21

THE FISHING DOCKS OF HAVENSPORT WERE SMALLER THAN GALITHA City’s docks and far more specialized. While Galitha City welcomed droves of domestic and international trade, the Havensport docks seemed focused nearly solely on welcoming nets full of fish. Shadowed by soldiers, Annette and I toured the open space where loads of fish were hauled off boats and the low-eaved buildings where they were sorted and salted. Annette wrinkled her nose, deftly pulling a kerchief dosed with scent out of her pocket, but I inhaled the base, honest smell of work.

“The primary export from Havensport to the rest of Galitha and overseas is salted fish,” the portly packinghouse owner said, wiping nervous sweat from his hands. Tasked last minute to allow a pair of ladies from the royal delegation to tour his facility, he was handling things surprisingly well, especially given how the soldiers insisted on examining every nook and corner of the building before allowing us to proceed. “Oceanic whitefish and silver cod, mostly.” He paused, gauging our interest. I gave him an encouraging smile even though I didn’t particularly care. “They take the salt well.”

A flash of red caught my eye from across the building, the dim interior highlighting the interruption of color.

The packinghouse owner stiffened as he noticed the bright spot, as well. A cap—a cap in a style I knew all too well. “Hey! Put that thing away,” he shouted, taking off at a surprisingly nimble clip toward the offending workman.

Several other workers flanked the first man, producing their own caps. “You know,” the owner said in a huff, “that those are not allowed in my place of business.”

“Why not?” I said, approaching him from behind and surprising both him and the workers with my question.

“They are—” He closed his mouth, reddening, unsure what to argue to a royal consort, even if she was a common-born seamstress. I raised an eyebrow, well aware that we were both navigating what, exactly, my sympathies were and happy to let him make the choice of what to say next, because I certainly didn’t know what angle I ought to take. “They are disruptive,” he finally decided.

“Disruptive,” I repeated. “The cod don’t take salt as well when they’re packed by workers in red?” The men fought not to crack smiles, but the glare of their employer subdued any amusement at the comment.

“No, not—no.” He flushed darker, right up to his balding crown. “I need my employees focused on their work, not on dissenting with the Crown and with one another.”

I considered this. “Galitha has always welcomed a culture of open speech and has avoided hindering the printing presses. I suppose that I see wearing even such a noxiously bright cap as a part of that.”

“Be that as it may,” he replied with controlled politeness, “you haven’t got a business to run.”

“I did,” I retorted before I could stop myself. The red-capped employees watched, tautly interested in the outcome of this exchange.

“And today, of all the times—I simply do not want you to feel threatened by this… demonstration.”

I could have laughed—as though a few red caps could, after the Midwinter Revolt, after Pyord, after all I’d been through, make me feel threatened. Annette, beside me, merely smiled in bemusement.

“You’ll find we are not so easily frightened,” I reassured him. “But I am curious—why are you still wearing those caps? In Galitha City, they’re a celebration, but you do not seem to be a very festive sort.”

The man in the middle, the first to have put on the cap, hesitated before his neighbor nudged him to speak. “Things aren’t so celebratory here,” he said. “We got news of the reforms, same as everyone, but nothing has changed.”

The packinghouse owner interjected himself quickly. “These things take time, it’s unreasonable to—”

“What hasn’t changed?” I asked, cutting him off. “We read the messages in the bottles.”

“Then you know the bulk of it. Two days after the news of the reforms arrived here, the city lord enacted a new tax on fishmongers and others who peddle freelance. There was to be no new taxation, if the Reform Bill was followed, without a vote by elected council.”

“That’s true,” I confirmed.

“And there’s been no date set for the elections.”

“I see.”

“We know what happened at Midwinter—we all read the pamphlets then and we read them now. Seems we’re of one mind with the folks up in Galitha City about what happens next, if the reforms aren’t followed.”

I glanced around me for the first time since engaging the red-capped workers. The entire packinghouse was quiet, watching us. The soldiers’ wary stances betrayed their discomfort with the turn our tour had taken, but I knew that there was no threat from these people. I had seen threat in the wordless language of a mob before; the crowd in this dim space wasn’t interested in threatening Annette or me. They saw us as the ear of the king, as a vague form of hope.

And I had to say something that would affirm their rights without unleashing a tempest in the salt vats.

“Your concerns have been heard,” I began, regretting instantly how weak those words were. “You are correct that the reforms are to be enforced without delay.” I hedged back, not willing to discuss the legality of complex codes that the reforms addressed—without confirming with someone who knew more, I couldn’t know for sure if the new tax or the delay in elections was truly illegal or merely outside the spirit of the law. “The Prince of Westland is distressed, as you are, that more progress has not been made.”

They seemed heartened but not entirely reassured. I couldn’t blame them—I had no authority to speak, and I could only hope that Theodor, in fact, was currently addressing reform implementation timelines with the city lord and the local nobility. I couldn’t, however, promise that. “What is your name?” I asked the de facto speaker for the Red Caps.

“Byran Border,” he replied, blanching with surprise that I should ask. “Miss. Ma’am. Your Ladyship.” He nodded to both Annette and I, so pale his freckles stood out like block-printed spots on white cotton.

“I appreciate your willingness to speak, Mr. Border.” I essayed a smile.

Border hesitated, then spoke again. “If I may—we’re hearing the same from all over southern Galitha.” He swallowed, and his comrades encouraged him. “There’s Red Caps in every town, every province. We write to one another—there’s a few in each town and village what can read and write well enough, as it were.”

“And?” I said. I hadn’t realized that the laborers outside the city were organized enough to maintain a network of communication. If they already communicated with one another, what else might they be capable of?

“And it’s like this in all the fishing towns. The agricultural regions are worse—plenty of nobles seem to have disregarded the orders for local elected regional councils entirely and some aren’t paying wages for work.” He shifted, his broad shoulders bearing the uncomfortable weight as speaker for his comrades. “We want no trouble, Your Ladyship, but if it comes to us, we’ll return it in kind.”

“I’m not a ‘Ladyship,’” I interjected with a smile, which he shyly returned.

I nodded, taking this in, unsure of what to say, to promise, to reveal. We hadn’t learned any of this in Galitha City—of course, news was slow to travel from the extreme south to the north, but I had a sinking feeling it was more problematic than that. The gaggle of nobles convened in Galitha City were certainly corresponding with their acquaintances and neighboring nobles at their ancestral holdings, but they had no interest in sharing this kind of news with the champions of the Reform Bill. The people in the streets of Galitha City were probably more well-informed than Theodor.

“Thank you,” I said, addressing Border. “This tour has been very informative. If ever you wish to raise any more concerns, I—” I paused. What could I offer, who was I in the system of governance? An official consort and, someday, wife—but I would speak for my people. “You can write to me.”