Grasp had other matters and, more important, his king to attend to. The meeting was going as well as could be expected. The room, deep in the heart of the palace, was not overlarge and was plainly furnished with good oak furniture, a table covered in scrolls and maps, and the two chairs they sat in. The walls were unadorned plank, with not a tapestry in sight. The plain wooden goblets they drank from contrasted with Grasp’s own gold-leafed version. He was the King, for Diana’s sake. All this so-called humility and “servant of the people” nonsense was seriously outdated! He really was ignorant of what went on beyond the palace gates. The truth was that society consisted of leaders and servants. It was the way of the wood. Feeding the poor with a feast once a year at harvest was not about to change that. Grasp and his Alder Councillors already controlled most of the wages in the country, skimming off the cream for themselves. Quercus really had no idea that he was effectively running the country in name only. This coup would put an end to his nonsensical ideas forever.

The flickering gaslight revealed a man of late middle age, strongly built, with a trimmed, graying beard, wide forehead, and hazel eyes that stared unwaveringly at Grasp. The King’s green gown lay loose at the waist, revealing a shoulder sash embroidered with gold-threaded oak leaves. The silk doublet on his chest and fine suede boots on his feet were both dyed dark blue, a color that none but the King might wear. The dye, produced from fermented knotweed represented the only crown that the trees wore: blue sky. On either side of the chair stood the two obligatory royal guards, their eyes fixed impassively straight ahead, their oiled muscles glinting in the gaslight.

Grasp felt sure of himself, even now eyeing up the room and working out how it would be redecorated once he was in power. The King was droning on, as usual, and then stopped, as if waiting. Suddenly, Grasp worked out that an answer was required. He took a punt. “It is something to consider.”

“But what about our borders? I fear for our little island. Do you think Maw is up to its old tricks again?”

Grasp cursed himself for stirring up the old man’s fervor, but he was prepared for this one. “Commander Flint’s patrols have met with no incursions. The gas that the trees have given off for generations is still doing its job.”

The King scratched at his beard as if he might find a different answer in there. “Yes, I suppose you are right.”

Grasp smiled placatingly. This was the King’s favorite phrase these days and he never tired of hearing it.

“It’s the technology I am concerned with,” the King continued. “We are the last frontier, a tiny kingdom holding out against the odds….”