The Beggar King (14 page)

“It's a little late for that now, isn't it.”

“Indeed,” huffed Sarmillion.

They proceeded for several minutes in silence.

“So what should I do?” the boy said finally, gaping at Sarmillion with wide scared eyes.

“I don't know yet.” Sarmillion gentled his voice. “For now, you'll stay at my place, and I mean stay. Indoors.” He led Jordan up a spiral flight of wrought-iron stairs to the undercat's apartment. He'd never heard anyone speak to Piccolo like that before. He hated to admit it, but Jordan had courage. A fool's courage, perhaps, but courage nonetheless.

They stopped at an elaborate door constructed of swirling metal rosettes that were filled in with stained glass.

“Who's that in the middle?” Jordan asked, pointing to the carved face of a woman with unkempt hair and crazed eyes.

“That's Lady Destiny,” said Sarmillion.

“I've never heard of her.”

“She'll catch up to you when you're older. She always does.” He unlocked the door and stood aside. “Welcome to my humble quarters,” he said, and was pleased to see Jordan's face go slack as he crossed the threshold. Sarmillion knew the Elliott home well; he'd spent many an evening with Jordan's father in the reading room. Compared to this opulent setting anyone would say their home was dark and narrow and smelled of cabbage.

Here were beaded curtains and colourful silks hanging from the ceiling, window after window opening out onto the bustling bazaar, candle sconces and tapestries upon the walls. It was the home of someone who'd made a great success of his life, depending on how you defined success. What it was not, was the abode of a struggling scribe.

“Where are your parchments?” asked Jordan.

Sarmillion's whiskers fell and he dug his nails into his wrist. How could he tell the boy he'd had to hide it all away in a closet so that it wouldn't stare at him in constant reproach? Only Balbadoris's long blue sasapher pipe sat on display, collecting dust on one shelf like a souvenir.

“You heard the song in the tavern,” he said. “I'm not a scribe anymore.” He cleared his throat. “Now, let's get down to business. Considering we've probably alienated our best source of protection, we'll have to move onto Plan B. You'll need a disguise,” and he led Jordan to his closet — it took up an entire room. It made the life of a thief worth every black-gloved stolen-candlestick nerve-wracked moment.

“At home I have a drawer,” Jordan sighed, “with three shirts and two pairs of short pants.”

Sarmillion shrugged. “What good is life without a collection of smoking jackets?”

He considered Jordan's colouring and then selected a pair of ivory pants for the boy, and a long embroidered shirt made of silk and dyed the colour of jade. “And you mustn't go out without a headdress,” he said, pulling one from a drawer.

“That way no one will recognize me,” said Jordan.

“Don't be ridiculous,” said Sarmillion. “This is purely a matter of style.”

He adjusted the headdress, fitted Jordan with a brown belt and a woven leather bracelet, stood back to evaluate the effect, and then nodded his approval. Jordan positioned himself before the enormous looking glass hanging from one wall and studied his reflection from one side, then another.

“I don't know,” he said. “Do I have to wear the headdress? It feels a little funny.”

“Nonsense, it's smashing.”

Sarmillion moved in front of Jordan and placed his hands on the boy's shoulders. “Twice today you disappeared, right before my eyes. The Landguards thought you ran away. Piccolo figured you'd snuck outside. But I know what I saw, and I've never seen it before. Tell me straight, now: did someone help you? Did you take a potion?”

Jordan's eyes flitted towards the rows of shiny boots and two-toned leather shoes. “I just did it — myself,” he stammered. “It's my gift. I can disappear.”

This boy who had for sixteen years shown no magical aptitude whatsoever, other than to make tomatoes vanish from market stalls and miraculously reappear in his pockets — suddenly he could disappear himself? Sarmillion didn't believe it for a second. “Sorcery's a dangerous game, feirhart, and disappearing is no common feat. Did you pay a sorcerer?”

“I didn't pay anyone.”

“Underrats say they saw you on the Bridge of No Return ten or more twin moons ago.”

The boy's face coloured. “They must have made a mistake.”

“You're telling me it wasn't you?”

“No way,” said Jordan. “Underrats are never right about anything.”

While the boy did have a point, Sarmillion still suspected he was lying. Jordan had gotten involved in some sort of mischief. He'd bought himself a gift — only Lady Destiny knew what price he'd paid for it — but now he was here and the Loyalists, who needed a hero, might just have found one. How splendid it was when the universe cooperated with his plans.

The wild woman has brought me my redemption
.
She still
loves me.
But oh, how cruel she could be. After having scored such a coup in getting the information about Arrabel and the others from those two drunken Landguards, Sarmillion had sat down the next morning and tried to write a love poem. He imagined himself as an Omarrian troubadour. He could wear one of those floppy brown hats with an ostrich feather in it. He'd learn to play the lute. He'd sing about Grizelda.

That was the image he'd held in his head that morning, feather pen in hand, ink bottle open on the table. He'd fulfilled his Loyalist spy mission. He could do anything. Yes, he'd dipped the pen, poised it over the parchment, waited for inspiration to strike — and wrote nothing. Blobs of ink dripped onto the paper as if mocking him. The tears of a scribe. But no, they were merely the smudges of an undercat with sticky fingers.

Oh, heavy penalty. Oh, unfair conclusion. That afternoon, in broad daylight, he'd broken into the home of a well-known Omarrian merchant and made off with his collection of brass bells, which Piccolo hadn't even asked for. The way Piccolo had smiled at him — it was a greasy smile, a colluding ‘you're one of us now' look that had made Sarmillion feel the need to wash his hands.

Sarmillion startled as he realized he was still standing with Jordan in the walk-in closet. When finally he spoke, his voice was soft. “I know what you mean about wanting glory.”

Jordan tilted his head to one side.

“At the tavern. You told Piccolo you wanted to do something glorious.”

The boy turned away.

“No,” Sarmillion said, “I understand. I want it, too. I have these ideas — well, a couple of poems, actually. I've never shown them to anyone before,” and he opened the bottom drawer of a cupboard and took out a slim sheaf of parchments. He started to hand the papers to Jordan, then pulled them away. “You can't read them yet, they're not ready.”
They'll never be ready
.

Sarmillion couldn't meet Jordan's eyes. “One day it will be my masterpiece and I will travel the lands of Katir-Cir reciting my poetry.” He left out the part about the lute and the feathered hat. Some things were private. “Grizelda will be there. Some of the poems will be for her.” He swallowed hard. “Only right now I'm here, in Omar, working for Piccolo, and these hands,” he held up his slender ringed fingers, “these hands have not used a feathered pen for anything except to pick locks.” He fingered his most recent acquisition, a camel-hair coat. “Glory is a fickle dame, boy, as elusive as smoke. Grab her if you can. But don't be surprised if you come up empty-handed. She's a trickster. Take it from someone who knows.”

Jordan busied himself adjusting his belt and Sarmillion bit his lip. “Well, then,” he clapped, in an attempt to lighten the mood, “let's have a sip of fireweed whiskey to celebrate your birthday, shall we? A baptism of sorts. You're a Loyalist now.” He led Jordan to a lavishly carpeted sitting room, where he opened a cupboard and took out a tall blue bottle and two small glasses.

“Since we're going to be living together for a while,” he spoke as he poured, “I'd better lay out the ground rules. I work late, sleep late, and start my mornings reluctantly, with a pipe of dried dung and a generous shot of Bloody Billy. I won't wear plaid and I won't say no to dinner reservations, but only at the Riverfront Café. I quite like that fancy new food they're serving. If you're going to lie to me, you'd better tell a good one because I've got a face full of whiskers and every one of them's a fine-tuned specially-made slag detector.”

Jordan shifted and Sarmillion thought,
I know you've got a
secret, boy.
The question was, did it matter?

“I live for glory, groder and Grizelda,” Sarmillion continued. “Not necessarily in that order.” He winked. “You see? I haven't abandoned my quest yet.” Handing Jordan a drink, he declared, “Stand up, young man, and raise your glass. May the Great Light shine upon you.”

“And upon your family,” Jordan replied. He gulped his drink and immediately his knees gave way and he had to sit.

“Easy now,” Sarmillion said. “You've had a long day. A hearty meal and a long sleep will do you good.”

The undercat set about clattering and singing in the kitchen as he concocted his specialty: fish stew seasoned with a pinch of stolen sasapher and some hefty cloves of garlic.

They lingered over the meal as the sun set and the moons rose. Afterwards Sarmillion led Jordan to the guest room and leaned casually against the doorframe as the boy whispered, “A bed,” with something like awe. “I've only ever slept in a hammock.”

Jordan was asleep before Sarmillion had the chance to wish him a good rest. He scrutinized the boy's tanned face and unruly mop of hair. He had always fancied himself as an undercat who knew all the answers, but evidently there were questions in this world he'd never thought to ask.

Sarmillion shut the bedroom door, poured another glass of fireweed whiskey, and settled himself in a soft armchair. He recalled the day not long after the coup when he'd set off for Omar and the boy had trotted along beside him asking unusual questions about the brass door in the Cirran palace. All those rumours about that door and its connections to the undermagic: well, what if they weren't rumours? What if Jordan had acquired the power to disappear?

“I didn't just think that,” Sarmillion said to himself. And he tried to unthink it, but he'd never been much good at that. Because the truth of the matter was undeniable: if they could get their hands on the undermagic, their Brinnian problem would be solved. And then that trickster, glory, would have no choice but to come knocking at Sarmillion's door.

Thirteen
T
HE
B
RASSED
D
OOR

W
HEN
J
ORDAN AWOKE, THE BLACK SKY
outside his open window was punctuated by two true-full circles of yellow moon surrounded by an eerie orange hue. It took him a moment to remember where he was. He lay there, trying to decide if he preferred the firmness of a bed or the gentle cradle of a hammock. There was a distant hum — was it a conversation? Jordan listened. He was certain Sarmillion was speaking to someone in the sitting room. Maybe it was Grizelda.

Jordan crept to the door and clicked it open. Warm candlelight spilled into the dark bedroom. Though the other voice did not belong to a female undercat, it did seem familiar.

“Sweet sasapher,” the stranger was saying, “do ye reckon he's taken some sort of brew?”

It was Mars! He and Sarmillion would be discussing Loyalist business. Jordan held his breath in order to hear every word.

“He claims it's his gift,” said Sarmillion.

“I smell sorcery,” said Mars. “‘Tisn't regular for a boy to have such a skill. ‘Tisn't wise, neither. Disappearing's a trick from the undermagic days. How could he possibly do it without help? And deceitful help at that?”

“Does it really matter how he does it?”

“Blooming bellwethers, Sarmillion, of course it does. Ain't no one disappeared in Katir-Cir for over a thousand years, and all of a sudden our Jordan can do it? We'd be fools not to ask where it came from.”

“Mars, Mars — imagine the possibilities. He could get into the palace without being seen. And you know what's in the palace, don't you?”

“Indeed, I do, underkitty: scores of guards carrying clubs and whatnot.”

“I mean, besides them.”

“What are you on about now?”

“Go to the last door, yes the brassed door, the one that will not open with a key,” Sarmillion sang in such a horrible scratchy voice Jordan nearly burst into laughter.

“How much fireweed whiskey have ye had?” asked Mars.

“It's a Rubber Band song. They say — ”

“Those three flobbers? Is that where you're gettin' yer intelligence?”

“I've spent half my life in the Cirran palace, gardener! I don't need the Rubber Band to tell me what's behind that door.”

“Is that so?” Mars exhaled heavily. “Explain it to a simple fella.”

This was the palace secret that Sarmillion had refused to reveal to Jordan so long ago. Jordan heard the sound of a chair being pushed away, and then the soft padding of feet. Sarmillion was pacing.

“It was always guarded in Arrabel's time,” the undercat said, “but the Elliott boy told me there isn't a soul around that dingy hallway anymore. The Brinnians are too dim-witted to realize what they've got.”

“What was Jordan doing in them parts? If Arrabel posted guards at that door, it means it ain't safe.”

“Of course it's not safe, Marsy. Nothing is safe anymore. If it were, I wouldn't be interested. It's power, pure and simple. And if we got hold of it, we could do whatever we wanted.”

“I've heard ‘tis the undermagic itself locked behind that door.”