As someone sat opposite him, Francis looked at the guest and realised it was Augie Wittensbach.
Oh, no.
Wittensbach spotted him too, and grinned. “Your royal highness,” he said meanly.
Francis smiled back at him. “Your grace.”
Table politics, Francis could manage well enough.
Thankfully, music piped up, providing a good enough distraction from less than savoury dinner companions. Servants brought trays filled with tiny glass cups of tea, and Francis indulged. He rather liked the sweet tea.
“Shall I make you a plate, sir?” Gustav asked.
“No, it’s all right,” Francis replied. “You eat, Gustav. I’ll dive in and experiment. When in Rome, eh?”
Gustav seemed surprised for a moment, then smiled. “Very well, sir. If I may suggest trying the skewered kebabs? They are very good.”
“Thank you, I will,” Francis said, reaching for the plate. Wittensbach reached for it at the same time and snatched the kebab stick Francis had intended to grab.
“Aren’t you worried, little prince?” Wittensbach grinned, brandishing his skewer like a weapon before depositing it on his plate.
“Worried about what? That you’ll take all the food?” Francis quipped.
Wittensbach snorted. “Worried you’re a tad too old to be here,” he said, staring Francis down as he pulled his kebab to bits and shoved a cube of in his mouth. “You know this is a physical tournament?” he said, talking with his mouth full. “Hardly your strong suit.”
Gustav stiffened beside Francis, ready to defend him. Francis subtly put a hand on Gustav’s arm to signal he had this.
“Lucky it isn’t a tournament of manners,your grace,” Francis shot back. “Or they wouldn’t let you in the front door.”
The man beside Wittensbach laughed, then tried to stifle it with a slice of pitta bread. Wittensbach glowered, furious, but he had no comeback.
He’d always been mean, but not so quick.
Francis smiled and sipped his tea.
“Bravo, sir,” Gustav whispered. He leaned in and picked up the plate with the kebabs, dropping two onto Francis’s plate, and two onto his. He set the empty plate back onto the table firmly.
Wittensbach pushed his plate away and looked for something else to eat. “Tastes like mutton anyway.”
Francis hoped the entire meal wasn’t going to be like this. When he glanced left, he saw Haugwitz, who was often meaner than Wittensbach but slightly more polite about it. To his right, at the head of the table, he spotted Montferrat and that newcomer prince with the long hair.
“Gustav, who is that gentleman?” Francis asked quietly.
“Oh, that could be Prince Hiro, of Japan. And the gentleman sitting opposite, cousin to the Maharaja of India.”
“They seem to be in a disagreement,” Francis replied, watching the two men arguing over who sat where. “How did they all get so far up that end?” he wondered aloud. And how didhe end up getting stuck with the other German speakers?
“What?” Wittensbach said loudly, as his aide beside him cowered slightly. “What are you talking about? Harem?”
“We are in the Harem, sir,” the aide explained.
“But we’re having dinner!” Wittensbach declared. “I thought a Harem was for sex?”
Gustav nearly choked on his tea.
“No, sir,” the aide explained. “The royal Harem is, simply put, the designated section of the palace reserved forwomen. Traditionally for the king’s wives, daughters, and, er, for the concubines.”
Wittensbach pulled a face and looked around at the servants. “Which ones are the concubines? I thought they’d be dressed like sexy belly dancers.”
