Page 64 of The King's Menagerie

A servant woke him a few hours later, leaving him plenty of time to wash up and get to the practice hall to dress and have his hair and makeup done. Then it was off to the waiting room once more, a place he'd only been in the once, but vividly recalled. He'd thought he'd be here more often, but instead…

Well, apparently Shafiq had been letting him enjoy the sights in peace. He still didn't know what to make of that knowledge. What would he think after tonight's performance?

As with last time, there were other performers waiting their turn. Many more, so this banquet must be a much larger affair. Directly across from him, as far as he could get while still being in the room, was Raffa. He cast one brief look Jankin's way, full of contempt and loathing. It was all so fucking tiresome.

Ignoring Raffa, Jankin asked those nearest him, "Is there some special occasion tonight?" He hadn't heard anything around the palace, and nobody had mentioned anything to him.

"Nothing like a birthday or holiday, no," said the woman closest to him. "It's that time of year where some ambassadors and other foreign staff and such go home, and new people arrive, so His Majesty always makes their first banquet a little grander as a show of welcome to them and a farewell to the others."

"I see, thank you."

The woman smiled briefly then went back to speaking with her friend, a pair who from their earlier warmup would be singing.

Eventually, after an eternity of waiting, his turn arrived, the last to leave the room, the last to perform, because he had always worked hard to be the best and grandest. The cost had been greater than anyone knew, even him sometimes, but it was all worth it for these moments when he held an entire room captive.

He waited outside the main doors, fans in hand, taking a last deep breath as they opened and he stepped inside.

A quiet fell as he walked past all the tables, unusual but nothing seemed amiss that he could tell, and all eyes were definitely on him in an admiring way, so maybe it was simply that he had done something particularly right.

Were Shafiq's eyes on him just as intently? Jankin wanted badly to know, but was afraid to look in case he was wrong. If he could, he'd look up just that last bit more and stare openly, until the dancing began. He would do whatever Shafiq wanted, honestly. Whatever it took to keep those fierce, beautiful eyes on him.

He wasn't a concubine though, chosen specifically because they had Shafiq's full, undiluted attention, because they stood out and were special, and he wanted them close to himalways. And what wonderful choices he had made, each and every one. Jankin would treasure them too, in Shafiq's position.

His role was to perform, though, and that he would do to the best of his abilities.

Finally looking up the last bit, he caught his breath to find that Shafiq was indeed watching him, and with a fierceness that didn't just catch his breath, but stole it entirely.

As the music started, he threw both fans high into the air, a movement he had practiced at least a thousand times, unable to learn the rest of the dance until he could do this single move a hundred times without mistake.

The fans came down, unremarkable bands of gleaming gold barely catching the light—until he grabbed and snapped, gold and silver flashing brilliantly as he went into the first movements of the dance. This was a fan dance, so everything revolved around them. Every twist, bend, snap, spin, and leap, the fans were there. Flashing high, swinging low, extended as far as he could reach while spinning in place before carrying the momentum into a flip. The gold of the fans, the shimmering red of the skirt, the rainbow of jewels—like a colorful fire seen at festivals, where fire jugglers added secret ingredients to turn the flames all different colors.

You dance like a flamewas an old compliment in Rittu, and those who earned it were rare. Jankin put everything he had and more into dancing like a flame. Into a Peacock made of fire.

By the time the dance came to an end, he was hot, dripping sweat, and faintly dizzy. The applause was truly deafening and went on longer than he could remember ever happening before. His heart was still pounding in his ears as Ender approached him and offered wine.

"Every time you perform, you leave your previous performances in the dust," Ender said. "My king is most awedand thanks you for letting us enjoy your time and skill. By your leave, he would like to speak privately with you tomorrow."

"Of course," Jankin said before thanking Shafiq for the wine and drinking it.

"See you tomorrow," Ender said softly before withdrawing.

He hadn't been invited to spend the rest of the meal with them. Shafiq wanted to talk to him tomorrow, had admired his performance, but… didn't want to eat with him? What had he done wrong this time when his dancing had been even better?

Eventually, after all the people who wanted to speak with him had left, returning the costume and jewelry, getting a thorough bath, he sat on his bed in his little room still desperately wondering what he had done wrong. He had given that dance everything he had and more. Tomorrow he would be so unbelievably sore he'd barely be able to move. Shafiq had offered him wine. The applause had been so loud his ears rang with it, hadn't stopped until some minutes after he left the banquet hall.

Yet Shafiq had not wanted to enjoy the rest of the meal with him. Only wanted to speak privately tomorrow. That did not bode well. Nobody wanted a private conversation to discuss good things. Not when one was a king and the other a mere dancer.

Shafiq didn't seem the type to make an offer of an untoward relationship. Even ignoring he had his beautiful, adoring harem, he wasn't that type of person. Had thrown that type of person out of the palace when they'd harassed Jankin.

A business offer? Did he want Jankin to assist in some political scheme? He'd had offers like that before, and even accepted a few, because it had been to stop bad people from causing more harm. That made the most sense, if it had to bea private conversation, and he was making a point of keeping a distance ahead of time.

The best performance of his life and all he felt was disappointment. He should be ecstatic. Celebrating. Reveling in the rush of triumph and lapping up attention. Not sitting alone in his room on the verge of tears because he hadn't gotten what he wanted. Of course he hadn't. Shafiq couldn't sit around catering to his every whim and fantasy. Catering to a man, a foreigner at that, he barely knew. Just because all of this had meant something tohimdidn't mean it meant anything to anyone else, let alone a king with a thousand bigger concerns.

Stupid, that was what he was. Stupid and pathetic. Peacocks were admired for their beauty and retained for only that. Nothing more.

He'd just stood up to snuff the lights when a knock came at his door. Opening it, he stared bemused at the servant standing with a tray bearing roses and a covered dish. "Master Jankin, a gift for you, in further thanks."

"What—" but the servant was gone after all but throwing the tray into his hands. Was he in a hurry to be done with his shift? Jankin knew nothing of such work, but he could commiserate with being absolutely done with a day.

---