The Beggar King

by Michelle Barker

  THE

  BEGGAR KING

  MICHELLE BARKER

  ©Michelle Barker, 2013

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  Thistledown Press Ltd.

  118 - 20th Street West

  Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, S7M 0W6

  www.thistledownpress.com

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Barker, Michelle, 1964-

  The beggar king [electronic resource] / Michelle Barker.

  Electronic monograph in HTML format.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-927068-50-2 I.

  Title.

  PS8603.A73567B43 2013 jC813’.6 C2013-900958-2

  Cover and book design by Jackie Forrie

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Thistledown Press gratefully acknowledges the financial assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Saskatchewan Arts Board, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for its publishing program.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  THIS NOVEL TOOK APPROXIMATELY TEN YEARS from first draft to publication. A journey that long can only be realized with a lot of help and encouragement.

  I am enormously grateful to the Canada Council for the Arts for the grant they provided. Thanks go to Sherrill MacLaren who showed me what it means to be a writer, and to Loranne Brown who set me on my way; to Ed Griffin, for his constant enthusiasm; to Dave Margoshes, for asking all the right questions; to Lynn Bennett, for her support in the early days; to Brenda Carre, who read my queries and synopses; and to Al Forrie, for saying yes. Liz Philips, editor and diviner — I am immensely grateful for her keen eye, patience, and wonderful sense of humour.

  For several years Carolyn Rowell and I ran a writing workshop in the Eastern Townships of Quebec. Many of the scenes in the novel arose from the writing I did there. Carolyn read this manuscript more often than I can count. Without her advice and generosity it wouldn’t exist. Tanya Bellehumeur-Allatt was a huge source of inspiration and, above all, of hope. To Brenda Hartwell, Marjorie Bruhmuller, Trisha Pope, Jerome Krause, and Marguerite Dunlop: truly, truly I have been blessed.

  Above all, my gratitude lies with my husband and family. To Maddy, who read the manuscript in a breathless two days and asked for more; to Dallas, Sam and Harry for endless inspiration and comic relief; to my mother who would have loved it no matter what – and to Dan, for his steadfast love and tireless support. Anyone else would have given up on me years ago and told me to get a real job.

  For Dan

  “To light a candle is to cast a shadow . . . ”

  — Ursula K. Le Guin

  Contents

  One: The Feast of the Great Light

  Two: The Morning After Mug-Wine

  Three: A Murder of Crows

  Four: Smoke and Ceremony

  Five: Lady Destiny

  Six: Spells for Boys

  Seven: Dark Moon Rising

  Eight: The Cobra and the Mongoose

  Nine: Private Rebellions

  Ten: Wallpaper Universe

  Eleven: The Life of a Thief

  Twelve: A Trickster Called Glory

  Thirteen: The Brassed Door

  Fourteen: Crossing the Balakan

  Fifteen: The Right Thing

  Sixteen: Give and Take

  Seventeen: Caramel

  Eighteen: Pry and Pry Again

  Nineteen: Foolishness and Jabber-Blabber

  Twenty: Shadow Upon Darkness

  Twenty-One: A Merrin Day in Winter

  Twenty-Two: Just a Candle

  Twenty-Three: A Yellow Square of Cake

  Twenty-Four: The Full Price

  Twenty-Five: The Seven Seers of Cir

  Twenty-Six: The New Commander of the Brinnian Guard

  Twenty-Seven: An Urgent Question

  Twenty-Eight: Darkness and Light

  Twenty-Nine: Goat Stew

  Thirty: Robes

  One

  THE FEAST OF THE GREAT LIGHT

  “JORDAN ELLIOTT!” THAT RUMBLING VOICE COULD only belong to Mama Petsane. “Get down off that roof, or ye’ll fall and break yer legs and then we’ll have to wheel ye around in a donkey cart.”

  Jordan laughed but did not come down. He shaded his eyes, looking for Ophira, but in the alley below he saw only the round old woman, an apron tied across her sky-blue feast robes. “Tell Ophira I’ll see her at the palace grounds,” he called.

  “If yer lucky,” cried Mama Petsane, waving her wooden stew spoon at him. “Don’t be bringing any love potions, neither. Feed ‘em to the goats. Maybe they’ll stop nipping at yer back side.”

  Jordan’s face coloured. It had been a few years since he’d concocted those potions, but he didn’t realize anyone had known about them. Then again, Mama Petsane was one of the Seven Seers of Cir. The seers knew everything, and they were especially protective of their adopted daughter. The last thing Jordan wanted was for Ophira to hear about his childish experiments. He’d been hoping she might come outside to watch him jump the roofs, but now, with Mama Petsane here, he was rethinking that plan. Mama Petsane was bound to embarrass him.

  Pulling up his feast robes to free his legs, Jordan set off at a run and leaped onto a neighbouring roof several feet away. He received the shriek he’d been expecting from Petsane. The jump was less than graceful. Even though the robe, woven from spun mellowreed, was almost as light as silk, he wasn’t used to its length and bagginess.

  Today was the annual Feast of the Great Light, the most celebrated day in the Holy City of Cir and its provinces. It was also Jordan’s birthday. He had agreed to meet his father for the ceremonies atop the mountain and he intended to enjoy himself along the way.

  Jumping across roofs and patios and sneaking up private staircases was Jordan’s preferred method of reaching the golden palace at the mountain-city’s summit. Sometimes strangers chased him with straw brooms, and once he nearly tripped on a giant lizard sunning itself in the midday heat, but usually he was alone with the birds up there.

  Gathering up his robes again, he took the next rooftops at full speed, relishing the feeling of strength in his legs and the way the warm summer air whooshed by him. He was fast. His good friend Donovan had suggested that the year — which would be named that afternoon and always after a bird — should be named after Jordan. The year of Jordan Elliott.

  His father hated when he travelled by rooftop but the truth was, it was perhaps the only thing he was good at. Today he was fifteen. That left one year before he would have to declare his vocation and take his robes. Roof-jumping didn’t qualify.

  “If you spent more time at your studies, you might discover that talent of yours,” Elliott T. Elliott often said. It wasn’t long ago that Jordan would have attended to his father’s advice, but over the past year he’d stopped listening. Elliott had ideas about Jordan that fit him as poorly as these stupid robes.

  He stopped to catch his breath. From where he stood he could see all the way down to the Balakan River which surrounded the city and rendered it an island. Yellow sasapher flowers grew wild along its banks. The twelve magical bridges connecting the city to the mainland glistened in the sunlight.

  Or rather, eleven of them glistened. One of the bridges — the Mystic Corridor — was invisible. Beyond them shimmered the alluring reds and gleaming yellows of the
mainland city of Omar, a glaring contrast to the Holy City’s whitewashed stone.

  Jordan picked a handful of pink flowers from a stranger’s rooftop garden and scurried up the last few steep stairways.

  When he finally reached the summit, he remembered his mother had promised to bring him cakes for his birthday. Tanny was a palace cook, and it was widely acknowledged that she made the best sasapher cakes in all of Cir. There was no sweeter taste to Jordan than sasapher. It was not just lemon: it was lemon with a history, lemon with mud on its feet and courage in its belly. He knew his mother would be frantically busy in the kitchen today, but she would steal the time to come find him.

  Jordan turned his back on the palace and its enormous domed temple and headed towards the gardens and pathways that surrounded the feast day’s centre of attention — the mysterious, blackened holy tree.

  Near one of the fountains he spotted a tall grey undercat wearing blue feast robes decorated with gold-threaded runes, his hat upturned and hopeful as he recited a traditional story with flair. “Draw near, friends, and listen to the tale of our Cirran tree,” he cried. His furry hands flew out to his sides and his long whiskers jittered. “It was first struck by the power of the Great Light on a night of true-full moons. It burned, but was not consumed.”

  The undercat winked at him and Jordan realized it was Sarmillion, a friend of his father’s. “Jordan,” he called. “Tell me why the tree burns.”

  “I dunno,” he mumbled. “Something to do with magic.”

  “It is a warning, young rogue, of the dangers of strong magic. I’ll tell your father you’ve been shirking your schoolwork,” the undercat said with a twinkle in his eye. His gaze flitted to the flowers in Jordan’s hand. “Phinius,” he said. “Flower of the sages. That’s a rather bold choice for a boy with sticky fingers.”

  “I resent that accusation,” Jordan said with a laugh.

  He kept walking, scanning the crowd for his mother’s short but solid silhouette and flour-dusted clothes. She would be wearing her small white apron embroidered with the Cirran crest — a dove set in a circle — and her face would be flushed from hours of baking.

  Ahead of him stood the majestic, charred tree. Bordered by grass and a colourful mosaic of stone pathways, the tree wore feast day ribbons in its branches. Three brave yellow finches sat upon the highest tips observing the procession of blue robes below. Occasionally one of them would take off and soar with abandon above the heads of farmers and belt-dancers, as if it too were celebrating.

  The tree was already surrounded by hundreds of offerings of flowers. On the feast day you weren’t supposed to look at it as you came close, but Jordan couldn’t help raising his eyes to study the twisted blackened bark and the long branches that made him think of outstretched arms. How could a tree burn without being reduced to ash? Once a year when the moons rose true-full and midnight crept towards the world, everyone gathered — some near the tree itself, others from rooftops or out their windows — to see it burst into sudden flame and then just as abruptly go out.

  He placed his stolen bouquet at the foot of the magical tree, and then found a patch of grass where he could sit and wait for his parents — and, he hoped, Ophira. The air was alive with conversation and murmured incantations. The faithful set down their flowers with their heads bowed. Three more finches lit upon the branches, and then something beneath the birds caught Jordan’s eye.

  A small older man with a hooked nose and dark eyes stood brazenly before the tree, staring at it. He must have sensed Jordan watching him, for he turned and gave him a smile that made Jordan shudder. The man’s lips were drained of colour, and his pale skin made Jordan think of candle wax. Those nearest to the tree didn’t seem to notice him. The pilgrims farther away, couldn’t they see him reach towards the finches and snatch one? Didn’t they hear the terrible crunch as he squeezed the tiny bird to death and then tucked it into his pocket?

  The man rested his hand on the dark surface of the tree. Something sparked, and Jordan smelled ash. Then, before his incredulous eyes, the man stepped into the air beside him and disappeared. In his place, one small black feather drifted down and settled at the base of the tree. Without thinking, Jordan picked it up and put it in the pocket of his feast robes. He stumbled back to his patch of grass, trying to process what he’d seen.

  “Happy birthday, Jordan.”

  He startled so badly at the sound of Ophira’s voice that she asked, “What is it? Are you all right?”

  Jordan studied her pale face and blue eyes that were trained on him. He glanced back at the tree. “I . . . nothing. It’s nothing.” Jordan had been certain that he’d seen the man. Now he wondered: what had he seen?

  Ophira was wearing her blue feast dress, with white ribbons in her long dark hair. She had bent to adjust a sandal, her body as graceful as a belt-dancer’s.

  “You managed to escape your grandmas for the afternoon,” Jordan said, swallowing what he’d really wanted to say.

  “I expect they’ll track me down before long,” she said easily. Everyone called the seers grandmas, even though they weren’t. They were just old.

  Ophira laid a hand upon his arm. “Look — Arrabel is coming. She’s going to name the year.”

  High Priestess Arrabel had entered the ceremony accompanied by four of her crimson-robed mystery keepers, one of whom carried the immense and sacred Book of What Is in both hands. Jordan’s father had once told him this was the only occasion in the entire year that the precious Cirran book of spells and incantations left the Meditary.

  Something about Arrabel made her beautiful, though Jordan could never figure out what it was, for her nose was long, her forehead high and her chin pointed. Perhaps it was the stillness that shone through her like a lantern, or maybe it was just her kind-heartedness. There were others in the palace whose mere presence made a person feel like a servant, but Arrabel was not like that. Even the farrier felt chosen when she spoke to him. Today her blonde hair was pinned up, her priestess robes an intricate arrangement of beads and buttons and the feathers of countless birds.

  A hush descended as the mystery keepers edged away from Arrabel. Her eyes were closed, her arms thrown wide, her face angled towards the cloudless sky. The breeze lifted wisps of her hair.

  “Do you figure she’s already decided which bird will name the year?” Jordan asked softly.

  “Oh yes,” said Ophira. “She’s been studying the sky for months.”

  One of the mystery keepers opened the Book of What Is and in unison the keepers recited an incantation to the Great Light. As they spoke, light flashed from the book’s pages in tiny sparkling points.

  “Now the wind will pick up,” Ophira said. “Listen — the keepers are calling the birds.”

  Jordan was thankful to live in the Cirran part of Katir-Cir that honoured the great mysteries. Mystery did not cross the snow-tipped mountains that divided the lands of Cir from the coldly rational provinces of Brin. He thought of the magical burning tree. He liked the way a mystery teased you, like a locked door.

  The mystery keepers’ chants fell to a hum, and went silent. Then, in a tone both calm and commanding, Arrabel said, “I declare this to be . . . the year of the magpie.”

  There were cheers as the sky thickened with the black and white birds. Ophira’s forehead wrinkled and she stared at the grass. “The birds of thievery,” she said.

  “Is it a bad omen?” Jordan asked.

  “A warning, maybe. Magpies are known for stealing the eggs out of other birds’ nests.”

  The mystery keepers closed the book and began to walk back towards the palace but Arrabel stopped, as if she’d been struck by a puzzling idea. Her eyes searched the gathering, her expression grave. When Jordan realized her gaze was on him, he gave a short bow and said, “My lady.” By the time he’d straightened, she had walked on.

  “What was that about?” Ophira asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Bells and billy grain,” came a wr
inkled cry. “There you are, ‘Phira!”

  Jordan sighed. It was Mama Manjuza, a hunched woman concealing a face as wizened as an overripe mango behind her seer’s veil. She gripped Ophira’s arm and pulled her away, saying, “Girl’s gotta see to her grandmas now, Jordan. Off ye go.”

  Ophira shot Jordan a look of regret, gave a small wave, and departed with the old woman. Jordan scanned the people for his father’s face and found him beside a small koi pond offering family friends good wishes for the New Year. Elliott squeezed his shoulder and whispered, “Happy birthday, son,” and Jordan smiled.

  “Have you seen Mom?”

  “I expect she’s here somewhere,” he said. But when they went searching for her in earnest, they couldn’t find her.

  “Go on ahead to the contests,” Elliott said. “I’ll bring your cakes. Just be home for dinner,” and he gave the customary Cirran sign of greeting or leave-taking, pressing three fingers to his forehead with a short bow. Jordan made sure none of his friends were around and then gave the quickest bow possible and hurried off.

  As he made his way past trumpeters, jugglers and merchants, he noticed the crowd had swelled. By now the underrats had arrived — Jordan spotted two in trench coats, and several others wearing extraordinary silver silk suits. They had already imbibed too much mug-wine and were trying, without success, to pick people’s pockets. Nearby, a woman swatted one of them with her basket.

  But that was normal for a feast day celebration. What was unusual was the number of foreigners. Not just Omarrians or farmers from the provinces who attended the celebrations every year, but unfamiliar people, dark and quiet, hanging back from the others. They did not offer greetings as Jordan passed, and when by accident he bumped an older man and apologized, the man answered in a thick unrecognizable accent. Perhaps they were from the south. The land of Ut was rarely traveled because of the heat and sheer desolation of a desert journey. And then a jester popped up before him wearing a hat formed entirely of shoes, each of which proceeded to hop off his head and walk away, and Jordan laughed and forgot about the strangers.