The Beggar King by Michelle Barker Page B

school?”
    â€œNo time for school.” Jordan had that same gleam in his eyes. “I’m going to be a Loyalist, too.”
    Sarmillion swatted the air. “Oh, absurdity. Oh, recklessness. You shall do no such thing. Your father would never forgive me. Besides, you need an education.”
    â€œI’m getting one,” said Jordan.
    The road sloped downwards and they followed it for several minutes without speaking.
    â€œDo you know anything about a brass door near the library archives?” Jordan asked.
    Sarmillion’s whiskers drooped into a scowl. “That door is forbidden. It’s no place for a child. And how ever did you hear of such a thing?”
    Jordan coughed. “A scullery maid showed it to me.”
    Sarmillion studied the boy, who immediately focused upon a hideous display of porcelain rooftop ornaments, and then the undercat understood. He could sniff out a lie as easily as a piece of fried trout. “What sort of mischief have you been dirtying your fingers with?”
    â€œNothing. I told you.” But Jordan still refused to look at him.
    Sarmillion put an arm around his shoulder. He admired anyone who had the courage to follow the dark and twisting labyrinth that led to that door. A person could get lost. And there were spiders.
    â€œYou didn’t touch it, did you?” he asked. “It’s enchanted, you know.”
    â€œEnchanted?” Jordan said and pulled away.
    â€œYour maid forgot to mention that, I suppose,” said Sarmillion. “Scullery maids know their nutty-buns, may the Great Light shine upon ‘em, but when it comes to enchantments their only education is whatever they learned on their grannies’ laps. Once long ago Master Mimosa touched that door, I’ll have you know, and two weeks later his great uncle dropped dead of a heart attack. I’m telling you, it’s a hazard. It should never have been put there, but there’s not a thing anyone can do about it now.” He grunted. “Next you’ll be telling me you opened the blasted thing.”
    They walked in strained silence for another minute and then the boy asked, “Does anyone know what those runes say on the outside of the door?”
    â€œIndeed,” said Sarmillion. “They say, ‘This door does not open for fools, rascals or teenaged boys. Period. All fools, rascals and teenaged boys who find themselves in front of this door should take themselves home immediately and douse themselves in cold water and then perform ten years of penance for their stupidity.’”
    â€œIt doesn’t really say that,” said Jordan.
    â€œI forgot, you’re wise beyond your years,” said Sarmillion with a good-natured chuckle. “No, it doesn’t say that. But I’m under palace oath to keep certain secrets.” Like the secret of the Book of What Is, for example. The thought came unbidden, and he was quick to stuff it back down where it would keep quiet. “In Arrabel’s time there was always a Landguard posted at the entrance to that hallway. You wouldn’t have gotten within a hundred feet of that door.”
    â€œWhy? What’s behind it that’s so dangerous?”
    Sarmillion wagged a finger at him. “I told you, I’m sworn to secrecy, loyal to Arrabel and all that.” He cringed inwardly, for a memory had come to him all at once, the way bad ones always do, as if they’ve been called by one of those high-pitched whistles only dogs can hear. It had all been foretold, his treason, long ago and when it had had little meaning, by Willa — in the days when she’d still been a seer.
    He’d been fifteen, Jordan’s age now, and his father had taken him to her to determine if he might truly have the writer’s gift of tale-spinning. Willa had taken one look at him, just one, and declared, “Liar! Traitor!” which had scared the fur off Sarmillion’s teenaged