2
He bowed as he reached her. "Mistress Dali. I was told you needed me quite urgently."
"Yes, and what a strange twist of fate I had you to call upon," she said. "Do you know the name…" She frowned at a piece of paper clutched in her hand. "Torika Halk—"
"Prince Toryka Halikazen. Yes, of course, it would be hard to grow up in Rittu and not know his name." He wasn't actually a prince, but other countries didn't have an equivalent for the space in society that Halikazen and only a handful of other persons occupied. They were higher than nobility, lower than royalty, a position of honor and power that could only be earned. Eshar was the title, but depending on the country, it was always translated as 'lord/lady' or 'prince/princess'.
Some of the tension eased from her shoulders. "His ship apparently was severely damaged in a storm, and he was forced to stop in Tavamara to make repairs. He has been invited to stay in the palace as a personal guest of His Majesty, and we must put together an array of performances for the banquet tonight. You are Rittuen, so you seemed a perfect choice. You'll be paid appropriately, of course."
"I would be honored to perform."
"Splendid," she said, even more of her tension fading, as though she'd genuinely believed he might refuse.
As if. Perform for Tavamaran royalty and an eshar at the same time? He'd only performed for one other eshar in his life, out of the thirteen that existed, and she'd been a half-blind old woman who probably hadn't even cared. He could not care less about the money; he was salivating for the attention, the fame.
"I have my own dance clothes, including those fit for royal performance, but I don't know if the color or style…"
Dali waved a hand. "The royal seamsters will be here in a couple of hours to get you properly attired, though this is so last minute, they will likely just be adjusting what we already have. For now, that section is yours for practice. A longer dance would be preferred, something in the five minute range, if you can handle that."
"I can handle that." It was on the longer end for a complex solo performance of this type, but he'd certainly danced longer. He wouldn't call himself one of the best in the world if he hadn't. "Let me return to my room for my practice clothes; I'll be right back to get to work. Would you like to approve the dance? I have three in mind."
"Showing me three complex dances would be needlessly exhausting. I've already heard much about you since we last spoke. , they call you."
Jankin laughed. "Always preening and showing off, that's definitely me."
"Well, you do have fine feathers. Get your clothes and get to work, Master Jankin. I'll let you know when the seamsters are here."
"Yes, Mistress." He hastened off back to his room, where he fetched his practice clothes and fans, since any dance of this nature would always include props, and he favored the traditional fans most of the time.
He slung the bag holding everything over his shoulder and headed out again, wending carefully through the mazelike palace so he wouldn't get lost. Though he'd already walked it so much today that he was starting to get at least some of the main portions down. If he lingered long enough, he'd have all the public places memorized in no time.
Back in the practice hall, he quickly found the changing area—a simple screened off section, a bit different than most places he'd been, but he had seen it before—and then returned to the spot assigned to him for practice.
As he would be performing that night, he didn't want to overexert himself now, so he stuck primarily to warm-ups and other basics, only running through the most difficult parts of the dance to ensure he could still do them flawlessly. Which, of course, he could.
When he came to a stop, it was once more to a small round of applause. "The seamsters are here, Master Jankin, and with a few options for you." A woman offered him a towel and cup of water, which he thanked her for profusely.
After that, he followed a trio of seamsters, in their aprons with needles, thread, and more on their person, over to the screened off areas, where piles of fabric awaited.
Surprising no one, they went with a peacock green skirt trimmed in gold and silver and glittering crystal beads, something made for a different dancer at one time that was never used, or was only used once, he wasn't clear on that. He had a fan that would go perfectly with it, and someone would be along to do his hair.
Once all of that had been settled, he returned to his room to bathe so his hair had plenty of time to dry, then asked to be woken before he lay down for a couple of hours, enjoying the breeze and scent of flowers that drifted in through the window.
A servant woke him when requested, and he grabbed his peacock feather fan and headed back to the dance hall to do one last round of light stretches before he dressed in the beautiful skirt and submitted himself for final preparations. His hair was mostly left loose, with a few small braids to add interest, and tiny crystal beads scattered throughout to catch the light. His eyes were painted a shade to match his skirt and further lined in black. Then he was given gold jewelry set with precious stones in blues and greens. He had fine jewels of his own, but nothing like this. "These are beautiful."
"From the royal vault, with permission of His Majesty," the woman who painted his face said. "He was told of your skill and reputation, and wanting to make his guest happy, said we might borrow royal jewels for you for the night."
"I am honored." Which he truly was, because royalty did not share their personal property lightly. At some point these jewels would have belonged to a king, a queen, a prince or princess, or perhaps a concubine. His Majesty had not even met Jankin, or even seen him, to his knowledge. Lending him jewels for a performance unseen was ridiculously generous. "I will do my best to earn the trust and generosity."
Dali chuckled. "As I said before, your reputation has spread through the palace. Fiercely, like a wildfire. The rumors reached even His Majesty's ears. This visiting prince is a genuine friend of his, as I understand it, so he probably thinks he is giving his friend quite the pleasant surprise." She clapped her hands together briskly, dismissing the others. "One last thing for you, Peacock. Should your performance be as good as I expect, the king will thank you personally. Do you know the custom?"
"I do not. Usually I'm given flowers, delivered to my room later or handed to me by a servant."
"This is similar. He will send one of his concubines to you there on the floor with a cup of wine. Drink it from the concubine's hand, do not try to take the cup. Thank the concubine quietly, then His Majesty loudly. Do not say anything else to the concubine unless it is in reply to something they say. Understand?"
"I understand. Thank you for the guidance, it is deeply appreciated."
She smiled. "It's a pleasure working with you, Master Jankin. Come, I'll walk you to the waiting room."
"Thank you." He followed her out of the practice hall by way of a door he hadn't noticed before, which led to a narrow, dimly lit hallway that spilled into a beautiful green and gold room in a peculiar octagonal shape.
"We call it the octagon, for obvious reasons. I believe back when the palace was still quite small, more manor than palace, this was a space for private performances, if you know what I mean," she said wryly.
"That would rather explain the design, the way benches for viewing could line the wall. I bet there was a dancing pole or something in the center once."
She laughed. "You do know your dancing, every crevice and corner, don't you?"
"I learned pole dancing as part of my training. It's more common across the world than you might think. Rittu has competitions for it, actually."
"That would be fascinating to watch. Anyway, make yourself comfortable. Everyone else will be here soon. You are the fifth and final performance. Shortly before the fourth performance ends, there will be a bell, at which point stand before those doors. From there you'll be escorted to the entrance doors. At the door man's signal, the doors will open and you'll enter. Go to the center of the room, it will be clear and obvious. Once in the center of the floor, bow to His Majesty, and he will signal to begin. You'll be given a moment to get in position and then the music will start.
"At the end of your performance, bow once more, and after that you exit the room, unless the king offers you a drink, and then you can exit the room, at which point return to the door. Normally, you'd be free to go on your way from there, but in your case, you'll need to go back to the practice hall so we can return those jewels. It's possible you'll be invited to join them for the rest of the meal, in which case you should return to your room to wash and change, and a servant will escort you back to the banquet hall. That does not typically happen with performers, but you are a special case, as everyone will know when they see those jewels. Best of luck to you."
"Thank you."
Dali left, and Jankin took a seat on one of the many plush benches, by a pitcher of water and several beautiful cups, each made of a different color glass with gold-painted rims.
One by one the other performers trickled in—a trio of what he thought might be actors, likely here to perform some small scene from a popular play or something similar, a juggling troupe, a couple of women with knives who must be performing a duel or something. He vaguely remembered reading that duels and other martial displays were popular in Tavamara. The final person to arrive was a handsome man who also looked like a dancer, larger built than Jankin but graceful and lovely in his movements. He wore dark blue with silver and diamonds, and also carried knives, though they were the dulled ones used by dancers and not the very real ones the women possessed.
"Hello," Jankin said with a smile. "I'm always excited to meet fellow dancers."
Instead of replying, the man only stared at him coldly before pointedly turning away.
Jankin's smile faded, but he only stifled a sigh and focused on his water. Jealous peers were, unfortunately, something he was long used to. He could even understand it, to a point. This man was probably well established, highly skilled and sought after. He'd likely worked extremely hard to reach the point of performing for the king at a royal banquet. Whereas Jankin had shown up and, through mostly chance, gained the same spot and been given royal jewels to wear. In this man's eyes, he hadn't earned any of it. He'd just shown up, looked pretty, and gotten lucky.
And certainly it was luck to a point, but he was good . The best, in many cases, and always at least one of the best. He wouldn't be here if he was average or even slightly above average. He didn't even have nepotism or anything to lean on. Well, that he was Rittuen and quite famous, but again, he'd become famous by being not just good but amongst the best.
Whatever. If yet another dancer wanted to hate him for stupid reasons, so be it. There were reasons he traveled alone and would likely always be alone, even if with every passing year, he wished more and more that wasn't true.
He thought again of Ramsey, but they'd chosen to part ways, and he couldn't undo the past. Ramsey was probably long happily settled with someone—or someones—by now, anyway, and Jankin only a distant, hopefully fond, memory.
A bell rang, and everyone else in the room stirred. The jugglers went to the main door, and just seconds later departed. As the doors closed and everything settled again, one of the actors said, "You're the fancy Rittuen dancer everyone has been talking about."
"That is me, yes. My name is Jankin."
"What makes you so special?" the other dancer asked sourly. "Appear out of nowhere, and suddenly you're dancing at the banquet in jewels people would kill for? Ridiculous."
Before Jankin could reply, one of the duelists said, "Surely you of all people should know about him, Raffa. He's that dancer that travels the world, performed for royalty, nobles, everyone. The golds have been oohing and aahing all day that he's finally come to Tavamara. They keep talking about some tournament he won."
"Not a tournament, but a contest, which is a little different. It was a test of endurance," Jankin replied. "Who could dance the longest without stopping. I could barely move for two days after. I danced for three days without stopping, save for very brief breaks for food, water, and such. No break was longer than two minutes. It was exhausting." He had won a purse that would have seen him living like a noble for quite some time—the rest of his life, if he was smart about it. He had kept a small portion and given the rest away to a temple that helped the poor after verifying they would help and not simply keep the money for themselves.
It was also where he'd gotten the beautiful peacock fan he was using tonight, along with a wrap and hairpin to match it.
Raffa did not look appeased. "That isn't possible."
"An entire country will confirm it," Jankin said lightly. "I'm not here to steal anything from anyone. I thought I would be performing some days or weeks down the road. Not today. Then an Eshar got stranded."
"How convenient for you."
Clearly the man had made up his mind about Jankin and would not be changing it. "I am aware how fortunate I am, believe it or not. However, I am also good at what I do, and my skills are what made this possible at all."
"And so modest," Raffa said sneeringly.
"I have no need of modesty when my skill is true and hard-won."
"Damn right," said the other duelist. "Modesty serves a purpose, but not here. We are the best of the best, all of us."
Raffa said nothing.
Jankin stifled a sigh, pondering what else he could say that would get the man to hate him less, because he would rather make friends than rivals, but before he could speak, the bell rang again, and Raffa stood, going to the door.
Then it was just him, the duelists, and the actors. "Actors, right? Or am I wrong?"
"Actors indeed, performing a short. They're increasingly popular because they work so well for banquets and such. Only our third time performing in the royal palace, and first time at a royal banquet."
The second one added, "Never performed for a fancy foreign royal either."
"He's not really royalty," Jankin said. "Eshar are sort of in between royalty and nobility. Like nobility with extra sparkle, I guess. They're highly respected in Rittu because it's a title that must be earned. It's not inherited or gained inevitably through duty or career. It's awarded for great and significant deeds. Eshar Halikazen saved an entire town from a terrible fire, along with many priceless treasures in that town. Eleven people died, mostly the elderly, but if not for his efforts, that number would have been in the hundreds. He has other deeds, great and small, to his name, but that is the one he's most famed for. The Eshar I once performed for discovered a cure for a terrible disease that killed hundreds of children every year."
"Tavamara just hands out medals and calls it done," the third actor said with a laugh. "Can the title be taken away again?"
"Yes, but I cannot recall when that ever happened. Generally people who do such monumental things are not inclined to do terrible things. Or, I suppose, they're far too good at hiding it." If nothing else, they would never want the shame of having something so honorable and important taken away. "So what is your play about?"
"It's a tragic romance bit, based on a popular poem. I think His Majesty has had people do dramatic readings of the poem before. He's well-known for enjoying such things. More before his wife died, but lately he's been more like his old self. As much as one can be, anyway, after losing a deep love. Maybe that's why the poem seems to be a favorite? At any rate, we will perform it to the best of our abilities."
"I have every faith you will, and wish you the best of luck."
"Thank you. Best to you as well, of course."
Conversation lapsed after that, the other groups content to speak amongst themselves, and Jankin happy to have the time to himself, to focus and prepare, get his head in the right space. A pity Raffa had been so stubbornly set against him; he wouldn't have minded making a friend in a fellow dancer, somebody he could talk trade with, learn from and teach in turn.
The bell rang again, and the actors departed, leaving only Jankin and the duelists. "How does one get into dueling for entertainment?"
"We picked it up from dancing, actually," the first woman said. "We were both in the military for a short time, that's where we met. We liked dancing, so when we left the military, we signed up with a troupe, and we had enough skills with knives that they taught us a traditional knife dance from the Great Desert. Something from the Scorpion Tribe, I think. Anyway, we liked it a lot, and made it a duet, and then somehow it just became more and more of a duel. Took some time before we could do it with real knives."
The second woman added, "Honestly, we could probably stick to props, but the audience always get such a thrill out of knowing they're real that we may as well keep with it. We're good enough we never get more than minor nicks at worst. It's not like it's a real duel."
"I've seen real knife fights," Jankin said, sharing the grim expressions that fell over their faces. "Nobody walks away from those, in my experience."
"They don't," the first woman agreed.
Nearly half an hour or so passed before the bells chimed again, and Jankin wished the duelists well before he was left entirely alone. He hoped the other performances had gone well. There was nothing quite so crushing as reaching such a pivotal moment only to ruin it—or have it ruined for you, which was so much worse. One thing to make a mistake, to have only yourself to blame. To have the moment ruined through no fault of your own? Because of someone else's carelessness, or selfishness, or maliciousness? That was a much deeper bitterness, and so much more difficult to overcome.
The bell rang, and Jankin rose, shoving down the nerves that always struck him at the last moment, as if waiting to rush up and sabotage him.
At the door, a servant with markings on her clothes that he didn't recognize smiled and nodded, beckoning him to follow. As silence seemed to be the rule, Jankin remained quiet as he obeyed.
The woman left him with a bow at a set of double doors with ornate engravings of flora and fauna, overseen by four guards and two servants, one of which beckoned him close with imperious gestures. "You were prepared?"
"Yes," Jankin replied.
"Good. Any questions?"
"None. Mistress Dali was quite thorough." He repeated all the instructions he'd been given, and the man nodded in satisfaction.
"Good luck," he said as the doors opened and the duelists stepped out. At the man's nod, Jankin slipped through the doors and headed down a narrow way between two rows of tables toward the beautiful wooden dance floor in the middle of the room.
Once there, he faced the royal table, inhaling sharply at the wealth of beauty he saw there. He had not expected so relatively young a king, somehow, even though he'd heard all the rumors of marriage and death and a single child. King Shafiq was breathtaking, and it took all the training he possessed to keep his composure rather than stare like a nitwit.
He bowed, and then a single sharp bell ring filled the room. Assuming that was his signal, Jankin took up his starting position. As the music began, a fast, intense piece that required iron focus to keep up with in order not to miss a single intricate step, he snapped his fan out and fell into what he knew best. Spins, kicks, twirls, leaps, crouches and turns, muscles aching with the effort. He worked his hips, threw the fan into the air and caught it, always making certain to flick his head just so at the right times to send his hair falling the right way, ever mindful of his breathing while keeping track of so much else.
By the time he was done, and came to his final spin before halting once more dead center in the room, his chest was heaving with exertion, though he minimized it as best he could. As the music faded, he bowed low to the royal table once more, trying not to grin at the thundering applause all around him.
When he finally lifted his head, it was to see a ridiculously beautiful man walking toward him, hair loose and falling to just past his shoulders, wearing the black pants with overlaid skirt, his jewelry gold and rubies even finer than what Jankin wore.
As the man reached him, he offered up the cup he held, presumably with the mentioned wine. "My king thanks you for the exceptional performance."
"It was my honor," Jankin said, and drank the wine as the cup was lifted, though it was strange indeed to drink from a cup he did not hold. He then looked to the king and said, "Thank you, Your Majesty."
King Shafiq smiled and gave a slight nod.
The concubine said, "If you are willing, His Majesty invites you to finish the meal with us, after you've of course had a chance to rest."
"Really?" Dali had mentioned that was a possibility, but he hadn't really believed it. Usually royals and nobles only wanted to invite him to their quarters later for a private dance. They rarely spent such visible time in public with him. "I would be honored. I'll return as quickly as I can."
The man grinned fleetingly. "No rush. The main performances are over, but music and song will continue for quite some time yet. We will see you soon." He withdrew, and Jankin returned to the door as he'd been told.
"I was invited to join His Majesty for dinner?"
"Then keep the jewels," the man who'd guided him before said. "Return to your room to clean up, and someone will be waiting to bring you back here."
"Thank you."