"So, Pavel Romanovich, what do you think of my new coat? Quite the latest fashion and most suitable for a monarch of my stature dontchathink?!? The ladies at court won't know what to do with themselves, I'll be bound!" said Grand Prince Dmitry, ever the fisherman when sartorial compliments are not forthcoming.
"Of course, sire, it is most fetching. I do believe I've never seen the like in all my days..." replied Romanovich, squirming in his saddle, the little voice in the back of his head already warning him this wasn't going to end well.
"Ha! Ever the diplomat Pavel. One day you'll tell me what you really think and I'll drop dead from shock! Come now, there's something special about this new coat. I'll bet you a week's wages you can't guess what it is, not that I have any idea what I pay you of course. Go on now, have a guess..." The last sentence hung in the air between them like a string of beets without a horse.
"Well sire, it must be the buttons. No, hold on, it's the lace. No, wait... It's the fabric. That's it, the fabric is a brocade again, but this time it's doesn't match the curtains in the west ballroom."
"Faddle. Not even close my boy! Would it help if I tell you WHERE I got the coat?" prodded the Grand Prince. "Let me give you a hint, it's from that new tailor in the Old Town. What's his name? Grambowski? No, that's not it. Groobovshki? Not that's not it either... What the devil is his name now?!?"
Pavel Romanovich's face turned a shade whiter than normal. "Um, please tell me it's not from Gruberski's sire?!? You DO know he's related to that idiot map maker from Saxe-Coburn und Buchholz don't you?"
"Is he really? He seems to know his business." replied the Grand Prince. "That certainly does explain why I can't find the blasted special map pocket though..."
