The Peacock
Jankin disembarked with the wind behind him, practically blowing him off the ship—and very nearly right into the filthy harbor waters. Thankfully, he made it to land safely, though after weeks at sea his legs were more than a little wobbly on land.
Dredging up everything said by the man he'd befriended on the voyage, a native Tavamaran who'd disembarked early after bidding him farewell, Jankin left the harbor and ventured into the city proper. It was alive and bustling as all large cities were. People shopping, meeting for meals, children running amuck. He pressed onward, stretching his legs and getting used to land again, but mostly eager to see the famed Market that many other countries tried to recreate, but had no true equal.
When he finally slipped out of a street barely wide enough for the little carts that everyone seemed to use for hauling goods around, his breath caught. There were more stalls than could be counted, each one covered with colorful fabric that seemed wholly unique, no two exactly alike, though it was easy to pick out the more expensive shops from the cheaper simply by how many colors, and how elaborate the pattern, of the fabric.
People talked and shouted, cut through with music, the bleating, barking, and other noises of all kinds of animals. The air was redolent with unfamiliar scents, and his stomach growled at the idea of real food, rather than bare ship fare that reduced eating to a miserable chore.
He'd learned Tavamaran in school before venturing off into the world, but hadn't used it much in other places, so had been practicing it diligently for months leading up to this visit, one he'd anticipated for years. He'd loved every place he'd ever visited, and looked forward to whatever he saw next, but Tavamara… Tavamara would be the crown jewel.
For one, like his homeland, nobody here thought it strange that men wore clothes as beautiful and delicate as what any woman would wear. They wouldn't look askance at a man who excelled at dancing, a skill considered feminine in too many places.
Two, there was so much to learn . Tavamaran music and dance were unique, with no other comparison in the world, much like their famed market. He'd studied what he could while he traveled, but there was nothing like the source for true learning.
Three, he'd always, always wanted to perform for the royal family. His teacher, more like a mother than a mentor by the end, had once performed for the previous king and queen. She'd spoken countless times of how much the performance meant to her, the reception she'd received, the attention and gifts.
Jankin didn't care about gifts. He tended to travel with as little as possible. He did like attention though. He had performed for nobility, royalty, people on the street, prisoners, sailors… He wanted to be one of the greatest dancers in the world, and he wanted to be admired. Simple goals, on paper, but in reality, it took a great deal of work.
And loneliness. The closest he'd ever had to a real relationship was with Ramsay, a Holy Protector of Tritacia. Quite literally ordained by god to take up the role, according to Tritacian beliefs and practice, he had been unable—unwilling, quite fairly—to leave his post. And Jankin had been unwilling to stay in one place. They'd parted as friends, and he did not regret his decision, but he would always ache for what could have been had their lives not been so disparate.
Finally feeling steadier on his feet, he approached one of the first food stalls he saw, and with very little struggle, managed to order some sort of stew and some lovely pieces of flatbread to go with it. At another stall, he requested something to drink that would go well with his food. That seemed to delight the man, who happily offered him several choices, the tiniest of samples in little paper cups.
Jankin wound up liking two of them so much he bought both, one for his lunch and the other to drink later. Wine, it was always called, but by the smell and taste, it had more in common with straight liquor.
When he had eaten, he finally set about finding a place to stay. He'd get a room for the night, and tomorrow undertake the far more arduous task of lodging he could rent by the week or month.
Thankfully, inns were easy to find, no matter where you went, always marked with clueless travelers in mind. Once in his room, he arranged his meager belongings—one large bag, one smaller bag, and plenty of space for the trunk he'd pick up from the docks in the morning after the ship had been fully unloaded. His prized new wine he set next to the bed to enjoy later, after he'd returned with dinner that evening.
Gathering up his wash things, he went back downstairs and followed the innkeeper's directions to the nearest good public bath, skipping the one she'd advised he avoid.
If there was one thing that didn't change much from country to country, it was bathing. Of all the countries he'd visited, which was most of them, including the many colonies of the Havarin Empire, nearly all had public bathing practices, especially in countries where water was not so plentiful they could afford for every single citizen to have their own private bathing chamber.
And the broad strokes of public bathing did not change much from place to place. Only the finer details, as what was considered polite or rude could change slightly, but it was one of those places in any country where he did not have to struggle to adapt.
It was also, surprisingly, a good place to meet people. Learn the good places to eat, where to find housing, what and who to avoid… and, ideally, how he could gain access to the palace, which in turn would give him a fighting chance at securing a royal invitation to perform.
This would be so much easier if he had an entire royal family to appeal to, but there was only King Shafiq, who was probably vastly more upset than Jankin could ever be that he had no family. Last he'd heard, which granted was months ago, he didn't have a harem either, which was tantamount to being unworthy of the throne in Tavamaran eyes.
Once he was shaved and clean and his hair combed and braided, he gathered up his things and returned to his room. It was only midafternoon, but he was utterly exhausted. A nap was definitely in order, and then he'd go find dinner and maybe sort out a place where he could dance tomorrow, start to garner the attention he needed to reach the palace.
When he woke, it was dark and considerably cooler. Digging a wrap out of his luggage, he freshened up and headed out, immediately enthralled with nighttime Tavala. Finding food took no time at all, and pleasantly floaty from the wine he enjoyed with it, he ventured off back to the market. He'd heard many a rumor about the night market, and he wanted to see how much of those rumors were true.
As it turned out, most of the rumors were true. There was no shortage of stalls selling sexual items, from toys to fancy lubricants to the actual services, though his impression from disapproving looks and stray comments was that market prostitution was frowned upon. Decent people went to proper, reputable brothels. Intriguing. He always forgot how strict and fussy other countries could be about such things. Even Tavamara, famed for its royal courtesans and not-so-famed for its historical ties to slavery, could be oddly strict about something as mundane as where people hired prostitutes. Well, maybe there was good reason for it, and he needed to withhold judgement.
Much fun as it would be to buy a new toy or two, that wasn't conducive to traveling light, so he quelled the urge and continued to wander around until he grew thirsty, at which point he was happy to let a wine merchant coax him into his tent to sit and try a flight of 'strong wines'.
Sipping leisurely at the offerings, he listened to the chatter around him.
"—saw them myself!" a man said earnestly, slapping his hand on the table.
"You did not! You went to the palace for a tax issue, why would the royal concubines be anywhere near the tax offices?"
"They were walking down an adjoining hallway! Surrounded by guards, of course, I didn't say I got a good look at them, but they were definitely twins! Can you imagine ?"
"No, because I don't have a perverted mind like you and our dear king."
"I just can't believe they allowed it—"
"He's the king, nobody allows or disallows him anything."
"The council does! What's the point of them if they let him just trot about with twin brothers as concubines!"
The second man snorted and poured himself more wine. "I think you sound jealous, not scandalized. The nobility are an entity unto themselves, leave them to it."
"I'm just saying—"
"Shut up and drink, and save your fantasizing about twin concubines for when you are home alone in bed."
The first man rolled his eyes but conceded defeat, and they moved on to gossip about some coworker and their boss.
Twins? Was that true? So the king did have concubines now; his gossip was thoroughly out of date. Did he have others, or just the pair? They must be lovely, all dressed up and attending him. Jankin had only ever seen a smattering of paintings and drawings of the royal concubines, and information about them and the inner workings of the entire system was scant. Tavamara was generous in many ways, but they rarely shared knowledge about their harems, not even with Rittu, Jankin's homeland, who had somewhat similar practices, though they operated quite differently.
Eventually, the second man left, and Jankin moved to take his seat, putting on his best smile as the first man looked at him in surprise. "I could not help but overhear your earlier conversation about the royal harem. I don't suppose you would tell a confused and curious foreigner all about them? I am hoping to perform there, and I'd like to learn all I could, and I know the etiquette regarding the concubines can be quite tricky for a foreigner."
The man laughed, immediately at ease and taking on a bit of arrogance. "No foreigner will ever get close enough to the royal concubines for that to matter. If you do manage to dance for His Majesty, at best he might be pleased enough to offer you a drink that will be delivered by one of them."
"How many concubines does he have?"
"Three, including the famous Jackal, though how he achieved that, us lowly peasants will never know."
"The Jackal? That sounds delightfully intriguing."
That was all the man needed to start talking: about a judge and a terrible scandal, their son taken as the first concubine after entirely too many years of King Shafiq having none. Then the Jackal had arrived at the palace. Some said he was invited to perform, others claimed he was arrested, some even said he'd been hired to try and kill the king but instead found himself bewitched.
And then, and then , the man continued on excitedly, hands going everywhere, the additional wine Jankin had bought them in danger of spilling, out of nowhere had turned up a young man who was the very image of the first concubine, the nobles' son, a secret twin hidden from the world for reasons unknown, and in only a matter of a few weeks, he too had joined the harem, scandalizing everyone. Such a thing had never been done, not since the dark days, when the harem could be any size, and tens and tens of men and women filled it to serve at the whim of the monarchs.
That, somehow, led into stories of the last harem master, and the fearsome king who had changed the practice to just five concubines per ruling monarch.
By the time the man wound down, it was only because wine and exhaustion were clearly winning out.
Jankin thanked him profusely, bought him a bottle of wine to take home, and paid their server extra for attending them so generously right up to close.
Back out on the streets, he opted to return to his room, far too drunk and exhausted himself to manage anything productive, especially as he was pretty certain the sun would be up in just a couple more hours.
So to bed he went, and when he woke again, it was late morning, the city alive and bustling. He dressed for exploring, and packed away dancing clothes on the chance he needed them, ever hopeful of the opportunity he was so desperately seeking.
This would all be so much easier if he had been born nobility, could throw around his family name to gain access to the royal court, even if only the fringes of it. Alas, he was the son of a cook and a brothel madame, nothing useful at all, though his mother probably still made the best pork-stuffed buns in the kingdom, and his mama had retired years ago as madame, but was still busy in the industry because sitting still was anathema to her.
A trait Jankin had inherited for certain. He couldn't even bear to stay in the same country for too long.
After securing breakfast at a cart, he headed back to the market, where it seemed like he had the greatest chance of finding a place to dance or, even better, people to dance with. People meant connections, and connections meant access. Access meant attention, and there was no better high than all eyes on him.
So he wandered, watching various performers scattered around the market, from singers and jugglers to painters and jokesters…and, finally, some dancers, taking up a small stone square near the front end of the market, at the end of a wide street that seemed to lead, in turn, to the main square at the entrance to the city. That was probably where the real attention was gained, but those spots would be highly competitive and fiercely protected, not somewhere a foreigner would be welcome, especially not one just wandering in off the street.
No, he knew how to do this. He got a spot right up front watching the current dance troupe, what seemed to be a group of three, though only one of them had any sort of stand-out skill. He caught the woman's eye, head moving in time with the music, and made teasing motions to command spins and leaps, little challenges for her.
Eventually, as he'd hoped, she dragged him forward as a new song started. "You speak Tavamaran, pretty boy?"
"I do," Jankin replied.
"Then dance, pretty boy, show us you have the right to be so bossy."
"As you command."
Jankin danced, letting his hair down because that always made an impression, especially in a place like this, where blonde hair would inevitably stand out. He spun and kicked and swayed, twisted and twirled and worked his hips the best he knew how, until the crowd around them had more than tripled in size and the baskets set out for coins were full.
By the time he stopped, he was sweaty and exhausted, but filled with the rush of attention and a job well done.
"You're no idle dancer," the woman who'd invited him to dance said, sitting down and handing him a cup of water.
"I travel a lot, always seeking to learn and improve."
She laughed. "Not sure how much improving you have left to do. Why are you here in the market when you should be dancing in the palace?"
"I'm hoping for that opportunity."
"I'd say you're certainly on your way to finding it. I wish I could help, but I'm still trying to get noticed by a professional troupe."
Jankin finished his water and returned the cup. "Dance alone. Your friends are good, but they aren't even close to you. Eyes look over the group and keep going. Dance alone. That will draw the eyes you need. If your friends have the same ambitions, they'll work harder for them."
The woman nodded. "I will. Thank you."
"Thank you for letting me dance. I should be on my way, mill with this crowd, see what that gets me."
"Your earnings!"
Jankin waved her off. "Keep the money. I wouldn't have gotten the attention without your kindness. Consider it payment for the service."
"As you wish. Best of luck to you, pretty boy."
He waved farewell and then slipped into the crowd, answering questions and accepting compliments, even the few coins that people insisted on giving directly to him. A few offered him wine, and he was more than happy to enjoy that.
Eventually, the crowd thinned enough he could slip away.
Almost, anyway, as a voice called, "Rittu!"
He whipped around in the direction of the voice, eyes landing on a small, slender man with the look of a scholar about him. "Sir?"
"That worked, marvelous!" the man said cheerfully, bowing slightly as he reached Jankin. "I was wondering… I have a friend who visited Petch a few months ago. He came back with tales of a beautiful Rittuen dancer who traveled the world, a man with long gold hair and eyes the very color of peacock feathers. That would not be you, by chance, would it?"
Jankin laughed in delight. "That is indeed me. Would your friend happen to be Lord Afsun Khoroushi?"
"That is him!" the man said, his laughter joining Jankin's. "Would you like to come to the palace? I'm sure he would love to see you again, and the whole court would love to see you dance, my new friend. Skill like yours does not come along every day, and deserves better than a corner of the market right by the old vegetables."
"I would need to collect my things from my room," Jankin said, "but I would be honored to dance for the royal court. I am Jankin Allard, at your service, my lord."
"Naheed Toor-Ali." He beckoned to someone—a servant, by the look. "Now, where are you staying?" Jankin told him, and the man sent the servant off running. "He'll bring your things. Come, come." He slung an arm across Jankin's shoulders and guided him away.
His plan had worked even better than he'd dared hope. Usually it took him a few days to secure an invitation even half as good. Thrumming with excitement, and maybe a little bit of wine, he happily let Lord Naheed escort him to the palace.
Upon arrival, he was swept off to meet more people than he could easily keep track of, putting his poor Tavamaran to the test. To judge by a few looks and chuckles, he still needed a great deal of practice. Food and alcohol—lots of alcohol—were pushed on him, and by the time he was led away to a room, he felt like he was floating.
The room was small, about the same size as his inn room had been, and beautifully appointed. He had seldom come across such a lovely guest room. Normally people like him were just slotted with the servants, and that was that.
Stripping off his clothes, he climbed into bed and fell quickly asleep.
Too soon, far too soon, he was woken by gentle shaking. Peeling his eyes open, he stared blearily at the unfamiliar face over him. "Hmm?"
"Master Jankin?"
"That's me."
"Lord Toor-Ali requests your presence."
Jankin sat up, shoving his hair from his face. He really should have stayed up long enough to put it up properly for the night, because now untangling and neatening it would be a nightmare. "Of course. Does he need me immediately, or do I have time to clean up properly?"
"You have time; he stressed it was not an urgent summons. I'm to escort you once you're ready. Shall I show you to the baths?"
"I would be grateful." Jankin gathered what he'd need and followed the servant down the hall to a beautiful bathing room, probably sufficient for the entire hall, judging by the size. That was generous. The last palace he'd visited, there had been one bathing hall only slightly larger than this for the entirety of the staff.
He bathed and dressed as quickly as he could, and a little more than half an hour later was following the servant through the halls, trying not to gawk like someone who hadn't traveled most of the world. Still, Tavamara was a beauty of its own, like nowhere else he'd ever seen.
Eventually, they came to what was obviously a training hall. Naheed saw them and lifted an arm to beckon them over. The servant bowed and departed, and Naheed slung his arm across Jankin's shoulders. "Come, come." He led him across the room to where an imposing woman was watching some acrobats practicing a routine. "Mistress Dali, I have my promised dancer."
She gave Jankin a thorough looking over. "You're certainly pretty enough. Let's see you dance, and maybe I'll find a place for you. I've already trialed five dancers this morning, and I've at least ten more coming later, so don't waste my time."
"Mistress," Jankin said. "What music will I dance to?"
She waved her hand at a troupe standing nearby. "They know just about everything. Tell them and let's begin."
Jankin considered his options and approached the musicians with a fairly common Rittuen piece, something he'd heard played just about everywhere. They smiled and nodded, and Jankin took up position where Dali indicated.
As he had in the square, he danced his best. He didn't know how to do anything else. This piece was less energetic than the dance in the square, which had been about being colorful and loud, catching attention in a place already overflowing with noise and color, standing out in a place where everyone else was striving to do the exact same thing.
This dance was far more technical, displaying skill and discipline, all that he was capable of, that he had mastered over a lifetime of dedication.
When he finished and bowed, he nearly jumped out of his skin at the unexpected applause, rising to full height to see that the rest of the room had stopped to watch him. In a room of performers, he'd captured their attention. That was certainly pleasing to his ego.
"Well, my lord, you did not lie," Dali said. "For once in your life."
Naheed grinned mischievously. "I have my moments, mistress. So you'll find a place for him?"
"Of course. Master Jankin, I will send word when I have you on the schedule. If you'll come by later this afternoon, we can schedule your practice times."
Jankin bowed again. "I am honored, Mistress. Thank you."
Dismissed, he left Dali and Naheed chatting. Could he find his way back to his room himself? How much of the palace could he explore before he accidentally went somewhere he shouldn't? What would happen to him if he did? To judge by the imposing, nigh on ominous looking guards posted at regular intervals along practically every single wall, he didn't want to find out.
Eventually, he found his way to a beautiful chamber, a perfect circle with an enormous statue of a handsome, regal woman adorned in colorful clothes and glittering jewels. Around her was a large pool divided into four quarters, the space between them made into walking paths so one could go right up to the statue. There were plants everywhere: around the statue, framing the pools, trailing down the walls, along the edge of the circle… The water made the room cool, cooler than the rest of the palace he'd seen so far, and the ceiling above had colorful glass panels that cast splashes of rainbow about.
Taking a bench, he sat to rest and simply admire. One entrance led to the palace, and the other seemed to lead out to gardens or something. So different from other places he'd been, where any entrance was staunchly guarded, and very limited sections were open to the public, the rest blocked off and trespassers not treated kindly.
Resting his head against the wall, he closed his eyes and simply enjoyed the breeze, the gentle trickling of water, the fresh scent of plants and flowers.
A deep voice that sent shivers down his spine. What.
Jankin opened his eyes and swept the room—and froze, breath catching in his throat. Well, then. What a sight to behold.
The man was enormous, an absolute wall of beautifully sculpted muscle and gold-toned skin. His hair was braided, stopping just between his shoulder blades, and there was a thick, heavy collar around his throat that suited him perfectly and invited all manner of illicit thoughts. There were cuffs at his wrists as well, and a gold chain looped around his hips. He wore black pants overlaid with a black skirt that was slit all the way to the hips. He was also bare-chested.
This was one of the famed royal concubines. Mercy. No wonder everyone talked about them so much.
He must be the one they'd called the Jackal, the one who used to be a fighter or something. He certainly looked it.
Currently, the man was speaking with a couple of people that seemed to be nobility. Around him, protective and ominous, were royal guards. Bodyguards? That made sense. Even leaving aside how beautiful the man was, how beautiful all the concubines must be, it was their access to the king that put them in the most danger. They had information that people could only dream of accessing, not to mention that as someone important to the king, they were also a weakness to use against him.
Must be difficult, to live knowing at any moment you could be kidnapped or killed just for the sake of hurting someone else.
Jankin closed his eyes again, going back to relaxing, until the voices moved on and all was quiet again. Then he stood, stretched, and carried on with his explorations, taking the path into the gardens.
They were extraordinary, lush and colorful, so vibrant with flowers and plants, birds and insects, water running and trickling everywhere, such a stark difference from the endless sands that Tavamara was famed for. He saw more than a few flowers that were from Rittu, including several colors of hibiscus.
Including his favorite, a rare type that was blue with green and white streaks, called a peacock hibiscus. He reached out to gently touch the underside of one petal with the side of one curled finger. Back in Rittu, he'd often worn them while he danced.
Smiling softly, he let the flowers be and carried on further into the gardens. People milled about everywhere, some walking like him, others standing in little groups, still others seated on benches. This was clearly a popular part of the palace, but why wouldn't it be? If there was anything that spoke to true luxury, it was all this vibrant growth and color.
Eventually, he came to a section of wall with guards posted all along its length. Not a back wall, he didn't think, he was good with directions, and this wall wasn't in the right place for that. No, this was blocking off a section of the palace. Restricted to certain nobility? More likely royalty. It would make sense the royal family had their own gardens, where they could relax in safety, rather than these more public gardens where they'd always be in danger—and also never really left alone.
When he'd finished his tour of the gardens, he made his way slowly back to his room, stopping only to ask a servant how he went about getting food and drink. Thankfully, the woman was kind enough to show him to the dining hall where staff and visitors like him ate.
Jankin thanked her, then went to stand in line, and in a short time had a tray of food and drink that made his growling stomach quite happy.
He hadn't gotten through even half of it, though, when a harried looking young woman came rushing up to him. "My pardon, sir, but are you Master Jankin?"
"Yes, I am…"
"Pardon, pardon, but Mistress Dali requires you immediately in the practice hall."
"Of course, I'll come at once." He stood—then stopped and stared at his tray. "Uh, where—"
"I'll attend it," the woman said. "She needs to see you immediately."
Jankin nodded and headed off, not quite running. What in the world was going on? What could possibly be wrong that he was required to help fix it?
Thankfully, his memory and sense of direction held true, and he made it back to the training hall without any wrong turns. He'd barely entered when a familiar strident, ringing voice called out, "There you are, Master Jankin!"