The Beggar King (11 page)

“What you gonna do to celebrate your day?” asked Grandma Appollonia from her worn rocker in the corner of the large room. Jordan turned to see which side of Appollonia had spoken. It seemed she was squinting at him with her good eye. The left eye, made of swirled blue glass, remained fixed straight ahead. That was the one you wanted to watch out for. Strange things happened when she spoke from that side.

“He's gonna get a haircut,” said Mopu. This was a perpetual threat amongst the grandmas who all agreed Jordan's mop of curls was far too unruly.

Jordan laughed. “No way.” Then he said nonchalantly, “I don't have any plans.”

The kitchen fell silent as the four old women glowered at him.

“Don't you dare,” said Mopu.

“What?” said Jordan, struggling to keep his face neutral.

Manjuza stood and waved her cane at him. “You do it and you be the next one hanging from that tree, Jordan. It would kill your father. You're all he has in this world.”

Jordan focused on the empty staircase and wondered what was taking Ophira so long to come down.

“Ach, Manjuza, forget it. Ye know he's gonna do it no-how,” said Petsane. “Anyway, I saw it first.”

“Now that's a load of dried dung,” said Manjuza, slamming the kitchen table with the flat of her hand. “All the Cirrans say Mama Manjuza sees farthest.”

Mopu pushed her chair away from the table. “Yeah, yeah, you all see so far, but none of you can see what you're doing to this family. Bunch of blind old farts.”

“Don't you be starting on that Willa business again,” grumbled Petsane. Jordan could sense he was about to get caught in the middle of a storm, so he went to sit in the empty chair next to Appollonia. Her glass eye was open but her good eye was closed, and she kept up a steady snore.

Then she snuffled and murmured in a sleepy voice, “Little boy in too-big shoes.”

“What was that?” asked Jordan.

Appollonia stared at him with her disturbing blue-glass eye, almost as if she were wide awake. “Little boy in too-big shoes, he find his gift. Oh, wretched gift.”

Jordan jostled her shoulder. “What do you mean? What did you just say?”

Her good eye blinked open. “Eh? Why you wake an old woman when she be napping?”

The other three seers were chuckling and coughing about something between them. When Jordan looked up, there was Ophira at the top of the stairs in her saffron robes — unveiled.

“Go,” Petsane waved at Jordan with the spoon. “Take her for a walk to the river. It's yer birthday.”

Ophira came down the stairs, stepping lightly in her embroidered slippers, and Jordan rose.

“Pick me up some billy grain for our biscuits,” Petsane said to the girl, making a show of placing a silver groder on the table and glaring pointedly at Jordan. “She's gonna pay for it, so keep yer sticky fingers in yer pockets. And put yer veil on!” she cried as Ophira pushed the front door open.

Jordan followed her out and shut the door behind them. “What's up with Mopu?”

“Oh,” said Ophira. “It's about Grandma Willa. You know how Mopu cares for her. Poor Willa has fallen into complete disgrace since she showed up last year in the Meditary with her head bare — and in rubber boots.”

“So it doesn't have anything to do with this?” Jordan tugged at the sleeve of Ophira's saffron robes. “The seventh seer of Cir? You're taking Willa's place, aren't you?”

Ophira struggled to speak, as if something were caught in her throat. “I can't talk about this with you, Jordan. Yes, I'm the seventh seer of Cir, now. That's all.”

That's all?
It was quite enough. Jordan didn't speak until they reached the extensive gardens that lined the riverbank walkway around the entire Holy City. The Balakan River was wide and long, the waters dividing around the mountain-island that was the Holy City of Cir before they continued past Omar and south into Ut. Jordan loved the sound of the rushing water and the way the river's breezes carried the Balakan Garden's fresh scent of flowers. Low boats passed now and then beneath the twelve bridges, bearing cargo or passengers from the provinces. Sometimes you could hear the singing of the oarsmen below deck. He settled himself on a stone bench, and Ophira joined him.

“I hate this birthday,” he said. “Everyone expects me to decide the rest of my life, when I can hardly make up my mind about what to eat for lunch.”

“You're lucky to have a real birthday,” she said.

“What do you mean? Everyone has a birthday.”

“Not me. The grandmas just chose the day they found me on their doorstep.”

“Do they really not know who your parents were?”

“Sometimes they talk of a Circassic healer and a wandering belt-dancer when they think I can't hear them.” She paused, as if lost in thought.

Everything about Ophira was a mystery to Jordan. So were love potions, and love itself. Lately he'd been struck by the idea that the world around him was merely a backdrop. The stone buildings, the river and trees, they weren't the real things. It was what was behind them that was important, the things you couldn't see.

He gazed at Ophira's veiled face. “Would you take it off? I feel like I'm talking to you through a wall.”

She hesitated. “I'm not supposed to. The grandmas . . . well, they worry.”

Jordan let out a snort. “About what?”

“About you. You know what happened to Mopu's fiancé. It's not just a superstition.”

“I think I can take care of myself,” he said, fighting the blush that threatened to creep across his face. “Anyway, what are they going to do about it?”

Ophira shrugged. “Mama Petsane has threatened to make a paste of billy grain and mug-wine to glue the veil to my head.” She bent forward and let it fall into her lap. For the first time Jordan noticed how pale her face appeared against her hair, and how her blue eyes were ringed with dark circles.

“You look so tired,” he exclaimed. “Aren't you sleeping well?”

“I'm needed at night,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

She shook her head. “There are things I can't tell you.” She glanced down at the pile of yellow fabric in her lap. “It's my fourth one,” she confided.

Jordan's eyebrows rose.

“I threw the first one into this river. The second I shredded with Petsane's carving knife and I cut eye-holes into the third.”

Jordan burst into laughter.

“The grandmas didn't think it was funny. Well, Mopu did.”

“Who would ever suspect you of being a rebel?” He thought of the grandmas. “How do you manage to keep anything from those old women?”

Ophira's lips were pursed, as if she were guarding something, but her gaze was as clear as ever. “You have to make a place in your mind for secrets, a corner where they wouldn't think to check.” She watched the tall mellowreeds swaying in the breeze. “I put you there sometimes.”

What did she mean? Ophira's long elegant hands were curled in her lap, and Jordan wondered if he would regret what he was about to do. He decided he was past caring. He took one of her hands in both of his and held it gently.
Please don't pull away
. She grinned. “You do know it's hopeless, right?”

“Superstitious nonsense,” he mumbled.

“The grandmas are right to be afraid for you.” But she kept her hand in his.

Mars came hobbling towards them along the riverbank walkway, carrying a long hoe. The way the gardener's body curved, like the plants he tended, he seemed to be made of dancing. Whenever Jordan saw his bald head, weathered brown face and bushy grey eyebrows, he couldn't help but feel happy.

Mars bowed slightly and whispered, “May the Great Light shine upon you.”

“And upon your family,” Jordan and Ophira responded quietly. The traditional Cirran greeting was now dangerous enough to get anyone who spoke it arrested.

“‘Tis yer birthday. The year of your robes,” Mars said to Jordan. “What will ye take?”

He grimaced. “I don't want to talk about it.”

Mars's smile was warm. “What does your father say?”

Jordan let out a long sigh. “I think he's finally given up hope that I'll become a scholar, and of course there's no honour in being a Landguard now. He thinks I should take ecru robes.”

“Grove-keeper,” said Mars.

“Yeah. Rabellus will send me into Somberholt to cut cedars, not keep them.”

Mars studied him. “You'd do well to heed yer father. Being sent to do somethin' and doin' it are two different birds now, aren't they? Think of the thirteenth bridge.”

In the distance Jordan and Ophira could see charred planks of cedar. The twelve bridges that connected the Holy City to the rest of Katir-Cir had been erected by magic. But Emperor Rabellus and the Brinnian guards were losing patience with these bridges. They wanted to build a thirteenth bridge out of cedar that anyone could cross whenever they liked. Eight times Rabellus had conscripted a group of men to construct the bridge; every time it had been set on fire in the middle of the night.

“Have the Loyalists been working on the thirteenth bridge?” Jordan asked.

“Aye, in a manner of speaking,” said Mars. “Ye could do some good.”

Ophira's eyes had a mischievous twinkle to them. “I think he's hoping for a more glamorous task.”

“Ah,” said Mars. From behind his back he produced a bouquet of tiny yellow flowers and handed it to Jordan with a bow. “Something like this?”

Jordan's eyes widened. “Holy slag.” They were sasapher flowers, the official flower of the Holy City.

Mars tapped him playfully with the end of the hoe. “You got a mouth as foul as the underrats, boy.”

“Where did you get those?” Brinnians were unaware of the tendency of sasapher to infuse endurance into those who smoked it. Probably they wouldn't have believed it anyway, though they had been contending for months that dried dung was cheaper to produce for smoking.

Mars leaned towards them. “I'm under strict orders by Emperor Rabellus to pull up all the sasapher and destroy it, but I never was one for strict orders.” He fixed Jordan with his bright eyes. “Sarmillion tells me ye got promise.” He gestured towards the bouquet with his chin. “You'll be in a great heap o' slag just for having them flowers. You'll be in two heaps for what yer wanting to do with ‘em. Don't do it unless yer sure ye won't get caught, ye hear?”

Jordan nodded, but as soon as Mars had limped away Ophira gave him a stern look. “The grandmas told you not to. Don't you listen to anyone, Jordan?”

He smiled but didn't reply.

Ten
W
ALLPAPER
U
NIVERSE

W
ITH THE SASAPHER FLOWERS TUCKED INSIDE
his shirt, Jordan took his leave of Ophira and made his way alone up the long steep road towards the hanging tree. That was what most Cirrans called it now, though Mars didn't approve.

“We're the ones letting Rabellus hang innocent folk from its branches,” he'd said during one of Jordan's visits to the riverside gardens.

Today, on his birthday, the Feast of the Great Light, Jordan would sneak up to the tree, recite the customary prayer and place the flowers beneath it. He was doing this for his mother. He was doing it for the tree, which needed reminding that some Cirrans had not forsaken tradition. And he was doing it for himself, the boy who had no gift.

It was late morning and the day was already warm. Lizards lined the rooftops, and the white-washed stone walls blinded Jordan with their reflected light. Although there were Cirrans milling about the Common, it was unnaturally quiet. Jordan squeezed past a donkey laden with straw and then past a group of scholars in their emerald robes. Having a secret made him feel as if his whole body was humming. He walked a little faster up the cobblestone road, and couldn't help but smile.

All too soon the tip of the golden palace came into view. What if they caught him? Rabellus would not hesitate to hang a teenager if the offense were serious enough, and this one would be. Jordan stopped. He was tempted to just go home.

He noticed a man standing in the shadow of a nearby doorway who seemed oddly familiar. He wore ragged robes, darker than the brown of a carver, but not quite the black of a sorcerer, and while he carried himself like an old man, he did not in fact look old. His skin was pale, his hair long and straggly, grey from one angle and yet not from another. He had the long hooked nose of a bird.

“Greetings,” the man said, but then he didn't follow it with, “Rabellus is great,” or even a discreet, “May the Great Light shine upon you.”

Jordan could not afford to take any chances, so he ignored him and continued on his way. But the man kept up with him.

“Where do we go?” he asked.

“Nowhere,” said Jordan.

“And yet we go there at a determined pace.”

Jordan slowed. “Where I am going is none of your business, feirhart.”

“Have we not one groder to spare for a poor fellow?” he said, resting a pale, scrawny hand upon Jordan's shoulder. There was a musty smell to him, like a closet that had been closed for too long. Jordan backed away from him.

From one angle the man had blue eyes, from another brown. Were those wrinkles around his eyes, or not?

“I'm sorry, feirhart, but I have no coin,” Jordan said. Had he any, he would have given the man one just to make him go away.

“A gift for one who has none,” the man said quietly.

Jordan froze. “What did you say?” The way he said gift, it made Jordan think of that day so long ago in the Omar Bazaar, of that man who was not a merchant, the one who'd known of his birthday. Was this the same person?

The man held his hands together as if cupping something precious. “A gift. Perhaps you fancy one? For we are inclined to want, are we not?”