Chapter Text
The Lanthevada household staff knew to pour Pashavar a glass of red wine in lieu of the herbal tea Lanthevel and Iviro would take. He already had a glass in his hand by the time Lanthevel ordered the notes strewn across his desk, and he and Iviro made it to the greenhouse.
“Dach’osmin Lanthevin, you look as resplendent as ever. Lanthevel, your chin remains weak and distracting,” Pashavar said. “The Corazhas meeting concluded early; I thought you’d forgive my premature arrival.”
“I was planning to until you took aim at the chin,” Lanthevel replied. He helped Irivo into her chair — a gesture etiquette demanded rather than any genuine need for Iviro to have his assistance — then himself took the seat next to Pashavar.
“Hmm. The chin might’ve been a low-blow, but I’ll make it up to you. We have a new chancellor. Would you care to know the man’s name?”
“Is it Aisava?” Iviro asked.
Pashavar took a generous sip of his wine. “That was my thought too, but no. Berenar.”
“That’s actually…” Lanthevel blinked. “That’s a good choice. A known moderate and on good terms with most other major players, especially now that Chavar is out of the picture. Moreover, he worked closely with the Chancellor’s office in his previous position. Did the emperor propose him?”
“He did. And no one had any serious counter-arguments. But with Berenar elevated to Chancellor, we were two witnesses short, so the meeting could hardly go on.”
“Two short? Oh. The witness for the Prelacy. Surely the archprelate would have been in attendance if a replacement hasn’t been selected yet?”
Two maids arrived with food and drinks. One carried a large silver samovar, the other a heavy tray laden with cheeses, cured meats, roasted nuts and dried fruits. Iviro and Pashavar tried a few things from the selection on offer, but it was clear neither of them was genuinely interested in the food. The moment the servants were out of the room and the door shut behind them, Pashavar leaned back in his chair and glanced thoughtfully at Iviro.
“Teru Tethimar was there,” he said, “but he had no interest in Corazhas matters. He was wearing out the rug of the Mitchentheileian before the meeting, just waiting for the emperor arrive. The emperor had apparently been present at his nohecharis’ revethvoran last night and Tethimar was aghast that the adramaza would permit such a thing. To be frank, when Edrehasivar did arrive, I rather agreed with Tethimar. The boy looks like he hasn’t slept in a week and has an ulcer eating away at him.”
Iviro tugged the small porcelain bowl of roasted almonds closer to her. “I did hear talk about this and that the emperor was tearing apart the furnishings of the Alcethmeret when he returned. I didn’t even think to believe it. But I suppose some people do find comfort in seeing a body for themselves. Reports can be falsified, but one can trust one’s own eyes.”
“He doesn’t sound especially comforted,” Lanthevel replied dryly. He snatched up a handful of apricots and tried his tea, which was a touch too hot. “Did he say anything regarding his plans going forth?”
Pashavar snorted. “Edrehasivar? Sure, he pontificated on the subject for half an hour. No, in sooth, Tethimar was concerned enough to ask the emperor directly as to whether he was well and the boy squirmed even out of that one. But he is due to speak with the Witness for the Emperor later today. What would you give to be in that room while Mer Csovar does his work?”
“More than the Lanthevada possess,” Iviro replied and Lanthevel nodded in agreement. Mer Csovar was among the very best in his field and would not surrender until the emperor gave him the full, unfiltered truth. But an emperor’s testimony was considered too incendiary for a written record to be produced, so Mer Csovar’s memory would be the only repository for the emperor’s true thoughts about Chavar and Shevean’s attempted coup.
“Some feats are beyond even us,” Lanthevel said, on the off-chance Iviro’s hunger for information overcame her better judgement and she ventured to approach Mer Csovar. “Never mind that. How did he look overall? Angry or nervous or…”
Pashavar tapped his well-polished fingernails against his wine glass. “As I said, he looked tired,” he said in slow, measured words. “I won’t ask why you’re concerned with the emperor’s mood, although I believe I can guess. For what it’s worth, I don’t think the storm one would expect after a coup attempt is coming. He’s had three days. People are being released, not arrested. The boy just doesn’t have it in him.”
Iviro was trying to say the same thing earlier, wasn’t she?
In sooth, both Iviro and Pashavar had better instincts when it came to politics. Lanthevel managed well-enough on day-to-day matters, but crises and critical decision points were beyond him. As nerve-wracking as attempting to walk along a tightrope strung across the Istandaartha. But while Lanthevel struggled to stay above the waterline, Iviro and Pashavar seemed happy to swim through the roil of court intrigue, instinctively understanding the shifts of currents and how to find calm shallow waters. If Iviro and Pashavar were in agreement, he would defer to their opinion.
Yet accepting that he was unlikely to be dragged to the dungeons in the immediate future was not the joyful experience Lanthevel would have expected it to be. After three days of ceaseless anxiety, its release felt only like a hollow anti-climax. He reached for his tea and sipped on it, without contributing to the conversation or even listening to it. He emptied his cup before he regained enough sense of himself to re-enter the world about him.
“Respectfully, Lord Pashavar, I disagree,” Iviro was saying. “The emperor’s interests a beginning to emerge. The bridge is one, which I fear will cause you much consternation. The advancement of the rights of women is the other. Did you hear, Lord Pashavar, that his new nohecharis is a woman?”
“I thought that was unconfirmed,” Lanthevel cut in.
“Oh no, very solidly confirmed. Her name is Kiru Athmaza and she’s a cleric of Csaivo.”
Pashavar let out an impolite huff. “I concur with Tethimar, the adramaza has gone daft.”
“The emperor must disagree. Fundamentally, I think, the court needs to understand: we have a new emperor now and with him comes a new era. Changes will be afoot, some of which may be easier to bear than others,” Iviro replied with a coy smile, then sampled the selection of cured meats on offer.
Pashavar, for his part, had manners enough not to voice whatever was on the tip of his tongue, but only nodded and tipped the rest of his glass into his mouth. Lanthevel, meanwhile, mulled on his niece’s words.
Changes were already afoot. As much as it pained Lanthevel to acknowledge, the old generation had died with Varenechibel. Berenar was closer in age to Iviro than to Lanthevel and Pashavar. Within the circle emerging around the emperor, Mer Aisava seemed to be the oldest and he was only in his mid-twenties. In some ways the emperor and his closest reminded Lanthevel of the groups he had mingled in when he first entered the university — bright, young men certain they would change the world before they turned thirty. But they had been only students prowling university taverns. Edrehasivar ruled an empire. And if anyone could demand the world to bend to their vision, it was the emperor.
Iviro caught Lanthevel’s eye and asked. “What sayest thou, uncle, would it be so awful to live in the era of Edrehasivar?”
He’s moderately likable, although very reserved. Were he any other nobleman’s son… but he’s the emperor and I’m not…
Before Lanthevel could mold his thoughts into coherent words, Pashavar spoke up. “I don’t believe he has the personality to make his reign his own. And while we are fortunate he seemed to have not inherited certain excesses Verenechibel was prone to, a weak, ineffectual emperor is also a trial to live under.”
“He earned Idra Drazhar’s loyalty,” Iviro replied as she refilled Pashavar’s wine glass. “Perhaps if you give him a fair chance, he may yet win your true loyalty too.”
A fair chance. The phrase had no special significance for Pashavar, but for Lanthevel and Iviro, those words evoked a conversation that had become a bedrock of their relationship. Lanthevel had never doubted the intelligence of women; his mother was the one who had inspired and cultivated his interest in language and etymology. But he had been sceptical when he was about to take up the family seat in the House of Blood and Iviro proposed to become his assistant.
An thou givest me a fair chance, I’ll be useful to you.
That proved to be an understatement. Iviro had the political instincts of her grandfather, which neither Lanthevel nor his brother possessed. If not for her quiet work in the background, Lanthevel would not have achieved half of what he had. She deserved the foreground. But there was as much chance of that as of Archduchess Videro being crowned empress.
Perhaps Edrehasivar could push things to change. Iviro certainly seemed to hope he would.
Even if he did, it would be too late for Iviro. Societal change was not a matter of a year, or two, or five. But Iviro had several siblings, all of whom had produced a gaggle of children. Among them, were two girls who were never seen without a book. Chemistry fascinated Elecho, while Uilino was determined to improve airship design. Perhaps change might come soon enough for them.
“What if Pashavar is right and he flounders?” Lanthevel asked. This was not a conversation they should be having in Pashavar’s presence. He was a dear friend, but he was not Lanthevada. And yet, Lanthevel could not restrain himself.
Iviro was silent for a moment. “Politics are a form of gambling, nothing is ever certain. But I think I’m prepared to accept the odds on this one.”
She put on her polite smile for Pashavar’s sake, then seemed to realise that she had forgotten about her tea. Her cup sat untouched and no doubt verged on tepid by now. She gulped it down nevertheless and quirked her eyebrow at Lanthevel in a challenge.
A fair chance. Fair, in Iviro’s parlance, meant more than sitting back and waiting to see whether a person would careen to failure or find the elusive path to success. Fair meant actively supporting and helping in any way one could. It was quite different to waiting idly until Idra reached his majority.
Lanthevel sighed. He had no idea what he ought to be doing and he had always hated gambling, but he trusted Iviro. “The odds are better than they were a week ago,” he said.
“Perhaps,” Pashavar muttered in the carefully neutral manner he employed when he was keen to avoid an argument. He scooped a handful of sugared cranberries out of the ornate silver bowl. “But enough of this heavy talk, I get enough of that at the Corazhas. A lighter question for you. The boy’s birthday is on Winternight, shall we gamble on which house will send the most ludicrous gift?”
“By what parameters are we to judge how ludicrous a gift is or isn’t?” Iviro said with a laugh that lit up her face. “What are we getting him, uncle? We had best make sure our gift is not the most ludicrous, that’ll be a rigged contest.”
She was sure to have put an order for jewellery or an overly ornate dagger weeks ago, before the attempted coup. Likely, before she or Lanthevel had personally met the emperor. A generic gift would have sufficed then. Not so much now. But what was appropriate and meaningful to a nineteen-year-old emperor?
Lanthevel had been in Cetho that Winternight nineteen years ago. A miserable day when no amount of warm clothing could keep you comfortable. But like everyone else in the city, he rushed outside when he heard the bells drown out the howling winds, proclaiming the birth of a new imperial heir. An unwanted, half-goblin child born of a sixteen-year-old empress. Surely, no one who had heard those bells, not even Empress Chenelo, would have ever thought that child would rise to claim the throne.
The Empress.
Lanthevel did his utmost best to keep his face impassive, but he doubted he succeeded.
Why had they failed to grasp the obvious before? Lanthevel, Iviro, Pashavar — all of them had heard Edrehasivar talk of his mother and by his tone, it was clear that he still fervently missed her. And all of the Ethuveraz knew how callously Varenechibel had behaved towards her.
Videro’s marriage. The emperor’s open support for his sister’s progressive ideals. The appointment of a nohecharo instead of a nohecharis. This was Edrehasivar’s retribution for the way his father had mistreated his mother.
Devious boy. I believe I like thee after all, Edrehasivar.
“There’s no present yet,” Lanthevel said. “But I have an idea.”