Must you behave like an imbecile? she thought. Not a month ago, Prince Cassius stole his father’s rule right from under him whilst sitting at the same table as the man. Your son has arranged opened trade routes and advantageous alliances that you could take credit for and the people would be whispering your name with excitement, not your son’s as they prepare to watch him atop his horse as they ride through the city to his nuptials. And in the middle of the afternoon, you are at sleep in front of the fire.

“Well?” Wilmer prompted, and Mercy realized her internal rant meant she missed something he said.

Considering it was likely not important, she didn’t ask after it, but instead dispensed with her usual subtlety and inquired outright, “Has Carrington just gone?”

He sighed.

“My king,” she pressed.

Knowing, in this mood, she would have what she wished, he gave it to her.

“We’ve decided to increase the tax another coin.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What kind of coin? Gold? Silver? Pewter? Brass? Copper?”

“Gold.”

Mercy’s torso drifted back.

The shepherds, they could afford this (perhaps). The wheat farmers as well. A good few of the larger orchardists.

The rest…

“Why?” she inquired.

He waved a hand at her and muttered, “Carrington has some plans.” His gaze then focused on her face and it did it more sharply than normal. “He’s also suggested I demand an accounting of the tithes the Go’Doan temples receive and then demand a taxation from them. And to this I agree heartily, wife. They have long argued these funds go for the good of our people, and thus should have an exception. We have long known much of them go to the polishing of the domes in that city. Not to mention, they rose up in Firenze against the king, proving at least some of them are what we expected…not trustworthy. They’ve enjoyed an exemption for far too long. That ends now.”

For once, she could not disagree.

So she didn’t.

She focused on something else.

“And these plans of Carrington’s?”

“Wife.”

“Husband.”

“Mercy.”

“Wilmer.”

“We need a standing army.”

As she suspected.

“We have a standing army,” she reminded him.

“No,” he said firmly. “True has a standing army.”

Her heart clenched.

“It is of Wodell,” she stated.

“It is for True,” he returned. “And you know it.”

She did.

Their army would follow True to certain death if he asked it.

And they had.

However, they knew who truly asked it.

“Carrington seeks to bolster against our son?” she asked.

He straightened in his chair. “I will not have my son take my reign as Gallienus suffered.”

“I will not have my husband pit himself against my son,” she retorted.

“You speak to your king,” he bit.

“You speak to your wife and the mother of your son and, I’ll remind you, Your Grace, your queen.”