The Lost War, Karl Gallagher [recommended reading txt] 📗

men in armor at her heels.

“What do you want, my lady?” asked Master Sweetbread. “I promise you I haven’t brewed any beer since we arrived.”

Stitches’ face was flushed with embarrassment. She read off the paper in her hand. “By royal decree, all feminine sanitary supplies in excess of three day’s personal use are to be turned in for redistribution.”

“Seriously?” demanded Goldenrod.

“I have the order from Their Majesties’ own lips.”

“This is bullshit,” she said.

Stitches’ frown grew deeper. “I have been authorized to search your belongings.”

Redinkle said, “Fine.”

She emerged from the tent with a box of tampons and emptied half of it into the guard’s sack. “That’s keeping three days’ worth.”

Goldenrod and Shellbutton made their contributions next.

Stitches turned to Tightseam. “And you, Mistress?”

“You’re six years too late for that, girl,” she snapped.

The lady in waiting blushed. “Thank you all.”

The group marched off.

No one spoke until shouting broke out in the neighboring Wolf Heads encampment.

“I guess Queen Camellia forgot to pack supplies,” said Goldenrod.

Redinkle turned to Tightseam. “Mom, I didn’t think you’d hit menopause yet.”

“Hush, dear. I didn’t but there’s no need for the Court to know.”

Chuckles ran around the cookfire.

“Does the emergency rule really mean the king has the authority to confiscate everyone’s property?” asked Newman.

“Aye,” said Sweetbread. “The populace cheered a blank check. Besides, under normal law the Crown can decree any laws or actions it cares to.”

“No checks or balances at all? How’d the Kingdom last so long like that?”

“Oh, we have checks.” Sweetbread settled into his story-telling slouch. “First off that monarchs only reign for six months at a time. And there’s no way to predict who’ll be next. So that’s an incentive to not make rules they’d have to live under.

“Second restraint is tradition. If all your friends give you dirty looks for changing things you don’t change much.

“Third is that the Kingdom takes effort to visit. If the King takes the fun out of things nobody shows up the next weekend. Then bards sing about the King of the Empty Hall.”

One of the odd native birds went ‘cough-cough’ on the ridgepole of their tent.

“None of that applies right now, of course. What we still have is peer pressure, trying to convince them that something is unwise.”

“Which works better if you’re a Peer,” quipped Redinkle.

“Fortunately for you you’re descended from a pair of them.”

“Peers are former kings and queens?” asked Newman. The lecture he’d received on the drive down hadn’t stuck very well.

Goldenrod answered, “Yes. Plus the knights, and master organizers, and master crafters.”

“Which is where Tightseam and I come in,” said Sweetbread. “There needs to be a meeting of the Crafter Council.”

“Talk to them about guards hitting the privy cleaners,” said Pinecone.

***

“You wished an audience with me, my lord Autocrat?” King Ironhelm let the flap fall shut behind him as he entered Autocrat’s tent.

“Your Visiting Majesty, thank you for allowing me to see you.” Autocrat Sharpquill waved his staffers out. They exited through the other side, leaving their chalk slates and abaci behind.

Ironhelm took a seat without waiting for permission. The pretense that he outranked the man in charge of food distribution was good for something. The message—effectively a summons—hadn’t included a reason for the meeting. The monarch waited.

“Your Majesty. I must beg you to not disrupt the peace of this Kingdom.”

This again. Ironhelm didn’t let his reaction show. “How so?”

“You’re subverting the food distribution plans.”

“The giving of alms is a royal duty.” Not that King Estoc and Queen Camellia practiced much charity.

“That is so. But we’re in a survival situation here. We need everyone working to their utmost, not hanging around begging.”

‘Everyone’ did not include royals or their courts. There’d been pointed complaints from the Court when Ironhelm and his two squires pitched in on the fence building.

“I have not encouraged anyone to beg. We simply pass our excess along to the needy.”

“There should not be so much excess for you to give away. You and yours receive the same ration as everyone else in Court.”

Which was half again what everyone not in Court was receiving. Some of the gatherers were passing food to King Ironhelm and Queen Dahlia because they didn’t trust the Autocrat’s system to get it where it was needed. Protecting them was another duty.

“We eat sparingly. It’s not like we’re manual laborers needing to keep our strength up. And my wife and her ladies sometimes find something when on their constitutionals.”

Sharpquill smiled. “Of course. It’s the distribution that’s the real problem. People hanging around waiting for you to show up at the common pavilion or Chiurgeon’s tent or wherever, when they should be working.”

Ironhelm thought it would be easier to keep people working if they were compensated instead of conscripted, but it wasn’t his Kingdom. “I was asked to not distribute alms after the official dinner. So we found other times and places.”

“We’ve set up a bonus program giving extra food to those who’ve earned it through hard labor or taking on dirty jobs. It would be best if your excess was donated to that.”

Rumor had it that bonuses only went to those who’d made conspicuous displays of their loyalty to the Crown.

“Best. If I spoke to Their Majesties, would they think it was best?”

“It was Queen Camellia’s suggestion.”

“Then do you think it is best?”

“Of course. It is Her Majesty’s wish.”

“No. Not what you think as an officer. Do you, as your own man, think that it is best to stop me from giving alms, and have all food distribution going through one man’s hands?”

“Yes, I do. I trust Her Majesty’s wisdom in all things.”

My God, he believes that. What the hell is going on with him? “Very well. My Queen’s ladies in waiting will