Chapter 18 The Kingdom’s Due
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 might endanger 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.”
“What kind of gift?” Azaleen hoped it was something they had.
“They prize personal engagement above monetary value,” Camille explained. “Something that took time and skill to produce, but also personal with meaning and history behind it.”
Azaleen rubbed her thumb and forefinger together as she pondered. “You said the current high chief is a woman?”
“Yes, Chief Juliette Batise,” Camille supplied. “She’s around your mother’s age, only by all accounts a strong, vital woman, revered for her wisdom and generosity.”
“Then they value age and wisdom,” Azaleen mused, “not merely money and military.”
“My predecessor visited there ten years ago,” Camille answered.
“His reports I’ve read state they have a prosperous society, and, while they circulate old coins and bills as accepted currency, a person’s wealth isn’t measured in dollars, but rather in reputation.
Those who give away the most are considered the richest, while citizens who cling to their possessions are viewed as poor. ”
“What an interesting concept,” Azaleen murmured, intrigued.
“You know, my mother Orielle might not know what day or decade it is—or even who I am—but her fingers remember how to crochet. She has made some of the most beautiful blankets, wraps, shawls, and scarves. Each has a story behind it. Perhaps one of them would make a suitable gift.”
“I suspect Chief Batise would approve, especially if we share the story behind the craft.”
“Sabine, could you—”
“Queen Frost!” A capitol guard burst into the doorway, excitement etched on his face. “The balloon you sent just landed outside.”
Azaleen’s heart leaped as she eagerly sprang from her seat, unable to mask her joy and relief. “Captain Moreau?” Sabine and Camille stood as well. Though it was a sign of respect, she assumed they were as anxious as she to see what had been recovered.
“No, Your Excellency. I didn’t see him. But that woman from Saltmarsh, the one who—you know.” He grimaced, shifting his weight to one foot, examining the polish on his other boot in avoidance. “Mopped the floor with us. She’s here with the supplies.”
“Very well. Don’t just stand there—gather some helpers and bring everything into the basement. I’ll be there directly.”
“Right away, Your Excellency.” The young man snapped a salute and rushed away.
Sabine gave Azaleen a pitying expression, eyes soft, brows slanted.
They exchanged a glance, and, without a word, Azaleen felt her assistant and friend’s compassion.
She dreaded this moment. Suddenly, all the politics, the threats of war from within and without, vanished, as if blown away by a consuming whirlwind.
A lump formed in her throat, her chest like lead.
“Ladies, if you will excuse me,” she said in a regal tone.
“I must see to this matter, and I pray to all the gods what I find is worth the price. Damn slow research doctors,” she muttered as an afterthought.
More delays. The kingdom overflowed with acne cream, expired bottles of acetaminophen, and generic Viagra, but lifesaving drugs were impossible to find.
Every city, town, and hamlet in the kingdom had been begging for them.
Until now, all the queen had to give them were excuses.
Azaleen walked to the nearest restroom and closed the door.
She studied her face in the mirror. When did that line get there?
She dabbed on a fragrance from the jar, used the toilet, then washed and lotioned her hands, and brushed her hair.
A cyclone of nerves and mixed feelings churned in her stomach.
In the end, there was nothing she could have done anyway.
Lark heaved crates from the balloon, excited to bring the enormous hall of drugs and supplies to the queen.
There had been standing room only for her and the operator with all the boxes, crates, oxygen tanks, and other equipment.
Luke said she should go since she needed to rush the antibiotics back to the Reach for Tommy, and they would follow with their Jeep and motorcycles.
She’d hurriedly hugged them all goodbye and climbed into the jammed basket.
It was her first time to ride in one. She quickly learned not to look over the edge at the ground below.
It was frightening how high they were, and looking down made her dizzy.
Asking a million questions about how it worked and how many trips the operator had made in the contraption had calmed her nerves—a little.
Now that her feet were on solid ground, Lark’s excitement level skyrocketed.