Chapter 23: Trouble Brewing.

Chapter 23: Chapter 23: Trouble Brewing.

Of course, he knew that Xena would try to refuse a dance, although why, he couldn’t fathom. Lord Hanqan was by no means an unattractive man or a bad dancer, and had been admirably nonchalant about that the whole...business with his second eldest and a certain difficult and rather indiscrete nephew of Gurdet’s. Overall, he was a pleasant fellow. Sometimes he wondered if she did it to spite him. He wouldn’t put it past her, she had to have inherited at least a touch of her personality from him, after all. But if he told Lord Hanqan that she would be delighted to accept, then she had no choice but to accept, and at least act believably delighted to do so.

There had to be some perks to being a father, after all.

So of course, his daughter was whisked off to the dancefloor on the arm of a noble gentleman –eyes narrowing at her father in a way that meant that he was probably going to suffer for his games one day.

Ahh, that was a problem for another time.

"Come to think of it," he mused dryly, mulling over Hanqan’s parting words expressing his sincere regret that the prince had been unable to make an appearance at the party. "Where is that dear nephew of mine?" he took a sip of his wine and adding, with audible irony, "I hope he’s not getting into mischief."

"He’s..." Vogrid paused, his mouth curling around the word as though it tasted unpleasant, "...Indisposed."

Shocking. Truly shocking.

No doubt Lord Sprida would be insulted that the Prince of Crade hadn’t deigned to make an appearance at his party –but inwardly relieved all the same time that he wasn’t there to make a right, royal mess of the evening.

Now, why couldn’t his nephew maintain a little sense of decorum in the public eye? Even the Lord Sprida –who irked Gurdet to no end –had managed to raise himself a son who was well-liked, well-mannered, and who (if he was sneaking around like young men his age were prone to do) at least knew the meaning of discretion. Said son a particularly comely young man with vibrant blonde hair and an equally bright smile was currently flirting up a storm across the room, with what could only be described as a horde of pretty-faced young noblewomen –never favouring one over the other and ensnaring them all with his charm. His father, stationed over by that horrifically tacky statue of his son, seemed pleased –the smug bastard.

Gurdet grimaced as he downed his glass of wine so he wouldn’t have to think about what a nightmare it would be to have to sit through another endless tirade from the Lord himself about how talented and perfect his son was.

Xena still wasn’t going to marry him.

"Is the wine really that bad?" a familiar, deep voice remarked from nearby, tinged with amusement, and Gurdet glanced over to see his Third Captain loping over towards him, a tankard of ale in one hand and his cheeks definitely looking a touch rosier than usual.

"You know, Bongo, it’s refreshing to hear you speak so frankly," Gurdet chuckled lightly as he held out his empty glass for Vogrid to (reluctantly) allow him a refill. "And the wine is perfectly adequate. I’m sure your men can attest to that." He nodded out towards the crowd in no particular direction, seeing as the guards and soldiers were beginning to scatter about, seeking food and booze and the warm embrace of a woman.

"That they can," Bongo admitted, though not without a grimace that heavily implied that he’d already had to deal with a couple of his subordinates who hadn’t been able to quite keep up with the rest of the pack, so to speak. "They’ve had a...productive evening so far." It was both worrying and impressive how much wine his fellows had managed to churn through already. He’d narrowly managed to prevent two brawls so far, and no one had fallen down the stairs yet, which he considered a victory, and he’d even somehow been roped into some ridiculous scheme to get Jaga alone with the pretty young lady that rumour had it, he was trying to court.

Trying, being the key word. Bongo wasn’t married, and he didn’t consider himself an expert at courting, by any means, but it felt like the whole process had been going on an awfully long time with not a lot of progress. Even now, he could see them sitting together at one of the more reserved tables –a respectable distance apart, of course, though that seemed more Jaga’s doing than anything else. Maybe he’d actually manage to ask the poor girl to dance, this time.

Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like fate was on Jaga’s side tonight, because before he had the chance to extend a hand to offer the young lady a dance, one of his fellow soldiers materialised at his side and tapped him on the shoulder.

How inopportune. And a little rude, considering Bongo had been under the impression that literally the entire palace guard was holding out for Jaga to get his girl. And not only did he interrupt, but he lingered. He lingered, and Bongo watched him whisper something in Jaga’s ear –and then, as though nothing had happened, he vanished back into the crowd.

Strange.

Even stranger was the fact that Jaga left his seat only a few moments later.

Then the whispering started.

It was subtle, muted –not at all like those hushed whispers that ran through crowds of nobles when scandals ran amok. No, this was different –this was a secret being passed around the men under Bongo’s command like a stolen bottle of whiskey, subtle and sneaky so as not to draw attention to it. It was a lone soldier sidling through the crowd and tapping one of his comrades on his shoulder, leaning in close and sharing something in hushed tones and then slipping off again without ceremony.

And Bongo watched the chain with growing apprehension, watched the way his men shifted through the crowd; watched the whisper fan out across the courtyard, travelling from guard to guard and spreading down tables like a plague.

"This is not good," he muttered aloud, shaking his head as he watched the trail of guards and the whisper it carried reach Albi. "Oh, this is not good."

"...Something wrong, Bongo?" his king inquired curiously, from where he was gazing rather blithely out into the crowd. There was no way that the strange movements of the guard hadn’t caught his attention, but when Albi glanced up, gaze directly locking onto Bongo’s, his expression conveying the state of affairs fairly clearly, the Third Captain figured he might as well humour him, for irony’s sake.

"Oh, take three guesses."

This was getting out of hand. And honestly, Bongo kind of thought that his king would share his resignation –after all, he seemed so weary of Khobi’s antics every time he had to report to him –but for some reason (and it was never a good idea to dwell on that sort of thing), Gurdet looked almost pleased.

"Wonderful," he said, taking a delicate sip of his wine, as though he’d just witnessed the opening scene of a particularly engrossing play. He was smiling –and that was probably not a good sign.

"Excuse me, Your Majesty," Bongo commented, setting his drink down and bowing to take his leave from his side. Albi hadn’t dropped his gaze, and he had the feeling that it was only a matter of time before the guards were going to have to swarm out into the castle, "I believe I have business to attend to."

"Very well," Gurdet replied, a little too flippantly, "Oh but Bongo..." He paused, almost contemplatively. "...Don’t alarm the nobles, will you?" he added, swirling his wine in one hand and eyeing up the crowded courtyard perhaps a little too keenly, "It would be...such a shame if something were to ruin the good Lord Sprida’s festivities."

Bongo wondered if all kings were like this, or if he just happened to be serving the exception.

He could at least pretend like he meant it.