How the hell would he know? Max rubbed the grit out of his eyes. Damn it, his back was killing him. What had he slept on? And what was that nauseating smell? Ugh.Hesmelled like cheap perfume.
Gongggggg.
There it was again. Beneath the echoing, he could hear the murmur of anxious footmen and nervous secretaries. Good lord, Prinny must be beside himself with fury.
Then he remembered. The Chinese! A Chinese delegation was coming today and apparently, was already here. Max pushed to his feet, ignoring the way his temples throbbed.
“What time is it?” Christopher mumbled.
“Time to watch Prinny murder an impertinent delegation,” Max retorted. He had better hurry over to moderate any royal grumpiness. Max tugged on the bellpull then tried not to groan when a servant appeared with barely contained excitement.
“Yes, my lords?”
“Who is making that sound?”
The boy bounced slightly where he stood. “A whole group of Chinese, my lord. With a gong and a litter closed up with silk curtains.”
Gongggggggg.
Chris moaned. “Why won’t they stop?”
“They say they’ll bang it until the prince himself greets them.”
“Bloody impertinent,” Max grumbled. “Ringing a gong in a royal’s private palace.”
“They’re Chinese,” Chris said as he finished off a half glass of leftover wine. “What do they know about how things are done?”
Max didn’t answer. He was in need of some personal grooming. Fortunately, there was a place for his toilet and a footman nearby who attempted to repair Max’s appearance. It wasn’t possible. Not completely, but together they fixed the worst of the damage. Max was debating the need for a quick shave when the gong rang again.
This time the sound truly did bother him. It was loud enough to wake the dead, which meant Prinny would be out soon, ready to chop off someone’s head.
“Come along,” Chris said as he banged on the door. “Prinny’s up.”
Max finished with his cravat and headed out, easily keeping pace with the shorter earl. They followed the sound of the thrice-damned gong into the ante chamber of the throne room. The place was stuffed to the gills with Chinese. Two thick-armed men stood front and back between the poles of a curtained palanquin. They were the bearers of the litter which must have been heavy because they were opening and closing their hands as if unused to that kind of work. Two more big men stood behind and another two in front looking like officials. One carried the hand gong. And at the head of them all, grinning at the spectacle, was a gruff sea captain. At least that’s what was suggested by the braid on his lapels and the cutlass shoved into his belt.
Oh hell, the second official was about to bang that gong again.
Gonggggg.
The sound reverberated in Max’s skull hard enough to make him recoil. But then he looked at Chris and couldn’t suppress his grin. Both of them were anticipating a dinner tonight regaling friends with this tale.
“Stop that noise!” growled Prinny as he at last made it into the room. The prince looked like he’d just pulled on a dressing gown. The royal hadn’t even bothered with shoes, and his face was slick and slightly green. They had consumed a great deal of…well, everything last night, and the prince did not enjoy early morning surprises. Even if it was after noon.
When the gong continued to reverberate, Prinny waddled forward, grabbed the offending brass, and ripped it out of the Chinese man’s hand.
“What the devil is this about?” the royal demanded as he tossed the offending instrument aside. One of Prinny’s footmen scrambled to catch it and silence the brass note as it clanged against the wall.
The captain cleared his throat, pulled off his hat and bowed to the prince. “Your Highness, my name’s Captain Pugh, and I’ve been sailing between England and China since I was a boy. It’s a right good living, Your Highness, and I’ve made friends, so to speak, so when the Wong patriarch needed a ship to deliver his gifts, he picked me. It was an honor, Your Highness—”
“Yes, yes, man. Get to the point or I’ll have you hanged.” Prinny dropped onto a settee and glared balefully about the room.
“Er…yes… Well—”
Before the captain could say anything more, the lead Chinese official stepped forward, his silk robes flapping about his feet. He looked ridiculous to Max’s western eyes, especially the pointed red hat and the long black queue that descended down his back, but the man clearly took his position very seriously as he unrolled a parchment horizontally between his two hands.
Whatever was written was unintelligible to Max’s eyes. From his place against the wall, he could see some of the thick, black strokes of Chinese characters. They appeared like very beautiful, very ordered chicken scratch, though he’d learned toidentify a few characters over the years. The official spoke loudly in Chinese with unexpected bursts of volume in his already stentorian voice. And when he was finished, every foreigner stomped his feet, first left then right, then both together before they clapped left fist into right palm and bowed before the prince.
It was an impressive sight. Max appreciated the colorful outfits and the attempt at discipline. But it was merely an attempt. Even he could see that they weren’t true military. The bearers wore similar loose black shirts and pants, but the styles weren’t identical. Neither did the men stand straight while waiting, but slumped and shuffled their feet. But they all wore impressive short swords and had the muscles to wield them. It may look odd to him, but that was part of the fun.
