Politics Proves Difficult
1917 March 1, Addis Ababa, Menelik Palace.
After the afternoon's official schedule wrapped up, I returned to my chambers a bit later than usual.
"These figures don't add up."
Tafari slid a sheet of paper across the table toward me. It was the coffee clearance records from Djibouti port—the ones I'd reviewed and set aside yesterday. He'd already gone through them all and marked them up.
"February's shipment volume is 12% below the January contract baseline."
I took the paper and scanned it line by line. He was right. The numbers were off.
"Either the Djibouti middlemen's fees went up, or the Harar harvest came in lower than expected."
"The Harar governor's report states the yield was within normal range."
Then it was leaking somewhere in the middle. I pulled over the bundle of export documents and lowered my gaze.
Nights in the Addis Ababa palace fell quiet early. The highland air cooled rapidly after sunset, so the breeze slipping through the windows carried a chill, and on evenings like this, a single lantern stood out with unusual clarity. The one on the table bathed the papers between us in orange light.
Tafari unrolled another bundle. It was the arms shipment schedule.
"Latest letter from Sarkis arrived yesterday. Spanish side is preparing shipments on schedule."
"And the railway progress?"
"As of March, 93% of the full Addis Ababa-Djibouti line is complete. Technical team reports opening before the rainy season is feasible."
93%. I closed my eyes for a moment, running the numbers in my head. July shipments. End of rainy season. Railway opening. And how much training needed to be done by the time those weapons arrived in Addis Ababa.
"Ask Sarkis how we can recoup this month's coffee export losses in next month's contracts. We need to judge first if we should restructure the middlemen or revise the contract terms themselves."
"Understood."
Tafari jotted a note as he spoke. His posture when recording on paper was always impeccably neat, no matter the angle. He never scrawled. Every letter settled precisely into place.
Sometimes, having him nearby gave me a faint sense of dissonance. I'd been so average back in university.
The coffee cup on the table caught the lantern light and gleamed faintly. Ayenash had refilled it for dinner. Probably cold by now. I picked it up and took a sip, but it was already lukewarm.
That's when Tafari pulled the next paper from the bundle.
"Beyond the coffee contracts, one more item."
I caught the slightest shift in his tone. I set down the cup and looked at him.
"Speak."
"This morning, intelligence came through unofficial channels."
He placed a folded note on the table. It was written briefly in Amharic. The contents were straightforward: Italian consul Giuseppe Colli di Felizzano had invited three Ethiopian conservative nobles to a private dinner last week. No specific names, but their positions pointed to Ras Council insiders.
I set the note back on the table. The lantern flickered briefly in a gust from the window.
"Any numbers yet?"
"No specifics on the conversation content. But the contact itself is confirmed."
I fell silent for a moment. It was expected. I'd anticipated it, but seeing it surface still felt different.
Italy. Giuseppe Colli di Felizzano. The man wasn't personally incompetent—quite the sharp diplomat, in fact. He represented Rome's greed to use Ethiopia as a corridor linking Eritrea and Somalia, yet on the surface, he'd always behaved with the courtesy of a negotiating partner.
His quiet outreach to conservative nobles meant fostering internal resistance to Ethiopia's rapid reforms. In 1917, Italy was still bleeding along the Isonzo River. No spare military for Africa right now. So, shaking Ethiopia another way—inducing internal division.
"Any narrowing down on which conservatives?"
"Uncertain. Though..."
Tafari paused.
"Possible overlap with the nobles in the Ras Council who demanded budget ratio adjustments on the first industrialization plan."
I narrowed my eyes. The ones who'd nitpicked budget ratios during the first industrialization plan deliberations. Ras who hated diverting their provincial funds to joint light industry equipment purchases. Some of them possibly linking up with the Italian consul.
I tapped the table lightly with a finger.
Still a ways to go.
Every time I crossed items off my mental checklist and felt a measure of relief, something like this popped up.
Any empire's reforms faced resistance. I knew that. From a lifetime studying history in my past life, I knew the pattern of internal conservatives colluding with foreign powers repeated across centuries.
But colluding this early... it was a bit premature.
Iyasu had been deposed, and I'd ascended. The Ras Council was formed. Arms import deals were sealed, and the arsenal was standardized for 7mm ammo production. Noble-born cadet candidates were sleeping in barracks for the first time in their lives.
All this was opportunity to some, threat to others. The Italian consul was planting seeds among those who felt threatened.
"We'll need to insert more informants."
"Consulate interior would be difficult."
"Not asking for inside the consulate."
I slid the folded note back toward Tafari.
"Prioritize identifying the nobles the Italian consul contacted. Once we know who, we can predict their next moves."
Tafari pocketed the note.
"How do you intend to handle it?"
"Not handling it right now."
I reached for the coffee cup again, remembered it was cold, and set it down.
"Putting them on a watchlist is different from moving immediately. The Ras Council hasn't even been around for three months yet. Impressions of internal purges at this stage would shake the council itself."
Tafari looked at me.
"Then."
"Let it sit for now. Watch and wait."
Silence fell briefly. Under the lantern, orange shadows played across Tafari's face. Hard to tell if he was agreeing or calculating—his silences were too even.
"Your Majesty."
He spoke.
"When you returned to your chambers today."
"Yes."
"It was excessively late."
I paused at that. It wasn't late. The afternoon schedule had just run over, as it often did. But him mentioning it meant he was watching.
I slowly raised my head to meet his gaze.
"Many watchful eyes, then."
"Your Majesty's movements in the palace are always logged."
"I know."
"But on a day like today."
He paused.
"It was your birthday."
I turned that single phrase over in my mind.
Ah, he remembered.
Today was my birthday. The 22nd day of the Ethiopian month of Yekatit. The child born on the day news of Adwa's victory reached Addis Ababa. The people still called it an omen or prophecy.
Of course, I didn't buy that stuff.
It wasn't anything special. Ayenash had brought a wreath in the morning, the maids had bowed, and a short letter arrived from Father, Ras Mikael. If you asked if there was a warm word, well, there was.
Tafari hadn't offered congratulations or anything. Even now, it was purely businesslike.
But the fact he'd remembered was unexpected, for him.
"What does that matter?"
"None."
Predictably impassive reply. I tried not to smile, but felt my lips twitch upward slightly.
I mentally revised part of my Tafari checklist.
Tafari is quietly considerate.
"Enough work. Go rest."
"Final arms shipment review remains."
"Tomorrow."
"Your Majesty said you'd finish today."
Right. I had.
I pulled the bundle back toward me.
Far off. Still a long way to go.
18 years until 1935. More items left on the checklist than crossed off.
And how many nobles were nodding along at that Italian consul's dinner... we didn't know yet.
I wrapped my hands around the coffee cup. Cold now, but the porcelain still held a trace of warmth.
Feeling that, I suddenly craved gukbap.
Or... not even gukbap. Just Korean food from back home. Even though it didn't exist in this era.
Stir-fried pork, sundae gukbap, tonkatsu, samgyeopsal... I really want some.
Especially gukbap.