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The drink is bubbly, unlike anything produced by Castle Caladan's own extensive vineyards. The underlying tang of grapes is familiar, if sweeter than Paul is accustomed to, but there's something distinctly foreign in the flavor. Even without the strange tickle of carbonation over his tongue, Paul would know this drink was formed on some other world.
It's delicious though. He probably shouldn't have indulged a third glass, considering he's such a lightweight.
He retreats to the perimeter of the reception room, casually concealing himself amid an artful array of tall and tumbling potted plants. Small trees, cascading vines, flowering trellis work—all designed to look like chaos—and yet there is meaning in it. Not just art, but communication. There are words assigned to certain plants, and this arrangement signals welcome and caution and hope for successful understanding. Exactly the message needed for the opening of a potentially lucrative trade deal, though Paul is skeptical that any of the visiting dignitaries possess the knowledge to decode this meaning.
Still, his mother insisted, and no one in Castle Caladan would be foolish enough to defy the Lady Jessica. The very thought is inconceivable, and Paul finds himself chuckling as he tries—and fails—to imagine Thufir Hawat going toe-to-toe against such a formidable adversary.
He grins at the soft click of booted footsteps approaching his imperfect hiding place. "Sick of the party already, old man?"
Gurney snorts and takes up a position directly beside him. "I'm not the one hiding in a miniature jungle."
"Mmm." Paul takes another sip of his drink. It zings through him, warm and heady, and he savors the pleasant sensation. It's not often he drinks to this state of fuzzy intoxication. He doesn't normally enjoy it, and his duties generally make it a bad idea. He should not have indulged himself like this tonight—should be out there amid the crowd, circulating and exchanging pleasantries. His father will insist he attend the negotiations, and Paul should be using tonight as an opportunity to cultivate good first impressions.
He's reasonably certain he hasn't made any bad impressions. And he won't, so long as he lets the glass in his hand be the last one. But he should still be more mindful of his position and responsibilities.
Paul is suddenly grateful to have Gurney at his side. Not just for the usual reasons—the constant greedy desire to have Gurney near him—but because Gurney will run excellent interference if someone catches Paul in this state.
Gurney is excellent at public relations.
Paul lets his gaze sweep the room as he finishes the drink, taking in every detail despite the greenery interfering with his line of sight. The visitors all wear colorless garb, despite the supposed merriment of the event. A somber people, his father called them when briefing Paul before their arrival. The gowns and robes are all elegantly cut, as impractical and lovely in their tailoring as anything at the imperial court, and yet the same ashy hues pervade every drape of fabric. It's a strange contrast. Paul can't decide if he likes the effect.
The wine glass is empty now, but he startles when Gurney plucks it from his hand and replaces it with a tall, thin glass of cool water.
"Overprotective sap," Paul grouses fondly.
"Stubborn imp," Gurney retorts. Then, more softly. "Please drink it, m'lord. For my own peace of mind, if not for the hangover you should want to avoid."
"I'm not that drunk." But Paul raises the rim to his lips anyway, making himself take a healthy swallow even though it doesn't taste nearly as good as the wine. He keeps drinking when he sees how closely Gurney is watching him, not stopping until half the water is gone. He sets the glass on an enormous and unnecessarily ornate vase, and throws Gurney a cheeky smile. "You worry too much, old man."
"You make an old man worry." But Gurney softens the retort with a subtle smile of his own, and a moment later the back of his hand brushes against Paul's in wordless and unmistakable offer.
Of course Paul accepts the offer. His pulse quickens, just like it always does for Gurney Halleck, even though all he's doing is taking Gurney's hand.
"If you're so concerned for my wellbeing, you could find some excuse to get me out of here. Take me somewhere more private."
Gurney snorts with wry amusement, but when Paul risks a glance through his fringe of dark curls, he finds familiar heat in Gurney's eyes.
"Are you actively trying to get me court-martialed?" Even this—holding hands in the shadows where no one can see—is a risk. But Gurney's voice is teasing, and Paul knows there's no rebuke in the question.
He keeps his own voice low. "No. Just trying to get you alone. Don't you want that too?"
The crinkles at the corners of Gurney's eyes deepen, smile turning more expressive. "Aye, m'lord. But you know we can't. You'll have to be at the top of your game for tomorrow's ceremonies. The last thing you need is an old soldier keeping you up all night."
"All night?" Paul purrs. "Sounds promising."
"Behave, sire," Gurney growls, and the contradiction of deference and command is enough to send a shiver through Paul's entire body.
He lets go of Gurney's hand, allowing himself a soft caress of fingers along the battle-roughened palm. He needs to back off. If he doesn't, the muddle of drink and desire will make him do something even more reckless. There's no way Paul will risk endangering his father's mercantile negotiations—but he is even more loathe to get Gurney in trouble.
"Will you stay close, at least? Stay with me until this ridiculous fete is over?"
"Of course, my lord." Gurney bumps their shoulders together, and for an extra heartbeat, Paul leans into his warmth.