The Beggar King (3 page)

As for the sorcerer, he was never heard from again. Some believed he died; others claimed he had been cursed with a half-life of eternal restlessness, never to be granted his true desire.

In the distance Jordan heard the shouts of the younger children who must have still been waiting on the Common for the arrival of the Beggar King. The annual ritual was always ushered in by a Heralder walking the streets of Cir, calling, “Beware the beggar who would be king.” As soon as the Beggar King appeared, they would chase him down the mountain and across the Bridge of No Return.

Of course it wasn't the real Beggar King. There was no such thing. It was usually the scholar, Balbadoris, who agreed to play the part. The Beggar King had merely become the name given to dark corners and long shadows and the underside of things that didn't otherwise take to naming. It made everyone feel better to get rid of him once a year.

Jordan felt now as if he were caught in some in-between place: too old to don his black cloak and horns to scare away the Beggar King, but too young to spend the night at the Omar Bazaar. He longed to be old enough for that sort of adventure but his father had forbidden it. And while Donovan had bragged about going, Jordan knew his parents had obliged him to stay home, too.

He thought of the ugly vulture disguises that some of the children would be wearing, and how the parents' torches would flicker in the darkness. He imagined the whoops and shouts down the mountain as the Beggar King ran down, down, then across the bridge and into the enchanted cedar groves in Somberholt Forest. No one knew quite what happened in there, but scholars believed the deer were involved in his transformation. Deer were revered throughout Cir for their healing magic.

After this ritual, the younger children went to bed and the older children and adults would settle in to view the burning of the holy tree. It would begin with a crack, which would be followed by a burst of flames, and then — silence. This was supposed to occur somewhere around midnight but it never failed to catch Jordan by surprise.

Jordan and his father had grown quiet, both of them gazing up the mountain towards the holy tree, though it was still too early for the burning. And then Elliott straightened and said, “Listen.”

A heavy stamp of footsteps came down the road, together with children crying and a general grumble of unhappiness, and Jordan realized he hadn't heard the whoops he'd been expecting. His father leaned over the patio railing and called out, “Ho, there, what's the trouble?”

“Strange goings-on,” an older man replied, shaking his head. “Children waited a full hour for Master Balbadoris in his Beggar King garb.”

“Never showed up,” said a woman in a kerchief. “The Heralder got hoarse from calling. It ain't right to disappoint the young ones like that. It just ain't right.”

Jordan and Elliott exchanged puzzled glances.

“That's not the least of it,” said another man, a child at each hand. “Group of Landguards all dressed in black shows up on the Common and orders us to leave. Scared my boys half silly with their sticks and daggers. They got no right doing that.”

Elliott and Jordan drew away from the edge of the roof.

“The Landguards don't wear black,” said Jordan.

Elliott scratched his head and relit his pipe. “No. And I don't recall them ever brandishing their daggers at children, either.”

The sound they heard next began as a rumble that grew quickly louder until the shouting and mayhem were unmistakable. Near the palace, flames burst into the sky. At first Jordan thought it was the holy tree, but when the fire didn't go out as it was supposed to, he knew something was wrong.

“Sweet sasapher!” said Elliott as another group of people dashed past their house yelling, “The barracks are on fire!”

“Brinnians. It's the Brinnians!” others cried.

Jordan's chest tightened. “What about Mom?” he said. “What if she's in trouble?”

The same thought was written across Elliott's face. The street had become a rushing stream of people pushing and scattering in every direction. From the palace came the clashing sounds of battle.

“Stay indoors!” shouted someone. “The streets are not safe!”

Jordan rose and reached for his sandals. “I don't care. I'm going up there. She might need our help.”

Elliott grabbed him by the arm. “You'll get yourself killed.” He eased Jordan back onto the chair. “We'll wait until morning. She'll be back by then, you'll see.”

Jordan refused to go inside, and eventually fell into an uneasy sleep.

When he awoke, he was surprised to find it was morning and he was still on the rooftop. His father sat red-eyed and wide awake beside him. Two large green lizards had perched themselves near the edge of the roof, enjoying the early sun.

The air smelled of ash. His mother had not come home.

T
wo
T
HE
M
ORNING
A
FTER
M
UG
-W
INE

T
HE INSIDE OF
S
ARMILLION'S MOUTH FELT
like an old carpet. He peeled one eye open and then the other. Mice alive, where was he? A tacky fern motif decorated the stone walls around him. He'd fallen asleep on an orange couch — orange! A couch button had left an indentation on his furry cheek, and on the low table beside him sat two empty mug-wine glasses. Yes, his headache spoke of mug-wine, far too much of it to be exact.

He sat up, rubbing his head and straightening his whiskers. Holy slag, was that the time? And it was the morning after the feast day. He let out a soft groan. Time is the great burglar. Just when you weren't paying attention, it snuck up on you and then you spied the burlap sack slung over its shoulder, filled with hours you hadn't even noticed were missing.

Master Balbadoris was expecting him this morning. There were tales to transcribe and parchments that needed illustration. Lately inspiration had been leaving Sarmillion behind, though Balbadoris never accepted that excuse. “Hard work, underkitty,” he'd declare in his gravel-dry voice, and then he'd mumble about how he'd never met an undercat who had grasped this concept, and Sarmillion would bow his head and try not to listen but those damned pointed ears of his didn't miss a word.

He peeked at the stack of parchments sitting on a side-table, addressed to Minerva Wigglesnip. Who? How many glasses of mug-wine had he had? Blast, he'd slept in his feast robes, as well. He'd have to change back in his apartment, then sneak into Balbadoris's chambers and hope that the lecture on hard work wouldn't put him to sleep.

He slid two furry feet into gold palace-issue sandals and tiptoed towards the front door, hoping not to wake said Wigglesnip. Just as he was opening the door, he heard a high-pitched, “Honey Pie!” Quickly now, and he closed the door with a soft click.

Behind him came a shriek. “You're leaving? You . . . you cat!” Sarmillion bristled as he hurried away. It was the ultimate insult. Those four-legged, impossibly small and silent creatures hadn't a sense of style among them. And to think they were his ancestors? Disgusting.

He stepped out into the morning Cirran sun that glared upon the city's famed whitewashed stone. While tourists might have found it enchanting, Sarmillion could guarantee they were not tourists with hangovers.

Head bowed, he fought his body uphill all the way to the palace, trying to ignore the bongo drums playing in his stomach. He glanced up the main road that led to the Meditary — who wanted to cope with fresh-faced mystery keepers with their incense and incantations after such a night? Instead he slunk along a weedy side road that led to a small gated courtyard to which he happened to have the key — namely a sharp fountain pen he kept in his pocket for such occasions. The courtyard backed onto the living quarters of the old scholar Mimosa who was half-blind and hadn't heard a thing since the year of the peacock. Sarmillion loved Master Mimosa; his apartment had long served as the undercat's secret passage into the palace at inconvenient times such as this one.

And so we face yet another day when you won't be working
on your masterpiece
, twittered that little voice inside him that drove him near-insane.

“No,” Sarmillion snapped back, “it appears we will not write poetry today.”

As usual.

“Oh, do shut up,” Sarmillion growled as he stole across the coarsely woven Circassic rug in Mimosa's living room.
How
provincial.
It seemed the scholar wasn't home. Sarmillion opened the door that led onto a cold stone hallway, then scurried to his apartment at the end, turning a brass key in the lock and slipping inside.

He hadn't mentioned his new hand-knotted Omarrian rug to Balbadoris. He took off his sandals and stood enjoying its luxurious softness. And then he looked around. It took his eyes a minute to register what he was seeing. Parchments were scattered across the floor. A vase full of sasapher flowers had been knocked over, water and yellow petals splattered on his desk. Embroidered pillows lay hither and thither, scribe's robes were flung across the divan, and the delicate wooden crane that Elliott T. Elliott had carved for him had been split clean in half.

“Someone has broken in,” he gasped. Who would do such a thing? And why? While Sarmillion was a great coveter of valuables, only the new rug was worth anything and it was still here. But at least this would make an excellent excuse for his lateness.

He splashed cold water onto his face, changed into fresh robes, added a dash of cologne to that sweet spot between neck and collarbone, and then a dab of scented oil to slick back the head-fur. Now he was ready to face the morning. Picking his way through the confusion, he decided he'd clean up later and headed out the door.

He mounted the two flights of stairs to Balbadoris's study and knocked with a crispness of purpose he didn't feel. There was no answer. Sarmillion called, “Master Balbadoris?” and pushed the door open, but he could see for himself no one was there. Worse, the study was in the same state of disaster as Sarmillion's apartment. “In the name of the seven seers, what is going on here?” He let out a long groan at the sight of his work strewn across the room, and decided he would seek out the scholar first and break the bad news to him. Perhaps Balbadoris was in the library.

No sooner had Sarmillion shut the study door when a scullery maid named Trina came running towards him. Every morning Trina snuck two sweet nutty-buns from the kitchen and delivered them to Sarmillion with a cup of strong coffee, but today she carried only a small cloth sack.

He snickered. “What's happened to my nutty-buns?”

“Embers ‘n ashes, Sarmillion, do ye not know?” Her face was pale and her body as jittery as a frightened squirrel.

“Know what?”

“Brinnians've taken over the palace and oh, Great Light, the battle was most fierce. They took away High Priestess Arrabel and Master Balbadoris and . . . feirhart, ye should not be here!”

Sarmillion took hold of her scrawny shoulders. “Slow down,” he said. “What do you mean, Brinnians? What Brinnians?”

“Soldiers. A group of ‘em fought with Theophen and his men last night. They set fire to the barracks. Scores of Landguards are dead. And there was no burning.”

“No burning? What are you on about, woman? You just said there was a fire.”

“Goodness, feirhart, I meant the holy tree. It didn't burn. Where were ye all night?”

“I'd rather not talk about it.” The girl was deranged. It wasn't possible that the tree hadn't burned. “Tell me, Trina,” he spoke with deliberate calm, “where has Master Balbadoris gone?”

But she just kept shaking her head. “One of the keepers's been murdered. Mind how ye go, Sarmillion. Don't let ‘em catch you.”

Sarmillion grasped Trina's small cold hands. “Tell me, did this all happen before or after Balbadoris crossed the Bridge of No Return?” Sure, that was it. The old man had decided to spend the night in Omar with the keeper and some of the others, though Sarmillion could hardly imagine stuffy Balbadoris with his long white hair, tapping his yellow toenails to a raucous tavern song from the Rubber Band.

Trina pulled away from the undercat. “No, feirhart, I told ye, the tree didn't burn. There weren't no crossing of the bridge. Master Balbadoris weren't dressed up like the Beggar King.

He was wearing his feast robes when they took him. Master Sarmillion, yer wasting precious time. Get yer belongings and go.”

With that, Trina hurried off, her small quick footsteps fading down the hall as Sarmillion retreated into the study and shut the door.

“But what about the banquet?” He scratched at his furry head. “Who carved the mutton roast? Who got to stomp on the sherry glass this year?”

He stared at Balbadoris's desk and for the first time noticed that the scholar's long blue sasapher pipe was sitting there — and on the floor lay his walking stick. Balbadoris never went anywhere without either.

Clearly someone had been looking for something in here. But what? It would take too long to sort that out. Sarmillion picked up his canvas parchment bag and began gathering his work from the floor, and then stopped and sank into an armchair. This was his life. He couldn't just leave it behind. Where would he go? What would he do? He was a scribe, for crying out loud. He hadn't a single marketable skill besides the magic he made with ink and parchment.

Sarmillion knew he should get up, pack the parchments he cared most about, salvage Balbadoris's pipe — but instead he watched specks of dust drift in the sunlight that shone between the heavy velvet drapes.

“Which great scholar would use his walking stick as a perch for songbirds?” he remembered Balbadoris asking him. Sarmillion rarely knew the answers to these sorts of questions.

They would come randomly, without any seeming purpose, though Sarmillion understood what the scholar was up to — he wanted to make sure the undercat was keeping up with his work, not hanging about in taverns or cavorting with women.