4
In the thrill of fighting again, and the anticipation of putting his best on display for Shafiq, it was easy to forget the real reason he was here in the palace at all.
To forget he was a well-treated prisoner, and well-treated only because he was backstabbing his so-called peers.
Not that he was losing any sleep over that.
Still, it was a much-needed reminder of all the reasons he might be getting his hopes up for nothing, poetry and teasing notes aside.
When he woke up, book of poetry still in hand, it was to almost immediately be greeted with a summons.
He cleaned and dressed, though his clothing options were few and none fit for a royal summons, and followed the guard who waited for him in the hallway.
They were taken to a smaller version of the throne room where he'd first met Shafiq and made his deal.
All along the left side was a line of familiar figures, each one of them in manacles and flanked by at least two guards, some as many as four.
Every last one tensed, even bristled, as they saw him, noted he was being escorted rather than led, and walked freely.
Approaching the cushions that had been arrayed on the floor several paces from the steps up to the throne, Berkant bowed low.
"Your Majesty."
"Thank you for coming so quickly, Master Berkant.
Please stand."
Berkant did as told, eyes still on the floor, though he couldn't resist the barest peek at Shafiq, and Nadir beside him, beautiful, elegant, and poised, the very definition of a royal concubine.
"Master Berkant, confirm for us please which of these people had dealings with your former employer."
"Yes, Your Majesty." Berkant looked carefully down the line and picked out the seven regulars, all of whom were dragged off to the side.
"Of the remaining, those two there—" he pointed to a pair of woman at the end "—we dealt with only a handful of times.
Three, maybe four.
The first owns a music hall, and the other a low-end brothel."
"Bucket," the latter of the two women hissed.
"Better a bucket than a child trafficker," Berkant replied.
A man in the group already moved aside stepped forward slightly and said, "You're not so innocent, and everyone knows it."
"I do not trade in children—in people at all, but especially not children."
The man just sneered.
"Please, like we don't all know what happened to you, what you'd do to hold a babe that isn't—"
Berkant didn't remember moving.
One moment he was standing close to the stairs, the next he had the stupid bastard with the stupid mouth pinned to the wall by his throat.
"Finish that sentence.
Finish it and I'll be executed for murder, but only one of us will die quickly."
"Master Berkant! Let him go!"
Only the fact that it was Shafiq who gave the order allowed Berkant to slowly pry his fingers away and step back, going without resistance as his guards hauled him across the room, putting distance between him and the infuriating bastard with a death wish.
"What in the world was that about?" Shafiq asked, motioning for the prisoners to be hauled away.
When it was just him, Nadir, Berkant, and the guards, he descended the stairs and stopped just a couple of paces away.
"What did he mean about holding a babe?"
Berkant wanted to scream.
Couldn't people just leave him alone? Why did they always want to tear his wounds open? He wasn't their fucking spectacle.
"My wife died in childbirth.
The babe, a girl, was stillborn.
I think he wants you to believe that I am party to the child trafficking in the hopes of getting myself a new child.
Which isn't true."
"Merciful Divine," Shafiq said—and then startled all of them, alarming the guards, by embracing Berkant tightly.
He was warm, and smelled like sandalwood and jasmine, his arms heavy and solid as they held Berkant close.
He was slightly smaller than Berkant, but so much bigger in ways far more important than physical.
Drawing back, Shafiq gripped his arms.
"I am so sorry.
That is not a pain anyone should have to endure.
I lost my wife… I cannot imagine… No one thinks you capable of being party to this, I promise.
You're free to go for the day."
"Than—Thank you, Your Majesty." Berkant stepped back, and back another step, before he did something stupid, hands curling into fists at his sides.
His guards led him away, and it took everything Berkant had not to look back at Shafiq one last time.
Back in his room, he sat on his bed, already exhausted and done with the day.
He reached up to curl his hand around his locket.
Why couldn't people just leave him alone.
Especially now, when he was trying so hard to finally move on the way Parvaneh would have wanted.
He jumped slightly when a knock came at the door, and sighed at himself before going to answer it.
A servant stood on the other side and smiled, bowing her head slightly.
"Master Berkant, your presence is requested by Master Ashel.
Shall I escort you?"
"That would be appreciated, thank you, just give me one moment, please," Berkant replied.
Going to the small desk in his room, he fetched the sash that had been wrapped around the book of poetry and tucked it carefully away in a pocket.
Back in the hallway, he fell into step behind the servant as she headed off.
Strangely, no guards came with them, and none of the other guards they passed seemed to think this was strange.
Well, Berkant certainly wasn't going to bring attention to the lapse.
He completely understood why they were necessary, but that didn't mean he enjoyed the constant reminder that he was a prisoner.
Though as to that…
The concubines were always under constant watch, escort, save when they were alone with the king.
That was different, though.
Those guards were to ensure their protection, not to ensure they didn't try to escape.
Was there an appreciable difference? Did it really matter, when it was a non-negotiable requirement of royal concubines?
Did he really think he would ever have cause to know?
What do you think of this one?
He would keep hoping.
Cling to the feel of Shafiq holding him, the kindness and true understanding in his voice as he offered words of comfort, and keep hoping.
When they arrived in the training hall, Ashel immediately motioned from across the room.
"Come, come!" he called.
"I have you ready for a fitting."
"Good afternoon, Master Ashel.
I actually had a question about my outfit: would it be possible to use this for the sash?"
"Oh, what have we here? Where did you come by this?" He ran his fingers over it, eyes full of gleaming approval.
"I know people who would cheerfully murder to obtain a single length of this fabric, and here you are with two lengths."
Berkant frowned, annoyed with himself for not having anticipated that question.
"It was a gift, after a fashion."
Ashel looked at him with too much knowing, though what he could possibly know, and how he could know it, was impossible to determine.
"I see.
Yes, it's too beautiful not to use, and goes perfectly with the fabric you already picked out.
Making a sash won't take more than a couple of hours.
Try on the pants, and I can finish the whole ensemble tonight."
"As it pleases," Berkant replied, and took the carefully pinned pants behind the changing screen.
The fabric was soft and cool, fluid enough he would be able to move easily in it, yet fitted perfectly to him, even better than those he'd worn as a professional fighter.
Ashel sighed in satisfaction as he stepped out from behind the screen.
"Marvelous.
You really are made for that color, Master Berkant.
With this fabric as your sash, there will be a perfect contrast in patterns.
You have a good eye for such things, if you ever wanted a change from fighting." He winked, and then got to work on adjustments, though what adjustments could possibly be needed, Berkant couldn't begin to fathom.
When he was done, Berkant headed for the mats, where Litta and Jorin were conversing quietly.
"How did the fitting go?" Litta asked, smiling as he joined them.
"The colors certainly suit."
Berkant laughed.
"All the years I fought while wearing purple, I clearly should have gone with red."
"Indeed you should have," Litta said with a snicker.
"Let's go through the main parts from yesterday, and then we'll add the details today.
By tomorrow I think you'll be able to do the whole routine with no problem.
Let's begin."
Berkant took his position in the farthest corner, Jorin the nearest.
Fighter exhibition matches had more in common with dance routines than duels.
They had started centuries ago as a way for soldiers to prove themselves without hurting each other, as the intricacy of the performances displayed skill and aptitude at least as well as an unpredictable fight.
They'd moved on from there to being popular in many other places, eventually reaching the royal court as a way for nobles to show off their children, the monarchs their concubines, and so forth.
Dancing would always remain the favorite form of entertainment, but exhibition matches were a close second.
As the occasion was an important one, this exhibition was even more intricate than usual.
There weren't many people with enough skill and knowledge who could fill in as a last-minute replacement.
Even for Berkant, memorizing the whole thing in less than three days was going to be difficult.
Thankfully, a lot of the movements flowed intuitively into one another.
There were few dramatic deviations, and those were what they'd worked on first.
Now they were just linking those together.
They practiced for hours, stopping only for brief breaks to rest and drink water.
By the time Litta called a halt for the day, Berkant was flushed and sweaty, and exhausted enough to sleep the rest of the day, though dinner was a few hours away yet.
"I think this will go beautifully," Litta said.
"Well done, both of you.
Tomorrow we'll run through the whole performance until you can do it in your sleep.
The banquet is the day after, and we'll have a brief practice in the morning as well."
"Of course," Berkant said.
"Unless you've further need of me, I'm going to get a bath and food."
They laughed, and Litta dismissed him.
A servant handed Berkant a hand towel as he stepped off the mats, and he took it gratefully, wiping away the worst of the sweat as he headed out of the training hall and slowly back to his own room.
Where another gift lay on his bed.
Berkant's heart jumped into his throat.
The box was rectangular, relatively shallow, and surprisingly heavy as he picked it up.
It was wrapped in another strip of fabric, though this was simple black, wickedly soft and faintly shimmery, and tied off with gold silk cord.
Something about the fabric…
He nearly dropped the box as he realized what was blatantly obvious.
The fabric was harem black.
No one else in the entire kingdom wore this particular fabric.
Rumor had it the material was kept under lock and key somewhere in the palace.
If that was true…
Berkant dropped down onto the edge of his bed, holding the box in his lap.
He pulled away the cord and fabric, revealing a box of dark, reddish-brown wood, plain save for the top, which had a gold inlay of songbirds playing amongst flowers.
He knew the jewelry maker well, or at least the shop, as it was one they'd passed making the rounds delivering smuggled booze.
Why in the world would someone be giving him jewelry?
Heart drumming in his ears, drowning out everything else, he flicked the catch and opened the box.
Cuffs.
Beautiful gold cuffs, both for his wrists and his upper arms, made to look as though strips of gold had been elaborately braided and wrapped.
He'd never seen anything so fine, not this close at least, except perhaps for the rubies that adorned…
Berkant took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
If he'd had any doubts about his gift giver, that mystery was most certainly solved now.
The real question was if His Majesty was party to it, or if this was solely the work of Lord Nadir.
He had a feeling it was just Nadir.
Shafiq seemed… not as mischievously inclined.
Or at least his mischief would be more private and contained.
How was Nadir able to leave the packages? Were there servants or guards helping him? Were the rumors of secret passages true? But why would a secret passage lead to the hall that was essentially for special prisoners?
So many questions and not a single answer.
Closing the case, he set it on his table and went to finally get a bath.