Accidental War Mage

“Landgravine Wilhelmina von Gschwendtberg and escort,” the footman announced in a bored voice, and we continued forward into the room, the landgravine’s gloved hand tucked genteelly into the crook of my right arm. At my left hip was my sword, in an awkwardly wide leather sheath accommodating its unique bend.

The empress lounged on an oversized cushion, her slim form taking up a small fraction of the available space within the seat of her throne. There was a certain subtle firm roundness to her waist that spoke of the emperor’s continued virility despite his advanced age. Her skin was smooth, her hair a lush shade of brown without a single strand of gray, and her ears came to gentle points. Perhaps Quentin had been misled on the subject of her appearance by one of his peers, a youthful joke played on an outsider who had not yet had the privilege of attending court.

In spite of her apparent youth, she took deliberate care to move slowly. She whispered frequently but very quietly, her whispers somehow failing to echo against the walls of the room; I could not make out everything she said, and neither could the emperor. Once in a while, he would tilt his head and she would clasp his hand and lean inward, repeating herself at a louder volume, easily comparable to that of a mouse who is mostly certain the cats are asleep.

“I said, the landgravine’s escort is a mage,” she muttered softly as the footman continued his steady patter of announcements. “The one from Batavis, probably. I haven’t seen him before.”

The emperor’s chin dipped in the smallest of nods as he gazed in the general direction of the entryway, his clouded eyes unfocused. Power swirled indistinctly, and I grew certain that one of the mages in the room was probably the emperor himself.

“Pasha Mustafa, with escort, astrologer, and interpreter,” the footman announced behind me, and the landgravine paused, craning her neck backward to look.

I looked as well; the astrologer met my eyes as I took in his curious hat and the pouches at his belt. His eyes widened, and he steered the Sultan’s emissary and attendants to the opposite side of the room while giving a nonsensical explanation involving the “fading of Jupiter” – Jupiter was at that point waxing as a matter of astronomical reality, and with its disk slowly growing fuller there was clearly no reason to talk about the “recent fading of Jupiter” as some kind of omen requiring Pasha Mustafa to go to the right-hand side of the court instead of the left.

After a few polite conversations with other nobles in which the health and marital status of several dozen other nobles were discussed and half a dozen contradictory explanations for Pasha Mustafa’s presence in Oenipons were aired, the landgravine took me aside to make sure I knew how to behave in the imperial court. The landgravine cautioned me that with the empress present, I should use plurals when addressing their majesties, as the emperor was unaccountably fond of her and had allowed her considerable authority when she was younger, but that I should not expect the empress to say anything.

“You mean she won’t say anything directly to me, right?” I asked. “She hasn’t stopped talking for more than a dozen heartbeats since we stepped in the room.”

The landgravine’s eyebrows twisted towards each other, and she looked at me for a solid moment before letting out a little giggle. “You have a strange sense of humor, Captain Crow,” she said, then frowned, leaning close to me and whispering. “But don’t tell any more jokes about the empress, or make any fun of her condition.”

“Ah, that,” I said, making a curving gesture in front of my belly to show that I understood she was referring to pregnancy. An old man with a pregnant young wife could be very sensitive about a large range of jokes.

The landgravine grabbed my hand forcefully, pushing it down to interrupt the gesture. “Right. Don’t even mention it. So. Address him as ‘their majesties,’ bow to both of them, and so on. The other thing – if you have to say anything, make it short and simple. No exaggerated boasts about everything you’ve done or flattery for the sake of flattery, he can smell lies. One word answers are great. You’ve been doing a good job of keeping your lips buttoned so far.”

I nodded, filing the information away. “Is it his talent, or a spell, or some kind of enchanted item?”

The landgravine shrugged. “I’m not sure,” she said. “But he always knows when a petitioner is lying.”

That seemed like a good talent for an emperor to have. Conversation quieted other than the empress’s whispers as she told the emperor which directions he should point his head to appear as if he was looking at each of the two petitioners in his first case.

Most petitions were heard quickly; in most cases, the emperor gave an immediate disposition. Most were about issues that crossed borders within the Gothic Empire, particularly relating to river travel and rail travel, and most of the petitioners were merchants rather than nobles. Just when I thought I had figured out what sort of issue required imperial attention, though, a city councilman from Oenipons presented a petition involving local sumptuary laws as related to French dyes (cerulean in particular).

The Gothic Empire is old, grown up around feudal allegiances forged between Charles the Hammer and his latter grandson Charles the Anvil – for the most part at swordpoint or lancetip. Sigismund II governed nothing and everything; whatever fell through the seams between the patches of his empire was his problem to deal with, personally or by delegation. It was, I would later realize, very different from Koschei’s feuding ministries; at the time, of course, I thought of the ministries of the Golden Empire as one great faceless bureaucracy.

After a dozen petitions from low-born merchants, Pasha Mustafa looked annoyed. After another twenty, he began to sweat nervously. When the emperor’s chancellor called his name, he bounced up on the toes of his feet, the motion sudden enough to set the pasha’s belly into a brief wobble. He started forward, followed a moment later by his startled interpreter and one of his escorts, an attendant carrying an ornate scroll.

Pasha Mustafa presented his credentials, handed a small jeweled box to the emperor’s chancellor, and offered a simple petition: He wished for a privy audience to discuss certain matters; after a quick whisper from the empress, the emperor beckoned the chancellor forward. The empress grabbed the box from the chancellor, who looked worried as the empress opened it.

“Perfumes and a miniature painting,” whispered the empress. “I see. Grant him an audience with just the privy council in attendance, my love, we won’t want this bandied about in front of the whole court. Anna may prove useful yet. She may not know Turkish, but she proved her tongue for languages with Magyar.”

The emperor frowned at his wife, then turned his sightless gaze back on a point roughly three inches above Pasha Mustafa’s head to tell the emissary he would grant a privy audience in four days’ time. (In the emperor’s defense, the Sultan’s emissary was a short man, and his translator had done most of the talking for him.)

After dismissing the emissary, the emperor took up the case of a dispute between a duke and a margrave; a river had shifted course during the last ten years, and the boundary between their lands was alleged by the margrave to have shifted along with it. As the margrave’s representative droned on, the emperor and empress had a barely audible whispered conversation on another topic. I am not sure the margrave’s representative noticed; he was engrossed in reading aloud from a set of prepared notes.

Princess Anna was not in attendance; evidently, she had been shirking her duties of late, preferring to avoid public appearances more and more after Leon the Usurper’s daughter married the King of Avaria. Sigismund II would, the empress assured the emperor, have another princess to dote on soon enough, and Anna was old enough to want purpose in her life. She was certainly old enough to marry, and where else would she find a husband? Faraway Castille?

The emperor, for his part, seemed to have concerns that sending the princess east might be taken poorly among his coreligionists, a sign of desperation and loss of faith, and felt that the surrounding terms of any arrangement were of crucial importance. Inheritance was not such an orderly affair among the Turks; Avaria also had a border directly with the Gothic Empire. A princess was worth more than a vague promise of goodwill, especially when the arrangement could provoke controversy.

It was surprising they would have such a conversation publicly in court, especially while a high noble’s complaint was being aired, but their whispers were soft and – oddly – didn’t echo at all. I could imagine they were speaking quietly enough to believe they had privacy, and nobody was presumptuous enough to disabuse them of that notion.

At the end of the margrave’s agent’s scripted speech, the emperor said he would send a man to survey the river and thereafter would grant his judgement, dismissing both parties without providing an immediate settlement.

After that, the court descended into informal conversation and light snacks. The emperor chatted amiably with a trio of high nobles, the empress only occasionally whispering to let him know to turn his head a little more one way or another. A little while later, a discreet footman whispered in the landgravine’s ear, instructing her to approach the throne.

“You’re overdue to marry,” the emperor said brusquely. “Your cousin sent me a written petition asking me for your title on those grounds.”

The landgravine curtsied deeply to the emperor and empress. “Yes, your imperial majesty. Do your imperial majesties have a particular husband in mind?”

The empress smirked; the emperor gestured his hand dismissively. “Pick one soon,” he said, brusquely. “I understand you have a selection of suitors. Is that one of them?” He pointed almost directly at me while pointing his face at the landgravine.

“He has not offered a proposal, your imperial majesty,” the landgravine said, curtsying again.

The emperor turned his head slightly to the left, the empress telling him when to stop. “Will you? And who are you?”

“No, your imperial majesties,” I said reflexively. “I am called Marcus Corvus, your imperial majesties.” True, at least technically. I bowed twice, aiming one bow in the direction of each imperial majesty as all Quentin’s lessons about court etiquette jumbled together in my panicked mind.

The landgravine looked piqued, though perhaps not severely offended.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with Miss Landgravine von Gschwendtberg, your imperial majesties,” I said hastily, trying to avoid offense. “She’s very beautiful, as you can – um, I mean, as at least one of your imperial majesties can see.”

“Are you calling me blind?” The emperor leaned forward, his face pointed in the direction of mine. The landgravine’s hand slowly slipped out of the crook of my elbow as she took a cautious step sideways.

“Uh … yes, your majesty?” I said, bowing deeply. “My apologies if I am mistaken. I’m sure you had a very good eye for beauty when you could see things, your wife is very beautiful.”

A sharp surprised inhale sounded to my right as the landgravine flinched, her shoulders and ears coming together involuntarily. The inhale was quickly followed by more breaths as she continued breathing in and out very quickly.

The empress’s expression was like a storm, her lips firmly pressed together and her eyes flashing. The emperor, however, cracked a smile. “Truth. Yes, she is.”

He turned back to the spot where the landgravine had been standing. “Remember what I said.”

With that, we were dismissed. I took the landgravine’s hand, placing it in my elbow as I steered her away from their imperial majesties. Once she stopped hyperventilating, she asked me why I had lied about the empress being beautiful, which I took as a sign that she had breathed herself into a delirious state; rather than answering, I signaled a servant carrying a basket full of savory stuffed pastries and handed her one.

“Eat,” I said. “It will calm your nerves. I hate to see a beautiful woman in distress, and it’s my duty as your escort to protect you from distress, in any event, so please let me help.” To be honest, I hated to see anyone in distress, but all things considered, I felt like offering her a compliment might make her feel better.