Work Text:
"I have," said Aisava, "Goëlar's latest novel, if you would like a distraction."
"You are very kind," I said, "And I would be grateful." Goëlar's delicate, intricate tales of courtship among the petty gentry were not generally to my taste (the name was clearly made up and thus in all likelihood should have been Goëlin rather than Goëlar), but anything would be better than going over and over my story until it wore grooves in my mind and I became unable to tell it clearly. (The Tomb of Dragons)
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“I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes... in a total misapprehension of character at some point or other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why, or in what the deception originated.” (Sense and Sensibility)
Since the emperor had been married and the Alcethmeret household had taken on a rather larger number of people involved in its running, they took a Monday morning meeting in the Tortoise Room, to go over the week’s schedule. Zhas and Zhasan, both secretaries, Echelo, all four nohecharei, the edocharei, Csethiro’s ladies, and Ebremis and Isheian representing the kitchens and the serving staff.
“This year's debutantes will be presented to the Zhasan on Friday,” said Csevet, gesturing to Csethiro, who was sitting in the corner with a teacup balanced precariously on her knee, listening with an unblinking focus. She tipped her chin in acknowledgement, but did not interject. “Min Olivin, do you have the timings?”
“Yes… that will take most of the day, we think.” Csethiro's secretary scanned her notes, and said; “Here— from ten until one, with a break for luncheon splitting up the two sessions, and then from three until six. And then the Zhasan will dine with the collection of them in the evening.”
Csevet could not imagine that dining with a collection of terrified debutants and their social climbing parents could promise anything except putting one off of their dinner, but Csethiro looked, if not happy, at least calmly resigned to her fate.
“Six hours? How many debutants are there?” said the emperor, alarmed. Well, he had never been presented at court. “Are they all noble children?”
“There are about… ah, fifty-six noble children whose houses wish to present them to the Zhasan’s notice this year,” Csevet said. “While technically places in court may be taken as young as thirteen, especially for children of the great houses, noble children are not presented as social debutants until they are, or are almost, sixteen; hence, we will see the presentations of Prince Idra, and the Zhasan's sister Dach'osmin Hesiriän.” He nodded to Hesiriän amongst Csethiro's ladies—she had obviously not expected to be named, and looked startled. She had actually been sixteen for some four or five months now, but the debuts always happened in October. “Dach’osmin, who is presenting you?” Typically it was an older female relative, but it could not be Csethiro.
“Er—” Hesiriän swallowed against an obviously dry mouth. Csevet regretted putting her on the spot. She liked her brother in law and the mazei, but she was terrified of Merrem Esaran and the Lieutenants. The household at large could not possibly be more comforting. “Our sister Dach'osmerrem Doresharan, Mer Aisava.”
Csevet nodded, and thought he would be surprised if a Ceredin sister presenting a Ceredin sister to a Ceredin sister did not result in someone laughing, or at least smirking.
Dach'osmin Merevin, Csethiro's maid of honour, started scribbling on her notes, presumably to alter the ladies’ schedule to account for Hesiriän’s absence. They kept an eminently complicated rota that Csevet had almost bitten his tongue in half trying not to suggest alterations to. They were all academic noblewomen, and no one loved making proceedings complicated more than they.
Csethiro said briskly, looking between them all as if pre-empting some objection, though there had been none, “Our aunts are in Thu-Cethor, and the Marchioness Ceredaran is busy with the baby.” The baby being Csethiro’s half-brother Csathis Ceredar, who was not quite so young as to require constant attention, especially not from his noblewoman mother. Csevet therefore read that as we did not want our stepmother to do it. “Although, when Emiro and ourself were presented, it was our father.”
She exchanged a quick, slightly droll look with Hesiriän, which suggested their thoughts on how well that had gone.
“Who is presenting Idra?” said Edrehasivar.
“Prince Idra has asked that Archduchess Vedero present him, which seems to suit everybody very well,” said Csevet. The emperor smiled.
“Tis a good scheme.” His face dropped slightly. “But we suppose it should have been— otherwise?”
“Yes, Serenity. Traditionally it might have been the Princess, but we get the impression that it may have been Prince Nemolis’s intention to present his son himself.”
“Oh,” said the emperor. He frowned. “Yes. Of course.”
“Leilis Athmaza tells us that his Highness is well-prepared for the matter and has been coached extensively,” Echelo added.
“We trust that he is,” said the emperor. He saw Csevet staring at him, and, because he had finally begun to anticipate what Csevet wanted to say, and that he should give him the permission to say it, said, “Are there any particular individuals entering court that should be brought to our attention, Csevet?”
Csevet flipped his sheet over briskly. “Serenity. The Telbenada are presenting their heir, and as he is to inherit the silk fortune he will be quite… eager to ensure it keeps its value.”
“Indeed,” said Edrehasivar, a little drolly, clearly taking the implication as it was offered. No Telbenadeise scion would be a fan of the Wisdom Bridge, or the emperor that had initiated it. Beshelar sat back in his chair slightly; Csevet thought it unlikely anyone would try a Tethimar, not when half the court had seen Cala personally deliver him to Ulis with a gift bow and a calling-card. But it never hurt to be vigilant.
“Several of the girls being presented are the sole offspring of their parents, and are therefore immensely well-dowered, and likely to cause a number of social and financial… ruckuses, when it comes to marital negotiations,” Csevet said. “It was ever the same with previous women, like Csoru Zhasanai. Her dowry was beyond belief, we are told.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Csethiro seem to suppress a comment. “...and this is, of course, the age group in which it would be suitable to search for a match for Prince Idra,” he finished.
“Is he not still a little young?” said Edrehasivar, a tad plaintively.
“Perhaps, Serenity, but it bears at least thinking about.” Csevet did not point out that Edrehasivar himself was barely any older, and his wife was sitting just nearby.
“And certainly everybody else will think about it, we suppose?” said Edrehasivar glumly.
“We think it very likely there will be a great many grasping mamas desirous of a Drazhada match, Serenity.” They would have to be sifted carefully. There were a great many families who would want their daughters to be Princess, not Archduchess, and would not take kindly to being bumped down the line of succession.
“Very well.”
The empress had been quiet; Csevet would have thought she would have something to say about all of this. He glanced at her and found her sitting with her face expressionless and blank, holding her teacup in unmoving fingers. She was attending, but no more. Csevet had thought her days of polite impassivity in the presence of the emperor were long past, but apparently it was not so. He was far too well-trained to frown, but he made a faint mental note of it. Perhaps the mention of her own presentation had displeased her. The Marquess Ceredel was not the sort of person one really desired to have presenting them to the imperial notice. He had never seen this sort of reaction from her, though; typically if her father was the problem she could not resist making some sort of jibe on the matter.
He glanced at Csethiro again, then baulked slightly when he found her staring back— she quirked an eyebrow and half-smiled, then looked away, but Csevet could not shake the uneasy feeling that she’d been watching him almost as much as he had her.
The meeting broke up soon after, and Csevet cleared up his papers with half an eye on the Zhasan, who made no obvious indication of unease— she finished her tea briskly, exchanged words briefly with Kiru Athmaza, kissed her husband goodbye, and then swept out with her ladies and Min Olivin trailing in a slightly straggly line after her, opening fans and making faces at each other. The emperor watched her go with soft, slightly thoughtful eyes. Csevet resolved to corner Dach’osmin Merevin or Min Olivin for information at the end of the week, got his files together, and said, “Serenity, Lord Berenar awaits us.”
He never did get the chance to interrogate either woman, as it happened; the interrogation came to him.
It was later— that evening, before dinner— that someone banged on the door, waited a perfunctory two seconds, then invited themselves into his office. Csevet glanced up, half-expecting one of the edocharei, who had a habit of just turning up, but instead—
He did not scrabble to his feet, because such gracelessness was beyond him, but he did get up rather quickly.
“Zhasan…?”
“Emperor’s man, good evening,” said Csethiro Zhasan, clipping the door shut with her foot and looking around appraisingly. “A nice office you’ve got here.”
Csevet did not know what to say to that, so he made what was colloquially named the Courier's Response, and said nothing at all.
Csethiro turned in an appraising circle, said, “Oh, that is tasteful,” in response to Csevet's Pencharneise vase he had found in an antique shop in a Cetho basement, then swept back around to him and clasped her hands in a distinctly businesslike manner. She was wearing the burnt orange velvet that had been part of her trousseau, and had amber and garnets strung in her hair and her ears. The effect was rather aggressive.
Csevet attempted; “Is there something we—?”
“Have we offended you, Mer Aisava?” said Csethiro abruptly, in a complete non-sequitur.
“Offen—” Csevet almost choked on the word. “Zhasan, no.”
“Ah,” said Csethiro. “Truly? Hm.”
“Zhasan—” Csevet attempted again, feeling very much as if his heart had tried to punch a hole through his diaphragm.
“You see, we think that you are wary of us, perhaps wrong-footed, and we would like to know if that is something that might be remedied,” Csethiro announced. She did not follow this up with any particular explanation or exemplar; instead, she peered at him in immense expectation.
Csevet swallowed bile and turned this particular idea over very carefully for a second or two, angling it every which way. The couriers’ instinct was shrieking, banging on the walls, telling him to prostrate himself and beg for mercy, and to do it now. Couriers accused— of theft, promiscuity, disrespect— could expect anything from the reliving of their duties to being beaten around the head there and then.
But he was not a courier any longer, and certainly Csethiro knew that, for she had sailed in calling him Emperor's man as she liked to— and that was he. Besides, he had an idea of the way in which Csethiro Zhasan’s brain worked— and he did not think she was actually accusing him of anything. Yet.
“Zhasan,” he said, coming around the desk, a second away from going down on his knees. “If we have insulted you, we can only beg your forgiveness, for it was not knowingly done—”
“No, no, not that,” said Csethiro, almost impatiently. “Don't bend the knee. We are not insulted. We only worried we had somehow won your animosity, and we would prefer not to have done so.”
Anyone with Os- or higher was not supposed to care what Mer Csevet Aisava thought of them, but of course the wife of Edrehasivar VII seemed concerned. Csevet was convinced his concern for the servants was contagious. Like the summer mich’bronchine. “We were… not aware we usually expressed anything preferential, Zhasan.”
“Well, you don't,” Csethiro agreed. “Face as expressive as a marble block. But we feel rather watched by you— which is not a criticism, t'would not do for you to be unobservant— and you often seem unsettled when we address you. Are we not doing something we should be? You must tell us, we would know’t.”
Very little got past that unforgivingly blue stare, Csevet thought grimly. Partially he had singled her out for her unparalleled power of mind, but he had not thought about having it turned on him. People were not supposed to notice secretaries and attendants and other sundry dogsbodies. Fie that she had.
“We are not so vain as to think that everybody must like us, of course, that would be a terribly juvenile and wildly impractical attitude, would it not?” Csethiro went on. “But if we have done something foolish we would rather know about it. Csaivo knows it would not be the first time, anyway.” Anmura, how she talked when discomfited! It was like trying to grab the bridle of a running charger. If you timed it wrong, you'd simply be yanked away in her slipstream and trampled under the stream of consciousness. “We have rather similar duties to you, of course, what with fending off the hordes, so we would be more pleased an there was not—”
“Zhasan,” said Csevet, quite firmly. She paused with her pale eyebrows raised; he said, “It is not what you imagine. It is only that, respectfully, we were concerned that you might be… malcontent.”
“Malcontent!” said Csethiro, as if she was honestly surprised.
“You are a new bride,” said Csevet, determined to get the whole explanation out before she started talking again. “And moving from being a court Dach’osmin to being Zhasan is no mean feat. As part of your shared household, it seemed to us necessary that we ascertain whether or not you were unhappy or dissatisfied, and if so, if there was anything that might be done. Part of our role is to solve problems before they even become apparent. To do that, we must notice the problem.”
“And if we are displeased…” said Csethiro, “You feel responsible, because you made the match.”
She had an alarming ability to make stunningly accurate leaps of logic when she was actually presented with facts, not just her own presumptions. It made her a good historian, if not such an excellent arranged marriage prospect.
Csevet paused for a moment, then said flatly, “We would never declare such influence over the crown, nor claim that we had unduly influenced His Serenity. We only did as we were bid, which was to make enquiries, and present the emperor with our findings as we saw them.”
“Because His Serenity was ever so well acquainted with the court women, and very nicely equipped to make his own decision,” snorted Csethiro. “All right, we can pretend at the politic fiction— but we have had the truth of’t from the horse’s mouth.”
Csevet despaired quietly at Edrehasivar’s emerging habit of telling the Zhasan most everything, but he could not be surprised that the emperor’s diffidence and desperation for companionship was causing him to buckle under her lack of judgement and decisive chatter. Csevet had anticipated that, after all.
Csethiro turned around and chose one of his fireside chairs to sit in, where she crossed her ankles contemplatively. “Well! Mer Aisava, we thank you for your concern, but we are not malcontented. We know we are terribly dry and have a face blanker than a whitewashed wall, and we made an… inauspicious start to our engagement, but do believe us when we say we are quite happy where we are.” She sighed. “Perhaps we may have come across as stiff. Forgive us. We have been trying to behave. Very hard, as it happens. For even if we have ceased to offend our husband, it has always been someone else. We know we have ruffled Merrem Esaran’s feathers terribly by moving into the Alcethmeret, which is not the done thing.”
“Merrem Esaran came to the role just before the tenure of the Empress Chenelo; she has overseen two of Varenechibel’s wives coming and going, and then a change in emperors,” said Csevet sternly. “Even if she is inconvenienced, it is her job, and you should not be cognizant of her unrest. We will speak to her.” He actually knew for a fact that Csethiro was Echelo’s favourite of the empresses that had existed during her time working at the court, but she often had a funny way of showing that. Usually through higher expectations. And for goddess’s sake, it was far easier and cheaper to have Zhas and Zhasan both in one place. They both knew that. Sometimes Echelo let her sense of tradition outweigh her sense of practicality.
“Oh, no, tis no matter,” said Csethiro. “We were upset too, when our equilibrium was destroyed. We will simply have to try harder to be amenable. But we have also disconcerted Lieutenant Beshelar by being a little too fond of the martial— which is not the done thing— and we keep alarming the poor edocharei by still being around in the morning, which apparently is certainly not the done thing, although we do not really see why we should have to walk back to our rooms when we can just use Maia as a heating block for our feet, and we should not be much use halfway down the stairs if there is another assassination attempt, although we are apparently not allowed to sleep with a blade when we are in the emperor’s bed, which is fair enough, but—” Csevet despaired quietly until she stopped herself, and frowned. “Thus, you see, we have been trying in all other areas to be very good and unobstructive. But it appears our concept of being good is a little… distant.”
“An it is any comfort, Zhasan, Lieutenant Beshelar is very easy to discomfit,” said Csevet. “He is more starched than a washerwoman’s sleeves.”
Csethiro smiled, but her ears sank a second later. She leant forward; “Do we really appear unhappy, Mer Aisava? We are not, on the whole. And we certainly don’t want Maia to think so. We've already had to try and wring the assumption out of him once. He was convinced we were just dutifully tolerating him, though we really don't know how he reached that conclusion, considering we frequently invite ourself into his bed and his company and keep buying him nonsense, but… well, Maia.” She made an expansive, slightly helpless gesture that Csevet thought summed up Edrehasivar quite well, then tipped her head. "But we didn't know you had it, too. We were actually concerned you thought us an unsuitable match for your Emperor, and regretted having sponsored us.”
“We thought— and think— no such thing, Zhasan,” said Csevet gravely.
“No?” said Csethiro, a little hopefully. “Oh. Good.”
It was an oddly vulnerable sentiment on her, and it made her seem rather girlish.
Csevet stared at her for a moment, considering. He had always found her a rather kingly woman, with an immensity to her convictions and sentiments—and she was certainly that, inviting herself into this interview with him with no preamble. But none of the court's young women had been groomed to be empress, and arguably she had been almost as badly prepared as Edrehasivar. That ramble had exposed a few insecurities that he made careful mental note of.
“It is more that we were… aware of your initial reluctance,” said Csevet, after a moment. “And we are conscious that being presented to Varenechibel’s son as a bride, having watched the succession of Varenechibel’s wives, may have been… alarming.”
“Oh, yes,” said Csethiro. “The brides of Geremar.”
Csevet had not been going to say that, but he nodded stiffly. The court women had been naming Varenechibel after the wife-killing demon for years, especially the women of Csethiro's ilk.
“And perhaps we felt as if we might be considered somewhat responsible for… putting you in a situation you misliked,” he said. “And we had to be sure that was not still the case. Hence the… surveillance. We understand that to be Zhasan is not light work. You might have made a reasonably mighty match elsewhere, that came with less obligation.”
“Ah, but we like work,” said Csethiro. “If we had been the wife of one of the rural dukes where our only duty was judging farmer’s shows, we would have had no choice but to get ourself killed in some stupid accident. It could not have been borne."
Csevet tried not to sigh. Csethiro tested the edges of etiquette immensely, and the worst part was that she knew exactly what she was doing. At least Edrehasivar did it by accident.
“That is well,” he said. “But do forgive us for the over-scrutiny, Zhasan. We did not mean for you to interpret it as disapproval.”
“No no, it's all right. Malcontent! Damn it all. Well, we suppose we have behaved quite badly in the not so distant past.” She widened her eyes slightly ironically. Csevet suppressed a smile. “Don't worry, Mer Aisava, we never held you responsible. Our father took all the fire and brimstone.” She perked up interestedly. “We admit though, we thought you'd have a little more perspective than your emperor. Maia is one matter, but you— well, is it just because you don't spend a lot of time with women?”
“Zhasan,” said Csevet, aghast. She had Min Lurimin and Osmerrem Halveran in her circle, and shared a social sect with Archduchess Vedero, so there was no chance she had just made that implication by accident. It also meant she likely did not mind, but even knowing was dangerous enough. Had she mentioned it to anyone? Surely she had enough decorum to not have said anything outside of the household—
“Oh?” said Csethiro. “We are sorry, we thought it was an open secret in the Alcethmeret.”
“It—may be assumed amongst the staff,” said Csevet, aware he sounded slightly strangled. “Some know. But not… Zhasan, please.”
The mere nature of his original profession made him the target of suspicion as it was, but it was not a suspicion which could be proven, and that was the way he preferred it. That was the way it had to be, in fact.
Csethiro held up her hands. “We are silent, we swear’t, and we have not said anything. But not even—”
“The emperor is quite under the impression the only marnis man he has ever met is Thara Celehar,” said Csevet primly. The wider reputation of the couriers had never quite impressed itself upon Edrehasivar VII Drazhar.
“Dear Maia,” said Csethiro, amused. “Lack of presumption, thy name is Edrehasivar. Well, we are sorry for the faux pas. Have no fear, we are used to keeping quiet on the matter.” She frowned. “Gosh. For a woman who was so worried you disliked us, we are certainly giving you plenty of reasons, in our attempts to diffuse the situation. Damnation.” She sat back, then said, “Ooh, Goëlar,” and sat forwards again. “You have the set! And well-read, we dare say, how impressive…”
The woman's mind was like a scanning bird of prey, Csevet thought exhaustedly as she tottered out of the chair to look at his bookshelf. Pinned one topic and only let it go when it was in its death throes, then leapt instantly off to murder another.
“There’s going to be a new one,” said Csethiro, now crouching before his shelf. “We hear his—” she flung him an ironic look— “editor is told to expect a manuscript soon. We know some of the women who do freelance translations of the Barizheise bricks for the same publishing house.”
Csevet, who had sunk somewhat wearily into his desk chair, nodded. “We had heard the same, from the couriers at the printworks.”
“And surely it will be excellent, but it shan't be as good as Lireän,” said Csethiro stoutly. Of course she liked Goëlar, Csevet thought. Osmers and Dach’osmers and academics tended to dismiss them as mere fluff, petty gentry romances, obviously women’s work under a man’s name, because they always ended in marriage and the dowry and the trousseau. But they still sold well— because the Osmers handed over ten zashanai to their daughters and wives and said, there you are, dear, buy your silly novels, and never once wondered why their daughters read them and laughed, and looked over the top of the cover, and then laughed some more. Csevet supposed they were an acquired taste if your inclinations swung more towards the Barizheise brick adventures and poets… but ‘Mer Goëlar’ made a killing from the daughters of the gentry and nobility, if not in the review periodicals or the universities or the literary salons.
“Nothing is as good as Lireän,” said Csevet, then frowned at himself for talking to the Zhasan like an Osmerrem at a book club, but Csethiro was still thundering on;
“It's so good it makes us cross! Every time we reread it, we pick up something else afterwards, and we are simply appalled that it isn't Lireän.”
Csevet could not help but smile. “Quite right, although we confess to a partiality for The Dignity of Sevezho. It—” He hesitated, watched her for a second. Exactly how infectious was Edrehasivar’s attitude towards the servants?
Then he said; “It was the first book we read in full once we had learned to read at a level suitable for novels, so we must privilege it above all else. We were thirteen.”
If gentle-born daughters loved the satires of their fathers, so the couriers loved the satires of their masters, and all the better when they were in it. No one ever wrote about couriers apart from the comic opera librettists, who liked to throw in a salacious bit part, every now and again. But ‘Mer Goëlar’ was interested in everything— and that included couriers. The cheap copy of Sevezho had circulated in the courier barracks so often and so enthusiastically that the first three pages had fallen out and been sewn back in. As far as Csevet knew, it was doing the rounds still. It had been the ultimate achievement, the proof that you had finally managed to catch up to everyone else. The other novels had also changed hands constantly, and he had read them all—but he had saved very carefully to buy a copy of Sevezho for himself for his seventeenth birthday. And once he had his first Alcethmeret payment (at least, the half that he had not sent to his mother), he had gone a little mad with the knowledge he had bed and board and food paid for, and bought every one of the others, then felt ashamed of himself for it. But it was nice to have them, and nice to know they were his.
“Oh! Now that does make it special,” said Csethiro cheerfully. “But what did you think of the courier subplot? The Valno Run? We woke up our sister for all our horrified thrashing, we were so sure Larena was about to be snatched up by Ulis. You cannot have hated it if you favour the book, we suppose, but is it accurate? Do you know couriers who have ridden it?”
“We have ridden the Valno Run,” said Csevet, relieved. The infamous ride from Cetho to Valno, crossing almost the whole Ethuveraz; airships almost never went that far west, so in order to get urgent messages to the rural lords, couriers were sent across the endless miles of horse relays. Csevet still remembered the endless cycle vividly— galloping across featureless moorland until the next relay came into view— a bare half-hour respite amongst the curiously snuffling noses of the stabled horses and the tufts of straw and manure and oats— then back into the saddle to ride across another splash of mottled green-grey nothing— to the next relay— and again, and again, until the gable-roofed spiral of Valno came into view at last.
“Have you ever!” Csethiro dropped from the balls of her feet to sit on the floor, her embroidered slippers planted flat like a little girl’s and her arms around her knees. “Is it as dreadful as it seems?”
“It's worse,” said Csevet. “Mer Larena did it in winter, and we did it in the summer, when the marsh-flies were abroad. We were seventeen and we were bitten almost to death. We contracted a fever and fainted, and came out of the saddle near Calestho. We only avoided falling into the marsh-pits because our foot got caught in the stirrup.” He knew couriers who had died, or who had been retrieved from ditches by passing colleagues.
“Anmurs ’slid. How horrible. The Thu-Evresar marshes sound bleak.”
“They are,” said Csevet. “There are hardly any bridleways, and the only airship mooring mast for miles is near Edonomee.”
“Hmm, Edonomee,” said Csethiro. “Everyone’s least favourite topic.”
Csevet pursed his lips in token to that. He was not sure exactly how much Csethiro had or had not been told; he and Beshelar had discreetly pulled her aside before the wedding to warn her off being too… martial with the emperor, and he suspected that she had stacked it on top of her own observations. If she hadn't been told, she at least suspected. Csevet often thought of how Edrehasivar had only told of it in the first place because he had been forced to, and felt vaguely uneasy.
Eventually, he said; “We think Mer Goëlar— Min Goëlin— must have had it from a courier who had done it, for it was too closely known for it to be otherwise.”
“Have you not thought Goëlar could have been a courier?” said Csethiro.
“...no,” said Csevet, after a consideration. “It would be amusing, but it would not have been kept secret amongst us. If she were a servant, she would be an edocharis or a steward... but we think we take the common theory. Goëlar is almost certainly a noblewoman, albeit one who is very committed to her research.”
“A clever woman,” said Csethiro, tapping the spines thoughtfully. “Canny, too, to get them published…” she brightened. “We should make Maia read them. Although, we think he may be a little lost by a great deal of it. Perhaps we should annotate it first.”
Csevet imagined every possible passage that would bewilder, mortify, or isolate Edrehasivar. There were dozens, if not more. “...perhaps, Zhasan.”
Csethiro laughed, in clear identification of the same problem, then hauled herself from the floor and dusted down her backside. “He has to find out about the satirical crossdressing shows sooner or later.”
“Better you than us, Zhasan, if we may say so,” said Csevet thinly, which made her laugh again.
Then she said, meditatively: “...why us, Mer Aisava?”
“We beg your pardon?”
“Why did you pick us?” said Csethiro. “You could have gone with anyone. We all know that so long as it was an elven girl with money and regular monthly courses, you could have flung more or less anybody into poor Maia’s bed and the Corazhas wouldn't have blinked. And you could have even picked one of our sisters, if you had wanted to see how deep Father’s pockets were, and to patch up the Arbelan offence. Emiro is closer to Maia's age.”
Csevet hesitated— he thought about spinning her a half-truth, but it didn't seem fair. It was true that academic women did not appeal as brides to most men— partially because some were marnis and most ran in the same circles as marnei, but largely because most men did not like it when their wife could balance their books faster than they. But of course gauche, good-hearted Edrehasivar had not found anything to fault in the idea of a wife more intelligent than he. And so Csevet had picked Csethiro Ceredin out of the panicked mass of noble parents trying to shove their daughters out for consideration, for several reasons. The fact that it patched up the great wound that Arbelan’s relegation had caused was one thing, but political consideration had only been part of it. She had been well-dowried and well-born, and he knew that she was accomplished— as a horsewoman, huntress, hostess, dancer, artist, and in most other areas young ladies were supposed to accumulate skills. (And also, of course, in some where they were not.) She was not particularly beautiful, but she had taste, which was more important. She was fashionable; she knew when to be discreet; she had practically raised her younger sisters; she had a strong stomach and a good nerve. And any daughter of the current Marquess Ceredel, especially the older ones, would be adept at smoothing over social embarrassments.
He had also been aware of her unorthodox hobbies, her aggressively martial loyalty, and her reputation for being forthright and opinionated. He had reasoned that, were it possible to attach that sentiment to the emperor, it would do very well indeed.
This idea had worked on paper, but had not of course looked very likely, at one stage. Csevet had spent a few nights sweating profusely over the bathroom sink and berating himself for imagining he knew anything about picking anyone a wife. He had never been so relieved to read a note as he had the one Csethiro had sent after the Chavar coup— he still sometimes remembered the phrase …& PROVE HER WORTHLESSNESS UPON HER CARCASE and snorted at the sheer nerve.
“The Emperor needed many things,” he said. “Everybody you spoke to would have prioritised one matter higher than the other. Dowry. Diplomacy. Childbearing prospects—” he saw Csethiro's ears twitch slightly, and knew she had had the same thought as the rest of the court; an she was like her mother, or her great aunt? He did not acknowledge it. “Or desirable alliances. Some emperors have picked on looks alone.” Csethiro chuckled— he ignored that too. “We tried to avoid being single-issue about the entire business. But we thought…” he paused. “You understand, Zhasan, that this is one man's opinion—”
“Mer Aisava, we are not going to have you dragged off on charges of treason for admitting to influencing the emperor. The emperor was practically begging you to influence him—”
“He needed a friend,” said Csevet stoutly. “And we had no hopes of that from anyone but you.”
That got her to stop interrupting. Csethiro stared at him for a few seconds, a lacquered nail caught thoughtfully between her teeth and brow furrowed.
“And a fine pickle we made of that to begin with,” she said at last, a touch too briskly. “No matter, we know he has changed his mind. His antipathy is easy to rid oneself of… perhaps too easy.” She peered at Csevet thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “Thank you, Mer Aisava. Might we consider ourselves thus even, then?”
Csevet knew she meant devoid of animosity, but he almost laughed at the very idea of being thus even with the Zhasan. He said, “There is no offence between us, Zhasan. Only—”
He stopped himself, but Csethiro was looking attentive.
Reluctantly, he said, “Perhaps next time you have something to address with us, you might approach it less… abruptly?” Csethiro looked blank; he said, “Zhasan, we used to be a courier. Accusations of offences from nobles were a cause for… distress.”
Csethiro minced an oath that Csevet was alarmed she even knew, then put her head in her hands. “Piss it, we quite forgot,” she said, which was not markedly more dignified. She covered her face for a minute, presumably to hide the flush, then said, “Oh, Mer Aisava, we are sorry. You must think us the most foolish woman in the world, barging in here and holding forth at you like an Osmerrem in a Calvenezh satire accusing some poor teenaged courier of pinching her half-zashanei. You have truly wonderful composure to have lasted as long as you did without despair.”
“We rather like Calvenezh,” said Csevet mildly. When she did not look as if she was going to recover, he said, “Zhasan, we have never thought you in the least bit foolish.”
“There's still time to change your mind, you know,” said Csethiro, sagging back into his chair again. “Oh dear. How can we make it up to you?”
“Do not think on it, Zhasan.”
Csethiro frowned. Csevet recognised the expression; she was not satisfied, that would not do for her. She was a decided woman, rather unlike her lord. “Zhasan, we mean it.”
“Do you play Pakh’palar, Mer Aisava?”
Csevet could not stop himself from saying, after a second; “...very well, Zhasan.”
Csethiro grinned. “And so do we. Come by Friday night when we play at salon, we will have plenty of gossip from the debuts and be desperate to talk— and we shall garnish your wages with your inevitable winnings.”
The society debuts were a great fuss and an immense undertaking; Csevet passed the Michen'theileian several times on errands that day, and once slipped in to hand a note to one of Csethiro's guardsmen. The antechamber was filled with pallid elven noble children in brand-new, slightly ill-fitting court clothes, and their jockeying parents. Csethiro had wisely worn a relatively approachable spring green, and at least had the generosity to smile at her approaching supplicants, which Csoru Zhasanai had not done. No doubt there would be mutterings that she had sat beside the throne, rather than further down the dais, but as Edrehasivar had said a tad tartly that morning, nursing a megrym; let them mutter, what is’t to us?
By the time Csevet actually got to Csethiro's parlour that night, everyone was a little bit drunk, Osmerrem Velnaran was smoking Tan Okhrana tobacco out of the window, and Csethiro had won ten muranai.
Csevet was not exactly surprised to see the emperor there, since he had known he would be, but he did look slightly out of place; he was talking to Idra in the corner, and behaving himself, unlike everybody else. Someone had made paper crowns out of crepe paper for Hesiriän and Idra, the new debutants and new adults; Csevet internally winced at the idea of giving a crown, even a pink paper one, to Prince Idra, but no one in here was of the Varedeise Revival persuasion.
“Mer Aisava!” Csethiro did not quite shout it, but it was a close thing. “Your old colleagues are telling us that we simply must play you because it is the only way we will lose any money this whole night, come and sit and we will deal you in—”
Csevet could not refuse, both because it was an order from the Zhasan, and also because he had an immense weakness for cards.
Once she had dispatched her current luckless opponent— Osara, a courier from the treasury office, who shot him an amused glance as he got up— Csevet replaced him. It surprised him not at all that Csethiro's favoured method of gambling was one-on-one. Everything was a duel with this woman.
Csethiro put down her immense metheglin and sobara spritzer in order to deal him in; she saw his glance at it and said, “Now now, I've only had one, but it had to be large enough for a woman to drown herself in.”
“Was it so terrible?” said Csevet, picking up his hand and casting an eye over it.
“Tedious, no matter how sorry one might feel for the little mites.” She shook her head. “The vast majority looked ready to wet their britches. Still, the other year they were being presented to Csoru, so we like to imagine we cannot possibly be a worse prospect. Imagine walking the length of the Michen'theileian to find her staring down at you. One simply recoils. Poor things. Then again, they still looked terrified today.”
“We heard Dach’osmin Dennevin was practically dragged across the room to you by her mother the Duchess, who would not endure her daughter’s considerably slower pace,” said Csevet, sorting his cards into suits. He could tell Csethiro hadn’t bothered.
“She was, poor little slip,” said Csethiro, squinting at her hand. “Makes a terrible mama to not wait for a daughter who was evidently ravaged by a borlaän as a girl. We tried to give her a little in the way of encouragement, and to her credit she gave us a good firm look back, so perhaps she will get herself away from the mother as soon as she can. And Dach’osmer Frelis was most unhappy to be presented by his aunt. We think he wanted his sister to be the one to do’t, but busybody aunty got in the way… ever thus, when one’s mama is dead. Female relations one has never heard of suddenly crawl from the walls.” She took a decisive slug from her glass and laid down the two of spades.
“How was Dach’osmer Telbenar?”
“Cool and calm,” said Csethiro, “Although he came after Idra, so I think he was a little discomfited by that.”
Had he indeed. How curious. Who ever could have arranged that?
“And the dinner?”
“Tiresome, but not a disaster. I had Dach'osmin Annimin and Osmin Trennadin at either hand, and they were not a bit shy. They asked the damnedest questions! They wanted to know if it was true that our husband the Emperor was going to import five thousand roses from Pencharn for us."
“...and what,” said Csevet, laying down the five of diamonds and picking up the ace of clubs, “Did you say to that?”
"What should he need to import all those for? The Alcethmeret has a perfectly sufficient rose garden.”
Csevet did not roll his eyes at the Zhasan, but it was a close thing.
“Apparently he has also promised us a Ilvinerneise gown made of mist-lace and a caul made of Barizheise pearls," said Csethiro, scuffling around and selecting a card from the pile. “And a summer palace in Thu-Evresar. As if you wouldn't have to drag him back to Thu-Evresar kicking and screaming…”
"We certainly hope he has not made such rash promises," said Csevet. The fact was, he had heard of the rumours, known them nonsense, but he had been waiting to see what Csethiro would make of them. He had not struck them down; why should he? They were no harm to anything except the Treasury, and the Treasury was full of men who loved taxation more than their wives. Except perhaps Berenar. "We should have to re-budget half the month."
“Be at ease, Mer Aisava, we have not been demanding imports. And yet, we do think, if we asked…” She saw Csevet's face and grinned.
Csevet had never thought much of the 'impossible task' subgenre of wonder-tale until he had come into Edrehasivar's service. The emperor's sense of practicality required some work. He could usually be dissuaded by a gentle suggestion of bewilderment or dismay, but he always let his sense of idealised good intent lead. If Csethiro asked, she was right— he just would.
Csethiro shrugged and went back to her cards. “Still, those are not the sort of notions he would have by himself."
Csevet imagined Edrehasivar's mystified expression, being told that he was apparently going to such lengths, and rubbed his face to hide his smile.
"Not that he does not make great efforts to be considerate,” Csethiro went on, “But he is not given to that sort of grandness, is he? It would never enter his head.”
No, it would not. Csevet said, “We think Nemer will eventually have a nervous collapse if His Serenity never does learn to have a sense of magnificence.” He shook his head. “You must disappoint these court girls, Zhasan.”
“Not a bit, Mer Aisava. Have I not wedding presents enough to interest them? Did you not run the inventory on them?”
She did; he had. There had been the formal settlements between families, but the emperor always made personal gifts to his bride as well. Hunting hounds, two, Athamara Silver Pointers; they were skittish things, but clever, always lying in a spindly pile of grey limbs somewhere inconvenient, looking vaguely like the emperor who had purchased them. Antique cameo jewellery; The Soliloquies of Atharazar, three fabulously rare volumes that it was almost impossible to pick up; several hunting habits of blue velvet— and the sword, of course. Merineise epée, antique; mother-of-pearl pommel and lapis-edged scabbard, obtained at Verenada auction. Csevet and Telimezh had been sent to look at auction lots, and then Csevet had bid ruthlessly for the mighty old epée while Edrehasivar fidgeted anxiously next to him and asked repeatedly if they could afford it. They could, of course, even if the emperor had gotten a little carried away, in his usual eager attempts to please. But it had gone down such a storm. It all had, especially because he had had the uniquely kind thought to make gifts to Csethiro’s sisters, too, which had delighted the little ones, made Hesiriän actually smile, and deeply flattered the cheerfully vain Emiro— and that had been perhaps what had truly pleased Csethiro the most.
“Who doesn't know about the sword?” Csethiro said. “Still, I regaled them, and they were suitably impressed— twice Valonar!”
She slapped down a handful of cards; Csevet made no reaction, and shuffled the piles. No one was clearly winning, yet, but they still had another two rounds to go.
They played in concentrated silence for a little while, both defaulting to court faces, although Csethiro was humming to herself. Csevet did not know if it was tactical or merely for fun.
It was then that they both seemed to notice the emperor— sitting in the corner, holding his wine glass carefully in both hands and looking about him in that slightly lost way he had. He was never quite at ease with Csethiro's salons, and Csevet sometimes caught him looking upon Csethiro's legions of academic friends— legions of friends— with a tight little expression of self-despising envy. But he attended determinedly, though Csevet did not know if it was his concept of marital obligation, an attempt to be more at ease, or that he just knew he would be more unhappy if he did not go.
Or just that Csethiro just wanted him to attend. Certainly when she flapped at him encouragingly— come here, come here— he did as he was told with enough good cheer. “Be my luck, Maia.”
“We are no good at Pakh’palar,” Edrehasivar said, confused.
“Thou’rt not telling me what to play, just being a talisman… come on—” She tugged his arm gently and he sat down.
“Who's winning?”
“We won't know until the final hand,” said Csethiro.
“Ah,” he peered at her hand, blinked, then settled back to watch them laying cards at some considerable speed. Csevet glanced several times over the top of his hand at Csethiro; she was, he had to admit, an excellent player, impassive and considered and distinctly ruthless. No wonder she had foisted money off of most of her opponents.
She was not as good as he was, though. Which made no matter— she had played for fun amongst court women, and he had played for a week’s pay amongst couriers. At least, he had, until he had been banned, for always winning.
It was quite possible for him to win here— in fact, he was sure of it, because he knew there was an ace of diamonds in the pile, close to the top, and he did not think Csethiro would choose to draw again. She obviously had a good hand, because the emperor had looked at it over her shoulder at least three times, and even though he was not particularly good at Pakh’palar, he did know the rules. If they laid their hands now, she was going to win. If he put her off to draw from the pile, he would win.
Csethiro had her foot hooked around Edrehasivar’s and was swinging both of their legs idly, frowning at her cards. Edrehasivar had given up on looking at Csethiro’s hand, and was watching them play with his ears tilted admiringly.
Csevet swallowed his pride with some difficulty, mentally kissed goodbye to fifty zashanai and reminded himself he was salaried these days, and agreed to lay their hands.
(“There’s for thee, Serenity,” Csethiro was saying later, tucking half of her winnings into the emperor’s breast pocket with a little pat, which made him laugh. “Now I can give thee pin-money…”
Kiru, over Edrehasivar’s shoulder, shot him an amused, distinctly knowing look. She had lost enough money to him to know what he had done. Csevet examined his nails and ignored her.)
When Csevet got into his office the next day, there was an envelope on his desk; unsealed, so it must have been dropped off by someone within the Alcethmeret, not sent.
Enclosed was fifty zashanai, and a satirical note card from a set mocking the prominent courtier families as ridiculously drawn weasels. This was one of a few which depicted the Ceredada; the hapless Marquess overwhelmed and ineffectual in the face of a litter of wriggly and disobedient girl-kits. Csevet shook his head at it in grudging amusement. On the back, in the barzhad, was written;
FOR LETTING US WIN IN FRONT OF OUR HUSBAND — DO NOT THINK WE DID NOT NOTICE.
YOURS &C
It was signed with the cavalier’s monogram she favoured in personal correspondence.
Csevet thought about the argument he would have if he tried to return it, smiled in defeat, and put both items in his waistcoat.
Very little got past her indeed.
He had been quite sure that that was the end of it; that Csethiro would be satisfied, and they would be, as she had wanted, thus even— at least in her mind. Certainly he was happy to tie the entire matter off. But perhaps he should have anticipated Csethiro would think otherwise.
“It is not a matter of overspending, Serenity,” Csoru Zhasanai was saying crossly in the Untheileian, despite the emperor not having actually implied that in the first place. “We think one of the little chits in our household is making off with our money. We had always previously been able to afford Pencharneise lace, and we trust Cs— your wife the Zhasan has not cut our stipend so dramatically as all that.”
Csevet despaired that they had barely been at the soirée ten seconds before Csoru had materialised to regale the emperor with her latest indignation. She had somehow gotten worse since Csethiro entered the picture, even with Csethiro’s repeated attempts to metaphorically slap her down; Csevet thought it was a bizarre form of entertainment between the two of them. He just wished the emperor didn’t constantly get caught in the crossfire.
“Zhasanai,” said the emperor solemnly, “The Zhasan has not cut your stipend at all.”
Csoru made a little hmph! noise. No one mentioned that Csethiro had repeatedly joked about cutting off Csoru— she hadn’t actually done it, so Csevet considered it a non-issue.
“Your accounts will be looked into,” the emperor said. “If you will raise the matter with our secretary, Mer Aisava—”
Csoru did not bother even looking at Csevet, merely making a vague guess at his whereabouts and thrusting the papers into his hands. “Yes, have your man figure it out.” Your man— it was not as charming as when Csethiro did it. Still, Csevet was well-used to being disrespected, especially by Csoru, and so he tapped Csoru’s wayward calculations into a neat pile while the emperor frowned.
“Zhasanai—”
“We do not expect our maltreatment to be tolerated, merely because we are a widow,” said Csoru pertly. “Our late husband, your father, would never have stood for it.”
“As you say, Zhasanai,” said the emperor wearily. “It will be seen to.”
Csoru threw them one last hostile look, either ignored or didn’t notice the way Beshelar was glowering at her, dropped the emperor a perfunctory curtsy, and marched away. Csevet thought she could have at least said thank you, but that was not the sort of thing one expected from Csoru.
Csethiro turned from where she’d been pulled aside by one of her academic friends, one of the many middle-aged noblewomen she liked the society of. “What was all of that?”
“Csoru Zhasanai believes she is being cheated out of money,” said Edrehasivar. “She is suspicious that her staff are skimming.”
“Serves her right if they are,” said Csethiro. Csevet was inclined to agree, since Csoru was known to physically shake her edocharoi, but he said;
“It would not look well for a prominent member of the Drazhada to be cheated by their staff. We will look into the matter.”
“We’d cheat Csoru out of a few hundred muranai if she threw hairbrushes at us, too,” said Csethiro.
“We will see to the matter,” said Csevet again.
“Very noble, Mer Aisava,” said Csethiro. “We’d have given her an accountant and a judicial witness and told her to work it out herself— ah, is that Vedero? She must be out of isolation, that was one utter bastard of a bronchine, wasn’t it? Vedero— ay, Halsiro, I shan't be a moment, stay here with Mer Aisava so I can find thee again—”
She swept off into the crowd, trailing Edrehasivar (and nohecharei) behind her, and leaving Csevet with the woman he now recognised as Osmin Halsiro Cennavin. He knew of her; the niece of Count Cennavel, who spent most of her time in the country. The Cennevada had tried repeatedly and furiously to get her married, as they were in a surfeit of sons and she was their only daughter, but all of their efforts had been to no avail. She was in Csethiro and Vedero's circles, but did not come to court often; Csevet did not think he had ever seen her at an event this high-profile. Perhaps she was a little elevated now, by her preference with the Zhasan.
“Osmin Cennavin,” said Csevet politely, and bowed.
“Mer Aisava, we have been dying to talk to you,” she said instantly, pale green eyes very wide. She was a little woman, middle-aged, breathlessly enthusiastic and quick-talking, her fine white hair curly and impossible to control. She had a pince-nez clutched in one of her slightly clammy hands, and every time she put it on it slipped a little on her slightly sweaty nose.
“Ah,” said Csevet, bewildered; she even knew who he was. “Is that so?”
“Well yes! We are a terrible gossip! And we think no one knows more about high society than you, since you get to be sort of, oh, peripheral to almost all of it— we do not mean badly, do not think we mean badly— we mean, we saw Csoru Zhasanai ignoring you, terrible, but it does mean you get to observe, and that is what we love doing best when we come to court. Listening. Some of the things they come out with— ooh, frightful.”
“We could not possibly comment,” Csevet said, but he smiled, and that was all the encouragement she needed. If she needed any at all.
“It is nice to be back at court, it was kind of Csethiro to invite us— we mean, the Zhasan, hah— but it tires us out, a little.” Csevet doubted that. He doubted this woman was ever tired, in fact. “Still, far superior to the boring country season, there is so much to see here— we mean, the society debuts, terrible fun, poor mites— and we have had nice chats with couriers. Papa always says we should not talk to the couriers but they are so interesting, so much more interesting than the nobles at times… you agree, surely?”
“We think we are too partial to make a judgement.”
Osmin Cennavin chuckled. “We will take that as a yes.”
She was eager to discuss the attendees around them (“He wasted his inheritance sending his bastard daughter away to be raised by a respectable country family, and now his poor wife is in last year’s fashions, still looking as if Csoru is Zhasan and not Csethiro… we mean, the sheath skirts!”), and was plain about her lack of own acquaintances (“Indeed we have very little in the way of friends at court outside of Csethiro’s little circle, we are not an advantageous person to know— we know everything about everyone, but we have not the least acquaintance, tis very bad and were we wiser we should probably be ashamed…” ) and peppered him with questions about the courtiers and the couriers and the chancellery, with every appearance of actual interest.
There was something about her, Csevet thought. She was inelegant and distractible and crass, but… the way she placed her emphasis, the ironic bent, the almost researching quality to her questions.
Csevet glanced down at her nails, which were cut short, and at the dint in her dominant hand’s fingers, and at the slight discoloration on her fingertips. He knew the mark of hands which wrote, and wrote often. Every secretary’s hands had the same look. You couldn’t have long nails unless you always lacquered them, because the ink collected and stained and never came off, and if you spilled ink on yourself often enough you’d get that discoloration, and the dint from holding the pen…
“...you're her,” said Csevet, then mentally berated himself for both the accusation and the terribly rude sentence form.
Cennavin’s scraggly white eyebrows leapt up. “Her?”
“You're Goëlar,” said Csevet hesitantly. “Are you not?”
Osmin Cennavin did not so much as blink— her face split into a thrilled smile. “Oh, well done! I had heard you were clever, Csethiro said so, but no one's ever done it without having to be hinted!” She had dropped formality like a barbell, Csevet realised, even as he was having flashbacks to every moment in the courier’s barracks trying to sound out her words with his rudimentary preteen literacy. “Everyone's looking for an elegant witty lady— no one thinks it's silly little Halsiro who talks like the clappers and has stupid sweaty hands. They don't realise I parody myself in every garrulous old matron or ridiculous maiden aunt. They think I'm going to be like Fremilo or Eno or Lireän. Do you know, there was a sect which thought it was Csethiro at one point? How we laughed about that— Csethiro is an academic, not a novelist, and she's far too young, but anything to throw them off the scent. Tis very funny to have to call her Zhasan and curtsey to her, now, but I cannot be cross about it, and I do not think she is malcontent.”
Csevet smiled wryly. “No, we do not think she is.”
“It suits her to be mighty, I think, and she likes the lad.”
“To be sure,” said Csevet, deciding not to pick up on one of the Ethuveraz’s best selling novelists calling Edrehasivar Zhas the lad.
“Which is good work on your part, so I hear,” said Cennavin— said Goëlar.
Csevet pursed his lips. “How many people has the Zhasan been telling that particular tidbit to, may we ask?”
“Not sure,” said Cennavin cheerily. “Tis an open secret though, no? Emperors never make their own matches.”
“It is… impolitic.”
“No doubt, but I don’t think the emperor minds, so what of’t?”
“We suppose that is true,” said Csevet uneasily. He hesitated, feeling foolish, but she was blinking unpresumptuously before him. “We don’t know if the Zhasan would have told you…”
“Hmm?”
“Your books, Osmin, are the ones that the couriers who cannot read and write, teach each other with,” said Csevet. He was aware he was talking rather quickly, but he felt he had to get it out quickly. “Reading— and finishing— The Dignity of Sevezho is something of an informal exam. And then one inevitably goes on to read the rest, but—”
“What? Our Sevezho?”
“Osmin, there is no other.”
Osmin Cennavin stared at him. “But that is so— so— oh! What about… oh, I don’t know, a great man of literature! Berar! All the schoolhouses teach Berar—”
“No common man in the courier barracks truly enjoys Berar,” said Csevet scornfully. Berar had no sense of irony or fun. He smiled; “But everyone likes Goëlar. And Sevezho, and Mer Larena.”
She stared at him— he was sure for a moment that she was going to cry, but then she seemed to regain herself, though she fell to fragmented muttering; “Well. Mer Aisava, you have given me a mighty… well, I really had no idea… by virtue of being anonymous, I had never been sure… people really enjoyed… my friends, of course, but… the sales… not since Lireän, really— well, lots of the mighty Osmers and Dach’osmers do not, so…” She looked up, and beamed like a schoolgirl. “Oh, we are glad. We hope Sevezho was not too… sensational… oh, well, we suppose you would not have mentioned it if it was so very bad…”
“Not at all. And we used your work more generally as a guide, as it happens,” admitted Csevet, deciding to just get it all out now. “To make the imperial match.”
This seemed to amuse her immensely. “Did you! Well I never…” Cennavin half-covered her mouth, then glanced up, and grinned utterly shamelessly at him. “Oh dear, look at us. Spurned spinster aunt and courier. Influencing the empire.” She peered back into the crowd again. “Would that I had written an Edrehasivar. He would be a lovely hero.”
“We think he would be very bewildered to hear you say that, Osmin Cennavin,” admitted Csevet.
“Oh, but he does have an element of my lovely Delamezh about him…”
“We should not say,” Csevet admitted.
“Of course not. But…?”
“But we did have to teach him to stop saying what can we do for you, to petitioners,” said Csevet. Cennavin laughed.
“I wonder if Csethiro has ever had the thought.”
Every time we reread it, we pick up something else afterwards, and we are simply appalled that it isn't Lireän.
“We do think it might have occurred to her once or twice, Osmin.”
“All the better.” She peered at him; “Say, Mer Aisava— were we ever to be researching on a topic we thought you might be able to help us with… couriers, secretaries, the Chancery, specific tidbits of gossip…”
“Say only the word, Osmin,” Csevet said. “You know where to find us, and we will ensure discretion on the matter of your identity and your purpose.” He paused, then said; “...and for what it is worth, Osmin, we thought the Valno Run was superbly done.”
“Oh, really? Excellent. We did really try to find out.”
“Who did you talk to?”
“When Dana Volsharezh was young he was sent often to my father’s estate with messages, and he suffered my questions. Not that he was the courier captain, not then…”
“We knew it had to be a courier who had ridden it,” said Csevet, before he could stop himself.
She brightened. “Did you do it? You did? Damn, now, wait a moment, my notebook—”
As she fumbled in her pockets, Csevet glanced into the crowd, and found Csethiro looking at him— she winked, and he smiled.
“But Papa, even thou canst not deny that they are a good match.”
“Of course they are,” said her father. “Osmer Delamezh is everything that is agreeable in a man— diffident, retiring, modest and unassuming, and most importantly, he is rich. And our Lireän is so much a tyrant, so forthright and so mighty in bearing, that she will run the household by Winternight and give own husband pin-money. If Delamezh is fool enough to marry her, let him! Everyone will be content and no one will ever be invited to dinner, so that Delamezh’s ineffectual social manner is never exposed. How pleased they will be!”
“Papa,” said Fremilo sternly. “Osmer Delamezh is far more than you credit him for. And you need not abuse your own daughter in front of her nose!”
“Oh no, do let him,” said Lireän to her sister, who until that moment had held her tongue and busied herself with her needlepoint. “It will give him great comfort in his dotage to know his tyrant daughter can safely indulge her mighty ways with her unassuming husband.” Her father knew not what Delamezh had done, and she was content to allow it. His acerbic comments on her matters— or indeed any matters— she had never wanted, and soon she would be able to avoid them entirely, so she could not own herself truly vexed now.
(Goëlar, Lireän)