The Beggar King (18 page)

Mars was outside burning a pile of snakeweed and repeating the plea that was supposed to reverse any situation.

“A black suit?” Jordan whispered. “That's what you're counting on to hide you? Take me. I can disappear.”

“What sort of silliness are you on about now, boy?”

“I could help you.”

Sarmillion was about to say something when Mars popped his head in through the cave entrance and said, “I'll be needing a word with ye right about now.” He turned to Jordan. “We're just going for a wander. You stay put. When we're back I'll make us some lemongrass tea.”

“Sure,” Jordan grumbled. He kicked at a pile of dry leaves at the cave entrance. It was his mother who was going to die — and yet they expected him to sit here like a good little boy and do nothing? Like slag. He'd crossed the Bridge of No Return. Had they? Greatness was waiting for him, but it wouldn't come knocking at the cave. It was up to him to go get it.

He rummaged through Sarmillion's bag and dressed in the darkest clothes he could find. There was no time to worry about the risk he was taking, no time to think about the Beggar King or the thin line between being a hero and a fool. He snuck out of the cave and into the fresh night air that he had not breathed in many, many days. The river water had that wonderful mud-brown smell to it that he hadn't realized he'd missed, and when he headed towards the cobbled roads of Cir, the whitewashed stone of its buildings glowed in the lamplight like a beacon.

Keeping to the shadows, dressed like a shadow himself, he proceeded quickly and noiselessly. It was late and the roads were quiet. He passed an enormous portrait of Rabellus with that devious sneer. Excitement rose inside him until he felt as if he were floating.

And then he saw his own painted face staring at him from a parchment affixed to the Porcelain Emporium. The likeness was not perfect, but it was close enough. A passerby might recognize him; a Landguard would, for sure. He pressed himself up against the nearest wall and waited for his pulse to slow down. There would be no rooftop jumping for him that night. The last thing he needed was to attract unwanted attention.

He was able to keep to the streets of the living world for the better part of an hour, and the shortcuts he chose had already brought him more than halfway up the mountain. All that time he kept his ears open for the familiar clop-clop of tall black boots.

When a strong arm clamped him around the neck and a deep voice said, “I got ye now, laddie,” Jordan almost leapt out of his skin.

“Ye thought Piccolo wouldn't remember, eh? Ye thought Piccolo wouldn't come lookin' for ye? Well, ye thought wrong. I'm going to collect my reward, and then I'm going to watch you hang from the holy tree alongside yer slubbering paps. So don't you go dying on me, scallywag. I want the full bag of groder for my troubles.”

Jordan wriggled in an attempt to face him, but to no avail. “My father? What are you talking about?”

The bartender chuckled, his breath laced with enough garlic to wilt a hardy mellowreed. “You haven't heard the news? Seems someone told the authorities about a certain Jordan Elliott who did the dirty Loyalist deed up at the hanging tree, now. Seems someone mentioned his paps, a certain odious Elliott T. Elliott, who they might take instead, seeing as how they can't find his lump of a son. Seems someone even provided them with a home address. Now, I wonder who would do such a foul and underhanded thing.”

Jordan shut his eyes and cursed Piccolo under his breath.

“I call this two for the price of one,” the bartender said. “Ye both crossed me. Now ye both get what ye deserve.”

“Where is my father?” Jordan moaned. “What have they done with him?”

“I reckon he's in prison. Maybe they'll give you a cell beside his if ye ask real nice.” Piccolo found this so funny he began coughing and spat onto the road.

There was only one way out of this. But what if the Beggar King was there? Mars was right, this ability to disappear did seem more like a curse. But whatever it was, he needed it now, for there would be no bargaining with Piccolo.

“I believe I'll smoke me a pipe of dried dung while ye dangle next to yer pappy. Drink me a Bloody Billy to celebrate, I will. Pour me a mug full of . . . Hey!” Piccolo yelled, for his arms, which had been wrapped around his prisoner, were suddenly empty.

Piccolo sounded as if he were on a passing riverboat. Jordan was in the passageway now, and it was even blacker than before. It was thanks only to the dim and distant light from the world he'd left behind that he could see where he was going. Frost hardened the path and made it slippery. All around him came the call of, “Little boy wearing too-big shoes, little boy wearing too-big shoes.”

Now Jordan remembered where he'd heard that phrase. It had been one of the grandmas — Mama Appollonia — who had uttered it. “Oh wretched gift
.
” What had she seen with her glass eye? What did she know? Panic rose up his throat.

“Greetings,” came a thin voice, and the Beggar King stood before him. He was now far more like a man than the shadow Jordan had first seen. His long hair was combed back, his face thin and bird-like, his black eyes as piercing and cold as precious stones. He was working at a small thin bone with his teeth.

“I used to eat sins,” he said, “back when I was a poor beggar man in a faraway land and no one would invite me to supper, except to eat barley bread cursed with a dead man's misdeeds. I was starving, and folks were desperate for salvation. They told me the ritual wouldn't wear on me. They said I had the blood for it. Frankly, I prefer the Cirran songbirds. Tasty little creatures.” He flicked the bone away. “Our project is progressing nicely, wouldn't you say?”

“What project?” said Jordan. “I'm not working with you.”

“Of course you are,” said the Beggar King. “You use my gift. You crossed my bridge. You came to me, Jordan Elliott. You might have changed your mind — I've given you ample opportunity. But it seems we are inclined to want, and now there is no going back. We have a deal. Pay up, carver's son.” He smiled with yellow teeth that looked too small for his mouth, and too sharp to be human.

Jordan rubbed his arms to keep warm. “I've made no deal with you.” But had he? He'd had the feeling that something had been sealed when he'd crossed the Bridge of No Return. What had he done?

The Beggar King studied him as if he were reading Jordan's thoughts.

Jordan hung his head. “You never said anything about paying you when you offered me this gift.”

“You should know better. Sorcery does not come by grace. It is a transaction, ever and always. Give and take. I have given. Now it's your turn. Give me something, or I shall take back my gift. Something worthy, if you please. Something dear.”

Jordan didn't have to peek into the world he'd left behind to know that Piccolo was still there. He could hear him swearing and spitting and stomping his feet. If the Beggar King took away his gift now, Jordan would hang and so would his father. Piccolo would make sure of that.

“How quiet we are, for a boy. Tell me, should I send you back?”

“Little boy wearing too-big shoes, little boy wearing too-big shoes,” something cried into the darkness, and then came the whoosh of the wings of a thousand birds.

Jordan let out a long groan. “I have no coin to offer you, feirhart.”

“But luckily it is not coin I desire. You go to the palace, do you not?”

He nodded.

“To open a certain door, I believe.”

Jordan said nothing.

“Come, carving lad. We both know that's what you're going to do. The question is, do you have the blood for it? Eh? What do you figure?”

Jordan felt as if his blood had stopped flowing.

“What do we intend to do with an open door?”

Even if he'd had an answer, Jordan didn't think he was capable of speaking.

“Don't be a dullard, now. You've seen into that special room. What was inside?”

“Nothing. It was dark.”

“Rubbish! You felt the power in that place. You know there's something in there. What is it?”

“I don't know.”

“No,” said the Beggar King, “but I do. And since we are working together, and we are both inclined to want, here is what you shall do. You will open the brass door, go in, and bring me what you find there. It will give you what you really want: glory.” He paused. “You can do it, Jordan. There are only two others in this world who have the gift that you have. One is, shall we say, indisposed; both have refused me. But neither has a need as great as yours.”

Jordan was silent. Two others who were like him?

“You know very well that you cannot do without the undermagic. Your Loyalist leader is a fool if he thinks he'll free the prisoners with nothing but a group of ploughboys. It will be precisely the thing to get them all killed. Unless the rebels have magic — strong magic — you won't free your mother. She will hang at next half-moons which is in — yes, in seven days. And my, it takes such a long time to travel to Utberg. How will you ever get there in time?”

Jordan stared at the ice-encrusted puddles at his feet.

“Bring me what's in that room,” said the Beggar King, “and I will share the power of the undermagic with you. I will give you enough of it to free your prisoners. And then you'll be free of me. If you want to be, that is.”

The Beggar King stepped back. “Go. Save the world. Be a hero. Glory will become you, I'm certain of it.”

Jordan's head was aching and his legs were weak.

“Best be on your way while there's still time,” the Beggar King said. And then he lowered his voice. “Heed me, Jordan Elliott, or you will regret it.”

With that he was gone, and Jordan was alone on his long dark path on the underside of the world.

Seventeen
C
ARAMEL

I
N HIS WEAKENED STATE, IT TOOK
Jordan over an hour to reach the plateau at the pinnacle of the Holy City. He'd fled the dismal passageway as soon as he could, but now that he'd reached the heavily guarded palace he had to disappear again in order to cross the courtyard unseen.

He paused at the entrance archway to the Meditary. At this hour the temple was deserted, other than the guard who stood a few feet away from him. Jordan held his forearms at face-level and crossed them before the sullen man in a Cirran curse. Then he took off his sandals. There was no cleansing water, though, and as he began to say the prayer it felt so powerless, like so many random words strung together, that he gave it up, put his sandals back on and passed undetected beneath the archway.

Jordan rubbed his arms to keep warm. The silk shirt he'd taken from Sarmillion was no help at all. The air, which was already frigid in his dark, dank pathway, seemed even colder in the Meditary. Without the kneeling carpets or the orange glow of the firestone in the central font, the room felt forsaken.

Jordan tried to remember the way to the brass door, but it had been over a year since he'd last been here and the palace was a labyrinth of hallways and dead ends. Unless he could find the kitchen, he was sure to get lost. He took a deep calming breath and entered a stone hallway lit sparingly by small torches. There were no guards in sight. Every single door down the long corridor looked identical.

He followed one hallway lined with statues of famous historical figures, then another with stained glass windows, and then he found himself facing a pair of elaborate gilt-edged doors. This was most certainly the wrong way. He was about to turn back when he heard a stern male voice.

“Put down that bowl and leave off with your battle talk. I have military advisers for that sort of thing — and none of them half as fair as you, lass.”

“Forgive me, my lord,” a girl replied. “I am a seer, and I've been called here to perform a service. My visions have been dire, but they do not come clearly yet. You must let me continue my scrying without interruption.”

Was that Ophira? How could it be? “I am needed at night,” she'd said. But for this? Ophira was working for the Brinnians? He couldn't believe it — and yet, what other explanation could there be?

“I can't see when you stand so close to me, my lord,” Ophira said now. But who was she talking to? “And I don't have enough oil left in my bottle. I'll have to go to the potions room to prepare more.”

The silver bottle — Jordan remembered it. The grandmas had sent Ophira into the palace the morning after the coup. Wait — the grandmas had sent her. She wasn't working for the Brinnians. No, Ophira and her grandmas must have begun the rebellion that very morning. He could almost hear Mama Manjuza say, “Here is our granddaughter, the most talented young seer in Cir.” Ophira would have ensured that the Landguards didn't enjoy the benefit of accurate prophecy even once. She hadn't worn the saffron robes in public back then, but who knew what she'd been wearing in these hallways?

“Confound your oils and ointments!” bellowed the man. “Come sit on the bed next to me. I've a mind to find out how soft your skin is beneath that veil.”

“But Emperor, I've had visions of anarchy. I've seen Brinnian arrows fly slant, and Cirran dogs let loose. I'm working to protect you. Let me see just a little farther, and then I'll sit as close as you like.”

Jordan's hair stood on end. Emperor? Ophira was in there with Rabellus?

“You weary me with your blasted Cirran magic,” the man said, and now Jordan remembered that voice, that sneer on his face when he'd addressed the crowd in the Meditary one year ago.

“You're a powerful man, Emperor. You wouldn't want to lose your position in the Holy City by disregarding my warnings, would you?” Her voice quivered and Jordan dug his nails into his forearm.

“Too true,” Rabellus said. “Very well, then, go off and mix your silly potions. But tell me first, is your hair scented with caramel again tonight?”