The Beggar King (24 page)

He reached the centre of town, which consisted of one dusty main street with a stone barrier on the ocean side and market stalls made of sheet metal along the other. It was a busy place, and every single person milling about was dressed in uniform.

Jordan glanced at the clothes he'd borrowed from Sarmillion and realized he would have to change.

He closed his eyes, imagining himself into Brinnian black, and felt at once the transformation in the fabric. The uniform was hot and itchy against his skin. He sighed in relief, reached into the pocket of his trousers to make sure the candle was still there, and continued on his way.

The late morning heat shimmered off the metal market stalls and lifted a rusty blood-stench of raw meat to Jordan's nose. He sauntered along the street in an attempt at Brinnian bravado. At a nearby stall, two soldiers were fingering with their soiled hands the lightweight white fabric from which most Uttic clothing was made. An older woman in a white kerchief and long white robe who stood behind the table was watching them, her bright blue eyes glowing in a sun-beaten face. A couple of undernourished dogs sat behind her.

“You gonna buy or no?” Jordan heard her say.

The men chuckled.

“No buy, no touch!”

That only made them laugh harder.

She raised a long thin stick in warning and the dogs behind her backed away. As the guards leaned into each other, Jordan caught a glimpse behind them of a small child sitting on a wooden stool in the shade, wearing a loosened headdress and long white robes. The gentle dark eyes might have belonged to a boy, but only Uttic girls wore the tiny jewel pierced into the side of their nose. Hers was a ruby. But it was her hand that kept Jordan's attention. In her tiny dark-skinned hand she held a yellow square of cake with crimped edges. It was one of Tanny's sasapher cakes. He had to bite down on his lip to keep from crying out.

One of the soldiers took a corner of the white fabric for sale and used it to wipe his sweating face.

“Leave off, friend,” Jordan snarled in his best attempt at a Brinnian accent.

Both guards glared at him. The woman lowered her stick.

“Fresh face,” said one in a gust of mug-wine breath. “A young'un. You'll sing a different tune about these lowly folk before long,
friend.
”

Both men reeked as if they hadn't washed in a month, and one was now blowing snot from one of his nostrils onto the dusty ground near the clean white cloth. An image came to Jordan's mind of boils, red and oozing. The undermagic flowed through him with a jolt, jerking his arms up, and suddenly the two men screamed, clutched their faces, and ran off.

The Uttic merchant woman was staring at him, eyes wide with fear. Jordan turned back to speak to the child, but she was gone.

“Your little girl,” he said to the woman. “Could you please tell me — ”

“Leave this place,” she hissed, and then said something in Uttish that Jordan could not understand.

“I won't hurt you,” he said in a soothing tone. He took a step toward her and she moved back. “Please — that cake she was eating. Where did she get it?”

But the woman just stared at him, worrying the thin stick in both hands. Jordan was certain she understood what he was asking. His hands balled into fists. He could make her talk. It wouldn't take much — she was already afraid, and she'd seen what he could do. He was about to will it into being, but then he stopped himself. The woman was cowering behind the table in terror, holding one of the dogs against her while the other growled at Jordan from a corner of the stall.

No, he decided. He would find the child himself.

Beyond the market was a maze of narrow streets that were strewn with garbage and lined with small clay huts. The girl was nowhere to be seen.
Find her.
As he moved effortlessly down darkened alleyways he felt so light his feet skipped over the ground. He was almost disappointed when he came to a crumbling clay hovel and knew he had to stop.

A torn piece of coloured fabric served as a door. Pushing it aside he poked his head in. The little girl stood pressed against the skirts of a tall woman who had the same wide dark eyes. When the two of them saw Jordan's uniform they backed against the far wall of the room.

Jordan held up his hands to show they were empty. He took one tentative step forward. “I'm not a soldier. Here, take these.” He drew from his belt both the dagger and the long black stick that were part of the Brinnian attire, and laid them on the floor.

“Nothing good comes from those uniforms,” said the woman in a thick Uttish accent. “Speak your business and then leave.”

Jordan bowed and said, “Your little girl was eating a cake today at the market. It was a special type of cake that I know is not native to Ut.”

“What do you know about our country?”

“Very little, feirhaven, but I know about this cake. It comes from my land.”

“Oh?” the woman said flatly. “And where might that be?”

“The Holy City of Cir,” said Jordan, and he saw the woman's shoulders relax slightly. “My mother is a baker. She was taken prisoner one year ago with many others from my land. The Brinnians brought them here. I've come to free them.”

She studied Jordan. “Your mother is Mistress Tanny.”

At the sound of her name Jordan sank to his knees and covered his face with his hands. He couldn't speak. He felt a rough hand touch his, and he let his own hands drop and looked up.

“You've seen her?” he asked.

“My daughter and I go to the camp to shine the boots of the Brinnian guards.” The woman frowned with distaste. “It's a poor job but we are poor folk and it is how we live. They are pigs, those men. They . . . ” but she didn't finish her sentence. “One morning my daughter wandered into the kitchen and there was Mistress Tanny. They have her cooking for the Brinnians. I don't believe they care if the prisoners starve, but the guards must eat. Of course she only agreed to cook for them if she could also prepare meals for her own people. That morning when my daughter saw her, she gave her one of the small lemon cakes she was making. She's been giving them to her ever since.”

“Not lemon,” said Jordan. “The cakes are made with sasapher. I wonder where she got it.”

“She has a garden. It was one of her demands, if she was to work for them.” The woman stroked her daughter's hair. “She is kind, your mother. She has often fed us when we were hungry. Here,” and the woman took down something from one of the shelves and handed it to Jordan. “One of hers.” It was a small square of sasapher cake.

Jordan took a bite. Here was that flavour with the mud on its feet and courage in its belly, and it wanted something from him, oh yes. He held the sweet piece of cake on his tongue before swallowing it.

“Could you lead me to her, please?”

The woman pushed the Brinnian weapons towards Jordan with her foot. “Come back tomorrow at sunrise. The midday sun is too hot for such a journey.”

She took Jordan to another one-room home — her brother's — which was empty while he was away working on the fishing boats. There was dried fruit in the cupboard, and a hammock hung in one corner. Jordan knew he should rest but he couldn't sit still for long. His legs should have been tired but they ached to move and his chest felt broad under the black uniform. He was eager to use his new strength upon the people who had kept his mother captive for so long.

“I do hope the undermagic will come when you call for it,” he heard the Beggar King's taunt. “The prisoners are unarmed and it will take nothing for the Landguards to subdue them. I doubt they'll mind hanging them a few days ahead of schedule.”

“What?” Jordan gasped.

“The undermagic is not a mongrel mutt, friend; it doesn't always come when it's called. And it will want feeding. Mind you don't let it go hungry for long.”

Feeding? Jordan's eyes flitted from the grimy jars sitting on one shelf to a long tattered coat hanging on a hook. He told himself this feeding issue was nothing to worry about, but his eyes wouldn't stay shut and the night dragged on.

When he rose at dawn, the woman was waiting for him.

“You must go in front of me,” she said. “It's not right for an Uttic woman to lead a Landguard. They will know something's amiss. I'll whisper the directions from behind you. Also, you must walk the way they do, as if with every step you're killing something.”

“All right,” said Jordan. “Which way?”

“Straight ahead,” she said, and he set off, forcing his feet down hard, an arrogant swagger in his hips. Behind him came the quiet instructions to turn here, follow this road, now head east. Before long they had left the town of Utberg and were back in the bleak dunes. Jordan could already feel the rising heat.

It wasn't long before the landscape was playing tricks on his eyes. Once he thought he saw a vulture person rise out of the sand, her robes long and black and oily. Once a raven followed him, and Jordan could feel its eyes pulling at the centre of his back, while the wanting swelled inside him. He heard the name of the Beggar King, heard it and then forgot it, and then heard it again.

The sun was high in the sky when Jordan finally asked, “Is it far?”

“Not much farther,” the woman said, yet he could see no prison, no sign of life at all besides the sun-dried bones of animals in the sand. They crested a large dune and below it a valley came into view, a city of tents surrounded by barbed wire. In the distance he could see a group of people working, though he could not tell at what. He was sweating under his black uniform.

“Mind how you go,” the woman said. “They've littered the sand with shards of glass. Many times we've cut ourselves.”

When they arrived at the gate, the guard nodded to Jordan, then sniggered at the woman. “Mine could use a shine today, Missy,” he said with a leer. As soon as they had passed, Jordan thought one word — sickness — and saw the guard stumble to the ground, his face almost green, his arms folded over his belly.

After they were out of earshot of the guard the woman said quietly, “The kitchen is to the right. It's the big tent, at the end.” Jordan walked, and she kept talking. “Don't knock. None of them ever knocks. Just barge in and demand something to drink.”

Jordan blanched at the powerful smell of urine. There were Landguards everywhere. “Sickness,” he murmured as he passed them. Some doubled over in pain, but many simply continued without complaint. If his new powers failed him now, he'd be doomed. Every one of the Landguards was armed.

It will want feeding.
“All right then,” Jordan said to the air, “take what you want.”

They approached the kitchen tent. Outside there were large clay ovens, as well as the impossible sasapher garden blooming yellow in a patch of fresh black soil. Jordan pushed at the canvas flap of door, clomped onto the rough wooden floor and shouted, “Give me a drink of water.”

There were three women chopping vegetables at a rudimentary table, their backs to Jordan. He recognized his mother, her small plump body, long blonde hair pinned up. His knees threatened to give way, but then he saw a Brinnian guard sitting in the corner with his feet up on a table, watching, and he forced himself to stand straight.

One of the other women said in a snide tone, “This fellow would like a cup of water.”

“Mind that smart mouth, girl,” snapped the guard.

“Water!” Jordan barked. “Now!”

It was Tanny who leaned forward and pumped some rusty liquid into a rusty cup. Then she turned and came towards Jordan, her head down. Her freckled skin was burnt by the sun. Jordan willed himself not to move. She stood before him, looked up, gave the smallest cry, and dropped the cup.

“What's wrong with you, woman?” cried the guard, his boots landing on the floor with a thud as he pushed his chair away and stood. “Can't you keep hold of a damned cup?” He stomped over to Tanny with one arm raised as if he might strike her. Another woman was already hurrying to fill a second cup as Tanny knelt to wipe up the mess.

Instinctively Jordan bent towards his mother and helped mop up the water.

“In the name of all Brinnian lords, soldier, that's woman's work. Get up off your knees and show some respect for your regiment.”

Jordan stood and glared. “I have no respect whatsoever for your regiment, soldier. I am Cirran born. My name is Jordan Elliott, the carver's son.” A small shiver went through him. “I have come to free my people.”

“I think not,” said the guard, whipping the dagger from his belt. But just as quickly Jordan pointed a finger at the guard, and the man thrust his dagger into his own chest.

Twenty-Four
T
HE
F
ULL
P
RICE

T
ANNY, STILL CROUCHED ON THE FLOOR
, stared wide-eyed at her son. “What darkness have you brought to this place?”

Jordan smiled. “A power strong enough to free you all.”

The Landguard's blood pooled on the wooden floor. Jordan helped his mother up and they held each other for a long moment. Then she pulled away and studied his face. “What have you brought, my son? Tell me. Your eyes — something isn't right.”

“I've brought something for Arrabel. Don't worry. I'll give it to her, and she'll know what to do with it. I'll be fine.”

“Tanny, let him go,” said one of the other women.

“But you're alone,” said Tanny. “How will you get to her?”

“He won't be alone,” said the Uttic woman. “We've waited a long time for the chance to rid our country of this Brinnian plague. I passed the word last night to the men. They're preparing to storm the camp gates as we speak. They'll help you.”

I won't need help.
But Jordan kept that thought to himself.

“They're holding Arrabel apart from everyone, in a cell underground,” Tanny explained quickly. “Leave from the back of the kitchen tent and then keep left. There are two guards posted outside her cell. Great Light, I don't know how you'll get by them.” She placed a hand on Jordan's cheek. “You are changed. It's not just time that has touched you. There's something else.”