"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 thatmustbe 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 achingwith 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.
