The Beggar King

by Michelle Barker

  “Where are they taking them?” Tanny said. “I can’t even bear to look.”

  Jordan glanced towards the blackened hanging tree, which was thick with crows, but the guards weren’t heading in that direction. They disappeared through a door, into the east wing of the palace.

  “It won’t happen,” he said to his mother in a low voice.

  The crowd of Cirrans on the palace grounds had grown larger. “They’re here because of you, you know,” Tanny said to Jordan.

  “They’re here because of Manjuza,” he countered.

  “No. Manjuza’s arrest made them angry, but I’ve heard the talk. It was the flowers you left at the holy tree that gave everyone hope, when so many were on the point of giving up. What you did was very brave.”

  Jordan frowned. He wondered what his mother would say if she knew what he had brought to Arrabel, the candle she now carried concealed in the pocket of her Uttic robes. They would have to go back, he and Arrabel. Jordan would have to open the brass door one last time and return to the other side.

  “And then we give back the candle, and what’s done is done,” Jordan had said, before they disembarked from the boat that had ferried them from Ut.

  “No, Jordan,” she had said. “You’ll have to extinguish the bigger candle — the one you took from that room.”

  The candle that wakes the dark side of the world. “But he has it,” Jordan had objected. “How will I ever get it from him?”

  Ceremonial drums brought him back to the afternoon with a jolt. The trumpets blared and Emperor Rabellus approached the archery fields followed by a pair of Landguards who struggled to carry Theophen’s enormous bow. The Uttic tourists standing as a group at one side of the assembly seemed to straighten at once, but Jordan hoped that only he had noticed.

  “Rabellus won’t really try to use that bow, will he?” Jordan said to his mother. “He’ll make an ass of himself.”

  But no, the emperor left the bow in the archery fields and climbed the stairs to his platform to speak.

  “Cirrans, and those of you from foreign lands, we have come together for these Brinnian contests in celebration. And what, pray, do we commemorate on this day of half-moons rising? Far away in the land of Ut, a group of people whom you know well has been living in hiding. A group whom you counted on, but who has let you down.”

  At this, the Cirran people mumbled and stirred, and the Landguards put their hands upon their daggers. Rabellus, however, was sailing his speech through boisterous winds, enjoying the rise and fall of his own voice.

  “I bring you great tidings. The traitor Arrabel, her chickenhearted commander Theophen, and all of the other cowardly palace folk who abandoned you are no more. Brinnian rule has once and for all embraced these lands. Your high priestess has breathed her last.”

  The cheers came only from the off-duty Landguards, most of whom were drunk. The Cirrans were dumbstruck.

  “But we, too, shall have our hangings.” He waved towards the palace’s east wing and called, “Bring out the prisoners.” Two hooded Landguards emerged, escorting Mama Manjuza. She shuffled and hobbled as if she were lame, and there was a collective gasp.

  Elliott followed behind her, tall and proud and fearless, and Jordan lurched instinctively, but his mother held his arm and said, “Wait. Wait for the right moment.”

  He could stop everything. One move, one last disappearance, another candle — the vultures would give it to him, he was certain. And then he felt his mother’s eyes on his face and he knew who they would strike in return.

  “Trust in the power of the Great Light,” Arrabel had said. But where was that power?

  “We will all bear witness to the terrible fruits of rebellion,” Rabellus declared. “But first, to the contests. Let us see who can wield Theophen’s infamous bow, now that he and his men are dead. Whoever is capable of hitting the mark shall be named the new commander of my Brinnian guard. He shall win the right to preside with me over the executions. Come one and all; everyone can try his hand.”

  The target was set its customary distance away as an unruly line-up of Landguards formed. A couple of Circassic farmers shuffled forward but not a single Cirran joined the line. And no one in Uttic dress approached, either.

  The shooting began. Many of the Landguards couldn’t even nock the arrow. One of the farmers managed it, but then his arrow wobbled pathetically into a haystack. Jordan could hardly concentrate. He kept glancing at his father and wishing he would turn in his direction.

  “Come now,” said Rabellus. “Cirrans, Cirsinnians. What about you Uttic folk? Is there none among you willing to try your hand?”

  One of the Uttic tourists stepped forth reluctantly.

  “Here’s an eager young buck,” boomed Rabellus from his platform. “Have a go, Son. We’ll drink a cup of mug-wine to your success.”

  Jordan could scarcely breathe. All the Uttic ‘tourists’ had weapons beneath their robes, except for Jordan and Arrabel. They would go directly to the palace as soon as the opportunity arose. But his father. . . . Jordan hadn’t counted on that complication. He spied Arrabel on the outskirts of the crowd near the sun tower, a meeting place they had agreed upon earlier. He shook his head emphatically and hoped she saw, and understood, that he couldn’t leave his father here to die.

  The Uttic man picked up the bow as if it were a harp. Those who didn’t know would have assumed he had never held a bow in his life. Those who did, knew it was music in his capable hands. He pretended to struggle with the arrow, taking so long to nock it that the crowd grumbled its impatience. And then, so quickly that no one even knew how it had happened, the Uttic man swiveled, took aim, and shot the arrow into the heart of Emperor Rabellus. Theophen threw off his headdress and strode towards the emperor. Rabellus looked up, his face smoothing from shock into recognition.

  “You!” he cried, and then he collapsed and died.

  Cirrans who had been milling about peacefully now had knives in their hands, their blades flashing as they pursued the open-mouthed Landguards.

  “Go to him,” Tanny urged. “You know what he’s like. He won’t fight.”

  But as Jordan moved towards his father, he saw Elliott give the Landguard next to him a sudden and debilitating kick, and then a Cirran man was beside him, freeing his arms. Elliott and the other man worked swiftly to unfasten the other prisoners’ restraints.

  “I have to go,” Jordan said to his mother. “You shouldn’t stay here. It won’t be safe.”

  “But where are you going?” she said.

  He kissed her cheek and ran towards Arrabel, who stood poised and still, her white Uttic robes shimmering with light.

  Twenty-Seven

  AN URGENT QUESTION

  SARMILLION DODGED A CIRRAN IN ROSE-COLOURED potter’s robes wrestling a Landguard to the ground. He was looking for his beloved Balbadoris.

  “Master, is that you?” he called towards a stooped man dressed in white Uttic robes. “Master, we must get you out of harm’s way.”

  “Nonsense,” roared Balbadoris. “Give me my walking stick. I shall be known for generations to come as the scholar who fought off enemy soldiers with a limb of burnished oak. You shall write it all down and draw up the illustrations.”

  “Well then,” said Sarmillion, “I’ll stand and fight with you. Let’s brandish our weaponry and have at it.”

  Except when Sarmillion reached into his pocket and pulled out a small rusty billy knife he didn’t feel quite so brave. Quietly he stuffed it back in and stood next to Balbadoris as a burly, bearded Landguard ran towards them with a long sharp sword.

  “That’s it, Master, you can take him!” Sarmillion said. “Now, balance your weight on both feet. Jab him with your walking stick, feirhart. Knock the sword from his hand.”

  Balbadoris lifted his walking stick high in the air and brought it down on the Landguard’s arm so hard the man fell in a heap. Sarmillion ran towards the downed soldier and kicked him in the stomach.

  “There!�
�� he cried. “How do you like that, you steaming pile of goat slag?”

  A quick check to make sure he hadn’t damaged his two-toned leather shoes, and then the undercat trotted along behind Balbadoris who was swinging his walking stick at the Landguards in their path. Some of the Uttic ‘tourists’ had scaled the palace walls and taken up sentry in the towers, where they were picking off Brinnians with their arrows. In one corner of the melee Sarmillion saw the saffron-robed seers conjuring fireballs and hurling them at the Brinnian platforms. Crows screamed into the sky, taking flight from the holy tree, which would not allow them to land on its branches anymore.

  But as the battle roared on, something irked him. He couldn’t put his finger on it. It was something to do with what Master Balbadoris had said about his walking stick. It made him think of those notorious questions the scholar used to ask him to keep him on his toes — Master Wickellhelm and his walking stick with the perching birds. And then for some reason his eye sought out Jordan. Where had the Elliott boy gone?

  He spotted Jordan at the sun tower — with the high priestess herself. They were dodging the crowds in a rather shifty way, it now struck him, and heading towards the palace. The palace! Blast those two, they were going back to the brass door, Sarmillion was certain of it.

  What in the name of the twelve bridges was Jordan up to? Surely he wasn’t going back to see the Beggar King. He was under strict orders to stay away from that miscreant. But maybe — was it possible he was going to try to fight him? Balbadoris had just given a Brinnian Landguard a good rap across the shoulders and was standing there wearing a proud frown.

  “Master,” said Sarmillion, tugging on Balbadoris’s robes as they both looked down at the unconscious brute at their feet. “How would one rid the world of the Beggar King if ever the circumstances arose?”

  His bristly white eyebrows rose. “Do you dare to jest at a time like this?”

  “No, Master. In fact, your answer to the question is rather urgently required.”

  “Sarmillion, how many times have I told you?”

  “Several, as it turns out, but I should like to hear it once more.”

  “Very well, then, my undercat scribe, perhaps you should mark it in ink upon your robes.” His voice rose dangerously. “You drown him in the River of the Dead!”

  “That’s it!” And without another word Sarmillion ran towards the palace, zigging and zagging around fallen Landguards and dead crows. He had to tell Jordan this important bit of information. But making his way through this mess of battle without getting himself killed was the first challenge; getting into the palace was the second. It was all taking an unconscionable long time.

  Oh, sad endings. Oh, cruel irony. He’d finally gotten hold of something true and real and helpful, and now he would never reach his friend in time to tell him.

  Twenty-Eight

  DARKNESS AND LIGHT

  THE ENTRANCE TO THE MEDITARY WAS still guarded.

  “We can’t enter the palace here,” Jordan said. “Come with me,” and he led Arrabel around to the low kitchen windows that had once served as his chief means of stealing sasapher cakes from his mother. But when they peered in through the unshuttered frames, they saw Brinnian cooks and scullery maids chopping carrots and shouting to each other about how many biscuits still needed to be baked. The battle outside had not reached them yet.

  “Let me take you through my potions’ room,” Arrabel said.

  “But there’s no way in except through the palace.”

  “I’ll find us another entry,” and she took Jordan’s hands in hers and began to sing a slow and tender song.

  Lay your cares upon my shoulder,

  soft the wind is blowing.

  When you rise, you will be bolder,

  soft the moons are glowing.

  He thought of Ophira, who was gravely ill because of him.

  “Jordan,” said Arrabel. She had stopped singing. “You must empty your mind of worries or we won’t be able to pass.”

  He shut his eyes and as she sang once again he tried to focus on her voice, which was like a river flowing past a sweet meadow of sasapher, past horses grazing peacefully in the early morning sun. When finally he opened his eyes, he stood before the blue and yellow potion bottles with their otherworldly glow.

  “How did you . . . ?”

  “There is a good and true magic in the Holy City too, remember?” Arrabel placed her hands around a tall blue bottle, lifted it to her lips, and drank from it. “Wisdom,” she said, handing it to Jordan. “Drink. You, too, will need this.”

  Jordan took a sip. It was cold, and the liquid inside sweet but with a bitterness that made it hard to swallow.

  “We must go,” said Arrabel, and they left the potions room and crept towards the brass door. The halls were empty. As they passed a large window whose shutters hung off its hinges, they heard a man cry out and then saw a black-clad Landguard rise from the ground and charge at his Cirran attacker. They moved on reluctantly.

  “Are there enough of us?” asked Jordan. “Do you think we’ll overpower them?”

  It was a moment before Arrabel looked at him. “We have surprise on our side, and that’s one thing. Their leader is dead, and that’s another. But then there is you, and that’s something else altogether.”

  The halls grew narrower and darker, and only their footsteps and breathing sounded in the damp silence.

  When at last they arrived at the door a chill broke out on Jordan’s skin.

  Arrabel stood very still. “The Beggar King came to me, too. When I was your age, and waiting for my gift. He sensed my connection to the Great Light long before I did. That is what’s required, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Anyone capable of great goodness is also capable of great evil. The Beggar King is no fool. You must not underestimate him. He sees farther and more sharply than most folk do.”

  “I don’t have any connection like that to the Great Light.”

  “Are you certain of that, Jordan?”

  He picked at the sheen of frost on the walls. “He tried to persuade you to come to him, then.”

  Arrabel nodded. “He wants a partner, the willing participation of a good and decent soul. That’s what means everything to him, that you choose to follow him.”

  “But you didn’t go,” said Jordan.

  “I came to this door, just like you did. But what I read upon it frightened me. Lucinda wrote those words a thousand thousand years ago. Never has there been a man or woman more infused with the Great Light than she. The light of her moon has guided me on many a dark night. She knew him — the Beggar King. She gave her life to warn folk away from him and his sorcery.

  How could I dismiss that?” She fixed Jordan with her severe blue eyes. “And he frightened me.”

  “What did he offer you?”

  “He could have offered anything, I wouldn’t have gone. But no one has faced him with a need as great as yours was.” She bowed her head. “Do you understand what we’re about to do?”

  Jordan didn’t reply. He removed his Uttic headdress and then took a deep breath.

  Arrabel reached into the pocket of her robes and brought out a bundle of purple velvet cloth that she carefully placed between them on the stone floor. Jordan clenched his fists. Inside the cloth was his candle. He could see the glow at one end.

  “Before you open this door, I must tell you,” said Arrabel, “I am loathe to lead you back to this place. But the candle was given to you. You’re the one who must return it.”

  “But the bigger candle, the one he holds — how will I ever get it from him?”

  “You’ll find a way. You must. Everything depends on it, Jordan.” She grasped his arm and in a flash he saw Ophira, her pale face, her lips now tinged with blue. “Remember the Light — always.”

  Jordan’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

  “You will.” She held out a trembling hand toward the door. “Do it
now — before I lose my nerve.”

  He fell to his knees and leaned against the brass door, dreading what was to come. And yet, when its power surged through his body he relaxed into it and the door clicked open beneath his weight.

  Arrabel picked up the velvet bundle and gave it to him. She drew one last breath from the living side of the world and then took his arm, and he understood that she would not be able to come into the darkness unless he escorted her. They stood close together in the black space as Jordan reached into the air and drew it aside like a curtain. When the sound of wings filled the area around them, they stepped out of the world and onto the path that now glowed with the steady light of thousands of unearthly candles.

  Jordan had not seen this many vulture people before. Where had they all come from? They stood shoulder to shoulder as far as he could see. Arrabel’s grip tightened on his arm.

  They set off on the long walk towards the River of the Dead where the Beggar King had established his throne. The mud was slick beneath their sandals, and the vultures along the path had begun to chant in an indecipherable babble.

  “They are announcing our arrival to their king,” Arrabel explained.

  “Why must they carry candles?” Jordan asked.

  “It’s the only light they have left,” said Arrabel. “That is the exchange they’ve made, their souls for power.”

  As they came to the river, Jordan couldn’t help but remember what the Beggar King had said. “So this is the mystery of death,” he murmured.

  “Is that what you think, Jordan?” said Arrabel.

  “You’ve come at last,” cried the Beggar King. His hair was combed and neatly tied back, his robes a grand black velvet, his throne golden with a crown to match. And in his hand, the great candle that Jordan had won for him.

  “I had hoped you would come back, carver’s son. And I see you’ve brought a guest. A friend, as it were.”