Anik tossed all three knives high into the air, spun around, and caught all three by the handles. Without a moment's pause, he flowed into a dangerously fast juggling act. The crowd oohed and ahhed at the sight, seeming to momentarily forget their disdain, but Ren found himself less than impressed. The slave the king had gifted him was a jester? Not particularly useful. And unless Ren ever needed to know how to skin a squirrel or navigate by the stars, he would have no use for the cranky Lowlander. Maybe he could put him to work in the stables.

The low hum of voices to Ren's right turned louder and more insistent. Ren turned his head to see Lord Nathair not watching the performance, but speaking firmly with a pair of guards. Ren couldn't hear what he said, but his gaze was intense. Suddenly, Nathair stood and pointed to the Lowlander. “Stop him!” Nathair's sharp voice cut through the mumbling of the guests and silence fell. People looked around, confused.

Ren watched, brow furrowing, as Nathair stepped around the tables and marched onto the sand of the stage. “Apprehend him,” he commanded.

Two Skarlan guards moved quickly, crossing the distance to Anik and taking hold of his wrists, prying the knives from his hands before twisting his arms behind his back. At the high table, the king sat stone-faced. Had Halvard gone back on his decision to gift Ren the slave? That suited Ren just fine. Or maybe he had just been ridiculously slow to notice the fact that the man was tossing sharp objects around in close proximity to royalty. The thought amused Ren.

Nathair approached Anik and the Lowlander tried to backtrack, feet finding no purchase against the sand with a guard's firm grip around each of his arms. When Nathair reached for him, Anik twisted his body to the side, but that only made it easier for Nathair to grab what was tucked under the waistband of the Lowlander's trousers.

What Nathair held high in the air for the entire crowd to see shone in the sunlight: the blade of a knife covered in fresh blood.

The garden was dead silent and Nathair's voice carried to every corner of it. “Prince Ren's slave seems to have been up to no good.”

Several faces turned towards Ren, who froze with his cup of wine halfway to his lips, heat rising to his face against his will.

“What have you done, slave?” Nathair asked, turning back towards the Lowlander, who was breathing heavily, as if he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. Not a word left his mouth.

Then Nathair turned to look at Ren, his steel-grey eyes boring into Ren's. “Care to explain this?”