Smiling softly, he let the flowers be and carried on further into the gardens. People milled about everywhere, some walking like him, others standing in little groups, still others seated on benches. This was clearly a popular part of the palace, but why wouldn't it be? If there was anything that spoke to true luxury, it was all this vibrant growth and color.
Eventually, he came to a section of wall with guards posted all along its length. Not a back wall, he didn't think, he was good with directions, and this wall wasn't in the right place for that. No, this was blocking off a section of the palace. Restricted to certain nobility? More likely royalty. It would make sense the royal family had their own gardens, where they couldrelax in safety, rather than these more public gardens where they'd always be in danger—and also never really left alone.
When he'd finished his tour of the gardens, he made his way slowly back to his room, stopping only to ask a servant how he went about getting food and drink. Thankfully, the woman was kind enough to show him to the dining hall where staff and visitors like him ate.
Jankin thanked her, then went to stand in line, and in a short time had a tray of food and drink that made his growling stomach quite happy.
He hadn't gotten through even half of it, though, when a harried looking young woman came rushing up to him. "My pardon, sir, but are you Master Jankin?"
"Yes, I am…"
"Pardon, pardon, but Mistress Dali requires you immediately in the practice hall."
"Of course, I'll come at once." He stood—then stopped and stared at his tray. "Uh, where—"
"I'll attend it," the woman said. "She needs to see you immediately."
Jankin nodded and headed off, not quite running. What in the world was going on? What could possibly be wrong that he was required to help fix it?
Thankfully, his memory and sense of direction held true, and he made it back to the training hall without any wrong turns. He'd barely entered when a familiar strident, ringing voice called out, "There you are, Master Jankin!"
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.Esharwas 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. The Peacock, 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, andwith 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.
