The Beggar King

by Michelle Barker

  She sorted through bottles and sniffed their contents. After choosing a variety of herbs, she ground them together, and as she moved deftly around the room she sang.

  Gentle flows the lazy river, oarsman rest your paddle here.

  Weary, weary, arms a-quiver, sleep until you’re home, my dear.

  Her voice was smooth and gentle, a balm to Jordan’s shaken nerves. She lit a fire, and when it was hot she heated something liquid in a pan on the stove.

  Jordan’s eyes drifted shut. If he could have curled up in this room and slept for a week, still it wouldn’t have been enough.

  “Here,” she said when the potion was ready. “Drink. It will give you strength.”

  Jordan took the goblet and swallowed the warm draught. It had the sharp flavour of pine sap.

  Ophira waited until he had finished, and then she set the goblet upon the table and sat beside him again. “Now, what were you saying about using the undermagic?”

  Jordan watched the splinters of dancing light refracted through the colourful potion bottles. “It’s the only way to save my mother and the other prisoners. They’re going to hang at half-moons. I have to go to the brass door. I have to get it.”

  “Says who?”

  “The Beggar King!” he cried in exasperation.

  “And what does he want you to do, exactly?”

  “Bring him what’s behind the door.”

  “But you can’t do that. That would be disastrous.”

  “I have to do it.”

  She set her hands on her hips the way Mama Petsane would have done, and said, “You can’t take him what’s behind that brass door. It’s the undermagic, Jordan. If he really is the Beggar King, he can’t have it. Not even the high priestess could possess such treacherous power.”

  Jordan didn’t answer. All he could think about was the message that had arrived by courier hawk. Time was running out.

  Ophira smoothed and re-smoothed the fabric of her robes. “It will be the ruin of Katir-Cir. He’ll wake the vultures. He’ll destroy every good thing in this world.”

  Jordan scratched his head. “But the vultures aren’t real.” He thought of the glass chimes his father and so many other Cirrans hung outside their doors to ward them off, and the tiny vultures carved out of onyx you could buy at the Omar Bazaar. “It’s all myth and decoration. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  She gave him a withering look. “The vulture people are the guardians of the undermagic. Whatever you believe about any of this, the undermagic is real and it was banished from Katir-Cir for a good reason. It is powerful and dark and exceedingly risky.”

  “Good. That’s what will save Arrabel, and my mother. Isn’t it worth the risk?”

  “Wrong means won’t bring a right end, no matter what your intentions are.”

  “He says I can use the undermagic once, and then I’ll be free of it.”

  “Jordan, he’s lying. If you use that magic even once, you’ll never be free of it. You can’t just wash your hands of it. It leaves a stain.”

  But he already used it every time he disappeared. It wasn’t harming anyone — or rather, no one except him. Ophira’s drink had restored some of his strength. His hands had stopped shaking and he could stand if he had to.

  “What do you suggest, then?” he asked. “What can I do?”

  “I have to go back to Rabellus. I’ll advise him not to hang the prisoners at half-moons. I’ll predict something terrible. He listens to me, Jordan. He’ll do what I say. And then once the sleeping draught takes effect, I’ll leave.” She took his hands in hers. Her hands were so warm. “Wait for me here. I won’t be long. We’ll get you out of the palace without you having to disappear. You cannot disappear anymore, Jordan. You can’t go back to him.”

  “What if Rabellus doesn’t listen to you? And how am I supposed to put the Beggar King off? Don’t you think he’ll know? I promised to pay him, Phi. He’s not the sort to let you off with a smile and a handshake.”

  “We’ll go see my grandmas — tonight. We’ll tell them everything and ask for their advice. And when they tell us what to do, we’ll do it. All right?”

  “But I’ll never make it out of the palace if I don’t disappear.

  My likeness is everywhere. The Landguards will recognize me.” “Not if you’re veiled.” She looked thoughtful for a moment.

  “I keep several sets of saffron robes in the maids’ chambers. Rabellus pesters the girls but he’ll leave them alone if they’re wearing the veil. I think he’s a little afraid of it.”

  “He didn’t seem scared to me,” Jordan said.

  “I’ll bring up a set of robes. No one will know it’s you.”

  No one except the Beggar King, thought Jordan.

  Ophira rose and took up her silver bottle of poison. Jordan stood to face her, so close he could smell her hair — and it did smell of caramel.

  “Promise me you won’t be foolish, Jordan,” she said, resting her cheek against his and speaking softly into his ear. “Promise to wait here for me.”

  “I will,” said Jordan.

  She found a blanket in one of the cupboards and covered him with it, and he fell immediately into a deep sleep.

  Eighteen

  PRY AND PRY AGAIN

  THANK THE LIGHT FOR THE SCHOLAR Mimosa and his failing eyesight, thought Sarmillion. It didn’t hurt that the Brinnians had given up guarding his apartment, either. Mimosa had been with healers when the coup had taken place, and when he’d returned to the palace the Brinnians hadn’t known what to do with him. Was he a threat, or just an elderly nuisance? They’d allowed him to go back to his apartment, but for many months they watched it, as if he were under house arrest. Finally they realized the scholar was too old, too blind and too deaf to pose a danger to anyone, so they let him be. Thus did Sarmillion find himself tiptoeing once again through the sleeping man’s darkened apartment, vowing to thank him with a bottle of well-aged mug-wine.

  Carefully he opened Mimosa’s door and peered into the palace hallway. His heart was beating so hard he was convinced the stone walls were reverberating with it. But there was no one out there, and he was fairly certain he wouldn’t meet anyone at this end of the palace. The Brinnian Landguards didn’t go in for scholarship. They preferred activities that made noise and involved some measure of violence. The armory was their favourite place; also the music room where the drums and oboes were kept. Even from this far away he could hear a ruckus taking place somewhere near the dining hall. Lucky. There would be enough Brinnian noise to cover any sound he made tonight.

  He decided to run up to Master Balbadoris’s study. He had to see it again, if only for a minute. Noiselessly he mounted the two flights of stairs and jiggled his fountain pen in Balbadoris’s lock.

  The room had not been cleaned since the Brinnians had raided it a year ago in search of the Book of What Is. Sarmillion sank to his knees and picked up an overturned ink bottle. The spilled ink had dried and hardened upon the carpet into black splatters. Everything around him was dusty and cobwebbed. He had never seen a lonelier room in his life. I’m going to bring you back, old friend.

  Very well, then, he had delayed long enough. Despite Mars’s tirade against the plan earlier that evening, it was time to set off for the brass door.

  As he left his master’s chambers, he tried not to think of the long darkened hallways that lay ahead of him, or of the spiders lurking at their edges. If anyone caught him, they would throw him into prison. He hadn’t even a spare smoking jacket with him, or his dung pipe — plus he’d heard there were bugs in the cells, large hard-shelled beetles that were too big to kill just by stepping on them.

  There were few torches lit along the hallways at this hour. The scant light made the shadows long, but Sarmillion was thankful for the darkness. Once he heard the sound of boots upon stone, but he was able to press himself into a doorway and — naturally — he’d worn black. The walls grew closer, the torches fewer, and Sarmillion swore he felt a tickle of spid
er legs on his calf, but he gripped his prying bar and carried on. Soon enough, a terrible little thought poked its head around the corner and stared at him: if it were just a matter of prying open that brass door, then why hadn’t anyone done it before? There were, as far as he could tell, two answers to that question. One, they had tried, and it hadn’t worked. Or two, no one would dare, because the risk was too great.

  But of course, he hadn’t tried yet. Sarmillion had honed certain skills over the past year, and he wasn’t proud of them, but there was no denying them either. He’d never met a door he couldn’t open, and he’d never yet been caught. He tightened his grip on the scratched metal bar and said, “We’ll do what needs doing.”

  By the time Sarmillion reached the brass door, his hands were so slick with cold sweat that the prying bar almost clattered to the stone floor. The place shouted its emptiness — which was convenient, but also unnerving.

  There were the runes engraved into brass. Sarmillion didn’t need to reread them to recall what some wise person had written, but his fingertips passed across them all the same:

  Beware this door, beware your soul! May this door never be opened, or the beggar shall be king. Think twice and thrice, for if it be opened, this door can never again be shut.

  Ominous, to be sure, but Sarmillion reminded himself the warning had never been tested. It might be a whole lot of slag. In any case, he was opening this door for a just cause. That had to count for something. He picked up his prying bar, jammed it into the seam where brass met stone, and heaved.

  The door didn’t budge. He tried another angle, and yet another, but the brass door remained stubbornly and incontrovertibly sealed. He kicked it, and swore at it, and pried and pried again. Leaning against the stone wall to catch his breath, Sarmillion heard footsteps. He panicked, dropped the bar and scurried to hide in a nearby doorway.

  He listened. This wasn’t the heavy clopping of Landguard boots; someone else was here. Sarmillion’s heart was making so much noise it was hard to hear. Mice alive, who else knew about this? Only Mars. But he was with Jordan, back at the cave. Or was he? Surely Mars hadn’t changed his mind.

  But perhaps the gardener didn’t trust him. Would someone else show up and steal his redemption? It’s mine, he thought. It’s mine and I want it. Oh, unfairness. Oh, cruel timing.

  As the footsteps drew closer, Sarmillion could hear two voices: one male, one female. He couldn’t make out the words, but he could hear the anxiety in them. And then he spied them as they came near, their veils and long robes. Veils? But he’d heard a male voice. Men did not take the veil in Cir, even if their vocation forbid marriage. Who in the name of dried dung was hiding beneath that silky shroud? The two strangers stopped before the brass door, which was when Sarmillion realized he’d left his prying bar there.

  One of the veils picked it up and then said, “Sarmillion. Come out. I know you’re here.”

  Sarmillion’s chest tightened. That was Jordan’s voice! What was he doing here? But was he here? The undercat rubbed his eyes, and looked again. He had heard Jordan, he knew he had, so he crept up behind the saffron-robed creature and said, “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”

  The person wheeled around. “I don’t always do what I’m supposed to,” he said wryly.

  It was Jordan — gone sideways. It’s not my fault. Sarmillion had told Jordan to stay home. He couldn’t help it if the boy wouldn’t follow the rules.

  “The prying bar didn’t make it back to your friend’s place, I see,” said Jordan.

  “Evidently not.” Sarmillion put out his hand for it but Jordan made no move to give it back.

  The other veiled intruder touched Jordan’s arm and said, “We don’t have time for this, Jordan. He’ll never open the door with that thing anyhow.”

  This must have been the impossible girlfriend.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” the undercat said to her. “Sarmillion here, former scribe to the scholar Balbadoris, currently residing in Omar and usually up to no good. Except for tonight.”

  “I am Ophira,” she said, and offered her hand.

  “The adopted daughter of the Seers of Cir,” added Jordan.

  Sarmillion muttered, “Sweet sasapher.” The boy enjoyed a challenge.

  The undercat regarded Jordan suspiciously. “Curious outfit you’re wearing. If you don’t mind my saying, it doesn’t work for you.” He scowled. “What sort of tomfoolery have you gotten yourself into now?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  “Well then, pass me my prying bar and let’s get down to business.”

  “I don’t think so, Sarmillion.”

  “I thought you told me earlier tonight you could help.”

  “He can’t help you with this, feirhart,” said Ophira, which was when Sarmillion understood just how poorly the veil did its job. The longer you spoke to a woman who wore it, the more time you spent imagining what lay beneath it. What face might have been sculpted by that voice? What light in the eyes?

  “I can,” said Jordan, “but . . . ”

  “But you won’t,” said Ophira.

  Sarmillion could sniff out weakness like a home-cooked meal. “We’d both be heroes, you know. Glory, girls, and groder. In whatever order you fancy.”

  “I know,” said Jordan, “but . . . ”

  “We must help them,” said Sarmillion. “Arrabel, your mother, Balbadoris. We could save them all. This is the only way.” Not true. Willa had told him there was another way. But it seemed a poor way, a sitting-around-and-doing-nothing way, when it was action that was required.

  Jordan was shifting his weight from one leg to the other as if visibly weighing his options. “But Ophira says . . . ”

  Sarmillion wagged a long ringed finger at him. “They’ll say anything to get their way, Jordan. It’s best you learned that early. Forgive me, feirhaven,” he said to Ophira, “but it’s true.” He turned back to Jordan. “If you’re not here to help, then what the deuce are you doing in this hallway? You haven’t come this way by accident, I reckon.”

  “We’re going to see the grandmas,” said Ophira, “and this is the safest route out of the palace. We’ll hear what they have to say about this brass door, and I can guarantee you they won’t recommend that Jordan open it.”

  “I don’t think I like your tone, Missy,” said Sarmillion. “The undermagic will help bring back the high priestess and her people — including Jordan’s mother, I might add. I don’t frankly care what your grannies have to say about it. We must open it.”

  “We can’t,” said Jordan.

  “Think about what you’re saying. The prisoners are scheduled to hang in seven days.”

  “Phi took care of that.” He looked at his veiled girlfriend who seemed suddenly to have transferred her attention to something at the other end of the hall. “Right, Phi? You told Rabellus not to do it. You said he would listen.”

  She gave a mumbled response that Sarmillion knew from years of experience with women meant she hadn’t kept an important promise.

  “What did you say?” asked Jordan.

  “I said, he refused me.”

  “But you told me — ”

  “Would you have me compromise my honour, Jordan? I might have bought their freedom at that price, though I doubt it even then. His mind is made up. I’m sorry.”

  “You could have mentioned this before,” he said.

  “Well,” said Sarmillion, clapping his hands, “there we are. Half-moons in seven days, Ut a ten-day boat ride away. What do you figure? Unless we have some kind of magic to help us bend time to get there, it’s hopeless.”

  “The grandmas can help us,” said Ophira, sounding less sure than before. “We have to go. I don’t much like the idea of getting caught down here.”

  “Slim chance of that tonight,” said Sarmillion. “Didn’t you hear the party in the dining hall? We have plenty of time to sort this out. Now, I don’t fancy dithering with a bunch of old ladies over something as important
as this. Jordan, if you know something about opening this door, then tell me. Make your father proud.”

  There was silence, and then Jordan said, “They’ve taken him.”

  “What do you mean?” said Sarmillion. “Taken him where?”

  “Prison.”

  Ophira was shocked. “How could they? What has he done?”

  Jordan shook his head. “Nothing. It was Piccolo’s doing,” he said to Sarmillion. “They’ve taken him because they can’t find me.”

  “Piccolo,” Sarmillion said. “That rogue.”

  “Do you know where the prison is? I need to see my father. I said things to him that . . . ” he faltered. “I never got the chance to apologize. If I’d known . . . ”

  “No, Jordan,” Ophira said. “They don’t let anyone visit the prison, not even in those robes. You’d have to disappear to get in, and that’s the one thing you must not do.”

  Sarmillion’s eyebrows rose. Must not disappear? “Right. What’s really going on here?”

  “He’s watching,” Jordan whispered hoarsely. “He knows we’ve come here. He’s waiting for me. He wants me to bring him the undermagic.”

  “He? He who?”

  “Come on, Sarmillion, you saw me walk off that bridge.

  You’ve seen me disappear. You know I wasn’t born with this gift. And it was you who said it: a sorcerer would never give away such a gift for free. Well, you were right. Now he wants his payment, and if I don’t open this door and bring him whatever’s behind it, he’ll come after me.”

  “He wants you to open this door?” Sarmillion’s question came out in a squeak. “The sorcerer you bought your gift from is the Beggar King?”

  Jordan nodded.

  His common sense was up in arms. “There’s no such thing,” it shouted. “He’s just a metaphor.” But Willa, too, believed it. So did Balbadoris. Hadn’t one of his famous questions been about ridding the world of the Beggar King? Sarmillion couldn’t even recall the answer because he’d always believed the question to be ridiculous.

  “The Beggar King,” he said. “King of the undermagic. And you figure hiding behind a veil will save you?”