and the requisite portraits to add some interest. The butler had disappeared into the adjoining room. Neither Marek nor Osiander spoke.
Haral Osiander was a man of average height and a paunch in the belly. From appearances, he did not look like what one might expect to take down a conspiracy. He walked nervously back and forth across the little room, his brow furrowed in thought. He looked as exhausted as Marek felt. But he also looked grimly determined. As he’d said to Marek, this plot could weaken Wesloria for generations.
The door to the adjoining room swung open and the butler walked through. He stood to one side. “His Majesty, the king,” he intoned.
Marek’s breath caught as King Maksim walked through the door. He looked even more diminutive than he had in crowded rooms, and he was clearly a full head shorter than Marek. But he was also clearly his father—he had the same golden-brown eyes and the streak of white at his forelock. His pallor was gray, and when he spoke to Osiander, his voice was soft and hoarse. Marek worried he wouldn’t be able to hear him.
Osiander looked at Marek. “Mr. Marek Brendan,” he said.
Marek bowed. “Your Majesty.”
“Brendan,” the king said, looking into Marek’s face. Did he see what Marek saw? Did he notice any similarities? “There was a small fishing village near the northern border called Brendan. Named after a warrior, if my memory serves me. When I was a boy we took our fish from there.” He sat heavily in a chair at the table. The butler came forward and laid a cloth before him.
The king propped himself on one arm of the chair and said, “My lord Osiander. You have arranged this private meeting. Speak.”
Osiander cleared his throat and began. “I beg your forgiveness, Your Majesty, but as the son of a coal baron, I cannot sit by. I am compelled to speak.”
The king nodded.
“I was terribly dismayed to see our country bargain away rights to the coal mines in the Astasian region.”
The king frowned. “They were not bargained away. We’ve come to an agreement to share the resources.”
Marek stiffened. That sounded like what the king had said before they’d left St. Edys. An equitable sharing of resources. Had he not read the agreement?
“Unfortunately, that is not entirely true,” Osiander said. “There is very little sharing to be done.” He explained that Wesloria had given the coal mines to Alucia, and in return had claimed the right to find coal in a smaller, rockier part of the range. The king’s face remained impassive as Osiander explained the harm that would cause the region as a whole. “The people there, they earn their living in the mines. Now it will be Alucians taking food from their tables.”
The king frowned slightly. “This is not what I’ve understood from Dromio.”
“No, I’m certain not,” Osiander said. He said that he’d argued with Lord Dromio about this very thing. “But his lordship claimed to be acting on your wishes at your behest, Your Majesty.”
The king’s face darkened slightly as the butler laid a plate before him.
“If you had concerns about the agreement, why am I just hearing about them? The agreement has been signed, my lord.”
“Je, Your Majesty,” Osiander agreed. “Up until yesterday, I believed we were doing what you wished. As ill-advised as I thought it to be—and not only me, but one of your best advisors of economics,” he said, with a nod toward Marek. “It was too late to stop the agreement from going forward. But I think there is still opportunity to improve on some of the tenets.”
The king shifted his gaze to Marek. “Is this true?”
“Je, Your Majesty,” he said.
“And yesterday you had an epiphany, as well?” the king asked curtly.
“No, Your Majesty. I have been advising against the terms of the agreement all along.”
The king snorted and looked at the table. “Are you implying that my minister of trade and my foreign minister have intentionally misguided me?”
A footman, as young as the soldier Marek had visited, entered the room. He was carrying a bowl of soup on a silver platter. He stood silently to one side, holding the tray and the bowl.
“I believe they have,” Osiander said. “Just a few days ago, we learned of the existence of four Weslorian soldiers here in London, brought by way of a Scottish merchant vessel, at the behest of a gentleman who believes the king is so ill he may not survive the journey home.”
The lad holding the