It was an emergency high-level staff meeting, like many others called since the hydrogue attacks had begun. But this time, King Peter insisted that it be held within the Whisper Palace, in a room of his own choosing. The secondary banquet room he selected had no particular significance for him; the young king simply made the move to demonstrate his independence … and also to annoy Chairman Basil Wenceslas.

“You keep telling me my reign is based upon appearances, Basil.” Peter’s artificially blue eyes flashed as he met the chairman’s hard gray gaze. “Isn’t it appropriate that I meet with my staff in the palace, not at your convenience in Hansa HQ?” Peter knew that Basil hated it when the young king used his own tactics against him. The former Raymond Aguerra had learned to play his part better than the Hansa ever expected.

Basil’s studiously blasé expression was clearly meant to remind Peter that as Chairman of the Terran Hanseatic League, he had dealt with crises far worse than a petulant young king. “Your presence is merely a formality, Peter. We don’t really require you in the meeting at all.”

By now, though, Peter knew a bluff when he saw one. “If you think the media won’t notice my absence at an emergency session, then I’ll go swim with my dolphins instead.” He understood his tenuous importance and pushed, just a little, whenever he could. Peter rarely misjudged Basil’s limits, though. He approached each small battle with finesse and subtlety. And he knew when to stop.

In the end, Basil pretended that it didn’t matter. His primary advisors—Basil’s handpicked but diverse inner circle of representatives, military experts, and Hansa officials—gathered behind closed doors around a chandelier-lit table as a light luncheon was served. Silent servants hurried to place bouquets on the table, damask napkins, silverware; fountains trickled in three alcoves.

Peter seated himself in an ornate chair at the head of the table. Knowing his role, however, the young king listened in respectful silence while the chairman went through the agenda items.

Basil’s iron gray hair was impeccably trimmed and combed. His perfect suit was expensive, yet comfortable, and he moved with a lean grace that belied his seventy-three years. So far that day, he’d eaten sparingly, drinking only ice water and cardamom coffee.

“I require an accurate assessment of the state of our Hansa colonies.” He swept his gaze around his advisors, admirals, and colony envoys. “In the five years since the hydrogues killed King Frederick and issued their ultimatum against skymining, we’ve had considerable time to draw conclusions and make realistic projections.” He looked first to the commander of his Earth Defense Forces. Since he was Chairman of the Hansa, Basil was also the technical leader of the EDF. “General Lanyan, what is your overall evaluation?”