Page 7 of The King's Menagerie

Realization crashed over him. Gods, he must be more exhausted than he thought. "Thank you, I did want to know."

"My pleasure, my lord." Veler faded off, and Nadir took his wine with him back to his room, where sure enough, all the papers his mother had confiscated—and more—had beendelivered. They'd been neatly organized, smoothed out where she'd crumpled them, even properly bundled into sets where suited.

He couldn't remember the last time even a single person had gone to so much effort for him, let alone one of the eternally-busy clerks of the royal office.

Sitting at the desk, he took a fortifying sip of wine and then went through it all.

Schoolwork, which frankly he simply did not care about right now. He'd been given a reprieve the rest of the year, at His Majesty's 'request,' to deal with family matters. Nadir had no intention of resuming those studies. Not after all his parents had done. Even if he wanted to, his reputation had been ruined before he could build it.

What he'd do now, he had not the faintest idea, but that was a problem for much later. For now, he was being cared for at the indulgence of His Majesty, and too busy and heartsick to worry about the dark void his future had become.

Tucking the schoolwork away in a drawer of the chest beside his desk, he turned his attention to the remaining papers.

Some of it was simple bills and such that his parents had not yet paid, miscellaneous letters regarding his sisters, tutors and schooling for them. Other bits and pieces of the ordinary life that now seemed so far away. All his parents' funds had been confiscated, but he'd been granted a living allotment by the court until everything was concluded and he had obtained employment and housing of his own.

Given it was late in the afternoon, and he'd be in meetings again shortly until well into dinner time, no point in tackling any of that at present. He sorted all of it into paper racks on his desk, and at last settled on the final stack of papers.

His poetry. He'd not expected to see any of it again. He always dated everything he did, even if just a hasty jot in thecorner of a scrap of paper, as he liked to be able to accurately look back and see how far he'd come. Well, that was the hope.

Someone had thoughtfully sorted it all by date, most recent on top. He cringed inwardly that people had been reading his poetry, but given what the royal clerks faced on a daily basis—all they must be reading through pertaining to his parents' crimes—bad poetry was anything from forgettable to a nice reprieve.

Some of the sheets and scraps went back months. His mother had taken it, and somehow it had simply gotten lost in the piles on her desk instead of destroyed or carried off. There was even the one—

That wasn't his handwriting. Nadir stared a moment, then shuffled through all his poems, and realized that several of them had new handwriting on them. Replies. Someone had responded to his poetry with poetry.

His heart drummed in his ears. The replies were written in beautiful red ink that seemed to change shades from dark to light as the paper moved and had a faint iridescent shimmer. That was obscenely expensive ink. Who would waste—

He jumped, barely biting back a cry, as a knock came at his door. He gave the poems one last, frustrated, longing look, curiosity clawing at him, then went to answer the door.

"Lord Nadir, I am sorry to disturb," the woman on the other side replied as he opened it. "His Majesty has had a shift in his schedule, and would like to conduct this evening's inquiry now, if you are amenable."

"Of course. I'll come at once."

The woman nodded and slipped away. Nadir spared a moment to make sure he was all tidied up for the inquiry—not because Shafiq would be at this meeting—and headed off through the halls as quickly as decorum permitted.

He was so lost in his thoughts, all of them on the mysterious respondent to his poetry, he didn't realize the problem in front of him until his mother bellowed his name.

Nadir's head jerked up, just in time for him to come to a halt and stumble backwards as she charged him.

One of the guards in the hall moved to stand in front of him and caught her up right as two other guards moved to do the same.

Further down the hall, his father was also being detained, a look on his face that Nadir had always hated. That expression said he took one look at Nadir and saw only that everything was lacking.

More and more, though, Nadir was appreciating that they did not regard him as a failed son, but as a bad purchase. He still did not know why, with as hard as he worked and as good as he tried to be, but he accepted it. Whatever they'd wanted when they'd bought him years ago, they had not gotten it.

Or maybe they'd simply known he was the flaw in their armor, and that this day would always come.

Whatever the case, he wasn't sorry they were suffering, and he most definitely wasn't sorry he had contributed to that suffering. He'd do whatever was necessary to see to it they paid for their crimes.

"You are a terrible son," his mother hissed. "How could you side against your own family?"

Though Nadir would have loved to snark at her, say several choice, cutting things about how apparently shewasn'this family, he'd been advised not to talk to them, even in public settings. So he simply ignored them, and allowed yet another guard to escort him to the room where the inquiry was to be held.

He'd known they'd be present at this one, had been braced for it, but still, seeing them after all these weeks was a blow.

Inside, the guard escorted him to his seat and bowed with the faintest of comforting smiles before fading off in that way that seemed to be trained into guards and palace staff. Nadir was fairly certain even assassins were not as quiet and unobtrusive as them.

At the head of the table, several seats down, Shafiq smiled. "Good afternoon, Lord Nadir. I am sorry we had to move this meeting up. What was all that noise in the hall?"

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