"But that's wrong," Jathmar heard himself saying quietly, almost plaintively.
"Of course it is. I see that, you see that, Shaylar sees that. Everyone sees that ... except for Jasak."
Gadrial threw up her hands in frustration. "He certainly knows I don't agree with him—that's why he won't talk to me about it. He only shrugs when I try to get him to. I've even accused him of masochism, of wanting to be punished for what happened to you and the rest of your people. But that's not it either, and he knows I know that as well as he does. He doesn't want to be court-martialed, doesn't want to be saddled with responsibility for the first inter-universal war in history. He just refuses to even try to run away from it, just as his father is going to refuse to use his political power and prestige to save him from facing it. The Duke will do everything in his power to help defend Jasak if a court-martial's impaneled, but he won't step a single inch over the line to stop one, even to save his own son."
"Gadrial, I—"
"No, Shaylar." Gadrial shook her head. "Don't say it. Jasak doesn't blame you or Jathmar at all. Neither do I, and neither will any member of his family. It's just the way Andarans—some Andarans, at least—
are." Her expression was an odd mixture of sorrow, exasperation, and a curious, almost forlorn sort of pride. "You can't change them. And if you could, they—he—wouldn't be the people they are, now would they?"
"I suppose not."
"But what I meant before, about Jasak and the Duke being throwbacks," Gadrial said, "is that it's exactly that same stubborn, bullheaded, obsolete, hopelessly romantic sense of honor which absolutely guarantees that the Duke of Garth Showma will protect his son's shardonai with his very life, no matter what else may happen."
Chapter Fifteen
"Good evening, Your Majesty," His Crowned Eminence, the Seneschal of Othmaliz said as his visitor was shown into his private apartment in what had, until a very few weeks before, been known as the Great Palace.
"Good evening, Your Eminence," Chava Busar, Emperor of Uromathia, replied.
The two men were a study in contrasts in many ways.
The Seneschal was a short, round man, addicted to decorating his already colorful religious robes with additional jewels, bullion embroidery, lace, and pearls, while rings dripped from his fingers. He literally glittered when he walked, and the beautiful little silver bells which adorned his unique, stovepipeshaped, gold-encrusted religious headgear jingled musically with every movement.
Chava Busar was also short. That, however, was the only real similarity between them. Where the Seneschal was so obese that he seemed to roll along, rather than walk, Chava was lean and athletic, especially for a man in his late fifties. Unlike the clean-shaven, moon-faced Seneschal, the Emperor favored a neatly trimmed, dramatically shaped dagger beard, and his eyebrows—bushy for a Uromathia
—floated above almond-shaped eyes dark as still water on a moonless night. There was a hardness in those eyes, as well, like a shelf of obsidian just under the water's surface. For his height, he was broad shouldered and powerfully built, and where the Seneschal seemed to roll into a room, Chava strode purposely forward into a universe which belonged—or ought to have belonged, at any rate—exclusively to him.
Yet for all the physical contrasts between them, there were similarities under the skin, as well, and it was those similarities which had brought the Emperor to this very private meeting. Indeed, a meeting so private that not a single advisor—or bodyguard—was in sight. In fact, none of the servants with whom the Seneschal routinely surrounded himself was present, either.
"Please, Your Majesty," the Seneschal invited, gesturing to the two comfortable chairs placed to face one another in front of the enormous portrait of Bergahl in glory which dominated the main room of the Seneschal's suite. "Be seated."
"Thank you."
Chava accepted the invitation, sitting regally in the indicated chair. Both chairs were more than a little throne-like, he noted, although the Seneschal's was fractionally larger and ever so slightly more richly carved, and his lips twitched ever so minutely at the observation. How very like the Seneschal, the Emperor thought.
The Seneschal waited until his guest had settled into place, then took the facing chair. A small table, with a bottle of wine, pastry cakes decorated with sesame seed, and a platter of delicate sandwiches sat conveniently placed for both of them, and he smiled at the Emperor as he personally poured wine into the waiting crystal glasses.
"I think you'll find this palatable, Your Majesty." He smiled. "It comes from one of my own vineyards.
I'm quite proud of it, actually."
"Thank you," Chava repeated as he accepted the glass and sipped delicately. His bushy eyebrows rose, and he nodded in approval. "You're quite right, Your Eminence. It's very good."
"I'm glad you approve." The Seneschal smiled again, and this time his smile was as tart as alum. "It's always a pleasure to entertain a guest who appreciates what small comforts one can offer him."
"Oh, I most definitely agree, Your Eminence." Chava's smile just showed the tips of his teeth. "Indeed, to be totally frank, I find myself amazed at your tolerance and forbearance in the face of having your entire city turned topsy-turvy by this Conclave." He shook his head. "To find oneself suddenly and unexpectedly playing host to the rulers of every land of Sharona must pose extraordinary hardships.
Particularly upon such short notice."
"One cannot pretend that the entire affair has not created great difficulties—great difficulties," the Seneschal agreed gravely. "The dislocation of the capital's normal business has, of course, been extreme.
It will take quite some time for the proper administrative agencies to reassert an orderly control over many aspects of it."
"Not to mention the ... disruptions here in your own home," Chava observed, and watched with amused satisfaction as the Seneschal's fat face darkened.
"I am only the Seneschal of the Order of Bergahl," he said after a moment. "The Great Palace is not my home, but the home of the Order itself, as symbolized by the man chosen by the Order as its head.
Nonetheless," he inhaled deeply, "I must confess that arranging to house so many prominent and powerful political figures has, indeed, led to significant disruptions here in the Palace."
Chava nodded sympathetically. Both of them knew the true nature of the "disruptions" to which the Seneschal took such exception. Prior to Zindel chan Calirath's arrival with his daughter, the Seneschal had been housed in the Emperor's Wing of the palace. The decision by the Emperor to return to his ancestral home—and to the building which, however little public recognition the fact had received, still belonged to him—had placed the Seneschal in a most difficult position. In the end, he'd decided he dared not refuse to move out of what had been the House of Calirath's family living space by a tradition literally millennia long. His present suite of rooms were luxurious to the point of opulence, and decorated with priceless artworks, but they were no longer in the Emperor's Wing, and his resentment was only too apparent.
"I was particularly impressed, Your Eminence, by how gracefully you and the Order have dealt with this situation," Chava said after a moment. "It must have been particularly difficult, after more than two centuries of independence, to find oneself face-to-face with the Emperor of Ternathia. I've often thought that the Caliraths simply don't realize how ... instinctively patronizing they are." He smiled again, briefly. "It's hard to blame them, I suppose. They are, after all, the oldest dynasty in the history of Sharona. It would probably be unfair to expect them to realize how hard—and often—they step on so many people's toes because they simply assume the precedence so many other people automatically grant them."
"Indeed," the Seneschal agreed. He sipped his own wine, then lowered the glass and regarded the Emperor levelly.
"One is, of course, always gratified by the sympathetic understanding of a ruler as powerful as the Emperor of Uromathia. Still, it occurs to me that this meeting wasn't arranged solely so that you might commiserate with me on the dislocation of my capital, Your Majesty."