“They’ve found work, have they not? The dockyards are full again. What more could they want?”
With a flourish, the King of Greatland signs the final election list, then throws his pen across the room and passes the list in my direction. I’ve spent most of the day bringing detailed proposals and dossiers back and forth between his office and the campaigns department, listening to him argue with the officials over who exactly should go on the ballot.
None of it has been made any easier by the shouts drifting in from outside: most of the lawn has been taken up by groups of docklanders carrying placards and banners, though the palace security team has done their best to push them back from the main doors.
“Your Highness, begging your pardon – I’m a docklander born myself, and I think they…” I clutch my clipboard a little tighter as I place the list onto it and glance out the window, where I see the mounted guard emerging from beneath the palace arch. Each rider is clad in chain mail, with a machine gun strapped to their left side, while a bright red plume is affixed to the head of each horse. “They’re still unhappy.”
The King waves a hand through the air and reaches for his phone. “I told them I would end the blockade and I did, didn’t I? The ships are moving again.”
I stand a little straighter – remembering Grandma’s advice: never slouch, never let my composure slip, never be displeasing in my manners or tone – and weigh up what to say next. “They feel … they feel the wage deal is not to their liking, Your Highness.”
The King’s eyes narrow. “They feel what?”
“The wage deal –”
“No need to repeat it, girl,” he barks. “Have you no sense in your head?”
I fall silent and lower my gaze to the ground.
“The docklanders do know we’re in the middle of a war effort, do they not?” the King fumes, furiously typing. His words appear on the screen behind him; this screen, which is the most important determinant of the King’s political decisions, always displays a live view of his Get-It! page, with an up-to-the-minute analytics board next to it. I can see likes and comments beginning to pour in.
The Get-It!-Viral team on the floor below us will already be responding: contacting the King’s celebrity liaison department for high-profile shares and comments, collating the memes that are being created in response to his words, creating bot-blocks and counter-memes and sick-burn strategies. Election season is about to begin, so criticism must be dealt with swiftly, if the King’s chosen candidates are to prevail.
I worked with the Get-It!-Viral team for two weeks, but couldn’t hack it for any longer than that. Grandma said this stint as his summer intern would be easier: that it would be all nodding and smiling and making cups of tea.
The King’s thumbs fly across the phone screen, his brows knit together by rage.
“They know that households up and down the nation are scraping together what they can, making do without things that were once dear to them. They know our people are committed to the cause. They know we will be borne to Greatness in this hour of strife, as our Land always is. And yet, they complain about the wage deal? We all have to make sacrifices. Why, yesterday I had to let my beloved valet go … and my heart has not yet healed from the pain of our parting.”
Here, he pauses in his typing to stare at me. He does that a lot. “You remember Bryson, don’t you, girl?”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
“Well! It was no easy thing on my part, to send him off. Who will tend to my fleet now? I have a vintage collection larger than any other in Greatland – the largest in the world, in fact – and my pieces require specialised care on a level that the baying mob outside couldn’t possibly understand. It’s not easy to get that kind of help, you know.”
Back to his typing: “Why, even now, they have mobbed the palace grounds! A shameful display, though who could expect any less from such a rabble as this, without the proper breeding, without any true understanding of military matters…”
I chance another look out the window. The mounted guard have surrounded the crowds, corralling them into the lawn’s upper quadrants. There are some protesters who require a bit more effort to hold back, who are screaming their defiance, who are holding pictures of all the workers who were killed in the most recent docklands accident, asking whether any amount of compensation will ever be enough. I can’t hear exactly what they’re saying from here, but I know, word for word, what their chants are.
My mother was once one of those protesters: head held high, fist raised in defiance. I’ve seen the pictures.
Working in the King’s employ wasn’t my first choice after I graduated from the services academy. I wanted to be a nurse … but the King paid a visit to the academy one day, saw me, liked the look of me, and that was it. The decision was out of my hands.
I wasn’t brought up in high society and the other servants constantly laugh at me for how little I understand the ways of their world. Sarah Gibson. Not a name that speaks of a rarefied lineage. Grandma took care to change our name after the accident.
Grennam – we couldn’t continue to bear that name, she told me, not when everyone who heard it would immediately think of my parents and their raucous protests. With my parents gone, Grandma said this was the only way to ensure we would truly be safe.
When the King told me I was to serve him, she urged me to be practical: how else would her medical bills be paid? I understand her point. I know there’s no other job that could provide for her as well as this one. Cancer isn’t cheap. Yet sometimes … I wish I could be as my mother was. Bold and brave.
A flash of white on the lawn’s lower quadrants – I almost miss it as I’m turning my face back towards the King.
A small cluster of protestors seem to have broken off from the main group and are making their way to the palace doors. One figure, taller than the rest, is clad in a white robe with a white cover across her face. The rest of them seem to be shielding her from view of the guards.
I only see them for a second before they move out of my line of sight. If I stepped closer to the window, I could check where they are now, see whether they’ve made it to the doors … but I can’t move from my position. The King would notice.
Should I tell him? Or will I get into trouble for having looked out the window in the first place, rather than giving him my undivided attention? I’ve had bottles thrown at my head for that very reason a few times before. I probably don’t need to tell him, right? The guards are heavily armed and they’ll catch the group long before they can get too far.
The King is still typing, the stream of words on the screen getting ever longer. Something about the cost of everyone’s wages these days: how the palace staff payroll threatens to bankrupt him as it is, without extra demands being lobbed his way from every ne’er-do-well on the street. Not to mention the recent appearance of those dangerous, seditious, anti-Greatlands “peace” cults that threaten to derail the prosperity of the entire nation…
“That is quite enough.” He slams the phone down on his desk. Then comes the moment I’ve been dreading. He turns to me with a grin. “Sarah?”
“Yes, Your Highness?”
“I find myself rather in need of some stress relief.”
My stomach lurches. That time again. I need to get his entertainments collection and line them up, so he can read all the titles before making his choice. I need to send out an alert to all departments that no one should come to the office or attempt to speak to the King until further notice.
He always sits in a booth during his stress relief sessions, which is something to be thankful for – and it has opaque walls too – but I still have to stand outside it and listen. Supply him with extra tissues and towels and lubricants when I see his hand appear at the door. It’s never a pleasant experience at the best of times, but today, with the protests going on outside … I feel sickened by the very thought of it.
Nevertheless, I proceed with the ritual: lining up his entertainments collection, waiting for him to select one, informing all departments to stay away for a while, then taking my seat outside the booth while he ventures in. He should only be in there for a minute or two, though it sometimes goes on longer.
But after a minute, I become aware of something else. Above the King’s groans, above the thumping and rocking of the booth … are those footsteps? Did someone fail to see the alert?
The door to his office bursts open.
Dark skin and brilliant blue eyes: striking chips of ice in a face that burns with righteous fury. It’s the figure in white. She has removed the face cover, and I can see now just how tall she is, and how defined her cheekbones are. She marches into the office, a sheaf of papers in hand, and fixes her eyes on me.
“Well? Where is he?”
Oh my. She is gorgeous. She is stunning. I find myself short of breath. A little dizzy. Calm down, Sarah. She’ll never be interested in me. I’m too small, too mousy – and far too boring – for a woman like that.
“He’s…” A loud moan interrupts my efforts to speak, and the woman swivels toward the booth. Her jaw clenched, she strides over and swings the door open. I can’t see the King, but I can hear his expletives, followed by the pants and groans of his chosen entertainment, then his muffled growl: “Savannah. What the devil are you doing here?”
“Your Highness.” Savannah doesn’t say this in the way most do: she says it with a sneer. “I have been informed that you will be approving election candidates today. I hope I’m not too late, I have all the forms –”
She throws the papers into the booth and I hear the King fall off his chair. He crawls out of the booth and struggles into a standing position. Mercifully, he is still clothed, though looking a little dishevelled.
“My guards!” he screeches. “How did you get past them? What have you done with them?”
Savannah raises an eyebrow. “I do not believe in the taking of human life, father – I will never support your war, for one thing – so rest assured. None of your guards have been harmed. They’re merely in a sleep state that only I can remove – as you will be,” she adds, seeing him reach for the panic button hidden in his sleeve, “if you call in any more.”
“Oh, threatening me, are you?” the King snorts. “You and your mother, I suppose – leaders of the famous cult so opposed to war?”
She smirks. “A cult? Call it whatever you like. But I am not afraid to back up my words with more concrete action. My agents are currently stationed in the Greatlands’ Glory data centre, next to unit 5-B-0, having breached Clearance Level 269. I am ready to send the clarion.”
I don’t understand what any of that means, but the King looks stricken. Savannah smiles as she goes on. “The destruction of your Get-It! profile will shed no blood, but it will damage your ability to influence public opinion, will it not? And as for your funders … how can they continue to show their support when the war chest records are released in full?”
“You’re bluffing.” He is sweating now – he glances toward his phone, still sitting on his desk.
“Do you want to take the chance?”
They stare at one another, and the air between them seems to audibly crackle with the force of their animosity. I am transfixed by Savannah. She is fire and fury … yet she is cool as a cucumber, too, her breathing as calm and measured as it has been throughout this whole exchange. I’m still reeling from the revelation that this woman is the King’s daughter.
“What do you want, Savannah?” the King hisses.
“So glad you asked, father.” Savannah beams at him, then produces a bright blue pen from somewhere within her voluminous robe. “A simple request, I’m sure you will find. I want to be added to the election roster, running in the docklanders constituency, for the Peace Party.”
She takes my clipboard. Our fingers brush, and for a moment, she glances at me and a smile plays about her lips. I return it a little shakily, as terrified as I am. Then the moment passes and she proffers the clipboard and her pen before the King.
“This is your list of approved candidates, is it not? Write me in.”
Everything seems suspended in time: the King’s ruddy face, Savannah’s unruffled smile, even the ongoing chaos outside. I see him write her name on the list, watch her ordering him to send the list to the campaigns department immediately. Even as she leaves the office with a triumphant smile, it all seems like a dream to me: like something that can’t truly be happening.
The King’s authority can’t really be challenged like this. Can it?
In the next moment, I realise he has grabbed me: he’s pulling me by the hair toward his desk.
“Right. Right. There’s no time to lose. Before she can escape – get me the commander. Get him!”
I stand up tall as he releases me. I’m shaking. The crowds on the lawn have, if anything, grown even louder … though I can also hear gongs beginning to boom. A sign that further troops are on their way. I remember my mother and her defiant eyes. I think of Savannah’s smile. Her ice-blue eyes. There is still time to catch up with her. Still time to join her, wherever she’s going, and see whether she or her Peace Party would be able to help Grandma.
Then I step away from the King’s desk and make for the door. “You know something, Your Highness? I don’t think I will.”
An expanded version of a short freewrite I did a little while ago!
Image: William Murphy/Flickr