“Oh, there are crates and boxes full, Plebe Lark Sutter,” Luke said with a grin. His face dripped with blood and sweat. Everyone had sustained bumps and bruises, cuts and scrapes. But they were alive.
“Come on, Lark,” Skye said with a grin. “We’ve got a pigeon to send home.” She looped her arm around Lark’s shoulders, and they walked outside together, stepping over pierced flesh and puddles of blood. A child lay among the armed fighters. The sight stabbed at Lark’s gut. She turned away, focusing on medicine for Tommy. “You know, you and I saved each other’s hides today. That makes us true comrades in arms.”
Lark figured she was right but was uncertain how it made her feel. She’d killed enemies who attacked the Reach before. Nothing like the past two days had been.
“I suppose,” she answered, torn between gratitude and a sense of obligation. “Let’s send that message to Queen Frost.”
Chapter eighteen
The Kingdom’s Due
“What do you want me to do about the protests?” General Reuben Stark crossed his arms, brow furrowed.
Queen Azaleen Frost glanced up from the table where she sat with Secretary Camille Navarro and Chief of Staff Sabine Fontaine. The old warhorse filled the doorway of the upstairs meeting lounge. She preferred the relaxed intimacy of the airy room with its expansive French doors open to the balcony. A breeze lifted the frilly pastel drapes and brushed Azaleen’s cheek.
The queen scowled at him, more from annoyance than anger. “What protests?”
There were always protests. Azaleen had to walk a fine line between ignoring them and doling out harsh punishments. Keeping the people’s favor, protecting them from internal and external dangers, spearheading innovations, and procuring vital necessities without anyone discovering the bareness of the kingdom’s coffers had proved nigh impossible.
“In the city, crowds of residents are protesting the tax on coffee and tea. They claim you’re trying to destroy their culture and force them into drinking only water and juice.” Stark’s tone dripped with sarcasm.
“At least we still have some.” Azaleen rubbed her temple, a headache coming on. “But supplies are so low, the only ways to cut consumption are through rationing or taxes. Camille, when do we expect the West African traders to return with more goods?”
“They never keep to a set schedule.” Camille dodged Azaleen’s eyes. Glancing at papers on the table, she nervously twisted her dark hair.
“We’ve widely distributed recipe pamphlets on how to make flavorful teas from plants that grow here,” Sabine added. “I drink them myself.”
“They’ve become too comfortable.” Azaleen leaned back in her chair, craning her aching neck to look up at Stark. “There was a time not that long ago when folks would fall on their knees with prayers of thanks if they found anything to drink that wouldn’t make them sick—or worse.”
Camille drummed the table with a considering look. “Perhaps they would see rationing as more equitable. It would affect the rich and poor alike.”
Azaleen lifted a brow, peering across at her chief of staff. “Then we’d have a new set of protestors—and they’d be better funded. Besides, we need the revenue if we ever hope to improve kingdom communication and transportation.” A frustrated sigh escaped her lips, and she clenched her jaw. “Irons has functioning railroads.”
Raising her chin, Azaleen decreed, “As long as they are peaceful and cause no harm, let them protest. Sabine, map out a new publicity campaign highlighting the harmful health risks of caffeine consumption while promoting the refreshing coolness of fruit and melon water as the preferred summer beverages. Is that all, General Stark?”
He shifted uncomfortably and scratched his ear. “We’re hearing noise from Stonevale. A new movement supporting Lord Thorne Calder is gaining momentum. There’s even talk of putting Thorne on the throne.”
“Naturally.” Azaleen tried to relax and appear unmoved. She sipped her cucumber water.
“Madam Queen, what if they were to stage a coup?” Stark stepped forward, taking a seat at the table, a look of genuine concern covering his face.
“My father married me off to Lord Thorne’s son to unite our factions,” she reminded her counselors. “I’ve no doubt Calder aimed to put his son on the throne alongside or without me, only Aren died before King Edric, dashing his hopes. It was only a matter of time before he’d try another tactic to gain the crown. But he loves his grandsons. He’d never risk a military attack that mightendanger Eldrin or Caelen. Still, we must remain vigilant to any political ploys or smear campaigns he may devise.”
Azaleen turned to Sabine. “Compose a letter inviting Lord Thorne and his whole family to join us here for the upcoming Kingdom Day Festival. We’ll serve a banquet in their honor, hire musicians and entertainers, allow Lord Thorne to give a speech.”
“Holy mother of ruin!” Stark gawked like a hooked bass, slapping a palm on the table.
With a sly smile, Azaleen ran her finger around the lip of her glass. “Surely you recall your Sun Tzu, General—keep your friends close and your enemies closer. You are my friends, whose insight I cherish. Don’t you agree?”
Camille’s eyes twinkled as she gave a nod of approval. “It is the diplomatic thing to do.”
“I’ll write an eloquent invitation and send it by pigeon,” Sabine affirmed.
Stark ran a hand through his short salt and pepper hair, his chin sinking as low as his moustache. “Sun Tzu. I forget how well-read you are, Madam Queen. And while I agree Calder himself wouldn’t risk the lives of his grandsons, some of his followers might not employ his restraint. I’ll up the guards around the Capitol—just to be sure.”
Azaleen nodded to him, dismissing the general to tend to his affairs. Picking up where they’d left off, she asked Camille, “So, what is this about AlgonCree protocol?”
“I’ve done some research,” her chief ambassador said with graceful polish. “They will expect us to present the high chief with a gift.”
