The Beggar King by Michelle Barker Page A

long sack of years behind him as he tramped down the steep Cirran streets, he felt an end as surely as if he’d written it himself after the hard work of a manuscript was done. The end.
    When he arrived on the open-air cobblestone Common, a knot of enthusiastic Cirrans was talking to Mars who was already dressed in his gardening overalls and carried a long pitchfork.
    â€œWe’ll form the resistance!” cried one.
    â€œWe’ll thwart every slagging project Rabellus starts,” said another.
    â€œWe won’t let him get away with nothing!” hollered a third.
    Sarmillion’s whiskers twitched. He sensed action, heroism, fame and fortune. “I’ll join you,” he said. “What can I do?”
    Mars eyed him up and down and fingered his canvas bag. “So ye’ve decided not to stay,” he said, with a short nod of his bald head, and Sarmillion prepared himself for an outburst of scorn. Instead the gardener addressed the others. “This underkitty’s got a way in or out of just about anything. Our group of Loyalists has got itself a burglar and a spy.”
    Sarmillion clapped his hands. “From scribe to burglar in one morning. Who would have guessed?” and they all laughed.
    â€œBurn your robes!” one of the men shouted, and it occurred to Sarmillion that if he was no longer a Cirran scribe, he might wear real clothes. Imagine, a silk smoking jacket. Mauve. Sarmillion had always fancied a smoking jacket: cocktail hour, candlelight, and a good long pipe of sasapher. The colour would set off his grey fur beautifully.
    â€œEmbers and ashes,” he said, pulling the robes up and over his head. “Let the rebellion begin!” He threw them to the ground in a heap and someone lit a piece of parchment and tossed it onto the fabric and there was a poof and the zigzag robes went up in flames.
    â€œI will not be a scribe for the Brinnian Empire,” he roared, one furry hand punching the air. “I remain loyal to High Priestess Arrabel and the Cirran mysteries.” Liar , hissed the voice in his head, but Sarmillion ignored it. “Long live the priesthood. May the Great Light shine upon you all,” and the crowd that had surrounded the undercat and his little bonfire cheered. Sarmillion noticed the tanned skin and dark curly hair of the Elliott boy among them.
    Suddenly there was a whistle and the call of “Landguards” from someone who’d been watching. An older man in work boots hurried to stamp out the fire and Sarmillion eased himself into a group of Cirrans and made his way off the Common wearing only a pair of silk pants and sandals.
    Mars grabbed him by one arm and fixed him with those eyes that shone such a bright blue in his weathered face. “Are ye going to Omar, then?”
    Sarmillion nodded.
    â€œListen well,” he said quietly. “We’ll need to find out where they’re keeping Arrabel and the others. Keep yer eyes and ears open, underkitty. Omarrians talk, specially in their taverns. And I expect them black boots will be about, as well. Stay out of trouble, now.”
    â€œYou know me,” said Sarmillion.
    â€œâ€™Tis exactly what worries me,” said Mars, but the way his bushy eyebrows rose and fell, Sarmillion couldn’t help but smile.
    As the undercat set off on the road to Omar, Jordan caught up with him.
    â€œYou’ll get yourself arrested acting like that,” he said, though Sarmillion noted with pleasure that the boy’s green eyes were warm with admiration.
    Sarmillion puffed out his furry chest. He could become the self-appointed saviour of precious Cirran parchments before Rabellus destroyed them. He could steal them. Burglary could be his redemption.
    â€œMy boy,” Sarmillion intoned, “We’re going to fight this Brinnian rogue. We’re calling ourselves Loyalists. We will — ” he stopped. “Why aren’t you in