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Camelio Cennavin cast her spear, and she did not throw it in vain; it found its mark in the son of Clunethel’s chest, the point punching through his ribs and out of his back, piercing his lung and shattering his ribs. Clunethar fell from his saddle and struck the earth, where he coughed black blood.
Fading fast, the Amaleise warrior called out to his slayer, and begged to know the name of the cavalier who had felled him, for he saw it had been done in the name of the Zhas.
The breaker of men stood over him and removed her helm, and boasted thus: ‘Thou wilt know’t; when thou seest the host of thy kinsmen at Ulis’s hall, thou wilt tell them thou hast been slain by Camelio, old Cennavel’s daughter. Thou shouldst be honoured, for we are a far greater warrior than thee, and thou hast died facing us bravely. Be comforted, for mightier men than thee have died with our spear lodged in their backs, fleeing our onslaught. Now speed thyself to Ulis, and tell the men who have gone before thee that Camelio has won greater glory than ever before.’
To Camelio the courier-riders of Edrevenivar had brought a great sword, a long blade made by Pencharneise smiths and struck with the Anmureise sigils, so that it was called the sun-blade — and in the scabbard they had laid her cavalier-monogram in gold. Edrevenivar bade Camelio use it to slay the traitors to his reign, and so it was with this blade that Camelio cut down Clunethel, and sent his life fleeing to the open-handed one.
— Frechelar Cavalier Cycle, IV.14-27, trans. the 'Zhasan'Frechelar' translator, c.1590s AEC.
“Thy daughter, Saleheio,” said Tezhiro, Dowager Marchioness Ceredaran, “Says she wants to be a cavalier.”
Saleheio, the current Marchioness Ceredaran, had been reading a blue-bound novel she told Csethiro was ‘only for mamas’ and evidently enjoying her peace. She looked up slowly, put down her book with some deliberation, and marked her page very ponderously. She sat forward and eyed Csethiro, clamped in her grandmother’s beringed grip, then looked up at her mother-in-law, towering over her easy chair. She looked around for something else that might shed light on the situation. She clearly didn’t find anything; she gestured expectantly with her teacup and saucer. “...yes?”
“So thou wast aware of this,” said Csethiro’s grandmother grimly. “Yes, we thought so. Didst thou move her grammar lessons on purpose, so she could watch the guards drilling?”
The answer was yes, both mother and daughter knew it, but Saleheio breezed past it with an airy, “We moved her grammar lessons so she would have some hope of seeing the slates without the sun blasting through the north bay window.”
“You might have moved the location, not the time.”
Saleheio smiled. “Now, Tezhiro, you know any sensible woman would rankle at being told how to run her household.”
“Belcoree is our son’s household, Saleheio, put into thy temporary stewardship while he is at court— and thou knowst that anybody would struggle to accuse thee of being a sensible woman.” Her grip tightened on Csethiro’s shoulder. “We hope thou art not intending to raise all three of thy daughters in this fashion?”
Saleheio took a long, long look at her mother in law, one that Csethiro could not read, with her nail caught between her teeth… then she slowly unfurled a long, unambiguously disrespectful, grin. The Dowager Marchioness pressed;
“Csethiro is a daughter of the Ceredada, and if she is ever to make an advantageous marriage, she must learn sooner rather than later that notions such as this are not tolerated at court. Eccentricities—”
“She is eight years old,” pointed out Saleheio, not unreasonably. “Everybody has an interesting idea of matters at eight years old.”
“She has ideas of being your cavalier, Saleheio,” said the Dowager Marchioness.
Saleheio looked down at Csethiro, who was too mortified to look back at her— and what was worse, she didn’t seem to be smirking anymore. “Indeed? Csethiro—”
“Csethiro has said her part.”
“To you, yes indeed, but we are asking our daughter,” said Saleheio, putting on a new, odd, smile, so far as Csethiro could tell from the corner of her eye— the singular our glimmered dangerously between them. “You will forgive us for asking to take our daughter’s matters in hand. But we do thank you for your concern.”
They stared at one another for a minute… then Csethiro’s grandmother let go of her. She said, in an odd, tired, tone; “Your way narrows, Saleheio. Exceptions will not always be made for you. You cannot laugh your way out of every situation.”
“Merrem,” said Saleheio coolly, tugging Csethiro over to stand by her chair. “We are aware.”
The Dowager Marchioness gave Saleheio a funny sort of look— almost pitying, the sort of look the grooms gave to an old hound past its best— then said to Csethiro, “Remember yourself,” and swept out.
Csethiro had spent most of that conversation trying not to cry, and now she lost the battle. Her grandmother had hauled her out from behind the old balustrade, berated her loudly enough for Captain Perezh to hear, no doubt, and swept her off to her mother— and, what was worse, had told her everything, even some of the things Csethiro had not told her.
She tried to turn to leave, but Saleheio was faster; she bundled Csethiro up and pinned her to her flank. “Now, now, o Csethiro mine, thou must not cry— I was allowing it, we know’t. So we can be in trouble together, hmm?”
Csethiro buried her face in the embroidered daffodils on Saleheio’s stomacher and said nothing. Saleheio bent down so her head was almost level with Csethiro’s ear, and said, cheerfully, “Wantest thou to be my cavalier, Csethiro Ceredin?”
“Don’t laugh!” Csethiro sobbed.
“I’m not laughing,” said Saleheio, who certainly sounded as if she was. She seemed to spy Csethiro’s devastated expression squashed against her torso, and amended; “I’m not laughing at thee. I’m laughing at, er, at life. Ay, don’t mind thy silly Mama, thou knowst I think everything is a great bon mot. And thy grandmama has… well, thy grandmama has a great many problems to think about. She always has done. Do not be too cross at her.”
“I hate it when she says I have to be an important lady at court,” Csethiro said, muffled. “I don’t want to be an important lady at court, I want to be a cavalier. But Min Lirein and Dachensol Terezar and Grandmother say that girls can’t be cavaliers, and anyway nobody is a cavalier anymore, because the old emperor two before this one said it was for barbarians, but I think he just didn’t want anybody to be able to fight in case they tried to challenge his nohecharei.”
“Well,” said Saleheio, in her laughing-but-not-laughing voice, “...yes, that is all true. But, thou needst to live the entire span of all thy years again before I can trundle thee up to court and present thee as Dach’osmin Ceredin. Tis a mighty long time. Until then—” She kissed the top of Csethiro’s head with an exaggerated smack. “Canst be my cavalier.” She let go of Csethiro, who stared in silent, snotty, and soggy resentment at the floor. “Well, dost thou not want to?”
“Thou’rt only humouring me.” Csethiro said sullenly to the antique rug her mother had always called the Dachenmaro’s Death Shroud, for its age and dourness.
Saleheio gasped in mock outrage. “Am I indeed! Let me see about that—” She went thundering across to the wall, and outright wrenched one of the decorative rapiers out of its bracket. It gave, with a slightly dubious crunch.
“I don’t think thou’rt meant to do that,” Csethiro said, watching plaster rain down onto the floor.
“It fell down by itself and we weren’t here when it did,” said Saleheio, twirling back to her. “Kneel down, then!” She saw Csethiro staring at the grip. “Am I holding it wrong?”
“Captain Perezh says that the best way is to hold it with the index finger over the cross guard— that bit, Mama— and the thumb wrapped around the grip— like that— with the other fingers relaxed around the grip. It is better for control.” Csethiro could only be relieved that her grandmother hadn’t worked out that she was not only watching, but Captain Perezh had already agreed to show her how to fence. Her mother knew as much— she had told the Captain if he accidentally killed her daughter she’d make him eat his sword— but she had done a magnificent job at pretending not to.
“Ah!” Saleheio did so. “Quite. This is easier. Hmm— er. Avast?”
Csethiro giggled. “Mama, that’s for pirates.”
“It is? What do cavaliers say?”
“I don’t think they have special words.”
“Well then, kneel down.”
Feeling silly, Csethiro knelt down. Saleheio said, “Er, let’s think now… indeed, thou canst be my cavalier for I have many enemies — I laugh at them all and it makes them cross, so I have no choice but to send thee to kill them for me, o my Csethiro. In which case…” She peered down at her daughter, then stage-whispered, “What’s my line?”
“Thus an thou’rt desirous we will name thee Dach’avazar and thou wilt do unto thy death our bidding on the field, Mama!”
“Ah, yes, ahem— thus an thou’rt desirous we will name thee Dach’avazar and thou wilt do unto thy death our bidding on the field.”
“Madam, we will," said Camelio, "And e'er we will, for the matters you give unto us, we will take as ours and pursue them unto the death— nay, further, for we would indeed challenge Ulis himself an it please our lady mother."
Saleheio chuckled. “Just so!” She tapped Csethiro lightly on the backs of both hands with the sword, and said, “Do get up, then.”
Csethiro did, and smiled, but it was halfhearted. “But I am not really allowed to fight anybody for thee.”
“Well, perhaps not with a sword,” said Saleheio, trying to wedge hers back onto the wall. “That might be just a touch illegal. But thou’rt very clever, and I think perhaps thou mightst just have to find a different way of defending me, tis all. There are lots of ways of fighting that are not martial.”
“At court, thou mean’st," Csethiro said glumly.
“Maybe so,” Saleheio agreed, dumping the rapier on the floor and coming back over to her. “But it will not be so bad, for I will come with thee and tell thee all the scandals and gossip.”
“Thou wouldst have to stay with Emiro and the baby.”
“Min Lirein can handle thy sisters a little while,” said Saleheio. “No, no, I am decided on’t, I will take my Csethiro myself.” She pinched Csethiro’s cheeks and went to finish her tea. “I’ll find thee a nice husband who will let thee have a sword.” She thought about it. “Or a stupid one, who will not notice. Tis really all one.”
“I don’t want a stupid husband,” frowned Csethiro.
“Nobody does, my dear, but one hears it’s not so very bad,” said Saleheio, clearing space at the table. “Come and sit here, Dach’avazar, and make thyself useful by helping with my correspondence. We can pick someone and imagine killing them. Plenty of my friends' husbands are quite the most ridiculous gentlemen you ever saw…”
FROM THE DESK OF MIN TERANO OLIVIN, SECRETARY TO CSETHIRO ZHASAN
SCHEDULE FOR THE ZHASAN FOR THE DAY OF 28-8-’97AEC
FOR THE ATTENTION OF:
- DACH’OSMIN DERILO MEREVIN, MAID OF HONOUR TO THE ZHASAN
- DACH’OSMIN HESIRIÄN CEREDIN; DACH’OSMIN AILANIÄN PASHAVIN; OSMIN TERIZHAN BERENIN; OSMERREM SARIZHO ZHERINARAN. LADIES IN WAITING TO THE ZHASAN
SECOND COPY TO BE MADE FOR THE REFERENCE OF:
- M. C. AISAVA, SECRETARY TO EDREHASIVAR ZHAS
- [CHANGE; MORNING GOWN TO VISITING GOWN] THE ZHASAN WILL ACCOMPANY THE EMPEROR TO THE H.O.B VOTE ON THE MANUFACTORY REFORMS. [NO ATTENDANCE REQUIRED, L.O.B TO OTHER DUTIES]
The House of Blood was as rowdy as it ever got; the nobles on their feet, waving voting slips, shouting, stamping like michen. It was a good turnout, to boot; roughly half of the four hundred or so peers were actually present, which was a miracle considering a great many of the elderly noblemen tended to arrive, stamp their signet on the attendance rolls to claim their allowance, then walk back to their apartments and go back to bed without voting on a thing. Some of them didn’t even change out of their nightshirts for the endeavour.
Such a turnout— and such a lively one, at that— might have been impressive to Csethiro, had she ever been in the House of Blood before. Unfortunately, she was a woman, and practically nobody took their daughters or their wives to the Bloodbaths unless they were actively being interrogated about something, and so her interest was somewhat lacking. Thus, on a late summer morning absolutely heaving gouts of rain, the Zhasan was more interested in the mural of the Raid of Vasthorno on the eastern wall.
The mural, Csethiro decided while Bazhevel and Cambeshel had an argument over Tativel’s head, was probably pre-Varedeise— possibly mid-Edrevecheleise, based on the propensity for heavy greens and the fact Camelio was depicted wearing a farthingale, which would have been wildly impractical for much anything, let alone killing the Prince of Thu-Cethor's soldiers from horseback in Vasthorno’s narrow old streets. At least the muralist had shown remarkable restraint in not painting her with a breast or two out, in a weak pretence to artistic licence. Otherwise, Edrevenivar’s cavaliers were depicted in their usual order and usual raiment; Vanis Doremar and Odris Pennevar in their Anmureise armour on Edrevenivar’s right, Camelio Cennavin on his left with her Csaiveise helm, Solichar and Alechenar behind them, and Kanzhis Belreched last of all, typical— and that Hezhethoreise-style armour was horribly anachronistic, to boot. The artist had also left out a lot of the minor or later-tradition cavaliers, probably for lack of space. Edrevenivar rode at their head, cold, beautiful face shadowed under his helm, the long-lost Edreveneise saber in his hand. Some of the university academics were convinced it had been melted down into the Ethuverazhid Mura; Csethiro, for her part, suspected it had been buried with him, like all good cavaliers. Not that thinking so was any use, because Edrevenivar’s grave was lost. Most likely it would stay that way.
The current emperor sat not far from his painted ancestor, enthroned and unmoving at the head of the pews, seemingly unperturbed by the chaos. Maia’s edocharei had dressed him in a thin organza veil and put over it a net of amber and silver, and he was so still that neither had shifted even slightly in the last few minutes. The only thing that belied his discomfort was the fact his hands were locked together tightly in his lap. Csethiro was sitting behind him, in the back corner of the dais, on a chair someone had hastily found and placed for her. It was the least offensive place to place a Zhasan whose presence most people would have preferred to ignore.
The nohecharei usually stood at the base of the dais, but they had mounted it when the shouting had started, and now they were standing slightly in front of Csethiro’s chair, far tenser than usual. Beshelar had his hand on his sword. Csethiro had never seen him draw it, but would rather have liked to. It was a nice blade; the Untheileneise Guard had a habit of providing sad lumps, old chunks of iron that they said were antique but weren’t any such thing to their more minor recruits. But Beshelar’s blade was a proper longsword; the imperial nohecharei did not, it was fair to say, piss about when it came to weaponry. Most likely he also had a set of knives somewhere about his person. And if Lieutenant Beshelar had been approved as a nohecharis, he must have been very good with all of them— Csethiro thought someone had said he'd been in the Thu-Cethor principate guard. Prince Halis was not an easy man to impress; certainly the Marquess Ceredel, for all the Cethoreise lands he owned, had never had managed it, although that was no surprise. Maybe if Beshelar ever came to regard her— or anybody— with less dubiousness, she should ask him about it.
She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, wishing she had taken some more henbane before coming here. At least she had been in her own rooms, and had not bled in Maia's bed, again; she had done that last month, and his edocharei had fairly gallantly, but quite unconvincingly, pretended not to be annoyed. This time, she had quite literally run into Kiru Athmaza while thundering up the quicker side passage to either raid the herb store, or find someone who knew where everything was.
Csethiro had fumbled some apology and hastily tried to sidle past her, no doubt looking totally absurd, running around in her bloody nightgown and half-askew bedrobe at five in the morning. Kiru was not in the remotest bit affected; she bowed, gave her a very brief once-over, smiled, and said, with immense perception; "We believe last time we were on duty in your rooms we put some additional painkillers in the cabinet beneath your powder table, if you will excuse the presumption, Zhasan."
"Oh," said Csethiro, stopping trying to wriggle past her. She had not even thought to check there. "…oh, thank you."
She stood foolishly for a minute, suddenly becoming aware that she was not wearing shoes, and that her hair had come totally undone. "Kiru Athmaza—" She cut herself off, and looked down at her feet. One of her stockings was falling down. "No, we… believe that was all. We will not take up your time off-duty. We do apologise."
She pulled her stocking up half-heartedly and turned to trudge back downstairs—
"It takes a little time, Zhasan, regardless of what a great many women would have you believe," Kiru said gently from behind her. "We do not believe there is anything amiss."
"Yes," Csethiro said bleakly, pausing on the stairwell. "Well. We will be in our rooms this morning, if we are… needed for anything..." She could not imagine what she would be needed for, but the look Kiru was giving her was so ruinously kind that she had desperately wanted to feel important. She had summarily gone back downstairs, shamefaced, to lie wide awake until her ladies came to fetch her at eight. The painkillers had been where Kiru said they would be.
She distracted herself now with watching the clerks in the side chamber, who were counting the voting slips furiously and with no small amount of paranoia, given Csevet Aisava was standing at the head clerks’ desk, watching them. While they counted, the peers argued; stacks on stacks of old angry elven men who had done nothing to earn their power besides being an eldest son and not having died by the time the peerage was passed down. There were no official factions, but generally one could get a good visual representation of political leaning just by looking. Her father, for instance; Ceredel was sitting in a nervous huddle near the eastern window, trying to avoid several people’s wafting elbows. At least the Marquess took his attendance to the House of Blood seriously, although it might have only been out of fear that the emperor would take the peerage away if he didn’t. Next to him, Count Celehel just looked perplexed. Both men considered it unthinkable to vote against the emperor’s will, regardless of who the emperor was; it said something to their sense of institutional loyalty, but not much to any other character traits. The Thu-Istandaär nobles were muttering together furiously; ancient old Pashavel had nodded off on an affronted Terranel. Viscount Virenel was looking terrible today, an odd greyish-pink tinge to his ears, clutching the back of the next pew in clammy fists. Levero Virenaran had been telling anybody who would listen that her father-in-law had given himself the wilt by patronising brothels, and evidently it was catching up with him. She would be Viscountess by next autumn if Csethiro was any judge.
Duke Rohethel looked appalled with his fellows’ behaviour, which was about right for the man who had raised Sheveän Drazharan. Behind him, Urmenel was trying to smoke without being noticed; even as she watched, Viscount Nelel snatched it from him and put it out. Down from them, poor little Marquess Perimel, in attendance at one of his first Bloodbaths, looked as if he would quite have liked to be eaten by the thinning velvet seat and never seen again. His family’s coffers had never faltered since they had produced for Varenechibel his favourite wife, but Maia, who had no link to Pazhiro and no reason to love her kinsmen, no doubt made them uneasy.
The counting-house runner came tearing back down the aisle, bowed to Maia, then clomped up the steps to the presider’s balcony to hand the results to Lanthevel. Lanthevel opened them, read them, then took to hammering on the Presider’s box with both his fists and the gavel, bellowing for order.
“The proposal— the proposal— be quiet, for shame! The proposal brought before the House of Blood today, by His Imperial Serenity Edrehasivar the Seventh and the Lords of the Corazhas, advances a series of reforms to the manufactory production of textiles, especially with regards to the production of airship cloth, Sharadansho silk, and Cairadeise lace. Concerns have been raised before— sit down Telbenel— before this house on the matter of manufactory workers’ safety, including the recent Lohaiseise and Amaleise airship manufactory disasters, the blinding and visual impairment of workers involved in the production of Sharadansho white silk, and the maiming of workers in textile mills in Thu-Athamar, from whom you have all heard testimony—”
Telbenel erupted; “Oh, hah, yes, we have heard testimony, but it was an odd sort of testimony indeed, axes grinding all over the—”
“We believe the Marquess Lantheval is speaking, Duke Telbenel,” came the emperor’s voice— bland in the extreme, but that was a warning in itself.
Telbenel coloured and went quiet, glowering at the assembled.
“Anmura, an we could slay them all,” Csethiro muttered, for the general benefit of anyone in earshot, but mostly just to say it. Beshelar heard her, however, and he glanced over his shoulder at her. “Oh come, Lieutenant, you must have had the thought.”
“Zhasan,” said Beshelar noncommittally, facing forward again.
“Perhaps they will storm the dais and we will get to maim a few,” Csethiro suggested, trying to cheer herself up. It was nice to imagine landing a hit on Telbenel. Beshelar, as was his usual wont, ignored her. Cala shot her a short, awkward smile over his shoulder, which was not markedly more of an acknowledgement. Csethiro gave up, and opened her fan to look at the pattern.
Lanthevel was announcing; “245 to the ayes, 203 to the noes, the ayes have it— then you should have campaigned more efficiently, Telbenel!”
She had barely gotten two steps down the dais before she heard, “Csethiro— daughter— Zhasan—” and clamped down on a shriek of frustration.
Her father came bobbling up and bowed hastily, trailing both literal pages and the human kind, who were picking up the stray paper.
“Father, there is no need to pretend you do not remember our very name,” said Csethiro, turning sharply on him. “What is the matter?”
“Well— what does it mean? For our investments?” The notes were wobbly and disordered in Ceredel’s clammy hands; Csethiro took them from him, rolled them up properly, and returned them.
“Nothing. The only manufactory investments the Ceredada have are in gauges and rails for the trams.” The Ceredada were largely traditionalists, their money coming from the immense amount of land and property they owned in Thu-Cethor. Even the Prince of Thu-Cethor paid the Marquess Ceredel, if he wanted to graze his cattle. Their ‘new’ investment in trams had been spearheaded by her grandmother after her husband had lost a great many of his court appointments, as well as all hope of having Arbelan’s dowry returned. Although, with the steam locomotive development proposals and patents that were crossing Maia’s desk, she suspected if the Ceredada were wise, they could jump to a new industry sooner rather than later. Not that it was her place to tell them to do so any longer.
“We used to have velvet investments, I am sure—”
“Mama sold all of our velvet assets before Iru was even born for a good sum. Father, it will only really affect those three fabrics. We do not own any, let alone have investments in the making of them.” Sharadansho silk was an imperial luxury; Cairadeise lace was a new fashion, too expensive for the penny-pinching Ceredada at the time; and they had no airship investments. The Tethimada had once had all those sorts of assets. When their house had fallen, they had been transferred to Prince Orchenis, as the warder of the remaining Tethimin maids, and there was every chance that Orchenis would do as he was told and ensure the bill was enforced. It was the houses who had bought manufactory assets in the silk mills and their subsidiaries who would be forced to alter working hours and conditions in their factories; no doubt Telbenel would lose a bit of extra cash, but Csethiro had seen how his daughters dressed to tea, and thought they would probably be quite all right to merely be very rich instead of disgustingly rich for a little while.
“We will not lose money?” pressed Ceredel.
“No, Papa,” said Csethiro through gritted teeth, thinking that Ceredel was exceedingly lucky he had always had one or two competent women attached to him. Perhaps Csaivo had given him so many daughters so he had enough buffer room to survive.
“Only I am still paying Emiro’s dowry— and Ferechel said that it signalled ruin for all the noble houses with manufactory interests—”
Viscount Ferechel was so self-interested Csethiro was convinced he was physically incapable of looking up from his own silken self. Like pigs. “Viscount Ferechel is lucky his lace milliners haven’t cooked him yet. You will not lose money. Ask grandmother, she will tell you.”
“Your grandmama is a little… unhappy with us all, at present—”
“Yes, we are aware,” said Csethiro tersely. Being that it was her fault, she certainly knew. “But we are sure she will still explain y— the investments. You know she holds the records.”
She could see the imperial party staring, from near the doors— Csethiro thought Maia was holding them to wait for her, and probably making them late, based on the way Csevet kept looking at his pocketwatch under his notes and how Beshelar was scowling.
“The emperor is generous,” Ceredel muttered reflexively. “We are grateful for his favour. You must remind him we are grateful for his favour.”
Csethiro fidgeted, almost physically itching to leave. “We will do so, Father.”
“You are being good?” Ceredel said anxiously. “You are in favour?”
With Maia, anyhow. “...yes, Father.”
“There’s my good girl,” Ceredel said absently. He gave her a slightly clumsy pat on the hand, another awkward bow, and trotted off.
Csethiro stood very still for a moment, took in a sharp breath through her nose, then turned abruptly and went to rejoin the emperor.
They were halfway back to the Alcethmeret when the Mich'Untheil'aleris started ringing.
Csethiro barely had time to think before Beshelar had them bundled up a side staircase and into an unobtrusive (and, by the look of it, unused) tower room just north of the Verven'theilean, in what felt like a second. They did not quite run, but Csethiro and Csevet both had to trot to keep up with Maia and Cala's much longer strides.
Csethiro did not wince when Beshelar slammed the door, and enjoyed Csevet's obvious and totally out of place affront at his ruined schedule for a moment— then it occurred to her that there could be an actual emergency, and they only had the two nohecharei.
She looked sharply over at Maia, who had sat himself gingerly on an old bench along the wall, ears pinned uneasily against his head. "What is that?"
"That's the Dashing Duke," said Csethiro, fizzing with the urge to pace. She sat down next to him for a moment, then got up and crossed to the window. "We wonder what the matter is?"
"It's properly called the Mich'Untheil'aleris, Serenity," said Csevet stiffly. "It is the secondary emergency signal of the court. Zhasan, please get away from the window."
Maia looked as if he had guessed what the Dach'Untheil'aleris rang for. Csethiro turned back; "It's called the Dashing Duke because everyone's wealthy papas have to start running if it rings, and that's a sight and a half— like Celehel at Winternight! He was off like the clappers."
"Yes, they last rung it when Eshevis Tethimar was killed," said Csevet primly.
Maia blinked. "Ah. We don't remember that."
"Thou wast a bit busy," Csethiro agreed. Abruptly, she spun on Beshelar; "Damn, if it's going this way— give us a sword, Lieutenant. We saw some in the niche on the way up, we could have one."
Beshelar looked at her like she'd spat at his feet and rubbed it in with the sole of her shoe for good measure. "Zhasan, do be serious."
Csethiro stared back, affronted. "We are quite serious. There is no harm in having a second sword, indeed it would be the sensible—"
"Out of the question." Beshelar said promptly. "It would be grossly improper for us to do such a thing."
"Merciful goddesses, man, improper! At a time such as this!"
"Zhasan," said Beshelar, in the tones of a long-suffering man trying to be kind to an idiot, "You are a… gentleman duellist? You are not trained as a solider, you are not a knight, and you are not a cavalier. We do not see what you could possibly—"
"Deret," mumbled Cala Athmaza, but he was ignored. Csevet had put himself unobtrusively in the corner, eyes narrowed; the emperor was silent. Csethiro was cravenly glad she was facing away from him, and especially glad when a jolt of aggression had her saying;
"What does it matter if we go and get ourself maimed? We know very well you have no obligation to protect us unless we are pregnant, and you can be sure we have proved a disappointment on that front once again, we bled this very morning." She thought Csevet winced slightly, although she didn't know if it was the typical masculine squeamishness, or simply his awareness of the political implication of blurting that out. "So, if half the court come up that stairwell, it would hardly be any great loss—"
"An they do, Zhasan," said Beshelar witheringly, "It would be our concern, not yours. Respectfully. And we would take the opportunity to remind you that the last attempt on the emperor's life came from a discontented nobleman, and indeed a not-insignificant number of them were just made so, in the House of Blood. And so in this instance, Dach'osmerrem— please cease to treat this like a penny-opera. We pray you, let us do our job in peace."
Csethiro opened her mouth furiously, but was interrupted by what sounded like Captain Orthema's shout below; Beshelar gave her a stiff, tight lipped bow, saluted the emperor, and vanished down the staircase. Cala positioned himself by the door silently.
To suggest she was not serious! Csethiro kicked one of the rolled-up rugs hatefully, and sat down in a heap on one of the old ottomans, burning with mortification. Yet another entry in the already long and inglorious history of Csethiro Zhasan’s clashes with the imperial household. It seemed there was no end to them.
She stayed very still, staring at her hands balled up in her lap and the drifting grey dust; after an extended moment of tense silence, her self-righteousness began to buckle somewhat. Beshelar was grating, but he was right that it was not the nohecharei's job to tolerate the desperate self-aggrandising of the emperor’s imprudent wife. And he was also probably correct to fear she would do something foolish in an emergency and end up interfering with a perfectly competent defence mission. She probably would. She had been foolish enough these last months. While she had loudly declared impotent and belated intent, to no one’s particular benefit, they had actually been there, hauling him out of Sheveän’s cellars and dispatching Tethimar— Beshelar had even taken the knife.
She risked a glance at Maia, saw he was staring at her, and quickly pretended she hadn't. If she remained a nuisance to his sworn swords, she hardly knew what would happen. Edrevechelar II had taken Parmeno Zhasan’s side in a spat between his wife and his Lord Chancellor, but that was the only time it had happened— and it had only been the wretched Lord Chancellor, anyhow. Here, it was hardly a choice to pick between your politically arranged match of a few months, and the people sworn to kill themselves at the feet of your corpse. And she wasn't remotely as beautiful as Parmeno, although possibly taller.
She thought of her father saying, You are being good? You are in favour? and resisted the urge to lie down on the floor and scream.
Maia said, hesitantly, "Csethiro—"
"Oh, leave it, Serenity, I don't mean to make thee pick between uptight sworn sword and quixotic arranged-marriage wife," snapped Csethiro.
"Not… that, only— I do not think thou shouldst say t'would not be any great loss if thou wast, er. Killed."
"Politically speaking," said Csethiro stiffly, not looking at him.
"No," Maia said softly— but when she ignored him again, he gave up on her and fell silent.
- THE ZHASAN WILL TAKE TEA WITH NOBLE PETITIONERS; FIRST THE DACH’OSMIN ULZHAVIN, SECONDLY THE OSMIN ZHERININ, THIRDLY THE DOWAGER VISCOUNTESS VIRENARAN, AND LASTLY THE DUKE ERIMEL. [ATTENDING: D.M (MOH), H.C. A.P, N.D, S.Z.]
Beshelar and Csevet's combined indignation at the knowledge it had been a false alarm caused by an pneumatic system motor malfunction that had tripped the alarm cables was spectacular, and almost proved comparable to Csethiro's rage at discovering that after all of that, she still had time to take tea with petitioners. The emperor merely muttered that he was glad no-one had been hurt, and led his frazzled and irritable group back to the Alcethmeret in an agonisingly awkward silence. Neither first soldier nohecharis or Zhasan looked at one another the entire walk.
A few petitioners had cancelled, but not enough; Csethiro collected her slightly anxious ladies and stormed off to her parlour in a foul mood, glad to see the back of the boys for the time being.
The noble houses were still working out their tactics about the Zhasan, and at the moment they were in an experimental phase of sending their maiden daughters to make their cases, in the belief that Csethiro, having a great many sisters, would look more kindly upon them. Csethiro had not bothered to disabuse anybody of this notion, since the poor things generally didn’t have a clue what they were asking, and were quite happy to be out-manoeuvred in the first five minutes and led on to talk about stage actors or riding or their families. The nobility had forgotten Csethiro was an elder sister, and therefore largely jaded out of sentimentality and entirely professional at bargaining.
They had no luck with her ladies, either; Derilo and Hesiriän were admittedly picks from a personal point of view, Derilo a very old family friend and Hesiriän Csethiro's own sister, hauled out of the threatening maw of a frighteningly lonely society debut… but the others were highly strategic. Csethiro liked them all, but she had not ended up with one of Lord Pashavar's granddaughters and Lord Berenar's youngest daughter by pure accident; and Sarizho was fond of saying she was a political hostage to both her married house, the Zherinada, and her maiden house, the Doreshada, although Csethiro denied this staunchly. Still, it all mattered, even if Ailaniän was afraid to so much as look at the emperor, Hesiriän was glued to Csethiro's hip like a shadow, and Derilo, Terizhan, and Sazhiro spent most of their time collecting gossip and playing cards rather than being useful.
The Virenada, because they were sharper than most, sent their Dowager Viscountess to treat with the Zhasan, instead. She was an incredibly old woman, hard in the way all the Vareseveise noblewomen were; her jewellery great chunks of jade, her hair an impenetrable updo of interlocked braids, and her social manners like casting stones. She opened on the attack, by baldly eyeing Csethiro’s waistline, tutting to herself, and sitting down with an affected look of cloying encouragement. Csethiro smiled with no small amount of effort, then looked down at the teacup in her hands, imagining crushing it in her fist.
Still, she managed a few barbs of her own— isn't it such a great pity your grandson has not been able to continue his studies at the university? and her favourite, too old! Well, how could they say such a thing of your son the Viscount, we are very sure he remains hale, no matter that he came off over the old bay mare’s neck last spring, we are quite certain everybody has forgotten about that by now— and gave not an inch on the Virenada’s implicit demand that the emperor intervene on their Amaleise property dispute with the Pazhilavada, which Prince Orchenis would not hear. They parted in mutual acrimony.
By the time they came to the last audience, Csethiro had eaten only two miniature tartlets and a fruit scone since breakfast, drunk three and a half cups of tea and was starting to need the lavatory quite distinctly, and was not at all in the frame of mind to hear Terano say, “Zhasan, the Duke Erimel is the last petitioner today.”
“Ho now, it's Uncle Cement,” said Csethiro darkly to Hesiriän, who looked dubious. “Let's look very high-handed.”
Her ladies arranged themselves in a semi-circle of vague hostility behind her, and Csethiro found herself something else promising looking to eat, as the door was opened for Duke Cenet Erimel. He came in with small, brisk steps, wearing dove-grey, quartz, and his perpetual frown. Csethiro hoped in an idle lack of charity that he'd fall over, but disappointingly he did not. “Good day, Duke Erimel.”
He made an attempt at a smile, but he was not a man who was given to smiling, and it ill-became him. “Come, Zhasan, are we not still uncle and niece?”
“We had not forgotten it. Will you not sit and take tea with us? Uncle?”
He frowned, slightly. Erimel had no patience for women’s society, which was why he had never had the remotest interest in his younger sister, Csethiro’s mother. His given name was Cenet, but Saleheio had taught her daughters to call him Uncle Cement, being that he was boring, immovably set in his ways, and tended to dress in shades of grey he believed were flattering but were really just dour. “We thank you, but this is not a social visit.”
“Indeed?”
“We have matters to discuss with you. Familial matters, but nonetheless.”
“Well, then pray state your familial matter.” Swordplay always dictated that one focused on their opponents eyes, and Csethiro did so now; almost instantly, Erimel struggled to keep his gaze level. To cover it, he clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the window.
“You understand that our eldest daughter Trinaro is betrothed to Dach’osmer Telbenar,” he said, examining the rose garden through the panes of stained glass in the top.
Telbenar being the silk heir, debuting this month. Csethiro saw the play here, stretching out like an endless unpaved road before her. Of course he had come today. “Who has not heard of it? A mighty match.”
“They will be married in the spring.”
“So soon?”
“We see no reason to wait.”
Other than that his daughter was sixteen years old. “Quite.” Csethiro let the pause run a little too long, then said, “Our aunt the Duchess must be very pleased.” She doubted her aunt the Duchess was any such thing, since Saleheio had always complained that her sister in law smothered her children so completely they likely had no idea how to leave the Erimada apartments unassisted.
“She is,” said Erimel stiffly. “And knowing that you yourself are well settled in an... elevated match has certainly soothed Trinaro’s worries a great deal.”
The most elevated match of all, arguably. “How sweet.”
“She is of course too demure to raise the idea herself, but we know she wishes to speak to you on the matter. You know you are the first of her female relatives of her age to be married, and I am sure she would be extremely grateful for the advice or help you could offer her.”
“Oh, certainly.”
Erimel glanced back at her, evidently not sure if she was acquiescing or acknowledging her own superiority, then said; “And we are sure you are just as eager to see your childhood playmate settled in an advantageous marriage as any of us. We would be horribly aggrieved if the marriage did not yield all possible benefits.”
“For her?”
“We beg your pardon?”
“All possible benefits… for your daughter?”
Erimel coughed. “Ah. Yes. As a father we take the most serious interest in the wellbeing of our children.”
“To be sure,” said Csethiro, who knew his children called him Dach’osmer. “Well, we will be happy to speak with Trinaro. About her marriage.” Erimel smiled— it dropped when Csethiro carried on; “Of course, there is a great deal to think about, she must buy a trousseau— have you yet bought her a trousseau? No? It cannot wait, Uncle, goodness no— and pins, one always needs a great deal, they are necessary for every little thing, and we are sure the Telbenada will wish for her to have some headed with their crest. And linens... yes, there really are a festoon of things she should consider.”
“...we are sure Trinaro will have questions for you,” said Erimel stiffly. "And we will of course pass on your advice." He bowed. “Zhasan. We do not wish to take up your time; we will take our leave. We are sure you will hear from our daughter presently.”
“We will await it. Do remember us to our cousins,” said Csethiro, not certain who had won that. “And we would be happy to see Trinaro.”
He left; he was promptly replaced by Merrem Esaran, whose expression implied she liked him about as much as Csethiro did. “Zhasan, your kinsmen are without.”
“Early, for once in their lives,” Csethiro grumbled. Esaran made no response to that comment, face perfectly neutral; Csethiro got the uneasy feeling that Maia’s household steward did not like her very much, and had not done since she had declared she intended to move into the Alcethmeret. She had probably hoped Csethiro would have her own quarters to host her disastrous relatives in. Not that Csethiro could fault her for that hope, but she had dashed it quite unhelpfully. “Thank you, Merrem Esaran, we will change and go down presently. Hesiriän, couldst thou possibly detain them in the meantime…?”
- [CHANGE - VISITING GOWN TO TEA-GOWN] THE ZHASAN WILL TAKE A LATE LUNCHEON WITH HER STEP-MOTHER THE MARCHIONESS CEREDARAN AND HER HALF-BROTHER MICHEN CEREDAR [ATTENDING: H.C., S.Z.]
“Certainly we think you may have put on weight!” said her stepmother brightly.
Csethiro stared at her for a full, bewildered second, hand paused over the plate Isheian was offering her, before she realised what she was attempting to insinuate.
“Oh.” She went crossly back to the plate. “Thank you, Isheian.” The little server retreated silently, although her eyes were slightly wide. Csethiro reminded herself it was highly unlikely that her kinsmen were not already subjects of Alcethmeret kitchen ridicule. Had she worked there, she certainly would have delighted in it. “Well, we have found nothing to remark upon ourself.”
Her stepmother smiled with a knowing superiority— then noticed Hesiriän saying, “No, no, Csathis—” and wrestling Csathis’s chunky fists away from attempting to rip a hole in the upholstery. Csethiro got up hastily, relieved she had chosen the unfashionable Green Parlour for this particular endeavour, but still imagining being slain by Merrem Esaran regardless.
Meliro turned to flap about her son; “Now, now, sweet, this is the emperor’s house, thou canst not be behaving like a little troll in here, canst thou, no—!”
Csathis took relatively little heed of his mother, which was par for the course with most noble children. They should have brought Min Lirein with them. Csethiro muscled in, and said, “But, brother, an thou’rt sitting here thou canst see the birds in the ceiling trim, there— canst see them? Yes, canst thou see the crane?”
He was momentarily distracted; Csethiro took the opportunity to plonk him firmly back in his seat and put his stuffed bear back in his hands. He was not particularly interested in her, she often found, beyond her jewellery, which he usually tried to pull, hard. Hesiriän still lived in the Ceredada’s apartments when she was off-duty, so he recognised her, but he did not see Csethiro half as often. For the minute, he set himself to chomping determinedly on the ear of his bear with his limited teeth, which was preferable.
“There!” said Meliro, sounding slightly frazzled. She added, a little weakly, “Tis a mighty good omen that he will behave for you, Zhasan.”
Csethiro sighed, wondered dully why her half-brother was sticky, and wiped her hand on a nearby napkin. She did not know or care if her stepmother meant it was a good omen for her future childbearing prospects, or if it was more in the vein of Csathis’s future compliance to the crown. Her maiden house was run by terrified sycophants; not for the first time, she cursed Varenechibel and her grandfather in almost equal measure.
The conversation turned to the upcoming society debuts; their stepmother had nieces and nephews debuting, and she seemed a little desperate for Csethiro to look kindly on them.
“Marchioness, we have no thought of treating unkindly with the debutants,” Csethiro said, catching herself stabbing repeated and agitated holes in her potatoes, rather than actually eating them. She told herself sternly it was an insult to Dachensol Ebremis's excellent food to maim it, no matter how trying her family were, and hastily went to actually eating. “We remember it well enough ourself, and it is not an experience anybody truly enjoys. We will have a thought for them all.”
“Besides, Stepmother, we have to be presented too, and Emiro and I will be able to see to your kinsmen, an they are nervous,” Hesiriän pointed out bravely, although Csethiro suspected she herself would be ten times more nervous than Meliro’s nieces and nephews.
“Indeed, yes! And it will be nice for thy sister to practice these things, by presenting thee...” said the Marchioness, in the slightly determined tones of a woman who wanted to resolve herself to an idea she did not entirely like. Csethiro was a little sorry that they had wrangled her out of presenting Hesiriän— she was fond of Ceredel’s daughters in her way, and she would likely have been happy to do it. But nothing was more likely to make Hesiriän sick with nerves than Meliro’s equally anxious chatter. By comparison, Emiro was so damnably ridiculous that she made it hard to be afraid.
“It was very generous of you to allow Emiro to do it in your stead,” Csethiro agreed smoothly. “And it was sensible of you to think that she should gain some experience with these court matters, as fitting for her new status as Dach’osmerrem Doresharan.” The majority of what Emiro truly seemed to be doing as Dach’osmerrem Doresharan was ruling salons like an iron-fist dictator and misbehaving with her husband at the Doreshada’s country estate, but at least she was posting Csethiro all of the country gossip.
“Quite!” The Marchioness was, as Csethiro had wanted, warming up to the idea that it had been her scheme. She nodded happily, then gestured at a slightly alarmed Derilo, who had been obliged to attend because Csethiro needed another attending lady, and she had known Csethiro for so long that nothing the Ceredada did could surprise her anymore. “And, Hesiriän, thou'rt lucky, for thou hast had no good guidance these long years, not since thy poor mama died— but now thou hast these older ladies about thee at the point thou'rt entering society, and tis a blessing indeed!”
Csethiro almost choked on her fork in outrage. Derilo pretended to be engrossed in her plate, but Hesiriän said, hastily, “Well— surely we have had Csethiro and Emiro, stepmother, and they have been as good as—”
“Oh, yes, but it seems to me that the three of thee just argue, beyond anything else!”
Csethiro sat up very straight, fist curling in her skirt; Derilo was tugging subtly but very firmly at the edge of her sleeve to tell her to calm down.
“Pray, Stepmother, do you think— augh—” Hesiriän kicked her so hard under the table it made her eyes water slightly. Csethiro glared at her; she shook her head furiously. Mercifully, Meliro was preoccupied with Csathis, again, who was trying to escape his chair. Csethiro collected herself, smoothed her napkin out, and said, once Csathis had been captured and re-settled; “...we beg your pardon. Pray Marchioness, do you think we shall have rain later? We intended to take exercise, but perhaps we should not…”
- [CHANGE: TEA-GOWN TO WALKING ATTIRE] THE ZHASAN WILL TAKE EXERCISE IN THE EMPRESS LISARO COURTYARD [NO ATTENDANCE REQUIRED, L.O.B TO OTHER DUTIES]
“We can’t abide these,” Csethiro said half an hour in, smacking her practice sword repeatedly on the nearest column. “We want our sword back. Why are we doing this?”
“Because you are cross and distracted,” said Perezh, standing grizzled and unmoving opposite her, like a stout old block of mossy stone. “And we refuse to put steel in your hand when you are distracted.”
“We are not distracted. And we are not going to kill you by accident.”
Perezh raised a disdainful eyebrow in the fashion of we would like to see you try, but all he said was, “Focus, Zhasan. Get into stance.”
Muttering, Csethiro did so. Her father had been very lucky that Perezh was loyal and had no notions of betraying the Ceredada, because if he had, it would have been mightily easy for their old guard Captain. The old man was still quick, in both his sword blows and his wits. Only his semi-retirement had allowed Csethiro to poach him to the Alcethmeret a few times a week.
“Step across— across— good woman.” They exchanged a few blows; Csethiro tried a second intention, but he was having none of it. Frustrated, she pressed him harder, but he was giving almost no ground, and she did not really want to strike the old man.
“Properly,” said Perezh, after a long while of fruitless attempts to break through his guard.
“We are doing it properly.”
“You are not.” Another failed attempt. “Again!”
“Again.”
“Again.”
She withdrew, tried again, missed a block— and Perezh rapped her across the hand with the practice rapier, hard.
“Fuck!” said Csethiro, and dropped her practice sword. Both echoed in the narrow little courtyard.
Perezh did not leave stance. “You should have blocked that. Usually you do. Now do you see why we wouldn’t let you have steel?”
“Spitting Anmura…” snarled Csethiro, cradling her smarting hand.
“You are too aggressive today,” said Perezh, giving her another, albeit lighter, whack on the hip for good measure. “And it is making you slipshod. We do not care why you are acting like a girl half your age, but if you are slipshod in a duel, you die.”
“We are too aggressive?”
“You’re only bruised,” he said reasonably. Maybe that was so, but Csethiro wasn’t feeling eminently reasonable at the present moment. “Have them taped.”
“Taped? We won’t be able to fence properly for a week!”
“Then perhaps it will give you time to calm down. Do your posta drills until then. It will give you time to practice with your non-dominant side.”
For one horrible moment, Csethiro considered pulling rank on her old swordplay master. “But—”
“But what?” said Perezh.
Csethiro could not think of anything to say that didn’t sound petulant or pathetic, and so she deployed the best trick of the women of the Untheileneise Court, and said nothing at all.
She went to gather her things, once again ashamed of herself, and knowing if she was any more provoked she would cry, which was frustrating her all the more. As she passed Perezh, he caught her briefly by the shoulder, and said, “Thou’rt still my best student, Csethiro Ceredin.”
“Don’t be a sycophant, Captain,” Csethiro muttered.
“Don’t accuse me of any such thing,” said Perezh. He slapped her on the back and jerked his head to the door. “Off you go. I want my supper, anyhow.”
Csethiro half-smiled, saluted him glumly, and went inside.
- THE ZHASAN WILL CHANGE INTO EVENING ATTIRE & IS AT HER LEISURE UNTIL DINNER [CHANGE: WALKING ATTIRE TO EVENING GOWN] [ATTENDING: D.M., H.C. A.P, N.D, S.Z.]
- THE ZHASAN WILL TAKE DINNER PRIVATELY WITH THE EMPEROR, MIN OLIVIN, MER AISAVA IN THE ALCETHMERET [NO ATTENDANCE REQUIRED, L.O.B TO PERSONAL SCHEDULES]
- THE ZHASAN WILL ACCOMPANY THE EMPEROR TO THE OPERA [THE CAVALIERS OF ZHAÖ, CETH’OPERA EVENING PERFORMANCE] [ATTENDING: D.M., H.C. A.P, N.D, S.Z.]
“What happened to thy hand?” Maia said, suddenly pausing over her arm as he handed her out of the carriage outside the Ceth’opera.
“What?” said Csethiro.
“I felt thee flinch.”
“Remind me never to sit next to thee when we play cards, if that’s how close attention thou canst—” She noticed how genuinely uneasy he looked. “Just a poor swordplay block,” she said hastily. “They’re only bruised. I’ve had some ice for them. Tis all par for the course, and besides, they’re only somewhat purple.”
“They’re quite purple,” mumbled Hesiriän from behind her.
“A nice fetching plum. Perhaps I'll tape them.” She wiggled her hand. "Not under these gloves, mind you."
Maia did not look quite happy, but he did not press the point, and Csevet was already leading the eager, slightly sweaty impresario up to them for introductions. Beshelar had not been impressed with the proposal that they still go gallivanting off to the Ceth'Opera after the farce earlier, but as Csevet had pointed out mildly, there was no more actual threat than there ever was, just a heightened awareness of the possibility.
So they had gone, for the sake of appearances; but an evening at the opera was long, far too long for the frame of mind Csethiro was currently in. She glued herself to Maia’s arm and made herself appear as unapproachable as possible, lest anybody think of committing the unforgivable sin of engaging her in pleasant conversation. Maia had wriggled this performance of The Cavaliers of Zhaö into the schedule weeks ago, in an attempt to please her— and she had been pleased, at the time. Now the idea of sitting for hours in the imperial box, with the imperial party, after her stupid and disastrous day, all the while watching cavaliers below, made her feel ill and wretched and tired.
After a minute of waiting for Maia to finish talking to an irritatingly verbose Lord Deshehar, Csethiro was alarmed to suddenly hear from her elbow, “We hope the proceedings this morning were not too trying, Zhasan.”
She turned to stare at Csevet, who had approached her silently from behind Maia. His face betrayed exactly nothing, which was exactly how the courier office had always liked their runners, and also how the emperors had always liked their secretaries. He was even better at clearing his expression than she was.
"Do not consider us overly distressed," she said warily. "An inconvenience, but not a particularly protracted one."
“Quite,” said Csevet mildly. He always seemed to be watching her, but she was not sure exactly to what end, and it unnerved her. Everything about Csevet's stare was colourless and indefinite. Even his actual eyes were somewhere vague between blue and grey and green. It was not lost on Csethiro that Csevet Aisava had really been the one to pick her as empress; Maia had admitted as much months ago. Perhaps he was trying to measure the outcome of his choice. "And we believe you spoke to your father at the end of the Bloodbath today?"
“Our father was merely desirous of some clarification on the nature of the reforms,” Csethiro said tightly.
“Indeed. And your Uncle the Duke Erimel seemed to wish for some, too.”
Oh, typical. He was digging. Why couldn't he have just asked his counterpart? Terano would have told him, no doubt. “Have you heard of such a matter?”
“We have, Zhasan. And if you will permit us, we suggest you do not give any ground on it.”
Csethiro eyed him, unimpressed. He was too used to prodding Maia in the right direction, like hustling a heifer to market. She did not need quite so much prodding. “We had no intention of doing any such thing. Our uncle’s concerns are his own.”
“We have every faith in your judgement, Zhasan.”
Well, clearly he did not entirely. "We do not think it should be raised to the emperor," Csethiro said. Csevet raised an eyebrow slightly. "He has more than enough to be getting on with, and we believe we are meant to be obstructing such obtuse advances upon his very constrained time. We should not be proving an excellent bulwark were he to hear of it, despite our efforts."
Csevet looked at her for a moment, everything about his face and ears very still; then he bowed, and said, "Just as you say, Zhasan."
The bell for the five minutes went, and he withdrew silently to his usual spot at a discreet distance over Maia's shoulder; Csethiro went off with them to the imperial box, wishing simply she could just take a nap, but settling for making her husband find her something expensive to drink.
“Do they ever look at the stage?” Maia whispered testily at some point after the end of Act I, eyes roaming uncomfortably to the shifting, chattering, staring gentry in the boxes around them.
“There are a great many fashionable Dach’osmers who have been to a hundred operas and cannot name a single one, thou knowst,” Csethiro said, watching several representatives from the Telbenada, who were sitting in the Erimadeise box, over the top of her wine glass. “They come to show their fashions off and to be noticed by their acquaintances. Thou’rt lucky thou’rt the emperor, nobody can barge into thy box and force thee to discourse with them. My father’s acquaintances do it all the time and it is fantastically irksome.”
Maia frowned. “What a terrible waste of money.”
Csethiro patted his knee vaguely in acknowledgement and returned her attention to the stage.
The tenor who was playing Solichar was insipid, the baritone given Alechenar merely tolerable… but the contralto who had been tasked with Camelio was excellent, and took a strong swipe at the second act aria, even though it had been initially written with immense banality. But her part only truly became worthy in the final act, when she was accepted as a cavalier to the Conqueror's service. Kneeling before Edrevenivar with her fists balled onto the stage, still in her dented armour from the field, hair in a great matted bloody chunk of braid that would probably have to be hacked off with a knife to be salvageable, she was indomitable indeed. Maia was craning his neck slightly, fascinated.
Csethiro sat and watched, with her hands properly folded and her feet tucked nicely at the chair leg and her head inclined attentively to the stage, in her good rubies and her nicer opera gloves, sitting a little behind the emperor, as was proper— and hoped that it was too dark for any of the indistinct pallid faces in the boxes to see the tears that dripped into her lap.
The aria finished, and in the seconds before the curtain descended, Csethiro had blotted her face with four brisk, efficient pats, wiped her nose, shoved her handkerchief back into her pocket, and rose in smiling, approving applause with everybody else.
- UPON RETURNING TO THE ALCETHMERET THE ZHASAN WILL BE AT HER LEISURE AND MAY DO AS SHE WILL [L.O.B ATTEND AT HER COMMAND]
Csethiro got changed, put her jewellery away, and dismissed her ladies so she could sulk. Hesiriän lingered in the doorway, but Csethiro said, “Oh, go home, Hes, if thou canst bear it,” and she did.
She stared at herself in the mirror; after a second, experimentally pinned her nightgown flat against her stomach to see if she had put on weight. She did not think she had. But having only just had a baby herself, her stepmother was eager to see it in everybody else.
Csethiro scowled, snorted, and flung herself down on the edge of her bed; Csethiro stared back in the mirror, looking as weak-chinned and uninspiring as ever.
“Not a face for the coins,” she muttered to herself.
Someone tapped tentatively at the door; assuming Hesiriän, she said, loudly, “Damnation, what now?”
“Csethiro?”
“Ah.” Being that it was already bad form to leave one’s husband in the corridor and worse form when he was the emperor, Csethiro got up, kicked stray stockings and odd bits of ribbon and plush rabbits hastily under the nearest curtain, and yanked the door open for Maia, hovering uneasily outside with not so much as a toe over the doorjamb. He had never invited himself to her chambers before, and she was unfairly surprised to find him here. She usually imposed herself in his rooms. “Hast thou only just worked out thou'rt allowed down these particular stairs? I haven’t rigged them with swinging axes.”
Maia blinked. “Can I come in?”
“If thou hadst wanted a leg over so very badly, couldst have been very high handed and summoned me—”
“Csethiro,” said Maia wretchedly.
“Yes, yes, do get in.” Csethiro stood aside and permitted Telimezh in as well, albeit with bad grace, while Kiru Athmaza took the other customary position outside. She half-wished she could have begged Kiru Athmaza to swap with him, but that wasn’t done. “Art thou going to sleep here afterwards? Twill affront Avris.”
Maia looked slightly peeved. “Yes, but— no, that is, I didn’t come here to—” he hesitated, then borrowed her phrasing, slightly primly. “Get a leg over.”
“Oh now, it’s been months, don’t be a priss,” said Csethiro, going to empty her washbasin. “What is thy matter, then?”
“Nothing of mine, but I think there is something of thine.”
Csethiro, still idling in the washroom, realised abruptly she had not gotten away with her fight with Beshelar, nor that little slip at the opera... and that her only hope was to convince him that she wasn’t going to talk. This was a slim, sad hope, because putting her will up against Maia’s was like putting a prize charger up against a donkey. She could talk to Pencharn and back and run elaborate rings around him while he plodded and plodded on the same point, and eventually she would tire herself out and he would still be plodding— and they would still be in the same damn place in the end.
She chanced a look through the door again. At least it was the seconds, she told herself. She would have fended his questions off with more vigour if it had been the firsts.
Still, she decided to pretend for now that she hadn’t heard him— she went back into her bedchamber, then found he’d noticed her plush rabbits under the curtain and was looking sorry for them.
“Anmura, thou wouldst pity a stick if it looked beseeching enough,” Csethiro muttered, which he took as the tacit permission it was to retrieve them and line them up in height order on her vanity. “Didst thou not take me for a buyer of such saccharine frippery?”
“Are they wearing chainmail?” said Maia, rather than acknowledging the question.
Csethiro snorted. “Yes, once Mama realised the way the wind was blowing she modified them for me.” These days, she thought grimly, they were a relatively apt metaphor for lofty martial ambitions on an insufficient host.
He was looking at her; Csethiro gave him a highly disrespectful and deeply arch stare back, then went to yank at her bed curtains. “I do not have a matter, Maia."
"But Beshelar—"
"A little tiff. I did not truly expect him to say yes, great heavily armed maiden aunt that he is." Maia frowned, but she bulled on; "Now, if thou’rt serious about sleeping here—”
He installed himself a little tentatively on his usual side, staring at her surfeit of elaborate cushions with tassels, and the throw, embroidered with scenes of goodly feminine virtue, which had been a well-meant but abrasive wedding present from her stepmother.
“Why dost thou think I prefer thy bed?” Csethiro said tartly, giving a pillow with an icon of Csaivo on it a half-hearted thump.
“But, an there was a matter,” Maia said, absolutely ceaseless, while Csethiro firmly drew the curtains on her ability to see Lieutenant Telimezh, “Hypothetically speaking.”
“Maia.”
“But if there was one.”
“Thou’rt a total boulder," Csethiro snapped, and flung herself face down on her bed so she didn’t have to look at him, because she had begun to suspect he could read her expressions better than she’d like.
Maia sat in silence for a little while; then, to her immense chagrin, started listing things.
“The widow empress?”
“Hah, she is always a matter.”
“Thy kinsmen?”
“On the contrary I feel increasingly benevolent to my kinsmen the less time I spend with them. I only hope Csathis didn’t manage to dig a hole in Merrem Esaran’s upholstery.”
“The courtiers?”
“My uncle the Duke Erimel has today been an immense ass, but I do not on the whole consider him detrimental to my life at large.”
“Then it is about Beshelar.”
"Anmura, Beshelar— he alone would not be enough to vex me!"
"So it is more than one thing."
Csethiro thought about swearing, didn’t, and lay very still for a moment. Then she sat up and propped herself against the headboard, an old swordsman’s habit of disliking having her back exposed. Maia crossed his legs and leaned his elbows on his knees expectantly. The sleeves of his nightshirt had rucked up slightly, exposing the top of the scar on his left arm. It went down and across a long way, and looked to have been deep besides. Csethiro was not sure if she believed his odd anecdote about falling over a loose flagstone into a fireguard, but she had not pressed him on it for the moment.
"I have been... disruptive," Csethiro said, tersely, looking at the slightly nicked top of his left ear, rather than his actual eyes. "In coming to this household. It would have been different if we had already been married by the time thou camest to the throne. Then it would have been both of us coming here at the same time. But when it is just me..."
“I do not mind—”
“I know thou dost not,” said Csethiro. “But—”
“But?”
"...but it is the emperor’s household, not just thine.” He looked grimly comprehending, but she pressed anyway; “Bringing myself to the emperor’s household rather than establishing my own was an immense gamble, and many women, including some of my own kinswomen, have told me I am a fool to install myself in the Alcethmeret.”
Her grandmother, for instance. In those exact words, more or less. But there was no use in arguing with her grandmother, especially not when she suspected she was right. Tezhiro Ceredaran had practically singlehandedly saved the house from ruin when Arbelan had fallen, and she had survived almost seventy years, most of them at court, with an idiot for a husband and her son fostered out of her reach in the Celehada until his majority.
“You have it in your head that by taking yourself to the Alcethmeret, you are doing the emperor some great piece of… charity, loyalty, fidelity, we know not what,” the Dowager Marchioness had said to her. “Divest yourself of this notion. It achieves none of these things. What it achieves, is giving you nowhere to run when you put a foot wrong— which will happen, mark us on that point. The only way this foolish play can possibly work for you is if you are lucky. Pray do you think yourself lucky, Csethiro Ceredin?”
The fact was she did not, and indeed never had since she had been fifteen or sixteen— but she had not found the humility to say as much to her grandmother.
Now, Csethiro said; “I have not even remotely earned thy people’s loyalty, or possibly even their respect—” She realised her voice had risen perilously, and hastily dropped it. “And so, an I displeased thee or failed thee or somehow made myself disagreeable or disadvantageous to thee, they would all be far within their rights— and indeed it would be their duty— to turn on me in a second. The guards are thine. The pages are thine. I am thine. I have five attending women and a secretary. An I cannot do my duty, I will have put myself in the perfect position to have the pedestal knocked out from underneath me. If I am not careful or lucky, I will be my great-aunt hereafter.”
She knew if the walls closed in on her, Csevet Aisava could take her down, and she would not even be able to blame him for it. He had chosen her; he could sweep her away and replace her just as quickly. He had his job and she had hers. If she did hers properly, they should never come into conflict. If she did not…
“What should I do?” said Maia.
Thou dost not figure in't was not something one could say without hurting his feelings, but there was nothing else honest to say.
“Nothing,” said Csethiro, perilously near tears. She flung herself back down and turned away from him, too embarrassed to look at him. “Either I succeed in settling myself in thy household and do my duty, or I do not. There is nothing thou couldst do even an thou didst wish to.”
“That cannot be true.”
“No, Maia, it—” She stopped. “Well, anyhow it is my fault, but—” She paused, but it was easier to say when she wasn’t looking at him, even if her voice wavered on it; “I thought that I was being helpful.”
She pressed the heels of her hands very hard into her eyes and willed herself not to cry again— even though her hand still hurt; and Lieutenant Telimezh was right there; and she had spent the last day, the last days, being utterly asinine; and it seemed to her she had yet to do anything, anything at all, properly. What had Csevet picked her for? Daughter of only daughters, whose mother had died in pursuit of a son, great-niece of the infamously barren empress, equipped with notions above sense and indignation above diffidence. She should have been born pre-conquest, led a minor heretical civil uprising against a local prince, and been murdered on the field. Now that, yes, that would have been nice and neat.
Maia was not, in all honesty, strong enough to move her when she was not feeling like being moved, but he made an honest effort— once she had half-heartedly allowed herself to be dragged along a little, she grumpily permitted him to clamp his arms around her and prop his cheek atop her head. Being hugged by Maia was still somewhat akin to being reeled in by a house spider, in that he had an excessive amount of arm, and it always took him a good few seconds to work out what exactly to do with it— Csethiro thought he was learning, but not particularly quickly. Still, once he had worked out what to do with his hands, he always held onto her very tightly.
Csethiro shoved her head into his chest and proceeded to quietly, but not particularly subtly, get a great amount of snot on him, which he gallantly did not complain about.
“Thou wast,” Maia said at last.
“I was what?” said Csethiro, sniffing immensely.
“Helpful.”
“Noble indeed, Serenity, but I sincerely doubt that.”
Maia hesitated, then said, a little bleakly, "Csethiro, I have been lonely for as long as I have known what the word meant. Do not think I take thy company lightly. It is not— insignificant to me, that thou hast chosen to share my bed and gossip with me and go out riding with me, and make me captive audience to thy horrible books."
That gave her pause. Csethiro looked up, after a second— aghast, but doing her damnedest not to let it be visible. There was a strain of grim pride in Maia which did not take kindly to being pitied. Besides, she could not find much satisfaction in it, even knowing that she had been right to choose as she had. “...is’t so?”
Maia managed a flat, dry, little smile for her. He almost always smiled with his mouth closed when he was uncomfortable. “How could it possibly have been otherwise?”
How indeed. Relegation, another relegation, and then the throne, which was not known for attracting earnest friends to one's side. Small wonder he had clung onto Nurevis Chavar so. He had not grown up with his siblings, and once his mother had died, it had only been… who, Osmer Nelar? And at best, she suspected, he had been mighty apathetic.
Csethiro glanced down very quickly at his left arm, newly suspicious. Not that interrogating him at this moment would be the slightest bit of use. In fact, she couldn't think of anything useful at all. And thou usually so garrulous, she thought crossly to herself.
The only thing she could think to say was the positively inane, "...well. Thou'rt quite, quite stuck with me, now."
It was very poor as a sentiment, but Maia smiled properly this time, exposing the chipped little bits on his canines and front teeth. "So I am. I think I might survive’t yet.” Rather boldly for Maia, he bent down and kissed both of her damp cheeks, then, more typically, looked rather doleful. “And so I will always be pleased thou'rt here with me, but… I am sorry thou’rt unhappy.”
“Ay, no, I am not unhappy,” said Csethiro firmly, even though her nose was still running. “Apart from perhaps that thou hast just called my books horrible."
"Thou readst me a passage all about a knight getting his head knocked off by a mace."
"They're literature," said Csethiro. "Anyhow, unhappy... no, I did not say as much as that. Dachensol Ebremis is much better than the Ceredada’s cook, I do not have to fix all of the accounting books to ensure Papa does not bankrupt us because he has aspirations to buy a prize swan rather than quail, I do not have to guard my possessions against thieving sisters, and I have a handsome man in my bed when I wish’t.” He did not look convinced. Csethiro said, “I am cross, Maia. I am a very cross woman. Thou knowst I am. I just do not quite know what to… do about it, in this instance." She scrunched up her face in thought. "I shall… er. I shall talk to Csevet."
"Thou was just implying thou thoughst Csevet hated thee. Which I find highly unlikely, by the by."
"Well, I don't know what he thinks, which is the problem, I dare say. And so far as the household runs… it is he I shall have to corner. He sits in the centre of't. T'will do well if I understand where it is we might stand with one another.”
“That is true."
“Poor thing, he has to manage everybody's problems. If he ever dies we should have him deified.”
“...if?” said Maia.
“Well, he doesn't seem the type. It’s terribly inefficient.”
Maia snorted. Then, he said, “...thou canst have the sunblade for thy parlour.”
Csethiro frowned. “It is thy sword. I gave it to thee.”
“Yes, but it doesn't matter where it lives,” Maia said patiently.
“Dost thou think giving me a sword every time I am cross will solve the problem?”
He actually laughed, which almost startled her. “Won't it? Not even a little?”
The fact was it would, somewhat, so Csethiro merely muttered, “...it cannot work every time,” which made him laugh again.
Later, when she woke for the lavatory, he was silent and unmoving, but wakeful; something scrunched and rigid to her left.
“Canst go back t’thy own bed an thou wish’st…” Csethiro mumbled, prodding him out of her warm spot and entombing herself back under the duvet.
“I do not always sleep there, either.”
“I know’t. Canst… read, or some such…”
“I’ll keep thee awake with lighting a lamp to read.”
“No…” Nothing much prevented her from sleeping, nor woke her up, surely he had noticed that.
And indeed it didn't; Csethiro woke up much later, in greyish drizzly dawn, and he was asleep at last, one of her books lying open next to him. Someone— Telimezh, most likely— had turned the lamp off. She craned over him to mark his page, and found he had been determinedly reading one of her ostensibly horrible cavalier novels.
She sighed, put the book on the side table, and kissed the side of his head, then lay very still and half-awake, until he turned over of his own accord and put his head on her and mumbled something that was maybe good morning.
“Hail thee, Serenity, 'tis a horrible day. Help me pick my jewels.”
- THE ZHAS AND ZHASAN WILL MEET WITH THE ALCETHMERET HOUSEHOLD TO DISCUSS THE WEEK’S ARRANGEMENTS [ATTENDING: D.M., H.C. A.P, N.D, S.Z.]
- [CHANGE: MORNING GOWN TO RIDING CLOTHES] THE ZHASAN WILL RIDE OUT TO THE EAST HUNTING POINT, RETURNING IN TIME FOR LUNCH [ATTENDING: D.M., H.C. A.P, N.D, S.Z.]
- [CHANGE: RIDING CLOTHES TO TEA GOWN] THE ZHASAN WILL TAKE LUNCH PRIVATELY WITH HER LADIES [ATTENDING: D.M., H.C. A.P, N.D, S.Z.]
- THE ZHASAN WILL SEE TO MATTERS OF INTERIOR DECORATING [NO ATTENDANCE REQUIRED]
The sunblade usually lived in the Tortoise Room, in a bracket on the wall. Csethiro climbed on a nearby ottoman and took it down, and looked at it for a long time. She ran her thumb along the long thin scabbard worked with flowers in lapis lazuli— she drew it half out of the scabbard and looked at her own eyes in the blade.
She had polished it herself before she had sent it up here; sharpened it, when no one was around. The Ceredada princes had killed their enemies with the sunblade in the scrum, then come home and given it to their wives to clean and maintain— since often their wives had been, until recently, the daughters or sisters or widows of said enemies. Later, the Ceredada marquesses had spilled their own house traitors’ blood on it, in the name of the emperors. But there had not been a traitor from the Ceredada since the Pevennadeise Rebellion in the time of Edrethelema V. The Ceredada sunblade had not been seen for so long that most had forgotten they even had one. But in the scrum and the melee and the political spiral, she had rummaged it up from the vault and sent it to Edrehasivar VII. The Ceredada already moved restlessly within itself; not everybody had been thrilled when her stepmother had borne a son. The Mich’Ceredar cousins, for one— they did not need to turn those resentful stares towards the Drazhada. Now she had put their traitor’s blade into the Drazhada’s hands direct, it was doubtful there ever would be a Cered’traitor again.
Maia was right. It should live in her parlour, behind her favourite chair.
A noise behind her, in the doorway. Csethiro drew the blade a little further, lifted it, and looked in the reflection of it. “Lieutenant, good afternoon.”
Lieutenant Telimezh stood awkwardly in the doorway, clutching his sword in one fist and the doorjamb in the other. “Zhasan.” He bowed, also awkwardly, and made a few steps inside. He did most everything awkwardly… except for when he fought, apparently. Perezh said he moved like a viper.
He stood in silence for a moment, perfectly still but distinctly unsettled. “We had thought to…”
Csethiro turned around and properly sheathed the sunblade. “Is this about what we were saying to the emperor last night?” Silence. “Lieutenant, we do not expect you to pretend you do not have ears. Say what it is you have come to say.”
"We… do not wish for you to put especial privilege to anything Lieutenant Beshelar might have said in a fit of pique."
A fit of pique. He was just like a soldier from one of her mama's sentimental novels. "Indeed?"
Telimezh's ears flattened, but he persisted; "We know Lieutenant Beshelar of old, and he is highly competent, extremely loyal—"
"We do not doubt that."
"…but it would be reasonable, we think, to say that the last year has been… fraught. He is… judgemental at the best of times, it is his way, but he is especially militant on the topic of the emperor's safety, and we fear it blinds him to… offence he might otherwise cause in his pursuit of it. He is a soldier, not a diplomat. And he is, er, ever vigilant."
She knew that very well. "Quite. You need not make amends on his behalf, Lieutenant, although we do appreciate your attempt."
"No, but— Zhasan, we beg that you should not consider us to share his apparent opinion." He paused. "Lieutenant Beshelar never trained under Captain Perezh, but we did."
"Ah," said Csethiro, surprised. He had actually been one of Perezh's boys. Perhaps from when he was training some of the Untheileneise Guard swordsmen; the Ceredada had never been able to pay Perezh quite well enough to stop him taking side jobs. "We suppose you have a good opinion of the old man's teaching, then."
"Indeed, Zhasan. And…" He glanced at the sunblade, still in her grip. "We have, we own, seen you duel."
Csethiro neatly penned several expletives behind her teeth. "Have you?" She had assumed some of the Alcethmeret staff would have done so, the courtyard was not exactly hidden… but she had for some reason not thought the nohecharei might. She had imagined they had higher concerns than stopping to watch the impractible Zhasan swing around an antique.
"Yes. Thus, we could not possibly consider you a liability," Telimezh said staunchly.
She could not stop the rise of a sickly grin. "High praise, Lieutenant."
Telimezh coloured, but he seemed to know she did not mean it badly. "An it became… necessary—" He made a very rural warding gesture, almost reflexively, which interested her. "We would need every sword. And we would not be dishonoured to fight alongside you."
"Yes. We see. Well." She looked around helplessly for a moment, then said, "Thank you, Lieutenant."
He bowed, and he didn't quite smile, but he came close.
Csethiro considered him for a moment, then said, "Where are your family from, Lieutenant Telimezh?"
"Calestho, Zhasan."
Thu-Evresar; he could not see them very often, then. "Have you siblings?"
"Two sisters, Zhasan." He paused, then said, with a little significance; "Only sisters. They are both younger."
That explained a few things. "Ah. One hears that can be trying. Lots of sisters."
At last, she had a real smile from him. "It has been said, we think."
His eyes darted again to the sunblade in her hands; Csethiro said, "Well. Do hold this for us a minute, Lieutenant, while we take the bracket down."
"Allow us—"
"Oh, no, you just hold that—" She fairly thrust the sunblade into his hands, and did not miss the way he cradled it in eager reverence, nor the way his eyes widened slightly. "If we break our neck, we don't care who our replacement is as long as it is not somehow Csoru." She took her shoes off and hopped up onto the closest chair. "And while we are on the topic of clearing the air, Lieutenant— do you think Mer Aisava will be in his office before dinner?"
- [CHANGE: TEA-GOWN TO EVENING GOWN] THE ZHASAN TAKES DINNER PRIVATELY WITH THE EMPEROR IN THE ALCETHMERET [NO ATTENDANCE REQUIRED AFTER CHANGE]
- THE ZHASAN WILL BE AT HER LEISURE [L.O.B ATTEND AT COMMAND]
“We have spoken to Csevet,” Csethiro announced, sailing into the Tortoise Room that evening.
“Ah,” said Maia. “...and?”
“All told, tis well,” said Csethiro, sitting down at her writing desk and taking his nicest pen. “We made a pig of ourself initially— obviously, we seem incapable of doing otherwise— but we have our matter resolved. And we have forced him to promise to play cards with us at the week-end.”
“Good." Maia paused, then seemed unable to resist; "And it was as I told thee?”
“No need to rub it in, Serenity,” Csethiro said primly. He smiled and went back to his letter to Merrem Vizhenka, who had returned to the Corat' Dav Arhos for the summer auspices and was promising to pass on platitudes to her sisters both bastard and legitimate.
Csethiro rummaged at her desk for a while, then said over her shoulder, “Ailaniän, when you take the correspondence to Min Olivin tomorrow morning, please tell her to be sure to have this sent to Osmin Cennavin. We would like to see her this season, and we think Mer Aisava would be interested in meeting her.”
Ailaniän took it eagerly; Csethiro had always been under the impression she behaved better in front of Maia, because she hoped the emperor might tell her grandfather something to her credit. Lord Pashavar was about as personable as a boulder and similarly moveable, but his grandchildren were very fond of him for highly mysterious reasons. “Are you trying to make a match?”
“What?” said Csethiro, thrown.
“Well, Mer Aisava doesn’t have a wife.”
“So he doesn’t,” said Csethiro, now truly wondering if she was the only person in the world who had noticed Csevet almost certainly had a courier beau stashed somewhere. A male one. A glance at a determinedly disengaged Cala Athmaza told her that she was not quite. “...well, perhaps. But tis none of our business to be sure. She is merely a very interesting lady and a great conversationalist.”
She waited until Ailaniän was gone, then said to Maia, “Poor old emperor’s man, all the ladies want to marry him off. Why don’t they leave him alone to his true love, which is bullying other houses’ secretaries?” Maia chuckled; she picked up an envelope and said, “What is this? Oh, spare me—”
The Dach’osmin Trinaro Erimin sent forth an invitation she had clearly not personally written, pleading for her cousin the Zhasan's exalted presence at tea in the Erimin apartments. Csethiro muttered, cursed, and promptly whipped that about, offering that while she would be quite, quite happy to see her, why did she not come to Alcethmeret instead? — knowing both that her cousin would not be able to resist, and that she would be able to speak to Trinaro alone.
- THE ZHASAN WILL TAKE TEA AND PROMENADE WITH HER COUSIN DACH'OSMIN TRINARO ERIMIN [NO ATTENDANCE REQUIRED]
Csethiro took Trinaro down to the rose garden, where they walked in slow loops as Trinaro laid out her father's already relatively plain tactics.
“Papa wants us to try and convince you, to convince the emperor, to make the Telbenada at least somewhat exempt from the silk reforms,” said Trinaro frankly. "Or perhaps to turn a blind eye if they shirk them? We are not sure of that point."
She and Csethiro had a significant age gap, but Csethiro respected her mind immensely; even at sixteen, she was very sharp, and she had never caved to her kinsmen's grasping habits. She had not, however, thought to necessarily let her cousin know her mind entirely; at least, not until she had turned up today wearing a great many of the fashions Csethiro had popularised at court. Many of the court girls were too young to truly understand that they endorsed the empress by copying her, but Trinaro had arrived in cloissone beads and watered silk, and had looked quite entirely proud of herself for it.
“We had gathered as much,” said Csethiro. “We are very flattered he thinks we can change the minds of the entire House of Blood and garner an entire new vote, considering women are not even allowed to talk in the House of Blood. And we are further interested that the Telbenada seem to think their manufactory practices are not almost the whole reason for the silk reforms.” She examined her cousin closely. “Do you wish for us to intervene to the Telbenada's benefit?”
“No,” said Trinaro reasonably. “Ferilis is handsome and he is nice to us, but if he could marry himself, he would. We think being a little bit less rich will be good for him.”
“Admirable, but we do not desire you to be in bad favour with your new house,” said Csethiro, rather than laughing like she wanted to. “We hope you will pin all the blame for it upon your heartless cousin and her equally heartless husband. It seems to us your father is already willing to do so, and the Telbenada have been angry with the emperor since the Wisdom Bridge threatened their silk monopoly. This is not exactly new."
"But we do not wish for the emperor to face more ire," said Trinaro gravely.
"No," Csethiro said, "But Edrehasivar the Obstinate likes quite well to acquire that for himself, do not feel you will be the reason for't." She paused. "What exactly is your father getting from this match with the Telbenada? Evidently they want your dowry, and an alliance with the Erimada as supplement for the wealth they fear they may lose, but why is your father so eager for the match?"
The Erimada had gone from a moderately wealthy old ducal house to a vastly wealthy one during the Ezho gold rush, and typically the old silk families like the Telbenada and the blessedly extinct Tethimada had looked down upon their comparatively late rise to opulence. A mightier Ceredada might have done so at one stage, but by the time they had accepted Dach'osmin Saleheio Erimin as a bride for Csathis Ceredar, her dowry had looked attractive indeed.
"Well, nobody tells us anything," said Trinaro. "Tis not thought very proper to discuss the financials of a marriage with the bride. But… we know that Papa is very well-connected in the airship companies which rival the Amal-Athamareise Airship Company. Now they have been reeling from the Wisdom of Choharo, and the disaster with floating the Excellence of Umvino a few months ago, these other companies see their opportunity, and…"
"And the Telbenada also have textile investments in airship cloth that could work to their benefit," finished Csethiro. "We see. Is our uncle concerned they will pull out of those if they are burnt by the reforms?"
"We do not know, but if they have our dowry… perhaps they will not feel they need to."
"And so everyone is happy."
"And so," agreed Trinaro. "Not to mention, we have not been socially well-regarded since your mother left for the Ceredada. We think it cannot hurt that the Telbenada have a great deal of alliances that Papa hopes to profit from." She paused. "Although, cousin, if we were to be quite honest… we wonder if Papa is, on the whole, testing the waters about you. He was known to be greatly pleased when your engagement was announced."
"As were a great many of the Ceredada's allied and related houses, as we recall." A remarkable number of relatives had rejoiced in the presumption that they could use kinship with the Zhasan as a way to manipulate the fool of a teenage emperor. Unfortunately for them, Maia was as moveable as the Mervarnens when he wanted to be (which was most of the time), and Csethiro too contrary to do as her distant relatives bid her, so most of their great plans had been sunk.
In a way, Erimel's bluster was really just an extended version of the tea-visits the other houses had been sending their daughters and widows on. Csethiro wished he had simply seen fit to send Trinaro to her in the first place, but as she had thought before, women's society was beyond him almost entirely, even when it would have been the most sensible option.
Csethiro thought about it, amused herself for a little while with the fact that none of the great men of the court ever paid the slightest attention to their daughters, and what a wretched idea that was, then said, "Let us go and walk up and down the Dach'osmer's Drudge for a while, cousin. It will do well for us to be seen together."
- THE ZHASAN WILL PRESIDE OVER THE YEAR'S SOCIETAL DEBUTS (1PM - 3PM: THEN A BREAK FOR LUNCHEON &C.; 3 PM - 6PM: CONTINUED SOCIETAL DEBUTS; 6PM: THE ZHASAN WILL RETURN TO THE ALCETHMERET TO CHANGE FOR DINNER; 7PM: THE ZHASAN WILL DINE WITH THE DEBUTANTS AND THEIR SPONSORS [ATTENDING: D.M., H.C. A.P, N.D, S.Z.]
Csethiro's own debut had been boring and awkward, trailing at her father's side for hours, presented to an impassive Varenechibel and his slightly bored daughters in the Michen'theileian. It was much easier to be the one sitting on the dais and watching the endless approaches, although she had to admit that she understood why Vedero and Nemriän had seemed so tired of it.
Most empresses sat below the imperial throne when taking audiences or overseeing debuts, but Maia had acted as if he couldn't have cared if she sat on it when she had raised it— so, disliking the idea of sitting at his feet, figuratively speaking, Csethiro decided with grim amusement that beside was acceptable. Besides, this high up, she could see everybody. Every courtier without something pressing to do had crammed inside, lining the edge of the aisle eagerly; most were kinsmen of the debutants, although Csethiro spied various court busybodies, and at one point she caught a glimpse of Csevet along the back wall, no doubt meddling as usual. Csoru was blessedly absent, but some of her bosom boms were about; no doubt they'd report back. Csethiro pitied the debutants who had been presented to her.
She had probably been correct to wear the spring green velvet, she decided, since almost everybody else was wearing oppressive reds and purples and deep blues. The court girls were all arrayed in the scarlet debutantes' gowns and gold jewellery, tottering uneasily under the weight of their goldwork headdresses; the boys dressed similarly, all thickly adorned with gold jewellery to the point that several were struggling to keep their ears up properly.
This was not difficult; she could do this. It was easy to sit and smile and say a platitude to each, with her voice just loud enough for her tone, if not her words, to be perceptible; most were familiar to her, anyway. She and Emiro had been conspicuous in court from the second they had debuted, desperately trying to patch the hole their mother's death had left.
She received Idra first; it was not always a given that the Drazhada went first, but she supposed nobody would complain if he was offered his rightful precedence as the Prince. He did not look quite nervous, but she did think he seemed a little edgy, hovering a tad closer to Vedero than he rightly ought to have done. Still, he mounted the dais and knelt smoothly, and kissed her hand for good measure, which was a nice touch.
"Zhasan," he mumbled, after the ritual nonsense was over. "Aunt."
"Very nice, nephew," said Csethiro amusedly. "Do go and find a good seat, this will be a long day."
She spared Vedero a quick look; Vedero gave her a faintly sardonic one back, but she didn't look particularly concerned for her charge. For his part, Idra smiled, bowed, and retreated... and apart from a slight strain between his brows, gracefully ignored the fact that a great many eyes were on him. Poor Idra. From now on he would have to be the perfect Edreveise Revivalist if he wanted to even remotely attempt to prevent a faction forming behind him, regardless of if he endorsed them or not. He had already been the unwitting beneficiary of one attempted coup as the michen-prince; it would be riskier now he was a man. Csethiro knew full well he wanted to be supplanted as the heir to the throne, but he had the tact to have never said as much to her. He had suggested having himself sent away for a little while as a diplomat, to put him out of mind— but it seemed unlikely that would follow through until Csethiro managed to do her proper duty.
What followed Idra was a long, long parade of pallid teenagers, over-eager chaperones, ritual words and anxious totterings up the dais to get to her. Most were not interesting, too young to be socially sophisticated and too green to be politically problematic, although Csethiro did her best to remember most of them, if only to keep an eye on the future important marriage alliances. Nobody slipped down the steps, which might have been a first; nobody overheated and fainted, either, which was a blessing.
Dach'osmer Telbenar did not appear entirely disquieted, but he came directly after Idra, and eyed her a little suspiciously; Csethiro smiled and gave him no reason to come away with resentment. His betrothed was towed along by her over-officious mama, Csethiro's aunt the Duchess Erimaran, who had never liked her sister in law or her daughters and was doing her best to pretend the contrary. Sarizho's second brother, Dach’osmer Frelis, was obviously most unhappy to be presented by his aunt; he had wanted Sarizho herself, but their dowager aunt had gotten in the way, which was typical. He tried to wave to his sister and was promptly pinched, which Csethiro thought was rather unfair.
What was more, Csethiro instantly regretted hauling Emiro away from the Doreshada to present Hesiriän; her sister came mincing her way down the aisle like so many mamas had today, face schooled into a subtle but totally eye-catching moue of superiority. There was nothing actually wrong with her bearing, but she was obviously trying to make Csethiro laugh, which Csethiro would absolutely hit her over later. Hesiriän herself was almost green with fright, clutching Emiro like she was afraid she would suddenly start running and leave her behind.
"Hes, thou hast seen me every day since thou wast born," Csethiro hissed as they reached her and finished the ritual, glad that Emiro's shoulder was blocking anyone's ability to tell what she was saying. "I refuse to let thee be afraid of me. Thou hast been sick on me. I have dropped thee. We fell out of that tree near Lake Tavero and thou didst break two of my ribs landing on me. Look at me, don't look at them. And don't be sick, I've been promised a good dinner by the court cooks and thou wilt be cross if thou missest it."
"It was one and a half of thy ribs," Hesiriän whispered, who might have been shy but was also a fatal pedant. "One was just cracked."
"Pfaugh, details," said Csethiro. "And tell our sister to stop trotting like that, before I have her arrested. I can't look at her, I'll scream."
They retreated, but before they did, Hesiriän managed to smile; Csethiro had no idea what her other wretched sister did, blessedly. She smoothed her expression seamlessly and turned to recieve the next set of presentations.
- AFTER RETURNING TO THE ALCETHMERET, THE ZHASAN WILL BE AT HER LEISURE [L.O.B ATTEND AT COMMAND]
"I hear thou'rt buying me a priceless gown made entirely of Cairadeise mist-lace," said Csethiro idly, counting cats on the canopy of the emperor's bed. She looked down just in time to catch Maia looking up in frightened perplexity; he saw her grin, and frowned.
"Thou'rt making fun of me."
"Only a little bit."
"And is it thy contrivance, or hast thou heard it somewhere?"
"Tis what the debutantes I was seated with told me, which means it certainly must be true," said Csethiro. "I am further told I am the happy recipient of a caul of Barizheise pearls, three thousand roses from Pencharn, and a summer palace in Thu-Evresar. I was most surprised; I presume thou'rt taxing the whole of Thu-Athamar twice over to be able to afford it?"
"Pray forgive me," Maia said drolly, "But I do not think thou wouldst want such an expensive gown—"
"A priceless gown," said Csethiro, trying to arrange her leg under his to stop it from going entirely dead.
"Such a priceless gown of Cairadeise mist-lace."
"Not really, I should only step on the hem, but 'tis the principle," said Csethiro, patting his narrow grey back idly. "Although I mentioned it to thy man and he went frankly green at the idea, so perhaps I shall make my request anyhow, just to show him who's top dog..."
Maia propped himself up a little with an arm on either side of her, exposing his equally narrow grey chest, and reminding Csethiro somewhat of the pointy grey hunting hounds he had bought for her as a wedding present. "Thou seemst to have worked matters out with Csevet." He frowned. "I do not know how thou didst manage to make him play cards with thee this evening, let alone how thou didst manage to win. Nemer says that Csevet is banned from cards because he always wins."
Csethiro thought about telling him that Csevet had clearly thrown the round in order to let her win in front of her husband, and decided not to, so he would not have sacrificed his pride in vain. "Oh yes, I was lucky indeed. Nothing more, I am sure."
"And… er…" Maia looked expectant. "Everybody else? Besides Csevet?"
Anmura, he really did think well of her if he believed she was going to have made bosom bows of the rest of the household in about a week.
"Ah… somewhat," said Csethiro, trying to remember who was on duty; Maia mouthed Kiru and she relaxed. "Call't a work in progress."
"Good. I will."
- THE ZHASAN WILL ACCOMPANY THE EMPEROR TO A CHANCELLERY-JUDICIARY SOIRÉE [ATTENDING: D.M., H.C. A.P, N.D, S.Z.]
"I am going to strangle myself with my shawl, I just despise these sorts of things," said Csethiro, weaselling past Beshelar and attaching herself to Maia's brocaded arm. She had released her ladies into the crowd, although she suspected Hesiriän would come sneaking back to hover at her shoulder soon. "Everyone drinks too much and no one likes one another and it makes everyone dull in the extreme as they attempt to conceal their disdain for one another." Conversely, Maia looked rather more chipper to see her. "What, hadst not expected me?"
"I had thought thou mighst stick with thy women, but I had not quite wanted to do't on my own."
“Well, needst not. Generally speaking 'tis well if we are at one another's events,” said Csethiro. “In fact, I dare say I am expected at every one of thy events in the foreseeable future, short of being unwell, in active childbirth, or dead.”
“That’s the spirit, Zhasan,” murmured Cala Athmaza. Csethiro glanced at him; he smiled.
“Thou’rt stuck with me, now,” said Maia hopefully.
Csethiro turned back and grinned. “So I am. And yet, I think I might survive't yet." She spied who was approaching them. "Ah. Actually, we are both doomed, here comes Uncle Cement."
"Uncle Cement?"
"My mama's name for him, tis no matter— quick, look very reproving—"
Erimel came and knelt; Maia bid him approach. He came a little closer, drew himself up, and said, "Serenity, we trust your wife has brought our concerns, as of late, to your notice?"
Csethiro, persistent bulwark to time-wasters and irritants, had not bothered to do any such thing, and he knew it, so this was a total bastard of a move.
If Maia did know of it, he pretended very convincingly that he did not; he looked a little quizzical, and said, "While we of course wish your daughter Dach'osmin Erimin all the very best in her marriage, we must say we cannot imagine what it has to do with us."
Erimel's mouth thinned. "Our daughter Trinaro, Serenity, is soon to marry Dach'osmer Telbenar."
"Yes?"
"The silk reforms—" Edrehasivar Zhas's eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch, and Erimel briefly stuttered, then persisted; "The silk reforms, while commendable, Serenity, have concerned our future Telbenadeise allies—"
"Then why has Duke Telbenel not raised this to us himself?" said Maia coolly.
Probably because he'd have a tantrum in the imperial presence and get his skull caved in on the spot, Csethiro thought. Telbenel was not known for his decorum or his subtlety, and the last intemperate man to take aggressive issue with the emperor had had his soul ripped out of his body by Cala Athmaza.
"We are sure he will an he deems it necessary, but Serenity, we merely desire some clarification on their nature. To be sure that we are delivering our daughter into a secure match."
"Do you wish for your Telbenadeise allies to be exempt from our ruling?" said Maia mercilessly, unrolling the thread here with some speed. "We cannot imagine upon what grounds that would be possible."
"No, Serenity, never, but we only know they were… in concern for their holdings and their shares, and were a little distressed—"
"Merciful goddesses, uncle," butted in Csethiro, aghast. "You cannot possibly be considering allying your daughter to a house which may prove disloyal to the emperor's ruling? We should be horrified to see a kinswoman of ours cozened in such a situation, and we are sure you would think the same for your daughter. Poor Trinaro, she is only sixteen..."
Maia had obviously not known how old her cousin was; the idea that she was the same age as his mother had been when she had been carted off to marry Varenchibel clearly made him unhappy. That same instant, the word disloyal landed like a slap on Erimel, as it did on all the old noble families who had had any proximity to the Tethimada. He almost physically flinched. "Not at all, Zhasan, we have every confidence in—"
"Then you do think they will accept the reforms?" Csethiro hounded.
"We have no doubt— we imagine they will do as they are commanded—"
"We are sure they will," said Maia gravely, playing along magnificently. But, because he was not quite as unkind as her, he added, "Duke Erimel, we understand your concerns, but we assure you the reforms will be constantly re-examined and analysed for their first months, and we will hear any formal petitions raised to us." The slight tilt to his mouth suggested he could guess that the Erimada had been attempting to shirk said formalities by going through Csethiro.
Erimel ground his teeth for a moment. "…indeed. Thank you, Serenity. We will speak to Telbenel on the matter." After a moment he said, "Niece, you must allow us to tell you that you are quite reminding us of your mother, our late sister, tonight."
Csethiro grinned nastily, knowing exactly how he meant that sentiment. "Why— thank you uncle. That pleases us very much."
He bowed again, shot her a half-resentful look, and retreated.
"Damn," said Csethiro. "I had thought palling around with his daughter would have put him off, but of course he still had to come and bother thee with it anyhow."
Maia watched him go thoughtfully, then turned to look at her. "It was thee butting in with the treason implication that blocked him, I think."
"Well, if he was going to try and circumnavigate me, I was going to trip him, naturally."
"Is it really just that he's worried that he now won't benefit as greatly from the Telbenadeise match?" said Maia doubtfully.
"I think he just wanted to know if he could get to thee through me," said Csethiro, turning to a nearby table and trying to choose a pastry. "And he can't. The cheek of't." She caught Beshelar's eye as Maia followed her, and was unnerved to find that his expression was neither censorious nor severe, although she was not quite sure what it was. "Come, let's find something interesting to eat, then go and talk to some boring civil servants…"
Unfortunately, they did not all prove as boring as all that. One such unfortunate object of interest was the new Liaison for Cetho, one Mer Abrevar, who was handsome but a total gallant, and who everybody was quite enamoured with. Csethiro liked him for the span of about ten seconds, until he said; "We have replaced your kinsman Osmer Nelar, Serenity, who we are sure you know has changed position to work in the administrative sector of the Judiciary."
Maia's mood tanked immediately; even out of the corner of her eye, Csethiro sensed all the genuine affability strip out of his bearing. What exactly is the issue with Osmer Nelar? she wondered uneasily. She'd have it out of him sooner or later, but she was not sure she would like the answer.
Maia said, blandly; "Yes. We hope the transition has not been difficult?"
"Not at all, Serenity. There is a great deal to get used to, we own, and we are new to court, but our colleagues have been ever so patient with our ignorance. We consider ourself very lucky indeed to have been offered the role."
He was admittedly charming, sort of self-effacing, but Csethiro was too busy mentally battering him for destroying the emperor's good mood to care much about that—
"Zhasan?" Abrevar was saying.
"We beg your pardon?"
"We were saying we hope you have not come to mischief too badly."
Csethiro looked down at her bruised hand, which she had frankly almost forgotten about. "Oh," she said. "No. Bad swordplay block. Nothing alarming, just unlucky."
"A commendable, if unorthodox, pursuit, Zhasan," Abrevar said eagerly. "Certainly it beats sewing. Or the virginals. Even if those are less... risky."
Csethiro thought there were a good number of women of her acquaintance who would have taken vast umbrage with his statement there, but she could not find the energy to pursue it. "Well, now we do not have to struggle through either of those for the time being, so we consider it a loss and a gain." She earned herself an obliging laugh. “We admire them as accomplishments in other women, but we are terrible at both, so we must find other pursuits we are not deficient in…”
Maia did not seem to like that, because he frowned. “We have never perceived you to be deficient.”
That was because he had no other reference point, Csethiro knew, but she was not going to say so in front of these people. “Very kind, husband, but ‘tis only because this is our latest excuse not to parade our incompetence in these areas. We are a little pacy as a pianist." Ceredel would not have dared to put her out for Edrehasivar’s empress had she not been able to play, dance, ride, draw, sing, pick fashions, arrange dinner parties, and recite Perezar, all to an at least tolerable standard, but tolerable was not necessarily great.
They moved on to other matters; but almost immediately, barely five minutes later, Abrevar was back in the fray, using someone else's comment about the Pashavada's art collection as a springboard;
"Have you not thought about being painted, Zhasan?" he said. "'Tis all the rage at the moment to be portrayed as some such folk character or minor god— you would make a fine Camelio, if you will permit us to say so.”
Csethiro very nearly laughed in his face, both for the utter presumption, and for the accurate guess. Perhaps he'd done his research; he should have done some more, if that was the case. Perfectly aware of her relatively thin claim to beauty, she did not like being fawned at, at the best of times; doing it in front of the emperor, furthermore, was frankly offensive, and she had felt Maia tense uneasily under her hand.
"Camelio— well, a steep comparison! A kind thought, Mer Abrevar, but we are far too restless to regularly sit for paintings. We are sure we quite tormented poor Dachensol Malina with our endless fidgetings and chatterings while we sat for our wedding portrait, while our poor tolerant husband sat nicely and patiently through the entire ordeal.”
To his credit Mer Abrevar took the hint, at least for now, and made no more of it. But Maia still looked uneasy by the time they left, so Csethiro went in hard on flippancy; "Tad obsequious, was he not? But no matter. I’ll give him points for originality. Fun company, better than the rest of them— though perhaps anyone would look sparkling alongside Mirevel and Lorenar— if a bit of a gallant. I shall have to be very high-minded next time, and see how he fares with favour withdrawn slightly...”
The suggestion seemed to cheer Maia a little, and he trotted back to the Alcethmeret adorned with a little less grimness than he had left the soirée with.
- [CHANGE: TEA-GOWN TO WALKING ATTIRE] THE ZHASAN WILL TAKE EXERCISE IN THE EMPRESS LISARO COURTYARD [NO ATTENDANCE REQUIRED, L.O.B TO OTHER DUTIES]
Perezh claimed to have tweaked his back, but Csethiro knew for a fact today was the annual Untheileneise Captains' tavern outing, so she pretended to believe him, and instead towed Hesiriän down with her to have someone to talk to while she drilled.
"…he's an old boar these days, so one has to allow him his little untruths, goddesses know he's earned them. At any rate I always think think he served Papa with a lot more alacrity than he strictly— merciful Anmura where did you come from.”
“Good morning, Zhasan,” said Lieutenant Beshelar, standing so rigidly atop the steps he was like the fifth pillar on the portico.
“Come to criticise our form?” said Csethiro, hastily lowering her epée, which she had admittedly pointed at him in panic. How long had he been there? She suspected it was longer than she'd like. “How should we do it? We imagine you can tell us, your job of course is—”
Beshelar cut her off, and said, in a tone that was spectacular in both its conviction and its stiffness; “Zhasan, your form is actually very good.”
“Yes, thank you, we know,” said Csethiro automatically— then baulked, taken aback. She almost looked around to see if one of the other three nohecharei were feeding him lines— but of course, if he was here, Telimezh and Kiru were on duty, and Cala was far too tall and blue to be concealed anywhere with prompt cards. No, he was here of his own volition, and that made it somewhat more alarming, not less. "Mercy, Lieutenant, are you trying to soften the blow on something? Has someone finally gotten one on the emperor?"
He frowned, saluted her again. “Not so, Zhasan."
"Ah. Always positive."
"Indeed, Zhasan."
"And so…?" Csethiro prompted, still bewildered.
Beshelar clenched his jaw. "Zhasan, might we walk?"
"Oh," said Csethiro, flummoxed. "Yes. Certainly. Er—" She shrugged at Hesiriän and hastily resheathed her sword. "Do lead on."
Beshelar had almost nothing to say for the first five minutes; after aborted attempts to comment on the weather, the birds, current events, and the emperor, all of which he answered monosyllabically, Csethiro gave up and said, frustrated, "Lieutenant—"
At the same time, he finally coughed it up; "Zhasan, there has merely been a… social incident, this morning.”
“Merely?” said Csethiro, stopping. “A social incident?”
“As we say." His lips were very thin, apparently with restrained disapproval. For once, she did not think it was directed at her. "It involved… one Mer Abrevar.”
“Who?" said Csethiro. He raised his eyebrows pointedly. "Oh— the one who was trying to flirt? Did Maia finally get fed up with him scrabbling after our train and order him put in the lion pit?”
“...we do not think anybody still uses the lion pit, Zhasan, that was a particular quirk of Edrevechelar III. And we do not think His Serenity is even aware it is there.”
“A great pity,” said Csethiro. She saw his exasperation and said, “Yes, all right— pray do tell us what happened, Lieutenant.”
Beshelar explained, quickly, but without very much impartiality.
“Ah,” said Csethiro. "Aha." She drummed her fingers on the hilt of her sword in grim thought for a moment, clenching and unclenching her jaw. It was tempting to just go and find him and run him through, but the legal trouble it would have caused wasn't quite worth it. Yet. Perhaps it would feel worth it once she saw Maia's expression, though.
“Zhasan, you are, we think, the only person who can be tasked with… managing this,” said Beshelar, watching her closely. "We watched you dispatch the utterly improper impositions of Duke Erimel most efficiently only a week or so ago. And we cannot fault your… enthusiasm. Although we would prefer if you did not try to solve this in a violent fashion, lest someone be injured." Csethiro frowned at him. His brow creased; he added, "We make the request more in the sense that we think the emperor would be… unhappy, were you to be wounded."
"Well, yes, own it would be a nuisance to get a new wife at this stage, but—"
"No," Beshelar said abruptly, cutting through her flippancy with some determination, even though he was going an awkward scarlet. "It is that he is— attached to you, Zhasan. And he would be deeply aggrieved if you were injured or killed. And we would prefer it if that was not— the case."
The we was plural, not singular; Csethiro was not quite sure what sense he meant it in, and endeavoured not to dwell upon it.
She could have made a great many wry or witty responses, she thought; unfortunately, what she actually said, was the deeply ineloquent; "Oh."
She had increasingly suspected herself and Maia of developing a mutual partiality, or at least a specific type of desperate co-dependency. But to hear it pointed out by one of the four people that spent their whole lives with him was another sort of thing altogether. Especially Beshelar. She was not quite sure she hadn't hit her head and imagined the entire thing. "Well, we would also prefer not to die, and do not think us heedless of the emperor's… affinity." She paused, then could not resist; "But we could easily dispatch Mer Abrevar, we would like to note."
"…we do not doubt that." Beshelar admitted, eyeing her sheathed sword. "But we think it can be solved in a different manner. And indeed should be."
"Perhaps you are right," said Csethiro sadly—
"But should the necessity arise, we will not prove obstructive to your attempts to lay him low," Beshelar added, with a certain immensity to his tone.
Csethiro's eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly escaped her entire head. "But—"
"This is a social matter, Zhasan, not a security concern. And for the emperor's nohecharei to interfere in a social setting would be—"
"Grossly improper?" Csethiro guessed, starting to smile.
Beshelar inclined his head stiffly. "Yes."
"We see," Csethiro said. “We see’t… yes, we see’t. A chance for Csethiro Zhasan to show her quality? A non-martial campaign to please us? A balm?" She leant her wrist on the pommel of her sword and peered up at the main turret of the Alcethmeret, considering. "Well, we might think of something… and indeed, we do think you might be able to help us with it, Lieutenant. Shall we take another turn?"