Van’s eyebrows sank and his expression turned dark. “It would be a mistake to overstate your feelings, my lord.”
Osiander looked at the two ministers, and then his gaze flicked over Marek. Marek reflexively leaned back. He didn’t want Osiander to think he had anything to do with what was happening at the negotiating table.
Osiander returned his gaze to Dromio and Van, but when he did, he put his back to Marek. He said something to the ministers in Weslorian that was lost to Marek. Whatever he said caused Dromio to look a little ill himself.
Osiander strode away, and Van and Dromio exchanged a look. “I’ll speak to him,” Van said, and went after him.
Marek and Dromio remained. “He’s right,” Marek said. “We are giving away too much. The coal, the concessions on grain.”
Dromio slowly turned to look at Marek. “Who the hell are you to tell me where you think your king has erred?”
He was a trusted advisor, someone who understood the economy of Wesloria better than Dromio could ever hope to understand it. “I am your advisor, my lord, as I understand the economic forces better than most.”
“That may be, but you don’t understand the political landscape, Brendan. You don’t understand how the king holds power. I do. Stay out of it.”
He moved as if he meant to walk away. Marek spoke before he could. “What ails him?”
Dromio’s brows dipped lower. He didn’t like being questioned.
“You said he was ill,” Marek said.
“How can I know? If you ask me, he drinks too much.”
That was a lie. The king did not drink to excess—Marek would stake his reputation on it. He’d never heard it said, and he’d not observed it in these last few weeks. If anything, the king seemed very careful of drinking at all. Like father, like son, he thought idly.
“He ought to have a physician brought in to have a look, but he refuses,” Dromio added.
“Refuses?” Why would the king refuse the advice of a physician? If he was ill in a foreign land, he’d want to be made better. He’d want a medical opinion...unless he didn’t trust either the physician or the person bringing the physician to him.
“You don’t understand that His Majesty is a—”
“Beg your pardon, sirs.”
A footman stood off to the right of Marek, holding a silver tray with a calling card on it.
“What now?” Dromio said, annoyed. He gestured at Marek to take the card.
Mrs. Hollis Honeycutt, Publisher
Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and
Domesticity for Ladies
Marek felt the color drain from his face.
“Who is it?” Dromio asked impatiently.
“No one. Someone from one of the local papers,” Marek said, and shoved the card into his pocket.
“Take care of it,” Dromio said with a flick of his wrist. He glanced irritably at the footman, who was still standing there. “What do you want?”
“The lady is waiting,” the footman said.
“The lady,” Dromio repeated.
“Where?” Marek asked.
“Just outside, sir,” the footman said.
