The Beggar King (19 page)

“You shall know soon enough, my lord.”

He would know? What was that supposed to mean? The double doors burst open and Ophira walked out. Jordan was still invisible. He stumbled after her down the darkened hallway for about a minute before she whispered, “I don't know where you are, Jordan, but come out. I can sense you in the air.”

“You're playing a dangerous game,” he hissed, as he fumbled his way back into the world and stood to face her.

Ophira pulled off her veil and stared at him. “Good grace, Jordan, you're a fright to look at.”

“Don't worry about me,” he said. His hand shook as he held onto the stone wall, unsure if his legs would support him.

“You can disappear. How?” she asked. “How is that possible?”

“You know what he's after, don't you? How does he know you're fair? Have you taken off your veil for him?”

“I'm in control of it,” she said.

“In control? What do you plan to do? Douse him with scrying oil?”

“It's not scrying oil,” she said quietly. “It's a sleeping draught. He knows nothing about Cirran prophecy. I've convinced him he has to drink it before I can tell his future. And I add essence of pickering, which I need to go fetch from the kitchen right now, if you please.”

Essence of pickering — it was a mouse poison. Diluted in a draught it would not be strong enough to cause instant death, but nor would it be noticed, and over time it could do its damage quite effectively.

Jordan shoved his hands into his pockets. “Sorry, Phi.”

“What are you doing here? Where have you been? You're as pale as a spirit.”

“I need to get back to that hallway. That door — the archives, I mean.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Why?”

“I can't . . . there isn't time, Phi. Please.”

“There's always time. Do you know where Arrabel's potions room is?” She gave him careful directions, and made him repeat them to her. “Wait for me there. I have to prepare more of the draught, and I want to talk to you.”

He recited her directions as he made his way haltingly towards the legendary potions room, stopping every ten steps to rest against the wall. Finally he stood before a small white door. With some trepidation, he lifted the heavy latch and the door creaked open. Inside, he pushed the door shut as quietly as he could.

Though the small space was filled with light, there wasn't a single window cut into the white stone walls and no candle had been lit. The hundreds of colourful long-necked bottles that lined the shelves cast the only light, eerie hues that made Jordan think of being underwater, a sunlit rainbow of blues and greens and reds. His icy hands tingled as the blood returned to them.

The bottles were humming like a swarm of bees. Even though they were stoppered, Jordan could smell ground cinnamon so strong it might set fire to the heart, and a sharp ginger that immediately conjured a vision of a copper-haired Omarrian palm-reader with rings on every finger. Bunches of herbs and flowers hung drying from the ceiling. In the centre of the room stood a long stone table, and the implements for chopping, boiling and grinding, all set in careful order. Jordan couldn't help but grin; Ophira had become a potion-maker, after all.

A few minutes later, the door to the potions room creaked open and she entered, carrying her slim silver bottle, which she placed upon the stone table. She lifted off her veil, took Jordan by the shoulders and fixed him with her weary eyes. “You have an uncommon gift which must have cost you dearly. I can see by your face that it's hurting you, and so it must, for it comes from the undermagic. Tell me everything, now, or I'll take you straight to my grandmothers and they'll know it right away.”

Jordan sank to the floor and rested his head in his hands. “They're in Utberg, in a prison camp, and Rabellus plans to hang them all at next half-moons. Utberg, Phi! I have no choice.”

“Calm down, Jordan. Speak slowly.” She sat next to him. “What are you talking about?”

“My mother, Arrabel, everyone. I can save them. With the undermagic I can do it.”

“The undermagic? Who told you such nonsense?”

“He did. He calls himself the Beggar King. He's the one who gave me my gift.”

“Don't be ridiculous. There's no such person.”

“There is, Phi,” he said. “I've met him.”

“You're beginning to sound like Willa. She used to say she'd met the Beggar King in the marketplace on a Merrin day in winter.” And then in a more pensive tone, “She said she saw him disappear. But no one ever believed her. Not even her sisters took her seriously.”

They sat listening to the low hum of the bottles. “Willa went so strange,” Ophira continued. “Grandma Mopu said she changed almost overnight. Her mother took her to healers, fed her exotic potions, but nothing worked. They never found anything wrong with her. But it was after that she swore she'd never use magic again.”

Her gaze drifted with the floating light. “Are you sure it was really him? Maybe it's just a small-time sorcerer having one over on you, or a — ”

“It's him.” Jordan said. “I didn't know, at first. And he didn't ask for any payment for the gift, then. I took it because I needed it. I was surrounded by Landguards. They would have caught me.”

She caressed his face with her smooth palms. Then she pushed herself up and moved to the stone table. “You're weak. You should drink something.”

She sorted through bottles and sniffed their contents. After choosing a variety of herbs, she ground them together, and as she moved deftly around the room she sang.

Gentle flows the lazy river,
oarsman rest your paddle here.

Weary, weary, arms a-quiver,
sleep until you're home, my dear.

Her voice was smooth and gentle, a balm to Jordan's shaken nerves. She lit a fire, and when it was hot she heated something liquid in a pan on the stove.

Jordan's eyes drifted shut. If he could have curled up in this room and slept for a week, still it wouldn't have been enough.

“Here,” she said when the potion was ready. “Drink. It will give you strength.”

Jordan took the goblet and swallowed the warm draught. It had the sharp flavour of pine sap.

Ophira waited until he had finished, and then she set the goblet upon the table and sat beside him again. “Now, what were you saying about using the undermagic?”

Jordan watched the splinters of dancing light refracted through the colourful potion bottles. “It's the only way to save my mother and the other prisoners. They're going to hang at half-moons. I have to go to the brass door. I have to get it.”

“Says who?”

“The Beggar King!” he cried in exasperation.

“And what does he want you to do, exactly?”

“Bring him what's behind the door.”

“But you can't do that. That would be disastrous.”

“I have to do it.”

She set her hands on her hips the way Mama Petsane would have done, and said, “You can't take him what's behind that brass door. It's the undermagic, Jordan. If he really is the Beggar King, he can't have it. Not even the high priestess could possess such treacherous power.”

Jordan didn't answer. All he could think about was the message that had arrived by courier hawk. Time was running out.

Ophira smoothed and re-smoothed the fabric of her robes. “It will be the ruin of Katir-Cir. He'll wake the vultures. He'll destroy every good thing in this world.”

Jordan scratched his head. “But the vultures aren't real.” He thought of the glass chimes his father and so many other Cirrans hung outside their doors to ward them off, and the tiny vultures carved out of onyx you could buy at the Omar Bazaar. “It's all myth and decoration. It doesn't mean anything.”

She gave him a withering look. “The vulture people are the guardians of the undermagic. Whatever you believe about any of this, the undermagic is real and it was banished from Katir-Cir for a good reason. It is powerful and dark and exceedingly risky.”

“Good. That's what will save Arrabel, and my mother. Isn't it worth the risk?”

“Wrong means won't bring a right end, no matter what your intentions are.”

“He says I can use the undermagic once, and then I'll be free of it.”

“Jordan, he's lying. If you use that magic even once, you'll never be free of it. You can't just wash your hands of it. It leaves a stain.”

But he already used it every time he disappeared. It wasn't harming anyone — or rather, no one except him. Ophira's drink had restored some of his strength. His hands had stopped shaking and he could stand if he had to.

“What do you suggest, then?” he asked. “What can I do?”

“I have to go back to Rabellus. I'll advise him not to hang the prisoners at half-moons. I'll predict something terrible. He listens to me, Jordan. He'll do what I say. And then once the sleeping draught takes effect, I'll leave.” She took his hands in hers. Her hands were so warm. “Wait for me here. I won't be long. We'll get you out of the palace without you having to disappear. You cannot disappear anymore, Jordan. You can't go back to him.”

“What if Rabellus doesn't listen to you? And how am I supposed to put the Beggar King off? Don't you think he'll know? I promised to pay him, Phi. He's not the sort to let you off with a smile and a handshake.”

“We'll go see my grandmas — tonight. We'll tell them everything and ask for their advice. And when they tell us what to do, we'll do it. All right?”

“But I'll never make it out of the palace if I don't disappear.

My likeness is everywhere. The Landguards will recognize me.” “Not if you're veiled.” She looked thoughtful for a moment.

“I keep several sets of saffron robes in the maids' chambers. Rabellus pesters the girls but he'll leave them alone if they're wearing the veil. I think he's a little afraid of it.”

“He didn't seem scared to me,” Jordan said.

“I'll bring up a set of robes. No one will know it's you.”

No one except the Beggar King
, thought Jordan.

Ophira rose and took up her silver bottle of poison. Jordan stood to face her, so close he could smell her hair — and it did smell of caramel.

“Promise me you won't be foolish, Jordan,” she said, resting her cheek against his and speaking softly into his ear. “Promise to wait here for me.”

“I will,” said Jordan.

She found a blanket in one of the cupboards and covered him with it, and he fell immediately into a deep sleep.

Eighteen
P
RY AND
P
RY
A
GAIN

T
HANK THE
L
IGHT FOR THE SCHOLAR
Mimosa and his failing
eyesight
, thought Sarmillion. It didn't hurt that the Brinnians had given up guarding his apartment, either. Mimosa had been with healers when the coup had taken place, and when he'd returned to the palace the Brinnians hadn't known what to do with him. Was he a threat, or just an elderly nuisance? They'd allowed him to go back to his apartment, but for many months they watched it, as if he were under house arrest. Finally they realized the scholar was too old, too blind and too deaf to pose a danger to anyone, so they let him be. Thus did Sarmillion find himself tiptoeing once again through the sleeping man's darkened apartment, vowing to thank him with a bottle of well-aged mug-wine.

Carefully he opened Mimosa's door and peered into the palace hallway. His heart was beating so hard he was convinced the stone walls were reverberating with it. But there was no one out there, and he was fairly certain he wouldn't meet anyone at this end of the palace. The Brinnian Landguards didn't go in for scholarship. They preferred activities that made noise and involved some measure of violence. The armory was their favourite place; also the music room where the drums and oboes were kept. Even from this far away he could hear a ruckus taking place somewhere near the dining hall. Lucky. There would be enough Brinnian noise to cover any sound he made tonight.

He decided to run up to Master Balbadoris's study. He had to see it again, if only for a minute. Noiselessly he mounted the two flights of stairs and jiggled his fountain pen in Balbadoris's lock.

The room had not been cleaned since the Brinnians had raided it a year ago in search of the Book of What Is. Sarmillion sank to his knees and picked up an overturned ink bottle. The spilled ink had dried and hardened upon the carpet into black splatters. Everything around him was dusty and cobwebbed. He had never seen a lonelier room in his life.
I'm going to bring
you back, old friend
.

Very well, then, he had delayed long enough. Despite Mars's tirade against the plan earlier that evening, it was time to set off for the brass door.

As he left his master's chambers, he tried not to think of the long darkened hallways that lay ahead of him, or of the spiders lurking at their edges. If anyone caught him, they would throw him into prison. He hadn't even a spare smoking jacket with him, or his dung pipe — plus he'd heard there were bugs in the cells, large hard-shelled beetles that were too big to kill just by stepping on them.

There were few torches lit along the hallways at this hour. The scant light made the shadows long, but Sarmillion was thankful for the darkness. Once he heard the sound of boots upon stone, but he was able to press himself into a doorway and — naturally — he'd worn black. The walls grew closer, the torches fewer, and Sarmillion swore he felt a tickle of spider legs on his calf, but he gripped his prying bar and carried on. Soon enough, a terrible little thought poked its head around the corner and stared at him: if it were just a matter of prying open that brass door, then why hadn't anyone done it before? There were, as far as he could tell, two answers to that question. One, they had tried, and it hadn't worked. Or two, no one would dare, because the risk was too great.