“I agree,” Gemi says. “When is your next speech? You can contest the commander’s proposal and set your people at ease.”
I glance from her to Brac. “Speech?”
“His Majesty prefers to let the people learn by his example,” Brac says.
His bland statement pokes at me. “I don’t want to disrupt their exchange of ideas and solutions. Growth comes from higher intellects discussing the idealistic outcome of transitions.”
“Higher intellects?” Brac snorts. “How is permitting mercenaries to rile up our citizens intelligent?”
My temperature rises. Brac is portraying me as a foolish idealist. The Southern Isles is a progressive nation where men and women are free to debate and discuss ideologies. Then the people may bring their concerns and philosophies to the datu for deliberation. After my short visit there last year, I was impressed by their nonviolent methods of initiating change.
“Datu Bulan believes every citizen should have a voice,” says Gemi. “People should speak their minds without fear of retribution. But, Ashwin, your people need to hear from you. They’ll come together with your guidance.”
A guard interrupts to whisper in Brac’s ear. The Burner wipes his mouth and sets aside his napery. “Your Majesties, I’m needed elsewhere.”
This must be pressing. Perhaps another issue arose with the protestors. I wait for Brac to allude to an explanation, but he takes his leave.
The servants deliver dessert, and Gemi piles a mountain of yogurt onto her plate. She dips her spoon into the creaminess and slips it in her mouth. Her eyes shut and her shoulders drop in a full sigh. Her delight is so infectious that although I prefer fried bread drizzled in honey for my final course, my own yogurt tastes sweeter than usual. She pauses to drink her wine and empties her chalice. I refill it for her.
“You haven’t touched yours,” she says, gesturing at my cup.
“I don’t drink.” Rajah Tarek carried a flask with him and regularly stank of spirits.
Gemi pushes her tongue to the side in amusement. “Pretend to be grateful when my father gives you a prized bottle of apong as your groom’s gift.”
“I’ll try,” I say on a chuckle.
She sets down her spoon and fingers her napery. “Thank you for receiving me early. You must want to know why I came.”
“I have wondered.”
“The letters we exchanged were polite but formal, and your marriage proposal was . . . succinct.”
I bristle at her thinly restrained criticism. “Your father and I negotiated until we felt the terms were fair.”
“How could I have refused?” she replies dryly.