Page 138 of The King's Menagerie

Jankin had a million questions about how a man went from being a famous fighter to a royal concubine, but he doubted the story was entirely happy, and it wasn't his business either way.

"Thank you for your time, Master Arash. A good day to you." Berkant led the way from the room and up the stairs, back to the main portions of the palace. "My king is hosting a casual lunch in the gardens shortly. You are invited, should you care to attend."

Jankin stared a moment. This whole day had taken quite the turn. "I would be honored. What kind of per—"

"Just lunch," Berkant cut in. "A guest at his table, not a performer. Only if it pleases you. There is no obligation."

"I would love to," Jankin said, more bold than he'd typically be because this whole visit to Tavamara was so outside his expectations in all the best ways.

"Then I'll send a guard with you to escort you there once you've changed," Berkant said. "See you soon."

Jankin barely remembered the walk back, mind sorting through his minimal collection of clothing for something suitable to wear to an unexpected lunch with the king. Well, the king and many other people, but still. A personal invitation extended by one of his concubines must be an uncommon experience.

Once dressed, with mental plans made to go into the city for more clothing, he walked with the guard through the palace. Servants had always escorted him before, surely that would have been sufficient? He could have simply asked for directions as well. An armed escort seemed excessive. There must be some practice or whatnot he wasn't aware of.

They were passing through a large hallway that seemed to be more like a gallery when a woman strode up to him, redolent in costly purple silk and an excess of jewels. "You!" she spat, and lifted a hand—likely to slap his face—only for her arm to be grabbed by the guard. "Unhand me!"

"Keep your hands to yourself," the guard said coldly.

The woman jerked her arm away as the guard released. "You're the slut that got us kicked out of court."

"I beg your pardon?" Jankin asked.

"That's enough," the guard said, voice somehow even colder. "Your family was told to depart the premises by midday, and that is ten minutes from now. I gave you a chance to be civil, and you wasted it." He looked at the guards lining the walls between paintings, and one of them stepped forward to grab the woman by her upper arms from behind and haul her away.

Jankin looked around like something in the gallery might provide an explanation. "What in the world just happened?" He'd been called a slut many times, even slapped a few, usually by a jealous spouse or lover who either didn't approve of how much their partner enjoy his dancing, or because Jankin didn't know until that moment the person he'd slept with was already attached. It wasn't his fault people lied to him. He'd gotten a lot more careful in the past five-ten years, because it wasn't a pleasant experience.

He hadn't done anything this time, though. There hadn't been time. The only person…

Ah. Something must have happened, and now the woman, whoever she was, was blaming him for being forced to leave. Whatever. Hopefully that was the beginning and the end of the problem.

Out in a part of the garden he'd not yet seen, a large table was arranged on a dais at the back, near the wall that surrounded the whole palace. The royal table in the banquet hall had been square. This one was much more narrow and curved, with only one side occupied by attendants, which made sense given all the tables were framing the central, round courtyard, where performances would clearly be taking place. The only empty space at the main table was just a couple of seats down from His Majesty. Which obviously would be reserved for a noble or something. So he'd be at a different table entirely. Understandable, and it was stupid to be so disappointed, but here he was all the same.

Shafiq smiled as he saw him.

"Your Majesty, thank you for the invitation," Jankin said, bowing as he reached the table. "I am honored."

"I am honored you would join me again," Shafiq replied, and motioned him to the empty space, which put only Berkant between them, with Ender on Shafiq's other side. Should a meredancer, and a foreigner at that, be sitting so close? Surely there were actually important people who merited the space?

But far be it for him to complain.

"This is a wine called Morning Pink," Berkant said. "It's used as refreshment before a meal begins."

"I see," Jankin said. It had never occurred to him all the colorful wines would have names. "There certainly seems to be a wide variety of them." He had heard about the famed wines of Tavamara, of course, hard not to when he traveled so much and other countries prized them greatly, difficult and expensive as they were to import. Experiencing them firsthand was something else entirely though.

The guard who'd escorted him went up to Shafiq and knelt to speak low in his ear. Shafiq's smile faded, but he only thanked the guard with a quiet murmur before turning his attention back to Jankin. "I am told Lady Nousha gave you some trouble."

"None at all, really, thanks to your guards. I assume she is related to the man from last night?"

"His wife," Shafiq said. "You should suffer no further problems, and I apologize for that one. She will be held to account for harming you."

"It's nothing I haven't put up with before—one of the risks of being a popular dancer. Slapped, backhanded, punched, and on two occasions, I was beaten badly enough I could not dance for a few weeks." People did not always take well to hearing 'no,' especially from people they considered beneath them. Thankfully, nothing worse than a beating had ever happened. Horror stories abounded about what happened to pretty dancers who said no, but so far he'd escaped that fate.

"No one should be accustomed to such repulsive behavior. Nevermind them, they are not worth the time. Berkant tells me you chose the feather necklace."

"They were all beautiful, but I admit that one called to me especially. You're far too kind, Your Majesty."

Shafiq scoffed. He raised a hand, and a gong sounded to begin the meal. The food served was less extravagant than what he'd seen at dinner, but that made sense for the time and place. Each table was filled to maximum, and there was a low hum of persistent conversation throughout the garden. "Are these luncheons a regular thing?"

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