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 soup jostled the tray slightly; the silver clinked together. By some miracle, Marek heard it and glanced at the footman.
So did the king. He said, “Put it down, Heiner.” He turned back to Osiander. “Ihavebeen quite ill, that is true. The doctor advises it is an ague, a result from this bloody damp air. That’s why I must get out of it as soon as possible.”
The young footman inched closer to the table.
“Your illness, as sudden as it was, has kept you from the negotiating table, Your Majesty. And Dromio and Van have managed to keep me from attending you with news of the negotiations.”
“Is that their fault? They have said you have a penchant for too much drink and can’t be roused in the morning,” the king said calmly. “Who should I believe?”
Osiander blanched. “That...that is not true,” he said, clearly appalled.
The footman still hadn’t put the soup before the king, and from where he stood, Marek noticed a thin line of perspiration at his hairline.
“What proof have you of anything you allege, Osiander?”
The footman managed to put the soup before the king.
“The soldiers,” Osiander said. “The peace accord. I assure you it is not what you have been told. The truth is buried in the pages.”
“That may be, but Van said the Alucians wouldn’t support any of our demands.”
“That is not true. The Alucians want peace and to prosper, like you. They were willing to make concessions on the grain exports as well as the coal mines, but we conceded.”
The king considered him. And then Marek. “It all seems rather far-fetched. It’s a pity my prime minister isn’t here to enjoy this tale.”
Marek was stunned. The king didn’t believe them. Osiander looked completely flummoxed by the realization. “There is more,” Marek blurted.
The king gestured for him to speak. Osiander nodded. Marek told the king about the shipment of grain to Finland that had rotted in port, and how Finland was persuaded to turn to Alucia for grain.
“One shipment is not a conspiracy, Mr. Brendan.”
“There were the engines for the textile factories, as well. While en route, someone had them routed to Helenamar.”
“It’s been a bad season for sea-faring trade,” the king said. “More than one shipment has been held up or diverted because of storms.” He picked up his spoon. “Who stands to benefit if any of what you say is true?”
“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” Osiander said. “Felix Oberon would have everything to gain.”
The king put down the spoon. The footman glanced at his feet. “How dare you mention him to me.”
“Dromio’s father has a large interest in the coal mines,” Osiander said.
“But you said Dromio just gave them away. What sense does that make?”
“If I may speak frankly...it makes you look weak at home. They say you are ill. They say you gave away the mines to the Alucians when many in that region depend on the work. They say you undercut our grain exports and then insisted on a tariff, and now the landowners must increase costs.”
“We must raise revenue,” the king snapped. He picked up his spoon. The young footman watched the king dip the spoon into the soup bowl, then looked directly, and nervously, at Marek.
Marek would never know what he saw in that young man’s face. Fright, maybe? A desire to be free? But he looked at Marek, and Marek heard himself say, “Don’t eat it.”
The king looked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s poison. That’s why you’ve been so ill, Your Majesty.”
The king looked at the bowl, then at the footman.
