Chapter Text
When Osmer Gurathar came into the Alcethmeret dining room and said, "Serenity, the ambassador of Barizhan has requested an immediate audience," Idra knew immediately that there was something wrong.
For one thing, Idra had barely ever spoken to the man in the five years since he'd become emperor. In the beginning it was because he couldn't; since then, he had simply had no reason to, save the grand exception that had been the death of the old Great Avar and ascension of the new. Despite the change in leadership, relations between the two nations remained what they were—which was to say, strained but not outright hostile—and Idra had been well occupied by domestic affairs.
For another, on the rare and fairly brief occasions he had talked to Ambassador Gormened, Idra had found him to be eminently polite. Certainly not the type of man to interrupt an emperor's luncheon for no reason.
"Is it so urgent?" Idra said.
"So he says. And…" Gurathar sighed. "To be fair to him, Serenity, he does seem quite panicked."
Coming from Gurathar, that meant quite a lot. While he was as ruthlessly efficient a secretary as Idra could have wished for, he was also rather inclined towards harshness and at times curmudgeonliness, especially towards those who didn't follow proper procedure and etiquette. In matters like this, Gurathar's charity was a rare thing.
"In that case, we will see him now."
Gurathar bowed, and went to go back outside, but Idra caught his eye and gave him a rueful smile. "We realize it is inconvenient."
A pause. Then Gurathar said, "Inconveniences are part and parcel of the job, Serenity."
He left. Idra made haste to eat as much as he could of his lunch before Gurathar returned with Gormened, for he was legitimately hungry, and whatever news the ambassador brought would probably necessitate the curtailing of his luncheon.
Soon enough, the door opened. Idra saw immediately that Gurathar had, if anything, understated things. Gormened's face was bloodless and shone with sweat, and he practically tripped over himself in his haste to make the proper prostration. He muttered something in Barizhin; Idra didn't catch all of it, but from what he heard it was the address to a ruler.
Idra said: "Please, Ambassador Gormened—rise." There could be no discussion like this, and even after five years on the throne, the genuflections of those several times his age never failed to make him uncomfortable. "What has happened? Surely our half-uncle has not decided to declare war. Or has there been another succession?"
The first suggestion was in jest. The second was not.
"Either of those might be easier," Gormened said. Idra did not think that was in jest. "No—Serenity, the Great Avar proposes to… to travel to the Ethuveraz. For a state visit."
Oh. Well. Yes, another succession would certainly be easier to deal with, at least on Idra's end. "When?"
"In a little less than three months. He says he wishes to see how Summernight is celebrated in the Ethuveraz."
Idra raised his eyebrows at Gurathar, who said, "We can be ready, Serenity, but we must be prompt about it."
It was not so simple, of course. A hundred hundred details of scheduling and security and etiquette needed to be hammered out; Berenar had to be notified; Idra agreed to dine with Gormened in a few days' time so as to work things out more efficiently; and Lord Bromar, Idra thought rather despairingly, would probably have to be prodded into it. Gormened seemed to regain his footing as the conversation went on, and Idra was glad to see it, though he understood the source of the ambassador's distress. He didn't actually know a lot about his half-uncle, but if nothing else, the facts that he understood very well were these: a Great Avar's reign was most vulnerable in its early stages, it was Gormened himself who would be responsible for the Avar's wellbeing, and Maia Sevraseched had been ruling Barizhan for a little more than a year.
The next day, something happened that Idra had been bracing for ever since Gormened said the words the Great Avar proposes to travel to the Ethuveraz. He was really only surprised it had taken so long; if anything, he had expected it to happen that same day, knowing how fast information spread through the court.
Namely: his mother showed up.
Idra knew she resented the loss of power that had come with his coming of age; for once he reached his majority, she was no longer de facto regent. She had never resigned herself to that. And indeed, while she could no longer prevent him from making decisions she disagreed with, she could show up in the Alcethmeret unannounced (abusing her privileges as a member of the family, Idra had heard Gurathar mutter more than once) and berate him and try to persuade him to go back on his word. No matter how many times he refused, it never seemed to make her less angry.
So when she swept into his study—his nohecharei and Gurathar bowing with murmurs of Zhasmaro—and demanded to know why Idra was meeting with the goblin ambassador, Idra was not surprised. Merely weary.
There was no point in lying to her when the dinner, and thus the official announcement, was two days away. It would anger her, but she was already angry, and most of the decisions Idra made seemed to anger her, now that he could make them himself. "The Great Avar has proposed a state visit," Idra said, not looking up from the letter he was drafting. "He wants to visit for Summernight."
Sheveän gaped. "The Great Avar, visiting here? That- that-"
She was clearly struggling to come up with something suitably balanced between insulting and only implicitly offensive, and while Idra always did his best to put up with this, he found he had no patience for it today. He cut her off with a narrow-eyed look and a "Mother."
He wasn't sure when he had stopped calling her Mama and begun calling her Mother.
She understood the warning—though, judging by her expression, she resented both it and the fact that he was the one who now gave her such cues, rather than the reverse—and said, "Well, alright. But to spring it on thee like so—how presumptuous!"
"How should he have done it?" Idra said. "He is the ruler of another nation, Mother. 'Tis not presumption if he has the right." Not to mention he is Drazhadeise by blood, Idra did not say, for he knew it would only set her off and see him rebuked further. Technically she didn't have the authority, and he could remind her of that, but the idea of doing so made him queasy and anyway it was a lot of trouble for little gain.
Sheveän sighed. "Idra, I do not like this. What if he plans to use this as a pretext for invasion? The goblins are a very martially-inclined people, and the Ethuverazheise military has been perpetually split between the Evressai Wars and all other conflicts—"
She went on in this vein for a while; rather than trying to stop her, Idra simply allowed her to talk herself out. If he tried to interrupt, it would see her turn her vitriol on him, and it would make things worse. Beshelar was already bristling where he stood at the door behind Sheveän, and Idra could imagine the face Gurathar was making where he stood sorting the emperor's correspondence: an intense, neutral mask. Gurathar frowned perpetually, and it seemed to Idra that that was his natural instinct; that look of focused, deliberate calm was only ever brought out when Gurathar wanted to conceal breathtakingly potent disdain.
When she seemed to be finished, Idra said mildly, "It would be a foolish thing indeed to start a war, particularly now. The Great Avar has only held the throne for a year; his reign simply is not established enough for that."
Gurathar leaned in and said, "Your Serenity has a meeting with the Corazhas in ten minutes. 'Twould be most unfortunate to arrive late." Looking at the clock, Idra saw he was right.
"So we do. Well, Mother: have you any other concerns?"
A muscle jumped, just slightly, in Sheveän's jaw—whether at his refusal to entertain her ludicrous objections or at his deliberate formality, Idra didn't know. But she could not ignore the dismissal, not now that he had given a rather urgent reason for it. Instead she said, "No. I thank thee for thy reassurances, my son—" despite the fact that he had not really given her any, as she clearly had not actually needed them— "and indeed I find my heart soothed," swept him a faux-demure curtsey, and stalked out.
Sweeping up the papers and corralling them into one neat pile, Gurathar said, in a very innocent tone, "In sooth, the Zhasmaro seems especially irritable lately. Perhaps she might find a solitary sojourn in the countryside relaxing."
"Gurathar."
"Apologies, Serenity."
After a particularly egregious occasion, perhaps a year ago now, Gurathar had said agitatedly, Serenity, you should not allow her to speak to you so. Idra had replied, Short of relegating her, there is not much we can do to stop it. We are her son before we are the emperor, at least in her mind, and so she will never consent to treat us with respect. Sheveän had in fact habitually relegated her and Chavar's enemies. Idra would not stoop that low, but that meant he had to put up with her ranting and scheming. Nevertheless, he knew Gurathar thought she should be sent away from court; indeed, as with all his other opinions, he had never ceased to make that clear.
That night, Mariso said: "Gurathar tells me that thy mother has been troubling thee again."
Idra sighed. His wife and his secretary were both forces of nature in their own rights—Mariso had far-reaching influence among the nobility, and as a daughter of the Lanthevada she was well-trained in acquiring information (not to mention her spy network, which Idra was very sure existed though she had never confirmed nor denied); Gurathar was a mercilessly efficient and skilled administrator who never hesitated to be cutthroat and do things that might be considered beneath him if the situation necessitated it. When they joined forces, it was often to Idra's benefit, though he did not always approve of their methods. Occasionally, however, they would team up on him.
He said, "No more than usual."
Mariso huffed, amused. "So our dinner with Ambassador Gormened passed muster with her, did it? No—thou needst not downplay't to me; I know how she is. Gurathar has been most scathing about it, of course."
Idra winced. "Do I want to know what he said?"
"Dost thou?"
He gave her a look; though her back was to him where she sat at the vanity, he knew she could see it in the mirror. She grinned back and stood up, coming to lie beside him in the great canopied emperor's bed. She was not quite pretty, but she was regal in both features and carriage, and in any case she was quick-witted, which was what mattered. "'Twas the usual thing," she said. "Thinking she has the right to barge in and disrupt the Emperor's schedule just because she's his mother—made a grand halloo over little of substance—maundering despicably—"
"Maundering? Harsh."
"To be sure, but 'twas not me who said it. Air thy verbiage-based grievances with Gurathar. Shall I go on?"
"No need." Idra was unsure whether to be amused or weary. "I've heard enough."
"Fair." A pause, then— "Gurathar wants her relegated, thou know'st."
"And dost thou agree?"
Mariso seemed to consider for a moment, then shook her head. "I think not. As the relegation of Arbelan Drazharan set a bad precedent, so too would the relegation of Sheveän Drazharan. Also, 'twould stir gossip, worse even than the departure of Chavar did. I can influence the murmurings of the court, but even my reach is not far enough to smooth the ripples that would come from relegating the Zhasmaro. But Gurathar and I agree on the point that thou shouldst not tolerate it as thou dost. I would have her remain at court—but quietly so. I would have her warned."
"Thou'rt meticulous indeed," Idra said lightly, too used to the workings of the court (not to mention Mariso's personality) to find this pragmatic summary or its honestly rather ominous ending at all alarming. She was serpentine, as were most Untheileneisei, which had made him wary at the start—but she was also kind and loyal, which many were not.
"That's why thou didst marry me."
"No, for in sooth I married thee to obtain Lanthevadeise money and allegiance," he said, trying to make her laugh, and was pleased when it worked.
There were only a few things Idra knew about the Great Avar. He was, of course, related to Idra through his father's line; a younger brother of Nemolis Drazhar, born to the scorned, unfortunate Chenelo Zhasan. That was the source of his claim to the Barizheise throne: he was the grandson of the previous Great Avar, Maru Sevraseched. He knew that his half-uncle took as his standard a prancing lion known as the Corat' Anmeir, Cruelty of the Sun, in partial tribute to his grandfather's Corat' Arhos. It also might have been a nod to his Drazhadeise blood, which would have been bold if that was truly the intention, given that he had been disowned at fourteen. But other than these scant facts, he knew almost nothing of the man, which was problematic given how soon he was visiting. Therefore, over the next three months, Idra went about trying to obtain information about Maia Sevraseched.
He began at the dinner party the very next day, for he had realized that of everyone he could talk to, the only person who had actually met the man in question was Ambassador Gormened. Better to begin with firsthand testimony.
Thus, when he saw the opportunity during a discussion with Gormened, he said, "Ambassador—will you tell us of the Great Avar? For we know nothing of him except his name and his position, and we would like to know more before we must host him." And he smiled, to try and show that he held no ill will. We are not asking you to gossip about or in any other way defame your master. It was, in sooth, a question that could be misinterpreted without too much difficulty, but Idra had faith Gormened was smarter and more benign than that.
Gormened looked at him, considering, and then said: "Certainly, Serenity. The Maia'var… he is a quiet man. He is very watchful; he observes much and misses little, and while he listens more than he speaks, when he does speak, he makes himself heard. We regret that we do not know much about him, for we have not served him long, and when we met him we could not read his face. We will say that, to us, he seemed slow to anger."
Idra nodded, storing that away. A watchful man, prone to silences… it did not quite fit with what he had heard about the political climate in Barizhan, that such a person should be able to take and hold the throne, but then Idra himself was not a very usual emperor either. Besides, none of that actually bespoke Maia Sevraseched's capability as a warlord. Quiet did not necessarily preclude dangerous.
For the political facts of the Great Avar's reign, Idra turned to Gurathar. With his foreign correspondents, impeccable understanding of politics domestic and foreign alike, and his frankly incredible talent for always somehow being able to procure precisely what Idra needed or something close enough, he was the perfect choice. Therefore, some days later, as they were walking to hear petitions, Idra said: "Gurathar—it has been a year since our half-uncle took the throne of Barizhan, yet we have almost no knowledge of him. His policies and machinations alike are unknown to us still."
Idra didn't even need to finish the thought before Gurathar said, "Serenity, we will inquire."
And Idra knew that he would.
When it came to information gathering, Gurathar was not like Mariso, who gave frequent small updates. She was a spy, he was a bureaucrat; the very base principles were different. Gurathar preferred to assemble reports, neatly partitioned things with lists and footnotes and subsections. If truly urgent information was found, he would give it immediately, but otherwise he preferred to have everything done just right before he presented it. A neat man, aggressively so, but only insofar as he was a little aggressive about everything. This suited Idra just fine.
It was three weeks before the report was on his desk. That was longer than Gurathar usually took, but Idra didn't mind; it took time to find things out, more so when one was looking at matters far from home. He sat down to read it that night after dinner—a merry affair, for Mariso's ladies had joined them in a boisterous mood.
This Great Avar, Maia Sevraseched, Gurathar wrote in his ferociously impersonal secretary's hand, is notable among all the Great Avarsin because he has not yet had to fight for the throne. Every single one without exception has had to battle against some claimant; there have only been five in the 1200 years of Barizheise unity who have not needed to raise their banner in the first year. The Maia'var is the latest. The last before him was the Ira'var, 200 years ago.
Hm.
Reading on, Idra discovered that the Maia'var had mostly focused on domestic policy in his first year: strengthening the southern prairie provinces against flood and drought alike; adjusting the tax on Ethuverazheise iron (probably, Gurathar wrote, in order to strangle the budding Barizheise influence of the Clenverada Mining Company and promote those mines in the Southern Pelanra), which Idra had heard about; negotiating a new trade deal with Celvaz in the west, which was not finalized yet but would be before Summernight. He was also a patron of the Barizheise Guilds, not just through the money the government gave them but personally. (In Barizhan the Guilds are more prominent; the climate makes operating manufactories difficult, and thus Guild craftsmen and artisans have not yet been replaced to the extent they have in the Ethuveraz, Gurathar noted.) It all seemed sound enough to Idra's eyes.
This impression lasted approximately until he reached the Machinations section, the title of which made Idra snort. He hadn't meant for Gurathar to take his words quite so literally. Nobody else was going to see this, though, so it was what it was.
Gurathar had written up a list of the long-standing alliances between avarsin that had dissolved in the first year of the Maia'var's reign and whatever reasons he could find for these splits; there were six so far. One for each twomonth. This would not necessarily be unusual given the fluid nature of alliances among the avarsin, Gurathar wrote, except that all six of these alliances had lasted for at least a decade, half for multiple decades, and five out of six were solidified through marriage. For these sorts of unions to fall apart is not merely unusual but downright extraordinary.
Interestingly, all six of these alliances tended against the Maia'var, whether out of dislike for his policies, his provenance, or his persona. At this point it should be noted that when avarsin raise their banners against the Great Avar, it is often done in coalition. There will be one who intends to take the throne, and others who support him. It should also be noted that the unions of this nature between those families who support the Maia'var have not been disintegrating at nearly the same rate. If anything, they are solidifying; there seems to be something of a coalition forming.
It is partially—or, as we suspect, mostly—due to this discrepancy that the Great Avar has not needed to raise his banner yet. There is no one left who has both the means and the desire to supplant him. (Even the famous so-called Pelanra Triumvirate—the alliance of the families Pel-Varnor, Pel-Ermened, and Pel-Sarinezh, which has lasted for more than 150 years—is now under strain, and they are the last remaining major threat.)
One or two is a coincidence. Six is a pattern. It is our suspicion that the Great Avar has been pitting his enemies against one another. And indeed, suspicion is the operative word. We have no concrete evidence.
Idra finished reading the report, set it down on the desk, and considered all that he now knew. The Great Avar, to hear people tell it, was a careful man; a watchful man; a quiet man. A cunning man. He hoped the Great Avar didn't have ill intent in his visit. For one thing, it would inflame that stupid prejudicial anti-goblin sentiment that Idra perceived so very often in Untheileneise courtiers. For another, he already had quite enough to worry about.
This, then, is Osmer Aiva Gurathar, Imperial Secretary: a man who wields his pen like a sword. Scion of a poor house of no renown, then Chancellery clerk; now, he is the emperor's most effective and efficient servant, in possession of the keys to every lock. Merciless bureaucrat. Approaches things like paperwork with the same ferocity with which one might approach a knife fight. Willing to set what is right aside in favour of what is necessary, and finds moral squabbling to be a waste of time at best. A caring man, at times even a good man, but never a nice one.
For information on Maia Sevraseched's past, he went to Mariso. For the first nine years of his life, the Great Avar had been an archduke of the Ethuveraz—an exiled, ill-favoured archduke, from what little Idra knew, but an archduke all the same. Thus, there would have been older nobles who had heard of him, perhaps even met him on whatever occasions he had come to court. Mariso was well-connected not only among those young ladies of her generation but also with those of past generations, that conservative lot who were inclined to approve of the genteel-seeming Lanthevadeise empress. Who better to ask?
As a matter of fact, Mariso had already been collecting information for Idra for multiple years. She had started in the first year of their marriage and simply never stopped. At first, it was a matter of some urgency, for all the other information Idra got was carefully filtered through Lord Chavar and his mother. Then once Idra reached his majority, she had simply kept on with it as a matter of habit.
A handful of days after the dinner with Ambassador Gormened, he said to her over breakfast, "Wouldst thou be willing to do a little digging regarding the Great Avar's previous time in the Ethuveraz? I cannot ask any courtier without seeming a gossipmonger, which does not look well on an emperor."
"The entire court is already in uproar about the Summernight visit," Mariso said, looking amused. "'Twill be easy indeed, though I fear we shall get very little of substance, considering the rumours circulating… ah well. For a start, I shall call on those insufferable old biddies—" this being her private name for a certain circle of well-connected conservative older ladies, including Osmerrem Pashavaran and the Duchess Cambesharan, among others— "and see what they can tell me. Perhaps also Csoru and her hangers-on, if only so that I know what murmurings not to believe."
That made him chuckle, as she had surely known it would.
The very next evening, while they were playing cards, she said, "Well, I have had tea with Csoru."
"I shall have the kitchens make rhubarb tarts for thee as consolation," said Idra, half-distractedly looking through his hand. "What did she say?"
"She claimed the Great Avar was quite mad as a child—a wild thing, a lunatic—citing thy grandfather's word as proof. Then she implied that he was still so. I think she thought she was being subtle about it, but she has never been good at subtlety. Of course, I have no way of knowing what Varenechibel said in private, but if he really did call his son mad, I find that… curious. Osmerrem Berenaran tells me that he cared not a whit for his fourth son; if possible, the late emperor preferred to forget about him altogether. In his nine years living in the Ethuveraz, the Great Avar only came to court once, if she's to be believed."
"Is she?" Idra liked Osmerrem Berenaran, though he had had fairly little occasion to speak with her, and he trusted Lord Berenar. All the same, it was better to ask.
"I think so, yes," Mariso said, placing a card. "But either way I will seek corroboration. Thou seest why I am skeptical of Csoru, though."
"I do. And even disregarding the dubious nature of her evidence, I do not see how he would have remained on the throne of Barizhan without challengers for so long if he were a madman. If he were, his opposition would be the stronger for it; and his actions thus far have been so calculated that they directly contradict the idea that he is a raving lunatic."
Mariso hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. "Well—I shall seek corroboration for Osmerrem Berenaran's account of things. And I will have someone track down the servants at Isvaroë and Edonomee. The testimony of someone who was actually there will prove invaluable, I think…"
Over the next several days, she dropped snippets of information: at breakfast, lunch, or dinner; during the small private moments they got throughout the day; in the evening at the Alcethmeret; even in bed, just before they went to sleep. It was a slow trickle of information, but it was steady, so Idra didn't mind. And in any case the speed couldn't be helped. When looking for information, Mariso had told him once, it is important to make sure the average observer believes that you have only a casual interest. Search around too obviously and people will begin to moderate their speech much more carefully; they may tell you what they think you want to hear, rather than what you actually want to know. Slow, measured investigation—that is the key.
One day as he and Gurathar were answering letters, she ambled in, saying, "Osmerrem Pashavaran has corroborated Osmerrem Berenaran's account, and further remarked that Pazhiro Zhasan would have been the first to disapprove of Varenechibel's actions, which reads to me as tacit disapproval on her part as well."
Then she left again. Idra stored that fact away, nodding to himself; Gurathar said, "Unsurprising. Osmerrem Pashavaran is a very… moral lady," in a tone which implied he thought such things rather gauche.
Idra cast him an amused look. Gurathar pretended not to see it.
Another day, Mariso said, "I have sniffed out a lady named Aro Danivaran, who was charged with minding the Great Avar during his mother's funeral—didst thou know, that was the only time he came to court? Unfortunately, she is dead now and has been for some years, but I have given her daughter a tidy sum in exchange for a recounting of her comments on the matter. Apparently, according to her, he was a nice boy. Quiet." All in a perfectly mild voice as she sliced her breakfast omelet neatly and mercilessly in half.
A couple weeks in, as they walked to a salon held by a cousin of Lord Isthanar's: "Thy mother has taken Csoru's tack; they are both spreading rumours of the Great Avar's purported madness. Soon 'twill spread all over the Untheileneise Court. Like a noxious fog: one shan't be able to breathe without smelling it."
Idra sighed, irritated and tired but not truly surprised. "Enemy of the enemy, I suppose," he said. "Do they work together, or separately?"
"Separately. Even the approach of closer relations with Barizhan—that thing they both so despise!—cannot mend relations between the Zhasmerroi, or even force an alliance of necessity, it seems. That is good for us."
Raising his eyebrows, Idra said, "And what wilt thou do, pray tell?"
Mariso said, "Why, husband! Dost thou think I have some nefarious plan?"
When he gave her a flat stare, she laughed. "Alright, alright. I am going to squash the rumours. That's all. Do not look at me like that."
This, then, is Mariso Drazharan, Ethuverazhid Zhasan: poison-toothed viper, pretending to be a simple garden snake. The emperor will never need to hire a spymaster, not so long as he and she are married. Born to a house infamous in some circles for its mastery of information and living up to that reputation. The iron fist in the silk glove. Has high-minded goals, but will stoop to low methods indeed to see them done. Her husband has strictly forbidden her to have anyone killed in his name. This is probably for the best.
As the months passed, the Untheileneise Court worked itself up into more and more of a frenzy over the upcoming visit. True to Mariso's word, the rumours that the Great Avar was insane quickly died down; or, at least, those who believed them were no longer spreading them so publicly. But these were quickly replaced by more rumours, and more still. They seemed endless, and none of them were the same in plausibility, topic, or even tone. We hear the Great Avar plans to invade—we hear the Great Avar is marnis, and that is why he is not yet engaged—we hear the Great Avar will arrive in a coach with wheels of solid gold—we hear the Great Avar wears a mask at all times, because he is monstrously ugly—we hear the Great Avar is the most handsome man in Barizhan—we hear the Great Avar spars with all his guardsmen at once, and regularly wins.
There was no helping it. This was a momentous occasion, and in the Untheileneise Court, even something so mundane as a woman's new perfume could spark a flurry of gossip. They would simply have to wait for the Great Avar to arrive, and then the rumours would either prove true, or they wouldn't.
Still. Idra knew that Mariso found it agitating, this tidal wave of gossip that she had no way to stem or control. Gurathar, too, was wound up tight as a clockwork horse—though Idra suspected that was due more to the pressure of organizing the logistics for the Great Avar's stay and the various galas, receptions, entertainments and negotiations that were to comprise it, not to mention the Summernight Masque. Idra himself had his hands full wrangling the Corazhas and negotiating with the diffferent factions in Parliament to ensure that the new labour laws—making workers' unions officially recognised organizations; codifying their rights, privileges, and responsibilities—would go through once Parliament resumed after the Great Avar's departure. (It was a touchy issue, and one Idra had been working on for half a year now.)
Things were so busy he almost forgot to be nervous about the state visit, but how could he with the courtiers buzzing about it like incessant, loud, whisper-prone flies?
The day of the Great Avar's arrival dawned bright and clear, before Idra even woke up; when he did, it was to sunlight streaming through the glass of the windows and the gauzy silk of the bed hangings, and to Esha's calm voice saying, "Serenity, it is a beautiful morning, and the Great Avar will arrive at noon."
Ambassador Gormened had informed Idra that, though the Great Avar would be making the vast majority of the journey by airship, he would be landing in Uvesho rather than the Court and making the final push there by coach instead. He had not elaborated on the reasoning behind this; he didn't need to. There were yet too many people in the Untheileneise Court who bore ill will towards the Great Avar, for various reasons. Even five years after the crash of the Wisdom of Choharo,with the perpetrators caught, executed, extirpated, et cetera, the thought of important people on airships still provoked nervousness from some quarters. Docking at Uvesho rather than the court would, if not eliminate the possibility of sabotage, then reduce the chances of it.
His edocharei dressed him in white, accented by Drazhadeise blue; they put amber in his hair and sapphires on his hands, delicate gold embroidery and metalwork. When they met for breakfast, Mariso was dressed similarly, blue accented with white and gold. Someone had decided that he and she should put up a matching front. Idra wasn't sure he disagreed.
The first outriders of the Great Avar's train arrived around an hour and a half in advance of the Avar himself; Idra and Mariso were waiting nearby. Idra had never seen this part of the Court before. It was the great formal entrance, the enormous doors that opened out onto the Square of the Empress Parmeno in Cetho town proper. Given the practical challenges of getting them open at all, they were rarely used. Idra couldn't actually let the outriders inside before the Great Avar got there, but it was a brutally hot day outside, so he had servants take them water. It was a long ride from Uvesho.
There followed servants, baggage, a full sixteen-man eshpekh of the Hezhethoreise Guard, and finally a single horse-mounted herald who rode directly to the sentries posted at the gates and announced the arrival of the Great Avar. Idra heard loud cheering from the other side of the great metal doors, but of course: the Cetho citizenry would have gathered to see their emperor, and to see the Avar.
Laboriously, the doors were swung open. Idra took Mariso's hand—she squeezed his in return—and they emerged together, Ambassador Gormened a step behind, the nohecharei a half-step further. The cheering redoubled; obligingly, they both raised their hands and waved, at which the roar grew even louder. Idra kept his smile firmly affixed to his face. It had been a long time since he had been presented with a crowd like this: not just an assembled mass of people, courtiers with perfect manners at a ball or some such, but a real crowd, doing what crowds did. (Namely, being very loud.)
He was saved by a great clattering of hooves and thundering of wheels: the Great Avar had finally arrived.
The travelling coach was huge, painted jade-green and gilded, made cunningly to suggest the shape of a frog—one of the small, lean ones one sometimes found in Thu-Evresar. (A mutual friend of Mariso and Idra's Aunt Vedero, one Osmin Narethin, was interested in batrachology. Apparently, this was the study of amphibians.) It was drawn by pure black, red-and-gold-harnessed horses, matched perfectly by their riders: pure-blooded goblins in the red-and-gold livery of Barizhan. Almost before it had stopped, coachmen began getting out at a frankly alarming rate. They swept cursory bows in Idra and Mariso's direction, but it was clear that was not where their focus was: they were setting blocks before the wheels, unfolding steps from the belly of the coach, helping to soothe the uneasy horses.
The Hezhethora marched in to create an aisle, eight men to a side, perfectly on cue. Their captain came a ways up the steps, taking off his fabulous snarling-faced helmet as he did, shaking his head a little. Two of the three footmen came to stand at each side of the coach door. One opened it; the other extended his arm to help his master down. The entire thing was done without a word spoken, which Idra found impressive. It reminded him of the studied unobtrusiveness of Ethuverazheise servants.
There was a moment's pause—
And Maia Sevraseched, Barizhan's Avar of Avarsin, emerged into the hot summer sunlight.
Idra could tell, even from this distance, that the extreme rumours about the Great Avar's appearance were untrue. He was not monstrously ugly, but though he was fairly handsome, he was probably not the handsomest man in Barizhan either. He was, however, of rather tall stature (six feet, at Idra's guess, maybe more) despite being quite thin. His skin was slate-grey, unlike that of his footmen and coachmen; his black hair was set in a multitude of long, tiny braids, which were themselves pulled up into a tail just under the crown of his head. In another contrast to his beautifully liveried men, he was dressed simply: he wore a vivid red vareshkh—something between a coat and a cape, lacking sleeves, worn by Barizheise men during the summertime—over a loose off-white shirt with billowing sleeves and black breeches. He wore no jewelry save the gilded beads woven into his braids and the red stones (coral?) at his ears.
The crowd positively bawled as the Great Avar came down from the coach. For his part, the Maia'var accepted the footman's arm, though judging from the confident way he descended, he didn't actually need it. As he did, Idra saw him looking around, disconcertingly pale eyes darting hither and thither, watchful.
After a moment, the Great Avar raised his hand in an amiable wave and set off across the square through the aisle his guards had made for him. The carriage was still disgorging servants; even considering its size, Idra found it a wonder that all of them fit. One would think they'd been stacked lengthwise with the Avar on top of the pile, just to make it work.
The Maia'var mounted the steps brusquely. Idra watched him clap Gormened on the shoulders, watched the two of them confer briefly in murmured Barizhin—then Gormened stepped back and announced, in Ethuverazhin, "The Great Avar of Barizhan greets the Emperor of the Ethuveraz and thanks him for his hospitality this Summernight." Unbelievably, the cheering (which had been constant since the Avar's appearance) redoubled again: it was only by force of will that Idra didn't flinch at the noise. It was lucky, he thought, that he did not have to deal with crowds like this on a regular basis. Or perhaps it was unlucky, for if he did, he would probably be more used to them.
The Maia'var climbed the last of the steps and, for the first time, Idra found himself face-to-face with his uncle. The proper thing to do here would be to make a speech; but Idra had never liked those, for he found them too long and full of unnecessary pontification. Also, the Great Avar was looking at him with sharp grey eyes, and while Idra saw no malice in that stare, it was… discomfiting.
He said, addressing the Great Avar instead of the crowd, "We are pleased to welcome you and your people, and we hope this visit will be but the start of renewed amity between our two nations."
The Maia'var inclined his head. "We are pleased to be here," was all he said. He had a soft voice, with a Barizhin accent, though not so much of one as Idra had expected.
"Well," Idra said. He wanted to get away from here, to leave the screaming crowds and the sickeningly hot glare of the sun. He wanted the cool marble corridors of the Untheileneise Court, the scrutiny of the courtiers: for at least he knew how to bear up under that. He was unsure what to do with his half-uncle's appraisal. "Please. Come inside."
As with everything else regarding the Great Avar's visit, there had been a great debate over where he ought to be housed. In which corner of the Court?—In what style?—Should he be put in proximity to the Alcethmeret, or the Untheileneise'meire, and would he be offended if he were not? At this last question, Gurathar had flatly remarked that if the Great Avar expected to be housed like an Archduke of the Ethuveraz, he would have no one to blame for his disappointment but himself, being after all disowned. Idra did not disagree, but he did remind Gurathar to say such things only quietly, and only in the Alcethmeret. In the end, he had been given the court apartment colloquially called the Archduchess Marano's suite. It was a set of light, airy rooms, very close to the Untheileneise'meire; the Great Avar was known to be observant. (The Archduchess Marano, from some three generations ago, had been notoriously pious, and had remained unmarried even into old age.) There had been a great deal of hustle and bustle around those rooms within the past week: servants, cleaning and airing out and redecorating. The Avar pronounced himself satisfied after a fairly cursory inspection; his edocharei, however, immediately began a much more thorough search. If they were not satisfied, Idra knew, it was Gurathar who would hear about it.
He watched his half-uncle move around the suite, treading lightly; he took notice of the way the Maia'var's eyes moved whenever he entered a new room, cataloguing doors and windows. Entrances and exits. There was a wariness to him, disguised under cool court manners.
They were as alone as two people of their status ever would be. Idra said, deliberately deferential, "An it please you, we should call you Uncle."
Properly, an Emperor shouldn't say such things. But Idra wanted to see how this stranger would react: would he take it as his due? Would he hesitate? Would he defer, in turn? Would he (this being the key question) try to claim power over Idra? A form of address was not much of a claim, but Idra knew many who would think differently: his mother, for one. Was this foreign half-uncle, this Maia Sevrasched, similar?
The Great Avar paused for a moment. Then he said, "We are only four years older than you; we would not feel right to call you nephew. Unless you object, we should much prefer to call you Cousin." His tone was neutral, in a studied way that almost reminded Idra of Gurathar—but no, Gurathar never bothered with neutrality unless it was to preserve professionalism when he was feeling particularly malevolent. Idra perceived none of that sort of irritation or malice from the Maia'var. He seemed to want to stand on equal footing with Idra, which was a good sign. Idra inclined his head in acquiescence. He did not, in truth, object to being the Great Avar’s cousin.
"The ambassador will be waiting for us," Idra said, for indeed the next item on the agenda was dinner at Ambassador Gormened's dav—attended by all those courtiers and merchants who would be interested in such a thing—and then a reception in the Untheileian, which would be attended by every courtier, no matter their interest. "Let us go."