3
Of all the things Berkant had expected of living in the palace, it was not to be bored .
Restricted as he was, though, he had very little to do.
Meals, exercise, occasionally meeting with Captain Bahiyya to answer questions.
Three days had passed since he'd been given his new room, but he had yet to see Shafiq again, which was more disappointing than Berkant wanted to admit, even to himself.
Probably for the best he hadn't seen Shafiq again; gods alone knew what kind of fool he'd make of himself.
Shafiq was so far above him he'd have more luck catching a star.
Not that he had any such interest in Shafiq; he just wasn't blind.
Sighing, Berkant rolled to his feet and headed out into the hallway to do his next round of walking.
He tried to do a hundred laps each day, along with some other exercises in his room, so he remained fit.
He didn't particularly miss being bodyguard to one slimy weasel or another, but he would like to have something to do.
On the other hand, he wasn't in jail waiting to be sentenced to hard labor, so he hardly had anything to complain about.
A little boredom was bearable.
Maybe he could ask Captain Bahiyya for some books or something.
Surely that would not be too bold a request?
Berkant reached the dead end of the hallway and turned to walk back toward the open end—and stopped short as he saw Captain Bahiyya, as though summoned by mere thought.
She was with a woman Berkant didn't recognize, though really the number of people in the palace he did recognize was maybe ten, and all of them were royal guards, minus His Majesty.
"Good afternoon, Captain, my lady," Berkant greeted as they reached him.
"Master Berkant," Bahiyya replied.
"We've come to ask a favor—a very grand favor."
What in the world could they possibly need of him? That was a stupid question, though, because the only thing anyone ever needed of him was his martial skills.
Why, though? "At the very least, you have my curiosity."
Bahiyya and the other woman shared a look, and then she stepped forward.
"My name is Litta, Master Berkant, and I am the royal event coordinator."
"You want me to perform?" Berkant asked. "Why?"
"One of our performance fighters has fallen gravely ill and will not be sufficiently recovered in time to perform in three days.
Normally we'd scrap the event and simply replace it with something else; these things do happen.
However, three days will be the fifth anniversary of Her Majesty's death, and the banquet we've arranged is a surprise and commemoration for His Majesty, and we very much want everything to go according to plan.
Would you be willing to replace the sick fighter? I can introduce you to your sparring partner, and hopefully three days will be sufficient to learn what you need."
"You would of course be paid," Bahiyya added.
"This has nothing to do with the deal you struck with His Majesty.
I know our request is highly presumptuous, especially since you have retired from such things.
We simply could not think of anyone else to ask so last minute who would have the required skills."
Berkant's stomach roiled at being the center of so much attention again.
Where everyone would know him, his name, what had happened to him to drive him away.
The whispers.
The pitying looks.
The rude questions.
He couldn't deny the way his chest lurched, either, however.
The way his heart sped up.
Not just a chance to see Shafiq again, but an opportunity to show off for him, to put Shafiq's eyes on him, if only for a little while.
Gods above, he was stupid.
"It would give me something to do, at the very least," Berkant finally replied, "and I would like to repay His Majesty for the generosity he has shown me."
"Really?" Litta asked.
"Wonderful! Come with me, I'll show you the practice room, get you fitted for the proper clothes, settle your pay…"
Berkant looked to Bahiyya, who smiled ever so faintly.
"We're grateful for the help, Master Berkant.
As you've proven yourself to be an exemplary guest, you have my leave to roam the palace as you like.
Do not leave royal grounds and try not to wander at night."
"Thank you, Captain, that is most generous."
Bahiyya bowed her head slightly.
"Now that matter is settled, I must return to my duties.
Good day to you both."
Litta clapped her hands as they were left alone.
"I cannot thank you enough, Master Berkant.
I also cannot deny that I am more than a little excited, personally and professionally, to know the Jackal himself will be performing for us.
But come, we'll get you all settled." She motioned for him to follow, and Berkant fell into step alongside her, bemused and excited all at once.
He could not remember the last time he'd performed for anyone.
Since Parvaneh and their daughter had died, he'd stopped caring.
He'd turned down every offer that had come his way, until they'd finally stopped coming.
It had been strangely easy to accept this one, and not even because of his peculiar situation.
As pathetic as it probably made him, he just wanted to see Shafiq again.
Wanted Shafiq to see him, if only for a few minutes.
Litta led him into a training room that left his former one in the sand, and it had been nothing to scoff at.
The mats were of top quality, the right combination of sturdy enough to work out, but with enough give to lessen the damage of a fall.
There was plenty of lighting from the windows that ran along the tops of the walls, with lamps that could be lit when dark fell.
All manner of training equipment, with chalk, wraps, and more to assist.
Mirrors to watch form, a washing and bathing area, massage beds…
Once upon a time, this facility would have been a dream come true.
Even now he couldn't help the rush of excitement.
He hadn't realized just how much he missed this life.
Maybe it was time to return, if any of his old friends and associates had any interest.
He'd find out once his business here was concluded.
He reached up to touch his locket, smile bittersweet, before he turned his full attention to the task before him.
"Ashel," Litta called out, beckoning to a man working in one corner of the room, surrounded by fabric, trim, and a veritable wall of thread.
"We've gotten a replacement for Ven.
Could you come get his measurements, see what you can have ready in three days?"
"You love to deprive me of sleep, you useless woman," Ashel said with a smile as he rose, grabbed a tape measure and pad of paper, and crossed the room to join them.
He kissed Litta's cheek.
"Why do I continue to put up with you?"
"Because of what I did this morning," Litta said with a laugh, and pinched his butt before striding off, already calling to other individuals working on the mats.
Berkant smiled.
"Your wife?"
"Close.
We're getting married next month.
My name is Ashel, as I'm sure you heard bellowed." He winked.
"You are?"
"Berkant."
The man's eyes widened.
"Not the Berkant? ? Here?"
"I'm astonished anyone still knows my name," Berkant said with a laugh.
"Yes, that is me."
"I think it will be a very long time before anyone forgets the Jackal.
I watched many of your fights; I cannot believe I did not recognize you.
His Majesty will be delighted to see you have agreed to perform for him.
His wife was your greatest admirer."
Berkant had no idea what to say to that, but finally settled on, "I am honored to have been so highly regarded by Her Majesty, and can only hope I live up to her expectations."
"I have every faith.
Now, let's get you measured, hmm? Any color preferences or dislikes? You'd look marvelous in red."
"Not purple," Berkant said.
That had been the color he'd worn throughout his fighting career, and he preferred to start fresh.
"Red is fine."
Ashel smirked.
"I'm confident everyone will think it more than fine , or I'm not a royal seamster.
Come along, this way."
Berkant obediently followed and stood on the platform Ashel indicated.
The measurements were familiar still, invasive and impersonal all at the same time.
He hadn't bothered with more than second-hand clothes he adjusted himself in a long time.
"All right, Master Berkant, here are some color options for you, everything I have immediately to hand and can start work on today.
I favor one of these three," Ashel said, motioning to his racks of fabric and pulling out three.
One was an extremely vibrant red with a great deal of sparkle to it, good for performances, but a little too flashy for Berkant's taste.
The second was a much darker red with a subtle swirl pattern in a slightly lighter shade.
The third fabric was the very color of fresh blood, with thin bands of black and gold cutting randomly through it.
"This one," Berkant said, touching the last one.
"It's the most striking, without being as flashy as the first one."
"My choice as well.
I'll have it ready for the first fitting tomorrow."
Berkant thanked him, then headed for the mat where Litta was beckoning him.
Next to her was a man Berkant didn't recognize, but who was clearly a fighter by his physique, clothes, and stance.
He was also young, not more than early twenties.
"!" the man said excitedly.
"I never thought I'd be so honored.
Gee is going to be so angry he got sick." He laughed and bowed.
"I am Jorin.
It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Master Jackal.
I will do my best to keep up with you."
"Berkant is fine, please.
Jackal is what everyone else liked calling me," Berkant said with a smile.
"I look forward to sparring with you."
"Let's go through some warm-ups, and then we'll show you the key points of the performance," Litta replied.
Berkant bowed his head in acknowledgement, then moved to the south corner after Torin moved to the north.
Though he'd mostly done sparring matches his entire career, actual fights where nothing was planned ahead of time, he'd done his share of performance or exhibition matches.
They were just about to begin when Litta looked to the doorway, then abruptly lifted a hand in a signal to halt.
Dropping his starting position, Berkant turned to see who their sudden visitor was.
His stomach flipped.
A royal concubine.
So it was true.
He was heart-achingly beautiful; it was no wonder this was the man to garner the king's attention after he'd gone so long without taking any concubines.
His skin was flawless, gleaming ever so faintly with a hint of golden dust.
The dark hair was cut unfashionably short, stopping at his chin. Was it as soft as it looked? He wore a heavy choker of gold and rubies at his throat, and more rubies adorned his nipples and belly button.
The concubine moved with the grace of someone born to the life, so he must have been a noble or similar before accepting his new role.
Nothing remotely like a guard turned fighter turned hired muscle—and now turned informant to avoid a prison sentence.
Berkant certainly did not have such lovely hair or beautiful skin, and he moved like a fighter, always ready for the next round of trouble.
The realization he could never measure up to such a person shouldn't cut so deep, shouldn't leave him reeling with hurt, but it did anyway.
Why? It wasn't as though he had aspirations to become a royal concubine.
The idea was laughable.
He had wanted Shafiq to see him though, just for a moment, and this breathtaking concubine was a hard reminder that all he'd see was the fight.
Just like everyone else.
"Lord Nadir, an honor to have you visit us," Litta said.
"How may I serve you?"
"Mistress Litta, always a pleasure.
His Majesty was hoping you could arrange a simple performance by the dancers tonight for an unexpected guest.
It need not be too elaborate or long, simply enough to satisfy obligations as host."
"Of course, I'll put the troupe right on it," Litta replied.
"Your efforts, and theirs, are deeply appreciated." Lord Nadir bowed slightly in reply to Litta's deeper bow, and turned his eyes to Berkant as he rose.
"You must be Master Berkant."
"I am, my lord."
"It's an honor to finally have a face to put to all the tales I've heard of you." Nadir's eyes sparkled, like they held some secret treasure within their depths.
"What brings you all the way here?"
Litta replied, "Gee fell sick, and Master Berkant has agreed to replace him."
Nadir smiled in a way Berkant did not understand remotely.
"I see.
That will please His Majesty greatly.
Good day to you all." He turned and left as quietly as he had arrived, and Berkant tore his eyes away before he was caught staring inappropriately at the man only the king was allowed to touch.
Forcing his mind back to where it belonged, he resumed his opening stance, and this time Litta called the start.
Jorin was a highly skilled fighter, but right from the start it was clear to them both that Berkant had to hold back in order not to dominate the match.
If this was a fight match, rather than exhibition, he would have taken it in moments.
Litta put them through their paces, until even Berkant was feeling exhausted.
"Marvelous," she said as she finally called a halt.
"Tomorrow we'll go over the routine itself; I do not anticipate you struggling with it, Master Berkant."
Jorin laughed.
"Please, if anything all of this is too easy for him.
I haven't been this tired after a day of practice in years.
Thank you for going easy on me."
"A couple more years and you'll have to go easy on me," Berkant said with a smile.
"Thank you for the sparring, Master Jorin.
This is the most fun I've had in a long time."
Jorin returned the smile, and Berkant dared to hope that perhaps he was making a friend.
All the friends he'd thought he'd had before vanished when he'd fallen into grief, walked away from his fame and glory.
Bidding them good day, he headed off back to his room, where he lingered in the hot bath water to soothe a day of well-earned aches.
As a distant bell tolled, warning the dinner hour was approaching, he finally climbed out of the bath, pulled on a dressing robe, and returned to his room to dress.
He drew up short when he saw there was a package on his bed.
A small, rectangular item wrapped in a silken sash.
Tucked into it was a beautiful white and purple orchid, a rare and costly flower.
Heart suddenly drumming in his chest, his throat, Berkant sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the package.
Who in the world would leave him such a beautiful, costly gift?
They wouldn't.
It made far more sense that it had been delivered to the wrong room.
Except this entire hall was sort-of prisoners like himself.
The chances of a mistaken delivery must be ridiculously low.
Which brought him right back to the original question: Who in the world would send him something like this?
Heart pounding in his ears, he pulled the beautiful orchid free and set it aside, then undid the knot on the sash.
It was a work of art itself, the sort of sash meant to secure the pants he'd be wearing for the fight.
Ashel would probably make one from the same fabric they'd chosen, or perhaps from scraps he could spare from a contrasting fabric.
This though… this could have been made with his pants in mind.
It was black, with red and gold flowers scattered across it, like they'd been deposited by the wind.
The red and gold reminded him far too much of the rubies Nadir had been wearing.
Merciful divine he was losing his mind.
How had a simple job—protecting Ratti for the hundredth time—led him to this?
Unwinding the sash, he set it aside and finally examined the contents it hid.
A book.
Palm-sized, meant to be tucked into a sash or hidden pocket, carried around to enjoy during small lulls in the day.
Often they were books of prayer or poetry.
This one was the latter.
He'd thought unwrapping the gift would clear up some of the confusion, but this just made it worse.
Berkant couldn't remember the last time he'd read or heard a poem.
People tended not to waste poetry on the uncultured brains of fighters and thugs.
They definitely didn't waste expensive books of them.
Butter-soft leather, the words written in an elegant hand in expensive ink, the edges covered in gold, the corners reinforced… This was the book of a noble or an extremely wealthy merchant.
This had to be a mistake.
There was no other reasonable explanation.
Berkant carefully opened the book anyway, flipping through the delicate pages, skimming lines that he would probably never fully appreciate—and froze as he came to another orchid, delicately pressed between pages, and words written in red ink that stood out sharply against the blue-black ink used by the author of the book.
What do you think of this one?
Berkant tore his eyes from the red words and finally focused on the poem in question.
On the surface, it was just a poem about a man walking along the beach, staring out at the sea and pausing occasionally to examine the various shells and other items that had washed up on the shore.
One after another the man discarded countless shells… until at last he came to one that was rough, jagged along the edges, but with an array of beautiful colors inside.
Pain cut through him, the pain of losing the woman he'd loved with all his heart, the daughter who'd been dead before he could hold her.
The pain of years of loneliness, of one stupid decision after another, compiling into a life he hated.
The pain of realizing that what he really, truly wanted, was for Shafiq to see him, want him, as inexplicable and sudden as that realization, that desire, was.
For the first time since Parvaneh had died, it felt like he'd met someone who could understand him, who did not wait impatiently for his pain to go away and stop discomforting everyone around him.
Worse than the pain was the hope offered by a small book, a single poem and that taunting What do you think of this one?
Who'd written it? The playful words didn't really seem like Shafiq's style.
A certain concubine though, with a smile full of mischief and secrets in his eyes… that did fit.
Three days, then.
In three days he would perform, and perhaps in the aftermath he might feel less alone.
He didn't want to get his hopes up.
It was far more likely this book should have gone to someone else, someone better suited to the life of a concubine.
After living in misery for so long, though, existing one dreary day at a time, the hope felt too good to be denied.
He could only pray his hopes weren't in vain.