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Eshevis Tethimar had been killed by Cala over a year ago— and yet even from the grave, he was still managing to cause problems for Maia.
“The Tethimada’s collapsed trade route from the Chadevan Sea and through Barizhan is still causing delays,” Csevet was saying, peering at the map tacked onto the wall of the Tortoise Room. “Like all their assets which were not collated into dowries for the unmarried sisters, it was reclaimed by the crown, but we have not yet been able to prioritise returning it to its previous efficiency. Your Serenity's grandfather, the Great Avar, is offering to send a delegate to discuss cross-border traders who might oversee the route, suggesting they will pay a good percentage to the crown. It’s a better deal than the one the Tethimada previously afforded the Emperor, but we imagine the increased involvement of Barizhan will ruffle some feathers… though we note that the vast majority of the routes around that area of Barizhan are still controlled by elven noble houses.”
“Is he truly sending someone to negotiate this?” said Maia wearily, peering at the map. “It does not seem important enough to warrant an entire diplomatic visit.”
“He— is sending someone, Serenity… though not in a completely official capacity, we gather...”
Maia looked over at the oddly reluctant tone.
“Is there a problem, Csevet?”
Csevet bowed apologetically.
“Not as such, Serenity. It’s only— the delegate your grandfather sends is his daughter. Your Serenity’s aunt.”
Maia wasn’t sure what about that seemed to imply disaster; his grandfather sending one of his daughters seemed to imply that this held less expectation than a formal negotiation, and that perhaps it could be resolved relatively easily. “Which one is he sending?”
Csevet coughed. “Ah— his eldest natural daughter, Serenity. Shaleän Sevraseched.”
Maia was just trying to remember which one that was, when Cala burst out:
“The pirate?” Everyone turned to stare at him, and he winced. “Sorry, Serenity.”
Maia waved it off, but on the other side of the table, from where she’d been frowning over some letter to her grandmother in Thu-Cethor, Csethiro’s gaze had risen in interest. Csevet said:
“The, er… Captain. Yes.”
There was a pause that seemed to sit somewhere between thoughtful and disbelieving.
“We are aware it is not… quite proper, for him to send a natural daughter with no official governmental position,” added Csevet. Cala muttered something that Maia didn’t catch, but he did see the chape of Beshelar’s scabbard catch Cala’s bony shin in obvious retribution for the comment.
“Natural children are often employed in their noble parent’s household,” said Csethiro, putting down her pen. “There’s even a position for them as pages in the Ceredada. ‘tis… atypical, to be sure, but I don’t think thou should’st think of it as a slight, Maia— and I don’t think thine grandfather wouldst disrespect thee on purpose. Soothly, he seems eager to underscore his approval of thee…”
Maia agreed— he found himself eyeing the magnificently expensive and elaborate Barizheise tapestry of a wonder-tale on the wall opposite, which had been their wedding gift from the Great Avar. He had brought it himself, to everyone’s surprise, and had spent most of the festivities variously very merry, slightly drunk, or amusing himself at the Marquess Ceredel’s expense. It was generally agreed he had enjoyed himself immensely, and he and Csethiro had played a very spirited game of Bokh that no one had ever seemed to win.
“Shaleän is an… awkward question for the Corat' Dav Arhos,” said Csevet slowly. “And we gather she is not much discussed in noble society… in public noble society, that is. But she is something of a folk figure to those who live on the coast, and they call her the arh’avar , the water-duke. She scandalises, to be sure— she has a wife stowed away in Solunee-over-the-Water, so it’s said— but many of the avarsin pay her huge sums to see their shipments safely across the Chadavean Sea, to smuggle valuables, or sometimes even to conduct raids on rivals’ ships. It has long been suspected that her father pays her great sums to feed him information and safeguard his ships. The Great Avar, we suspect, would not be as rich as he is without Shaleän Sevraseched. So her acknowledgement was generally considered to be long overdue, and we do agree with the Zhasan— we think he merely efficiency, and personal investment, in his sending of her.”
Maia said; “Is there something else he wants? It seems a big statement, for such a… minor issue.”
“We had wondered the very same thing, as it happens,” said Csevet thoughtfully, staring at the papers. “But we are sure if there is a second purpose, it will not remain opaque. The Great Avar has never been… overmuch concerned with subtlety.”
Nor, it became quickly apparent, was Shaleän Sevraseched.
The second the door was yanked open for her, Maia wondered only that his grandfather hadn’t acknowledged her sooner; Shaleän was so like the Great Avar that anyone who clapped eyes on her would have struggled to hold her paternal line in much doubt, if any at all.
She was a splendid, broad goblin woman in her fifties, with the Great Avar’s startling red-orange eyes, his black skin, and his incredible height. Maia was childishly delighted to find she looked almost exactly like the illustrations of Barizheise pirates and privateers in Chenelo’s wonder-tale book; she wore a long, sharply lapelled blue coat that snapped in her wake, cuffed heavily and lined with merrily jingling gold embellishments. Though her face was a little shadowed by her great cocked hat, what Maia could see of it was strong and firm, with a wide mouth and high brows, which gave her a constant look of arch, slightly quizzical amusement. Her stride was long and loose, more suited to keeping footing on a ship’s deck than a court receiving room— and everywhere, she wore gold. Gold rings in her ears and gold beads braided into her hair, gold settings for the fire opals on her hands, gold buckles on her ringing boots and the sword harnesses about her waist and hips— currently empty of weapons in concession to her approach of the Emperor, but Maia doubted they were usually so. All the gold made the orange of her eyes vivid and arresting, and her gaze was almost as arresting as her father’s.
Unlike her father, however, she could not meet Maia as an equal, no matter that she was nearly forty years older than him, his aunt, and half a foot taller than him. And so she swept off her hat and knelt briskly before him, muttering the Barizhin platitude — ordath— and then, in Ethuverazhin:
“Serenity; Zhasan. We are Captain Shaleän Sevraseched, sent to you as a representative of our father and your Serenity’s grandfather, the Great Avar of Barizhan, who sends his fond commendations to his grandson and his wife.”
Her Ethuverazhin was fluent, but had a strong southern clip to it, and was very brusque in its delivery; Maia suspected she had learned it from sailors and traders, not courtiers or tutors. He was a little surprised that she owned her father's surname so easily; she had been acknowledged several years ago now, but he wondered if she had always used the name. He found in himself a sneaking suspicion that she probably had.
Interesting, too, that she had thought to include Csethiro in her greeting; too many supplicants seemed to consider her abstracted from the political intricacies, merely there to be looked at— even though it was still all too common that she knew more about the matters discussed than Maia did.
“Please rise, Captain Sevraseched,” said Maia. Shaleän did, unfolding her magnificent height and confirming that she was by far the tallest person in the room. Maia found himself not insignificantly nervous when he said; “We are pleased to welcome you to our court, and we pray you remember us to our grandfather.”
“Certainly, Serenity.”
“An it please you, we should call you Aunt,” said Maia. He saw Csevet shake his head— too deferential, he knew— but this was the private audience, obtained by virtue of their blood relation, and he would prefer to be over-courteous to his mother's family, if anything.
He had not been sure what response he had expected, if any— but Shaleän smiled, exposing chipped teeth that had probably been broken in fights before.
“We should be honoured, Serenity.”
Apparently considering that to be the end of formal pleasantries, she clapped Maia rather hard on the shoulders, in the manner of goblin men (Beshelar and Cala, in his peripheral, both winced), and kissed Csethiro’s hand with excessive gallantry.
Csethiro’s face was her perfect pleasant doll’s mask, but Maia had seen the quirk of her ears, and knew she was genuinely impressed. Csevet and Cala, too, looked won over— though poor Beshelar’s eyebrows were almost in his hairline. They saw Maia looking and hastily rearranged their expressions, but he could hardly fault them. The Untheileneise Court, too concerned with producing pristine noblewomen to marry off, very rarely saw women so conspicuously magnificent, and Maia thought in weary amusement of the amount of pearl-clutching that Captain Sevraseched would cause amongst the more conservative of the noble houses.
An informal luncheon was proposed, and promptly descended on by everyone who had even a slight claim to be present. Maia, Csethiro, and Shaleän were joined by Ambassador Gormened and Merrem Gormened, naturally, and by Vedero and Arbelan, who didn’t really have any reason to be present aside from nosiness, but at least they owned that was their motivation. Shaleän played an excellent gallant to both of them, too— and, slightly outrageously, flirted with Arbelan, which Maia pretended not to notice.
And of course, Maia had asked Captain Vizhenka and Nadeian Vizhenka— the youngest of the Great Avar’s daughters, and hence Shaleän’s youngest sister. Shaleän laughed when she saw her come in, and got up to kiss her;
“Well well, little sister!” she barked, immediately following the kiss with a clout on the back. “An’ thou’rt looking very high and mighty, these days, dressed like an elf-maid! But it does well-beseem thee, to be sure…” She took to fussing, then delivered a brisk platitude to her brother-in-law; “An’ how do you, Vizhenka, eh? Foiling assassinations, art thou? Ay, ‘tis cushy position atop cushy position with thee, Papa would make thee the next Avar if only he could, mark me…”
Vizhenka was saved from this awkward insinuation by the appearance of Nemolis’s children, which made Shaleän laugh, and say;
“An’ here we thought this court was merely full of severe twenty-somethings and their scheming parents. How do you, Prince Idra, Archduchesses?”
Maia had not initially intended them to attend this, but Ino and Mireän had begged, pleaded, and cajoled to be allowed to see the goblin pirate lady, and eventually Csevet had admitted that it would not really be improper for the Prince and his sisters to attend. Idra had struggled to maintain to his sisters that this was a diplomatic visit, not an opportunity to gawk— but now, his ears were definitely betraying a childish impulse to curiosity. Ino and Mireän had forgotten themselves slightly in trepidation and awe, and had chosen opposing sides of Csethiro’s skirt to hold onto— it took Idra gently but firmly prying their fingers from the Empress, and taking them each by the hand, for them to remember to greet Shaleän properly. In the absence of any female relatives after their mother’s disgrace, it had been agreed that there was no noblewoman better than the Empress to make a good example to the little Archduchesses— and while they were not truly supposed to cling to the Ethuverazhid Zhasan’s skirts like she was their nursemaid, and they certainly knew better, Csethiro never would have stopped them. While Suler remained first in their affections, Csethiro now invoked a distinct starry-eyed admiration in both of them, and as one of five sisters she was well-used to holding hands, accepting straggly bouquets, and plaiting hair.
But Ino got over her trepidation quickly; she was barely in her seat before she blurted out: “Osmerrem Sevraseched, have you ever seen a giant squid?”
Idra sighed, apparently having been expecting this, but Shaleän looked quite gratified to have been asked.
“In our time, Archduchess, we've seen almost everything the Chadevan Sea has to offer— including giant squid. We once snared one by mistake, in the nets we had put out for a bit of light fishing, and one of our gunners was almost squeezed to pulp before we could get him out— he was quite alright in the end, but he does have some funny looking bits where we think we put his bones back in a little incorrectly…”
Shaleän was an excellent conversationalist in company, charming and amusing to the children in particular, who were rapt; and her voice carried so well that she could engage the entire table with no particular effort. Maia hesitated to ask her about his mother; she was near enough twenty-five years older than Chenelo, and with Chenelo legitimate and Shaleän illegitimate, there could have been almost no crossover. But his aunt seemed to guess what he was thinking, and declared unprompted that she had not known Chenelo well, but had met her when what she vaguely called business had brought her back to her father’s side.
“We regret we can tell you nothing of real substance, Serenity,” she said, accepting wine from Nadaro Gormened with a grin and a wink. “And we would not presume to try— but she seemed a nice sort of girl, thought well of in the dav— doted on, really. And we danced with her once at Thever’s birthday ball, where she very dutifully pretended not to know who we were, or why we had sought her out. We had fun with her, and we were sorry to hear of her fate.”
Maia did not think it wise to ask if Shaleän thought the unfortunate fate was Chenelo’s death, her relegation to Isvaroë, or her marriage to Varenechibel. He suspected it was all three.
He glanced at Nadeian, remembering her original claim that Chenelo had likely not known of any of the Avar’s illegitimate daughters, and was met with a shameless smile.
“We know we told you that it was likely Chenelo did not know of her illegitimate sisters, Serenity,” she said, “But you will forgive us if we erred on the side of caution. Besides, we never met with any proof she even knew most of us existed, let alone were related to her; whether Shaleän ever did is quite beside the point.’
Shaleän quirked an eyebrow slightly and muttered something into her glass, but didn't actually contradict her sister. Nadeian turned to her:
“Hast thou lately seen Thever? She hast not replied to my last letter, and I feared—”
Shaleän flapped a hand to cut her off. “Ah, damn, I knew I had forgotten— she gave it to me, fret thee not...” She produced a folded letter from her coat, and had it promptly snatched from her hand, which she pretended to look affronted about.
“Well, we need not wonder who is her favourite sister,” she said sniffily, which made Mireän giggle.
Maia gleaned through further offhand references that Shaleän and Ursu, first and third of the Great Avar’s daughters, had the same mother— a dancer in the Urvekh'opera’s chorus who had courted a great many admirers in her time. She had toured extensively, and thus had no time, she said, to raise daughters— instead depositing them both in turn into the hands of servants in their father’s dav. Shaleän fondly called her a mad old gazelle, but there didn’t seem to be any real animosity. She now lived with Ursu, where she spoiled her grandchildren and coyly avoided ever mentioning the father of her daughters— unless she’d had too much metheglin, Shaleän said, in which case they were subjected to increasingly embarrassing recollections of his generalised might.
One particular comment suggested to Maia that while Nadeian and Holitho each had a different mother to the others, they were so closely related that the only reasonable explanation was that the Great Avar had been courting two sisters— if not at the same time, at least one very closely after the other. Shaleän called her father something in Barizhin that it was probably best no one understood, based on the pained look on poor Gormened’s face— but Shaleän and Nadeian laughed uproariously, so Maia suspected his grandfather would not have been particularly offended.
“It is not that he did not like your grandmother, Serenity,” said Shaleän hastily, seeing the slightly embarrassed elven expressions around her. “For he showed her off excessively, and as far as we know he did like her very much; but he was often away on campaign or business, and he spent much time… amusing himself.”
The Archduchesses seemed to understand very little of this, thankfully. Csethiro was smirking into her napkin, and Idra kept looking at Maia for guidance on how to respond. Maia did his best to keep his face politely neutral.
“Did he behave himself at Winternight?” said Shaleän. “Announcing a sudden intent to travel so far, at that age— well! Half the Corat’ Dav Arhos almost had apoplexies, we are told.” She twinkled slightly maliciously at Gormened. “We hope you weren’t very taken aback, Ambassador.”
“We had it in hand, Captain, we thank you,” said Gormened wryly.
“Oh, we’re sure that you did. He only hires the most competent of audacious braggarts.”
“Our grandfather was admirable company,” said Maia mildly, even though Nadaro Gormened was laughing at her husband's expense at the other end of the table.
“Hah!” said Shaleän. “To be sure, Serenity, he can always be relied upon to be that. Did he embarrass thee, Nadee?”
“Apart from almost telling the story about King Khel-Avezher and the lion girls in front of half of our hosts, and browbeating his guards, he was on his very best form.”
“What, Khel-Avezher? That old walrus?” scoffed Shaleän. “No one thinks him King except himself, and his sailors have been cheating him for years. He commands twelve galleons, but only ten are seaworthy, the other two have been moored for the gawking rights of tourists. For ten zashanai— and they must be zashanai, he thinks little of Barizheise coin— you too can tour the ships that besieged Anvernal…”
“Do you command many ships apart from your own, Osmerrem?” said Idra.
“More than we tend to declare in company, Prince Idra,” said Shaleän conspiratorially. “It helps to keep the element of surprise on our side, when… trading. But upwards of twenty, we should tell you.”
“That’s so many!” burst out Ino. “That’s a fleet!”
“We are very busy, to be sure,” said Shaleän cheerfully. “But we are used to managing great numbers of people, and we know the men and women who are loyal to us— we have had many mighty sea-battles with those who are not, after all.”
“Is that why they call you the arh’avar?” said Mireän.
“Oh, has that old thing reached the elves?” said Shaleän, with mock-humility. “Yes, we suppose it might be… of course, we have no real title, ‘tis only a folk-name…”
It was then that Maia caught the tail end of a look passing between Vizhenka and Gormened, one that he did not quite understand; it was a pertinent glance, as if she had just said something that they had been waiting for. They did not look as if they disapproved, exactly— more that they had found some sort of confirmation.
Curious, Maia went back to his plate, and let Nadaro take over with some anecdote about someone’s brother’s nephew who had foolishly built his summer residence too close to the cliffs on one of the Versheleen Islands— and had been forced to scrap the entire project after erosion had made the elaborate chapel fall into the sea. Shaleän claimed to have seen— and, Maia guessed, from a hastily aborted sentence, plundered— the ruin.
“We hear, Serenity,” said Shaleän, a little while later. “That our father thought to offer you the inheritance of Barizhan.”
Maia looked closely at her for a moment— not wondering who had told her, for he was sure the Great Avar had not been at all subtle about his consideration— but wondering what she meant by asking about it. Shaleän’s face betrayed nothing except a slightly quizzical detachment. She didn’t have the perfect blank court mask, but she did seem to be able to obscure her intentions quite effectively.
“He did consider naming us his heir,” Maia said, finally. “But we do not think he will do such a thing. We do not doubt he would enjoy the outrage he would leave in his wake— he said as much, in fact— but we think he would not risk destabilising both Barizhan and Ethuveraz in the attempt. We can only assume he will sponsor someone… closer to home, and we think it is right that he does so.”
Shaleän’s firebrand eyes glimmered, and for a moment her face seemed to teeter on genuine amusement— but all she said was;
“Papa has always loved to court scandal, it is true. But we think you are probably right, Serenity.”
She returned to her plate, still smiling faintly, and Maia realised, with a sudden great swell of mingled certainty and disbelief; he has offered it to her. He has offered to make her his heir.
That was why Gormened and Vizhenka had shared that look; they had heard something, some rumour, and had been waiting for Shaleän to make a hint of her influence or power in Barizhan, from which they might infer her intent to fight for the position.
Women could not be the Great Avar— but women could not be sea-captains, either. Nor was it generally thought that the Emperor of the Ethuveraz could be the half-goblin fourth son. And yet, here they both were. Was there any legislature against it? Or was it simply tradition? Maia didn’t know enough about Barizhan to be sure, but he suspected that the ironclad weight of tradition was enough to ensure it was not actually enshrined anywhere— precedent and pressure would do the job. And it would no doubt please his grandfather immensely to lavish his bastard crossdressing daughter, marnis, a mercenary and a pirate, with the title, and consequences be damned. It wouldn’t just be plunging a sword into an anthill, it would be planting a live explosive into it. But fight her as the avarsin would— and they would fight her, quite literally— she was still the Great Avar’s eldest child. She was illegitimate, and a woman… but all the avarsin who had ever sought her services as a pirate, a mercenary, or a smuggler would be indebted to her. She held the knowledge of their petty hatreds, their smuggled goods, and their sabotaged shipments above them, as well as a doubtless hefty experience with warfare and combat. She could curry support, Maia suspected— the arh’avar would no doubt win allegiance from the coastal families. It was possible that not only could she make a claim… but she could actually win. More than anything, the goblins respected an honest fight, and Shaleän Sevraseched could certainly give them one.
And if she did win, he thought— then what? Perhaps it would be brushed off as a temporary complication; at most, Shaleän would rule for forty years, and she had no children. Once she died, the avarsin could return to fighting amongst themselves for the honour. But it would be a precedent— and Setheris had at least taught Maia enough law for him to know how powerful a precedent could be.
And maybe— just maybe— it was a redress, on the current Great Avar’s part. Precedent and tradition, the belief that Chenelo ceased to be her father’s daughter the moment she was made Chenelo Zhasan, were what had sent Maia’s mother to a lonely, disgraced death in Edonomee. Maru Sevraseched had not always done right by his daughters, and it was too late for him to make amends for Chenelo— a fact that would always sit wrongly, bitterly, with Maia— but it was not too late for the rest of them.
This was really why his grandfather had sent Shaleän, Maia realised. He was testing the waters, seeing how the Ethuveraz might react to her. Seeing how she might find Maia, and how Maia might find her.
Maia glanced at Gormened, and found that same pointed look, this time directed at him. He didn’t make any indication he understood, but he kept his gaze for a few seconds longer than he would have done normally, before he looked away.
The rest of the meal was taken up by the children peppering Shaleän with questions about sailing. Maia had never seen the sea, and no doubt looked as desperately invested as Ino and Mireän did, as Shaleän explained the endless skirmishes, weather troubles, and politicking on the coasts of the Chavadean Sea. She had sailed in hurricanes, fought water-beasts, hauled shipwrecked sailors from rafts, and once rescued two prelates from a dinghy half a mile out from the shore. She was, so she claimed, far too old for most of it now, and was beginning to think of settling somewhere (at that, Gormened and Vizhenka shared another significant look); but at the time, she had been quite unstoppable. She spoke more tongues than Maia thought it was possible to know, and had been to more places than he even thought existed. He felt distinctly unworldly and inconsequential, sitting and listening to his aunt's stories of places he'd never heard of, never been to, and likely would never go. He had never been properly educated, and he had never been anywhere except Edonomee, Isvaroë, or the court— and now, he thought slightly bitterly, he probably never would. At least, never in Shaleän’s way; carelessly and recklessly, running rogue through markets and ports and distant cities. Anywhere he went for the rest of his life would be a state visit, and fixed with all the trappings, security concerns, and schedules that came with that. If Shaleän did win the throne of Barizhan, she would certainly be one of the worldliest Avars in a long time.
In an attempt to fend off an encroaching glumness, Maia fell to watching everyone else; Idra had lost any courtly veneer he’d come in with, and was listening with eyes almost as wide as his sisters’ were. Arbelan looked genuinely as if she were enjoying herself immensely; Nadeian just seemed fondly exasperated, as if she had heard all of this before. Vizhenka and Gormened, to Maia’s amusement, were both made to look rather young and foppish in Shaleän’s presence; they were experienced and competent men, fighting men— but they were both at least twenty years younger than Shaleän, and seemed overly courtly and slightly callow in comparison to her. Nadaro, for her part, was obviously having great fun.
“...he boarded us near the Gulf of Michen’nvernal,” Shaleän was saying as Maia dragged his attention back. “Brought five of his best men with him, bristling with swords and crossbows. Most of them were his gunners, we think. He asked for the Captain, and was directed to me. He assumed he was being mocked— when he was assured he was not, he refused to negotiate with me, or to duel me one-on-one, for he felt it would besmirch his dignity to engage in single combat with—” She paused. Maia got the impression this was being somewhat hastily censored for the benefit of the children. “Ah, well, with us.”
At the other end of the table, Csethiro was sporting a distinctly envious cant to her ears; Maia suspected she too was jealous, but more specifically of the seafaring and the swashbuckling. All of the literature she left lying around seemed to have an inclination to the martial, the chivalric, or the epic, and she had certainly not given up her swordplay for the paltry inconvenience of being Empress. Even the typically impassive Vedero was unusually engaged— and as they had entered, Maia had heard her asking Shaleän to one of her salons that week, with Csethiro lurking over her shoulder.
“What did you say, Osmerrem?” begged Ino, wide-eyed.
“Oh— many things, mostly not appropriate for young ears like yours, Archduchess.” said Shaleän merrily. “It went on for a little while, back and forth… but in the end we told him he would either duel us nobly, or we would kill him, precedent be damned. And that made him get his sword out.” She shook her head. “We were nineteen years old and not a particularly experienced duellist. He probably would have killed us… if he had gotten the chance.” She grinned. “Happily, he did not. While he was laughing, three of our gunners had climbed out of the gunports and cut his ship’s mooring lines.”
“So he was stranded on your ship?” said Mireän, amazed.
“Stopped laughing pretty quickly after that,” said Shaleän happily. “Didn’t like his chances much once it was six against fifty, and he’d bought most of his gunners onboard, so he couldn’t even sink us. We took him hostage and charged his first mate six thousand in ransom. He was extremely cross and cursed us in every language and religion he knew—”
“We thought you were twenty-two at the time?” said Nadeian suspiciously. “You told Papa you were.”
“We rounded it up when telling it in Barizhan, we think,” said Shaleän, smiling shamelessly. “It pays to coddle some inconsistencies, and to keep Papa’s blood pressure down— he believes we were a ship’s cook at that age. And anyway, nobody would believe us if we said we were nineteen. Who ever heard of so much drama at that age, eh?”
She caught Maia’s eye, grinned, and winked.
To the Osmerrem Zeverin Sevraseched deliver this—
Well my best belov’d wife, thou knowest well that I have no great love for writing— but thou didst bid me tell thee all that has befallen at my nephew’s court, an since I am e’er bound to serve thee, I am compelled to fulfil thy wish.
The Emperor Edrehasivar VII has a tall person (with our family, how couldst he not?), but he is so very thin and nervous looking! Perhaps thee and me are but old dachenmaros these days, but he seem’st dreadful young to be the Emperor. He put me a little in mind of a rabbit or some such thing; he is never easy and he sits very alert, and keeps a habit of gripping his own hands under the table quite hard or cutting his nails into his palms, though once I think I saw the Zhasan put her palm betwixt his to stop him from doing so. He reminds me of Chenelo in his brow and his mouth and his colouring, which does not help with his seeming young, for when I saw Chenelo for the last time she was but fifteen— my poor little sister! ‘tis clear to me that both mother and son were badly ill-used by Varenechibel IV, or else that he allowed them to be used ill. He (being the Emperor) seemed to want to know of his mother, so I told him of Thever’s birthday ball, since I thought that was charming and had nothing in it to offend. But I said nothing of the summer I was trying to court old Khavin’s niece Frecho, since I did not think it was appropriate to tell the Emperor that his teenaged mother once concealed me in a washroom from Frecho’s betrothed. Did I e’er tell thee of that? Surely I must have, but thou wast very badly jealous of my previous women when we first knew one another, and I never do remember what I kept quiet… at any rate Chenelo told Frecho’s fiancé quite loudly that he certainly could not come in because she was ‘seeing to her women's disorder’, and then she and her ladies hauled me out of a window into the underground river that circles the Corat’ Dav Arhos. Tis wide enough to steer boats through, and so I was quite capable of swimming to the other side and climbing out into the coal cellar, from where I could make my escape. I never knew if Papa found out about that, but he could hardly be cross, for in his youth he was just as bad as me, if not worse…
But I digress as is my habit; Edrehasivar is a polite little stripling to be sure an received me with much gallantry, saying he will call me Aunt ‘an it please [me]’, which is far too deferential for the Emperor but I make nothing of it since it seems to me his instinct is to defer and he must fight it every step of the way. His lords like to toe the line of disrespect, and while he will check them when he must, I think some disdain him still, which is poor indeed. A nice lad and I was well-pleased with him. I understand now why Papa took so well to him, for Papa loves strays and he loved Chenelo best despite what everyone thinks, so of course her scrap of a son has won his fondness.
In troth I do forget the family clan his Empress Csethiro comes from but she is a little older and quite the ice queen, a proper inscrutable court woman, and says very little unless asked to— though I do think she quite likes her husband, for she is always lurking behind him or circling as if she thinks to attack anyone who offends. I do not know what to make of the girl’s character for almost none of it is visible when she is a hostess (often the way of these courtly elf-maids— their faces are as blank as a frozen pond, ‘tis very bad) but I am right glad she likes her husband, for I think it should have been very bad for my poor nephew to have been trapped with a woman who disdained him.
As to my father’s business, it ne’er was objectionable (or exciting) and I am sure ‘twill be agreed by the fortnight’s end. My secondary purpose; well, the young coxcombs Gormened and Vizhenka have clearly guessed my intent, when the time comes. Interestingly I think Edrehasivar has too— if he has any opposition to the idea he has broached none of it, an truth be told I think he was a little interested by it. (But no one is as interested as thyself, who hast been entirely too invested in the idea of the Avaran’mura since I first broached the idea with thee.)
To thine happiness and health, sweetheart, an to the hope I will see thee soon,
Shaleän
(P.S: I do not doubt that this will be opened and read by that prim little courier the Emperor’s secretary before it is sent, in which case hail thee, Mer Aisava, for doing thine job properly! I hope thou’rt well compensated for thy role as the best busybody I e’er saw. Everywhere the Emperor goes, I look and I see thee, trotting at his heels with thy damnable sheaf of papers. Dost thou get holidays? An if thou dost, dost thou take them? The way the elves treat their servants is very bad, we have always thought it…)
Even though the negotiations on the trade route really left very little to be desired, Shaleän was frowning at the end of the second meeting, and did not get up when everyone else did. Maia stayed and fussed with his notes, watching her out of the corner of his eye— and was a little stunned when he saw her press her hands together, palm to palm and fingertip to fingertip, in front of her chest. He had never seen anyone else make that gesture before, short of his mother; the Bariheize meditation technique he sometimes resorted to as a calming gesture.
She caught him watching, and grinned when he looked hastily away.
“We might be very bad in many ways, Serenity, but we have some faith.” She laid her hands flat on the table; scarred and callused and crooked, presumably from sailing lines and fights. “Most of the family is pious,” she went on. “Our father is, though quietly so. Thever is remarkably observant; Holitho has gone so far as to be a votary at the Convent of the Lighthouse Keepers, where she watches for our sail. Chenelo… well, you know about your mother, but she once told us once she lit candles to Ashevezhkho for our safe deliverance at sea. It was the closest she ever came to acknowledging she knew of our relation to her, and it was quite risky for her to declare it. We were very touched.”
“She… told us once she prayed for her family in Barizhan,” said Maia hesitantly. He did not add, I didn’t understand why. As far as he’d been concerned as a child, Chenelo’s family had good as abandoned her, and it was not even as if she were obliged to pray for them like they were for Varenechibel.
“She was very good,” said Shaleän calmly, eyes still fixed firmly on him. Maia, again, had the peculiar feeling she knew what he was thinking.
“She was,” he said, a trifle stiffly. He looked away, watching the last of the secretaries fussing at the door, and added: “...what is your concern, Aunt?”
Csevet was lingering nearby at a side table, scribbling something with every appearance of being engrossed in his work. Maia knew quite plainly he was eavesdropping, and clearly Shaleän did too, because she watched him through slightly narrowed eyes. Once the secretaries were gone, she glanced once at Kiru and Telimezh, paused, then shrugged to herself and said;
“No real concern, Serenity. Merely interested. Your Lord Chancellor is a most sensible man, but we find some of your lords very… abrasive. Sometimes even in their addresses to yourself.”
“You think they disrespect us,” Maia realised. Shaleän spread her hands.
“Not disrespect, exactly. But we perceive a feeling of… insolence, at times. You may correct us if we are mistaken.”
She waited. Maia did not correct her. He said;
“You believe we should not tolerate it as we do.”
“We do not presume to tell you to do anything, Serenity,” said Shaleän. “We certainly did not expect you to rule as our father does, who tends to quash all opposition completely, except when he is amused by the audacity of it. We merely think the insolence merits… vigilance.”
“Why, Aunt,” said Maia blandly. “You cannot suppose any of our court should have it in their heads to try and overthrow us?”
Shaleän stared at him for a second, and Maia thought she would take him at his word— until she put her head back and laughed at some length, in very much the same cadence as her father and her sister.
“Well, consider us suitably reprimanded! We had not forgot, of course— but clearly, Serenity, neither had you .” She snorted and waved a hand. “Ah, forgive us, Serenity. You are very young, which you cannot help, of course, but ‘tis worse when you are our sister’s son— at the very least, it reminds us of our age. Great swathes of this court are very young, we find.” She turned suddenly and mercilessly on Cseve— “How old are you, Master Secretary?”
Csevet shot Maia a sideways look before he answered— Maia, who had once heard Kiru mutter that she was sure Csevet was not the age he claimed to be, looked back with some interest. Csevet turned back to Shaleän, and said with perfect mildness;
“Old enough for my office, Osmerrem, if that is why you enquire.”
“Ay, that’s a pretty non-answer,” snorted Shaleän. “You know well ‘twas not why we asked. We know the look of a lad that lies about their age, because we were one. You cannot be more than three summers older than the Emperor, surely?”
Csevet smiled blankly and did not answer. Shaleän rolled her eyes and gave up.
“Very well, Master Secretary. Sailors. Couriers. All the same…” She turned back to Maia. “Papa came back to Barizhan with a mighty bee in his bonnet about your welfare, as you may have gathered.”
“We assumed as much when he left Captain Vizhenka here,” Maia admitted. “But he does not… need to concern himself.”
“Oh— it is too late for that, he likes to concern himself with everything, these days. He painted us a passingly anxious picture, we must say…”
“And do you think it was like to life?” said Maia, unimpressed.
Shaleän laughed at his obvious peevishness— but Maia did not fail to notice that she did not really answer him, and they left the Verven'theileian without broaching the subject further.
“We shan’t eat you, boys,” said Shaleän archly the next day, standing in the fencing quad with her fists on her hips. “We’ll just drill quietly in our corner, never mind us. Not as young as we were, is all. Have to keep it up, eh?”
The Untheileneise guardsmen currently in the yard looked at each other, shrugged, then went back to their drills, but Shaleän noticed them sneaking glances at her, which was nothing new or surprising. She was not a conspicuous woman, and she had spent most of her life being looked at; by the servants and cooks in the kitchens of the Corat’ Dav Arhos where she had been raised, who knew her parentage but would never dare say; by the sailors on her first ship, who knew she was no blacksmith’s boy, or a boy at all, but would never dare say… and extremely closely by Zeverin’s brothers, who were very sure that if they took their eyes from Shaleän for a second, she would pluck their sister from her bedchamber and sweep her off to sea, the family heirlooms stuffed in Zeverin’s trousseau.
In their defence, they had been quite right on that point. But they’d finally agreed to waive the ransom for her after five years, and they could laugh about it now—
“Captain Sevraseched.”
Shaleän turned to find the Ethuverazhid Zhasan standing behind her, that milk-white elvish hair cinched into two severe braids, wearing trousers and a crisp duelling jerkin. In her pale hands was a sheathed sword, and her ladies were milling in a nervous gaggle on the steps nearby, peeking over each other and skittering like meerkats.
“...Zhasan, ” Shaleän said slowly. She bowed, mostly to hide the fact she was slightly nonplussed—
“Will you duel, Captain?” Csethiro said.
Shaleän straightened, stared at her for a moment—
Then, to her admitted shame, swore in front of the Empress, and said;
“We should have known, damn it all!”
The Zhasan had been a nonentity for most of this visit; if she went to meetings with her husband, she sat very still and listened very intently, but voiced no opinion and suggested none in her expressions. She was a perfect host, but so courteous as to be practically impenetrable. But the ramrod posture and the unmoving gaze— they were swordsman’s habits, too. And hadn’t Shaleän noted that the Empress seemed to like to position herself as a threat to her husband’s dissidents? In the Cetho taverns, she had heard court elves calling her the nohech’zhasan. She just hadn’t realised it was so… literal.
Shaleän could admit she had presumed Csethiro Zhasan cold, and she still found her so… but she could see now that there was a focused edge to the chill; a little metallic, a little honed. A blade’s edge.
Csethiro merely looked at her, her face bloodless, expressionless and unperturbed. Shaleän chuckled to herself— then thought, behave thyself, sea-hag, and cleared her throat.
“We wonder, now, if that sunblade on the wall in the Tortoise Room does belong to your husband.”
“Oh, it does,” said the Zhasan. Her face was pale and porcelain and unmoving, but her eyes were very blue. Shaleän mistrusted that shade of blue. It usually promised an unstirring wind and a blistering sun. “It was a gift.”
“A gift from whom?”
“Why— from us.” The porcelain mask shifted a little, in what Shaleän thought was pride. “Our Father was very unhappy when he heard we had taken it from the vault without asking him, but Father never has never really known what’s good for him.”
“And have you, Zhasan?”
With a ringing snarl, the Empress drew the sword she had been holding. It was a narrow, shining blade, unpretentious, but a weapon of immense competence, and it was clearly heavier than it looked.
“On occasion.” She said, again: “Will you duel, Captain?”
Captain— no Osmerrem, no Dachenmaro, would she! She would not even call her Aunt, even though she had the right to— just Captain. Shaleän peered at the Empress, newly curious. How old was she? She was older than Maia, but perhaps not as much older as she’d initially assumed. She had a dignity and self-assuredness about her, and that deep voice— they all lent her years, but looking at her now, with her still-rounded face and hair in two crisp, but slightly girlish, braids, Shaleän guessed she probably wasn’t even past four and twenty.
“Now, Zhasan, we own that we never learned to duel formally,” said Shaleän slowly. “We mostly begged lessons from our father’s guards, in the kitchens of the Corat' Dav Arhos where we were raised— and then once we ran away, we learned, as they say, on the job.”
“Then we have the same training,” said Csethiro Drazharan. “For we badgered, harassed, and begged the Ceredada liverymen something terrible until they agreed to train us. Though for our part, we never have been… on the job, though we have at times wished it otherwise. For the most part, we have lived a very— ah, inactive life.”
Shaleän shrugged. “You are an Elvish noblewoman, Zhasan, and the elves never did learn how to treat with their women.” Still, she had learned from real soldiers and guards, not from noblemen— that was something. And Csethiro was still staring expectantly at her.
Shaleän let out a slow breath, weighing her sword in her hand. She knew that agreeing to this was at best, unwise, and at worst, treasonous… but she had not come to her great age, wealth, or reputation by being prudent.
She could practically hear her father’s laughter as she bowed, and said:
“Very well, Csethiro Zhasan. We will duel with you. Let these gentlemen be witnesses to the agreement.”
The nearby soldiers murmured and shuffled, but were too well-trained, especially in the presence of their Empress, to object. Or to holler. Csethiro said, unruffled:
“First blood? Or until surrender?”
“We would prefer not to get hauled off to the Esthoramire for doing the Ethuverazhid Zhasan a mischief,” said Shaleän, eyeing Csethiro’s stance, her grip on her sword. They were both aggressively perfect. “And you are still half my age and half my size, though double my rank. Therefore, Zhasan— until surrender, or truce, an it please you.”
Csethiro nodded sharply— she did not appear to care that Shaleän thought her weaker. Shaleän, amused, thought of how her poor teenaged nephew could have possibly felt, hopelessly out of his depth in an unfamiliar court, presented with a bride so indomitable and adamantine. It spoke to some kind of hidden Sevraseched backbone in his constitution that his Empress seemed to respect him, even like him— for Shaleän suspected that Csethiro did not suffer fools, cowards, or sycophants.
She glanced at Csethiro’s ladies, still in a huddle on the steps. A few of the older women looked amused, even anticipatory; the younger ones looked terrified, poor lambs. It said something that they seemed to hope she wouldn’t die, Shaleän supposed. Loyalty was not easily bought.
“Well,” she said. “My ten paces shall not be the same as yours, Zhasan, so let us just take the one, and then we may begin.”
By the time the sun emerged over the eastern wall, Shaleän was sweating profusely, and Csethiro, having been pushed repeatedly out of her reach and forced to avoid or block Shaleän’s much longer strikes, was pink at her ears and frowning in concentration.
Shaleän had realised quickly that Csethiro Zhasan had several interesting duelling quirks— while she had obviously learned carefully, formally, she had a number of risky habits. Stepping into her opponent’s guard was a particularly nasty one, the strike from which Shaleän had only just managed to block in time. She was nowhere near as strong, but she was fast, and impossible to fluster. Perhaps being raised in the vipers’ nest of the Untheileneise Court dulled the fear of bodily harm, somewhat— what was a bit of shin bruising to a destroyed ego or a verbal flaying? Shaleän had seen greater soldiers than even herself cracked under the pressure of courtly manners.
She drove the Empress back to the eastern pillars with the sheer strength of her blows, but Csethiro kept her footing neatly, and went backwards up the steps to the walkway without a glance, looking to press the height advantage they could give her. Showing remarkable quick thinking, she turned on her heel and made to force Shaleän’s position into something east-facing, so the low sun would interfere with her focus— but Shaleän let her, well-used to fighting in adverse conditions. She locked her focus lower, onto the movement of Csethiro’s feet and the low hum of her sword moving. She had fought half-blind on flooding decks and in the middle of storms, and her instincts for any kind of peripheral danger were so attuned that she had on occasion deflected arrows out of the air.
Shaleän ducked the strike Csethiro made, and made a hasty block of the following blow— then winced at the way the force had obviously jarred Csethiro’s arms, the Zhasan’s quick parry only just preventing the blade from biting into her shoulder. To her credit, Csethiro did not flinch; she scowled, and twisted her grip to break the parry. She paused for a moment, apparently recalculating— but in that time, Shaleän had lunged again, getting under her guard and pushing down on the blade until it was perilously close to her cheek.
Showing impressive instinctual survival skills, but not particularly good duelling etiquette, Csethiro punched her, and it was a hard hit. Shaleän swore (again) and shoved her blade away, probably wrenching Csethiro’s arm nastily.
It was then that someone in the lurking guard, or in the contingent of Csethiro’s ladies, had the thought to look up… and they were interrupted by a flurry of people trying to kneel all at once.
Knowing what that meant, Csethiro and Shaleän gave off trying to impale one another— and they turned to see that the Emperor had emerged onto one of the lower balconies above the training yard, dogged by his usual train of attendants. Shaleän could only assume someone had gone running to tell him. The sun was behind him, and so it was almost impossible to see Edrehasivar’s expression; Shaleän hesitated, but Csethiro must have recognised something in his posture or the carriage of his ears, because she tilted her head a little saucily, and flashed a very brief, but very bright, smile up at the balcony. It was the first time Shaleän had ever actually seen her smile properly, and she was surprised by how charming it was.
Then Csethiro turned back to Shaleän, sword propped recklessly on her shoulder, and said;
“Well, we shall count that as an end, we think. We apologise if we got a little… carried away, Captain. We did not actually mean to hit you.”
“We shall take it as a compliment, Zhasan,” said Shaleän. She bowed to her, then took to cracking her nose joint back into some kind of order. It had been broken so many times over the years that it practically moved on command. “No real damage done…”
Csethiro raised an elegant eyebrow, but didn’t actually contradict her. Shaleän leant on her sword and mopped her face on her sleeve.
“Vizhenka offered to show us around the historical armouries,” she said, “But we have a suspicion that you would rather like to do it instead.” She risked; “Would you do us the honour, niece?”
Csethiro barked a laugh, and sheathed her sword.
“An it please you, Aunt…”
It would have been much easier, if not for Lord Bromar.
None of the other Corazhas had attempted much opposition at all, glad to see more of the Tethimadeise problems ironed out, but something— or everything— about Shaleän seemed to offend Bromar immensely. He fought the proposal every step of the way, apparently unable to accept that any situation in which she was the chief negotiator could be a good idea. He was outvoted at every turn, but argued passionately against it, even when the terms were agreed to, and managed to get into a fervent squabble with Deshehar ten minutes before the meeting was due to end. Maia thought wearily that perhaps presenting the old and conservative Witness for the Foreigners with an illegitimate marnis pirate queen might have been a little optimistic, on his grandfather’s part. Shaleän had said relatively little, apart from when compelled to (Maia had a distinct impression the Great Avar and the avarsin had given her a script to stick to), but her impatience had been obvious, and she had taken to cracking her knuckles on the table intermittently, which had visibly made the Witness for the Universities nervous.
Maia fell to waiting for Bromar to talk himself out, then said, into the exasperated silence after he and Desheshar both fallen silent;
“Lord Bromar, do you actually wish to be Witness for the Foreigners?”
It came out more waspish than he had really meant it to, but he thought Lord Pashavar smothered a snort. Bromar jerked, and said;
“Serenity?”
“It seems to us that every time you have to actually consider any negotiation outside of the Ethuveraz, you find an excuse to get out of it,” Maia said. “First it was that you did not want to bring down the ire of the Tethimada upon your head, so you avoided the Thu-Cethor borders and the Tethimadeise trade routes, and sponsored their interests. Then it was that you did not want to pursue peacebroker agreements with the Nazhmorhathveras, since you believe them barbarians— and not to mention that you were a relative nonentity during the Great Avar’s visit. How can we expect you to do your job efficiently, if you seem to reject the actual Foreigners part of your title at every turn? Do you think it is beyond you?”
“Serenity—” Bromar paused, then started again; “Serenity, we are honoured by our post… and, ah, loyal to our purpose as defined by it…”
“Then find a way to reconcile yourself with this outcome,” said Maia.
Lord Bromar bowed his head. “Serenity.”
Someone definitely snorted. This time, Maia got the impression it was Shaleän.
And indeed, when the meeting finally adjourned, she got up and wandered to a nearby window, and then said;
“Well, Serenity— we have misjudged you and the Zhasan both.”
“Is that so?” said Maia, not exactly sure what he had done to earn this admission. “Certainly the Empress has impressed you sufficiently…”
“Merciless swordswoman,” said Shaleän, with every impression of someone delivering a fine compliment. “We assume you were informed of her intent?”
“Not until Archduchess Ino came running to tell us,” said Maia. “She was rather… eager.”
In fact, Ino had burst into the Rose Room shouting that Cousin Csethiro is going to fight Osmerrem Sevraseched, and the room had gotten to their feet as one, either in alarm or in anticipation. Maia would not admit publicly that he had been in the latter camp, since he did not think that would land well in the wider court, even if it would with Csethiro herself. Poor Telimezh had been close to a conniption, as it was.
Shaleän laughed.
“Young children are always bloodthirsty little beasts. We admire it. Well, yes— in another life, we certainly would have bribed the Zhasan to join our crew.”
“She would like to hear that very much, we think.”
“We do not doubt it.” Shaleän eyed him, leaning on the windowsill, then said; “We think you have better control over your men than we initially gave you credit for, and for that we are heartily sorry. You like to lead them onto the rocks, do you not?”
“We do not catch your meaning,” said Maia, perplexed.
“You are very good at purposeful silence,” said Shaleän happily. “You pretend at the benign and unobtrusive boy-Emperor and let those red-faced old men talk themselves into knots, or into silence, and then they find they have gotten to the end of their tether… at which point they are forced to remember that they are dealing with the Ethuverazhid Zhas.” She saw his face, and added; “We are not saying you always do it on purpose, Serenity, but ‘tis ever so effective.”
“It is an ol—” Maia stopped, teetering on the verge of saying an old trick. In truth, he had let Setheris rant himself into sobriety, played stupid, or made himself unobtrusive for most of his adolescence, but he did not quite think he wanted to tell any of the Sevrasecheds about Setheris. He amended: “That is, we have had to learn very quickly at managing… personalities.”
“Very diplomatic,” said Shaleän. “But you will forgive an old woman for worrying about yet another threat to your rule, even if it was more unfounded than she thought.”
“Considering no one thought to worry about us at all, for ten years of our life, we would not begrudge you for it,” said Maia, amused—
Shaleän stopped pacing abruptly, and Maia paused too, worried he had said too much.
“Serenity,” said Shaleän slowly, wandering back to her abandoned chair, though not looking at him. “While it is regrettably true to say that no one aspired to interfere in your relegation— we do not think it would be accurate to imagine that no one ever worried about you. We bastard daughters… we could only hear rumours for the longest time, and we are not often with our father. But we know that Chenelo’s full sister, Thever, came to argument with Papa on the topic several times— which is extraordinary, because Papa dotes on her and will never typically pursue a fight with her.”
“...what?” said Maia.
“Thever is nervous and a little… fragmented, in her thought,” said Shaleän, as if she hadn’t heard his interjection. “It is not accurate to say she is mad, but she is sometimes given to paranoia. Hence, she was not taken seriously the first few times she tried to convince our father that we should ask Varenechibel to send you to the Corat’ Dav Arhos. She was dismissed by Father and laughed at by the avarsin, but she could not be swayed. She became fixated on the idea. She adored Chenelo, and was horribly upset by her death— and then by the idea that her son had been relegated in isolation.”
Maia managed; “We were not— quite alone.”
“Ye-es, we know that you were… put into a guardianship,” said Shaleän, in tones which suggested she felt she had gotten the measure of Setheris rather well. Maia heard one of his nohecharei shift, and knew without looking that it was Beshelar suppressing a comment. “Regardless, she could not win the argument, for every god knows your late father never would have agreed to such a scheme. And our father could not intervene, for, as he said to you— she was not ours. And that was what he truly believed.”
Maia wondered if she had been told exactly what the Avar had said, and suspected the answer was yes— and, further, he suspected she had remembered it, word-for-word. And as for the past tense… well, it gave credence to his question about his grandfather’s attempts at redress.
Maia thought of the mostly unknown Thever Sevraseched, and the gift she had sent to him with the Great Avar— the first he had received since the final birthday present his mother had given him. Of how she never left the Corat’ Dav Arhos, and generally lived out of the public eye. And of how the court said she was a lunatic.
He said, slowly; “You must commend us to our Aunt Thever, and thank her for her kindness. And for… her pains.”
The look Shaleän gave him said that she heard more in that statement than he had necessarily meant to offer, but she did not press the point. Instead, to Maia’s immense surprise, she said;
“You can be sure of that. But— well, nephew, for thy pains, we are sorry.”
The plural we, not the formal. In fact, no formal at all.
“It was not— thy doing, or thy concern,” Maia said, a little thrown. “Besides— thou’rt right. My father never would have let the Great Avar intervene.”
“Ay, well.” Shaleän scratched her jaw thoughtfully. “We could always have taken a small fee to come inland via the Evresartha and kidnap you to Barizhan.”
Maia could not quite stop himself from looking around to see Beshelar’s inevitable expression of horror, or then, from laughing at it. Shaleän waited him out, then said, quite abruptly;
"I think thou wilt not believe this, but thou wouldst not have been an unwise choice of heir. Father was astute in considering thee."
“Why do all of you seem to think—” Maia stopped, then tried again; "The position of Great Avar does not quite seem my... style."
Shaleän cackled. "I should like to see what it would take for thee to raise thy banner against anyone, to be sure! But to be the Great Avar— well, Papa takes a very martial approach, but it is not always so. Our great-great-uncle, Ulia'var, was a terrible warlord, but a conniving politician, and he ruled fifty years without fighting one battle. It is about the dav, you know."
Her eyes shifted behind his chair, presumably to Cala and Beshelar. Maia tried;
"Yes, but—”
Shaleän gestured vaguely, cutting him off. “And thou guilted Father. Dost thou know how difficult it is to do that?”
“Guilted him? I never—”
Shaleän persisted, “Stood there with Chenelo's eyebrows and Chenelo's chin and thine ears all flat, so I hear, and asked, why did you not answer her letters?”
Maia winced. “I only wanted an— answer.”
“Hmph, I dare say so. But I can tell thee that thou didst give him plenty to think on. It was, I should add, the first time in almost twenty years that he had mentioned Chenelo in front of anyone, let alone near-admitted to failing her. Did’st thou know that?”
Maia’s face obviously said he had not.
“Hah! Politick indeed,” said Shaleän. “Thou’rt diabolically likeable. ‘Tis pity thou wilt not think of weaponising it. Thou couldst be a truly magnificent political manipulator wert thou not so mild-mannered.”
Maia was saved from having to come up with a response to that by Csevet making a disapproving noise from where he was lurking by the door, but Shaleän ignored him, still marching determinedly on;
“And now Papa has fancies. He told me when I saw him that he had been thinking on our relationship. Hm!” She shook her head, then sat quite still for a moment, frowning at the tabletop. She said; “Well, know this, nephew. In Barizhan, we do not put overmuch emphasis on the ruling names of the elven Emperors; our Avars keep their birth names, so we do not truly see the point in thine regnal names. We would use it officially, of course— mark that I have worked very hard not to disrespect thee!— but colloquially we think the names our mothers give us are more… significant. And so, the common people of Barizhan call thee Maia Chenel’mera. ‘Tis the matrilineal epithet.”
If Nadaro Gormened had once thought that Nadeian was exploding all of her boilers by simply telling Maia about Shaleän, Maia thought distantly, it was probably best she was not bearing witness to the veritable volcanic eruption that Shaleän herself was currently embarking on. For a second, Maia found he genuinely did not know what to say. At the start of his reign, he had gone so long without being called by his birth name that it had genuinely sounded strange to him when he had heard it again— these days he could hear it from Csethiro, and Nemolis’s children, but to know that in Barizhan, he was thought of with the name Chenelo had given to him, because she had given it to him…
He hesitated, then said, “I did not think…”
“That Barizhan put any more stock by its women than the Ethuveraz?” snorted Shaleän. When he nodded, she shrugged. “You would be right, it does not— but ‘tis one of those silly little things, a bit of tradition that lingers and cannot be crushed by its contradictory fellows. Perhaps it is left over from the sects that worship the Dakh'dakhenmero… I could not say. But by and large, goblin men can be relied upon to value the dav, and personal strength and loyalty, more than their disdain for their women. What an honour for us, eh? But that petty victory is still a reliable lever, and ‘tis one I have leant on many times over the years.”
“One I think thou might deploy at least once more,” said Maia, seeing exactly where that philosophy would lead.
“I cannot imagine what thou dost mean,” said Shaleän, with a poor affectation of innocence.
“Naturally,” said Maia wryly. “But I hope we might host you again. In… whatever form that might take.”
“I should be pleased and honoured, Serenity,” said Shaleän vaguely, but this time she let him see the pointed gleam in her expression. “Should… circumstances allow.”
“I have no doubt that circumstances will be made to allow it,” said Maia. Shaleän laughed.
“Well, come what may, Serenity— if thou dost ever have any reason to be on the coast, I should be happy to show thee and thy wife around The Glorious Dragon.”
“I should like that very much,” said Maia. “And I suspect the Zhasan would be most pleased.”
Shaleän grinned, straightening the cuffs of her coat briskly.
“We thought as much,” she said, sliding back into the formal with a smile. “Well, now— we shall not take up any more of your time, Serenity. Especially since we can see the magnificently hostile expressions your troublesome little secretary is sending at us.”
“It is only scheduling issues, Osmerrem,” said Csevet, smoothly rearranging his face when Maia turned to look at him.
“Isn’t it always, with you people?” said Shaleän, wandering into the hall as Maia got up to follow her. “Perhaps we shall have to get used to it. But first, hah— storms to weather, gentlemen! Storms!”
She bowed to Maia, saluted Csevet and the nohecharai (Cala grinned), tucked her hat under her arm, and went whistling off down the corridor, coat jingling. Maia watched her go, shaking his head in some amusement.
“Delivered as… bluntly as it was, Serenity,” said Csevet, also watching her retreating back. “We cannot say we disagree with her.”
“On what?” said Maia, pressing his thumb vaguely into the imprint of his signet ring. “All of it?”
Csevet shrugged, and flipped open his inevitable sheaf of papers.
“Well— on several points, we think. We should walk, Serenity— we are wanted in the Untheileian.”
Reluctantly, Maia bit back a what points, Csevet? and went with him down the hall— wondering if he himself agreed with everything Shaleän had said. He certainly hadn’t been given much of an opportunity to voice objections, but that seemed to be the way that many of the Sevrasecheds liked to conduct their business.
Maia gave up, and said; “Do you think she can do it, Csevet?”
Csevet obviously knew what he was talking about— all gossip fed through him, like all rivers emptied into the sea, and at any rate Shaleän had not been subtle. He said, a trifle thoughtfully;
“It will not be easy…”
“We expect not,” said Maia, sensing a but on the end.
“...but we certainly should not be very surprised, Serenity.”
“No,” Maia said, amused. “No, neither should we.”