The Beggar King (20 page)

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?”

“Now you understand why we're going to see the grandmas,” said Ophira.

Sarmillion held his head in his hands and groaned. “Willa warned me you weren't supposed to come near this door. You, above all. She warned me, and I didn't listen.”

“Do you think I want to open it for him?” said Jordan. “I want to save Arrabel, same as you. We just need to find another way. And the seers might be able to help us. They're our only hope. Work with us, Sarmillion. You're a palace scribe. You know the prayers and spells almost as well as Arrabel does. We'll need your help.”

Sarmillion pressed a pointed tooth against his bottom lip as he considered this. “Three of us traveling together? I don't like it. We'd be better off splitting up.”

“Fine,” said Jordan.

“And I'll take that bar now, if you please,” said Sarmillion, holding out his hand. “It has sentimental value.” Jordan passed it to him.

“We'll meet up in the Alley of Seers, then,” said Ophira, “at Mama Petsane's blue door.”

They wished each other safe passage and Sarmillion scurried down the dark corridor before Jordan or his girlfriend could have any ideas about tagging along. He'd performed enough burglaries to know that working solo was the only way to go. As soon as you had to rely on someone else to keep quiet or not drop something, you had earned your leg irons.

He wasn't keen on a meeting with seven old ladies — or rather, seven minus Willa — especially not old ladies who could read your mind. He had too much classified information stored away in his. No, he didn't like this idea at all. Willa had known what he'd done from the second he'd arrived at her workshop. Though of course, she was the youngest of the sisters. With any luck, the others had already gone senile.

Nineteen
F
OOLISHNESS AND
J
ABBER
-B
LABBER

T
HE VEIL BROUGHT WITH IT A
peculiar anonymity. Jordan felt as if he could get away with anything. It was easier to see through than he would have expected, though it was generously scented with a maid's cloying lavender perfume. He and Ophira stood before the library archives door.

“How can you stand this thing?” he said, tugging at the smooth fabric.

“It has its advantages,” she said. “It makes Rabellus think twice — despite what you might believe.” She tilted her head sideways. “You make a fine-looking girl, Jordan.”

“Shut up.” He rotated the door handle one way and then the other.

“It sticks,” she said.

“No. It's locked. We'll have to find another way out.”

Jordan tried to ignore the brass door nearby, though it glowed brightly in his peripheral vision. As they hurried back down the darkened corridors in search of a safe exit, they could hear shouting and the sound of a dish crashing to the floor. A Brinnian party.

“You'd better go on ahead,” said Ophira. “I'll follow in a few minutes. Keep your head down and your mouth shut, and no matter what, do not disappear. You must promise me. Go to Mama Petsane directly. Don't try to go to the prison to see your father.” She fixed her eyes upon his through their veils.

“I won't,” said Jordan. She squeezed his hand, and he pivoted on his heel and set off in the other direction because it was the only way he could make himself let go.

Soon the halls grew lighter and the shouting and music louder. It took every bit of his self-control not to run. He thought of his father, sitting alone in a cell, probably cold and cramped and hungry. Rescuing him seemed as impossible as bringing home his mother from Southern Ut.
You could do it — if you
used the undermagic.

A Landguard was approaching. Jordan tensed, on the verge of panic, but the guard passed with nothing more than a small bow. Jordan almost laughed. He could get used to this sort of freedom. He entered the Meditary at the northern archway where another guard sat slumped in his chair, fast asleep.

As he made his way out of the temple, there was a rumble in the sky. Enormous thunderheads had appeared above the Holy City. Thunder clattered, and a bolt of lightning illuminated the night sky. A moment later, a driving rain began. The cobblestones grew so slick Jordan slipped several times on his way down the mountain and towards the Alley of Seers. Around every corner, in every darkened doorway, he feared only one thing — that
he
would be there. What could the Beggar King see from his darkened path? But Jordan knew the answer to that: he saw everything. He must know Jordan was planning to defy him.