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“The five previous Drazhada empresses!” said Dach’ensol Habrobar, with an enthusiastic, expansive gesture. “We can dig further back if you wish it, Dach’osmin, but we felt this was plenty to be getting along with...” He pointed briskly along the row; “Arbelan Zhasanai, the previous Ceredada-born empress; Leshan Zhasan; Pazhiro Zhasan; Chenelo Zhas’maro; and Csoru Zhasanai.”
Csethiro was far too well-acquainted with Csoru’s signet to have any interest in seeing it yet again— a cat toying with a bird, in a way which was meant to look coyly playful, but even a passing acquaintance with Csoru made it otherwise. Especially as many of the noble houses had birds within their heraldry.
Instead, Csethiro skimmed curiously along the row of the four previous empresses. Arbelan had wisely defaulted to the generic Drazhada cats during her relegation, but her personal signet was starting to enter circulation again; a cat curled up in a tight circle, staring over its forepaws solemnly. Leshan’s and Pazhiro’s were both typical, traditional examples of Zhasan’s signets; Leshan’s, twin cats pouncing in opposite directions, and Pazhiro’s, a cat amongst roses.
Csethiro picked up the signet Habrobar had marked as Chenelo’s, and furrowed her brow. “But this is—”
“The emperor took his mother's unused seal for his own upon his ascension,” said Habrobar.
“Did he?” Csethiro examined it closely for a second; she knew it well enough, since that signet meant a personal note to be snatched from the pneumatic station and concealed somewhere on her person before one of her diabolically nosey kinsmen tried to open it— but it was different to think that it had actually been created by Maia's mother, not Maia himself. “We had no idea.”
She turned the signet over and over thoughtfully, digging the pad of her thumb into the imprint. She would be three and twenty by the time she became Zhasan; at that age, Chenelo Zhasanai had had a six year old son, and been relegated to Isvaroë for almost that long. “We suppose he assumed he would be accused of partiality. There’s already plenty of made-up hysteria about an imagined preference for Barizhan.”
“We think you may be right, Dach’osmin.”
“But why was it unused? We know the Barizheisei prefer to use thumbprints, but we wouldn’t have thought Varenechibel would have…”
She trailed off invitingly. Habrobar said, “Indeed, Dach’osmin, he would not have countenanced that practice. We think it was for the acknowledgement of the Corat’ Arhos that the late emperor considered it unsuitable, and insisted Chenelo Zhasan use the generic Drazhada cats instead.”
“We see,” said Csethiro grimly. Poor Chenelo Zhasan. One of the nastiest casualties of the open maw of arranged marriage. The look on Maia’s face whenever she was brought up was always… particular. Still, she imagined there was a particular satisfaction in one’s dead, disrespected mother’s rejected signet becoming the most powerful seal in the Ethuveraz.
She put it carefully back in place, considered for a moment, then said, “Might we see some archaic examples?”
“Ah, but you are a historian! We had quite forgot— a moment, please…” He dug around in another box, then produced a few very old and tarnished, if well-kept, imprints. “Here! Ah, these do take us back…”
These were far older, with simpler lines and less inclination to aggressive realism— but still cats, cats everywhere. Rampant, addorsed, gardant, caboshed… she amused herself for a while with testing out her memory of her readings on Edreveneise heraldry, then said;
“...we hope, Dach’ensol, you would not consider it a slight to your considerable talents if we asked you to commission something in this style?”
Habrobar brightened. “Not at all, Dach’osmin, not in the slightest! Truth be told we rather miss them, they had a certain character to them that you never get in these modern ones… we may be a little out of practice, but we will certainly get our eye back in—”
“You, of course, made all of these yourself,” said Csethiro smilingly, looking back over them.
“As you see,” said Habrobar, with a little bow.
“Do you never wish to return to Celvaz?” said Csethiro. “It must be… bizarre, to live and work at a court where everybody else lives a fraction of your lifespan.”
“No, truth be told, Dach’osmin, we do not,” said Habrobar, squinting at the ring measurements she’d brought with her from the Ceredada’s jewellers. “Celvaz is, we admit, far more stable than it was when we fled—”
“We imagine so, being that you must have left almost seven hundred years ago,” murmured Csethiro.
“...but plenty of our old enemies— and friends!— would still be around, and we think it better we do not see them. Especially the friends. They paid no particular honour to our skillset, which offended us mortally.” He twinkled cheekily at her. “We prefer it here, where everybody does us our due diligence. How would the Untheileneise Court possibly function without old Habrobar, hmm? All those letters and all those pneumatics, and not a soul being sure who had sent them!”
One of Habrobar’s couriers opened the door behind them, and Habrobar pointed without looking; “Besides, our couriers learn lots of sneaky tricks from us! Mer Derenzha knows how to tell a forged signet from a real one, don’t you Amaru?”
“And a lot more besides, Dach’ensol,” said Mer Derenzha amusedly. He was the one Csethiro sometimes saw in Csevet’s company, the red-ribboned goblin courier who ran for a lot of the craftsmen. One of the couriers whom the noble families called The Master Secretary’s Men— not officially in any kind of employ with the Alcethmeret, but dispatches given to them almost always fell to the ear of Mer Aisava sooner or later. The trouble with The Master Secretary's Men was that no one knew how many there were, who exactly was involved, or indeed if any of them were actually reporting to Csevet at all. Csethiro was personally certain there were far more of them than the courtiers thought, and they were in far more frequent contact with the imperial secretary than most anyone outside of the Alcethmeret would like.
Mer Derenzha added, “Dach'ensol, Dach’osmin Ceredin’s secretary Min Olivin is without.”
“See her in, my lad,” said Habrobar distractedly, still taking measurements and notes with the stub of a pencil. Csethiro checked her pocket-watch in surprise, but she hadn’t overrun yet.
“What’s the matter, Terano?” she said once Amaru had seen her through the door. Min Olivin grimaced.
“Dach’osmin… ‘tis Csoru Zhasanai.”
“T’would be enough to stop there,” said Csethiro narrowly. “What has she done, massacred her edocharoi? Blocked the Alcethmeret pneumatic station bothering the emperor over trifles?”
“She is being rather… obstructive about the transfer of the Zhasan’mura,” said Terano. “She has insisted you must come and get the jewels yourself, and is refusing to hand them over to the Alcethmeret delegation.”
Csethiro groaned.
Csevet Aisava was waiting outside Csoru's apartments, arms folded, looking deeply displeased. People were giving him a wide berth; no one could make a feeling of disapproval almost physically present like Csevet could.
“Hullo, emperor's man,” Csethiro said as they approached. “Has she put a shoe through the window, yet?”
“The Zhasanai, Dach'osmin,” said Csevet with excessive neutrality, “Has told us that if Edrehasivar is too cheap to buy his bride new jewels, then the bride herself must come and fetch them.”
“The bride herself will snap the Zhasanai’s fingers to get them off the boxes if necessary,” grumbled Csethiro. She waved a hand. “We will wrangle her, Mer Aisava. We're sure you have something else more important to be doing.”
“We all do, Dach'osmin,” sighed Csevet. “Yourself included.” But he pulled out a sheaf of papers to confer with Terano, and taking that as permission, Csethiro went in, cursing Csoru's impulsive love for attention-seeking.
Csoru’s rooms were a mess, but they were always a mess— bursting with great fluffs of petticoats and strewn, overturned powders. Every time Csethiro had been sent to call on her or take tea with her they had been an equal disaster. The only addition today was a surfeit of open drawers and boxes, and a gaggle of Drazhada pages. One of Maia's edocharei— Avris, Csethiro thought his name was— was flipping through a list with some stern aplomb. Csoru was sitting on the corner of her pink-baize settee amongst the chaos, very upright and very still, hands clenched in her lap. Csethiro felt a pang of— something.
“Well, Ceredin, the emperor's ants are tearing apart our rooms quite nicely,” Csoru said glacially. “The—” she broke off to shout at one of her edocharoi; “Not that, thou dullard! That was a birthday gift from our father— Osreian, are we permitted to keep anything?!”
She huddled in a girlish, petulant heap in the corner of her sofa, arms crossed tightly across her chest.
“Zhasanai,” said Csethiro, with icy cordiality and an unenthusiastic curtsey, “We are told you requested our personal presence.”
Everyone in the room was suddenly looking pleadingly at her, even Avris. Two of Csoru’s edocharoi— of her four, which was ridiculous, because not even the emperor had four— looked on the verge of tears.
Csoru said primly, “Don’t courtier at me, Csethiro Ceredin, you punched one of my child-teeth out when we were both still in leading-strings. We are women above pretence.”
“Are we indeed?” said Csethiro, unimpressed. “Very well. Who has the inventory of pieces?” Avris offered her the sheets. “Ah. Thank you.” She glanced about, and said; “We will… help the Zhasanai look for them. And send them to you when we have found them. Thank you, gentlemen. Ladies.”
The crush at the door was quite impressive as everyone fought to leave— Csoru made a cross gesture at her edocharoi and they scuttled out too. Avris stopped on his way out, and muttered, “Dach’osmin, if you will send a courier to the Alcethmeret when you have finished with your… search, we will send pages to retrieve them.”
“Thank you, we will. Please do not think of wasting your time here any longer.”
“Dach’osmin… Zhasanai.” He left, with an immensely disapproving backwards glance and decidedly crisp bow.
“What a beastly man,” said Csoru, once the door was shut. “I wonder he doesn’t stick Edrehasivar with pins like a countrywoman’s curse.”
“What in damnation hast thou done with all of these, Csoru?” said Csethiro, holding up the inventory like a winning piece of evidence in a trial.
Csoru scowled and pointed to a careful layout on the dresser by the window. “That’s what they’ve found so far.”
“That’s barely half!”
“It’s all here somewhere,” said Csoru. “I don’t know what those hopeless heifers have done with it all.”
“I suppose thou dost expect me to believe that it’s thine edocharoi who have hidden the Zhasan'mura in obscure places, and not thee?" said Csethiro.
Csoru stared unmovably at her, ears tilted haughtily.
“Csoru, I will open every drawer and cupboard in this room if thou dost not deign to help me.”
“Do it then, Ceredin,” drawled Csoru, settling back onto the sofa and picking up the fashion-plates. “We poor widows have all day, unlike in-demand women about to be marri— not like that!” she shrieked, as Csethiro yanked out the nearest drawer and turned it upside-down.
The Zhasan’mura, despite the name, officially belonged to the emperor, as did most things to do with the Zhasan— including her, her money, her possessions, and her children. The Zhasan’mura were his to bestow upon the empress upon either their marriage, or their ascension to the throne, whichever came first. It was an ancient set of jewels historically bolstered by well-dowried wives, or fond husbands enthusiastic about commissioning some, and boasted more than a hundred individual pieces. Most of them were in Csoru’s linen chests.
“These are hundreds of years old,” gritted out Csethiro, digging the third brooch (Item: brooch, diamond and emerald six pc. each, set in silver, Edrevechelar VI to Parmeno Zhasan) out of Csoru’s drawer. “And they are in with thy garters.”
“I am history too, thou punctilious academic,” said Csoru. “Csoru Zhasan, best looking wife of Varenechibel the Fourth—”
“Thou’rt barely a footnote,” snapped Csethiro. It was not at all unusual for widows to be obstructive about the matter of the jewels; Edrevechelar the Tenth’s mother had come to blows with his wife over the so-called Pencharn Tiara, and several pieces had been ‘lost’, only to resurface in wills when people died. Csethiro found some of them distinctly oppressive and gaudy, but they were rich with historical interest and there were plenty of interesting pieces. Maybe she could lend the ones she didn't want to wear to museums…
After she had also found two mother-of-pearl tashin sticks and a giant pair of emerald earrings, she slammed the drawer shut and read out the next item that hadn’t been crossed off.
“Item: String of Barizheise pearls known as the ‘Pelan’mura’, opera-length, semi-baroque style. Varenechibel IV, from the dowry of Chenel…” She stopped abruptly. “...Chenelo Zhasan.” She looked up. “Csoru. Where are these?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t like pearls overmuch, and I never saw this inventory until today. They were simply brought to me. I suppose it’s possible I have them, but I don’t honestly care enough to—”
“Csoru, thou idiot, thou’rt not even treading on my toes! Thou’rt deliberately offending the emperor! And if thou thinkst I won’t immediately high-tail it out of here and tell him—”
“Ay, go running to tell that bleeding-heart Edrehasivar that they were from his precious dead mother's dowry—”
“Fighting words, Csoru, considering both me, thee, and him haven't a mother between us!” barked Csethiro.
Csoru looked, for an uncomfortable moment, guilty. Csethiro thought, not for the first time, that if her namesake Csethiro Celeharan had still been alive, her daughter would probably not have been such a monster. Or have been Zhasan, as it happened. It had been Count Celehel who had put his daughter out the very second she was eligible, and paraded her in front of the emperor. Csethiro doubted extremely that his wife would have permitted him to do such a thing.
She wondered briefly if Saleheio Ceredaran would have been pleased or dismayed to see her daughter Zhasan— after a moment, she conceded wryly that her mother would have laughed herself utterly senseless. And she had been a sharp judge of character, much better than Csethiro or her father, and would probably have interceded before Csethiro had gotten as far as Min Vechin is using you. Maia was the sort of young man she'd used to say, aww, striplings about. She probably would have had to stop herself trying to pat him on the cheek.
“Thou hast to help me,” Csethiro almost pleaded. Imagining the look on Maia’s face when he found out about this was making her feel slightly ill. “Anmura, Csoru, if someone had been sitting on thy dead mama’s jewellery for ten years, thou wouldst have gouged their eyes out with thy nails.”
Very, very slowly, Csoru stood up.
“Good woman,” said Csethiro. “My next persuasive technique was going to be violent, so I’m glad thou hast seen sense.”
“Being Zhasanai,” said Csoru, tottering in her heels to look in the cupboards above the hearth, “Was not meant to be so administrative. I am wasting my time on inventories and replying to letters and doing invoices. Financials!”
“If thou couldst keep a secretary for more than a month without terrorising them into quitting, thou wouldst not have to do thine own invoices,” said Csethiro, turning the curtain hems inside out and ignoring the hateful looks she was getting. She added, ironically; “Couldst marry again. Then thou couldst go back to the important wifely things. Like being ornamental, and having children.”
“And rescind our title for some second-born Dach’osmer from a backwater hamlet in Thu-Evresar?” scoffed Csoru, ceasing her hopping. It was eminently clear she was genuinely unsure where everything was; she had only found three rings and a tiara in the last ten minutes. “Go to his gloomy country house and have his squalling brats? One marriage is enough, we thank thee. Especially an imperial one. Thou wilt see that soon enough.”
“Everyone's been saying thou'rt going to marry Dach'osmer Meresar.”
“Meresar is nice enough to look at, but he's tiresome, and deluding himself if he thinks he's going to get to marry me,” scoffed Csoru. Poor thing, Csethiro thought. Towed along like a lapdog on a lead, as was usual with Csoru’s beaus.
“Now… ah-hah!” Csoru straightened up from a scattering of boxes under the daybed and flourished a string of pearls. “Hang thee, Ceredin, look what I’ve found, semi-baroque, opera-length— don’t snatch.”
Csethiro snatched, then turned them over carefully. She knew enough about jewellery to tell these were extremely high quality pieces, and probably wildly expensive. Typical of the infamously stingy Varenechibel to keep them; they had come from Barizhan with Chenelo Drazharan, but had evidently not gone to Isvaroë with her or her son, instead squirrelled away into the imperial coffers. “These should be taken back to Ma— to the Alcethmeret, we have no business hoarding them—”
“Didst thou just almost call him—?” Csoru’s face lit up with gleeful malice. “Thou didst, thou jade! What business hast thou to call him Maia? Thou’rt not married yet— oh, ugh, please tell me thou hast not—”
“Csoru!” barked Csethiro.
“Wast thou trying to one-up the opera trollop? I didn’t think thou wouldst be that desperate—”
“Csoru, I know the concept of being on friendly terms with someone is alien to a woman such as thee,” thundered Csethiro, “Given thou’rt so diabolically hateful that everybody has to coat themselves with an inch-thick layer of formal courtesy to survive any sort of interaction with thee. But— and try to believe this— he asked me to!”
“Then he’s an even bigger simpleton than I thought,” said Csoru, amazed.
“Be quiet,” snapped Csethiro, then noticed she was holding something sparkly and snatched it from her grip. “And stop trying to hold things back!”
“Do they keep him in an attic?” said Csoru, as Csethiro whirled away from her in fury and went back to the list.
“What?” said Csethiro in abstracted irritation, trying to match the brooch (cameo, rubies and diamonds) to the inventory.
“Edrehasivar. Do they have to lock him up somewhere? Have they shown thee?”
Csethiro turned around to stare at her. Csoru said innocently; “Isn't that what they do with madmen?”
“Thou knowst quite well he's not insane,” said Csethiro snappishly. “Regardless of what cock-and-bull rumour thy dead husband told thee to spread around like a seasonal fever. Anmura, Csoru, that's old hat now.”
Csoru shrugged. “Do I know that? Dost thou? There’s bad blood in the Sevrasecheds, Varenechibel always said so. I wouldn't put it past Aisava to be backstage emperor, feeding him lines. Maybe they'll give thee the key to his madhouse on thy wedding night— ow!”
Item: Ring, pearl and emerald, prong setting, Varenechibel IV to Csoru Zhasan bounced off of its mistress’s forehead and skittered off under the sofa. Csoru squawked in indignation and lunged for her, and they scuffled—
“I bet thy father cursed his luck he squandered thee on a paltry three years with Varenechibel,” hissed Csethiro, trying to kick her. “But for the rest of us, tis a mighty blessing to know thou wilt never rank that highly again—”
“An I had not been, I would have been in the lineup for the goblin-emperor with thee, and they might have picked me, I’m far superior to look at—!”
Csethiro pushed her, and Csoru got her heel caught in her sheath skirt and fell over— but not before seizing Csethiro around the leg and dragging her down too.
They went shrieking and brawling onto the floor, and Csethiro had to knee her hard in the ribs before Csoru would let go— which she did, with a yelp, and stopped trying to get her nails into Csethiro’s face. An only child, she had never roughhoused and always lost physical fights, but she fought dirty on instinct.
“Beast!” Csoru bawled as Csethiro used excessive elbow in getting up, but she did not actually get up herself. She added sulkily, as if they hadn’t just brawled like girls whose hems hadn’t yet been let down; “I suppose he didn’t really pick thee though, did he? It was the Corazhas and Aisava. Thou wert a ruthless political choice.” She looked up at Csethiro, then said, “Well, don’t look so sulky, tis ever thus…” Her brow furrowed, and then she sat up abruptly, eyes wide.
“What?” said Csethiro.
Csoru said, in utter disbelief, “Thou likest him.”
She seemed genuinely shocked, as if it had simply never occurred to her that it was possible to be anything except grimly resigned to the existence of Edrehasivar Zhas.
“Is that so hard to believe?” snapped Csethiro.
“But he's...”
“He's what?” said Csethiro dangerously.
“He's the emperor,” said Csoru. Still sitting on the floor, with her heeled feet sticking out the end of her skirt and her tashin sticks drooping, she looked oddly childlike.
A slight needle of pity dug at Csethiro. She and Csoru had been presented at court on the same day, amongst the rest of the sixteen and seventeen year old noble girls skittering anxiously in the antechamber before they were to be presented to Varenechibel and his daughters. It was usually the job of the Zhasan to consider the debutantes, but there was no Zhasan, not then.
Her father had dragged her off to see Celehel and Csoru— Csethiro had felt gawky and awkward, and Csoru’s round face had blinked demurely from under the heap of tashin sticks and piled braids. She looked like she’d been playing dress-up in her mother’s wardrobe. She probably had been playing dress-up in her mother’s wardrobe. They had all looked their age, every one of them.
She had not looked— or been— much older when Celehel had incessantly paraded her in front of Varenechibel. The Count had almost bankrupted himself on an entire new wardrobe for her, and called in a hundred favours to ensure that wherever the emperor went, she was there too; the most visible box at the opera, riding with the hunting parties, dancing at every ball and masque that was held. Varenechibel had remained aloof for a long time, long enough that Celehel had begun to panic— at which point he had beckoned Csoru over to him at a soirée.
Every young woman in the room had stared at her like she was walking to the gallows. Dach'osmin Lanthevin had made a blessing gesture to Csaivo. Vedero and Archduke Ciris had watched with twin blank faces— no doubt trying to decide upon what manner of woman their new stepmother would be.
No one had been under any delusions that Varenechibel loved, desired, or even particularly liked his fifth bride. There was nothing about a nineteen year old Celehada debutante with diva tendencies that could have possibly appealed to sixty-two year old Varenechibel Zhas, especially since he had famously loved the plain, warmhearted widow Pazhiro Necharan best of all. He had, Vedero guessed, wanted a mouthpiece in the court and in the women's spaces— and Csoru could be counted upon to spread gossip and tamp down rumour for him. By the time the emperor had married for the fifth and final time, certain court women had been calling him Geremar, the infamous wife-murdering demon from wonder-tales, for years. The Ceredada were resentful of Arbelan's treatment, thought not stupid enough to say so; the Tetramada, Leshan's house, were cross in the extreme that their daughter had bourne Varenechibel his much-desired heir apparent, and then been eclipsed entirely by the shadow of Pazhiro; and while Chenelo Drazharan herself had not been popular, any woman with any sense at court baulked at the example the emperor set as to how best to treat with one’s wives.
Varenechibel, who had been many things but certainly not unintelligent, had seen the sense in having influence in young women's circles, before they could learn to mistrust him too. And certainly stupid Derezhis Celehel had presumed his daughter was as secure as he could possibly get her, in a match with the emperor. His heart-brother might have told him it didn't always work like that.
“Oh, is he? Silly me, I had quite forgot,” Csethiro said snappishly.
“Don't be stupid, Csethiro,” said Csoru tightly, finally scrabbling to her feet and brushing herself down. She was eyeing her warily, as if she expected that Csethiro’s perceived idiocy was contagious. “Thou'rt not stupid. What wilt thou do if thou canst not deliver him a son? As thy great-aunt could not, and thy mother could not? At least I had no such expectation… thou hast to rescue the entire line.”
Csethiro bit her tongue to keep her first response, which was of an expletive variety, behind her teeth. “It has occurred to us.”
“I'm sure it has!” scoffed Csoru. She snorted. “Like Edrehasivar all thou wantst, but if thou dost not produce him a son or two, watch thyself get packed off to Cethoree like Auntie Arbelan. Liking the emperor is not actually requisite to being Zhasan, thou knowst?”
“I would love to know what thou thinkst is requisite to being Zhasan,” snapped Csethiro, but it was absent. Csoru had not been empress for long, and she had not even been particularly good at it— but she had been it nonetheless. And she did know something.
She thought, he wouldn't— but really, what did she know? The emperor's decisions were not always his. What would Maia do? There was Idra, but Idra was not remotely a stable line of succession, and would not marry for another few years yet— probably longer, if she knew anything about Maia’s way of thinking. Besides, everyone knew how historically disastrous relying upon nephews to inherit was.
Something of this must have shown on her face, because, in dubious proof that Csoru had a conscience, she huffed and said; “Oh— well. We suppose there is no reason to think thou wilt not. Make it a problem when it becomes a problem. Presumably Edrehasivar will have had some practice with that opera chit, so that makes things easier—”
“Csoru,” snarled Csethiro. Csoru flapped a hand at her.
“Don't be jealous, tis not becoming. Tis simply the way of emperors. At least she's gone from court, so thou dost not have to compete with her.” Her brow furrowed. Csethiro suspected she was thinking of Dach’osmin Dereshin, Varenechibel's last mistress; similarly beautiful, but of a superior humour to Csoru and at least twenty years older than her. Half the reason Csoru had turned to hysterics and fake illnesses was to try and supplant her influence, since Varenechibel tended to prefer his mistress’s company.
“I would have thought thou wouldst not have minded Dach'osmin Dereshin,” said Csethiro thinly. It seemed to her that she had been doing Csoru a dubious favour.
“She had her uses,” said Csoru coldly. “But she was a presumptuous old biddy who never bowed deeply enough.” She shook her head and turned to probe disapprovingly at her destroyed hairstyle in the mirror. “Oh, Camelio Ceredin, thou’rt such a hopeless case.” She always named her after the ancient female cavalier Csethiro liked so much whenever she wanted to make fun of her— which was part of what made her despicable. “Thou wantst to defend him. I can see it now, I should have known... why art thou so completely incapable of going about things normally? Why is it all martial honour with thee? Are you going to make petitioners duel you for a chance to speak to Edrehasivar? Ridiculous woman! The courtiers already laugh at thee, and now they will laugh more. Edrehasivar Half-Tongue and Empress Camelio. What a pair.”
Csethiro turned angrily away and stared sightlessly at the inventory. She knew the more fashionable sect of the court thought she was absurd. She had made herself respected by sheer force of cordiality and volume of accomplishment, and because her father was still a dangerous man to offend— not because she was devoid of things to ridicule. She knew Maia had yet to work out that many of the more fashionable women of court thought her comical, and feebly hoped he would never realise it. The only reason the court at large even knew she duelled, was because of…
It was in a voice that was embarrassingly tight, that she said; “And remind us, Csoru, why it is that they laugh at us?”
Csoru hesitated. “Well— if you—” She fumbled for a second.
In mutual resentment of their father’s machinations, Csoru had made Csethiro the first target of the social leverage that had come from being Zhasan— Celehel had forced her to invite Csethiro to a salon, and in response she had mocked her for her duelling habits and her academic interests. The courtiers scrabbled to follow Csoru’s lead, and turn their disdain on the women she considered unfashionable— which amounted to the Ceredin sisters, unmarried women like Iviro Lanthevin, most older widows, and various academics. Csoru had started the fashion for women bowing as a multi-layered piece of mockery— towards the women who campaigned for equality, towards Csethiro’s duelling habits, which had you bow before bouts, and towards Dach’osmin Tativin’s unicorn automaton, which only raised and lowered its head.
Csathis, Marquess Ceredel, was weak and foolish, but he was not an unaffectionate father— he had been terribly alarmed when Csethiro had eventually burst into tears at the dinner table, and he had demanded Celehel bring his daughter to task. Celehel could not, of course— since she was no longer his, but Varenechibel’s. The matter had come perilously close to imploding completely and taking their fathers’ relationship with it, and Csethiro had seriously considered leaving court— until Vedero Drazhin had loudly cut across her stepmother one evening, and asked Csethiro Ceredin if she would be so kind as to attend a salon of hers that next week, as she thought they had much in common and would be pleased to make her better acquaintance.
Csoru might have been Zhasan, but the children of the emperor were much firmer social currency; they were the future, whereas Csoru was tied to the ageing present. And Csoru would not have dared include Vedero in her mockery— besides the fact it would have fractured the Drazhada, she would have turned Nazhira and Ciris on her in an instant, and she clearly had not liked her chances against Vedero’s brothers. And they were Pazhiro’s children, crucially.
Most courtiers with any sense backed away from outright mockery after that, though she continually felt a certain coolness from many of them. Still, Csethiro supposed, in an intolerably stupid way, she had Csoru to thank for her friendship with Vedero.
“Well, thou hast the last laugh anyway,” said Csoru eventually. “Wilt have power over the rest of the women of court for as long as Edrehasivar’s nasty little nohecharei terriers keep him from being blown up, shot, stabbed or poisoned. And I dare say thy idiot husband will like thee a far sight better than mine liked me. That has… advantages.”
Csethiro turned around and leant on the table; Csoru tossed her head and looked away from her. “In the spirit of… atonement, I will say this. But I shan’t repeat it, so don’t ask me to.”
“Didst thou make thy cousin teach thee one of the Ulineise death curses?”
“Thara is a migraine on legs and I don’t dwell on him,” said Csoru. She made an odd gesture with her mouth, as if she was working up to something she did not really want to say. “Considering… well, considering that Edrehasivar’s skinny hands do not really have the most secure grip on the throne— don’t look like that, thee and me both know he will have to hang on for another year or so before he can even remotely be considered a stable prospect— if there is ever another… incident… consider me thy last resort.”
“What?”
“Thy last, last, last resort,” amended Csoru. “But if I really, truly must… I will shelter thee. And any miserable brats thou mightst have grabbed on the way. But they can’t touch anything. Or cry— goddesses, Csethiro, don’t catch flies, tis not so grand a proposal.”
Csethiro shut her mouth with a snap. She wanted to say, I don’t want thy protection, but she ended up saying, “...why?”
“Because,” said Csoru tightly. “Thou’rt about to be the only woman in the world who even remotely understands, and I am very selfish. And it is very ugly to be caught in the crossfire of all of… that.”
Csethiro had been entirely more concerned with Vedero at the time— Vedero whose legs had given out when she’d realised her brothers were dead— but in retrospect, she couldn’t help but wonder if some of Csoru’s histrionics upon her husband’s assassination had been more genuine than she had thought. Csoru wasn’t much of a historian, but everyone knew that widowed empresses were almost always the first loose end that claimants looked to sever in times of turmoil.
They stared at each other.
“In that case,” said Csethiro slowly. “I will put in a word to ensure thou canst remain unmarried and provided for, within reason— but only if thou wilt keep thy mouth shut about what we've discussed. And stop… meddling. Stop sending so many letters.”
“I don't want thy help,” sniffed Csoru.
“It’s honourable exchange. And thou needst it, cousin.”
Csoru tapped her nails on her thigh for a moment— then said, “Fine. I suppose at any rate it will be very tricky to get hold of Edrehasivar soon, what with thee and Aisava jostling people out of the way like cheap toadies.”
“I thought you considered my defence ridiculous.”
“Oh, it is ridiculous,” said Csoru. “I never said thou wouldst be bad at it, though.”
Csethiro sighed deeply. She held out the brooch (Item: cameo brooch, ruby and diamond set in gold, Belthelema IX to Valsetho Zhasan), the one Csoru had tried to hold back earlier. It was so antique it should have been in a museum… and yet. “Keep this.”
“What?” said Csoru.
“Keep it. The Zhasan’mura are ours to do with as we please, and it pleases us to give it to you.”
Csoru stared at her.
“...tis acceptable to me to give it to thee,” Csethiro revised.
“We don't desire thy charity, Camelio Ceredin,” snapped Csoru.
“Well, if thou dost not want it—”
Csoru snatched it from her.
“We cannot simply ignore one another in perpetuity,” added Csethiro.
“No.”
“But we cannot be friends, either.”
“Oh, Anmura, no.”
“But if thou'rt not going to marry again,” said Csethiro. “We will have to be… civil.”
Csoru frowned. “Canst not simply seat us at opposite ends of the table at every Drazhada dinner from now until we both die?”
“Tempting,” said Csethiro. “But not sustainable.”
“I suppose not. Needst to have enough children to separate us, first, else I shall have to sit next to the emperor, and finding him a talkative dinner companion is about as hopeful as fighting on the Steppes with a spoon.”
“Civility, for now,” said Csethiro. “Come on. Help me find the rest of Chenelo Drazharan’s dowry. And find all the pieces Varenechibel gave to thee, I shan’t take them. If thou’rt useful, I can put in a word that thou wast helpful— and then possibly another few words to convince him that it really was the case.”
“I don’t need bribing,” said Csoru primly— but she still got up to do it, with minimal grumbling.
To Csethiro Ceredin, almost-but-not-yet-Zhasan,
Obligation dictates I write thee a note to thank thee and the Emperor for deigning to give me a few scatterings of jewels to replace all the ones you pilfered from my apartments. I have written Edrehasivar the proper note, so thou canst have this one. I know quite well thine accompanying note was an elaborate ploy to try out thy stupid new signet— which I will be the first to tell thee is entirely ridiculous. Not only is it archaic and clunky, cats don’t even have thumbs, so pray tell how it is going to hold a sword?! I despair of thee entirely and I cannot imagine why Edrehasivar let you have the wretched thing.
Yours in obligation, but not quite yet so obliged as to be related to thee,
Csoru Zhasanai