He passed the hammer throw and the wrestling ring that had been set up in one of the larger courtyards, and continued until he reached the archery fields, a colourful conglomeration of flags and targets. The Cirran flag flew in every direction, and with the breeze it seemed as if the doves themselves would take flight. Jordan spied some of his school friends already taking turns with the bows. Anyone was allowed to shoot before the official contests began. When they saw him they waved him over.
“Take a shot, Jordan,” they called. “Donovan’s already hit the bull’s-eye twice.”
Everyone knew Donovan would take the dark blue robes of a novice Landguard next year; his aim was unsurpassed. It made Jordan jealous to think of it. Not that he wanted to be a Landguard; he just wished for a recognizable talent, an uncomplicated path towards the future. All of his friends knew what they were going to be. A few were born to be scholars, and one was going to his uncle’s ranch in Cirsinnia to work in the horse stables. But Jordan could not follow in his father’s footsteps. Carving tools felt awkward in his hands and he tended to use too much force, cutting too deeply with the chisel and ruining the bowl or bird sculpture.
He sighed and fixed his eye on the concentric circles of the target, nocked the arrow and pulled. He had the strength for this art, but not the aim. When his arrow landed in a haystack, his friends hooted.
“You’re supposed to hit the parchment, Jordan.”
He grinned. “I was aiming for the haystack.”
A series of trumpet blasts announced the beginning of the real contests. Everyone moved aside, and Jordan saw the commander, Theophen, leading the palace Landguards towards the field. With his hair streaming behind him and his head so erect and proud, he reminded Jordan of a lion. A jagged scar ran the length of his left cheek. It gave him a stern bearing, but most folks knew he had a kind heart. Donovan would be lucky to train under him.
Two boys struggled to bring in the enormous ceremonial bow and presented it to Theophen. In other regiments the commander shot first, but Theophen passed the honour on to his second-in-command. He would shoot last. The target was placed an impossible distance away. One after the other the Landguards shot. They were well trained and reasonably accurate and their shots earned respectable applause. But when Theophen picked up the bow, everyone went quiet.
A tall man with a long black beard had come to stand next to Jordan. “Is he a good shot?” the man asked in a heavy accent.
“The best,” said Jordan, “Watch.” One, two, three quick arrows were released, each scarcely aimed it seemed, and each a precise bull’s-eye. The spectators roared with delight and Jordan felt some interior needle swing as surely as the needle of a compass. The way all eyes were on Theophen; that was what Jordan wanted, to stand at the centre of an admiring crowd.
“Hmm,” the stranger said. “Is the high priestess as talented with a bow and arrow?”
“High Priestess Arrabel is not allowed to use weaponry.” Jordan was about to add, “But everyone knows that,” when he realized the man had walked away.
There were horseshoe games and a distance race from one end of the mountain plateau to the other, and then a challenge to see who could throw the weighted ball farthest. When the trumpets announced the palace feast, Jordan took leave of his friends and made his way home. Something was bothering him; something wasn’t quite right about the day, but it was like trying to recall a dream. He could grasp one corner, then another, but when he tried for the third the whole thing fell apart. Finally he gave up, remembering that sasapher cakes awaited him, and he hurried towards home.
When he arrived, Elliott was placing small lit lanterns in every window of the house. The glass chimes were already hanging by the front door, a traditional ward against dark magic. Jordan could smell chicken roasting on the fire outside, but there were no cakes.
“The feast has probably kept your mother occupied,” Elliott said when he saw the disappointment on Jordan’s face. There was a tone of concern to his father’s voice that hadn’t been there earlier.
Jordan knew this was the busiest time of year for Tanny. She would work until midnight helping with whatever tasks arose. Tomorrow at breakfast she would tell them all about who had sat next to whom around the enormous banquet table, and which snippets of conversation she had caught as she rushed to deliver yet another platter of food. She would speak of High Priestess Arrabel’s grace and how gallant Commander Theophen was, and Jordan would find himself wishing once again for something more in his life, something nameless and great and exciting . . . and unknown and impossible.
He went into his bedroom and gratefully exchanged his feast robes for the short pants he usually wore. That evening he and his father ate their dinner on the rooftop patio because the spectacle of the burning tree was more magnificent when viewed from afar. After the meal, Elliott lit his sasapher pipe and Jordan chewed on a stalk of mellowreed. They sat back in their chairs as the heat of the day rose from the stone around them. The summer breeze smelled of fried fish and cardamom, the Balakan River flowed in the distance, and somewhere nearby came the music of a flute. When the two moons rose like yellow eyes in the sky, their edges shone with an orange hue that happened only once a year and made them true-full.
“The Twins,” Elliott said, and proceeded to tell Jordan the old tale about how a thousand thousand years ago the moons had once been twin sisters named Lucinda and Maelstrom.
It was a tale Jordan knew well. The sisters had lived back when magic bloomed freely across the lands of Katir-Cir, the good sort that came from the Great Light and delighted everyone with innocent enchantments. Elliott spoke of Lucinda’s talent for magic and how ordinary lumpy Maelstrom had no gift for it. He told of the day Maelstrom discovered that magic had an underside — the undermagic, which few spoke of, because naming something gives it life and few wanted such dark magic to live. The source of this shadow magic was a great candle that awaited its king, a sorcerer of formidable power whose spirit was greedy for more.
“They would call him the Beggar King,” said Jordan’s father, “for he would be inclined to want.”
The Beggar King came to Maelstrom, and they left to seek this power. When Lucinda found out, she begged the Great Light to hide the undermagic, hide it away where neither her sister nor this sorcerer could access it. And the Great Light heard her prayers, and the undermagic disappeared, its vulture guardians put to sleep. To end the sisters’ dispute, the Great Light transformed them into twin moons obliged to rise and set in tandem. Jordan could see even now that one moon was slightly darker than the other.
“Some folks call it the undermagic moon,” Elliott said, “for Sister Maelstrom likes to remind us of the darker ways of the world and how she longs to see them return to Katir-Cir.”
As for the sorcerer, he was never heard from again. Some believed he died; others claimed he had been cursed with a half-life of eternal restlessness, never to be granted his true desire.
In the distance Jordan heard the shouts of the younger children who must have still been waiting on the Common for the arrival of the Beggar King. The annual ritual was always ushered in by a Heralder walking the streets of Cir, calling, “Beware the beggar who would be king.” As soon as the Beggar King appeared, they would chase him down the mountain and across the Bridge of No Return.
Of course it wasn’t the real Beggar King. There was no such thing. It was usually the scholar, Balbadoris, who agreed to play the part. The Beggar King had merely become the name given to dark corners and long shadows and the underside of things that didn’t otherwise take to naming. It made everyone feel better to get rid of him once a year.
Jordan felt now as if he were caught in some in-between place: too old to don his black cloak and horns to scare away the Beggar King, but too young to spend the night at the Omar Bazaar. He longed to be old enough for that sort of adventure but his father had forbidden it. And while Donovan had bragged about going, Jordan knew his parents had obliged him to stay home, too.
He thought of the ugly vulture disguises that some of the children would be wearing, and how the parents’ torches would flicker in the darkness. He imagined the whoops and shouts down the mountain as the Beggar King ran down, down, then across the bridge and into the enchanted cedar groves in Somberholt Forest. No one knew quite what happened in there, but scholars believed the deer were involved in his transformation. Deer were revered throughout Cir for their healing magic.
After this ritual, the younger children went to bed and the older children and adults would settle in to view the burning of the holy tree. It would begin with a crack, which would be followed by a burst of flames, and then — silence. This was supposed to occur somewhere around midnight but it never failed to catch Jordan by surprise.
Jordan and his father had grown quiet, both of them gazing up the mountain towards the holy tree, though it was still too early for the burning. And then Elliott straightened and said, “Listen.”
A heavy stamp of footsteps came down the road, together with children crying and a general grumble of unhappiness, and Jordan realized he hadn’t heard the whoops he’d been expecting. His father leaned over the patio railing and called out, “Ho, there, what’s the trouble?”
“Strange goings-on,” an older man replied, shaking his head. “Children waited a full hour for Master Balbadoris in his Beggar King garb.”
“Never showed up,” said a woman in a kerchief. “The Heralder got hoarse from calling. It ain’t right to disappoint the young ones like that. It just ain’t right.”
Jordan and Elliott exchanged puzzled glances.
“That’s not the least of it,” said another man, a child at each hand. “Group of Landguards all dressed in black shows up on the Common and orders us to leave. Scared my boys half silly with their sticks and daggers. They got no right doing that.”
Elliott and Jordan drew away from the edge of the roof.
“The Landguards don’t wear black,” said Jordan.
Elliott scratched his head and relit his pipe. “No. And I don’t recall them ever brandishing their daggers at children, either.”
The sound they heard next began as a rumble that grew quickly louder until the shouting and mayhem were unmistakable. Near the palace, flames burst into the sky. At first Jordan thought it was the holy tree, but when the fire didn’t go out as it was supposed to, he knew something was wrong.
“Sweet sasapher!” said Elliott as another group of people dashed past their house yelling, “The barracks are on fire!”
“Brinnians. It’s the Brinnians!” others cried.
Jordan’s chest tightened. “What about Mom?” he said. “What if she’s in trouble?”
The same thought was written across Elliott’s face. The street had become a rushing stream of people pushing and scattering in every direction. From the palace came the clashing sounds of battle.
“Stay indoors!” shouted someone. “The streets are not safe!”
Jordan rose and reached for his sandals. “I don’t care. I’m going up there. She might need our help.”
Elliott grabbed him by the arm. “You’ll get yourself killed.” He eased Jordan back onto the chair. “We’ll wait until morning. She’ll be back by then, you’ll see.”
Jordan refused to go inside, and eventually fell into an uneasy sleep.
When he awoke, he was surprised to find it was morning and he was still on the rooftop. His father sat red-eyed and wide awake beside him. Two large green lizards had perched themselves near the edge of the roof, enjoying the early sun.
The air smelled of ash. His mother had not come home.
Two
THE MORNING AFTER MUG-WINE
THE INSIDE OF SARMILLION’S MOUTH FELT like an old carpet. He peeled one eye open and then the other. Mice alive, where was he? A tacky fern motif decorated the stone walls around him. He’d fallen asleep on an orange couch — orange! A couch button had left an indentation on his furry cheek, and on the low table beside him sat two empty mug-wine glasses. Yes, his headache spoke of mug-wine, far too much of it to be exact.
He sat up, rubbing his head and straightening his whiskers. Holy slag, was that the time? And it was the morning after the feast day. He let out a soft groan. Time is the great burglar. Just when you weren’t paying attention, it snuck up on you and then you spied the burlap sack slung over its shoulder, filled with hours you hadn’t even noticed were missing.
Master Balbadoris was expecting him this morning. There were tales to transcribe and parchments that needed illustration. Lately inspiration had been leaving Sarmillion behind, though Balbadoris never accepted that excuse. “Hard work, underkitty,” he’d declare in his gravel-dry voice, and then he’d mumble about how he’d never met an undercat who had grasped this concept, and Sarmillion would bow his head and try not to listen but those damned pointed ears of his didn’t miss a word.
He peeked at the stack of parchments sitting on a side-table, addressed to Minerva Wigglesnip. Who? How many glasses of mug-wine had he had? Blast, he’d slept in his feast robes, as well. He’d have to change back in his apartment, then sneak into Balbadoris’s chambers and hope that the lecture on hard work wouldn’t put him to sleep.
He slid two furry feet into gold palace-issue sandals and tiptoed towards the front door, hoping not to wake said Wigglesnip. Just as he was opening the door, he heard a high-pitched, “Honey Pie!” Quickly now, and he closed the door with a soft click.
Behind him came a shriek. “You’re leaving? You . . . you cat!” Sarmillion bristled as he hurried away. It was the ultimate insult. Those four-legged, impossibly small and silent creatures hadn’t a sense of style among them. And to think they were his ancestors? Disgusting.
He stepped out into the morning Cirran sun that glared upon the city’s famed whitewashed stone. While tourists might have found it enchanting, Sarmillion could guarantee they were not tourists with hangovers.
Head bowed, he fought his body uphill all the way to the palace, trying to ignore the bongo drums playing in his stomach. He glanced up the main road that led to the Meditary — who wanted to cope with fresh-faced mystery keepers with their incense and incantations after such a night? Instead he slunk along a weedy side road that led to a small gated courtyard to which he happened to have the key — namely a sharp fountain pen he kept in his pocket for such occasions. The courtyard backed onto the living quarters of the old scholar Mimosa who was half-blind and hadn’t heard a thing since the year of the peacock. Sarmillion loved Master Mimosa; his apartment had long served as the undercat’s secret passage into the palace at inconvenient times such as this one.
And so we face yet another day when you won’t be working on your masterpiece, twittered that little voice inside him that drove him near-insane.
“No,” Sarmillion snapped back, “it appears we will not write poetry today.”
As usual.
“Oh, do shut up,” Sarmillion growled as he stole across the coarsely woven Circassic rug in Mimosa’s living room. How provincial. It seemed the scholar wasn’t home. Sarmillion opened the door that led onto a cold stone hallway, then scurried to his apartment at the end, turning a brass key in the lock and slipping inside.
He hadn’t mentioned his new hand-knotted Omarrian rug to Balbadoris. He took off his sandals and stood enjoying its luxurious softness. And then he looked around. It took his eyes a minute to register what he was seeing. Parchments were scattered across the floor. A vase full of sasapher flowers had been knocked over, water and yellow petals splattered on his desk. Embroidered pillows lay hither and thither, scribe’s robes were flung across the divan, and the delicate wooden crane that Elliott T. Elliott had carved for him had been split clean in half.
“Someone has broken in,” he gasped. Who would do such a thing? And why? While Sarmillion was a great coveter of valuables, only the new rug was worth anything and it was still here. But at least this would make an excellent excuse for his lateness.
He splashed cold wat
er onto his face, changed into fresh robes, added a dash of cologne to that sweet spot between neck and collarbone, and then a dab of scented oil to slick back the head-fur. Now he was ready to face the morning. Picking his way through the confusion, he decided he’d clean up later and headed out the door.
He mounted the two flights of stairs to Balbadoris’s study and knocked with a crispness of purpose he didn’t feel. There was no answer. Sarmillion called, “Master Balbadoris?” and pushed the door open, but he could see for himself no one was there. Worse, the study was in the same state of disaster as Sarmillion’s apartment. “In the name of the seven seers, what is going on here?” He let out a long groan at the sight of his work strewn across the room, and decided he would seek out the scholar first and break the bad news to him. Perhaps Balbadoris was in the library.
No sooner had Sarmillion shut the study door when a scullery maid named Trina came running towards him. Every morning Trina snuck two sweet nutty-buns from the kitchen and delivered them to Sarmillion with a cup of strong coffee, but today she carried only a small cloth sack.
He snickered. “What’s happened to my nutty-buns?”
“Embers ‘n ashes, Sarmillion, do ye not know?” Her face was pale and her body as jittery as a frightened squirrel.
“Know what?”
“Brinnians’ve taken over the palace and oh, Great Light, the battle was most fierce. They took away High Priestess Arrabel and Master Balbadoris and . . . feirhart, ye should not be here!”
Sarmillion took hold of her scrawny shoulders. “Slow down,” he said. “What do you mean, Brinnians? What Brinnians?”
“Soldiers. A group of ‘em fought with Theophen and his men last night. They set fire to the barracks. Scores of Landguards are dead. And there was no burning.”
“No burning? What are you on about, woman? You just said there was a fire.”
The Beggar King Page 2