She’d been staring at Pen so long and so alertly that he straightened up in his chair now, looking alarmed. “What?”
“Nothing,” Kelsea muttered, ashamed of herself. “Get more sleep if you can.”
“Yes, Lady.”
Once the miners had received their coin, they bowed and followed Bennett away. The money had enlivened them, for they chattered like children as they headed for the doors. Kelsea leaned back in her chair and found a steaming mug of tea sitting on the table beside her.
“You’re a wonder, Andalie.”
“Not really, Lady. I’ve yet to see the moment when you don’t want tea.”
“Sir.” Kibb appeared in front of the throne, an envelope in his hand. “Colonel Hall’s latest report from the border.”
Mace took the envelope and offered it to Kelsea, who had just picked up her tea. “I don’t have hands. Just read it to me, Lazarus.”
Mace nodded stiffly, then began to open the envelope. Kelsea noticed small red spots blooming in his cheeks, and wondered if she should have said please. Mace stared at the message for a very long time.
“What is it?”
“Majesty!” Father Tyler jumped forward, so unexpectedly that several of Kelsea’s Guard moved forward to intercept him, and he backed off, hands in the air. “I’m sorry, I’d forgotten. I have a message from the Holy Father.”
“Can it wait?”
“No, Lady. The Holy Father wishes to have dinner with Your Majesty.”
“Ah.” Kelsea narrowed her eyes. “I thought he might have some complaints.”
“I wouldn’t know, Lady,” Father Tyler replied, but his eyes darted away from hers. “I’m only the messenger. But I wondered if the Mace and I might sort it out now, before I need to leave.”
Kelsea was not anxious to meet the new Holy Father, whose priests had already begun to give entire sermons on her shortcomings: her lack of faith; her socialist taxation policies; her early failure to get married and begin breeding an heir. “What if I don’t want to dine with him?”
“Lady.” Mace shook his head. “The Holy Father’s a bad enemy to have. And you may need the Arvath if it comes to siege.”
“For what?”
“Housing, Lady. It’s the second largest building in New London.”
He was right, Kelsea realized, though the idea of requesting assistance from God’s Church made her skin break out in gooseflesh. She put down her tea. “Fine. Give me that letter, Lazarus, and work it out with the good Father. Let’s have His Holiness in here as soon as possible.”
Mace gave her the paper and then turned to Father Tyler, who visibly quailed, backing away. Kelsea scanned the letter and then looked up, pleased. “We’ve scored a tactical victory on the Mort flats. The Mort camp is disbanded. Colonel Hall estimates their recovery time at two weeks.”
“Good news, Majesty,” Elston remarked.
“Not all good news,” Kelsea replied, reading further. “The Mort supply route remains intact. The cannons are undamaged.”
“Still, you’re playing for time,” Pen reminded her. “Delay is important.”
Playing for time. Kelsea looked around the room and saw, or fancied she saw, the same question in every face. When the time ran out, what then? There was no anxiety here; her Guard clearly expected her to produce another miracle, as she had in the Argive. Kelsea wished she could hide from them, from the calm trust in their eyes.
Mace finished up with Father Tyler and returned to his place beside the throne. The priest raised his hand in farewell to Kelsea, and she waved back as he headed off toward the doors.
“What’s next?” she asked Mace.
“A group of nobles is waiting outside to see you.”
Kelsea closed her eyes. “I hate nobles, Lazarus.”
“That’s why I thought it best to deal with them quickly, Lady.”
When the nobles entered, Kelsea was struck first by their clothing, ostentatious as ever. Now, in summer, there were no hats or gloves, but they all displayed a new fashion that Kelsea had seen before: what appeared to be gold and silver, melted down and allowed to run in rivulets across the fabric so that shirts and dresses seemed to be dripping with precious metal. To Kelsea’s eye, the effect was merely sloppy, but clearly they thought otherwise. Carlin would have had much to say about this bunch; despite the fact that she had been a noble herself, she loathed conspicuous consumption. Kelsea was not surprised to see the tall, wasplike figure of Lady Andrews near the front of the group, cloaked in red silk. She looked, if possible, even more fleshless than before, but that might only have been the look in the woman’s eyes, a loathing for Kelsea that seemed to dwarf everything else in her face.
“Majesty.” The man in front, a tiny creature with an enormous beer belly, bowed before her.
“Lord Williams,” Mace murmured.
“Greetings, Lord Williams. What can I do for you?”
“We come with a common grievance, Majesty.” Lord Williams swept an arm toward the group behind him. “All of us hold property in the Almont.”
“Yes?”
“The evacuation is already incredibly destructive. Soldiers and refugees march across our lands, flattening the crops. Some of the refugees even loot in our fields. The soldiers do nothing.”
Kelsea bit down on her tongue, realizing that she should have foreseen this issue. These people, after all, had nothing to do but sit and count every last penny of profit.
“Do you have complaints of violence, Lord Williams? Armed thievery, harassment of your farmers?”
Lord Williams’s eyes widened. “No, Lady, of course not. But we lose money on the damaged and stolen crops, as well as lost work time.”
“I see.” Kelsea smiled, though it hurt her face. “What would you suggest?”
“Majesty, it’s not really my place–”
“Speak plainly.”
“Well, I …”
Another noble stepped forward, a taller man with a tightly clipped mustache. After a moment’s thought, Kelsea placed him: Lord Evans, who owned vast fields of corn north of the Dry Lands. “I have reports, Lady, that while your soldiers protect the refugees on their journey, they make no attempt to supervise them. You could order better enforcement.”
“I will do that. Anything else?”
“My farmers can’t work with an army of vagrants marching across their fields. Why not conduct the evacuation at night? That way, it won’t interrupt production.”
Something flared behind Kelsea’s ribs. “Lord Evans, I suppose you have a residence in New London?”
“Why, yes, Majesty. My family owns two.”
“So long before the Mort come, you will simply move your household and all your valuables into town.”
“For certain, Majesty.”
“How convenient for you. But these people are being transplanted from their homes with no such ease. Some of them have never left their villages before. Most will be on foot, and many are carrying infants and young children. Are you honestly suggesting that I force them to cross unfamiliar territory in the dark?”
“Of course–of course not, Your Majesty,” Evans replied, his mustache twitching in alarm. “I only meant–”
“I am suggesting it,” Lady Andrews announced, stepping forward. “Property rights have always been inviolate in the Tearling.”
“Be careful, Lady Andrews. No one is violating your property rights.”
“They cross our lands.”
“So did the shipment, once a month. It must have done a good bit of damage to your roadways. But you did not complain then.”
“I profited!”
“Precisely. So let’s talk about what’s really at stake here. Not right to property, but right to profit.”