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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."

Chapter Text

The first time Csethiro met the Great Avar of Barizhan was not actually at the reception ball in the Untheileian on the day of his arrival.

Oh, she attended, of course: such invitations were mandatory to attend in all but name, unless one was bedridden with illness or some such thing. She also went so as to see Vedero and her other friends, and her two married sisters; to dance; and to generally know and make herself known as one did at balls. The more gossip-inclined of her friends had been thrilled at the chance to see the Great Avar in person—that rumoured man! That disowned ex-Archduke! For herself, Csethiro conceded that it would probably be mildly interesting, but that was all.

She did see him at the ball, though she never got the chance to talk to him. He turned out to be a young man with slate-grey skin, long Barizheise braids, and a handsome, if slightly downcast, sort of face. He was dancing with Arbelan Drazharan; as Csethiro watched, he said something that made her laugh.

On the whole, she thought nothing of it… until the next morning, that was. For that was when she encountered him for the first time—on the duelling grounds.

The duelling grounds were a holdover from the time of Edrethelema III, who had designed the Untheileneise Court in a time when duelling was still not only fashionable, but practical: a way in which to air one's grievances, to defend one's honour. It was a simple, austere space—all white marble, staircases leading down into a wide, lowered duelling area, a high ceiling mostly taken up by an enormous skylight. Csethiro loved it. It was, in her opinion, the best place in all of the court to spar: well-designed for it, and furthermore in an unfashionable location, and therefore private.

It appeared someone else had realized this too.

The Great Avar and a goblin man who looked to be one of his Hezhethoreise guardsmen were sparring on the field—with rapiers, in the elven style, which was what Csethiro found frankly most surprising, for in Barizhan modern and antique duellists alike were known to use the sabre. Five other men, presumably also Hezhethora, looked on from the side, whistling and calling out in Barizhin. Csethiro glanced to her companion (Sora Velenezh, the Ceredadeise man-at-arms who had taught her how to swordfight) in bewilderment, then back at the match.

For it was a fine match they were fighting; both men were obviously quite skilled. As she watched, the Great Avar moved in—the Hezhethora parried, and tried to riposte—the Avar forced him back—the Hezhethora (wisely, to Csethiro's mind) disengaged. They circled each other again. This time it was the guardsman who struck, and the Great Avar who deflected—at which point, in an elegant little parry-riposte, the Avar whipped his blade around his opponent's, into the Hezhethora's guard, and extended just enough to give him a gentle tap on the chest with the tip of the sword.

The both of them stepped back, postures relaxing into ease: the guardsman threw his hands up, laughing. His fellows exploded with cheers, catcalls and whistles; they rushed into the vicinity now that the match was over, laughing, slapping the defeated guardsman on the back. The Great Avar was laughing too, albeit quieter—at least, he was until he spotted Csethiro and Sora on the step.

He went very still for a split second; Csethiro cursed mentally. She ought to have turned and left while they were still occupied by their spar. He inclined his head to her in silent greeting. His guardsmen sobered quickly, once they realized what—who—he was looking at.

Csethiro curtseyed, conscious of (though not embarassed by, never that) her duelling jerkin and the rapier at her hip. Straightening up, she thought, Might as well, and said: "That was very well done."

One of the Great Avar's ears twitched—surprise? She couldn't tell. "We thank you," he said courteously, and, "We do not believe we have made your acquaintance."

"No," she said. "We are Csethiro Ceredin."

"Maia Sevraseched," he said, which was gallant if a tad pointless. "And this—" he indicated the defeated guardsman, who gave her a little bow— "is Captain Sarined of the Hezhethoreise Guard."

He paused and then, seeming to decide something, said: "Dach'osmin— do you duel?"

Csethiro could not help the instinctual, defiant rise of her chin. If he meant to mock her, well, let him mock her. She had been made fun of for her duelling habits before, and knew she probably still was, only behind her back rather than to her face. Goblins treated their women no better than the elves did. Let him laugh, if he would laugh. "We do."

He did not laugh at her; neither his face nor the carriage of his ears changed in any way she could percieve. He was calm, and serious. That was all. "Then we wonder if you would consent to spar with us."

That took her off-guard, though she didn't know precisely why. The noblemen in the Ethuveraz who still duelled were few, and certainly none of them would ever have sparred a woman. Before Csethiro could speak, one of the Hezhethora—not the Captain, one of his men—interceded: "The Maia'var is tired of sparring all of us, for he has beaten us time and time again. We are old news, you see, Dach'osmin." He grinned at her amiably. His accent was stronger than his master's, and more to the southwest.

"Pray, do not put words in our mouth," the Maia'var murmured, tone wry. He was still looking at her—still waiting for her answer.

Well.

"As you like," Csethiro said, and motioning for Sora to stay where he was, descended the short staircase down into the main duelling area. As she did so, she slipped her duelling glove onto her hand. "To the touch, or to the floor?" Either one would work for a simple sparring match, though for herself, she preferred to the floor. For legitimate duels (which nowadays were only fought in Barizhan) one would instead fight to the mercy call. Csethiro had never fought that way; she wondered if he had.

"The touch to start with, we think," he said. "We should not like to do you a mischief on our first encounter."

"No indeed," Csethiro said, blank-faced, "or vice versa. Think of the scandal that would arise: the Great Avar wounded in a swordfight by an elvish noblewoman..."

The Maia'var smiled, just for a moment: a fleeting expression that made the pensive, slightly mournful set of his face look almost sweet. "That too."

They moved to the appropriate positions; the Hezhethora retreated back, watching her with a certain wariness. Csethiro observed his posture as she saluted him—good, easy, not overly tense. He held his off hand behind his back, she noted. She eyed him, looking for any visible tells, but there were none: no favouring one leg over the other, for instance. Just that hand behind the back.

"Engage," said Captain Sarined, and Csethiro went in to strike.

It became clear to her very quickly that they were, for the most part, evenly matched. She was probably stronger than him physically, though because the rapier was a sword primarily suited to the thrust rather than the slash she couldn't take advantage of it as much as she might have liked to. He was (Csethiro had to reluctantly admit) a little faster than she, and his defence was very good; in order to keep the upper hand, she found herself dogging him with constant attacks, refusing to give him the opportunity to properly take the offensive. Still, he found ways: riposting, primarily, constantly trying to slide his sword under or over hers and into her guard. Several times Csethiro had to hastily disengage and re-engage to avoid these thrusts; he was, it turned out, exceptionally precise. At a certain point, he disengaged himself and went in with a lunge—her turn to play defence, it seemed. As she parried, she realized the Maia'var was smiling: a small, tense, anticipatory smile. She realized she was, too.

Thrust—parry—riposte—dodge—turn—as they went on, Csethiro almost stopped thinking; the movements seemed instinctual, natural as breathing. She did not need to contemplate the angle at which she plunged her sword towards his chest, did not need to consider the simple sidestep that brought her out of range of his answering counterattack. It was as though the spar were a dance they had practiced a thousand times, and the duelling field their ballroom.

He attacked; she stepped backwards; he extended with a lunge; she sidestepped, smacked his knuckles with the pommel of her sword, and swept inside his guard—

The point of her sword met his chest and bounced off his duelling jerkin, which Csethiro approved of, distantly; that was the value of good equipment. The duelling field was silent. He was looking at her with an expression of pure surprise, and as she watched his face, his lips began to twitch upwards again.

Then, all at once, the Hezhethora exploded into sound and motion: laughing, cheering, whistling, calling to them, flocking towards them. She took her sword away from the Maia'var's chest. The guardsmen were congratulating her, in accented and painstaking Ethuverazhin. They were speaking to the Maia'var in Barizhin—from their tones and their guffawing, she thought they were probably making fun of him. He didn't seem too perturbed by it; he wasn't even paying attention to them, really, instead taking off his duelling glove to shake out his sword hand and inspect his knuckles. The idea of guardsmen cheerfully, playfully mocking their lord was ridiculous to her, but it did not entirely come as a surprise. Much had been made of the close relationships of Barizheise servants and their masters, these past few months. The Great Avar put his glove back on and bowed formally to her, that old acknowledgment of Ethuverazheise sporting bouts. She bowed back. He waited for her to straighten up before he asked, "What was that finishing move? We have encountered a similar variation in Barizheise duelling, but never in the elvish style."

"Oh, well, that is unsurprising. It fell out of fashion in the reign of Edretanthiar V, around the same time as the transformation of elvish duelling into a sport—it was considered discourteous and unsportsmanlike, you see, though no one ever bothered to illegalize it as far as duelling etiquette goes. One sees it but rarely in modern Ethuverazheise duelling… insofar as anything about current Ethuverazheise duelling can be called modern, anyway, given how it has been stagnating since the beginning of the Varedeise dynasty." Then Csethiro realized she was about to go on a tangent, and hastily appended: "You said you have seen something like it in Barizhan?"

"Yes. It is not common, precisely, but one sees it happen sometimes; it is a taught technique. If a Barizheise duellist is targeting their opponent's knuckles, they will tend to use their offhand dagger rather than the pommel of their sword."

"Ah. Then there must be techniques to defend against that—?"

"Oh, yes, in spades. You were fast enough that we had no time to implement any of them. It was very well done."

Somehow Csethiro had not expected that, even though in hindsight he was frankly quite right. "We thank you."

Perhaps seeing her unease, he changed the subject courteously. "Then, if we may ask—if it is not considered a modern move in Ethuverazheise duelling, how did you come by it?"

Here the difficulty would not be answering, but rather keeping her answer short. "It appears often in accounts of cavalier duels from the time of Edrevenivar. The imperial cavalier Valeru Velnin was exceedingly fond of it; she used it often and to great effect. Her brother-in-arms Hama Reliär nearly died to it. To name a few."

The Maia'var was nodding thoughtfully. "We confess we know little about the Edreveniveise cavaliers."

"Oh, do not say that, or we shall be standing here talking 'til nightfall…"

"Regrettably, we do not have 'til nightfall. But what time we do have—if you are willing to indulge us, Dach'osmin—is probably enough for a rematch."

When she went back to the Ceredada apartments for lunch, it was with a victory and a loss against the Maia'var (and three losses and four wins against Sora, after the Avar and his guardsmen had left) under her belt, and another spar in two days' time decided upon. They would have more time then. Csethiro was hoping for best out of five. She wanted to be able to better analyze his style—defensive, precise, tricky. Certainly he was very skilled, but there was nonetheless something about the way he moved that made her eyes narrow. And still, she was considering that hand behind the back.

She changed out of her duelling jerkin; wiped under her arms; took her hair down and brushed it out before putting it back up. Then, after a hasty lunch, she went to a salon hosted by one Osmin Lurin, a natural scientist. Parliament might be out of session for the state visit, but it was the height of the social season, and that would not stop even if Cstheio's own stars began to fall.

She arrived early, but a number of the attending ladies had arrived earlier, and the buzz of chatter was in the air. Csethiro caught the thread of a conversation between two of them—Dach'osmin Miderin and Osmerrem Furlenaran, if memory served—"Well, surely he would not have picked Summernight to come if he did not mean to dance at the Masque." They were talking about the Great Avar; her ears pricked up.

"That is true—we simply wonder if he will know any of the dances, that is all."

Did they think that the Barizheise did not have balls? Or that the shape of those parties was so entirely different to those in the Ethuveraz? They knew Ethuverazheise dances in Celvaz, in Ilinveriär, in Estelveriär. Why would Barizhan be different?

Csethiro passed on, one ear flicking with irritation. For herself, she hadn't quite decided how she felt about the Great Avar yet. He had been all things polite and courteous to her, but his face was utterly inscrutable to her, a perfect court mask, which was discomfiting; it meant she was never sure how much of that politesse was sincere, and how much was pretty words and gestures done for habit's sake. What she was sure of was his skill with the sword, and she respected that immensely.

She had stopped listening to the two gossipers after hearing what they were about, but it did not escape her notice that they both fell silent when Vedero entered the room. As well they ought. Vedero might have been four years married, but no one with sense would forget that before she had become Vedero Bazhevaran, she had been Vedero Drazhin, just as no one with sense would forget that Maia Sevraseched had at one point been known to all as Maia Drazhar.

The salon went very well, and afterwards, Vedero and Csethiro walked to the Bazhevadeise apartments together, for it was their habit to meet privately after such events. As genuinely refreshing as it was to be around women of a similar disposition, who would not laugh at their studies and mock their papers, such women were also still courtiers. One could not really talk openly in their presence. They spoke as they walked, and their speech meandered: this noble widow rumoured to be having an affair with a courier, that flirtation between the scions of two rival families; this meteor shower Vedero had observed a fortnight ago, that new translation of the Lai of Vasthorno.

Eventually, as they sat in the Bazhevada's drawing room waiting for their tea to be served, Csethiro steeled herself and said, "Hast met the Great Avar?"

One of Vedero's ears flicked. She said, "Idra and the Zhasan had him for lunch at the Alcethmeret, along with myself and Ino and Mireän. He was exceedingly polite, and towards the girls he was the very picture of gallantry… I think he managed to charm them, and that is no mean feat. He is friendly with Idra, too; they call each other cousin."

It was always Idra when Vedero referred to the current emperor. When Varenechibel had been on the throne it was always my father or His Serenity. Csethiro had always wondered at the contrasting lack of formality when it came to Edrenechibel. Perhaps it was that her relationship with her father had been a chilly one; perhaps she found it difficult to speak formally about a nephew she had watched grow up. "I do not quite know what to think myself," Vedero continued, "but if his goodwill is insincere I can see no sign of it."

"I quite agree," Csethiro said, and then, in response to Vedero's raised eyebrows, "I encountered him at the duelling field today. We went two bouts before he had to leave. To attend that very luncheon, I suppose."

"Well," Vedero said. That single word, all on its own, was enough to convey to Csethiro very precisely what her friend was feeling: surprise, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, and perhaps a little intrigue. "How didst thou find him?"

Csethiro shrugged. "Courteous. Unreadable. Skilled with the rapier—he won one bout against me, but only one. His guardsmen seem to love him, for they were laughing and joking with him."

"That is a good sign… he duelled with the rapier?" As Csethiro had absorbed a great deal of information about the stars by proximity, so had Vedero with swordfighting.

"Quite. I do not think it is his primary weapon, though… even setting aside the Ethuverazheise nature of that blade, there was something about his stance that bothered me. And no one fights with their hand behind their back unless they are a beginner, which he clearly is not, so there must be some other reason. We are to duel again in two days—there will be more time then, and I may gain a more effective grasp on his character. Thou wilt want to know what I find, I trust?"

Vedero did not even need to consider that; she replied immediately. "Yes. I need to know he has no ill will. And in the best-case scenario…" She shrugged. It was an affectation of lightness, perfected over long years of effort. Csethiro knew her well enough, had known her long enough, to see the deep melancholy behind it—even now, five years after the fact. "Perhaps I may have a brother again."

The next time Csethiro saw the Maia'var was at their appointed meeting, two days later, at the duelling field. Again, he had beat her there: when she entered the room, Sora once more at her heels, she found him in the centre of the field. There were markedly less guardsmen around than there had been—two rather than six—and they were sitting on the sidelines. He was drilling, she realized, running through different positions as a means of warming up. Thrust; extend; lunge; pull back. His movements were smooth, his stance open.

The issue was, put simply, that Csethiro was not sure what to think of him. This was not a pleasing state of affairs. She knew herself well enough to know that she was a decisive person, that she often formed opinions about people upon first impression, and that her judgements were more often than not correct. Oh, certainly, the Great Avar was all things amiable and polite. Certainly his attitude seemed benign, and his sword arm very good. But Csethiro could not read him, couldn't know what he was about: Barizhan was far from her area of expertise, but she knew enough to know that one did not take and keep the title of Great Avar by being amiable and polite. And with all the rumour that had swirled around the Untheileneise Court for the past few months, it had almost been hard to hear herself think. How, then, was she to know what to think?

Of course, the solution was very simple. If you didn't have enough data, you did experiments; if you needed information, you went looking. In this, as in all her endeavours—academic and otherwise—Csethiro intended to cut right to the heart of the matter. There was no source more reliable than a primary source.

She put her fingers to her mouth (the fingers of her off hand, given she wore a duelling glove on her sword hand) and whistled to get his attention, then bobbed a curtsey. The Maia'var tensed, then relaxed; he gave her a mild smile and a bow, and called: "Dach'osmin, good day to you."

She descended the stairs. "And to yourself as well. Drilling?" He nodded. "Ah, you have us at a disadvantage, then, for we have had no chance to warm up."

"Take what time you wish; we do not mind waiting." But his lips curled into a sweet, mellow, slightly mischievous smile as he continued: "Soothly, though, faced with your skill, we feel we must cling to any advantage we can."

Csethiro raised her eyebrows. "Flatterer."

"No, no; merely prudent."

Even if nothing else could be said for him (which was not really true, anyway) he certainly knew how to amuse. Csethiro unsheathed her sword. "Well, then, Maia'var. Let us see what ground your advantage gives you."

He beat her that time—and not without effort!—but she beat him the bout afterwards. Considerately, he had had one of his guardsmen bring an ewer of water and cups to drink it with: they gulped the stuff down, and as they did she was gratified to see that he was just as eager as her. Good. She had no quarrel with being bested, but just like anyone else who took from her a victory, he would have to earn it. The third bout was a win for him; the fourth went to her; and the fifth (the last) was very close, but in the end the Maia'var triumphed with a well-timed circular riposte, sliding the blade of his sword into her guard before she had a chance to disengage from her parry.

They retired to the steps then, and sat down, to rest their legs and set down their swords and sip at their water rather than slug it. It was then that Csethiro said to him, "You do not usually fight with a rapier."

This was not a question.

"No," he said, seeming a little surprised. "We tend to fight sabre-and-dagger… how could you tell? For we have also been practicing the rapier for many years."

"You do not really move like a rapierist," she told the Maia'var, "and your defence—while it is very good, we are not insulting you—reads partially as compensation for lack of an offhand weapon. Also, you hold your hand behind your back, and the only reason to do that is concern that out of instinct you might put it at your chest, in the way of a blade… as those duellists who hold daggers do."

"Oh." He considered that; his ears and face betrayed nothing but thoughtfulness. "Hm. We shall have to work on that, then." He saw her face, the furrow in her brow, and elaborated, "We find it suits us best to hide whatever tells we may have. Obfuscation is as much a weapon as anything else if one uses it right, and not just in duelling."

His tone was mild, matter-of-fact; Csethiro wondered if that was meant to be advice. Probably not, she decided. Likely just an observation. If one had grown up with solely the political modes of subterfuge and all-out war, as she suspected he had, spending his teenaged years in what had been the Corat' Dav Arhos… well, one had to get very good with at least one of the two. She supposed she was only really surprised at his demonstrated preference.

Over the next week and a half or so, they duelled—somewhat sporadically, given that there were a fair amount of logistics needed to make their schedules mesh, but they did do it. And over that time Csethiro learned a fair few things about him.

She learned the Maia'var seemed to have a fondness for the colour purple, as he wore it often under his duelling jerkin and in his jewelry; she learned that he enjoyed duelling as a sport but regarded legitimate to-the-mercy-call duels with unease, which wasn't unfair given how often people died in them; she learned that he was pious, and that his augury of favour was Cstheio Caireizhasan. (He seemed profoundly unsurprised when she told him hers was Anmura. It was, she reflected, probably not a very surprising thing.)

Csethiro was, she realized at a certain point, actually coming to like him. It was more difficult not to like him, for he was in almost all respects a very likeable person: intelligent, patient, well-spoken (if also a little soft-spoken), considerate. He was kind to his guardsmen—and kind to animals, too, as she discovered when one of the Untheileneise mouser-cats padded into the duelling grounds during a break in between bouts. He had a wry sense of humour, too, and the habit of showing it at the most unexpected moments. Dutifully, she reported these observations to Vedero; and they agreed that either he was legitimately unobjectionable or he was a superb actor. Vedero was, she admitted, tentatively hopeful, and Csethiro was glad of it. She had borne the lingering grief from the Wisdom of Choharo for these long years: here, perhaps, was something that might help soothe that hurt, if only a little. For herself, Csethiro was content with her acquaintance—could it really be called friendship so soon?—with the Maia'var. He was, she judged, a good sort; and if nothing else, he was a fresh opponent to spar with. Those were rare indeed.

Csethiro was not friends with Mariso Zhasan.

They were acquainted, because everybody who was anybody as far as ladies of the court went was acquainted with the Zhasan, but that was not the same thing. She had only been sixteen when she married, and Edrenechibel fifteen and still under the thumb of his regents; at that time, the girl had been known primarily for her excellent manners and her demure and quiet attitude. No one had expected her to become as powerful as she had, though considering her maiden family, it was not that much of a surprise. Many regarded the young Empress's widespread influence with bewilderment, having not noticed the slow creep of it, the insidious growth of the roots she had put down. Csethiro, who had noticed, thought it evinced a surpassing cunning.

They were also acquainted through mutual friends: for it turned out that Mariso Zhasan, in addition to her more pre-eminent intimates, was friends with a fair few of the women scholars who attended Vedero's salons. They were not strictly fashionable friends to have, or at least they certainly would not have been in Csoru's day. Given that Mariso had wrestled the title of primary fashion-definer out of Csoru's hands (and a fair few women out of her circle, hah) and was currently holding on to it with an iron grip, Csethiro didn't foresee anyone giving her grief about it. She had been at one or two of Vedero's salons, actually—had come to see her friends speak on their specialties, been unobtrusively but deeply supportive towards them, and been politely interested towards everyone else.

None of this warranted an invitation for afternoon tea at the Alcethmeret, one-on-one with the Zhasan, stamped with her signet and written in her own hand. And yet:

To the Dach'osmin Csethiro Ceredin, greetings. It has been a long while since we spoke with you—we believe the last time was at Dach'osmer Lemavar's birthday party—and we find ourself desirous of your company. You have always struck us as a remarkably intelligent and fastidious person. If you would oblige us and come to the Alcethmeret for tea at two o'clock in three days time, we should be most immensely pleased.

Yours in sincerity,

Mariso Drazharan, Ethuverazhid Zhasan

Csethiro stared down at the letter, flummoxed and deeply suspicious. It had, indeed, been some time since she had last spoken with the Empress. But they were not close—not remotely—so she found the idea that Mariso Drazharan had simply said to herself, for no particular reason, Dost know what? I think I should like to take tea with Csethiro Ceredin, rather absurd to say the least. Perhaps Vedero had had a hand in this, but why should she? Vedero had never once expressed a wish for Csethiro and Mariso to be closer friends.

Not to mention it positively smacked of what some in the court named Edrenechibel's Method: namely, acting demure and unthreatening before taking one's enemies off the playing field all at once in one fell swoop. Csethiro, who had had rather a closer view of the drama surrounding Edrenechibel's coming of age and the ousting of the Lord Regent Chavar than most, had thought for a while that it would have been much more accurate to call it Mariso's Method. And that line, You have always struck us as a remarkably intelligent and fastidious person—while it was in one sense a compliment, one could also read it as an implicit threat. You are intelligent; rejecting this invitation would not be.

Perhaps it was paranoia. Csethiro considered that possibility. She was well-established in court, the daughter of a marquess, with the friendship of the Emperor's aunt. Further, Mariso Zhasan was almost seven years younger than her. Perhaps she really did have nothing to worry about.

Then she thought of how rumours inconvenient to the Alcethmeret never seemed to circulate long; of the departure of the Lord Regent and the much-diminished influence of the Zhasmaro; of the prolonged shrinking of Csoru's circle and worsening of her reputation. (This last was not really unjustified, but all the same, it said something about the Empress that she had been poaching ladies from Csoru's entourage.) She considered the speed at which emerging threats to Edrenechibel's rule were nipped in the bud. She remembered the remnants of the Tethimadeise faction after the attempted coup, badly damaged but still intact—there were some who weren't implicated. She remembered how every single one of them had declared that he would stay at Court, and she remembered how by the time three months had passed, all of them were gone.

Yes, Csethiro decided. She certainly had cause for concern.

She went anyway, of course—penned a polite acceptance and sent it to the Alcethmeret via pneumatic that very hour, and three days later at two o'clock sharp she turned up at the grilles, invitation in hand. Better to go, and see what the Empress wanted. If she did not, she suspected she would find out anyway, potentially in a far less agreeable manner.

The guardsmen at the grilles examined the letter with all due scrutiny and then let her in; a page boy was summoned to lead her to the appointed drawing room. As they climbed the stairs higher and higher, Csethiro realized she was being led to one of the less formal rooms—one of the more private rooms.

This was… not especially reassuring.

Eventually she was brought to a light, airy room, decorated in varying shades of white and light purple: "The Lilac Room, Dach'osmin," said the page boy before bowing out. It was fairly spacious, clearly meant to be a place for the Zhasan to host tea-parties. Right now, though, it was empty—but for Csethiro, and the Empress Mariso herself, looking out of one of the wide windows.

Mariso turned and looked at Csethiro. Csethiro looked at her. Then she swept into a deep curtsey and said, "Zhasan."

"Dach'osmin Ceredin," the Empress returned pleasantly, bobbing a small but polite curtsey of her own. Mariso Drazharan was a small, young woman, with unremarkable features but such dignity of carriage (not to mention good taste) that she could—and did—present herself with immense regality wherever she went. It was really a remarkable trick. Csethiro would dearly have liked to know how she did it. They went to sit down across from one another; Mariso rang for tea, and in the meantime they talked.

The conversation was light at first: gossip, talk of their mutual acquaintances, how their respective hobbies went—the Empress, apparently, liked to draw. All the while, Mariso was light and demure, and Csethiro did her best to conceal her suspicion. (She was fairly sure her best wasn't cutting it, actually, but no harm could be done by trying.)

At last, the tea was served. Mariso took a sip and hummed, apparently in contentment, then once again pinned Csethiro with her gaze and said, no more or less pleasant than she had been for the entire encounter thus far: "We hear you have been sparring the Great Avar."

In a way, it was a relief: so that's what this is about. In another way, it was supremely alarming: how in the world did she find out about that? For there had never been anyone present but herself, her retainers, the Maia'var himself, and his Hezhethora—no one she had perceived, anyway. But then, the Empress was Lanthevadeise. Probably, Csethiro thought somewhat irritably, she's managed somehow to place a spy in the Hezhethoreise Guard.

So. How to approach this? Csethiro considered what she knew of the Zhasan's character, which was not much. Gentle-seeming, cunning, surprisingly ruthless when it came down to it. She was, Csethiro remembered, friends with Osmin Savanin, who was infamous at court for her blunt manners and honesty that sometimes verged on rudeness. Perhaps, then, it would be best to be direct.

"Zhasan," she said slowly, "are you asking us to—inform on the Maia'var? For we must tell you that if you are, the answer is a definitive no."

The Empress stared at Csethiro for a second. Then she laughed.

It was a high sound, almost shrill, enthusiastic and girlish and decidedly unlike the sophisticated chuckle Csethiro had heard from her on occasions past. It made her seem younger somehow—less like what she undeniably was, which was Csethiro's peer and superior in status, and more like what she also was: a girl almost seven years younger than Csethiro.

"Oh goodness," said Mariso when she finally recovered herself, wiping tears from her eyes. Csethiro watched, nonplussed. "We must apologize to you, Dach'osmin, that was very rude of us indeed… well! That makes things a great deal easier." She straightened up, and every vestige of gentle, soft, unassuming manners fell away: she regarded Csethiro now with a look that was bright and observant and supremely canny. "You have been direct with us, so we will be direct with you: no, Dach'osmin Ceredin. We do not actually need anyone to inform on the Great Avar, at least not right now—and in the interest of honesty we shall tell you that if we did, we certainly would not be asking you."

Csethiro considered being offended, but the words were delivered with good humour, and anyway it was fair enough; she was, she had to own, not very well suited for that sort of espionage. "Then what is it you want? You did not bring it up for no reason."

Mariso smiled. "No. We do not want you to spy on him… but we should like very much to know how you find him." She caught Csethiro's look and elaborated, "Our Aunt Vedero has ever praised your judgment. We would simply know his temperament, in a context less formal than reception dinners and such. It will make dealings with him easier."

"Oh." Csethiro thought about it, looked at the Empress's face for a long moment, and decided that she was probably telling the truth. "He is—intelligent. Patient. Kind, or else a very good actor. Good sword-hand." She shrugged. "We imagine you have observed most of those things yourself. Why ask us?"

Mariso applied herself judiciously to the choosing of a pastry. "Best to corroborate. The more information one gets, from the more people, the better." Csethiro approved; that was an academic's way of thinking. She said so, and the conversation passed to other, lighter matters.

At the end of the visit, a few hours later, she caught Mariso looking at her thoughtfully and said, "What is it?"

The Empress hummed. "We are trying to think how to phrase this." She paused for a moment. "Well—our methods, Dach'osmin—" singular our, not plural— "are quite dishonourable, we know't well. We are very bad, and indeed always have been; it bothers us not, for sometimes one must forsake honour for the sake of honourable goals. So we do not blame you for your wariness when you arrived. And we would like you to know that it pleases us to have a lady in the court who possesses the honour which we lack." All of this was delivered very quickly, with a polite mildness so blank it was almost a monotone. Csethiro realized, electrified, that Mariso was nervous.

"… You should come to Vedero's next salon," she said. "We are to give a talk regarding the cavaliers of Edrevenivar and the ways in which they are misrepresented in the popular consciousness. 'Tis two weeks from now."

Mariso inclined her head. "You may depend upon our presence."

They parted then. Csethiro went back to the Ceredadeise apartments, still a little dazed; she was distracted that night at dinner, and very badly mocked for it by her two remaining unmarried sisters.

Csethiro sparred the Maia'var several times after that, and had great fun each time. But the day before Summernight, three weeks into the state visit, the Maia'var was supremely off his game. This had never happened before; he lost four bouts to her, all in short order, before she was out of patience.

"Alright, out with it," she said.

He blinked, looking puzzled and frankly alarmed; Csethiro forged on. "You're distracted," she told him. "Your reactions are slow and you keep missing opportunities. You are not so bad a swordsman as this; you are, in fact, remarkably good. There is clearly something wrong."

"And you are—concerned," he said unhappily, clearly seeing the way her thoughts had been going. His ears had been drooping ever more downwards with dismay as she spoke. "We have been distracted, 'tis true… and consequently we have not been a good sparring partner." This was almost an apology. In fact, coming from the ruler of Barizhan, where apologies were considered a sign of weakness, it was as good as one—especially considering the contrition writ clear on the Maia'var's face.

"We have heard it said," Csethiro said cautiously, doing her best to tread carefully this time, "that burdens shared are burdens made lighter."

He looked at her, for a moment inscrutable again. Then he sighed, and his brow cleared."Ay, well, 'tis hardly a state secret. Let us sit down."

So they did, perching themselves upon the cool, shady marble stairs. He made a gesture at the single Hezhethoreise guardsman, who bowed and promptly took himself out of direct earshot. The Maia'var poured two glasses of water, handed one to Csethiro, and then said, "We have been considering the question of our marriage."

"Ah," Csethiro said, because she felt she should say something.

"The situation in Barizhan," he continued glumly, "is not so bad as it was a year ago, or even six months ago. It cannot really be called precarious anymore, but it certainly is not stable. We have not yet had to fight openly to keep the throne, and that is through very concerted effort; there is nothing, nothing, we want less than an out-and-out war. We have been using social strategies, and marriage—our marriage—is one of the most potent. But it seems to us that we cannot really marry anybody. We cannot marry a daughter of our enemies, for that would not make them more amenable to us, and we cannot present them with a vulnerability to exploit. No more can we marry a daughter of our friends, for the coalition we are building is fragile yet, and there are many among our allies who would take it as an excuse to act superior. It has been suggested to us that we marry an elvish lady, but that would not win us the Barizheise social capital we need—" he seemed to hesitate for a moment; his eyes were fixed on her face, darting minutely to and fro, as if he were looking for something there. Whatever it was, he seemed to find it, for he swallowed, throat bobbing, and said in a rush, "and anyway we do not want to be like our father."

For no good reason, that startled her. Somehow she had forgotten that he was not only the Avar of Avarsin, not only the last son of Varenechibel IV—but also the sole child of the Empress Chenelo.

"It is a quandary, to be sure," she said, and in fact it was. He would have to choose eventually, there was not really any avoiding it, but that did not mean any of his choices were good. "Take heart at least in this: you are not the only one with—marriage difficulties."

"We cannot imagine you would be considered undesirable," he said, now perplexed rather than gloomy, which was at least a marginal improvement. Csethiro snorted.

"Flattering. Ay, well, think again. The problem is this. Three years ago, we were engaged to a gentleman by the name of Nurevis Chavar. He himself was fairly unobjectionable, and the match itself advantageous—but for us, not for him, because he was the son of the then-Lord Regent."

The Maia'var's ears dipped in alarm. "Yes," Csethiro said wryly. "Not ideal. Of course, at that time it looked like a legitimately good match. The Ceredada are old; the Chavada were rich, and needed legitimacy. The Lord Regent's power was at its peak, for he had had time to entrench himself, and Edrenechibel was not yet an adult. It was assumed that that state of affairs—the Lord Regent and Zhasmaro holding the reins, the Emperor unable to assert himself—would continue even after he came of age. We all know better now, of course… it is down to luck that we did not get stuck and fall with the Chavada. Our father, you see, was especially obstinate with regard to our marriage contract. In fact, he haggled for so long, the contract was still unfinished when Edrenechibel and the Zhasan began to oust the Lord Regent. Our father is stubborn, and rather silly, but he is not that stupid; he saw the writing on the wall. The contract was never finished."

He had been watching her steadily, solemnly, through her explanation. Now he said, "And that damaged your prospects." It was not a question.

"Oh, very much so. And we are an academic woman, which does not help matters. You should understand—we are not unhappy to remain unmarried. In a myriad of ways it makes our life easier. But there are also many ways in which it makes our life harder."

He nodded thoughtfully. Then, bizarrely, he smiled. There was amusement in it, but there was also something strange: a sort of bitterness she had never seen on his face before. "Goodness. What a pair we make—the one of us with too many suitors, and the other with none at all…"

Csethiro nodded in return, as seriously as she could manage. "The whole business seems rather a sham."

They looked at each other for a moment. Then, at the same time, quite helplessly, they both began to laugh.

The Ethuverazheise social season started with the melt of the snow in mid-spring. As the weather warmed, more and more nobles would return from their country estates; family court apartments would fill; social calendars would be drawn up. It would begin in earnest with the court presentation of debutants, and then came what was commonly agreed to be the crowning jewel of the entire season: the Summernight Masque.

For this year's Masque, Csethiro had wanted to attend as Valeru Velnin, the sole female cavalier of Edrevenivar the Conqueror. Not only was she a historical figure, she was also a major character in The Cavaliers of Zhaö (supremely historically inaccurate, but that was neither here nor there) and thus recognisable. Her father had vetoed this idea; once it became clear he would not budge, Csethiro reluctantly changed her plans and decided instead to dress as Osmin Omeän from the Dana Sparrow ballads.

As far as historicity went, the traditional story was dubious. Generally it was set during the reign of Belthelema IX—more specifically, during the wars in the South which had drawn him away from the capital, leaving his brother, the Prince Amezha, in charge. So the ballads went, Prince Amezha had proceeded to completely mismanage the empire, leaving the people ruinously poor but the gentry (those who had sided with him, anyway) untouched. Into this wreck had stepped Dana Sparrow: archer extraordinaire; liar, thief, and rogue on all levels—and yet heroic still, for he only ever stole from the greedy os- and dach'osmerrei, and gave it all to those in need.

Though the reality of him was doubtful, the literary tradition surrounding Dana Sparrow was exceptionally rich. There were tales upon tales: Csethiro's favourites were those involving Osmin Omeän, usually a gently born lady who, upon learning of her father's indolence and greed, repudiated him and joined Dana Sparrow's merry band of outlaws. She was generally agreed to be Dana Sparrow's lover, almost universally portrayed as his equal with the bow and arrow; she ran circles around antagonists with gusto and skill in several different ballads. Csethiro had loved her since she'd first heard of her.

Thus, the costume.

Csethiro had gone on a hunt for visual references and presented them, along with half the payment, to the dressmaker. She was not overly concerned with accuracy—no one was sure whether the woman had ever even existed—but she did want it to be recognisable. The results delighted her: a light, comfortable spring green underdress of muslin and an exquisite emerald green overdress of silk. She had spent a good amount of money, too, to acquire an excellently made brown leather quiver and fill it with arrows. But the real prize, the thing Csethiro was proudest of having acquired, was the hennin. It matched the emerald green of her dress, and was made with the same motifs: it had not been easy to find someone who could make it for her, and when she had, it had cost her a month and a half's worth of her pin-money. She had jewelery: emeralds around her neck and on her ears, the remnants of a parure that had once belonged to her mother. And, of course, the mask.

The best thing about the ensemble, Csethiro reflected, was that it required very little help to put on; it was only the jewelry, the hairstyle under the hennin, and the overdress which required another's hands. That left the Ceredin girls' singular edocharo, Min Kimahin, to minister to Teino and Iselio, who had both chosen much more elaborate ensembles. It was not so bad as it had been in previous years—at least there were not now five of them to share one maid.

The downside of this, of course, was that it left her to wait for the two of them to be ready, and in the meantime to bear the attentions of her father and brother.

Csanet was four now, and seemed to find her quiverful of arrows particularly fascinating. She gave him one of them—they were blunted, so there was no risk in it—and that distracted him. Alas, the Marquess Ceredel was not so easy to shake: he kept fussing at her, alternately asking anxious questions (she was quite sure Iselio and Teino would be fine on their own? She was certain she would not need to accompany them?) and making teary-eyed comments about how she was all grown up. Having dealt with this all her life, it was not actually that hard for Csethiro to bear up under it—and anyway her father was completely sincere, which made it merely a little annoying rather than legitimately aggravating. She patted his hand; reassured him; spoke in as consoling a manner as she could; and in this way she lasted until Teino and Iselio and her stepmother the Marchioness came down and they could all (excepting Csanet) head out to the Masque.

Unlike the Winternight Ball, the Summernight Masque was a celebration consistent over the whole of the Ethuveraz—and, traditionally, it was hosted outside. It was, in fact, a common set-piece in novels of various kinds. The dancing on the green! The fireflies! The lights and song, repelling the dark of the night!

Alas, the Untheileneise Court was essentially a city unto itself: no village greens for them. No dancing in the streets, either, as they did in the large cities like Cetho and Amalo, for the courtiers fancied themselves too dignified. But there were huge open gardens in the Untheileneise Court, open to anyone at any time. These were colloquially called "Empress Nasilsu's gardens", after the Empress who had suggested them. The largest of these was near the centre of the court, and it was here that the Summernight Masque had been hosted ever since the court's construction had been finished. There was a wide, raised stone patio for a dancing-floor, and near that there would be banquet tables that the servants would fill with food at the beginning of the Masque. There was greenery in all directions, and winding paths through the flowers. Never let it be said that the court was not magnificent.

The Ceredadeise party arrived early, just as the sun started to set, and so Csethiro was able to watch as the other courtiers came: first a trickle of people, in groups of two and three, and then a flood as the sun dipped lower and lower in the sky and the servants went around lighting lamps. Eventually, they split up. Csethiro did not know where her sisters, father, or stepmother were and did not really care; for herself, she went to go find and speak with several of her academic friends. (One of them, an Osmin Uranin, looked askance at Csethiro's hennin and said, "Well, 'tis mightily fine, but 'tis not really accurate, Csethiro.") They were standing in a circle and chatting about a new University of Cetho treatise on the surrender of the city of Cairado to Edrevenivar the Conqueror when somebody tapped a spoon against a glass several times.

It was the Zhasan—recognizable even with her mask, because she wore white, and only the Emperor and Empress were allowed to dress as their own imperial ancestors. Csethiro narrowed her eyes and decided that Mariso was probably the Empress Corivero, judging by the make of her gown. Once everybody was quiet, she stepped back, and Edrenechibel stepped forward, and began to say the ritual words.

As there was ritual to Winternight, so was there ritual to Summernight. The point of it was anonymity—"to hide our faces from the watchful gazes of the gods for one night," Edrenechibel said clearly, voice ringing in the silence of the garden, "and dance with the brashness of Anmura under the cover of the darkness of Ulis." It would be Osmer and Osmin for the rest of the night, whether you actually recognized the person or not.

He finished, and stepped back. The musicians immediately struck up a tune, silvery and joyous; Csethiro went to look for a partner.

She danced with several different acquaintances and friends, as well as her father, who found her again in the press of the crowd. (He stepped on her feet several times; she accepted his apologies for each.) At one point she saw the Maia'var—for who else might it have been, with his grey skin and Barizheise braids?—dancing with Vedero. As she watched, Vedero said something to him, and he laughed.

Later, standing at the food tables with all four of her sisters (Teino and Iselio having found her, and Umaru and Varian having found them), she spotted him again. He was speaking very seriously with Edrenechibel and the Barizheise ambassador some distance down. Then she heard Teino sniff, "Ay, Dachenmaro, but I am not yet twenty and a maid besides; I shall enjoy my freedom whilst I have it, I thank thee," and had to turn her attention back to the gaggle of her sisters to break up the brewing argument. Once they had all dispersed, though, several minutes later, the Maia'var came up beside her.

"Your sisters?"

"Indeed," Csethiro replied. "How could you tell?" They were, after all, wearing masks.

"You do not all look so different," he said, a touch wryly. "And there were the eyes." All five of them had inherited the brilliant blue eyes of their mother.

"Point. Well, we must thank you for not approaching us while they were around. 'Twould have sent them into such a stir… like smacking a wasps' nest with a stick."

"We grew up with five aunts in close proximity," said the Maia'var, amused. "Trust us when we say we know the sorts of catfights sisters may get into. May we have this next dance, Osmin?"

Csethiro blinked at the non-sequitur, but she smiled all the same. "Osmer, you may."

As he led her out onto the floor, the musicians beginning a fast-paced volta, she said, "You have heard of our sisters—" for he had, from her, in bits and pieces— "so now we must prevail upon you to tell us of your aunts."

And he did. There was his Aunt Thever, the only legitimate daughter of all his aunts ("who is not mad," he told her. "She has a nervous temperament, and is given to… fancies, on occasion. But she is not mad.") and the lady of the court in the absence of a Great Avaran. The other four, he said, had been officially acknowledged shortly before he came to Barizhan. There was his Aunt Ursu, who to hear him tell it was much given to stirring trouble on those occasions when she came to court ("so it is lucky for everyone involved that she has little interest in it,") and married to a sea captain. There was his Aunt Holitho, a votary of the Barizheise sea-goddess Ashevezhkho ("but her attitude is so flippant that one might mistake her for a con artist pretending to be a holy woman if one knew her not") and a lighthouse keeper. There was his Aunt Nadeian, married to a captain of the Hezhethora, who had apparently wanted to accompany him on the trip. ("We vetoed it—" he spun Csethiro around— "not because we did not want her company, but because we need our closest allies to remain in Barizhan and hold the fort.")

And, of course, there was his Aunt Shaleän— "Of whom we do not doubt you have heard much."

Csethiro had. There had been quite a lot of tittering about that particular family connection. "Is't true that she is a pirate?" She did not really care whether the other rumours were true.

"Well," he said blithely, "not anymore. We gave her a letter of marque; she is a privateer now, technically. She made a fuss about it—said she did not want to be under governmental authority, as though she didn't run unofficial errands for our grandfather for years—but we do not think she was actually that displeased."

Csethiro blinked. "She must be quite the person."

The Maia'var hoisted her up for one of the volta's turns; she helped him subtly, pushing herself off the ground. "Oh, she is. We think you might get along with her… at the very least you would likely enjoy sparring. She was one of those who taught us to fight."

"Is she now?" Csethiro asked, intrigued. For the rest of the dance he told her stories of the summers he had spent sailing on Shaleän Sevraseched's ship, until the song finished and they parted.

After a certain point, the night seemed to almost blur, as did most nights of its type. Csethiro laughed; she danced; she ate; she drank. She did not get drunk, having an excellent alcohol tolerance—but she thought she certainly could not be blamed for having one or two flutes of the excellent champagne that had so considerately been offered. In the end, she left the larger party for a little rest. There was a gazebo, nestled into the flowers and trees some distance into the garden; she sat there on the stairs with her hennin and mask discarded beside her and watched the faint orange lights of the Masque. Faint strains of music and chatter came to her on the cool night breeze.

Eventually she saw an approaching figure, growing slowly more distinct: the Maia'var, his dark skin blending with the shadows of the path, the scarlet of his costume made flat and unreal by the moonlight. She shifted a little, to make room for him on the stairs. He gave her a grateful look and sat down heavily; she had seen his eyes dart to her discarded mask and hennin, and was thus not surprised when he took his mask off in turn. "Anyone who says the elves know not how to throw a proper party," he said, a little rueful, "ought to attend a Summernight Masque."

Csethiro snorted. "Well, being so rigid, it follows that we must let loose some night or another." Summernight was also a ripe holiday for debauchery and mischief. Every year, there was at least one noble exposed as an adulterer. Last Summernight, old Duke Rohethel had drank too much and been found the next morning, passed out in the bushes. So it went.

"Ah, but should you say that to any of the Barizheisei, they would certainly never believe you."

"Oh, no? How is it that the Barizheisei celebrate Summernight, then?"

"With several days of parties," he said, quite seriously, "and sporting duels, and hunts, and gift-giving. Summernight itself is a day of rest—practically speaking, because the week leading up to it is exhausting, and everyone is sleeping off the accumulated hangover. There is a meal with the dav after sunset, though, which is quite refreshing after seven days of boisterousness. In all the world, we are sure there is no boasting quite like what you will see in the Corat' Dav Anmeir come Summernight week."

"Is that so? For we confess we would have said quite the same thing about Ceredada family gatherings. The displays our kinsmen make…"

They both smiled. Presently, Csethiro remarked, "Well, for someone with little familiarity with the Ethuverazheise Summernight Masques, you have certainly done a good job with regards to your costume. We cannot imagine you were inundated with options." He had come dressed as General Andarezh from The Siege of Tekharee—one of the few goblin characters in the elven consciousness who was not a caricature. Though the General was nominally a villain, the opera portrayed him as a noble man, one who sought only to do his duty and who looked with contempt upon dishonourable methods of warfare… in stark contrast to his legitimately villainous aide-de-camp Kelmirened. The Maia'var's tailor had clearly taken inspiration from some very well-done productions.

"No, indeed."

Both of them fell silent again, looking out over the surrounding greenery. It was a strange, peaceful quiet—liminal, and limned in the silver of the full moon. There was a burst of distant laughter from the party, and the sound of many people clapping in rhythm. In the corner of her eye, Csethiro saw the Maia'var lift his head, looking to the stars, and she thought: He is leaving tomorrow. That thought unsettled her. She did not like leaving loose threads untied.

And then—as though she had been pondering it all night—she had the idea in her mind, fully formed.

Abruptly, Csethiro turned her face to him and said, "If we write to you, will you reply?"

He blinked, and turned back to her. For a moment, he looked honestly astonished, as though it had never occurred to him that Csethiro might like to continue her acquaintance with him. Then he smiled. "Dach'osmin—we will."

This, then, is Dach'osmin Csethiro Ceredin: a woman as straightforward as the blade of a sword—and as shining.