ALL THE COLOURS OF RAIN
a Goblin Emperor fic
by Serenade
Notes: Written for kitrinlu for Yuletide 2015
Summary: Csevet protects his Emperor.
Every evening, while the Emperor dined with his court, Csevet walked in the gardens of the Untheileneise Court. They were not as beautiful as the garden of the Alcethmeret, which bloomed with roses in a hundred hues. But they were well tended, and generously supplied with tranquil ponds and shaded pavilions. After a day full of meetings and correspondence, he had discovered it was restful to clear his mind. It had become a habit.
But it seemed someone had been paying attention.
Csevet was considering the problem of the succession, and how best to persuade His Serenity of its urgent nature. He sensed the Emperor was reluctant to embrace a political marriage, after the disastrous alliance his parents had made. But Csevet had no fear that His Serenity would ever mistreat or neglect his bride.
There had been a time when Csevet spared no thought at all for the youngest son of the old Emperor. He was aware of his existence, of course; he was a courier and that meant he swam in the treacherous tides of politics. But that was different from seeing the Emperor in the flesh, a young man so brave and kind, so bewildered and lonely, who nonetheless often surprised a smile from Csevet.
And now Csevet found his judgment was-well, not compromised, because devotion to the Emperor was his duty-but complicated. Because now he was concerned not only for the welfare of the Emperor. He was, instead, concerned for his happiness.
Csevet was accustomed to having the gardens to himself at this hour, so it surprised him to see a man by the reflecting pool in the centre of the topiary maze. He was not one of the gardeners that Csevet knew, nor was he garbed like a courtier or a servant.
"Are you lost?" Csevet asked, even as sudden caution held him back.
"No. We have been waiting." The plural form.
From behind, hands pinned his arms to his sides, and other hands clamped over his mouth and pressed a cloth against his nose. He inhaled a lungful of perfumed air, heavy and sweet. Csevet struggled, but his limbs would not obey him. And then darkness clouded his sight.
Csevet woke on a bed of blood red silk, head pounding from the drug. When he sat up, the room spun around him. Scented candles illuminated a luxurious chamber. Thick velvet curtains masked any windows and muffled any sounds.
And Eshevis Tethimar sat watching him from an armchair, with unflickering eyes.
Csevet froze like a trapped hare, thrown back ten years to one terrible night. Ten years since he had allowed himself to come within reach of this man. This was the stuff of his nightmares. Reflexively, he took stock of his condition: his head hurt, but nothing else; his body was fully clothed.
"Afraid for your virtue?" Tethimar said. "We prefer our conquests to be awake and aware."
Csevet drew in a shuddering breath, trying to summon his composure. He was secretary to the Emperor. He faced down committees and the Corazhas. But the way Tethimar looked at him stripped all that away, back to the terrified boy shivering on the roof, while a pack of men hunted and howled.
With great effort of will, he said in an even voice, "What is your intention, Dach'osmer Tethimar?"
Tethimar flicked a speck of dust from his nails. "We want you to understand that we will not be obstructed. We know who is barring our way to the Emperor."
"Your letters are read. Your grievances are considered."
"And ignored." Tethimar stood, his boots slamming the floor. He prowled forward, looming over Csevet, tall and broad and imposing. "You didn't waste any time, did you? Insinuating yourself into the Emperor's good graces. Taking advantage of his ignorance. How easy was it to charm your way into his confidence? Or even further?"
Csevet knew what Tethimar meant. Couriers had a reputation for bedroom intrigue. But Csevet had been scrupulous in his behaviour, or so he had thought. He had kept a proper distance from the Emperor, not reaching out even though he knew the Emperor was lonely. It would be misconstrued, and he did not wish to be the cause of malicious gossip.
He should have known better. Of course people talked anyway.
Csevet could think of no argument to meet this accusation, for it would only sound like a false denial. He could not even move as Tethimar towered over him, his shadow falling across the bed.
"What we want is a Tethimada Empress."
Csevet stared at him, caught off guard. "But that is for the Corazhas to decide."
"As if those hidebound fools have your influence with the Emperor. You have his ear. You have your-blandishments." Tethimar leaned closer, drawing a hand down Csevet's chest, deliberately snapping the laces of his shirt one by one. Csevet held absolutely still, like prey under the paw of a predator. Cool air rolled over his exposed flesh. Only when Tethimar slid a hand inside his shirt did Csevet make a stifled noise and try to push him away.
Tethimar caught his wrist, holding it in an iron grip. "We think you know your course of action. Or we shall remind you of it, next time we meet."
Csevet was the first to break his gaze and look away. Tethimar laughed, bright with contempt. He strode from the room while Csevet lay stunned.
Eshevis Tethimar knew how the game was played. He knew who was untouchable. And who was not.
Csevet slowly tidied up his disarray, combing fingers through his hair and straightening his dishevelled clothes. As the Emperor's secretary, he was always impeccably dressed and immaculately groomed. So no one could mistake who he was, or doubt that he acted for the Emperor. It was his duty to be faultless in his appearance.
He could do nothing about the broken laces of his shirt.
He went downstairs, head bent, eyes averted, through a crowded room full of the low laughter of men and women. It was a blur of light and shadow, and he did not stop to look if anyone was looking back at him. He pushed open the door, emerging into the night air.
It was a residence on the outskirts of the city: a pleasure house on one of the less reputable streets, its red lanterns clearly signalling its nature. To be caught staggering from its doors would be scandalous. No one cared if a lowly courier frequented such a den of vice. But the Emperor's personal secretary? He had to be unimpeachable in his conduct.
He had to get out of there nonetheless. It was a long walk back to the palace, in the drizzling rain. From time to time he stumbled, still dizzy from the drug, clutching at walls and lampposts. He imagined the prickle of curious stares, perhaps judging him overcome by metheglin, or worse. Rumours would fly, even if he denied anything happened.
Nothing had happened. He had been released unharmed.
The iron grilles of the Alcethmeret were already sealed for the night, but the guards knew him and opened them. He wanted to sink into the oblivion of sleep, but could only manage to lie awake for hours, trying to ignore the aching bruise where Tethimar had caught him.
The next morning, Csevet fortified himself with strong tea before heading to the Tortoise Room to await the Emperor. Cala and Beshelar were already there, preparing for the change of shift. They had been conversing quietly when Csevet entered.
Beshelar said, "Mer Aisava. You did not return to your quarters at the usual hour."
Csevet flushed. Of course, the guards reported to him.
"Is anything amiss?" Cala said gently.
Csevet kept his face carefully blank while he tried to decide how to respond. Had rumour reached them of where he had been last night? Of what state he had been in? Did they think he was distracted by base pleasures? Couriers had a reputation, after all.
But he could not confess the truth. It would launch a diplomatic incident with one of the most powerful men in the empire. Csevet knew his appointment was already controversial; he must not drag the Emperor's administration into scandal.
"We had a matter to attend in the city." Csevet was usually good at choosing the right words, of producing the perfect expression. He did not know why his hands trembled now.
Beshelar tracked the movement. A frown creased his face. Csevet looked down and saw, to his horror, that the bruise peeked out from beneath his cuffs. He tugged his sleeve down, aware it only drew further attention.
Beshelar did not remark on it, but his ears pricked up. "Next time, tell us."
He seemed about to say more, but Csevet forestalled him. "We shall not give you further cause for concern, Lieutenant."
Then footsteps announced the Emperor and his nohecharei, and the work of the day began.
Csevet did not return to the gardens after that. He paced the halls of the Alcethmeret endlessly, alert to unexpected shadows.
He knew how things looked to an outsider: he was gatekeeper of the Emperor's schedule, and shadowed him as closely as his guardians. It was easy to imagine he was exerting undue influence, or gaining favours through impropriety. It was delicious to speculate about a na ve young ruler consorting with a lowborn courier: dazzled by a pretty face, seduced by wanton wiles.
Csevet knew what his enemies said about him. It was what they had always said: too young, too pretty, too ambitious. All those things were true. And yet surely he was more than that.
All couriers learned to ride. Steering the empire felt like holding the reins of a hotblooded horse, which might at any instant throw and trample him. He knew the Emperor feared that fate. He knew the Emperor still gathered his courage every day.
There was a daughter of the Ceredada, near to the Emperor in age. She was known to be a scholar; less well known was that she was a swordswoman.
Csevet watched her at practice, glimpsed through a latticed gate, in the courtyard of the pavilion where Archduchess Vedero held her salons. Csevet watched her sharp concentration, her keen awareness, her blade like a bright flash in the sunlight.
Couriers did not go armed, nor were they trained in combat. It was not thought necessary for them to protect themselves. So they learned to run or to hide.
Women did not go armed either. But this woman had decided to seize fate with her own hands. She would not run. She would not hide.
Csethiro Ceredin had the heart of a lion.
Csevet did not know how to fight, but he knew how to persuade. He would protect the Emperor the only way he knew how. He spoke to the Emperor. He spoke to the Corazhas. And so a betrothal was made.
Csevet did not know how to fight, but he knew Csethiro Ceredin would.
The Winternight Ball was held in the great hall of the Untheileian. It was a night of celebration, doubly so because it was also the birthday of the Emperor.
Csevet was pleased with how the day had gone, until he caught sight of Tethimar, striding purposefully towards the entrance. He had the instinct that Tethimar was here not to enjoy the ball, but preparing to cause a scene. The Emperor deserved to enjoy a happy birthday, untroubled by pressuring demands or veiled insults.
Drawing a deep breath, Csevet interposed himself between Tethimar and the door. "Dach'osmer Tethimar. Have you business with the Emperor? Perhaps we can assist instead."
Tethimar stopped mere inches from Csevet. A flash of irritation crossed his face, but then his lips drew back in a semblance of a smile. "An excellent suggestion. We shall deal with you first."
Ignoring his twitching nerves, Csevet bowed and led the way to a nearby antechamber. The nohecharei put their bodies between the Emperor and harm. Csevet could do no less. Delay, distract, divert: these were tactics that Csevet knew well. Couriers learned to be masters of subtle influence, not blunt confrontation.
Tethimar, of course, cared little for subtlety. "We warned you."
"Your proposal was considered," Csevet said. "But the final decision was otherwise. You cannot undo this betrothal."
"You would be surprised at what we can undo." Tethimar advanced, forcing Csevet backwards, until he was pressed against the wall, with no further retreat. "Thou art naught but an impudent courier, too proud to bend for anyone."
Csevet flinched.
"Oh yes. We remember thee well." Tethimar bared his shoulder, revealing a white scar in the shape of teeth. "We should pay thee back in kind. How wouldst thou like a matching scar on thy pretty white skin?"
He pinned Csevet to the wall with one hand, tearing his shirt open with the other. Csevet resisted, but he was willowy, while Tethimar was solid. He lowered his mouth to Csevet's shoulder, hot breath on the skin. "Or perhaps we should keep thee unblemished. For the day when thou dost serve a new Emperor."
Csevet stared in shock, protest rising in his throat.
A new voice came. "Unhand our secretary."
The Emperor stood in the doorway, his nohecharei flanking him. He was dressed in full imperial regalia, like a white mountain glittering with diamond snow. A quiet anger, rarely seen, hardened his face.
Csevet flattened his ears in distress. The Emperor should not be here. He should be with his guests, celebrating. Not chasing after his errant secretary.
Tethimar said, "This is none of your concern, Serenity. This is a private matter."
The Emperor did not move. "That was an order."
"Why do you care so much what he does in his own time, Serenity? Is he truly that pleasing? You know he only sees his own advantage."
Cala's expression suddenly became very neutral. Beshelar's face grew darkly suffused.
Tethimar shifted his grip. And then Csevet had a thin dagger at his throat.
The Emperor started forward, one hand outstretched. He met the iron bar of Beshelar's arm. "Stay back, Serenity."
Csevet said, "Get him out of here, Lieutenant."
But the Emperor stood immovable as stone. His eyes were anguished, but his voice was steady. "You will answer for even a single drop of his blood you spill."
"His blood?" Tethimar said. "It would be an insult to this heirloom to stain it with such common blood. It deserves better. We all deserve better." In one swift motion, he hurled the dagger at the Emperor.
Csevet had a moment to see all the days flash past in his mind. All the days that had been, and all the days that were yet to come. The Emperor, when he was still the Archduke Maia, blinking sleepily as Csevet delivered the news that would change his life. The Emperor, his consort and heirs by his side, standing firmly on the bridge over the Istanda rtha.
And then everything happened very quickly. Beshelar moving faster than the wind, blocking the dagger with his arm. Cala raising his hands, which flashed lightning. And Tethimar falling, falling, at Csevet's feet.
Afterward, they sat in the Tortoise Room, where the Emperor summoned hot tea, and a robe to wrap Csevet in, soft as a cloud. It was comforting to be surrounded by the crisp smell of paper and ink. This was the heart of his work. A reminder of what he did now. And why.
"You should have told us earlier," the Emperor said.
Behind him, Beshelar grunted agreement, while Cala added, "We should have asked."
Csevet looked down into his teacup. "It is our job to solve your problems, Serenity. Not add to them."
The Emperor shook his head. "Sometimes a problem must be solved together." He took Csevet's pale hands in his dark ones. "Thou art dear to me. I would not have thee cast away thy life for my sake."
Csevet flushed, feeling heat flood his face, the tips of his ears turning pink. "Serenity. Everything I do is for your sake."
- fin -