“I’m not going to kiss their little buttocks,” he said scornfully.
“Yes, you are,” Zephyr said, suddenly attentive. “Miss Devney is absolutely right. If your first policy is something the public approves, you might be able to pave the way for your more controversial ideas down the road.”
“And what do you have in mind?” he asked.
Magdala shrugged. “Who cares? Whatever is the most popular option with the people.”
“Aren’t you mercenary?” Asherton said with a smirk.
“Lower taxes,” Zephyr added flatly. “Everyone loves a monarch who puts more money in their pockets.”
“So, cut taxes by … three percent?” Asherton suggested.
“Not enough,” Zephyr said. “Make it five percent.”
Asherton tilted his head back and forth, his eyes narrowed. “But if we don’t stop the trade with Ashkendor, then the dragons will be at risk. The whole population of dragons, and my brother wanted …”
“Your brother died a casualty of this war,” Zephyr cut in. “And there’s no point throwing more young souls into its jaws.”
“But if we cut the dragon trade to Ashkendor, we could end the war.”
“Not until we enter the war.”
“For a few months, perhaps.”
“The people will hate you for it,” Magdala warned. “They will not let you survive the coronation.”
“But …”
“NO!” Magdala jumped to her feet and whirled on him, frightening Anton so badly that he tumbled into a whimpering heap on the floor. “Either you take the more political option or you won’t live to see the throne!”
Asherton leaned back, his arms crossed. “But I promised him …”
“I know, and I’m sorry.” She laid her hand on his arm. “But he would want you to live. And the risk is too great. Next year, Ash. You can try again next year, once you’ve proven there’s no curse and the people’s pockets are lined with kibs.”
“Besides,” Zephyr said, “if you plunge us into a war, the people will say the war is the curse. It will fulfill the prophecy.”
Asherton sighed. "I see I’m overruled. Taxes will be reduced by five percent. They’ll be driving around on the worst roads in the three kingdoms, but they’ll have more money in their pockets to fix their wagon wheels with.”
“Perfect,” Magdala said, relieved. “Make that your first policy change, and then we can get you safely into Largotia without a riot; the dissenting royalists won’t want to assassinate you if you’re lowering taxes even more than your mother did, and next year, you can do something wild, like cut the dragon trade.”
“If there are any dragons left,” Asherton grumbled.
Chapter 32
The royal palace in Largotia was a collection of sharp blue-roofed, bone-white towers wreathed by the river Amity. During large events like the coronation, an elaborate dam was closed to prevent the river’s flow, forming a broad lake at the base of the palace for guests to boat and wade in. The deep, muddy riverbed ran out of the city, through the forest, and past the village of Owlbright, cutting off their water supply until the river flowed again.
As the coach clattered over cobblestones, Magdala watched through the window as the people lined the street in silent obeisance. It was strange, seeing them from behind glass instead of standing with her face to them, their spit spattering her cheeks.
Asherton lay stretched out on the floor—safely away from the windows—lazily playing a game of cards with Zephyr. He was wearing his brother’s leather coat—cleaned and mended, the wool lining only faintly stained.
“It’s working,” he said.
“They’re so quiet,” Magdala whispered. There was no need to whisper, but with the eerie silence outside, even her breathing rattled like a shotfire.
“Because they like our plan.” Asherton looked up at her. “Stop it, Mags, you’re about to chew your fingers off!”
Magdala’s teeth scratched her fingertips, and she pulled her hand away, her nails bloody, chewed to the quick. She stared at them, bewildered. She’d never chewed her nails before.
