He said it quietly, his hand on Berenger’s arm, drawing him away from the scattering of courtiers and pets. Ancel had just filched a sweetmeat from Lord Droet, saying, ‘Your pet is too slow!’ to the delight of Lord Droet and the anger of the pet he had with him, a storm cloud in blue silk.
After a moment, Berenger answered him in a low voice, ‘I would like to speak privately to the Councillor. I wish I could arrange it.’
Berenger’s eyes were still on the grey-haired man across the hall. Eventually, he looked back at Ancel.
‘I can arrange it,’ said Ancel.
He raised his brows when Berenger gave him a sceptical look.
‘I can make everyone look at me.’
There was the familiar frown, like an old friend. ‘Ancel, I told you I don’t want—’
Ancel was already moving to pick up one of short banner poles that decorated the hall. Unhooking the banner, he twirled the stick in his hand.
‘Oh, do you do tricks as well?’ said Lord Droet.
‘Would you like to see one?’ said Ancel. He threw the stick to Lord Droet, who caught it adeptly.
A few heads began to turn towards him. ‘I think every man here wants to see what you can do,’ said Lord Droet.
‘Take off your jacket,’ said Ancel.
More heads turned. He saw Berenger nod once, briefly, then melt into the crowd. Lord Droet was laughing, but he was also gesturing to his own pet to come and unlace his jacket. Ancel could feel the attention, like bright sunlight on his skin.
‘You don’t need it back do you?’ said Ancel.
‘I suppose not.’
Ancel tore the jacket right down the middle. There were a few gasps, and laughter again from Lord Droet, who said, ‘I hope there’s more to this trick.’
‘Throw me back the stick,’ said Ancel.
By now, a small crowd had gathered. Ancel caught the stick one-handed. Deftly, he wrapped the torn fabric of Lord Droet’s jacket around each end. He stepped back, tipping a lamp and soaking the wads of Lord Droet’s jacket with lamp oil. Then he touched each end to the fire.
Gasps as they burst into flame, and Ancel tossed the stick high, a spinning wheel of dangerous light.
He saw: faces lit up with flame, shock and delight at his audacity, childlike pleasure at the spectacle. He saw: Berenger moving across to the far side of the hall, Councillor Herode leaning in to murmur to him. He knew how he looked: red and red and red.
It was not so different to a planned performance, the ends of the sticks alight with fire. He caught his first toss, compensating for the different weight of the jacket. He knew what happened
when sticks dropped in performance: the omnipresent danger of the fire, the fuel-soaked wicks, the flammable silks he wore, the long fall of his hair.
That was part of the thrill, sensuality and danger. He had everyone’s attention now. He tossed and twirled, and it was easy, all of it coming back to him, his childhood days before his profession had changed, before the escalating series of favours, until the moment he had finally agreed to it. You have to pay me extra. It’s my first time.
But the improvised fire stick quickly sputtered and went out. Ancel caught it between its blackened, smoking ends and tossed a challenging look at Lord Droet.
‘Your jacket’s burned out,’ said Ancel. ‘Shall we try your pants next?’
Laughter. Applause. Delight. ‘Hand them over, Lord Droet!’ someone called. More laughter.
‘You’re full of talents, aren’t you,’ said a boy’s voice, and Ancel turned.
The boy was very lovely and very young, with huge blue eyes and a tumble of brown curls. Ancel knew him. Everyone knew him: the most famous pet in the court. Nicaise had never spoken to him before, and didn’t look pleased to be speaking to him now.
Ancel lifted his eyes and saw that on the far side of the hall, the Regent was watching them.
‘The Patran Embassy arrives next week,’ said Nicaise. ‘A fire dance is the perfect entertainment. The Regent likes your skills and hopes you’ll perform. That’s my message.’