Lorenz swallowed. He looked at Marek. “Pardon?”
“You’re pathetic,” Marek said.
Lorenz hesitated. And then he laughed nervously. His skin was turning splotchy.
“You come here as you have, and cry for your mother and your sister, drink the ale a perfect stranger offers you, and you can’t give me one word about who this man was.”
“What...? Who are you?” Lorenz asked. “I don’t know who he was. How was I to know him?” The lad seemed frightened now. A lot of good this one would be if there was indeed any trouble. “He was a minister or something, that’s all. Dominick said he was high up and I didn’t... I don’t know what...”
“What did he look like?” Marek demanded.
“I don’t know. Tall. Thin,” Lorenz said desperately. “Light brown hair.”
“Jovial in his demeanor? Laughs easily?”
Lorenz nodded.
Marek was not surprised, really. It felt almost as if he’d been waiting for someone to point a finger at Dromio all along. Naturally, he couldn’t be entirely certain it was Dromio, but in his gut, he knew that it was. What Dromio was about was the question.
Marek reached into his pocket and withdrew a five-pound note and handed it to Lorenz.
Lorenz looked astonished. “What’s this?”
Marek didn’t answer him. He picked up his hat.
“Wait!” Lorenz said, sounding desperate. “You said you had news!”
What a stupid lad he was. “I do,” Marek said. “But it’s not for you.” Without another look at the ridiculous man-child, Marek walked out of the public house.
His pulse was pounding at his temples. He wasn’t certain what he had to do to prevent what was happening—whatever it was—but he wanted to kill Dromio with his bare hands.
ALIGHTSNOWhad begun to fall by the time Marek returned to the Green Hotel. He had expected to find the common room empty, assuming that preparations were underway for the signing ceremony tomorrow. But there were Dromio and Van, two glasses of whiskey before them, laughing together.
“Brendan!” Dromio said when he spotted Marek walking toward them. “Join us. You’ve made yourself scarce of late. Your paramour must be quite good at what she does.” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Have a seat, Mr. Brendan,” Van said, and with his foot, moved a chair out from underneath the table for him. “Join us in toasting the successful conclusion of a peace agreement. You may rest comfortable in your Weslorian bed now.” He lifted his glass so abruptly that whiskey sloshed over the rim.
They were drunk, congratulating themselves on a job well done. The question was, what was the job they had done?
“I am surprised to find you celebrating,” Marek said, shaking his head at the footman who came forward to offer a whiskey. “The accord is not particularly favorable to Wesloria.”
“It went better than we thought, all things considered,” Dromio said. “You shouldn’t be so glum all the time, Brendan.” He looked at Van and laughed.
“When do we sail?” Marek asked. How much time did he have to prevent whatever was about to happen?
Van shrugged. “The king is not well, as you know, so the exact plans have not yet been made.” He slid a look at Dromio.
Dromio smirked. “But perhaps sooner rather than later?”
They were forgetting themselves, these two. Their emotions about the king were plain for anyone to see. Well. Except Lorenz, of course.
Marek looked down at his hands. He had very little time to stop whatever they were about, and he was at a strong disadvantage not knowing what it was. All he knew was that they had sabotaged the peace agreement. And that he was just one man. And he had very little time to do anything. He suddenly stood from the table.
“Whoa, man,” Dromio said. “What are you doing? You’ve not yet had a drink.”
“Thank you, but I am unwell,” Marek said.
Dromio snorted. “Mark me, Brendan—your aloof manner will be your downfall one day.”
