Foie Gras
"No more questions?"
He's prying again, gauging my reaction.
"Very well, none then. On to the next item. According to the National Intelligence Agency's reports, a massive guano deposit has been discovered in Spain's Chile Viceroyalty."
My words sent the ministers and even the Agency staff jolting in surprise. Terray, the Agency director himself, looked stunned. It was only natural. We'd never received any reports from Chile to begin with.
No matter how capable the Agency was by this era's standards, its reach extended only as far as West Africa or the northeastern coast of South America at best. It wasn't competent enough to project influence all the way to Chile at South America's western edge.
But this guano had to be secured now or never. The Atacama Desert deposits and Nauru's phosphates were infamous enough that I had them memorized. This was the perfect moment to intervene, before word got out.
In truth, if guano was what we wanted, India would have been far better. But heading to India meant war with Britain—a fight we might not even win. And even if we did, India wasn't worth the trouble. Conquering it would require unifying the subcontinent.
Modern India appears as a single entity, but in reality, it's more a British invention. It's not a single ethnicity or religion. There are dozens of languages. Cultures, faiths, peoples—all different. The only common thread is being a prime British colony. Unifying a landmass the size of a continent would consume my entire life. Poor cost-benefit ratio.
Worse, with such diverse cultures, religions, and ethnicities, the moment colonialism ended, we'd be reviled like some naive "good-hearted Kim" foreigner, lumped in with every villain in history.
So, Chile it was.
"The intelligence is 100% reliable. The deposit is right here." I pointed to the central west coast of South America. "Smack in the middle of the Atacama Desert."
The bureaucrats eyed me skeptically but accepted my word for now.
"Your Majesty, let's assume the guano deposits in the Chile Viceroyalty are real. Even so, what can we do about it? No matter how close France and Spain may be, the Chile Viceroyalty is Spanish soil. Resources from Chile are as good as Spanish sovereign property."
A sharp point. Even in modern times, extracting resources from foreign soil required imports or private investments with endless procedures. How much more so in the waning days of the Age of Discovery, at the dawn of full colonial empire?
Concession demands were for colonies, not equal great powers. Hang around picking fights with neighbors just because we were doing well now, and we'd pay dearly later.
"You're overlooking something. Don't we hold bargaining power?"
And we could get what we wanted without imperial aggression. France currently wielded immense leverage: the franc, a near-reserve currency, and the only force in Europe capable of projecting power outward.
"Spain is desperate to escape its economic crisis. We're merely helping our cousins a little."
It was a bit embarrassing coming from me—the man who'd built a pirate fleet to plunder friendly merchant ships—but family ought to help family.
I handed documents to the clerk. "Distribute these. This outlines my plan for transporting guano from the Atacama Desert and negotiating with Spain. The Foreign Ministry, Navy Ministry, and Treasury will proceed within this framework."
The ministers skimmed the papers briefly before questions erupted, hands shooting up in competition.
"Yes, Atlantic Fleet Admiral. What intrigues you?"
"The plan has France handling the surveys, mining, transport, and escort. Yet the minimum share we demand is only 40%. That seems odd."
Colonial-era mindset—no scruples. Even if we fronted everything, we were still extracting from another nation's soil. Spain wasn't our colony. It was an equal European power, bound by blood ties no less. Demanding plunder-level terms would ruin diplomacy.
"Too low? Judging by your faces, that's not the majority view—but not a negligible minority either."
"My youth, sire. I apologize."
"No need. Admiral, lives hang in the balance for your men. It's only right to care."
Managing the young hotheads was a pain. Still, better this than them charging ahead like Kwantung Army officers chasing promotions, preemptively sabotaging candidates. Venting in cabinet was a hundred times preferable.
"But that's just the floor—and it could go to 50%, even 60%. We want the guano, but the nation won't collapse without it. Whichever side—Spain or France—needs it more will swallow the worse terms. The thirsty man digs the well, after all. That's your answer. Next, Deputy Foreign Minister. Your question?"
"Yes, sire, I strongly agree with 'the thirsty man digs the well.' But raising this first puts us at a disadvantage. If Spain senses our desperation, they could stonewall negotiations. Worst case, they push solo surveys. We'd end up doing all the work for their benefit."
"Possible. But Spain won't refuse. I guarantee it."
Spain wouldn't have time to think. Even the wisest ruler gambles when normal governance fails. Bankruptcy alone is ruin; collective bankruptcy is ascension.
'France recovered via financial tricks like MEPO bills. What if Spain uses legitimate guano trade for the same?'
"No matter how improbable, the stakes are too high to resist."
Success meant escape from bankruptcy and ascension. Failure? France foots the bill. A sure-thing gamble on someone else's dime—who'd say no?
"Sire, there's something unclear in the Deputy's words. If Spain stonewalls and develops solo, as he suggests? Even later intervention might see them slash our share, claiming their own achievements."
"A valid point from Treasury. But as I said, France is the only European power that can project outward. Besides, hearing 'Atacama Desert' won't let them find it. Such expeditions are grueling even for stable nations."
'Knowing the region' versus 'knowing the exact spot' is worlds apart. Plenty knew oil lay in the Dhahran fields or Arabian sands, but not precisely where. Deserts aren't deserts for nothing. Walking alone tripled water needs; food by 1.5 times. Sandstorms could sandblast you to death.
"Sire, as Minister of Public Works and Construction, I have a fundamental question."
"Speak."
"Will Spain even believe this?"
All eyes turned to the minister. Glances started hostile but softened to nods of agreement. The discussion had assumed my word was gospel from the start.
"Fair concern."
In a cabinet like this, where I called black white and they debated as if true, such blind faith was uniquely French. But...
"That's why I summoned you all."
If my authority fell short, diplomacy would bridge it.
"Navy escorts, Public Works mining plans, Tax Agency surveys—these are Foreign Ministry leverage. If Spain doubts, make them believe. Isn't that your job?"
"But sire, from Spain's view, this is dubious intel at best. They won't trust—"
"I didn't grant you the floor."
What the hell? Even old Parlement diehards never cut me off.
Chile could wait. First, address this affront to royal dignity right before my eyes.
It was a fresh reminder: this was France. Eighteenth-century France. And I was the king. Louis XVI.
"Who is it?"
Interrupting was rude in any age, worse in eighteenth-century France.
"Confess. I asked who."
Subordinates got sacked for less. Interrupting the king? Death.
"Last chance. Who?"
Silence after I spoke? Beyond rude.
"Atlantic Admiral. Who interrupted me?"
"Foreign Affairs Section Chief. Francois."
"Francois. Francois, eh..."
Marquis Francois. Formerly Marquis, precisely. One noble spared via loyalty oath for Spanish diplomacy.
I wanted him exiled, but no. He had to lead this negotiation. Noble birth, probably...
Was this calculated? Death-worthy, but execution? No. It'd cement my strict image now, but later, hostile scholars would paint me tyrant. Even Crown Prince Sado became the victim after some hazing.
Yes, this was it. Classic Joseon drama: "Please kill me, sire." You don't actually kill them. Nor compromise on "understand my plight."
"Busy times, it seems. Foreign Section Chief, take a week's leave. Rest at home."
House arrest—safest bet.
"This gets us nowhere. Morning cabinet ends here. Reconvene this afternoon."
As I rose, the ministers filed out by rank.
Heading to my office, I grabbed the shoulder of the Paris Agency agent.
"Looks like I have much to hear from you."