~ Tasha ~

Tasha was cold. Honestly, she blamed the clothes. The other day, Sesi had gone to the dressmaker’s, and returned with all the fine fashions she’d ordered at Tasha’s request. As it happened, the timing could not have been better. Oliver had come home sullen later the same evening and beckoned her into a room away from the prying ears of the staff. “The Governor wants to present you to the Council,” he’d said. “I’ve heard positive noises from a few of them about the idea of a figurehead queen, but there’s no chance they commit to anything without asking you some questions first. Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”

She’d been reluctant, resistant even. “Why should I do as the Governor says? Mam Argent’s in a cell because of him.”

“That’s a separate matter,” Oliver insisted, “and I’m working on it. You want the Governor to throw us a bone here, don’t you? If you embarrass him now, he’ll only double down.”

“Tell him I’ll do what he wants if he lets Mam Argent go.”

“We both know that won’t work,” said Oliver, shaking his head. “The Governor can always find somebody else to play your part. Turn him down and you get nothing. Play along and you might get Mam Argent back.”

So she’d conceded. Oliver was keen for her to make an impression, so he encouraged her to dress up in her finest. For that, Sesi would be a big help. Sesi, and the pile of brand new dresses tailored perfectly to Tash’s figure. There was but one complication. The dresses had taken a month to sew, and Tasha’s pregnancy hadn’t halted. As a result they were slightly tight around the middle, enough to make Tasha a little bit self-conscious. In the end, she’d vetoed the more elaborate outfits with their hooped skirts and bodices. The more she’d need Sesi’s help to dress, the more her showing pregnancy seemed incongruous.

Eventually they’d settled on a looser-fitting gown, teal charmeuse with a decorative bow sewn into the bust. The way it was cut drew attention away from her figure. Unfortunately it was far from the warmest, with sleeves that barely extended beyond the shoulders. She’d paired it with a thick woollen coat for the walk to Government Hall, but that had been taken by an attendant as soon as she arrived, while a frog-nosed soldier ushered her into a tiny offshoot from the main building. So there she was, stood surrounded by dark wood panels in a dimly lit sideroom, bare-armed and shivering. There were cushioned benches running along three of the room’s walls, but the cushions were scratchy.

The Governor had been waiting for them. He’d greeted them as soon as they stepped through the door, looking tired with a day’s unshaved stubble dirtying his chin. His clothes were wrinkled and scruffy. Tash flashed annoyed—she’d made all this effort to look nice, and stood here freezing her arse off in a dress ill-suited to the weather, and the Governor himself was rocking up looking like he’d just done a full day’s stint.

“Lady Tasha.” He bowed his head towards her. “You look resplendent.”

“Be careful, Governor, that is my wife you’re talking to.” Oliver was chivalrous as always, defending Tash’s honour.

“You’ll have to wait here for a little while,” said the Governor. “General Bradshaw will kick off if he arrives and there’s a stranger waiting for him. Is that okay?”

She nodded. What else could she say, really? No, fuck you. I want to go into the council chamber now. That would be an entitled thing to say. She wasn’t entitled. Oliver would vouch for that, Sesi too.

“Are you nervous?” asked the Governor.

Tash shook her head. “Should I be?”

“Everything hinges on you today,” said the Governor. “If you don’t give a good account of yourself today, your son will never be a king.”

She looked at the Governor, stood scratching his nose, and thought of Stini. Poor Stini, cooped up in a cell somewhere. No doubt she was terrified. Confused. And it was the Governor’s doing.

“I want assurances,” she said. “Governor, you had your soldiers come into my house and take my cook away. She’s done nothing wrong, and still you won’t return her. Your Constabulary won’t so much as let me see her. Why should I play along with your plans, if you’re going to insist on keeping hold of what doesn’t belong to you?”

“Now’s not the time, Tash,” said Oliver sternly.

She turned to him. “Would you rather I hashed this out with the Governor in front of the whole Council? It needs to be said.”

“Tash—”

“It’s fine,” said the Governor. “Lady Tasha, perhaps it seems from where you’re standing that I’m treating Mam Argent unfairly. I assure you I’m not. She’s in custody while an investigation is ongoing, as is the standard protocol. I’d do the same for any suspected regicide.”

“Stini didn’t do anything, Governor. This is all bullshit and you know it. If Stini was somehow guilty, why would you have been so desperate to find an antidote from the woods? The Lord Constable died before your wife got sick. How did you know she’d be sick at all?”

A taut smile flashed on the Governor’s face, and was gone then in an instant. “We’ll forget you ever said that last part. My wife is in the hospital, critically ill. And she’s not the only one. There’s something of an epidemic there, and it all stems from whatever or whoever poisoned Caroline. That’s not something I take lightly. I won’t be skipping any justice here, and if that upsets you then tough luck.”

Tash shook her head. “Your wife’s ill. That’s very sad, Governor, and I hope she gets better, but I hardly see how that warrants the theft of my cook.”

“The theft of your cook? The theft of your cook? People aren’t chattel, Lady Tasha. You of all people ought to be aware of that, considering where your husband came from.” The Governor’s tone was acidic.

Tash blinked. “What do you mean, where my husband came from? He’s not a slaver.”

“We’ll talk later, Tash,” said Oliver. “Governor, ignore her. She’s just cross. Overtired.”

The Governor shook his head. “Perhaps she’s the wrong choice. There’s bound to be another, Wrack. I’ll adjourn the meeting for now, let Mallender find somebody better.” He was heading for the door.

Oliver started after him. “No, Governor, trust me. Tasha’s the one.” He turned back to Tasha as he reached the door. “Stay there. I’ll make this right. And when everything’s finished, we’ll talk.” And then he was gone.

Oliver had promised to stay with her, but he’d broken that promise to follow the Governor into the council chamber. Why had he done that? The Governor was the one being unreasonable. Oliver was supposed to take his wife’s side, especially if his wife was the one in the right. But he’d gone. Only Lieutenant Sharp kept her company here. His gun had been taken from him before he was allowed entry, so he was stood against the door to the sideroom tapping his fingers frantically on his legs.

Tash watched him for a while. It was therapeutic. She could feel the clouds of anger burning away, as she focused her attention on something other than poor Stini. “Are you alright, Lieutenant? You seem on edge.”

Sharp gave her a smile that was probably an attempt to be reassuring, though it didn’t come across that way. “Quite alright, my Lady. Just making music with my hands.”

“I think you need a new music teacher, Lieutenant,” she said. “That beat’s all over the place. Here, let me show you.” Tash moved forward and took hold of Lieutenant Sharp’s hands, holding them in front of him. “Music’s all about the tune. The heart. It’s more than just sounds.” She moved behind Lieutenant Sharp, never letting go of his hands. “Good music is born from passion. It’s sensual.” She traced his palm with her fingers as she spoke, leaning forward. Her face was pressed almost flush against his hair, and she could hear his breathing. He’d tensed, she noticed. She did too. She relinquished her hold, stepped back. Lieutenant Sharp sat himself on the benches, as far from her as possible.

What had happened? She was pregnant, with Oliver’s child, and she was loyal, as a wife should be. Any aberration, even something that was there and gone in a moment, was beneath her. It was the base demesne of somebody like Tema, half a dozen steps declined from true propriety. Tasha had reclaimed her nobility. She was better than this.

Lieutenant Sharp looked uncomfortable. “My Lady, perhaps I should seek out the Governor. It’s poor form to leave you here for so long. Very poor form indeed.”

“There’s a procedure,” said Tash. “Oliver’s with the Governor. He wouldn’t keep me here waiting if there wasn’t a good reason for it.”

As if he’d been waiting for his cue, a sallow soldier stepped in. “The Council will speak with you now. Through the big wooden door. Your guard will wait here.”

“I’ll be accompanying Lady Tasha as far as the door,” said Lieutenant Sharp, stepping forward. The soldier laughed.

“You’re not in charge here. Back away. No pissant security guard is going to make decisions in Government Hall.”

Lieutenant Sharp scowled at the soldier. “This feels like a trap, my Lady,” he said. “You don’t have to go anywhere on your own.”

“It’s not a trap, Lieutenant,” she said. Either Lieutenant Sharp was very nervous or he was embarrassed by the touch they’d shared. This was where the Council met. Why would they want to lay a trap for her? The notion was laughable.

The soldier tutted. “You should hurry along. The Council don’t like having their time wasted.”

And Tash went to put herself on parade.

Every eye was on her when she stepped into the chamber. She could feel them all, boring deep holes into her. The Governor seemed stony-faced, though she tried not to meet his gaze, while Oliver had a genial smile. The others, the ones she didn’t know so well, were all regarding her with expressions of interest. She kept her head up. Look forward. Don’t get distracted. She was suddenly incredibly nervous. What if she fucked it all up?

Even in the privacy of that sideroom, when only Oliver and the Governor had her ear, she’d nearly blundered it all away. Perhaps it would happen again. Perhaps it was destiny. Being a queen was her dream. Father had strong views on dreams. “A dream is something that cannot coexist with reality,” he always insisted. “It is incompatible with the waking world.” He told her off whenever she dwelled on her dreams, and mocked her infantile expressions of ambition. He nearly laughed himself into a heart attack when she told him in all earnestness that she wanted to one day rule.

He’d be laughing again if she tossed it all away. So she would not. She would play the good girl, easily browbeaten, and go along with whatever the Council said. Even if it was plain bullshit. Even if it pained her. Nothing could outweigh the pain of proving her father right.

The Council Chamber was panelled with dark wood, varnished so much it all looked like it had been glazed. Bright candles at regular intervals kept it well lit, and made the whole room smell vaguely of smoke. An open bottle of chartreuse sat in pride of place upon a crenelated wooden sideboard, carved in a gaudy approximation of a castle but looking as capable as a canvas tent of withstanding a siege. The spirit which had once been contained within the bottle had been divvied up into a dozen glass tumblers, one laid before each seat on the long oval table in the middle of the room. The men of the Council watched her from their seats.

“You must be Tasha Wrack,” said a man at the end of the long table. His chair seemed to be raised above the rest. It was backed in green velvet, the fabric held on by round brass bolts. Something was carved into the wood of the chair. From this far away, she could see it only as a vague blur. A heavy gavel with a square head lay across the table in front of him, its handle resting on a hardwood sounding block an inch above the rest of the table. He had the handle in a light grasp in his enclosed fist.

She nodded an affirmation at the man.

“We’re all familiar here with your husband,” said the man. “He briefly bid to be the Speaker of the Council. He was unsuccessful, as you can no doubt tell. George Prendergast.”

Tash would have had some choice words for George Prendergast, in normal circumstances. Who did he think he was to impugn Oliver as unsuccessful? Tasha would never have married an unsuccessful man. But now was not the time to be picking fights. With the image of her father laughing at her firmly planted in her brain, she swallowed the vitriol she’d built up and instead offered George Prendergast a demure smile. “No doubt you’re a man of great talent, Master Prendergast, if my husband failed to defeat you.”

“Are we going to be sickened by this flattery all evening?” said General Bradshaw, a man who Tasha did know. Oliver had never had a nice word to say about Bradshaw, and much as it was wrong to judge the man by how he looked, his appearance gave Tasha no reason to doubt Oliver’s impression. Bradshaw had a hooked nose and a mouth that curled into a snide grin, and a voice that broadcast impatience. “Why don’t we get to the point? The Governor has set out a very unusual plan, Mistress Wrack. Another Council would have laughed his suggestion away at the first mention, but we prefer to listen. I hope our time won’t prove to have been a waste.”

“I hope so too,” said Tash.

Bradshaw fixed her with a stare, his beady grey eyes unreadable. “If I were a cynical man, I’d suggest that this was a ploy by the Governor to consolidate power in his grubby hands. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s tried it.”

“How would that be, sir?” She kept a soft tone, plead innocence.

“Your husband is well known as one of the Governor’s most loyal allies. A lapdog, some might argue. Your sister has been named as Caroline Ballard’s successor, suddenly thrust into a position of great importance, and over far more qualified candidates. Is it possible you’re less than impartial? A co-conspirator, perhaps, in some scheme of the Governor’s?”

Tash shook her head.

General Bradshaw wasn’t done. “A few weeks ago, a short while before the Governor first floated his notion of a figurehead sovereign, you attended a dinner at his chambers. What might you have talked about, I wonder?”

“The things a person talks about at a dinner,” Tash replied. “The Governor invited my husband and I to join him. He’s the Governor, so of course I accepted. It’s an honour.”

“And why would the Governor invite you to dine in his chambers?”

Tash gave Bradshaw a blank look. “He didn’t specify.”

“If I might, General, I’ll answer this,” said the Governor, rising. “Caroline had been down. I thought perhaps she was lonely. Female company’s never been something she’s had a lot of, though I know she needs it.”

Bradshaw turned trenchantly to the Governor. “As I recall, I was asking Mistress Wrack. Are you married to Oliver Wrack, Governor? If so, please accept my congratulations on your recent nuptials. But I suspect that isn’t the case. The question was not addressed to you. Speaker, I must insist that you reign the Governor in, before he derails this whole interview.”

“The Governor provided pertinent information that Mistress Wrack didn’t have,” said Prendergast. “He was entitled to speak.”

Bradshaw swung his head back to Tash, clearly put out. “Just a day after that dinner, your house was raided by Constabulary soldiers, under the orders of the now-deceased Lord Constable. Your cook was arrested, and unless the situation’s changed in the last hour she’s not yet been released. Now, the Governor wouldn’t be using her wellbeing as a crutch to ensure your compliance, would he?”

Tash swallowed. She hadn’t expected to have to answer any questions about Stini, and now her throat had dried. She glanced at Oliver, who was steadfastly avoiding eye contact.

She must have taken too long to speak. Bradshaw leaned across the table towards her. “You don’t need to be afraid to tell the truth, Mistress Wrack, not in here. If the Governor’s leaning on you, now’s the time to say it. We can intercede. You won’t get into any trouble.”

Why would she get into any trouble? She’d done nothing wrong. “The Governor believes Mam Argent had something to do with Mistress Ballard’s illness,” she said.

Bradshaw smiled. “Clearly you disagree.”

“She’s not a killer,” said Tash, her voice raising. “She wouldn’t poison anybody. It’s unthinkable. The Governor’s just—”

She caught sight of Oliver, glaring at her, and shut up.

Bradshaw was watching her with great interest. A couple of the others were too. “Well, don’t leave us hanging,” said Bradshaw, his voice like silk. “The Governor’s just what?”

“Uh.” Tash gulped. “The Governor’s just making sure to follow due process. When they’ve investigated Mam Argent, they’ll let her go.”

“And do you believe that?”

“General, I must protest,” said Oliver. “These questions have no merit. You’re just trying to goad my wife into a slip of the tongue, in the hopes she’ll say something you can use against her.”

“These are absolutely important questions, Master Wrack, and that this woman is your wife has no bearing on the matter.”

“And yet it is a fact,” Oliver brayed. “We don’t ignore facts here.”

Bradshaw shook his head, fists clenched on the table. “You’d take no issue if it was my daughter being questioned, Master Wrack, and don’t pretend you would. I daresay you’d even be foremost in asking these questions. You just don’t like somebody daring to take your wife down from that pedestal you built to find out who she really is. The Governor’s already siphoning more and more power into his own hands. Note how his good friend Captain Clifford has still to relinquish his position at the head of the expeditionary force. Frankly, it would be a failure on my part if I sat by and let the Governor invest such significant power as a monarchy in a puppet, through the kind of dishonest political sleight of hand he so professes to love. I have to be satisfied that Mistress Wrack is more than a pawn.”

“And are you? Satisfied?” The greying Ian Fitzhenry spoke up for the first time. “Because Captain Munro has never seemed enthusiastic about your congress. I hope you’re not blinkered by pent-up frustrations.”

Master Prendergast rose at the head of the table, and bashed his gavel down hard on the wooden knob, the resulting noise driving Tasha momentarily to distraction. It drew every eye in the room to Prendergast. “We’re meeting to debate the Governor’s proposal that Mistress Wrack be our nominal queen. This is not the time or the place for personal insults. You know that, Master Fitzhenry.”

Bradshaw nodded, a smug grin on his face. He supped from his glass of chartreuse and set it down with a satisfied sigh. “Thank-you, Master Prendergast. Now, as I was saying—”

“This isn’t your own personal interview, General,” said Prendergast. “There are others with questions to ask. I suggest you be silent now to let them.”

Bradshaw’s face was ruddy, but he didn’t make a noise in protest. He took another sip of his drink and shook his head privately.

Tash glanced to Prendergast, and then around the room, waiting for the next man to speak. They were all men. She’d not noticed it earlier, but now she had it seemed obvious. No wonder Oliver had been so keen that she toe the line. Half of these men were probably resistant to her coronation simply because she was a woman, and they unused to the idea of a woman having even ceremonial power over them.

The next to speak was the oldest. What little hair he had left was wispy and snow white, and his face was heavily rumpled. One frail hand clutched tightly to a spindly wooden cane. This must have been Edward Ruddingshaw, the great legalist of a long-past generation who Oliver often spoke reverently of. He looked the sort to be doddery and rambling, but his voice was powerful. “The old kings and queens took great pains to keep their ancestry strong. With few exceptions, they claimed descent from the Mother herself, and those exceptions rarely sat long upon their thrones. It was even said that the great throne of Belaboras was itself a phantom who brought death to the unworthy, and that the throne hall was floored in heretics’ blood. What would happen to you, on such a throne? Would it be your death?”

Tash frowned, her toes clenching in her shoes. “I’m sorry,” she said, shifting her feet, “I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Do you have the Emerald Blood?” said Master Ruddingshaw.

“He wants to know who your parents are,” said another man beside him, with piercing dark eyes and a firm brow.

Ruddingshaw nodded along. “Quite. Thank-you, Master Dombric.”

Tash looked to Oliver, who was himself nodding, then faced Master Ruddingshaw again. “My father is Nicolas Caerlin, Lord Reeve of the Caerlin Barrows. My mother was a milkmaid, until their marriage.”

Master Ruddingshaw smiled, apparently impressed. “The Caerlins have a long history. If there is such a thing as the Emerald Blood—if the Mother was ever real, and if her descendants still live—then undoubtedly it lingers in the Caerlin line. Well done, Governor, you’ve chosen well.”

“You understand the scope of what’s being proposed? The limitations?” That was Master Dombric again. “This will not be queenship as Marguerite enjoyed, an unrivalled right to make decisions. Think of it more along the lines of Frevisse of the Wrend, or Catherine the Aguehearted, or another of the latter-day queens.”

“There will be titles and grandeur,” said Master Prendergast, “but the decisions will rest here, with the Council.”

Tash nodded. “When I was a girl, I used to dream about being a queen one day. What girl doesn’t? The part where I had to make decisions seemed like a chore. I’d sometimes wish I could have all the fun parts of being a queen, even though all the queens were dead, but without the boring bits. This is my dream.”

The Governor rose to speak. “I’d counsel you that this isn’t going to be a storybook. There will be responsibilities, and you won’t be able to hide from them. Not ever. If you are declared queen, your life becomes an object of public record. Forever. The life you used to enjoy will be lost to you, even if you decide you want nothing more than to go back to how things once were. Once the bottle’s opened, no hand can push the contents back inside.”

“I’ve come here,” said Tash. “I wouldn’t, if I didn’t know what I was in for.”

“And the child is yours?” said a greying man with a beefy neck. Tash looked at him like he was insane.

In fairness, so did the rest of the council. A couple burst into laughter. “She’s carrying the child inside her,” said Fitzhenry. “I hardly think her motherhood is in doubt.”

“I took you for a biologist, Stockton,” said Bradshaw. “Was I wrong?”

Master Stockton averted his gaze, but stayed resolute. “I’m well aware of the fundamentals of reproduction,” he said. “My question was for her husband.” He pointed a stubby finger at Oliver. “It would be embarrassing if we proclaimed Mistress Wrack as queen, for her infidelity to come to light later.”

“What are you implying?” Oliver shouted.

Tash felt like shouting, too. But she thought of her father laughing at her, the way he had when she told him she’d met a man and left the medical academy, calling her a ‘stupid girl who can’t even see her dreams through’. The thought kept her voice calm. “I’ve been a faithful wife,” she said. “My son is Oliver’s.”

Master Stockton nodded. “Very good. In that case, I have no cause for concern.”

More questions followed, until Tash began to grow dizzy at the constant looking left and right to whoever had decided to speak. Her throat was dry, and the chartreuse bottle emptied, when at last the questions ran out.

“Right then,” said Prendergast at last, bringing down his gavel to break a prolonged silence. “We move on to the next business. Mistress Wrack, this is where you leave us.”

“Jon will see you home safe,” said Oliver, rising to accompany her out of the room. “And I’ll come to you as soon as I’m done here.”

“What did they all think?” Tash had no idea where the Council stood on the proposals. She’d been under the impression that her monarchy would be ratified today, but she was none the wiser.

Oliver looked at her. “It’s too soon to say,” he said, softly. “There’ll be more arguments, more votes. It might be a week before we have clarity.”

“A week?”

“Or more.” He looked across to Prendergast, who was watching with an expression of displeasure and his gavel poised in the air. “Look, Tash, you do need to go now. It’ll only prejudice the Council against you if you stay. Whatever they decide, at the moment you’re just the wife of a reeve.” He blew a kiss her way, and she caught it in her hand.

Lieutenant Sharp was waiting for her outside the door. “How did it go, my Lady?”

She looked blankly at him. “I wish I knew, Lieutenant. Well, I hope.”

Sharp kneeled before her suddenly, his head bowed. Tash froze. What was he doing? But he looked up to her with an earnest smile. “If it went well, let me be the first to congratulate you. My Queen.”

My Queen. The address was so nice in her ears, like a loving kiss, but strange, like a love’s first kiss. She’d be hearing it far more, if the Council approved, but she felt now like she didn’t need their approval. They were just a group of old men who thought their bluster had substance. What did it matter what they thought? She was a Queen. Queen Tasha the First.