How to Catch a Queen

by Alyssa Cole

  “We could make an exchange,” he said, his words clipped. “I can give you something in return for your help.”

  “What do you think I would ask for?” Amusement danced in her eyes, keeping step with challenge. “Your affection? Your love? I don’t barter for things I find unnecessary, Husband.”

  She looked absolutely serious—maybe she was bluffing. After all, wasn’t that what wives wanted? Love, that one thing Sanyu didn’t know how to give and couldn’t let himself even if he did? Her gaze didn’t move from his, and the heat in her eyes told him that even if she didn’t seek love, she might not be opposed to his beard between her thighs.

  “Every relationship is a barter,” he said. That was one thing he was sure of, no matter what Lumu said. He’d worked hard to be the right kind of strong and the right kind of smart so that he would be able to fill his father’s shoes and please Musoke. If you didn’t barter for affection, why had Sanyu had to work so hard to earn scraps of it?

  “That’s true in some ways,” she conceded. “Our marriage was arranged after all, with both of us seeing some use in the other. But that’s a situation, not an emotion. If you think I’ll work for your love like a dog does for treats, you’re mistaken. Although maybe there are other things to be traded.”

  Her expression was serious, but her eyes were hot—her need blazing. Three months of marriage with no consummation. Much longer for him without mutual release of any kind. Sanyu couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to be touched so badly. And Shanti? She looked like she wanted to touch him.

  He leaned forward, needing to close the distance between them, wanting his own wife so badly that it throbbed through him. “We can—”

  “Tell me what you want for this kingdom and we can take it from there,” she said, leaning back in her seat, her voice husky but her resolve clear—business, not pleasure. “I know you have ideas of your own. I was there when you set up the land mine initiative with Prince Johan. What else do you want to do?”

  He did have ideas. He’d had so many once that they’d overwhelmed him, but the ones he’d managed to share had been written off as too idealistic, too soft, even though all he’d wanted to do was make his country stronger. He’d watched Thabiso, prince of Shanti’s kingdom, work side by side with his parents, even as his own rejected ideas piled up high alongside Musoke’s critiques. Eventually, Sanyu had stopped trying.

  No one had cared about his lack of input for a long time. Until now.

  “I want . . . Njaza to break free of its isolation,” he said, making his voice firm even as he glanced at her from the corner of his eye to see her reaction.

  She was listening attentively, no judgement on her face, but no approval either. “Yes, like you told Prince Johan. Go on.”

  “I want it to become a kingdom where people are kept safe, but not caged.”

  She nodded, and something in that tiny crumb of approval, freely given, moved through Sanyu like the aftershocks of a tectonic shift. “Excellent. What else?”

  He cleared his throat. “I want us to invest in industry and establish new trade agreements. Starting with the Rail Pan Afrique project.”

  “See? You want a lot of things.” The smile she gave him was radiant. “And you’ve come to the right queen for that. I’m going to help you get them.”

  The problem was he also wanted her.

  Some people liked their spouses; some even managed to love them. He knew that intellectually, just as he’d always known he’d one day be king, but for him marriage had always been a requirement of his job.

  Sitting with Shanti didn’t feel like work, though. Or, it felt like he’d imagined work was supposed to feel when he’d playacted as king as a young boy—thrilling.

  “And what do you want in trade for your time and skill?” he asked.

  He went very still as her gaze traveled over his body.

  “I want to know what happened to the previous queens of Njaza,” she said, and all of the heat in him went cold.

  “I don’t know what happened to them,” he said, beginning to come to his senses. What had he been thinking, visiting her here? “They married my father and they left. I didn’t interact with them very much.”

  Not after the umpteenth disappearance without a goodbye, when the true understanding of why his father and Musoke told him he must never love a queen that wasn’t the true one had set in: when you didn’t love them, it didn’t hurt when they left, and they had to leave. As Shanti would—Musoke had already stated that she wasn’t a True Queen.

  Shanti’s brow rose. “You didn’t interact with them? Your mother—”

  “I never knew my mother,” he said tersely. “She left me—left the palace, like all of the others. I don’t remember her, like I don’t remember the others. The last queen here was half a lifetime ago, and there were so many of them that I lost track. It’s not important.”

  He waved his hand dismissively.

  She looked at him in a way that made him think of the artwork of the god Amageez—cool, strategizing. Except women couldn’t be touched by Amageez. That was why none of them were allowed on the council.

  “Fine,” she said. “I would like to travel around Njaza, to see the gorillas in the forest of the gods, the summits of the highlands, and the lowland bogs. We can call it our honeymoon.”

  Sanyu knew what honeymoons were for. Romance. Sex. And, well, yes, he wanted that, but Shanti was too practical to ask for such a thing unless there were other motives.

  “I thought you said you wouldn’t barter for affection,” he said.

  “I won’t. But I will co-conspire for the good of Njazans and a trip away from this palace to boot. If you want to try to win my affections while we do either of those things, you can certainly try, but I’ve already made my expectations plain.”

  Sanyu eyed her suspiciously. This had to be some kind of trick—of course she wanted his love. Or maybe he was so bad at being king that even his wife couldn’t find him lovable.

  “A honeymoon,” he said. “After the council agrees to the Rail Pan Afrique deal. I can do that.”

  He held out his hand for her to shake and when she slipped her palm into his there was no electric shock or jolt of desire, as he’d read about—there was stability. Grounding. A clearing of the fog that started to roll back in when he thought too much of all that he had to achieve.

  “Good. Then let’s get started. Rail Pan Afrique is the brainchild of Thesolo and several countries that would benefit from fast, easy travel for both residents and tourists. The rail will promote amity between nations along the rail line, as well as create the possibility of huge economic benefits that will make up for the initial cost, with each country’s contribution determined by GDP, resources provided, and—” She squinted at him. “You should be taking notes. I’m not going to repeat myself.”

  She reached across the table and pushed a pen and notepad that rested next to the teapot toward him, then poured more tea as she continued to rattle off information at a rapid-fire pace, and Sanyu stared at the wife he’d thought he could resist.

  He’d underestimated her, and he was beginning to suspect he was going to pay a hell of a price for that. For now, he picked up the pen and began to write.

  Chapter 5

  After Sanyu had left their fifth late-night meeting that week, Shanti waited until an hour had passed and she was sure he wouldn’t return, and then she began to get ready to sneak out. She was exhausted from the hours-long discussion; she’d presented him with a PowerPoint presentation and been shocked that he’d come packing a USB key loaded with his own carefully annotated slides, but she wasn’t going to abandon her responsibilities just because her husband was finally speaking to her in complete sentences, and had graphic design skills and nice thighs.

  “A good queen repays loyalty, no matter the power or lack thereof of those who give it.”

  She used a makeup remover pad to wipe away her contouring and the perfect cut crease of her eyeshadow
, then swiped on peachy gloss that was far from the deep cherry lip stain she usually sported around the palace. She wore old frayed jeans, a slouchy black T-shirt, and the wig she sometimes pulled out for this particular secret rendezvous: shoulder-length black hair with a tight curl pattern. Large plastic-rimmed glasses and small hoop earrings were the finishing touch to the look, based on that of typical Njazan university students.

  When she looked at her reflection she thought she just looked like herself with less makeup plus a wig and glasses, but Clark Kent had been on to something, because no one recognized her, even some of the palace guard she’d passed during a shift change. To be fair, few people in the palace seemed to know what she looked like. She was intimidating makeup and flowing gowns, not an actual substantial person with specific details. Hell, before this week she hadn’t been sure her husband really knew what she looked like. Of course no stranger on the street could pick her out of a lineup as their queen.

  She glanced at her watch—it’d take her fifteen minutes to walk to the location in the heart of the capital’s busy night market, now that she’d figured out the shortcut through the gardens. It should have been harder to covertly leave and gain access to the Central Palace, but the rich and powerful liked their secret passages—they came in handy for escaping coups and for more mundane things, like affairs, though the king of Njaza didn’t have to bother with that since he could replace his wife with a new model every few months.

  Her stride faltered as it struck her that maybe there was a reason why Sanyu hadn’t come to her before. She’d wondered, of course, but hadn’t given the idea much credence since he seemed withdrawn from everyone and not just her. But now she knew that he hadn’t even chosen her as his bride. Maybe he’d had someone else in mind, or even been dating someone else before their marriage. Maybe he resented that he was stuck with her, if even just for four months.

  Their talks were political, but she was feeling things out with him, figuring out what to share or hold close to her chest, what to highlight or diminish. She supposed it was like dating might have been had they done it before marrying—seeing where their values aligned, using their shared interests to delve deeper and form a connection.

  Heat rushed to her face as she remembered what she’d almost asked for in trade for their arrangement—pleasure. What if she had, and he had rejected her? What if he got that someplace else?

  She reminded herself that she didn’t care if he had a mistress—it wouldn’t have any effect on her power if she was able to remain queen. She couldn’t control what he did now or what he’d do in a few weeks’ time. She could only control her own actions. But . . .

  It would hurt, she realized as she slipped through the fence and, when she was sure the path was clear, jogged away from the shadow of the palace and toward the noise and traffic of the main drag. Even if she didn’t want or expect impractical things like love, it would hurt. Before, she would’ve only had to deal with public humiliation. Now she was spending time with him, and would be spending even more as they worked on the project together. He wouldn’t be rejecting a random queen. He’d be rejecting her, like all of the other royals who’d deemed her unworthy before him.

  She’d be a failure, a disappointment to her family and the women she admired.

  No.

  “Your success cannot lie in something so tedious as whether you’re liked,” she whispered as she power walked down the narrow concrete sidewalk. “No one likes a storm, but they can’t stop it from watering the fields, can they?”

  Queen Ramatla had said that during a speech just a few years ago, and Shanti had quickly written it into her “Field Guide to Queendom,” circled it, and added seven exclamation points.

  I am a storm, she thought, giving herself some self-validation. Storms don’t need trifling husbands.

  She jogged across a boulevard clogged with cars, melding into the people out for the night. Just as she disguised herself with a wig and clothing, she also changed how she walked, dropping the willowy gracefulness she’d learned from lessons with Thesoloian modeling schools and tapping into the swagger that came with self-confidence and years of martial arts training. Only a bit—she was trying to blend in after all.

  As she walked, vendors at the stalls that popped up at night called out to her and she perused their wares—picking up a few snacks to bring with her but mostly trying to keep her mind off of her husband.

  She’d thought him confident, decisive, and arrogant, but the more she spoke to him the more she saw someone who seemed to be caught in the goddess’s snare—what her grandparents had said of those who were in predicaments that weren’t of their making and impossible to escape from. Sanyu was a king who didn’t seem to know what it meant to lead—or one who’d been taught leadership meant one very narrow thing.

  All she knew of Sanyu’s father was rumor that said he was an arrogant tyrant and several video clips that backed it up. What had he imparted to his son that had made him a king who seemed so unsure of his place on the throne? And Musoke had molded Sanyu’s thoughts since he was small enough to see a blanket as a totem of love. Musoke, who thought he was Amageez himself, though he seemed to run from knowledge and rely on ego and derision instead.

  Shanti couldn’t imagine what life had been like for a child in the Central Palace, though it was probably much like the one she led—that all of the queens before her had led. A cage made of arbitrary rules designed to shame and silence instead of nurture.

  She would help her husband bend the bars of that cage. This was the path Ingoka had placed her on—if not the snare in the path. Maybe this was her power as a queen, the thing that she’d prayed for over the years. Even if the role was short-lived, it didn’t mean she had failed. She’d never said she wanted to be queen forever, after all.

  She was here now, and Ingoka made no mistakes.

  She turned down an alleyway and then again, her mood slightly less dour, until she reached the hand-carved wooden sign hanging above a doorway: LIBERATION BOOKS. Inside, tables full of people—mostly university students but also many older patrons—buzzed with conversation over coffee, tea, or beer. Massive wooden shelves filled with old books lined the walls, and dim bulbs in old light sockets made the place feel like some magical hideaway.

  Some people played chess, faces tense with contemplation as they planned many moves ahead. Others laughed and shouted as they sat in small groups and played word games that were rooted in ancient storytelling tradition. Others sat cozied up in corners on romantic dates with people they cared about—something Shanti had never experienced.

  She nodded to Amy, the bartender with a crown of coiled locs, and headed toward the back. As she reached the door to the meeting room, familiar voices drifted out, and she felt her sense of purpose redouble.

  “Hello!” she called out easily in Njazan, as she stepped into the room.

  “Hello, friend,” came the replies of the three women seated on the ground of the meeting space. They were surrounded by stacks of papers, and the clack of staplers and whine of a straining photocopy machine in the corner of the room competed with their voices.

  “Friend bought snacks!” said the youngest woman in the room, Jendy. She was a first-year student at the teacher’s college with a shaved head, smooth dark skin, and a fearless heart—a bit too fearless, given how she spoke sometimes.

  “Here you go,” Shanti said, handing her the heavy paper sack full of egg, tomato, and cabbage-filled chapatis. “I know it’s a bit late for such heavy food, but I had a craving!”

  “Our mystery friend, she always brings us good food,” Nneka, a woman in her forties, said in playful English.

  Salli, a woman with brown skin, loose curls, and a finely flared nose, laughed and shook her head. “No English! Our friend wants to practice her Njazan.”

  “I still don’t understand why she’s here!” Jendy looked at her not with suspicion, but with envy. “You come from some other country, one where maybe the government cares abo
ut you and you aren’t decades behind the rest of the world, and you choose to live here? Here, where we have snappy mottos from the council like ‘Be happy with what you’ve got, it’s better than war’ and ‘Njazans eat hardship like green banana, if you want a different meal, leave’?”

  “I’m here because I believe in what Njaza can be, just like all of you,” Shanti said, sitting down cross-legged, then sighed. “Though perhaps my decision to come here was a little impulsive.”

  Jendy gave her a wry look and handed over the papers that needed to be folded and stapled together. It was the latest pamphlet Marie had written—an open letter to the royal advisors demanding a literal seat at the council table that ended with a short protest song written by Jendy.

  Past mistakes can be rectified,

  If you give up stubborn pride!

  Admitting wrong is not defeat,

  And you know we’ve earned those seats!

  “This is perfect,” Shanti said. “Gets the point across and reminds you that this is all because a handful of people don’t want change.”

  She still didn’t understand how women were allowed to serve in Njaza’s military, support the kingdom in every way, but not have a say in how the kingdom ran. Njaza didn’t seem more misogynistic than other countries on the surface, but women just disappeared as you moved up the ladder of power.

  How the queens disappeared.

  Maybe this kingdom was too broken to repair. She didn’t even know how things had come to be this way—how they could come to be this way. What hope did she have of helping to fix it?

  No. Believe in yourself, she thought. Once you’ve proven what a good queen you are, you’ll be able to change things.

  She stapled a brochure with more force than was necessary, as if fastening her hopes to the universe.