than he is that he can ask for advice from. Someone to talk to. Someone he doesn’t rule. And he can’t have that.’

That merited an uncomfortable silence. After a minute or so, Cala lifted his head up from his folded arms and stared across the kitchen.

‘Someone to talk to,’ he said.

Deret raised his eyebrows, and Cala drummed his fingers on the table.

‘Back before the wedding – Himself spoke to the Archprelate. The Archprelate said he’d look into sending a chaplain, one hasn’t turned up. Think that would help?’

Deret sat back.

‘You might be on to something there,’ he said, frowning. ‘Either way it’s worth trying. Csevet?’

Csevet was already nodding and reaching for pen and ink.

‘Was it confirmed, that one had been requested by the emperor?’ he asked, and Cala shrugged.

‘Verbal confirmation,’ he said. ‘But there wasn’t anything vague about it.’

Csevet gave a small smile.

‘I should be able to send a polite chaser,’ he said. ‘It’s a good idea.’

‘It’s the only one we have at the moment,’ Cala sighed. ‘I hate seeing him like this.’

‘Don’t we all.’

~

It was early afternoon, and the sun was warm in the Alcethmeret gardens. Despite the nagging in his stomach and the sharp little voice in his head, Maia had spent the morning looking through the books in the library. It had felt hollow at the start, as though he was play-acting some kind of appropriate behaviour in order to reassure the people around him. But gradually the titles drew him in, and while he never relaxed entirely it was… something of a balm. And it had passed the time, at least. He took his lunch in the garden, more out of an urge to avoid the dining room and its uncomfortable memories of the night before than anything else. But the sun was kind, and the air was soft, and the stone bench was well cushioned. Thou hast nought to complain of, he reminded himself sternly. Take thy blessings.

The book he had chosen was on creatures of the Chadevan Sea, and he had chosen it because of all those in reach when it had come time for lunch, it was the least relevant to his own life. The illustrations, at least, were interesting. Resting. He was supposed to be resting. Was this resting?

~

Feeling vaguely as though he was doing something wrong, even though he knew that he was not, Deret descended from the tower and did a cursory loop of the Lower Alcethmeret before heading out to the gardens. He would not interrupt His Serenity, he told himself; ideally, Edrehasivar wouldn’t even notice him. And he trusted Kiru and Coris with the emperor’s safety, he had no hesitation about that. That wasn’t it. But it was his duty to do the occasional spot-check, and if that allowed him to see Edrehasivar taking ease with his own two eyes, just to be sure, then that was simply an additional benefit.

When he entered the gardens, he was startled when the door pulled itself out of his hands and closed silently. He looked around – and saw Kiru, giving him a wry smile, and lowering her hands from a spellworking form. She nodded to the bench beside her, and Deret walked on the grass to move more quietly towards it. As he did, Coris came into view, a little distance away, where he could best see the other approaches to His Serenity – who was lying on the cushioned bench, a book closed on the fingers of one hand, and sound asleep.

Deret smiled.

‘How long?’ he mouthed at Kiru, who tipped a hand from side to side.

‘Half an hour or so,’ she mouthed back, and he nodded. Himself had been waking frequently in the night over the last few weeks; small wonder he felt the need to sleep now. Satisfied that all was well, Deret headed off through the garden.

Kiru’s presence, though it had chafed with Deret at first, had turned into a blessing. His outburst in front of the emperor had been inappropriate, and he had apologised to Kiru later. Since then, he had been making an effort to ensure he did not repeat his mistake.

He had thought of the maza-nohecharis position as though it was the same as the soldier-nohecharis – and, by extension, assumed that the Mazan’theileian was subject to the same rules and limitations as the Untheileneise Guard. More or less, at least. He had known there were female maza, of course, but had not thought them common; and he supposed that if he had thought of it at all, he had assumed they would have their own specialisations, separate from those of the men.

After Kiru’s arrival he had asked Cala about it, and been startled to discover that the Athmaz’are made no distinction at all between the genders, as it had no bearing on maz-ability. Cala had explained that age and experience mattered with maz, and that Kiru’s seniority to him meant that she was actually considerably more capable than he was.

‘She could wipe the floor with me, Deret, don’t worry. There’s only one dachenmaza older than her, Ostara, and he’s in his seventies and spends most of his time working on his poetry.’

Since his awkward apology and her confirmation that she had forgiven him, Deret had sought out opportunities to speak to Kiru, usually on the slow change. The slow change was when a shift change occurred while the emperor was asleep, allowing the nohecharei to cluster outside the door in changing groups of two and three, or even linger for longer conversation. These had been educational, in more ways than one. It had been decided that Deret would be the one of the First Nohecharei pair to work on his medical knowledge, in case of an emergency. Kiru had pointed him to some resources, and had been happy to talk through what he was learning when they had the chance. She also seemed to delight in prodding at his assumptions, which he disliked but felt obscurely was somehow good for him. Like a kind of medicine, bitter but beneficial. Such as their discussion a week ago.

‘I did conclude after some consideration that there is no reason not to expect there to be areas in which women equal or excel over men, and maz seems to be one of them,’ Deret said slowly. ‘But it isn’t without limits; for example, of course one could never have an all-female nohecharei set, as the soldiers would always be men.’

Kiru’s expression changed to something Deret was beginning to cautiously identify as ‘mischievous’.

‘Why could we not have women soldiers?’ she asked.

Deret took a breath, swallowing down his instinctive reaction. He understood Kiru’s purpose by now, which was that one should not make assumptions that one could not ground in reason. If he found a good enough argument, she would allow him to win the point.

‘Physical strength,’ he said after some time. ‘The strength and endurance required by the training – it would be out of reach for women. Though I will allow that perhaps women could occupy roles as strategists; then again, it is difficult to see soldiers trusting strategy coming from someone who has not trained with them.’

Kiru gave a slow, thoughtful nod.

‘A reasonable point, and I appreciate that thou hast given it some thought. A question though; thou grew up on a farm, didst thou not?’

‘I did,’ Deret said, surprised.

‘Hard work, farm work.’

‘Tis true.’

‘Lot of lifting, carrying, pushing.’

‘Yes.’

‘Many tasks thou wouldst not have been able to do until thou wert grown.’

‘Yes?’

‘Were there any tasks thy father could do that thy mother could not?’

‘No, of course not – ah.’ Deret frowned. ‘I see thy point, I suppose.’ And he did; a great deal of farming women worked as hard as the men, in terms of both strength and stamina. He turned the thought around in his head, feeling where it grated against his training and his expectations, knowing that Kiru was watching him with interest.

That conversation had lasted the better part of an hour, half the end of Kiru’s shift and half the beginning of his own, and he had been chewing on it since. The subject was beside the point – regardless of his opinion, women’s presence in the Untheileneise Guard was not a question likely to be raised in his lifetime – but it was the mechanism that interested him, the way that his perspective and his understanding could be turned over and expanded. Soldiers were not stupid; they were trained to take orders, yes, but also to understand them and respond intelligently. Deret had always been expected to think. But Kiru and Cala took it to an entirely different level, unfolding everything with challenge after challenge, and somehow that became a strength even as it made everything that much more complex.

Perhaps that was what Edrehasivar needed now – a way of shifting how he understood his role. Many things were done as they had been done in his father’s reign; but Edrehasivar was not Varenechibel.

Deret did not know how to do that, but he knew who would. Exiting the gardens at the far end, he looped back around the Lower Alcethmeret and headed back upstairs.

~

Maia dozed in the gardens, half aware of the sunlight and the book in his hand, but slowly slipping deeper into sleep. It had been so long since sleep had felt this easy – perhaps it was a waste of his free day, but no one was stopping him, and everything was warm and calm…

Maia opened his eyes.

The tower bedchamber was full of light, streaming in from the open window, so bright that the view was obscured. He sat up.

The room was empty. No nohecharei, no edocharei. Normally, that would have been frightening – but it was not. He felt like he had in the vigil chapel before the coronation. He was alone, but he was safe. He was exactly where he should be, and so was everyone else. He sat very still for a few minutes, just breathing in the peace and feeling the sunlight on his skin.

Something pulled at him, like a little tug inside his chest. There was something to see. He rose from the bed and walked over to the door, which was half open. He stepped onto the landing, and took the stairs.

As the stairs curved away from him, he could see the water.

It was as though someone had filled the tower like a jug, he thought, and kept walking down.

When he passed into the water, it was the same temperature as the air, and soft as silk. Breathing didn’t seem to be a problem, and he didn’t need to swim – only walk further down, through the clear blue, into the Lower Alcethmeret and then out into the corridors of the court.

As he passed through the great bronze gates of the Lower Alcethmeret, a shoal of fish swam past. Delighted, he reached up, and brushed a finger against the silvery scales. It didn’t disturb them. He couldn’t disturb anything here, he knew. There was nothing he could damage or destroy, nothing he could ruin or break or mar.

He walked on.

The corridors were quiet, but not still. Single fish and shoals and, when he peered in the half-open doors to the Untheileian, a steadily moving shark. Light, too, was in motion, pouring through the windows and rippling in the water, bright and clean.

Maia walked further. The court was underwater; not deep enough for it to be forsaken by the sun, but deep enough that ships could pass overhead with no thought to what lay beneath them. Sure enough, when he found a window and looked out and up, the shadow of a hull was visible. He watched it move along the surface of the water, wondering what the people on board knew of their history. It did not matter, really. There was so much history, and in all of that depth he was merely a footnote, one name on a list of thousands, and that… that was right, somehow. This is what it means to be at peace.

He could have walked for hours.

Eventually, he found that his feet were leading him back to the Alcethmeret. He climbed the stairs, trailing his fingers along the marble wall, feeling the water against his skin. The surface of the water was high above the tower as he slipped back into the bedroom, climbed back into bed, and closed his eyes.

When he woke in the garden, the air had cooled, and there were tears on his cheeks. But something inside him seemed soothed. Perhaps that was enough.

Chapter Text

Edretanthiar I, the 169^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Preceded by a string of highly traditional, highly conservative emperors, Edretanthiar I was considered by many to be a breath of fresh air. He approached every aspect of his role as emperor with an analytical mind, and pursued efficiency in all areas of government. While his willingness to incorporate new ideas was lauded by many, he did not enjoy universal popularity, with others of the court objecting either to changes to their familiar processes or to what they saw as efficiency to a damaging excess.

His successes in this enterprise allowed his successors to pursue their goals with fewer restrictions, but also permitted government to act more swiftly in cases of emergency. A great deal of governmental infrastructure has grown more complicated since his era, but many agree that his acts ‘cleared the floor’ for improvements that benefit the current Ethuveraz.

He was succeeded by his nephew, whom he adopted as a son after his own son died of a wasting illness.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

Csevet had arranged for the Lord Chancellor to arrive at ten, the morning after Maia’s day off. Maia had been surprised to be seeing Berenar again so quickly; Csevet explained that the Lord Chancellor had requested the meeting.

‘Rather cautiously, it must be said,’ Csevet said. ‘He may be concerned that he distressed you at your last meeting.’

Maia shifted uncomfortably, and then frowned.

‘Berenar has never struck us as someone unwilling to… challenge those above him when he thinks necessary,’ he said slowly. Csevet tilted his ears slightly in concession to this.

‘We believe Your Serenity to be correct in that assessment,’ he said. ‘But while we do not believe he fears your temper, he is a considerate man. He may have been concerned that his tactics were less than… entirely tactful.’

Csevet’s tone was, as always, impeccably neutral. Maia wondered briefly what he thought of the whole matter, and then decided that he did not want to know. He felt a little better this morning, in the way one feels clearer and cleaner after tears. The problem had not, in itself, been solved – but it felt as though there might, if he thought carefully, be a way to get a handle on it.

Berenar arrived precisely on time, and nothing in his manner showed that anything was out of the ordinary. Maia gestured for him to take a seat, and tried to imitate the same neutrality.

‘Lord Berenar,’ he said. ‘What was it that you wished to discuss with us?’

Something in Berenar’s expression changed, and Maia thought he could see hope in it. Was that in response to his tone? Was he behaving so differently from two days ago?

If he was, Berenar made no comment on it, but got straight to the heart of the matter.

‘Serenity, we wished to discuss potential adjustments to the imperial workload,’ he said, with only a brief hesitation. ‘There are many ways for an emperor to work, and it occurs to us that with the difficulties with our predecessor, some of the work around, for example, administrative transition may have been missed.’

~

Csevet felt as though the ground beneath him, never solid to begin with, had finally begun to truly crumble. Well, it lasted longer than thou didst expect. And His Serenity is kind enough to see thee off with a good reference; perhaps wilt be able to start as a junior secretary somewhere, and work thy way up more traditionally? The thought was optimistic, but it held no real conviction. This position had been a daydream come to life; it seemed impossible that he would be permitted another.

The emperor was frowning.

‘It would not surprise us,’ he said quietly. ‘Lord Chavar was somewhat obstructive; we have not asked Mer Aisava directly, but we suspected his work was made more difficult by Chavar’s opinion of us.’

Berenar made a noise of agreement.

‘That leads us to a related point,’ he said, and Csevet braced himself as the Lord Chancellor turned to him. ‘We understand, Mer Aisava, that you were not part of Varenechibel’s secretarial team?’

Csevet forced himself not to lick his dry lips in nervousness.

‘No, Lord Berenar,’ he said quietly, and waited for the inevitable following question.

‘Mm. May we ask what your previous position was?’

Csevet couldn’t help it; he felt himself flick his eyes over to the emperor for a brief moment, but could read nothing in his expression.

‘We were a courier, Lord Chancellor,’ he said. And here it ends. Thou wert never a suitable person for this position, but Edrehasivar minded not. His Lord Chancellor, however, will object. How could he not?

Berenar had blinked, surprised, at Csevet’s answer. Now he sat back in his chair, looking contemplative. Though he needed to say nothing more until spoken to, Csevet gave in to the urge to at least begin to explain.

‘We initially stepped in in a temporary capacity, given the lack of existing secretarial staff,’ he said, his heart thudding in his chest. ‘And then His Serenity elected to keep us on…’

Berenar was nodding as Csevet trailed off.

‘And he was quite right to do so, Mer Aisava,’ he said. ‘Your work is exemplary. And all the more impressive given your lack of traditional training. But it does explain one or two areas which we think might merit a little additional support.’

‘Such as, Lord Berenar?’ His Serenity asked. Csevet was glad that the emperor had spoken and saved him from having to; his mind was a whirlwind. Exemplary? But His Serenity is overworked, and surely if I were competent…

Berenar opened his hands as though he had several options to choose from.

‘Well, for example – your current secretarial team is five strong, yes?’ he asked.

‘Yes, including Mer Aisava.’

‘Mm. Varenechibel’s was nine.’

Csevet, still mid-whirlwind, froze abruptly.

Nine?

‘During our research in the chancellery records,’ Berenar continued, oblivious to Csevet’s shock, ‘we saw that all of the previous undersecretaries left their positions immediately after the airship crash; six of them seem to have been offered lucrative positions in the chancellery. Mer Aisava, if we may: where did the current undersecretaries come from? There is no record of the chancellery recommending staff, as would be standard procedure, though we did find that the request for recommendations had been received.’

Csevet frantically pulled his thoughts into order, and then held back a wince.

‘Lord Chavar’s chancellery, while not incompetent, was somewhat… obstructive,’ he said. He had no obligation to be respectful towards Berenar’s predecessor, he knew, but there was such a thing as class. ‘Particularly, requests were often delayed or misconstrued. But the need for a secretarial team was somewhat urgent.’

Berenar nodded, and Csevet knew that His Serenity was also watching with interest. He took a breath, and continued.

‘In that light, we sought recommendations from other bodies at court,’ he explained. ‘Of the current four undersecretaries, two are from the parliamentary administration, one from the Judiciate, and one from the treasury. We were very thorough with their references. But after four we struggled to find any more, and truthfully we were uncertain how many there were meant to be.’ He said the last part with as little audible embarrassment as possible, though it was difficult.

Berenar nodded again.

‘If the quality of work coming through to the chancellery is anything to go by, you made excellent choices,’ he said, and Csevet felt his heart ease a little.

‘Thank you, Lord Chancellor,’ he said.

‘However, perhaps it would help if we raised their number back to the previous levels?’ Berenar turned back to His Serenity. ‘Serenity, we can recommend some staff for Mer Aisava and yourself to select from within the week, and that might help to ease your workload.’

‘We would be very grateful, Lord Berenar,’ His Serenity said.

Berenar continued to engage His Serenity on the subject of managing a secretarial team and the potential efficiencies thereof. Csevet made careful notes, resisting at every moment the urge to put his head down on the desk in shock and relief.

Exemplary?

~

Maia felt somewhat as though he was balancing something precariously on the top of his head. He still felt better than he had done, and he was holding tightly onto the calm of the day before. But it took so much effort to concentrate on Berenar’s suggestions, to listen to the breadth of his Lord Chancellor’s knowledge and not preoccupy himself with his own inadequacies.

Thou shouldst know this. An emperor should know all of this.

But I did not, and now I am learning.

Keeping himself level was a struggle, but he was making progress, and he tried to focus on that.

‘We thank you for your suggestions, Lord Berenar, we believe they will be most helpful,’ he said when Berenar looked to have run out of words. Berenar smiled.

‘We are glad,’ he said earnestly, and Maia smiled back.

‘Was there anything else you wished to recommend?’ Maia said. ‘We are… we intend to not have yesterday’s incident happen again.’

Berenar looked sympathetic, and Maia’s eyes slid away from him in his discomfort. Despite this, they talked for another half an hour, with Berenar prompting Maia to consider possibilities even ‘if it seems as though they may not be reasonable – Your Serenity is yet only partially familiar with court, and many things are more flexible than they appear.’

They talked about rearranging the Corazhas time and public audience (to both be held in the mornings now, as that was when Maia admitted he felt the most alert); about strict designations of days for different matters, of finding a tutor for the emperor so that he could start to improve his education in a more orderly fashion instead of the piecemeal way he had been managing it; of attending court dinner but not necessarily the endless socialising afterwards.

‘An emperor should mingle with his court,’ Berenar said, ‘but there is no rule that says it must happen late at night, if he tires of it. If Your Serenity would be willing to host more often, perhaps smaller and more frequent gatherings would be better? Luncheons or even breakfasts, afternoon gatherings where possible… perhaps, once you feel more confident in your horsemanship, riding into the surrounding countryside with some of the more energetic courtiers?’

Csevet, who had gone very quiet during the discussion of the undersecretaries, was soon back to his usual form, adding suggestions and making copious notes. Towards the end of the meeting, he was sent briefly to retrieve some example of Chavar’s chancellery responses for Berenar. The moment he left the room, Berenar looked Maia in the eye.

‘We hope you know how valuable that young man is, Serenity,’ he said, and Maia nodded.

‘Mer Aisava has been a boon,’ he said quietly, feeling perhaps a little warmer than the topic merited. But then, it was true, was it not? Csevet had been a lynchpin in his success as an emperor, limited though it was. He was very grateful, and it was appropriate that he should feel strongly about it.

‘Quite,’ said Lord Berenar. ‘And if it is not too presumptuous of us, Serenity, we would suggest taking a look at how much Mer Aisava is paid. We suspect he was rather modest on the subject initially – the treasury has him at a much lower rate than his predecessor, which does not seem merited.’

Maia raised his eyebrows, drawing on his last reserves to conceal his distress. Didst thou never think to check? Lazy, self-centred –

He spoke over the vicious little voice in his head, drowning it out as best he could.

‘We had no idea, Lord Berenar – and we thank you, for we shall amend that immediately.’

~

Evidently it had been decided that the emperor’s first day after his day off was to be a comparatively restful one, for Maia had nothing more than correspondence to respond to and reports to read until lunch; by that point, he felt well enough that when Isheian asked timidly if His Serenity would be dining alone this evening or with the court, he made a bolder decision.

‘We would dine here tonight,’ he said carefully, ‘but we will invite the Zhasan, Prince Idra… and our sister and Arbelan Zhasanai, an they are available. Would you convey that to Dachensol Ebremis, please?’

‘Of course, Serenity.’

Having made the suggestion meant that he now of course had to follow through with it; he wrote out four invitations just after lunch, with apologies for the short-notice, and passed them to Csevet to be delivered. By that point it was almost time for the day’s second and (thankfully) final meeting, and one that he was more than a little uncertain of: Merrem Esaran had requested a formal household meeting.

This was a rare occurrence, Csevet explained, but considered necessary and useful in some situations. Maia did not have the nerve to ask exactly what those situations were, though he suspected the master of the house breaks down and behaves like a child might be one of them.

The meeting took place in the Tortoise Room, and Maia wondered with a degree of tension if Esaran still felt the room beneath the emperor’s dignity. He did not see his house steward often, and did not have the impression that her opinion had improved at all since their first encounter.

A formal household meeting turned out to involve all four nohecharei, who were on the cusp of their shift change; the three edocharei, standing politely along one wall; Mer Aisava, taking notes at the secretary’s desk in the corner; and Merrem Esaran and Dachensol Ebremis, who were the only ones to take a seat when Maia indicated that they should. The fact that the others remained standing and Esaran and Ebremis sat only reluctantly was probably meant to be a show of respect; Maia thought glumly that it just meant he was sat down in a room full of standing people with an urge to not force them to stand around any longer than necessary. Hopefully the meeting would not be lengthy.

Several minutes in, it was clear that the lengthiest parts of this meeting would be the silences.

Esaran asked if His Serenity was content with the current household arrangements, and if there was anything that could be adjusted to improve them; Maia thanked her, and said that everything was perfectly fine. Ebremis then asked if everything was satisfactory with the emperor’s meals; Maia thanked him and said that it was, very much so. Then the edocharei, and the nohecharei. Between each one, longer each time, stretched an uncomfortable silence. Maia did not know what he was supposed to say, and he was growing progressively more anxious with each one. Why would there be anything wrong with the household? This was the Upper Alcethmeret, the highest echelon of the staff at court; every single person in this room was more highly trained in their role than Maia could dream of being in his; why would their assumption be that there was something that they needed to fix?

Because it is not permitted for them to suggest that thou art where the problem lies, he thought to himself in the next long silence. Thus we have this play-acting at fault, when the only person who needst improve is the emperor at the centre.

The peace of the day before seemed to have dissipated, slipped through his fingers in his distraction; now he sat, uncomfortable and tense, the feelings of failure building as each awkward moment passed.  

Eventually, Esaran seemed resigned to the fact that nothing useful was occurring. Maia read the concession in her body language, and held back the urge to apologise.

Unexpectedly, Telimezh stepped forward in the quiet.

‘Serenity, may we say something?’ he asked.

‘Go ahead, Lieutenant,’ Maia said, perhaps a little more warily than Telimezh deserved. It had been a quiet day by imperial standards, but he already wanted to give up on it and crawl back into bed. Perhaps he shouldn’t have invited Csethiro and the others for dinner after all…

‘Thank you, Serenity.’ Telimezh shifted his weight, uncomfortable. ‘Serenity, this is perhaps something most relevant to the nohecharei and the edocharei, and less so to the others. But we know that Your Serenity was raised in a very different environment to court, and that perhaps there is something that should be clarified.’

He glanced at Esha and then back at Maia, and Maia saw Kiru’s ears twitch in interest. This is something he and Esha have spoken about, but he has not mentioned to his partner, Maia thought, torn between resentment and curiosity.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘Your Serenity seems… forgive our presumption, but Your Serenity seems reluctant to… take ease,’ Telimezh said hesitantly. ‘You are – you show every member of the household a great deal of respect, and we are honoured by it, but…’ he trailed off, looking pained, and glanced at Esha again.

Esha took a half step forward, and Maia gestured that he could speak.

‘Your Serenity is always the emperor,’ he said, ‘but there is a difference between how one must behave in the view of court and how one may behave in one’s own home. We wish you to know that if you would feel more comfortable being more informal in private, that would not – that would not be wrong. We wish you to be comfortable around us; we should not discomfort you in your own home.’

From the expressions on the faces of the others, Maia judged that many of them agreed with this sentiment. Then he saw their expressions change, and realised that he was shaking his head instinctively.

‘Serenity?’ Telimezh said worriedly. ‘We are sorry, we only meant to help –’

‘We are aware of that,’ Maia said, his tone sharper than it should have been, his eyes on the wall above the fireplace so that he did not have to watch anyone flinch. But the drowning feeling had returned to him again, and this time it carried anger and hurt on the lip of the wave.

Kiru stepped forward.

‘Lieutenant Telimezh and Esha are correct,’ she said gently. ‘You must be able to be yourself around us, or you cannot be yourself at all.’ She seemed about to continue, but Maia cut her off with a gesture, standing abruptly. Suddenly unable to keep still, he paced across the room.

‘No,’ he said, his mind filling with an angry buzz, ‘no, that is not – that is not reasonable, that is not – that is not fair of you to ask of us –’ he sounded like a child, he knew, but there was nothing to be done about it now ‘– all of you, all of you, ever since we arrived, all you have done is press us to be more proper, to be more imperial; the shocked faces every time I cross a line so as to nudge me back over it –’ Maia turned away from them, staring blindly out of the window, his breathing shallow and fast. ‘And I have no – we – we have no complaint, it is your job and we needed that, we had to learn, we needed those nudges in private to prevent us from slipping up in public because we hardly knew what we were doing – but you can’t.’ He turned back, his left forearm gripped in his right in the habit he thought Setheris had broken him of. ‘You cannot spend nine months pushing me – pushing us – to be as imperial as possible every moment of the day and then turn around and say we must do the opposite, we –’

He swallowed. He was unable to force himself to look at any of their faces, but he could see that Nemer had put a hand over his mouth and the shame washed over him.

‘I cannot do both,’ he said weakly, abandoning all attempt at the formal first. ‘I am – I am trying, and perhaps – perhaps I am supposed to be able to do both – but I cannot, and if I can only do one then there is only one choice – I – we are sorry, we are not angry with you – it is not your fault. Only – we cannot.’

He took a gulp of air, the tears threatening to spill over despite his best efforts, when Avris spoke.

‘You’re right,’ he said simply, meeting Maia’s eyes. ‘We didn’t think about what we were asking you; you are right, it is unfair.’

The straightforward answer and the lack of panic helped some of Maia’s panic ease. He nodded once, gratefully, and took several breaths until he felt a little steadier.

‘We are… sorry for losing our temper,’ he said quietly. ‘You all work very hard, and you did not deserve that.’

‘There is a difference between shouting at people and being upset in front of them,’ Kiru said gently. ‘The former is impolite, the latter is perfectly acceptable. And Your Serenity was firmly in the latter category.’

Maia gave her a grateful expression.

‘It does seem to be a matter that should be settled, however,’ Esaran said and Maia tensed again.

‘What would you suggest?’ he asked, trying not to look as wary as he felt. The wave of panic seemed to have deserted him almost as quickly as it had come, and now he felt foolish.

Over-reacting over every little thing – they offer thee care, hobgoblin, and thou –

Esaran pursed her lips.

‘We are not certain,’ she said. ‘But we do not see that that should be an impediment; with Your Serenity’s permission, we will take some time to consider the matter, and put forward some suggestions in a week’s time.’

Maia nodded his agreement, and to his eternal gratitude, the meeting was allowed to dissolve. The staff filed out quietly, leaving only Kiru, Telimezh, and Csevet with him. Maia avoided meeting their eyes.

‘If you will permit us, Serenity,’ Csevet said quietly, ‘we think that was a meeting worth having, though we wish it had not needed to be so uncomfortable for you. And we are confident that adjustments and improvements can be made.’

Maia looked up. Csevet was still seated at the secretary’s desk in the corner, and his expression… not pity, not sympathy, as though he knew that Maia would not be able to stand it. But there was quiet resolve there, and approval. Maia swallowed, and breathed out.

‘Thank you, Csevet,’ he said quietly.

Their eyes stayed locked for a moment more, and then Maia coughed and broke away.

There was a little more paperwork to do, but the sun was still warm so Csevet suggested that he take it down into the garden to work. After half an hour of persisting through some complicated but non-urgent legal issue raised by the Guild of Architects, Maia felt as though he was perhaps capable of regaining his equilibrium.

~

Dinner, when it came, turned out to have been a good decision. Arbelan, Vedero, Csethiro, and Idra had all accepted, and after a few minutes of over-formality had eased into comfortable conversation that carried Maia along with them.

Just after the main course arrived, there was a lull. Csethiro, who had been expressing her opinion on the challenges of women’s education, glanced at the other three and then met Maia’s eyes.

‘Maia?’ she said gently.

‘Yes?’

‘Art thou all right?’

There was a long pause. Maia knew she did not refer to only the last few minutes, but to the last several weeks. He thought of deflecting, of deferring, of arguing that of course, we are well; then he thought of Csevet’s words. A meeting worth having. He steeled himself.

‘No,’ he said.

It was hard to look at the expressions around him; pity would have stung. But, surprisingly, as with Csevet, there was no pity. Arbelan and Vedero looked serious, and Idra likewise. Csethiro looked… determined. He almost smiled at her.

‘No, I’m not all right,’ he said quietly. He paused again, and sighed. ‘But I am… working on it. And I will get better.’

As he said it, something clicked into place in his head. If stubbornness would get him out of this, then at least he had plenty of that to spare.

‘Is there anything we can do?’ Arbelan asked.

‘You’re already doing it.’ He gave them all a faint smile. ‘We appreciate your company. All of you. We are glad to have you with us.’

Vedero picked up her glass.

‘To recovery,’ she said quietly.

The others echoed her, Maia with them.

Chapter Text

Belrenowet II, the 38^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Belrenowet has the (some would say dubious) honour of being the emperor most overshadowed, in historical record, by the actions of his wife – Irino Drazharan, known as Irino the Fierce. Belrenowet had a comparatively difficult reign; contemporary accounts state that he had trouble commanding his lords and it is suggested by some scholars that he may have had some form of speech impediment, as well as several long illnesses. Irino Drazharan was reportedly dedicated to him, and scandalously led a number of military campaigns on his behalf.

As with many of the early emperors, nearly as much information about Belrenowet is hearsay and fable as it is fact; we do know, however, that he was the first emperor to commission a portrait of himself, and though it has since been lost there are existing copies that are thought to be faithful.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

A few days after the household meeting, Esaran had done what in retrospect she should have done at the very beginning. She sought out Oshet, the Barizheise gardener, and asked him to explain to her how formality and rank were handled in a Barizheise household.

It had taken some back and forth discussion – Oshet’s Ethuverazheise was good, but he was more fluent in the concrete than the abstract, and this was a difficult enough subject to discuss in one’s first language. But they had made it there in the end, and she had made some careful notes so that she could think it over at her own pace. Sitting in her office near the end of the day, she went over it carefully in her mind.

There is a line – there are lines between all the ranks, but for the sake of simplicity, say we discuss the line between nobility and commoner. A very notable line, widely recognised.

The Ethuverazheise and the Barizheisei agree on this of the line: it is of incredible importance. It informs how they organise their world, and it merits a great deal of respect. Disrespect of this line is a social faux pas at the very least, and at worst an actual crime.

So in this the two societies are together. Where they divide is in how they show their respect.

The Ethuverazheise say, ‘this line is of great importance, and we will show our respect by treating it as though it belongs in a museum’. They put a rope around it and a glass case, and one is not permitted to go near it, let alone touch it. What’s more, one must indicate to the world one’s position relative to the line. How to dress, how to speak, how to behave, what sort of work one may do or leisure one may enjoy; all of these things are defined by what side of the line one is on.

And if one must go so far as to speak to someone on the other side of the line? There are rituals and strict rules, and doing it wrong is a dire error.

The Barizheisei, in their turn, say ‘this line is of great importance, and we will show our respect by demonstrating our trust in its strength’. One does not avoid the line – one trusts it like one trusts gravity, or air; it is intrinsic, fundamental, unavoidable, and it does not matter what one wears or how one speaks. An Ethuverazheise emperor scrubbing the floor would be a mortifying scandal, a betrayal of the line; a Barizheise equivalent scrubbing the floor would not be lessened at all, for his rank is not considered so relevant to his behaviour. A lord is a lord, be he in robes or rags, and woe betide any who forget it.

Thus, the Ethuverazheise think that the Barizheisei have no sense of propriety, and the Barizheisei think the Ethuverazheise are trying too hard.

She made a noise of amusement to herself. It was a start, perhaps. A way to approach the problem, which she was convinced was partially rooted in the two conflicting understandings of rank and role. It explained Edrehasivar’s urge to know everyone’s name, the way he thanked everyone and looked faintly pained every time someone prostrated themselves or even bowed a little too frequently. It did not, however, explain his struggle to relax his manner when alone with the staff.

Or perhaps it did…

If one was alone with staff in a Barizheise context, she considered, one behaved rather as one might with one’s peers – and Edrehasivar was taking his cues from the staff, who all (she felt a flicker of pride) behaved with impeccable Ethuverazheise formality. If she were to go to the servants’ hall, and everyone around her kept carefully to the formal, would she not match them in that? Likely while feeling rather cold-shouldered? One mirrored the formality of those whose company one was in. But what the household was expecting Edrehasivar to do was to drop his formality – to a degree – whilst they kept theirs, which had to be jarring…

Edrehasivar had to know that wasn’t how it worked, surely. But then again, she considered, these sorts of things are half instinct by the time you’re in your mid-teens, and his instincts would have been learnt in his mother’s household.

Barizheise instinct, Ethuverazheise training? He’d always be wrong by one measure, however he behaved.

She did a little more reading the next day – the Alcethmeret library had nothing on Barizheise customs, naturally, but she had spoken to Cala who had obtained some books from the library in the Mazan’theileian. Those were interesting too; and after a little more thought, she felt a solution was in grasp.

Armed with this, Esaran called a second formal household meeting. This one went much more smoothly than the first, due partially to her research and partly to Edrehasivar’s – Coris told her later that Edrehasivar had had several discussions with the zhasan about Ethuverazheise household formality in the aftermath of the previous meeting. Esaran had come some way since her initial dislike of Edrehasivar, but this merited particular approval: she appreciated that he had not seen the issue as entirely solvable at one end.

She was also grateful to Csevet, who in one of the kitchen discussions prior to the second meeting mentioned that Edrehasivar’s life before court was likely disrupting his communication in an additional way.

‘He spent a long time without a great deal of hope, I think,’ Csevet had said. ‘Hope… hurts, when someone’s trapped like that, and we know he never really expected to leave Edonomee. It makes – I think it makes him reluctant to ask for things he wants, sometimes. It’s a habit, because part of him expects it to be painful.’

Esaran had thanked him for this insight and put her own thoughts as to why he had had it to one side, to be considered at a later date.

The result of the meeting was that Esaran was to supply Edrehasivar with copies of the position requirements – just for the Upper Alcethmeret for now, but potentially for the Lower Alcethmeret at a later date. These were documents that specified each staff member’s position, the requirements and expectations thereof, and what they could not be asked to do or were free to decline. This was hoped to allow Edrehasivar to more easily judge the weight of a request, instead of persistently hoping not to inconvenience anyone and therefore not asking at all.

The nohecharei had also shared some thoughts about formality in their role; that was an ongoing discussion that they had been having for some time and were now, at least partially, including Edrehasivar in. Esaran thought it a sensible idea.

She had, listening to all of this, also come to the uncomfortable realisation that everything the household had done was technically correct – it had failed, however, because an emperor was presumed to have a family. Edrehasivar did, of course, but none of them had known him for more than a year – and however close they had the potential to grow now, it was not the same as taking the throne with the support of the family who had seen him as a child. Edrehasivar struggled, in part, because he lacked the foundations he should have had; and that had left a hole that the household now had to adjust to – not to fill, as they could not do that, that would have to come with time. But they could not ignore it either.

~

Several weeks passed, and summer turned towards autumn. Csethiro felt that she and Maia were settling into a very comfortable routine, especially as since his day off he had been more inclined to confide in her.

Her first summer as empress had been… challenging, though not in the ways she had expected.

There was the enjoyable challenge of managing the imperial reputation – Csethiro had never been the sort to indulge in court gossip for her own amusement, but she nevertheless found satisfaction in taking up the reins in her own way, with the goal of improving her husband’s standing. If she happened to knock out one or two of Csoru’s fangs as she did so, well. That would only be a benefit.

Then there was the less enjoyable challenge of her relationship with Maia, though it might be truer to say that the challenge was with her own patience. While always courteous and thoughtful, Maia had withdrawn from her over the summer, and Csethiro had been worried that she had somehow caused it. He had a great deal of courage in his own way, she knew, but perhaps she had nevertheless managed to frighten him off? Had she been too persistent, too keen? Or, in trying not to crowd him, had she become too distant? He was careful to smile and present a good front in public, and he had never once been unkind or short with her; but he was quiet and withdrawn in private. And (bothering her more than she felt willing to admit) he avoided taking her hand, squeezing hers and then slipping immediately out of her grip whenever she took the initiative.

When she had broached the subject of his withdrawing to Maia (leaving aside the hand-holding as a potentially petty issue; perhaps he had not even realised he was doing it?), he had been quick to reassure her that she held no fault; however, he had been unwilling to admit to any other cause either, and so she had been stuck chewing on the worry in any case.

A week later, with no warning, he had taken the day off.

Csoru had been on top form that evening, all false concern – it must be so challenging for His Serenity, he has so little experience of imperial matters really; you must be so worried, that he is so unwell and he hasn’t even sent for you to attend to him – and Csethiro had been mere inches away from taking her dinner knife and sawing off a few of the zhasanai’s more ornate braids.

Fortunately for both Csoru and Csethiro, Arberlan Zhasanai had intervened, changing the subject with deft hand that Csethiro could not help but admire. She was growing to very much like Arbelan, to the probable horror of her father. The older woman was reserved and unflappable, and Csethiro had been enjoying joining her weekly dinners with Maia over the summer.

And even more fortunately, after Maia’s day off, he seemed to open up. With a transparent effort to conceal his disappointment in himself, he told her how much he had been struggling with his workload; how little he had been sleeping; how he had known himself to be in poor temper and wished to ensure she not have to endure it.

At that last revelation, she had pulled a little back from him so as to properly meet his eyes.

‘Maia Drazhar,’ she said firmly, ‘I am thy wife, and, I hope, thy friend. If thou art too sharp with me I shall be sure to say so; if I need time away from thee, I shall take it. But I am also willing to be beside thee when thou dost not feel fit for other company; needst not shield me so. Talk to me, in future?’

A sheepish but earnest agreement, and they had been on better terms.

Csethiro had made sure to take interest in all of the many facets of Maia’s efforts to ease his own burden (without, he was determined, abandoning his duty. Csethiro forbore to point out that any number of his predecessors had been content to do no work for weeks at a time, and while the government had not been pleased the country had hardly fallen apart). One of these Csethiro found particularly interesting was the addition of a chaplain to the Alcethmeret staff: Mer Dornar.

Csethiro had been unexpectedly early for lunch; as was her habit on these occasions, she joined Maia in the Tortoise Room and read a few pages from her book while she waited for him to finish his work. As it turned out, he had one remaining meeting – the Archprelate and his presentation of the proposed chaplain.

Mer Dornar was in his fifties (to Maia’s surprise, he told her later; apparently his initial conversation with the Archprelate had indicated a younger man would be selected), and around Maia’s height but heavier, with inquisitive brown eyes. His prelate’s robes were the soft grey of Cstheio Caireizhasan. He bowed with the Archprelate, who spoke first.

‘Serenity, may we present Mer Dornar, who we would highly recommend for the position of Alcethmeret chaplain? He has considerable expertise in the Barizheise faith, and has been a cleric of Cstheio for over thirty years.’

‘We are pleased to meet you, Mer Dornar,’ Maia returned. ‘Thank you, Archprelate. We would be glad to accept your recommendation.’

Csethiro’s interest had been piqued because she had not before been aware that her new husband had any particular faith. She herself had always been dismissive of the subject, but resolved to keep her thoughts to herself so as not to discourage him from discussing it with her when he was ready. He was still so wary of showing vulnerability – and in the Untheileneise Court, this might well be considered one.

So far he had not seemed inclined to talk on the subject with her; but she knew he visited the chapel several times a week, a curious little space down a flight of stairs from the main floor of the Lower Alcethmeret. And she knew that each time he returned, he seemed a little lighter, a little calmer. And that was enough.

Another little worry dissolved when he told her he had had an appointment with Ushenar, the court doctor, and he had been diagnosed with a mild inflammation around the joints in his hands.

‘I knew that the rings ached,’ he said wryly, flexing his hands gently. They were bare, as they often were now when he wasn’t expecting to see anyone other than the staff or the family. ‘But I thought it was nothing.’

‘Can Ushenar cure it?’ she asked, taking one hand very gently and skimming her thumb over the back of it. Maia gave her a lopsided smile.

‘Not entirely,’ he said. ‘But he says it can be managed; the edocharei are apparently investigating some alternative to the traditional Michen Mura, and in the meantime I only wear them in public.’

She nodded.

‘Is this why…’ she began, and then changed course slightly, ‘Do they hurt, when they are held?’

By his rueful expression and slightly lowered ears, her attempt at tact had not succeeded.

‘Not too much,’ he confessed, ‘but it makes me think about them, which makes it harder to ignore. I’m sorry, I should have told thee.’

She scooted closer to him on the settee and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

‘Not to worry, I shall simply hang onto thy arm instead, and we’ll be all the closer.’

He provoked this in her, she reflected afterwards – the kind of cheering sweetness she had previously rather thought she lacked, having no patience for it. Perhaps it was only that it seemed to genuinely matter to him – she enjoyed lifting his mood, and he was getting better at returning the favour. Besides, his ability to tease and be teased was improving.

Prince Idra’s birthday passed; a relatively quiet affair, celebrated primarily by the family, as Idra had requested. Csethiro was still trying to puzzle Idra out, but she liked him well enough.

Maia still had bad days. Several times, during their regular private dinner, he apologised for being poor company, but she was content to call for a book to read and let him have a degree of quiet without needing to be alone – and he seemed, once he adjusted, to find this quite restful. It also meant that she had time to consider their arrangement.

She’d never had the nerve to have any actual dalliances before, though plenty of young women did before marriage; but now, with a supportive husband and the imperial title to protect her, she was growing… thoughtful.

It wasn’t that Maia wasn’t enough, she knew. Maia was… well, something of a revelation, in many ways. It was only that there was so much pressure, and he could only alleviate so much with his careful respect of her choices. She was curious about the idea of a more informal relationship, perhaps very brief… how much more free would she feel?

But it was early days yet, she thought. There was plenty of time.

She looked across the Tortoise Room at Maia, who had allowed himself the informality of tucking his legs underneath him in his seat beside fire and was watching the flames contemplatively.

‘I love thee,’ she said quietly.

Maia looked around, his expression startled. He stared at her for a moment, and then his expression softened into a smile.

‘I love thee too,’ he said.

Chapter Text

Belgaret III, the 139^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Belgaret III is most famous for being one of the main subjects of the opera ‘Polisar and Tanet’ – he was born a twin, and his reign was challenged by supporters of his younger brother who accused his mother of switching them in their cradles and thereby changing who would inherit the throne. The opera is almost entirely fiction, as Belgaret’s brother in fact expressed no interest in the throne and left the Drazhada to become a cleric of Orshan. The two men were reputedly on good terms for all of Belgaret’s reign, a far cry from the treacheries and passions often depicted on the stage.

Belgaret’s reign was characterised by his focus on religion and his adherence to religious principles; he had strong ties to the prelacy, which therefore rose in power and influence over the course of his thirty-four years on the throne.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

It was fast growing cooler, and winter was on the horizon – but the Alcethmeret was nothing if not prepared, and four small, elegant braziers had been arranged around Maia’s seat and table in the Alcethmeret gardens.

Being able to work outside had been such a gift in the summer, and he was determined to continue it as long as reasonably possible – though he did concede that it could not last much longer. He already only did two or three hours out here, just after lunch, and those were spent bundled up in as many layers as the edocharei could manage.

It was worth it, though.

After some insistence, Csevet across the table from him was similarly well-wrapped, though he managed to look elegant where Maia felt like an over-stuffed child’s toy. The two of them worked in a companiable silence, interspersed by discussion of the more challenging matters, and more than once Maia found himself taking the opportunity of Csevet’s industriousness to…

To what?

Maia swallowed and looked back down at his work, concentrating on the flowing hand of the Prince of Thu-Istandaär – a carefully polite letter accompanying the initial crop yield reports for the principality.

He’d found himself doing that more and more, recently; or perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps he was only noticing himself doing it. But he was aware, always, of where Csevet was; even when he tried to ignore him, he knew what the secretary was doing and whether his careful manner was revealing any hints of his opinion.

Maia had known that his feelings had changed about Csethiro. At first she had been intimidating; then they had, slowly and then all at once, become friends. And then she had looked at him across the Tortoise Room one evening and told him she loved him and his response had felt… right. Natural. He did love her, though it was still tender and new – a little shoot, freshly sprouted out of the hard ground, with few hints about it as to what it would grow into.

He had spent days after that marvelling at the feeling, observing it from all angles; and then in the course of some other discussion Csevet had given him a rare, genuine smile, and Maia had thought: oh.

Because there it was again.

He had, mercifully, managed not to panic. For the most part, anyway. There might have been a little internal panic, but it was quickly resolved.

Thou art not going to act on it; provided thou maintains thy manner there is no reason he need ever know.

It was a private matter. Surely everyone had feelings they did not approve of at some point or another? Mer Dornar was firm on the subject that morality measured one’s actions, not one’s thoughts or feelings. Maia found that reassuring.

And really, it was hardly what one would call a bad feeling to have. Maia admired Csevet – his perspicacity, his efficiency, his dedication – and the more he reflected the more value he realised he had placed on Csevet’s approval from the beginning.

‘Serenity? The monthly report on the Drazhada expenses is next, when you are ready.’

Maia had been lost in thought; he suppressed his instinctive jerk of surprise, and took the paper from Csevet. They did not brush fingers. Maia had noticed that Csevet was careful to avoid that. Probably some kind of no-touching-the-emperor sort of rule. Which was appropriate, and sensible, of course.

Stop it. Look at the paperwork.

Maia ran his eyes over the figures. Csoru all but emptying her allowance on fashion and fripperies, as was her wont; Maia did not begrudge that of her, but he did wonder if there was any way to convince her to pick up a worthy cause, such as some of the ladies of court did? Though if it came from him she would be certain to avoid it all the more thoroughly, so there likely was nothing he could do to suggest it.

Thy wife looks to others, why not thee?

The thought was unbidden, and Maia pushed it away. He and Csethiro had spoken the other day on the matter: he had enquired, delicately, if she had been considering anything with regards to the kerich agreement; she had tilted her head and said that she was considering a small dalliance if she could guarantee an appropriate level of discretion, but she would let him know how things progressed.

Maia had expected, despite everything, to feel at least a little jealous; what he felt instead was largely relief, and glad that Csethiro seemed content. He loved her, and he wanted her happy, and that was all.

She had asked him if he had any thoughts on his own side of the matter, but he had demurred, feeling guilty. She had been clear enough that she was content for the arrangement to be mutual, but he still felt fearful of crossing some unknown line. He was happy for Csethiro to indulge, but…

And why not thee?

A thousand, thousand reasons – he outranked everyone, for one, he had little grasp on court intrigue and how to disguise this sort of behaviour, for another. How did one even know someone else felt the same way when one was required to be that subtle? And when one was the emperor, how did one know that the other person was truly willing in the arrangement rather than seeking favour or – goddess forbid – feeling trapped by the power of their pursuer?

No, no, no. No. It wasn’t feasible, or acceptable.

Maia focused his eyes on the numbers in front of him once more. If Csevet had noticed his emperor’s inattention, he gave no sign.

Perhaps I should talk to Csethiro about it? he thought uncertainly. She had been honest with him, after all. And she was three years older than him – perhaps she would have some advice? How to let feelings pass? How to navigate a – no, no. Advice, that was what he needed. A private space to discuss his feelings, or at least acknowledge them if Csethiro did not wish to hear detail, which he would very much understand. In fact, that seemed likely. He only needed to tell someone so that it did not crawl under his skin so much, and that would be all. Then he would busy himself with the rigorous demands on an emperor’s life, and soon enough the feelings would no doubt fade, and the problem would have solved itself.

Pushing down his doubts and refusing himself another glance across at Csevet, he moved on to the next piece of paperwork.

~

‘Excuse us, but are you an imperial courier?’

Toronis kept browsing the stall he was interested in, not bothering to turn around.

‘We can’t take extra messages, unless we’re on a run, and I’m not,’ he said. ‘And we’re not obliged to take the extras in any case.’

An irritated huff was his response.

‘We didn’t ask for you to take extra messages. We’re looking for a specific courier, we wondered if you might know where he is. But if you’re going to be like that, we shan’t bother you further.’

Toronis turned quickly enough then, hands open in defeat. Family or friends looking for fleet members was not something you ignored unless you wanted half of your fellow couriers sour with you. It was complicated by the fact that a lot of couriers had broken ties with family – no one wanted the possibility of running into them by chance, so it was best to handle it immediately and let the courier in question decide whether they were reachable or not. The person in question was striding away from him, so he jogged to catch her up.

‘Easy there, I’ll help thee, just tell me who thou art looking –’ He broke off, and blinked.

The young woman who had turned to face him was pretty, slender and Elvish-pale, with eyes he recognised almost immediately. The manner was wrong, the accent was wrong, the gender was obviously different but –

‘Csevet?’ he said, without thinking, then added, ‘That’s who thou art looking for, I’m guessing?’

From her expression, she was not surprised to be recognised. Toronis winced internally; he usually would not have slipped like that, but at least he could still say that Csevet was unavailable.

‘So thou art inclined to be helpful now?’ she asked, the north-eastern country accent clear and the tone scathing.

Csevet’s sharp tongue with none of the equilibrium, he thought to himself, not considering that perhaps Csevet’s even temper had been something that Toronis had earned.

‘Anyone who knows where Csevet Aisava’ll be is up at the court,’ he said instead, still staring at her. ‘There’ll be some back-and-forth while they find him, but there’ll be somewhere to wait and eat and rest thy feet in the meantime.’ And somewhere you can be put where you don’t run around Cetho looking like a mirror image of the imperial secretary. He shook himself a little, and beckoned before turning.

‘This way, ‘tis not far,’ he said over his shoulder.

Toronis walked a little way, and then stopped and turned when he realised that she wasn’t following. She was stood exactly where she had been, her arms folded and one eyebrow raised. Country girls, goddess have mercy. Fine. He scanned the street. He’d seen her just a minute ago… ah.

‘Finno!’ he called. After much beckoning, the other courier made her way over to him.

‘What do you want?’

What is wrong with everyone this morning? Toronis thought absently. He jerked a thumb at the stationary country girl.

‘Swap jobs with me, I’ll owe thee a favour. Little min here’s afraid to go off with a strange man, even if he’s trying to be helpful.’

‘We don’t find you frightening,’ the country girl said dryly. ‘Just tiresome.’

Finno, who had been looking like declining, snorted.

‘You’re not wrong,’ she said, then held out her satchel to Toronis. He took it and checked the address. Cetho, only a few streets away. Easy.

‘Finno, country girl. Country girl, Finno. She’s looking for Csevet. If thou wilt take her up to the fleet quarters to wait, I’ll deliver this and then see if I can’t track Csevet down before dinner.’

Interest flared in Finno’s eyes, and Toronis watched her take a second look at the country girl, past the dowdy clothes and grumpy posture to the familiar bone structure and, yes, the exact scowl that they both knew so well.

‘Alright,’ Finno said. ‘Come along with me, then. I’ll find you something to eat. Long journey?’

Toronis headed off at the shooing gesture, hefting the satchel over one shoulder. He couldn’t resist a glance back, though. She had none of Csevet’s posture, but somehow she still moved like him. Bird-like, neat.

~

Csevet shuffled through the papers. These days he seemed to be sorting more paperwork than he was reading – the new undersecretaries had filled out the team, and his role was becoming more focused on collating their work and presenting it to the emperor than doing the detail of the work himself. He still had plenty to get on with, however – he was learning a great deal from going through the reorganised paperwork and seeing how the experienced undersecretaries worked, for one thing. And he had the imperial schedule to manage and was the only secretary permitted to view private correspondence between Drazhada, who were numerous enough to cause a fuss on their own. That had been quiet lately, save for the news of the Nelada divorce. Csevet had not reported that to His Serenity, the emperor having requested not to hear about anything to do with Setheris Nelar unless he actually needed to act on it. Hesero Nelaran had moved back in with her family and seemed to be doing well, and if Setheris Nelar was unhappy about it he gave no sign where anyone could see.

He leafed through the papers that had been left for him, deliberately ignoring the way guilt was throbbing in the back of his mind like an extra heartbeat.

Csevean was here.

Toronis had shown up at the Alcethmeret at lunch, got Csevet to one side, and told him that there was ‘a girl the spit of thee, asking for thee – Finno took her up to the fleet quarters to wait, shall I say thou’lt make it down during dinner or tell her thou has left the fleet and the city and cannot be found?’

Csevet took a steadying breath. After pressing Toronis to keep this information to himself (as though it would make a difference – the fleet gossiped like sparrows), he wrote out a quick note to his sister and told Toronis to promise Finno a favour in return if she’d find Csevean somewhere respectable to stay in the city. He had the coin for it, after all, especially with the pay rise that His Serenity had insisted be retroactive.

His note had been brief.

Sorry. Can’t get away right now. Will come see thee as soon as I may; in the meantime, thy food and board is paid for. Trust Finno, and don’t go out into the city after dark.

C

Cetho was one of the least dangerous night time cities that Csevet knew, but Csevean had never left their tiny home village, and he didn’t want her taken advantage of.

Thou dost not know where she’s been, he corrected himself uneasily. Thou has never written to find out.

She did not write me either, he countered. Then he shook his head a little to clear it. Water under the bridge, or at least pointless to worry about. He’d see about getting away to see her tomorrow or the day after – during dinner, perhaps, or His Serenity’s horse-riding lesson the morning after next.

For now, he had work to complete. What had he been in the midst of? Ah, yes.

With the more substantial secretarial team, the imperial secretary focused on organisation – but also on the most sensitive matters, which were the reason for his being entitled to a room in the nest when the undersecretaries lived downstairs with the Lower Alcethmeret staff.

His Serenity had, after some hesitation, conceded to taking an appointment with Doctor Ushenar a little over two weeks ago. While nothing terribly alarming had been found, Ushenar had been concerned that the Empress Chenelo’s medical records were not available. For noble families, usually careful notes were kept to monitor the risks of inheritable conditions; and for the emperor, of course, nothing could be missed.

However, the former empress’s status had complicated matters. The file should have been stored by Ushenar, but he had relinquished it when she was no longer in his care – her move to Isvaroë. Therefore, it should have been in the papers and such that travelled back from Isvaroë to court upon her death, and probably had been; but then where would it have gone?

Properly, either Ushenar or imperial records; perhaps even in the nohecharei records, though they usually only held the file for the reigning emperor. But wherever they had looked, it was missing.

Csevet had been searching high and low for the file for most of the last fortnight. Esaran had been trying to help – she had been responsible for managing the arrival of the former empress’s belongings, but paper records should have been separated. There was a concern that they had gone with the things to be burned, but Csevet was not quite willing to give up on them that easily.

He had tried another tactic: Chenelo Zhasan’s illness had been an extended one, so there must have been some communication with the court on the subject. The chancellery kept copies of a lot of imperial correspondence, though not all – the emperor’s decisions were a matter of record. The chancellery had forwarded what it had to him, and he had that (he moved a few pieces around on the desk)… there. And Mer Hallettar and he had spent several hours over various evenings and lunchtimes trawling through undersecretary records just in case – and just as Csevet was finishing his supper, he had been called to the grilles where Mer Hallettar was waiting triumphantly.

‘I think this is it,’ he said. ‘Found it tucked in behind some ancient Drazhada financials. It looks shuffled out of order, but it’s otherwise the right sort of format. I’ll keep looking in case there’s something more to it. Horrendous mis-filing, I can’t think how it happened.’

Now Csevet finally had the file, and the correspondence. Properly it should go to His Serenity or Doctor Ushenar first, but Csevet thought it inappropriate to hand over any document in such a state. He would sort it into order, make note of where it had been found and in what manner, and then he could present it to His Serenity in the morning.

It took several minutes to work out the correct order – though the entries were usually dated, the handwriting was dense, and he was also including the correspondence with the court that related to it at appropriate points. Impossible not to read sections as he did so; impossible to ignore a growing sense of dread as pieces of a very old puzzle began to slot together.

Finally he sat with the completed file in front of him. He stared at it. It has to be a mistake. I read it too fast, in too many small pieces. Take it in order.

He read through it again.

If anything, it made it worse.

He sat there, alone in the gaslight, his thoughts spiralling around, with only one of them clear.

I’m going to have to be the one to tell him.

Chapter Text

Edrehasivar III, 179^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Edrehasivar III is more frequently referred to by his sobriquet, ‘the widow emperor’. His wife, Ristino Drazharan, died young in the first year of his reign after giving birth to their third child and only son. Edrehasivar’s grief was famously persistent; he wore mourning colours for the rest of his thirty-four year reign, never remarried, and made weekly visits to his wife’s tomb.

Despite this preoccupation, he was regarded as a reasonable emperor. His politics were moderate and he was wise enough not to require his extended mourning be mirrored by his court. He oversaw an increase in trade with surrounding countries, and supported the expansion of the town of Nelozho into a larger city.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

Breakfast in the Upper Alcethmeret kitchen was a quiet one that morning. Esha was eating porridge and thinking over plans for the emperor’s new wardrobe – the season change was upon them. They had most of it ready, but there were still a few fine details to adjust, and of course they were already planning for Winternight.

‘Csevet, art thou alright?’

Esha looked up from his food. It was Deret who’d spoken, the tone concerned. Csevet, impeccably turned out and up to his elbows in paperwork as usual, gave an odd little quirk of the lips that was probably meant to be a smile. His ears were low and his eyes were a little red, as though he’d not slept.

Or been crying.

‘I’m fine,’ he said quietly when Deret kept staring at him. Then he sighed. ‘There’s just… I have some bad news for him today. I don’t like… after how hard he’s been working lately, it hardly seems fair. But I can’t keep it from him.’

Esha heard Avris mutter a curse, and he agreed. Himself had been doing a lot better since his breakdown in the summer, it was hardly right it should be ruined by… what?

But if Csevet had thought it appropriate he would have said already, so Esha didn’t ask.

‘Well, at least this is happening after he’s started to feel better,’ he said instead. ‘Rather than before, when it would have been piled on top of everything else.’

Csevet didn’t answer, and Esha wondered if he had even been listening. Cala and Deret glanced at each other. No one seemed to quite know what else to say.

‘Well, we’ll come a little early for the shift change, then,’ Cala ventured, watching Csevet. ‘We’ll walk up with thee.’

~

Csevet seemed uncharacteristically on edge this morning, and Maia tried not to speculate why. None of thy business, keep thy thoughts to thyself. It was easier than usual to turn his thoughts away, however; Cala and Beshelar had arrived early, and now all four nohecharei were quietly discussing upcoming shifts in one corner while Csevet laid a number of items relating to Maia’s mother’s medical record out on the low table in the Tortoise Room.

‘We have verified this discreetly with the chancellery,’ he said. ‘Though we did not need to inform anyone else of the contents in order to do so, and therefore they remain confidential. We are confident of its veracity; we have also provided a reference guide in case Your Serenity wishes to check any terminology.’

Maia took a seat in front of the carefully arranged file and the medical reference book beside it, frowning. Csevet was, then, perhaps worried that Maia would be upset? He wasn’t looking forward to this, but… stop putting it off, he told himself. Have it done.

He began to read.

And after a page or two, the world around him seemed to vanish. There was nothing but his own mind, and the words on the page. Until the last one. The record of death.

Cause of death: chronic leshtin fever, no complications (untreated).

Maia felt as though the corners of his vision were darkening, disappearing, everything narrowing around that one final word.

(untreated)

The book on the table, with its lists of conditions; Csevet had marked the page, and Maia fumbled to it, knowing in his heart what it would say.

Weakness of the limbs… instability of heart rate… prone to fevers and migraines, growing worse as the illness progresses… available treatments…

Leshtin fever, blessedly, is a treatable illness unless the patient has underlying complications (and even then treatment is often successful). Treatment involves regular medicine and careful monitoring by a physician, and most patients make a full recovery.

Deaths from leshtin fever can usually be attributed to severe complications or, more frequently, medical negligence/incompetence.

He turned numbly back to the file and its neatly clipped run of letters.

Please send a physician to attend upon Chenelo Drazharan, or clear permission for us to hire one more locally…

Her condition is poor but not so poor that she may not recover with proper medical attention…

We know that His Serenity does not wish to be disturbed with matters relating to Chenelo Drazharan but we cannot in good conscience…

If His Serenity will not value the life of his wife, then surely that of his son… the boy is only seven years of age and should not lose his mother for a father’s disregard…

All from Ilvian, the house steward at Isvaroë, growing increasingly desperate as the time passed. All of them stamped and signed as having passed the desk of the imperial secretary and the eyes of the emperor. All of them attached to bland, emotionless responses.

Chenelo Drazharan is a relegated subject, and is not permitted outside visitors.

Your household has been reminded of the rules on numerous occasions. Do not raise this matter again.

His Serenity wishes it to be made clear that further attempts to circumvent relegation will be treated as breaches of the law. You should be aware that house stewards are easily replaced.

Someone was speaking; perhaps Csevet, perhaps one of the nohecharei. It didn’t matter. Maia spoke over them.

‘Mer Aisava, we will be indisposed today,’ he said, listening with dull surprise to how calm and steady his own voice was. ‘Please cancel all appointments and make arrangements for us to dine alone. Thank you, that will be all.’

His heartbeat seemed to have stopped; there was a dull, throbbing weight in his chest, but it wasn’t a heart. Someone moved in front of him – Kiru – but he waved her away.

‘We have no need of four nohecharei, please complete your shift change,’ he said quietly, and ignored them as they did so.

With Csevet dismissed on his own tasks and the Second Nohecharei away, there were only three people left in the room. Cala and Beshelar were silent, so Maia dismissed them from his thoughts. He had no space for them now.

‘Go along outside and play, now, your grace.’

‘But I want to see mama!’

‘The zhasan needs her rest.’

‘I can be quiet!’

‘Cstheio have mercy. Thy mama is… talking to the doctor, michen, and that’s private. Leave her be, thou hast the whole grounds to thyself.’

‘When will the doctor be gone?’

‘By suppertime, someone will call thee in. Now off thou goest, go on, on with thee.’

He had snuck back around, though, and been much mystified. There had been no doctor; no carriage or horse had pulled up to the house, and none of the other servants knew of a visitor. He had told Ilvian and she had rebuked him for being a nosy child, and when he had asked his mother she had paused and said he was to listen to Ilvian.

There had been no doctor. The file made that clear; no doctor had ever been permitted at Isvaroë, and no one had gathered the nerve to summon one without that permission. Had it been fear on the part of the household, he wondered; or had it been that no local doctor would have taken the risk? The household might not have reported it to court, but unlike Edonomee, Isvaroë had a handful of guards with whom Maia was not permitted to talk. They reported to their captain in the nearest town every month, and showed no interest in friendship with the rest of the household. They may well have been able to report to court.

Chenelo Drazharan is a relegated subject, and is not permitted outside visitors.

Your household has been reminded of the rules on numerous occasions. Do not raise this matter again.

His Serenity wishes it to be made clear that further attempts to circumvent relegation will be treated as breaches of the law.

Maia rose. Something in the back of his mind was wailing like a wounded animal, but the rest of him felt hollow. Perhaps this was what form and etiquette were truly for: to form the shell around you when there was nothing inside.

He did not speak as he left the Tortoise Room, leaving the papers on the table. He walked down the stairs, ignoring Beshelar’s acknowledgement of the guards at the grilles; walked as though something was pulling him down, walked as though there might be no way back up again.

He crossed the Lower Alcethmeret, finding his way to the chapel. More stairs down, then the corridor, then the doors. He opened them himself, moving a step to the side to block Beshelar from doing so; then paused.

‘We need only one,’ he said. He did not bother to look and see which of them remained and which of them waited outside. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Mer Dornar looked around when he entered, and gave a bow. But he said nothing, only watched Maia quietly. Maia ignored him, standing in the centre of the chapel, looking blindly about himself.

He had reached for the chapel in the same way he had, as a child, reached up for his mother’s hand when he was afraid – but he had thought no further than that, no further than that singular grasp, and there was nothing there, there had been once but now there was nothing there –

There could have been.

The thought hit him like a stone in the chest, and he dropped to his knees on the marble, curling forwards in pain, hands in fists, the weight of it dragging him down and down and down –

His breath was coming in gasps, and he could see the tears hitting the floor.

She could have been here. She could have stayed with me. She could have been with me as I grew, she could have stayed, she could have returned to court with me and been by my side, but he took her away from me he took her away –

It was a little while before he realised that Mer Dornar had knelt down beside him. A pause; and then a hand on his back, an anchor, a reminder that he was not alone here. And then, words.

‘Tell me.’

The dam broke.

‘He killed her.’ Maia took a horrible, gasping breath, then spat the words out again. ‘He killed her, she could have stayed with me, she didn’t have to die, she could have stayed with me but she was – she was – she was only a mistake to him but she was my whole world and he killed her – lying, murdering –’

He was rocking now, Dornar’s hand on his back, staring at the white marble through the blur of tears, his heart tearing a hole in his chest, his whole body aching.

‘He knew she was sick,’ he whispered, his throat straining. ‘He knew she was sick, and he knew she could get better, and they asked him for help – they kept asking him for help – and he turned them down. He let her die, he didn’t have to, why would he – how can anyone – she didn’t have to die, she could have stayed with me, oh – oh –’

He couldn’t stop, falling endlessly, unable to step back from it, not wanting to step back from it.

‘How could he – how dare he – I tried so hard not to hate him, I tried so hard, because everyone has flaws, because there are people here who cared about him, because I thought – because I thought – because I knew what it was like to want him to love me and he killed her, she’s dead because of him and I –’

He slammed his hands on the floor, not caring that they hurt, and made a horrible, strangled noise.

‘I hate him – I hate him – I wish he wasn’t my father, I –’

Deep, gulped breaths, then shuddering sobs for what felt like forever.

‘And there’s nothing I can do,’ he said eventually, voice shaking. ‘There’s nothing. I can’t disown him, because he’s my claim to the throne – I can’t disavow him for the same reason, I can’t punish him because he’s dead, I can’t even ask him – and it doesn’t matter, it’s all pointless, because she’s dead, I can’t save her, she’s dead because of him and there’s nothing I can do –’

He curled forward further, trying to breathe, trying to find something to hold onto, anything. His forehead touched the cold marble floor, damp with tears. Mer Dornar’s hand was steady on his back. For a long while, there were no words, only tears and clenched fists and an endless, gutting ache.

She could have been here. She could have been with me. No Setheris, cutting remarks and quick fists; she would not have tolerated that. No aching loneliness in the western marshes. And then – coming here. A room for her in the Lower Alcethmeret at first, perhaps, then her own quarters. She could have written to her father again, and he might have finally written back. She could have met her sisters. Travelled back home – he would have encouraged it, if she had wanted it. He would have been able to go to her when everything felt wrong – she would have met Csethiro, she would have been here…

The words twisted around and around again as he wept.

But nothing, no matter how terrible, lasts forever. Even if it feels as though it should.

Time passed, somehow.

His eyes dried, somehow.

His back ached from tension and so did his jaw; his hands throbbed against the marble.

His breathing had evened a little by the time Mer Dornar spoke, soft and steady in the quiet room.

‘You are angry,’ he said.

Maia nodded, once, the movement jerky.

‘What else?’ Dornar asked. Dornar had asked him something like this before, persuading him to name each feeling in its own right. It had the feeling of a ritual, almost, and Maia clung to it.

‘Betrayed,’ he said quietly, swallowing. ‘Grieving. Alone. Disappointed. Hurt.’ He paused, and then added one more. ‘Lost.’

Mer Dornar nodded, and Maia knew he would remember every word.

‘Which most of all, in this moment?’ he asked.

Maia did not need to pause to consider.

‘Anger,’ he said, closing his eyes.

‘To whom does anger belong?’ Dornar asked calmly.

Maia opened his eyes again, pushing himself slowly back onto his heels and allowing himself to see the room. It was a small chapel, but it had alcoves for each of the seven deities that Maia was familiar with, as well as an additional space for others. His eyes landed on the third from the left, the alcove with the figure of a formidable man bearing a sword and a mask in the shape of the sun.

‘Anmura,’ he said, the word more breath than sound.

Mer Dornar did not make any move to push him onwards, only waited; after a minute or so, Maia got unsteadily to his feet. It was only a few steps over to the correct alcove; there was a cushion there, to kneel on, and he sank down again without hesitation. Mer Dornar joined him to his right; and then, to Maia’s surprise, Beshelar knelt at his left.

Maia looked him, and Beshelar looked solemnly back.

‘Soldiers often pray to Anmura,’ Mer Dornar said quietly. ‘We thought the lieutenant would be able to help here.’

Maia nodded numbly.

‘I don’t know any words for Anmura,’ he said, feeling the scratch in his throat. She didn’t have time to teach me enough. She could have taught me everything.

‘We do, Serenity,’ Beshelar said gently, and Maia nodded again.

There was a pause, while the soldier gathered himself. Then he spoke, even and firm.

‘Anmura, grant me sureness in my actions. Anmura, grant me a harness for my fury. Anmura, grant me honour in my heart.’

The mantra sounded comfortable, well-worn, and after only two turns Mer Dornar joined in. Beshelar and Dornar spoke together, steady and rhythmic, and Maia picked up the unfamiliar words as they did so and joined them.

Anmura, grant me sureness in my actions. Anmura, grant me a harness for my fury. Anmura, grant me honour in my heart.

Anmura, grant me sureness in my actions. Anmura, grant me a harness for my fury. Anmura, grant me honour in my heart.

Anmura, grant me sureness in my actions. Anmura, grant me a harness for my fury. Anmura, grant me honour in my heart.

His voice was shaky and wavering beside theirs; but the ritual of it helped. It did not make anything better; it did not solve that he had a murderer for a father, that he had no mother, that he would never be able to disavow his mother’s murderer –

– grant me sureness in my actions; Anmura, grant me a harness for my fury; Anmura, grant me honour in my heart. Anmura –

– but somewhere, deep in one corner of his mind, there was something. Some awareness that perhaps, just perhaps, this might not utterly destroy him. Not in the long term. It was only a small part; the rest of him could not bring himself to care about the long term yet. In this moment, he was hollow with grief and rage, and there was little else. But the mantra had established a handhold, and the idea that there might be another one beyond it. In time.

– grant me sureness in my actions; Anmura, grant me a harness for my fury; Anmura, grant me honour in my heart. Anmura –

~

It was nearly midnight.

Csethiro was accustomed to being up late for court functions, but it always felt different when one had intended to be asleep.

She was with Maia, in the imperial bedroom, with Maia himself curled up in her arms and finally asleep. She’d never seen him cry like that before, and it had been hard – hard to see, hard not to respond with anger that she knew would only make him feel worse.

He does not deserve this, she thought quietly to herself, cold with fury, one hand gently stroking Maia’s hair to help him sleep. No one deserved such a thing, truly; but Maia? Maia, who was kind to everyone, who had worn court mourning for a man who he had never met, who would risk an empire and the security of his own throne to avoid distressing his new wife…

Maia who always seemed to be alone, even in company. Maia who was only just learning not to flinch slightly when she touched him. Maia who had been working so hard to do better, only to have this news crash down like an avalanche. Like an airship.

Csethiro breathed out slowly.

He would get through this. She would make certain of it.

They were expecting Arbelan to join them for dinner tomorrow, their regular arrangement; she thought she might ask Maia if she might tell Arbelan of Chenelo, for the zhasanai had no love of Varenechibel and perhaps would be just what Maia needed. He had his horse-riding lesson the morning after that; good. Fresh air was a balm, albeit a small one. Perhaps she would join him.

As she ran through possibilities in her mind, she allowed her free hand to do what she was careful not to in public: move to rest on her stomach, though there was no curve there yet.

And she would save her own news a little longer, she thought. Until he was ready to hear it.

Chapter Text

Belmaliven IX, the 148^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

The last Belmaliven to rule, Belmaliven IX originated the concept of a so-called “three points” system in Ethuverazheise government: the delicate balance of power between the Parliament, the Judiciate, and the Corazhas. This system persists to the present day, and has done much to stabilise the process of government and avoid excessive in-fighting.

Belmaliven’s reign was comparatively short, at just fourteen years, due to his age upon gaining the throne (seventy-three); he oversaw the beginnings of significant changes to laws around imprisonment which would be pursued throughout the reign of his son (see following entry).

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

The summons had come very early in the morning, and although Eiru Berenar found he did not need nearly as much sleep these days as he had done as a younger man, it still made for an unpleasantly groggy start. He elected not to stop for breakfast, reasoning that it would only mean he would have to rush to make it to the Alcethmeret. He could eat afterwards.

He rolled his shoulders as he made his way down the corridor. Seven-thirty was early even for Edrehasivar. Years of practice meant his court face showed only neutrality, but behind it his thoughts were ticking away – and tinged with worry.

Edrehasivar had been doing so much better; the adjustments to the schedule and the secretarial work had made a great difference. And Eiru was certain there was more too it – he knew, as most of the court did, that the Alcethmeret now had a chaplain again for the first time in decades; he knew that the zhas and zhasan seemed warmer around each other, her arm in his on the occasional walk outside the Alcethmeret. Edrehasivar still had bad days, undoubtedly – they were almost invisible as they occurred, but the day after Edrehasivar would always find a way to apologise. He really would have to talk to the emperor about apologies at some point, he thought; but then again, Edrehasivar wasn’t a fool enough to use them with anyone he did not trust. Eiru felt privileged to be someone he did.

But where, in amongst all of that, did this early morning summons fit in? The hour suggested a desire for discretion, which implied a scandal; but on the other hand, Eiru had emphasised with the emperor to schedule matters according to his own comfort, and Edrehasivar did seem to be up earlier these days.

But he knows no one else is, he thought to himself. And he is usually loathe to inconvenience anyone.

The note had held no details and had been hand-delivered by Mer Aisava, who had made his excuses fast enough that Eiru had had no chance to make enquiry of him.

His worry deepened when he reached the doors of the Lower Alcethmeret and saw two familiar figures in conversation.

‘Marquess Lantheval, Lord Pashavar,’ Eiru said, resisting the urge to frown. No reaction until he knew what it was Edrehasivar needed from him. The two older men gave polite nods in return.

‘Early hours for a meeting, Berenar,’ Pashavar said, though he sounded intrigued beneath his usual grumbling tone.

Eiru shrugged, trying to summon something appropriately neutral to respond with, but was thankfully saved by the arrival of Mer Aisava. The Imperial Secretary looked impeccable as always, but Eiru thought he could see tiredness around his eyes.

‘Lord Chancellor, Marquess Lantheval, Lord Pashavar,’ he said, bowing. ‘His Serenity awaits you in the Tortoise Room, if you will follow us.’

They did so. Eiru noted that the marquess was not hiding his curiosity as they climbed the stairs, and realised that Lantheval’s opportunities to visit the Upper Alcethmeret were likely rare despite his elevated office. The Presider of the House of Blood might socialise with the emperor, but they rarely did direct business.

It seems they must this morning, he mused as they reached the iron grilles. But for what reason? It had not escaped him that between the three of them they covered all major areas of government, either in their present roles or past experience – Parliament, Corazhas, Judiciate, chancellery, treasury. Strictly speaking they could not be considered a three-points meeting – the representative of the Corazhas would have to be a distinct person from the representative of the Judiciate – but it was nevertheless a significant amount of power for the emperor to gather in one room, early in the morning when few courtiers were awake to spot them passing through the corridors.

When they entered the Tortoise Room, Eiru had expected to see the emperor seated by the fireplace, the slightly sheepish smile that belied the otherwise imperial manner. But Edrehasivar was standing, staring out of the window with his back to the door, and when he turned to them Eiru thought he had only just managed to clear his expression in time.

They bowed, and Eiru spoke first.

‘Serenity, with what may we assist you this morning?’ he asked. Edrehasivar was usually straightforward to read – but his expression was shuttered now, making it not unlike attempting to read a stone wall. Has he always been able to do that?

‘Lord Berenar, Marquess Lanetheval, Lord Pashavar,’ he said, his voice harder than usual, ‘we thank you for coming at such an hour and on such short notice. We do not intend for this meeting to take long.’

There was a pause, not quite long enough for any of the others to interject; and then Edrehasivar continued.

‘We have recently come across some information that has… distressing implications,’ he said quietly. ‘We would appreciate it if you would look through it. Please do feel free to sit; and we apologise for not joining you.’

He gave no reason, and Eiru suddenly realised what emotion was in his voice. It was anger; simmering, relentless anger, carefully controlled but nevertheless not something he had ever seen in Edrehasivar before.

Mer Aisava opened a file and arranged some papers on the low table; Eiru, Lantheval, and Pashavar took their seats. In another circumstance, Eiru might have protested the breach of form; but now that he had recognised the emperor’s anger in his voice, he could also see it in the lines of his body. It is all he can do not to pace the room, he thought, concerned.

The paperwork in front of them appeared to be a medical record, and several formal letters to and from the court. It took several minutes for all three of them to read everything; when they were done, Eiru sat back in his seat, reeling and trying to organise his thoughts. There was a long pause.

‘What do you intend to do with this information?’ Pashavar asked quietly.

Edrehasivar, who had returned to staring out of the window while the papers were read, heaved a sigh and turned back to them.

‘Nothing,’ he said wearily. ‘We see no purpose in… publicising it, only pain and controversy. However, as we cannot guarantee how confidential it is – the Isvaroë household will certainly be aware, the former undersecretaries quite possibly – we wished to ensure that should this information ever escape on its own accord, a handful of our senior government has been in position to verify the facts.’

Eiru understood immediately. Edrehasivar was known to have no fondness for his father, despite never publicly speaking against him; this information would divide the court, with his detractors likely opining that it was a base lie intended as revenge for years of relegation. This way, Edrehasivar had three senior members of government, all formerly on good terms with Varenechibel, to vouch for the truth of the matter. It would not solve the problem, but it would serve as mitigation.

The three of them, with Edrehasivar watching quietly, had a brief discussion around discreet independent verification (though the documents were not doubtful, Pashavar said, it did well to make it watertight). Then, mindful of Edrehasivar’s mood, they bowed and were dismissed.

Eiru lingered; breakfast beckoned, but he had a degree of responsibility towards his young emperor, and he did not like to leave him alone.

‘Lord Berenar?’ Edrehasivar asked, an eyebrow raised.

Eiru made a decision.

‘Serenity, if you have not yet breakfasted you would be welcome to join ourself and our wife,’ he said.

That, at least prompted something like genuine appreciation on Edrehasivar’s face, albeit briefly.

‘We thank you; we have already eaten, but…’ This was accompanied by the faint frown Edrehasivar wore when he was uncertain of his etiquette. Eiru saved him, sympathetic.

‘Another time this week, perhaps?’ he offered.

Edrehasivar gave him a small, grateful smile.

‘We would be glad to,’ he said.

‘We shall send an invitation through. And you know we are always available should you need any assistance.’

The formalities done, Eiru left the Alcethmeret. He greeted one or two early risers in the corridors, cheerful and matter-of-fact, while he turned over the morning’s revelations in his mind.

‘We see no purpose in… publicising it, only pain and controversy.’

Varenechibel, Eiru thought bitterly, you don’t deserve the mercy he grants you.

~

At seven-thirty that evening, when the emperor had left off his work to prepare for dinner, Csevet slipped away through the servants corridors and out into the city. Finno had told him where she’d found lodgings for Csevean, and Csevet knew it by reputation – cheap enough to be unremarkable, costly enough to be reasonable quality, and women-only. There were reasonable odds he would not be allowed in, as a strange man on the premises, but he and Csevean’s likeness might sway the landlady and if not they could go out.

As it turned out, Finno had told the landlady who he was and that he might be visiting. The landlady was obviously an admirer of the emperor – she had a cousin in the clockmaker’s guild, she told him, and the whole family was terribly enthused about the bridge.

‘It’ll be the dawn of a whole new era, our cousin says,’ she said as she showed him upstairs, the upshot of her enthusiasm being that she was quite honoured to have the imperial secretary’s sister in residence and of course he could visit, he must work such long hours up at court.

Csevet thanked her with his court manners, and tipped her with a hint towards his appreciation of her discretion. She accepted, and then he was left in front of the door to his sister’s room.

After having delayed almost two days, boiling with a mix of anxiety and resentment that made him feel like a child, the last conversation they’d had came back to him like a slammed door.

‘I’m leaving, I know where I’m not wanted. Come with me, we’ll go together –’

‘Thou canst not expect to just walk into a whole new life! It isn’t real, Csevet, it’s the stuff of nonsense, I won’t lose my brother to an idiot’s wondertale –’

‘Fine, stay here then. Thou wouldst rather have the company of our father, then thou mayst keep him all to thyself!’

‘Thou hast no right to – I’m the one being abandoned! I’m not the one running away from –’

‘I won’t stay here and thou wilt not stop me from leaving!’

‘Go, then.’

‘Csevean –’

‘Goodbye, Csevet.’

Csevet took a long breath and breathed it out. Eight years. Then he reached out a hand, and knocked.

The door opened abruptly, as if she had been waiting on just the other side of it. Given how loud the landlady had been talking in the corridor, Csevet thought, perhaps she had.

Make it right, then, Aisava.

His sister was… well. Not the same as when he had left. But if she’d grown up in a different way to him, if at any point in the process their similarity had diminished, it did not show. It was almost like looking in a mirror, as it had been when they were children. Except that his mirror-self had longer hair bound in a country braid, worn clothes mended neatly, and was biting her lower lip.

‘Hello, Csevean,’ he said quietly.

She gave him a small smile.

‘Thou had best come in, then,’ she said, and Csevet remembered when his voice had been almost indistinguishable from hers. The rhythm, the emphasis, the lengthening of -st to s-t. He had learnt a court accent well, and quickly, glad to shed his past for a brighter future – and he’d picked up a dozen other accents too, delighted by the ability to camouflage himself wherever he went. But this one came from another era entirely.

The room was small, just a bed with a chest at the foot of it for belongings; there were hooks on the walls and a mirror. Everything in it was neat, however, and well-kept.

There was nowhere to sit but the bed; Csevet ended up leaning against one wall, not sure how this was going to go. After almost a minute of awkward silence, Csevean broke it.

‘Well, goddess, are we to talk or not, then?’ she said, and Csevet could see the nervousness in her bravado. Remembered fondness.  

‘What brings thee to Cetho, then?’ he asked.

~

She had rehearsed the answer to this what felt like a thousand times on the journey, but she still had no idea of how he would react.

Csevean took a breath, and explained. How she had been doing fine with the money he was sending, putting some of it aside and using it sensibly; then it went up, the last autumn, and so she put a little more to one side for emergencies and wondered what had happened; and then, only a few weeks ago, it had gone up again. It had been such a large amount she hadn’t known what to do with it; it had gone around the village and their father had found out, and drunkenly accused her of… well, a number of things she didn’t think Csevet needed to hear, and she was stood their listening to insult after insult when she realised she had enough coin to walk away. So she did.

‘I left enough that he should be well enough if he bothers to get himself moving,’ she said, and saw in Csevet’s face that they both knew he wouldn’t. But that wasn’t her problem anymore. ‘And then I made my way here. Figured thou shouldst know not to keep sending money – or at least, not to my name. And… and I wanted to see thee,’ she added truthfully. ‘I’ve missed thee.’

She remembered their last conversation – twelve years old and both furious with each other for all the wrong reasons. She’d regretted it for a long time.

‘I’ve missed thee too,’ he said softly, and she felt relief blossom in her chest.

‘What about thee, then?’ she asked. ‘What has brought thou such good fortune that it rippled all the way out to Avio?’

Csevet blew out his breath and made a face, and the animation of it reminded her so strongly of their childhood together that it almost hurt.

‘Oh, this and that,’ he said, awkward. ‘What did Finno tell thee about me? Or thy landlady?’

Csevean frowned.

‘Nothing, really – Finno was nice but just said either she’d be in touch or thou wouldst; and the landlady I haven’t really seen, I was out all yesterday and today. Wanted to see the city. Why?’

Csevet pulled another face.

‘Thou art right,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m not… things have changed for me, lately. And it’s just… I didn’t exactly get my position traditionally… it’s kind of,’ he gave a huff of uncertain laughter, ‘a funny story, I suppose…’ he trailed off, looking at her, and she could see he was trying to decide whether or not to explain.

Well, it wasn’t as if I hadn’t thought of this possibility, she thought. It was far too much money. Csevean steeled herself and then tried to look as though she hadn’t. She didn’t want him to think she needed to try too hard to accept this. But it was hard to find the right words, and she had several false starts.

‘Csevet, I want thee to – I promise, whatever it is thou hast – however thou has gone about things, it doesn’t matter –’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ He was staring at her, and suddenly she could not read his expression at all. I should know it like my own, she thought, distressed. She forced her thoughts into some semblance of order.

‘Well. I know our father said some… things to thee, before you left,’ she tried, ‘and I want thee to know that I don’t agree with him. I’m not going to be silly about it, however thou might have gained thy position –’

‘And I suppose I can’t possibly have gotten a position paying this highly except on my back, is that it?’

‘I didn’t say that – Csevet –’

‘If thou hast already made thy mind up about what I’m doing, maybe we shouldn’t even bother having this conversation.’

‘Csevet wait – please.’

He stopped at the door, his back to her. Csevean bit her lip, knowing she only had one chance to get this right.

‘I only meant – look, thou’rt my brother,’ she said. ‘And I love thee. And I don’t know how thou hast managed to get this far and I don’t care – we’re not in Avio anymore, things are different in the city, and whatever thou hast earned I know thou deservest it. I just... I don’t want thee to worry about how I’ll react. Thou needst not tell me anything, but I don’t want thee to feel like thou hast to keep secrets. We don’t have to be like that.’

There was a pause.

‘I worked as a courier, Csevean,’ he said, still facing away from her. ‘Just a courier. And if thou canst not believe that –’

‘I believe thee,’ she said quickly.

He turned to look her in the eyes; they’d always been unable to lie to one another. That hadn’t changed. He breathed out, nodded, and she relaxed again. She had handled that badly, she knew. But by the look on his face, he was feeling guilty about his own temper, so perhaps they were even.

‘I was asked to carry an important message last year,’ he said, leaning back against the door.

‘What kind of message?’

‘I was to bring the news of the death of Varenechibel IV and his three sons to his youngest son, who was to take the throne.’

‘You met the emperor, then? What was he like?’

Csevet looked, briefly, as though she’d slapped him; then he gathered himself.

What was that about?

He continued to explain, ignoring the odd moment and not answering her question, that he’d then been asked to run a handful of errands for the new emperor when he arrived at court, including convincing the recalcitrant Lord Chancellor to attend on his emperor.

‘Was this the one who got banished because he tried to take the throne?’ she asked, and then smiled a little at his expression.

‘We do get some news in Avio, you know.’

He laughed, and it felt like a victory.

‘Yes, that Lord Chancellor,’ he said. ‘He wasn’t pleased with being ordered about by the new emperor, and he sort of… well, he took it out on me. Said I might as well work for Edrehasivar then, because I certainly had no job with him –’

‘Do couriers work for the Lord Chancellor, then?’ Csevean interrupted, wanting to make sure she had it straight.

Csevet nodded.

‘Yes – well, sort of, it’s more that the courier fleet is one of subdivisions of the chancellery, but effectively – and so when I went back to the emperor, I said that Lord Chavar had suggested my services would be available indefinitely – and he just seemed pleased. And kept me on. And it was temporary to start with, but… now I’m the imperial secretary. So that was one pay rise; the other was this summer, because he and the new Lord Chancellor were rearranging how the secretaries work, and decided I should be paid more.’

Csevet looked a little sheepish at his last words. Csevean opened her mouth, and then closed it again.

Imperial Secretary?

She looked at Csevet, this time paying closer attention. She’d of course noticed he was smartly dressed, but had assumed it was nerves. He’d always preened more when he was nervous, as though looking better could supplement his courage. With the knowledge of his position, she now saw the quality of the clothes in a new light. Smartly cut, and new – and very well-kept, and not overworn because he had the money to have several different outfits rather than wear through one or two. When he had left her he had had three rings in each ear, copper like hers; now he had six, some more ornamented, and they at least looked like silver. Perhaps they were. And his voice… she’d gone walking in Cetho the day before, trying to distract herself, and she’d heard that accent plenty. Not quite the same as the fruit sellers in the market; but like the customers waiting outside the more expensive shops. Precise and refined. A court accent.

She tried to think of what to say; it explained a few things, and she was… happy for him. Was she? Yes. Well, then.

‘Congratulations,’ she said.

He gave her a weak, uncertain smile.

‘Thanks.’

‘Thou art – thou art happy?’ she asked, sensing something amiss.

‘Oh! Very much so,’ he said, and at least she knew that was genuine. Good. So what’s eating him? Perhaps it wasn’t wise to push; they barely knew where they stood with one another, after all, and it might have been more sensible to keep the conversation light and practical, and arrange another in a few days. But the weight of eight years separation against twelve years practically joined at the hip… connection won.

‘What’s the emperor like?’ she said, circling back to the thing that had so disconcerted him before.

She saw him hesitate; watched the brief moment where he considered holding back as she had; and then saw him match her decision, because damn it all what was the point?

He let himself slide his back down the door until he was sitting on the floor, and looked at her.

‘He’s perfect,’ he said simply, and then Csevean knew.

‘Oh, Csevet,’ she said.

~

They talked for two more hours. Csevet seemed to have been holding onto his feelings interminably long, and the chance to finally talk to someone who wasn’t part of the court had broken all the barriers.

He was circumspect, of course; he explained the secrecy of the Alcethmeret, and told her virtually nothing that would be considered private. But he spoke about his fears, his worries, his feelings for the emperor – for His Serenity, he said, sometimes lapsing into Edrehasivar in a tone that made Csevean’s breath catch. He would interrupt himself intermittently, ask her about the village, and even though she knew he didn’t really want to know she answered to give him time to breathe.

They ended up sitting next to each other by the door, childlike, with her arm wrapped around his shoulders.

‘I can’t believe,’ he said wearily, ‘that I get to see thee again after eight years and the first thing I do is talk about myself for hours. Thou wilt be glad to be rid of me.’

It was a joke, but only half of one. She gave him a shove.

‘I most certainly will not,’ she said. ‘And I’m glad we can talk like we used to. Though the subject has changed, since then.’

‘Just a little.’

‘The smallest bit.’

‘Minutely.’

They laughed, weakly.

‘Tis late,’ he said regretfully. ‘I need to get back up to court lest I miss the last bell.’

Csevean gave him another shove.

‘Get moving then, sluggard,’ she said, then hesitated. ‘Csevet? Wilt come back and see me? I… I don’t know what I’m doing next, and I’m not in a hurry to move on.’

Csevet nodded before she had even finished speaking.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow or the night after, around the same time? His Serenity’s at dinner, so it’s easy enough.’

She nodded gratefully.

They made their farewells, and then Csevet left. Csevean collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

My brother is in love with the emperor.

Well, she’d wanted something different, hadn’t she?

Chapter Text

Belmorigar I, the 51^st Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Though all the Ethuverazheise emperors would have had arrangements made for their personal security, Belmorigar was the first emperor to have nohecharei in the current understanding of the term – a select group who dedicated their lives to defending the emperor. For his purposes this consisted of a group of eight highly-skilled soldiers who were dedicated to his personal safety and guarded him in two shifts of four.

Belmorigar formalised much around the imperial position and the Drazhada, and commissioned the first formal ‘History of Drazhardeise Emperors’, copies of which still exist, though the content is highly fictionalised and was likely used as a form of propaganda. Belmorigar’s reign was well-organised and tightly focused on steady gains to his territory, a pattern which characterised his heirs for several generations.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

Training and exercise was excellent for clearing the mind, but these days it was not always enough. Deret, his thoughts still twisting and turning, had finished his training for the day and was sat by the fire, working polish into his boots.

The last year had been disorienting, to say the least. Things seemed to be working out, and both Kiru and the edocharei had remarked positively on how Deret had assisted his Serenity during and after his breakdown, but it wasn’t an area that Deret felt confident in. He hated having to move forward on the basis of his best guess as opposed to solid knowledge. Though he supposed it was promising that he was apparently guessing well.

He put one boot down with a thump and picked up the second.

‘What’s biting thee?’

Deret looked up. Cala was closing the door to the quarters behind him with his foot, an improbable number of books piled in his arms.

‘Wasn’t expecting thee back for a while yet,’ Deret said. ‘Didst thou actually return any of the books to the library?’

Cala pulled a face at him.

‘Of course I did,’ he said, depositing the pile on a side table. ‘These are all new.’

Deret raised his eyebrows.

‘As thou sayest.’

Cala flopped down into the chair between Deret and the fire.

‘Thou art avoiding the question,’ he said, aiming a gentle kick at Deret’s foot. ‘What’s eating thee? Give it up.’

Deret made a discontented noise.

‘I just feel… lost,’ he said, quietly. ‘This year has been hard, and… everyone keeps telling me I’ve been handling things well, talking to His Serenity and that manner of thing. But it doesn’t feel like I’m doing well. I feel like I barely know what I’m doing. Everything is guesswork. I know how to deal with someone trying to stab the emperor or – or – put an arrow in him, but this is…’ he trailed off, frustrated.

Cala was watching him solemnly.

‘I think thou hast been doing well, if it helps,’ he offered. ‘Thou wert helpful in the chapel, he told thee so himself. And I had no idea what to do when he broke down in the dining room, but thou – didst not thou tell me that that was part of thy training?’

‘Sort of.’ Deret heaved a sigh. ‘I’m just sick of feeling uncertain, at having to try my best guess instead of what I know is going to work.’

‘Thou art far too used to such certainty, hast forgot how rare a thing it is for most of us,’ Cala said with a wry smile.

‘Bah.’

The flames in the grate flickered endlessly as Deret watched them. Perhaps he should try meditating? Train more down at the barracks? Visit the retired soldiers and talk to them?

‘I could find thee a book,’ Cala suggested.

‘What? Which book?’

Cala shrugged.

‘There’s always a book. People study anything. There’ll be something on… oh, nightmares, and stress, and grief, that sort of thing. Might help thee feel that thou hast more of a grip on the subject.’

Deret frowned, thinking about this. He usually did his learning better in other ways, but it was probably worth trying.

‘Alright,’ he agreed. ‘My thanks.’

Cala brightened.

‘We can go over to the Mazan’theileian library after the next shift, if thou likest,’ he said. ‘I’ll show thee how to find things, it’ll be fun.’

Deret swallowed down three separate possible evasions. Cala and he had very different ideas of fun ways to spend one’s time.  

‘Very well then,’ he said instead.

He expected Cala to delve immediately into his pile of books now the conversation was concluded, but the maza was quiet, fidgeting with the sleeve of his robe. Deret quirked an eyebrow at him.

‘I was wondering…’

‘Wondering?’ Deret prompted when Cala’s voice faded.

‘There’s… something thou couldst help me with, in turn, perhaps?’

‘Oh. I’d be glad to help, what is’t?’ Deret asked, curious. Cala rarely asked him for assistance with anything.

Cala seemed to be struggling to find the words; Deret waited for almost a minute before he finally succeeded.

‘Thou hast never…’ Cala began, ‘well, in the time I’ve known thee… things go wrong. And both of us have made mistakes. But thine… thou dost not seem troubled by it, exactly. My mistakes eat me alive, but I see thee just… learn and adapt. Thou art better at failing than I am, it seems to hurt thee less, and I was wondering if thou couldst… teach me how?’

Deret untangled this.

‘That may well be the least flattering thing I’ve ever been asked,’ he said eventually, ‘but I can try, if thou likest?’

Cala looked sheepish but grateful, and Deret held back a laugh.

‘I couldn’t think of another way to phrase it!’

‘Mm.’

~

Their next slow change took place after dinner. While the emperor was being made ready for bed, Deret arrived ahead of Cala and raised the issue with Kiru as they stood outside the bedchamber door.

‘Cala needs to learn how to fail,’ Kiru said, smiling. ‘Well, I’m glad he’s worked that out for himself. I was wondering if I should talk to him about it.’

At Deret’s expression, Kiru gave a little laugh.

‘Dachenmazei are rare, thou knowest,’ she said, in the tone of one beginning a lengthy explanation. ‘Tis common for there to be no dachenmazei particularly close in age – most of us will be the only dachenmaza for five or six years, at least, and sometimes the gap is wider.’

‘Cala and Dazhis were close in age,’ Deret said, forcing himself to use the former nohecharis’ name without flinching. He hadn’t had cause to say it aloud in months.

Kiru conceded to this with a nod.

‘True. A fluke, really,’ she said. ‘But Dazhis was brought to the Mazan’theileian age nine, and Cala not until he was nearly thirteen – between that and Cala being two years the younger, it was enough to mean they were at very different stages.’

‘I see.’

‘The thing is – being so far apart from each other, it means we all get taught alongside the regular maza, who are taking three days to learn things Cala or I can learn in thirty minutes,’ she said. ‘Always top of the class. Always best at everything. And the Athmaz’are focuses on making sure we’re all content and happy, so we get to try things and then pursue what we’re already good at.’

Deret, brow creased, thought he was beginning to see where this was going.

‘When I was sixteen, I took my cleric’s vows, and started working at Cetho hospital,’ Kiru continued. ‘I was excited – I knew there would be drudge work, but that was fine. I was prepared.’ She made a face. ‘What I wasn’t prepared for was that I would make mistakes. I cried after every shift for months, I nearly gave up every week – because I’d never got anything wrong before. I’d never been bad at anything before. But I wasn’t using maz for a lot of the drudge tasks, because it wasn’t useful for them, and so suddenly I was having to learn the hard way. And every mistake felt like the end of the world.’

‘And thou thinkest this is the problem Cala meant?’

‘I know it is,’ she said wryly. ‘Only thou hast not been faced with it much yet. Hast thou ever tried to teach him anything?’

Deret thought about this.

‘I taught him how to have better posture so he didn’t get backache on shift,’ he said. ‘Right near the beginning.’

‘How did that go? Was he enthusiastic about the idea?’

Deret gave a small snort of laughter. He had offered after their third shift, seeing Cala stretching and wincing; Cala had vaguely said he would get around to it. It had been four weeks before the maza had come back to him. He said as much to Kiru and she nodded.

‘Thou had pointed out something he was doing wrong,’ she said. ‘He didn’t know how to handle that, so he ignored it. He came around after a while – he’s not foolish or unreasonable – but it took much longer than it would have taken thee. Soldiers are not free to pursue whatever they are best at, they are all taught to excel at the same set of things. Thou art trained to take correction, like Coris is. It’s a valuable skill.’

Understanding dawned. Deret nodded slowly.

‘But how thou art to teach it, I do not know,’ Kiru finished with a shrug.

‘I might have an idea, actually,’ Deret said thoughtfully. And then there were soft footfalls on the stairs, and Cala arrived.

‘I’m not late?’ he said, and Deret shook his head.

‘We were just talking about what thou asked me,’ Deret said. ‘How wouldst thou feel about learning to fight with a sword?’

Cala stared at him, uncomprehending; then he caught on.

‘Ah. Something I can practice failing at?’ he said with a smile.

‘Something thou canst practice failing at.’

~

‘Csevet’s out again tonight, so you know,’ Ebremis said over his shoulder to Kiru and Coris as they entered the kitchen. ‘Gone down to Cetho again.’

‘Thanks, Ebremis,’ Coris said.

The nohecharei were expected to keep track of the comings and goings of the Upper Alcethmeret staff, and this was the third time this week Csevet had vanished during dinner.

‘Where’s he off to, do you think?’ Nemer asked curiously, the edocharei having followed Coris and Kiru into the room. ‘It’s not like him to disappear so often.’

Kiru, whom Csevet had told where he was going so he could be reached if Himself asked, kept it to herself.

‘Himself all settled in for the night?’ she asked, changing the subject.

‘Mm, he seems a little better today,’ Esha said, taking a seat at the kitchen table and picking at the leftovers in the middle. ‘Were you in for his conversation with Dornar?’

‘About mourning colours?’ Kiru asked. ‘Yes, I was.’

Edrehasivar could not wear traditional mourning for Chenelo now, not without facing public scrutiny; he had been prevented from completing formal mourning for when she had died. Mer Dornar had suggested that he wear a layer of black beneath his outer clothes for the traditional duration of familial mourning. Mourning in private, to acknowledge the time the process would take and the weight that he must carry in the meantime.

‘It’s a good idea,’ Avris said, after Esha had explained it to the rest of the room. ‘He seems settled by it. And he’s easily chilled so he’d be in layers anyway, it shouldn’t mean he overheats, at least over the winter.’

‘It’s unfair that he can’t just wear it publicly,’ Isheian said as she wiped down the tables.

Nemer made an annoyed noise, and Ebremis shook his head.

‘Agreed,’ he said quietly.

‘I hate that people are so – so rude about his attachment to her,’ Avris said, leaning against the wall to let Isheian get past. ‘She’s his mother. Is he just supposed to forget, and not be sad anymore?’

‘They don’t think of who she is to him, only who she is to court,’ Esaran said grimly. ‘A relegated woman, who was only empress in practice for less than a year. But she would have been his whole world, I imagine.’

‘It’s never easy to lose a parent,’ Kiru said.

‘No, it’s not.’

Coris’s voice was quiet, and Kiru winced.

‘Oh – Coris, I’m sorry. We’ve been being tactless,’ she said, looking at him.

‘No, it’s all right. I’m not upset.’ Coris gave Kiru a half smile, and then seemed to notice the curious expressions around him. ‘I lost both of mine, and my older brother, when I was ten. Sarroll Fever, when it went through the north-west.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ebremis said, and there were nods from the others.

‘My thanks.’ Coris shifted position, frowning in thought. ‘But the thing is – the thing is – when they died, a neighbour took care of me, while they sent word to my uncle, and she was kind and gave me time and helped me talk a little. And then my uncle took me and he and my aunt were kind and caring and made sure I had everything I needed. And – and it’s not like it didn’t hurt, worse than anything I’ve ever… it hurts past talking about it, honestly. But I was taken care of, and looked after, and I… healed. It’s not easy and it’s… it’s something you always live with, it’s never going to go away, like an old injury, some days it aches and sometimes you catch it at the wrong angle and it hurts like new for a while. But most days it’s okay. You can get on with your life. I got hurt, I got bandaged up and looked after, and while it’s a weak spot it’s healed.’

The kitchen was very quiet. Coris looked up at the ceiling as though he could see through it to the emperor, several floors above.

‘He – Himself? He doesn’t have that,’ he said. ‘What he has is an open wound. It’s been open for more than a decade, because that manner of hurt doesn’t heal by itself. It needs treating. And when – at eight years old, no one knows how to do that. Thou must have other people to help thee. And he didn’t have that. And he’s made do, he’s patched things and covered it up and tried to deal with it as best he can, but at the end of the day he’s never had the care he needed. And now it’s been so long that he’s ashamed it isn’t fixed, because everyone else would be fixed by now, but it’s not his fault – Nelar was a horror, and there wasn’t anyone else.’

Silence. Coris was a quiet sort of person, and this wasn’t a subject Kiru had heard him raise in detail before. Esha reached over and put a hand on Coris’s arm; Coris gave him a smile.

‘Really, I am well,’ he said. ‘It just – with everything he’s been going through lately, I’ve been thinking about it.’

‘I wish we could help,’ Nemer said, always the voice of what everyone was thinking.

‘He’ll get there,’ Kiru said quietly. ‘He needs time, and care, and he’ll have that here.’

‘In the meantime, it’s late, and we’re all for early rising in the morning,’ Esaran said, standing from her desk. The kitchen moved almost as one, tidying odds and ends away and slipping out into the corridors of the nest to sleep.

~

Time passed, as it tends to.

With the autumn well underway and the start of winter on the horizon, the first year of the reign of Edrehasivar VII was complete.

He was visiting the chapel several times a week, now; Csethiro had even joined him once, briefly, out of curiosity. She found the quiet peaceful but a little too restrictive. Not comfortable for her, but she was glad that he found solace in it, something to steady himself with. Maia was… managing, some days with more difficulties than others. Determined to help, Csethiro made certain the rest of the family was spending time with him. The only person they had told about Chenelo was Arbelan, for the moment, though Csethiro was privately of the opinion that Vedero should be told, as well as Idra and his sisters when they were adults. But it was still too raw to push the matter with Maia; she thought to raise it again in the spring.

Spring.

Spring would be when their child was due, almost a year since their marriage. Csethiro had waited a week after the news about Chenelo broke, agonising between not wanting to keep secrets from Maia and wanting to tell him when he wasn’t drowning in grief and had at least a little room for joy. She still wasn’t certain she’d timed it correctly; but if she hadn’t, he had forgiven her. She had also forgiven him for checking on her incessantly for the first two weeks that he’d known, to the point of absurdity, before backing down and meekly saying he would confine his questions to Kiru Athmaza from then on. So they were on an even keel, small squalls notwithstanding. They even had names – Chenet, for a boy, after Maia’s mother; Evelo, for a girl, after Csethiro’s.

The two of them dined together twice a week, once with Arbelan and sometimes Vedero, once with just the two of them. Maia had also limited his post-dinner events with the court to twice a week, and this seemed to have at least slightly improved his capacity for enjoying them.

Unlike the early onset of the previous winter, this one was hesitant, with the occasional warmer day interrupting it. On one such night, after dining together, Maia and Csethiro took a walk in the Alcethmeret gardens. It was cool, but bearable when well-wrapped up, and it was good to take in the fresh air.

Csethiro, who had been looking up at the sky, glanced back at Maia to see his brow furrowed in thought.

‘What art thou trying to puzzle out at this time of the evening?’ she asked, her tone light.

‘Oh, I – I just… I don’t know how to…’ Maia made a face that he probably did not realise was endearing, and tried again. ‘I need to work out how to say something publicly.’

‘I’m sure Mer Aisava could help thee with that,’ Csethiro said.

Maia shook his head emphatically.

‘Oh, no, this is a… personal matter. Mer Aisava is very helpful on the professional front. But it would be inappropriate.’ He sounded uncertain.

‘Well then, ask me.’

‘It seems a little… impolite to ask thee.’

‘Why? Am I to be publicly declaimed?’ Csethiro asked, grinning.

‘No!’ Maia exclaimed, before laughing sheepishly. ‘No, at the party the day after tomorrow. I need to officially announce the pregnancy and I… I am struggling to work out what to say.’

Csethiro raised her eyebrows.

‘Thou knowest I’ve no skill with oratory,’ he said apologetically.

‘Tis hardly a speech!’ she teased.

‘That’s worse!’ he insisted. ‘If ‘twere a speech, I could rehearse it; it would be acceptable for it to sound rehearsed, or even be read from a paper. And if the delivery was stilted, the quality of the speech could make up for it. But this must sound natural, and genuine, and I have no skill to improvise.’

He sounded so plaintive that Csethiro made a sympathetic noise and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

‘Well,’ she began as they strolled on, ‘how wouldst thou say it if the manner of it did not matter, only the content? What hast thou come up with so far?’

Maia sighed.

‘My wife – lovely – pregnant – very happy?’ he said, gesturing vaguely and uncomfortably.

Csethiro burst out laughing; Maia joined her a few seconds later.

‘I don’t know what thou art worrying for, I think thy every speech should be spoken like that,’ she managed, still giggling.

Maia shook his head without looking displeased. ‘Mm, ‘twould be very successful. Very dignified.’

‘This bridge – lovely – pregnant – very happy!’ Csethiro said in a mock-pompous tone, at which point both of them lost themselves to laughter again.

‘I don’t know!’ Maia shook his head. ‘‘Tis such a strange thing to announce. “Well, as you all know, because you’ve all been avidly watching our every interaction in public, our wife and ourself have been getting on splendidly and we’re proud to say there’s been a consequence”.’

Csethiro, still giggling, managed her own suggestion.

‘Good news everyone, you’ve known babies? We believe we’ve discovered the cause!’

Maia broke into laughter again, wheezing. Csethiro was fleetingly glad of the privacy of the Alcethmeret gardens, that no one could walk past and wonder why the zhas and zhasan were stopped halfway along a path, practically bent in half with laughter.

Gradually, the hysterics wore away. Csethiro, chest aching from laughter, looped her arm back around Maia’s and they walked on as they caught their breath.

When she was certain she was not going to start laughing again, she spoke.

‘Here is how thou speaks: “I am delighted –” – thou art delighted, I take it?’ she asked, teasingly.

‘Very much so,’ Maia said, pulling her a little closer and giving her a warm smile. Csethiro smiled back.

‘Then, as follows: “I am delighted to announce that our wife and ourself are expecting a child in the spring.” And then some helpful person will probably call “to the Drazhada” and all but I will get to have some wine, and ‘twill all be over.’

‘Thou art overflowing with wisdom.’

‘I am, aren’t I?’

Maia squeezed her arm, and she lent her head briefly onto his shoulder. They completed their loop; to Csethiro’s surprised, Maia kept walking, as though to take the route again.

‘Needst more air than usual?’ she asked lightly.

‘I wanted to… talk to thee about something,’ he said. ‘To do with the kerich agreement.’

He sounded nervous.

‘About me, or about thee?’ she asked, her tone neutral; she trusted Maia, and she loved him, but could not entirely ignore the what if…

‘About me,’ he said, and added sheepishly, ‘for thou seemst to have everything in hand on thy side.’

Csethiro relaxed. That was true enough. She was very much enjoying flirting with Osmin Asru Ballenin, and while she did not intend to go very far with it on this occasion it was good to know that she could. Maia, on the other hand, had been very quiet.

Csethiro gave his arm a gentle squeeze.

‘Out with it, then. Thou has a fondness for someone, then?’

She was privately a little surprised, but that was more at Maia sharing his feelings than Maia having them. Whatever this was, it was serious.

‘I… I do, yes.’

Silence for a minute or so, until Csethiro’s patience ran out and she tugged at his arm.

‘Well? Wilt thou tell me or is that all thou art going to say?’ she said gently.

Maia’s darker skin didn’t show a blush, but she could tell anyway from the way his expression changed and his ears flicked.

‘I… I have grown to realise my feelings for… someone,’ he said. ‘But it is not someone I can… pursue. I just – I understand if thou wouldst rather I not discuss it in detail, but I wanted to tell… someone. To see if it helped me clear my head.’

Csethiro nodded. They walked further in silence as she thought about her feelings on the subject; then she nudged him over to a bench. It was not so cold as they could not sit for a few minutes. She twisted in her seat so she could face him, then gently wrapped both his hands in hers.

‘Tell me everything,’ she said. And to her surprise, it was easy both to listen and to sympathise.

‘…so ‘tis impossible,’ Maia concluded wearily. ‘But now I’ve noticed, I’m worrying all the time whether I’m giving it away. And I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable. I know it will pass. It – it will pass, dost thou think?’

Csethiro moved closer to him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

‘I think it… might,’ she said, and gave him a sympathetic squeeze when he sighed. ‘But the two of you are always together, that will keep it fresh for a long time; and if it’s love, which it seems like it is, then it will be even longer.’

Maia buried his head in his hands and made an incoherent noise of distress. Csethiro bit her lip, caught between sympathy and amusement.

‘It isn’t entirely impossible, though,’ she said quietly. ‘The power difference is… dramatic. But the power I have over Asru is dramatic too, and we manage.’

‘Thou art not – Asru Ballenin does not work for thee. Thou art her empress but…’

Csethiro conceded to this with a wave of a hand.

‘I know, it isn’t the same,’ she said. ‘And I think thou art right to be wary. But it bears considering; if it were to be done, what would be the problems and what would be the solutions?’

Maia was shaking his head.

‘Why delve into it at all, as though ‘twere even possible?’ he said.

‘Because,’ Csethiro said firmly, ‘any dalliance thou hast will have similar problems, to a lesser or greater extent. Mer Aisava is an extreme example, and therefore is useful to use as a template.’

Maia pulled a face, but Csethiro could see she’d won her point.

‘Very well,’ he said grudgingly. ‘How wouldst thou approach it?’

‘In the warm, to begin with,’ she said. ‘Shall we retire? Then I can think about it and we’ll talk it over in the bedroom.’

Maia agreed to this, and forty-five minutes later they were bundled up together in the imperial bed, the curtains shut, and Maia’s head resting on her shoulder, her hand toying with his sleep braid.

They never talked long like this, but it felt more private than the gardens, and Csethiro outlined her thoughts as Maia offered suggestions. The movement of money to somewhere Maia could not access it but Mer Aisava could, enabling him security if he decided to leave the court; a prewritten letter of recommendation given into his keeping so that Maia could not eat his words if they argued; careful measures to maintain privacy…

‘Obviously this is hypothetical,’ Maia said for the fourth time, and Csethiro made a frustrated noise.

‘I know, Maia,’ she said, kissing him on the top of the head. ‘Thou hast only said so a thousand times. I think it’s admirable that thou art so careful. I just think it’s better to think these things through even if they aren’t achievable. They’re worth understanding.’

‘Mm.’

What she carefully didn’t say, as Maia slid gently into sleep beside her, was that she was not entirely certain it was entirely hypothetical. It was clear that Maia had no idea Mer Aisava was marnis, but Csethiro had that as a matter of fact. And the man was awfully dedicated to Maia… that could be Alcethmeret standards, of course, the whole household seemed fond of their emperor, but… well. From where she was standing it seemed a great deal less impossible than Maia thought.

Chapter Text

Belmidar III, the 115^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

The eldest son and third eldest child of nine, Belmidar III oversaw a great expansion in the size of the Drazhada, and the challenge of finding his siblings, their spouses, and their children all appropriate positions in court was the defining feature of his reign. Popular legend says the high number of family disputes prompted one prominent politician to state ‘the Drazhada are not a family, they are an altercation’.

While Belmidar III suffered no direct challenges to his throne, the constant adversity among his various relations and lack of reliable familial support severely limited his ability to pursue imperial policy and act as an emperor should. He achieved little in his reign that was not minimal or ultimately reversed, and his frequent changes in stance to accommodate the changing battlefield of the family caused him to be viewed as unreliable and even amoral.

He was survived by a singular son, and had no other children.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

When she was small, she had dreamt of being forgotten.

With three brothers, it was easy enough to glimpse what it could be like. Nemolis took the largest portion of attention from everyone, as the boy who would be emperor. Nazhira and Ciris were also beacons of the future: they would become strong men, expansions of the Drazhada, lending stability to the empire by their very existence for years to come. The girls of the court fawned and fussed over them all, even when they were young. And her older sister, Nemriän – well, she was playing the game already when Vedero was small, courting and flirting and enjoying the competition of the young men. Vedero was additional, spare; or that was how she had felt. And it had been a wonderful kind of freedom.

As long as she was quiet and well-behaved when anyone was watching, they did not look too hard at what she was reading. The Alcethmeret library was full of fascinations for a growing mind, and she delved into every one of them with joy and fascination. Botany, history, medicine, theory of maz, natural philosophy, and of course: astronomy. When she was nine years old, she learnt that people travelling at sea could navigate by the stars. Could look up at the fathomless depths of the sky and see direction, purpose. Truth.

Freedom.

She was nine years old, and she had seen how things could be.

And then she grew up.

The court navigated not by stars; the court navigated not at all. The court was steered by her father, His Imperial Serenity Varenechibel IV, in the direction of his choosing, with the Corazhas and the parliament squabbling as they did so. No one looked up in the Untheileneise Court.

As she turned thirteen and was formally introduced to court, she shut her studies away. She did not stop them – no, she was too stubborn for that. But she had no desire to see them taken from her either, and so she hid them, pursuing them only in private. She held little gatherings with like-minded friends, swearing them to secrecy and swapping books when they were meant to be gossiping and embroidering. Her brothers almost certainly suspected, of course; but they all knew what Varenechibel was like, and so none of them spoke of it. No opposition from her siblings, but no direct support either – it was too risky. Slowly, she drew in on herself.

She was angry with them, often. They seemed to have it so easy, particularly her brothers. They complained about having to marry, of course; Nemolis with only his eyes, for he and Vedero shared a certain stoicness, but Nazhira with frustration and Ciris with humour. They thought she felt much the same, she supposed. But they had no idea. No idea how different it was – they would not have to leave their family and join another, they would not be left to dangle at the whims of an unfamiliar man, they did not risk losing the entirety of their identity to a stranger. And they stood a chance of actually finding the person they would marry appealing. Vedero had no interest in men.

Nemriän took a great deal of the pressure off for a while – she spun at the centre of a web of gossip, Varenechibel’s first daughter, the darling of the court. Vedero and she had always had an uncertain relationship – Nemriän kept Vedero out of the centre of attention, which they both preferred for very different reasons, and that was a plus. But they were too far apart in age to have really grown up together, and so they watched each other from a distance, careful not to get too close.

But a life in the background could not last, not for a daughter of the emperor, and slowly the strands of the web began to grow tense around her. She studied more and more, avoiding her brothers out of anger, bitterly glad that her only sister had married and moved a great distance away, for it gave her more time. The more she could study now, the more she would have to sustain herself with for the rest of her life.

She was still angry with them when their airship crashed.

Like most of the court, realising the identity of the next emperor was jarring. The instinct was to look to Idra, despite his age – he had friends at court, was already being seen as a future emperor, and he was the only male member of the core imperial family left. And then, with a guilty little jolt, one remembered Maia.

Vedero had attended his mother’s funeral, of course, but that had been a public event. And a public event meant public behaviour – no peering around to investigate one’s fourth brother, even if he hadn’t been despised by one’s father. And he had been too young to attend the wake. So she had never met him, nor even really seen him. And suddenly there he was, liberated from the mists of the Edonara like some unwanted token of the abruptly uncertain future.

She had been angry with him, too. First on principle, for being alive when her older brothers were not; then in person, for being kind. For asking what she wanted, as though that was allowed to matter. For promising hope when she knew it could not be realised. Did he not understand how painful that was?

Study the stars. - M.

She’d nearly torn the note up and thrown it in the fire, it had made her so angry. He risks the stability of the country for a nicety, she fumed to herself, he makes a mockery of tradition.

It was some time before she realised that those words were Varenechibel’s, rather than her own. It was a little more time before she realised that Maia made her angry because he frightened her. Because he was willing to attempt that which she had long since refused to dream of.

The realisation did not sit well.

She had avoided everyone initially, the excuse of mourning enough to grant her solitude. And then she had avoided Csethiro, and suspected it was mutual. They had been becoming good friends, Csethiro being comparatively new to the little study circles; but she would be empress if Edrehasivar was not a fool, and something about the inevitability of the fact drove both of them apart.

At Winternight, finally, Vedero had reached out.

We are to be sisters, of a kind.

‘Tis so.

We… are glad of it.

Csethiro’s genuine smile had been both warming and a reminder that Vedero should not have waited so long. Too late now. One can only move forward.

Something about the way Maia was with people… worked. He was not their father – could not be further from Varenechibel – but it seemed there were many ways to be an emperor. Vedero watched as he and Csethiro fell closer and closer, under the eyes of the court; but it was more than that. She saw how he was with Idra; and how he was with Mireän and Ino.

‘Auntie Vedero, thou’lt never guess!’

‘What is’t?’

‘Cousin Maia says I can go to university when I grow up!’

Vedero’s court instincts saved her; her sharp intake of breath evened out too quickly for the children to notice.

‘That’s wonderful,’ she said, not know what else there was to say. ‘What else have you been doing?’

She felt a twinge of guilt at the slightly disappointed expression on Mireän’s face, but it couldn’t be helped. She would not have been able to continue the conversation as though everything was normal.

She meant to seek Maia out and demand an explanation, but he approached her first – asking if she could recommend a tutor for Mireän and Ino.

‘I know you have a great collection of educated friends,’ he said. ‘And it seems right to ensure that the girls are taught by a woman – it shields them from some accusations of impropriety, and shows them that they can…’ he trailed off, frowning in reach of the right phrase.

‘Have a future,’ Vedero said softly. ‘It teaches them that an educated woman has a future.’

And he smiled, a little sadly; and she remembered his words on the rooftop, last winter: We were not considered worth educating either.

And Vedero had no way of arguing with him, because he was right.

His changes reached both outwards and inwards. She had lunch with him later that month and found that he seemed to be inspiring the staff to innovation. He showed her the rings on his hands: clever imitations of the michen mura, tricks of the eye made from glass and cloth-of-silver so that they put less pressure on his aching fingers. They had been developed by his edocharei in response to his diagnosis, and she was as impressed as he was.

She had gradually begun to return to using the Alcethmeret library, and on one early morning she had encountered Cala Athmaza there, hunting through the corner not far from the astronomy section. Aware that the librarian’s presence was only barely enough to make the encounter appropriate, she did not approach but called softly over to him.

‘What do you look for, Athmaza? We would have thought the Mazan’theileian library more informative than this, on any subject.’

She had daydreamed about that library as a child, the largest in the Ethuveraz, hoping she would show some sign of maz-ability and be able to attend – but it was not to be. Drazhada did not take the maza test.

Cala Athmaza straightened, and gave her a respectful bow.

‘We seek information on the Alcethmeret itself, your grace,’ he said. ‘We believe it is too cold.’

‘Too cold?’ Vedero asked, curious despite herself. ‘How so?’

‘The tower was designed with wards running through it,’ the nohecharei replied, and she saw in his eyes the light of pleasure at being able to explain. ‘Indeed, there are even markings and engravings in the stone to make the maz-wards more effective. It is also terribly subject to changes in temperature.’

Vedero nodded, recalling her father’s complaints about the chill of the tower in winter, the heat in summer.

‘We suspect this is flaw, rather than design,’ he continued. ‘We are trying to discover if we are correct. If we are, then…’

‘Then you may be able to effect a repair?’ she asked, impressed.

He gave her a courteous nod, and she nodded in return before turning back to the shelves.

Everyone seemed to be changing. Experimenting, developing, exploring. For the first time in her life, Vedero felt hidebound and traditional by comparison. She did not much like it.

It was the uncertainty that got to her, she thought, curled up in her sitting room and watching the fire. It was hard to know how to be when everything could change.

‘Tis as bad for Maia, if not worse. Look at how much has changed for him, and how well he handles it.

That was true. Not always graceful or courtly, nevertheless: Maia managed, pushing on with a kind of stubborn persistence that Vedero could not help but respect. She herself, however, remained a tangle. A knot of jealousy, bitterness, longing, anger, and grief, with her brothers – all four of her brothers – muddled in amongst the loops and twists.

She took another sip of her tea and closed her eyes.

Perhaps this year will be better.

~

Csevet kept his eyes on his paperwork, but it was hard to avoid flicking them up occasionally. The zhasan had dropped in to speak to the emperor, and he had put aside his paperwork for a few minutes while they talked. Not a lengthy enough engagement for Csevet to absent himself, but certainly not one which he was meant to be attending to.

The subject was something around books – the zhasan had been reading from the Alcethmeret library, and wanted to suggest something to her husband. It made a nice little break from the work, and she would not linger so long as to make it an inconvenience. Privately, Csevet thought it was good for Edrehasivar. He did tend to spiral in on himself after a while.

Not that I can talk.

Csevet was getting better at working in the more ordinary way of the professional secretary, instead of the frantically improvised and desperately performative way he had towards the start. He was beginning to feel as though he might have the grip of the job, and it was starting to feel properly comfortable. With Csevean in Cetho, it was also getting easier to remember that he had a life outside of the court, something that Kiru kept nudging him about. But still, an awful lot of his feelings seemed to spiral in on just one person.

It was important for a secretary to be able to read his employer’s mood. That was normal. Csevet had carefully catalogued every one of Edrehasivar’s expressions, which probably was not. At least ‘tis thorough? Ha.

There was the face he made when he wanted Csevet or another member of staff to know that I really am not angry, please don’t be upset. There was the one for I am about to ask a question that everyone else knows the answer to and I hate that I don’t. There was one for I have made my decision even though I know everyone else will despise it, and one for this can’t possibly be this simple, and one for I might actually be competent at this for once. One of Csevet’s favourites was the fleeting expression of delight when Edrehasivar worked something out without being told.

Then there was the expression reserved specifically for the zhasan. Nemer would call it smitten and frequently did in the kitchens. Csevet kept his head down and worked, usually, when the zhas and zhasan were together, but he was curious enough that he occasionally caught a glimpse of it.

Always when she is about to leave. That little indrawn breath and bitten lip, raised ears and slightly widened eyes as though she might just be the most precious thing he has ever seen, and he has to catch one more glimpse of her before she vanishes.

Smitten didn’t really do it credit, but Csevet could not come up with a better word. Awed was a little dramatic, fond was too mild… in love was obvious, and somehow not special enough. Or perhaps Csevet was just… spiralling.

The zhasan left, and Csevet glanced up discreetly to watch that expression light Edrehasivar’s face. Watching the zhas and zhasan together was… well. It ached, and not because he was jealous. Csevet had never been particularly inclined to jealousy. When he cared about someone – when he fell for someone – all he wanted was for them to be happy. And Csethiro zhasan made His Serenity happy. But it still ached, because Csevet wanted to do that too.

Well, he could do small things. From the pile of paperwork in front of him, Csevet selected the private correspondence: a letter from the Archduchess Vedero, inviting her brother to observe the skies with her again, and two letters from Prince Idra’s sisters, who were being taught their formal writing and had written to their imperial uncle to practice. These he passed over to Edrehasivar.

‘If we may, Serenity, we will take your finished letter to Marquess Imel and also the signed reports and have them sent out now, if you are finished with them.’

‘Of course. Thank you, Csevet.’

Csevet bowed, took the appropriate papers, and made his way to the door. Feeling that some part of his hair had become disordered by the motion, he flicked a quick glance at the mirror by the door as he passed it.

The emperor, reflected behind him – a little indrawn breath and bitten lip, raised ears and slightly widened eyes –

Csevet flicked his eyes back to looking straight ahead before Edrehasivar saw, left the room and closed the door behind him. It wasn’t until he was half-way to the pneumatics room that he began to process what he had seen, and if he had not had the railing he thought he might have slid down the rest of the stairs.

Chapter Text

Belmelivar I, the 14^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

One of the few early emperors of whom detailed record survives, Belmelivar I was known as a prodigious cartographer and proponent of the ordering of nature to the better service of civilisation. While unlike many other emperors of his era he did not push the borders of his domain outwards, he did much that made it possible for his successors to expand with such zeal.

He prioritised careful monitoring of food supplies, founded the imperial grain reserve, and lowered the taxes due from farming families, reasoning that a country must be fed before anything else can be achieved. His extensive records of the area are still copied and studied today, though of course some of the landscapes have changed.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

Csevet spent the rest of the day in a state of glass-edged, barely comprehensible panic, which he suppressed behind the clockwork motions of a job which he loved but which suddenly seemed like it might actually not be the most important thing to ever have happened to him.

No, that might be something else.

The moment he was free, he handed all the loose ends to Mer Hallettar, grabbed his jacket, and bolted.

Cetho was bustling as he made his way through the streets towards Csevean’s lodgings. She’d decided to stay on in the city for a little while, and Csevet had insisted on keeping her afloat while she looked for work. They were on reasonably good terms now, he felt, though everything was still new. And she was categorically the only person he could talk to about what had just happened.

Half an hour and a several hundred wishes for a stiff drink later, Csevet and Csevean were sat side by side on the bed, Csevet out of words and Csevean staring contemplatively at the window.

‘What dost thou want?’ she asked eventually. ‘Ignoring the consequences. What wantest thou?’

Csevet closed his eyes. There was only one answer.

‘Him,’ he said quietly. He could picture Csevean’s little shake of her head without looking.

‘Yes, but how?’

‘I don’t think I should share that sort of thing with my sister,’ he said dryly, and she elbowed him in the ribs.

‘Not what I meant. Stop trying to change the subject. What dost thou want?’

‘I want…’ he began, but he ran out of words again and made a frustrated noise.

‘Well?’ Csevean poked him gently in the side.

‘…friendship,’ he said after a moment. ‘I want to be able to talk to him as though we’re just… people, not subject and emperor. I want to talk to him about things that aren’t his work. I want… I want to be able to be honest with him.’

Csevean turned to look at him, an eyebrow raised.

‘Thou meanest that thou, Csevet Aisava, liest to the emperor?’ she said in mock horror.

This time it was Csevet who elbowed Csevean, rolling his eyes.

‘No!’ he said. ‘But truthful and honest aren’t quite the same thing. I have to be so careful about how I phrase things and how much I can say… he’s had such a hard year and I want to be able to talk freely, to tell him that I care and share my experiences and try… try to help.’

‘Mm.’

‘But then, that in turn makes me think that I shouldn’t tell him,’ Csevet said, feeling something curdle in his stomach. Csevean frowned.

‘…all right, explain that in a way that makes sense?’ she said.

Csevet ignored her scepticism.

‘It isn’t that I think so highly of myself as to…’ he began, and then stopped, twisting the fingers of one hand into the bedsheets. ‘I know there are many who could do the work I do. I’m not a fool. And he is clever, and resourceful, and well liked – at least by the staff. He would manage without me, but… everything has been hard for him. And I’m not indispensable, but I don’t think he knows that, and I hate the idea of taking that away from him. I hate the idea of being someone he loses. It feels like… like a kind of a betrayal.’

‘Thou art assuming that telling him would mean thou wouldst have to leave?’

‘Mayhap – probably,’ Csevet said miserably. ‘I think he would try to carry on but I would not be as trustworthy as before, because he would always be worried about my motives. He would not force me out, but I would feel that I had to. Therefore, to tell him is…’

But Csevean was shaking her head.

‘Thinkest thou that telling him is betraying him? No, Csevet, ‘tis honesty – but is it not possible that keeping it a secret might be betraying thyself?’

He shot her a look, wanting to argue, but she just stared stubbornly back at him and after a moment or two he looked away. Thou hast always been bolder than I, he thought.

There was a stretch of silence while they both thought; then Csevean broke it.

‘And what about thy job? Thou hast a career now.’

Csevet made noise of disagreement, but he was not angry.

‘I don’t know that I do, really,’ he said. ‘A career is… an aim to work hard and move up the ranks and I just… jumped to the top. Of a career I didn’t have. There’s not actually anywhere for me to go from here. Except down.’

Csevean snorted.

‘But thou carest about thy job, thou wantest to keep it?’ she asked.

Csevet breathed out slowly, thinking.

‘I like my job,’ he said slowly. ‘I love the challenge of it. But I could be happy doing other things, I think.’ It wasn’t exactly a new thought – he had always been adaptable – but it was like a belonging he had left in a drawer for some time, and it felt newly unfamiliar in its rediscovery.

‘And couldst thou be happy if thou wert never to tell him of thy feelings?’

‘Ha. Well…’ Csevet swallowed. ‘… I thought so. I really did. When I thought it wasn’t mutual, that was… simple, really. I would have kept it to myself forever, and never regretted it. But now that I… well, I don’t know,’ he corrected himself, ‘I suspect. But now that there’s a chance that he…’

He stared around the room, not taking any of it in, his head full of one person and one person alone.

‘I don’t know if I can stand the idea that we could have had something but neither of us said anything, and all that potential was lost. I don’t know that I could bear it. It would be easier to leave and go work somewhere else.’

As he said the words, something settled in him. Bone-truth, they call that.

Csevean was watching him.

‘And if thou wert to leave…’ she said.

‘I would rather he know the reason. Nothing else would be good enough.’

They sat there, quietly.

‘Maybe he’ll say something to thee,’ Csevean said, but Csevet shook his head immediately.

‘No. He wouldn’t. He’d be too worried about the power imbalance, he’d feel too guilty about the whole thing. He won’t say anything.’ If I’m even right. If he even…

Csevean was chewing her lip. The motion reminded him of when they were children, and a burst of fondness shot through him at the sight. He would have to make this up to her, all this time listening to his woes and worries, when she was all but alone in a strange city.

‘Sounds like a reasonable thing to be worried about,’ she said softly. ‘The power, I mean.’

‘Hm?’ Csevet gave a one-shouldered shrug. The motions of power had been the water he swam in since he joined the courier service. ‘I suppose. I mean, yes, it absolutely is, but… I trust him.’

Csevet turned the conversation after that, finding picking at his feelings suddenly unbearable, and they talked about Csevean’s search for work, and new factory being built on the outskirts of the city, and the latest progress around the Wisdom Bridge, and a hundred other things. It was so easy to talk like this, almost like they used to, and Csevet cherished it; but underneath, with the beat of his heart, there was a question that would not leave him alone.

What now?

The trouble was, he thought he knew the answer, and it could mean everything – or it could mean that his life at court was over forever.

~

Ever since he had seen the model of the bridge over the Istandaärtha, with its intricate details and its flawless little mechanisms, Maia had begun to think of not just the court but the whole Ethuveraz as one tremendous and complex clock. The silk trade was a big wheel, certainly, but so were each of the principates, with the cities each hiding their own complex and interlocking mechanisms. And then the silver-and-gold movement of the court, silken and shining; elsewhere the springs and wires and escapements and gears of the merchants, the farmers, the tradesmen…

Taking a long slow breath in and then releasing it, Maia tried to relax. It was late. He had returned from court dinner feeling tired but unable to settle, and so now he was sitting on the cold marble floor of the Alcethmeret chapel, his legs crossed, his back straight. Mer Dornar was not far away and neither was Telimezh, but he had the knack of letting himself forget that now. It was quiet, and calm, and he could settle.

Some days he needed this just to be able to think about small things. But slowly, every so often, he found himself already grounded enough that his mood was easier to salve; and then this time became his chance to think on a grander scale.

Just over one year on the throne.

Another steady breath.

The whole year seemed to have passed in a disjointed, disorienting blur. The crash, the coronation, the funeral, the murder investigation, the attempted coup, the state visit, the assassination attempt, the trials, the wedding, the building stress over the summer until he had broken down, the revelation about his mother that still made him shudder with anger – and throughout, his own slow growth of knowledge and the beginnings of confidence, the steady work of the nohecharei and edocharei and everyone else below stairs, and the bond slowly forming between himself and Csethiro.

And of course, Csevet, without whom Maia suspected he would have been ousted within the first week.

Csevet.

Maia breathed in, and then out, and firmly turned his mind back to clockwork.

Part of what made the movement of a clock beautiful, he thought, was that it had a purpose. And for all of this first year, he hadn’t really had one – he had been trying to survive, trying to stay steady, but everything he had done had been a reaction. People presented him with problems, and he solved them, or tried to.

An emperor could not be reactive for his entire reign.

So he needed a purpose.

He already knew the shape of it, he thought. It was in the arch of the bridge over the Istandaärtha, the delight in Mireän’s eyes at the thought of university, and the figures on the reports that had arrived yesterday about the quality of life of the factory workers in Amalo.

Csetheio Caireizhasan, hear me. Csetheio Caireizhasan, see me. Csetheio Caireizhasan, know me.

He did not yet know enough, however, to shape policy to purpose. If the last year had taught him anything, it had taught him that the emperor’s power was a complex and disconcerting beast. Like rivers that dipped beneath the ground and came up where they were least expected, his words and actions were just the starts of complex chains of events that he was only beginning to be able to follow.

He had considered the matter of a tutor, and had eventually decided to keep the matter in-house – Idra would be attending university in a year, and in the meantime had more leeway to study on his own, which in turn gave Leilis Athmaza the time to teach the emperor for two hours a week. It wasn’t much, but working systematically through his ignorance was helping more than Maia had expected. Additionally, in the little bits of free time he had carved out, he was beginning to look more closely at history. There had been two hundred and eight emperors before him; so much to learn. Too much.

He needed… he needed stars. People at sea navigated by the stars, his mother had told him. To navigate by a star was to use it to direct you, rather than to expect to reach it. Perhaps that was a way of thinking about it. Perhaps Vedero would know. There had to be a way to find a direction without having to immediately be certain of how to reach it, or there would be no way to plan anything…

He didn’t want to decide all alone. He was almost certainly supposed to, but he didn’t know enough – could not know enough. He wanted to talk to… Csethiro and Vedero and Idra and Arbelan, yes, but also to Cala and Beshelar and Kiru and Telimezh, to the edocharei and Merrem Esaran and little Isheian and… and Csevet. He breathed out again, slowly.

Csetheio Caireizhasan, hear me. Csetheio Caireizhasan, see me. Csetheio Caireizhasan, know me.

Clockwork, river, stars. First thou shouldst learn to keep a metaphor straight, he thought to himself wryly. He had time to work these things out, at least. And in the meantime there was much to think about. The new factory in the west quarter of the city was causing some considerable controversy; the preparations for the Wisdom Bridge, endlessly churning; the beginning of the arrangements for Winternight…

He spent another quarter hour in the chapel, and when he rose and went back up the tower to prepare to sleep, he found that he could relax easily into the ministrations of the edocharei.

~

As the emperor slipped into sleep, his imperial secretary slipped back into the tower and through the corridors of the nest. Csevet changed for bed silently and then lay there, staring at the ceiling in the darkness, his decision feeling like a weight on the base of his throat.

Honesty. Whatever the cost.

Chapter Text

Belsarinar II, the 82^nd Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Belsarinar II is among a select number of emperors to be more well-known for his personal endeavours than for his imperial policy. He was a talented poet of some renown, and his work translating earlier epic poetry is still the foundation of our current translations. He was particularly well known for his love poetry, still quoted and exchanged by romantic youths today, which consisted of over one hundred and fifty poems written over the course of his lifetime. Some were addressed to his wife, and others to a carefully anonymised person, and many scholars have conflicting theories as to who this was.

Belsarinar’s reign is also noted for strictly enforcing tax collection and developing trade on the Istandaärtha.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

Csevet’s certainty of the night before trembled and all but dissolved in the light of dawn. What could he be thinking? One glance, caught in the mirror for a moment, and he was basing his entire future on it? On the possible feelings of a man in, let us not forget, a dedicated and by all accounts loving marriage to a formidable woman.

It’s more than that, he thought as he picked at his breakfast. The glance is… a tipping point. It’s possible that he… has feelings for me. Though ‘tis more possible that he does not. Or that those feelings are only lust or friendly affection, and given that I’ve no evidence to suggest that he’s marnis is not it too absurd to hope –

‘Csevet?’

Csevet started guiltily and stared at Esha as though he was a ghost.

‘I was asking if thou wouldst pass the salt,’ Esha said slowly.

‘The – oh, of course. Sorry.’

Csevet did so.

‘Art well, Csevet?’ said Nemer, sat on Esha’s far side.

‘Mm? Oh. Yes?’

Nemer looked at him, eyebrows raised, as Csevet realised that wasn’t exactly the way one answered those sorts of questions.

‘Yes,’ he said, pushing a little more certainty. ‘I’m well. Just distracted.’

‘Late night with a lovely lady?’ Tirizan said. Atterezh’s assistants were rarely in the kitchen at the same time as Csevet or the edocharei, as they kept a different schedule, but Csevet belatedly remembered that Tirizan had the day off today.

‘Lovely lady?’ Avris said with a grin. ‘Tell us everything…’

Tirizan, seeing Csevet’s confused and not entirely pleased expression, winced.

‘Sorry, Csevet,’ she said. ‘One of the downstairs girls said you’d been visiting someone at one of the ladies’ boarding houses, it’s probably just nonsense.’

Oh.

‘It’s not, but –’ Csevet shook his head. ‘My – ah – my sister is here. She came a few weeks ago, she’s looking for work in the city.’

It was the least convincing truth he’d ever told, but to the credit of the others they took it at face value. The conversation moved on to various other visiting family members.

Thou must remember to be seen out and about with Csevean now, he thought to himself. The one advantage of their similar appearance was that it would easily convince most onlookers that they were family rather than lovers.

Thinking of Csevean jerked him back around to their conversation the night before, and to thoughts about Edrehasivar. There was no chance of his feelings being mutual, and therefore there was surely no value in telling him?

Is it not possible that keeping it a secret might be betraying thyself?

Could he keep it to himself now, having considered the possibility? Even admitting that nothing could happen… unless it could, in which case… but the zhasan…

Csevet knew about the kerich agreement, of course. The members of the emperor’s household were, to put it indelicately, also his informants, albeit only on the level of servants’ gossip. If the zhasan had permission to indulge in an affair, they needed to know what to pay attention to, and so the nohecharei had informed them. But they had given little detail, and Csevet had no idea what Edrehasivar thought of the whole arrangement. Had he offered it, in the way of the same mood that had had him grant the Archduchess Vedero her freedom? But how would he even have known of the concept – would Nelar have ever mentioned it? Did the zhasan request it, did Edrehasivar feel obliged or gladdened or nothing at all towards it? Was he even interested in seeking his own affair or would he rather leave that to his empress? Perhaps he was marnis, but like Kiru – uninterested in that manner of relationship entirely? The gossip around Min Vechin did not necessarily undermine that, especially as nothing had come of it, and it might explain his nerves before the wedding. But then again, he seemed so charmed by the zhasan – how could Csevet possibly know in any case?

Csevet’s head felt full of questions, buzzing insects in his skull, as he finished breakfast and went to gather the paperwork for the day. A new tone to his thoughts emerged as he bowed to His Serenity and handed over the relevant correspondence before taking a seat.

Canst thou bear it? Not to tell him, now…

Perhaps, but then again perhaps not. There were too many uncertainties. Too many possibilities to know which decision would be right. Csevet wished he could question a nohecharei, the only people aside from the zhas and zhasan who might know the answers to even some of his questions. But he had no right to that, anymore than he had the right to peer into Edrehasivar’s head.

The only way to know, it seemed, was to try. To be honest.

Edrehasivar was honest. Almost to a fault, but Csevet admired it in him. And he knew that Edrehasivar appreciated it in others. So. Honesty. No expectations, no demands, no requests, no hopes. But honesty.

He spoke quickly, before he could lose his nerve.

‘Serenity, may we address a – a personal matter, with you?’

He dared to look up at Edrehasivar, whose expression was a mix of surprise and confusion – and underneath it, Csevet could see that determination to do the best he could, and was warmed by it.

‘Of course, Csevet,’ Edrehasivar said, his voice concerned.

Csevet swallowed. His stomach clenched, he felt as though he could hear every noise in the room; he moved his arms and heard the rustle of fabric as though it was the loudest sound, as though anything could be louder than the pounding of his heart.

Why didst thou think this a good idea, why didst thou listen to Csevean, why –

He clamped down on the thought as hard as he could, trying to hold his nerve. He had decided this, but he suddenly could not recall his own reasons. Had he had a plan? If he had, it seemed to fade to nothing before those clear grey eyes.

‘We – I – that is –’

Hopeless. His Serenity seemed even more worried and Csevet knew it was because he was behaving so improperly, but he knew not how to mend it now. Whatever he said would not be enough, unless he lied, and then what lie would be believed and not found out later? No. Enough. Enough of this foolishness.

He forced himself back into his proper form and bearing.

‘We apologise, Serenity. It is no matter. We can return to the papers. There is a letter here –’

His Serenity held up a hand to halt him.

‘Csevet,’ he said cautiously, ‘we do not think it can be no matter, if it discomfits you so. We will not demand you to tell us, but we wish you to know that if there is any help we can be then we would be glad to so offer it.’

Edrehasivar had gotten better over the last year at the form and the bearing appropriate to an emperor, but he rarely retreated entirely behind the imperial mask – and it wasn’t present at all now, save for in his language. He looked anxious, and Csevet had caused this, and now he would worry until he found out what had been the matter and it was all Csevet’s fault.

Csevet Aisava, thou art a fool.

‘We thank you, Serenity,’ he said, knowing it had all gone terribly wrong but unable to find a way to mend it. And those eyes were still on him, soft yet somehow seeing far more than they reasonably should.

See me.

His Serenity cleared his throat uncertainly.

‘Is it a matter – that is, do you have those who would assist you in the matter? We would not like to think you had no recourse.’

Csevet licked his dry lips briefly, trying to think of how to answer without making more of a mess.

‘It is… known to one other person, yes,’ he said, retreating desperately behind the formality of ambiguity. ‘And…’ stop talking, Aisava! ‘…tis true that she suggest… she thought it right that we should tell you.’

There. That was out there. Why the in the goddesses’ mercy was that out there? What had possessed him to say that? Something that wanted things it could not have.

And couldst thou be happy if thou wert never to tell him of thy feelings?

Csevean’s words echoed in his head, and he almost jumped when Edrehasivar spoke again.

‘We would willingly listen if you felt it would help – you have been so supportive of us this past year that it seems the least we could do,’ he said cautiously. ‘Though again, we will not press you.’

No, but thou wilt sit there with those damn eyes until I bleed it out.

Csevet felt as trapped as a hunted hare.

‘Tis, truly, not a… problem, as such,’ he managed, picking his careful way through the truth without lying directly. ‘Merely a… personal matter of ours, which we were advised might be better an it were in your knowledge. But we find it… not so easy to disclose as we might.’

Edrehasivar did not look as though he understood entirely, but nevertheless something sympathetic flared in his eyes.

‘Be at your ease, then,’ he said. ‘You may tell us or not at any time; there is no rush. We understand what it is to find things… difficult to express.’ He gave Csevet a wry smile, and Csevet nodded gratefully.

‘Shall we proceed with the letters?’ he asked after a moment.

‘Indeed.’

~

The rest of the day passed quietly. Csevet let himself drown in the thousand tiny details of politics and correspondence and gossip, flooding his mind to keep all other thoughts subdued. But when court dinner occurred, he took his meal back up to his room to keep working, and the trick gradually ceased to work.

Instead, he found himself imagining Csevean, as he had done so many times as a young courier. She was the bolder of the two of them, the more stubborn, the less flexible, and the younger Csevet had played out hypothetical conversations many times as a supplement to his own courage. He could just picture the way she would flounce in if she could have overheard his conversation with Edrehasivar that morning.

What in the goddesses’ name was that, Csevet?

Traditionally, one knocks on another person’s door so as not to disturb them, particularly when arriving unannounced.

I’m hardly likely to disturb thee doing anything disturbing, given how the conversation went today.

Csevet scowled. Even conjured by his own mind, she did not hesitate before piercing to the bone.

Art thou forever to oversee each of my failures, then? he thought, capping his pen considerably more ferociously than necessary and imagining her consternation.

That was not what I meant. But thou camest so close – I thought –

Csevet shook his head.

We do not wish to discuss it. Of course, using the formal first would only make her more stubborn.

Instead of leaving like a reasonable person, Csevean would grab one of the spare chairs and drag it over to sit opposite Csevet, watching him from across the desk. Csevet flicked his ears in irritation at the image and leaned back over his paperwork.

What would help?

We said -

Csevet, I am thy sister. I only want to help.

Thy help nearly had us into disaster.

Only because you faltered at the last moment!

Csevet slammed the pen down.

‘There is no solving it, dost thou understand?’ he said aloud to the empty room. ‘I cannot address it to him. I cannot. It would ruin everything. Everything I have, everything he relies upon me for, placed in the balance, for something that… cannot be, an even if it could there is no relying on it.’

He’s a good man. Csevet’s own thought, now, Csevean’s voice disappearing. The anger drained out of him even as he wished it hotter.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘Merciful goddesses, I know.’

He could hear his despair in his own voice, and wished he had gone down to speak to her again tonight.

He wanted this – wanted it so much it burned him – but at the same time he could hardly bear to think about it, let alone speak the words. Couldst write to him? he wondered, but shook his head. No. If he were to do this, he would do it himself, with his own voice and his own eyes and his own heart, with no paper betwixt them. If he did this.

Csevet turned back to the paperwork.

It grew late. He glanced at the clock. Edrehasivar would be returning to the Alcethmeret soon, weary of dinning with the court which even now he struggled to enjoy. He would go straight to bed, where Csevet could only hope he would sleep unencumbered by worrying about his secretary’s ridiculous earlier behaviour.

Perhaps he would think that Csevet was cracking under the strain, and wish to release him from his duties – be it temporarily or permanently. It was a stupid worry, irrational tiny compared the maelstrom in his mind, but it gnawed at his stomach as he sat there, a picture of indecision and distress.

Then, very carefully, as though if he moved too suddenly the world might crumble, he stood and gathered his jacket before leaving the room.

He walked through the twisting passages of the nest without permitting the blankness in his mind to dissipate. It felt rather like balancing something on one’s head – as long as he kept it right on the edge of his thoughts, he could do it, though if someone intercepted him before his destination he knew it would doom him.

But he met no one on his way. He knew the way up to the bedchamber, of course, though rarely had any reason to use it, and had never entered it himself.

When he reached the final landing, he found Kiru standing beside the door to the bedchamber. How would he explain –

‘He’ll not be asleep yet,’ she said, mildly. ‘The edocharei have all left, but he takes a little while to settle in any case. Shall I knock?’ Of course, she would assume this was court business.

Csevet had just enough wherewithal to shake his head. Then he reached out a shaking arm and knocked quietly on the door to the bedchamber.

Coris opened the door, saw Csevet, and glanced at Kiru. Whatever he saw in her face seemed to settle him; he turned into the chamber and spoke.

‘Serenity, Mer Aisava is without.’

There was a rustle of blankets and sheets; the angle of the door meant that Csevet could not see far in, but after a few moments Edrehasivar VII Zhas emerged, bundled in a robe and with his hair in a sleeping braid. He glanced at the nohecharei and then stepped onto the landing, stopping only at the closest polite distance from Csevet.

‘What’s toward?’ he said.

It is now or twill never be.

‘Serenity,’ Csevet began, and stopped. ‘Serenity.’

He could not seem to get enough air, and he could see the concern in His Serenity’s expression. He licked dry lips, swallowed, and tried once more.

‘Serenity, we must disclose something to you,’ he began, ‘and we – we thought we could conceal it, that it would vanish and return all things to ease, but we no longer believe… We wish you to understand,’ he continued, feeling through the jarred sentence fragments with desperation, ‘that we intend for this to make no mark on our work. We require nothing from you in response, only the peace of having spoken. And should our honesty lead us to losing our position –’ His Serenity’s intake of breath nearly stopped Csevet entirely, but he stumbled on – ‘– we would concede to that without regret, for we have never been able to be untrue for long, and there are costs to honesty that we have come to accept.’

He stopped, voice desperately dry. His Serenity’s expression was entirely without guard now; the worry in his eyes was open, and he was biting the corner of his lip.

‘Mer Aisava,’ he said, and Csevet saw the attempt to offer reassurance through respect and loved him for it all the more, ‘we would be sorrowful if you left; but should you feel the need to do so, we would not prevent you. Even so, we cannot imagine what matter should be so dreaded that its disclosure would require such a thing.’

He truly cannot. But there is no way out but through, now.

‘I am in love with you,’ Csevet said, the words falling out into the air like a miracle, or a death. Devastation, either way. But peace, perhaps.

The emperor’s eyes widened.

‘I – I love you,’ Csevet said, stubborn enough to be thorough. ‘And I am not asking for anything; it is just that I – that we felt it our duty to be honest. If you wish us to continue in our position, we need never speak of it again, and we give you our word that you will never find our work or our loyalty lacking. If you wish us to leave, then we will do so without hesitation or resentment, for we would rather be certain that you felt confident in those beside you. We apologise again for having sprung the matter on Your Serenity unannounced, and we will absent ourself so as to leave you to your rest and disturb you no further.’

Csevet bowed, and turned to leave.

‘Csevet, wait – I…’

Holding his breath, trying desperately to maintain his professional façade, Csevet turned to face him again. The emperor seemed even younger than he usually did, he thought.

‘I… I love you, too,’ he said quietly. ‘How could I not?’

Csevet stopped breathing.

How could I not?

How could I not?

How could I not?

He knew his mouth was moving, but he couldn’t make a sound. He swallowed. It felt as though everything in the whole world had paused and was waiting for him to answer.

‘You –’ he started, his throat dry. Edrehasivar looked suddenly anxious again.

‘You did mean – because if you would rather I – we – go on as if nothing was said, we can, I just –’

‘No, no, you don’t need to – it’s just I thought – I thought.’ Csevet cleared his throat. ‘You and the zhasan…’

Edrehasivar’s expression relaxed.

‘Oh, of course! ‘Tis how I know,’ he said, as though this explained everything.

Csevet blinked at him, bewildered.

‘Csethiro and I have a kerich agreement,’ Edrehasivar said. ‘One of the conditions is that we don’t interfere with the imperial line, which… is fairly easy given that… well…’ He trailed off, and then tried again. ‘I love Csethiro; very dearly. Once that had happened, I knew how I felt about you because… because it was the same. Before then I just thought… I knew I liked thee, I did, but before I was here I never even knew anyone my own age, let alone had the chance to consider… if one can have loving relationships with more than one family member, or more than one friend, then surely one can fall in love… more than once?’

Csevet didn’t know whether to laugh or cry; he felt as though he might fall over, or fall apart, because of all the worries and hopes and possibilities he had considered how had he never realised that Edrehasivar would be like this? Be as perfect as this?

‘True – truly?’ he said for want of something better, and watched the emergence of the familiar, sheepish expression on the emperor’s face.

‘Truly.’ The word was accompanied by a soft laugh, but it was heartfelt.

‘I – Serenity, I…’

‘Maia.’

Maia.

Csevet’s eyes widened, and the emperor – Edrehasivar – Maia – smiled, a little nervously.

‘Tis Maia,’ he repeated. ‘Thou shouldst probably know that, if thou wouldst…’ he seemed to catch himself, and pull back a little way. ‘Well. I do not… I do not know what thou wouldst.’

‘Nor I,’ Csevet found himself saying. ‘It took so much to reach this point I had no plan for passing it.’

They stared at each other; Maia bit his lip; and then Csevet found himself, to his own mild horror, beginning to laugh. The horror only lasted a moment, however – then Maia joined in, and they were stood there, in the gaslight, one of them in his nightclothes, gasping with laughter like children.

They sobered slowly, a little in awe of each other. Csevet took a few calming breaths, realising as he did that Coris was still stood in the doorway and Kiru off to the side, both watching them with expressions that he did not allow himself to look at closely. There would, undoubtedly, be more than enough commentary in the kitchen later, and he did not need to imagine it now.

‘This is… much to consider,’ Maia said, more seriously.

‘Tis.’

‘I… we should… talk about this.’

His tone was sombre and Csevet could not conceal the drop of his ears; Maia reached forward but stopped short of making contact, and dropped his arm again.

‘I – Csevet, I wish for this, if thou dost. It is only… it is only that I have so much power to hurt thee. And I would not, not for anything, not for the whole world –’ he broke off. The pain in his voice could not be anything less than genuine, and Csevet met his eyes with a soft smile he hadn’t expected to have in him.

But what did happen now? Both of them needed to rest; it seemed wrong, having finally broached this wall, to simply walk away; but it seemed far too hasty to continue through, particularly as it abruptly occurred to Csevet that he had never asked about the logistics of the emperor’s more delicate privacy and he had no idea how it was managed by the nohecharei and right now seemed an inauspicious time to find out –

He was saved, as always, by Maia, who reached out again and this time took his hand. It was tentative, and Csevet stamped down on the urge to take him in his arms in response. Take it slowly.

‘I do not know where to go next,’ he confessed, and in the words Csevet heard the echo of every time Maia had refused to hide in ignorance, preferring instead to admit it and make way for more knowledge.

‘Nor I,’ Csevet answered. ‘Except I would not do so in haste. ‘Tis a thing to be done right.’

Maia nodded, his smile like warmth on Csevet’s skin.

‘We should… neither of us were exactly expecting this, so perhaps we both should… think over what we have learned? We can talk tomorrow night, after dinner, perhaps? In – in the Tortoise Room, of course, rather than up here, I would not want you to feel… that is…’

‘I understand – and I thank thee,’ Csevet said. Steadiness had never made him feel so dizzy before.

‘Then… perhaps we both should think on’t?’ Maia said. ‘Tis late, and we shall both be a dreadful horror in the morning if we delay our sleep.’ He gave a little half-smile, and Csevet thought that people four floors down must have been able to hear his heartbeat thump.

Maia was waiting for a response, and so Csevet conceded to his suggestion with a nod. And then, though he did not want to, he said, ‘Goodnight – Maia.’

‘Goodnight, Csevet,’ said Maia, not letting go of his hand. ‘I will see thee in the morning.’

That thee felt like a kiss, and Csevet could feel the blush in the tips of his ears. He resisted the impulse to bow, knowing it would be absurd, and simply kept his eyes on Maia as they parted and Maia returned to the imperial bedchamber with Coris behind him. The door shut. Csevet stood there in a daze for a long moment.

‘A good task, done well,’ said Kiru, and Csevet almost jumped. She had been so quiet he had all but forgotten that she was there. He looked at her, almost afraid – but she was smiling fondly.

‘You had better get some rest, Mer Aisava,’ she said, her amused tone belying her formal words.

He nodded, speechless, and wandered back down the stairs and out of the Alcethmeret in a state of unprecedented bliss.

~

Maia lay in bed, staring up at the darkness but barely seeing it, replaying the conversation, the look on Csevet’s face, the impossible, impossible fact… he was afraid, yes; he did not know how to handle this, not entirely; there was much at stake.

But this was Csevet.

Between the two of them they had worked through a coup and an assassination attempt and any number of other troubles.

They could find a way to make this work.

Chapter Text

Edrevechelar VIII, 190^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Edrevechelar VIII was the first of a series of emperors who oversaw a significant shift in the cultural mores of the Ethuveraz. Edrevechelar disapproved of frivolity and promoted the prioritising of the family line among nobility. Lines of inheritance had always been significant to the Ethuverazheise upper classes, but Edrevechelar and his successors brought interest in it to a near-obsessive level. It was Edrevechelar who commissioned work describing, for the first time, the full length of the imperial line, claiming Belzhasar I as the first emperor, and claiming direct descendance from such.

During his reign, laws around family relations became stricter in many ways – from inheritance laws to marital entitlements, these legal complexities remain characteristic of today’s Ethuveraz. Edrevechelar also notably barred women from a number of positions, including the role of house steward, though this was overturned by a later emperor.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

Echelo Esaran’s office was a well-ordered affair. She usually preferred to work at her corner desk in the kitchen, where she could keep tabs on the temperature of the household, but some matters were better handled in a more private environment. At the knock on the door, she looked up.

‘Come in, Csevet,’ she said, and when he did so she gestured that he should take a seat.

She rather liked Csevet, it had to be said. He shared her proclivity for perfectionism, and she had considerable respect for his determination in adapting to his unexpected role. This day’s matter was delicate, and had it involved a different member of staff she might have been taking a very different tone; but Csevet was Csevet, and Csevet was… well.

In the first place, he was waiting for her to speak. She cleared her throat.

‘How art thou, Csevet?’ she asked.

‘… I’m well, thank you,’ he said, watching her curiously. She gave him a small smile.

‘Thou art not in any trouble, don’t worry. I wanted to see how thou wert, check that things are… good.’

It was a feeble way of phrasing it, but something eased in his expression, and he nodded.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I – yes. Very good, actually.’

He smiled, and she smiled back instinctively. There were any number of ways to approach this, but Csevet was sharp, and dragging it out would only make it worse. Bluntness it was, then.

‘I understand you spoke to Edrehasivar last night,’ she said, becoming a little more formal, and watched the blood drain from his face with no small amount of regret.

‘Wh- I – who told –’ he began, or tried to; Echelo interrupted him.

‘The nohecharei told me,’ she said. Csevet looked betrayed, and she added more gently, ‘Csevet, ‘tis their job. They’re required to tell me about this. They won’t have said anything to anyone else. But this – a relationship between the emperor and a member of the household – this is my purview, and I have to be informed.’

She saw Csevet’s ears flick, and he swallowed.

‘We haven’t – I mean. It was just.’ He stopped, and Echelo took pity on him.

‘I know. I’m sorry, I know this is the very last conversation thou wishest to have. But canst thou tell me… canst thou tell me where this came from? How it came about?’

Csevet swallowed again, bringing his demeanour under control, and nodded. Echelo declined to rush him, instead letting him organise his thoughts and speak when he was ready.

‘I… I, well, I’ve liked him since. Well, since we met, truthfully,’ he said eventually. ‘And I’d convinced myself – I spent the first few months convincing myself – that it was just. Well.’

She raised an eyebrow at him, and the tips of his ears went faintly pink, but he pushed through.

‘I convinced myself it was just, well, ah, lust. A whim, a daydream. He’s handsome and he’s kind and… and it’s a rarer combination than people think.’

‘That’s true enough,’ Echelo agreed, with soft amusement. Csevet quirked his lips back at her.

‘Well. I was never going to say anything – these things pass, I know, they’re not worth getting too intense about – and then I realised… it wasn’t passing. That how I felt was more than that.’

‘Thou art in love with him,’ Echelo said quietly.

Csevet took a shaky breath and let it out.

‘Yes. I am.’

There was a pause; Echelo waited.

‘I wasn’t going to do anything about that, either,’ Csevet said after gathering himself. ‘I thought it would pass; I thought, even if it doesn’t this is the only kind of devotion I can –’ He cut himself off, looking embarrassed. ‘I didn’t want – I would never want him to be uncomfortable, I wouldn’t do that.’

Echelo nodded, but said nothing.

‘I didn’t even think – he’s married, and he would never – and he grew up so far away from the rest of the world, I wasn’t sure he even properly understood – and so many people are derogative about… about marnei, and… I don’t know, it didn’t seem possible, so I set it aside. I didn’t even hope.’

Csevet’s voice faded away.

‘What changed?’ Echelo prompted.

Csevet sighed.

‘A few things,’ he said. ‘The nohecharei worked it out, which… shook me, because I was scared that meant anyone could figure it out, even though Cala said it wasn’t at all obvious. And then I found out about the kerich agreement, like we all did. And…’ he made a noise of frustration. ‘It wasn’t even that I thought anything would happen! I didn’t think anything would ever be able to happen between us, I was fairly certain he didn’t even like men, I just… I wasn’t sure I could stand lying to him. I thought maybe if I cleared the air – I have money saved up, so if I left my position now I’d have a way to start again, and I trusted him enough to know he wouldn’t lash out at me for it. I realised I couldn’t live with concealing it forever, so I’d say it, and the clarity would help me puncture it. I know it wasn’t fair, I should have kept it to myself. Cala said he would understand, and now I’m wondering how much Cala knew, because…’

‘Because Himself seems to also hold you in affection,’ Echelo finished for him when he could not find the words.

Csevet’s tension was obvious, but at her words, joy flared.

‘Yes. I –’ He stopped, and looked down. His next words were almost disbelieving. ‘I told him that I love him, and he told me he felt the same. He said we should talk about it, and I said I’d like to.’ He looked up, and there must have been something in her expression because he suddenly looked chastened. ‘I know, I shouldn’t have –’

‘Stop,’ Echelo said. ‘Csevet… Csevet, you’re both adults. You’re allowed to take risks, and trust each other. And this doesn’t… this situation doesn’t have nearly as many warning signs as it might. I’ve not called thee in here to tell thee that thou canst not do this.’

Csevet looked relieved, but still unsure.

‘Then what did you call me in here for?’ he asked quietly, watching her.

Echelo tapped her foot under her desk, trying to think how to phrase it.

‘Csevet, this isn’t the courier fleet – this is the imperial household,’ she said. ‘Edrehasivar may have certain ideas about his responsibilities to his staff, which now I’ve gotten used to I rather approve of. But regardless of his behaviour, I have responsibilities to my staff. And one of them is to make sure that you are all safe, and that none of you are being taken advantage of. Dost thou understand?’

Csevet nodded uncertainly. Echelo swallowed her frustration, and tried again more gently.

‘Csevet, dost thou think this the first time something like this has happened in a noble household?’

‘Of – of course not.’

‘Correct. And dost thou think the house stewards just nod and ignore it as not their concern? Part of our job is to intercede between the master and the servants, the nobility and the staff. I don’t say this to worry thee, but it has to be said: the nohecharei cannot help thee, however much I’m sure they would like to – their oaths are to the emperor, and no matter your friendship they will always take his side. I, on the other hand, am here to take thine.’

She watched him take in her words, and leant forward, her elbows on the desk.

‘Csevet, I trust thee to be cautious, and sensible. And Edrehasivar…’ she sighed. ‘I don’t believe he would ever hurt thee intentionally. He has a good heart, and he’s very conscious – sometimes too conscious – of the power he holds. The two of you are in a strong position, and you might be able to make it work. But it’s important thou understands that if thou canst not – if things go wrong, if you argue or fall out, if at any point he changes and thou dost not feel… safe any longer, I am here to protect thee. There are ways and means, Csevet. There is, and must always be, a way out.’

The office was silent for a long moment, and then Csevet let out a shaky breath.

‘I – thank you, Esaran. That – that means a great deal,’ he said. She nodded.

‘Thou art always welcome. And if thou needst to talk to someone – I imagine thou wilt be keeping this very quiet, and so won’t have many ears for talking out thy thoughts – do feel free to come and talk to me. Even if thou thinkest I won’t like it. Understood?’

Csevet gave a little laugh.

‘I understand.’

‘One more thing,’ she said.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m not saying we should do this now – you two need to talk and see if you are going to pursue this. But if you are, then I think the Upper Alcethmeret staff need to be told.’

She saw Csevet’s eyes widen and put up a hand.

‘They’re not going to judge thee – but someone regularly slipping up to the tower room will be noticed, even if thou art careful, and neither I nor the nohecharei need staff coming to us with security concerns. Better to be frank about it, Csevet. Think about it, and let me know what thou decidest?’

‘I will,’ said Csevet, still looking unsettled.

‘Very well. Is there anything that you need to ask me?’

Csevet shook his head mutely. Echelo stood, and he followed suit.

‘Then our conversation is finished. If you think of anything you know where to find me.’

Csevet nodded again and left, and Echelo sat back down.

Well, that went as well as could be expected.

Leaning back in her chair, she considered the closed door. Csevet was a capable individual, there was no doubt about that. And couriers, even more than most servants, knew well how to dance on the line between commoner and nobility. If you needed to understand the balance of power, a courier could always explain it to you. And Edrehasivar… as much as she still found him oblique at times, no one could doubt his care and regard for his household and the people around him. If you had to pick two people to have a private (and to the rest of court, scandalous) romance, you could not really make any better choice.

It was just that they were so young.

Echelo sighed, and then shook her head in amusement. Listen to me.

Goddess, she hoped Csevet agreed to informing the Upper Alcethmeret. If only so that she and Ebremis could have a quiet drink and a fond grumble about the young people and their enthusiasm.

~

Two weeks passed, agonisingly slowly. It was a sharp contrast to the suddenness of their moment in the stairwell, and Maia found it as frustrating as reassuring. He thought that there must be romances that somehow came into being without this much bureaucracy, but it seemed that all of his were condemned to involve paperwork. It was, however, also reassuring. He was afraid of hurting Csevet; afraid of putting him in an impossible position, afraid of not knowing how honest his permission was, afraid of running roughshod over a man whom he respected and cared for and… loved. And who loved him, and what kind of miracle was that? One he could not bear to see any damage to. He was afraid, terribly afraid, of hurting him. But it seemed that no one was going to allow him to, and Maia was willing to endure any amount of discussion and paperwork and delay if it meant his worst fears could be avoided.

His first discussion with Csevet was in the Tortoise Room, and to Maia’s hastily disguised embarrassment, Merrem Esaran was in attendance. That embarrassment quickly turned to gratitude, however: she was professional, kind, and very helpful in suggesting the type of measures that could be undertaken. Maia also spoke to Csethiro again, who seemed very pleased, and in the end a number of arrangements were made.

Of course, any conversations had to be undertaken with the utmost discretion and could not be visibly on the imperial schedule; and so they stole time, here and there, and the day or so’s delay turned into several days, and then a week, and then another. Eventually, however…

Dinner with the court had passed slowly, with Maia struggling to keep his mind on the conversation. But it had passed, and Csethiro and Maia walked back together, and if when they parted Csethiro’s sleep well had had a certain twinkle to it then… well, why shouldn’t it? Maia was, once again, grateful that he did not visibly blush. He simply bade her goodnight, and retreated to the tower bedroom to wait.

~

It was cool in the stairwell. Csevet made his way carefully. Knowing that the Upper Alcethmeret staff had been informed was one thing; running into any of them on his way up was entirely another. Mercifully, he had been able to arrange this visit to avoid Cala and Beshelar – the latter for his frankly worrying commitment to fierce professionalism, and the former for his enthusiastic support, which while welcome could be a little… much, on so fragile a moment. Csevet felt a little guilty about that; he cared about both of them. But a Coris and Kiru night was best; Coris was far too polite to comment, and Kiru had seen enough of the world to find most things unremarkable.

Coris was outside the door when he arrived. He did not act as though anything was unusual in Csevet’s appearance, merely knocked and then stepped in to announce his arrival. There was a brief exchange; and then he stepped back, indicated that Csevet could enter, and remained outside as the door closed behind him.

It was the first time he had ever entered the imperial bedroom, and in any other circumstance he would have been intrigued. But his attention was not on the room. The lamps were low and the edocharei nowhere to be seen, and the emperor – Edrehasivar – Maia – sat on the edge of the bed, cross-legged like a cleric, and watching Csevet.

‘Tis good to see thee,’ he said softly, and Csevet found that his throat was suddenly dry. Maia was a picture, his slate-grey skin set off beautifully by the white around him where another would have vanished into it. Csevet took a few steps closer, and then stopped as he caught a shape in the corner of his eye.

Kiru. Of course. Thou knew she would be here.

She had found a spot by the broad window ledge, just on the edge of the lamplight, so still as to be almost believable as a statue.

Csevet swallowed, forcing his attention back to Maia, who seemed to guess at his discomfort and gave an awkward, one-shouldered shrug.

‘Wilt thou?’ he said, very hesitantly, gesturing to beside him, and Csevet abruptly realised he was hardly managing to convey his willingness, overcome by the situation as he was.

He breathed out, letting his expression soften into a genuine smile, and nodded.

‘I will,’ he said. He sat next to Maia on the bed, and, a little emboldened, took one of his hands in both of his own. Maia smiled.

‘Dost thou meditate?’ Csevet said, keeping his voice low but surprising himself nonetheless. It was a known fact in the household, but he realised that he had mis-stepped somehow when Maia’s ears lowered and something in his expression pulled back.

‘I only meant – I wondered – tis – it seems to be a thing that makes thee happy,’ he managed, awkwardly, distressed to have ruined the moment. ‘I would know more about any thing that does that.’

He saw Maia let out a shaky breath and was relieved, even as he cursed himself. It was a known fact in the household, but that did not mean it was by definition something Maia was confident of, and he was such a private man…

‘I do not know that it makes me happy, truly,’ Maia said, granting him a smile that was still a little too nervous for Csevet’s liking. ‘Only… it calms the mind, and anchors the soul, and it… it helps one make room, in amongst all the noise, to be happy in.’

Csevet smiled at the description.

‘I had not thought of it that way,’ he said. ‘It does seem to be a good thing. Thine interest, I confess, provoked one of mine. I’ve been meaning to do some reading on it.’

Maia pulled a tiny part of his lip between his teeth and released it, a habit he only had at his most unthinking.

‘My mother taught me,’ he said. ‘She said the purpose of it was just to be, to not worry over the past or dread the future. To find one’s centre.’

Thou art my centre.

Csevet held back from saying it, but did not let it disappear from his mind. Gently, he moved his thumb so that it ran over the inside of Maia’s wrist, and treasured the way Maia’s breathing changed.

Maia shifted his weight and Csevet watched him.

‘Come,’ Maia said, leaning up to draw the curtains around the bed. Csevet went up on his knees to help; they were opaque, though not terribly heavy. When they were drawn, the two of them found themselves kneeling across from one other in only the soft glow of the little gas lamp by the head of the bed in its frosted glass.

Csevet could not help a glance to his right, remembering again that Kiru stood only across the room.

‘Thank you Kiru, that will be all,’ Maia called softly, watching Csevet.

Csevet heard Kiru’s acknowledgement, and then quiet, and recalled the method the mazei had for granting the emperor some privacy.

‘Remind me what we… what will break the spell?’

Maia gave a small smile.

‘The names of the four nohecharei,’ he said quietly. ‘The, ah, shorter word for calling for assistance. And the sound of distress.’

Kiru, Telimezh, Cala, Beshelar, help. Logical. And…

‘The sound of distress?’ he enquired in a low, amused tone, and was gratified when Maia gave a small laugh.

‘It had not occurred to me as a concern before the wedding, that sometimes it can be… unclear…’ he said, tailing off sheepishly, and Csevet kept his own laugh low.

‘Ah, well, tis not beyond avoidance,’ he said quietly; and this time, Maia’s smile came with a light in his eyes that Csevet had not seen before. Suddenly, even the small distance between them felt like too far.

Csevet reached out in the same moment that Maia did – hands met hands, and then moved up arms and they drew each other closer. And then they were mere inches apart, and Csevet tilted his head and caught Maia’s lips in a kiss.

It was everything, and it took everything in him not to make it desperate, and gods if it was going to be like this with just a kiss how in the lady’s name was he going to manage anything else? But he’d solve that problem as he came to it. There were other, more pressing matters drawing his attention – such as the feel of Maia’s hands, one on his shoulder blade and the other on the small of his back, and then his own hands on Maia’s waist and buried in his hair.

They broke apart to breathe, and Csevet gently drew his hand out of Maia’s hair, careful not to let it catch, and stroked his cheek.

‘Beautiful,’ he breathed, and saw Maia swallow back something.

‘Yes,’ Maia said instead, staring at Csevet in such a way that it was impossible to misunderstand his meaning, and they drew together again.

After a little while, they were both breathing heavily in the dim light, and Csevet made the decision to nudge them both around and fall onto his back, pulling Maia down on top of him.

Maia let out a soft huff of laughter, and Csevet grinned – a little at the way Maia’s hair had pulled partially out of its sleeping braid, but more in truth at how alive Maia looked, his eyes bright and his expression openly entranced.

He reached up and traced the two fingers along Maia’s cheekbone and down the side of his face – then, dreamlike, softly down his neck and shoulder to his chest. Maia kept completely still, watching Csevet’s reactions as Csevet watched his.

~

Maia could not keep his eyes off of Csevet. Thou art a miracle. The word beautiful echoed in his mind, and he leaned in again.

The fullness of sensation, both strange and familiar at the same time, overwhelmed by the knowledge of just whose hands those were on his arms, the small of his back, his chest –

‘Wait –’

Maia froze, as motionless as stone, and then gently disentangled himself, sitting back on his heels and watching Csevet. Csevet, for his part, looked wretched.

‘I’m –’

‘Art thou –’

They had both started to speak at the same time and stopped; Maia closed his mouth and looked at Csevet expectantly. But Csevet continued to hesitate, so after a minute or so Maia ventured to speak.

‘Art thou… I would never want thee to do anything thou wert not comfortable with,’ he said gently, trying to make sure Csevet could hear how genuinely he meant it. ‘If thou dost not want –’

‘I do! I do want,’ Csevet said, softening his initial exclamation with a nervous smile, which Maia cautiously returned.

‘But?’ Maia ventured, after nothing more seemed to be forthcoming.

Csevet sighed, his ears and eyes downcast.

‘It’s just… complicated,’ he said awkwardly. ‘It isn’t – goddesses, it isn’t thee. Thou art –’ he took a breath and met Maia’s eyes, and the longing in his eyes was unmistakable, ‘thou art everything, and I trust thee with my life. But… hast thou ever feared something not because it is a danger to thee now, but because it was a danger to thee once and thou canst not quite shake it?’

Maia, who still had to repress a flinch when someone raised their voice suddenly, understood immediately. He swallowed back his anger at the thought; he did not like to think of Csevet hurt, but it would not help now. Instead, he only nodded. Csevet looked relieved.

‘We could –’ Maia ventured ‘- we don’t need to… well. I’m more than happy to just be beside thee. Nothing else need happen – not until thou art ready, or not ever.’

Csevet’s expression softened, and there was a hint of a smile as he replied.

‘I don’t think not ever will be the case,’ he said. ‘But I might… I might need a little time.’

‘Thou hast all the time in the world.’

By mutual agreement, they ended up lying side by side in the bed, kissing gently without any urgency, hands held. After a little while, Csevet noticed Maia had goosebumps, and sat up to pull the blankets over them both. It was good, and it was warm, and Maia let go of his tension.

Small steps, taken together.

They fell asleep entangled with one another, and Maia’s dreams were filled with light.

Chapter Text

Edrevenivar the Conqueror, 157^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Perhaps the most well-known of the Ethuverazheise emperors, Edrevenivar the Conqueror unified the Eastern and Western Ethuveraz, forming the country as it stands today. This expansion was the largest in Ethuverazheise history, and cemented the power of the Ethuveraz in the eyes of its neighbours.

Known as Edrevenivar the Bloody by what became Western Ethuveraz, Edrevenivar also drastically increased the use of house symbols – these were prominently shown on the field of battle, allowing for easier large scale coordination, and developed into the complex system of symbolism seen at court today.

His cognomen was the first to use the prefix Edre-, a fitting reflection of the turning point marked by his reign. All emperors until the Varedeise dynasty continued this tradition, though none used his exact cognomen.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

Orret Avemar, the Alcethmeret’s librarian, was getting nowhere.

He sat back in his seat and stretched his arms until some of the kinks in his back seemed to undo themselves a little, then stood.

‘Tivo, could you – oh, damn.’

Tivo was his assistant, and she was currently enjoying a day off with her family in Cetho. Right. The library was quiet. Well, it was always quiet, but today it was quieter, with half the normal population elsewhere. Orret frowned down at the book he had been trying to read – Barizhin-Ethuverazheise Commonalities of Language – and looked away. Perhaps this afternoon was simple not the time for it.

Alcethmeret Librarian was a peculiar position, all things considered. It was, of course, unthinkable that the imperial family had anything other than the best of the best at all times – and therefore, Orret was a scholar with expertise in philology, history, and literature, as well as being reasonably knowledgeable in any number of other fields. The emperor had a wealth of resources at his fingertips, and Orret was far from the least of them.

On the other hand, as far as Orret could tell, no emperor since Edresomivar II had been particularly interested in scholarly pursuits. And he was twelve emperors ago. Emperors were preoccupied men, usually – entangled in court politics until only the points of their ears were visible. Of course, there were the family members – Drazhada once removed from the emperor had free access to the Alcethmeret library, as did any nobility residing in the Alcethmeret itself (the two categories usually overlapped, but not always – Prince Idra and his sisters were such an exception). And certain staff had library privileges, on the condition they made use of them discreetly and at no inconvenience to the Drazhada: the house steward, the nohecharei, the edocharei, the kitchen master, the imperial secretarial team. But they were mostly busy.

Orret’s primary task was ostensibly to assist visitors to the library but between this and that he saw perhaps two, maybe even three people in any given week. The better part of his time was taken up with some cataloguing work (minimal), the slow circle of checking all of the stock for damage and ordering any necessary replacements, maintaining the list of new editions, and… then he was free to pursue his own research, within reason.

It was a well-paid role. A role with a great amount of free time, and it provided room and board. Luxurious, really.

Quiet.

Orret knew some people – friends, or acquaintances really, from university – considered his position something of an embarrassment. The scholarly equivalent of a novelty species of bird acquired by a well-to do lady, well-fed and well-cared for and utterly irrelevant. In other words, a status symbol for the emperor. A pet scholar. Orret thought this was silly; it would be difficult to find any scholar who wasn’t somebody’s in some way or another. Scholarly work required either a personal fortune or a generous patron. Everyone needed security.

His family had lurched from year to year in his childhood, courtesy of his father’s gambling habit, and Orret had only made it to university due to the beneficence of an elderly aunt and a lot of hard work. The work in the Alcethmeret was appealing for its stability, as much as its peace and quiet. He had his tasks, and when they were complete he could work on anything he pleased. No need to appeal to a patron for funds; no need for the work to meet anyone else’s standard for usefulness. And a certain amount of liberty to obtain books, provided he could reasonably argue they were in the imperial interest.

Not that he knew what that was these days, having not really met the emperor. Save for once, when Edrehasivar had requested introduction to the full Alcethmeret staff, Orret hadn’t even seen him. Oh, and there was the occasion upon which His Imperial Serenity had visited the library. The singular occasion. On the first day in five years that Orret had been abed with a bad cold, and Tivo had helped His Serenity select a book on creatures of the Chadevan Sea that was politely returned by a servant later that day with no indication as to how well Edrehasivar had liked it. Orret had grumbled about that for a week. He had considered obtaining a few more books on the subject, given that it was the only indicator of the emperor’s interest that he knew about; but what had been Edrehasivar’s interest? Sea creatures in general? The Chadevan sea? The illustration style? Or had it been a random choice, such as some nobility made, making himself seem more intellectual to a visitor? Impossible to know, and Orret could hardly go and ask.

Realising he was staring at nothing while he thought, Orret shook himself a little. Tea. He would go and get some tea, and settle himself. He left his office and ambled gently through the shelves, still thinking.

The last year had been even quieter than the ones before it, though there had been some new faces. Orret had met an imperial edocharei early one morning, Avris Falcar – he had been looking into treatments for migraines, for advice to send home to his family in the countryside. That had been before Kiru Athmaza had arrived, of course. Orret hadn’t met her properly yet – but then, maza had access to the Mazan’theileian library, a much greater resource.

That said, Cala Athmaza had been in several times recently – trying to hunt down architectural records for the Alcethmeret. Orret would have thought most of the details would be sealed in the nohecharei records, particularly anything about the wards; but he had been happy to show the Athmaza to the architecture section, as well as the historical records of the tower’s construction, and it had been pleasant to talk to a fellow scholar.  

And Leilis Athmaza came occasionally, of course – he had a tutor’s access, and used it to take out books for his student. Every so often Prince Idra would accompany him, a solemn boy, very well-mannered. Strictly speaking the nursemaid had access too, but Orret had only seen her once, escorting the two young Archduchesses to the library and keeping them on their best behaviour as they went to the little shelves in the north corner that held a small selection of storybooks.

The Archduchess Vedero, after nearly a year’s absence, had finally returned, and Orret had been very glad to see her. She had smiled, and requested quite a large selection – Orret had taken the titles down and sent Tivo to help the archduchess carry them back to her quarters.

For some time Mer Aisava had been a regular, though he had tended to turn up quite late in the evening – the library was kept unlocked, as the security of the Alcethmeret in general was more than enough, but Orret had tended to be on his way out as the young Imperial Secretary was on his way in. Aisava had stopped him once or twice, apologetically, to ask how to navigate the library; but he was a sharp young man, and needed little explanation to follow the logic of it once he had grasped the basics. Orret had returned each morning to find not a hair out of place, though there had once been a small (barely visible, if Orret was honest) tea stain on the seat of a chair and a very apologetic note.

Mer Aisava’s visits had eased up in the summer, around the time more undersecretaries had been acquired. But around the same time the new empress had begun to appear, usually only once a fortnight or so – she would browse for an hour or more, which Orret thought very respectable (though on the brief side). Her choices initially had been very proper – lady’s novels and a little light history. But after a month or so she seemed to relax, and he’d noticed more than once some daring cavalier’s adventure borrowed under her name as well as a few more scholarly tomes.

Around that time there had been the visit from Merrem Esaran, a rare thing. She had been looking for books on Barizheise culture, a somewhat futile request in the Drazhadeise library given that the last several emperors had been most disdainful of the country. He had several histories, but nothing that gave her what she needed, and that frustrated him. He had added the subject to the list of topics to acquire in the future, but he would need imperial instruction first. And imperial instruction was not forthcoming.

Orret climbed wooden spiral staircase to the second level and stopped, leaning on the railing and looking considering out across his domain. Perhaps he should, after all, send a request? The books fair was coming in a little under two months, and traditionally he would travel to Ashedro for it at the emperor’s request to select some new titles. Orret had declined to do so the previous year – between the state visit, the attempted coup, Winternight, and the upcoming marriage, it seemed unreasonable to pester a man who had thus far shown no interest in the library.

Perhaps this year it would be more appropriate? His Serenity did have a child on the way, and that seemed to make a lot of men suddenly interested in self-improvement. And it was rude of Orret not to make at least one request, in case His Serenity was simply unaware of the arrangement.

His mind made up and his intent for tea forgotten, Orret made his way back to his office, reached for paper, pen, and ink, and began to write.

~

Two weeks later, Orret had his answer – though not in the form that he had expected. Instead of a note or a list, His Imperial Serenity arrived in the library himself.

Orret stood, and bowed hastily when Edrehasivar approached him rather than going to the shelves.

‘Serenity,’ he said as he straightened. ‘How may we be of assistance?’

The emperor gave a polite smile.

‘Mer Avemar, we received your note. About the book fairs? We thought we would speak to you about it, as we do not make enough time to come here.’

‘Of course, Serenity – please, come through to our office.’

Once His Serenity was comfortably seated, Orret took his own seat and then took up paper and pen.

‘What may we add to the collection for you, Serenity?’ he asked politely.

‘Well – we haven’t, as you might have noticed, taken a great deal of time to peruse the shelves, so we apologise if we suggest something that you do in fact have,’ Edrehasivar began. ‘But we would like… some material on Barizhan, to begin with.’

Orret nodded, making a note.

‘Of course, Serenity. The library holds one or two histories of Barizhan, but they are older and there is no doubt that newer and more pertinent material will be available.’

‘Thank you. We have also been speaking to our wife and our sister on a number of subjects, and would very much like to read these – we understand they are a little difficult to obtain.’

He placed a note on the desk, and Orret took it up. He very carefully did not change his expression. Well, well, well. The texts in question – well, they were not exactly difficult to obtain. They would be easy. What they were, however, was a little scandalous for an unmarried lady of the court to have – they concerned the laws around women’s rights, and contained passionate arguments for changes to such. Orret had read both of them at university, aware that many found them unladylike and inappropriate. He had found them educational.

‘Of course, Serenity, we should be able to source them,’ he said, copying the titles onto his own list and returning the note to the emperor.

‘We thank you. And we have one final request.’

Orret raised his eyebrows attentively. The emperor seemed to be conflicted as to how to begin. Eventually, he spoke.

‘We would like – we appreciate that this may be an odd or difficult request, but it is only that… we grew up quite separate from the world, in many ways. We rule a country and we only have the barest idea of it. We wish to learn… more. Not so much of scholarship, exactly; but of people.’ His tone was earnest.

‘Biography, then, Serenity?’ Orret asked, uncertain as to where the oddity or difficulty lay.

‘Perhaps, but – we understand that biography tends to be of the noble or the famed. We wish to learn about… about ordinary people. About – clockmakers, and teachers, and farmers, and merchants. We wish to see what our country looks like.’

Ah, so that’s it. Interesting.

Orret smiled.

‘We will investigate the matter Serenity, to the full reach of our ability, and inform you of what we find. We are very glad to help,’ he added, in case that wasn’t clear.

The emperor smiled, properly this time, and Orret noted how much younger it made him look.

‘Thank you, Mer Avemar. We appreciate your diligence.’

He stood, prompting Orret to do so also, and after the appropriate formalities, he left, trailing his nohecharei behind him. Cala Athmaza flashed Orret a smile on his way out, but Orret was too lost in thought to return it.

We wish to learn about… about ordinary people. About – clockmakers, and teachers, and farmers, and merchants. We wish to see what our country looks like.

Intriguing, and an admirable goal, but His Serenity was correct – people typically wrote of fame and fortune, not mundanity. That meant anything that was written would be tricky to discover and obtain.

It had been a while since Orret had had such a particular challenge.

He was quite looking forward to it.

Chapter Text

Belzhasar VIII, the 21^st Emperor of the Ethuveraz

The last emperor to use the same cognomen as the very first, Belzhasar VIII was also known as ‘the banner emperor’. As with many early emperors, little record survives but his name and a few isolated facts. The sobriquet ‘the banner emperor’ is thought to refer to the ‘calling of the banners’, the old term for the act of an emperor summoning his lords to him, usually in advance of a battle of some kind. Reports of Belzhasar VIII’s territory are conflicting, suggesting a great deal of change during his reign, possibly as the result of conflict with the territories surrounding it.

Belzhasar VIII is known to have had no children, and to have passed the throne to his younger brother.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

Winternight passed in peace and quiet. But as the darkness of winter continued, it set a great many thoughts to brewing.

‘Auntie Csethiro, what do ladies study at university?’

Csethiro raised her eyebrows at Mireän.

‘Anything they like, michen-Mireän,’ she said calmly. They were sitting together in the nursery; Csethiro had been trying to find time to slip in a few minutes with her nieces every now and then, and found them typically cheerful and glad of the company. Today, however, they seemed a little more fractious than usual.

‘Miri wants to study worms,’ Ino said gleefully, and Csethiro had to hold back her laughter at Mireän’s affronted face.

‘I do not, Ino you’re such a liar –’

‘Miri, Ino, don’t bicker when we’ve got company,’ Idra said, and the girls subsided with faces full of scowls. ‘Mireän was thinking about studying botany, Ino. That’s about plants, not about worms.’

‘Plants and worms go together.’

‘No they don’t!’

Csethiro was generally of the opinion that a bit of sibling bickering was good for the soul, but she could see it was discomforting Idra so she raised a calming hand in the air.

‘All right, ladies,’ she said. ‘We’ll be going to lunch soon. Your Aunt Vedero is going to meet us here, and then we’ll walk up the tower together, how does that sound?’

This met with approval, at least. Idra gave her a grateful expression over Ino’s head.

‘Is Auntie Vedero going to go to university now that Cousin Maia’s in charge?’ Mireän asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Csethiro said honestly. ‘I think she might just continue to study at home, like I do, but certainly Maia wouldn’t stop her if she wanted to go.’

‘Does Auntie Vedero study worms too?’

‘Ino! Idra, tell Ino –’

‘And here she is now,’ Csethiro cut in, pitching her voice to be clearly audible to Vedero as she approached.

‘Auntie Vedero!’

‘Hello Auntie Vedero!’

Chattering and still bickering a little, the girls held Idra’s hands as they made their way across the ground floor of the Alcethmeret and then up the stairwell. Csethiro diverted Ino by asking her how many stairs she thought it was (naturally, Ino immediately began to count them), and Vedero told Mireän and Idra what she had been reading lately.

Maia was waiting; he looked a little worn, to Csethiro’s eye, and she gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze as she lent in to kiss him on the cheek. He gave her a grateful smile in return as the children started to get settled.

Lunch went well, and as did the purpose of the meal, which was to talk to Mireän and Ino about the future.

‘The nursery will be busier and noisier in the spring,’ Maia said. ‘How would the three of you feel about a change in accommodation?’

‘Why will it be noisy?’

‘Because Cousin Maia and Auntie Csethiro are having a baby, and babies cry a lot,’ Mireän said in answer to her sister. Ino took this onboard with a serious expression.

Turning back to look at Maia, Mireän asked, ‘Where would we live, Cousin Maia?’

‘Well, you would not have to move right away,’ Maia said. ‘But Idra will move out to his own apartments by the end of the year, because he’ll be sixteen. And we thought – after some discussion – that when he does, perhaps the two of you would move in with your Aunt Vedero.’

Csethiro watched as this piece of news was digested, discussed, and latched onto with enthusiasm. She had been surprised that Vedero had been so immediately willing to host the girls as they grew up, but it made sense. As well as giving Mireän and Ino somewhere they could safely learn and grow, it also gave Vedero an official role of sorts in the family – and with that role, an excuse to continue to put off the possibility of marriage.

Maia had come up with the idea, to Csethiro’s surprise and delight. She had been trying to teach him more of what her father had called ‘women’s words’ and her mother had called ‘soft politics’: the careful little tilts and whispers and social nudges that could smooth the road to a particular goal – or create obstacles in front of an undesirable one. A domestic choice, something firmly in the women’s sphere – the raising of two girl-children – could nevertheless serve a political purpose: depict Vedero to the court as something closer to a widow-aunt, though she’d never been married. She had a family role, to look after the children, and that might just be enough to lessen the pressure on Maia, in turn, to find her a husband. The girls would be well cared for, Vedero would have the husband-free life she desired, and Maia would get at least a little more peace and quiet.

Post-lunch, the children and Vedero departed, and Csethiro and Maia took a turn around the Alcethmeret garden despite the cold.

‘I think that’s going to work nicely,’ Csethiro said, linking her arm in Maia’s. ‘They seem happy with the idea.’

‘Mm.’

‘Mireän is very excited about attending university, even though it’s a long way off. She was talking to me about it earlier – or trying to, with some interruption from Ino.’

‘Mm.’

Csethiro shot Maia a look out of the corner of her eye.

‘Of course, when I turned my head went through the wall, but fortunately I had the right sort of footwear,’ she said, in a casual tone.

‘Mm – what?’ Maia startled out of his thoughts with a confused expression.

Csethiro let out a huff of amusement and gave Maia’s arm a squeeze.

‘Where did thy thoughts wander off to?’ she asked, and he looked sheepish.

‘Sorry. The worker statistics, for the Amalo factories – they came in this morning and I can’t stop thinking about them. I should have been listening to thee…’

Csethiro shook her head.

‘Understandable,’ she said.

They walked a few more steps in silence before she ventured, ‘I take it the numbers were… worse than expected?’

Maia sighed heavily.

‘I don’t know what I expected, exactly,’ he said honestly. ‘But it’s… it’s devastating. And these are the official figures, the numbers that the factory owners have allowed to be sent out. If they’re content to admit to this level of harm, how much worse is the reality beneath that?’

Csethiro nodded slowly.

‘What wilt thou do?’

‘I don’t yet know, but it cannot be allowed to continue.’

‘It’ll be a challenge. The factory owners have as much power as anyone can have without becoming nobility, and a lot of them are close to that anyway.’

Maia glanced at her, frowning.

‘What meanest thou?’

Csethiro shrugged.

‘Only little rumours. A lot of the nobility consider them upstarts, so there are complaints about them quite regularly. They have stables, some of them, they hire edocharei, they have the kind of money one would expect from oh, fourth or even third-ring nobility. There are laws against having a family crest without noble blood and the approval of the emperor, but there are also laws that define precisely what constitutes a family crest. A lot of them have little family symbols that don’t quite meet the definition, it’s a legal loophole of sorts. They may not have the titles, but they have almost everything else.’

‘They’re gaining that amount of prestige and power from the deaths of those beneath them.’

‘Much like the existing nobility did in the first place,’ Csethiro said dryly. ‘History is a wheel.’

When Maia looked at her, a little shocked, she shook her head.

‘No one would say it in those words, but it isn’t as if it isn’t perfectly well-known,’ she said. ‘My family, specifically, owes its prestige to sending more than a thousand men to die in the service of Edrevenivar the Conqueror. Before that we were lower nobility, and we got there because we supplied fighters for another emperor, generations before. It’s what nobility does. I don’t say that to excuse it, but only to say that… oh, I don’t know. We’re not better than them, I suppose. Only everyone likes to pretend that we are.’

Csethiro stopped suddenly, not fearing Maia’s temper (she never had, and expected she never would), but worrying that she had overstepped the mark a little in her ferocity. She had researched the subject some years ago mostly in a fit of spite against her father’s relentless insistence on the decorum of the family name, and it continued to irritate her that so many at court shied away from the subject.

‘Thou art right, of course,’ Maia said slowly.

‘I didn’t mean thou shouldst not act,’ she said apologetically. ‘It’s only something of a pet irritation of mine, the way people dress history in niceties. Didst I make thee lose thy thread?’

‘Not at all,’ he said, and gave her a soft smile. ‘Thou hast simply made me think.’

Thou art always thinking, she thought, but it was fond.

Out loud, she said, ‘I am glad to always feel I can be myself with thee. Even if it means sometimes I worry I have said the wrong thing.’

Maia slowed to a stop, and looked at her, a peculiar expression on his face.

‘What’s toward with that face?’ she asked, amused and a little uncertain.

Maia shrugged, a rare enough thing from him that she sometimes wondered if he had been taught that it was somehow impolite.

‘I always think of thee as so perfectly confident; sometimes I am so caught up in that that it is strange to see thee uncertain.’

The compliment was a little clumsy in its execution, but Csethiro knew Maia well enough by now to understood his meaning. She smiled back.

‘Our mother used to say that trust and vulnerability go hand in hand,’ she said. ‘I trust thee, and therefore thou seest my uncertainty as well as my sureness.’

Maia leant in and kissed her gently on the lips, and despite herself she felt the tips of her ears go pink. Maia, when he pulled back, looked a little sheepish but pleased.

‘I love thee,’ he said softly.

‘I love thee too.’

~

Maia had, with the assistance of Csethiro and Lord Berenar, arranged that court dinner should run slightly earlier in the wintertime. That, combined with attending fewer post-dinner activities, meant that some evenings he could retire as early as nine-thirty, leaving all the more time for conversation with one of the few people he never tired of.

Csevet’s voice came out of the darkness.

‘How did lunch go?’

Maia let out a soft sigh, staring into nothing.

‘It went… well?’

Csevet made a small sound of amusement.

‘Balancing that against thy usual measure of uncertainty… no problems at all, then?’ he said, his tone fond, and Maia smiled a little despite himself.

‘No problems,’ he admitted. ‘Mireän and Ino seemed pleased by the idea. Csethiro said it went well, and so did Vedero.’

‘But…?’

‘I just don’t like moving them around like parcels or packages, that’s all.’

‘Thou didst no such thing,’ Csevet said gently. ‘And as long as they’re happy, does it matter?’

‘Mm. I suppose not.’

There was a pause. Maia was gazing upwards, trying to remember the constellation Vedero had shown him the week before and how it would map onto the darkness above him, when Csevet broke the silence again.

‘Tis a poor thing to ask thee, so late at night,’ he said softly. ‘But – how art thou? Seemst better since the summer, but hast been quiet over the last week.’

Maia did not answer immediately, chewing over what to say; but he reached out beneath the covers, and took Csevet’s hand. It still felt novel to do such a thing, but at the same time it felt perfectly, wonderfully natural.

It took a few minutes to come up with a response, not least because holding Csevet’s hand was a tremendous distraction, especially alongside the knowledge that they were lying in bed together; and when he did, it was hesitant.

‘I am better than I was in the summer,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s still hard. I think… I think it will be a long time before here feels normal, or easy.’ He paused, his lips dry, and remembered Csethiro’s words from earlier: trust and vulnerability go hand in hand. ‘I still think, sometimes – sometimes I still expect to wake up in Edonomee. Or have something like the coup or the first Winternight happen again, and work. Or just that I will walk into the Corazhas one morning, and they’ll all be there, looking serious, and explain that this was all a mistake and I cannot possibly be the emperor, and I shall have to go back to relegation after apologising to everyone.’

He bit his lip. Please don’t laugh at me. But he should have known better than to worry, for Csevet only squeezed his hand, very gently. Relief eased over him.

‘Thou art not settled yet.’

‘Sometimes I think I might never be.’

‘I know the feeling,’ Csevet said wryly, and Maia made a noise of agreement.

‘Of course, thou wert… taken by surprise, as much as I was.’

‘I suppose I was.’

Something in Csevet’s tone caught Maia’s attention, and he puzzled over it for a moment before deciding just to ask.

‘What is’t?’ he said quietly.

He felt Csevet shift position.

‘My friends – a couple of friends from the fleet came by today, while thou wert at lunch,’ he said. ‘Wanted to know if I wanted what I’d left in my locker or not.’

Maia frowned.

‘Locker?’

‘The courier barracks has lockers, for personal belongings, but there’s slightly fewer of them than there are couriers,’ Csevet explained. ‘And a lot of them are damaged. If you get one in good condition, you keep a hold of it. When I… when I got the imperial secretary position, I thought… I thought it would be temporary. So I took a few things that I wanted and left enough that someone else would not take the locker. I remember standing there and trying to decide what to take.’

Maia drew pictures in his mind as Csevet spoke. The row of lockers, which Maia pictured as little cupboards; Csevet, hesitating in front of an open one.

‘And today, thy friends brought thee what thou had left behind,’ Maia said carefully. ‘Thy position is not temporary any longer, after all, and hast no need of the locker.’

‘Mm.’

Maia let the silence stand, though he ached to press Csevet further. Csevet did not often talk about his time in the fleet, and Maia was loathe to intrude on it if Csevet wished to keep it private. Simultaneously, of course, he was desperately curious. Csevet with friends of his own rank; Csevet being allowed to forget himself; Csevet…

‘It scared me,’ Csevet said, in barely more than a whisper. ‘I am happy here – even before us, I was happy, and now… I would not go back. But…’

‘It was home,’ Maia responded quietly. ‘Tis strange to let go of it, in any way. Thou must have felt… it must have been easier to be thyself, there. Fewer strictures.’

Csevet moved again, and Maia closed his eyes as he felt Csevet’s arm reach over his chest, their legs entangling.

‘I miss the people,’ Csevet said softly. ‘But I don’t think I was more myself there. A different version of myself, perhaps. More… loose. But the tightness here is reassuring as much as it restrains. It feels safe.’

‘I’m glad,’ Maia said honestly, taking this in. It was not a feeling he entirely understood, but it was another little key to Csevet, and so he treasured the knowledge regardless.

‘Besides, I could make time to see my friends more.’

‘Then why dost thou not?’

Maia felt Csevet shrug.

‘Not sure how to navigate… everything that’s changed. I’m not their fellow courier anymore, not exactly. I outrank them, and it’s hard. It makes me frightened of trying, in case I damage something. But since the two of us… it’s brought some things into relief. I’ve realise I’d rather cause a little damage with trying than lose something precious through fear of what might happen. So I think I’m going to try.’

‘I hope it goes well,’ Maia said.

‘Me too,’ Csevet said with a short laugh. ‘It would be good to see them. Besides, I need to get my feathers finished.’

‘I like thy feathers,’ Maia said, and dared to shift position so that he could move a hand to rest briefly on Csevet’s shoulder and then slide over his back, where the tattoos were. ‘How many more wilt thou have?’

Maia had done his best not to pry when he had first seen them; but Csevet had noticed his curiosity anyway, and turned around so that Maia could see all of them and trace the delicate lines with his fingers. Maia smiled to remember it.

‘Oh, half a dozen at least,’ Csevet said sleepily. ‘Then I’ll stop. Though I’ve been thinking about getting something to mark working here, if I can get away with it without anyone finding out.’

‘Does it hurt?’ Maia asked, running his fingers over the skin of Csevet’s back once more, and then again.

‘A little.’

‘Mm.’

Conversation dissolved, then. After all, there were other things to think about.

Chapter Text

Beltharien VIII, the 132^nd Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Beltharien VIII was, most unusually, the grandson of his predecessor rather than his son. Beltharien’s father died not long after his son was born, and before he could inherit the throne; Beltharien therefore took power at the age of seventeen, one of the youngest adult emperors.

He was, reportedly, a stickler for proper form and ceremony, and his reign saw the first use of the imperial bell to mark births, deaths, and marriages among the Drazhada. The same bell remains in use in the Untheileneise Court today, though its use is now limited to incidents directly affecting the imperial line.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

Lithan stood in front of the window of the butchers – always the shiniest in the street, Mer Borezh was proud – and did her hair. Not the childish braid she often left it in, this time, but an adult style, suitable for a young woman. She ran her hands down the clothes that Laris’s sister hadn’t wanted anymore, checking they were straight. She didn’t like leaving Tammet on his own, but she couldn’t bring her baby brother to this. He was old enough to look after himself for the day, and if this worked out he’d have to get used to it – and besides, he was still sulking.

As content with her appearance as she was ever going to be, she made her way down the street. The new factory building was supposed to be small, compared to the ones in Rosiro and Choharo and Sevezho – but Lithan had never left Cetho before, and as she turned the corner the structure seemed to loom over everything else. It had to be one of the biggest buildings that wasn’t part of the court. She had heard a couple of women outside the grocers saying they were surprised it was allowed; Cetho buildings weren’t permitted to reach above a certain height, lest they interrupt the view of the court. She’d heard someone else say that Mer Gelinar had paid people off. That was more or less what you expected though.

She reached the door just as the bells began to toll five, and eyed her competition. A lot of them were actual adults, women in starched plain shirts and men with their dusty trousers. But she could spot a few pretenders like herself here and there, in too-big jackets and hiked-up skirts. At least she was tall for her age. She stood up straight, set her jaw, and waited. She’d get the work. And then she and Tammet could save up; they’d have enough to stay at Merrem Ivilaran’s, and maybe she could even pay for him to start going back to school.

It seemed, that spring morning before dawn, like it might just be possible for things to get better.

~

‘Is that everything? Is everything on its way?’

‘Yes, Ebremis. Isheian just took the last pieces up.’

‘Excellent. Right, let’s prepare for the clean-up. Ashu, keep that countertop clear in case we get further requests, and Petzha you can start the washing up.’

The kitchen was bubbling gently, in that warm busy mode of hosting but without the pressure of high numbers of guests. The zhasan’s pregnancy was nearing its completion, and she had requested only a small gathering for her birthday. She, two of her sisters, Prince Idra, the Archduchess Vedero, and Arbelan Drazharan were dining with His Serenity this evening, the imperial couple having had a quiet lunch with the rest of her family earlier that day.

The evening meal in progress, with all of the preparation complete and the aftermath yet to come, there was a lull. Merrem Esaran was at her desk, Ebremis took a few moments to sit down and take the weight off his feet; and at the edocharei’s worktable, the First Nohecharei were in conversation with Nemer, Esha, and Avris.

‘It’s good to see Himself settling in with the family, even if he’s still a bit uncertain,’ Deret said. He and Cala had only just come off duty, and had been on shift for His Serenity’s lunch with the Ceredada earlier.

‘Helps that he’s been talking to everyone else more, too – Arbelan Zhasanai and the archduchess and the zhasan,’ Esha put in. ‘And he’s eating more and sleeping properly. All improvements from last summer.’

‘He’s doing so much better,’ Avris agreed. ‘And it’s a small thing and perhaps it's silly, but I think the extra height has helped as well.’

‘The what?’ Cala said, frowning.

‘Well, he came here all scrawny, didn’t he, remember,’ said Avris.

‘But good feeding and good care, a year and a half later he’s filled out and he’s grown an inch. I just think it must make you feel a little more confident, more settled in yourself.’

‘Not that height is the only way to confidence,’ said Nemer grinning, and Avris smirked back at him.

‘True, but thou wouldst know, wouldn’t thou?’

‘That’s a low blow.’

‘It’s the only kind that would hit thee.’

Nemer made a noise of comic, overblown offense, but couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

Cala was still staring at Avris.

‘He’s really gotten that much taller?’

‘How hast thou not noticed?’ Deret said, bewildered. ‘We stand next to the man almost every day.’

‘Look, Deret, you’re all shorter than me. I don’t see why I should subdivide beyond that,’ Cala said snootily, and Deret rolled his eyes.

‘To be fair,’ Esha said, ‘I don’t think Himself has noticed. It’s easy to miss if everything is being adjusted around you.’

‘True.’

~

The following morning would have been uneventful – paperwork, Corazhas, lunch – but it was interrupted before it could even begin. A runner came to the closed grills, he was told later, and passed on the prearranged message that was then carried straight up the tower. Maia was woken and told the news, and he dressed hurriedly, skipped breakfast, and barely noticed the expressions of those around him.

Several hours later, and he was still waiting.

He would be late for Corazhas, a part of him pointed out, but it was a thought from habit rather than urgency and he barely noticed it. It did not matter; he needed to be here.

Not that he was doing anyone any good, pacing back and forth in the drawing room of the Csethiro’s apartments, under the watchful (and perhaps somewhat amused) eyes of Cala and Beshelar. But that was what he was supposed to be doing, he supposed; a very traditional kind of uselessness, the husband pacing as he waited for news…

At the sound of footsteps in the corridor he froze, head turning to the door as though caught on a hook; but they passed and did not enter, so he returned to his pacing.

At Csethiro’s request, Kiru was attending; it was a subject of mingled embarrassment and gratitude for Maia, who suspected the request had been only partially due to Kiru’s skill, the other part being designed to prevent him from fussing as much as he might have done. In that, it was at least partially successful. He trusted Kiru, and it helped to know that someone he trusted with his life was there to help Csethiro as she went through this momentous occasion in hers.

And then, finally, impossibly, a maidservant entered, bowed, and said something that Maia did not take in whatsoever except for that it meant he should follow her (and that he mostly got from Cala’s tilt of the head). He made his way along the corridor and up the stairs to the bedroom.

Kiru opened the door before either Cala or Beshelar could, and gave Maia a warm smile that made some of the tension he had been holding drop away. Wordlessly she stepped aside, and he entered.

He had not been to Csethiro’s bedroom before; some husbands did that, went to their wives, but Maia had yet to work up the nerve; he worried it would be intrusive, and besides he and Csethiro were content with their current arrangements. It was a tastefully-decorated room in shades of blue and purple; as in the Alcethmeret, cats featured prominently in the ornamentation.

And lying in the middle of the ancient four-poster: Csethiro, looking exhausted and absolutely radiant. She gave him a weary smile, and waved loosely at a seat to her right; he took it, and then reached carefully for her hand.

‘Thou art well?’ he asked.

She made a face.

‘I’m not in any sort of danger,’ she said, and he felt his heartrate ease slightly. ‘I do rather feel like I’ve been trampled like a horse, though they tell me that’s normal enough.’ She gave his hand a very gentle squeeze.

Maia nodded, and then asked the other question that was pounding in his mind.

‘And… the baby?’

‘Just getting cleaned up,’ she said, and there was something like mischief in her eyes. ‘Thou wilt see shortly.’

A minute or so later, there was a polite knock on the door, and a nursemaid entered; and then another, directly behind her. The first was carrying a bundle in her arms that Maia could not take his eyes off; he allowed a very-carefully-not-laughing Kiru to assist with the placement of the bundle into the crook of his left arm; and then a second bundle in his right.

He looked around at Csethiro, wide-eyed, and she nodded, biting back laughter. He couldn’t find his words, and then he found one of them, just one:

‘Twins!’

‘Twins, Serenity,’ Kiru said. ‘A girl, on your left, and a boy, on your right. The boy was born first.’

There was a long pause.

‘I’m glad we already picked a name for each possibility,’ Maia said, the first thing that had come to him as a whole sentence, and Csethiro laughed before she stopped, wincing.

‘Oh, oh, I’ll – Maia, I’m all right, just sore. But thou art right – Chenet and Evelo, then?’

Maia nodded. ‘Chenet and Evelo.’

With one newborn in each arm, Maia was more than a little afraid to move. Fortunately the chair he had been given had broad arms, so he needn’t fear his arms giving way. He looked from one sleeping bundle to the other, speechless again.

Both babies were a pale grey, but he knew that that might shift as they grew – he had been much darker when he was born, according to his mother, and the books said that hair, eyes, and skin tone could shift somewhat from what was seen at birth. Chenet, wrapped in white and in Maia’s right arm, had his eyes tightly closed and his tiny face scrunched up against the strange new world. The little bit of hair that he had was dark, like Maia’s.

Evelo, wrapped in blue and in Maia’s left arm, had whisps of white hair. She opened her eyes and stared, uncomprehending, at him; her eyes were a beautiful soft amber, and he let out a small noise of delight.

She blinked and closed her eyes again, and he swallowed.

Twins.

‘Fatherhood looks well on thee,’ said Csethiro tiredly from the bed. He looked up at her, not daring to move anything but his head, and saw her manage a grin at his gormlessness.

No one said anything for a few minutes more. But then there were things that needed to be done; Csethiro wanted to wash and then sleep, the babies would soon need feeding, and – Maia’s head lifted – the imperial bell was tolling, to gather the court in the Untheileian for the announcement. He allowed the nursemaid to take first Evelo, then Chenet, and then kissed Csethiro on the cheek and strode out with a degree of buoyancy he had never before experienced.

~

Csevet arrived at the Verven’theileian just as the Corazhas was gathering, and he braced himself for their displeasure as he spoke.

‘Lordships, His Serenity sends his apology, but he is unable to attend this morning’s Corazhas meeting, as the zhasan –’

The ring of the imperial bell cut through his words, and everyone in the room stopped as they translated the rhythm.

A birth.

Csevet watched the expressions on the members of the Corazhas changed from irritation to hope. Then he remembered that the bell meant a summoning of all nobility to the Untheileian, which meant the emperor would be speaking to the court, which meant Maia would need the prepared speech, which was in the folder that Csevet currently had in his hand –

‘Lordships, please excuse us,’ he said, took three calm steps to get to the servants’ door and through, and then bolted.

Left and right to get into the main corridor from the Verven’theileian access, then a straight line; down to get under and then up the other side; it would be faster to use the main corridors but the imperial secretary couldn’t be seen running by the nobility, who would be flooding towards the hall – which way would Maia go?

Csevet turned a final corner, slid the servants’ door open and closed behind himself, then found himself some way ahead of Maia who was further down the corridor, Cala and Beshelar following behind.

‘Serenity, we have your speech prepared,’ he said, bowing and trying not to sound out of breath.

‘Of course, Csevet, you have a plan for everything, thank you,’ Maia said as he approached, a lightness in his stride that Csevet had never seen before.

‘Boy or girl?’ he asked, saving his reaction to the flattery for a later and more private moment.

Maia reached Csevet’s point of the corridor, and it seemed as though he was lit from within.

‘Hm? Oh, yes!’ he said, as though the answer made sense.

Maia strode on and Csevet, bewildered, saw Cala choke back laughter before turning to walk backwards a few steps so that he could mouth ‘twins!’ at Csevet. Comprehending, and struggling not to laugh himself, Csevet scrambled to follow, trying to order his notes in a way that would make sense when they reached the Untheileian. Csevet has a plan for everything, my foot, he thought to himself, but with more delight than approbation.

Twins!

~

The gossip in the Untheileian hushed when the emperor strode in – and it was a stride, with a merriness to it that Lantheval would not have expected from the usually meek Edrehasivar.

‘Looks to be good news, then,’ someone murmured in the row behind him; and, indeed, it did. The emperor’s expression was bright, as though he was having to exercise considerable restraint not to start cheering. Lantheval breathed out. Good news well deserved, he thought.

Aisava had darted ahead to arrange some papers on the stand, but when Edrehasivar spoke he seemed to scarcely need to use them.

‘Lords and ladies of the Untheileneise Court, we are delighted to be able to announce that our empress, Csethiro Zhasan, has safely given birth to twins. First, a boy, heir to the throne Prince Chenet Drazhar; and second, a girl, the Archduchess Evelo Drazhin. Mother and children are all well.’

Berenar called ‘To the Drazhada!’, and it was echoed by the whole hall. Then Edrehasivar departed in the same buoyant manner as his arrival. Lantheval turned to catch Pashavar’s eye as the court began to return to whatever they had been doing.

‘We’ve never seen Edrehasivar quite so enthused,’ Pashavar said, but he was failing to hold back a smile.

‘Prince Chenet, then.’

‘Mm. Well, we saw something like that coming.’

‘Evelo’s from her side, we believe – her mother’s name was Evlu, wasn’t it?’

‘It was. Very even-handed, a name from either side. Diplomatic.’ And neatly and entirely avoids the Drazhada, Lantheval thought, but kept the words to himself. He made eye contact with Pashavar, and they shared one more unspoken thought:

Good for him.

~

Lithan kept to the shadows as she made her way back home, aware of the coin she’d earned clinking and far too exposed in the wide pockets of her skirt.

Well, she’d done it – twice now. She’d been too exhausted after the first day to even think, but she’d come back for a second and made it through that too. The foreman hadn’t looked twice at her, just put her on the line next to an older lady who had shown her what to do without speaking. Not that you could really speak in there, the noise was tremendous. Lithan thought her ears were still ringing slightly, and didn’t like to think about how bad it was going to feel tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after that…

But she’d done it. She was working now, earning coin for their keep. Precious little coin, admittedly, but it was something. And perhaps it would be more if she worked hard?

She reached Merrem Ivilaran’s little boarding house on aching feet and let herself in.

Chapter Text

Edrenechibel V, the 165^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Edrenechibel V is notable for his overhaul of the treasury, and will be known to the elf on the street as the first emperor to have had his likeness embossed on the coinage of the realm. His financial overhaul was sorely needed, as since the unification of east and west some three hundred years before, adjustments to accommodate the larger geography and population had been ad hoc, inconsistent, and of dubious merit.

As with any significant changes to the tax system, his actions met with considerable resistance, in this case among the Eastern lords, who felt his terms were too generous and that the conquered west (despite the centuries since unification) should be contributing more. This resulted in two failed attempts on his life, which in turn resulted in several executions. The son of one of the executed men successfully assassinated Edrenechibel some six years later.  

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

The Corazhas meeting was proving slow and frustrating, and Maia was privately contemplating accidentally knocking his water across the table just to get some respite. It seemed unfair to the secretaries, he thought, but that was very near the only reason to hold back. Anything to break the monotony. Not to mention if it spilt on someone it would provide an excuse to end the meeting, to allow them to change – and I could go back and see Chenet and Evelo.

The twins were only days old yet, and Maia was already wondering how he was expected to spend so much time away from them, working as normal. How much had they changed in a day? Not very much at all. But still, it was a not-very-much-at-all that he would like to see with his own eyes.

But it would have to wait, at least, until the end of this meeting.

Lord Bromar was having a – cordial on the surface but brewing underneath – discussion with Lord Isthanar about taxes on book trade with Barizhan, and they had been going for almost a solid quarter hour.

Maia was just beginning to formulate the phrases he would need to redirect the conversation (he was getting better, but this sort of conversational mechanic was not yet something he had much grace in) when Cala’s hand gripped Maia’s shoulder and Sonevet Athmaza jerked to his feet with an inarticulate noise.

Bromar and Isthanar went quiet at once; Lord Bromar looked indignant at the interruption and opened his mouth to object but Maia shot him a look and he closed it again. Maia looked between Cala and Sonevet Athmaza; both of them were rigid, their heads turned to the same direction, focused on something imperceptible to the rest of the room.

‘Where was that – in the city?’ Sonevet said.

Cala gave the smallest of nods, as though he did not want to break his concentration.

‘West quarter,’ he said, ‘no – no, more to the northwest; perhaps a house or two’s width from the city wall.’

‘Do you recognise the signature?’ asked Sonevet, breaking his gaze and turning to Cala.

Cala frowned, narrowing his eyes at nothing. No one else spoke; glancing around, Maia thought none of them understood what had distressed the mazei but no one wanted to interrupt them either. On Maia’s other side, Beshelar had come closer and had a hand on the hilt of his sword.

‘No,’ Cala said eventually, then shook his head. ‘No one I know. Not a dachenmaza, we’d both have noticed that. But I don’t know all the mazei, even the ones in Cetho.’

He sounded uneasy, unsettled. Sonevet gave a short nod, and then turned and bowed to Maia.

‘Serenity, please forgive us, but we must attend our duties in the Mazan’theileian immediately,’ he said, looking uncharacteristically disoriented.

‘Of course, Athmaza,’ Maia said, and the words were barely out of his mouth before the Witness for the Athmaz’are had bowed again and slipped out of the room at something close to a run.

‘What in the goddess’s name was that about?’ said Lord Pashavar, halfway between alarm and reproach. Maia turned to Cala, who was still staring into some invisible distance.

‘Cala, please explain what has happened,’ he said, keeping his voice carefully steady. ‘Is there some danger?’

Cala seemed abruptly to remember where he was; he released Maia’s shoulder and gave a somewhat apologetic bow, tension still clear in the way that he moved. He made a small gesture and Beshelar, on Maia’s other side, stepped back and released the hilt of his sword. No immediate threat, then?

‘Serenity,’ Cala began, and then hesitated. ‘Your Serenity, as with many of the Corazhas, will understandably know little of how maz… functions?’

‘Very little,’ Maia said. ‘You need to explain some context first, we take it?’

‘Yes, Serenity, if we may.’

‘Of course.’

Cala glanced in that same, northwesterly direction again, as though he was struggling to keep his eyes from it; but he managed, and began to explain.

‘Maz is… an energy, present in all of the world; it is evenly spread, but it… attracts itself,’ he said. ‘Imagine… if you held a tablecloth taut between four people and placed stones, evenly spaced, across it. Then pull the cloth down in one spot, from beneath – the stones begin to all slide towards the depression, yes?’

Maia nodded, following, and saw that the rest of the Corazhas was listening attentively. The Athmaz’are maintained an air of mystery that was not often breached.

‘So it is with maz – when one draws it towards oneself to spell something, one must take care to have good control, or one will end up on the floor covered in stones.’ Cala frowned, perhaps realising the weakness of the metaphor, but shook his head slightly and continued. ‘Maz can build up in a person and overwhelm them until they are destroyed by it,’ he said more plainly. Maia felt his stomach tighten.

‘Is this common?’ asked the Witness for the Treasury, looking alarmed.

Cala shook his head, his eyes drifting northwest again.

‘It’s very rare; the last occasion happened some twenty years before we joined the Athmaz’are ourself. It’s usually a case of extraordinary circumstances – that last time was a maza in a little mountain village calling up magic beyond her capabilities to divert an avalanche. The village was spared, so the spell worked, but there was nothing left of her.’

Maia felt a faint echo of that odd calm he had felt once before, in the cellars with Sheveän and Chavar. He thought he knew where this was going.

‘Is that what has just happened?’ he asked. ‘This… overwhelming?’

Cala jerked his eyes back to Maia. He looked bloodless and disturbed, his ears flat against his head.

‘Yes, Serenity,’ he said quietly. ‘Not a maza I recognise – if you are familiar with someone you learn to recognise them and their… their fingerprints on the maz, as it were. But someone, in the northwest part of Cetho…’ he trailed off, and then seemed to come back to himself.

No one seemed to quite know what to say for several moments. And then Lord Deshehar spoke up.

‘What need of the Mazan’theileian draws Sonevet away?’ he asked.

Cala winced.

‘That amount of concentrated maz, flaring in that way – it will draw every maza in the city to it, on instinct; the Adremaza will likely close the Mazan’theileian and order them all to remain within so as to prevent it from becoming chaos, and then take the dachenmazei into the town to investigate. But it will be a mess regardless, for a short while.’

‘The Vigilant Brotherhood and the Untheileneise Guard will report when there’s a handle on the matter,’ Pashavar said, his expression sober. ‘Perhaps it seems harsh, but there is little we can do until we hear more.’

Maia knew that Pashavar was right, but it felt wrong, the whole room was disoriented – and besides, they were one man down. But what else was there to do? He looked to his right, and Csevet wordlessly passed him the agenda for the meeting.

They covered the rest of the topics loosely and distractedly; Maia forbore to allow any deciding votes, given the absence of the Witness for the Athmaz’are and the disorderly mood of the room. They were just closing the meeting when Captain Orthema was directed into the room. He bowed, but Maia gestured for him to speak at once, knowing from his body language that the matter was urgent.

‘Serenity, we regret there has been some kind of incident at the new factory building down in the city. Our counterpart in the Vigilant Brotherhood of Cetho is still trying to determine the details, though we understand that the Mazan’theileian has some kind of interest –’ he glanced around, and seemed to do a double take at the absence of the Witness for the Athmaz’are.

Maia nodded.

‘We were alerted to an incident by Cala and Sonevet Athmaza,’ Maia said. ‘We thought it best to wait until there was a clearer understanding of the matter before we acted. We know that something occurred in the northwest of the city, Cala explained that it might be…’ he trailed off, and looked at Cala.

Cala gave a swifter explanation this time, and it seemed to rattle Captain Orthema, though he disguised it well.

‘Serenity, with your permission we will go down into the city and find out what we can; we can liaise with the Vigilant Brotherhood and the Mazan’theileian, and report back to you.’

‘Thank you, Captain, we would appreciate that.’

Maia walked back to the Alcethmeret in a shaky haze, aware of Csevet and Cala and Beshelar bobbing anxiously along behind him. He did not go up the stairs to the tower but crossed to the garden instead, out into the spring sunlight and the waiting bench.

Maz can build up in a person and overwhelm them until they are destroyed by it.

Maia had seen all his nohecharei distressed in one way or another before, some hiding it better than the others. He had seen Cala himself with tear-streaked cheeks the night of the coup. But it had been quite some time since then, and he had not realised quite how much he had taken to relying upon the steadiness of the four people who were with him at every moment. They had been foundations upon which he could build his own stability. The description of what must have happened down in the city had been more than enough to distress; seeing Cala so obviously disturbed by it had made it worse. Though not as bad as it must be like in the city, while I await the consequences in the peace and sunlight. He tried to shake away his self-pity; what mattered now was the consequences to this… accident? Disaster? Tragedy.

Maz can build up in a person and overwhelm them until they are destroyed by it.

Maia had known better than to go down into the city himself, even though he wanted to – it felt wrong to sit and wait here, but his presence there would only cause trouble and solve nothing, and besides he suspected even his own stubbornness would not be enough to get through the objections he would doubtless have had from the nohecharei, Captain Orthema, and the entirety of the Corazhas. Wouldst have had the rare opportunity to see them all in agreement, he thought grimly. He breathed out, and tried to find some peace in the mantra Mer Dornar had shared with him the week before.

Kiru emerged into the garden a few minutes later, and Maia noticed that she took a moment for a brief, whispered exchange with Cala before she approached. He didn’t mind; he assumed she too had been alerted to the death in the city. In the factory. Would that be relevant? The first built in Cetho, which had traditionally held out against the spread by dint of being host to the Untheileneise Court and thus above petty manufacturing. But Mer Gelinar had obtained permission to build a month or so before the crash of the Wisdom of Choharo, and Maia had not had the time – had not taken the time – to look into why permission had been granted by Varenechibel.

Kiru finished her exchange with Cala, and approached with a bow. Maia straightened.

‘Good morning, Kiru.’

‘Good morning, Serenity; Serenity, we regret to disturb you in light of the circumstances in Cetho,’ Kiru said. ‘But – and may we preface this by saying there is absolutely no need for alarm – there is a matter regarding Prince Chenet that requires your attention. Would you come through to the nursery? We took the liberty of requesting the presence of the zhasan, also.’

Maia stared at her, the words no need for alarm ringing in his mind like some kind of horrible, contrary warning bell. Then he pulled himself together.

‘Of course, of course,’ he said, standing. ‘Kiru – is Chenet –’

‘Prince Chenet is healthy and well, Serenity,’ Kiru said quickly. ‘We would not mislead you; it is simply that – well, best to discuss it in full, if we may.’

But Maia was already nearly out of the gardens by then. He reached the gates to the nursery at the same time as Csethiro, who met eyes with him. She looked fragile and was being followed by an anxious looking edocharo, and he wondered if she should really be on her feet but knew asking would not go down well. Instead, he reached out to gently take her arm, and they proceeded slowly into the nursery.

A few minutes later, and Maia was watching Kiru and Ushenar’s expressions with close attention, determined to ensure that he fully understood.

‘You must understand that he is not injured,’ Ushenar said carefully. ‘He has simply been born somewhat different from his peers. It is not something that cannot be accounted for, and there is no reason he cannot have as happy a life as he would otherwise.’

‘He is in no pain, or distress…?’

Ushenar was already shaking his head.

‘No, none at all. There is no damage, merely the absence of the voice box. It is uncommon but not unheard of.’

‘He will have to be monitored carefully to ensure he wants for nothing, as he cannot alert the nursemaids in the way that his sister can – but he would have been monitored carefully anyway,’ Kiru added firmly. ‘And there is plenty of time to look into options for communication.’

Maia could feel the fear – of the unknown, the unexpected – rising up, eager on the heels of the anxieties from earlier that morning, but he pushed it back down firmly. If Kiru says he will be well, then he will be well. He trusted her enough for that.

‘Thank you, Kiru, Doctor Ushenar,’ he said calmly. He could feel Csethiro trembling with the effort to remain silent, and wondered what she was thinking. He squeezed her arm a little to remind her that he was there. What is the next question? If I were more detached, what would I ask next?

‘What steps would you advise at this stage?’ he asked, and Kiru gave a little nod.

‘With your permission, Serenity, we – and we believe Doctor Ushenar – will reach out to our various colleagues, seeking greater expertise. In the meantime, the librarian can supply any pertinent reading.’

Ushenar cleared his throat.

‘We have a colleague in the hospital in Zhaö who may be of some help – he specialises in deafness, but the communication problem is a similar one, and his solutions may be useful here.’

‘Use the courier service and the airships if necessary,’ Maia said. ‘Speak to Mer Aisava.’

‘Of course. Our thanks, Serenity. We will speak to you as soon as we know more.’

The appropriate formalities observed, Ushenar departed. The twins were to be fed, and then they would sleep; there was no good in lingering. Maia left, Csethiro only a step behind him, and silently they returned to the tower.

When they had reached the door to the Tortoise Room, Csethiro took Maia’s arm and continued walking upwards. He obeyed, and she led the way all the way up to the tower bedroom. The edocharei were slipping out as they approached, and Maia wondered how they had known to depart – presumably Cala or Beshelar had used one of the servants’ bells, but he hadn’t realised there was one that could ring in the tower room…

Thou art distracting thyself.

When they entered, they left Cala outside and Beshelar found himself a quiet corner. Maia and Csethiro sat down on the bed, side by side.

‘If Kiru and Ushenar believe he will be well – that this, from what they were saying, is more likely to be a problem of logistics than anything else – then I trust them,’ he said quietly, after a long moment. ‘That doesn’t mean I don’t have concerns.’

Csethiro let out a long sigh.

‘Oh good, then I’m not too horrible a mother to be worrying,’ she said shakily. ‘I trust them too, I do, it’s just – Maia, I grew up at court. People are…’ She stopped, looking suddenly contrite.

‘I know that people can be cruel,’ Maia said quietly. ‘But I never thought that was something my children would not have to deal with.’

He had never articulated it before, but as he spoke he knew he had always been aware of it. The children of the Goblin Emperor would either resemble their mother too much, and be accused of being illegitimate; or they would resemble their father too much, which was its own way of marking them as outsiders even at the very heart of the court. The twins would always have been facing something down; this just wasn’t exactly what he had expected.

Csethiro was watching him.

‘Thou art so calm,’ she said softly.

Maia breathed out.

‘It isn’t… Chenet is the way he is, and I would love him no matter what. And this isn’t… well, the way Ushenar and Kiru were talking, it’s not that something is wrong with him. Chenet is not a – a problem that needs solving. He’s just Chenet. The court, however… but we have time. And resources. And it helps to know I have thy help,’ he added with a cautious smile, and was glad when Csethiro smiled back.

‘Of course. It is just a surprise, that’s all,’ she said, as though she was deciding it as she said it. ‘But thou art right – we will make certain that the court is ready for him. And if anyone is cruel, I know where the sunblade I gave thee is kept.’

‘Csethiro Drazharan!’ Maia said, but they were both laughing.

‘All right. Can we have a plan? I think we’ll both feel better if we start tackling the situation.’

Maia nodded.

‘We’ve got some reading to do, but I… oh, I cannot take leave today,’ he said, the events of earlier returning so violently to his attention that he all but swayed where he sat. ‘There was – in the city, there was a death, something to do with the new factory, and the Mazan’theileian…’

She listened as he fumbled through an explanation, her forehead creased. Then she wrapped an arm around his shoulders and squeezed gently.

‘Never a moment’s peace,’ she said softly. ‘But thou wilt do what thou canst, and no one can ask more of thee than that.’

Maia nodded, eyes closed. It helped, a little, though he hated to feel so useless. Then he opened his eyes and turned to her.

‘Couldst thou go to Mer Avemar, in the library? And see what he can come up with. He’s welcome to purchase anything he thinks will be useful.’

Csethiro was already nodding.

‘I’ll have a quiet word with Arbelan, too,’ she said. ‘It’s impossible that this hasn’t happened to someone at court before, or something similar – we can look at how that was handled, well or badly, and not make the same mistakes.’

‘Excellent.’

She put her head on his shoulder, and he thought he could feel her tiredness seeping through into him. He abruptly regretted asking her to do so much.

‘Thou art… well?’ he asked tentatively, and she sighed.

‘Climbing all those stairs was not my best idea,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘But I wanted to talk to thee somewhere… somewhere that felt private.’

‘If thou wouldst like, lie down here for a while. I can have thy edocharei come attend, there is no need for thee to tackle the stairs again until thou hast rested. Arbelan and Mer Avemar will be ready whenever thou art.’

She must have truly been tired, for she only nodded.

‘Thou art wise,’ she teased softly, and he smiled.

‘Chenet –’ he began.

‘He’s going to be just fine.’

‘He is.’

‘Right. Then we have work to do; much to learn; and a court to bully into better behaviour.’

‘Rest first, Csethiro.’

‘Mm. But then we begin.’

Chapter Text

Belochlasen III, the 99^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

The reign of Belochlasen III saw the first use of mazei as nohecharei. The complement was six, at the time: four soldiers and two mazei, with the four soldiers guarding the emperor in pairs and the two mazei following a more esoteric pattern of their own, leaning on unpredictability and the intimidating reputation of the Athmaz’are to fulfil their purpose. These were ordinary mazei; dachenmazei did not become required for nohecharei positions until the reign of Beltanthiar IV (see below).

Belochlasen is also noted for engaging in an extended feud with the judiciate of the time regarding the laws of inheritance, which required the eldest son provide support for non-inheriting children. Reportedly, over the course of this dispute he destroyed all positive relationships with his fellow Drazhada. He was widely considered a selfish and unpleasant man, and inspired a popular folk song about the consequences of greed.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

The street was in a shambles, but there seemed to be little actual wreckage, which Verer supposed was something. Most of the chaos was people – workers had poured out of the factory, and more people had appeared from elsewhere in the city to see what was going on. He made his way through, looking for Subpraeceptor Lorazhar, who led the Vigilant Brotherhood of Cetho and should be in the middle of the damn mess somewhere, if he had any pride in his job.

‘Captain Orthema!’

Verer turned, recognising Lorazhar’s voice with relief, and made his way over to him.

‘The court’s heard, then?’ Lorazhar said as he approached.

Verer nodded.

‘The mazei,’ he said, and Lorazhar’s face said it all. ‘They’re already here?’

‘Swarming around the place like blue rats,’ Lorazhar said, a little louder that Verer thought professional. ‘Apparently it’s one of theirs, some sort of mazeise accident. Wouldn’t have thought you’d get a maza in a factory.’

Verer had been thinking about that too. But maza were a bit like clerics, people made all sorts of requests of them. Perhaps this one had been needed for some healing?

In the middle of the working day? The foreman would never allow that. Unless it was the foreman that was injured?

‘We’re just getting a list of the workers and trying to round them all up, find out who’s missing,’ Lorazhar said.

‘Any injuries?’

‘A few, but they’re minor. Amazing, really. This kind of thing kills dozens in the factory cities. Though we suppose we’ve not had a maz-related one before.’

‘Do we know what actually happened?’ Verer said, trying to conceal his frustration. Lorazhar wasn’t bad at his job, but he was never as organised and orderly as Verer thought he should be, and tended to wander away from the point.

Lorazhar blew out a breath.

‘It’s not completely clear, but it seems like a piece of the machinery wasn’t fitted properly, or something. In any case it started to come away from its framing, and this stuff is suspended off the wall, so it fell. But it’s not there anymore. Foreman’s losing his nut over it, gone running to fetch the owner.’

‘Not there?’

‘We’ll show you. Come on. Wouldn’t mind a second pair of eyes.’

And it’ll save you from having to come up to the court to report directly, lazy bastard, Verer thought, but without much rancour. His Serenity was going to want as much information as he could get; Verer trusted his own ability to retain detail more than Lorazhar’s.

The inside of the factory was deserted bar a few mazei, all the machinery halted. Lorazhar led him up the space between the machinery, and then stopped.

‘Here, see. It should be just like the others on either side of it, but there’s nothing.’

Nothing indeed – a few pieces of metal were left attached to the wall, though, and if they hadn’t been three inches solid, Verer would have said something had been wrenched off them by hand. There was a stink in the air, like ozone and rot.

‘Vanished,’ Verer muttered. ‘Maz, then.’

‘Must be.’

‘Beg pardon, gentlemen, but it hasn’t actually vanished, per se,’ said a voice. Verer turned, quietly pleased that Lorazhar jumped and he didn’t. The speaker was a mazo, an owlish-looking half-goblin woman whose maz-blue robes seemed too large for her.

‘What do you mean? It’s not there,’ Lorazhar said, and Verer fought the urge to roll his eyes.

‘No, not exactly. It’s here.’

She pointed, and Verer and Lorazhar came around the base of the machinery to see what at.

Half sunk into the floor was a molten ball of twisted metal, about four feet across.

‘Some kind of compression spell,’ said the mazo. ‘Very impressive bit of spellwork, usually something you’d leave for the dachenmazei, and they’d have a headache afterwards. It didn’t even hit anyone. But of course that meant it was far too much for her, especially done instinctively and with no knowledge of the proper forms.’

‘Her?’

‘Mostly women on this side of the factory floor, apparently,’ Lorazhar said. ‘Though we can’t be sure. What was one of your lot doing in a factory, anyway?’

‘That’s rather the worst part,’ came the Adremaza’s voice from behind them. Verer and Lorazhar turned. The Adremaza looked drained, and he waved away the mazo who had been speaking with a dismissive gesture.

‘How so?’ Verer asked, bracing himself.

The Adremaza winced.

‘You do know that the Athmaz’are isn’t the… our intake is not commensurate with the entirety of the maz-capable population?’

‘Not everyone who can be a maza becomes one,’ Verer said, partly for Lorazhar’s benefit.

‘Quite. Unfortunately, we suspect the unfortunate individual in this case was maz-capable but had never joined the Athmaz’are. They either chose not to for whatever reasons they may have had, or…’

‘Or they were too young to have been tested yet,’ Verer finished when the Adremaza didn’t. It was a grim thought, but horribly possible. Especially if you took into consideration that the factory workers were often younger than they should be.

‘Subpraeceptor, we’ve checked the list of workers like you told us.’

Verer turned. One of Lorazhar’s men had appeared, another lingering a few steps back. The first had a ledger.

‘Did you check for all of them? Are they all accounted for?’ Lorazhar asked, taking the ledger even though it wouldn’t tell him anything different or faster.

‘One name is missing, and there’s a chance that she just ran home, but we don’t think so. She was working at the right machine, and someone said they saw her throwing her arms up at the machine just as it collapsed.’

‘What’s the name?’

‘Lithan Elsin.’

‘Any family?’

‘We’re not certain, but one of the women says she lived at a boarding house a few streets away.’

‘I’ll send someone – well, you, and Celsar, get over here, and go track down this boarding house and see what you find. Be careful not to –’

While Lorazhar was wrangling his men, Verer turned to the Adremaza.

‘Beyond evidencing what happened, is there anything…’

But the Adremaza was already nodding, his expression weary.

‘We will do what we can for the family,’ he said. ‘The Athmaz’are looks after its own, even if they are not sworn into our ranks.’

‘That’s good to know.’

The mazeise sense of honour and duty could be rather far removed from the soldierly, but on this point Verer was in complete agreement. You always did what you could.

There was a commotion at the other end of the factory, and Verer watched as an angular elf in expensive but garish clothes arrived, surrounded by hangers on. He spotted Verer, Lorazhar, and the mazei, and came storming up the gap between the machinery towards them.

When he was close enough, both his identity and the source of his ire became immediately clear.

‘This is our property, who gave you the right to be in here?’ he shouted. ‘The guard we understand, but you –’ he jabbed a finger in the Adremaza’s direction ‘have no jurisdiction! Hiding your mess, are you?’

The Adremaza, whom Verer had always considered a little too mild for his own good, reacted to this with a surprising amount of ferocity.

‘We beg your pardon, mer, but any maz-related incident is our jurisdiction, and we don’t think much of your ingratitude –’

‘Ingratitude? One of your people destroyed a valuable piece of factory equipment –’

‘If your valuable equipment had been in better condition, perhaps there would have been no need –’

‘Enough, gentlemen!’ Verer put his chest into the request, stopping a little short of the voice he used to round up soldiers. Both the Adremaza and Mer Gelinar stopped, the Adremaza staring daggers and Gelinar tilting his chin up defiantly.

‘Responsibility for the accident is one for the courts,’ Verer said. ‘Not for public bickering. Let’s get everything safe and set for now. Mer Gelinar, can you open tomorrow?’

Verer didn’t particularly care if he could or not, but it seemed like the best venture for changing the subject. Unfortunately, the owlish mazo hadn’t gone far, and she answered instead.

‘Absolutely not.’

‘We beg your pardon,’ Mer Gelinar began, but both Lorazhar and Verer held up hands to silence him.

‘Go ahead, Athmaza,’ Lorazhar said. ‘Why not?’

‘Look,’ she said, and pointed to the machines either side. ‘The same fault on the framework that holds them to the wall. Plus the ripple effect of the spell has warped a whole range of the metal, we imagine a lot of it will need replacing.’

Mer Gelinar swore. Verer watched him thoughtfully, but decided that the problem was (thankfully) not his responsibility to solve.

‘Um…’ the mazo said uncertainly.

‘What is it now, Usilo?’ the Adremaza asked, with what Verer thought was an unwarranted amount of waspishness.

‘Well, it’s just – Mer Gelinar seems to think the damage was the fault of the maza, but it’s actually the opposite. The components of the machines, the angles, the material – if she hadn’t reacted as swiftly as she had, the whole thing could have gone up. It’s thanks to our mystery woman that his factory is still standing at all.’

Verer tensed, fully expecting this to push Mer Gelinar to boiling point. Instead, to his credit, the man seemed to become more contained.

‘We are glad to know that, Athmaza,’ he said, with only a hint of his former anger in his voice, though the tension in his jaw looked enough to break a tooth or two. And, Verer noted, he did not actually apologise for his previous accusations.

‘Subpraeceptor, Captain Orthema,’ said a voice; the Vigilant Brother who had been sent after the missing worker.

‘Well?’ Lorazhar said. ‘What is it? You’ve barely been gone long enough.’

‘The missing worker, Subpraeceptor, she –’

‘Oh she ran, did she?’ Mer Gelinar cut in. ‘How courageous.’

‘She’s dead, Gelinar,' Verer cut in sharply. 'She died protecting your workers and your factory.’ He tilted his ears warningly, locking eyes with Gelinar. The man backed down with more grease than grace.

‘We had no idea,’ he said.

Lorazhar nodded to his man again.

‘Go on. Lithan Elsin, yes?’

‘Yes, she lived three streets over – just her and a younger brother. She was twelve, nearly thirteen; he’s nine.’

Merciful goddesses. Verer met eyes with the Adremaza, who looked sick but unsurprised. The maza test could be taken any time, but it was typically done between the ages of eight and fifteen. Factor workers, however, were expected to be over thirteen. Verer turned to Gelinar and raised an eyebrow. This time, the intimidation didn’t seem to have any effect.

‘There’s no requirement that we check a person’s age,’ he said, sounding almost bored. ‘Obviously it is a tragedy, but the fault is on the girl for lying to get work when she should have gone to one of the charities. Cetho is replete in them.’

The truth of the latter words did not stop Orthema nearly boiling over with anger at the former. He forced himself to hold it in check.

‘In either case, this matter must go to the courts,’ he said. ‘We are to report the details of the event to His Serenity, so we will leave the matter in Lorazhar’s hands. Subpraeceptor, Adremaza, Mer Gelinar.’

Verer strode out, leaving the emerging argument behind him. His task was done, after all. And the sooner this is handed to the emperor, the better. After all, Edrehasivar would be just as furious, and much more well-positioned to do something about it.

~

It was a tower night for Csevet, and he had arrived early in an unsettled mood, hovering outside of the bedroom door when he realised the edocharei were still at work within. Kiru saw him hesitating and gave him a gentle smile.

‘Let me stick my head in,’ she said. ‘He’ll be glad to see thee.’

‘I don’t want to intrude –’

Kiru gave him a don’t be silly look that made him feel about seven years old, so he stopped. She slipped into the bedroom for a moment, and then returned and nodded Csevet in.

‘He’s still getting ready, but there’s no need for thee to wait out here,’ she said softly.

Csevet entered, his change of clothes for the morning tucked under one arm.

It was one thing being in the tower bedroom when it was just he and Maia (and the nohecharei; always the nohecharei). Csevet thought sometimes it felt like he had slipped into some kind of holy place, its quiet and shrouded nature pervading him with that particular feeling of peace and a desire to feel something…

It was quite different now, with its works in motion. Csevet nodded awkwardly to Coris, who nodded placidly back. After stowing his clothes for the next day Csevet stood hesitantly, wondering if he should sit and wait on this side, or go around the frosted glass to see Maia.

The decision was taken from him, fortunately, when Maia emerged, his hair still a little damp and loose down his back.

‘I’m nearly finished,’ he said, ‘a few minutes?’

‘There’s no rush,’ Csevet said. ‘I am early. Couldn’t settle.’

‘Thou art always welcome up here,’ Maia said, with a soft smile despite the worried crease in his brow that had been there since the morning. He disappeared back behind the frosted glass, and Csevet breathed out. He decided to stop worrying so much about being proper, as he knew that Maia wouldn’t mind. Instead, he pulled the sheets on the bed back a little way, and sat cross-legged on the edge of it.

Maia joined him perhaps five minutes later, his hair braided for sleep, and called goodnights to Nemer, Esha, and Avris as they left. Avris, last out, dimmed the lamps; and then Maia and Csevet were alone. Well; as alone as they usually were. Kiru had switched places with Coris as the edocharei left, taking up her usual position by the window. The curtains around the bed were drawn, but there was still light enough to see by.

They were quiet for some time. Csevet looked at Maia, and did not need to be told what was preoccupying him.

‘Thou art still thinking of the factory.’

‘I can think of naught else,’ Maia said, staring up at the hangings over the bed but, Csevet thought, seeing them not at all.

Everything weighs on thee so, Csevet thought. It was what made Maia who he was, of course: he took everything so seriously, and so an emperor should. But sometimes it pained Csevet. Maia had had enough worries in his life, and to be obliged to take on those of the whole country seemed a poor recompense. And, privately and shamefully, he was… not bitter, he held no anger about it. But sad, perhaps; childishly sad that he could never be more important to Maia than his people, and nor should he be. Afraid that somehow, he wasn’t enough.

Breathing out slowly in a way he had learnt from watching Maia, Csevet tried to let go of the thought. No one was ever everything to another person. And he did not want that, anyway; Maia and Csethiro’s relationship brought Csevet a surprising amount of joy, without a hint of envy. And Maia with the twins – oh, but that was precious and beautiful.

Thou wilt adjust, Aisava. Don’t be a brat. He reached out a hand, took Maia’s.

‘It feels wrong to be distracted from such a tragedy,’ Maia said, frowning as he turned to look back at Csevet. ‘But equally wrong to be so preoccupied in a way that is of no use to anyone, especially when I and thee have so little time together.’

Csevet gave a soft smile.

‘Some days are like that,’ he offered. ‘I would rather be beside thee for them than not.’

‘I thank thee.’

Maia rolled over so they were facing one another and pulled Csevet closer, but he was still thinking about the events of the day. Csevet could see the thoughts, almost, clicking like slightly too-fast clockwork behind Maia’s eyes.

‘The Mazan’theileian will take care of her brother,’ Csevet said. ‘They have a benefice for the families of mazei.’

Maia nodded silently. He was quiet for a little while, and then he said softly, ‘He has nothing to even remember her by.’

Csevet recognised the pain in Maia’s voice; he had heard it before.

‘He will remember her,’ he said simply. ‘And he will have little, but not nothing; he will have a few pieces of clothing, perhaps, and keepsakes, even. She would not have taken all her possessions to her factory shift with her.’

‘I suppose,’ Maia murmured.

‘It must be hard, to not have anything of a person,’ Csevet ventured. They both knew that the topic had shifted slightly.

‘I had – I did have something,’ Maia said after a long silence. ‘Earrings, a pair she gave me. I was eight. Pearls and silver, Ilinverieise work. The only pair she owned that was appropriate for me, too.’

‘What happened to them?’

Maia turned his head away.

‘Oh, money was so tight at Edonomee,’ he said, trying for nonchalance. ‘Everything that could be sold was, after a while.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Csevet said softly.

‘Let’s talk about something else,’ Maia said, and Csevet obliged, telling him about the first time he had ever been sent on a courier run by airship, and going into detail about the sights and sounds partly out of thoroughness and partly as a distraction. But as he spoke, he was stewing over the thought of those earrings, and everything that had been taken away from Maia that should not have been.

Chapter Text

Belhothen IV, the 153^rd Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Belhothen IV’s reign saw the now infrequently discussed “servants’ rebellion”. A series of strikes and similar mass actions that predominately occurred among the servants of nobility, it achieved particular success at the Untheileneise Court. Reportedly, the emperor’s edocharei were instrumental to many of the events in question, and it has been speculated that the strikes were permitted not only to occur but to be successful in many ways due to Belhothen’s distrust of his court. It is possible that he intended the energy spent in response to these events would allow some of the inter-nobility machinations to ease.

Belhothen IV was a highly unpopular emperor among the nobility, and many written accounts of his reign are extremely negative in tone. There are few existing texts that acknowledge the existence of the “servants’ rebellion” and many citizens of the Ethuveraz today will never learn of it.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

It was drizzling as Csevet made his careful way down from the airship. He pulled his coat a little tighter around himself, and took his bearings. Sevezho was a grimy city – quite far to come for a scholar from the Ashedro university, but perhaps he had family connections. Or perhaps the sort of research he did was best done here.

The factories in Sevezho were some of the oldest, having been only permitted to be built a considerable distance back from the Istandaärtha and the wealthier townships on its eastern bank. Once the system was polished, more factories were built in more towns, and people were more comfortable being in proximity. After all, then the products came quicker.

Velezh factory was the one he wanted, it seemed, and so he took a moment to get directions from one of the workers repairing part of the road, and then made his way through the streets.

His timing was good, as it turned out; he was only half an hour ahead of the end of the day for the factories, time enough to find somewhere that sold some kind of hot tea (flavour dubious, heat appreciated) and a flaky sort of roll (surprisingly good, though a strange combination with the tea). Courier business had not often taken him to Sevezho, court couriers typically carrying court-related matters and there being few to no nobles in Sevezho. He remembered one trip five or so years ago, but he had been short of coin and sustained himself on what he’d smuggled out of the courier’s dining hall rather than spend anything there.

Once he’d refreshed himself, he found someone to ask directions of and made his way through the city. Soon enough the sky had darkened above him, and the bell was sounding for the factory closures. He picked out his target, found a steady flow of workers, and asked one after another if they knew the man he was looking for. Then more directions, and more walking.

Despite the warmth of the day the streets were cooling rapidly with the darkened sky. When Csevet reached the right door, he knocked, and was grateful when it was opened promptly by a young lady in neat, professional dress.

‘Good evening,’ he said politely. ‘We are Mer Csevet Aisava, we’re looking to speak to Mer Caromezh about his research – we were told we could find him here?’

The young lady smiled and nodded.

‘He has the office upstairs,’ she said. ‘We’re his assistant, Min Iru Hessatin. Do come up.’

‘Thank you.’

Csevet followed her up the narrow staircase and around a tight corner to a warmly-lit office space, a welcome contrast to the miserable weather outside. Sitting at the larger desk of the two was a man in his mid-thirties, who stood when they entered and looked at Min Hessatin.

She made a series of hand motions at him, and he responded in the same way. Then Min Hessatin turned back to Csevet.

‘Mer – Aisava, was it? This is Mer Caromezh. He is deaf, and we interpret for him; please speak as you usually would.’

Csevet smiled.

‘We are glad to meet you, Mer Caromezh.’

~

Rethis Caromezh had had several unexpected occurrences in his life, but he thought this might just make the top of the list. The imperial secretary? Here? He watched the young man uneasily as he took the cup of tea from Iru and thanked her. Could be a fraud? But the letter he had been given was weighted with quality, and carried the strange fish-cat seal of their current emperor. Rethis broke the seal with his thumb, and began to read the letter.

The hand was neat, but not secretarial – distinguishing between the forms was part of expected knowledge at the university, one of the many little details he had discovered only belatedly. Warrior’s form, secretary’s hand – but this was an individual script, not flawless but practiced and clear.

The emperor’s hand?

Read the words themselves, Rethis, or thou wilt never get anywhere.

He shook himself and focused.

To the Scholar Concerned,

We have, through a handful of loose connections, heard of the nature of your work. We find it both admirable in its own right and, selfishly, also something that could be of great use to ourselves and our family in the coming years. We would be grateful if you would attend court at the earliest convenience, so that we may discuss the matter in greater detail. Mer Aisava will be able to accommodate any necessary arrangements; please raise any concerns with him.

Sincerely,

Edrehasivar VII Drazhar

Beneath the signature was the full title, this in a neat secretarial hand. Rethis blinked, and reread the letter more slowly. To the Scholar Concerned…

‘He did not know our name; how did you find us?’ he signed, and Iru voiced for Mer Aisava. Too late, Rethis realised that he should have opened with His Serenity, not just he, but there was nothing to be done about it. Mer Aisava would have to take him as he found him: completely unaccustomed to court manners and not likely to quickly improve.

Mer Aisava had been watching Rethis’ hands curiously as they moved; now he looked him in the eyes and gave a small smile. Through Iru, he answered: ‘The connection – a member of the Alcethmeret staff had a friend of a cousin in the factories, who had lost a significant amount of her hearing because of the noise and been put in contact with you. The cousin had written to the staff member and mentioned your work. Only loosely, and without a name attached; but the staff member found it interesting and thus recalled it. We went to the factory first, at closing, and spoke to the workers until we found someone who knew who you were.’

Mm. Well. Alright, that was reasonable. Rethis had been back and forth there quite often for a while, making contact with workers who were experiencing hearing loss. He was also intrigued by the beginnings of a new hand-sign he had seen used in the deafening environment, rudimentary at the moment but still interesting. Some of it was similar to what he used, but other things were entirely different, and he had been trying to find out if there was a process or pattern by which it was emerging.

Answer the question put to thee: wilt thou go to court? he thought. He knew the answer already, familiar with his own inquisitiveness.

‘How long would His Serenity expect us to be at court?’ he signed, Iru’s eyes going wide as she spoke.

‘Not long. No more than a week, though we think it likely he will find time for you earlier than that. Perhaps two days at best.’

Rethis nodded slowly, then glanced at Iru.

‘Iru, our interpreter…?’

‘Would also be welcome, of course. And…’ here, Mer Aisava paused for a moment, looking appraisingly at Rethis before continuing, ‘…of course, there is coin to cover any inconvenience your absence – and Min Hessatin’s – might cause, as well as to pay you both for your time.’

Rethis nodded again.

‘If we may have a moment to discuss the matter?’ he asked, and Mer Aisava nodded at once.

‘Of course. We will step out into the corridor.’

It wasn’t a long discussion; Rethis knew Iru well enough to predict her answer, and the two of them were good friends for a reason. But it felt right to take the moment to consider it.

When they invited Mer Aisava back in, Rethis smiled at him.

‘We would be honoured to accept His Serenity’s invitation,’ he said. ‘We can be ready to attend court at his earliest convenience.’

Mer Aisava smiled back, and Rethis thought it was genuine instead of merely professional.

‘We are delighted to hear that, Mer Caromezh. Shall we discuss the logistics?’

~

The mood in the Verven’theileian was dark and almost muffled. When everyone was seated and ready, it was a long moment before Maia could bring himself to open the meeting. Once he had, Lord Bromar spoke up.

‘We are sure we are all distressed by the tragedy at Mer Gelinar’s factory. We trust that now that the cause has been identified, measures will be undertaken to ensure it does not happen again.’

Maia, who had been formulating his own words on the subject, was shocked to see the sombre nods of agreement from the other witnesses, as though Bromar had not grossly understated the issue. Hastily, he shifted the tone of his planned words a little.

‘We quite agree, Lord Bromar,’ he said. ‘And that is, indeed, the first topic on the agenda today: what measures should be taken to ensure that such incidents are prevented from occurring again?’

Deshehar gave Maia an approving nod, but he was the only one.

‘It’s a private matter, unfortunately, Serenity,’ Pashavar said. ‘Not a matter for the Corazhas. Mer Gelinar has seen the consequences of carelessness and shoddy workmanship, he will learn from it, and hopefully others will learn from his example.’

‘Agreed,’ put in Lord Isthanar, which at least made Pashavar curl his lip slightly. ‘That is, after all, the nature of progress, Serenity – the business of the merchant folk and the tradesmen to manage.’

‘But surely –’ Maia glanced down at the notes he had made, and then back up, ‘surely the sheer number of incidents – deaths, accidents, tragedies of all kinds – merits some kind of government attention? A child was killed in this incident, gentlemen, one too young to be working in the factories. Do we stand by and do nothing?’

‘We are not inclined to speak ill of the dead, and we mean nothing against the girl,’ Pashavar said heavily, ‘but no one but herself can be held responsible for her choosing to lie about her age. The factories employ thousands of workers, often changing from day to day; they must depend on their honesty. A law to prevent what has happened from happening already exists; another, we regret, will not improve matters.’

Maia wished Csevet was here, but he had left for Sevezho the previous afternoon and wasn’t expected back until lunchtime at the earliest. Perhaps that was silly; Csevet would not have been able to say anything more that Mer Hallettar could, only quietly take notes at Maia’s elbow. But Maia would have felt better, calmer, with Csevet beside him.

He took a slow breath, frowning, and tried to organise his thoughts. It was hard not to be angry, but anger would not help here. He needed reason. Surely he could make them understand.

‘We would like to propose a firmer law around the ages permitted in the factories; perhaps more serious consequences to the factories for the breaches? Or limiting the types of work younger workers may undertake –’

Even Deshehar shook his head at that, and opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off by Bromar.

‘Both were discussed before, when the first age law came in,’ he said brusquely. ‘Before your Serenity’s time, of course.’

‘It simply isn’t feasible to expect it to be adhered to flawlessly,’ Lord Isthanar added. ‘It’s not a practical answer.’

Maia’s fists were clenched under the table.

‘If it has not been tried,’ he tried, stubborn, ‘then perhaps it needs to be. At least in should be reconsidered in light of the numbers –’ He looked to his right for the papers. Csevet would have read his mind and had them ready; but that wasn’t fair to expect of Mer Hallettar, who only started to look for them when Maia turned to him. And the conversation was moving past him. Pashavar was shaking his head.

‘Besides, a law like that only alienates the factory owners,’ Bromar said, waving a hand. ‘And their cooperation is important, especially to keep the motion of trade apace – as the Wisdom Bridge develops, that will be even more of a priority. The bridge has already caused some distress among the wealthier merchants, and Your Serenity would do better to mitigate that.’

Pashavar scowled at Bromar for that one, but did not acknowledge it directly.

‘Your Serenity must understand that simply banning something does not prevent it from occurring,’ he said sternly. ‘It would waste a great deal of government time to achieve, and have little or no effect. Unfortunately, Serenity, it is not a reasonable tactic –’

‘Then suggest an alternative!’

Silence, abrupt and sharp. Maia’s words hung in the air, no louder than had been heard in the Verven’theileian before, but several orders of magnitude louder than any of the Corazhas had yet heard from their newest emperor. He was on his feet, he realised, and he found himself trembling faintly as he stared at the faces assembled around him.

‘We know we are inexperienced,’ he continued, barely quieter than before. ‘We know we are young, we know we are inexpert. But we can only suggest our own thoughts and ideas, knowing that they are limited, with the expectation that our advisors will perform their duty and advise. People have died. Again, and again, in factories across the country. Our people, who look to us – all of us, government and emperor – for their protection, have died. We suggest a way to prevent that occurring in the future for at least a small number of them. We do not pretend that it is the only way – we do not pretend it is the best way! But instead of suggesting alternatives, you insist merely on shooting down our suggestion as though your only role here is to disagree.’ He paused, regaining control of his temper. The room was frozen, every eye on the emperor, expressions ranging from affronted to unreadable.

‘People should not die when we can prevent them from dying,’ Maia said, each word set carefully after the other. ‘The death and injury of the common people is not an acceptable price for luxury or for anything else, for that matter. We will put down our suggestion for the moment, to avoid any confusion. And we will hear from all of you: our way of trade kills people. How will you answer?’

He sat back down, gripping the armrests of the chair rather more tightly than usual.

For a long moment, the only sound was Mer Hallettar’s pen scratching quietly as he kept the minutes. Abruptly, he realised that no one had stood when he had, as form and custom dictated. He did not care, but it revealed how much he had jolted them. No one seemed to want to look at him; Maia focused his gaze on the centre of the table and waited. Hold steady.

‘Serenity,’ Lord Pashavar began eventually; and then he stopped, seeming to be making a decision. Then he met Maia’s eyes.

‘We apologise,’ he said, a little stiffly. ‘We have been approaching this poorly. Your Serenity has a right to expect a more constructive response.’

His tone was formal, but Maia could hear genuine contrition and felt something inside him ease. He gave Pashavar an accepting nod.

‘Of course. And – thank you, Lord Pashavar.’

Pashavar nodded, his expression remaining inscrutable.

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Lord Deshehar spoke.

‘Perhaps we could begin from, as it were, the ground,’ he said carefully. ‘We have become caught in complexities – a return to the simple facts, as his Serenity has demonstrated, allows for far greater clarity.’

Gradually, the conversation picked up again, though it was much muted and the witnesses seemed hesitant to commit to anything. Maia paid sharp attention, but a part of him was still stewing, torn between discomfort with his own temper and frustration that it had come to this.

We shall see this solved, he thought quietly, feeling the decision take root, if it takes everything we have.

~

When Csevet arrived back at the court, he settled Mer Caromezh and Min Hessatin in appropriate quarters (lower south-east quarter, near Doctor Ushenar, as appropriate for visiting experts or specialists with no noble blood), and then went to the Alcethmeret to report on his success. Maia was in the Tortoise Room, and it was only a short time until lunch; Csevet was pleased with his success, but one look at Maia’s face said something had gone wrong in his absence.

‘Serenity,’ he began, a little slowly but sticking to form, ‘we are delighted to inform you that we have successfully located the scholar. Mer Caromezh, along with his assistant and interpreter, Min Hessatin, agreed to return to court with us so that you may discuss the subject of Prince Chenet’s language-learning. We have arranged them quarters, and they will be ready as soon as an opportunity becomes available in your schedule.’

He could tell it took some effort, and it faded quickly, but Maia gave him a grateful smile.

‘Thank you, Mer Aisava,’ he said, nodding for Csevet to take his usual seat as Mer Hallettar quietly bowed himself out. ‘We are very pleased. We regret we cannot convey our enthusiasm in this moment; we had some difficulties in the Corazhas this morning that we are afraid we are still dwelling on.’

Maia always sounded slightly stuffier when he was anxious about something. Csevet longed to take his hand and reassure him, but it was a working day, and the two of them had agreed not to take any chances. Instead, he nodded, and spoke.

‘We are sorry to hear that, Serenity,’ he said. ‘We see Mer Hallettar has left the minutes; would you like us to read them so we can assist you?’

Maia sighed, but he looked grateful.

‘Later in the afternoon, perhaps,’ he said. ‘We think for now we shall see a little of the correspondence before lunch. And after that, perhaps we could make time to speak to this scholar?’

~

Rethis straightened his shirt for the fourth time, and checked his hair for the sixth. Beside him, Iru looked as nervous as he felt.

‘Well, this is it,’ he signed, and she made a face at him.

Mer Aisava arrived promptly to collect them and walked them through the corridors; Rethis realised, after a few minutes, that the passing nobility were discreetly curious about this odd pair trailing behind the imperial secretary. He tried his best to ignore them.

The Alcethmeret was astounding in its beauty – Rethis had never seen anything so ornate. Mer Aisava paused to explain something to the guards on the gate, and then they were nodded through and led up the stairs and into a smaller, well-appointed room in shades of amber and honey.

Seated comfortably by the fire, dressed in white with details of red and gold, was His Imperial Serenity, Edrehasivar VII.

Rethis and Iru bowed, Rethis doing his best to remember the proper forms and manners for speaking to the emperor. He had learnt them, certainly, but when had he ever expected to have cause to use them? But the emperor smiled, and gestured for the two of them to take seats a little distance back from him. Mer Aisava stepped to one side and took a seat at a small desk in the corner. As he did so, Rethis noticed the nohecharei, one in maza-blue and the other in the uniform of the Untheileneise Guard, lingering in opposite corners of the room. With effort, he turned his attention away from them, back to the emperor.

His Serenity dispensed with the formalities swiftly and courteously, and then went straight to the point.

‘Prince Chenet was born with no voice box,’ His Serenity said. ‘We were, as we are sure you can imagine, desperately glad that it not something that causes him any pain, and anxious to ensure that it is not something that… to ensure that he encounters as few limits as possible in result. Our household were aware of the situation, and one of our servants mentioned something he had heard from a cousin, about a language of the deaf. Our investigations then led us to you.’

Everything clicked into place. Rethis felt himself relax slightly, now that he thought he understood.

‘We would be very glad to be of any assistance that we can, Serenity,’ he signed. The emperor, much like his secretary, watched Rethis’s hands as he did so.

‘Thank you,’ His Serenity replied with a small smile. ‘We understand your research is on the history of the hand-sign that you’re using?’

Rethis nodded. This was something he was more confident discussing.

‘There are several different versions of hand-sign in the Ethuveraz, Serenity,’ he said. ‘We were born deaf, and we were fortunate enough that our uncle had been in the same situation – our family already knew the right people to contact. We were sent to a school of the deaf, and learnt alongside other children. We worked hard to be able to attend the university, and we have been working in the hope of making hand-sign more widely known. There are many people who will not be taught it who could benefit from it.’

His Serenity was nodding slowly as Rethis signed and Iru voiced, looking between the two of them as though he was trying to catch the pattern of the sign. Rethis held back a smile. His Serenity was unlikely to get very far like that, but perhaps the effort was promising.

Their conversation continued for almost half an hour after that. His Serenity listened closely to Rethis’ advice and suggestions, adding his own knowledge of the temperament of court and possible directions. By the end, they had agreed to a plan that made Rethis widen his eyes at the generosity of.

His Serenity would act as Rethis’ patron, supporting his research without directing it, only requesting that a small portion of his time be specifically dedicated to increasing the number of hand-sign users at court (staff or nobility). This might include training others to be able to teach, or even creating a partial dictionary to increase the possible avenues of learning. With His Serenity’s support, Rethis would also be able to hire on more assistants (he was already beginning to write a letter to his uncle in his head, and to the school he had been taught at), liaise with the orphanages and the hospitals, and anything else he felt appropriate.

By the time Rethis had bowed and exited with Iru beside him, there were so many ideas spinning around in his mind he thought they might start coming out of his ears.

Upon returning to their temporary quarters, they began to make their plans.

Chapter Text

Belmorigar XIII, the 130^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Belmorigar XIII was adopted into the imperial line, having been born to the first cousin of the previous emperor. By all accounts he was well-liked as heir, having embarked early on a campaign to win supporters for what might otherwise have been seen as a dubiously legitimate candidacy for the throne. As emperor, this drive to placate those around him turned into a disadvantage; by the end of his reign he had achieved no significant political progress in any direction, and many courtiers regarded him with disdain.

His marriage was also famously poor, with the imperial couple known to barely speak to one another even on state occasions once their son was born.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

‘Everyone is talking about the meeting,’ Csethiro said.

Maia sighed, but said nothing. Csethiro knew that if the lamps were lit she would be able to see him frowning.

‘Dost thou want to talk about it?’ she ventured.

‘Dost thou mind if we don’t?’ he said uneasily. ‘I… or perhaps we should. I am not certain – I was not careful. I lost my temper.’

‘It sounded as though the situation merited it,’ she said, and added tartly, ‘tis not apple-selling, ‘tis life or death the Corazhas is hesitating over.’

A part of her, a younger part, marvelled over her own passion. Maia had awoken it in her, she knew; before him, she had barely thought of the woes of the common classes. Oh, noble ladies made gracious little donations to orphanages and such. Charity was a good trait in a wife, in modest amounts. But she had thought of the Ethuveraz as something that, largely, worked. Well, it needed to give women more power and more freedom, certainly, but beyond that? She had never seen anything. Life at court had allowed it; her own disinterest had ensured it. Maia had opened her eyes.

However, right now, he was still clearly chewing anxiously over his own actions. Csethiro bit back a sigh.

‘Maia,’ she said gently. ‘People are sharp with one another sometimes. Tis not some grand flaw in thee. How often dost thou complain to me that Pashavar got into some scrap with another Witness? How many of the noble complaints in the public audience are about people who could not hold their tongues?’

‘Just because it happens does not mean I should indulge in it myself,’ Maia responded. ‘I am the emperor, I can ill afford to be intemperate.’

‘Thy standards for thyself are too high,’ Csethiro said firmly. ‘I do not say this to soothe thee, Maia – tis important. Thou canst ill afford to tear thyself down all the time. Didst thou achieve thy goal, force Pashavar and the others to understand?’

‘I think so, as much as possible –’

‘And didst thou wound them grievously in so doing?’

‘Well –’

‘Thinkest thou any of them are currently lamenting their hurt feelings to their wives?’ she persisted, reaching over to stroke his hair so he would know she was not trying to be pointed.

Maia sighed.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I just… I dislike losing my temper. It makes me not feel like myself.’

There was a moment of silence, and then…

‘It frightens me,’ he admitted, his voice low.

Csethiro paused. There was something there, behind the words. To push or not to push? Her inquisitiveness won out, but she took it gently, wanting to make sure she did not press too far.

‘Why does it frighten thee?’ she said.

Maia was suddenly so quiet she briefly though he had stopped breathing. Then he answered her, his voice deliberately light.

‘Oh, Setheris was very angry to be sent to Edonomee,’ he said. ‘I have never liked it. The shouting.’

The tone of his voice may have been light, but it rang false. All of the hairs on the back of Csethiro’s neck stood up, her ears flattening against her head.

He didn’t.

‘He could not have found much to shout at thee about, surely,’ she said. ‘I imagine thou wert a very well-behaved child.’

Maia shrugged uneasily.

‘Some people do not need reasons,’ he said quietly.

He did.

Csethiro’s instinct was to rage and to threaten, to wave her anger as banner to show Maia how much she cared about him. But in this moment, on this topic, she knew that was not what he needed. Grateful that he couldn’t see her, she mouthed a few words ladies were definitely not supposed to know, clenched the fist that wasn’t still gently stroking Maia’s hair, and blew out a breath.

‘No, I imagine they don’t,’ she said. Despite her best effort, she still sounded a little too sharp, and she thought she heard a flinch in the hitch of Maia’s breath.

‘I am sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I hate the thought of thee feeling that way. Of people treating thee that way. It makes me want to… it makes me want to fight them.’

Maia gave a soft laugh.

‘I envy thee thy fierceness,’ he said. ‘I am… not so brave.’

Only Maia would go through everything he has and still think he wasn’t brave, she thought, closing her eyes.

‘Maia, thou art brave,’ she said. ‘Courage has different shapes.’

‘Hm. Maybe.’

‘Certainly.’

He made an uncertain noise in return.

‘Listen to thy wife, she knows things.’

‘Ah, I see, it’s that type of conversation.’

She could hear the smile in his voice, and was glad. Small victories.

After a pause, Maia spoke again.

‘It wasn’t so much that I shouted that upset me,’ he said softly. ‘It was because I did not mean to. I don’t object to being firm, or strenuous, or – or making a point the way that Pashavar does, even if I dislike it. I object to feeling as though I have lost control, even the smallest amount.’

‘I can understand that,’ Csethiro answered. It wasn’t a lie; she could understand it, albeit in a more abstract way. She had spent so much of her life being in control, she was confident of it, so why fear its absence? But then she turned that around in her head. Perhaps she did fear it, but it simply seemed so removed as to be a fear that she needn’t concern herself with. Mm.

‘I had notes, I should have stuck to them,’ Maia muttered, and Csethiro gave the hair she was stroking a very gentle tug.

‘Thou art tearing thyself down again, Maia Drazhar.’

He made a grumbling noise, but turned towards her so that they could hold each other more closely.

‘If thou likest, we could go over some of thy points together,’ Csethiro said cautiously. ‘Practice a little? Thou wilt feel more in control, perhaps.’

‘Wouldst thou not mind?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Then I would be very grateful,’ he said softly.

She moved forward just enough to kiss the top of his head.

‘Sleep, Maia.’

~

Csevet had been at court long enough to know that political motion, however adamant the emperor, was never swift. Days of working on the problem turned slowly into weeks, and they seemed to drag on endlessly. There were, however, a few bright spots.

The Corazhas had conceded to the idea that something should be done – in fact, Pashavar in particular was frighteningly dogged in his pursuit of it now that he had committed. That was a bright spot. However, no matter how much Maia argued with the case, none of the others refused to see the value in Deshehar’s suggestion of formally ratifying the unions, being of the opinion that enforcement of the law was solely the responsibility of government and that this would be workers “taking the law into their own hands”.

Deshehar himself was another bright spot – he had passed on some very interesting reading to Maia, and Csevet had read it as well. His argument was to not only ratify the unions, but to pass laws preventing factory owners from interfering with their formation. Csevet knew that Maia thought it a good idea, though possibly too radical at this stage to push for given the current stances of the rest of the Corazhas. But still, ‘tis a start. Csevet and Maia spent long hours poring over every relevant piece of material – financial documents, tax records, death records (Csevet sent a discreet request through to Amalo for that one, and was pleased to see that Mer Celehar’s response was both swift and much more detailed than any official report), union declarations, and every piece of writing on the subject of working conditions that they could find. Leilis Athmaza, whose weekly lessons with Maia had largely been focused on history and politics, was even called to assist on more than one occasion.

It was gruelling work. For Maia, because it ran the risk of taking over too much of his time on top of the existing imperial schedule. For Csevet, because he was determined to ensure Maia retained at least some of his free time, even if it meant working long hours himself.

Moments like this made it worth it.

It was just after lunch, and by a delicately balanced schedule, Csevet had been able to give Maia an hour to spend with the twins. He himself had gone downstairs to get ahead of the afternoon’s correspondence; but the hour was almost up, and the imperial secretary must go and collect His Serenity from the nursery. From the nursery he had been redirected to the garden, where he had found Maia sat on his preferred bench, a little bundle in each arm.

It was a warm day. And Csevet could hear Maia talking to the twins in the way he always did, as though they were adults who simply didn’t know very much yet, and he halted a little way away to take in the moment. He could just about hear Maia’s words from where he was standing.

‘It is a lovely afternoon, have you looked at the sky? Hardly any clouds…’

Maia tilted his head up so that the sunlight hit his face, and closed his eyes for a moment.

Sometimes Maia was so beautiful that Csevet had to stop to catch his breath. It hurt that he had no idea; he seemed much more confident than he had once been, in those early first days of his reign, but Csevet still occasionally caught him avoiding his reflection, saw him steeling himself when given an empty courtier’s compliment.

But he was beautiful. From the silver-grey of his eyes, elusive and piercing by turns; to the way he moved, all of him to one purpose. Csevet knew it was a terrible, terrible cliché, the stuff of blue-backed novels and bad operas but: his emperor was catlike, dextrous, as well as he was shy and uncertain at times. The combination was lovely, but Csevet knew he would love Maia as his confidence grew, too – the careful way he thought out his words, the expression he had when he was listening, the tilt of his ears and the crook of his smile…

It was enough to drive a man through any trial.

Maia looked back down at the twins, and Csevet shook himself a little and checked his pocket watch.

Five more minutes. Best not to rush.

While he waited, Csevet slid a particular sheet of paper out of the back of his folder and looked through it again. The information all seemed to line up, but he had never done this sort of thing before; what if he had made a mistake? Ask the edocharei. He could do that, at least. Nemer, Esha, and Avris would know what to look for. But once he passed that step what stage was next?

Admittedly it was obvious – he should tell Maia. But he wanted to do more than that, if he could, this was important and… but then again it was not as though he could afford…

‘Mer Aisava?’

Csevet only just managed not to jolt at Maia’s voice, and slipped the paper back in place without looking at it as he gave a small bow.

‘Serenity,’ he said quietly, noticing that the two nursemaids now had Chenet and Evelo and were returning them to the nursery.

Maia smiled at him, and Csevet’s heart jumped a little.

‘Shall we?’ he said, and Csevet nodded and let Maia lead the way back upstairs.

~

It was two weeks before midsummer before it was finally ready.

The document was a hefty one, painstakingly copied out in a neat secretarial hand – Csevet’s, of course. Maia leafed through the pages first, to get an idea of the scale; then he turned back to the start, and began to read.

It was dense and complex and more than a little ungainly; he suspected someone like Pashavar would be able to make it graceful. If I can ever convince Pashavar to agree to it, which seems unlikely. But then again, it was hardly a simple subject. It wasn’t enough to simply make one thing illegal, or mandate another – a thousand questions had to be asked. How is it enforced? How is it monitored? Who should take charge of that? How does one minimise misuse? What additional consequences might need accommodating?

Child labour, for example. Maia had wanted the laws stricter on the subject, and to make it the responsibility of the factory to guarantee their workforce was over-age; he also wanted to raise that age to sixteen. But that would kill perhaps as many children as it saved – there were too many households dependant on that tiny scrap of additional income, too many children who had no other way to eat. So should more money be levied to support orphanages? Should age-appropriate roles be created? How did you fix one problem without causing another, and another, and another?

Weeks of back-and-forth had generated more disagreements than Maia had cared to count, and that was even without including the issue of workers’ unions. Deshehar was firmly in their favour, with the Witness for the Prelacy cautiously joining him in recent weeks; but the others remained heartily opposed, no matter what was presented to them.

Maia jerked his thoughts back from the rising frustration. It came every time he thought about those meetings, the endless discussion of something that seemed to him to be all but unquestionable, the effort to not shout and stamp his feet until they understood that people’s lives were at stake –

He restarted the paragraph he had been staring at, and tried to regain his focus. What was important was that here they had something that worked. There would be flaws, of course, it wouldn’t be perfect, but as long as the spine of it was good they could refine the rest.

A soft clink drew his attention: Isheian, putting a cup of tea on its saucer within arm’s reach. He gave her a brief but grateful smile.

‘Thank you, Isheian,’ he said, reaching for the cup. He hadn’t asked for tea, had he? He glanced at the clock. It was nearly the time that he wanted it, however; and Csevet must have anticipated it. What would I do without thee?

Suddenly faintly uneasy, Maia shot Csevet a surreptitious look. He was engrossed in some paperwork, unsurprisingly, and didn’t immediately notice; Maia looked back down before he could. Csevet loves thee; dost thou trust him? Of course he did. But that wasn’t the question. It was only that, sometimes… sometimes it was hard for Maia to see what Csevet got from their relationship. Maia was the emperor, certainly, but Csevet asked for no favours in that kind, was in fact somewhat opposed to them. Csevet thinks thee lovely, he thought uncertainly, and it was true that Csevet had said so. And Csevet was to be believed. It was only that sometimes that belief was… harder than he suspected it should be.

Thou art supposed to be working, not mooning over thy lover.

He dragged his thoughts back to the legal proposal once more, trying to stay on track. The work looked good, and it ought to, with all the blood, sweat, and tears that had been poured into it. Finally, he had an actual plan to put forward.

Now all that was left was to convince enough of the Corazhas to support it.

Oh, and then it would have to get through Parliament.

Maia bit back a groan, took another sip of tea, and kept reading.

Chapter Text

Edrethelema III, 185^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

As the architect of the current Untheileneise Court, Edrethelema III is unlikely to be forgotten. The court had long since swelled beyond the capacity of the original structure, with many courtiers spending weeks or months of the year away for their own comfort. The Mazan’theileian had been completed in his father’s reign, and Edrethelema III felt that it overshadowed the court in its quality and elegance, something he determined to amend.

The tremendous scale of the undertaking has yet to be matched in Ethuverazheise history: Edrethelema needed more space than the current court allowed for, and therefore his work included dramatically expanding Cetho and relocating its common people from their more central origins to the so-called “ring city” that can be seen today. It is estimated that more than eighty thousand people were moved, and the entire project lasted through the reigns of four emperors before it was completed.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

It was mid-morning. The edocharei were upstairs resetting the imperial bedroom; the housemaids were taking the advantage of the emperor’s attendance at the Corazhas meeting and then a late lunch with the zhasan’s sisters to clean the Tortoise Room in daylight. The scullions were making their way through the corridors of the nest on their own errands, the First Nohecharei were with the emperor, Dachensol Atterezh and his assistants were busy with the new additions to the emperor’s wardrobe, and to top it all off Coris had been asked to speak to the new intake for the Untheileneise Guard and would not return until after lunch.

Ebremis, Esaran, and Kiru had the kitchen to themselves.

Esaran was the first to crack. She closed the household ledger with a thump.

‘All right, that’s it. Tea?’

Ebremis, who had been absently tidying in the pantry, made a noise of agreement, and Kiru nodded. It took only minutes, and then all three of them were sat around the kitchen table. Ebremis had worn a considering expression for a moment before putting his feet up on another chair. Kiru had permitted herself the rare indulgence in frivolous maz, and made the biscuit tin on the shelf shake enticingly to the great amusement of the other two; Esaran had fetched it down. Now they were setting the world to rights.

‘Ah, but that is the core of it – they’re new to everything, and they can’t yet believe it isn’t new to everyone. The charm of youth.’

‘Not sure how charming I find it,’ Esaran said, but she was smiling grudgingly.

‘It does make demands on your patience,’ Kiru admitted. ‘But it’s a joy to see how much energy they have for everything. Brightens me right up.’

Ebremis raised his cup to her.

‘And so it does. Mind, neither of us are responsible for them in the way that Echelo is, though – I’ve only Petzha and Ashu to worry about.’

‘And I, at most, have Coris, I know,’ Kiru said, conceding. ‘If I could stop trying to adopt everyone else, that would help.’

The other two laughed.

‘Truthfully, thou art right,’ Esaran admitted. ‘I enjoy working with all of them. It’s just every now and then I need to let out all the hot air.’

‘We need to do this more often.’

‘We do.’

‘Mm.’

There was a pleasant silence.

‘I remember,’ Ebremis said suddenly, with distinct the air of someone anticipating his own punchline, ‘when thou wert first made House Steward, Echelo, and at the very first household meeting –’

‘Ebremis,’ Esaran said forbiddingly.

Kiru grinned.

‘Oh no, please, continue Ebremis,’ she said sweetly, and Esaran shot her a look.

‘She got my name wrong,’ Ebremis said triumphantly. ‘She’d been working as a housemaid here for years, how many meals had I fed her? How many meetings had she sat through with me? And she gets the power, it all goes to her head and she thinks she can call me Elevis and not correct it for the duration of the meeting.’

Kiru cackled with delight. Esaran was trying to wag a reprimanding finger at Ebremis, but she was laughing too much to make it convincing.

‘Goddess, that meeting was awful,’ she managed after a minute or so. ‘I forgot my notes, and then when I found them I shuffled them out of order, I nearly switched the whole schedule for the week around and I was so relieved that I caught that before I said it I think my brain then decided it could turn off like a gas lamp.’

Ebremis was shaking with laughter.

‘I will grant her this, she kept her dignity,’ he said to Kiru. ‘Totally straight-faced, absolute show of confidence. She walked out at the end of the room and one of the scullions turned to me uncertainly and said –’

‘Is your name really Elevis?’ Ebremis and Esaran said the line at the same time, and this time Kiru clapped as she laughed.

‘We’ve all been young,’ she said.

‘Thou must have some good stories for the hospital,’ Ebremis said, waving the biscuit tin at her. Kiru took her fourth biscuit and sat back, casting for a tale that would suit the mood.

‘Oh, any number of things, let me see. I dropped a full bedpan down the stairwell once, that was mortifying.’

The other two provided her with satisfying winces, and she grinned. It had indeed been mortifying at the time – no mistaking what she’d done, you could smell it all up the stairwell. But it was funny now, and that was key.

Ah, now that was a story worth telling…

‘All right,’ she said, leaning forward, ‘so there’s only a certain number of hospital keys, you understand, and…’

By the end of that one Esaran had tears in her eyes. Kiru sat back again, smug.

‘I would have died on the spot,’ Esaran said, as sincerely as she could in the circumstances, which broke them all into laughter again.

‘How’s the handsign coming?’ Ebremis asked when they’d calmed down. As kitchen master he had little cause to directly interact with Prince Chenet, and was therefore lower on the list for lessons. Kiru nodded slowly.

‘It’s interesting,’ she said. ‘I think I had somehow expected it to be simple, which is absurd – it’s every bit as complex as if I were learning Barizhan, and of course it is, it’s a whole other language. The grammar is different, too.’

She took a sip of her tea.

‘But I’m making progress. Coris is really racing along with the vocabulary, he’s ahead of me. It’s going to be fascinating to understand it better, I wish I’d thought to learn it when I was at the hospital.’

‘I’ve got my first lesson this week,’ Esaran said. ‘They’ve got you and the nursemaids started, so they’re starting to bring in me and some of the maidservants. And I heard something about the guard?’

Kiru nodded.

‘Mm, Coris and Deret have nominated a small group of guardsmen to learn it – and they’ll be given a lot more dedicated time, with the idea that they can then become teachers of it and help teach the rest of the guard.’

‘Sensible. They can’t teach everyone themselves, got to start building the system.’

There was the sound of chatter and footsteps in the corridor. Ebremis swiftly took his feet off the chair, and as one person the three of them tidied away their little indulgence. When the edocharei clattered into the kitchen, talking animatedly, Nemer stopped and glanced around.

‘Quiet in here – everyone busy?’

‘Busy as a bee,’ Ebremis said from somewhere in the pantry. Kiru, ostensibly washing her hands, suppressed a smirk, and she saw Esaran’s ears twitch, but the edocharei did not seem to notice. They assumed, quite naturally, that the older folks did nothing but what they were supposed to do.

Ah, youth.

~

Csethiro, with the occasional assistance from Arbelan, proved once again to be an excellent teacher. While Maia did not feel he could grasp an entire lifetime’s worth of court politics education in so short a time, after three weeks he felt considerably more confident that he would know how to handle his next confrontation with the Corazhas. At least, on this singular subject that he was prepared for. He had cause to be extremely grateful for this new confidence, unfortunately, as the week before the Corazhas was due to vote on his proposal, Pashavar’s determination to investigate possible changes revealed itself to in fact be a measure to convince the emperor of its pointlessness.

‘– the fact remains that even this proposal has far too many holes!’

‘The problem may not be solvable in its entirety,’ Maia countered, ‘but we refuse to believe that no improvement can be made at all – the unions have some promising suggestions of their own, and the research that went into this proposal is solid and bears trial.’

Pashavar was already shaking his head.

‘Optimism is all very well, Edrehasivar, but an emperor cannot be naïve. We saw that you needed an example in point, and we think it appropriate that you should see it through thoroughly; but there are some matters in which one must learn to accept that nothing can be done!’

‘We agree, Pashavar,’ Maia returned evenly, recalling long discussions with Csethiro. Emphasise your points of agreement. ‘Where we disagree is that this is one of those things – the unions alone prove that –’

‘The unions prove that left to their own devices the people will take the law into their own hands,’ Pashavar said flatly. ‘There is a reason the law is handled by the highly-trained; it should not be attempted by the inexperienced.’

I know this one. I practiced this one.

‘Then perhaps training should be provided to them,’ Maia answered. ‘Or perhaps they should be provided access to the expertise of existing specialists.’

Pashavar threw up his hands in exasperation.

‘It is not your duty to solve every citizen’s individual woes!’

‘This is a far cry from one person’s trouble,’ Maia retorted, ‘this is a sweeping problem with the infrastructure of our society that is bleeding our people dry –’

Pashavar interrupted, shaking his head again.

‘Nevertheless, your duty as emperor is not –’

‘I, Maia Drazhar, formally accept the responsibility of the throne of the Ethuveraz and in doing so I vow to protect and preserve its peoples from harm and hold myself to the highest standard – sound familiar, Pashavar? How old is the imperial oath?’

Pashavar rallied.

‘More than two thousand years –’ he began, but Maia knew better than to let him build up a head of steam again. Keep a hand on the reins. The pace is yours to set.

‘And is it both legally and morally binding, as we were told it was?

‘Of course –’

‘And you all witness us make this oath and you all swore to advise us as we did our duty.’ Maia continued, gesturing and looking around to encompass the entire Corazhas. ‘In an oath-form that is older than two thirds of our legal system and is the principle from which the emperor is expected to govern. And frankly, Pashavar,’ he added, zeroing in again, ‘perhaps we should let you argue your point regardless, because you do not have one. You may be able to argue against this particular union – any organisation has its flaws and we would be glad to hear of them – but to argue against the concept of unionisation as a whole? You cannot do that and retain a shred of integrity.’

Pashavar looked affronted.

‘Edrehasivar, we assure you that we most certainly can! We –’

‘Define a union, Pashavar.’

That got a raised eyebrow, but Pashavar seemed to have regained confidence. One should lead the dance in such a way that it one’s partner does not feel led at all.

‘Oh, are we playing word games? How juvenile,’ he said, in a tone that would have made Maia tremble a year ago. Now he only nodded for Pashavar to continue.

‘Very well then,’ Pashavar said, a hair’s breadth from condescension, ‘a union is an organisation of comparatively powerless persons who gather together to exert pressure and control on a more powerful individual.’

‘Such as the Corazhas?’

The abrupt silence seemed to reverberate around the room. Pashavar’s mouth was open, but he did not speak; even Deshehar looked startled, and one or two of the other Witnesses seemed, by their expressions, to be rapidly recalculating. The secretaries all had their eyes down, their faces carefully blank. The stretch of the pause was agonising. Maia held it for as long as he dared before he spoke.

‘You are a union, gentlemen. You are a group of people of significant but still lesser power, formed together in order to counterbalance the power of the emperor lest it be misused. Tell me, in the annals of history, has the Corazhas ever been corrupt?’

‘More than once, Serenity,’ said Deshehar quietly.

‘As most things in the Ethuveraz have been, given how long our history stretches. Was this considered a reason to dissolve the Corazhas?’

‘No,’ said Sonevet Athmaza, watching Maia intently.

‘No. Because the purpose of the Corazhas is too important, and even a corrupt Corazhas can still fulfil its purpose – there are multiple people involved, not all of whom will agree, and that itself acts as a braking system on the whims of the emperor. We cannot snap our fingers; we must account for you, and so we should.’

Maia took a breath, and for once he wasn’t worrying about how many were watching him and whether or not they approved; he knew he was right, and that he held the moment in the palm of his hand.

‘The people of the Ethuveraz are our people – all of ours. We have a duty to them. And they are an able people – when they see something wrong, they fight to right it. Perhaps clumsily, but whose fault is it that they have not the tools for grace? Not theirs. We may wish to refine or regulate the existing unions, and that is reasonable, but we cannot deny their right to form counterbalances to power without undermining the very principles that dictate the government of the Ethuveraz.’

He did not raise his voice once; and if he had, he knew, it would have been a choice, and he would have been content with it. But he hadn’t needed to. There were other ways.

‘The vote, gentlemen, as you know, is next week,’ he said, and allowed them a few moments to consider this. It was to be a ceremonial vote, in which the actual voting of the Corazhas was witnessed by the parliament for a set of complex symbolic and technical reasons that Maia only had a hazy grasp on despite Csevet’s best efforts. But he was optimistic as to its effectiveness, and pleased with the (honestly, somewhat incidental) level of transparency it provided. Don’t think about having to make a speech in front of the full parliament. Solve the problem before thee first. Close this meeting.

‘We will leave the matter for all of you to consider,’ he said. ‘The matter seems to have been discussed in every detail; unless there is anything anyone would like to add?’

When no one raised an issue, Maia nodded, and spoke the words to formally close the meeting.

One more week, and then we shall see.

~

Once the meeting was closed and Edrehasivar gone, the other members of the Corazhas gathered themselves slowly. There was quiet for a moment; then Sonevet spoke.

‘He’s going to be a force to contend with as he gets older,’ he said, and in his normally neutral voice there might just have been a trace of admiration.

And despite himself, even Pashavar grunted his agreement.

~

Despite himself, Maia was a little on edge during dinner that evening. No one would dream of discussing politics during dinner (or, ostensibly that was the rule; more experienced courtiers seemed to know exactly when and how to get around it, which Maia still found mystifying and so did not attempt), but he still wondered how that morning’s conflict would manifest amongst the refined evening conversation.

It seemed, after a while, that everyone intended to stick to convention. The closest Maia came to the subject was in a discussion with Vedero regarding the re-opening of the Cetho factory, the day after tomorrow – the emperor had been invited to attend and “inspect” the newly safe machinery, and Vedero was drawing on her knowledge of past imperial visits to tell Maia just how intolerable the affair was likely to be. After that he drifted into a conversation about literature with Deshehar, which he mostly spent listening; and then he was approached by Marquess Lantheval with a question about the new residents of the lower south-east quarter.

‘We understand from Doctor Ushenar that the gentleman is some sort of scholar, and the young lady his assistant?’

Maia had not expected an opportunity such as this to occur so early and was therefore a little underprepared for it; however, he managed to get through a reasonably succinct explanation of Chenet’s situation and Mer Caromezh’s presence, and fortunately Lantheval’s own interest in philology made the rest of the conversation proceed smoothly. Maia even showed him one or two pieces of handsign from the ones he had learnt so far.

‘Fascinating,’ Lantheval said, and it sounded genuine. ‘We would be very interested in learning more, Serenity, but we should not like to distract Mer Caromezh from your work, of course…’

Maia knew there was probably a more graceful way to handle this, but he couldn’t bring it to mind. Instead, he reached for directness, with which he was more comfortable.

‘Part of his work is to do with considering how to encourage the people of court to learn hand-sign,’ he said. ‘As an experienced courtier perhaps you could offer some thoughts? And in turn he could spare you some time.’

Lantheval’s eyes were sharp on him for a moment, and Maia was not sure why. Then he recalled a principle he’d often heard over the last year or so: in a court full of subtleties a direct statement is often taken as the implication of a hidden agenda. But evidently whatever Lantheval saw on Maia’s face was enough to convince, for his expression eased quickly and he gave a smile and a courteous nod.

‘An excellent thought, Serenity,’ he said. ‘We shall reach out to him.’

‘We appreciate it,’ Maia said with relief.

‘Your Serenity seems to be very open to the idea of change,’ Lantheval remarked, just as Maia was about to move on from the conversation; abruptly and uneasily, Maia recalled that Lantheval and Pashavar were good friends. Lantheval, however, smiled again, a little differently this time but no less genuinely.

‘We recall knowing another young man, once upon a time,’ he said. ‘Optimistic, as Your Serenity is; and, also like Your Serenity, admirably dedicated to the improvement of society for all who play a part in it. The world wears down such people, you know. But they are still, we think, themselves underneath; and perhaps with the right encouragement it might… re-emerge.’

Pashavar?

Maia kept his thoughts to himself – this was definitely something to raise with Arbelan, who would remember certain courtiers at younger ages. Instead, he met Lantheval’s eyes.

‘We thank you, Marquess,’ he said. ‘That is… very good to know.’

‘A pleasure, Serenity.’

Chapter Text

Belvorsina III, the 74^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Known as the Emperor of Cities, Belvorsina III made civic infrastructure a focus of his reign. Though reports of the time indicate much of his work was part of a campaign to preserve his own place in history (and indeed, a great many north-eastern towns and cities retain his name on buildings, streets, and squares), the Ethuveraz nevertheless benefited immensely. Most notable among his work was the founding of the city of Amalo, previously a small market town that Belvorsina targeted as having the potential for growth. In the years of his reign construction on the city was immense, until the original town had grown to swallow several villages around it and become central to the silk trade.

Belvorsina is considered to be one of the more well-travelled emperors since the settling of the ruling seat in Cetho by his great-grandfather (see entry for Belthelema I), and his writings are the source of much of our current knowledge of the Ethuveraz of that era.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

It was going to be a difficult day.

Csevet had been up since the early hours checking the final preparations for the visit to the newly refurbished factory. Contrary to the impression given by Maia’s first, impromptu visit to the Ceth’ulimeire, the emperor did not casually sojourn into the surrounding city. It required a plan; a guard; a schedule; it required the cooperation of a high number of other people, of various ranks; and most of all, it was required to be perfect.

He read through the schedule again, and sighed. Sitting back and taking a sip of his tea, he wondered idly (and not for the first time) if there was any truth in those wonder tales about mazei being able to disguise someone’s appearance. He imagined taking Maia’s hand and wandering through the streets of Cetho, safe in anonymity – letting Maia see the city as it was, disorder and calls of the street sellers and bickering housewives and all. He’d love it. But it was not something he could give Maia, because anything he gave Maia had to account for Edrehasivar, and for Edrehasivar…

He glanced up at the clock. Time to go.

He was waiting at the foot of the tower stairs when Maia emerged, perfect in white as usual. Csevet ran a court-experienced eye over the outfit, knowing the edocharei paid close attention to the impression the emperor would want to give. The hints of colour among the white were somber, deep blues and forest greens; the jewellery was as minimal as could be permitted, and the cuts were practical and more towards the youthful side. Hm. Today’s Edrehasivar: a serious young man, earnest and perhaps a little naïve. The naivety was false, of course, but it would likely work in his favour; Csevet had seen more than one politician in the last few months say more than they should or make too little effort and be surprised when their behaviour was met with intelligence instead of acquiescence.

The journey down into Cetho was unwieldy but uneventful. Csevet could see Maia’s deliberate patience, and the way he was pacing himself to bear up under the more public scrutiny of the common folk for the next hour or two. Csevet had carefully manipulated the afternoon schedule to give him a couple of hours to himself after lunch, knowing that Maia would need it. If nothing drastic occurs, I may even be able to join him. Esaran had offered to “need” Csevet for work in the tower on occasion, and Csevet was hopeful that he might be able to take advantage of that at some point. It would be good to be with him in daylight.

The carriage bumped over a slight irregularity in the road, and Csevet pulled himself together. Secretarial duties first.

~

The carriage rumbled to a stop. Maia may not have been able to see out, but he thought he could feel the weight of expectation that he was about to step out into. He met Csevet’s eyes, briefly, for strength; then took a steadying breath and nodded to Beshelar.

‘His Imperial Serenity, Edrehasivar VI!’

Yes, these carriages are so common it really could have been anyone, Maia thought, more out of nervous habit than anything else as he stepped down with Cala’s assistance. Behind him, Avris and Csevet followed, no doubt with an air of professionalism that Maia sometimes wished he could bottle.

The crowd outside had cheered at Beshelar’s call; Maia, following the mannerisms that Csethiro had helped him rehearse, gave a small wave in both appropriate directions and a cautious smile. Hopefully it did not come across as mechanical and forced as it felt; evidently it pleased enough people, for the cheer came again.

Maia walked across the square, the space cleared of people by a smart row of Untheileneise Guard on each side and a slightly less smart row behind them of the Vigilant Brotherhood of Cetho. The former faced Maia; the latter faced the crowd.

In front of him, Mer Gelinar and his small entourage gave deep bows.

‘We are honoured to welcome Your Serenity,’ Mer Gelinar said.

‘We are grateful for your welcome, Mer Gelinar,’ Maia said, pushing his dislike of the man away and keeping his voice at least neutral. ‘We are intrigued to see what you have to show us.’

Mer Gelinar led the way through the entrance doors to the factory. The Cetho factory, Maia knew, was small compared to its counterparts in more industrialised areas (with some in Amalo reaching three or four times the size, easily); but they were still impressively large. And, as Maia had predicted, this one was looking not at all like its usual self. He confirmed this with a quick glance at Csevet, who quirked a lip in response.

All as anticipated, then. Well, ‘tis somewhere to start.

The machinery was gleamingly clean and the floor shone; workers were neat and tidy, lined up in their places, their eyes on the floor even after they had bowed or curtseyed. Maia held back a flash of guilt; undoubtedly workers had been pushed hard in preparing for his visit.

Thou canst not control the vices of others, he reminded himself. It did not work as well to ease his guilt when it did not come from Csevet’s sensible voice, but it helped a little. He had given Mer Gelinar plenty of notice; the man was rich; he could have chosen to hire more hands, spread the weight carefully, as someone like Esaran would do.

But I knew he would not.

‘…and here, Serenity, we finish the process…’

We, Maia noted. It must be plural, because certainly it could not be singular; and even in the plural it was nonsense. Mer Gelinar did nothing on the factory floor. Every inch of labour in this place was done by the silent figures around them, in their starched uniforms that looked as though they’d been first put on this morning – and perhaps they had.

Mer Gelinar had launched into a description of the factory’s anticipated contributions to the wealth and might of Cetho and, if we may be so bold, even the court itself. Maia stayed quiet. He had a list of questions, memorised and also carefully listed on paper in Csevet’s folder should he need it; but he knew most of the answers, or could obtain them more accurately elsewhere. It was more a case of choosing which tactic to take, and Maia could tell that his emperor’s careful, attentive silence was beginning to unsettle Mer Gelinar.

Good.

Mer Gelinar continued. Maia was just trying to decide his next best tactic – he could not stay silent forever, but breaking his silence needed to be done properly – when there was a noise so loud it ceased to be a noise at all – a terrible wrench – and then blackness.

~

Maia’s ears were ringing; he opened his eyes but screwed them up again immediately against the dust in the air. There was pain, but he didn’t seem to have room to think about it. There was shouting, somewhere nearby, indecipherable. He rolled himself onto his side and then his hands and knees, squinting and coughing.

Hand grasped his upper arms on either side; he tensed and resisted for a moment, but then conceded to them, struggling to open his eyes wide enough to see who was with him. He did not think it was Cala or Beshelar; no, no, it was not. Three men and a woman – no, two men, one woman, and one boy younger than Idra – all in factory uniforms, not so neatly pressed now.

They half-guided, half-dragged him a few steps and through the shattered remains of a doorway; and then helped him to sit on a lone, wobbling chair, sheltering behind part of a wall. His eyes streaming, Maia looked around at them; they looked frightened, and he thought if it were not for the circumstances they would have prostrated themselves.

‘Forgive us, Serenity,’ one of the men said anxiously. ‘But it sounds as though there is fighting, we didn’t think it right to leave Your Serenity out there alone.’

Maia processed this, his mind working much slower than it should have been; then he nodded. It hurt, and so he stopped. With one hand grasping the side of his head, he winced and tried to give a reassuring smile.

‘We un – we underst – understand,’ he managed, coughing again. The dust in the air – his throat felt coated with the stuff. He moved his hand from his throbbing head to his chest, trying vainly to ease his breathing.

Something else from what the worker had said penetrated his mind.

We did not think it right to leave Your Serenity out there alone.

‘Cala – Beshelar –’ He looked around wildly, ignoring the pain in his head, and then reached to grasp the arm of the nearest worker. ‘My nohecharei – did you see them, were they –’

He could not finish the sentence; but the man was already shaking his head.

‘There are men, just past where you were,’ he said. ‘The soldier, he was fighting; we did not see the maza.’

Maia forgot himself and nodded again, then winced against the pain. There was more shouting; closer now. He tensed, watching the shattered doorway, though truthfully half the wall beyond it was damaged enough to allow someone through.

The sound of metal on metal; more shouts; then a burst of cracking sounds, like a lightning storm forced through all at once; the sharp sweet smell of ozone permeating the air… Cala, Maia thought, the world wavering slightly. He remembered it from Winternight, the first Winternight. His thoughts seemed to be moving through molasses, dull and obvious by the time they presented themselves. Something else, there was something else, someone else –

He stopped himself from speaking it aloud just in time – he was Edrehasivar here, still, he could not be Maia, Maia had to stay quiet – but it echoed in his mind louder than anything else.

Csevet?

~

Cala turned, the world around him flickering blue, flaring in the corners of his vision. It was a distraction, but then again the maz was its own sense, one he had that his opponents did not. Where is he?

Deret shoved the man he had been fighting to the side; Cala registered the handle of a dagger protruding from the man’s torso but had no time to think about it before Deret reached him.

‘Himself?’

‘Working on it,’ Cala muttered, looking away again, searching for the imperial white among the rubble and the twisted metal, using maz to try and pick up on glinting Michen Mura and dark curly hair –

‘He was right there –’

‘Yes and so were we and then we all got blasted half way across the room so I won’t know where anyone is until I can concentrate.’

A part of Cala spared a moment to wince at the harshness of his own tone, but Deret took it without objection. They were both scanning the area, reluctant to move too quickly unless they missed him.

‘Not here,’ Cala said, shaking his head. ‘He’s not fool enough to stick around, he’d get clear if he could.’

Or someone took him.

‘All right, you check that way and I’ll go this,’ Deret said, pointing.

Cala reached for the maz again, enough to crush anyone who wasn’t a dachenmaza, pushing it out in a wave over the factory complex, but there were too many people – the cellars beneath the court had been rows of empty rooms, it had been easy to find the one warm with people and movement, but here was riddle with motion and panic and bodies. He gritted his teeth, and pushed forward.

~

Csevet tried to get up, but he couldn’t seem to work out which was the right direction.

Concussion. Lie still. Courier instincts, but he couldn’t listen to them – he had to find Maia, he had to –

‘Hey, easy there, you’re all right, just stay still while I bind this up.’

Csevet tried to push the man away, shoving himself up to his elbows; but the dizziness was too much, and he sank back down into darkness.

~

Deret followed his training, alternating between sweeping the ground with his eyes and checking the immediate vicinity for threats. He could hear people crying, shouting; someone was keening, badly in pain; the motion of feet, stumbling on the damaged surfaces and kicking through rubble. He could even hear the sound of more organised men, orders shouted – either the Untheileneise Guard or the Vigilant Brotherhood or both, getting their wits together. Should have brought them in with us. Should never have left Himself so exposed. Foolish, potentially lethally so.

Forcing his breathing to level, Deret kept moving forward. A flash of movement in one eye – no, that was falling rubble. There? No. There – there! Someone tucked just behind the barely-standing doorframe, ahead and to the right. Deret shifted his grip on his sword, checked the area around himself, and moved towards it.

‘Announce yourself,’ he called. No point in hiding, for either of us.

There was whispering, and then a head poked out – a woman, by the look of it, a worker. Those who had attacked Deret had worn the same uniforms, but Deret knew it for a disguise. Factory workers didn’t eat well enough to fight like that. Still, that did not mean she might not be a threat.

‘You are the nohecharis?’ she said, before Deret could decide on his approach. Startled by her uncertainty, he glanced down at himself, and realised he was covered in dust from the explosion, enough to obscure the baldric and much of his uniform. He swept his free hand over it to clear it for her view.

‘Lieutenant Beshelar,’ he said.

She looked suddenly relieved.

‘In here, Lieutenant,’ she said, beckoning, then slipped back into the side room. Deret tensed; an obvious ambush risk; but he couldn’t ignore it. He approached the doorway cautiously, trying to take in every detail, but no danger presented himself. He stepped into the room.

There, in the corner, the figure in white, incongruously on a chair; the workers retreated into a different corner, on the ground, clearly indicating no intended threat –

Deret was at Himself’s side before he had a chance to think, and then with one hand on his sword he used the other to whistle through his fingers, sharp and loud.

The signal was a prearranged one; the sound of Cala’s running feet came moments later, and as soon as he was through the door Deret relaxed his watch of the surrounding room and dropped to his knees before Edrehasivar.

‘Serenity, are you hurt?’

Edrehasivar lifted his head slowly. The dust had covered him too, the imperial white now tinged dull brown in patches.

‘Hm?’ he said, and then started to cough. Deret reached forward and gently took hold of his forearm.

‘Easy,’ he muttered, ‘easy.’

The coughing subsided, and Edrehasivar blinked blearily at him.

‘I’m – we’re all right, Beshelar,’ he managed. ‘Just – hard to think.’

‘Are you injured?’

‘Deret, we need to move,’ Cala said. Deret flicked his ears at the use of his first name on duty, but Cala didn’t seem to have registered it. He was casting his gaze about, his hands curled into fists.

‘His Serenity –’

‘Beshelar, the building isn’t stable. We need to leave, now.’

Deret accepted the information and then nodded.

‘Serenity, can you walk? Put your arm over my shoulder – like so – all right, let’s go –’

Cala circled the two of them as they picked their way out of the half-destroyed factory, watching their surroundings with hawk-like attention and making almost compulsive gestures with his hands that Deret recognised as bits and pieces of spellwork.

When they reached the doors (wrenched half off their hinges, and how had that happened? The explosion had been at the other end of the building), Cala stepped out first, checking for threats; then he called for Captain Orthema, and the guard came rushing in.

At Deret’s side, Edrehasivar suddenly stopped, and his weight tilted badly.

‘Serenity?’

‘Oh – sorry, Beshelar. I think – I think I –’

And then he collapsed. Deret took his weight and then lowered him carefully to the ground, calling for a doctor, a stretcher, the guard – anything, anything that would help, forcing himself to be practical through the pounding of his heart.

Chapter Text

Edretanthiar III, the 172^nd Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Edretanthiar III had the longest reign in Ethuverazheise history (for the shortest reign, see the entry for Belsamben III). Edretanthiar III ascended the throne at twenty-one due to his father’s sudden and fatal illness, amid accusations of patricide that seem to have had little other than circumstantial evidence. He died, passing the throne to his more volatile son, at the age of ninety-seven.

His reign was largely peaceful internally, but saw a series of clashes with neighbouring countries. Notably, Edretanthiar held Estelveriär and Celvaz in particular disdain, refusing to offer favourable trading arrangements and using the comparative weight and scale of the Ethuveraz to push for what he felt entitled to. These strained relations had a lasting impact on international diplomacy.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

Csevet lost track of everyone after the explosion. His ears ringing, his head spinning, he couldn’t seem to get himself upright for an unspecified amount of time. Too long. Finally, a man in the uniform of the Untheileneise Guard leant over him, gave him some water, and he seemed to come back to himself. Then he sat bolt upright, ignoring the way the world pitched and swung around him as he did so.

‘M – His Serenity, the emperor, how fares the emperor?’ he asked, his tongue feeling thick and heavy.

‘It’s Mer Aisava, isn’t it?’ said the guard. ‘We’ve not been told, but judging by the way they’ve pulled the guard back, His Serenity is back within the court. We’re just here to pick everyone else up.’

After an interminable wait while another guard insisted on checking him for concussion and other injuries, he managed to extricate himself and make his way back up to the court on foot. He used his privilege as Imperial Secretary to argue his way in through the servants’ entrance, which was being held closed in the face of a large number of frustrated people in servants’ livery while the guards waited for instructions about the response to the threat to the emperor. Reluctantly, they admitted that they did know who he was, and that it was true that Upper Alcethmeret staff had certain responsibilities and privileges, and that the emperor might well be waiting for him, and that therefore Csevet was free to enter as long as he went directly to the tower to report in.

He went straight to the tower kitchen.

‘Csevet!’ Esaran exclaimed immediately. ‘We were worried, you didn’t return with the emperor –’

‘We got separated, and then I got caught in the closure of the court – where’s the emperor, is he well?’

There was a pause. Csevet took in his surroundings a little better: Esaran and Ebremis, the scullions and the maidservants, but no edocharei or nohecharei.

‘…what’s going on?’ he asked, feeling as though something terrible was hovering just above him but unable to bear to wait for it.

Esaran and Ebremis exchanged looks.

‘He got out of the factory under his own power,’ Ebremis said, ‘but then he collapsed. They’ve brought him up to the tower and Ushenar’s with him. We don’t know much more, but Nemer came down for ice a few minutes ago and said it wasn’t life-threatening.’

Dachensol Atterezh, assistants in tow, clattered into the kitchen.

‘What happened? Tirizan was out on an errand and she came back saying the emperor…’

‘He’s injured but no one seems to be alarmed, it’s not life-threatening; Csevet, where are you going?’

Csevet was almost out the door, and answered without stopping.

‘Just down to the office, I need to get ahead of the paperwork.’ He shut the door behind him, cutting off Esaran’s objection.

I need to breathe.

Csevet walked with careful efficiency down to the secretarial space beneath the Lower Alcethmeret. Technically he also had a desk in the Upper Alcethmeret, but the idea of working up there in this moment felt horribly claustrophobic. He needed space, and he needed to be away from the terrible nervous energy in the tower.

He’s going to be fine. He’ll be even more fine the fewer people fuss over him. And even finer than that if he doesn’t have twenty piles of correspondence and nonsense to deal with when he gets back to it.

Csevet repeated it to himself, pushing the words over his anxieties as though he was wallpapering over a crumbling structure, and reached for the nearest stack of work.

~

After Ushenar departed, the bedroom had been quiet for almost a quarter hour. Then Csethiro turned, her hand still holding Maia’s. She picked out Cala Athmaza – the First Nohecharei were still lingering in the doorway, unwilling to retire.

‘Athmaza, may we ask – is it only ourselves, and our husband, and the Upper Alcethmeret staff in the tower now?’ she said.

Cala’s brow creased a little, but it was a simple enough question.

‘Yes, zhasan,’ he said. ‘All others have left.’

She nodded to herself.

‘Thank you. Would you be so kind as to make certain that Mer Aisava knows he is welcome to come up? We know he must be terribly worried.’

‘Of course, zhasan.’

‘Thank you.’

She turned back to Maia, watching his chest rise and fall, and tried to slow the racing of her heart.

~

It had been an odd two days. The Vigilant Brotherhood of Cetho was investigating the attack on the factory under the supervision of the nohecharei, and not much further could be done until they turned up more evidence. Mer Gelinar and a few of his factor-owning fellows had been outspoken on the idea that the unions were at fault, but most of the senior government was of their opinion that that was a little too convenient to be likely.

In the meantime, life – and work – continued on.

Loret Pashavar had been working towards this discussion for weeks. Now he finally had Eleret Antovar in front of him, and nicely mellowed by good tea and a great deal of flattery it was time to approach the issue at hand.

‘We appreciate that it’s a delicate matter, and –’

The knock on the door was loud in the soft, comfortable quiet he had been endeavouring to create in the room. Loret bit back a few sharp words, and only called,

‘Yes? We’re in a meeting.’

Hanler, Loret’s senior secretary, opened the door and gave an apologetic bow.

‘We are sorry, Lord Pashavar, we know you asked not to be disturbed; but the senior government has been immediately summoned to the Verven’theileian.’

Hanler crossed the room to show Loret the paper, still half in its pneumatic case, but Loret waved him away.

‘Very well. Thank you Hanler. Eleret, we will have to return to the matter – we have no idea how long we’ll be needed.’

‘Not at all,’ Eleret said, standing as Loret did. ‘A man such as yourself has many priorities to manage; we understand you must answer the call.’

Was it Loret’ imagination, or was there a little twist of sarcasm to Eleret’s last few words? He wouldn’t put it past him. Snide little weasel. Loret made his exit, knowing that Hanler would see Eleret out and ensure the man did no unauthorised prying on the way.

His frustration with Eleret could not occupy all of his thoughts, however; his mind was also on the unexpected summons. Senior government. That meant the Corazhas, but also the Lord Chancellor, the Presiders of both the House of Blood and the House of Commons. The Adremaza and the Archprelate would both also be expected, as a courtesy, though neither would have a vote in any decisions that had to be made. Captain Orthema, likewise.

Now he wished he’d looked at the pneumatic to see who had arranged the summons. Any senior government member technically could, though they’d have to have a damn good reason not to go to the emperor directly first.

His Serenity is resting after the incident in the factory, and will not be working or attending court today. The same message, two days in a row. It was innocuous enough, but combined with this meeting it did not bode well. Perhaps Edrehasivar is merely rested enough now to be furious, he thought, but he was not convincing himself. Even a furious Edrehasivar was likely courteous enough to offer some notice of a meeting.

Loret arrived at the Verven’theileian at the same time as Sonevet Athmaza, Witness for the Athmaz’are, who nodded and gestured for him to go ahead. Loret thanked him with a nod, and entered the room.

He was not the first to arrive, not even close; the room was half-full already, and made to seem fuller by the additional chairs. The others trickled in, finding their seats. No secretaries; this was senior government only. Loret found a chair next to Penru, who had been speaking quietly with the Archprelate.

‘Lantheval,’ Loret muttered, and Penru turned.

‘Oh good, you’re here,’ he said. ‘Know what this is about?’

Loret shook his head.

‘We’re all accounted for except for Berenar and Edrehasivar, though,’ he said, glancing around the room. ‘So we’ll find out shortly.’

No sooner had he finished the words did the door open again, this time for Lord Berenar – accompanied by Mer Aisava, Doctor Ushenar, and the female nohecharis.

Silence fell, and Loret’s heart sank.

‘Lordships, gentlemen, thank you for congregating at such short notice,’ Berenar said, taking a seat. The emperor’s chair, beside him, remained empty, and it drew the eye; Loret had to force himself to keep his focus on the Lord Chancellor.

There was a quiet shuffling in the room as everyone settled a little, watching Berenar gather himself. Then he spoke.

‘We regret to announce that His Serenity was injured in the explosion at the Cetho factory two days ago,’ he began. ‘While the injury is small, and was initially believed to not be of serious concern, that situation has now changed. Athmaza, if you would.’

Berenar gestured to the nohecharis – nohecharo, Loret had heard some people call her, but he found that absurd. She stepped forward, seemingly unintimidated by the sudden attention of the most powerful men in the country.

‘His Serenity took an unpleasant but repairable cut to his lower left leg in the explosion,’ she said, ‘as well as a scrape to the back of the head. The latter has been cleaned and closed, and looks to heal well; the former, unfortunately, has developed a serious infection.’

Goddesses have mercy.

‘We have used maz to contain the infection so that it cannot spread,’ she continued, ‘but it may take some time to devise a cure; several options may need to be explored before we are successful. In the meantime, His Serenity must rest, and will be unable to take part in court matters until the problem is resolved. We should stress that the issue is under control, and is not life-threatening.’

Loret glanced around the table. Despite the nohecharis’s last words, every face was tense and concerned.

‘Does anyone have questions they wish to raise at this juncture?’ Berenar asked.

‘Do you have any idea of the timeline – how long this should be expected to take?’ asked Deshehar.

‘Nothing certain, Lord Deshehar, no. There are too many factors to account for.’

‘We apologise for our directness, but: is His Serenity lucid, or are there concerns…’ Penru trailed off delicately, and Loret swallowed a grimace. It was not an insignificant question, but it wasn’t a pleasant one to raise.

‘His Serenity is feverish, but lucid,’ the nohecharis answered, and Loret was grateful the firmness of her tone. ‘He will tire easily and should not be put under any strain, but that is all.’

Bromar, who’d had a face like he’d swallowed a lemon since the nohecharis had started speaking, finally burst.

‘We would like to ask, Berenar, when the emperor’s wellbeing – and by extension the fate of the entire damn country – was put into the hands of this woman maza,’ he said, waving a hand irritably in her direction but looking at Berenar, who frowned. Before he had a chance to answer, however, another voice cut in.

‘That woman maza, as you call her, is the third most powerful maza in the Ethuveraz; she is a cleric of Csaivo with some twenty years experience in the Cetho hospital, the pioneer of six different types of complex healing maz, and our esteemed colleague,’ said Sonevet Athmaza, his tone dangerously even. ‘We are glad to see that her skills are not being wasted and we will thank you, Lord Bromar, to recall that the Athmaz’are would not supply any nohecharis who was not more than capable of fulfilling the demands of their position.’

The mood of the room took on a different edge. Loret thought if the subject of the meeting had been anything else, he and Penru would have been exchanging delighted expressions – Bromar always needed knocking down a peg or two, and it was so rare for Sonevet to contribute that the shock of it only increased the impact. But glee had no place here. Bromar merely stared at Sonevet for a long moment, and then muttered something that might have been an apology before subsiding into petulant silence.

Berenar coughed.

‘Continuing,’ he said. ‘We will need to arrange a steady flow of visits, spread out across the senior government, for the duration of His Serenity’s illness. For those of you who are newer to your positions, this is intended to ensure no individual – including ourself – is able to manipulate or otherwise take advantage of His Serenity in his weakened condition. The pattern is Chancellery, followed by one of the two Parliamentary representatives, then a member of the Corazhas, then one of the Adremaza, Archprelate, and Captain of the Untheileneise Guard. If His Serenity’s illness should persist for longer, the pattern begins again from the beginning, with different individuals where there is a choice.’

Loret was aware of the process, but had never undertaken it – Varenechibel had rarely been ill enough to merit it, and on the occasion upon which he had been, it had only been for four days and Loret had not been called upon. Hopefully the same would occur this time. Judging by the Athmaza’s words and Ushenar’s face, however…

The meeting dissolved into a discussion of the logistics, and the selection of the order of visits. Afterwards, Loret made certain to join Penru on his way out – usually they maintained at least the semblance of separation when in their professional capacities, but the circumstances were exceptional.

‘A glass of something, at ours?’ Penru asked.

‘Desperately,’ Loret answered. ‘Though we’ll need to be back in office now – after five, and we’ll be with you.’

‘We shall see you then.’

They walked the rest of the way in silence, Penru accompanying Loret back to his office in much the way they had accompanied one another to lectures or study when they had been at university together, so long ago. Though of course, these days we walk slower. Half due to age, and half due to all the worry.

The medical advice seemed optimistic, at least. Perhaps it would not be as bad as it sounded. Perhaps, for once in Edrehasivar’s short reign, he would be able to take the easy route through. Loret held back a sigh as he parted from Penru.

Or perhaps not.

Chapter Text

Beltharien V, the 102^nd Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Beltharien V’s reign started well, if unremarkably – he had an interest in breeding horses, and the court stables saw great improvements during his tenure, but he was not notable for anything in particular beyond that. Unfortunately, he was struck by an illness (possibly consumption, but his medical information was never made public) after only eight years on the throne which never fully left him, rendering him dependent on his Lord Chancellor and senior government and only rarely appearing before his court or people. While Beltharien survived another twenty years after his initial illness, his hold on his throne was tenuous at best.

The Untheileneise Court became a precarious place during this time period, beginning the descent into the sharp factions of the so-called ‘Courtly War’ which would last several reigns.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

Autumn was all but arrived; three weeks had passed since the explosion at the factory and the summer heat had passed from sickliness into merely a breath on the wind. The river was sluggish and the skies clouded and resentful, making the landscape grey in sympathy. Cetho, the ring city: see the bustle in the streets as though everything was normal, feel the tension thrumming through the ground because it was not. Contained within it, smart grey stone around bright white marble, the air taut as a bowstring.

See the Untheileneise Court, holding its breath.

~

The clock ticked softly on the mantel.

The tower bedroom was quiet; the curtains drawn, the daylight seeped in around the edges and gave the room a dull sort of half-light.

See the sickening emperor.

It was not yet more than fresh outside, but Edrehasivar was bundled up as though sheltering from a snowstorm. He got cold so easily now.

Coris Telimezh sat in the chair by the head of the bed, watching the emperor’s chest rise and fall steadily, taking intermittent glances around the room to ensure he kept track of his unchanging surroundings. On the other side of the frosted glass screens, he knew, Esha was sat on a stool, either occupying himself silently with a book or, like Coris, just… sitting.

Waiting.

The fever had come, and that had not been too concerning. The fever had stayed, and that had been more concerning. It had a cycle now, shifting from intense to light and back again as the days passed, but it never truly left.

Today was a bad day.

Edrehasivar looked smaller than he should, amongst the pillows and covers. His hair had been kept shaven down, so as to allow the scrape across the back of his head to be kept clean; it made him look younger, shockingly so, and emphasised how sallow he had become over the last few weeks. Low appetite, nausea; exhaustion; the strain of the fever itself; and, of course, the pain.

Coris glanced to where Edrehasivar’s left leg rested, uncovered by blankets but wrapped in bandages and carefully elevated.

It was only a cut; a cut to the bone, certainly, but it had done so little damage for it. Severed no tendons, rendered no muscle unrecoverable. But then the fever; the strange discolouration around the wound; the way Kiru maintained her professional demeanour but held it… differently, somehow. More warily.

She had used maz to bind the problem to the leg, keep it from spreading to the knee and the rest of the body, but it was a stopgap, not a solution. It bought them time, she and Ushenar had said, time to find a treatment, a counter, a cure.

The days were long and slow, but so many of them seemed to have slipped by. Enough time that something should have worked by now.

Coris rolled his shoulders and adjusted his posture.

Normally it would have been Kiru in here; but she had to eat at some point, and Coris had stood in the doorway and looked pointedly at her until she conceded and switched places with him. One of the maids would bring her something to eat, and she could stretch her legs a little on the landing. In the meantime, he took her place: not standing by the window as nohecharei did in normal times, but seated near the head of the bed, in reach, close enough to hear a murmur or a troubled breath.

Just in case.

Coris let out a long, slow breath and resisted the urge to check the emperor’s pulse. He was breathing fine, and there was no sense in disturbing him. The tonic they gave him for the pain seemed to be less effective over time; he took the maximum dose now, and frowned in his sleep.

The tower had been like something askew since the explosion. Nothing felt settled. Ebremis would be moody and quiet, Esaran sharp with the staff, and then both would be apologetic, harried. The scullions and the maids worked quietly, their eyes down; Atterezh and his assistants stayed clear of the kitchen except for necessities. The edocharei had moved to shifts, one of them always on hand in the bedroom, the second awake and awaiting summons, and the third sleeping. Csevet –

Coris held back a grimace. Csevet was buried in work up to his ears, somehow, even though knowledge of the emperor’s condition had slowed the correspondence immensely and ground the government to almost a halt. He was barely in the tower, slipping in for food and out again just as quickly, skipping meals too often. Coris had gone down and collared Talmer, one of the undersecretaries, and asked him to make sure Csevet had food put on his desk at mealtimes if he refused to leave it, but he did not know how much that had helped.

More to the point, Csevet had not been in the tower room once since His Serenity’s collapse.

Grief? Worry? Fear? Coris didn’t know. Edrehasivar had said nothing on the subject, though Csevet’s name sometimes came to his lips in his sleep and there was now pain in his eyes if the imperial secretary was mentioned in passing.

Others had been less reticent. Cala, whose anxiety manifested as a desire to find someone to blame, had made the mistake a week ago of muttering a disparaging comment about Mer Aisava’s inability to find the tower staircase; Edrehasivar had sharply told him not to interfere, that his relationship with Csevet or lack thereof was not the concern of the nohecharei. Since then, no one dared raise the subject even amongst themselves.

On any given subject Cala was sour, and sharp-tongued; beside him, Deret seemed to have lapsed into silence, no longer so much stern as wooden. Kiru retained her professionalism, but Coris knew that it weighed on her no less for that – they did days now, while the Firsts did nights, regular as clockwork, and whenever she had a moment free she spent it pouring through medical books, checking and double-checking and researching. Shift-changes were quiet affairs, exchanges of information that largely amounted to same as before, though he seems a little more worn before they switched places.

Edrehasivar’s brow creased further against the pain, and Coris glanced at the clock. An hour until the next dose of tonic. More out of desperation than anything, Coris tried something that had worked once or twice before: he started to hum, soft and low, an old tune from home. A lullaby, really. It was short and repetitive, but perhaps that was more soothing?

After a minute or so, Edrehasivar seemed to relax minutely. Or perhaps Coris had imagined it. But he kept going. Just in case.

He had spent a lot of his shift time recently tugged at by old memories, things that he had thought he’d – well, not forgotten, because how could you forget? But put aside, perhaps, in their proper place. Now they all seemed to be resurfacing.

Sarroll Fever’s sole mercy was that it was quick – a week, start to finish, no more. Either you survived, like Coris had, or you didn’t, like his parents and his brother. His father and brother had already been gripped by it when Coris got sick; his mother took care of them for a few days and then succumbed herself. She had managed to check on him a few times, his sisters being away at an aunt’s house. Then she had stopped appearing.

When the fever passed, and Coris was strong enough to crawl out into the rest of the house, his father and brother had already gone, and his mother was on the brink. He had sat with her and sung, and hummed when he couldn’t form words.

Coris blinked, his eyes a little damp. It was an old hurt, mostly scar tissue now, but it still tugged at him. And sitting here like this, watching someone else he cared about struggle through fever of a different kind, reminded him that some things would never lose their sting.

He broke off from his hum when the soft snick of the door indicated that Kiru was back. She gave him a tired smile, and he nodded.

No change.

They switched places, Kiru squeezing his shoulder briefly on the way past. Coris wondered what she’d seen on his face, but didn’t ask. Instead he went out to the corridor and closed the door quietly behind him. Isheian had been and gone, and there was a meal waiting for him under a lid to keep it warm. Coris pulled the bench down out of the wall, clipped it in place, and started on the food.

~

The little office under the Lower Alcethmeret was pristine.

Csevet sat very still in his chair, looking at the neat little pile of work he had just completed. It was squared perfectly with the corner of the desk, and there was nothing else.

Eight undersecretaries, why do I have to have eight?

Could give them some time off. Talmer has family to see, and Selis –

No, inappropriate. Everything needs to be in order and in place.

He reached out and carefully straightened the pen and ink in their little tray.

When he had run out of paperwork to do, he had fetched a cloth and polish and cleaned the desk. Then he had gone through the drawers to reorganise them, which hadn’t lasted long because he’d already done it three days ago – and a week before that. He had been over the room with the polish, and the wood shone.

Perhaps there was some kind of internal review that could be done; they still hadn’t got to the bottom of why Chenelo Drazharan’s medical file had been found as it had, it indicated a possible flaw in the organisation – who knew what else might be lost or misfiled? Csevet had been through the imperial files for the last five years, which were all stored in this office, and not found anything wrong, but the methodical work was good. There could be no mistakes.

Nodding to himself, he stood, and went through the connecting door to the main working area for the undersecretaries. They were at their desks, as they were supposed to be, but doing little work, for the simple reason that there was little work to do. Even Mer Hallettar had a cup of tea and a small slice of cake. They looked up guiltily at him as he entered, but he ignored that.

‘It seems to us that with our current low-levels of work, this is an opportunity for a review of the historical files,’ he said quietly. ‘We will assign each of you a specialty, and work through the archives checking for issues or inconsistencies.’

‘Of course, Mer Aisava.’

‘Yes, Mer Aisava.’

He gave them their assignments, leaving a section for himself, and then returned to his office. The last pile of work he had done was so small and so lacking in urgency it could have sat there for a week without commentary, but it should not do that, so he sorted through it and prepared it for variously the pneumatics system, hand-delivery, or the archives. After about twenty minutes, Talmer returned carrying two archive boxes, and placed them beside Csevet’s desk.

‘There’s four more to come up; shall we bring them now?’

‘Please.’

When Csevet had all six, he opened the first, extracted the contents and began to fill every corner of his mind with the work. There was no room for anything else. Anything else was unbearable.

~

The room spun.

Maia breathed in, breathed out.

Cstheio

In.

Caireizhasan

Out.

Hear me.

In.

Cstheio

Out.

Caireizhasan

In.

See me.

Out.

Cstheio

In.

Caireizhasan

Out.

Know me.

In.

Out.

The spinning was frustrating, because unlike the throb of his leg or the burning in his head, it never seemed to become familiar. Familiar things were easier to handle, even when they were bad. Even when they were terrible. But the spinning seemed to take him continually by surprise.

The rest – everything – was horribly dull. Hours of doze, not proper sleep but nor yet proper wakefulness, his mind a dull fuzz. Mealtimes, which helped a little; then he would sleep for a few hours, and then come around again. The edocharei were meticulous in his care, and the mortification which had at first burned more fiercely than his fever had dulled with repetition now, out of necessity.

Csethiro came, most days. She would sit and read her book, or read to him if he asked. He could follow the story if he made an effort, but mostly he did not – it was enough to listen to the sound of her voice.

Every three days a member of the senior government came by – Berenar, Lantheval, or one of the Corazhas. There to follow protocol and ensure no one lord took liberty of the ailing emperor, they were often awkward, their words stilted. Lantheval did better than the others, often bringing a topic of conversation as another might bring a vase of flowers, and lapsing into unhurried, comfortable silence if it failed.

Csevet did not come.

Maia had asked about him at the start, waiting and carefully checking that Ushenar had left; but he had stopped asking now. Csevet knew where he was; Maia had no desire to summon him, and in any case he could not. He could summon Mer Aisava, Imperial Secretary, of course he could – he was still the emperor, despite feeling barely awake for much of the day. But Csevet – sweet Csevet, who had hummed and teased and made Maia feel like a person instead of an emperor, that Csevet – could not be demanded, only offered. And that offering had ceased.

Maia adjusted his position minutely, and did his best to return to his mantra. It was slow, but it helped. Perhaps he should ask Mer Dornar to come and help him with it, he thought, and knew it immediately for something he would forget, as sleep was already beginning, at last, to claim him again.

Chapter Text

Belthelema IX, the 88^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

The average elf’s knowledge of Belthelema IX will surround his relationship with his wife. Valestho Drazharan was accused of treason by Belthelema’s brother while the emperor was away, and imprisoned in the Nevennamire. Upon his return, Belthelema broke all tradition and entered the prison personally in order to release her, condemning his brother to take her place. The facts of the motives behind these actions have been obscured by time and by several fanciful fictionalised versions, usually framing Valestho Drazharan as declining the romantic attentions of her husband’s brother, prompting his ire. There is no historical evidence for this premise.

Belthelema’s reign also saw improvements in the relationship between the Ethuveraz and Barizhan, which were unfortunately swiftly undone by his successor.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

‘Good morning, Serenity.’

Maia turned his head carefully and took in Kiru and Doctor Ushenar’s expressions. Oh. That’s it, then.

He managed a faint smile.

‘Good morning, Kiru, Doctor Ushenar,’ he said quietly. ‘Do you have news?’

Kiru’s expression softened. She read him very easily, as all the nohecharei did. But she would follow his lead on this.

‘Serenity, after a great deal of discussion, Doctor Ushenar and I feel that there is only one remaining option left in response to your condition,’ she said, and while she was gentle her tone stayed fairly businesslike. Maia appreciated that. He needed Kiru and her practicality. It anchored him.

‘You believe the leg must be removed,’ he said. There, it was out there. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t considered it – hadn’t known it was on the list of options, hadn’t watched that list shorten and shorten as they tried everything else on it first – but there was still an odd kind of shock to hearing the words hang in the air.

Doctor Ushenar was looking very solemn and sympathetic. Maia looked away, and then back again once he had better control of his own expression.

‘Yes, Serenity,’ Kiru said regretfully. ‘While your life is not in danger in your current condition – we believe we can prevent a decline at least for a few months – we are not able to improve your condition at all, and we are concerned that eventually the infection will move up your body, putting you further at risk.’

‘You have many advantages in this matter, Serenity,’ Ushenar added. ‘You are young, and otherwise healthy, and will have the highest quality support as you recover. The injury is low, and contained below the knee, so the adjustment period for a prosthetic should…’

The words rolled over Maia and he made his own quiet, bitter little lists in his mind of his many advantages. When Ushenar appeared to have stopped, he managed to give another faint smile, though he feared this one was considerably less convincing.

‘We understand, Doctor Ushenar,’ he said. ‘Kiru. We are grateful for all the work you have both done to help us, and we trust that your decision is a good one. How soon should this happen, and what must be attended to first?’

His voice, while it wavered slightly as it always did now, was calm and reasonable. Good. Kiru was the one to answer him.

‘There must be a three-point confirmation that you are consenting to this decision in sound mind,’ she said, before pausing in uncharacteristic discomfort. ‘And then, while we want to assure you we feel that there is little personal risk to the procedure, the fact remains that any drastic medical intervention carries some risk, however small. And as you are the Emperor, it is considered necessary that certain arrangements be confirmed, in the case of… the unlikely occurring.’

Her briskness was still there, but she was a little out of her league on this one. Maia knew what she meant, though, and it wasn’t as though the arrangements had been far from his mind.

‘We will need to speak to Mer Aisava, then,’ he said, fighting past the clench of his heart at the name.

‘If those necessities can be handled in time, Serenity, we can proceed as early as tomorrow morning. Your fever is at its lightest point, and it would be wise to take advantage of that.’

Maia nodded, not quite ready for more words. He listened quietly as the two of them explained the logistics – it would be done on the shift change, with all four nohecharei present, and it should take less than an hour. He had a choice as to whether he would sleep through it or remain awake but numb below the hip. They would be able to contact a master of the craft of prosthetics as early as today, and while it would be some time before the limb had healed enough to use a prosthetic, they would also be able to assist with crutches and ensure that the learning process with the prosthetic was as smooth as possible. The way they spoke, particularly Ushenar, it would be the smallest of inconveniences. However, Kiru was watching him carefully, and he was glad when she wrapped up the conversation relatively quickly.

‘Would you ask for the Marquess, the Lord Chancellor, anda representative of the Corazhas to attend upon us at their earliest convenience?’ he said. ‘And ask the Zhasan if she will also attend? We will tell the four of them ourself, please.’

Nemer, who had been hovering a little distance away in anticipation of any requests, stepped forward.

‘We will have Mer Aisava send the messages immediately, Serenity,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’

Ushenar bowed and made the appropriate pleasantries, and then left him. Nemer then departed to have the message sent, and soon it was just Maia, lying in bed as he felt he had been forever, and Kiru, sitting by the windowsill and watching him with an uncomfortable level of understanding on her face.

Feeling childish but not entirely able to do otherwise, Maia turned his head a little so that he could not see her expression.

‘It is for the best,’ he said quietly.

‘True, Serenity. But that does not mean you must be at peace with it, or that you must not be distressed.’

‘What help would distress be?’ he said, trying and failing to keep the petulance out of his tone. ‘It will not save our leg, nor us. It will only make every person involved uncomfortable. We prefer to remain calm.’

‘Serenity –’

‘Thank you, Kiru, we shall rest now.’

‘Yes, Serenity.’

He knew he was being unfair, knew she was trying to be kind and that her experience almost certainly meant that she knew how to help him handle this – but something hot and tearful and afraid was inside his throat, and he did not want anyone else to see it. Not even Kiru. Instead, he focused on his breathing, trying to cool his own feelings, even as Nemer returned and reported that the emperor’s visitors would attend at eleven o’clock. He heard Kiru tell Nemer that the emperor was sleeping, and hated that she lied for him. Despised himself, quietly, for making an inconvenience of himself. But eventually, as it always did now, the exhaustion claimed him, and he fell into an uncomfortable doze.

~

At approximately ten-fifteen, Maia surfaced to Kiru’s voice.

‘Serenity? There will be some paperwork required by the meeting at eleven. Mer Aisava is here to help you prepare it.’

Her voice was the carefully judged neutrality that all four nohecharei seemed to affect now, when referring to the imperial secretary. Maia let Nemer help him sit up a little more in bed and tidy his hair, and then nodded to Kiru.

Csevet, when he came in, was meticulously neat. Maia wondered if he was neater than usual or if it was just that he had not seen him in so long that… he stepped on that thought, hard, and forced it away. Csevet took the indicated seat, near the foot of Maia’s bed – far enough to indicate respect, close enough to converse, and sitting so that he did not tower over the emperor. In other words, perfectly formal and formally perfect, Maia thought, and swallowed back a brief nausea that did not come from his illness.

‘Mer Aisava, have you been informed as to what we require?’ he began, determined to grant Csevet all the formality he clearly desired.

‘No, Serenity.’

Of course – privacy – Nemer will not have told him, thou shouldst have remembered that.

‘Doctor Ushenar and Kiru Athmaza have set a new course of treatment,’ he said, pushing his voice as close to what he thought of as the imperial cadence as he could. ‘We must have a three-point confirmation of our willingness to participate, and also confirm the measures put in place in the event that anything should go awry.’

Thou canst make it as pompous at it pleases thee, hobgoblin, but twill not improve it. Nor will such a manner endear thee to him.

Maia ignored the internal voice with everything he had. What right had he, after all, to expect Csevet to like him? They worked together with relative smoothness, and that was the best he could expect.

‘Then, Serenity, you will need a signed affidavit for yourself, and others for the Marquess, the Lord Chancellor, and the representative of the Corazhas. We assume you will also require –’ and here the tiniest of hesitations ‘– to see and reconfirm your will and statement of intent regarding the inheritance of power?’

The last was particularly important, as it would impact (though not without possible protest) the way in which the country was ruled in the event of his death. With no heirs currently of age, that meant a steward, whose identity was a secret even from himself. Maia’s was Lord Berenar until the Archduke Idra came of age, and then Idra until the throne could be passed to little Chenet. Both people he trusted, but the arrangement was still an unstable one, and no one could say how well it would hold up. Maia would much rather have given the stewardship to Vedero, and he had privately said as much to Csethiro. But stewards, like emperors, had to be men.

Maia suddenly realised he had not responded to Csevet’s question.

‘Yes, thank you Mer Aisava,’ he said quietly, taking refuge in his illness to close his eyes for a brief moment and gather himself. When he opened them, Csevet was shuffling paper, looking for the right documents. Of course he had them with him. What was Csevet, if not eternally prepared? Maia watched his elegant fingers flick through the folders and felt a burst of longing so sharp that he almost gasped. He must have made some sound, because Csevet looked up in concern.

‘Serenity?’ he said. The perfect picture of a worried secretary.

Kiru had also stepped forward. Maia shook his head.

‘We are well. Such as we can be. The papers?’

Csevet arranged them carefully, and passed them to Maia. The little angled tray, designed to be a table for someone unable to rise from their bed, was produced, along with pen and ink. Maia looked through the words at his now-normal slow pace, double checking that he had not missed anything in his exhaustion.

Eventually, it was done, and he signed where required and marked with his seal and returned the papers to Csevet.

‘It is not likely that there will be a need for those arrangements, Serenity,’ said Kiru suddenly from her spot by the window. ‘But it is always well to have everything clarified, in words. There is a danger, otherwise, that people will make assumptions, and in doing so, lose something precious.’

Maia looked at her, frowning. Something in her voice – something soft, and urgent – made it sound as though there was something more to her words. As though, perhaps, she was not referring to the paperwork at all…

He glanced up at just the right moment to catch Csevet unawares, and he saw it. The worry; the fear; the longing that matched his own. His breath caught.

He’s shown his disinterest, he does not need to tell thee.

But have we judged it correctly? We have guessed, have we not?

Thou shouldst not push him.

But asking – it is not too much to ask. Surely. Please.

Maia swallowed.

‘Csevet,’ he said softly.

‘Serenity.’

‘Csevet.’ Please.

A pause, and then, like a sigh,

‘Maia.’

Goddesses, but it felt good to hear his real name in that voice. Maia swallowed against the joy, not wanting to hope, forcing himself to remember that this was not about getting what he wanted. It was only about clarification. But before he could quite formulate his own question, Csevet spoke.

‘Maia, I am… I’m so sorry,’ he said. Maia was shocked to see that there were tears welling in his eyes; Csevet’s usually crystalline court face had entirely crumbled, and he looked devastated.

‘What – what in the world art thou sorry for?’ Maia asked, incredulously, even as hope began to build, like the flutter of wings in his chest.

Csevet seemed nonplussed by his question, and Maia pushed his advantage.

‘I – thou shouldst know – I know I am the emperor, but thou shouldst have the freedom to – thou art not required to be with – thou must know I would never demand –’ he tried, but Csevet was shaking his head.

‘Maia, I love thee,’ he said, and Maia nearly stopped breathing again. Csevet continued. ‘I should have been here for thee through this, and I wasn’t. I have let thee down.’

Yes, thou hast.

Maia recoiled from the thought. Had he not just been saying that Csevet could choose to be with him or not? Goddess knew he had no obligation… and yet, underneath that, he had been hurt. Hurt that Csevet had not seen fit to speak with him, had not ended matters cleanly but had torn himself away and not reappeared, leaving Maia to wonder, half-feverish, what he had done to distress him. He swallowed. He did not want to be angry with Csevet. But he was, a little. And yet – and yet… and yet that was not the way to mend it, either. And his want for the mending was far greater than his anger.

‘Why didst thou not come?’ he said softly, and he knew Csevet could hear the hurt in his voice, for he winced and looked down.

‘I was… I was afraid.’

Maia frowned, confused.

‘Afraid? Of – of me?’

‘No! Goddesses, Maia, no. I trust thee with my life,’ Csevet said, meeting his eyes again to emphasise it. ‘No, I was afraid… I was afraid of losing thee. Afraid that… afraid that thou wouldst not survive this injury. And afraid of seeing thee hurt, afraid that I would not be able to contain myself. Afraid of facing something I could not help thee solve.’ He swallowed, clearly forcing himself to continue, his eyes on the bedsheets.

‘It wasn’t my place,’ he said softly.

‘Because I’m the emperor?’ Maia said, trying to keep his tone even. It was true, after all. And it had always been a concern that – but Csevet was shaking his head.

‘Because I’m me.’

The words were simple, but the tone – and the look on Csevet’s face… Maia knew that look, that complete lack of self-worth in the eyes. He knew it, because he had worn it himself, too many times.

‘I told myself it was not my place, I was no use to thee up here – that I would do better to keep on top of the work, to make certain thou returned to all affairs in good order. And then – and then thou didst not return and I – I was so afraid I could not think of what might happen –’ Csevet looked up again, wretched. ‘I have let thee down,’ he said again. ‘I should have been here, and I was not. I will understand if – if you would rather that we were no longer…’

‘I’ve missed thee,’ Maia burst out, unable to bear Csevet’s distress any longer. ‘I love thee.’ He reached out a faintly trembling hand, and Csevet took it, his eyes wide.

‘I forgive thee.’

And he did. It was easier than he had thought. Because he knew, did he not? All about the illness of a loved one, and the fear that came with it. He had spent hours at a time with his mother, pretending she wasn’t sick, pretending it would all be fine, that she would recover. And hours away from her, later, afraid of seeing her because he knew that if he did he would not be able to pretend anymore. He had been afraid, and Csevet had been afraid, and there was no need for that fear to drive them further apart than it already had. And perhaps – perhaps there was a chance, with both of them together, that neither of them would ever wear that look on their faces again.

He reached out for Csevet’s other hand, and Csevet came to him. Carefully, oh so carefully, so as not to jostle him, Csevet sat on the chair at the head of the bed and leaned in to kiss him softly on the forehead. They stayed almost as close for a minute or more, Csevet bent forward, Maia’s hands in his, eyes closed, each just listening to the other one breathe. Then Maia swallowed and said, in a voice as quiet as a mouse.

‘They can’t save the leg.’

Csevet’s eyes opened and he met Maia’s – and Maia, who had held everything so closely for the conversation, finally let the welling tears overwhelm him.

‘Oh Maia, oh Maia, Maia-maia-maia,’ Csevet murmured into his hair, bent forward to hold him as Maia clutched at him in return. ‘I’m so sorry.’

It was a relief to cry; to not have to force himself into the form of the emperor; to just be Maia, afraid, for a few minutes. To feel Csevet’s arms around him again, and to hold him in return. Or as best they could.

The storm settled again after a few minutes, and his breathing evened out. Csevet had moved a hand to his head, and was stroking his hair gently. Even with the dullness of sickness and the pull of exhaustion and the steady throb of his leg, Maia thought he could stay in this moment for… well, perhaps not quite forever. But as close as made no difference.

‘I wish we had time,’ he said softly. Csevet sighed gently.

‘And I,’ he said. ‘But I will come back and visit thou tonight, if thou wouldst like me to?’

His voice was riddled with uncertainty, but Maia nodded and tipped his head back to see him better.

‘I’d like that.’

~

He couldn’t stay the night; wouldn’t be able to until Maia was more recovered. But Kiru and Ushenar were optimistic, and so it shouldn’t be too much longer before…

A thousand optimistic, less bearable possibilities arose in his head. Csevet took a deep breath in and then let it out slowly.

I am ready. I have thee.

What had he ever done to deserve Maia? He was still upset about Csevet’s behaviour, Csevet could tell, and he had a right to be. But he had forgiven him anyway.

Csevet could feel worry and relief streaming through his veins in equal measure, along with a hefty dosage of fear for the morning. Shouldst not have abandoned him. But I will make it up.

When he reached the kitchen door, he stopped. His feet had taken him there without reference to his head, as though there had been no break in his habit, as though it wasn’t that he hadn’t been in here for weeks. By the sounds of it, half the tower was in there; of course, dinner. Csevet hesitated, on the brink of retreating back down to the undersecretarial offices, or at least up to his own room, but then he remembered the look on Maia’s face. No more cowardice. If he can be brave, so canst thou.

He opened the door and walked in.

~

The news of the amputation to occur the following morning had created an odd mood in the kitchen, torn between apprehension and a strange sort of relief. Esha gave Nemer’s shoulder a squeeze as he sat down with his own plate, and Nemer gave him a quick smile. Cala and Deret were across from them, eating their breakfast in anticipation of their night shift; Avris beside them, and the other staff spread across the two tables. Esaran, as usual, was eating her dinner at her desk. Esha could see Nemer just winding up for some light, distracting conversation, a skill Esha envied, when the kitchen door opened and Csevet entered.

There was a brief moment of hesitation where no one seemed to know what to say – Esha wondered if Csevet would bolt, but he didn’t – and then Ebremis smiled.

‘Good to see you, Csevet – there’s plenty, come plate yourself something.’

Csevet’s face opened up, and he smiled back.

‘My thanks, Ebremis,’ he said.

Esha tried to watch him without being too obvious. The Csevet that Esha had seen (briefly, occasionally) of late had been like a too-taut wire, his face pinched and his eyes slightly too wide, obviously not taking care of himself despite maintaining his meticulous presentation. Even in the meeting the two of them had had, when Csevet had sought his professional advice, Csevet had seemed as though something had broken inside. This Csevet was different – still shaky, still obviously overtired, but it was as though a good portion of the tension had dropped out of him. Weary, and almost a little dazed; but happy.

At least someone is, Esha thought, though he wondered over Csevet’s reasons. Perhaps it was simply the same as the rest of them – the thought that there might be recovery for His Serenity after tomorrow’s intervention.

Csevet, with only a little show of nerves, took a seat on the kitchen bench beside Esha, and started in on his meal. Esha saw Nemer open his mouth – but Cala got there first, with a very different intent.

‘I see you’ve finally decided to join us,’ he said, his eyes on his food.

Csevet didn’t flinch, but his ears twitched slightly, and Esha saw him take a steadying breath before speaking.

‘It’s good to be back,’ he answered, his voice neutral.

‘How nice for you.’

‘Cala,’ Deret said in a warning tone.

Cala turned to him in irritation.

‘He thinks he can walk in here as though –’

‘He can, he’s Upper Household,’ Esaran interrupted firmly.

Cala subsided, stabbing at his food with a certain amount of uncharacteristic viciousness.

Esha tried to shoot Csevet a smile, but Csevet wasn’t looking at him; he was watching Cala.

‘I know things have been difficult; and I’m sorry to have been downstairs,’ he said quietly. ‘But I’m back now.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it’s been difficult down there too,’ Cala said, falsely sympathetic. ‘I’m sure the paperwork has been absolutely dire what with all the nothing that the government has been doing. Far too important for you to actually make an appearance up here or break out of your neat little secretary persona for a real struggle.’

Esha saw Deret open his mouth, but Csevet got there first.

‘What in the names of the goddesses would you know about anything hard?’ he spat back, sharp enough that Cala flinched. ‘Everyone’s already guessed you were nobility before you were maza, it’s not difficult to tell, you’ve never struggled for anything a day in your life, and you –’

‘Don’t you dare – I’m not the one who turned his back on someone just when –’

‘Cala! Enough! You’re in breach of trust.’

The words rang horribly in the sudden silence. The blood drained from Cala’s face and he stared back at Deret, wide-eyed and shocked and thankfully speechless.

‘Go back to the quarters,’ Deret said, as though talking to a raw recruit. ‘Now.’

Cala looked briefly as though he was going to say something and Deret seemed to bristle; then without a word Cala stood and left the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. Deret breathed out slowly, and then collected Cala’s plate and his own and turned to follow.

‘Deret,’ Csevet said uncertainly.

He turned back.

‘Why did you… how is Cala in breach of trust?’

Deret looked at Csevet for a long moment before answering.

‘Cala made an irate comment about thee in His Serenity’s presence the week before last,’ he said eventually, his voice gruff. ‘Himself was displeased and said that none of us were to interfere with his relationship with thee. It’s a sensible rule, though we shouldn’t have needed telling. And Cala knew, and he lost his temper anyway.’

‘Himself…’

‘Is not well, and should not need to deal with this. Cala should have thought of that too. But we have a three day leeway to report breach of trust, so I’ll ask him to make use of it. He’ll owe thee an apology as well.’

He departed, leaving a heavy silence in his wake. Esha saw Esaran was watching the room, her eyes flicking from person to person, trying to decide whether or not to intervene; Ebremis was watching Csevet, and Csevet was staring down at his plate.

Naturally, it was Nemer who had the nerve to break the silence.

‘Um, well. Welcome back?’ he offered sheepishly.

Csevet made a noise somewhere between laughter and pain.

‘Cala’s just on edge,’ Esha said, hesitant but aware that someone should acknowledge it. ‘He’ll apologise. It’ll all be all right.’

‘It will,’ Esaran said, with much more certainty. ‘For now, best everyone finish your food and get some rest. Much to do in the morning.’

The rest of the meal was quiet conversation about nothing much; Nemer managed to draw Csevet out a little, and by the time they went their separate ways he seemed closer to normal.

‘Think’st he’ll be all right?’ Nemer asked as they headed back up to their room.

Himself, or Csevet? I suppose the answer is the same, either way.

‘I think so,’ Esha said with a little more confidence than he felt. ‘And if not, we’ll work on things until he is.’

Chapter Text

Belmorigar X, the 63^rd Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Belmorigar X reigned for forty years, and most of his notable acts surrounded the army and the security of the Ethuveraz. A great admirer of military prowess, he established the first medals for Ethuverazheise soldiers and is the originator of several longstanding military ceremonies. Belmorigar additionally made a number of changes to the nohecharei, a group of eight soldiers at the time, setting in stone rules around privacy, dedication, and lifestyle that still govern nohecharei today. He did attempt to involve mazei in the arrangement, but this was declined by the Athmaz’are, possibly due to the otherwise poor relations they had with the throne. Mazei would not join the nohecharei for some years (see entry for Belochlasen III).

Belmorigar’s four sons all died in combat, forcing him to pass the throne to his nephew.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

‘As you all are aware, His Serenity has been struggling with an infection obtained when he was injured during the Cetho factory explosion. While the infection was contained to his lower left leg and unable to spread, the many attempts to cure it over the past weeks have been unsuccessful. Yesterday morning, a final measure was resorted to: His Serenity has had his left leg amputated below the knee.’

A low susurration passed around the hall; Berenar allowed it for a moment, and then went on.

‘We are pleased to be able to announce that the process was successful, and both Doctor Ushenar and Kiru Athmaza are confident in his full recovery. It will still be some time until His Serenity returns to his duties and his court in full; in the meantime, we have been asked to convey his gratitude for all of your messages of support, and particularly for the dedication of the senior government in this difficult time. Thank you.’

Csethiro allowed a moment for the hall to start to move, not wanting to give the appearance of rushing; but then she exchanged only a courteous nod with the Lord Chancellor before making her exit. Maia had slept on and off for most of yesterday after the amputation, and she was keen to see him this morning. She also needed to be prompt, as – if she had read between the lines correctly – Mer Aisava wanted to speak to her first. She was very curious about that. Maia spoke of Mer Aisava often, in a quiet and unrevealing sort of way, and Csethiro had been delighted for him when the relationship had developed. But over the last few weeks, Aisava had been away from the tower. Csethiro had been quietly feeling a little guilty about that; she suspected her near-constant presence had not helped, and that she could have done a little more to push Maia to talk to him. She remembered her parents’ relationship falling apart when her mother grew ill, not out of any malice on her father’s part, but out of fear and an unwillingness to be anything other than stoic that was common to both of them.

She didn’t know exactly what it was that had pushed her husband and his lover apart, and she knew better than to interfere; but perhaps Aisava wanting to speak to her was promising.

Maia had chosen to remain awake for the amputation the previous morning, something Csethiro found both stubborn and strangely endearing. She could not do anything but equal him, of course, so she had sat beside him for most of it, holding his hand whenever it did not put her in the way. He had seemed brighter, even in the few minutes between the end of the process and falling asleep, than he had in weeks – the relief at having taken action, she supposed. She had been glad to have been able to been present, even though the whole thing had made her quite unsettled and very certain that she would never have wanted any kind of medicinal career, should she have had the option.

She repressed a little shudder as she climbed the Alcethmeret tower steps to the Rose Room. We have arranged to lay out the papers you requested in the Rose Room for your perusal prior to your next visit to the Alcethmeret tower. She had requested no papers, of course, but it was an old court trick – and Mer Aisava had carefully delivered it himself, indicating an unwillingness to allow anyone else the opportunity to read it and guess at a second meaning. So what did he want to discuss?

He stood when she entered, and waited until she had closed the door to speak.

‘Zhasan,’ he said, bowing. ‘Our apologies for summoning you in such a way, but we thought you would prefer discretion.’

Csethiro crossed the room and made herself comfortable in a convenient chair, indicating Aisava into the chair opposite.

‘Of course; go ahead,’ she said, when he seemed uncertain.

He seemed to steel himself before he spoke.

‘We – among our work for the last few months, we have been investigating a matter, and we thought that now – as of last week – that we had confirmed the information, our most appropriate option would be to pass that information on to someone who has the ability, though of course not the obligation, to act on it.’

The words were stilted and rehearsed, so at-odds with Csethiro’s previous experience of the Imperial Secretary that she quirked an eyebrow at him. The tips of his ears went pink, and he handed her a sheet of paper with the details written out neatly. She read it carefully, understanding blooming in her mind.

‘We would be delighted,’ she said sincerely, and then hesitated. She walked a fine line here, but it felt wrong to say nothing at all.

He must have felt her indecision, for he blushed a little further.

‘Zhasan –’ he began, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

‘Csethiro,’ she said, making up her mind. ‘Anyone who makes my husband as happy as you do needn’t call me zhasan, except in public.’

Aisava made an odd little noise.

‘We have not made him very happy of late,’ he said quietly.

‘This will. And – I don’t like to pry but…’

‘We spoke the day before last,’ he said quickly, a nervous smile coming back to his expression. ‘I am, it seems, forgiven, though I am not sure I deserve it.’

Csethiro smiled.

‘Maia’s like that,’ she said.

‘He is, indeed.’

There was an oddly peaceful moment, and then Csethiro folded the paper and tucked it into a pocket.

‘I’m glad things are better,’ she said. ‘And even gladder to help with this little project. I’d better go up and see him.’

‘Of course, of course.’

She stopped before she opened the door, and turned back.

‘Mer Aisava,’ she began, and then paused when he opened his mouth.

‘I think – I think I am Csevet, if you are Csethiro,’ he said hesitantly, but relaxed when she smiled in agreement.

‘Csevet,’ she said. ‘Just – please don’t ever feel you can’t come to see him just because I’m there. We’re on the same side, after all.’

He looked at her, and she thought she saw something click into place in his expression.

‘So we are,’ he said.

~

It had been a quiet sort of day by most people’s measure, but compared to the last few weeks it had felt practically lively. Csethiro had been there in the morning, for a short while. Then Idra had brought Mireän and Ino to visit, and Ino had very seriously presented Maia with several drawings ‘for looking at to feel better’. Maia had thanked her equally seriously, and had them stored in the drawer of the bedside table with her previous offerings, where he could take them out and look at them if need be. Csevet had come up a little after midday and they had eaten lunch together, and while things still felt a little shaky between them Maia treasured the time.

He slept a little after that, still not quite at the stage where he could manage to stay awake for the entire day. But when he woke, mid-afternoon, Csethiro had returned with Vedero, both of them full of lively stories about a lunchtime meeting of female scholars that seemed to have dissolved into cheerful and surprisingly productive anarchy.

Now it was late, with dinner over and done with, and he was ready to sleep – he held himself awake for the shift change, however, as Kiru had said that Cala needed to discuss something with him.

When Cala entered, Maia knew immediately that something was wrong.

Grateful for his slightly improved strength, he pulled himself carefully more upright as Cala went down on his knees and then prostrated himself. The other three nohecharei were standing quietly by the door; Maia looked to Beshelar for an explanation, but the soldier’s expression was solemn.

‘What’s toward, Cala?’ Maia said uncertainly.

Cala sat up, but stayed on his knees.

‘Serenity, we are obliged to report to you that we have committed a breach of trust.’

Maia noticed that the soft sounds of Nemer putting things away on the other side of the frosted glass had ceased. The room seemed painfully quiet. He knew what breach of trust meant, having be given a run-down of the rules that governed nohecharei once by – well, Cala. The nohecharei held the emperor’s privacy in their hands, and had to be trusted to use that knowledge appropriately when they were out of his sight.

Cala had not.

‘Explain,’ Maia said softly, his throat dry, unable to take his eyes off Cala.

Cala swallowed; he did not seem able to meet Maia’s eyes, instead focusing somewhere around his shoulder.

‘Serenity, two weeks ago we offered an inappropriate criticism of Mer Aisava in your presence, and you informed us that it was not our place to comment on your relationship.’ The words were obviously rehearsed, and Maia could understand why. He could feel something sharp in his throat, and realised his ears were down but could not bring himself to raise them.

‘Go on.’

Another swallow. Part of Maia wanted to stop and reassure Cala and offer him water; but another part was bracing for the sting.

‘When Mer Aisava arrived in the kitchen the night before last, we rebuked him for his absence and lack of attendance on you and began an argument which was interrupted by Lieutenant Beshelar,’ Cala said, and Maia had never known him to sound less like himself. He bit back much of what he wanted to say, but there was only so much he could hold onto.

‘Why?’

Cala opened his mouth and then closed it again.

‘We care about your wellbeing,’ he said, his voice slow, ‘which makes us angry when you are hurt. We allowed the anger to be our motivation instead of our care and our responsibilities. We were wrong, and we will accept any punishment you feel is appropriate.’

The hurt, hot and jagged, was still pressing at Maia’s chest and throat.

‘I trust you with my life, is it too much to ask that you trust me with my own decisions?’ he asked, only realising after the words had left his mouth how childish they sounded. But Cala flinched as though he’d been struck, and finally, finally, he met Maia’s eyes, his own full of guilt.

‘Serenity, I am truly sorry –’

But Maia found he was shaking his head, and Cala halted, dropping his eyes again.

Silence reigned for a minute or more, while Maia got himself under control; it was hard, though, and he felt starkly how much he relied on the steadiness of the nohecharei, their reliability. This shook that trust, and he felt more disoriented than he had during the weeks of fever.

Finally, he gathered enough of himself to retreat under the mask of Edrehasivar, and speak.

‘We do not know how a nohecharis is supposed to be punished,’ he said, letting coldness enter his voice in lieu of true calm. ‘But we cannot think of anything that would not also inconvenience us, which seems in counter to the point, or also harm Lieutenant Beshelar, which is entirely unacceptable.’

But how can I bear thee to be with me half of my days when I feel so –

Well. There was the answer.

‘While we are in the Alcethmeret, only one nohecharis need be in the room with us at any given time,’ Maia said quietly. ‘As you have broken our trust, you will remain outside of the room, at the door, for every shift, until further notice. Lieutenant Beshelar, we expect this to be maintained consistently, though not to the point of absurdity – we will trust your judgement if you need to temporarily switch places, or if having both of you in the room is a requirement, though if such an event is predicted we shall aim to schedule it for the other shift. Do you all understand?’

There were four yes Serenity’s, Cala’s slightly after the others. Cala looked as though he had been punched in the chest. Maia turned his head away so as not to have to see, and cursed himself for cowardice.

‘That will be all.’

Kiru and Telimezh exited, Cala rising stiffly and following them, shutting the door behind.

There was a long pause. Maia wondered if the Seconds were talking to Cala on the other side of the door and felt an ache in his chest.

‘Serenity?’

‘Beshelar?’ Maia said wearily, still looking at the closed door.

‘You are aware that we typically switch out to eat on the night shift; would you like us still to switch, or would you prefer it if we ate in here?’

Maia noted that Beshelar didn’t suggest he wait to eat until morning – the soldier would have suggested that a year and a half ago, he thought, but had grown familiar with what his emperor thought was appropriate. Good.

He sighed and considered the question.

‘Would you mind eating in here?’ he asked. ‘It will not wake us.’

‘Serenity.’

Beshelar moved to his normal position by the window, and Nemer emerged from behind the frosted glass, his expression carefully neutral. He helped Maia ease back into lying down, rearranging the blankets without comment, and then offered a bow.

‘We have finished our tasks for the evening, Serenity,’ he said quietly. ‘Should we fetch anything for you before we go?’

Maia made an attempt at a faint smile but was not sure it convinced.

‘No, thank you Nemer. Sleep well.’

‘Thank you, Serenity. We hope you have a restful night.’

That seems unlikely.

‘Our thanks.’

Nemer left quietly, and Maia was for once grateful for the unnatural tiredness that still suffused him – despite Cala’s expression being the only thing he could see when he closed his eyes, it was not long before sleep claimed him.

Chapter Text

Belmalivan III, the 117^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Belmalivan III reigned over a period of great difficulty in Ethuverazheise history, particularly famous for the two-year drought that led to great food supply problems across the country. Where many of the nobility resorted to stockpiling and protecting their own, however, Belmalivan famously declared that he would have no Ethuverazheise citizen starve if it could be avoided. He did not quite achieve his aim in totality, but he made great improvements to the ways in which the Ethuveraz handled such events in future, as well as undoubtedly reducing the loss of life by a considerable degree – some historians believe the death toll would have been almost double without his actions.

Belmalivan’s second wife provided him with three children, all boys, the youngest of whom succeeded him.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

Cala sat on the floor in the corner of the little anchored spell-room in the nohecharei quarters. It wasn’t a large space, perhaps ten feet by ten, but it was appropriately cubic, with grey stone for walls, ceiling and floor. One corner had a small chest that contained the basics for more complicated maz-work – chalk and charm-thread, wire and different qualities of stone, candles and sooth-water. Of course, nothing too intense could be worked in here; despite the intelligent design of the room, it was still fundamentally surrounded by the Alcethmeret wards, and that limited the amount that one could perform.

He wasn’t doing any spells now.

Deret had been pestering him lately, worse than a mother hen – eat thy food, Cala, go check the wards again if thou hast nothing to do, bored? Then come train with me, thy footwork is still very shoddy – but Cala knew he wouldn’t disturb him in here. The implication was that Cala was busy doing mysterious maz-related activities and Deret should not presume to interrupt him. Which meant that Cala could sit on the floor and stare at the opposite wall for as long as he wanted.

I trust you with my life, is it too much to ask that you trust me with my own decisions?

Edrehasivar’s voice ran through his mind, over and over. Cala had not seen the emperor in person for over a week now, and it felt deeply unnatural. Oh, there were little moments – he heard his voice speaking in the bedroom when the door opened for the edocharei or Csevet or the zhasan to pass in and out. But Deret had discussed Cala’s punishment with Kiru and Coris, and they had agreed to maintain their twelve-hour shift pattern for the time being – Firsts on the nights, Seconds on the days. Shifts for Cala were just long hours standing outside the bedroom door, with all too much time for self-castigation.

Deret had accused him of moping, and it had been all Cala could do not to snap back at him that of course I am moping, how the goddess dost thou think I feel right now? He hadn’t, but it had been close, and thinking of it still made him angry. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Keeping his temper. Losing grip on it was what had got him into this mess in the first place.

Perhaps this is only what happens when thou persists at something for too long, he thought. Perhaps ‘tis why thou hast never gone through for so long with any one thing before this – perhaps ‘tis in thy nature to ruin it.

He let the back of his head thud gently against the wall, closing his eyes.

‘No failure is forever. Failure is a lesson. It is an honour to have the opportunity to improve.’

‘We have very different minds,’ Cala said, his eyebrows raised.

‘Thou asked me to explain, I’m explaining.’

‘And I’m listening, I just… I don’t think like that, and I don’t know how to change.’

Deret shrugged, the informal gesture always seeming incongruous on him.

‘Change takes time,’ he said simply.

‘Change takes time,’ Cala repeated quietly to himself. Well. He had time.

~

There was a knock on the door, and Leilis looked up. ‘Mm?’

Suler stuck her head in.

‘Sorry, Leilis, but couldst thou check on the archduke?’ she said quietly. ‘The girls went to wish him a happy birthday and he told them he was sleeping in and he’d come see them later. It’s been about an hour and I thought someone should see how he is.’

Leilis nodded. Birthdays were hard. Idra’s fifteenth had been a challenge, but his sixteenth – the day he came of age, the day traditionally he would stand beside his father as a fellow adult – had to be tougher. He stowed his pen, ink, and paper, and followed Suler out.

The Dach’osmichen were in the main room of the nursery, seeming a little subdued. Ino, particularly, kept glancing at the door to Idra’s room and chewing her lip.

Leilis went to the door, and knocked.

‘It’s Leilis, your grace,’ he said quietly.

‘Come in,’ he heard, soft and a little muffled. He slipped inside, closing the door behind him.

Idra was not sleeping in, that was for certain. Instead he was sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, his back against the headboard. His eyes were red. He unfurled as Leilis approached, and both of them sat on the edge of the bed; Leilis saw his perfect posture and lack of fidgeting, and for a brief moment wished he was more than a tutor – an uncle, perhaps? Someone who could speak more familiarly with him, at least. But matters were what they were. And he’d found ways to manage, over the years.

‘Birthdays are difficult,’ he said quietly. Idra closed his eyes and bowed his head.

‘I –’ The syllable came out rough and unsteady, and he cleared his throat and swallowed before trying again. ‘I thought – I knew this would be hard. Without father. I was expecting that. But I… I was going to ask my uncle if he would… I’m supposed to get my signet, and…’ he let the words fade.

Leilis held back a sigh. And that was the other half of it. The emperor was reportedly recovering well from the amputation, but he was still weak. Back in the summer, he had promised to host Idra’s sixteenth birthday party – a formal occasion and a small one, by the standards of the court, usually a dinner with whatever senior nobility the head of the family could appropriately invite to welcome the new adult into society. It would be followed, in the spring, by a more celebratory affair, carefully timed to line up with debutante season. But while both events would still take place, the emperor was unable to host the dinner – the Zhasan had stepped in, and Leilis knew that Idra was grateful and in fact got along perfectly well with his aunt. But it was not the same, was it? No. And it also meant that Idra’s visit to Dachensol Habrobar would now be undertaken alone – well, Leilis intended to accompany him if necessary, but it was supposed to be one’s father. Or, in his absence, an older male relative. And with the deaths of the Drazhada and the estrangement of the Rohethada, Idra only really had one, now.

‘I knew he wouldn’t be able to take me,’ Idra said softly. ‘I didn’t ask him; I didn’t want him to feel guilty. I thought I’d… I’d be able to decide that it didn’t matter. But now I’m here I…’

‘It hurts.’

‘Yes.’

They sat quietly for a few minutes.

‘It isn’t all terrible,’ Idra said eventually, his tone carefully even. ‘I’m visiting him tomorrow. And I’m sure the dinner will be very pleasant.’

The voice of someone trained in the court manner almost from birth. Leilis admired Idra’s fortitude, but he often wished that it was not necessary. It was very impressive, the way the nobility regularly turned out young people with impeccable posture, flawless manners, and – at least in the case of the boys – excellent educations. But Leilis often thought back to the chaotic freedom of youth in the Athmaz’are, and wondered if any of them knew how much they missed by being moulded so early.

‘I’m sure it will,’ he said instead, matching Idra’s level of formality. ‘It’s most of the day away, yet, though. If you wanted to have some time alone, no one would blame you. And there are no lessons today, unless you would like them. What would you like to do?’

Idra thought about this.

‘I should go and see Miri and Ino,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t right to shut them out, before. But I didn’t think I could be excited with them, and I didn’t want to upset them. I might be ready now. And maybe…’ he hesitated, and then seemed to come to a decision. ‘I might go and visit the chapel, a little later. And light a candle.’

There was a slight edge of defensiveness in his tone. Leilis had paid attention to his charge over the last few months, however, and therefore not as surprised as he might have been.

‘That sounds like a good idea,’ he said. ‘Shall I leave you to get dressed?’

They both realised at the same time that this was likely the last day Idra would need to dress himself – he would be taking his own set of rooms out of the nursery this evening, and with that came two edocharei, freshly hired. They were probably already here, meeting their new colleagues and putting the final touches on the archduke's new quarters.

Idra drew in a steadying breath.

‘Yes, please,’ he said, standing. Leilis stood with him, recognising the return to formality.

‘Would you tell our sisters that we will be joining them shortly?’

‘Certainly, your grace.’

And I might have another little errand, too.

~

Thy uncle will be fine and well, it is simply poor timing – it can be made up, Idra told himself. He had spent an hour or so with Mireän and Ino, which had helped, and now he intended to meet Leilis before walking to see Dachensol Habrobar.

When Idra arrived at the main gates to the Alcethmeret, however, he was surprised to find that Leilis was not alone. Stood next to him were the Second Nohecharei, and between them in a wheelchair was –

‘Hello, cousin.’

Idra might have been a fully-fledged adult noble in the Untheileneise Court now, but he couldn’t have contained the delight and relief on his face for anything.

‘Cousin Maia!’ he exclaimed, and saw his uncle smile. ‘You’re – I thought you were too unwell…’ He trailed off, having tied his manners entirely in knots. His uncle, however, only smiled more fondly.

‘Leilis Athmaza spoke to me,’ he said. ‘I am well enough, apparently, for a very carefully managed excursion – if you would like me to accompany you?’

Idra swallowed back the feelings that would have only come out as tears, and cleared his throat a little.

‘We would be honoured,’ he said, and then worried that that was too stiffly formal – but Uncle Maia, perpetually forgiving, did not seem to mind at all.

‘Very well! Then we believe we should be on our way?’

The journey to Dachensol Habrobar’s workshop was not a long one, though it was slower when they encountered stairs. Idra had been wondering how these would be approached – obviously his uncle had managed to get down the Alcethmeret staircase, but Idra had not seen how. He had anticipated that perhaps one of the nohecharei would have to lift him, but when they encountered their first flight, Idra was surprised to see his uncle manage to raise himself out of the chair and onto one leg with only minimal assistance. The soldier nohecharis – Lieutenant Telimezh, Idra reminded himself, knowing his uncle always remembered people’s names – produced crutches that Idra had not noticed him carrying, and with extreme caution Uncle Maia made his way down, a step at a time.

He smiled when he reached the bottom and could sink once more into the wheelchair.

‘It’s good to know that I can do that,’ he said to Idra, ‘but I’m not quite ready to do it all the time yet.’

Idra had not known what to expect at Dachensol Habrobar’s workshop, but it hadn’t been this almost cave-like room lined with little drawers. The greetings were exchanged, and Idra noticed that Uncle Maia seemed to be as delighted to be there as Idra himself.

Dachensol Habrobar spread out a number of existing ‘types’ for signets, all from the Drazhada. Idra recognised his father’s (a cat pacing right to left), Uncle Maia’s (the half-cat, half sea serpent that had drawn so much comment), and those of his other uncles amongst them. Almost all cats, of course, and he supposed it would be scandalous for him to pick anything else. He thought briefly of the four-leaf pattern of the Rohethada, his mother’s house – but he had no desire to tie himself to them or her. He listened with half an ear to Dachensol Habrobar, who was listing symbols and their meanings with a surprising amount of wit, and browsed through the little images.

After a little while, he nodded to himself. Yes.

When he looked up, both his uncle and Dachensol Habrobar were watching him. He cleared his throat, and straightened his shoulders slightly.

‘We think…’ he said. ‘What about… three cats together?’

Both older men smiled, and although Uncle Maia’s smile was a little sad, Idra felt he approved.

‘For us, and our sisters,’ he said quietly. Dachnesol Habrobar nodded.

‘A good idea. Now –’

There followed almost half an hour of discussion, as Dachensol Habrobar sketched with incredible speed a variety of different poses and angles. At last, they settled on the design, measurements were taken, and they departed.

~

A week after the operation, Maia was still feeling shaky – but while he was free of his normal responsibilities for another month yet, there was one matter that he was determined to see through.

The vote on the unionisation laws (protecting unions from certain reprisals, as well as providing regulation) had been delayed by the incident at the factory, but could not be held off indefinitely. As it concerned the creation of a law, it would take place in Parliament, with the Corazhas gathering in full view of the assembly. Berenar had explained that the intent was to ensure transparency, and Maia wondered cynically which of his predecessors had made that necessary. But it meant there would be no full Corazhas meeting – His Serenity would attend a special Parliament gathering, the Corazhas would vote, and the results of that vote would decide whether or not the matter passed to the Parliament.

He had felt cheerful enough that morning to joke with Csethiro about how overly complex and fussy the meeting was likely to be. His nerves were on edge now, however, as he waited in the emperor’s box and watched the Parliament and Corazhas file in.

The beginning of the meeting progressed unsettlingly quickly, with Marquess Lantheval presiding and introducing the subject as though there could have been a single person present unaware of their reason for gathering. Then it was time for the vote.

‘All those in favour with the described measures, state so now.’

So now we see.

Deshehar, predictably, was the first to raise his hand, calling out his area of responsibility to indicate his approval.

‘Parliament,’ he said.

‘Athmaz’are,’ came next, surprising Maia slightly; Sonevet Athmaza had kept his thoughts to himself for many of the meetings.

‘Treasury.’

‘Prelacy.’

Four – four in favour –

And then, the impossible happened.

‘Universities.’

‘Foreigners,’ Bromar added, sounding distinctly disgruntled but certain.

Pashavar looked up and met Maia’s eyes as he raised his hand.

‘Judiciate,’ he said firmly.

Maia only barely remembered that he, too, had to show his vote; he raised his hand and said ‘Imperial,’ but barely heard himself speak.

Unanimous. Unanimous vote in favour.

How –

He hadn’t had a chance to speak to them since their last meeting – he had wanted to, but he had been unwell, and votes on topics like this had limitations and he had not wanted to delay, he had thought it had been worth attempting, and he had been right –

But there was no time to work out what had happened, as he was jerked abruptly from his spinning thoughts by the marquess.

‘The Corazhas vote in favour of legal support for unionisation,’ Marquess Lantheval said, not a single word indicating his feelings on the subject. ‘The debate now moves to Parliament; we hear first some prepared words from His Imperial Serenity, Edrehasivar VII.’

Maia envied him his measured neutrality, and also the way the shocked murmurings had hushed easily under his eye. Part of his mind was in a desperate scrabble of fear, looking for a way out – he could say he was ill, he could leave and no one could stop him, he could do anything but stand and bear the weight of so many piercing gazes – no.

The only way out is through.

Maia reached for his crutches and stood, and the Parliament rose in response.

Thy cards, arranged before thee, written in Csevet’s hand; the good luck charm in thy pocket, from Csethiro; the words, thy words, that thou practiced with them both.

Maia looked at the cards, looked up and out across the chamber, took a breath, and spoke.

‘Many years ago, when emperors began, their word was all there was for law,’ he said simply. The words rang out clearly. Just like the rehearsal. Keep going.

‘They held the power of life and death over those beneath them; war began when they commanded it; all things waited upon the emperor.’

He paused, and looked around.

‘Times have changed.’

First card done, keep going.

‘As emperor of the Ethuveraz, we have greater power than anyone else in the Elflands,’ he continued. ‘This is true. But over the thousands of years between us and those first emperors, the people of the Ethuveraz have learnt something very important: they have learnt that to put all the weight on a single point is dangerous.

‘No system that requires stability should suffer at the whims of a sole voice – for a single mistake can then bring everything crumbling down, laws, justice, order, security, and all.

‘So they sought counterbalance.’ Maia shifted his weight slightly and allowed himself to acknowledge the Corazhas for his next words.

‘The Corazhas, men of expertise, originally formed as advisors to the emperor, gradually began to act also as a form of filter, checking the emperor’s rashness, preventing him from acting outside the law.’ For a moment he thought he saw Pashavar smile, but it was gone as soon as it appeared. Probably he had been mistaken.

‘Later, the parliament,’ he continued, with a slight nod towards Marquess Lantheval. ‘First the House of Blood, seeking to counterbalance the power of the emperor and Corazhas combined, and then later the House of Commons, seeking to counterbalance the power of the House of Blood.

‘The infrastructure of government grew broad – Chancellory, Treasury, Judiciate – and with that breadth, that counterbalance, came the key to all successful countries: stability.

‘This issue – this issue of unionisation – is not, for the most part, really about strikes, or manners, or even money. It is about power, and it is about balance.’

Nearly there. This is the crux of it. Keep going.

Maia took a breath, and pushed onwards.

‘The factory owners had choices – they could have chosen to instigate counterbalance themselves, to aim for fair treatment. But with the exception of very few, they have chosen not to. Each factory owner is much like one of those very early emperors, ruling by force and the law of his word, with little recourse or amendment if he is cruel or mistaken.

‘What the unionists seek is the very same thing that is enjoyed by the members of this government – the power and security of balance.

‘We wish both parliaments good luck in your debates, and we hope that you will remember throughout that this is not about the merits or flaws of any individual union, but about the principles at the heart of their existences – and about the type of Ethuveraz that we can be proud of for many years to come.

‘Thank you.’

Maia gave a slight incline of his head to the Marquess, and took his seat. The rest of the room took their seats also, and the Marquess began to lay out the way in which the issue would be discussed and argued, and Maia heard absolutely none of it. The world had closed around him, going blurred at the edges, and if he had not been seated he thought he would have fallen. It wasn’t physical, he knew, he had recovered past dizzy spells; it was in his mind, the fear of the crowd, the power of the moment. And he had the tools to deal with it. Take one thing at a time. He was shaking; he rested his hands carefully in his lap so that this was better hidden, and concentrated on his breathing.

Cstheio Caireizhasan, hear me. Cstheio Caireizhasan, see me. Cstheio Caireizhasan, know me.

He didn’t let his lips move, but imagined the words being written a letter at a time in the air before him, slow and steady. He kept his expression calm, and attentive, watching the members of Parliament without really seeing them, glad that he could not be asked to speak again until it was over.

Gradually, so gradually, he steadied. The world ceased to waver.

The Parliamentary session was ending; it had been short, merely a laying out of the major points for discussion to come, its rules and bounds. The Marquess spoke the closing words and that was it; Maia exited, wrung out and relieved and vaguely aware that when he had finished being frightened and unsettled he would be quite pleased with himself. And more than anything, grateful – to escape, certainly, but also to be able to return to the Alcethmeret where Csethiro was waiting and Csevet could sit with them too and everything would be calm and steady and right.

Chapter Text

Edrevechelar XII, 198^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

The nephew of his predecessor, Edrevechelar XII was the first emperor since the Bel- era to marry outside not just his empire, but outside the entirety of the Ethuveraz. His wife was the eldest daughter of the ruler of Ilinveriär, and was much disliked by the court for her unusual manners of speaking and dress, as well as her tendency to manipulate others beyond what the court considered acceptable bounds. Edrevechelar was indifferent towards her and, in drastic contrast to his predecessor, ruled both his country and his court without subtlety or caution.

Duels between courtiers became increasingly common during his reign, with Edrevechelar himself involved on several occasions. In one famous incident, Edrevechelar lost an index finger, but continued to promote duelling as the optimum way to settle an argument or prove one’s courage. His tendency to provoke arguments nearly led to war with Ilinveriär towards the end of his reign, with only his zhasan’s intervention sufficing to prevent it.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

The nursery common room was warm and quiet.

Maia knew that there was a nursery maid waiting just outside the door should he need anything, and of course Telimezh was a quiet presence in the corner. But for all intents and purposes, he was alone with the twins.

At nearly seven months old, they seemed so different to the curled-up bundles he’d met when they’d first arrived. Both of them crawled now, faster than Maia had known to expect. Evelo was already babbling, and Chenet would try to clap along when sung to; today, Maia had brought a book of wonder-tales to read to them. He had so much time to make up.

The twins had not been allowed to visit him in the tower while he had been ill; Kiru had said they caught sicknesses easily at that age, and so could not be permitted in any kind of sickroom. But Maia was no longer ill, and as he had two more weeks until he went back to normal duty he was spending every moment with them that he could. He had been there for half an hour already, playing peek-a-boo with both of them and watching the way they clambered about. A valuable lesson had also been learned about his braids; they were now tied up behind his head to keep them out of small hands. Chenet in particular seemed enamoured with the shine of his father’s buttons, grabbing them and mouthing at them at every opportunity.

‘Oh, that’s thy rattle, well done! Thou art very clever,’ he said sincerely to Evelo, as she grabbed hold of the rattle and banged it on the floor. Chenet turned at the noise and watched his sister from his father’s lap. Maia had started out in a comfortable armchair, but discovered it was much easier to sit on the floor with them. He bounced Chenet absent-mindedly, listening to the quiet underneath all the small baby noises.

It was odd not to have Mireän and Ino in the Alcethmeret. They had moved out to live with Vedero now, and seemed to be settling in well; Idra had told Maia that both of them thought it very grown-up, to be living with their aunt. They still came to have breakfast with him once a week, with Idra. He had been hearing a lot about their schooling, lately – apparently the tutor that Vedero had found was teaching them about the Osreialhalan Mountains, and both girls were full of stories of eagles and bears and avalanches.

Chenet suddenly pitched himself forward, and Maia laughed quietly as he made sure he didn’t hit the floor too hard.

‘Wantest to wander about? Go on, then,’ he said. He leant sideways and began making a careful tower of the soft toys, waiting for when one of the twins would notice and come to topple it.

While he wasn’t back to his normal duties yet, he was being eased back in to what he had missed. He and Berenar had sat together that morning and gone through the investigation into the explosion at the factory. The whole thing was… somewhat underwhelming, if Maia was honest. Or perhaps that was only because he had been forced to keep the matter at an arm’s length while he recovered.

It seemed that three Amalo factory owners had decided that the risk of unionisation was too great; in order to counter it, they had paid a group of men to dress as workers and set small explosives around the factory. They had intended for the emperor to get a bit of a shock, and to change his stance in response. But the men they had hired had been careless with the explosives, overusing them and not heeding the instructions; and then, in the chaos, had decided to give the supposedly ornamental nohecharei a quick lesson in brutality to hammer their point home. Three of them had been killed in the ensuing fight, with the others fleeing. One was caught half-way to Amalo, evidently intending to secure more payment for the losses sustained, and quickly gave up the men who hired him. The whole thing left a sour note in the mouth; Pashavar’s report was scathing about the “amateurish” nature of the plot.

A little too close for comfort, for amateurs, Maia thought. But there would be new measures taken, and Beshelar insisted the incident would not be repeated. So all there would be now was the trial, and the ensuing punishments.

Maia heaved a sigh, but then smiled at the way Evelo was staring, wide-eyed, at the tower of toys.

‘Go on, then,’ he said softly. ‘Push it down, Evelo.’

A few more crawling efforts, and then she all but crawled on top of it. Maia smiled and picked her up to hold her. She smiled back at him. I will never get used to that, he thought. It was his favourite of their new developments.

‘Thou art lovely,’ he said. ‘Both of you are perfect.’

Evelo made indecipherable noises back at him, and Maia decided that she was pleased.

‘And so shouldst thou be,’ he replied.

She made another happy noise and then wiggled around until he set her down so that she could clamber off. Maia carefully steered her to avoid his left leg. The injury was still tender, but it was healing. And while he couldn’t wear the prosthetic yet, it had arrived the day before, accompanied by its maker to explain how to use it. Maia had been surprised by how light it was.

‘The structure that takes the weight is the central piece, here, Serenity; you can use only that if you prefer. The shell is there for a little protection of it, and to allow the trouser to follow a similar curve to the other leg.’

Maia had nodded.

It was a gracefully made object. They had taken so many measurements – of the stump of his left leg, but also the dimensions of his right foot and leg, as well as his general height and build, in a great deal of detail. The result was a sort of socket-and-stick arrangement, with a shin-shaped frame, and a foot-shaped end. He was a little nervous of it – he’d already begun to grow used to the crutches. But he liked the idea of having more options, and being able to have his hands freer.

‘It will take time to adjust to, Serenity, but not as much as many would assume; your Serenity is a young man, and you have retained the knee-joint, both of which help.’

‘And we understand there is a little maz involved?’ Maia had asked. Kiru had explained it to him already, but he wanted to hear the explanation directly from Dachensol Brenitar.

‘Ah, yes, Serenity – here, in the joint of the ankle. It responds in a limited way to the movement of the knee; with practice, it should be something your Serenity can trigger yourself, cause the foot to turn or lift as you need it too.’

It listens to the ghost-limb, Kiru had said, using the term Maia had been introduced to for the way he sometimes felt the missing flesh move or twitch as though it was still there. The maz element was rarely used in prosthetics, as it would need a steady resupply of mazeise energy in order to work consistently. Fortunately, Maia was accompanied at all times by someone who could assist with that…

The thought brought Cala back to mind, and with it a mix of feelings. It was strange and uncomfortable not to see him, even though Maia knew he was there – on duty every night, just outside the bedroom door.

Uncomfortable enough that thou art no longer angry with him?

That was a more difficult question.

We cannot be your friend.

But they were friends – friends of a different sort, and Maia had been happy with that. Glad of it; grateful for it. That was why Cala’s actions had hurt so much, Maia knew. If Cala had merely been “the maza-nohecharis”, it would still have merited a rebuke of some kind, but it wouldn’t have felt like a betrayal.

Carefully, teasing Chenet with the little toy horse by making it gallop up and down in front of him, Maia prodded his own feelings. Was he still angry? No, anger had faded quickly. The hurt had lingered longer, but only the vestiges of it remained. He missed Cala more than he resented him. In the morning, then, he decided, and immediately felt more at peace.

Chenet’s eyes went wide as his sister tried to crawl over the top of him. Maia moved forward to disentangle them.

‘Evelo, thou must understand that not everything is the floor,’ Maia said to her solemnly. ‘The floor is for crawling. Chenet is not the floor.’

‘Ah – ah – buh,’ Evelo answered.

‘Exactly. Chenet, what do you think?’

Chenet waved his hands and opened his mouth in a smile, and Maia smiled back.

‘All right, shall we have a story, michen?’ he said, taking the book of wonder-tales down from where he had left it on the seat of the chair. ‘How about this one? It’s my favourite.’

After the story, the twins were tired, so Maia called the nursery maid back in and tried not to be too much of a nuisance while she put them to bed. Then he made his slow way out of the nursery, across the Lower Alcethmeret, and up the staircase to the tower.

~

The following morning, the shift changed at eight, and Maia was awake and prepared. When the Second Nohecharei arrived, he took his opportunity. He greeted Kiru and Telimezh when they entered, and then before the door could close, called with a slightly louder voice, ‘Cala? Come through, please.’

Cala entered; and Maia, for all his heart was still a little sore, was very glad to see him. He watched as Cala bowed carefully, and his expression containing no small amount of trepidation but not an ounce of resentment.

Maia felt something unclick in his chest somewhere, and he knew he was making the right decision.

‘Cala, regarding the incident with Csevet…’ he began, and then paused.

‘It will not happen again,’ Cala said.

‘I know it won’t,’ Maia answered, slipping deliberately into the informal. Cala’s eyes widened slightly, and Maia gave him a small smile.

‘The matter is considered closed,’ he said. ‘Please return to your normal shift arrangements.’

Gratitude and relief seem to fight for position on Cala’s face, but he simply bowed, deep and low.

‘Thank you, Serenity,’ he said; and this time, the smile Maia gave him in return was broad and warm. After Cala and Beshelar left, he moved gently through his morning routine, and then went down to breakfast where he knew Idra and his sisters were waiting.

~

‘Loret Pashavar, champion of unionisation,’ Penru said fondly as he settled down across from him in Loret’s drawing room.

Loret made a decidedly grumpy noise, and Penru held back a smile.

‘I’m going soft,’ he muttered. ‘Too much sympathy. Edrehasivar’s a bad influence.’

Penru smirked.

‘Oh, really? Is that so?’

‘Lantheval.’

‘Because I rather thought he reminded me of someone I used to know when we were younger; a fired-up young man, full of ideas and a hunger for justice, I wonder if thou dost recall…’

‘Lantheval.’

They met eyes, and then laughed, Loret with some reluctance.

‘What I want to know,’ Penru said, reaching for the glass of whiskey awaiting him on the table, ‘is how thou convinced Bromar, of all people, to vote in favour. The others would have been easy, after that.’

Loret shrugged.

‘Bromar has his principles, though the goddesses know I don’t know what he sees in them,’ he said. ‘Common folk attacking the emperor? Had to be taught a lesson. I just pointed out that setting the common folk against each other keeps them off our backs. Of course, then I had to endure almost half an hour of pompous jawing as he talked himself around.’

‘Naturally.’

‘Depressingly unavoidable.’

Penru observed his old friend as he took a sip of the whiskey.

‘Didst not need a unanimous vote,’ he remarked. ‘Thou must have known it had enough support to go through.’

Loret pulled a face.

‘Go through, yes,’ he said. ‘But it’s thy lot it must face now, and I wanted it to start with a good footing. Any news on how that’s going, by the way?’

‘Why, Lord Pashavar, there’s hardly been time – the proper procedures of parliament…’ Penru broke off at Loret’s raised eyebrow. ‘All right: I think it’s going to be close. Most of them don’t like it, but the factory owners worry them, especially after this. And hast thou noticed that the emperor is no longer the only Drazhada in play?’

Loret smiled this time.

‘Yes, I’ve noticed the zhasan’s little manoeuvres. Or rather, Ailano has. Remains to be seen how well she’ll pull it off this time, but it’s good to see the two of them working in tandem. She’s a formidable young lady, by all accounts.’

‘Mm. Iviro is rather impressed with her. They’re going to be a formidable pair as time passes. A shame neither of us will see them at their best.’

‘We’ll be enjoying the peace and quiet while Edrehasivar reshapes the damn country, and best of luck to him.’

‘Indeed.’

Penru lingered a moment before asking the question he was most curious about.

‘He convinced thee, though, did he not? Of the need for unions. Thou wert convinced of it before the explosion.’

Loret sighed.

‘Goddess help me, I was,’ he said. ‘He’s a good speechmaker when he gets in the rhythm. And he was right. Balance is fundamental to the Ethuveraz. I’d gotten too caught up in the details, and too forgetful of the fact that behind the clumsy words and far too hopeful attitude, Edrehasivar has a sharp mind.’ He shot Penru a look. ‘Don’t dare tell him I said that.’

Penru, who had been considering how to do just that, performed innocence. Loret scowled at him.

‘It’s not good for an emperor for people to agree with him too easily,’ he said, wagging a finger. ‘Not healthy. Especially when he’s young.’

‘Even if he’s right?’

‘Especially if he’s right,’ Loret said, leaning back in his chair. ‘All the more important that he learns to interrogate that, lest he get overconfident in his own certainty.’

‘Thou hast grown great in wisdom in thy elder days,’ Penru proclaimed teasingly.

‘Oh, do shut up and drink thy whiskey.’

~

A week later, and Maia was standing on two feet, one less familiar than the other, at the top of the stairs that led down to the Lower Alcethmeret.

He could not wear the prosthetic every day; it became uncomfortable after an extended time, and besides he was perfectly content with the crutches or the wheelchair, depending on how he felt. Nemer had explained that they had secreted wheelchairs in various strategic locations around court – the Untheileian, the Verven’theileian, and the Untheileneise’meire, among others – and Telimezh and Beshelar now each carried a spare set of crutches on their back, so even if Maia started the day on his prosthetic it was quick and easy to shift if he needed to. However, Maia did want to get more comfortable on his new leg; and there was one thing in particular that it would be most useful for.

He stopped for so long at the top of the stairwell that he thought Beshelar was a hair’s breadth from offering to get the chair or the crutches. But finally, Maia steeled himself, and took it a step at a time.

Csethiro was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, and she grinned when he reached her.

‘Stairs – conquered,’ she said, linking an arm carefully in his.

‘Next, dancing?’ Maia added hopefully as they crossed the Lower Alcethmeret. ‘Slowly,’ he added.

‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘I thought we’d start with an extremely gentle waltz, how does that sound?’

‘I defer to thy superior expertise.’

‘Thou hadst better.’

In truth it was a little early to have tried it – Maia couldn’t manage more than a careful and awkward walk-through, and was grateful that Csethiro was strong enough to take a little of his weight when necessary. But it was a good start, and he could feel his confidence rising. Perhaps a better future wasn't quite so naïve a hope, after all.

Chapter Text

Edresomivar I, 194^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

Edresomivar’s curse is a phrase now fading from public use, but it was once the common term for a man whose marriage resulted only in a multitude of daughters, potentially resulting in the dissipation of the house. Obviously the Drazhada survived its own brush with this situation, but Edresomivar I had many years of navigating a hostile and anxious court due to his lack of a direct heir to the throne.

While they were perceived by the court and the country as an extreme disadvantage, even a danger, Edresomivar I himself wrote positively of his five daughters in his personal record. He referred to them as his ‘courtly hunting cats’ and encouraged their political educations, allowing them more choice in their marriages than was typical of the era.

Edresomivar’s throne was passed to the son of his eldest daughter.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

It was a fine winter’s day, and Maia’s first back at his duties. Csethiro had decided that it was her duty as his wife to ensure that he wasn’t working too hard, and had settled in the corner of the Tortoise Room with the latest in a sequence of novels based loosely on the cavaliers of Edrevenivar the Conqueror. That was a deliberate and careful choice – firstly, they made any visiting government official dismiss her entirely even when she was obviously listening, and secondly, they were very entertaining. This particular volume concerned a wholly fictional escapade in Barizhan and involved some improbably theatrical pirates.

Csethiro turned a page, and then took a little piece of marchpane out of the dish beside her, enjoying the sweetness on her tongue, listening to Csevet explaining something about taxes with half an ear.

Truthfully, she did not really need to be there. Csevet himself was quite capable of gently ensuring that Maia did not overstress himself, and indeed seemed to have arranged the day so as to best ease him back into the work without strain. But she did have an ulterior motive…

When Maia stepped out to use the lavatory halfway through the morning, she pounced.

‘Mer Aisava,’ she said, keeping to the formal in case they were interrupted by some undersecretary or other, ‘We believe these were the items we discussed?’ She produced the little case from a pocket, and handed it over to him.

By his expression, he knew exactly what it contained; but she nodded for him to open it anyway, and he did so, smiling at the contents before closing it and going to hand it back to her. She waved her hand, declining.

‘This is probably the only chance we’ll have to pass them over to you, best to take them now,’ she said, eyeing the door to make sure Maia wasn’t about to reappear.

Csevet looked startled, and then confused.

‘Zhasan, you were the one who bought –’

‘I bought them, yes. With his money.’ She shook her head at Csevet’s bewildered expression. Really, he and Maia were too alike sometimes. She lowered her voice.

‘Look, anything I get him is with his own means; the gift is in the thought I put into it. I put no thought it to these; that was all you. They’re your gift to him, not mine, and I won’t have any argument.’

Both of them glanced around at the sound from the stairwell – Maia returning. Csethiro raised her eyebrows pointedly at Csevet, who hastily tucked the little box into his own pocket and assumed an appropriately secretarial expression. She thought she could still see some hints of bewilderment in his eyes, but she kept her amusement to herself. Maia would be pleased, and it had been Csevet’s idea, after all.

She smiled at Maia when he entered, and he smiled back. Then she settled herself back into her chair, and returned to the page. Ah, these were no ordinary pirates. Naturally.

~

Deret and Cala ate their breakfast in late afternoon, ready for their shift to begin just before Himself had his evening meal. It was family dinner this evening, Deret knew; Arbelan Zhasanai, Archudke Idra, and Archduchess Vedero were joining the zhas and zhasan to dine in the tower. This was usually a pleasant occasion, and it had taken the nohecharei a little while to work out why Himself seemed to be dreading it.

‘So why is it, then?’ Avris asked. ‘He was all of a fidget earlier, double checking what time he was changing for dinner.’

‘The zhasanai and the zhasan have talked him into telling the archduke and the archduchess about what happened to his mother,’ Cala said, his voice carefully level. No one in the tower felt anything other than horror at Varenechibel’s actions, but there was no need to press too hard on the topic. Besides, Deret suspected that Esaran at least felt no small amount of guilt for not intervening, even though there had been nothing she could have done.

The kitchen was quiet, and a little uneasy. Then Ebremis broke the silence.

‘It’s good to make a clean break of it,’ he said. ‘Keeping it a secret – well, keeping it from the court is one thing. It isn’t their business. But keeping it from the rest of the family would only have rotted it. Best they all understand.’

‘Agreed.’

But Deret could understand Himself’s lack of willingness. His relationships with the archduke and archduchess were still green, and this revelation would test them. Hopefully, it would find them stronger than he thought.

The family would be gathering in the Tortoise Room at seven, to talk before dinner; that was when the shift-change was due. Deret wished Coris and Kiru nothing ill, but he was glad that it was he and Cala on this shift. Mother hen, he told himself sternly. But there was no harm in that, was there? Edrehasivar always needed a little fussing over.

~

The braziers were lit, and they were giving off enough warmth to sit for a little while. Maia did so, resisting the child-like urge to pull his knees up under his chin and wrap his arms around his shins. Instead he sat still, staring out into the darkness of the garden, the greyness of the opposite wall a mere shadow in the night.

Surely it would be out by now.

Maia felt like a terrible coward, sat outside in the quiet darkness while Csethiro and Arbelan spoke to Vedero and Idra on his behalf. His family, his responsibilities – bad enough that he was piercing them with the knowledge that he should have kept to himself, worse that he had left the conversation to others…

But Csethiro had been insistent, he reminded himself, and Arbelan firm. Both were in agreement. He ran over their argument again in his mind as one might trail one’s fingers along a banister.

He had argued that he should not be telling them in the first place; Csethiro had said they had a right to know. Maia had argued that it would be a wrong he was doing to them; Arbelan had pointed out that the wrong had been Varenechibel’s, and it was long done. Maia had countered that he could preserve Idra and Vedero from it, and Csethiro had countered in turn that they were both old enough that he should not take that decision out of their hands. Arbelan had added that it was not something that Maia should shoulder alone.

He had come to agree with them, however reluctantly; conceding to letting them handle the conversation, however, he had resisted even more. Finally, they had agreed he could try if he wanted to, but that if he felt too overcome he should step away.

And of course.

He took a steadying breath and then let it out. ‘Tis done now; all that’s left is their answer. Of course, he might get nothing from them tonight, or at all. They might choose to deny it, or not wish to discuss it with them. They might need time. They might be angry –

The door to the gardens swung open, and Maia looked up as though someone had attached a string to his chin and pulled. There they were, in the light, and then coming towards him, Idra with Vedero only steps behind him, Arbelan and Csethiro following a little further back.

Idra reached him first, and Maia looked up at him, contrition welling up – and then Idra, dropping all court formality, sat down next to Maia and put his arms around him.

‘Cousin Maia – Maia I am so sorry,’ he said, and Maia had to do everything in his power to keep from crying. He pulled back a little, gently.

‘Didst not – needst not be sorry, Idra, I am sorry –’

Vedero sat down on his other side, a hand immediately on his shoulder.

‘Sorry for what, Maia? Merciful goddesses, thou art the least at fault of anyone,’ she said, and Maia was shocked to see her eyes were damp.

‘For – for telling thee, for telling you both,’ he said. ‘I could have kept it to myself and you would –’

‘And we would never have known, but it still would have been true,’ Idra said. He released Maia, but kept a hand on his arm, watching him with distress.

‘But still – he was your family,’ Maia said softly, bewildered.

Vedero squeezed his shoulder and he turned to look at her.

‘Little brother, thou art our family,’ she said.

Maia stared at her; then he shuddered slightly, and realised that his cheeks were wet. Vedero swept him into an embrace and held on; he barely noticed the other three getting close enough to reach for a shoulder or an arm, to not leave the two of them alone.

‘Oh, Maia,’ Vedero murmured. ‘Little brother. I should have said that to thee a long time ago, shouldn’t I? But I’ve said it now, and it’s true.’

There was regret in her voice, and Maia found breath for words in response.

‘I do not blame thee,’ he said. ‘I know what grief is, and how it takes everything away.’

‘Oh, Maia.’

They pulled apart a minute or more later, and then there were a few switches around as everyone seemed to want to hold onto one another. Eventually they were all sat down, Maia squeezed in a very un-imperial manner between Idra and Vedero and Csethiro on the bench, and Arbelan seated on a chair that Beshelar had fetched for her.

The words seemed to have run out. They sat quietly, breathing in the fresh night air, leaning a little towards the braziers. Csethiro had one of Maia’s hands, and Vedero the other. Maia was surprised to realise that he hardly felt any guilt at all, now. It was as though it had been washed away by the tears and the embraces. He couldn’t imagine this was a permanent feeling, but… still. He closed his eyes, and lapsed into a breathing pattern Mer Dormar had taught him. Peace, acceptance, calm. He opened his eyes to see Arbelan smiling at him.

‘Arbelan?’

‘Tis nothing,’ she said. ‘Only that I am glad to see how far thou hast come since thou arrived at court.’

Csethiro squeezed his hand gently, and he knew that conveyed her agreement.

‘Have I really changed so much?’ he asked, frowning slightly.

Arbelan tilted her head slightly.

‘Not changed, exactly,’ she said. ‘More… settled in thyself. It happens more and more as one ages.’

Maia considered this, and then smiled back at her.

‘Then I shall look forward to it,’ he said.

~

It was late when they finished their dinner, but Vedero did not return immediately to her quarters. Instead, she walked steadily through the corridors of the court until she reached the Untheileneise’meire. She entered with a nod to the canons on the doors.

She had rarely been down here, and never without most of the court in concert, for a funeral or some other ceremony.

It was very different alone.

The dome seemed to echo even when she made no sound, and the coldness seeped into her bones quicker than she would have thought possible. She walked the circle of imperial tombs, emperors and empresses, pausing at her father’s for a moment. She stared at the bas-relief; she supposed it bore a resemblance. But she had rarely had anything to say to him in life, and she found nothing but distaste at the idea of saying anything to him now. She looked away, and found the open stairwell that led to the lower level.

Only emperors and empresses were entombed above; the rest of the Drazhada were below. She waved away a canon who stepped forward, and continued on until she found the first of the tombs she was looking for.

Ciris Drazhar.

Sweet Ciris, the youngest – not truly the youngest, for Maia was the youngest of all of them, but Maia had never been thought of, never been counted, and so Ciris held the title in obliviousness to the facts. Ciris who was witty and charming, Ciris who had teased but never tormented. Ciris with his mischievous streak, who had made Vedero laugh when she felt like crying.

‘Thou wouldst have liked Maia,’ she said softly. ‘He would have taken time to warm up to thee, he is not used to teasing with kindness; but he would have liked thee too.’

She moved on.

Nazhira Drazhar.

The eldest of Pazhiro’s three children. Vedero had looked up to her older brother as a young child, thinking him daring and brave for wishing to be a soldier. As she had grown, she had become disillusioned with him; he had little time for her, and even less for anyone who didn’t care to fit the mould they were expected to. He had all of their father’s impatience, and it was only tempered with his resolute adherence to his ideals.

‘Thou and Maia wouldst have argued fiercely,’ she murmured, a smile quirking her lips despite her words. ‘You both would have hated it, but you both would have learnt much. And I wish I could have seen thy stubbornness meet his.’

A few more steps, and then she was there.

Nemolis Drazhar.

Nemolis was her half-brother, like Maia was. He and Nemriän had been a close unit as children, Vedero had been told, but growing up under the pressures of an expectant court had forced them apart. That was what her mother had said, anyway. Nemriän had gone off to marry the Marquess Imel, and Nemolis had married Sheveän, which had been its own kind of departure. Nemolis had little time for socialising – oh, he attended a regular whirlwind of court events, of course, but that was a prince’s lot, and part of the work of his position. He was his father’s reaching hand, feeling out disruptions and discontentments, softening the blows of changes in imperial policy. Preparing the ground, both for his father’s work and, someday, his own.

All of that meant she frequently saw the Prince of the Untheileneise Court, but rarely had a moment’s time with her brother. She had missed him long before he had died, she realised.

Reaching out a hand, she ran the tips of her fingers over the edge of the cold marble.

‘I am sorry I did not come before,’ she said, her voice barely audible even in the hush that surrounded her. ‘I… I did not want to. I was angry with thee for leaving; I was angry that I barely knew thee when thou didst.’

She took a slow breath in, and let it out gently.

‘And then I stopped being angry. I think I tired of it, more than anything; tired of being bitter, and lonely, and resentful. And Maia… I wish thou knew him. I wish he had thee at his side. He helped… he untangled things for me, somehow, without even meaning to.’

She sighed.

‘I didn’t come then because I knew…’ Because I knew what thou wouldst say, she thought, even though the dead did not speak. It was not new words from Nemolis she had avoided, but old ones, back from when Ciris was born. Words about responsibility, about care, about being an older sibling and what that meant.

‘I failed to be that for Maia, and I did not come here because I knew being near thee would remind me of my error,’ she said. ‘Before thou wert a prince in practice, thou wert a good older brother. And I have been too caught in my grief to be a good older sister.’

I do not blame thee. I know what grief is, and how it takes everything away.

Maia’s words had been kind, but also true. If he could forgive her, then she could forgive herself; but she had needed to acknowledge it first, in the presence – the absence – of someone who would have understood.

‘Tis done now,’ she said, and felt something inside herself ease. ‘And I shall not disturb thee further. I have a little brother to take care of.’

With one last brush against the marble of the tomb, she turned and made her way back home.

Chapter Text

Belzhasar I, the 1^st Emperor of the Ethuveraz

The first Ethuverazheise emperor is a figure shrouded in mystery and myth, and there are very few certainties. One is that Belzhasar was the ruler of an area approximately one quarter the size of what is now the East Ethuveraz: from Cairado up to the Osreialhalan, and as far east as Nelozho. It is purported that he was the first to control an area of this size. It is also believed that Belzhasar was the first leader to successfully enforce the peaceful passing of his power to his son.

There is some discussion among philologists as to whether the Ethuverazheise word “zhas”, meaning “emperor”, originates in Belzhasar’s cognomen, or Belzhasar’s cognomen was selected as an expression of the existing word.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, sixteenth edition.

~

It was three days before Winternight, and it felt like the right time.

Csevet had waited for Maia in the tower bedroom, aiming to talk to him before the edocharei were summoned. Maia seemed surprised, but pleased; and Csevet, as he did so often around Maia in private, fumbled his carefully planned words and somehow started in the middle.

‘For thy birthday, though a few days early,’ he said. ‘I know we talked about gifts, but I thought – I thought this one wouldn’t break any of the rules. And it’s not really a gift. It’s already thine.’

Maia looked puzzled, and Csevet couldn’t blame him. He seemed to have left all his coherency in another jacket. He shook himself a little, took the box out of his pocket, and handed it over.

‘I… I hope they’re right,’ he said, and then corrected himself as Maia opened the box, ‘I’m sure they’re right. I mean, I checked and double-checked, but I didn’t want to tell thee until now in case I was wrong and thou wert disappointed…’ He faded out, watching Maia, whose eyes had grown very large.

Maia opened his mouth and then closed it again, raising a hand over it – and Csevet realised with a shock –

‘Maia – art thou – thou art crying?’ he said, distressed and almost panicking. ‘I did not mean to make thee cry, I am so sorry, please forgive me, it was a terrible idea, I should have spoken to thee first –’

But Maia took his hand away from his mouth to gesture vaguely yet emphatically at Csevet; Csevet went quiet, watching Maia as he shook his head, his watery eyes still on the earrings. His mother’s earrings, that she had given him when he was eight. Csevet chewed on his lower lip. At least thou knowest they are the right pair…

Maia seemed to finally find words.

‘Thou must not apologise,’ he said firmly, though his voice wobbled. ‘I am – this is – but how, how didst thou find them, Csevet I – how?’

Csevet realised he was close to tears himself. He swallowed.

‘I – well,’ he shrugged helplessly, ‘jewellery fit for a zhasan, see, nothing like that disappears without a trace, and any sale of it would have been on record – I guessed at the time frame and searched auction house records until they came up, and then traced them from there – and then I found them but I couldn’t buy them because they were too expensive, so I spoke to Csethiro and she bought them – and then she said that the thought made it my gift so she gave them back to me to give to thee –’

Maia, who had been setting the earrings down carefully on the side table, interrupted Csevet by almost tackling him in an embrace.

‘Mmmf!’ Csevet laughed, catching Maia and holding on tight. ‘Thou art happy?’

Maia’s affirmative noise was muffled by the embrace, but then he pulled back a little to look at Csevet properly.

‘I am overwhelmed, Csevet,’ he said, sounding more lost and more happy than Csevet had seen since the twins had been born. ‘This is – this is everything, thou art a miracle.’ Maia kissed him, sudden and intense, and then pulled back again, looking a little startled at himself.

Csevet laughed fondly, and then remembered, wincing –

‘They are – I am sorry, Maia, but – they are a little scratched…’

‘Mm? One long scratch, on the back of one earring?’

Csevet raised his eyebrows in surprise.

‘Yes, that’s it.’

‘Oh,’ Maia said with an odd tone to his voice, looking down. ‘That was me. I threw them at the wall when she died.’

‘Oh, Maia,’ Csevet said, pulling him close again.

‘I cannot believe… thou art… I… Csevet.’

‘I love thee.’

‘I love thee too. So much. I cannot thank thee enough, I…’

They stayed together for some minutes, Maia occasionally turning his head to look at the earrings in their case, as though he could not believe they were still there. When they finally pulled apart, Csevet sat on the edge of the bed while the edocharei were called and given the earrings to take care of (with much exclaiming from the edocharei, and much delight from Maia). Esha winked at Csevet when Maia wasn’t looking; Csevet used the rudiments of hand sign he had been learning to convey his thanks, again, and Esha smiled. Esha’s assistance in knowing how to identify jewellery had been invaluable, though he had insisted that Csevet would have figured it out on his own.

As Maia was readied for bed, Csevet got himself changed, stepping to just behind the hangings of the curtains to have privacy from Kiru. And then it was time, and he and Maia curled up together in the warm, and as Csevet moved closer he thought that he had never been so content in his life.

~

It was a beautiful night.

Cala tugged gently on the wards running under the stone path, letting a little borrowed warmth run through his blue robe. Though in truth, the sharp cold was its own kind of beauty.

He was off duty, of course; the Seconds were with His Serenity until a little after dawn, but it had been a long off-shift and so he had already slept enough. Instead, he was taking advantage of nohecharei privileges in order to enjoy a three o’clock in the morning stroll around the Alcethmeret gardens.

Snow had fallen a few hours ago, and now the air was still, his surroundings white in the moonlight. From what he knew of weather telling, it looked as though it would be a bright dawn. Frost crunched beneath his feet, and he flicked out a little maz to ensure he didn’t slip. The last thing he needed was to have to wake the tower because he’d broken a bone on the ice in the middle of the night.

It had been more than two years since he had taken this position, and they had been unlike any other two years in his life.

He had been surprised to discover that he could still keep up his research, albeit at a different pace. Nohecharei shifts were long and variable, but the free time was much the same; he enjoyed the access to not just the Alcethmeret library (very good, though not as extensive as the Mazan’theileian’s) but to the nohecharei records, hundreds of years of information and personal observations from his and Deret’s predecessors. His research had in general taken a much more historical bent since accessing that; he was currently neck deep in some writing on Belsamben IV, whose First soldier-nohecharis had been very witty. Cala kept interrupting the quiet in the quarters to read passages to Deret.

And speaking of Deret… Cala grinned to himself, thinking of their first conversation, Deret abrupt and him disoriented. He knew enough now to understand that Deret had not been angry at him, but embarrassed by his initial meeting with Edrehasivar and disoriented himself by Cala’s relaxed attitude. They had learnt so much from each other since then. And it was an honour to get to work with Kiru, for whom Cala had always had such admiration; and Coris, who Cala had come to hold in as high esteem as he did Deret. Both soldiers were so… solid. So committed, so certain. For a long while it had felt like a rebuke, though Cala had kept the feeling to himself. He had always been ephemeral, peripatetic, spinning out in all different directions at once. In many ways he still was. But Deret, in teaching him the sword (Cala remained terrible at it, a novel experience that he was enjoying more than he would have expected) – Deret had taught him something else too. To spin without falling required balance and coordination.

Suddenly, attributes that in the Mazan’theileian had been tolerable eccentricities at best and disruptive inconsistencies the rest of the time were strengths. They gave him flexibility, they made him valuable, they challenged Deret to grow and improve just as Deret’s strength and single-mindedness encouraged Cala to focus.

He had been rootless and wandering in the Mazan’theileian, but here he stood on solid ground, anchored by the tower stones and the little family that was the upper household. Maybe a few of his fellow mazei were still expecting him to change directions, to step down and run to something else, but they would be disappointed; he had a home here now, with people he cared about, lead by a man who deserved every drop of loyalty that Cala had.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

~

It was first thing in the morning, and the dawn light was streaming in through the windows of the ballroom as Csevet slipped in through the door and stepped to one side to wait for the end of the dancing lesson.

He was early, this time; truthfully he had intended to take a little walk and some fresh air, but the opportunity to come and see Maia dance was too tempting.

He was better on the leg, now. Cala had been adjusting the maz on it, and Maia was now moving a little more smoothly, though it would never be something he wore constantly. Csevet had found a good spot to stand where he could watch the dance – not hidden away and unnoticed anymore, but where Maia could and did see him and smile as he passed.

Csethiro caught his eye too, and grinned.

‘Cala Athmaza, how possible is it for us to be observed?’ she called over Maia’s shoulder.

Cala looked slightly puzzled by her question.

‘It is entirely possible, zhasan, but we do not think it likely,’ he said.

‘Could you ensure we are not observed, for… perhaps half an hour, at most? By anyone, including staff, other than those already in this room?’

Cala raised his eyebrows in thought for a few moments; then he nodded.

‘We can, zhasan.’

‘From now?’

‘From now, zhasan.’

‘And how confident are you?’

‘Very much so.’

Csevet assumed this was connected to the wards; the Lower Alcethmeret was not as heavily warded as the Upper, but it must be enough for Cala to confidently warn of any approach. Nevertheless, why did she want –

‘Mer Aisava?’

Csevet stepped forward as the still-dancing imperial couple moved towards him.

‘Zhasan?’

‘Catch,’ she said, and turned swiftly, spinning Maia out and letting go so that he ended up face to face with Csevet, his hands still up as though to hold a partner.

Csevet thought that he would remember the expression on Maia’s face for the rest of his life. That little indrawn breath and bitten lip, raised ears and slightly widened eyes as though he was looking at something precious, something perfect – and he’s looking at me.

Maia’s expression had just begun to change into uncertainty when Csevet found himself again. He raised his hands to meet Maia as a dancer, and gently pushed the dance back into motion.

He could hear the zhasan – Csethiro – humming a tune for rhythm, the little melody the only sound besides the soft noise of their motion and the pounding of Csevet’s heart.

The dance was awkward in places, fumbled. Csevet knew his court dances but wasn’t well-practiced; Maia was still uncertain of the new leg, despite all the practice; and both of them had been taught to lead, which took a little bit of coordination to sort out. But they were dancing – they were dancing – the cool winter sunlight streaming in through the windows of the ballroom as they moved, Maia’s hand in Csevet’s and Csethiro’s voice guiding them through, one and two and three, thee and I and thee…

Csevet, turning gently through the steps, looked into Maia’s eyes, and saw the exact same thought in them as was in his own mind. There were many challenges ahead; no one could say for certain what the future would hold. But perhaps, with the right people, at the right time, they could build something that lasted.

Chapter Text

Edrehasivar VII, the 209^th Emperor of the Ethuveraz

The ascension of Edrehasivar VII, also known as Edrehasivar Bridge-Builder and Edrehasivar Keystone, marked a significant change in not just imperial policy but also the philosophy of imperial responsibility. Edrehasivar VII fundamentally reshaped the role of emperor, taking a position of power kept from tyranny only by the work of government and transforming it to one of duty and service. He wrote extensively on the subject, and though his writings were (in obedience to his wishes) only published after his death, they were visible in his policy while he was alive and had a tremendous impact on the emperors that followed him.

This dramatic shift in attitude provoked a corresponding amount of resistance. Edrehasivar VII survived the greatest number of assassination and deposition attempts of any known emperor since Edrevenivar the Conqueror, with his nohecharei lauded for their skill and dedication – both the emperor and his four primary nohecharei died peacefully of old age.

Edrehasivar VII is also notable for his efforts to bridge the Istandaärtha, a work which was completed in the twentieth year of his reign; his negotiations with the Nazhmorhathveras leading to the eventual end of the Evressai Wars; his changes to the labour laws that even now protect the workers of the Ethuveraz; his unwavering support of the rights of women; and his strict disapproval of the traditional excesses and allowances given to nobility.

He was survived by his first and only empress, Csethiro Zhasan; five children including his heir, Chenet Drazhar (see following entry); nine grandchildren and eleven great-grandchildren. All of his imperial successors to date have elected to take his cognomen.

Helcoru’s Guide to the Imperial Line, thirtieth edition (expanded).

The words of the entry were as familiar and reassuring as they had always been. Change was challenging, but it was possible, and every step taken gave rise to new opportunities. Edrehasivar’s personal writing depicted the life of a man who had found peace and joy amongst the tumult of an emperor’s reign, and had shared that with all those he could. It was a great source of courage, and it was the perfect moment to be reminded of it. But no moment lasts forever.

‘Serenity, it is time.’

The book was placed carefully to one side, and the new emperor looked around and smiled.

Her great-great-grandfather had laid the groundwork. Now she would continue it.

Enelo Drazhin, soon to be crowned Edrehasivar, eleventh of that name, stepped forward.

~fin~