Gustav appeared at his side, also holding a cup of theamber liquid, and a small skewer of dates and pink cubes.
“This is tea,” Gustav said, raising his cup. “They call it chai here. It’s made sweet. I heartily recommend it.”
Francis nodded. “And what are those pink things you’ve got?”
“Oh, these? Turkish Delight, most likely.” Gustav carefully nibbled at the top of his skewer, removing a pink cube with his teeth and chewing it. “Mm. Yes. Turkish Delight,” he said, mouth full. “Rose flavour. Do you want some, sir?”
“Not at present,” Francis replied. He was more concerned about what was expected of him when they got inside the palace. “What were you saying earlier about a tournament?”
Gustav nearly choked on his food, spluttering.
Francis gestured for Archie to come and assist. Archie strode forward, raised his hand and gave Gustav a solid slap on the back so he could cough up his Turkish Delight.
“Did that work?” Archie asked, as Gustav finished coughing and glared at him.
“You almost knocked me flat on the ground,” Gustav complained.
Archie turned to Francis and grinned. “It worked. Now, where are we going?” he asked, marching up the steps.
Francis followed, with Gustav walking alongside him. Behind them, Christian offered Maddie his hand as they ascended the steps.
“You said a tournament?” Francis asked quietly.
“Yes, sir,” Gustav replied. “A friendly tournament, but a tournament nonetheless.”
“Do we know what sort?” Francis asked. He could ride, fence, and play chess, but where Francis really excelled was in reading, and sitting quietly.
Probably a tournament wouldn’t have a reading race, sadly.
“Er, a little of everything, if I understand, sir,” Gustav said.
Francis suppressed a sigh.
That sounded tedious. Still, he was picturing some of the popular Stormburg sports and races. Maybe they did things differently over here.
He could hope.
Inside the palace, out of the sun, the air felt instantly cooler. The floor of the wide entryway was a pale stone, worn from many years of footfall. The walls were adorned with blue, white, and green mosaic tiles; a riot of pattern and colour. Above them, the ceiling was a tall dome, also adorned in colourful tiles leading all the way up to the topmost point. From the ceiling hung small, decorative lanterns in different shapes, and giving off a surprising amount of light.
Francis detected a rich, sweet, moist scent on the air, circulating in wafts like it was being fanned in. He also heard a commotion of noise; several voices, mostly male, all talking at once, and in a variety of languages.
This was to he expected for an international gathering, he supposed.
A group of attendants showed them through to a large reception room, lit with more hanging lanterns which created a canopy of sparkling stars against the domed, blue-tiled roof.
The room was already filled with people in the throes of chatting and socialising. In the centre of the space was an unexpected sight: an exquisite white marble fountain, three tiers tall, flowing with clear water. At its large base, the water pooled into numerous basins filled with fresh blossoms.
That explained the floral scent in the room, and why the air felt fresh; this fountain circulated the air and kept the room cool.A clever design,Francis thought.
“Mind where you stand, sir,” Gustav advised. “The waterruns in canals.”
“Oh?” Francis looked down to see a map of shallow gutters sunk into the stone floor for the water to run off into. In one of these narrow canals, a lone pink flower floated past his foot. Francis watched the flower’s journey as it travelled across the floor, between legs of patrons, before reaching a wall gutter along the far edge of the room and disappearing out of sight.
Francis was more interested in the architecture than he was in having to be social. But as he began to look around, noticing the male patrons, he realised he knew one or two of them already.
He spotted Wilhelm von Haugwitz, Duke of Saxony—a distant relation—talking to Giuseppe di Rivara, Marquis of Prié.
And there was Augie; Augustus Wittensbach, Duke of Bavaria—ex-fling, much to Francis’s eternal regret—chatting up the Count of Bellamarre, with Lord Francesco Visconti lurking beside them.
