The Beggar King (27 page)

Nevertheless, the emperor tried to put on a good show. Trumpets blasted fanfares. The scent of roasted deer competed with the putrid smog, and merry cries came from the off-duty Landguards who were already knee-deep in mug-wine. The emperor looked gaunt and pale. Ophira's poison was taking its toll — it might even have done the job, eventually, if she hadn't fallen ill.

Rabellus planned to announce the deaths of Arrabel, Theophen and the others, deaths he'd had confirmed when a courier hawk had brought him a scroll that read, “It is done.” A hawk sent to him by Theophen. In truth, not a single Brinnian remained alive in the prison camp near Utberg. And not a single Brinnian in the Holy City knew about it.

Jordan stood in the centre of the blazing courtyard. Everyone wandered restlessly from the various games to the banquet tables, and yet they all kept their eyes on the emperor. A group of his school friends swept past him and he almost called to them but stopped himself in time. He imagined himself picking up one of the bows, shooting an arrow into the haystack. Laughing along with the other boys.

Jordan's arms and legs were aching. He had not tried to disappear since he'd found Arrabel, but he heard an echo of wings in his ears and knew he could do it. The Beggar King was with him still.

“Are you all right?” his mother asked him from her place at his side. “Maybe we should move into the shade. You don't seem well.”

He took her arm. Despite the sasapher potions Arrabel had prepared for him he was dizzy when he stood, dizzy when he lay down, nauseous almost all the time. Slowly and gingerly he walked with his mother to stand beneath one of the canvas awnings set up along the edges of the courtyard assembly.

“Try your luck with the hammer throw?” said a Landguard.

Jordan was about to say no, when an odd procession caught his eye and he saw him — Elliott T. Elliott. Tanny gasped and grabbed Jordan's arm, for her husband's hands were tied behind his back and he was being led across the grounds by two hooded Landguards. Behind them followed another pair of hooded guards leading Mama Manjuza, and behind them another with the chief healer, Malthazar. There were other prisoners as well but Jordan didn't recognize them.

“Where are they taking them?” Tanny said. “I can't even bear to look.”

Jordan glanced towards the blackened hanging tree, which was thick with crows, but the guards weren't heading in that direction. They disappeared through a door, into the east wing of the palace.

“It won't happen,” he said to his mother in a low voice.

The crowd of Cirrans on the palace grounds had grown larger. “They're here because of you, you know,” Tanny said to Jordan.

“They're here because of Manjuza,” he countered.

“No. Manjuza's arrest made them angry, but I've heard the talk. It was the flowers you left at the holy tree that gave everyone hope, when so many were on the point of giving up. What you did was very brave.”

Jordan frowned. He wondered what his mother would say if she knew what he had brought to Arrabel, the candle she now carried concealed in the pocket of her Uttic robes. They would have to go back, he and Arrabel. Jordan would have to open the brass door one last time and return to the other side.

“And then we give back the candle, and what's done is done,” Jordan had said, before they disembarked from the boat that had ferried them from Ut.

“No, Jordan,” she had said. “You'll have to extinguish the bigger candle — the one you took from that room.”

The candle that wakes the dark side of the world.
“But he has it,” Jordan had objected. “How will I ever get it from him?”

Ceremonial drums brought him back to the afternoon with a jolt. The trumpets blared and Emperor Rabellus approached the archery fields followed by a pair of Landguards who struggled to carry Theophen's enormous bow. The Uttic tourists standing as a group at one side of the assembly seemed to straighten at once, but Jordan hoped that only he had noticed.

“Rabellus won't really try to use that bow, will he?” Jordan said to his mother. “He'll make an ass of himself.”

But no, the emperor left the bow in the archery fields and climbed the stairs to his platform to speak.

“Cirrans, and those of you from foreign lands, we have come together for these Brinnian contests in celebration. And what, pray, do we commemorate on this day of half-moons rising? Far away in the land of Ut, a group of people whom you know well has been living in hiding. A group whom you counted on, but who has let you down.”

At this, the Cirran people mumbled and stirred, and the Landguards put their hands upon their daggers. Rabellus, however, was sailing his speech through boisterous winds, enjoying the rise and fall of his own voice.

“I bring you great tidings. The traitor Arrabel, her chickenhearted commander Theophen, and all of the other cowardly palace folk who abandoned you are no more. Brinnian rule has once and for all embraced these lands. Your high priestess has breathed her last.”

The cheers came only from the off-duty Landguards, most of whom were drunk. The Cirrans were dumbstruck.

“But we, too, shall have our hangings.” He waved towards the palace's east wing and called, “Bring out the prisoners.” Two hooded Landguards emerged, escorting Mama Manjuza. She shuffled and hobbled as if she were lame, and there was a collective gasp.

Elliott followed behind her, tall and proud and fearless, and Jordan lurched instinctively, but his mother held his arm and said, “Wait. Wait for the right moment.”

He could stop everything. One move, one last disappearance, another candle — the vultures would give it to him, he was certain. And then he felt his mother's eyes on his face and he knew who they would strike in return.

“Trust in the power of the Great Light,” Arrabel had said. But where was that power?

“We will all bear witness to the terrible fruits of rebellion,” Rabellus declared. “But first, to the contests. Let us see who can wield Theophen's infamous bow, now that he and his men are dead. Whoever is capable of hitting the mark shall be named the new commander of my Brinnian guard. He shall win the right to preside with me over the executions. Come one and all; everyone can try his hand.”

The target was set its customary distance away as an unruly line-up of Landguards formed. A couple of Circassic farmers shuffled forward but not a single Cirran joined the line. And no one in Uttic dress approached, either.

The shooting began. Many of the Landguards couldn't even nock the arrow. One of the farmers managed it, but then his arrow wobbled pathetically into a haystack. Jordan could hardly concentrate. He kept glancing at his father and wishing he would turn in his direction.

“Come now,” said Rabellus. “Cirrans, Cirsinnians. What about you Uttic folk? Is there none among you willing to try your hand?”

One of the Uttic tourists stepped forth reluctantly.

“Here's an eager young buck,” boomed Rabellus from his platform. “Have a go, Son. We'll drink a cup of mug-wine to your success.”

Jordan could scarcely breathe. All the Uttic ‘tourists' had weapons beneath their robes, except for Jordan and Arrabel. They would go directly to the palace as soon as the opportunity arose. But his father. . . . Jordan hadn't counted on that complication. He spied Arrabel on the outskirts of the crowd near the sun tower, a meeting place they had agreed upon earlier. He shook his head emphatically and hoped she saw, and understood, that he couldn't leave his father here to die.

The Uttic man picked up the bow as if it were a harp. Those who didn't know would have assumed he had never held a bow in his life. Those who did, knew it was music in his capable hands. He pretended to struggle with the arrow, taking so long to nock it that the crowd grumbled its impatience. And then, so quickly that no one even knew how it had happened, the Uttic man swiveled, took aim, and shot the arrow into the heart of Emperor Rabellus. Theophen threw off his headdress and strode towards the emperor. Rabellus looked up, his face smoothing from shock into recognition.

“You!” he cried, and then he collapsed and died.

Cirrans who had been milling about peacefully now had knives in their hands, their blades flashing as they pursued the open-mouthed Landguards.

“Go to him,” Tanny urged. “You know what he's like. He won't fight.”

But as Jordan moved towards his father, he saw Elliott give the Landguard next to him a sudden and debilitating kick, and then a Cirran man was beside him, freeing his arms. Elliott and the other man worked swiftly to unfasten the other prisoners' restraints.

“I have to go,” Jordan said to his mother. “You shouldn't stay here. It won't be safe.”

“But where are you going?” she said.

He kissed her cheek and ran towards Arrabel, who stood poised and still, her white Uttic robes shimmering with light.

Twenty-Seven
A
N
U
RGENT
Q
UESTION

S
ARMILLION DODGED A
C
IRRAN IN ROSE-COLOURED
potter's robes wrestling a Landguard to the ground. He was looking for his beloved Balbadoris.

“Master, is that you?” he called towards a stooped man dressed in white Uttic robes. “Master, we must get you out of harm's way.”

“Nonsense,” roared Balbadoris. “Give me my walking stick. I shall be known for generations to come as the scholar who fought off enemy soldiers with a limb of burnished oak. You shall write it all down and draw up the illustrations.”

“Well then,” said Sarmillion, “I'll stand and fight with you. Let's brandish our weaponry and have at it.”

Except when Sarmillion reached into his pocket and pulled out a small rusty billy knife he didn't feel quite so brave. Quietly he stuffed it back in and stood next to Balbadoris as a burly, bearded Landguard ran towards them with a long sharp sword.

“That's it, Master, you can take him!” Sarmillion said. “Now, balance your weight on both feet. Jab him with your walking stick, feirhart. Knock the sword from his hand.”

Balbadoris lifted his walking stick high in the air and brought it down on the Landguard's arm so hard the man fell in a heap. Sarmillion ran towards the downed soldier and kicked him in the stomach.

“There!” he cried. “How do you like that, you steaming pile of goat slag?”

A quick check to make sure he hadn't damaged his two-toned leather shoes, and then the undercat trotted along behind Balbadoris who was swinging his walking stick at the Landguards in their path. Some of the Uttic ‘tourists' had scaled the palace walls and taken up sentry in the towers, where they were picking off Brinnians with their arrows. In one corner of the melee Sarmillion saw the saffron-robed seers conjuring fireballs and hurling them at the Brinnian platforms. Crows screamed into the sky, taking flight from the holy tree, which would not allow them to land on its branches anymore.

But as the battle roared on, something irked him. He couldn't put his finger on it. It was something to do with what Master Balbadoris had said about his walking stick. It made him think of those notorious questions the scholar used to ask him to keep him on his toes — Master Wickellhelm and his walking stick with the perching birds. And then for some reason his eye sought out Jordan. Where had the Elliott boy gone?

He spotted Jordan at the sun tower — with the high priestess herself. They were dodging the crowds in a rather shifty way, it now struck him, and heading towards the palace. The palace! Blast those two, they were going back to the brass door, Sarmillion was certain of it.

What in the name of the twelve bridges was Jordan up to? Surely he wasn't going back to see the Beggar King. He was under strict orders to stay away from that miscreant. But maybe — was it possible he was going to try to fight him? Balbadoris had just given a Brinnian Landguard a good rap across the shoulders and was standing there wearing a proud frown.

“Master,” said Sarmillion, tugging on Balbadoris's robes as they both looked down at the unconscious brute at their feet. “How would one rid the world of the Beggar King if ever the circumstances arose?”

His bristly white eyebrows rose. “Do you dare to jest at a time like this?”

“No, Master. In fact, your answer to the question is rather urgently required.”

“Sarmillion, how many times have I told you?”

“Several, as it turns out, but I should like to hear it once more.”

“Very well, then, my undercat scribe, perhaps you should mark it in ink upon your robes.” His voice rose dangerously. “You drown him in the River of the Dead!”

“That's it!” And without another word Sarmillion ran towards the palace, zigging and zagging around fallen Landguards and dead crows. He had to tell Jordan this important bit of information. But making his way through this mess of battle without getting himself killed was the first challenge; getting into the palace was the second. It was all taking an unconscionable long time.

Oh, sad endings. Oh, cruel irony. He'd finally gotten hold of something true and real and helpful, and now he would never reach his friend in time to tell him.

Twenty-Eight
D
ARKNESS AND
L
IGHT

T
HE ENTRANCE TO THE
M
EDITARY WAS
still guarded.

“We can't enter the palace here,” Jordan said. “Come with me,” and he led Arrabel around to the low kitchen windows that had once served as his chief means of stealing sasapher cakes from his mother. But when they peered in through the unshuttered frames, they saw Brinnian cooks and scullery maids chopping carrots and shouting to each other about how many biscuits still needed to be baked. The battle outside had not reached them yet.

“Let me take you through my potions' room,” Arrabel said.

“But there's no way in except through the palace.”